by Erik Carter
While, together, they fought to save the planet.
And she wasn’t going to leave his side.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Becker’s office was chaotic.
People always found it perplexing that someone as precise and detail-oriented as Becker kept such a cluttered workspace. But their assumption was that clutter equalled disorganization. To Becker, though, the chaos made perfect sense. It was precisely ordered.
He put his half-eaten bagel back on its paper plate and pushed aside a stack of folders to make visible the small monitor on the table that ran alongside his desk. In his hand was a beta tape.
The label read:
Darrell Lutz: Positive Outlook, Positive Life
He pushed the tape into the player, turned on the monitor, and fast-forwarded through the opening materials. A man appeared on the screen, moving about quickly in fast-forward. He was on a stage, speaking into a mic. There was a blue backdrop behind him.
Becker pressed pause. The man jolted to a halt, frozen mid-speech. Mouth open, eyes bright.
Becker brought the photo of Asa Hendrix next to the screen.
Perfect match.
“Son of a bitch,” Becker said. “It’s him.”
He pressed play. Lutz/Hendrix started speaking.
“… and that’s why I say to you, ‘No. Don’t do that. Don’t question who you are. Know who you are.’ You receive the reality you choose to create, and you manifest that reality through your subconscious. Earlier, when I said…”
As Hendrix continued, Becker leaned back in his chair, the springs squeaking. He thought about the Asa Hendrix meetings, the power of his persuasion. And the connection with this other incarnation of the same man, this motivational speaker. Both spewing words, gaining followers…
A tap at his door.
Burks was there. She was taller than usual, wearing big, pointy heels that matched her blue skirt suit. She balanced a glazed doughnut atop a cup of coffee in one hand, and in her other hand was a file folder.
Becker waved her in and pointed at the monitor. “Lookee who we got here.”
Burks smiled as she approached, waving the folder in her hand. She dropped it on his desk in front of him.
“You’re never gonna believe why Lutz was under investigation at the State Department,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Delicious aromas crept in through the cracks of Dale’s door.
At around ten, Cody finally released Dale from his room and told him to get some grub downstairs. An early riser, Dale had been up for hours, stomach growling, sitting on his bed and trying to piece together the facts of the case.
He followed the scrumptious smells of breakfast to the kitchen, where he found the island and countertops loaded with trays full of food: sausage links, bacon, mounds of scrambled eggs, stacks of pancakes, steaming hash browns.
In the kitchen, by himself, was the man with the ponytail, the guy Dale had determined was Hendrix’s second-in-command. He was filling a plate. He glanced at Dale and looked away.
Behind the man was the storage freezer. Dale thought back to hiding there the previous night. He grinned with pride thinking about it, the cleverness of it all, but it also made him feel cold. Physically cold. Just the memory of his time in the dark, frozen box sent a chill over his body. The hairs on his arms stood up.
Dishes and silverware were stacked at the end of the island. Dale grabbed a plate and a fork and queued up behind the other man, who wore similar clothing to what he’d had on the previous night—the wireframe glasses, a faded green shirt, brown pants with extra pockets on the sides, the same pair of scuffed hiking boots. He looked ready for a long trek into the surrounding woods.
Dale scooped some hash browns onto his plate and eyeballed the other man. There was a reason why this guy had been placed in a position of prominence at the meeting the previous night. There was something special about him, and Dale had to figure out what that might be. Now was his opportunity.
He’d start with some small talk.
“Quite a spread we got here,” Dale said.
No response.
Dale placed a well-sized scoop of fruit salad on his plate, pushing aside an equally generous heap of scrambled eggs. He stepped behind the other man, waiting for him to finish at the toaster.
“Nice weather, huh?” Dale said. “Should do well with what we have planned tonight. By the way, do you know what those plans might be?”
The man looked at him. Coldly. Looked away.
“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
A voice came from the other side of the kitchen. “Watson.”
Dale turned. It was Cody.
“He wants to see you.”
Dale sat in a rocking chair on the front porch. It was bright and sunny but very cold. He’d retrieved his jacket from his room, and the plate of food was warming his thighs through his jeans. He took a bite of scrambled eggs.
In the rocking chair next to him, leaning back, was Asa Hendrix. He stared out into the trees, reflectively. His empty plate sat on a small table to the side, and his hands rested on his stomach.
“I understand you were locked in your room last night,” Hendrix said, not looking away from the trees. Puffs of breath escaped into the cold air as he spoke.
“It wasn’t the friendliest welcome I’ve ever received,” Dale said.
“Sorry about that. Cody’s idea, not mine. He’s not as trusting as I am.”
Hendrix sighed, still staring out into the trees.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous,” Dale said.
It really was. The rolling hills were confetti-splashed with bright colors, extending to the horizon. The porch faced east, away from Oak Ridge, and the other, half-finished cabins were behind them, out of sight, making the view all but uninterrupted. Only a few utility lines cutting through the hills spoiled the natural vista. They were just outside the true Smoky Mountains, but these hills were still smoking that morning, puffs of fog clinging to the peaks. The sun was bright as it rose into view. Dale squinted.
Hendrix grabbed a steaming mug of coffee from the table where his plate sat, took a sip, and wrapped both hands around it.
“Oak Ridge is a real crossroads. You have Mother Nature at her finest,” he said, gesturing, “and a few miles away you have Man’s greatest, most terrible technical creations. You have simple, backwoods folks, and you have some of the most brilliant minds on the planet. I’d love to say there was a harmony to it, but all of this,” he said, gesturing to the trees again, “is being poisoned. We’re gonna taken care of that tonight, though, Tommy.”
“And how are we going to do it?” Dale said.
He hadn’t gotten an answer out of Hendrix’s second-in-command. Maybe Hendrix himself would give Dale an idea of what sort of mayhem was in store.
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Hendrix pivoted in his chair, finally facing Dale. With a smile.
His eyes lingered on Dale for a moment before he turned back to the trees, and in that moment, Dale thought he saw something. A flicker of comprehension, perhaps. A bit of trickery.
Whenever Dale was undercover, he felt a constant tension—the worry of being found out or, worse, that his infiltration had been recognized from the beginning.
Did Hendrix know?
Dale thought back to his paranoia in the bedroom the previous night.
Paranoia was another constant for Dale when he was undercover.
“You’re a part of the inner circle now,” Hendrix continued, “and that involves doing what’s necessary. Whatever that might be. I’m going out on a limb with you. I didn’t vet you like I did the others. But I’m a good judge of character. That’s why I wanted to meet with you now and have this man-to-man. To let you know that I trust you. Here, a token of my trust.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and handed Dale his Model 36.
It felt good in Dale’s hand, t
he weight of it, as though he’d been incomplete without it and now he was whole again. He had a tendency to lose his weapon during his assignments, but it always found its way home.
“Much appreciated,” Dale said and put the gun away.
Dale had a one-on-one opportunity with Hendrix, likely the only one he would have, and he needed to take advantage of it. He was starting the second day of his investigation, and he was in sore need of answers—starting with the identity of the puzzling man who’d given Dale the cold shoulder in the kitchen.
“Your friend with the ponytail doesn’t talk much.”
Hendrix looked at Dale and smiled, a bit of that semi-suspicious twinkle in his eyes again. He shook his head.
“He’s a quiet guy. Another one of my inner circle. He serves his purpose, as all of you do. Speaking of which, I need to ask my first favor of you.”
Hendrix had evaded the question masterfully, turning the question back on Dale, making a request of him. A textbook power move. Dale was impressed.
“Certainly,” Dale said.
He braced himself for something terrible, some awful task that he’d be asked to do. He started formulating ways of getting out of sinister requests without breaking his cover.
“I need you to get some sandwiches,” Hendrix said with a laugh. “We’re running low on lunch food, and I need a big meal for the inner circle before the meeting tonight. It will be the last chance we’ll get to eat before we begin our task, so make sure it’s a hearty meal. You can take the truck.”
He pointed toward a truck parked in the gravel, the same rusty Dodge with which Cody had hunted Dale the night before.
“Hopefully that’s not my only task,” Dale said. “I was hoping to meet the mysterious Guide.”
It was a surreptitious attempt at gaining some intel on The Guide. And it would be the last time Dale would try for info. If he pried much more, it would start to look obvious.
Hendrix chuckled again and stood up. He stretched, lifting his arms above his head.
“Oh, no. It won’t be your only task today, Tommy. Far from it.”
He headed toward the front doors, leaving Dale seated, still eating his breakfast.
“And don’t worry,” he said without turning around. “The Guide will reveal himself soon enough.”
Chapter Thirty
Dale had made a return trip to the kitchen for a second round of breakfast, and now his stomach was comfortably heavy. As he walked up to the old Dodge, someone else was exiting a green Ford Pinto. It was Sonya. She wore a long jacket and red bellbottom pants.
Dale approached her as she shut the car door. In one hand she held the straps of a duffel bag. A purse hung from her opposite shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Dale said. “In the basement last night, did I hurt you?
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
Her response was shorter, more brusque than he’d expected. She was scared, he figured. And he didn’t blame her. Not one bit. This woman was in danger. She was in too deep. If she didn’t get out now, she never would.
But Dale couldn’t simply tell her that she needed to get the hell out of there, which was exactly what he wanted to say. If he did that, it could be reported to Hendrix—and his cover would be blown.
“Listen,” he said. “Whatever’s going to happen tonight is gonna be huge. I can feel it. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
It was the best he could do to warn her without actually saying, Run! Run for the hills!
She looked into him coldly for a moment. “You sound like you’re having second thoughts. You sound like a traitor, Tommy Watson.”
“All I’m saying is you’re not much of a fighter. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
She stepped in closer to him, made that cold stare of hers even colder. Frozen.
“I may not be much of a fighter, but I’ll do whatever I possibly can for Asa Hendrix. I would walk into a burning building for that man if he asked. I don’t need you looking out for me. The only man looking out for me is Asa Hendrix. Remember that, Watson.”
Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
Dale took a step back, distancing himself.
“Have you visited Stockholm recently, Sonya?”
She cocked her head to the side, furled her brow. “Huh?”
Stockholm Syndrome—the condition in which a person forms an emotional connection to his or her captors.
Dale’s quip had flown right over Sonya’s head.
“Never mind,” he said.
He was about to say something else, when he stopped abruptly.
Because he’d seen a face.
Staring at him from the surrounding trees. About fifty feet away.
“Hey!” Dale screamed as he darted past Sonya.
He ran into the woods.
To chase down Redbeard.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sloane rubbed some heat into his cheeks. It was already well past eleven, but the sun still hadn’t done much to warm things up.
The woods were cold. And wet. Earlier it had sprinkled for a half hour or so. The sky above was blue, full of big, white clouds. The leaves were vibrant, both on the branches and covering the ground.
He and his men were positioned fifty yards apart, forming a perimeter around the cabin. The target was there. Somewhere. And Sloane had set up a net. He wasn’t going to let the guy slip through his grips again.
Why had the man returned to the cabin? And how had he continued to elude Sloane and his team?
Sloane knew that there was a single answer to both of those questions—the guy was a federal agent. Well-trained. It made hunting the man a unique assignment. A thrilling one. A challenge.
But at this point, Sloane was beginning to tire of the excitement. The thrill had worn off. He urgently needed to deal with this target. Too much time had ticked off the clock. And even though Sloane’s boss was a patient man, Sloane knew that the director would soon tire of the delays.
So this was the moment. Out here in the woods. Sloane was going to take care of the target. Right now.
So far that morning, there’d been only a bit of lackadaisical activity at the cabin. A few people ate breakfast at the rocking chairs on the porch. A green Pinto left and returned. Someone took out the trash. That was it.
But just then there was a sudden burst of activity.
Someone ran away from the porch. Toward the woods.
Sloane brought his binoculars to his eyes. At the same time, his walkie-talkie sounded.
“Sir, are you seeing this?”
“Affirmative,” Sloane said.
He watched through the binoculars.
“They’re on the move again. Chasing each other,” Sloane said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Things must come in threes, Dale determined.
He’d been locked up three times since arriving in Tennessee. And now he was chasing Redbeard for the third time.
Redbeard had gotten the jump on him and disappeared into a small ravine. But Dale caught little glimpses of his blue shirt among the branches and leaves and tree trunks.
And Dale was gaining on the guy.
He sure as hell wasn’t gonna get away again.
Dale’s boots crunched leaves, snapped sticks. And as he ran over the edge of the drop-off into the ravine, he nearly lost his balance. Recovered. And then gained a ton of speed, barreling precariously down the hill.
As he tried to maintain his balance—his legs kicking uncontrollably faster and faster—he saw Redbeard ahead of him at the bottom of the hill.
Facing him.
Not moving.
With his hands in the air in an open and nonthreatening stance.
Dale grabbed his Model 36.
He couldn’t stop his momentum, and he ran right past Redbeard. The ground leveled. He managed to slow himself then doubled back, aiming his gun at the man.
Dale breathed hard, sucking in huge breaths. He kept the gun leveled at Redbeard as he stepped a few fe
et away from him.
“All right, asshole. Who are you, and why have you been chasing me?”
The man responded in a calm, even voice. “You’re misunderstanding the situation, Agent Conley.”
The sound of his own name coming from the stranger’s mouth set off alarms in Dale’s head, sent a quick shiver over his flesh.
“How do you know my name?”
Redbeard took in a breath, let it out, and looked at Dale intently.
“I’m the one who sent you the message.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dale opened his mouth, so confused that only small sounds came out, not words.
Redbeard took the opportunity. “My name is—”
Dale held up a finger, made a shushing noise.
“Stop. Just … hold on a sec.”
He stepped up to Redbeard and patted him down. Redbeard spread his legs, kept his hands in the air, let Dale do what he needed. Dale found a handgun in his waistband and took it out. An M1911. Otherwise he was clean.
Dale stepped back, held the 1911 to his side and kept his Model 36 pointed at the man with his other hand, aiming from the hip in true belly gun fashion. Redbeard kept his hands in the air.
“You were saying?”
“My name is Donovan Maddox. Central Intelligence.”
“CIA?” Dale sputtered. This revelation brought a quick wave of possibilities to Dale’s mind. None of them good. “That would explain the surveillance you’ve been conducting on me.”
Dale thought back to the coordinated movements of the men on the street in Knoxville. Textbook. Definitely worthy of a CIA team.
“I haven’t been spying on you, Agent Conley. I’ve been trying to make contact with you.”
“What?” Dale said, so confused now that he was starting to get angry. “Both times I’ve seen you, you ran off. The first time you had those other guys chase me down with freaking guns, and the second time you dragged me from a car.”