Young Writers Society

Chapter Two

Screaming at the top of his lungs, a man in a light grey suit slammed his fists down into his desk. “What do you mean you lost him? How do you lose one man?” The man was standing, half leaning onto his antique wooden desk. His grey hair touched with dabs of sweat, which dripped down his wrinkled forehead. In front of him, a name plate which read: “M. HayWood”. Staring down at his shiny black shoes, the boy in front of him trembled.

“Sir, it isn’t our fault. Had Alex not insisted on going up by himself-” The shaking boy was interrupted by HayWood pushing everything off of his desk, slamming his fists onto it again. The bang echoed through the large office, making the agents outside of the thin glass panes jump. Sitting down, he stared out of the window. His office had the largest window on the floor, with it taking up most of the west wall.

“Don’t you dare blame Alex. This wasn’t his fault, if he dies; I am holding you personally responsible.” As HayWood spoke, his office door slammed open, an overweight tall black man stepping through. The long scar going from his left eye brow all the way down to his chin struck fear into anyone who looked at him, as it stood out from his dark complexion. He stood around six feet tall, his expensive shoes making him an inch or two taller.

“Morley, what have I told you about being so damn loud. Kid get out of here, I want status updates on the boy hourly.” He paused for a moment, waiting for the terrified agent so scurry out of the office, rushing towards the elevators. “Where are we on Drake?” He sat down in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk, resting easily.

Taking a sip of coffee, HayWood looked at the man. Even though he had one of the highest positions in the agency, HayWood was frightened. It showed in his shaky voice, “Sir, you have my apologies, I will try to keep it down. We have no leads on where he is right now,” The boss-man growled at him, his eyes showing his anger, “But we know where he’s headed. He’s going to try to get Lizzy from the hospital, we have agents there already.” The boss’s anger slow went away as he leaned back, enjoying the comfortable brown leather chair.

“Good. Good. I want reinforcements at that hospital, snipers on the roof, the whole nine yards. Just because he can’t die, doesn’t mean we can’t put him down with some old fashion brute force.” He smiled at HayWood, standing back up. He had a smile that only a man who wanted blood could have, a half smirk with a couple teeth showing. “When you catch him, send him to District Nine, and drug him.” Not responding to the man, HayWood simply sat there, his midnight blue eyes drifting out of focus. He felt accomplished for knowing Drake’s next move, but he knew that those agents were as good as dead if Drake finds out about them.

Outside of the office, on the other side of the bullpen, the elevator bell dinged. The doors separated, and a boy fell out onto the clean carpet, blood pouring out of him. A couple of screams later, HayWood was running out of his office towards the agent he had just finished yelling at. His voice startled, he spoke. “Somebody get a doctor in here!” As he called out, HayWood leaned next to the dying boy. A note was nailed to his stomach, his only wound, an intriguing way to pass a message on. It was a rusty nail, a railway spike perhaps.

“I just want answers; I don’t want to kill anyone else.” One of the other agents was speaking, a woman who had a trembling voice. “Signed D.” The aged man knew it was from Drake, which confused him even more. With the doctor rushing to the boy’s aid, he stood back up, looking into his office. The cellphone in HayWood’s jacket pocket was vibrating, louder than usual as it shook against a pen. Moving as fast as he could, he pulled it out, holding it to his ear.

“Morley, I see you’ve been demoted, again. Whatever happened to being one of the CEOs of Apex? Your drinking make you lose that too?” Drake was on the phone, laughing at the pathetic old man. “Are you ready to give me some answers? Or do I have to kill every agent on the floor you’re standing on right now? I have clear shots.” Blinking his bloodshot eyes, HayWood stared further passed his office, at another office building. Just barely, he could see a sniper’s nest perching in a vacant office.

“Drake, you don’t need to be so hostile, come on over and we’ll chat. I’ll answer any questions you have.” His voice cracked, the sheer fear in it was noticeable. Drake knew he was bluffing, the man had lied to him since they first met, Drake trusted no one. Another laugh arose from Drake, this one forced. Mere seconds after the laugh ended, HayWood felt the floor beneath him tremble, and then heard a loud explosion. Shaking his head, he spoke. “Oh fuck me.” The words fell out of his mouth, as the floor beneath him collapsed. It was only a small section of it, sending HayWood and two other agents down to the twelfth floor below.

The dust settled, letting HayWood see a figure in front of him. The explosion killed the electricity, but he knew who it was. “Here I am; answers now. What am I?” Drake paused for a moment and looked at his hands. “Who am I?” The look on his face was grim, empty, just like Jarkov’s before he died. Anyone who could see Drake would be able to see his sadness, the tears forming in his eyes. Luckily for his pride, no one could see his face, let alone his eyes. The raggedy old man was resting on top of a small chunk of concrete his ankle either sprained or broken, he couldn’t tell. It would’ve hurt worse, had he not poured a little vodka in his coffee. Above him, a square hole in the ceiling, about five feet wide.

Coughing words out, still trying to catch his breath, HayWood answered him. “Honestly Drake, we just don’t know. We have run tests on you, followed you, spied on you, and we just don’t know. For all we know, you could be a Russian creation, or you could be an alien, we don’t know.” His answer displeased Drake, angered him even. It angered him so much; he stepped toward the fragile man. Coming from above, a deep voice filled their ears.

“Drake that sure was a stupid idea, coming into my building like this.” The black man who had yelled at the veteran agent was standing on the floor above, aiming his custom gold pistol at Drake. “Though setting a fake sniper’s nest up was a great idea, I’ll have to use that sometime.” A subtle laugh came from HayWood as he looked up at his boss. The scar which covered most of his face, and blinded his one eye was caused by Drake. It’s amazing what a single knife can do.

“You and I both know, this is more my building than it is yours Jack. What are you hiding from me? I need to know.” Jack, the black man, laughed at him, smiling his great big evil grin. “If you don’t know anything about me, why do you want to capture me so badly?” Drake spat out, as he looked at him. A couple seconds passed without a response, forcing his hand. In the matter of two seconds, Drake pulled two knives off the back of his tactical vest, and threw both of them, each hitting either of Jack’s knees. With a smile, he stepped closer to the wounded ex-friend and pulled him off the rubble. “Time to go for a fly,” Drake laughed again, his tears and sadness invisible.

Sprinting at full pace, he dove out the window, holding HayWood around the waist. A loud scream exploded from the old man as they flew down away from the building. “Tell me what I need to know, or you die.” Drake had his right arm wrapped around him, willing to throw him away if he wouldn’t talk. Other than screams, nothing escaped his mouth. Shaking his head, Drake spoke into a mic. “Okay, so maybe trying to get answers out of someone who’s afraid of heights wasn’t such a good idea. Barry be ready for pickup.” With that said, he pulled a small string near his neck. Seconds after the string was pulled, a small, and then a much larger parachute opened up. At one time, he too had been terrified of heights.

“Drake how are you going to get him to talk? He’s dead if he talks to you and he knows it.” A small ear bud was emitting the voice, coming from Barry. Drake didn’t give him an answer; he just looked down at the street below, about twenty feet away. The screaming came to a stop, as HayWood had fainted. A bright red pickup truck drove beneath them. Pulling a second string, the parachute dropped Drake. It was only a ten foot drop which would’ve hurt a normal man, but Drake was no ordinary man. Slapping the cab of the truck, it sped up, driving away from the descending parachute.