Rogue Alliance

THIRTY-NINE



With hair sopping wet and fresh out of the shower, Shyla wrapped a fluffy white towel around her torso and sprinted down the hall to answer the phone.

“Hello?”

“Holy shit, Shyla! What in the heck is going on?”

“Jesus, Carmen, watch your damn mouth,” Shyla said, biting her cheek when she realized she was swearing at a thirteen year old while telling her not to swear.

“Have you taken a look outside? There are like a ton of people in the parking lot and by your front door.”

Shyla rubbed her temple. She didn’t need to take a look to guess that the people Carmen was referring to were reporters. News traveled fast.

“They’re probably reporters, Carmen. Remember how I told you that I’m a cop?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I arrested somebody yesterday then I quit my job. I’m sure by now the whole town is talking about the fact that I’m really not a secretary and that I’ve been under-cover. I’m sure they want answers and a good story. Where are you right now, Carmen? Are you out front?”

“Yeah, I was just coming by to remind you that you’re supposed to come over this Friday. I was on my way to school and saw this craziness. This is far out!”

“Ugh, it’s not far out. Listen, why don’t you stay away from here for a few days until things settle down? I promise I’ll be there on Friday.”

“You better or else I’m going to come over and do some of those kung fu moves that you taught me.”

“Oh, I know you would,” Shyla grinned, “now get your ass to school.”

Hanging up, she stood, nearly naked, staring at the front door for what felt like an eternity. She could feel all of them out there, waiting to pounce. It made her feel trapped, restless. Why in the hell were there reporters in the world anyway? They always stuck their nose into business it didn’t belong. She could remember far too many times when a juicy scoop on the front page had botched a case. She was in the business of finding information and holding it close to the chest. They were used to taking info and blurting it to the world even if it meant avoiding justice or causing someone harm.

She’d always felt it was reporters and their callous ways which partially contributed to her mother’s suicide. Had they not dragged out the sordid details of the goings on within the privacy of their home, she might not have felt so completely overwhelmed with her sense of failure. But with the town watching her, judging her, she had never had a chance. To this day, the sight of the lecherous media made her feel tangled in old emotions.

Well, I’ll have to face them sooner or later, she thought, better to get dressed and get it over with.

She threw on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, brushed her hair and pulled it back into the usual pony tail. Her agenda for the day was a long stretch of research in the library. She’d just have to give the reporters their few minutes and get on with it.

Taking one deep breath, she stepped out and her senses were overwhelmed. The bright morning sun was blinding. The cold autumn air seeped into her clothes and gave her a chill, and the shouting and shoving rattled her nerves.

“Hey, there she is. Excuse me, Officer Ericson, do you have a minute?”

Six people crowded around her at the top of her stairs. There were another ten to fifteen in the parking lot including two television crews. The case was drawing more attention than she’d anticipated.

Shoving her way down the stairs, she approached the closest anchorwoman. The woman’s eyes danced with delight at she realized she was going to get first dibs.

“Good morning, Officer Ericson. Can you tell us anything about the man you arrested yesterday? Sources say that it was someone who has been linked to the mafia. Is this true?”

“I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, ma’am. I’m no longer on the case.”

“So it is true that you are a police officer? And is it also true that you were working under cover in this small unassuming town and that you were nearly killed while on duty by this criminal?”

Shyla knew the marks on her neck were faded to a sick yellow but still visible. “Again,” she said, “I can’t make any comments on the case. You can talk to chief of police, Hal Jorgenson, in regards to these matters. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“One more thing. Wasn’t it difficult to maintain discretion working in the town where you have so much troubled childhood history? Did any of that factor in to how you were able to carry out your duties?”

Shyla shoved her way to her car and refused to answer any further questions. Ignoring her obvious frustration, they clamored around and threw a barrage of questions at her simultaneously shouting over one another like a brood of clucking hens. It was best she left before the anger that was rising up within caused her to do or say something she’d later regret. It seemed she had a habit of manifesting more than her share.





FORTY



Sitting on the edge of his bed, with the IV connected and running at a steady rate, Brennan replayed his conversation with Shyla over and over. He kept wondering if he was making the right decision, but when he considered the alternative, the ending to that story had only one possible conclusion: Victor in jail and him running for his life as Victor sought revenge. It wasn’t an option, even if Brennan could bring himself to betray his only friend.

Despite that, he couldn’t help feeling like he was turning his back on the one woman he could ever remember feeling so many powerful emotions for. It was more than attraction. It was more than respect for her courage and strength. It was the fact that he understood the depth of her in a way that was intimate. And she understood him, which was something he’d never dared to expect from another human being.

His thoughts trailed off when he heard a muffled ringing sound. The room was silent. When it sounded again his brain made the connection. It was coming from the drawer of his bedside table. It was the cell phone that he’d confiscated off the hit man who’d tried to kill him. Before he’d buried him, he’d made sure to go through his pockets for any sign of who he was. Nothing came up except for a small, traceless cricket phone. Right away, he’d known it was the contact for who ever had hired him. Expecting that they would grow anxious when the man didn’t make contact, he’d kept the device.

Now, it was ringing and he was ready to talk with who ever was on the other end.

Dragging the IV along with him, he crossed the room, opened the drawer and flipped open the cheap phone. He didn’t say a word. The line had a faint static but was otherwise silent.

Eventually, the caller spoke up.

“I hope that you don’t think that just because our first attempt was unsuccessful that we’re just going to give up and forget about you.”

“Why would I make such a naïve presumption?” Brennan asked.

“Yeah, I guess you’re too smart for that. Why don’t you come back on your own free will and we’ll work something out peacefully.”

Brennan was taking note of the man’s voice and speech, which was soft-spoken and articulate. He imagined extreme wealth and intelligence.

“I don’t consider what occurred the other night with your hired henchman to be very peaceful,” he said, “so I’m going to have to take a pass on that offer. Why don’t you come on down here and deal with me face to face? I’d love to take care of this once and for all.”

“No. I don’t think so,” the caller laughed.

“Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m an investor who doesn’t take too kindly to anyone who destroys years and year’s worth of my lucrative investments. I had a long term goal with that institute and your training which I held very dear. And I’m not particularly thrilled with the fact that you killed Dr. Shinto, either.”

Brennan didn’t respond.

“Now that plan A has been unsuccessful, that leaves us with plan B. Unless, of course, you change your mind about turning yourself in.”

Brennan despised the casual manner in which the caller was speaking about the attempt on his life, as if it were a game.

“I’m guessing that since you brought plan B to my attention, you want to tell me about it,” he said wanting to draw out the conversation. It occurred to him that this person probably knew about his history, his life before the institute.

“Very perceptive,” the caller said in a smug voice, “yes, I think you should know what plan B is. I think it might change your mind about how you choose to move forward. You see, during your…training, we planned for the possibility that a scenario such as this might develop. We knew that we couldn’t just have you out in the world if you ever escaped so Dr. Shinto and I came up with a solution.

“We not only made you dependent on human blood for survival, we made you dependent on a very specific type of blood. We injected a protein into the infusions we gave you which your body was slowly conditioned to need. Without it, your red blood cells will begin to break down before they can fully mature, as if you haven’t received the transfusion at all. Soon it won’t matter how much blood you consume. Your body simply won’t be able to process it properly without this protein.

“It will be a much slower process than if you were deprived of supplement altogether - possibly up to six months, but it will eventually kill you. I’m sure you’ve already begun to experience a tiredness and fatigue in your body that you haven’t been able to shake.”

Brennan was suddenly cold to the core and very aware of the truth of what he was being told. He had been more tired than usual lately but had chalked it up to the chaos of his current situation. What he hadn’t been willing to admit was the nagging suspicion that it was more complicated than that. Now his hunch was confirmed and he knew that he would never have the future he’d dreamed of.

He was clenching his teeth. Forcing his muscles to relax he spoke in a slow, direct tone.

“I’m not turning myself in. I’d rather die than give you the satisfaction, so on to plan B.”

Snapping the phone shut and tossing it on the bed he stared down at the almost black liquid which was still slowly coursing into his left arm. He’d always hated his dependence on the substance and now even it wouldn’t save him. Anger spiked and soared.

Grabbing the plastic tubing, he yanked it out with a vicious tug. Blood spurted from his vein. He ignored the mess and threw the equipment at the bedroom wall, knocking out a basketball-sized chunk of drywall. He didn’t care. Destruction was the only thing that was going to relieve his pain and frustration. Picking up the small kitchen table, he tossed it across the room and it shattered the television imagining his dreams breaking into a million pieces with it.

With his chest heaving, he looked around and felt no reprieve. He grabbed a dishtowel from the stove and pressed it to his arm. The room was closing in on him. He needed to get out of there. Not knowing or caring where he was going, he grabbed the keys to the hummer and fled down the stairs. He had to get away for a while. He needed to think. If he was going to be dead within six months, he had to decide how he wanted to live the rest of his life.