CrossOver

By Paul Proffet

when a mystical warning from a vulnerable girl helps len doyle avoid a bloodbath, he wants answers. if there's one thing a professional killer doesn't like, it's loose ends. in return for her secrets she wants shelter and protection. but in hindsight, perhaps doyle should have found out what she needed protecting from. after being dragged into a fight with a supernatural horror, doyle realises he will have to learn a few hard lessons if he is going to keep his new friend, briar, alive for much longer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Proffet
• Release date: Apr 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311942333

Paul Proffet

Author Bio: Then. I grew up in a small mining town in Yorkshire, England where entertainment was relatively thin on the ground. At least it was for a cerebral young fantasist like me. As a result I would dissolve myself in books and comics from a very early age. Some of my fondest memories involve 2000AD or even Marvel or DC stuff. I was given several Roald Dahl books by loving family members and I still cherish them even now. I remember some of my attempts at writing around this time and I’m suddenly glad a standard keyboard doesn’t have a cringe button! Yes they were that bad. I had the enthusiasm back then, but not the life experience that was to spice my later attempts. I found that my earliest stuff was interesting, but it sounded like everything else. It would take another thirty years for me to find my voice and style. I would like to be able to give some credit to my former school and educators, but I won’t. Now. Three decades later and I’m sitting here overjoyed. I must look over at my bookshelf around fifty times a day and look proudly at my first published book. CrossOver sits up there next to some real aristocracy within the fantasy writers world, that I can only hope to emulate. But I use the word emulate with some trepidation. I couldn’t hope to match many of them, but if I can just look at Crossover standing there next to them in a bookstore somewhere, then that’s genuinely enough for me. I’ve seen some hardship since my younger days too. Sometimes lack of money, sometimes not. Sometimes lack of hope, sometimes not. I’m still standing though, shaky, but defiant. I live in Cheltenham now with the most wonderful person in the world. If it wasn’t for her I’m not sure what state I’d be in. Later. CrossOver is out there and I’ve spilt first blood. It’s only been a few months and I’m still struggling with the emotions of it all. As a debut novel it reminds me every day that I can do this, now and forever. I cracked straight on with the sequel, CrossBack, and things are going swimmingly. I love spending time with the characters and the story just seems to be spilling out all over the place. My idea book is filling up too. When the CrossOver trilogy is firmly tucked into bed, I have tons to think about. Am I going post-apocalyptic of steam-punk? Epic Sci-fi is elbowing its way in too. There are also some fascinating characters that take up much of my day-dreaming time too. Who knows how that will play out? Stay with me and keep the faith. It only gets better from here. Paul Proffet

Book preview

CrossOver

By Paul Proffet

© 2014, [Paul Proffet]. Except as provided by the Copyright Act [06-11-2014.] no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

One

‘I’ll sell you a secret.’ came a voice.

He jerked his head up at the sudden intrusion. Remembering his drivers’ side window was down, he was quickly alert. Annoyed at how easy the girl had approached to within touching distance, he swung around and checked nobody else was nearby.

Obviously homeless, she was hard work on his nose and normally he would have simply wound up the window. The grime around her cheeks and dark rings under her eyes made her difficult to age, but there was something about her eyes, they had a shine to them even though the rest of her face seemed defeated.

Wrapped up in a huge grey coat, the young girl stooped next to his prized car.

‘I’ll sell you a secret and it might just save your life.’ she whispered.

It was an odd sales pitch for a homeless person and against better judgment he reached into his jacket pocket and took out some cash. Looking at the roll of notes he was unsure what to hand over and looked at the girl.

‘Just pay me what you feel is right.’ she smiled.

Must have read his mind.

Again, unsure as to why, he passed her a note and she gently took it from him. Dragging her woollen hat off, she ran her hands through hair that resembled rat tails. Seconds passed by with the girl holding the note to her mouth like she was tasting the money. Finally satisfied with whatever she was contemplating she looked up and held her benefactor with an intense stare.

‘A blue suit might kill you today if you let it.’ she said.

His eyebrows knitted. Expecting some sort of relationship advice or bullshit fortune telling he began to feel uneasy. If the girl was some sort of confidence trickster she was good. Noticing his reaction she added the final part of her prediction.

‘You should take Whiskey to protect you. But keep her a secret.’ warned the girl.

Whirling round she rushed off, dodging between the people on the busy sidewalk. The evening shoppers gradually closed ranks and she was gone. Closing the car window he rubbed at his arms beneath his jacket sleeves, trying in vain to get the hairs to bed back down. Pinpricks of static made his skin feel like it was infested with ants.

The first statement made no sense, although it was true he had committed some serious crimes against fashion during his forty plus years on earth. It was her mention of Whiskey that had put him on edge. She had watched his back for over twenty years and, like the drink, had caused some splitting headaches during that time. It was a private name, a pet name and only he knew it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview. Smoothing down his salt and pepper hair, he laughed sheepishly. The two tramline scars that cut through his eyebrow and away down his cheek made his expression look faintly maniacal.

‘Len Doyle, you are officially losing your mind.’ he laughed.

Smiling at his scarred reflection he shook his head and looked around to see if anybody had seen his embarrassment. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention and he relaxed a little.

A harsh electronic chirp and sharp vibration made him jump. Groaning at his childish reaction, he cursed loudly. Lifting his phone from the centre console he carefully read the incoming text message. He had been summoned for the meet. Reading it a couple more times, he locked the touch screen and put his phone inside his jacket. Reaching for the ignition key, he paused and looked around for the girl again. His view was blocked by the steady flow of shoppers and workers heading home. Filling his lungs with air he let out a long controlled breath.

Something about the girls warning niggled him. Warnings are strange things. Acted on unnecessarily they can cause embarrassment and invite accusations of paranoia, ignored they can result in death. And as proficient as they may be, paramedics can’t treat death.

Rummaging in the glovebox he removed a few things and slammed it shut. Finally happy he fired up the engine and shifted the car into gear. The drive across the city would be slow at this time of day so he adjusted a few of the dashboard vents and turned on the air-conditioning.

His mind drifted back to the text message. Two simple words. At least a few minutes ago they were simple. Now they were sinister.

‘The Store.’

Two

It would appear that the girl wasn’t the only one with precognition abilities. Len’s prediction about the traffic had been right on the money. He had spent most of the journey moving at a snail’s pace across the city. After spending what felt like an eternity in solid traffic, he arrived at the store and parked next to a bright yellow Subaru. In fact it was so offensive, Len thought the colour might be described as Fucking Yellow. Climbing awkwardly out of his beloved classic BMW, he tried to shake some life into his sore knee. His driving license claimed he was 44 years old, although it should have read ninety year old knees somewhere in the small print. Straightening up he tested his aching joints. Feeling the soreness subside slightly he strode towards the store front.

The business itself was an eastern European mini-mart. The recent influx of immigrant workers had created its own infrastructure, setting up markets full of products from several countries. Its windows were completely covered by colourful transfers, all advertising supplies in five different languages.

Len wasn’t here for the food however. A vicious criminal fraternity had travelled alongside the migrating workforce. Drugs, sex slaves and extreme violence were all available to the discerning customers of this store. Len hated this new breed of marauder. They had no traditions or morals; no respect for the old ways. He wanted out and had a plan to achieve just that. But he had to be cautious. The monsters populating this snake pit were stone killers.

Leaning against the gaudy door, he pushed inside and scanned the shop floor. He immediately spotted the owner of the yellow Subaru. His huge frame was loitering near the door, ever watchful for undesirables. A pudgy gut spilled out over the waistband of his denim jeans and his food stained hoodie had long since given up the battle to contain it. He sneered at Len and then looked at his watch.

‘It’s about time you bought a faster car I think, old timer.’ grunted Marek.

‘I’ll race you up a few flights of stairs you fat bastard.’ shrugged Len.

‘The boss is expecting me so just buzz me through Marek.’ he continued.

Without stopping, Len walked towards the back of the store. It was early evening and there were no signs of any customers wandering the aisles. Normally there would have been a handful of pretty girls working too. He wasn’t sure if that was due to the time, or some sort of plan. If it hadn’t been for the girl and her weird warning, he wouldn’t have given the lack of people a second thought. As he approached a non-descript door at the rear of the building, he heard a faint electrical buzz and pushed down on the handle.

The second guy was waiting just inside. Abslom was a different prospect to Marek. He was built like a silverback gorilla and looked like he’d blocked a thousand punches with his face. The only thing more vicious than his personality was the stink of his ever present cologne. His bald head stood at least six inches lower than Len’s, but what he lacked in height he made up for in width. Knowing that he was Davor’s right hand man, Len knew that if he was walking into an ambush, Abslom would be involved.

Shifting to his left, Abslom blocked the staircase leading up and raised his hands in front of Len.

‘You want to search me?’ asked Len, suspicion growing.

‘Just orders Len. Davor has somebody with him, so wait until he calls you in.’ grunted Abslom.

Raising his hands as he was asked, Len’s expression went blank. He had grafted for this particular criminal clique for nearly five years and hadn’t been searched once. Either they thought he was a rat wearing a wire, or they were looking for weapons.

Abslom tapped something solid and reached into Len’s pocket. The small nickel-plated .25 cal Beretta looked tiny in his great clump of a fist. Careful not to react, Len watched his beloved pistol disappear into Abslom’s suit jacket pocket. Happy with his result, Abslom smiled at Len, gold glinting from his expensive dental work. He moved aside and let Len past. Cursing inwardly, Len began to climb the staircase.

Would it happen as he went through the door? Or did Davor want to gloat before killing him? In his early thirties, Davor was still young and arrogant. He would want to bump his gums for a while to let Len know he had made a big mistake about something or other.

Reaching the confined landing he walked through the only door. Davor’s outer office was a glorified games room for crew members. It was mostly filled with three leather couches, surrounding a large TV complete with all the modern games consoles. The sofas were usually populated by a plethora of genetically challenged miscreants, but today the room was deserted. Properly agitated, Len surveyed the scene and weighed up his options. There were only two ways out. The first was the fire escape at the other end of Davor’s main office. Any windows were blocked off to prevent any unwanted interest. The only other route was down the stairs he had just climbed. Although Len fancied his chances against the big lump lurking at the bottom, he knew he was armed and had certainly been warned about Davor’s nefarious plans. The door to the toilet and washroom stood ajar and it was obvious the small room beyond was empty.

Len would just have to see how it played out. Running wasn’t an option and it wasn’t his style anyway. Acceptance washed over him and his heartbeat slowed to normal. On any other day, the signals he had spotted since his arrival might have been ignored as paranoia, but it was the warning from the girl that linked it all. Had she heard a phone conversation? Perhaps she knew somebody inside the crew, but that was unlikely considering her circumstances.

His mind leapt back to the problem at hand as the door to Davor’s office swung open. A well-dressed older gent strode out carrying a white polythene bag folded neatly over one arm. Without even acknowledging Len’s presence, he bustled through and off down the stairs. Len watched him go and turned back to the office door, confident that the man wasn’t involved.

‘Come in Len, I’m sorry for the wait.’ Davor’s strong Russian accent carried from the other room.

Len tried to see if any of Davor’s apes were waiting behind the door, but bright ceiling lights made hiding there impossible. Moving carefully, Len entered the room and closed the door behind him. If somebody was intent on bursting in, the resulting noise would give him a few precious seconds to react. The room was rectangular, with Len’s only escape route at the far end to his current position. A large oak desk sat centrally with two leather chairs placed one on either side. Davor was out of sight in his private washroom off to Len’s right. After what seemed like an age he strode into view.

‘What do you think?’ asked Davor. He spun on his heels to show off his latest purchase.

A new suit. Len had to admit the cut was near perfect, but the colour bordered on sheer lunacy. The fact that it was bright blue settled it. The girl had some sort of wizard’s powers and Len was officially in the shit. And deep shit at that.

The slim cut of the jacket made it impossible to have hidden a pistol under it. Finished off with tight legged trousers, Len was fairly sure he was looking at an unarmed man. Davor slipped off his new jacket and laid it carefully on his desk. With an athletic build, the younger man stank of arrogance. He smoothed his bleach blond hair back into place and turned to face Len.

‘I know you are still on the wagon, but after paying for that suit I need a drink I think.’

Davor pulled open the top drawer of his filing cabinet and lifted out a bottle of Grey Goose. He fixed himself a large vodka and slammed the drawer shut again. As the noise subsided something hard and heavy tapped several times on the blind side of the cabinet. Len reasoned that either a large cosh or a baseball bat had been left close at hand. It made sense too. Davor was confident that Len was unarmed, but he wouldn’t take any chances.

‘So how was Amsterdam?’ he said finally.

‘Hasn’t changed much since the last time.’ shrugged Len, deciding to bait Davor a little.

’Cool people and lots of canals….’ smiled Len.

‘You know what I mean!’ snarled Davor.

Rage flashed across the younger mans’ face. Len’s eyes narrowed at the sudden show of anger. What did Davor suspect? Or did he actually know about Doyle’s plan.

Sinking his vodka in one go, Davor grimaced as he swallowed the fierce liquid. Slamming the glass down on the metal cabinet, his eyes flitted towards the office door. He hovered near his hidden weapon and smiled a cold, dead smile. This was it, shit or bust. Davor had shown his hand at last. The door would come blasting in any second and the ape Abslom would make his entrance.

‘The Dutch told me about your little side line.’ sneered Davor.

And there it was.

Tired of the trade, Len had tried to set up a personal deal. If he could just get a single delivery into the country he could make enough money to retire, but for whatever the reason the Dutch had ratted him out.

‘I wanted out. A one off deal would have made me a bundle, enough to retire.’ shrugged Len.

‘Oh you’re going to retire alright.’ spat Davor.

Whirling around, Davor snatched up the hidden baseball bat and faced Len. His face was contorted with rage. Thick veins had risen on his temples, making his head look fit to burst.

‘You need to remember your blood pressure sonny.’ smiled Len. He knew that Davor had a volcanic temper and he had to exploit any angle he could.

‘I don’t believe this retirement bullshit. I think you were looking to screw me over. That’s what I think.’ spat Davor. A small stream of spittle arced from his mouth.

‘Careful, you’re spitting on your new duds, you dirty bastard.’ sniggered Len, amused at Davor’s loss of control.

Nobody thinks straight when they lose their temper and Davor’s head had gone. He held the bat two handed and smashed it downwards onto the filing cabinet. He recovered quickly and took two steps toward his intended victim. The useless display had done for the vodka inside the cabinet and it pissed lazily out onto the floor. Len sniggered at the sight and was about to offer some clean up advice when he caught the faintest whiff of cologne. The cheap shitty kind. The kind worn by the gorilla Abslom. Len had got sick of waiting and was relieved it was about to really go off.

The closed door gave Len the only edge left to exploit.

An instant later, the white painted door exploded inward, throwing splinters onto the floor. Unsure of Len’s exact position, Abslom burst in and over shot by about two feet. His thick frame slid to a halt with Len slightly behind him. It was time to introduce Whiskey.

Abslom had made a lazy mistake during his search. He had patted down Len’s pockets, but had ignored his groin. It was the mark of a true amateur. As Davor had raged like a child having a hissy fit, Len had slipped his hand into the hidden pocket of his trousers. His fingers closed around smooth metal and Len kicked off.

Abslom had about half a second to realise his blunder before the thunderbolt of a punch hit him right between the eyes. Ordinarily a punch between the eyes had more chance of busting an attackers’ hand than doing any real damage, but this was no standard right cross. Nestled in Len’s fist was Whiskey. His prized knuckle-duster clanged satisfyingly against Abslom’s skull and felled him like a tree. Blood gouted from the wound and sprayed the office wall. With his bell well and truly rung, Abslom collapsed backwards and landed in a sitting position against the wall. Len saw that the big man was dazed but not unconscious. It was testament to Abslom that he could take a dig like that and not get knocked out.

Even though the injured man had made a serious error in not searching Len properly, Davor had made the mistake that cost the most. The pair of them had intended to ambush Len and beat him, perhaps to death, but Davor had waited too long. He stood back as Abslom was poleaxed and lost the advantage. If you are hunting as a pack, you must attack as a pack. Davor seemed to wait for his turn as if it was tiddly winks or something. Finally realising his predicament, he circled the desk and leapt at Len. Fully enveloped in the red mist Davor swung his bat wildly. The only effect he had was causing a slight breeze. Moving quickly, Len stepped into the doorway and adopted a fighter’s crouch. All he had to do now was wait for the car crash. Davor was just about to learn an important street fighters lesson. Long bats and confined spaces don’t mix.

Heaving with every ounce of strength, Davor buried his bat in the plaster door frame and stopped his attack dead. Rushing in close, Len threw a flurry of punches at Davor. His targets were unimportant as Whiskey was doing most of the damage. Low hooking punches thundered into the Russian’s ribs. He was driven back into the room and Len stayed close. Davor screamed in pain at each impact before he exposed his face. Seeing his chance Len planted a punch right on the money and sent Davor staggering backwards, nose and cheekbone shattered. He hit the edge of his desk and cartwheeled over, landing in a heap out of sight.

Abslom chose the worst moment to get back into the fight. He had cleared his head enough and struggled to his feet just as Davor had made his spectacular exit. His timing was perfect, however, to kiss goodbye to his gold teeth. They spread to the four winds as Len planted a cracker and knocked him out.

Rocking back on his heels, Len fought to catch his breath. He would have liked to blame it on his age, but the truth was he was a lazy bastard and the fight had exhausted him. Gulping down air helped to slow his pulse and calm his mind. He moved to the now ruined Abslom and searched his pockets. Locating his prized pistol he pocketed it and rolled the unconscious man onto his side. Blood from his destroyed dentures was finding its way down his throat and was making his breath rasp. He was just a foot soldier and Len didn’t feel like killing him today. Straightening he noticed the blood sprayed across his own jacket. He also saw several torn seams