Free The Harbinger Break by Zachary Adams Page A

including our own, with the same words: "You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
       Special Agent Chris Summers crashed onto his couch, kicked off his shoes and turned on the television. He sighed, leaning back, glad to finally be home–regardless of how run-down home was.
       He glanced around his one bedroom flat. Wooden floors concealed by a cheap brown rug with a green leaf pattern, a lightly torn brown couch, an unmade bed, and large speakers against the wall by the window were proof enough that someone lived there. He'd grabbed the speakers at a garage sale, five bucks each, eight for the set–not bad after he fixed them, and he kept his rock n' roll disks stacked on top. His rarely-used television sat on the rug across from his coffee table, and beside his couch on the wall hung a painting of some odd colored mountains that the previous owner left. He liked how it looked so he'd left it.
       His cellphone rang, and he sighed at his relaxation interrupted. It was the office. Probably Paige.
       "Summers speaking."
       "Agent Summers."
       He recognized her soft voice immediately.
       "Hey Paige."
       "How's the case?"
       He sighed. "It's coming along… Actually, I just scratched a disk . I need a second." He added a slow inflection to 'scratched a disk'.
       "Alright, call me back."
       "Will do."
       He hung up. A moment later, she called back, personal number this time. He answered.
       "Paige."
       "Hey handsome."
       "What's going on?"
       "Barnes has been up my ass these past few days, wondering what's the–"
       "Can you say that differently?"
       "What differently?"
       He sighed again. She continued.
       "Alright fine. He's been down my throat."
       "Not better."
       She laughed. "I've been covering for you Chris, but we need a progress report or he's going to transfer you."
       "Gotchya."
       "What have you got?"
       "I've spoken to a few known associates of Shane's. This case is proving just as difficult as we thought it'd be. He's psychotic, but the question of nature verses nurture is as heart of it as usual. Of those from GenDec whom I've spoken, it seems he's been conditioned to insanity. Except I can't paint that picture. He's committed heinous crimes–he deserves whatever punishment he receives, but from what I can tell, he'd been tortured to submission in that direction."
       "You sure?"
       "I can't be, Paige. I need to see GenDec. Can you pull some strings upstairs?"
       "I'll see what I can do. Give me the formal report in five."
       "Alright. Thanks."
       "Don't mention it."
       He hung up and sat back in the sofa, thinking about what he would say. Pat Shane was, by the standard, crazy–but also a hero, at least in his own mind.
     
    ◊   ◊   ◊
     
       Claire Waltz's plane landed in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a little after three in the afternoon. She wasn't thrilled to return this close to GenDec, but she had to find Higgins. She wanted–no– needed to find out what he remembered.
       She rented a black sedan, took the Skyway to Pompano, then drove to 1312 Red Gable Drive, where her IT friend Lee had located a plausible Sam Higgins.
       Lee was also in love with her, which was useful.
       She parked the car and approached the pink little bungalow, knocking twice on the door. Turning around, facing the street, she studied her nails, analyzing the perfection of her French manicure while waiting for a response, which seemed to be taking a while.
       She grimaced. How degrading was this? Her , calling on someone else… as if. But this was personal, and she couldn't just call a favor and send anyone. He might know things. Things she'd hoped nobody remembered and had in stock to share.
       There was no answer, so she knocked again. Lee had called her earlier, told her that he was alive and had been rescued over a day before. Plus, a silver Honda Accord sat in the