I did some good.
No one on the news mentions that the footage has been altered. Obviously. I’m guessing the Mogs have probably already infiltrated the media too. All the talking heads keep saying there were no casualties, but I don’t believe them. I worry that the Garde, our only real hope against the Mogs, are gone and that Sarah’s been dragged down with them. And when I think of that, all the excitement I have about the blog post going a little viral disappears. It’s just a single shot in an intergalactic fight. Child’s play.
I’ve managed to get in touch with GUARD. He thinks the Chicago story is great and tells me to keep up the good work.
My luck continues later in the night after spending the evening driving from the truck stop near Dallas to the middle of Louisiana. At a motel outside of a suburb of Shreveport, there’s a breakthrough with the FBI computer. The blinking, running codes disappear, and suddenly the computer boots up to the normal desktop. The MogPro file is still missing, but the computer itself is up and running and unlocked so I can read all the emails the late Agent Purdy had downloaded to his computer—the stuff that led me to Sarah to begin with. Only, I never had time to actually go through most of the emails before I got shut out of the laptop.
This is some real-life hacker sort of badassery that can actually make a difference.
I compile as much data as I can. Over and over again Purdy keeps talking about some secretary, and for the first twenty emails or so, I’m pretty convinced he’s banging his office assistant or something. Then I hit gold with a chain between Purdy and someone I’ve never heard of who signs their emails simply as “D.” D writes:
Secretary Sanderson’s body is reacting remarkably to the procedures. Intel suggests that many high-profile targets will join the cause when they see the results.
Uh, what?
I search for Secretary Sanderson online and feel like a total dumbass when I realize that it wasn’t a “secretary” that Purdy kept referencing in his emails, but a capital-S “Secretary.” As in Secretary of Defense Bud Sanderson.
The Mog corruption goes higher up in the government than we thought.
I speed-read the other emails, which reference more weird injections that Sanderson had to look younger. At first I can’t figure out why everyone is so worried about his plastic surgery, until I read enough emails that it dawns on me that these procedures must involve the Mogs. Sanderson is filling himself up with alien shit that apparently makes him look, like, twenty years younger than he actually is. I pull Sanderson up on an internet image search but can’t find any pictures of him from the past year or two. In the most recent one I can track down, he’s an ancient-looking dude who looks like he hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since the ’50s.
I try to make sense of what this means. If someone that high up on the government food chain is involved, it makes me wonder if the president could be in on it. Or even leaders from other countries. Could the Mogs be working over other nations just like they are the United States?
I text GUARD about this, wondering if he’s got any way to hack into the secretary’s computer, even though I’m guessing it’s hidden away behind a million government firewalls or whatever. Maybe he’ll be able to track down a recent picture of the secretary for the sake of comparison. GUARD hasn’t been the best at getting back to me lately, but this could be huge. I start to get a little worried that GUARD’s somehow been caught, and without him . . . what would I even begin to do? I’d be screwed, broke, without guidance—not to mention the fact that if they found GUARD, they will sure as hell find me.
And then there’s Sarah. My only other friend in this mess. Despite being afraid that she might have been caught up in whatever went down in Chicago, I hope for the best and write my daily email to her, telling her about the secretary. I hope she’s getting these messages. I hope she’s somewhere safe and that she’s using the info I send her to help the Garde. To help Earth. Even if she can’t get back to me.
After writing her, I start reading more of Purdy’s email until I fall asleep with my netbook sitting on my chest. Then, in the middle of the night, I’m jolted awake by an electronic chirping sound. At first I think it’s coming from the computer on top of me, but I tap on the keys a few times and realize that it’s dead because I never plugged it in to charge. Then I recognize the noise: it’s the text message alert on my old burner phone, the one that’s been floating around in the bottom of my messenger bag ever since GUARD sent me the new one. I dig it out and breathe a sigh of relief.
GUARD’s finally written me back.
GUARD: Hey.
Me: DUDE. Where have u been? Why are u txting this phone?
GUARD: Long story. Lost some of my contacts. Where are you?
Me: Outside Shreveport
GUARD: Perfect. I’m not far. Meet with me.
Me: K. When?
GUARD: ASAP
And then the next text comes in: an address. It’s a place on the other side of Shreveport, just off the highway.
It’s three in the morning, but I’m suddenly wide-awake with relief that GUARD’s okay, and stoked that I’m finally going to meet the man himself. I get all my shit together, head out to my truck and then speed towards the other side of the city. As always, I keep an eye out for anyone who might be following me, and take a few extra turns and sidetracks before eventually stopping in front of the place GUARD sent me to. The building looks like an abandoned warehouse, the windows mostly boarded up or barred. The outside is a light-colored brick covered with layer after layer of graffiti.
This is so badass, I think. I bet he has a hi-tech safe house in here or something.
I park, slip my messenger bag over my shoulder and get out. I’m a few steps towards the building when my pocket starts to ring. It’s my new phone—the one GUARD sent me. The call is coming in as blocked—which, considering who must be calling me, is not surprising.
I hit the Talk button as I jog up the steps of the warehouse.
“Yo, man!” I say. I pull open the big metal door at the entrance. It makes a loud, wrenching sound that echoes through the dark building. “Where are you at?”
“Our communications have been compromised,” a voice says. It’s electronic, computerized. GUARD must be masking his identity, or else the phone’s speaker has completely crapped out. The voice is so weird that it takes me a second to even register what he’s saying.
“Dude, what are you talking about?” I take a few steps into the warehouse, using the old burner phone as a flashlight. It only lights up the space a few feet ahead of me. I’m getting total flashback vibes to the haunted houses and dark cornfield hayrides of Halloween in Paradise. “Are you here yet? Is there a light switch or something? I’m here to . . .”
“Listen to me: someone’s linked you to your old phone,” the electronic voice says. “I never texted you. It’s a trap. You need to leave. Now!”
I freeze. Not just because my brain is trying to process GUARD’s words, but because the light from the other burner has lit up a pair of black boots. Someone standing just a few yards away from me. As the phone against my ear goes silent, I raise the one in my hand until I’m staring down the barrel of a hand canon. The same kind of Mog firearm I spotted on the roof of the building in Chicago. A man in a black suit holds it. His finger hits something on the side of the weapon, and the gun lights up with a deep-purple color. Around me, half a dozen identical lights power on.
I’m fucked.
Everything happens really fast. Suddenly there are giant overhead lights on throughout the warehouse. Seven agents stand around me in a circle. I’m guessing they must be FBI—that, or the Mogs have gotten really good at playing human.
“Drop what’s in your hands,” someone shouts. I hesitate, but then I feel something cold and metallic butting up against the back of my head, and I open my fingers, letting both my phones fall to the ground.
“Mark James,” one of them—a man—says as he steps forward, keeping his weapon trained on me. “You are in d
eep shit.”
My head starts to spin, a million thoughts and questions and fears all exploding at once. How did they find me? What do they know I know?
“You look surprised,” the man says. “But you’ve been sloppy, kid. We found video of you buying your disposable cell. Those burners are handy, but they can easily be compromised and tracked once we’ve got the model and phone number figured out.”
“The texts . . . ,” I murmur.
“You think the FBI can’t fake a few text messages? For someone wanted for stealing top secret materials, we figured you’d be smarter.”
Dammit. I should have thrown my burner out. How could I have been so stupid?
I wonder if they’ve read all my old texts on that phone. I try to think back on my conversations with GUARD. Shit—they must know I’m also JOLLYROGER182.
I never should have responded to those texts from the burner.
“I don’t know what you’re—” I start.
“Save it for the interrogation,” the man says. His lips curl up in a satisfied grin.
The word “interrogation” sparks something in my brain, and I start a desperate attempt to get out of this thing. I sigh loudly, shaking my head.
“Do you have any idea what’s really going on here?” I ask, taking a step towards the man talking to me. I can see his finger tighten around the trigger, and I swallow hard and try not to shit my pants. “I’m working undercover for Agent Walker’s team. She recruited me in Paradise. I’m tracking a . . . cyberterrorist. The whole thing with the computer was to prove I’m not working with you guys. You’re going to blow my damned cover.”
I can see something in his eyes that tells me he’s actually entertaining this idea as possibly being true. Still, he doesn’t lower his weapon.
“Agent Walker has been out of contact with the Bureau for days. She’s being labeled as a traitor to—”
“You have no idea what happened in Dulce,” I say, cutting him off. “Purdy’s dead. Walker’s taken her team underground to do some . . .”—I struggle—“dark-black ops work.”
I pray that “dark-black ops” is a real thing.
The agent’s smile fades, and I can see some of the others looking back and forth at each other in my peripheral vision. The thing is, it would probably only take, like, one phone call to find out that I’m totally bullshitting them. I need to get out of here as fast as I can.
Still, acting like a total badass around these guys pumps me up. I’m starting to feel a little bit like my old self again. Like when I was hassling freshmen or tripping new kids at Paradise High. When no one would dare mess with me.
“Where’s Walker now?” the agent asks.
There’s a hint of a smile on his face, and I crumble as I realize that even if he is buying my story, if the government thinks Walker’s a traitor, this agent is probably imagining all the awards and honors that’d be handed to him for hauling her in.
“That’s classified information,” I say, trying not to let my voice waver.
“That’s fine. I have a feeling you’ll declassify it very soon.” The agent nods to one of the others. “Get him out of here.”
That’s when I see the big, black van parked at the other end of the warehouse, near a metal loading-bay door.
“Wait!” I practically scream as two of the agents grab my arms. I try to shake them off, but one of them digs a gun into my back. The other pulls my messenger bag off my shoulder and hands it over to someone else. I can’t believe they’re going to get their hands on my computers, my notes, that weird grenade. . . .
“Save it, kid,” someone says.
“No,” I say. My mind is racing. Even if I wrestle free from the agents holding me, there are too many here. There’s no way I’m making it back to my truck. Not without something crazy happening.
So I get a little crazy.
“There’s a homing beacon,” I say. “In my bag. An emergency signal in case I got pinned down. All you have to do is press it, and Walker will be here within the hour. She’ll back my story up.”
The leader looks at me, then at some of the other agents. After a few seconds, he walks over and grabs my bag from another suit.
“It’s, uh, Mog tech, so it looks kind of weird,” I say as he starts rummaging through my stuff. I note that he doesn’t look confused at all when I say “Mog.” Of course not. He’s using their guns, after all. I wonder if he hasn’t realized that they’re the real bad guys yet, or if he just doesn’t care.
Finally, he pulls out the little cylinder covered in the weird symbols.
“You just have to click the top of it,” I add.
He stares down at the object in his hands for a few seconds and then motions towards the van.
“Take him back to headquarters,” he says. “Call in reinforcements. I want a strong perimeter. We’re taking Agent Walker in for questioning.”
The two agents at my sides start to drag me towards the van.
“No!” I shout. If I get in that van, I’m never seeing the outside world again. “You can’t do this! Let me stay here and wait for—”
Something hard hits the back of my head and shuts me up. My vision goes a little starry.
I shake my head and look back at the agent who took the grenade. He’s still eying it curiously. And then he does it—he pushes the button. I hear a click, followed by a few electronic beeps. He stares down at the grenade in confusion.
“What the—” he starts.
I muster all the strength inside me—every weight lifted and drill run and tackle practiced—and break free from the agents’ grips.
I hit the cement floor just as the grenade goes off.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE CONCUSSIVE WAVE PASSES OVER ME AND presses me into the concrete floor so hard I’m afraid my ribs are going to snap. There’s no fire, just pressure, like some telekinetic force pushing anything and everything away from the detonation site. Agents fly through the air. The lights go out almost immediately. All around me there’s the sound of breaking glass as the force of the weapon shatters the windows of the building and van.
And then it’s over. I’d probably think the whole thing was pretty awesome if I wasn’t in the middle of it.
I get to my feet as fast as I can and run towards the rectangle of moonlight where the front doors had been earlier—the blast must have blown them out. My head is all fuzzy, like I’ve just stuck it inside a subwoofer. I can hear people groaning and moving about in the rest of the building, but I can’t tell where any of them are or how hurt they might be. All I can do is run.
I’m almost to the door when I realize I can’t leave without my bag. It’s got my computers and my notes—everything, really—in it.
Including my keys.
Luckily, the blast blew out all the dirty windows and the boards that’d been covering half of them, so there’s at least some moonlight, and it only takes me a minute to locate the messenger bag. I find it piled up with a bunch of debris. But this detour is enough time for a few of the agents to get back to their feet—I can hear their boots pounding against the concrete floor. Which is great, because it means that I didn’t accidentally kill anybody, but also means I’m one step closer to getting shot, arrested or both. I sprint towards the door. I just have to make it outside and into my truck.
The lead agent steps in front of the doorway when I’m just a few yards away. He holds his gun up directly at my chest.
“You smug little asshole,” he says. “Didn’t you know stealing classified intel is considered treason?”
He lowers the gun to my legs and pulls the trigger. I brace for impact, ready for my knee to be destroyed. It’s all over now.
Only, nothing happens. I see him pull the trigger again and again, but there’s no bullet or laser or even wisp of smoke. Just a little click each time he tries to shoot me. It’s only then that I realize the gun’s not lit up anymore. I take a quick glance around and don’t see any of the purple lights anywhere. Whatever th
at grenade did must have screwed with the Mog weapons.
Which means the only thing standing between me and freedom is an unarmed man.
The lead agent is still trying to pull the trigger when I lunge forward. I may not be the best spy or computer geek or liar, but I do throw a hell of a right hook. All the fights I got into back in Paradise taught me that. And while John Smith may have been able to kick my ass with his alien kung fu, this guy is very much a human. He tries to move too late, and my fist connects with the bottom of his jaw. He drops like a stone, and by the time he actually hits the floor, I’m jumping over his legs and then running down the stairs, digging through my bag with one hand as I make a beeline for my truck.
I’m starting the engine when the first shot is fired—the other agents must have realized the Mog weapons weren’t working and dug out their normal guns. I hear the bullet bounce off the metal of my hood. Then there’s another one, and my back windshield shatters.
“Shit!” I shout, crouching down as much as I can. I shift into gear and slam my right foot down on the gas, peeling out as I hear more shots go whizzing through my tailgate. I think I’m out of harm’s way when suddenly I feel a burning pain in my left arm, causing me to swerve and almost crash into a cement pylon. I look down and see blood pouring through my shirtsleeve.
Oh my God. You just got shot, Mark. Holy shit.
I think the bullet just grazed me, but it still hurts like hell, and there’s a lot of blood. As I barrel onto the highway, keeping one eye on my rearview mirror, I find a dirty T-shirt from the back cab and wrap it around the wound to try to stop the bleeding. I’m just glad that the sun hasn’t come up yet. This early in the morning, there’s hardly anyone on the road to notice my terrible driving as I try to figure out how injured I am while the wind roars through my truck thanks to the shattered back windshield.
After ten minutes or so, I take an exit at random and enter a neighborhood. I figure if the FBI called in reinforcements or police or anything, the highway is the first place they’d look, and a bullet-ridden truck missing a back windshield isn’t exactly the kind of thing you can easily hide from a police chopper on a deserted highway. I buzz through dark streets, just trying to get as far away from the city center as I can.
The Fugitive Page 4
