by S. A. Beck
Edward glared at her. Isadore went on.
“But you’re a victim, aren’t you, Edward? You lock yourself up away from the world and only interact with it through the safety of a computer screen. You’ve probably never had a girlfriend, probably never been to a party. Hell, you probably get nervous going to the corner store. The only way you could drag yourself across the ocean was because you thought you’d get caught if you stayed in the United States. You didn’t go with your friends to Algeria or wherever they really went because you couldn’t handle the travel. From what I hear, you’ve been cooped up in your hotel room ever since you got here. Social anxiety disorder—isn’t that what they call it now? I’m afraid I’m a bit out of touch with what’s trendy in psychology these days. So many terms for different types of weakness—because that’s all it is, weakness. I bet the worst part of your evening is having all of us standing around staring at you for hours on end. How weak. I hate weakness, Edward. You should hate it too. Because the weak always lose.”
She turned to Amir and his two flunkies. “I’m going upstairs where I can get a signal and check on a few things. I have a feeling this guy doesn’t like being touched, so until I get back, just poke him, like this.” She gave the prisoner a poke in the stomach with her finger. As she’d predicted, Edward flinched even more than when he’d gotten hit with the water. “So, Edward, Operation Lifeline isn’t about the money for you, is it? Get to it, guys.”
As she walked away, the three street punks surrounded Edward and started poking him. Edward flinched, whined, and doubled over.
By the time she made it to the stairs, he was screaming.
They were keeping Edward in the basement of the gang’s house, a ramshackle concrete building at the edge of town. The cellar had a thick door that she quickly closed behind her to keep the neighbors from hearing Edward’s wailing. Upstairs, she passed through a filthy kitchen and into the boys’ living room, where a TV was playing some Africa League soccer game. The TV was huge and brand new and no doubt stolen.
Brett sat slumped on the threadbare couch, staring at the screen. The teen had been little more than luggage this whole trip. Isadore wasn’t sure what to do with him. General Corbin had instructed Brett to follow her orders and told her to bring him along to test his abilities in the field, but Isadore had been putting off using him.
The kid gave her the creeps. He was like a blackboard from which all the words had been erased. There just wasn’t anything there. If you prompted him, he acted normally enough. If you didn’t, he just stood there like a zombie. Isadore had told him to watch TV just so he looked a bit more normal. He would have been equally happy staring at a wall. She turned her back on Brett and tried to ignore him.
A laptop sat on a desk nearby. That was almost certainly stolen like the TV. The kids had Internet, and she turned on her smartphone and connected. The signal didn’t reach down to the cellar, and it was best to do this out of sight of those thugs anyway. Isadore didn’t trust the Internet. She knew how vulnerable it was to security breaches and how easily it could be knocked out. People had become addicted to something that could be destroyed with a simple electromagnetic pulse or hacked by a loser like that shivering mass of jelly downstairs.
Still, she had to admit the Internet could be useful.
The first thing she looked up was Tel Gezer, the archaeological site her prisoner claimed his friends were heading to. She was surprised to find that it did, indeed, exist. It was in Israel, though, not Algeria. The fool must have read about it somewhere and said the first name that came into his head. Typical of hackers, so careful online, but they didn’t know how to create a believable lie when faced with a real person. Edward should have constructed a story beforehand, looked up some archaeological site in Algeria, and used that instead.
It didn’t matter. She’d get their real destination off him soon enough.
Next, she sent a coded message to General Corbin telling him that she had made the capture and would soon have more details. It bothered her that Jaxon and her friends had left several days ago—that gave them a long head start and plenty of chances to disappear. She reassured herself that, with their need for stealth, they were probably moving slowly. With the money and the visas Corbin had provided her, Isadore could fly anywhere on the continent within a day’s notice. She’d catch up easily once she discovered where they had gone off to.
Isadore returned to the cellar. Edward was weeping and trembling in the chair. Amir and one of his assistants were still poking him, but the third gang member had stopped and was complaining about something to his boss in Arabic.
Amir made an angry reply and poked Edward again, but even he looked as though his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
Isadore cleared her throat. They turned and looked at her uncertainly.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
Amir turned to her, his usual swagger gone. “This man, he is not normal. He is like a big child.”
“So he should be easier to break.”
Amir licked his lips and looked at the other two. He tried to formulate a response, but nothing came out. Isadore laughed.
“Are you afraid of him?” she asked in a mocking tone.
“We are not afraid of anything!” Amir flared.
“So what’s the problem?”
“We thought we were going to torture a regular man. This…this is not right.”
Isadore looked at him in disbelief. This little punk broke into houses, robbed people at gunpoint, and sold drugs. He would have gunned down that entire hotel if Isadore had ordered him to. And now he was getting squeamish about torturing a prisoner?
“Go get Brett and tell him I want him down here.”
“The junkie? What is he going to do?” Amir asked.
Amir’s gang all thought Brett was a drug addict. Isadore hadn’t seen any reason to correct them.
“Yes, get him, and you all can go watch TV or steal a car or something. I won’t be needing you for a while.”
Isadore watched the three teens file up the stairs. A minute later, Brett came down the stairs. Edward’s jaw dropped.
“Recognize him?” Isadore asked the hacker.
Edward nodded, his tear-streaked face stamped with confusion. “You faked his death. Why?”
Edward’s voice came out hoarse. Isadore was surprised he had a voice at all after all that screaming.
“Your friends Yamazaki and Yuhle aren’t the only ones doing research into the Atlantis gene. As you can see, Brett isn’t an Atlantean. He’s as white as white can be. And yet watch this. Brett, pick him up with one hand.”
Brett walked over and did as he was told. Edward yelped as he was lifted into the air high enough that he bumped his head on the ceiling.
“Put him down.”
Brett did as he was told.
“Y-You don’t have to do this,” Edward told Brett. “We can get you out of here, me and my friends in the Atlantis Allegiance.”
Brett stared at him blankly. Edward turned to Isadore.
“What did you do to him?”
“Injected him with a serum that replicates the Atlantean traits. He’s still in the experimental stage. This is his test run. But, as you can see, he’s totally loyal. He’ll even kill Jaxon once I catch up to her. My boss wants her alive if possible, but I think he’s taking a risk with that. She knows too much. It’s best if we just rub her out. Isn’t it, Brett?”
“I’ll kill her,” he said, nodding.
“Why are you telling me all this?” Edward demanded.
Then he went pale. Isadore could practically hear the train of thought going through his head. He couldn’t be left alive knowing this information, so that meant that Isadore had no intention of leaving him alive.
Edward bent his head so he could wipe his cheeks on his shoulders and then straightened.
“You told me too much, Isadore. You told me I’m going to die tonight. Well, my life has been pretty crappy, so I can’t say I’ll m
iss it much. But I’ll make sure to do one thing before I go, and that’s to defy you. It’s going to be a long night, and I’m going to be dead by the end of it, but I’m not going to talk. I’m not going to tell you a damn thing.”
Isadore shook her head.
“Brave words, and I know you mean them. It doesn’t work that way, though. I’ve stood in rooms like this with people far stronger than you more times than I can count, and I’ve always gotten what I came for. You see, everyone has a weakness. You can threaten their family. You can trick them. You can play on their sense of pride. None of those will work for you. You don’t have any family that I know of, and you’re too smart to trick. And your sense of pride is all wrapped up in protecting your friends. But you still have a weakness, Edward. You just can’t stand human proximity. I don’t even have to torture you in the traditional sense of the word. I just have to deny you your space.”
She turned to Brett.
“Grab him by the head and shout as loud as you can into his face until I tell you to stop.”
Brett did as he was told. Edward screwed up his face and clenched his eyes shut, trying to drown out the emotional assault.
Isadore went upstairs to take a nap.
Chapter 14
August 7, 2016, OUALATA, SAHARA DESERT, SOUTHEASTERN MAURITANIA
3:30 P.M.
* * *
Otto had been in a lot of trouble in his life. He’d been in group homes, juvenile detention, and for a short time he had even been in prison.
Prison had been scary. The first night there, one of his fellow prisoners had beaten him up. The second night he had been there, two of his fellow prisoners had beaten him up. Luckily, his parents had left a hundred bucks in the prison bank account that inmates were allowed to have for buying toiletries and snacks from the commissary. Otto used that as bribe money to keep the predators away. When his money ran low, he called his parents begging for more.
All they’d said was, “We’re not going to spend our hard-earned money so you can stuff your face with chocolate bars when you should be thinking about all the things you’ve done wrong.” He’d begged, pleaded, said he was sorry for hurting them, but they remained firm. He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell them what might happen if he didn’t get some more bribe money soon.
The day the Atlantis Allegiance had busted him out of jail was the day his next portion of protection money was due, and he didn’t have the cash to pay it. The choice between spending another night behind bars and running off with a bunch of strangers with the cops in hot pursuit hadn’t really been a choice at all.
So yeah, prison had been scary, but the inside of a Mauritanian police station felt a whole lot scarier.
Otto and the rest of the Atlantis Allegiance sat on some rickety wooden chairs along a bare concrete wall facing a desk. A man in a military uniform sat behind the desk, leafing through their passports and the fake documents that said they were on an archaeological survey. The man was the assistant chief of police and the only person in the station who spoke any English. He read over everything with care, occasionally casting suspicious glances at Otto and his friends.
This guy wasn’t the cop Otto was most worried about. Neither were the two men with Kalashnikovs standing by the door, staring at them. The assistant in civilian clothes who was silently serving them tea made him nervous too. Hospitality at gunpoint felt more than a little intimidating.
No, the person who scared him the most was the chief of police—a pot-bellied, balding man with a pistol at his hip and a scowl on his face. Both the pistol and the scowl looked as if they stayed on permanently. He stood in his office with the door open, talking loudly on a telephone in French. Otto figured he spoke in French and not Arabic because he presumed his prisoners could understand the language and be intimidated by what he said.
The police chief was both right and wrong. Otto did not understand French, but he still felt intimidated.
“Shukran,” Otto mumbled as the servant handed him a little glass of tea and a sugar cube. That meant thank you in Arabic and came out automatically. Otherwise, he was too scared to speak.
“Afwan.” You’re welcome. The man replied silently, only moving his lips. He seemed as scared of the police as Otto was.
Otto put the sugar cube between his teeth as Agerzam had shown him.
Wait. Agerzam. Had they somehow heard they’d met up with the Tuareg? Agerzam’s Tuareg militia was fighting these government guys. If the cops thought the Atlantis Allegiance had been helping out the rebels, they’d be dead for sure.
At least they hadn’t searched the Land Rovers. If the police found those weapons, they’d throw Otto and his friends in jail in a heartbeat, and this time, there would be no one to break him out.
For the moment, at least, the cops were happy to pretend this was just a routine questioning. They’d been polite about asking them to the station, offered them a seat, welcomed Otto and his friends to their country, and now the tea.
It was all very pleasant, except that it wasn’t.
Otto hoped it didn’t get any less pleasant.
The police chief hung up the phone and made another call. This time, he spoke in Arabic and sounded angrier.
The rest of the Atlantis Allegiance all looked dejected. Grunt and Vivian hadn’t said a word since the police had stopped questioning them. Why weren’t they doing something? They could handle these guys. Why not bust out of here?
Otto jerked as the police chief slammed down the phone and stomped out of his office, growling something to his assistant and giving the line of foreign prisoners a foul look.
The assistant put down the passports, stood up, and saluted. He turned to Jaxon and spoke to her in English.
“You are from here? Your passport says you are American.”
“My grandparents on my mother’s side were from Mali,” she replied. “My parents were born in America. My mother was black, and my father was white.”
The police officer looked incredulous. “I thought white Americans hate black people. I see it on the news.”
“Not all do.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you not one of the People of the Sea?”
Jaxon put on an innocent face. Otto thought she looked pretty convincing.
“What are those?”
The officer studied her for a moment before consulting with his superior.
“My chief says the computers in the capital are not working and we cannot check your visas. He also call the national museum. They have not heard of you.”
Yuhle answered, “We got our permit from the regional director for the northern region. You’ll have to call him.”
The officer looked annoyed that the scientist answered his question rather than Jaxon. Frowning at Yuhle, he pulled out a cell phone. “What is his number?”
“I, um, don’t have it on me,” Yuhle said.
For a moment, no one said anything. The officer clucked his tongue and turned back to his chief. They talked for a minute in Arabic, the chief motioning toward Jaxon.
Otto shifted in his seat. This was what they had all feared, that Jaxon’s Atlantean features would single her out.
The assistant police chief stepped forward. “We do not believe your story. Please give us the keys to your vehicles. You”—he indicated Jaxon—“you will come with us for separate questioning.”
Jaxon narrowed her eyes and balled her fists. Otto got ready to spring up too. He looked to the mercenaries, waiting for them to make the first move.
Vivian did something unexpected. She took off the kaffiyeh that she had draped over her shoulders and chest to reveal her low-cut T-shirt. All the men in the room, predictably, stopped and stared. Women in these parts only showed their faces and hands, and sometimes not even that much, so this was not a sight the police were prepared for.
“Why are you boys causing so much trouble?” she asked, taking a deep breath to accentuate her curves while casually reaching into her pocket. No one even t
hought to stop her.
“Close your eyes!” Vivian shouted as she dropped something small and metallic on the floor.
Otto clenched his eyes shut. An instant later, all he saw was red as some brilliant light flared beyond his eyelids.
It was over as quickly as it had started. Otto opened his eyes to see all the police staggering around, hands clasped over their eyes, blinded.
All except for the assistant police chief. He was the only Mauritanian there who spoke English, and he had instinctively closed his eyes when Vivian shouted the order.
Now his eyes were open again, and he was drawing his pistol.
Otto dove for him. His fist connected with the man’s jaw the same instant the gun went off.
Otto flinched. Looking down at himself, he didn’t see any blood or any hole in his shirt. The cop fell flat on his back, unconscious.
Then a groan made Otto turn and look behind him.
Yuhle was only a step behind him. He had been going for the police officer too but now sank to his knees, clutching his gut. Blood welled between his fingers.
Grunt grabbed the scientist and headed for the door.
“Let’s go!”
Vivian shoved a reeling police officer aside and scooped up their documents from the desk while Jaxon helped out Yamazaki, who had gotten blinded by the flash bomb.
“Will my eyesight come back?” the scientist wailed.
“Don’t worry, honey, it’ll come back in a minute,” Vivian reassured her while stuffing the passports and papers into her pockets. “It’ll come back for them too, so let’s get out of here.”
Vivian pushed away the police chief, who had followed the sound of her voice and managed to grab her, and led them out the door. Grunt was already half a block down the street with Yuhle tucked under one arm, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
As the rest of the Atlantis Allegiance followed, Otto took a quick look around. He saw no other cops. Unfortunately, the street was pretty crowded and everyone was staring at them. The crowd parted for them, no one wanting to get involved in a fight between the local police and some mysterious foreigners.