by Jay Klages
CHAPTER 11
Tuesday, June 11
9:37 a.m. (PDT)
AgriteX
Owens was eating a late breakfast when he saw Pierce enter the executive lounge. The room was designed like a miniature pub with a short cedar bar, four round tables, and walls featuring Chinook carved-wood artifacts. A spear, hunting bow, dance rattles, and animal figurines including an eagle, bear, and elk were mounted in panels and shelves.
“Good morning,” Owens said. He was halfway through an omelet and a bowl of mixed berries.
“Hi, Marshall.” Pierce sat down and accepted a cup of coffee from the server. “I have an update on that guy, Sims. The one we found out at Zone Foxtrot.”
“Yes, let’s hear about that.”
“Everything in his background checks out so far. His boss at Home Depot says he took off for a two-week vacation, and a Guardian in the area stopped by that store to make sure the boss was real. We confirmed he’s been seen in the campground in Manzanita. He registered to hold a place for surfing lessons out of Seaside a month ago, paid on his MasterCard. No unusual purchases that raise any flags.”
“His car?”
“We found it. A Jeep Liberty rented out of Budget at PDX. Badly damaged from taking a tumble out beyond Zone X-ray. Looks like he was packed for a fishing and camping trip. We’ve left everything in place for now. The distance from the crash site to the outer surveillance ring is just short of a mile. He must have crawled out of the wreck and walked a good distance.”
“How about his apartment?”
“Went through the entire place,” Pierce said. “We found no discrepancies. There was plenty of trip research—printouts from his desktop printer—leading up to his travel date. He consulted online communities to ask about campsites, hiking, and vacation-related stuff. He talked about this trip on his Facebook page for weeks leading up to now, and got a camping tip about Lost Lake on a travel bulletin board that seemed to spark the idea. Then he was talking to all kinds of people about it, but we didn’t see any red flags. He’s also got some sort of journal notebook for what looks like psychiatric treatment, which we removed from his apartment and FedExed out here.”
“Good, I’d like to see that when it comes in. Did you run Verax on him?”
“We were just getting started before a problem made us take it offline, so we questioned him manually. Do you want us to put him in isolation until he’s validated?”
“No, a standard Associate room is okay for now. Worst-case scenario is this kid was sent as some sort of an expendable scout, but we don’t have any evidence of that. He sure as hell isn’t an operative. He’s too young and there’s no indication of any related experience. We’ve monitored all the new hires at the Portland field office, and he doesn’t match up with anyone we know about. We’ve been tracking who comes and goes from that office since March; he’s never been there.”
“So release him in Manzanita with the standard outbrief and monitor up to launch?”
“No. I think he might be a good asset for us,” Owens said.
“For us?”
“Yes. Have him take the psych profile, I’ll bet you’ll find he’s right in our sweet spot.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he looks like he’s just drifting without a rudder. I’ve stumbled upon his blog before, Wakethehelluppeople.com; he’s got a hundred twenty thousand followers. He skewers politicians and bureaucrats but supports the military, even after being separated. He’s a rare voice trying to awaken a disaffected public. Could be a future recruiting tool.”
“So you think he’s Chapter material.”
“Yes. He’s talented, but his leadership ability is sitting fallow. He just needs a purpose, a vehicle to make his ideas for change become reality. We can give him that.”
Pierce looked down and sniffed.
“Okay, what do you have in mind?”
“We’re short in our recruit pipeline for Phase Two, and we still need leadership to fill out the ranks. Let’s keep him in the Associate program, but give him the Guardian protocol instead of Zulu. See how he responds from there. If he lives, we develop him further. Send him back east and try to get him working as a civilian in the Pentagon. We can get his records corrected. His skills as a software engineer would also be very useful. Did you see the analysis of his online activity?”
“What about it?” Pierce asked.
“It shows he did some freelance web work and programming. Looks like he knows the key coding languages—C#, Linux, Java, HTML, PHP, Objective C—and plays with a few others. Finding that skill set along with a cultural fit here isn’t easy. Our programs have to evolve.”
“Marshall, we’re only twenty-four days away from Phase One launch. I know I’ve fallen short of the Phase Two recruitment goal, but aren’t we putting the cart before the horse?”
“Are you suggesting we kill him and attract more attention with him missing?”
“It seems the safer choice this late in the game. Who’s going to miss him or even know where to look?”
Owens shook his head.
“No, we keep him and just move him out with the other Associates as Phase Two. The other Associates aren’t fully indoctrinated either. They’ll be far away, so they can’t interfere, even if they wanted to.”
“Marshall, from a security perspective, I think—”
“Do it, please. We’re always looking for the right kind of people. I appreciate your candor, though.”
Marshall saw Pierce sigh as if he was trying to calm himself. He knew he needed to stay below the threshold of angering his operational chief to keep him effective. His relationship with Pierce spanned fifteen years, beginning when he’d hired Pierce for executive protection while Pierce worked for the private security firm ESX. Pierce then moved to a management position at a private military company, Spectrum Defense, and Marshall returned to recruit him after starting AgriteX.
Pierce was one of the first to receive the Guardian protocol, and he’d thrived with it. Over time he had earned executive and administrative rights. He had the highest recorded scores of compliance and activity for all download communications in the Guardian and Sentry programs. Owens called this composite score the “Knowledge Index,” and only executives could monitor it. While most downloads were mandatory, Owens had assigned additional, optional readings with the ability to enter comments and questions.
Guardians and Sentries also had Verax reviews and were asked loyalty questions. “Would you die for Marshall Owens?” “Would you report a fellow Guardian who had betrayed the Chapter?” The process was designed to weigh the strength of each Guardian’s responses and calculate a “Loyalty Index.” Pierce topped that chart too. When it came to expertise in security, surveillance, and ruthless cleanup work, Marshall doubted he could’ve ever found better than Pierce.
“Okay,” Pierce replied. “Regarding his aunt and sister—do you want us to continue surveillance?”
“On the sister only, and keep it light. Just as a precaution up until prelaunch activities. At this point we’ll need to gain his trust. Harassing his family risks pushing him away. We know where they are, and he knows that.”
“Right. And if he dies from the Guardian protocol?”
“Put him back in the Jeep and notify the county there’s been an accident.”
CHAPTER 12
Thursday, June 13
4:17 p.m. (MST)
Phoenix, Arizona
Inside one of the many one-story stucco-and-cement-tile houses packed together in the subdivision, Mateo sat shirtless, smoking a cigarette behind the folding table pushed up to the window. He was in his early thirties with a buzz cut and thin mustache curving to his jaw. Tattoos adorned his muscular body from his waist to his forearms.
Two notebook computers sat on the tabletop in front of him along with a painted ceramic ashtray and a can of Budweiser. On one computer, he was checking the evening movie times at the nearby theater. The other laptop was connected to Skype
and sat idle except for a tiny graphic thermometer that showed 105 degrees for the Phoenix area. He hadn’t left the house yet today, but that didn’t bother him at all.
The computer interface chimed on the second laptop—the contact box popped up on the screen with the name JOHN. Mateo donned his headset, took a swig of beer, and cleared his throat. There was no picture of John as a contact, and Mateo didn’t know if that was the true first name of this person he’d met only once. Most of Mateo’s dispatching work was just connecting addicts with buyers and buyers with couriers, but once or twice a week he communicated with people higher in the cartel pecking order. It always made his skin a little prickly.
“Hello?”
“Mateo.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s the report from Oregon?”
“Not sounding good,” Mateo said.
“How’s that?”
“David says our deckhand thinks the catch is going to fall short.”
“How short?” John asked.
“Way short. They see little activity. They think there won’t be enough catch to make the quota at the end of next month. They say the processors are inactive.”
“Did they say why?” John asked. “Don’t they understand that we have an exclusive agreement?”
“I don’t know any more than that,” Mateo said. “You’ll have to talk to David.”
“This is bad. Did you speak with the deckhand yourself?”
“No, I only get e-mails every few weeks. No calls. I just read the e-mails to David.”
John was silent for over a minute. Mateo was used to this. He knew it meant John was on mute and discussing this information with somebody.
“I’m going to have to go speak to the captain,” John said.
Mateo didn’t comment. He never speculated or discussed strategy. It was risky enough being a communications hub.
La vida es corta tanto como el dinero.
John added, “You make sure to let us know if the deckhand provides another update.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“And tell David I’m going to take a trip up there in about a week.”
CHAPTER 13
Friday, June 14
12:50 p.m. (PDT)
AgriteX
Kade awoke with no idea where he was until he spotted the familiar autumn village watercolor on the opposite wall. That meant he was back in the medical treatment room.
He lifted his head off the pillow. Pain throbbed a few inches above his left ear and a general headache burrowed deep into his skull. When he relaxed back against the pillow, the pain was tolerable, but he was feverish. Sweat made his entire neck slick and his throat felt like it had been stuffed with dried leaves. He swallowed a few times and tried to push some fresh saliva around with his tongue, but the nasty taste in his mouth refused to go away.
The vital signs monitor occasionally beeped, and the blood pressure cuff wrapped around his right arm constricted every few minutes to provide a reading. The IV stand held a bag dripping a clear liquid into his left arm, which was still splinted but now without a sling. His right arm had some other kind of shunt running into it.
His memory was fuzzy. Hill had told him he could eat and drink after he filled out a “profile.” The profile questionnaire was somewhere between a simple Myers-Briggs personality test and a complex evaluation like the one from his background review for a top secret security clearance. He answered the profile honestly, assuming they might put him back on the lie detector. His last memory was handing Hill the completed answer sheet.
He turned his head to the side. Weak sunlight shone through the window above the vent, and the evergreen branches swaying in the breeze outside created moving shadows on the wall. He noted the surveillance camera positioned above the bed.
Other than the dull head pain, the rest of his body felt okay. He checked to see if he was restrained again and saw the same nylon straps stretched around his chest and stomach. Even when he pushed against them with all his strength, they still held firm. He squeezed the armrests on the bed to calm himself down. Now he was really getting sick of this shit.
The nurse he’d seen before reentered the room wearing a pair of plastic protective glasses. He reached out and tried to grab her arm, but couldn’t quite extend far enough. The sudden move startled her, but he didn’t care about being polite anymore.
“I’m tired of being strapped in here like an animal,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Sims, I know you’re upset with your current situation but—”
“Upset? Yeah, I’m upset! Screw vacation! I want to get back home now. You guys can’t just hold me here. I’m not a criminal. I haven’t broken any laws.”
“Patience, Kade.”
Hearing his first name in a comforting tone made him pause. He took in her exotic appearance as she stepped closer to the bedside. They must have pumped his body full of drugs.
“Look,” she said. “You’re very lucky, but you just don’t know it yet. We’ve gotten you all fixed up now because the leadership thinks you’ve got great potential and would be a great fit.”
“What?”
“Marshall thinks that with some exposure you’ll want to be a part of what we’re doing here. This medical treatment is just the beginning. Most people don’t end up here by chance like you did. I can’t tell you more about this right now, but you’ll find out some more later tonight. We’ll monitor your progress through that camera, so don’t feel like you’re being left alone. Hopefully very soon you won’t need to be restrained. Everyone’s just making sure that you don’t hurt yourself.”
“My head hurts. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for a long time. Horrible dreams too.”
“That’s normal,” she said. “You’ve been in a controlled coma for five days, but that ended today, and everything’s looking good.”
“A controlled coma? For a week? What the fuck happened?”
“You’ll get more answers tonight. Now I want you to rest for a few more hours. I’m going to give you a sedative. When you come to, you’ll be back in your assigned room.”
Kade tried to calm down and decided to keep his mouth shut. Then he remembered again why he was here. It popped into his mind and brought immediate focus.
CLEARCUT. The operation name he wasn’t supposed to know.
He knew the clock of the operation was ticking and he was wasting precious hours. Or more like precious days. He’d lost control of the situation and needed to get back on track. Lerner had told him to expect the unexpected. Improvise. Be creative. He’d said he would do just fine. Said that he’d have waves of doubt. Waves of fear. It was all normal in an operation like this.
The nurse stuck him in the thigh with a syringe. He wondered what Agents Morris and Velasquez were doing. The team in Alderville. Other people behind the scenes. He pictured them all sitting around, shooting the shit. Checking out and going home for the weekend. If he’d been in a coma for a week, then he’d been out of contact for almost ten days. Did anyone care? He was just a source to the FBI, or in Morris’s words, an investment. Not a friend or a comrade in arms. They weren’t thinking about him like Alex was, that’s for sure. He took a deep breath.
His mind grew weary trying to sort through this state of flux. He caught himself with his eyes closed twice and fought hard to stay awake, but when he shut them for the third time, he was out.
CHAPTER 14
Saturday, June 15
5:12 p.m. (PDT)
AgriteX
Kade’s body jolted and he awoke. For several minutes his pulse thundered in his ears and he felt like he couldn’t lie still without his heart exploding right out of his chest.
God, where am I now?
No watercolor on the wall.
The computer’s here.
I’m back in my assigned Chapter cell.
He took some deep breaths as the early evening sunlight cast a soft shadow in the room. He wasn’t strapped in the bed now. He felt
his scalp and found the metal staples were gone. He no longer had a headache; in fact, there wasn’t much pain anywhere. The splint had been removed and his left arm felt pretty normal. What he noticed most was that he stank.
He rolled out of bed and walked over to the mirror in the bathroom area. His hair was matted down in front of his bloodshot eyes, his lips chapped and covered with flaking scallops of dry skin. Some kind of bloodstained cotton-like material was stuffed into his nostrils. He started to pull the cotton out, but then left it. There had to be a good reason it was in there. Maybe he’d had a round two with Ignaty and didn’t remember.
A basic set of toiletries had been placed on the back rim of the sink. He unwrapped a soap bar and grabbed a mini shampoo bottle. After taking a ten-minute shower at near-scalding temperature, he shaved with the disposable razor and combed the tangles out of his hair with the flimsy plastic comb. He rinsed the dust out of the glass on the sink and took a big drink of water. The cabinet underneath the sink was filled with rolls of toilet paper and boxes of tissue. Nothing particularly useful.
He didn’t feel like putting the ripe hospital-style pajamas back on, so he walked around naked until he realized the room was a bit too cool for that. And people were monitoring the room through the cameras, so he’d better put something on, if only a dry towel.
Inside the dresser he found a stack of white T-shirts, a few pairs of dark blue cargo pants, and matching crinkly shirts. Plenty of white cotton socks and underwear. A black nylon belt. A pair of plain Adidas tennis shoes. Everything but the shoes was still wrapped in unmarked plastic packages. He grabbed one of each item, along with the lone hoodie in the bottom drawer, and got dressed. The clothes smelled like they’d been in mothballs for a century, but they fit. He looped the belt through his new pants, and when he adjusted the length, it seemed like it had six inches of unneeded slack.
The empty pockets felt strange. No wallet, keys, or phone.
He remembered his prepaid phone—putting it in the center console of the Jeep after trying to call Darcy. It was now in the wreck somewhere. If any of the Chapter goons had found it, it wouldn’t have any stored numbers of significance.