by Deek Rhew
You have a point, but I’m telling you, something doesn’t smell right.
Sam tuned back in to Susan. “So, they stole your identity?”
“Witness protection, baby.”
“Wait, so you’re saying your name isn’t Susan?”
“Nope. Monica Sable, star witness and slave to the system.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to re-meet you.”
Gotcha, Chet said.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say to that,” Sam told her, and he didn’t. Nothing lined up. Did she know a lot more than she let on? Had she simply been playing him all evening? He didn’t think so. Sometimes, those that lived underground created elaborate fabrications to explain away their situation. Monica’s intelligence had been a factor all along, and this story could just be another example of it.
Though WITSEC did explain the sudden disappearance in New York and her being here, in this town. It explained a lot of things.
She laughed. “You don’t say anything,” she said and rolled over on top of him. She kissed him, blowing smoke deep into his lungs. She took a deep drag off her cigarette then stamped it out. As they continued to kiss, the smoke drifting in a lazy haze around them, Monica began grinding against him. She then dipped her hip, and he moved inside of her. Like their conversation, she had control now and rotated her pelvis in a steady rhythm.
She moaned loudly, echoes of their night ruminating in his ears. Monica sat up, leaned back, and put her hands on his chest, riding him. Her cries became louder, growing in intensity and urgency. It seemed a bit much even for her. Monica screamed as she slammed her hips onto his. Her wails bounced off the walls in a final long crescendo.
She collapsed on top of him, holding him inside of her. The sweat stuck them together like glue, but she seemed to have fallen asleep, so he didn’t try to move.
No other confirm had ever gone like this one, and he had no idea what to make of it. Everything she said could conceivably mesh with the contents in her dossier, but it contradicted the file too. Her breathing against his chest slowed, steady and deep, while he stared at the moon through the bedroom window.
Sam didn’t find sleep until the first rays of light broke the eastern horizon.
22
The next morning, Sam woke alone to brilliant sunshine pouring in through the window. He stared around the small space, vacant of all knickknacks, pictures, and other such paraphernalia.
How odd. Does she actually live here? Chet asked.
Right?
Where’s Martha Stewart when you need her?
Did this lend credence to her tale of being in WITSEC, or could the lack of personal touches be a quirk of her personality?
Sam retrieved his phone and typed out an email message. He detailed the relevant parts of conversation they’d had, specifying that he’d gotten a verbal confirm and that he had successfully identified the mark. He had started to attach the pictures he’d taken, when he heard her coming down the hall. He slipped the phone under his pillow and pretended to just be waking up.
Monica entered the room. She had on a thin silk robe with her hair tied back. In her hands, she brandished two large mugs of coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls.
“Good morning,” he said, sitting up.
“Good morning to you. Hungry?”
“Starving.”
She handed him a mug and then offered him a pastry and a napkin.
“Thank you,” he said, then took a sip.
She nodded. After setting her own breakfast down, she dropped her robe. Did she mean to crawl into bed with him? Maybe continue with a little of the excitement from the night before. Instead she pulled a dress off a hook and slipped it over her head.
He’d been on the sending end of the “It’s time for you to go now” morning message many times before and pretended not to notice the hint, hoping to continue their conversation. He’d thought over what Chet had been telling him, and it warranted consideration. But to explore that further, he needed more time with her. “What’s on your agenda for the day?”
Come one, come all, tell us why the little lady needs to go, Chet called. She’s got things to do and places to be, we just need the excuse. Gentlemen, place your bets, please. Place your bets.
An appointment. Hair or doctor or something, Sam said.
Work. She’s going to say she needs to go to work.
Come on, Sam replied. That’s too obvious. Besides, it’s Saturday. She’ll come up with something brilliant. Watch.
“I need to go to work.”
Ha! In your face, Chet mocked. Who’s the brilliant one now? Come on. Say it. Who’s your daddy?
He’d been paying more attention to the conversation with his inner conscience than to the one with the woman standing before him until she asked, “May I give you a little advice?”
She’s probably going to tell you the same thing I’ve been telling you all these years: get out of the spy business. You suck.
Sam rolled his eyes at his inner-conscience. Nice, but somehow I doubt it.
Maybe she’s going to give you pointers on your lack of lovemaking skills. Remember the woman from West Virginia? What did she say? Something about raising your hips higher? I thought I’d died and gone to heaven that was so awesome.
Come on, Sam replied. Did you hear her last night? I thought she was going to wake the dead.
That was a show. You and I both know it. Besides, the only one that will be dead soon is her.
Chet’s remark sent a narrow streak of unhappiness through Sam, and on the trail of that, came a stab of indignity at the unjustness of her situation. Instead of continuing to banter with his inner voice, he simply said, Touché.
He took another sip of his coffee. “Sure.”
“Leave town.”
“Pardon?”
“Leave. This place is a cesspool. The town is dying. The economy’s in the toilet. There’re no jobs and no prospects. It would be impossible to build a life here. Save your money and save yourself. Get out before it drags you down and sucks out your soul.”
“What if one has a romantic prospect?” He shot her a charming smile.
“No. That’s not going to happen. I had fun, but this was a one-time deal. I have to stay here, but you shouldn’t.”
You need to talk to her. Get to the bottom of this. Something smells bad, and it isn’t just the economy, Chet said.
I know. I know. I’m trying. I’m not sure what else to do. The lady is asking me to leave, and I can’t stay. I’ve got the confirm and orders. I’m open to suggestions though.
Spill it.
Chet’s simple solution startled Sam. Pardon?
Tell her that you’ve been assigned to look for her. Give her a chance to explain everything.
Sam shook his head. Ummm…no. That sure as shit isn’t going to happen.
Chet had nothing further to add.
Sam nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll get dressed and get out of your hair.” He stood and pulled on his clothes. Finishing his coffee, he headed towards the door.
“Thank you,” she said to him as he exited. “I had a nice time.”
He didn’t understand the horrific knot in his stomach or the sense of betraying someone he should be protecting. She was just another mark, no different than any other. For one awful moment, he had been back with his ex-wife, Tracy, and she stared at him with hurt, sorrow, and loneliness in her eyes. He had wanted to protect her too, yet, like with Monica, had failed. He wanted to apologize, to make things right with Tracy slash Monica, but the desire was impossible and irrational.
Instead he turned on the stoop, touched Monica’s chin, and kissed her gently. “Thank you. If I don’t see you again, I hope things work out. I really do.” He climbed on his bike and drove away under the glaring gaze of his inner conscience.
On the edge of town, Sam parked on a wide patch of road, reviewed the email he had written that morning, and finished attachin
g the pictures. He scrolled through the images of the law office and Monica’s run-down shack of a home, ones of her at work and in bed asleep. He paused on the last, studying the woman’s relaxed, trusting face. As he stared, he searched for the answers that had to exist though they remained elusive. Unsatisfied but having no reason to delay, he closed the documents and prepared to relay the information.
Before he had a chance to send the message, detailing the sad story of Monica’s existence to his boss, Chet piped up. Are you sure about this, chief? Tell Josha it’s the wrong girl, the wrong town. Whatever. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve given you bad intel. He’d believe it.
Sam’s finger hovered between the send and cancel buttons.
Last chance.
Sam pressed his finger to the screen then dialed a number from memory.
“The intel looks great,” Josha said by way of greeting. “I wish I had about a dozen more of you. Talk to me.”
Under his alter ego’s glare, Sam gave a brief synopsis of the same information contained in report he’d just sent.
“You got the confirm?” Josha asked.
“Last night.” Sam told him the details.
You’re a moron. Chet’s disgust coated the chastisement.
I’m a soldier.
Same difference.
Sam heard Josha type on his keyboard then pause before speaking again. “Client confirms. It’s her.”
“Do I do the drop?”
Pause, more typing, then, “Yes.”
“When?”
Josha didn’t hesitate this time. “Immediately.”
23
Sam lay sweat-soaked beneath a bedraggled bush whose soul had been sapped by the relentless glare of the sun. Darkness had descended, but the hard-packed earth he rested upon radiated heat that rivaled the one he’d been exposed to all afternoon. No other location offered this level of concealment and isolation from the populace, while still providing the access and line of sight he required.
He had scoped out Monica’s neighborhood. During regular workdays, most of the residents would be away.
He had assumed his position four hours earlier to be certain he would not miss his opportunity. If he somehow didn’t connect, he could use the knife tucked in his boot, but he preferred the quick tidiness of the silenced rifle. He could slip out of town without having to first clean up a mess and worry about trace evidence.
In spite of the copious amount of water he’d drunk, his head hurt from dehydration, and his eyes stung from the biting, wind-blown sand. Damn, he hated this place.
A car drove down the street and parked. The reverberating slam of the vehicle’s door echoed from the front of the house. Monica had arrived.
Earlier in the day, Sam had removed the screen of her house to make sighting the trajectory of the bullet easier. Looking through the rifle’s night scope, he stared down the hall of the little bungalow. The infrared technology allowed him to see the fuzzy details of the walls and bookshelves but bathed everything in a neon green—the exact same color of the slime ghosts from the second-rate flicks he and his brother had watched as kids. In this case, it looked as though a B-movie ghoul had materialized out of the silver screens of his past and succumbed to an explosive case of diarrhea inside the suburban bungalow.
When Sam detected movement, his mind returned to the present. A glowing image of a woman stepped through the entrance of the house. Fuzzy, luminescent hands closed the front door, and a brilliant demon leaned against the wall. Sam centered the scope’s crosshairs on the creature’s gleaming head.
His finger, which had already been tense against the trigger, applied subtle pressure. Chet, who’d been quiet all afternoon, chose that instant to voice his opinion. Dude, for the record, you’re a moron.
What? We’ve done this a thousand times. She’s just another perp.
Sam internally cringed at Chet’s disapproving glare. Are you sure, or are you just saying that to justify your actions? You’ve had doubts about this case since day one. For once in your life, it’s time to stop being a soldier and think. This can’t be undone. Neither Josha nor his intel can be perfect all the time. Something is off; maybe you should go in and talk to her? After that, if you are still hell-bent on doing this, there is always the alternative in your boot.
Sam hesitated. Just a little more pressure from his finger and the decision would be made. Which way? Monica’s existence hung in the balance. Sam let out his pent-up breath, deflating. He relaxed his grip and lowered the weapon.
“Shit.” He picked up the gun and slammed it to the ground. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” He pounded the heavy rifle against the concrete of silicon and rock, then beat the weapon with his fist. Anger and frustration flowed through his veins as he tried to comprehend what had stopped him.
Go talk to her, idiot, and find out, Chet instructed.
Sam finished with his tantrum and sat in the dirt like a belligerent toddler. After a minute, he took a deep breath and calmed himself. Chet had a point, though it still didn’t sit well with Sam. He needed to get more information. Once he had all the facts, he could make his decision. He started to stand when his world went black.
* * *
Sam woke on his back, his head propped up on a rock. Stars overhead and flashing red lights greeted his eyes. He tried to rise up. The dehydration headache he’d experienced earlier in the day felt like a moth’s kiss compared to the vise that now squeezed his temples. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at the chaos surrounding him.
Where Monica’s modest bungalow once stood, a raging inferno consumed the space. Staring at the cratered, burning house, understanding dawned, and he slinked away to where the motorcycle sat hidden. His head screamed in protest as he righted then pushed the big bike down the road. He wanted to climb on and drive away, but he had to keep the noisy engine from attracting unwanted attention.
After he had gotten a safe distance away, he started the bike and rode off. Stopping at the same wide patch in the road where he had sent the email, he turned off the engine. Instead of helping, the silence only seemed to exacerbate the hornets, armed with ball peen hammers, pounding in the inside of his skull.
Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Josha’s number.
“Done?”
Sam wondered if his boss even knew how to say the word hello. “Well, in a manner of speaking. Someone got to her first.”
“What happened?”
Sam fought through the daze that still plagued him from the explosion and relayed the details of his evening, leaving out the part where he failed to pull the trigger.
Josha remained silent, and Sam gave him time to process the turn of events. After a minute his superior asked, “So, you’re sure she’s dead.”
“I saw her in the scope right before the place went up. No one could live through that.”
“All right. Consider the case closed.”
Though unsatisfied, Sam had no choice but to let it go. Whether by his hand or someone else’s, Monica had died, and nothing further could be accomplished by continuing the investigation. The injustice of her demise tried to assert itself, and he shoved it away. “So what’s next?”
“What’s next is a little R&R.”
“What?” Sam recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “Where are you sending me?”
“Nowhere. That’s the point.”
“I don’t need a vacation. Just tell me what my next assignment is.”
“Look, Sam, I just checked the records, and you haven’t taken any time off in almost four years. I’m not giving you anything for three weeks. I can’t; it’s policy.”
Sam started to protest, “I don’t—”
“And,” Josha interrupted, “if you fight me, I’ll make it a month.”
“Okay, I’m not arguing, just telling you how it is.”
“Go on.”
Sam pursed his lips. He didn’t want, nor did he need, to lie a
round doing nothing when so much had to be fixed in the world. He had been born to protect his country from the threats that bombarded it, and he couldn’t do that from the sidelines. “I don’t need any time off. Really. I have plenty of down time on assignment. Besides, I like to keep busy.”
“Sam, have you ever thought about having a life? When was the last time you spent the night in your own apartment?”
“I was there three months ago.”
“Only because you were tracking Monica and one of the leads was in L.A.”
“Still…”
“Look, you are one of the best, but regulations are regulations. Go do something besides work. Meet a girl. Get laid. Go surfing. According to your file you used to do that, remember? But whatever you do, don’t call me.”
Sam punched his bike. “Fine. Three weeks.”
“Good man. Have fun,” Josha said and disconnected the call.
Sam opened the music streaming service on his phone and chose one of his traveling blues channels. Though it killed his head, he turned up the volume to drown out the voice of his conscience who wanted to continue to ponder, question, and work through his unresolved feelings for his mother or whatever. Kiss my ass, Chet.
He took one last look around the arid wasteland, started the Triumph, and dropped it into gear. A minute later, he crossed the city limits of the thriving metropolis of Walberg to the soulful melancholy guitar riffs of Stevie Ray as the talented prophet sang about the crying sky.
You tell ’em, Stevie. Poor bastards sure as shit could use a few tears or something from Heaven. Sam gunned the engine and headed towards home.
PART 3
24
Monica drove out of Walberg on the back streets to keep off the main thoroughfare. Not many roads crossed the desert, so she took the first highway she came to, teeth rattling. Her hands shook so hard she could barely keep the Audi in its lane. But as full-on darkness descended and the miles spun out, the shaking subsided.
A sign flashed in her high beams, indicating the town of Sinalta lay just ahead. The fuzzy map in her head pinned her at about seventy miles east of Walberg. As she passed through the decrepit little city on the edge of nowhere, a pair of headlights snapped to life in her review mirror. Monica’s breath caught in her throat. Her knuckles turned white as she bore down on the steering wheel and pressed down on the accelerator. The Audi responded, sailing over the blacktop with a smooth grace. But no matter how fast she moved, the lights grew larger as the other car closed the gap. She needed to go faster, but it took all of her effort just to keep from veering off the road.