Souls At Zero (A Dark Psychological Thriller) (34 page)

Mason watched intently as the formula he had created began to take effect. It was touch and go at this stage. If he got the formula right this time, the man would eventually settle down and stop convulsing. Otherwise, the inevitable would happen.

The professor glanced at the clock on the wall. Two minutes since the injection.

The subject's skin went from white to a reddish purple colour all over. His eyes bulged out even further in their sockets.

Come on. Work, damn you!

"Vitals are crashing," the female assistant said.

Mason ignored her as he continued to look down at his experiment.

Then there was a loud cracking sound, the result of the subject straining so hard against the leather straps, he broke the bones in his arms, as well as several ribs.

"Professor, he's not going to last!" the male assistant said.

Mason sighed and shook his head as he took a step back away from the table.

A second later, the subject's eyeballs exploded, spraying blood and gelatinous tissue everywhere. Then his body stopped convulsing, and he died as quickly as if someone had put a bullet in his head. The two assistants stood looking at the Professor as the monotone of the EKG machine filled the silence in the room.

Mason sighed again and took of his goggles and surgical mask. Then he took his gown off to reveal the dark three piece suit and bow tie he wore underneath, looking more like an undertaker now than a scientist. He stepped forward and spoke into the microphone. "Experiment 117 ended in failure," he said, before looking at his assistants. "Clean this mess up. Incinerate the body."

The professor turned and walked to the electronic door of the lab. He pressed a button and the door whooshed open. He stepped out of the lab and into a long corridor that had rooms on either side, with large windows in them. He walked down the middle of the corridor, looking through the windows into each of the rooms as he went. Each room held a test subject. A human subject. Most were children, although a few were approaching their twenties. Many of the subjects lay naked in the small unfurnished rooms, most of them drugged, some of them in various stages of starvation.

Mason stopped by one of the rooms and looked through the window. In the centre of the room was a young boy who lay naked on the floor. Standing next to the boy was one of the professor's female assistants, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing surgical gloves. Mason watched as the assistant picked up a handful of excrement from the many mounds on the stinking floor. She then made the boy take the excrement of her, and forced him to eat it with his own hands. The boy ate the filth with a curiously blank look on his face, and then vomited over the floor a moment later. The assistant unleashed a torrent of vile verbal abuse on the boy, who cowered away from her, sliding around in his own filth.

Mason nodded in approval as he watched. The boy would soon be ready for full programming, once his mind was shattered, and his core personality was fractured and pushed to unreachable corners of his mind. After that, the boy would be programmed to be whatever Mason's paying clients wanted the boy to be. Most often it was a sex slave. Sometimes an assassin. Sometimes a spy of some kind. Mason didn't really care how they ended up, as long the clients paid for them.

He turned and walked back to the end of the corridor, where he entered a lift and pressed the button for the top floor. A few moments later, he stepped out of the lift and into a large spacious room that was filled with antique furniture and priceless works of art on the walls, many of the paintings not having been seen since before the Second World War.

Mason walked across the plush pile carpet to a 17th Century oak drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey that was brewed over a hundred years ago. Then he went and sat down on a large, dark green leather sofa that had once sat in the home of the Fuhrer himself, Adolf Hitler. Mason sipped at his whiskey, savouring the taste as he sat and looked out the massive window to his right. He had a view that looked out over the front grounds of the estate, at the road cutting through the landscaped gardens that led to the front gate. He could also see the black mass of the forest beyond, the stars shining above it, the moon partly cloaked in clouds.

As he stared out the window, Mason thought about Blutwolf, the man once known as Declan Edger, until Mason had given him his new name. Blutwolf had been Mason's own private assassin and fixer. Loyal and obedient to a fault thanks to the professor's expert programming, until that is, something happened. Mason still wasn't sure why Blutwolf had gone off the reservation, or why his programming had suddenly failed. Whatever happened, Blutwolf created a mess afterwards. Now the man's brother was on the warpath, no doubt gunning for Mason himself as part of some misguided revenge trip. The brother was dangerous, having already killed the three men that Mason sent to take care of him. Normally, he wouldn't care so much, but there was a ritual taking place tomorrow night. Red Falcon members from all over the country would be in attendance. Mason didn't want the embarrassment of some ex-Legionnaire with a grudge causing problems. Hopefully, Rankin would take care of things before that happened.

Mason stood, and walked to the massive fireplace in the room, enjoying the heat that warmed his ageing bones. Above the fireplace was a huge portrait of a man that looked not unlike the professor himself, with the same gaunt face and round glasses over small but keen blue eyes that looked like they never missed a trick. The man in the oil painting was in his late forties. He also wore a black Nazi SS uniform. A gold plate on the wooden frame of the portrait read: Heinrich Gurganstunph.

Mason's father.

Mason raised his glass to the portrait. "Your work will not be in vain, Father," he said. "I will make you proud. I promise you that."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The property belonging to Gemma McGuire's parents was located just off the main Belcoo to Garrison Road in County Fermanagh. It was a four bedroom bungalow that sat on an acre of ground overlooking Lough McNean. It was 7:25 a.m. and Gemma was sitting on a beige fabric sofa in the large conservatory attached to the side of bungalow. She nursed a hot cup of coffee in her hand as she stared out the window, past the grounds at the front of the house, and the main road, to the stunning view of the Lough and the brown and green coloured hills that overlooked it. It was windy outside, and the water on the Lough was choppy, making Gemma glad she was cuddled up inside with the heating on.

Gemma's parents had left for London the night before. Her father, owner of a large publishing house, had meetings there over the next few days, which meant Gemma had the house to herself. Almost anyway. Kaitlin was still sleeping in one of the bedrooms. She hadn't done much else since they arrived at the bungalow the day before. Then there was Nigel and Kieran, the two men John Rankin had sent with Gemma to guard against any possible attacks. Not that Gemma or the two bodyguards even knew who they were supposed to be guarding against. Some organisation Harry's brother was involved with. That's all Gemma knew. She just hoped Harry would take care of the situation before anyone else got hurt.

Like Kaitlin.

Gemma's daughter had hardly said a word since she left the hospital yesterday. The poor child was in so much pain thanks to the damage done to both her hands, plus the sprained ankle and concussion. The hospital wasn't happy when Gemma said she was signing her daughter out, but she did it for Kaitlin's own protection, as well as her own. Gemma felt she would be safer at her parents place than in some depressing hospital. She was also hoping that a more relaxed environment would enable Kaitlin to talk about what happened to her after she was kidnapped. Not that Gemma was holding her breath on that one. Her daughter was clearly traumatised by the whole experience. Gemma feared she might have to put Kaitlin into counselling soon to help her get over her experience.

Anger welled up in her as she thought about the pain and suffering caused to her daughter. Almost reflexively, that anger was directed at Harry, because he was the one who came back into their lives again, bringing all that trouble with him. But Harry was an easy target. She knew it wasn't really his fault. How could he have predicted his brother was still alive, let alone have known that his brother would end up kidnapping Kaitlin? He couldn't have. Despite this understanding though, the anger in her didn't go away. It sat in her like a ball of hot lead in her stomach, needing to be directed at someone.

"Gemma?"

"What?" she said sharply, snapping her head around to look at Nigel who had just walked into the conservatory.

The bodyguard, in his late thirties, clean cut in a black suit, sporting short dark hair and confident brown eyes, didn't flinch at Gemma's abrasiveness. He regarded her calmly, unaffected by her dark mood. "I've just had John on the phone," he said. "He's on his way up here."

Gemma frowned. "What for?"

Nigel shrugged. "Says he wants to look after you and Kaitlin himself. Harry asked him to apparently."

Gemma went silent for a moment. She hardly knew Rankin, and if she was being honest, there was something about the man she didn't like. He seemed like he hid too many secrets about himself, much like Harry in fact. "Call him back. Tell him I'm happy with you and Kieran. There's no need for him to come up."

"I told him that. He insisted. Should be here in about an hour."

"What about you and Kieran? Are you leaving when he gets here?"

Nigel nodded. "Looks like it. He's the boss, I'm afraid. Nothing we can do." He smiled reassuringly. "You'll be safe with John."

Gemma stared out the window again as a nameless dread overcame her.

A dark shadow had moved over the Lough outside.

Kaitlin McGuire lay in the strange bed with her eyes open. She hadn't slept since she awoke from a nightmare in the middle of the night, muffling the scream that tried to escape from her mouth because she didn't want her mother to hear it. She saw the way her mother kept looking at her ever since Harry had rescued her. Her mother looked at her like she was damaged and beyond repair. Like Kaitlin would never be the same again.

Kaitlin didn't feel like she would ever be the same again either. And it wasn't just because she was now missing a finger. The things she had seen at that farmhouse. All the death. The blood. She couldn't stop thinking about any of it. Every time she closed her eyes, she would see one of the men Harry had shot, lying on the floor, motionless, bleeding. So much blood. So much death. She knew the men deserved what happened to them. They were trying to kill Harry and her after all. But that didn't make it an easier to digest.

Then there was Harry. Her daddy. She knew he was protecting her when he killed those men, but she couldn't help seeing him in a different light now. Is that who her father was? A killer?

No. Not a killer. A protector. There's a difference.

She kept telling herself that as she lay curled up in the bed, her eyes blank and unfocused.

Her body was full of pain, especially her left hand where the finger had been cut off. It throbbed incessantly, felt like it was on fire, despite the pills the hospital gave her. How long would the pain last for? Forever it felt like.

Sometimes she wondered about what she would say to her friends if she ever went back to school. How would she explain her missing finger? Would they make fun of her then? Would they stop being her friend because they saw her as some sort of basket case to be avoided at all costs? Was she going to end up alone for the rest of her life because no one wanted to be around her anymore?

All these questions brought tears to her eyes, helped by the unending pain in her hands and in her left leg every time she moved it even a little bit. Her skull, as well, felt like it was going to crack right open at times, like a broken Easter egg.

In her darkest moments, she wished she had died back at that farmhouse. She wished her daddy's brother had killed her, instead of just cutting off her finger. At least then she wouldn't have to deal with all this pain.

Only thinking of Harry brought her out of the pitch darkness of her mind. She had heard everything that was said between him and his brother Declan. Even though she didn't quite understand it all, she ended up feeling sorry for them both. Harry especially, who clearly loved his older brother. Even if Declan blamed Harry for running all those years ago, Kaitlin didn't. Harry was a kid like her at the time. She knew how easy it was to be afraid. She also knew the kind of person Harry was now. He was the kind of person that would risk his life to protect her. And now, from what she could gather, he was also the kind of person that would risk his life to get justice for his older brother.

Kaitlin just hoped he wouldn't die in the process. She couldn't live without him now.

Now she needed her daddy more than ever.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

As Rankin drove along the main road that would lead him to the address where Edger's ex-wife and the girl were staying, he couldn't help admiring the view that run alongside him like a realistically painted canvas in a film studio. The lough, with the rolling hills overlooking it, was idyllic. Living in the city all the time, he had forgotten that such places of natural beauty existed in Northern Ireland. It reminded him that he once thought about buying a second home in a place like Fermanagh, maybe one of those holiday mobile homes that overlooked placid lakes and forest vistas. He knew Victoria would appreciate such a place, as would his two daughters. Maybe when all this Edger mess was cleaned up, and things settled down again, he would look into buying a place somewhere.