by Aral Bereux
They reached his residence. A single officer stood guard, his rifle resting to his left with the stock of the gun beside his boots. He straightened his back and saluted. Taris returned the salute and showed Doug into his quarters, where Sergeant Sweetheart rested on his bed. He gave her a cursory glance and slyly smiled at Doug as he unfolded the bandages from his hands, dropping the bloodied rags onto the table beside him.
‘Help yourself to a drink. I’ll have one, too, while you’re at it.’
Doug cocked his head at the girl, scantily clad in red lacy knickers, her breasts exposed. She lay on her side, flicking through a magazine. She glanced up, meeting his eyes with her baby blues, and moistened her lips with a lick of her tongue. His boyish good looks, though he was pushing two and a half centuries, returned as the stress of the week became a distant memory in her presence. He gave her a grin and his dark brown eyes flickered with charisma.
‘Something, isn’t she?’ Taris handed a tumbler of fine whiskey to him. ‘Dirty, just the way you like it.’
The glass pressing into his hand was barely registered. Doug looked past his shoulder to the young girl again.
‘The drink, that is,’ Taris teased. He turned on his feet to admire the attraction himself. ‘Sweetheart, be a doll and run a bath.’
They heard her sigh. She swung her legs over the edge, throwing the magazine down, and pottered into the bathroom, unapologetic for her nakedness. The water began splashing into the bathtub and Taris beckoned for Doug to follow him into his office.
‘If I may?’ Taris said, and stepped behind his desk. A small safe nestled inside the wall behind it. He turned the combination dial left, then right, and back left again, waiting for a light click to slip open the door.
Taris removed the crypt intelligence and comms slides he’d stored over time and spread them out over the large wooden desk. Doug skimmed over the first contents that crossed his hands, patiently dragging his finger along the screen of a comms. A smile filled his face as the information sunk in. When he looked across the desk, Taris was reaching into the back of the safe. Doug raised a brow quizzically.
‘When our fugitives join us, something special to welcome them aboard the NWO,’ Taris said, and held a vial between his thumb and finger. The clear liquid rippled inside its bottle. ‘This little baby’s been tested on some of our strongest rebels. Zavier Hocking, John Grey, Olivia Dean—’
‘Some of our best recruits,’ Doug said. ‘You’ve guarded this secret. Why?’
‘It hasn’t been tested on a full-blood, but I’m hoping the brothers or Julianna can assist. With this, the Senate and Council will have their Seer, and we’ll finally put this war behind us.’
‘Very good,’ Doug said. He moved from the desk, rereading the comms that Caden had inscribed himself. ‘This is very, very good. Everyone’ll be impressed.’
Taris sat the vial on his desk. ‘In a few days, Caden and his camp won’t be bothering us, and I have a suspicion your niece will be in his company when we arrive.’ He paused. ‘She’ll be searching for him, no doubt, if she manages to leave the city undetected with the IDM in her.’
Doug glanced in his direction with a questionable look. He returned the comms, and the beauty gracing them quickly distracted his gaze.
Sergeant Sweetheart stood at the doorway and leaned in. ‘Your bath is ready, Commander,’ she said quietly.
Taris concealed the vial in his hand, his fingers curled tightly around its body, slipping it into his pocket. ‘You shouldn’t be in here without knocking, Deveaux.’
Sweetheart gave him a pout, kicked up her heel as she arched her back playfully, and left them to their meeting.
‘More caution with who sleeps in your quarters, Taz,’ Doug said. He was readying to leave. ‘Wasn’t she the other officer involved?’
Taris spied the empty doorway. ‘She called it in,’ he said defensively, but he knew Doug had made a point. He’d been careless. Sweetheart was new to the camp, and he was already banging away with her on a nightly basis in his private quarters. It was a thought that nagged, and he’d taken precautions to have her watched. Nothing proven, but Doug’s words resonated.
Taris agreed. ‘You’re right, I’ve been reckless. She goes tomorrow. I’m bored of her anyway.’
Until Julianna, he thought, and licked at his dry lips. He worked hard to reel his mind in.
Sweetheart called him gently.
The bath beckoned to his aching body and he followed Doug through the living area to the door. The guard remained with his rifle firmly in grip, his eyes scanning for intrusions.
Sauntering down the steps, Doug faced the cool breeze coming in before pivoting into Taris’s stare. Taris lifted his hands, bringing his thumbs and first fingers together to create the triangle; he was saluting the symbol of the New World Order and displaying his allegiance. Doug responded likewise before heading to the grounds where everyone still cheered. He’d join them for the evening, liking a celebration as much as the next.
Taris stood in the doorway, listening to the crowds’ fervor that he had ignited. The vial in his pocket was smooth against his fingers as he rubbed along its glass body. He turned back in to take his bath with the doll waiting for him. For one last night, he’d enjoy her company. Then it would be Julianna’s turn.
Julianna would pay for this dearly.
Chapter 6
1930 HOURS.
THE SAFE HOUSE, SECTOR #3.
The Senate changeover in voting power arrived with Julianna’s fifth birthday. It had been the year her uncle gained his power in the Senate, the precursor for New World Order beginnings, established thirteen years later. She remembered it well. It had been the first year at the family estate in Oregon with her uncle. It had been the first birthday without her parents. Gifts carefully picked out by the nannies, showered upon her; gestures exchanged, but her uncle’s inability to express affection always remained.
She sat in the middle of the room, running her fingers over the beautiful new gifts. An exquisite doll from Europe, an expensive bike – everything a girl could want, even a chestnut-colored horse with a yellow silk ribbon around its neck.
Only she longed for her mother’s embrace, her father’s laugh, and her beloved toy bear. The three things her uncle refused to deliver.
Unfamiliar faces watched as she unwrapped present after present with their applause and laughter if she did something faintly amusing. Her uncle showered her with everything material he could lay his hands on – money was no object – but the day of the party was more than spoiling a little girl. Uncle Doug was showing his new acquisition off to everyone who cared. There was never any love, only criticism and pretenses, but she was special all the same.
She didn’t know how, or why, but the security posted behind her bedroom door every evening, and at her classroom during the day, suggested things weren’t as they seemed. Uncle Doug was fiercely protective of the little girl he didn’t love, no matter how badly she misbehaved.
Now, aged twenty-two, she opened her eyes and stretched an arm to rest behind her head in a different world. The room was dark, but she traced the outlines of objects propped in the room. A lamp that no longer worked rested in the corner, and a redundant television at least thirty years old, with a blanket of dust to match its age, sat on a chipped wooden table. The moonlight teased through the fractured window where a bullet had entered quickly to end someone’s life. The television’s screen reflected some of the light despite the layer of dirt and she laughed at the absurdity of it all, until a cool breeze forced her into a shiver.
She tightened the blankets over her chest and stared at the ceiling. The safe house was a fugitive’s haven, and Isis had done well to bring her in the way he had. She was grateful, but puzzled: the same question that took her back to her uncle looped in her head. Isis was fiercely protective, too. His generosity was out of character for a man who, on last conversation, had sworn she’d be alone if captured again.
Her rescue was a
pleasant surprise. Caden Madison’s offer was a surprise, too.
So protective. Even Taris wants me alive – why?
You’ll discover your own path in time. Stay hidden. You have an important role to play. Remember that, princess.
Her father’s voice whispered his final words over and over. She rolled restlessly in her bed. None of it made sense – and it never did. Her life was one big, nonsensical whimsy, and the only thing she was grateful for this evening was her rescue. At least I didn’t kill anyone today. No extra notches on my blade today. She couldn’t stop the obsession.
The tradition Caden had started in the woods haunted her. A minute with him, in the blink of an eye she had turned into an effective soldier, a killing machine.
Bloodlust, headaches...hate to see a pretty girl go wild.
Her hand slapped at the bed. Argh, need sleep!
Her eyes were heavy, but her mind nagged with the memories she tried hard to push away. Tired and wired, wired and tired, tired and...
The park where she wandered down memory lane had abandoned her this evening, her shoulder still ached, though healed again, and her head thumped away as the drugs Taris had given her wore off. The hours granted for rest were spent staring on and off at the flaking paint on the ceiling as she waited for her shift to start.
Isis had spent the evening berating her for her carelessness as her rescuers stood in the background pretending not to listen.
‘I thought you told Caden I was reckless, not careless.’ Isis became infuriated. ‘There is a difference, you know.’
She dared not mention the identification marker, and zipped her jacket tight to conceal the silver pendant around her neck. Obeying more orders to lie down and have it removed didn’t appeal.
Between the thick, black borders of the comms screen, his eyes were seething angry. She’d never quite had an experience, interrogation aside, where she was yelled at so intensely. He paced away from the monitor, and she’d been left wondering if they could keep up their ‘working’ relationship.
But his eyes eventually softened. There was a silence he allowed, and she’d been given the chance to explain herself. He nodded a few times, humming and ahhing, his eyes bobbing between the black borders hiding his identity. After much convincing and pleading, he suggested a possible contact who might know Caden’s new location. He’d hinted at watcher connections and muttered something about old students and past masters, nothing of relevance to her, until he’d mentioned the dangers as well. The address was reputable. Notoriously reputable, but she shrugged. His subtle movements between the borders showed his concern, and he agreed once more to help.
She sat up in the roughly made bed, the thoughts now leaving her for the smell of the mattress. She wondered how many rebels had found comfort in each other’s arms in this very room. Had Caden slept in this room? She pushed the blanket back at the thought and goose bumps formed along her arms as the breeze caressed her skin. Peering through the bullet hole to the street below, the streets in Sector Three were quiet. The preferred Sector for hiding, its labyrinth of alleyways and abandoned buildings rarely saw Militia presence. Tonight was no different.
A sweet sound reached her ears and drew her from her thoughts. She turned in its direction, to the wall with the bed pushed against it. An acoustic guitar sung its charm from another room. She stood and listened, remembering a time when she played music herself and sung without fear. She hummed along, the forbidden song familiar, the sweet sound of strings and gentle voice telling a story to anyone who bothered to care.
Sad voices sung quietly to its rhythm, singing about running and shaking away the pain and the earth quaking before everything died to be reborn again. Her heart weighed heavily with her own recent battle as she listened to the lyrics. She held herself tightly. The music gradually ascended, growing louder and angry. The song was common among the Rebellion comrades, and she’d heard it many times before. It was an anthem; she knew most of the words. She found herself swaying until the music stopped mid-song, and all was quiet again.
Soon, shift change would start. The occupants either finished for the evening or prepared for nightshift. Few others sat on the rooftop with sniper rifles, hunting for the warning signs to bugout.
There were four snipers concealed on the roof. Her sniper duty was in an hour. Isis’s notion of punishment meant going without comfort until she reached the camp. He wanted her to feel what the grunts felt, and somehow, deep down, she wasn’t quite sure if Isis was punishing her for her bloodlines or stupidity. It didn’t matter. She punished herself every day for both.
‘And now we can add Taris and the codes to the list,’ she muttered.
She slipped her jeans on and buckled the belt. The sidearm from Central Command rested on the corner chair and she eyed it dubiously. She preferred her knife, and, against orders from Isis, she returned to Club Star on foot, where her bike still propped and her knife rested in the dressing room. It didn’t go unnoticed –selected watchers reported her insubordination to Isis.
When she returned, he was waiting on the other end of the screen again. Another blast from Isis and sniper duty for the night; she was glad he wasn’t in the same building and surprised that General Weishaupt had refrained from the argument. Isis outranked everyone and the General respected rank – she supposed it was a win-win situation. Except for the nightshift duty assigned on a very cold night.
She reached for her knife, strapped it to her wrist, and swung her jacket over her shoulders. The sidearm holstered against her thigh; and a chill ran through her body. She pressed her hand over its cool steel until she needed both hands to pull open the jamming door.
The guitar played again, picking chords and solitary notes, so pretty, and she stopped to listen at the open door. The man sang his song from a top corner bunk. The bed sheets remained smooth made under his crossed legs, and when she reached his face, he gave her a warm nod of acknowledgment without breaking his song.
Thank you, kind lady.
She nodded back at his whisper before walking along the narrow hallway of boarded-up windows and worn carpet. He was a watcher, and not all of them readily admitted to it unless with their own kind. The honest gesture reached deep within, not leaving her until she opened the door at the end of the staircase, an internal fire escape leading to the roof.
The wind ripped across the rooftop. A low wall of bricks lined the boundary enough to shield against prying eyes from the street below.
Julianna pushed through the cutting wind maneuvering around the rusty vents poking their bodies from the roof, desperate for maintenance. She made her way to the man with the senior rank marked on the chain around his neck, easy to rip away if caught by the enemy.
The expert sharpshooters glanced at her while they squatted behind the brick, bracing themselves against the chill. She looked back, and the rifles balanced over the edge, returning to their views of the city. Julianna felt out of her depth as she took her final steps, even though Taris himself had trained her in the woods. ‘For kicks,’ he’d once said, and she remembered the eagle falling from the sky that he’d taken down.
For the kicks, shits, and giggles.
‘You the relief? You’re early?’ The Irish accent surprised her. Dark eyes peered from a wavy mess of tangled black hair.
She nodded to the rugged man, covered head to toe in black uniform, including his thick beard. He resembled Militia, and when she looked at his wrist, it stated clearly he was. The outline of a circle centered with the triangle and star in a thick black tattoo, was all she needed to see. The mark of the Militia displayed his allegiance to the New World Order. Taris had the same emblem on his chest, just above his heart. Below the allegiance were two small lines with insteps in the center of them. It reminded her of a history book she once found in her uncle’s library about a world war, a man named Hitler, and she took a step back. He was ex-HSD.
‘It’s okay,’ he smiled. ‘I’m a traitor.’ He rubbed the tattoo, acknowledging
it with a pang of regret. ‘Almost made it to Commander rank, too. Isis said we’d be expecting you. You’re Julianna, right?’
She crouched low. ‘I prefer J Rae.’
‘Well, J Rae.’ He extended his hand attached to the exposed wrist and she took his firm handshake reluctantly. ‘I’m Squad Leader Hensley. "Irish" to my friends.’ He pointed to the far corner. ‘You can take Barrett’s post. He’s been here in the cold since thirteen hundred. He needs first break.’
‘Sure.’ She took a step in the direction, careful to remain low and unseen.
‘J Rae?’ he called.
She looked in his direction. His gaze hovered around her neck and she reached around the pendant before hiding it away.
‘You know how to shoot one of those babies?’
‘Taught by the very best,’ she stated.
Officer Barrett handed over his sniper quickly, and showed her the ammunition hidden in a plastic box. She crouched in position, the corner walls not offering any fortification from the cold, and she wished for a warmer jacket, knowing she was there until sunrise.
From the roof, she searched the maze of roads for the quickest way to Sector Four, for the man Isis said could help. Her mind strayed to the one-sided argument she had experienced, stating her case to leave in the night. Isis had responded by switching the comms monitor off from his end, leaving her alone in the room.
‘Stubborn bastard,’ she muttered. Irish frowned at her. ‘Not you,’ she said quickly. Not you, she said again to herself and checked the monitor on the street below, ticking down the minutes.
By morning, if Deveaux’s concern was reliable, she didn’t have time to waste on rooftop shifts. She needed to warn Caden and his troops. If she found the man, Isis spoke of early, all good – if she couldn’t, well, she pushed the thought away and zipped her jacket over her chest… It was a no-brainer. If she failed, a lot of people would die.
