Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  “Should I take my Ambien, Roger?”

  “You’re due for a refill, and I forgot to stop for it. Let’s get them there so you have plenty when you get home.”

  The conversation replayed itself until she made her decision. A glance inside showed about ten tablets. Flynne took five. In the kitchen, she fumbled through drawers until she found a snack baggie.

  Most of the houses on Rosewood had detached garages, and the Detweiler’s did, too. But theirs was a double, and Flynne had seen the inside often enough to know that they had bicycles… and a bicycle trailer with a canopy. Sure, it was meant for kids, but asleep, Erika could fold up enough to make it a couple of miles. Right?

  It took four trips to the key cupboard in the kitchen before Flynne found the one that would open the garage door, but inside three minutes, she zipped back down 42nd Avenue to Wharton. Riding back would not be as easy.

  Getting an unconscious woman into the trailer—not easy either. Flynne opted for leaning through the trailer, hooking her arms under Erika’s underarms, and pulling. That landed Flynne across the trailer, her chin slamming against the bar. “That’s totes gonna bruise.”

  Using her elbows for leverage, she propped herself up and pulled again. And again. The bicycle shifted and scratched her car door. “Mark’s gonna pay for that.”

  Every grunt cost her boss fifty dollars, she decided. By the time she finally got Erika mostly into the trailer, he owed her four hundred-fifty dollars. By the time she was neatly tucked in and zipped up tight, the total was six hundred even.

  Flynne pulled her car into the carport, dropped the screen she used to protect the back from summer sun, and bolted into her duplex. One backpack later, and a quick check to see that Erika was still out for the count, she began the long, miserable ride back to the Detweiler’s house. Gotta be grateful for Christian schools that save spring break for Easter week, or I’d be sunk right now. Hashtag go God. She winced. Is that sacrilegious? Probably. Her gaze shot up to a fluffy cloud overhead, and she whispered, “It was meant as a compliment—if you really are up there.”

  Despite the perfect sixty-seven-degree temps, the sun beating down on her, the effort required to pull her own body weight plus trailer, and the adrenaline of being totally out of her element conspired to perspire. She soaked a shirt enough to do any pro ball player proud. Lungs screaming, legs burning, she pulled onto Rosewood in twice the time it had taken her to get there and back the first time.

  Pedaling up into the driveway—nearly impossible. Even jumping off the bike and pushing it proved little better. Only the idea of having to leave Erika exposed kept her going until they pulled into the garage.

  Flynne rolled down the door and collapsed on the floor next to the bike and trailer, panting with the desperation of a dog and none of the enthusiasm. Cool concrete next to her cheek. Bliss.

  Erika ordered her eyes to open. They declined the offer. Once more, and with as much of a mental drill sergeant tone as she could muster, she demanded the possibility of sight.

  Neither eyelid gave so much as a twitch.

  Resigned, she then tried to ascertain the reason for said uncooperation by the lids of her eyes. Her brain, too, had gone awol. White noise replaced rational thought, grit replaced natural eye moisture, and if the sensation coming from her tongue could be trusted, she’d transformed into a cottonmouth.

  Except that I can’t slither. I know I can’t.

  That, Erika decided, was improvement. It just had to be rational thought. Oh, God please.

  A question arose. Do I pray? The moment she asked, Erika nodded—inwardly, anyway. I do. Not sure since when… maybe that’ll come next.

  Clarity formed when a voice broke through what might or might not have been consciousness. “Oh, thank whatever you’re supposed to thank—don’t want to be, like, totes offensive if I’m not supposed to say, ‘God,’ but I was afraid you had flat-lined.”

  “Flynne?”

  “Yay! She lives!”

  Why do I feel like that’s supposed to be “He lives?”

  “So, can you, like, sit up if I help you?”

  Bile churned in Erika’s gut. Her eyes felt like they bugged, but she wasn’t even confident she could see anymore. Then Flynne’s purple, green, and blue hair came into view. She glared, wrestling her mouth into contortions and fighting back the urge to vomit. “Please!”

  It came out more like, “Mmmweeeeeffff”

  “Can’t understand you.” Flynne’s eyes narrowed.

  Perspiration formed on Erika’s forehead, neck, and in every other uncomfortable place. Cold, clammy perspiration.

  “Do you promise not to scream if I take this off?” She tapped the tape.

  Erika just nodded with vehemence that nearly lost her what breakfast she’d eaten.

  Again, Flynne’s eyes grew even narrower than the first time. “Okay…” Eyes wide, the girl ripped off her high-top converse and pulled a sock from her foot. “So help me, if you scream, I’m stuffing this in your mouth—supes gross.” She wriggled it for effect—just in case Erika didn’t catch the utter disgustingness of it.

  Once more, Erika nodded and pleaded. You’re so going to regret threatening me with that.

  If Satan wanted to recruit torturers to relieve demons, Flynne would have been perfect for the job. She worked the tiniest corner of the duct tape free. Erika choked and grimaced. She jerked her head hard to the right. Flynne stared. Once more, she jerked it.

  “You want me to rip it off? That’ll hurt!”

  But the moment Flynne said “rip,” Erika began bobbing her head fast enough to ensure she’d drown in vomit within seconds. Flynne had mad ripping skills, however. In less than three seconds, the tape jerked free—and so did the contents of Erika’s stomach.

  All over Flynne’s bare foot and Converse shoes. The moment she stopped heaving, Erika glared up at the girl and moaned, “That’s payback for this.”

  The battle of the glares began. Flynne broke the silence that followed first. “If you weren’t Keith’s girlfriend and religious, I’d swear at you. Consider yourself cussed out.” Before Erika could choose between the half-dozen scathing remarks fighting for preeminence, Flynne froze. “Wait. You called me, like, every name in the book. I thought you religies couldn’t do that!”

  The churning began again. “I did?” If she could have gagged, she would have. If she could have puked, she might have. “Do I want to know what I said?”

  Without hesitation, Flynne rattled off every inappropriate word Erika had spent the last six months working to eradicate from her vocabulary. “Then you got all sesquipedalian on me.”

  “Sesquatch-what?”

  Flynne turned a little green herself as the stench of partially digested breakfast assaulted her olfactory system. “Sesquipedalian.” At Erika’s doubtful look, Flynne went into action. She removed her other shoe, disappeared outside, and returned with clean feet and ready to do business. “For your information it’s a big word that means, ‘a big word.’”

  “No offense, Flynne, but you aren’t exactly known for your erudition.”

  The girl gave a fine imitation of a puppy cocking its head—a blue, green, and purple-haired puppy. “That’s not one of the word-of-the-day words I’ve had. C’mon… let’s get you cleaned up and inside.”

  She peered around the garage door, scanned the area, and looked back at Erika. “No one’s in the neighborhood—not that I can tell, anyway—but you’d be smart not to go all screamo on me or anything that would call the cops.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Flynne tried to be surreptitious, but Erika caught her eying a white Camry on the other side of the garage before answering, “Because I can get you out of here before they arrive, and you don’t want to be awake when I’m driving fast.”

  Something deep in her gut—something other than the renewed churning that hinted she might lose what was left of the contents of her stomach—hinted that Flynne might not be exaggerating. But I
’m not going to let her know that. It’d serve her right if I puked all over that car. What’d she do with hers, anyway?

  After throwing a dark look at her, Flynne stalked from the garage and returned a few minutes later with a roll of duct tape slid over her arm like a grunge bracelet gone wrong. “You’re already in hot water with the Big Guy for your potty mouth, so don’t add lies. Stuff it or stick it?”

  “If you tape my mouth and I vomit, you’ll be responsible for my death. Just sayin’.”

  “Then don’t make noise.” Flynne glared at her. “I’m just trying to help here. Just sayin’.”

  Didn’t know you had that much grit. The woozy, stomach-revolting-on-every-side feeling returned in time for Erika to make a decision. “I’m not going to scream. I don’t want to puke in a cop car, either. But if you don’t get me inside where I can be comfortably horizontal with a bowl by my side, I’m going to puke all over you and enjoy every second of it.” Her stomach rumbled. Mostly.

  That perked Flynne up for reasons Erika couldn’t fathom. She hooked her tape-free arm under Erika’s and said, “Then let’s go, Kokomo!”

  That’s way too old-school—like fifty years old school. A vague memory poked through the cloud cover of her mind. “I think Keith gave me vitamins or drugs to combat after-effects. I think I need those.”

  Not until Flynne had her tucked up on a couch in the family room, a bright red mixing bowl on the floor beside it and a glass of water on the coffee table, did Flynne bother to answer. “Sorry. I was freakazoiding when I left The Agency and just got what I thought I needed to get you safe. I’m not trained for this.”

  “Then call Keith. He’ll come. He is trained, and he’ll take care of me.”

  Even as she said it, Erika knew it was futile. Flynne had it in her head that this was necessary. So, she could wait. The Agency would take care of her job, her bills, and Flynne could learn that being an agent wasn’t a good career choice. Everything would be just fine for a few days—until Flynne got over herself.

  The first epithet marched across the stage of her mind, stepped up to the mic and tapped it, ready to let loose. Erika groaned.

  As if propelled by itself, the red bowl appeared at her lips. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what I’m doing. The stuff these guys have to do—totes amazeballs!”

  “I was groaning at my language. Can you be quiet for a minute or two while I pray? It’s totes impossible to take repentance seriously when you’re puffy hearting your cray-cray amazeballs.”

  “Coolio. Sure thing.”

  I just lost fifty IQ points. I know it. Let’s start with prayers for rejuvenated little gray cells and move onto repentance after that, okay, Lord?

  Four

  Angled with a perfect view of the front doors of the Mayflower Building, he watched. One by one, agents arrived. Tyler and Raina met at the doors and entered together. She cleans up well. You’d never know she lives in yoga pants, sports bras, and oversized muscle shirts.

  Keith stormed the doors as if he considered it his own personal citadel—determined to conquer. Karen arrived thirty seconds later in heels, pencil skirt, and carrying a designer bag that had probably come out of her expense account. He grinned at it.

  Good for you.

  Doyle and Brian entered only ten seconds apart, but Doyle was so preoccupied with his phone that he didn’t realize he’d allowed the door to close in Brian’s face. Unless they had a bad detail—or disagreed on calling it complete… should have debriefed first.

  Should have or not, there wasn’t time. Keith and Tyler had searched every place they imagined Flynne going and found only her car—at home. No sign of Flynne anywhere, and no neighbors around to see things they didn’t even know they had. If I wasn’t so ticked at her, I’d be impressed. She won’t last long, but to make it out of her own neighborhood without a car and with a “client…” That’s impressive.

  Sam wore slacks—no skirt. He’d have to talk to her about that. For their gatherings, they needed to balance blending and standing out as individuals instead of a group. She blended great—not so much the standing out bit.

  Tim, Jude, and Darryl strode up one after the other. It’s a good thing we’ve got a full crew now.

  Just as he reached for the door handle, a red car that looked much too much like a west coast agent’s for his comfort tore into the parking lot and stopped in front of the double glass doors. As the car door flung open, Mark climbed from his car, slipped his hand into his suit coat, and reached for the holstered gun. He took a step. The man bolted for the doors. Mark took two steps… three. Cautious, but deliberate

  Too short for Henry… Could it be Will Rickwood?

  Mark made a dash for the door, but moments later, two security guards escorted the man—clearly not Will, no less—from the building and stood there until he peeled out of the parking lot. Then they turned to look at him. Mark pretended not to notice. He patted himself down and returned to the car. A moment later, he made a show of putting his wallet in his pocket and striding from the car.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  Mark jerked his head to the left at the stockier guy’s question. He infused a trace of a Spanish accent into his voice as he asked, “Pardon me?”

  “I asked if everything was all right?”

  He stared at the guy with as much attitude as he could muster. “If forgetting my wallet is a crisis, no. Otherwise, yes. Are you here to take care of that…?” Mark scanned the area. “Well, I guess you did. Good work getting rid of that fool. Thanks.”

  Without another word, he strode into the building and stood in the security line. The moment Mark stepped up for his turn, the security guard pounded his wand, shrugged, and grabbed another. “Dead battery or something,” he muttered to the guy next to him. It blipped, showed green, and the guard waved him through. As usual.

  The phone’s camera clicked without a sound. Despite a vague familiarity to the man, who it was proved elusive. Still, with the arrival of every new face, one finger tapped a screen and held it down—continuous shot. All the way inside.

  Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  The count and photography continued. By the time the number reached six, a foot slid across the brake pedal before tapping once. Zzzttth… thop. Zzzttth… thop.

  At ten, doubt crept in. Which ones belonged to Marco’s crew, and which worked in the building? At fifteen, a fire-engine red Audi TT ripped into the parking lot. The finger tapped and held until the man entered the building. Ten seconds later, the process repeated in reverse—a waste of time, probably, but still…

  Zzzttth… thop.

  The man who stepped from his car… difficult to tell. He froze, patted himself down, returned. A moment later, the guards stopped him. Waiting… watching… pictures.

  Zzzttth… thop. Zzzttth… thop. Zzzttth… thop.

  After following Karen Stenano to the building, it hadn’t taken much effort to pull in first and park. Still, a meeting right as everyone arrived back from lunch—genius on the new owner’s part. But why…?

  The new owner… Mendina. Too bad it wasn’t Cho. He’d been spotted entering Subsix, the underwater nightclub in the Maldives, less than an hour earlier. A glance at the photos—side, back, hint of a profile… But was it? The foot dragged and tapped again.

  Zzzttth… thop.

  A second look at the Maldives photo confirmed. Definitely Cho. Poor Claire. She’d be devastated to hear of Mark’s new interest. A smile formed. A weak spot.

  Zzzttth… thop.

  New owner, unbalanced former employee, devastated current employee… Very nice.

  A moment later, another car peeled into the parking lot and came to a sharp stop in the next parking space. The hair, the half-run, half-hop as heels replaced flip-flops… Speak of the devil’s angel… Claire Auger.

  The smile became real, warm, content.

  Zzzttth… thop.

  Let’s play.

  In a secure room in the sub-level of the Mayflower B
uilding—a level most thought was part of the foundation, Mark stood at the head of the table, hands relaxed in his pockets. Only the faintest twitch of the corner of his left eye belied the truth.

  He’s agitated. Why? Just Flynne and Erika, or more? I guess we’ll see…

  Keith sat at the opposite end of the table and watched the agents. A hand squeezed his. He smiled at his cousin and nodded. Claire squeezed again. “Flynne wouldn’t hurt her.”

  “She shot Erika—used tranqs. She’s not trained for that.”

  From the other end of the table, Doyle sat up. The man looked nothing like the rest of their agents. Short, scrawny, glasses. Anyone who saw him would assume he belonged upstairs with the actuarial department. And he’s the best we have.

  “Keith, did you say Flynne shot Erika?”

  “Yes.”

  Doyle removed his glasses and polished them with a square of cloth from inside his suit jacket. “Tranq, correct?”

  The low murmur around the table ceased. All eyes turned to Keith first before shifting to Mark. All but Doyle’s. He shook his head. “Doubtful that one of even the highest dose cartridges would—”

  “Two.” All Keith said was that one word. Two.

  Claire squeezed again and dashed to the empty chair at the front.

  Everything in the room shifted. Mark broke into the conversation. “We’ll discuss this in a minute. First, we need to look at a few potential cases.”

  Keith had only been to one other briefing with so many agents present at once. Usually, there were too many detailed to cases to make an all-hands meeting. Only Sol and Wylie remained on a case in the UP, and seeing who remained showed just how much of a hit The Agency had taken in recent months.

  I don’t even know half of these guys. We’ve been decimated—squared. Seven agents. Gone—eight, if you count me. That’s more like cubed. Ugh. Irrelevant thoughts tried to crowd out the fear in his heart. Is there a word for thirty percent? Tri… something.