Liz Mistry - Broken Silence

He’d just decided that he could risk moving when he heard the sound of a vehicle revving up and sure enough the white transit was revving backwards. In a panic, Stefan crawled over to the gap in the bushes and slid through. He’d just re-entered the estate when he heard the van doors open, followed by frenetic barking and Bullet’s guttural tone breaking through the night.

‘Go get him, boys.’

Shit, they’d brought the bloody dogs. Legs pounding, Stefan tore between buildings looking for some way to escape, the barks and growls growing nearer as he ran. Finally, he saw a huge industrial bin and, wondering if he was sealing his fate, but having no other choice, he pulled himself up, slid the rolling lid back and dropped in on top of a pile of cardboard boxes. After closing the lid, he burrowed to the bottom of the bin, covering himself with layers of cardboard and once more prayed the dogs would lose his scent.

Sounds from outside were muffled and it was difficult to decide if his pursuers were coming any closer or not. He could hear barking and yelling, but it was distorted. The heat generated by the cardboard warmed Stefan up slowly and he began to think that his safest bet was to remain here till the dead of night and then make another bid for freedom. He could catch some sleep and he’d be dry and warm. He smiled. The mere thought of not having to move for a few hours, not having to listen to other peoples’ bodily functions, not having to smell the great unwashed, was like a gift to him. He sighed, reassured by the silence that had descended outside.

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat somewhere near his head shattered his reassurance. Someone was out there banging on the side of the bin. Stefan held his breath and his body stiffened. Maybe it was one of the workers out for a smoke. He strained his ears. He couldn’t hear anything else – no dogs, no voices. Maybe whoever it was had gone.

Then it came – a coarse singsong whisper penetrating the plastic bin – taunting and at the same time chilling him. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

This was followed by ferocious yelping and Stefan knew the game was up. The lid was thrown back and a bright torch shone into the inside. In a last-ditch attempt, Stefan remained still and silent, but it was no good. Whoever shone the torch followed that by pushing a long prod through the layers of cardboard. When it connected with his body, Stefan braced himself not to react, then the electric current from the Taser had him yelping in pain as his entire body shook for a moment and then became numb. Seconds later, two of Bullet’s henchmen dragged him from the bin and flung him in a heap on the wet ground. The dogs salivating and over-excited pranced and jumped close to him, taking the odd nipping bite before they were yanked back by their owners.

‘Oh dear. This makes me very sad, you know. It also makes my boss very sad.’ Bullet tilted his head to one side and laughed. ‘Actually, it doesn’t make him sad so much as angry.’

He waved his phone in the air. ‘He told me to hit you where it hurts and boy, am I going to enjoy doing that.’ He gestured to his thugs who dragged Stefan, feet trailing through the deserted industrial estate to where the transit van waited. As they flung him in and slammed the door shut, Stefan was glad that he was the only one to be punished. He couldn’t bear it if Maria had to suffer any more at the hands of these brutes.

It had taken Xavier over an hour to drive to the old farmhouse in the middle of the moors and it was only courtesy of his police scanner that he’d been able to avoid the patrol cars and the crime scene itself. He took a moment to get in character. His code name, Xavier, made him feel quite sophisticated. Xavier in the X-Men was a visionary … an intellectual … a leader – all the qualities he himself rated highly. He allowed himself a grin as he acknowledged that his aims were more in line with Magneto’s than Xavier’s. It amused him to subvert the idea of a superhero; after all, heroes were all in the eyes of their beholders, weren’t they?

Looking through the windscreen at the snow-covered yard, Xavier’s good humour dissipated a little. The weekend had started off fine … in fact, until this morning, it had been great. The Community Liaison Conference had been amusing. He’d been asked to speak at the session on modern-day slavery and that had given him a buzz. All those people from social services, policing, education, local government, politicians and the like hanging onto his every word. Then there was his down time … that had been satisfying, or rather she’d been satisfying.

When the phone call came, his rage had clouded his mind for a moment. Bloody Stefan Marcovici! Xavier made a point of not knowing their names – too bloody many of them to remember anyway – but Stefan Marcovici had become a risk to the entire operation and so Xavier had to sanction drastic action. That in itself didn’t bother him. No, what bothered him was that he’d not been there to witness it, but Cyclops, his right-hand man was right. Bullet and his cronies could deal with it. In fact, they’d enjoy it. Besides which, he needed to distance himself from this and just as well, because now he had these two fools and their mess to deal with and that was on top of the existing problem of Adam Glass’s betrayal. Seemed like trouble did come in threes, but by the end of the night his minions would have cleaned it all up and it would be back to business as usual.

The one sensible thing the idiots had managed since picking up the bint who was following them, was to get as far away from the scene as possible and head for safe house number two. Why they’d shot her, he didn’t know, and why they’d decided it was best to throw her in the back of the van and cart her here was beyond him. That’s what comes when you have to rely on lowlifes. He inhaled deeply and took a moment, releasing his breath slowly.

Now that he’d switched off his headlights, the only light source was the moon and the few stars visible between the snow-heavy clouds. It was like some dystopian wilderness and that was just what he wanted; silence with no nosey parkers around to meddle.

No sign of the van, so they must have hidden it in one of the outbuildings. Smart move. Not that there were many passers-by, but best to be safe. They’d done well, he supposed, to black-out the windows. No light escaped from the sides and the gas heaters they’d transported up weeks ago negated the need for an open fire and the subsequent telltale smoke. To the casual eye, the building and outbuildings looked deserted, just as they should. He’d chosen this old house because of its location. Far enough from the touristy moorland walks, yet not so far that he couldn’t have the goods transported to anywhere in the district in record time. His men had been trained to be on the lookout for over-curious nosey parkers and as per his instructions, none of his deserted properties were used to store his assets for more than a few weeks at a time.

He employed a random rotation model that had served him well: neither his rivals nor the authorities had shown any interest in his doings so far. He smiled. Even if they had, he was so far removed from the dirty end of things that nothing could be traced back to him. Even the goons inside were unaware of his true identity and that was the way he intended to keep it. What was it they called it? Plausible deniability?

Before exiting his ‘borrowed’ vehicle, he got his game face on. Well, actually it was a balaclava, but it served the same purpose. He wasn’t exactly pissed off by what had happened today. Other than a minor inconvenience for himself and the waste of a Sunday afternoon that could have been better spent screwing his mistress, it was mere irritation, but combined with the other stuff, it niggled. Not because he personally felt under threat – he was secure in the knowledge that nothing could end up at his doorstep – but because he hated incompetence, hated needless complications. In his experience, complications left to their own devices could unravel and that’s why he’d elected to come here himself. If he couldn’t deal with Marcovici, he could deal with this cock-up … make sure it was tied up with no loose threads.