For the most part, Houston’s day was uneventful. He’d emerged from his apartment wearing nothing but a pair of black, slim-fit jeans and a T-shirt that read Carpe Diem. As far as Terry was concerned, it was a teenager’s saying—a cliché that people would let drop from their mouths as often as “good afternoon,” even if it really wasn’t. It didn’t really mean anything and was just another saying that caught on.
After that, Houston had climbed into his Mercedes and driven around the city of Los Angeles for an hour or so. Terry followed him, the heater in his car blasting hot air into his face. He hoped—prayed—that something worthwhile might happen today. But with each agonizingly uneventful minute, it seemed less and less likely.
Until Houston parked the car.
Terry parked on the opposite side, remaining invisible even to the cautious eye. He got out and watched from across the street, seeing him climb from the car and go into a convenience store, leaving the engine running. He couldn’t hear the rumble of the engine over the passing traffic but could see the hot steam coughing from the exhaust pipe.
No time like the present.
Dodging passing cars as fast as possible, Terry crossed the road and headed straight toward Houston’s car, his eyes trained on the store’s doorway. He’d done this many times—broken into houses, office buildings, and pretty much anything else he could name. All for the sake of the greater good and against the rules of the Bureau. Back in the day, he’d felt a bit like James Bond. Only without the over-the-top villains or the ability to bed women at the drop of a hat. He did, however, have a wife who he loved in spite of her flaws, as she loved him in spite of his.
Terry opened the car door and leaned inside with his knee on the seat, examining the contents of the glove compartment. Loose sheets of paper were the first things to fall out, and then a packaged pie dropped onto them with a rustling thud. He picked up the first letter he saw, flicking his eyes briefly back up at the store.
He’s still inside.
Looking down at the letter, the first thing that caught his eye was the word Salinger. It was as if the word had leapt from the page and struck him on the face. Next, his attention went to the letterhead, where an address had been printed in bold font. There was no way of copying it down quick enough, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have remembered it (his memory was starting to form holes at his age), so he folded it in two and slid it into his pocket. He thought that maybe he’d found enough to keep him busy for a day or two, and didn’t want to risk being caught, so he climbed out of the car and closed the door.
When he turned around, he had the shock of his life.
“Everything okay?” Houston appeared as if from nowhere, a questioning expression on his fat face. “Something I can help you with?” But he didn’t say it like he wanted to help. It was clear accusation.
Terry tried not to look as surprised as he felt. “Is this your car?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t leave the engine running,” he advised.
“And you shouldn’t just creep into people’s vehicles.” He was extremely pushy for his height. Terry stood over him with at least a foot’s advantage but never threw his weight around like this guy.
“Sir,” he said, rummaging through his brain for an excuse but finding very little. He could feel his cheeks flushing red. “You’ll have to excuse me. I opened the door to turn off the engine and hand the keys into the nearest store but thought better of it and left it as it was. An honest mistake, you’ll understand. I just worried that someone might steal it. And it’s a beautiful machine.”
Houston looked him up and down, studying his features. “One hundred thousand she set me back.” His expression changed from insulted frown to polite smile. “Thanks for being a good citizen, I guess.”
Terry smiled, too, though probably not as convincingly. “Sure. Sorry again. Have a good day.” And without waiting around, he strode back across the icy road, tensing up his shoulders in the frost. He didn’t look back until he was in the car and saw Houston drive away. He leaned on his horn and waved. Terry raised a hand to wave back.
Then he was gone.
Finally alone, Terry glanced around him and drew the letter from his jacket and read.
The Aldridge Building
312 Lucas Avenue
CA 90017
Directly below that, among other things, were explicit instructions.
You are hereby formally requested not to attempt to—or happen by—any engagement with the following persons: Blake Salinger, Val Salinger, Robert Parker, Rachel Lawrence, Jacqueline Lang. Any breach of these conditions will result in immediate termination and any necessary compensation will be pursued.
In the event of a scheduled meeting (wherein your employer will oversee exchanged words), be aware that you are not within your rights to report or repeat any conversation that may be overheard by yourself.
No name was signed at the bottom.
Terry knew all of the people mentioned, some only from newspaper articles, but he had a longer and more substantial history with Robbie. He shook his head at the vagueness of the letter, but there was certainly something worth checking out here. If only he could show it to his employer, he may be granted permission to check out the address.
Folding the paper back up and placing it on the passenger seat, he started the car and drove to the office. He thought about how Houston had taken a good look at him, and that couldn’t have been good. If the stories were true, for as long as he wanted to succeed in revealing the Agency, he could never show his face to a police officer again.
Chapter Six
Blake clenched the pistol tight between his hands, his finger crooked over the trigger. He was ready to go. Had never been this ready before. The power in his palms was unimaginable, and it lent him the strength he needed to keep on moving.
A target came up from behind a waist-height brick wall. It had just about reached the end of its pivot, the cardboard cut-out of a terrorist leaping at him with a clicking sound—the springs at work. Blake wasted no time in blasting a hole right through it.
Yes, he thought. Don’t you try to fucking jump out at me!
He tried not to grin as he moved with his back along one wall, the gun down by his crotch, arms tensed. He kept looking around the dark warehouse with peculiar outside terrain. He was handling it okay, but a sweat still broke out across his forehead.
Blake spun around the corner, raised the gun in front of him. He looked down the barrel, not wanting to miss a single second. To his left was a modest colonial house with a white picket fence. He pointed the weapon at the windows, a sense he’d had. The gun’s decision. Not his.
A face sprang up. He identified it as another terrorist in the second he’d spotted the picture of the gun in its hand. His father had taught him that much, but the Agency had put him through a strict training regime, and this was only a part of it. The combat training had been the least fun—he didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many times he’d been put on his ass. But even that was getting easier for him by now. In fact, the last time he was pitted against four other trainee agents, he’d taken down three of them. The fourth and final one had misplaced his step, so Blake had managed to get him in a stranglehold. That was, until he got careless, and the other trainee swept his leg out from under him.
The gun went off in his hand again, moving along the balcony where another gunman showed his face. Bang. Another. Bang. Another. Bang.
A sound to his right, a baby crying.
Blake knew he was being watched—observed—which made it all the harder. The hairs stood up on the nape of his neck as he pictured the baby. It wasn’t a real baby—that was obvious—but there was bound to be a complication when a baby started crying on a firing range. Keeping his body crouched low and his weapon held high, he looked around and ran across the street. It was realistic to the point that Blake found himself almost believing he was in a real gunfight.
The baby’s wai
ling grew louder as he rounded the corner and stood looking at a small grocery store. He gulped hard, knowing the only option was to head inside and save it. Things like this were what convinced Blake the Agency was never as bad as his dad had said they were. If they were training him to save a baby, their morals were clearly intact. Besides, if his father had worked for them for so long—as a matter of choice, too—then there was obviously something good about them.
Inside the store, Blake noticed that the lights were dim. He was faced with four narrow aisles that were stacked with food and cleaning products. The authenticity of the scene was impressive, but he tried not to let it break his concentration.
“Mrahhhhhhh,” the baby screamed again, and it echoed around the room.
Blake edged forward, pressing his side against the end of one aisle and poking a fraction of his face out, looking down the length of the row with one eye.
Nothing.
Treading lightly, not making so much as a slight noise, he stepped out, aimed his pistol down the far end to protect himself from God knew what, and rotated his body so he was on the end of the aisle parallel to the one he’d just checked. His actions had been smooth and safe.
If Dad could see me now, he thought. But Val couldn’t see him and probably never would. Hopefully, for his own protection, he would never see the man again.
The next aisle was empty too. And the next. The final aisle, when he reached it, was darker than the others, shaded by the odd placing of the light. Clutching the gun even tighter, he took slow, steady steps toward the back of the store. About halfway down, he closed his eyes and cursed himself for not having thought about the fact that he had boxed himself in. If anyone came round the corner with a gun now, he would be finished, and the exercise would have to be started all over again.
Blake stiffened up. A lesson learned for next time.
A small, glass jar of baby food rolled across the floor from the far end. Blake hurried over to it, keeping an eye on the security mirror that sat in the high corner of the room, observing the entirety of the store. Blake stood against the end shelf, his heart racing like the bass line of a heavy metal song. He looked up and saw the silhouette of a cut-out.
He remembered what he’d been taught by his combat trainer: make use of your surroundings. Use the environment to your advantage. Blake wasn’t using his fists now, but the same rules applied. He took one last, long look at the mirror, soaking in the layout of the room. Then, in an instant, he shot out the mirror, spun his body as he turned the corner, and shot the light bulb with perfect accuracy.
Excellent. He would have patted himself on the back if he could.
Now the room was dark and gloomy, the only light coming from the bulbs inside the display freezers. It was enough to help guide his footing, but little more than that.
Blake crossed the next aisle, chasing the cut-out he’d seen only moments ago. He approached it, still seeing its outline, the gun trained on it as he crept toward it. He was waiting for it to spring out at him—a confirmed threat.
When it did, he didn’t hesitate. He let two shots into it before it finished moving. Quick as lightning. Bang-bang. The cardboard exploded and collapsed from its rail.
Then there was a startling sound that made him fumble in the darkness, dropping the weapon like a fool. A new series of lights filled the room, and the warehouse rafters became visible. The store lit up, and the harshness of the floodlights stung his eyes.
“So close, Salinger!” the voice said over the loudspeaker. “Return to the front desk.”
Blake sighed, stooped to pick up the gun he’d dropped, and got a good look at the cut-out. He wanted—no, he needed—to know what he had done wrong. As his eyes landed on it, he understood just how badly he’d messed up. The target on the floor wasn’t of a terrorist or a gunman but of a woman holding her crying baby.
Maybe I’m not ready for the field. Maybe I never will be.
He returned to the desk from which he’d started, and Charlie was sat there in a sharp black suit, sipping bourbon from a tumbler. He was watching the screens and studying the replay, though he hadn’t been there when Blake had started. But now he seemed curious of what was going on. “Not bad, Blake. Not bad at all.”
Blake looked up at the booth where a fat, bearded man named James—who was in fact a very likeable guy—gave the OK signal with his fingers. “I rushed it a little there.”
“You did, you did,” Charlie said. “But that move with the mirror and the lights…” He clapped twice, so hard that it must have hurt his hands. “Ruined it in the end though.”
“I did,” Blake confessed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Sir, I—”
“Ah.” Charlie raised his hand.
“Charlie, I mean… I’ve been working hard for you, following your every command without question. But it’s been six weeks now, and you promised I would get to see the file on my mother. I was wondering if—”
“When you’re ready,” Charlie said, suggesting that he wasn’t.
Before Blake had a chance to protest, Houston stepped through the nearby door. There was still friction between him and Blake, after the officer pointed a gun at him and forced him to come to the headquarters a few weeks back. Sure, it’d ended up benefitting him, but Blake didn’t appreciate the snake-like prowess with which Houston had made his move.
“What is it, Houston?” from Charlie.
Houston stepped forward, handing Charlie an iPad.
He took it and flicked through a set of images. “Who is he?”
“Terrence Davenport, sir. I believe he’s FBI,” Houston said, sneaking a look at his boss while he was distracted.
Blake pretended not to notice, but he was onto this man. Every chance he had, Houston was less than an inch away from humping Charlie’s leg. It was almost impossible to make a move without him jumping out and criticizing him. To put it mildly, he was territorial.
“Have you dealt with it?” Charlie asked, concerned.
“Not yet, sir.”
“So then, deal with it!” Charlie screamed, launching the iPad across the room. It exploded into a mess of plastic chunks. Although it was useless now, Houston hurried to pick up the broken pieces and quickly left the room.
“James!” Charlie yelled up at the booth. “Run it again! Blake—” he turned his attention back toward Blake “—I want no mistakes this time.” And then he stormed off, muttering something under his breath, which sounded like, surrounded by fucking morons.
Blake didn’t think he could do any better. He cocked the gun anyway.
Chapter Seven
The sky was a bluish black, like spilled ink. A frost was coming in, another typical December evening. Val wondered how long he could keep up with his joints agonizingly torturing him in the cold weather.
“Over here?” Robbie asked from the wheel.
“That’s it,” Val said.
They were visiting a place Val had thought he’d never see again: Rosewood. He wondered if the bar manager was still on side. He had a hazy memory of being his colleague long ago. He could only remember one specific mission they’d embarked on together, and for his actions he was owed a favor. The question was, would the man pay up?
Jackie shut off the engine and began to climb out when Robbie gripped her arm. “What are you doing?” he asked like a concerned parent.
But Jackie only pulled away. “I’m sick to death of staying in the van.”
Val opened his mouth to back Robbie up, but then he thought it would only be fair. Perhaps they’d come to expect it of her far too often, and he hated the idea that she might only feel like a third wheel. “She’s right, Robbie. Come on, we can all go.”
They climbed out and rushed around the corner, checking over their shoulders for police. When they approached the bar’s door, it was closed. Not closed for the evening or for an hour’s lunch break, but closed closed. Val wiped a coat of dust off the window and squinted to peer inside, but it was dark. He banged on the gla
ss and rang the doorbell, anxious to get out of the open.
Come on, he thought. If the manager wasn’t inside, their plan would be set back by days, maybe even weeks. Val Salinger couldn’t allow that. He knocked harder.
They waited in the silence.
Jackie kept looking up and down the length of the quiet street. Robbie leaned against the window frame and kept his head down, silent, but his foot was tapping repeatedly against the concrete. Val gazed around. It was eerily quiet. There were only two parked cars in the distance, and fog lingered in the air like the mist from an old horror movie.
He sighed, accepting that nobody was coming to the door. “Robbie, may I borrow your jacket?” he asked and ignored the questioning look. While Robbie slipped the jacket off his shoulders, Val crouched to pick up a broken chunk of brick. It was the size of a fist with a jagged edge. Perfect. He then stood up on the knee-high window ledge and followed a hidden wire with his finger until it reached a small white box. He’d seen this model before, more than a few times. He simply pulled out the wire, disabling the alarm.
“You continue to surprise me,” Jackie said.
Val couldn’t see her, but he could tell from her voice that she was smiling. He stepped down, grasped the rock, and used it to scratch a perfect circle in the glass of the door. He then took the jacket from Robbie’s outstretched hand, wrapped it round his arm and used his elbow to crack the glass.
The circle slid through and shattered on the other side as pain shot through Val’s arm. It’d never been that painful before, but he supposed that was the price of old age.
“Wow, nice one,” Robbie said.
Val silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips.
They crept inside, Val feeling that small sense of accomplishment as his instincts returned to him. With it came the feeling of control. He’d always been able to handle himself and others, and it was nice to feel that power again.
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