Chapter 26—Hostages
With no one to talk to, Rooke’s waiting room was painfully dull for Mark. All he had to entertain himself with was a newspaper. He glanced over the cover story. Some munitions and weapon company under contract for the country had been robbed by unknown forces. No one knew who was at fault for the break-in. The United States accused the company and the company accused the U.S. Both shifted blame to one another for two previous robberies.
Heather’s yelling interrupted his reading. She and Finster had returned during the last few days of October. According to Mark’s prediction, his mother had left on business soon after he’d spent the night at Heather’s. Since then, he’d heard from her only a few times. Usually he just got her voicemail when he called. When he did reach her, she’d only enough time for brief chats or to wish him a “Good night, I love you,” before having to leave. So Mark was relieved to see his coworkers return.
Rooke had been spending more time at his own father’s house, working there and neglecting to make an appearance at the office. When he did show, Mark would ask how Leonard was doing. “Fine, fine. Good. Great,” Rooke would reply. The rest of the Pavlovian response to Mark’s harmless inquiry would be for Rooke to excuse himself with “pressing matters to attend to.”
Mark had been left at the office by Rooke a lot, putting together failed mixtures when he wasn’t being lectured by his tutor. It was a monumental accomplishment that he enjoyed his private schooling over working. He’d grown tired of mixing the ingredients after the third day on the job. It certainly wasn’t helping him achieve his full potential as he’d been promised. He knew that Rooke thought the steady stream of dead rats and disposed chemical failures were getting them nowhere. But Mark was assigned to continue mixing anyway. Always mixing to try to recapture that lightning in a bottle.
To Mark, Rooke seemed increasingly stressed. October, and now the first week of November, drifted by quickly, with no results to recreate Mark’s power. He could only assume Whyte was breathing down Rooke’s neck. That fact pervaded the air around the office, since Rooke pressured everyone else. It put Mark on edge. He wished he could work elsewhere, like Rooke did.
That Rooke was at the office that day was big. Whyte had demanded another conference call with Rooke, Heather, and Finster. Mark was happy to be left out of that.
“You know what?” Heather’s screams carried clear through the thick doors. “You’re afraid! Afraid to get your hands dirty!”
Mark pressed his ear to the door. He heard Rooke mumbling something. “Calm down?” Heather growled, but lowered her tone. Mark was straining to hear the conversation. He quietly turned the knob. In their haste to enter Rooke’s office, nobody had locked the door. Mark opened it a hair, able to make out Heather and Rooke. She was in Rooke’s face, leaning over his desk. The conference call appeared to be over.
“You need to man up,” she said. “What suddenly makes these people anything more than expendable to you?” Rooke was distraught, hair a mess despite his attempts to smooth it down. “It’s because you met them. That’s it, isn’t it? You saw the girl and her family for what? A couple of minutes? If that? Oh, but now it’s harder to attach a number to the name instead of a face. They’re here and familiar instead of far away and unknown. That makes them different from the thousands of other families. You can’t stand that, can you? Suddenly, even the smallest slight toward them becomes impossible, huh?” Heather leaned in closer to Rooke. “Get used to it. We’ve had to. Anyway, it’s not like you’ll be getting your hands dirty.”
“Would you shut up?” Rooke shouted, slamming the desk. “Don’t you understand that it will be traced back to us? Whyte is insane if he thinks I’ll do this here, in this town!”
“If you felt like that, you shouldn’t have theorized that you needed her blood!” Blood? Mark’s mind raced. Whose blood? “Or offered him the power from it either! What did you think he’d want to do?” The pitch of Heather’s voice matched Rooke’s.
“It’s not like we’re bringing anyone back here.” Finster’s voice. “Whyte didn’t ask us to. No one will know you’re involved.”
“Someone would find out. There’s always that risk,” Rooke said.
“There’s always a risk for everything,” Heather said. She turned and headed for the door. Mark panicked. Should he close it? She spun around as she stopped at the door. Mark took the chance and shut it. “You’d better be prepared to put up with Whyte, then,” she said.
Mark scrambled back to his chair, picking up the newspaper. He pretended to read as Heather and Finster walked out. Heather muttered under her breath. Finster beckoned Mark along and the trio headed to the elevator. As the doors closed, Heather grumbled, “I hate him.”
Finster pulled out his cell phone. He checked it and showed her the message. “You know what we have to do now,” Finster said.
“Yeah, I know.” She didn’t sound thrilled in the slightest.
The larger man looked down at Mark. He smiled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Ready for your first real assignment?” Finster asked.
“Sure,” Mark said. “What is it?”
“A special mission. You can help me gather some supplies. You want to track and I’ll grab, Heather?”
She looked down at Mark and he saw uncertainty in her eyes. No, there was more to it than that. A hint of sadness, like when his mother hugged him before leaving on her trips. It was unsettling. “I guess so,” she said.
“Alright,” Finster said. They parted ways at the first floor.
As Mark followed him, fear clutched his stomach. The same twinge of dread Rooke always gave him. And it was growing. Rooke’s temper was the starting point. Talk of blood, secrets kept from him, armed coworkers, his hidden weakness, and the ever-encroaching presence of Whyte. These factors built into a lump in his gut.
Mark shook his head. He was jumping to conclusions. These people had been nothing if not generous to him. So what if they carry guns or leave me out of the loop? He wasn’t the boss, so he shouldn’t know every little detail. Heather and Finster were well armed. This was certainly justified, considering what happened with Kirk. It had definitely saved Mark from a cruel fate. As for his weakness, he had had no problems with it so far. He was worrying himself for no reason.
Yet Mark couldn’t write off two frightening aspects: Whyte and Rooke. Try as he might to give halfhearted excuses, he could find nothing to excuse Rooke for shooting him in the arm or Whyte for encouraging it. Even if Mark was invulnerable, that stunt had gone too far. There was also the question of whether Whyte would fire Mark at some point. What would that entail? Rooke had shown some gall, standing up to his boss. But their current task, whatever it was, could only be seriously dangerous if that was the case. Mark didn’t think he could count on Rooke doing the same to protect himl.
Mark slowed his pace. Rooke had stood up to Whyte. About what? What could be so bad that Rooke refused to partake in it? Were Finster and Heather going through on that? Was he tagging along for a deadly assignment that was worse than being shot?
He swallowed the rising lump in his throat. All he could do was resolve to do his best work without questions, keep his head low, and show gratitude. Whyte wasn’t someone he wanted to trifle with. If he wanted a task done, Mark had no choice but to oblige.
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