Rogue (The Genesis Files Book 1) Read online

  ROGUE

  The Genesis Files #1

  BONNIE SYNCLAIRE

  Copyright © 2018 Bonnie Synclaire

  www.bonniesynclaire.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Bonnie Synclaire

  Cover images from www. pexels.com

  Praise for ROGUE

  “ The book is quite enjoyable...Synclaire obviously has experience with writing, her words flowing well and with purpose. For anyone looking for a quick read with good action and great characters, I recommend Rogue . ”

  — J.L. Willow, author of THE SCAVENGER

  “ Rogue was...a great read…I always love a thrilling time-is-running-out book and wow...I enjoyed reading Rogue and can’t wait for the next book in the series! ”

  — Joy Chappell, author of FARRYN

  “ I love secret societies, and I can’t resist a good underground organization, so I was bound to enjoy the concept of this story from the start...The very beginning surprised and intrigued me—I was hooked right at the start...I can’t wait to see where Bonnie Synclaire takes her story next! ”

  — Olivia Scott, author of WINGS

  “ Rogue is a riveting, fast-paced thriller that takes you into the shadowy world of spy agencies and criminal enterprises...Rich in detail, with a narrative that evokes both suspense and empathy, this book is a must-read that will leave you eagerly anticipating a sequel. ”

  — Kristin R., advanced reviewer

  “Captivating, gripping, and dynamic…an intriguing story highlighting the unbreakable bond between two sisters.”

  — Kerri M., advanced reviewer

  For Grandma Bonnie. I wish you could hold this.

  And for my family.

  — B.S.

  1 .

  Harper

  I knew something was wrong when my mother has been missing for four days.

  The last time I saw her was Monday morning. I gave her my usual half-hearted goodbye before getting on the school bus that comes to our dead-end street, and I haven’t seen her since.

  My twin sister is crying beside me. Her name is Joanna, but I just call her Jo. My name is Harper. I’m not crying.

  When Mom didn’t come home Monday night, we decided not to go to school the next morning. Today is Friday. We’ve been sitting around for four days straight, wondering, waiting. “Stop crying.” I mutter to Jo and nudge her off of my shoulder.

  “Something happened to her,” she says. “We need to call the police.”

  “No police, you know that.” I say.

  “Well, what are we going to do? We’re not showing up to school, we ate all the food, and we don’t have any other family.”

  I don’t know how to respond, because she is right—the only other family member we know besides our mother is our aunt, Veronica. Even she is reserved and mysterious and won’t tell us a thing about our family—

  The doorbell rings.

  The sound of it puts an unsettling feeling in my stomach; no one ever comes to our house, not even a mailman.

  I slowly stand from the couch and walk into the foyer, Joanna right behind me. Looking through the peephole, a small part of me hopes to see Mom standing there, even though there’s no reason for her to ring the doorbell of her own house.

  But actually, no one is there.

  “Who is it?” Jo whispers.

  “No one’s here.” I shrug, shocked.

  “It was probably just a prank or something.” Jo suggests, but I shake my head.

  “We live in the middle of nowhere on a dead-end street. It wasn’t a kid trying to pull a prank.” We live in a five-bedroom estate in Reddings Mill, Pennsylvania, which is nothing but farmland, hundreds of acres of empty space, and a WalMart.

  I cautiously open the front door and look around. There’s not a person in sight, just miles of dying grass. I look down. A single piece of yellow notebook paper is taped to the cobblestone walkway. I snatch it up and lock the door.

  “What is that?” Jo hovers over my shoulder.

  “...It’s a letter.”

  * * *

  Harper,

  You don’t know who I am, and I don’t think you ever will, so don’t try to find me. I simply thought I should give you a heads-up.

  The Genesis Project is in danger, and so are you, your sister, and your mother. Your family’s past has caught up with us all, and no one will be able to escape what is about to happen. I can’t tell you much right now, but I can tell you one thing: do not trust anyone after reading my letter. If you do, I cannot guarantee your survival in this. Nor my own.

  - D

  “What’s Project...Genesis?” Joanna asks.

  “I...I don’t know.” I say. We sit back down in the living room, and I hold the letter between us. After rereading it a few times, I set it down on the coffee table. “We should call Aunt Veronica.”

  “Good idea.” Jo nods.

  I retrieve my cell phone from my hoodie pocket and dial Aunt Veronica’s number. Last time I checked, she lives in the city and works with Mom every day. She picks up on the third ring, and I put her on speaker.

  “Harper?” Her voice sounds a bit like my mother’s.

  “Aunt V, has Mom been at work at all this week?” I ask.

  Aunt Veronica doesn’t answer for a long time. “Actually, about your mother…”

  “Wait, you know what’s going on? Is she with you?”

  “No one’s seen her all week. But Harper, we can’t talk about this over the phone. I’ll be over as soon as I can—”

  “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Harper. I’ll explain everything to you in person—”

  “Wait, you don’t understand! A random letter just showed up on our doorstep. It says we’re all in trouble—and what’s the Genesis Project? Is that our family’s company or something?”

  “I can’t answer that over the phone. Someone might be listening to us...”

  I’m about to argue, to ask who in the world would care about our conversation right now, when the sound of a gunshot suddenly rips through the other end of the line, followed by a scream and muffled voices and shuffling feet. My chest tightens, and my blood runs cold.

  “A-Aunt V?” I stammer, not quite processing what is happening. The last thing I hear is angry voices and more footsteps before the line goes dead.

  * * *

  I let my phone fall onto my lap, the screen still on Aunt Veronica’s contact picture. Jo covers her mouth with her hand and starts to cry again. Did someone break into her house? Why did she say we can’t talk over the phone? Did I hear a gun? Is she alive ?

  Just then, a text message pops up. I hurriedly tap it, and see that it’s from a number I don’t recognize.

  Sorry I didn’t warn you. You know, about Veronica. Don’t worry, she’s fine.

  I quickly text back without thinking: Who are you??

  He responds seconds later: I’m the one who sent you the letter.

  Me : How did you get my number?

  Unknown Number : Connections.

  Me : You obviously know my own family better than I do. Where are my parents & my aunt?

  Unknown Number : I’m on your side here, just remember that.

  I wait for the anonymous figure to send something else, b
ut they never do.

  * * *

  Jo doesn’t sleep through the night—but it’s not just because of what just happened with Aunt Veronica. She’s sick.

  Her multiple sclerosis is escalating (again) and from what I’m witnessing now, she’ll most likely have to go to the hospital for the umpeenth time this year. But the problem is, Mom isn’t here to take her to the hospital, and I don’t my driver’s license. There’s no way of getting her to the hospital in the next town over. I could call an ambulance, but after what happened this afternoon, I’m not about to draw any attention to this house, even though we live in the middle of nowhere.

  It’s 11:49 p.m. Almost midnight. My and Jo’s bedrooms are right next to each other, so whenever Jo calls me, I’m at her bedside in seconds.

  “Turn the heat off ,” Joanna grumbles. She’s tossing and turning in her queen size bed, even though all of her blankets are abandoned on the floor. She wears shorts and a red T-shirt that has our school’s mascot on it, but are damp with sweat. She’s overheated and oversensitive.

  “Jo, it’s 73 degrees in the house. I’m not touching the thermostat.” She makes a noise that’s somewhere in between a growl and a cry, and I sigh. “I think you should take those medicines the doctor gave you.” I suggest.

  Jo stops tossing and turning and glares at me. “And be asleep for two days straight? No way.”

  “Well, I’m going to sleep. I need to find out what’s going on and where Mom went. If you change your mind, the RiteAid bag is in the bathroom.” I stand from the swivel chair at Jo’s desk and walk back to my own room, leaving the door open. I’m about to crawl into bed when I see that my cell phone is glowing on my nightstand. There’s a notification on my lock screen from the Channel One News app:

  Today’s Featured News: 3 Armed Burglars Steal $5 Million in Jewelry | Reddings Mill School District Teachers Still Expecting a 10% Pay Raise | Local Reddings Mill Police Officer Confirmed Missing After Five Days

  The news sent this alert out this morning too, but I never bothered to look at it until now. That’s when I see it: Local Reddings Mill Police Officer Confirmed Missing After Five Days .

  My mother hasn’t been home in five days. She hasn’t answered any of my calls or texts, her car is still in the garage, and her strangely heavily secured briefcases are still in her bedroom. Joanna was right, something probably happened to her at work.

  “She’s a police officer …?” I say to myself, but nothing is adding up in my head. Police officers don’t have briefcases that are secured with several locks and keypads, or at least I don’t think they do. And on the few occasions that I stayed home from school and watched my mother leave for work in the morning, she always wore suits or other professional attire, and her clothes were always black or gray or other boring colors. Never in my life have I seen her in a standard Reddings Mill police uniform.

  Mom never discussed her job with Joanna and me, and all our lives she’s kept us from doing certain things, like not going outside after five o’clock, not bringing any friends over, and not doing any extracurricular activity like ballet or soccer. We’ve never been on any kind of family vacation or trip. Also, I recall Mom not letting us ride the school bus until we reached middle school. She would drive us to our private school every single day—a half hour to and from.

  In second grade, a classmate asked me what my parents’ jobs were. I couldn’t answer him because A) my mother would never tell me hers, and B) I don’t know who my and Jo’s father is. Of course he could answer, though, stating that his mother was an art teacher and his dad an engineer.

  Does the Channel One News know more about what happened to my mother? Will they talk about it on TV, if they haven’t already?

  It’s 11:56—almost time for the midnight recap of the day’s news. I get comfortable in my lime-green bed, go to the news’ website, and stream the day’s recap from my phone.

  2.

  Skye

  “Here is the scenario,” my teacher, Mr. Cane, says. “You’ve found your target and have an eye on them, and you’re scanning the area to see if you can make a move. But then you realize you’re not the only agent here. Another agent from either another top-secret project or a regular agency has the same target as you. Their job is to most likely terminate your target before you can, or terminate you before the target. Your mission immediately alters. You must fight off your opponent first, then deal with your target after.”

  “The scene?” I ask, my voice monotone. We’re standing in a small gray training room, the fluorescent ceiling lights dimmed to the lowest setting. Mr. Cane is leaning against his desk in the corner of the room, iPad in hand, still taking notes on today’s training session. I am standing in the middle of the room, two feet away from Jerry, a fellow Genesis agent who is roleplaying as my opponent. He’s tall, at least six-foot, with scraggly blonde hair and tattooed arms. We see each other around headquarters often. He’s been working for Genesis for years now, whereas I’m just an agent in-training.

  “City alleyway. Midnight. Post-rain and foggy. Minimal traffic. We’ll say your target is in one of the buildings.” Mr. Cane replies.

  That’s why the lights are dimmed so low. In this mock fight, it’s nighttime. I have to be as quiet as possible; even though there aren’t a lot of people or cars in this pretend location, one loud sound could trigger someone’s attention. And that’s the worst thing that could happen to an assassin on a mission.

  “You have an estimated three minutes to fight off the other agent before your target notices what’s going on and relocates.” Mr. Cane adds. “Ready...set... fight .”

  Jerry lunges forward in an attempt to tackle me, but I quickly step to the side and raise my leg to swing and kick his head. But I’m too slow. Jerry sees me about to kick him, and he grabs my ankle and flips me over. I land hard on my back.

  It’s so dark in here I can barely see anything, and I squint to force my eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Jerry raises his fists in a defense pose, contemplating on whether to go easy on me or not. Probably because I’m a girl and a good ten years younger than him. I spring up and punch him right in the cheek. He cowards, but only for a second. Jerry’s a tough guy, one of the project’s best.

  Now, we both stand in defense moves, just inches apart from each other, thinking. What is he doing? We’ll never have this much time to think during a real-life mission—

  “Don’t go easy on her, Jerry, she’s the only assassin trainee in her group.” Mr. Cane says, irritated.

  I glance at Mr. Cane while he speaks, which is a mistake. While I’ve temporarily lost my focus on Jerry, he pushes me and I stumble against the wall. He punches my left cheek and I cower in pain and fear, letting my body give up and sink to the floor.

  “That’s enough for today, Jerry.” I hear Mr. Cane sigh. “The only thing holding her back from moving up to level five is her mediocre fighting skills.”

  Level 5 is the final level of training, whether you’re training to be an assassin (me), undercover cop, special agent, or spy. Half of me is angry at myself for being so slow, but the other half of me is glad I’m not moving on to the final level of training; I don’t know how much more of this I can tolerate.

  The lights go back to normal, and Mr. Cane dismisses Jerry with a small wave of his hand. He spends a few moments jotting things down on his iPad before turning it off and placing it on his desk. “You’re not progressing like you should be,” he says. “Things only get harder from here. It’s best if you accept this now and move on...Be right back here tomorrow morning, Ms. McCoy said you need to advance to the next level by next month.”

  McCoy. Right. The director of this top-secret, torturous program—the Elite Training Program , to be exact. I remember the day she “recruited” me and nine others from our orphanage like it was yesterday.

  3 YEARS AGO.

  Erin McCoy stepped out of the black van and peered up at the orphanage before her, located in Cape May, New Jersey. It was a s
quare, red brick building with dirty window panes, dead grass and bushes, and silence—not even the sounds of children swept through the air. There was nothing happy or child-like about this place, which was just how McCoy liked it. FBI kids aren’t happy, they’re tough, intelligent, and emotionless.

  McCoy’s assistant, an agent in a black suit and sunglasses to conceal his identity, came out of the van. They walked up to the front double doors, and McCoy rang the doorbell. A rusted white sign bolted to the brick exterior read Evergreen Orphanage in italicized letters.

  Someone answered the door moments later—Sister Clarence, an old lady whom McCoy had been doing business with for a few years now. She smiled and made sure her nun outfit was clean before letting McCoy and her assistant inside.

  “A few of them have come of age now, right?” McCoy asked quietly as Sister Clarence led them up to the second floor, where most of the bedrooms were. Orphans looked at her black pantsuit, shiny black heels, and FBI badge and watched her stride pass.

  Sister Clarence nodded. “Yes—oh, and there’s one in particular that I’d like you to see. No one is interested in adopting her, and I think her gift is perfect for your needs. She just turned thirteen.” She lowered her voice and stopped at a bedroom door that was slightly ajar. McCoy peeked into the room to see a girl in a yellow dress sitting on the ground, hunched over an old boxy computer. She was typing furiously.

  “She’s hacking into the computer’s system,” Sister Clarence explained, her voice a faint whisper. “She’s been getting her hands on almost all of the technology here since she was brought here. We have restrictions on the computers in the library, but she broke through them easily. We don’t know how she learned to do this, but I think she has a rare talent…”