Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  Connor’s smile twitched and then fell, and he sighed deeply. “My job is to facilitate the processing of Others,” he replied, his voice suddenly burdened. “Sometimes that means omitting less-than-savory information.”

  “You mean lying,” Orion declared accusatorily.

  Connor forced a bitter, twisted grin as he admitted, “Yeah, I mean lying.”

  Orion took a step back, swallowing to prepare himself for his next question; he really didn’t want to know the answer, but it was something he needed to know. “Have you ever lied to me?” he asked, leaning against the counter and staring Connor down. Connor broke eye contact, just as Orion was afraid the agent would do, and then scowled at the kitchen tile as if he’d find the answer there. He chewed his bottom lip as he considered his next words, and Orion decided that he didn’t need to hear them; Connor’s actions had told him enough. “I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed, slamming his fists on the counter. “I can’t believe you! All those visits, those conversations…” He turned away, tearing at the roots of his hair as if they’d reverse time and salve his sudden heartache. “I thought you actually cared,” he spat.

  Connor seemingly leapt over the island, seizing Orion by the front of his shirt, and narrowed his eyes, boring his sudden rage into him. “Look here, mate! I may have not always told you the whole truth, but I’ve never lied to you,” he hissed, baring his teeth like a wild animal. “Who told you the truth about Tinder? About your sister?” He shook him to emphasize his points, draining Orion of any confidence he’d manufactured, and the younger man felt like a terrified child in the agent’s grip. “If I were you, I’d look to myself and my own survival instead of that damn self-righteousness because it helps nothing.” Then, perhaps revealing more than he meant to, he added, “Cooperation is your only choice here if you want to live, so you’d best straighten up and stick to the job!” His voice cracked, and though it seemed anger was the culprit, his eyes glistened and his mouth, already stretched wide in a grimace, contorted as it strained to express whatever emotions he was feeling.

  The agent stared at Orion for a few more heartbeats, menacing him with his anger, and then suddenly shrank away, releasing him and shoving him back. Connor swallowed, bowing his head and refusing to look anywhere but at the floor, and he retreated back to his stool, where his jacket lay. “I’m gonna go now,” he declared gruffly, though his voice wavered traitorously, and he quickly concluded, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He left, slamming the door behind him, and Orion sank against the bar.

  While Connor’s outburst had terrified him on a primitive level, it had also served to confirm Orion’s fears: The agent’s friendly overtures had only been an act to secure his cooperation as if his sister’s continued safety wasn’t enough of an incentive. Now more than ever, he needed to determine a way to extricate himself and Cassie from their present situation and disappear.

  Part VIII

  Code Name: Gorgon

  Cassie had given up on normal. All the years she’d tried to emulate her peers became a wasted effort once the universe threw her its latest curveball, and her homicidal father had also turned out to be a serial killer. No more would she strive for the top tier of the cheerleading team or to win swimming medals. If she was going to stand out, she was going to do it on her own terms and not through society’s approved avenues. She’d chopped off her long hair, dyeing the remaining red locks black and changing her hairstyle to a jagged-edged, flattened pixie cut. She abandoned New York’s upscale brands for ripped, dark garments that openly displayed her discontent. After her transformation, she discovered the irony that her new recalcitrant and cavalier style took as much effort to coordinate and maintain as her previous prep attire.

  She also ditched the former “in crowd”—she didn’t want to expend the energy necessary to be accepted into their circle—in favor of the fringe groups, only to discover that they weren’t as delinquent or iconoclastic as their projected reputations. The worst rebellious behavior they undertook was drinking at a secluded location, which was an act that she entertained only because she knew it would anger her brother; she didn’t even consider her caretakers’ reactions. A few claimed to do drugs, and she knew which ones were potheads and which ones did meth; she stayed away from the latter because she was rebelling, not trying to ruin her life, and she could still hear Orion’s scolding voice in her head, much to her annoyance.

  Her new friends did not know about her or New York, and her lack of disclosure kept them at a comfortable distance. Her cover story acknowledged the Vickers as her legal guardians: They were distant relatives who were watching over her until her parents returned. She never indicated from where her parents would return, which initially gave her an air of mystery until one of her classmates accused her of being overly dramatic and claimed that she’d been abandoned or that her parents were in prison. She allowed the story to stand because there wasn’t much she could do to counter it, and she didn’t care about her parents’ legacy, no matter what was said. This even extended to the idea of her parents; she didn’t have anything in common with them except genetics, and their appalling behavior didn’t reflect on her, so there was no reason to defend them.

  With fewer distractions available, she couldn’t avoid putting effort into her schoolwork, and her grades improved, though only marginally. She wasn’t going to attend college like her parents or her brother because it hadn’t worked out for any of them. She’d put in the effort to prove that she could, and once she’d made her point, her grades had again deteriorated to an acceptable average.

  She also hadn’t experimented with her pyric abilities since her arrival in Pennsylvania. She’d completed the BSI’s training course, which had helped her hone her self-control and discipline and had further dampened any interest she’d had in developing her talent. It was no longer a game—the agency’s stringent guidelines had assured her of this—and her previous solitary forays had attracted the wrong sort of attention, so she wanted nothing further to do with that side of herself. Unfortunately, it put her slightly at odds with her new clique, who were exploring their pyromaniac side, but she also tolerated their childish pranks and experiments because even though she was determined not to be popular, she still needed to “belong”; they were her new group, and she needed to show them loyalty if she wanted to be accepted.

  - - -

  Lawrence Johnson worried the toothpick, chewing it squarely on the left side of his mouth until it splintered. He then deftly rolled it to the other side and spit out the offending shard before continuing. Like many of the long-term Plum Island staff, he lived in the nearby village of Greenport. He could easily have finished his report in the morning or from the comfort of his living room, but he had no one waiting for him at home nor any significant connections outside work, so he continued writing it in the scarce company of late-night coworkers who didn’t want to go home to empty houses either.

  It hadn’t always been like this, although he couldn’t remember where it had gone wrong. He’d had a girlfriend in college and plenty of friends in the service, and over the years, he’d slowly lost each one until he’d gotten to the point where he spoke only to his mother on holidays. Perhaps it had been his ambition and his passion that had driven everyone away, and now he only interacted with his coworkers during custody transfers and the irregular meeting. Antithesis was his most frequent companion, and he would never consider her more than a tool—a weapon in the war against Others. While some might believe it to be a lonely existence, he knew that it would be worthwhile as long as the mission was accomplished.

  His cell phone rang, tugging him from his introspection, and he answered it automatically, “Special Agent Johnson.” He never received personal calls.

  There was a pause at the other end of the line and the rough clearing of a throat before he heard the abrasive tenor of his associate, Morgan Connor. “Hey, yeah, Johnson, are you bac
k at headquarters yet?”

  Subconsciously, Johnson checked the lower right-hand corner of his computer display for the time. “We’ve been back for a few hours,” he replied. He’d driven the van while Antithesis had observed Nihar Shah and his sister in the back. It had been an uneventful but noisy trip as the man-child had frequently demanded entertainment before Antithesis had dosed him with a mild tranquilizer and he’d curled up contentedly in his sister’s lap. Processing into the facility had gone much more quietly, as Sitara had gently encouraged her brother’s cooperation, and they’d been shown to a cell for the night. There would likely be a battery of tests tomorrow to assess whether Nihar could control his invisibility before a final determination would be made about his condition, but Johnson believed that he’d be euthanized. While invisibility was potentially a useful skill, letting a child wield it would be foolhardy.

  “Thought so,” Connor replied, disappointed. “Look, I think I have another Other on my hands.”

  “Another already?” Johnson exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “You do work quickly.” Being partnered with the BSI’s primary escort, he knew firsthand about Connor’s impressive acquisition rate, but he’d never seen such a short time frame between his discoveries.

  He heard a hiss, like air passing through clenched teeth or a vocalized grimace. “Not quite yet, mate. It’s more of a hunch,” Connor admitted reluctantly. “Do you think you could turn around and maybe head back our way?”

  Johnson hesitated, chewing on his answer as he sat up straight and leaned into the phone. The bureau’s best-kept secret was the fact that Morgan Connor was an Other, which was information so crucial that it was never entered into the database and never mentioned to anyone below a certain clearance. Nevertheless, all field agents knew to defer to Connor’s instincts, as he was usually right when it came to detecting more of his kind. This placed Johnson in a bind, as he was obligated to keep Connor in the dark—the BSI bent over backwards to conceal the truth from its prize agent—while still following the bloodhound’s intuition. “I’ll have to requisition some funds for the trip, Connor,” he replied carefully, trusting that his associate had more to share. Since Connor’s fieldwork was typically thorough, it had been assumed that his uncanny knack for finding Others had been pure talent, until it had proved to be statistically implausible. “That’ll be difficult to do based on a hunch.”

  “I’m hoping to have something a bit more solid on him by tomorrow evening. I just need the time to dig up the evidence,” Connor told him. His haughty, insufferable attitude crept in as he added, “Catch him in the act, so to speak.” He could hear his conceited grin, and he wondered whether the agency’s ostracism was a contributing factor to his irritating personality. Since he wasn’t a true agent—Connor was an Other, after all—his peers distanced themselves from him, treating him as an outsider, but Connor probably believed that the treatment was due to professional jealousy over his prolific career.

  “And if you don’t, I’ll be in the lurch for a couple hundred bucks,” Johnson countered.

  “I’m good for it.”

  Johnson smirked, recalling the shabby suit that Connor typically wore, and he wondered where Connor’s money went, as they earned similar salaries. Regardless, Connor’s simple comment provided him an opportunity: If he framed his assistance as a favor, Connor had no reason to question his return to New York City. “I’m not sure you are,” he teased, “but if I were a betting man, I’d have to put money on your track record.” He purposely stretched out the silence, sighing for dramatic effect, and added, “Antithesis needs her rest, so we’ll have to head out tomorrow morning.”

  Connor grinned. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Johnson agreed. “Just get the evidence,” he commanded and hung up the phone. He tossed the device onto his desktop and leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t over yet; Connor still needed to provide proof of some kind so that it wouldn’t be suspicious when Johnson apprehended his target. Johnson glanced at his computer, the dark cursor in his unfinished report still flashing rhythmically against the white background, and he realized that he should have asked for a name so that he could do his own research. Perhaps Johnson was more fatigued than he thought, and he decided to head home for the night. Connor and his conundrum would still be there in the morning.

  - - -

  Orion was suddenly awakened by a short, clipped noise that he imagined was a scream. He clutched his sheets closer, pulling them up to his chin, and waited for the sound again. It did not come and was instead preempted by a crash and several loud thumps. Overcome with the curiosity that fear sometimes inspires, Orion crept from his bed and stole through the dim, empty house searching for the source of the disturbance.

  A heavy form suddenly slammed into him, knocking him to the floor and drawing the shrillest, most terrified cry he could muster. The figure, disoriented by the perplexing obstacle, clasped a hand around his tiny arm and held tightly until a light was switched on. Orion bawled louder: The woman who had become his captor had a deep gash through her face and into her skull, and the remains of one bloody ear sagged against her shoulder. She was bleeding profusely, and the blood oozed down her neck and arm and even down onto Orion. The stranger didn’t hesitate, seizing the smaller Orion and clutching him close to her bare chest. He could hear her ragged breathing and feel her heart thumping rapidly against his ear.

  She hadn’t taken more than a step before the two of them toppled to the ground, upended by an unknown force. He tumbled away from her motherly embrace, her fingers reaching for him desperately as the distance widened, and her already fearful face twisted into horror, as if she were suddenly more worried about his well-being than her own. His small form was swept into another hold—a firm security that was somehow cold despite the human touch—and he wished that he could help the prone woman. Though he could no longer move, he reached out to her through the life he felt draining from her and attempted to reverse its flow and restore it to her.

  Orion awoke again slowly, with no starts and to no strange noises, and yet he still clutched the sheets tightly against the sudden chill in his bones. He had experienced another nightmare, nothing more, and he quieted his breathing as he tried to recall the details. He’d once read that nightmares were the result of unresolved issues that manifested while one slept, and while it seemed true—he often dreamed about losing his sister and, more recently, about his father’s murder spree—he was uncertain how to interpret his most recent experience. He wanted to understand; it was the best way to dismiss the emotions his dreams created, and this one had disturbed him deeply, making him question his early life at Bay Ridge. The woman bore a familiarity and did not seem to have been created by his subconscious, yet he could not recall meeting her in the waking world.

  Once more, his mind drifted toward his sister and the lack of communication between them, and though he knew it was either a late hour or early in the morning, he nevertheless called her; it was time to end the inexplicable silence between them, even if he had to pressure her into it. The phone rang repeatedly, continuing on to voicemail, and his second try yielded an immediate banishment. She was awake and did not wish to speak with him, so perhaps he should wait until she was ready; harassing her would only encourage her stubbornness. Reluctantly, he tossed his phone back on the nightstand and turned over to go back to sleep.

  - - -

  It was one of the rare mornings when Amanda Darling-Whitcomb’s schedule was clear and she could eat by herself. She used these silent meals to rejuvenate, and she fell into an almost meditative state as she watched the three flickering television screens, giving none noteworthy attention. There would be plenty of stress later in the day following meetings, decisions, and mini crises, so she soaked in the peace while she could, keeping the serenity in reserve for later use.

  She heard heavy footsteps behind her and d
idn’t immediately recognize them as belonging to one of her aides, so she assumed it was a bodyguard. However, a deep voice spoke, and she identified its owner as Moise Kabamba. “Mrs. Darling-Whitcomb, I apologize for the interruption,” he said softly. “Your staff said it would be all right if I spoke to you briefly.” Her private area was on a platform raised slightly above the rest of the establishment, and he stood at the bottom of the stairs, his hands folded politely in front of him.

  She smiled, inviting him closer, and he joined her at the table. “I have a few minutes. I’m just finishing up breakfast,” she explained.

  Moise smiled, slowly nodding his head appreciatively, and took a moment to collect himself. His fingers went to his lips, idly revealing his lack of a marriage partner, and his head tilted as he leaned toward his hand unconsciously. “If I do not sound too forward,” he carefully began, “I would like to invite you to my flat this evening, or whenever you are free, to express my great appreciation for your donation. I do not believe a simple breakfast adequately conveyed my gratitude.”

  Her experience with diplomacy enabled her to flawlessly freeze her convivial expression as she absorbed the invitation and its implications, and her hesitance to answer drew out the silence. She could feel his eagerness pouring out from him in waves, and while she often felt this in the presence of her staff and a few enthusiastic constituents, his eagerness had a different flavor—a strange undertone that was reminiscent of desire or desperation. As the mayor, she never ate with the members of her voter base unless they were particularly influential—a term she freely interchanged with “affluent”—but Moise had proven his ability to make connections, and the distinctive eagerness he generated gave her pause.