by Sean Platt
“Who?”
“The 215ers. We need to find Rosetti immediately, he’s our only lead.”
“And how do I know you won’t kill them like you killed Lara?”
Ed sighed. He’d played hardball with Brent when he woke in the van, telling him that his family was in danger if he didn’t cooperate. That had kept Brent in the van for a while, but if he wanted the man’s long-term cooperation, he needed to convince him that he wouldn’t pull the trigger on him, or the others. In other words, Ed had to make promises he didn’t know he could keep.
“As far as the government’s concerned, your friends are conspiracy theorists. They’ve been spouting nonsense for years, and people have learned to tune them out. They’re not a threat. The reporter was. Killing her sealed the leak … the leak you created, just in case you forgot.”
Brent glared at Ed, not hiding his disgust or fear, only his tongue.
Ed kept selling. “You were a reporter, right? Ask yourself: If you had uncovered a story the government didn’t want uncovered, and started naming names, what do you think they would do in order to protect their secrets? How far do you think they’d go to silence you? Think about everyone we came back with. Would you rather I kill a reporter now, or wait until someone has to come clean up and is after us all?”
“You say ‘us’ like you wouldn’t be the one pulling the trigger,” Brent said. His tone split between query and accusal.
“You think I’m the only person who does what I do? Why the hell do you think I’m even here? They found me. They found Jade, Teagan, and her daughter. If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else knocking on doors.”
“This is insane. The government shouldn’t be killing citizens to keep some fucking secret.”
“This isn’t just a secret, Brent. This is war. You saw what the aliens did to the other world. We need to find the vials and keep this thing in check before it gets out of hand. If word about any of this got out, the country would lose their minds. You’d have riots, people rushing for safe places, but not knowing where to go, and … well, hell, we can hardly handle hurricanes. You really want to see how we handle an alien outbreak or mass panic? I know you think the government is this big, giant all-encompassing powerful thing, but fact is, there’s not a lot standing between us and absolute chaos. Killing a few people to prevent widespread anarchy, it’s an easy choice for them, and me.”
Brent stared at Ed, seeming to process his words, anger softening.
“So, if I bring you to them, are you going to kill them?”
“I already said they’re not a threat. But I think what you really meant to ask was do I plan to kill you, right?”
Brent nodded.
“No,” Ed lied.
Order had to be maintained, at all costs, though that was only part of the equation. The other 75 percent were the three lives counting on Ed to do his job, no matter how hard it might be.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — Brent Foster
Ed finally removed Brent’s cuffs when they arrived at Stan’s apartment building shortly before dark. He didn’t apologize for the cuffing, instead giving Brent a look that suggested apology and a, “Hey, you understand why I did this.”
Brent rubbed at his red wrists, venting a deep sigh as he worked up the courage to make a stand, just as Ed was preparing their next move.
Brent hated Ed for what he’d done to Lara. Any thoughts he had of trusting Ed had dissipated in a flash. If he thought he could kill Ed in retaliation, he would have. But, at the moment, he was at the assassin’s mercy. Ed decided if Brent lived or died.
Ed decided if Brent’s family lived.
Still, Brent couldn’t just roll over. He had to make some sort of stand.
He reached for the door to climb from the van.
Brent said, “Wait.”
Ed froze halfway out, turning to Brent, “Yes?”
“I’m not going up.”
“What?” Ed said, getting back into the van and turning to Brent, not hiding his anger.
“I’m not going up until I have assurances,” Brent said, hoping like hell he had a hand to play.
“I already told you I’m not going to kill you.”
“I want more,” Brent said.
“More? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My wife and child live in the apartments across the street. When we’re finished here, I want you to go there with me. I want you to tell my wife I’m not crazy.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then I’m not going up, and you can figure out how to get Stan talking by yourself.”
“You think I won’t?” Ed said, right eyebrow arching. “You don’t think I can convince Stan to talk?”
“I’m sure you can,” Brent said. “But Luis already greased the wheels for me, not you. You walk in there, and he’s not saying shit.”
On the way to Stan’s, Brent had called Luis and told him that he needed to speak with Stan immediately; it was a matter of life and death. Luis was hesitant, but finally said he’d call Stan and fill him in. Luis warned Brent that Stan had grown recently paranoid, and might not be eager to talk. Brent figured he could win Stan over, if needed, but didn’t think Ed with his brusque manner would have the same chances. As Brent saw it, Ed needed him if he wanted info on Rosetti — assuming Stan even knew anything.
Ed shook his head, “We already discussed this. Black Island sent me to shut you up. Why the hell do you think I’d let you tell your wife? More importantly, why do you insist on endangering her, and your son?”
“Because I can’t go on like this, having my wife hate me, and my son not know me. They think I’m fucking crazy. There’s gotta be some way to let them know I’m sane without putting them in danger.”
“There isn’t,” Ed said. “End of discussion.”
“It’s not fair,” Brent said, on the verge of tears, months of raw emotions starting to surface at once. It wasn’t just that he lost his family, or that his wife thought he’d lost his mind. It was that Brent was alone, with no one to talk to, or help him through this. No one to soothe his pain.
As weird — and pathetic — as it was, Ed was the closest thing Brent had to a friend in the world. Ed had fought the aliens with him. They’d survived a shared hell. And right now, he needed a friend to understand. Even if that “friend” was responsible for Lara’s death.
“My family thinks I’m a monster. The last time I saw my son, he was scared of me!”
“We all have to make sacrifices,” Ed said, no sympathy in his voice, amplifying Brent’s feelings of isolation, alone against the world.
Ed wasn’t a friend, and couldn’t be counted on. For all Brent knew, Ed was still planning to kill him. He’d taken care of Lara. He’d probably “take care of” the 215ers. As far as anyone was concerned, Brent was just one more bit of unfinished business for a trained killer.
Brent felt like a sailor lost at sea, miles from civilization. Being just across the street from his family, without them knowing he was there, cut it deeper.
Brent met Ed’s eyes. “If I can’t be with my family, you may as well shoot me right now and end my misery.”
Ed rushed the space between the bucket seats, into the van’s depths. Brent barely had time to register what was happening before Ed had a gun in his hand, pressed hard into Brent’s left temple.
“You wanna die, do you?” Ed snarled. “That what you want?”
Though Brent was startled at first, there was comfort in the thought of ending it. He was fighting a battle he couldn’t win. There was no way Black Island would let him expose what happened. Why help them? Why not just end it all in the van? That would put a wrinkle in Black Island’s plans.
Brent met Ed’s eyes and he clenched his jaw. He nodded, “Yeah, do it.”
Ed stared, as if trying to decide whether Brent was bluffing. He wasn’t a man to bluff with — the kind to call your bluff, and make you regret it.
Brent waited for
either an angry explosion or a gunshot to end it. He was so filled with rage, and admittedly, self-pity, he didn’t care what came next.
Brent whispered, “Please. Do it.”
Ed leaned closer, his voice now calm, “I felt sorry for you at first. But you know what? You’re a selfish asshole. You would risk the lives of your wife and son just so you can be with them? What the hell kind of man are you?”
“What?” Brent screamed, “I’m supposed to be the big, brave super secret agent man who alienates his wife and family so he can run off and play savior? How does it feel on that cross, Ed? Does it get lonely up there?”
Ed got in Brent’s face, eyes intense, but voice still surprisingly calm. “You don’t know the first thing about me. I don’t do this for love of country, or any other martyr bullshit. I do the things others won’t to protect my family. I sacrifice my life so that my family can continue to live. So don’t you lecture me,” Ed said, jabbing his finger hard into Brent’s chest.
Brent flinched, knowing he’d pushed the killer too far. To make matters worse, Brent knew Ed was right. Brent was being selfish. He hadn’t thought things through to their logical conclusions. If Black Island had a reporter killed, they wouldn’t think twice about killing his family. That was the last thing in the world Brent wanted, and he would gladly take 10 bullets rather than risk his son’s life.
While Ed might have been on target with his criticisms, Brent wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of telling him so.
Instead, he looked down at his feet and said, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
“You sure?” Ed asked. “I don’t need you pulling any stunts up there. If you’re gonna play games, I’m not in the mood.”
“No, let’s get it over with, then you can do whatever it is Black Island wants you to do — either kill me, or leave. Just promise you won’t touch my family.”
“I promise,” Ed said. “Let’s go see Stan.”
**
Ed stood to the side of Stan’s doorway, just out of the peephole’s range, as Brent knocked on the door. They could hear the muffled sound of a TV blaring from the other side. Seemed Stan really loved 24 hour cable news.
Brent waited for the man’s response. While he’d been nervous about seeing Stan, just as he had been about seeing Luis, two people who — on this world — didn’t know him even though he felt as if he knew them, Brent now felt nothing. He was numb, wanting only to make it through whatever Ed needed him to do.
Ed reached over and knocked harder.
Still, no response.
Ed waved Brent aside, gun in his right hand, and tried the doorknob with his left. The door swung open slowly, revealing Stan’s living room.
Stan was sitting on the couch, facing away from them, staring at the television, broadcasting some story about another mass shooting.
The woman on the TV said, “Authorities say the death toll has risen t0 39, the highest for a school shooting in U.S. History. Police spokeswoman Kay Summers, wouldn’t say whether reports of … ”
“Hey, Stan,” Brent called out as they approached the couch, “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
Stan was still silent.
Ed thrust out his hand, palm hitting Brent’s chest, stopping him from taking another step.
Brent turned to see why Ed stopped him, when just behind Ed, near Stan’s bedroom, he saw two men in Black Island uniforms and closed-face black helmets approaching, weapons raised.
Brent tried to warn Ed with a yell, but Ed must’ve seen the panic in his eyes, or heard the men. In a few fluid movements, he pushed Brent to the carpet, spun, and emptied his gun at the men.
Gunfire thundered through the apartment as Brent fell, feeling as if someone had slammed bricks against both of his ears. He had no gun, so he scrambled toward the door, fleeing the crossfire.
It was over before he reached the door.
Brent turned around, hoping Ed wasn’t dead, glad to see that he wasn’t.
Ed dropped to his knees, on top of one of the two fallen men, and yanked the man’s pistol from his hand. He tossed it across the floor, toward Brent.
Brent looked down at the gun wondering if Ed was just tossing the gun aside or if he had intentionally given Brent a firearm. He wasn’t sure whether he should pick it up, or if Ed would misinterpret Brent’s actions as hostile.
Ed looked back at him. “Get the gun, close the door, and lock it. Stand back and shoot anyone who comes through it. Anyone.”
Brent nodded, grabbed the gun, and looked out into the hall, checking for more Black Island guards. The coast was clear. He closed the door, locked it, then stood waiting, hoping there wouldn’t be any more guards. Brent hadn’t shot a gun in nearly two years, and wasn’t a match for trained Guardsmen.
Ed ripped the Guardsman’s helmet from his head, revealing a young man with a buzz cut, who looked scared shitless. He was shot in the leg and turning Stan’s brown carpet red.
“How many more came with you?” Ed asked, calm as if the man and his squad mate hadn’t just tried to kill them.
“Fuck off,” he said, shaking.
Ed looked at the other fallen Guardsman, groaning on the ground. Ed shot him through his helmet.
Ed turned back to the man beneath him, “I’m going to ask once more. How many others came with you?”
“Just us,” the man said, eyes wide, lips trembling.
“What were your orders?” Ed asked.
“To kill Stan, then kill you and … him,” he said, nodding toward Brent.
“Who gave the order?”
“Don’t ask me that,” the man said, still shaking, though Brent couldn’t tell if it was from the pain of getting shot in the leg, or from fear of being killed by Ed; probably a mixture of both.
“Tell me,” Ed ordered, pushing the gun harder against his head.
The man choked, “Sullivan.”
Ed paused, though his face showed no emotion — surprise, anger, nothing. The man was marble, a quality Brent admired in Ed as much as he feared it.
Ed asked, “Why?”
“I don’t … don’t know,” the man said, shaking more now. “Please, don’t kill me. I was just following orders.”
“Sullivan’s orders? You’re sure?”
“Y … yes,” the man said.
“What were the rest of your orders?”
“W… what?” the man asked.
“What were you supposed to do once you killed us?”
“Call it in, have you picked up.”
“And then?” Ed asked.
Brent felt a cold chill. He wasn’t sure what Ed was fishing for, but found it impossible to focus on the door as instructed, instead waiting for the man’s next words.
The guard said, “Then we were going to go across the street and get his wife, son, whoever else was there.”
“And?” Brent asked, jumping into the questioning.
“Kill them,” the man said, looking at Brent, then back at Ed.
“Who else is on your list?” Ed asked.
“Nobody on my list, but we weren’t the only ones. They want everyone who knows anything. Everyone who was over there. And all of Stan’s little group.”
Ed shook his head, sighing.
“What about my daughter?” he asked. “Is she on the list?”
“I d … don’t know,” the man said. “I only know from some of the others, that the instruction were to g … get everybody.”
“Why the hell did they change their minds? I thought they were going to let me handle this.”
“I don’t know,” the man said.
“What do you know? Who else is in the field? Have any of the other targets been acquired?”
“I d … d … don’t … k … know,” the man said, his shaking getting worse.
“You don’t know anything else?”
“N … n … no,” the man said.
“Then what good are you?” Ed asked, then shot the man in the forehead before he could answer.
Brent fell back, startled.
Ed met his eyes. And for a moment, Brent felt as if the killer was sizing him up, deciding whether Brent was as worthless as the guard he just shot. And while 30 minutes ago Brent was ready to die, that was before he learned that his family was now wearing targets.
Brent felt a fire inside him he hadn’t felt since returning to Earth. “They’re going to kill us all!” he said.
Ed had yet to thaw, seeming to process their next move. He finally reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a phone, then dialed. After a minute, he hung up and redialed.
Again, no answer.
“She’s not answering,” Ed said, fear finally creeping into the statue’s voice.
“Who?” Brent asked.
“My daughter, Jade. They’re in a safe house, no outside contact. They aren’t answering the phone.”
Brent wanted to suggest that maybe they were out or something, but suggesting anything to Ed always felt stupid. His instincts were razors. If he thought something was wrong, it was.
“What should we do?”
Ed looked at Brent, oddly. He couldn’t tell if Ed was offended that Brent inserted himself into the question as a “what should we do?” when Brent had pushed Ed so hard just a while before. Brent had intended the “we” as a show of solidarity. They now shared a common enemy. And Brent would rather have Ed on his side than against him.
While Brent wanted more than ever to head across the street to Gina and Ben, to make sure they were still safe, he had to be cautious in broaching the subject. If what the Guardsman said was true, then Brent’s family was seemingly safe at the moment. Ed’s family, however, could be in immediate danger. Another team could have been dispatched to take care of them, and may have already done so.
“I’m going to my daughter’s,” Ed said, rooting through the dead men’s uniforms, gathering weapons and ammo. He handed Brent a gun and clip. “Here, take this one, instead.”
“Should I take a radio?” Brent asked, swapping guns, though he didn’t see much difference between them.