The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  “Well?” an anxious voice on the other end asked.

  “It’s the real deal,” Reggie answered. “It’s exactly what we feared.”

  There was a long pause on the other end before the anxious voice replied, “This takes top priority. We are going to have to put an agent on this right away.”

  Reggie smiled a huge knowing grin. “Don’t worry, I think I know the perfect person.”

  —Chapter 1

  Amy Sommers stood on the front stoop of her apartment building waiting for the car to pick her up. A light snow fell, and she shivered from the cold. That was the only thing she missed from her time with the LAPD; the consistent temperatures. Washington D.C. was nice, and she truly did enjoy the variety of weather conditions, but there was nothing like a warm Los Angeles day. Except for the fact the heat usually brought the crazies out to play, making her job as a homicide detective more difficult and interesting than it already was.

  She chuckled to herself as the shiny black sedan pulled up and halted in front of her stoop. She watched as the driver exited, walked to the rear, and opened the back door, signaling her to get in. This was the same scene which had played itself out every weekday for the last three months. Even the driver, a young Latino named Garcia, was the same. It was the one thing she could say about the Agency from her short time here; they had a thing for consistency.

  With a last deep breath of the crisp morning air, she went down the steps and entered the sedan, prepared for yet another day of training at the secret government entity known only as the Agency.

  She flashed Garcia a smile as she got in the car, and he tipped his black cap in response. Only when he had secured himself with his safety belt, put the car in gear, and pulled out into the morning traffic did he speak to her.

  “Good morning, Agent Sommers. I trust you had a good weekend.” An unmistakable accent gave evidence of his Central American heritage.

  “Oh yeah, it was great,” she replied, her voice filled with sarcasm. “Another weekend filled with take-out food and rented movies. I’m really living the good life.”

  “Don’t worry, Agent Sommers; I’m sure things will pick up for you soon.” Garcia sounded almost apologetic.

  She did not bother replying. Garcia’s job was to drive, not offer up pleasantries to make her feel better. Instead, she sank back in her seat and closed her eyes, unable to help reflecting on the last three months, remembering how she found herself here in Washington D.C.

  She’d always wanted to be a cop, much to the chagrin of the rest of her family, especially her mother. “Women should get married and make raising their children their career,” was Mrs. Sommers’s old-school way of thinking. Being fired from the LAPD even after helping stop a serial killer, albeit under rather unusual circumstances, left Amy with a huge gap in her life. Suddenly stripped of the one thing she knew she was good at, solving crimes, she thought she would drown in despair. She’d had no direction to go, nor anyone to turn to for help. Then Reggie Blackburn threw her a life preserver when he offered her a job with the Agency.

  She had of course jumped at the unexpected offer. It meant uprooting her life on the West Coast, and starting over new in Washington D.C., but there was nothing left for her in Los Angeles anymore. Without a second thought, she packed her belongings and caught the first flight to her new life.

  Between her background and her recent success working with Agent Blackburn, she figured she would hit the ground running with the Agency. She hoped for a juicy case to sink her investigative teeth into and be right back in the thick of things. She had been completely wrong.

  That had been three months ago. Instead of working on any cases, her days were spent in classrooms, learning about the mysterious Agency and receiving what they told her was “training”. It was almost like being in college again, except with more rules and fewer students. If she could find any other female recruits, she might try and start a sorority. At least that way she might actually have some fun.

  The monotonous sound of the wiper blades brushing away the snow was starting to lull her to sleep. She cursed under her breath as she realized she had forgotten to grab her mug of coffee. It was no doubt sitting on her kitchen table, where she’d left it when she grabbed her coat. Definitely an inauspicious beginning to the day.

  She looked out the window, watching the snow. It was coming down harder, the visibility next to nothing. All she could make out were the shapes and shadows of pedestrians. The grainy images reminded her of the Agency and the mysterious world in which it dwelled. When all was said and done, she too would be nothing more than a grainy image. To join the Agency, one had to give up most of their personal existence, and take on the role of anonymity.

  Early on in her training, she learned the Agency was unofficially founded by Thomas Jefferson in his first term as President. She’d been surprised to learn Lewis and Clark were among the first agents. Though history claimed their expedition was to discover a water route across North America, they’d been in fact investigating rumors of a beast supposedly summoned by Native Americans to stop the white man’s further trespass into their sacred lands. Whether Lewis and Clark found the beast, she did not know. The case files were sealed. But, the fate of the Native Americans and their lands seemed like a large piece of highly circumstantial evidence.

  The Agency had grown in power and resources into the entity it was today. Even the sitting President of the United States, the only government official who knew of its existence, was not kept completely in the loop of the Agency’s activities, in the interest of plausible deniability.

  With a limitless budget and the autonomy to act as it deemed necessary, the Agency took on only those cases which involved the side of the world no one else knew about. It was a closely guarded secret that, if ever got out, would change the very fabric of lives. The mysteries and myths the everyday person took for granted were the nightmares of the Agency.

  Amy Sommers herself could attest to that notion. A few months ago, she had been on the trail of what she thought was a twisted serial killer who liked to cut out his victim’s hearts as keepsakes. It wasn’t until Reggie Blackburn and his partner, under the guise of FBI, came along that she’d learned the real truth. Oh, she’d been tracking a serial killer all right, but no mere crazy looking for a way to get his rocks off. The killer was an Elf from another realm, trying to complete an evil ritual that would result in the genocide of his race.

  Her whole life changed that day, the day of Detective Hanson’s brutal murder. That was when she’d witnessed Reggie’s enigmatic companion battle the killer. He, too, turned out to be an Elf, sent by his people’s government to stop the ritual. The whole thing was so surreal, she’d been sure she was having some sort of nervous breakdown.

  A twinge of hollow pain rippled across the pit of her stomach and settled in her chest, causing a sharp intake of breath. She blew it out in the form of a long sigh. The sound was loud enough to catch Garcia’s attention in the front seat. The driver took a quick glance in the rearview mirror, a questioning yet concerned look reflected in his brown eyes. Having no desire to explain her mood, she leaned back and closed her eyes. This really is turning into a crappy day.

  Her caffeine deprived mind realized she’d been unconsciously fingering the medallion she wore around her neck. He had given it to her, Kalen Or’Wain, Reggie’s mysterious partner, before returning to his own world. Though their time together had been brief, it was the most loving and passionate relationship she had ever had, a personal connection on a level she had never thought possible,

  She had hoped her new career with the Agency would occupy her time, keep her busy, and help her get over the feeling of loss she experienced after Kalen’s departure. Instead, she’d been stuck into the Agency’s version of mental boot camp, all by herself. She guessed this was in part due to the Agency trying to get her used to the idea of working alone.

  It was the Agency’s policy. Due to the secretive nature of the cases they handle
d, the less people involved the better. There were no partnerships except under extraordinary circumstances, and no backup. This meant when agents were out in the field, they were completely alone. A hard pill to swallow for someone like her, used as she was to having a whole department to fall back on. Though she had never really felt a true member of the male-dominated LAPD, she still knew they were there if needed.

  She hoped the Agency would be her opportunity to shine. Heck, after helping track down an Elven serial killer, what could they throw at her that would be any worse? She was as ready as she would ever be. The Agency had battered her with psychological tests, history lessons, and investigative procedures. She desperately needed some good old fashioned action, the exhilaration of being in the field, tracking down a lead. She was a law enforcement officer at heart, and it had been far too long since she was able to stretch her investigator’s legs.

  Reggie kept reassuring her things would change for the better soon, and she needed to keep her patience in check. Easier said than done.

  He had canceled their dinner plans on Friday and she hadn’t heard from him since. That could only mean he was on a case. She probably wouldn’t see him again until it was solved, which increased her feelings of loneliness. Reggie was the only real friend she had in Washington. She had come to rely on his presence, and their infrequent dinner outings were major social events for her. This cancellation made for a long boring weekend. She hoped that, wherever Reggie was, and whatever trouble he was undoubtedly mixed up in, he was safe.

  The slowing of the sedan for a red traffic light brought her out of her reverie. The snow was still falling, and a couple of inches had accumulated on the ground. The gray sky matched her somber mood. She’d always been the type of person who was sure of what she was doing, confident her decisions were correct; a good detective had to think that way. But doubts had been creeping in the back of her mind. Had she made a mistake coming here? It bothered her more than a little that she was beginning to have second thoughts.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost 9:00am, be there any minute. Sure enough, Garcia took a right onto Waverly Street, drove to the middle of the block, and turned into an average, nondescript parking garage. Little did the populace know this rather ordinary structure was home to perhaps the most secretive organization known, or more accurately, unknown, to mankind.

  Even in Washington D.C., where people were used to secrets and government agencies, she wondered how the Agency and its location went unnoticed. She supposed it simply went with the territory. Amazingly, most people would rather look the other way instead of staring at the unknown right in the eye in hopes of being able to unravel the secrets. Organizations like the Agency counted on just that kind of attitude to help maintain their own secrecy.

  Garcia stopped in front of the garage’s electric gate. A guard in a blue security uniform, complete with the customary silver badge and flashlight, stepped out of a closet-sized booth. He held a small device which looked similar to a miniature camcorder. He pointed it at the front of the vehicle like he was video taping it, then ran the lens down the length of the entire sedan. Amy had no idea what this device actually did, but she assumed it checked for listening devices or surveillance equipment which might have been hidden somewhere on or within the vehicle.

  Once the apparent scan was complete, the guard placed the device back on his Batman-like utility belt. From his booth, he took out what to the layman would appear to be a laptop computer and handed it through the driver’s side window to Garcia. All of this was done without anyone uttering a word.

  The laptop sprang to life as soon as Garcia opened it and lifted the monitor into position. He stared at the screen without blinking for approximately fifteen seconds before a beep issued from the machine. Once this was done, he gave the laptop to Amy in the backseat.

  The first time she had used it, she was worried the thing would fry her brain. Now, however, retina scanners were second nature. She stared at the target in the middle of the screen. Diagnostic information scrolled down the right hand side until she was given clearance by the device with a beep of acceptance.

  She handed the laptop back to Garcia who in turn passed it through his window back to the guard. The security officer took the retina scanner and returned to his booth, again without a word.

  This was another interesting little tidbit she managed to pick up about the Agency: the employees, at least the ones she had contact with, were not much for small talk. Which was fine with her; most mornings, especially those when she did not get her recommended daily dose of caffeine, like today, she was not in the mood to carry on a conversation either.

  Once back in the booth, the guard pushed some unseen button or flipped some lever and the gate blocking their entrance slowly lifted. In this post-911 world, even something like what appeared to be a mundane parking garage and an ordinary, run-of-the-mill-security guard using gadgets like Q from the James Bond movies didn’t stir much curiosity.

  Garcia drove her to the elevator. “Have a good day Agent Sommers,” he said as she got out, the sound of his voice amplified by the emptiness. She replied with a smile and a wave, watching as he pulled away and headed back out to the streets of Washington D.C.

  Where Garcia went after he dropped her off every morning, she had no idea. What she did know was that at 5pm when she walked back out of the elevator, he would be right there waiting with the car running, ready to take her home. Though there was a small measure of comfort to be found in this routine, it was starting to grate on her nerves. If she did not get to arrest someone soon, she was going to lose it all together.

  When the sound of the departing sedan faded away into nothingness, she dug through her pants pocket and pulled out her ID card. It looked enough like an ordinary credit card of some type that she’d been tempted on more than one occasion to test her theory when shopping. Discretion always got the better of her, however.

  On the wall next to the elevator was a keypad with a slot. After running her card, a little green light blinked on, and she punched in her five-digit code to open the doors.

  Unlike other elevators, there were no floor buttons to push. Instead, she stared into the lens of an otherwise unseen video camera.

  “Agent Sommers reporting for training,” she stated, careful to pronounce each word correctly.

  Once her voice patterns were recognized by whoever or whatever was on the other end of the camera, the doors slid shut. She held onto the waist-high safety railing as the elevator began to move, knowing from experience it would pick up speed as it descended. When it hit its maximum, she could hear an audible whooshing sound.

  Due to the speed, and the lack of lights marking floors, she did not know how far down she actually went. She thought about timing it, but dismissed the notion, deciding it really didn’t matter anyway.

  The elevator slowed to a gentle rest, and the doors opened for her. She had the usual moment of disorientation as it took her body a few seconds to get its equilibrium back in check. With a deep breath to settle her stomach, she stepped into the Agency.

  The room looked like the lobby of any big corporation. The walls were a light, comforting brown; not really a tan, but more like a creamy suede color. The floors were covered in an earth-tones carpet which seemed to absorb any and all footstep-related noises, and which Amy found unnerving.

  The secretary stationed behind the large desk was a pleasant woman, young enough to have just stepped off a college campus in anywhere USA, friendly, and pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. Her light brown hair, which oddly enough matched the lobby color scheme, was cut in a fashion similar to Amy’s own. This always made her feel better about her own appearance, as if the trendy young secretary somehow validated her own sense of style.

  “Good morning, Agent Sommers,” the secretary said politely. “Dr. Waterston is waiting for you in the large conference room.”

  Great, Amy thought. More psychological tests.

  “Thanks,” she replied,
heading down the hall.

  Honestly, how many times could she answer those ridiculous questions? What valuable information about her psyche did the Agency expect to glean from them? Yes, she loved her father, and no, not in that way. Yes, the sight of dead puppies bothered her, but wouldn’t that bother anybody? And no, she did not think she looked in the toilet before flushing it.

  The good doctor was a decent enough man, but how this would help determine if she was mentally fit and competent enough to catch bad guys, even out of the ordinary bad guys like Elven serial killers, was way beyond her.

  This day had not started off particularly well, what with her forgetting her coffee. Now, armed with the knowledge she was going to be spending the day with Dr. Waterston and his seemingly never ending list of asinine questions, her mood darkened even further.

  “If I don’t get to work a case soon, I swear, I might have to shoot somebody on principle alone,” she said to the conference room’s oak door. It had the common decency to not reply.

  She chuckled to herself as she wondered what Dr. Waterston would have to say about that little private conversation. The thought offered her some comfort as she opened the door, and prepared herself for another long day of training at the Agency.

  —Chapter 2

  The lush carpet swallowed his footsteps as Reggie Blackburn determinedly marched on to his destination.

  What he lacked in height, he more than made up for in girth, which made the carpet’s accomplishment of masking his footsteps all the more impressive. He was not an obese man, but neither was he the bodybuilder type. From behind he looked like a square brick wall with a head. His physical strength matched his blocky appearance.

  He’d headed straight here from the airport after returning from his excursion to New York. The all-important map from the terrorists’ apartment was now safely locked in the metal Halliburton case he clutched in a death grip. This same map had him headed to a meeting with the Agency’s higher ups, not a prospect he was looking forward to.