by Rick Wayne
That's what John was. An artist in combat.
In seconds, five agents were on the ground, immobile or gasping for breath, put there by the sixth. Some had taken blows to the head. Others had been shot. Their armor held, but a couple rifle bullets to the chest will knock you down and take the wind and the will to fight right out of you. They writhed.
Ayn was right. Whatever else one could say about her, however much she was a liar and a manipulator, she had definitely been right about one thing.
John Regent was a weapon.
And now, Amarta realized, John could turn anyone else into a weapon as well.
John swung the semi-automatic in an arc, his eyes focused down the sight, making sure the area was clear.
"Doc? You okay?" It was the agent's voice, but it had John's cadence.
Amarta nodded and climbed to her feet. "I thought you said they had to be unconscious."
"No, I said I hadn't figured that part out yet." John took off the agent's helmet and walked over to the lieutenant, who was still slumped on the concrete.
The doc wiped her grimy hands on her skirt. "So what happened?"
"I was highly motivated." He pointed. "Get behind the wheel."
Dr. Zabora scurried around the car to the driver's seat as John hefted the lieutenant's heavy body into the back.
"Damn," Regent grunted. "He's even bigger than me."
The agent shoved the man's legs in as the doctor started the engine.
"Pop the trunk." John took his wheelchair out and slammed the trunk shut. His body rested motionless by the white SUV. He walked to the front of the car. "Do me a favor, Doc?"
Dr. Zabora sat in front of the steering wheel pumping adrenaline like never before. She was starting to understand why the captain liked his job. She was shaking, stunned. It had all happened so fast. She looked up.
"Drive. Drive out of here as fast and as crazy as you can."
"What about you?"
"Don't worry about me." John tapped the agent's radio strapped to his arm. Until they figured out it was missing and changed the encryption key, John would be able to hear their every move. With the mobile unit down, they'd have to rely on aerial surveillance, follow a single target. If they took the doctor as bait, John could slip through the gaps and slink away. "Get to the highway. Head south. Get as far as you can." He walked toward his body.
Amarta put one foot out of the car. "Captain."
"We have to hurr--"
"You were right. You're not a threat to anyone. At least--" the doctor looked at the men on the ground-- "not to anyone who doesn't deserve it. What you can do . . ."
"Doc--"
"Promise me you'll do some good with it."
The agent with Regent's eyes nodded. "What about you?"
"Eh." Dr. Zabora shrugged and put her hand on the car door. "After Derek Wilkins, I was never going to make chief of staff anyway. Good luck, Captain."
"Thanks, Doc. For everything."
Amarta teared up as she closed the door. She watched in the rear-view mirror as John lifted his own body into his chair. She knew she'd never see her patient—her friend—again. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
This was going to be fun.
T Minus: 049 Days 05 Hours 00 Minutes 00 Seconds
John had been handed a mystery.
"What is this?" He was back in his own body. He took the thick, tan envelope.
The man behind the counter had a turban and a beard and a thick accent. He shrugged, then gave Regent a look like how the fuck should I know?
The soldier thanked him anyway, turned, and rolled out of the motel office and onto the cracked asphalt parking lot. The place was cheap. Cash only. No Wi-Fi. No questions. John knew it was stupid to stop moving, but his broken body was exhausted and his mind was depleted from his longest and most complicated hitch yet. His hands were shaking. He could barely keep his eyes open. He wouldn't make it another hour. He needed rest.
But personal pains aside, he had to admit . . . it felt great to have a mission again. He owed his friends. Or maybe they were paying him back. It didn't matter. The soldier was alive again, running dark in his own country.
The captain had watched Dr. Zabora—the closest thing to a friend he'd had in years—drive away forever. He waved. He wouldn't—he couldn't—ever see her again. But he vowed to check up on her from time to time and make sure she was okay.
He hot-wired the shittiest vehicle in the garage, a rusted '90s Civic, and left just minutes behind her. He listened to radio chatter for the better part of forty-five minutes before Ayn got smart and changed the encryption. He switched cars at a dollar store, then dropped his body behind an abandoned building not too far from the hospital, a place he knew from his patrols. He drove fifteen miles west, found a gas station with no security cameras, put the car in the wash, and left his host.
It had been a new experience. Regent had felt the agent's mind struggling at first, like a caught fish flapping on the bottom of a boat. The man had no idea what happened to him, and his thoughts flailed in confusion as he lost control of his body. Regent had to keep a mental arm on him, but it had been easier than he thought, and after a while the man stopped fighting.
As John rolled through the crisp night air, he found himself wishing it had been harder, wishing he were still limited to the unconscious, wishing he didn't have to face the temptation of every pair of legs in sight. He focused on his mission and tried not to think about it. He'd spent most of his cash, plus what he had taken from the agent's wallet, on the motel and some snacks from the vending machine. He drank water out of the tap. He had no meds and no next move.
It was a gamble being back so close to the VA, but if he was lucky, they wouldn't expect him to double back. Certainly they'd pin their search radius to the car wash. That would give him a little time. But not much. A six-foot-two black man with horrible burns riding an electric wheelchair was hard to miss.
John had hours. Mere hours.
He rolled across the bumpy asphalt toward his room. He looked at the strange package in his lap. It was lit only by the dim flicker of the broken street lamp overhead. Someone had left it for him. It was a terrible mystery.
Regent stopped his chair. An extended-cab pickup with 4x4 wheels had parked diagonally across the motel's only handicap spot, blocking access to the curb ramp. He looked at the concrete lip. Six inches at least. His chair would never make it. He'd have to get down on the ground and pull it up one-handed.
He scowled. The truck sported a bumper sticker: Support Our Troops.
Asshole.
Regent turned and rolled to the curb directly in front of his room. He had left the door open to clear the musty stench. It was dark and empty inside. He unstrapped his legs and took a deep breath.
"Excuse me?"
John turned his head. A young couple was behind him.
"Sorry. We don't want to be rude, but can we help?" The kid was black, skinny, in his late teens or early twenties. His earlobes were pierced with heavy black disks and his arms were covered in tattoos. He wore a t-shirt and tight-legged jeans. His girlfriend hung back. She was white. Full plastic bags hung from her arms.
They must have gone to the convenience store down the street, John thought. It was late. He was exhausted. He was in pain. He nodded.
The couple smiled. They walked over.
The boy stepped behind the chair, then stopped. "Umm . . . How do you want to do it?"
"Here." John spun and backed his chair to the curb. "If you can just grab the handles and give me a pull, the chair can do the rest."
The young man nodded, and with a heave and a whine of the electronic motor, the big man made it over the concrete lip.
The girlfriend smiled. Her nose was pierced.
John held out his hand. His good hand. "Thanks."
The kid took it with a smile. "No problem, man." He backed up. He waved.
The girlfriend did the same. "We're in 204," she said. "If you need a
nything. Or whatever." She gave a polite bob of the head and a little wave.
Regent watched them walk to the concrete-and-metal stairs that cut the two-story building in half. There was no judgment in their eyes. No pity. They just saw someone who needed a little help.
There were still good people in the world.
John was done stealing from good folks. He decided. It wasn't much of a sacrifice given that he was unlikely to last the night, but it was resolved all the same. No more taking what wasn't his. He had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, freedom or capture, it would be in his own skin.
He wheeled his chair into the motel room. Leaving the door open hadn't done much for the smell. He turned the lock, closed the blinds, and rolled to the bed. He reminded himself to charge his chair before sleeping.
He held up his mysterious package. Standard padded envelope available at any store. No postal marks. Had to be hand-delivered.
His name and room number had been printed and taped to the front. No handwriting.
Regent stared at the room number. 137. That was interesting. Very damn interesting. He'd only checked in 25 minutes ago. He was almost asleep when he got the call from the front desk.
He felt the package. It was hard. There was something thin and metal inside, probably a portable electronic device. And there was something else, another bundle. Papers maybe. Unlikely to be dangerous.
Still . . .
Fuck it. Regent tore open the top and pulled out a tablet PC. He turned it over. No markings. Looked new. He tossed it on the purple-and-orange comforter and looked into the envelope.
It was full of cash. Lots of cash. A bribe? Or a helping hand?
The tablet's screen lit up from the bed. A voice came through the speakers.
"HeLLo, CaPTaiN." It was deep. Garbled. A roller coaster of tones.
Vocal scrambler, John thought. Could be anyone. Anyone at all.
"my nAMe Is PRopHeT."
There was no way to tell the age of the speaker, or even if it was a man or a woman. Regent squinted at the machine, but he didn't speak. There was no reason to. Asking questions only revealed what he didn't know.
After several moments of silence, the tablet went dark. When it was clear John wasn't in a talking mood, the screen lit up again. Images appeared: stills from newspapers of people John didn't recognize, an internet warning from a hacker group, a seven-foot woman, footage of the Asian nuclear disaster, the flash of a countdown—forty-nine days and change. The seconds ticked away.
23 . . .
22 . . .
21 . . .
20 . . .
And then the symbol. The one on the tech in Siberia. The one Ayn had asked about. Three circles connected in the center by three lines. Someone had spray-painted it on a brick wall in a dirty part of the world. The red had run in dribbles at the edges, like blood from a sharp cut.
John stared at it. No one had any clue what it meant, at least no one he could find. Two obscure internet forums mentioned it. Both threads were later erased. Whatever it meant, clearly someone didn't want a discussion.
After a moment, the screen changed again. It was a video from the local network news affiliate. An attractive bleached-blonde told her audience about Alvin Millard, the brave army sergeant who woke up from a coma and saved a baby from a gang of drug dealers.
Regent scowled. Whatever.
The voice came through the speakers again. "YOu HavE aN exCEpTiONal TalENt."
The screen flickered and John saw credit card receipts, then recorded eyewitness tips, then doctored security footage of him in a supermarket, some place he'd never been, rolling down the cereal aisle in his electric chair.
"wE maNaGEd To gET TheM OFf yoUr TRail. FoR nOW."
That's why they hadn't burst through the door yet. They were busy chasing a ghost. That was big. Huge. That meant he had more time than he thought. Twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, if he was careful. More time meant more options. Maybe he could keep his promise to the doc after all. But he was too tired to think.
Regent took a long, slow, deep breath. Up first, a solid two hours of sleep. He looked at his shaking hands.
The scrambled voice filled the quiet, musty motel room. "WE'd LIke tO MakE YoU a PrOpoSal."
Who's we, John thought. He didn't ask. He waited a moment. "I'm listening."
"HOW wOULd yOu LIkE To WaLk AGAiN?"
[end]
The Sooperseekrit
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Preview Episode 2: Crossfire
T Minus: 038 Days 18 Hours 24 Minutes 51 Seconds
The Disemboweler stroked the child's head and smiled from under his severed mask. He had cut it in an arc under the cheeks to reveal his mouth and the tip of his nose. It obscured everything else but his eyes, which were black and soulless. Like a shark's.
The mask was reptilian—once a crocodile or snake—but its painted green scales were dirty and scuffed at the ridges. Like its owner, it was disfigured beyond recognition. It was a horror strapped to the man's head by a cracked and frayed leather belt.
"There, there," he told the little girl.
Her white eyes shone up at him. Her skin was jet black. She clutched a striped short-haired cat.
"See? No need to be scared." The big man squatted next to the pigtailed child. He held her arm with one hand and took the cat with the other. He lifted it and the two beasts stared at each other. "What's his name?"
The girl didn't answer. She was terrified, as were all the residents of Figtree Cove. They stared in silence from under the bagassa trees or fanned themselves under the equatorial sun. Only the insects chattered. Boraro the Disemboweler had earned his epithet thrice-over—at least—and no one dared challenge him, not even to spare an innocent.
Boraro, still squatting, stroked the cat and addressed the dozen or so members of his audience. "We are looking for Xana Jace."
Everyone knew "we" meant Mama Enecio, almost certainly watching from behind the tinted glass of the Mercedes idling on the dirt road. Mama was a big woman and kept to air conditioning. Three more of her men stood around the car. They held machetes and stakes.
No one spoke.
Boraro smiled again at the child. His dark eyes danced under the mask as he stroked her best friend. "Do you know Xana?"
The child nodded.
"Do you know where she is?"
The girl shook her head. She stared at her purring pet and looked as though she were about to cry.
Boraro scowled. He disliked children. They were loud and unreasonable. Only good for one thing. And it wasn't time for that.
Yet.
He waved his hand for her to leave and she ran across the dirt and grass to her mother, who waited in front of their dilapidated shack. Of the seven so-called houses that rimmed the cove, two were leaning so heavily as to be uninhabitable. The water behind them filled a deep depression in the ground, runoff gathered from a tributary of the Demerara River. Figtree Cove was nearly dry for three months of the year, a muddy depression that fed flies and mosquitoes. The rest of the time it served as bath, fishing hole, and irrigation well for the tiny community.
Boraro stood tall in the sun still holding the lazy feline. The man's dry, scaly brown skin was covered in fine black hairs. He wore a plain t-shirt and work pants. His long legs ended in mud-caked boots. His heavy arms sprouted from his shoulders and bulged like twisted-steel cables. His hands made fists like club heads.
"I have a message. I want you to give it to the freak Xana." He rubbed his fingers back and forth over the cat's ears. The animal closed its eyes. "Tell her I will face her tomorrow under the noon sun. One on one. In the junkyard by the Dutch market. Tell
her, if she does not come . . ." He swept his hand across the scene. "We will burn every one of these houses to the ground."
The crowd stayed silent.
"Tell her she cannot run. Tell her." The Disemboweler grabbed the cat's head and twisted. The animal squealed and went silent. The crowd gasped. The little girl hid her face in her mother's faded dress. The woman put a hand on her daughter but said nothing.
Boraro ripped the cat's skull from its body. Strips of torn skin stretched like taffy. He tipped the head over his open mouth as if drinking from a coconut. He swallowed blood. A dribble ran down his throat. He tossed the head to the dust and yanked the cat's fur to reveal its muscle-covered ribcage. Boraro cracked it with bulging arms and pulled out the animal's heart. It looked like a juicy plum in his fat fingers. He tossed the carcass to the ground and took a bite from the organ. Red liquid squirted and drained over his fingers like juice. Many in the crowd turned away.
The masked man chewed. His reptilian cowl moved up and down with each clench of his jaw. Then he motioned his men forward. They walked toward the closest shack and everyone saw. Those weren't stakes in their hands. They were torches.
"No!" A skinny, shirtless man stepped forward.
One of Mama Enecio's thugs knocked him down and kicked him as another lit a gasoline-soaked torch with his Zippo and tossed it into the closest shack.
The skinny man put his face in the dirt and covered his head to hide the sobs. Everyone else watched as flames rose and surrounded the door frame.