The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

  “You mean fastidious.”

  “That’s what I said. Do you want coffee?”

  She ran her hand along the couch. “Why’s the leather so soft?”

  “I rub in conditioner.”

  “That’s not even a real thing,” she said. “Did you do this for me?”

  Manny made a snorting noise. “Get ahold of yourself, Beck.”

  Mackenzie August came down the stairs, carrying his son Kix. He nodded at Manny and Beck and said, “Don’t mind me and the boy. We’re late and leaving. Kix can’t seem to shake his hangover.”

  Manny made truncated introductions.

  “You both live here?” asked Beck, impressed with Mackenzie’s bulk and height.

  “I told you I had housemates. White girls never listen?”

  “Back later tonight,” said Mackenzie, going through the screen door. “Good luck saving the planet from malfeasants. If you’re around, Stackhouse says she’s got dinner tonight. You’re invited, Noelle.”

  Kix waved frantically at them. Manny returned the gesture and called, “Hasta luego!” Then they were gone.

  “Did he mean Sheriff Stackhouse?”

  “Sí. You want coffee?”

  “So she really is sleeping with your roommate.”

  “Housemate.”

  Beck lowered onto a kitchen stool at the counter. “What a fascinating home. I’m coming over more often.”

  “No. Did you get made fun of in high school?”

  “Some.”

  “You’re a mess. You’re hot now, so act accordingly.” Manny held up the iPad and waved it. “I joined JFIC. Our assignment begins immediately. Read these files and get up to speed.”

  She accepted the device, choosing not to dwell on his backwards compliment.

  He said, “I have a meeting tonight, four hours southwest of here. You’re my assistant.”

  “Technician, you mean.” She powered on the iPad. “Call me your assistant once more and I’ll give your personal computer a virus.”

  “I don’t have a personal computer.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “I spend my money on gin and clothes, not video games” He tapped the iPad. “Read.”

  “Give me the short version, before I do.”

  “International crime broker named El Gato is holed up in a fortress nearby. DEA doesn’t want to risk another embarrassment, so they’re sending us first. And, it turns out, El Gato is an old acquaintance of mine.”

  She tapped the screen. “That is a lot to absorb on short notice. I thought I was resolving database server conflicts today.”

  “Also, the target and I were lovers.”

  “You…okay.”

  Manny grinned into his Yeti of coffee. “El Gato is a woman.”

  “Oh. That makes more… Not that I—”

  “Also, my codename is Sinatra.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Read, Beck. We got a full day.”

  10

  Manny and Beck exited their vehicles at the same time and closed their car doors together. They were at a nondescript warehouse off Plantation in north Roanoke. Only one other car in the parking lot.

  “I haven’t finished reading,” she said. “Why did El Gato invite you to dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Lover’s revenge, perhaps? Torture?”

  “I wish. How did she contact the DEA?”

  Manny stopped at the unmarked door. “Ever since the DEA botched her arrest, she periodically taunts them through email.” He grinned. “She’s got style, no?”

  Beck fished her credentials out from her jacket’s breast pocket. “Even with top secret clearance, I’ve never been inside this warehouse. Access is based strictly on need. Let’s see…”

  She raised her government identification to the laser scanner. The device beeped and the door unlocked.

  “This Supremacy License has teeth,” she said.

  Manny pulled the door for her and then entered into a dark room requiring a retinal scan. They peered into the viewer and their names displayed on the screen. A moment later, the heavy interior door was pushed open by the sentry.

  He greeted them, “Agents.” He held a large PDA in his hand, their information and photographs displayed. “Welcome.”

  Manny nodded. “You work alone?”

  “We maintain a five-person rotation, sir. At the moment, I’m here alone, yes.” He led them into a large space like a workshop surrounded by bizarre tools and shelves and supply closets. Like a library for gadgets. “We don’t innovate or manufacture here. I test the devices we’re sent and store them for future use. You two are the first Supremacy Licenses we’ve ever had.”

  Manny scanned the room, pleased with the American exceptionalism on display.

  “I need a few things,” said Beck.

  The man gestured to a console. “All yours.”

  Their voices sounded unnaturally hushed in the airtight area. Beck punched information into a computer and the sentry/engineer retrieved her requests. He set vacuum sealed boxes on the futuristic blue workbench.

  “Is that all?” the man asked. “I’m in the next room, you need me.” He left.

  “We’re on a clock so I’m thinking on the fly. Based on available intel, the security at the Palace is extremely impressive. We’re getting creative.” Beck opened the smaller box and held up a tiny device. Reminded Manny of a tick. “They’ll scan you but this should remain undetected. The transmitter produces output only when you speak. There’s no battery—it runs off body heat. Sensors inside register vibrations and I track the vibrations remotely, and my software codifies it into noise. I’ll hear everything you say. There’s no speaker but I can send pulses to communicate with you through Morse code.”

  “It’s a mic that only hears me?”

  “Yes. And if you remain silent, it doesn’t transmit. Should foil the scanners, which they’ll have and use. Have a seat,” she said and he sat on the stool. Using small tweezers, she carefully inserted the black dot into his ear canal where his body heat provided an abundance of power. Even looking closely, the device was hard to detect. “One sec,” she whispered. “The adhesive needs pressure to activate.”

  He enjoyed her breath on his neck.

  She whispered, “Does it make you nervous? Me this close?”

  “Beck, are you a virgin?”

  Her hand twitched. “None of your business, Agent Sinatra.”

  “Then don’t whisper into my ear. Did you run track in high school?”

  “Cross country.”

  He sighed. “Thought so.”

  She backed away and clamped a headset around her ears. She depressed a trigger and Manny’s right ear received a pleasant thumping noise. He interpreted the code—say something.

  “Your Morse is rusty.”

  She removed the headset. “Perfect. You come through clear. This device ranges up to five miles.”

  “Fascinating. Like witchcraft. How do you know this stuff?”

  “I’m NSA and collaborate with CIA and this isn’t my first rodeo with JFIC. Next.” She held up a belt. “They’ll make you take off your belt. But on the off chance they don’t, this belt contains a video camera. It doesn’t transmit though, so they’ll see no outgoing signal. We’ll download when you return.”

  Manny grimaced. “The buckle is gold. Do you have silver?”

  “I do,” she said, rummaging through the box. “Does it matter?”

  “Ay dios mio, of course it matters, Beck.”

  She laid the silver-buckled belt onto the table. “An additional benefit to this belt. There is an inactive GPS locator built-in. It remains inactive until you rub your thumb across the back. The pressure and motion activate it. Handy in case you are kidnapped.”

  Manny snorted. Kidnapped.

  “And one final device which could help at your dinner.” She held up a tube of Chapstick. “A single-shot projectile device. Essentially, a gun with one bullet. The casing is plastic and so is the p
rojectile. A metal detector registers nothing. There’s gunpowder and a .22 slug. Aim and fire. And if questioned, you can take the top off—there’s a small amount of real Chapstick to complete the disguise.”

  “One shot, and a .22 at that. A nearly useless tool.”

  “Just don’t miss, Sinatra.”

  He grinned—he’d chosen his codename well.

  “I’ll park within five miles, close enough to monitor your ear mic,” she said. “If things go poorly, I’ll report your demise to Special Agent Weaver.”

  He nodded, enjoying the frissons and the trickle of adrenaline entering his veins. “This is going to be fun.”

  “I need an hour to pack my things.” She reassembled the boxes and called for the sentry.

  “And I need a place to change.”

  She asked, “How does one dress for a bizarre dinner with an international terrorist?”

  “Trust me, Beck. I was made for this.”

  11

  Manny cut loose on Interstate 81, southbound. His Camaro effortlessly crested 120 mph, leaving Noelle Beck in her unmarked government issue Ford far behind. Power hurtled through the engine and exhaust and he roared through the rising hills of southwest Virginia like on a weaving fighter jet.

  The police officer who pulled him over suspected foul play, looking critically at Manny’s outfit and car juxtaposed with his governmental credentials. However he spent one minute in his cruiser running the card through his database before hurrying back and apologizing with a pale face. Whatever the Supremacy License caused to pop up on his computer screen scared the hell out of him.

  The Camaro bore him into the Appalachian Mountains near Gate City. He was forced to tap the shifter, lowering gears through the old mining towns.

  Beck called him. He put it on speaker. She said, “For my previous assignment with JFIC, we had a week to prepare. Not four hours.”

  “Preparation is overrated. That’s the marshal code. By the way, when I catch her, marshals get top billing. Not the NSA. Write that down.”

  “This strikes me as a trap.”

  “That’s why we’re springing it.”

  “I need to verbally process this. If it’s not a trap, what is it?” Her voice made his phone rattle in the cupholder.

  “A date.”

  “You think?”

  “Catalina and I planned to get married, before she left. But she’s after more than just a reconnection.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  Manny screwed up his eyes in thought. “Winter of 2010, maybe.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “Ay! You ask a lot of questions."

  “We’re partners,” she said. “And I’m in the dark. Humor me.”

  “Her family was involved with the Honduran Congressional coup. They returned to consolidate their power.”

  “She was rich?”

  “She was. I loved her and didn’t try forcing her to change. I deliberately broke off ties but it appears she rose quickly through the Central American cartels.”

  Beck said, “No easy task in a world of brutal manhood.”

  “She’s cunning and intelligent,” said Manny with an affectionate smile. “Not to be underestimated.”

  “If something happens, coming to your aid will be difficult.”

  Uneasiness stirred in Manny’s chest. Due to his upbringing he was more chauvinistic than his counterparts. He’d learned from experience his machismo was rarely welcome in this country, and he’d adapted as best he could. But Noelle Beck wasn’t a deputy marshal. Despite her military background, currently she was a cyber security analyst or something—he should probably listen better. She’d been given an 1811 classification and a gun, but still he viewed her as the office computer technician, not someone who should be charging into danger.

  Chauvinistic or not, he didn’t want her hurt.

  He said, “Don’t you dare try. That’s an order.”

  “You can’t give me orders. You don’t outrank me.”

  “Are you sure? I think I might.”

  “Here’s something I don’t understand—why would El Gato send a federal agency the address of the palace? That doesn’t strike me as cunning or intelligent.”

  “From what I gather, the Appalachian Palace is not a secret. The owners are squeaky clean, you know? And the guests are wealthy and well connected. The result is like a loophole in the system. Busting in would create a legal nightmare and we’d probably lose. If we even could bust in.”

  “Sounds like base, when we were kids.”

  “Base?” asked Manny.

  “You know, during a game of freeze tag. If you got to base, you were safe. Didn’t you play tag?”

  “When I was little, we stole from the vendors and fought with knives and boxed the bigger kids so they’d leave us alone. There were no safe places.”

  As he said it, unwelcome memories stirred. Like movie clips between his ears he couldn’t turn off.

  You’re nothing.

  You don’t even know who you are.

  Stop being a fool. She is dead.

  He took a deep breath and pulled at his collar. Ay caramba. That happened fast.

  Beck said something he missed. He scrambled backwards to remember her question—

  “Good grief, Sinatra. Where’d you grow up?”

  “I left Argentina when I was one and we moved to Compton. In 1986, I was two and President Ronald Regan gave me and two million other immigrants citizenship, so I’m American. I had my middle name legally changed to Ronald, by the way, when I was twenty-one. But my mom, she didn’t qualify because of her record. She got deported when I was three and I went too. We moved around for the next fourteen-odd years before returning to Los Angeles.”

  “I didn’t know. As a result, you have a heightened appreciation for this country.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Are you emotionally prepared to arrest your girlfriend?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sinatra—”

  “I’m working on it.”

  12

  Manny drove deep into the mountainous wilderness, civilization discarded in his rearview. He saw the appeal of building a retreat here—extreme isolation. Abandon all hope, ye who enter. The hills grew thick with unchecked green. He lowered the window to breathe it in—fertile undergrowth and humidity filled his car.

  The email gave instructions to look for an unmarked drive next to the flagpole with an American flag at half-mast. Manny approved the reference point. At 5:55pm, he found it off Route 510 and turned without hesitation up the drive.

  Some men run from danger. Some run towards. Manny had always sprinted directly into its teeth, driven by a heady combination of confidence and a withering disdain for consequence. As long as he didn’t dwell on the past, he had an abundance of both.

  “Located compound,” he said out loud.

  Around a bend, hidden from the main road, a security gate barred his path, supported by concrete pillars. The stone wall ran into the distance on each side.

  Two men emerged. The first man walked around his car with a device, like a bizarre metal detector, scanning. Manny buzzed down his window to speak with the second man.

  “Evening,” said the sentry, dressed in tactical fatigues. “Think maybe you took a wrong turn.”

  “I’m on the guest list, amigo.”

  “Name?”

  “Manuel Martinez.”

  Without replying, the man returned to his post beyond the fence. Manny resisted the urge to wink at the dual security cameras. The sentry finished with his electronic inspection and stepped away.

  In his ear, the device thumped—All is well?

  “Mmhm,” he murmured quietly.

  The man remerged from the fence and said, “I have a guest list with exactly one invitee. And you’re it, Mr. Martinez.”

  “Means I’ll have to carry the party.”

  “Have a pleasant evening, amigo.” He stepped back and the gate smoothly retr
acted.

  Manny drove a mile into the compound, winding upwards through pine and oak. Through the trees he saw a herd of deer grazing in a meadow. Did the guests hunt? He was positive the man planted a monitoring device on his Camaro so he didn’t attempt further communication with Beck.

  He reached the inner security wall. Black barricade poles lowered into the ground and he drove into a spacious cobbled courtyard. Ahead of him rose the palace proper, constituted by three levels of titanic windows and beige brickwork. Palace was an appropriate word. A fountain gurgled in the middle of the drive, encouraging traffic to move in a counter clockwise direction around it. Water lilies bobbed in the basin. Service trucks sat at the far end of the stones. Ahead of him, a motorcade of Toyota and luxury SUVs awaited employment, empty at the moment. A gardener used a spray hose to water exotic potted plants lining the courtyard. Sentries were stationed on the outer walls.

  Two men waited on him near the doors. The first appeared to be one of the Palace’s stewards, a kind-looking man in his sixties. He wore khakis, a blue jacket, and a white belt. The second man, Manny recognized. He didn’t remember the name or details, but he knew the guy had been with Catalina in Los Angeles. The muscle. Tall, bulky, Hispanic, shaved head. Eyes set too far apart.

  His ear pulsed. Good luck, Sinatra.

  He eased to a stop at the entrance. The steward opened his door. Manny stood, slid into his ivory jacket, fastened the top button, and shook the man’s proffered hand.

  “Good evening, Mr. Martinez. I trust you found our home in the hills easily enough? My name is Hubert and I welcome you to the Appalachian Palace.”

  Manny cocked an eyebrow. “Appalachian Palace. Clever name.”

  “We’ve long been aware what the suspicious government calls our lodging.” Hubert smiled, cagey, like sharing an inside joke. He spoke with easy manners and crisp punctuation. “And to be honest, I like the title.”

  Manny took in a deep breath and got hints of pine and early summer flora. “You own the place, Hubert?”

  “I manage it. Our ownership is…complex. Please, come out of the sun and be refreshed.”

  Hubert led Manny into the shade of the vast house’s awning. A young woman met him and presented a silver bowl with a hot towel. Hubert’s daughter? Grand daughter? Manny obliged, wiping his hands with it and came away smelling like lemons.