Fallen Rogue

by Amy Rench

  Harper felt dizzy, as if the world were spinning beneath her. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands hard against her hammering skull, trying to relieve the sickening pressure. Hoping against hope the events of the last hour were all just a horrible dream.

  She slowly opened her eyes. She still saw the suffocating woods. Still saw the terrifying flash of fresh memories.

  A harsh rustling caught her attention as two squirrels chased each other up a rough tree trunk. The scratching of their tiny claws sounded curiously loud in the settling forest. She rose to a sitting position and scooted over to lean her back against the coarse base of the tree. Above her, the squirrels chittered in annoyance. It reminded her of how she and Bobby would bicker as kids.

  Bobby.

  He was dead. His body consumed by the fire. She had nothing left of her brother.

  Grief pummeled her body. It was too much. Harper had no idea how much time had passed when she finally felt as though she’d cried herself out. For now. She gazed into the pitch-dark woods, shivering and spent, not even wanting to look at her watch.

  Rubbing her stiff hands along her upper arms, she was immediately aware of the icy clamminess of her clothes. Knowing her body’s high threshold for cold, she left most of her wet clothes on, but decided to remove her T-shirt.

  The rain had stopped and the stormy clouds had twisted away. She draped her T-shirt over a low branch and huddled back into her North Face coat. Having left her backpack near the burning truck, she realized all she had were these clothes and her wallet with her driver’s license, debit card, and insurance card. She stuffed her hand into her coat pocket, pulling out a wrinkly five-dollar bill.

  Letting out a deep sigh, she settled under a veil of trees and the surrounding undergrowth—which sheltered her from the fall weather—and rested her hands on her thighs. She was bone-deep cold. She ran her hands along the hard muscles of her legs in an attempt to get her chilled blood circulating. Her shaking hand brushed over a tiny lump in her hip pocket. Bobby’s key.

  She fished it out, closed her hand around it, and raised her fist to her heart. This meant something to Bobby. So it meant everything to her.

  Her brother wanted her to have this. What had he said? The Barracks? It was their favorite childhood hangout, where they’d played all day and talked about everything and nothing. Though he was seven years older, they were as close as twins. They were best friends. Were. And now he was gone.

  What could he have left there for her? What did that key go to? What was so important? Important enough to use up some of his last breaths? Whatever it was, she had promised. Promised him that she’d do anything for him. So she’d find whatever was there. He’d said she’d know what to do. And whatever it was, she’d do it. He’d been her world and now she’d be his.

  Adrenaline pulsed through her blood, warming her from the inside. The cold seeped away, replaced by a fierce determination that stirred and slowly burned within her, flowing through every nerve, simmering in her blood. The pain disappeared, replaced by a feral hunger. And rage.

  Harper gazed at the key one last time.

  She was used to competition. Used to the battle. Used to winning.

  Whoever had ripped Bobby away from her would regret it.

  Harper walked through waist-high ferns, paralleling the set of old train tracks zigzagging through the mossdraped trees. Having grown up in the area and having visited Bobby fairly regularly, she was familiar with the forests. There were some trails, but mostly she made her way from memory. Using the digital compass on her watch, she had been able to orient herself. She’d been hiking since dawn and as she looked up to the sky, she realized dusk was approaching through the lazy fall sunshine. Though on the move all day, she had no desire to stop.

  Sleep had somehow come to her last night. In fact, Harper was surprised to find she had slept for almost twelve hours in deep exhaustion. Hazy rays had wakened her from a heavy slumber. At first she’d been startled to wake in the woods. Had it all been just a really bad dream?

  No, it hadn’t. Stinging scratches and damp bloodstained clothes were an ugly reminder of the hell her life had become. And the sole purpose she now had.

  Now the waning sun cast shadows on the uneven ground. The air held a chill, but the sun added the illusion of warmth, which had tempted her to tie her coat around her waist.

  The familiar hike was as beautiful as she remembered, but it was impossible to enjoy. A sad smile crossed her face as she recalled the last time she’d wandered down this trail. She’d been so excited. The Olympic trials. She was one meet from making the team. She and Bobby had raced each other up here to the Barracks to celebrate. Just the two of them. It had been their exclusive place to share everything. Bobby’s getting into graduate school. Their parents’ deaths. Earning her swimming scholarship to Stanford. And countless times in between.

  Now, for the first time, it was a solitary trip. And it would be forever.

  She reached the clearing. Abandoned train cars dotted the rows of corroded railroad tracks. Stowed up here for decades, the cars hadn’t been in use for more than the twenty-four years she’d been alive. She and Bobby had found the place on one of their hikes and claimed it as their own, dubbing it “the Barracks.” They knew every inch and crevice of the old railroad junkyard.

  Raking her fingers through her blonde hair, she weaved in between the old trains, balancing on weeddraped rails. Reaching the center of the deserted lot, she searched for car number 61. Bobby’s lucky number.

  Harper spotted it two tracks down and walked to the side door, rusted open for eternity. Grabbing the corroded handle, she easily hauled herself up. She paced around inside, her steps echoing starkly in the dim compartment.

  She ran her fingers along the simple drawings and crazy phrases she and Bobby had carved into the crusty metal over the years, smiling at the memories they stirred. Then she retreated to the rear of the car, moving in and out of the sunlight lancing through the slits in the decaying walls. In the back was a small concealed compartment built into the floor. A smugglers’ hold. As kids, they had pretended to be relic hunters, hiding their treasures like those generations before them had in the secret hidey-hole.

  This had to be where Bobby would have stashed the “something” he’d left for her.

  Harper bent down on one knee and patted the filthy flooring. Finding the recessed latch, she brushed away the freshly disturbed dirt and pulled upward. The brittle hatch resisted, but gave way after a few more tugs. Reaching in the darkness, her fingers grazed a small metal box. She fit her hand around the container and pulled it out. The box was the size of a recipe-card holder, but heavy like a chunk of pure lead. She saw no markings or decorations.

  She ran her index finger over the smooth surface, searching for a way to open it. It took several passes, but she finally found an obscured keyhole flush with the solid exterior.

  Reaching into her front pocket, Harper pulled out Bobby’s key and stuck it in the hole. With a clockwise turn, the top of the box snicked open. It was hard to see in the shadows of the train car, so she moved closer to the door.

  In the fading sunlight she noticed the sides of the box were close to an inch thick and lined in velvet. She reached in to remove a thick cloth, and then sat down on the open door’s ledge, dangling her legs over the side.

  After setting the box on the floor next to her, she unfolded the cloth to reveal a tiny computer flash drive and a full syringe.

  “Great,” she grumbled. “Just great.”

  Whatever these were, Bobby was murdered for them. So that made these two objects the most important objects in the world. If Bobby had faith in her to know what to do with them, then by golly, she’d figure it out.

  Harper smiled. Maybe Bobby did know what he was doing. Although she trained as much as possible, swimming didn’t pay the bills. But programming part-time at a video-game company did. She knew computers inside and out. If this drive had as many convoluted layers of coding
as she suspected Bobby had dumped in there, she’d probably be the only one in the world able to read this thing. Maybe he was counting on that. Maybe it held the answers. It had to.

  She picked up the syringe in her other hand, watching the syrupy amber liquid glisten in the clear tube.

  What did it do? Bobby was a scientific genius, having graduated at the top of his molecular biology class. He had landed a coveted government research job right away. Harper knew he worked on highly confidential projects, but she really had no idea exactly what he did. They never actually talked much about it. Now they never would.

  Shaking off that haunting thought, she focused on the syringe. She had a job to do. She had to find answers and strike back.

  “Freeze,” a cold voice said, startling her.

  Harper’s gaze shot up to see ten burly men, covered head to toe in jungle camouflage, standing in a semicircle about thirty feet away from the train car. Carrying massive guns. All pointed at her. They looked just like the guys who’d chased her. And the ones who’d killed Bobby. Her blood boiled as she sat rigid.

  “Hands up,” the brute ordered. “Slowly,” he added.

  No way. There was absolutely no way she was doing anything these guys told her. She kept her hands closed in her lap and her mouth shut.

  The guy fired a shot right past her head. It clanged off the back wall of the car. Though it made her flinch, she still wasn’t going to give in to them.

  “Do it now,” came the command. “We just want to talk.”

  Right. Talk. That’s why they tracked her down and brought so many guns.

  But maybe they did just want to talk. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t shot her on sight. They thought she knew something.

  She couldn’t get justice for Bobby if she was dead, so she made a choice. “Okay,” Harper answered steadily.

  “Open your hands flat.” Another stern order.

  Her fingers closed tight around the small flash drive and snapped it apart. “Here you go,” she said with a cool smile and threw the broken pieces at them. The plastic bits scattered in the dirt and rubble that covered the ground.

  “That was a big mistake.” The leader sneered. “Now open your other hand,” he demanded tersely.

  Harper did as he said, revealing the syringe in her palm. She watched their faces intently as she did so. Several of them, including Mr. Bossy, gasped in surprise and then quickly tried to hide it. So the syringe was completely unexpected and extremely important.

  “Drop the needle.” The demand was spoken deliberately and carefully.

  “Let’s just shoot her,” the thug to his left piped in.

  O-kay. Really, he was right. They could just kill her and take it.

  But she couldn’t let them have it.

  The men took a few menacing steps forward. She stood and held up her free palm in a nonthreatening gesture, clutching the syringe warily in the other as her brain whirled to come up with some kind of solution.

  More steps closer. And then they lunged, tackling her.

  She hit the floor hard and tried to squirm away from their grabbing hands. But they were all over her. At least three, maybe four of the men clutched at her hand, trying to pry the needle away. She grasped the syringe as tightly as she could, her knuckles white with the strain. Using her powerful swimmer’s legs, she began kicking at any surface she could manage. Grunts were her only reward.

  As strong as she was, the brawny men were wearing her down. One of her fingers loosened. Then another. One more tug and she’d probably lose the syringe. Back and forth she waved her arm, but her attackers were relentless.

  Harper pulled against the firm grip on her arm, twisting her body away as a bigger body pounced onto her shoulder. Momentum jerked her left arm across her body, forcing her grip on the syringe to waver, jabbing the needle into her right forearm. The plunger depressed in reflex, hard and fast, emptying every drop of the tawny liquid into her bloodstream.

  The attack halted. The men gawked at her in stunned silence and backed away warily. She stared back.

  What the heck had been in that vial?

  Her body jerked involuntarily. She twisted her forearm around to look at the spot where the syringe had stabbed her. The mark was rosy red. Her arm began to prickle as though a hundred needles were piercing the tender flesh.

  Harper cried out. As quickly as the sensation came, it left. Only to be replaced by a freezing rush through her entire being, like jagged ice fighting to escape her unyielding skin.

  An uncontrollable shudder overtook her body. Terror seized her mind. What was happening to her?

  The cold disappeared in an instant. She gasped and hunched over, crossing her arms over her abdomen as if her insides were being violently ripped apart and then pasted back together. The pain was so severe, she was sure she’d pass out. She wheezed in a deep breath.

  And then it started again. But this round was a brutal heat, searing every fiber and sparking every ounce of blood she had like fireworks.

  Facing her brother’s killers, she felt hate simmer deep inside her gut, melding with the heat that was already roiling and blazing white-hot. Her mind seized the wild emotion with an iron fist, bonding it with the roaring inner flames.

  Energy fumed inside her head, clawing to come out. She let it surface, unable to fight the intense force anymore. Unwilling to fight it.

  Harper summoned the hatred, the need for vengeance, and the grief for her brother, harnessing all of it with her psyche into a resounding dynamo. She then spread her arms and willed the raging force out of her mind.

  Her flesh seared as though every fiber underneath were pulling away from the bone. Molten heat swept through her, as if she’d been turned inside out under a volcano. The power flowed from her mind, down her arms, and into her hands.

  She let herself go, giving in to the furious rapture. A deafening hum rippled through her ears, and her body lurched backward as powerful energy shot from her open palms. The near-invisible wave flowed toward the dazed men standing before her, stirring the air and space between them. The energy engulfed her enemies and ravaged their bodies like a tidal wave.

  A heartbeat later, the raging heat was gone. Harper blinked to settle her shimmering vision. She felt lightheaded, as if she’d just swum a nonstop relay. After a moment, her gaze cleared to an unthinkable scene. Sheer destruction lay before her. The bodies of the men looked as though a whirlwind had swept them up and spit them out. Mere rag dolls in a gale-force wind. Dead. They were all dead. And she’d killed them.

  “What’s happening to me?” she managed to howl before she passed out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “We have a situation,” a stiff voice informed him the instant he stepped into the dreary room.

  Rome Lucian hated that word. Situation. Either there was a problem or there wasn’t. But if there wasn’t, he wouldn’t be here. He’d be at home finishing off his homemade sausage pizza and a cold beer in front of a late-night movie.

  He rubbed his eyes and sat on the cushy leather chair facing Jeff Donovan, his expressionless boss. The seat was as soft as butter. Rome waited for him to continue, vaguely noticing that the man always wore the same damn thing. Crisp pale blue shirt with a navy striped tie. Rome would kill himself before he’d sit behind a desk wearing a tie.

  “The Five Watch,” Jeff said in monotone. “Their lab was destroyed.”

  Great. The Five Watch. A secret government group, so hush-hush that most agents even doubted its existence. But Rome knew better. It was his job to know better. From what he’d heard of them, which was very little, he thought they were a little shifty. Weren’t they messing around with plants or something?

  “You need to find this woman,” Jeff demanded, sliding a nondescript manila envelope across the smooth desk.

  Rome pulled out a glossy photo of a man and a woman standing arm in arm in front of a clear blue swimming pool. The man was slightly taller than the woman and sported a beaming, proud smile.

&nb
sp; The woman’s spiky blonde hair was slightly wet, and she was wearing a black warm-up suit. Sea green eyes stared back at him, complemented by a slightly upturned nose and a lush, cheerful mouth. Not what you’d call beautiful, but it all seemed to work. She held up three gold medals with obvious delight. Rome, prompted by her infectious grin, couldn’t stop the faint smile from creeping onto his face.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Rome asked skeptically, turning the photo around toward Jeff. Experience had cruelly taught him to not judge a book by its cover, but come on. This woman hardly looked like a dangerous threat.

  Jeff held his gaze, not even looking at the picture. “Find her and bring her in,” his boss directed coldly.

  Rome waited for more. Nothing. The whole tone of the order seemed wrong. Jeff was always a stone-cold son of a bitch, but something lurked behind the man’s eyes. Something was off. Rome just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  “She do it?” Rome questioned, twisting the photo back around to take another look. It was his job to hunt people down, no questions asked. But something about this woman made him want to know a little more before he did his grim job. An instinct.

  He flipped it over to see a few words written in blue pen. Me and Harpie/Nationals, with the date scrawled below.

  “Bring her in,” Jeff repeated, ignoring Rome’s question. “Dead or alive.”

  That was that. He had his orders. Dead or alive. As far as Jeff was concerned, that’s all Rome needed to know. And really, it was enough. He stood up and ambled out the door, closing it tightly behind him.

  Rome took one last glance at the smiling woman in the photo before stuffing the picture into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket. “Just another job,” he mumbled, as if trying to convince himself.

  The lab. He’d start there.

  The cool darkness of the concrete hallway soothed her colossal headache. Harper ran her hands along the solid walls, finding comfort in their sturdiness. She felt completely drained, sapped of her strength and wits.