The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change

by Thompson, A. S.

Shanna paused momentarily, then continued, “They are saying you were a part of some group called…”

  “Fareshtegan-eh marg. The Angels of Death,” Craig answered, completing her sentence. He rose from his wooden chair and began pacing around the kitchen.

  “Craig! They are calling you a terrorist! They said you went rogue!”

  “What are you talking about? I was on a black ops mission for this damn country!” He refuted. West looked upon a sheet of paper with the likely target area of Quebec. “I'm staring at my mission orders right now! I followed my target to downtown Quebec City…”

  Shanna cut him off. “Craig, listen, there's more. The President is waiting to give a capture/kill order to the Colonel in charge of the operation! Please tell me you aren’t at 1946 White Dove Pass in Quigley, Massachusetts!”

  The hairs on the back of West’s neck shot up. Something was seriously wrong. First, he almost got blown up. Now this! There was no way, she of all people, could know his location. Unless. Like he suspected since Quebec...

  “Set up,” he growled. “How’d they find me?”

  “Facial recognition ID'd you coming into Maine from Canada. Wait, you said that you still have your mission orders. That’s great! What if you give yourself up willingly and tell them what you told me? You have the proof!”

  “If I go in, proof or not, I'm as good as dead. You saw it yourself, they are cleaning up their tracks. I wouldn't even make it one day. Whoever is running the show is far too powerful. I'd never get a chance to testify or get anything on record…”

  “Then get out now! They are on to you!” Shanna hissed. “I'll call you back when I know more. Keep your head down and your eyes and ears open.”

  The call ended without a goodbye from either.

  West might not have known exactly what was going on or who was pulling the strings. He had a million questions with no answers, but he was seasoned enough to follow his gut and his gut screamed, “GO!”

  In the darkest corner of the living room, Craig subtly pulled back the blinds and peered outside. In the distance, he saw red lights and movement. The government team outside was staging. He calculated three minutes, at most, before full breach.

  West grabbed his bug-out-bag and weapons, and then slid over an oak China cabinet adjacent to the kitchen. The particular piece of furniture was strategically placed to conceal a secret exit.

  On the other side, he pulled the cabinet shut, and then hurried down the stairs into the basement. From there, he bellied down and began to crawl his way through a dirt passage.

  Sounds of glass breaking, door hinges being blown and canisters of tear gas being deployed resonated above him.

  “What the hell did you get yourself into, Chucky?” he whispered.

  Port of New Bedford, Massachusetts

  November 26, 2008

  1933 hours

  The Wet Net was a cozy little restaurant located on the waterfront of New Bedford. The building was situated on a piece of prime real estate, just off the wooden docks, making it a highly frequented destination for sailors. A pair of oil lamps from the colonial times illuminated the front entrance, calling out to seamen like sirens in the ocean. Despite its aged look, the one story, brick and mortar bar passed the test of time and remained an iconic institution for sea-ferrying men looking for a warm meal and a cold drink.

  This particular November night, the wind blew negative degree air against the bar, causing the torches to flicker and struggle to remain lit. The bell on top of the wooden door rang as a lone patron entered. Following the man was a rush of crisp air that caused the bar’s few occupants to shiver.

  Sergeant Major Craig West was sitting on a wooden stool in the far corner of the tavern. He stared at the two fingers of scotch that sat idly in front of him. When the door opened, he turned to see who entered. To his chagrin, it was not his friend, Benny Hepson.

  “Damnit, Skinny. Where are you?” he mumbled to himself.

  “Waiting on someone?” asked an unfamiliar bartender. The man continued to talk and throw out assumptions despite West’s apparent lack of interest. “If you ask me, I wouldn't be surprised if she stayed at home tonight. The news is saying this storm is going to be a bad one. Name's Jerry by the way,” the man said, extending his hand.

  West wanted to reply, “No onewas asking you,” but he held back. He knew Jerry was simply being polite. Furthermore, there were only three other patrons in the bar; the newcomer who was taking off his large pea coat and a young couple sitting in a booth off to the side.

  West realized that he was the obvious choice for small talk, and out of politeness replied, “Just my friend. It’s his birthday today. He's just a few minutes late...Hey, Jerry, is Dennis off tonight? Normally you can't tear that old sailor away from this place.”

  “Dennis?” Jerry replied, apparently confused. “Sorry, I don’t know anyone named Dennis.”

  West was momentarily suspicious. “Ya, the guy who owns this place...”

  “Oh...Mr. McGiddy?” he replied. Jerry smiled and nodded his head as though he just won the Daily Double on Jeopardy. “Sorry. He hired me last week. I wasn't really on a first name basis with him yet. He took off a few days ago, mentioned something about visiting family down in New York.”

  “How about Nathan?” West asked. He didn't expect Jerry to know that Nathan was a long time friend of his, but West did expect him to know of his fellow bartender. Nathan had worked at The Wet Net for over thirty years.Everyone knew Nathan. “He off tonight, too?”

  “Ya, he's out as well. Sick as a dog. I'm actually covering his shift. He called me this morning and asked me if I could,” Jerry replied matter-of-factly. He tossed a soggy towel over his shoulder and leaned against the back bar where he continued giving his unwanted two cents. “And let me tell you about staying healthy…”

  Fortunately, the newest patron- who had been waiting to be tended to since removing his pea coat- finally called out for service.

  “Ah, man, hold that thought,” Jerry said, sparing West a monologue of health tips.

  “Aren't bartenders supposed to be more listeners than talkers?” Craig whispered to himself. While the distraction and interaction were pleasant, West wasn't at the bar tomake friends. In fact, he was there to meet a friend, one who was now over thirty-five minutes late. And Skinny was never late.

  West pulled out his cell phone and double-checked the time against his watch.

  Damnit, Skinny. Where are you? At least call me, he thought.

  Despite everything that was happening, West gave Skinny the benefit of the doubt and continued waiting. And with nothing else to do but think, West continued to break down his situation.

  Everything was becoming more and more clear. He now fully believed he was set up, and that there were some very powerful people pulling the strings. The explosion in Quebec City. The snatch and grab team in Maine. The government Intel Shanna relayed to him. He was well beyond conspiracy theories. He was smack dab in the middle of a conspiracy fact. Whoever was behind this, was at the highest level of government and perhaps the world. But, he still didn't know how he fit in, who the other players were, and most importantly, why.

  As West continued to process the intelligence, he observed the couple in the booth. He couldn't hear them, but they appeared to be involved in an in-depth conversation. Whatever it was, made the woman nervous. The man attempted to calm her down, but nothing that he said helped.

  For a split second, Craig wondered what could be so important, and then he followed their attention to the muted tube television. A news channel continued the never-ending coverage of the global riots and unconfirmed reports of weaponized bio-terrorism.

  I should have known, he thought.

  The past few days had been a whirlwind of escape and evasion. Since he had been so distracted, he had yet to realize that the riots had now spread to multiple cities inside the United States.

  What is going on? he thought.

  The entrance doorbell rang
again as a new patron entered.

  West swiveled, thinking that this time it was certain to be Skinny arriving, albeit uncharacteristically late. But it wasn't. It was someone West had never expected to see again.

  It can't be, West thought, staring at the man in disbelief.

  The man smiled, and then strolled across the bar. He pulled out a stool next to Craig and sat down.

  “Damn it's cold out there,” he said to himself. “I think a drink should warm things up a bit. What are you having?”

  West said nothing.

  “Doesn't matter,” the man replied, uncaringly. He whistled rudely and got Jerry's attention. “Gimme two more of whatever my friend here is having.”

  Jerry put his conversation on pause and filled up another round for the two men.

  “Happy birthday,” Jerry said, handing the man a double order of whiskey as a present. “Your friend here has been waiting a while for you. Just let me know if you guys need anything else.”

  After Jerry departed, the man held up his glass, looked at West and said, “I didn't know it was my birthday? But I'll take it.” He downed half of the glass and coughed. He regretted the choice of liquor not the brazen attempt to shoot it. “What was that shit? Please tell me that wasn’t whiskey. If it was, you have some terrible taste in booze, Gramps.”

  “Daytona,” Craig finally said. The word was like acid. “What the hell are you doing here? What the hell is going on? Where's Skinny?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” replied Daytona, putting up both hands. “Calm down there, sparky. One question at a time.”

  “How'd you know I was here? Where is Hepson?”

  “I guess we’re ignoring the one question at a time request,” Daytona said sarcastically. “Your pal, Benny, told me you'd be here. Before you ask, yes, he's safe.”

  Craig was relieved but didn't show it. He still had questions.

  “I have to admit, I'm surprisedyou're still alive. I saw on the news the rest of the team has been captured or killed. They are calling us terrorists! What the hell is going on?”

  Daytona just laughed. He pinched his nose and finished the rest of the whiskey, and then laughed some more.

  West was getting fed up with Daytona's apathy and general adolescent behavior. His lackadaisical attitude was frustrating at first. Now it was enraging. “Something funny,kid?”

  Daytona didn't appear vexed by the apparent sarcasm.

  “Honestly? Kind of. So much you don't know. I mean it's just that you're right. And wrong,” he declared, rotating his body to the left. He met West's anxious eyes and continued.

  “About the captured or killed part. Everyone has been taken care of- we don't like to say the word killed...sounds too messy, and let's get real, we are in the politically correct, twenty-first century. But I'm getting off track. Where was I? Oh ya, everyone was taken care of. Well, everyone but you, Sergeant Major Craig West,” Daytona mocked, raising a hand to head in a faux-salute. “I gotta give it up to you though. I thought for your age, you'd be one of the easier hits...”

  A tremor ran through West's body.

  Daytona didn't need to see West subtly go for his concealed pistol to know that he wanted to.

  “...Now, now. Before you go getting all Delta Force on me, remember I'm a SEAL. Like it or not, I'm like half your age, in better shape, quicker, have all the exits covered, and know about the .45 you have tucked against your left hip.” He paused and appeared to be going through a mental checklist. “Wait, did I forget something? Let’s see here, SEAL. Younger. Better shape. Quicker. Exits. Knowledge of concealed weapons. What am I forgetting? Oh ya, and let's throw in smarter while we're at it.”

  West's body and mind defaulted to Delta. He may have abandoned the reach for his sidearm, but that was just one part of the process; and one weapon- his favorite knife was strapped to his ankle.

  Craig rose from his stool and backed up, eyes scanning the entire bar. “I think we’re done here-”

  “Come on. Don't be like that. Sit down and have another drink with me. Don't be rude. After all, it's my birthday,” Daytona joked, smiling.

  Against his better judgement, West sat, although he pulled his stool back to give himself a little extra space. The only reason Daytona was still alive was because West had questions. Daytona whistled for Jerry and ordered another round; this time of better whiskey.

  Keeping his eyes on Daytona, West pulled out his phone, flipped it open and speed dialed Skinny's number.

  Daytona interrupted the call.

  “Are you serious, Gramps? Okay here’s the deal, remember one minute ago, when you asked how I knew you were here and I said your friend Benny told me? You had to know that was a lie, right? That Hepson guy was one tough hombre. We pulled out all the stops. You know when they talk about torture and say everyone breaks. Nuh-uh. Not this guy. In the end, all we got was, Sergeant Major Benny Hepson, number blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-who-the-fuck-cares.”

  West clenched his jaw. “You're lying.”

  Daytona pulled out his smart phone, opened the photo gallery and slid the device across the wooden surface.

  “See for yourself. I always take pictures of myfriends. That's what we become in the end, you know. Friends. I mean we practically tell each other everything. Well, they tell me everything. Shame I can't post these on Facebook.”

  West's left eye twitched as he scrolled through the dozens of gruesome photos. Skinny's body had been water-boarded, electrified, cut open, beat up, smashed, and had sustained a hundred other forms of torture.

  As West browsed through the pictures, Daytona couldn't help but divulge.

  “I gotta say, you have been the hardest one to track down. But here we are. The others were so confused when they saw me, well the ones that actually left the world by a bullet anyway. Most were taken care of with a less personal touch. 'Car accidents', ‘suicides’, 'plane crashes', or in your case, an unsuccessful 'gas leak'...”

  West thought about Clark Kelly. He knew the Colonel’s death was no suicide.

  “...But you,” Daytona said, wagging his finger. “You just wouldn't die, would you? I thought I had you in Canada. Then, when we got word that you were alive and on the run, I was actually a little excited. The hunt was on. After Quebec, you were quite the hard man to track, but I have to admit the government did most of the legwork finding you. Craig West, public enemy number one. Label someone a terrorist and you'd be surprised how fast the government works. It's like going from the DMV to McDonald's for fuck's sake...”

  Craig's mind was multitasking. He was listening to Daytona, but was simultaneously planning his escape. He knew the emergency exit in the back led into an alley, but it was no good. If it was covered like he assumed it was, there were a dozen places one of Daytona’s goons could hide and intercept...or just take him out. That left the front door, but it was clearly covered. Through the partially fogged windows, West made out two men standing restlessly out in the freezing cold.

  Damn,he thought, his mind racing for another solution.

  “...So, I just sat back and waited. You were the last one. The final loose end. To be honest, I was just going to wait until they had you in custody, and then pay you a visit. I know, I know, not exactly sportsmanship-like, but hey, I was over it.”

  “I don't understand. Who's doing this and why?”

  “Oh, we'll get to the why. Patience my young Jedi. Let's finish the how first, shall we?” Daytona said, downing the glass of whiskey. “Ah that's better. Where were we? Oh ya, I remember. I thought for sure we lost you in that little escape tunnel you built. Very crafty for an old guy, I’ll give you that. But you made one mistake. You gave up your queen and didn't even know it...”

  Before Daytona revealed it, West knew it.

  “...When you reached out to that hot piece of ass, I knew I had you. I still can't believe we overlooked that! The thing that connected you guys. We had files and files on you. No family. No friends outside the military, except her. Your kind-of-si
ster, Shanna.”

  Shanna Finley was a woman who Craig had met at the age of six while residing in his first foster home. Craig and Shanna had bonded through their mutual abandonment and maintained a sibling-like relationship until they were split up years later. They remained in contact but under the radar, especially when West had decided to become a Special Forces operator.

  “If you've touched her, I’ll kill you.”

  “So cliché. Calm down, Gramps. She's fine. The President and her are off in some bunker. Plus, I don't really have a thing for black girls. Maybe Halle Berry from Swordfish, or that chick from Bad Boys 2, but that's it.”

  Daytona paused for a brief moment. Then, he tweaked his head like a schizophrenic and slammed his fists on the wooden bar. “Damnit! Stop getting me off track, I'm almost done with the how!”

  Then, Daytona reached into his pocket and pulled out small tin box. He removed one white pill and placed it under his tongue. He took a deep breath and in seconds, his demeanor shifted back to calm.

  What is that pill and why does he take it? West thought.

  “Fuck it. Long story short, the cyber techs tracked you through her. So let's flash forward to now. The good stuff. I know you've been waiting for it. Why, why, why, why, why,” he said, voice trailing off. “Let me ask you something. Are you into conspiracy theories? You know...9/11. Moon landing. Roswell aliens. That sort of shit?”

  West said nothing.

  “Anyway, have you heard the one about the seven families that run the United States? Or the secret group of leaders who run the world? Food, energy, wars. They basically keep the broken machine, that is humanity, lubed up...heard about those? Well they are kind of true, but those schmucks report to someone else. And I can just tell, you're dying to ask who.”

  It was true, West wanted to know.

  Daytona paused to look at his watch. “Should I? I probably shouldn’t. Well fuck it. Since you're not going to be alive in a few minutes, I guess it doesn't matter.”

  Daytona pointed to West’s untouched glass of scotch and said, “Mind?”

  “By all means.”