Carter's Recourse - 8. Chapter 8

The car that met her coming down from her office was one of the old Mercedes. Her regular car had apparently broken down overnight and had been taken to the mechanics. It meant she had to take one of the regular cars but that didn't bother her much; she preferred the lines of the old Mercedes over the Lincolns, they looked more stately in her opinion.

She nodded to Kyle, her usual driver, who was smiling as he held the door open for her. She handed him her briefcase as she got into the backseat, tucking her skirts under her as she did so and accepting the briefcase he handed back to her.

Kyle was a consummate professional, and she had been glad to be able to keep him when she had accepted the post of Deputy Prime Minister after the last election. Not bad for a woman who had grown up in Edmonton; she was being chauffeured around by a young man that, had she been twenty years younger, she would have seriously considered marrying.

Now that would be a scandal, she mused as the car started and set out into the Ottawa night. The Prime Minister would pitch a fit, and if she were lucky, die of a heart attack making her the second Female Prime Minister in the history of Canada. Not that she had any such aspirations, but it was a nice fantasy after yet another long night of toiling over proposals and cabinet notes.

"Another hard day, Ma'am?" Kyle asked her in his clipped English accent. Yet another reason she preferred him, he fit the part of a driver down to a tee.

"Yes, I'll be glad to be home," she admitted. "Can we take the Queensway tonight, Kyle? I would like to be home early."

"Of course, Ma'am," Kyle said with a smile into the rearview mirror. She often asked him to take the Queensway home; it saved considerable time instead of fighting their way down Rideau Street.

He turned the car up Elgin Street passing the war memorial and settled in for the drive home.

* * *

Johnson turned the car onto Elgin Street, accelerating to put him a couple of cars behind the black Mercedes. He was glad that at least something that night was going according to plan. He glanced at his partner; the man was sitting quietly, a true professional. They had worked together before, and if luck held out that night, they would again.

He switched his foot to the accelerator and tailed the Mercedes as it passed the National Arts Centre and the courthouse heading for the highway.

* * *

Across the street Will and Andrew walked calmly up Elgin Street. They'd shared a nice meal and it was now Will's turn to provide dessert. He had a favourite little coffee place called 'oh so good,' whose name best described the amazing selection of cakes and desserts they often stocked.

"So, do you have any plans for the weekend?" Andrew inquired as they crossed the street.

Will glanced at the black American-made car that purred beside him as he crossed in front of it. He exchanged a look with the driver and kept walking, there was something about the way the driver made eye contact over his sunglasses that made Will pause a second, but he dismissed it as idle fancy. "I don't know," he focused again on Andrew, "I was thinking about going to Toronto for the weekend; I am supposed to be there tomorrow to meet with my constituents in the afternoon."

"Nice," Andrew said. "I'm actually going there for work. Perhaps if we co-ordinate we could head down there together."

Will blinked at the coincidence, "Well, I normally fly and I know you prefer to drive..."

"I'll make an exception," Andrew said, offering Will a bright smile. "It'll give me a chance to spend some real time with you."

Will took a heavy breath, wondering if that was such a good idea. But since Marc was probably staying in Ottawa, it wouldn't hurt. They were old friends traveling together, no big deal, right?

"Ok, sounds like fun," Will said with a long sigh.

"Good," Andrew said with a smile.

* * *

At the club, Becky got up. "I have to use the washroom." She looked expectantly at Peter who was engrossed in his conversation with Tyler. It was their first chance to talk without the pressures of school and pretending to be who they weren't.

Peter laughed at one of Tyler's jokes completely oblivious to what Becky had asked. "Hey," he said leaning in again, "remember when Mister Greenwood found that drawing of him and..."

"That was you?" Tyler asked with a broad grin. "I always thought that was one of the art students getting back at him for all those pop quizzes. Man, you can really draw!"

"Excuse me?" Becky said again, "Girl...washroom here?"

"Just a sec," Peter said waving her off again. "Ok, tell me, what about when..."

"Hey!" Becky said loudly, stamping her foot a little. "Listen Romeo, I'm glad you're getting along with prince charming here," she grinned at Tyler sweetly, "but I need to pee and there is no way I am going to go alone in here."

Tyler's face fell a bit, but he smiled, "It's ok, I'm not going anywhere."

Peter smiled warmly. "Ok, cool..." he looked up at Becky and grinned happily getting up to go with her. "You stay put," he said turning back to Tyler, "I'll be..." Becky began to tug on his arm, "...right back."

"Okay, okay, I get the picture, you gotta go," he said with a grin as they walked down the stairs towards where the washrooms were. "But why do I have to go with you?"

She rolled her eyes, "Why do girls go to the bathroom in pairs?"

Peter looked at her blankly, "I have no clue."

"To talk about guys!" she said indignantly.

"I'd rather stay and actually talk to the guy..." Peter said looking upstairs wistfully.

"Oh come on," she said holding onto his arm as they turned, to find a broad-shouldered guy blocking their way.

They drew up and turned to get out of his way, finding another guy behind them.

"Excuse us," Becky said politely.

"No," the guy said, lifting the edge of the coat he was carrying to show the gun. "I suggest you come quietly and do as you're told, or pretty boy there'll..." he touched the grip of the pistol threateningly as he let the coat fall back to cover it.

* * *

The car turned eastwards accelerating up to speed as it switched lanes to get into the fast lane. The black car slipping into the lane behind them, accelerating as well to match speeds as they passed slower traffic.

Johnson looked at his partner and nodded, as the man lifted his briefcase up into his lap and flipped it open; pulling out pieces he began to slap together into an oddly-shaped weapon. It was bulkier than a standard gun, heavily modified and awkwardly shaped.

The man reached into the case again and pulled out a single bullet that vaguely resembled a shotgun slug and slid it into the breach, which he locked and loaded. He glanced at Johnson to indicate that he was ready.

Johnson nodded and floored the accelerator closing the distance between the two cars; he flashed his brights a couple of times and smiled grimly as the man beside him opened the passenger side window, the roar of wind around the car was nearly deafening, but they both tuned it out. Focusing on what had to be done.

* * *

"What the devil?" Kyle murmured as he caught the flash of brights behind him, and he glanced back at the car rushing up on them.

He shrugged; some people were always in too much of a rush. They felt they alone had the right to the road and to hell with everyone else. It always bothered him, especially about Ottawa.

He flipped on his indicator and changed lanes to let the car pass him. He looked up long enough to see the passenger of the car looking at him and raise something that was vaguely reminiscent of a radar gun.

There was a bright flash of light followed by a crash.

* * *

The crash was spectacular, the Mercedes veered to the right sharply, careening into the crash barrier, its front end collapsing in upon itself as the rear end maintained its momentum and flipped the car end over end sending it up and over the crash barrier into oncoming traffic.

The first car to hit it never even saw the black tangled wreck coming, it collided with full force sending the Mercedes skywards again as the second car plowed into the median. The transport truck behind it had enough time to slam on its brakes, but the full weight of a fully loaded trailer jackknifed and kept its forward momentum as it smashed into the side of the Mercedes as it came back down the second time, the smaller car plowed under the truck's frontend as both wrecked vehicles came to a rest.

* * *

A computer logged on at a prearranged time, its operator glancing over the screen as he stroked a few keys inputting a string of commands and sitting back to watch as the mainframe computer behind him began to hack its way through several layers of security. He'd written a custom program for exactly this purpose, and he was confident in its abilities.

Within moments he was in the right place; he glanced down at the notebook beside his computer, brushing off a couple of Doritos from it and checking the bank account numbers as he began to punch them into the system.

He looked up at his screen squinting as he made a few corrections, scooping up his mug of coffee and taking a drink as he watched his handiwork complete its job.

When it was done, he smiled as he logged off the system and closed down the computer; picking up his phone he made a quick call.

"Done," he said into the receiver as he got up and made ready to go home. He was getting a nice bonus for this little bit of overtime and it would go a long way towards paying down his mortgage.

* * *

Marc paused a second to snap Blake's picture, winding on the film in his Nikon camera, as they wandered down towards Sparks Street and the next bar on their 'expedition'.

"Do you have to take pictures of everything?" Blake complained; pleasantly drunk, the neo-goth writer swayed a little as he led the way towards the bar.

Marc shrugged, frowning at his camera as he adjusted the focus of the lens; it was an old camera, but it had been dependable and had gotten him most of the way through his first year of his degree. That and it had been a gift from Will and that alone made the camera special.

"You never know when the perfect shot will turn up," Marc said, stepping back. "Like this one..." he snapped a picture of Blake's vacant expression.

"Hey!" Blake pushed the camera away, "not when I'm drunk."

"Best time for embarrassing pictures," Marc explained. "Where's this bar?"

Blake gestured, "Just down Sparks, across from the HMV... it's under the bank."

"Right," Marc said shaking his head; the rate gay bars opened and closed in Ottawa it was no wonder he'd never heard of this one. He sighed as he checked his watch, Will would probably be home by now, doing his usual paper work, or watching something mindless on television.

"He's not going to disappear you know," Blake said as they crossed Bank street and started the last block to Sparks.

"What?" Marc asked, tilting his ball cap back a bit on his head.

"Will. You were looking at your watch trying to work out where he'd be..." Blake shook his head. "You always do that."

Marc looked up, chewing on his lip thoughtfully, "Yeah, I guess I do..." He offered a weak shrug, "Guess he's on my mind a lot."

"When's the wedding?" Blake asked, nudging his short friend.

Marc squared his shoulders, "Fall--I wanted to do it when the leaves change colour."

"Photo-geek," Blake accused.

"Drunk writer," Marc retorted. "Shit, I sound like a girl." He touched his hand to his cheek and pitched a falsetto, "And I want bridesmaids...and a cake..."

Blake laughed, "I'm a bridesmaid, right? I can shave my legs... and..." He stopped and grinned, "You're a lucky guy, you know that right? Will's great."

"He has his moments," Marc nodded, lifting his camera. "Hey, target twelve o'clock," he nodded in the direction of a girl in a dress, and a young guy in a tuxedo being herded into a van.

"What are they doing?" Blake asked.

"Not sure," Marc snapped a picture and dropped the camera back down. "Probably a RIDE program bus or something, they don't want people drinking and driving."

The van rumbled off as the two young men walked up to the street corner, Marc staring thoughtfully after the van, "Looks like we missed them, can we go home now?"

* * *

Will gestured with his fork at Andrew. "It's really not that bad," he said, taking another bite of a cheesecake that was varying degrees of chocolate. "I mean, he's a good guy; it's just..."

Andrew winked, a smug look on his face, one that said I told you so without the actual words. "He's driving you nuts."

"In a word?" Will said with a sigh. "Yeah." He looked up at Andrew;"I was never that bad, right?"

Andrew smirked at him and sipped his tea.

"Well I wasn't," Will protested.

Again Andrew said nothing, only sat and smiled.

Will blew out a frustrated sigh, "You know, you're just as bad as Brody sometimes. He can be a grade-A jackass as well when he wants to be." He stood up and walked over to the counter to get another cup of coffee, starting as a couple of police cars roared up the road, sirens blaring.

Andrew for his part jumped in his seat, already walking towards the door where a couple of surprised customers were standing in shock staring after the cars. He fished through his pocket for his cell phone and checked it.

Will shrugged, not thinking too much of it, adding cream and sugar to his coffee as Andrew came back to the table, "Well on that note I think I should finish this coffee and head home. I'm beat and I have a long day tomorrow."

"I promised you a drive," Andrew reminded, not sitting down as he stood a little uneasily.

"Ok," Will replied, standing up and draining his cup in a couple of gulps. Too many years of coffee drinking, he thought to himself as he looked at Andrew, "Shall we?"

* * *

Paul Schofield's eyes snapped open as the phone beside his bed began to ring. He'd been looking forward to a nice quiet night at home after a long assignment abroad. Supposedly it was a chance to catch up on his sleep and shake off his jet lag while not thinking about work. But like any trained reporter, he'd become used to late night calls. And despite the fact it had been the chief reason behind his second divorce, he'd never unplugged the phone.

He grumbled as he sat up in bed his fingers fumbling for the light switch to turn on the lamp, glancing at the clock and grumbling as he wrested the phone from its cradle. It was probably a copy editor with a question about his latest article. Something inane about whether he meant to put a comma instead of a period at the end of a sentence.

"Yes, hello?" he asked suppressing a yawn that came anyway.

"I have proof that the Minister for Foreign affairs has embezzled government money," the voice said on the other end of the line.

"What?" Schofield asked, suddenly sitting bolt upright wide awake. "Who is this?"

"Are you interested in the story or not?" the voice pressed, cold and emotionless.

"Yes, of course, but what kind of proof?" Paul reached for his tape recorder. And slipping a tape into it.

"I have faxed the proof to your office, you can check it on your own." The phone clicked off before Paul could successfully switch on his tape recorder.

"Damn," he murmured hanging up the phone. He got up and began to get dressed, so much for sleeping.

* * *

As he hung up the phone Johnson looked across at the couple of scared kids that were tightly bound with bags over their heads. They looked entirely too young to be involved in this. But then he wasn't paid enough to care. He gestured, and one of the men slammed the rear doors of the transport truck closed, as Johnson walked back around to his car.

"Let's go," he called out, making a gesture to the truck driver who turned the mammoth vehicle's engine over and started to drive.