“They are,” Rogue said. “And much more. Get to safety as soon as you can.”
“I’m not a man prone to panic,” he said. “As you can see.”
“Well, I hope that attitude doesn’t get you killed.” She helped him up. She knew what he was – what he represented – yet he had been civil with her and, intelligently, saved himself and helped her out. In the end, he’d turned a bad situation good.
She committed all he’d said to memory. “Those coordinates,” she said. “Where are they?”
He smiled. “The place you need to be. England.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rogue found the least dangerous way to get them to England. First, she located her closest old contact – a man living in Barstow, between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. He went by the name of Stitch and was known by undercover agents the world over as a facilitator. He was known for the same by many criminals too, and therein lay his power. If he was fair to all, he was more valuable alive and working than dead and buried.
Rogue had used him several times during her four-year stint at MI6 when she’d been forced to travel to America. He knew her face, which helped speed things up tremendously. Later, that seemingly never-ending day, they were meeting and then talking to Stitch in Barstow, before hitting one of the local diners to fuel up and kill time whilst he made arrangements.
“A container ship?” Spencer whispered across the table. “You know, I get sea sick.”
“Really?” Rogue drank coffee, her third cup since they arrived. “I’m shocked.”
“Yeah. Even canoeing. I tried it once and was sick as a dog.”
“Plus,” Juliani said around a mouthful of pancake. “They got no PlayStation on board.”
Spencer looked embarrassed but then his expression changed. “Maybe you can teach me some of that unarmed combat?” he asked. “Or sharp shooting?”
“The words for this voyage are low and profile,” Rogue said. “We keep our heads down. I’ll buy you a set of headphones, so you can listen to your retro mix.”
Spencer nodded, looking disappointed. As much as Rogue admired his spirit, she needed to stay on mission. The geek wasn’t turning out to be the dead weight she’d imagined at first. Clearly, he was missing Wildey and had some issues to settle, but he was holding up. Juliani was – well, Juliani. He complained, but he stayed the course. His head and his heart were with his family, which Rogue couldn’t blame him for.
“It’s a fast ship, if that’s any consolation,” she said. “Seven days, Guadalajara to Liverpool. We eat with the crew and the ship’s other guests. We can walk around during the day, but we’re locked in our own container at night. For safety.”
“Our own container. That’s sounds positively five-star.” Juliani grouched.
“Hey, she’s not the syndicate,” Spencer said sarcastically. “I guess they treat you soooo good, do they?”
Rogue couldn’t keep the smile from her face, which made Spencer grin and Juliani shake his head. “Oh, encourage him,” he said. “See where that gets you.”
“Once we approach Liverpool we get locked in our crates. We’ll stay there until everything’s offloaded. Then, when it gets dark, we’ll have a special tool that will open a small door from the inside, since regulations state all doors have to be externally secured these days.”
“But not the door we use?” Spencer asked.
“It doesn’t look like a door,” Rogue said patiently. “It’s more like a hatch to crawl through. The ship’s captain has no control over where we’re offloaded but that shouldn’t be a problem-”
“It will be if we’re stacked seven containers high,” Juliani said.
“Let’s deal with that if it happens, Juli. Right now, this is our only option.” Stitch had told them as much in Barstow. Especially with their timeframe. “A word of warning. People who get transported between countries aboard container ships aren’t normally members of the PTA. They’re murderers, terrorists, gun runners and worse. Do not interact with any of them.”
Spencer nodded. Juliani finished eating. Rogue poured more coffee. She had a feeling she was going to need it. One of the great obstacles here was that she didn’t really know how to indulge people, how to pull off a little sugar-coating. Spencer needed it, and it wouldn’t hurt him. Even Juliani needed it to a lesser degree. They both had families in danger, families that they couldn’t help. A few comforting words would help them with that and keep their heads straight for when she needed them.
After the murder of her parents, Rogue had been unable to accept comfort or love. She acted out at home and at school. She courted confrontation and danger. A large part of her social skillset was missing. Luckily though, on joining the army her juvenile records had been sealed. Not even her bosses knew of her foster family.
I want to trust them, she thought. Even Spencer. But nobody helped my parents. Nobody tried to save them even though they were in a roomful of people.
She couldn’t trust anyone.
*
Spencer staggered as he stepped out onto the deck, face lashed by wind and rain. Their container was a 20’ by 8’ wide and 8’ high metal box. It had no heating, no bed and no seats. It had no toilet. Life had taken such a drastic turn that all he wanted to do was scream out loud. To curse it all. Hadn’t he had a sufficiently horrendous past? Wasn’t running with, and then losing, Anonymous bad enough? He still had all the skills and he’d been given a good taste of what they could do. It was bad-ass. Dangerous, sometimes criminal and stupid, but bad-ass.
And now Wildey was under threat from this Hellfire Club which, to him, were solely from the Dark Phoenix arc of the X-Men, the finest X-arc ever. Spencer just hoped Wildey would do as he’d asked, though he didn’t hold out a whole lot of hope. The tension between them had been caused by her making him leave Anonymous. She hadn’t relented since. Spencer conjured up some retro goodness in his head, something to take him out of the moment. Fantasy was good – from books to games to movies. It made him a hero every day. It coated his body and his emotions in armour.
But it didn’t stop the lashing of the rain and the relentless blasts of wind. It didn’t stop his feet slipping on the wet deck. Rogue supported him from the back. It was helpful of her, but it was also embarrassing. He didn’t want her support, he wanted to impress her. Fat chance of that at sea.
He felt constantly sick. His head spun. It had only been two days, which meant there were five to go. Spencer dreaded to imagine the kind of mewling wreck he might be by that time. Their trek from the container to the mess deck was a nightmare, involving crossing an open area at the back of the ship close to the stern rail through which a boiling ocean could be seen. A march up four switch-backed flights of metal stairs which clanked and swayed and were hard to hold on to, and then a short trip down a dark corridor which only served to worsen his sea-sickness. And then they came to the food. So far, Spencer guessed he’d brought up as much as he’d eaten. Yes, he was weakening. The only good thing was that they could take as much bottled water as they liked.
Before the meal they queued up with everyone else who’d paid to be on board. They had a set time – just forty-five minutes. Spencer found himself standing among large, unwashed men with hard eyes and cruel faces. Nobody smiled. Nobody made conversation. It was alien to him. Despite his experiences, Spencer liked talking to people. It was one of the reasons he’d decided to work at the Home Depot rather than something in computer programming. Sitting in a tense silence and trying to keep his food down whilst everyone else consumed theirs as fast as they could made him nervous. And then there was the cold. The incessant, creeping cold.
Nowhere was warm. The rain soaked them every time they left the container. Or if it wasn’t the rain, it was the sea, its salty gusts of spray as much a part of the air around him as the oxygen he breathed. The ship rolled and dipped, rose and crashed through waves. He was glad when, on the third day, Juliani began to go a little green.
“Not look . . . looking
so good,” he managed to stammer at the man.
Juliani regarded him and laughed. Rogue joined in. They’d started out sleeping in three separate corners of the container, but he was pretty sure he’d finish laying down beside the others. This trip was too traumatic to be done alone.
On the fourth night, Rogue managed to acquire a full bottle of whiskey. Spencer eyed it with gratitude, thinking it was the most magical thing he’d ever seen. He didn’t like the headaches it induced, nor the taste, but he’d gulp down the whole bottle for just eight hours of oblivion.
They shared the alcohol, and for a short while the seas quieted. Juliani spoke fondly of his family and life in Miami. He explained how the syndicate had drawn him in – how they’d heard of his accounting genius and ensnared him, offering the most terrible ultimatum. Do what we say, or your family is ours. They won’t die. They’ll be sold into slavery and every week we’ll send you videos of their progress.
Spencer listened in horror. He’d thought everything he’d gone through was bad, an all-consuming nightmare. But this was the real world, this was the hell some people had to endure.
When Rogue asked him about his past, he felt embarrassed. He’d let one close call change his life. He’d reacted by punishing himself rather than appreciating he’d dodged a future bullet. He explained some of the detail to them, and confirmed that his eyesight was strained because he gamed too much and that he’d been bullied at school due to his geekiness. But he’d rode above all that, fought and forgotten it. A new set of friends had helped.
“You stoop,” Rogue told him. “I presume that’s because you’re tall and would rather not stand out. You prefer to be amicable. Change that. Walk tall. Stand strong. Question people and events, especially when they’re happening to you”
Spencer nodded, taking it on board. Already, his respect for her had grown enormously. Rogue had oodles of integrity and enough confidence for all of them. Most importantly, he could rely on her.
“I have a lot to atone for,” she said. “to offset the wrongs and the rights of my past. Taking down the Hellfire Club will be part of that reparation.”
“You didn’t know,” Juliani said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“Yes, but I won’t hide behind that knowledge, Juli. I’ll take retribution for those who died, including Tom. They deserve it.”
The fifth day was the worst. Spencer woke feeling refreshed, his stomach having settled for the time being. He was even looking forward to cold porridge and bitter coffee. They made the hair-raising trip to the mess deck with even more caution now as they’d learned yesterday that one man had lost his footing and slipped overboard. This wasn’t a ship for wimps, the captain had told them as they ate. Man up and buckle in. The weather forecast is worse from here on in. Spencer had quelled a rush of terror, kept his head up and said nothing. Now, the expected storms hadn’t come, and going for breakfast actually felt good.
The crew were already in the mess hall, choosing their hot food and dumping it on their plates. Spencer saw two young men who’d been eyeing them up on and off. In particular, they stared at Rogue. Spencer didn’t like it, lowered his head and spoke through the corner of his mouth.
“Your two-o-clock. They’re definitely showing more than the usual interest.”
“I see them and I know why. Don’t get involved.”
“You know why?” Spencer turned to her. “What does that mean?”
“They loaned us the whiskey last night.”
“Loaned?” Spencer said. “Oh, you mean-”
“Yeah,” Rogue leapt to her feet, shocking him with her abruptness. She took her half full bowl of soup with her. Spencer turned to see both men coming at them. Rogue smashed the soup bowl into the side on the first man’s face, coating him in the hot liquid. His hands flew up as he went down to one knee. Rogue used his body to shield her from the next attack. The second man had a knife. He thrust twice, missing easily. She leapt to the right. All around the mess hall rough looking reprobates were watching with interest. If Rogue lost this, she’d be fair game.
As would Spencer and Juliani.
It gave him an insight into this pitiless dog-eat-dog world. He vowed right then he wouldn’t end up as some low-life’s dessert. He took firm hold of his mug and waited, moving away from the table. His hands shook. Rogue chopped at her opponent’s wrist, knocking the knife to the floor. As she moved in the fallen man tangled her legs, sending her sprawling. The second man kicked her in the top of the head. Spencer started to move but Juliani’s hand fell onto his wrist, stopping him.
“She’s okay,” he said softly.
Rogue rolled and pivoted from her hips. Her right boot was suddenly buried in the second man’s groin, a strike which made the entire room wince and the man fall, groaning. She pivoted again, back toward the first man. He was on his feet and coming at her.
Rogue kicked at his knees. He sprawled head first, at her side. His forehead bounced off the floor. It didn’t stop him. He rose and punched her in the chest. She rolled away but he scuttled after her. His weight bore her down. Now the second man was staggering back into the fight, still cupping his groin but giving her an evil grimace as he fell to his knees near her head. Rogue covered up, taking blows to the arms and ribs. She squirmed free and sought out the second man, since he was the weakest. A strike to the eyes sent him falling away, but her attack left her vulnerable at the midriff.
The first man had scooped up the fallen knife.
He saw the opening and thrust at her. Rogue was fast, but surely not that fast. Spencer gambled that she wasn’t. As the man lunged, he jumped off his chair and brought the ceramic mug crashing down across the man’s temple. The mug shattered; blood exploded from a nasty gash. The man collapsed into unconsciousness.
Rogue stared at him, mouth drawn into a straight line. She betrayed no expression. She picked herself off the floor, walked over to the attacker’s table and upended one of their rucksack’s all over it. Weapons fell out, along with spare food, cell phones still in their plastic casings, spare ammo and two more bottles of whiskey. Rogue grabbed spare ammo to replace that which she’d already used and took another bottle of whiskey.
“Count yourself lucky,” she said to the whimpering men. “That I’ve left you one to drown your sorrows.”
Later, in the container, Spencer asked her why she’d risked a fight aboard the ship at all. “Why take the first bottle?”
She looked at him with a half-smile, and he was conscious of those big, deep eyes and that dark red hair. “I took it because you needed it,” she said. “For you.”
Spencer dragged his gaze away before he embarrassed himself. To hide the swift upsurge of gratitude he sniffed his armpits and caught a malodorous whiff. “Wow, I stink.”
Rogue uncapped the bottle just as big waves started to rock the boat once more. The promised storm was here.
“Let’s get fucked up,” she said.
Spencer was never happier to follow an order.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
It was a great moment when they felt the crane’s huge manacles grab their container and lift it into the air. At least, Rogue thought it was. The other two grabbed hold of the metal sides as if their lives depended on it and went sheet white. Rogue grinned at them.
“What’s the matter. Never been swung at two hundred feet inside a metal container before?”
“Not me,” Juliani whispered.
“Only in my nightmares.” Spencer gasped. “Have you?”
She shrugged. “It’s a good way of sneaking into a country you’re not supposed to be in.”
Later, once the noise was done and night had fallen, Rogue cautiously opened their hatch and looked around. “Well,” she said, sniffing the air. “I guess this is Liverpool.”
At three in the morning they made a move. Rogue reported that the containers were stacked four high and they were on the second row. Not so bad. She climbed out and shimmied down one of the tubed door hinges, urging the oth
ers to do the same. Juliani came next, hanging on for dear life most of the way and then Spencer, looking scared and determined at the same time. She nodded at their efforts.
“Try to be faster next time,” she said.
“Oh, believe me,” Juliani said. “There will be no next time.”
Darkness pooled all around. Rogue led them, evading a security control and watchful for CCTV. The dock area was vast, the skies above pitch black. Rogue caught sight of Spencer’s off-colour face, and knew the ground was probably still heaving under him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Breathe deep. It’ll pass.”
They escaped the docks, found a dingy twenty-four-hour café that served truckers and dockworkers and stole a car. Rogue would drive it south until they could hire something.
She checked her watch. “It’s three thirty,” she said. “The GPS says London is a four-and-a half-hour drive which means we can’t start surveillance until tonight.”
Spencer clung on to the grab bar in the passenger seat. His sea sickness had been the worst so Rogue had allowed him to sit up front as they left the dock area in search of a motorway.
“We’ve been on that thing for seven days,” he said.
“My thoughts exactly. A hotel, a shower, a good sleep. Then we’ll hire a car and head down to London.”
“You’re sure it’s London?” Juliani asked. “Seems a little obvious. Why would the mafia place their Hub in London?”
Rogue didn’t answer him immediately. The coordinates Cesar had given them spoke for themselves, pointing to the capital. And now that they’d decided to find a hotel, Rogue couldn’t believe how much she was looking forward to the comfort of a hot shower and a soft bed. Juliani’s words took her out of a cosy daydream and made her instantly irritable.
“Obvious sounds like a good enough reason to me, Juli. And the mafia aren’t solely American, they’re European too. I guess London is far enough removed from mainland Europe and America for the hub they need.”
Rogue Page 13