“Goodbye, Habeas Corpus.”
“Tell me about it. That bastard Brooks has bitten off more than he can chew this time.” Shaun began pacing behind the counter in somewhat of a daze. “Mark my words, there will be a revolt, and it will happen soon.”
“You may not want to say that out loud.” Chase hesitated, peering out the window.
“Screw them!” Shaun raised his voice, pointing outside. “They’re all puppets, the lot of them.”
Please, oh please, get me the hell out of here, Chase mused.
Thankfully, with an emergency at hand, Shaun was in a hurry to get down to business. “A thousand—I’ll give you one thousand for it.”
That’s less than five percent of what I paid for it. “I’ll take it,” he sighed.
Shaun nodded. Scooping the ring up, he took it with him into the back room. In shock, Chase remained at the front of the shop. A thousand dollars was far less than what he had anticipated receiving, but it would nonetheless make the remaining payment on the ring he’d had custom- made for her—his best friend; his love; his tragic engagement.
*****
Later that evening, as Chase lay in bed staring out the window, a knock sounded at his door. A small smile spread across his face with the knowledge of who the knock belonged to, interrupting the dark thoughts that had been encroaching his mind. Opening the door, he lit up at the sight of Paige.
“You don’t hate me, do you?” she asked.
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”
“About last night…I’m sorry. You bought the ring, and it obviously still holds some importance to you. Celaine obviously still holds some importance to you and…and I’m sorry I got so upset about that, Chase. It wasn’t my place to get as aggravated as I did. Take as much time as you need, really.”
He laughed. “Time’s up, I returned it today.”
“Really?” A wide grin cracked her porcelain face.
“Really,” he said, taking her into his arms.
She pulled away from him, looking deep into his soul with her wide eyes; eyes as blue as the sea. Slyly, she walked away from him to the door of his bedroom, motioning for him to join her. Leaving the past in the past, he followed her, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Two
Betrayal
I didn’t know who Marshall Leitner was; what he looked like; where I could find him, or whether ‘Marshall Leitner’ was even his real name. All I knew for sure was that I wanted him to suffer. Then, I wanted him to die. To be able to kill someone as defenseless and good-natured as Lucy Pierce so callously took a special breed of evil—an evil that needed to be eradicated from society. Before, I’d sympathized with the rebellion. Now, I was beginning to wonder whether their motives were truly as noble as I had once deemed them to be. But interwoven throughout all my unanswered questions was one grain of certainty: whatever their reason or motive for Lucy’s death, I would uncover it.
“What about Becca?” Ian asked, tearing me away from the dark depths of my subconscious.
“What about Becca?” I answered, confused.
“Is she seeing anyone?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Your lack of serious observational skills never ceases to amaze me. Tell me, have you ever looked above chest level on Becca? Or, oh, I don’t know, at her left hand, for instance?”
“Why would I want to look at her hands?” He threw a balled-up t-shirt out of the closet and into his bedroom. I watched as it traveled through the air, landing on the floor near where I sat on his bed.
“Are you really telling me that you have no idea what I’m getting at?” I asked, my eyebrow raised to help to drive the obvious home.
“What, is she married or something?”
“Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. Tell him what he’s won, Alex…A clue!”
“So, you’re telling me there are no other available women in this place but you and Kara?”
“No.” I picked the t-shirt up from off the floor without making eye contact with him. “Just Kara.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
“A-okay, Casanova.”
“This place just keeps on getting better and better.”
“It’s the gift that keeps on giving. A real blow to the libido,” I laughed.
“Tell me about it.” He continued scouring through the closet, pulling out shirts that were entirely too big for him. “Either they expect me to bulk up on steroids or they left your former partner’s training clothes in here.”
Blake—the thought of him made my soul weak. I’d tried for months, to stubborn avail, to cast aside my memories of him. “Yeah, I think it’s pretty safe to assume that you’ll never be able to fill his shoes, let alone his shirts,” I finally replied.
“No doubt. The man was a beast. Oh, what’s this?” Ian pulled out a blue button-up dress shirt that, like The Epicenter-issued training shirts, was several sizes larger than the man holding it. “And to the trash we go…”
“Do it and die,” I said, my teeth gritted together.
“What?” he asked in shock mixed with amusement.
“Just give me the shirt, okay?”
“Okay…”
Blake’s shirt came sailing across the room in my direction, its short flight disrupting the fabric just enough to enable the release of its hidden secrets. As it fell into my arms, I caught a familiar scent of cologne. A familiar scent of Blake.
“May I ask you something?” Ian looked at me thoughtfully.
“I suppose.”
“Is what Cameron said true?” he hesitated. “Did you and Blake have something going on? Did he really die because of you?”
My body became rigid with guilt. Holding the shirt on my lap, I twisted its buttons between my fingers as if the very act of doing so would somehow release the tension imprisoned within me. “That was more than just something,” I replied. “Something implies a singular object. You’ve just asked me three loaded questions, all capable of opening their own Pandora’s Box.” I looked up at him from my inspection of Blake’s shirt, knowing he wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. Reluctantly, I continued in order to put myself out of my misery. “Everything Cameron says is subjective. How he views the world—right or wrong, truth or lies—may not be how most people view the same situation. No, Blake and I didn’t have anything going on other than a friendship and a bond that eventually you and I may share as well. Where that bond would and wouldn’t have taken us had he lived, I can’t tell you as I don’t own a crystal ball. Did I cause Blake’s death? Yes…yes, I did.” I saw that Ian’s face had changed from one of mild interest to one of concern. “Blake died because of my lack of self-control and selfish decisions. Those decisions are ones I will have to live with for the rest of my life. He wasn’t just my partner, he was one of the best people I’ve ever known, and his death was entirely my fault.”
Ian picked a box up from off the closet shelf, closed the door and joined me on the bed. “You two became close as partners,” he spoke. “He had feelings for you and his ultimate decision to save you is what got him killed. It was his choice to protect you, not yours.”
A familiar wetness infiltrated my eyes. “When I looked into his eyes right before he slipped away, he seemed so at peace; as though, for the first time in years, he could relax. He had no worries. His only concern was with me being here without him.”
“Good Lord, the man had it bad.” Ian ran his hand through the hair on the back of his head in thought. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to worry about that happening with me. If you do something stupid, I’ll let you reap the consequences of your actions, and you most definitely don’t have to worry about me developing feelings for you outside of our little partnership here.”
“Darn, and to think I prettied myself up for nothing,” I laughed. “Alas, how will I ever cope with being literally the only woman who Ian Grant has ever turned down?” I put the back of my hand against my forehead, feigning despair. “How will I ever go on living?”
“Are you done?” he asked, annoyed.
“I think so,” I said, letting my hand fall back down on my lap. “For now, anyway. What’s in the box?”
Ian removed the lid from the box perched atop his lap, taking out a camera that resembled somewhat of a historical relic. “It was my dad’s,” he answered proudly. “And it was one of the few things I was able to salvage after he passed. Before my mother went on her rampant disposal of everything that’d once been associated with him.” He fumbled with the lens cap until it popped off, where he promptly inspected the lens, using his shirt to wipe off film that had collected on its surface. “I found it tucked away in the storage shed in our backyard, and I hid it at a friend’s house. Man, was my mom pissed. She wanted to sell it and dispose herself of his memory, but I wouldn’t let that happen. Hell, the only reason why she even kept me around was because she had to. That’s why I hauled ass out of there as soon as I turned eighteen, grabbing this camera and a duffel bag. I gave her exactly what she wanted. Absolutely no trace left of my father.”
“I’m sorry, Ian.” I felt my arm instinctively wrap around his back, holding him as though it were second nature.
“Don’t go all soft on me,” he said. “I don’t need you falling for me and stealing shirts out of my closet, too.” I hastily removed my arm, elbowing him in the process. “Cheese,” he announced in retaliation before I could protest. The camera flashed, blinding me, leaving residual black dots hovering in my eyes well after the picture had been taken.
“That antique still works?” I stood up, rubbing my eyes to rid myself of the offending ocular disturbance.
“Of course it still works.” Ian’s voice held a twinge of contempt. “Most of the photographs in my apartment were taken with this beauty. You need to show some respect for your elders.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head as I left both the room and Ian to his memories.
Why I saved Blake’s shirt from certain demise was an answer even I didn’t know. But I had, and as I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, I found myself unable to release it from my grasp. My feelings for Blake had not extended beyond a friendship, albeit a deep friendship. Still, this one inanimate object, much like Ian with his father’s camera, had me in its complete control. With the tip of my finger, I traced the outline of the top button, making hundreds of laps around its circumference as though in a trance.
Realizing the unhealthy nature of my actions, I threw the shirt in a feeble attempt at freeing myself from its hold on me just as another blast of cologne socked me in the nose. The memories, both the pleasant and the painful, flooded instantaneously back into my thoughts, causing me to succumb to them, and I retrieved the shirt from the foot of the bed almost as soon as it landed there. Clutching the cotton fabric tightly to my chest, I laid in bed and sobbed.
*****
Marshall Leitner stood before the crowd, delivering his usual Wednesday night oration. His boisterousness infused the attendees, many of whom were already basking in the glow of their own nervous excitement. Tonight, their leader’s infinite energy bordered on being nearly enough for them to ignore the distraction of the stifling heat baking them within the cabin’s bedraggled walls. From the combination of body heat, the fire roaring in the archaic fireplace, and the numerous computer monitors set up around the room, which allowed members from other parts of the country to gain access to their meetings, it was as though they’d been thrown into a slow cooker.
A plan had been laid out. The date, the time, and, most likely, the hour of their deaths was being set into motion. No one betrayed President Brooks without facing repercussions. All of the unexplained disappearances of those who’d tried in the past were evidence enough of that. But regardless of the consequences, soon Washington, D.C. would be taken by storm, forcing the rest of the country to stand up and take notice of the injustices being carried out right under their noses. Yes, Marshall Leitner was invigorated. For today, his secret liaison would be joining their ever-expanding group.
In the middle of the meeting, Marshall found himself interrupted by a hesitant knock at the cabin’s wooden door. A knowing smile crept across his face in sync with the looks of hesitation spreading throughout the rest of the cabin. Roll had been taken, all were accounted for, no new membership requests were being presented for consideration. A visitor at this hour was unexpected and cause for concern.
Marshall nodded at Tagitt Buckley, their inch-shy-of-seven-foot guardsman, to open the door and allow the stranger entry. Across the cabin, tensions mounted as the hooded figure, whose features were none too discernible, kept his head down towards the floor as he cautiously walked through the crowd without so much as a glance in anyone but Marshall’s direction. Slight relief spread through the atmosphere of the cabin when their leader greeted the man as one would a friend whose absence had been particularly prolonged. After brief pleasantries, Marshall turned to face the crowd.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, “what we have here is our mastermind. The person who has quite literally stuck his neck out to make all of this possible. He’s my right-hand man, and the eyes and ears to every pertinent piece of information we’ve received thus far, and shall continue to receive until we’ve served our purpose.”
Applause bounced off the wooden walls of the cabin, creating an impromptu source of airflow, which saturated the stagnant air. Marshall motioned for the mystery man to join him at the podium where they locked eyes, nodded, and, with the removal of his hood, the man revealed his identity to stunned gasps.
“What the hell is this!” Charlie Withers, a weathered Army vet, proclaimed in outrage, standing on fatigued, yet miraculously sturdy, legs victimized by the early stages of Lou Gehrig’s Disease.
“Calm down, Charlie, calm—”
“Don’t admonish him, he’s absolutely right to question this,” Bruce Vaupel, a man only slightly younger than Charlie, interrupted. “Have you gone mad, Marshall? This is nothing short of insanity. This man is the enemy.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Vaupel,” Marshall interceded, “I’ve got my wits about me and plan to keep it that way. I’m assuming you’ve all heard the saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies even closer.’ Well, that’s exactly what’s going on here, but I’ll go ahead and allow Mr. Delaney to convince you of that.”
Senator Jeremiah Delaney took the podium and cleared his throat, a look of contemplation spread across his refreshingly sincere visage. “I know you don’t trust me,” he began, greeted by a slew of ‘you’ve got that right.’ “You have every right not to trust me. Hell, you have every right not to trust anyone ever again. When Carver and I first began working together, I fell in love with his vision. He had a vision for the world—a vision of economic prosperity; a vision of uniformity. I was proud to be a part of his Presidency.” He paused to gather his thoughts, glancing at the consternated stares scattered about the room. “Even after the initial attacks, I was proud to be a part of the command of such a revolutionary thinker and brilliant leader. Like you, I was duped into falling in love with an illusion. And now, like you, I’m seeking a way to right the wrong that has been done to our country.”
“Somehow, I’m not convinced,” a woman’s voice rang out, met with concurrence across the room. Marshall shook his head, agitated.
“I don’t expect you to join my fan club now, if ever,” Jeremiah countered. “But I promise you, on my life, I want exactly the same things you do. Carver is out of control, and he must be brought down. This devastation has got to end. My only regret is that I won’t be partaking in the takedown myself.”
“Oh, but you are partaking, my friend,” Marshall interceded, speaking directly to the group. “Senator Delaney here is far too modest to admit this, but the information he’s provided has been crucial in the instrumentality of our impending revolution.”
Jeremiah nodded, addressing the crowd. “In just a few short weeks, there will be a very public, very televised soiree at Potomac Pa
rk. Carver will be there. His presidency depends upon it. Also present will be those superheroes everyone seems entranced with. You see, public opinion of Carver is dwindling in direct correlation to their realization of what’s transpired this last decade. That superhero duo, or whatever they are, is one of last threads holding his presidency together.” He looked back up at the crowd, noticing that he possessed their undivided attention for the first time since he began speaking.
“Not surprisingly,” he began again, “Brooks will be parading his super duo by his side as though their very creation depended solely upon him. The sad part is that despite the outright transparency of his actions, the people will buy it, along with whatever else Carver wants to sell them because of their misguided faith in those super humans, the very duo whose strings unknowingly belong to Carver. He’s the ultimate puppeteer. Like our country, they’ll be used for his own devices, and he’ll be bought the time he needs. Time we can’t afford. During the rally is when you need to strike. Security around Washington, D.C. will be tight, but they’ll be distracted, with their concentration focused on the attendees at the rally. Your best bet is to surround the park or create a barricade of some sort. You’ll need to act quickly. Your aim will need to be precise because you know theirs will be.”
“What about those super schmucks?” A man’s voice came from one of the speakers affixed to the monitor displayed for the Texas unit. “How are we going to get through them?”
“No one ever said there wouldn’t be fatalities,” Marshall answered.
“But they aren’t invincible,” Jeremiah added. “They’re strong, they’re fast, and they know what they’re doing, but they can be brought down. In fact, quite a few of them have been already. Our country has just been kept in the dark about it.”
“All right,” Marshall regained control of the podium. “You know the plan, you know the consequences, and you know the identity of our informant. If there’re any of you who want to back out now, who want to reintegrate back into Brooks’s dystopia, I suggest you leave now.”
Vendetta Nation (Enigma Black Trilogy #2) Page 2
