Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  ***

  Our drive across town was uneventful, even leisurely, while we devoured burgers, fries, and drinks. The clock on Gamble’s dash read half past noon when I pulled into the parking garage where I kept my Escape. I borrowed Zander’s credit card and fed it into the machine, paid for two days of parking for Gamble’s vehicle, and pulled it into an empty slot. Then I led them up the garage ramp to my car, and we climbed in.

  “Whose car is this?” Those were the first words Zander had addressed to me since we left the cavern.

  “It’s mine. Or, actually, it belongs to my alter-ego, the woman you see me as.”

  “The mites are doing a stellar job of disguising you, Gemma,” Dr. Bickel observed. He seemed quite proud.

  “It was a little difficult for them to maintain this look . . . before, when there were fewer of them.”

  “And now?”

  I shrugged. “We don’t even break a sweat.”

  Gamble fidgeted. “So, what’s the plan, Gemma? What do you have in mind?”

  I turned in my seat so the four of us could talk. My features resolved themselves into Gemma’s likeness again and, as the mites returned to me, my friends became visible, too.

  Dr. Bickel nodded. “Whew. That’s better. Very disconcerting, being invisible.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Zander shuddered. “Yeah. And that other woman kind of creeps me out.”

  I was getting really miffed with him. “Well, she kinda creeps me out, too,” I retorted, “but she’s better than a driverless car.”

  “I only meant that it’s a hard adjustment.”

  “Right. Hard on you? And how hard do you think it’s been on—”

  Gamble cut in. “Okay, okay. Now that we’ve had our group therapy moment and expressed our feelings, can we get back to the matter at hand?”

  He faced me. “What is your plan?”

  I took a deep breath and got myself under control. “We’ll drive I-25 past the FBI field office. Check to see if anything seems out of the ordinary. You’re the best person to make that determination, Gamble.”

  “And if things look clear from the outside?”

  “You and I go in together—stealth mode. I’ll keep you hidden until we reach your office. Then we look for an opportunity for you to get your boss alone and tell him about Dr. Bickel—leaving me out of the equation altogether. You ask your boss if he’ll take Dr. Bickel in and grant him sanctuary and the opportunity to reveal himself to the world. Show everyone he isn’t dead. Tell his story.”

  “My boss can’t make that decision, Gemma. He’s the ASAC—the Assistant Special Agent in Charge here in Albuquerque, not the SAC. Terry Wallace is the SAC. Besides, my boss is away, teaching a course for the National Executive Institute back at Quantico.”

  “Then, I suggest that you skip your boss and go straight to the top.”

  Gamble looked out the window, thinking. “I have my cell phone. I’d almost rather call Wallace first than go inside unprepared for what we might find.”

  “We won’t know what is really going on from a phone call—and if you call, we’ll lose the element of surprise, our ability to choose when and how we make our move.”

  Alarm had crossed Dr. Bickel’s face. “You have a phone, Agent Gamble? Has it been on all this time?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry about Cushing using it to track us. I’ve got a little app that spoofs my location, sending it a hundred miles off course.”

  “Ah, I see. Quite interesting.”

  “Yeah. I had no signal in the mountain, and I have the ringer set on vibrate. As soon as we left the mountain, all the texts and voice mails I didn’t receive while in the cavern started piling in. Felt like my pocket was alive.”

  “Maybe you should check them now,” I said. “See how much trouble you’re in.”

  “Yeah. All right.”

  We waited while Gamble scrolled through his texts and listened to his messages. I watched his face, but he gave little away. When he finished, he shook his head.

  “Well, they don’t know which to think—whether I’m intentionally AWOL or I’m in some sort of trouble. In either event, I’ve been told fifteen times to check in.”

  “What about Cushing’s search for me?”

  “No mention of that—which is curious in its absence, since the manhunt covered the entire state and included FBI resources.”

  We gazed at each other, thinking the same thing.

  “You think Cushing has set a trap for you?”

  “Not out of the question.”

  “Any mention of Zander?”

  “No, but then I didn’t report that he was riding with me when we left Albuquerque. The only people who saw him were the State bulls manning the checkpoints on I-25.”

  “So, he could be in the clear?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Good. Let’s do our drive-by as I suggested and see what we see, shall we? If nothing looks out of the norm as we pass by, we’ll get off the Interstate and park a few blocks from the office, somewhere Zander and Dr. Bickel can wait. Then you and I will go in and check things out.”

  “You mean without being seen?”

  “Yeah.”

  The prospect of running into Cushing or her agents had me reaching for my sticks. It was the first I’d thought of them since we’d left White Sands, but I suddenly felt semi-naked without their comforting weight nestled against my back.

  “Um, by any chance, did my escrima sticks make it back with us?”

  Zander arched his brows. “Your what?”

  “Um, my fighting sticks. Kali-style Filipino fighting sticks.”

  The expression on Gamble’s face was as astonished as the one on Zander’s. Dr. Bickel, though, was quick to school them.

  “Oh, my, yes. I witnessed Gemma in action with them—or should I say, since she was invisible at the time, that I saw what she did. She took out Colonel Greaves’ guard while he was holding his sidearm on us—and she did it quite handily, I might say.”

  Gamble was familiar with the style. “Stick fighting is a demanding discipline, Gemma. How did you learn it? Did you receive training?”

  “In a manner of speaking. The nanomites provided a virtual coach and a VR training environment.” I laughed. “I was pretty uncoordinated growing up. Never played sports, no good in PE. Couldn’t dance worth beans. But after the merge, I picked up the skills they taught me pretty fast. And I had incredible stamina. We practiced mostly at night, at least five hours at a time. Sometimes longer.”

  Zander stared at me. “Maybe that explains why you look so different.”

  Dr. Bickel agreed. “You have the lean, toned body of an athlete, Gemma. All muscle, not an extra ounce of fat. I think the term is ‘cut.’”

  I cleared my throat. “Okay, enough about me. I was hoping the sticks had made it out with us. Did you bring them, Dr. Bickel? I seem to recall you picking them up.”

  Dr. Bickel colored; a flush of embarrassment began at his collar and raced up his neck into his hairline. He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.

  Zander looked baffled, but Gamble laughed. “Out with it, Doc. It’s obvious you did something with the sticks.”

  “Well, I admit that I did pick one up, but it wasn’t to bring it along. It was to, um, actually, I used it to deliver a message to Colonel Greaves.”

  I remembered then: Greaves sending twin bolts of devastation my way, and Dr. Bickel scrabbling to retrieve one of my sticks as it fell from my twitching grasp. He’d delivered a message all right, and Colonel Greaves had received it loud and clear.

  “You beat Colonel Greaves with it after he shot me with the Taser.”

  “Yes, I confess that I allowed my pent-up anger to vent itself.” His embarrassment lessened. “Not my finest moment, I assure you; however, it was paramount that we, uh, disable the colonel so we could make good our escape.”

  “Oh, I’m convinced you ‘disabled’ him.” I was thinking of the weight of the st
icks and the sounds they’d made as they shattered Greaves’ arms and hands.

  Dr. Bickel shrugged. “I may not have needed to be so enthusiastic in my application, but it had to be done. Afterward, I helped you up, and we hurried to retrace your steps to the truck and get on the highway.”

  He returned to my question. “I left your sticks in the house where they were keeping me.”

  “All right. No biggie. It’s just that I had gotten used to having defensive weapons.”

  Zander spoke up. “Before we go any further, I’d like us to stop and have a word of prayer.”

  “Very good idea,” Dr. Bickel said.

  Despite my tiff with Zander only moments before, I was glad for his suggestion. “Yeah. I agree.”

  Gamble’s glance of surprise annoyed me, and I growled, “What?”

  “Sorry. Just took you to be, I don’t know, something of a skeptic. Hostile to the whole religious concept.”

  I shrugged. “I was raised as a Christian but got soured on God along the way. I’ve undergone several attitude changes in the last few days . . . including a return to my roots.”

  “Interesting. Well, I have no objection. I’m game if you guys are.”

  We joined hands and Zander prayed.

  “Lord God, we are in dangerous waters, far from shore. I’m asking that you lead and guide us. Please help us, Lord, to listen for your still, small voice. As your word says, let us be attentive: Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ Please protect us, Lord, as we work to get Dr. Bickel to a safe place. We ask these things in the name of your Son, Jesus. Amen.”

  I whispered my amen after Zander’s. I assumed my Kathy Sawyer persona and the mites hid the others again. We drove out of the parking garage toward the freeway.

  Gemma Keyes.

  “Yes, Nano?”

  No closing of the eyes; no warehouse required. I heard them and answered inside, within my mind, as naturally, as unconsciously as breathing.

  You no longer require the escrima sticks, Gemma Keyes. We are quite sufficient for any situation.

  “Oh?”

  You retain the training you received, and it will serve us well, but now we have weapons more effective than your sticks. We have only to use them.

  By merely recalling the ball of pulsing current that had formed and grown in my palm back in the cavern, my skin warmed. When the lights on my car’s dash began to dim, I pulled my thoughts back into line.

  “Um, okay, Nano.”

  A few minutes later we were in the far-right lane of I-25, cruising by the FBI office at the leisurely speed of 50 mph. Gamble kept his eyes glued on the facility until it was in the rearview mirror.

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing conclusive.”

  “Are you up for the next step?”

  “If you can get us inside and keep me hidden, then, yes.”

  I took the Montgomery exit off the freeway and backtracked toward the FBI office. When I was within a few blocks of the office, I pulled into an apartment complex and parked. I reached under the driver’s seat, retrieved the Escape’s key fob from where it hung, and handed it to Zander.

  “I don’t use keys, Zander; don’t need them. So, take these and, if we’re not back in an hour and a half, drive to the parking garage. Wait there until late—say, after midnight. If we haven’t caught up to you by then, take Dr. Bickel to the safe house.”

  I offered a small smile to Dr. Bickel. “You can give Zander directions, right? I hid the back-door key under a brick by the hose bib. As far as the neighbors know, the house is still vacant. Don’t give them reason to think otherwise.”

  My smile grew a little. “Oh. And I left your bolt-hole tidy.”

  His brows shot up. “You found it? How?”

  “The nanomites showed me.”

  “Gemma? I don’t like this. I feel . . .” Zander’s voice trailed off, but his expression showed the pain he hadn’t voiced.

  “You feel sidelined?”

  “Useless is a better word. I want to help you, Gemma, protect you, but . . .”

  His sweetness touched my heart. “I know, and I thank you, Zander; however, I’m not the one who needs protection.”

  I pointed to Dr. Bickel. “He is. Keeping him safe is your job at present.”

  I got out and Gamble followed me. He and I jogged down the walk side by side. I could outrun him with little effort, but I matched my pace to his and the nanomites kept us both covered.

  We rounded a few corners before we came to Luecking Park, turned right, and neared the buildings of the FBI field office.

  Gamble asked, “You planning to take us in the front door?”

  “Yes. We wait for someone to enter and follow them through.”

  He huffed a loud breath.

  “Does that make you nervous?”

  “I’ve been in many a nerve-racking undercover operation, but this? Going in under your cover?” He sighed again.

  “Gamble?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those tricks I have up my sleeve?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can handle whatever Cushing might have waiting for us. Trust me, okay? Just be quiet as I get us in the door and up the elevator. If things get dicey? Stay behind me.”

  “If you say so.”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 3

  Gamble and I stepped into the lobby of the FBI field office on the heels of a woman toting a briefcase. I grabbed Gamble by the arm and hustled him through behind her. It wasn’t a very coordinated or smooth move, so we scuffed the floor a bit. The woman stopped, turned around, and blinked in confusion.

  I kept my hand on Gamble’s arm while the mites maintained their umbrella of reflective mirrors over and around us. We remained still and quiet until the woman, with a last mystified glance over her shoulder, marched up to the security checkpoint.

  Other than her and the guard, the lobby was empty.

  I whispered in Gamble’s ear. “You recognize the guard?”

  “Yes. He’s a good man. A regular on this station.”

  “Okay. We’ll get on the elevator as soon as that lady has gone up.”

  “I don’t know if my badge will work on the elevator. They may have suspended my access.”

  “Not a problem, remember?”

  We got inside the empty car and rode it to Gamble’s floor. Got out. Went to his office.

  The door hung open a crack.

  “That’s not a good sign,” he muttered. “I keep it locked.”

  I said nothing as Gamble pushed open the door and we gazed at the mess: Someone had tossed Gamble’s office. Drawers and files had been emptied onto his desk, then rummaged through. Discarded file folders and papers littered the floor.

  “Okay. We know Cushing’s been here. Where’s the SAC’s office?”

  “Next floor.”

  I didn’t want to take the elevator, preferring a more surreptitious approach; Gamble didn’t want us to take the stairs. “The stairwell door on the executive floor is locked and alarmed.”

  “Not to me.”

  We crept up the stairs, and the door opened under my hand. We were at the end of a hallway not far from a sizable printer/copier machine.

  That’s when we saw the two agents, one a woman I knew on sight, the other a man I thought I’d seen before. Both wore street clothes, but they stood post outside a closed door down the hall.

  I tugged Gamble’s sleeve.

  “Yeah. I see them. Definitely not FBI.”

  “They’re Cushing’s people. What’s on the other side of that door?”

  “Conference room.”

  “Ah. Okay, good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yeah. Listen; hold my belt and stick close. Don’t freak out when those two agents fall, okay?”

  “When they—what? We’re only reconnoitering, remember?”

  I moved toward the agents, half-dragging
Gamble, since he had a tight grip on my belt and was trying—in vain—to hold me back. When I was a few feet from the male agent, the guy straightened, alert but confounded. I flicked my fingers toward him and he spasmed, passed out, slid down the wall.

  The woman saw him drop. She jerked and retreated a step.

  Down she went. I caught her as she fell.

  While I dragged her beyond the copier, I tried to recall her name.

  Oh, yeah. Trujillo, I think. Of the REI backpack debacle. The tiny scrap of information that had led Cushing to me.

  I went back, grabbed the guy, dragged him to join Agent Trujillo, and deposited him in the corner. Gamble followed behind, fussing as the guard’s heels dug little telltale trails in the carpet.

  “How long will they be out?”

  “Maybe ten minutes or so.”

  “Don’t know how I’m gonna explain this.”

  “Do you need to explain this?”

  I was ready to start calling my partner “Grumble” instead of Gamble for all the low, growled complaints emerging from his mouth.

  “Shut the whining, Gamble. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Yeah, but this is supposed to be a look, Gemma. Reconnaissance. That’s all.”

  “Well, I need to ‘look’ in that conference room. Look and listen.”

  “But they’ll know you’ve been here.”

  “You mean Cushing will? So? Just who’s she gonna tell? The neat thing about being invisible is that nobody believes it.”

  I grabbed Gamble and started down the hallway again. When I reached the conference room I placed a palm on the door. The mites amplified the conversation and funneled it into my ears.

  Gamble hissed, “Can you hear anything?”

  “Well, not with you yapping at me! Nano. Let Gamble listen in, too.”

  Gamble settled as soon as the voices reached him.

  Voices. Only two: Cushing and a man.

  “Is that the SAC?” I whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  We got quiet again and focused on the conversation behind the door.

  “Ma’am, in the spirit of interagency cooperation, I have allowed your people access to my agent’s desk, his files, even his emails and cell phone records. You have found nothing.”

  “Nothing except that phone call last Monday to a cell number I am familiar with but your agent should not be.”