Maltese Steel

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

At the same time, over four-thousand miles away from Gozo's coast, John Steel sat in his office at the NYPD's 11th precinct. The room had been an old storage room that he had commandeered. The walls were a mix of half red-painted plaster and a lower half made from dark wooden panels. The hardened concrete of the floor was now hidden under a polished wood. There were brass lamps and Cambridge style bookshelves. The whole place looked as though it should belong in a stately home.

John Steel sat behind a long oak desk. The top was covered with green leather. On the desk was a computer monitor to his right and a landline pushed far to the left. The computer keyboard and mouse were in front of the monitor, leaving the centre of the desk free. To his right hung a large, lifeless flatscreen monitor, which showed nothing apart from the room's reflection. His eyes glanced over the report he had just written and was about to file.

Steel sighed profoundly and tossed down the file in frustration. He had been assigned to the NYPD to monitor and – if necessary – hinder the operations of an organisation called SANTINI.

SANTINI was an underground organisation that dealt in murder, assassinations, arms smuggling, anything that would serve its purpose. However, unlike organisations such as the Italian Mafia, Yakuza, White Russian Mafia, SANTINI remained in the shadows. Carrying out assignments that would be profitable and draw no attention to their existence.

But Steel knew of them. His entire family had been murdered by them, and he had been gravely injured while trying to save his family. Steel looked over at his reflection in the powered down the desktop monitor. He gazed into his dark soulless green eyes, which were just another scare had had to remind him of that day. His once pale blue eyes had somehow turned to this dark unnerving dark emerald colour after his life-saving operation. For years he had thought that the old Japanese gardener had saved him, healing his wounds at his home. But Steel had found out later that the very people Steel worked, for now, had saved him.

Like his father before him, John Steel was British Secret Service – or MI8. He had been recruited after his time with the SAS. However, after the murder of his family, MI8 thought it best that Steel went into hiding until the organisation responsible had been identified, or at best, eliminated. So, Steel joined the US Navy SEALs. Whitehall suspected putting an ocean between Steel and the organisation would take them out of their gaze for a while. Also, the training would do him good for what he needed him to do.

But now, he was stuck behind a desk doing paperwork for a murder investigation. Steel felt nauseous, claustrophobic. This was not him. He was a soldier – an agent of the British Secret Service, not a cop. Sure, he had thwarted the plans of SANTINI on several occasions, but for some reason, they had gone dark. Were they laying low because of him? Possible. But then SANTINI did not just have him after them. There was this Trojan Group. Trojan was also a criminal organisation, but they – Steel's eyes – were more of a threat. They sought power, control and would do anything to get it. However, these had also disappeared from his radar. Steel found it curious but at the same time disturbing. One he could understand – but both, surely that couldn't be good?

But despite this upset, Steel had done his job and was ready to come home as far as he was concerned. He was prepared to do the job he was hired for, and that wasn't being a cop, that was for sure. John Steel grabbed a pair of sunglasses that sat on a wireless docking station and slipped them on. He saw a blink of red light in the corner of an LCD HUB in the right-hand lens, then the words Retina scan complete. Identification confirmed. Steel heaved himself out of the comfort of the padded leather office chair, grabbing the file and then headed over to the door. The report was done, all the eyes were dotted, and Ts were crossed. Despite his reluctance to be there, he knew he still had to do the job correctly. He opened the door. Suddenly, the silence of the office was shattered by the chaos of the homicide division's bullpen. Phones were ringing, and voices grew louder. As Steel looked out across the sea of busy people, the small screen in the right lens ran a diagnostic and quickly analysed them. John Steel smiled to himself at the gadget that had saved him and others live so often, but he also knew he could not be reliant on it. It was just an aid. Steel knew he had to rely more on his skills and own intuition.

Steel was looking at the people of the night shift. His shift had left hours ago. He had just stayed over to make sure there were no discrepancies in the report. The last thing he wanted was the guy's lawyer picking something out and get the scumbag off with. Steel walked over to Captain Alan Brant's office and knocked. Steel wasn't surprised he was still there.

Alan Brant was a bear of a man. He was in his fifties but still had the build of a quarterback. Steel looked over at the shaven football of a head. The light from the overhead light gleamed off his dark shin. To Steel, Brant always looked angry – even when he wasn't. But this time, those cold brown eyes scowled at Steel as he entered after knocking. Brant sat back in his chair, his massive form leant back against the PU leather, causing it to creak.

'Take it you done writin that report?' Brant said. His thick-lipped mouth curled as though every word had a bitter taste to it. His voice was deep like you might imagine a grizzly or brown bear to have.

'Yes, I'm done,' Steel said. His tone was emotionless. Despite being British, he had no accent to speak of. There was no hint of a regional accent, just British. Brant gave Steel a curious look. Steel wondered if Brant picked up on what he had said – or indeed, how he had meant it, 'Yes, I'm done.'

Steel placed down the file in front of Brant and ran his fingers through his raven-coloured hair. It felt longer than he would have wanted it to be. It was possibly time to visit that barbers shop in the morning, Steel thought, catching his reflection in the long window that separated the Captain's office from the bullpen. His black suit and shirt did not reflect too well in the window, making it appear as if he was a floating head without a body. Steel smiled to himself but did not show it.

'McCall is pissed at ya after what you did,' Brant said, rocking in his chair. The sound of the metal joints squeaked with the subtle movement.

'She will get over it. Besides, it got the job done, didn't it?' Steel said. His tone was cold and unemotional.

Steel did not care for their rules anymore. He found them tiresome. Rules that kept the allowed the bad guys to go free and hurt the innocent. Rules that with the slightest loop whole could be undone. He preferred his rules, the rules her was governed by. There is your target; investigate and take whatever action is necessary. He lived in a black and white world, with the only red been his enemies' blood.

'You threw the man outta the window, Steel!' Brant growled. His eyes bulged from their deep-set sockets. A slither of spit formed in the corner of Brant's mouth a was held by the hairs of his circular beard.

'And if I hadn't, you'd have several officers in the morgue or hospital right now – including McCall,' Steel said with an angry tone.

Brant sat back and sighed deeply. 'Yeah, I know, but still, these cowboy actions of yours are getting outta hand.'

'Understood,' Steel said calmly. 'don't worry, they won't happen again,' Steel said and turned to leave. Brant looked over at Steel. A look of concern filled his face.

'What do you mean by that?' Brant asked. He had read Steel's innuendoes and body language. Brant was the only one in the precinct who knew what Steel was, who he worked for. Sure, Steel had closed some exceptional cases, but now Brant felt Steel was just treading water.

'I mean –.' Steel paused and looked over at the commendations and photographs on Brant's wall. It was impressive, but Brant was a cop, and Steel wasn't. 'I'm going home, I'm tired,' Steel said and left the office, closing the door softly behind him.

Captain Alan Brant watched Steel cross the bullpen floor and wait for the elevator, and wandered. Had Steel just said goodbye or only good night?