Rogue

by David Leadbeater

  Move!

  She swung her feet, gaining momentum, then scissor kicked at an astounded Boothe. The man lost his footing and staggered toward the edge of the pool. Rogue had only a few seconds to make her decision as she rolled over.

  “Stay on the inside,” she said as she front-kicked him into the water. “Help me.”

  Boothe tumbled back hard.

  Rogue ran toward Spencer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Spencer would never have gotten out of there without Rogue.

  Almost unconsciously, he’d made the decision to help. It just happened. One moment he was seated on a sofa in the lobby, the next his legs were moving, carrying him toward the elevators. What am I doing? Nevertheless, he didn’t turn back. He walked forward into danger. The worst fear of his life enveloped him when the elevator doors had clicked open. Two men were down. He could see shadows writhing behind the frosted glass. It felt surreal; because there was no sound. Step by step he inched closer, saw a gun on the floor and forced himself to pick it up.

  Why am I here?

  He didn’t know. Was it to catch up on the life, on the adventure he believed he’d missed? Was it for Rogue – the woman who’d so selflessly taken on the role of his protector? All he knew was that the uncertain man he’d been with Wildey was growing in confidence around Rogue, strengthening in response to the experiences they were sharing.

  Two men struggled at his feet, both bound. Spencer picked up the gun. He pushed through the door to the swimming pool and took in the hellish scenario.

  Rogue struggled against four men. She kept them at bay cleverly, never letting more than two come at her at once. An older guy was in the pool, and then another fell in. Rogue slipped, and a huge man stood over her, drawing a weapon. Spencer held up his own gun and tried to shout, tried to gain her some time.

  No sound escaped his throat. He was too terrified to say anything.

  Without rational thought, he aimed as best he could and fired. He saw the man jerk forward, saw blood, saw the suddenly lifeless body topple and Rogue’s shocked face.

  She ran at him. Spencer dropped the gun, but Rogue scooped it up. She muttered something about getting them out of there. Spencer was a mess. She propped him up and wiped blood off her face, using the elevator’s shiny walls as a mirror. She practically hugged him all the way down to the exit doors, taking his weight and mentioning to some passing dude that he’d had too many Jager bombs

  Spencer stared fixedly, like there was a cold void inside him. Was it trauma? Stress? Had he done something so heinous that he’d never recover? Outside in the cold and the inevitable rain, he started to struggle, but Rogue held on like a protective sister. She wasn’t going to let him go. They bundled into a car and took off. Juliani drove them to a hotel.

  Inside his room, Rogue pushed him away. He collapsed on the bed. She ransacked the mini-bar and forced three miniature whiskeys down him. Spencer coughed at first, but once the first two mouthfuls had coated his throat, he was fine. And then his brain started to dull. The world dimmed. He didn’t feel so bad.

  “Are you okay?” Rogue finally asked.

  He blinked into the face that was inches from his own, unable to tear himself away from those perfect puppy dog eyes. How had eyes as exquisitely beautiful as those seen so much horror?

  “I honestly don’t know. I killed a guy.”

  “You saved my life.”

  He nodded.

  She kissed his forehead. “Thank you.”

  Spencer looked away “Is he dead?”

  The question was rhetorical. Spencer knew exactly what had happened.

  “Why did you do it?” Rogue asked, swigging a miniature of clear alcohol. “I mean, come all the way up to the pool, risk your life, pick up the gun? I wouldn’t expect that from you.”

  “I want . . . to fight. To confront life rather than stumble through it. I want to change.”

  He didn’t even know the words were at the forefront of his mind until he spoke them.

  “Well, you certainly confronted life. And death. Thanks for your help. You just put yourself up as a contender for the position of the only person in this world I trust.”

  Spencer squinted at her, still feeling the old eye strain. “Wildey was instrumental in my quitting Anon,” he said. “And she was right. I did it for her, for our relationship. There’s tension. I love her, I don’t blame her . . .” he looked away. “I think I love her. But losing Anon was like taking my arms away.” He smiled and looked back at her. “Does that make sense?”

  Rogue nodded. “Once I left MI6 behind, I figured hiding away would keep everyone safe. Including me. My life has been three parts of hell. My childhood. MI6. And then Cocoa Beach, leading to this. Life won’t let me be.”

  “I think I’m the opposite. I want to walk tall, not hide my height. I want a little confrontation.”

  “I’m not sure this is the answer.” Rogue said, reaching for more alcohol. “But I’m grateful for your help.”

  He saw what it cost her to say that. This woman didn’t trust easy, if at all. Spencer knew he was fortunate.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She sat back. Spencer found himself unable to shake a simple fact from his mind.

  I murdered a man.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Spencer had to learn to control this subconscious voice that wanted to drive him into the ground.

  Rogue stood up and walked over to the desk, turning on the laptop that rested there. Spencer found his eyes drawn to her tight jeans, her hips, and the way that she walked. Feeling uncomfortable, he scooted across to the end of the bed and tried to tear his eyes away.

  “What’s next?” he asked.

  “Spencer,” she said, “of all the things you could have said in this moment that’s the best. It shows me you want to move forward, not dwell. Vincent is dead. Penn is dead. And we have no idea who runs the UK branch of the Hellfire Club.”

  “You’re looking online?”

  “I’m keeping busy. I don’t expect to find anything here but if you don’t look you never know. If I cross reference Vincent and Penn and Hellfire let’s see what happens.”

  Spencer leaned forward and, despite his reservations, felt disappointment when the search yielded nothing. Several more searches revealed exactly the same. Finally, Rogue closed the machine and turned to Spencer.

  “You drunk?”

  “Yeah, mostly.”

  “When Tom and I were drunk we used to play a little game.”

  Spencer blinked and swallowed hard. “What kind of game?”

  “Here. Let me show you.”

  Rogue squeezed past him and walked over to the table. It was square and wooden and pitted. She pulled it out from the wall and stood behind it. Then she motioned Spencer to stand opposite.

  “Go easy on me,” he said.

  She gave him what he thought was a hungry smile. And then she reached for the waistband of her jeans.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  His mouth clacked shut when she produced her military knife. This put a whole new slant on things.

  “Put your hand on the table and spread your fingers.”

  He trusted her, but still hesitated.

  “You want to feel alive?” Rogue asked. “Then let go.”

  Spencer placed his hand on the table. Instantly Rogue slammed the point of the knife down four times in the space between his fingers.

  “Start with twelve hits each,” she said. “Every time you stab me you drink.”

  “Fuck,” Spencer said and picked up the knife.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  Rex Herron reviewed his situation.

  Both Vincent and Penn were dead. It was unfortunate, but nothing he couldn’t overcome. He was confident his secret was safe. Nevertheless, he’d gone into hiding tonight and wouldn’t emerge until Rogue, Spencer Kirby and George Juliani were dead.

  Now, he sought to save or smooth over the deals Vincent and Penn had been involved
in. He settled himself in a plush office chair, in a darkened room conducive to deep thought, a mug of tea to his right and a bowl of mints to his left. It was going to be the longest night of his career.

  “Paulo?” he greeted the first man he called. “It’s me. Penn can’t make it tonight.”

  “I deal only with Penn.” The man’s voice was guttural, like a wild animal’s growl.

  Herron had expected as much. “You’re a damn drug lord, Paulo. You deal with whoever you have to. You give yourself a choice. You’re smart, yes? You see all angles. Someone like you will have a hand in every piece of pie, ready to take profit from every outcome. Am I right?”

  The flattery worked, as he’d known it would. “You have more pie for me?”

  “Ah, Paulo, I have an entire shelf.”

  Once Paulo was satisfied, he moved to another carefully engineered job. This one was Vincent’s, but Herron had been keeping a close eye on it. This one couldn’t fail.

  “Larry,” he said, greeting a new voice on the line. “Where are we with the villagers?”

  “Proving obstinate even under duress.” Larry was a seasoned mercenary who’d lost his scruples long ago.

  “What kind of duress are we talking?”

  “Threat. Torture. Disappearances. The usual.”

  “Ramp it up,” Herron said. “Plan’s changed. We’re moving forward. Where are we with the tribal chief?”

  “He’s a tough nut. Won’t stand down, so we can’t get the new guy into office. Of course, once he’s positioned, he’ll be legally empowered to advise the government about the region. And he can serve as an ex officio chair in a meeting with all the tribes. That’s when we have it in the can.”

  “I do know all that.” Herron said impatiently. “The nitty-gritty of it is clear, Larry. Draw your fucking sword and start hacking.”

  “Well, it’s not that easy . . .”

  “I know,” Herron sighed. “It was a metaphor. Just ramp it up, okay? Europe is getting antsy,” he instantly berated himself. Larry was MI6, not Hellfire Club. He didn’t know half of what was going on. To cover the error, he quickly changed the subject. “How’s Gallo doing?”

  “Good. Mining rights have been obscured across the region. When the time comes the government won’t know who owns what. Gallo will have them tied up in legal shit for years whilst we quietly clean them out.”

  “Are other mining rights still being authorised?”

  “No. Like is said it’s a quagmire.”

  “And existing licenses?”

  “Under review,” Larry chuckled. “Forever.”

  Herron saw the beauty of that. Apart from the reluctant villagers, the job was progressing well. A thought struck him.

  “Can’t you round up some local warlord?” he asked. “Pay him. Send him against the village.”

  Larry took a surprised breath. “Is that what you want me to do, sir?”

  Herron screwed his face up in the dark, knowing he could only push regular MI6 agents so far. “Put it on the backburner,” he said. “For now.”

  “Our man inside the government is working hard,” Larry said. “He’s in a position of power to help cloud any issues and push the right licenses forward.”

  “Let’s hope there are a tonne of diamonds in that mine,” Herron said, thinking aloud before ending the call.

  Finally, he chased up his own job.

  “Jarvis,” he spoke to his coordinator. “Where are we?”

  “Three out of three treasurers in place. No waves.”

  “Blowback?”

  “Very little. The families aren’t as close as we imagined,” Jarvis laughed at his small joke but Herron cut in quickly.

  “Do we have control of the money?”

  “We do. But, as first discussed, it’s baby steps to start.”

  “Yes, yes, I know that. There have been problems at this end.” That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. “Indirect problems. We’re managing them but stay focused. This is our biggest, most dangerous mission to date. It has us all stretched. If we pull it off . . . there will be no more rainy days.”

  “I understand that, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Herron signed off and then sat back in the semi-dark. Despite recent events all was still progressing nicely. It proved the power of a well-prepared plan.

  What of the other members of Hellfire?

  Twenty individuals, comprised of men and women, most of whom resided in Paris. Herron wondered if he should summon them. The Club and its welfare, after all, took precedence now, as it had for centuries. There could be an unprecedented meeting the like of which hadn’t happened since the nineties. Herron liked the thought but, with Rogue on the loose it wasn’t practical.

  It all came back to that.

  Herron settled back, sipping tea and eating mints.

  How do I murder that bitch in the worst possible way?

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Rogue was left with only one option, and no desire to use it.

  I can’t do this alone.

  Hard words, but words she could no longer ignore. The only way to find a mystery man was to draw him out. And Rogue needed help with that – if she was to stand a chance of surviving the outcome at least.

  They were situated in Juliani’s room. The slightly overweight man was sat staring glumly out the window, a pensive look on his face. Spencer was on the bed, staring at the plasters that covered his fingers. Rogue stood in front of them, a takeaway Starbucks in her hand.

  “This final part has to go down fast,” she said. “I don’t like it, but it’s the only way.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Spencer said.

  Rogue took a step toward him. “Hey, where’s last night’s mettle?”

  “Last night, I was drunk.”

  “I was referring to the bravery you showed at the hotel.”

  “Ah.” Spencer raised his right hand, showing her the four plasters. “I thought you meant these.”

  Juliani grunted as he looked over. “If Rogue gave you those she must have been mega pissed. Either that, or she likes you.”

  Spencer did a double-take. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know these lady assassins,” Juliani rose and pretended to dance slowly. “They’re more about weapons than heart. Tom always said the most dangerous thing he’d ever done in his career was getting close to Rogue and the best thing was drawing a knife on her.” He grinned and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “It’s the danger.”

  “Listen,” Rogue spoke more harshly than she intended. “Tom’s gone. It’s just me now. If you both want to go home, I suggest you get on board with this.”

  “No problem for me,” Juliani said. “I don’t have to do anything. And, man, do I want to go home.”

  She saw Spencer flickering between the old and new versions of himself. Wanting to move forward, to fight, to risk everything for both him and Wildey, but the old Spencer was holding him back. Thinking of safety in solitude, escapism in old music and the companionship of familiar movies.

  It had to be a strong pull.

  Rogue sat beside him, laying a hand on his arm. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  He didn’t question her. He looked into her eyes and nodded. “I can do it.” He said. “I can.”

  She smiled. She let out a long sigh of relief. Without Spencer they were out of choices. Her heart and brain didn’t want it to be this way, but she was pleased with his courage.

  She smiled. “I trust you,” she said.

  Juliani whipped his head around.

  “A little,” she added.

  “Shit and biscuits,” Juliani spluttered. “What am I hearing?”

  “She doesn’t have a choice,” Spencer said.

  It was partially true. But she meant what she said, and it had taken a lot of working up to. A small part of her was starting to believe she might be better off not alone.

  “Well, he clearly trusts you,”
Juliani said. “Since he’s letting you put him up as bait.”

  Rogue sipped her coffee and went over her plan one more time. “I contact the Hellfire Club. The laws of averages say I must get through to their leader, as he’s the only one left. They don’t trust others. I offer him Spencer for my freedom . . .”

  Spencer grinned, gamely.

  “You take Spencer, I get a free pass,” she said. “That’s the play. Are we ready?”

  She’d already sorted her go-bag and the weapons inside. The meeting could be anywhere, but she had to assume it would take place somewhere around London.

  “You sure you can contact this asshole?” Juliani asked.

  “Tom told me the new protocol before he died. I hope it’s still current.”

  “Then let’s do it.” Spencer said. “The sooner it’s over the better.”

  “Amen to that,” Rogue reached for the laptop.

  *

  The protocol was to leave a sentence and a phone number in the Draft box of an email account. The account changed either weekly or monthly, Rogue didn’t know anymore. But it was the only hope she had left.

  “Done,” she said.

  They waited. They sent Juliani down for sandwiches and soup. Rogue remembered waiting days for a reply in her old life, but never when it counted. Usually, they came back quickly.

  An hour passed before her cell phone rang. Conscious of the time it took to trace a call she got straight to the point.

  “This is Rogue. I guess you’re the big bad wolf?”

  A man breathed heavily on the other end of the line. “Well, well, Rogue. I guess you could call me that. How have you been?”

  “Fine, until a week or so ago. Didn’t miss you one bit.”

  “A shame, because an operative of your calibre is priceless. But you’ve been busy. You’ve made yourself our biggest target and have attacked MI6 in the process.”

  “Bollocks. I know who you are and what you do. I know about the Hellfire Club and that you’re working your own jobs on the side, using MI6. Now… do you want to hear the deal?”