Perdition's Daughters, page 1
PERDITION’S
DAUGHTERS
PERDITION’S
DAUGHTERS
A DAN TEMPLE ADVENTURE
DARREN RODELL
Copyright © 2013 Darren Rodell
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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For my Girls
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
ONE
“Brute force, no matter how strongly applied, can never subdue the basic human desire for freedom.” Dalai Lama.
It was the usual weekday morning; chaotic. Jennifer Mead dashed from bathroom to bedroom to kitchen, a whirlwind of youthful activity. It was the first day back at college following the autumn half-term break and her A-level mocks beckoned. Hurriedly, she crunched a mouthful of butter smothered toast and gulped down her tea. Pulled her striped, brightly coloured sweater on over her T-shirt, wrapped her scarf around her neck, threw her books in her bag and bounced out of the door.
‘Bye, Mum,’ she shouted as the door slammed behind her.
Briskly, she walked down the broad suburban avenue, as she had done every term day for the last year. The weather was bright and cool and the northerly breeze felt distinctly chilled as it blew across her face and small expanse of exposed midriff.
Switching on her iPod, she flicked through to her latest favourite album and turned up the volume. Cocooned in her thoughts and music, the chill of the autumn morning dissolved around her.
The men watched her go.
The van cruised anonymously along the avenue, the neatly stencilled lettering on its white side panels proclaiming the skills, trustworthiness and contact details of the local building and house maintenance services on offer. The two men looked at each other, smirking as they watched the girl. Her firm, rounded bottom swayed provocatively in her tight, sprayedon jeans as she walked quickly along the pavement, oblivious to her surroundings.
The van slowed and pulled in close behind.
The man at the bus stop looked up, his interest and imagination captivated by the young girl’s attractive face and curvy figure, accentuated by her low-cut hipster jeans and tight, colourful sweater. Her wavy long blond hair flowed behind her on the fresh morning breeze and her cheeks glowed pink in the crisp autumn air. He watched appreciatively as she drew level with him, kicking her way through the autumnal carpet of brown and gold leaves on the opposite side of the road. Her perfectly formed teenage body made a warming, welcome distraction to his otherwise cold and uneventful wait. The girl glanced over as she always did, smiling self-consciously, seemingly appreciative of his admiring looks, then slightly, almost teasingly, accentuated the sway of her hips.
The van crawled slowly by, momentarily blocking his view.
The girl walked on.
He waited, eager to catch one last glimpse of the girl before she turned out of the avenue and out of his view for another day.
Suddenly, the van accelerated.
The man’s eyes and brain disconnected, momentarily unable to comprehend the visual deception.
The girl was there.
The van passed slowly.
Then she was gone, vanishing like a beautiful apparition.
He stared at the empty pavement. He looked left, to the rear of the van, then back to the void where the girl should have been. The space now filled by swirling leaves which hung in the air, then floated gently, innocently to the ground.
His eyes knew what they had witnessed, but his mind delayed the connection. He stood paralysed, temporarily frozen, locked in a cold, still and silent vacuum, waiting for the world to restart.
A girl’s scream jarred his senses. His mind reconnected with full sound and vision. Comprehension returned. He reached into his pocket, grabbed his mobile phone and dialled 999.
The music ended abruptly as Jennifer Mead’s feet involuntarily left the pavement and her legs walked briefly in the air, leaving a flurry of scattered leaves dancing on the breeze.
She kicked and struggled, scratched and bit as rough hands gripped her, firmly pinning her to the cold, harsh metal floor of the van.
She saw the needle, stared wide-eyed, then screamed an ear-piercing, panic-stricken scream. Icy terror and adrenalin raged through her body and she fought with all the strength and courage she could find.
The needle scratched painfully into her arm.
Her head swirled and her vision blurred as the drugs rushed her to dark unconsciousness.
The van drove on, turned out of the avenue and melted innocuously into the rush-hour traffic.
The young couple made love slowly, their bodies intertwined, each totally absorbed in the other. Every look, every touch, every caress, responded to with increasing desire as their passion grew and their body heat warmed the chill of the morning.
The girl spread her legs wide, then lifted them, wrapping them around her lover. Her pelvis moved in rhythm with his increasingly urgent thrusts and she moaned softly, her orgasm building. The young man pushed himself up on his arms, staring lovingly in to her glistening, soft brown eyes. Unable to hold his rapidly approaching climax, he threw back his head, thrusting deeper and harder until they climaxed together in strong pulsating waves of all-consuming passion. They lay wrapped together, still and silent, hearing nothing but the sound of their breathing, enveloped in the warm afterglow of their love.
The sound of a slow, derisive hand clap from their uninvited audience tore through their warm, contented world.
Startled, Elizabeth Mead looked across to the open bedroom door, her eyes opening wide as uncomprehendingly she gasped with fear – she screamed.
Her boyfriend leapt naked from the bed. Fit, strong and agile, he moved quickly; no thought of asking questions, no concerns for his own safety.
Elizabeth looked on, transfixed and frightened. The two men seemed undaunted as her boyfriend sprang from the bed and launched himself across the small bedroom. Time and motion slowed as in unison the men raised their arms and silently fired.
Her boyfriend’s forward momentum ended as abruptly as it began. Hit by the invisible, mid-air projectiles, his body violently recoiled back onto the bed with two ragged, bloody holes puncturing the centre of his chest.
Elizabeth’s screams stuck in her throat; her initial fear savagely replaced by total, mind-numbing terror.
The two men approached the bed and tore the sheets from her naked body.
Instinctively, she fought, thrashing her arms and legs, kicking and punching in vain, but the strength in her small, slender frame was no match for the powerful hands and arms pinning her to the mattress.
A huge, rough paw of a hand clamped harshly over her mouth.
A needle stabbed sharply into her buttock.
The room span.
Her vision blurred.
Her eyes fluttered and closed.
Muted sounds rushed through her ears.
Her terror subsided and vanished, replaced by silence and the cold hard blackness of complete unconsciousness.
‘It’s done,’ said the man sombrely, walking toward the desk in the small, dimly-lit room.
Zoran Durakovic momentarily looked up from his desk, then nodded once; his pale-grey eyes, as cold and hard as steel, conveyed no emotion.
‘Are you certain, Jan?’
‘Positive. They’re on their way.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None.’
‘Excellent,’ Durakovic replied, reaching for the telephone.
TWO
The telephone on Richard Mead’s desk rang at exactly 9:00am. It was nothing unusual – he was a busy man; his services were always in demand. Since ret
iring from the SAS to start his security consultancy business, his telephone had been ringing constantly. He waited a few moments before he answered, then pressed the record button and lifted the receiver, ensuring, as always, that he had a pen and pad at the ready.
‘Richard Mead,’ he stated confidently.
He was greeted by a lengthy pause and listened intently to the static silence.
‘Richard Mead,’ he stated again.
‘Good morning, Colonel Mead,’ replied the heavily accented voice.
‘Good morning,’ Mead acknowledged in a polite, business-like fashion. ‘How may I help you?’
‘You know what it is I want, Colonel. You know there is only one way in which you can help me.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Do you wish to discuss my business services?’
‘In a manner of speaking. But first I want you to listen.’ The words were delivered simply – the voice hard and edgy.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have a nine o’clock appointment. Perhaps I could take your details and get back to you?’
‘You don’t need my details, Colonel. Your appointment is with me.’
‘I’m sorry, who is this?’ Mead asked, already irritated with the unnecessarily cryptic conversation.
‘Do you not recognise my voice, Colonel? Surely you haven’t forgotten me already? After all, you put so much time and effort in to pursuing and capturing me –’ the man paused for a moment. ‘We never did finish our last conversation, Colonel. We still have many things to discuss, you and I,’ the voice stated, firm and insistent.
Richard Mead slumped back in to his chair. The voice registered and alarm bells sounded like claxons in his head.
‘Durakovic,’ he responded quietly.
‘Well done, Colonel. You see, you do remember.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I already have what I want, or should I say, who.’
It was a cold statement, laced with callous, malicious intent.
‘You didn’t honestly think I would let the matter rest – let our business go unresolved – did you, Colonel? It is time for you to pay. There is no get-out clause, Colonel Mead, not in this relationship.’ Durakovic venomously spat down the phone.
‘I cannot help you, if you will not help me, Colonel.’
Richard Mead switched off the voice recorder, gathered his senses and his composure and listened carefully, waiting for the punch line.
‘What do you want?’ he asked again.
‘Insurance, or more accurately an incentive –’ Durakovic paused again, leaving a long, drawn-out silence. ‘Have you seen your daughters lately?’ he asked icily.
The words ominously bore down in Richard Mead’s mind; the reality and purpose of the question registered immediately.
‘If you hurt them, I’m going to hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands.’
Durakovic laughed.
‘Save your theatrical words, Colonel. You’re a smart man – I am sure you have already switched off the voice recorder.’
‘I mean it, Durakovic; I’m going to find you and I’m going to kill you.’
‘If only it were that easy, Colonel. You know what you need to do. Your daughters are my insurance. Their only hope of redemption rests with you. Fail and your life, and theirs, will be over. You will suffer the never-ending pain and torment that I have suffered, and your children will suffer with you. However, we are both business men, despite what has happened between us – so, please, Colonel, do we have agreement?’
‘I’ve told you, I can’t do it.’
‘Maybe not, Colonel, but I am sure you know someone – can arrange for someone who can. You can do that, can’t you, Colonel?’
Richard Mead closed his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice no more than a harsh whisper.
‘Good, then we have an agreement?’
The pressure of another protracted silence felt long and heavy. Thoughts and options span through Mead’s mind; there was no choice. He cleared his throat.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed, reluctantly forcing out the solitary word through gritted teeth.
‘Excellent. Switch on the voice recorder, Colonel; let me help you get started.’
Richard Mead sat forward.
‘Go on,’ he said, pressing the button.
Durakovic continued. ‘I’m going to bring you into my world now, Colonel. There are matters you and I need to conclude. Until that is done, you’re going to live in hell. I just wanted you to know what was going to happen to your precious girls. You know what I do, don’t you, Colonel? What goes on here? I am the door to the white slave trade; you understand what will be done, what their lives will be like, don’t you? I am going to make a gift of your daughters. They will be forced into sexual slavery, into a world of abuse, torment and degradation, and I will revel in every agonising moment. Who knows, I might even take some pleasure with them myself. More satisfying, though, will be the knowledge that there is nothing in your power or control that you can do about it. If you come for them, they will be killed. If you contact the police or any other law enforcement agency, they will be killed. Your daughters will be in your nightmares. You will be together in hell. They will be perdition’s daughters.’
The phone went dead and Richard Mead’s life plunged into purgatory.
THREE
The call came at 2:00am; the sound of the telephone was loud and harsh in the cold silence of the night. By 2:30am, Daniel Temple was racing through narrow country roads, his battered green Land Rover power sliding through bends and galloping down straights. The big V8 engine roared as it accelerated, sending rain and mud spitting from the tyres as Daniel expertly pushed the vehicle to its limits, careering at breakneck speed down the country lanes, then pushing hard and fast along the near empty motorway.
Daniel skidded to a stop outside Richard Mead’s house in the leafy avenues of Royal Tunbridge Wells. It was 5:00am.
Daniel’s philosophy was as straightforward and honest as the man himself. If someone you consider a friend calls for help, you respond, no questions asked.
Richard Mead’s call had been one of desperation. Daniel didn’t need to ask – it was simple deduction. Anyone who calls at 2:00am is usually one of three things – mad, drunk or desperate. Daniel knew Richard very well. He was Daniel’s friend, business partner and ex-Commanding Officer. SAS trained, shrewd, experienced and as good as they came. The call could mean only one thing: trouble, desperate trouble.
Daniel rang the doorbell and waited in the cool dark of the autumnal morning. Richard Mead answered the door. A usually tall, strong and athletic figure, he looked stooped, tired and shaken. Worse – he looked afraid. Daniel didn’t waste time with small talk; he wasn’t the type.
‘What’s wrong, Richard, what’s happened?’ he asked with genuine concern.
Richard looked at him through bloodshot eyes.
‘Thanks for coming, Daniel. There was no one else I could turn to. No one else I would want to turn to,’ he said, stepping aside to allow Daniel’s huge frame through the door.
They walked across the hallway and stepped into the lounge. Daniel could see Jane Mead sat on the sofa. She was crying; she looked as if she’d been crying forever.
‘Hello, Jane,’ he said softly as he glanced around the room.
It was a warm and welcoming lounge. Two large armchairs sat facing a long, comfortable looking sofa, either side of a rectangular coffee table. Ornaments, keepsakes, pictures and memories adorned shelves and bookcases. It was a real family room, just as he remembered it. Daniel looked at the display cabinet standing against the wall behind the sofa. Numerous photographs sat behind the glassfronted doors. He saw himself in one or two, uniformed and otherwise; all seemingly happy occasions. His gaze fell on the central picture – a family portrait, taken recently by the look of it. Richard and Jane sat, slightly angled toward each other. Their two daughters, Elizabeth and Jennifer stood behind, smiling, each resting a hand on their parent’s shoulder. It was a cheerful picture. A happy family, just as Daniel knew them.
Jane looked up, her eyes bloodshot and tearstained.
‘Please help us, Daniel,’ she pleaded, collapsing back into the sofa and sobbing uncontrollably.
