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Degrees of Separation by Josh Whitener The train speaker clicked on, announcing their arrival at the station momentarily. A man in a dark black long sleeved shirt sits nearby reading a newspaper that covers his face. His hand rests over his mouth and he holds a newspaper. As soon as the voice clicks off John sighs and moves his hand over the third page of the newspaper. I need a cigarette. His thought run ramped as he scans over certain specifics of the headlines and quotes. …London, 12:43 a.m. A scene that opens the play of terror and despicable murders committed in London.” Only two things bring people to this particular area at this time of night, and in London, the only time it isn't night is when the sun can show. One would have to be that “…’ragged clothed man anxiously waiting for the woman adjacent to him to reach for her purse to pay the cabbie fair’…and elderly gentleman later testified to police…” Bloody typical. How many women in the streets these days actually take the cab at this time of night, at this part of town? Must be the money, she obviously doesn't know better. None of them do. That other thing...well...It's just the quiet observations. “…The woman finally does it. It's his cue, and like clockwork it all unfolds into an ugly scene of the macabre. The woman is hit from behind, not hard, just a jerk from her hair. The suspect had got a good grip, and she did seem to stand a chance. Such alley ways are reason to provide good cover, and the cabbie has sped off. Reports indicate the cabdriver was in on it too, no doubt. Interrogations for the taxi company are being held. A very dark and another gruesome detail in the city today...” The curtain falls over the terror and all is suddenly quiet. The city's gentle hum has blocked out her muffled screams. The reports these days read for like screen plays. News stations must be trying to make the bestsellers list. All the facts led to another recent gang related incident. Dozens of missing persons and unexplained assaults have been plaguing the city since it was pushed from Hell, but recently there’s been more….and they’re not adding up. People once asked if he enjoyed the things he saw, the things he knew, and for the first second he really didn't have to think about the obvious answer of "No." But as time moves on, he's not so sure. A callus is a funny thing. You want it to heal but as long as you keep it out of motion it just keeps getting worse with each new motion or bend. Yet if you keep the blister hard with routine, well then there's not much that can affect you anymore. Stepping out onto the station floor he brought the newspaper down under his arm and went for a cigarette. Lighting it he carefully brought the paper back up and continued to read. “….no known reports as of this time. Detective Constable Redding spoke to the press earlier with leads on a possible group of occult fanatics circulating through the city…” Johns eyes glanced up in a sarcastic display, he kept walk, up over the stairs and shortly thereafter reaching the top and into the sidewalk. London wasn’t just a home; it was a place of being. You didn’t come back to it, it came back to you. That’s how he felt every time he was here. A little bit more of a punch in the weak side he see him wandering the same streets again, but being sentimental never was his style, neither was the case for the return. He had to be sure of something he was told in Russia, something that only made sense to him. So he flagged down a taxi and jumped inside, designating the driver to Watford – scene of the crime. John stood at the entrance to the alley. Eyes glancing about as most of the evidence had cleared away. His fingers felt numb. There could have been something else wrong here but there wasn’t much that needed to be. There was something too easy about all of this. Little differences kept his mind at bay for the moment. Things like the pattern of both the bricks and pavement to his right. The ends of the bricks were jagged, rough to a certain degree. John ventured inside the narrow slip of street with a wary frown. His trench flopped to the floor as he knelt and studied the ground. Glamour was used here. Something in the form of protection, an illusion. The ground shifted in view enough for someone not to recognize it, at least not the police. There was a small bit of dirt to his left, grabbing a handful he clenched his fist and brought it to his mouth, utter a phrase in Latin before tossing it to the ground below. He stood and watched carefully. The dirt fell, but not on the concrete, it was part of the illusion, and the whole portion of the alley was. The dirt scattered over portions of the “ground” before rolling, all the grains, to the left – a western direction. John frowned and turned. There was nothing left for him to collect, all the signs pointed west and there was a good chance he would find out whoever was body snatching before they knew he was back in town. Something didn’t smell right though. This may have been amateurs but when it came to the nature of the crime it just didn’t fit. In a hurry he walked from the alley and headed towards Chorleywood. He didn’t even notice the car parked nearby; two unidentified forms watching from the front seats. Tyrone reckoned he was something big in the city, and made sure everyone knew about it…everyone who wasn’t important anyway. No point getting backs up. “She squeaked like a fuckin’ gerbil,” he laughed “…I thought she was gonna pop. “Easy money. They roughed her up good ‘n’ proper. Should have seen her, spitting up her guts all over the friggin’ car” Hell, he didn’t even know this kitten’s name… Mary…Maria? Something like that. The room stank of hotel fresh laundry, air freshener and stale cigarette smoke. It was cheaply furnished with fake Victorian décor, and the grimy window was jammed shut with a piece of metal. Watford’s best was a seedy hole, but cheap. Not that Tyrone was short tonight, for the job had gone well and the girl had been delivered on time. Briefly he wondered what had happened to her, but he was years past caring. London did that to you. A dollop of gel pushed his hair into a spiked mop, showing his earpiece in his left lobe. He was young, eighteen, but ambitious enough to claim to be in his twenties. The girl still had her back to him, and he was about to say something, but his mobile rang. He flicked open the cover. "Fuck. Not now…” A voice on the other end formed in a whisper when Tyrone answered. The little shit was hardly worth calling now, but they needed the extra help. “Get you’re ass in gear, son. He’s here. The fucker got wind of that shit smear you lot called a spell and we need a distraction – you know what to do. Keep your mobile on.” With that short message the receiver clicked and the dark clad man sitting adjacent to another finely tailored gentleman sighed. The car started with a small turn of the key. They kept their lights off for now and waited for Constantine to cross the street. The passenger, Miles, picked up his phone again and with a quick sound of two beeps he signaled a taxi on the other end to drive by John. Instantly the light clicked on and he slowed near John. Like clockwork John hailed the cab before it got to far out of the way and climbed inside. Shortly after the car began following. The driver, inside, was the first to speak. “If this whole plan gets buggered by some urban monkey’s we’ll have more than a war on our hands. I hope he’s thinking clearly.” He said. “Shut up and drive, David. There’s no reason we shouldn’t trust members of the board, especially the higher ups. That’s not our job, nor is it to loose track of Constantine now will you watch where he’s bloody going.” The two cars carried on for more than five miles out of Watford. Inside the taxi John lit a cigarette and sighed. The cabbie looked in his rear-view mirror and smiled. “One of those nights, eh?” John looked up with a small stare and exhaled. “You don’t know the half of it, mate. I’d be more worried for your sake though. Aren’t you lot getting the bad wrap lately.” “You mean that shit with the murders. Nah, that ain’t our service, son. Still isn’t helping business, though, doesn’t seem like anyone wants to ride in a taxi as of late. Can’t say I blame ‘em though.” John had noticed the black car switching lanes as often as the cabby did. The first bits ran through his ear and out the next as he turned slightly to glance behind him. Something was up – he felt it in his stomach since he came back. “I know what you mean. Only idiots are liable to climb into a potential death trap.” He gave a small smile, watching the man from the mirror, his eyes locked on him at all times. The drivers face was nervous, his tone changed slightly and he couldn’t help but look everyone once and awhile at Constantine in the back until he finally gave in. The doors locked suddenly. “Look. I don’t know you, okay. It’s just a job…they pay me and all.” “Don’t worry, squire. Just take me to ‘em. I guess I got this coming. ‘sides I’m interested in knowing what the fuck is going on here.” The driver continued to drive, letting out small talk every once and awhile. “They gave me a gun, you know. I didn’t exactly know what to expect. I mean you look harmless enough.” John shot a look through the rear view mirror that seemed to look through the man instantly. The driver looked for a minute then focused on the road. That was the last thing the driver said before they pulled up to a small hotel entrance. John could see several young men standing outside, some brandishing weapons. Suddenly he began to sweat, but hid it carefully as he inhaled on his cigarette. The driver then pulled the revolver and ushered John out. John did as he was told and got out of the cab. It didn’t take long for the driver to collect the money and speed off. John stood just off the sidewalk staring at rather large man in front of him. “Go on then, boys. Take your time too…I’ve got fuck all else to do, right?” He held his arms up ready to fight if needed, but with more than three or four of them he knew he didn’t stand a chance. His eyes scanned them over quickly, noting a younger faced one in the back. He wore a black shirt and a leather jacket. Tyrone kept a straight face. Have to look hard for the new ones that didn’t know him. There wasn’t a chance he would look like a kid. Was this the fucker that all the fuss was about? Hell, he looked half dead, a walking corpse. Tyrone couldn’t help but laugh at the sight as John held out his arms in a fighting posture. Even that girl (what was her name again…Marlene?) could do him over. Two of the heavier ones grabbed John’s arms before he could barely move and pulled him back against the hotel wall. There weren’t many people around, but those who walked past didn’t see anything, and even if they did, John knew they wouldn’t remember his situation. Because blokes round here with good memories usually ended up losing them at the bottom of the Thames. Tyrone swaggered in front of John, looking directly into the man’s eyes. With deliberate slowness, he strapped on a set of brass knuckledusters, and cracked his fingers in front of him to add to the menacing effect. His heart was pounding frantically with the excitement of anticipated violence and a chance to show these blokes just who he was. As the two held John, he aimed a violent uppercut into John’s solar plexus, wary to avoid any kick that the man might retaliate with. Any resistance wouldn’t last long anyway, and he went to work on him with violent gusto. A few well aimed blows to soften him up and then a harsh fist to the side of his eye. Tyrone’s first push hit dead center, and he tried to soften the rest of the blows by leaning forward but the guys holding him left little option. Each time he tired to absorb another punch his back was thrown into the wall; after the first dozen he couldn’t feel anything anymore. There was a point when he felt the sting of metal slash against his jaw line and cheek, cutting him badly across the ear and almost breaking his nose. A back tooth rolled around his tongue like a marble before he lost it after another jab. With his head thrown against the back of the wall he lost it completely and fell to the ground. He saw various sets of shoes before his eyes rolled back and then everything turned black. When John hung half senseless between the men holding him, Tyrone waited as they spun him around and pushed him face first against the wall. One of the guys was holding a brand new bicycle chain, the metal gleaming brightly in the lamp light. “Should o’ kept yer nose out, yer wanker...” The chain rose and fell rhythmically across John’s back, kidneys and thighs, each blow delivered with a bruising thud. Tyrone watched this dispassionately, until another car pulled up and he tapped his shoulder. “Bossman’s here...” John was dragged over to the car quickly, he was still mumbling but that wasn’t to last long. “We done a good job on 'im, boss,” Tyrone said cockily, snapping off the dusters and draping them visibly upon his knee. “So where we going’?” Tyrone was pleased with this night’s work. Even the interruption with... what was her name... Margo? His head was buzzing and his arms twitched slightly. He was thrown into the car and landed with a large “thud” into the back seat, blood tricking from his mouth as his head hung over it. They were on the west end of town. David Crane waited patiently as their car pulled up behind Tyrone’s. He rolled the window down calmly, waiting for one of them to approach. “Get him back to the site. The boss said he’s not worth much dead. There’ll be a man waiting outside, Dr. Carpenter. He’ll take him from their, here’s your five large. Make sure your men see him inside the office.” After handing the money over he pointed his finger, emphasizing the last remark. The young punk hung out of the car window, making sure that David got a good view of him, whilst elbowing John aside as he lay slumped on the seat. "Don't look so hot now, fucker," he commented, looking over the man. Hell, he looked a mess and Tyrone briefly hoped he hadn't killed him with that beating. A hand touched John's neck to confirm he was actually alive. Yeah…he was, a good thing too. When the other gang member returned and revved up the engine, he rolled up the window and shoved John down out of sight so that he laid half across the seat and half under it. No point tempting the fuckin' coppers, he thought. "So where we goin' with him?" he asked. "The office. Meetin' a bloke called Carpenter." "Right." Tyrone had never been to the offices before, but reckoned it was high time he got his face known there. The car passed through the streets, pausing only for a red light and the journey was quite short, but Tyrone still found time to rest his booted feet on John's bloody back. They drove round the block twice as the driver thought he saw a couple of women walking past, and they waited until all was quiet. Outside the officious looking building, they dragged the unconscious man out between them, three of them accompanying him while the driver waited in the car, engine still running. John's arm was draped across Tyrone's shoulder and he was propped against the car vehicle while one of the others gave him a brisk frisking for weapons before they took him towards the entrance and Dr. Carpenter. The boys were met with a tall, skinny, curly haired man running wildly out of the doors of the building. Doctor Carpenter had been given orders to meet them at the door and he was glad he did at the sight of them. A security guard followed at a reasonable pace. The doctor’s arms swung wildly and he began to speak in more of a whispered shout than anything. “Jesus Christ what the fuck did you guys do. Where you thinking when you beat the living shit out of him? No, no you fucking well weren’t. Get him inside now, I’ve gotta fix him up before he sees Mr. Valentine.” He was already checking John’s vitals as they made their way inside. “You were told to bring him here immediately and to use some precautions. Some precautions! Not take his bloody head off.” A stretcher was pulled into the lobby by two male nurses, intended for Constantine. Carpenter and the help of some of the gang members got him up and he was immediately wheeled off with the trailing doctor shouting procedures at his nurses. For several moments the room was silent, except for the guys own voice. The security guard had taken his seat at the cameras again; he was as silent as ever. Moments later the elevator door emitted a small “bing”, and like some attention less dog Dr. Carpenter rushed from the hallway where he disappeared from before and met the door as it opened. Stepping out was a suited man, dark hair, very young looking and probably not much older than Tyrone himself. He looked around in a slight panic/irritation before he turned to the doctor, already waiting for an excuse. “Where is he?” He asked quickly. “He’s being prepped. They did a number on him, sir. He’ll be ready to go shortly, just…just give me some time.” The man, American from his accent, looked at him for a short bit and then nodded for him to go. Carpenter disappeared almost instantly back into the hallway. The suited man stayed behind his eyes locked on the group of individuals in front of him. Slowly he frowned and passed them on his way to another elevator adjacent to the other he entered from. He spoke lowly as he brushed past them. “Don’t worry. You boys did the job you were paid for.” He stopped near the elevator and pressed the button. The similar sound rung again, almost in sync with the timing of the button. He nodded his head, beckoning them into the elevator. “Come on. Mr. Valentine would like to have word.” A glance was shared with the man next to him as Carpenter ranted and raved, and it was obvious Tyrone was amused by his reaction. “The bugger resisted,” he said to explain John’s condition. “He fell an’ cracked his bleedin’ ‘ead on the pavement.” Tyrone’s fingers cracked menacingly as Carpenter continued with his tirade. He wasn’t going to take any shit off no one…especially not some curly haired ponce who waved about like a freaking circus clown. Yeah, too right they had done what they were paid for. They’d got Constantine here without any struggle or accidents and if he was in a bad way that was hardly the gang’s fault. These things happened with unsurprising regularity here. You lived…you died. Tyrone shrugged and stepped into the elevator with his companions. “Going up,” he smirked, unable to resist a smart comment. Inwardly, he was buzzing with excitement. Mr. Valentine was big, bigger than anything else he dealt with. Time to make a good impression… |