Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Just outside Missula, Mt:
Dash looked up from the fabulous steak he was eating. He was at his family reunion, and the steaks had been made by his grandpa, one of the best chefs in the world, a fact proven by the television cameras all around him, taping his every move. Music by his three second cousins, Fasie, Thomas, and John, was being played in the background, and of course, his great-grandfather, telling stories of a war (Dash had forgotten which).  His family was one of many talents.  But what had made him raise his head was his cousin, Sarah.  Sarah was quite a character.  She was rich, privileged, and, in Dash’s experience, could be somewhat of a drama queen.  Her outfit reflected her personality: everything screamed of color; she had practically a whole rainbow represented in what she wore.  Her shirt alone appeared to be like someone had randomly thrown a bunch of colors on the fabric, mixed them together, and sold the result.  Dash didn’t normally notice the clothing that people wore, but his cousin pulled off such a bright outfit that it was impossible for him, or anyone else for that matter, not to notice. 
"Hey Daniel." she yelled. Dash muttered under his breath, and turned fully to meet her. Had he been able to stand, he would have, but he walked around a lot today, and his one good leg, his right, was sore. His other leg was only a leg to the knee.  Beyond that, everything was metal and wires.  He had been born without his lower leg, and it had only been because the gracious gift of a state-of-the-art artificial leg from his uncle (who was Sarah’s father) that he was able to walk.  Having grown up wearing the artificial leg, he was well used to using it, though there were plenty of times that some part of the technological wonder gave him trouble.  Still, it let all five feet eleven inches of himself move around and ensured that he was able to keep his naturally thin body from developing into a more rounded shape
"I told you never to call me that." He replied to Sarah. Daniel was his real name, but he preferred to be called Dash.
Sarah shrugged it off. "Tough.  Deal with it."
That earned a simultaneous eye role and slight smile from Dash. "Fine.  What’s up?"
"Well, where to begin." Sarah said. "Well, as you know, I’m not getting any younger...” Dash raised his eyebrow at this, and earned himself a laugh from Sarah.  “I know I’m not old or anything, but I’m only going to be young for so long.  So I decided that I wanted to see the world before I grow up.  Old people never seem to do anything exciting.” 

Dash interrupted. "So you’re going to New York again."
Sarah frowned, and said in disgust, “No way. I've been there, like, six times already. Now shut up and let me tell my story."
"Actually, my father has agreed to allow me on what will turn out to be a trip around the world.  Apparently he’s got some people he needs to visit in person, and he’s decided to take me with him.  I managed to convince him to allow me to take a few friends with me."  “And you are telling me this why?"  Dash said slowly, though he had already guessed why.
"WELL ISN'T IT OBVIOUS?!?" Sarah nearly screamed at him. "I WANT YOU TO GO WITH ME!!!"

A little fact about Sarah: she was quick to be loud.  Not necessarily angry.  Just loud
Dash smirked.  While it occasionally annoyed him, he was used to Sarah’s volume, and didn’t even notice as the people around them looked towards them with glances of either disgust or confusion.  "Reeealy," he said slowly. "Why?"
"Well, normally, I don't," Sarah said, “however, I need a fourth person, due to some crazy plans my dad's making."
Dash didn't ask what the plans involved because something else had bothered him.
"Wait a minute,"  he said.  "You said four people. Who are the other two?” 
Sarah responded by letting out one of her infamous yells: "TORY!!!"
A young girl, about Dash's age, arose from a nearby bench and began to walk towards them.  She was slightly shorter than Dash, had auburn hair, and walked somewhat hesitantly.  She wore a dark blue shirt, and brown jeans.  Next to her, a large black Labrador walked, wearing a thick collar that attached to a vest on the dog’s waist. 

“Tory’s blind.”  Sarah explained.  “But she and that dog of hers can make get around pretty well.  She’s my best friend, and…” at that moment, both Sarah’s and Dash's cellphones rang.  Dash picked it up, and looked at the caller ID.  It was his mom.

"Yea, what's up?" he asked.

"We need you to come here.  Any chance of you making it over.  Your uncle Jon wants to see you."

Dash gasped in surprise.  His uncle was in the Army, and Dash hadn't seen him for several years.

"Sorry guys," he said as he hung up, "I've got somewhere to go.  Nice to meet you, Tory, sorta."  Tory nodded at him with a slight smile, and Sarah was too involved with her conversation (it sounded like it was with her father) to notice Dash’s departure.  Dash stood up, and quickly left to find his family.

........................................

It was two days after the conversation, and Dash's parents had just told him in no uncertain terms that he was NOT going on the trip

"Too long away from home for you right now." his dad said

"In addition, there are currently…problems, that would make it difficult for you to leave." His mother added, though she and his father refused to elaborate.

But it was his dad's final comment that infuriated Dash.

"...Besides, I've looked at some of the places they would be going, and with your leg, it would seriously hinder them.”

Dash had argued viciously, but his parents had been stubborn.  At last, Dash had stormed off (he had gotten to be able to move quite quickly for brief spurts even with his brace when he needed to).  His parents were great, with the sole exception in their character being their over-protectiveness of him. 

He wandered the streets for a little while, knowing and not caring that his parents wouldn't condone his actions.  It was afternoon, and the sun was hot.  Suddenly, he was surprised to be standing in front of a building of which he had never seen before, though he had been in the city several times in the past with his dad, who made frequent business trips to the city, and enjoyed taking Dash with him.  The sign said simply: John's stuff.  Shrugging, Dash decided to see what 'stuff' Josh had.

As he walked into the store, Dash heard the jingle of bells, alerting the store owner that a customer had entered.  Nobody appeared to be in the store, and Dash thought about leaving, but something kept him.  The store was your standard pawnshop.  There didn't seem to be a real order to most of the stuff, and it seemed rather clustered, much like those hoarders Dash had seen on television the other day.  Dash wandered around, noting the collection of lamps, used camping equipment, and some very nice guns.  He also saw several nice laptops, and wondered where John, or whoever ran this store, got them.

At that moment, a tall man walked to the checkout counter.  He had a smile that seemed to fill up his entire face, and Dash had to wonder how he fit his very thick, though short, beard and mustache around his smile.  He was defiantly a hairy man, with bushy brown hair of medium length on his head.  Even his brown eyebrows, Dash subconsciously noticed, were bushy.  He wore a plaid vest over his grey shirt, complimented nicely by the pair of jeans.  As he stepped out from behind the counter, Dash noticed drily that he wore a simple pair of white tennis-shoes.  For all the world, Dash thought, he could be one of those guys that get dropped in the wilderness just to see if he could get up.

"John's my name.  How may I help you?" The man asked.

"I'm Daniel." Dash replied.  He had resigned himself to the fact that most adults wanted a formal and common name to call someone, not a nickname, such as Dash had.

The man seemed to hesitate for just a second.  Dash frowned.  Something seemed...odd.  Slowly, deliberately, the man opened his mouth.

"Daniel...or Dash."

Dash gasped.  "How did you know?"

The man frowned, and it seemed to Dash like he grew suddenly serious.  "God told me."

Dash almost laughed, than he realized that the man was serious.  "Come on now, does God even do that anymore."  He said.  The man stared at him.  Dash began to grow uncomfortable.  "Ok...so what else did God tell you?"  Slowly, the man walked up to Dash.  "I'm sorry."  He said.  Then he slammed his fist into Dash's jaw, and darkness claimed Dash.

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A no-name town in Kansas (most towns in Kansas are)

Two Weeks Earlier

I was kicking back on the couch, watching ESPN talk about how some rookie was doing in the big leagues.  I hadn’t caught what team.  In case you hadn’t caught onto me yet, let me fill you in: I was bored.  I needed something to do.  And then my dad walked in the door.

My dad, Jon Karson, wasn’t like most dads.  Most dads didn’t work for the FBI.  My dad wasn’t like most FBI agents.  Most FBI agents didn’t know my dad existed.  Jon Karson had a special job.  He trained the MDI-Minor’s Division of Investigation.  The members of the Division usually went on to be the best agents in the field.  Unless they died.  Which was highly unlikely, in my opinion.  The higher powers took great care to make sure that the missions these agents were assigned to were of the safest possible variety.  All of them held the possibility of danger, and all of the member know how to defend ourselves in about 20-30 different ways, some lethal, some not.  The only problem was, whenever a situation suddenly took a turn for the worse, there was always an adult, ready to cover for them.  I understand why, but it still urks me to have to stand by and take care of the creeps that I’d have taken care of just as well.  Yes, I’m part of the division.  All of us are under 21.  But that doesn’t make us weak.

Obviously, you are curious about who I am.  Well, let me fill you in.  I’m 16.  I’ll be 17 in November.  As you already know, I work for the MDI.  I’m actually the senior leader in the group.  That doesn’t mean I’m the oldest member; Jack, my best friend, is in the organization at the wonderful age of 18.  The only reason I’m the senior member is because my dad created it, and I was his first guinea pig.  The people at the top of the chain of command didn’t like the idea, but they did agree that it may be effective if used right.  My dad doesn’t like how they’re using it currently, but he doesn’t argue…much.  That doesn’t mean I’m not good at what I do.  I’m good, I just don’t get the chance to prove it.  If you’re wondering, no, I haven’t killed anyone.  For reasons which you should understand by that last paragraph, I’ve never gotten the opportunity.  I’ve only had to pull my gun once; I’ve never fired it at anyone.  That is one of the things I do like about the way my division is being handles.  I want action, but I’ve heard what killing people does to a person.  I don’t want that to happen to me.    

Anyway, back to my life.  My dad had walked in, and, judging by the size of his smile, he’s gotten me a job.  He always likes seeing me working.  “Reminds me of what I was.” He always says.  I think he just likes seeing me when I occasionally get the chance to wallop the occasional punch.  My suspicions were confirmed with his next phrase: “Pack your bags.  You’re going to Montana.  And you leave tonight.”

I smiled.  Finally.  It had been almost 3 months since my last operation; I located a small-time crook in Denver.  The local cops had found hints that he may have something big up his sleeve.  Trailed him to a small apartment.  From there, I just called the local authorities.  It was actually pretty easy.  The cops already knew his general location, they just wanted someone to confirm it without raising any suspicions, and who would suspect a sixteen year old.  It turned out that he was going to work with a large gang to raid several jewelry stores.  Nothing massive, but the find led the cops to the gang he was working with, which led them to a larger gang.  As far as I know, they haven’t gotten further than that, though they suspect that it’s a much larger organization that was once suspected. 

I was a little surprised, however, that I was leaving tonight.  Most missions, I had at least a week to prepare. “What’s up,” I asked, as I turned the TV off.

“A former FBI agent was found dead in Kardak.”

“Where’s that?”
“North Dakota.  We suspect that he may have compromised a certain family’s security by giving away their location.”

“What’s so special about the family?” I asked.

“It’s in the file,” my dad said, tossing me a large folder. 

It took me only 10 minutes to get my stuff together.  I like to travel light.  My mom had died in childbirth, something I don’t like telling people, and try to avoid, but it did mean I got to leave without some mom turning all puffy eyed on me every time I left.  I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing. 

That afternoon, as we drove to the airport, which was a good distance off, I scanned the file.     

“The dad worked for the government for a while.  He gathered information that you couldn’t get out in the field: suspect’s criminal records, occupations, that sort of stuff.  One day, he noticed a few files missing from certain records.  These records weren’t criminal records, rather, they were information on those who worked to capture them.  When one of the people whose records had gone missing turned up dead the next day, most people were concerned, but the killing was effective.  There were no clues.  The dad, whose name is Paul Shawnkin, got suspicious about the patterns behind the stolen files, and went searching.  At first, he got nowhere.  Most of the men knew each-other, and all had worked with each-other at one time or the other.  When two more died, however, a pattern began to reveal itself.  The killer, whoever he was, was killing his victims in alphabetical order.  At first, Shawnkin wondered if he had the wrong idea, as, while the killings were in alphabetical order, they skipped several of the names that had been stolen.  Upon looking deeper, however, he found that all of those who had been killed so far had worked together on only two cases.  One involved a low-level crook who wanted to grow in standing amongst those who paid attention to these wrongs, and attempted to assassinate a key political figure in the Arkansan state government.  He hadn’t even gathered half of the supplies he needed before the group busted him.  There was nothing special about that case, and even if there was, the man had died a year ago.  The other case, however, involved a man who had gotten deep inside the political framework, and had begun to suitably send money to several terrorist organizations that were operating in the U.S.  The group had been assigned to arrest him, and though they weren’t the ones who had actually provided the evidence against him, he vowed to kill all of them if he ever escaped.  In the end, he had friends in high places, and only got ten years.  Once he got out, he immediately vanished, before turning up dead one year later.  This was at the same interest level to Shawnkin until he looked at the picture of the man.  He was Shawnkin’s boss.  Shawnkin was suspicious, and watched the man whom, according to the pattern, was next in line to be killed, carefully.  He told no one else about his suspicions, however, as he didn’t want to make the boss suspicious.  One day, at lunch, he caught his boss slipping a small powder in the man’s coffee.  Paul confronted his boss, and when the boss resisted, Shawkin arrested him.  Most people were amazed, but Shawnkin’s evidence was enough to keep the man held for long enough for an investigation to find out that the boss was indeed the politician, and had faked his own death and been supplied with such a strong fake background that he was able to get reinvolved in the government, only this time with a different purpose: revenge.  The investigation got him a life sentence, but the man vowed revenge on all of Shawnkin’s family.  At the time, the FBI ignored it, as he seemed helpless.  A few years later, some information appeared that suggested that he may have had friends in some of the terrorist organizations he had been supporting all those years ago that would support him in his quest for revenge.  That’s when the FBI got careful.  They relocated the family to a small town in Washington, and even changed their names, placing them in a new family as long lost relatives.  It was actually pretty impressive how they were able to integrate the family into a whole new group of relatives who, with a few exceptions, never knew the truth about the new additions to the family.  The Shawkins became the Reals.  Nothing ever came of it, and over time, the government began to leave the family alone.  Eventually, one of the agents who had helped change the Shawkins into the Reals, and thus knew of the Real’s real identity was injured, and was forced to retire as a result.  He went missing one night, and several days later turned up dead in North Dakota.”

     

  At that point, we arrived.  I frowned.  I was pretty certain I knew what my job would be: follow the family as they did they’re life, and make sure that there was nothing suspicious about it.  I also knew that the only reason I was doing this was because it was practice.  This wasn’t a real mission.  There would always be someone else, an adult, nearby, ready to take over if and when things got ugly.  I was just there to learn, so that when I finally became old enough to work for the “real” FBI, I would be ready.  This was all the MDI was to most people who knew about it: a training ground for future FBI agents.  I didn’t like it.  I wanted it to be more.  I shrugged.  There wasn’t much I could do about it, so I’d better make the best of it. 

My dad walked with me to the boarding gate, and then spoke to me: “You know, I have this feeling.  It’s not based off of any facts that I know.  It’s just my gut: this mission’s going to be different.  Watch your back.  Someone might be shooting at it.” 

I smiled.  He’d said this before.  We both weren’t ready to stop believing that the MDI could become something special, but I was more of a realist than he was.  I knew it was unlikely that this mission would be any different.  It was work.  I’d do it, and nothing would happen.  Then I’d go home and life wouldn’t change.

I didn’t know how wrong I was.