Reapers: The Shadow Soldiers (4 page)

“That
’
s a kind offer, but I
’
m a few years too old for you, Alex,” Burns refused, hoping she would get out of his way. She did not. In fact, she got closer.

“That
’
s alright. I tend to like older men,” she admitted evocatively, though Burns could see a slight flicker of regret in her eyes at having said that. She was good but not good enough to hide all of the tics. Burns gave her a chuckle and a slight smile.
 

“Alright,” he said simply. If she wasn
’
t going to move out of his way, then he was going to take her with him. He might get some answers this way, at least.

Burns was the first out of the pub. The rain had started to pour down more steadily now, so puddles had begun to form in the middle of the back alley.
 

As they walked farther down the alley, Burns began to check both ends to make sure no one was watching. He wasn’t just looking for her back up but regular civilians too. He wanted answers, but those came at a messy price.
 

“Everything alright?” she asked, following cautiously a few feet behind him. He didn’t reply, finishing his scan of the ends only a few seconds later. Noticing no onlookers, he looked over his shoulder at her. For all intents and purposes, he would regret this, he knew.
 

“Ben?” she asked as he turned around and began walking steadily toward her. She immediately recognized his intentions and began stepping backward, splashing her heels in the newly formed puddles as she did.
 

“B-Ben?” she asked again, this time with more urgency. He didn
’
t reply, and as he reached her, he grabbed her by the neck and then slammed her hard up against the back wall of the pub. This was a highly stressful situation, yet she didn
’
t seem that afraid. Any regular woman would’ve been screaming and punching her way out, but not this one. No, she wanted to be here. He knew it.
 

“Who the hell are you?” he growled at her, his long, dark hair matted down onto his face by the rain.
 

“I told you! I
’
m Alex...Lagona!” she whimpered back, keeping with the innocent face. The rain continued to pour down, harder yet, and the two of them were soaked from head to toe.
 

“Try again!” he barked, intense eyes remaining hidden under his brooding scowl.
 

“You”—she started but paused as she was losing air—“you know me!” she insisted, but he wasn
’
t convinced. She then shifted slightly. Looking down, Burns noticed she was reaching for a small holdout pistol concealed behind in the lip of her jeans. Not a regular woman at all. He readied to deal a crushing blow to her gut and continue the interrogation, when suddenly a third party entered the conversation.
 

 
“Hello, Mr. Burns,” the voice emanated from the right side of the alley. Caught unaware, Burns defensively grabbed the woman’s holdout pistol for himself. He then turned around and pointed the weapon at the man while still holding the woman up with his other hand.
 

“Leave us or take two to the chest,” he threatened as he stared down the sights of the pistol at the intruder. The thin man was wearing all-black fatigues with a slight collar wrapping around his neck. He had silver hair and spoke with a distinct accent. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, ever so calm despite the circumstances.
 

“That won’t be necessary,” the man informed him nonchalantly. It was then that Burns began to understand what was happening. An undercover denying everything with a holdout pistol concealed in her jeans, the calm man in black fatigues, the sharp accents: this was Dominion Intelligence.

“So, this is how you spooks get your kicks now? Tailing homeless vets?” Burns asked, still holding the first agent by her neck. The slim man at the other end let out a sliver of a smirk and then spoke without gesticulation.

“Let
’
s be reasonable, you
’
re not just any homeless vet, Mr. Burns. Likewise, I
’
m not just any agent.”

“Then who the hell are you,” Burns grumbled, not letting the streams of rain running down his face distract his aim.

“Call me Control,” the man informed him as thunder crackled throughout the darkened sky. Burns’ eyes widened as he dropped the nearly incapacitated woman and placed two hands on the holdout pistol. This man was not to be trifled with.

“So, you do know who I am,” Control reasoned as Burns put his finger on the trigger. He wasn’t about to hesitate if the man made a move.
 

“Of course I know who you are. So, what
’
s this?” Burns asked, slightly cautious of the man
’
s answer. He may have understood who the agents were, but their intentions were still murky. He’d done a lot of unfavorable things in his days; perhaps this was a hit team coming to take out the garbage.

“This is a job offer,” Control informed.

Burns’ eyebrows dropped. Intelligence wanted to hire him? He was just getting to a point where things might turn around—why would he want to be drawn into some sort of plot?
 

 
“Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m not interested,” Burns told him, lowering the pistol but still keeping at the ready.
 

“No, I’d say you are very interested,” Control remarked.
 

“How so?” Burns asked.
 

“A few hours ago, you slipped into the new Veterans Affairs hospital on Fifth Street. The result of your undercover visit was the destruction of a very dangerous drug known collectively as Flenin,” he recounted.

“What’s your point?” Burns grumbled back.
 

“A terrorist element known as the United Liberty Collective has annexed Silverset, and we have little as far as options. I was hoping a man such as yourself would help put a stop to it.” For once, Control seemed to be telling the truth. Burns considered trusting him, but then he remembered how his service to the Dominion in the past had caused him so much pain.
 

“Don’t you have plenty of men like me already working for you?” he grumbled, knowing just the man needed for this operation. A man that was cold and unfeeling—totally ruthless.
 

“Oh, not at all,” Control corrected, but Burns wasn
’
t convinced.

“I
’
m sorry, but I
’
m not a soldier. Not anymore,” he maintained.
 

“We don
’
t need a soldier, we need a hero,” Control persisted, but Burns had all but blocked him out in his mind. He clicked the magazine out of the bottom of the pistol and then tossed both to opposite sides of the alley.
 

“Don
’
t follow me, Control,” he ordered, turning and walking to the opening at the other side of the alley.

“Persistence is a virtue, Mr. Burns. I
’
ll never stop looking!” Control shouted. Meanwhile, the woman had recovered and begun scrambling all agents.
Control only watched as Burns disappeared from view at the gleaming end of the dark, puddled alleyway.

RUNNING

In certain parts of the galaxy, saying that you were running from Dominion Intelligence was met with a room full of laughter. It was a fool’s errand, however, Ben Burns liked his chances.
 

When he first returned to Altias, Burns was a fighter, but he’d gotten especially adept at running since then. It was his specialty now and that was a good thing. If Control, the head of the whole organization, was after him, then intelligence really wanted to catch him. That couldn’t happen—he was trying to put his life back together, not get tangled up in a mess. He had to run: simply saying
“
no
”
wasn’t an option.

Immediately after his encounter in the alley, Burns made a beeline through the dark city toward one of its many large cemeteries. He hoped the lack of light, and pouring rain, would cover his tracks and confuse the agents. Climbing over a fence guarding the site, he made his way through the ill-lit cemetery.
 

Every civilization marked their dead in different ways. The Dominion did so with fir trees. Upon the person’s burial, the surviving family members would plant a seed. As the years passed, the tree would grow and represent a life that came out of the loved one’s death. It was symbolic and it was the norm, but it made fairly large cemeteries look like forests. That was true of the site Burns was in, which made it that much harder to find what he was looking for. He’d been here before, many times actually, but the torrential rain and darkness was disorienting.
 

Finally finding the correct path, he began to look for a certain burial—his own. Locating the area marked with his name, he approached it.
 

His own fir tree had grown considerably. He remembered back when it was just a few years old—a gangly, little sapling, nearly frozen from the constant rain. Now it towered above the ground, free and powerful. Yet, even Burns could tell it was suffering. Beetles had taken to its trunk and begun feasting on its innards. It was unfortunate the cemetery couldn’t maintain upkeep on the beetle infestation, but he’d worry about busting a bug buffet later.

The ground was soft from the night’s rain, so digging wasn’t so bad. After a half hour or so of pawing at the ground and removing dirt, Burns pulled a large chest out of the land. Spinning the correct numbers into the lock, he opened it, revealing some items inside that he could use to evade the agents further, including a large sum of dollars loaded onto a card. He quickly slid on a black jacket kept inside and zipped it up to his neckline. Grabbing the card loaded with funds, he placed it in his pocket. Locking the chest again, he stuffed it back in the hole and buried everything.
 

Exiting the perimeter of the cemetery, and reaching solid ground again, he took off his soaked shoes and replaced them with clean boots also found in the cache. Sensing no one following, he made his way to the trams once more and headed off for the Central City interplanetary shuttle station.

The premiere station on Altias, the place was built as beautiful as any. White marble covered the floors and stoic pillars kept the albescent domed ceilings standing resolute. For all its open space though, Burns always felt the station was crowded.
 

Indeed, another side effect of it being the premiere station was it was always bustling with masses. Travel bags in hand or wheeling along besides them, people ran all around trying not to miss their departures.
 

Other timelier folks sat around convenient resting places and enjoyed a snack they bought from station vendors.
 

Bells and whistles rang every so often, indicating arrivals and whatever other things people needed to be notified about.
 

At the ticket counters, long lines stretched out so far they sometimes blocked pathways toward other parts of the station. Unfortunately for Burns, tonight was one of those long line occurrences.
 

He reluctantly joined the back of the Doubleback departures queue, standing behind at least fifty people.
 

He looked down toward the marble floors, trying to avoid the cameras but at the same time staying very aware. Intelligence agents spent many years learning how to hide in plain sight. One moment they weren’t there, the next you were bleeding out.
 

Though the station seemed to be busy enough that even Control and his best agents would have a difficult time picking Burns out from the crowds. After all, they were looking for a man in a white, button-down shirt, not a man in a black jacket.
 

Making things easier, the line moved fast and within the hour Burns had reached the ticket counter.
 

“How many tickets for you today, sir?” the wrinkled old man behind the counter asked. Burns pulled out his card and placed it on the desk.
 

“Just one,” he answered. Wrinkles nodded and then grabbed the card, typing in the information. He then ripped a ticket out of the printer and handed both the card and the ticket to Burns.
 

“Have a good flight,” he wished, toneless. Burns bowed his head and then turned to the man directly behind him in the queue.
 

“Yes, have a good flight,” he said as he gave the man the ticket and then briskly took off for the entry doors once more.
 

His goal was not actually to get off Altias, but instead make it look like he had. It may have been risky standing in a public place that long, but it would certainly throw Control off his scent.
 

He had intentionally used his personal card, which meant the transaction would be in his name. No doubt, Intelligence had men analyzing all transactions in shuttle stations. Once they saw Burns’ name pop up, they would know the exact location of the transaction. They would then begin tracking the ticket bought, which would lead them onto a transport and off to Doubleback—a far-flung, newly conquered world, light years from Burns and Altias.
 

Leaving the station, Burns made his way back to the tram and then headed off farther north to Tamberbuilt.
 

Tamberbuilt was positioned at the very edge of the Altias boroughs, so it was walled off at one end to the wide-ranging forests that covered the majority of the planet. Much like the Fifth Street reconstruction zone, Tamberbuilt also had a patch of relics. Back in the day, this part of the city was relatively prosperous. However, after the Spyra Accords were passed and the years of expansion ended, a number of Isolationist refugees began to flow into the area, which sent it into a state of decline.
 

The worst area was the Main Markets. They used to be a hub of commerce on Altias, but now they were an epicenter of crime. You had to be truly desperate to want to enter. The city didn’t even delve into these depths. As such, most of the cameras had fallen into a state of disrepair. Control would have to use real eyes to get a visual on him, and government types weren’t favored around here. This was Burns’ territory. They were on his terms now.