Freedom/Hate (Freedom/Hate Series, Book 1) Read online

  There was nothing that he could remember. The car had been appropriated by two of the other Freedom members. It came from a parking garage four miles away from their base. It should be clean.

  He walked back to the driver's side door and waited. To attempt an escape by car would have been a mistake. He would be forced to stick to the roads, in plain sight. His car could be tagged and followed. No, an escape by foot was his only option. He just needed to think of someplace to go once he made that escape.

  He was doing everything he could think of to make things go smoothly, but Collin's body was making him aware of just how nervous he was in that moment. His palms were sweating. He felt as though his heart had migrated into his skull, which was pounding with every beat. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing, which was strained.

  No matter how nervous he was, Collin couldn't afford to let his body rule that moment. He needed to think clearly. He needed to be smart.

  He stood by his car as the patrol car approached. The situation was a little bit better than he'd imagined. The approaching car was a police patrol car, not a HAND vehicle. That made him feel at least a little bit of relief.

  Local police forces had been strictly regulated, to the point where they had become little more than security guards. They had little training or lethal weaponry. They were often out of shape and lacked the resources of HAND. What remained of those police forces would probably be phased out of existence entirely within the next several years.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, he waited for the patrol car to reach him.

  The car stopped right behind Collin's. He could see the police officer behind the wheel talking into his radio, calling in the situation. Any other police cars in the area could have been making their way toward Collin's location at that very moment.

  Another deep breath.

  The officer on the passenger side stepped out of his car, keeping the door open and his hand on his taser as he walked toward Collin. He was a heavy man, with a receding hairline and a mustache. He looked completely out of place in a position of authority, and fit Collin's expectations of a police officer perfectly.

  Collin looked at the officer's name tag: Perkins.

  The driver of the police car stepped out, keeping his hand on his taser as well. This officer was taller and appeared to be in good shape. Unlike his partner, this officer projected an air of authority. Collin had to wonder why he'd been assigned to the police department, rather than HAND. There must have been a weakness, but Collin didn't see it.

  According to his name tag, this second officer's name was Randall.

  “Car trouble?” Perkins asked.

  “I was on my way home and the thing just died on me. Weirdest thing,” Collin smiled.

  He was trying to sound natural while assessing the likelihood of his dying on that highway. He was hoping that the officers couldn't hear his heart pounding as he spoke.

  “Walk to the back of the car and put your hands on the trunk please,” Perkins asked, in a rather pleasant tone.

  Collin did as he was told. He kept his eyes down on the car, while his mind was trying to remember the layout of the street around him. Which way did he want to run? Where was the nearest exit? Which way was the city?

  Randall kept his eyes on Collin as Perkins reached into the car and started the engine. Of course, it started without any trouble.

  Collin smiled and shook his head. He wanted to say something clever. He wanted to make it seem like one of those funny things that happened all the time in life, but he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make him sound even more suspicious. He shouldn't have been out there. He should have been eating a hot meal by now. He had no backup. No plan.

  “I'm going to need to see your Civvie,” Perkins told him, referring to the Civilian ID.

  Still trying his best to look normal, Collin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tag, which had his picture printed on it. He held it out for the officer to take, willing his hand to remain steady as he did it.

  Perkins holstered his taser and stepped closer to Collin. He took the Civvie and compared the picture to Collin's face. The picture was a match, of course—The only piece of information on the thing that was true.

  As Perkins pulled his scanner from his pocket and ran the Civvie over it, he asked Collin, “Where do you work?”

  “I'm an orderly, down at the hospital,” Collin lied, trying to remember the fake identity that was linked to the Civvie.

  “Which hospital?”

  “Pelomen,” Collin replied. This was the hospital listed on his fake Civvie, but not the same hospital that his car had been stolen from. He doubted that it would matter. If they got far enough to figure out where the car came from, they would know that it was stolen.

  The officer was tapping his finger on the scanner, which was covered in scratches and duct tape. It was old, and it was taking longer than the officer would have liked to get Collin's information.

  “Damn thing,” Perkins muttered under his breath. “I'll be glad to move to the new system.”

  Collin wasn't paying attention to the officer's frustration. He was staring at the machine, waiting for the information to come through. He half-expected sirens to start sounding and spotlights to lock onto him from above, but there was none of that. So far, it was working.

  His Civvie would undoubtedly be useless to him after that night. He would have to get back in line for a new one, which wasn't going to happen quickly. Acquiring the blank Civvies was hard enough, but programming them was next to impossible. There was only one Civvie encoder in his base, and it was barely functional. The federal network was constantly upgrading their security measures, making it that much harder to upload a false identity.

  Collin took another deep breath. He figured that this would probably be the last chance for him to breathe fresh air for a while.

  “Looks like this checks out,” Perkins said, handing the Civvie back to Collin. “Your shift ended an hour ago.”

  “I've been waiting for a tow, but it's past curfew.”

  “I'll need to write you up. Your hearing date will be printed on the slip. You'll be assigned community service then.”

  “Thanks,” Collin replied, trying to look bummed about the situation, though he would never appear at that hearing.

  Nearby, Randall put a hand to his ear, listening to someone on the other end of his earpiece talking to him. Collin knew that this would not be good news for him. He stuffed his Civvie back into his pocket and held out a hand to take the citation. As Perkins handed him the slip, Collin allowed it to fall to the ground, pretending that it was a mistake.

  He couldn't hear his pulse anymore. There was no time to figure out whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  At that moment, Collin suspected that Randall was being told about the stolen car. Since his Civvie checked out, with no priors listed, they would probably run a facial recognition search on the image from the Civvie. That would come back with information on Collin's real name and real status.

  Collin moved to the side of the car and bent down, reaching for the slip of paper on the ground. He was closer to Perkins now, and the officer was pulling his taser out of his holster, keeping it aimed at Collin.

  Collin took a moment to steady himself. Then he began to stand back up. The taser was closer to him than it should have been. There was no way that Perkins could miss him from this range. There was no way to turn and run. Collin's only option was to let the situation play out and do his best to come out the other side of it in one piece.

  As he stood up, Collin grabbed Perkins' arm. The taser went off, and its two darts shot into Collin's chest. He could hear the tick-tick-tick of the taser as Perkins held down the trigger, but the charge never reached Collin.

  The darts were stuck in the specially made jacket that Collin—and most book runners—wore when they went to perform their job. It was lined and insulated to keep them safe from tasers; uncomfortable, b
ut effective.

  Perkins had no idea what was happening. He expected Collin to fall to the ground, unable to function. Instead, Collin rushed toward him.

  There was very little thought or feeling behind Collin's actions at this point. He was functioning on instinct, and the training that had been drilled into his head back in high school, tackling Perkins and driving him backward.

  Perkins hit the ground hard, with Collin on top of him. Without looking, Collin knew that Randall would be coming toward him. If the officer had any brains at all, he would know that another taser shot would be useless. He would attack some other way.

  As he tried to get back to his feet, Collin saw a nightstick in Perkins' belt and grabbed it. He heard Randall letting out a roar as he prepared to attack, Collin knew that he didn't have time to get on his feet. Instead, he stumbled backward, falling onto the street. He scrambled to put as much space between himself and the police officers as he could.

  He saw Randall now, coming toward him with his nightstick raised in the air, just waiting to come down on Collin's head. It was in this moment that Collin saw the weakness that would have kept Randall out of a HAND uniform. His right leg was stiff and dragged ever so slightly on the pavement as he tried to get to Collin.

  Perkins was pulling himself off of the ground. In a matter of seconds, both of the officers would be rushing toward Collin. But neither of them had a gun. No police officers had guns. If he could put enough space between himself and those officers, he might be able to get away—at least until backup showed up and drones started tracking him from the air.

  He couldn't fight. To try would be foolish. But he could run.

  With the flick of a wrist, he extended the nightstick that he had stolen from Perkins. With little grace, he threw the thing at Randall's head. The officer had no choice but to slow his attack as he swatted the thing down. This gave Collin enough time to get to his feet and take off.

  Despite knowing that police officers didn't carry guns, Collin felt like he had a target painted on his back as he ran. He expected more. If police officers had been better armed or properly trained, he would be in handcuffs already. Their weakness was his strength.

  Normally, Collin wouldn't have gone in the same direction as the person he had been meeting with that night. But with a tall fence lining the other side of the highway and more police or HAND units potentially coming from either direction, he had no choice but to hop the guardrail and hope that the woman had been given enough of a head start to get away.

  As for his own safety, Collin wasn't sure what he would do from one second to the next. All he could do was run toward the sleeping city and hope to find shelter.

  2

  “The Constitution of the United States of America,” Ms. Bloom said, standing at the chalkboard at the front of the classroom. She might have written the words on the board if they hadn't run out of chalk a week earlier. “Can anyone tell me what it is?”

  Silence. Nobody wanted to answer. Most probably didn't even know the answer, and none of them cared. History was one of those subjects that everyone was forced to learn, but most people would never think about again once they left the classroom.

  Libby Jacobs was sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by dozens of other kids. She kept her head down and her eyes on the tablet in front of her, though it had stopped working long before the chalk ran out.

  She was an average girl. Average height. Average weight. Dark hair. Light eyes. Maybe she could have been beautiful and popular if she'd put in the effort, but she preferred to be average. She wanted to go unnoticed as much as possible.

  Every time the teacher asked a question, Libby tried her best to become invisible. Unfortunately, it didn't always work.

  “Libby?” Ms. Bloom asked.

  Libby's eyes went to the teacher at the front of the room. Ms. Bloom had her hands on her hips and a look on her face, as though she expected Libby to answer the question.

  They stared at each other for two or three seconds before Libby shrugged, shook her head and gave Ms. Bloom a “how should I know?” expression.

  Ms. Bloom sighed and moved to her desk, where she took a seat. She said, “Anyone? Anyone at all?”

  Silence.

  “Sometimes I don't know why I bother,” Ms. Bloom sighed.

  She took a deep breath and told the class, “The Constitution of the United States of America is one of the most important documents in our history. The first version of the Constitution was one of our nation's founding documents. It was the foundation upon which our entire society was built, establishing the rights of every citizen. It was designed to establish the nation and keep it afloat, allowing us to learn, to grow and expand our reach.”

  Ms. Bloom picked up a tablet from her desk and skimmed whatever document she was teaching from. She then looked back to the class and said, “The Constitution was an imperfect creation to be sure. It appealed to the individual desire to escape the oppression of the crown. To create a life that was never considered a possibility before. It focused on the rights that had been denied up to that point, but it failed to create equality in terms of race and gender. It set rules for a culture that became dated as time went on. It was the foundation of our nation, but it was never designed to remain at the center of American freedom.

  “As our nation evolved, we began to see the limitations of that original document in the modern world.”

  She put the tablet down and said, “Simply put, we grew up and realized that powdered wigs went out of style centuries ago. The modern world requires modern government in order to meet the needs of people today. We can't keep focusing on the 'me' side of things. Now that we are a nation of our own and a part of a global community, we have to think in terms of that community. 'Me' has got to evolve into 'we', or else we risk losing the comforts and liberties that we have grown accustomed to.

  “Nobody wants to see one man feast while another one starves. Or a woman suffer with some horrible disease because she can't afford the type of care that another woman wouldn't have to think twice about. These are basic human rights. Food. Medicine. Education. Shelter. Denying any person any one of these rights would be nothing less than oppression. Ensuring equality for all is the truest liberation.”

  As Ms. Bloom went on about the structure of government and the pride of the nation, Libby stared at her own reflection in her nonfunctional tablet's screen. She couldn't focus on school. She had more pressing matters to take care of at home. She would have rather been there, but her schedule would not allow it.

  The bell rang. Class was dismissed.

  As Libby walked into the hall and tried to avoid being run down by the river of students making their way to their next class, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “Libby?” came a somewhat familiar voice.

  She turned and found Justin Becker standing behind her. Even though he'd known Libby for as long as they had been in school, he seemed uncomfortable speaking to her.

  Justin was best friends with Libby's cousin, Uly. As kids, she had been a part of their club, but somewhere along the way things changed. Now they might as well have been strangers.

  When she knew Justin, he was as loud and outgoing as any of the kids were. Now he was always quiet. Back then, he was a little chubby, but that had changed as well. Now, he was tall and lean. He played a lot of sports, which probably helped.

  This older version of Justin spoke with a soft voice, which didn't sound nervous or weak. He just seemed a little unsure of himself.

  “You forgot this,” he told her, holding up a paper notebook that she had been using since her tablet broke.

  She took the notebook from him and said, “Thanks. Wouldn't want to miss out on all the stuff I forgot to write down in class.”

  With a quick raising of her eyebrows, meant to highlight the sarcasm of her comments, Libby turned to walk away. That was the most she'd said to Justin in a year.

  As she left, she caught a quick glimpse of a smil
e that formed on Justin's face. It wasn't a polite smile, or a sarcastic smile. It seemed genuine, and felt completely out of place in Libby's world.

  At the end of the hallway, students were gathering around a wall-mounted television. The TV usually carried the student news and official broadcasts from the state. It wasn't unusual for there to be a pop quiz related to those official broadcasts, so students were encouraged to pay special attention.

  As Libby approached, she saw the image of a man with dark, messy hair and dark eyes. He had just a hint of humor in his eyes.

  For a moment, Libby thought that she was looking at the latest face of National TV. A news anchor would probably have better hair, so she was leaning toward the man being an actor when she finally caught a glimpse of the bottom of the screen.

  The word 'FUGITIVE' was written in bold letters there, highlighted with red flashing lights, just in case the message wasn't getting across.

  The TV on the wall hadn't had sound for as long as Libby had gone to school there, but the closed captioning revealed that the man was Collin Powers. He was a member of a terrorist group that went by the name Hate. He was a constitutional extremist, wanted for assaulting police officers, resisting arrest and the trafficking of hostile content.

  “Poor kid can't live without training wheels,” a boy in the crowd joked. “Mommy, I want my Constipation! Wah!”

  The boy looked around, waiting for someone to laugh at his jokes, but nobody did. One girl seemed puzzled as she said, “I think it was called the Constitution.”

  By this point, Libby's mind was wandering. She couldn't stop thinking about what was going on at home. She would have preferred to be there instead of listening to idiots in the hallway, but she had no choice.

  There was a reward for the capture of the fugitive, but this point seemed irrelevant to her. She highly doubted that she would just happen to run across Collin Powers on her way home from school, or that he would gladly go with her to the police station.

  Without realizing it for several seconds, Libby found herself standing next to Sim Vargas. His arm brushed against hers, but he didn't say or do anything to get her attention right away. He just stood with her, keeping his eyes on the TV.