by S L Shelton
“Who’s the contract with?” I asked.
“BRE Cryptography and Security,” she replied. “It’s a Spryte Industries subsidiary. They do most of the high-security entry hardware and software contracts for the government—impossible to penetrate.”
“Obviously not. Who has access to their NOC and data?” I asked, wondering if it might have been an incursion into BRE's Network Operations Center—or NOC—that had put the imposter's biometric matrix into the system.
“It’s limited to high-clearance tech and security,” she replied. “Mostly former NSA techs.”
“Who provides their security?” I asked, my eyes narrowing.
Ruth flipped through a folder and shuffled a few pages. “I might have to get back to you on that,” she said, still looking.
“Let me know if it’s Baynebridge,” I said with a wink.
She nodded.
“If there isn’t anything else, I am running a known associates query downstairs,” Thomas said, seeming a little miffed. “I should get back to it.”
I wondered if he and Ruth were an item or if he just considered her off-limits. He clearly didn’t like the looks Ruth and I had exchanged.
“No. That’s it,” John replied.
That meeting was very light on information. John must need me here for something else.
I got another knowing smile from Ruth as she got up to leave the room. Under other circumstances I would have thought she was flirting with me. But her intent was clearly all business—she just liked that I was willing to bypass the “DC two-step”.
“It was great to meet you both,” I said to them on their way out. I shook hands with both of them before turning and glaring at John.
“What else did you call me in for?”
“Target practice,” John responded abruptly.
I nodded. I wasn’t sure why that was such a big deal. In the Czech Republic, he knew I had shot four men—all of them head shots with the exception of the first—and that had been intentional. It had been a huge mistake not killing the first guy right away, but nonetheless intentional. That first hesitation to kill taught me a valuable lesson—and it came with a scar I'd carry the rest of my life.
John got up and I followed him out of the room to the stairs.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You are going to the range with Nick,” he replied.
“You don’t think I’m a good shot?” I asked, half-joking.
“I haven’t seen you shoot but once,” he replied.
“Ah.” This is to be an observation.
I looked down at my cargo shorts, hiking boots, and t-shirt. “I didn’t dress for combat training.”
“You’re fine,” he replied as we exited the stairwell and rounded the corner to his office.
Nick was waiting for us there, sitting in a guest chair with his feet up on the desk. When he didn’t bother dropping them when we entered, John knocked them off as he walked past.
I nodded my head toward Nick. “Hey,” I said.
“Monkey Wrench,” he replied mildly with a nod.
“Do you have the piece I gave you?” John asked me, already knowing the answer.
“No. Like I said, I don’t have a concealed carry permit and I wasn’t sure about entering through security here with an open carry.”
John nodded as he reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out an envelope and slid it across the desk toward me.
“That allows you to carry concealed anywhere…even on a commercial flight,” he said before looking at Nick. “Take Scott by the armory on the way to the range and help him pick something he’s comfortable with.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Don’t thank him,” Nick said. “He just increased your exposure.”
“How so?” I asked.
“A computer guy writing software for the government is boring…no one would notice you,” he said. “But someone who says he’s a computer guy but fights like an operative and carries a piece? Not so low profile.”
“That ship has sailed, I think,” John said firmly. “If you’re going to do this, it’s time to start doing it right.”
I nodded my agreement. Nick just curled his lip and rolled his eyes.
“I’m also setting up security on your apartment,” John added. “I’d move you, but I figured you’d balk at that, so I’ve sent a guy to switch out your downstairs door, window, and locks when they install your alarm. If your stalkers were that desperate to get their hands on you, they might just forgo the drugs and office interviews next time and jump right to bullets.”
“Or rockets,” I added.
“There’s not much I can do about rockets without moving you,” John said with sarcasm.
I nodded my agreement with a deflective grin. “True.”
Nick shook his head. “If it’s such a concern, then we should just take him out to the Farm and start his training.”
“Farm?” I asked, looking at John.
John shot Nick a harsh look. “He’s kidding,” John said, still glowering at him. “He has a job, a house, and a role here. With some extra precautions, he’ll be in no more danger than you or me.”
“Exactly!” Nick exclaimed with frustration.
“Stow it,” John said. “Show Scott how to use his new toys.”
Nick sighed deeply before turning for the door. It looked like he had resigned himself to his fate as babysitter—for the time being anyway.
“Okay. Let’s go, cowboy,” he said.
**
12:35 p.m. —Fayetteville, North Carolina
HARBINGER watched as his four-man team climbed into the van.
“Alive,” Harbinger said to his men as they prepared for the drive to Virginia. “I can’t emphasize that enough. We don't get paid if Wolfe is dead.”
The team leader nodded at the big man with confidence. “It shouldn’t be an issue,” he replied. “Braun’s people said he isn’t even armed. We’ll have him back here by tomorrow evening for interrogation.”
Harbinger stared at the man for a moment, wondering if he should derail his confidence a bit. Wolfe had proven harder to capture than he should have been—but then again, Heinrich Braun had used Baynebridge Security and his own contractor in both attempts. Perhaps it was Braun’s poor choice in personnel that had resulted in the failed abduction Ops.
“Alive,” Harbinger simply repeated. “He’s of no use dead.”
“Understood,” his man said before closing the door on the van.
As the van pulled out of the building, Harbinger wondered if perhaps he should go himself, but then shook the feeling out of his head.
No, he thought. Syria is more important and requires my presence. I have to prepare for that.
The nuclear warheads he was to obtain from the Serbs would provide a much larger payday—and even Braun had said they were the bigger priority. Had it not been for Braun’s failed attempt at TravTech, Harbinger’s men wouldn’t even be needed in Virginia.
He turned and looked at the crates that were being loaded by the larger part of his team of mercenaries. The delay caused by Braun’s need for Wolfe was minor—four men plus the surveillance tech—a small inconvenience.
“Speed it up!” he yelled at his men. “We leave for the Middle East tomorrow evening, and I want all of our equipment checked before it’s loaded.”
“Yes, sir,” a few of the men said as they began to pick up the pace.
Harbinger walked into the office of the converted warehouse space, ducking as he passed through to avoid bumping his head on the doorway. As soon as the door closed, he pulled out his secure satellite phone and dialed Heinrich Braun.
“Yes,” came Braun’s voice.
“The capture team has just left Fayetteville,” Harbinger reported. “It’s been made clear that Wolfe is to be taken alive.”
“Excellent. Thank you,” Braun said slyly. “I must say I feel much more relaxed knowing you’re handling this. I should have gi
ven the task to you to begin with.”
Harbinger sneered at the false compliment. He knew Braun felt courtesy and charm were a weakness he could exploit when in fact, it was sincerity that Harbinger sought—something the old Stasi spook was incapable of producing.
“Be warned,” Harbinger said, ignoring his sudden spike of agitation. “We will be down four men on the operation in Syria. It shouldn’t hamper the operation, but my reserve troops will be cut in half.”
“Always thinking of the backup plan,” Braun oozed—more false praise. “That’s why I like you. If everyone who worked for me were as conscientious as you are, I would enjoy much more sleep than I do.”
Harbinger pressed his lips together, in the hope of suppressing his rising agitation. “I don’t work for you,” he said mildly. “When the task is done, I collect my payment and am on my merry way.”
There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line.
Braun cleared his throat before speaking again. “Yes, well,” he said, obviously choking down what he wished to say, “nonetheless, I am grateful you are available to undertake this task for us.”
“I’ll let you know when Wolfe is here in Fayetteville,” Harbinger said, bristling at the falseness of Braun before ending the connection.
He stood still for a moment, feeling a twitch of anger rising up his spine before sliding his phone back into his pocket. Walking, slowly, stiffly to the desk, he took several shallow breaths, trying to blow out the rage that was building in his head. Before he could stop himself, he slammed his palm down on top of the oak desk—its legs and surface cracked under the pressure.
He stood and watched as books, papers, and the desk phone slid off to the ground—immediately regretting the loss of control. He turned and sat on the broken desktop, listening to it creak under his three hundred and twenty-five pounds of bulk.
As the blood pressure behind his eyes began to diminish, he scratched under his chin, letting his focus return to the task at hand.
It’s getting worse, he thought. The rage is going to ruin me. I have to keep the beast in check.
**
1:15 p.m.—Langley, Virginia, CIA Headquarters
We got a quick bite to eat before heading down to the range. On the way Nick looked at me sideways several times, acting as if he had something to say, but didn’t speak.
“What?” I asked finally.
“I can’t read you,” he said. “Why do you want to do this?”
“I’ve got this romantic, patriotic notion of fighting tyranny and protecting the innocent,” I replied with a little too much sarcasm—I really needed to reel that back in a bit. “Beyond that, I think I’m good at it. Everyone wants to stand out and do something they are good at.”
Nick laughed. “Textbook,” he said, shaking his head.
“Textbook how?” I asked.
“Your dad is dead. Your mom is dead. You were abused. You have a unique skill set, and you want to protect the innocent,” he said, condescendingly. “You found a father figure in John, and now you want to make him proud of you. It never changes.”
“My mom’s not dead,” I corrected and was startled to realize I was actually offended by the notion that I might consider John a father figure—though honestly, I didn’t know what that kind of relationship felt like, so for all I knew, he may have been correct.
We said nothing else until we reached the check-in for the armory.
“Until Amsterdam, I had never been in fear for my life. Until Dusseldorf, I’d never feared for someone else’s life, and until Mimon, I never considered killing as a solution to my problems,” I said honestly, going back to his question. “Because of that, I’ll forever see new people as a potential threat, and I’ll always consider killing a viable option when weighing solutions. If the Agency wants me, then it makes it that much easier to handle the fact that I can never go back to who I was.”
Nick seemed a little dumbfounded, staring at me for a moment before pushing the door open.
“That’s the best fuckin’ answer I’ve ever heard,” he said with one eyebrow hooked high.
At the armory, Nick checked out four guns for me and we carried them down the hall to the indoor range, our ammunition and spare magazines tucked into a small ammo pack.
“As you get trained up, you’ll learn how to use all of them effectively,” he said as we pushed bullets into the magazines. “But your go-to weapon needs to feel natural in your hand—especially in the beginning. The last thing you want is to feel uncomfortable the first time you need it.”
I nodded my understanding. “What do you carry?” I asked.
He paused his loading before reaching under his jacket for his gun. I was surprised how easily he had concealed it.
“It’s a SIG Sauer P229,” he said, holding it up for me to see. “Three-fifty-seven SIG. But I can shoot a .40 caliber Smith and Wesson just by changing the barrel.”
I knew that .357 and .40 calibers were pretty large for pistols. I reached for it after he popped the magazine out, ejecting the round from the chamber before handing it to me.
It was heavier than the P226 John had let me use in Mimon, but about the same size.
“This one is fitted with a longer threaded barrel and accessory rails,” he said as I turned it over once in my hand before pointing it down range. “It’s got a faster action than the nine millimeter you used in Mimon and the stainless steel slide lets you have a lighter pullback instead of using a stiffer recoil spring.”
That would explain the extra weight, I thought.
He handed me the magazine. “Squeeze one off and see how you like it,” he said.
I popped the magazine in and pulled the slide back to chamber a round. He was right, the pull was smooth—I liked it.
I aimed it down range at the black paper silhouette and squeezed. It fired before I thought it would, but I hit the target just above center mass.
“Oh yeah,” Nick said, pulling my headphone-style hearing protection to the side. “I forgot to mention I’ve customized the trigger weight.”
I nodded my acknowledgement; the tension on the trigger was very light. “That’s a lot of gun.”
He nodded. “It’s not for everyone,” he replied. “But the Secret Service uses them.”
I popped the magazine out, ejected the round and then pushed the loose round back into the mag before tapping it back in. I held it in my hand and moved my thumb around, checking the reach to the levers and the fit to my hand.
“It’s wide,” I said before handing it back to him.
“You’ve gotten used to the Glock John gave you. Here, try this,” he replied, handing me a Glock 32.
It felt more comfortable in my hand—but then again, I’d been falling asleep at night with my fingers wrapped around a Glock, so I should have expected that.
I slipped the magazine in and gave it a tap to seat it. When I aimed it downrange, it felt good, so I squeezed off a round. The trigger weight was about the same as Nick’s P229, but I was comfortable with it—it fired when I expected it to. The shot impacted about half an inch below the first one I had fired.
“Squeeze off a few more,” Nick said.
I fired three more in rapid succession. All impacted in a circle you could cover with your hand, center mass. I nodded and examined the gun after clearing the chamber.
“What’s the advantage of the larger caliber over the nine?” I asked Nick as I picked up a Glock 19—a newer version of the one John had loaned me.
“You don’t have to guess about penetration,” he said. “Three fifty-seven and forty cal get much better penetration than nine millimeter, but there’s a cost. They’re louder, so suppressors are often less effective, you don’t typically get as much ammo per magazine unless you go with oversized mags… and depending on who you are, your shot groups are sloppier.” Then he grinned. “But I’m all about the penetration.”
I popped the magazine into the Glock 19 and pulled the slide back. It was smoot
h and felt very natural in my hand. I aimed it down range and squeezed off a round. Impact: dead center of center mass. I immediately squeezed off three more rounds.
“What happened?” Nick asked as I cleared the chamber. “Your first one was dead on. Too light for you?”
I looked downrange and squinted before smiling and hitting the retrieval button on the target, bringing it sliding back toward us. Nick shook his head as he loaded rounds into the next weapon while we waited for it. When the target stopped, he looked up—the grin on his face disappeared. All four rounds had gone through in the same place—a dime would have covered the hole.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
I just grinned without looking at him as I loaded rounds into magazines.
“You must sleep with that thing under your pillow,” he snarked.
“I do,” I replied with a wink.
He squinted at me, not knowing if I was serious or not.
“Try this one,” he said, setting a SIG Sauer P226N in front of me. “This is what the SEALs use.”
He sent the target back downrange, but instead of stopping where it had been before, it kept receding past the twenty-five meter line and on out to thirty-five meters. When it stopped, I pulled the slide back, chambering a round, and then raised it to the target. It felt lighter than his P229 had but the fit was about the same. I squeezed off one round to see how it felt, then immediately fired five more rounds.
“Empty it,” he said.
I continued squeezing the trigger until the slide locked back. When I was done, he hit the return button on the target. He leaned forward and squinted as it came closer, making a grunting sound in his throat as my results became clear. Every round but the first one had gone through the same hole I had made before. The opening was a little bigger—a half dollar coin would have covered the grouping.
“Seems like you’d do okay with the nineteen or the two-two-six,” he said, trying to sound unimpressed—but I could tell he hadn’t expected me to do so well.
“I like the Glock,” I said, but it didn’t surprise me. Sleeping with my hand wrapped around the Glock would probably do that. Firing the 9 millimeter rounds had felt so natural and my groupings had been so precise, I wondered why I would ever need anything else. A head shot was a viable option for me with both the Glock and the SIG Sauer 9mm.