“Thanks, Mark. I don’t know when I’ll be in. I can’t leave Kelsey and the kids alone while Mel’s hanging around.”
“No worries. I’ll handle the office. You do what you have to. Just be careful. Libby’s got one of her feelings. There’s something not right about your old man.”
Alex huffed. “You’re telling me.”
Chapter Three
Tie on straight? Check.
Shoes polished? One could only hope they gleamed like Jameson meant them to.
Teeth brushed and hair cut, not short, high, or tight, just trimmed enough to look professional and befitting this much sought-after job? He ran his fingers over his head, hoping he looked reasonably presentable. Check, check, and double check.
Dark glasses? Oh, yeah. Nearly forgot them.
Hooking his extra-dark, round-framed spectacles over his ears, Jameson Tenney faced the reflection in the bathroom mirror he could no longer see, and imagined he looked good enough. That was what Walker Judge had said when he’d told him to haul ass down to King Street and apply in person. That Alex Stewart didn’t want perfection, just men and women who were good enough. That’s precisely what Jameson was.
Finishing up, he tucked his loaded .44 Magnum into the well-worn leather holster beneath his suit jacket, under his left arm. Circumstances might take a man out of the Navy, but they never took the SEAL out of a man. It just didn’t work that way.
Ready to be all he could be, Jameson clasped his trusty graphite cane in his right hand, and left his comfort zone behind. The cane transformed with the flick of his wrist, from a compact, barely noticeable, umbrella-length nightstick, into five feet of lightweight freedom. It was also a weapon, not that he’d needed to defend himself lately. Or ever would again. Life was different now that he couldn’t see. Not dangerous so much as disadvantageous. Unfortunately—big sigh—his rough and tumble days were behind him. And that was just plain—inconvenient.
He strode down the hallway to the building’s secure entrance, his stick feeling his way forward. There was no guard at the front door, just a smart lock with network connectivity, that allowed Jameson the freedom of unlocking the entry with one click of the remote entry key fob in his suit jacket pocket.
Out of the building and onto the sidewalk he went, confidently stepping into the promise of another bright, sunny morning he couldn’t see, but could surely feel. He lived on the first floor of a small apartment complex in Rosemont, Virginia, a quiet burb west of Alexandria. A quick walk eastward on Braddock Road took him to the nearest metro station. From there, the Blue line, Franconia-Springfield train would take him south, then bring him home again, hopefully with a new job.
The trick now was getting on the right train. But he’d had help for that since he’d first moved to Virginia, after the incident, to be closer to his parents. Metro Agent Jersey Townsend looked out for oddballs like Jameson.
Sure enough. “Yo, Navy!” Jersey bellowed from across the platform, his deep voice a boisterous “glad-to-see-ya!” that Jameson never tired of hearing. “Good luck with your job interview today. Hope you knock ’em dead!”
Probably not the best thing to wish on a former Navy SEAL sniper, but Jersey didn’t know that part of Jameson’s past, and what did it matter? Jameson’s gunslinging days were behind him, but life was still damned good, and he meant to live it.
“Thanks, buddy!” he yelled back, hoping he wasn’t bellowing into some poor stranger’s ear. “How’s Portia this morning?”
“Still waiting for that big old watermelon belly of hers to pop. I’m bringing cigars when it does. You smoke?”
“Hell, yeah. I drink and womanize, too,” he called across the crowded platform. “Am I in the right place to board your train or is it running late again?”
Metro stations were noisy places, especially on game days, during rush hours, or when the trains blew through. But always exciting. Yet Jameson could tell Jersey’s footsteps from everyone else’s when he closed in. At last, his big, warm hand landed on Jameson’s shoulder.
“I don’t know how you do it, but you’re standing right where you should be. I guess you already know that, don’t you, Navy? So why do you always ask?”
Jameson shrugged. “Guess because it gives you something to do. Must get boring sitting on your big old black butt all day long.”
Jersey’s laugh was rich and warm, as friendly as Jameson had come to expect from most everyone he’d met in Alexandria, Virginia. “You got this, boss man. I ain’t worried about you. Maybe you oughta be the one bringing me cigars once you’re rich, pushing pencils, and flirting with all your secretaries.”
Jameson cocked his head, listening as the blue-line approached on time from the northwest. “Keep your fingers crossed that I get this job, and I might just do that. Remind me. When’s your interview?”
“Day after tomorrow.” The excitement in Jersey’s voice reminded Jameson of a little boy on Christmas morning. “After all the school I’ve been choking down, I’m finally going to intern.”
“Which hospital?”
“Not hospital, dummy. I’ma goin’ into law, remember? Powers, Brooks, and Haggerty. Smack in the middle of DC.”
Jameson smiled. “I remembered. Just making sure you did. You and me, bro. By the end of this week, we’re going to be gainfully employed and on our way to the top.”
“And famous!”
Jersey, maybe, but Jameson doubted he’d make the front page anytime soon. Fame had never been a goal, even when he’d been sighted. “You have a great day, buddy. Say hi to Portia for me. And stop calling her a watermelon! Be nice to your wife. Women have feelings, Robin.”
“Will do, Batman. See you tomorrow.”
“Same bat time, same bat channel,” Jameson replied as he took five steps forward and boarded the train that would take him to King Street, a six-minute ride away.
He took the vacant seat three rows inside to his right and stood his cane upright between his knees where it wouldn’t bump anyone. It was interesting how Jersey had started calling Jameson Batman the first day they’d met. He’d said Jameson looked like a bat the way he’d cocked his head and listened as if he had radar ears. Only it wasn’t radar, not at all. It was concentration, focus, and balance. It was an inner determination to succeed, to be in the world, but not of the world. It was the daily decision Jameson made to remain positive in the face of the stark negativity that same world offered.
In the last five years, Jameson had chosen to adapt. Instead of stoking rage for what life had taken, he’d filled his mind with the light of discipline and his body with the calm of the still living. He could’ve died that day in Iraq. Others had. But he hadn’t, so he let their sacrifice become his decision point. Kind of a ‘what would Derby and Shakespeare say if they saw me today?’ philosophy. Would they be proud because of how he lived or ashamed to call him friend because he’d turned to despair? He’d opted to make them damned proud.
Once the train braked to a slow stop at King Street station, Jameson disembarked quickly to the platform, along with the early morning rush of tourists, vendors, and business types. The TEAM building was located directly west from the station on Diagonal Road, another short walk.
“You can’t miss it,” Walker had said. Easy for him to say.
“We’ll see about that, buddy,” Jameson muttered to himself as he made his way down the escalator to the lower level, then went with the flow out the station’s east exit, his cane tapping his way forward.
In minutes, he’d crossed the parking area due east, then maneuvered across Diagonal Road. Twenty-three steps from curb to curb put him on the opposite sidewalk, and, hopefully, right where he was supposed to be. Probing his cane forward, Jameson located the massive metal handle of the heavy glass entrance door, shoved it open, and entered the reverent, silent space Walker had told him about. A magnificent mosaic of America’s flag occupied the entire opposing wall. Jameson took a moment to reflect on the sy
mbol he loved but would never see again.
But regret never got a man moving, and he was convinced there was still good work to be done, that he was just the man to do it.
Next stop, the elevator. It was as easy to locate, more so because Walker had described this place thoroughly. Made Jameson smile. Sighted people tended to forget that the Americans with Disabilities Act provided wheelchair access to all public places, as well as readily available Braille markers for the visually impaired. But that was okay. Walker had always been sensitive to Jameson’s needs after the incident. As expected, he found the Braille-coded button for the floor he needed, and waited anxiously for his chance to prove he was still a productive member of society. To hell with being good enough. He was going to be great!
Once the elevator announced his arrival with a cheery ping, Jameson veered to the right and straight into his newest adventure. He aimed his stick over a carpeted walkway that dissected the circular configuration of work areas Walker had described. The work bay was designed like a wheel, its spokes the aisles between segments where agents’ desks were located. He’d been told to speak with a woman named Mother at the customer service desk in the center of the wheel. Interesting name for a secretary.
But damn, this office was quiet. Where was everyone?
Stepping up to the counter, he cleared his throat, shifted his cane to his left hand, and announced, “Jameson Tenney here for an interview with Mr. Alex Stewart.”
A much younger sounding voice than he’d anticipated replied, “Hi, Jameson. I’m Mother.” She reached over the counter and shook his free hand. “I’m sorry but Alex isn’t in today. We’ll have to reschedule.”
Well, damn. Not again. Jameson had been to more job interviews where, once a prospective employer knew he was handicapped, somehow, mysteriously, the job offer disappeared or the perspective boss came up with some excuse about it being filled, or something just as lame.
“Sure, I understand,” he answered stoically, gripping his stick a little tighter. “I’m available at his convenience. What’ll work best for Mr. Stewart?”
A hearty back slap bumped Jameson into the edge of the counter. “No need to reschedule this guy. I’m handling appointments today. Glad you made it, Jameson Tenney. Walker thinks a helluva lot of you. I’m Senior Agent Mark Houston, former USMC.”
“Yeah, well, Walker’s got brain damage,” Jameson bantered back. “Nice to meet you, sir. Sure sorry about your disability.”
Mark grunted.
“I didn’t know you were back from the hospital,” Mother told him. “How’s Kelsey?”
“She’s great. Wish you’d been there.”
“Justice couldn’t get away this morning or I would’ve been there.”
“Knowing Kelsey, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s gone home by then. You might want to call first.”
“Of course, I’ll call.”
Jameson got the distinct impression Mother was annoyed. Also, that Mark was built like a fullback. From the mellow bass coming out of him, he seemed open and easy and big, not someone petty who’d kick a person when they were already down.
Not that Jameson was down. He wasn’t. He had a good handle on his disability and his attitude. He’d never let his lack of sight become more than what it was, the loss of two excellent tools. Yes, being blind had been life altering, but so what? He was here today because he needed more than just a job. He needed his life back.
Mark grabbed onto Jameson’s hand, adeptly mashing the handle of his cane within their conjoined grip. “Damn glad you made it, Tenney.” He let go, but latched onto Jameson’s elbow next, directed him around Mother’s counter, then a few steps to the right, twelve to be exact, into what sounded like a short hallway. When they came to a halt, a knob to the left turned with the tiniest squeak.
“Six steps straight forward to the chair in front of my desk. Take a load off.”
Cues also helped. Jameson strode confidently into Mark’s office, his chin up while his stick tapped the layout of his way forward. Table to the right. The back of the wooden chair he’d mentioned was easy to find. Taking a seat, Jameson leaned his walking stick against Mark’s desk where he could easily reach it.
“So, Navy SEAL, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Five years in, five years ago. Sorry about that crack about you being disabled, but you were a Marine.”
“Still am,” Mark admitted easily as he leaned back in his chair on the other side of the desk. Jameson could tell. He heard joints cracking and boot heels pushing over nubby carpet. Outdoor carpet, excellent choice for high-traffic work areas. “Your record shows you earned a helluva lot of awards those five years in.”
“Awards don’t mean anything. You know that.”
“They tell a story though, don’t they? Heroism’s a hard thing to hide, and you were promoted early. That alone’s damned tough.”
There was nothing Jameson could say to that. ‘Thank you, sir,’ or ‘So’s stupidity,’ sure weren’t it. So he respectfully sealed his lips and let Mark get on with the interview.
He was leaning onto the top of his desk by then, into Jameson, which was a good sign. Not away from, which would’ve told an entirely different story. His fingers were interlocked, and he was breathing easy, probably had both elbows on the desk, too. “I’ve only got one question.”
“Yes, sir?” Jameson straightened in his chair and cocked his head, striving to sense if an upcoming bad attempt at humor, maybe a Helen Keller joke, or an easy let down, was headed his way. He’d heard them all before. Probably shouldn’t expect anything else, but it’d be nice to fit in again somewhere. The family a guy earned during combat tours was unlike any other, and Walker’d sounded so positive about this place and his new boss. He’d been kicked around a long time. All Jameson wanted was that same chance that Walker had. Redemption, damn it. The handicap did not make the man!
Mark cleared his throat. “When’s the best time to take a kill shot?”
Jameson blinked. Maybe this was his lucky day. “Most guys will tell you it’s the second your target steps into clear view, sir, but…” He swallowed hard. He had so damned much riding on the line. To have to walk back out this door, past the customer service desk, and get on the elevator with his head still held high, would suck. But his gut had always served him before, so he went with it again. “If you want my honest opinion, best scenario would be never. Optimum outcome would be for that terrorist to drop his weapon, raise both hands, turn himself in, and swear allegiance to something better than ISIL, or whichever asshat’s running the current shitshow. That way he could still contribute to his family. He could be a better man and heal his country instead of tearing it apart from the inside. And America’s sons and daughters could all come home.”
Dead. Silence.
Shit. The answer that sounded damned good when he’d said it, worried Jameson now. He couldn’t get a clear sense of Mark’s reaction. He’d slowed his breathing. Might even be holding his breath, the dog. Clever trick. Must have been a scout sniper in the Corps. Seconds dragged. But then—
“Shake my hand, you son of a bitch,” Mark growled. “You’re now working for the best damned employer on the Eastern Seaboard.” He didn’t hold back, just leaned across his desk, grabbed Jameson’s hand, and squeezed the ever-loving shit out of his fingers. Hurt so good!
“I am?” he asked to make sure he’d heard right. “I’m hired? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Mark breathed as he ended the gripping congrats. “One word of advice, don’t call anyone around here sir, especially not Alex. He’ll rip you a new one if you do. Ember Dennison’s out today. She’s one of our three technical assistants, but Beau Villanueva’s just as good. I’ll introduce you when he gets in from the hospital, then to The TEAM when we’re through here.”
“Someone hurt?”
“Nope, Alex’s wife had a baby this morning, their first son together, that’s all. He won’t be in for a couple
weeks, so yell at me for whatever you need.” Mark slapped several papers on the desk. “Here are your insurance forms, health, dental, and life. In Braille, so you won’t have to rely on someone else to explain things. You’re smart enough to figure them out, but my phone number’s at the top. Call if you have questions, but don’t be shocked when you get to your deductible. Alex covers that, so don’t argue with the man. When Beau gets in, he’ll get your computer set up, make sure the headset works and your audio’s clear. It also converts to Braille, by the way.”
“You’ve already got a computer for me?” Incredible.
“Sure. A tablet and ruggedized laptop, too. You’ll need them when you travel. All in Braille.” Mark’s fingers drummed the desk top, which, now that Jameson was more relaxed, sounded smooth and dense, like granite. “We expect all agents to keep in top military shape. Looks like you’re already doing that. Not sure if you’ve ever HALO jumped before, but—”
“I have. Looking forward to doing it again.”
“Great. You’ll have full access to the weapons vault upstairs, and you’re expected to attend and pass monthly range certification with flying colors. Can you do that?”
“You bet. I still carry,” Jameson confessed.
“Don’t worry about hitting your marks the first month. We’ve got specially designed gear and rifles for visually impaired operators, as well as spotters if you need one. You’re not dead yet, are you?”
Jameson shook his head, shocked at the confidence this man had in him.
“Breathing once in a while doesn’t hurt, you know,” Mark teased. “Take a breath, Junior Agent. You’re definitely hired. You’ll get your signing bonus by mail this week, unless you sign up for direct deposit today. For your information, we’ve got one of the best physicians onsite, as well as a full gym downstairs, and, occasionally, when David Tao’s in town, a genuine Buddhist monk who can teach you how to enhance all your senses.”
Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22) Page 5