Higgins

by C. G. Cooper

  Charlie set the helicopter down and looked at his father for the first time. “I just miss you.”

  Johnson got up and walked around the table to hug Charlie tightly. “I miss you, too, buddy. I’m sorry things have been so different lately, but I promise they’ll get better, okay?”

  “Okay.” Charlie looked down at his shoes as he kicked at the dirt. “Do you know when I get to come stay with you again?”

  Johnson sighed. “Not yet. But I promise it’ll be soon, okay? As soon as I can. You can come stay with me, and we can watch all the movies and eat all the ice cream you want.”

  Charlie looked up, a smile plastered on his face. “Promise?”

  “As long as you eat all your vegetables first.”

  “Gross.”

  “What if I mix them with spiders and boogers and peanut butter?”

  Charlie laughed, and Higgins saw Johnson crack a smile, too.

  “Alright, buddy. I’ve got to get back to work now. I’ll call you as soon as I can, okay? Then we’ll plan our next trip.” He handed Charlie his helicopter. “Be good for your mom, okay? And for me.”

  “Okay.” Charlie hugged his father and then raced across the grass to his mother’s side, pretending all the while that his little helicopter was flying through the air on his next mission.

  Higgins had a small smile on his face, but it quickly dropped off when Johnson turned around and caught him watching the interaction.

  He strode forward, keeping his voice a quiet rasp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Higgins?”

  Higgins could barely get the words out. “I-I was j-just going for a walk. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t mean to what? Spy on someone’s private conversation?”

  “I just—I didn’t realize.” He swallowed roughly. “I mean, I didn’t know you had a family. A son.”

  “Shocker,” Johnson said, turning around and heading toward the compound. “It’s downright inconceivable that Dr. Alvin Higgins doesn’t know everything. I’m going inside now. Do yourself a favor and keep your distance from me for a little while, ‘kay, Higgins?”

  Higgins was left there staring after his teammate, unsure of what to do or say.

  He started back toward the building a couple of minutes later, unsure of every step he was taking.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When the remaining members of the program gathered themselves in the classroom after lunch, Higgins felt off-kilter. There were only eleven left, separated into four teams, and one of those teams still had only two members. Higgins guessed it wouldn’t be long until the two-member team was cut, too.

  Zyga seemed more agitated than ever, but instead of taking it out on the class, his instructions were clipped, like he’d only allotted himself a specific dose of energy to deal with his charges.

  “If you’re an agent, stand up.”

  There was a split-second pause while the room worked through what he was asking. The last time he asked a candidate to stand up, he was cut from the program. The paranoia was obvious, but no one wanted to piss off Zyga, so they complied.

  “Congratulations, you have the day off.”

  Looks were exchanged, but otherwise no one moved.

  Decker, who had stood quietly in the entrance to the classroom, elaborated. “Our non-agents have some extra training to do today. There’s no point in having the rest of you go back to basics, so take advantage of the time and rest up. The next leg of the program will test your limits.”

  When Johnson stood to leave, Higgins made the mistake of grabbing at his sleeve.

  “I just wanted to apologize—”

  “Forget it,” Johnson said, with all the force of a Mack truck hitting a brick wall. “I’m going to pretend it never happened, and I suggest you do the same.”

  Higgins nodded his head emphatically and watched as Johnson left the room.

  Abrams cast Higgins a sympathetic, albeit confused look, but left with the other agents. Despite Higgins’s knowledge of Abrams’s true purpose, nothing seemed off or different about the man. He was as jovial and talkative as ever, much to Johnson’s annoyance.

  Four candidates remained behind with Higgins. The first was a tall, rail-thin man with glasses named Richards. He seemed quiet and cautious, standing stock still and prepared for anything. The other man was Martinez. He was short and stocky, sported a thick handlebar moustache, and had wavy black hair. Higgins had yet to hear him speak.

  The fourth and final candidate was York. She sat in the back, as she always did, with one leg crossed over the other. Higgins had done his best to stay out of her way these past couple weeks, as had most of the other candidates. She spoke to no one but her teammates and often ate alone, opting for the company of a book over her peers.

  Her attitude was off-putting to the others, but Higgins found it intriguing. Her determination and the fact that she had made it this far had garnered plenty of respect within the walls of the classroom. At the very least, the other candidates had stopped trying to hit on her.

  Zyga took a moment to scan the four faces in front of him. “We’ll be running you through a series of tests to gauge your combat skills. While none of you are agents, some of you are more experienced than others. We want to find out who can handle themselves, and who cannot. Your deficiencies will be revealed in time.”

  Higgins, feeling brave because the classroom was so empty, raised his hand. Zyga turned toward him with an icy glare.

  Higgins cleared his throat. “Are combat skills necessary for becoming an interrogator, sir?”

  Decker, perhaps to save Higgins from some of Zyga’s fire, stepped forward and addressed them all. “In most situations, our interrogators will find themselves within these walls or those of a secure location surrounded by agents who will make sure they are in as safe of an environment as possible.”

  “That’s our goal in an ideal situation,” Zyga interrupted, “but in real life, shit happens. So yes, Higgins, combat skills are necessary. If your mission goes south or a prisoner escapes and becomes hostile, you will need to know how to take care of yourself.”

  “While being an agent was not a requirement at the start of this program,” Decker said, “it is our long-term goal to make you one. If you last until the end, you will be a full-fledged member of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Higgins felt a tingle travel down his spine. The prospect of becoming a full-time member of the elite fraternity had occurred to him, but he figured that was a problem he could address later. But now that it had been laid on the table, he found that he wasn’t as opposed to the idea as he once was.

  Decker and Zyga disappeared after that, presumably to do more important work than watch their candidates go through basic training. Instead, Spencer and Kinkaid brought them down into the bowels of the building, to the agency’s gun range.

  Spencer took a backseat while Kinkaid ran the show. Higgins hadn’t had much interaction with him, but Kinkaid was affable, if a bit serious. He was young and clean shaven, with a rigid haircut, high and tight. He stood a head shorter than Spencer, but he commanded the attention of the room. His voice was soft but firm, unwavering. Higgins liked him, but he seemed as tough as the rest of them.

  “How many of you have handled a firearm before?” Kinkaid asked.

  Higgins was the only one who didn’t lift his hand in the air. A blush crept up his neck and took over his face.

  Kinkaid’s expression was neutral. “I’m going to run through the motions of loading and firing a weapon. This will be redundant, but for the sake of everyone being on the same page, we’re going to run through the motions anyway.”

  Higgins had never been fond of guns. In his years spent pouring over interrogations, he’d seen far too many cases of trigger-happiness to suit him. Otherwise, good men and women were sent up the river for nothing more than a touchy temperament pushed to the limits of god-like power with a firearm in hand. The idea that he himself might end up in a situation w
here he would need to rely on a gun turned his blush into a cold sweat. Pointing a weapon at another human being with the intent to wound or even kill was something he never thought he would have to consider. But this was the CIA. Better to be prepared than dead.

  He watched as Kinkaid explained the weapon’s nomenclature, the proper handling of said weapon. How to aim and fire with accuracy. When a gun was necessary. When it wasn’t.

  The group lined up across from a series of targets, and Kinkaid called out, “The range is hot. You may fire at will.”

  Higgins stared at the weapon, heavy in his hands. He didn’t want to fire it, even at a piece of paper hanging fifteen feet away, but what other choice did he have? He wasn’t about to let this keep him from completing the program. He considered carrying a gun to be something of a necessary evil for the job.

  He raised his weapon and took a breath, letting it out slowly. He aimed and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked, and the sound – despite his heavy-duty noise-cancelling earmuffs -- made his arms shake from the shock. He missed his target completely.

  A series of shots sounded from down the line. Martinez was way more comfortable with a weapon in hand. After considering that weapon confidence was still requisite for the job, Higgins forced himself to focus and re-center. He took another deep breath and let the world fall away. He no longer heard the other shots. He ignored the cool air pouring over his skin from the ventilation system. He even tuned out his own heartbeat, which had been thumping in his ears. The target was just another problem to be solved.

  He pulled the trigger and didn’t stop until he’d emptied his magazine into the target. Each bullet had gradually found its way closer to the middle until the last was just left of center. It wasn’t perfect, but he felt a sense of pride nonetheless.

  A hand fell down on Higgins’s shoulder, and he almost jumped. Kinkaid was telling him to lay his weapon down in Condition Four and join the rest of the team. Spencer reeled in the targets so they could gauge how they all did.

  “Not bad,” Kinkaid said, looking over everyone’s progress.

  “There’s no need to coddle them,” Spencer said from the corner. “What would Daddy say? Not quite living up to the Kinkaid legacy, are you?”

  Kinkaid tensed, but didn’t retort. He walked toward York, surveying her work. “Glad to see your years on the force have not gone to waste. Good job.”

  York nodded curtly. “Thank you, sir.”

  Higgins leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of her target. Every bullet had found center black.

  “Martinez, you had a couple good ones in there.”

  Spencer scoffed.

  Kinkaid turned toward him stiffly. “Do you have something you would like to add, Agent Spencer?”

  Spencer kicked off the wall and gestured loosely to each target. “York is the only one who has any skill.”

  “Martinez hit the bull.”

  “Most of his shots went wide.” Spencer turned to the next target. “Richards would be lucky if he winged his target. And Higgins took so long, his target would’ve found cover before he’d gotten around to firing a single shot.”

  “It’s not a race.”

  “Not this time,” Spencer said. “But when it comes down to who’s left standing, Higgins or his opponent, I know who I’ll lay my money on.”

  Kinkaid motioned them back to the firing line, leaving Higgins wondering where he stood against the others.

  York was the clear leader; the others had skills, but they were inconsistent across the board.

  It was a humbling moment for Dr. Alvin Higgins. He had expected to walk through the CIA doors and be the smartest person in the room, as he usually was. What he found was a group of people who could keep pace with him and, in most cases, had skills he couldn’t even dream of cultivating.

  The doubt began to creep in again, and Higgins had to remember why he wanted this so badly. It wasn’t just about the respect that a job at the CIA would offer. It was about the bigger picture. It was about using his talents to be part of the solution. He’d momentarily forgotten why he was here. It wasn’t about trying to one-up Johnson or discover what Abrams was really up to. It was about the greater good.

  “Higgins. Higgins.” York’s voice snapped him out of his reverie and he looked up to see her standing before him with an impatient look on her face. “It’s our turn.”

  He looked around, having momentarily forgotten where he was. They’d moved on hours ago. York was standing on a mat, hands on her hips, while the rest of the candidates looked on from the sidelines. They’d been practicing takedowns. His palms began to sweat.

  During the hand-to-hand, York had wiped the floor with all three of them. Despite Higgins’s size, she had moved him around the mat like he weighed nothing. Now, Kinkaid was taking them through some of the moves she’d used. Richards had just had his ass handed to him again, and now it was Higgins’s turn.

  “It’s not always about your own strengths,” Kinkaid said, circling them, “but about your opponents’ weaknesses. If you’re small, use their height and weight against them.”

  When Kinkaid was done, Higgins and York squared off. Not hesitating a single moment before the attack, she landed a solid blow to his chest that had him doubled over, then took that time to yank his arm behind his back and sweep his legs out from under him. He landed on his face, the wind knocked out of his lungs, while she continued to pull back his arm. He tapped out as quickly as he could.

  York helped him to his feet with a rare smile on her face. She looked hungry and energized. It suited her. She was glowing, proud but not arrogant. She had executed her move flawlessly, much to Spencer’s delight and Higgins’s embarrassment. He couldn’t fault her. He needed to do better.

  Kinkaid was about to walk Higgins through to demonstrate how he could counteract her steps, when the side doors crashed opened, and a harried agent who apparently couldn’t decide whether she wanted to walk or run and so settled on a weird sort of gallop, stopped before Spencer.

  “Sir,” she said, flushed and out of breath. “You need to see this.”

  “See what?”

  The woman was already moving away from them. “Immediately, sir.”

  Spencer furrowed his eyebrows and stalked off.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kinkaid followed, his face grave.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Higgins didn’t think. As soon as the doors shut, he ran after them, waiting for a count of thirty before opening the doors slowly, checking both ways down the hall.

  A trail of voices from his right caught his attention. As he turned to follow the sound, a strong hand clamped around his elbow and spun him around.

  “What the hell are you doing?” It was York, and she looked equal parts angry and wary.

  “Why?” “Why are you coming after me?”

  “You’re taking a big risk here, Higgins. Whatever the reason, it’s not worth the consequences.”

  “If you don’t want to get into trouble, don’t follow me.”

  York loosened her grip on him and with a nod of her head, gave the sign that she was going with him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Higgins took off down the hallway, both anticipating and dreading catching up with Spencer and Kinkaid. His heart raced, and he couldn’t deny that York’s words had made him rethink going after them. Spontaneity wasn’t his strong suit.

  But something hadn’t felt right. Normally, logic trumped gut feelings, but this time he decided to listen. The agent wouldn’t have interrupted their training session had it not been necessary. It was a different part of his brain that was activated now, the region of problem-solving that had lit up on the range. It tended to blot out all other regions, as if shutting them down to conserve resources. The reward was a hit of endorphin. This was a survival tactic for Alvin Higgins, and his brain obviously wanted him to keep using it.

  As they reached the end of the hallway, Higgins heard voices coming from around the corner.


  “I don’t understand how this could happen.” Spencer sounded at a loss for words.

  “Should we really be talking here?” Kinkaid sounded worried.

  Higgins flattened himself again the wall, his palms sweating. York followed suit, cautious and determined.

  “Once again, from the top,” Spencer said.

  The female agent took a deep breath. “Someone got wind of your operation in Beirut. They’re saying you got carried away with a prisoner, and he died on your watch. Whoever they are, they’re saying you let the bombings happen.”

  Spencer swore. “Who’s got the story now?”

  “Who?” The woman sounded incredulous. “The media, sir. Everyone. Right now, you’re only identified as ‘a CIA official’, but pretty soon someone will connect it to you personally.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, a figure moved past Higgins. It was Decker. Higgins sucked in a sharp breath and peeked at York.

  “Agent Spencer, please come to my office. Agent Zyga is waiting. Kinkaid, I’m sure you still have plenty to teach your trainees. Agent Donovan, you’re needed in your department. Let’s break this up.”

  The assent was silent, as everyone began to move off in different directions.

  “They’re with me.” said Decker, acknowledging Higgins and York from the shadows.

  Kinkaid paused briefly, then nodded and moved along without saying a word.

  When everyone had cleared out, Decker turned to them. “I don’t need to tell either one of you what a stupid move this was coming out here.” He looked between them for a moment.

  “No, sir,” said York.

  He sighed. “Get back to class. Both of you. Finish your training. Then meet me in my office tonight after dinner. Understood? Anyone asks, you’re being reprimanded for leaving your teams without authorization. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Say you understand, Higgins.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Decker walked away, his shoulders tense. Even when they had been discussing the breach, the bomb, and the mole, Decker had seemed relaxed.