Rogues of overwatch, p.1
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       Rogues of Overwatch, p.1

           Dustin Martin
Rogues of Overwatch
Rogues of Overwatch

  The Halfway Heroes Trilogy

  Book II

  By Dustin Martin

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by: Natalie Mortensen

  Book Cover Illustration by: Mario Saggia

  ISBN: 978-0-9914611-3-4

  Copyright 2016 by Dustin Martin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  I dedicate this to God, my family, and friends who have helped me throughout writing this book. Special thanks to my girlfriend, who constantly supports me. I’m just as proud of you as you are of me. Also, thank you to Natalie and Mario for helping me bring this book to completion, despite my nitpicks. This book wouldn’t be possible without either of you. My gratitude to everyone can never be overstated, so I will simply thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1—The Big Man

  Chapter 2—Employee Expectations

  Chapter 3—Fire and Flowers

  Chapter 4—Field Experience

  Chapter 5—The Race is On

  Chapter 6—That Old Familiar Feeling

  Chapter 7—Gassed

  Chapter 8—Emergency Pickup

  Chapter 9—Recommended Discharge

  Chapter 10—Clever Little Sneaks

  Chapter 11—The Name Everyone Wants to Know

  Chapter 12—Roland Whyte

  Chapter 13—Live Bait

  Chapter 14—The Sawmill

  Chapter 15—Wheeling and Dealing

  Chapter 16—Traitor in the Midst

  Chapter 17—Date Night

  Chapter 18—Succeed to Fail

  Chapter 19—Test Results

  Chapter 20—In the Loop

  Chapter 21—Confession

  Chapter 22—Advancing Army

  Chapter 23—Wanted Alive

  Chapter 24—Motivation

  Chapter 25—Mano a Mano

  Chapter 26—Redundant and Obsolete

  Chapter 27—Exposed Flaw

  Other Books by Dustin Martin

  About Dustin Martin

  Connect With Dustin Martin

  Chapter 1- The Big Man

  After his capture, darkness enveloped everything. A blindfold throughout the long car ride. The first cell held no light, save the flooding brightness that poured in when the door opened. That only happened during breakfast, lunch, and dinner, when he was served a bare meal that hardly satisfied an appetite.

  That first room also stank of chemicals. Pipes from a factory above —or a place equally as noisy—ran from the ceiling to the floor, and the smell seemed to originate from them. Some were hot to the touch, others freezing cold. A few had fluids rushing through them all day, while one or two were rarely used.

  Without light, being in the darkness for what felt like months acclimated his view. Stacks of boxes were shoved to one side, as if the place was temporarily used as a storage room. But having a leg chained to the opposite wall limited any searching through them. The constant troubling notion of dying alone, forgotten, abandoned in the room for good as a cruel end from higher management hung heavy the whole time. Sleep was difficult, but necessary, and the only thing to do beside ponder the happenings outside.

  One day, his jailors decided to change locations. The second car ride, then a new room, underground and dressed up more like a cell, with iron bars on one end instead of a solid wall and door. On the other side of the bars, a string of weak lights hung along the rock hallway’s ceiling like a mining tunnel. The meals improved a little, and the scent of damp earth replaced the pipes’ toxic odor from the first room.

  The chains were removed for the second room. Escape was deemed impossible by the jailors. The walls were solid rock and dirt, cold and coarse. The only ways to pass the time was sleeping on the little cot, exercising, and exploring every crevice of the cell for a way out. At least the idea of having been forgotten was laid to rest, but that only raised more questions. Questions of where he was, what was the final destination, what was the purpose— none were answered.

  Time passed at an excruciatingly slow pace, until one day two of the jailors entered the cell. The men dragged the prisoner out and flung him at the feet of a third man, who pushed his sunglasses farther up his face.

  “Come on, Mark. Let’s go,” Oliver said, fire licking his eyeglasses’ rims.

  Mark stood wearily and followed, stumbling between the other two mercenaries. They exited the tunnel into the blinding sunlight and climbed into two cars outside. Before Mark saw where his prison had been, the blindfold went on. For hours, they traveled in complete silence, like always.

  By the afternoon, they arrived at some docks. The mercenaries and Mark boarded a boat, and he was locked in one of the cabins. A soft bed faced a television on a dresser drawer. Oh, thank God, was his last thought before collapsing onto the bed and flipping on the television as the boat set sail.

  Turning to a news channel, he checked the date. Three months. For three months he had been held in captivity after surrendering himself to Whyte. He rolled off the bed and headed to the small bathroom attached to the cabin.

  In the bathroom’s mirror, he examined his scraggly, wild beard. His dyed black hair was giving way to his natural blond hue at the roots. He had lost a lot of weight in his prisons, becoming leaner and very pale from no sunlight, and had gained maybe half an inch, which didn’t do much for his overall short height. His blue-gray eyes sank into dark pockets. A complete toiletry kit was stocked for him in the sink’s cabinet. He took a shower and shaved, looking more like his old self, minus his longer, unkempt hair. When he came back to his room, he found a chicken dinner waiting for him. He sat on the bed and ate while watching the news.

  None of the major news stations talked about his hometown, Golden Springs, or the aftermath of the terrorist attack there. In fact, each station seemed to cover a story everywhere else except Golden Springs. “Wildfires devastate the—”, and “—the attorney said his client would like a plea bargain—”, “Overwatch continues their talks with the United States for—”, “—suspect is still at large, and citizens are urged to call the police regarding any information about the kidnapping.”

  He found a Colorado news station. Maybe they had a piece on it. If not, he could dig up the articles about what happened in the aftermath. Oliver, Roy, and the other mercenaries had kept him in the dark ever since they snatched him from Rooke’s home. When the fighting in Golden Springs died down, he had been impressed into service for their boss. At this point, he was eager for any news on what had become of the city.

  “Here behind me is where a large part of the fighting took place that day, only three months ago,” said a reporter, pointing at Hunter Memorial Hospital in the background. “A majority of the group took over the hospital and engaged in an intense firefight with local police and FBI agents. It ended with many terrorists captured and others killed, and many innocents caught in the crossfire. And while things have been
settling down at Hunter Memorial, now that most of those injured in the attack are taken care of, we still remember those whose lives were tragically cut short, and those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to defend everyone here.”

  The camera panned to a memorial stone erected outside the hospital and zoomed in on the names etched into the stone. There were too many names for Mark, and he dropped the bit of chicken on his fork, his appetite waning. “Everyone is grateful for the price they paid. A very steep price paid for the safety of the city.”

  The screen changed to the outskirts of Golden Springs. “The Golden Springs Police Department told me that the investigation into who these people are and why they attacked is still ongoing by the FBI and local authorities. A representative from Rooke Pharmaceuticals confirmed that they are cooperating fully with the FBI and police, but he refused to comment further about the investigation surrounding the company.

  “However, some companies have been through worse than Rooke Pharmaceuticals. Several businesses have been forced to close due to the damage of the attack. Some of those that have stayed open have been offering their support and services to help rebuild and aid those most affected by this event. The biggest challenge ahead is picking up the pieces,” the reporter said. “But everyone I’ve talked to seems to be ready to do their part and help the city return to normal. This is Patrick Fontaine. Back to you in the newsroom.”

  As two sketches appeared in the upper corner by the journalist’s head, the screen switched to a news anchor behind a desk. “A very big challenge indeed,” she said. “Police are still searching for the remaining two missing accomplices in the attack. Heather Stanson and Markus Bell are considered armed and dangerous. Citizens are asked to contact the Golden Springs Police Department or the FBI with any information as to their whereabouts. Any information leading to their apprehension will be rewarded.”

  Mark dropped his utensils as the screen displayed the phone numbers for the FBI, the police, and the fifty-thousand-dollar bounty put on their heads. His stomach gurgled and he moved to the bathroom. But fear stopped him. He didn’t know what to do, whether he should sit or stand. Every person in the country would be looking to turn him in.

  Another story started about a new zoo exhibit, but Mark was no longer paying attention. He ran to the door, pounding on it. “Let me out! I want to talk to you!” No answer, just echoes of his hits. This couldn’t be real, could it? “Is this true? Is this reward true? Tell me!”

  Nobody came to him. He sat down on the bed and looked at the single porthole, boarded up and not letting an ounce of light through. His body and the room rocked as the boat sped into the horizon.

  * * *

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