FRIDAY

Chapter Twenty Nine

Savage came round on the sofa. His arms and legs splayed above and beneath him like he'd been running in his sleep. He sat up and looked out the window at the early morning light. Remembered the dream, grabbed at the straws of recollection before they blew away.

Calmness. One solitary delicious feeling.

Savage hadn't felt like this when he'd lived here before. Other than in combat – when the mind shuts out internal noise, focuses only on the moment, and finds meaning in every movement – he hadn't felt so restful any time in the last three years.

He stood up and stretched. Every sinew tingled. Despite the lack of sleep he wanted to run, jump, shout, sing. Really? Sing? He realised what it was.

Happiness.

He shut his eyes and treasured the sensation, expecting it to slip away at any moment. When it didn't, he laughed out loud. His dry croak sounded bizarre in the quiet early morning.

He opened his eyes again. Looked around him, saw the memories on display in his living room.

His room. His house. The past he’d avoided.

He didn't feel like an intruder any more. Everything there was a part of him. The unhappy relationship. The small life with pre-packaged expectations and dreams.

He'd sought excitement in the arms of others. People in the same unfulfilled situation, clutching at anything, trinkets, trophies, status.

He moved into the kitchen in a satisfied daze. Put the kettle on. Finally found a jar of coffee in one of the cupboards. An act which at one time would have been everyday, automatic, unfulfilled.

He thought about the men in the pit who scorned the 'do-gooders' at home – then fought to protect them. They knew deep down that the only thing they had to go back to was those self-same bleeding hearts – their mothers, their wives and girlfriends, the media. It scared them more than death. They came back and people told them they were heroes, when they thought of themselves as killers.

The bleeding hearts scorned violent men, imprisoned them, raised them to fight wars on their behalf so they could enjoy the benefits of, he looked at his cup, instant coffee, a simple drug.

They enjoyed the benefits of cheap shoes and clothes, oil, modern electronics, make up, whatever. Supply lines reinforced in some way by dangerous men with guns, warships, bombs, terror.

That’s humanity for you.

A predatory species in search of convenience and baubles unable to face up to the truth that we readily sacrifice animals and men for our food and our wealth.

Most people couldn't perceive a steak as a murdered animal, it's flesh carved up for their pleasure. They certainly could never grasp the men, women and children who died for them. It would blow their minds. It blew most men's minds when they found out the truth.

He took his coffee out through the window and onto the roof, breathed the sharp morning air into his lungs.

Favouring the real over the dream he sat on the deck with his back against the cold ridges of brick wall. He sipped and watched the view.

He understood now why warriors of old were poets and philosophers, kings and magicians, as well as killers. If they grasped reality just right they saw through the thin veil of morality that protected the others left behind. If they came back and tried to pull the veil aside it left nothing to aspire to apart from murder and selfishness.

You needed morality to survive.

He was a killer. Indirectly Michael really was his first. There had been others since. He was okay with that now. But he didn't want anyone to call him a hero. If he had killed the gangster last night what would he have become? He hadn't, but he always could. He'd ride the line. Do what he was good at. The things that others couldn't do.

And he'd kill if he had to.

He closed his eyes and breathed in. Deep cleansing breaths that made him feel human. He felt in his pocket for his phone. There had been a missed call. It hadn't all been a dream. He checked the number and pressed green.

Vi picked up on the first ring.

'Where are you?'

'At home. What's up?'

'Can you get to the office?'

'Of course,' he tried to clear the sleep from his voice. 'You there already?'

'We're in John. Six Degrees. We're in,' she said. 'You're not going to believe it.'

'I'm on my way.'

*

Kevorkian’s phone buzzed. He was beginning to hate the thing.

He logged into the system. Found the latest bet.

Apparently the Veterans Army would take care of Dark Market’s mistakes.

Another buzz.

From: The Market

Recipient: To Many

Those who have made mistakes for The Market have one chance to make it right.

They are now soldiers in the Veterans Army.

You are mobilised today, await your orders.

Seconds later, the phone rang.

‘Natasja,’ Kevorkian said.

‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for her to rape you.’

He waited stoically, she started to laugh.

‘You’re a twisted liar and I’ve been had worse,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

‘As of today you are the officer in charge of the Veterans Army. You’ve seen the bet?’

‘Yes, it’s impossible in the time frame.’

‘Not impossible, just very hard for any pawns who are sacrificed. This is what happens when jobs go wrong.’

‘Jobs always go wrong.’

‘Not on my markets they don’t. Either every failed London assassin takes part or everyone’s names go green by close of business. Except yours, of course.’

‘Huh, clever.’

‘I know, you’d have done the same right?’

‘No, they’d all be dead already. Including me.’

‘I bow to your wisdom. It’s up to you how many failures you bring back. Just make sure you survive though, you are my go-to guy after all. I even named the action after your pet cause.’

‘You’re so thoughtful Natasja.’

‘I know, their details will be in the usual drop spot. Now, go, cause mayhem, and make momma happy.’

‘With pleasure.’