Messiahs by Matt Rogers (bookstand for reading txt) 📕

them were squared away, trying to face as far away from the man as they could without being impolite. It was likely he couldn’t take social cues, but more probable that he’d been put up to the task of sticking with them.

King came to a stop in front of the trio and looked at the young guy. ‘Hey. I’m Jason.’

‘Brandon,’ the guy said. ‘You know them?’

He jabbed a finger at the two women.

King said, ‘I do.’

‘That’s cool.’

King turned to Violetta. ‘How are you holding up?’

‘Just fine,’ she said with a smile and a look in her eyes that revealed she was far from fine.

Brandon said, ‘What else you got to say?’

King turned slowly. The differences between them were obvious. King had forty more pounds of muscle, twenty less pounds of puppy fat, and stood around three inches taller. On top of his physical attributes, he looked like he could tear a phonebook in half with his bare hands. That took something more than physical prowess. It required experience and confidence and a vibe that was subdued yet unhinged.

But Brandon’s pupils were swollen with Bodhi. Maeve had allowed the young man more than a microdose, stripping him of all his inhibitions. He would pick a fight with anyone she asked him to without regard for his own safety.

And she’d tasked him with making sure no one bothered the new girls.

Whether they wanted him there or not.

King said, ‘I’m just asking some questions to my friend.’

Brandon said, ‘You rudely interrupted. That’s what you did. She was talking to me.’

‘No she wasn’t.’

‘Take a hike.’

‘Where to?’ King said, looking around. ‘I’m waiting for dinner just like everyone else.’

‘Away from us. You’re not welcome here.’

King said nothing.

Brandon got a smug look on his face. ‘This is above your pay grade, buddy.’

‘Is it?’

Violetta gave King a look that said, Not here.

King knew why. There were close to a hundred people around them, talking amongst themselves but ready to fight for Maeve until their dying breath. If King flattened Brandon, and the Riordans disapproved, it’d spell disaster.

King turned and walked away.

Brandon laughed at his back.

King could feel Violetta and Alexis stewing, intensely uncomfortable. He was more worried about Alexis. Seasoned operators can put aside their egos, ignore the insidious emotions that can make them abandon their cover, but civilians can’t. You insult a civilian to their face and nine times out of ten they’ll absorb the negativity rather than letting it brush off them.

Across the crowd, King turned back and looked at Alexis.

She was seething, but she had the wherewithal to turn her face away from Brandon, pretending the disgusting man wasn’t there.

She looked out across the commune with her teeth clenched.

She’d make a damn fine operative.

70

Dane led Slater on foot to an old-school log cabin nearly a mile away, tucked in the crook of a slight rise in the grassland.

It was deliberately separated from the commune. It gave Slater a dark premonition about what went on here, away from prying eyes. The cabin itself sported a renovated interior with central heating and LEDs instead of relying on a fireplace and candlelight. It had been prepared in advance for the occasion, the central table set with cutlery and bowls of food covered with lids.

This time of year it got dark early, and by six p.m. the sky was a royal blue, turning the trees scattered across the plains to spectres. Slater couldn’t shake the sensation of vast emptiness, complete isolation. It accentuated Dane’s movements, like all his gestures were more notable in the silence.

They sat down.

Dane poured some red wine out of an aged bottle, brought his glass to his lips and sipped from it. Slater had a thin cylindrical glass with lemon-scented water in place of a wine glass. He’d already informed Dane he didn’t drink.

Dane said, ‘Did you ever?’

‘Ever what?’

‘Drink.’

Slater smirked. ‘Yeah.’

‘Bet you didn’t look like that when you were drinking.’

Dane tilted his chin, gesturing to the musculature beneath Slater’s beige corduroy jacket and white shirt.

Slater drank down a third of the water. It tasted faintly of lemon, too, and he wasn’t sure if he approved or not. It was a courtesy in formal settings to tinge plain water with various fruits, but he’d always preferred to keep things simple and unblemished.

He said, ‘Actually, I did. I was very good at balancing my obsessions.’

‘How’s a man with that sort of dedication end up out here?’

‘What do those two things have to do with each other?’

Dane’s fingertips were touching in a gesture resembling prayer, but now he separated them, asking a question with his open palms. ‘You and your friend are … what did you say ... wandering?’

Slater nodded. ‘Call it a personal revolution.’

Dane smiled and sipped at his wine. ‘“Personal revolution.” I like that. And now you want to join our revolution.’

Stick to the cover, Slater thought. There’s a chance he didn’t find the body.

‘I like what you’re doing here,’ Slater said. ‘I want on board.’

Dane’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘On board?’

Slater sipped more water. ‘You heard me.’

‘I was under the impression you were here seeking enlightenment. Truth is an elusive gift, and we only offer it to the souls we think are prepared to bear the burden. It can be … confronting.’

Slater said, ‘Did you forget that back in Gillette Maeve offered us jobs? I think you’ve already put it together that me and my companion are a little more switched on than your average convert who comes wandering in.’

‘Don’t patronise the disciples.’

Slater said, ‘We’re not just ex-military. We’re ex-SF. I waited to tell you that because I didn’t want you to get your back up. But I think if you drink a little more wine you might get more creative, and I’m sure you could come up with a number of ways to put the two of us to use.’

Dane said, ‘What makes you think we need two soldiers working for us?’

‘The fact that Maeve told us she did.’

‘We might have been bluffing. To get you out here. To get you