by R. A. McGee
Clark pushed the couch in front of the door, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He peeled his shirt off, tossing it on the bed, and went into the kitchen. He scrubbed his hands in the warmest water the faucet could muster, rinsing the now dried blood from under his fingernails. Then he sat his Glock on the kitchen table, unburdening himself of its weight for a while.
He went to the kitchen cabinet and opened it, grabbing the only thing there: another bottle of vodka. He set the vodka on the table next to the pistol and marker and went to his bed. Instead of sitting, he lifted up the mattress and retrieved a tri-fold posterboard, the kind kids used for science fairs. He carried the board to the kitchen table and unfolded it.
All three sides were littered with photos, handwritten notes, and newspaper articles. Clark looked over the board for a few moments and drew an X on a Post-it note that read “Darren Flores.” It was part of an ever-growing collection of red Xs that were spreading across the posterboard.
With a small smile, Clark folded the posterboard up and put it back underneath the mattress. Cracking the lid on the plastic bottle of vodka, he guzzled it and touched a small photo that he kept on the table. A thin strip of picture stock, four pictures from a photo booth.
A happier time and place.
Clark took another long drink from the bottle. He had a big day tomorrow and he’d have to be plastered to have any chance of sleeping through the night.
And he very much needed to sleep.
Three
Miriam Banks walked through the parking lot and to a private elevator, and swiped her keycard for access. The cool weather had forced her into a coat for the first time that year, a fact she didn’t like.
Originally from the Northeast, Banks had gone to college in Florida and had enjoyed the warm weather. Then a voluntary enlistment in the Israeli Army had further adapted her to heat. Now living in Virginia, she might as well have been in Siberia.
The elevator ride was brief, and she stepped out into the well-heated office space, shucking her coat as she went. The office could have been any law or architecture firm in any building in the country. There were offices and cubicles, people running back and forth with busywork.
Miri walked past the cubes toward the big office in the back. She walked purposefully, cognizant of a limp she’d developed due to an injured foot several weeks ago. She willed herself to walk normally and not give in to the nagging pain.
A small desk sat outside her destination.
“Rita.”
“I’m glad to see you. He’s been waiting. Seems like he really wants to talk; he's getting impatient. Told me to send you right in,” the older woman said.
Miri feigned a look of shock. “The Old Man being impatient? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
The secretary laughed and waved Miri back. A narrow hallway led past a private restroom and then to an open door. Miri poked her head in. “McHenry?”
An old man turned from his newspaper and greeted her with a smile. He was thin and fully gray, with nice slacks, a tie, and suspenders completing the professorial look. “Shut the door behind you.”
Miri walked in and closed the door. The walls and shelves in the office were littered with memorabilia: photographs with presidents, folded American flags in shadow boxes, military medals, and plaques. The room was stuffed with achievements and memories, but Banks always felt like it made the room feel homey instead of ostentatious.
McHenry reached over and plugged a dangling cord into a power strip on his desk. The cord led to a white noise machine right outside his door. There was no chance that anyone could eavesdrop. He tilted back in his leather executive chair. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to a well-worn leather couch that sat opposite his desk.
Miri obliged.
“Have you heard from him?”
“Straight to the point, huh?”
“I’m serious, Miri. Have you heard from him?”
She shifted back on the couch, which was so deep that her feet barely touched the ground, despite her nearly six-foot height. “No, I haven’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said I haven’t heard from him.”
McHenry sighed. He shifted papers on his desk around and pulled out a paper-clipped stack of newspapers. “I had our people in Mexico collect all this and send it to me. Some of these small papers don’t have an online presence, so all you can go by is the print copies.”
“What does it say?”
“I don’t speak Spanish, but if they translated everything right, he’s been very busy.”
Miri was stone-faced. “Really?”
“Don’t play coy. I know he said he was going to take care of things, but by my best estimation, his body count is somewhere north of twenty and he’s only been down there for six weeks.”
Miri didn’t answer.
McHenry stood, pressing his right hand into his hip, stretching slowly. Then he padded over to his window, thumbs hooked into his suspenders, and was quiet for a few minutes.
Miri remained silent.
“I know he quit. I understand that. I know he said he didn’t want our help. I get that too. It’s just…” McHenry trailed off. “How long before he slips up and makes a mistake? The last thing I want is him dying.”
“Clark’s the best,” Miri said. “I’m not too proud to admit it. Hell, that’s why he had to quit in the first place. If you would have stopped running him from op to op and just given him some time off, things might be different.”
“Don’t put this on me,” McHenry said. “He had a job to do. I needed him. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Not treat him like a slave. All he wanted was some time. Then after Samantha…”
Neither of them said anything, instead sitting in silence.
McHenry broke it. “I’ll admit, I may have made some errors. Mea culpa. But how was I supposed to know how everything was going to turn out?”
Miri shrugged.
“How can I make this right?” McHenry said. “I want to help him, and make sure he gets what he needs. Make sure he comes back safely. Then—”
“Then what?” Miri interrupted. “Put him back to work?”
“Eventually, yes,” McHenry said. “Listen, I’ll agree that he needs time to grieve. I get it. But eventually, he needs to come back. He’s a big part of Blackthorn, and we aren’t as effective without him. He needs to be working—real jobs, not just slaughtering cartel flunkies in some hole in Mexico.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I want you to go find him and bring him back,” McHenry said, with a smoothness that indicated he’d worked on the line.
Miri laughed. “Not sure that's a great idea. Besides, I leave in the morning for the Congo. We’ve been prepping that operation for weeks.”
“Not anymore you aren’t. I already gave it to Bellini and his team.”
Miri's heart jumped into her throat, but she kept a calm exterior. “That was my operation. I’ve been tracking that smuggling cell for weeks.”
“Yes, and I pulled you. I’m still in charge, remember?”
Miri breathed slowly but didn’t say anything.
McHenry turned and faced Banks, his look softening. “Look, we know you’re the closest to him. I’ve given up trying to understand your relationship. I’ve seen you take a bullet for him, and do I even have to remind you what happened in Venezuela?”
Miri shook her head.
“All I’m asking is that you go find him and talk to him. Make sure he’s okay. Leave the other work to other people. Clark is the most important thing right now, we both know it.”
Miri didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to argue against the truth. It was because she felt so strongly for Clark that she’d let him go off on his own, to set things right in his own way. She’d expected a call if he needed help, a call that never came. Surely he couldn’t be mad if she was ordered to go find and help him.
“Fine,” Miri said. “I’l
l go. But I can’t promise you I’ll bring him back. Hell, I can’t promise I can even find him.”
“You’ll find him. You always do.”
Miri stood up, nothing left to say on the matter. She walked out of McHenry’s office, concentrating on her limp, trying to keep her mind off the task ahead.
She knew she could locate Clark, but was worried what she’d find when she did.
Four
He was standing in front of a modest townhouse. His townhouse. A small parking pad, staircase to the front door, and a porch swing for two swaying gently in the breeze.
“Damn, I forgot the leftovers,” he said.
“Open the door first.”
“I gotta get the food. If not, my new truck is going to smell like duck curry in the morning.”
“Well, at least give me the keys. I drank too much water at dinner.” She held her hand out.
Clark handed Samantha the keys, then leaned in and kissed her before heading back down the stairs to the walkway and grabbing the to-go box. He stopped next to the car and watched her as she unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
She smiled big. “This is all your fault.”
He was rooted to the ground. No matter how many times he lived this moment, he couldn’t change it.
As she walked through the doorway, she was backlight by a light. It grew brighter around her until it enveloped her. Then the heat came. Like the first air from an open oven, it blew her red hair messily around her head, until the hair singed and burned to her scalp, leaving her bald as a newborn. A newborn with burned, charred skin instead of the smooth, pink babyness.
He couldn’t turn away and he couldn’t help. The heat was relentless, until her face melted off, like a wax figure. She didn’t seem to notice any of it, and stared straight at him, skin sloughing off her in waves.
Then, when she was only a skull, her black eye sockets stared into his eyes and through him.
“This is all your fault,” she said in her beautiful voice, terribly juxtaposed against the horrifying new visage.
Clark launched himself out of bed, pistol pointing at the door.
He breathed deeply several times to calm himself. It wasn’t the first nightmare, and he was sure it wasn’t going to be the last. At least he hadn’t squeezed the trigger this time. He wasn’t sure what it would take to get a good night’s sleep, but the vodka wasn’t helping.
As his heart rate returned to normal, there was another soft knock at the door. Pulling on pants, he pushed the couch out of the way and placed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of the door, estimating the height of an average man’s head. “Who is it?”
A soft voice replied, “Señor Smith? I just wanted you to know there is food if you are hungry.”
“Gracias,” Clark replied. “Un momentito.” Just a second.
He listened as footsteps moved away down the hallway. Grabbing a bottle of water, he brushed his teeth and poured some into his hand, splashing it over his face and powerful torso.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he knew he couldn’t keep missing sleep. Before he pulled his long-sleeved shirt on, his gaze lingered on his left arm. From the wrist to the top of his shoulder there were tattoos of keys. Some larger than others, but mostly small and nondescript. He wondered if he had the space for the new tattoos he needed, as well as the ones he’d be adding soon.
He figured he’d manage.
Clark pulled his shirt on, slipped the Glock into his waistband, and made his way downstairs.
In a small room, away from the laundromat, was a worn card table with folding legs. Three mismatched chairs sat around it. On one was Señora Iglesias, owner of the laundromat and the room Clark was renting. She was middle-aged and unremarkable, save for her kindness.
On the other chair sat her ten-year-old son, Mateo. A thin boy with longish hair, his bright, clear eyes moved quickly from place to place around the room.
Clark sat in front of a small portion of chorizo sausage and eggs, with homemade corn tortillas to use as an eating vessel.
The group ate in silence. Clark was careful to eat enough to be polite, but not to take food from the woman or her boy.
After some time, Iglesias sent her boy to play and was alone with Clark at the table.
“The news around town is three men were killed in one of those filthy clubs up the way. Was that you?” she asked in Spanish.
Clark was fluent, so understanding wasn’t a problem. Still, he kept his mouth shut. His nonanswer told the woman everything she needed to know.
“Good. Those savages come into a place like this and take over. Cause destruction with their drugs and filth. They kill…” Her voice trailed off and she fingered her ring finger, ringless, but still sporting a distinct tan line. “They just kill.”
“Maybe not for long,” Clark said.
Señora Iglesias nodded and rolled another taco.
Clark wiped his mouth. “Is rent due?”
The woman laughed. “For you? Of course not. It is nice having a man around the business. Besides, you gave me enough for two months last time you paid.”
“Are you sure?” Clark said, fishing the wad of money that Flores had given him the night before out of his pocket. He dropped it on the table in front of his landlord with a thud.
“My God! Where did you get all this?”
“I found it,” Clark said. “It just fell into my lap, more or less.”
“What are you going to do with it all?”
“That’s for you to decide,” Clark said.
Señora Iglesias scrunched up her face at him. “What?”
“Now don’t be stupid with it. You can’t go and buy a car or anything like that. Keep it quiet, hide it, and pull it out as you need it. That’s it. Just a little something to make sure that Mateo has plenty of food to get big and strong like his dad was.”
Iglesias looked at Clark with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. I’m not done yet, so let's just call my rent paid for a few more months. Deal?”
“I think you bought the building,” Iglesias said with a laugh.
Clark smiled and the small cell phone in his pocket chirped. A text notification. Clark read it, then stood and excused himself.
He made his way through the laundromat and to a small parking lot two blocks from the building. He employed countersurveillance techniques the entire way. No one was following him.
Turning the key in a Jeep Wrangler that had seen much better days, Clark popped the clutch, rooster-tailed a bit of dirt, and sped off to his boss’s house.
Five
McHenry sat in the conference room, tilted back in his chair. There were nearly a dozen people sitting comfortably in the space. Laptops were open, papers strewn across the large table. People were intently studying and debating the chess moves of the next seventy-two hours.
Chip Bellini was giving a very thorough, very impassioned, very professional briefing regarding the takedown of a small cell of a radical organization in Africa. McHenry should have been listening, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere south of the border.
Usually, he’d be listening to Clark give a briefing like this. Sure, Bellini was competent and switched on, as were all the other team leads, but this would normally be a case Clark handled. He’d be in here, grumbling to the tech officer about making the image from his laptop show on the screen, Miri needling him about his ineptitude the entire way.
McHenry frowned.
“That’s the plan, Boss. See any holes?” Bellini asked.
“No, Chip, that all looks in order. You guys are taking the jet?”
“Beats commercial,” he said, eliciting a chuckle from the conference room.
“Good. Let me know if you need anything else.” McHenry stood. Everyone quieted down out of respect as he exited the room, then got back to the mission at hand.
McHenry was lost in thought as he wandered back to his office. He currentl
y had four teams of operatives in various places around the world. Some, they’d been asked to be in, as advisors and helpers with the full cooperation of the local government. If they were caught in others, they’d be crucified.
The worst-case scenario for getting caught somewhere they weren’t supposed to be was the disavowing of an operative.
A disavow included cutting off the operative. Everything, from their credit cards and passports to their citizenship and diplomatic protections. They would be alone, in the cold. The operative would be stateless and left to fend for themselves. Commonly, the story would spread that the disavowed operative was a traitor. Untrustworthy. They would never be able to relax without looking over their shoulder again.
The fact was, Blackthorn operators were the tip of the spear, recruited from the best places McHenry could find. They were good at their jobs. An operative sent on an assignment was fully aware of the dangers before they departed. Despite the risk, everyone's hand was raised when a new operation was up for grabs, even knowing a disavowment was the ultimate price to pay.
Fortunately, this had only happened once.
In that instance, the president had called McHenry directly, and relayed his position in no uncertain terms. The Blackthorn operator’s presence in Cuba could never be revealed to the public.
Although originally funded by a sneaky line item on a pork-filled bill by Congress, technically, Blackthorn was a private company. It was the best way to ensure ultimate deniability: the US government couldn’t be responsible for something they had no knowledge of or control over. McHenry could have decided against it, and sent a team after the operator, but he hadn’t.
Sometimes, it paid to play nice with the man living at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
So the operator was disavowed, and all ties to the United States severed. As far as McHenry knew, the man was still in a Cuban prison somewhere, rotting.
On the approach to his office, McHenry stopped at Rita’s desk. “It’s not Secretary’s Day, is it? Because I’m feeling very appreciative of your help around here.”