The Shadow Agent

by Daniel Judson

  “You want me to find out where she is.”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “And I want you to go there. I want you to bust her out for me.”

  Cahill said nothing.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, Charlie. But training is dangerous; accidents can happen. Or be made to happen. Right now, no one in the organization knows where I am. They can’t get to me, they can’t get to my friends, and they can’t get to anyone on my team. But they can get to Stella. They could kill me without ever coming anywhere near me. I need to know that she’s safe. I need all of us safe if I’m going to do what it looks like I need to do.”

  Cahill’s silence lingered for a moment longer. “She must be in her final weeks by now,” he said finally. “SERE training.”

  Tom nodded.

  Cahill’s statement was a reminder of what Stella was likely enduring.

  It was clear to Tom that Cahill realized his words had generated unpleasant thoughts in Tom’s mind.

  “The good news is that it narrows down where she could be,” Cahill offered. “One of two locations, actually. Neither is easy to get to, or away from.”

  “I’d owe you.”

  Cahill shrugged that off. “Listen, I don’t want you doing what you’re about to do alone. I have people I trust who can help you. Let me reach out to some of them, get some people here to at least shadow you—”

  “No,” Tom said. “Two people are dead already because of me. Everyone stays out of this, including you. I don’t even want to know where you and Sandy take Stella once you get her. All I want is to know that she’s out of harm’s way.”

  Cahill thought about that, then said, “I’ve lost men under my command, too. I know what it’s like; I know what that does. There isn’t a day I don’t think about them.”

  “So maybe don’t fight me on this, then.”

  Cahill looked at Tom for a moment more. Finally, he said, “What was the name of your guy?”

  “Garrick.”

  “Married?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Family?”

  “A kid, yeah.”

  Cahill took a breath, let it out. “He died doing what he wanted to do, Tom. He volunteered, wanted to make a difference. He could have gone into corporate security and been a bodyguard for some CEO, taken the safe route. For that matter, he could have been an insurance agent or bartender. But he chose a different way of making money for his family. He heard the call of duty, and he answered it.”

  Tom knew all this already, so he said nothing.

  “Sandy and I will leave right away,” Cahill said. “It might take me a few hours to find out which compound Stella is in, especially if I have to hide the reason why I want to know. And of course, depending on her location, it might take me a day or two to get there and get her out. The Colonel could help speed this process up, but I’m thinking the darker I keep this, the better.”

  “The Colonel was the one who assured me that the Colt had been disposed of.”

  “He could have been misinformed. A minor detail like that is way below his pay grade.”

  “Still,” Tom said. “We need to be careful whom we trust. At least till you get Stella somewhere safe.”

  Cahill nodded. “Agreed.” He pointed to the messenger bag. “I’ve got some gear for you. The mags you’re carrying are for an HK45c. I don’t have one of those here, but I’m thinking you’ll be okay with what I’ve given you.”

  “I’ll need something to open the flash drive with, too.”

  “There’s a tablet in the bag. And a burner phone we’ll use to communicate. Keys for that Ranger parked out back are in there, too. Maybe you’ve gone as far as you should in that Bronco.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said. “Sorry about showing up like this.”

  “It could just as easily have been me showing up at your door. You wouldn’t expect me to apologize if that were the case, would you?”

  Tom shook his head.

  Cahill looked around the unfinished space. “I’m in over my head here, you know that, right? I don’t know the first thing about construction.”

  “I got that sense, yeah.”

  “Maybe we’ll find our way back here when all this is done and you can give me a hand. It’s a shame to leave a space like this unused.”

  “Sounds like a deal,” Tom said.

  Cahill clicked off the secure messaging program, then shut down his laptop, disconnected it from the router, and folded it closed.

  “I’ll go get Sandy ready,” he said. “I don’t think she’ll mind a change of scenery. And if I get a hit on the facial recognition, I’ll let you know.”

  Tom thanked him again.

  Cahill closed the distance between them and extended his hand.

  Tom took it, and they shook.

  “Stay focused and watch your corners,” Cahill said. “I’ll let you know the minute Stella’s safe.”

  Twenty-One

  Tom was alone in the place that he and Stella had first called home.

  The only time they’d ever spent in that unfinished retail space below her apartment was the hour prior to their leaving Canaan for good two years ago.

  Not exactly a lifetime, but close, considering all the ground they’d covered in that time.

  It was during that final hour at home that Stella had given Tom the Colt 1911 that her father had carried with him as a young marine.

  Tom considered it fitting, then, that Cahill had passed on a similar gift in that same location.

  The bag—a Direct Action Tactical Messenger Bag—was loaded with everything Tom might need.

  That included a complete bleeder-blowout kit—RATS tourniquet, six-inch Israeli battle dressing, QuickClot sponge, Hyfin Vent Chest Seal for sucking chest wounds, emergency blanket, and trauma shears—as well as a course of antibiotics and a vial containing oral morphine.

  This was everything needed to self-treat, should Tom be wounded, or for him to at least attempt to save the life of someone he had been given no choice but to shoot and from whom he needed information.

  There was, of course, always the possibility that someone Tom cared about could get wounded or even shot down in front of him, but he couldn’t think about that.

  The messenger bag also contained the cell phone Cahill had promised, along with a wall charger and backup battery.

  There were also several protein bars, two bottles of spring water, a seven-inch tablet in an OtterBox case, and a pair of black Mechanix gloves.

  In a secret compartment behind the main one, covered by a flap so that its contents would be kept hidden from anyone casually inspecting the bag, was Tom’s sidearm.

  It’s the Colt M45A1 close-quarter battle pistol, Cahill had said. The marines commissioned a few thousand of these for their spec-ops units a few years back to replace the old rebuilt 1911s they’d been carrying for decades.

  A heavy pistol, all steel, just the way Tom liked them, the M45A1 CQBP was a modern 1911 in every respect and included a mil-spec Picatinny rail located under the dust cover to allow for the quick attachment of a light.

  The added weight directly beneath the barrel would also minimize muzzle flip, allowing for faster follow-up shots.

  The slide and frame were coated with a tan-colored Cerokote, making the weapon ideal for desert warfare, which Tom didn’t see himself engaging in ever again.

  The coating was faded and chipped in places, indicating hard use.

  But the weapon’s appearance didn’t matter to Tom.

  All that did matter was that the pistol was chambered in .45 ACP, his caliber of choice.

  Tom had expressed concern over the weapon being traced back to Cahill, but Cahill had explained that he needn’t worry about that.

  It belonged to one of my marines, and after I was discharged, he was killed in an ambush. An insurgent stripped him of his gear, his weapons along with it, but a buddy of mine hunted the fucker down a few days later and got this back. He shipped it to me the next day. So as far as anyone kn
ows, this was lost in Afghanistan.

  Tom had told Cahill that he’d rather not be given something so meaningful, but Cahill shrugged his concerns off.

  If I get it back, I get it back, he’d said. If I don’t, I don’t. More important, if it saves your life or the life of someone we care about, then all the shit that went down before it was put into my hands wasn’t in vain.

  The pistol was held in a carbon-fiber, inside-the-waistband holster, which was secured to the Velcro wall of the hidden compartment by a thick nylon strap.

  Three backup Wilson Combat mags were held in a neat row by similar straps, as well as a Surefire X300U weapon light rated at 600 lumens.

  I tuned the Colt up myself, Cahill had said. It’s kind of a Frankenstein’s monster at this point. A Smith & Alexander mainspring housing with a magwell, an Ed Brown slide stop, lighter springs where it counts, better grips for concealed carry. I kept the trigger long, though, which is what you want in a combat pistol. And the white-dot stock night sights are good, but I switched out the low-profile rear sight for an angled one, in case you ever need to rack the slide with one hand. Oh, and the mags are loaded with those plus-P frangibles that you like. Nineteen hundred feet per second out the muzzle makes for quite the sonic boom. I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a confined space when you shoot those things off. That’s just asking for a concussion.

  Looking now at the paper-covered windows, Tom listened as the Mustang passed by the building, the sound of its performance exhaust fading as Cahill and Sandy headed north out of town.

  Taking one last look around the place, Tom shouldered the messenger bag, then exited.

  In the Ranger, he backtracked out of town, stopping at the McDonald’s just a quarter mile past the railcar diner.

  He parked in the lot and removed the tablet from the bag, powering it up.

  Should he need internet access, he would simply log on to the free Wi-Fi that the restaurant provided, the signal of which, last he knew, was strong enough to cover at least sections of the surrounding lot.

  But Tom knew that it was safer if the device he used to first open the flash drive was not connected to the web. If any illicit software had been installed on the drive it could make use of the internet to immediately determine—and broadcast—his location.

  There’d be no reason for Carrington to do that, but if the drive had been given to him by someone else, that person may have had hidden motives.

  This was the world Tom was in now—having to second-guess the actions and words of those who offered him assistance.

  He would need to do this and more if he and Stella were to ever be together again.

  Tom inserted the drive into the tablet’s USB port, and instantly, a window opened, requesting entry of a four-digit security code.

  There was a button at the bottom of the window labeled FORGOT YOUR PASSWORD? Tom touched it, and a smaller window opened, this one containing the password hint.

  BIRTH DATE ON HEADSTONE.

  Two years ago, Carrington had asked Tom to meet him in a cemetery in the town of Litchfield, roughly twenty miles south of Canaan.

  The grave they had stood by was the resting place of Benjamin Tallmadge, George Washington’s spymaster—and Carrington’s childhood hero.

  Tallmadge’s birth year was 1754.

  Tom entered those four digits, and the flash drive unlocked.

  On it was a single document.

  Opening it, Tom began to read.

  It was predawn when he returned to New York City.

  After the serpentine journey that Carrington had taken him on, Tom was expecting to be led to his next destination via a similarly complex path, but the steps he was to take were decidedly simple.

  The document contained a list of locations Tom was to go to, along with the specific times he was to arrive.

  Once in place, he was to wait for contact to be made. If no contact was initiated within fifteen minutes, Tom was to leave and try again at the next time and place on the schedule.

  All the locations were in the Greater New York area, but the times were six hours apart.

  The first meeting on the schedule was at six a.m., and Tom had every intention of making that.

  In fact, he was parked three blocks away from that location with just minutes to spare. Twenty-four hours had passed since the call from Raveis had awakened Tom.

  He recalled Sandy Montrose’s warning about the effects of lack of sleep on the human mind, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  There was truth to uncover, and everything—everyone he cared about—hung in the balance.

  He wouldn’t stop, nor would he let anyone get in his way.

  Tom used his own burner phone to text Torres, instructing her to proceed with their original plan of using her trusted contact in the NYPD to attempt to identify Slattery via her motorcycle license plate.

  Torres responded within a minute.

  Leaving now.

  Tom put on the gloves before removing the holstered Colt from the messenger bag.

  Back in Canaan, Cahill had pointed out that he was handing Tom a “clean” weapon, meaning that it and all its components, including the mags and the ammo they carried, had been wiped of any trace evidence, after which Cahill had made a point of always wearing gloves whenever he had handled the weapon.

  Tom intended to maintain that same diligence during the time the M45A1 was his.

  Taking the pistol from its holster, he racked the slide, chambering a round. After completing a brass check to confirm the cartridge was properly seated, he engaged the thumb safety and returned the pistol to its holster, then slid the rig into his waistband at the four-o’clock position.

  Two of the three backup mags went into his universal dual-mag holder on his left side. The third went into his left hip pocket.

  On the passenger seat was a long-billed cap. Tom put that on to help obscure his face from the countless traffic and security cameras that blanketed the city.

  He’d covered a half block when he received another text from Torres.

  Interrogation begun.

  This was contrary to the specific orders Tom had given Lyman back in Bridgeport, but there was nothing Tom could do about that now.

  He didn’t bother to reply, simply pocketed his phone and continued walking.

  He had to remain focused, and any thoughts of the techniques likely being applied to their prisoner would only bring to mind the difficulties Stella was currently enduring.

  All in the name of preparing her for the day when she might be captured.

  Tom knew that distractions were deadly, so he pressed on, his mind on his surroundings, his eyes sharp and his body ready.

  He and those he sought to protect would be better served if from now on he felt nothing, or at least as little as possible.

  When it comes to loved ones, Cahill had said, I don’t think there is a line.

  Reaching his destination—the entrance to the Second Avenue subway station at Houston Street—Tom paused at the top of the steps to take one last look around before descending.

  PART THREE

  Twenty-Two

  Naked in a dark closet, the makeshift hood covering her head, Esa breathed.

  Her wrists, bound behind her back by mechanic’s wire, were connected to a wall-mounted coat hook by another two-foot-long piece of the same sharp wire.

  The deliberate shortness of the connecting wire forced her to both bend forward at the waist and stand on her toes. This was necessary to lessen the pain in her shoulders caused by the unnatural way her arms were being elevated behind her back.

  Her legs trembling from both the cold and the strain, she did her best to keep her breathing slow and even as she eavesdropped on her captors.

  She had been listening to them since her arrival hours before, when she’d first been placed in the closet.

  The hood had been removed and her hands unbound then, but this was only so she could comply with the order to remove her cloth
ing.

  The order had been given by the male, who stood outside the closet and watched.

  Esa recognized him from the files she’d been provided as Lyman, the former SEAL.

  One of the two women who’d taken her to this place stood just beyond the SEAL—this was Durand.

  The other woman, Torres, who had been part of Sexton’s team, had been elsewhere in the safe house as Esa undressed.

  Lyman had ordered Esa to gather her clothes and hand them to Durand, to whom he whispered something, after which Durand disappeared and Lyman and Esa stared at each other.

  Esa heard cupboard doors opening and closing and then a faucet running, but she never broke her stare.

  When Durand had reappeared, she was carrying a bucket of water, which Lyman told her to place on the floor. Handing Durand the roll of mechanic’s wire, he instructed her to bind their prisoner’s wrists together behind her back.

  Durand had followed her orders.

  Cutting from the roll a two-foot-long piece of wire, Lyman had first attached the wire to the coat hook mounted at head level on the wall. Stepping back, he picked up the bucket and, with one throw, doused Esa with cold tap water.

  The makeshift hood was replaced over Esa’s head, and the wire that was attached to the coat hook had been wrapped around the wire binding her wrists, then pulled taut, raising her arms behind her and forcing her to bend forward.

  Esa had made no sound as the door was closed.

  She’d spent the next few hours listening to her captors, keeping track of their movements. She couldn’t hear their words when they spoke, but she could make out the tones in their voices, so she knew there was discord among them—specifically, between Lyman and Torres.

  It was after several hours that Esa heard the chiming of a cell phone, which was followed by the most intense dispute yet.

  This time, Esa could hear the words being spoken.