by Rawlin Cash
Two.
Hunter's phone rang. He growled. He should have turned his phone off. He didn't need the distraction. But there it was—the distraction.
He looked at his phone's display and put the gun down on the desk in front of him.
He couldn’t do it. Not yet.
He stood up and made his way to the mini-fridge and grabbed can of Budweiser. He cracked it open. The phone kept ringing.
He sat down on his bed, ignoring the brown and yellow stains on the cover, and the smell of piss and vinegar. His mind was a million miles away.
It was her.
Why was she calling?
Fawn Aspen.
She was a CIA officer who kept bringing him back for missions against his will.
He waited for the phone to stop ringing before picking it up.
He called her back.
She answered immediately.
"What do you want?" he grunted.
"Where are you?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I was about to kill myself."
"Stop joking around," she said.
Hunter smirked. It was like Fawn to not see the truth in front of her. She was too optimistic. Too pure.
"What the hell do you want?" he asked.
"I'm checking in."
"Checking in?" he asked, his eyebrow raised. "It has been five years. Why now?"
"Okay," she said, "I'll get to the point."
Hunter sipped back the cheap beer that was going to cost him five dollars and grimaced as it slid down his throat.
"Hale is dead," she said.
Hunter froze. He wasn’t that news.
The man who'd played god was finally gone. The man who Hunter had dreamed about killing —if only to stop Hale from taking another stab at Mantis—was gone.
"Are you there?"
"Yes," Hunter said.
"Heart attack."
"I doubt that."
"Doubt what?"
"I doubt it was a heart attack."
"You think he was killed?"
"He was a man with a lot of targets on his back."
"Did you do it?"
"Is that why you called?"
"No," Fawn said. "I just called to tell you that he was dead. I thought you'd want to know."
"Well, if that's it, I have some business to attend to."
"Jack, wait…" Her voice trailed off. "I'm lying. I'm not calling to tell you just about Jeff."
"I thought so."
"I've had eyes on you for years."
Hunter chuckled. He'd thought that people were watching him, but he didn't care. He knew if they attacked, he'd have no control over his response. He'd snap their necks, put bullets in their brains, and kill them. It would be instinctual. Animal-like.
"I figured."
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"Didn't I already tell you that?"
“Don’t,” Fawn said, a desperation in her voice. “Hale is gone, but…”
She was about to do it again.
He could feel it.
"You need to hear this. I know you're suffering. The men I've had following you around have told me as much."
"Then you do know that I'm trying to kill myself."
"Jack…" She paused. "Jeff Hale's computers were breached. The Mantis files are gone.”
Hunter gripped his phone so tight the plastic was bending in his hand. "What?"
"We think a foreign spy stole them. We're doing our best to track them down."
"Do you know what that means?"
"Mantis was a special program. It built soldiers. Super soldiers. I know."
“Fuck,” Hunter grunted.
“If you kill yourself, we might not have anyone who can stop them—if they succeed... whoever they are."
"When can I meet you?" Hunter said.
“We have to be careful. Remember, the agency still thinks you’re dead.”
“I don’t care.”
"I'm in Langley,” Fawn said. “You can meet me at a coffee shop three miles down the road. It’s beside a gas station. It’s called Marge's Diner?"
"I'll be there tomorrow morning. Nine AM."
"Jack, wait…"
He hung up and tossed his phone against the wall, smashing it into bits. He didn't want any more distractions. He finished his beer, put his gun behind his belt, and grabbed his backpack. He'd catch the next bus out of Nashville.
Two
Fawn Aspen sat nervously at the booth in Marge's. She sipped her stale coffee and looked shamefully at the cookie crumbs on the empty plate in front of her. She shouldn't have done that. She'd been trying to lose weight. She'd been trying to get in control of her calorie intake.
It's just a setback, she told herself.
Nothing more.
Marge's was busy.
Full to the brim. It was a cesspool of Americana. Truck drivers. Janitors. Professors. Secret agents. Politicians. Businessmen. All were in line for Marge's world-renowned delicious chocolate chip cookies. Fawn had made it too much of a habit to stop at the diner before heading into Langley.
She was looking at her phone, doing the math on an app that would help her determine how many miles she'd have to run to negate the cookie she just ate when Hunter sat down across from her.
He had dark sunglasses on. Wayfarer style. His hair was longer than usual and was brushed back and he had a beard.
"You look like shit," she said to him.
"You look like you've put on a few pounds."
Fawn smiled. "Your still an asshole."
Hunter smirked.
"We need to be quiet," Fawn said. "This place is popular. Most CIA personnel stop here before their shift."
"I don't care," Hunter said. "I just want to know how you plan on finding out who has the Mantis files and what I have to do to stop them.”
Fawn tensed up. "I don't know," she said. "And be quiet... You're too cavalier."
"Then you should have picked a better spot to meet. Have you not learned anything?"
Fawn bit her lip. She closed her eyes and shook her head. She knew it was a risk bringing Hunter back. She knew she'd regret it. She'd just had hoped it wouldn't have been so soon. They'd barely been talking to each other for five minutes.
"Things are different at the company," she said, referring to the CIA.
"How so?"
"There's a new Director. His name is Elliot Asher. He's clean. Modern. He was an Iraq war vet. He's well-liked and doesn't like to play politics."
"No one becomes Director without playing politics."
"He's different."
Hunter took his glasses off. He placed them on the table.
Fawn gasped.
Hunter didn't look like shit. He looked like death. His eyes were bloodshot. His skin pale. His hair had greyed somewhat, and he had a scar on the cleft of his chin.
"You look worse than I thought you would."
"My mind is so splintered. Those memory drugs Hale gave me… I don't think I've ever gotten over them."
"What do you remember of the last five years?" Fawn asked.
"I remember the cities. Sante Fe. Mesa. Las Vegas. Reno. Twin Falls. Salem…" Hunter scoffed. "There are big black patches in my mind. I blame it on the drink, but it could be something else."
Fawn pulled out a vial. Inside was a blue liquid.
"This is called Genesis-12, or G-12. It’s experimental. Like I said, I’ve been watching you. I asked around the lab at Langley what would help offset years of psyche training and mind drugs. They said this was the last resort. It will calm you down, stabilize you. You’ll be slower, but you’ll live longer and you won’t go insane.”
She pulled the vial away quickly when the waitress approached the table.
Hunter looked up at the waitress. She had a pleasant face and a bright smile.
"What can I get you, honey?" she asked Hunter. "You look like you've had a rough night."
“A rough five years,” Hunter said. "I'll take a coffee.
Black."
"Got it."
The waitress disappeared back into the flurry of patrons.
"G-12 should help,” Fawn said.
"I'll just drink."
“Just try it. Put it in your coffee. Let me know if you feel better."
The waitress reappeared with Hunter's coffee.
"That was quick," Hunter said.
"You looked like you needed it."
"Thank you."
When the waitress was gone, Fawn pulled out the vial again. She poured it into Hunter's coffee. "It's tasteless," she said.
Hunter smirked. The CIA liked to say that about every drug they administered. He waited for Fawn to empty the entire contents of the vial into his coffee. He picked up the cup.
He had no reason to believe Fawn.
She'd lied to him before, or, at least, not told him the complete truth. He looked into her eyes. His gun was in his back pocket. He took his gun out and aimed it at her under the table. "I have my M9 in my hand."
"What?" Fawn said.
"Take it."
"What? Why?"
"Because if my body fights this drug off, I want you to put a bullet in my chest. I want you to end my life."
Fawn stared at the man she'd first met in Alaska. The man who'd been through so much and the man she still hardly knew. It was true that she'd been watching him for years, but only partly so. He was a difficult man to track down and keep tabs on. He'd appear in a town, and then months later, Fawn would hear about it. She'd send an eye to watch him, and then Hunter would disappear again. The cat and mouse routine had been going on the entire time she'd been Deputy Director.
Hunter shot back the coffee like it was an alcoholic spirit. As expected, G-12 tasted like shit. It made the bitter coffee taste like boiled cabbage. He winced, tensed up, and then… fell face-first onto the table. The cutlery and plates rattled.
Fawn kicked him with her expensive high-heels.
Hunter's sudden reaction garnered many nervous looks.
"He's just a little hungover," Fawn said to those who noticed.
Hunter shot up like he was coming up for breath from underwater.
He shook his head.
The redness was gone from his eyes.
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
"As I said, the doctors at the lab designed it to offset the drugs used for… you know our experiments. Do you feel better?"
"Yes."
For the first time in years, Hunter felt awake. He felt like the fog that had settled over his mind was gone. He could feel his heart beat slowdown. He could feel his muscles relax.
"Good,” Fawn said. “If you help me, I’ll get you more G-12.”
"Where do we start."
"We start by having you come back. It's the only way," Fawn said. “I’ll run it over with Director Asher. I’ll tell him who you are.”
"And you'll keep giving me the drugs? The G-12?"
"Yes," Fawn said. “Take a dose when you feel like it’s wearing off.”
Hunter sighed.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, he was going to end his life. But now he had a new mission and perhaps a reason to live. If this G-12 could help restore his mind, then maybe he could move forward. Maybe, he'd have a shot at a normal life when it was all over.
In any case, he'd help Fawn for now.
If only to save his mind.
Three
Vice-Chair of the Central Military Commission Seung Woo was fifty-two years old, but he didn't look his age, and he certainly didn't feel it. His body was his temple, and he took care of it. No drink. No drugs. He did two hundred pushups every morning and one hundred sit-ups.
He pushed himself up from his stale bed and looked out his hotel room's lone window. He was in the military academy in Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. He was there to give a lecture to the recruits in the Korean People's Army, or the KPA, and go over the security detail for the Supreme Leader's upcoming visit with the President of the United States of America. His commander-in-chief, the glorious Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-Lee, was going to sign a peace treaty with the US President.
The Korean war would be finally declared over.
As Woo looked out over the desolate and quiet metropolis, he grimaced. The thought of peace with the Americans did more than upset him. The Supreme Leader’s about turn felt like betrayal.
Kim Jong-Lee was a coward and a fool. He was a young, plump man who didn't know what North Korea had become, what had been sacrificed. Signing a peace treaty meant that all suffering was for nothing.
Woo had tried to convince the young leader that things in North Korea were not as rosy as the leader's sycophants had made it seem they were. Things were quite dire. And it was all because of America.
The sanctions placed on the country by the United States had made it impossible for the average North Korean citizen to live a normal life. Electricity, clean water, heat; all of those necessities were difficult to come by in the country. The people were suffering.
As the Wonsu of the KPA, the highest-ranked leader, and the Supreme Leader's closest military advisor, Woo had thought that Jong-Lee would listen.
They shouldn’t sign a peace treaty with America. They should look elsewhere for help—they should look to China.
The Supreme Leader didn't listen.
Woo walked away from the harsh light of the early morning sun and made his way to the bathroom. He splashed some water on his face and checked that his uniform looked sharp.
Before leaving his hotel room, he pulled out a small picture from his jacket's inside pocket. It was of his father.
“I am sorry, father,” Woo said.
Ever since that night in the DMZ, when Woo, a young, aggressive solider killed that American helicopter pilot, he’d felt responsible for his father’s death. As the pilot died, Woo’s father, a high-ranked commander took a bullet.
It was Woo’s fault.
That was why he stayed away from the drink and that was why he couldn’t make peace with America.
If the Supreme Leader was going to betray country and people, then Woo was going to betray him.
He left the hotel and made toward his loyal KPA recruits.
Four
Three weeks later...
Hunter was shit tired and was nursing a bad hangover. It felt like there was a jackhammer being drilled into his head. He opened his eyes and winced due to the harsh early morning light.
The whole hotel room was covered in a thick orange glow. He reached for his M9, which was on a small table beside him. Next to his gun was lipstick.
Fuck.
He turned around.
There she was.
Naked and asleep.
He pushed himself up from the hotel bed and put on his denim jeans. He pulled out the medicine from his front pocket and shot back a vial of G-12.
He closed his eyes and felt the memories of the night before flood his conscious mind like a tsunami.
He rubbed his head and cursed himself. The G-12 never mixed well with alcohol.
He'd let his guard down.
He'd acted like a fool.
He put on his shirt, grabbed his gear, and made sure not to make a sound as he left the room. He didn't want to wake her up.
She was trouble.
Twelve hours earlier….
"You should stay away from me," Hunter said. "I'm not a good man."
The bar was busy. Hunter felt like he was in a sardine can. It smelled of sweat, alcohol, and cheap perfume. A corny and bass-heavy techno beat pulsated through the two tinny-sounding speakers located above the bar.
The woman looked at him and smiled.
"I don't like good men."
Hunter avoided eye contact. He wasn't there to hook up. He'd been in Amsterdam for three weeks. He was about to get his target—the man who'd accessed Hale's file and stole the Mantis files. The CIA had tracked him down. He was a Chinese national.
A doctor.
His name was Doct
or Chow Lin.
The doctor was in a booth at the other end of the bar, two beautiful young women were on either side of him.
"I'm not interested," Hunter said to her. "I'm just here for a drink."
She laughed. "Then let's drink."
He smiled. "Maybe you don't understand. I'm not into an easy woman."
"I'm not easy."
"Well, you don't look hard to get."
She rolled her eyes. "How about I buy you a drink?" she asked.
"No."
"Just one."
Hunter looked at her green eyes and sighed. She was like a mosquito that he wanted to whack away. She had an English accent. Northern. He figured she was from Manchester, maybe the outskirts. He knew enough about English accents to pick up on regional dialects, but the bar was so loud that he couldn't place it correctly.
From his periphery, he kept an eye on Lin. The women on either side of him were stroking more than his ego. Both their arms were below the old Chinese man's waist.
Hunter smiled.
The girls were doing what he'd paid them to do.
He'd purchased them from a pimp in the red light district a few hours earlier. Their mission was to get the doctor to a private room. Hunter would take care of the rest.
In his ear, Hunter heard commands from the operation overwatch. His name was Hank Trail. He was a good guy. Proficient with computers and very reliable.
Fawn had forced Hunter to work with Hank on the operation because she'd figured Hank's lightheartedness would offset Hunter's gruffness. She thought the two's polar opposite personalities would complement each other.
Hank was communicating with Hunter via an earpiece.
"Everything is in the clear," Hank said. "There is no unusual chatter on any of the Dutch police comms. Once you get the doctor in the room, you'll be clear to interrogate."
Fawn wanted the operation to be quiet. She didn't want any disturbances.
"Then why are you reaching out to me," Hunter said under his breath, turning away from the green-eyed British girl so that he could respond to Hank in quiet. "I told you only to bother me if we have to pull back."