Finding Sage (The Rogue Book 1) (15 page)

25.

              Rodge stared down the cue ball and slowed his breathing.  He closed his left eye, trying to get as accurate of a view as possible.  The eight ball mocked him with a deceitfully simplistic shot.  He moved the sleek wooden rod back and forth between his left thumb and forefinger, anticipating the shot. 

Pool relaxed him, made him feel in control; and control is what he needed.  He needed it like an infant needed its mother’s milk.  He sought it like a long-lost child he loved with all his being.  He craved it like a stoner who needs that one last joint.  

He struck the cue ball with the stick.  The eight ball bounced to the right and the cue ball sank into the corner pocket.  He felt the urge to curse but instead forced a strong exhale and curled his upper lip.  He always missed that shot. 

He heard a knock at the door.  He cast a look at the large, wooden door and put his long hair behind his ears. 

“Come in.”

An agent came in with two figures behind him in dark hooded robes, the typical garb of the U.N.’s rogues.  He had a young male with him, who was handcuffed and had a black bag over his head.  He pulled up a chair and sat the young man in it. 

“What’s this?” Rodge asked.

“A weapon.”

Rodge looked at the ground and cocked his head to the side, then blinked very slowly to control his frustration.

“I told you that I wanted—”

“Trust me, you want this one.”

The confidence in Rodriguez’s voice intrigued Rodge, so he watched carefully as one of the rogues pulled the hood off of the boy’s head.  As Rodge saw the boy’s face, his eyes grew wide with surprise.  He slowly backed away.

“Where did you find him?”

“His uncle was hiding him in his apartment in Soho.”

              “Right under our noses,” Rodge commented.

              The boy rolled his head back and forth erratically, mumbling under his breath.  As Rodge listened closer, he could hear the boy counting.  He was past three hundred.

              “Has he been doing that the whole time?”

              “I think you know the answer to that,” Rodriguez responded. 

Rodge nodded slowly.  He had read the boy’s file several times.  He knew the kid’s routine.

“He always counts up to the same number, then starts over again.  I haven’t listened closely enough to figure out exactly what it is, but I think it’s somewhere between five hundred and seven hundred.” 

A cold chill ran down Rodge’s spine. 

“Do you realize what this means?” Rodge asked Rodriguez.

He slowly nodded.

“It means that you have a weapon.”

“Yes. But it means far more than that.”

Rodge smiled as he looked at the boy.  He basked in the satisfaction of his new asset and smiled.  His brief moment of success was disrupted as a blood-curdling scream pierced the air. 

“Have one of the guards shut him up on your way out.”

Rodriguez nodded and left.

Rodge looked at the boy, who was still counting.  He feared the boy, but he knew the boy was his ace of spades.  The game changer.  The advantage that would turn the tables.  He was in control.

26.

              A young man with choppy blue hair slowly opened his dark eyes. His head immediately started throbbing in pain and his vision remained blurry for several seconds.  He stepped out of bed and stood up, and as he did, his stomach felt nauseous and he nearly lost his balance.  He sat down on his bed and squinted his eyes, dealing with his self-imposed ailment. 

              As he opened his eyes again and his vision began to return, he looked at his dresser across the room, remembering what was inside the top right drawer.  His eyes locked on that dresser drawer and he stared at it.  Seconds passed by.  Minutes passed by.  His heart began to throb and his palms and forehead to sweat.  He started breathing heavier, but still he did not move.  He knew that what lay within that drawer was the very reason he felt horrible, but it was easier to give in. 

He stood up, his eyes still locked on the drawer.  His breathing became shaky and he slowly made his way to the drawer.  He pulled it open and saw the white powder in small baggies.  He began to reach for one of them when he heard a knock at the door.  He quickly pushed the drawer closed.

“Jax?” a voice said from the other side of the door.

“Yeah?” 

His voice was raspy and hoarse, and despite his best intentions, sounded painfully unnatural. 

“There’s a girl outside that wants to see you,” a male voice responded.

He walked to the door and opened it. On the other side of the door was a man with spiked black hair and an intricate dragon tattoo coming up his neck.  His eyes were narrow and he had several ear piercings.  He spoke slowly, almost like he needed to exert mental effort for every word he spoke.

“I can send her away,” the man offered.

“She’ll just come back,” he responded.  “I’ll be down in a second.”

He picked up a pair of faded black jeans and threw on a grey wife-beater.  He walked into the bathroom, splashed some cold water in his face, popped a couple of pain killers for his headache, and then walked downstairs. 

As he expected, waiting for him in the downstairs living room was a teenage girl.  She had long, sleek brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and dark eyes that looked up at him with frustration as he slowly walked down the stairs.  She was barely taller than his shoulder but he was still slightly intimidated at her presence. 

He walked slowly towards her and stopped a couple of feet from where she stood.  Her eyes slid up to his hair, then back to his eyes.

“Jax, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Throwing your life away.”

“Vanessa—”

“You can still come home.  Dad—”

“If you’ve come here to talk about him, just save your breath and leave right now,” Jax said.

Vanessa’s face slowly changed from anger to worry.  She looked at him with pleading eyes.  For a moment she looked away at the two other guys standing in the room.  She scanned their piercings and tattoos, as well as the rifles in their hands, then looked back to him.

“Why are you here, Jax?”

Jax looked away and didn’t answer.

“I want you to come home.  Can’t you do that for me?” Vanessa asked.

“No.”

She hung her head in resignation, turned around, and left.  Before she exited the door, she stopped and turned around.

“I love you, Jax.  Don’t ever forget that.” 

With that, she turned around and left the house.  Jax didn’t move for several seconds.  He was disturbed by her question.  He didn’t answer because he was not able to answer.  Why was he here?  The last several weeks of his life were one big composite blur that he couldn’t quite get a handle on. 

One of the guys with a large dragon tattoo and shaggy black hair walked up to Jax.

“Who was that?”

Jax shook his head slightly to bring himself out of his thoughts.

“My step-sister.  Do we have a job today?”

“Yeah, we’re supposed to get a shipment at three at the Rickenbacker Marina.  You feelin’ up to it?”

“Yeah I’m fine.” Jax said.  “Thanks, Grayson.”

Grayson patted Jax on the back and an image flashed through Jax’s mind, though only for a fraction of a second.  He blinked and had an urge to stagger backward, but firmly planted his ankles to prevent it – a skill that had taken his entire life to master.  He slowed his breathing and hoped that no one noticed his behavior. 

He closed his eyes, trying to recall the image that he had seen.  He saw a man shooting someone.  He tried to see the finite details, but he could see nothing more.  The image faded from his memory in a matter of seconds.  He opened his eyes and a grim cloud settled over his mind.  Despite his best efforts to ignore it, he could not.  Grayson intended to kill someone.

“We’d better get going soon,” Grayson said to Jax and the other man in the room.  “It takes about an hour and a half to get to the marina.”

              When they reached the marina, the people they were waiting for had not yet arrived.  The three of them sat in the black SUV and talked to pass the time.  The third man, Luke, talked about his life in high school, which from what Jax could tell, consisted mostly of heroine, alcohol, and women.  Jax looked outside at the palm trees and the sand that lined the Miami portion of the coastline and grew rather fidgety, knowing what was eventually coming.  In time, Luke finally ran out of things to say about himself and attempted to turn the conversation over to Grayson.

              “So, what were your high school days like, Grayson?  I imagine you were a pretty wild case.”

              “Actually, I’m curious as to what Jax’s high school days were like.”

              “Has he had them yet?”

              Luke snickered at his own joke and Grayson looked expectantly at Jax.  As new as he was, Jax got the feeling that it was Grayson’s job to check out all of the new recruits.  Even so, he couldn’t help but feel Grayson was sincerely interested in him. 

At this, Jax felt like kicking himself.  This man intended to kill someone, and yet here he wanted to be buddies with him.  In his mind, he associated Grayson with the death of somebody—he just didn’t know who yet.  He tried not to shrivel back, his shoulders involuntarily shifted back slightly. 

Jax uncomfortably realized that he hadn’t answered the question and met Grayson’s expectant gaze.  Thankfully, he saw a small white fishing boat approach, which gave him a convenient escape.

              “Is that them?” he asked.

              Luke and Grayson directed their attention to the boat.

              “It sure is,” Grayson said.

              Grayson and Luke got out of the car and Jax started to get out too, but Grayson stopped him.

              “No, you stay here.”

              “What?  Why?” Jax asked.

              “You’re an insurance policy,” Grayson said.  “Your job is to let us know if you get any flashes.”

              “I get more flashes if I’m closer to the person I’m reading,” Jax objected.

              “Why are you so eager?” Grayson asked suspiciously.

              “No reason.  I just want to prove myself.”

              “You will,” Grayson said.  “Just stay here and let us know if anything is about to go wrong.”

              Grayson shut the door and he and Luke met two men in front of the SUV.  Jax moved to the side so that he could see out the windshield better.  He focused on the two men and waited.  No flashes.  They talked for a few minutes and everything appeared to be proceeding as normal.  After about five minutes, Luke came back and opened the hatch in the back of the SUV.  They loaded the cargo and in ten minutes they were heading back.

              During the ride back, Jax stared out the window, uneasy about his situation.  He assumed that Grayson would try to kill someone today.  He didn’t.  That meant it could come at any time and aimed at anyone. 

              Grayson Flint was a dangerous man.

27.

              A ginger teenage boy sat at his desk in his bedroom motionless.  He slowly turned his head to his right to make sure that his door was closed, then looked to his left to reassure himself that the curtains were closed.  His heart began to thump harder and harder.  He could not only feel its pulse but also hear it beating against his chest cavity.  He breathed out slowly and pulled out his laptop and went to work.  Hacking through U.N. firewalls was tricky business, but he did it anyway.  Travis Fleming was not one to take the safe road.

              In the last several weeks, Travis’s computer skills had found a new target.  He had accidentally stumbled upon one small crack in the system.  A crack that he slipped through.  It was the day that he found out that everything he had learned in History class had been one elaborate lie.

              It started when he found out that the United Nations was not responsible for peacefully ending the second world war.  He found a news article from the 1940s that he shouldn’t have been able to access.  When his computer shorted out shortly thereafter, he concluded that there was something deeper that the U.N. didn’t want anyone to find out about, and he was determined to find it.

              Ever since, Travis had spent every minute of free time in his room with the door locked and the curtains closed, hacking his way through the U.N. firewalls, desperately searching for their secrets.  It didn’t hurt that he could communicate in binary code like it is his first language.  In a sense, it was.

              Travis brought up the browser and closed his eyes.  He placed his hands slightly above the laptop keyboard and a current of energy surged through his hands.  He saw the code.  The firewalls, the data, the software, the command terminal, all of it ran through his mind in flawless detail.  What he saw was not an endless repetition of zeros and ones, though.  What he saw was representation.  He saw the firewalls as massive brick walls missing a brick here and there.  He saw software as taxis and trains going to different destinations.  He saw the command terminal as a tablet resting in the palm of his hand. 

              He walked along the brick wall, looking for some weakness to exploit.  The U.N. made their firewalls well, so it often took some time to find a loophole.  He found a spot at the bottom of the wall missing a few bricks.  Holes at the bottom were risky.  If he removed too many bricks, the wall could collapse, in which case he would have to start all over again. 

              Travis shrugged and began pulling bricks out of the bottom of the wall.  Even in this binary dream world, he was a little chubby, so he took a few extra bricks out to make sure that he could slide through.  He got on his back and pushed his way through with his legs.  It was a little tight, but he made it through.  Once on the other side, He jumped on an empty grey train and watched the billboards as he roamed the vacant city. 

              The headlines flew by at unprecedented speeds and Travis had to keep undivided attention in order to catch them all, and he certainly didn’t register all of them in his mind.  After several minutes of very irrelevant results, he looked down at the train control center and saw a search bar.  He also saw a keyboard.  He kicked himself for forgetting the obvious and typed in a search term.  He stopped at the first billboard.  It contained no words, only an image.  The head of an orange bird.  He remembered seeing this emblem when reading about the United Nations New Order.  He got off of the train and looked around the billboard, hoping for more information. 

              In the course of his search, he did not realize that he had lost track of time.  He also did not realize that he was being watched.

On the roof of a small building across the street, a soldier lay on the concrete with a sniper rifle pointed at the building.  He had been told that the boy lived on the third floor with his single mother, but he was there in case the boy tried to run.  He kept his phone out of his pocket, next to the rifle.  He was expecting a call from his captain soon.  After a few seconds, the phone lit up.  He pressed the green button on the screen.

              “Gamble,” he answered.

              “Are you in position?” his commander asked.

              “Yes sir.”

              “In thirty seconds we’re moving in.  Be ready.”

              “Ready I will be, sir.”

              Gamble counted off the thirty seconds in his head and waited for chaos to erupt.  These kids lived their whole lives paranoid and jumpy.  They never came peacefully.  Once he saw a kid jump from a thirty-story building to get away.  Another blew his brains out with a revolver he had in his pocket (illegally, of course).  Being a United Nations soldier was a tough job in and of itself, but the Rogue Division of the Ministry of Internal Affairs was about as bad as it got.  You saw this stuff all the time.  You would think you would get used to it.  You didn’t.

              The thirty seconds passed quicker than Gamble expected. He heard the door being kicked open.  He tensed his shoulders and prepared for the worst. 

              Travis looked around the billboard for an explanation.  He saw an old newspaper and picked it up.  He took a quick look at the date.  February 17, 2042.  52 years ago.  He thought back to his history exam that he should have studied for yesterday.  The dates were foggy in his memory, but he thought that would have been about 10-20 years after the start of the New Order.  A time of peace and prosperity.  It was like the roaring 1920s all over again.  Then he read the headline.

             
Police Arrest Hundreds of Protesters Outside of Capitol Building
.  Travis cocked his head.  Surely this was a rare occurrence.  He saw another newspaper on the ground.  It was from April 11, 2047. 
United Nations Consolidate Law Enforcement and Military, Citing Growing Unrest
.  He saw another, dated September 16, 2047. 
United Nations Soldiers Execute Young Boy
.  He stopped at this one and read. 

             
Five U.N. soldiers executed a young boy in Boston, Mas. on Friday.  The boy was exhibiting manipulation of water when soldiers were called and subsequently shot the boy on sight.  The execution was the first of the controversial Rogue Act, which was effective last Sunday. 

              Travis paused, shocked.  He realized, slowly, that everything he had been told about the New Order was a lie.  Everything he had learned in history classes since he was a small child had been fabricated. 

              Amidst his silence, he heard a loud noise.  It sounded like someone barging through a door.  Was this in his head?  Or was it outside?  To be safe, he opened his eyes, exiting his dream-like state.  He pulled back the curtains in his bedroom window and looked outside.  As soon as he saw them, his heart dropped.  His stomach began to churn with nausea.  He knew he must act quickly.  He ran through his door and out of the apartment.  His mother yelled after him but he ignored her, knowing he would only endanger her if she came with him.

              He climbed the stairs frantically, and much to his dismay, heard the clattering of footsteps on the metal stairs beneath him.

              “Travis Hart!” a voice called.  He ignored it.

              Gamble lay on the roof with his sights fixed on the apartment building.  His phone lit up again.

              “Gamble, he’s headed for the roof.  As soon as you have him in your sights, execute Order 1161.”

              “Yes sir.”

              Travis continued climbing the stairs, stricken with panic.  He forced his way through the door that led to the roof and closed it behind him quickly.  It tended to jam, so he hoped that would buy him some time.  He raced for the east end of the roof, hoping to jump to the roof of the bakery, which was one story lower than the apartment building.  If only he could make it in time . . .

              Gamble saw the boy.  He had him in his sights.  He willed his finger to move back.  To pull the trigger.  Just a flinch was all he needed.  It wouldn’t budge.

              “Gamble!  Gamble, take the shot!  GAMBLE!!!”

              Travis saw the building.  He had less than ten feet.  He made the jump.  He was going to make it.  He felt a small glimmer of hope.  Then nothing.

              Gamble watched the boy’s body fall in the alley between the two buildings.  He exhaled a shaky breath and released the gun from his tight grip.  His hands were shaking uncontrollably.  He pulled his head off to the side and vomited.  He stayed there on all fours.  After ten seconds, he vomited again.  After a few minutes, the shaking receded and he sat on the roof of the building. 

              The first kill was always the worst.

              An hour later, Gamble put his cleaned uniform back in his locker along with his pristine AK-47 and his recently fired sniper rifle.  They had large lockers, able to hold all of the necessary weapons of warfare.  Some also kept valuable personal belongings in their lockers.  Gamble picked up a locket and looked at the picture inside.  A picture of him and a beautiful brunette woman was inside.  It was taken while he was on medical leave and he was sporting a thick Van Dyke, but had the same close cropped haircut.  He rubbed his face while he looked at the picture, remembering the memories associated with it.  He was not able to brood very long. 

              “Gamble, Commander Locke wants to see you.”

              Gamble hung his head.  He put the locket back in his locker and closed it.  He walked to the Commander’s quarters without saying a word.  Inside he found the Commander standing in front of his desk.  He knew this wouldn’t be pleasant.

              The Commander didn’t waste time.  As soon as he closed the door behind him, Gamble found the Commander inches from his face.

              “What happened out there?”

              Gamble swallowed.

              “I executed order 1161, sir.”

              “Don’t give me that.  You hesitated.  Why?”

              “I don’t know, sir.”

              “You better get it figured out.  Because this is going into your file.  If it ever happens again, you’ll be charged with insubordination and your head will be mounted on the wall.  Understood?”

              He nodded in recognition. 

              “Get out of my sight.”

              As he exited the Commander’s quarters, he picked up his dog tags and stared at them for a few seconds.  Christopher Greyson Reginald Gamble.  Rogue Division, Ministry of Internal Affairs, United Nations Armed Forces.  A bitter reminder that the United Nations owned him.  Of course, they owned everybody, but him even more so.  It was not his choice to be in the Rogue Division.  It was not his choice to be part of the United Nations military.  But things seldom happened because he chose for them to.   

              “Greyson!”

              He looked back and saw Caleb Martinez running up behind him.  He stopped long enough for Martinez to catch up to him.

              “What happened out there?”

              “We had an 1161,” he answered without hesitation.

              “So why did Commander call you in?”

              He walked in silence for a few seconds before answering.

              “I was the shooter.  I hesitated.”

              “You what?”

              Martinez looked behind him before saying anything else.

              “What did he say?”

              “If it happens again, I’ll be executed,” Gamble replied.

              “What’s wrong with you?!  You know the way the system works.  If they think you aren’t committed, you wind up dead.  Why would you hesitate?”

              “He was just a kid, Caleb!”

              “Okay, okay, keep your voice down,” Martinez said in a hushed tone.  “Don’t think for a second that the Commander doesn’t have people watching you now.  You have to be careful.”

              “I know.  I messed up.”

              “Look, you’ll be fine, just don’t let it happen again.  In six months, we’ll both be relocated and it’ll all be fine.”

              “He said he was putting it in my file.”

              Martinez remained still for a few seconds.  He knew this wasn’t good.  When a violation went on your file, it was permanent.  If your superior officer liked you, or if you had enough experience under your belt, you could get away with a second violation.  After the third, you were executed.  No exceptions.

              “Watch your step.  I’ll see what I can do.”

              Gamble tried to let that comfort him, but it didn’t.  Martinez had connections, but violations didn’t get erased from soldier files and the Commander definitely didn’t like him.  Things were bad.  Very bad indeed.