Gone Dark (The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Book 2)

by P. R. Adams

  I worked out the framework for a message while I brushed my teeth, only occasionally distracted by the glistening wound on my scalp.

  Healing. You had to see it to know it’s there. You’re fine.

  Once settled into bed, I typed everything up, encrypted it, and ran it through the same contorted channels I was using to watch my own account.

  Then I closed my eyes and quickly fell asleep.

  But not for long, or at least it seemed so. My vision was clear, but it took seconds for what I was seeing to register: A small version of Margo stood beside my bed in the morning light, dressed in an oversized blue Boise State basketball jersey. Big blue eyes stared at me from beneath stringy, blond bangs. When I could finally think clearly, I realized it was a boy of maybe seven, but the resemblance was uncanny. His breath rasped, as if he thought I might jump out of bed and attack him.

  I mumbled something close to, “You must be Derek?”

  His big head bobbed up and down on his tiny neck. “Derek Bauer.”

  I tested my hand control—flexing, then tapping fingertips to palms. Everything seemed perfectly operational. “I’m Stefan Mendoza.” I held my right hand out.

  His blue eyes, big as moons, locked onto my hand. “Are you a robot?”

  “Part of me, sure.” I sat up, got to my feet. “All except for the parts that make me human. Your mother in the kitchen?”

  “She said… She said you need to eat cuz you’re sick and hardly there. Robots eat?”

  I patted his head. I had been a pain-in-the-ass once, too. “Robots don’t. But the part of me that’s human does.”

  He tagged along beside me. “It’s cuz I’m stupid.”

  “What? Who says?”

  “My pa.”

  I squatted until our eyes were level. “My pa said that once. Now he’s in prison and I’m a robot. Who do you think’s the stupid one?”

  That brought a smile to his face.

  We stepped into the kitchen, and I was nearly bowled over by the aroma of sweet peppers and onions frying in bacon grease. They sizzled in a pan that hadn’t seen use in close to a decade. I normally brought quick-prep meals with me.

  Then again, I wasn’t usually on the run for murder.

  Margo turned to me, smiling but eyes downcast. She’d heard us, of course. In the white sunlight, she was angelic, dressed in a tight cotton top and black jeans that hinted she hadn’t let go of the young woman I’d first known in the barn. “I filled the generator. Biscuits in the oven, coffee on the stove, eggs’re about to go in the pan.”

  “It smells great.” I winked at Derek and bit into a crispy strip of bacon. “Robots can smell.”

  He sucked in air, making an impressed oooo sound.

  Margo tilted her head. “You wake Mr. Mendoza up, Derek?”

  The little guy shook his head. “The robot parts did.”

  I shrugged. Something had woken me—a noise, a smell. “I had to get up at some point. That’s a nice outfit.”

  Margo nodded at my favorite armchair. “I’m all dolled up to go into town. I’ll bring your food to you. When you’re done, there’s some wood out by your truck you can haul back here, if you’re up for it.”

  I patted my legs. “Robot legs ready.”

  Derek stood between me and the fireplace while I ate, mouth agape, eyes wide. Clearly, I was the first robot he’d ever seen chow down on biscuits, fried eggs, and veggies. After Margo finished off an egg and half a biscuit, she waved the boy to her. “C’mon, Champ. Time for school.”

  He seemed ready to protest, but ultimately ran to her and grabbed her outstretched hand. At the front door, he waved and said, “G’bye, Robotman!”

  I saluted him with my fork. He didn’t seem particularly slow to me, so I assumed the challenges he faced were something personal to Neil. Maybe it was like the way my father considered me soft for resenting him putting his hands on my mother. The idea that Neil might be laying a finger on Margo sent a flash of heat through my chest and face.

  I let it go. If she was having problems with Neil other than him being the cocky tool he always used to be, she would tell me.

  After finishing off the coffee and relieving myself, I headed out to my truck, now armed with the key to the lock. My normal visits were usually no longer than a few days, barely enough time to catch up on sleep and work through whatever stiffness remained after a mission. Even if I bought some wood for the fireplace, I would toss it over the fence and carry it up from inside. This was going to be my little home away from the chaos and madness of the world until I could figure out my next move. I didn’t have the money to retire, so I would eventually have to take some jobs abroad. That would mean reaching out to old contacts, and that would take some time.

  Margo had dropped off what looked like at least a quarter cord. I worked up a decent sweat getting it to the house, then stacked enough inside the cabin for a good fire. After that, I headed out to the barn and checked the tractor. It needed work, and I didn’t have most of the tools or parts. I retrieved the folded tarp from the far side of the house and unfolded the thick material until there was enough to hold the tractor parts I could pull off without specialized tools.

  After a few hours, the sun was setting, and I had the oil filter and fuel system removed and the fluids drained into waste containers. My back ached from the honest work, and I stank like I’d been a month without a shower.

  I ferried a few pails of water to the tub and set the kettle to boil again, not even realizing until I was stretched out that my headache was gone.

  The peace, the labor—the corruption of the world was being drained from me. After scrubbing all that poison off, I filled the tub again, this time just to soak. Spasms shot through the small of my back, and my abdominal muscles were tender. It was a good feeling, but the hot water had me drowsy in no time.

  I toweled off and changed into a pair of gray dress slacks and a pressed, white shirt I’d taken from the dry cleaner. It was a ridiculous outfit for a place like my little home, formal and sharp in the glow of a fire, but then everything in my life was becoming ridiculous.

  A knock at the door jolted me from what had probably been an approaching nap. Margo poked her head in, looked ready to call out, then turned toward me. “Well, now I’m the one not quite dressed for the dance.” She slipped in and set a box on the kitchen table. Beneath her quilted jacket, she still wore the same tight cotton top and black jeans. “Look at you, all duded up like a gentleman.”

  “Is that Chinese?” The smell of grease and garlic made me salivate.

  “You still like moo shu pork?” She smiled mischievously. “I went all out on this—egg rolls, hot and sour soup, beef lo mein, crab rangoon. Big city sophisticated.” The last part came out with a heavy dose of self-doubt.

  I helped pull the containers from inside the box. “Is that what your explosion was about yesterday? Dr. Jernigan?”

  “I guess. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Deal.” I pulled some plates from the cupboard and rinsed them in water I’d left in the kettle. “You’ve been spending a lot of money on me.”

  “Not really. The kids are over at my mom’s, so that doesn’t cost me nothing. The wood and breakfast food was from our own supply. No one’s going to notice that.”

  “Just let me pay you back, okay? I don’t need any trouble between you and Neil over this.”

  She took the plate I offered her and looked away. “Neil don’t come back until tomorrow, and he’ll be too hung over to notice anything for a couple days. He generally sleeps for a whole day, stinking the house up while I bag the meat up and freeze it.” She stuffed noodles into her mouth and said around them, “It’s a great life.”

  Her tears reflected gold in the firelight.

  I set the box of pork and vegetables down, suddenly not hungry. “How bad is it?”

  She sniffled and laughed—nervous, embarrassed. “Oh, it’s like any marriage. You get bored with each other. You agree you’ll stay tog
ether for the kids. You argue over the dumbest shit. When are you gonna get a job? Why don’t we take a trip to Paris? Why can’t I go to school and you watch the kids? And when you’re honest, it’s all about money. Right? Isn’t that how it is?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” The fights between my parents had been about my father’s drinking.

  “I’m just being selfish. That’s what it comes down to. I wanted more out of life. Stupid.” She shoved noodles into her mouth again and looked away. “You really like this place? Living simple? Didn’t you travel in the military? Have adventures?”

  I closed my eyes and relived some of the tenser memories: the cool of a desert night raid on a terrorist camp in Syria; the sweltering heat of Somalia as we lay beneath camouflage before ambushing a warlord’s convoy; the almost unbreathable soup of the Colombian forest in the rainy season as we hunted a Russian spy for the Agency. And between those terrifying moments where death was a stray bullet or an explosion or a garrote around the throat away, there were the interminable waits. The downtime. The paperwork. The training.

  “We traveled and had adventures.” It’s what she needed to hear.

  Her lips quivered, struggling to hold a smile. “You ever been to Paris? London?”

  “Not a lot of bad people there. The French and British can handle their troublemakers.”

  “Is it all about killing for you? I meant on vacation. Just to see the sights.”

  “Maybe one day.” They weren’t really the sort of places I wanted to spend time in, but if it made her happy, that changed things. “Which would you go to if you could only pick one?”

  She smiled, pure and authentic. Glowing. Eyes now lit up and looking into the distance. “Paris. I’ve seen videos of all the places I’d visit, but it’s not the same. Videos can’t capture the smells or the quiet sounds. Y’know? I’d want to walk all through the Louvre, see the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Palais Garnier—” Her focus returned to me, and she bowed her head. “That’s boring, huh?”

  “No. Nothing was ever boring about you, Margo. I figured out before I joined the Army that I had never been good enough for you; I just never had the guts to tell you.”

  She set her plate on the table, and the joy that had been there just a moment before evaporated. “I really screwed up, Stefan.” She touched my cheek. “The way you connected with Derek today, without any effort. Neil—” She closed her eyes and leaned closer to me, face tilted up, lips pursed.

  Never touch another man’s wife. That had been my motto through years of service and operation. It was different if it was a target or a target’s wife. But a fellow soldier? A coworker? Never.

  I pulled her to me and kissed her, tasting the grease and spices on lips I hadn’t felt on mine for nearly twenty years. I ran fingers under her top, tracking the faint dampness along her back where she’d been close to the fire, then fumbling with her bra. She unbuttoned my shirt as I pulled her jeans off. Our kisses became more intense, her breathing deeper, until finally we stood naked before the fireplace. Faint stretch marks ran from the bottom of her belly to the hair over her vulva. Her breasts were fuller but sagged slightly. Her arms were thicker and had lost some of the tone she’d been so proud of.

  Life had treated her far better than it had me.

  I pulled her to me and kissed her again, then carried her to my favorite chair, both of us shaking.

  She stroked me. “Still human?” Breathless.

  “Maybe a little better.”

  Her nails ran along my belly, my chest. “Best be a whole lot better.”

  I settled on the chair, ran fingers and lips across her breasts, her belly, the stretch marks, then licked her.

  She hissed, then ground herself against me. Her back became hot and slick from the fireplace. She quivered, and her breathing deepened. Finally, she pushed me back and climbed onto my lap, straddling me, stroking me. She kissed me and whispered, “Let’s see what Robotman can do.”

  I laughed and showed her.

  Chapter 5

  The cold front broke that night, blown out to the east. It carried with it concerns that had been bogging me down for far too long, concerns that boiled down to one question: What did I want?

  I wanted Margo. I wanted the peaceful life I’d passed on in Emmett when I’d run rather than face the damage my father had done.

  I drove into town the next morning, now seeing the buildings differently, admiring the way they stood so sturdily in the sunrise glow. That sunlight was warmer than any I could recall since the rescue from Korea. Truck engines grumbled and hummed as people set about on their daily routines. Traffic was light and slow. As I waited for a tractor to cross through an intersection, I caught the smell of spicy sausage and sautéing vegetables from Lang’s, a restaurant that had been home to some pleasant memories. I stopped for a quick bite, remembering a summer morning having coffee with my mother over waffles sticky with syrup. From Lang’s, I headed over to the discount department store that had replaced the local one. The name of the place had changed, but that was all. Fluorescent lights, cracked tiles, narrow aisles, simple display bins. I picked up underwear, new sneakers, jeans, and work shirts, paying with a cash card, same as I had everywhere since fleeing. After that, I headed over to the John Deere dealership to pick up what parts I could and order what I couldn’t. A small box of tools wrapped up that trip.

  Strange looks trailed me while I shopped for food, but that was life in a small town. You’re either part of the organism or you’re an invader, a potential danger.

  I considered turning on utilities, but realized that would have to wait until I had an identity to transfer ownership to. That was something I would need Chan’s help with, and no one from the team had responded to my message yet. That worried me a little. Danny probably had them operating with extreme caution. That was his nature.

  With the sun almost directly overhead, I set to work on the tractor, using my data device to refer to the tractor’s user manual. After the trip to the dealership, I had enough tools to get at the last of the worn-out components. I had just replaced a difficult belt when an engine coughed, a sound worse than the stolen truck’s. A banged-up pickup—a big, old Ram—with faded blue paint and bald tires knocked the gate aside with a shuddering rattle, then lurched toward the barn. Chills shot down my spine at the sight of a dead buck strapped to the hood. It was stupid, impractical, egotistical—a desperate plea for attention.

  Neil!

  The truck screeched to a stop, and a man with bushy, light brown hair and matching stubble slid out of the cab. Neil stood about a half foot taller than me, and he’d packed on probably fifty pounds since his Iowa State Championship runner-up heyday. He had a bushy mustache that seemed perfect for the stained denim jacket that barely covered a red flannel shirt. His jeans were even more worn and stained than the rest of his clothes, the hems muddy and frayed.

  More importantly, he had a hunting rifle. The sort I had used to kill the assassins in the woods east of Denver. The sort that could put a hole through my chest or head.

  Never mess with another man’s wife.

  I held up both hands. “Neil. Is that your father’s old Remington?”

  He swung the barrel up and centered it on my chest. “You can just shut the fuck up. Right now!”

  “Neil. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Got nothing to talk about, you son of a bitch! Who the hell do you think you are? Huh? Mr. Badass Soldier? Come home to swing his dick around and see who the fuck wants a piece of it? That who you think you are?” He raised the barrel so that I could see straight down its length.

  “No one wins if you pull that trigger, Neil. Jail time, maybe lethal injection.”

  He wobbled slightly. Drunk. I knew the look too damned well. If he came closer, I would probably be able to smell the cheap beer on him and see the red in his eyes. He sniffled. “Should’ve thought about that before you fucked my Margo.”

  “What do you want in life, Neil? Hm? You want to rot in jai
l? You want to spend the rest of your life stuck in the same situation you’re in right now? That’s why I came home, Neil. You realize that? I was asking myself what I wanted. I wanted to be here. I wanted to find peace. Okay?”

  “You wanted a piece of my woman!”

  “No, Neil. She’s not your woman. You know that. She’s not what you want. Not anymore. You took her best years, and that’s fine. You were the right man for that. You deserved her. Not me. I wasn’t good enough.”

  He squinted. More importantly, he kept his finger off the trigger.

  I licked my lips. “But your time with her, it’s hard on you now, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Neil? She nags you, maybe? She complains about wanting things she knows you can’t give her. Am I right?”

  He muttered so that I could barely hear him, “Bitch never lets up.”

  “See? That’s it right there, isn’t it, Neil? The woman you married is gone. Now she’s just the mother of your kids, someone you can never satisfy.”

  He swayed. The barrel lowered slightly.

  “Neil, what if you had a chance to start over? Free of all your burdens? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A place of your own, paid off, out close to the woods you like to hunt in? Maybe up in the mountains? No alimony. No child support. You could walk away from this whole thing free and clear.”

  His pudgy face shuddered. His head bobbed up and down. “Yeah.”

  “What would it take to make that happen?” I picked my data device up from the tractor and waved it slightly. Money, Neil. I’ve got money. “Divorce doesn’t have to be expensive. People make things ugly when they get emotional. You’re not an emotional guy, are you, Neil? A cabin up in the mountains? I know people selling those all the time. Live off the land. Look at that buck. You took that down all by yourself, didn’t you? What do you say? Put the gun down, okay? Neil?”

  He leaned the rifle against the truck.

  “That’s good, Neil. No one needs to make—”

  “Tell you what…” He staggered closer, and a mean smile twisted his blubbery, wet lips. “How about we finish this man to man, Stefan?” He spat my name out, then rushed me.