FAST FORWARD: A Science Fiction Thriller Read online

  Fast Forward

  Darren Wearmouth

  Contents

  Vast Frontiers

  Fast Forward

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

  Vast Frontiers

  Fast Forward

  By

  Darren Wearmouth

  FAST FORWARD

  Copyright © 2016 by Darren Wearmouth.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact :

  http://www.darrenwearmouth.com

  Cover design by http://www.damonza.com

  ISBN: 978-1539719021

  First Edition: October 2016

  Chapter 1

  Courage wasn’t a lack of fear; it was knowing a threat against innocent civilians transcended any personal emotion, and fighting it with everything possible. Luke Porterfield reminded himself of his guiding principle as he drove his SUV along the eastern bank of the Nile.

  Moonlight brightened the pothole-scarred road and lights twinkled from a remote villa, marking his target. Nothing had passed in either direction for the last ten minutes. He steered down a short dirt track, killed the engine, and tugged a black balaclava over his face.

  Twelve months of Secret Intelligence Service investigation, interrogations, and days of surveillance had led to this point. Luke thought about his team’s unrelenting pursuit of justice since the summer of 2019, immediately following a terrorist attack on London. Two explosions had ripped through a packed Leicester Square, killing ninety-seven and injuring hundreds.

  Finance for the attack traced back to an Egyptian construction magnate, Tarek Elfady, who even had the audacity to bid on two of the rebuilding contracts. The national government refused an extradition request, money in his accounts transferred to a black hole, and he dropped off the radar… until now.

  Tonight Luke intended to cut the head off the snake and do the world a favor by stopping a private channel of cash from funding terror. He quietly closed the SUV’s door, drew his pistol from a concealed hip holster, and headed along a half-mile stretch of undulating scrubland at a crouching run, careful not to silhouette himself on a ridgeline.

  Elfady's insatiable appetite for unique French wines had given him away. During the last month, the team tracked four deliveries from Giza to this location, checked it out, and discovered his Bentley under a carport at the side of the villa.

  A two-meter-high whitewashed wall surrounded the property. Luke hauled himself to the top of it, swung his legs over, and landed between thick vegetation at the back of a garden.

  Crickets chirped around him. He dropped to a leopard crawl, moved to the base of a sycamore tree, and leaned around its edge.

  Directly ahead, solar lights surrounded a neatly manicured lawn, and a fine mist jetted from a central sprinkler to different parts of the grass. In front of the two-story villa, the unmistakable figure of Elfady, with his bald head and bushy black mustache, reclined in a bubbling hot tub. An unexpected bonus which avoided the need to search for him inside.

  Luke waited, peering through the open patio doors and windows. Not a single person had entered or left the property during the last two days of surveillance, but with people like Elfady, goons were never far away.

  After two minutes, Elfady lit a long cigar, leaned his head back, and puffed out a stream of smoke. Luke scowled at the idea of him likely doing the same thing after hearing news of the London bombing. He climbed to his feet, extended his pistol, and silently advanced through the sprinkler mist, crossing the damp turf in seconds.

  Wooden decking surrounding the hot tub creaked beneath his boots.

  Elfady bolted stiff, and his eyes widened. He reached back for a crumpled towel.

  “Move another inch and I’ll blow your brains out,” Luke said.

  “What the hell?” he replied and raised his hands.

  Luke kicked away the towel, revealing a revolver and tablet. “Paranoid about something?”

  “Whoever’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

  “Do you know how pathetic you sound? I want you to understand why this is happening, and I’ll give you a clue: Leicester Square.”

  The bubbles in the hot tub stopped.

  Elfady attempted a plastic look of confusion. “Somebody gave you false information, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend and don’t bother pretending. The flight tickets, hotels, and hire car were booked by a front company attached to one of your personal accounts. I caught one of the terrorists at Heathrow. He cut a deal and sold you out, but here’s the bad news: I’m nothing like him.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Multiple sources checked out. I can’t decide whether you’re greedy, evil, or both. Whatever the reason, you're finished.”

  Images of the London aftermath raced through Luke’s mind. The bodies, ambulances, crowds of relatives surrounding a hospital reception desk—all paid for by the man staring at his suppressor. Ending someone's life gave him no pleasure, but doing so tonight canceled out a significant future threat to national security.

  “What now? You take me—”

  Luke pulled the trigger.

  Elfady’s head snapped back, slumped to the side, and blood trickled from an entry wound in his forehead. The cigar dropped from his open mouth and its glowing embers hissed into the water.

  A pair of headlights appeared at the top of a distant hill and snaked down toward the villa. Luke grabbed the tablet and made his way to the back of the garden, maintaining his aim on the patio doors. He waded through the vegetation, clambered back over the wall, and jogged back to his SUV.

  The ongoing battle for permanent security had no end in sight, but this mission’s success meant the public could sleep a little safer in their beds.

  Blazing sunshine beat down, making quick work of Cairo’s morning haze. Luke wiped sweat from his brow and walked along one of Garden City’s quiet tree-lined streets toward the British Embassy. After handing over the tablet for shipping back to headquarters and a debrief via a secure video channel, his flight to Heathrow was booked to depart at two o’clock.

  Nobody had given him a second glance since he changed back to jeans and a white linen shirt, returned to his hotel for a continental breakfast, and headed out to complete the final part o
f this mission.

  Tomorrow heralded the planning phase of a new operation. International terrorism didn’t stop while those confronting it took a break, and the Operations Director, who valued Luke’s skill for adapting to new environments, had tasked him with gathering a team to infiltrate the militant wing of a global environmental organization. The satisfaction of knowing he made a difference was all the motivation he needed to keep plowing forward.

  The embassy safety barrier loomed up on the left. Entering through the main entrance always gave a better guarantee of not having his picture taken. On a previous visit, a supposed tourist, looking as genuine as a pair of Armani shades sold on a Balearic beach, took pictures of the Nile while a camera at the top of his backpack captured the rear entrance.

  Luke pressed a call button on a panel at the side of sturdy security gates and stared into a protected lens. They were expecting him and understood he couldn’t hang around. News of Elfady’s death would soon filter through to local authorities, increasing attention on anyone coming or going.

  The left gate groaned open. One of the guards, wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt, waved him inside. Luke nodded his thanks and headed for the front doors of the large, colonial-style building.

  A roar split the air.

  He instinctively dived to his left.

  The embassy’s four-columned entrance portico exploded in a ball of flames. The force of the blast hit him before he landed and shrapnel from the shattered masonry peppered his body.

  Before he could react, a second mortar bomb erupted by the gates with an ear-splitting boom, and a blanket of hot smoke rushed over him.

  Luke attempted to raise himself and flopped on his back. Pain seared from the base of his severed thumb and index finger, and his mangled left ankle. A damp red patch soaked the side of his ripped shirt. He lay on the rubble-strewn concrete and watched dark gray smoke billow into the clear blue sky.

  A fire bell rang inside the embassy. Car alarms wailed on the street. For the first time in his adult life, Luke felt helpless, and he hated it. He needed a way out. Somebody to see him, drag him to safety, and treat his injuries.

  Minutes ticked by and the remaining strength drained from his body.

  Sirens blared in the distance, gradually increasing in volume.

  He rolled his head to the left and focused through the dusty air at a local man in a red t-shirt, standing next to flattened gates, pointing a smartphone in his direction.

  Luke gasped, and his head thudded against the ground.

  Daylight turned to darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Four surgical procedures, three months of grueling rehabilitation, two missing digits, and one prosthetic foot all counted toward the final decision on Luke’s future role in the Secret Intelligence Service. He limped through Highgate cemetery, using a walking stick for support, and peered at the ivy-clad Victorian gravestones on either side of the path. A piece of shrapnel had come within a hair’s breadth of making him join the current residents, but he wanted a second chance.

  Richard Meakin, Chief of the SIS, had taken an interest in his case and requested a noon meeting to personally deliver the verdict. The agreed spot, a bench in the historical North London cemetery, lay a half mile from Luke’s apartment and the round trip suited his exercise regime.

  His breath fogged in the chilly winter air, and he gritted his teeth, determined to reach his destination without stopping. Each wince-inducing step reminded him of the personal cost of terrorism and why he had continue the global fight. Regardless of his injuries, he knew he still retained the skills and experience required to be an effective player.

  A crow repeatedly cawed from the branch of a naked oak tree, seemingly mocking his efforts as he passed. He ignored it and thought about the two biggest obstacles in the way of active duty—the elephants in the room during Meakin’s previous hospital visit. Footage from the embassy gates went viral on social media a day after the attack, scoring over four million potentially career-ending hits before being deleted. The blackouts he had suffered during rehabilitation also disqualified him from handling a weapon, and he was yet to receive an accurate diagnosis.

  Luke arrived at the bench two minutes before twelve o’ clock, grunted down against its faded wooden slats, and gazed at his scarred right hand. His previous service and intense rehab work gave him confidence that the SIS would give him time to recover while the footage faded into obscurity.

  Footsteps approached from behind a long sweeping row of mausoleums. Meakin strode around the near corner in his usual purposeful way, dressed in a long black coat, and carrying a brown paper bag. A thin smile stretched across his stern wrinkled features.

  Luke leaned on his stick to raise himself, straining every sinew to conceal his discomfort.

  “Don’t get up on my account,” Meakin said.

  “Strange place for a date, sir.”

  “It brings back memories.” He opened the bag, gave Luke a warm paper cup with a coffee bean on the side, and produced another for himself. “I met a SAVAK agent here. One of our best assets ‘til the Iranians hung her from a crane. Bloody shame.”

  “Don’t tell me that’s a clumsy analogy for my situation.”

  “Not at all. Highgate’s local to you, and ideal for a quick chat.”

  “Where’s your muscle?”

  “Waiting at the car. You deserve privacy and the thanks of a grateful nation.”

  Luke lowered his coffee and frowned. Meakin wasn’t known for massaging egos, and his words led to an obvious conclusion. “If you’re here to kick me in the balls, there’s no need to gift wrap your shoe.”

  “That’s what I like about you… no messing about. You’d go down like a cup of cold sick in Westminster.”

  “I’m sure, but we’re not here to talk about our dear politicians.”

  Meakin grunted in acknowledgment and sat next to him. “The review board recommended a medical discharge, and I rejected it. You’re worth more to us than a golden handshake.”

  “Appreciated, sir. I won’t let you down.”

  “We all know, and it’s why I've approved a new role in strategic planning. Give them the benefit of your experience; help strengthen our operations.”

  “I’d rather return to my team.”

  “Your days in field are over—”

  A young female jogger approached, shadowed by an enthusiastic Border collie. Luke waited for them to pass while he digested Meakin’s last response. The thought of a terrorist and YouTube tag-team consigning him to a career as a desk jockey turned his stomach. His grip tightened around the cup; hot liquid spilled over his hand, causing him to grimace.

  Meakin reached inside his coat and passed Luke a cotton handkerchief. “I know it’s hard to take. Think of it as a new beginning.”

  “That’s it? No appeal? Taking out Elfady, foiling a plot to blow-up Wembley stadium, stopping an attack on the Thames barrier, and countless other things I’ve done mean nothing?” Luke took a couple of deep breaths to control his building anger and dried his hand. “You can’t put me out to graze at thirty-years-old.”

  “You’ve seen the video.”

  “It could’ve been anyone.”

  “Be reasonable, putting your physical condition aside, you’re compromised whether we like it or not. The board’s decision is final. Take a couple of days and think it over.”

  Luke grasped his stick and heaved himself up. “You can have my answer now. I’m not spending the next thirty years chained to a desk.”

  “I suspected as much. Mind if I speak off the record?”

  “Feel free. Nobody around here’s listening.”

  “I guarantee there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “A second option.” Meakin rose from the bench, checked his watch, and glanced in either direction. “An SIS backed private initiative, set-up by Sir Henry Penshaw, doing things far beyond our imagination. I can’t give you more information, but tr
ust me; you won't be disappointed, and he pays top rates.”

  “I don’t care about money.”

  A phone buzzed in Meakin’s pocket. “Be patient, and take care.”

  He turned, headed away, and answered the call.

  “Wait,” Luke called after him. “What do you mean beyond our imagination?”

  Meakin continued along the path and disappeared around the back of the mausoleums.

  Pain shot up Luke's left leg; he puffed his cheeks and collapsed back down on the bench. His deepest fear since Cairo had materialized, and the board’s decision betrayed his efforts during the last eight years.

  A vague promise of a role with his former mentor, retired director Sir Henry Penshaw, did nothing to ease his sense of emptiness. He had no family, a limited social life, and losing his active status took away his primary driving force.

  The same crow flapped overhead, landed on a tall Celtic cross directly opposite, and cawed. Luke reached for a stone on the path.

  An email notification pinged on his smartphone. He grabbed it from his pocket, thumbed the envelope icon, and opened a message from HPenshaw, Subject: The Century Project.

  Dear Luke,

  Your situation has recently come to my attention. I’ve set up a project and have a position available for you. It will meet your desires in terms of both a physical and mental challenge.

  The thought of such a sharp mind going to waste is a shame, and I can give you back what you have lost. Apologies for the brevity, confidentiality permits any further information. Come to Clifton Hall tomorrow morning. My driver will pick you up at Harpenden station. 9 am sharp.

  Warm regards,

  Sir H

  Two things struck him about the message. First, the timing. It didn’t take a genius to work out Penshaw had called Meakin’s phone, meaning he already knew about the Highgate meeting. The former director was known as a swift operator and Luke didn’t believe in coincidences.