The Original's Return (Book 2): The Original's Retribution Read online

  Bryant pulled his glove back on and got in the car.

  Chapter 2

  1

  We have all read about the tragic events at the military base in deepest, darkest Kent last week. The explosion that killed ten serving military personnel, including Major David Smith, a twice decorated officer with considerable experience in combat. Major Smith had been re-assigned to the unit in Kent only a few months before his death.

  Nobody will tell me what he was doing.

  Nobody will say what his unit, which appeared to have many experienced soldiers in it, were actually doing in Kent.

  Why?

  Why is there this secrecy about that particular base? This was British soil, do not forget that when you read the rest of this report. An army camp, seemingly staffed with experienced and competent men and women, all of whom had experienced the conflict in Afghanistan when it was at its height. This camp, which we are supposed to believe blew up in a tragic accident.

  Reports from people near the base at the time of the explosion reported hearing helicopters before the explosion. Before. I’ll write that again. What had happened? What were they doing? Incidentally, those people who reported hearing this can no longer be traced. Not one of them. People in the nearby villages don’t say anything. Most of them say they were at work when the incident happened and so cannot help. One man, a Mr Fisher from Fosten Green, said these accounts were ‘a load of crap’.

  I don’t believe him.

  The same day, there were reports of a helicopter landing in a field in Huntleigh, Devon. An army helicopter. Coincidence? Irrelevant? If so, why won’t anyone tell me why there was a helicopter in Huntleigh? Let us not forget that a couple of months before this incident, Huntleigh had been devastated by a pack of wolves attacking some of its residents. A policeman and a teacher, Jack Stadler, were amongst two of the casualties.

  Why do I bring this up? Is it because Mrs Stadler still believes her husband is alive? She claims he was kidnapped by the army. Would that be the same army that landed a helicopter behind her house? Would that be the same army that has a mystery base in Kent?

  There are many unexplained incidents from that day last week and I intend to find answers.

  2

  Simon Foster took a sip from his beer and scanned the room again. It had been four hours since he had uploaded his blog and three hours and fifty minutes since he had had the phone call. Meet me, your local, if you want the truth. All very Deep Throat. The Watergate one, not the famous porno.

  Still, it had got him to the Dog and Duck in Wandsworth at 8 pm on a Tuesday night. The bar was quiet. Two guys sat on stools at the bar. They were drinking lager and their eyes were fixed on the screen at the far end of the bar. Why do English guys watch any football match going? Who cares about Real Madrid and Barcelona or whoever the hell is playing?

  Behind him, at his usual table, not far from the pool table, sat literally one man and his dog. Simon struggled to remember the man’s name. Derek or Clive or something old school like that. A man of few words, even when sober, Derek or Clive would not be capable of speech now. His dog had its head on its paws and it looked as fed up as it was possible for a dog to look. Simon grinned to himself and turned back to face the door. He took another sip of beer.

  The door opened and a man roughly the same height as Simon walked in. There all similarity ended. This man was lean, muscles clear under his t-shirt. Clean shaven with short hair, almost cropped to the skull. Blue eyes regarded Simon with nothing short of contempt.

  Oh crap.

  The man slid into the chair opposite Simon. “Foster?”

  Simon nodded.

  “You the one writing that shit on the internet?” The man didn’t wait for Simon to reply. “I lost friends in that accident, mate, so why are you stirring?”

  “I’m sorry your friends died-”

  “I’m not interested. What I do want to know is who has been filling your head with the lies you’ve been putting on the net.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Wrong question, Foster.”

  “I have my sources, and I will not discuss them with some thug like you. Good night.” Simon started to get up but realised the two men at the bar were no longer watching the football. They were standing right behind him. One of them put a hand on his shoulder. Simon suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “Nobody important, and you do this right, no-one you’ll ever see again.”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  The man nodded.

  “Why? What have I done?”

  “You’ve put a story out there that demeans the memory of brave men and women who died in the service of this country.”

  “I’ve done what?”

  “You heard.”

  “So it’s true?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Those barracks were a coming home base, that’s all. Skeleton crew welcoming back traumatised vets ready for reintegration into society.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

  The man shrugged. “Believe what you want, but that’s the truth. See, people like you, you’re always looking for the ‘truth’. But it’s always more boring than that. The truth is people died because of a gas leak and explosion. That’s the truth. People who had fought in Afghanistan, people who were hurt for this country-”

  “For our oil supply more like!”

  “Really, Simon? Don’t be a twat.” The man smiled, but it was a weary smile. Now Simon looked more closely, the man had deep lines around his eyes and he looked exhausted. Red-rimmed eyes, too, this guy has been crying a lot. “You’re a blogger, Simon, which puts you beneath paparazzi and reporters for The Sun or Daily Mail and way beneath pond scum. You are of no consequence, but you wish there was a story. You want to be successful, but you’re writing about the wrong things. Get some naked women on your site and your hit rate will go through the roof. But really, stay away from this. This is not what you think it is.”

  The man stood and pushed his chair under the table. “Let it go. This isn’t a story.”

  He left the pub, with the other two close behind him. What the hell was that all about? Simon took a longer drag from his pint and was dismayed to see his hand shaking. Easy, it was true, the guy was telling the truth. Not the soldier, the other guy. The soldier was lying through his teeth. Simon grinned, feeling energised. This is going to make me.

  His source was staying a short drive away. Jake had come to him a couple of days ago with the most outlandish tale. He claimed to have been part of a group that attacked the base in Kent and that they had been chased off when helicopter gunships had shown up and started firing indiscriminately at them. He had said that they were there to free a man. A man being kept captive against his will. Someone who had supposedly been killed in Devon by a pack of deranged wolves. Seriously, we’re expected to believe this?

  Simon pulled his notebook out and scanned it quickly. Jake had seemed insane. He had, after all, claimed to be able to turn into a wolf. There had been something about him, though, something desperate. His wounds were superficial, but he was covered in them. Somewhere in his rambling, Jake had said a name that Simon had latched on to.

  Jack Stadler.

  A man that had been reported dead.

  Simon finished his pint and walked out of the bar. He got in his car and pulled into traffic. Time to see my source, get more info. If I’m right, that man was Special Forces. That means cover up and that means there’s a story.

  Simon whistled as he drove. For the first time in years - actually since Jay had left - he felt alive.

  3

  Sergeant Peter Knowles climbed into his own car and waited whilst the other two clambered into the front seats.

  “Follow the numpty, then,” he said. This guy is an idiot.

  “He has no clue we’re following him does he?” Clarke was the shorter of the two. One arm was covered in a tattoo sleeve that looked ridic
ulous to Knowles.

  “No,” Knowles said. “Funny really. These bloggers know everything about hiding where they are posting from, but they have no personal security whatsoever. Makes you wonder why they bother.”

  “Keyboard warrior,” Clarke said.

  Knowles looked out of the window, watching the grey streets of Wandsworth pass. There is nothing of merit here. Why do people do it? A week ago he had been in the woods in Kent. A week ago everything had been on the up for him.

  “Do you think he’s there?” This came from Phelps.

  Knowles shrugged and kept looking out the window.

  “Knowles?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not.”

  Clarke looked over his shoulder, a frown on his face. “It’s why we’re here. Why would you say that?”

  Knowles didn’t meet the man’s gaze. “If Jack is up there, we don’t have enough men.”

  4

  Simon parked a street away. He left the car under a street light, not that it would do much good around here, and with his laptop under one arm, jogged to the tower block. He arrived with a thin sheen of sweat down his back and the remains of his hair sticking to his forehead. Leaning on the frame of the lift, he pressed the button and waited. The doors slid open with a ping and Simon stepped in. He immediately recoiled at the strong smell of urine. The lift was covered in graffiti. As he went up ten floors, Simon pondered the various offers of sex if all he did was phone a number and ask for ‘Tony’s mum’ or ‘Candy’.

  The door opened again, and Simon walked down the dank corridor, whistling to himself.

  5

  “Tenth floor,” Clarke said into his radio. He was looking at the lights above the lift doors, whilst the others sprinted up the stairs.

  “Thanks,” Knowles said, breathing heavily. “Come on up then.”

  Moments later Knowles and Phelps arrived at the tenth floor and peered out into the corridor. Simon was standing in front of a door, but he wasn’t looking around.

  He isn’t paranoid enough.

  6

  Simon knocked on the door three times, waited, then knocked twice more. He heard a lock turn and the door open. A young man stood there, mid-thirties, shabbily dressed. Simon grinned at him and walked into the room.

  The man was holed up in a two bedroom flat. It had belonged to Jay before he’d run away with that waiter. Simon had cried for days, but now he was glad. It had given him a place to hide the story of the century.

  “You ok?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, I had a shower. It helped.”

  Well, you need another. “Good. Now, I need to ask you some more questions, ok?”

  “It’s why I came to you.”

  Simon smiled again and sat at the tiny table in the kitchenette. Dishes were piled high in the sink, two-day-old food stuck to them. Does this guy have any personal hygiene? Then, if I’d been through what he’s been through. Losing his wife like that.

  “How many helicopters were there?”

  “I’ve already told you-”

  “Just fact checking, relax!”

  The man snorted. “I am a fugitive from the army. Don’t tell me to relax.”

  Drama queen alert! “Help me out here. Your story is a little-”

  “Wild?”

  “Yeah, wild. It’s my arse hanging out when I go to print.”

  “I thought this was a blog?”

  “Figure of speech, ok?”

  The door crashed open, three men entered and the door was closed instantly behind them. Simon leapt up and caught a Taser full in the chest. He hit the floor, legs and arms twitching, drool coming out of his mouth.

  7

  Knowles didn’t move his gun from the other man. Phelps had dropped the Taser and now had his gun out too. Clarke arrived seconds later and started searching the other two rooms.

  “Who are you?” Knowles asked.

  “I haven’t done nothing,” the man shouted.

  “So by definition, you’ve done something,” Knowles said.

  The man frowned. “What?”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Jake,” he said. “Jake Williams.”

  “Good man. You been talking to this numpty?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Now, how would you know about all that then?”

  “What?”

  Knowles stepped forward and slapped the man in the face. “Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  “I don’t-”

  Knowles slapped him again, harder this time.

  “I was there. I escaped when the helicopters came.”

  Knowles sighed and sat down. “So, why would you tell this guy about that?”

  “My wife was killed.” Jake started crying. “I want her back.”

  “So you talked to the press?” Knowles laughed. “That’s not going to bring her back.”

  “I found him in a pub. He’d been writing about how he didn’t believe that army base blew up by accident.”

  “Yeah, I saw that.”

  “I told him I knew what had happened.”

  “And what did happen, according to you?”

  “We went to rescue that man, Jack,” Jake looked at Phelps, eyes wild. “The army had him in prison. He was one of us.”

  “One of you?” Phelps said.

  “Please, let me go, I won’t tell anyone.”

  “No, you’re right there.” Knowles raised his gun and shot him between the eyes.

  8

  “Holy shit Knowles!” Phelps had his weapon out. “What the-”

  “Vermin,” Knowles said and spat on the corpse. A streak of red painted the wall behind Jake. Grey brain matter slipped slowly down the wall.

  “What happened?” Clarke yelled, running into the room.

  “Knowles just shot this man,” Phelps said. Now his weapon was aimed at Knowles. “Just shot him.”

  “Put your gun down.”

  “No way,” Phelps said. “I’m taking you in.”

  “In to where?” Knowles said. He put his own weapon on the table. “Ring the major. Do it now, go on. See what he says.”

  “Knowles-”

  “Ring him.”

  Knowles waited, sitting in the uncomfortable chair. He toed Simon’s body. The reporter didn’t move. He was out cold. Clarke had his mobile out and was dialling the number. Phelps watched Knowles, weapon still aimed at him.

  “They killed all my friends,” Knowles said to Phelps. “All of them. Do you understand?”

  Phelps said nothing.

  “Meyers. Carruthers. Scarlet. Jonesy. Claire. Even Starkey and Smith. All dead because of these things.”

  “I think you should stop talking now,” Phelps said.

  “You were there. Right afterwards, when they took the bodies away. You saw, didn’t you? You read the report. You knew what we were doing here.”

  “We’re looking for Jack Stadler, not this guy.”

  “Yep. We got lucky. One less of them in the world.”

  “Do you mean-”

  “Yes.”

  Phelps looked at the corpse. He looked like any regular dead guy, really. Same blood. Same bits of bone and brain. Just what anyone who had been shot with a low calibre pistol would look like.

  “You sure?”

  Knowles shrugged. “He was there.”

  Clarke hung up the phone. He was very pale. Knowles smirked at him. “Shall we go?”

  “The major said we have to clean it up.”

  Knowles nodded. “Of course we do.”

  Chapter 3

  1

  Bryant woke with a start. He pushed his duvet off and jumped to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes locked on the door. Nothing moved in the room. It was dark, and the alarm clock showed 04:12. He scanned the rest of the basically furnished room. Everything was exactly as he had left it when he went to bed several hours ago. His window, shut despite how hot it was, remained covered by the threadbare curtains.

&n
bsp; What woke me?

  He opened the door and peered into the corridor. Harsh strip lighting showed the barracks corridor for what it was: stark, in need of a paint job and empty. Bryant stood in the corridor for a moment, sniffing the air. He could smell the body odour of the men sleeping in the other rooms and dormitories; the semen of a lonely man; the detergent from the common shower room.

  Grinning to himself, he turned back into his room. He switched the light on and looked at his hand. There was not a scratch on it. Earlier that evening, when they had returned to base after hours of debriefing, his hand had been throbbing slightly. Now it was completely healed. He hadn’t coughed on waking either, and he couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

  Bryant climbed into bed and pulled the covers over him. He went back to sleep with a smile on his face.

  It had worked.

  2

  The Wolf raised its head. Belly full of the fox it had caught earlier, it had been sleeping under a tree. The sun was creeping up over the moor, changing the sky from deep black to red in a moment. It could see for miles, eyes darting to and fro, taking in all its surroundings. The Wolf sat up, then stood and padded over to the nearby river. It took some noisy slurps of water and then stopped still.

  It scanned the horizon again. Birds were starting to sing. A rustle nearby as a deer turned and fled. The Wolf knew there were more deer just over the crest of the hill and also knew that it could catch them easily. It did not chase.

  Instead, its fur ran back into its body, shrinking away, leaving pale white skin. In seconds, a man stood where the Wolf had. He stretched, forcing tension out of muscles that had not been used in a while.

  Jack Stadler looked around at the bleakness of the countryside surrounding him. He had no idea where he was, other than Dartmoor. Everything had happened so quickly. Katie and Josh looking at him with fear in their eyes. Knowles shouting as Jack jumped through the window. The soldiers shooting at him as he ran. Fleeing Huntleigh had been hard. The soldiers had given chase, but lost him quickly. As a Wolf, Jack could run much faster than them. He could hear and smell them which made it simple to elude them. Even the helicopter had been easy to avoid – its engine giving its position away, even though its noise had been dampened. He assumed the soldiers had night vision equipment, but they were no match for his enhanced senses.