A/N: Thanks for coming this far. If you keep reading, I hope you enjoy the world I have tried to create. Don't be put off by the fact that this is a sequel; it's a new story, with all new characters and all new plotlines, and reading Volume 1,not needed to understand this story. If you want to read Volume 1 for a bit of background, go right ahead (and, for the love of God, REVIEW!). If not, and you decide to keep going with this story, I am ecstatic. THANK YOU!!! And, as always REVIEW! I love reviews. It lets me know how I'm doing, and that people are reading.
Also, keep watch for small stories that will supplement the action in the main story. These will be posted simultaneously with each new chapter, excluding this one. It should come out in a few days. It's called 'Recruiting Drive' and deals with a story from the Communist days of East Berlin, and the capture of a major character. It will be posted under 'Unimaginable: Volume 2 Companion'.
THREE MONTHS PAST
KRISTEN McQUALTER
BERLIN, GERMANY
Berlin was supposed to have been a completely rebuilt city, redesigned from the ground up following the Communist retreat in the early nineties. But nothing had happened in this part of the city, not yet. And it didn't look like anything would happen anytime soon. The local government looked upon the abandoned train yard as a waste of space, too costly to redevelop, too far gone to serve any real purpose.
The skyscrapers of the German capital's CBD towered in the distance, and the city lights gave off an ethereal glow that lit the skyline, blocking out the stars.
The train yard, however, was as dark as space itself.
Kristen McQualter was cold. And she had no idea what the hell she was doing in Europe, let alone what she was doing in Berlin, and the train yard where her boss had first been captured all those years ago, no less.
She sank back, against the rusting pile of metal that had once been a freight car, willing herself to sink into the shadows.
Bored, she lifted her right hand.
In the air, above the pale white skin of her palm, a strange bubble of purple light glimmered into existence, formed by rapidly coalescing energy particles.
Her thin, pale, angular, decidedly European features were briefly illuminated before she closed her hand, and the bubble disappeared, as rapidly as it had formed in the cold night air before her.
"McQualter?" came a quite voice from the shadows of another abandoned freight carriage across the way.
Kristen's head snapped up, her other hand falling to the gun at her waist. "Who's there?"
A woman appeared, stepping into the moonlight that was being cast across the train yard. She was aging, in her mid-fifties, her hair mid-length and wavy, greying slightly, so different to Kristen's own dead-straight obsidian-black locks. Her eyes, however, burned with intelligence. Kristen had no doubt the woman would have been quite attractive, and to some extent still was. She exuded calm and warmth, even in the freezing darkness of the train yard.
She certainly looked like Kristen's contact, but she couldn't be sure. There were, after all, ways of masking one's appearance. Kristen uttered the code phrase, the first line in Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility. "The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex."
The woman gave a faint smile, and replied. "They could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands." The last line of Sense and Sensibility. Perfect.
"Edith," Kristen said, stepping into the moonlight.
Her face was obscured mostly by the shadow given by the hood of her sweater, but a few errant strands of dark hair hung before her. She brushed them aside.
"Kristen," Edith answered, her accent European, but difficult to place. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. There's been someone following me recently. I had to make sure I wasn't—" A sound in the distance cut her off.
Both women turned, and Kristen's hand fell to her weapon.
"It's nothing," Kristen said. Her accent was definitively Australian; not broad, but recognisable. "But we should get out of here. I have jet waiting to take us—"
This time a mysterious noise cut off Kristen.
But it was a different noise, far louder, far closer. Like the dull bang of a car door being slammed. Or a train cargo hatch being rolled shut.
"C'mon," she said, pulling out the gun, and reached towards Edith, bundled thickly in cool-weather gear. She pulled the woman closer, and turned, turning them towards the gate out of the train yard, where her car waited.
Then the grinding started.
Kristen spun around, and saw a train, an old diesel engine it seemed, was moving towards them, the rims of its wheels sparking on the rusted tracks.
"Go!" Kristen shouted.
Edith turned to leave, but the train car was being pulled up, high, high above them by some invisible force, and began to hurtle towards them.
"Run!" Kristen roared, and Edith needed no urging. The woman bolted through the night towards the gate. Kristen stretched her hands towards the rapidly lowering engine, that appeared to be picking up speed as it came lower and lower.
The same mysterious mauve energy shimmered into existence in front of her, and a forcefield flared to life.
The diesel engine slammed into it, something inside exploded. The forcefield gave way, and Kristen was buffeted by an almost incomprehensible shockwave of heat that knocked her to the ground.
Pieces of the vehicle pitter-pattered to the weed-covered ground all around her, but she must have hit her head. She was tired, too tired. The world was slower growing darker and darker.
A woman appeared above her.
She was young, her long, wavy, perfectly set brown hair falling in just the right places on her shoulders. She leered down at Kristen, and gave a small, self-satisfied smile. Kristen noted the gold earrings, the diamond necklace, the red lipstick. And, joining her, now, was a tall, muscular blonde man.
Then, as the blackness closed in, the world disappeared.
REILLY CARROLL & GRACE SCOTT
OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA
For Reilly Carroll, the nightmares were coming less and less frequently. They were still there; he still feared sleeping, fearing what would come in the midst of his dreams. The darkness, the cold, all-consuming, utter, palpable terror that had engulfed him like a cold, wet, heavy, suffocating blanket.
At first, they had been the same, night after night.
Himself, running down the corridor, stumbling against the wall as the cold pushed in on him, as those dark, hateful thoughts filled his mind, as the shadow reared above him and as those hands reached towards him.
That's where the dream always ended.
In reality, that's where the experience had ended. A gunshot had rent the air, had saved him from the terrifying embrace of the darkness that would fall upon him.
The last time the dream had affected Reilly, he'd been in a Ghana hotel room, the air conditioning broken, the ceiling fan doing nothing to stave off the stifling heat. He was drenched in a cold sweat, breathing heavily, absolutely terrified.
It had been the worst since the night of the rooftop showdown, high above Los Angeles, three months before.
He'd sat up, quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, for pain blossomed behind the bridge of his nose, and he heard the blood pounding in his ears. There, across from him, sat Grace Scott, as serene and beautiful as ever, watching him with sympathy.
Now, here he was, hours later, the dust rising around their rented Jeep, a creaking, rumbling, rusted old thing from the age before catalytic converters and in-built radios. Instead, they had a portable swinging from the rear view mirror.
He drove, desperately trying to keep the SUV on the gravel road that had taken them out of the outskirts of the capital city of the African nation of Ghana, and would eventually take them to their destination, a compound in the heavily forested foothills of the nearby mountains.
The large, iron-rimmed wheels sent dust billowing up either side of the vehicle, and Reilly was finding it harder and harder to see through the grime-encrusted windscreen.
"Are you cool driving?" Grace said from beside him, obviously very amused at his concentration.
"Pipe down, wench," he shot back, in mock-rage.
Suddenly, bumping down the road, came an ancient truck, its rear overflowing with hay, crammed with Ghanaians on their way into Accra for a day at the markets.
Reilly brought the car to a stop as the cloud of dust following the truck passed over and swirled around the Jeep. It was at that moment that the radio decided to work, blaring an old Bob Marley song, before cutting out again.
"Damn," Reilly said, starting again, as the dust died down. In the distance, across the yellow, scrub-land of the plains, stood green mountains, staggering in their size, jagged knives thrusting from the earth into the perfect cerulean sky. "I hate this damn car."
"You said damn twice in the same sentence." Grace said, staring out the window as Reilly accelerated down the road. The dirt track, really. "It's a fairly nice place, though."
"It's gorgeous," Reilly answered. "As long as you don't have to drive."
"You want me to drive?" Grace asked, a look of exasperation on her face. "Because if you want to drive, then pull over and let me drive this thing!"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Why would I be kidding you?" Grace asked, voice rising.
"Great start to a round the world trip." Reilly growled, as the radio picked up again. This time, The Who. Baba O'Riley.
Grace crossed her arms, and sank back into her seat. Reilly knew there was a loose spring there, right in the small of her back. He hoped it was digging in, painfully. "Shut the hell up, and drive." She answered.
Reilly shifted gears, and the car rumbled onwards.
It was midday by the time they found what they were looking for.
The road began twisting towards a pass in the jagged mountains, and Reilly saw a letter box, seeming in the middle of nowhere on the embankment. Beside it was an old gate, and a barbed wire fence that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The gate was open, and Reilly knew, instantly, that this was the gateway to their destination.
He looked at his travelling companion, and Grace nodded.
He took the Jeep through the open fence, and down the equally dusty gravel road behind it. The road stretched in a straight line towards a larger fence, that ringed an overgrown copse of trees.
It took far longer to cover this distance than Reilly would have thought, but, finally, they arrived at the larger chain-link gate. Reilly noted, jutting from the thick, almost impenetrable canopy that covered the fenced off area, was a circular guard tower.
The gate's electric motors whirred, and it swung slowly open.
"I guess someone's expecting us," Grace said.
Reilly grunted in agreement, and accelerated through the gates. The world beyond was simply stunning. Verdant, vibrant green, overgrown trees and shrubs overflowing onto the dusty road. Flowering orchids, snaking up tree trunks. The very sunlight itself was green, filtering as it was through metres of leaves.
"Whoa," Grace said, and Reilly couldn't help agreeing. It was extraordinary. The land outside had been so dry, the highest plant-life being drought resistant shrubs and stubby little trees, with limited greenery.
This was simply overwhelming.
Reilly kept the car going, and slowly, they moved down the driveway, finally reaching a wide open space, just in front of a sprawling mansion, a house Reilly would have imagined on a homestead in South Africa.
It appeared abandoned.
No one stood, waiting for them on the veranda. No one in the bay windows looking out on the dusty parking area in front of the home. The house looked well-maintained, but just seemed… empty.
Reilly put the Jeep into park, and motioned to Grace.
She opened the glove box, and retrieved two guns, one a long, silver semi-automatic handgun, the other a small black six-shooter revolver. She handed the former to Reilly and kept the latter pressed against her midsection.
Reilly opened his door, and leapt out, taking the car keys with him, secreting them in a pocket on his jeans.
Grace got out on the other side, and the two met up at the other end of the car.
They turned towards the house, set before them, and took a few steps towards it. "It looks nice," Reilly said. "Creepy though."
Grace's jaw was set. She was on alert for something. "There are people in there."
"How many?"
"Just two," she said. "But I have a bad feeling."
There was a commotion, in the thick brush. Reilly jerked around, gun up, and Grace turned, too. Whatever it was had ended; the undergrowth just sat there, occasionally ruffled by a breeze.
"Reilly," came Grace's voice, unusually stern.
He turned, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw the man on the previously deserted veranda.
He tall, broad, muscular. Powerful. And slightly intimidating. His skin was the colour of dried cocoa beans, and he watched them without moving, without speaking. And, as if to add to the effect, without seeming to breathe.
"Drop your weapons," he said, his accent thick, his tone harsh. Still, his voice had a warm, lyrical wilt.
Grace looked at Reilly, and nodded. Hers was already lying on the gravel.
He let the gun fall to the ground.
"We've been expecting you," the man said, stepping towards the steps leading up to the veranda.
"Who are you?" Reilly asked, cautiously.
"I am the guardian of this place," he answered. "Come."
With another look at Grace, Reilly led her up the
AMY LAMOTTE
PARIS, FRANCE
Her prey was close.
Amy Lamotte held her breath, leaning out of the open door of the third floor office of the Paris chateau, her sharp eyes gouging the darkness, searching for any sign of her quarry.
The distant lights of downtown Paris shown in through the large, many-paned windows of the chateau's uppermost floor.
The corridor was richly decorated; Napoleon-era furniture, thick, lush red carpet, paintings from the Renaissance era onwards and medieval tapestries adorning the walls, panelled with the finest oak, perhaps more expensive than the all the furniture and artwork put together.
The chateau was home to countless artistic treasures, but Amy's prey was after far more tangible goods; cash and untraceable bearer bonds to the tune of three million dollars.
Amy wasn't there to prevent the chateau's over-cashed nouveau riche occupants from being robbed. She wanted the thief, and her ability.
There, in the corridor, movement.
Amy's hand fell to her gun, and she slid the long, silver handgun from its holster, thumbing back the hammer. She lifted the weapon. Movement, again.
The corridor was dappled with moonlight, streaming in through the windows, but it was still difficult to see very far.
She was a beautiful woman, but her long, red-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and coiled into a stocking. She was dressed in black; a black turtle-neck and tight-fitting black slacks.
"Hey!" Amy shouted.
The shadowed offender spun about, and Amy caught a glimpse of her.
She was slight, and exquisite; perfect, delicate European features, and wavy, mousy-brown hair falling unchecked on either side of her face. Stunning blue eyes. The next thing Amy saw was the dull glint of light reflecting off metal. A gun.
Amy's finger curled around the trigger of hers, but too late.
The woman fired.
The bullet slammed into Amy's gun, knocking it clean from her hand. She could only watch, dumbstruck, as it fell to the floor.
"You little bi—" Amy started, only to be cut off by another gunshot. Amy leapt aside, and heard the bullet chip part of the wall.
And then the woman was gone, running down the dark, moonlit corridor.
Amy hauled herself to her feet, and plunged headlong after the would-be thief. She swept her hand upwards, and an odd blue glow seemed to trail after it.
Her prey grunted as a burst of frost impacted her shoulder.
She seemed to go down, and Amy kept running, the glow now emanating from both hands. She reached the spot that she thought she saw her prey fall. There was nothing there. Amy dropped to her knees, feeling around in the dark. No trace of her.
"Freeze."
Amy looked up.
The woman was standing there, gun in hand, glaring down at Lamotte.
"Stand up. Slowly," she said, and with a jerk of her gun towards Amy's hand, before adding "and stop glowing."
Amy deactivated her power without a second thought, the glow instantly diminishing.
There was a sound from somewhere deep in the chateau. The woman jerked her head around, and Amy saw her chance. Flinging out her hand, she sent a full blast of her freezing ability at the woman.
A gunshot rang out.
Amy turned, towards the gunshot, to find the woman's exact duplicate standing behind her. Then the bullet him.
Amy's eyes widened, and her hands dropped to her midsection. She glanced down at them. Blood. Her knees gave way, and she fell to the thickly carpeted floor.
BRENDAN WUNDERLICH
LOS ANGELES, CA
Brendan Wunderlich was never entirely able to comprehend the enormity of the office he had inherited from his predecessor, until he had come to occupy it. The workspace was truly cavernous, and had been sparsely furnished, with really only the single, massive mahogany desk and a few padded office chairs across from his own high-backed leather one.
He'd given it a little something, he thought, adding two couches facing each other over a coffee table, and bureau and filing cabinet against the wall. But, still, he had more space than he knew what do with.
The enormous floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Los Angeles merely added to this agoraphobic feeling.
But the office was remarkable. High-speed wireless internet, multiple direct phone lines. The table even had inbuilt mobile phone rechargers, hidden pop-up high definition computer and television LCD screens, and crystal clear satellite television capability.
In short, Louise Greenland, and the Greenland Corporation in general, had had some pretty impressive digs.
And now they were Brendan's. He was still uncomfortable in the suits, however, but he was growing accustomed to his newfound ability to go home at the end of every day. And his wife was already used to far better pay scale.
He glanced up at her silver-framed photograph on his desk, and smiled, already hungry for the dinner Lauren, his wife of four years, would have ready, in their Mexican ranch-style Simi Valley home. He turned back to his work however, and once again became absorbed in the new research status supports from the Mojave desert facility.
He looked up as his right-hand-woman entered the room. The tall, slender form of Erin Eedy walked towards him, a manila file in hand. She dropped it on his desk, and stood above him as he read it.
"Kristen McQualter still hasn't reported in," Erin said, as Brendan flicked through the pages. "And the pilot landed in LAX two hours ago. The package wasn't onboard. Should we send back up to Germany?"
Brendan read the file, the pilot's report.
"Kristen's always been trustworthy," he said, turning a page. "We'll give her until tomorrow to check in, but after that, I want to send someone I can trust."
Erin smiled, expectantly. "Me?"
Brendan winked. "You got it."
Erin nodded, and, retrieving the file, departed.
Brendan spun about in his chair, and folded his arms, looking out over Los Angeles. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a single, folded sheet of A4 paper. He opened it, and ran his finger over the woman's picture in the upper, left quadrant. The red-bordered sheet was used for one purpose only.
Identification of a rogue agent.
The woman in the photograph was Amy Lamotte.
OUTSIDE ACCRA, GHANA
The house was an old colonial-era construction, a sprawling mansion that symbolised an older, grander, far more romantic Africa, free from the spectres of poverty and AIDS. The large bay windows gave exquisite views of the surrounding jungle, so lush and wet and green that it seemed to spill inside, and take over the house too.
The house, all the rooms Reilly and Grace got to see, as their tall, hulking guide lead them through the wide corridor, past the stairs to the upper level, and towards the rear of the house, were richly decorated, with a mix of colonial European and traditional African styles; tribal patterned-carpets, French-made coffee table, traditional statues, and a massive grand piano in one room, long, low couches on Persian rugs facing an immense fireplace in another.
The walls were adorned with tribal masks, and paintings by any number of European artists, both modern and historical.
The stair case was sweeping oak, the railing exquisitely carved.
Reilly drunk everything in as they passed, and, as they walked down a hallway that consisted only of closed doors, he moved closer to Grace, beginning to grow concerned that they had left their weapons outside.
A hand on his elbow told him not to worry.
Finally, they reached the end of the corridor, into a 1940s era kitchen, featuring ancient-looking appliances and the same eclectic but perfect balance of different art pieces as the rest of the house.
The man opened a door leading into a brilliantly lit room, and stepped aside, allowing them both inside.
Reilly saw that it wasn't an actual room; it was a glass house, sunlight streaming in from the hundreds of intricately patterned glass panes in the roof and walls of the structure. There were rows upon rows of metal shelves, each packed with potted plants, many completely overgrown, though they were all well cared for.
Their silent conductor led them around a particularly well-stocked set of shelves, featuring brilliantly coloured orchids, massive ferns and miniature bonsai trees.
There, sitting at a small, circular table, with a tiny, unhealthy looking pot plant in front of her, was an absolutely stunning woman. Her skin was very dark, the same shade as the man that had led Reilly and Grace through the house, and her long salt-and-pepper hair, kept back in a pony-tail, was set in dreadlocks.
She looked up at the two of them, and gave a soft, gentle, welcoming smile. "Welcome to Ghana. I'm Priscilla Adei-Cardwell, and this," she said, sweeping her hand over the pot plant, "is my home."
Reilly was about to answer, when something caught his eye.
The pot plant, brown and sick-looking, was coming to life before his eyes. The drooping stem straightened, the wilted leaves shifted, turning from brown to yellow to green, being joined by new, brilliantly emerald-green foliage.
Then, as quickly as it had started, the growing stopped. The plant was twice its original size.
Reilly and Grace could only turn, gaping, to the quite woman, who inclined her head, as though accepting their silent applause. "I hear you have some questions."