by Jim Heskett
As Keegan fell, he spun around and lashed out toward Molly Waffles, standing only a foot behind him. He grabbed onto her prosthetic. With a yelp, the arm came free of Molly’s shoulder socket.
Layne lunged forward, but he wasn’t close enough to reach them.
Keegan held the false arm above his head as he slipped. When it neared the mouth of the hole, the limb reached far enough from one end to the other to break his fall. He dangled in space, legs swinging freely below. If the hole had been two inches wider, he would have fallen through.
Keegan’s descent halted, using the arm to block his fall. Molly tumbled forward. She spread her legs and one good arm, then landed in a three-point stance over the hole. She halted like a tent, butt up in the air. But she didn’t fall. If she slipped, her weight would take both her and Keegan into the hole.
Layne wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back and to her feet.
“Holy shit,” she said. “Thank you.”
Layne reached down and held out a hand to Keegan. The dangling man latched on, then Layne pulled him out.
“That,” Keegan said, panting too hard to get out the words, “was… unexpected.” He frowned down the false arm in his hands, a look of regret on his face. "I'm so sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to –"
“Don’t worry about it," she said. “It’ll snap back on without too much trouble. Good thing I was right behind you.”
Layne pointed at the hole in the floor. "What is that?"
Keegan smoothed his thinning hair with one hand, taking breaths to calm himself. “That’s just a weak floor.”
They all leaned over it, and Keegan shined his flashlight. Below, a pile of wood and rocks formed an unforgiving landing pad. The depth looked to be only about twenty feet, but with those jagged rocks to break his fall, Keegan probably would have snapped his back.
“Anything down there?” Layne asked.
Keegan winced and dipped his air quality meter into the hole. “Caves. But I don’t see any promising pathways, plus the air’s no good down there, anyway. We should turn around and head back, actually. I’m nervous about this bad air polluting our current spot.”
Layne felt as if the walls were closing in. They had apparently searched most of the mine and had come up with nothing. But the search couldn’t end here. There had to be something useful.
"What about tunnel offshoots?" Layne asked. “Anything we’re not seeing?"
Keegan and Molly Waffles both shook their heads.
"I don't think so, Layne," Keegan said. "There's not a lot of wiggle room for secret passageways in a cramped mine like this one. There’s no cache of weapons down here. We would have seen something on the way in. Big tracks from footprints and dragging the barrels, or evidence the mine carts had been used. There’s none of that. This is a dead-end, dude.”
“But we did see footprints that could have been fresh.”
Molly sighed. “The thrill-seeker kids in this town still hang out in these mines every once in a while, from what I hear. Footprints don’t mean anything, Layney.”
“Well, shit.”
Keegan and Molly both barked a laugh at this. And he was reminded again they were lucky Keegan hadn’t fallen to his death. Despite all the drama, part of him enjoyed sitting here with Molly Waffles and Keegan Swiney. Not exactly like old times, but it was closer to the homecoming Layne had desired.
“We should go,” Keegan said.
Nodding, jaw set, Layne waved for his friends to head back in the other direction. The three of them turned around and marched toward the mine entrance.
For several minutes, no one spoke. Keegan’s air device clicked, Molly’s nose whistled as she breathed, and Layne’s mind worked overtime. As they traversed the different levels on their way back up, Layne moved slower, making sure his flashlight covered every available inch.
But he saw nothing interesting. Nothing unexpected.
Once they’d returned to the top level tunnel, they all stopped for a minute to catch their breath. Still, no one spoke. Layne could feel their collective dejection in eyes cast down and shoulders slumped.
“East Mine?” Layne said, the first words spoken in ten or fifteen minutes.
“Not worth it,” Molly said. “It’s really not worth it. Aside from the various collapses, there’s also just getting in the damn thing. There was a big wooden structure with stairs to go from the entrance to the first level, but that all fell down years ago. It’s a pretty steep drop just to access that first tunnel.”
“What about drones? Can we send one down there?”
Keegan shook his head. “No good. Unless you’re right there with it to provide a constant connection, it won’t work. The rock interferes with the signal.”
“Damn it. What about a bomb disposal robot?”
Keegan turned up his palms. “Sure, it might work, maybe. You bring one of those in your suitcase?”
Layne shook his head. He could probably call in a favor or two and get a bomb-disposal robot, but not without considerable hassle and several days of waiting. Layne had a feeling they did not have several days to spare.
“No, I didn’t bring any robots with me.”
“Then we can cross off that option,” Molly said as she rose to her feet and stretched. Layne and Keegan joined her, and they trudged along the tunnel leading them back to the mouth of the mine.
A few minutes later, they emerged into the cold October night air, no closer to answers than they had been when they'd started.
Interlude #3
Oahu, Hawaii, United States | 9 Years ago
It’s about twenty-four hours until Layne will marry the woman of his dreams. Inessa Yahontov will become Inessa Parrish. They will stand before rows of folding chairs on the grass, with the waves and the band providing background noise as they exchange rings and vows.
Layne knows she’s the one for him because he’s never felt a second of hesitation. He’s dated before, and he’s always known when something is off. He can feel it. But, with Inessa, there’s no hesitation. As he went to pick up the engagement ring to propose to her, there was never a moment of self-doubt. Never a moment of wondering if he was making a mistake as he drove and parked and entered the store and shook someone’s hand and swiped a credit card to pay for the ring.
Now, with about six hours left until the rehearsal dinner, he and his bride-to-be walk along the beach outside the resort. Because of their wedding obligations, they haven’t been able to explore the island as much as they would like. Always something to sign or a last-minute decision to be made. But they’ve been taking these beach walks as often as possible.
And, day after tomorrow, the honeymoon starts. Layne can’t wait to smush the power button on his phone until it’s all the way off, then slip it into a suitcase pocket for multiple consecutive days. Just the idea of being incommunicado feels like heaven.
In one section of the beach, a string of black volcanic rocks breaks up the shoreline and creates mini wave vortexes crashing into each other. Smooth gray surfaces dotted with tiny holes. Inessa and Layne walk barefoot along the rocks, feeling the light waves tickling their feet, shuffling from rock to rock. It’s not as hot today, with clouds dotting the sky and hinting of rain in the next few hours.
He thinks back to his freshman year of high school, visiting Myrtle Beach with his family. After a year of living at eight thousand feet, Layne adjusted to the altitude, but not quite to the town of Shotgun. But while on spring break with his parents and older brother, Layne felt something close to being at ease. Even though he experienced that same sense of low and rumbling dread lingering under every conversation, under every look. Everyone waiting for George to blow up, for the day to be ruined.
Sometimes, Layne’s older brother or mother would bait George with passive-aggressive comments until he would storm off in a huff. Or hit someone. At the time, Layne didn’t understand why it seemed as if the family blow-up was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sometimes, creating drama was more comfortable than havi
ng an actual pleasant conversation.
But that day, at the beach in South Carolina, everyone got along. They made a family sand castle and shared boogie boards and even smiled at each other over lunch. For a few hours, everything was great. Eventually, Layne’s barefoot brother stepped on a broken seashell and cut his foot, and then the day went downhill quickly after that.
Layne smiles now, thinking about the memory. He barely notices when Inessa slides a hand around his waist.
“You seem far away,” she says. “Far away from me.”
Layne tries to smile, but he knows he can’t defend his sour expression. He is far away, his thoughts firing a million times a minute. “Just thinking about my dad. Wondering if he’s going to come to the wedding.”
She grips him close and says nothing, because she doesn’t have to. They’ve talked about his father plenty over the last few days. But that’s not the only thing on his mind. This was supposed to be a week for him and Inessa. A week away from work, a week away from the insanity of the operations that are slowly killing him.
He doesn’t know yet that his next official mission, the one in London, will be his last. He doesn’t know yet that the London debacle will be the operation that breaks the formerly indestructible Layne Parrish.
The only thing he knows for sure is that he can’t keep doing this forever. Especially now that he will be married and hopefully starting a family as soon as possible.
No more midnight flights across the ocean. No more buying only travel-sized toiletries. No more two-hour visits to Cairo or Jakarta or Reykjavík. A stop off and then quick car ride to assassinate someone, then back on a different plane. A visit so fast and coordinated he doesn’t even have time to experience jet lag. Layne doesn’t know he’s ready to leave all that behind, but he will soon.
At that point, retiring will dominate his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he says. “A lot on my mind. Logistically, this wedding is a nightmare.”
“I am your nightmare, eh?” she says with a smirk.
He grabs her and spins her, then kisses her. Their tongues intertwine, and he has a strong desire to halt this beach walk and invite her back to the hotel for some private time. But he can’t. They have to meet with the wedding coordinator person in about fifteen minutes to talk about bad weather alternatives. After being here for only a few days, Layne has seen the skies devolve from blue and sunny to dark and stormy within minutes.
“No, baby. I’ll just be glad when this is over, and we can just be married. I want to be married to you, and then we’re going to put on horse blinders so we never get distracted again.”
She smiles and grips his hand, and they continue walking. “I don’t think I would look good in horse blinders.”
“You look amazing in anything,” Layne says. “Especially here. It’s like you were made for Hawaii.”
Inessa smiles at the soft sunlight overhead. “It’s the lighting. Sun from above, and the sand reflects it from below, so this place is perfect. It’s why so many photo shoots are on beaches, I think.”
“I see,” he says.
And Layne knows the wedding is only part of the reason he’s so stressed. Daphne Kurek, his boss at the espionage outfit so compact and ethereal it has no official name, has been texting him relentlessly all day. Since starting this walk with Inessa, his phone has buzzed at least five times. Layne hasn’t checked any of them. It would feel disrespectful to have a conversation with Daphne while Inessa is around.
A hundred feet behind them, a little girl sits in the sand, crying. Inessa frowns at her, and Layne checks around for her parents. Probably the couple lying on towels nearby, apparently uninterested in whatever was upsetting this little one.
Layne points at a fluffy toy cow floating in the water. “There. In the water. Looks like she lost her stuffed doll.”
“Oh no,” Inessa says. “That’s terrible.”
“I got it,” Layne says, but Inessa puts a hand on his chest.
“I will get it.”
She slips her sundress over her head, revealing a red bikini underneath. Her sculpted body has turned golden in the few days they’ve been here, and her tummy hasn’t seen any swelling from all the fresh fish and fruity drinks they’ve gorged themselves on since arriving.
She breaks into a sprint toward the sea, then leaps off the edge of the rocks. Her body is sleek and carved like a statue, and she moves through the water with effortless grace. Layne never pictured himself marrying a model, because he likes to think he’s not the type to date someone for their looks. But then he met Inessa. He still believes he’s not marrying her for her looks, but it’s hard not to constantly notice how stunning she is.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. “Damn it, Daphne,” he mutters. “I said no.”
But he pulls his phone out of his pocket, anyway. For two straight days, Daphne has been trying to get Layne to undertake a mission here on Oahu. At the resort a block down the street from this resort. She’s offered him hazard pay, she’s offered him an extra week of honeymoon vacation time, she’s begged and pleaded. But nothing has made Layne change his mind. He’s here to marry Inessa, not assassinate a target.
But when Layne looks at his phone, everything changes.
Your target Elijah Brown is linked to human trafficking, Boy Scout. Mostly Ukrainian, Czech, and Russian women. He’s been linked to the deaths of at least ten underage women. If you don’t kill him today, he slips away. He’ll be off to Venezuela or Mongolia.
“Damn it, Daphne,” he mutters again. Venezuela and Mongolia have no extradition treaties with the US. A moment later, a new text bubble appears below that one.
I know what you’re thinking: we’ve found him before, so we can find him again. Not this one. Elijah Brown has to die today, or that’s it.
He was thinking that exact same thing only a moment before. With a sigh, his thumbs punch in two letters:
Ok.
19
Layne pulled back the front door to the cabin. He’d done it with too much force. A framed picture rattled off an end table next to the front door and cracked on the hard floor. He hadn’t been trying to break stuff, but after a day like today, he was in no mood for subtlety and grace. In a single afternoon, Layne had been almost killed by a loose leopard, and then he’d seen his old best friend nearly fall to his death in an unstable mine.
George Parrish sat in a ratty chair in the living room. The same green chair his father had occupied for decades now, with torn fabric near the bottom. They used to own a cat, a mangy thing that had wandered up to the house and decided to stay. George had let the cat live there, to the surprise of the entire family. He’d never shown any predilection toward caring for animals before. But that cat had never been the family cat; it had always been Dad’s, up until the day it ran away and then never came back. George had never mentioned the pet again, but he’d never been in a hurry to replace the scratched-up chair, either.
George had so far paid no attention to Layne’s abrupt entrance. His eyes were closed, a beer bottle clutched in his one good hand. The other hand hung like a useless claw in his lap. His head swayed back and forth as oldies music blared from an analog radio sitting on the nightstand next to him.
“Dad,” Layne said. No response. He said it louder, and this time with his fists clenched.
George finally opened his eyes. He said, “You look like hell,” but stroke-affect speech made it sound like noo lyuck ike yell. Layne understood the message just fine, though.
“I’ve had a messed-up day. Believe me, I don’t want to be here right now, but I’m starting to feel like I have to. I’m starting to feel like there’s something very serious going on in this town, and I think you can shed light on it. But for some reason, you won’t do it.”
George shrugged and looked away, still listening to his music.
Layne crossed the room and turned off the radio. George protested, but Layne slid the coffee table over and sat on it, meeting George’s eyes. He sat twe
nty inches away, and he held in place until his father acknowledged his presence.
“These people are going to kill you.”
“I’m already dying.”
“Why don’t you come with me now? I’ll take you to Alamosa or South Fork. Somewhere away from here where they can’t get to you.”
“I ain’t moving.”
“Fine. No more bullshit, Dad. You can tell me what’s going on here, or I can call in my friends at the FBI and Homeland Security, and let them flood this town with investigators. If that happens, who knows how much truth bubbles up to the surface? Probably things a lot of people in town don’t want to come out.”
George eyed him. “You know people at the FBI? I thought you were a therapist.”
In the two decades since the beginning of his service to the United States government, Layne had never told his parents his real occupation. For years, he had an address reserved in an Austin strip mall, to receive mail for his fake business as a counselor. Now that he had retired, it no longer mattered.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me too, son. What don’t I know about you?”
“Almost twenty years ago, I killed my first target. He was a small-time jihadist named Omar Naseer, living in Seattle, planning an attack there. I killed him at the request of the US government, and it was my initiation into a clandestine operations team. The team has always been small, usually three to five people, and it has never been recognized by any branch of the government. We were so secret that the team never had a name. I worked for them for about a decade before I retired, which was not long after I got married.”
George scowled, shifted in his chair, and let loose a barrage of wet coughs. “Bullshit. That sounds like an action movie plot.”
“It’s true, whether you believe it or not. I got my masters at CSU, but I never got an LPC or LMFT or MSW. So I never actually became a therapist. I joined the team right after grad school. But, I mean, it’s not as if you ever would have tried to visit me in Austin, or even checked in on me to see how I was doing in my career.”