David Leadbeater
The Edge of Armageddon
CHAPTER ONE
Julian Marsh had always been a man of contrasting colors. One side black, the other gray… to infinity. Oddly, he never showed any interest as to why he evolved a little differently to the rest, merely accepted it, learned to live with it, reveled in it. To all intents and purposes it made him an object of interest; it diverted attention from the machinations going on behind the distinctive eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair. Marsh was always going to be outstanding — one way or another.
Inside, he was a different person again. Inner focus centered his attention to a single nucleus. For this month it was the cause of the Pythians, or rather what was left of them. The odd group had attracted his attention and then just dissolved around him. Tyler Webb was more a psychopathic mega-stalker than a cabalistic leader. But Marsh enjoyed the opportunity of departing alone, of masterminding a personal, eccentric design. To hell with Zoe Sheers and whomever else remained operational inside the sect, and to an even deeper hell with Nicholas Bell. Strapped, cuffed and waterboarded, no doubt the ex-builder would be spilling all to the authorities to gain even the slightest reprieve.
For Marsh, the future looked bright, if a little tinged. There were two sides to every story and he was very much the two-sided man. After a regretful departure from Ramses’ ill-fated bazaar — the pavilions with all their offerings appealed so very much — Marsh took to the skies with the help of an abyss-black helicopter. Swooping away he quickly turned his mind to the new adventure at hand.
New York.
Marsh checked the device at his side, moving it closer, unsure as to what he was seeing but confident about what it could do. This baby was the ultimate bargaining tool. The Big Daddy of absolute persuasion. Who could argue with a nuclear bomb? Marsh left the device well alone, checking over the outer pack and loosening the shoulder straps to accommodate his hefty frame. Of course, he would have to subject the thing to tests and verify its authenticity. After all, most bombs could be prepared to look like something they weren’t — if the cook was good enough. Only then would the White House bow.
Risky, risky, one side of him said.
But fun! the other insisted. And worth a little radiation poisoning if it came to that.
Marsh laughed at himself. Such a rogue. But the mini Geiger-counter he’d brought along remained silent, feeding his bravado.
Being totally honest though, flying was not his thing. Yes, there was the exhilaration but there was also the chance of hot death — and right now that really didn’t appeal to him. Perhaps another time. Marsh had spent many agonizing hours planning this mission, ensuring every waypoint was in place and as reasonably safe as could be, though considering the places he would be stopping off, that notion was almost laughable.
Take right now, for instance. They were headed over the canopy above the Amazon rainforest on the way to Columbia. A man waited for him there — more than one, in fact, and Marsh had imprinted his personality on the meet by insisting they wear white. Just a small concession, but an important one to the Pythian.
Is that all I am now?
Marsh laughed aloud, causing the pilot of the chopper to glance around in alarm.
“Everything okay?” the scarred, skinny man asked.
“Well, that depends on your point of view.” Marsh laughed. “And how many points of view you have. I prefer to entertain more than one. You?”
The pilot turned away, grunting something unintelligible. Marsh shook his head. If only the unwashed masses knew the forces that crept and sneaked and undulated beneath them, never caring or considering the chaos they caused.
Marsh watched the landscape below, wondering for the millionth time if this point of entry into the US was the right way to go. When it came down to it, there were only two real options — through Canada or through Mexico. The latter country was closer to the Amazon and riddled with corruption; chock-full of men who could be paid to help and keep their mouths shut. Canada offered a few safe havens for men like Marsh, but not enough and nowhere near the variety present in South America. As the monotonous landscape continued to unfold below, Marsh found his mind wandering.
The boy had grown up privileged with something far beyond a silver spoon in his mouth; more a solid gold ingot. The best schools and the best teachers — read “best” as “most expensive”, Marsh always amended — tried to straighten him out, but failed. Maybe a stint in some kind of normalized school would have helped, but his parents were wealthy pillars of southern society and far out of touch with reality. Marsh was raised by servants and saw his parents mostly at meal times and luxurious functions, where he was ordered not to speak. Always the critical eye from his father, ensuring immaculate behavior. And always the guilty smile from his mother, knowing that her son was growing up loveless and alone but quite unable to bring herself to raise any form of challenge. And so Julian Marsh grew, developed and turned into what his father openly described as “an odd boy”.
The pilot spoke and Marsh completely missed it. “Say again?”
“We are approaching Cali, sir. Columbia.”
Marsh leaned over and watched a new scene unfold below. Cali was known as one of the most violent cities in the Americas and the home of the Cali Cartel — one of the world’s biggest cocaine suppliers. On any normal day a man like Marsh took his life in his hands walking the byways of the El Calvario neighborhood, where rag-and-bone men combed the streets for garbage and slept in flophouses, where locals suffered the label of “tolerance zone”, enabling commercial drug use and sex to flourish with minimal police mediation.
Marsh knew this was the place for him and his nuke.
Setting down, the pilot showed Marsh to a gray pickup truck, wherein sat three bulky men with cold, dead eyes and expressionless faces. Openly carrying firearms, they ushered Marsh into the truck, offering only a brief greeting. Then they were driving through the damp, cluttered streets, filthy buildings and rusted overhangs, offering his well-traveled eye yet another alternate view of the world, of a place where a chunk of the population “floated” from one hovel to the next, having no permanent home. Marsh withdrew a little, knowing he had little say over what happened next. These stops were necessary though if he were to successfully smuggle the nuke into the US, and worth any risk. And of course Marsh appeared as neutral as he could, keeping a few tricks up his multi-colored sleeves.
The vehicle meandered its way up into some mist-covered, rolling hills, eventually pulling into a paved driveway that fronted a large, quiet house. The journey had been made in silence but now one of the guards turned an inflexible countenance upon Marsh.
“We are here.”
“Evidently. But where is here?”
Not too disrespectful. Not too whiny. Keep it all together.
“Bring your backpack.” The guard jumped out and opened the door. “Mr. Navarro is awaiting you.”
Marsh nodded. It was the correct name and the correct place. He wouldn’t be staying here for long, just enough time to make sure his next mode of transport and its final destination was unhampered and secure. He followed the guard under a low hanging arch replete with dripping droplets of mist and then into the dark entranceway of the old house. No lights shone inside and the appearance of an old ghost or two would be neither a surprise nor a worry. Marsh often saw and conversed with old specters in the dark.
The guard indicated an opening on the right. “You paid for a private room to yourself for a maximum of four hours. Go right on in.”
Marsh inclined his head in thanks and pushed at the heavy door. “I also asked for permission to land an onward mode of transport. A chopper?”