Justice

As a journalist, there are times when you have to ask yourself, “Is it right to publish this story? Does it really serve the public?” It's at times like that that you find out just what kind of journalist you are. Are you in it for the money? The fame? Or because you want to seek out the truth and bring it into the harsh light of day.

Two days ago I had to ask myself that very same question, when I witnessed what the police have labelled a 'tragic accident' that cost two as yet still unidentified men their lives. I'm sure that there are those who would like the 'accident' to remain just that, but I feel that it is important that the public know just what's happening on the streets of London.

London is no stranger to unexpected events; things that those in positions of power would like to see swept under the carpet. Even in the early years of the 21st Century, when the capital is covered by more CCTV cameras than any other city on Earth, there are still some areas that remain unmonitored, free from the all-seeing eye.

Tom Meier looked at his laptop for a moment, wondering if he was making the biggest mistake of his life, or if this would turn out to be the story that made his name, and propel him from his dingy little basement office and on to the newsroom floor, where he knew he belonged. Reporters dreamed of the type of scoop he had; no one else had been at the right place at the right time, and with the sense to keep to the shadows, or the instinct to capture everything on the small camera built into his mobile phone.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose to try and relive some of the tension building up there, he went back to work.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning: it was supposed to be a short-cut home, a way to avoid the Underground at rush hour and maybe get a little exercise. Not surprisingly for that part of the city, many of the street lights were dead, casting deep shadows in the evening gloom. It was in one of these dark pools that I stopped to tie my shoelace, and that might be what saved my life.

I'm not sure which I heard first; the unmistakable sound of gunfire or the roar of a high performance engine as the silver BMW rounded the corner on two wheels. The moment I saw a man leaning out of the passenger side door, firing a semi-automatic back the way they'd came I ducked as deep into the shadows as I could, looking up just in time to see a large, black 4x4 fishtail round the corner, demolishing a rubbish bin. Someone dressed totally in black, and wearing a balaclava style mask was standing up though the open sunroof and firing at the BMW with a sub-machinegun.

A burst of gunfire hit the rear of the BMW, blowing out both tires and sending it crashing into a bus stop. The man leaning out the window was thrown clear by the force of impact and hit the ground hard, his head bent at an unnatural angle. The other door was kicked open and the driver half climbed, half stumbled out, likewise with a gun in hand.

In my many years as a reporter, I have seen men and women die before; road accidents, train derailments and terrorist attacks. But I had never, until that night, seen a human being shot and killed with my own eyes. The 4x4 skidded to a halt between my hiding place and the wreck of the BMW. The figure leaning out the sunroof ducked as the injured driver fired a shot in defence, then returned fire with a devastatingly accurate burst that knocked the man off his feat. The drivers door on the 4x4 opened and a much larger figure stepped out and walked over to the injured man.

A single gunshot wrung out as another life was ended on our cities streets.

Both occupants of the 4x4 then made their way over to the BMW, slowly, as if they expected more trouble, then opened the rear door and reached in side. I didn't get a good look at the occupants face, but he appeared to be in his late forty's, maybe early fifties, and dressed in a finely tailored grey suit. He was spun round and pushed up against the side of the car and roughly handcuffed before being dragged back towards the 4x4, while the smaller of his two black-clad assailants collected the guns dropped by their victims and then claimed into the drivers seat. The 4x4 took off to the north, turning left and the end of the road, keeping to the posted speed limit.

I have no idea what I saw, but I do know that the police covered up what was evidently a double murder in the very heart of London. The claim that the only CCTV camera watching the street was down for maintenance sounds, in the light of what I saw, highly suspect to say the least.

The sound of movement from the flats small kitchen brought Meier back to reality and he looked up just as a a shadow passed over the doorway. He looked around the room for a weapon, finally grabbing his umbrella from its place beside the door. Treading as softly as he could, he edged his way towards the kitchen.

“There's no need for that, honestly.” A softly spoken female voice informed him as part of the shadows detached to form an attractive woman in her late twenties, dressed head to toe in black, holding a steaming mug of tea in each hand, “If I wanted you dead, you would never have heard me.”

Meier took a step back and examined the woman; she stood a few inches shorter than he did, and her golden blonde hair was tied back into a simple ponytail. Her expression was warm, and he detected no hint of danger in her hazel eyes.

“I'm sorry, but I'm sure I locked the door when I came in.” He lowered the umbrella, but kept a tight grip on it, “How did you get in here?”

“Threw the bathroom window.” The woman explained as she stepped past him into the living room, putting one mug of tea down next to the laptop, “You really should lock that; you never know who's about these days.”

“Who the hell are you?” Meier asked, agitated by her relaxed attitude to breaking and entering, “And why the hell shouldn't I call the police?”

“Well, the police have better things to do with their time then get involved in the sort of mess arresting me would drop them in.” The woman sat in the over stuffed armchair by the fireplace, “And as to who I am, well, you can call me Angel if you like.”

“You still haven't explained what the hell you're doing here!” Meier stormed after her, stopping the other side of the coffee table.

“I'm here because of that story you're writing for that tabloid rag you work for.” Angel explained, sipping her tea, “You have no idea of the size of what you've stumbled upon. Or how much trouble I was in when they discovered someone saw what happened, and I didn't notice them.” She cocked her head to the side, “I should commend you on that; I normally have excellent night vision, but I never had a clue you were there.”

“Oh my god; you're one of them.” Meier dropped the umbrella in shock, “Are you here to kill me?”

“No; I was sent to recover any evidence you might have had.” Angel smiled softly, “But I have a better idea. You want a story? I'll give you the biggest story of the last sixty years.”

“What do you mean?” Meier sat down, his instincts telling him that he was onto something huge.

“You probably think that MI5 or the CIA or some other well known agency was behind what you saw.” Angel put her mug down and took a deep breath, “What I'm about to tell you could easily cost me my life, so I want you to pay attention. I work, somewhat reluctantly, for an organisation known only as JUSTICE. We are above and beyond any nation, even the UN. We work in secret and are answerable to no one. We don't work for anyone; only for the high ideals of justice and that no one, no matter who they are or how well connected they may be, is above the law.”

“Nice sales pitch.” Meier snorted, “But I still don't believe you.”

“The man you think you saw kidnapped is called Otto Von Burgstad, an international arms dealer of some renown.” Angel continued, “He specialises in weapons that are normally banned by international treaty's. He is allowed to do so because he is protected by several governments that have made use of his services in the past.”

“If he's so well protected, how come this JUSTICE organisation, if it even exists, was able to go after him?”

“JUSTICE has files on every government and major political movement on the planet; we know where all the bodies are buried, both literally and metaphorically. This is enough to stop most governments from interfering in our operation's, and they know that while the target we go after today my be a friend, the one we set our sights on tomorrow may just as easily be an enemy.”

“That I can understand.” Meier picked up a pen and paper, making shorthand notes, “But how did you get involved in all of this? It doesn't sound like the kid of job they advertise at the local Job Centre.”

“You don't apply to join JUSTICE: you're selected.” Angel took a deep breath, “I have no memory of anything that took place between my fifteenth and seventeenth birthdays. All I know is that at some point in that two year period I did something very, very bad: something that would normally have seen me spending the rest of my life in prison. JUSTICE offered me a way out, if I agreed to spend the next twenty-five years working for them. Evidently, I agreed, as they removed two years of my long-term memory and filled the space up with training and skills, gutting the time needed to train me to just two years. That time does not count towards the time I owe them; they still own me for the next twenty years.”

“What's to stop you just walking away?” Meier asked.

“They implanted a microscopic tracking device somewhere in my body; I don't know where. I only know that it is undetectable by any of the usual means, and doesn't set of airport metal detectors.” Angel explained, “It just sits there, doing nothing, until a JUSTICE satellite sends the signal to activate it. Once that is done, they can track me to within half a meter, anywhere on the planet. I've seen what they do to people who run; it's aimed at discouraging others, at reminding you that while you may be allowed to live a seemingly normal life, they own you.”

“And the people you, what, arrest?” Meier sounded sceptical, “What happens to them?”

“They're given a fair trial, a chance to plead their case before a Tribunal. Those who make their case and are found innocent are release, but watched. Lying to the Tribunal results in instant commencement of sentence, no mater what it is.” Angel finished the last of her tea, “Those who are found guilty are sent to a place known only as The Island for execution of sentence. For most, that means life imprisonment with no chance of parole, unless they are recruited as agents. For those who have committed the worst offences,” She hesitated for a moment, “well, let's just say that they won't be bothering anyone else ever again.”

“Secret tribunals? Secret island prisons?” Meier sounded sceptical, “Just who pays for all of this, if you really aren't affiliated with any countries?”

“Truth be told, I don't know.” Angel got up and walked over to the window; rain was falling in unending sheets, making the night seem even darker than it was, “All I know is that JUSTICE has more money than God and the connections to match. Hell, I could probably walk into White House, into the Oval Office itself and put a bullet through the Presidents head, and as long as it was a JUSTICE sanctioned operation, the Secret Service would hold the door open for me on the way out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Meier asked as he looked at the pages of notes he'd made, “ Surely you realise that they know you were the one who told me this when the story comes out?”

“Because I had to tell someone,” Angel turned, a gun appearing in her hand as if from nowhere, “and I'm afraid that this is one story you're never going to get to publish.”

There was a low hiss, and Meier felt something strike him in his right shoulder. He looked down to see a large dart sticking out of his arm, but when he went to pull it out, he found his hand refused to move. He looked up at Angel, but his question came out as a croak.

“It's just a tranquilliser.” She explained, “Not enough to kill you, but enough so you won't interfere with what I have to do.” Grabbing his laptop, she quickly read the half completed story and shock her head, “You were waisted at that rag.” She opened the CD-ROM and slipped a disk in, “I know the journalist in you is bound to ask, and I suppose there's no harm in telling you that this is a very precisely programmed worm that will seek out any files you've created or uploaded in the last twenty-four hours and permanently erase them.” She picked up his mobile phone, her gloved hands moving across the keys, “Fortunately, this is a little easier.” She found the photo's from the night before, “Erase, and it's like they were never there.”

Slumping to his side, Meier could only watch as Angel walked back into the kitchen and put the two mugs into the dishwasher, before blowing out the pilot light on the boiler. The smell of escaping gas started to fill the tiny flat as Angel returned to the living room and pocketed the notebook filled with her confession. She then pulled what looked like a matchbox from her pocket and placed it on the table.

“When I open this, a chemical reaction will begin that will take about five minutes to reach the point of ignition. By then there should be enough gas in here to leave very little for the fire brigade to find.” She explained, before pulling the dark out of Meier's shoulder, “I just want you to know, this isn't personal, but I've got a husband and daughter whose lives would be put in danger if your story got out.”

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Angel had just stepped into the entrance to the local tube station when the explosion filled the night sky with flame and broken glass, raining down on the thankfully deserted streets. She didn't even look back as the first siren sounded, heralding the arrival of the emergency services. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a perfectly normal looking mobile phone and pressed the speed-dial.

“It's done.” She reported as soon as it was picked up at the other end.

“I knew I could count on you to take care of it.” A deep voice answered, “You're a natural.”

“Go to hell, Donovan.” She hissed back.

“Relax, Marissa; you've earned yourself some time off.” The voice chuckled, “Go home, see Marcus and Holly, decompress. I might have another mission for you in a week or two. Until then, you can forget about being our little Angel of Death.”

The End