Vapour Trail

By Stuart McLeod

Four years ago, Alex Kessler witnessed his wife Jade's murder in front of his very eyes. Her killer fled and was never found, and since that time the crime has remained unsolved; the horrific image of the killer’s scarred face leering above Jade’s body has been forever burned into Alex’s mind, and the events of that fateful day have haunted him ever since. But, somehow, he has managed to hold it together.

Now a police officer himself, Alex chances upon a robbery in progress in a small store, which through his intervention quickly escalates into something more. The perpetrator flees, and Alex, bound by both his duty and the promise he made to Jade’s memory long ago to bring to justice those who thought themselves to be above the law, pursues.

That’s when Alex’s life really begins to unravel; a strange, sudden, and inexplicable phenomenon turns the pursuit into a tense game of cat and mouse. Barely escaping with his life, Alex encounters Layla Forrest, who claims to be an agent of FATE, a secret government organisation.

And Layla needs his help. She tells him that he alone is in the unique position to aid FATE, and that failure to do so could have wide and far-reaching consequences...not just for Alex, but for all of mankind. For all of history.

In return, she makes Alex a promise, speaking the words that he never imagined he would hear again: that he can be reconciled with Jade.

From that moment Layla draws Alex into a race against time, leading to a series of incredible events that he never thought possible; to a war raging between secret organisations, of relentless pursuit by sinister forces, of grotesque hybrid creatures, and to a world of mystery and intrigue that he never knew existed and in which he plays an unwitting central role.

And which will eventually lead him to learn the truth about Jade’s killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart McLeod
• Release date: Aug 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005716400

Book preview

Vapour

Trail

Stuart McLeod

Prologue...

After the Fall

A Man Prepared

Dorian Rafferty became aware of two things when he first awoke: one was a sharp object that poked uncomfortably into his lower back; the other, not quite so noticeable, was a faint tickling sensation against one cheek. When he opened his eyes he discovered that he was lying out in the open air amid a cluster of bushes beneath a cloudless blue sky. There were lines bisecting his field of vision, and upon turning his head he saw that these were overhead cables leading to a nearby electricity pylon.

He sat up, his head pounding. He knew through experience that this pain would subside at any moment.

He also felt a sharpening of his senses, heightened nearly to the point of overload; glancing to the side he saw the shrubs in which he'd been lying were flattened, the root that had been jabbing into his back poking from the ground, and the leaves that had been tickling his face waving gently in the breeze. All of this he took in with an enormous amount of clarity: he could vividly see each microscopic element of every leaf; could smell on the air the acrid smoke rising from a distant chimney; could feel each grain of dirt and blade of grass beneath his hands; could taste every foul pollutant pervading the air; could hear the lonely, far-off bleat of a sheep.

Rafferty knew that this sensation would also fade in time.

He gingerly rose to his feet and took in his surroundings. He was standing halfway up a hill, next to a road that descended beneath a railway bridge to his right, and curved upwards out of sight over the crest of the hill to his left. Beyond a fence on the opposite side of the road was a field where a few cows stood grazing. One lazily looked across at him for a few seconds, then found sufficient interest in the grass beneath its feet.

Already the pain in his head was disappearing. Soon it would be gone. So too would the heightened senses. He could feel the world becoming dull around him, although there was an almost unnatural brightness to the day. He knew that his presence here was the cause of this, and the impact it was having on the surrounding area. It was an occurrence known as the Richmond Effect, an unnatural event, as unpredictable as it was strange, and known only to a select few the world over. But Rafferty also knew that it was a temporary thing; after a seemingly random period things would revert back to their natural state. This was known as Normality.

He put his hand in his pocket and closed it over a small, smooth, pebble-like item, an artefact of immense value and known in the circles he operated in as the Key. Such a generic name for such a valuable item, he thought, being that it was an object which was lusted after, fought over, and even killed for ever since its discovery. A smile flickered across his lips as he ran his thumb across its surface, feeling an indentation in its centre, thinking of what it meant to possess it, and the trouble he'd just gone through to retrieve it. It was the reason he was standing on this hillside, wherever this was.

Looking back down the hill Rafferty saw, beyond the railway bridge, a cluster of buildings; some sort of industrial estate, judging by the chain-link fences bordering each property and gates carrying signs proclaiming the different businesses' names and opening hours. At one gate there was a lorry stopped halfway out of the entrance. A small group of men were crowded around its cab. He heard a few raised voices, but no discernible words.

He did not recognise where he was, but this was not uncommon; in his line of work he would often end up some place where he would be clueless as to his exact location.

But he did have a means of determining his bearings. On the back of his left hand was a penny-sized dimple, to which he pressed his right index finger. After a second or so a blueish-white light began to glow from an implant, known as a PDU, embedded just beneath the surface of his skin. A holographic screen, measuring seven inches across diagonally, projected from the back of his hand and floated an inch or so above it. Despite its intangible appearance it was solid to the touch, and it immediately lit when Rafferty pressed a finger to it. He tapped it twice more, and the word SCANNING appeared. Time stretched out slowly as this remained on the screen.

Come on, come on, he muttered agitatedly. He glanced back down the hill, and when his left hand shifted, the screen moved with it.

Abruptly SCANNING disappeared, to be replaced by FOUND. Then this faded too, and the screen changed to display a map. In the centre of this a red dot pulsed, with a pink sphere radiating out from it: Rafferty's exact location. He slid his finger upwards on the edge of the screen, and the map zoomed in, until it showed where he was in relation to the surrounding area. Street names and local landmarks started to litter the map.

A caption beneath this read DUNFERMLINE.

Dunfermline. It was a place he'd heard of, but had never been to. He tapped on the name, and the screen began to fill with information: a medium-sized town, population around fifty thousand, former capital of Scotland back in the Eleventh Century.

He hoped it was big enough to hide in.

He knew that pursuers would come, and in numbers. It was only a matter of time. They would find out about his double-cross, his infiltration and subsequent flight, and would stop at nothing to reclaim the Key. The people from whom he had stolen it, an organisation named Vapour, dangerous and full of malice, would even now be getting ready to follow, if they hadn't already.

He swiped the screen again, and the map reappeared. Another tap revealed today's date: September 12th, 1993.

Also, in the left lower corner of the screen, was a timer; currently at 21:34, it was counting down the seconds. The Richmond Effect, and the time remaining until Normality.

It was time to move. He carefully studied the map, determining where he could lose himself most effectively. His choice made, he pressed his finger to the glowing circle in the centre of his hand, and the screen departed.

He turned and started up the hill, the pain in his head entirely gone now, the sensory overload likewise disappeared. He crested the top and took in the scene before him. The road sloped down to a busy intersection a quarter of a mile away, the traffic lights which normally controlled the vehicular flow standing dark. Vehicles sat stationary at both the junction ahead and the one directly opposite. Crossing traffic had also stopped, and one car appeared to have rear-ended the one preceding it. A few people were out of these vehicles, one gesticulating with exaggerated hand movements.

A vibrating in his left hand made him look down. On the back of his hand, situated half an inch from the blue circle, a small red light pulsed beneath the skin. Rafferty summoned the map again. It centred on two blinking red dots, located just back down the hill from where he'd come. In the corner of the screen sat the word DISTANCE. The number 49 was beneath the two dots.

Forty-nine metres away.

The map began to pan, the red dots continuing to blink in its centre, and 49 became 48, 47, 46.

They were here, and closing in.

He turned and ran, this time not bothering to close the PDU.

At a sprint he followed the road to the line of stopped vehicles at the first junction. One man was sitting in the driver's seat beside the open door of a black Audi, desperately turning the keys in the ignition and pumping his foot rapidly on the accelerator. As Rafferty passed, the man withdrew the keys and threw them at the windscreen in a childish display of petulance. Rafferty heard him yell, Piece...of...shit! punctuating each word with a smack on the steering wheel.

He needed to put distance between himself and those who were following, but he knew these vehicles were of no use; the Richmond Effect rendered all unmodified technology useless during its time of influence, which was now just under twenty minutes, according to the PDU.

The red dots still blinked in the centre of the map, but the distance between them had increased; even then, Rafferty knew that he needed to get off this road. His pursuers knew his exact location, could zero in on his position, as much as he could theirs, due to the signals given off by the PDUs, and the distinct link that existed between them all. Putting distance between them was his only hope, and the longer spent here without getting clean away greatly decreased his chance of an escape.

His number one priority was to get rid of the Key, to hide it some place where Vapour could never find it. It was why he was here in this backwater town, a completely random location. It was all that really mattered. Everything else was secondary.

When he reached the crossroads he risked a fleeting look behind him. Nothing came over the crest of the hill. A quick glance at the PDU: just over one hundred metres, but they were coming up fast. They would soon be visible, and he to them, if they maintained their pace.

The roads leading off to the left and right were lined with businesses housed in two- and three-storey buildings; shops, banks and building societies, others. Rafferty saw a sign for a dentist, another for a chemist, a restaurant, a pub. The road opposite climbed up a slight rise, buildings also crowding onto it. And on every street, vehicles had stopped and people were milling around them.

He quickly gauged the distance to the nearest corner, decided he didn't have time to make it before the chance arose of being seen, even with the cars as cover, and elected instead to crouch down behind the front of the nearest vehicle, a Range Rover.

From a holster hanging beneath his jacket he withdrew a handgun. It was a most unique weapon, and if ever a firearms specialist happened to come into possession of it they would become irrepressible with excitement. This kind of weapon was not available on the market. No legitimate government agency knew of its existence. In reality, this weapon did not yet exist.

Rafferty glanced down at the screen. In addition to the two dots in its centre, red arrows along the map's perimeter indicated the distance and direction of other, more remote pursuers. All were zeroing in on his location.

The driver of the Range Rover, a slim forty-something man with salt and pepper hair, was sitting behind the steering wheel with a puzzled look on his face as he stared at Rafferty crouching in front of his vehicle. He opened his door, and Rafferty heard him ask, Can I help you?

Rafferty held out his hand palm-forward. Stay where you are, he ordered. You'll be safe if you remain in your car.

What are you talking about? the driver said, getting out of the Range Rover.

Just then Rafferty saw movement. Coming over the crest of the hill were two men, a few metres apart. They were dressed in clothing identical to that which Rafferty wore, right down to the boots. In one hand they each held a handgun. In the other each man gripped a leash, on the end of which stalked large, feral-looking animals. At the sight of them Rafferty felt a mixture of revulsion, trepidation, and fear. Dog-like, these beasts – hounds, they were called – were said to be the result of engineered DNA, designed to be stronger, faster, and smarter than normal canines. Both stood about three feet tall, and had a viciousness that was legendary; they had been known to tear opponents apart with apparent ease, their large, curved claws and ferocious teeth able to rip, slice, and rend effortlessly.

The men holding the leashes, known as handlers, had reared and trained these beasts from the moment they left the test-tube, vat, or wherever the hell they had been made, nurtured them from the moment they were effectively born, making a strange human-hybrid bond that was as unique as it was horrifying.

The handlers had PDUs of their own embedded in the back of their hands, and one of them had a holographic screen actively hovering above his and was concentrating on it as they advanced. Then he looked up and pointed in Rafferty's general direction.

As one, they let go of the leashes, pursing their lips and emitting sharp whistles as they did. The two hounds, unrestrained, bounded forwards, muscles flexing, legs pumping. They came on at a sprint, quickly narrowing the gap between themselves and their prey. Stringy white lines of saliva flew from their jaws in foamy ribbons.

Rafferty lifted the gun, took aim at the closest animal, and fired. The shot struck home, hitting the hound on its flank. Without slowing, the beast took the bullet in its stride, the injury barely registering.

Behind him Rafferty heard a scream, and heard the commotion of people running and shouting as they vacated the immediate area in response to both the gunshot and the enormous, terrifying animals heading their way.

Rafferty fired again, once, twice, more, a virtual barrage, this time taking aim for the head of the nearest of the hounds as they closed the gap. Some shots were true. One bullet struck the side of its muzzle, the other taking off the top of its head. The animal uttered a yelp as it fell, rolled on the tarmac, and was still. Behind it, one of the handlers let loose a cry of such pain and anguish to see the hound fall that Rafferty had a sudden inclination that maybe he'd felt the animal's pain, that there was some sort of symbiotic connection between them.

The Range Rover driver was still out of his car, immobilised next to the door by the sight of the other animal rapidly bearing down on his position.

Get back in your car, yelled Rafferty. Now!

The man's response was to turn and look at him blankly.

And then the hound was right at them. In one bound it leapt onto the roof of the Range Rover and stood there, snarling at the men below. Up close it was terrifying. Sinewy muscles ranged the length of its body, flexing and contracting. Its short black fur bristled. Bony spinal ridges occupied the back, leading to a whip-like tail that flicked back and forth as the hound gazed down at them with haunting yellow eyes. The jaws, dripping, were lined with rows of sharp teeth designed to rip and sever. The snarl emanating from its throat was there to instil fear and terror, and it was having the required result.

Rafferty felt his blood run cold. He fired instinctively, the shot going wild.

The Range Rover driver's daze finally broke, and he turned to run.

The hound, perhaps sensing easy prey, tensed, pounced. It leapt onto the man, its weight bowling him over. His face smacked onto the road, and Rafferty heard the crunch as his nose hit the tarmac. Blood flew in streamers. The hound laid one powerful paw onto the recumbent man's back and flicked out its claws, digging them into his flesh and scoring them down his back. The man let out a scream of pain and torment, as though he was being flayed alive. More blood flowed, pumping from the wounds.

Backing away, Rafferty fired again. This time the bullet hit the beast on its flank, but it seemed to feel it no more than the one that had missed. It roared as it stepped forwards onto the man beneath it with its claws embedded deep in his flesh, lifted a hind leg almost nonchalantly, and urinated. Steam rose from the foul liquid – Rafferty could smell the malodorous stench as it streamed from the animal in a hiss – while the man on the ground's eyes rolled up to the whites, as though it burned as it soaked into him.

Rafferty fired at the hound again, a volley of shots. At such close range accuracy was guaranteed, and the beast juddered as bullets pounded into it. The force of the shots knocked it off the man mid-flow, and noxious urine sprayed as it thumped into the side of the Range Rover with enough force to dent the vehicle's wing. The stream of filth stopped at the same time as the beast's breath.

An anguished, pain-filled cry of No! was yelled from nearby, and then something whizzed by Rafferty's head, and he instinctively threw himself to the ground. One of the Range Rover's windows shattered, showering him with small slivers. He peered down at the PDU. The handlers were only a few metres beyond the vehicle, shooting through the metal.

Rafferty leapt forwards over the now motionless driver and crouched low with his back to the wing of the vehicle. He grimaced as he put his foot in a puddle of blood and piss leaking from the fallen hound just a few feet away.

With a deep, steadying inhale of breath, he whipped up and around and leaned over the bonnet of the car. His sudden movement took one of the nearby handlers by surprise, and Rafferty saw an instant of fear and recognition as he squeezed the trigger. No hesitation. The man's head exploded in a crimson cloud, and he was blown backwards off his feet. His crumpled body lay unmoving.

Rafferty had no compunction about killing. He had done it many times before, all in the name of the group whom he served, his real employers; enemies of his pursuers, and those who had tasked him to infiltrate Vapour in the first place.

The other handler immediately dropped behind the nearest car, leaned out, and fired off a volley at Rafferty's position. Shots rang out along the side of the Range Rover. Holes appeared in the bodywork, glass smashed and flew, tyres ruptured.

Rafferty ducked back down and put the gun back in its holster. He removed the Key from his jacket and thrust it into a zippered pocket on his trousers. He brought out other objects, things vital to his survival, and these also went into his trouser pockets. He peeled off his jacket, revealing an equally black top beneath and, rolling it into a ball, tucked it beside the vehicle's front wheel. He fished from his pocket a small silver capsule, a construct of his own devising, a prototype of something he'd been working on during his time with Vapour. He buried it within the bunched cloth of the jacket.

Keeping low, he quickly backed off, towards the opposite corner of the crossroads. As he passed the prostrate Range Rover's driver he stopped briefly to put his hand to the man's neck, and felt a weak pulse beneath his fingers. He grabbed the man under his armpits, flipped him onto his back – which elicited a groan of pain to escape from the man's throat – and dragged him away from his car. Upon reaching the next again vehicle, a FIAT, he stopped behind it and gently lowered the man to the ground. Crouching, he swiped his hand across the PDU's holographic screen, and the word TRANSFER appeared upon it.

Beside the wheel of the Range Rover, the small device gave off a single muted beep.

Rafferty took his gun from its holster, and waited.

After interminable seconds, he saw a small grey object come sailing across the top of the Range Rover. It bounced once on the roof, then hit the ground and rolled, coming to a stop a few metres in front of the car. It was as familiar to Rafferty as it was deadly: a grenade. From his vantage point he could see a small digital timer on it, red numbers counting down: 03: 02: 01.

Head down, Rafferty ducked behind the car.

There came a crumpling sound as the grenade exploded. Shrapnel flew out in all directions, flechette-like points embedding into vehicles, buildings, trees. One punched through the bodywork of the FIAT behind which Rafferty crouched, missing him by inches.

He leaned around the car. The front of the Range Rover was in ruins. Both tyres were shredded, the bumper hung loose, the registration plate was just, well, gone. All of the car's glass was lying on the tarmac in a million glittering pieces. Beneath where the grenade had come to rest there was now a crater in the road. The body of the hound was impaled with a dozen points.

Rafferty raised the gun, finger light on the trigger, held his breath, and waited.

Soon enough, the handler appeared, gun held before him. He came forwards warily, stepping softly around the rear end of the Range Rover...to expect Rafferty's corpse, not finding it. He spied the tattered remains of Rafferty's jacket, and bent down to lift it.

Rafferty could not believe this simple ruse worked. He briefly wished he'd had time to make more of the silver capsules.

He gently squeezed the trigger.

As with the first handler, this one struck home. A red spray erupted from above the neck.

The body crumpled to the ground, the ruined garment falling from his grip. Rafferty watched the corpse for a few seconds, and nodded as it suddenly disappeared, winking out of existence. As expected as this was, it always amazed him to see it nearly as much as it had the first time he'd witnessed it.

He exhaled, stood, and quickly made his way back over to the remains of the Range Rover. Although the handler's body was gone, Rafferty's jacket remained, and as he lifted it up it hung in shredded ribbons.

Glancing at the map he saw it had panned to show the next nearest pursuers, these a good few hundred metres away.

And there would be more on their way.

He sighed at the distinct link the PDUs exhibited with one another. It allowed Rafferty to monitor those who approached, although it meant Vapour would be able to pinpoint him easily. There was no way around it, short of removing the implant manually.

He would just have to trust to luck.

But Vapour would not stop.

They were relentless.

He stood at the intersection again, contemplating the other three exits, as if just through study he could determine which would lead to his greatest chance of success.

Though the roads were crowded with vehicles at a standstill because of the Richmond Effect, it was now almost empty of people, most having fled when the shooting had started. He could see a bunch of them crowding into the bank on one of the corners, some staring at him through the front window.

A sign caught his eye beside the road opposite: a red square with a white capital letter H in the middle, with an arrow pointing ahead, and a plan formulated in his mind.

A low groan came from behind him. He turned, and saw the Range Rover driver begin to stir. Rafferty crossed towards him, one hand retrieving something from his pocket, a small case about the size of a man's wallet. From this he withdrew a small plastic casing about an inch long and bevelled in the middle. Crouching low, he twisted the plastic, and one part came away, revealing a small needle poking from its end. He tossed the other part away.

He laid his hand on the driver's shoulder, and the man's eyes rolled up to look at him, another moan escaping. Being careful to avoid both the gaping wounds and the urine-soaked clothing, Rafferty said, Easy now, jabbing the needle into the man's upper arm. This will take the pain away. He glanced at the PDU's screen; the timer was at just under fifteen minutes. Hang in there. Somebody will be along soon. The man's groans ceased, and his eyes fluttered shut.

Rafferty crossed to the junction directly ahead and began jogging up the hill.

As he went, he raised his left hand to his mouth, and said, Encrypt four-two-one. The PDU began emitting a high-pitched warbling, which lasted for a few seconds, followed by silence. Rafferty traced an elegant swirl on the screen with his index finger. More warbling, then the line was clear. This is Agent Dorian Rafferty. I've landed in 1993, in a town called Dunfermline. Don't ask me why here, or now. But I have it. I have the Key. Their backs were turned, and it was there, it was right there, and I thought there would never be a better opportunity. So I got it, and got the hell out of there. And now they're after me. I hope one of them's not Jericho. He's one tough bastard.

Halfway up the hill he stopped briefly and checked on the locations of his pursuers. Still over two hundred metres away. He started off again.

I didn't have time to program the PDU before my escape, trusting to luck to get me anywhere away from the Hoard. I need to get rid of the Key, though. They're on to me. I've already had to eliminate a couple of them, but there are more. The question is, where to go? I think I've an idea, though.

As the hill reached its summit and levelled out the row of buildings on Raffrty's left gave way to a low wall, behind which a line of trees rose, canopies towering high above the pavement; deciduous sycamores whose golden-hued leaves were reddening toward autumnal brown. Many of these had fallen, causing shallow drifts on either side of the wall.

Over the crest of the hill he went, and before him, on his left, was the building that had attracted him to this road in the first place. Sprawling back from the roadside into large landscaped grounds it stood, its façade of windows glittering in the sunlight, with white brickwork that sparkled as though filled with minute chinks of quartz. A tree-lined road wound to the entrance where an ambulance currently sat, around which Rafferty could see a group of people wearing a variety of uniforms – white lab coats, blue shirts, white nurses uniforms.

Rafferty glanced up at a sign as he passed it and entered the grounds along the curving driveway: a red square with a white H inside it, with the words QUEEN MARGARET HOSPITAL beneath.

He raised the PDU again. There's a hospital. I have an idea of where to hide the damn thing. It's not going to be easy. He glanced at the screen. Still over thirteen minutes until Normality, but they're going to be here well before that. His breath was becoming ragged as he neared the ambulance, eliciting a look of bewilderment from some of those gathered around the stationary vehicle. He went directly to one he assumed was a doctor, a young man who exuded an air of arrogance. There's a man injured down the hill. You need to get him up here.

The doctor turned to Rafferty and gave him a disparaging look that only doctors and deity had perfected. We've got a bit of an issue here.

Forget about the ambulance, Rafferty advised. He did not add that the doctor's 'issue' would be an issue no longer in less than fourteen minutes. He needs your attention now.

The doctor looked to be on the verge of saying something else, but must have seen something in Rafferty's eyes, so instead said to the man wearing an ambulance uniform, Right. Let's get this thing started and...

That won't work, Rafferty interjected. You need to grab a stretcher. Or better yet, a trolley.

But we'll just give it...

Rafferty put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. Trust me. He left them there as he started towards the front doors.

The entranceway was a set of automatic revolving doors, currently stuck in an open position, and Rafferty passed inside. In the foyer he checked the map again. Sixty-eight metres. A lot closer. Two of the dots were approaching the hospital grounds entrance behind him, two others from the opposite side of the sprawling building. He would have to act fast.

He continued inside, and the foyer opened out before him. The walls were painted in dull pastel shades, blues and greens and yellows, broken up with characterless abstract paintings. Doorways led off to neighbouring departments, while to the rear a pair of large double doors gave access to a stairway. Next to these were a twin set of elevators, of which the doors of one was wedged open and being worked on by two men in luminous yellow jackets. One wore a belt of various tools around his waist, and was using a screwdriver to tinker inside an open panel on the wall.

Despite the Richmond Effect having denied the area of its electrical supply, the building's interior had the same unnatural bright glow as outside.

Rafferty passed the elevators and pushed open the double doors. He was in another corridor, with a double-width stairwell rising up before him. It stopped at a landing and then branched to either side, the stairs switching back to rise further, all edged by chrome-plated handrails. The entire far wall was glass, looking out onto a courtyard garden where there blazed colourful flowers, shrubs, and bushes. Beyond this, other windows overlooked this small slice of tranquillity.

On the wall at the bottom of the stairs was a sign indicating the location of various wards and departments. Rafferty scanned it briefly, saw where he wanted to go, and quickly started up the stairs.

A beeping from the PDU made him stop halfway up to the first landing. He looked down at it, saw the numbers on the screen indicating how near the closest pursuers were, the arrows signifying their direction, and then he yelled with pain as a sudden blast hit the back of his hand, which crackled and fizzed and immediately went numb. The screen cut off, and blood and smoke poured in equal measures from a small, neat, newly-formed wound. With a small degree of fascination he saw a twisted metallic strip poking out from beneath the skin.

He looked up and saw a man standing on the landing, gun held before him.

Drop the gun, Rafferty.

The man wore the same attire as Rafferty, identical to the handlers, but he was not one of those; he had no hound with him. He was, though, as efficient a hunter as the dog-like beasts Rafferty had already dispatched. His name was Dillon, and he had a reputation for demonstrating his wickedness, his viciousness, when confronted with a choice between being either forgiving or heartless. His cruelty was his pathway to rising up the ranks within Vapour, where he was now one of their most feared members. He was, in the parlance of his profession, known as an operative, a common title which encompassed a wide range of roles of many of the men and women within the group with whom he was aligned. It was under this guise that Rafferty himself had been operating.

Rafferty had assisted him on many missions together during his time of infiltration. One such occasion was the acquisition of a cache of weapons from an army depot, where stealth and speed were the keys to success. Dillon, in charge of the mission and the six operatives under his command, had insisted on lining up all of the captives, disarmed and stripped to the bare skin, once they had taken over the base. He held out a small cloth sack, inside which contained a number of bullets equal to the amount of captives. All of the bullets were normal, except one which Dillon had marked with the letter V with a gold-inked pen. Then began the drawing of lots, and anybody unlucky enough to withdraw the marked bullet from the sack was summarily executed with it. Then another bullet was marked and returned to the bag. And so on this deadly lottery went. At one point one daring young soldier, naked and frightened and sensing he had nothing to lose, had tried to grapple a gun away from a Vapour operative in an attempted coup; Dillon had shot them both, friend and foe alike.

With the cloth bag empty and down to the final soldier, Dillon had urged him to run. Needing no second invitation, the man had bolted for the nearest exit. He got as far as flinging the door open when Dillon's golden-lettered bullet had passed through the back of his head and sprayed his brains across the wall.

Rafferty had never really liked the man.

Now, as he stood on the landing above Rafferty, there appeared to be a glint of something in his eyes that Rafferty recognised only too well; the look of a man at play, a man anticipating something of immense pleasure. A thin, satisfied smile played across his lips.

Movement caught Rafferty's eye, and another man appeared to the left and above Dillon's position, standing on the stairs and leaning over the handrail with his gun pointing at Rafferty. He, too, was dressed in the same attire. Rafferty recognised him as well. Hodge, his name was, though Rafferty had not worked with him as often as he had Dillon.

Dillon raised his gun higher. I said drop the gun, you double-crossing fuck.

Rafferty hesitated, then let his weapon fall to the ground.

Kick it away. Far away.

Rafferty did. It went skittering down the stairs, across the floor, and clattered against a wall.

Good, said Dillon. He shook his head. I don't know what you're thinking of, Rafferty. Did you think you really could get away with the Key? I mean, where the fuck were you going with it? When there was no response, he tapped his PDU a few times. Doesn't matter. Jericho's on his way. He'll deal with you.

Jericho. Rafferty's heart sank. Jericho was the leader of Vapour, its founder, and his reputation was such that it made Rafferty's mouth suddenly go dry and the breath catch in his throat. An army had risen in Jericho's honour, and battles were often waged on his whim.

Dillon noticed Rafferty's sudden change of pallor. That get your attention, didn't it? Still, we're not going to simply stand about idly until he gets here, not while I have the good fortune of finding you first. Get your hands behind your head.

Rafferty complied, clasping his hands together, one freely bleeding, never taking his eyes off Dillon.

Right. Stand still. Just where you are. Dillon turned to Hodge. Search him. Get the Key. He was looking at his PDU. It's still on him.

Gun trained before him, Hodge started down the stairs.

Careful, now, Dillon warned. He's slippery, this one.

Don't worry, Hodge replied, approaching Rafferty. His voice was a deep baritone. He's not going to give me any trouble. Are you, Rafferty?

Rafferty said nothing. He watched the man approach, could feel the tension in him, an anxiety that was almost as palpable as the stink of sweat emanating from his pores.

Hodge stopped before Rafferty. He was a shorter man than Rafferty, about five-feet-nine to Rafferty's six feet, though he stood on a higher step so their eyes met on the same level. He stared at Rafferty, gaze fixed on the taller man's. Now don't move, and we'll be fine. He glanced back at Dillon to see where his gun was trained, was satisfied with what he saw, holstered his own gun, then reached down and unzipped one of Rafferty's trouser pockets. He delved his hand inside, closed it around a couple of objects, and withdrew them. Palm open, he looked at what was displayed there; one was Rafferty's small medical case containing, among other things, the bevelled pain relief capsules.

The other was the Key.

Pebble-shaped, it was about two inches long, and half that in width. In the centre on either side were small indentations. The priceless, unique prize, the only one of its kind. So rare, the substance from which it was formed had no official name.

With a smile, Hodge held it up towards Dillon, half-turning away from Rafferty as he did.

All too aware of the shortening of time, and that the arrival of further Vapour operatives was imminent, Rafferty knew he had to act. He was a cunning man; his profession demanded it. He had been in many situations where he'd feared for his life before, had come away from them alive, if not altogether unscathed.

He was a man prepared.

Hands still clasped behind his head, he gently moved his left across to his right wrist, feeling the thin, hidden steel attached to his arm: a switchblade, on a spring-loaded clip.

Dillon still stood on the landing. Hodge, facing up to him, stood on a step above and slightly to the left of Rafferty. Both had their eyes locked on the Key, as though in awe of its very existence.

With one quick sidestep that brought Hodge between himself and Dillon, Rafferty brought down his right arm, flicking it in one practised motion so that six inches of sharp blade suddenly appeared in his hand. In one movement he sliced it effortlessly across Hodge's throat, cutting through skin and flesh as though they were made from tissue paper. Blood sprayed in a geyser, and Rafferty felt Hodge immediately lose his balance as his legs gave way beneath him. The Key and medical kit fell from his hands. With his left hand Rafferty grabbed hold of Hodge's shoulder and stood him straight, crouching behind the man as best he could, using him as a human shield.

Dillon's expression went from one of triumph to complete alarm in the blink of an eye. Without pause, he fired off three shots.

The bullets punched into Hodge's stomach in a neat cluster, just missing Rafferty as they made a grotesque exit wound and almost knocking the man – barely alive, his body limp – out of his hand.

With a grunt, Rafferty punched the knife into Hodge's lower back. The blade went in six inches, up to the hilt, and pierced through the front of the unfortunate Vapour operative's stomach. Rafferty clutched the knife tightly to keep the body upright. With his left hand he grabbed the gun from Hodge's holster.

Dillon fired again. Another direct hit on Hodge. This time the bullet lodged somewhere inside without passing through, and Rafferty felt the body become dead weight as life fled from it. As soon as he realised this he pulled his arm back, and the steel shank withdrew from Hodge's flesh. Unsupported, the Vapour operative teetered on the step for a moment, then fell forwards lifelessly.

But before he hit the steps he disappeared, and the two living men had a clear line of sight at each other.

First to react, Rafferty fired twice. The first shot took Dillon high on the chest, knocking him backwards, the bullet passing through him and punching a hole in the window wall behind. The second caught him in the throat, and he crashed back against the already weakened glass, his momentum carrying him through it. He fell out into the courtyard and landed in a heap, sprawled among the bushes amid jagged shards of glass. A couple of blurred faces appeared at a window on the opposite side of the courtyard.

From capture to freedom in the space of a heartbeat.

Rafferty tried to return the steel blade back into its housing, but something was catching as he folded it. Instead, he peeled back his sleeve and unclipped the spring clip from his forearm, letting it drop to the floor. He looked around, and spied the Key sitting on a step. He retrieved it, pocketed it. The medical kit he lifted too.

Only then did he assess the damage to his hand, and, more specifically, the PDU within. The blood flow had reduced to a slow seepage. He pressed a finger to the dimple on the back of his hand, and for a wonder the screen appeared, although it flickered intermittently, and seemed to have lost some of its brightness and clarity. There were two dots flashing in the centre of the screen, the numbers below them rapidly dropping towards single figures.

He still had Hodge's gun in his hand. He tucked it into his pocket, leaped down to the bottom of the stairs and peered through the door into the foyer. Running across it were two more pursuers, heading his way, scattering before them a small crowd of staff and patients. One elderly man, hobbling along on a pair of crutches, was knocked off his feet and went sprawling to the ground.

For a fraction of a second Rafferty considered raising the gun and letting loose a series of shots. A quick assessment of the situation, however, turned him from that course of action; too many innocents in the foyer; nurses, patients, ancillary staff, others. Too great a chance of a stray bullet, of unnecessary lives being lost, of families being torn apart.

Instead, he turned and ran, bounding up the stairs three at a time.

He'd been lucky thus far, but he could not continue to count on being so. One of these times fortune would desert him. He had to get rid of the Key, needed to put it somewhere it would never be found.

Racing past the smashed window wall with barely a glance, he quickly passed the first, then the second floors, and had just turned the next switchback when he heard a door bang open behind and below, and the sound of his pursuers racing up the stairs reached him. He turned and leaned over the handrail, saw two figures rounding a corner below, brought up the gun, and fired. The shot missed, deflecting off a railing. One of the men looked up and returned fire. This shot hit Rafferty high on the shoulder, throwing him back against the wall – although he managed to remain upright – and sprayed the wall behind him with a gout of blood. His arm immediately went numb, the gun flying from his hand. It tumbled down one stair, two, then through the gap beneath the railings to the level below.

He knew the pain would come, but he had to ignore it. There were worse things than pain.

He pushed away from the wall and stumbled up the stairs. At the next landing he pushed through the door, took a quick glance at the sign on the wall, and started along the corridor. Blood was pouring from his wounded shoulder; he could feel it running freely down inside his top.

He made another swiping motion across the PDU screen. The map now also displayed the countdown timer: 5:27. Too long to wait until Normality, especially now that he was unarmed.

Ahead the corridor ended at a pair of double doors, and a sign above portrayed what lay beyond, Rafferty's destination from the moment he had seen the sign for the hospital at the crossroads.

CHILDREN'S UNIT.

With a quick glance back along the corridor – no pursuers had yet followed him out of the stairwell – he limped towards it and then ducked inside.

In contrast to the dull shades of the walls in the foyer, corridors, and the stairwell, here the walls were adorned with hand-drawn cartoon images; Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Pluto, Donald Duck, others. The effect was somewhat dizzying, but Rafferty put this down to blood loss, and a growing sense of faintness.

The ward ran straight ahead, with doors in the left-hand wall for side rooms, and entrances to two larger bays on the right. Halfway along was the nurses' station, a curved reception desk currently occupied by a solitary nurse. Her back was turned towards him, and she appeared to be bent over some paperwork, scribbling away.

Without drawing her attention Rafferty sidled towards the first door on the left. A drawing of Bugs Bunny, carrot in hand, filled the glass making up the top half of it. He silently eased the door open, quickly slipped inside, and closed it quietly behind him.

The room was dimmer than the corridor outside, a result of drawn curtains, but enough light penetrated for him to see that there was somebody lying asleep in the bed, a young boy of maybe ten or eleven years. Hanging from the end of the bed was a chart, on top of which Rafferty could make out a name: Alexander Kessler.

Rafferty looked around the room. An abundant collection of Get Well Soon cards were located on every counter, cabinet, and windowsill, and a half-full jug of water stood on a bedside cabinet, along with a Nintendo Game Boy and a couple of books.

Rafferty started towards the bed, removing both the Key and the small wallet-sized medical kit from his pocket.

He had work to do.

A few minutes later his work was complete; it would have to do, he surmised, but at least he was rid of it, and he would have to trust to luck that it would never be found. Really, what were the chances?

With a sigh, he spoke into the PDU in a hushed voice so as not to wake the sleeping boy, then pressed the circular dimple on his hand to turn it off. That done, he approached the window, peeled aside a curtain, and peered out. Three levels up the room looked out onto an inner courtyard. Rafferty opened the latch, and a light breeze stole into the room.

What he had to do next was going to hurt.

He delved into a pocket and brought out a small knife. Grimly holding his breath, he pricked the back of his left hand, then forced the knife beneath the skin. Blood pooled from the wound, but he worked through it. Sweat beading his forehead, he felt the knife scrape against metal. With surgical precision, he sliced the flesh until a cut formed past the PDU's edge. Next came two perpendicular incisions, until he had made three sides of a square flap of skin that was still attached to his hand on one side. With the knife he peeled this back, revealing a small metallic square barely an inch on each side, criss-crossed with minute solder, with a small circular concavity in its centre. One twisted sliver of metal poked upwards from the hit it had received from Dillon.

He closed his eyes, let out his breath, then inhaled deeply and held it.

He gently placed the tip of the knife under the edge of the metal and slowly pried it away from the flesh. It came loose with a repulsive slurp, leaving a square indentation in the remaining meat and muscle.

Turning back to the window, he tossed the PDU out. He watched it tumble end over end until it was lost from view. He briefly wondered if his pursuers would take the bait. Would they really think he'd leapt from a third storey window to evade them?

Fighting back nausea, he folded the square of skin back into place, blood pumping from the incisions on three sides. Rafferty glanced at the bedside cabinet, opened its door and withdrew the first item of clothing he saw: a small tee-shirt. With one yank he ripped the garment into two halves; one he threw beneath the bed, the other he carefully wrapped around his gore-streaked hand and tied tight.

That done, he approached the door and stood with his ear against it, listening for movement outside. Nothing. He opened it and quietly slipped out, glancing towards the nurses’ station. The nurse still sat in the same position, facing the other way. Still writing.

He started towards the exit, knowing his pursuers wouldn't be far away; but at least now they couldn't track him. Yet nor could he track them, and they would surely be in this vicinity. He'd be best keeping a wary eye out.

To affirm this very thought, as he opened the exit doors he was suddenly grabbed from behind, lifted off his feet, and carried out into the corridor, where he was roughly thrown against the wall, crashing into it with his wounded shoulder before crumpling to the floor. Before he had time to lift himself up he was forcefully grabbed and slammed against the wall again, this time hitting it with his back and knocking the wind from him. A fist was driven into his face and sent him reeling to his knees.

Up! Rafferty heard, before he felt a strong grip on his arm, and he was unceremoniously yanked to his feet. His vision doubled, then trebled, as he focused on the men before him. He could feel blood dribble down his chin.

Rafferty, said the one on his left as he shook his head. You've led us on quite a chase.

Rafferty looked at the man who had spoken. He was whip-thin, sporting short blond hair and a wicked grimace. He had a look of a man who got everything he wanted, and knew it. His eyes were hard chips of ice. Yet Rafferty managed a resigned smile. Jericho. Come down from your throne, have you?

Jericho also smiled, yet his was one full of malice and spite. You disappoint me, Rafferty. I had such high hopes for you. He turned to the other man, who appeared to be nothing but a bald, thick slab of muscle from head to foot, and stood impassive, yet had Rafferty clasped in his grip almost effortlessly. Like all the others from Vapour, his and Jericho's attire matched Rafferty's. Hanging from his belt, encased inside a sheath, was a knife, wickedly sharp. Its handle looked as though it was made of bone.

Rafferty nodded. Well, you know what they say?

Jericho smiled. No, I don't know what they say. Would you care to elucidate?

When you surround yourself with vermin, is it any wonder you sometimes get bitten?

Is that so? And what does that make you?

I'm the exterminator, Rafferty replied, and spat a wad of bloody phlegm in Jericho's face.

Without even flinching, Jericho stared at Rafferty for a moment as he wiped the dripping liquid from his face. Now, that wasn’t nice. That unpleasant smile again, then suddenly his head was flashing forwards, connecting solidly with Rafferty’s nose. Blood erupted, and Rafferty felt his legs go weak. Only the iron grip from the bald man prevented him from falling to the floor again.

"What on Earth is going on here?"

The voice came from behind the two men, and Rafferty groggily lifted his head to see who this new speaker was. At the door to the children’s ward there stood a nurse, portly, perhaps in her mid-fifties, sporting a matronly scowl. Hands on her hips, she advanced on the three men. You’ll wake the children, she hissed. They’re very ill, and they need their rest.

Jericho turned to face her. Fuck off! he growled menacingly, advancing on her. Get back inside and tend to your kids.

The nurse stopped mid-stride, her face aghast. She somehow composed herself enough to say, Just you hold on a second. You can’t speak to me that way. She looked at all three men. This is a hospital, you know?

Jericho twisted back to Rafferty, grabbed hold of him by his hair, and dragged him towards the nurse. You see this man? He threw Rafferty, blood still pouring down his face, to the floor at the nurse's feet. Do you want some of the same?

The nurse stared at them for a moment longer, looking from one to the other, seeming to take in just what the situation was, then muttered, I’m going to call security, before heading quickly back into the ward.

Jericho watched her depart, then turned his attention back to face Rafferty. He leaned in close and grabbed another hold of his hair. Where is it? We know for a certainty that you don't have it any more, and it's no longer showing up on our PDU. He seemed almost amused by this. Tell me, how is such a thing possible?

Blood had begun to seep into Rafferty’s mouth, and he spat a wad onto the floor. Where is what?

A fist flashed out again. More blood poured. Jericho lifted his hand, still holding a fistful of hair, and with it raised Rafferty, who instinctively reached his hands up to his head to stop himself from being scalped, but he could not remove Jericho’s grip.

Jericho’s face was a livid portrayal of hatred. Don’t be so fucking stupid. We know you took the Key. Why? Where were you going with it? When there was no reply, he screamed, You stupid fucker. You could have had everything. Anything you wanted. Don't you know who we are? What we are? We're the people who are above the law. We answer to nobody. And you were one of us, or so I thought. He squeezed even tighter. Rafferty could almost feel his hair being torn out by the roots. How long have you been with us?

Trying to keep hold of Jericho's hands as they dug into his aching scalp, Rafferty grunted, About eight months.

And how were you recruited?

I was approached by two of your operatives, said they had been watching the work I'd done in private security, and were impressed.

And when did you first learn of the Key's existence?

I don't...

Who were you taking it to?

There's...

Was it FATE?

I...

It’s up to you how much you suffer, so I advise you to tell me now.

I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.

Exasperated, Jericho threw Rafferty to the floor. Leo, he said, glancing to his accomplice.

The thick slab of meat – Leo – strode forwards and grabbed Rafferty, pinching him on the bullet-hole on his shoulder. He pressed one finger into the raw flesh, causing a fresh gout of blood to gush from the wound. Pain like burning fire flared through Rafferty, and he screamed. Darkness invaded the edge of his field of vision.

Leo whirled him around and tightened his grip, bringing Rafferty to his knees. Still holding the shoulder, he brought Rafferty’s right hand up behind his back, twisting it at the same moment. With one meaty hand he gripped a finger and snapped it effortlessly. Rafferty yelled further, but this pain seemed far away, unimportant, compared to fire burning in his shoulder. Leo dropped him to the ground.

That's just a small taster of the pain you can expect, Jericho hissed, again leaning in close. Now, where the fuck is it?

A beeping started to emit from Jericho's vicinity. Leo's too. Rafferty groggily looked up. The sound came from the men's PDUs.

Overhead, and all along the corridor, the fluorescent lights lit up as the consequence of the Richmond Effect ended and power once again began to flow through the many electrical veins and arteries throughout the building.

Rafferty's self-preservation was one of his main strengths, his ability to turn even the most dire of situations to his advantage. Even as the corridor re-illuminated and Leo glanced away and up at the light fixtures on the ceiling, Rafferty leaped forwards and pulled the bald man's knife from its sheath. With a grunt he brought it up, the lights glinting off the lethal edge. He sliced it up the side of Jericho’s face, mustering as much force as he could, loosing a flap of skin from the cheek and feeling the knife scrape against bone.

Jericho flinched back, grunting in pain and knocking into Leo. Rafferty seized his chance and sprang to his feet, thrusting with all of his might with the knife. It lodged in Leo's throat, burying itself to the hilt just above his Adam's apple. Blood flew in a geyser. Releasing the knife, Rafferty watched the big man drop to the floor, a grotesque gargling coming from him as he threw both hands to his throat in a futile effort to staunch the flood. With Leo's movements slowing, Rafferty turned and sprinted down the corridor as best he could. But with his profusion of wounds, in his current condition, it was like running along the deck of a gale-tossed ship.

Yet for all his cunning, his craft and guile, he was a man made of flesh and bone. He heard a shot being fired, and felt a sudden burning pain in the back of his left thigh. He stumbled, fell, tried to rise, but the pain had become too severe. He could feel blood pump steadily onto the floor beneath him.

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up. Jericho loomed above, a gun in his hand. In an outrage, with blood pumping from the facial wound and a flap of cheek hanging raw from his face, he reached down, grabbing hold of Rafferty and again pulled him back along the corridor, leaving a long smear of blood, until he was within touching distance of Leo, whose own life's blood was running down his neck onto the floor. Jericho laid a foot on one of the big man’s meaty thighs.

Oh, you fucker, how you’ll pay for that! he grunted. He opened his own PDU, and tapped on the screen.

There was a loud popping noise and a flash of light.

Then silence.

And in the end, Rafferty did pay.

Moments later two security guards arrived on the deserted third floor and were met outside the entrance to the Children's Unit by the matronly-looking nurse.

They were right here, she declared.

How long ago? asked one.

Not long, Just a few minutes. One of them was in no fit state. He was being assaulted by the other two.

Well, they can’t have gone far, said the other. The power's just come back on. If we're lucky there may be something on security videos telling us which exit they left by.

The first guard shook his head. I doubt that. Chances are they fled when the cameras were still out of action, he retorted. Just then his two-way radio crackled. He lifted it to his ear, listened for a few moments, asked, Are you sure? in an incredulous voice, then returned the radio to his belt.

What is it, Geoff? asked the second guard.

Witnesses report what sounded like gunshots being fired on the main stairway. There's blood on the walls and stairs, and the glass stairwell wall is smashed between the ground and first floors. They've also found a handgun, and what looks to be some sort of switchblade.

Casualties?

Geoff looked from one to the other. That's the thing...there's nobody there. But some patients reported seeing somebody falling through the window and into the courtyard, but if they did then they're gone now.

But the nurse wasn’t listening. She had noticed something on the floor further along the corridor, and pointed it out to the two men. Look! What’s that?

Both security guards crossed to where she had indicated, Geoff crouching down to take a closer look. It looked like a smear of blood, as though something