Rogue

by David Leadbeater

  Spencer couldn’t make his mouth work, not even to lie.

  “Where’s the redhead bitch?” the man asked again.

  “I . . . I . . .” His fists were clenched in shock and fear as adrenalin pumped through his veins. “She . . .”

  “Give him a few smacks, Brady,” another said. “Loosen the bastard’s tongue.”

  “All right,”

  Spencer backed away as the one called Brady took two steps forward and then swung his baseball bat. The top end smashed into Spencer’s shoulder, producing a wave of agony. Spencer fell to one knee, clutching his arm, looking up. Brady raised the bat again, this time preparing to bring it down on the centre of Spencer’s face.

  “Please.”

  “Fuck you,” his attacker snarled.

  Spencer lunged forward as the bat descended. It ended up striking him across the back as he went prone on the ground. The pain was sharp, but nothing like it could have been.

  “Last chance.” Brady said. “Where’s the woman?”

  “I’m right here.”

  Spencer twisted his head to see Rogue – or her boots at least – standing about eight feet to his right. She was alone, confronting the four men.

  “Come with us,” Brady said. “Save yourself a beating.”

  “I doubt that will happen.” Spencer, despite his position, still found it amazing how she switched accents so easily. She was English now. “Take your bats and balls home, boys, before I take them away from you.”

  “You’re gonna pay for what you did.”

  “What? I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Last chance.”

  Rogue shifted to the right, making ready. Spencer could see it all in her stance. He was surprised she hadn’t reached for one of her guns yet but who was he to question a woman who knew exactly what she was doing?

  “Tell you what,” Rogue said. “None of us want violence out here and cops floating about, do we? You tell me who you are, what you want, and I’ll consider it.”

  “Marcus Miller sent us.”

  And with that all four men attacked in unison. Spencer actually heard a gasp from Rogue at the mention of the man’s name, and then saw no movement at all. The first man hit her hard, bringing a tire iron into her ribs. Rogue folded in half. The second man struck at the side of her skull with a machete. Spencer saw the blade slice past, and assumed she’d avoided it.

  But then Rogue fell to her knees.

  And the skinheads waded in.

  *

  Rogue hit the ground; waves of shame crashing over her. She ignored the near miss of the machete, the intense smashing of the bat. On her knees, the men surrounded her and began kicking out. Boots found her lower stomach, her thighs and shoulders. All four assailants were whooping it up, having a great time. She was encircled by fevered hyenas, baying for blood. She covered up as best she could.

  She knew she should fight.

  Marcus Miller sent us.

  Those words hit her harder than any skinhead could. They stunned her. Her head went down, her eyes sought the floor. Shame was a living, breathing beast that wanted her to suffer.

  “You remember Marcus Miller?” an inner voice asked. “I bet you do.”

  A father. Marcus Miller was a father.

  More blows came from above and both sides. Her arms ached. It felt like bones were being bruised. She shoved them away, but her fire had been extinguished. If Miller had sent these people to exact retribution – then she deserved all she got.

  Nick Miller was his son.

  More sledgehammer guilt struck her. The men were leaning over now, fully engrossed in their beating. These men would want her to scream, to bleed, to react fearfully. The fact that she showed no emotion at all only made them angrier. If Tom were here now, he would pull her out, save her for another day.

  I don’t need anyone. I work better alone.

  Danger was her friend, her companion in the long night. And the only person she could rely on was herself.

  She took a particularly hard blow to the ribs and went down further. The rough concrete scraped her forehead. She protected her ears and sides. All she could think about was how she had shot and killed Nick Miller in that portacabin in Germany whilst his father watched. It didn’t matter that he’d whirled at her like an enemy, in the midst of enemies. She’d still killed the boy.

  “Leave her alone!” The scream came out of nowhere, piercingly loud. Rogue lifted her eyes in time to see Spencer, running at full pelt, launch himself bodily through the air, hitting the four men as if they were skittles. He smashed against one man’s back, sent him staggering, hit another full-tilt and knocked him to one knee. Spencer’s momentum sent him to the ground, but not before he crashed into a third man. Spencer collapsed at her side, gasping.

  They would hurt him next.

  Rogue already knew a way out of this. She’d known it even as they beat her. Rising, she grabbed the discarded baseball bat and swung it up under a man’s chin. Continuing the swing she struck knees and ankles. Her attackers fell and grunted.

  She grimaced, every inch of her throbbing with pain, and dragged Spencer to his feet.

  “Geek, what the hell are you doing?”

  “You weren’t fighting? What’s wrong?”

  She looked away from his earnest eyes, from the blood that coated his face. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Who’s this Miller guy?”

  There was no time. Rogue swung the bat again, but these men were tough. They took the blows and kept coming. She jabbed with the bat, broke some teeth and a nose. She pushed Spencer behind her, noting the go-bag just eight feet to the right. It wasn’t close enough. These four men were hugely pissed off now, bruised and bleeding. She met an attack with the bat held horizontally, pushing it back into her opponent’s throat. He gagged and fell backwards.

  “Your gun?” she asked Spencer.

  He backed away, heading for his pack.

  Rogue held her bat horizontally, jabbing the base and the head into cheek bones, noses, and mouths. They couldn’t get near her, but it wouldn’t last forever.

  One opponent picked up a tire iron and another his knife. They paused and then rushed in powerfully.

  Rogue dropped and took their legs away with the heavy bat. They fell either side of her, losing their grips on their weapons. She jumped up fast, sensing an opportunity.

  It was now or never.

  Spencer was still rummaging in his pack, trying to extract the gun that seemed to have gotten tangled up. Their car was ten feet further away. Juliani was running toward them from the hotel but Rogue hadn’t given him a weapon.

  She took off toward Spencer, her thoughts centring around getting him in the car whilst she held them off. At that moment a projectile struck the back of her skull – a well-thrown half brick – and sent her sprawling, the bat rolling from her hands.

  Spencer plucked the gun free.

  All four men ran at him, leaping over her. Their vehicle was reversing up the row of parked cars behind Spencer, who was positioned for a quick escape. Rogue felt blood trickling down the back of her neck. She put both hands on the floor and pushed, head splitting with pain.

  Spencer managed to aim the gun. His eyes were wild, his face taut. His hands flexed around the cold metal. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. Rogue saw it in his stance, his expression, every iota of body language.

  The men hit him on the run. The gun fell away. Spencer collapsed under their onslaught, flung onto his back. Two of the men knelt down to punch him. The others beckoned to their racing vehicle and picked up his gun.

  Rogue pushed herself to her knees.

  Oh no.

  In another moment, the men had bundled Spencer into the back of their SUV and were climbing inside. The engine roared.

  Rogue would never make it in time

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Juliani skidded to Rogue’s side.

  “What’s happening? Who are they?”

  “It
doesn’t matter. They’ve got Spencer. Hurry.”

  She raced to their car just as the SUV began to pull away, doors still open. The last man finally dived inside. Rogue unlocked their car, threw her go-bag inside, jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Juliani launched himself into the back.

  The car shot forward in pursuit of the SUV. She noticed they’d left their weapons back on the ground, along with several pools of blood. If they hadn’t had a gun before they would be in control of Spencer’s by now. She sped up.

  Parked cars zipped by to either side. The car park’s exit was ahead. The SUV barely slowed, flying around the corner broadside into the flow of traffic. Horns blared. Rogue exited more carefully and then sped up, only two cars behind the SUV. It was imperative she stopped it as soon as possible. Every mile they travelled hurt their chances of getting Spencer back alive.

  Damn it if my past hasn’t come back to bite me right in the ass. And Spencer too. I’m responsible for that. For him.

  You can’t hide from your past. Not forever.

  She overtook one car, staying in the fast lane, then saw a chance to undertake and slewed their Land Rover to the right. It wasn’t the right car for fast, jerky driving, but the engine was powerful.

  Its speed brought her right up behind the SUV, so close they were almost touching. Her face was grim, eyes focused on the road and the vague figure she could see in the back seat.

  Would they interrogate Spencer in the car? If so, it wouldn’t go easy for him.

  “Do we . . . need Spencer?” Juliani asked.

  Rogue slammed the wheel. “Really? That’s the asshole who hangs around criminals in you talking, Juli. The kid’s helped us. Saved our lives. And you’d abandon him now?”

  “Well, no I guess not.”

  A bank of stop lights illuminated ahead. Rogue saw dozens of cars jamming their breaks on. “Shit.”

  “Isn’t that good? It’ll slow them down.”

  “Yeah, but they might decide to kill Spencer and pull off here.”

  There was an exit just ahead. A large number of cars were streaming into it. Rogue gripped the wheel harder when the SUV swerved to the right, following it. She gunned the Land Rover. Irate drivers tried to block them or raised fists.

  Rogue shook her head. “Idiots. They have no idea who they could be pissing off.”

  The SUV hit the top of the exit ramp, instantly swinging to the left onto a road that led back over the top of the one they’d just left. As they crossed the bridge a skinhead leaned out of the back window, holding Spencer’s gun.

  Juliani clucked. “That’s a bad move.”

  Rogue assumed their opponent had been watching too much TV. As soon as he leaned out, she sped up, struck their rear and pushed. The other car swerved, then spun in the centre of the bridge, momentarily out of control and heading right for the rails. It struck the kerb first, bouncing up, then smashed sideways into the bridge rails, juddering to a sudden stop. Men were thrown against their seatbelts. She saw the driver smash his head against the side window. Before the car stopped shuddering, she was out the door, calling back to Juliani.

  “Get in the driver’s side and be ready!”

  She picked up the go-bag, plucked out the Glock and dropped the bag to the ground. She saw the driver, his passenger and three men crammed in the back seat. All enemies. Spencer was with them, lying against a seat back-rest, motionless.

  Rogue was finished messing around. She didn’t have a choice. Despite the heat she knew it would bring down on them she opened fire, shooting the passenger and then the driver. Bullets shattered glass. Blood coated the inside of the car. At the same time, she wrenched open the rear door. A man struggled to kick out, still woozy. She grabbed a leg and pulled, hauling him out the back. He fell to the kerb, spine first. She aimed into the back of the vehicle and fired two quick headshots at the stunned passengers inside. Then she looked down at her feet at the last remaining skinhead.

  “Marcus Miller and his son didn’t deserve this, but you do.”

  She shot him right between the eyes. When she looked up Spencer was staring at her.

  “You okay, geek?”

  Spencer nodded, unable to speak.

  “They hurt you?”

  “Just a few punches,” he climbed over a dead man to exit the car.

  “You sure?” she tried to check him over as they headed back to the Land Rover.

  “Yeah, stop plucking at me. The knife was coming out when you rammed us.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Was he serious? He didn’t sound scared or traumatised. She decided he was ramped up on adrenalin. “Just relax,” she said. “Get in.”

  Juliani pulled away as soon as they hit the back seat. Rogue closed the door on the move. She counted four cars stopped close by with several others passing slowly. She saw three people with phones, taking pictures or filming.

  I had to do it. It was the only way to get him back in one piece.

  If they recorded the car’s number plate that was one expensive ID blown. And it was another group of killers on their tail.

  The pain of that knowledge dimmed when Rogue remembered they had the address of the old man.

  Payback time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  As they got going, as Spencer moaned about his head and Juliani asked for the route, Rogue started to feel angry.

  “I didn’t want this,” she said.

  Juliani looked over. “What?”

  Without answering, she indicated a lay-by ahead. Once he’d pulled in and stopped, they switched positions. She felt better in the driving seat, but still frustrated.

  “There’s a reason I survived four years as MI6’s best secret weapon. There’s a reason I escaped to lead a second life.”

  “I’m sorry,” Spencer said.

  “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be disappointed with either of you. This isn’t your arena. Don’t worry, I’m just a paradox.”

  “What do you mean?” Spencer asked.

  “When we were training, we were taught to build a network we could rely on. In whatever context that might be. They said we were stronger that way. Me, I always felt invincible when I was alone. Other people . . . they muddy your thinking.”

  “I get that,” Spencer said. “I agree with that.”

  “Then you’ll understand when I drop your ass off.”

  Juliani looked worried. “Off where?”

  “Somewhere safe. I’m better alone,” she made a face. “At my job, I mean.”

  “I helped back there,” Spencer said. “You were down. They were beating you.”

  “They shocked me. To the core. It’s a struggle I thought I’d put behind me. Unfortunately, I owe Marcus Miller a life. I killed his son.”

  To their credit, neither of them asked for details.

  “They’re gone now.”

  “True, but how did they find us?”

  “I… I’m not sure.” Spencer said.

  “It means they were tracking us all the way from the U.S. Even on board the ship and probably last night. It means, despite today’s calibre of thug, they have an expert working for them.”

  “And what’s his next move?” Spencer again asked an intelligent question, once more earning her respect.

  “Fair point,” she checked all the rear views and the road ahead. “When we reach the city, it’ll be easier.”

  “To lose him?”

  “No…” Rogue stopped herself from saying: to kill him. She shouldn’t have to stop herself, but she still wanted to shield Spencer.

  “I’m stronger than I look,” he grumbled in response to her silence.

  “Your world is video games, a DIY store and old songs. Your experience of stress and pain is a condescending, egotistical customer. Don’t pretend you can handle this.”

  “I do my best.”

  “And that could just get us all killed.”

  She wouldn’t sugar-coat it. Spencer needed to understand that he’d entered a
new world, a world where shadowy figures fought and killed and made unspeakable arrangements.

  “I’m trying to help,” Spencer persisted.

  “I don’t fit in your life,” Rogue said. “I barely fit my own which has now mutated again.” But was it entirely for the worse? She couldn’t ignore the feeling that she’d slipped back into warm, welcome clothing since Carrie Webber became Rogue again. She couldn’t fight the intense awareness that she liked it.

  “I got used to it on the ops,” she said. “Volunteering for the dangerous recce because I knew I didn’t work well with others. Scouting the places nobody else wanted to scout. Taking the wounded away from the scene because they were less likely to want to socialise. I actively joined the teams known for their discretion. I put myself out of all other circles.”

  “Because you hate socialising?” Spencer asked.

  “Because emotion is my kryptonite. Emotion makes me vulnerable.”

  “You’d rather pass your night with a Ready Meal for one.” Juliani stated.

  “Yes,” Rogue said. “I would. I work better without seeing other people’s angst. Their fears. Their need to rely on others. I don’t need that in my life.”

  “You can’t emotionally isolate yourself forever.” Juliani said.

  “So it would seem.”

  Rogue saw a road sign that said ‘London – 20 miles’. Now was the right time to put aside her issues and start concentrating on the job she’d come here for. Taking down the Hellfire Club. It would start with the third old man.

  It was a little after eleven in the morning. It seemed like a good idea to ditch the car, tuck the current ID away, and start afresh. It also felt like a good idea to ditch the two men, but maybe that could happen when they reached the city. She found her brain switching back into operational mode with an easy familiarity. Penn – the third old man – lived in Fitzrovia, in the heart of London. She decided against renting another car for now and asked Spencer to track down the closest Underground station. When they reached it, they left the car in a long stay spot. Rogue grabbed her go-bag; they donned caps and coats and boarded the train. In some ways travelling light was refreshing. Those with ties could never hope to flit around as she was doing.