by Jim Heskett
Five steps away. The man sat bolt upright. Layne had to get there before the guard could make a sound.
Three steps away. The man’s finger wrapped around the trigger of the shotgun.
One step away. He pointed the barrel of the gun in Layne’s direction as he rose to his feet.
Layne pivoted and jumped one step to the right. As he did, he swung down, his fist sailing toward the shotgun. He punched the top of it, sending it downward. The man leaned forward from the force of the swipe. Layne gave him an uppercut with his other fist.
The burly guard staggered back a step, but he didn’t lose hold of his shotgun. He raised it and jerked the trigger, but the shot came nowhere close to Layne. It spread out into the woods, causing dozens of birds to launch from the trees, out into the air.
Anyone inside would be out here within seconds. Layne had to hurry.
He spun and smacked the man in the face with a backhand, knocking him off balance. With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and unsheathed the hunting knife he’d purchased this morning. In one clean motion, he flicked it open and stabbed it into the man’s oblique muscle. It slid in with no trouble, like jabbing a piece of raw meat.
The guard yelped and tried to twist away. He jerked back a foot and then his hands shot to Layne’s throat. The shotgun had fallen away, now sitting on the porch between them. Lifeless, useless on the wood below.
The hands around Layne’s throat tightened. He felt pressure building in his head, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bugging out. The man’s powerful hands actually lifted Layne into the air. No easy feat, given Layne’s size.
But, it didn’t last. With the knife still in the man’s side, Layne gripped it and gave it a shove deeper. The man grunted and let go, then he fled down the porch steps. Droplets of blood streamed from his side as he ran.
Layne had to make a quick choice. Grab the shotgun, which would allow the man time to reach a few more steps ahead? No. He might escape to some alternate location like a weapons cache nearby, or something worse.
Layne took off after him, shuffling down the steps as the man was still trying to swat at the knife jutting from his side. He began with a sprint, then ten paces later, he slowed. Stumbling, seemingly unaware of where he was going. He bumped into a tree and changed direction, barely able to stay on his feet.
Layne didn’t bother to keep up the frantic pace. Two seconds later, the man stopped next to a tree and rested one hand against it. The other hand on the knife above the curtain of blood on his side. His shoulders rising and falling as he winced. He seemed to lack the strength to pluck it from his flesh.
Layne caught up to him. “Let’s take it easy, man. I want to ask you a few questions.”
The man turned around and shot out a fist. He had somehow found the strength. The blow landed on Layne’s shoulder, not hard enough to knock him back. The man’s other hand snaked toward his pocket, where Layne noted the grip of a small pistol sticking out.
Layne grabbed the knife protruding from the man’s side and yanked it out, giving it a twist as he removed it. The man growled but did not stop trying to pull his gun. With one final heave, the man managed to free the pistol from his pants pocket. His finger wrapped around the trigger.
So, Layne jabbed the blade in one more time, into the center of the man’s chest. He felt it scrape against rib bones on the way in.
The man’s face changed. His eyes went blank. His hands fell to his side, the gun falling into the grass. He took a step back, and Layne went with him, pushing on the hilt of the knife, twisting it. Blood rushed out, coating Layne’s hands.
“I didn’t want to kill you, asshole,” Layne said. “You gave me no choice.”
A moment later, the man’s eyes closed and he stumbled back, into the tree. He heaved one last breath and then crashed onto the ground.
Chest pumping, head throbbing, Layne marched back to the cabin and retrieved the shotgun from the porch. His hands, both covered in blood, slipped all over the weapon. He wiped his palms and reasserted his grip. Then, with a yell, he kicked in the door to the cabin.
Inside, Jonah sat, all alone, tied to a chair in the middle of the room.
24
When Layne entered the cabin in Castle Crags State Park, Jonah seemed awake and alert. Bound and gagged, but not too worse for wear. He had a lump on the side of his head which would soon turn into a nasty bruise, though.
He met Layne’s eyes immediately. No sounds came out of his mouth, but he nodded and blinked a few times to acknowledge Layne. He didn’t seem to be in immediate danger or in need of critical medical attention.
The cabin was a one-room log thing with a bed in one corner, a kitchen in the other. All very spartan. Bookshelves, a couch, a large TV that seemed out of place. The most out of place thing, though, was the man tied to a chair in the center of the room. His face was bloodied, but there was no blood on the floor. He hadn’t lost a significant amount.
Layne used his knife to slit the duct tape securing Jonah's hands first. Then, the tape around his legs. Finally, Layne pulled the sock out of his mouth.
Jonah heaved in a breath and coughed a few times. “Thank you.”
“You okay, Thorny?”
“I’ve been better. Farhad doesn’t provide the best accommodations. I’ll probably give this place one star in my review, to be honest.”
The shakiness in his voice belied his attempt to be snarky. Layne dropped to one knee and held up a finger, moving it left to right. Jonah followed it with no trouble.
“I’m okay, Layne. What happened outside? I heard the gunshot and a struggle. Are there a string of dead guys in your wake?”
“Just one. I took care of the guy holding you. But, you might have noticed, I made a lot of noise doing it.”
“Did you notice the triangle tattoo on his neck?”
“I did,” Layne said. “Have you seen that before?”
“Yeah. They’re not any gang or organization I recognize, but I’ve been around a couple of them since Farhad took an interest in me. He’s had them in his house, doing security, maintenance work, whatever. I don’t really know. Maybe private contractors or mercs?”
“You’re probably right. At least, they’ll be easy to spot now. Have you seen anyone besides that guy?”
“Not in a few hours. A car left a while ago. Not sure how long, because I passed out.”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so. My knee is a little gimpy, but I should be fine.”
Layne looked down at his hand, swollen and crooked. “What happened there, man?”
“The big asshole you saw outside broke my damn hand. It’s worthless. He wasn’t even trying to interrogate me. I said something about his mother he didn't like and he took it all personal.”
Layne pursed his lips, considering. “I’m not surprised. What about drones, anything like that? I’d rather we weren’t spotted leaving the area.”
“No. Not that I know of. I saw Farhad for a minute yesterday, but we didn’t talk. Not really. He was too busy with other things, and he was going to come back tonight. I don’t think we’re in immediate danger.”
“Still. I think we should go. On your feet, shadow.”
“Wait,” Jonah said, and Layne could see the hesitancy in his eyes. He wheezed with each breath, as if on the verge of collapse.
“Yes?”
“Everything you’ve done for me. I wanted to say thank you. I don’t think I’ve had a chance yet.”
Layne nodded, studying the pain on Jonah's face. Not only the physical pain of what he’d endured in captivity since this morning. “Of course, Thorny. Even if we haven’t seen each other in a few years, we’re still on the same side.”
“And we still have that thing… the thing only you and I know about, right?”
“I’ve never told anyone,” Layne said.
“I haven’t either.”
“I don’t think other people would understand.”
Jonah coughed a few
times and struggled to catch his breath. “What happened happened, and I think adrenaline was the gremlin in the machine, powering the choices we made in that apartment on the last day of the op.”
“Maybe so. It’s not like we can go back and pick another option.”
Jonah leaned forward, caressing his broken hand. “I think about New Orleans a lot. I think about Satori Watanabe. If it weren’t for him and Daphne making us go down there to find and kill him, our lives would’ve turned out quite a bit differently.”
“That’s for sure.”
Jonah looked Layne in the eye. “Do you think about New Orleans?”
“I do. I think about a lot of the ops we went on. The good, the bad, the ones I wish I could forget.”
“It keeps me up at night. Often.”
“We were in chaos a lot of the time. I kept thinking it would normalize, but I eventually got used to it the way it was.”
“But New Orleans was different.”
Layne shrugged. “In some ways, yeah. You’re lucky you skipped out before going to London a week later.”
“Your last op.”
“Yeah. I didn’t have specific plans to retire at the end of it when I was going in, but you knew I’d been thinking about it for a while. I’d had plans to start my own security consulting company for a couple of years before then.”
“What happened in London?”
Layne darkened. “It went bad. People died. Innocents. Someone on the team.”
“Someone? It’s so funny,” Jonah said without a trace of humor in his tone.
“What’s funny?”
“You won’t tell me who died on the op because I wasn’t technically part of the team any longer. Need-to-know info. Here you are, over six years retired, and you’re still abiding by the team’s operational reqs.”
Layne put his hands on his hips. He hadn’t intended to keep London’s particulars a secret, but it had come out that way, without thinking. “I guess that’s true. Do you really want to know about London, man? Do you really want the grisly details about the mission that made me hang it all up?”
“No, I guess I don’t. None of that makes a shit of difference anymore, except that I still have all these bits and bobs rolling around in my head, and that makes me a target. I wish I could flush it all out. I wish I wasn’t valuable to anyone. That’s why I came out here and tried to disappear into the small-town life, you know? To be a ghost. I’m not the hero type like you. I don’t rush into burning buildings and carry out orphans on my back.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Layne said.
Jonah grinned. “Come on, Boy Scout. If you don’t save at least one orphan per month, you start to get antsy. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Somebody has to save those orphans,” Layne said, turning his palms toward the ceiling.
Jonah coughed and put his uninjured hand over the lump on the side of his head. He breathed for a few seconds, wincing against the pain. “There’s something else.”
“What is it?”
“I remember now.”
“What do you remember?”
“The last piece of information Farhad was trying to get out of me. My head ain’t so foggy now. I remember things he said, going in and coming out of hypnosis. It’s all jumbled, but, as you can see, I’ve had nothing but time to think in this god-awful cabin. I started putting it together about an hour ago.”
“What is it he’s trying to find out?”
“Omar Naseer.”
Layne felt like someone had drained all the blood from his body. A buzzing filled his head as he flexed his hands a few times. After a few deep breaths, he had a seat on the cold, wooden floor.
Omar Naseer. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. About fifteen years ago, in Seattle. Layne’s first official kill. He and his older brother had staked out Naseer’s house across the street for hours. Then, Layne went in by himself and took out this terrorist with a bullet to the head.
He still remembered the toothbrush in Naseer’s hand, the way it fell to the ground when the bullet entered the man’s forehead.
At first, Layne didn’t know what to say. He cleared his throat. “Omar Naseer.”
“You know the name.”
Layne nodded. “Yes.”
“And you know what happened to him?”
“Yes. Why does Farhad care about Omar Naseer?”
“They were friends. Childhood friends, college roommates, I’m not sure, exactly. But knowing who killed him is important to Farhad.”
“Have you told him it was me?”
Jonah's head tilted as he slowly rose to his feet. “Hot damn. It was you?”
“My first op, before I joined the team. Kind of an initiation. They sent me in alone to take him out with a pistol and a stomach full of bile. I didn’t know anything about him at the time. Still don’t, actually.”
“Okay, well, I haven’t told him it was you, obviously. I didn’t know. I guess that’s one point in our favor.”
As Jonah crossed the room to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, Layne tried to put all the pieces together. “I don’t understand. Farhad Jahandar is doing all of this, going to all this trouble to drug and coerce a former shadow for simple revenge about a childhood friend?”
Jonah leaned back against the kitchen counter, glass of water in hand. “No, it’s not that. Finding out about Naseer is just…” He winced as if trying to think of the right word. “It’s icing on the cake, I guess. A dedication.”
“A dedication?”
“They’re planning something big, Boy Scout. Farhad is expecting guests the day after tomorrow, and they’re delivering something to him. Something he needs for the big thing. His guests aren’t doing it for Omar Naseer, but Farhad is. It’s his personal vendetta.”
Layne rubbed his chin. “Well, Naseer was a fan of explosives, from what I remember of the limited op briefing. If they’re doing something in his honor, or for his legacy, or whatever, it could be to blow up a high-value target.”
Jonah shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll remember more later, but that’s all I got for now.”
Layne studied the sinking sun outside the front door of the cabin. “Whatever it is, we’ll have to deal with it as it comes. It’s going to be dark soon, and we’ve got a long hike out of here. And then, we have a lot of planning to do.”
INTERLUDE #3
New Orleans, LA | Six Years Ago
Layne stands in the street in Metairie, looking both ways. Heart thumping, senses blazing. It’s dark, muggy, a chill in the air. Across the street, the coffee shop’s lights flicker off. There are a few pedestrians here and there, but overall, the neighborhood seems quiet. Very quiet. Alley cats meow and cry, a chorus of them at varying volumes and relative distances. Layne watches a hesitant tabby pad out from the behind the coffee shop. It pauses under a streetlight at the edge of the parking lot, looking at Layne. Green eyes slicing the distance between them. After a few more seconds, the mangy creature pads away, down the street, disappearing between two houses next to the coffee shop strip mall.
Layne returns to the house after deciding to give up the search for Satori Watanabe. His ears still ring a little from the after-effects of the flashbang grenade. He still has to keep his eyes slitted from the light sensitivity.
When he opens the front door, Jonah is sitting on the couch in the living room, rifling through a wallet.
“What’s that?” Layne asks.
“His wallet. I snatched it when he ran past.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
Jonah grins. “How was I supposed to do that, Boy Scout? You didn’t stop to ask me if I took his wallet before you did your action hero thing out the front door, running like the devil was chasing you.”
“Next time, I will,” Layne says as he sits in a chair opposite Jonah. Somehow, the house feels louder than the outside world. “What have you got?”
“Well, his ID says Sato
ri Watanabe of New York, New York. It looks real enough, but you should see some of the fakes they can do these days. My older brother’s kid got caught with a fake ID. He showed it to me, and you would not believe how authentic it looked. It’s almost as good as the stuff K-Books can make.”
“Focus, Jonah.”
Jonah looks up at him, his eyes a little glazed over. He was close to the flashbang when it went off, probably still a little scrambled in the head.
“There’s not a whole lot else useful in here. No receipts telling us where he’s eaten or if he has another place to stay in town.” Jonah's eyes widen, and he takes in a quick breath. “Wait a second.”
Layne leans forward. “What is it?”
Jonah holds up a small paper card. “He’s only one punch away from getting a free sub sandwich. I’ll bet he’s gonna be pissed about leaving this behind. I’d be mad enough to kick a dog.”
“That’s great,” Layne says as he sits back, tenting his fingertips. “Anything else to say about it?”
“Come on, Layne. We have to have a little levity about this whole thing. We just got our assess kicked by one man. One little dude got both of us, and it wasn’t even much of a contest. When was the last time that happened to you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe never.”
“I think we have to take a good hard look at that. Plus, whether we want to or not, you know Daphne is going to grill us about this until the end of time.”
Layne shrugs. “She probably will, and we probably deserve it.”
“What happened here? Pretend it’s the debrief.”
“I looked at the stairs, and I didn’t see the secret door because the seam was hidden by the vertical stripes on the wallpaper, so I kept on moving. I should have looked closer.”
“Exactly. We’re getting sloppy. Both of us. Maybe this sort of thing is a young man’s game. Maybe our best years are behind us, and it’s time for us to finally accept it.”
“What are you saying?”