by TR Kohler
A system not all that different to what they went through at The Farm, once upon a time.
“Any dissent?” Kari asks.
Smirking softly, Doc replies, “I’m sure by now they hate my guts, but nobody’s said anything yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
It is the same sound Ali’i makes every time Kidman roasts fish over an open flame. A single whine emanating from her throat, the pitch of it high enough to cut through the gentle din of the world around them.
The soft lapping of waves depositing themselves on the shore nearby. The low rustling of palm fronds overhead, pushed to and fro by the breeze. Even the rattle of coals as Kidman moves them about, tucking them in tight to the bundle of fish wrapped in damp ti leaves.
A method used for generations in the islands, meant to simultaneously roast and steam whatever meat is within.
The variety of choice tonight being mahi, a favorite to both Kidman and his canine sidekick.
Sustenance pulled straight from the sea an hour earlier, to be paired with fruit harvested from the trees outside his house that afternoon after Ma left. Activity meant to keep at bay the information she was there to impart.
The request she arrived to make.
A situation he still finds himself in now seven hours later. A quandary offsetting self-preservation and loyalty that he would rather not get to until he absolutely must.
Especially considering he already knows exactly how such a debate will end.
“You hungry?” Kidman asks, using a pair of sticks to give the bundle one last turn. A final check to ensure even cooking on all sides before sliding it from the coals.
From there, a mad dash to get it unwrapped and onto plates before Ali’i’s cravings becomes too great, sending her diving for the roasted meat.
A distinct possibility, as evidenced by a repeat of the whine sliding from his furry counterpart. A sound coupled with her tongue shooting out over her nose, hinting that her self-restraint is fast coming to an end.
“Yeah, me too,” Kidman replies, a smile gracing his features as he keeps his focus on the charred leaves before him.
Another futile effort to stave off recalling the earlier conversation, having played it back no less than a dozen times already.
The last time he and Ma sat down together was shortly before his relocation. One of the last days he spent tucked deep in the snow-tipped mountains. A nice memory to take with him before departure. Sitting on the back deck, sipping spiked cocoa, each breath shoved out before him in a plume of vapor.
An idyllic scene offset by the news she was there to impart. Information that cut yet another thread from his previous life.
Emphasized the ongoing unease of the balancing act his life had become. The constant struggle between needing to be somewhere, wanting to fit in, while at the same time never standing out in any way.
Hiding not just his abilities, but the fact that even as he is now technically older than Uncle Kamaki, he is still just a young man in his early twenties.
A person out of time and place, always with an eye toward his next destination.
A necessity, rather than a choice.
More thoughts and feelings kept at bay throughout the day, Kidman knowing that the instant he started to even consider what she asked or entertain the notion of follow through, it will all come spilling back.
Abandoning the pair of sticks used as pokers, Kidman takes up a pahoa knife. A hooked blade with jagged teeth running along either side, a modern remake of the antiques Ma was commenting on earlier in the day.
A versatile tool that tonight is a cooking utensil, used to pierce the bundle of leaves and meat and drag it from the hot coals. Tip driven down into the center of the charred mass, he transfers it directly onto a plate.
Using the puncture as a starting point, he slices outward in either direction, extending the incision the length of it. An opening that releases tendrils of steam, the aroma flitting across his nostrils.
A smell that causes Ali’i to inch ever closer. Her backside never leaving the ground, she uses her front paws to pull her body forward.
An effort she likes to pretend Kidman doesn’t notice as he removes more than half of the meat from within and places it on a second plate. Her dish for the evening, an impromptu gift in anticipation of the days ahead.
A preemptive peace offering for what they are likely to contain.
Placing the plate on the ground beside him, Kidman watches as his companion falls straight to it. Diving right in, her long pink tongue traces over the plate, mopping up any residual juices. Her muzzle snaps up chunks of flaky white fish.
A gluttonous display that Kidman cannot bring himself to join in as he turns over a shoulder and looks back to the bungalow behind him. A visual that recalls the sight of Ma appearing before him earlier.
A woman of Japanese-American descent, there is no doubt she appears much younger than he knows her to be. Porcelain skin and hair that has always been the color of steel provide for a look that is nowhere near a woman just past her sixtieth birthday.
Still, there is no way for him to deny the fact that she is certainly not the person he first encountered at The Farm decades before. Not the woman just past thirty with the look of someone assembled in a government lab somewhere, all planes and angles and ropy muscle.
Damned sure not the spry operative that was versed in martial arts, mixing it with her gift of invisibility to make for a weapon that was nearly unmatched.
Changes that he can’t help but feel at least partly responsible for.
Reasons why he spends mornings like the one just a day before on the sand with Uncle Kamaki. The latest in an ongoing effort to absorb all he can.
Having finished the first offering, Ali’i lets out a third whine. A sound that momentarily pulls him from his thoughts to find her posted up beside him. Rear haunches lowered to the ground, her back and neck are elongated. A stretched pose that brings her almost eye level with him as he sits alongside the fire.
A face-to-face that is punctuated by her flicking her tongue out over her nose. A quick flash of pink letting it be known that whatever he doesn’t feel like eating, she will gladly take off his hands.
Dropping his gaze to the pouch still resting on the plate in his lap, Kidman considers the meal for a moment. The protein and energy it provides. The tantalizing aroma it was sending his way just a moment before.
Thoughts and notions now cast aside, pushed off by allowing the visit from earlier in the day to finally set in.
Taking up the knife, he begins to stab out another hunk of meat. A motion that makes it no more than a couple of inches before being cast aside in lieu of dropping his plate down atop hers.
“Go ahead,” he whispers, knowing there will be no return of his appetite tonight.
Nothing beyond the story Ma had shared and the implications it might have.
The underlying situation was one they had seen before. An all-too-common occurrence for their team, to the point that on occasion he even heard Coop and Ricketts joke that they should be called the Cleaners.
The crew that was brought in to mop up other’s mistakes.
In this instance, when Ma had first started to explore the possibility of restarting the program, she had given Wilson Pruitt a list of people she’d been keeping loose tabs on. People like themselves that possessed certain capabilities that she would be interested in reaching out to.
A rolodex of people she was aware of without ever getting too close. An index Kidman was positive he was listed on, her showing up unannounced this morning proving as much.
As was a girl named Anika Purna, someone with the ability to heal. An extremely rare gift that Pruitt apparently thought he could borrow when it was announced that his father – former president and overseer of their original program – Jefferson Pruitt was diagnosed with Stage 4 Sarcoma.
A plan that included sending four operatives into the jungles of the Congo to retrieve her. A clandestine undertaking
that trended closer to a kidnapping than a plea for assistance that ended as such things often do.
With the men disappearing and the younger Pruitt now asking for help.
Aid strapped to the none-too-subtle hint of untold resources that will be funneled Ma’s way if she is able to provide it.
The favor she said was asked of her, that is now being asked of Kidman.
Burying the tip of the pahoa into the sand, he reclines in the folding chair he sits in. Lacing his fingers across his stomach, he glances down to see Ali’i licking away the last traces of meat, leaving only the greens behind.
Beyond her, moonlight plays over the water. A solid white stripe painted across the surface, interrupted only by the faintest ripple from the breeze.
Wind enough to just rustle the fronds overhead.
Every reason in the world to disregard what was shared earlier. All cause for him to phone Ma and politely decline.
And not do what he ultimately does instead, rising from his seat and heading inside to the dining room table where the file on Anika Purna waited for him.
Chapter Fourteen
The gunshots light up the western edge of Makoua like fireflies in the night. Little flashes of orange and yellow that sprout up in small bursts, their glow visible just moments before the faint cry of their report can be heard.
Two things that are fast becoming omnipresent in the town, both now even more noticeable on account of the late hour and total darkness enveloping the area.
Standing on the balcony outside of his office, Hazik watches the show light up the sky. Front of his thighs pressed flush against the brick railing, one hand rests atop its uneven surface.
In the other is a Cohiba cigar, the sweet-smelling smoke drifting across his nostrils.
“When the hell will these idiots learn?” he mutters, watching the faint flickers.
“They are becoming bolder,” Fumu replies. Standing just a couple of feet to Hazik’s right, he watches the same show with hands clasped behind his back.
Perfectly still, the only signs of movement are the occasional pops of light flashing against his dark skin.
“Eh,” Hazik replies. “It just seems that way because our forces are becoming more spread out.”
Pausing to consider this a moment, Fumu answers, “Our forces being more spread out is also feeding some of the unrest in the area.”
The comment does little for Hazik’s mood as he turns away from the firefight playing out across town. Yet another conflict between his forces and insurgents from the surrounding areas.
Cowards that spend daylight hours hidden beneath the dense canopy of the rainforest before venturing in under cover of darkness.
The very sort of people proving what he is doing is right. Validating the need for his presence across the region, crushing the disparate motivations that exist and uniting them under a single banner.
Turning sideways to the railing for a moment, Hazik settles his gaze on Fumu’s darkened profile. There he waits, a pause long enough to let it be known that he does not appreciate the comment that was just made, before turning the rest of the way around.
Folding his arms over his torso, he keeps the cigar extended before him, a rare positive note on a decidedly negative day.
Despite ongoing resistance from the small groups of dissidents like the one behind him, and barbs like the one just lobbed by Fumu, his plan is working. A masterclass in leadership and maximization, perfectly tailored for the unique characteristics of a place like the Congo.
Not the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the country immediately to the east of the one he now inhabits. Not the place that shunned the old ways in favor of the newest political trend the world over.
A passing fad predicated on giving ownership and agency to citizens.
The actual Congo. The smaller country to the west where ancient rule still carries the day. Where might is bought and paid for by whatever can be stripped from the ground. Where loyalty is only as strong as the person demanding it.
A scenario specifically designed for men like Hazik.
People that see the true opportunity that abounds around them, especially in a place geographically positioned like Makoua. A spot just on the cusp of the diamond-rich rainforests to the north, providing access to funding and manpower before sweeping south.
A crushing wave surging all the way to Brazzaville. Land taken by bribe or by might, giving him full control of the entire country.
Provided the damn bastards will stop fighting back and accept what he is trying to do for them.
And that the sudden interest from the international community doesn’t threaten to derail things.
“Has there been any word out of the American prisoner yet?” Hazik asks.
“Just more of the same,” Fumu replies.
Casting a sideways glance, Hazik asks, “Have you tried-”
“Yes,” Fumu replies, replying before Hazik can even get the full question out. “We’ve now gone past just beatings to full-on torture. It doesn’t matter.
“Always the same tired story. Religious outreach. Church. Bibles. Whatever words he can mumble before passing out again.”
Cigar still outstretched before him, Hazik begins to lift it again. A motion that makes it no farther than halfway to his mouth before any desire for it fades.
Another rare bit of pleasure ruined by the burgeoning conflict in the area.
Snapping his arm out to the side, he flings the burning stub of the cigar out behind him. Casting it into the night, he turns back around, his gaze again focusing on the sporadic pops of light in the distance.
A sight he allows his focus to settle on, his features hardening as he watches.
“Tomorrow, I’d like to go see him.”
Chapter Fifteen
One of the teaching rooms buried deep beneath the farmhouse, the space is equipped with twenty-seven chairs. Rolling seats with padded bottoms and backs that recline a few inches, purchased with the intent of maximizing comfort. A small nod to the endless hours that many students passing through The Ranch will spend there.
A gift, like everything else, paid for through funding arranged by the incoming president. A line item buried so deep that even the sharpest of budget accountants won’t be able to find it.
Not that every last person that ever uses one of the seats won’t more than earn the gift of taxpayer money given to them.
Grouped into threes, the chairs are arranged behind nine tables. A grid going three across and three deep occupying most of the available square footage present.
A mass of seating that now is mostly untouched, the room considerably less than half full as Kari Ma enters. Hidden under cover of invisibility, she slides in through the rear entrance.
Deliberately left standing open by Doc, he stands at the front of the room. Head tilted downward, he pretends to be scouring over a binder. Today’s lesson plans, the bulk of which centers around Kari and the display she is about to put on.
A dramatic appearance by the woman that most of the people in the room have only met once before aside from getting a glimpse of her while training the previous evening. An initial recruiting effort to bring them to The Ranch.
Pitch jobs she despised almost as much as the little show on the capital steps days before.
A full display convincing the students and – in a couple of cases – their parents that they would be better off coming to The Ranch. A place where their abilities would not only be accepted, but even amplified. Honed into forms that could be used for the greater good.
The same exact stuff that someone had once shown up on her doorstep and said.
This time, the words hopefully carrying a bit more truth.
At the moment, there are a total of just five students present and accounted for. A solid handful hailing from three different locations scattered around the country.
A number – and geographical map – both expected to expand vastly in the coming months.
First things first, though.
Footsteps silent against the thin carpeting lining the floor, Kari makes her way down the closest of two aisle ways trisecting the space. A narrow corridor leading toward the front of the room, the students that are present all within easy reach. Seating choice made to look happenstance, the clear divisions in the ranks readily apparent.
Fissures made of wariness and uncertainty. Two things that months of training together should dissolve. Items that will take time, that being one of several reasons why Kari balked at Wilson Pruitt’s initial request.
Why she spent the day before flying all the way to Hawaii to speak with Kidman.
The first student to pass within her periphery is Cristian Rigg. A fourteen-year-old from the heart of mining country in West Virginia. A young man that started taking shifts deep underground when he was only twelve, working up to a full-time schedule before a collapse shut the place down.
An unforeseen event that would have been nothing short of horrific if not for the actions of Rigg.
Actions that would not have been possible if not for the gift of superspeed, allowing him to get more than a dozen other workers to safety before the entire structure caved in.
A heroic feat that earned him both the gratitude and uncertainty of those nearby, meaning that when Kari showed up and offered him a chance to relocate, he had jumped at it.
No questions asked. No delay of any kind.
The youngest person in the room, he sits right along the aisle, the faint twang of country music barely audible from the wireless ear buds he wears.
On the opposite side of the aisle is Angel Murreaux. A seventeen-year-old from just outside of New Orleans, she occupies the center seat of her row. An unspoken warning to all others to stay away.
A chosen position fitting perfectly with the young woman Kari first met five months prior. By far the hardest sell, requiring three separate visits before getting her to agree.