“All right,” she said finally. “I have a starting point, but I have to move fast. You two – call your families.”
It was intensely clear over the next ten minutes what kind of men they both were. Juliani went first. “It’s me,” he said. “We’re in trouble. Get out and take the kids with you.”
Rogue shouldn’t have been surprised to hear his wife’s immediate, clipped reply.
“Where and when?”
“The old place and now. Pick them up right now.”
Juli’s wife knew what he did, even if the kids didn’t.
“All right. But call me soon.”
“I will, love. I will.”
Juli’s face was distraught as he handed the phone to Spencer.
The younger man called his girlfriend – Wildey – but, for several seconds, couldn’t seem to think of anything to say.
“Hello?” her voice was strong. “Who the hell is this?”
“It’s me,” he finally said. “Spencer. You’re in danger. You have to leave. Now. Just go somewhere and hide.”
Rogue tried not to cringe, reminding herself that he’d never done this before. He was just a civilian.
“Are you high? Or drunk? After hours party is it? Get your ass home Spencer. I miss it.”
The young man looked away, still speaking into the phone. “I’m serious,” he said. “Check the news. Something happened at the store today. Just do it, Wildey.”
She was silent for a moment and then spoke quietly. “Is this your way of finally asking me to leave. I know you haven’t been happy since I made you quit them.”
“No, no!” his voice rose. “It’s nothing to do with all that. I’m serious. You are in danger. The people who shot up the store might come after you. This has nothing to do with our issues.”
“What the hell are you . . .” she began in the same disbelieving tone, but then appeared to hear what he was saying. “I’m watching it now.”
“You see? I’m serious. Just leave. Don’t tell me where. Stay away and stay low profile. Like we used to with Anon-” he broke off instantly, giving Rogue a scared look. “Well, you know.”
“How will you contact me?”
“I’ll figure it out. Please, now, just go.”
Spencer hung up the phone, looking embarrassed, which made Rogue sad for him and mad at Wildey.
“I guess I could join her,” he said. “But all my friends are at the Depot.”
“You can’t go back there, kid,” Juliani said in quiet tones, also clearly feeling sorry for him.
“I’d like to stay with you,” Spencer said. “There’s really nowhere else for me to go.”
Rogue didn’t like it. But they were running short of time. Tijuana was over a day’s drive away.
“Let’s talk as we drive,” she said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Spencer Kirby swallowed, trying not to cry. It wouldn’t help to show weakness in front of these two. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to be seated at home, room fan blowing tepid air at his face, sitting on the thick comfy cushion that his best friend, Mike, had bought him, with a worn old PS One controller in his hand. Even better, a Mega Drive controller with Alex the Kid or the first Sonic the Hedgehog ready to go on his 14-inch TV.
Is that the sum of your life with Wildey?
The question echoed through his brain. He knew how it looked, but didn’t care. The job at the Home Depot didn’t tax him one bit, but it had helped him become part of a small group of close friends who helped each other out. Their managers called them the Geek Clique. They didn’t mind. Wildey herself was a major retro fan too and whilst she didn’t go all out for video games, she loved old movies and a varied 80’s playlist. It was how they’d met at college.
Spencer asked and answered questions as Rogue drove the car.
“Yes, I do have good friends at the Depot. Will they be okay?”
Her answer was quick, confident and to the point, which appeared to be how she lived and worked. “They’ll be fine.”
“I enjoy working there. It’s a steady income and I’m grateful to have that. It’s good for social connections and I do like to help people.”
“When you say social connections . . .” Rogue asked.
“Gamers. Eighties and nineties movie and music geeks. You know the score?”
Rogue didn’t look like she did ‘know the score’. She asked about his qualifications and he went on to tell her about all the subjects he’d aced. It was then she asked the question he’d been dreading.
“What led you to start working at Home Depot?”
“I hit a bad patch. The whole reason I climbed out is because of Wildey, and the people who work at the Depot.”
“I’m trying to figure out if I can use you,” she said. “Run through your skillsets again.”
“I play killer Donkey Kong. I know all the lyrics to every Bon Jovi song from 86 to 92. And I can recite the entire script of the original Lethal Weapon and Die Hard movies’ forwards… or backwards. Oh, and if you’re craving some old American hard candy . . . I know just the place to get it from.”
Rogue didn’t reply, but he could tell by the rigid set of her shoulders that she badly wanted to throw him out of the car. Maybe it was mentioning the candy that had done it.
Spencer filled the awkward silence. “Would you like me to take a nap now?”
“Yes, please. That’d be good.”
The car rumbled on. Spencer couldn’t get the death he’d witnessed out of his mind. He just wanted a quiet life. To be left alone. That was all he’d ever wanted.
Which was why he hadn’t told her about the one ‘skill’ she might be interested in. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d really developed it, or could employ it in any useful fashion.
Ever since he’d met Jane Wilde – Wildey – with her mischievous smile and outgoing personality that both contrasted and complimented his introspective side – he’d had no contact with them, with his old life.
Them.
Otherwise known as Anonymous.
He continued pretending to be asleep.
The trouble was, thoughts of the old days inevitably brought him back to them.
He opened his eyes and peered into the darkness. He was aware that he squinted. He put it down to hours of videogaming on small screens in dark rooms. Thoughts of them had brought back memories of his old class mates and the things he said to them when they chanced upon him working at the Depot.
“I like it here. I help people out. I don’t mind taking flak off five assholes a day because nothing they can say is worse than what almost happened to me back then.” At that point they usually remembered what had happened to him, if they knew, or gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.
“Sorry, man,” they said. “You’re looking good.”
In college, he’d spent late nights locked in his bedroom working for them, days working towards Academic degrees, and early evenings in paradise. Wildey seemed just as besotted with him. Their friends took to calling them a couple and never invited one without the other. All in all, Spencer assumed he’d cracked life. It couldn’t get any better.
It got much worse.
Anonymous: the world-famous international hacktivist group known for cyber attacks against governments, agencies, corporation and the Church of Scientology. For Spencer, it started with pranks and protests but when it started getting into serious ideals and being branded as a cyber-terrorist group Spencer had quit. Friends in the UK, Australian, Spain and Turkey were being arrested. Spencer left a month before one of the US sites was taken down by authorities. But Anonymous was a crowd of faceless people with no leader. Anyone could be a part of it. Spencer escaped unscathed.
Months and years passed. Wildey stayed with him. There was tension between them because it was she who had persuaded him to quit Anonymous. He decided to walk the straight and narrow, not principally for him but for her, and it never really sat right in his gut. Even when he escaped prison by such
a small margin.
On leaving college, he cut all contact with that part of his life and, still shunning computers, looked for a local job.
And found the Home Depot.
So now he stalked the aisles and manned the desks, helping customers, stooping a little because he was conscious of his height, unconfrontational, happy to walk away in the face of conflict, enjoying living with Wildey and the deep familiarity that they shared but never quite forgiving her for ruining something he’d been happy to be a part of. And in addition, he couldn’t subdue his inner confidence. Spencer was good at everything he put his mind too and he knew it.
But every day he tried to hide it.
So far today, shock had confounded his every thought. From seeing Rogue, this beautiful redhead, clad in tight black jeans and an equally tight T-shirt, come running towards him. From seeing and hearing firearms and then helping where he could. He’d been many steps behind the action, struggling to keep up. If your life experience amounted to gaming, watching movies, college, and an all too brief stint as an internet hacker, you weren’t equipped to bring your strengths to bear when the bullets started flying. Or a man died. Or when you were forced to go on the run.
Spencer sat wrapped in the dark, caught between opposing needs. On the one hand he wished to be anywhere but here and to have witnessed nothing. But on the other hand, perversely perhaps, he wanted more than anything to be helpful
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London born millionaire, Marcus Miller, perched on the edge of his solid oak table and threw half a glass of scotch down his throat. It was early morning. His wife – the plastic-coated gold-digger, as he thought of her – had already left for a day in Knightsbridge. No doubt she’d return later fully loaded with arms full of shopping bags, hair and nails freshly cut and polished and her ego newly pumped by one of the young men who helped pack her little white Porsche.
Miller poured another glass, reflecting on how fast a good life had descended into a living hell. His cell phone rang, making him jump, sending a shiver the length of his spine. When he looked though, it was just the gold-digger, so he ignored it. Fuck her. She’ll find out soon enough.
He faced a full-length window. Outside, all the working parts of the extensive grounds of his London mansion met his eyes. Men and women gardeners were hard at work. Horses were being trained and groomed. Business was being conducted.
A maid appeared, but he sent her away with a flick of his arm. Everything would change soon, and he’d have to let them all go.
The cell started ringing again and Miller reached out an irritated hand. He made to fling it across the room but then caught sight of the number.
His stomach knotted, almost sending the whiskey back up.
“Hello . . . yes?” he answered quickly, dropping the half full tumbler as he raised the phone to his ear. The amber liquid that splashed over his right foot went unnoticed.
“Do you know who this is?”
“Of course I do,” Miller habitually used bluster to cover his fragile insecurity even after he’d become wealthy.
“It doesn’t sound like it.”
“I’m sorry, sir, “Miller forced down the fear. “I do know who this is, sir.”
The caller chortled and then mimicked him to whomever else was listening. Rough laughter broke out. Miller suffered their ridicule because he had to. They were one of the deadliest street gangs in London, affiliated with the Aryan brotherhood, and they literally owned him.
“We need a favor, bro,” the man said, voice as rough as sandpaper. “You know what.”
“Yes. I do.” His legs were shaking but he didn’t want to try walking over to the couch in case he fell.
“A truck at the usual place. Six o clock. Make sure it’s on time.”
“Yes, sir.”
More laughter rang out as the line was severed. Miller bowed his head, then retrieved the tumbler and filled it to the top with the rest of the whiskey. It wouldn’t do to be drunk at six o clock this evening in case something went wrong, but he had the rest of the day to get through. He tried not to think how they would use one of his own trucks to transport contraband across the city.
Miller was morally broken. He was in so deep with these cutthroat skinheads that he would never get out. His son was dead, his businesses overstretched. His wife was needy and had no idea what evil surrounded them. He was wracked with guilt, not only for his son but for the good men and women who worked for him too.
It had all started with a horse race. Miller had become bored, deciding to flaunt his power, wondering if he could fix the results of a race in his favour. The answer was yes. For a price. One that was more than just financial. But he had been willing to pay at the time.
It had gotten worse from there. One thing led to another. The gang gathered evidence on him, recorded calls and videotaped meetings. He had thought himself above the law. Thought himself among like-minded men, enjoying mutual power. But it turned out he was sorely mistaken. Before he knew it, before even a year had passed, his life was no longer his own.
Now, he worked for depraved men whose only goal in life was to prove how dangerous they were.
The good times were long gone. For Miller, there was fast becoming only one remedy to all this. The business failings he could handle. It was the weekly gangland dealings he couldn’t deal with. The jobs he gifted them. The access he gave them. The inside information he passed on.
Miller sat down before he collapsed. The real turnaround in his life had been when Nick –his son – had been murdered. The gang had invited Nick along to one of their meetings. When this gang invited you, you went willingly, or you suffered. Miller had been forced to reveal his terrible secret to his son. Nick, twenty-two, had taken it well, hoping to help and support his dad through it all. For months their dealings had gone smoothly, almost suspiciously slick. Then, the skinheads took a trip to Europe to secure more funds for the through their Aryan brothers in Germany. The trip had comprised of two London skinheads, Nick, and Miller himself. They had been hit by the British MI6. A chance attack, it seemed. The intelligence service had been watching the brotherhood, Miller found out later. Nothing to do with him.
While Miller escaped the MI6 assault, Nick was killed. Shot point blank by one of the black-suited female agents. When they returned to London the gang vowed to find Nick’s red-haired killer, especially for Miller, but he knew it was a promise soaked in venom. They would help him, but only to draw him further into their all-encompassing web.
In any case, it never happened. As time went on, the Aryans and the skinheads told him they could not find the shooter. MI6 never crossed paths with them again. It had all been chance. Bad luck.
Which robbed me of my son. He should never have been involved. This is my fault, and I should pay the deepest price.
And so should that red-haired killer who murdered him.
She was still out there, somewhere. The only thing keeping him alive was the wonderful memory of his son. He didn’t want the boy’s name dragged through the mud when everything came out.
The situation was worse than even he could admit. The gang was ultimately managed by the European branch of the Aryan Brotherhood. They were one of the biggest and most aggressive gangs on the face of the planet and had associations with some of the worst crime syndicates imaginable. Their reach stretched from America to Japan, Florida to Brazil.
Pyke appeared then, gliding into the room like a ghost. Pyke was his bodyguard, and a world class one. The gang didn’t like Pyke and made him wait in the car whenever Miller went to see them. In every other forum, Pyke was solid gold.
“I have them on my cell,” he said, shaking his head.
“I didn’t give them your number, I promise.”
“They’re part of the Brotherhood,” Pyke said simply.
“I guess.” Miller took the phone, wishing he was a man of few words, just like Pyke. He’d developed bluster to hide insecurities but maybe he should have become the silent t
ype.
“Hello?”
“This is Brady.”
“I already spoke to Dodds just minutes ago.” He blurted.
“Shup up and listen. Do you remember the woman who killed your son? The bitch with the red hair?”
Miller was taken aback. For a moment he couldn’t speak.
“Are you there?” Brady asked.
“Yes, sorry. Of course I remember. I didn’t think you would.”
“We forget nothing. We forgive nothing. That MI6 scum attacked all of us. But the redhead has surfaced in the United States.”
He frowned, glancing at Pyke. “America?”
“In Florida. Miami.”
“Isn’t that where you have a connection?”
“We’re looped in.”
Miller sat down heavily in a plush leather armchair, facing a wall where, above a dusty, unused fireplace, there hung a portrait picture of his son.
“How do you know it’s her?”
“Are you really asking a stupid question now? We have connections with a syndicate in Miami.”
Miller closed his eyes, breathing heavily. The air had been knocked out of him along with all coherent thought. His head span. “I don’t… I’m surprised.”
“How badly do you want her?”
It was an evil question, designed to make him aggressive, take him to their level. The truth was he did feel hatred towards the redhead MI6 agent. The situation, and the right and wrong of it didn’t matter. She had killed his son.
“Are you taping this call?”
“I’m not selling car insurance here, bro. I’m offering cold revenge.”
He knew what they were offering. A way to drag him in deeper. A way to sever his last remaining thread of humanity. You blame yourself. You’re thinking of ending it, so why does it matter?
It mattered.
It’s not going to bring him back. It won’t even make you feel any better.
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