Rise of Order

Part 3

"I see flashing blue lights. It might be the police." Wilma sounded hopeful.

"Those aren't Buckhead cops, you twit. The police in South-A are owned, just like everywhere else." Macey pulled her left arm to her mouth; the arm without a viser. My eyes narrowed as I watched. She tapped a finger against a spot just under her bare wrist. One. Two. Three. Four. She spoke to her bare skin. "Code word is Winged Falcon. Say again, code word is Winged Falcon."

Damn. She had an emergency transmitter under the skin. We'd jammed the visers, but that thing probably used a special frequency.

My heart raced as I debated what to do. I could grab Macey and try to cut it out. I was bigger than her, stronger. She wouldn't be expecting it. But then what? She'd already sent a signal, and if I tried anything, everyone would know what I'd done. My life in Buckhead would be over.

The aircraft shook as we neared the ground, the engines struggling to keep us steady. The hum turned into a roar and the v-copter lurched, then dropped suddenly. Someone screamed. My body was shoved upward; only the safety harness kept me in my seat. Then we were still, and the roar became a fading whine.

"There are people outside," Wilma gasped.

"Do shut up," Macey said. She was no longer talking into her arm, but I knew the device was still transmitting. The Freder family had the biggest private militia in Georgia, but it would take time to respond to the signal. I imagined burly men with ugly weapons, dressed in body armor, rushing into waiting v-copters up in Buckhead. Dogs unleashed.

The hatch opened and men flooded in. They wore dark blue police uniforms but had bandanas pulled over their faces. Their skin was darker than any of ours. Two carried ugly black stun sticks, the tips shining with a hungry red glow.

"Welcome to South-A, ladies," said one of the intruders. His voice was a little hoarse, but I still recognized it: Wingate. "These men will help you from your seats and escort you to the waiting carriages for your tour. Do us all a favor, and do exactly what they say. Those sticks won't kill you, but they'll sting worse than Daddy's hand on your behinds. Get moving." He extended a hand to Macey. "Ms. Freder, please come with me."

Macey stared at him, outrage in her sneer. "My escorts are usually willing to show their faces."

"It's better for us both if you never see my face. I want to get you home safely. And I need you to cooperate for that to happen."

"So, this is about me?" she asked.

She's stalling. She knows help is on the way.

"Not really," Wingate replied. "Get moving."

"What about my friends?"

He grabbed her arm. Macey spun her torso away from him, as if there were some place to go, but Wingate was too quick and strong. The shaft of the stun stick was on Macey's neck like a pouncing cat. All activity on the v-copter stopped as the hostages and predators all watched. "Don't do that again, or you'll feel the tip."

Macey stood, straightening her silky indigo blouse as she drew herself up to full height—just a bit shorter than Wingate's six feet. "Let's go," she said, as if it had been her idea to get off the v-copter in South Atlanta.

Wingate led her off.

"The rest of you form a line. Hands on the shoulders of the girl in front of you. Keep it tight. Now," barked another of the men. He was stocky, with a mane of oily black hair and a shiny red bandana concealing his lower face. His deep bronze fingers squeezed a stun stick as he spoke. He stared at me with contempt. "You stand right in this spot." He pointed a stubby finger at the floor. "Move off it and I'll make you dance."