From "Black Rising", now available on Smashwords.com for download!
She was fighting back the urge to scream as she stared into darkness.
The kids! Dear Lord, she prayed, if you are up there, please let my kids be safe, be okay…her thoughts were scattered, not coming clearly, hearing the recording over and over. She had to keep focus, focus! She was trying to remember how long she’d been here, tied to the chair by all four limbs, blindfolded and gagged. Not allowed to speak. “Listen, just listen,” the voice said. She was. She didn’t have a choice. She struggled against the ropes that tied her to the chair, knowing she couldn’t get to her boot knife, and fighting all the way. That was her way; fight it out!
“Miss Black, you really should save your strength.” The voice was back, this time right over her left shoulder. HE was in the room! Next to her! What the hell was she going to do now? She was a captive, forced to hear recordings and sounds over and over. A bell chimed somewhere around her and it made her be still. She knew the sound; a song she’d listened to for years began with that chime. Something about it made her be very, very still all of a sudden.
“You know what to do when you hear this now, don’t you?” His voice was soothing while ominous. She felt herself, her inner self, quiet and fade away, like some ghost that was returning to silence in a haunted house. She was cold, she realized; chilled like she had been playing in snow with the kids. The kids! Her panic began to return.
“Your children are safe.” It was as though he was reading her mind. Or was she speaking aloud? She didn’t know any more; there was a hazy feeling within her. She felt semi-sleepy, drowsy almost, and warmed up suddenly. Things began to move around her, she could hear it; the scrape of a chair, moving of a table. “You should be warmer now, Miss Black.” That voice! How did he know? Was she speaking aloud? She couldn’t remember how she got here. She had no idea of how long she’d been in this room, but it seemed like forever.
“Now, Miss Black,” the voice continued. “You need rest. You will be home soon. But we have a few more things to do with you first.” They were going to let her go? She was relieved. But were they? Her wariness kicked in. What had they been doing all this time? It seemed like forever! The drowsy feeling returned and she felt like someone had slipped her a glass of wine. She was drugged, she knew this, and yet…she didn’t feel threatened.
The voice continued. “You are an asset, Miss Black, not an enemy. We need your help to finish our mission. Will you help us?” What mission? She had no idea of what they meant; she nodded her head anyway, hoping it would get her free.
“You will know what to do. We will call you. Sleep now; you’ll be free soon.”
She felt sleepy and wanted to sleep so very much…but she needed to remember all of this, to tell Juan and Jerry and Spencer…who were they again? She knew but couldn’t remember any of their faces. Panic set in. How damn long had she been here? She felt a prick on her upper left arm and jumped, a small scream emanating from under the gag.
Blackness descended. It would be okay, it would be okay…she repeated this to herself as the wall came down and though she fought sleep, it was inevitable…she heard one more thing before she passed out. His voice again.
“You’re a Phoenix now, my dear. Welcome.”
She was fighting back the urge to scream as she stared into darkness.
The kids! Dear Lord, she prayed, if you are up there, please let my kids be safe, be okay…her thoughts were scattered, not coming clearly, hearing the recording over and over. She had to keep focus, focus! She was trying to remember how long she’d been here, tied to the chair by all four limbs, blindfolded and gagged. Not allowed to speak. “Listen, just listen,” the voice said. She was. She didn’t have a choice. She struggled against the ropes that tied her to the chair, knowing she couldn’t get to her boot knife, and fighting all the way. That was her way; fight it out!
“Miss Black, you really should save your strength.” The voice was back, this time right over her left shoulder. HE was in the room! Next to her! What the hell was she going to do now? She was a captive, forced to hear recordings and sounds over and over. A bell chimed somewhere around her and it made her be still. She knew the sound; a song she’d listened to for years began with that chime. Something about it made her be very, very still all of a sudden.
“You know what to do when you hear this now, don’t you?” His voice was soothing while ominous. She felt herself, her inner self, quiet and fade away, like some ghost that was returning to silence in a haunted house. She was cold, she realized; chilled like she had been playing in snow with the kids. The kids! Her panic began to return.
“Your children are safe.” It was as though he was reading her mind. Or was she speaking aloud? She didn’t know any more; there was a hazy feeling within her. She felt semi-sleepy, drowsy almost, and warmed up suddenly. Things began to move around her, she could hear it; the scrape of a chair, moving of a table. “You should be warmer now, Miss Black.” That voice! How did he know? Was she speaking aloud? She couldn’t remember how she got here. She had no idea of how long she’d been in this room, but it seemed like forever.
“Now, Miss Black,” the voice continued. “You need rest. You will be home soon. But we have a few more things to do with you first.” They were going to let her go? She was relieved. But were they? Her wariness kicked in. What had they been doing all this time? It seemed like forever! The drowsy feeling returned and she felt like someone had slipped her a glass of wine. She was drugged, she knew this, and yet…she didn’t feel threatened.
The voice continued. “You are an asset, Miss Black, not an enemy. We need your help to finish our mission. Will you help us?” What mission? She had no idea of what they meant; she nodded her head anyway, hoping it would get her free.
“You will know what to do. We will call you. Sleep now; you’ll be free soon.”
She felt sleepy and wanted to sleep so very much…but she needed to remember all of this, to tell Juan and Jerry and Spencer…who were they again? She knew but couldn’t remember any of their faces. Panic set in. How damn long had she been here? She felt a prick on her upper left arm and jumped, a small scream emanating from under the gag.
Blackness descended. It would be okay, it would be okay…she repeated this to herself as the wall came down and though she fought sleep, it was inevitable…she heard one more thing before she passed out. His voice again.
“You’re a Phoenix now, my dear. Welcome.”
From the coming sequel, Black Rising II: The Phoenix Group
Seven months later...
JUAN GATES opened the door to his Cabin at Arrington Lakes and stepped in the wet porch quickly. The Pacific Northwest weather was back to its usual pattern for spring and the rain was pouring down, so he was soaked through his overcoat to his last flannel shirt. He shook off the coat and the rain on it, hanging it up on a hook to drip dry. His flannel…Clarissa had picked this one out for him, red and black checkered patterns with a button-down front and he wanted to preserve it if he could. He flipped the light switch to his left…and it did nothing. No light. He signed exasperatedly, muttering to himself about light bulbs that always seem to burn out just when you needed them most. The day had turned as dark as the funeral hearse he’d just escorted to a cemetery with Spencer Truckman in it. Morosely, he peeled the shirt off of his very wet body, tossed it carelessly at the washer, and walked slowly through the doorway to the kitchen beyond, the eastern sky a criss-cross of black clouds and flashes of light. Lightning. Wonderful, Juan thought sarcastically; he sighed...
The blow to his head sending him to the floor was so sudden and hard that he didn’t have time to catch on anything to keep from going down. There was a hard weight on his back and before he could comprehend what had happened, his arms were yanked behind him then zip tied quickly. He had no time to reach his gun or the razor knife he kept concealed on his right hip. He was rudely flipped onto his back, his weapons found and taken by a shadowy figure, slim and petite above him, legs straddling his waist. In the dim sway that his dizzy head produced, he realized it was a woman who had him down! The curve of a waist in silhouette above him and the swell of breasts gave it away. He was not so much angry now at having been taken by surprise, but curious. It was rare anyone ever got the jump on him, and that was upsetting enough; but that a petite woman could do it so quickly and efficiently? She looked to be no taller than Clare and slightly smaller in build. His legs were zipped quickly as well, crossed at the ankles and he began to struggle against his binds. A soft, European-accented voice spoke in the blackness around him. A woman’s voice. British, he realized…
“’Allo, Juan Gates. Daft bugger. We need to chat a bit, you reck?” He was puzzled, barely understanding her through the thick accent.
“Who the fuck are you and what the hell are you doing in my cabin?” He almost yelled this, he was so angry. Her tone of voice was cold, smug, and it pissed him off.
“Now, Agent Gates,” began the woman softly, patronizingly. “You should know better than to anger your captor in any situation. Isn’t that in your NSA playbook?” Whoever she was, her tone sounded malicious, evil…and he realized he had to be in the company of an agent or the like from MI-6. Her voice seemed oddly familiar to him and he struggled to remember where he’d heard that voice before; he knew this woman, he thought. She knew he was an agent so she had to be from MI-6…
Or worse. She was a rogue, perhaps, or someone he’d put away?
He went cold all over. This wasn’t good.
“Yeah, it is,” he returned snappishly. “But why am I a captive? For what reason?” A soft chuckle from the woman. It chilled him.
“I have discovered you buggers at NSA don’t like to listen when not a captive, unless of course it’s with the bugs you plant on your unsuspecting countrymen. We need to have a chat, Juan Gates.” The woman paused, still standing at his feet she’d bound for a long moment of silence, then turned and went to the kitchen wall behind them and flipped on a light switch.
What he saw chilled him to his core. Clarissa! But not Clarissa…the hair was shorter and darker, but that face…he’d know that face anywhere. Then it hit him…Clare had mentioned a sister before. Her twin. He also recalled Clare rarely brought her up, skimming over her. Clare didn’t like to talk about Taryn (other than the fact she'd been killed overseas), though he never could suss out why.
He thought he knew why now. She simply stood there, staring at him with no expression on her lovely face. Every bit as beautiful as Clare…but empty, somehow. There were no wrinkles, laugh lines, not even the freckles he loved to touch at night on Clare’s face as she slept. Taryn’s face showed no character of any kind. She reminded him of what a mannequin looked like, plain and flat. Shaped and molded perfectly, but not real. Plastic.
“So, I trust, Agent Gates, you reco’nize me?” She was speaking flatly as though it were not a question but a statement, her hands on her hips and head tilted left, watching him.
“You must be Taryn. Taryn…Dickenson? Right?” Her face flickered surprise for a moment before returning to an impassive stare.
“I am. And you are Juan Charleston Gates, NSA Special Agent, now in Charge of Ops for the Western Washington HQ, NSA Division Six.” She paused briefly. “Sad to hear about Spencer. We at MI-6 were saddened to hear of his passing. You have my condolences. He was your friend as well as your boss, if I recall your jacket properly.” She saw the surprise on his face and became sardonic, adopting a laconic pose, leaning on the back of a chair dragged in from the dining room. “Oh, yes, Agent Gates, we know who you are. We know all the NSA operatives are here and overseas. After all,” she paused, slowly coming down to his face to speak in it, nearly nose-to-nose. “We keep tabs on all you buggers. Have to, since you bloody fools screw our ops up right and fuckin’ regular. And since you’ve enraptured me sister, I have more reason to come calling on you.” She stared in his face a few long moments more before slowly rising to stand above him...
Seven months later...
JUAN GATES opened the door to his Cabin at Arrington Lakes and stepped in the wet porch quickly. The Pacific Northwest weather was back to its usual pattern for spring and the rain was pouring down, so he was soaked through his overcoat to his last flannel shirt. He shook off the coat and the rain on it, hanging it up on a hook to drip dry. His flannel…Clarissa had picked this one out for him, red and black checkered patterns with a button-down front and he wanted to preserve it if he could. He flipped the light switch to his left…and it did nothing. No light. He signed exasperatedly, muttering to himself about light bulbs that always seem to burn out just when you needed them most. The day had turned as dark as the funeral hearse he’d just escorted to a cemetery with Spencer Truckman in it. Morosely, he peeled the shirt off of his very wet body, tossed it carelessly at the washer, and walked slowly through the doorway to the kitchen beyond, the eastern sky a criss-cross of black clouds and flashes of light. Lightning. Wonderful, Juan thought sarcastically; he sighed...
The blow to his head sending him to the floor was so sudden and hard that he didn’t have time to catch on anything to keep from going down. There was a hard weight on his back and before he could comprehend what had happened, his arms were yanked behind him then zip tied quickly. He had no time to reach his gun or the razor knife he kept concealed on his right hip. He was rudely flipped onto his back, his weapons found and taken by a shadowy figure, slim and petite above him, legs straddling his waist. In the dim sway that his dizzy head produced, he realized it was a woman who had him down! The curve of a waist in silhouette above him and the swell of breasts gave it away. He was not so much angry now at having been taken by surprise, but curious. It was rare anyone ever got the jump on him, and that was upsetting enough; but that a petite woman could do it so quickly and efficiently? She looked to be no taller than Clare and slightly smaller in build. His legs were zipped quickly as well, crossed at the ankles and he began to struggle against his binds. A soft, European-accented voice spoke in the blackness around him. A woman’s voice. British, he realized…
“’Allo, Juan Gates. Daft bugger. We need to chat a bit, you reck?” He was puzzled, barely understanding her through the thick accent.
“Who the fuck are you and what the hell are you doing in my cabin?” He almost yelled this, he was so angry. Her tone of voice was cold, smug, and it pissed him off.
“Now, Agent Gates,” began the woman softly, patronizingly. “You should know better than to anger your captor in any situation. Isn’t that in your NSA playbook?” Whoever she was, her tone sounded malicious, evil…and he realized he had to be in the company of an agent or the like from MI-6. Her voice seemed oddly familiar to him and he struggled to remember where he’d heard that voice before; he knew this woman, he thought. She knew he was an agent so she had to be from MI-6…
Or worse. She was a rogue, perhaps, or someone he’d put away?
He went cold all over. This wasn’t good.
“Yeah, it is,” he returned snappishly. “But why am I a captive? For what reason?” A soft chuckle from the woman. It chilled him.
“I have discovered you buggers at NSA don’t like to listen when not a captive, unless of course it’s with the bugs you plant on your unsuspecting countrymen. We need to have a chat, Juan Gates.” The woman paused, still standing at his feet she’d bound for a long moment of silence, then turned and went to the kitchen wall behind them and flipped on a light switch.
What he saw chilled him to his core. Clarissa! But not Clarissa…the hair was shorter and darker, but that face…he’d know that face anywhere. Then it hit him…Clare had mentioned a sister before. Her twin. He also recalled Clare rarely brought her up, skimming over her. Clare didn’t like to talk about Taryn (other than the fact she'd been killed overseas), though he never could suss out why.
He thought he knew why now. She simply stood there, staring at him with no expression on her lovely face. Every bit as beautiful as Clare…but empty, somehow. There were no wrinkles, laugh lines, not even the freckles he loved to touch at night on Clare’s face as she slept. Taryn’s face showed no character of any kind. She reminded him of what a mannequin looked like, plain and flat. Shaped and molded perfectly, but not real. Plastic.
“So, I trust, Agent Gates, you reco’nize me?” She was speaking flatly as though it were not a question but a statement, her hands on her hips and head tilted left, watching him.
“You must be Taryn. Taryn…Dickenson? Right?” Her face flickered surprise for a moment before returning to an impassive stare.
“I am. And you are Juan Charleston Gates, NSA Special Agent, now in Charge of Ops for the Western Washington HQ, NSA Division Six.” She paused briefly. “Sad to hear about Spencer. We at MI-6 were saddened to hear of his passing. You have my condolences. He was your friend as well as your boss, if I recall your jacket properly.” She saw the surprise on his face and became sardonic, adopting a laconic pose, leaning on the back of a chair dragged in from the dining room. “Oh, yes, Agent Gates, we know who you are. We know all the NSA operatives are here and overseas. After all,” she paused, slowly coming down to his face to speak in it, nearly nose-to-nose. “We keep tabs on all you buggers. Have to, since you bloody fools screw our ops up right and fuckin’ regular. And since you’ve enraptured me sister, I have more reason to come calling on you.” She stared in his face a few long moments more before slowly rising to stand above him...