“What’s he laughing at?” Walker demanded, pointing his right index finger.
“I don’t have a clue,” Danny replied. “What can we do for you, Mr. Walker?”
“You can start by explaining to me what happened out there tonight.”
“I beat the shit out of Razor.” Kaspar said in between laughs.
“You’re a funny man,” Walker said. “A broke man, but a funny one.”
“Hey,” Danny interjected. “Go easy on the kid. He had a rough fight.”
“Yeah, well, that little stunt he pulled out there cost me a lot of money. It’s a DQ, nobody wins and nobody gets paid. I’ve got my bookies all over my ass right now. Your fighter, he’s not getting a fraction, and he’s going under review effective immediately.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” Danny demanded.
“What’s so unfair?”
“Look at Razor. Is he above your rules? He’s killed men, he shoves officials out of the ring, yet he doesn’t ever—ever—get disqualified.”
Walker moved his finger to Danny. “You leave that up to me.”
“You listen to me. You point that finger at me ever again and I’ll make sure that it never points at anyone else.”
Walker looked taken aback. He turned around and walked straight for the door and slammed it behind him. Danny wiped the grin off of his face and walked back over to his fighter, who continued in his hysteria.
“Let’s get out of here.” Danny said.
***
Paxton fought through the angry crowd as he headed for the exit. This Kaspar was about as much as he expected. He never gave up, he stood up to his enemy, despite being undersized and outmatched. One thing did bother him, though. When his mark exploded, something was said to him. Whatever that something was, it unleashed a demon inside. What was said? Could it be used during their recruitment of him? Or, would it be a deterrent, a signal to stay the hell away? He would soon find out.
Once outside, he reached down and grabbed a black mobile phone. The blue indigo screen came up upon opening. Paxton touched the address book, then the number two. It auto dialed a number. It rang three times.
“This is Robert,” a light voice said.
“Clarke, Paxton.”
“How did it go?”
“Not entirely sure, yet.”
“So, what happened?”
“Our mark really went to town on his opponent…he had a look in his eyes, like he would have beaten the life out of the man if the official didn’t break it up.”
“He won, then?” Clarke asked.
“Not exactly. He got disqualified.”
“Should we continue? I mean, is a head case like that worth the trouble?”
“I think we should,” Paxton replied. “He’s got an anger problem from what I could see. We can use that.”
Paxton pressed END on the phone and felt a craving for another cigarette. He darted his way to a darkened alley and retrieved his smokes. He lit up, took a puff, and blew out the smoke. All the while the wheels in his head started to turn. Could this Kaspar fellow really cut it as a soldier in this war? The team would have to be certain that he had no connections whatsoever with the USR. The ally that led him to Kaspar seemed to think that an impossibility, but there would be no room for mistakes. After verification that he was clean, they would move in.
The cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt onto the pavement and put it out with his boot. One question rang through his head as he walked back to his van.
How could he convince this kid to join?
Five
USR Agent Travis Forte threw another cigarette down onto the soiled, off white carpet. He used the heel of his polished black shoe to put it out. His eyes moved forward to the suspect sitting in a chair before him. The suspect, a sixty-eight year old man who needed a cane to walk, began to shake without control when Forte began his approach.
The Agent couldn’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for his suspect, but he shook his head the more he thought about it. This was not a real man he would be dealing with today. His suspect wore old, wrinkled, smelly clothes. In fact, the suspect himself smelled of a rank body odor, as if the man didn’t have the credits to provide himself with proper hygiene products. It was no matter, not anymore, for the man. He wouldn’t need proper hygiene where he was going. Forte looked to the suspect’s hands, each individual finger separated by silver duct tape. He would have fun with this one.
Forte moved his gaze to the terrified man’s eyes while he reached for his pocket knife. He pulled it out then waved the sharp, fresh blade in front of the leftover. It was almost getting too easy for Forte, one of the lead Agents in the hunt for the resistance. He caught him another one and only one question filled his mind: can I get anything useful out of him? Forte wiped the sweat off of his red freckled brow, the red dots around his face and brow matched his fiery red hair.
“We have the letters, Mr. Roberts,” Forte said. “We know that you are working for them. We just want to know who else is involved.”
“I told you already, I have no idea. I only found those letters in my mailbox.” Mr. Roberts replied, the shake in his voice seemingly matched the shakes of his hands.
“You think that’s going to fly in the face of the judge?”
“What judge? I’m heading straight for the noose.”
The Agent shook his head. Forte didn’t want to do this the hard way, but this little man gave him no choice. The blade moved in close to the right index finger. Mr. Roberts’s eyes widened with fear. It moved Forte to press further.
“We all know you are going to die for your treachery. The only thing you should concern yourself with right now is how much pain you go through first.”
He pressed firm on Mr. Roberts’s right index finger, holding it in place. With a quick jab motion, the blade entered underneath the nail bed. The screams from the old man were ignored as the Agent kept digging. Once at the end, he flicked the knife upwards. Forte let the nail remain upright. The suspect’s pant leg was used to wipe the blood from the blade.
“Now, who sent you the letter?” Forte demanded.
“I don’t know!” Mr. Roberts cried. “I only received it!”
“Then why didn’t you contact the authorities?”
“Look at me now, that’s why.”
“Come on, you know that’s bullshit.”
Next up was the middle finger. Forte used the edge of the blade to tickle the end of that finger. He inserted the blade and took his time with this one. A yell of inaudible words stopped him. He pulled the knife back out and looked up into Mr. Roberts’s eyes.
“Yes?” Forte asked.
“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you…”
“Go on.”
The sweat on the suspect’s brow increased. The intense pain in his fingers, the heat of the room, all added to the stress of having to sell out one of his friends. Mr. Roberts panted in pain as his lips moved with no discernible words.
“I can’t hear you.” Forte said. He waved the knife around in air.
“It’s just…some guy. Lives by himself in an old apartment on the outskirts of the city. Doug Miller. But, that’s all I know.”
“You got an address?”
Mr. Roberts waited for Forte to pull out a small legal pad before he gave the address. Forte jotted it down and placed the pad back into the pocket on the inside of his coat. He stood up from his knelt position. A smile revealed his tobacco stained teeth. He looked at the suspect’s scared eyes as he reveled in his handiwork.
“Okay, friend, we’ll see if this checks out.” Forte said.
“What now? What happens to me?”
“I hate to say it,” Forte said, he looked down at the blood stained blade. “But, you lied to me.”
“You haven’t even checked the address, yet.”
“I’m not talking about that. When I asked you at the beginning, you said that you knew nothing. Now, after a little coercio
n, you all of a sudden remember.”
“But,” Mr. Roberts cried, “I gave you what you wanted to know.”
“You let us be the judge of that.” Forte said, his eyes never left the blade in his hand. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”
Without warning, Forte knelt back down and reinserted the blade into the suspect’s middle finger. Through the wails of pain and orders for him to stop, Forte finished it off. He left the nail standing straight up to match that of Mr. Roberts’s index. He sat the blade down on the end table next to Mr. Roberts.
“You think about that knife while I’m gone,” Forte said. “And you think long and hard about ever lying to my face again.”
***
William Sullivan placed the bottle of wax back onto the counter top. He balled up the used diaper cloth and dropped it into the laundry basket next to him. The shined, gold USR badge glistened with the light. He was slow to come to grips with it, but he no longer liked what he saw when he looked at the badge. The belief that was once there when he started his work as an Agent was near its end. He no longer accepted what it meant…what that responsibility continued to force him to do.
Three years and counting since the promotion that allowed his wife to buy her dream home. He was surprised, even a little shocked, that it took him this long to start having second thoughts and regrets. After attaching the badge to the black leather belt, Sullivan used the small silver key to open the locked drawer to his left. The drawer slid open and inside sat a black Glock 17. He inserted it into the hip holster on his right side. As he did every morning, he hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it today.
With one last look in the mirror, he made sure that the buttons on his shirt aligned in perfect harmony with the gold buckle of his belt. The buckle, in turn, aligned in sync with the zipper of his black pants. His father always told him to be respectful, act respectful, and dress respectful. The least Sullivan could do was keep one of his father’s commandments.
“You look fine, Will,” Julie Sullivan said as she walked in behind him.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sullivan replied, looking at his wife’s reflection in the mirror. She did it to him again last night. She wore that black night teddy that Sullivan bought her last year. The one that drove Sullivan wild.
“Did you ever hear back from your interview?”
“Not yet, but they must have interviewed about a hundred people. You know how hard jobs are to come by?”
“You didn’t even go, did you?”
“Look, Julie…” Sullivan started to get out.
“No excuses.”
Sullivan sighed, “Is everything all right?”
No answer. Julie turned and walked out of the room. Sullivan heard her footsteps going down the stairs. She just fired another salvo in her assault on him to find another job. He kicked himself for thinking that her demands would quickly go away. That was one of the most attractive features she had, her head strong attitude. Her strawberry blonde hair, long legs, and gorgeous smile added to it.
Sullivan always lied to her when he told her he went out looking. He would rattle off some excuse, the one this morning his favorite, but Sullivan knew that there was no way out. His soul had already been sold to the USR. He would never escape, so he just had to learn to live with it. Julie would never understand. He just hoped that one day, by some miracle, she would come to the same realization and things would return to normal.
Before he walked out of the bedroom, he walked back over to the bed. He pulled out the .38 Special he kept underneath his pillow. He ensured the safety was on before putting it back. Sullivan then began his descent down the stairs. He turned the corner and walked straight ahead for the kitchen. There, seated at the dining room table, sat the only reason that Sullivan could try to live with what he did.
“Daddy!” David Sullivan, six years old, cried.
“Davie, good morning,” Sullivan replied with a smile. “Did you have good dreams last night?”
“I sure did, let me tell you!”
Sullivan laughed, “Go ahead.”
Davie began his story as Sullivan walked over to the table and took a seat at the head. He looked up at Julie. Her head remained down as she worked on their breakfast. The smell of pancakes hit his nostrils. No wonder Davie was in such an uppity mood this morning.
“Daddy?” Davie demanded. “Are you even listening?”
Sullivan shook his head and returned his attention to Davie.
“I’m sorry, son, go on.”
“Anyway, like I was saying, I dreamed I was a super hero and I was putting away bad people. I was just like you, Daddy!”
“It’s ready, boys.” Julie said. She reached over for the plate of pancakes and brought them to the table.
“You need any help with that?” Sullivan asked.
“No.”
Why even bother? She was as cold as ever this morning. Sullivan could not place any blame on her, but he tried to. He tried to reason with himself that if she wasn’t happy with what he did for a living, she should go out and get her own damn job. At the end of the day, she was not the one who paraded around like a protector of the city all day, doing whatever was necessary to root out…
Not at home.
“You ready for another big day at school?” Sullivan asked.
“Sure am! I’m learning all kinds of things!” Davie replied.
“Really? Like what?”
Julie brought over the sugar free syrup and a pitcher of orange juice. Sullivan thanked her, but got no response. She left the kitchen for the living room. She would sit there all morning, by herself, just like every morning of late. He wanted to ask her if she was hungry, but again, why bother?
“Well,” Davie said, breaking up Sullivan’s thoughts. “In History we’re learning all about how the colonists stole the Native’s land. My teacher says that we shouldn’t even be here, that the world would have been better off it never happened.”
More horror stories? Sullivan hated sending his kid off to that school every day. It seemed that only negativity was taught, but he knew that it was the only way for Davie to get his education. The education he would need to become something…better than his father. Sullivan’s dream for his son was in the medical field. At least then, Davie could do something noble.
Davie shoved a mouthful of pancakes into his mouth and the sound of smacking lips drilled into Sullivan’s ears. He grabbed his son’s arm and gripped it tight.
“Davie, eat slowly and chew your food.” Sullivan ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
The father let go of his son’s arm and then sipped at his orange juice. Julie always made a fuss about how Sullivan was too hard on their son. Sullivan never looked at it as being too hard, or not letting the boy grow up, but he would not raise a disrespectful slob. He would instill the same discipline in Davie that his own father instilled upon him. At least then, maybe…
Julie walked back into the kitchen. “The school bus is almost here. You got all your things?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s Mommy, you don’t have to call me ma’am.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
Davie stood up from his chair and then walked his plate of half eaten pancakes to the trash can. After scrapping off the remains, he walked the plate to the sink and rinsed off the remaining syrup. He ran back over to the table, grabbed his book bag, and ran out the front door to wait on the bus.
Julie moved to the sink and turned on the hot water. Steam filled the kitchen as she grabbed a bottle of dish cleaner. Sullivan placed his plate gently on the counter next to the sink. He tried to grab her hips, to breathe in her scent like he used to do. She moved to the side when she felt his hands. Sullivan didn’t know how much longer he could take this from her. If not for Davie, he might have left a long time ago. He just couldn’t do that to his son, or to Julie. As irrational as it was, he still loved her even though he received nothing but her cold shoulder in return.
“Y
ou need any help with that?” Sullivan asked again.
“No. You are going to be late for work if you don’t hurry.”
“Why are you…”
The sound of a gag reflex filled Sullivan’s ears and interrupted him. Julie bent over to the other sink and wave of vomit flowed out. After a deep breath, she did the routine once more. Sullivan moved over and rubbed at her back. Julie began to breathe heavily. Sullivan moved the tap over to the other sink and turned on the cold water. His wife washed her mouth out with it.
“You okay?” Sullivan asked.
“I’m fine, just something I ate.”
“That looked pretty bad. You need me to take you to the doctor?”
“I said I’m fine. You go off to work. I’ll clean this mess up.”
“Fine,” Sullivan replied. “You just give me a call at the office if you need anything.”
“Just go.”
Sullivan went in to kiss her cheek, but he pulled back. She was not his favorite person right now and she wasn’t feeling well. He turned his back to her and walked towards the front door. He unhooked his jacket from the coat hanger. After he slid both arms inside, he used the mirror on the wall to ensure it looked perfect. He took one last glimpse at his wife. Sullivan watched as she took another drink from the tap. He wanted with all his heart to walk in there and make sure she was okay, to make sure that she knew he still loved her.
Why bother?
Six
There laid a helpless man on the ground. The two Agents’ sticks flew in quick furies over top him. The man tried to cover himself with his arms, but each attempt came up in vain. Kaspar looked through the fogged glass door, his frozen blue eyes underneath his shades were glued to one of the Agents. The Agent lifted up his night stick for another shot. A droplet of blood rolled down the handle then fell to the pavement.
A third Agent, who stood watch at the front door, made eye contact through the clear Plexiglas shield over his eyes. Kaspar maintained the eye contact through his shades until the Agent looked down at his watch. The clock above Kaspar read six twenty-eight. He looked back out in contempt: the poor, anxious bastard was outside a mere two minutes before the mandatory curfew was lifted.
Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1) Page 3
