by Dom Testa
Then she took me into the garden and essentially beat the shit out of me. I promptly threw up the noodles. Then we went at it again.
The lesson was clear. The life of a Q2 agent would always be high/low/high/low, with the highs exhilarating and the lows mind-numbingly depressing and painful. Or deadly. For the next eight months I trained not only to expect the worst, but to rebound with vigor, quickly. Agents can’t afford to get frustrated or frazzled. You absorb the hit, you bounce back, you take another hit, you rebound yet again. Pity parties are for the weak.
I was mostly fascinated by the mental component of our training which, when you broke it down into actual hours spent, far outnumbered our lessons in weaponry and hand-t0-hand combat. Agents were required to study human tendencies and emotional reactions. We had hours of homework on tactical redirection, the term Quanta used to indicate things had gone to hell and a new game plan was necessary. I failed test after test, but I also knew I was expected to fail over and over. That was how I learned. It reminded me of young Captain Kirk’s Kobayashi Maru, the no-win scenario. Your knowledge wasn’t being tested, your ability to adapt and — let’s face it — scramble was.
My strength, in my opinion, was that ability to scramble. Quanta disagreed, but only because she believed my scrambling wasn’t the kind of rational redirect she’d been trained in. I think the textbook approach worked better when she was a young agent, when your opponents were perhaps a bit more likely to follow traditional sequences.
Those days were gone. Thirty years ago no one would’ve even dreamed up the idea to wipe out a country’s power grids, and capabilities were at basically amateur status. Today’s high-tech terror specialists had created a sort of digital guerrilla warfare, and their movements could rarely be predicted with a manual.
Which is where I found myself now. High and dry with nary a manual or checklist to follow. My scrambling training would have to kick in.
Step one was to get re-centered. After Parnell’s announcement I inhaled lungfuls of salty air and watched the surf hit the shore with thunderous claps. Fife and his crew were sitting on three boats, waiting for a signal from me that would never arrive. Their instructions were clear: No invasion without proof of “catastrophic intentions.” I was on my own, cut off from any military backup.
Speaking of backup, that was another issue troubling me. Everything I’d recently learned was sitting in my head and not uploading to the Washington hard drive. With no ability to link up, even with the Q2 gear, that information was dangerously vulnerable.
Step two meant a reorganization of the outline. Okay. If we were right about the symbolism of a Christmas Eve attack, that gave me anywhere from 36 to 60 hours to locate the command center and put it out of commission. Standing between me and success was a total lack of intel.
And Richter.
And Parnell.
I’d seen Richter in combat and knew what I was dealing with; even with his injury he was a formidable foe. Parnell? She was a wildcard. But if she’d truly been trained in Krav Maga she was easily as lethal as Richter, if not more so. Not to mention the strange personal duel we’d been waging. She was hard to read, which was exactly what she wanted. Underestimating her could land me in a new body.
And step three was a new action plan. Given the paltry number of hours I had left, letting a few slip away was painful but necessary. I couldn’t exactly go exploring at the moment without a guide. Requesting a tour would raise too many suspicions, and Parnell’s parting comment made me realize I’d already set off too many alarms.
I decided to wait for Richter to return and see what he had in store for me. At 6:30 he limped back into the room and spoke to the twins, who conferred for a moment before responding. He scanned the room until he saw me and waved me over. “Follow me,” he said. At least I was getting out of the party.
He led me down a hallway and out a steel security door onto a long breezeway that wrapped around the back of the building. The wind had picked up and clouds had grown thick and threatening. I wondered where we were heading and began to grow a touch nervous. Casually, I dropped back a few paces behind him, not enough to seem suspicious but allowing room to react. When we were halfway around the back side of the building he stopped and turned to face me. I slowed to a stop, leaving about ten feet between us.
At first he didn’t say anything, just stood there, hands on his hips, looking at me. His marred face had the same relaxed, almost sad expression that reminded me of Mike Ehrmantraut, the tough, quiet killer from Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul. Then he said: “Tell me about your problem with Brandt on the boat.”
Interesting. He obviously already knew the play-by-play. This was Richter’s little fishing expedition to learn a bit more about me. It was an interview of sorts, and the results would either aid my mission or get me killed.
I never broke eye contact. “Brandt was a dick. I don’t tolerate dicks who threaten me.”
It was tough to keep a straight face; dick in a fake German accent is just funny to me.
Richter said, “You kill every dick with a big mouth?”
“I do if they put a knife to my throat. Why do you care?” I took one step toward him. Might as well see what happened with a verbal shove. “What is this? Intimidation? I don’t tolerate that. So either we stop the bullshit right now and I work with you, or we see which one of us walks back inside. There’s a good chance it won’t be you. So what’s it gonna be?”
For the first time I saw the smallest trace of a smile at the edge of his mouth. He took his own step forward. “There are two kinds of people who talk the way you do, Mayer. Those who mean what they say — the ones you can trust — and those who are all smoke.”
This didn’t require an answer on my part, so I simply returned his stare. In those few moments a thought burst upon me, a thought with a long tail of exponential consequences: What if I just took out Richter right now? Here, on this secluded walkway. Below us lay a dark, brush-filled extension of the wild area, with no path cutting through it. My job would be finished one way or the other within the next two days. Even if an alarm was sounded for Richter’s disappearance, which might not happen for many hours, what are the odds anyone would look in this secluded spot?
Of course I was the last person seen with him, walking out of the party. But I could easily play dumb. What motive would I have, at least in their eyes, for killing him? There might be several people with a grudge against the twins’ muscle. He couldn’t possibly win the award for Friendliest Boy on the Island.
Were there cameras installed along this walkway? It didn’t seem likely. In fact, it might be the best possible place to take care of a job that eventually needed to be addressed.
But wait a minute. Why would Richter choose this spot to have our little chat? What if this was exactly the place he planned to dispose of me?
Richter took another step toward me, and now stood two feet away. I prefer more room to maneuver in a pinch, but there was nothing I could do. My height advantage was about five inches, causing him to look up at my face. And if it came down to a grappling battle, I certainly had the reach advantage.
“Let me see your weapon,” he said.
“And why would I do that?”
“Just let me see it. You don’t have to hand it to me.”
I hesitated another few seconds then slowly lifted the Glock out of its holster. He eyed it for a moment, then turned his attention back to my face. “That’s interesting,” he said. “I just recently had a 9mm slug removed from my thigh. From a gun very similar to this.”
I grunted. “So the guy who shot you couldn’t aim for shit?”
His smile grew just a touch. “Something like that.” He sized me up again, then gave a short nod. “All right, Mayer. Let’s put you to work.”
He walked past me, back toward the door. I watched him, then began to follow. But something about all of this was completely wrong.
Sure enough, after just ten steps Richter whirled with
his own gun in hand, preparing to raise it.
But I was already pointing the Glock right at his heart. He froze.
“Very slowly,” I said, “you’re going to set that piece on the ground. That’s it. Now take three steps back. Yes, very good.” I moved forward and kicked his gun to the side of the walkway. “Now, put your right hand on top of your head. With your left hand — verrrry slowly — empty your pockets. No, don’t stop and think about it. I’ll happily put a round in your kneecap for fun. Just drop everything on the ground.”
You could tell he was weighing the potential outcomes of obeying versus defiance. Then he reached into each pocket and dropped two phones, a pair of sunglasses, and a money clip.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “Jacket pockets too.”
“Looking for anything in particular?” he said, reaching into his jacket.
“The Willy Wonka golden ticket. Just gotta see that chocolate waterfall.”
“You won’t live to see it,” Richter said. He let a thin, leather packet, about the size of a passport, slip from his fingers.
“Oh, well, I might be killed today,” I said. “But I can never die. Too inconvenient.”
Using the gun barrel I directed him back toward the railing, the only thing separating him from the wild brush below. He didn’t move right away. With raised eyebrows I gave him an amused look. Then he moved.
“You must’ve made your reputation by taking out an awful lot of stupid assholes,” I said, keeping the Glock centered on the middle of his chest. “That is, when you weren’t strangling innocent girls in hotel rooms. Such a big, tough man.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who are you? FBI?”
“I don’t think they’d have me. I don’t look cool in sunglasses. Now let me ask you something. You can either die right now, or get trussed up and spend the next day waiting for everything to calm down. Which sounds better?”
He didn’t answer, and I knew he wouldn’t. “In order to continue breathing,” I said, “you just need to tell me where I find the control center for this little game the Bobsey Twins are playing with the drones.”
After a few seconds he laughed softly. “Little game. Is that what you think they’re playing? A little game?”
It was my turn to squint. “I’m all ears, Mr. Richter. Killing you will not cost me one minute of sleep, so tell me something I don’t know.”
He shook his head. “You’re not going to find anything you’re looking for. Too many people are watching you, wondering what your story is.”
“Like Parnell?”
“Sure. And the Ormonds. And about ten other people who went on alert as soon as you offed Brandt. I know why you did it. I probably would’ve tried the same move. You took a chance it would give you some street cred. And it could’ve, because no one was sure about you. But now . . .”
“Now I’m removing all doubt?”
He shrugged.
“Well,” I said. “I’m removing all doubt with you, at least. I can string everyone else along for a few more hours. That’s all I’ll need.”
“Doubtful,” he said.
“Oh, but I’m very good. My one tiny mistake was only clipping you in the leg back in Georgia.”
His half-smile disappeared. “What do you mean? That wasn’t you. I blew a hole in that loser.”
I pointed to my ribs. “Right here, actually. Oh, and I got a matching leg wound like you, too. You also did a good job of blasting the hell out of your dumbass partner. But I’m like a superhero.” I grinned. “My wife even called me Super Eric the other day. Isn’t that cool? Not as flashy as Black Panther or Captain America. But I’ll take it.”
His confusion was evident, the kind of look that always brought me a perverted joy. “So you won’t tell me anything?” I asked. “Not even to get yourself a hall pass to sit out the rest of this mess?”
He grimaced, and my instincts told me what was about to happen. All I needed to see was the tension in his legs and the oh-so-slight lean of his upper body. Even career killers like Richter believe a desperation lunge can work.
It didn’t work with me. Just as he began to spring I fired a shot into his chest. He staggered back against the rail, his face registering complete shock.
“Hey,” I said, “I warned you, you might not be the one to walk back inside.”
Then I put a round right in the center of his forehead. This second impact threw him backwards so that his stocky body tipped up and over. Asshole Richter fell into the waist-high brush below.
I took one glance over the railing to confirm that he was nicely out of sight and put the Glock back into its holster. I picked up his gun and other items, including the leather packet. Inside it contained just what I wanted: a magnetic key card. There it was, my golden ticket.
I went off to explore my own world of pure imagination.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Back inside the building I found a stairwell and started up. Three flights took me to the top where I waited at the door, took a couple of centering breaths, pulled it open, and walked through. There was one man in sight. He’d just exited a room carrying a quaint, old-fashioned clipboard. He glanced at me long enough to register my face but I walked with purpose, the key to getting almost anything you want in life, so he kept going, unconcerned. A good start.
When he was out of sight I stopped at a random door and tried the handle. Locked. But it had a scanning pad next to it. I looked both ways, removed the key card, and ran it across the pad. With a barely audible buzz the door clicked open and I pushed inside.
The room was devoid of people, but it was a chaotic mess. With a quick look around I saw that it had become a default junk room. Boxes stacked not only on top of others but on desktops and chairs. Nothing to be learned here at the moment.
I backed into the hall, pulling the door closed until it clicked shut. From inside the room across the hall I heard muffled voices, and bypassed it. The next one seemed quiet, so I keyed my way in. This room was subdivided into work spaces, each with a desk. I poked around for a minute before ruling it out.
Same with the next two. Their usual occupants were at the party going on downstairs. This floor was turning out to be not only useless, but boring. After checking out the last room at the far end of the hall, I entered the stairwell next to it and considered the situation. This 5th floor was clearly not where the action was, and I’d ruled out floors one and two. It was getting late and people would be milling around once the mandatory hour of fun wrapped up.
As much as I didn’t want to, I returned to the 2nd floor and eased my way back into the party, screened behind a cluster of people. I picked up a drink, surreptitiously dumped half of it into a nearby plant, and pretended to sip at the rest.
Parnell walked up to me. “When did you get back?”
“Few minutes ago. What’s the story with Richter? He’s strange.”
She gave me one of her appraising looks. “You have no idea how strange. I assume you checked out okay with him. I expected you to be sent off somewhere to start getting oriented.”
“I’m not exactly sure how I ‘checked out,’ but he gave me some bullshit about Brandt, did the same intimidation dance everyone around here does, asked me a few questions. Then he said I was supposed to help out with some place called the command room, or control room, something like that. Said you’d show me where. But I didn’t need to do anything until morning. Then some lackey ran up and said he was needed, and he left. What is Richter, the king of security or something?”
“Something like that.” She raised an eyebrow. “Well, if he’s putting you in the Ops Room then I guess you did check out. I can’t believe he wants you there, but whatever. It’s Richter’s call.”
“Goody for me,” I said. “Ops Room. What kind of ops am I helping with? If it’s like janitorial shit you can count me out. I didn’t sign up for grunt work.”
“That’s not important right now.”
I took another drink. “Unless you need to parade
me in front of someone else, I’m going to bed. I’m tired, and partying with socialites is not my idea of fun.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what your idea of fun is, Mr. Mayer.”
“Or whatever my name is,” I added.
She smiled. “All right. Seven o’clock tomorrow morning, check in here and I’ll take you up to the third floor. I’ll look at getting you a key card since you’re going to be in this building.”
I watched her walk over to Lucas and two of his guests. I downed the rest of my beverage, left the glass on a table, and got out of there.
There’s an 1980s song that claims you don’t know what you got till it’s gone, and those hair-band freaks were right. Not having a connection with Quanta or Poole made me anxious, and not being able to upload was just plain nerve-wracking.
Fortunately no one was in the dorm suite when I got back — it was still pretty early — and I pulled the curtain around my space to discourage any visits later. With the reputation I’d cultivated for Mirco Mayer I didn’t expect much chit-chat anyway. Over the next few hours I heard my roommates enter the large room and eventually find their way to their own bunk. I dozed fitfully until my phone alarm woke me with a vibration at one a.m.
Ten minutes later I used the key card to slip into the vacant but well-lit ground floor of the main building. With only two hundred hand-picked people on the island, they apparently felt little need for heightened security measures outside the required digital pass. That and the fact that Richter or one of his lackeys would simply kill you for trespassing.
Since nobody seemed to be on alert I assumed Richter’s body still lay undiscovered in the brush. There was no telling how many more hours I had before the place went bat-shit.
There likely was video surveillance going on as I crossed the tile, but there was no way around it. I trusted that at this time of night the video was for replay purposes only. With limited personnel they wouldn’t have someone glued to a monitor at one a.m. Besides, we’d crossed into December 23rd and the attack conceivably could happen within 24 hours. Cut off from any help, it was this way or no play.