Hunters

by Matt Rogers

  So the tiredness in his bones barely fazed him as he stepped out into the balmy Washington evening.

  What did faze him was the Vipertek VTS-989 taser zapping him in the side of the neck, sending three hundred million volts through his body. It killed his vision and filled his eardrums with a horrid roar for a split second, and when he came to he realised he’d pissed his pants. There were hands under his armpits on either side, and he only figured out he wasn’t moving of his own volition a couple of seconds before they threw him in the back of a van and slammed the doors on him.

  Fresh hands grabbed him in the dark, wrenched his wrists behind his back, cable-tied them. Electrical tape went around his ankles, over and over again, until his legs were mummified. Then the hands forced him down to the van floor as it took off. He rolled left and right, his clothes now damp with his own urine, and his heart hammered loud enough to hear it filling his ears.

  A gruff invisible voice muttered, ‘Christ, he’s wet himself.’

  ‘Good,’ another voice said.

  There was a moment’s silence, and Connor savoured the reprieve. He tried to force himself to think, to make sense of what was happening so he could approach what came next with a clear head—

  A hypodermic needle came out of the dark and sliced into the side of his neck, plunging into the vein.

  He cried out, then the intravenous ketamine hit his bloodstream and he lolled into unreality.

  6

  The “K-Hole.”

  Connor remembered what it was called. He’d Googled it once.

  When you’re given a massive dose of ketamine and it tips you over the edge. You lose touch with your body, with the world around you, with everything. You spin into some surreal fantasyland, which is great when you’re chasing thrills with close friends in a relaxed setting, but rather terrible when you work for a clandestine wing of the U.S. government and you’ve been snatched by unknown thugs.

  The world was a spinning vertigo-inducing mirage as big men manhandled him out of the van and into a grimy dilapidated building. Connor vaguely recalled throwing up on himself, but again it was a fleeting flash of memory. Like shutter slides clicking over in rapid sequence.

  A hallway. Dark. Musty.

  Vomit. Crying.

  A concrete room.

  A handcuff. Biting tight. Breaking the skin.

  Sitting against a wall.

  He levelled out when fresh experiences stopped occurring. He was chained to the wall for who knows how long. Ten minutes? Ten hours?

  When the ketamine began to dissipate, he didn’t even care that he was sore, cold, sweaty, clammy, dirty, putrid. At least his mind was intact. Where Bodhi was refined and expertly dosed, this was crude and overwhelming. He shook and shivered involuntarily as he started to understand his surroundings and realised his right arm was elevated, chained to a horizontal pole like a guardrail above his head.

  The door slammed open.

  Connor realised the drugs hadn’t fully left his system yet, because the noise was like a thunderclap, and he jolted.

  A big brutish man — almost as wide as he was tall — stepped in. The widow’s peak atop his head was shaved down to a buzzcut with zero refinement. The haircut was as crude and efficient as the man himself.

  He squatted next to Connor, resting his enormous hands atop his bent knees. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Connor shook his head.

  The man said, ‘Good. I know who you are.’

  ‘Okay,’ Connor said.

  ‘Where did you get the Bodhi?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Did that cult in Wyoming have its hooks in you? Is that how it happened? Were you blackmailed? Were you threatened? It wasn’t your fault.’

  He’s playing the good cop, Connor thought. Trying to disarm me. If I admit it, I’m dead.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  The brute was serious one second, and cackling the next. He laughed hard and loud, staring Connor right in the face, and then wiped tears from his eyes.

  He stood up. ‘Wrong answer, my boy. Wrong fucking answer. We’ll try again in a few hours.’

  ‘A few hours?’

  The brute loomed over Connor. ‘My name is Opal. Say it back to me.’

  Connor said, ‘Opal.’

  ‘I’m your knight in shining armour. I’m your saviour. The next time you see me, you’re going to be so happy you’ll shit yourself with delight. Because the time in between is going to be very, very bad for you, Connor. Unless you’re honest with me right now.’

  Now he’s playing the bad cop, Connor thought. Don’t cave.

  He shook his head.

  Opal raised his eyebrows, his eyes saying, Really?

  Connor didn’t answer.

  Opal said, ‘Big man, huh? Don’t worry, we’ll crack you.’

  Silence.

  Opal said, ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Opal.’

  ‘This all gets too much, you raise your hand, who do you ask to speak to?’

  ‘Opal.’

  ‘Attaboy.’

  The brute walked out.

  7

  Topaz was in the corridor outside, hovering next to the doorway, just beyond Connor’s line of sight.

  When Opal stepped out, he immediately noticed the passion in his colleague’s eyes. The building was dirty and rundown and falling into disrepair, but there was no place Topaz would rather be.

  Opal shut the door behind him. ‘Two hours. Over or under?’

  ‘Under,’ Topaz said. He didn’t speak often. When he did, his voice was gravelly from disuse. ‘Way under.’

  8

  Connor tensed up like a coiled spring, every muscle and nerve ready for the physical onslaught he knew was coming.

  He vowed not to break.

  Every religion has an archetypal figure to aspire towards, and most are famous for their suffering — Jesus on the Cross being the crowning example. Connor knew he could be that shining example for Mother Libertas. A very ordinary, very boring white-collar worker, albeit in an unusual field, who rose to the occasion when his beliefs were tested. If he broke, he’d be betraying everything the Riordans had taught him. It was up to him to carry their legacy, and he would voluntarily shoulder that burden.

  No matter what they did to him, he wouldn’t break.

  No amount of physical pain could make him waver. Not with the self-belief he possessed.

  But they didn’t lay a finger on him.

  A pair of men in balaclavas came in. Neither were Opal — they were slimmer, less physically imposing. One of them yanked a thick black bag down over Connor’s head, plunging his world into darkness. He could still catch the odd sliver of light creeping in from the base of the bag, but his captors eliminated that reprieve by jerking blacked-out ski goggles over the outside of the bag, pinning the cloth to his eyes. The darkness became total. It heightened his other senses — hearing, taste, sense of smell.

  He braced himself for a punch or a kick, tightening his core.

  Nothing happened.

  Rough hands hauled him to his feet, and he realised they’d freed him from the handcuff. They made him stand ramrod straight, turned him around, and put his hands on the concrete wall.

  Then they told him to stay there.

  The next hour was the most horrific of his life.

  They didn’t touch him, preying on the knowledge that he was anticipating a physical assault at any moment. It fried his nerves, torching them with overuse, as every tiny sound in the room made him recoil in anticipation of pain. Fifteen minutes in, his body started to ache from the uncomfortable position. One of his hands slipped an inch down the wall.

  That’s when the first punishment came. To pay for his lapse in concentration, they slipped headphones over his ears. At first there was no sound, then Connor jolted in shock as the noise of howling babies and screaming women filled his ears. It came at max volume, and his head started to throb. He clenched his
teeth to ride out the discomfort, but a sinister anxiety began to build in his chest.

  He desperately wanted out.

  The screaming in his ears stopped and started at random intervals. One moment his world would plunge into silence, and he’d drop his guard, relieved for a chance to gather himself, then a couple of seconds later the wailing would begin again, frying his already-exhausted nerves as it startled him all over again.

  Twenty minutes after the headphones went on, he made another mistake. Lactic acid burned in his shoulders and he hunched forward in the posture, losing the straight-backed rigidity. At once the baby screams in his ears amplified in volume, and he realised what he’d thought was max volume was only about fifty percent of the way there. The headphones were clearly modified. A splitting headache throbbed to life as the volume skyrocketed, and Connor grimaced.

  Then it all went quiet.

  He held his breath, uncomfortable in more ways than he ever thought possible.

  His world exploded.

  He felt his heart hammer, and it took him a beat to realise what was happening. Someone was tapping a stick against the plastic visor of the ski goggles at the speed of a jackhammer. The sound filled his head, all-encompassing, overwhelming…

  He was on a one-way trip to his breaking point.

  Then someone slapped him in the chest.

  If he had his vision and sanity intact, it would have been nothing. A light smack on the sternum with an open hand. Hard enough to rattle him, maybe make him slightly uncomfortable, but nothing more than that.

  In his current state, it broke him.

  More often than not, it’s what you can’t see that gets you. The anticipation of the torture, not the torture itself. The mind erects imagined cathedrals that have no grounding in reality.

  Connor sunk to his knees, crying. ‘Opal! Opal! Opal!’

  9

  Out in the corridor, Opal heard Connor screaming his name.

  Topaz grinned with those ridiculous veneers and checked his watch. ‘Pay up. Didn’t even make it halfway.’

  Opal shook his head in disappointment. He’d had faith in the kid. He fished in his pocket for a crumpled fifty-dollar bill, passed it to Topaz, and went into the interrogation room.

  10

  Connor sobbed with his head bowed until firm hands ripped the headphones and goggles and bag off his head.

  He sucked in fresh air, spluttering, salivating on himself.

  Opal was on one knee beside his hunched-over form, a look of annoyance on his face. ‘Pull yourself together, kid. I mean, seriously. I had you lasting over two hours. What the fuck is this?’

  Between deep rattling inhales, Connor said, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where’d you get the stuff?’

  ‘Maeve and Dane Riordan sent it to me. They posted it from Gillette, a s-small town in Wyoming. They were in charge of a movement out in the grasslands called—’

  ‘Mother Libertas,’ Opal said. ‘I know. It’s all the news is talking about. So … let me get this straight. You believed the shit they were feeding you? You: a respectable, level-headed, intelligence-gathering patriot. You joined a cult?’

  ‘It’s not a—’

  ‘The bag’s going back on your head, Connor.’

  Which overrode all his defence mechanisms.

  He gulped. ‘Okay, it’s a cult. And yes, I’m an idiot.’

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself,’ Opal said. ‘You got a dose down the throat of the goddamn President. If he had any real influence in our world, you’d be well on your way to power. It’s a shame that isn’t how things work. Which puts you here, in a shitty building, crying your eyes out and spilling your guts to someone like me, someone who has actual influence.’

  Connor said, ‘What else do you want?’

  ‘That’s all we needed,’ Opal said. ‘Confirmation you were trying to carry on that loony bin’s brainwashing tactics. Now, if that’s all, we can wrap this up with a neat little bow.’

  He extracted a Beretta M9 from an appendix holster.

  Connor wasn’t ready to die.

  His self-preservation mechanisms went into overdrive.

  ‘I know things,’ he spluttered. ‘I know who Maeve got her hooks into in the intelligence community.’

  Opal gripped the pistol tight, inching the barrel toward Connor’s face.

  After a moment’s silence, he raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Devin Nelson,’ Connor said. ‘He’s my direct superior and—’

  ‘And you fed him Bodhi and brainwashed him,’ Opal said. ‘Yes, Connor, I know. You’re not thinking straight, kid. Get a grip. He dosed the President, remember? He’s no longer alive.’

  Connor couldn’t think straight. Devin was dead? It didn’t matter. He had to focus on what he could control.

  Then he froze.

  And smiled to himself.

  Opal shrugged. ‘Well, if that means you’ve officially lost it, I guess you won’t mind if I—’

  He put the barrel against Connor’s temple and slipped a finger inside the trigger guard.

  With the cold steel pressing into his skin, practically scraping his skull, Connor held it together as he said, ‘A few months ago, Jason King and Will Slater disappeared from New York. They took their handler, Violetta LaFleur, and a civilian, Alexis Diaz, with them. Then they vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘That’s the talk of our community, kid,’ Opal said. ‘You’re not earning anything by re-telling it.’

  ‘They were at the commune in Wyoming,’ Connor said. ‘They infiltrated Mother Libertas, and they killed those six people.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘I have an audio recording of Dane Riordan calling me with a request to investigate them. He said their names were Jason and Will, and he described them accurately. By the morning, he was dead. But that’s not all I have. I know about their movements in Gillette. They got on a flight back to Vegas. I have the details of the false passports they used to fly back. I’m sure you could use those IDs to cross-check purchases made in Vegas under those aliases. I’m sure you could find where they are. Isn’t that important?’

  Opal didn’t speak for a moment, but his eyes said, Yes. Yes it is. That’s very important.

  He said, ‘You give us everything you know and we’ll come to a deal.’

  ‘The deal first. Then the information.’

  ‘You’re in no position to argue.’

  Connor knew he wasn’t.

  Opal seemed surprised that Connor had his wits together, that he recognised his vulnerability. Connor nodded his understanding to further please him. ‘I trust you won’t betray me.’

  ‘I’m a man of my word.’

  Connor gave him everything.

  11

  Two hours later, alone in an adjacent room, Opal dialled a number.

  It rang, and a man who had all the influence in the world picked up. He was what most people considered the President to be, in that he called the shots that mattered.

  Opal had no problem following orders. He was one of several apex predators in the black-operations community, and hunters must be steered in the right direction. When Opal had officially existed, many years before, he’d been in Marine Division Recon, gathering and communicating intelligence for planned raids and ambushes to a commander.

  So this was no different.

  Now he had a “hunter commander,” whose callsign was Onyx.

  Opal had never met him face-to-face.

  It wasn’t necessary, and it afforded the head honcho deniability.

  Opal said, ‘Did it check out?’

  ‘We have their location.’

  Onyx’s excitement was palpable, in that he was slightly less monotonic, but his voice was still completely dead. When he wasn’t excited, it sounded like he was speaking through a voice scrambler. He was that dull and subdued.

  Opal said, ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Reasonably. I
t’s more of a lead than we’ve had since they fled.’

  ‘You know what this means?’

  Onyx’s grin wasn’t audible through the receiver, but Opal felt it nonetheless.

  Onyx said, ‘It’s been the only thing keeping me up at night for months. The fact they’re out there, amongst civilians, lost to us. At any second they could go to the media, find an investigative journalist who’d run the risk of printing it. They’d have enough proof, too. They’d be able to name names, dates, locations, faces. It was a fucking disaster.’

  ‘Was?’

  Onyx said, ‘The hunters will deal with them before morning.’

  ‘You’re sending me to Vegas?’

  ‘Not you. Others.’

  Opal shrugged. Frankly, he didn’t care. It would have been nice to test himself against two of the most feared clandestine operatives in history, but all the hunters were as lethal as one another. Whoever got the lucky ticket would deal with it efficiently.

  Opal said, ‘What about the kid?’

  ‘What kid?’

  ‘Connor.’

  Onyx said, ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘He gave us good stuff.’

  ‘So?’

  Opal hissed air through gritted teeth and said, ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘You want to throw him back out there with state secrets in his head? You want to create another Jason King? Another Will Slater?’

  ‘He’s not exactly on their level.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to be.’

  Opal didn’t respond.

  Onyx said, ‘Make sure you and Topaz stay ready.’

  ‘We’re always ready.’

  ‘Good lads.’

  The hunter commander killed the line.