Gone Rogue (2 page)

He slowly got on his agency’s own crafted bike, ripped the tracer off of it, and revved the engine; spinning the tires only to stop just down the street.  A kid stood there looking at him, “Hey kid do you like fireworks.”

He nodded with a big smile on his face.  Slade stuck out his hand with a remote that look a lot like a car key remote.  “Sir, this isn’t fireworks.”

“Hit the panic button.”  The tanned kid nodded his head as he pressed the red button.  The vehicle exploded in front of the house, and next the house exploded, wood flew everywhere.  A smile crept on the ex-agent’s face as he turned back from the new bond fire and looked at the pale white kid, “now run kid.”  The kid took off scared shitless running probably faster than he ever had.

Slade looked at his watch, “fifteen hours before they find me.”  Slade gunned the engine.  Going to the only place where he knew he could get help.

The sun was setting over the horizon.  Slade was getting ready to have a fun night.  It had been only a full day since he made the insane escape.  He knew already that he was in over his head.  It was somewhat funny how one day you’re moving right along and then suddenly it is like o‘crap the stove was left on, well that is how he felt.  He started the gas and soon it was going to spark and everyone was going to burn.  The question was when it was going to explode.

He turned his bike off in front of a tavern named The Alehouse.  He knew he could not stay in this place for long.  He would have to leave as soon as he got what he came for.  Right now, that was a glass of whiskey.  The agency known as the Secret Sanctum also known as Sanctum had hired Slade.  He had to leave after doing several missions that he could not agree with.  Some of the creatures he was given the orders to kill were not wreaking havoc on anybody.  Yeah, he was going to miss the extra power.  The highest of clearance, a clearance that was even higher than the president.  He loved the guns that were accessible to his men, any kind of gun a man could want.  Not only trained with the agency to kill with firearms, but also with every weapon ever known to man, including his body.  He had been trained to hunt down the most disgusting things known to man; even some that were not known to men.  Now, here he was the hunted instead of the hunter. 

Here he was in the cheese state of Wisconsin to meet with his long time best friend and Cousin Zach Preston.  He didn’t know how his cousin would react.  Once he joined the Secret Sanctum, he had to kill himself.  He had to cut all personal strings that were attached to Rob Wesley with a machete when he became Slade.  That included his blood brother, a brother that was bonded to Slade more than anybody else was.  Nothing would get between them, nothing would tear them apart, was the promise.  He failed on his end; he let a secret organization get between them.

He still remembered the night he had the Sanctum assist in killing Rob by staging a fire.  Running into the burning building, the building exploding and taking all within including his life or at least what they want to have people believe.  That was the past though, and now it was time for that fire, that explosion to take place at their base.  He knew he was in for a long haul but it needed to be done. 

He turned off the engine, his hand-starting to shake as the drugs started to wear off.  He only had a day or so before the drug would seriously be taking its effects on him.  He usually always had the needles for injecting but opportunity presented itself before he was able to grab a long supply.  It would only take moments for their trained agents to locate Slade and without the injections he was an easy target.  Satellites could zoom in and find Slade wherever he was.  They relied on those way too much for his taste but again it was the wave of their time.

       The pub was a nice small establishment that consisted of a fifteen foot long bar and stools surrounding it.  A pool table was laid behind the chairs collecting dust for clearly no one came to play pool.  This was an older place, but this was the place he grew up in.  His father always drinking there never being considered an alcoholic to at least Slade’s eyes.  He considered him a guy with the joy of life, and everybody agreed. 

About a week before he joined this Sanctum, his father died.  The coroner said he died of liver failure.  That’s when the Sanctum presented themselves and told Slade it was more.  It was something he would not believe until he joined.  They never did tell Slade what it was that killed him.  Something in the back of his mind told him the Sanctum had a hand in it. 

Slade was special when he joined, for when some of the troops went off to work on shield maneuvers he was taken to Captain Robertson for review.  He was taught of ways they ran everything from the satellites too watching cameras from active agents. 

All agents were required to wear a camera while doing their missions.  He first believed it was for training.  Now he realized it was to make sure they didn’t fake a kill or in his case his own death. 

He sat on a bench and removed the gloves he wore, left the sunglasses on.  The shades the Sanctum gave us had some sort of magic in them to see a person or creature for which they really were.  It could see through any glamour of any known creatures the Sanctum had the pleasure to deal with.

        “What are you having,” an older man appeared from the doors that lead to a kitchen perhaps.  The guy reminded you of a wise owl clearly having an ear to hear of any trouble.  He had slanted violet eyes that were like two amethysts.  His silky, straight, smoke-gray hair was worn in a style that reminded you of smoke from a pipe. 

“Whiskey on the rocks,” he said knowing the need of the burning and stinging taste of it would soothe his shaking. 

The man took a bottle of Kessler down from the counter, grabbed a glass, and filled it with ice.  He then poured the brown liquor in the cup.  He put a white coaster that read The Alehouse with the glass onto of it.  The older man stood there watching Slade for a while before taking the twenty that was laid in front of him.  The bartender put the cash in the machine and grabbed the change that he put on the bar next to his cup. 

“What’s your name young man?” the bartender asked.  He knew that giving his name wouldn’t cause him trouble yet.  Eventually the bartender would be asked about Slade once the Sanctum learned of his location.  He couldn’t resist though.  He hadn’t been asked a personal question since he joined the Sanctum.

“The name’s Slade Wesley.”  He took a deep drink of the liquid feeling the burning that he needed.  The sweet but stale taste lit his buds up and burned down his throat.

“Nice to meet you sir, such a weird name, you know we had somebody that worked with Sherriff Preston and is a hero among our town with the last name of Wesley, yup Rob Wesley, poor man died trying to save people in a fire, just across the street here.”  The man said with a deep old voice.  Slade looked out and could see the building now only in his mind, a monument was now there instead.

He thought to himself how the place changed; his cousin is the Sherriff now.  If only he knew that there was something a lot worse than speeders, and drunks.  The shrine was a round stone with cutting in it, was all he could tell from where he sat.  He didn’t know the town grieved that much for the lost of Rob.  The Sanctum would pay for tricking Slade and taking him from his home, and from his family.  

The bartender looked at Slade waiting for a response.  Silence crept in the awkwardness that is taken between two strangers.  Slade didn’t want to share any more with the bartender.  He needed to keep as much as he knew silent from everyone.  He didn’t even really want to bring Zach in, but he had no choice.  He needed his help; he needed him to keep him strong, for if the injections were already wearing off.  He sipped on the whiskey feeling the stale, yet burning taste of the hard liquor.

“Slade, what brings you to this small town,” The old man asked, trying to break the awkward silence. 

“Business,” was all that he could say.  Silence came up again on while he had more of his whiskey feeling the tingle and sting dulling need of the injections.  “Is this how business is?”  He asked being about seven o’clock at night, and no one coming in. 

He remembered back in the day a different time, a different life where this bar would have been full. 

“Yeah after a gang moved in, the sheriff has been busy trying to keep the kids safe and the members in one area.”  The man spoke with fear in his voice.

“Maybe he should get help, chasing them out, what about his deputy.”  He now grew in confusion, how his blood brother could be satisfied with the status of this town.  They grew up pushing everyone out of this town that dared to make even a threat against them.  The common folks in the city would always stop them and thank them for keeping the city clean.  Letting these pathetic gang members run the town sickened him.  Maybe he could afford a trip down memory lane with him once they worked everything out.

He would help destroy this gang, if Zach would help him kill the bigger and more extreme gang.

He rolled his head, the muscles cracking, and the weakness starting to take effect from the wearing off of the injections.  He thought it would be more extreme but all that ached was his stomach.

“Never, got another deputy, just citizens that gets deputized here and there for directing traffic or something,” the bartender looked out at the streets and sighed.  “I don’t think that poor boy ever got over his cousins death.” 

It stung when he heard him say that, but what did he expect?  He knew many would suffer at his death but at the time, he figured it would benefit the world when he joined the Secret Sanctum.  He needed help though; otherwise, he wouldn’t have Zach re-live this.  He would have remained hidden.  They had to stop Sanctum from killing thousands if not millions of innocent bystanders.  The fuckers weren’t saving the human race they were killing everything.  His thoughts were cut off with a swig of whiskey.  He put his glass down, ready to get more when a bunch of eighteen-year-old kids came in.  Swinging the door wide open, they came swaggering into the bar with hooting and hollering then jumping over the counter.  The old man tried to get away, but two of the teens grabbed him. 

“Old man, you’re late on your protection money.” one of the members said taking a tequila bottle and draining a gulp from it.  He spoke with a thick Latino ascent.

“You chase all of the business out, how could I get the money,” he said looking at Slade in a desperate plea for help, and yet he looked at Slade with sorrow.  He was like Slade with not wanting to drag others into his own affairs.

“You have a customer right here,” another one said now two of them standing behind Slade.  One of them put their hands on his shoulder.  Slade looked at the hand and started to stand up and the member slammed Slade back down to the barstool.  Usually his giant size convinced others to leave him alone.  They might have had the numbers, but he still had some strength and speed from the injections, besides he wouldn’t even need that too beat the idiot gang members.  His mere size would have been enough without the training.

“He is just driving through, leave him alone,” the old man yelled.

“Shut up old man, we didn’t say you could speak.”  Slade had enough, this old man was nothing, but hospitable to him.  These so-called thugs needed to learn some manners and respect to their elders.

“I am going to get up now, and you can either leave or I will force you to leave.”  He spoke again, his deep voice over ruling their chatter and laughter with each other.  His giant leather trench coat was fully closed covering his black soft vest and his black pants.  He slowly turned, the mirror that was behind the bar caught his reflection and the others that stood behind him.

“You dare challenge the Diablo’s Demonio’s,” one of the Mexicans said.  Slade just stood there not saying a thing, he fought demons before, and they weren’t even close.  Their name translated in English being the devil’s demons.  He stared at no one but everyone with his cold eyes.  The gang members now braking bottles holding them out showing they weren’t afraid to kill anybody.  The thing about killing is you have to be ready to die yourself, and Slade was ready.  Nothing scared Slade anymore.  He started to slowly unbutton his trench coat letting it flow to the side of his waist, revealing the armor, and shirt.  The coat flowed allowing him to move with more precision and speed.  His almost seven feet height and three hundred and fifty pounds usually terrified anyone, but only a few were scared in the bar now. 

A man came up behind in a steady walking pace, a bottle dripping the remaining liquid on the wooden floor.  If he remembered correctly, the bottle was not broken yet.  With a jerking movement, the little punk raised the bottle and brought the weapon straight down at the back of his head.  It was caught in mid-air with a quick twist from his waist squeezing his hand with his superior drugged strength stopping his action.  These boys needed to learn not to disturb a gentle giant.

The guys face was red as he held the bottle trying to push it against Slade.  He squeezed his hand harder causing the bottle to explode.  Shattered shards of glass flew in several pieces moving in every direction.  Before the shards hit the ground, he took his other hand and slammed it in his throat knocking him to the ground.  He circled around catching the punches from one and then another.  He returned the actions with kicking and punching knocking them down to the ground.  The moves came to be as second nature, pure instinct, the has-beings blurring to one fit of rage from Slade.  A guy came from behind trying to hold Slade while he threw a right at another man.  Slade dropped to the ground and using his legs in a scissor maneuver, he flipped the guy over to where he could throw a right into his face.  Breaking the guy’s nose on impact, the blood dripped down his knuckles.  Two others tried to get Slade while he was down, but they were swept off their feet by a crouching round house kick.  He stood ready for more but only one remained.  The so-called demon boy’s face had a giant grin on it just before his body blurred, and without warning Slade’s stomach clenched.  Slade’s blood felt like it was pounding in his ears, and he was losing control of himself.  He stumbled, and the man seemed to smile about it.  He took a deep breath and focused again, he saw the hand raise and he braced for the impact.  The man fell in front of Slade, the thud of him being wacked on the back of the head with a wooded club echoed as his body landing on the ground in another thud.  He looked up from where he knelt and saw in a clearer image his long time never forgotten, blood brother.