Trauma (Wildfire Chronicles Vol. 5)

Prologue

There was a lingering stench in the van. Something that went beyond the dubious stains left by the previous owner. To Kyle Robinson it smelled like fear. The van was ripe with the stink of it.

I'm not sure about this, mate.

The voice might have come from Kyle's subconscious. Instead it came from the rear of the van.

Kyle grimaced. It wasn't the first time since they had entered the van that his brother had voiced his concerns. For a guy who talked as little as Tom did, repetition of anything was generally a bad sign. Kyle loved him, but he was under no illusions: his younger brother was intense and awkward; the kind of guy that made other passengers uncomfortable on buses.

Not that Tom ever took the bus.

The truth was that Tom was the life and soul of the party, as long as the party in question took place in the virtual world. When online he had a presence, and an impressively comprehensive knowledge of where and how to get at information that others didn't even know existed. He revelled in drilling down to the virtual truth, and ultimately in feeding his bottomless cynicism and distrust of everyone that wasn't Kyle.

Tom had retreated to the safety of his house not long after the twenty-first century became the age of terrorism and insidious fear. Fed by the internet on a steady diet of paranoia and hysteria, he slowly became a virtual shut-in, hoarding supplies for what he anticipated was the impending end of the world. Some people called themselves preppers, and kept one prudent eye on the possibility of trouble; Tom lived the fear every single day and let it consume him.

In fairness, when Tom had shown Kyle the evidence he had amassed, Kyle had been forced to admit his brother might just have a point.

It was Tom's obsession that started the whole operation, way back when. Yeah, Tom was great online; a bona fide genius with a mouse and keyboard. Not so great if you were sitting in a van with him, counting out each trembling breath and wondering what number you'd be at when the violence started.

The operation.

The word seemed  ridiculous to Kyle now. It wouldn’t be the first time Tom's theories had led Kyle into trouble, but if things went as badly as they could, it might well be the last. Kyle wished he had paid a little more attention to just how ridiculous the operation was back when he could still have called it off.

Now it was way too late. They had been parked on Hatton Garden for several minutes already. It was, like apparently everywhere else in London, a no parking zone. That fact was making Kyle more than a little nervous. By the look of the sweat trickling down Tom's brow and his wide, fearful eyes, it was giving his brother something like the Chernobyl of all panic attacks.

Kyle stared at Tom in the rear view mirror. The guy looked miserable, which wasn't exactly news, but the look of intense worry on Tom's face told Kyle that this bout of anxiety went a little bit deeper than usual. Kyle knew Tom believed implicitly in what they were doing, or at least in their ultimate goal. Which meant Tom's concern was actually two things: the manner in which they were going about it, and the guy sitting in the passenger seat. The guy that was making the van stink.

Kyle slipped the man in the passenger seat next to him a sidelong glance, and looked away quickly when the man noticed his stare.

When Tom had jokingly said that you could get hold of anything on the deep web - even mercenaries - he had only really brought it up for effect. Kyle knew that. But once the conversation was started, there had been no stopping it. Tom pulled on the loose thread relentlessly, until it all unravelled.

What if we can stop it before it happens, Kyle? Tom had said earnestly, and against his better judgment, Kyle had allowed himself to be persuaded. He told himself at first that it was just because it was so good to see his brother focused, and able to leave the house for the first time in years, but the truth was that there was more to it. Tom had stumbled onto something big.

All of which meant that somehow here they were, sitting in a stolen van in a no parking zone on Hatton Garden with what Kyle could only describe as an Eastern-European hit-man, and they were about to kidnap one of the UK's most famous socialites. Somehow it had been easy to think of it as fantasy when it was all happening in a foggy future on the other side of a computer screen.

It was real now. Nothing could be more real than sitting next to a man named Volkov and knowing pretty much for certain that no, that bulge in his pocket had nothing to do with him being happy to see you.

Volkov's phone trilled, splitting the nervous silence like a cleaver.

He pressed it to his ear without saying anything, and then looked at Kyle and said Go.

Thick Russian accent. Barely-penetrable. It came out as g-ho. For a split second Kyle toyed with the ludicrous notion that he should pretend he hadn't understood the man, but the Russian's dark eyes left him in no doubt: they weren't playing a game now. What started on the computer was going to finish on Clerkenwell Road, one way or another. Volkov was in it for the money.

It felt like a dream, like someone else's foot was stamping on the accelerator. Kyle heard Tom whimper in the back seat. At least, he thought it was Tom, but had to concede the sound might have spilled from his own lips. With a sickening lurch the van shot forward, and left Kyle's stomach back in the illegal parking area.

Fuck me, this is actually happening. I'm driving a fucking getaway vehicle.

Naturally they had devised a plan, and it was deceptively simple, really. There was no way to get at the man Tom said they needed, so they would settle for taking his daughter. At various times she was hard to reach, surrounded by an entourage that loved to bask in the reflected glow of her spotlight, and sometimes a bodyguard or two. But she was also hell-bent on being Britain's wildchild, and sooner or later she'd end up giving her father's men the slip and tracking down a way to appear in the public eye, which generally involved drugs and alcohol. That was what she did. Getting hold of Isabelle Sullivan was just a matter of patience and good timing.

As the van rounded the corner onto Clerkenwell Road, Kyle saw that there was nothing wrong with their timing: Volkov's men - hired goons, for fuck's sake, what are you doing here, Kyle? - approached the restaurant just as Sullivan emerged a little woozily, and Kyle saw that she was alone, and allowed his hopes to rise, just a little. Of course, the plan succeeding would mean him becoming an actual kidnapper, but Tom had promised him repeatedly that the end justified the means. When it was over, Tom assured him, they would be the good guys. No harm would actually come to the girl.

Gripping the wheel in white-knuckled fingers, he weaved through the traffic, aiming to pull up alongside Volkov's men as they got control of Isabelle Sullivan.

Tom opens the door, she gets bundled inside, we get to the underground car park just half a mile away, switch vehicles and it's over. Home free.

A simple plan. All it required was good timing.

But as Kyle saw the first of Volkov's men grabbing hold of Sullivan, he understood that it wasn't timing that was going to thwart them: it was a bike messenger. Coming from nowhere, smashing his bike into Volkov's men at full speed and then leaping to his feet and taking them out in a blur of violence like an honest-to-God ninja. Kyle's stomach finally caught up with him. It wasn't happy.

The crack of gunfire in the seat next to him nearly made him steer the van directly into an oncoming bus. His mouth dropped open in horror as he saw Volkov leaning out of the window, peppering the restaurant with bullets as the Sullivan girl disappeared inside with the bike messenger. Behind Kyle's seat, Tom's nervous whimpering had graduated to all-out blubbering.

Kyle fixed his eyes to the road, struggling to rein in the van's insatiable desire to smash into traffic.

"Volkov, what the fuck?" he screamed as he took a left onto a narrow side street and accelerated down it.

This is wrong way, Volkov said in a flat, clipped tone that suggested Kyle had just asked him what he'd had for breakfast that morning, rather than why he'd just opened fire on a crowded London street at rush hour.

Wrong way? Tom's voice, in the back, squeezing its way through a wall of hysterical wails to reach Kyle's ears. "Wrong way for what, you crazy fucker?"

For get the girl, Volkov said with a shrug.

"Forget the girl is right, you maniac, Kyle snarled, surprising himself with the venom in his tone. Apparently all his fear of the man had evaporated the moment he heard the first of the sirens in the distance. We've got no chance of getting Isabelle Sullivan now."

He saw the entrance to the car park and swung the steering wheel, almost too late. The side of the van missed the wall by inches. He forced himself to ease up on the accelerator, cruising down to the basement level, where they had parked two cars. A simple plan. Get the girl, split up and get away clean. Only half of that equation now existed.

Kyle pulled the van into an empty parking bay and glared at Volkov, who responded with a disinterested shrug.

My boys did job. You want let girl go, is your choice. My payment is same.

"Your payment?"

Kyle couldn't keep the astonishment from his voice. He opened the door and stepped from the van, shaking his head in disbelief. Volkov followed a moment later, and the dark expression on his face left Kyle in no doubt the Russian did not consider the conversation to be finished.

"Your payment was dependent on us getting the girl, Volkov. Not on you going on a killing spree in central fucking London. How are we supposed to pay you for this? And with what? Any money coming from this operation was going to come from the girl. That was the deal remember? We get the girl, you get her money."

Volkov grimaced, his face wrinkling in distaste like he'd just taken a bite of something rotten, and his hand dropped to his hip. There was no mistaking the threat in the gesture. Kyle raised his hands in surrender.

Look, we'll work something out, okay? But right now we have to get out of here. Cops will be swarming over the whole area.

The van's sliding door opened and Tom stepped out into the car park. He had, apparently, stopped whimpering and come to the same conclusion as Kyle: it was time to go. Kyle heard his brother suck in a lungful of oil-tainted air.

"Right now is time to 'work something out', Volkov said in a menacing tone. You think I am stupi-"

The Russian’s eyes bulged suddenly, and Kyle's mouth dropped open as Tom demolished the back of Volkov's head with a tyre iron. The rest of the man's words were ejected in a gurgling bubble of blood as he hit the ground like a dropped sack of meat. Kyle stared at the twitching, dripping lump that Volkov had become in mute astonishment.

That was the other thing about Tom. Guy was a genius, but he was damn sure unpredictable.

Kyle glared at him.

I guess we’re leaving evidence behind, then, he snarled.

Tom shrugged.

It’s not going to matter, he said quietly. You know what’s coming. Worst that happens is we get caught out there and end up in prison. It’ll probably be the safest place when it happens.

Kyle shook his head angrily and swallowed his response. Standing next to the rapidly-emptying body of a Russian gangster was not a good place to get into an argument.

Come on, he said, and ran to one of the cars they had stashed for their perfect getaway. He didn’t say a word to Tom as he gunned the engine and left the car park at a moderate pace. Outside there were sirens everywhere, and it took all of Kyle’s willpower not to stamp on the accelerator and flee blindly.

When they had been driving for several minutes, Kyle finally broke the silence.

So what now?

Tom looked thoughtful.

I don’t think we’ll be able to get hold of Isabelle Sullivan now, he said.

No shit.

It was a long shot anyway. I doubt the old man cares enough about his daughter to blow the whistle.

Tom fell silent, and Kyle glanced to his left. From the look on Tom’s face, he was running through a number of options. He had a brilliant mind, but Kyle couldn’t help thinking that it might have been better if Tom was just a little less intelligent. Safer, anyway.

Kyle focused on the road. Of the two of them, it was Tom that did the thinking. Sometimes, Kyle had discovered, it was best to just leave him to it.

Tom had always been a fan of conspiracy theories, but he wasn't the blindly credulous type. According to Tom, the world was clearly not run by shape-shifting lizards, or by aliens or Elvis Presley; just by organisations that knew the most powerful weapon on earth was a fat bank balance and a pathological willingness to use it. The conspiracy theories Tom devoured online sooner or later became less theory and more fact. Police cover-ups. High profile paedophile gangs ring-fenced by power and authority. Massive financial fraud sponsored by the State.

And then, courtesy of the Deep Web, and a vague post from somebody that called himself final_victory, Tom had stumbled across something that dwarfed every other conspiracy he had uncovered. Something called Project Wildfire that involved a company called Chrysalis Systems, headed up by a dead-eyed billionaire pensioner by the name of Fred Sullivan.

The further Tom delved into the company's affairs, the more convinced he became, and when Tom became convinced of something, Kyle had learned to pay attention.

One way or another Chrysalis had managed to insert itself into the manufacture of almost every single satellite that orbited the Earth, a process that stretched back over decades and continents, often overspending wildly to ensure they won contracts. Virtually every person of enormous wealth and power that Tom investigated was connected to Chrysalis by no more than two degrees of separation. The company had undisclosed ties to the military. The more Tom looked, the deeper the rabbit hole went, and the more it became clear that Chrysalis was on the verge of doing something. Gearing up for an event that had nothing to do with stock portfolios and everything to do with a military installation in Northumberland that was suspected of bioengineering chemical weapons, and the recent purchase of a number of decommissioned navy vessels that were converging in the North Sea on what was described by the company’s vague website as a 'research expedition'.

Uncovering it all was Tom’s shot at being a hero. He chased the information ravenously, all the way to Clerkenwell Road, and Volkov’s pulverised skull.

It’ll be happening soon, Tom said finally. I think there’s only one thing we can do.

Which is? Kyle had a sinking feeling.

The fleet, Tom said. There's no way we'll get near the Northumberland base. We’ve got to get on board one of those ships.

Kyle shook his head in disbelief, and eased up on the accelerator. The conversation was getting to him, and the pressure transferred directly from his mind to the growling engine. He forced himself to relax his grip on the wheel. His fingers ached.

You’re insane. How the hell are we going to do that?

It was a bad choice of word. Kyle knew it, and immediately felt a wave of regret wash through him. Tom had been called crazy plenty of times in his life. He’d never grown to like it.

"The whole fucking world is insane, Kyle. And those that aren’t soon will be. Just drive. I’ll do the rest."

Chapter 1

It wasn’t the first time the sea had given birth. Again and again across the endless centuries the rolling waves had delivered, until the miraculous became the mundane. First the oceans had created life that was barely-there, single-celled; just a faint whisper that broke the yawning silence that had existed before. As time flowed on and the cells divided, the sea became more ambitious, and the creatures it created became complicated and intricate, delicate webs of life that thrived in the dark cocoon the water provided.

Eventually the creatures born in the depths crawled from the cold safety of the water to claim the land, but the oceans never stopped creating life, churning relentlessly; the idling engine of the planet. It was the energy provided by that engine that allowed life to flourish. The sea took credit for all.

Not this time, though.

The sea had little to do with creating the figure it spat onto the beach. It had created the core of him, sure, but no more than the scaffolding. The final design, that was all the work of humans. All the sea did was carry him.

For two days the man remained unconscious on the sand, and the rising tide lapped at his feet, nuzzling him like a protective mother before falling away again and leaving him to rest.

When he finally opened his eyes and saw steely skies above, the man felt a serene calm descend upon him, but there was no escaping the turbulence in his past; the raging inferno of death and destruction. Even his cells had been at war, a bloody battle fought in a microscopic theatre, as his DNA broke and violently remade itself; invisible and catastrophic. Externally, the man looked unchanged, despite the vicious conflict that had occurred within. For him, the extraordinary had taken place below the surface. Just like the ocean.

For a long time, the man had no idea where he was, or who he had been before the empty beach and the rolling sigh of the waves. His past was a mirror in the shadows, images that loomed and faded, nimbly evading him when he grasped at them. None of the fragmented images in his head made sense; nothing stacked up. The events of his past seemed linked by only one common thread: there was death and blood everywhere.

The beach was calm, and the man wanted to stay, but he knew he could not: something wanted to drag him to his feet. An insistent something that pulled at his thoughts, demanding his attention like a fresh wound. He tried to ignore the impulse, and he stubbornly stayed on the damp sand for a long time, just staring up as the skies darkened over him and the temperature dropped. He clung to the brittle sense of serenity for as long as possible, relishing the silence.

Until he heard the voice, and the fleeting sense of peace rotted away and became toxic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the voice would let him be, but it was futile, because the voice was inside his head, familiar and venomous; an infection of the soul. It whispered at him, clawing and pulling at his memories, determined to knit them together into a terrifying whole.

He pulled himself upright, and the motion was like stepping into a wall of fire. Pain exploded across his body, and the man looked down in anguish to determine the source of the agony, discovering that his entire body was covered in livid bruises and lacerations. He let out a wordless yell of horror.

What happened to me?

As if in response, his body offered up a different sort of pain; crawling and insidious. An itch that burned like poison, making his left arm feel like it had been set alight. The man stared at his arm, his brow furrowing, and saw a patch of angry flesh. He scratched at it furiously, like an animal, thinking of nothing beyond easing the irritation. All the scratching seemed to achieve was transformation in the source of the itching, driving it inward until it felt like it was in his mind. The man squeezed his eyes shut, and clawed at his temples, but the itch worsened, increasing and increasing until-

The man's eyes flared open and he saw the eyeless creature shambling toward him along the beach, and the memories finally