Free Ops Files II--Terror Alert by Russell Blake Page B

almost choked, and then they were gone, the vision like the surreal remnants of a nightmare.
    His strength gradually returned, and he struggled against the sharp metal cuffs, wincing as the edges bit further into his flesh. The cart bounced and swayed. From a tinny speaker somewhere to his left came the wail of music, and he turned his head, but a spike of pain lanced through his skull and everything spun. He closed his eyes again and awareness slipped away, replaced by the numbness of oblivion.

Chapter 12
    Manchester, England
     
    A line of men shuffled forward, huddled against the constant gray drizzle of the industrial city, the wall and overhang towering above them providing slim shelter from the rain. All appeared bored, accustomed to long queues, beaten by the reality of constant unemployment and sustenance existence in a nation that boasted of revitalized prosperity and newfound opportunity.
    Not so in Manchester, where crime was high and any new jobs were in the illegal drug trade – heroin was a big favorite with the working class, cheaper now than ever before due to overproduction in Afghanistan under American rule.
    A stocky man with a face that had taken more than a few punches called from the doorway. “Next.”
    The line advanced as another hopeful entered the dreary employment office of the Sportcity complex of soccer stadiums, rugby fields, and smaller sporting venues. A woman with hooded eyes shoved a form across her desk at him without looking away from her computer screen. “Fill that out, luv,” she said, her voice seasoned by cigarettes and Scotch.
    The man completed the form using the supplied pen and then sat quietly awaiting instruction. The woman sighed and tore herself from the computer, quickly scanned the paperwork, and then slid it back to the man. “Number two.”
    He rose, walked to the indicated door, and knocked.
    “Come in,” a male voice barked from behind the wooden slab. He twisted the knob and pulled it open. An obese bald man glanced up at him from a desk overflowing with paperwork, his porcine face sweating in spite of the chill, and gestured at a chair. “All right, then. Come on, we don’t have all day.”
    The applicant approached and handed the man the form as he sat, which the clerk read carefully before setting it aside.
    “How long have you been in the country?” the clerk asked.
    “Almost a year.”
    “Says you were working in London?”
    “That’s right. In the kitchen of a posh restaurant near Piccadilly.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “My girlfriend moved home to take care of her parents. I moved with her.”
    “Bit tougher to find anything steady here, isn’t it?”
    The applicant nodded sheepishly. “I’m willing to work hard, and I know my way around the back of the house. Something will come up.”
    “You’re overqualified for the openings I have.”
    “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’m not picky.”
    “Even wash dishes?”
    “If that’s all you’ve got. I’m in a bit of a bind. Could use whatever you can give me.”
    The fat man studied the applicant’s face and nodded. “Won’t be a lot of fun, I dare say. Long hours and low pay.”
    The applicant shrugged. “I’m used to it.”
    “Very well. Report to work this evening at the stadium VIP area grill. I’ll add your name to the roster. Crew shift supervisor’s named Cliff. Tough bloke, so I’d stay out of his way.” The clerk looked away, his attention flagging. “You can find your way to the registration area inside the stadium.”
    “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the chance.”
    “Let’s see if you still feel that way after the shift.”
    The applicant stood and moved to the door. “What time do I start?”
    “Six. Game time’s at eight. Figure you’ll go till after midnight. But register now, so they have your information on file and can give you a badge.”
    “Okay.”
    Abreeq retraced his steps through the offices, where another hopeful was completing a form, and