Rogue

by David Leadbeater

She tuned him out. Something crashed heavily at the door, making it shudder. A fire broke out to her left, starting to melt the hard drives. It was going to be close. At last, Spencer broke into the system. A black screen appeared, cluttered with files and the most frequented websites. He chose a search engine called Data Lookup. A search bar came up. He typed the words ‘the Hellfire Club’.

  Rogue didn’t know what to expect but, seconds later, a paper dossier filled the screen. Yellowed, and outlined by black borders, it held many lines of tiny writing. Rogue guessed it had been scanned in from an external agent’s work, which had then been destroyed.

  She leaned in and read it in less than a minute. Most of the information she already knew, but there was one chunk of material that proved incredibly interesting.

  It’s worth it just for that. The dossier provided an address, for what it said was the number three figure-head of the Hellfire Club of the United Kingdom.

  A statement that raised further questions.

  Before she had time to think another heavy crash made the door shudder. The frame rattled in its housing. Plaster chipped away and fell to the floor.

  “They’re coming through,” Spencer said. “They’re coming through.”

  Rogue urged him to exit the dossier, and click back to the home screen, preferring to keep her search as unobtrusive as possible. The door now bent inward. She was about to back away from the computer array when a blinking light caught her eye.

  Recent updates.

  Should she?

  “We gotta go,” Spencer hissed.

  Rogue herself pushed him aside and jabbed at the button. The first headline she saw read ‘Jackal Terror Group – urgent, imminent agenda.’ Even standing there, desperate to get moving, she felt a trickle of fear. She clicked on the link and read just a few lines.

  The trickle of fear turned to a flood.

  “Oh my god.”

  The door buckled away from its hinges. A small gap appeared. Spencer took out his gun and fired at the gap without being asked, keeping them at bay.

  “Come on!”

  “What’s your email address?”

  “What?”

  “Your email. Give it to me now and keep bloody firing!”

  Spencer reeled it off, watching the door in terror. Rogue took an extra half minute to send an email, along with the note she’d found. She also sent in to two of her own blind email addresses for safekeeping.

  “Right,” she said finally. “Are you okay?”

  Spencer looked ready to swallow his tongue in fear. Rogue dragged him to the rear wall of the room. His breath came fast, his eyes darted everywhere. Rogue put a hand on each of his shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes.

  “Calm down,” she said. “We expected this.”

  Another crash made him jump. Rogue gripped his shoulders hard. “Trust me,” she said.

  The door folded. Rogue lifted her SIG and fired on full auto, peppering the door and its surrounds with 9mm bullets. A scream was heard, and then more shouting. The door still hung in the frame, but the gap at the top was more than man-size. She was prepared to make it too costly for them to advance.

  “My backpack,” she said. “Grab the second device carefully.”

  Spencer fumbled around inside her pack before zipping it back up. “Now what?”

  “Throw it at the external wall right there.”

  Spencer raised his arm.

  “Wait, nerd. It’s bloody powerful. If you want to keep your head, take cover.”

  They dived behind a set of cabinets. Spencer threw the explosive and flung his body to the ground.

  A heavy blast rang out. The wall exploded. A mix of metal, block and mortar slithered into the room. A wall of heat and flame expanded from the explosive, hitting the front of the cabinets and making them buckle. The noises of their attackers fell away.

  Rogue jumped up, tightening her grip on her weapons and shrugging the backpack straight. Spencer stayed behind her. Their reprieve lasted seconds. Even as they moved, the facility’s guards came into view, poking their guns through the gap at the top of the door.

  “Run!” Rogue cried, pushing Spencer toward the newly blown hole.

  She fell to the floor, firing. A gun was struck and flew away. One of her bullets pierced another man’s hand. Blood poured down the doorway. She checked on Spencer. He was climbing through the ragged, smoking hole. A man now fell through the doorway into the room. Rogue smashed him across the face with her gun, training its barrel on two new opponents. She dropped them before they managed to fire a single shot. The man she’d hit came back at her, smashing into her shoulder with his own. Rogue staggered but held her feet and slammed an elbow into his left ear. She spun, trying to bring the gun to bear but he stayed close. She saw another face at the door. A fist swung at her head. She blocked it and sidestepped, putting her opponent between her and the door. She was struck in the ribs, and then in the face. Her vision swam but she didn’t retaliate. Instead, she pretended to stumble, knowing it would have one of two consequences. Either the man would attack, or he would back away warily.

  She was ready for both.

  He hesitated, and she took a step back, brought up the gun and fired. Bullets ripped across his chest and into the shoulders of the next man coming through the door. Quickly, she ejected the mag and slammed in a new one.

  Took out the final explosive and threw it at the door.

  Rogue ran. The bomb blew up behind her. Most of the blast struck the already damaged door and the men struggling past it, but she felt the explosion as she exited through the ragged hole in the buildings back wall. Spencer was already ahead.

  Good, he’s remembered the escape plan. Use the building and then cut right into the trees. Stay there for three minutes max, before cutting back into the industrial estate and making their way around the backs of other buildings towards the front.

  They’d been confident the Hub attack wouldn’t be reported to estate security or the cops for obvious reasons. Juliani was waiting in the parking area of the McDonalds near the front.

  Her head was reeling. Not only from their huge success but because they’d found information relating to one of the three old men. Not to mention what she’d seen regarding the Jackal Terror Group.

  Right now, she was glad Spencer remembered the escape route, because her brain was struggling to contain an overwhelmingly potent mix of elation and horror.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Rogue spread out on the double bed, having showered, and relaxed. The room was as safe as it could be. Her weapons were at hand – the Glock under her pillow, the knife under the sheets and the SIG resting carefully against the night stand. The guns were cleaned and loaded. Her go-bag had been replenished. She was mission ready.

  “What’s next?” she spoke to an empty room. During the two years she’d lived in Cocoa, Rogue had developed a habit of talking out loud to herself. She’d only done it once since Tom came back into her life, and it surprised her now. Alone, she would say things out loud that she’d never admit to someone’s face. She saw Tom in her mind’s eye now. It was both odd and fascinating that, when someone died, you only remembered the good times. The rest paled into insignificance because you were never going to see them again.

  “Celebrate happiness,” she said aloud, this time forcing herself to talk. It didn’t feel wrong. Tom deserved her memories. He deserved a thousand people’s memories. Ever since he’d rebelled at being born into a privileged life Tom had embraced a saviour complex. It had hindered his progress, blunted his abilities, but he’d saved more civilians in four years than Rogue and all the other MI6 agents combined. When they were packing up, leaving, Tom was checking on whoever had been displaced by an incident, who was missing, who was injured.

  Sometimes, he infuriated her. Other times, he was nothing short of a hero.

  “I think I loved you, mate,” she said softly. “In my own way.”

  A tear fell from her eye. Quickly wiping it away
, she crossed to the mini bar, extracted a miniature whisky and poured it into a tumbler.

  Then she saluted. “At every remembrance of their courage and their friendship we give humble and heartfelt thanks.”

  Then she drank. It wasn’t a line she’d been trained to say, but it was part of a farewell spoken by men she’d trained alongside. It had stuck with her. Both she and Tom had recited it together, when colleagues fell.

  “You died a hero, saving me.”

  She remembered how, after a year of their relationship, she’d left him in the middle of the night without leaving a note. She’d never explained the reason she left, but Tom would have known it concerned the rumours attached to the old men and the simple fact the he couldn’t bring himself to believe her. Rogue’s solitariness was ingrained, as deep a part of her as breathing. Tom had touched something raw with his disbelief, and she’d rebelled.

  Now, she’d never know what might have happened.

  I don’t play well with others.

  She was unlikely to meet a man who moved her both emotionally and physically ever again. Her likes had been intensely complicated.

  She rolled to the edge of the bed, flicked off the lights and lay there in total darkness, far from sleep, flicking through all the years of her life and the dangerous paths it had taken her.

  She’d never be at peace as long as the Old Men remained free to do their mercenary work.

  If she survived all that, she’d take stock of her life and try to move on.

  But the odds weren’t good.

  *

  Spencer sat on the edge of his bed, too wired to lie down let alone sleep. It was one thing to play Call of Duty; it was quite another to suddenly start living it. There was no pause button, no restart. Rogue, though capable, appeared to possess very little compassion. She couldn’t see what he was going through. Or she didn’t care. Of course, she was some kind of British spy assassin, so maybe indifference was learned on the job. Or it could be linked to something that had happened in her past. He wasn’t sure, but images filled his mind – from when they met at the Depot, all the way to tonight’s warfare. So far, he’d accepted everything she’d said. What other choice did he have? Spencer knew he was in deep now – from becoming a Hellfire Club target and sending Wildey into hiding, to being in the United Kingdom without a passport.

  Carrying a gun.

  It sat on his night stand, a cold, black reminder of his new, hard reality. Of death and blood and chaos. He’d seen men killed. He’d contemplated shooting them himself. How do I come to terms with that?

  For now, it wasn’t an issue. His head was so full of hopes and fears it couldn’t settle on any one subject for long. Earlier, he’d bought a cheap phone with an MP3 player and a set of headphones. Now, he downloaded some eighties and nineties music to it, found a mobile version of the original Sonic game, and switched off from the world. The music filling his ears felt good. It saturated his world. Spencer went back in time, too young to remember the first release of the music he listened to, but happy to get lost in it.

  After a while, he removed the headphones. Finally, he felt calm enough to shower, to eat a room service dish and know he could keep it down. Anxiety churned in his stomach every second of the day, but he thought he was hiding it quite well.

  Wildey? How was she coping. Shit, was she even okay?

  He was doing this for her, as much as he was doing it for himself. Or Rogue. I’m protecting you, Wildey. How about that? Instead of thinking about himself and all he’d been through, instead of blaming her for his lot in life, he was trying to save her. Being a hero.

  I’ve barely lived since Anonymous. I’ve existed on this small insulated scale. Well, he was living now.

  Spencer always knew he had ambition, but a combination of bad luck and his decision to try and live a normal life with Wildey, and partly to protect her, had kept him from achieving his potential. The fact was – he didn’t want to be here. But so long as he was here, he wanted to shine. Juliani’s jibes were occasionally hurtful, but Spencer had overcome worse.

  You’re changed forever.

  He guessed that might be true, but he’d never become a different person.

  Spencer strapped the headphones back on and tried not to think.

  *

  The next morning, Rogue ordered a room service breakfast for all three of them delivered to her door. They met at 9 a.m., placed the food in the centre of the bed and sat around the edge. Rogue demolished an apple, a banana and a bowl of granola before starting to speak.

  “We need to discuss our next steps,” she said. She took a moment to rearrange her hair, tying it on top of her head, before continuing. “The Hub gave us valuable information and, for obvious reasons, I’m sure the mafia won’t tell the Hellfire Club that they were compromised. We have an address for the Club’s number three.”

  “Shame he was the only one.” Juliani said.

  “Agreed, but it’s a start. Now, another thing is how the information was worded. It said this man was a member of the UK Club. I don’t know if that’s just sloppy wording, but it suggests the Club could be global.”

  Spencer visibly held back a shiver. “That sounds like this might never end.”

  “It depends on the set up, and whether the information stacks up. It’s probable that the Three Old Men conduct separate operations, taking any profits for their own ends, rather than the club’s. Yes, they’ll ask ‘how high?’ when the club say jump, but where we’re concerned, I think it’ll be in house.” She spoke rapidly to ease Spencer’s concerns, though she didn’t feel as certain as she sounded.

  She wrote down the addresses. “Number three lives in Fitzrovia,” she said. “An upscale area of London. We’ll hit Fitzrovia today.”

  “You’re going after him at home?” Spencer asked.

  Rogue poured her second mug of coffee. “Of course. People are more vulnerable there.”

  “Does he have family?” Juliani asked.

  “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

  Rogue considered passing on the information regarding the Jackal Terrorist Group, but decided it wasn’t a topic for now. They had enough issues to deal with. It was for another time, after they’d put an end to their own problems.

  “We’ll head out soon,” she said. “Go back to your rooms. Call your families. Check in. Then ditch the burners. I’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.”

  “Can I finish my cornflakes first?” Spencer asked around the spoon in his mouth.

  “Only if you’re quick. I want to start surveillance today.”

  Juliani rose and headed for the door. Rogue thought he was looking more haggard by the day – wearier, tauter and more miserable. The strain was showing in his face.

  “Juli,” she said. “We’ll be okay.”

  He turned, nodded and exited the room. Spencer finished his cornflakes. “Were we lucky yesterday?” he asked quietly. “Or was that skill?”

  Rogue drained her cup and thought of the danger, which made her smile. “Some of both,” she said. “and experience. And surprise. In action, everything changes on the fly. You make a fluid plan with a hundred contingencies. That’s what we did yesterday.”

  “And today?”

  “We’ll make another. They don’t know we’re coming. Finally, I feel as if there will be no more surprises.”

  She nodded as he left the room, silently berating herself for jinxing everything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Spencer wasted no time packing and making the phone call, not wanting to upset Rogue. His life ran smoother when she got what she wanted. It turned out Wildey was fine, though understandably not happy at being forced to remain in hiding. Spencer promised her it would only be for a few more days. She promised him there would be some payback.

  “I’m fighting for you,” he said. “I didn’t ask for this. I’m saving your life.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks so much for that.”

  Her tone tied h
is tongue into knots, preventing him from saying any more. He ended the call, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. When he got home, things would be said. It might not end well, but it would be the honest truth. He took an elevator to the ground floor, checked out, and headed for the parking lot, strapping a rucksack over his shoulders. It held an assortment of clothing and bottled water . . .

  . . . but more than that. It held things he’d never thought he’d carry.

  A handgun and two spare mags.

  Spencer found it surreal. He didn’t want the gun. Didn’t want to carry or use it. Rogue had half convinced him that it could save his life. The other half worried he might shoot himself, or her.

  He pushed through a revolving door, facing the cold snap outside and the blast of thin drizzle that assaulted his face. Instantly, he was homesick. Florida might have its weather tantrums, but it was never as bone cold and miserable as this. He stopped for a moment to get his bearings, then spotted the car at the far side of the lot. Rogue always parked it out of the way for easier surveillance.

  He thought about waiting but remembered her words and set off walking. She and Juliani should be here at any moment. There was a large black Range Rover sat to his right with blacked out windows. It had a sinister appearance – a villain’s car – but shock still flashed through him when all the doors opened, and four big men climbed out.

  He didn’t need any training to know he was in trouble

  They were all skinheads. They wore T-shirts that showed off their tattoos. Their faces were severe and their body language grim.

  And they openly carried weapons. Knives. Machetes. Baseball bats and tire irons.

  A shiver of pure horror ran through Spencer’s body. His feet were rooted to the spot. This was so far outside his experience he did nothing, like a deer caught in the headlights hoping for a miraculous escape. They were just a few feet away and then they surrounded him.

  “Where is she?” a broad man grunted in guttural tones.