by Justin Bell
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Strickland wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed; all he knew was that his arms were aching and the tops of his feet were humming and red from repeated strikes against the hard canvas surface of the heavy bag. He'd returned from his trip to an overwhelming urge to work out some frustrations, so he had alternated workout routines and more internet research. Amazingly, he felt like he still had plenty of energy, but he knew he had been battling the punching bag for several hours at this point and it was time to take a break. He rotated his right shoulder a bit, wincing as the joints rubbed against each other, and glanced out of one of the basement windows. Surprisingly, the sun was already setting, and another day in this bizarre new life was almost over.
As he toweled himself off, part of him condemned himself for not trying harder. But what was he to do? He couldn't go to the authorities; that much he was sure of, though he wasn't sure why. He had assaulted the internet with his laptop several times throughout the past few days to no avail, and had torn apart whatever paperwork he could find. Absolutely no indication appeared to exist as to where his family might be or how he could possibly find them. Not one to give up, Bill returned to his basement office, and once again continued the arduous task of filtering through whatever paperwork he could get his hands on. At the edge of consciousness, the red cloud of his nightmares once again formed.
Burndock glanced up and noticed the sun turning red and lowering towards the horizon. He twisted his head, cracked his neck softly, and stretched his arms above his head.
"All right, boys, about time to call it a day."
Agent Halifax emerged next to him, his binoculars bouncing on his thick tactical vest. "Another day in paradise?"
"I can't freaking believe he punched that damn bag for almost four hours straight," groaned Agent Mathis shaking his head. "Dude is a robot."
"NSA hopes so anyway, right?" Halifax interjected.
"Zip it, Agents," Burndock snapped. "Just count yourselves lucky that we're not already flying back to Meade with our tails between our legs. We dodged a bullet."
"C'mon, boss. It wasn't us who left tire tracks out front," complained Mathis.
"You think Grace cares? We're still on the job, and it's a damn easy one, so count your blessings and let's roll back to home base. Shift starts again bright and early tomorrow." Burndock stood and adjusted the shoulder strap that held his silenced submachine gun and double-checked to make sure his pistol was in his holster. He scanned the grassy surface where he had been kneeling and made sure all traces of their existence had been nullified.
Halifax copied the senior agent's motions. "Are we getting some back-up soon?"
Burndock nodded. "According to Grace, they're pulling up eight more guys from New York. Mostly contractors."
"So wait," Mathis started, screwing up his face, "Grace gets pissed that the contractors screw up surveillance, so he calls in more contractors?"
"It's a money thing," Burndock informed. "Their daily rate's cheaper than paying our salary. I'm sure he'd rather get all government boys in on this, but the tax payers would be pissed."
Mathis shook his head incredulously, but continued his own cleanup, then joined the other two and walked back towards their car.
"So when does the night shift start?" asked Halifax as they crossed through the trees.
"They should be coming up any time now. They'll be here until about three a.m.," Burndock said.
"We're not on tomorrow until eight, right?" asked Mathis.
"Affirmative," replied Burndock, "but once the new group of guys gets here, there won't be any more lapses. It'll be true 24-hour coverage. Something about this guy is making Grace squirrelly."
"He ain't the only one," grumbled Mathis as he glanced back over his shoulder while they walked low through the woods. He remembered the look on Strickland's face when he'd walked out into the backyard that morning after spotting the tire tracks in the road. Mathis wasn't quite sure why, but that look had haunted him. There was something intense about it. Something beyond anger. He tried to shake it loose from his mind as the yellow truck came into view ahead.
Several hours later, the car rolled over the dirt road and came to a stop just down the road from the Strickland residence. The tires caught and grabbed on the dirt and gravel. Inside, Breer and Lewis peeled back the small plastic tabs to reveal the steam emerging from their coffee cups. Breer closed his eyes slightly as the wonderful smell engulfed the inside of the car, and sighed. It was all downhill from here. There was something invigorating about the first hour of a stakeout. Not knowing what was going to happen, cracking that first cup of coffee, and shooting the shit with your partner while the night was still fresh. Once that first sixty minutes passed, though, it became exponentially less and less fun as the night wore on. This particular assignment was especially dull, being stuck out in the middle of nowhere without even any city noise to keep the men in the car company.
"You hear from Reggie?" Lewis asked, tossing back his first swig of hot, black coffee.
"Yeah. Eight more guys, huh? What is up with this gig?"
"Who the hell knows, but if the government's paying the bill, why not?" Lewis sipped again from the steaming cup. "Who's comin' up, you know?"
"I heard it was Irizarry's crew."
Lewis lowered his cup uneasily. "For real? They expecting some shit? Irizarry and his bunch are usually the knee-cappers. So far this has just been a watch-and-see op."
"They don't pay me to ask those questions, bub." Now it was Breer's turn to take a sip from his hot coffee cup. He winced. "Damn I could go for a Starbucks right now."