by Jim Heskett
“You think so?”
“If you killed those shadows, then you’ve harmed people I care about. This will not end well for you. I’ll see to that personally.”
Ronald grinned. “I like your fire.”
“Have you killed Harry Boukadakis?”
“Harry isn’t dead. Not yet. And that depends entirely on you, but you probably already knew that.”
Layne set his jaw. “Why? What is it you think I know or think I’ve done?”
“I’ve killed five of your people so far. This probably makes you angry. This probably makes you want to retaliate, yes? Do you want to reach across this table and wrap your hands around my throat?”
“I saw your sniper thirty seconds ago. He’s on the roof of The Hike House across the street. He took the cap off the scope too early, and I caught the sun’s reflection.” Layne paused, studying his adversary. “Or, maybe that was intentional.”
Ronald nodded. “It was intentional. You need to know that if you take action against me, you’ll receive a bullet in the leg. Not in the chest, because I need you alive, for now. If something happens to me, Harry will die, most certainly. I’m the only person who knows where he is, so even if you avoid my sniper’s bullet and jab a knife in my heart, then your friend still dies.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
“We can get to you any time. Any place. If we get a hint you’ve called in the cavalry, then I give the order. But, you won’t call in your buddies back in Washington, will you? Because Daphne’s operations are always hush-hush.”
“I’ve run out of patience listening to you explain to me how clever you are. Tell me what you want, Ronald, or I’m walking away. It’s not like you’ve offered me proof of anything. Just a lot of big talk.”
“Well,” Ronald said, feigning shock. “You’re as ballsy as advertised. Okay, then. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Eight years ago, you were a part of an op in Littlefield, Texas.”
Layne’s vision narrowed but he said nothing. How in the world did Ronald know detailed info about highly-classified operations?
“Your partner on this mission took a bullet, as I understand it.”
He didn’t bother to correct this guy about what had actually happened there, on the last day of the op. Maybe it wouldn’t matter since he already seemed to know quite a lot.
“If you say so.”
“At the end of that op, you recovered a prize. You know the one I mean. I want it.”
Layne shrugged. “What makes you think I have that report? Or, if I could even have access to something like that?”
“Because the five operatives I’ve killed so far didn’t have those precious NSA pages. And, if you don’t have them now, you’ll figure out a way to get what I want.”
“What you’re asking can’t be done. It’s literally not possible. If you know as much as you claim, then you’ll know that’s also true.”
Ronald shook his head. “Don’t toy with me. I’m not in the mood to listen to you trot out the company line.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“You’ll get me what I want by Friday afternoon, or Harry dies. It’s as simple as that.”
Layne didn’t have to check his watch. Two days until Friday.
Ronald stood and buttoned his suit. “I suggest you stay here for a few minutes. I’ll leave my sniper in place to make sure you do. If you try to follow me, Harry dies today. If my sniper doesn’t report back to me—alive and well—within ten minutes, Harry also dies. This is no game, Mr. Parrish.”
With that, Ronald left the table and slinked away.
Part II
West Texas Locals
INTERLUDE #2
Littlefield, TX | Eight years ago
Layne adjusts his position from on top of the shed at the back of the bar. He has to be careful of any noise since the corrugated metal roof creaks and cries any time he shifts a body part on it. There’s not a better place for him to watch, though. This town’s streets are sparsely populated, with few great hiding spots.
The shed is behind Sleepy’s, about sixty feet from the back door. There’s a gravel parking lot between Layne and that door. A single light bulb hangs from a cracked fixture jutting from the back of the building. The reach is small enough that Layne doesn’t worry about being seen back here. Only making enough noise to be heard. Layne wears a black blanket since there’s no sense in taking chances.
His eyes are on that door, steady and unblinking.
Layne’s operational partner Juliana is in the front parking lot. They’ve had radio silence for the last three minutes, waiting and watching. Layne can’t see her, but if she’s in position, she should be hunkered down between cars in the main lot, with eyes on the front door. Layne prefers to have satellite and drone surveillance operated remotely, but they don’t have that luxury this evening. It’s not a standard op.
Everything about this op, in fact, is unusual and challenging.
“I think it’s ridiculous we don’t know her real name,” Juliana says through the Bluetooth in his ear. “We don’t have any proof this person actually exists.”
“That’s what the NSA wants,” Layne whispers back. “Ours is not to reason why.”
They’re tracking a woman with the code name Vixen. A simple mission to locate and kill. They have a description and a general search area of this town of Littlefield, but no particulars. And, they’ve been ordered not to spend any energy on uncovering the name and identity of the woman known as Vixen. This is a requirement of the operation. Not one by Layne’s direct boss. It’s a requirement of the NSA, who Layne and Juliana have been lent to for the duration. Daphne Kurek’s little team has to do this from time to help secure budget. A constant dance with the dollar signs. DEA, Secret Service, FBI, Homeland, NSA, they all get a piece from time to time. Layne doesn’t mind them because they’re mostly populated with good people.
Except for the NSA. Nothing but deceit and trickery from that agency. They never tell you more than the bare essentials, and they expect miracles. And, more often than not, when they receive their miracles, they don’t give the proper credit for hard work.
Layne doesn’t mind hard work. But, he’s also not a fan of letting others take credit when they haven’t earned it.
“It’s dumb,” Juliana says.
“This is how it is.”
“I know, but I hate it. That report could be a thousand miles from here. This Vixen person could be a journalist they want dead for a completely unrelated reason. We’d never know the difference, and they’ll tell us the truth only after we’ve put a bullet in her head.”
Layne doubts this, but Juliana has a point. They’re supposed to collect a binder full of pages, stolen by codename Vixen, a low-level NSA employee who went AWOL from the agency a few weeks ago. These pages make up a report detailing a hypothetical plan to remove a South American leader from power. And, even though it’s all conjecture and theory, it makes the United States look bad. The NSA believes Vixen intends to portray it as factual, and auction it off to the highest bidder.
That can’t happen. The damage to the USA would be significant.
“Any activity in the front?” Layne asks.
“Couple of smokers are trying to pitch rocks into a coffee can across the parking lot. They’re both terrible shots.”
The mention of cigarette smoking sends a pulse of heat into Layne’s chest. He’s got on a patch and is also sucking on a lozenge, but it’s not getting the job done.
“Copy,” he says. “I’ll let you know if anything happens on my end.”
“I was thinking about Mexico City today.”
“You were thinking about that op? Why?”
“I dunno. It popped into my head.”
“Okay,” he says. “What about it?”
“What happened there… it wasn’t your fault.”
He grunts. “I was in charge of the mission, and they escaped. I don’t see how you could look at it any other way.”
>
“None of us knew what we were doing. Look at how far we’ve come in two years.”
“You’ve gotten much more skilled at stealing airplane liquor bottles, that’s for sure.”
Juliana emits a soft chuckle. “You’re just jealous because you’re so heavily weighed down by that two-ton moral compass you keep in your pocket all the time.”
“I’m not the goody-goody you think I am, Jules.”
“Prove it.”
“You want me to knock over a convenience store?”
“That would be a good start. But not one around here. All they have is that watered down, low-alcohol beer. It’s not worth stealing.”
Layne’s breath catches when he hears a sound. “Wait a second.”
The back door opens and a man emerges. Dark-skinned, possibly Latino. He’s got a scraggly goatee, and he’s wearing a black shirt, tight jeans, and cowboy boots. The man lifts a phone to his ear. The way he stands with his head leaning away from the back porch light makes Layne take notice. It’s a telltale sign, when someone is interested in shielding their identity, even when no one supposedy looking.
Layne brings up his binoculars, careful to ease them forward, so the roof doesn’t creak. He focuses on the guy talking on the phone.
His arms swing around, his eyes dart left and right. He’s paranoid. There’s an odd air about him.
Layne doesn’t like to jump to conclusions, especially with so much on the line. On the other hand, they have little to go on here, which means any hint of a path is one he must seize. At least, that’s what he tells himself. They won’t have too many opportunities.
“I think I have something,” Layne says.
The guy, still on the phone, strolls away through the parking lot, gravel crunching under his feet. Layne grits his teeth. They’ve been at this bar for an hour and no sign of Vixen yet. If they leave, they might miss her, but something about this guy triggers all sorts of warning bells for Layne. Even when he tells himself to let it go, the little voice of intuition in his head jumps up and down and demands to be noticed.
“What is it?” Juliana asks.
“I’ve got a lead. It might be nothing, but I think we should follow.” Layne notes that he’s not getting into a car. The suspect turns at the corner of the back building, crosses the Dollar Tree parking lot, and walks diagonally toward Phelps Avenue.
“I see him,” Juliana says.
“Did he arrive in a car?”
“He did. About five minutes ago, in a Ford truck. There was someone else driving, and the driver has since left with the truck.”
That’s even more suspicious. In a small town like this, everyone drives. To see someone walking from place to place is enough to set off warning bells.
“Why are we interested in this guy?” Juliana asks.
Layne slips to the edge of the shed, metal creaking. But, the target doesn’t seem to notice. “Not sure. Something about him. Are there other bars or late-night diners in walking distance?”
“There’s a bar two blocks up. He’s headed in that general direction.”
“Ditch the car and meet me in the front lot. We’re on foot.”
Layne adjusts the Glock in his waistband and skulks toward the edge of the parking lot. He pauses at the corner of the dormant Dollar Tree, watching the Latino man stroll along the street, still on the phone. He’s checking left and right, still staying away from streetlights and anything else that could illuminate him.
A moment later, Juliana joins Layne, peering around the edge. “I see why you find him interesting. I’m not sure if leaving this bar unattended is smart, though. She’s supposed to be here at some point.”
Layne swishes his lips back and forth as he considers this.
“Should I stay behind?” Jules asks.
“No. We go all in.”
“Okay, if you feel strongly about it. What’s the plan?”
Layne draws his pistol. “Let’s see where he’s going.”
11
After Ronald left their little impromptu meeting, Layne waited until he was out of sight before trying to spot the sniper across the street again. He saw a shape recede from the top of the outdoor gear shop. Layne tugged on his lower lip, trying to decide on his next move.
Ronald had given him two days to recover the NSA report, or Harry would die. According to everything Layne had been told and believed over the last eight years, that report had been shredded by Daphne’s boss Avery Weeks, and they had never made copies. The particular brand of security paper was specifically designed for government purposes to prevent copying.
So, Layne had a difficult choice. Pursue this report, which all evidence said no longer existed, or attempt to rescue Harry. With only a couple days left in Ronald’s ultimatum, Layne didn’t have time or resources to chase after both options.
Why was Ronald so convinced the report still existed? Ultimately, it didn’t matter. Even though he had given Layne grave warnings about the consequences of trying to find and free Harry, Layne didn’t think he had a better option.
So, despite Ronald’s warning, Layne left his seat and headed toward the outdoor gear shop, where the sniper had vacated moments ago. He took a quick glance toward the street, and Ronald’s black car was nowhere to be seen. All around, tourists and day shoppers went about their normal routine of engaging in commerce. The early afternoon sun cooked the exposed arms and legs of everyone walking around, carrying their shopping bags and carryout cups of coffee.
Layne quickened his pace toward the street, keeping an eye on either side of the rear of the building. Dual alleys were the only possible escape route. There was nothing but open space desert behind the building, so Layne had to assume the sniper wouldn’t exit in that direction.
He stood at the crosswalk, jabbing the button. His eyes trailed over every pedestrian within eyesight. If this sniper were smart, he would ditch the rifle and change out of his dark clothes into a t-shirt, shorts, and baseball cap, like a thousand other tourists on the street. Rather than a hasty getaway, blending in seemed like the right move.
Layne only knew two details about the sniper: he was male and tall. That eliminated a good chunk of the population. Still, nothing triggered Layne into action. The sea of people remained unremarkable.
A moment later, the light finally changed, and he rushed across the street. Eyes on the slim alleyways on either side of the building. Layne kept them both in his sights as he crossed onto the sidewalk.
In the middle, he had to pick one. If it were him, he would choose the south alley, since that led out to the more-populated side of the street. The buildings on either side of that alley were covered in artsy graffiti, and plenty of people were already wandering along it, admiring the paint. The north alley contained no one.
Layne made his choice. He pushed forward, into the south alley. Two-story brick walls on either side covered with art. A few pieces of trash, some boxes. No tall and thin man. A clear line of sight led to the back, but no person with a long case escaping into the red desert.
Layne doubled back and checked the other alley, despite the lack of pedestrians. Nothing there, either.
He rounded the back of the building and squinted out toward the desert, but saw no one crouched down. Just cacti and wispy desert shrubs and a flat valley leading up to mountains a mile or so away. He waited a few seconds, letting his eyes unfocus to catch movement from his peripheral. Eventually, he gave up. Nothing back here worth observing.
Layne ran toward the front of the building and entered The Hike House. Racks of fleece clothes, shelves of hiking boots, snowshoes, water sports gear. A small wooden staircase ascended to a second floor with more gear. Layne couldn’t see an obvious way to access the roof from inside here, and there was no door on the second floor. A back door by the register led to what was likely a storage room, but there was a padlock on this side of it. No one had come out from that door recently.
A young woman with black lipstick and braided hair approached
him. With her head cocked to the side and a flirty grin on her face, she asked, “Can I help you?”
Layne checked the lanyard around her neck with The Hike House on an ID card. He briefly considered asking her about anyone strange in the building, but given the red tint to her low-lidded eyes, he figured she probably wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary. “No thanks. I’m just looking.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be over in Shoes if you need anything.”
She wandered off, and he studied the faces of the patrons. Most of them young, many of them probably tourists. Not a single one who fit the profile of the man who had trained a sniper rifle on Layne a few minutes ago.
Layne sipped from his bottle of Oak Creek Gold Lager and tapped on the keyboard of his laptop. His phone sat next to him on the desk in the room at the Red Rock Inn, ringing . On the screen, the display name read “Control,” a nickname he’d given to Daphne Kurek more than fifteen years ago. He’d thought of it while lying next to her in a hotel room bed, both of them panting and sweaty.
Sleeping with his boss had been the first of many mistakes he would make while working for her. And, that sporadic and messy love affair had lasted for almost a decade, until he’d met the woman he would marry, Inessa. And, now that he’d divorced that woman, Daphne still pursued him occasionally. Layne thought Daphne only did so because Layne said no most of the time. She liked the art of watching him struggle to resist her. Daphne had an uncanny ability to get what she wanted, despite all odds.
“Hello, darling,” she said in her smoky voice when the call connected.
“Good afternoon, Control. This line is secure.”
“You’re not just calling for phone sex? You don’t need a secure line for that. I think I might like the idea of someone in a van with a headset on, listening to us rub it out.”
Layne sighed. “You know they’re not usually in vans.”