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“According to the findings of the 2034 Patriot’s Guard study, many domestic terror groups and other extremists deliberately attempt to recruit US military personnel whenever they are most psychologically and emotionally vulnerable to radicalization, indoctrination, and manipulation, to glean combat training and experienced combatants from these troops—before using them to recruit and radicalize even more current and former military personal. These terror groups mostly operate on US soil and are most often motivated by either politics or hatred and bigotry…”
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—An excerpt of Saber Parish Sentinel reporter Chadwick Hillman, during a March 25, 2034, episode of his investigative podcast Investigation 411, discussing a 2034 study titled Study On Terrorist Radicalization of US Military Veterans, Subsequent Mobilizations of Said Veterans Against Democracy, and Possible Countermeasures—Both Deployed and Un-deployed. The study in question was released by Patriot's Guard a military veteran’s charity, to determine what—if anything—the US Government was doing to prevent the radicalization of active and retired US Military personnel, including combat veterans, by domestic terror groups.
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Alex Westsmith’s eyes fluttered open, as he looked around the hospital room. There were these weird suction cup things attached to his arms, and lines attaching those to various monitors. The room, and all the furniture in it, were white, sterile, and streamlined. There were windows along one side of the off-white room, and a door on the wall opposite the windows. The door was slightly ajar, and Alex could hear the voice of his mother, and a man—whose voice Alex did not recognize—arguing.
“My son’s not well! You can’t just interrogate him like some criminal,” Francine exclaimed.
“Miss Hall, please, your son—,” a man said, only to be interrupted by Francine, who exclaimed, “Alex! His name is Alex!”
“Alex is neither a fugitive nor suspected of committing any criminal offense! He’s a potential witness,” the unknown man continued.
Another female voice spoke up—it was not Alex’s mother, though. “Ma’am, he’s a witness. We question witnesses all the time. Including in hospitals. He’ll be fine.”
For whatever reason, Alex was still wearing the khaki pants, and the white, crewneck shirt, that he’d put on that morning, while his blue jacket—which had been removed from his body—was slung over a chair, one of three chairs positioned at a small table in one corner of the room.
Getting out of the bed and standing up, Alex tore the suction cup things off of his arm, prompting the monitors beside the bed to begin screaming like a set of klaxons. Francine then rushed through the door, followed by a Hispanic man, and a black lady; the latter two wore badges on their belts but were otherwise dressed in plain, civilian clothes.
“You’re awake…” Francine breathed, before rushing up to Alex, hugging him, and proceeding to bawl like a small child for roughly ten solid minutes while Alex wondered what was going on.
“Mom, could you please explain to me what the hell is going on,” Alex asked, a mixture of confusion and concern swirling inside him, with more than a small helping of fear.
“You’ll want to sit down. Speaking of which, Rookie Sanchez, could you go get Alex some food from the cafeteria? He must be hungry,” the female detective asked her partner.
“Sure, Carol,” the middle-aged, Hispanic man replied with a nod, before leaving the room.
“He wasn’t always a cop, was he, ma’am,” Alex asked the lady detective once her partner left the room—while Alex still stood.
Cocking an eyebrow, the female detective replied, “That’s true. He used to be a white hat hacker. He only recently left that job to become a detective. How could you tell?”
Alex hesitated for a moment, before deciding that honesty was the best policy, and thusly saying, “You called him rookie, ma’am. He’s a bit older than most people just entering the workforce. Also, what’s a white hat hacker?”
“Astute observation,” Carol replied, before adding, “And to answer your question, a white hat hacker is a hacker whom companies hire to hack into their company computers, and other internet-connected stuff, in order to find—and subsequently fix—gaps in their cyber security.”
Alex nodded, saying, “Got it, ma’am. So, why’d he change careers?”
“Dunno,” Carol replied, “What I do know is that he was well known in his old field. And extremely gifted in it, too. Judging by what he said to me about it, he made at least twenty times more as a hacker than he does as a detective. Don’t tell him I mentioned that, though.”
Alex stated, “Lying to a cop is a crime, ma’am. But, if he doesn’t ask, I won’t say. So what do you want to know, ma’am? And how’d I end up in a hospital?”
Upon hearing that, Carol’s face made a look that Alex—who was terrible at reading body language—could only vaguely recognize as some sort of upset or concern.
“You don’t remember,” Carol half stated, half inquired, as Francine watched silently, before Carol asked Alex, “Think back to the last thing you can remember from before you woke up in here, please. That is, if you can, Alex.”
Alex shrugged, stating, “The last thing I can remember is heading to my first class of the day after the bell rang. I remember that the class had been moved to a computer lab for one day. I was walking through the computer lab’s door…” Alex paused, trying hard to focus, to concentrate on accessing those memories, only to find the memory of what happened between walking through that door and waking up in what was presumably some sort of hospital, just gone, almost as though they were a limb that, upon going septic, had been amputated to save his life.
After a few moments had passed, Alex sighed, before answering, “I’m sorry, detective. After walking through that door, all I’m drawing is a complete blank…almost like looking through a computer drive for a document that was not just deleted but purged. There’s nothing I can remember after walking through that door, and before waking up here.”
Carol seemed upset in some way at that, muttering, “Damn it!”
Then, as though only just remembering that she was not alone in the room, she stated, “My apologies. It’s not your fault. Probably a side effect of what those bastards gassed ya’ll with.”
Alarmed, Alex demanded, “Wait! Please, back up, ma’am! What bastards, gassed who, and why?”
“Still trying to work out the why,” Carol replied, “but as for the who, it was five armed assailants. They broke into the campus, murdered a policewoman and a teacher, and then dosed you, your teacher, and your classmates with some sort of knockout drug in an aerosol form, before kidnapping a student.”
A knot formed in his stomach, as Alex asked, “Which student did they kidnap?”
Carol hesitated, before answering, “Jessica Wilcox.”
Hearing her name set off a whirlwind of thoughts in Alex’s mind.
Shit! I gotta find her, immediately! I cannot let them hurt her! And the living garbage responsible—they need killing. What if they already killed her? What i—no, damn it! Thinking like that won’t help! Assume she’s still alive until you can verify that she’s not until you can prove she’s dead, and bring home a body.
His voice shaky with fear for Jessica, Alex asked Carol, “Is there anything else you need to know, ma’am?”
Carol dug in her jacket pocket with one hand, and pulled out a pair of paper business cards, saying as she did so, “Not unless you can remember anything else. I’m going to leave both you and your mother a card with my contact information, and another with my partner’s contact details. If you remember anything else about this at a later date, please, give me—or, if I’m unavailable for whatever reason, my partner—a call ASAP.”
With those words, she handed one pair of little, paper business cards to Alex, and gave the other pair to Francine, before saying, “Sorry about my partner, Allen, taking so long with the food. He must have gotten lost again. Happened last time we were in a hospital. To him, hospitals are nothing more than a flood of bad memories. I’d best go find him. Please excuse me, sir, ma’am.”
With those words, Carol left, and Alex immediately turned to Francine, asking, “Mom? Can we get outta here?”
Francine softly replied, “Honey, I don’t know. I’ll see, but the doctors might want to keep you overnight for observation.”
Alex nodded, saying, “Thanks, mom.”
And all while doing his best to hide his looming terror and seething fury at what had happened.
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Jessica’s back felt sore as her eyes slid open, accompanied by a tired frown from her mouth. Then her brain registered what she saw—but couldn’t remember why she was seeing it. Namely, the cage surrounding her, and the gas mask-clad people, wearing body armor emblazoned with the image of a gold-handled knife—its silver blade half covered in crimson blood, and the tip of the blade pointing down. They were holding assault rifles and standing on the other side of the metal bars. Four of them stood rigidly, holding their rifles, which were pointed towards the sky, in a position often assumed by military embassy guards in photos of diplomatic visits, facing her, but standing so, eerily still. The cage was in a massive room, with vehicles, crates, and tables ringed by chairs. More armed, mostly masked, men and women, were sitting in the chairs, lounging at tables, and going about various activities, around the massive room, which was larger than a typical school gymnasium, and in the shape of a rectangle, with massive doors at one end, presumably intended for use by vehicles. At the end of the room opposite the vehicular doors lay what was presumably a warehouse section of some sort, with rows of shelves that held various crates and containers.
Rushing up to the cage’s door, Jessica tried to open it, only to find it stubbornly locked.
Shaking the door, Jessica yelled, “Damn it, let me out of here!”
One of the masked, rigid-standing, men lowered his weapon, pointed the assault rifle he held at her, and snarled, “Can it! You’re not going anywhere!”
“Please let me go,” Jessica pleaded, shrinking away from the side of the cage, “You don’t have to do this!”
Of the four men standing there, facing the cage, only one acted as though he heard her.
This one snarled again, now saying, “We have orders to keep you alive. One can have pieces cut out of them, and still, be alive. One can have a crippling brain or spinal injury, and still, be alive. So—for your own sake—you should shut up before you give me any ideas. Ideas that I’d love to act on, and that you would find permanently painful.”
Looking around again, Jessica saw three more men, all wearing gas masks, walking with a purpose, all towards the cage. Upon reaching the cage, they stood just out of arms reach, with one of the three standing on either side of, and slightly behind, the apparent leader, who—Jessica wasn’t sure, given the gas mask he wore, but whom she suspected—was looking at her, before he turned to the guards and spoke. His voice came out sounding like badly synthesized song lyrics, only without any instrumental.
“Why are you keeping her here? We have a brig,” the Leader of the three, who was apparently in charge, demanded.
In the face of his irritation, the guard that had snarled at Jessica replied awkwardly, “Sir, that’s typically used for disciplinary purposes. Since we don’t normally take prisoners, we didn’t know whether you wanted her in the brig or not.”
“So you just left her in plain view of a large portion of our base,” the Leader demanded quietly.
“Yeah, we made a mistake, sir,” the guard replied.
“I know you’re thoroughly trained! Forget mistake and try incompetence,” the Leader replied with what sounded like a snarl, before turning back to face Jessica, and calmly stating, “Hello Jessica.”
“What do you want,” Jessica replied, trying—and failing—to keep the fear out of her voice.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand what we want, not without understanding why we formed up, or who we are. That said, I want you to understand. After all, you’re going to help us obtain our objectives. Or play a part in it, anyways, whether you like it or not,” the Leader told Jessica.
“You’re crazy,” Jessica stated, “Besides, someone will find me.”
“Oh, they will—after we’ve obtained our objective. And we’re not crazy. Just ruthless,” the Leader answered.
“You know—.”
The leader interrupted Jessica, saying, “That your father works for Daedalus? I know. You see, my brother, Donnie, and your old man, Albert, served together in the military. After we were discharged, Donnie and Albert both joined Daedalus. Then, Donnie caught wind that Albert was using prisoners as unwilling subjects in weapons tests, typically resulting in their deaths—among other fucked up experiments. Donnie was going to blow the whistle, so Daedalus had him disappeared.”
That’s when it dawned on Jessica, and she blurted out, “You’re Violet’s father. You—.”
In a flash, Chad had drawn the pistol from the holster on his hip, and fired a bullet into the cement floor between Jessica’s feet, startling Jessica so much that she fell down on her rear.
His previous irritation now replaced by fury, Chad snarled, “That was a warning shot. Say my daughter’s name again, and I’ll put one in your knee. As for why you’re here, the deal is simple—a trade. Your father gets me the evidence, and whatever’s left of my brother, in exchange for us releasing you. That simple.”
Turning to the others, Chad asked them, “Okay? So, who’s going to hold the camera?”
The one on Chad’s left replied, “I’ll do it, sir.”
His voice was not altered by his gas mask, and he sounded weirdly dutiful, and yet, simultaneously resigned, for someone engaging in such criminal activity. It was almost as though he was reluctant to continue with his current course of action. If he was that reluctant, then the other criminals seemed not to notice.
As the volunteer walked away—presumably to retrieve a camera—the masked man on the other side of Chad, as though he were a child fantasizing about toys or candy, wistfully said, “Oh man, if only I could see Albert’s face when he gets this in his email.”
“Ransom video? Really? Isn’t that a bit ISIL-like,” Jessica demanded.
The Wistful One immediately turned to face the cage, and snarled, “Compare us to that filth again, and I will inflict so much pain on you, you little brat, you’ll beg for death by the end of it.” The Wistful One then called out to their leader over his shoulder, “Chad, can I please break some of this fool’s bones?”
Chad shook his head, as he replied, “Negative, One-Four-One-Charlie. We can’t have her dying of infection, or going into shock.”
Seemingly disappointed, 141-Charlie—or the Wistful One—retorted, “Come on—she’d survive long enough.”
“Yeah, she’d be alive, broadly speaking, but we shouldn’t risk her even looking dead. We’ll be sending the video as proof of life. Besides, if she appears too ill or injured, then Albert might panic and alert his superiors at Daedalus, or the cops,” Chad stated.
“Like we can’t handle both of them? Please, sir,” 141-Charlie retorted confidently.
“We’d survive, but the mission objective would be compromised, the increased scrutiny would put additional pressure on our logistics, and we’d be at elevated risk for mass casualties,” Chad sounded off, impatiently.
“Sir, we signed up knowing the risks,” an exasperated-sounding 141-Charlie stated.
Upon hearing those words, Chad rushed up to 141-Charlie, and placed Chad’s own, gas mask-clad face, within an inch of 141-Charlie’s face, looking directly into 141-Charlie’s eyes.
“I won’t unnecessarily elevate our risk of taking casualties, or the rate at which we take them. There’s a difference between bravery and idiocy. I expect you to understand that—or should I write down my words prohibiting you from shredding the prisoner as official orders? You’re under my command—don’t forget that One-Four-One-Charlie,” Chad told 141-Charlie, his voice sounding mechanically disguised, and badly synthesized, yet simultaneously sounding like a pure incarnation of rage, aggression, and malice, before Chad demanded, “Am I understood, One-Four-One-Charlie?”
The Wistful One, 141-Charlie, or whatever his name was—Jessica didn’t quite care—seemed to stiffen at that, as though he desperately want to argue the point, but held his tongue, out of—if Jessica had to guess—either respect or fear.
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir,” The Wistful One responded after a brief moment of silence.
Backing off, Chad replied, “Good. Let’s maintain that understanding.”
It’s at this point that the third abductor returned, holding a camera.
Chad nodded to the Camera Man, saying, “Good man, One-Four-One-Bravo.”
Turning to the criminals who’d been standing there before, the Wistful One, the Camera Man, and Chad had shown up, Chad stated, “You four. Prepare her to be moved. We’ll use one of the storage rooms for the video. Afterward, you’re going to transfer her to the brig.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” the four who’d originally been standing there, facing the cage, stated in unison, as Chad then pointed at each one of them while saying, “You and you, cover them. Batons, tasers, and sprays only. We need her alive—for now, anyway. You, get the zip cuffs on her, with the arms behind the back. You, unlock and open the door. We need to make the proof of life video somewhere with less strategic activity in the area. Can't give away intel in the video background. You four will need to guard her for a while after you help us transport the prisoner there, but I’ll see to it that you’re relieved soon enough. Fall out from guard positions.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” they said in unison, before slinging their rifles over their shoulders, and beginning to move, two of them pulling batons from their belts as they did so. One of the criminals pulled what looked like a white zip tie from their pocket. The only two real differences between the zip-cuff and a zip-tie were that the locking tab on a pair of zip-cuffs was a little piece of metal, not a little piece of plastic and that a zip-cuff was used to secure prisoners, whereas a zip-tie was used to secure objects. One of the criminals proceeded to unlock the cage door, and open it, as the criminal with the zip-cuffs entered, with the white, plastic, zip-cuff restraint device in their hand.
Behind him, the remaining two criminals—out of the four that had initially guarded Jessica—entered, as the criminal with the zip cuffs snarled, “Hands behind your back, prisoner.”
Jessica reluctantly complied and promptly felt the plastic of the zip-cuffs tighten around her wrists. Then, Jessica was marched out of the cage by the criminals, with one of a pair of criminals grabbing each of her arms in both his hands, as they exited the cage. They marched her off to one end of the massive, rectangular room—the one with the crates, opposite the wall with the massive vehicular doors—then through a hallway, and into a storage room. The storage room held only what Jessica recognized as green, metal, military-style ammunition storage boxes stacked throughout the room, on wooden floor-to-ceiling shelves. There had to be at least tens of thousands of bullets in the one room alone. Maybe even hundreds of thousands, or perhaps even millions. Assuming that the boxes held bullets, that is. Hauling Jessica to the far side of the room, the criminals proceeded to hold her in a standing position in front of a green screen that was set up on one side of the room, next to Chad, as the Camera Man fiddled with what looked like a pocket-sized digital camera of some sort.
Eventually, the Camera Man pointed the camera at Jessica and Chad, nodding, as Chad awkwardly said, “Hello, Albert Wilcox. Uh, wait—the camera’s on, right?”
The Camera Man replied, “Yes, sir, it’s rolling. Should we start over?”
Taking off his gas mask, Chad replied—although Jessica would never admit it—much less awkwardly, “No, that’s okay. I lead a group of those wronged by the likes of Daedalus. We are the Crimson Blades. Albert Wilcox, you know that I’m a man of my word, and I know that you had my brother disappeared to prevent him from blowing the whistle on your experiments. The deal is simple—the release of my brother, Donnie Brunswick, or his remains, and your retrieval of all—and I do mean all—evidence of all the war crimes, atrocities, and legal violations, committed by Daedalus; after we receive my brother and the evidence, we’ll let Jessica go. Otherwise, she dies. You have forty-eight hours. Refuse to cooperate and she dies. Then we destroy her body. Cut the video.”
The Camera Man lowered the camera, turning it off as he did so, saying, “Video’s off, sir.”
Chad simply nodded, saying, “Good job, soldiers. Good job.”
Then, Chad, the Wistful One, and the Camera Man left the room.
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Alex, now wearing his blue, soft shell jacket, and a striped, green and red scarf that had been folded in one of the jacket’s pockets, along with black winter gloves, walked through the cold air of the grey cement that made up the multi-story hospital parking garage, as he approached his mother’s vehicle, trailing slightly behind his mother, as she was the one who actually knew where she’d parked.
As Alex walked, he replayed his last text exchange with Talia Cohen in his mind.
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Talia: Hey Alex. How are you? Just wanted to let you know that my Army Unit is being called to active duty for a training exercise, so I’ll be unavailable and out often for a while. Besides, I need to focus on my unit’s performance in the exercise. It’s no secret that I was brought in to fix a nonfunctional battalion, which had been falling below US Army standards. Please, stay safe. I love you kiddo.
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Alex/Me: Don’t worry, Mrs. Cohen. You’re a warrior, and I know you earned your officer’s commission. You’ll do fine. And I’ll stay safe. I promise.
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I like the thought of lying to Mrs. Cohen even less than the thought of lying to Mom, Alex thought, After all, she was there for me when my mother wasn’t. I could trust her and Anna when I had nobody else to trust. But I can’t tell her that I’m Pyre—it would be a lose/lose option. Either she’d call the cops on me, and I’d be thrown in jail, or she’d unnecessarily become a target for both the police who want to jail me and the criminal who want to kill me. Granted, Richard took the risk, but it was necessary that I gain his cyber-warfare capabilities, and someone I can trust to assist me in terms of procuring untraceable equipment. There is currently no need to expose Talia to that risk.
Alex didn’t feel right, hiding his Pyre identity from Talia—or Anna for that matter. They’d been there for him to trust when he needed them and had given him that same trust. To deceive them felt downright wrong, manipulative, deceptive, and like an abuse of trust. But it was necessary for both the Cohen family’s good and the greater good of the public.
Eventually, they came to the vehicle Francine owned. Stepping into the rear seat of his mother’s black SUV, on the passenger side, as it stood there, parked on the second story of the hospital’s parking garage, Alex shut the door behind himself.
Looking around the vehicle’s interior, Alex saw the various items—namely empty boxes, other trash, books, and other small items of clutter—as he buckled his seatbelt, telling Francine, “You know, Mom, the school faculty haven’t banned us students from returning to campus.”
“All classes have been suspended indefinitely. You’re staying home, son,” Francine told him.
Alex desperately wanted to refuse, to reply, I have no interest in going home. Not while Jessica’s still out there, scared and alone.
But to say that would instantly draw intense suspicion, which was something Alex could not afford the cost of.
Therefore, Alex had no choice but to reply, “I’m not saying I want to stay there for the night. I just want to pick up some clothes and stuff, Mom. It would make life more comfortable for me at home.”
Francine sighed, before saying, “All right, son. I’ll drive right there so you can pick that stuff up, but then we’re going straight home. Okay?”
“Thanks, Mom,” Alex replied, resolving to pick up a bag or two of his Pyre gear while he was there.
This ain’t over. Not ‘till I bring Jessica home, he thought, determined.114Please respect copyright.PENANAEBvwPYkZXs