The Truth Is Out At Last, Are You Ready For It?Prologue: just after 9: Breech Of Dawn
They would pay for this, he would see to it.
He growled, glaring evilly at the dog-eared, well read newspapers scattered across the worn, battered and decrepit desk that he was forced to use now, ever since they had forced him out of the business, a disgrace to his profession. Except, he was no disgrace, he knew everything he had said was true, they had just been better at covering their arses, their illegal secrets far better then he had been at exposing them.
But damn, he had never expected them to be so ruthless in keeping their little secrets. Secrets they had no right to keep, the press were the important ones here, not anyone else. Nobody had a right to hide from the press, if they tried, then it was the duty of the press to prove them wrong, humiliate them in the worst possible way.
Except, he told himself angrily, it hadn't worked out that way, not this time. They had shown that it was they who had the power, not him. Well, he would have to take the power back from them, it was his to hold, not any one else's. His to use, to control, to manipulate.
The sudden ringing of the phone in the damp, rat infested hole he had been forced by his sudden unemployment to call home startled the bitter, angry man and he glared at it, before reluctantly reaching forwards and grasping it. Few enough people knew the number, those that did were either his few remaining friends or the allies he had picked up, reporters who had seen the truth and had come to him, asking him to lead them to the truth.
He had accepted of course, knowing all the wile that they were using his vendetta for their own ends. Well, so be it. So long as they played their parts, he would be a tool to find the Truth'; after all, some would say that's all a reporter was. A tool in the eternal battle against secrets.
"Yes!" he growled, his tone hiding none of his bitterness.
"There's an exodus underway"
What? An exodus? What the buggering hell was Helton on about?
"Reporters, retired and active are vanishing left right and centre. Hell, they are even vanishing out of protective custody. Christ man, even Kelson has gone and there's a cool Million on his head"
"What? Where are they going? What's happening?" Despite himself, he was interested; the timing was far too close to be a coincidence
"I don't know for definite but a source gave me a description for the last person to visit Kelson, it's sketchy but it could be one of the Williams Twins. I also got word from his old boss, last thing he said on the phone was Where he was going, no-one would be able to threaten him or his family'"
The bitter, twisted man swore, fluently in three different languages.
"They're buying out reporters"
"Looks that way"
"Traitorous bastards, thinking of their families, their hides instead of the job"
Helton didn't comment, he had a ten-year old daughter, if it came to keeping her safe, he would sell out too. But then, that was the point in a way, the bitter one had had a daughter, a Pilot and she had been killed and the government always refused to tell him how, when or why it had happened, just that it had.
He had been bitter, twisted remnant of his former self ever since. The only clue that he had ever had was that somehow, RAF St Athan had been at the core of her death, it was what started his bloody and useful drive for vengeance.
"Right, I'll hook up the modem and you send me what you got okay? And pass the others the word; I want to know the last movements of everyone of the traitors"
"Understood" Helton commented, and hung up the phone.
Grunting, the bitter one reached across, hitting the power button on his laptop, booting it up ready to connect the modem and get at the new information.
This many people decamping, somebody was bound to know something or too have said something out of place that would give the game away. They always did, even reporters made mistakes like that.
And when he found that mistake, he would have them.
And the power would be where it was always destined to be, with him.