Kindle Edition
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Crooked Cat Publishing
Type: Fiction
Pages: 176
Copyright: Oct 20, 2015
Price: $3.36 (eBook)
Crime thriller featuring the 'avenging Cat'. Sequel to Catalyst.
Catacomb, a subterranean cemetery: a place where ancient corpses are found – or new ones are dumped.
After their recent success in Barcelona, Cat and Rick continue their vendetta against Loup Malefice and his global company, Cerberus, penetrating the lair of Petra Grimalkin in Nice.
But death stalks the pair, as do the dogs of law from the NCA, Basset and Pointer.
Cat’s trail of vengeance next leads to the Cerberus health food processing plant in the Maghreb. She puts her skills to good use in Morocco where she again confronts the psychotic killer, Zabala.
From the exotic streets of Tangier to the inhospitable High Atlas Mountains, danger lurks and a deadly ambush awaits…
Excerpt
Nice, France
Despite the drizzle, due to the residual heat of the day the roof sent steam spiralling. A light breeze from the sea spat rain against Cat as she swung over the lip of the roof’s guttering. Suspended at full stretch, she landed with both feet on the narrow ledge. Her Nike soles provided sufficient purchase on the marble surface. She turned and straightened; her backpack pressed against the dark window. She was already drenched, her black jeans and cotton T-shirt clinging uncomfortably; tied in a ponytail, her dyed blonde hair would appear dark.
June was the start of summer here and the forecast had been accurate enough: halfway through the month and this was the second day that it had rained. Now, she looked around. The evenings were not dark. Chuck Marston, her instructor had inculcated into her that if she had a choice: when at risk of being in full view, she should scale a building in wet weather. Her target apartment block qualified in that regard, as it was on the Promenade des Anglais, overlooking the beach and the sea, so on this occasion the rain, while dispiriting, was welcome. It averted the inquisitive eyes of any passing pedestrians.
Four storeys below was the dual carriageway; the desultory traffic moved to her right, headlights glittering, rear lights like red eyes. In the central reservation, grass and palm trees wafted under subdued lighting, and then vehicles streamed in the other direction, alongside the promenade. Beyond was the sea, grey and uninviting. Ornate street lamps shimmered in the drizzle with halos of buttery light; thin streamers of steam meandered from the paving slabs.
This sill was on the fifth floor, too low to wear a parachute, but high enough to kill her should she fall. Directly below were the windows for each storey, a sheer drop to the pavement and stacked tables and chairs. The sill itself was a marble ornamentation for the top of the window beneath. Down to her right was a balcony accessed by three French windows; on its left, a single balcony and glass door topped with the same sill decoration; light glowed but she knew the apartment was empty. Four more single balconies were beneath that; they would serve as her exit route.
She had considered using a rope to drop onto the balcony, but she knew from experience that dangling from a saturated rope was tricky at the best of times. It would have made her getaway easier, true; but there was also the risk of the rope being spotted as it dangled from the roof for as long as she was inside. She was confident in her ability to descend a balcony at a time without being observed.
Petra Grimalkin’s apartment was the one with the single balcony. The distance from this sill to Grimalkin’s upper sill was six feet. In dry conditions, she’d be quite sanguine about jumping. But the likelihood of slipping on the wet surface was high. The thought of the rope niggled; she shrugged it off as she was now fully committed. Nothing for it, she’d have to jump onto the single balcony. Many apartment and hotel blocks on this thoroughfare possessed balconies attached all the way along their frontage; but a few, like this one, resisted that temptation to burglars.
Taking a deep breath, she eased her toes to the lip of the sill, leaned out, braced her knees and then sprang out and down. She cleared the black metal railing and landed firmly on the patterned tiles with a resonant thudding sound. She crouched, motionless.
Nobody had heard her or seen her silhouetted against the French window, which was lit from inside.
Opening her belt pouch, she grabbed a slim lock-pick. The apartment door was alarmed, she knew from earlier reconnaissance. But the French window wasn’t. Within seconds, she opened the door, stepped inside, glad to get out of the rain. She shut the door behind her as a strong cloying mixture of perfume smells hit her; she shouldn’t be surprised, since one of Grimalkin’s roles was as head of Cerberus’ Cosmetics Division.
Hastily, she removed from her pack a sheet of polythene, unfolded it and stood on it, so the drips of rain that slid off her would collect there. She unfastened her belt and its pouches, lowered them to the plastic, and these were followed by the backpack. She slipped off her shoes, stripped to her black underwear, removed a small towel and dried herself, all the while studying the long lounge-dining room.
Overhead lights were on, as she’d noted from the rooftop; the bedrooms and bathroom were also lit. Petra Grimalkin wasn’t cost-conscious or ecologically concerned about wasted electricity.
Immediately in front of her was the apartment door that opened onto the corridor, complete with spyhole. To her left was a dining table, six chairs, a wall-mounted TV screen, two armchairs, and beyond were three open doors; apartment plans indicated these led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. On her right was a walnut drinks bar with two matching stools.
A red light flickered on the answerphone on the bar counter, next to a large empty silver ice bucket. Cat resisted the urge to check it. Instead, she hunkered down and from another belt pouch she retrieved her mobile phone, and fitted the earpiece. She selected Rick’s number, and when he answered, whispered, “I’m in.”
He let out a sigh in her ear. “Good. I reckon you’ve got an hour, that’s all. Zabala’s supposed to be bringing Petra back then.” He’d only been in Petra’s apartment once, before he’d met Cathy, but on that occasion he had located the safe – behind the bar unit.
“Back from where?” Cat queried.
“The invitation was for the pair of them to visit an art show, given by one of Loup’s protégés. Then they have to return, collect their bags and fly on to Tangier.”
“Gadabouts.”
Rick chuckled.
Now, Cat noticed a couple of red Samsonite suitcases standing at the nearest bedroom door. She heard a shower dripping, as if in counterpoint to the rain that pattered against the windows.
She tugged on a pair of latex gloves and then padded across the thick pile carpet, the sensation quite pleasurable for her bare slightly damp feet. She lowered to one knee and swung open a cupboard door. Inside she recognised the type of safe, with its distinctive handle and combination wheel. “Found it.”
“Glad it’s still there!”
“Me, too. I’ll be in touch.” She closed the call and tucked the phone in her briefs. Now, for the first time, she would test her safe-cracking skill in earnest. Compared to her other pursuits, this had taken what seemed like an inordinate time to master. At least Chuck was a patient instructor, and his training had been intensive.
***
Her previous encounters with Cerberus had convinced her that if she was serious about continuing her vendetta, she needed to learn safe-cracking. Five months ago, Rick had said rather sheepishly, “I might know the man who can help you.” Chuck Marston was one of the useful contacts in Rick’s little green book. “My father says Chuck has proven useful from time to time. He’s an American, a retired jewel thief.”
“Can we afford to pay him?” she’d asked.
“He’s retired – on his ill-gotten gains, I imagine. He doesn’t need money.”
“Will he help me?”
“Let’s try him and see.”
“Sure, your proposition sounds intriguing, son,” Chuck replied over the phone. “Let’s do dinner. You pay.” He named a medium priced restaurant off the beaten track, and they met outside.
Chuck was five-foot nothing, thin and wiry with a pot belly. He was in his early sixties, she reckoned, and he was balding, with tufts of unruly grey hair over his ears. White hair sprouted from his ears and nostrils. He had long drawn features, with drooping eyebrows and a lined forehead. His hazel eyes flashed mischievously as he spoke; she liked him immediately.
As she shook his hand she felt his skin was dry, leathery. “Never mind these hands, honey,” he said, speaking round an unlit cigar. “They’ve got like that due to fondling over a thousand metal mistresses.” The pads at his fingertips seemed unusually smooth. “I managed to unlock the mystery of every one of them.” He winked. “If you pay attention, you can do the same.”
“Then I will pay attention, Mr Marston,” she responded.
He chuckled. “Good. I like your no-nonsense attitude, Cathy. We’ll get along fine. Oh, and call me Chuck. That’s the drill.”
“Was that a joke, Chuck?”
“No, honey, I don’t joke about my name. I have a reputation, you know. Fortunately, it’s all based on scores that have passed the statute of limitations.” He winked again.
He shoved the cigar in his top pocket, led the way into the restaurant. The maître d’ clearly knew him and showed all three of them to a secluded table. A bottle of champagne was chilling in its bucket on a stand.
The sommelier charged their flutes and then they were left alone to decide on their order.
Chuck opened the menu, leaned back in his chair. “The deal’s off, by the way.”
Cat eyed him. “We haven’t arrived at a deal yet.”
He grinned at both of them. “I like the pair of you. The meal’s on me.”
“That’s generous of you,” Rick said, “but—”
“No, Rick,” Cat interrupted, “let Chuck pay. If we’re going to learn from him, we need to do as he says.”
Chuck chortled. “Hot damn, you’re on the ball, Cathy. That’s precisely it!”
“As I said, Chuck, I pay attention.” She opened her menu.
***
After she opened the safe, she pulled the phone from her briefs and photographed where everything lay. She whistled softly. On the shelf were several thick bundles of pristine fifty-euro notes amounting to €500,000. At the back, behind the money, was a black velvet bag. She opened it, poured into her palm a diamond necklace and an exquisite gold filigree brooch with a diamond at its centre. It was tempting to take some of this loot, if not all, but she didn’t want anyone to know that the safe’s contents had been compromised. On the floor of the safe were five folders. Fortunately, Petra Grimalkin was Malefice’s bag-lady as well as one of his heads of division, so carried important documents when accompanying her boss; that fact had prompted this latest break-in. Cat grabbed all of the folders and stood at the bar, checking the titles.
Tangier
Marrakesh
Rome
Durban
Izmir
Rick had mentioned Tangier; she wondered if he’d heard of Cerberus operations in these other places. She shrugged; no matter. A quick flick through them revealed that every folder contained a half-dozen sheets; they might prove useful in her ongoing war of attrition against Loup Malefice and his organisation.
Cat diligently photographed each document from the folders, then replaced them as she’d found them, checking with the photo on her phone. She shut the safe door, twirled the combination wheel. Petra Grimalkin wouldn’t be aware that anyone had tampered with the contents of her safe.
“I’ve got the full details,” she informed Rick.
“Good. Now, please get out.” She loved him for that, the measure of concern in his tone. Not strident, but firm.
She returned to the bundle of clothing and her shoes on the polythene sheet. They were still wet, understandably, and a small puddle surrounded them. She dabbed the towel in the puddle, absorbing most of the rainwater, glanced around and spotted the ice bucket and bundled her jeans, T-shirt and towel in there, then carried it to the bathroom. She’d squeeze the surplus water into the bidet. The clothing would be marginally easier to put on then.
She passed the two suitcases at the bedroom doorway, glanced in.
The bedding was in disarray. She stopped, puzzled. Perfume bottles lay scattered over the top of the dressing table, a few of them broken. The smell was pungent, even from here.
Maybe Petra and Zabala had argued.
She stepped into the bathroom and instantly dropped the ice bucket. Luckily, it missed her toes by inches; it emitted a ringing sound as it rolled over the tiles.
Cat gagged, felt the bile rising, kicked aside her wet clothes and the ice bucket and rushed to the bidet on her right. She was just in time. Her lunch erupted, her stomach suddenly cramping. She ran the tap, careful not to send the water-stream full force, and washed away her weakness. She clutched the porcelain rim; her heart pounded against her chest as she leaned over. Gradually, she sensed her pulse slow and turned off the water. The strong perfume smell throughout the apartment couldn’t alleviate the powerful stench of vomit in her nostrils.
Snagging a toilet roll from the rack next to the bidet, she tore off sections and wiped her mouth and nose and then discarded it in the WC bowl, and flushed it away.
She got to her feet, stood on wobbly legs.
Trembling, she stared, her heart fluttering. She’d never seen anything like this. Ever. She fumbled at her briefs, gripped the phone. Selected Rick, punched dial.
“Are you out yet?” Rick asked.
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “Did you see them both leave?” she demanded, her throat raw, dry, her voice croaking.
“What, Zabala and Petra?”
“Yes, dammit!”
“What’s the matter, Cathy?”
“Well, did you?”
“No, I’m going on what I overheard in the lobby… Why, what’s wrong?”
“Petra never went to the art show.” Cat stared at Petra Grimalkin, her naked body eviscerated, lying in the open shower cubicle. A small trickle of blood dribbled off her soaked corpse and snaked towards the plughole. “She’s dead – murdered.”
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