One
I remember the day it happened—opening my eyes for the first time.
But here I am, sitting within the confinement of these four walls—a small room with dreary, grey decor, an imposing low ceiling, and a sticky floor. There is a lingering, dank smell. An overhead lamp showers the scene with clinical white light, illuminating the swaying flow of dust particles.
To my right is a large mirror, which, I suspect, is a two-way for spectators to maintain anonymity.
Why is that necessary?
There’s a metal table with chairs positioned on either side. Sitting across from me are two people. They’ve refrained from disguising their identities, features partially covered in shadow, with neutral expressions and intense stares. They’re wearing plain, white clothing. It’s hard to deduce anything about their origin or motives—this rouses suspicion.
They’re positioned rigidly, clenched hands resting on the table. Intently, they read every nuance in my mannerisms, hoping this would reveal subtle clues about my thoughts and general state.
But I remain still, sitting in silence. Fatigued, slumping in the chair, my arms folded and legs spread out—purposefully relaxed yet guarded. I look off disinterestedly into the distance between where their shoulders meet.
No restraints?
I’ve been in these situations before. Because of years of training, I know how to handle myself—focused under pressure. No impulses. Depending on whatever these interrogators are looking for—and how adamantly they need it—I’m prepared for waterboarding or other imaginative means of torture. I will accept it passively. When subjected to pain, I have a high threshold.
Disconnection. My body feels drained, like a hollow shell—symptoms of withdrawal.
I remember the memory of the park pond.
I’m staring at the door on the opposite side of the room. At standing eye level, there’s a small, rectangular window with a thin crosshatch pattern. I suspect the glass is bulletproof or resistant to heavy collision. On the opposite side, I see the silhouette of a guard standing, facing in the other direction. Because of the limited visibility, I can’t tell what they’re wearing. But I notice one shoulder slightly slumped. It might be supporting the weight of a strap—they’re possibly bearing a large firearm.
Are these two interrogators also armed?
To my left, the one person, a man, who I suspect is in his late forties, clears his throat—the emphasis expresses impatience. The other person rustles in their chair, tightens clenched fists, and swallows. It’s a woman, possibly in her mid-thirties, just a few years younger than me. In my peripheral vision, I can see them exchange exasperated glances.
I’m smiling inside. For the interrogators, this is monotonous, but for me, it’s amusing. I lost track of time a while ago. It pleases me to waste theirs.
‘Mr. Blake,’ the woman announces.
That’s my real name. My eyes momentarily twitch. But I resist the urge to look at her, instead keeping my focus on the crosshatch pattern.
How are they aware of my personal information? Despite the cliché methods of interrogation and laughable security measures, this disclosure suggests there is some credibility to my captors.
She continues: ‘Do you know why you are here?’
At present, I can’t be sure. To throw off my interrogators, I subtly start chewing my lip to convey false anxiety. They can see the muscles contracting in my face—all to give off the illusion that they’re slowly cracking away at my impenetrable disposition.
She unclasps her hands and reaches over to the side of the table. There is an unmarked, beige folder. It looks relatively new. I suspect it contains classified information.
Why would they go to all this effort to take me captive? Are they aware of the consequences if I retaliate? What exactly got me here in the first place?
Although the room is still with an uncomfortable silence, my untethered thoughts go running wild. Despite the exhaustion and withdrawal, I retrace my steps through the endless corridors of memory.
Then the exact thought appears, hurtles towards me, and related imagery floods my mind’s eye—everything about the mission that opened my eyes for the first time.
An all-consuming feeling.
Despite it being a covert operation, do they know what happened? Were they part of it all?
For the first time, my eyes, which had become unfocused, gazing absent-mindedly at the window, now avert to my two interrogators. They appear to stare right through me.
I have the impulse to externalise my thoughts. My lips move to form a word. But, again, I refrain and continue to perform the chewing act. Although my body doesn’t convey, I pull myself back into that calm, balanced state.
There are spasms in my limbs that I keep at bay.
I look down at the folder, contemplating what is inside.
My mind wonders. I think back to how this all started. It was not the most conventional of places. But some unforgettable experiences can begin in the most unexpected ways.
My two interrogators sit watching me. The woman begins to open the folder. They’re unaware that I am starting to relive all of what happened whilst remaining in the same position with the same neutral expression.
And for a moment, my eyes avert to the right-hand corner of the room. There, I see something misplaced—a single white feather. Delicate. Curved upwards and frayed at the edges.
Two
Like most agents that operate on an ad-hoc basis, I’d been waiting restlessly for something to happen—preoccupying my time with things that aren’t good for me.
The phone call, from a withheld number, was brief. I didn’t know who I was speaking to—the person’s flat tone was indistinguishable, probably a case officer or an AI-generated voice. I can’t tell the difference these days.
They supplied a location and time—a bar in Chelsea at twenty-one hundred hours.
The area was busy, but I found a parking space nearby. I looked out for oncoming traffic before getting out, crossing the street, and casually walking towards the entrance. I would merge effortlessly into the crowd, dressed in dark, understated clothing.
My hands twitched. That stubborn itch. Withdrawal.
The outside of the bar had large windows, purposefully flaunting what was inside. It was a sophisticated, overpriced hotspot for the area’s most affluent social climbers. There were finely upholstered sofas, grand chandeliers adorned the ceiling, a glass bar with a mountain of liquors on the back wall, and a golden glow illuminated the room.
Joining the queue, I could see an array of people in front, shaking off the spring breeze, excitedly waiting to go inside. More money than sense. Most probably, they were oblivious, or at least indifferent, to the hardships most of the population was experiencing. What with the rising cost of living, strikes and protests. You can’t sense that tension here amongst this crowd.
On the door were two bouncers, both steroid-built, wearing earpieces. This establishment kept a vigilant level of security despite the supposedly civilised clientele.
I didn’t know what to expect inside. It wasn’t my first time at a place like this. The standard practice for someone on my level was to receive the most minute information. Each strand of the web gets just enough to do its part without potentially derailing the whole operation if compromised.
After the lofty bouncers had patted me down and granted me access, I walked through. Thanking the overly polite door attendant, I entered the bar.
Inside was the smell of an expensive fragrance, champagne fumes, and pretentiousness. The wall of noise from the chatter wasn’t too overbearing. I could hear chilled house music playing in the background. To my left was the DJ booth.
Looking at my watch, I saw that I was punctual. I would check the place out before twenty-one hundred hours struck. Taking a clockwise route around the bar, I subtly gazed at the room’s corners for security cameras.
There were trust-fund socialites, z-list celebrities, social media influencers and business deal celebrations. Servers manoeuvred through the crowds, answering every request, ensuring no glass was left empty.
Then it happened—the all-too-familiar sensation.
At first, I ignored it, but, as was often the case, it took my undivided attention. Perhaps being in this environment or anticipating the operation gave me the urge to self-medicate.
No amount of mindfulness practice could work. I couldn’t resist. It was time to freshen up.
Checking I still had time, I searched amongst the crowds for the toilets. And in the distance, I could see the human silhouette symbol upon a door. Calmly, I paced through the bar, collecting a glass of water given by a waiter.
Once inside, a few men were at the marble urinals. One toilet was available. Feverishly, I walked inside, closed the door, and put on the latch. I lowered the toilet seat, placed the glass onto the tank cover, and rummaged inside my jacket pocket for the bottle. I pulled out the translucent plastic container. Inside were the tablets that I wanted.
They’re called Statera. And are still in development; they don’t have a street name.
You’re probably wondering why a professional of my calibre would have a prescription drug dependency. These were initially given to me by doctor’s orders—and higher authority’s approval—to help enhance performance and regulate mood. I found that more than the recommended dosage heightens your mood and senses. Over time, I’ve grown a liking to them and now have a high tolerance. Instructed to take them; they don’t flag up on mandatory tests. Sure, the amount I consume might be against medical advice, but it helps me to function.
To deal with a lot of thoughts and feelings that I don’t know how to handle otherwise.
I opened the container and poured a small handful of the tablets into the palm of my hand—more than the daily recommended amount. Replacing the sealed container into my pocket, I took the glass of water, heavy-handedly threw the tablets into my mouth, closed my eyes tightly, and drank the glass dry, swallowing hard. With the back of my hand, I wiped away excess fluid. I could feel the drugs seeping down my oesophagus and into my stomach. With relief, I placed the glass down, straightened up, and took a moment to compose myself.
Suddenly, the irritability was gone. I felt comforted, focused, and in control.
Why can’t I have more self-restraint?
I flushed the toilet and walked out to clean my hands. Drenching them in water, I scrubbed meticulously using lotion before looking at my reflection in the mirror.
Although I maintained myself—a chiselled jawline and well-groomed—I always focused on the tired, wrinkled eyes. I scarcely looked at myself properly in the mirror because that look revealed a vulnerability, although subtle only to me. A sadness that I had buried deep inside.
I dried my hands and adjusted my jacket. Returning to the bar, I checked the time—it was nearly twenty-one hundred hours. Instead of standing around, looking like a rabbit in headlights, I walked over to the illuminated glass bar. Chancing upon a spare seat, I smiled at a couple who moved aside to allow me to sit down. Perching, I felt the suspension momentarily adjust to accommodate my muscular frame.
I looked to either side, spectating the merrymakers, and caught the glance of a bartender who came forward. I ordered a slimline tonic. Resting my hands on the bar, I contemplated when the Statera would kick in—I was always an expert in priority. And self-deprecation.
At that moment, gazing listlessly along the endless rows of liquor, I sensed someone was looking at me. Resisting the urge to be too abrupt in my movements, I slowly looked to my left at the gathering of people.
Standing a few metres away was a young woman with striking features, a strong posture, and elegantly dressed.
The bartender returned with my drink. I presented my credit card for the contactless payment. Thanking him, I sipped the tonic, feeling the liquid tantalising my taste buds.
The couple walked away.
A fleeting glance.
Suddenly, she picked up her cocktail glass and a clasp handbag before walking towards me. At first, I thought nothing of it, conscious of the time, but sensed her presence behind me.
‘Do you mind if I take a seat?’ she asked. There was self-assurance in her tone.
I turned around to face her at eye level. She looked at me cautiously.
‘By all means,’ I said casually.
At that moment, I saw someone standing nearby. I turned forward to continue enjoying my drink.
‘Thank you,’ she replied.
Easing forward, she lowered onto the seat, putting the glass and handbag down onto the bar.
‘What brings you here this evening?’ I asked, looking at her.
‘Oh, you know—after-work drinks.’ She smiled, rubbing her neck in a somewhat nervous manner.
I decided to be straight with her: ‘First time?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
We maintained eye contact for the fleeting moment of awkwardness. In the background, the DJ introduced a new song that roused appreciation from some of the crowd.
‘As soon as you came over, I could tell.’
‘Oh, really?’ she said dryly, reaching into her handbag—a sleight of hand.
I received a folded slip of paper and slowly placed my hand under the bar without trying to attract attention. Pocketing the note, I looked up at her. ‘Couldn’t this have been sent to me electronically?’
She smiled sarcastically. ‘Sometimes, the simplest methods are safer.’
‘Gone are the days of meeting on a park bench with a briefcase,’ I said whimsically, looking forward. Swirling around the ice in the tonic, I took another sip.
‘Simpler times, indeed.’ From my periphery, I saw her eyeing me sceptically. ‘I bet you would like it if I wore a mac. Suggestive.’ I nearly spurted out the mouthful. She leaned in closer. ‘I know your type—You don’t know what you want, but you know how to get it.’
She lifted her left hand—an indentation from an engagement ring removed to protect those closest.
The thought cut into me—the memory of the park pond.
I wanted to feel the effect of the drugs.
‘I suggest you watch your back on the way out.’ My eyes averted over her shoulder. She followed their path toward where a man was standing by a pillar, trying to enjoy a drink without drawing attention to himself. ‘He tailed you here.’
She collected the bag and stood to leave. ‘I know how to look after myself.’
‘I wouldn’t doubt that for one moment,’ I said sincerely, looking up at her. ‘Although brief, it has been a pleasure.’
‘You never know, we might bump into each other in the office by the water cooler. Good luck.’
I momentarily looked over her shoulder. ‘Same to you.’
‘Good evening,’ she said. I returned the gesture, watching as she left the bar, slowly tailed by the man.
Facing forward, I sank the last few drops of my tonic. Standing, I adjusted my jacket, nodded toward the bartender, and made for the entrance. On my way out, I thanked the overly polite door attendant.
Once back in my car’s safety, I withdrew the folded note from my pocket and looked inside.
Ascribed were a name and two addresses.
Now I knew the operation—an extraction.
Three
It was a twelve-minute drive, taking a route southward until turning onto Grosvenor Road and heading east along the riverside. The orange glow of streetlights illuminated my view. Beyond the segmented tree line were distant silhouettes of buildings on the opposite side of the river.
There was traffic at the junction as I turned south onto Vauxhall Bridge. Driving over, to my left, was the headquarters of MI6. And to my right, the extraction point—St George’s Wharf. An apartment complex consisting of large, tiered buildings at the water’s edge, surrounded to the right by skyscrapers. The building’s lighting cast blurred reflections upon the water’s surface.
Approaching, I questioned why an overqualified agent needed to extract someone from what appeared to be a low-risk environment—this seemed like an entry-level assignment. Of course, I preferred field work instead of being a pencil pusher behind a desk all day. This mission appeared straightforward on the surface. But from years of experience, I’ve learnt not to make assumptions.
I had no idea about the importance of the target.
On the opposite side of the bridge, I had to follow the one-way system, circling Vauxhall train station before swerving right onto Wandsworth Road. Indicating, I entered the apartment complex’s semi-circular driveway—this passed under one of the front buildings. Despite it not being a designated space, I parked the car at the end facing the road. After the extraction, I would have to drive around the one-way system until heading southwest, towards the second address ascribed on the note—the rendezvous point.
Turning off the engine, I looked around for a few moments. Using the mirrors to inspect the scene, I watched traffic passing and pedestrians walking by. I looked around to get a bearing of the surrounding buildings, surveying possible hiding places for sharpshooters—a few too many.
Once assured there was no tail or no one had reacted to my arrival, I reached into the glove compartment. Revealing a concealed handgun, I loaded and harnessed it. I pulled my jacket closer to hide the weapon. Finally, I put on thin, black leather gloves before getting out and closing the door. I waited for the automatic locking mechanism to signal before pacing forward. There was a cool breeze. I walked northwest through the complex, past a seating area framed by trees, towards Hamilton House.
I entered through two glass doors into a small reception area. To the right was a tall, wooden desk where the concierge was sitting, looking half asleep—eyes averted. I suspected he was playing on his phone. Instead of going over to feed him an alibi, I marched through, casually smiling and nodding in his direction. He reciprocated, unfazed.
I walked towards the lift and scanned the list for the floor where apartment five-hundred-and-sixty-seven resided. It was on a higher level. From my recollection of surveying the building upon approach, this was one of the larger apartments.
When the lift arrived, I entered, pressed the button, and turned around. As the doors closed, I scanned the corners to ensure no cameras were watching me. Withdrawing the handgun, I took out a silencer, which I screwed onto the end of the barrel, before re-harnessing the weapon.
It was a precautionary measure to keep a low profile in case things got, how shall I say—out of hand. Our activities needed to go unnoticed by the general population. I had to blend seamlessly into the background. We conducted everything with utmost secrecy beyond anything you can imagine.
You’ve probably heard that before. But this was no ordinary agency.
As the lift arrived, I readjusted my jacket. The door opened, revealing the corridor. My immediate observation was that there were only two apartments at each end. Expensive, contemporary artwork hung against the opposing wall. Cove lighting illuminated the scene.
Immediately, I knew something was untoward—the neighbour was standing in their doorway looking in the direction of five-hundred-and-sixty-seven. Surveying the door, I saw it was ajar. Someone had broken the lock. It was too risky to enter that way. To avoid attracting suspicion, I pressed the button to close the lift door while avoiding the neighbour’s eye contact.
To reach the target, I would have to take a different route.
Less than a minute later, I knocked on the door of five-hundred-and-sixty-nine. It opened. A tall man stood, wearing a turtleneck jumper, brandishing a large glass of red wine. His eyebrow rose, looking me up and down.
‘Yes?’ He sounded displeased.
‘Sorry to bother you,’ I said in a friendly tone. ‘Maintenance. Do you mind if I come inside? I need to gain access to your balcony.’
It wasn’t the best story, but I had limited time. The resident looked me up and down again, not concealing his smug dubiousness. ‘You don’t seem appropriately dressed?’
I opened out my hands in a non-threatening manner. ‘The service charge pays for the best.’
He frowned momentarily. ‘Right. Very well.’
The door drew open, and he allowed me inside. The lounge area was like half a spear’s head: to the left was a long, straight wall. Curving inwards from its end were ceiling-high windows looking out over the Thames. To my right, there was a large partition. Behind this stood the kitchen. I noticed a laundry basket with two large towels on the heap.
I was taking mental images because the target’s apartment below would be the same layout.
The lounge area looked like a showroom, everything almost brand-new. In the foreground was a long wooden table with leather chairs. A horseshoe-shaped sofa was at the centre of the room. Here, a guest casually reclined. Seeing my approach, he pushed upright, glazed-eyed, intoxicated.
‘What brings you here this evening?’ the man asked, closing the door behind him.
‘Other residents raised complaints about noise issues,’ I said, looking at a space between the wall of windows and the kitchen. There was an entrance onto the balcony.
‘I did notice some peculiar sounds. Perhaps coming from downstairs? It was like... gunfire?’
I stopped, turned to look at him, and said in a restrained tone: ‘Really?’
He came forth with one arm folded under the other, slowly twirling the liquid in his wine glass. ‘Yes, only minutes ago. I was about to call the concierge, but you arrived.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I shall look into it straight away.’ Forcing a smile, I turned to the guest sitting on the sofa. He smiled suggestively, raising his wine glass to toast.
I realised the Statera was kicking in.
Despite the warm reception, I had no time for further small talk. Quickly, I made for the sliding door opening onto the balcony.
‘Now you are here; I have an issue with the shower curtain rail,’ I heard behind me. ‘It was, ah, accidentally ripped off earlier.’
‘All in good time,’ I said over my shoulder.
Unlatching the lock, I swung the door open, walked out, and closed it behind me. Knowing what I was to do next, I had little time before these lovers would report me.
From here, there was an unobstructed view of the river below. Other than the hum of the city, I could hear the water surging by. In the minimal light provided by lamps in the gardens and walkway, I could see a black mass of liquid moving hypnotically.
Right below me was the balcony for five-hundred-and-sixty-seven. Refraining from looking back, I paced forward, grabbed the metal handrail, and jumped over. Still holding on with my left hand, I pulled hard, swung around, and threw my right hand out to catch the rail. My arms and face slumped against the glass barrier whilst my legs dangled freely.
Holding on tightly to the rail, I looked down past my right armpit towards the target’s balcony. Far below was the ground—imminent death. I would have to calculate this with minute precision.
By now, I could feel the full effects of the Statera.
In most situations, the circulation of adrenaline would put me on edge. But I felt calm. A recommended dosage produces restrained symptoms. But I felt a sense of euphoria. It wasn’t the proper sensation to complement my current circumstances. My body felt warm. But I wasn’t sweating. I took a few deep breaths to oxygenate my body because I enjoyed the stimulation.
Heightened awareness. Finely-tuned senses. Reduced amygdala activity—no fear.
In front of me, I could hear the balcony door sliding open. Not wasting another valuable moment, I let go.
My body started falling. In that split moment, I saw the balcony disappear, followed by concrete, followed by darkness.
I reached out with my hands and caught onto the metal railing of the next balcony. As this happened, my face and torso slammed against the glass barrier, and my legs flayed wildly. A sharp sensation ricocheted through my arm sockets and shoulders.
Resisting the discomfort, I held onto the rail, catching my breath. I hoisted up and over onto the balcony, landing lightly in a kneeling position. The sight ahead caused me to reach for my handgun.
There were two sets of sliding doors on either side of a wall. The one on the right was open. There were no lights on inside the apartment. I was staring into a dark void.
Bullet holes riddled the glass. The cracks adjoined, trailing in a correlated line, too precise for an automatic. I looked at the wall. Some markings weren’t from exit holes but appeared from where bullets had hit it externally. Below this were decking chairs. Shards of glass and wood were scattered everywhere.
I turned to look down towards the Riverside Walk. From this high up, it wasn’t a feasible angle for someone to aim at from the ground level, either side of the river. The glass barrier in front of me wasn’t damaged. Bullet holes peppered across the surface of the curved wall of windows to my left.
I edged towards the right-hand doorway. It was open just enough for me to ease through sideways. Once inside, I instantly aimed my handgun out into the darkness. Moving forward, I knelt and took cover in the kitchen. I listened intently for any sounds. But all was silent.
After a few moments, assured that my eyes had adjusted, I glanced around the partition towards the lounge area. A blue glow from lights emitting below painted the room. Furniture, smashed ornaments, a large flat-screen TV, and the contents of bookshelves lay in a sea of debris. I presume the sounds of this and the gunfire were what the wine-swirling neighbour had heard.
I stood up, cautiously inspecting the scene. There were no bodies or signs of altercations. Whoever had been here was either looking for the target or something else.
Had I arrived too late?
Moving through the apartment, I made sure to be light in my movements and concise in my footsteps. Holding tight the grip of my handgun, I searched the apartment for any clues.
My heart was beating calmly. Eyes intensely focused.
I walked through the opened double doors into the main corridor. To my left was the main bathroom. It was in a similar condition. Next, I circled into a bedroom that housed the other sliding door—this was relatively unscathed.
After checking another smaller bedroom, all that remained was the main bedroom near the entrance. The door was wide open. I walked inside, ensuring to check every corner, my eyesight strained by the darkness. Slowly, I checked under the bed, which was clear. The ensuite was empty. The only thing left was the large walk-in wardrobe. The door was ajar.
I expected I wasn’t alone.
Drawing closer, I reached out with my spare hand for the handle. But the door suddenly burst wide open before I could grab it.
Out came a man screaming, frantically swinging a golf club. Instantly, I knocked his attacking arm out of the way, sending the weapon out of his grasp. He fell forward. I curved around, dropped my handgun, and embraced him in a bear hug. For a moment, he continued to scream, arms immobilised and legs kicking widely. I held him, standing back against the door.
‘Get the fuck off me!’ he shrieked, sweat trickling down his cheeks, fingers clawing into my thighs.
‘Please listen to me,’ I said calmly.
But the man repeated more aggressively. I pushed him onto the bed.
Reaching for a lamp, I turned it on. Picking up my handgun, I held it by my side.
As he turned around to face me, I could see the look of terror in his eyes, thinking that his attackers had returned to finish him off. He looked towards the golf club and doorway, presumably contemplating the likelihood of escape.
‘Are you Doctor Bachira Aditi?’ I asked, walking over to take a seat nearby.
He looked at me in shock.
‘Who are you?’ he replied, brushing away the sweat.
‘My name is inconsequential. I’m here to take you to a safe place. I presume you contacted us because you are at serious risk?’
He straightened up, clearing his throat. ‘Yes, yes, that is correct.’
‘I know nothing about who you are or what attracted this trouble. I’m here to ensure you get to the rendezvous point. Where are the other people who live here?’
‘My wife and children are visiting her parents. I had to stay to oversee a project at work.’
‘What happened here?’
‘They were here a short while ago,’—he started shaking—‘I hid in a secret compartment in the wardrobe when they broke in looking for me....’
‘Not looking for something?’
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. I think the intruders were only looking for me. They already have what they want.’
When someone says something like this, I’d want to question them for more details. But could only ask for specific information relevant to my part in the mission.
‘They came here to kill me.’ Hysterically, he looked up at me. ‘Just like you!’
‘Doctor Aditi, I’m here to protect you.’ Standing, I walked over to the bedside. He looked up at me, eyes widening in terror as my tall frame loomed over him. ‘Here, you can have this.’ I tossed the handgun onto the bed. He looked up at me suspiciously, flew forward and grabbed it. The weapon momentarily slipped into his hands. He pointed it at me.
I retook the seat. ‘Doctor, I’m giving you the handgun as reassurance that I don’t intend to cause harm. The sooner you accept that I’m here to help you, the quicker we can get out of here.’
The grip on the handgun loosened as he processed my words. His body continued to shake with fear. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To a rendezvous point. My colleagues will escort you into hiding or whatever you need. If necessary, we can arrange a full relocation and identity change for you and your family.’
‘How are you going to take me there?’ The change in his tone of voice conveyed newly founded openness.
‘My car is parked outside.’
For a moment, he remained there, the handgun still aimed at my face. But eventually, he rationalised, lowering it. Moving over to the end of the bed, he sat on the side, threw down the handgun, and buried his head in his hands.
‘I’m sorry for the outburst... pointing that gun at you.’
‘You don’t need to apologise. I should have been here sooner to ensure the intruders never got in,’ I said reassuringly, looking at the wardrobe. ‘Do you have your phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘No.’
Good.
‘Is your phone charged?’
‘Just about. I will need to call my wife.’
‘That can wait—my colleagues will provide instructions when we reach the rendezvous point.’
‘Okay. Can I bring some of my belongings with me?’
‘Only the essentials. I want to get you out of here at once.’
He looked up at me. ‘I will get my things together.’
I stood, collected my handgun, and walked to the doorway. ‘I will wait by the entrance.’
He nodded.
I inspected the front door—the broken lock had been a professional job.
Moments later, now dressed in activewear, the doctor walked past and into the lounge carrying a canvas holdall bag. Vocalising shock, he approached an overturned cabinet and pulled out a few documents. He stuffed them into the open bag. Turning to me, he could see the curious expression on my face.
I resisted the temptation to ask, but he decided to say, ‘I specialise in advanced quantum computation.’
That detail confirmed why I was on this assignment. It wouldn’t have made sense to extract a regular medical doctor. He couldn’t afford a place like this on that salary. Whatever he had been working on needed the agency’s input.
‘Oh, right,’ I said casually, masking my concerns.
I walked forward, intending to escort him out of the apartment. But suddenly, the room erupted with a loud noise as bullets showered it.
Instinctively, I leapt forward, pulling the doctor to the ground. Shielding his head, he screamed in dismay. As I lay over him, fragments of furniture exploded around us. Briefly, I looked towards the balcony but couldn’t see anyone standing there. Rolling over, I signalled for us to scramble towards the doorway. He nodded frantically, following me. All the while, the chaotic barrage of gunfire continued.
Eventually, making it to the front door, I got to my feet and pulled it open. Looking around to ensure the corridor was clear, I walked through. The doctor was close behind. We both started running towards the lift.
‘Where was that coming from?!’ he questioned.
I stopped and pressed the lift button before turning to look at him. ‘I don’t know.’
Four
Entering the reception, I harnessed my weapon and slowed to deter any suspicion from the concierge. Doctor Aditi walked by my side, flustered, clutching the holdall strap with a shaking hand, the bag swinging with his movements.
Passing the reception desk, we both smiled at the concierge as he went to receive a phone call. Moments later, as we neared the entrance, I could hear him vocalise astonishment. I suspected other residents had reported what had happened in apartment five-hundred-and-sixty-seven.
Anytime soon, the police would arrive.
We had to get out of there.
I felt the stress hormone cortisol flooding my bloodstream, whilst the effects of the Statera overpowered this, maintaining a potent high—an internal boat on choppy waters. Energised—ready to fight, I had to take a few deep breaths to ensure I wasn’t too overzealous in my mannerisms.
Before opening the entrance door, instinct told me to avoid walking out. I sensed something wasn’t right, troubled by thoughts of whatever had attacked us in the apartment.
Abruptly, I stopped, turning to face the doctor.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘As soon as we walk out, I will provide cover. We have to be very careful getting to the car. The door will be open.’
He nodded.
I took his holdall and threw the strap over my shoulder. Withdrawing my phone, I held down both volume keys. It would send a signal to my colleagues at headquarters, informing them I was performing the extraction.
Behind, I could hear the concierge shouting in our direction.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes,’ he replied confidently.
Pocketing the phone, I opened the door. Walking out, I withdrew my handgun, surveyed the area, and started moving forward.
He followed on my heels. I provided a shield, feverishly training my handgun on the surrounding apartment buildings. They loomed over us. There were numerous windows, ideal for concealment. As we passed each corner, I expected confrontation. Our heavy footsteps and fast breathing perforated the deathly silence.
When we reached the semi-circular driveway, I gestured for him to walk around to the very end. The car’s locking system registered my approach. The doctor ran forward, opened the passenger door wide, jumped in, and slammed it shut. I quickened my pace to reach the driver’s side of the car.
Suddenly, I could hear a buzzing sound coming from behind, echoing against the surrounding buildings. For a moment, I ignored it, but it got louder. Nearer. When I reached the driver’s door, I opened it and threw the holdall onto the back seat.
I looked toward the corner of an apartment building. A large black drone appeared. On the underside of the body was a mounted machine gun.
Turning in our direction, it registered, opening fire with a loud cacophony, peppering the car with bullets. I knelt for cover. Thankfully, there were perks with my work: a vehicle customised with reinforced bulletproof windows and plating.
Civilians walking along the pavement ran in fright. I launched inside the car and closed the door. Exchanging glances with the doctor, he was wide-eyed, panting heavily.
‘Well, that’ll explain things,’ I said dryly, harnessing my weapon. ‘You’d better hold on—this won’t be a casual drive.’
He nodded anxiously, attaching his seatbelt. I secured mine and switched on the quiet, hybrid engine.
The drone had flown ahead and turned around to face the car. I pressed down on the throttle, released the handbrake, and instinctively pulled down hard on the steering wheel, sending the vehicle on a hard right in the opposite direction of the traffic flow.
The tail end of the car swerved outwards before straightening. The doctor gasped. Several vehicles were driving in our approach, beeping. I manoeuvred past them. Some swerved to avoid a collision. Overhead, the drone vaulted ahead, showering the car with bullets.
We drove towards a junction. I originally intended to head straight down Wandsworth Road, but traffic surged from the one-way system to our left, blocking the way.
Looking to the right, I saw no traffic approaching from Nine Elms Lane. I pushed down on the throttle. With the engine roaring but barely making a sound, I pulled down on the handbrake and sent the car in the new direction, again in the wrong lane.
We started driving down Nine Elms Lane. To our right was the apartment complex. In front of us was the river, which this road snaked alongside. The car momentarily shook as it straightened. Vehicles were coming in our direction. Evasively, I drew over the verge and onto the left side of the road but had to slow the speed as we neared other cars.
Looking in the rear mirror, I saw that the drone had circled and tailed us. It recommenced a barrage of bullets that smashed against the vehicle’s surface, the sound muffled by the thickness of the windows.
To prevent civilian casualties, I meandered through the cars ahead, jumped the next set of lights, and pushed down hard on the throttle to create distance. Ahead of us, the road was empty. The U.S. Embassy was to our left, surrounded by a mountain range of modern skyscrapers, office blocks, and apartment buildings. To our right were smaller buildings overlooking the Thames.
Behind, in the far distance, I could hear bellowing police sirens. They were heading for the apartment.
‘Are you going to try and out-run that thing?’ the doctor asked, looking over his shoulder at the barely visible aircraft camouflaged in the darkened skies.
I looked in the rear mirror, watching the drone gradually getting closer. ‘Not likely.’
The drone stopped firing at us. The operator must have realised it couldn’t pierce the bulletproof material. It accelerated forward, circled to our right, and started firing towards the wheels. Although these were run-flat tyres made from heavy-duty rubber, unlike the rest of the car’s exterior, they were vulnerable to constant bombardment from machine gunfire.
Training my eyes on the road ahead, I swerved to avoid a collision. The drone maintained its aim, pelting the right-hand front wheel. It wouldn’t be long before the material obliterated, causing the wheel to burst and a possible loss of steering.
We met traffic. I took the pressure off the throttle, manoeuvring the car through like water passing stones in a stream. All the while, the drone had continued its pursuit, edging nearer.
‘How far are we?’ the doctor asked.
‘Depending on traffic—less than twenty minutes,’ I said, looking to my right as we passed Battersea Power Station.
Suddenly, and most inconveniently, two more drones appeared in the distance, flying in our direction.
When something like this occurs, affecting civilian lives, I obviously can’t take it lightly. It was a well-planned attack. And especially right out in the open. Something like this does not happen every day. Our operations are usually done in the shadows, away from the public. We typically stop these things before they happen.
Who was operating these drones?
As we drew past Battersea Park station, the drones surged ahead, shooting at a dozen vehicles under the bridge and beyond at a junction.
The audacity.
Panicking, the drivers all reacted by putting on their brakes. Some swerved, and others crashed into each other, ploughing into a cyclist and creating a barrier ahead of us. Civilians started to run and scream.
There was no alternative but to continue forward. Thankfully, there was a small gap to manoeuvre through, narrowly missing a double-decker bus.
The doctor breathed a sigh of relief. I held control of the car, pressing down hard on the throttle, pushing it to its limits.
I was in the moment. My heart was still beating calmly.
We continued down Battersea Park Road past a residential area. Once again, I had to weave between both lanes to avoid oncoming traffic. Meanwhile, the three drones continued to pelt us and other vehicles.
Drawing towards another junction, at the last moment, I applied the brakes, causing the car to grind to a halt. The hydraulic suspension-assisted seats cushioned us. Meanwhile, the drones flew onwards. Deciding to take us away from my intended trajectory, I drove forward, pulled up hard on the handbrake, and twisted the steering wheel, forcing the car to swerve to the left, causing the back end to swing around and the tyres to screech. As this happened, I drew down my window, withdrew my handgun, aimed at the drones, and fired. A few hit their mark, but the aircraft were undeterred and turned around.
I dropped the gun into the footwell, released the handbrake, and used both hands to retake control of the steering wheel. We surged southwards onto Falcon Road. The car momentarily wobbled before I was able to stabilise it.
Twice thrown off my original route, a few valuable minutes added to the journey. Thankfully, I knew these streets intimately. But I knew we were entering busy Clapham Junction at the end of this road.
‘Doctor, would you mind doing something for me?’ I asked, looking in the rear mirror.
‘Yes.’
One of the drones was drawing nearer. I couldn’t see the other two.
‘Can you reach into the backseat and pull up the lower cushion? Underneath, you’ll find an assault rifle.’ He proceeded to unbuckle, twist around, and lean back. As instructed, he pulled up the cushion, revealing the weapon. ‘There are two ammunition clips. Take those as well.’ He unlatched both and brought them forward. ‘Thank you. Just hold onto them for me.’
We came to a junction. Opposite us was the old Arding & Hobbs building. I took a sharp right, avoiding vehicles from every direction, and drove up St John’s Hill towards the train station. To no surprise, two other drones appeared ahead. They started shooting at the front wheels of the car.
‘There is another one!’ the doctor exclaimed, looking back.
Fully aware, I looked in the rear mirror but corrected my presumptions. Drawing behind us was the original drone, along with a new counterpart. As the original started firing at the car’s back wheels, the newer aircraft was better equipped—it launched a small missile that narrowly missed the side of the vehicle and smashed into a nearby lorry, which exploded in a thunderous ball of fire and smoke. Civilians started running frantically in all directions.
Nothing is ever easy—the memory of my son’s face.
As I swerved around other vehicles, we made our way onto a bridge across the train tracks. All four drones circled, positioning themselves at each wheel, continuing to bombard the car with bullets and missiles. The latter miss. I veered through the oncoming traffic.
‘Doctor, hand me the rifle and clips. You must take the wheel.’
‘What?!’ he questioned.
‘I will keep my foot on the throttle,’ I said, loading the rifle before activating the window. The doctor reluctantly leaned forward and took hold of the steering wheel.
I produced the rifle, aimed at the drone to my right, and released a volley of gunfire. It had the desired effect of smashing through the drone’s plating, which I deduced wasn’t made from metal. Moments later, the propellers malfunctioned. The drone exploded onto the concrete, fragmenting across the pavement.
Meanwhile, the other drones spotted me leaning out of the car. They directed their fire at me. Instinctively, I leaned back in for safety, closing the window. I passed the rifle to the doctor and retook the steering wheel.
The road tightened. We continued down St John’s Hill past houses, shops and restaurants. Civilians ran for cover. Debris exploded around us.
Eventually, coming to a turn on the one-way system, we followed this south on the A3. Snaking around, Wandsworth Common was on our left. Once again, heading westwards towards the rendezvous point.
We continued, jumping lights at a junction, gradually heading towards Wandsworth. The newer drone drew forward, faced us and launched a missile at the front-right tyre, this time hitting its target. The wheel was blown to smithereens, causing the car to shudder. Shrapnel propelled into the air, hitting the windscreen. The exposed wheel hub crunched against the ground, spraying sparks in all directions.
The doctor vocalised his shock, hugging the rifle close to his chest. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel to ensure I wouldn’t lose control, narrowly missing an oncoming car.
I could no longer drive at top speed. We continued on Wandsworth High Street, now taking a downhill trajectory, only a minute away from the rendezvous point.
How was I going to shake off this tail before getting there?
The steering wheel gyrated in my grasp. My arms spasmed. But I was in control.
Approaching heavy traffic, I swerved through. There was no choice other than to mount the pavement. Doing this, I punched the horn repeatedly to alert oncoming civilians. One manoeuvred, riding an electric scooter. Ahead, the lights went red. I evasively drove out past the parking traffic. We narrowly avoided collisions from other angles.
Eventually, I took a hard left onto Buckhold Road. In the distance, I could see the rendezvous point—a grey multi-storey car park.
I swung left onto Neville Gill Close. As this happened, I heard another explosion. The rear-left tyre also burst, causing the car to gyrate violently, slowing its trajectory.
I turned left under the low-hanging barricade entrance. Overhead, the two front drones flew away to avoid colliding with the building. The remaining drone, surveying the steep bank inside the car park, refrained from following us and flew out of sight.
I breathed a sigh through my nostrils. The car continued to struggle.
We needed to get to the second level—not ideal.
Getting to the top of the ramp, it curved past the guard station to the left. As the car smashed through the barricade, he stood up, looking on in dismay.
We drove through the first level and approached the next ramp. Despite the reinforced windows, we could hear the screeching of the wheel hubs echoing against the walls of the car park. I contemplated getting out and running the rest of the way, but I could see the drones circling the building. I didn’t want to take the risk.
I could feel the car struggling on the incline as we drove up the final ramp. Ahead, over the lip of the new level and a short distance away, I hoped my colleagues were waiting for us.
As we reached the top of the ramp, I instructed the doctor to grab his bag. We drove around to the right. There was clinical, white lighting. At the top-right of the level was a single white van. As we wobbled forward, the back doors to the vehicle opened. Out climbed two agents brandishing rifles.
I didn’t recognise either of them.
Applying the brakes, the car came to a grinding halt. Taking the rifle from the doctor, I reloaded it, surveying our surroundings.
‘Ready?’ I asked.
The doctor nodded anxiously.
Opening the door, I instantly aimed it further down the building whilst the doctor hesitantly got out.
But just then, standing only a few metres away from the rendezvous point, I saw something appearing in an opening. Before I could act, a bright light illuminated the level. A missile was hurtling toward us.
At that moment, I turned to face the doctor.
Suddenly, I felt the unbearable sensation of my body blowing through the air. The missile collided with the underside of my car, sending it spinning into the air in a blinding ball of flames.
I landed on my back, my head connected with the floor and arms splayed outwards, losing hold of the rifle. For a few moments, everything went dark—I fell unconscious.
When I came to, my eyesight was blurred. I was overwhelmed with a high-pitched ringing sensation in my ears. Reacting, I used my hands to push up into a sitting position. Before me, the car was overturned, still ablaze and blackened. I looked to my right, watching deliriously as the two agents fired their weapons at the drone.
I scrambled, stumbled forward, and ran around the car. There, I found the doctor lying on the ground, blood dripping from his mouth and ears.
In my disorientation, I couldn’t fully process what had happened. I drew forward onto my knees. By the doctor’s side, I looked down at him. Resisting the temptation to touch the doctor, I remained still.
Suddenly, his eyes, bloodshot, opened. He looked up at me.
‘Doctor, I...’ I managed to utter, shaking.
The ringing was intense.
With his burnt hand, the doctor ushered me closer. I leaned forward, putting my ear close to his mouth.
‘I must... pass on... information,’ he rasped. I looked into his eyes, glazed with tears. And then, he said that fateful word, which would change my life forever, leading to my eyes opening for the first time: ‘Leveller.’
Five
‘Are you okay?’ a muffled voice asked. It was only a short distance away.
I drew into the moment—the sounds of gunfire and an engine. I was sitting in the back of the van, my head buried in my hands, eyes closed. I was trying to block out the horrific image of the doctor’s burnt face. His body lay nearby in a black sack.
The female agent repeated herself. This time, I looked upwards and into her eyes. She looked younger than me—less corrupted. Her hair was short. The expression on her face reciprocated the concerned tone in her voice.
In a state of shock, unable to vocalise anything.
I’d failed to get the informant safely to the rendezvous point.
‘What is your name, agent?’ she asked, leaning forward.
‘Blake,’ I managed to say, my throat damaged from smoke inhalation.
I looked leftwards to the rear of the van. Another agent was standing, pointing a rifle out of the smashed right window, firing at what I suspected were the drones, unrelenting in their pursuit. He released a final spray of bullets before stumbling backwards, out of firing range, to replace the ammunition clip. Turning to face the female agent, he said: ‘Carroll, why are they still chasing us?’
She’d maintained focus on me. An eyebrow rose. ‘Because the informant passed on intelligence to Blake before he died. Am I correct?’
I averted my gaze, nodding.
‘But he can’t come with us?’ another voice announced from the van’s front seat.
I turned to face the man. He was steering the vehicle, addressing his colleagues in the rear mirror. He suddenly made an abrupt left-hand turn. There was the distant sound of car horns blaring. The van increased in speed.
‘Webb, we couldn’t have just left him there!’ Carroll protested. Meanwhile, the other agent had returned to aiming his rifle out of the window. Carroll looked at him. ‘Penrose, how many do we have left on our tail?’
‘I can’t shake this last one,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
The van overtook another vehicle. I looked back up towards Webb. He was swerving erratically, glancing in the wing mirrors, trying to shake off the drone.
I looked at Carroll, confused. ‘Where are we going?’
She sat there, clearly contemplating whether to tell me. I sensed there was something troublesome afoot. It was common for agents within the organisation never to cross paths. But there was something about these three which seemed—for the lack of a better word—different.
‘We are going to a safe house,’ she finally replied, looking back at Penrose. ‘And ideally without that drone following us!’
Moments later, the van took an aggressive right turn. The drone continued its pursuit, firing at us.
‘How close are we?’ Carroll shouted over the racket of the gunfire.
‘Twenty seconds,’ Webb replied.
Carroll looked back at me, her eyes searching mine. We remained there, looking at each other in uncomfortable silence.
The van took an abrupt right turn. It continued, curving leftwards, down a new road.
Moments later, Webb pulled up on the handbrake. The van skidded rightwards, wheels screeching, the back swinging around. I held onto the bench, bracing myself.
We stopped. Without hesitation, Carroll stood, withdrew a handgun, and loaded it. She ushered me to stand up. I pressed against the bench for support. My body was in agony.
Penrose kicked the backdoors wide open, jumped out, walked around to the left, and continued to fire at the approaching drone. I followed Carroll, landing on the tarmac.
The van sat diagonally across the road, facing in the direction we came from. Nearby streetlights illuminated the scene. To my left was a complex of single-storey business units entered via a metal gate. I walked to my right, around the opened door.
There stood an industrial building. It was two stories high. There was a large, retractable loading door. Above this were three small windows. On the ground level, to the left, was a door. Security cameras looked down at it. The unit had an attached twin to the left. It mirrored the layout. Grey metal coverings encased the whole structure. At the centre and either end were three vertical green stripes. To the right was a small driveway, accessible via an open metal gate.
‘Where are we?’ I asked, looking back at Carroll.
‘Lydden Grove,’ she replied, taking cover with Penrose by the other opened door. I was unfamiliar with the name but suspected it was south of the rendezvous point.
Carroll and Penrose started shooting at the drone while signalling me to head towards the building. All the while, the aircraft continued its slow advance, out of sight, bombarding us with gunfire.
I ran around the side of the van. The passenger’s door was open. Webb had jumped out. He gestured to a door at the end of the driveway. I followed him.
But as this happened, the drone spotted him nearing the building. It drew higher, adjusting its aim. A burst of bullets riddled Webb’s body. Blood splattered against the wall. He crumbled forward onto the ground.
The others screamed. Running forward, they offered me covering fire. The drone responded, flying backward.
Without hesitation, I ran forward to assist Webb. Kneeling, I turned the fallen agent over onto his back. Looking up at me, his pale face awash with fear, blood seeping from his lips. Even though my body was weak, I leaned forward, wrapped my arms around his abdomen, and pulled him onto his feet. Webb passed me a key and threw his arm over my shoulder for support. We stumbled towards the door.
I inserted the key, unlocked the door, and pulled hard on the handle. It opened. The hinges creaked. I took Webb inside.
Looking back, the other two agents approached. They ran inside, firing once more at the drone before quickly shutting the door. The aircraft continued to pelt the side of the building.
Minimal, orange light seeped through a window to my left. Glass shattered.
Carroll turned on a switch, drawing forth to assist Penrose with taking the wounded agent. I let go. They took Webb under the shoulder and walked further into the room.
Overhanging lights eventually flickered on. My eyes adjusted. We were in a large room. At the far end was the retractable loading door.
Unexpectedly, something else drew my attention.
In the centre of the room were three reclined chairs, their headrests facing each other. White, domed objects rested on top of them. There were various leads. Some ran towards a large, black box: a computer—on a nearby table.
‘What is that?’ I asked, stepping forward, mesmerised by the device.
The pair ignored me, sweeping items off another table, lying Webb down, applying pressure to his wounds, and giving him reassurances.
My gaze returned to the seats, domed objects, and computer.
Distracted, I didn’t fully acknowledge the distant, muffled screeching of tyres. Only moments later, when the drone stopped firing at the building, I regained focus on my surroundings.
Webb’s heaving perforated the long silence.
Suddenly, I heard the thundering sound of the retractable door lifting upwards. Behind me, the door kicked open.
I looked towards both. Entering the room were numerous masked intruders bearing arms, wearing black overalls and bulletproof vests.
Unsure what to do, I stood firm. One of the intruders advanced towards me. Instinctively, I launched for them. But they reached around with the butt of their rifle, smashing it into the side of my head.
I couldn’t register the pain. The world turned to one side.
My vision blurred, and my head hit the floor.