Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

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  Letter from K. A. BRYANT

  Copyright © <$2021> <$K. A. BRYANT>

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  CHAPTER ONE

  NO ONE NOTICES it smoldering beneath the front pew. Why would they? The soft crackle and pop of the flickering flame singes through the thick brown, textured paper sticking out of the charred, crumpled, leather purse beside the tattered remains of the best lead singer the church had ever had. Forensic specialists crunch broken glass shards trying to gingerly maneuver between mounds of charred debris on the blackened commercial carpet once padding the trod of an avid congregation.

  It was a stone relic and town landmark oozing history and archaic ambience. Now, the greatest tale of its history would be that it became the site of a heinous attack. It wasn’t fair that hundreds of years of positive presence should be erased by one act and even more unfair that the kind residents of the village would be a counted number as casualties.

  A trickle effect began at the inception of the first emergency call to the local authorities and dripped its way to MI-5 wetting everyone in between. Before wind of the incident completed its official whirl through the official ranks, live-feed videos sprouted like weeds on every social media platform worldwide.

  Major and minor social media influencers crammed the tube speeding toward the site live-feeding their ride and reaction to the news. Some, declared family members attended the service and their fans were locked to their mobile devices and pounded their keypads posting praying hands emojis vowing to stay online with them until the end. It was staggering how quickly the wave of revolting comments and insinuations saturated the online community. False photos claiming to be if the inside the church splashed as cover photos were nothing more than click-bait.

  In reality, the blast site was sealed and the first local constable arrived shortly after the blast and pushed back a row of eager mobile phone toting gawkers. He argued with several, raging about their right to be there and sputtering their number of followers that had the right to know what was going on. They enflamed the argument incessantly and accused him of trying to cover up a conspiracy.

  A few went as far as striking the round bellied, pug-faced officer in an emotional fit destined to go viral. They were arrested. Their details taken down and would be investigated thoroughly. How they learned of it so quickly was a mystery. Some claimed to have been passing. Others, to have seen the feed. As for the I. C. T., there was no chatter on the dark web about this. No inkling, whisper or suggestion of an upcoming terrorist attack.

  Three mobile phones buzzed furiously. The first, in the tidy, pleated, gray suit pant pocket of the MI-5 International Counter Terrorist Director in Chelsea on his terraced house doorstep on Oakley Street. Just having bolted the black front door with brushed silver knocker and knob, he stopped to read it letting the keys dangle in the silver lock.

  “Dear Lord,” he muttered. With an about-face, unlocked the door to his stately townhouse, ignoring his wife’s protest insistant that they not be late to church again. “Stay home today.” He says with a pointed finger. He ushered her inside and rushed down the stone steps with mobile device pressed to his ear toward his car.

  The second black mobile phone shook the keys beside it, in a dark wooden tray on the stark white kitchen cabinet of Agent Jason Jones of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The sound broke the blanket of silence in his empty townhome. He took a sip, put down his thick white coffee mug with a blue Bass fish painted on it, read the text, and forgot to swallow.

  The third, hummed for minutes determined to wake MI-5 Agent, Jean Buxley. It vibrated madly beside the toppled half-empty sleeping pill bottle on the dusty night stand. To her, it was a muffled purr. Like that of the neighbors cat beside the boxy flat’s window. It was a typical Monday which was her only day off. A frosty autumn morning and the heat was down in the flat again. The purring grew louder and broke her from sleep. Jean groaned and blindly groped for her mobile phone from beneath the toasty feather blanket. She pressed the button turning it off and let it fall to the frigid wood floor.

  The cold on her bare forearm and the crash of her lamp hitting the floor was dulled by the sleeping pills. A cold blast of wintery air slipped in beneath the blanket and Jean shivered then doubled and pulled it over her head burrowing herself into the dip in the mattress.

  It wasn’t there. A soft tear rises in the corner of her eye and quickly slips into the white floral pillowcase. She never recognized it until now. There was no soft clank from her periwinkle tea cup being placed on her night table before her eyes opened. A deep inhale and the fresh brewed coffee would rush up her nostrils. Then hard footsteps faded back into the kitchen. At the time, she thought that the coffee was the most important thing. It wasn’t. It was the footsteps. But, that was over now, and the blame was hers, alone.

  It took a little longer to dress than usual despite popping two painkillers set out the night before on the dusty cluttered night table. Confirmed, they really took longer to take effect and the relentless, nagging, piercing pain robbed her sleep. The sleep deprivation nearly drove her and everyone around her mad. It was a cruel dichotomy. The relationship between painkiller and sleeping pill. Where one failed, the other triumphed but the necessity for them left the user fragmented in their wake and always needing more.

  Curled beneath the lonely blankets, she imagines that her life is normal, ideal, and pleasant. Eyes closed, she imagines herself taking time off from work and shuffling up the steps of her mothers modest brown brick townhouse in Nottingham greeted by a warm concerned glare. She can feel her mother’s soft warm arm wrap around her back and support her as she steps inside the warm sun drenched home, met with fragrant lavender potpourri in the crystal dish on the hall table. Pictures of she and her mother dot the narrow hall on both sides and their footsteps are dulled by the thick runner rug beneath their feet leading to the bedroom. Her childhood bedroom preserved, frozen in time with rows of bedazzled diaries lined up on the book shelf beside a complete set of Nancy Drew series books with dog-eared brown pages. Faded hand-sized periwinkle wallpaper with white background peeked out between the dresser and bookcase. Every inch of it was smothered by drawings with the most sophisticated signature she could muster at nine years old.

  The air was musty, the room warm and cozy. She is lovingly tucked into the creaky bed then spoon-fed chicken soup beneath a patch quilt and imagines herself fading gently into sleep serenaded by her mothers humming while gently stroking her hair. An extraordinary, powerful medicine… love.

  But beneath her blankets, there was no hum and she hasn’t heard her mothers hum in years. Three to be exact. The moment Arden left, she was truly alone. Roughly, she wiped the tears away and shoved back the covers fo face her cold reality. The flat smelled of stale pizza and their cardboard boxes stacked on the dresser. Gratefully, her barefoot found the edge of the area rug barely sticking out beneath the bed and she shoves her mobile phone with her foot, picked it up and read the text. Jean raised the phone to hurl it, squeezed it tightly instead, then tossed it onto the rumpled bed.

  A quick shower and tussle of her hair, she pulled on a warm form fitting black shirt, jeans and thick, tan, speckled boot socks. She grabbed her favorite thick knit scarf, swung it around her neck and pulled on her jacket. The fat pill bottle rattled as she dropped it into her black leather backpack style purse. She snatches it off of the dresser and there it was, staring at her. A page of parchment-like paper with rough edges. She slid it into the drawer, slammed it shut and snatched up the car keys, her short, bitten nails scratching against the rustic wood finish.

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