by S L Shelton
Agitation.
I quickly swallowed it, realizing she wasn’t doing it to insert herself, but to be helpful. I’m sure she saw my condition as soon as I was in the light and was trying to be supportive.
“What happened?” she asked nervously as I wandered into the living room and plopped down into my oversized, overstuffed green chair.
I took a deep breath and began to explain. The look on her face as the story unrolled was enough to tell me she didn’t like it at all. By the time I was finished, she was staring, shaking her head with tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Scott…” she gasped, but she couldn’t form her words.
“Barb. I had no idea—”
“No!” she barked, cutting me off sharply. “You’re going to let me speak.”
I shut my mouth and she glared at me for a moment until she was certain that I wouldn’t interrupt her.
“I can’t deal with this. This…this amateur spy hobby you’ve picked up. I’m always on eggshells as it is, and you just keep getting weirder and weirder,” she said as she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I barely recognize you anymore. It isn’t healthy. Not for you and not for me.”
My blood had started boiling as soon as she said “amateur spy.”
She paused and took a deep shaking breath. “I don’t blame you,” she started again. “It’s mostly John Temple. But I won’t have you sneaking around playing junior James Bond with the boys, especially when it affects me. I have to put an end to it. I’m going to ask Daddy to make sure that John stays away from you.”
The reference to having my life manipulated at a state level because of my relationship with Barb was more than I could stand—I popped.
“Enough!” I yelled.
Her eyes went wide and her mouth sealed tight.
“You’re going to have ‘Daddy’ put a stop to it?” I asked incredulously. “Just like he stopped Kathrin from contacting me?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked wide-eyed, seemingly shocked by the accusation.
“Don’t give me that shit,” I snapped in angry disbelief. “And you think you’ve been walking on eggshells? Well let me tell ya darlin’—you don’t have the corner on that market.”
She stared, uncomprehending.
“You're right about one thing, though. I am unrecognizable,” I said, careening to a seemingly unavoidable conclusion, “and I will never be the same. So if you were holding out, waiting for the old Scott to show up, you can forget it. He died in the water somewhere outside Mimon.”
I don’t think I’d ever seen Barb’s eyes so wide. I immediately regretted yelling at her. But despite saying it tactlessly, I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for speaking what I felt.
With that, I got up and went back to the bedroom, grabbing some clothing before stuffing it into my duffel bag. I stomped back to the front of my apartment—just in time to hear the loud squeaking of my front door followed by the sound of it slamming shut.
I looked out the window to see Barb running to her car.
“Damn!” I muttered to myself. “Smooth. Real smooth.”
I turned and went back to my bedroom, unpacked, and got into bed. I was too tired to think about it and too sore to go hunting for her. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted her to come back. I was half-hoping that had been the last of the relationship.
With that being my last conscious thought of the day, I slipped into a fitful sleep—and for the first time in weeks, I was visited by Majmun. His hard stare and mechanical actions with the torch haunted me in my sleep. This time, however, I grabbed his throat with my hand and crushed his windpipe until blood and goo oozed between my fingers.
ten
Sunday, July 25th
1:45 a.m.—Somewhere over the Midwest
HEINRICH BRAUN sat alone in the back of a chartered corporate jet on his return to the East Coast. His recovery operation had been a complete failure, and William Spryte had made it clear he was furious at the loss of Gaines. The fact that the CIA had made the capture gave him only a small window of opportunity to correct the situation; it would require a less-than-covert reliance on procedural measures.
He dialed his contact at Homeland Security.
“Hello,” came the groggy voice of Ned Richards.
“Gaines is in CIA custody,” Braun said curtly.
“How is that my problem?” Richards snapped in quick reply.
Braun didn’t respond immediately. This bureaucrat had forgotten his place and needed to be reminded who was in charge.
“You're right. It’s not your problem,” Braun replied. “Neither is anything else that affects the organization. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Wait,” Richards said.
Braun smiled to himself as the silence on the phone lingered a few seconds.
“What do you need from me?”
“CIA possession of a US citizen is illegal and wouldn’t stand up to a challenge on Constitutional grounds,” Braun said. “You need to bring that to the attention of a judge and take possession.”
“That’s something the Department of Justice would do,” Richards replied. “I can’t think of a single Judge I could wake in the middle of the night to get the order.”
“Gunlock,” Braun stated simply.
“Judge Gunlock?” Richards asked in confirmation. “He won’t have grounds. Any order he produces would be overturned.”
“He will have grounds,” Braun said.
There was a long pause as Richards absorbed the statement. “What grounds?” he asked finally.
“On the grounds that Gaines is a threat to National Security and engaged in terrorist activities,” Braun replied as if the statement were a known fact.
“But—” Richards replied.
“Put in the request tonight,” Braun said. “The evidence is already being transmitted to your office—a list of targets and diagrams of explosive devices.”
“What explosives?!” he asked just as Braun severed the connection.
He immediately dialed another number.
“Secure,” announced the voice on the other end when the call was answered.
Braun activated the encryption on his satellite phone.
“Progress report,” he said.
“Two of the four locations in LA are complete.” Harbinger’s deep voice spoke on the other end of the call. The timbre of the man’s voice was commanding even in casual conversation. “The other two should be done before sunrise. The two locations in Denver and the studio in Albuquerque will have to be done after dark Sunday night. Chicago will be a challenge, but I’ve been assured our contractor there can complete his work before the broadcast day begins on Monday.”
“You required outside assistance?” Braun asked, nervous about the inclusion of an outside entity for such a delicate operation.
“One group has already been dispatched to Europe for your other operation,” he replied unapologetically. “That has left a deficit of manpower. The vacuum had to be filled—unless you wish to remove Chicago from the list.”
“No,” Braun replied quickly. “Chicago is necessary. It places focus on the administration, plus I've already had Gaines's Crown Victoria transmitter log altered to reflect he was there.”
“Understood,” Harbinger replied. “Then I should continue as planned?”
“Yes,” Braun responded. “But I would hope you are confident in the discretion of the outside contractor.”
“I’ve already planned for his discretion,” Harbinger replied, a hint of amusement coloring his tone.
“Excellent.”
“What do you want to do about the two CIA Operatives who captured Gaines?” Harbinger asked.
Braun grimaced at the thought of the two men. If Gaines had revealed the investigation results to them, the game was already over. If Homeland Security failed to get custody of Gaines, the game was already over. He had to focus on getting Gaines; everything else would have to be dealt with afterward if th
ey were successful.
“If we don’t succeed in getting Gaines, it’s a moot point,” Braun said finally. “If we do succeed… if we succeed, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“Understood,” Harbinger replied. “I’ll wait for your call on that.”
“Thank you,” Braun said, aware of Harbinger’s distaste for rudeness. “Let me know when all your preparations are in place.”
“Of course,” he replied and ended the call.
Braun leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
“Gaines,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t you just lie down like a good boy?”
**
7:15 a.m.—Fairfax, Virginia
My phone rang, waking me from a deep sleep. I was face down in my pillow—which probably explains the dream I had been having about being suffocated. I rolled, painfully, over to the other side of the bed to grab my phone.
I noted the time and the caller—Dr. Hebron.
“Hello?” I answered groggily.
“Good morning, Scott,” she chirped cheerfully.
“Morning, Doc. How are you?” I replied, almost offended by the cheerfulness in her voice.
“I’m well… More importantly, how are you?”
“I’m sore,” I said, deflecting. I wasn't looking forward to telling her Barb and I had a fight.
She chuckled.
“Though I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well physically, I was actually inquiring as to your state of mind,” she said with amusement in her voice.
“I just woke up, so you’ll have to give me a second to take stock,” I grunted, sitting up and taking a sip of water from the glass on my night stand.
“You sound groggy,” she observed. “Did you end up taking the medication I gave you?”
“No,” I replied as the cobwebs started to clear from my head.
“Good. Be sure to toss them today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want me to let you wake up and call you later?” she asked.
Just then someone knocked on my door.
“Hold on a sec, Doc,” I said, rising and grabbing my sweatpants. “Someone’s at my door.”
“I’ll call back.”
“No. No, it’s okay,” I said quickly, not wanting to put it off. “Just let me get the door.”
I pulled my sweats on and walked stiffly downstairs to answer. I peeked out the side window and saw it was John. He smiled and lifted a cup of coffee to the window.
“It’s John,” I said. “Hold on.”
I opened the door; the screech from the hinges felt like an ice pick in my skull.
“Sorry,” he said quietly, making a face from the noise as he stepped in. “I hope I didn’t wake Barb.”
“She’s not here,” I replied and then quickly realized I had revealed something I had wanted to ease Dr. Hebron into. “Come on in. I’ve got Dr. Hebron on the phone.”
We walked back upstairs and John set the coffees down on the dining room table.
“Make yourself at home.”
“No rush,” he replied.
“Sorry, Doc,” I said into the phone as I walked back to the bedroom. “I’m back.”
“Did I hear you say Barb wasn’t there?” she asked immediately.
“Yeah,” I replied cautiously. “But there’s a story with that.”
“I’m listening.”
“When I got in last night, she launched into me about working for the Agency and said she was going to get her dad to shut it down from his end,” I relayed without emotion. “Said she was tired of my junior spy hobby.”
“That sounds harsh,” she replied. “Is that the way she said it, or did you just hear it that severely?”
“She wasn’t that kind.”
“Wow,” she responded. “So I take it that didn’t go over well.”
“I told her Mimon changed me and that I was dealing with things the only way I knew how—that I would probably never be the person she remembered and that it upset me that she and her dad were making life decisions for me without my knowledge.”
“Sounds therapeutic.”
“Except I didn’t say it that gently,” I confessed.
She laughed. “That’s no surprise…especially after the day you had yesterday.”
I chuckled as well. “I need to apologize to her,” I said, reflecting on my words from the night before. “But I don’t think I want her back.”
“Did she take it as a break up?” Hebron asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, and then suddenly wondered if telling John to make himself at home would be construed as an invitation to go through my personal belongings to collect INTEL—like inviting a vampire through your threshold. “Other than that, I’m fine. No anxiety, no anger, no fear, no nervous twitches. I’m actually even feeling better physically now that I’m up and moving.”
“Good,” she replied. “Give Barb a few days before you talk to her again—even if she wants to talk before then. Let it percolate before you make up your mind.”
“Will do, Doc,” I said quickly. “Listen. John’s waiting for me. I guess I should go see what he wants.”
“Okay, Scott… Try to take it easy today.”
“I will. Thanks for checking in.”
“Happy to,” she replied. “Bye.”
I ended the call and pulled my hoodie on over my bruised body. My shoulder was stiff around my bullet wound from Europe, and I grunted while pulling my arm through the sleeve.
I opened the door quietly and looked down the hall to see if John was, indeed, searching my belongings. His head appeared, leaning backward from the dining table.
“Done?” he asked as I joined him.
“Yeah,” I replied. “She was just checking in on me.”
“So Barb left, huh?”
I grinned. “Later,” I replied firmly. “What’s up?”
“Debrief.”
I pulled the chair out next to him and was about to sit down.
“Not here,” he added, holding out his hand to stop me. “We have to do this one at Langley.”
I raised an eyebrow and then turned and walked back to my bedroom. “I’ll be dressed in a minute.”
On the drive to Langley, he began to prepare me.
“This isn’t going to be like the debrief in Germany,” he confided as we drove. “This is going to be close to an Operative debrief.”
“Okay…tell me how that’s different.”
“You won’t just be recounting details, you’ll also be expected to offer your opinion on subjective data,” he replied. “—and although it is recorded as opinion, you have to keep in mind that it will be heavily weighted when action is taken.”
“What sort of action?” I asked.
“It’s best if I don’t tell you that before the debrief,” he cautioned. “It may taint your responses.”
I nodded my understanding, though it irked me a bit.
“Who’s going to be there?” I asked.
“Analysts and two Agency Officers you haven’t met,” he replied. “And probably my boss, but I doubt he’ll be in the room.”
“Do I need to prepare myself for being waterboarded?” I asked sarcastically.
“Only if you make cracks like that… This is the real deal,” he replied with a smirk. Then, as an afterthought, “Oh yeah. Do me a favor and don’t call me John during the interview. It won’t go over well.”
I suddenly remembered the hint of disdain Gaines had shown when I had referred to John as “John.” I nodded my understanding.
“Also, you might want to skip over the part where you hacked Colorado Springs PD’s data server,” he suggested with a grin. “We’ll keep that between us for now. My boss knows about it, but I’d rather not have it in the official record.”
“You’re the boss,” I quipped, dismissing the obvious conflict of interest.
**
Seated around the table were six people in addition to John and myself. Two of the
interviewers were Agents—Raimy and Johnson.
Agent Johnson was a clean-cut guy with sandy blond hair that had turned white around the temples and on the sides. He was average height and carried himself like a soldier.
Agent Raimy was a thirty-something African-American woman with a rigid posture and a piercing stare as questions were being answered. When her face relaxed into a smile, it was a relief—and led to the desire to disclose additional details. It took three questions for me to realize that was by design. She was an excellent interrogator.
“How did you discover he had changed vehicles in Kingman?” Agent Raimy asked. “If you only had one minute increments and magnification levels that prevented facial recognition, it seems it would have been harder to pick up the switch.”
Her stare fixed on me, waiting for my response. I actually had to exert effort not to smile once I realized what she was doing.
“I was able to create a distance of travel model,” I responded, wondering how much technical detail they wanted. “I superimposed it on the map and looked for movement within the scope of the prediction. There were only a couple of instances of viable movement in the range, and I was able to eliminate all possibilities but one.”
“I see,” she responded with a smile.
When I didn’t volunteer any additional information, I saw a micro-expression of a frown flit across her face.
“Of course, it was a guess,” I added. “I could have just as easily sent us across country in pursuit of a retired couple on vacation.”
She smiled and nodded.
The interview went on like that for a long time. Occasionally an analyst would ask me to clarify a statement, but for the most part, I just walked them through everything that happened, leaving out the hack on the CSPD server, as requested.
“And you escaped from the cage using the shelving as a cutting tool?” Johnson asked me when we were further along.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was just hoping to bend it up, but it worked out better as a slicing tool.”