by Sawyer, JT
He preferred working upscale homes in ritzy neighborhoods rather than snatch-and-grab hold-ups on the street like other cons did. Those kinds of bottom-feeding criminals gave thieves like him a bad name. He despised the ones he had to live with during his three-year prison stint. Most of the goons in his profession had poor hygiene, few teeth, and could barely spell their names in the ground with a stick. Jared prided himself on always being clean-cut, well-dressed, and articulate. His ruggedly handsome face, striking blue eyes, and southern accent also added to his disarming appearance. Jared’s greatest weakness was women, which was what ultimately led him to being behind bars in Pensacola.
As his morning jog wound down into a brisk walk along the cactus-lined sidewalk, he saw a thirty-something woman with a tight bun of red hair walking her two Pomeranians. He immediately noted her faux-gold earrings and cheap Korean watch with the imitation glossy diamonds inset in the dial. The watch rattled around on her shotgun-freckled wrist. Jared recognized her as a woman from the apartment complex where he was staying under an assumed name. He had signed up for a three-month lease using the credit history and identity of an old childhood friend’s deceased father.
“Morning, ma’am. How are you on this fine day?” he said with a slight Louisiana accent and a half-smile that accentuated the huge dimple in his right cheek.
“Why, just fine, thank you. Lovely day, isn’t it? I just love the smell of those cactus blossoms in the air,” she said, breaking her stride. The two lap-dogs stopped to investigate Jared’s new green-and-white Nike running shoes. He moved back a few inches so the dogs didn’t slobber on them. He always wore expensive tennis shoes that he kept meticulously clean—not like the lowbrow riff-raff he had grown up around with their filthy twelve-dollar generic tennis shoes with the cheap imitation-rubber soles.
“Certainly is, and are these your little tour guides through the city?” he said, bending down to pet the dogs.
“Oh, yes, they go everywhere with me. Even to the mall—I have a chest harness to carry them so they can see what I see. They’re my only companions now that I’m divorced and stuck in my apartment.”
Jared ran his hand over the black-and-tan mops of the two dogs, casually glancing beyond to their owner’s alluring gold ankle bracelet that was unblemished and was of above-average design. His gaze quickly traced up her shapely, satiny legs and he looked up into her eyes. “I sure wouldn’t want to be a four-legged critter in the desert.” he said.
“Ooh, are you a southerner?” she cooed, pushing her free hand up against the side of her hair. “I just love that charming accent.”
“Yes, ma’am. From Tennessee originally—Gatlinburg— you know, the real home of country music, not Nashville with all those inebriated one-song wonders.” He grinned while looking at her with his cobalt eyes. He had to keep shuffling around so the diminutive dogs wouldn’t drool on his shoes.
“Country music—are you a performer?” she said, leaning back on one hip. “My daddy, God rest his soul, used to love Patsy Cline and Arlo Guthrie.”
“Oh no, ma’am, not me. With my crackly voice, I’d get tossed from even a Karaoke bar. No, I’m down here for a few months…uh…doing some internal auditing for American Express. Just can’t wait to get out of this furnace and back home to where there are more lakes and rivers.”
“Well, there’s the pool at our apartment complex—you should visit sometime. I usually go down for a dip in the late afternoon,” she said, tugging on the pink leashes of her dogs.
“Why, that’s mighty kind of you. I’m going to be tied up with work and business meetings the rest of the week,” he said. As lovely as she was, Jared needed a woman to be a complete package—good looks, nice legs, and most importantly, quality jewelry that could be hawked when things went south in the relationship, which for him was usually at the start of each month.
A forlorn look spread across her face. “But when I see the afternoon sun, I’ll be thinking of you down by that pool,” he said, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Maybe if there’s time, I can swing down and partake of your kind offer,” he added, offering his hand to shake hers while unconsciously studying the tan line on her ring finger that had previously housed a considerably wide wedding band.
“Mary—you can call me Mary.”
“Jared…my good lady…it’s been a pleasure talking with you,” he said and then continued with his jog down the street.
While Jared couldn’t help notice someone’s jewelry and personal manners, he also just loved people. He hated being alone in his apartment. His father had tried to instill in him that a con-man needs to be a loner and not get attached to any person or place, but Jared relished the company of others, especially women. He just loved being in a lady’s presence—any size, any age, any color; not simply to meet his primal needs but just for the pleasure of their fragrance, laughter, and the sheen of their velvety hair. His father, however misguided his sparse parental advice had been, was right about women—they were the loveliest creatures on earth.
It was a weakness he was well aware of and one that had caused him to linger in a city longer than he should have on occasion, but a personal flaw in his precarious line of work that he could not overcome.
He finished his jog and strode through the parking lot by his first-floor apartment. As he walked past an ornamental display of flowering yucca plants, he paused to read the grisly headlines of the newspaper lying beside his neighbor’s front door: Hundreds Killed in Overnight Cannibalistic Rampage in Several Southeastern Cities. He glanced down at the images and shrugged his shoulders, Hmm…maybe I will stay out west. Too many congested places back home and people always bitching about their lawns and how their car needs waxing. And now they’re chomping on each other, Christ!
He unlocked his door and went into his one-bedroom apartment, feeling the cool blast of air-conditioning. After his shower, while donning a long-sleeved blue dress shirt with pseudo-pearl buttons and blue pleated slacks, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming to an abrupt halt in the main parking lot. A glance out the corner of his bedroom window revealed two U.S. marshals moving in on his abode with their Glocks drawn. The first man looked to be around six feet and two-twenty with giant shoulders and a lopsided haircut. The second man was lean, with a face like an old boot. Both had the predatory look that Jared knew all too well.
Jared slid on his sweaty Nikes, impatiently brushed a fleck of dirt off the tongue of the right shoe, and grabbed his pigskin Hilfiger daypack. He climbed out the back window just in time to gain a short gap between him and his pursuers. The marshals saw him dart across the back alley and the chase began.
The next hour saw him winding through alleyways, over fences, and finally through the back of Tiberto’s Mexican restaurant, eluding his pursuers through his superior physical conditioning as he had done on so many occasions before. While his heart was racing from his escape, his nerves were still and his facial expression stolid.
Thinking he had lost them, he casually unruffled his shirt collar, grinned, and turned to walk down the steps of the restaurant. The next moment he felt the wind forcefully exit his chest and his ribs compress as one of the marshals slammed him to the ground and deftly applied the handcuffs.
“Well, if it isn’t Jared Sweinhart—or is it Larkson or Janson this time?” said the burly man hunkered over him with one knee on Jared’s spine. “I’ve got a nice holding cell for you downtown, hillbilly.”
Chapter 5
It was 1:40 p.m. as Carlie pulled the SUV to the security gate at the United States Secret Service building in downtown Tucson. She depressed the window button and flung her hair back while handing her ID badge to the lanky guard.
“Morning, Paul. You lads going to be able to keep cool in that little sweat box today?” she said, nodding to the booth behind him where another guard was waving to her.
“I’ve been out in hotter than this before, Ms. Simmons. Nothing can compare to the summer heat of Fallujah,” the young man said, r
obotically scrutinizing her photo before him.
“Yeah, I hear you,” she said.
Carlie pulled into the parking garage on the second floor and left the engine running while she gathered up her belongings, allowing her to partake of the A/C for a few more minutes. She grabbed a water bottle off the armrest holder and took a long sip while adjusting the holster on her right hip.
As Gerald disembarked with his range bag, she leaned out the window. “I’ll be right in. I need to call my brother in San Diego and let him know about making it out for his birthday this weekend.”
After not receiving an answer, she left a message on her brother’s phone and then exited the vehicle. Removing her gear from the back, she turned and saw a dark-haired man approaching. He was wearing a made-to-match blue suit and paisley tie and his brightly polished Italian shoes echoed off the concrete walls.
“Ms. Simmons, good afternoon. My name is Agent Phillip Alderman with the Department of Justice’s Office of Internal Investigations,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hello. I’m headed upstairs to unpack my range gear and then going home. Is this something we can discuss tomorrow?”
“Regrettably for you, no,” he replied without a trace of expression. “Will you accompany me to the conference room where we can begin?”
“Begin what?” she said, trying to recall if she had missed an email about this guy showing up. She knew it was probably connected with the fatalities that had happened on last month’s security detail in Brazil. In the intervening six weeks since the event, she had tried to pour herself back into work with her usual obsessiveness but the nightmares stabbed through her mind every night.
She took a deep breath and pushed away the memory. No way I’m gonna go through another week of interrogation on that incident. Gerald had better be in that room along with my supervisor. I’m not going to have a justifiable shooting…she swallowed hard…a defensive shooting tarnish my application to the D.C. office.
“Are you former Secret Service or just with the investigation division?”
“Actually I was an agent briefly, long ago, before transferring to the Department of Justice. I always preferred investigations over the idea of being someone’s disposable bodyshield.”
She led the way through the parking structure to the stairs. They moved up two flights and into the main office structure where the other agents had their individual offices. She strode past Gerald, who was staring in surprise beside the drinking fountain.
Carlie pushed open the conference room doors and threw the dusty range bag on the table, then stood with her arms folded while Phillip casually lowered his briefcase and opened the lid.
“Ms. Simmons, I am here because we need to discuss the matter of the defensive shooting by you on the afternoon of July 6 outside the embassy in Rio,” he said, pulling out a tin of red licorice drops.
How can I trust a man who eats that crap? This guy can’t be a former field agent—look at those soft, lotiony hands.
“It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m off the clock, plus I’d like to have my bureau chief here for any questions about that incident.”
“Look, from the various reports I’ve read, I’m sure this can’t be easy to talk about given the age of the attacker you killed, but we do need to address this, now that all the facts are in.”
“I know what the facts are, and if we could ever stick to just the facts at these meetings then this whole thing…” She stuttered and rolled her eyes. “This whole thing could probably be stuffed into a file already. But you people always want to play the head games, hoping for an emotional exposition where…..”
“Uh, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, Ms. Simmons. I am just here as part of the inquiring board put together to investigate the actions and judgments of Secret Service agents with a history who are applying for assignments in our D.C. office.”
Carlie stood with her hands oscillating between being balled in fists or resting forcefully on her hips. The face of the teenager she had dispatched on that dreadful day began seeping back into her psyche. She knew her training had over-ruled everything else once she had seen the young man raise his pistol but her disciplined tactical mindset was struggling to contain her dormant anguish. Carlie shook her head slightly, trying to clear away the haze of that memory but only seeing the young man’s glazed brown eyes as if she was standing over him again.
“So, let’s begin with why you signed on in the first place to be on a protective detail, Ms. Simmons? I mean, it’s not for everyone.”
“Free airfare and lots of nice hotels with those kidney-shaped pools, I guess.”
Phillip glared at her, tapping his slender fingers on the glass table. “I’ve just gotten through hours of travel and my usual courtroom patience has grown thin. This questioning process will take a few hours this afternoon followed by a polygraph tomorrow and a follow-up with your supervisor on how this will affect your operational status. In the meantime, I do suggest you cooperate with me before my jetlag clears, causing me to cogitate on your non-compliant tone,” he said, rolling his pale, spindly fingers around in the licorice tin.
Polygraph…non-compliant tone…why, this son of a bitch. Where the hell is my bureau chief? She knew that most of the twenty field agents were off today, except those on the security detail for the president’s daughter. Carlie had figured Gerald and her bureau chief, Michael Enright, would be present for this though.
She leaned forward with her fists on the table. “Look, I am in the field of executive protection and the training that we receive…”
“Please skip the job description from the federal recruiting ad and just get to the heart of the matter,” he said, motioning her to sit down as he began sliding back into his chair. He glanced over her shoulder as several agents moved quickly past the room.
“Not until my boss and my partner are present.”
“Actually they were supposed to be here by now,” said Phillip, looking out through the windows of the conference room.
A bald man in a blue blazer rushed by, pausing at the conference room door. “We’ve got an emergency briefing with the chief now,” he said, then scurried away down the hall.
Carlie looked at Phillip, raising an eyebrow. Maybe they got a report about a D.C. circus monkey parading around in a suit.
Carlie hopped up and walked down the green-carpeted hallway, with Phillip following behind as other agents peeled out of their offices.
When they arrived at the briefing room, Carlie saw that nearly all of the department’s twenty field agents on the weekend shift were gathered around, querying each other.
Michael Enright, a burly African-American man, entered the room and motioned to his assistant for the lights to be dimmed. The overhead visuals came across the screen behind his left shoulder as he began speaking. The images were from different televised news stations throughout the U.S. which showed dozens of savage attacks. Though each occurred in different locations—a mall, a grocery store, a school yard—the horrific scenes all bore a resemblance: dozens of ghastly-looking humans with yellow skin and heavily wrinkled faces maniacally assaulting innocent pedestrians, mauling them and then moving on to another victim.
The room was silent as the chief spoke. “Last night there were police reports being circulated about groups of deranged individuals chasing and biting people along the coastline in the southeastern United States. Reports began coming in late this morning from Orlando, Denver, Dallas, and most recently Santa Fe. Bite victims seem to become infected within thirty minutes and begin the disease transmission all over again through hunting down others. Dallas SWAT reported that headshots are effective in neutralizing the threat. The Arizona National Guard is being mobilized as we speak, to help contain any potential threat. So far, there are only a few isolated reports here in the Southwest and I am going to meet with the governor shortly to discuss options about closing our borders.”
Carlie took a slow sip from her water bottle, not even noticin
g the cool fluid as she tried hard to swallow. She thought of her brother and how he should be notified of what was going on even though it was against protocol. He has to know by now, though, with all the news reports. She forced herself back to the chief’s voice when she heard her name called.
“Gerald and Carlie—you’re heading up a support detail to go to U of A’s medical research school to help secure Gemini and offer assistance to her dayshift crew. A helo will be inbound to your location for possible extraction. I’ve already been in touch with Gemini’s detail and they know you’re coming. The rest of our teams will concentrate on potential ex-fil efforts for the senator and his family if this outbreak creeps any further north towards the city limits.”
“Roger that, sir,” said Gerald from across the room, nodding over to Carlie.
Everyone in the room knew the code name Gemini stood for Eliza Huntington, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the President of the United States. She was in her first year of pre-med school at the University of Arizona. Being as her father was in his second term, she had the usual four-man security crew following her every move 24-7. Though she liked to shy away from the media, her past comments about her “remora-like bodyguards” as Eliza called her Secret Service detail, had never sat well with Carlie and the other agents who had worked her PPD over the past year. Carlie also suspected that the main reason her own transfer requests to D.C. had been ignored was because the Secret Service needed a female agent on Eliza’s protection detail. Part of her didn’t mind sitting back and learning from the more experienced agents. She had patiently waited through five rounds of applications for the D.C. position during this past year and was now growing tired of the constant battle to move ahead in the pile of applicants who seemed to be passing her by.