The Road to Hell
The Road to Hell
Title Page
Chapter 01: The Hotel
Chapter 02: Run
Chapter 03: Underworld
Chapter 04: Brains
Chapter 05: Assault
Chapter 06: Drunk
Chapter 07: Escape
Chapter 08: The Astor
Chapter 09: Room 412
Chapter 10: Reflection
Chapter 11: The Factory
Chapter 12: Night Watch
Chapter 13: Thirty-Four More
Chapter 14: The Cube
Chapter 15: The Senate
Chapter 16: Coffee
Chapter 17: Murder
Chapter 18: Cafe of the Moon
Chapter 19: End of the Road
Chapter 20: Betrayal
Chapter 21: A Bottle of Red
Chapter 22: Of Iron and Clay
Chapter 23: Celebration
Epilogue
The Road to Hell
...paved with good intentions...
Peter Cawdron
http://thinkingscifi.wordpress.com
Copyright © Peter Cawdron 2011
All rights reserved
The right of Peter Cawdron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
ISBN 978-1-4658-4005-9
First published as an eBook by Peter Cawdron using Smashwords
Smashwords Edition
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental
Chapter 01: The Hotel
Her naked body lay over the edge of the bloodstained mattress, her lifeless eyes staring up at the water stains on the ceiling. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her lip down her neck and onto her long blonde hair. Above her, a dim light bulb hung from a frayed electrical cord.
Hairline cracks ran through the plastered walls, a telltale sign of the ever-settling reclaimed land beneath the hotel. Cockroaches scurried across the worn shag-pile carpet, darting between the crumpled clothing, stiletto-heeled shoes and torn bed sheets scattered across the floor. The slow, steady drip of a leaking tap counted out the monotony of time from somewhere inside the adjacent, musty bathroom.
Outside, a red neon light flickered in the pre-dawn sky, announcing to no one there were vacancies inside. The street, some four flights below, was silent. A gentle breeze blew in through the open window.
“Do you really think he’ll come?” asked Agent Johnson in a whisper.
“He’ll come,” replied Special Agent Kane from the stakeout room immediately above the dead woman.
Johnson might not be confident, but Kane was. Kane knew what they were up against. This was no ordinary stakeout, but then, Artemis was no ordinary criminal. Normally, they’d use live bait. But when it came to Artemis, the dead were a safe-bet. It raised the stakes, made it impossible to resist.
The surveillance cameras were old, like everything in this sector, and being old meant they were untraceable. The surveillance team had drilled holes through the floor, slipping their thin metal laparoscopic cameras down into the corners of the ceiling below, making sure every angle within room 412 was covered. On the array of screens in front of them, the team watched a dull blue, fisheye view of the claustrophobic room from four angles. Numerous shots from around the hotel flashed up on a second row of monitors, slowly flicking through each of the surveillance cameras mounted around the rundown hotel.
“It’ll be light soon,” said Johnson, stubbing out a cigarette in an overfull ashtray. “He’s not going to come in broad daylight. It’s over.”
“Artemis will come,” Kane repeated patiently. “He won’t leave her. Not Olivia. Not like this.”
“But she’s dead,” replied Johnson with anger in his voice. “I told you she was more use to us alive. You could have simply roughed her up, but no, you had to take things too far. I ain’t going down with you on this one. I’ve heard what you did on the East side. It ain’t happening again. Not here. Not on my watch.”
Kane didn’t bite. He continued watching the monitors, staring out through his jet-black, wrap-around sunglasses, staring intently at the images streaming in from around the hotel.
“You have no idea what we’re up against, do you?” he replied softly.
Johnson ignored him.
“And what are we supposed to tell CID when this wraps up? That she was murdered by some vagrant? What if they get the tapes? What if there’s an investigation? I don’t like this. There’s too many people that know. There's too much physical evidence. What if they link us to the room?”
“You worry too much,” said Kane, turning to look at the balding, fat officer.
“He knows it’s a trap,” replied Johnson. “You haven’t trapped Artemis, you’ve trapped us, you’ve screwed us.”
“Artemis loves her. He will come.”
“You don’t know shit,” cried Johnson in disgust. The pressure was getting to him. In the cool of the morning, sweat beaded on his brow. The realisation that he’d be implicated in a murder along with Kane wore away at his mind, blurring his thinking.
“He’s been on the run for what?” asked Johnson. “Fifteen years? And you think killing his girlfriend is going to break his heart and make him come forward?”
“You know not with whom you deal.”
“Oh, please, not more of your Shakespearian horse-shit," Johnson cried out.
Shots of the desolate hallway, the concrete stairwell, the empty lobby and rusting fire escape flashed slowly across the array of monitors in front of the two bickering officers. All in all, sixteen monitors sat stacked on the rough wooden tables pushed up against the wall.
“Just who the hell do you think you are?” asked Agent Johnson, the wick of his temper finally burning out. “You don’t scare me. And what gives with the sunglasses? It’s the middle of the night. What are you, a goddamn vampire?”
With lightning reflexes, Kane’s right hand lashed out and grabbed Johnson by the throat, pushing him up hard against the wall. The other two agents in the room reacted immediately, pulling out their handguns. Johnson grabbed at Kane’s arm, his feet barely touching the ground as he choked, gasping for air. Kane leaned in hard, struggling to hold him there but determined to use his weight to disguise that. His thumb and his forefinger locked around Johnson’s windpipe, constricting the airflow.
“Have you got a problem?” asked Kane, turning slightly to face the other agents.
The two agents were silent, their guns drawn, trained on the back of Kane’s head, their fingers already tightening on each trigger.
Johnson struggled, clawing desperately at Kane’s iron grip. Dark spots appeared before his eyes as he gasped.
“You’re pathetic,” said Kane, releasing his grip and allowing Johnson to sink to the floor. He turned back to the monitors. Leaning forward with his fists clenched, his knuckles pressing on the table, he added, “Make sure your men don’t move before I give the signal. No one moves before I say so. Is that understood?”
Johnson grabbed at his black tie, loosening it as he struggled to breathe properly. He choked, still gagging, grabbing at his windpipe as he sucked in air in gulps.
“You OK, boss?” asked one of the agents as he helped Johnson to his feet, his gun still trained nervously on Kane.
“Yeah.”
The other agent kept his gun pointed at the back of Kane’s head, his finger still caressing the trigger.
Johnson cleared his throat.
“It’s not me you should be afraid of,” said Kane, pointing at one of the screens. “It’s him.”
A black and white image flickered on the central monitor. It wa
s a shot of the alley outside. Something moved along the brick wall, a ghostly apparition fading into the darkness. Whatever it was, it looked more like a shadow than a man. For a second, the agents could see the outline of someone moving on the monitor, but then he seemed to dissolve, disappearing into the background, fading like a mist only to reappear another four or five feet further along the alleyway.
“He’s saving his strength, looks like he’s expecting a fight.”
“Artemis is in the back alley,” said Agent Johnson, talking into his radio, his voice breaking up as he spoke. “All units converge.”
“I said, wait,” replied Kane, but Johnson ignored him.
Immediately, a police cruiser swooped down from out of the clouds above the hotel. The sleek, aerodynamic vehicle plummeted toward the alley, diving down between the hotel on one side and an abandoned factory on the other. Jets of hot air shot out from beneath the vehicle, producing a slight shimmer on the image.
“You’re wasting your time.”
The police cruiser hovered at twenty feet; its slick titanium alloy hull appeared on the edge of the fisheye camera shot. Spotlights lit up the alley, sweeping over the length of the dirty, worn road. Several police officers swooped in wearing jet packs, carefully avoiding the downdraft from the cruiser. They weaved their way down the length of the alley shining handheld spotlights in the broken factory windows, busted doorways and ageing trash compactors. Rats scurried away from the light.
“Nothing here, boss,” came the reply from the hovering police cruiser. “The only infrared signature is coming from a hobo. RFID tags confirm the identity as a known small-time felon, no outstanding warrants. Are you sure your boy is on the move? Over.”
Kane’s finger had moved.
A fisheye image streamed in from the kitchen camera. Again, a wraith-like figure danced across the screen like a shadow rippling across an uneven surface, appearing and then disappearing in a fine mist weaving its way between the stainless steel bench tops.
Light reflected off the pots and pans hanging from the ceiling as the camera panned automatically, following the ghostly apparition across the room. From this angle, it was difficult to see anything other than the flicker of a hooded trench coat, a pair of black, gloved hands and dark shadows flashing through the forest of metal spoons, sieves and colanders hanging from the glistening metal hooks in the kitchen. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the image dissolved, leaving the rundown kitchen silent and empty.
“Artemis is in the building,” cried Agent Johnson into his handheld microphone. “Passing through the kitchen. All units, standby.”
“Remember,” said Kane. “No one moves till I say so, no one.”
“What the hell are we dealing with here?” said Johnson, struggling for words, his adrenalin pumping, his throat pounding.
A dark shadow passed over the lobby camera. On the screen, they could see the bellhop cowering in fear, backing into the corner by an old service elevator. The bellhop backed inside and pulled the accordion metal grate across in front of him, sealing himself in the lift.
“There’s more of them,” cried Johnson with alarm, pointing back at the view of the alleyway. Shadowy figures flickered against the brick wall outside while in the kitchen flashes of black again passed between the bench tops.
“There’s only one,” replied Kane. “You’re seeing his echo, his shadow. He’s already moved on from there. This is the real one. Here, moving up to the second floor.”
Inside the stairwell, the form of a man cloaked in black glided up the stairs as though his feet weren’t actually touching the pre-cast concrete steps. At times the form was clearly visible, at other points it seemed to disappear from sight.
“Just what the hell is going on? What is that? A ghost?”
“That’s classified,” replied Kane. “All you need to know is I want him alive. Keep your men at bay until I give the word. We’ll catch him when he materialises.”
“Contact!” came the cry across the airways.
“Tell your man to stand down,” cried Kane turning to face Johnson.
Agent Johnson stared at Kane in silent defiance as the sound of bullets woke the building from its slumber. Deep, chesty thumps resounded through the old hotel in time with the crack of pistol fire coming through on the radio. Across the airwaves, screams could be heard, first of a man, then, over the top of that, of a woman. On the monitor, a body fell rolling down the stairs as the dark intruder moved up to the third and then the fourth floor, ever shifting, ever changing, at one point seemingly so real, the next just shadow, a figment of the imagination, a blemish on the screen.
All eyes focused on the concave view of the target room. The dead woman lay there naked, her skin pale and lifeless. On the cold, impersonal monitor, she looked more like a mannequin than someone that had actually lived and breathed just a few hours before. The wind blew in through the open window, causing the curtains to wave in the breeze. Apart from them, the image could have been a still-life, a picture rather than a live feed.
Suddenly, the door handle rattled. Someone was testing the deadlock.
“All units, hold tight,” said Johnson.
Flashes of light lit up the inside walls of the room as the police cruiser continued circling the building outside. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Seconds passed like hours.
A shadow moved against the far wall inside the target room. The surveillance team watched as a ghostly figure spread a dark cloak out across the naked woman’s body, covering her with dignity.
“How the hell did he get in there?” asked Johnson before crying, “Go, go, go,” into his radio.
“No,” yelled Kane. “Not till he comes out of phase-shift.”
It was too late, a breeching charge exploded from the far wall sending a cloud of white smoke billowing through the room. Chunks of plaster and wood flew through the air.
Four police officers stormed the hotel room, pouring in through a five-foot hole in the wall. The targeting lights attached to the barrel of each gun lit up the smoke like laser beams. As soon as they entered the room they were attacked. The first officer appeared to be dragged down into the mist swirling around the room, while the second found himself hurled out through the open window. The crack of gunfire echoed around the hotel.
“The door was locked,” cried Johnson. “How the hell did he get in?”
“He came in through the hole you just blew in the wall,” replied Kane.
“But he was in there before we blew the wall.”
“You fool. I told you to wait. He’s moving in four dimensions, not three.”
On the monitor, a dark shadow moved in a blur, weaving across the opening, cutting down the remaining two officers before they could react. Then there was silence, followed by cries resounding from the far room where the secondary assault team lay in wait. As the screaming subsided the dark image of a man appeared in the midst of the smoky haze. Slowly, he stepped back into the room and over toward the dead woman.
“Pull back, pull back,” cried Johnson.
There was no reply, only the crackle of static coming in over the airwaves.
“It’s too late,” said Kane. “They’re all dead.”
On the muted screen, Artemis stood silently over Olivia. His hand reached down and touched hers, his fingers slowly clasping her cold, dead hand. He seemed lost in thought, his head bowed. The still silence was surreal following such a flurry of violence.
Artemis wiped tears from his eyes. He knelt down, with his head just inches from her, whispering something into her ear, clasping her hand in his and warming her fingers.
She moved.
At first, there was nothing, but slowly, her left hand, still lying on the mattress, twitched. Then her head rolled toward the wall and she blinked, squinting as though she were being roused from a deep sleep. She rose up on one side, aching in pain, reaching gently around to touch her back. Feeling the cold, she wrapped herself in the cloak and turned to face Artemis, si
tting up on the edge of the bed.
“That’s just not possible,” cried Agent Johnson. “She’s dead. I saw her die. That’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible,” replied Kane, realising the moment was gone, “only improbable.”
With that, the two figures on the small monitor disappeared from sight, slowly blending in with the shadows, fading into the mist around them.
Chapter 02: Run
Harrison looked at the young woman standing in front of his desk. Her punk haircut complete with pink spikes, safety-pin earring and nose-stud made her look like any of the other ladies of the night on the south side. But her clothes were too clean, her face was too pretty. There weren’t any bruises or scratches and she didn’t have the deep-set eyes of a drugged-up whore. Her lipstick was too sharp, placed with care rather than out of duty. And her mini-skirt, though provocative, wasn’t torn or stained. Overall, though, Harrison thought, pretty convincing.
“What do you want?” he asked, pretending he wasn’t paying her any attention, flicking through a folder on his desk. The folder contained three overdue vid-phone bills, but she didn’t know that. For all she knew, he was looking at a case file.
“I… I need you to find someone for me,” the young woman said sheepishly.
“Down the hall, second on the left. Casey’s a private dick. He’ll find your boy.”
The young girl just stood there, lost for words.
“This ain’t the Pound, lady. I don’t do lost and found.”
Harrison kicked his genuine leather cowboy boots up on the desk, leaned back in his wooden-framed chair and puffed on a cigar. Those boots cost him a small fortune, he reminded himself, it was nice to show them off. Light streamed in through the thick wooden shutters covering the windows. Smoke hung in the air, clouding the dark musty room.
“They told me to see you. They told me I could trust you.”
“Trust” replied Harrison, playing the game. “Trust is a big word for a hooker. If we’re going to talk about trust you’re going to have to stop lying to me. Why the façade? Why the disguise?”