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Chapter Nine

OCTOBER 2095

Josiah

It was nearly 2a.m., but Josiah was in no mood to go to bed when he returned home. He glanced at his holopad and was unsurprised to find a slew of new documents awaiting him.

“You have been a busy boy, Cameron Reed,” he murmured, selecting Elliot Dacre’s credit report to study first. He sat down on the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and began to read.

Undoing his belt to be more comfortable, he felt the press of the little silver box against his ribs and remembered the morsel of chocolate he’d rationed earlier in the day. He popped it in his mouth and gazed absently at the screen as the salted caramel melted deliciously on his tongue. He knew of investigators who drank too much, and others who kept stashes of croc or other recreational drugs to help them through difficult cases, but he didn’t drink and had never taken drugs. Chocolate was his only vice.

“And bare-knuckle fighting,” Peter whispered silkily in his ear. “You’re not exactly standing on the moral high ground, my love.”

Josiah grunted, feeling suddenly very alone. He flicked his fingers through the documents in front of him, then frowned and flicked back again, his interest piqued .

“So, Elliot Dacre, it seems you weren’t as wealthy as the big house, fancy duck, and expensive IS imply,” he murmured.

Dacre’s bank accounts showed he was in considerable debt and his house was mortgaged to the hilt. “Maybe this isn’t about the IS after all. Maybe it’s about the houder.”

He wished Hattie was sitting beside him, drinking in every word. She’d loved being talked to, often cocking one ear and sighing contentedly in response. Perhaps he should get another dog, but how could any dog compare to Hattie?

He realised he hadn’t eaten anything except chocolate since breakfast, so he called for a takeaway. Half an hour later, he was sitting on his sofa with a box of hachée on his knee, courtesy of the local Dutch restaurant.

He ate absently, pondering his conversation with Alexander in the interview room. The indie was puzzling in so many ways: one moment blank-faced, the next challenging – and then seeming like a completely different person at the end of their conversation. Who was that man he’d glimpsed? Was that the real Alexander or yet another disguise?

He finished his stew and dozed off on the sofa. Just before dawn, an old, familiar dream stole into his mind, like an unwanted guest.

He was walking towards a red car, humming to himself and carrying five cups of tea in a cardboard tray. Suddenly, the tray flew high into the air and the cups arced gracefully towards the sky, tea spilling everywhere. He heard a ragged scream in the distance, saw blood spraying out in staccato beats onto a car windscreen, smelled the raw, primal stench of it … and woke up shouting.

He glanced around, disoriented, but the room was silent and empty. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, and he could still smell the sickening odour. He hadn’t had this particular dream in some time – so why now? Perhaps, because it was the anniversary of Peter’s death, or perhaps because of the sight of all that blood at the crime scene earlier. Or both.

He felt nauseous, the hachée sitting queasily in his gut. He made a run for the toilet and threw up repeatedly.

Finally, exhausted, he returned to the sofa and curled up on his side. He knew these demons all too well, and the best way of dealing with them was to drown them out with happy memories – like those early days in Northern France.

They spent a few days in Reims before the convoy set off again. Josiah used the time to get to know the soldiers under his command. There was Corporal Piper, known to all as Big Jen, a plain woman with thick dark hair, who exuded an air of capability and calm that made her a valuable asset to the unit. She wasn’t particularly tall, but had got her nickname because there was also a Little Jen, a diminutive blonde woman with flashing green eyes and a volatile temper, who could fight like a demon.

Then there was Barry Chang, a laid-back time-server who’d clearly joined the Peacekeepers thinking it would be an easy gig, and Justin Banks, who nursed an unrequited love for Little Jen as well as a talent for finding the negatives in any given situation. They were the biggest characters in the unit, but Josiah took the time to get to know the whole company, even the quieter ones, such as Frankie the cook, who rarely spoke a word but made the best meals Josiah had ever tasted in the army.

The Peacekeepers were shambolic compared to the regulars. Long periods spent travelling alone through dangerous territory, guarding the massive amphibious trucks, meant they had developed a certain maverick quality – Josiah suspected they took their lead from Captain Hunt.

On their first night out on the road, Hunt called Josiah to his tent for what would be the first of their regular evening briefings, going over the route for the following day and checking on the condition of the trucks.

“Cigar?” Hunt opened a box in front of him.

Josiah shook his head. “Can’t stand the taste, sir. Also, it’s illegal.” He hadn’t meant to sound so disapproving, but Hunt just laughed.

“How about a drink, then?” he asked, brandishing a half-empty bottle of whisky.

Josiah shook his head again. “I don’t, sir. ”

“Never?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure you’re a soldier?” Hunt raised an amused eyebrow. “Never met one yet who didn’t drink like a fish.”

“Not me, sir. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

“You mean, out of control?” Hunt raised an eyebrow. “You like to keep both feet on the ground, then, Sergeant. So, do you have any vices?”

“Well…” Josiah hesitated, blushing. “I do really like chocolate, sir.”

Hunt stared at him for a long moment and then gave such a loud guffaw that Hattie woke up with a bark of alarm.

“Sorry – you just look so guilty about something so harmless. But, if you enjoy chocolate, then I have just the thing for you.” Hunt rummaged around inside his pack and drew out a sleek black box, which he opened to reveal a cluster of dark brown swirls.

“What’s this, sir?” Josiah frowned.

“Chocolate, man! Come on – take one.”

“I’ve never seen chocolate like this before.” Josiah hesitated. “I’m more used to the cheapo stuff you can buy in the NAAFI, sir.”

“Then prepare to be amazed. Go on, have one, and tell me what you think.” Hunt waved the box at him.

Josiah took a chocolate and sniffed it suspiciously; it smelled rich and exotic, not at all like he was used to. He placed it cautiously in his mouth, sucked on it for a few seconds… and then looked up at Hunt in surprise.

Hunt laughed. “Like that, hmm? Thought you might.”

“It’s like…” He swirled the chocolate around with his tongue. “Nothing I’ve ever tasted, sir. It’s bloody delicious.”

“I like good chocolate. It’s hard to come by – the trick is to always look for the best stuff and never, ever settle for less.”

“In life or just in chocolate, sir?” Josiah asked cheekily.

Hunt guffawed again. “Both, Sergeant – both.”

Josiah was glad the day was over. He hated the important occasions – Christmas and Peter’s birthday were both tough, but the anniversary of the day he’d died was the worst because there were no good memories associated with it.

He’d created a routine for the day, so he wouldn’t be blindsided by it – first, the car polishing, followed by a trip to the beautiful spot where he’d scattered Peter’s ashes – and Hattie’s, too, after she’d passed away a couple of years ago. In the evening, he cooked Peter’s favourite meal and ate it listening to Peter’s favourite (godawful) music, and then it was all over for another year – which was always a relief.

Yesterday had been the first time he hadn’t rigidly followed those rituals, and yet his memories of Peter seemed more vivid than ever. He didn’t dare try to sleep again. He couldn’t risk returning to that particular dream with its inevitable ending. He closed his eyes and settled back into his memories once more.

The convoy made slow progress across Western Europe. All of the Netherlands, half of Belgium, most of Denmark, and huge swathes of Germany had disappeared in the Rising. Millions of refugees had fled, triggering wars that were still raging. In some places, law and order had completely broken down, and scavengers roamed freely.

The Peacekeepers took a winding route to deliver aid, stopping at various base camps and way stations en route to take on new supplies.

Josiah loved every minute of it. They were genuinely helping people – handing out food and medicine, and taking doctors into deprived areas to deliver medical aid. He also loved the slow, rhythmic pace of life on the road, and the easy companionship of the unit. Most of all, he loved spending time with his commanding officer.

Captain Hunt wasn’t the kind of leader who kept aloof from his company. He patrolled the trucks at every stop they made, always whistling happily to himself, with Hattie a little black shadow at his side. Josiah had never known a dog to adore a man so much; he didn’t blame her.

Hunt made a point of talking to the various refugee camp leaders to find out what had happened since his last visit and to discuss the political situation in the area. He was a calm, reassuring presence and had a way of making even the most jittery members of his company feel safe, despite the fact they weren’t. Josiah knew they’d all take a bullet for Peter Hunt.

Hunt’s great love was the convoy’s ancient trucks. Some bright spark tried to nickname them “truck-ducks”, but it didn’t catch on. The Peacekeepers were a fairly unloved section of the army, and the British government hadn’t exactly supplied them with the most modern equipment. So the trucks frequently broke down, causing Hunt to spend many happy hours up to his elbows in their engines, fixing them. He instinctively knew when they were “off”, and was better than the company’s mechanics at getting them ticking over happily again.

Josiah liked watching him. He sought out his captain when his own duties were done and sat beside him while he worked, with Hattie’s chin resting on his knee, stroking her soft ears gently. He’d never been a great talker before, but with Hunt it was so easy.

They encountered a couple of skirmishes, but nothing too serious until just after they left Essen. Josiah was asleep when the night watch’s klaxon shrieked out. He always slept in his clothes and was on his feet reaching for his gun before he was even fully awake.

He charged outside to find scavengers all over the campsite, climbing over the trucks like ants. There was chaos as the rest of the unit emerged blearily from their tents. He immediately called those nearest into line and imposed order. He saw Hunt in the distance doing the same, and before long they’d formed two flanks, fighting it out in a pitched battle.

Instinct kicked in. This was what he was good at, and he knew it. All around him was a whirl of action, and he was at the centre – running, firing, and reloading without thinking, fuelled by pure adrenaline. He soon ran out of ammunition, but the scavs were mostly only armed with knives and fists, so he followed suit. He liked this kind of fighting better anyway.

He saw a group of scavs swarming over one of the biggest supply trucks. Scrambling up the side of it, he punched a man to the ground then reached into the cab to pull another one out. He’d just thrown the scav onto the ground when a volley of gunfire forced him to hurtle down behind the truck for cover. As he jumped, he saw that someone was already there. Landing silently, fists raised, he came face to face with Captain Hunt.

“Easy, Sergeant. It’s only me,” Hunt said calmly. “I’ve called for backup from the nearest base camp – we’re outnumbered by the scavs, but they’re badly organised and largely unarmed. We only need to hold out for another ten minutes until the choppers arrive. Think we can do that?”

Crouching beside him, Josiah grinned. “Of course we can, sir.”

Suddenly, there was a loud screeching sound above them, and then a mass of scavengers flurried down the side of the truck towards them. Looking around desperately for the rest of the unit, he saw Little Jen laying waste to a steady stream of scavs in the distance, while Chang, Banks, and Big Jen worked their way over to her. Even Frankie the chef had joined the fray, wielding his kitchen knife like a pro. They were holding their own, but he and Hunt were hemmed in: they’d be fighting this one out alone.

Josiah glanced at Hunt. “Got your back, sir,” he said, standing up.

“Ditto, Sergeant,” Hunt replied.

Josiah felt the warmth of Hunt’s body against his own for a brief second before the scavs were upon them. They fought hard, fists smacking on flesh and knives flashing in the dark. Josiah soon fell effortlessly into that exhilarating zone where he was a mass of pure instinct, a smooth, confident fighting machine, dispatching scavs left and right, and all the time with his captain at his back.

When, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a scav lunging at Hunt with a long, curved knife, a wave of protective anger swept through him. He howled in rage and knocked out the scav with one massive punch to the side of his head, snatching the weapon out of his hand as he went down. Catching a brief glimpse of Hunt’s startled expression, he heard a muttered, “Christ – didn’t see that one,” and then the next scavs were upon them.

Josiah fought like a demon, his main aim to keep anyone from harming his beloved captain. He felt invincible as he laid waste to dozens of scavs, screaming out his anger that they dared to threaten his people.

When he was in the zone like this, it was as if time slowed down. He could see more sharply and hear more keenly, which gave him time to react and dispatch his enemies with ease.

He was so much in the zone that he didn’t hear the sound of the helicopters overhead, or realise help had arrived – until he looked around to see that the scavs had melted away into the night.

“You can stand down now, Sergeant,” a voice said quietly in his ear.

He turned to see Hunt standing behind him, breathing heavily, his face bloodied and bruised but looking otherwise unhurt.

“You okay, sir?” Josiah swung up his hand to touch the captain’s face, but Hunt caught it. He held Josiah’s hand for a second too long, gazing at him quizzically.

“I’m fine. How about you, Sergeant?”

“Me? Not a scratch on me, sir.” Josiah grinned.

“No, nobody got close enough,” Hunt said, glancing at the pile of fallen scavs around Josiah’s feet. His own tally was far more modest. “Come on, Sergeant – we have work to do,” he ordered briskly, striding off.

They lost six of the company that night, including Barry Chang, who’d taken a stab wound to the back.

“And he thought joining the Peacekeepers was the easy option,” Big Jen said, her eyes glittering fiercely. “The idiot thought it’d be safer here.”

There were plenty of dead scavengers, too, but Josiah couldn’t take any comfort in that. They restored order, clearing up the worst of the damage, and took stock, finishing as the sun’s rays began to penetrate through the trees.

“What about Hattie, sir?” Josiah asked as they made their way to Hunt’s bullet-riddled tent. “Is she okay?”

“I hope so,” Hunt replied grimly. “I put her in here when it all kicked off.” He strode into the tent and knelt down beside an armour-plated box with holes drilled into the side for air.

Josiah peered over his shoulder as he opened it, to reveal Hattie lying inside on one of Hunt’s old sweaters – fast asleep .

“How the hell could anyone sleep through that?” he laughed as Hunt reached inside and picked her up. She yawned and nestled against his chest for a cuddle, her tongue darting out to clean some blood from the cut on his jaw.

“Here.” Hunt handed him the puppy. “Take care of her – I have to go and check on something.”

Josiah sat down on the floor with Hattie, leaned back, and decided to close his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, he’d been covered with a blanket and Hattie was fast asleep on his lap. He glanced over to see Hunt sitting at his picnic table, flicking through his nanopad.

“Sorry, sir. You should have woken me,” he said. Carefully, he removed the blanket with Hattie still in it and placed it on the floor, then got to his feet. “There’s still work to be done.”

“You looked like you needed the rest.” Hunt gave Josiah another of those searching looks. “I thought I’d take a couple of minutes to glance through your file, Sergeant.”

“My file, sir? Why?”

“I was intrigued. You see, they send me this sergeant – he’s been promoted rather too fast, but he seems like a nice chap – kind to dogs, and a loyal, decent sort all round. He tells me he likes chocolate, but he doesn’t drink because he doesn’t like being out of control. Then I see him fight. Now, I’ve seen good fighters before, but I’ve never seen anyone totally annihilate the opposition like that. You’re a big fellow, sure – how tall are you? About six-five?”

“About that, sir.”

“And as broad as a barn, but I’ve seen little guys who are scrappy fighters and big guys who go down easily. You, though, are in a different league entirely. You’re not just a fighter – you’re a one-man battalion. So, I took another look at your file and saw something interesting.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“You were at Rosengarten.”

Josiah felt a chill settle in his belly. “A lot of people were at Rosengarten, sir,” he said tightly.

“But few came out alive – and even fewer were as highly decorated as you. Rosengarten – Rose Garden – such a pretty name for such a sad place.”

“I don’t remember it being all that pretty, sir.”

“No. What took place there was brutal, so you have my utmost respect for surviving it. It’s an odd career move though: from an elite Special Forces combat unit to the Peacekeeping Corps. Care to explain it to me, Joe?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Hmm.” Hunt looked at him shrewdly.

“And for the record, sir, only my family and closest friends get to call me Joe,” Josiah said stiffly. “And they’re mostly all dead now.”

Hunt nodded. “Understood. Are you aware that our mission might take us near Rosengarten? How do you feel about that? Are you ready to go back there?”

Josiah closed his eyes, briefly, and then opened them again. “Yes, if that’s where we need to be. Can I go now, sir?”

“Yes, of course.”

He began striding away, as quickly as he could.

“Oh, Sergeant, one more thing,” Hunt said softly. “Thank you.”

Josiah turned back, frowning. “For what, sir?”

“Saving my life back there. Never felt as safe in a skirmish as with you at my back.”

“That’s what sergeants are for, Captain.” Josiah shot off a little salute.

“Well, I appreciate it… Joe.” Hunt’s eyes sparkled as he dared Josiah to take offence at the nickname.

Josiah said nothing – but he was smiling as he left the tent.

He woke with a start. His entire body ached, not just from sleeping uncomfortably but also from the fight at the gym the previous night. He glanced ruefully at his bruised knuckles, wondering if Peter would be proud of him or ashamed. This was one area of his life that he’d never completely managed to control, although he suspected his late husband had always secretly liked that .

Josiah glanced at his watch to find it was nearly 7.30a.m. He was due to meet the housekeeper at Dacre’s house at nine, so he sprinted up the stairs to take a shower.

Closing his eyes as the water ran over his head, he remembered showers spent with Peter, kissing and making love under the warm spray. Peter’s shoulders had been broad and round, and he’d been soft around the belly and saggy around the arse. Yet his body had been perfect in its imperfections, and Peter had never cared how it looked – he’d lived in it as if it was a crumpled, comfortable old sweater, and somehow that had made him all the more attractive.

Josiah got dressed, taking a few moments to ensure that his suit hung perfectly on his big frame, his tie was knotted smartly and matched his pocket square, and his shoes were shining, military style.

He studied himself in the mirror, grimacing at the bruises on his knuckles and the cut on his jaw, then he dug out a pair of black leather gloves; his colleagues might find him wearing them inside odd, but at least he wouldn’t have to explain his hands. He couldn’t do anything about the cut on his jaw, which was all too visible, but he could trot out the tired old cliché about cutting himself shaving and glare people into believing him.

There were dark shadows under his eyes from his disturbed night, and his skin was pale, making the wound stand out even more, but he’d just have to bluff it out.

Finally, with one last glance in the mirror, he was ready to face the new day.