Wednesday's Child: Freedom Fighters, #1

Prologue

Pinpoints of shimmering silver speckled the deep, velvet night sky. Summer breezes kissed the faces of passers-by on the street.

Of the multitudes wandering through the heaven-sent evening, only the one in the cross hairs mattered.

If he’d been asked, Darien Rivers would have no idea why there was a man on a rooftop across the street with a sniper rifle trained on him.

As the bullet tore through his body, piercing and shredding his heart and shattering bone on both sides of his ribcage, Darien Rivers knew that he was dead, even before he hit the ground.

If he’d been asked, Darien Rivers could never have guessed why he was killed on that perfect night in 1997.

1

DAYBREAK, 2055 A.D.

Even through the flak vest, she could feel her skin reddening. Sweat beaded and stung her eyes, but the three grunts thirty feet below loading 120 kilos of dust onto the stealth chopper were almost done.

Five more minutes. She glanced around, her mind examining angles and implements, subconsciously running the mathematics of the room while time ticked by. Or less, she corrected, recalculating the timing required to adjust for the speed at which the Lord Thugs were moving.

Something’s going to happen today. I swear I’ll kill him if he keeps pushing. The sense rushed through her veins, carried in every cell of her blood to every nerve fiber, axon and dendrite. As sure as she was breathing, something huge lay in the shadows of this little corner of the universe. I wonder if anyone else feels it. Whatever it is, I’m not gonna like it.

Once again, she inspected the contents of the warehouse. There were half a dozen hummers, two semis with full trailers and four separate free-standing tanks they used to re-fuel their vehicles. If everything went as planned, it would be like the Fourth of July on this block.

She balanced precariously on the steam pipes, wiping the sweat from her brow before it could fall. If they saw her, despite the standing order for her ‘live capture’, she’d be dead before she hit the ground.

Minutes are forever when you’re waiting. Or being tortured. But finally, they closed the hold and headed out of the modified building, locking her in with the drug-heavy vehicle.

With her jaw clenched, she hooked her cable around the pipes, snapped a loop into her harness and rolled off the pipes, heading for the chopper’s rotor.

When the slack ran out, she lay back, head down toward the floor, and began working quietly. In seconds, the rotor housing was open and the axis for the blade seats was exposed. She slid a small pouch from a pocket in her vest and carefully emptied the metal filings into the greased inner workings. When the pouch was empty, she pulled a quarter-pound stick of gray plastique, circa 1985 military surplus, and molded that into the works as well.

Another pocket was opened, this one dropping an airline liquor bottle of clear liquid into her opened hand. A slow smile stretched the corners of her mouth as she laid the nitroglycerine over the explosive and carefully re-seated the housing cap. I love the smell of U.C. destruction in the morning. God, I gotta stop watching those old movies, seriously, and my not so witty retorts need a lot of help! Good

thing I work alone. She shook her head, flexed her legs and began hoisting herself back up to the steam pipes on the ceiling.

She was just pulling up the slack when the three grunts, plus one, returned, yapping and oblivious to the fact that they were minutes from death.

She slinked over, around and through the various ceiling hung hardware, toward a rooftop access panel as the front door rolled upward, opening the entire front half of the building’s roof. The men were secured inside the chopper by the time she had a chance to look down from the panel.

Four down, too many to go, she thought, closing the panel and starting her race across the gravel-covered roof as the chopper’s engine whined to life below. I’m not gonna make it. On the far side of the roof was a ladder to the street. She grabbed the high, rounded rail, her body swinging into mid-air, held only by a few fingers, until her feet caught the side rails. They won’t leave; they’ll wait, she hoped as she clapped her feet tight to the sides, her palms pressed also to the sides, giving herself just enough drag to control her descent as she bullet-shot down the ladder. She leapt off the ladder and began running toward the waiting primer-gray van while she was still in mid-air.

The pops, pings and the growing number and volume of explosions from inside the warehouse were like bullets in her head as she leapt toward the open loading door.

Get her!

Got her!

Go, Joey, go! the voices cut through the pain that came with the noise of sabotage. They were the buoy in the dark that kept her on course. They were family.

Smoke billowed and folded its way down the alley, glass shattered and the ground rumbled as the van hurdled down the pock-marked alley, leaping like projectile vomit onto what was left of the nearby street.

Inside the vehicle, a large man and a petite, but powerful young woman wrapped her into their arms. Floor it Joey! Bring us home big boy! then he laughed and ‘whooped’, wrapping his arms around each of the women, planting a kiss on Jade’s cheek and one on his sister Laura’s.

Does NUMA have any idea what they got when they got you? he asked the enigmatic saboteur.

I just bridge the gap Luiz, nothing more, Jade smirked and looked at her watch. Better drop me off at my house Joey, I gotta report for duty in a few hours.

Your wish is my command. So, you know what they say bout pyro’s right?

They’re sexually frustrated, Luiz piped in, grinning even as Laura thrust her  elbow into his ribs.

You do know you can always take your frustrations out on me, right, Jade?

She smiled, warmed by the familiar banter and the obsession with truly human concerns. I think my fingers would get jealous, but I’ll keep it in mind.

The super-sized driver laughed, gunning them down the deserted highway with the needle of the speedometer buried as high as it could go. Behind the laughter, inside her mind Jade could see the road as it once had been, well kept with the rebar paved over. Even in times past, when hundreds of thousands of people would be heading to their respective jobs, they would have been smooth with blacktop, but those were times that didn’t count for anything anymore. They brought us here. And I’d still give anything to bring it back. One more chance, that’s all, just one.

—

Alone in her quiet apartment, the only sound the crisp ticking of the battery- operated clock on the wall, Jade sat in the corner of the couch, her eyes resting on a scarred, dark wooden chest of Gaelic origin. The contents lived in her mind. She no longer needed to open it to see what was within.

Sheaves of paper sat atop relics of her ancestry- all of the contents were from her past, but of natures so diverse, only the data would make sense.

Soon. She knew there may come a day when the documentation would have to be shared, but that was no less than expected when she’d stolen it. How’s Harry gonna use it when it comes out? She shook her head, knowing he’d find a way.

Grabbing her jacket from the arm of the couch, she cast another glance at the chest that doubled as an end table. Jeez man, could we start again... please? she asked with an Andrew Lloyd Webber melody in her head, then headed out, determined not to dwell on how they’d gotten to where they were.

2

NUMA H.Q.

Central Midwest, North

In the stark, white cinderblock-walled room, seven men sat around a long table, tension screaming silently through each of them, filling the room with dread, a common denominator. As far as any of them knew, the worst had finally come true.

Only one, a squat, muscular Mexican, wore battle gear. This was General Ethan Delgado. He’d spent more time in the field than any of the others assembled ever would, and he wasn’t afraid of what was coming. In fact, he welcomed it.

The others were the six heads of NUMA, the New United Military Alliance. Five of them were of command rank, and the sixth, Harold Mitchell, was a Unit Commander, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

At the head of the table sat the man who called them all together, Admiral Todd Petersen, who, though in his sixties, appeared a decade younger. His dark hair was salted with gray, and his physique, which had always been bold and well- defined, remained so. He sported a dark tan from many hours on the training course that added to his youthful appearance.

Admiral Petersen was flanked on either side by ‘his’ men. On his right sat Commander Harold Mitchell, and on his left General Delgado, known as Hawk to the underground.

Everyone settled? Admiral Petersen asked watching the other heads nod curtly. Good, I’ll get right to the point. Harry’s turned up some information from the U.C. headquarters. It seems our Jade isn’t the only one to survive implantation, he stalled, waiting for the grunts and groans to die down before continuing. During her last scan, I caught a glimpse of Tyrell in the background. Thanks to what Harry’s managed to dig up, we know they’re using him the same way we’re using her.

At this point, Harold Mitchell ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair and took over the explanations.

I was able to access his mission log in the U.C. computer. They sent him back to make sure we didn’t get the portal information. Obviously, I was lucky enough to get to him in time since we’re all here, but they’re getting desperate. I’ve heard rumors that they want to send him back even further, stop us from forming, or at least delay it long enough to give the Lords and their cronies,

Thugs. Hawk interjected.

Thugs, Harry nodded, a firmer hold on society. He paused for a moment to let them digest that before dropping another bomb. But there’s something else. Something they’re not telling the higher ups just yet.

What is it? Admiral Jason Tedmore asked eager for any bit of information that could help them put an end to this genocide.

His chip has crashed. The programming’s gone. No one can say how it’ll affect him in the long run, but his behavior is becoming increasingly erratic. Bordering on sociopathy, he’s fragmenting. He’s losing moments, confusing orders; it’s almost as if there are different personalities being created to handle whatever’s coming up. This could be what we need to topple them.

How so?

If he’s unstable, we can play on his paranoia, get him to see what the U.C. is doing, make him think they’re doing it to him. I mean hell, the guy’s sitting up in his room half of his down time trying to figure out ways to kill us! Why not turn it on them?

Kill us? How? Some kind of mass execution? Admiral Olzewkiewicz, a fifty-something, balding man with a potbelly and frighteningly sharp mind asked.

Mitchell nodded grimly, That’s one of his plans. He’s got about a dozen based on the vid I could get off him. Unfortunately, he found the bug about a week ago, and he doesn’t babble his plans out loud or I’d be able to tap into the wiring in his barracks. All I know is, the last plan it looked like he was actively pursuing was a series of assassinations, but whether it’s here or in the past, I don’t know. Harry ran his hand through his hair, Look, I really believe the guy’s losing his mind and their seniors are using it to the best advantage they have. We have to give him at least an equal push in the opposite direction.

Won’t that be dangerous? Tedmore asked.

Shit yeah. But wouldn’t you rather have him go Fort Hood at his own base than out on the street? The Topsiders don’t trust us as far as they can throw us, and the Unders are spread thin enough. If he goes jihad, better it be on his own team than ours. He shook his head, Look, they know they’re losing slowly but surely. The Unders are working with us, the Topsiders support the Unders. We need to start supporting them too, they don’t have what we do, he added, clenching his jaw.

So send her to assassinate him. Or is she losing it, too? General Moreland, a quick-thinking, bull-headed man of Irish descent jibed, but waved his hand dismissively.

Sure, Harry mocked, "Let’s just send her in with some flowers and a nice Chianti while we’re at it. Hello! The only time he leaves the compound is when he’s on assignment! Are you deaf or just dumb? You do remember they have a standing order for ‘live capture’ on her, don’t you? If they had a clue where she is,

they’d nuke the whole fucking area instead of just dropping their dust on us! I’m not about to jeopardize a thousand lives over bureaucratic posturing."

"So find someone else to do it. We all know how much she means to you, but you said it yourself, she is the best operative for the job, even if she isn’t really ours, Moreland argued, then cocked an eyebrow at the Unit Commander before smirking. Unless we can’t trust her, and if that’s the case, she ought to be scrapped."

Harry’s face turned to stone as he answered flatly, No.

Then what do you suggest? Admiral Tedmore asked, his voice high with agitation. You guys helped create her, you completed her training yourself Harry, and that makes you responsible for finding a way to stop the U.C. from escalating its power. Maybe, if you hadn’t brought her here in the first place, they wouldn’t have taken it this far, he mused.

"That’s bullshit Jason and you know it! If she was still with them we wouldn’t be here. She’d’ve taken us all out. Genetic engineering or not, people do what they believe is right. Look, the Topsiders are behind the Unders, the Unders ranks are growing every day, but they don’t trust us. McKay’s the connection. When we lost Darien, we lost a lot of momentum with them; Jade’s taken that on herself. The Civvies trust her, the Unders trust her; hell, she’s the best thing to happen to them since Darien got too old to go on raids, Commander Mitchell asserted. Between her and Hawk, he flipped his thumb at the Underground representative, the Civvies are starting to trust us more and more. They’re actually beginning to believe in us again, we can’t betray that."

Harry’s right, Hawk spoke, his Mexican accent barely discernable for the tightness in his throat, the public loves her, and they know Darien did, too. However dark, she’s a hero to them. She uses her popularity to demonstrate her willingness to join with us, to unite us all against a common enemy. It’s what Darien did, and what he wanted her to do.

Admiral Petersen nodded, Not only is she one of the best raiders the unders have, but she’s got all the qualities we need the people to see. She’s loyal, intelligent and never once tried to use the portal to change the McKay family history. She knows if she saved her family, she may not be what she is today. That sacrifice alone is more evidence of her loyalty to humanity than individualism.

Anyone else here think they could do the same thing? Harry asked. I didn’t think so.

Commander, we know you hold her in pretty high regard.

I do. Harry nodded knowing what was coming next. General Thomas Cutter was no stranger to the song and dance to come. Aside from Hawk, Todd and Harry, he was Jade’s biggest fan, and her most vocal advocate. Harry was glad

Thomas Cutter was among them. No matter what else might happen, at least Jade would always have one underestimated ally at her back.

Then please explain again why you feel the need to continually harangue and harass the woman? If she’s really that good, she should be able to keep... General Thomas Cutter started, but stopped at a single look from the Unit Commander before adding, to do the job without the harassment. He liked Jade, always had. Commander Mitchell’s behavior toward her wore her down, it had to.

Tom, if anyone knew what she knows, Jade included, her life wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel. There’d be nothing they wouldn’t do to kill her. We’d lose everything, Admiral Petersen explained. Everything.

Glancing between Todd and Harry, Tom understood just how close the Admiral had come to exposing everything they’d been trying to keep hidden for years.

I didn’t think she’d hold a grudge this long though. Todd continued, musing aloud as the call light on the control panel to his left lit up. The room fell silent as he pressed the talk button.

Go ahead.

Uh, Admiral Petersen? Jim Bayer here. The database just picked up an incongruity. Darien Rivers has been killed in 1997. The baseline says we’ve got about three hours before the ripple catches up and wipes him from our history. Oh, and truck 317 got hit by raiders last night, we think they were Unders.

Anyone hurt? the Admiral asked.

No, sir, they were found by outpost 6, alive, that’s why we think it was Unders, sir.

Okay, get McKay to the broom closet. Commander Mitchell and I will be right there, he ordered, severing the connection. Alright, gentlemen, consider yourselves briefed. If anything else comes up, we’ll notify you.

Did she hit the truck? Moreland asked expectantly.

Todd chuckled, Ya think? and left for the portal room with Harold Mitchell at his side.

—

Jade tore the picture of the U.C. supply house she’d just blown up in half, and was trying to decide which one to hit next. She hadn’t been in her office for more than an hour studying new photographs when a summons directed her to the ‘broom closet’.

Second guessing Harry would have to wait.

She grabbed her go-bag and headed for the inevitable, if tiresome, confrontation with her Commander.

3

Jade, we’ve got a problem. Admiral Petersen’s voice barely registered as she stared at the rotating hologram of a biker from the late 20th. Six foot even, 195 lbs. Judging by the length of his hair, he’s about 26 here, about two years after Biggs framed him for killing the agent. He’s tan. Kyle’s moved the main office to L.A., left him here. She smiled immediately at the warmth in her heart.

What happened? Something go wrong with the last assignment? she asked, her ice green eyes meeting with Todd’s liquid brown ones.

The Admiral shook his head, No, not then. This one’s in Chicago about a year later. Seems someone got off a lucky shot that didn’t land the first time.

She nodded, Got it. Get him out of the way and get out. Can I kill the shooter? she asked, ignoring Harry who stood glaring at her from the corner of the room. She could feel his hatred like a vise against the back of her neck. He was always waiting for her to do or say something that he could write her up with. Over the years the hatred had become reciprocal.

Todd cocked his head to the side scowling faintly.

I know, I know. It could jeopardize history, she sighed. I never get to have any fun.

She grasped her duffel bag and slung it over her shoulder, turning away from her C.O. so she wouldn’t have to look at him. It didn’t matter, she knew the touch of his hand on her shoulder, his fingers pinching the muscles as though the Admiral wasn’t even there. They were the only three in the room, but it didn’t matter to Commander Mitchell.

You fuck this up, McKay, and I’ll see you in the stockade, he growled into her ear.

Fuck you very much, sir, she retorted.

Todd stepped between them, turning first to Mitchell. I’ll see you in my office in three minutes.

Reluctantly, the Commander turned, his uniform creasing about his bunching muscles. Aye, sir.

It looked like he was debating whether to risk decking her or not. Jade hoped he would.

McKay, you’ve got a week in the 20th. Make it count.

Aye, sir, she turned smartly on her heel and stepped through a faint shimmer in the air that was their portal to the past.

—

Harry wheeled when the Admiral closed the door. We’ve got to keep her there for the whole week. Give me some time to work something out about Tyrell. He paced agitatedly, swiping his hair with his hands, How long do you think it’ll be before she finds out? he asked.

Todd shrugged, I don’t know, man. But we’ve had this conversation before, and I don’t think it’ll affect her as badly as you think. I think she’ll use it to her advantage.

But she wasn’t raised like they had planned; she was raised as if there’s nothing different about her.

Todd smiled, Thank God. If things’d gone differently, like you pointed out this morning, she’d most likely be working against us.

Harold stopped his pacing and slammed his fist against the heavy, oak- paneled door of Todd’s office. I want them dead.

Admiral Petersen placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder, I know. Harry looked up and nodded, We’ve done well so far, haven’t we, Todd? The Admiral nodded, So far. And Katherine and Liam would be grateful.

Harry nodded again, Yeah, hell, we managed to keep two of their kids alive, right?

Right. Now go take out Tyrell before he goes over the edge, and do what you have to do to make sure she stay’s in the 20th for the whole week.

Harry nodded, Don’t worry. I know how to keep her busy.

Harry, Todd looked at him tightly, a dark foreboding crossing his normally docile features, any way you want, except like Colorado.

Harry winced, I didn’t have a choice in Colorado. There’s always a choice.

Harry shook his head and Todd saw something pass through his features that he couldn’t identify. Not always. I won’t hurt her this time.

4

1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Alone in his ‘Ivory Tower’, Clayton Maxwell sat with his feet propped upon a desk that had seen many owners, in an office with an equally colorful history. His chapter in its history was dark gray, as was his mood. A staccato rapping clopped through the otherwise still room, followed by the sound of the knob turning. They didn’t even wait for him to answer anymore.

In that case, no need for me to get uncomfortable, he thought, and watched through glassy eyes as two men in suits entered and stood before him, followed by two more who stood guard. Ready to go for those guns boys? I’m ready. Almost.

Mr. Maxwell, come with us please, the taller of the first two said.

Maxwell realized that all four of them could have been identical save for their respective heights. It was a throwback from the late twentieth when intelligence officers all looked interchangeable. He kicked his feet back and sat up straight. The fast movement startled the two guards enough so they pulled their guns though they didn’t fire. Too bad, he thought.

I’ve explained to Mr. Pecho on numerous occasions,... he began.

You realize the ‘please’ was a matter of courtesy? the tall one asked. Apparently, he was the articulate one and the other three were only along for backup. In his own weird way, Clayton Maxwell was flattered.

He stood with his back to them and drew aside the shears covering his office windows. He’d had the room sound-proofed when he took office so he wouldn’t hear the execution squads or the retaliation fire.

The scene on the lawn now was somewhat different from when he’d been placed here. Back then they were executing so-called dissidents and traitors right on the lawn, and while there was still the occasional execution hosted at the reflecting pool, there weren’t enough people left in the city for it to happen too frequently.

He sighed, it seemed, from his soul, Tell Assistant Director Pecho he can suck my dick ‘til it turns blue... nevermind, he’d probably get off on it, he muttered, receiving no reply as he shrugged into his suit coat, ran his fingers through his hair, then led the way to the door.

Antoine Pecho’s official title was Assistant Director of Upper Command Intelligence and Investigation, the majority of whose staff was at one time called the CIA. When the organization swallowed the Federal Bureau of Investigation, they changed their name to the Upper Command.

Maxwell entered his master’s office and, as always, was stunned by the décor. Deep brown carpeting lavished the floor, but it was the walls that caught Maxwell’s eye. When it came to decorating, Pecho’s obvious attempt at elitism bordered on vulgarity. His walls were packed with some of the most classic artwork in history, most of which had come from museums the U.C.’s goons had ransacked in order to help finance and stabilize the overthrowing of America.

Maxwell shuddered, looking from Munch’s The Scream on the right hand side of the window to a work which Pecho had ordered done, representing Dante’s nine levels of hell, which hung behind his desk on the left.

We have similar tastes, Clay; you always choose my favorites to look at, Pecho said, pouring himself a scotch. Drink? he asked.

Kinda can’t help it considering where you’ve got ‘em hung. Clay shrugged and waved off the drink, No thanks, even as the tumbler was thrust into his hand. He set it down, no telling what he’s got in mind.

Antoine propped himself on a corner of his desk and sipped his own drink, My men are telling me you’ve been working on a rather secret project, something you won’t give them access to.

Clay shifted in his chair, trying not to look as panicked as he felt, while beads of cold perspiration pooled in the small of his back.

He nodded, but thought he heard his own muscles squeaking in protest, Yeah, small pulse mines for the cities where large resistance movements are... he cleared the small catch in his throat, where large resistance movements are still prevalent.

Pecho nodded and lifted a file from his inbox, Yes, quite ingenious if I do say so, but why are you keeping my men from these files? he asked.

Maxwell steeled himself, They’re not ready yet.

And what about the bio-weapons? Antoine asked, his tone frighteningly neutral.

Poisoning the well. If we can’t flush ‘em out, then let ‘em rot where they hide.

Really? Antoine turned, a faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. From you?

I’m tired. I want this done. It’s time to rebuild, Clay sighed.

Antoine nodded, I see. Of course. Well, kudos to you, Clay; I never thought you’d grow the balls. He meandered regally through his domain, landing back at the corner of the desk, But here’s what confuses me: initiative, sure, it’s a great quality, but that you thought to hold it all back until these treats were ready...? his tone became mocking.

That’s right. Anything else?

Maxwell pursed his lips, Nothing.

Are you aware that we lost three munitions depots last week in the central sector, close to northern Illinois?

Clay nodded, I’m aware.

So, naturally, you ordered a cessation of public executions and displays of the traitors’ remains?

"Look, we both know it can’t be him leading the raids. You have to know it’s her. The strikes are surgical in their precision and they’re corresponding with the executions. It’s her way of warning us. She will come after us, Antoine."

And you’re cow-towing to her! She’s a terrorist! A traitor to this country and everything it’s going to stand for once we’re done eradicating the infestation!

"If we’re after her, we need to go after her. We can’t keep taking it out on the population. There won’t be anyone left to govern!"

Antoine leaned toward Maxwell menacingly, then righted himself and took a deep breath. I thought our primary concern was to weed out the undesirable genetics that could jeopardize our global standing, causes like altering or weeding out addictive behavior. Wasn’t that the pitch that got us where we are? Why do you think they let us start the Cleansing program anyway? Do you think they funneled crack, crank, meth and heroin back into society on a lark? No. It took US showing them what they were facing before they made that call. It was US who showed them what America could be once more! The ray of hope that we could shine on the rest of the global fucking community, you shithead! You were there! You helped them make that command decision! It’s a course that we signed on for! Antoine thumped his fist on the desk, hollowly punctuating the rhetoric that had destroyed the country.

Starting to relax now, Clay was cast back to the days when they’d been allies, friends. No, not friends. We never really were friends, were we, Antoine? You used me like you used everyone around you. You manipulated everything you could for your own sick... He shook his head solemnly, It’s time to move forward, let this torch go out and light another one, the one we know can bring us out into the world cleaner, fresher and better than even God intended! It’s time to pull the drugs off the streets, finish off the Unders and rebuild the country.

Pecho sighed and nodded, once again picking up Clay’s glass and looking through it against the sconce light against the wall.

Y’know the best single malt scotch won’t blend with water, he seemed to sigh, watching the amber swirls twist through the glass.

His strike was fast and hard enough to shatter the glass as well as President Maxwell’s cheekbone.

To his credit, or maybe because the chair he was sitting in was too heavy, the figurehead president rocked, but didn’t tumble.

You’ve disappointed me, Clay, Antoine fastidiously wiped his hands then waved at the door, Get out.

Clayton Maxwell, once an idealistic man, now merely a fallen one, felt something swell within him. A sensation so startling and ancient its arrival left him certain he was having a heart attack. He shook his head and seized that almost foreign feeling, holding it with a will coated in karmic slime. Sweeping his hand down his face, the white hot flare of pain from his broken cheekbone surprisingly easy to ignore, he rose to his feet shoving the chair backward.

I am the President of the United States of America and the atrocities of the past will stop! We are going to rebuild this country whether you like it or not. And if you try to take me out of the office, you might be surprised by the people in vital positions that’re going to back me up. Your Lords and Thugs won’t stand a fighting chance! he yelled shakily.

Pecho’s jaw muscle clenched and veins popped out in his forehead and neck, belying his calm exterior as he smiled indulgently. You’re a figurehead, nothing more. The only reason you exist is because I put you here. Never forget where you came from, Clay, Pecho rumbled and motioned to a man Maxwell hadn’t noticed entering the room. Get this shit out of my office.

The Assistant Director stepped forward, lifting Maxwell’s chin, "Don’t think,

Clay. It never was one of your strong points."

With the figurehead president sufficiently reprimanded and led by the hand out of his office, Antoine called his secretary, Have my car brought around in five minutes and get Commander Dawson in here.

Yes, sir, came the dutiful reply.

Less than a minute later Commander Dawson, a balding mountain of a man in his forties, entered Pecho’s office waiting expectantly just inside the door.

I want you to put your best tracer on Maxwell. Watch everything he does, clone his everything and record his calls. I want to know when he farts.

Yes, sir, Dawson acknowledged and left the room to carry out his orders.

Gathering the contents of an accordion folder from his desk, Antoine made his way quickly down to the garage. Once inside his armor plated limousine, he buzzed the driver.

Get me to the airport and call to have my jet waiting. Shall I give them a destination? the man asked.

No, I’ll give the pilot that when I get there.

Yes, sir, he said and closed the privacy window, a knowing look on his face that Assistant Director Pecho thankfully didn’t see.

—

Back in the once great house that was his on loan, Clay rushed into his secretary’s office holding a bloody compress to the side of his face. He leaned toward Theresa and growled, Get me to the toilet.

She barely raised her fifty-plus year old eyes and blandly muttered, Yes, sir, before returning to her task at hand for another few minutes.

That done, and with his ever-faithful Theresa doing her job, Clay adjourned to his office. The old chair creaked as he leaned back to dig through the desk. In seconds, he came up with a mirror and first aid kit. There wasn’t time to see a doctor, and if he survived, he could always have plastic surgery.

He haphazardly taped a cluster of gauze pads to his face with one hand while opening, rooting through and slamming the far too many deep wooden drawers. A smile cracked his face, bringing with it agonizing pain, once he found what he was looking for. He levered out a virtually full bottle of whiskey and unceremoniously began to chug. The entire side of his face felt as if a raging sun on the verge of going nova had been packed beneath the slashed flesh.

Just to ease the pain, he grunted, slugging back another hit of the liquid fire just as Theresa entered the office and stood before him. Her eyes grazed his face and a look that said, ‘I told you so,’ crossed hers and disappeared. Instead she asked, Are you in much pain?

Some, he held up the bottle. I expect it could be worse. He’s going to put a tracer on me, probably already did, he said and rose laboriously, already growing stiff from trying to compensate for the force of Antoine’s blow. I gotta go, Theresa.

She nodded, Let me help you, sir, leading him quietly down the hallways that would take him to a private garage where a hand picked staff member would take him where he needed to go to spill what he knew, hence the codename, ‘toilet’. In the years he’d been feeding information to the Underground, he never saw the face nor heard the undisguised voice of his contact, just as they had no knowledge of the identity of the man who gave them their inside information. That was the way it had always worked, both before he obtained the office and through the twenty-five years hence.

He had to breathe down the urge to vomit when he realized how close he was to being discovered. A tiny voice on one side of his mind kept chanting, I told you not to misbehave, I told you not to try and help them, I told you not to get involved, on and on. While a newer but clearer voice on the other side told him, You’re doing the right thing. He has to be stopped. So, he knows about the weapons, he can’t prove they were for the Unders. They may be the only ones who can or will help you soon.

UNDERGROUND H.Q. MIDWEST

In the communications bunker of the Underground Headquarters, Ian Fellico used his expertise to decrypt the incoming message from one of their informants with the U.C. His eyes grew wide and he elbowed Laura to wake up.

Huh, she grumbled.

Go get Hawk, he ordered quietly.

He just came off a mission, he’s gonna be... she started to protest. It’s important.

Recognizing his tone she nodded and left the bunker without further comment. Hawk wasn’t sleeping like she thought he would be, but instead was in the commissary with her brother Luiz drinking beers and playing cards. As usual, Luiz was winning.

Laura dropped her hand on the General’s shoulder, Ian needs you in the comm. He says it’s important.

Too bad, Delgado, you might have won that hand, Luiz grinned around a cigarette hanging from his teeth as Hawk scooped up what he had left and folded it into his pants pocket.

Next time, Madera, Hawk winked and left. Laura followed behind shaking her head. When are they going to learn not to play cards against Luiz? she wondered.

"You do know he cheats don’t you?" Laura asked.

We all know it sweetheart, it’s just fun to see if you can win despite it, he answered, smiling gently at the doll-like woman.

By the time Hawk and Laura arrived, the message had been decrypted and the informant had abandoned his end. Hawk stopped short at the sight of his communications officer’s face.

How bad is it? he asked of the younger man.

Bad, General, Ian nodded, handing the transcript to Hawk before lighting a cigarette. You might want to get the Admirals together. And I got word this morning, he frowned, Hank’s back.

Shit, Hawk cursed, then spat on the floor. Who did this come from? he asked, waving the paper with the message on it.

Our regular contact. Same guy that sent us the info about the drop Jade nixed last week.

Are you sure? the General asked, then continued when Ian nodded. How’d you screen it?

Voice pattern, syntax comparisons, breath patterns, common emphasis on key words... instinct, he sighed, dragging deep on his smoke, What’re we gonna do about Hank? I don’t trust him.

Hawk sighed, Nothing, this is his home base, too. We just keep our eyes on him, and make sure your girls aren’t alone when he’s around. Tell fat Joey, too, willya?