Capes Page 5

  The general assertion had been that his unit, the Queen’s Guard, had been a sanctioned hit squad for the government to silence dissenting voices within the country, the main purpose to allow the government and Rosemary Williams as the prime minister to hang onto power.

  Being a notoriously right-wing paper, News Day had, of course, dressed the article up as being fully in favour of the illegality of the actions. They’d even hailed Rosemary Williams as a national hero, one who’d been charged with saving a country from the extremists and their war and had done whatever it had taken to save them, including bending the laws of the land to breaking point and beyond.

  At the age of 66, it had been a long time since he’d been active in the field, let alone fired a weapon. His broad but trim physique may have been enviable to the layman’s eye, especially for a man of his age, but he knew that his time was long past. All he had now were the plaques, medals and memories.

  Brought up an army brat, his profession had been chosen for him long before he was even born. The Marshall men were army men, men of service and action. There had barely been a conflict fought anywhere in the world in the past few centuries where you wouldn’t find one of them.

  He knew that for decades, people had laughed behind his back (they’d never quite dared to do it to his face) about the old-fashioned man out of time.

  He was a man of honour and duty, things that often flew in the face of the modern world. He longed for a time when the bad guys wore black hats and the good wore the white, a time when there were no grey areas and where what was right took precedence over what was convenient.

  Amongst the gathered trophies in his basement also sat a dizzying array of old western movies. It was in this world that he felt he truly belonged, a celluloid world with sharp distinctions between right and wrong and where the good guys always won out in the end. He wasn’t a fantasist. He knew better than anyone that the real world was filled with blood and dirt and that the battlefield was largely devoid of honour, but that didn’t stop him wishing life could be more like the movies and he could ride through the wilderness wearing a shiny sheriff’s badge righting wrongs and saving maidens.

  He hadn’t taken to the regimented life like those before him sharing the name, but his true calling had come the first day a rifle had been put in his arms.

  He’d quickly discovered that his hands only felt truly complete if there was a firearm in them. The metal spoke to him, a calling cry of home.

  It mattered little what calibre or distance; his aim was described as miraculous by a succession of officers, and soon, his talent was being deployed around the globe. If there was an impossible shot to be made, they called him.

  He was soon being loaned out to various units throughout the armed services before the government spooks came calling. He didn’t mind the wet work. Killing was only an extension of his talent, and he believed in his country; he believed that those above him knew more and better than he did. For him, it was always about the shot – the more impossible the shot, the more he felt alive.

  “ANDY!”

  “Alright, I’m coming,” he said, reluctantly standing.

  “He’s your friend,” Sandra said as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “That’s a bit of a stretch,” he replied, starting the climb that made his knees ache, not that he’d ever show that sort of vulnerability to his wife of more than six years now.

  Sandra was almost 25 years younger than him, and while a lot of people would often mistake her for his daughter, he cared little for others’ opinions. As far as he was concerned, they were simply two people who had met and fallen in love, and after all, love knew no rules.

  Along with the mementos of his past personal achievements, there were also multiple framed photographs, links back to a very peculiar time in his life.

  The faces in the frames were all normal, save for the obvious one. Even in a black and white photograph, there was no mistaking Cosmic Jones’ alien visage.

  It was his favourite image of the Queen’s Guard, the five of them grouped beside a Huey chopper in a jungle clearing: Dr Quantum, Crimson, Bull, CJ and, of course, him – Six-Shooter.

  Their outfits were designed to be conspicuous. The government department heads had paid a fortune in consultancy fees to leave nothing to chance. They were all clothed to be instantly recognisable and to strike fear in the enemy.

  As he turned out the basement light, he looked, as always, to the long, well-worn black coat and cowboy hat that hung on a rack near the door. The gun belt had lost its buckle and was tucked away in a drawer somewhere, and he had lost the face mask that he’d worn, but the coat and hat were enough.

  Understandably, the government hadn’t allowed him to keep the energy firing revolvers that Cosmic Jones had made for him, but the rest of his Six-Shooter costume was his to keep, out of respect for his service.

  He touched the frayed coat lightly and remembered with a smile that one of the department’s marketing whizz kids had tried to sell him on a logo for the front, a badge with SS on, no less. He’d had to try and explain about the connotations of such a symbol on a black outfit as though speaking to a child.

  He took a quick look around to make sure that Sandra wasn’t watching him and slipped the hat on his head, pulling the brim down and with it, a memory.

  29 YEARS AGO

  The order had gone to keep sirens off around the museum so as not to spook the armed men inside. Rumour was that they were hopped up on something and their trigger fingers would be twitchy enough.

  Captain Andrew Marshall was lying on a rooftop opposite the museum. He’d been motionless for almost an hour now, so much so that several pigeons were waddling about beside him, no longer even sensing his presence.

  He prided himself on his ability to blend into any environment. He could hide in plain sight just as easily as in a jungle. There had always been something about him that meant he simply faded away in front of people’s eyes. He had lost track of the amount of times he’d had to reintroduce himself to people that he’d already met; something about him simply didn’t resonate.

  He was currently assigned to the Anti-Terror Department of the government. The ATD was a covert group that had been operating on foreign soil. It was just blind luck that they’d been in the capital when this shit went down.

  “Marshall?” The radio on his shoulder crackled.

  “Go for Marshall,” Andrew Marshall replied.

  “Position?”

  “Set.”

  “Hold for go.”

  “Roger that. Control.”

  It was the first contact he’d had for a while. The only company he had had was through the sniper scope of the high-powered rifle that he was pointing at the large museum window.

  Watching the men inside, he could already tell two things: one – they had no formal military training, and two — they were quite prepared to kill everyone in that room.

  Innocent faces were cowering at one end of the large display room – staff members, locals and tourists all mingled together and all expecting to die.

  There was sudden movement opposite and Marshall swung his rifle to cover it. Through the window, he could see one of the hostages suddenly make a lunge towards the nearest gunman. It was a brave attempt but it was also futile, and the middle-aged businessman died in a burst of bullets.

  He was about to inform Control that he should take the shot while they breached. These men were clearly amping up to act. One of them had set up a video camera on a tripod and there was some frustration at getting the thing to work. Time was running out. He was about to tell Control that they were out of time when he spotted the wiring that was poking out from under the jacket of the man seemingly in charge.

  While he had little in the way of respect for the men’s training given their movements and the way they handled their weapons, that glimpse of wires was enough to warrant caution.

  A breach would result in some loss of life, but he was confident that h
e could neutralise at least two of the targets, maybe all three if they were frozen for the few seconds it would take him to get off three shots. The problem was the wires; if the leader had a dead man’s switch, then the whole building could be blown to hell, along with anyone in it.

  “Control from Marshall,” he said into the radio.

  “Go for Control.”

  “We’ve got a Charlie Foxtrot here.”

  There was a long pause before a reply.

  “A what?”

  “Charlie Foxtrot, a clusterfuck, Control.”

  “You’ve spent too much time with our colonial cousins, Marshall,” came the stuffy reply.

  “One of the subjects has a Boom-Town strapped to him.”

  “A what?”

  “A bomb, for Christ’s sake! Jesus, can I speak to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing?”

  “You’d do well to remember yourself, Captain.”

  “REMEMBER MYSELF? There’s a fucking bomb in there and these SOUL lunatics are about to kill everyone, and you want to talk about politeness?”

  The radio went dead then – no hang up, just dead.

  “Hello? Hello? Control?”

  There were a few moments of silence before the radio spoke again, and when it did, it was a new voice.

  “Captain Marshall, please confirm your last transmission.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Time is pressing, Captain.”

  “Suspect’s strapped with a Boom-Town…, a bomb, big enough to bring the whole bloody place down.”

  “I know what a Boom-Town is, Captain. Stand by.”

  “Stand by?” Marshall marvelled aloud.

  A few seconds passed as Marshall watched the terrorists inside and grew more certain that they were out of time as the armed men started to pray.

  “Captain, I understand that you are a formidable man with an ice-cold temperament. I’m going to need that now, Captain.”

  The voice was naturally authoritative and immediately caught Marshall’s respect and obedience.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We’re sending someone in, Captain.”

  “One man?”

  “…not exactly. Point is, Captain, that this individual is going to cause quite the stir both in there and, I’d wager, through your scope, but we need your covering fire, Captain. Can you do that? Can you hold your focus and clarity no matter what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, son. Let’s hope that you can deliver on that.”

  “Where is the breach, sir?” Marshall asked, lifting his eye from the rifle’s scope to look around the building for a potential entry point.

  “Let’s just say that he will… appear inside, Captain. Don’t take your attention from that window or from those suspects, Captain. Clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good. T-minus 20 seconds, Captain, and good luck.”

  Marshall returned his attention to the scope and started to count down in his head, slowing his breathing with each passing second until there was only the target and the shot. All thoughts were sent from his mind like wisps of smoke on a windy day until there was nothing left.

  His heart rate would have barely registered a beat now as he lined up the rifle and reached zero in his head.

  As it turned out, perhaps Andrew Marshall was the only man on the planet who actually was capable of focusing to such a degree that what unfolded through his sniper scope didn’t penetrate his concentration.

  The air inside the room crackled with a strange purple electricity and out of nowhere, like a magician’s grand entrance, where once was empty space appeared a seven-foot lizard.

  The green reptilian wore a silver uniform with what seemed like a unit patch on the shoulder that whilst giving off a military air, was nothing that Marshall recognised. The armed men inside the room were suddenly stunned, and Marshall watched on as the ringleader was instantly vaporised by some kind of light that the creature fired seemingly from its hand or, more accurately, claw.

  The other two men barely had time to raise their weapons before their bodies had been extinguished in a blast of light that seemed to show their skeletons before there was nothing but a falling dust.

  Hostages were screaming now in wild panic, and several were trying to bolt despite the lizard man seemingly trying to calm them.

  Marshall continued to view the scene impassively, his weapon making gentle sways as he monitored the whole scene through the wide window, his heart rate never rising. It was his dedication that maybe, but only just maybe, saved the lizard man’s life.

  Just as the whole scene appeared to be under control, one of the hostages suddenly whipped out a handgun from behind the creature and was about to put a bullet in its head.

  Marshall has seen such things before: a terrorist cell or bank robbery gang who would embed one of their own in with the hostages for added insurance. In truth, there weren’t many things that he hadn’t seen before, save for seven-foot lizard men of course.

  Even given the speed of the assailant’s movement, Marshall was quicker and he never missed.

  The quiet puff of the rifle barely made a sound as a split second later there was a hole in the museum’s window and then another one in the terrorist’s head.

  The lizard man turned to the window, and even though Marshall was some 200 feet away and heavily concealed, the reptilian offered him a thankful salute.

  chapter 4

  AMBUSH

  Marshall took off the hat and sat it gently back on the rack. His lips parted into a slight smile as he thought about the first time he’d worn the… well, costume was probably the more accurate term.

  “Thinking about old times?” His wife’s voice startled him from behind.

  “Thinking about how much of an idiot I must have looked wearing this getup.”

  “Trust me, honey, you looked badass.”

  Sandra touched him lightly, but as always, her touch sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Bunch of fools led by an alien lizard man with more ideals than sense.”

  “Oh, you don’t believe that, and I don’t believe you. You did good work out there, Andy. You know you did. All of you.”

  He touched the hat one last time before closing the door.

  “You’re not going to put it on?” she asked. “I think that they’re expecting you to.”

  Marshall looked beyond his wife to the TV crew set up in his living room waiting impatiently. Not for the first time today, he wondered how Sandra had ever talked him into this.

  “I’m not going to look like an idiot, and certainly not on national television.”

  “I don’t think Marty will be happy,” she replied, referencing the producer currently pacing up and down on her freshly shampooed carpet.

  “Well Marty can just kiss my ass and like it.”

  “Maybe then you could wear it later? The whole costume?” Sandra said as she nibbled on his ear, making him tremble uncontrollably.

  “Woman, you’ll be the death of me.” He chuckled.

  “Yeah, but what a way to go.” His wife laughed back before kissing him hard. “Now come on before Marty has a heart attack.”

  She led him into the lounge where a monitor showed the TV studio where Cosmic Jones was sitting as elegantly as ever while an attractive young blonde woman fawned over him.

  Marshall noted that despite all of the years that had passed, CJ didn’t appear to have aged. His bright green skin still danced and sparkled under the studio lights and his face looked as youthful as ever.

  He sat down in the chair facing the large TV camera and a soft whoosh of noise escaped his ageing body and he felt a stab on bitterness at his own ageing process.

  He had served his country and several others back in the day, he had laid his life on the line alongside CJ and the others, but now he was creeping closer to the grave with every passing day while the space man stood still.

  “All set, Mr Marshall?” Marty asked, bu
zzing around like a nervous fly.

  “I’ll be better when this crap is over,” Marshall answered with a smile.

  There was a moment where he allowed the comment to scare the nervous invader in his home before he offered a fake smile for Sandra’s sake to pretend that he was only joking.

  A makeup woman started to advance towards him with a brush, but his look stopped her in her tracks and she backed away.

  “He looks good,” Sandra mused, looking at the monitor. “How old is he now?”

  “I have no idea. He told me once that his race do decay like humans, just not as fast. He’s 20-odd years older than when I met him, but he still looks the same. I guess lizard men don’t get to become old farts like the rest of us.”

  “Five minutes, people,” Marty announced to the room as the rest of the crew got in position.

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?” Sandra asked from the side, off camera as Marshall fidgeted.

  “My retirement party.” He shrugged, not without a little bitterness. “I guess he’s been busy.”

  “Doing what? I mean he’s barely been seen now in years. I figured he was retired too.”

  “No idea. Once you’re out of the game, you’re out of the loop. CJ was the only one that stayed with the government after the rest of us left for… one reason or another.”

  “You mean after Havencrest?”

  Marshall nodded slightly, but his expression was stone and she knew that he didn’t like to talk about what had happened there that day.

  “What about the others?” she continued. “I know that you don’t like to talk about it, and I don’t like to pry, but haven’t you heard from anyone since you retired?”

  “An occasional update card from Dr Quantum. But then she always was a little sweet on me,” Marshall teased as Sandra’s expression flashed a little green.

  “TWO MINUTES!” Marty yelled.

  “Well part of me’s glad that Crimson’s out of the picture. That guy always gave me the creeps.”

  “More so than green lizard men from outer space?”

  Sandra nodded furiously in reply. “Cosmic was always polite to me, but Crimson? That guy was… well, I can’t think of a more accurate word than creepy. It was always something about his eyes. They were always just black, dead eyes, like a shark’s.”