Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  “You almost hit me, you sonofabitch.”

  “It-it was an a-accident.” Higgins could barely keep his balance, let alone form coherent words at the moment. He vaguely wondered if he had a concussion.

  “I could kill you, Higgins. I swear to God.”

  “Hey, if you want to blame anyone, blame me,” Abrams said. His voice didn’t carry its usual flair.

  At this, Johnson shoved Higgins away and rounded on their other teammate. “I was getting to you. Nice to fall asleep on the job. Why didn’t you wake this idiot up if you were that tired?”

  “Alright, I know.” Abrams held up one hand in surrender—the other was still wrapped around the paintball gun. “Not one of my proudest moments.”

  “Well, what the hell happened?” said Johnson, wiping the spit from his chin.

  “Nothing. I was doing a perimeter check and I just wanted to take a load off for a minute. I told myself I could sit down for a few. Next thing I know, one of these assholes has a gun trained on me.”

  “You’re goddamn lucky we were able to get the situation under control.”

  “Alright, Johnson. I get it. I screwed up. Let it go.”

  “If we hadn’t woken up in time—”

  “We?” Higgins stepped forward. “You mean me.”

  Johnson growled.

  Abrams laughed. It was long and forced. “So, we have Al to thank for saving our tails?”

  “He nearly got me shot.”

  “But he obviously didn’t. If you ask me, I’d say he’s been the most useful part of this team so far, Johnson. You need to get over yourself and give credit where it’s due.”

  The first man who had gone down piped up. “Try to do that sooner rather than later, ladies. My leg’s getting a cramp.”

  The three of them turned toward him, sprawled there on the ground, arms spread to the side like he really had been blown away in combat.

  “Now what?” Higgins asked.

  “Aren’t you the smart one?” Johnson replied.

  Before Higgins could retort, Abrams interjected. “Search them. This must be our clue. Or maybe we can use them as hostages.”

  Each man took a fallen operative and searched him from head to toe. It was Abrams who came up with a red envelope, while Johnson found an extra magazine for the gun. As soon as Johnson tucked it into his coat, a bullhorn sounded from the shaded woods, followed by, “Release the attacking force. Your team may now proceed.”

  Weapons were lowered, and the ‘bad guy’ agents got to their feet and jogged away. One of them threw a head back. “So long, ladies. It was nice dancing with you!”

  “That was weird,” Higgins said.

  Abrams ignored him as he went to collect a second gun and tossed it to Johnson.

  Johnson caught it and shot Higgins a look. “Read the clue.”

  Higgins took comfort in the fact that Johnson probably wouldn’t shoot them because of the automatic penalty. Probably. He’d have to keep a wary eye on the other candidate now that he had even more of a bone to pick with Higgins. This training round couldn’t end soon enough.

  As Higgins turned the envelope over in his hands and stuck a finger under the seal, gently ripping it open, all his fears melted away.

  This was what he excelled in. This was why he was here.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Joseph Decker entered the room with his usual air of easy-going confidence though he couldn’t deny feeling a spike of anxiety as he looked at the bank of computers around him. The CIA had already invested plenty into this new program, including a handful of agents whose job it was to monitor the candidates while they were out in the field, as well as another handful who were on the ground.

  He wasn’t unfamiliar with computers, but he was too old to trust anything more than his instincts and his own two hands. Technology was great—it could even save lives—but it would never replace a person who could think with his own brain and react according to principle.

  He meandered over to the large projector screen where somebody had placed a transparency showing the current location of all five teams. The two that were down a member were at a distinct disadvantage, without as many tools at their disposal and less manpower. Then again, those were the cards they had been dealt. It was their job to adapt.

  “Sampson,” Decker called out over his shoulder, “walk me through their progress.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sampson jumped up and began pointing at a series of dots with the tip of a marker. A group of three red dots sat in the middle of the map. “This is the current leader – Team York. She’s been calling the shots. They’re approaching the second clue. Only team not to fall into the first ambush. They’ve exhibited good situational awareness and seem to be working well as a unit. They’ll most likely come in first unless Team Johnson can catch up to them.”

  Sampson moved the transparency and tapped another group of dots. “Johnson, Abrams, and Higgins just received their first clue. They nearly lost it in the ambush, but they squeaked through. Johnson and Abrams are keeping a steady pace, though I suspect Higgins is slowing them down.”

  “Next?”

  Decker listened while the agent ran through the next three teams. One of the two-member teams was currently in third, closing in on their initial clue, though fourth place wasn’t far behind. The fifth and final team was lagging. It wasn’t hard to imagine they’d be going home next.

  When Sampson was done giving his update, Decker noticed how silent the room had become. When he turned, his unasked question was answered. The director of the CIA was standing inside the door, a cup of coffee in one hand and an oatmeal raisin cookie in the other.

  “Sir,” Decker said with a tip of his head.

  “Morning, Joseph.” Director Samuel Thatcher was not a tall man, but he was imposing nonetheless. His broad shoulders and dark eyes meant most people gave him a wide berth. What they didn’t realize was that Thatcher was a family man through and through. Decker had seen him take out opponents twice his size and then go home to his granddaughters to play at tea parties and Barbie dolls. The cookie, Decker noted, was obviously homemade – burnt around the edges.

  “How are you today, sir?”

  “Wife wants me to cut back on sugar.” He took a bite of his cookie. “Can you believe that? This baby’s got Equal in it. Not bad, but it’s no match for brown sugar and molasses.”

  “They have such high expectations for us.”

  “Speaking of.” Thatcher took a sip of coffee and turned his gaze to the projector.

  “We’re doing well. Teams are in the field. They’ve been out there for nearly 24 hours now. Still got a way to go.”

  “Any clear leaders?”

  Decker rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d rather not say, sir. There are, but the playing field could change at any minute.”

  “But you and Zyga have your favorites?”

  “We’re optimistic about a few candidates, yes.”

  Thatcher laughed. “You should’ve been a politician, Decker. Can’t give a straight answer to save your life.”

  “Just want to make sure we don’t count our chickens before they’re hatched, sir.”

  “Fair enough.” Thatcher took another sip of his coffee and then lowered his voice. “I heard you and Zyga had it out in his office the other day.”

  Decker didn’t even bother asking how Thatcher knew about their little argument. He was the director of the CIA, after all. “It was nothing.”

  “That’s good to know. Tell me about it anyway.”

  Decker took a hesitant breath. “Chuck is frustrated. But he knows this program is non-negotiable.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s got to like it.”

  Decker sighed. “He’s got a track record for being tough. No one’s ever held that against him, but given recent events, toeing the line has become… problematic.”

  “It’s the only way he knows how to play.” Thatcher was silent for a moment. “You’re covering for him.”

>   Decker knit his eyebrows together. “Sir?”

  “You want him to play it safe because you know if he strikes out again, I’m sending him home. You’re protecting him.”

  Decker dragged a hand down his face and glanced around the room. No one was paying attention to them. “He’s a good agent, sir.”

  “Never said he wasn’t. Actually, remember saying quite the opposite. But even good agents make mistakes. He made a big one. Someone had to be held accountable. That someone is him.”

  “This program will work, sir. I’ll get Zyga on board.”

  “He’s already on board, Joseph. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

  “Hard to tell sometimes.”

  Thatcher hummed his agreement. “The man’s hard to read, I’ll give you that. I’ve heard some things about him coming dangerously close to stepping out of bounds.”

  “He’s... enjoying the process, sir.”

  “Good answer,” Thatcher chuckled. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, back at the screen. “You want to tell me who’s sticking out to you so far?”

  Decker knew it wasn’t really a request. Thatcher had to make sure they were making progress. “Zyga likes Johnson. He’s a seasoned agent. Smart, decisive, gets the job done.”

  “But you don’t like him?”

  “Never said that, sir.”

  “Don’t make me pull teeth, Joseph.”

  “I think he’s a loose cannon. Doesn’t mean he’ll ever go off.”

  “But it doesn’t mean he won’t either.” Thatcher turned back to the screen. “Who do you have your eye on?”

  “Higgins, sir.”

  “That’s one of the ones you pulled from the outside?”

  “He was thumbing through case files for a living. No field experience, but smart. Helluva lot smarter than me.”

  “That’s saying something.”

  “Oh, I give myself plenty of credit, sir. But Higgins is a grade above. He just has to learn the world is full of more than file folders.”

  Thatcher drained his mug and turned to leave. “I want a report from both you and Agent Zyga after this exercise is over.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  “And Decker...”

  “Sir?”

  “Do me a favor, and let me know if that sonofabitch gets too drunk on power.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Higgins peered into the red envelope, he was confused. There was no paper inside. No instructions, no written clue, no map, no image of what they should be looking for next. Instead, there was a single unlit match.

  Johnson stepped closer. “What’s the clue?”

  Higgins dumped the match into his hand and held it out for the others to see.

  Abrams gingerly picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Okay, I was not expecting this.”

  “Me neither,” Higgins said.

  “You sure that was all that was in there?”

  Higgins held out the envelope. Johnson snatched it from him, turned it upside-down and shook it.

  “We already have a matchbox,” said Higgins. “Interesting. Why a single match?”

  Abrams scratched his head with one hand and dropped the match back into Higgins’s palm with the other. “It’s gotta mean something.”

  “Like what? Build a signal fire?” Johnson asked.

  “And alert all the other operatives to our position?” said Abrams. “Not a good idea.”

  Johnson looked visibly frustrated. “Then what?”

  Both of them looked at Higgins.

  “Why are you guys looking at me?”

  “We don’t have time to waste, Higgins,” said Johnson. “Come on, you’re a book worm, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not the only one with a brain.”

  Abrams stepped between them. “Okay, calm down, guys. We can think and walk at the same time. Suffice it to say we’re probably heading in the right direction, considering our company this morning. Let’s pack up and head out.”

  Neither Johnson nor Higgins argued with him. Johnson broke camp while Abrams took a couple turns around the perimeter. Higgins continued to stare at the match, even after they moved out.

  Everything about the thing was innocuous. It was your standard match—a red tip and a wooden base. It was one of a billion matchsticks that were probably produced each day all across the world. Absolutely nothing special about it.

  What did the match represent? Fire? Warmth? Security? It could be used to create or destroy. Higgins considered striking it to see if it happened to burn a different color. Could the clue only be obtained once they used it? What else? Fireworks... a pipe... a cigar... birthday candles...

  Higgins had wandered a little to the left of the other two without realizing it. He was only clued into his mistake when both Johnson and Abrams hissed his name. The hairs on his arms stood on end even before he looked up into the face of a black bear. It was not thirty feet away.

  Black bears were not particularly large when compared to some of their bigger cousins, but in that moment, Higgins felt like it stood twenty feet tall at the shoulder. Its fur was shiny, and its head looked disproportionate to the rest of its rotund body.

  “Don’t move,” Abrams warned.

  He sounded like he was about twenty feet back from Higgins and off to the right, out of the line of sight. Higgins could see Johnson, who was slowly turning toward the bear and raising the gun to aim.

  “No!” Higgins said, slightly louder than he meant to. The bear huffed, its lips blowing out from the action. “You’ll just make it angry.”

  “Or scare it away,” Johnson said. He kept the gun trained on the animal.

  “Wait to see what it does,” said Abrams.

  “I’d rather not.” Higgins said with an unintentional whimper. He’d recently relieved himself, but a small residual trickle was now worming warmly down his leg. “There’s a chance it’ll just walk away,” he said with half a voice. “Considering all we have is a gun with nonlethal rounds and a knife, I’d rather not pick a fight unless we can’t help it.”

  A rustle off to the left startled him, which made him turn sharply in the direction of the noise. A small black lump emerged, waddling in his direction. He heard Johnson and Abrams swear under their breath at the same time.

  The larger bear took a step forward and made a sound deep in its throat. Its cub froze, as if just realizing it had walked into the middle of a standoff. When it spotted Higgins so close, it made a screeching sound and ran back toward its mother. That was the adult bear’s cue to charge.

  “Shoot it!” Abrams yelled.

  Where time had frozen during the earlier confrontation, now everything was a blur. Johnson let off a series of shots that landed on the side of the bear’s neck, exploding in a great blotch of neon yellow against the pitch of its fur. The creature flinched, but it didn’t slow its charge. Higgins scrambled backward so fast his feet got tangled up with each other and he tumbled backward, hitting the ground with a pop in his neck for the second time that day.

  Johnson cursed loudly. He was out of ammo. At this, Abrams charged forward, yelling, getting off a couple of shots himself. Whether it was Abrams’s war cry, or whether the bear was just tired of getting shot, it skidded to a halt a mere ten feet away now. If the thing decided to launch itself forward now, all three men were well within its striking range.

  There was a moment of tense silence while the bear took in the scene. Higgins looked up at its slathering maw, wondering if he was about to find out just what it would feel like to have his head surrounded by the animal’s teeth. The scientist in him was in awe. The man was in terror.

  There was a loud click as Johnson reloaded the gun. In the next moment, the air was rent with a high-pitched squealing, which caused the adult bear to turn and chase after its cub, back into the trees and away from the three humans. Higgins sat up, just catching a glimpse of the yellow-coated cub taking off into the woods.

  “You shot the baby?” Higgins asked.
He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or incredulous.

  Abrams offered Higgins his hand. “It was him or you, Al.”

  Higgins took the offering and was helped to his feet. “Yeah, but—”

  “You’re welcome,” Johnson spat. “I’m starting to think you’re bad luck, Higgins.”

  “Speaking of,” Abrams said, looking down at Higgins’s hands, “please tell me you had the foresight to put the match in your pocket before being attacked by a black bear.”

  Higgins looked down at his hands, as if he didn’t already know they were empty.

  The roar that came from their right was not a bear, but Johnson. “Unbelievable.”

  Higgins dropped to his knees. “It’s got to be here.”

  “Don’t bother, Al.” Abrams kicked at a plant at his feet. “There’s no way we’re going to find it with all this ground cover.”

  Johnson pointed the gun at Higgins’s face. “If we lose because of your clumsiness—”

  “What?” said Higgins, fed up with the tough guy act. “You’ll shoot me full of paint?”

  Abrams pushed the barrel aside. “It’s not worth the penalty. Besides, we need to save those bullets in case we come across more of the enemy.”

  Higgins stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. “I’m fairly certain the match is unimportant. A red herring.”

  Johnson threw his hands up in the air. “Fairly certain?”

  “It’s just a regular matchstick. It’s not the item that’s important. It’s what it’s trying to tell us.”

  “It’s a matchstick. It’s not trying to tell us anything.”

  Higgins was about to retort when Abrams stepped forward. “Kid might have a point.”

  “I’m not a kid,” said Higgins, turning to Abrams. “Listen to me. I want you to close your eyes and picture that match in your head. Imagine it to the last detail. Those tiny little splinters that sometimes peel off the stick. The red, bulbous tip of it. Turn it around. Turn it upside-down. Think: match... match...”

  “That is such a load of horseshit,” growled Johnson. “What are you, a carny psychic?”