Wolf Island td-8, Page 4

  “Like hell,” Shark grins. “But you know me—ever the optimist.”

  While Timas continues to play his keyboards, Shark gets back on the phone to those on his shortlist. Meera also makes a few calls, in case any of her contacts have discovered anything about the Lambs. I sit around as impatiently as the day before, twiddling my thumbs.

  The first of Shark’s team arrives at five, a chunky woman called Pip LeMat, an explosives expert. She’s followed by three men over the course of the evening—James Farrier, Leo DeSalle and Spenser Holm. They’re all soldiers but I don’t learn much more about them. They retire with Pip and Shark to his room shortly after they arrive, making it clear they don’t want to be disturbed. Apart from the clinking of bottles and glasses, and the occasional cheer or bellow, we don’t hear from them for the rest of the night.

  Shortly before eleven, Timas steps away from his laptops, takes a blue satin handkerchief from a pocket and dabs at his forehead, then folds it neatly and puts it away again. “Could I have some milk and a selection of whatever pastries the hotel has in stock?” he asks.

  “Pastries?” Meera frowns. “This late?”

  “Yes please,” Timas says calmly. “I would like an ice pack also, for my frontal cranium, and could you please make up a cot for me beside the desk?”

  “I’m sure we can find a room for you,” Meera says.

  “No thank you,” Timas replies. “I would prefer a cot.”

  “I’ll see what I can rustle up,” Meera says, then whispers to me. “I’m going back to my room when I’m finished. This guy gives me the creeps.”

  I hide a smile, wait until she’s gone, then ask Timas how he knows Shark.

  “He killed my father,” Timas says in a neutral tone, studying the back of the TV and frowning with disapproval.

  Timas’ English is excellent, but it’s clearly not his first language. I think he must have made a mistake. “Do you mean he worked with your father?” I ask.

  “No. He killed him. My father was trying to summon a demon. He meant to sacrifice me and my sister as part of the ritual. Shark saved me.”

  “And your sister?”

  “He was not in time to help her.” Timas walks around the rest of the room, making a survey of the remote controls, light fixtures, telephones… everything electronic.

  “Shark felt he was to blame for my sister’s death,” Timas says. “He should have saved her. He didn’t react quickly enough. Guilt-ridden, he developed an interest in my future. I was already heavily involved with computers, so he put me in touch with people who knew more than I did. I worked with them for a time, then with some others. When Shark realised I was the best in my field and could be of use to him, he reestablished contact.

  “I relished the challenge I was set and indicated my desire to work with him on subsequent projects. He summons me every so often. I drop everything to assist him. The people I work for understand. They know how important Shark’s work is. Do you work for Shark too?”

  “Not exactly. We’re… associates.” The word doesn’t sound right, but I don’t want Timas thinking I’m Shark’s lackey.

  Timas thinks about that for a moment, then sighs. “I hope they have pain au chocolat. That’s my favourite.” Then he falls silent and stares at his laptops, not moving a muscle, barely even blinking.

  Four more soldiers arrive the next morning, three men and one woman. Shark introduces them only by their first names—Terry, Liam, Stephen and Marian. They don’t show any interest in Meera or me, so we don’t bother with them either. Probably better that way. If we have to fight, some of us might die, and it’s easier to cope with the death of someone you’re not friendly with.

  “Has it clicked yet?” Shark asks as we gather in my room around Timas, who’s beavering away at his laptops after a short night’s sleep.

  “Huh?” I frown.

  “Do a head count. Twelve of us. The Dirty Dozen. I love that film.”

  “I hope that’s not your only reason for deciding on that number,” I growl.

  “It’s as good a reason as any,” he chuckles. “But that wasn’t the key factor. I have access to a helicopter and it holds twelve. I could have commissioned a larger craft but I’m familiar with this model. I can fly it if I have to, though James will be doing most of the flying—he’s the best pilot I know. Handy with a rifle too. If we need a sniper, James Farrier’s our man.”

  “What’s Timas like with a gun?” I ask.

  “Not bad,” Shark says. “But it needs to be a high-tech weapon with some kind of computer chip. He doesn’t like ordinary guns, but if you hand him something complicated that he can play with, he’s in his element.”

  “Timas isn’t altogether there, is he?” I mutter.

  Shark smiles. “You think he’s a loon. Most people do. But he’s passed every test he’s ever been set. He’s been probed by experts and they’ve all come away saying he’s weird, but nothing more. In theory, he’s as sane as you and me.”

  Shark moves into the middle of the room, takes up position beside Timas and claps loudly. We cluster round him in a semi-circle. Timas looks up, but keeps an eye on his laptops.

  “No long speeches,” Shark says. “You know I don’t call for help unless things are bad. We need to find a woman. She might be mixed up with some seriously dangerous demons. If not, it’ll be a walk in the park.

  “But if we’ve guessed right, it’ll get nasty. We’re talking direct contact with powerful members of the Demonata. We don’t want to fight. We only want to establish a link between the woman and the demons. But things could swing out of control and we might find ourselves in over our heads. If we do, you’re all dead. You should know that now, before we begin, so you have the chance to back out.”

  Shark waits. Nobody says anything.

  “Figured as much,” he barks. “Timas—you got everything we need?” Timas removes USB sticks from both laptops, slips them into his shirt pocket and nods. “Then let’s go,” Shark says, and the hunt begins.

  MEERA’S WAY

  We take a commercial flight. One of Shark’s contacts meets us at the airport before we fly out, with tickets and fake passports for those who need them. The photo of me is a few years old. I don’t recognise it.

  “Where’d you get this?” I ask.

  “I found it on the web,” Timas answers. “You were photographed when committed to an institute for the mentally unbalanced. After your parents were killed,” he adds, as if I might have forgotten.

  “No wonder I look like a zombie,” I mutter, running my thumb over the face in the passport, remembering those dark days of madness. I used to think life couldn’t possibly get any worse. How little I knew.

  We sit in pairs on the plane, splitting up so as not to attract attention. I’m with Timas. I’d rather have sat with Meera, but James moved quickly to snag the seat next to her. He’s chatting her up. I try keeping an eye on them, but as soon as the engines start, my stomach clenches and I grip the armrests tight, flashing back on my most recent experience in a plane.

  “Do you want to know the statistics for global aeronautical accidents for the last decade?” Timas asks as we taxi out on to the runway.

  “No,” I growl.

  “I only ask because you look uneasy. Many aeroplanes crash every year, but they are usually personal craft. Statistically we are safer in the air than on the ground. I thought familiarity with the facts might help.”

  “The last time I was on a plane, demons attacked, slaughtered everyone aboard and forced it down,” I snarl.

  “Oh.” Timas looks thoughtful. “To the best of my knowledge, there are no statistics on demon-related accidents in the air. I must investigate this further when time permits. There are blanks to be filled in.”

  He leans back and stares up at the reading light, lips pursed. After a minute he switches the light on, then off again. On. Off. On. Off. The engines roar. We hurtle down the runway and up into the sky. Timas’ eyes close after a while and he sn
ores softly. But his finger continues to operate the light switch, turning it on and off every five seconds, irritating the hell out of me.

  Another of Shark’s crew is waiting for us when we touch down. We drive in a van to a nearby hangar and park outside, close to a large, silver helicopter. Shark’s soldiers are laughing and joking with each other, excited by the prospect of adventure. They tumble out of the van and circle the helicopter. James pats it and purrs. “This is my baby now. The Farrier Harrier. Bring it on!”

  “Statistically, helicopters are not as reliable as aeroplanes,” Timas remarks, but I pretend I didn’t hear that.

  We take our seats. James invites Meera to sit up front with him, but to my delight she sniffs airily and gives him the cold shoulder.

  “You can sit beside me,” I tell her, and with a warm smile she accepts my offer. James glares at me and I smirk back.

  Timas takes the seat beside James. He’s fascinated by the banks of control panels. He asks a couple of questions, then observes silently as James fires up the propellors. I can see Timas’ reflection in the glass. He switches between frowns and smiles as he watches the pilot at work.

  “I’ve saved the best for last,” Shark roars as we rise smoothly. There are headsets with microphones but nobody’s bothered to put them on. Shark stands, bending to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and jerks his seat up to reveal a hidden compartment crammed with guns.

  The cabin fills with excited “Ooohs!” and “Aaahs!”, audible even over the noise of the blades. Shark passes the weapons round to the eager soldiers. I shake my head when he offers me one. I’ve no experience with guns and I don’t want to learn. Magic’s cleaner and more effective. Meera doesn’t bother with a gun either.

  “What about rifles?” Pip shouts, having loaded her gun and jammed it into her waistband.

  “And grenades?” Stephen yells.

  “Stacks of them,” Shark grins. “We’ll break them out during the journey. It’ll help pass the time.”

  Meera and I roll our eyes at one another and turn our attention to the scenery beneath. We watch the ground roll away behind us, airport hangars giving way to open countryside dotted with farms and the occasional house. After a while the houses multiply, becoming small villages and towns, feeding into the suburbs of the city where we’re headed for our showdown with Prae Athim and her werewolf-armed Lambs.

  With Timas navigating, we soon locate the building. It looks like any other, lots of glass and steel, nothing special. Luckily it has a flat roof, and although it’s not intended for helicopter landings, Timas assures us that it’s structurally sound and will support our weight.

  “Headsets!” Shark bellows. When we’re all hooked up, he outlines the plan. “James stays with the helicopter—he’ll hover nearby after dropping us off. Once we’re on the roof, we’ll force our way down the staircase to the eleventh floor. Terry and Spenser will stay on the staircase to keep it clear. Leo will take out the elevator. There’s another staircase—Marian and Liam will head for that. The rest of us will hit Prae Athim’s office.”

  “What if she’s not there?” Meera asks.

  “Then we’ll find out where she is.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a rather heavy-handed approach?” Meera challenges him. “If she’s elsewhere and gets wind of our attack, we’ll lose the element of surprise.”

  “You have another idea?”

  “Yes,” Meera says calmly. “We ask them to let us in.”

  Shark laughs, then scowls. “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely. Politeness often succeeds where brute force fails.”

  “Brute force has always worked pretty well for me,” Shark disagrees.

  Meera flashes him her sweetest smile. “Let’s try it my way. If it doesn’t work, we can hit them hard, but at least we have options. If we do it your way, there’s no plan B.”

  “It’s always good to have a plan B,” Terry chips in.

  “It can’t hurt to try her approach,” James says from the front of the helicopter. I’m sure he’s only saying it to score points with Meera.

  “OK,” Shark shrugs. “Take us in, Farrier. Meera, it’s your show—for now.”

  As Meera talks us through her simple plan, we drift in over the building, hover closer to the roof, then set down. James kills the blades and as silence settles over us, we sit in place and wait.

  Security guards soon spill on to the roof. Thirty or more. They’re all armed, but only with handguns.

  “A few are ex-military,” Leo murmurs, studying the guards as they fan out. “But most look to have been privately trained. We could take them with our eyes shut.”

  “Leave the taking for a while,” Meera says and slides out of the helicopter. She nods for Shark and me to accompany her. As Shark moves forward, she tuts and looks pointedly at his weapons—a couple of revolvers and a small rifle strung across his back.

  “Do I have to?” Shark pouts. Meera raises an eyebrow. Sighing, he drops his weapons and clambers out in a foul mood.

  We take several steps away from the helicopter, then wait, hands in plain sight. One of the guards—an officer—speaks into a microphone attached to his shirt, waits for orders, then comes to meet us. His troops train their guns on us but keep them slightly lowered, so if one of them fires by accident he won’t draw blood.

  The officer stops a metre in front of us. He’s wearing a ring with a large gold L set in the centre. Prae Athim wore a similar ring when I met her.

  “Can I help you folks?” the officer asks with forced politeness.

  “We have an appointment,” Meera replies smoothly.

  The officer seemed prepared for any answer except that one. He blinks stupidly. “An appointment,” he echoes.

  “With Prae Athim. Could you tell her Meera Flame and co are here?”

  “We’re not expecting any visitors,” the guard says, his voice taking on a slightly threatening tone.

  “You might not be,” Meera smiles, “but Prae is. Let her know we’re here and I’m sure she’ll authorise our entry.”

  The guard looks troubled. He tells us to stay where we are. Moving out of earshot, he speaks into his microphone again. After a short conversation he calls to us. “Somebody’s coming up. Please maintain your positions.”

  The guard returns to the ranks and waits with the others. As he passes orders along, the guards lower their weapons another fraction. I start to relax. Looks like they don’t mean to turn this into a shooting match. At least not yet.

  A couple of minutes later, as Shark fidgets, the door to the roof opens and a tall, handsome, tanned man emerges. He’s wearing a suit, but no tie. His hair looks like a film star’s, thick and carefully waxed into shape. He smiles smoothly and his teeth are a perfect pearly white. Meera’s right hand shoots to her hair and she tries to pat it into place, suddenly irritated by the sharp wind whipping over the rooftop, making her job impossible.

  “Good afternoon,” the man says, stopping half a metre closer to us than the guard did. He has a smooth voice. “My name’s Antoine Horwitzer. How may I be of service?”

  “We’re looking for Prae Athim,” Shark says as Meera gazes open-mouthed at the man. He nudges her in the ribs and she recovers swiftly.

  “Yes,” she snaps, a red flush of embarrassment spreading from the centre of her cheeks. “We have an appointment. Is she here?”

  “One would expect her to be present if one had an appointment and had flown in by helicopter to keep it,” Antoine chuckles. “But I don’t believe you really arranged a meeting, did you, Miss…”

  “Flame,” Meera says with a nervy laugh. “Meera Flame.”

  “She already gave her name to the guard,” Shark growls, eyes narrowing.

  “Indeed,” Antoine says with a little nod. “I was being disingenuous. I wanted to see if she would give the same name again.”

  “Why shouldn’t she? It’s her real name.”

  “And you are…” Antoine asks.

&n
bsp; “Shark.”

  “No surname?”

  “No.”

  Antoine’s smile flickers. Shark can be intense. He’s staring at the man in the suit as if pondering whether or not to cut his heart out and eat it.

  “If Prae’s here, she’ll vouch for us,” Meera says. “You’re correct—we don’t have a scheduled meeting. But she’ll want to see us.”

  “What about the rest of your group?” Antoine asks, smile back in place. He waves at the soldiers in the Farrier Harrier. “I’m no expert, but those guns don’t look like toys. Will Miss Athim welcome armed thugs as well?”

  “They’re our travelling companions,” Meera says. “They mean no harm.”

  “What if I asked them to dispose of their weapons and leave the helicopter?”

  “No,” Shark barks before Meera can answer.

  Antoine’s brow furrows, giving the impression that he’s thinking this over, but I believe he knew exactly what he was going to say before he set foot on the roof. He doesn’t look like a man who leaves much to chance.

  “I can’t admit you unless I know why you’ve come,” Antoine says eventually.

  “We can discuss that with Prae if you tell her we’re here,” Meera replies.

  “You’re fishing,” Antoine chuckles. “You want me to reveal whether or not she’s in the building. But I’m not prepared to tell you unless you answer my questions first.”

  “It’s not your place to make a call like that,” Meera says icily. “Prae Athim is the CEO. I don’t know what your position is, but if you—”

  “Actually, there’s been a recent managerial shift,” Antoine interrupts. “I am the current chief executive. If you wish to proceed, you’ll have to deal with me. Otherwise…” He shrugs.

  “You’ve replaced Prae Athim?” Meera asks, startled.

  “Not in so many words,” Antoine answers evasively.

  Meera shares a glance with Shark. He’s frowning uncertainly. She doesn’t look sure of herself either. I decide it’s time for me to step in. I’ve been standing idly on the sidelines long enough.