by Sean Platt
“Mister Kotke, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard about you,” Kotke, grinning like a smart ass from behind his curtain of hair.
His voice is familiar, too.
Do I know him, or am I picking up on Brooke’s memories?
I lean to my left, trying to look under his hair.
“I want my lawyer.”
Rich explains that Kotke has no right to a lawyer because he’s a suspected terrorist, more or less the same thing he already said to Darius.
“Of course. Use the Terrorism Card — hammer of the scared autocrat.” Kotke smiles, practically begging Rich to take a swing.
“So, whose idea was it to infiltrate the data center?”
Kotke says, “I want a lawyer.”
“I told you, you’re not—”
“Then you may as well bring in your heavy hitter because I’m not saying anything else.”
Kotke turns from Rich to the mirror, and I’d swear he’s somehow looking right at me. Something clicks in the fog of my mind — a memory of me sitting in a room with a younger version of this man, by maybe a decade.
As quick as it came, it’s gone.
My heart is racing.
I stare at him as if doing so will reveal more memories, allowing me to piece this mystery together.
A snippet of audio fills my mind, this man saying, “You’re too much, Ella.”
Ella!
He used my name.
I do know him!
I try to hold onto the bit of something, searching for a connecting memory, hoping to flesh it out, maybe get a visual memory to accompany the audial.
But whatever I have slips through my grasp, ephemeral, leaving me empty-handed like a child holding the lonely spool from an escaped kite.
Kotke lowers his head again, looking down at his folded hands.
Rich continues, “Where is he?”
Kotke doesn’t respond.
“You don’t want to be on the wrong side of history, do you?” Rich asks. “Tell us where Ben is. We just want to talk.”
“Talk,” Kotke says with a small laugh, then ignores Rich some more.
Rich looks my way. I still can’t help but feel certain he sees me, even though he clearly can’t. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He turns from Kotke and approaches my door. I hope I’m going in. Getting closer to Kotke will probably trigger some memories.
Rich steps through the threshold, closes the door behind him, then looks at me. “Well? Get anything?”
“No, not yet. Maybe if I go in the room with you both?”
Rich looks at me, his brow furrowed. I’m not sure if he’s suspicious or mulling my offer.
His phone rings.
He fishes in his pocket and brings it to his ear. His face becomes pinched. He was hardly a relaxed-looking man to begin with, but now he looks downright anxious.
“Yes, sir,” he says, then hangs up.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“Director Fairchild wants to sit in.”
A current of recognition purrs in my head. I’m anxious, wondering if I know Fairchild too. But that can’t be it. Probably just Brooke’s memories of her boss.
“Okay, so do you want me to join you or not?”
Rich looks at me like I’m an idiot to suggest such a thing. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to scold me, but he looks too distracted.
Condescending: “No. Stay put here and do your thing.”
Rich heads back into the interview room and takes a seat opposite Kotke. Then he sits with his arms crossed, staring at the man.
Kotke lowers his head, hair concealing his eyes.
It’s a standoff until the door opens behind Kotke.
A man steps through, early sixties or so, tall, good-looking in a corporate way, with short gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and a chiseled jaw. He’s wearing an all-white suit that is clearly bespoke. And tucked in his pocket, a single red rose.
Another flash, this time, a name: Fairchild.
We’re standing in a big room together. He’s talking to me, though his words are missing from the memory.
Then, another one: the man sitting at a table with a little red-headed girl, both of them talking to me about something, wanting me to do something.
I feel like someone’s punched me in the brain.
I’m staggering, trying to untangle the knot of memories.
Fairchild walks over to Kotke and in almost a whisper says, “Well, look what the cat dragged in. I should’ve known you were behind this. And if you’re involved, then surely Ben is?”
Kotke doesn’t look up, refusing to acknowledge Fairchild or answer his question.
Fairchild stares down at Kotke, his jaw twitching. He repeats himself, slightly louder. “After all this time you can’t even say hi to an old friend?”
Kotke’s back straightens violently as if someone grabbed him by his hair, yanked his head back and forced him to meet Fairchild’s gaze.
“Stop!” Kotke yells.
“There we go.” Fairchild’s smile is thin as a sheet. “Tell me, where are they?”
Kotke’s body starts to shake like his insides are on fire or being electrocuted, eyes darting around. He grunts through gritted teeth.
“S … stop!”
Fairchild’s fists are tightly balled, his knuckles white. He’s a Deviant, too. And this is his ability, whatever this is.
“After you tell me where to find them,” Fairchild says, still smiling.
“Okay, okay,” Kotke says.
Fairchild’s fists relax. He pauses his attack, waiting for Kotke to give up the location.
Kotke gasps, his eyes watering, glaring at Fairchild. He probably wishes his hands weren’t tied, and that he could kill the old man. But he’s at Fairchild's mercy, and defeat is already haunting his sunken eyes.
“Well?” Fairchild asks.
But Kotke isn’t looking at him. He’s looking through the mirror, at me.
I hear his voice in my head, “Ella? Is that you?”
I stare at the window.
How can he see me? How does he know I’m here? Not Brooke, but me, Ella?
I fall a step back, not even realizing that I’ve lost my balance until my back collides with the wall.
“Ella, is that you?”
I answer back, wondering if this telepathy works like it did with Chelsea.
Yes, it’s me. Do we know each other?
“I knew it! Did Ben put you here to save me?”
I … I don’t know why I’m here. I can’t remember anything.
“You don’t remember anything? You don’t remember me? What about Ben Shepherd?”
No, I don’t remember you. Who is Ben Shepherd?
“Shit. You don’t remember your own father?”
My father?
A scream bursts from both Kotke’s mouth and his mind, right into my head. A shrill, painful siren. I feel Kotke’s pain, like electricity burning my insides.
I stumble back.
Then the connection with Kotke is broken.
His scream leaves my brain, though I can still feel the agony as if my fingers were resting on exposed wire.
I look into the room and see Director Fairchild bearing down, and his eyes narrowed on Kotke’s violently shaking body.
I need to do something. Stop whatever this is, Brooke’s future with the organization be damned. Anyone that would participate in this, sitting by, complicit in torture, deserves whatever shit Fate throws her way.
I’m about to barge into the room when Fairchild turns from Kotke to me.
He can’t possibly see me, yet there he is, staring.
His eyes widen. “You!”
Oh, God no.
I turn to run.
But my body locks up, fire rolling through me.
I fall to my knees, hard.
I try to resist, I want to stand, but my body, Brooke’s body, refus
es to obey.
I hear Fairchild in my head. “Don’t move or the pain will get worse, Ella.”
So he does know me.
Shit.
I say nothing, my body frozen.
His voice is back in my head. “Such a shame that you chose to help them, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
I don’t respond.
I’ve got to get up.
And out of here.
I can’t take the pain, nor escape it.
The door opens behind me. I turn to see him. But agony amps up from a six to a ten the second I do.
I freeze, head halfway turned as he circles me, eyeing me from temple to toe, a curious crease in his brow.
“So, this is what you do with my gift? Use it against me?”
Behind him, Rich is following, confused, looking at me on my knees in such obvious agony, the Director standing over me as though I’m guilty. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got an intruder.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Brooke isn’t Brooke. She’s been hijacked.”
“What?” Rich’s jaw clenches. He reaches for his sidearm.
“It’s Ella.”
“Ella?” Rich says, his eyes wide like he sees a mythological creature.
A trio of officers enters the room behind Rich, hands on their guns as they await instructions. They’re staring at me with the empty gaze of allegiance. These are men who will blindly follow orders. Men who can’t possibly understand, or perhaps don’t care, that I’m not the bad guy here.
Fairchild steps toward me. “Please, girl, stand up.”
My body jerks up, obeying Fairchild’s commands while still refusing mine. Fortunately, the pain has ceased, at least for now. But I can only move my eyes.
I’m paralyzed. Fairchild is eyeing me with a mix of anger and fear.
Why are they afraid of me?
The old man steps up, inches away from me, his eyes peering into mine as if trying to see through Brooke’s stare to the me inside her.
He reaches up, finds my cheeks with his clammy hand, and roughly turns my head. I hate his touch, how he has complete and utter control of me, acting on a presumption of ownership.
I don’t get to choose the bodies I inhabit, and I always do everything possible to respect the host. But I get the sense that this bastard enjoys controlling others.
“Welcome back, Ella. How did you get past our defenses?”
My jaw relaxes, him allowing me to talk.
“I d-don’t know.”
And I don’t.
“What do you mean you ‘don’t know?’” Fairchild’s calm teases aggression.
“I can’t remember anything.”
“Really? Nothing?”
“I can’t remember anything before a year ago.”
“A year ago?”
“Yes. Everything is blank before that.”
“But you do recognize your name?”
I’m not sure how I should answer. Are these the Karma Police that the assassin is part of? If so, was she allowed to tell me what she did? Was she permitted to tell me my name, or that these people were looking for me?
Or did she break a rule by informing me? And probably another by shooting me rather than letting The Collectors claim my soul?
Are these The Collectors?
I’m afraid to say something that might bring harm to someone, whether that means Brooke or the assassin whose name I don’t even know.
“It’s the only thing I can remember. And it’s still new to me.”
Fairchild is still looking at me as if unsure of what to believe. He turns my face in his hands again, peering into my eyes as though I’m inhuman.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I wake up in a different body almost every day. Then I try not to screw things up for the person I’m in.”
He laughs. “So, how’s that working for you today?”
I don’t respond.
I look in the window behind Fairchild and the others, at Kotke sitting in the interrogation room, watching, wide-eyed. He looks like he’s trying to tell me something, but I have a feeling that Fairchild is somehow stopping him from telepathic communication.
Fairchild catches me looking at him, turns to Kotke, then back at me.
“So, then it’s a coincidence that on the night our data center gets hit, you just happen to wake up in one of our agents?”
I nod. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who or what controls where I go. I feel like there’s someone manipulating things, because the people I wake up in so often seem connected. But, as I said, I don’t have any memories from before last year. None.”
Fairchild nods. “None?”
“Damn it, I’m telling you the truth.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Ella.”
My name is bitter on his tongue. I wonder what happened between us? Did I betray him? Or this group?
“Why don’t you believe me? What did I do to you? Who are you people?”
He turns to one of the guards and holds out his hand. “Give me your gun.”
The guard unholsters his pistol and lays it in Fairchild’s open palm.
“Bring Kotke in here,” he tells the other guard.
What the hell is he doing?
I don’t want to seem alarmed, lest he think I’m with Kotke. But my fear is hard to disguise.
The guard grabs Kotke by the hair, yanks him out of his chair, and guides him into the room where he stands before Fairchild like a scolded child.
Fairchild shakes his head, looking at Kotke. “Ever consider getting a haircut?”
“Fuck you,” Kotke spits, kicking out, trying to get the old man in his knees.
Fairchild smiles while meeting my eyes. “You have us in an interesting position, Ella. We can’t get to you in this body. And we’re not going to harm our own agent, though I’m not sure that we’ll ever be able to trust her again. She’s more or less burned. So how do I get the truth out of you?”
“I am telling you the truth!”
“I don’t think you are. And, if you didn’t have this convenient case of selective amnesia, you’d know that I’m usually excellent at sniffing out lies. So, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell me where your father and Niko are hiding. If that amnesia doesn’t clear up, your old friend here will die.”
“Don’t tell them anything,” Kotke says, not helping either of our causes. I told him that I couldn’t remember anything, is he trying to get Fairchild to murder us both?
Fairchild turns. “Did I say you could talk?”
Kotke’s mouth snaps shut involuntarily.
His face is shaking, sweat drenching his forehead, falling into his eyes as he struggles for control of his body.
Fairchild fishes a phone from his pocket, fidgets with something on-screen, then holds it up for me to see.
A timer, counting down from 57 seconds.
“Start talking.”
“I told you, I don’t remember anything. I wake up in a different body every day or so, and that’s all I know. I swear.”
Fairchild turns the phone so he can see it. “Forty-one seconds. Are you going to spend them all lying?”
“I’m not lying! How the hell do I get you to believe me?”
“You can’t. The truth, and the truth alone, shall set you both free. Twenty-one seconds.”
Fairchild presses the barrel of his gun against Kotke’s head.
Kotke closes his eyes.
I hear his voice in my head: “Find your father. Find the catacombs.”
The catacombs?
Fairchild looks at the phone. I can’t tell if he intercepted Kotke’s message or not.
The timer beeps.
Fairchild looks at me. “Well? Are you going to tell us?”
“Please, don’t hurt him. If you think I’m lying, give me drugs or something to make me tell the
truth. You can do that, can’t you? Please, just don’t—”
Fairchild pulls the trigger.
I scream as Kotke drops to the ground, his brains painting the wall to our left.
No, no, no!
You fuck!
“Why did you kill him?” I scream, trying to break free from Fairchild’s grip. I’m desperate to step forward, to get in this monster’s face.
My body is being dipped in fire.
The pain is too much.
There’s no way to reach him.
But still, I have to try.
Pain is only temporary. I’m moving my feet to get used to the agony.
I’m planning to grab the gun in my holster.
I wonder if I can raise it quickly enough to kill him?
Though even if I can, there’s no way the others won’t retaliate and fill Brooke with bullets.
She knew what she was getting into working for these people.
Fairchild has to pay.
He must be stopped.
I try to step forward, but I’m still frozen.
Fairchild looks up and meets my gaze. “What are you going to do, Ella?”
He raises his gun.
“You’re not killing me. You’re killing your own agent. Are you ready to do that?”
I smile.
I’ve got him, and he knows it.
But Fairchild pulls the trigger and proves me wrong.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5
I wake up to a little girl giggling, and bright sunshine pouring through sheer white curtains inside a very pink bedroom.
“Wake up, lazy daddy.”
My head is aching from a nasty hangover. The sun is loud, just like the girl. I want to pull the blankets over my head and go back to sleep.
A flash of memory tells me who I am and jolts me awake.
I’m in the body of Brooke’s partner, Rich Wellner. Whoever, or whatever, is controlling my journey seems to have reason to keep me here in this world of black ops CIA. That could be good if it’s moving me closer to Chelsea or the answers to my life’s big mystery.
How did Fairchild and the others see through Brooke? How did they know me? How was I involved with either the CIA program or The First Front?
I get flashes of Rich’s night after Fairchild’s murder of Brooke.
He didn’t go home after helping to dispose of the body, which was as dead simple a task as bringing it to a sub-level incinerator. What does it say about this place that they can kill an innocent person — an employee — and then just haul her down to the incinerator like garbage?
