A British Sci Fi Novel Series
Watchers by S.T Boston
Series Excerpt
The mirror reflected back an image that was not his own. Finch stared for a few long moments and allowed the differences to sink in. Gone was his dark, swept back hair, replaced with a much lighter shade of brown, cut short on top and cropped neatly around the neck. Matching his new hair colour was a well-trimmed goatee beard. The transformation didn’t stop there; his chin seemed sharper, more defined. The small prominent bridge of his nose had also been altered. The thing he found the hardest to get over was the change in eye colour. The once arresting ice-blue eyes he’d sported for the past thirty-one years were no more. The ones staring back at him were brown; they matched his new features well. Finch was confident he could pass any one of his old Secret Service team in the street and they wouldn't look at him twice. This was the new him, it would take some getting used to, but so far he liked what he saw.
Tearing his attention away from the mirror, he made his way back into his room and removed the hospital gown he'd been wearing for the past few days, changing into a suit. Not the bland, Secret Service issued one he'd worn for the last nine years, but a smart grey Armani number. Tying his shoes, Finch stole one last glance in the mirror, allowing himself a wry smile. Yes, that will do nicely, he thought. He was a new man; the old Robert Finch was gone, as good as dead. The new Finch was destined for bigger and better things. Slipping out the door, he made his way down the long, sterile corridor and out of the medical wing.
Following the most memorable night of his life, he'd been smuggled out of the country and back to the United States. It was amazing the things that could be done with a nearly limitless supply of money and the right connections. The rules are the same the planet over, he'd thought, everyone has a price and everything is for sale. Moving him across the globe had proved no issue, thanks to the materialistic, weak-willed nature of humanity.
For the two days following Remy’s death, prior to attending the headquarters medical wing, he'd kept himself appraised of developments in Kuala Lumpur – not from the news, but from sources inside many of the government organisations. Top investigators from each country who had mysteriously lost their high profile delegates, had been sent out to the city. Police and government officials from Sweden, Germany and France, all worked alongside the Malaysian Police, who were notoriously inept and not capable of handling such a protracted enquiry. They’d been joined by the special investigators sent by the Gendarmes Corps, the Vatican's very own police force. Fruitlessly, they’d searched for some clue about what had happened to Archbishop Tillard. If only the church knew who he really was, and what he knew, Finch suspected they wouldn't be so keen to locate him.
Regardless of the investigators' skills or experience, they’d all been left scratching around in the sand. The US Government was still on the fence in regard to President Remy’s death. All toxicology and autopsy reports pointed to the fact that he'd suffered a massive heart attack. His room at the Marriott had literally been pulled apart, from the ground up. Everything was examined, but as Finch already knew, they would turn up nothing of evidentiary value. They were equally confused about Finch's own disappearance. Had he had something to do with Remy’s death? Or was he just another unfortunate soul who had vanished into thin air that night? The only trace of Finch to be found had been his personal tracker, left in the toilet of the staff block. Every piece of CCTV had been examined and re-examined, every call had been combed through – the reviewers searching for any key words or clues as to what had occurred. In truth, they didn't know if Finch was linked to the death or not. Regardless, he was still a wanted man. The FBI was certain Finch held some knowledge regarding Remy's demise, and they desperately wanted to speak to him. It was one of the only things they were right about.
The knowledge that President Remy had failed to see those hiding in plain sight gave Finch a warm glow. They’d been as skillful – if not more so – than the Watchers, at covertly installing their people in some very high level places. Finch's former role was no exception; he’d been right under Remy's nose for nine years. During his time studying Military Science, he'd learned that often the best place to hide from the enemy was in plain sight. It's the place they least expect to find you. Of course, this tactic only worked for those working covertly, spending years as a sleeper before striking a deadly blow, like the faithful dog which one day turns on its owner.
Once safely back in the States, he'd been taken to the headquarters of the operation. Situated in Allentown, it was less than a two-hour drive to New York, where the official business face of the operation was located. The town's small airport housed their four Gulfstream jets and afforded them the luxury of being able to reach any part of the country by air, without the hassle of having to use one of New York's major hubs. With a quick fuel stop, the fleet of jets could spread their reach worldwide.
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