RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)) by James Somers Page B

inside a black car—a car that is luxury and stealth and a degree of mystery with its darkened windows that afford me a dim view of the world while shutting the world out. Agent Devine sits beside me in the back of the Mercedes-Benz. I am not put into handcuffs when they lead me from the med surg floor at St. Mary’s Hospital, but I am bound nonetheless. The lack of a real family, my young age, and my status as belonging to the state are tight strictures, sure enough I know fighting this action will be pointless.
    So, I s it there on comfortable leather, watching a light rain pelt the windshield. Pedestrians go about their business on slightly crowded sidewalks, a field of colors in their mingled umbrellas, passing one another like blood cells through a capillary. The wet world beyond this heavy window tint conveys my melancholy perfectly.
    I ha ve no idea what is about to happen to me. Becoming a part of some clandestine program under duress does not bode well. I thought I would simply graduate from my high school and then go on to attend college—plan a career in medicine, perhaps, and eventually have a family. Now, my future has become as mysterious as the events surrounding my birth. And I have no one to turn to for answers or assistance. I am a leaf in the wind, completely out of my own control.
    The car tool s along at a leisurely pace, the suited driver unperturbed by the crawling pace of traffic and the inclement weather. Darkness is already on its way. I wrongly assumed we would dash along in a blacked out van, dodging through cars, narrowly missing pedestrians on our way toward MI6 headquarters. Isn’t that what you do when you kidnap somebody? If this isn’t an abduction, then what is it?
    Hyde Park passes on the right as we come on toward Piccadilly. Traffic slows to a snail’s pace here. I wonder if I can pop the door latch and hurl myself into the road. What would Agent Devine and his crew do then? Would they chase me down in the rain, a teenager against three full grown, suited individuals who each probably fancies himself the equivalent of a James Bond?
    My gaze f alls from the window and Buckingham Palace on our left to the door. I can see it’s definitely locked. There is no control to unlock it, either.
    The Mercedes sp eeds up now, cruising onto a less busy Vauxhall Bridge Road. The Thames lies beneath us, a gray winding snake through London and beyond. The green and gray ziggurat towers on the south bank. The SIS Building. The home of MI6, Britain’s intelligence agency, and the equivalent of America’s CIA.
    How in the world ha ve I gotten into such a mess? All this over a broken arm? At that moment, I want nothing more than to punch Tom Kennedy for getting me into this. Unfortunately for him, my feelings about him are the least of his worries. He must still explain to the police why he attacked me with a cricket bat.
    We cross the Vauxhall Bridge and the Thames. It seems my former life is left on one side of the river, while the future awaits me. I can’t take my eyes off of the SIS Building. It has the appearance of a modern castle. There is nothing else like it in London.
    Too quickly , we are pulling into the lot with the ziggurat towering over us. My breath catches in my chest. I suddenly feel claustrophobic in the car.
    “I think I need some air,” I say.
    Agent Devine glance s at me. “You’ll be fine.”
    I consider telling him otherwise. A few choice words c ome to mind, but I hold my tongue. My grandfather would be disappointed in me. Still, he would also be disappointed to find me in this predicament.
    I think he would worr y I was left alone like this. Yet, no man can control when he will die, only where he will go when he dies. My grandfather said this to me more than once. Again, I find myself missing him.
    The driver cruise s around the building, turning down beneath the ziggurat. Parking facilities spread out in the cave-like environment. We drive down several levels before