The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (2 page)

Still hissing at the approaching threat, now fifty yards away and closing fast, the cat shot up a tree. Every single one of the joggers observed her disappearance – just as they observed everything else around them.

A Chicago PD patrol car traveling toward them slowed to allow its driver, a black policewoman, time to exchange brief pleasantries through the car’s open window with the man who led the group. Despite the early hour, she took scant notice of the children whom she assumed were members of a sports club, or students of one of several schools she knew were in the vicinity.

It wasn’t until she’d driven past the group it registered that although the man perspired freely, not one of the children did. She looked thoughtfully at them as they grew smaller in her rear vision mirror. Out of habit, in keeping with her police training, she counted them. Fifteen boys and eight girls.

If the cop had realized just how unique these particular children were, she may have spared them more than a glance.

The truth was they were
products
of Riverdale’s Pedemont Orphanage, an Omega Agency facility, and the man they ran behind was their master.

Omega Special Agent Tommy Kentbridge was more than just their master: he was their mentor, protector and guardian. At thirty four, with a six-foot one-inch frame and muscular to boot, he had the confidence and demeanor of someone much older. His Omega masters had recognized his leadership qualities years earlier and hadn’t hesitated to put the orphans in his charge.

Most of the children were Caucasian, while the rest were representative of various ethnicities including Native American, Asian, African-American, Latin, Polynesian with several being mixed-race. Only eighteen months separated the oldest from the youngest.

Running first in line behind Kentbridge was the ninth orphan – a green-eyed, dark-haired, twelve-year-old boy. Number Nine wore a silver necklace with a ruby attached to its end. Its bright red stone felt warm against his chest as he ran.

Kentbridge quickened the pace, sprinting the final block. His young charges kept pace with him. All were breathing hard, but still running well within themselves by the time they pulled up outside a somewhat dilapidated building in a suburban street about a mile from Little Calumet River.

The Omega agent hit his stop watch and studied the time critically. “Not bad,” he announced with little enthusiasm. His charges knew from experience it took a lot to impress their master, and even more to draw praise from his lips.

The orphans milled around, stretching, outside the rundown building. Officially known as the Pedemont Orphanage, the four-story building was listed on the State and Federal registries of foster homes and orphanages. That was
the
front
, at least. Beyond the elaborate façade, it was a secret Omega facility, used to house and educate its child prodigies.

Nine felt a familiar sense of dread as he and his fellow orphans followed Kentbridge up the steps that led to the building’s front entrance.
Home
. He shook his head in disgust.
More like a prison
. Nine glanced at a wooden sign hanging on a wall at the entrance. It was a painting of a torch, the Pedemont Orphanage’s emblem. Inscribed in gold lettering beneath the torch was a Latin phrase:
Fax Mentis Incendium Gloriae
. Being fluent in Latin, Nine knew it meant
The Passion for Glory is a Torch to the Mind
.

#

Later that morning, the children practiced martial arts in an austere gymnasium, which spanned the entire second floor of the orphanage. They fought in pairs, except for two redheaded female twins, Number Five and Number Six, who sparred against Number One, a tall Native American boy who was also sometimes referred to as Numero Uno.

The aim of this particular session was for each orphan to knock their opponent to the floor. Fortunately for those who were bowled over, or were about to be, the floor was covered in padded mats.

Pacing like a caged leopard, Kentbridge monitored his pupils closely, looking for the slightest hint of a mistake. “Stay focused, people!” he shouted. This was a drill he took seriously and, although he wouldn’t admit it even to himself, he always felt some satisfaction when the orphans displayed their martial arts expertise.

More precisely, the orphans were engaged in Teleiotes, a deadly martial art Kentbridge had personally developed and taught them from the moment they could walk. A combination of various disciplines including kung-fu, jujitsu, karate and wrestling, Teleiotes was the ultimate fighting style in Kentbridge’s opinion. He knew it would provide his charges with the skills to survive in the field and to kill when necessary – something they would all need to do one day.

Kentbridge glanced over to the corner of the gym where two of his fellow Omegans sat in earnest discussion. Marcia Wilson, a young African-American agent, and Doctor Pedemont, the biomedical scientist who had created the orphans, conversed as they watched the children’s progress. Kentbridge knew they were not there by chance. Day and night, at least two adult Omegans were always rostered on duty within the orphanage. To maintain a convincing cover, the adults all dressed and acted as if they were regular orphan carers.

Curious to know what the latest gossip was among his colleagues, Kentbridge moved closer to the pair, hoping to eavesdrop. Marcia and the doctor instinctively lowered their voices. They needn’t have bothered. The agent couldn’t hear anything above the grunts and cries of aggression echoing throughout the gymnasium.

Turning back to the orphans, Kentbridge spotted a mistake. One, the firstborn and oldest child, was struggling to drop the twins, Five and Six. Although he was bigger and stronger, the twins were resisting his every attempt. Kentbridge blew a shrill blast on a whistle that hung from his neck. The orphans immediately ceased their activity.

Numero Uno flinched as Kentbridge strode toward him. Treating the boy no different to how he would a grown man, the agent expertly sweep-kicked his legs out from under him. One landed hard on his back on the padded floor.

“Always use an opponent’s weight to your advantage,” Kentbridge shouted for the benefit of all the orphans. Satisfied he’d made his point, Kentbridge blew his whistle again and the activity resumed.

Trying to hide his embarrassment, but failing miserably, One pushed himself to his feet. He steeled himself for a better effort. Lesson learned, One immediately upended Six then set about trying to do the same to Five.

Nearby, Nine was matched against Number Seventeen, a blonde girl with icy-blue eyes. Although sixteen months Nine’s junior, Seventeen was far from intimidated. She’d been taught never to give credence to age, size or gender. Kentbridge had instilled that in all his charges, and that was one lesson Seventeen had taken to heart for she had no wish to be upstaged by a boy – especially not by Nine. She lunged at Nine who made clever use of a concrete pillar, interposing it between himself and Seventeen to avoid her blows.

Angry, Seventeen grabbed a broom that was propped up against the same pillar. Pulling the handle from the broom head, she used the broomstick as a weapon, flailing at Nine who continued to make good use of the pillar and remain unharmed.

Using props such as pillars and broomsticks was entirely within the rules. Like Ninjitsu, Teleiotes encouraged its exponents to make full use of any props that could be turned into a weapon. For this reason Kentbridge, whose full attention was now on Nine and Seventeen, did not intervene. Only if the girl broke the broomstick in half and tried to spear her opposite would he step in.

The agent noted the ferocity of Seventeen’s attack and the evasive skills of Nine. He’d long since identified them as two of his most advanced students and they were doing nothing on this occasion to make him think he’d misjudged their abilities.

Seventeen swung the broomstick at Nine who ducked. The broomstick struck the pillar, snapping in half. The half Seventeen was left holding had a wickedly sharp, splintered end. Fully aware she now had a deadly weapon in her hands, she looked impassively at her opponent.

2

For a split second, Nine imagined he saw murder in Seventeen’s eyes.

The girl surreptitiously glanced around to see if Kentbridge was looking at them. He was. Disappointed, she immediately cast the broken broomstick aside and resumed her combat with Nine who couldn’t help but wonder what the outcome would have been had their master been looking the other way.

Kentbridge was having similar thoughts. He knew there was no love lost between the pair and made a mental note to keep an eye on them.

The head of the Pedemont Project turned his attention back to the other orphans. Floorboards creaked as he paced in circles, scanning all three hundred and sixty degrees of the gymnasium. He stopped when he saw the youngest orphan make an elementary mistake.

Twenty Three, a Caucasian boy, had failed to defend a straightforward kick from Twenty, a black girl. Kentbridge strode over to the pair and turned Twenty Three toward him. He then began to kick the lad repeatedly in the chest – not viciously, but hard enough to cause him to yelp as he felt the impact of each blow.

Twenty could only look on as her fellow orphan took a beating. She felt sorry for Twenty Three and could see tears were beginning to well in his bright blue eyes as Kentbridge continued to kick him. The other orphans took little notice and remained engaged in their own private duels. They’d seen it all before, and on occasion they’d each been on the receiving end of their master’s wrath.

“C’mon, son!” Kentbridge shouted as he urged Twenty Three to defend himself correctly.

Winded and sore, Twenty Three was becoming desperate as kicks rained down on him from every angle. He knew what he needed to do to defend himself – such was the extensive training he and the others had received – but he lacked the confidence to put what he knew into practice.
 

Kentbridge wasn’t averse to pushing the orphans to the limit and stressing them like this. He was a believer in the adage that pressure created diamonds. “I’m doing this for your own good,” he told Twenty Three.
“One day you’ll be an operative in the field and it will be do or die. You’ll need to draw on every last reserve just to survive.” The special agent switched his attack from the boy’s chest to his head.

Twenty Three saw the blow coming and finally employed the correct defensive technique to block it, stopping his master’s shoe before it could connect with his right ear.

“Now you’ve got it, Twenty Three!” Kentbridge said. There was the faintest suggestion of approval in his tone. “Remember, for every problem, there’s always a solution.” He ruffled the boy’s hair then resumed his pacing of the gym to observe the other orphans in action.

Omega director Andrew Naylor chose that moment to enter the gym. He had a habit of arriving unannounced – something Kentbridge figured was intended to keep himself and his colleagues on their toes. Dressed in a stylish business suit, the short, stocky director wore dark glasses as he often did, even when indoors. While these hid his lazy eye, they couldn’t conceal his pock-marked face or his sour countenance. Yet despite his physical inadequacies, Naylor demonstrated not a shred of self-consciousness. He nodded curtly at Kentbridge.

The special agent blew once on his whistle. With that, activity ceased once again and, upon noticing Naylor, the orphans bowed to him in unison. The Omega director waved one hand dismissively then joined Doctor Pedemont and Marcia Wilson in the corner of the gym. Caesar-like, he motioned to Kentbridge as if to say, let the games begin.

Kentbridge blew his whistle again. The orphans resumed their combat.

Not for the first time, Kentbridge questioned his own role in the agency. Playing nursemaid to a bunch of
ankle-biters
, as he not so affectionately called his young charges, had never been part of his master plan. He’d been earmarked for higher honors, and not that long ago.

Yet, here I am, running a goddam kindergarten!

Nevertheless, Kentbridge was a professional, and as such he’d determined from the outset that he’d perform his role to the best of his ability.

Besides, no-one could do this job as good as me
.

Naylor, for one, would have readily agreed with Kentbridge had he been able to read his subordinate’s mind. The special agent was without doubt the best man for the job. Withdrawing him from the field to take on his current role hadn’t been an easy decision for Naylor. After all, Kentbridge had been fast becoming his best operative at the time. However, the agency had a far more important role for him, even if he couldn’t see that. Fortunately, he, Naylor, could see the big picture.

Looking around the gym, the director wasn’t remotely fazed that it had seen better days and clearly needed a spruce up. The same could be said of the building itself and, indeed, the entire neighborhood. Thinking back to the late Seventies, when he’d purchased the building under the name of a private charity, Naylor recalled he could just as easily have chosen plush premises in a more desirable location for the Pedemont Orphanage. However, he had wanted his orphans to develop certain qualities:
everyman qualities
, he’d termed them.

Riverdale suited Naylor’s purposes admirably. It was a low income neighborhood with a predominantly African-American and Hispanic population; it was a good fit with the Omega Agency’s plan for the orphans to have the life skills to enable them to mix with anyone and to assimilate into any culture anywhere in the world.

“Pick up the pace, people!” Kentbridge shouted from across the gym, bringing Naylor back to the present.

The orphans increased their efforts to knock their opponents to the floor. Seventeen was a study in perpetual motion as she aimed a roundhouse kick at Nine’s head. He easily evaded it.

Naylor observed Nine. He was aware there was something about the green-eyed boy that set him apart from the others. He motioned to Kentbridge to approach him.