The Rogue Agent

by Daniel Judson

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this? About Krista being a close-protection agent. You could have reached out and told me back then. You could have told me when I saw you yesterday.”

  “I was under instructions not to tip you off.”

  “Whose instructions?”

  “Cahill’s. The cover we made for you and Stella was good, Tom, so I figured no one would find you and you’d never know about any of this. Anyway, I needed them to trust me again. The Colonel and Raveis. Following Cahill’s instructions—all his instructions—was a way to start earning their trust back. The job was shit, and so was the pay. I was going fucking stir-crazy. I wanted to get back to what I do best.”

  “You said the job was shit.”

  “I can’t go back there. It’s not safe.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we’re all marked men. Every one of us. Someone is making a move against the Colonel. Someone on the inside. That’s the only way the Algerian could have found you. The Colonel’s organization has been compromised, probably for even longer than they suspect. None of our secrets are safe. When you can’t know who to trust, it’s time to go dark.”

  “Any idea who came after Hammerton?”

  “No. But if he was taken alive, I feel for the man, because whoever has him is going to do whatever it takes to get him to spill everything he knows. And Hammerton knows a lot.” Carrington paused. “I’m starting to think that’s what happened to Frank Ballentine. I’m thinking he was their first attempt at breaching the organization. They took him and wrung out of him everything he knew. If he’s lucky, he’s dead.”

  Tom said nothing.

  In that moment of silence, he heard the sound of a tractor trailer approaching, then quickly passing.

  An instant later he heard the same sound coming from the cell phone’s earpiece.

  Carrington was nearby.

  Hurrying to the door, Tom looked in the direction the rig had gone.

  He saw several blocks of two-story brick buildings—a mix of shops and restaurants with apartments above.

  On top of a building three blocks away stood a sign: BONAZZA Bus Line.

  Tom began walking toward it.

  “You there?” Carrington said.

  “Yes.” Tom needed to stall. “Did you drink that bottle of Oban yourself?”

  “I left a little for you.”

  “You were supposed to stay sober. They won’t ever take you back if you’re drinking.”

  “It’s not like you’re going to tell on me, right? And anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s all falling apart, Tom. So I’m disappearing, and I’m staying disappeared. I need you and Stella to do the same. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

  “You’re panicking, Skipper. That’s not like you. There’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

  Carrington paused before answering. “I hate to even think this, but there’s the chance that Hammerton’s disappearance might not be what it looks like.”

  “I don’t understand.” Tom crossed one block, two more to go.

  “What happens to a mole when he’s no longer useful? He’s killed by those he served, right?”

  “Hold on. You’re telling me you think Hammerton is the rogue agent.”

  “Think about it. Four men were sent after Ballentine—four men Hammerton easily took out. That drew out Ula Nakash, who was killed by another team of men who, according to Cahill, seemed to be going out of their way to spare the life of someone in that van. At least, at first they were. And the minute one of those men got reckless and started shooting into the van, he was cut in half by the leader of the attack. Remember, Hammerton was one of the three people in that van. The next night the Algerian comes after the girl, has a whole team of men with him, hard hitters in full tactical gear. That’s a wet team. That’s annihilation, not abduction. So if she wasn’t the one in the van they were trying to spare, and men had already come after Ballentine, then that leaves Hammerton, doesn’t it? And how else did they find you so quickly, Tom? Someone had to have told them.”

  “Hammerton is not capable of betrayal. I know the man. I owe my life to him. He owes his to me.”

  “Men change, Tom. And he’s getting on in years. He’s got to be thinking about his future at this point.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “Don’t let your sense of loyalty stop you from seeing what’s in front of you.”

  Tom repeated, “It’s not possible. And anyway, how would Hammerton know where I was?”

  “He’s a resourceful man, we both know that. But think about it. The attack on him happened around the same time you were attacked. That sounds like a purge to me. That sounds like someone looking to tie up loose ends.”

  Tom recalled what the Algerian had said to him about disliking loose ends.

  He picked up his pace then, had no doubt that this exertion was audible when he spoke.

  “Listen, I think we should stick together,” he said. “We should go away together, the three of us. Safety in numbers, right?”

  “No, it’s better if we remain separate. One can move faster than three.”

  “What if I need to find you?”

  “You can’t. That’s the way it has to be. For my sake as well as yours. Once I have new identities, I’ll let you know where to pick them up.”

  “I need to be able to contact you, Skipper. With everything that’s going on, I may need you.”

  Carrington hesitated, then said, “This phone will be on every day at five for an hour. Do you remember the four-digit code you texted me two years ago when I was hiding out in White Plains?”

  Tom did.

  The year that Benjamin Tallmadge, George Washington’s spymaster during the Revolutionary War, had died.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll reply when and if I can,” Carrington said. “Good luck, Tom.”

  “Wait. The Algerian said something to me. Something about my father.”

  Tom heard only silence from the phone as he crossed onto the third block.

  At its far end was the bus station. A bus was poised to pull out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  “He seemed to know my father,” Tom continued. “Or at least know of him. How is that possible? How would a man like that have known my father?”

  There was more silence.

  The bus began to pull out.

  “Jesus,” Carrington said. His tone was grave. “You’re about to go down a road you shouldn’t go down, Tom. The Colonel and Raveis, they’ve been manipulating you from the start. I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry. I wanted to. I almost did a thousand times over the years. Just listen to me and leave. I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even Cahill at this point. Get Stella and leave and never look back.”

  The bus pulled out and swung right, passing Tom as he stood on the sidewalk.

  His hope for answers was slipping away. “He said he understood why he fears me,” Tom said. “Who is he talking about? Who fears me?”

  He scanned the tinted windows but could see only the vague shapes of the dozen or so passengers within the bus.

  When Tom got no reply, he said, “Are you there? Skipper?”

  “You might not want to stay out in the open like that, Tom,” Carrington said. “There’s always the chance I was followed here.” He paused. “Good luck, son. I’ll be in touch.”

  The bus roared past Tom and rolled down the street, leaving a blast of air that smelled of diesel exhaust.

  Tom could only stand silently and watch the bus go.

  The call had been ended.

  He looked around before turning to make his way back to the motel room.

  He studied every car that approached and passed him, looked over his shoulder every few steps to make sure no one was behind him.

  It took two minutes to reach the motel.

  Inside the room, he grabbed the money, a stack of twenties that was three inches thick.

  It had to b
e at least five grand.

  Climbing into Krista’s Jeep, Tom steered out of the parking lot and began to backtrack. He texted a single word to Stella as he drove.

  STATUS.

  If there was a problem, she was to reply one way, and if all was well, another.

  Her answer came through in a matter of seconds.

  Safe.

  Still, as he steered out of town, he found himself pushing the speed limit as much as he dared.

  Thirty-Five

  Of the men Tom trusted, he had fought beside only three.

  Carrington and Cahill and Hammerton.

  He’d served under Carrington in Afghanistan.

  He’d fought beside Cahill the night he led the rescue that saved Cahill’s squad.

  A rescue that had ended with Cahill attempting to shield Tom from the fragments of an exploding grenade.

  And with Frank Ballentine carrying the two of them to safety.

  Tom had fought beside Cahill again in New York City two years ago, after which he’d been taken to the Cahill compound on Shelter Island and reunited with Stella.

  Tom’s friendship with Hammerton was a more recent one—and the briefest.

  But their bond had been forged within the same crucible of violence.

  If not for Hammerton, Tom would have been killed in an abandoned machine shop in Connecticut.

  And vice versa.

  It was likely, Tom knew, that Stella would have never learned what had happened to him that night, and it tore him up to imagine her waiting for him, first for hours, then for days, then weeks and months and years.

  Each man had sacrificed something for Tom.

  And Tom had risked everything for each of them.

  How could he not trust any of these men?

  And how could he not defend one, even as they turned against each other?

  Carrington’s plea for Tom to get Stella and leave had its appeal. Of all the unknowns before him now, this was the one he could embrace.

  The one he should embrace.

  But he needed the truth, whatever shape that took, or he’d be running from an unknown, not just toward one, and that wasn’t something he was willing to do.

  That was no way for a man to live.

  Even for a man who was as willing as Tom was to be nothing more than a ghost.

  As he crossed the last few miles, Tom focused on those three contingent disciplines necessary to overcoming any obstacle.

  Perception, action, and will.

  All he had now were those parts of himself.

  He was the only person—the only man—that he could trust.

  Tom parked the Jeep and looked up at the solitary church atop the small hill.

  There was plenty of space for a helicopter to land in the surrounding open ground, but Tom saw no sign of one.

  Exiting the Jeep, Tom began to climb the hill.

  Reaching the church, he moved along its right side, listening as he went for voices coming from within but hearing nothing.

  The majority of the windows were stained glass, but one just past the halfway point had a missing panel that had been replaced with a pane of clear glass.

  Tom looked through that window and saw Krista standing by the main door, guarding it, her AR-10 ready.

  Shifting his position, he spotted Stella in the front row of pews.

  She was with Valena and Grunn.

  Tom walked to the front door and knocked. Krista unlocked it and let him in.

  He asked whether there was any word from Cahill.

  “He’s almost here,” she answered.

  “Good. I’ll need your HK.”

  Without hesitation, Krista drew her sidearm from its holster and handed it to Tom.

  He walked down the wide aisle to Stella, took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Everything okay?” she said.

  Tom nodded and looked at Grunn. “How are you?”

  Grunn shrugged. “Alive.”

  “Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

  She shook her head.

  Then Tom addressed Valena. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Tom could tell she was anything but that.

  He also understood her reason for bravado.

  He’d felt the same defiant self-reliance when he’d been left alone in the world. “Do you have any family in the United States?”

  Valena shook her head.

  “Anyone here your mother was close with? A friend? Woman or a man?”

  She hesitated, then glanced at Stella. “No.”

  Tom took a breath, let it out, and said, “A friend of mine is coming here. He and I are going to talk. Whatever happens, you might be with us for a few days. Maybe even longer. Are you okay with that?”

  Valena nodded.

  Tom offered a smile. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Me neither,” Tom said.

  Krista was still by the foyer, guarding the front entrance. He gestured toward the door to the left of the altar. “Is there a way out of the basement?”

  “No. Why?”

  Tom heard the distance drumming of helicopter rotors, approaching from the south.

  He said to Stella, “Take Valena into the office, okay?”

  Stella released Tom’s hand and took the girl’s. Standing, she led the girl toward the door to the right of the altar.

  Tom waited till they were in the room and the door was closed before he held out the HK45 for Grunn to take.

  “Anyone other than Cahill walks through that door, open fire,” he said.

  He turned to Krista. “Same goes for you.”

  Grunn took the pistol.

  Tom said, “When Cahill gets here, tell him I’m waiting downstairs.”

  The drumming grew louder, was starting to sound now like distant thunder.

  “You sure you’re okay, Grunn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. I’ll see you after.”

  Tom walked to the basement door.

  Moving through it, he headed down the stone stairs.

  By the time he reached the bottom step, he could no longer hear the rotors.

  Thirty-Six

  Tom waited in the dimly lit basement.

  The space was empty, save for Krista’s gear, which was stowed in several lockable storage containers stacked on a single pallet not far from the stairs.

  There was nothing Tom could use to build a maze or take cover behind, should it come to that.

  The air was dank and chill, but he unzipped his hooded sweatshirt anyway so he could more easily reach Carrington’s Glock.

  Then he stood with his hands hanging at his sides and listened.

  The sound of the rotors, muffled but unmistakable, reached him as the helicopter landed somewhere outside. That noise ceased as the powerful engine was shut down.

  There was nothing for a moment—Tom counted a minute, then another—but then he heard the church door open and close.

  He waited for some kind of commotion from above—voices raised, running feet, shots fired—but all he heard were calm voices, two of them, male and female.

  Cahill and Krista.

  Tom could not make out their words but didn’t need to; Krista had more than proven herself to him.

  Eventually, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Cahill moved through it, closing the door behind him and proceeding down the steps.

  Reaching the bottom, he looked at Tom before scanning the basement to confirm that they were alone.

  Then he faced Tom again.

  He made no motion, simply stood still and stared at Tom. “You look like a man with a lot of questions.”

  “It would be best if you kept your hands where I can see them.”

  Cahill nodded. “I’m not your enemy, Tom.”

  “Where’s Hammerton?”

  “You spoke with Carrington.”

  “Yes. Where’s Hammerton?”

>   “That’s one of the many unknowns we’re dealing with.”

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “Some men came to his place. He was keeping an eye on Ballentine for me. Despite his injuries, Hammerton killed the men and fled.”

  “What about Ballentine?”

  “Unknown as well.”

  “Hammerton lives in New York. You can’t move a block in any direction there without being caught on surveillance cameras. Piecing them together will tell you if he left the city or if he’s still somewhere in it.”

  “We’re working on that. Gathering all that footage takes time.”

  Tom nodded. Finally he said, “Who else did you tell about Stella and me?”

  “No one.”

  “Then how did those men find us so fast?”

  “That’s another unknown we need to figure out. It would help if we knew exactly who they were.”

  “The leader was an Algerian. And someone else was with him. He wore a ski mask, but there was something about his eyes.”

  “You recognized them.”

  “Not exactly. It was more of a context thing. Like a vague feeling of déjà vu. I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  “At what point did you have that feeling?”

  “When he was above me, with the night sky behind him.”

  Cahill thought about that, then said, “Did you get a good look at the Algerian’s face?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to reach into my jacket for something, okay?”

  Tom nodded.

  Cahill removed a folded piece of paper, held it out, but didn’t make a move toward Tom.

  Tom stepped to him. Taking the paper, he unfolded it and saw that it was a photocopy of a charcoal sketch of a man’s face.

  “Is that the man you saw?”

  Tom said it was and handed the paper back to Cahill, who folded it and returned it to his pocket.

  “Did he say anything to you, Tom?”

  “He said a lot.”

  “We’ll need to debrief you while it’s still fresh in your mind—”

  “Whose idea was it to send Krista?” Tom interrupted.

  “We’ll fill you in, I promise. There isn’t a lot of time, we should get moving.”