Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

“You okay?” Sullivan asked.

“I’m fine, just something I ate.”

“That looked pretty bad. You need me to take you
to the doctor?”

“I said I’m fine. You go off to work. I’ll clean
this mess up.”

“Fine,” Sullivan replied. “You just give me a
call at the office if you need anything.”

“Just go.”

Sullivan went in to kiss her cheek, but he pulled
back. She was not his favorite person right now and she wasn’t feeling well. He
turned his back to her and walked towards the front door. He unhooked his
jacket from the coat hanger. After he slid both arms inside, he used the mirror
on the wall to ensure it looked perfect. He took one last glimpse at his wife.
Sullivan watched as she took another drink from the tap. He wanted with all his
heart to walk in there and make sure she was okay, to make sure that she knew
he still loved her.

Why
bother?

There laid a helpless man on the ground.
The two Agents’ sticks flew in quick furies over top him. The man tried to
cover himself with his arms, but each attempt came up in vain. Kaspar looked
through the fogged glass door, his frozen blue eyes underneath his shades were
glued to one of the Agents. The Agent lifted up his night stick for another
shot. A droplet of blood rolled down the handle then fell to the pavement.

A third Agent, who stood watch at the front door,
made eye contact through the clear Plexiglas shield over his eyes. Kaspar
maintained the eye contact through his shades until the Agent looked down at
his watch. The clock above Kaspar read six twenty-eight. He looked back out in
contempt: the poor, anxious bastard was outside a mere two minutes before the
mandatory curfew was lifted.

The Agents picked up their dangerous offender and
dragged him away from the scene. The man’s face a bloodied mess, he cried out
for help. Help that would not come his way. No one dared cross a USR Agent.
Kaspar sure as hell wasn’t going to.

Both clock hands reached the six and the Agent
outside motioned with his hand that it was safe to exit. Kaspar opened the door
and looked to the Agent. The Agent just looked back, no expression on his face,
unfazed by the beating that just occurred seconds ago.

“Busy day already, huh?” Kaspar asked.

“Might get busier if you don’t move along,
citizen.” the monotone Agent replied.

A simple nod of the head and Kaspar moved away
from the Agent. The chill of the morning air forced him to grab the skull cap
from out of his jacket pocket. Once it fit snug overtop his head, he was ready
to go. Straight ahead, the downtown skyline could be seen, behind the fog and
underneath the morning gray sky.

Once he arrived deep in the heart of downtown, he
caught his first glimpse at them: the slaves. He watched as they scurried
around with their morning decaf coffee and briefcases. They weren’t all bad,
though, as the woman with the soft auburn hair proved. The light breeze of the
morning caused her hair to blow ever so slightly. Through his sunglasses, he
caught a glimpse of her eyes.

She stood five foot nine, maybe five foot ten.
Her athletic legs were interrupted by a skirt just above the knee. She wore a
matching blazer and, even in the chill of the morning, her light colored blouse
was buttoned down just enough to give him a hint of what was inside, but left
much more to the imagination. And, she smiled at him.

Kaspar felt a rush of positive energy and
self-doubt. He opened his mouth, breathed in, and tried to think of the perfect
thing to say. In an instantaneous bout of schizophrenia, her smile turned into
a scowl. She stared into Kaspar’s covered eyes and gave him a look that said
“stop eye fucking me.”

Kaspar had a look of shock right back at her, but
he didn’t say anything. The hell was her problem anyway? Oh well, maybe it’s
for the best. She would just leave him once she found out about the illicit
activities he was involved in. The activities which forced him to sneak out of
the apartment early this morning, to make it out before Mother saw him. He was
unable to keep his promise. Even if that woman would overlook it and stay,
Kaspar knew in his heart that he would have just left her at the first sign of
trouble.

He continued his morning jog. Over to the left,
the reason for the woman’s rudeness reared his ugly head. A USR Agent, who
stood well over six foot tall, peered through the clear Plexiglas shield over
his brute face. If any more of a hint was needed, it was found upon passing the
free “Pregnancy and Family Planning Clinic”. The USR had begun to get more
aggressive in their population control tactics. The clinic was basically a way
of saying, “get a free abortion or get arrested.” If the woman had been polite
and continued to smile, maybe even talk, to Kaspar, the Agent was well within
his rights to break it up. It was simply not worth the trouble.

He took a right turn at the corner. His
destination came into view. Kaspar crossed the street and approached the
alleyway where Danny would be waiting for him. An unfamiliar sight met his
eyes. It was another woman. She stood no taller than five foot six. Her black
leather jacket matched her hair, cut just below the shoulder, and the aviator
lenses over her eyes. Her leather covered arms were folded across her chest.
She looked away as if she didn’t see the man who approached her. It struck
Kaspar as odd. This wasn’t a place for a woman to just be hanging about all
alone. Though, she did look like she could handle herself well enough if it
came to blows.

But, what the hell was she doing here? There was
only one way to find out. He began his approach. The mysterious woman tensed up
as he got closer. She kept her bronzed face turned away and only looked towards
him when he was just outside her personal space.

“Hey,” Kaspar said. “I’ve never seen you here
before.”

“I’m meeting someone here.” the woman said before
she turned her head away once more. “Go on about your business.”

Kaspar persisted. “Have you seen a cranky old man
walk by here? I think my friend is running late.”

“No. And, I better get going.”

“But, I thought you were…”

She didn’t give Kaspar the courtesy of a goodbye
or even to let him finish his sentence. After he admired her back side as she
walked away, he reached for the old rusted door. The door was locked. Kaspar
let out a curse.

“By God,” Danny said from off in the distance. He
reached into his jacket pocket for his keys once he arrived at the door. “You
are only on time when the shit doesn’t matter.”

“Did you see a woman in black walk past you just
now?” Kaspar asked.

“Yeah, she looked like a butch, but I’d still
take her.”

“Have you ever seen her here before?”

“No, I haven’t. Why? This is a public street, you
know?”

Kaspar sighed. “I don’t know, she just felt out
of place, I guess.”

“You’re just being paranoid.” Danny replied.

“Let’s hope so. You think she might be one of
Razor’s girls or something?”

“What?” Danny demanded. He fought with the lock
on the door. “Razor doesn’t have girls, okay. Just calm down, we’ve got a lot
to talk about this morning.”

It took several half turns, but Danny managed to
get the door unlocked. He turned the door handle and, with a shove from his
skinny shoulder, pushed the sticky door open. Kaspar had to catch the door with
his right forearm before it slammed in his face. Ornery old man couldn’t even
hold the door open for his fighter.

Kaspar walked inside the ancient garage that was
abandoned years ago. The stale air attacked at his nostrils. The loud sneeze
echoed off the old walls. Danny had taken over this old shithole when he
decided to train. He used what little credits he had on him to buy it. The
garage made for a makeshift boxing gym. Kaspar used the sleeve of his shirt to
wipe at his nose. The light, which hung from a long metal wire, took two
flashes in quick succession before it illuminated the room. Danny let loose of
the chain then headed for his desk.

“When are you going to clean this shithole up?”
Kaspar demanded as he continued to rub at his red nose.

“You are this close to eating your own tongue.”
Danny replied, inching his thumb and index finger together.

The ancient chair creaked when Danny’s old ass
sat on it. Kaspar took a seat in front of him. The trainer reached down and
pulled out a small legal pad from the breast pocket of his stained white shirt.
He started to jot some things onto the yellow paper. There was a long moment of
silence.

“What are you doing?” Kaspar asked.

Danny didn’t look up from the pad. “Trying to
figure out what we’re going to say to Walker today. Figure out some sorta
compromise to get us back in the ring.”

“Did you hear anything about Razor?”

“Yeah, they rushed his ass to the hospital last
night. They say he’s going to make it, though, and word is he’s going to want a
rematch. That might be our ticket back in.”

“How so?”

“Haven’t you wised up, yet? Razor runs this show,
son. Now take off those glasses and let me look at that eye.”

The eye was a dark red, swollen mess, but saw
improvement after a long night’s sleep. After obeying Danny’s order to get ice
out of the freezer, Kaspar returned to his chair. He arched his head back and
let the frozen bag rest on the injured mess.

“The swelling has gone down a little bit,” Danny
said. “But that bruise is going to be pretty nasty for a few days. You’re lucky
he didn’t break your eye socket.”

“When are you going to have some faith in me?”

“When you stop getting DQ’d. Don’t be a
smartass.”

The comment went ignored. Doubts clouded the mind
instead. Could this really be worth it? How many more fights would he survive
before luck finally ran out? How many more busted up eyes, broken ribs, and
soreness everywhere would have to be endured? How many more broken promises to
Mother?

“Danny,” Kaspar said.

“What?” Danny looked up from his note pad.

“What if I wanted to quit fighting? Right here,
right now, I decided to give it up.”

“What about your mother?”

Kaspar moved his head down. “That’s why I’m
considering this.”

“You got any job offers or anything you haven’t
told me about?” Danny asked.

“No, I actually haven’t even started looking,
yet.”

“Well, you know that if we can’t convince Walker
to give you a little something…”

“I know.”

“Well, you’ll find something. Jobs are scarce,
but I know a guy who could put your lazy ass to work.”

“What about you?” Kaspar asked.

“Don’t worry about me. It’s your life, I’ll find
some other son of a bitch to train.”

Kaspar thought about it for a moment. Leave now.
Surviving against Razor once was one thing, but twice? It was time to leave. To
start a new life, one that Mother would appreciate. To not have to sit around
on fight night, wondering if her son would come home alive, and not impaled. It
would be rough at first, but something would be found. Maybe his old trainer’s
friend could be the start to a new life.

“Okay,” Kaspar said, he leaned his body forward
and removed the ice pack from his eye. “Who is this guy you know?”

“I can set you up an appointment tonight.” Danny
replied. He looked down at his watch. “Oh, shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Kaspar wondered as he watched
Danny scramble around for his things.

“Believe it or not, I do other things besides
babysit your ass all day. Got something I have to do. Be seeing you.”

Sullivan watched DeMarcus Wilcox raise his
monstrous boot into the air. The force of the kick caused the framework from
rotten front door to go splintering into the air. George Mason, another one of
Sullivan’s partners, entered the house first with his Glock raised.

“USR, nobody move!” Mason shouted through his
thick facial hair.

Sullivan sighed as he watched Wilcox storm in
second. His eagerness to get in a kill before lunch rivaled Mason’s. Why did
the captain insist on keeping these two thugs around? They were muscle bound
freaks who indulged themselves in violence and steroids. For what little they
knew in actual investigations, they made up for in results. Good enough results
to keep the Consul off of the department’s back, at least.

Inside, Doug Miller, their suspect, sat on his
couch. The book he once held plummeted to the floor. Sullivan caught a glimpse
of it. The book had a black cover. The light of the room bounced off of the
gold lettering. Sullivan harbored a ridiculous thought: maybe it was not a book
outlawed by the USR.

Mason ran over and forced the aged man out of his
seat. He forced Miller’s body against the chipped wall, his own body pressed firm
against the suspect’s back. The force of the pressure caused the old man to
lose his breathe. Wilcox came in for “support”. He pressed the barrel of his
Glock into Miller’s neck. Sullivan walked over to the couch. He reached down
for the black book the old man had been studying. The gold letters that
glistened read “Holy Bible”. Damn it, one nail in the coffin. Suddenly,
Sullivan’s wish that he not have to use his weapon seemed to be a jinx. He
placed the book onto the coffee table before he approached the three men.

“Are you Doug Miller, you son of a bitch?” Mason
demanded.

“Yes, why are you people here?” Miller replied.

“Mason,” Sullivan said, he reached out for his
partner’s shoulder. “Let go of the suspect.”

“Hell no.”

“Let him go. That’s an order, Agent. Wilcox,
holster that weapon.”

Both Agents looked back to Sullivan who did not
budge. He looked right back at them with squinted eyes. Wilcox sighed, moved
his gun away from Miller’s throat, and holstered it. Mason seemed to be a bit
more defiant today, but when his superior motioned with his head to sit the
suspect back down, he budged. Mason let go of the man’s shirt. A hard shove
sent Miller flying back to the couch.

The suspect took a moment to collect himself.
Once collected, he took a seat back on the torn, yellow seat cushion of the
couch. He wiped the saliva from his lips and sniffed his nose. Sullivan
approached him, got down on one knee to look into the man’s scared eyes, and
prepared for the interrogation to come. A rush of thoughts attacked his psyche
all at once. On the one hand, he could tell that this Mr. Miller in front of
him was harmless. There wasn’t anything about him that struck the Agent as
hostile or a threat to the USR. However, the damn Bible didn’t help this man at
all. It still amazed Sullivan how stupid these citizens were. As if some
thought the rules didn’t apply them. That was the part that angered Sullivan to
no end. The pure arrogance of Mr. Miller to even have such a wretched piece of
writing in his home.

“Mr. Miller, my name is William Sullivan, an
Agent with the USR. These…gentlemen behind me are Agents George Mason and
DeMarcus Wilcox.”

“What is this all about?” Miller asked.

“We have reason to believe that you have been
supplying citizens with anti-USR rhetoric.”

“What—what reasons do you have?”

“Listen to me,” Wilcox said as he moved in front
of Miller’s face. “We don’t need to tell you anything.”

Sullivan sighed. “Wilcox, begin the search. Take
Mason with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilcox’s eyes never left Miller’s
until he turned around. He walked to the back bedroom of the apartment with
Mason.

Idiots, Sullivan thought. Miller recollected
himself once more. The suspect lowered his head when the loud sound of objects
being thrown in the bedroom rang through the unit. Sullivan could feel
something inside of Miller drop. The sympathizer knew he had been caught.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked. He
placed his lowered head into his palms. He rubbed at his thinning hair with the
tips of his fingers.

“It all depends on if we find anything.” Sullivan
replied.

The noises in the background grew more intense.
For their lack of actual investigative skills, Mason and Wilcox excelled at
finding things that others wanted hidden. Too proficient, in fact, and Sullivan
knew it. They would always deny it when he would bring it up, but the two thugs
planted evidence with regularity. There was no way in this world they were that
good. Not those morons.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked
again. His entire body trembled now.

“I told you already,” Sullivan said. He stood
from his knelt position. “Do you have something back there?”

Miller nodded his head. Sullivan let out a silent
curse. He hated this part of his job, the part where he had to give citizens
like this one bad news. If he only followed the rules, did what the USR told
him to do, Miller would not be in this position. It was his fault. Sullivan
could not take responsibility for that. He often wondered what it must feel
like, to be sitting in peaceful bliss, only to have armed men…

“Found it!” Mason’s voice boomed from the back.

Mason walked out of the back bedroom with a pile
of stacked papers in his hand. He held them up in the air for Miller to see.
The suspect said nothing while his face grew red. Sullivan looked from his
partner to the citizen. Tears ran down Miller’s cheeks now. After a deep
breath, his old ass flew off of the couch…

A gun shot.

Miller’s body crashed the floor. Sullivan felt a
wave of panic, his body seized, he reached down to unbuckle the holster on his
left hip. The cries of pain relieved him. Whoever shot him didn’t kill him,
yet. Maybe the old man would get his day in court. Sullivan wanted to slap
himself the moment that thought entered his brain.

The loud cries from Miller filled the small
apartment. Sullivan approached him and got down to one knee. He scanned the
body. The gunshot wound was found to back of the left leg. Miller winced in
pain and tried to get up. A firm hand placed on his back prevented that.

“Flesh wound,” Mason said. He holstered his
weapon with his free hand. “Maybe you should consider keeping that weapon hot.”

“He posed no threat.” Sullivan replied.

“From where I’m standin’, that suspect tried to
escape, and would have if not for me.”

“Sullivan,” Wilcox called out from the bedroom.
“You better take a look at this.”

“Watch him,” Sullivan ordered. He stood back up
and walked for the bedroom.

“He ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Mason replied. He
moved in on Miller’s writhing body. A smile crept on his face at the sight of
blood leaking from his handiwork.

There was a trunk in the back of the bedroom by
the cracked window. Wilcox stared down at the contents. Sullivan approached
with his heart racing. He reached in. His hand grasped a thick piece of cloth.
As he moved his hand up, he pulled out the clean, crisp folded American flag.
His shoulders dropped in disappointment. The final nail in Mr. Miller’s coffin.
He handed the flag over to Wilcox and exited the room.

It was time to deliver the bad news.