John had been handed a mystery.
“What is this?” He was back in his own body. He took the thick, tan envelope.
The man behind the counter had a turban and a beard and a thick accent. He shrugged, then gave Regent a look like how the fuck should I know?
The soldier thanked him anyway, turned, and rolled out of the motel office and onto the cracked asphalt parking lot. The place was cheap. Cash only. No Wi-Fi. No questions. John knew it was stupid to stop moving, but his broken body was exhausted and his mind was depleted from his longest and most complicated hitch yet. His hands were shaking. He could barely keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t make it another hour. He needed rest.
But personal pains aside, he had to admit . . . it felt great to have a mission again. He owed his friends. Or maybe they were paying him back. It didn’t matter. The soldier was alive again, running dark in his own country.
The captain had watched Dr. Zabora—the closest thing to a friend he’d had in years—drive away forever. He waved. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—ever see her again. But he vowed to check up on her from time to time and make sure she was okay.
He hot-wired the shittiest vehicle in the garage, a rusted ’90s Civic, and left just minutes behind her. He listened to radio chatter for the better part of forty-five minutes before Ayn got smart and changed the encryption. He switched cars at a dollar store, then dropped his body behind an abandoned building not too far from the hospital, a place he knew from his patrols. He drove fifteen miles west, found a gas station with no security cameras, put the car in the wash, and left his host.
It had been a new experience. Regent had felt the agent’s mind struggling at first, like a caught fish flapping on the bottom of a boat. The man had no idea what happened to him, and his thoughts flailed in confusion as he lost control of his body. Regent had to keep a mental arm on him, but it had been easier than he thought, and after a while the man stopped fighting.
As John rolled through the crisp night air, he found himself wishing it had been harder, wishing he were still limited to the unconscious, wishing he didn’t have to face the temptation of every pair of legs in sight. He focused on his mission and tried not to think about it. He’d spent most of his cash, plus what he had taken from the agent’s wallet, on the motel and some snacks from the vending machine. He drank water out of the tap. He had no meds and no next move.
It was a gamble being back so close to the VA, but if he was lucky, they wouldn’t expect him to double back. Certainly they’d pin their search radius to the car wash. That would give him a little time. But not much. A six-foot-two black man with horrible burns riding an electric wheelchair was hard to miss.
John had hours. Mere hours.
He rolled across the bumpy asphalt toward his room. He looked at the strange package in his lap. It was lit only by the dim flicker of the broken street lamp overhead. Someone had left it for him. It was a terrible mystery.
Regent stopped his chair. An extended-cab pickup with 4x4 wheels had parked diagonally across the motel’s only handicap spot, blocking access to the curb ramp. He looked at the concrete lip. Six inches at least. His chair would never make it. He’d have to get down on the ground and pull it up one-handed.
He scowled. The truck sported a bumper sticker: Support Our Troops.
Asshole.
Regent turned and rolled to the curb directly in front of his room. He had left the door open to clear the musty stench. It was dark and empty inside. He unstrapped his legs and took a deep breath.
“Excuse me?”
John turned his head. A young couple was behind him.
“Sorry. We don’t want to be rude, but can we help?” The kid was black, skinny, in his late teens or early twenties. His earlobes were pierced with heavy black disks and his arms were covered in tattoos. He wore a t-shirt and tight-legged jeans. His girlfriend hung back. She was white. Full plastic bags hung from her arms.
They must have gone to the convenience store down the street, John thought. It was late. He was exhausted. He was in pain. He nodded.
The couple smiled. They walked over.
The boy stepped behind the chair, then stopped. “Umm . . . How do you want to do it?”
“Here.” John spun and backed his chair to the curb. “If you can just grab the handles and give me a pull, the chair can do the rest.”
The young man nodded, and with a heave and a whine of the electronic motor, the big man made it over the concrete lip.
The girlfriend smiled. Her nose was pierced.
John held out his hand. His good hand. “Thanks.”
The kid took it with a smile. “No problem, man.” He backed up. He waved.
The girlfriend did the same. “We’re in 204,” she said. “If you need anything. Or whatever.” She gave a polite bob of the head and a little wave.
Regent watched them walk to the concrete-and-metal stairs that cut the two-story building in half. There was no judgment in their eyes. No pity. They just saw someone who needed a little help.
There were still good people in the world.
John was done stealing from good folks. He decided. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice given that he was unlikely to last the night, but it was resolved all the same. No more taking what wasn’t his. He had no idea what he was going to do, but whatever it was, freedom or capture, it would be in his own skin.
He wheeled his chair into the motel room. Leaving the door open hadn’t done much for the smell. He turned the lock, closed the blinds, and rolled to the bed. He reminded himself to charge his chair before sleeping.
He held up his mysterious package. Standard padded envelope available at any store. No postal marks. Had to be hand-delivered.
His name and room number had been printed and taped to the front. No handwriting.
Regent stared at the room number. 137. That was interesting. Very damn interesting. He’d only checked in 25 minutes ago. He was almost asleep when he got the call from the front desk.
He felt the package. It was hard. There was something thin and metal inside, probably a portable electronic device. And there was something else, another bundle. Papers maybe. Unlikely to be dangerous.
Still . . .
Fuck it. Regent tore open the top and pulled out a tablet PC. He turned it over. No markings. Looked new. He tossed it on the purple-and-orange comforter and looked into the envelope.
It was full of cash. Lots of cash. A bribe? Or a helping hand?
The tablet’s screen lit up from the bed. A voice came through the speakers.
“HeLLo, CaPTaiN.” It was deep. Garbled. A roller coaster of tones.
Vocal scrambler, John thought. Could be anyone. Anyone at all.
“my nAMe Is PRopHeT.”
There was no way to tell the age of the speaker, or even if it was a man or a woman. Regent squinted at the machine, but he didn’t speak. There was no reason to. Asking questions only revealed what he didn’t know.
After several moments of silence, the tablet went dark. When it was clear John wasn’t in a talking mood, the screen lit up again. Images appeared: stills from newspapers of people John didn’t recognize, an internet warning from a hacker group, a seven-foot woman, footage of the Asian nuclear disaster, the flash of a countdown—forty-nine days and change. The seconds ticked away.
23 . . .
22 . . .
21 . . .
20 . . .
And then the symbol. The one on the tech in Siberia. The one Ayn had asked about. Three circles connected in the center by three lines. Someone had spray-painted it on a brick wall in a dirty part of the world. The red had run in dribbles at the edges, like blood from a sharp cut.
John stared at it. No one had any clue what it meant, at least no one he could find. Two obscure internet forums mentioned it. Both threads were later erased. Whatever it meant, clearly someone didn’t want a discussion.
After a moment, the screen changed again. It was a video from the local network news affiliate. An attractive bleached-blonde told her audience about Alvin Millard, the brave army sergeant who woke up from a coma and saved a baby from a gang of drug dealers.
Regent scowled. Whatever.
The voice came through the speakers again. “YOu HavE aN exCEpTiONal TalENt.”
The screen flickered and John saw credit card receipts, then recorded eyewitness tips, then doctored security footage of him in a supermarket, some place he’d never been, rolling down the cereal aisle in his electric chair.
“wE maNaGEd To gET TheM OFf yoUr TRail. FoR nOW.”
That’s why they hadn’t burst through the door yet. They were busy chasing a ghost. That was big. Huge. That meant he had more time than he thought. Twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours, if he was careful. More time meant more options. Maybe he could keep his promise to the doc after all. But he was too tired to think.
Regent took a long, slow, deep breath. Up first, a solid two hours of sleep. He looked at his shaking hands.
The scrambled voice filled the quiet, musty motel room. “WE’d LIke tO MakE YoU a PrOpoSal.”
Who’s we, John thought. He didn’t ask. He waited a moment. “I’m listening.”
“HOW wOULd yOu LIkE To WaLk AGAiN?”
[end episode one]
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