Page 1 of Cage

PROLOGUE

CAGE

22 YEARS AGO

If it weren’t for the stench of body odor, mildew, and urine, plus the constant shouting, this jail cell wouldn’t be so bad. In fact, I’d consider it one of the best homes I’ve ever had. I can’t count how many times I’ve been here, but every time I walk through those heavy metal doors in handcuffs, I know I’m going to get three meals a day, and no one is going to lay a finger on me.There will be no abuse, no starving, and no sleeping on the floor in a closet.

“You have a visitor.”

One of the juvenile detention officers stares at me through the bars, his round stomach hanging over the waistband of his pants. He chomps loudly on a piece of gum, waiting until I rise from my thin, uncomfortable mattress. It doesn’t matter how crappy it is, though. It’s my own bed and it can’t be taken away from me.

I don’t even glance up from the book I’m reading. “Not interested.”

Whoever is here to see me, I can guarantee I don’t want to see them. It’s either someone from the state or my most recent foster family. Either one can fuck off. My social worker has continued to place me in abusive, neglectful homes even though she knows they aren’t safe. My most recent foster parents are no exception. And it’s a wonder why I’m always running away and getting into trouble.

“Not a choice, kid. Let’s go,” he demands, sliding open the metal door with a loud clank.

Irritation prickles down the back of my neck. This asshole thinks he’s the top cop or something—when in reality, he probably failed the academy, which is why he’s stuck here babysitting a bunch of fucked-up kids who can’t stay out of trouble.

I toss my book aside and follow him toward the visitors’ area. It’s always depressing as hell. Parents sobbing because their precious kid did something stupid and ended up here. Boys crying because they want to go home with their families once they realize they aren’t cut out for being locked up. Guess they think their parents aren’t so bad after being in here for a night or two. At least they have people who give a shit about them.

Instead of going to the large room at the end of a long hallway, we stop in front of a door on the right. The officer opens it, then motions for me to go in.I eye him warily as I slowly approach.

What the fuck? I’ve never seen anyone go in here before. I assumed it was a supply closet.

My stomach twists when I cross the threshold, glancing back as the officer closes the door behind me. A second later, the heavy lock slides into place.

White-painted cinderblock walls that are filthy and cold create the small space. Smack dab in the middle of it is a wobbly laminate table that looks like it was in a school backin the eighties. Dusty flickering fluorescent lights hang above it from the stained ceiling panels that look like they could fall at any second. No cameras or windows. It’s damp in here, a copper smell lingering in the air. Blood. I’d know that smell from anywhere. Is this some kind of interrogation room? Fuck, is that blood splatter on the wall? When I finish scanning it, the hairs on my arms rise as I glance at the person waiting for me.

I have no idea who he is, but sweat gathers at the back of my neck as I take him in.I’d guess he’s in his fifties, but he’s exceptionally fit for his age. His salt-and-pepper hair is the only thing giving away the fact that he’s older. A huge scar running from his temple to his chin adds to his intimidating appearance. Add in the black cargo pants, boots, and a black T-shirt that hugs his muscles; he looks like a soldier. A deadly one.

“Sit,” he instructs sternly.

Swallowing heavily, I lower myself onto one of the chairs across from him. I don’t say anything. It’s obvious he’s here to do the talking since I have no clue who he is.

“My name is Deke Black. I’m here to make you an offer.” His voice is cold and direct. I can’t imagine this guy cracking a joke or laughing.

When I don’t reply, he opens the thick file folder in front of him.

“All of your tests over the past five years track you as exceptionally gifted. On top of that, you’re also violent and carry several traits of a psychopath, though I’m not convinced you actually are one.”

What. The. Fuck. Who is this guy? A psychopath?

“I can see you think I’m an asshole, and you’re correct about that. I’m also your only lifeline to get out of this world you’ve been living. I’m giving you a chance to start over. To be able to use your abilities without ending up here repeatedly.”

I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms over my chest. “My abilities,” I repeat with a huff. “Who the fuck are you?” I slam my fists down onto the wobbly table.

His expression stays relaxed. He’s not the least bit bothered by my outburst. I’m not used to that. I might barely even be a teenager, but I’m bigger than most kids my age. I’ve always been tall, and in the past couple of years, I’ve built some muscle, making me look menacing to most. This guy isn’t fazed.

“I work for an organization called The Agency. Specifically, I’m building a group called The Elite Team. It’s a team of young men like yourself who are recruited the same way I am now. Once they join, they start a whole new life. A new identity. No more foster homes. And eventually, endless amounts of cash in their pockets.”

I narrow my gaze. “I might be young, but I’m not dumb enough to believe you’re some magic fairy coming to grant me three wishes. There’s a catch.”

Deke Black smiles, and it looks like it pains him to do so. “Smart boy. There is a catch. In exchange for all of that, you would become a lifetime employee of The Agency. Once you’re in, you can never get out.”

“What the fuck? Like ownership?”

He studies me for a second. “No. Like family. The Elite Team would be your family. And unlike the social services system, family is forever at The Agency.”

---