Ghosts of War by George Mann Read Free Book Online

bloodstains afterward. It was dirty work, and it left a dark impression on one's psyche.
    Rutherford had lost track of the number of people he'd killed in the name of his country. There had been dozens of them during the war, scores and scores, wiped out by the rapid-fire gun emplacements he'd manned, blown apart by the mortar shells he'd fired or speared through the bellies with his rifle blade as he went over the top.
    After the Behemoths had trundled over the battlefields, he'd followed in their wake, mopping up the survivors with his squad. He'd seen firsthand what their weapons had done to those young men, witnessed their eviscerated corpses, put mercy bullets through their skulls so they didn't have to suffer any longer, leaving them to bleed out in the cold, wet mud. He knew they were the enemy, but he pitied them nonetheless.
    Rutherford had seen what war could do to a man, and that was why he had to do everything in his power to prevent it from happening again.
    Of course, he'd killed others since the war. It was inevitable in his line of work. Whether it was self-defense or political assassination, he'd carried it out in as detached a fashion as he'd been able to muster, always doing what was necessary, always remaining calm and logical. But he knew someday it would catch up with him.
    The war had changed him. The war had made him a killer, and the British government had seen that, had harnessed that. They had taught him about efficiency, about stealth. They had trained him in the art of death. They had, in short, turned him into a monster.
    Rutherford knew he was damaged goods. He'd never be able to return to a normal life. Never be able to love without always somehow compromising it, seeing the blood on his hands and knowing that he didn't deserve to be happy.
    There was a dark place inside his mind, a place where he buried all of the memories, all of the sights and sounds, all of the things he wanted too much to pretend had never happened. The best thing he could do for his countrymen, he knew, was to ensure that in the future none of them had to see the things he had seen, or do the things he had done. Perhaps that, and only that, could be his benediction.
    Rutherford melted into the shadows on the street corner opposite the apartment building and stood there for some time, watching, waiting. He was cold, chilled to the bone, and his breath made steaming clouds before his face.
    People came and went. Cars hissed by belching trails of oily smoke. The light began to wane. Still he waited. He smoked a cigarette, and then made sure to dispose of the butt down an open drain. He didn't want to leave any evidence he had been there for even the slightest amount of time. He studied the parked cars nearby, watching for any signs that the building was being watched.
    Two hours later, confident that the apartment block was clear, he stepped out from beneath the awning of a derelict store and crossed the road. He moved quickly, ducking into the shelter of the doorway and slipping the key out from a hidden compartment in the sole of his shoe.
    The key grated in the lock, the door swung open, and then he was inside, rushing up the stairwell toward the third floor. The stairs were covered in a thick layer of grime and the detritus of poverty. He wrinkled his nose at the smell.
    Moments later he was outside the door to apartment thirty-four. A different key, this time in the sole of his other shoe. He unlocked the door and pushed his way inside the apartment.
    He hadn't been here for weeks, and the place was filled with a musty scent, of dust and underuse. Everything seemed to be in order. They couldn't have discovered the place yet.
    His heart was pounding in his chest. He wondered how long it would be safe to stay here. He only needed ten minutes, time enough to make the call to London and toss a few belongings in a bag. Then he'd take the train out to Brooklyn and spend the night in the safe house before trying to book a berth