by James Beltz
The Doc nodded. “Well, I’m Doctor Brown. I’m the attending physician this evening. How do you feel?”
Brett’s eyes narrowed. “Again, Doc, I would think that would be obvious. I got shot in the heart. I feel like crap. Are we clear now? Do I have to repeat that fact again? I got shot in the heart. Please let everyone know I was shot in the heart. The heart.” He tapped his chest in case the man didn’t understand.
Doc Brown smiled broadly. “We’re clear. No more talk about who you are, what you do, or how you came to be here. My apologies. Now, how about we try something different for that pain?”
The doc turned around and removed a syringe from the tray he had carried. Brett held up a hand. “Hang on a sec, Doc. These drugs have me fuzzy. I’d rather not take anything else. I need to start thinking clearly.” Again, he wondered if the doc could understand him. It sounded to Brett like his words were dragging slowly out of his mouth. More like a river of molasses than sentences.
The doc nodded but didn’t stop what he was doing, filling the syringe from a vial he had brought with him. “You did hear that I said something different, correct? You were on the other stuff because we needed you to sleep as much as possible, give your body a chance to do some repairing all on its own. This, however, is Destramethadone. It’s formulated specifically to deaden the pain receptors but leave you clear-headed. You’re going to like this a lot better.”
Brett relaxed a bit. “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”
Doc Brown chuckled softly. “Nice to see you have a sense of humor.”
Brett nodded. “A sense of humor and a hole in my heart. Did I tell you I was shot in the heart? Do you know how much that sucks?” Brett already felt like he was about to drift off to sleep again. They really needed to do something about these drugs. Oh wait, that’s what Doc Brown was here for. Good. It would be nice to think clearly. Maybe he should let the doc know he needed a change in painkillers. Wait, had he told him that already? Brett couldn’t remember. He was having trouble thinking. DJ had told him of a situation that needed Brett’s big old super-powered brain to solve. Being clear-headed was a necessity. But what had DJ told him again? He couldn’t remember. Too many drugs.
The door opened just wide enough for a nurse to step in. She was a small thing and wearing a smile of her own. They sure smiled a lot around here, Brett thought. She wasn’t looking at Brett, however, she was smiling at the doctor.
Doc Brown barely glanced at her as he prepared to inject the new medication into Brett’s IV. “Step out a minute while I finish up, please. You can have our boy when I’m done.”
She crossed her arms and seemed to size the doctor up. “I would say you’re done, now.”
Doc Brown stopped what he was doing and turned to face her. “Excuse me? What’s your name, Nurse?”
She shook her head. “Tell me, John, how many women have you slept with that you can’t remember who I am?” The doc said nothing, a look of confusion on his face.
Brett blinked at the sudden altercation. What had he gotten himself into? Was he still asleep? Had Brett dreamed himself into a soap opera? These drugs were the trippy cat’s meow for seeing things, but this took the cake.
The girl, decidedly younger than the doc, laughed, genuinely humored at the look on the doc’s face. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?” She leaned over and looked at Brett. “Your doctor is really an assassin hired to kill you. I wouldn’t let him inject that into your IV line. I have a feeling you won’t wake up from it.” She straightened and returned her focus to the doctor. “I met John here on a job. When he isn’t pretending to be a doctor, he’s really quite the lady’s man. The name’s Sara Anderson, by the way.”
Doc Brown, quick as lightning, reached behind the folds of his lab coat. The nurse was ready, stepping forward and shoving her foot into the doc’s knee. The man stepped back against the bed, retreating from the assault. Brett tried to grab him from behind and felt instant pain from his injury for the effort.
Doc Brown shifted sideways, trying to finish drawing his silenced weapon from behind his back. Sara countered, spinning in place and hitting his gun arm with a swinging leg.
Now that was just exactly like something Abbi would do, Brett thought. Wait… Maybe this was Abbi. Maybe she was Karate-Kid-kicking the crap out of someone, and he had hallucinated a new face onto her. Maybe he was just watching TV and had gotten sucked in by the drugs. They really needed to cut down on the amount they were giving him. Shot in the heart or not, this was just too much.
Shot in the heart. Brett had been shot in the heart. Being shot in the heart sucked.
The gun clattered to the floor, and the doc connected with a left across her chin. She staggered back and the doctor advanced to finish her off. She recovered before he could get to her and began throwing a combination of blows, first aiming at the man’s middle, then aiming for his head. The doc countered with blocks and strikes of his own.
They danced there at the foot of his bed for a moment, each trying to outmaneuver the other. It was toe-to-toe for a few seconds, with Brett not being able to tell who was going to be the victor. He was really enjoying the show. He couldn’t help but watch with drug-induced fascination at the drama playing out in his hospital room. Who would win? Were they even real? Were they merely hallucinations brought on by the pain killers? If so, he was surely going to threaten the doctor in the morning about reducing the amount he had been receiving. This was ridiculous.
Shot in the heart. Brett Foster had been shot in the heart. Being shot in the heart sucked. What sucked worse was these drugs. They were a trippy good time, for sure, but one couldn’t think while on them, and Brett really needed to think. DJ had given him a problem to solve. Brett couldn’t do it while he was on these drugs. He would talk to the doctor in the morning about them.
Doc Brown hit the nurse hard and she went down. What was the girl’s name again? Sara. That’s right, Sara Anderson. She wasn’t real, of course. None of this was real. It was all the drugs.
Really cool, trippy medication. He would have to order some up for interrogating prisoners. This crap was amazing.
The doctor walked over a few steps and retrieved his fallen pistol. Brett wondered what it was. He bet DJ would know what it was. That guy was a real gun nut. It was freaky how the man cataloged firearm information into the back of his brain for instant recall. It was a talent. Not very practical, but a talent, nonetheless.
Doc Brown stood over the girl as she sat up against the wall, pointing at her head. “Maybe the reason I didn’t remember you was because you weren’t any good in bed. Pretty enough to interest me, don’t get me wrong. Don’t feel bad. I have forgotten more of my conquests than I have remembered. It’s nothing personal.”
Brett shot the man through the ear, the hard crack in the small room sending his ears to ringing. Not really, he was sure. This was certainly all just one giant hallucination. Oh, he really did have his Glock shoved under a pillow just in case. DJ had insisted on the man keeping one handy after the hospital attempt on Argo and the death of Bettie, but Brett was surrounded by men trusted by Agent Ali. He wouldn’t need it. So, Brett hadn’t really just shot someone. This was just all one big illusion in his mind; his drug-filled mind. He would certainly have to talk to the doctor about changing his dosage. This was ridiculous. First thing in the morning. Top of the list.
Agents from the CIA detail stormed into the room, guns drawn and waving. The nurse had climbed to her feet and began screaming, backing away from the dead doctor at her feet, her hands to her mouth, a look of horror in her eyes. She pointed at the corpse. “He tried to kill Mr. Foster. He tried to kill me!”
The agents swarmed the body as the nurse slipped behind them. With their focus on the dead body, the nurse slipped from the room and was gone. What was her name again, Brett wondered? Oh, that's right. Sara. Sara Anderson. Or was it really Abbi?
Too many drugs. Trippy good, for sure, but way too many drugs. He would c
ertainly have to talk to the doctor about that in the morning. DJ had given him a puzzle to solve. He needed to be able to think clearly. Of course, Brett couldn’t remember what the puzzle was, the drugs were bathing his brain in fog.
Way too many drugs. He needed to talk to somebody about that. Too many. Way too many. Crazy, trippy, good, but way too many.
Chapter 18: Return to Midget Mine Ranch
Sam Kenny was lounging under a stubby pine, squinting into the west, enjoying the weather and the view. It was picturesque out here. The orange orb of a setting sun was just touching the peaks of snow-tipped mountains and painting the horizon in fire and beauty. Soon, those mountains would cast this area into blue shadow. Below him, the canyon and grass-covered clearings were already there, shifting into peaceful shades of purple. Soon, evening would be on him. While he could, he soaked up the last warming rays of the sun as it methodically pushed its way below the mountains.
He wondered how long he would have to wait out here. He didn’t mind it thanks to the weather, but he did have food and water to think about. He had enough for three more days before he had to leave for supplies. He hoped that didn’t happen. Sam might never get another opportunity to hike his way in without being spotted. Even if he were able, the moment he was waiting for might have passed. He would have to start all over, if that happened. He wouldn’t be happy. All this waiting was making him impatient. There was killing to do, obligations to be met, promises to be fulfilled.
Sam looked into the canyon below, surveying the house on the far side for the thousandth time, wondering how the place became named the Midget Mine Ranch. It was a curious title, and Sam was certain there was a good story behind it. According to what Sam knew about the place, it had been called this since the eighteen-hundreds. The hidden Slaughter homestead nestled into a corner of Colorado was one DJ thought to be out of reach from the information gatherers of the CIA. DJ was wrong, of course.
The CIA knew of Slaughter using a false identity to re-purchase the home he had been forced to run from so long ago. They knew he and Abbi slipped away to their private retreat a few times per year, thinking no one knew. But the CIA knew. They worked hard to know everything. They enjoyed keeping tabs on anyone in their employ. You never knew when you might have to track someone down later. Today’s friends were tomorrow’s enemies. Deputy Director Hartley had passed the information on to Sam and assured him DJ would eventually show up. All Sam had to do was sit and wait.
Sam was perched over the southern cliff of the boxed-in canyon, overlooking the two-story cabin and the scenic valley of the Midget Mine Ranch. He was about to wonder for the thousandth time how much longer he would have to wait when a set of vehicles emerged from the trees near the small house. There were three of them.
Sam moved forward and slid in behind the rifle already in position. He had taken the opportunity to sight it in before arriving. He had already ranged the distance and knew it to be seven hundred and twelve meters to the front porch. All Sam had to do was spot his target, wait for Slaughter to pause for a moment, most likely when the man unlocked the front door, and squeeze the trigger. It would be a profile shot, a narrower target, but Sam was confident. Besides, he only needed enough of a hit to knock the man down. A second round would ensure Slaughter’s death. With no wind currently in the valley, dead still air, Sam was assured of a quick victory. He might take out Abbi just for good measure. Maybe Uncle Argo could raise the daughter as his own. The man seemed to have a fondness for the child.
In the darkening valley, the three SUVs sat motionless. No one was opening their doors. What were they waiting for, Sam wondered?
Sam’s satellite phone vibrated behind him. He ignored it. Nothing was going to pry him from behind his scope. After a few moments of buzzing, it stopped, only to start right back up again. Still, Sam shoved the thing out of his mind and concentrated on the vehicles, zooming in closer to see if he could see through the windows. They were black. No way to tell where Slaughter was sitting. At this distance, it would have been hard to make a positive ID through a window anyway. Sam would need to see the man moving about to be sure, recognizing Slaughter from his walk and mannerisms. For a second time, the vibrating sat phone behind him quit.
Finally, a single back door opened, and a dark-haired man stepped out with a hand raised, waving something overhead. From the distance and the pale evening light, Sam couldn’t tell who it was, but the figure looked familiar. Not DJ, someone else. The man lowered the hand holding the object, only to press it to his ear. Again, Sam’s phone began to vibrate. Frustrated, he rolled around behind him, snatched the phone, then rolled back into position, bringing the scope back to his eye. “What?” he hissed into the mic.
Agent Seymour’s voice answered him. “That’s me next to the SUV with one hand raised. Don’t shoot. I’ve got new orders from Hartley. We’re here to help.”
Sam wanted to chuck the phone over the edge of the cliff. “If you didn’t want to be shot, you should have never driven into my kill box!” To illustrate his point, Sam pulled the trigger. A satisfying crack split the still evening, and the invigorating smell of gunpowder filled the air. He didn’t shoot Seymour, of course, even though it would have made Sam’s day brighter, he just passed the round over Seymour’s head.
As the gunshot reverberated around the canyon walls, Sam watched with great joy as the curly-headed, gangly CIA man scrambled for cover, looking like an overgrown, uncoordinated spider monkey on a hotplate, going down in the gravel drive once as he raced around to the opposite side of the SUV.
A second later, hidden from view beyond the front end of the vehicle, Seymour shouted through the phone connection. “We’re on the same side, you psychopath!”
Sam chuckled. “Still gives me great joy to see you crap your pants. Now, why are you here disturbing my kill box with all of those trucks?”
__________
DJ pulled off the road, taking a left onto a dirt track that snaked into the mountains. These access roads crisscrossed all over the many public lands as a means for fire crews to access and fight forest fires. As soon as he could, he spun the van around and pointed it back toward the blacktop that passed in front of his property. Looking into the rearview mirror, he said, “OK, Carbon, we’re close. The entrance to the ranch is about half a mile up the road. Now tell me what’s on your mind.”
Carbon had been tinkering with some of the toys he had brought along. First, on the private jet they rented under an alias, and then in the back of the van for the hour-long trip to the ranch. For the most part, Carbon had been silent, focused on his task, whatever it was. DJ had enjoyed the quiet. The guy was as sharp as a tack, but he got on DJ’s nerves sometimes with his endless yammering. A few minutes ago, Carbon had finally broken his silence to tell him they needed to pull over. When DJ told him they were almost there, instructing Carbon to wait, the guy had a meltdown, insisting that DJ pull over right then.
Carbon had his worried look on as he addressed the group. “How do we know for sure the CIA doesn’t know about this place?”
Ali was quick to answer. “I, for one, didn’t know. Since I have been your handler since the beginning, it would normally be something for me to follow up on. I would normally do extensive backgrounds on anyone we wanted to use. In this case, I already knew who you were, so I didn’t.”
Carbon leaned forward a bit. “Yeah, but are you telling me that someone above your head couldn’t do it without you knowing? I mean, keeping secrets from each other, compartmentalizing what you know from another department, seems to be the standard operating procedure.”
Ali nodded in agreement, thinking about that, trying to decide if it was possible in this case. It was DJ who answered, though. “Yes, but no one knows about this alias except for Abbi and me. We didn’t go through you or anyone else to get it, either.”
The look on Carbon’s face said he was unconvinced. “Yeah, but where did you get it?”
DJ then recounted the story of how he ca
me across a man while entering Charles Kaiser’s compound back when his life took a drastic turn and he had been introduced to crime-fighting, albeit via vigilantism. The man had a set of IDs on him and looked a lot like DJ in the photos. He had confiscated them for his own, thinking he could use them later to play keep-away with the FBI. After that, when he had been recruited into the FBI, DJ continued to keep them just in case, eventually using them to repurchase his old ranch in Colorado. Whenever he and Abbi made a trip back home, he used the ID to book passage. They had told no one about them on purpose. They were his safety net in case he ever felt he needed to run again.
Argo asked a question that gave DJ pause. “But can you be one hundred percent positive you weren’t followed to the airport when you flew here? I mean, ever? If the CIA paid someone to tail you, and you got on a plane to fly home, they could have reported back on the name you used.”
The van went silent; everyone looking at each other, each second-guessing the decision to make the trip out here. DJ slammed his fist onto the dashboard. “Son of a…” he trailed off.
Argo chuckled at him. “Ease up, DJ. Our team leader has a strict no-tolerance policy on cursing.” DJ shot the man a lethal look.
Cash spoke up next, asking a question. “What do we do then? We need someplace safe to plan our next move. If she hasn’t already, Director Hartley will figure out we’re on to her. When she does, we’ll need to be hidden well or she might just drop a Predator missile on our heads.”
DJ smiled at the group. “We drive around the bend and head to the ranch just like we planned.”
Ali sighed behind him. “So, you’re going to go all Texas on them and roll the dice, take the chance they don’t know about your little hideout. Sounds like you hope they have an ambush waiting. That sounds like the DJ I know.”
DJ shook his head and turned to look at them all. “Look, I know I made a stupid call back at Sara’s hideout. I’m not proposing I stage a repeat performance. I got lucky. I know that. Besides, the ranch is set in a boxed-in canyon. There’s only one way in and one way out. It’s a perfect place to defend. It’s also a perfect place for an ambush.”