Michael (The Airel Saga, Book 2) - By Aaron Patterson Page 0,99
perverse tete-a-tete, but mostly he grinned at the idea of what he was planning. “You know…friend…I’m going to need a minute or two here…”
He looked at Harry. “Fine. That’s fine. You go back one out and take your time with it. I’ll be waiting at the sinks when you’re done.”
“It’s a lot of paperwork. If you know what I mean,” Harry said. “I tend to take my time in only two areas of my life, and this is one of them.”
“I’m not asking what the other one is.”
They walked into the restroom, Harry leading the way. He selected the farthest stall and walked straight for it. As he turned to close the door, his hand absentmindedly grasped its sleek metal top edge. He did not have time to latch it.
Airel’s father, following Harry, did not hesitate an instant. He removed his pen from his shirt pocket in mid-stride and aimed the point discretely at the door. The other men in the large restroom went about their own business as men do, making no conversation and not desirous of it. He pressed the pen’s engage/retract button as it made contact with Harry’s stall door, releasing a bio-EMP pulse into and through it, energizing the door with a carefully engineered amount of voltage. It was just enough, and not too much, to accomplish a predetermined effect. It had taken years of R&D in three labs spread across two continents to develop the weapon. But of course, these were all just bullet points in a sales pitch, one Airel’s father had cycled through with many a secret and elite client.
The bio-EMP pulse terminated its fury in the center of Harry’s chest, instantly arresting his heart and contracting selected slow-twitch muscles on his body—the specific muscles that produce the fetal position.
Harry thudded into something. Airel’s father opened the stall door to confirm the kill.
Harry was seated on the toilet; he had involuntarily soiled his expensive trousers. His torso leaned back to one side, propped up by the toilet paper dispenser. His head had knocked against the tile wall, his eyes wide and glassy. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.
He was dead. Airel’s father retreated, closing the stall door.
It had only taken half a second. It had only taken half a second. Airel’s father swept the room with experienced eyes as he moved smoothly toward the adjacent stall, as if that was what he had been doing all along. When he turned he noticed one man looking in his direction, disturbed by the racket Harry had raised as he had so violently sat down. He shrugged at him, hiked his thumb over his shoulder at Harry’s stall and said, “Lots of paperwork,” and smiled. The man rolled his eyes and left.
Airel’s father entered his own stall and closed the door. Perfect timing. He had to pee like a maniac. He would be landing in Cape Town in about 16 hours. He could maybe catch up on some sleep. He caught a whiff from next door. Whoa, Harry. You stink.
Cape Point, South Africa, present day
Kreios stole some wheels from the car park, the British way to say ‘parking lot.’ Details mattered, and he made mental notes to himself to blend in as much as possible. It was an old Toyota Land Cruiser pickup. Decades old, the design didn’t stand out on South African roads and it didn’t have much in the way of anti-theft measures. Just get in and go. He drove calmly, just like he owned it, right up the M64 to the M4, headed for Cape Town.
He was headed for one particular building. But he didn’t want to allow his mind to rest on that too long.
What’s the plan? He had to admit, he didn’t really have one, beyond one of two scenarios: one, go in guns blazing, figuratively or not, and take as many of them with him as possible. Two, he would take them out surreptitiously in small groups, keep them guessing, keep them afraid. After all, they had to know he was coming.
Yes. That could be a problem, too.
This was what was left of the whole range of choices he had had not too long ago. He had whittled them down to two primary options. One of the most portentous choices he had made right from the beginning was to submit to naked rage, and this is what it had left him. But had he not been justified in giving in to it?