Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

He made his way cautiously down the alley, occasionally glancing behind him, in case this was some kind of trap. The silence had returned, and he could hear nothing other than his own footsteps.

There was no light showing beyond the doorway. The door hung open, and Nergui saw a broken padlock on the ground nearby. He stopped by the opening, conscious that he did not wish to make himself too visible a target. “Badzar. Stop playing games. Tell me what you want.” He could hear his voice echoing in the empty spaces beyond the doorway, an unexpected contrast to the muffled snowbound world outside.

There was no response. Nergui switched off the flashlight, aware that it would only betray his position. He pulled out his pistol, thumbed off the safety catch and stepped forward into the darkness.

Once through the doorway, he stepped rapidly away from the door, moving himself along the wall so that his position would not be obvious. He stopped, his back pressed against the wall, and held his breath, listening for any clue as to what might lie inside this vaulted room.

There was nothing. The silence and the darkness seemed complete, other than the very faint grayness coming from the open doorway. He had no idea what was in the room, whether it was simply an empty abandoned space or filled with equipment of some kind. He did not know if Badzar was really in here, and if so whether he was here alone.

He stayed motionless by the wall, wondering what his next move should be. If there was no other response, he would have little option but to switch on the flashlight again. He felt absurdly exposed in here, recognizing that Badzar was playing with him, leading him into a position where he had no choice but to reveal his position, to present himself as a target to an unseen enemy.

He pressed himself back against the wall, his pistol clutched tightly in his hand, his finger resting on the trigger, preparing for what might happen when he switched on the flashlight.

And then the decision was taken out of his hands, so suddenly that he almost fired involuntarily. The great vaulted space was suddenly flooded with light, rows of fluorescent tubes flickering into life along the roof beams.

Nergui tried to keep his eyes open, but was dazzled by the unexpected brilliance and for endless seconds could see nothing. He held the gun tight, wanting to be ready for whatever might be waiting, but aware of the risks of shooting into the unseen.

But nothing happened. And finally his eyes cleared, and he was able to look across the vast factory floor to what lay at the far end of the room.

The knife rose, the silver blade glinting in the bright overhead lights, then came down sharply. Drew’s screams were still echoing around the vast empty room as the blade struck, the blade snagging hard against the tight cords.

Drew gasped, all the breath expelled from his body, his mind dazed, his terror now beyond even screaming. He felt, momentarily, the icy steel against his neck, then nothing more. It took him a moment to realize that he felt no pain, and several seconds more to accept that he remained unharmed, except for a mild tingling on his neck where the blade had grazed him.

He twisted his head, trying to see what was happening, and found that, for the first time since he had awakened in this place, his head was free. The stroke of the knife had, with consummate skill, sliced neatly through the cords that held him while barely touching his skin.

His captor was standing calmly, a few feet away, watching as Drew twisted his body to see. Behind the woolen helmet, his eyes were unblinking.

Drew’s body was aching and stiff from the lengthy period of captivity, and at first he was barely able to take advantage of his new freedom. He was held now only by the handcuffs which, as he looked around him, were attached to a ring embedded in a large piece of concrete. He pulled hard on the handcuffs and the block shifted slightly on the floor. It would have been possible to move it, but only with considerable effort. His captor must be considerably stronger than Drew himself, accustomed to moving heavy loads.

His muscles in agony, Drew pulled himself into a sitting position. His captor still stood watching, motionless, with the air of a scientist observing an experiment. Drew looked around him. As he had surmised this was some kind of disused factory building. The room they were in was a storeroom of some kind, with empty metal shelves stretching around the walls. Here and there were abandoned items-a paint pot, some rusty-looking tools, a few pieces of wood and metal. Drew himself had been lying on a wooden workbench, set in the middle of the concrete floor.

The room was a relatively large one-maybe ten meters square-but through the door behind his captor Drew could see a further, much larger area. Probably the original factory floor, he thought.

It was as if, once his body had been freed, Drew had come to life again, returned from his state of suspended animation. During his captivity, he had been largely unaware of pain or other bodily needs. Now, suddenly, he was aware, not only of the stiffness and aches arising from the discomfort of his imprisonment, but also of other pains-the bruises and grazes he had sustained while being attacked and kidnapped. But more immediately, he was acutely aware of a need to urinate.

He stared at his captor. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want from me?” He was conscious that even if his captor was prepared to engage in dialogue with him, he was unlikely to speak English.

There was no direct response. His captor continued to stare at him. Drew pushed himself down from the bench and put his feet on the floor. His legs shook from the effort, but he forced himself to stand upright. “Why have you brought me here?” he said, in a last effort to make himself understood. He tried to move forward toward his captor, stretching himself away from the handcuffs as far as he could.

The other man still did not move. He was standing several feet beyond Drew’s reach. As Drew tried to stretch toward him, he continued to watch, apparently with mild curiosity.

Finally, the man took a step back, still watching Drew. He turned suddenly and began to walk toward the open doorway. At the door, he paused momentarily, and looked back over his shoulder. “Come,” he said in English. “This way.”

Drew stared at him for a moment in astonishment. The words had been in English. The accent had sounded American, or at least the accent of someone who had learned English in the US. Drew watched as the man disappeared into the far room. Then, slowly and painfully, he tried to follow, dragging the heavy concrete block behind him.

He moved a meter or so along. Then he stopped and, with feelings mixed between relief and a sense of futile rebellion, he unzipped his flies with his free hand and began to urinate copiously across the concrete floor. It was only when he was finished and the liquid was running in rivulets across the empty room that he recommenced his slow progress toward the open door.

Nergui’s sight cleared slowly, and he stared across the room through a haze of colors.

This was the old factory floor. It was a vast room, with a high vaulted ceiling crossed by metal roof beams. Large windows stretched along each wall, although the majority of these were broken or boarded up. It was clear that the room had once contained some form of production machinery, but now, apart from a few discarded pieces of rusty metal, the large space was empty.

At the far end of the room, a man stood. It was the figure Nergui had seen in the darkness, dressed in a long black overcoat, with a hood over his head. Even in the bright light of the numerous fluorescent tubes, Nergui could barely make out the man’s face in the hood’s shadow, though it was clear he was a Mongolian.