Summers & Winters

By William Soppitt

One man lost in life. One woman searching the world.

 

On the day Damien Winters met Anasta Summers she was the only survivor of an explosion that resulted in her inheriting a multi-billion empire.

Suspect or victim?
Like it or not his future belonged to the answer.

Summers takes her first step into solving what happened to her husband by stealing an experimental technology. The Eye of Providence would allow her to examine the scene and find her answers, if only she can get it to work. Winters decides it's either this or door duty after being forced out of the police and into guard duty.

 

Teamwork? The clues in the name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Soppitt
• Release date: May 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223207849

Book preview

1

All actions have consequences. The memory came from nowhere and for no reason other than it existed. A thick Russian accent escaping through an even thicker rouge lipstick reminiscent of a film noir. Anasta Summers closed her eyes for a moment while the scene of her mother played out. A scene in which she played the part of a wilful six year old. The gentle lapping of waves brought her back to the present. The air, warm and caressing, resulted in a contented sigh as she relaxed on the virgin stern of the small private yacht while it lifted and sagged in the breath of the Aegean Sea. Her taut, slim figure was seized tight by the orange wetsuit clinging and accentuating the gentle curves of her twenty-seven-year-old body.

She had accomplished all the things her mother had wanted her too. Today was a small part of what she wanted to accomplish, a line through another item on the bucket list in her head. Her marriage of three months to a man twenty-four year her senior still felt new and fresh. George Summers sat nearby, relaxing with a cigar poking from the corner of his mouth, fingering the pages of the newspaper he had collected from an overzealous vendor at the marina. She lifted her head, and for a long moment gazed up into the cloudless blue washed sky and lazily followed the vapour trail of a passenger airliner high above. An unknown destination to her. A far-off land awaiting its occupants.

Reaching for the large silver oxygen tank beside her, Summers placed the regulator in her mouth and watched the pressure gauge as she breathed. The needle hovered at 3000psi which she calculated would give her a comfortable forty minutes. Stretching the hood over her head, hiding her short curled blond hair, she grabbed her goggles and dipped them into the water. She lifted her right hand to shield her eyes and with an accent straight from a British finishing school she spoke just loud enough to be heard over the water lapping against the gleaming white hull. I’ll put my head up in twenty minutes, make sure you haven’t dosed off.

Her husband continued to read. Okay. Great. Are you sure you don’t want one of the guys to buddy with you?

The other two occupants on the yacht, both men, neither of which showed any visible sign of being armed, stepped onto the rear deck. The largest of the two took up station next to her husband while the other, slenderer and younger, stepped next to her. We have another boat entering the cove Mr. Summers.

Her husband lowered his paper.

Then all hell broke loose.

As the other boat drew nearer the first spray of bullets tore at the wooden bench near Anasta. Splinters pierced the air, soaring and cracking as each gunshot echoed around the secluded cove.  The man next to her fell, blood soaking his shorts turning his legs red. Anasta felt herself tip backwards into the water, her goggles flying from her hand as she hit the surface. Grappling with the side of the boat, she fought to grip the dark wooden runners as the blood-stained face of the bodyguard looked down at her. Reaching over, he pushed the silver cylinder into the water before another round of bullets, this time much closer, exploded his skull.

Anasta continued to look up, her hand gripping the thin rail, her senses numbed. Then voices. Heavy Eastern European accents, the words hushed by the hood framing her face. The hull lifted gently, stretching her arm higher. She fought the urge to climb back on, take her chances in helping her husband. The only noise was of footsteps, metal shoe protectors hitting the wooden deck, tapping a slow march across from where the other boat had sided up to theirs. Each step got louder as the boat evened out. Two shots. A definite pause between each, brought the voices to a hushed silence.  Anasta tensed as each loud blast rolled around the cove. Holding her breath, she waited for her husband to call out, hoped he would call out. The voice that eventually spoke on the boat caused her to grab onto the air tank and, using the side, she pushed herself underneath the smooth hull.

Her eyes stung as she stretched her fingers and searched the water before rolling the cylinder onto her back. Swimming deeper, she moved away from the mayhem above, her arms stretched out in front of her. She kicked hard, pausing between strokes to make the most of the forward thrust. Without her weights or buoyancy compensator she struggled in the water. Moving as fast as she could toward the cove an unseen rock caught her head, the sharp pain instantly forgotten as adrenalin pumped through her body.

After placing some distance between herself and the yacht, she slowly raised her head into the soft breeze. The deafening sound of the explosion carried around the cove. The wave of heat briefly brushed her face. Smoke billowed from what remained as other parts of the boat floated, some still on fire, scattered around the unrecognisable shell.

All actions have consequences. Damien Winters smiled at the thought of his father saying those words, and the idea that the guy sitting across from him was about to suffer those consequences. Winters relaxed on the three-legged stool barely breaking a sweat, swilled the tepid water around his mouth and spat it in the bucket held by his oversized trainer. His gaze was fixed on the pale tattooed guy doing the same in the opposite corner of the stained boxing ring. The grunt, hunched forward and clearly ignoring the slating he was getting from his trainer, stared back, eyes wide, fixed on his prey. Deep breaths and clenching muscles forced the pictures on his chest and arms to take up a life of their own.

Winters’s attention was briefly interrupted by the ring girl, clad in tight silver nearly their hot pants and showing off her cleavage with even less material. A glint of gold on her finger as she held up the oversized number three told him she was married and judging by the cat calls coming from at least half of the surrounding audience was also well known. He glanced at the first few rows containing officers and NCO’s and figured the husband was the young officer getting patted on the back a lewd grin forcing him to lick his lips as he got his kicks from watching his wife parade on the canvas.

When Winters had first stepped into the ring, he had sized up his opponent.  He himself was six feet when wearing a good pair of boots, and a good hair day, depending on the style. His opponent, taller, muscled, with at least a three, maybe four-inch greater reach than his own. A picture board of graffiti, bruises and love bites. They had stood opposite each other as the ref talked about a good clean fight. The Army grunt occasionally sucked and rolled the tip of his tongue and flicked globs of spit as he jerked his head back. Winters wasn’t bothered about the guy’s name, which battalion he was from or the fact that he was a no name on the roster. Winters was bothered about the fact that this grunt was going to knock him out in the third round.

Army verses Police. The Riffles verses the Met. Fight number four on the roster. Round three started with the evacuation of the ring leaving the fighters and a now nervous looking ref.

Winters, unbeaten and confident, raised his gloves to guard his face and tucked his elbows in. He stared intently at the grunt approaching him. Watched as he smirked, sucked his tongue and flicked saliva towards him. The uppercut from Winters was quick, precisely timed and hard enough to lift the grunt off his feet. The thunderous cheer from the gathered metropolitan force was cut short by the scream ring side from the scantily clad woman frantically scratching at her cleavage attempting to liberate the triangular piece of bloodied meat that had landed there.

The grunt, his mouth projecting blood at a frightening rate, was now on his hands and knees screaming in what sounded like an alien language. The referee looked unnerved as he glanced firstly at Winters and then at the commissioner sat in the front row. As the grunt hit the surface face first, he stayed unmoving while his tongue painted the canvas beneath him. What previously seemed like an empty space was now a crush of medical and training staff.

Winters, unrepentant, turned in time to watch the commissioner walking toward the exit.

2

I rarely considered it cold. Living in London meant two of the few items I owned were a fur lined hat with flaps to cover my ears and a pair of fingerless gloves. The hat was a present. The dark jacket I wore was covered by a yellow fluorescent vest. Not my style or colour. Used, permanently borrowed from a local delivery firm who sent packages by seemingly fearless cyclists who weaved through London traffic.

Somewhere under my feet was a grey slab of pavement. Easily forgotten faces carried the river of people as I allowed myself to become one of them. Once at the corner of the building I dodged to the kerbside and tapped on the side window of a small red sports car.

The door unlocked and I slid into the passenger seat.

Summers, her left index finger lazily twirling threads of long red hair, looked excited as she smiled at me.

Revving the small sports car, she pulled quickly into traffic. Well Winters, did you find it?

Taking my hat off, I reached forward and turned the heater down before answering her. As planned.

Well, that was easy.

Way too easy.

Summers nervously glanced sideways at me. What do you mean? Maybe they just weren’t expecting us.

Take the next right.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Summers spun the steering wheel. Dark SUV turned with us.

Damn it. I scanned the area up ahead. Take the next left.

Still with us. These streets are quite narrow. Should I lose them?

Summers was always ready to put her foot down, make a movie out of a commercial. Taking the box from under my jacket, I flipped the lid and examined the contents. I doubt this is what we came for. They knew we were coming. Take the next left and stop. Give them just enough room to get behind you then go. I’ll meet you back at the hotel.

No way Winters. We can lose them. Figure out another way.

We may not get another chance. I knew which words would force the issue.

Taking the sharp left and slowly pushing through the street traffic, Summers stopped the car. As I jumped out, I tossed my hat back in place and stood near the corner. The SUV, nearly hitting the back of the small sports car, braked quickly jerking the two men forward. As Summers pulled away I opened the rear door of the SUV and climbed in. Heathrow please.

A chiselled bulldog faced man turned around from the front passenger seat. Does this look like a fuckin taxi?

I called to get picked up here. My flight leaves at five.

The man reached back and made to grab me as he shouted. Get out.

Whoa! Okay. Take it easy. What happened to customer service? Sliding over the seat, I opened the far door and slowly got out. Watching the SUV pull away, its horn sounding against the thickening tide of pedestrians I smiled at the fact that I no longer carried the box liberated from Titular R&D. Walking to the main road, I hailed a taxi.

I knew I had to play the same role. The codes and Key card were all I had while I figured coming back was the unexpected thing to do. Maybe that would buy me enough time before they changed the security.

Once in, I headed for the gleaming white reception and ignored the security checkpoint leading into the central area. Hello again.

The pert young receptionist flashed a smile. Back so soon?

Returning the smile, I leaned into the desk. Couldn’t keep away. Apparently, I was supposed to pick up as well as drop off.

She began to write on a piece of paper before pushing it, along with a blue badge, into my hand. You know the drill.

I slipped the thin ribbon around my neck and let the badge hang. Reading the note, I smiled across at her. I’ll definitely be calling that number.

She flashed another smile back, a slight redness in her cheeks.

Turning, I walked through the security gate, lifted the badge and wafted it in front of a burly security guard as if trying to hypnotise him. After being briefly searched I headed for the escalator.

Titular’s interior belied the old-fashioned stone exterior. Located in the heart of London, it was easily a century old and no doubt one of the many listed buildings in the area. The interior was open and generous. White glass hung an inch off the walls while lighting hid behind it and soaked the area in a never-ending cycle of radiant colours. Looking up to the third floor I could clearly see the entrance to the hallway I had walked earlier. Central to the floor design were several long escalators that criss-crossed the open space like a giant helix.

Stepping onto the single track, I patiently waited for the steps to deliver me to the first floor. Once there I stuffed the badge into my jacket and headed for the next escalator, this time walking up the moving staircase two steps at a time. Once on the third floor I headed toward the security door. Holding my breath, I swiped the card through the reader. Red light and a noise akin to a wrong game show answer caused