Echoes of The Past

  ~ Switzerland ~

   

  ‘Gentlemen, Good-afternoon to you all, I trust your rooms were comfortable and your desires were met.’

  The polite question was exactly that, a polite question. No hidden messages there, as far as Stan could tell. He was standing tiredly, with cramp starting to seep into his muscles, on a desk looking through a tiny air duct, whose surface had been covered with thick jib board. It would’ve been impossible to hear anything through that, if it had not been for the small device that was attached to it, and to his cell phone. Earphones allowed him to hear every word spoken in that conference centre and two exceptionally small peep holes that he’d made from inside the conference centre the night before, provided him with a very restricted view of some of the people seated in there.

  It had taken him hours to work out which air duct he had access to from the storage room next door after which, he had to subtly make the two holes in the wall, so they wouldn’t be noticed by anyone.

  Getting into the storage room had been the easiest part; he’d told a cleaner that he’d locked his key inside the hotel room and if the cleaner could please unlock it so that he could grab his cell phone and make an urgent call. The cleaner obliged without question and let Stan in. He made a careful mental note of the place where the cleaner left the master key, returning later on to retrieve it and unlock the storage. The moment he was sure he was alone and no-one was outside, he’d stood on the table which leant against the wall and inspected the air ducts in the room. He could see through to the one with jib board covering the end of it, and the two pin points of light which represented his handy work from earlier. It was perfect, now all he needed was for the conference to start.

  There was a murmured response from all those seated around the table and the rustle of expensive suits as they sat up in their chairs.

  ‘As you all know, the deadline for Rebirth is getting closer and closer with each passing day. It’s time to confirm everyone’s roles, where we’ll be situated and the different components that need to be coordinated. Phases one through five, will proceed in the order they’ve been planned, and nothing, absolutely nothing, can change this.’

  Smith barrelled on, ignoring his colleague’s responses, Smith spoke.

  ‘I want you in Washington DC; you know what you’re coordinating.’ Smith addressed a large man. ‘No mistakes can be made, if you’re caught, you’re aware of what must happen. The same goes for all of us.

  ‘I need you to be in England,’ Smith’s instructed a second man, whom Stan couldn’t see, ‘make sure her majesty listens carefully to your advice when the time comes, and acts accordingly. You must be in China you’re aware of what you must do,’ a third person was told. ‘Timing is vital; the time difference must be taken into account. Now, if we’re to fail by getting caught, there’s only one solution. If this requirement is not met, you can take my word for it, it will be taken care of by someone else.

  As for the both of you,’ Smith addressed two people sitting next to each other, ‘you’ll be with me, on the island. I need you to ensure that all the planes are delivered within the next two weeks. If you need means of persuasion, don’t hesitate to make the most of our ample funds. Just ensure the planes are not noticed missing, which is why I ask you to use Globex. All the equipment you’ll need for the planes will be there in two weeks time as well.

  Now, I need you on the island for phase one, as you already knew,’ Smith spoke to the person next to him, whose back was towards Stan. Unfortunately we can’t afford to have a test run. Therefore I am leaving the success of Rebirth’s opening act to you entirely.’

  ‘I’ll succeed, I always have,’ the tone; obedient confidence.

  The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Stan, though he couldn’t think where he’d heard it before.

  ‘All of you do not fail me.’ Icy sincerity dripped off those last five words, causing a shiver of fear to spread through the room, a reminder of the severity of what they were undertaking.  

  ‘Finally, I would like us all to acknowledge and thank the bank. Due to our financial manager, we have been able to access the funds which have made all this possible. With the last withdrawn amount, the costs for the planes and their cargo should be covered.

  It came to my attention yesterday, that Markus disappeared, most unusual, seeing as we’re so close to our goal. That’s when, the bank, again proved its worth by alerting me to the fact that ATIS was snooping round yesterday, asking questions.’

  This last statement caused uproar amongst the six other people in the room.

  ‘Markus was alerted by our financial manager, and I assume went to deal with the situation. He’s since not been back. Interestingly enough, it turns out the agent is in this hotel, staying in the room next door to mine.’

  Glancing casually at his watch, he smiled unpleasantly and looked up.

  ‘And in two seconds he should be captured and brought to me for interrogation. I will not have him harmed under any circumstances, so it is just as well that Markus didn’t get to him first.’

  Sure enough in two seconds, Smith’s phone started ringing, his smile widened into a crocodile grin as he answered with a cheerful ‘Smith.’

  A shadow creased his face, his eyes turned an ice cold grey and glinted with murderous intent, his smile ceased to exist as if a switch had been thrown, his white blonde hair seemed to grow a shade darker and it felt like the temperature dropped a notch in the room.

  Snapping his phone shut, he shot daggers at everyone at the table.

  ‘This meeting is over, do not disappoint me.’

  The phone call he’d just received was from Markus’s second in command, confirming that yes, there had been an ATIS agent in that hotel room, and he also mentioned that three bodies had been found in the bathtub, two of his men, plus Markus, dead. 

  Anger flushed through Smith’s veins, wild and uncontrolled. This meant Stan knew he, Smith, was alive. That was a problem and he’d killed his best soldier as well. That was even more of a problem.

  ‘Let’s hope you don’t know anything else Mr. Muddingfield, because otherwise, I’ll be forced to have you killed’ Smith said to an empty conference room. That would definitely be a shame he reflected. His mind drifted down memory lane and he remembered how he and Stan had met, how they’d got to know Russell.

  It was a rainy day; life in their orphanage was dismal at best. That day was one of the particularly bad ones. He’d kept to himself, one of the only ways to survive in the hell hole they had to call home. He was in the dorm with all the boys, Stan was there too, another silent one, when the nurse brought in a bedraggled and soaking wet boy. He was smaller than most of the kids there, was what Smith remembered vividly. He didn’t know how it happened but suddenly a huge ring had formed around the poor guy and one of them started pushing him. Smith watched from his bed where he was reading, it started getting worse, the new kid was on the floor in the foetal position, shielding himself from damaging kicks. Thunder rattled the window panes, the drops of rain hammered against the glass. The jeering increased in pitch, the rain was like needles in his head. Suddenly Smith couldn’t stand it anymore. This was a regular thing at the orphanage. Those who were not strong enough to fend for themselves were singled out and picked on. There was no justice, no fairness.

  He forced his way past the ring of spectators, who were cheering wildly, to protect the boy. The guy started throwing punches at Smith; he was a big lad, a lot stronger than Smith. Smith was holding his own, but it was clear that he’d end up losing and joining the new kid on the ground. That’s when Stan appeared, right next to Smith, and together they managed to get the guy off the smaller kid. Smith didn’t know what came over him, he couldn’t stop, and the injustice of his entire life was released upon the bully. The two of them ended beating him up so badly that he had to go to the infirmary where he stayed for a week, recovering. From that moment, those three were left to themselves and a strong frie
ndship developed between them. The small boy they’d saved was Russell. They were family. The start of something new, giving them hope, and it was the best comfort for when things got really bad.

  Shaking out of his past, Smith stood up suddenly and shuffled together his papers, glancing briefly at the faded dragon tattoo on his hand. How fast things change he reflected as he left the room.

  By that time, Stan was long gone. The moment he’d heard the “bank” mentioned, he’d known why Markus had discovered his existence so fast. Speeding along in his Porsche, his mind was working overtime. Globex?

  He’d have to call Ben, ask him to look it up. It was a terrorist bombing attack which was being planned, the planes confirmed that. What he didn’t like at all was the part which involved phases. Numerous plane bombings would be bad enough. What could possibly justify phases being involved? Screeching into the bank’s almost deserted car park he hand-braked to a stop and leapt out.

  Bursting through the double doors, he dashed up to the receptionist.

  He was unaware of the three different cameras that captured his photo and wired it up to John Spencer’s office. Panic flickered across Spencer’s face as he recognised Stan but he quickly masked it by picking up his phone and dialling a number.

  ‘He’s here now. Yes. Give me a second.’

  He stood up and looked out of the window into the car park.

  ‘Sir, it’s a black Porsche. Hard to miss. Yes I’ll make sure he’s preoccupied with me long enough. I won’t tell him anything else. I’ll just confirm what I told him when he came earlier. A text message? Very well, I’ll end the conversation as soon as I receive the text. OK. Thank you sir. Goodbye.’

  His throat dry from the conversation and his nerves going into overdrive, Spencer attempted to calm himself with a glass of whiskey. His hand shook as he poured the amber liquid into the tumbler. Bankers were not supposed to do this sort of thing. That was for the brainless thugs which Smith hired. Oh god what have I gotten in to? He reflected on the choices he’d made when accepting the job proposition made by a very suave and persuasive Mathew Smith all that time ago. In terms of money, it was smart. He was rich like he’d never been before in his life. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, what was happening with all the money which he was “cleaning” and transferring. Yet guilt gnawed at his insides, which was quickly thrust aside as he heard the doorbell ring.

  In stormed a furious off Stanley Muddingfield. His face a mask of pure rage; blue eyes blazing, his black hair wild. He made quite a formidable sight. 

  ‘You lied to me!’ he practically screamed an inch away from John’s face.

  Trying very hard to remain calm, John took a sip of his whiskey. Desperately not wanting the quiver in his voice to give away his terror.

  ‘I think you have made some mistake, because I most certainly did not lie to you.’

  ‘Try telling that to a jury while at the same time, you can try to explain how it wasn’t you, who laundered millions of dollars through Globex,’ this was all a bluff on Stan’s behalf and he could see in John’s eyes that it’d worked.

  ‘I, I… what is Globex? I’ve never heard of it,’ professed John, his voice stammering in shock. How the hell did ATIS know about Globex? When were Smith’s men getting here? His gaze darted to his cell phone. Still no text message. Shit.

  ‘I think we both know that that’s not true.’ Stan’s tone of voice had lost all its anger, replaced with a quiet menace.

  John didn’t reply.

  ‘OK fine, let’s play it your way.’ Stan pulled out his silenced pistol and fired a shot at John’s expensive mirror that hung behind his desk. The glass shattered everywhere in a loud and splintering crack, leaving nothing but fine crystal powder coating the carpets.

  ‘What the hell, man, what the hell. Don’t kill me! I didn’t do anything.’ John’s voice had risen to a ridiculous high pitch in hysterics, as he cowered in his office chair, arms flailing wildly around his head. The sight was so comically pathetic that Stan had to concentrate not to laugh.

  ‘What do you want from me, please don’t kill me, I have a family and a child!’

  As if that mattered to you, all you want is money after all, thought Stan bitterly.

  In the silence that followed, a loud beep beep, beeeep could be heard as Spencer’s phone received the text message confirming all was ready.

  ‘I’ll get that for you shall I?’ Stan read the text. His face paled.

  It took Stan two seconds to put the dots together.

  ‘You set me up. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet through your head right now?’ He stepped over the glass and peered out of the window, he could make out someone bent over at his car wheel under the driver side. They were going to try to take him alive, and if he got away then it didn’t matter, because he was a nuisance, the bomb in his nice new car would blow him apart. Charming.

  ‘You’ve got three seconds. Three, two,’ he raised his gun, a cold empty look entering his eyes.

  ‘OK, OK fine I’ll tell you everything you want to hear! I swear.’

  ‘How long have you been working for Smith?’

  ‘Fifteen years. Since he was called Stanley Muddingfield.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  Silence.

  ‘I. Swear. To. God. I will blow your head off if you don’t answer me.’

  ‘I legitimised all his money and made transfers for him involving weapon purchases, building equipment and anything he wanted pretty much. Please, don’t kill me,’ he whimpered.

  ‘One last question Mr Spencer; what is Globex?’

  ‘It’s an investment company that we use as a front. It owns over 120 high rise apartment buildings all across the globe, as well as an Island in the South-pacific. We used a lot of the illegal money to purchase these buildings, and it became a way for us to appear innocent. I’m begging you, don’t kill me. I told you everything I know!’ A dark stain had appeared on his trousers. The coward had wet himself.

  ‘Do you realise that Mathew Smith is a terrorist, John?’

  ‘I... I never knew for sure, but I did have my suspicions,’ he gasped.

  ‘And yet you continued to work for him?’

  ‘Well, I was getting paid millions, wouldn’t you have?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have. Not ever.’

  With that he shot John Spencer in the shoulder.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t shoot,’ he gasped before he lost consciousness and blood started to seep onto the beautiful silk carpets.

  ‘I lied.’

  Using Spencer’s phone, he dialled the emergency number. ‘There’s been a shooting, and the Bank Manager, John Spencer, has been shot in the left shoulder. He needs an ambulance immediately.’ With that he hung up, wiped his fingerprints off, and threw the phone at Spencer’s prone body. He’d die if the ambulance didn’t come in time. He felt no remorse whatsoever. A mechanical noise forced him to spin round, gun up ready to fire. The lifts were going down. He had very little time left.

  Stepping up to the window that looked down over the car park, he could see the man still fiddling with his car. He raised his hand and the silencer coughed once, the bullet causing spider web cracks to appear all over the window. Wrapping his left hand in his sleeve, he punched the glass. Nothing happened, except that his hand ached. This time he picked up a chair from the office floor and swung it at the window like he was gunning for a home run. The glass disintegrated under the impact, the shards falling like a shining rain onto his Porsche.

  The guy planting the explosive looked up in alarm, just in time to watch a cell phone drop onto the roof of the car, and bounce once, falling at the guys feet. The guy looked at the splintered display of the phone and saw the number one flicker into a zero. That was the last thing he’d ever see in his life, as the cell phone exploded, detonating the car bomb. The noise was deafening, and Stan couldn’t help but grimace as he watched his pride and joy di
sintegrate in a fireworks display that set off the few remaining car’s alarms in the car park.

  As expected, another man sprinted out of the bank, to where metal scraps lay smouldering angrily, and looked around in shock. That would mean two more would be on their way up in the lift. Taking careful aim, Stan fired a single bullet without mercy down at the man, shattering his head. He was dead before he hit the ground. Quickly he took in the rest of the office. The desk was directly in front of him. To his right on the ground lay John, slowly coming round and on the wall above the liquor cabinet was the broken mirror. There was no staircase going down, but there was one that looked like it went up to the roof. A door marked “fire escape” hid a staircase going up; it was on the same wall as the mirror, just further down the corridor.    Stan leaped over John’s body and sprinted towards the escape just as he heard the lift ping with an innocent chime. Without breaking his sprint he emptied the rest of his clip at the lift doors as they began to slip open, hoping to force the goons to take cover. He wrenched open the door and it was assailed by an angry storm of Uzi bullets that threatened to make the door holy, and not in a religious sense. Stan was leaping up the stairs with adrenaline coursing through his body, reaching the top he dashed through the door.

  Blinded by the afternoon sunlight he frantically looked around for something to hold the door shut with. A piece of timber lay forgotten at the entrance to the stairwell. With controlled agility, he wedged it under the door handle. Admiring his handy work he thought, that should hold them up for a bit. They wouldn’t come storming out through the doors unless they had a death wish. They would do it stealthily. He glanced around, there was no-where to run to and he didn’t have much time. Only a large helicopter pad, which is a fat lot of good to me he thought angrily.

  Suddenly to his right something else caught his eye. Was that another stairwell? As he neared it, he saw with relief that it was the shaft that held the lift. Without wasting any time, he replaced his spent clip with one of the ones he’d stolen from Markus. He swung deftly up onto the ledge and blew the padlock off the trapdoor. It swung down noisily, the clang echoing in the shaft. The lift was a good six metres below him and he quickly scaled down the ladder, landing nimbly on its roof. The emergency hatch had a quick release bolt which he promptly slid open. His gun was met with a deserted elevator. That was lucky. Flinging himself into the compartment he shut the hatch and pressed the button for the lobby. The lift sped down the shaft, coming to a smooth stop at the bottom. The doors opened and Stan found himself staring into the surprised face of another one of Smith’s men. The shock was reflected in both their faces as they raised their weapons at the same speed. Without warning, the man pitched forward into the lift, a bloody hole in his back. Standing a few metres behind was the receptionist, and he was holding a silenced heckler and Koch that was now pointed at Stanley’s head. As recognition filtered into his brain, the receptionist quickly lowered the weapon, beckoning to Stanley to come with him. As he walked out, the doors shut behind him, trapping the body inside, he could hear the elevator rising to the twelfth floor, like it was being sucked up by a straw.

  ‘Sir, we have not got much time, we need to leave now, before the other two come down.’

  ‘You got a car? Mine had an accident.’

  ‘Follow me’

  These Swiss banking people were a class for themselves, people of few words. The receptionist quickly led the way behind the counter and to a door made of solid steel. It led to a staircase that spiralled down into darkness. A quick flick of a switch caused light to illuminate the way. Their feet echoing loudly on the flagstone steps as they flew towards, what must be an underground car park, thought Stan. The stairway ended at another huge steel door, to which of course, the banker had a key. It swung open, revealing an underground car park. A single car stood in the middle, a lonely sight, it was a small Volkswagen Golf GTI, a car with a lot of power and high speeds, despite its appearance. The banker hurried round to the driver’s side and immediately started up the engine. Stan lost no time and leaped into the passenger seat, his gun at the ready just in case they were followed. Throwing it into gear, the banker sped off towards the exit. A barrier blocked the way to the outside but it was no match for the car, disintegrating on impact.

  ‘Take me to the train station,’ Stan had to strain his voice to be heard over the screeching of tires and roaring of the engine.

  ‘And what of me? What do you think I’m going to do?’

  Faster than Stan could reply, a silver BMW sped past and pulled in front of the Golf. At the same time another BMW accelerated up behind their car.

  ‘What now Sir?’ the banker yelled, a wild look in his eyes.

  Before Stan could reply and completely without warning the front and back windshields erupted in an explosion of glass. Shards flying everywhere while bullets tore into the upholstery, at the same time turning the banker into Swiss cheese. Slumping forward in his seat the car began to accelerate furiously, the revs going up like crazy, the needle inching towards the red on the display. Stanley hadn’t gotten away unscathed either. Blood dripped from his left shoulder where a bullet had ripped into his flesh and lodged firmly in the bone. Adrenaline numbed the intense pain as he shifted himself into the middle of the car and unbelted the dead banker. Leaning over with his right arm, he managed to open the door, shove the banker onto the tarmac that was rushing by and sit himself in the driver seat.

  The car decelerated and began to fishtail wildly. Once the door was firmly closed he managed to regain control of the car, swinging it out onto the other lane, accelerating precisely when the drivers in the Beamers opened fire again. This time they ended up hitting each other. The car that had been following behind Stanley realised a few seconds too late what was happening and managed to stop. Unfortunately for them, the leading Beamer’s shooter continued to pull the trigger, the bullets puncturing the front tires. The rubber completely shredded under relentless gunfire, the car’s wheel frames kicked up sparks along the black tarmac. The driver braked putting the car into an unrestrained spin. It hit the roadside barrier and flipped over it, landing upside down. The roof crumpled in on the driver and shooter, killing them instantly. The disbelief on the face of the marksman in the remaining car was almost comical. Using this to his advantage, Stanley took careful aim with his pistol and let loose a volley of shots. The man in the backseat ducked down, terror sweeping across his face. When he realised that Stanley had missed and he was still alive he resumed his evil leer. He swung his rifle up, and was going to pull the trigger, when suddenly his smile vanished, replaced with panic. The shot flew miles overhead as the car began veering crazily from one side of the road to the other.

  Stanley hadn’t missed. His target had never been the shooter because he didn’t have enough bullets to deal with the driver and the guy in the back. That was why he had emptied half his clip onto the back two tyres, the car began to lose all control. Stanley pulled out onto the other side of the road and accelerated. The engine roared in response and he zoomed past the Beamer. A loud horn blared suddenly. Looking up Stan saw a huge truck thundering towards his car. He looked out to his right and fired his last few shots at the left front wheel of the Beamer as he past it. The reaction was instantaneous. The car’s rear slid out to the right and the bonnet was forced onto the other side of the road. Stanley had already completed overtaking the Beamer as the truck shot past, brakes squealing in protest. A glance into the rear-view mirror showed the truck colliding head on, into the driver side of the BMW, pushing it along the road until it came to a grinding halt. Stan was relieved to see the driver of the truck getting out without a scratch. In the silence which followed Stanley continued to drive along the winding road.

  He had to get out of the country before the police caught on to him. He felt some guilt for the banker, he’d risked his life for Stanley, but the practical part of his mind couldn’t help but remind him that it was better this way. The fact the banker had seen
his credentials meant he was a liability. It was best this way and he was alive with very important information, which was the only thing that mattered.

  Now he was headed for France. He knew someone there. Adrianna Silver. It’d been a long time, fifteen years to be exact, since he’d spoken to her. The last thing she’d said to him still hurt, years later. Not simply because it was her saying it but because he knew she was right.

  ‘You killed him. Not Mathew, not some terrorist group, no one but you alone is responsible for his death. How could you do this to me? How? I don’t want to see you or hear from you ever again. Get out of my life. Forever. Don’t ever contact me again.’ She’d been talking about the death of her brother, Russell.

  The words floated through his mind as he drove towards the train station and France. He’d loved her, still did, who was he trying to fool? Angrily he floored the accelerator. He would’ve given anything for her. When she’d walked out of his apartment that day, he was left a shadow of the man he once was. Knowing she was right and not being able to forgive himself for what had happened. Losing her had left him with a scar that was a constant memory of the biggest mistake of his life as well as the loss of his foster brother, Russell, who was Adrianna’s real brother though they’d been separated at birth. Russell had always been the quieter one out of the three. Smith was the leader, no one questioned it. It worked fine. They stood up for each other and considered themselves family.

  On the night they left, Smith had acted odd, telling them to pack everything they owned and hide the bags under their beds. Without questioning him they did it. The moon was up and it was very bright outside when Smith shook the two awake, his shadow looming large over their beds.

  ‘We’re getting out of here tonight.’ His eyes gleamed with excitement and impatience.

  Sneaking out was difficult; the house master was notoriously strict and kept a watchful vigil during the night. The windows were barred so they were going to have to sneak right past his office to get to the front door. Already Stan was having misgivings about the whole escapade and was about to say so when loud yells and scuffling noises could be heard coming from one of the other dorms. Listening at the wall they heard the housemaster’s door slam open and hurried footsteps making their way towards the noise.

  ‘A little distraction and we are out of here boys.’ With a sudden jerk their door was open and Smith was sprinting full pelt down the corridor in the opposite direction to the housemaster, straight towards their ultimate freedom. The night air had never tasted fresher to Stan than it did on that night. It was the start of change.

  ‘Now what?’ Russell, who had up until now not said a word, voiced the question.

  ‘Ah.’ Smith smiled. ‘Don’t worry about that, I have a plan. It will take a while to get there, but once we do we’ll have our own place at last. Just us three. It’s a deserted warehouse on the river bank, with docks and all. No one will come looking for us there.’

  The other two couldn’t help it; they burst into woops of delight as they began their trek towards a better future.

  It was a long time after their daring departure and things were good. Smith had had a long term plan all along. He was dead set against any form of crime that served an injustice to innocent victims and convinced them all to do their part in putting an end to it. The only problem was that they were doing it illegally. In protecting those who got preyed on by gangs, they broke the law themselves.

  As time wore on the trio became a notorious force in the crime world and a name sprung up for them: “The three Musketeers” nothing was known about them other than that there were three and they never lost a fight. If you were unfortunate enough to be targeted, that was the end of whatever it was you did. Not even Smith’s girlfriend, Rose, suspected a thing, even though she often visited and spent a lot of time with them at their dockside home. It didn’t stop there, as they got better and better at what they did people started hiring them, paying for their services in protection or elimination of certain gang members, who were harassing them or their families. Eventually the police began to take an interest and started a search for these mysterious men, who were by now as dangerous as the criminals themselves, even though what they did was good. They had no limits.

  Those days had been good, reflected Stan, just the three of them, like Smith had said. Smith had been so different back then, somebody who only believed in justice. If things hadn’t played out the way they did, he’d never have changed so completely, causing the death of their foster sibling: Russell, or the troubles with Adrianna, Russell’s biological sister.

  Well, right now he didn’t give a shit if she didn’t want to see him, he needed help. His holiday, he grimaced at the thought, what a joke, had been an attempt on his behalf, to try and apologise to Adrianna. The chances he’d have gone through with it were very small but as it turned out he was going to see her regardless.

  Searing pain in his left shoulder reminded him of his plight. The adrenaline was wearing off and Stan could feel every judder and bump of the car. He’d survive, that was for sure. He hadn’t lost too much blood and if he didn’t move his arm then he’d manage till he got to Adrianna’s. He’d have to destroy the car though, so that no fingerprints or evidence was left behind. In his state that was going to be a difficult. An idea on how to destroy the car struck him, it was crazy and stupid and he couldn’t help but laugh. A coughing fit followed and he immediately regretted it. Up ahead he could see the train station. Good, time to get out of here.

   

  ***

   

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