Snapshot

by Camryn King

  Her response was non-committal. “That’s a thought.”

  “Otherwise, I think the switch is perfect. Definitely keeps the flow, especially as we go from there to the article you’re writing about our own lovely Pilsen neighborhood and those pictures you took are sensational. The way your eye captures angles and lighting and texture . . . it was like becoming acquainted with this area all over again. They made me literally get out the other day and walk several blocks just to find what you’d shot.”

  “Thank you, Monica.”

  “I mean it, Kennedy. I know, KW here at the mag, but those photos you took deserve your whole name Kennedy Wade, at least in this conversation, in this room.”

  Kennedy held it together until lunchtime, actually getting work done, then took her package and headed for Harriet. She pulled out of the garage and into the bright August sunshine. After driving to a nearby park she maneuvered her car into a space facing away from the street and pulled the box from the shipping container. She looked at the counterintelligence sweeping device she’d just ordered and wondered who’d invaded her existence and where was life? Seriously, was she getting ready to sweep the room she rented from a sweet woman named Lydia to find if the place was bugged?

  Yes.

  She read the instructions. The equipment, said to be “law grade,” whatever that meant, had one of the highest detection ranges in the industry. It could detect wired and wireless cameras, wireless mics, audio and video transmitter bugs, computer and fax transmitter bugs . . . Gasp and sputter! Such things exist? Wiretaps and . . . GPS trackers? Kennedy stilled as she considered the possibility. Was there a way that . . . no, not possible. Surely no one had tampered with Harriet. But if they’d gotten to the BMW then at the very least they’d know she’d sold it. But if the phantom Jack Sutton was actually Jack in Peyton, is that how he tracked her? Kennedy ripped the operation instructions from the box and quickly read them. She turned off her wifi and cellphone. Then right there in the park before God and everybody, as mothers pushed children and joggers ran nearby, she exited her car, pushed the button and began sweeping the underside of her car. Within seconds she learned two things. One, the device she’d purchased worked properly. Two, there was a GPS tracking device on her car.

  It was six-thirty before Kennedy could leave the office, but when she did, it was to make a beeline to a mechanic to have the tracking device removed. The next stop was her house. The gods aligned for her. Lydia wasn’t home. Kennedy went to work. She covered the entire apartment inch by inch. Twice. The sweeper detected no surveillance equipment. That fact probably should have made Kennedy feel better than it did. Whoever put the envelope in Lydia’s mailbox was probably the same one who placed the GPS on her car. Which meant they knew where she worked and where she lived. This was bananas. Like a movie, except it was her life. Kennedy would make a lousy criminal and doing anything under cover would be impossible. She didn’t have the constitution for that life. She was tired of hiding. Tired of lying. Tired of being on the run, wanted to live loud and in color. One of the statements on the websites she’d researched was right. Disappearing was hard. Before making the decision, be sure.

  Keys jangled in the lock. Kennedy jumped up. To do what? Jump out the window? Nervous laughter spilled out of her mouth as she left the bedroom. She needed to have a talk with the woman who’d kindly opened her home up and welcomed her. Hopefully Lydia’s act of kindness wouldn’t put her in the crosshairs of “they.”

  Kennedy entered the living room as Lydia closed the door. “Hi, Lydia.”

  “Hi, Kim.” One look at Kennedy and she stopped. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

  The maternal care in Lydia’s voice almost made Kennedy cry. She moved over to the couch, rapidly blinking her eyes to staunch the flow. “Can I talk with you for a minute?”

  Lydia walked over and sat down.

  “I’m sorry to have to share this. I’d hoped the whole situation was behind me.”

  “What situation?”

  “An ex.” Tired of lying. “A bad breakup.” Tired of hiding. “Him stalking me.”

  Lydia reached out, took Kennedy’s hands in hers. “Oh, honey, no!”

  Kennedy gently pulled back. Lydia deserved a truth that Kennedy couldn’t tell her. She felt like crap.

  “It’s why I moved here. I have a condo and it got so crazy I sublet it, figuring that in time he’d give up and realize it’s over. Somehow, he found me. I don’t know how.”

  “The envelope. He put it there?” Kennedy nodded.

  “Is he dangerous?” Kennedy looked up at the change in Lydia’s tone. “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I understand. I don’t want to cause any. I’ll make arrangements to move just as quickly as I can.”

  “I’m so sorry for you, Kim, but I do think that would be best. I’m a single woman with no real family here and . . .”

  “It’s okay, Lydia. You’re a beautiful person and I’ve enjoyed being in your home. You don’t have anything to worry about. Cowards bark but they don’t bite.”

  There was really no more to be said after that. Kennedy waited until she was inside her room, and the door was closed, to let the tears fall.

  20

  Bullet’s cryptic message drove Zeke crazy. He’d spent hours studying the pictures on the drive to find what his friend and Van Dijk were trying to hide. Getting the call to meet with Van Dijk was a blessing. Zeke hoped that turning over the drive would mean an end to this assignment. Given what was readily seen on the flash drive, Wade was no longer a threat. One thing still niggled him, how adamant Wade was about not selling the pictures, especially when Anita doubled the rate. He’d been sure she’d jump on that. Who knows? Maybe she fancied herself a unicorn and the rainbow had special meaning. She was a creative type after all. Artists were funny like that.

  Right now, all he wanted to do was work up a sweat. He’d been summoned back to New York to meet with Van Dijk, which meant a chance to work out at his favorite gym. He needed something familiar, that was in his world before being handed this wacky assignment. Zeke entered the gym and threw his bag in a locker. He started out on the treadmill at a fast clip then after five minutes slowed down to a jog. Thirty minutes later, he reached for his towel and went to the bench. He laid down, positioned himself beneath the bell bar and closed his eyes, channeling his focus to lifting the weight.

  “What’s going on, buddy?”

  Zeke was up and off the bar bell bench in an instant, hand around Warren’s throat, thumb hovering just above the internal jugular vein where he knew the right type of squeeze would render instant unconsciousness.

  “Argh,” Warren cried, working to remain upright while being physically propelled across the floor. “Zeke! It’s me. Zeke!”

  A quick shake of his head and Zeke was no longer blinded by the swirling sands of Afghanistan. The man who’d touched his shoulder wasn’t the enemy, but the only civilian, and one of only a handful of people, he considered a friend.

  “I’m sorry, man.” Warren’s own hand was on his neck now. He worked to still his breathing.

  “You know not to do that.”

  “I wasn’t thinking. It was a reflective action from how glad I was to see you. It’s been a while since you’ve been to the gym. I know you can handle yourself, clearly, but I worry when I don’t see you around.”

  Zeke paused, gave a slow look around the room. The scant crowd that had been gawking quickly returned to their routines. A couple grabbed their towels and water bottles and left.

  “I’m really sorry, dude. You okay?”

  “I probably should be asking you that question.”

  Warren gave off a nervous laugh, touched his neck again. “A few more seconds and I might not have been. I didn’t even see you move! I’m really sorry about that, bro. You’ve warned me more than once.”

  “And I will again. No sudden touches, brother. It’s a trigger for sure.”

  “Come on. You need somebody to spot you?�
��

  They walked over to the bench from which Zeke had sprang up. Zeke placed a couple hundred-pound weights on each side of the bar and got into position. He curled his fingers around the bar, eased his palms over the metal’s coolness, focused, and lifted. After repeating the move several more times, he sat up and reached for a towel.

  “Your turn.”

  “No man, not today. I went skiing over the holidays and pulled something in my back.” Zeke felt Warren’s intense gaze. “You want an energy drink, man? I’ve got some in my office.”

  “No, but thanks. I’m about to head out, take care of some business.”

  “Ooh, the way your eyes changed just now, it must be serious business.”

  “Everything I do is serious.”

  “Top gun classified.”

  “No doubt.”

  Warren held out his fist. “Alright then, brother. Take care of yourself.”

  Zeke bumped it. “Will do.”

  “Better yet,” Warren continued, his eyes just beyond Zeke’s shoulder. “Have somebody like that take care of you.”

  “Let me guess,” Zeke answered without turning around. “A fine female.”

  “With a body that looks like it could take a workout. And wound up as you are, brother? That’s probably exactly what you need.”

  Zeke smiled, placed the towel around his neck, and picked up his water bottle. “See you next time.”

  “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Zeke saw several women when he turned around but had no doubt of the one Warren mentioned. Tall, platinum blonde, tanned skin, at least six feet, her body toned without being overly muscular, with a chest that looked natural, soft globes nestled within a bright white tank top sporting the Nike swash. She met his gaze but like him, didn’t smile. Instead she turned back to the mirror and balanced long, lean legs into a perfect squat. The move wasn’t lost on Zeke or more specifically, his penis. It hardened and nudged his thigh in a clear message that the times between sex had been too long. Maybe later, Zeke thought, as he left the building and headed to his car. Not with the Amazon though. The look in her eyes told him she’d catch feelings. When Zeke wanted sex these days, he paid for it. That way, both parties knew exactly what the deal was.

  He didn’t like monkey suits, but Zeke knew this meeting wouldn’t be like the rest. His world was no longer the same. Before leaving the military and being hired by Van Dijk, he had seen the world in black and white, good guys and bad guys. While he knew that large corporations, even the government, were not without a shade of corruption, and that there were incidents done by these institutions that the average citizen would never know, he believed that sometimes a lesser evil had to be performed for the greater good. Sometimes there was collateral damage.

  Back home, Zeke took a quick shower, then dressed in a suit. Instead of the network offices, this meeting was being held in one of Van Dijk’s many residences, this one a forty-million-dollar penthouse on the city’s Upper East Side. This was only his second trip to one of Van Dijk’s private residences. Usually, they met in the midtown offices of TBC. The first residence he visited was the family estate in Southampton so large Zeke felt it deserved its own zip code. That day he’d crossed paths with the president. Not of TBC News, of the United States of America! No telling who he might meet this time. He wanted to look his best. Taking one last look in the mirror, he straightened the red, white and blue striped tie set against a white shirt. He pulled at the cuff links just below the hem on his navy jacket and ran a hand over the spiky tendrils of his freshly buzzed cut. He looked at himself a second more and wondered about the man who looked back from the mirror. Thought about the military lineage of which he was so proud—Clyde, Buck, Daniel, Matthew, and his brother Jerry. What would they think of the pictures he’d seen? What would the veterans do? Their job, he thought as he left his apartment and hailed a taxi to take him across town. To the best of their ability, as they had sworn to do.

  He reached Fifty-Eighth Street, a world away from his one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. The doorman greeted him warmly and walked with him to Van Dijk’s private elevator. When the car had reached more than seven-hundred fifty feet in the air, the doors opened into a wide foyer with jaw-dropping views on one side, and priceless art on the other. He walked down a short hall to a set of double doors. They were closed. He rang the bell and was surprised when Van Dijk opened the door. Given the sensitivity and importance Van Dijk had given this matter, he’d expected a small envoy of attorneys, or more security detail, maybe even someone from the fraternal order of Knights. Instead it was Van Dijk, dressed in what looked like a robe, but Zeke knew was called a smoking jacket. It matched the pipe his boss held in one hand. There was a drink in the other. He could have stepped straight out of the 1930s. Zeke felt overdressed.

  He held out his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Van Dijk.”

  Van Dijk held up his filled hands.

  “Sorry. Habit.”

  “Come inside, Zeke.” Zeke followed him into a room with a view few New Yorkers would ever see—an uninterrupted vista spanning from the East River to the Hudson, and from the Freedom Tower to the George Washington Bridge. From here, New York indeed looked like the world’s epicenter, its most powerful city. Zeke counted himself lucky to work for one of its most powerful citizens.

  “Have a seat, Zeke,” Van Dijk said, motioning to a sitting area near one of the windows. “Get you a drink?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine.”

  “Let’s make an exception today, shall we? I just broke the label on a fifty-year-old bottle of single malt scotch. It cost seventy-five thousand dollars; fifty for the bottle and twenty-five to have it delivered by personal air courier.”

  Zeke felt a wave of anxiety. Expecting the unexpected always made him uneasy. He tried to relax and stop thinking negative. Van Dijk had to know he’d accomplished the task and had what had been requested. Maybe that’s why his boss was pouring him a premium Scotch. Maybe they’d toast to a raise.

  Van Dijk joined him in the area that looked out toward the Hudson. He placed the tumbler on a gold coaster and slid it toward Zeke. “You’ve got something for me?”

  Zeke nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Reaching into his inside breast pocket, Zeke pulled out the small thumb drive retrieved from Logan’s house. He stood and placed it on the table, directly in front of Van Dijk. “I believe that’s what we’ve been chasing, sir. They are the pictures from Wade’s trip to the Bahamas, sir. However, in full disclosure, sir, this may not be the only copy of them out there.”

  Van Dijk neither looked at or reached for the drive. He took another sip of Scotch. “What about the girl?”

  “Wade?” Zeke asked.

  “No, Foster, Cinderella.”

  “Sorry, sir, I know who you meant. I believe that after seeing what’s on the drive, sir, you’ll understand why I didn’t feel the need to confront her directly, as she has nothing that proposes a threat.”

  “How do you know that?’

  Zeke leaned forward. “Because I’ve seen what’s on the drive, sir.”

  “And?”

  “It’s the same as what is on the equipment initially turned over, sir. Photos of the island and the surrounding area. There are no photos of you, Mr. Van Dijk, of anyone or anything that would threaten this country.”

  Van Dijk sat back, rubbed his chin as he seemed to mull over Zeke’s words. He reached for the drive, studied it briefly, then rolled it around on his fingers. Zeke felt the tension in his shoulders begin to abate. He picked up the drink, placed it under his nose and inhaled notes of oak and brown sugar and a few different spices. Van Dijk refocused his attention on Zeke, his posture casual but his eyes intense. Zeke set down the glass.

  “What if I told you that information has been received from a credible source that some damning photos are in that girl’s possession, and that as we speak she could be negotiating to sell them to one of the fake news broadcasters, set the nation in chaos, and make a he
fty sum for herself as part of the bargain?”

  “I’d say that would be quite egregious, sir.”

  “I’m glad you realize that, because if you didn’t, what I’m about to say next might seem overzealous. The threat of exposure is too great and will cost too much. In time, I may be able to share more, but know that thousands of lives could be lost if this information got into the wrong hands or was delivered to the public in a dishonest way. That is why this directive has come from my superior, the head of the MAN. The threat has to be eliminated, Foster.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. With your background of undercover ops in Iraq and Afghanistan, we are confident that you’re the man for the job.”

  The proposition was so ludicrous and unexpected that a breath caught in his windpipe and made Zeke cough. He picked up the Scotch and knocked back a finger, felt the burn from his throat to his stomach. “Excuse me,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “Please, excuse my presumption. As someone who has tailed her for almost eight weeks, may I offer my opinion?”

  “You know they’re like a-holes, right? Everybody’s got one.”

  Van Dijk smiled. Zeke did, too.

  “I’m aware of that. However, I also believe I have a pretty good handle on this subject. From the contents of her electronic equipment to her home and mode of transportation, I see absolutely nothing to back up that claim. I’ve run intel on her family and friends, her footprint on the web. I admit to not having full knowledge of her political affiliations, but from everything I’ve seen and read, she does not pose a threat.”

  “I see.” He leaned forward, placed the flash drive inside his suit coat pocket. “Alright, then. With that said you are now relieved of this assignment.”

  “What?” said with a shock that forewent decorum.

  “I didn’t say you were fired, though that could come next. A prominent European family is moving to America, part of the society. They will need round the clock protection, a full security detail. I’m sending you to set all of this up.”