The Prelude - Chapter 2

Xander Harle

I wasn't in London when the bombing happened. Instead, I was in Argentina, carrying through with a target. It was bad enough, I found out during the past few years that supers were becoming more and more common.... I wasn't one of them. Never was. But this time my target was one of them.

I had been given a profile before I got there, weeks ahead of time, along with € 20, 000. Another € 30, 000 was to follow once I finished. His name was Ferdinand Delgado, a water manipulator from Buenos Aires. Thirty-four years old, lived and worked in the city. He was a small-time salesman with several girlfriends and even more kills under his belt. I had no physical contact with the person who hired me, nor any reason for wanting his death. After watching him for a few weeks, I found out that he was a merciless killer. He would leave during the middle of the night, picked someone off the streets and murdered them there. Once, he followed a man into his house and killed the entire family that lived there. He was a water manipulator. He didn't even have to touch his victims to kill them.

I remember how humid it was, following him around in the alleyways and on his way to work. He had an extremely strict routine which made it easier for me. Delgado had a way of walking around, completely natural and unfazed about what he did. He was relaxed about everything he did, and lived a quiet enough life not to be noticed by anyone. It was a month before I moved in on the kill.

Delgado was returning home from work, the same time as he always did, six o'clock, against the traffic in the city. It was slow enough for me to follow along on foot. I covered up my usual light brown hair with a darker wig and the weeks I spent in the Argentinean sun left my skin much darker than it usually was. I had brought along several latex masks in case I ever needed to disguise myself even more. As it turned out, Delgado was arrogant enough not to notice me.

It was raining that day, and I had my backpack pulled over my head to keep the water out. It was heavy, with my disassembled rifle in it, and I could hear the metal clang as I walked along. There was an apartment building across the street from where Delgado lived. I chose the spot a few days before. I walked ahead of his car, keeping a close eye on the time on my watch and made my way into the apartment building. I rented the place a week prior along with a hotel room down the street for tonight only.

The flat itself wasn't anything special. In fact, it was the kind of place you'd expect to get at a hostel in London or Paris. There was a reception desk, though the receptionist spent most of his time asleep or watching football on the television screen he had in front of him. My guess was that the TV was originally meant for security cameras. The interior was dimly lit, and then gloomy on a sunny day. That night, it just looked depressing. There were a few people sitting on old couches and chairs in the recreational room beside the lobby and the receptionist had fallen asleep with a bag of chips open beside him on the desk. He was a small, skinny man with greasy brown hair, and never once had I seen him stand up. One man looked up as I walked through the doors, but no one else did. I dropped my bag from over my head and check my watch. 6:15, it read. I have five minutes.

I took the stairs, as everyone else did. The elevator was under some suspicious grounds and no one really wanted to take it. It was for safety reasons. The stairs themselves were just the bare minimum: a metal mesh made up each step and there was a thin steel railing along the other side. There were six floors in total, so it didn't take me long before I got to the top. There were no security cameras on the roof, or in the stairwell. Even if there were, I remember seeing several men going to the roof for a cigarette, rather than outside of the building.

I opened the door to the pounding of rain outside. It hadn't lighted up at all, and the sun was setting somewhere on the horizon. To my left, I could see a faint red light behind the clouds and I could feel the humidity ease up. I closed the door behind me and took a metal rod that I had dislodged a few days ago. I jammed it between the handle and the doorframe. A makeshift lock. Then, taking out the pieces of my rifle from my bag and putting them together, I walked to the side of the building facing Delgado's house. He lived in a small bungalow, though the entire strip was basically bungalows. I kept glancing at the side of the street, watching him approach his house in his small, rusty red car. I knelt down in a puddle and pulled my jacket over my head, to keep the rain from interfering with my aim. I adjusted the rifle. Delgado pulled up his car into the driveway. I readjusted my aim, and I remember how he stuck his head out first, looking up at the sky and making a shield out of the rain. He seemed amused, for one reason or another. But he took too long.

I aimed for his head and pulled the trigger. There was a slight kick against my right shoulder when I did so, but it was something I was used to. I pulled up my rifle and started disassembling it while walking back towards the door to the stairwell. Maybe I was imagining it, but I could swear the raining started to lighten up by the time I got to the door and pulled out the metal rod.

I didn't run down the stairwell, figuring if I were to shake off the water from my clothes, I may as well take my time and let it drip down the stairs.... I got off at the third floor. It had a worn smell to it. However "worn" smelt, that is. I pulled out my room key, cold and slippery in my soaking wet hands, and I dumped my bag onto the small bed, then went straight to the shower. Because, goddammit, if I was going to be soaking wet, I may as well wash up along with it.

Ten minutes later, dressed and my hair still wet, I could hear sirens coming from outside. Two thoughts went through my head: I either missed and Delgado was badly injured, or he's dead. Risking a look outside, I checked to see Delgado's driveway. There was a police car parked in front, the lights going off and an ambulance blocking the street. Two paramedics were carrying a body on a stretcher, the blanket over his head telling me he was dead. I smiled then closed the curtain, grabbing the towel off the chair and drying my hair. It was still raining outside, though less heavily now, and the streetlights quickly became the only lighting out.

I had a laptop sitting on the small wooden table in the apartment. There was an internet connection, but just how secure it was, I wasn't prepared to risk. I checked the time, and started packing my things. It was better to leave as soon as I could.

By the time it was eight o'clock, my bags were packed and I left the apartment, paid in cash. The rain had stopped since then, and the hotel that I booked wasn't too far away. When I walked outside, the humidity weighing down on me again, I noticed the police officers had left and the ambulance gone. Smirking, I headed east down the street. My intention was to leave the next morning, staying at the hotel under a different name and heading back to London as soon as I could.

It was ten when I got to the hotel, checked in and brought my bags to my room. I went for a higher end hotel this time, just for the sake of compensating after living in a small, cramped apartment for the past month. I was about to crash on the bed when my phone, which I had turned off until I got to the hotel, buzzed on the desk beside me. I groaned, sitting up and checked it. One missed call from Lexi.

Lexi was a close friend of mine. We grew up together, our childhoods as screwed up as they were. I was originally from Russia, so my file tells me. I moved to London when I was three, so while my parents still spoke Russian at home, I had no memory of living there. My full name is Nikolai Aleksandrovich Sokolov, which my parents changed to Nicholas Alexander Harle when we moved to London. But that wasn't where I met Lexi. In fact, both my parents died when I was six, and moving around from foster home to foster home wasn't exactly an ideal life. I was ten when I left the country. Got on the next plane to America and waited to see where it took me. I fell into the organized crime ring in Los Angeles when I got there, though. I didn't want to go back into a foster home, and especially not an American one. They were surprisingly eager to bring in a quiet ten-year-old boy to do their errands for them. I learned to fake the American accent, and it was there where I met Lexi. She was the same age as me, and her parents were a part of the mafia there.

Her father was a sniper, an ex-marine. I remember going up to him one day, me and my morbid fascination with guns and killing. He was the one who trained me to kill. Even if he would take me to go hunting animals instead, the basics were the same.

Lexi herself was an attractive girl, with long dirty blond hair and bright blue eyes. She always had sort of an awkward smile, slanted to the side half the time, as if she wasn't sure whether she should be scolding me or laughing at me. And, while I moved back to London and got a job with MI6 (along with the freelance murder-for-hire I did), Lexi went to live in Vancouver and got a job with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. I haven't seen her much because of it. We were never in one place long enough.

I redialled her number, waiting for her to pick up. After the third ring, I heard Lexi's voice.

"Xander!" For some reason that made me smile. "Are you okay? God, I haven't been able to get in touch." She sounded concerned, and just a bit strained.

"I'm fine," I said. "Why, what happened?"

"There was a terrorist attack in London. Well, it wasn't just London." I felt my heart sink and I closed my eyes. "It was a bomb," she continued, both relieved and rushing to say what she wanted. "Nuclear, I think they said. But there was a meeting with Rachel Orwell --" here, she started to slow down, "—and the ones in Toronto and Ottawa weren't nuclear bombs. So, assuming that it's the same people.... Well, I think you get it. I was so worried you were in the blast...."

"I'm fine, Lexi. I'm in Argentina, carrying out a hit. Or at least, I was." I paused for a moment, looking at the TV in front of me and thought of turning it on. Then decided not to. It would all be in Spanish, and while I could speak it, I couldn't understand a news broadcast if it were played in front of me.

"How'd it go?" she asked.

"Wet," I replied. There was a pause. "It was pouring rain earlier," I explained.

Lexi laughed slightly. "If you say so, Xander. I'm glad you're alright, though."

"I'm assuming they aren't taking flights into London?" I asked, but didn't wait for a reply. "Maybe I could leave the wet and humid Buenos Aires for the wet and cold Vancouver instead?"

"Hey, Vancouver's Canada's warmest city." I could just see Lexi smiling. "And London's colder than it is here!"

"Compared to Argentina, almost any place in the northern hemisphere will be cold."

"Depends on how far south you are, Xander."

"True enough," I said, shrugging. "I'll see if I can get a flight to Vancouver, mkay?"

"Sure," she said. "Call me if you do."

"Of course. See you, Lexi."

"Bye, Xander."

I ended the call, turned off the lamp beside me and collapsed onto the bed. I'll check for flights in the morning, I thought.

#

I barely managed to get a flight. I brought my luggage to the airport, and was surprised to see how empty it was. Flights to Europe were being delayed and no new flights were taking off to North America. The news was on the television screens posted around the airport. It relayed coverage of destroyed cities that I couldn't make out, and of a recent murder. I had run up to one of the terminals, the last North American flight with a green light beside it. It went to Seattle. Close enough, I thought. I just need to cross the border....

I had to negotiate with one of the security guards before I got on. They said they wouldn't take anyone else for the flight despite the fact that I had, indeed, a ticket.

"It's full," he said, crossing his arms and glaring at me.

I faked an American accent when I spoke with him. "My girlfriend's on there! Come on, man.... Lemme on!" Bloody hell, this man was thick.

"Let me see the ticket, then." The guard opened his hand. "But hurry."

"Yeah, yeah, one sec." I pulled out my wallet, this one with an American I.D., Nicholas Foster. The ticket was in the top pouch along with $300 in American cash. I pulled out the sheet of paper. "There. Happy?" I asked, annoyed.

The guard took the ticket and nodded. "Go ahead," he said, handing it back.

I rushed onto the plane and took a seat. I hadn't actually bought a ticket for the flight. Rather, I found a man hold it, heading for Seattle himself. I thought about using the sharpened, polymer knife in my pocket, but decided not to bring attention to myself. I paid him $2,000 instead.

I fell asleep on the flight, woken up a few times by the turbulence. Damn terrorist attacks. A pain in my arse.

#

When I got to Seattle, the sun was just setting and, well, rainy. I could see the sun set off in the horizon, but it was still dark out. Dark and rainy. I sighed. I didn't think too much of it. It was cooler than Argentina, I thought.

I walked outside to call Lexi. It felt a lot more like spring there....

"Hello?"

"It's Xander," I said, sitting down on a bench. "I couldn't get a flight to Vancouver.... I'm in Seattle."

I heard Lexi groan. "Really?" She laughed. "You want me to pick you up?" she offered.

I smiled. "Please."

"Give me two hours," she said. "I'll be there."

"Thanks, Lex."

"Anything, Xander." I ended the call and sighed. "Well, I've got two hours to kill," I muttered, looking around. Two bloody hours in Seattle.... And carrying around my luggage, too.... I thought about taking another nap, then decided against it. It probably wasn't a good idea to sleep too much.

I pulled it along to one of the cafes in the airport, parked it by a table and went to order myself something to eat. The coffee was the only thing keeping me awake.

There was a large flat screen TV just above the staircase. I sat at the table, watching the news that was playing. Sixty degrees Fahrenheit outside, raining all day. Heavy traffic heading out of the city. It was just normal, mundane stuff until the scenes switched to coverage of the same scene I saw in Buenos Aires. This time, though, I wasn't in a rush to leave.

The cities were almost completely flattened. There were a few metal and concrete structures jutting out from the ground and I was reminded of pictures from Hiroshima. London's MI6 and MI5 headquarters had a protected basement. Once the technology became available, they and 10 Downing St were the first to get an uplift.

I remember a man walking around that day, he was tall, had dark brown hair and a Welsh accent. He looked about twenty, and for some reason, everyone followed what he said. I had never seen him before, but apparently he was either well-respected or overall, a powerful person. I eventually found out who he was. His name was Lucas Blaire, I found out that day. What I also learned, was that along with the existence of supers, there were also wizards. Blaire was one of them.

The landscape I saw in front of me wasn't exactly pleasant, even for me. I sighed, then shook it off. Whoever did this was going to be hunted down like prey pretty damn soon. Not by me, no.... MI6, CIA, CSIS.... They won't need me.

Someone tapped me on my shoulder and I looked up. "Hm?" It was Lexi, her hair a bit messier than I last remembered it, but the same smile on her face. "Lexi!" I got up and hugged her. She still smelled the same. I grinned. "Thanks for picking me up."

"No problem," she said. "Got your stuff?"

"Yeah, it's right here. What time is it?" I asked.

"Just after eight," she replied, looking at one of the clocks on the TV. "Didn't bother looking?" she asked, pointing to the television screen.

"Lost track of time," I shrugged. "But let's go."

"Yeah, the airport's dead.... It's kinda creepy."

I nodded and grabbed my suitcase, dragging it outside as Lexi brought me to her car. It stopped raining, thankfully, but that didn't mean there weren't huge puddles on the ground. "I'm assuming we won't be back 'til late, huh?"

"Probably not." Lexi unarmed her car – a nice higher-end one – and opened the trunk for me. I dropped my luggage into the back and closed it. "I don't mind, I'm not going in for work for a while." She took the driver's seat and I sat down in the passenger's. I paused for a moment, realizing that something felt off.

"New car?" I asked, buckling myself in.

"Did you just notice that now?" Lexi raised an eyebrow and smirked at me. She put the car into drive. "So much for guys being the car-obsessed ones," she added, laughing.

I smiled. It had been at least over a year since I had seen her, and frankly, I missed it. I missed it a lot.

Ookayy, this one's a bit better. I guess. In my opinion. Problems I know of? It's unrealistic to get a plane flight after such a big terrorist attack... I'm not sure how to fix that right now, but it's there. Currently.