The Short Takes

by James Grady

  He shook his head. “I was a regular guy, looking for a real life.”

  “Congratulations, you found it.” Her fingers brushed his lids. “But now close your eyes. Even if you can’t sleep, I’m all that’s here to see.”

  She reached across him, snapped out the bed lamp.

  Dawn found Condor standing in Renee’s kitchen nook staring into the black coffee in his mug, smelling Starbucks and seeing Sarita and the slaughter café, dead men in the bowels of a hotel, RT/Delta gearing up for their raid. His coffee swirled.

  He wore his filthy pants. Her Harvard sweatshirt. He needed a shave.

  The Glock waited on the counter. He pushed the button on the handle to release the ammo magazine. He thumbed two bullets free and it was empty.

  “Plus one in the barrel,” he muttered. Reloaded, set the Glock on the counter.

  His eyes roamed around her home.

  Memory made him open a counter drawer. Find the sheathed throwing knife. He pushed up the sweatshirt’s left sleeve, strapped the knife to his arm, pulled the sleeve down, made sure his right hand could slide up under the sleeve to unsnap and draw the knife. He hung his arms naturally and the knife stayed hidden, as like a boy playing gunslinger, he checked his blurry image in the mirror of the aluminum refrigerator.

  Shook his head, whispered to his reflection: “My name is Condor.”

  Renee walked out of the bedroom and tossed him a Steve McQueen green nylon jacket, saying: “See how you look in this.”

  She wore pants, a red bra that pulled at his eyes, her gun clipped on her belt.

  He grinned: “Yeah, you’ll get the stairwell guards to walk you to your car.”

  “After the Graylin, they’ll want to make sure the basement garage guards haven’t been ambushed. That should let you to slip out the fire exit.”

  Renee pulled on a sweater, scrutinized him in the Steve McQueen jacket, said: “It fits, but you’re lucky I like my things big.”

  She crossed to a desk, pulled out a cell phone with its number taped on it. Memorized the number, gave it to Condor and put a spare cell phone battery in her pocket. The paper scrap from the hotel crime scene was still in the plastic baggy where he’d sealed it. She put the baggy in her pocket, tossed him a set of car keys.

  “Remember, it’s a brown Ford, DC tags with a dented rear left door. Space 363. Just sign in as Parnell Jones and act like you have the right to be who you are.”

  “Who I am?” Condor smiled. “Spare cell phones, spare car stashed a few blocks away—Parnell—it could be a man or a woman, right? Are you always so … prepared?”

  “A street dog keeps her bite,” she told him. “Agency policies encourage that. But I’m going to violate the Hell out of policy this morning to forensic that scrap of paper.”

  “Do you think …”

  “Evidence like that paper is sacred to the Agency. Believe me, we know how to create a whole scenario from one scrap.”

  She slipped it into her jacket, beckoned him to follow her to the door, saying: “Remember, I call you. Don’t get stopped for a traffic ticket. Park at some mall away from the light poles and mounted cameras. Stay in the car. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to get what’s gettable.”

  “Then what?”

  She nodded toward the counter: “Don’t forget your gun.”

  Renee was wrong: she called him in 137 minutes later, an eternity he agonized through in a mall parking lot on the fuzzy line between DC and Maryland.

  “Took me this long to shake my security,” she said in his new cell phone. “I’m in the car now, almost across the river.”

  The scrap of paper was a torn electric bill for a suburban house. “Easy Beltway access, quick shot to three airports, Amtrak, Capitol Hill and the White House.”

  He rendezvoused with her BMW. Electric signs on the road flashed Terrorist Threat Level Orange. No one followed them into an ordinary neighborhood.

  She pulled to the curb. He parked behind her. No one moved on the sidewalks. No one watched out any house windows. No cars rolled by them as she climbed in his car, nodded to a white frame dwelling set back from the street. The house was bordered by one neighbor’s man-high hedge and another neighbor’s tall wooden plank fence.

  He looked at his watch: Nearly sunset for RT/Delta. Last gear check before quarantine and their rendezvous with fate. Condor stared at the suspect house.

  No one stopped them as they walked to the front door. They saw no one.

  “Remember,” said Renee: “Don’t shoot if you don’t have to.”

  She kicked in the front door. Condor raced behind her through a living room with a TV and boxes of clothes, through to the tiny dining room with two cots.

  And a green stuffed chair that enthroned the bald man.

  Who blinked at them, his empty hands in his lap.

  “Cover him!” yelled Renee.

  She stepped out of Condor’s way as he eased forward, gun leveled at the bald man. Renee backed toward Condor and the front room with its what’s-up-there staircase. As she stepped beside Condor, the bald man … smiled.

  Fast, so fast that Condor didn’t know what was happening, Renee locked his gun hand in an aikido grasp, flipped him head over heels. His back slammed on the wooden floor. Breath blew out of him and he felt the Glock slide from his grasp to hers.

  Bam! Bam!

  The bald man in the green stuffed chair jerked with an astonished look on his face as two red flowers blossomed on his chest.

  Condor gasped. On his back, he saw Renee with her arms spread like soaring wings with her right hand pointing her smoking pistol at the shot man as her left hand aimed Condor’s Glock at the wall by the front door: Bam!

  The Glock’s slide blew back and locked after firing its last round. She set the Glock on the floor, used a two-handed grip on her own gun to zero Condor. “The irony is that you were supposed to die first.”

  Condor stared at the dead man in the green chair.

  Renee said: “He’s a CIA outsource contractor, always in it for money. He and I found the al Qaeda cell based in this ordinary house. But instead of busting them, he sold himself. Of course, I pulled all his strings, but I’m invisible. The terrorists don’t know I exist. Baldy bought my strategy because al Qaeda won’t deal with a woman.

  “Now he can’t demand his share.” She smiled. “He was an easier hook than you, though, originally, neither of you were supposed to die until …”

  She checked her watch: “… a few hours from now. After Rising Thunder.”

  “You sold out the Delta team! They’re heading into an ambush! How much did you get out of al Qeada for killing our own guys?”

  “Money makes the world go round. I want my turns.”

  “How much?”

  She shrugged. “Five million. But don’t worry; our guys won’t die. Get up.”

  And he did, slowly, his back to her, saying: “But if our guys won’t die …”

  “Death is a commodity. If innocent Afghanis are slaughtered by an American raid caught on TV for the world … that’s a bonanza for al Qaeda.”

  Condor saw the TV behind her. Envisioned its dead green screen showing images of AK47-toting terrorists in a village. Saw those images blur, morph, mutate into a young girl, a frightened mother, an old man, a father and his baby.

  “You’re creating a My Lai massacre! You’ll make our real terrorist war rhyme with the worst of Vietnam!

  “You two and al Qaeda created perfect fake intelligence!” Excitement rang through Condor’s fear. “That’s what bugged me! Everything fit with absolute certainty!”

  “People who are absolutely certain they’re right are ripe to be absolutely wrong.”

  He shook his head. “Won’t work. Our Delta boys are the best gunners in the world. Savvy. Been there, done that. They won’t massacre innocent c
ivilians.”

  “They won’t have to,” said Renee. “Al Qaeda martyrs will kill the villagers with American guns. The al Qaeda guys will fire on RT/Delta. Shoot at our guys, they shoot back. Imagine two, three minutes at full auto fire. Foreign TV cameras are camped close enough to arrive at the same time as the Rangers’ helicopters. And in the glare of TV lights, who can prove it wasn’t America that massacred some mother and child?

  “No one will buy America’s denials,” she said. “How many times has the world found out we fibbed? But the Agency will look for a plot. Hunt for villains. Won’t stop until they find something. So to cover my ass, I had to give them a fall guy.

  “You. Condor. Framed as a traitor for al Qaeda. You spied on Rising Thunder because I kept steering you to it until you got hooked. I transferred you away from me to Homeland Security. I set up your Cayman account. We were going to kill you after Rising Thunder to make it look like al Qaeda was covering its tracks.

  “But then yesterday morning, you called me. Said you were close to figuring out what was bugging you. We couldn’t take a chance. Plus we didn’t know what you’d told your coworkers. They weren’t even factored into our yesterday scrambled on-the-fly plan Version Two Point Zero to kill you and make it look like you heroically had gotten too close to the terrorists. We were going to deal with whatever you’d told your coworkers later but, hey, bonus: thanks for bunching them all in the Starbucks kill zone.”

  “That’s not my fault!”

  “Maybe not, but now here’s how it looks in my new Version Three Point Zero: your Homeland Security team suspected you, so you had to kill them all—including your boss—before they could interfere with your betrayal of Rising Thunder.

  “And here you are, caught dead to rights with Baldy who helped you betray America, kill your coworkers, and hunt down your boss. Al Qaeda fingerprints are everywhere in this safe house and at the Graylin where they backed up Baldy. You checked their car out of the parking lot, put your fingerprints on the steering wheel. A wounded Homeland Security guy saw you at the Graylin. My planting that electric bill in your car just now was a nice touch. It was going to be found dropped at the Graylin to lead the Agency here, but then you grabbed it and put your DNA on it. Thanks.”

  “You’ve been working me and the CIA, Baldy, and al Qaeda for months!”

  “I’m an industrious girl.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Condor swallowed. “How am I supposed to die?”

  “Resisting capture. I spotted you in my car mirrors. Maybe you were after me, too, who knows? I flipped your tail job. But, gosh, my cell phone battery died. Shit happens. I couldn’t call for back-up.

  “So I dogged you here. Exercised justifiable initiative. Kicked the door. You popped a round at me but I nailed you. Baldy went for his gun. I had to drill him. Trust me, the forensics will line up: it’s not an exact science. While the CIA is busy sorting out this mess … Rising Thunder explodes in global primetime.”

  “You think that will work?” said Condor.

  “So do you. TV and computers create reality.”

  “Truth in a box.” Condor shook his head. “Like a coffin.”

  “Pick up your empty gun,” she told him. “Move over to the other side of Baldy.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled. “So you can live longer.”

  Condor felt the weight of the dingy room. A dead man slumped in a green chair. The trash of an al Qaeda sleeper cell lay scattered everywhere. He smelled a banana peel. The woman he’d trusted—adored!—stood behind him preparing his murder.

  “Living is all I’ve got,” muttered Condor. He dropped his eyes. Slumped.

  She saw him bend toward the Glock to pick it up with both hands.

  Blast toward her like an uncoiling wrestler. She clubbed his left elbow with her gun. He yelled, hooked his right hand at her and she snapped her left arm up to block …

  Lightning ripped her forearm. Renee screamed. Knife, where did he get? … Oh! She deflected his next stab, chopped his knife wrist. His blade flew across the room.

  But the knife surprise unbalanced her. Condor grabbed her gun, felt …

  Renee thrust her gun arm straight up. Condor clung to her. His body pressed against hers as if they were ballet dancers. She pivoted into a hip throw. But as she curled into him, his free hand punched her bloody gash. Pain made her wince. That flinch meant that throwing him unbalanced her. They tumbled together.

  Crashed with him on top of her, both of them face down.

  She rolled him onto his back, her spine pressed his chest, her skull alongside his cheek. He’d gained control of her pistol. Stabbed the bore of her gun under her jaw.

  Renee lay on top of him.

  They lay there.

  Staring up at the white ceiling.

  Until she said: “Gotcha.”

  “What?” yelled Condor.

  Her hair tickled his left cheek. Smelled like coconut shampoo.

  The gun under her jaw made Renee grimace her words: “You’re not a killer.”

  “I almost got you with your knife! And … I’ll shoot you now!”

  “No. Self-defense, sure. Combat, only if you’re lucky. But now you’d have to do it stone cold, and that’s not you. You’re no executioner.”

  She flicked her left shoe off so that one bare foot kissed the wooden floor.

  He pushed the gun barrel into her: “Don’t!”

  “OK,” she said. “You’re the one with the big hard gun.”

  “Yes, I am. And you’re going to … to …” Her weight pressed down on him.

  “To what?”

  “I’m not going to stay trapped on this floor”

  “You’re trapped on more than this floor,” said Renee. “Officially, you’re either corrupt, crazy, or confused. The Agency doesn’t forgive any of those. So let me help you out. After all, we’re in this together.”

  Condor said: “I didn’t kill anybody. Or betray my country.”

  “Countries aren’t what they used to be. And everybody dies sometime.”

  “There’s freedom. There’s justice.”

  “Justice. What is going to happen to just us?” Renee shifted.

  Condor pushed the gun tighter under her jaw.

  “You won’t execute me. So it’s my word against yours. Home Sec’, the CIA—they won’t know who to believe. They’re stuck with their cover lies about the murders. CYA is their first and their second rule. So admitting they lied and got tricked by me? They’ll flush us both down some black hole. I’ll be guilty, but you’ll be a chump.”

  She maneuvered her knees higher so her hips rubbed his groin, so they were almost cheek to cheek. Said, “Is that better for you?”

  “You don’t care.”

  “Actually, I do. A girl should always respect a monster crush.”

  “You’re the monster.”

  “But you’re the one who’s caught.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He felt her smile. “Unless we become partners. We can stop the Rising Thunder disaster. Create Version Four Point Zero. Pin all the sins on Baldy and al Qaeda. Bust this al Qaeda cell—they’ve got other big, nasty plans. We’ll come out of this as heroes—or at least free and clear. You won’t want to ride off into the sunset with me, but we can share a goodbye kiss.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Crazy doesn’t mean much anymore.”

  “They’ll get you!”

  “Even if you convince them I’m guilty, even if you can move the system in time to save Rising Thunder, only I can rat out this al Qaeda cell. Stop their next kill-a-few-thousand-Americans mission. Nobody can torture or drug it out of me, so our bosses will have to deal. Yesterday’s gone and today is on its way out the door. I’m selling a safer tomorrow for a guarantee that takes me off the hook. If you rebel agains
t all that, then you become a national security problem.”

  “They’re better than that!”

  “They? Who is they? They are us, us is you, and look where you are.”

  “You can’t win!” He felt his heart slamming under hers.

  “I won’t lose,” said Renee. “How about you?”

  He felt her smile. “Who are you going to be? A killer, a chump, or a hero?”

  They lay on their backs, she on top of him, his gun pressing under her jaw.

  “Fuck your labels, I decide who I am,” said Condor. “Put the gun in your mouth. Hold it tight. If you kung fu, I pull the trigger. We’re getting off this floor.”

  He eased the pistol’s bore up over her chin until it rested lightly on her lips.

  She whispered into that black hole, “Then what?”

  “Then I prove you wrong. The Agency and Home Sec’ won’t buy your lies. They won’t plea-bargain your treason and murders. All this, us—we’re about more than what works. They’ll give you what you deserve, and they’ll let me be me.”

  Renee smiled. Said. “Really?”

  And slowly slid her lips around the steel barrel of his gun.

  Caged Daze of

  the Condor

  First published in The Red Bulletin, 2014

  Blink, you’re trapped in the CIA’s secret insane asylum.

  No one knows your real name.

  They call you Condor.

  Only you know that locked up in here with all the crazy spies is an activated agent who’s busting some move today, now, and it’s not you because, let’s face it, you’re one of the crazy ones, so no one will believe you about the phone you spotted five days ago in the fire extinguisher cabinet when you were patrolling for homicidal mice.

  Cell phone. Stashed in a dead drop. Forbidden in this Maine woods castle containing NATIONAL SECURITY SECRETS.

  Now this morning: cell phone gone.

  MICE: Menace In Confining Environment.

  And, Condor: crazy sure, but you’re still a sworn soldier of National Security.

  So sorry Nurse Nora, who’s the fierce side of forty, white uniform curves, lips the color of blood.