Finding Sage (The Rogue Book 1) (8 page)

              “What are they doing?” Lilly asked.

              “Lining up to be fed,” said Silas.  “When people with jobs work, more than half of the money they would make is given to the government and they feed these people.”

              “Why don’t these people work?”

              “Because the government will feed them.”

              Lilly seemed confused.

              “Then why doesn’t everyone quit working?”

              “A lot of people have.  That’s why there’s so many of them and so little food.  It’s easier to quit and have little food than to work and have little food.”

              “Wow…” she whispered.

              “It’s not pretty, but this is the way the world is.  We can’t change the way things are.”

              Silas looked down at Lilly and pity swelled up inside of him.  He could see the hint of a tear glinting in her eyes, which she quickly blinked away.  She was so special, so advanced that he had forgotten how little she really knew about the world and the way it worked.  Had she spent any time outside of a cage?  Had she been born in that prison? 

              About fifty feet behind them were Alice and Rodge, still keeping a close eye on them since the confrontation in the forest.  Alice was trying to act as inconspicuous as she could, keeping her hood up to avoid eye contact of any kind.  Still, she was walking very briskly, trying to keep up with her unsuspecting victims.  Rodge struggled to keep up with her and often found himself pushing through the crowds of the acrid-smelling homeless to catch up with her.  He was frustrated, since she had insisted on continuing to chase this man, even after his pleading with her to let it go for her own good.  It was becoming harder and harder to keep her safe.  Nevertheless, he still put forth his best effort, and it was to that end that he was running through the crowds, occasionally pushing a child out of his way or bouncing off a man or woman.  He finally caught up to her long enough to talk.

              “What are they doing?”

              Alice glanced off to the side before she answers.

              “Can you at least
try
not to look suspicious?”

              “Two people do travel together around here, ya know.  Just answer my question.  What are they doing?”

              “Climbing Mount Everest.  What does it look like they’re doing?  They’re
walking
.”

              “Could you be any colder?”

              Alice exhaled slowly, hoping for catharsis.  Her stubborn frustration remained.

              “I’m sorry.  I’m just frustrated.  He doesn’t seem like he’s running.  He keeps looking closely at all of the buildings, as if he’s looking for a specific place.  He has a plan, and it makes me nervous that I don’t know what it is.”

              “You don’t know?”

              “I have no idea.  I haven’t been able to figure out anything about him other than that he’s very protective of his daughter.”

              Rodge pondered this for a moment.

              “Then why don’t we use that against him?”

              Alice stopped walking for a moment and cast a perplexed look at Rodge.

              “I thought you didn’t want me to pursue this?”

              Rodge paused before responding, and looked past Alice’s shoulder so as to avoid embarrassment.

              “I don’t want you to get hurt.  If you’re going to insist on this, I want to make sure you’re successful.”

              “Oh please, don’t try to be so delicate.  Just say it: you wanna whack him before he whacks me.” 

              “ . . . Yeah.”

              “Then what are we waiting for?”

              “W-what do you mean?”

              “I mean, we’re in a crowd.  He will never see us coming.  We can kill him and get out without being noticed.  It will be quick and easy.”

              “What then?”

              “I—I don’t know.  I just know that I have to do this.”

              “Okay.”  He tried to hand her the gun, but she refused it. 

              “I can kill with a touch.  You take the gun.  I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to you because of me.”

              He looked up at her and smirked, then placed the gun back in his coat pocket.  They both looked ahead and walked more briskly, attempting to close the gap between themselves and their targets. 

              Since they had entered the city, Silas’ mind had been so overwhelmed that he had to fight to keep himself conscious.  He still possessed little control over his powers, but he was still able to maintain awareness of those who had been following them.  His level of concentration faded in and out.  Sometimes he could only pick up traces of what they were saying or thinking, other times he could only sense their presence.  He could hear them talking, and sensed some sort of change in the male’s demeanor.  What exactly it was, he could not tell, but they had quickened their pace.  They were not far behind.  He could hear their footsteps, in rhythm with the pace his brain informed him they were now moving.  He pulled Lilly closer to him and quickly looked from side to side, searching for a quick exit.  He spotted a small alley off to his right, squeezed Lilly’s hand tightly, and turned into it.  He quickened his pace to a jog and listened for clues.  He could still hear footsteps behind him.  His heart rate began to race and he started to lose his concentration.  His consciousness started to slip out of his control.  He stopped and placed his right hand against the wall for support.  He looked behind him, fearing the worst.  No one.

              “Where did he go?” Alice snarled.

              “I . . . I don’t know.”

              “How can you not know, we were right behind him!”

              “Hey lady, could you spare a couple bucks?” asked a nearby man.

              “Get your face out of here before I readjust it for you!” Alice snapped.

              The man quickly backed up, turned around, and left.

              “What do we do now?” asked Rodge.

              Alice paused before answering.

              “We keep looking for Sage.  We may meet at the same place again, and when we do, we kill him.”

14.

             
The sun beat down in an arid desert.  The click of AK-47s loading echoed through the air.  Tariq, Salah, and Ishmael dove behind their camels.  Salah had grown from afraid to frustrated at their circumstances, and bullets flying through the camel’s side past his ears activated his fear once again.  Even in his fear, though, Salah couldn’t help but think with a groan,
Why did Tariq have to call his turban a bath towel?
 

              Gunfire sounded as the three Arabs shot incessantly.  The camels erupted into high-pitched squeals as they dropped to their deaths, blood pouring out of them profusely.  Salah and Tariq leaned against the dead camel, using it as a shield from the bullets flying through the air, sitting on either side of their younger brother Ishmael, attempting to shield him the best they could.  Ishmael crouched with his hands over his head, shaking with fear. 

              “What were you thinking?!” roared Salah over the noise of gunfire.

              “He wouldn’t pay us for the jewels!” Tariq yelled in response.

              “So you start a gunfight?!”

              “Yeah, pretty much!”

              Tariq peeked over the dead camel’s head and quickly took three shots at the men, then pulled back behind the camel again.  He heard two thuds.  One of them was still alive.  The man reloaded and fired again.  He was moving closer to them, which meant that Tariq couldn’t wait until he ran out.  He peeked out to find the man’s location, which was to Tariq’s right, the side where his unarmed brothers were hiding.  He stepped out from behind the camel and shot, aiming for the man’s head.  The bullet made contact with his leg and blood sprayed out of the vein as the Arab dropped gun, fell to the ground, and shrieked in pain. 

              Tariq placed his gun back on his belt with a smug expression on his face.             

              “You can come out now, Salah.”

              Tariq’s tone was arrogant, degrading; as if he didn’t view Salah as a true man because he wasn’t dropping bodies.  As if murder was justified, normal even.  As if masculinity was determined by violence.

              Salah rose and released Ishmael from his tight embrace.  The two walked until they reached Tariq, still shaking with every step.  Tariq cringed slightly when he saw Salah next to him and edged away, and then he realized what Salah was doing.

              “Salah, chill out.  You’re doing it again.”

              Salah shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.  As much as his brother deserved it, he hated to use his ability against him.  It made him feel powerful yet dirty, and he didn’t like the feeling of either.

              “Sorry.”

              Salah turned his attention to Ishmael.

              “Are you okay?”

              Ishmael nodded his head silently.  His eyes were wide with fear, but he held a firm, angry gaze, staring at the dead men in front of them, not making eye contact with Salah or Tariq either one.  He was clearly afraid, but another emotion trumped his fear.  One that Salah tried not to contribute to, but he found it incredibly difficult not to.

              About ten yards from them, Tariq’s last victim was still screaming.

              “Aw, button it already!” snapped Tariq. 

              The man started begging him for mercy, in Arabic, broken English, and some romantic language that Salah didn’t recognize.  Tariq, devoid of all patience, pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.  The echo of the gunfire resounded through their desert surroundings.  Ishmael cringed and squeezed his eyes shut to avoid seeing the man’s death.  Silence.  For nearly five minutes no one said a word.  Salah glared at Tariq, angry at his brother’s obvious lack of remorse.  Tariq stood over the bodies of their attackers with some sort of contentment.  Salah, filled with regret and resignation, thought they should at least show enough respect toward these men to bury them.

              “Don’t you think we should do something about the bodies?”

              “Sure, and why don’t we pray to God for their souls while we’re at it?  No, on second thought we should pray to Allah.  They’d probably appreciate that more.” Tariq asked.

              “You slaughtered him!” Ishmael exclaimed.  “You’re the one that needs the prayers.”

              “They attacked us, Ishmael!” Tariq exclaimed.  “We either have to kill or be killed.  That’s the way it is, kid.  All I’m doing is keeping you guys alive!”

              “You don’t have to enjoy it so much,” Salah said softly.

              Tariq had no response. 

The three of them, though originally from the Middle East, were far from home.  They were a couple miles north of Cairo, their father’s place of birth, but a long way from their hometown of Toronto.  They still had no way of knowing the fate of their family.  Salah hoped that the invasion was held off till the following days and that their parents would realize why they were gone.  It troubled him to no end knowing that he was the reason that they were in such hostile circumstances, and the worst part was, he had no control over it.

Ever since they were children, Salah’s ability had gotten them out of quite a few hairy situations.  When they were in elementary school, Salah kept the school bully from beating up Tariq by inflicting fear on him.  When they were in Secondary School, Tariq and Salah got busted for putting mouse traps across the entire gym floor.  Thanks to Salah, the school principal laughed it off.  It was not mind control, as Salah explained it to Tariq, but instead he could influence people’s emotions.  He could manipulate the flippant and influence the shallow.  On stubborn souls such as his older brother, he could only inflict slight changes of mood.  It was useful, but could only get them so far.  The inconvenience of a global government was that you could never truly be a refugee.

They entered Cairo subtly, instantly melting into the crowd.  It was fortunate for them that the city was still such a popular tourist spot.  It allowed them to dress like westerners without drawing too much attention.  Cars flew by them at unprecedented speeds as they walked along the sidewalk, ignoring the unceasing pleas of the merchants, selling everything from pearls to pig heads to seashells.  The city didn’t have much to offer them in the way of security: the crime rate was high and it was hard to find a place to sleep safely when you didn’t have a job, but it was on the other side of the world from North America, and they had no family or friends here.  It seemed very unlikely that the U.N. would think to look for them here.

Now that they had some money, the three brothers began looking for a motel where they could sleep for the night.  The sun was beginning to go down and it was not uncommon for thieves to raid the city suburbs around nightfall.  That meant U.N. soldiers would be out as well, and they didn’t want to risk being seen. 

Tariq, Salah, and Ishmael walked past several city blocks, and then they managed to spot a taxi cab.  Salah, who spoke Arabic, asked the driver to take them to the nearest motel.  After about twenty-five minutes, they were dropped off at a local motel and quickly entered.  They checked into a room on the fourth floor, dropped their backpacks by the bed, and collapsed on the beds, not bothering to undress or clean up.  They all remained silent for several minutes, not knowing how to react to the day’s abysmal failure.  Ishmael silently lay down to sleep, which left the two older brothers to an inevitable argument.  After a few minutes, Tariq saw Salah rubbing his chin, which had grown a scraggly beard in the days since their departure.  This was generally a sign that he wanted to say something.

“Just say it,” said Tariq.

“You need to start thinking before you speak or you’re going to get us all killed.”

“Would you rather be sleeping outside?  We got taken care of, didn’t we?”

“We were lucky,” Salah said grimly.

“We always are,” Tariq replied.  “Look, I know that today didn’t turn out the way we hoped, but things will turn out.  They always do.”

Salah continued looking off into space, unsure how to respond.  It was true that they wouldn’t have made it far without Tariq.  That didn’t, however, justify murder.

“If you are really worried about a long-term plan, we need to find this Sage guy,” Tariq said.

Salah said nothing for a few moments. They’d had a few discussions about Sage.  Salah and Ishmael knew nothing about the supposed rebel and liberator apart from what Tariq had told them, and that information he had gathered through hearsay from other convicts.

“We don’t know anything about him,” Salah said.

“Okay, so we sit on our butts and wait for the U.N. to come knocking on our door and we get shot like ducks on a redneck’s pond,” Tariq said.  “I don’t think so.  You know good and well that if that happens, Ishmael isn’t making it out alive.  We might.  He won’t.”

“I’m not saying that we shouldn’t try to find him . . . I’m just saying that I have my doubts.”

              “Like what?”

              “Just . . . the lack of information.  I couldn’t bear it if . . .”

              He didn’t have to finish the sentence.  Tariq glanced over at their younger brother, who was fast asleep.  Neither of them finished Salah’s sentence as the outcome was far too painful for either of them to spend more time contemplating. 

              “He still isn’t talking to me.”

              “Can you blame him?  You’ve killed dozens of men since we left home.  He needs some time to adjust.”

              “To adjust to what?”

              “To the fact that his oldest brother is a cold-blooded killer.”

              “I was hoping he’d learn to appreciate a little action here and there,” Tariq said.

              “This isn’t a game, Tariq!  Mom and Dad could easily be dead, all of our lives are in danger day in and day out, and you manage to joke about it?!”

              “You have your way of handling it, I have mine,” he responded.  “Don’t forget that I rotted in prison for years to protect you two.  So don’t you dare judge me.  You may not like my tactics, but mark my words, they will keep you and Ishmael alive.”

              Salah rose and walked to the window, avoiding the sight of his brother so that he could cool down.  Tariq lay down, contemplating the day’s events and trying to avoid thinking about the possible doom that could befall them because of his recklessness, knowing he could never let his brothers see him question himself or his methods. 

The next morning came very abruptly.  Salah, being the most sensitive to sound, woke first.  He heard metal on metal clashing at the door, along with muffled voices.  He sensed a lot of fear and nervousness, but his curiosity was interrupted by the sound of wood cracking as the door come crashing to the floor.  He heard their footsteps and lunged to Tariq’s bed, shaking him awake.  Tariq was unstirred for a few short seconds, until he heard the intruders, which caused him to leap into action.  He was too late.  A large denim bag was thrown over his head and his momentary kicking and yelling was silenced by the quick use of a Taser.   Before Salah could reach his younger brother, he too had a bag thrown over his head and felt a sharp jab of pain in his lower leg before losing consciousness.  It appeared as though they were a few short miles from death.

Ishmael regained consciousness before his brothers.  The bag was still on his head, so he could not be sure as to their surroundings, but he could hear well enough to tell that they were in the back of some sort of vehicle, probably a van.  They were on a bumpy road, and Ishmael hit his head against the side of the vehicle several times.  As feeling slowly returned to his body, he tried to move his arms, but quickly realized his hands were bound behind his back, as were his feet.  He was lying on his side, his head against the side of the vehicle. 

After a couple of sharp curves, the vehicle stopped.  The van door opposite to him opened and he could feel the heat of the sun against his face through the denim bag on his head.  He was pulled out of the van by his captors and placed on his feet.  They cut the bonds around his feet.  He heard several footsteps around him as he was directed by the encouragement of a blade at his back.  After having walked for a minute or two, the ground underneath him changed from rough dirt to a smoother and more solid surface, which he believed was tile of some sort. 

He could hear the rough engines of desert terrain vehicles around him, as well as constant footsteps of people walking past.  He could also hear voices in the distance, although they were muffled and he could not discern any specific words.  His captors stopped walking and held him stationary.  He heard the person behind him and someone in front of him exchange words in a foreign tongue; some kind of Arabic language, which he guessed based solely upon the similarities between it and the Arabic that Salah sometimes spoke to their father. 

Before he could prepare himself, the bag was ripped off of his head and his eyes were met with an abundant amount of sunlight, temporarily blinding him.  He could not shield his eyes since his hands were bound, but he squinted, attempting to make out the blurry figure in front of him.  As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, the figure in front of him came into focus.  He was a young man, around the age of seventeen, with a red bandana around his forehead and a brown patch on his chin, a hint at his approaching manhood.  He was not Arabic.  His facial features and light-toned skin suggested that he was European.  He knelt down and looked Ishmael carefully in the eye, then angrily spoke to his men, and the one behind Ishmael promptly released the knife from his back.  The young man questioned him softly with several different words that Ishmael did not understand, and then he spoke in English.