“The guards have been directed not to apprehend you, Private, that is, unless you intend on leaving here so soon...relax.” Something about the elder man’s tone grew darker. So, he was another telepath. How many were there within this cryptic and illicit organization?
“Of all of our many varied and covert associates, young man, you have proven yourself to be by far, the strongest, the most receptive, and the most effective. And yes, I am also a telepathic clairaudient, not quite as strong as you in my day, but of the highest form. Needless to say, most of my abilities have dwindled with age. The demonstration of your abilities upon poor Caleb was quite impressive.”
“I never meant to—”
“Good riddance, Private...irrelevant.”
So someone else’s life was irrelevant waged next to their goals.
“What do you want with me?” He spoke as his head was directed up at the screen, asking the question in vain, already knowing the answer.
“You are going to take over for me, Private, when the time comes.” He closed his eyes softly at the further mention of his advancing age. “With you, we can achieve so much more with one mind than our efforts of so many combined. The FBI had abandoned this operation to further their more mundane approaches. We will soon establish our efforts as superior with you at the helm of this operation.”
The old man on the screen read his thoughts before he had time to form them.
“Our motives? Our motives are simple: a highly effective state of world security. Imagine a world where wars have been eliminated because we have read our enemies’ minds beforehand, overheard their strategic plotting down to the minutest detail, or seen their actions remotely from a great distance. Such great achievements of our national defense would become outstanding accomplishments on the part of highly enabled psychic paragons such as you.”
Even then, he felt there was more, but this time he buried his thoughts carefully.
“And if I refuse?”
The man looked in closer from beyond the screen.
“You cannot refuse us, Private. After all, you are a murderer now, aren’t you?”
“Foster was—”
“Yes, Foster was trying to kill you, Private. But can you prove that? Then there is the issue of Myra. She was an unarmed woman who may have been defending herself, that is, until you shot her. You see, Private, we can expose each other. You were a young soldier taken straight from this hideous war by your own consent, and then you went haywire during our illegal research. You lost your mind, Private. You killed people.
“So, you see, it is either their prison, or ours. Besides, we know where your family is, and yes, we know about her. Distractions can be dealt with quite effectively.”
He felt both his heart and his soul sink somewhere into oblivion. Then there was the issue of what had occurred in Nam, overhearing the plans for sneak attack. He would have to explain, but would anyone believe him? What if they tried to implicate him in some way? What if they tried to paint him as a lunatic even though he could prove his abilities?
“That’s just it,” the man continued. “Do you really want to expose your family, and her, to this alarming ability that has now come to the forefront of your life? Do you think they could tolerate it? What about her...what would your ability mean to her life? I’m sure you’re aware that psychic abilities of this nature are often heredity. Was having children part of your plans, Private? Would they end up forgiving such an inheritance?”
“Shut up!” In the flush of anger he felt rushed, confused. He had no doubt that they would harm his family, all of them, including her. Dangerous minds were at work, and if he didn’t comply, they might kill him, and them. He had no choice; he would have to play their game at least for a while. There would have to be a way out, somehow, sometime, but right now, there was no escaping this psychic band of terrorists.
“That may someday be possible, but within moments, your family will receive word that you have been reported MIA. After all, your superiors were unaware of what happened to you the night you were brought here.”
All of it had been an elaborate abduction.
“You will be given a whole new identity, and of course, you will be awarded a life of considerable financial compensation for your allegiance. You’re about to become a very rich man, never wanting for anything.”
...Except for her, his family, and his friends.
Fear had frozen him solid. He would have given anything to be back on that bridge right now or back in the jungles fighting fiercely for his country, anywhere but this nightmare that began to settle in like an unforeseen storm. He couldn’t let them harm his family or her; he wouldn’t let that happen.
He looked up into the dark, aged eyes on the screen and then lowered his own eyes and head in defeated consent. Satisfaction bellowed from the old man’s elated voice.
“Excellent choice, Private, and I assure you, you won’t regret it.”
He sank to the floor and felt part of his soul slip away...forever.
* * * *
The screen had faded back to black, and he’d sat alone for hours, listening to nothing but the sounds of the machines. He’d slumped, immovable, into a random chair within a small cubicle, the aches from his exhausted body kicking in the lull of endorphins. His mind was clouded, cluttered, confused; he could hear nothing if he tried, only the machines. Today, lives were lost, threatened, and altered forever, the chaotic turmoil of which, left him spent and speechless.
He was roused from the drifting reverie by the sound of the elevator doors as they opened. The two familiar guards neared him, only this time with expressions of almost friendliness, hospitality.
“Right this way, Sir.”
Sir, why had they called him “Sir?”
So suddenly, everything had changed, as though he’d killed the witch with a bucket of cold water. They escorted him out of the underground and into an awaiting limo, and the door was slammed shut by the chauffeuring guard. He sat back and let his mind go blank, a technique he would soon need to master.
The drive took thirty minutes, after which, the guards led him up to a plush, private penthouse. The spacious accommodation had new, light-blue, shag carpeting with stylish, modern furniture in the living room, as well as a kitchen, an office, a large master bedroom, two bathrooms, and a balcony displaying a magnificent oceanfront view.
“Who am I waiting for, him?” He asked the guards in a more poignant tone.
“No, this is your home now, Sir. You will find everything you need in your office.”
So, this was one of his compensations? After everything they’d done to him, he still found it hard to hate the immediate surroundings as he looked around the spacious suite. He turned and saw the guards leaving.
“Wait, what am I supposed to do?”
“As we said, Sir, you will find everything you need inside the office. This is your penthouse; everything in here belongs to you.” As the guards descended in the suite’s elevator, the silence of a new life greeted him expectantly. He found the office down the hall, first door on the left-hand side.
Against the wall was another screen like the other, though black for now. A large desk sat opposite the screen, and oak bookshelves lined the walls. He sat down at the desk and slowly, cautiously, opened the drawer.
Inside he found a passport, a forged birth certificate, and a driver’s license. He placed the contents upon the desk and examined them. The pictures on the corresponding ID’s were of him, only the name didn’t match, and now for the first time, he was introduced to his new identity. He looked down at his new name underneath headshots they had taken of him in the beginning.
Roman Paul Hadley; Annapolis, Maryland.
So that was his new name: Roman Hadley. What if someone, somewhere, sometime, recognized him? Did they consider that?
Just as he sat contemplating, the black screen turned on, and an image of the old man appeared, uninvited.
“Congratulations, Roman. You’re a new
man now. As I’m sure you’ve gladly gathered I will no longer be calling you Private. I trust you’ve found your surroundings most comfortable?”
He stared at the screen with contempt.
“That’s okay, we will become fast friends; I assure you. If you look in the drawer to your right, you will find all that you need, and more will be supplied to you.”
He opened the drawer, and the greenish-gray splendor greeted him seductively. He pulled the wads out of hiding and placed them in front of him.
“You may count it if you like. It’s all yours.”
The wadded piles of hundreds, fifties, and twenties packed the drawer full, and as he touched it, the smell of freshly minted cash assailed his nostrils.
“There is two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. You will receive another payment in three months. You have no bills, my friend; your accommodations are seen to. You may live in comfort as you see fit.”
He looked at another ID card he’d failed to recognize at first. It was a Federal Bureau of Investigation badge, and he, Roman Hadley, was listed as a special agent.
“So, wait, I work for the FBI?” He was confused even more.
“You work for us, Mr. Hadley. Your identification as a special agent is your cover, a very convenient cover.”
“But how can you continue to masquerade as the Bureau when—”
“Right under their noses, Mr. Hadley, we have been doing so for quite some time. You will exist as Roman Hadley, and we will handle the rest.”
And so he passed the years as Roman Hadley, the wealthy and reclusive Roman Hadley. In the first of those few years, he utilized his ability in countless covert projects, listening remotely to distant hijacking plots, assassination plans, corrupt politicians, even a scandal that had enveloped the White House. Later, the focus had geared toward issues of security, listening to plans and directives, new ideas and advancements, and reporting all that he’d secretly overheard back to the group.
These various pieces of information were compiled and fed into the database of the machines he’d seen in the underground, which were then stored, reproduced, and then examined to search for sensible patterns that could make logical predictions. It was around that time in 1974 when the man behind the screen was no more, and his assignment to succeed had begun.
He had never known the man’s name...
“It is better that you remain unaware; you will refer to me as ‘Z,’” the old man had replied, when he boldly asked. It was of no consequence now; the man was dead and now he was in charge. He would stifle his thoughts into silence toward the group’s remaining underling telepaths and work fast to find an escape plan.
But that was not to be had.
All documents and information regarding the rogue group and its illegal operations named Roman Hadley as the chief investigator, the leading investigative power behind the project. He’d been the fall guy in an elaborate strategy. The old man had framed him even before he died, associating the entire operation to the fictitious identity forcefully bestowed upon him, and then conveniently leaving him in charge of the unwanted legacy. If discovered, he faced any number of federal charges including criminal conspiracy, treason, espionage, even murder.
In 1976, the rogue group received news that the FBI had disbanded their remote psychic research projects. This had caused a stir among the group because the cover that served as a mirror operation was now blown and non-existent, yet he was not hopeful for a way out; all indicators pointed to him, and even though he served at the helm, the threat toward his loved ones still remained in effect.
Some hidden source of authority had anonymously threatened him. Z had obviously not worked alone; he was only one of many players in this dangerous game. He had known this much, for this unknown source had continued his compensation. Accepting it all of these years had made him feel even guiltier.
He continued the group’s research projects as a low-key, psychic investigative group. No mention of the FBI would ever be made again. Silently, he went on searching and plotting in his mind any possible exit strategies, but years had turned to decades, and hope finally led to acceptance.
The remote viewers would find him soon enough if he disappeared. There was one absolute way out, but every time he looked at the revolver he kept in his desk drawer, he thought of her and the hope that he might see her again one day. There was also the fear of surviving the bullet to the brain and trading one Hell for another, or thinking on it so much that one of the many telepaths in this operation would expose him.
One of the group’s many functions was discovering telepaths around the country and tracking them telepathically through channeling. That’s what the blinking lights on the map in the underground had been: tracking indicators used by remote viewers and listeners, representing the physical presences of those for whom they watched and listened.
He had learned of Sidney Pratt when the young man was only a boy, a very highly effective listener who could hear the dead with an ability that was biblically resonant. Then unexpectedly, the young boy had led him to her. It was a sign. He’d entered young Sidney’s mind several times but then desisted, remembering what had happened to Caleb.
He bided more years until Sidney Pratt became a member of the elite and nationally recognized Paranormal Research and Investigative society at his university. Roman Hadley quickly found himself a seat on the board of directors. But the young group would never meet him in person; he kept tabs on them telepathically, especially Sidney, but he would remain unseen. They were also unaware of his location whether it be in Pittsburgh, Chicago, New York, London, or any of the various places he easily frequented around the world.
Then through a strange and tragic coincidence, the connection Sidney had to her had suddenly been re-established. His sign had returned. What if Sidney Pratt was a powerful enough clairaudient to take over where Roman Hadley had once been?
But as Hadley gently entered Sidney’s mind, he realized that the young man’s telepathic ability was miniscule; he was capable of hearing the dead, not the living. But Sidney had led him to another option, one more powerful than he had ever known, even himself—Ryan Quinn.
The young boy was powerful enough to channel Sidney’s dormant telepathy and be heard. He suspected that Ryan Quinn could even possess the same rare ability that he himself possessed, entering the minds of others. He’d waited years for such a find.
But now his entire past was returning to haunt him as life’s events assembled together on an unstable fault line, quaking before a climactic eruption. As he continued to gaze out the window reliving the past, words from the present formed in his telepathic mind. He redialed the number on his private cell and spoke again.
“He’s on his way to the hospital. Find him!”
Again, he didn’t wait for an answer as he slammed the cell shut. His heart began to drum an incessant pounding as a slight anxiety crept slowly through his veins. Everything was now coming to the forefront after all of these years. Like the first strategic move on an elaborate chessboard, his plan of escaping this nightmare had been placed in motion.
He had just given the order to kidnap Ryan Quinn, and this bold, instinctive move would determine both of their fates...forever.
Chapter Five
The steady rhythm of the car soothed her anger down to disappointment as she drove to the hospital, diverting her eyes to the street sides in search of her son. She realized why he’d taken off like that: because he knew she wouldn’t drive him. She had wanted him to stay away from those investigators, and none of them understood why.
What was so important that he had to tell Sidney Pratt? Did it concern his father, and if so, why wouldn’t he come to her? But, she knew the obvious answers to these questions. She had discouraged this ability from the onset, even making a deal with him that she feared he couldn’t possibly keep.
The guilt she sometimes felt was an unwelcome and recurring visitor whose face she’d slammed the door on many times. Now, that d
ecision began to haunt her, and she found herself being forced from the denial she’d become so comfortable in. The secret of Ryan’s father stirred inside of her, and silently she knew she couldn’t keep it hidden much longer; Ryan’s ability was becoming stronger.
She had lied to the investigators when she claimed not to know where his ability came from. Well, she spoke a half-truth; it didn’t come from her. Ian, Ryan’s father, was a different story...
Those sage-green eyes had attracted her long before she knew the truth about what kind of person lived behind them. In their younger days, he seemed like such an easy-going guy, a hard worker, and honest. He was a strong, strapping, Irish-American lad with reddish brown hair and enigmatic eyes she couldn’t ignore, and as they became closer, she felt like she could follow him anywhere.
They shacked up, as her mother called it, but those seemed like the good times. Then she got pregnant, and things slowly changed. She knew that Ian felt cornered, as Ryan was unexpected, but he loved him to death...literally. Under the mounting pressure of the enormous life change, not to mention the rising finances, Ian began drinking heavily.
He’d always drunk socially, but it became ongoing, bringing with it a domineering and possessive personality that overtook him. He was not the same man that once caused her heart to skip. He began coming home later, drunker, and meaner. Soon, it was he who threw the first punch when one night, well past midnight, a backhand struck the side of her face, stunning her into silent shock.
He’d flung a little-too-late dinner plate into the air, sending bites of beef, rice, and potatoes flying across the room to cling to the curtains, windows, and walls.
“How am I supposed to eat this? It’s cold!” His voice was a drunken roar she’d prayed her son wouldn’t hear. His temper had been building, but she had never seen him like this, his face turning the same shade as his bloodshot eyes. She eased the sharp sting of the right side of her face with the cold palm of her hand, and then in her mind, she answered him...
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