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Across the world, suicide attacks are bringing previously stable governments to the brink of collapse. Scotland Yard’s Stuart Wilson and Bill Rubek his American counterpart must track down the organisation responsible and stop the carnage before the entire planet descends into anarchy. The results of their investigations are as frightening as they are unbelievable. A single mastermind, not of their world, is behind the attacks, seeking out the vulnerable and desperate, buying the souls of those who love them, and turning them into instruments of carnage.
Wilson, Rubek and their team must gather enough knowledge and magical aid to thwart their enemy before he becomes all-powerful. Even if they succeed, final victory is far from assured. Karrina, the beautiful mystic on Wilson’s team, has her own agenda, passed down through generations of a race older than mankind. She is determined that when the endgame is played out, her people, not theirs, will inherit the earth.
Wilson walked out of the Cabinet Office with head bowed, relieved of his post, full pension, pressures of the job, usual story, scrapped. He had heard all the words but understanding had come seconds later, when he was trying to listen to the next ones.
The call came from the door of an anteroom to his left, and barely brushed his consciousness. The PM himself would make an official announcement to the assembled ‘gentlemen of the press’ in half an hour. That would give Wilson time to ‘no comment’ his way through the tabloid pack, and be most of the way home before they were loosed on him.
“Stuart.” The voice was louder this time and accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. Wilson turned.
Bill Rubek was smiling down at him.
The hand on Wilson’s shoulder guided him into a small office. He heard the door close behind him.
“Grab a seat,” Rubek said
“No point Bill. Perhaps they haven’t talked to the Americans. I’m finished. I’m out of it.”
The arm guided him to a chair, and pushed him down onto it. “No, no, Stuart, far from it. We haven’t even got started.” The American released his grip, and moved around the table to sit opposite.
There was a file on the desk in front of Wilson. It had his name on it. He opened it just as a point of focus. Inside was a copy of the photograph of Alice Craven, captured by the traffic camera in Bradford exactly seven minutes before she blew one hundred and thirty-four innocent people to pieces.
“Got your picture,” Rubek said, and tossed another on top of it. The car was different, the surroundings were different, but the woman was the same.
Wilson looked up at the American.
“We want you in on this, Stuart. Your PM’s okayed it. We have the run of the resources of every civilised country on the planet, even some of the less civilised ones.”
Wilson looked over his shoulder to the door, trying to tell himself that the meeting he had just left had actually happened. If it hadn’t, he concluded, then he really wasn’t up to it.
The American laughed. “This isn’t a government thing Stuart, not officially. They wouldn’t dare touch it.” He laughed again but without humour. “This is X-Files stuff. That…” He pointed at the uppermost photograph. “…was New York, the shopping mall, exactly thirty-five minutes after Bradford. Every test that we can do tells us that it’s the same woman.”
Wilson rearranged the pictures so that they lay side by side. Both had dates and times recorded in the top right hand corner. He looked from one to the other. His brow creased.
“Don’t worry about the time difference calculations,” Rubek said. “Take my word for it. It’s thirty-five minutes real time.”
Wilson looked up into Rubek’s face. It was set and serious. He looked back at the pictures. “It’s impossible.” He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“No, not impossible.” The voice was soft. Wilson jerked his head around to its source. He had not even seen the man who was sitting away from the table, in the far corner of the room.
He was small, and his crossed arms and legs bundled him even tighter. He was old too, with wispy, white hair through which his scalp shone bright pink. His brown raincoat was unbuttoned, so was the grey tweed jacket beneath it. Beneath these was a brightly striped v-neck pullover. The man cleared his throat. “Not impossible if she was already dead.”
“Well, she was dead after Bradford.” Wilson conceded.
“She was dead before Bradford.” The old man countered. “Believe me, she was dead before Bradford.”
“Sorry, Stuart.” Rubek held out an introductory hand. “Ray North.”
“Mr. North.” Wilson stood, and held out his hand. The man grunted but made no attempt to uncurl himself from his seat. Wilson regained his chair, and looked at Rubek from beneath raised brows.
The American smiled, and looked at his watch. “Come on, we’ve still fifteen minutes before you’re fired officially.” He stood, and smiled. “We should be halfway to Hendon by then. There’s
Born in Bradford, England, David gained a degree in education at Kesteven College before going on to work in London and Warwickshire. He now lives in South County Dublin, Ireland with his wife Mary.
Book Publisher: Wings ePress
No. of Pages: 304
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