Mission Mayhem

by Michael Cross

  “That’s my contact information,” she says. “Thank you so much. Oh my god, this means the world to me. Thank you.”

  Seemingly unable to control her excitement any longer, Marisol turns and sprints through the diner, disappearing through the doors that lead into the kitchen. I turn to Temperance and shake my head.

  “You got that girl all excited like that for nothing,” I sigh. “Why would you do that to her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Promising her that somebody’s going to call her?” I press. “How’s it going to make her feel when the phone doesn’t ring?”

  She laughs softly. “You really are a champion of the underdog. A fighter for the people,” she says. “Heard what you did in Maine. Chicago. And don’t think what you pulled in Minneapolis went unnoticed.”

  The knot in my gut clenches, and I tighten my jaw. Given how wired in the Tower is to things, I was probably foolish to think what happened in Minnesota wouldn’t be on their radar. But then, I don’t feel that I should have to explain myself to anybody for doing the right thing, let alone somebody from middle management.

  “Relax, I’m not here to bust your balls about it. I actually think it’s admirable. Puts an awful knot in the panties of some of our higher-ups, but personally, I don’t care,” she tells me. “I’m just here to caution you to be a little more… circumspect in your extracurricular activities. We can’t risk exposure. I think you know that.”

  “I do,” I reply, feeling slightly relieved. “And I’m always careful.”

  “That I believe. As for the other, one thing you need to know about me is that I’m a woman of my word. I know that pretty little thing has big Hollywood dreams,” she says. “And as it turns out, my wife is in the industry. Can’t promise anything, obviously, but I know I can get her a sit down with some of the players. The rest is up to her.”

  I toss a fry into my mouth and chew as I sit back in the booth. Temperance has a direct way of speaking. She seems the type to say what she means and mean what she says. She’s bold and confident. I like that about her. There’s also something about her, some sort of air that makes me think I can trust her. She doesn’t seem to play the game—which might help explain why she doesn’t work in the field. To be an operator out here, you have got to know how to lie and deceive. It has to be second nature to you. And I don’t get the sense it’s in her to do that.

  “Anyway,” she says. “I need to bug out. The wife’s on location in Scotland, and we’ve got a Skype date tonight.”

  I laugh and nod. Temperance is a very likeable woman. Probably a good ally to have. I also have a feeling she can be your worst nightmare if you cross her. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a thick manila folder. Taped to the front of it is another tarot card. This one is a man in white with a red cloak wrapped about his shoulders. He’s holding a scroll pointed to the sky, and his hand points to the ground. On the table in front of him are representations of the elements: earth, air, fire, and water.

  “The Magician,” I read.

  “This one might be a tough nut to crack, but it’s necessary,” she says. “Watch your back.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Ominous is what we do here, Hanged Man. Lotta players in this region.”

  “Comforting,” I reply. “Am I on somebody’s radar?”

  “Not that we’ve heard, but if we’re hearing about some of these side jobs you’ve been running, you bet it won’t be long before they do,” she says. “Also, op security on this is tight. The circle is you, me, and the High Priestess only. Capiche?”

  I nod. “Roger that.”

  “Good man.”

  She snags a couple more fries off my plate and gives me a smile as she pops them into her mouth and chews on them.

  “See ya ‘round,” she says. “Good luck. Oh, and do your best to avoid burning this new ID, yeah? It’s a pain in the ass to get new creds cut, and I hate paperwork.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I chuckle as she turns and walks away, leaving me to finish my meal.

  Chapter Three

  After a shower the next day, I’m sitting in my hotel room with the Magician’s file open on the table in front of me. I look at the ID package and see that my name is now Peter Dewalt. Dropping my new papers, I turn to the dossier that had been compiled on my target. The first page is a headshot of Ellis McGregor, Division Chief for Tuscon’s DEA Inspection Bureau. He’s fifty-seven, hair that’s more gray than black, green eyes, and looks to be in good shape. He’s fit. Healthy.

  McGregor has a wife named Bridget, who’s fifty-four with blonde hair that can’t be natural and a deep tan. He’s got a twenty-nine-year-old daughter named Rachel, and a thirty-one-year-old son named Jeremy. Both live in other states, have successful careers, and have families of their own.

  McGregor was born and raised in a working-class family just outside of Philadelphia. Didn’t have a lot of money, but he was a hard worker. Got good grades, earned a scholarship to the University of Pittsburgh, where he graduated with honors and a degree in Criminal Justice. From there, he’s spent his life working his way up the rungs of the DEA and now sits atop the food chain here in the Southwest, with a list of commendations longer than my arm.

  “So why are you on the Tower’s naughty list?” I mutter to myself.

  I flip through the file and see some incident reports that are pretty old. I see a few accusations of excessive use of force when he was a field agent. But nothing really stands out to me. Nothing that would justify a termination order. Not even any indication that he’s Hellfire. But then, the Tower rarely justifies anything they do. At least, not to me.

  I don’t feel comfortable killing anybody unless I have a reason to do it. And the Tower telling me to isn’t reason enough for me. There has to be more to it than this. At least, I hope there is. If there isn’t, I don’t know if I can pull the trigger. I can’t kill somebody for the sake of political expediency. I won’t. Not even if I agree with the overall objectives of the cause.

  I sigh and sit back in the chair. I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to do it. I’d like to be able to get through a single op on my own without having to rely on anybody else. I have to believe I used to be able to do it. Right?

  With a sigh, I get to my feet and close the file. I tuck it into my computer bag and close it up. I need to get something to eat, so I might as well go feed myself while I ponder my next steps. I get dressed, grab my things, and head out.

  I drive around town for a bit, letting the arid desert air blow in through the windows as I listen to music, trying to let my mind work on its own. I find that I do my best thinking when I’m not consciously trying to think.

  I follow the GPS directions to the suburbs on the edges of town. I pass through those to the estates that lay on the other side. Lots of open ground out there. Lots of space to build a palatial estate. Which is what I’m seeing as I drive down the street. High, thick walls and houses that look more like palaces than anything. I slowly roll past the address that’s listed in McGregor’s file and whistle low.

  “Chief McGregor seems to be doing pretty well for himself,” I note. “Especially for a civil servant’s salary.”

  McGregor’s house has got to have thirty rooms. The place has different wings to it. It’s built in Mediterranean-style architecture with tall, thick columns and high, arched windows and doorways. It’s done in a natural desert colored stucco, and the roof is low and made of red tile. It’s surrounded by a high fence made of steel bars, with stucco pillars set at regular intervals. I can see cameras posted on the pillars, and there’s a guardhouse with a rent-a-cop working the gate.

  It’s a beautiful house. And well-guarded, no question about it. I wonder, though, how a man on McGregor’s salary can afford it. Even as the Unit Chief of this bureau, he can’t be pulling down enough to afford a place like this. Even in the Tucson housing market, this place had to run them several million. And since
I know neither he nor his wife came from money, it means one of two things: he’s either made some very sound investments over the course of his life, or he’s on the take.

  Still, I don’t know that being on the take is enough to warrant a death sentence. Not to my way of thinking anyway. A jail sentence, sure. But death? No, there has to be more to the story than this.

  I cruise by McGregor’s place one more time before turning back toward town. I pull into the parking lot of a small hole in the wall Mexican food place called Trujillo’s. I climb out of the car and breathe deeply, the aroma of the grease and Mexican spices making my mouth water and my belly rumble.

  Stepping over to a line that’s five deep at the window, I wait my turn then order a plate of chicken enmoladas, a pair of carnitas tacos, and a large soda. As I hang around the pick-up window, I scope out the crowd. It’s a mixed crowd having lunch. Black, white, Mexican, younger, older; it seems like all demographics are covered here. Trujillo’s is a popular place.

  My number is called, and I grab my tray then walk over to one of the few empty tables on the patio. I sit down and inhale deeply, savoring the rich aromas drifting up from my tray. I pick up my fork and dig into the enmoladas, groaning in delight as the flavor explodes in my mouth.

  I munch away happily on my lunch, my eyes still roaming the patio. I can’t help it. Searching out potential threats is second nature to me. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, but my eyes continue to roam the patio. I’m just lifting the fork to my mouth when I freeze with the fork hovering before my lips.

  I feel my eyes grow wide when they fall on a face that looks familiar. He’s a little younger than me, maybe late twenties, early thirties, with mocha-colored skin, dark brown hair that falls to his shoulders and brown eyes. The man looks to be tall and lanky, with a thin, trimmed beard and mustache. The guy is wearing a Ramones t-shirt, black jeans, and has a pocket chain.

  I don’t know how I know him, but the longer I stare at him, the more certain I am that I do. And it sends a powerful jolt through me.

  He’s sitting with a friend, laughing and talking, both of them with the glassy-eyed stare of guys who’ve been well baked since shortly after waking up. I’m pretty sure they both stink of weed. They’re too far away, and the patio is far too loud for me to pick up what they’re saying. And he’s sitting at an angle to me, so I can’t read his lips. The feeling that I know him is strong, though, and only grows stronger the longer I sit here staring at him.

  Knowing I need to find out what the connection I have to this guy is, I quickly finish up my meal and get to my feet. I dispose of my trash then head out to my car. I quickly get in and wait. Where I’m parked, I have a good view of the patio and can see him clearly.

  After another twenty minutes or so, he and his friend get up. They leave their trash where it is, which annoys me on a personal level and walk out to a neon blue Toyota Camry. I fire up my engine when they climb in and follow them out of the lot. I hang back, following at a safe distance, making sure to keep a car between us. Not that these two burnouts would notice me if I were sitting on the hood of their car.

  Up ahead, I see them turn into the parking lot of a strip mall. I drive past and circle back quickly, pulling into the lot. I park in a spot that gives me a good angle of their car and watch as the two of them just sit there. Eventually, they get out of their car in a cloud of smoke, laughing and slapping one another on the back.

  Getting out of my car, I follow behind them at a discrete distance and try to blend with the light foot traffic on the sidewalk. Up ahead, I see the guy I recognize slip into a shop as his friend continues on, turning into another shop a few doors down. As I pass by the shop my guy stepped into, I cut a glance and see that it’s a computer repair shop. I see him enter the back entrance, fixing a nametag to his shirt.

  I walk up the street and turn around, passing by the shop again to see him pecking away at a computer on a counter in the back. I continue on to the parking lot and climb back into my car. Sitting behind the wheel, I ponder it for a moment, but still can’t come up with the connection.

  I don’t know who he is. I don’t know where I know him from. But I aim to find out. He works at the shop and doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere anytime soon, which gives me a little time to put it all together. Or figure out how I’m going to play this.

  Either way, I’m going to get some answers out of him.

  Chapter Four

  The night was mostly sleepless. I spent a good portion of it pacing my hotel room, trying to figure out who the hell this guy is and where I know him from. He’s the first person I’ve run across since waking up from my coma that has rung any bell of familiarity in my head without even talking to them.

  To say it’s strange would be an understatement. What are the odds I know some random guy in Tucson, Arizona? I don’t recall ever being in Tucson. But then, I suppose I wouldn’t anyway. I take a long pull from my bottle of water as I continue to pace the room, trying to quiet my mind in the hope that I have some sort of breakthrough.

  But then I hear the chime on my computer sound, signaling an incoming video chat. I already know who it is. I drop down in the chair, open up the laptop, and accept the incoming call. It takes a moment for the encryption to set in, and then the picture materializes.

  “Wow, you look like hot garbage,” Justice notes.

  “Pleasure to see you too.”

  “You’re welcome,” she chirps, then takes a bite of a Pop-Tart.

  “Do you ever eat real food?”

  “Course I do,” she responds. “Woman cannot live by Pop-Tart alone.”

  “Make better choices,” I tell her with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  After doing what I could to dig up any information I could about McGregor last night, I gave up. I’m just not as good as Justice at combing the dark corners of the Internet for information. So although it killed me inside to do it, I finally broke down and sent Justice an email last night, asking her for help and to do a deep dive on the man for me.

  “Late night?” she asks.

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “You know, you’re really too old to be staying up that late. I thought senior citizens usually got to bed around eight p.m.”

  We both share a laugh and then fall silent. A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint. I sigh.

  “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?” I groan.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she fake-shrugs. “Ask what?”

  “You could just tell me, you know.”

  She shrugs. “Or you could ask.”

  I let out a long breath. “Fine. You’re the best, and I appreciate your help, Justice,” I say. “Can you please tell me what you found out?”

  “See? Was that so hard?” she beams. “It’s amazing how far a please and a thank you will go.”

  I laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I respond. “So, what did you find out?”

  “Honestly, not a whole lot,” she replies. “There is shockingly little about McGregor floating around out there. Little that’s negative, anyway.”

  “Wow. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What day is that?” she asks.

  “The day that Justice, super hacker to the stars, was thwarted.”

  She purses her lips. “Okay, first of all, I’m super hacker to you, and you’re hardly a star,” she snips. “And second, nobody says thwart. What are you, some old-timey train robber or something?”

  “Sorry,” I laugh. “Sounds like I touched a nerve there.”

  “Bite me,” she finally cracks a smile. “I’m just as shocked as you are that there isn’t a bigger digital trail on this guy.”

  “Wonderful,” I sigh.

  “That doesn’t mean there’s nothing out there,” she adds. “It just means he could have a very good team that’s cleaning up after him. It’ll just take me a litt
le longer to find it.”

  I run a hand over my face. “Isn’t the Internet a permanent record though?” I ask. “I seem to remember you saying that once it’s online, it’s out there forever.”

  She nods. “Yeah, for the most part. But it’s possible to hide things. To sanitize them,” she says. “I haven’t been searching all that long. I just need some more time to find the breadcrumbs to follow. If it’s out there, I’ll find it. Trust me.”

  I take a swallow of water. “I do. You’re the best computer sleuth I know.”

  “I’m the only computer sleuth you know.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still the best.”

  “That’s also true.”

  Justice falls silent for a moment as she looks at me. Her face is pinched, and I can tell that she’s pondering something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “It’s just that this guy could also have people around him who keep things from ever getting to the Internet, to begin with.”

  “Huh. Professional cleaners. Very possible,” I muse. “You don’t get to a position like that without knowing how to dodge some landmines and having people around you who’ll take the bullets.”

  “Honestly, I have never seen somebody this squeaky clean, Echo. He has the perfect All-American life,” she presses. “Not the barest hint of scandal. Not even a whiff of impropriety. Nobody is this clean.”

  I laugh. “You sound like such a cynic.”

  “Yeah, you must be rubbing off on me.”

  I sit back in my seat and scrub my face with my hands, letting out a long sigh. This is frustrating. I was sure she was going to be able to unearth something. I’d been counting on it, and to have her come back to me empty-handed is a bit of a blow. It’s a setback. But I’m sure there has to be something out there. There just has to be. We just need to ask the right questions to get the answers we’re looking for.

  Justice takes another bite of her Pop-Tart, her face a mask of concentration. She’s turning something over in her mind. I give her a moment, but she still doesn’t speak.