The sun’s warmth cuddled the first night of May, a sign that summer was closing up. Although the sky above him was clear, revealing its shiny dress, on the horizon, a wave of clouds was approaching dragging a curtain of commotion with it. A smell of ocean traveled by wind through the field of green grass surrounding the barely noticeable house. Strange, he thought. He looked around and judged his position: the closest sign of life was miles away and no sound of crashing water was perceptible. Cautious, he walked to the entrance of the one story house covered with leaves, then opened the door, making as less noise as nature. But as soon as put a foot inside, his body was abruptly pulled into the darkness before hitting the floor. A foot stepped on his hand, a knee crushed his chest while a hand covered his mouth. His breathe was heavy as a shy light uncovered a man, blood on his face. After lurking the roof for a good minute, the man finally let go of his grip then turned to his prey.
‘James.’ The man said.
‘Mr. Turner.’ James replied in between two breathings. Miles Turner helped the young man get back on his feet then walked to the main room.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Euhm, I was send.’ The young man felt a huge pressure growing in his chest. The man looked at him.
‘Chris?’ James shook his head. ‘John.’ He kept a poker face. Miles Turner glanced at his reaction and tried to smile as he achingly laid on one of the couch placed in the middle of the living room. ‘How did you find me? Ha, no need to answer.’ James fell into a deep silence, analyzing closely his friend’s father: a dirty piece of fabric was loosely covering his left shoulder, blood flowed profusely from his body dripping on the floor. Miles Turner sensed an insistent look on him: ‘It’s not that deep.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Today is his birthday.’ Turner took a deep breathe.
‘I know. I planned on coming home.’
‘What happened?’ Turner looked at James then diverted his eyes. Wow, so much like Chris. Or the other way.
Five hours before, Miles Turner was deep into the ennemy’s lair. He woke up in a dark room, shone by a shy light passing through the clearance of the door in front of him. As his vision brightened, he noticed his knees were one inch deep into water. Miles looked up and scanned his surroundings, recalling the events and reasons that lead to his situation. Right: i let them follow me away from Chris then they ambushed me. A constant sound of water dropped from his left. Air was humid and cold despite springtime. After assessing his situation, Miles Turner stood up then suddenly found himself face on the ground. Ha, that hurts. He realized that his hands were cuffed behind his back. At the same moment, footsteps came closer to his cell. Turner managed to get back on his knees as the door unlocked then opened. A tall man in a black trench coat stepped in and looked down on Turner. Not a word came out of his mouth before the man started slamming Turner’s body with a wooden stick. The latter took the beating in silence, his face expressed no emotions. The persecutor stopped to switch arms, Turner interrupted him: ‘What day is it?’ No response. As the torturer swang his arm backward, Turner leaned on his leg to tackle the latter, breaking his chains in the process. In a matter of seconds, he knocked him out, eliminated the guards watching behind the door and started to run. A loud alarm went off. At an end of a corridor, Turner turned to the right where a squad armed to the teeth was waiting for him. He stopped dead then took a deep breathe. A second passed slowly. They abruptly fired up on him, when he rushed toward them his arm creating a invisible shield in front of him. He jumped them on by one, making his way to an exit. His last opponent was a little bit more resilient than the other, pulled out a knife as a last resort and in a lucky move, stabbed Turner in the stomach. Miles Turner disarmed the man before slashing his throat then fled. On his way out, a gunshot resonated in the warm air of May. Turner fell forward, rolled over his shoulder and looked back at his persecutor. ‘Fuck, that one hurts too.’, he whispered to himself. With his remained energy, he took off of the ground and disappeared in the light of the sun. In about two hours, Garner’s henchmen lost his track.
‘Nothing’, Miles Turner said in a sigh of pain. He waited a moment, scanned the roof again then stood up. ‘Let’s go.’, he limped to James, grabbed his bag next to him, then walked out. The young man followed him, still in silence, worries invading his mind as Turner’s breathe gets heavier.
To be continued