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Chapter Two
Reid
“Twenty-seven seconds. Twenty. Dammit, Reid. Get the fuck out of there.” The muscles in my legs burned with the fire of a thousand suns as I ran, ducking for cover and then sprinting to safety. My clothes were drenched in sweat, the humidity suffocating as I gasped for air.
“Hell yeah, you beat your record by three seconds. Good work Senior Special Agent.” Alex walked up behind me decked out in all black with a headset on, his voice echoed through the microscopic earpiece I wore in my ear as my chest continued to heave, searching for air that I couldn’t get to process through my lungs and into my bloodstream fast enough.
“Was the rubber bullet necessary in that third room? Really, Alex? It hurt like a bitch.” I rubbed my leg where a rubber bullet shot me in the thigh just as I was rolling under a synthetic fallen tree.
“Quit crying, pretty boy. How many times have we gone over this? You have to expect the unexpected, even in the simulation rooms. If you let your guard down in here, you let your guard down out there. And if you let your guard down out there, you’re dead.” He’s right, but that doesn’t make the purpling that I know is currently bubbling up on my thigh feel any better.
“The new weather control devices in here are legit, this humidity will kill me if the bullets don’t.” I pulled my soaked t-shirt off over my head, revealing my state-of-the-art bulletproof vest. I train in my gear, but when I’m undercover I don’t get luxuries like flame retardant clothing and bulletproof vests, I just get shot. And it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve taken my share of bullets, but nothing I haven’t lived to tell about later. And I always got those fuckers, so it wasn’t for naught.
“Right, we’re tweaking the simulators every day, and every day they get better. We train you guys harder, push you further. I was worried about you there for a second, thought you might be getting too old for this.” Alex can poke and prod all he wants to, but I know where his train of thought is. I’m in my thirties now, and in our world that makes me an old man. The young guys training up behind me, they are counting the days until I’m pushed to a desk and told to sit down. Alex wants to see me settle down, find a wife, have kids, and buy a puppy or some shit. News fucking flash: It’s not happening. I will die first.
Seventeen missions. Hundreds of women and children. Hell.
I’ve seen it.
I’ve lived it.
And I’m still here.
Every day.
I close my eyes at night and the screaming, the crying, it’s all I hear. Their pleading voices echo throughout my dreams. My entire childhood I wanted to be a superhero - Batman in the flesh. I wanted to save the world. But we lose them. I’ve watched shipping containers full of children leave the damn harbor, and I was the one that turned the lock. All because I had to maintain cover and damn it if we didn’t have what we needed yet to lock the evil away.
The evil, I always knew it was out there. I could feel it, still can. It’s buried in my bones, nestled against my soul. Right beside the lives of the women and children I’ve lost.
But I won’t stop. I will not stop fighting, because each time we save one. Or we put a bullet through the skull of one of the bad guys, on accident, of course. Because you know, we’re supposed to arrest them or some shit. Each time we save a life, I can breathe. Even if only for a second.
Some might call me a hero, I’m one of the good guys. Right? But I live a life of evil, and I pray when I lay my head down at night that I will be redeemed by the souls that I save in return. I’m fighting for me just as much as I’m fighting for them at this point. It’s my own personal war, and I won’t be defeated. I dare them to try me.
That’s why I’m here today, training with Alex. I’ve been given notice that I’ve been assigned to a new leg of the case we’ve been building for years. I’m supposed to report next week. It’s been a few months since I’ve been undercover. Some shit about me needing R&R. I’m itching for a new assignment. I can’t sit still knowing what happens when the lights go out and most people are warm and cozy snuggled up in their beds. I need to work. I need to fight the evil that threatens to swallow me alive.
???
Holly
“LGM Décor, this is Holly Adkins.” I grabbed at the phone on my office desk as I chewed on the end of one of my ink pens. My black high heeled stilettos hung over the ledge of my desk as I balanced on the rear wheels of my office chair and tempted fate every time I rocked, and the wheels threatened to give way underneath me. Only new clients call our direct line, all of our established clients have my cell number, and they usually prefer to speak with me personally.
“Ms. Adkins, this is Laurel Chesire. I’m with Wilks Luxury Automotive.” Wilks, why does that sound familiar?
“How can we be of assistance, Ms. Chesire?” I asked as I released my pen from my teeth and prepared to take notes.
“Mr. Sylvester Wilks would like to employ your services.” Sylv, my gut rolled, he’s friends with my father. That’s why the name sounds familiar, I remember he and my father sitting on our back patio smoking cigars and laughing on many occasions over the years as I was growing up.
He’s a slimy old man. He’s been old for as long as I can remember. His oversized gut protrudes out over his dress slacks, and he always had the creepy eyes; you know the ones. You can feel them following you, and you just know the things going on behind them are pervy and disgusting.
“And specifically, what services does Mr. Wilks need?” I’m curious, but I’m at the point in my career that I don’t have to take every single client that calls. I make enough money that I can be selective.
“He recently acquired Anderson House. Are you familiar with the property?” I felt the gooseflesh rise on my neck as an awareness washed over me. My senses tingled with those words alone.
“Anderson House. But, it burned six months ago?” I questioned, remembering being engrossed in the news coverage that enveloped the historic property. The property is so much more than its name implies, the history surrounding it is dark and mysterious.
Anderson House is an old plantation house on the outskirts of Carlton. Untouched by the revitalization efforts that have been sweeping the city over the last few years. My entire life I heard the stories that surrounded that house. Left abandoned for years, the rich history of the home discarded and left to rot. The property sat back behind tall iron gates that have been padlocked for as long as can remember.
As teenagers we would dare each other to run up the long, wooded drive and touch the gates. Only no one ever made it that far without running back screaming, the tall tales of what they saw swarming through our young minds and fueling our fear.
