by W. J. May
Tristan dropped noiselessly to the floor, and pointed at a spot on the wall with low visibility. “According to Keene, the guard shift change is at five. We can go in then, grab Fodder, and drive him back to Guilder before anyone is the wiser. They’re not suspecting any visitors. For all we know, they don’t even know they’re on the PC’s radar. It should be easy.”
Simon nodded, but thought back with a little shudder. ‘Easy’ was a rather strong word considering the fact that these guys had jumped them and almost beaten them to death. He had a sneaking suspicion that nothing at all about them should be considered ‘easy.’
“Yeah,” he echoed, slurping down the remains of his milkshake. “Piece of cake.”
Tristan eyed him carefully, wary of his passive lack of resistance. Usually they went several rounds before settling on a plan. It was always a spirited debate. It was almost fun. But not this time.
“You still having second thoughts?” he asked quietly. “We don’t know what the PC is going to do to him. There’s a chance he’ll never come back out of there alive.”
Simon’s head snapped up, but he kept a carefully neutral expression. Tristan was testing him. Baiting him with the worst case possibility to see how he’d react.
Well, Simon didn’t have any intention of giving away his hand.
He lifted a shoulder with an indifferent shrug, pairing it with a sigh to make it more believable. “You said it yourself, the guy has it coming. I want to change things as much as the next person, but I’m not going to go around beating up teenagers to do it. We need big changes. Those are only going to happen from the inside.”
As soon as he said it, Simon knew it had gone over well. Tristan’s face lit up with a genuine smile as he passed the rest of his crisps Simon’s way. “Damn straight.”
Simon took the crisps with a grin, gobbling them down with false enthusiasm while watching Tristan carefully out of the corner of his eye.
First Beth. Now Tristan. He’d gotten them both back on board.
At least for now...
When he was finished eating, he pushed to his feet with a yawn. “We should get some sleep,” he suggested, stretching out his arms in front of him. “I know it’s early, but we can get at least a few hours if you want to wake up at four.”
Tristan nodded quickly and the two of them said goodnight. There was one bedroom on the bottom floor, and another on the top. They silently paired off with their accustomed preferences, and set their alarms for an hour before dawn.
Little did they know they were never going to hear them.
WHEN SIMON OPENED HIS eyes, he didn’t recognize the place around him. The air was cooler than where he’d been, and the smell of freshly cut grass filled his nose. It was still dark outside, that much at least was the same, but he wasn’t in his bed back at the inn.
“What...”
His head drifted absentmindedly to his neck, rubbing at a sore spot as he pulled himself gingerly up to a sitting position. As his eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light, he found himself staring into the face of a man. The very same man whose picture he’d been looking at in an open case file.
“It’s been a too long, Simon.” Patrick Fodder smiled. “We missed you.”
Oh...shit. Not again.
Simon tried to spring from the bed, but the wave of chemicals coursing through his system stopped him. Instead, he doubled over and bowed his head to his chest. The room around him was pulsing in and out of focus and he took a deep steadying breath, trying to get his bearings.
Fodder watched all of it with an impassive gaze. “That’s the trichloromethane. We gave you a strong dose and mixed it with a muscular paralytic. Consider it a compliment.” He flashed Simon a sudden, rather friendly smile. “Never know what tatù you might be carrying.”
Simon’s bloodshot eyes flickered up with a glare. “How do you—”
“Oh, I think you’ll find we know quite a bit more about you than the first time we met. You sparked my curiosity back in Munich. I thought we were ambushing two random agents the PC had sent to raid McAllister’s lab. I didn’t know they’d sent their best and brightest.” He smiled again at the look of confusion on Simon’s face. “I read your file, Simon. Tristan’s, too.”
For the first time, Simon’s sluggish brain sparked awake and he asked the obvious question. “Where is he?” he demanded, trying and failing to push to his feet. “I swear if you’ve done anything to hurt him—”
“Relax, Simon. He’s fine. He’s back at your hotel.”
Simon blinked in disoriented confusion as Fodder perched on the edge of the bed, waiting patiently for him to catch up. Finally, as another wave of chemicals cleared his system, he glanced around the room again. This time, the details started to click together.
“I’m...” he swallowed, trying to clear the thickness in his throat, “at the abbey.”
Fodder’s lips twitched up in a hard smile. “Figures you would recognize it. After all, you’ve been studying pictures of it for the better part of the day.” Simon froze guiltily, but Fodder’s smile remained. “I’m guessing you two were going to hop the wall behind the northern parapet? Poor visibility all the way up there.”
Again, Simon said nothing. Yep. That’s exactly what they were going to do.
Fodder chuckled. “I figured I’d carry you through the front door instead. Less climbing involved. Less paperwork for the Council if you happen to get shot down.”
A belated shudder ran though Simon’s body as he flexed his feet tentatively in front of him, wondering if he was strong enough to stand. As brilliant as his super-powered tatù was, it was quickly becoming clear that Fodder had anticipated such a maneuver. In fact, judging by the fact that he knew exactly where Simon and Tristan were staying, and on exactly what night they were planning on breaking in, Simon would guess that he knew exactly what ink he happened to be carrying as well.
A light clicked on. Fodder was being fed such information from a spy within the Council.
Before he could begin to process this information, Fodder got suddenly to his feet and offered Simon a hand.
“Come on, Simon. Let’s go for a walk...”
DESPITE ALL OF HIS random adventures in the tatùed world, this was truly one of the most bizarre encounters Simon had ever had. Instead of breaking into the place, he was being given a guided tour. The man he was supposed to kidnap turned into his willing host. And the people who ran the abbey themselves...Simon couldn’t have felt more of a kinship.
They had to move at a slow pace—with Simon hardly being able to walk—but Fodder moved patiently by his side, not sparing any details as they circled around the entire abbey, stopping every few seconds for introductions as they passed the night-shift guards.
Each one greeted Simon with a casual smile, clapping him on the back as if they were old friends. At one point, he recognized one of the men who had kicked him in the face back in Munich. The guy flicked him teasingly under the jaw and winked as he returned to his post.
It was unbelievable. Surreal to the point that, with the massive dose of chemicals still racing through his system, Simon almost thought he had to be dreaming.
The only thing that Fodder didn’t talk about was why Simon was there. And why Tristan had been left behind. He avoided Simon’s mission altogether, and talked about his own mission statement instead.
“Everything you see here, we rebuilt ourselves,” he said proudly, gesturing around to the high stone walls protecting their sleeping inhabitants. “We needed a place that was defensible should the Privy Council ever come knocking. When the government tasked a group with maintaining it as a place of historical significance, we answered the call. Been living here ever since.”
Simon gazed around with wide eyes, limping eagerly at Fodder’s side. The shock was beginning to fade, and he couldn’t have been happier with the sudden turn of events. Over the last few months he had been thinking about how there was too much corruption inside the Council to try to merely cu
t it out, piece by piece. It was a discussion he and Cromfield had together many times. They needed a complete overhaul. A brand new system to replace the old. A group of willing followers to take up the call.
Something very much like what he was looking at now.
“So what do you want with me?” he finally asked as their circle brought them back to where they’d started. “Why did you bring me here? Show me all this?”
Fodder stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, to start, when I discovered you were planning on kidnapping me this very night, so I figured I’d better kidnap you first.”
They shared a look, and Simon couldn’t help but laugh quietly. It was an absurd juxtaposition—the two of them talking about it so casually on the abbey’s very grounds.
“But there was something else as well...” Fodder gazed at him speculatively in the dark, the clouds floating across the moon casting deep shadows down his grizzled face. “I told you in Munich that you had a choice to make, Simon. You could continue on with the Privy Council, sent out on missions with no ethical oversight to perpetuate a system so steeped in corruption the only way it sustains itself is by tearing young families apart. Or...” He let the invitation hang in the air, well aware that Simon was holding his breath.
When the silence got to be too much, Simon could no longer hold in the question. “Or?”
Fodder smiled. “Or you can always come in through the front door, Simon. It’s always open.”
Simon was quiet for a long time, staring down at his feet.
On the one hand, he wanted to jump at it. The ‘knights’, as he had so aptly named them on their last encounter, had all the right ideas and a place to begin their work. All they lacked was leadership. This round table idea of theirs was great in theory, but in practice they would need someone to step up and take control. Simon was more than willing to be that person. He was sure that not all prospective recruits received such a personal courtship. That ink on his arm set him above and beyond, and he had been brought there that night for a reason. He could take the reins, if they were so offered. With Fodder by his side, they could do great things.
On the other hand... Beth was waiting for him back in London. Tristan was still sleeping back at the hotel. Jacob was still locked in an underground dungeon, waiting for rescue. The brainwashing serum was almost complete.
There were things he had to do. People he couldn’t bring himself to leave behind.
“I don’t expect an answer tonight,” Fodder said quietly, reading his mind. “Just think about it. But think fast, Simon. Things are happening at a pace that none of us can control. The inked world is starting to take sides. You need to make sure you’re on the right one.”
Simon stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. Yes, he did indeed. Then his eyes dropped to his shoes as the more immediate question of the present came rushing back to him.
“What about my mission?” he asked softly.
Fodder threw back his head and laughed, drawing a cautious smile from Simon. “If you’re asking for permission to kidnap me, you might want to save your breath. I don’t care how nicely you phrase it, Simon. It’s not going to happen.”
“Right,” Simon chuckled. “No, I know that. It’s just—”
“You were sent to kill me, right?” Fodder asked bluntly.
Simon paused, deliberately slowing the conversation so he could look at it from every side. “I was sent to bring you in...”
Same thing. They both knew it. One way just took longer.
Fodder nodded. “Well, that’s obviously not going to happen. You’ll have to kill me after all.”
Simon’s head snapped up in alarm. “What?! What are you—”
Before he could stop him, Fodder reached over and took the syringe out of Simon’s vest. A PC ordered vial. The one given to them before every assignment. The one that agents took as a last resort to fake their own death.
As Simon looked on in amazement, Fodder took off the top and stabbed himself in the arm.
“Wait!” Simon ripped the vial out, but the damage was already done. “What are you doing?”
Fodder smiled again as his eyelids began to droop. “Two birds with one stone, Simon. If the PC thinks I’m dead, they’ll stop sending people to kill me. And you won’t be under suspicion for letting me go.”
He slumped over and Simon caught him quickly in his arms, lowering him down to the ground. “But what am I supposed to do?” he cried in panic. “How do I—”
“You’re a smart kid, Simon.” Fodder’s eyes fluttered shut. “You’ll think of something...”
Chapter 11
YOU’RE A SMART KID, Simon. You’ll think of something.
“Easy for him to say,” Simon growled between his teeth.
Even though Fodder had been stabbed in the arm with a drug so potent its symptoms mimicked death, Simon couldn’t help but think that he’d gotten the better end of the deal.
Simon was still rather heavily sedated himself. He was awake and walking, of course, but the chemicals didn’t leave his system so easily. Not only was he too weak to even begin to use his tatù, but his right arm kept spasming with belated bursts of the paralytic. It was all he could do to keep himself standing as he dragged Fodder up the steps to the little bed and breakfast, eyes darting around nervously to make sure that no one else could see them in the inky darkness.
When he got to the top of the steps, he dropped Fodder unceremoniously beneath the porch bench and rolled him out of sight with his shoe. Then, taking care to be as quiet as possible under the circumstances, he crept around to the back of the building and peered in the window.
For the first time since he’d woken up in enemy territory, Simon breathed a bit easier.
Tristan was still passed out cold. Unlike Simon, who had been stabbed with a syringe in the side of his neck, Tristan had been shot with it from a farther distance. The dart was still buried in the skin beneath his ear, peeking out from beneath his dark hair.
Simon decided to leave it there. At this point, it would only bolster his story.
Once he was satisfied that Tristan was still safely sleeping, he circled back to the house and dragged Fodder painfully inside. Along the way, he carefully overturned their kitchenware and random bits of furniture. A chair leg was broken. The table was tipped on its side. The glass pitcher of the coffee maker was smashed across the floor, and Simon raked a few pieces along Fodder’s face for good measure.
He wanted to be ‘dead’ right?” Well, being dead came with a price.
I can’t believe I’m freakin’ doing this.
Simon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then punched Fodder right in the face. Then he kicked him. Then he punched him again. But that wasn’t the worst of it. For every hurt he inflicted on Fodder, he then turned around and did it to himself.
Punch for punch. Blow for blow.
Blood for blood.
It had to look believable. It had to look like there was actual a fight. A true struggle.
He kept going for at least five more minutes before coming to a sudden stop, panting and wiping drops of blood and sweat from his eyes. Between the ransacked room and the two of their mangled bodies, he had to admit he thought the place looked pretty good.
But the plan wasn’t over yet. There was one thing left to do.
Even though Simon would have given the world not to do it.
With a heavy heart, he picked himself up off the floor and dragged his weary body to Tristan’s room. His trusting partner still lay sleeping in the bed and would for at least another half hour. Simon had gotten assurances of this by Fodder’s men before he left the abbey. The drugs had rendered him in a virtual coma, and he would not remember what came next.
But Simon would. He would never be able to forget.
That is...if he could ever bring himself to do it.
“Come on,” he whispered, trying to steel himself. “This is for his own good.”
It was a hard argument to make,
but Simon tried anyway.
“A little lie now to save Fodder’s life, then I can work with him and the Knights to make a better future for everyone. For me, for Beth, for Tristan—for his kid. This is for the greater good here. Get it together.”
But it was easier said than done.
Twice he lifted up his fist, twice he lowered it back down, staring at Tristan’s face all the while, completely unable to cause him any harm. A guilty tear slipped down his face, and he wiped it brusquely away with the back of his hand, staring up at the ceiling as he willed himself to be strong.
Then, with a pain that felt like it might rip him in half, he punched Tristan right in the face.
Hard.
It had to be hard. It had to be believable. Otherwise, there was no point to any of this.
Tristan didn’t move. Made no effort to shield himself, to fight back. He merely lay there, a dash of blood across his cheekbone, a look of sleeping innocence painted across his face.
Simon pulled in a broken gasp, and did it again. And again. And again.
After a minute, the pain broke through the chemicals and Tristan’s body flinched instinctively away. Simon held him flat, positioning him as gently but realistically as possible, cursing and crying all the while.
With every strike, there came a whispered apology.
With every punch, Simon felt like he might never recover. Never sleep, never laugh, never smile again.
As much as Tristan might be hurting right now, Simon was hurting tenfold. When his friend gasped softly in his sleep, Simon felt like something inside of himself flat-out died.
He did as little as he could, as fast as he could. Then he leaned back and tried to assess the injuries objectively. Unless Tristan had been taken out of the fight early on with some devastating blow to the head, he would have stayed in it for a long while. Since Simon was unwilling to do anything that might risk permanent damage, he’d had to settle for racking up all the minor injuries he could while still maintaining some small grip on his sanity.
