2041 Sanctuary (Let There Be Light) (28 page)

‘I think you do, Brett Samson.’

Brett’s hand shook, the sound of her old name sparking childhood memories.

‘Are you still there, Agent?’

She turned away from the media cameras. ‘I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you’re messing with the wrong person. I can have a hundred agents hunt you down in a heartbeat.’

The person on the other end laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Ms. Taylor. You look quite alone at the moment.’

Realising the implication, Brett whirled around, her eyes darting over the crowded scene, searching for someone on a phone.
There!
A man glanced her way, his hand to his ear. But no, there was a woman fifty feet to his left, her eyes passing Brett’s. The more she looked, the more people seemed to be staring at her and any number of them could have had a communication device at their fingertips.

Her brow furrowed as she continued to look for this hidden intruder. ‘What do you want?’

‘The question is what do
you
want? We can help you find the answers you seek.’

‘And what answers are they?’

‘The name of the man who has just been sentenced to death.’

‘What is it, then?’ Brett tapped away at a device inside her jacket pocket, the keypad just visible enough to use.

‘His name is Professor George Steiner.’

‘How do I know you’re not making that up?’

‘You don’t. But if you want to know more you need to do exactly as I say.’

‘And what do you want me to do,
exactly
?’

‘You need to resign your tenure as an FBI agent.’

It was Brett’s turn to laugh. ‘And why would I do that?’ She looked at the response coming back on her device. It read:

Trace complete

Source coordinates attached

‘You must resign as that is the only way you will find out the truth.’

‘What truth?’ Taylor said, trying not to sound distracted as she opened the file to see a map of her location. A red pulsating dot indicated the caller’s position and she held the device in front of her in an attempt to pinpoint its location.

‘The truth about the GMRC and the threat to mankind.’

Brett closed in on their position. ‘Go on.’ She flashed her badge and pushed past the police and on into the crowd.

‘I’ll tell you more when you are no longer a federal agent.’

‘Come on,’ – Brett approached the media crews from the rear, homing in on a van that stood apart from the rest – ‘just a little more and I’ll do as you say.’

The caller didn’t reply.

Brett yanked open the doors to the back of the van, gun in hand. No one was inside, but through the windscreen she glimpsed a person wearing a baseball cap running away. Brett dodged round the vehicle and set off in pursuit.

The suspect dived into the passenger side of another unmarked news van as Brett closed in. The vehicle’s wheels spun, then screeched as it gained traction and sped away, and Brett ran flat out in pursuit before stopping to train her gun on it. The van wove into traffic and Brett swore. She lowered her weapon and put the phone back to her ear. ‘Hey,’ she said, out of breath, ‘didn’t you want to say hi?’

‘That was unwise, Agent Taylor.’

‘I haven’t upset you, have I?’

‘This will go badly for you, Agent,’ the man said and hung up.

Brett shook her head and slid her pistol back into its holster. So, someone knew her secret and claimed to know much more besides. This turn of events left her feeling vulnerable, and if there was one thing she hated, it was to be weak. She dialled her LA office to request a drone be tasked to her location and all local traffic cameras be consulted for a match to the van.

‘Agent Taylor?’

Brett turned to see two of the FBI Director’s Washington agents striding towards her.

‘You need to come with us,’ one of the men said.

Brett looked at their grim faces. ‘I’m in the middle of an investigation; can’t it wait?’

The other man shook his head. ‘Director Flynn has requested your presence.’

Brett fell into step beside them as they led her back to the court house. ‘Any idea what this about?’

Neither man answered; instead they guided her back into the now empty courtroom that had housed the trial.

At the front of the spectator area stood the Director of the FBI, Patrick Flynn. By his side was a cluster of Brett’s colleagues from the LA field office, including the new Assistant Director in Charge, Donald Anderson. The Chief of Police for the Los Angeles Police Department also stood close by. All turned as she approached.

Brett stopped in front of her director. ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

‘We’ve received some news from the military’s medical examiner,’ Flynn said.

‘Regarding?’

‘Regarding the federal autopsy of Defendant A.’

Brett waited for the news, wondering what this was all about.

Anderson passed Brett some images. ‘It seems the man who died in the fire was not Defendant A, but an impostor.’

‘What?!’ Brett sifted through the photos, trying to discern with her own eyes the unfathomable results. ‘That can’t be.’ She looked at Anderson and then to Flynn.

‘It can be and it is,’ Flynn said. ‘The man who died in the fire was a foreign national, a murderer who’d secured release on appeal due to a technicality. While his teeth failed to reveal his identity, enough DNA could be retrieved from inside the body for a definite ID.’

‘Then where’s Defendant A?’

‘Good question,’ said the Chief of Police.

‘Shouldn’t we be out looking for him?’ Brett looked in alarm at the men before her, her stomach turning in knots at the news.

Flynn took the images back from her. ‘Even as we speak the Bureau is on full alert, as are all other law enforcement agencies nationwide. But perhaps the most disturbing thing is this.’ The FBI Director handed Brett a folder, his look intense.

Brett accepted the file and glanced at Anderson before looking inside to see a picture of a man in a uniform. Underneath, were the words, ‘
Major Samson
’. Brett turned it over to reveal another photograph. This one made her heart race and her head spin. She’d seen this image before, many years ago. A young Brett sat on her father’s knee, looking as scared as she remembered feeling. Flicking through the documents behind revealed the extent of evidence stacked against her. She looked up into a sea of angry eyes, the expressions mixed with hate and betrayal.

‘Sir, I can explain.’

Flynn’s face was a mask of cold fury as he motioned to the two men who’d led her in. They moved closer and powerful hands grasped her arms.

‘Agent Taylor, you are hereby suspended from duty pending a full inquiry.’ Anderson reached out and pulled her gun from its holster. He then moved in to check her pockets and extracted her FBI badge and ID card.

‘That you knew this man was your father,’ Flynn said, ‘put this whole trial at risk. But we’ll be damned if it prevents the court’s decision from being carried out. Breathe a word of this to anyone and it’ll be you taking the stand. Now get out of my sight!’

Released, Brett moved in a daze, out of the building and back into the icy cold, her life in ruins, and worse still, her father alive.

Chapter Thirty Two

Professor Steiner sat in his cell. He’d been aware the death penalty had been reinstated in California a few years before. Ironically it had been the GMRC that had ordered the directive; citing governments needed stronger deterrents when dealing with public disorder before and after the impact of the asteroid AG5. Steiner himself had voted against such a punishment, but the motion had been passed, driven through by others including the man who’d turned on Steiner in USSB Steadfast, an act which had led to his current circumstances. That man was Malcolm Joiner.

Waiving his right to a last meal, Steiner sat alone contemplating his failure at saving the men and women who still remained trapped in the aforementioned subterranean base. The military, controlled by Joiner, would ensure their chances of reaching the surface were slim to none.

The image of his friend, Nathan Bryant, came to mind. His kind face and supportive words would have gone down well round about now, although it would take nothing short of a miracle to boost his current state.

Steiner had tried to speak to those GMRC officials that had come to see him during his incarceration, pleading with them to speak to the Directorate about Joiner’s duplicity and the plight of those trapped underground. He’d even disclosed information about the next wave of meteors, in particular the one destined to destroy USSB Steadfast in 2042. Unfortunately such claims fell on deaf ears; all of the officials were already under the influence of the intelligence director. Joiner had even given Steiner a message: ‘
Try to tell any more people about the coming events and I’ll make sure USSB Steadfast won’t be the only base to suffer a cataclysm
.’

Since that time Steiner had kept his thoughts to himself, not that he’d been given much opportunity to speak to anyone other than the GMRC puppets who’d been responsible for his defence. These traitorous individuals had also ensured his continued seclusion, creating an impenetrable barrier between him and the FBI, police and judiciary. The only people he’d been left alone with were the guards at the prison, who had been too busy beating him to pay any attention to anything he had to say.

The clang of an iron gate made Steiner look up. Standing before his cell and accompanied by a guard was an elderly Catholic priest.

The man of the cloth entered and Steiner stood.

The guard, however, remained and the priest hesitated. ‘I’d like time alone with this man if I may.’

The guard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, father, all prisoners are deemed too dangerous for you to be left alone with, no matter their size or appearance.’

The priest sighed. ‘At least give us a little more privacy.’

The guard moved away as far as he could, but still close enough to return if the clergyman required assistance.

The priest laid a hand on Steiner’s arm making him flinch in pain; blotchy bruises still covered his body like a maroon blanket.

The priest held up a hand in apology while Steiner sat.

‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned.’

‘How long has it been since last your last confession, my son?’

Steiner took the priest’s hand. ‘Many, many years. I lost faith … in everything.’

‘God never leaves us,’ the priest said, ‘but acts of the Devil may make us think we are so forsaken. Confess and find redemption.’

Steiner looked into his eyes and nodded. ‘Where do I start?’

The priest smiled and patted his hand. ‘At the beginning, my son, at the beginning.’

♦

Brett Taylor arrived outside the supermax prison where the death sentence of Defendant B was to be carried out in less than an hour. The traffic on the surrounding roads was nose to tail and it took a few minutes to find a place to park her car. When she finally found somewhere, she got out and made her way towards the main gates, where a large crowd had gathered.

Some of those that had travelled had done so to be close to the justice they sought for loved ones killed in the LA massacre, others for the occasion, a sick form of entertainment that made Brett’s skin crawl.

As she pushed through the crowds she caught a glimpse of her FBI colleagues entering the prison, preparing to bear witness to the justice of the state. And between her and them, a wall of police separated those protesting against the death penalty as they hurled abuse at those who supported it with equal ferocity.

Brett stopped at the fence, the way forward barred. Her suspension as a federal agent prevented her from seeing first hand the justice she still craved. It had been her testimony and actions that had caught the people responsible for her colleagues’ deaths, so she felt bitter that her relationship to one of the perpetrators meant she’d been forced to watch from afar. Some would say the crimes would never have been committed had she not been there, which was a fair assumption; however, how could Brett be responsible for the actions of another, related or not? The answer: she couldn’t.

Someone pushed past her and she felt fingers slip into her back pocket. Spinning round, she saw a small figure vanish into the throng. She attempted to follow, but found the press of human bodies too dense. Searching, she thought she spotted the pickpocket further ahead, slight of size, a youth maybe, the nimblest of fingers a perfect companion to the art of close quarters theft.

Brett touched her pocket out of instinct and felt something there. She pulled out a scrap of paper. Scribbled words read:

She looked up in consternation. Someone was playing games and she didn’t like it. She bent down, removed the gun from her ankle holster and slipped the small sidearm into her belt before pulling her shirt back over it. Exhaling into the cold air, her breath winding up in tiny trails, she forced her way back through the crowd.

♦

Professor Steiner sat on his bed while the guard attached chains to his ankles and wrists. His thoughts lingered on the words spoken by the priest,
God never leaves us
. They were wise words, words he hoped were true. A host of other phrases sprang to mind:
you are what you think
,
you will become what you imagine
,
positive thoughts end in positive results
; except most of his life had been blessed with positive thoughts, propelling him through each day in relative happiness. The result of this attitude? Death row, awaiting execution.
So much for positive thoughts attracting positive energy,
he thought with bitter irony.
But then that’s where faith comes in
, his other self reasoned.