Renegade's Run

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Renegade’s Run: Book Two In the Renegades Series

  Copyright ã 2004 Brenna Lyons

  ISBN: 1-55410-097-6

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004

  Look for us online at:

  www.zumayapublications.com

  www.Extasybooks.com

  Dedicated to…

  Sean, whose love of sequels keeps me exploring my worlds over and over…

  Yes, Sean, number three is being written…ALPHA HOUSE is already in planning.

  Advantage Child Care, who taught me how surprising kids can be…

  Dad, who was always there rooting in my corner.

  Note:

  The products listed as Trojan 2020, Kevlar silk, ice gel, skin bands, Plastilyte, and Hypoglide 30 do not actually exist and were created for this book. Appreciation to the Trojan, Analog, NEXTEL and Kevlar companies for their fine products and names that everyone will recognize as the best of the best. Appreciation to Lynnhaven Mall and Sandbridge in VA Beach and DeSalle’s in Pittsburgh for many good times over the years.

  Prologue— Renegade

  October 10th, 2014

  Jonas Paige ate his entire meal in record time, Markham shooting him a knowing look. The double quarter pounder with cheese meal, super-sized, with a Coke, large chocolate shake, and a half-dozen fresh-baked cookies were gone in three minutes flat—a minute and thirty faster than Jonas’ fastest so far. He overdid it on the fireworks this time. Jonas was depleted, and he’d need more fuel when the meeting was over, but he resisted the urge to pull out his stash of candy bars. There was no need to advertise how much he’d used.

  Sometimes, he wished he could read Markham, but Evan—Markham, he reminded himself—wasn’t the model for the Eseries shields for no reason. He was unreadable and beyond even Jonas’ control, which made him the perfect keeper for a talent like Jonas.

  At seventeen, Jonas had already been a field operative for a year. He was the youngest agent the DoPT, a subdivision of the DoD, ever put in service. The agency had to petition the courts to have him emancipated so Jonas could sign his release from the Clinton Training Academy and his contract with the Department of Psi Talent.

  Jonas glanced around the room at the assembled dignitaries. The president was there, of course. Meredith Jordan was flanked by her security chiefs, Andrew Baker—head of the DoPT, Childress from the DoD, Bryant from the NSA, and the guards designated to protect them all from one seventeen-year-old boy drinking a milkshake. At five thousand dollars a pop, Jonas calculated that the Eseries shields purchased for these people to watch him do his stuff added up to a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.

  He smirked behind his cup as he drank the last of his shake. That was a fine example of tax dollars at work. They spent that much money to protect themselves from a government employee who earned thirty-five thousand a year plus a room in one of the converted apartment buildings outside Boston where keepers watched him twenty-four-seven. The brass wanted DoPT far from the capitol unless they were on assignment—but not too far. They wouldn’t even be staying in D.C. tonight, but rather flying back on the ten o’clock flight.

  Jonas sobered. After the show he just put on, they’d never remove those shields again.

  Ostensibly, this was an education seminar for the brass. “Come one! Come all! See what our number two rated agent can do to those 3000-series and 5000-series shields.”

  Realistically, Jonas realized he had just been used as a sales gimmick. Anyone with the money to do so would upgrade. Except for politicians, no one who mattered would have one, and the truth of what he had just done would never be revealed. If it were, there would be a panic.

  The military, police, and security companies wouldn’t or couldn’t make the outlay for all but the highest brass and the employees placed in the most sensitive of posts. The rest would be stuck with 3000-or 5000-series shields. If a renegade learned to do what Jonas and Paul Griffin could do, and that was sure to happen eventually, those shields meant nothing.

  Jonas scowled as he felt the touch on his shield. He recalibrated into an E-shield, mimicking Markham’s usual style. He saw Baker grit his teeth and bit back a laugh. Only Baker could be that careless.

  Markham leaned across to him. “Knock it off, Paige. Don’t piss him off.”

  Jonas sobered. “He’s trying to pierce my shield. You know the rules against that.”

  “And, you really believe the head of DoPT plays by the same rules set for us?”

  Jonas shook his head, and Markham sat back, satisfied that he had fulfilled his duty. No, Baker had his own agenda and his own rules.

  *

  December 21st

  Jonas cruised the length of the bar a second time, scratching at the sensor glued behind his ear and trying to ignore the keeper in the corner. He knew the man was there for his protection, though he wished it was Markham instead of Willet.

  Willet wasn’t there for his physical safety. Even without his talents, Jonas was deadly—not that he’d ever had to use it. If someone raised a hand to him, he had no doubts that as many as half a dozen guns or talents would lay the perp flat.

  No, Willet was there to ensure that Jonas didn’t get himself arrested on a violation of the Renegade Act. Hence, the sensor that recorded his activity. Right now, Willet’s readout would show his personal shield and thought scans—class one talents. As long as no higher classes registered, Jonas was safe from the Renegade Act. No class two emotional touches, no class three illusions and thought plants, no class four coercion, and certainly no higher-class controls.

  The agency allowed that Jonas had the need to blow off sexual frustration like any other man, and they fully endorsed it as long as he used his condoms like a good DoPT operative. But they couldn’t take the chance that some woman would accuse him of coercion or control he didn’t use. Tempers were high, and a jury just might believe her without concrete proof otherwise.

  A woman smiled at him, and Jonas scanned before laughing and moving on. Jailbait. Big time. She may be stacked and experienced, but she was also fifteen with a fake ID and drunk. No jury in the world would buy that Jonas didn’t know with his scan documented.

  He locked eyes with another woman, and his smile spread. That was more like it. This one was thirty-one, tipsy but not drunk yet, and very interested. She had broken up with her boyfriend and was trolling for a catch. At six foot two and two-fifteen, with loose black curls and smoldering—oh, how I love it when women think that about me—brown eyes, Jonas was everything she was lusting after. Lucky him.

  Jonas slid up to the bar next to her. “Buy you a drink?” he offered. The bartender wouldn’t serve Jonas alcohol. Baker would have his balls for that, but he would serve Jonas great mocks that would fool a cop unless a Breathalyzer or blood test was taken, and he’d serve anyone Jonas bought for whatever they could legally h
ave.

  “Sure.” She scanned her eyes over him, and Jonas could hear her plans for the evening clearly.

  He motioned Joe behind the bar to keep it flowing for the lady, her visions of the sex ahead sparking more than a general interest.

  *

  Jonas groaned as the pounding on the door started. He recognized Markham’s shield from three rooms away. He’d recognize it from a mile away if called to. He dragged himself from the bed and started pulling his clothes on with a series of curses.

  Valerie rolled over in bed, wincing at the sound. Ouch! Her hangover was severe.

  “What the hell is that?” she grumbled.

  “I’d guess it’s my brother rolling me out for work.” Jonas glanced at his watch as he buttoned his jeans. Three hours early? Markham better have a damn good excuse.

  “How would he know you’re here?”

  “He saw us leave together last night. You go to that bar often?” He knew she did.

  “Yeah.”

  “So does he.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Jonas shrugged. “Maybe, he knows you or knows someone who knows you.”

  She nodded sleepily as he pulled his running shoes on without untying them and dragged his T-shirt over his shoulders.

  Jonas leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Gotta go.”

  He sprinted to the door as Markham pounded again and dragged it open, glaring at his keeper. Jonas pulled the door shut and walked down the hall without greeting the other man.

  Markham fell in beside him—not smiling, not frowning. Just Markham, as unreadable as always.

  “I wasn’t scheduled, and it’s five-thirty. This better be good.”

  “Did you use protection?”

  “What do you think?” It was in the contract—no unprotected sex unless it was with a spouse. The DoPT wasn’t worried about HIV. Okay, maybe they were, but they were more worried about tracking his children all over creation.

  “It’s my job to ask, Paige.”

  “Yeah. I used it. No little talents from me, just like a good operative.”

  “All four times?”

  “Christ, Markham! Where’s the mic?”

  “No mic. You emit a spike over your sensor when you come. Every time?”

  “Yes, every time. No visible leaks or tears. That’s the next question, right?”

  Jonas wondered at the fact that he wasn’t required to take the used condoms with him. Other women had inseminated themselves that way in the past. He figured it was one of three things. Either the DoPT secretly wanted a few little screw-ups created by their best or they figured any woman stupid enough to take that chance with unknown sperm these days deserved what she got. Or maybe it would just look suspicious.

  Markham sighed. “It’s my job.”

  Jonas grumbled a curse as he pushed open the security door and headed for Markham’s SUV. The lock popped as he reached the door, and he opened it and dropped into the passenger seat. Markham sat in the driver’s seat and eyed him.

  Jonas nodded and pulled his seatbelt on. “I fight renegades and terrorists, and you’re worried about my seatbelt.” He put up his hand before Markham could say it. “I know. It’s your job.”

  Markham nodded then started driving. At the first red light, he grabbed a bag from behind the seat and tossed it to Jonas. “Get suited up.”

  Jonas glanced over his shoulder and noted the two suitcases. “Where are we going?”

  Markham motioned for him to dress and waited for Jonas to open the bag before answering. “Lauderdale. Al Qaeda terrorists have a cell gearing up for something big there.”

  Jonas dropped his shirt on the floor and pulled on his Navy blue DoPT T-shirt with the Kevlar silk lining. It was required travel gear when they might be needed for a terrorist in the air or in an airport. “Why me? There are other agencies that handle this stuff.” He pulled on his gray sweat jacket and zipped it to high on his chest to cover the white DoPT logo on the front and back of the T.

  “They’ve hired a talent.”

  “Ah. Renegade. That makes more sense.” Jonas did terrorists when necessary, but it wasn’t his first duty.

  “This comes at a bad time, Paige. With the new recruiting measures—”

  Jonas nodded. “You’re preaching to the choir. I had this briefing days ago.”

  Recruiting? Why didn’t they just call it what it was? People were being forcibly relocated to the training academies. After his demonstration in October, certain factions decided that talents without keepers and registration were too great a danger. A charter of emergency powers had been created.

  It had been a week since the forced roundup began. Norms were up in arms and screaming at their congressmen and senators. Half of them seemed to fear an uprising of angry talents, and the other half were debating talent rights and the constitution.

  Talents were understandably irate. Taken from their homes, jobs and families to be indoc-ed like prisoners, tested, and drafted into service; there were already petitions to the Supreme Court on the constitutionality of the entire thing. Jonas secretly hoped that the talents would win.

  He rubbed his chest distractedly. They’d be restrained when necessary. That was the part Jonas had hated worst when he was sent to Clinton.

  Jonas hadn’t wanted to be sent to the training center, but he hadn’t been drafted. Before the original draft of the Renegade Act in 2010, people hadn’t batted an eye at anything done to talents. They barely did now, but the Act did give some guidelines, though not much.

  When Jonas was a child, parents routinely sold talented children as property to people who would use them illegally or abandoned them when they learned the child was talent. Or, like Jonas, they simply signed away their parental rights and made their children wards of the government at Clinton or one of the other nine academies.

  It was still common practice to make a child a ward, and no questions were asked as long as the child passed the tests that proved he or she was a talent. The government rationalized that the children were better cared for in the training academies than with parents who would abuse or abandon them. Jonas wasn’t so sure about that.

  He had been ten when his parents decided they didn’t want a ‘mind-crushing freak’ in the family. That was what his father had called him just before he called the Child Talent Authority to take Jonas away. The CTA hadn’t questioned his father’s decision. The note from school, as always, was enough proof for them.

  Jonas had been understandably upset. He’d played around with his talents a little, but he had never done anything hurtful or cruel with it. In fact, in the incident in question, Jonas had been protecting a smaller child from a known bully; a three-time loser in the reform system named Brian Miller.

  He hadn’t hidden his anger well, and the staff at Clinton had restrained Jonas more times than he cared to remember, the steel bands almost crushing his ribcage while the web bands held his extremities. Worse, the backboard was placed in an isolation chamber with an electronic psi wave signature humming in the walls to keep the prisoner from using his talents.

  Markham’s hand closed on his shoulder. “It’s over.”

  Jonas nodded and fought to draw a deep breath, still feeling the pressure of the bands. “You always know.”

  “Your hand and your breathing are dead giveaways. You know you’re auto-stimulating the illusion of pressure.”

  “I know.” He did know, but it was something the psychologists couldn’t break him of.

  “You’re worried about the talents they’re rounding up, aren’t you?”

  Jonas nodded. “All those broken families. At least mine chose to dump me.”

  “But, you didn’t choose it. That’s why you empathize.”

  Jonas nodded and forced his hand into his lap. Don’t get involved. Don’t appear involved.

  “You know, they say they have a family they brought in who blow you and Griffin away.”

  “A family? A whole f
amily?”

  “Not quite. Mom, two sons, and a nephew. The rest of the family got left behind.”

  “Thought so.” Seventy-five percent of children born to a talent parent tested as talents. To his knowledge, there were no cases where two talents had produced children together yet, but the first generation were just starting to have children. With the academies, it would happen. Two talents could theoretically produce talented children at or near one hundred percent.

  “They’re light years ahead of anything else we’ve seen. Mom is in her mid-forties, now.”

  Jonas stared at him. “Forties? That has to be wrong.” There were no major talents older than thirty. Everyone knew that. It was an unexplained evolutionary step.

  “Wrong, and she may not be the first. It was a family secret of sorts.”

  “How far back does this go?”

  “We think the first in their line was born in 1928—Tiberius Monroe Matthews, but it could go back further than that. There are newspaper reports of strange occurrences back to 1870 involving them.”

  Jonas whistled a long, low note. “Flashpoint.”

  Markham nodded. “They lack some of your skills, but what they do have—Let’s just say, I’ll pray they never go renegade.”

  “How good are they?”

  “Shields I’d kill for, control of the highest levels ever encountered, the ability to inflict true physical damage by thought not related to telekinesis, psi link within their little clan, true telepathy—”

  “Christ! How do you live untrained for forty-some years like that?”

  “They don’t. They train their own, act as their own keepers, and do it well.”

  “Train for what?”

  “To stay sane, I guess. They don’t use it unless they feel they have to.”

  “Never?”

  Markham stared at the dark road and didn’t answer.

  “Markham? Never?”

  He shrugged. “There are questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Unanswered questions. The kind of questions we don’t like to see.”

  “They’re renegades?”

  “Not now.”

  “When? How?”

  “It’s unproven.”