Watchers E-Book

S.T. Boston

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Three prominent world figureheads disappear following The World Summit in Kuala Lumpur. The following day, U.S. President John Remy is found dead in his hotel room.

Meanwhile, two friends on a road trip across North America come to the aid of a mysterious woman, washed up on the banks of the Colorado River. Somehow, all these events are linked.

Choosing to help her plunges them into a nightmarish race across the globe, for she holds a secret that defies all we know about human evolution. Pursued by a deadly force, they must recover a relic so ancient it's fallen into legend.

A relic that will not only save them, but all of humanity.

Leseprobe

Watchers

S T Boston

Copyright (C) 2013-2014 S T Boston

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2020 by Next Chapter

Published 2020 by Next Chapter

Edited by D.S. Williams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Finley

Chapter 1

Pins and needles were the first thing Euri Peterson felt as he began to ease back toward consciousness from his drug-induced sleep. Pins and needles in his hands, similar to when he woke in the night having slept on his arm – only this was different. Somewhere far off in the real world, away from the dark spinning pool in his semi-conscious mind, he could feel sharp pain, pain in his wrists and pain in his ankles. As the seconds ticked by, the drug began to wear off, allowing him brief, fleeting snippets of reality: pins and needles and pain, the hum of an air-conditioning unit, the chill on his sweaty brow. Then he slipped back, reeling and falling into the depths of his cloudy mind. The unconsciousness was far more tempting than reality. Desperately, Peterson tried to hold on to it as he felt himself spinning once again – he wasn't ready to wake yet and face whatever it was that awaited him, but it was too late! The spinning pool released him, and he opened his eyes. If it hadn't been for the hammering pain raging through his head, Peterson wouldn't have even known he was conscious, as the room was completely dark. Blinking with slow, deliberate actions, he tried to clear the pounding, woolly fuzz in his head. Attempts to move his wrists and feet only caused the chair to which he was bound to scrape and skip across the floor, emitting a sound like nails scraping down a blackboard. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a thin bead of light on the far side of the room gradually revealed itself, followed by the dim, faint outline of a door. A chill ran through his body. Whoever was in charge of the air-conditioning had it cranked up high, and the cool air hit his brow, chilling the sweaty sheen which matted his greying hair to his head.

What can I remember, Peterson asked himself. I remember the meeting, and giving the speech. I remember leaving the Convention Centre, the rush hour traffic of Kuala Lumpur and almost being late for the Presidential dinner at the JW Marriott. After dinner and a few drinks, I went to my room and showered before heading straight to bed. The memories flooded back, one after another, each encouraging the next. So, I remember going to bed, he confirmed. But then? That's where the memories stopped and gave way to confusion. Then I woke up here, bound to a chair in a dark room. Peterson's heart hammered in his chest like a drum; the sound of it flowed through his body and filled his ears with a rhythmic throbbing.

He cleared his throat and forced back the dry, parched sensation on his tongue. “Hello, anyone? Hey?” he cried in a cracked and broken voice, the effort causing sharp pain to flare up in his throat. In almost immediate response to his plea, heavy footsteps emanated from the other side of the door, followed by the click of a latch and a blast of light which forced him to lower his head and close his eyes to protect them. Someone flicked a switch and more light flooded the room when an array of fluorescent bulbs buzzed and pinged reluctantly into life.

Small, deliberate blinks allowed his vision to adjust to the bright, light which filled the room. Lifting his gaze and ignoring the searing pain in his head, Peterson took a moment to take in his surroundings; the room was small, no more that fifteen feet square. Bright white walls were complimented by matching tiles on the floor. There were no windows and only one large, strong-looking metal door. The footsteps belonged to a tall, thick-set male with dark brown, swept back-hair. His jet black suit looked fresh from the dry cleaners and the shirt underneath was as dazzling as the walls. Reaching behind him, the stranger pushed the door closed with a heavy metallic clunk.

“Mr. Peterson,” the man began, fixing him with chilling ice-blue eyes and the type of smile usually associated with overly-keen used car salesmen. “Firstly, let me apologise for the way we had to meet. It was believed that this was the only way possible for you to listen to what I have to say. What happens after that is entirely down to you.” Something about his whole demeanour gave Peterson the chills, and as the stranger spoke, the false, crazed smile never once left his lips.

“Judging by my position,” Peterson croaked, “I find it hard to believe I have any control over what happens next.” Speaking was getting easier with each moment, but it was hard to hide the panic that was setting in. Whatever drug they had used on him was slowly wearing off, but not fast enough for him to figure out a way out of the situation.

“On the contrary, your destiny is entirely in your hands,” the stranger contradicted. “You see, Mr. Peterson, we know who you are.” Peterson watched him cross the room, the heels of his well-polished black shoes clicking on the white tiles like the ticking of a clock.

“Of course you know who I am,” Peterson snapped. “I've been at the World Summit for the past week! I addressed almost every head of state in the world this afternoon!”

The suited stranger beamed at him, presenting a row of perfectly white, unnatural-looking teeth, “Oh I think you underestimate what I know,” he sneered. “I saw your speech by the way. It was excellent!” His heels continued to click rhythmically on the spotless floor, the sound almost falling into rhythm with Peterson's heartbeat, which still pounded in his ears. Circling around behind Peterson, he slid his jacket off. “It's rather warm in here don't you think?”

“I hadn't noticed,” Peterson replied. “Mr.— I don't think I got your name.”

“My name is not important,” the stranger answered curtly, then seemed to reconsider. “But I am a firm believer in good manners.” The man approached Peterson's chair, “Robert Finch,” he said, extending his hand. “Oh, excuse me, I forgot, your hands are otherwise indisposed at present.” Finch treated him to a mocking smile before turning. His shoes clicked their way to the back of the room. Bound and helpless, Peterson watched as he neatly folded the jacket and placed it in the corner. The removal of the blazer made Peterson very uneasy; in truth, it wasn't that warm, in fact it was positively chilly. The monotone drone of the air-conditioner continued to hum away above the door, pumping more frigid air into the small room. Peterson suspected Finch had removed the jacket to prevent his blood from soiling it, and the thought terrified him.

“Enough games!” Peterson snapped. “If it's a ransom you're after, I'm sure you have the details for my people. They will pay. You must know both my company and I are good for millions of whatever currency you desire.”

“Oh, you misunderstand the situation, Euri,” sighed Finch, shaking his head. The use of his first name took Peterson off guard. Obviously the time for formalities was gone. “Euri Peterson, the Swedish businessman and director of Zeon Developments, the man who rose to fame two years ago with patents for hydro powered engines, as well as a host of other ingenious ideas to rid the world of its dependence on fossil fuels. Those very ideas secured you a scientific Nobel Prize last year. I'm guessing after today's keynote speech, there are a whole load of oil companies baying for your head on a stick.” Finch walked behind him and clamped both his hands down on Peterson's shoulders, like an overzealous masseuse. The physical contact made Peterson want to retch. Finch brought his face down level with his ear, so close Peterson could smell the warm, garlic-scented breath on his cheek. “That is who you are, is it not?”

“Yes, of course!” Peterson's mind was reeling. Could this really be about his patents? And would the big oil companies sink this low? “I know my products are going to hit some businesses hard,” he admitted in a shaky voice, “but really, kidnapping! People like me don't just disappear, you know.”

Finch ignored the statement. “But that's not who you really are, is it, Euri?” he continued, whispering as if he were about to tell a secret no one else should hear. His hands were still clamped tightly around Peterson's shoulder blades, doing nothing to improve the restricted circulation caused by the restraints. “You see, Euri, we know who you really are!” Finch let the words hang in the air. Peterson froze. Finch must have felt every muscle in his body tense, the grip of those strong, vice-like hands not relenting for a second. “And the reason you are here, Euri, is because of who you really are.” Finch finally released his hands and threw them up in the air like a manic preacher. “We're not interested in your inventions, or the fact that you might have pissed off a few fat-cat oil barons, Euri, it's much bigger than that! We not only figured out your true identity, but also the identity of the other three.” Finch was standing in front of him now, that smile back and his eyes full of loathing. He resembled a venomous snake about to strike.

“Impossible!” Peterson spat, shaking his head.

“Entirely possible,” replied Finch, obviously pleased with the impact his revelations were having. “It's taken us almost nine years to get to where we are today!” he shouted with glee, his words bouncing off the bare white walls. “Nine years to figure out who the four of you are. You were the last piece of the puzzle. Once we had you all figured out, it was just a matter of time. So just in case you are in any doubt, let's see who else makes the list. We have Jaques Guillard the EU politician, saviour of the Euro, the man who helped avert a pending economic crash.” Finch counted them out on his fingers, “That makes two. Then we have Archbishop Francis Tillard, the holy man, head of the Catholic Church in France.” Finch laughed. “A holy man, I mean come on, what a ruse. Even you must appreciate the irony in that one. Personally, I find it disgusting.” Finch regarded him for a few seconds – the way a person might look at dog mess on his shoe – before continuing his rant. “Last, but by no means least, and coming in at number four, we have none other than John Remy, President of the United States of America.” Finch grinned, his smile as wide as that of a Cheshire Cat.

Peterson's insides turned to ice. For this Finch character to know so much, there was only one thing he could be, one place he could be from, and the thought terrified Peterson more than anything else had in his life. This moment, here and now, was his very reason for being, the one thing he was supposed to prevent. He had failed, they'd all failed!

“Well, you seem to have this all figured out, Mr. Finch.” Peterson couldn't hide the anger brewing in his voice. “But as you said, I'm only one of four. What about the others? Just killing me will get you nowhere!”

“Oh I wouldn't worry about them.” Finch grinned. “They're dead already; well, two of them are, anyway.”

The statement hit Peterson like a train and he stared up at Finch in disbelief.

“You're the next on my agenda! The other one requires a more, shall we say, gentle approach.” Finch paused, mulling over his own words, running a hand over his cleanly-shaven chin. “We have people in places and roles you can't imagine, places and roles you all missed!” He let the words hang once again, allowing Peterson to soak them in. “But I'm sure you can appreciate,” he continued, “even we can't just whisk away the President of the United States in the middle of the night. No! As I said, that requires a more delicate approach. Unfortunately for him, he won't get the option you have; the chance to choose, the chance to live.” Finch was pacing around the room again, seemingly enjoying every moment, knowing the torment it was causing. “You see; this World Summit was just what we needed: all four of you in one city at the same time. It gave us the chance to take you all out, in one fell swoop.”

“Kill me,” Peterson exclaimed in a shrill, panic-ridden voice. “Do it, because I won't accept any bargain you offer, any more than the other two would!” At least for the moment, Remy was still alive, and that afforded Peterson a spoonful of hope in this fast-developing ocean of doubt.

Finch chuckled and nodded in understanding, “Euri, I'm impressed; your courage is admirable, just as I would have expected, and while I knew all along none of you would choose to side with us, I'm going to lay out the offer, nonetheless.”

Peterson tugged at the hand restraints, making the chair rock dangerously. “Why? What's the point?” he snarled through gritted teeth. “You've killed them, and I want no part in any deal. Just get it done.”

Finch stopped pacing and spun around to face him. “Because I want to! Because I can, and because I know how much it will eat you up, in the brief moments you have left, before I have the pleasure of ending your long, worthless life! It's not every day I get to have a Watcher as a captive audience, let alone three of you! And to have the pleasure of killing you, –one by one, repaying some of the suffering and anguish you've caused to my people over the long years! When I watch you die, I'll enjoy the defeat on your face, knowing you've failed. Then, once I'm done with you, I will personally be attending to President Remy.”

“How the hell do you intend to get to the US President?” cried Peterson. “Not even I can just walk up and speak to him, despite our role behind the scenes.” His tongue scraped over his mouth like sandpaper. He desperately needed water, but he very much doubted he was going to get it.

“Like I said, Euri, we have people everywhere, infiltrated into places which are key to tonight's plan, as well as the bigger picture. Trust me when I say I will have no issue at all getting to President Remy; in fact, I'll just walk right into his personal quarters. He's staying not far from here; you know?”

“Aghhhh!” cried Peterson in a mixture of frustration and anger. He was tugging so hard at his restraints, the skin on his wrists felt as if it was being shredded away from the muscle beneath. “Do you really think that just killing the four of us will solve all your problems? These deaths won't go unnoticed, and the repercussions for you and your people will be massive. Do you have any idea what you're starting here?”

Finch smiled mockingly at the outburst. “What we're starting?” he sneered. “What we are ending is a more apt description. We know everything about you, Euri – you and the other three. We know how you operate. It's thought by my superiors that if just one of you chooses to help us, it will buy us time to complete our plans unobstructed. That said, we're not overly concerned. You see, what we have in store will only take a few weeks, before it becomes irreversible. Of course, we're not naive enough to think it will never go unnoticed, but when your people do eventually realise what's happened, we'll be more than ready.” Finch paused and allowed himself a smug grin. “So, you will appreciate why I'm more than happy to kill you right now. It's your choice.” Finch held his hands up like a set of scales. “Live?” he raised the left, “or die?” He pointed his right hand at Peterson's head and formed his fingers into the shape of a gun.

“What could you possibly hope to accomplish in just a few weeks?” Peterson's fear had turned to anger and it boiled in his gut.

“More than you could ever imagine! It's really quite beautiful, how we plan to put an end to this charade and claim what's rightfully ours. You really should join us and see.”

“And in return for being a traitor, I get… what?”

“A place on the council, a position high in the new order which will arise. You'll retain your status as an Elder, but within our society. It's more than I personally would have offered, but I don't call the shots.”

“You really are deluded,” Peterson laughed. “Why did you bother to put this to any of us? Why risk the exposure of kidnapping us? You knew none of us would ever take the offer, you knew we would rather die, than help you achieve what we've been preventing for thousands of years.”

Finch bent down and fished in the pocket of his suit jacket; Peterson caught sight of something metallic clutched in his hand when he straightened. A gun!

“There's one other piece of information we hoped one of you might help us with – the location of the Tabut.” Finch eyed him, testing the weight of the gun in his hand.

“Not even I know that, none of us do,” Peterson lied, managing a slight chuckle. “Even if I was privy to such information, why should I share it with you? I'm dead anyway!”

Finch raised his eyebrows in suspicion. “Really? Not one of the four Watchers knows where the Tabut is kept? I find that very hard to believe.”

“Even if I knew, the information would be of no use to you. The Key Tablet hasn't been held here for more than three millennia.”

“Oh, we don't mean to use it,” Finch snapped. “We mean to destroy it!” Finch waved the gun, emphasising each word, stabbing the muzzle toward Peterson. “I could torture you. That might loosen you up a little.”

“Do what you must,” Peterson sighed. “We both know that torture is of no use, when it comes to extracting accurate information. A man will tell you anything, if you inflict enough pain.” He could see the frustration on Finch's face and knew that though he might be a dead man, he had his captor on this one.

“Very well. We have other lines of enquiry to follow up, ones that will hopefully prove fruitful. It's a loose end my superiors would like to tie up.” Finch waved the gun nonchalantly in the air, hiding the frustration caused by Peterson's accurate analysis of the situation. Even if he extracted a location from him, it would no doubt prove to be a lie. Besides, his orders were to make sure none of them were left alive by the end of the night. Peterson would be dead before they could figure out whether he'd sent them on a wild goose chase. With the Tabut dormant for thousands of years and no Key Tablet to activate it, it provided no risk as far as he was concerned. Trying to find it was a waste of resources.

“Well, Euri, we'd hoped that you might have seen sense, might have wanted to live and help us shape our new future, the one you and your people robbed us of. But as I suspected, it was a waste of time.” Finch raised the gun and levelled it squarely at Peterson's head. “One good head shot for an instant death,” he announced, as though considering his options, “or destroy your heart and let you slip away slowly over the next hour?” He waved the gun between Peterson's head and his heart and back again in a taunting fashion. “Even I'm not devoid of mercy, despite what your kind has put my people through.” He swung the gun back to Peterson's head and Peterson closed his eyes. He would never open them again.

Finch fired a single shot, and the bullet passed cleanly through Peterson's skull, lodging itself securely into the plastered wall behind him, splattering the tiles with blood and tissue. The force of the blast knocked his chair over, and his limp body fell backwards. Peterson's shattered skull hit the tiled floor with a soggy thwaaaack. Blood poured from the wound and trickled along the grouting in small, geometric rivers of red.

Finch retrieved his jacket and brushed a few specks of dust from the sleeve, concealing the pistol at the same time. As he left the room, he removed a small radio from his trouser pocket. “It's Finch. Can you get a clean-up crew to room four? Needless to say, he never took the deal!” He didn't wait for a reply before placing the small handset back in his pocket.

Time was short and he had an appointment with the President.

Chapter 2

President John Remy began to feel the stress of the day slowly ebbing from his tired, aching body. Unscrewing the cap from a shot-sized bottle of bourbon, he poured the contents into an ornately decorated crystal glass. As he shook the last drops out, the ice cracked in protest as the warmer liquid swirled around it. Placing the empty bottle to one side, he added a measure of tonic water and gave the drink a gentle swirl before taking a sip. The taste of the warm, sour mixture against his tongue instantly relieved a little more stress from his tense muscles. Drink in hand, he padded across the presidential suite of the JW Marriott and eased himself onto the plush sofa before taking another generous mouthful. Savouring the icy burn, he turned on the television and put his feet up on the coffee table. Scouting through the vast array of programs available, he selected BBC News 24 and was met with a potted review of the last day of the World Summit. A middle-aged female reporter, who in Remy's opinion had more of a face for radio, was in the middle of a live broadcast covering the day's events. A brief montage of the speech given by Euri Peterson cut in and out of her report as she highlighted the important parts.

“Euri Peterson claims that by using the technologies developed by his company, we can expect to see the production of oil-fuelled combustion engines cease inside the next ten years,” she began. “He followed this up with the bold claim that we can expect to see the world free of fossil fuel dependency by 2080. His claims were met by a wave of applause, but I'm sure there are those in the oil industry who won't be so pleased by these developments, despite the ever dwindling oil supplies. As you know if there were ever any future issues between Russia and the west, they could literally put a stranglehold on the world. A situation that everyone is keen to avoid” The reporter's face on the screen was replaced by the studio anchor.

Remy was certain there was a significant amount of grief heading his and Euri's way from the oil firms – not to mention the loss in tax revenue worldwide. The American oil fields had all but run dry, and despite repeated surveys in the North Sea, the same could be said for Europe. The Siberian fields, now under Russian control, were the main ones left and it was down to them to see the world through to a time when hydro power could take over. You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, he thought to himself, remembering the old cliché. Governments would have to adapt. The bigger picture was what mattered here, not bottom line profits, and the price of oil per barrel was creeping ever upward.

“And what of the keynote speech by President Remy?” asked the anchor in his pristine British accent.

The camera switched back to the reporter. “More landmark moments, Mike. President Remy is claiming that all peacekeeping activities and the military presence throughout the Middle East will cease in the next six months. We've seen an unprecedented period of peace in the region, seven months have passed since the last suicide bombing, which claimed the lives of fifteen civilians in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan. I'm sure the American people must be wondering who is going to fill such big shoes, when President Remy's second term in office comes to an end next year.”

The footage cut back to the summit and Remy watched a similar montage of himself, which covered the juicier parts of his speech. Even after all these years in the public eye, he still found it uncomfortable to watch himself. Reaching for the remote, he switched the set off and drained the last of the bourbon and tonic from the glass, before placing it on the perfectly polished table. Standing up, he made his way through to the bathroom to prepare for bed. It was set to be another long day tomorrow, with an early departure on Air Force One, followed by more meetings and conference calls on the flight back to Washington.

Remy brushed his teeth before making his way back to the lounge to tidy a few things away. He definitely needed sleep, but with so much to do tomorrow, he doubted it would come easily. As he shut and latched his briefcase, a knock came from the door.

“Come in,” he called, placing the briefcase on a luxurious oriental-styled chair. The head of his Secret Service task force made his way into the room, clutching a chilled bottle of mineral water. “Ah, Agent Finch,” Remy exclaimed.

“Mr. President,” Special Agent Robert Finch replied with a nod. “As requested, sir, one mineral water. I'll make sure room service is informed that the mini bar wasn't stocked.”

“I wouldn't worry too much,” Remy replied, “just set it down on the table.”

Finch made his way across the room and placed the bottle on an ornate metal coaster. “Good speech today, sir,” he commented. “I think your hard work has finally paid off.”

“Well, I've never been one to count my chickens, as you know,” he replied, “but I think we might finally be seeing an end to the years of war and unrest in the region.” Remy walked over and took the bottle of water. “Are you the late shift tonight?” he asked, cracking the screw cap and tipping the contents of the bottle into a fresh glass. Finch eyed him as he gulped half the chilled liquid in one long swallow, before wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“Yes sir, on the red eye shift tonight. I'm on post right outside your door.” Finch edged a step or two back, waiting to be dismissed.

“Excellent, I'll sleep soundly tonight then,” Remy commented, still holding the half-full glass.

Special Agent Robert Finch had joined his security detail in the week Remy took office. He'd been one of the youngest Secret Service Agents ever tasked with Presidential protection, taking up the role at the age of twenty-two, after graduating from West Point at the top of his class, with a bachelor's degree in Military Sciences. Over the past nine years, he'd worked his way through the ranks. Now, as Remy's second and final term in office was reaching its conclusion, Finch was head of the Presidential security detail, at the tender age of thirty-one. Remy hoped Finch would choose to stay on for the ten years of Secret Service protection afforded to former Presidents', but he suspected such a young high flyer would be tasked back to Washington, to rise further through the ranks.

“I've prepared the security detail for the morning, Mr. President,” he stated. “The car will be picking you up at eight am sharp, the local police and our agents will have the route secured, and we should be wheels up and heading home by nine thirty.”

“Thank you, Robert,” Remy replied, opting to use the agent's first name, as he often did when they were alone. After all, he'd known the man for nine years and in that time, he'd come to like him. He respected both his drive and his ambition. “That will be all for now. I'd better try and get some sleep,” he concluded, turning and carrying his glass through to the bedroom.

“Very good, Mr. President. Sleep well,” Finch replied, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

Remy changed into his pyjamas. The sight of the Presidential Seal on the breast of the shirt always made him smile. Almost everything was personalised and offered a constant reminder of his position – as if he could ever forget. The freshly laundered linen was cool and crisp against his skin, a stark contrast to the humid and draining weather outside; even at night the heat seemed relentless. Draining the last of his water, he touched the base of the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The thick, tailor-made blackout curtains ensured none of the bright city lights filtered into the lavish suite.

Lying in the dark, Remy closed his eyes and tried hard not to think of the conference call meetings he would need to make on Air Force One in the morning; however, the more he tried to avoid thinking about it, the more it crept into his mind. Sleep or not, it would be nice to be back in the cooler, crisper air of DC tomorrow. The humidity and heat of Kuala Lumpur were draining. Even though he spent so much of the time in air-conditioned buildings, it was like opening an oven door every time he stepped outside. The pungent heat helped retain the fumes and pollution from the countless motor vehicles that seemed to clog the streets, twenty-four hours a day. The smog hung constantly in the air, fouling every breath. He wondered how long it would take the air quality to improve in these Asian cities. once the world's dependence on fossil fuels was finally at an end. Thankfully, such a day would soon be a reality.

As the random thoughts filled his brain, the first waves of sleep crept up on him. Not something he was used to, sleep had never come easily, even before he'd held the most powerful job on the planet. The drowsiness increased, but with it, Remy started to experience a deep burning sensation in his chest. Something's wrong, he thought, a slight vein of panic running through his body. Propping himself up in bed, he tried to force back the sleep that was suddenly so desperate to claim him. The burning in his chest grew, spreading to his throat and mouth. His hands were shaking; something was definitely wrong, very wrong! He reached out with a clammy hand and located the lamp. Just brushing its cool metallic base brought the light back to life cast the darkness back to the very edges of the large bedroom. forced himself to sit up, swinging his legs out of the bed. He struggled to fill his lungs with air; sharp pains stabbed through his chest like a hundred daggers. His mind raced, trying to figure out what was happening. The room around him began to multiply. First, he could see two doors and then three, before they started to spin. He closed his eyes and shook his head, hoping to cast the sensation off. For a few short seconds, it helped to steady his sight and he searched the bedside unit to locate the Presidential Panic Button. Reaching for it, he froze as realization hit. Someone had gotten to him; he was in no doubt that a deadly poison was coursing through his veins – but how? Surely no normal poisons could touch him, they would just flush straight through his system without leaving him with so much as a headache. The gravity of what this meant was more than he could comprehend in his worsening state. He needed to get to his briefcase, and fast. Straining to stand and force his legs to take his weight, he placed a steadying hand on the bedside table. His hand slipped, knocking the empty glass to the floor. His legs gave out beneath him and he went down hard. Face down on the carpet, he caught sight of the glass, laying on its side. The water, he thought, Finch brought me the water, it's the last thing I drank. His brain refused to accept that Finch had any part in this, but reason told him otherwise. Earlier in the day, Finch had commented on the fact there was still no still mineral water in the fridge. He'd personally gone to get a bottle, knowing his Commander in Chief took a glass before bed every night, without fail.

More pain thrashed through his chest, snapping him out of his delirium. The briefcase! he thought again, I need to get to the briefcase. Summoning all his strength, he crawled across the thick, carpet, digging his fingers into its ample pile. It was a mere six feet to the chair where he'd left his briefcase, but it seemed like six miles. Blindly he reached up, fumbling, before he managed to knock it from the chair. If they got to me, he thought, they must have gotten to the others. The latches sprang open at his light touch. He blindly spilled the paperwork onto the floor; his heart beating so fast he thought it was trying to break right out of his body. Trying to focus through watering eyes, Remy tore the bottom lining of the briefcase free and reached desperately beneath it. Finding the flat, piano-black disc, he rolled onto his back and let out a shaky sigh of relief before pushing his thumb against the surface. Instantly the disc sprang to life, scanning his print and biometric signature. When the process ended, the surface transformed from black to bright green, releasing the disc into his fingers. “Yes, yes,” the President gasped. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Remy clawed his way across the floor to the ensuite bathroom, each movement harder to manage than the last. The bathroom tiles were icy against his skin, sending a wave of uncontrolled shivers through his sweat-drenched body. In a final, desperate movement he threw the disc into the toilet and pulled the chain, activating the flush. Clinging onto the white porcelain rim like a drunken teenager at a keg party, Remy watched the disc spin around the bowl twice before disappearing. Pain exploded through his chest, stronger, more intense, and he released his grip on the toilet and fell to the cold tiles. Lying there in the dimly lit bathroom, Remy's vision blurred and darkened. Pain racked his dying body, and he closed his eyes and watched bright white sparks of light dance in front of his eyelids. With his last coherent thoughts, Remy prayed his message had been received, because if the other three had been compromised, there was only one hope left.

* * *

Finch checked his watch; ten minutes had passed since he'd left the suite. Fishing in his pocket, he removed the Presidential Panic Alarm and eyed it uneasily, expecting it to activate at any second and send a team of his best agents rushing to help the Commander in Chief. As the eleventh minute ticked by he relaxed a little. Surely by now, Remy was dead. Finch checked his watch again. Though only thirty seconds had passed, to him it seemed to have ticked away as slowly as an hour. Even though he'd clocked three deaths in a single night, this one had his nerves on edge. This was the final stage; his last nine years of service had all been leading to this one moment. The rewards for the completion of his mission would be great. He was to be given The Gift; it would push him through the ranks to the same social status as the few Elders who remained. He wondered what his new orders would be, no doubt something grand for the next stage of the plan. Once he possessed The Gift, no one could deny him a role in shaping the great future that was to come. Gazing down the hall he eyed Tom Richards, the agent in his line of sight. Richards was just another sheep, like the billions of others crawling all over the planet, ignorant to what was happening right under their noses.

Twenty minutes. Finch allowed himself to relax fully. He'd seen Remy drink half the water; just a sip was enough to kill him. By the time they found the President's body, there would be no trace of the poison left in his system. Even if they tested any water left in the glass, no trace of the substance would be found. No, it would appear to all that the great Jonathan Remy had died tragically of a heart attack during the night.

The nation would mourn his loss. No other president had been loved the way the American people loved Remy. In his nine years of office, he'd managed to repair the struggling Obama Care health scheme left by the previous administration. Now, thanks to Remy, good, fair healthcare was accessible no matter what the patient's social status. His peace-keeping work had seen the end of all conflict in the Middle East and doors had been opened for negotiations with countries such as North Korea. There had even been talk of changing the constitution to allow him to run for a third term. Remy had put a stop to it, claiming the constitution was sacred and should be adhered to. In truth, he'd been ready to take a step back. But the president had not been truthful to his people, they didn't know who he really was. Finch did. Finch had always known. After nine years of working next to his enemy, it was a relief to have finished the job.

Twenty-five minutes. Finch slipped the Presidential Alarm Fob back into his pocket. It wouldn't sound now. “Richards!” he called.

“Yes, sir?” The agent turned to face him from the other end of the hall.

“I'm needed down in ops, something about changes to the security detail for the morning. I'll send Agent Blake up to cover my post.”

Richards nodded, he was a typical ex jar-head. Stern features and a square jaw was complimented by a buzz cut, so short it made it hard to tell if his hair was truly brown or a little mousier. “Sure, no problem, sir. I can cover the hallway. Nothing would get past the elevator anyway,” he said confidently, adjusting his post so he could see both the door to the President's suite and the agent standing by the elevator.

Leaving his post, Finch made his way past Richards, patting him on the shoulder in appreciation. The agent by the elevator had the door open, the lift waiting and ready. Stepping in, Finch was whisked swiftly to the ground floor; a tinny, panpipe version of 'Greensleeves' keeping him entertained for the short ride before the doors slid open, depositing him into the lobby. Despite it being two am, the hotel was still a hive of activity. Many of the delegates from the summit were staying at The Marriott, and piano music and laughter emanated from one of the high-class lounge bars. It was obvious many of the visiting dignitaries were making the most of the free drinks on this last night. Finch flashed his all areas access pass at the armed police guard at the door and exited into the rear courtyard of the hotel. A wall of humid night air hit him, along with the noise of the city that filled the background. A siren was sounding somewhere in the distance, accompanied by the various beeps and blasts of car horns. Like all big cities, Kuala Lumpur never really slept. There was always someone going somewhere, no matter what the hour. Cutting across the courtyard, Finch entered the temporary ops centre. Usually housing the hotel's staff, the inside of this room was far less grand than the rooms provided to paying customers. The live-in employees had been shipped out for the full seven days of the summit and moved to less desirable hotels in the vicinity, all at the expense of the visiting countries. Various security teams had been assigned parts of the staff building; the lion's share, though, belonged to his Secret Service Team.

The agent at the door greeted Finch with a very formal, “Sir!” and a nod of the head as he stepped into the hub, a place where his tech team monitored not only the hotel's CCTV system, but all the city cameras for a two block radius. All incoming and outgoing calls were also screened. There was no privacy for anyone within a mile of the hotel. Teams of technicians stared at screens, flicking between cameras whilst others were seated at listening stations, no doubt relishing the ability to eavesdrop on every call, be it landline or cell phone. A few of the staff noticed Finch and offered up nods in greeting, all too busy to stop and chat, which was fine by him. Passing through the room and down a small corridor, he entered the break room designated only for the President's close protection team. Four agents were inside enjoying their break, as a live football game between the Washington Red Skins and the Denver Broncos played on the small TV in the corner of the room.

“Sir!” Agent Michael Blake noticed his boss first, prompting the other three agents to react in a flurry of taking feet off tables and trying to look as if they hadn't been caught off guard.

“Gentlemen,” said Finch, inwardly smiling at their reaction. “Agent Blake,” he continued, “sorry for disturbing your rest, but I've been called away to revise some of the security detail with the local authorities for our morning trip to the airport. I need you to cover my post outside the President's suite.” The disappointment on Blake's face was apparent. No doubt the football game was heating up and he didn't want to miss the end.

“Of course, sir, no problem, I'll just get my gear,” he replied, looking rather dejected. It was likely that Blake would be the one to discover his Commander in Chief in the morning when Remy failed to rise with the six thirty wake-up call. Blake was in for a long night, and an even longer day.

Finch gave the other agents a curt nod and left the room. Pacing down the long, drab and slightly musty-smelling corridor, he stopped by the communal bathroom, unclipped his tie pin and threw it into the hand towel bin. The pin contained a small tracking device which allowed the hub to monitor every Secret Service Agent. If he left the complex wearing it, they would know immediately that he was off plot. At least now if they checked on him, it would appear he was taking a quick bathroom break. He only needed five minutes to get clear; after that he didn't care.

Slipping out the back of the staff quarters, he made his way to the rear gate. Pausing for a few moments Finch watched as the guard went to the back of the hut and lit a cigarette, before fiddling with his mobile. Satisfied that his attentions were elsewhere Finch slipped by, completely unseen. Had he actually cared about the security of his president, a gaping hole in the site integrity such as this would have been inexcusable. As it was, the lacklustre attention to detail found in many of the local police and security firms suited him just fine.

Pacing quietly down the back of the hotel, Finch followed an alley that ran behind the Starhill Gallery. The upper market shopping centre was in darkness; Finch had studied the camera layout in depth and knew exactly how to leave the site without being detected. As he followed the tree line, the looming towers of the Ritz Carlton came into view. More sirens and horns sounded far off in the city, almost lost in the constant drone of traffic. Jumping a small wire fence, Finch landed in the car park of the Bintang Garden Hotel. Even their cameras were being fed back to the Ops Centre at The Marriott. Finch knew every system well; he'd studied the angles and view of each camera in detail for weeks before even arriving at the summit.

Striding across the grass verge and out of camera view, he watched as a pair of car headlights lit up in the far corner of the small parking lot. Sticking strictly to his pre-planned route, he walked briskly to the rather battered-looking Toyota Avensis. The car sported a dull red metallic paint job on the sides and trunk; the bonnet and roof were a pearlescent white. It looked exactly like the thousands of other tired taxis crawling around the city. Opening the back door, Finch slid onto the cool faux leather seat. The air-conditioning causing the sweat to chill instantly on his face.

“You're late,” the driver commented in an annoyed voice.

Finch checked his watch, “Yes, ten minutes. My apologies.”

“The pickup time was two am,” the driver protested, “not ten past two.”

“Listen,” Finch snapped, “it took me longer to get away than I would have liked. It had to look natural.”

“Is it done?” asked the driver, turning his bulky body in the seat. Finch knew him well. The man behind the wheel was Roddick Laney, an overweight grunt in his forties, with scruffy, unkempt, greying brown hair. It looked as if his hair hadn't seen a comb or barber's shop in a good while. The smell of BO poured from his body, despite the vehicle's air-conditioning; the putrid stench caught the back of Finch's throat, making him want to gag.

“Yes, it's done; now let's get out of here.” Laney's attitude was enraging him. The driver was far below Finch on the food chain. How dare he question him for being late to the RV point? Roddick put the Toyota into gear and guided it out of the hotel parking lot. Almost immediately, they melded into the countless other dirty and battered cabs packing the city streets.

“How far out are we?” Finch asked after almost fifteen minutes of stop-and-go traffic. So far, they had barely managed to achieve more than fifteen miles an hour.

“Two miles,” came the curt reply from the front.

Satisfied, Finch pulled his phone from his pocket. Despite it being secure, he hadn't trusted that the monitoring station wouldn't be able to decrypt it within close proximity of the hotel. He had the number ready to go; it was answered in less than one full ring. “It's Finch,” he began, “the matter has been dealt with as planned. I'm on my way back now.”

“Very good, Mr. Finch.” The man at the other end spoke in a flat and emotionless tone. The voice belonged to Buer, the head of the whole operation. Finch both feared and envied Buer simultaneously; if he'd failed in his task, Buer would have seen to it that he was disposed of, no questions asked, despite his long years of faithful service. “You've done well,” Buer continued. “It's time to leave your old life behind now – Agent Robert Finch is no more.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” replied Finch, his heart pounding so hard, he could feel it pulsing in his throat.

“On your return to the States, we'll see to it that your appearance is changed and your new identity issued. It's all waiting for you. Even though it will appear to all that President Remy died of a heart attack, there will be questions asked about the sudden disappearance of his top Secret Service Agent. You'll no doubt be hunted.”

“I understand. And what of The Gift?” Finch heard his own voice grow a little shaky.

Buer laughed. The sound boomed down the phone and Finch held the echoing device away from his ear until the noise subsided. “You never take your eye off the prize, do you, Mr. Finch?”

“I just want what was promised to me!” he interjected, wondering if he was pushing too far.

“You will receive all that has been promised to you – you have my word. In a few weeks' time, the world is going to be a very different place. Your success is merely the start, there is still much for you to do.”

Before Finch could reply, the line went dead.

Chapter 3

Adam Fisher turned uneasily in his sleep, caught in one of those strange dreams where he knew he was dreaming, but couldn't seem to wake up. He was in the passenger seat of the RV; trees lined each side of the road, the dark foreboding pines briefly illuminated by the headlights that sliced through the darkness like twin daggers. Rain was pouring down, smacking the window with rhythmic thuds accompanied by the mechanical whine of the wipers as they struggled to keep up with the deluge. Sam was driving; he could see his best friend talking, but no sounds came from his lips. It was like watching TV with the volume down. For some reason he could hear the radio. 'Annie's Song' by John Denver was gently drifting through the cab.

Adam became aware of the RV slowing down, the indicator light blinking bright orange against the night as plump raindrops reflected back, giving a strobe-like effect against the dirty, wet darkness.

Sam swung the lumbering vehicle onto a gravel track. A rest area sign lit up briefly as the headlights cut to the left. Dread swept through his body as the front tyres found the rough surface of the unkempt road. Back in his bedroom he fidgeted uneasily, clutching the covers, small murmurs and whimpering sounds coming from his lips. He wanted to wake up, but the dream held him like a prisoner.

The RV bounced its way slowly down the track, wallowing on soft suspension as the wheels seemed to find every pothole. Without warning, a large stag darted from the bushes. Sam jammed on the brakes and the pressure of the seatbelt bit into his shoulder as it locked, preventing his body from lunging forward. Glancing at Sam, he saw him speaking more words noiselessly, his face fixed with a concerned expression.

The stag, who'd spent a few seconds transfixed by the headlights darted off into the trees, claimed by the forest. The RV started to move again, creeping forward. The lane opened out into a large turning area, a giant redwood standing proud in the middle of the makeshift roundabout.

The melodic and soothing sound of John Denver's voice, and the sweet tune of his acoustic guitar did nothing but fill Adam with dread.

Just as the first chorus ended Adam saw her, and from the depths of his uneasy sleep, he stopped breathing for a few long moments, as if an unseen entity had covered his mouth and nose. Her white clothing juxtaposed against the blackness of the night, and drew his attention completely, as if she were a beacon standing out against the storm. Sam had seen her; he hit the brakes hard for the second time in quick succession. The RV skidded to an abrupt halt, the tyres grinding in protest against the gravel, Sam already reaching for the door.

At the far end of the gravel car park the river rushed by, bubbling and angry from the deluge. She was lying on the bank, on a small gravel beach no doubt popular in the warmer weather with bathers and children. Her legs swept back and forth in the current of the raging water, her tangled blonde hair obstructing her face. Blood flowed freely from a wound in her thigh. The dark red liquid contrasted brightly against the whiteness of her clothes, which despite being wet and dirty, seemed to glow brightly in the headlights.

The scene changed, like a poorly edited movie. They were both out of the RV now; Sam looking back and shouting more silent words urgently. Rushing across the rain-soaked gravel, Sam reached the body first.

Back in the safety of his room, Adam groaned and twisted beneath the covers. “No, no,” he whispered.

Sam's hands were pulling at the girl, dragging her away from the river bank. Adam watched as Sam turned her over. His sandy blond hair was plastered to his face, his clothes soaked with water. When her limp body turned, Adam saw her face, pale, almost lifeless, but so beautiful his heart ached and his head spun. Transfixed, he watched her face start to distort, transform, the skin growing darker, younger. Her whole appearance was changing, right before his eyes. His horror was complete when a bullet hole appeared on her forehead, accompanied by a trickle of blood that seemed to defy the pouring rain. He found himself staring at the young girl he'd seen executed during his time with Sam in Afghanistan, six years ago.

At the time, he'd been following Sam's squad, covering the war for an article he was writing when they'd come under heavy fire from insurgents. Adam got separated from the squad during the attack and ducked into a house. Shaking with fear, he'd managed to hide in a wardrobe. Outside, the sound of the battle raged for what seemed like an eternity, until eventually the soldiers had needed to pull back, leaving Adam stranded. Through a gap in the wardrobe door he watched the rebels drag a family into the house. Forcing them to their knees, with hands tied behind their backs, the insurgents proceeded to execute them, one by one.

Crack! The father's body slumped to the floor.

Crack! The mother followed suit.

Last was the daughter, who couldn't have been more than twelve. Her eyes filled with panic, she spotted Adam in the brief moments before her death. Those eyes, resembling a rabbit caught in the headlights of a fast-approaching car, had pleaded for him to do something. In all his life, Adam had never felt so helpless.

Crack!

Three hours passed, before the allied troops regained the village and rescued him. For three hours he'd been unable to draw his gaze from the girl; her lifeless eyes staring at him the whole time. She'd often haunted his dreams in the years since, but this time, it felt different.

The scream started deep in his body, building like a steam train charging through a tunnel. His eyes snapped open, a scream sounding from between his clenched teeth. His hands gripped the covers like a vice, his whole body paralysed, as if unseen hands held him on the cold, clammy, sweat-drenched bed.

Adam lay motionless for long moments, taking short, sharp breaths, allowing his body to relax. He was back in his bedroom; the house silent apart from the rhythmic ticking of the large clock which had hung on his bedroom wall for more years than he cared to remember. Steeling himself against the residual terror of the nightmare, he rolled to his side and brushed his hand across the screen of the iPhone Mini. 04:45 blinked back at him, the screen light illuminating the room for a second, casting shadows against the walls.

Drawing a deep breath, Adam forced himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. In the darkness, he easily found the cord to the small mirror light and clicked it on, bathing the room in a dim, phosphorus-yellow glow. Greeted by his own tired reflection, he ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the dark shadows framing his green eyes. He turned on the cold tap and splashed water over his face, the freezing liquid instantly casting out the last vestiges of sleep.

“Oh well,” he muttered, “it was almost time to get up anyway.” Turning off the tap, Adam dried his face on a towel which smelt sweetly of fabric softener, before padding quietly downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Don't you ever sleep?” The groggy voice came from the lounge, as Adam filled the kettle and clicked it on. “What the hell kind of time is this anyway?” added Sam Becker, sitting up on the sofa and peeling back his green, army issue sleeping bag.

“About ten to five, mate,” replied Adam, grabbing two cups from a mug tree on the bench.

Sam had been his best friend since they were six, though after school, they'd taken very different routes in life. Adam had gone off to study media at the local college, then followed on through university before working as a freelance writer, selling his stories and articles to a variety of newspapers and magazines all over the world. Sam had fulfilled his childhood ambition by enlisting in the army. Sometimes, six or seven months would pass before they managed to catch up, but they always came back together, one way or another.

Six years ago, Sam had secured Adam a position as a war reporter, following his squad on manoeuvres in Afghanistan during the second uprising. This had led to the incident in the village, the same incident which had ended Sam's military career.

While Adam had been frozen with fear in that wardrobe, with only the dead family for company, Sam had been shot twice during the push to regain the village; once in the leg and once in the shoulder. The leg wound, unfortunately, had hit an artery, nearly costing Sam his life. He'd been lucky to survive. They had both been just twenty-six then… and it seemed a lifetime ago.

Old habits die hard, and after returning to the UK and spending six months lodging with Adam, Sam had secured a close protection job with a private firm and found himself back in the Middle East, babysitting rich businessmen and construction teams. Sam often joked that his new line of work was a walk in the park compared to army life – not to mention the fact that the money was a damn sight better than the British Government offered for putting your life on the line on a daily basis.

Five more years passed with only fleeting visits home, and Sam always stayed with Adam, since he had no family to speak of. As a child, he'd been taken into care and spent most of his childhood days being passed from pillar to post, living in a variety of foster and care homes. The well paid, close protection work meant he had more than enough cash to buy a small house outright, but Sam refused, saying it was pointless owning a property he wouldn't be living in. Besides, he had good lodgings for free whenever he was back in the UK.