by S L Shelton
“I’m sure,” I replied firmly.
“Scott… I’ll wait until you get back on one condition.”
I waited to hear the condition. When I didn’t say anything she continued.
“You have to see me before you go home to Barb,” she said firmly.
“Okay,” I replied half-heartedly.
“I mean it, Scott. You land, I’m there, we talk,” she insisted sternly but with genuine concern. “No arguments, no evasion, no exceptions.”
“I got it. I land, we talk,” I replied and then handed the phone back to John.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said, then, “No, I’m fine. Just a sore wrist and arm,” he relayed dismissively, glaring at me in mock scorn, and then he winked as he turned away from me.
“Okay. See you at Dulles,” he said and hung up.
He squatted down in front of me for a minute, looking at the ground. It seemed like he was trying to think of something to say, but decided against it and instead got up and walked over to talk to the men in the suits. A few minutes later the SUV John had rented at the airport rolled into the alley and another suit got out before handing John the keys. Two men climbed out of the back, carrying bags, and walked over to the other group.
There was an active discussion between the new arrivals and the crew that had been there a while. There were passing glances in my direction and whispered words. John walked over and stood between me and the men, prompting them to break their huddle and go back to their duties. John then turned and walked toward me.
“Come on, Scott. Let’s go home,” he said sympathetically.
That was the last thing he said to me until we were on the plane, about thirty minutes out from Dulles International Airport. I had stared out the window from the time we took off until we started our decent.
He cleared his throat first, so I knew he was about to speak.
“You're a puzzle,” he mused aloud.
I continued to stare out the window.
“You sure would make one hell of an Agent, though,” he added quietly.
I looked over at him, examining him for a moment, and then returned my gaze to the window. “Can I take a shower first?” I asked.
John laughed.
**
7:50 p.m.—Dulles International Airport
Upon landing at Dulles, the sun was starting to cast long shadows on the ground. We walked toward baggage claim but were intercepted by a man in khakis and a polo shirt.
“Scott Wolfe?” he asked.
I nodded.
“This way, please,” he directed.
I looked at John.
“No worries. I’ve got the bags. I’ll meet you out there,” he said reassuringly.
Once in the parking area, I was ushered to a black Ford SUV.
These people and their SUVs, I thought to myself.
The man in the polo shirt opened the back door for me. When I looked in, I saw Dr. Hebron. I climbed in and the door was closed behind me. The man then walked over to a cart return station and lit a cigarette.
“How are you, Scott?” she asked with a subdued tone of concern.
“I’m not sure,” I replied looking down at my hands. Silence filled the cabin for a moment, and then she spoke again, a softer voice.
“Having trouble organizing your thoughts?” she asked.
I thought about it for a moment, trying to categorize…categorize what exactly, I wasn’t sure. “Yes,” I replied absently.
She watched me for a moment, measuring her next words carefully. “Are you still angry?”
“No,” I said quietly.
She shifted her questions and came at me from another direction. “You were struck in the head. Was that before or after the fight started?”
“After,” I said quickly. Data. Recall. Information. I was a database of memories.
Give her only what she needs, my other voice said.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Gaines had just knocked John out. I was bound—”
“Wait,” she interrupted. “Temple was unconscious?”
I nodded. “Then Mark discovered I had lifted his multi-tool out of his box and came after me,” I said.
“How did you get his multi-tool?”
“He had locked me in a cage earlier, and I got out when he wasn’t in the room,” I replied.
“So you escaped?” she asked, confused. “How did you get bound again?”
“A woman showed up while I was pilfering his supplies,” I said. “She pulled a gun on me.”
Dr. Hebron crinkled her brow, trying to digest everything. “What happened to her?” she asked.
I shook my head, letting frustration get the better of me. I decided to start from the beginning and explain more clearly.
“Okay, from the top,” I said, taking a deep breath. “John and I had surveillance set up on a building we thought Gaines was trying to access. I left to get some food, and Gaines found me. He locked me in a cage then left. I escaped, then the woman showed up.”
“How did John find you?” she asked.
“I called him on Gaines’s phone.”
She nodded, but lifted an eyebrow.
“The woman zip cuffed me, and then John found us,” I said, trying to explain it as simply as possible. “Gaines came in a bit later and knocked John out, and then sent the woman away with some paperwork.”
A confused look crossed Hebron’s face. “What kind of paperwork?” she asked.
I shot her a quizzical look, wondering why that was important.
She shook her head. “Never mind,” she muttered. “What happened then?”
“Mark discovered I had his multi-tool, but I had just cut my zip cuffs,” I replied. “Is this too much information?”
“It’s more than I’m used to, but it’s fine,” she replied.
“When Mark came after me, I started to fight him off,” I continued. “I managed to get on my feet and then he hit me in the head with a metal baton. That’s when things get fuzzy.”
“The fight continued after that?” she asked.
“Yeah. But I wasn’t feeling right,” I said, trying to find the right words. “Darkness started closing in on me—like when Majmun hit me in Amsterdam—but then the rage came. It felt like ‘sick’ working its way up from my stomach. Then I felt like I was outside my body watching as I whaled on Mark’s head.”
“What were you feeling right before he hit you?” she asked quietly, almost in a whisper, as if anything louder would make the memory collapse.
“I was scared and angry.” I thought about the moment. “I fought him off twice while I was trapped on the floor.”
“How did you do that?” she asked in the same calm, quiet tone.
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just did what I had to.”
She nodded.
“But after he hit me, and I started to lose consciousness, it was all rage.” I said, touching the back of my head again. “I could actually smell the flesh burning off my chest again. I mean—I could really smell it, like it was happening right then.”
“Was there anything else you were feeling before or after he hit you that you can identify?” She asked, almost cautiously, like she was pushing open a door she wasn’t sure was completely safe to open.
I thought for a moment. “Like I said. After he hit me I started to black out, then I felt rage and it pulled me out of my collapse… After that I was all fists and feet, like I was watching it from the cheap seats or something.”
“When the gunman came after the two of you in the alley, John said you ran toward the gunner,” she recounted, somewhat baffled. “Why was that?”
“I didn’t have a gun. All I had were my feet” I replied, matter-of-factly. “I had to get them over to him before I could use them.”
“And how did you feel then?”
I thought about it for a second. I honestly didn’t remember feeling anything except the hyper-focused need to get his guns away from him.
/> “Nothing,” I replied. “Just focus.”
“But you were feeling rage still when you came out of the basement,” she pointed out gently. “Weren’t you angry when you charged the man with the gun?”
I thought again, trying to replay my thoughts. I shook my head.
“No. I don’t think so,” I declared finally. “If I was, it certainly wasn’t my central motivator.”
She nodded. “That’s good, Scott. That’s very good. It shows you have the capacity to let reason rule when it needs to.”
I nodded my understanding.
She smiled. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” she said, touching my hand. “It sounds like a combination of stress and flashback got wrapped up in a head trauma. Your memory of Majmun and your torture probably threw you into sort of an ‘automatic’ response of fear and rage as you started to lose consciousness. The blow to your head would certainly explain the vertigo—that feeling of floating above yourself.”
She looked at me for a moment and then continued. “Basically, with your conscious mind drifting into limbo from the blow, your subconscious re-fought the incident in Amsterdam. It seems that in the process you subdued a dangerous opponent.”
“Subdued. Ha,” I scoffed.
“True. You did do quite a bit of damage. But in your defense, you had been attacked, held prisoner, threatened, and then battered,” she countered.
I stared blankly at my hands; they had stopped shaking.
“He created the situation. Not you. You responded as best you could with the resources you had available to you. Your only responsibility now is to ensure you don’t let it do more damage—it’s over.”
I nodded.
She handed me a bottle. “If you have trouble sleeping tonight, take two of these. Otherwise toss them in the trash tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll call in the morning and check on you. If you need me before then, you have my number. Don’t hesitate to call any time.”
“Okay. Thanks, Doc,” I replied sincerely. I was suddenly exhausted.
I got out of the SUV and saw John talking to the guy in the polo shirt. When he spotted me, he motioned for me to follow him to long-term parking. The guy in the polo shirt passed me and grinned.
“Good job, Monkey Wrench,” he said.
I faked a smile and nodded at him before heading to long-term parking, catching up with John as he reached the stairs.
“I called Barbara and told her we’d be a little late but that we're at Dulles,” he informed me as we climbed the stairs. “I said we’d probably stop and grab a bite to eat on the way home.”
“Thanks,” I muttered absently.
When we reached his truck, he tossed our bags in the back; we climbed in and headed for the gate, neither of us saying anything until we exited the airport access road.
“So I’m assuming since you aren’t in restraints or being loaded up with Thorazine that the doc thinks you’re okay,” he said smiling; I could hear the edge in his voice.
“Head trauma-induced flashback in a stressful environment,” I relayed back as if I were reading it from a medical chart.
“I’ve had a few of those in my time,” he said reassuringly through a chuckle.
“Good to know,” I muttered.
I knew John had to have an update on Gaines, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him about it.
We rode in silence into Fairfax and pulled into the parking lot of a local Tex Mex restaurant on Route 50 just east of the exit for Route 28. We went in and ordered.
I asked for a beer. To John’s credit, he didn’t say anything—though he might have had I ordered tequila.
Once we’d ordered and had our beers in front of us, John leaned toward me, and in a low voice, he said, “Head trauma aside, you did something amazing back there.” He took a sip of his beer and then continued. “There aren’t many people I’ve met who could have done what you did. Mark is one of the models of modern hand-to-hand with the Company.”
I just grunted in response, unable to see anything positive in what had transpired.
John sat back in his chair, taking another big pull from his beer bottle and then looked at me with a mischievous smile. “Nick always got his ass handed to him by Mark.”
That raised my eyebrow. I looked at him for a moment before taking another drink of my own beer.
“If I could get you trained, proper like…” he muttered, letting his sentence trail off as the gears turned in his head.
“I’m a computer nerd,” I replied.
“I don’t know if you really believe that or if you just like sandbagging,” he said, leaning forward with a more serious look on his face. “Computer nerds don’t throw down like that on mercenaries and trained operators.”
He had a point. Doc Hebron had said nearly the same thing. Maybe I needed to readjust my self-image.
He leaned back again. “Clearance would be an issue. You’ve got a shadow,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself.
I cocked my head slightly. “A shadow?”
“Yeah. You’ve got someone with connections running interference on everything involving you,” he confided.
It dawned on me who he was talking about. “Barb’s dad,” I realized quietly.
“I’ve already said more than I should. But just so you know…” He paused, looked side to side in some sort of signal that a secret was about to be revealed, and then leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “Gretel has been trying to contact you, and she’s being blocked.”
I could feel the crease in my forehead deepen. I set my beer down and leaned forward. I could feel the anger start to rise again, but it suddenly dawned on me that this might be an opportunity.
“You have her contact info?” I asked.
A worried look passed across John’s face.
“That’s not a good idea, Scott,” he insisted. “Be patient. She knows it isn’t you.”
I could feel my face flushing. “It seems everyone knows what’s best for me but me,” I snapped a little too harshly.
John didn’t respond, but I saw something in his expression that indicated he was pleased.
Seriously? You’re trying to work me now? I thought.
I smiled and changed tactics. “Do me a favor,” I said. “If you can, let her know I’ll find a way to catch up with her as soon as I figure out what’s going on.”
He stared at me for a moment without responding, and then nodded. “Alright. But I’m not playing post office with you two. I’ll only do it because chain of command is being abused for personal reasons.”
“Thanks,” I said, swallowing the bitterness in my voice so it came across as more pleasant than I felt.
“Just so you know, I was specifically ordered not to let you know what I just shared with you,” he confessed before taking another sip of beer, “but that alone is worth the violation.”
That softened me even more. Any anger I had due to his omission of detail suddenly dissolved—though I did get the sense that he was maneuvering me.
John sat back and finished his beer as the waitress appeared and asked if we wanted another. When she returned with two more, John sat back and sighed deeply, looking around the restaurant before leaning forward again.
“You haven’t asked me how our boy is,” he said with a knowing grin, referring to Gaines. “But I know you want to know.”
Then he waited, I assumed, for me to confirm I wanted the information. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he had to say, but only because I was worried I had done more damage than I wanted to acknowledge.
I nodded hesitantly.
“One arm broken above the wrist, broken nose, fractured brow ridge, both cheek bones fractured, several broken teeth, dislocated jaw, dislocated shoulder, two broken ribs, and a bruised kidney.” He stared at me, looking for a reaction.
I was angry again—but at least I had my brain back to manage the emotion. I just stared at my beer and clenched my teeth.
“Is he ta
lking?” I asked.
“Ha!” John exclaimed. “He won’t be talking for a while—even if he wanted to.”
I cringed and was about to reword my question when our food arrived and the discussion ended. I ate my extra-crispy chimichanga but, though delicious, I found little joy in it.
Once we finished dinner we were on our way again with no more discussion until we reached my condo.
When we arrived, it was after 10:30 p.m. I got out and gathered my belongings from the backseat. As I closed the door, John came around to my side, standing in my way so there was no mistake he had something to say before I left.
“I just want you to know how much I appreciate your help,” he offered sincerely. “I was worried I’d have to kill Mark. Despite the appearances, he’s a good guy.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent.
“You saved the life of a good man today.” Then he added with a grin, “Probably mine.”
“Thanks, John. And thanks for dinner,” was all I could muster before shouldering my bag and heading to the door.
As I approached my condo, the door opened, squeaking loudly. Barb was standing in the threshold, arms crossed with a smirk on her face. John saw this and quickly returned to the driver's side of his truck.
“Fishing huh?” Barb asked as I approached, but as I got closer, her expression began to change—probably noticing the scrapes and bruises on my face.
I smiled and turned back to John as he climbed into the truck.
“Hey John!” I called out before he could drive off. “Nancy’s the mole. She spilled the beans about fishing.”
John laughed and waved his hand at both of us. “Go ahead and tell her. She’ll hear about it soon enough anyway.”
I tensed at being exposed while still standing in the parking lot with Barb between me and the door—but I knew he was right. As soon as I turned to face the music, I got a glare from Barb.
“Tell me what? What will I hear about?” she asked, puzzled and agitated.
“I’ll tell you inside,” I deflected, hauling my gear up the stairs.
I went straight to the bedroom and dropped my bags, got some clean sweats and a T-shirt from the dresser before heading into the bathroom to shower. My hope was to clean up most of the physical evidence of combat before sitting and explaining what happened; I reasoned that sitting in front of her looking like a used tackling dummy would make things worse. When I finished and came out, Barb had already unpacked my bags and put everything away.