Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  When baby steps proved too much, he tried for minuscule steps. One eye open—asphalt. Another eye. More asphalt. Deduction? Okay, so I’m lying on the ground… in the street…

  Trying to move his arms felt like he imagined moving through mud might be. I can imagine and it’s mud. Second deduction. I’m not dead. Heaven doesn’t have mud bogs on asphalt. Hell doesn’t either. I think. Fire and mud don’t mix, right?

  Each semi-coherent thought prompted a bit more coherency, until Keith dropped his forehead to his hands and nearly screamed with the pain. Jaw broken. Shot. He sucked in air and winced at that, too. Cracked rib… Another attempt. Or two.

  That’s when the memory of seeing the asphalt connected a few important synapses. Gotta get off the ground.

  His head spun as he pushed through pain and got himself seated upright. His vision swam and blurred. Focus.

  The throbbing shifted to the right side of his head. Reaching up? Bad idea. Pain stabbed through one side and out his left ear. Sticky, semi-congealed blood covered that hand.

  That’s when Keith saw him—the skinny kid. Another memory flashed—the kids turning on each other. And me.

  Standing wasn’t a good idea—not yet. Instead, Keith crawled to the boy’s side. Three tranq darts. No way he could survive that. Checking the kid’s pulse confirmed. Dead. Kids are cruel. His conscience pricked him at that. People are cruel… we just hope kids will be the innocent creatures we want them to be and then are revolted when they aren’t.

  They’d gotten Keith in the thigh, right? He patted himself until he found the dart. Instinct took over. Break the needle, find dirt, press it deep into the dirt, hide evidence of disturbance. Stuff dart in pocket.

  There was another one—my ankle.

  Quick movements meant more blur, more swimming. He found it, though, and repeated the needle disposal process. That’s when it hit him. For me to be this messed up, they had to have gotten me again.

  He found it as consciousness continued to be a thing. Right there… bobbing out of his neck. It took more self-discipline to pull it out than Keith could have expected. Just the after effects of the drugs. No biggie. Pull. If only his psyche listened to his brain. Stupid TV shows.

  By the time he’d disposed of his final needle and pocketed the tranq, his head felt clear enough to allow him to process even more pain. Lucky me.

  A nearby chain-link fence, one he suspected he should recognize, gave him the support he needed to try to stand. Knees tried to buckle. Mouth filled with gunk again. Keith tried not to vomit. That’ll hurt with a broken jaw.

  Clutching the fence, he scooted down a few feet, paused, and scooted some more. Broken-down cars in the yard triggered another thought. The tow yard. And finally, the one that sucked the strength from him. Langat.

  Releasing one hand from the fence, Keith made his way as quickly as he could manage to where the gate stood locked. Combination. A glance up at razor wire told him he couldn’t go over. He’d have to remember.

  If I get it wrong more than twice, they’ll know where I am.

  A scan of the sky blinded him until Keith forced one arm over his head to shade his eyes from the glare of the morning sun. It had to be after ten o’clock. Langat would be a mess.

  C’mon, think. Combination.

  The seconds ticked in his mind with the relentless pressure of a bomb counting down to explosion. A minute followed. Two. Not words spelled as numbers. Not anything related to the Agency. Not personal like a birthday…

  A smile tried to form—and failed as pain shot through his jaw. Who knew? Keith thought as he punched in 1776—Independence Year. Who knew that smiling requires your jaw to function properly?

  Every bit of him wanted to race inside, get down, free Langat, and get them out of there. He just couldn’t. He needed a trip to Dr. Brecham, the Agency’s private doctor, and a new vehicle.

  The memory of the boy in the alley added another item to that list. And a clean-up crew.

  Something didn’t add up. The threat to Schmatloch came from a woman who had just posted pictures on Instagram of the family at the Dachau Memorial. The caption read: Met this man whose great grandfather was a guard here on liberation day. Like our grandfather, his didn’t survive.

  The image captured a young man holding one half of a sign and the woman who had built a hate-filled case against Schmatloch holding the other half. The sign read: Never Again. #nomorehate.

  The time stamp was just about the time that the call from Schmatloch came through.

  Mark captured a screenshot and zipped it to Tyler with a message saying he’d be right there. In the office, Tyler sat at Flynne’s desk scanning a bank of screens. Centered in front of him, Flynne’s Newton’s cradle plinked back and forth in a rhythmic cadence. “Do you see it?”

  Tyler stopped the swinging balls and looked up at him. “Flynne checked their online history, right? All of it?”

  “Yes.” Mark’s gut churned at the images Flynne had shown him. “They have a public persona and a dark web presence that redefines vile.”

  “I’ll dig but…”

  He hated to do it. Poor Mr. Schmatloch would be frightened, but there wasn’t any way to avoid it. “Move Doyle and Sam off-grid. Motor home. Southwest area. No cliffs. And tell them to change the license plates every thirty-six hours.”

  “That bad?”

  Answering that one was tougher than he’d expected. “More like, that confusing.”

  “Could the IG thing be a cover for what’s coming?”

  No matter how many times he recalculated, the numbers were impossible. “No. So, either the threat to personally and physically destroy Walther Schmatloch’s son was bogus or…”

  Tyler grabbed the end ball on the right side of the cradle, lifted, and released. The steady, plink, splink, plink, splink of the so-called “perpetual motion machine” started up again. “I get why Flynne loves this thing. It does help you think.” He sighed. “Someone’s being set up, aren’t they?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why?”

  One finger at a time, Mark unclenched each fist and forced his shoulders to relax. “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Should you bunker?”

  “No.” In the most honest corner of his mind, Mark amended that answer. Definitely.

  Silenced reigned. Silence marred only by the continuing plink, splink, plink, splink of Flynne’s bouncing metal balls. A short huff preceded Tyler squaring his shoulders and pulling the keyboard toward him.

  “I’ll find it.”

  And if Flynne was here, she’d have it done in half the time.

  That prompted a rue-filled inner snicker. Who was he kidding? If Flynne walked in the door that moment, he’d fire her sorry backside before he could reconsider. And this just called that Cayman account into question. Might have to call the IRS Commissioner.

  In Mark’s office, a phone rang. The two men stared at one another before bolting, one after the other, to answer it. Mark snatched it up. “The Bark Inn, your doggy daycare specialists, Bernard speaking.”

  “Need help, Mark.”

  He gripped the back of his chair. “Keith?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Gimme the shortest protocol you’ve got. Jaw’s broken.”

  Covering the handset, he barked orders at Tyler. “Get Dr. Brecham on the phone. See if he can make a house call for a broken jaw or if we need to come in.”

  “Ribs.” The word came through with a wheezed cough followed by a groan.

  Mark considered before asking, “Punctured lung?”

  “Not. Sure.”

  It had been six—no, seven—years since he’d done it, but Mark grabbed keys to a minivan and passed the phone to Tyler. “Tell him I’m on my way. Get whatever info I need and text it to me. Then get Karen, Claire, and Brian over to the tow yard.”

  “That’s where he is?”

  Mark didn’t bother to answer that one.

  “Keith.”

  Pain sliced through him as Keith jum
ped to his feet, knife at the ready. The sight of Mark standing there proved a theory he’d always had about hidden entrances to key locations. His arm dropped. The knife clattered to the floor.

  Langat spoke from the doorway behind him. “How did they find us?”

  Mark would want to know, too, so Keith said it again. “They didn’t. Random mugging.”

  With a dismissive wave, Langat scoffed, “You let a mugger get you?”

  He’d have ignored the man’s opinions if the insult hadn’t crushed the injury to his jaw—if Langat hadn’t been responsible for it in the first place. “Hard to fight with a broken jaw.”

  “How’d they break your jaw, Keith?”

  He turned to Mark and tried to enunciate without moving his mouth too much. “They didn’t.” His glare indicated the real culprit. “He did.”

  Protests filled the room. Langat ranted, raved, wailed about the injustice of a man of his importance being chained up like a common criminal. Keith just waited. He hadn’t expected to be privy to this moment.

  “You’re in breach of contract, Mr. Langat.” Mark stepped closer. He could be an intimidating man in a casual conversation. Ticked off and worried about an agent made him almost terrifying to Keith. He could only imagine what Langat thought of it.

  “You agreed to it. Page four, paragraph six, line three. You initialed. Would you like to see a copy?”

  A short shake of the head. Downcast eyes. For a moment, Keith actually thought the man would capitulate. A moment later, that thought died.

  Langat rushed Mark, ready to fight his way out.

  Survival. That’s good. He’s still fighting.

  Mark had him against the back of the couch in a cop’s hold in five seconds flat. “I should drop you off at your embassy.”

  “No!” The barked order shifted to pleading. “I am sorry. I did not think you would actually do it.”

  Why did people always assume those possibilities were for everyone but themselves? Keith shot the question at Mark who somehow managed to roll his eyes without moving them. Keith couldn’t hear what Mark said to the man, but when Langat stepped away from the couch, he adopted an air of deference and apologized. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

  A small smile played about the corners of the man’s mouth. Despite feigned respect, Langat liked thinking he’d bested an agent. Maybe I should have clocked him one. It’s so hard to know sometimes.

  “If Keith wasn’t the nice guy he is, you’d be the one sporting the broken jaw. If I know my man, he let you get the punch—”

  Both men blurted out, “Kick.”

  “Fine, get the kick in because he didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

  Whatever else was said, Keith missed. Mark relegated him to the secure room while dealing with Langat and joined him there a few minutes later. The moment he stepped into the room and saw Keith’s face, his expression changed from grim to concerned.

  “Are you really okay?”

  “Dr. Brecham would be a better one to ask. I think so, though. Then again, it’s getting harder to breathe. Can’t decide if that’s me not wanting to because of the pain or because of a punctured lung.”

  “Claire is going to get him. I sent her here first and then decided he could look at you and choose where to treat. Faster that way in the long run.”

  If he could have sagged with relief, he would have. Instead, Keith nodded and leaned against the table. “We need cleanup out there. I left blood in the alley. Couldn’t take care of that and get back to Langat. I did take care of the tranq needles.”

  Understanding darkened Mark’s face. “They got the guns?”

  It hurt more to admit that than any attempt to move his jaw. “Sorry, Mark. I tried.” He took as deep a breath as he could without losing his cool and filled Mark in on the rest.”

  “Skeez? That’s good. Talon?”

  Keith nodded.

  “Okay, we can work with that. I’ll send Tyler in skinny jeans and Converse this afternoon. Someone around here will know all their names.”

  “Gotta call the police soon. Talon shouldn’t be left out there alone.”

  Mark’s response was interrupted by Claire bursting in with a hooded Dr. Brecham in tow. “He was only a few blocks from where I was when you called!”

  Translation: He was in his office near the Mayflower building and you were on the way to the office.

  Within five minutes, they were on their way to St. Joseph’s in Westbury.

  Seventeen

  Four photos lay in a large rectangle on the desk. Lucy Todd leaving Thornton-Weinbach Research Labs—time stamped at 9:04. Lucy Todd leaving a deli down the street at 9:17—in braids and missing a jacket. Lucy Todd entering a synagogue at 10:22. Lucy Todd going through the subway turnstile at 11:01.

  All just days before Lucy died in a “hiking accident.” The photo on the screen showed the logbook from Lucy Todd’s arrival at the morgue—another few days after she supposedly died. Where had she been all that time?

  A click sent the printer whirring, and the picture of the logbook dropped into the tray.

  Hesitation mounted with each click of the mouse, each shifting image on screen. Such a fine line between pressure and resistance. Then again, there were always other ways to push back again. Plans B, C, D, M, Q, and Z if necessary. Always alternates…

  One finger stroked a metal frame.

  Before the hand could reach to start things in motion, an email chime filled the room. The subject line prompted a smile. IP addresses for RG&E.

  It took several minutes to find the number and paste it in for confirmation, but there it came. Buffalo Point, Manitoba. “Gotcha.”

  A slide, a click, and whirr… the printer spat out another page. This time, that finger slid down columns of numbers until the IP address appeared. A highlighter, pink, in honor of Lucy, swiped across the numbers. A screen shot of the IP lookup website followed. Trim out any identifying peripherals and… another click. Print.

  Each piece of proof was stacked and slid into an envelope. Speakerphone—dial. The voice. “Send Knupp to St. Louis. The address I gave you. Then take the girl.”

  “That it?”

  The left index finger stroked the edge of the envelope. “I have a package for Todd. Meet with her tonight.”

  “Usual drop place?”

  “Yes.”

  The call went dead. Everything was ready. A thumb caressed the polished ball of a Newton’s cradle. Swing to the right. Release. Snap-plink-snap-plink.

  The thrumming beat of music was accompanied by blush-inducing lyrics. Though not exactly a prude, Tyler found himself fighting to drown them out as he leaned against a minimart wall and waited for the first wave of boxer-baring, penguin-walking banger wannabes. Otherwise known as teen boys. I never knew how good I had it as a kid in rural Indiana.

  A pack of girls, five in all, sashayed past with laughter, giggles, and more than a few glances thrown over their shoulders—presumably at boys who followed. He shoved off the wall, fists jammed in his pockets and his hoodie pulled back just enough that he didn’t look creepy. One girl winked at him as he neared.

  “Hey, seen Skeez or Talon?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know them.”

  A girl to her right shot him a dirty look. “We don’t hang around Kyle and his loser friends.”

  “They took something of mine,” he said. “Gotta get it back.”

  “Good luck with that. Kyle doesn’t do take backs unless he’s the one taking back.”

  The first girl offered him a shy smile. Something about the way she was dressed reminded him of pictures of his mom from the eighties—shirt with a wide neck sliding off her shoulder and hanging baggy over leggings and boots. Scrunchie. That’s what his mom called those poofy things to hold up ponytails. Scrunchies. This girl had one of them, too.

  “You wanna come with us? We’re going to see the new Dylan Dunston movie.”

  “Cool…” Tyler gave every hint he could of wanting to go a
nd then drooped his shoulders. “Wish I could. Gotta get my stuff back, though.”

  The friend jerked the girl away. “He’s probably a druggie. Stay away. Let’s go.”

  Scrunchie girl shook off her grip and eyed him. “You after drugs?”

  “My dad’s air soft guns. He’s gonna kill me if I don’t get them back.”

  The group of guys they’d been smiling at had slowed as Tyler chatted, but now as they passed, one heard him. “You talkin’ about those weird guns Kyle was showin’ off?”

  Scrunchie pounced on that for him. “Yeah. Know where Kyle is? My friend is lookin’ for him.”

  “Kyle’ll dust you, man. Stay away. Your dad’s a safer bet.”

  Tyler shook his head and turned to go. “You don’t know my dad.”

  He’d made it ten steps before the guy called out again. “I heard he was going into the Crypt to score some ice. Good luck.”

  As he called out his thanks, Tyler shuddered. “I’m gonna need it.”

  Each step into Rockland’s worst area emphasized exactly why it had been dubbed, “The Crypt.” Every bit of Tyler’s gang training became a vital part of moment-by-moment survival. Move to this side of the street when those gang colors appeared. Shift to that. Ask the old lady who looked ready to beat him with her handbag if he stepped too close, stop a little kid who had probably messed himself just at the contact.

  Keith should be doing this. They’re gonna see right through me. Then I’ll die.

  But he kept going. Those tranqs in the hands of a kid were as or more lethal than a Glock. People didn’t respect or understand how tranqs worked. Mark kept refining his combinations all the time. Protocol for weight and slowing time had changed twice in his short term as an Agent. Keith said it had been seven for him.

  Three kids swaggered toward him, and Tyler prepared himself. This would be it. I’d recognize that bag any day. I packed it just last month.

  The size of the ringleader gave away just how a couple of teenagers had been able to flatten Keith. This kid was huge and had the most expressionless eyes Tyler had ever seen. He sneered and elbowed his friend. “Look who thinks he can walk through our turf.”