by S L Shelton
As he burst through the back door of his home, he checked his watch to see how much time he had to get things in order before his wife arrived home with the kids.
Four thirty, he thought. I’ll have a couple of hours to pull it together.
After going to his bedroom and pulling a suitcase from the closet, he began hastily tossing clothing in. He had just opened his dresser drawer when he heard a car pull into the driveway.
It’s too early for Janet and the kids, he thought as he looked out the second-story window. Below, he saw Braun and his driver, just getting out of the black Mercedes.
“Shit,” he hissed as dread compressed his chest and his heart struggled against the sudden tightness.
Black ran back to his closet and punched in the four-digit code on the small gun safe there. It swung open and as he reached in he felt a presence behind him. He turned, drawing his pistol from the safe. But a strong punch to the jaw sent him stumbling backwards into the closet before his assailant stripped the weapon from his hand.
As his head drifted dizzily between consciousness and blackout, he had the vague sensation of being pulled backward by his collar.
“He was packing to go somewhere,” the man who was dragging him said to Braun, who had just entered through the front door as if he owned the home.
“Take him to the basement,” Braun said with almost a bored tone.
Black reached up and struggled to free himself as the man dragged him down the stairs. The man punched down hard into Black’s face, stunning him once more.
“Not in the face,” Braun said sternly. “We don’t want to leave any marks.”
Why don’t they want to leave marks? Black asked himself as he reached up once more, trying to pry the fingers from his collar.
Once in the basement, the man tossed Black to the rough indoor/outdoor carpeting and pointed Black’s own weapon at him. Black looked up as Braun and his driver descended the stairs behind them—Patrick, Black remembered.
“You weren’t quite honest with me, were you Mr. Black?” Braun asked. His German accent made each word sound like a threat of violence.
“I told you everything,” Black replied angrily. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to betray you?”
Braun looked around the basement rec room and fixed his attention on a framed display case containing a badge, handcuffs, medals and a photo of Black shaking hands with the Director of the FBI.
“Patrick,” Braun muttered as he nodded his head toward the display case.
Braun’s driver walked over, pulled the frame from the wall, and delivered it to Braun as the man in the leather jacket pulled the vacuum cleaner from the corner and began unwinding the cord.
Braun smashed the display and tossed the broken frame to the floor after taking out the handcuffs and key.
“I need to know what you delivered to Gaines,” Braun said with eerie calm. “It certainly wasn’t the false data that we provided you.”
“I already told you,” Black sneered angrily as he moved to get up.
The third man stepped over quickly and punched Black in the stomach, sending him to the floor again, grunting.
“That’s simply not true, and you know it,” Braun replied as he tossed the handcuffs to the man in the leather jacket.
Patrick went to the other side of the room and retrieved a wooden chair from among a group of four around a game table. Black tensed as he realized what was going on.
“I swear,” Black pleaded. “I delivered exactly what you gave me. It had the tracer and everything. You know that. You used it to find them.”
“I know you betrayed them, Mr. Black,” Braun said calmly as Patrick placed the chair on the floor beneath the vacuum cord the other man was tying around some pipes in the ceiling. “But I suspect you were hedging your bets. I suspect you provided real data.”
“No!” Black insisted. “I gave them what you told me to give them.”
Braun motioned to his driver and the other man to put Black into position. Black struggled briefly, but a strong punch to the gut from Patrick stopped his movement. Black stood on the chair, with pleading in his face as the two men maneuvered the vacuum cord around his neck.
“This isn’t some game of chicken, Mr. Black,” Braun said coldly. “This isn’t a bluff that will end when you have convinced us you are telling the truth.”
The man in the leather jacket pulled Black’s hands behind him and snapped the cuffs over his wrists.
“This is a confession,” Braun continued. “And a penance… You have the sole power in this room because you have the information that we want.”
“I don’t have any information!” Black yelled. “I did what you told me to do and then went home!”
Braun walked over to the man before nodding to his own henchmen. They pried his mouth open as Braun held the key up to the light. When Black’s jaw could no longer resist, Braun stuffed the key into the man’s wide-open mouth before it was quickly pushed shut and held tightly.
Braun pinched Black’s nose while the other two men held his mouth closed. When the convulsion of Black’s throat indicated he had swallowed the key, they stepped away from him.
“One more time, Mr. Black. What did you deliver to Gaines in July?”
Black began to cry angry tears. “You can kill me if you want,” he yelled, trying to change tactics. “And all you would have done is killed an asset.”
Braun nodded his head toward the man in the leather jacket, who kicked the chair from beneath Black’s feet. Black flailed in desperate hopelessness, his toes pointed down as if he stretched enough, they might reach something solid.
As blackness began closing around his mind, he thought of his wife and children, finding him in such a state. He had almost come to terms with his fate when he realized Braun might do something to his family. His eyes popped wide and he began his thrashing anew.
When he felt his legs lifted, hope began to fill him, like fresh, cold water quenching his thirst after a long day in the desert. His blurry vision focused on the face in front of him.
“Did you want another chance?” he heard Braun ask as if from a distance.
“Media,” Black gasped.
“The media list?” Braun asked, verifying what he had heard. “You gave him the payoff information for the media list?”
Black nodded as best he could with the makeshift noose under his chin.
“Anything else?” Braun asked.
“No,” Black lied, gasping. “That’s it. I swear.”
“Very well,” Braun said and nodded at the two men holding Black’s weight. They immediately released him and let his body fall again, jerking his neck up.
As he struggled the second time, Braun stepped closer. “Thank you for your honesty,” he whispered into Black’s ear and then turned to leave.
“Put everything back as it was before Mr. Black arrived home, and put his weapon away,” Braun said as he went upstairs.
Patrick and the other man set about tidying the area before Black even passed out. He felt insulted as they went about their housework as if he wasn’t expiring in front of them…as if his life were so inconsequential that it didn’t even warrant a second look.
I hope my children don’t see me like this, Black thought and then passed into darkness.
**
HEINRICH BRAUN sat in the back of his Mercedes as Patrick and Harbinger’s man fixed the scene in the house and typed the suicide note on Black’s computer. He took a deep breath before withdrawing his phone to call William Spryte, president and chairman of Spryte Industries and executive officer of Combine.
Spryte answered on the third ring. “What did you find?”
“It was as we suspected,” Braun said emotionlessly. “Black delivered real payoff account data to Gaines.”
“That son of a bitch,” Spryte rasped. “Make him suffer before he dies.”
“It’s already been taken care of, sir,” Braun replied calmly. “The damage will be minimal as
is already clear due to the lack of action by the Justice Department.”
“Why wouldn’t they be moving on the leaked data?” Spryte asked. “What could they possibly hope to gain by delaying?”
“There is a possibility that Justice doesn’t have the information,” Braun replied. “The CIA doesn’t even seem to have record of the accounts being retrieved, which means that Gaines and the two CIA operatives who captured him are keeping it to themselves for some reason.”
“Maybe they think they can use it against us,” Spryte offered.
“That is a possibility I’ve considered,” Braun said as he absently smoothed the fabric of his trousers. “In either case, Frau Loeff has kept her word regarding the collapsibility of the Cayman accounts and had them cleared out within hours of notification. We’ve taken it one step further and had the accounts erased.”
“Good,” Spryte replied. He paused for several beats before continuing. “I still don’t feel safe with Gaines and those other two, Wolfe and Temple, running free with our payout information.”
“They were tiny amounts and only from a handful of accounts, sir…all from the media list, according to Black,” Braun said with a cautionary tone. “No more than twenty or thirty million dollars’ worth. In addition, as I said, the accounts are now closed and erased. Any leverage the trio of CIA operatives feel they might have over you or Combine is an illusion.”
“I want to be sure of that,” Spryte hissed, his anger rising in his tone. “Don’t let that weasel, Richards, back off the transfer of Gaines. I want to know exactly what data he had and to whom it has been given. If you can’t get him, then get us Wolfe. His presence in this seems more than just a coincidence… There is a reason that the CIA sent a computer security specialist along to capture Gaines in July.”
“That’s unwise at this junc—”
“That wasn’t a request, Braun,” Spryte snapped. “It’s not just Spryte Industries at stake here. This potentially affects the richest families on the planet. I haven’t been placed at the helm of Combine because I leave things to chance. Get Gaines or get Wolfe. As soon as we have what we need from them, kill them both.”
Braun curled his hand into a fist, struggling to keep himself from challenging Spryte again. Those words were precisely what he had feared Spryte would say. He’s going to get us all exposed, Braun thought.
“Yes, sir,” Braun replied, completely contrary to how he felt. “I apologize for questioning you.”
“Get it done,” Spryte rasped and ended the call before Braun could respond.
Braun sat quietly for a moment.
All you have to do is get old and die, you bastard, Braun thought. Why do you have to risk everything when I’ve gotten so close to my reward?
He dialed another number on his secure phone.
“Yes?” the voice at the other end answered.
“I’m sorry for bothering you at such a late hour,” Braun said sincerely. “I know it is after nine p.m. there. But I can assure you I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t urgent.”
“Braun?” the man said with concern in his tone. “What’s happened?”
“I’m not certain that Mr. Spryte is up to handling this crisis that’s been created concerning the Combine accounts that were exposed.”
“Are the ties still in danger of being followed to the organization?” the man asked.
“I don’t believe so, sir,” Braun replied confidently. “But even if they are, Mr. Spryte is directing an imprudent level of violence to address the problem. I fear it will draw more attention than we’ve already received.”
“I see.”
“I wouldn’t even bring it to your attention if Mr. Spryte hadn’t tied my hands in correcting the problem,” Braun continued. “But I’m afraid I’ve been put in a position where I can’t affect the change required to calm the situation.”
“I understand,” the man replied. “Is there anything tying Combine to the accounts, other than William’s involvement?”
“No, sir,” Braun replied firmly.
“Then I think you should continue to serve William as he directs,” the man said. “But be sure you leave yourself an out. If you are correct and William is on a collision course with failure, we’ll need you to be available to protect our assets until they can be recovered.”
Braun breathed a sigh of relief. That sentiment was what he had been counting on. “I will continue to serve Combine’s interests to the best of my abilities.”
“I know you will, Heinrich,” the man replied. “You have never given us reason to question your loyalty. Rest assured, your position and commission will rise regardless of William’s failures…you have my word.”
“Thank you, sir,” Braun replied. “Again, I’m sorry to have bothered you so late.”
“Not at all, Braun. Thank you for the update.”
“Yes, sir.”
The connection ended and Braun leaned back in his seat, letting a new sense of relief fill him. Now he had no reason to continue trying to protect Spryte…the faster the old man imploded, the closer Braun would be to his fortune.
“You brought it on yourself, you old bastard,” Braun muttered.
**
3:30 p.m. on November 16th—Fort Benning, Georgia
The drone of the engines on the C130 was almost comforting as I checked and rechecked my parachute and backup. There were four of us on the flight, preparing for our second jump with the ram parachute—three Special Forces trainees and me. I hadn’t even bothered getting their names; I’d gotten used to isolating myself from the other students.
It would my seventh jump in total, having just finished my required five jumps with the non-steerable parachutes three days earlier, giving me my jump certification.
The steerable ram chutes were much more fun. They open on the way down, rather than immediately upon exit from the aircraft—and they can be steered.
“Stand up!” the jumpmaster yelled, accompanied by the hand signal for the same.
I shuffled to the door at the end of the line. The engine’s thrum, vibrating through the deck plates and my heels, was nearly hypnotic, permeating my whole body. The cabin was cool, but as soon as the door opened, the cold rushed in and swept any lingering body heat away from exposed skin. It was bracing.
“To the door!” the jumpmaster yelled.
The flashing light let us know we were approaching our jump zone. I held the bar, trying hard not to let the comfort of it sink into my psyche too far. This was unlike climbing, and I had to fight the urge to hold on to something.
When the light flashed solid again, the jumpmaster yelled, “Go, go, go!”
I found it funny that most voice commands in the military came in groupings of three as I watched the others step out the door and tumble from sight. Each of their faces were pictures of intensity that I found hard to master myself. When I stepped up, I tucked my “away hand” into the cargo pocket of my trousers. At the same instant the jumpmaster slapped me on my back, he noticed my hand. I smiled and winked as I jumped into the air.
I immediately withdrew my hand from my pocket and extracted my iPhone, snapping the first selfie with the C130 in the background, the jumpmaster mouthing something and pointing at me.
The first sensation I recognized, other than the falling, was the absence of vibration…only the sound of wind whipping past my ears. I looked up as I rolled onto my back and could just make out the angry finger pointing at me from the door of the plane.
I snapped another selfie with the ground, thousands of feet below, as the background. I smiled as I texted it to Storc before tucking the phone back into my Velcro-sealed cargo pocket. I closed my eyes and let the cold air slide past my exposed cheeks as I controlled the pitch and yaw of my body by shifting my arms and legs. Having climbed for so many years, I found it incredible that the sensation of falling was so pleasurable. I never would have imagined it was my bag.
After opening my eyes and checking the altimeter on my wri
st, I oriented myself, preparing to throw my pilot chute into the air.
Distance = 1/2 x acceleration x time2, my head filled in, accompanied by the sudden squeal in my ears, temporarily blocking the sound of the wind hissing past my head.
At the marked level, I deployed my chute and listened to it unfold loudly behind me, followed by a sudden jerk as my downward speed plummeted from two hundred feet per second to eighteen. As soon as the jolt occurred, my hands were tweaking the glide controls, aiming for the target to the north.
My phone buzzed as I slowly guided my glider toward the landing zone.
“Yep. In a minute,” I muttered.
As the ground seemed to rise faster in my approach, I pulled down hard on both “brakes” and touched down gently, running my forward momentum out as I glided in.
Quickly pulling my lines in, I collapsed the “bubble” over my vented chute before gathering it up in my arms. The other guys were already moving toward the pickup vehicle when my phone rang again.
I didn’t even bother looking at who was calling, as I assumed it was Storc.
“Hey! What’d ya think?” I asked, answering the call.
“About what?” It was Ruth.
“Oops. Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
“Ah,” she replied. “Nope. Just me. I have a question for you and a piece of news.”
“Shoot,” I said as I walked toward the rest of the jump team.
“I wanted to know if you’ve come up with anything yet on the Cayman accounts,” she said. Judging by the anticipation dripping from her question, I guessed they were getting desperate for information.
“I’m not working on that myself,” I said. “But I’ll check on the status for you. I can tell you this, though; it’s going to be slow work. Ghost hunts coupled with staying stealthy are not speedy.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she sighed with disappointment.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“That leads me to the news,” she said, lowering her voice a bit. “It looks like Mark Gaines is going to get his deal. One piece of information he’s already shared is something that involves you.”
