Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“Just what was that?!” Danny demanded.

“I’m sorry.” Kaspar replied.

“Sorry? That bullshit ain’t gonna pay my rent this month, is it?”

“I lost control.”

“Well, we could all see that. Disqualified! Do you know what that
means?”

Kaspar rubbed at his aching cheek bone. “Yes.”

“Damn it!” Danny shouted. He found a plastic trash can and kicked
it across the floor.

“Relax.” Kaspar said.

“Don’t tell me to relax.” Danny began his approach. “You just took
a beating for nothing. You had him, he was tired, you broke his spirit, and
then you pissed it all away.”

“I snapped, I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t that just too bad? Let me look at that eye.”

Kaspar relaxed his body as best he could. Danny knelt down in
front of him and touched the eye lightly. It caused a wince. The sharp pain
stung like trapping a hornet in one’s hand. Slight pressure was applied; a
growl of pain. Danny let go, stood up, and sighed.

“What’s it looking like?” Kaspar asked.

“There’s going to be a hell of a lot of swelling, but it doesn’t
look like he broke anything.”

Kaspar breathed in. “What do you think my father would say? I
mean, if he saw the fight, if he was here, right now?”

“‘Damn, son, you look beat the hell up.’”

“I’m being serious.”

“Hell, I don’t know, kid. Never met the man.”

“That makes two of us.” Kaspar replied.

“Don’t let that man ruin your life.”

Kaspar laughed. Danny walked over to the cooler in the far right
corner and filled a plastic bag full of ice. He walked back over and placed it
over his injured fighter’s cheek. Kaspar winced again and closed his eyes.

“I did beat the shit out of him, though.” Kaspar said.

“Damn right you did.”

A sound interrupted the conversation. In walked Howard Walker, the
founder of the illicit underground league. The expensive, beige suit that he
wore gave away how much money he was making watching these men beat each other
to bloody pulps. Kaspar did not bother to open his eyes, but the old man’s
gasp gave away who it was, and it prompted another laugh.

“What’s he laughing at?” Walker demanded, pointing his right index
finger.

“I don’t have a clue,” Danny replied. “What can we do for you, Mr.
Walker?”

“You can start by explaining to me what happened out there
tonight.”

“I beat the shit out of Razor.” Kaspar said in between laughs.

“You’re a funny man,” Walker said. “A broke man, but a funny one.”

“Hey,” Danny interjected. “Go easy on the kid. He had a rough
fight.”

“Yeah, well, that little stunt he pulled out there cost me a lot
of money. It’s a DQ, nobody wins and nobody gets paid. I’ve got my bookies all
over my ass right now. Your fighter, he’s not getting a fraction, and he’s
going under review effective immediately.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?” Danny demanded.

“What’s so unfair?”

“Look at Razor. Is he above your rules? He’s killed men, he shoves
officials out of the ring, yet he doesn’t ever—ever—get disqualified.”

Walker moved his finger to Danny. “You leave that up to me.”

“You listen to me. You point that finger at me ever again and I’ll
make sure that it never points at anyone else.”

Walker looked taken aback. He turned around and walked straight
for the door and slammed it behind him. Danny wiped the grin off of his face
and walked back over to his fighter, who continued in his hysteria.

“Let’s get out of here.” Danny said.

***

Paxton fought through the angry crowd as he headed for the exit.
This Kaspar was about as much as he expected. He never gave up, he stood up to
his enemy, despite being undersized and outmatched. One thing did bother him,
though. When his mark exploded, something was said to him. Whatever that
something was, it unleashed a demon inside. What was said? Could it be used
during their recruitment of him? Or, would it be a deterrent, a signal to stay
the hell away? He would soon find out.

Once outside, he reached down and grabbed a black mobile phone.
The blue indigo screen came up upon opening. Paxton touched the address book,
then the number two. It auto dialed a number. It rang three times.

“This is Robert,” a light voice said.

“Clarke, Paxton.”

“How did it go?”

“Not entirely sure, yet.”

“So, what happened?”

“Our mark really went to town on his opponent…he had a look in his
eyes, like he would have beaten the life out of the man if the official didn’t
break it up.”

“He won, then?” Clarke asked.

“Not exactly. He got disqualified.”

“Should we continue? I mean, is a head case like that worth the
trouble?”

“I think we should,” Paxton replied. “He’s got an anger problem
from what I could see. We can use that.”

Paxton pressed END on the phone and felt a craving for another
cigarette. He darted his way to a darkened alley and retrieved his smokes. He
lit up, took a puff, and blew out the smoke. All the while the wheels in his
head started to turn. Could this Kaspar fellow really cut it as a soldier in
this war? The team would have to be certain that he had no connections
whatsoever with the USR. The ally that led him to Kaspar seemed to think that
an impossibility, but there would be no room for mistakes. After
verification that he was clean, they would move in.

The cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt onto the
pavement and put it out with his boot. One question rang through his head as he
walked back to his van.

How could he convince this kid to join?

USR Agent Travis Forte threw another cigarette
down onto the soiled, off white carpet. He used the heel of his polished black
shoe to put it out. His eyes moved forward to the suspect sitting in a chair
before him. The suspect, a sixty-eight year old man who needed a cane to walk,
began to shake without control when Forte began his approach.

The Agent couldn’t help but feel a little bit of
sympathy for his suspect, but he shook his head the more he thought about it.
This was not a real man he would be dealing with today. His suspect wore old,
wrinkled, smelly clothes. In fact, the suspect himself smelled of a rank body
odor, as if the man didn’t have the credits to provide himself with proper
hygiene products. It was no matter, not anymore, for the man. He wouldn’t need
proper hygiene where he was going. Forte looked to the suspect’s hands, each
individual finger separated by silver duct tape. He would have fun with this
one.

Forte moved his gaze to the terrified man’s eyes
while he reached for his pocket knife. He pulled it out then waved the sharp,
fresh blade in front of the leftover. It was almost getting too easy for Forte,
one of the lead Agents in the hunt for the resistance. He caught him another
one and only one question filled his mind: can I get anything useful out of
him? Forte wiped the sweat off of his red freckled brow, the red dots around
his face and brow matched his fiery red hair.

“We have the letters, Mr. Roberts,” Forte said.
“We know that you are working for them. We just want to know who else is
involved.”

“I told you already, I have no idea. I only found
those letters in my mailbox.” Mr. Roberts replied, the shake in his voice seemingly
matched the shakes of his hands.

“You think that’s going to fly in the face of the
judge?”

“What judge? I’m heading straight for the noose.”

The Agent shook his head. Forte didn’t want to do
this the hard way, but this little man gave him no choice. The blade
moved in close to the right index finger. Mr. Roberts’s eyes widened with fear.
It moved Forte to press further.

“We all know you are going to die for your
treachery. The only thing you should concern yourself with right now is how
much pain you go through first.”

He pressed firm on Mr. Roberts’s right index
finger, holding it in place. With a quick jab motion, the blade entered
underneath the nail bed. The screams from the old man were ignored as the Agent
kept digging. Once at the end, he flicked the knife upwards. Forte let the nail
remain upright. The suspect’s pant leg was used to wipe the blood from the
blade.

“Now, who sent you the letter?” Forte demanded.

“I don’t know!” Mr. Roberts cried. “I only
received it!”

“Then why didn’t you contact the authorities?”

“Look at me now, that’s why.”

“Come on, you know that’s bullshit.”

Next up was the middle finger. Forte used the
edge of the blade to tickle the end of that finger. He inserted the blade and
took his time with this one. A yell of inaudible words stopped him. He pulled
the knife back out and looked up into Mr. Roberts’s eyes.

“Yes?” Forte asked.

“I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you…”

“Go on.”

The sweat on the suspect’s brow increased. The
intense pain in his fingers, the heat of the room, all added to the stress of
having to sell out one of his friends. Mr. Roberts panted in pain as his lips
moved with no discernible words.

“I can’t hear you.” Forte said. He waved the
knife around in air.

“It’s just…some guy. Lives by himself in an old
apartment on the outskirts of the city. Doug Miller. But, that’s all I know.”

“You got an address?”

Mr. Roberts waited for Forte to pull out a small
legal pad before he gave the address. Forte jotted it down and placed the pad back
into the pocket on the inside of his coat. He stood up from his knelt position.
A smile revealed his tobacco stained teeth. He looked at the suspect’s scared
eyes as he reveled in his handiwork.

“Okay, friend, we’ll see if this checks out.”
Forte said.

“What now? What happens to me?”

“I hate to say it,” Forte said, he looked down at
the blood stained blade. “But, you lied to me.”

“You haven’t even checked the address, yet.”

“I’m not talking about that. When I asked you at
the beginning, you said that you knew nothing. Now, after a little coercion,
you all of a sudden remember.”

“But,” Mr. Roberts cried, “I gave you what you
wanted to know.”

“You let us be the judge of that.” Forte said,
his eyes never left the blade in his hand. “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

Without warning, Forte knelt back down and
reinserted the blade into the suspect’s middle finger. Through the wails of
pain and orders for him to stop, Forte finished it off. He left the nail standing
straight up to match that of Mr. Roberts’s index. He sat the blade down on the end
table next to Mr. Roberts.

“You think about that knife while I’m gone,”
Forte said. “And you think long and hard about ever lying to my face again.”

***

William Sullivan placed the bottle of wax back
onto the counter top. He balled up the used diaper cloth and dropped it into
the laundry basket next to him. The shined, gold USR badge glistened with the
light. He was slow to come to grips with it, but he no longer liked what he saw
when he looked at the badge. The belief that was once there when he started his
work as an Agent was near its end. He no longer accepted what it meant…what
that responsibility continued to force him to do.

Three years and counting since the promotion that
allowed his wife to buy her dream home. He was surprised, even a little
shocked, that it took him this long to start having second thoughts and
regrets. After attaching the badge to the black leather belt, Sullivan used the
small silver key to open the locked drawer to his left. The drawer slid open
and inside sat a black Glock 17. He inserted it into the hip holster on his
right side. As he did every morning, he hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it
today.

With one last look in the mirror, he made sure
that the buttons on his shirt aligned in perfect harmony with the gold buckle
of his belt. The buckle, in turn, aligned in sync with the zipper of his black
pants. His father always told him to be respectful, act respectful, and dress
respectful. The least Sullivan could do was keep one of his father’s commandments.

“You look fine, Will,” Julie Sullivan said as she
walked in behind him.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Sullivan replied,
looking at his wife’s reflection in the mirror. She did it to him again last
night. She wore that black night teddy that Sullivan bought her last year. The
one that drove Sullivan wild.

“Did you ever hear back from your interview?”

“Not yet, but they must have interviewed about a
hundred people. You know how hard jobs are to come by?”

“You didn’t even go, did you?”

“Look, Julie…” Sullivan started to get out.

“No excuses.”

Sullivan sighed, “Is everything all right?”

No answer. Julie turned and walked out of the
room. Sullivan heard her footsteps going down the stairs. She just fired
another salvo in her assault on him to find another job. He kicked himself for
thinking that her demands would quickly go away. That was one of the most
attractive features she had, her head strong attitude. Her strawberry blonde
hair, long legs, and gorgeous smile added to it.

Sullivan always lied to her when he told her he
went out looking. He would rattle off some excuse, the one this morning his
favorite, but Sullivan knew that there was no way out. His soul had already
been sold to the USR. He would never escape, so he just had to learn to live
with it. Julie would never understand. He just hoped that one day, by some
miracle, she would come to the same realization and things would return to
normal.

Before he walked out of the bedroom, he
walked back over to the bed. He pulled out the .38 Special he kept underneath
his pillow. He ensured the safety was on before putting it back. Sullivan then
began his descent down the stairs. He turned the corner and walked straight
ahead for the kitchen. There, seated at the dining room table, sat the only
reason that Sullivan could try to live with what he did.

“Daddy!” David Sullivan, six years old, cried.

“Davie, good morning,” Sullivan replied with a
smile. “Did you have good dreams last night?”

“I sure did, let me tell you!”

Sullivan laughed, “Go ahead.”

Davie began his story as Sullivan walked over to
the table and took a seat at the head. He looked up at Julie. Her head remained
down as she worked on their breakfast. The smell of pancakes hit his nostrils.
No wonder Davie was in such an uppity mood this morning.

“Daddy?” Davie demanded. “Are you even
listening?”

Sullivan shook his head and returned his
attention to Davie.

“I’m sorry, son, go on.”

“Anyway, like I was saying, I dreamed I was a
super hero and I was putting away bad people. I was just like you, Daddy!”

“It’s ready, boys.” Julie said. She reached over
for the plate of pancakes and brought them to the table.

“You need any help with that?” Sullivan asked.

“No.”

Why even bother? She was as cold as ever this
morning. Sullivan could not place any blame on her, but he tried to. He tried
to reason with himself that if she wasn’t happy with what he did for a living,
she should go out and get her own damn job. At the end of the day, she was not
the one who paraded around like a protector of the city all day, doing whatever
was necessary to root out…

Not at home.

“You ready for another big day at school?”
Sullivan asked.

“Sure am! I’m learning all kinds of things!”
Davie replied.

“Really? Like what?”

Julie brought over the sugar free syrup and a
pitcher of orange juice. Sullivan thanked her, but got no response. She left
the kitchen for the living room. She would sit there all morning, by herself,
just like every morning of late. He wanted to ask her if she was hungry, but
again, why bother?

“Well,” Davie said, breaking up Sullivan’s
thoughts. “In History we’re learning all about how the colonists stole the
Native’s land. My teacher says that we shouldn’t even be here, that the world
would have been better off it never happened.”

More horror stories? Sullivan hated sending his
kid off to that school every day. It seemed that only negativity was taught,
but he knew that it was the only way for Davie to get his education. The
education he would need to become something…better than his father. Sullivan’s
dream for his son was in the medical field. At least then, Davie could do
something noble.

Davie shoved a mouthful of pancakes into his
mouth and the sound of smacking lips drilled into Sullivan’s ears. He grabbed
his son’s arm and gripped it tight.

“Davie, eat slowly and chew your food.” Sullivan
ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

The father let go of his son’s arm and then
sipped at his orange juice. Julie always made a fuss about how Sullivan was too
hard on their son. Sullivan never looked at it as being too hard, or not
letting the boy grow up, but he would not raise a disrespectful slob. He would
instill the same discipline in Davie that his own father instilled upon him. At
least then, maybe…

Julie walked back into the kitchen. “The school
bus is almost here. You got all your things?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s Mommy, you don’t have to call me ma’am.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Davie stood up from his chair and then walked his
plate of half eaten pancakes to the trash can. After scrapping off the remains,
he walked the plate to the sink and rinsed off the remaining syrup. He ran back
over to the table, grabbed his book bag, and ran out the front door to wait on
the bus.

Julie moved to the sink and turned on the hot
water. Steam filled the kitchen as she grabbed a bottle of dish cleaner.
Sullivan placed his plate gently on the counter next to the sink. He tried to
grab her hips, to breathe in her scent like he used to do. She moved to the
side when she felt his hands. Sullivan didn’t know how much longer he could
take this from her. If not for Davie, he might have left a long time ago. He
just couldn’t do that to his son, or to Julie. As irrational as it was, he
still loved her even though he received nothing but her cold shoulder in
return.

“You need any help with that?” Sullivan asked
again.

“No. You are going to be late for work if you
don’t hurry.”

“Why are you…”

The sound of a gag reflex filled Sullivan’s ears
and interrupted him. Julie bent over to the other sink and wave of vomit flowed
out. After a deep breath, she did the routine once more. Sullivan moved over
and rubbed at her back. Julie began to breathe heavily. Sullivan moved the tap
over to the other sink and turned on the cold water. His wife washed her mouth
out with it.