Page 41 of Red Rooster

~*~

Jake stood in the alley that ran alongside Mosby’s Diner, slowly opening and closing his hand – hisunburnedhand. He could still feel the heat of the coffee, and a tingling, bright warmth that he suspected was part of- ofwhateverthe target had done to him. But there was no pain. No side effects – he didn’t think.

He realized he was panting – stress, rather than exertion – and closed his mouth, pressed it tight.

Dr. Talbot had told him that their target had undergone experimental treatment not unlike that used on Jake himself and the rest of his team. They’d given him a team, Dr. Talbot and Agent West, other ex-military serum recipients. They seemed competent, so far, though he hadn’t really bothered to get to know them. This mission was a means to an end, a chance to prove that he was perfectly capable of serving again.

A video posted to Facebook, mined by one of the nerdy techs back at the Manor, had indicated that the target was in Evanston, Wyoming, and Jake’s team had left right away, flying through the night. He’d followed the target and her bodyguard-partner-boyfriend-creepy uncle-whatever he was from the Holiday Inn to the diner, told his team to take up a holding position and wait. This was just recon, really. He hadn’t expected to contain the two of them. According to their briefing packet, the target was highly dangerous and great care would need to be taken to subdue her somewhere where risk of civilian casualties was minimal.

He’d known she was only a girl, a little redhead with a sprinkling of freckles over her nose, but he hadn’t realized, until he’d seen her eating chocolate chip waffles, just how small she seemed. How fragile.

He’d had a moment, hiding under his ballcap and listening to the target and her companion – Corporal Rooster Palmer, Marine Corps, medical discharge, Purple Heart – talking about a TV show, one of those obnoxious singing contests.

She was barely twenty, and she put too much syrup on her waffles, and thought someone named Devon deserved a record deal, and her laugh sounded like the quiet flutter of bird wings.

What the hell was he doing? How was this kid a threat?

But then she’d spilled her coffee on him, andtouchedhim, and- and…

He didn’t know what.

“Hey,” a female voice said, right in front of him, and he jerked, hand going for the gun concealed at his hip. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, lost in his own thoughts, and his heart leapt up his throat. He didn’t use to startle so easy.

One of his teammates – Ramirez, he remembered – stood in front of him, windbreaker pushed back at one hip, hand resting on the butt of her own weapon. She stared at him with admirable blandness, only the arch of her dark brows and the tilt of her head sayingreally?“You alright?” she asked, like she’d already decided he wasn’t.

He cleared his throat and forced his churning doubts away. “Yeah. We need to get going. They’re on the move. Spence disabled their truck?”

She nodded. “I don’t know how – I’m not a mechanic. But yeah, he said they shouldn’t get far.”

“Good. Call ahead to the garage.”

“Yes, sir.”

~*~

“You’re mad,” Red said, about an hour later, empty Wyoming lowlands stretching brown and stubbly on either side of the road.

Rooster took a deep breath in through his nose and ignored the way his hand tightened on the wheel until his knuckles went white. “I’m not mad,” he said in a carefully measured voice.

And he wasn’t. He was petrified.

“I know,” Red continued, voice tired. When he snuck another look at her – he hadn’t been able to stop since they’d pulled out of Evanston City – he saw that her eyelids were at half mast, fighting off yet another power drain.Goddamn it. “That I’m not supposed to attract attention. But I couldn’t let him be injured because of me. I…” She trailed off, tone upset.

“You got a real guilt complex, you know that?” he bit out.

“Mad, see?”

“No.” He was running scenarios through his head, trying to figure out an escape plan. And berating himself. He should have never let her do the show; should never have let their money get so tight that he needed to. He’d done odd jobs before: loading hay into trucks, putting up fence; he’d washed dishes, and harvested corn, and driven tractors. There was always work and a little cash for a strong back, and he should have found work before Red saw that flier, so that he could have told her no. Between last night’s show and today’s display at the diner, whatever that man would go out and say on social media…their cover was blown.

“We’re gonna go up toward Jackson,” he said, deciding it, “and before we get there we’re gonna make two stops. Gotta get a box of hair dye at one of ‘em.”

She made an unhappy sound.

“I know, I know, but–”

He registered the whine coming from underneath the truck the same moment he realized that it had been going on for several miles, too soft for him to pay proper attention to it. But it spiked, suddenly, loud and droning, and he had just a moment to thinkoh fuck, the transmission,before there was a crunch, a lurch, a growl, and the truck started to slow, slow, slow, the RPM needle surging.

“Fuck,” he said, and managed not to sound as panicked as he felt.