Unexpected Gaines

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Unexpected Gaines Page 33

by S L Shelton


  “He’s good,” Burgess finally said. “But do you think he’s ready? I mean, he went through the wringer in Europe… Has he been able to shake that off?”

  John nodded his acknowledgment to Burgess’s question. “I was worried about that as well,” John admitted. “But Hebron is convinced that he’s not only worked past it but that he’s hungry for more… That lines up with what I’ve seen as well.”

  Burgess dropped his head in concentration before suddenly laughing. “He sure took Gaines down with extreme prejudice.”

  John laughed in reply. “I know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast and with that much intensity…blow to the head or not,” he observed, sitting back more comfortably in his chair. “And the two guys at his condo—Jesus—I wouldn’t want to tangle with him.”

  Burgess stared at John for a second longer. “What do you have in mind?” he asked with a testing quality to his voice, not having made up his mind.

  “I want to put him on a real Op,” John said confidently. “Something with backup, resources—and tracked through the normal process. He’s already up to speed on the Serb devices…I was thinking about using him as a field tech.”

  Burgess leaned forward and flipped through the file once more before closing it. “You’ve never steered us wrong on a recruit,” Burgess replied.

  “Except for Gaines,” John inserted quickly.

  “I don’t think you steered us wrong on him,” Burgess replied quietly and then leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

  “I’ll have Nick shadow him to make sure he doesn’t make any obvious mistakes,” John added quickly, trying to bolster his case. “If he handles the field tech assignment well, and is interested, I’d like to slip him into the new training cycle that’s getting ready to start at the Farm.”

  Burgess nodded for a second before his body language suggested he would commit. “Okay,” he replied finally. “If he’s interested enough and can handle a legit Op, then do it. I’ll make sure there’s a slot open for him in the next cycle if it works out.”

  “Roger that, sir.” John beamed with a satisfied grin. “Excellent. Thank you.”

  Burgess nodded and then abruptly looked up at John. “What are we going to do about his outfit at TravTech?” he asked as an afterthought.

  “If it works out, I thought we’d keep him in place there,” John replied with a sly smile. “It’s a great cover and he has the background to be a convincing computer nerd.”

  “Yep,” Burgess said nodding his agreement. “Okay. It’s your ball, run with it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” John replied sincerely as he rose to leave.

  “And John,” Burgess called, stopping John at the door. “Get those damned nukes back. It’s got everyone scared shitless that they’re still floating around free.”

  John nodded somberly. “Yes, sir.”

  On the way down to the analyst floor, John let the question of the nuclear devices fill his thoughts. Let’s see if you’re my lucky rabbit’s foot on this as well, Scott.

  **

  11:35 a.m. on Saturday, August 7th—Crescent Rock, Appalachian Trail

  “Do you want to climb first this time?” I asked Arlia as she sat contentedly on the edge of the cliff, having just finished another lovely violin piece.

  She looked at me and smiled. “It’s nice to see you’re in better shape than last time,” she said, grinning broadly. “But we’ve been climbing for more than four hours straight. Aren’t you tired yet?”

  I laughed as I reclined against my equipment bag in the bright midday sun.

  “You’re the one who wanted to climb,” I shot back at her.

  “Yeah,” she replied defensively. “I wanted to climb with the old injured you who took it slow and was impressed by my climbing.”

  I laughed. “I’m still impressed by your climbing.”

  “Uh huh,” she grunted accusingly.

  “For reals,” I exclaimed innocently. “You are quite impressive.”

  She turned her head and stretched to look at her yoga pant-clad behind and glared at me. “Uh huh,” she grunted again.

  I chuckled in reply as she put her violin back to her chin and started playing again. After a second, she stopped abruptly.

  “Hey,” she said accusingly. “Don’t you have a girlfriend who’s worried about you or something? You wouldn’t even let me buy you breakfast last time.”

  “Lunch,” I said.

  “Whatever,” she sighed. “What happened to her?”

  I sat up and began toying with the chocks and other devices hanging from my climbing strap.

  “She couldn’t handle me after I was healed,” I said quietly after a moment’s pause.

  “Really?” she smirked seductively.

  I shook my head, grinning at her innuendo.

  “No…not like that. But I think she liked the old injured me more than you did.”

  She cocked her head to the side and pondered that for a moment. “Well,” she offered. “Sometimes you have to let a girl catch up to you if you’re interested in her.”

  “True,” I replied. “You just have to be careful what she wants once she catches you.”

  Arlia raised her eyebrow as a crooked smile rippled across her face. “What exactly did she want after you let her catch you?” she asked with intense, mocking intrigue in her voice.

  I looked up and stared at her for a second, ignoring the innuendo, and then with a very serious tone, I said. “She wanted to steal the real me and replace him with a boring, complacent drone.”

  Her smile vanished as she thought about my response. Abruptly, she said, “Let’s climb…me first.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I replied with a sly grin.

  End of Unexpected Gaines,

  Book 2 in the 7 part Scott Wolfe series.

  Acknowledgments

  Debts of gratitude to my editor, Brenda Errichiello, for her tireless effort in helping me make the second novel better than the first. Your insights and keen eye have brought out a shining prize.

  Thanks to Melissa Manes at Scriptonis for the extra proof editing. It’s quite an honor to have a vocal fan jump onboard this project. Your efforts have made my story better.

  To my wife, Diane, who has provided me with more support than I ever thought possible and certainly more than I felt I deserved. If not for you, this story would still be knocking around in my head instead of being real.

  To my friend, Don Cooper, whose fount of wisdom seems inexhaustible. In matters of law enforcement, military, world events, chemistry, and so much more, I thank you for being my sounding board, encyclopedia, and friend.

  I'd also like to thank all of my beta readers and those who have given me feedback on the series. Your opinions and suggestions add to my growing understanding of this dynamic and memorable cast of characters.

  For my cheerleaders and enthusiastic friends—particularly Trudy, Wendy, and Ralph…who needs a publicist with friends like you? Thank you for your vocal praise of the project.

  And finally, I'd like to thank our children…grown adults, all of you, with your own opinions and interpretations. Your “beta reads” and input are quite valuable throughout the process—thank you Megan, Lauren, and Alex. I love you.

  Look for Scott Wolfe’s return in

  Danger Close

  Books by S.L. Shelton:

  Hedged

  The Scott Wolfe Series:

  Waking Wolfe

  Unexpected Gaines

  Danger Close

  Wolfe Trap

  Harbinger

  Predator’s Game

  Splinter Self (Coming 2017)

  Back story: Lt. Marsh

  Follow S.L. Shelton at:

  wolfeauthor.wordpress.com

  www.goodreads.com/WolfeWriter

  facebook.com/SLShelton.Author

  SLShelton.com

  I hope you enjoyed reading Unexpected Gaines. If you did, I’d like to encourage you to post a
review on Amazon and on www.goodreads.com. Your reviews are the best way to keep an author churning out the work. Feel free to contact me on Twitter if you have any questions or thoughts about the stories. I love hearing from you…you make this process a joy for me.

  Very best regards,

  S.L. Shelton

  Twitter: @SLSheltonAuthor

  An excerpt from

  Danger Close

  7:00 a.m.—Home, Fairfax Virginia

  My alarm went off, and I slowly got out of bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes, but I quickly thought of my looming altered morning routine and hopped out of bed.

  I went into the kitchen immediately and started the coffee brewing, getting that out of the way so that I could focus on my wardrobe—I hadn’t been this excited to get dressed in the morning for years. Staring at the contents of my closet for a few moments, it took a little effort to talk myself into putting on a jacket. Once I braced myself properly, I decided to try the khakis and sport jacket look Nick had recommended.

  I looked like a total nerd—especially with the five days of beard growth—a high school math teacher maybe?

  A drastic change of attire was called for. I stripped and then pulled a long-sleeved Henley over my head, followed by a pair of jeans. My hand hovered over my other jacket options before grabbing a more youthful-looking blue-gray summer-weight blazer from its hanger. I tossed it on the bed before strapping on my shoulder holster.

  As soon as the blazer went on, my mood changed—I was very pleased with the concealment it provided for my Glock and the cut of my new look—it was very GQ.

  I wrapped the neoprene ankle holster around my leg and slipped the little Glock 26 into it. It took some adjusting to keep it from bulging through my pant leg, but I finally managed to get it mostly concealed. You’d have to be looking for it to see it.

  I checked the time and realized that dealing with my new fashion accessories had set me behind so I poured the coffee into my travel cup, grabbed my shoulder bag, and headed out the door. The extra weight on my right leg made me self conscious of my walk, and I’m certain I was over compensating while trying to move normally.

  “You’ve got to go,” I muttered to the ankle holster as I got in the car and adjusted the strap before starting the engine. When I sat up again, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye behind the gate near the dumpster for my court. The hairs went up on the back of my neck. But I didn’t hear the other voice warning me, so I started the car and pulled out onto Monument Avenue.

  I was about halfway to the Fairfax County Parkway, wondering if I should be relying on my hitchhiking other voice to begin with, when it finally chimed in.

  Don’t stop, it said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked as I looked up into the rearview mirror.

  Behind me by about forty yards was a motorcycle. I saw the Fairfax County emblem on the front just as the flashing lights started up.

  “How am I supposed to not stop for a cop?” I asked out loud, hoping to start a conversation with my other voice.

  Nothing.

  “Shit,” I swore to myself.

  I knew I hadn’t been speeding because that stretch was patrolled, and I was always careful.

  What if a light is out, or my tags are expired? I thought to myself.

  Don’t stop, my other voice repeated.

  Just then, the siren came on. I had waited too long, and the cop had gotten impatient. I had to pull over.

  Don’t stop, the voice warned again—this time with a little agitation.

  That’s new.

  “Why?” I asked aloud. “Why should I not stop?”

  My eye drifted back up to the rearview mirror as I slowed down and pulled to the shoulder. I watched carefully as the motorcycle came to a stop behind me and the cop dismounted. My flow chart was cramming every detail about the scene into the foreground of my mind. The helmet, the jacket, the belt, the gun, the glasses, the pants—.

  The pants! I thought.

  They were too baggy for the officer wearing them, but that was not enough to justify running.

  What could my broke ass schizophrenic other voice possibly know if I hadn’t seen it?—unless the voice was something more than just schizophrenia.

  Paranoia level—epic.

  I continued scanning the rear view as he approached, hand on his side arm. I caught a flash of motion behind him. About a hundred yards to his rear was a beige van, moving toward us. When it was close enough, I saw it had no license plates on the front.

  I looked down to my side-view mirror as the cop approached the rear of my car. I suddenly realized he was wearing black and orange hiking boots.

  Okay, I thought to my hitchhiker. You win.

  I stepped on the gas and took off. The cop—or the guy in the cop clothes—began firing at me immediately. The back of my window exploded into a million pieces of green-tinted gravel.

  Traffic cops don’t do that.

  I ducked down low and pushed the gas further, hoping I had a good indication of where I was on the road. I popped my head up long enough to get my bearings, just barely missing a silver Honda as I accelerated down Monument Avenue toward the Parkway.

  I looked in my mirror as the van was passing the motorcycle cop, who was in the process of re-mounting his ride. The van was coming fast.

  As I approached the turn onto the Parkway, the light had just turned red. It was going to be tight—the traffic had already started to move, but I gunned the engine and turned onto the Parkway, cutting off a silver BMW SUV. He slammed down on the horn to let me know his feelings on the matter.

  I looked in the rearview as I accelerated again and saw the van being forced out of the lane to avoid slamming into the moving traffic. But it was still speeding toward me on the paved shoulder.

  I took the short respite as an opportunity to pull out my phone and dial John's cell phone, putting it on speaker and then dropping it on the front seat as soon as it started ringing. After three rings it went to voice mail.

  “Shit!” I yelled at my phone as I reached over and hit redial.

  I looked in the rear view mirror as the phone started ringing again only to see the van barreling toward me.

  “You've reached John Temple—” his voice mail answered again.

  “Son-of-a—”

  I glance up and saw the motorcycle approaching the intersection on the parkway, the van was slowly closing on me as I sped north. I reached over and hit redial once again.

  “Temple,” John said, answering the phone after two rings.

  “Hi, Mom. I’ve got a beige van with no plates and a Fairfax County police motorcycle chasing me down the Fairfax County Parkway,” I said in a slightly elevated voice.

  “Calm down,” he replied, a hint of agitation in his tone. “Is there a reason for a cop to be after you? Did you run a red light or get caught speeding?”

  “The cop is wearing pants two sizes too large and orange hiking boots,” I replied calmly, though my heart was beating extremely fast. “Oh yeah…and he shot my back window out.”

  “Hold on,” he replied with a new sense of urgency to his voice.

  I looked in the rearview and saw the police motorcycle make the turn onto the Parkway before accelerating toward me. The van was attempting to catch up, but I was keeping my distance, using slower moving traffic as a rolling road block. It was a few moments before John came back.

  “Fairfax has been notified that they're chasing a federal operative. If he’s a real cop, he should break off,” John said.

  I watched for another quarter-mile; there was no change except that he got closer.

  “He’s still coming, and that van is even closer and gaining fast,” I said after a moment. “I’ve got two traffic lights coming up soon. I need to do something, or they’re going to catch up. Any suggestions?”

  “Do you know the area?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Find a cut through with no dead end. Get off th
e Parkway,” he said.

  I was halfway through the intersection on Tuckaway Drive when I slammed on the brakes and turned hard to the right, my tires screaming in protest against the asphalt.

  “I’m on Tuckaway headed for West Ox,” I said, skidding around the turn.

  The van slowed to make the cut, allowing the motorcycle to pass him, taking the right with a slight skid. As soon as he straightened out, he accelerated toward me again.

  “They’re on me,” I said.

  “Who’s closest?” he asked.

  “The motorcycle.”

  “Let him get closer without letting him know you are doing it,” he said. “When he’s close enough, slam on your brakes. Your car can take the hit from a bike.”

  “Okay. Hold on,” I replied.

  My heart was beating fast, but I was amused by how calm my mind was. It blew me away that I actually experienced brief moment of joy from the thrill of the pursuit.

  “Are you carrying?” John asked.

  “Yes,” I replied—another jolt of excitement coursed through me. I was getting real-time telephone tech support from a trained CIA Agent.

  How friggin cool is that?!

  I approached the turn for Franklin Farm road, the last turn before West Ox, and had to slow down to make it. There were cars stopped in front of me, so I had to take the turn on the shoulder, sending a spray of gravel into the air.

  I tensed as a minivan lurched out of its lane and on the shoulder—some do-gooder thinking he was helping the police by nosing out to stop my exit.

  Smash went his front fender.

  “Good work buddy,” I said as I plowed though the passenger quarter panel of his car.

  “What was that?” John asked.

  “A good Samaritan trying to help the police,” I replied with frustration.

  The sound of my fender dragging the ground on the driver’s side became a new distraction I didn’t need. I looked up at the rearview as I tried to refocus, and saw the motorcycle nearly wipe out trying to get around the disabled vehicle I had smashed into. In only seconds, its wheels were firmly back on the blacktop and he was speeding after me again.

 

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