Silas Braund - Aged 14 - Runner-Up!

An excerpt from: Flames in the rain

Preface

The man stood in Detroit’s early evening rain. He was there and yet not there. He was invisible. The passersby barely gave any thought to the man in the dark trousers, the long grey overcoat, the wide-brimmed grey hat. He was just another man stood, with a phone held to his ear, outside an office block. The man looked about himself, and walked towards the road opposite the forecourt. As he walked away, there was a not-so-distant explosion. He smiled. The office emptied as its occupants ran, screaming, out onto the street. Humans could always be counted upon to run. There were going to be big headlines tomorrow.

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Chapter one

 

Thousands of miles away, in the pleasant English countryside, Jason Turner was creaking upright in bed. To him, nine thirty in the morning still felt too early. He rolled out of bed with a groan.  Jase hated B&Bs but his boss insisted. He regarded himself in the mirror. Stubbled, careworn, his greying, brunette hair plastered to the side of his head. He was only thirty four but most strangers would have put him somewhere south of forty. There were numerous scars all over his arms and torso. Too many years of street fights with people who wanted him gone. There were a lot of them. Jase worked for the National Criminal Agency (NCA) and in there you made enemies.

 

Jase was a G3 officer, equivalent to a Civil Service Senior Executive Officer. Most of the cases he had worked on were illegal firearms, or drug running. Always fun. As a child he had grown up in the suburbs of a seaside UK city. He had always been interested in the stories of the people who lurked in doorways and his mother despaired of him for keeping “rough

company”. He had learned at the age of sixteen what the NCA was, after he had accidentally helped in the arrest of a drug dealer who was being chased by a police officer. The man had run around the corner, knocking the bunch of roses Jase had bought for his sweetheart of the week to the floor, whereupon Jase had punched him in the face. The dealer had been knocked unconscious and Jase had earned thirty quid. There were eleven thousand and thirty crimes in Plymouth that year.

 

Jase stood and contemplated his figure wryly. He pondered what might have happened had he not joined the NCA. But there was no point dwelling on the past. It was too late for that now. He shaved quickly, and then donned his classic dress of dark grey, straight leg jeans, a simple white shirt and a plain black, hoodless jacket.

 

An onlooker would best describe Jase as a dispirited, rough, grim looking man. But there was a caring side as well. He had been known to look after people he had met in the course of his work, if he liked them. That was a rare occurrence. But he was a well respected man in his trade and not many people dared cross his path. He had lost his twin brother and sister at the age of seventeen, in the army, and his parents had followed two years later in a car crash. Jase had, instead of grieving, gone straight at his life’s targets and torn them to shreds. And that summed him up. When life brings you tragedy, bring life a grim determination.

​

Turner checked his phone and saw a text from his boss. As per usual, he was demanding to see Jase. “A matter of national importance.” As always. Jase walked outside to a black, slightly dented Ford Mondeo Gia. It was the ’96 model and had seen better days. But it worked. Five speed, manual gearbox, it was Jase’s little work horse. And he loved it. It had black tinted windows and oldish tyres. Jase slung his overnight bag in the ample boot and then crunched himself into the drivers seat. He wasn’t an overly tall man - he was in fact just short of 6’ - but everything was a bit of a squeeze.

 

He turned the key in the ignition, backed off of the gravel parking space and set off for Bristol. It was going to be another long drive but he didn’t mind. He liked them in fact. It gave him thinking space. Jase had just come back from a case that had taken him to the Mediterranean. Despite the idyllic setting, it had been one of the most gruelling jobs of his life. He had been running down a gun trafficking ring. But he had prevailed. That was what mattered.

 

Jase arrived at the Bristol meet-up bang on two thirty-five. Four hours and fifty-two minutes exactly. His destination was the Hotel du Vin, one of the most expensive hotels in Bristol.

You’re late, Turner.’’ Jase’s boss greeted him with the usual sarcastic remark. It was not unusual. “Sit down, sit down, we need to talk. Do you want anything to eat?” Jase selected a dish of tiger prawns, and a glass of white wine. A total of £32. He was glad his boss was paying.

 

“Listen. We’ve got a problem. There was an attack on a group of banking offices in Detroit. But the chief doesn’t think this is just the standard hate attack. This seemed co-ordinated. This was a crack team. And what’s more worrying, it was directed at the office group where our people were preparing for a big transaction. Everyone seems to have their own private theory as to what’s going on, and we’re sending you to find out. Ever been to Detroit?”

 

Well, thanks for the warning, Sir. And no, never been to Detroit. Rains a lot there, doesn’t it? What am I up against, then?

 

“Turner, I’ll be frank. We have no clue what we’re sending you up against. It was, by the look of it, a six man crew. Three all-black SUVs, two men each. It seems they drove up on the Interstate 75, pulled over, and then fired three rockets at the building. Luckily there were only seven casualties. They were all flown to hospital in critical condition. The rest of them are still in the city. I have a feeling this won’t be the last attempt.”

​

I’ve booked you on the first flight out there. It leaves here at five. I’m sorry but there’s no-one going with you. You’re going solo, Turner, and you’re going to have a hell of a ride.”

Thank you, Sir. I’ll do my best.

​

The man called his employer. “Turner is going to the plane. He’ll be in Detroit soon so get a move on with your plans.

 

Chapter two

 

The plane was jam-packed. Jase was thankful that he had a window seat. He could sometimes get horribly claustrophobic. He was sat next to an old man and his wife. They seemed peaceful, he observed. The old man turned and saw Jase’s thoughtful face. “Where are you headed to, young man?”, he quavered.

 

“Just to Detroit, Sir, just to Detroit. For work”, replied Jase, “What about you?”.

​

The old man turned again and said that he was headed to New York also, and that he was seeing family. “We are very poor, you see, but we thought we’d make the trip now.” Jase wished the man good luck and then turned and stared out of the window.

​

As he flew, he pondered. Was it coincidence that the attack had been on British offices and he had been sent off round the world, or was there something deeper at play? Had those rocket-launcher wielding lunatics been just that, or had they been something else? He would find out.

The old man sat next to him had started to snore and Jase found it strangely off-putting. He glanced over the oblivious form and noticed a flat bulge underneath the man’s left armpit. It was, from the size of it, empty, but it was clearly a gun holster. It seemed odd that such a docile grandpa would have a gun tucked under his left armpit but then it was a dangerous world. Jase smiled to himself, a rare occurrence. He found it amusing that he automatically scanned everyone he came into contact with, starting with the hands, ending with the face. If you started by examining a mans hands, you could rapidly see whether or not he would attack you. Same with the legs and feet. A hostile stance is easy to see a mile off. Better to see what’s coming.

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The plane landed and, after the usual kerfuffle, Jase rented a car and drove to the hotel he had booked. As he walked in, he saw a familiar face. It was the old man from the plane…