Wolfe Trap

by S L Shelton

  I looked over at Nick, who had his head down, shaking it in amusement. He was doing his best to hide his chuckling convulsion of laughter.

  “If you think it’s so goddamned funny, then get in here and show us how it’s done,” Marcus snapped.

  Nick looked up, still grinning. “Don’t blame me if you guys have gotten predictable.”

  Nick wasn’t about to crawl back into the ring with me this morning; he was still recovering from the dislocated shoulder.

  I stood back and watched Marcus massage his thigh where Bailey had crashed into him. Bailey was bouncing up and down, trying to stay warmed up. “Are we doing this or not?”

  I stepped toward him and he backed up. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, putting his hands up. “Not one-on-one.”

  I had gone from someone to be wary of to someone to be feared. As far as I was concerned, my hand-to-hand training was complete.

  I turned and started walking toward the gym door, grasping the corner of the tape on my glove with my teeth and pulling it off as I went.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Nick called after me.

  I turned, but continued to walk backward toward the exit. “I’m going back to bed,” I responded as I unwrapped the tape on one hand. “Wake me up when you have someone to teach me how to fight.”

  I was halfway down the hill when I heard gravel crunching behind me. I turned and saw Nick running up to me. I put my defenses up…just in case.

  “Hey, man,” he said as he caught up. “I’ll spar with you this afternoon.”

  I shook my head. “Your ribs and shoulder haven’t healed yet,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of his torso. I noticed he flinched just from my sudden motion toward them. “I can tell you’re still protecting them.”

  He was about to protest but then thought better of it. I guessed the idea of my kneeing or punching him in those bruised ribs had taken some of the steam out of his “all in” credo.

  “It’s not their fault,” he continued.

  “I know.”

  I saw his dilemma, but it was hard not to feel frustrated. I wanted to learn in an environment where I hadn’t already bested all my instructors. On the other hand, I was surrounded by the best the CIA had to offer, and they couldn’t keep up with me. My ego should have been busting at the seams—but it wasn’t. Why am I never satisfied?

  “Will Marcus and Bailey come back for more?” I asked.

  Nick turned when we were halfway to the mess hall and yelled up the hill. “Come get some breakfast with us.”

  The sun was just starting to color the eastern sky with pink and purple as our breath rose visibly before evaporating above our heads. I looked over my shoulder and saw Marcus and Bailey walking our way. Marcus was still limping.

  Nick nodded after looking back to see they were indeed following. “Buddy up to them,” he said. “You just bruised their egos.”

  I nodded my acceptance of his assessment.

  By the time we reached the mess hall, Marcus and Bailey had caught up, and we went in together. As we lingered in front of the food service area, waiting for the servers to fill their stainless steel tubs with the morning’s meal, I noticed Marcus stealing sideways glances at me.

  “How much training did you have before you came to the Farm?” Marcus asked finally.

  “Martial arts?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Almost ten…months,” I replied straight-faced and watched his face pucker into disbelief. “When I was nine.” I heaped on, struggling to keep from laughing.

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  When the coffee urn was finally running, we each got a cup and moved over into the eating area. The overhead lights were still off, but the lights from the kitchen and serving area were enough for us to see each other as we sat and had the first cup of the day. Nick paused mid-sip and looked over my shoulder as I heard the outside door open. I looked and saw five Baynebridge men walk in, each of them bundled against the chill with their corporate, logo-emblazoned jackets.

  Nick looked away and continued to drink his strong, bitter breakfast.

  “Any word on if the contract changes will be hitting us any time soon?” Marcus whispered to Nick, who shot him a warning glare but shook his head. I refocused my attention on my cup and pretended not to know what they were talking about. When I looked up again, Nick shot me a knowing smirk.

  The serving line was open by then, but we let the guards go through and load their trays first so they could eat quickly before their shift began. Then Marcus gestured for me to go next and they filed in behind me. As I held my tray out for extra eggs, bacon, and fruit, Marcus laughed.

  “If I ate like that, I’d have a coronary inside a month,” he said.

  “Not if you ditched the grains and sugars,” I replied without looking at him. “Triglycerides are what kill you…not fat. Haven’t you read a newspaper recently?”

  He shook his head as I looked back and smiled at him, but I noticed he put two of the three biscuits back that he had heaped on his tray.

  “Hey, Nick, I thought you were bringing in someone to take over Monkey Wrench’s hand-to-hand training. Why us this morning?” Bailey asked as we returned to our seats.

  Nick shot him a disgusted look, clearly upset that Bailey had said that in front of me. After a long glare, Nick looked at me.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said, folding a pancake around a sausage, preparing to shove it into his mouth. “The guy I’m looking at is retired and so far neither me or John is having any luck convincing him to come out of retirement.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Retired?

  “You’re not talking about Kobe, are you?” Marcus asked.

  Nick nodded.

  Bailey and Marcus exchanged a brief look and then burst out laughing.

  “What?” I asked.

  Bailey could barely contain his laughter. “You’ll be in ICU the first day,” he said as he sliced through a stack of pancakes covered in syrup.

  “He trained you?” I asked before stuffing a forkful of eggs into my mouth.

  “Yeah,” Bailey replied. “All us guys that came in under Clinton and Bush got Kobe. Kicked our asses every day.”

  “Huh,” I grunted as I picked up a piece of bacon and shook it at him like a pointing stick. “He taught you how to take a beating real good.”

  Nick and Marcus burst out laughing.

  “Watch it, smart-ass,” Bailey sneered, but there was a grin tugging at the corner of his lip. “I’m still one of your instructors.”

  “The government merit system in action,” I snarked before biting into my bacon.

  Nick and Marcus laughed harder, sending a red flush to Bailey’s cheeks before he picked up a chunk of scrambled eggs and lobbed them at me. I just brushed them off my shirt and kept eating.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Baynebridge guards staring at us. When I turned to look, all but one returned their attention to their meals. But a dark-haired, angular-featured guard continued to stare directly at me, his lip slowly pulling into an angry frown.

  What is your problem?

  I smiled and winked at him, resulting in a breathy scoff before he returned his attention to his comrades.

  “There you go…making friends again,” Bailey muttered.

  I shrugged and went back to eating. As I listened to Nick explain my new training rotation to Marcus and Bailey, I wondered if any of those Baynebridge guards knew the two guys I killed in my condo back in July.

  Maybe I’ll ask them before their contract is canceled, I thought as I snapped off a piece of bacon in my mouth.

  five

  November

  5:10 p.m. on Wednesday, November 10th—Location: Undisclosed

  HEINRICH BRAUN and his new driver, Patrick, sat in the car on the side of a dirt road in silence. Braun looked at his watch for the third time in less than ten minutes and grunted his frustration at how slowly the hands had moved
in that time.

  “I’m going,” Braun said to Patrick as he opened the back door of the sedan and got out without waiting for a response.

  As he made his way along the dirt road, nothing more than a Jeep trail really, he looked up at the sky as the last failing color of day tried hopelessly to penetrate the tree cover around him. It would be dark soon.

  He looked down as a rock in the middle of the overgrown pathway scuffed the side of his shoe and silently cursed, realizing he should have dressed for the excursion. When he had been walking for five minutes, he turned left into the woods, traveling several more minutes before reaching a tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

  He leaned forward and peered left and right along the length of the barrier. Satisfied there were no monitoring devices or cameras, Braun stepped back into the woods a few feet before sitting down on the end of a fallen tree. There he waited for his contact to arrive.

  As the minutes ticked away, he became more and more restless, worried it had been a rash decision to come out to the appointed spot so early.

  His worrying dissipated abruptly when he spotted a figure within the enclosure moving toward him in the dark. He could barely make out the shape of the individual, much less any detail. As the shadowy figure moved toward him, he saw the man was wearing dark sweatpants and a dark hooded sweatshirt that had been pulled over his head, concealing his features.

  “Did you make contact?” Braun asked as the man arrived.

  “Shhh. Easy there,” he replied in a calm whisper. “There’s high pick up mics all over the perimeter.”

  Braun nodded and repeated his question in a quieter voice. “Contact?” he whispered.

  The dark figure nodded as he looked up and down the fence line. “I’ve made all kinds of contact, but he isn’t very trusting,” he said as he squatted down, making himself look more like a dark lump than a man. “I’ve got plenty of access when he’s around, but I can’t get him to open up—he keeps everyone at arm's length.”

  “What do you mean, ‘when he’s around’?” Braun asked, keeping his voice quiet.

  “He’s in some of the classes with the rest of us, but they seem to have him on a separate training cycle,” the squatting figure said before looking behind him. “I get the feeling he’s different than the rest of us. He was out solo training with SEALs and nearly killed three of the hand-to-hand combat instructors…on the training floor, with his bare hands.”

  Braun shook his head at the disturbing news. “Three?”

  The man nodded. “We thought he was going to kill his handler the first time they sparred.”

  Braun’s head snapped up. “He has a handler here? With him during training?”

  The man nodded. “Nick,” he said. “That’s the only name we got, but the instructors all seem to know him. He walks around like he owns the place. He pulls Scott out of classes, flies him off to various places for special training, and doesn’t even get a cross look from the staff.”

  “That’s odd,” Braun said, a deep furrow creasing his brow. “Does he seem to have any additional security?”

  The man in the dark hood stood, shaking his head. “Only Nick,” he replied. “And even he disappears for long periods. So I don’t think he’s there for security. But honestly, I don’t think Wolfe needs the extra security. The only people at the compound with weapons are Baynebridge and the instructors, and Wolfe seems perfectly capable of handling himself against any of them.”

  Braun sighed in frustration. This was not good news—it was starting to sound as if Wolfe was part of some enhancement program. But he’s been a computer programmer his entire adult life. How is that possible? And why would he be with the CIA and not the Defense Intelligence Agency if he was enhanced?

  “Make friends with him, see if he talks in his sleep…anything,” Braun said, raising his voice a little. “I need to know how deep Combine’s exposure is.”

  The hooded figure shook his head. “I’m trying. He doesn’t trust easily.”

  “Then try harder,” Braun said with an edge. “Gaines won’t even talk to his lawyer––Wolfe is our only hope of discovering how deep the security breach is.”

  “I am doing my best without giving myself away,” the man replied defensively. “He isn’t close with anyone.”

  “If he graduates and gets away without us finding what we need, the whole organization could come crumbling down,” Braun snapped. “Mr. Spryte is done waiting. It’s all I could do to keep him from putting a contract out on everyone involved.”

  “That would be a mistake,” the man said, worry entering his tone. “If the information has already been passed off to the CIA, then killing the players will help them put the pieces together.” He looked down at the ground as he gathered his thoughts. “Why aren’t any of the assets in the CIA providing information?” he asked finally.

  Braun shook his head. “Our normal channels don’t have any information on Wolfe, Gaines, or that other operative—Temple,” he said with mild disgust. “It’s almost as if they’re operating outside of the normal chain of command on purpose.”

  “If that’s the case, then I’d say the damage is already done,” the dark figure replied. “If I were you, I’d start to clean up the loose ends on the finance side and lay low…see what they do if they hit a dead end.”

  Anger rose in Braun at the suggestion he wasn’t doing all that he could, but he took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing. “Without jeopardizing your cover, do what you must to get close to Wolfe,” he said, his tone still tinged with agitation. “Let me worry about cleanup on my end.”

  Without another word, Braun turned and walked away from the fence. It would do no good to alienate the young man he had placed in the CIA training program to gain information from Wolfe. In truth, there were few classes Braun didn’t have someone embedded. His people were quite well placed throughout the CIA—which made it all the more disturbing that Braun still couldn’t get any information about what Wolfe and Temple knew of Gaines’s investigation into Combine finances, payoffs, and media manipulation.

  Very disturbing indeed.

  “Heinrich,” the younger man said in an elevated whisper, then once again, even louder. “Heinrich!”

  Braun turned and looked over his shoulder before returning to the fence.

  “I’m sorry,” the dark figure said, placing his hand on the wire fence. “I didn’t mean to presume—”

  Braun continued to stare at him for a few seconds longer before reaching up and touching the man’s fingers through the wire. “Do this for me and you will have proven yourself to the organization,” he said in a soft voice. “But fail me, and don’t bother returning.”

  The hooded head of the younger man nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now go back before you’re discovered missing.”

  The sweatshirt-clad man turned and jogged away. Braun watched him for several seconds before he left the fence and began the walk back to the sedan about half a mile away. As he slowly picked his way through the dark, he wondered how much time they had to alter Combine’s financial structure.

  The downstream accounts should be all that were compromised if Gaines had real data, Braun thought to himself as he made his way quietly through the woods and back to the dirt road. I should send someone to question Quinn Black and find out if real data was issued at all.

  As he walked, the nagging feeling that loose ends were being missed began to fill his chest with unease. When he realized he was holding his breath, he knew the situation was well beyond his comfort level.

  I’ll contact Frau Loeff in the morning, he thought as he arrived at his sedan. If her services are as airtight as she claims, the damage should be minimal in either case.

  Braun got into the back seat of his car and sank down into the seat. “Take us to the airport, Brian,” Braun said tiredly.

  “Patrick, sir,” the driver replied, looking up to the rearview mirror as he put the car into gear.
r />   “Yes,” Braun muttered, a pained note coloring his tone. “Of course… Patrick.”

  After a few moments of silence as the car slowly bumped along the dirt and gravel road, Braun decided he would press Black harder.

  “Patrick.”

  “Sir?” Patrick replied.

  “Call and schedule a meeting with Quinn Black, the Vice President of the Tactical Division at Baynebridge,” Braun said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And contact Mr. Harbinger. Ask him if he would be kind enough to provide an escort for us—someone with interviewing experience.”

  Patrick smiled at the subtle wording, referring to someone skilled in extracting information from an unwilling asset. “Yes sir,” he replied again.

  Braun nodded his approval of his own plan before closing his eyes to let them rest a moment.

  Now if I can just keep Spryte off my back until I get the information, we might be able to salvage our accounts, Braun thought as the sedan pulled onto the blacktop. I can’t let him do anything rash—he’ll bring the whole house down on our heads.

  **

  4:30 p.m. on Friday, November 12th—Quinn Black’s residence, Charlotte, North Carolina

  QUINN BLACK, Vice President of Tactical Division at Baynebridge Security, was relieved to get home, skidding to a halt on his concrete driveway before hurriedly running for the door.

  The meeting with Heinrich Braun that he had just departed from had sent him into a panic. It had been months since he had handed the Combine account data to the Department of Justice Agents, and he had nearly convinced himself that his role had remained hidden. He’d lied to Braun just thirty minutes earlier, but he had a terrible feeling they hadn’t believed him.

  I have to get out, he thought. They know.

  Braun had given Black fake account information to pass to the Agents back in July in order to set a trap for them. Hoping to hedge his bets, Black provided real payoff account sheets and promised to install software to help track the other accounts.