coercion 5

“Why?” I snarled. “Why did you do this?”

“We … had to…”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Burke. You’re active military and so are some of the others, but you’re running a kill op against civilians and most of your team are contractors. Tell me how that makes sense. Who cut your orders?” Burke gave a feeble shake of his head.

“Please, you have to help me … my wife … my kids…” I wanted to hit him. I wanted to rant about all the wives and kids dead on Frog Island. Dead here. Infected and ruined. But the Cop and the Modern Man inside my head told me to listen. To hear what Burke was saying.

“What about your family?” I asked. Tears boiled up in his eyes and fell onto the bloody dirt.

“They’ll hurt them.”

“They? Who?” “

The … blond kids…” His voice was fading.

“What are you talking about? Burke, listen to me. Tell me what happened here.” He shook his head. His fists were clenched as he tried to hold onto life long enough to talk.

“They … blindsided me. The blond kids. They … looked like nothing. Like maybe … college kids. Jesus … you have to swear to me that you’ll save my family … my wife … my kids … oh, God, what have I done?” He coughed and red blood ran over his chin. “Listen to me, Burke,” I said.

“You’re dying. Nothing can change that now, but you can change what your death means by telling me what is going on. Who sent you here? Is this a sanctioned military operation? Are you working for the government of the United States?” If his answer was a yes, even if it turned out to be a rogue cell, we were all fucked. And by “we,” I mean most of the population of planet Earth. Burke shook his head.

“Not … not official.”

“Is this a black op?”

“No,” he said, and sounded surprised that I even asked such a thing. Maybe he didn’t know about the Punk Press video. I dearly hoped the TOC was getting this all in high-def video and good-fidelity sound.

“Then who sent you?”

“I … told you … the blond kids…”

“Who are they? Is that a code name for a group? Give me details, Burke, give me names.” Blood ran from the corners of his mouth. “Boss,” said Bunny quietly, “this cat’s circling the drain.”

“Talk to me, Burke,” I pleaded. “Don’t die with this on your conscience. Who are the blond kids?” “Don’t know who they are. The boy … he called her Eve … I think … Don’t know who they work for. They’re … Americans, I think. Young. Twenties. They … they took me to see this other guy. Their boss, I think. Not American. Spanish, I think. Spain … not Mexico or Puerto Rico or like that. They called him … Daddy. They took me to see him and he said … oh, Christ, he said they would … would … hurt my wife, my kids … oh Christ … they said…”

Words failed him. A man like this, a professional sailor and special operator, was unable to repeat the things these three strangers said they would do to his family. Jesus Christ.

“Give me more,” I demanded. “Give me some details. Names, locations. What is this bioweapon? Why these targets? Why North and South Korea both?”

“Please…,” he begged in a ghost of a voice, “please send someone to save my family…”

“Give me something and I promise to do everything I can. But you have to tell me something I can use.”
-Rage: pG. 302-304