Becoming Zodiak Read online

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  Pants On Fire Press, Winter Garden 34787

  Text copyright © 2014 by Craig Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher, Pants On Fire Press. For information contact Pants On Fire Press.

  All names, places, incidents, and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Illustrations and art copyright © 2014 by Pants On Fire Press

  Book & eBook design by David M. F. Powers

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content).

  First edition: 2014

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Visit us at www.PantsOnFirePress.com

  eISBN: 9781625175731

  Softcover ISBN: 9780692210017

  For my son Shane,

  I cannot wait to read this to you.

  Love you!

  1

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the old man shouted as he waved his walking stick at the battered and dented white van. Then, nervously, he glanced from side to side to see who was paying him any attention; he lowered his stick and carried on walking, suddenly remembering that what he had done was simply not the way to behave.

  “Not anymore,” he muttered. He shook his head at the memory of things that had been as he stared down at the ground. He hunched deep into his own thoughts and rapidly forgot about the van that had come so close to running him over.

  Had he paid just a little more attention to the white van that had bounced up over the curb from the road and onto the pedestrianized city centre, he may have been more concerned by what he had seen and heard rather than how much trouble his own behavior would get him into. He may have noticed the van had no license plate. He may have heard the collective groan from the back of the van as its passengers were jostled from side to side up over the curb. And he may have realized that the driver of the van was wearing a black ski mask, only his eyes and mouth visible through small, circular holes cut into the material.

  The van didn’t slow as it cut a course though the throng of early-morning shoppers until it came to an abrupt halt outside a large, busy main street bank. People gave the van scant notice. If it was there, then it was meant to be there. No one would be stupid enough to drive where they weren’t allowed.

  The driver engaged the handbrake but didn’t cut the engine as he reached under his seat; breathing fast, sweat trickling into his eyes. He straightened back up and laid the sawn-off shotgun he’d retrieved across his lap. He took a deep breath and checked the weapon was fully loaded, and then slipped a gloved hand into the deep pockets of his black cargo pants to make sure he had plenty of extra shells. His heart hammered inside his rib cage and he feared it was trying to smash its way out. His stomach lurched and he had to swallow back the urge to vomit. He knew the risk he was taking, but until now he’d convinced himself he wasn’t afraid. Now, as all the planning finally came to fruition, he realized he had never been more scared in his life.

  “Pull yourself together,” he whispered. “Just pull yourself together.”

  He took a long, slow breath. He didn’t feel any calmer. He just knew that if he didn’t move now, then he never would. He closed the zipper on his black leather jacket and then, without hesitating, he banged his fist three times on the metal panel that separated the driver’s cabin from the storage space in the van.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted and felt the van’s dilapidated suspension sag towards the rear as the back doors were thrown open. He watched in his side mirror as five men, armed and dressed as he was in head-to-toe black, jumped out and ran through the front door of the bank. Two wore oversized black rucksacks secured onto their backs with thick straps. The driver finally got out and strode purposefully towards the entrance, trying to keep his eyes firmly ahead, trying not to notice the stares he and his colleagues were receiving from the dumbstruck passers-by.

  Less than twenty seconds after stopping the van, the driver marched into the bank. The staff were behind a low wooden counter against the furthest wall, no longer protected by floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass like they would have been just a few years ago. The customers, over thirty of them, were lined up in an orderly queue. Men, women, children with their parents. They had turned as one to face the intruders but there was no concern on any of their faces. Most simply looked perplexed, confused. The bank staff had hardly missed a beat as they dealt with their customers’ requests even though six armed men had just charged into their building.

  The driver wiped sweat from his eyes, signalled with a nod, and the rest of his team quickly spread themselves throughout the room, guns trained on the customers and staff, one of them lowering the blinds over the huge front windows that looked out onto the street and blocking out the morning sun. The driver himself locked the front door before aiming his gun at the crowd.

  “Everybody stay calm. This is a robbery!”

  For a moment there was stillness. Children stared with wide eyes. Then a blonde woman took a single step forward, the index finger of her left hand raised quizzically, but before she could say anything a man in a well-fitting suit walked straight towards the driver.

  “I don’t know what kind of street theatre this is, but it certainly isn’t appropriate. There simply are no robberies anymore,” he said, practically scolding.

  The driver had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but his adrenaline had kicked in and his fear had been replaced with bravado.

  “There are now,” he snapped and smashed the butt of his gun across the man’s chin. Blood splattered across the carpeted floor a second before the man crumpled to a heap, unconscious at the feet of the driver.

  Panic overwhelmed everyone in the bank, and even the old man who’d nearly been run over by the white van and was now a good distance from the main street could hear their screams. A massive boom followed close behind.

  2

  A single shotgun blast into the ceiling brought the shrieks to a final peak and then silence fell across the bank as shredded plaster board rained down from above and showered the black-clad bank robbers. Standing with his gun still pointed up and looking like he had the worst case of dandruff in the world, the driver raised a finger to his lips, encouraging everyone to stay quiet.

  “Right, now I’ve got your attention. Do as you are told and no one will get hurt.” He looked down at the bleeding man at his feet. He pumped the reload action of his weapon, sending the spent cartridge onto the floor, to emphasise who was in control of the situation. “Well, except for him, of course.”

  His cronies snorted but no one else made a sound. One of the robbers pulled a small can of spray paint from his pant pocket, shook it and moved around the room, blacking out the lenses of each of the six security cameras that covered the area.

  The driver trained his gun on the crowd of customers. “All of you move up to the counter and sit down. Everyone behind the counter, come around and join them. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  The shuffling of feet broke the silence and, one by one, the stunned civilians took their place on the floor. Only a few people looked afraid. A couple of the bank staff had moronic grins etched across their faces, so bemused were they by the events unfolding around them.

  The downed man began to stir and two of the robbers dragged him across the floor to the rest of the group.

  “Now we don’t want anyone else to get hurt,” said the driver. “There’s no need for someone to try to be a
hero. The cash is insured; it’s not your money we’ll be taking with us. Just make sure we don’t take your life in its place.”

  While one small boy clung to his father and cried, a little girl with long blonde hair looked up from her spot next to her mother, the same woman who had almost spoken up earlier.

  “You know they’ll get you. You’ll never escape.”

  “We’ll see,” the driver sneered before turning his attention to his team. “Get those bags filled. Go!”

  The two men with rucksacks on their backs silently moved behind the counter and methodically began to fill each other’s bags with handfuls of cash. From the street outside shouts permeated the bank walls, and in the distance the sirens of police vehicles could be heard getting nearer and nearer. The driver walked to the window and parted the blinds, creating a narrow peephole out into the morning.

  A crowd had gathered opposite on the street. People were using their mobile phones, some to make calls, others to take photographs or videos. In the middle of them stood a man hefting a professional camera that was trained on the front of the bank. The driver grinned and let the blinds fall back into place as the first police car sped onto the main street. Raised voices shouted for everyone to move back as more and more vehicles arrived. The driver rolled his sleeve up and checked his wristwatch.

  “Take your time, boys. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  That stopped his team in their tracks. Even their hostages exchanged surprised glances.

  “Are you kidding? It’s only the police. They’re not even armed,” one of his men with the rucksack shouted.

  “Shut up,” snapped the driver.

  The robber with the can of spray paint placed it on the counter and came to the driver’s side. He said quietly, “What are you playing at, boss? We need to—”

  A deep and resonating throb filled the air. It sounded like twenty military helicopters hovering directly overhead. The can of paint began to vibrate, faster and faster, until it danced its way off the counter and fell to the floor in a clatter that made everyone jump.

  The robber’s eyes were locked on the ceiling. “Boss?”

  The driver didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was watching as a shadow was cast over the front of the bank, blocking out any light that had crept in through the kinks in the blinds. Some of the hostages began to smile. A few of the children actually began to cheer. The bank robbers were looking towards their leader but were receiving no instructions.

  “Should we get out the back door?” one of them asked.

  “There is no back door,” hissed another.

  “Then what do we do?”

  The driver walked back to the front windows and peered through a crack in the blinds. His fingertips touched the glass and he felt the vibration emanating through it. It felt like the window was alive, that it had its own pulse. At street level he could see the police had cordoned off the bank and that everyone had been pushed back away from the building. His eyes drifted up over the buildings opposite. Where there had been a bright blue sky with a smattering of white, fluffy clouds there was now a gunmetal grey hovership.

  It looked, from the driver’s angle, just how a child would draw an alien UFO, like a massive Frisbee. On either side of the widest part of the craft, some forty metres apart, giant repulsor engines, the likes of which any military power would love to get their hands on, sat on massive pivots. They were currently aimed at the ground, holding it in its hover, making every building, every window, every filling in every tooth vibrate. Closer examination revealed massive windows crisscrossed with metal support structures that made the tinted glass look like two reptilian eyes homed in on the bank. Antennae and satellite dishes were scattered along the sides and the massive dorsal fin was just visible from the viewpoint of the driver. Its appearance alone was enough to strike fear into the heart of anyone, not just those who had obsessively gulped down science fiction movies before they were banned. This was the craft that the evil horde arrived in from some distant galaxy, intent upon world domination. Now it carried the good guys.

  “Nothing. We do nothing,” said the driver with a wide smile. “They’re here.”

  There were gasps from the captives. Someone hissed a triumphant, “Yes!”

  He turned and faced his team and his hostages, and, with his hand still on the glass, unable to remove it like the vibrations had a magnetic power over him, he said simply, “Zodiak are here.”

  3

  “Libra! Give me an update!”

  “Church Street, Liverpool, Sir. Appears suspects have not fled the scene and are still inside. Local police are managing the area but we have jurisdiction to use reasonable force.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Take up a suitable vantage point.”

  Libra, sat in his pilot’s chair on the lowest level of the vast flight deck, punched two buttons in front of him that immediately glowed a luminous green. The hovership gave a slight lurch and settled.

  “Holding position stabilized,” Libra announced in his deep Scottish accent, adjusting his headset and snapping the microphone into position in front of his lips. From his viewpoint, right at the front of the ship, he was able to see the white van and the upper storey of the bank. “No visual on the suspects, Lord Crabbe. They’ve positioned their vehicle as a barrier.”

  “Not to worry,” Lord Crabbe replied, his inflection very much reflecting his aristocratic heritage. He pushed his wheelchair forward to the edge of the flight deck’s upper level. “Are our teams in place?”

  Libra’s right leg kicked out and his chair slid on rails to his left, carrying him in front of a three dimensional display. A dozen images hung in the air, some showing a ground view of the street below; others were blurs of rapid movement. Nine of the twelve screens were currently active, showing what the team member they were assigned to saw. The other three were passive, an amber light surrounding the visual, the hovership’s internal cameras showing Libra and the others’ positions on the flight deck.

  “I look like such an idiot,” Libra said under his breath. He hated seeing himself on-screen, the brown leather jumpsuit so stark against the pristine and brilliant white inside of the ship. The uniform was far too tight for his liking. It gave the girls in the team plenty of ammunition to poke fun at him. He pulled at his collar snug against his neck and shook his head; he may have hated his ‘costume’, sure, but he loved what it stood for. When he pulled it on he was no longer Bradley Scales. He was Libra.

  His logo sat, he believed, in just the right place. Over his heart: ♎

  Libra’s gloved hand, tiny telemetric sensors hidden in the palm, swept across the visuals, reorganizing them. He drew his hand back to his chest, clenching his fist, and three of the screens expanded in size. Above each was a name: Capricorn, Aquarius, Pisces.

  “All team members’ cameras active,” he reported. “We have three still underwater, Sir… No, wait. Water team is in place, Sir. The Amphibian has just surfaced. That’s one escape route cut off.”

  A third voice filled the room, soft as it echoed around.

  “They have no intention of trying to elude us,” the voice, Virgo, said. “I suggest the water team joins us here.”

  Libra brought his hand up to his left ear. “Pisces, this is Libra. Home run, fast as possible.”

  “Copy, Libra. On our way,” Pisces responded, her voice booming out of the flight deck’s loudspeakers. It was only when external sounds were amplified in the craft that the complete silence within, void of even the din of the massive engines keeping the ship in place, was actually noticeable.

  Lord Crabbe turned his wheelchair towards Virgo. Her floor length white gossamer dress blazed with an unearthly luminosity and she tilted her head down to meet his questioning gaze. Her hair, long to her waist, was the same color as the dress, and it, too, shone with a light both stunning and strange.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I sense their purpose and it is not escape.”
She closed her eyes and her youthful features morphed, showing the briefest glimpse of an old woman before her younger visage returned. She never stopped being beautiful throughout. “I sense great danger, Andrew. Such a long period of quiet, of calm…and now so many incidents”

  “We have prepared them well.”

  “I fear we have all become complacent.” Her face changed again, although now only the porcelain skin around her blue eyes aged, tight with concern.

  “I would rather phrase it as ‘we have done our job’,” Crabbe retorted, not attempting to conceal the arrogance in his tone. “Or at least I thought we had. Until now.”

  “Road team in position,” Libra called, sweeping two new screens rimmed with green into prime position. The two images showed alternate views of the white van, front and back, from a distance of about fifty metres. “Scorpio and Leo ready to roll.” One by one each of the other screens came to life with a bright green border as the final members of the team joined the party: Aries, Taurus, Sagittarius, and Gemini were standing by.

  “Ground assault in place. Gemini and Sagittarius are in place on the rooftop below us.” Libra glanced over his shoulder. “Zodiak awaiting orders.”

  “I’d feel better if you were down there with them, Andrew,” Virgo said quietly, ensuring Libra could not overhear her comment.

  Crabbe ran his fingers through his wild ginger hair before nervously adjusting the lapels of his tweed suit jacket. The matching pants were cut short just like Crabbe’s legs, which ended at his knees. “I got old, Virgo. They don’t need me slowing them down. What they need is us up here, leading.”

  Virgo bowed her head. “As ever, I defer to your greater knowledge of your species. Lead them, my old friend.” The lines around her eyes faded once more.