by S L Shelton
“Arm breaking doesn’t count as maiming?” I asked with a crooked grin.
He laughed, some of the anger bleeding from his pointed Greek features.
“It’s not funny. I either have limits or I don’t.”
He nodded his concession to my argument.
“Okay. But starting tomorrow, I’m taping your goddamned hands closed,” he said with a grin. “I’ll never be able to teach you anything new otherwise.”
He got up and started to walk away before calling over his shoulder, “Go get some sleep.”
“You still owe me a Melvin’s T-shirt,” I shouted at his back.
“Yeah, yeah. Bill me,” he replied walking through the door.
I staggered off to the dorms and went directly to the shared bathroom. After washing the blood from my face and hands, I stared in the mirror for a moment, examining the bruise forming on my throat from Nick’s boot.
“Five months,” I muttered to my reflection before shaking my head and walking away, tossing the remains of my favorite T-shirt into the trashcan.
I returned to my room, where I poured myself into bed. The feeling of my body melting into the mattress was so welcome it was almost sexual. I didn’t bother with sheets, or the blanket. I just lay on my back and let the blissful darkness of sleep engulf me.
four
October
9:48 a.m. on Monday, October 11th—Spryte Industries Headquarters, New York, New York
HEINRICH BRAUN slammed the phone down. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered before standing and walking out of his office. He passed the man who stood rigidly outside of the doorway.
Braun stopped and stared at the man from the corner of his eye. His name was Patrick—the replacement for his long time personal driver and bodyguard, Brian.
As Braun braced himself for delivering more bad news to William Spryte, Patrick’s presence was yet another reminder of all the recent failures that had occurred for him, Spryte, and Combine.
Patrick looked sideways, nervously, before the old German spook resumed his trip down the hall to William Spryte’s office. The bodyguard fell in step behind him but stopped outside Spryte’s office as Braun closed the door.
“Sir. We have a problem at the Central Intelligence Agency,” Braun said quietly to Spryte, speaking in his thick German accent.
Spryte looked up from his computer monitor and sneered. “Is it a new problem or one of the many we still haven't addressed?”
“I’m afraid it’s a new one, sir,” Braun said as he stepped in front of Spryte’s desk. “Baynebridge corporate has just been notified that the CIA is in the process of drawing down its contract with them.”
Spryte stood. “Why?!”
Braun shook his head slowly. “They’ve given a reason of contract inflexibility and lateness of invoicing on man-hour overages.”
“That’s bullshit!” Spryte yelled.
“Yes, sir. Clearly,” Braun replied. “The inflexibility has to do with the draw down itself, which they apparently began late last month. We weren’t notified because it seemed to be in preparation for a reorganization of internal security.”
“Reorganization of internal security?”
“Yes, sir. But apparently, the reorganization itself was in preparation for the closing of the contract,” Braun elaborated. “Langley gave no other explanation for its actions except the two I mentioned…slow invoicing and contract inflexibility.”
“Are those valid?” Spryte asked. “Is that suitable cause to terminate the contract?”
Braun nodded. “Yes sir. However, the late invoicing seems to be a manufactured problem. The bills appear to have been sent on time, but were held up before arriving at the GSA—and the terms of the contract are quite clear. This falls within the terms of termination of contract.”
Spryte shook his head with an angry sneer before pounding his wrinkled hand on the desk. “They know.”
“No, sir,” Braun interjected quickly. “They suspect. If they knew, there would be FBI and SEC agents at Baynebridge Headquarters with arrest warrants and subpoenas for records… This is a prelude.”
“A prelude to what?” Spryte asked. “Arrest of CEOs, VPs? What?”
Braun shrugged. “I’m not sure, but they obviously don’t have a clue what’s really going on,” Braun reassured the older man. “There have been no warrants granted, no surveillance set up, and all the other security contracts, even the ones you and Combine control, are still intact…no change.”
Spryte looked at Braun, a confused expression settling on his face. “None of the others?”
“Not one.”
“So this is just about Baynebridge?” Spryte muttered, lowering himself back into his chair before looking at Braun with abrupt understanding. “The attack on that kid in Fairfax!”
Braun nodded, though he tensed, realizing he had given the clearance for the failed abduction on Wolfe. “Yes, sir,” Braun replied. “I believe they have somehow pierced the veil on our attempts to cover that connection.”
“How?”
Braun shrugged. “They are the CIA, sir,” Braun replied apologetically. “But that’s all they appear to have. The downstream accounts in the Caymans have all been collapsed as Frau Loeff promised. There is no way for the funds to be traced back to her or to Combine. Double blind at both ends.”
“That’s good at least,” Spryte grumbled. He shook his head in frustration. “But Baynebridge is a significant portion of our intelligence-gathering network. If the doubt in their abilities spreads beyond the CIA, it could set us back significantly.”
Braun nodded his understanding. “Might I suggest a legislative remedy?” he said after a moment of thought. “After all, who better to protect the interest of US corporations from the overreach of executive action than the United States Congress?”
Spryte smiled. “We could do that,” he said, nodding as the thought worked its way through his head. After a short pause, he nodded again. “Yes…we can do that.”
“Very good, sir,” Braun replied and turned to leave.
“Send Roman in on your way out,” Spryte said to Braun’s back. “Tell him to bring his little black book of assets.”
“Yes, sir,” Braun replied as he walked through the door. Patrick fell in step behind him as he crossed the outer office, and Roman looked up as the old ex-Stasi paused in front of him.
“Mr. Spryte would like you to join him in his office with a list of legislative assets,” Braun said as Patrick stopped several steps behind him, keeping the illusion of propriety.
“US?” Roman asked as his old fingers pulled open a desk drawer and he began flipping through file folders.
“Yes,” Braun replied, nodding. “House of Representatives.”
Roman nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
Without another word, Braun walked out of the office and back down the hall toward his own. When he reached his door, he turned to Patrick.
“Have the jet prepared for a trip to D.C., Brian,” Braun said. “I think we’ll be on our way shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” Patrick replied. “And sir, you asked that I mention it when you call me Brian—I’m Patrick, sir.”
Braun swallowed his agitation at having slipped once again, referring to his new driver with the name of his last personal bodyguard, who had been slaughtered by Harbinger in front of his own eyes. “Yes,” Braun muttered. “Of course. Patrick.”
“It’s alright, sir—I understand.”
The familiarity that statement implied angered Braun though he couldn’t quite figure out why. He wouldn’t have been so cross with Brian under the same circumstances.
“No…you don’t,” Braun growled in a quiet voice, snapping Patrick to sober attention. “Just do your job.”
“Yes, sir,” the muscle-bound driver replied, tucking an angry sneer away as soon as it appeared. He turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway.
Braun stared after him for a second before entering his office, sl
amming the door closed behind him. As soon as he had dropped himself heavily into his chair, he picked up the phone and dialed.
“Homeland Security. Deputy Director Raymond’s Office. Ned Richards speaking,” came the reply after only one ring.
“Go secure,” Braun said and waited to see the “secure” indicator flash green before continuing. “Ned. What’s the status on Gaines’s transfer?”
There was a brief pause while Braun heard rustling in the background before Richards answered. “DOJ is making some sort of deal with Gaines. I don’t know what it is yet, but they’ve appointed a new attorney.”
That’s bad news, Braun thought. The attorney the FISA judge appointed was our only source of INTEL concerning meetings and deals with Gaines.
“When is the new attorney taking over the case?” Braun asked, his German accent wrapping slowly around each word.
“It may have already happened,” Richards replied. “His old lawyer hasn’t been involved in any conversations for the last two weeks.”
“Scheiße,” Braun muttered, and then he paused to think.
“The last information he was able to obtain was from a Navy guard, letting him know another attorney had been in to see Gaines twice,” Richards continued, unsolicited.
“Do we have the tape from the meetings?” Braun asked, hoping the surveillance cameras and other listening devices had captured the content of the discussions between Gaines and his new lawyer.
“No,” Richards snapped.“The video feed died both times as soon as his lawyer entered the room, and the listening devices picked up nothing but a low-frequency hum.”
A cold chill passed down Braun’s spine. Electronic defeats, he thought. That’s no lawyer…that’s CIA.
“I want you to step up your efforts in obtaining him by legal means,” Braun said, letting an edge of agitation enter his voice. “I don’t care how many lawyers you have to put on it, get Gaines before the DOJ gets their transfer order. I don’t want to have to involve Mr. Harbinger, but I will if you fail to do your job.”
“Don’t threaten me,” Richards said with an angry edge. “I’ve put everything on the line to do this for you. Threatening me with that goddamned giant isn’t going to get Gaines out of Norfolk any faster.”
“Don’t let your position give you a false sense of security,” Braun snarled. “You know as well as I what is at stake. Your position won’t protect you from an indictment or from us. Failure on your part will result in a most unpleasant outcome.”
“Unpleasant?! You don’t think this is already unpleasant?” Richards said bitterly. “I’ve done every damned thing you’ve told me to do for the past two years, and I’m still no more than a titled gopher to this fucking idiot Deputy Director.”
“Your compensation is unsatisfying?” Braun asked snidely. “Perhaps you’ve become uncomfortable serving the real power behind the government?”
There was a brief pause on the line before Richards responded. “I was promised a position.”
“And you will get that position…when the opportunity arises.” Braun said. “In the meantime, you have failed in all of your most recent tasks. You don’t honestly expect to be rewarded for failures, do you?”
There was silence at the other end for several long beats. “Is that all?” Richards replied finally.
Braun responded by severing the connection before flopping back heavily in his chair. After several calming breaths, he leaned forward, contemplating picking up the phone again.
Both the Baynebridge action and the Justice Department move on Gaines occurred in the same timeframe, he thought. Is it possible they’ve made the connection?
His hand hovered over the receiver before finally leaning back in his chair.
No, he thought to himself. Using Harbinger is a measure of last resort.
That thought pushed the image of his former driver and bodyguard, Brian, into his thoughts again. The memory of his longtime employee and companion standing in front of him, the back of his head exploding like a bloody melon, spraying bits of brain and blood on Braun’s cream-colored linen suit.
He pressed his eyes closed tightly, trying to force the memory from his mind, but the action only seemed to sear it more deeply. Braun could almost feel Harbinger’s giant hand wrapped around his own neck. The fear of that moment rose up as if it had only occurred days earlier rather than months ago.
He breathed deeply, trying to settle his heart rate. After several long moments, his pulse returning to normal, he looked at the phone as if Harbinger was on the other side of it.
“When we no longer have need of you, Mr. Harbinger, I will ensure you have a most slow and unpleasant death,” Braun muttered to the phone on his desk.
**
4:30 p.m. on Wednesday, October 13th—The Farm, Camp Peary, Virginia
“Shit,” I muttered as Nick walked into the classroom. I was busy trying to get my sensor to detect tumbler clicks on the safe I was supposed to be opening—with very little success.
He walked up next to me, and I could feel him looking over my shoulder. I wiped a bead of sweat from my nose.
“This is a timed exercise isn’t it?” Nick asked with amusement in his voice.
I looked up at the clock that ticked down the time the class had remaining to open each of their safes—ninety-eight seconds.
“What do you want?” I asked with agitation. “Or are you just here to bust my nuts?”
I looked around the class at some of the other candidates’ progress. I saw most of them had at least three of the numbers on the twin dial safes. Some had as many as five. I didn’t even have the first one yet.
“Two things,” he replied as he leaned over slowly, wincing as he bent from the waist.
“Ribs still sore?” I asked, referring to the severe beating I had given his ribs in hand-to-hand training two days earlier. We were both carrying reminders from the last sparring session—I had never been as consistently sore in all my life.
He nodded but didn’t complain. “I need to schedule you for demolition training at Fort Leonard Wood. Do you think you’ll be done with your profiling project by Friday?”
“Do you have to do this now?” I asked a little too loudly, ruffled that he would pick this precise moment to discuss my schedule.
The class instructor, Penny Rhodes, looked up at Nick and shot him a glare as I turned the sensor over in my hand and pulled the rubber hood off it.
“I can wait,” Nick said quietly, garnering agitated glances from some of the other students.
I looked closely at the sensor head and discovered the problem—a thick glob of Vaseline had been packed into the head. I could feel my ears turn red with an angry flush as I whipped around and glared at Paul; there was no one else who would have sabotaged my kit. He just smiled a devious grin and continued to work on his safe.
“What are you gonna do now?” Nick asked with amusement. But I already had the ruler in my hand, laying it across the face of the safe. I chalked a line from edge to edge after measuring the door and dropped it down two inches, doing the same for the second dial. Then turning the ruler sideways, I measured 4.25 inches from the top and the bottom of the door, chalking both of those cross lines.
“Don’t do it,” Nick warned.
I looked up at the clock—fifty-five seconds.
From under the bench, I pulled two heavy, hardened steel screwdrivers, a hammer, and a high-speed drill. Placing the bit on the first cross, I started the drill, spinning nearly silently as the bit chewed through the steel face.
“Mr. Wolfe!” Penny Rhodes scolded as the drill punched through. I moved it to the second cross. “Were you not clear on the parameters of the exercise?”
“Seriously,” Nick said quietly.
I ignored him as the drill broke through the second hole, clanking loudly against the inner wall.
“She’s coming,” Nick whispered tauntingly.
“Shut up, Nick,” I muttered in reply as I placed the first screw
driver into the hole and hit it as hard as I could with the hammer.
WHAM!
“Scott!” Rhodes yelled.
I ignored her and slammed the hammer down again, piercing the inner steel skin of the door. I immediately picked up the second driver and set it into the hole of the second cross.
WHAM!
Twenty-eight seconds. Paul, who was still trying to open his safe, had a nervous look plastered across his tense face.
WHAM!
The second driver punctured the steel. I pulled the tool back and forth, widening the hole, and then quickly yanked it out.
Rhodes walked over to me and picked up my sensor, seeing the rubber hood had been pulled off. After examining it closely, she turned and looked at Paul with slitted eyes. He was doing his best to ignore the ruckus and Rhodes’s cold stare as he continued opening his safe. Though clearly agitated by the commotion around them, the rest of the class was still furiously trying to open their safes as well.
I slid a fiber-optic camera into the first hole.
“Nineteen seconds,” Nick whispered in a rasp loud enough for everyone in the class to hear, prompting them to resume their attempts.
As I turned the camera to the center, I froze before slowly withdrawing the metallic, snake-like device.
“Twelve,” Nick muttered as I slipped a hooked clamp through the hole and felt for my connection.
“Nine, eight, seven…”
Nick was annoying the shit out of me.
“Thanks,” I said abruptly as I closed the long-hooked clamp in place and gently pulled. “I can see the clock.”
Pulling back on the outside screwdriver, I forced the connector arm to spread before turning the latch on the safe, popping it open. Inside was a purple smoke grenade. I smiled at my achievement, opening the safe while still having three seconds to spare and without setting off the grenade. A split second later, Paul pulled his safe door open, but he had failed to disconnect the pull wire on the smoke grenade. Sparks and orange smoke began pouring out of his safe before he could slam the door shut again.
“Son of a bitch!” Paul spat angrily, choking on the thick sulfur-smelling smoke swirling up from the cracks around the door.
