Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1)

by Cotton, Brian

  The Agents picked up their dangerous offender and dragged him away from the scene. The man’s face a bloodied mess, he cried out for help. Help that would not come his way. No one dared cross a USR Agent. Kaspar sure as hell wasn’t going to.

  Both clock hands reached the six and the Agent outside motioned with his hand that it was safe to exit. Kaspar opened the door and looked to the Agent. The Agent just looked back, no expression on his face, unfazed by the beating that just occurred seconds ago.

  “Busy day already, huh?” Kaspar asked.

  “Might get busier if you don’t move along, citizen.” the monotone Agent replied.

  A simple nod of the head and Kaspar moved away from the Agent. The chill of the morning air forced him to grab the skull cap from out of his jacket pocket. Once it fit snug overtop his head, he was ready to go. Straight ahead, the downtown skyline could be seen, behind the fog and underneath the morning gray sky.

  Once he arrived deep in the heart of downtown, he caught his first glimpse at them: the slaves. He watched as they scurried around with their morning decaf coffee and briefcases. They weren’t all bad, though, as the woman with the soft auburn hair proved. The light breeze of the morning caused her hair to blow ever so slightly. Through his sunglasses, he caught a glimpse of her eyes.

  She stood five foot nine, maybe five foot ten. Her athletic legs were interrupted by a skirt just above the knee. She wore a matching blazer and, even in the chill of the morning, her light colored blouse was buttoned down just enough to give him a hint of what was inside, but left much more to the imagination. And, she smiled at him.

  Kaspar felt a rush of positive energy and self-doubt. He opened his mouth, breathed in, and tried to think of the perfect thing to say. In an instantaneous bout of schizophrenia, her smile turned into a scowl. She stared into Kaspar’s covered eyes and gave him a look that said “stop eye fucking me.”

  Kaspar had a look of shock right back at her, but he didn’t say anything. The hell was her problem anyway? Oh well, maybe it’s for the best. She would just leave him once she found out about the illicit activities he was involved in. The activities which forced him to sneak out of the apartment early this morning, to make it out before Mother saw him. He was unable to keep his promise. Even if that woman would overlook it and stay, Kaspar knew in his heart that he would have just left her at the first sign of trouble.

  He continued his morning jog. Over to the left, the reason for the woman’s rudeness reared his ugly head. A USR Agent, who stood well over six foot tall, peered through the clear Plexiglas shield over his brute face. If any more of a hint was needed, it was found upon passing the free “Pregnancy and Family Planning Clinic”. The USR had begun to get more aggressive in their population control tactics. The clinic was basically a way of saying, “get a free abortion or get arrested.” If the woman had been polite and continued to smile, maybe even talk, to Kaspar, the Agent was well within his rights to break it up. It was simply not worth the trouble.

  He took a right turn at the corner. His destination came into view. Kaspar crossed the street and approached the alleyway where Danny would be waiting for him. An unfamiliar sight met his eyes. It was another woman. She stood no taller than five foot six. Her black leather jacket matched her hair, cut just below the shoulder, and the aviator lenses over her eyes. Her leather covered arms were folded across her chest. She looked away as if she didn’t see the man who approached her. It struck Kaspar as odd. This wasn’t a place for a woman to just be hanging about all alone. Though, she did look like she could handle herself well enough if it came to blows.

  But, what the hell was she doing here? There was only one way to find out. He began his approach. The mysterious woman tensed up as he got closer. She kept her bronzed face turned away and only looked towards him when he was just outside her personal space.

  “Hey,” Kaspar said. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I’m meeting someone here.” the woman said before she turned her head away once more. “Go on about your business.”

  Kaspar persisted. “Have you seen a cranky old man walk by here? I think my friend is running late.”

  “No. And, I better get going.”

  “But, I thought you were…”

  She didn’t give Kaspar the courtesy of a goodbye or even to let him finish his sentence. After he admired her back side as she walked away, he reached for the old rusted door. The door was locked. Kaspar let out a curse.

  “By God,” Danny said from off in the distance. He reached into his jacket pocket for his keys once he arrived at the door. “You are only on time when the shit doesn’t matter.”

  “Did you see a woman in black walk past you just now?” Kaspar asked.

  “Yeah, she looked like a butch, but I’d still take her.”

  “Have you ever seen her here before?”

  “No, I haven’t. Why? This is a public street, you know?”

  Kaspar sighed. “I don’t know, she just felt out of place, I guess.”

  “You’re just being paranoid.” Danny replied.

  “Let’s hope so. You think she might be one of Razor’s girls or something?”

  “What?” Danny demanded. He fought with the lock on the door. “Razor doesn’t have girls, okay. Just calm down, we’ve got a lot to talk about this morning.”

  It took several half turns, but Danny managed to get the door unlocked. He turned the door handle and, with a shove from his skinny shoulder, pushed the sticky door open. Kaspar had to catch the door with his right forearm before it slammed in his face. Ornery old man couldn’t even hold the door open for his fighter.

  Kaspar walked inside the ancient garage that was abandoned years ago. The stale air attacked at his nostrils. The loud sneeze echoed off the old walls. Danny had taken over this old shithole when he decided to train. He used what little credits he had on him to buy it. The garage made for a makeshift boxing gym. Kaspar used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at his nose. The light, which hung from a long metal wire, took two flashes in quick succession before it illuminated the room. Danny let loose of the chain then headed for his desk.

  “When are you going to clean this shithole up?” Kaspar demanded as he continued to rub at his red nose.

  “You are this close to eating your own tongue.” Danny replied, inching his thumb and index finger together.

  The ancient chair creaked when Danny’s old ass sat on it. Kaspar took a seat in front of him. The trainer reached down and pulled out a small legal pad from the breast pocket of his stained white shirt. He started to jot some things onto the yellow paper. There was a long moment of silence.

  “What are you doing?” Kaspar asked.

  Danny didn’t look up from the pad. “Trying to figure out what we’re going to say to Walker today. Figure out some sorta compromise to get us back in the ring.”

  “Did you hear anything about Razor?”

  “Yeah, they rushed his ass to the hospital last night. They say he’s going to make it, though, and word is he’s going to want a rematch. That might be our ticket back in.”

  “How so?”

  “Haven’t you wised up, yet? Razor runs this show, son. Now take off those glasses and let me look at that eye.”

  The eye was a dark red, swollen mess, but saw improvement after a long night’s sleep. After obeying Danny’s order to get ice out of the freezer, Kaspar returned to his chair. He arched his head back and let the frozen bag rest on the injured mess.

  “The swelling has gone down a little bit,” Danny said. “But that bruise is going to be pretty nasty for a few days. You’re lucky he didn’t break your eye socket.”

  “When are you going to have some faith in me?”

  “When you stop getting DQ’d. Don’t be a smartass.”

  The comment went ignored. Doubts clouded the mind instead. Could this really be worth it? How many more fights would he survive before luck finally ran out? How many more busted up eyes, broken ribs, and soreness ever
ywhere would have to be endured? How many more broken promises to Mother?

  “Danny,” Kaspar said.

  “What?” Danny looked up from his note pad.

  “What if I wanted to quit fighting? Right here, right now, I decided to give it up.”

  “What about your mother?”

  Kaspar moved his head down. “That’s why I’m considering this.”

  “You got any job offers or anything you haven’t told me about?” Danny asked.

  “No, I actually haven’t even started looking, yet.”

  “Well, you know that if we can’t convince Walker to give you a little something…”

  “I know.”

  “Well, you’ll find something. Jobs are scarce, but I know a guy who could put your lazy ass to work.”

  “What about you?” Kaspar asked.

  “Don’t worry about me. It’s your life, I’ll find some other son of a bitch to train.”

  Kaspar thought about it for a moment. Leave now. Surviving against Razor once was one thing, but twice? It was time to leave. To start a new life, one that Mother would appreciate. To not have to sit around on fight night, wondering if her son would come home alive, and not impaled. It would be rough at first, but something would be found. Maybe his old trainer’s friend could be the start to a new life.

  “Okay,” Kaspar said, he leaned his body forward and removed the ice pack from his eye. “Who is this guy you know?”

  “I can set you up an appointment tonight.” Danny replied. He looked down at his watch. “Oh, shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” Kaspar wondered as he watched Danny scramble around for his things.

  “Believe it or not, I do other things besides babysit your ass all day. Got something I have to do. Be seeing you.”

  Seven

  Sullivan watched DeMarcus Wilcox raise his monstrous boot into the air. The force of the kick caused the framework from rotten front door to go splintering into the air. George Mason, another one of Sullivan’s partners, entered the house first with his Glock raised.

  “USR, nobody move!” Mason shouted through his thick facial hair.

  Sullivan sighed as he watched Wilcox storm in second. His eagerness to get in a kill before lunch rivaled Mason’s. Why did the captain insist on keeping these two thugs around? They were muscle bound freaks who indulged themselves in violence and steroids. For what little they knew in actual investigations, they made up for in results. Good enough results to keep the Consul off of the department’s back, at least.

  Inside, Doug Miller, their suspect, sat on his couch. The book he once held plummeted to the floor. Sullivan caught a glimpse of it. The book had a black cover. The light of the room bounced off of the gold lettering. Sullivan harbored a ridiculous thought: maybe it was not a book outlawed by the USR.

  Mason ran over and forced the aged man out of his seat. He forced Miller’s body against the chipped wall, his own body pressed firm against the suspect’s back. The force of the pressure caused the old man to lose his breathe. Wilcox came in for “support”. He pressed the barrel of his Glock into Miller’s neck. Sullivan walked over to the couch. He reached down for the black book the old man had been studying. The gold letters that glistened read “Holy Bible”. Damn it, one nail in the coffin. Suddenly, Sullivan’s wish that he not have to use his weapon seemed to be a jinx. He placed the book onto the coffee table before he approached the three men.

  “Are you Doug Miller, you son of a bitch?” Mason demanded.

  “Yes, why are you people here?” Miller replied.

  “Mason,” Sullivan said, he reached out for his partner’s shoulder. “Let go of the suspect.”

  “Hell no.”

  “Let him go. That’s an order, Agent. Wilcox, holster that weapon.”

  Both Agents looked back to Sullivan who did not budge. He looked right back at them with squinted eyes. Wilcox sighed, moved his gun away from Miller’s throat, and holstered it. Mason seemed to be a bit more defiant today, but when his superior motioned with his head to sit the suspect back down, he budged. Mason let go of the man’s shirt. A hard shove sent Miller flying back to the couch.

  The suspect took a moment to collect himself. Once collected, he took a seat back on the torn, yellow seat cushion of the couch. He wiped the saliva from his lips and sniffed his nose. Sullivan approached him, got down on one knee to look into the man’s scared eyes, and prepared for the interrogation to come. A rush of thoughts attacked his psyche all at once. On the one hand, he could tell that this Mr. Miller in front of him was harmless. There wasn’t anything about him that struck the Agent as hostile or a threat to the USR. However, the damn Bible didn’t help this man at all. It still amazed Sullivan how stupid these citizens were. As if some thought the rules didn’t apply them. That was the part that angered Sullivan to no end. The pure arrogance of Mr. Miller to even have such a wretched piece of writing in his home.

  “Mr. Miller, my name is William Sullivan, an Agent with the USR. These…gentlemen behind me are Agents George Mason and DeMarcus Wilcox.”

  “What is this all about?” Miller asked.

  “We have reason to believe that you have been supplying citizens with anti-USR rhetoric.”

  “What—what reasons do you have?”

  “Listen to me,” Wilcox said as he moved in front of Miller’s face. “We don’t need to tell you anything.”

  Sullivan sighed. “Wilcox, begin the search. Take Mason with you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wilcox’s eyes never left Miller’s until he turned around. He walked to the back bedroom of the apartment with Mason.

  Idiots, Sullivan thought. Miller recollected himself once more. The suspect lowered his head when the loud sound of objects being thrown in the bedroom rang through the unit. Sullivan could feel something inside of Miller drop. The sympathizer knew he had been caught.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked. He placed his lowered head into his palms. He rubbed at his thinning hair with the tips of his fingers.

  “It all depends on if we find anything.” Sullivan replied.

  The noises in the background grew more intense. For their lack of actual investigative skills, Mason and Wilcox excelled at finding things that others wanted hidden. Too proficient, in fact, and Sullivan knew it. They would always deny it when he would bring it up, but the two thugs planted evidence with regularity. There was no way in this world they were that good. Not those morons.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked again. His entire body trembled now.

  “I told you already,” Sullivan said. He stood from his knelt position. “Do you have something back there?”

  Miller nodded his head. Sullivan let out a silent curse. He hated this part of his job, the part where he had to give citizens like this one bad news. If he only followed the rules, did what the USR told him to do, Miller would not be in this position. It was his fault. Sullivan could not take responsibility for that. He often wondered what it must feel like, to be sitting in peaceful bliss, only to have armed men…

  “Found it!” Mason’s voice boomed from the back.

  Mason walked out of the back bedroom with a pile of stacked papers in his hand. He held them up in the air for Miller to see. The suspect said nothing while his face grew red. Sullivan looked from his partner to the citizen. Tears ran down Miller’s cheeks now. After a deep breath, his old ass flew off of the couch…

  A gun shot.

  Miller’s body crashed the floor. Sullivan felt a wave of panic, his body seized, he reached down to unbuckle the holster on his left hip. The cries of pain relieved him. Whoever shot him didn’t kill him, yet. Maybe the old man would get his day in court. Sullivan wanted to slap himself the moment that thought entered his brain.

  The loud cries from Miller filled the small apartment. Sullivan approached him and got down to one knee. He scanned the body. The gunshot wound was found to back of the left leg. Miller winced in pain and tried to get up. A firm hand placed on his b
ack prevented that.

  “Flesh wound,” Mason said. He holstered his weapon with his free hand. “Maybe you should consider keeping that weapon hot.”

  “He posed no threat.” Sullivan replied.

  “From where I’m standin’, that suspect tried to escape, and would have if not for me.”

  “Sullivan,” Wilcox called out from the bedroom. “You better take a look at this.”

  “Watch him,” Sullivan ordered. He stood back up and walked for the bedroom.

  “He ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Mason replied. He moved in on Miller’s writhing body. A smile crept on his face at the sight of blood leaking from his handiwork.

  There was a trunk in the back of the bedroom by the cracked window. Wilcox stared down at the contents. Sullivan approached with his heart racing. He reached in. His hand grasped a thick piece of cloth. As he moved his hand up, he pulled out the clean, crisp folded American flag. His shoulders dropped in disappointment. The final nail in Mr. Miller’s coffin. He handed the flag over to Wilcox and exited the room.

  It was time to deliver the bad news.

  Eight

  “Have they gotten any word from this guy, yet?” Sullivan demanded. He slammed the freshly waxed wooden door which read “Capt. Donald Fitzpatrick, Resistance Unit” shut behind him.

  Fitzpatrick jumped at the sound. “No, they haven’t, but give them time. They’ll come through. They always do.”

  When the resistance first began to run wild on the streets, the USR deemed it necessary to put an RU in every department of each major city. Since he joined the RU three months ago, Sullivan did his part. His personal arrest count climbed to thirty within his first six weeks. The USR gave him a promotion for his efforts, along with two dip shits to sweeten the deal. The resistance’s most recent attack from five weeks ago, though, proved to everyone that work still needed to be done.