Hell To Pay

by Andrik Rovson

  He checked in at personnel, getting paper, signing paper, reading paper, shredding paper. He called up Cathy to get him a decent but not expensive briefcase, what the other officers his rank used. Her reply surprised him once again, “I'm already on it, black or brown?” He asked for black and said he was too busy to get some pictures from her phone so she could make the final choice.

  Brooks had gone, but not before his final flourishes, sending over ID cards and other papers to the hotel, along with the set of uniforms. Too busy to linger or attend his wedding reception, which neither man regretted, he'd left behind his assistant who wielded all his considerable back room power, all at the disposal of Jabo, with the understanding he'd get to work when his first, personal mission was done.

  They met in the same room he'd been in only a day before, highly secure, swept daily, it had no outside windows, a seamless vault for sound and electric energy of any kind. What was said stayed there.

  “The FBI files, copies, the latest field notes, from all the agents assigned to this case, and some Witness Protection documents on Allen Missange, the girl's father, found dead in his house that had been supplied by the U.S. Marshal's Service, for his new life as Allen Baumgardner, I.T. Professional, working out of his home. They wouldn't say where he'd worked before they hid him away. It's an open case, no can do.” He slid a phone with a rugged plastic case across the table, “all the secret shit, encrypted by default, narrow band, satellite capable with this,” he held up a nylon pack then pulled out a heavy attachment with a clunky, solid ¾ inch antenna he recognized from the older satellite phones he'd carried in the field, but never as an add-on to an over the counter cell phone. Technology never stops.

  “They found the truck he'd been driving and it entered the FBI lab in Dallas a few hours ago, the best one in the five state area. If he left anything, a hair, a skin cell, they'll find it and document it.” The man's face said he doubted a man this skilled would make such a beginner's mistake. Most crooks would have set the truck on fire to insure nothing could be traced to them. What confidence, or arrogance.

  “Why'd he take the girl alive?” He was speaking out loud, what he was thinking, assuming, rightly, the assistant had been in the FBI or an ex cop, from the way he spoke about the details of the crime and the mirrored dossiers he'd put together for him.

  “Perve, most likely, or hostage, for someone else, she was still virgin, if that means anything,” making Jabo remember her burned body in the photos, nearly crispy, down to the bone. How the hell could they tell if she was virgo intacta? It was something he didn't want to imagine.

  “Leave me, no, get me a Starbucks,” then he rattled off his favorite drink, inured to the addiction for the expensive, yet still relatively cheap, hot fresh caffeine they delivered. That was American enterprise at its best, so why resist or feel ashamed for buying in? He brought back a selection of their breakfast sandwiches as well, so he could eat the one he wanted, getting platinum service. He was going to like being a Colonel.

  “Are you mine?” he asked, getting a nod, “which makes you a spy or babysitter, right?” The man raised his eyebrows, this was the cost of being coddled and helped, one Jabo would willingly pay, until his mission was done, then he'd make his own rules. “Fine, out, shoo, amuse yourself by going to help my wife with her shopping at the BX, if she needs you. I'm going to absorb all this and do some thinking.”

  “As you wish,” he left and returned an hour later with Cathy, who took her first snub well, since her credentials hadn't arrived yet, he couldn't read her in on the files and folders he'd arranged on the large conference table, stacking them up when she came in.

  “Fine, I can have lunch with the general's wife, she called me to ask about Paris and all the designers I know. Text me when you're done, or...” she looked at the papers on the desk, the funeral it augured. She'd make it her job so he could focus on finding the asshole who'd shot and killed them, and his paymaster. “Meet you later, at the hotel, no dodging dinner, right?”

  “Fine, Seven, latest, your choice or...?” his smile said they could restart what they'd begun last night.

  “After dinner sailor, ciao.” And she was gone.

  His responsibilities dealt with, taking minimum time, he assumed his game face and mind. It was a hunt, nothing more, so he needed to make a trail out of the clues confronting him – where did it start? The obvious choice was the girl's parents, her father, what had he done before he entered the witness protection program? It was formed to hide witnesses against organized crime but had suffered mission creep over the years and any important witness who might be compromised or threatened, even civil actions if they were big enough, could get you in. No free ride, they expected you to job hunt and not make any waves, fit in and resume a normal life of some kind, under a new name in a new location, pretty simple actually.

  Albert, on call, since his wife didn't need him took his first request without qualm or concern. “Find out where he worked, his past life, what he did, anything pertinent,” he waited for backtalk or any hint of difficulty.

  “Today, tomorrow, this week?”

  “Today would be good,” he got a short nod then his assistant and minder left. Albert returned to his own work place to start making calls, starting with his new boss, whose real name Jabo still didn't know and Albert dodged then stonewalled when he asked. Welcome to the land of the spooks.

  After Jabo finished absorbing the file info, he sat back, putting it all together in his mind. He thought of how they did it in the movies, with big boards covered with pinned or taped up photos of the suspects or blank paper where they had only a name or a few short sentences outlining their suspicions. That was all movie shit, for people who couldn't hold it all upstairs, in their working memory – a visual metaphor for the audience.

  Laying back in the chair, sipping the fresh coffee Albert had walked in for him, then left, Jabo shook his head, frustrated. He needed to answer the unasked question, had he found out the background on the mysterious, very dead Allen Missange? Beyond the obvious stuff that was on public databases, where he'd lived, bank accounts, tax records, pay stubs, he was a cipher, his recent past wiped by the FBI when he went into hiding. Trained as a biologist, gifted at his work, he'd bounced around biotech companies then the trail died out three years ago, clearly showing he'd entered a company that liked to hide its tracks as well as its employees. Great, nobody was talking.

  Since that path wasn't going anywhere he returned to the folder on the sole survivor, Anna Alcazar, like a name from a mystery novel, no match to her solid, Latino face. In her late twenties, she was no beauty queen, decent enough, short with a Mayan nose and full features. She was known as a hard worker who'd risen in rank on merit in a world dominated by men. Like many of the Latino's he'd worked with in the Army, did some work with the Special Forces. That was interesting – a card he could play with her, if he could get in to see her.

  He had no prejudice when it came to humans he worked with, color blind, he saw only competence or failure. Ability, not raw talent made you a welcome team member or you were gone. Fancy wide receivers didn't last or make the cut, everyone was a hard nosed bulked up no nonsense linebacker. There was no room for affirmative action BS in his service. Everybody had to be a player, phenomenal in motivation, all A list, the best the country could attract to a hard, often deadly, usually thankless, secret job. You heard the call and you did it – nuff said.

  In fact, any hillbilly, redneck attitudes got you bounced, fast – the slightest sign of prejudice of any kind was not tolerated, although many liked to act like it mattered, ridiculing stereotypes their background might suggest. Out there anything was fair game. Screw-ups were quickly culled. It was obvious stuff, like an unwashed body, everyone noticed, the odd mistake that had slipped through selection. The teams were merciless and had final say. One man could kill twelve with a wrong move or a sector not covered in a fight. Everyone had to use all their brain and training, full focus, start to fini
sh while on the job. There was too much going on which meant no distractions or worries about trivial, meaningless shit, like where you'd been raised, politics, or race. The teams were the most egalitarian society he'd ever known – every man, and woman, a brother.

  "Albert, this Alcazar, she awake yet?"

  "Yes sir, but they're keeping her at a secret location." Albert raised his eyebrow, showing he knew something.

  "Right, where?" He knew something like that wasn't a problem now he had rank and pull.

  "On base actually, a burn ward, not that she's got more than what you'd get from a day at the beach. Shall we go?"

  "In a few," he closed the door, thinking of Cathy. She was part of this, had demanded she be included. Talking to a female might work best using another female to ask the questions. It would be a good start. He could assess her abilities, see how she worked in unexpected situations – no risk, since Alcazar hadn't seen anything. The day half dark when it started, long after sunset – the sniper far away when it all happened. He didn't have much hope she'd add anything that wasn't already written down in the meticulous FBI reports. Those guys documented everything, paper work fanatics. Good thing they were on his side, sort of.

  He texted Cathy, as far as he went in the social networking stuff that had blossomed into a thousand Apps and programs he'd ignored, not even setting up a personal Facebook page, relying on his Grandparents to do all that, for their eventual grandchildren they'd hinted would be nice to spoil some day, soon, before they were dead. That joke had gone stale, way south. Now he owed them some kids, soon. They'd run the Facebook page for dad, to inform the world about family activities of the current generation of Jim Bowie's descendants.

  He assumed she'd need time to notice his text then punch in her reply. He got it in ten seconds. What the fuck? Did she keep her phone in front of her the entire time – a tech neophyte, he wasn't aware his cell phone's automatic notification sounds were turned off as a security precaution. A real tech dinosaur, he was out of it, comparatively, feeling like his father would have, if he'd lived. Both his parents had died in a freak automobile accident, a drunk driver who wove across the double lines into a head-on one a late night. All three had been dead instantly, the drunk and his parents, returning from their twenty fifth wedding anniversary vacation in special spot in the Texas hill country, a charming maze of limestone creeks and oak forests – a hunter's paradise and beautiful country to hang out in.

  He asked her to meet him at the base hospital and not mention it to anyone. She sent him back a short reply, 'fifteen minutes'. The lady didn't mess around, good for her.

  His rank made doors open, literally, with an emerging soldier turning around to open the door into the hospital for him, after he'd snapped a salute, returned with a smile and another salute for a weathered sergeant walking by who had a nice row of medals, half for valor and battle, the other for campaigns, including some he didn't recognize. He'd enjoy this most basic element of rank and respect until it got old, wearing out his arm on base, now that he was the one being saluted, by noncoms and officers alike. In the field you didn't salute, why bother? It only identified you as a high value target. There a salute earned you a swift punch in the gut, then a warning the next time you'd regret it.

  Cathy was talking to a nurse, a male, manning the front desk. Jabo smiled at his wife who was using her looks to pump him about the layout of the hospital, finding out how to get close to the wing Alcazar was hidden in, under heavy guard. As the sole survivor of a professional hit, she was a target for follow up.

  “Fourth floor, after we go to the end of this hallway and turn right, a hundred meters. The elevators take us up to the burn ward. They keep it highly sanitary, so we'll have to get into gowns and masks just to walk through to her room.” She was all business, briefing him as they walked. “How are we doing this? He said her record wasn't in the computer, so it's all hush hush.”

  “That's my job, follow my lead.”

  “Always,” she grabbed his arm then let go, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, then she realized it was a major breach of protocol to hug or kiss her husband, the light colonel, when he was on the job, in uniform and in public. His stiff refusal of her affection alerted her she'd blown it. “Sorry Jabo, I'm learning,” she didn't try to catch his eye, knowing he'd understand. At the end of the hall a doctor waved at them, the person Jabo had been told to meet.

  “Colonel Bowie, follow me,” snapped the anxious captain who was also the second in command of the burn ward, a specialist in treating combat burns which could take years to recover from. This was where his army rank and his reputation from the Special Forces, along with pull from Brooks, made the FBI's attempts to protect Alcazar useless. It was the doctor's ward and he made the rules, along with the Army.

  “Both of you?” He asked, after leading them to a locker room where a nurse stood waiting with a cart that had a pile of whites, hospital garb and lab coats. Getting a nod he had the nurse take Cathy to change in another area. In a few minutes they met up, dressed head to toe in hospital scrubs, with a fresh ID for both of them. Cathy's didn't have her picture, while Jabo's was a generic smiling face that actually resembled him. His said Dr. Find while she was Nurse Procter. Everybody had a better sense of humor than him. The nurse tried to suppress her smile as Cathy whispered in her ear then made a comment about her new husband, getting a gasp of envy after she showed off the huge stone on her finger. She could get along with anyone.

  They didn't mess around when they entered the burn ward, walking as a group, men, the doctors, first, with two nurses behind. The Captain took the lead, ignoring the other staff that let them pass without comment, two doctors on the rounds, seeing patients They were nearly invisible, a brace of doctors with a pair of nurses – everyone toting a clipboard.

  “We're here to see Alcazar,” the Doctor had been admitted before, and the two agents on the folding chairs outside the door didn't react, letting them all in. Younger, they went back to their phones, like the rest of their generation, addicted to trivial pastimes when there was nothing better to do. If they were his he would ripped them a new one and give them a week of PT to lock in their field orders.

  Lieutenant Alcazar was in pajamas, more dignified than an open backed smock, and, given the near lack of wounds or injury, appropriate. Her hair was pulled back in her regular ponytail with a small gauze dressing above it. She was watching the television that hung off the ceiling, listening to the continuing news reports on their station's destruction and the gruesome killings. She hoped she'd recall something that would make sense about what had happened to her men and the Bowies. The old couple were some of her favorite people. They regularly stopped to linger, to chat or donate a quart of canned prickly pear jam for their break room. It was surprisingly exotic and tart – just sweet enough to make morning toast a treat.

  She saw Jabo's rank on his name tag he flashed her, hidden under his white lab coat. It showed he was a light colonel, matching his insignia he'd left in the changing room. If there was something to see or remember Jabo was sure she would have tucked it away in her sharp mind. She looked at him, thinking, rightly, he was a spook, assuming his rank was fake.

  “That real?” she asked, indicating his name tag he'd shown her, a single silver leaf on the end of his name Bowie, how he preferred to be known in public. She was happy someone was going to use what she'd seen and wanted it to be useful in their search for the person or persons responsible, to bring them to justice. If she'd known how Bowie usually operated, the justice he'd provide in this case would have made her even more willing to share everything she knew.

  “The rank yes, the name on my hospital ID no. My real name Jabo Bowie. We didn't have time to work through your security and they wouldn't let us talk to you anyway. This is...”

  Cathy moved in quickly, sensing she could make a connection quicker with the suspicious but friendly woman. They didn't have time for Jabo to get past her suspicions. They could be bounced at any t
ime.

  “Cathy Bowie,” she showed off her diamond which made Anna gasp, then congratulate her, “Two days now, it was sort of a rushed thing, you understand. We have to know, what can you tell us, about his grandparent's death.” Jabo's stern look made it clear they wouldn't be filling out any forms.

  That was all that they needed. Cathy had started her phone's recorder App, testing it when she'd been waiting for them to show up at the hospital. Satisfied, Alcazar sat up and started talking. Cathy's phone recorded her story, the miracle of her survival when everyone else had been killed or burned alive. Chance had tossed her around until she ended up hidden in the creek bed where she'd lain, out cold. The killer had stalked the burning check point, looking for survivors to finish off then left, missing her laying unconscious in the stream bed, bleeding out slowly as the blood coagulated on the back of her skull, her only real wound.

  They'd gone over what she did remember, when it all started, the screaming from the two females in the truck cab when 'Jonah' his grandfather was shot, showing she knew him well. She made it clear they'd become friends with the crew at the border station. His grandfather loved people in uniforms, serving their country, extremely proud of his only grandson doing his stint – 'secret stuff' – as he called it.

  After going over it three times, the few minutes she could remember before she was knocked unconscious by the bullet. Her recollection remained hazy in places, clearly due to the concussion she'd suffered. There didn't seem much she could add, making them all a little sad and lost – Alcazar most of all.

  “What about that sock thing?” Jabo asked, any detail might matter, even something as trivial as a logo on the girl's sock. “Color, shape?”

  “I've seen it somewhere, you know, a commercial on TV or an ad online,” nobody read magazines or even newspapers these days. The internet was taking over the entire world, everything was going online, except Starbucks, a business that thankfully, required a real world place and humans to make.