Chapter 14

Adini Square,

Brussels, Belgium

“I’m gonna get a grip on that moving object thing if it kills me,” Amy declared as they marched down the centre of a quaint, cobbled, pedestrian street. “It’s empty, feel, build and throw. Easy peasy.”

“You didn’t need to cut his throat. Pyke was on it.” Jack shot her a dark look as he scanned their surroundings.

Busy café tables and chairs spilled onto the pavement, leaving a narrow channel of pathway for tourists and locals to meander through the beautiful Brussel’s architecture.

“How could I have known? Anyway, I don’t care. The shit bag had it coming,” Amy snarled, her eyes scanning the sea of faces, searching for uneasy stares and anxious body behaviour.

Young, old, mothers, fathers, children, lovers, tourists and work colleagues made use of the cheerful morning sun. She saw chefs popping out for a gasp of cigarettes, waitresses clearing tables, beaming smiles, waving menus for clients to sit. Students debated while some read books. Elderly neighbours drank black coffee, played backgammon, and read newspapers. Depicting the cheerful, friendly bustle of city life.

“And he would have, if you’d been patient.” Jack reached out and placed his fingers over the hand of a young man wearing blue jeans and a black hoody, just as he was pulling a silencer gun from his shoulder bag.

Jack wrenched the hand up under the man’s chin and flicked the trigger. The guy seemingly shot himself. The bullet tore through his jaw and out the back of his head. Blood splattered those bustling around him. Unseen, Jack and Amy walked on.

Bystanders stood open mouthed with disbelief. No one screamed for a full 10 seconds.

“Patient,” barked Amy, annoyed at being ticked off. “I haven’t got time to be patient. Do you realise what those bastards do to kids’ minds? How it affects them for life? How it has a ripple effect on everything they ever do from there on in? It doesn’t matter whether they find success or suffer failure. Their life plans are altered, fractured. It sets them up for an exhausting battle of shame, fear, loneliness, and disgust. It takes away their childhood, any chance of throwing back their heads with innocent laughter, of trusting another, of loving another, of living carefree. It haunts and ruins any sweet moments, any simple pleasures. It sets them up for a lifelong battle of mental health issues, issues that should never have been triggered, issues that steal lives…all so that dirty people like him can get their rocks off, can have sexual pleasure for a few moments, can have a wank and ejaculate a bit of spunk. How ridiculous is that? All for a squirt of sperm! And you want me to be patient? Are you joking? I’ve waited 28 years already.”

They walked in silence.

Jack bit his lower lip, angry at the thought of anyone touching her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Anger tensed his body.

“Hey, it’s not your fault.” She gave him a weak smile, realising she overreacted a little. “It’s OK, now. We leave all our ailments behind when we get here. But being here, without the weight of all that anxiety, has made me realise what a waste of energy I put into living with it, what a waste of a life. I shouldn’t have let his problem affect me in such a way, for so long. All for a fucking shot of spunk. He could’ve just had a wank…the selfish bastard. He didn’t need to involve a little girl in his fantasies. I’m sorry to go on about it. I’ll shut up.”

“No, no, I understand. I wish I could have done something.”

“Well, you are now. You and Pyke have my back whilst I stop a few of them ruining other kids’ lives.”

Jack looked over his shoulder, a crowd had formed around the shot male.

“Yes, but you have to have more trust in us, that they will be sorted, eventually. Pyke was on the job. If you’d trusted us and confided in us, you’d have known that.”

“I know, but how can I trust that Miss Tinkerbelle would do her job right?”

“Miss Lollypop,” corrected Jack.

“What?”

“Miss Lollypop04. That’s her name.”

“OK, Miss bloody Lollypop04, for fuck’s sake, whatever…”

She stuck her leg out at a passing male; he tripped and fell to the floor, his face smashing against stone. “We need more time. Six months is not enough. It puts pressure on us. I wouldn’t need to go it alone if I had time to wait for consent. Can we ask for an extension?”

She reached down and eased out a small handgun from the male’s coat pocket. He writhed in pain as blood trickled from his forehead. Unaware, passers-by assumed he was a drunk and stepped over him.

The male slowly rolled over onto his back, panic stricken, frightened to move, his haunted eyes staring down at his stomach. Blood seeped from his face. His coat fell open, exposing rows of dynamite strapped to his waist. Someone gasped with horror and a circle opened around him. Fear whispered through the hushed crowd.

A voice shouted the words they didn’t want to believe.

“BOMB… RUN!”

Bedlam erupted. Screams filled the air. People threw chairs and meal-laden tables crashed to the ground. Bodies scrambled over each other to the cries of, “Run…run!”

Throughout the crowd, people called out for their loved ones, searching for each other in the mayhem.

Jack and Amy remained calm, unflustered by the panic. Just another day at the office. They continued to move slowly through the street as frightened Erthfolk rushed past them, looking in doorways, scanning body language, checking skylines, turning in slow circles, hawk-like eyes searching out their prey.

“I don’t know what the time policy is. Take it up with Maggie,” suggested Jack. “Maybe she can extend it. I know for sure Pyke has been here for more than 12 months, but I guess he is a bit special, a formidable one-manned tracking, hacking, killing machine.”

Peering over terrified civilians’ heads, Jack’s eyes locked on a third male striding into a café. The man produced an AK47 from his backpack. As he stood in the doorway, lifting the gun to fire at the faces of shocked diners, Jack snuck up behind him, hooked an arm around his neck, and yanked him backwards, hard.

The thug tumbled back into the street. His gun spiralled over his head. As it flailed to the ground, Jack reached out and gently flicked the trigger. A round of shots filled the air, hitting a fourth gunman from across the cafe, his outstretched arm aiming a handgun at a group of hysterical teenagers huddled behind a billboard. His body flinched and jerked as he fell to the ground, writhing in agony.

“He doesn’t do any hands-on deactivating. We do.”

“But he sources who, how, and why, then tracks which stone they’re under and sends us out to tidy up. We’re lucky. He and Maggie are a good, fair, supervisory team. Apparently, our Unit’s deactivation figures are above average.”