The Seraphim Sequence

Chapter 1-2

Sophia was tied up right now. She pulled at the plasticuffs yet they only closed further. Her two captors, standing over her and sucking cigarettes through balaclavas, had the foresight to fasten her to a gym bench with her wrists plasticuffed to the strap tied over her upper legs. The bench was bolted to the van floor. This was going to be a little harder than she’d thought.

The van turned a corner and the classical music started once more. She would never think of Bach in the same way again.

One of the men laid a thin cloth over her face and held it there. Darkness. She closed her eyes, knowing what was coming. Water soaked the towel, pressing it against her face, smothering her. Water gushed down her throat. She choked. Her body writhed under the straps. She couldn’t breathe. She was drowning. Her throat burned. Her lungs burned. Her nasal passages burned. Any second now, she would die.

The cloth peeled from her face. She coughed up water, drew in air, sucked more water with it. She coughed some more.

Bach continued.

The man holding the cloth shrugged. ‘Twenty seconds, better than most.’

He shoved it back over her face. She inhaled, her mouth sucking in the cloth. Bad move. Water swelled over it, pushing the cloth into the back of her throat. All she could do was think of breathing, of trying to breathe, of water surging down her throat, filling her lungs. She was drowning and there was no stopping it.

The van shuddered. Her body shook beneath the straps, and the cloth peeled from her face. Above her, the men flailed through the air, their bodies smashing into one side of the van. Water poured from her mouth—upward. Her stomach lurched. The van was rolling.

Sophia was stuck, the bench bolted to the floor. The van tumbled and the two men bounced helplessly across the walls, the ceiling, past the bench. A cigarette pack blossomed cigarettes. The large bottle of water spiraled over her chest, splashing her.

The van stopped turning. She hung from the ceiling. The two men were crumpled below, bleeding and unconscious.

She spat the last of the water from her mouth. ‘Well, that’s good.’

The van door opened and in walked DC, Owen Freeman’s bodyguard. At least, he had been Freeman’s bodyguard until Hurricane Stacy hit the Akhana base in Manhattan. Everyone evacuated and Freeman had assigned DC to Sophia. Now she was stuck with him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

DC began to shake his head but thought better of it. ‘Saving your ass.’

‘My ass doesn’t need saving.’

In defeat, DC held up his hands. One of them clasped a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 personal defense weapon. Not quite a submachine gun, not quite a pistol. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

Sophia coughed some more water. ‘I might need a … little bit of help.’

DC raised an eyebrow.

‘Just some loosening up,’ she said.

‘Your mindset or the straps?’

‘The straps.’

DC holstered his MP7 and pulled the scabbard from the magnets along his back. He drew his tachi sword and replaced the scabbard on his back.

‘That’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?’ Sophia said.

Using the tip, he cut open the plasticuffs on each of her wrists. ‘You’re a bit overkill, don’t you think?’ he said.

‘That’s what all the boys say.’

DC cut the straps along her legs and let her take care of the rest. She jumped down and checked herself for injuries.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Where did you learn to intercept like that?’ Sophia said, recovering her pistol from one of the unconscious men. ‘Monster truck derby?’

‘It’s called saving your life.’ DC stepped out of the van. ‘Which I seem to be doing a lot of lately. You’re welcome, by the way.’

‘Saving my life?’ Sophia followed him onto the wharf. They were in a shipping yard somewhere on the southern edge of Tokyo, flanked by forty-foot containers and gargantuan red cranes. ‘I think you’re confusing saving lives with screwing everything up,’ she said.

‘Excuse me,’ DC said, as a man appeared from around the side of the van, a Heckler & Koch G36C subcarbine aimed at Sophia. DC kept his gaze on Sophia while he cut upwards, behind the man’s left elbow. The man’s subcarbine lifted to expose his throat. DC sliced his neck. The man collapsed against the van, spurting blood.

The van’s driver jumped out of his seat, subcarbine aimed at Sophia. She shot him twice with her pistol.

‘You’re the one who got herself captured by a band of jacked-up mercenaries,’ DC said.

‘Yeah, on purpose! One of them’s ex-Fifth Column. Not these jokers. The guy back at their warehouse. He was involved in these constructions popping up all over the place.’

The Fifth Column wasn’t actually a real name but a label used internally and by a small number of outsiders—mostly former employees and service personnel—to identify what on first glance might be mistaken for a clandestine US intelligence service. But the Fifth Column wasn’t just one service or just one nation; it was an international military and intelligence framework that sat spider-like over existing agencies and departments. It was unique in that it maintained its own ranks and structure while usurping intelligence apparatus and armed forces across the globe. Due to its heavily compartmentalized structure, there were few—even those inside—who knew every component and outfit that operated under its rule.

DC started walking. ‘He was killed early this morning. Shocktroopers.’

‘Oh,’ Sophia said. ‘Well, that was a waste of time then.’

If the Fifth Column had gone to the trouble of sending shocktroopers to wipe out her only lead, they clearly didn’t want anyone knowing about whatever it was they were building. As far as the general population was concerned, the construction sites didn’t exist. But Sophia had noticed the sudden, furious building activity taking place around the world and had discovered that it was all being carried out by just three dummy corporations, all of which led back to the Fifth Column. She didn’t know what the construction was for yet—ramping up shocktrooper production and training, expanding research and development, or something else altogether—but it seemed critically important to the Fifth Column.

‘Hey.’ DC gripped her arm. ‘We need to move.’

She blinked, followed him to his motorbike.

‘When are you going to stop this?’ he said.

‘Probably never.’ She looked over her shoulder. Police cars wailed in the distance.

He sighed. ‘At least you’re honest.’ He jumped on the bike. ‘Get on.’