by S L Shelton
He lay there, gasping, for what seemed like an eternity. Mark half-expected to hear more footfalls any moment. And when the anxiety of that thought became too great, he rolled on his back, away from his two dead prizes before pulling the body armor from his second wound to examine it.
The bullet had entered at an angle, piercing his left chest muscle and then exiting under his arm.
Lucky, he thought. A hollow point would have flattened and ripped through my chest. Instead, it simply left a neat hole through his muscle.
No,…wait. That’s stupid. If it hadn’t been armor-piercing, the armor would have stopped it, he chastised himself for his slow thought process. Snap out of it.
Though it hurt like hell, there wouldn’t be any organ damage from that wound.
He touched his belly wound once more and noted the bandage was already heavy with his blood—that one would be a problem. Before he could make a move to switch out the bandage again, he heard more footsteps, crashing through the forest several hundred yards away.
Run, he thought to himself, but his body refused to move.
“Run,” he muttered as his vision blurred; still no response from his legs. Anger welled up in him.
“Run,” he hissed bitterly and dragged the blade of the knife across his leg, flashing fresh pain and adrenaline coursing through his head, sending him to his feet. He stripped the tactical vest off the closest corpse and retrieved the .45 caliber pistol that had fallen into the leaves.
As he ran through the woods, stopping every hundred yards or so to catch his breath, he wondered, who’s getting a payoff that knew the truck route? Department of Justice? A US marshal? Someone at the CIA?
He shook his head to clear the thought and his blurring vision as the sound of footsteps behind him seemed to disappear.
Not safe yet, Mark, he thought. Worry about who to trust if you live through the night.
As he continued to run, losing strength with each step, he realized his answer was already there. Trust no one.
**
1:30 p.m. (three hours later)—CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
JOHN TEMPLE slammed the phone down just as Director Burgess walked into his office.
“Nothing, huh?” Burgess asked as John dropped heavily, defeated, into his chair.
“It’s been three hours, and not only do we have no more answers, but we’ve even lost the trail on the attackers,” John said bitterly.
Burgess walked over and stood in front of John’s desk. “Maybe we should pull Scott into protective custody.”
John looked up angrily. “Sir, with all due respect, that would be the dumbest move we could make,” he said. “Mark was in protective custody. Scott is surrounded by trained CIA operatives, instructors, and security forces. That’s why we sent him there to begin with.”
“I thought we sent him there to be trained,” Burgess replied calmly, not rising to John’s anger.
John glared at Burgess for a moment and then softened his expression, realizing the Director was baiting him.
“You know I want him in the section,” John said. “But until we were clear on what was happening with Gaines, Scott was good bait. They’d already tried to grab him twice.”
“Someone in the know passed the marshal’s travel route onto a well-financed, highly organized, para-military force,” Burgess said. “I think we now know what’s happened to Gaines. It’s time to abandon the ‘Wolfe Trap’ and bring Scott in. He needs to be in protective custody.”
John shook his head. “Sir, Scott has eyes on him twenty-four hours a day. He’s in one of the most secure camps in the country, and he’s learning how to survive this job,” John replied pleadingly. “If we pull him out, we’ll be doing nothing but confirming to the enemy that he must be worth protecting. If they didn’t hesitate to launch rockets at an armored convoy of US marshals, where better to protect him than the Farm?”
Burgess shook his head. “He’s exposed. The rockets should tell you how far these bastards are willing to go to get the information you guys have.”
The hairs went up on the back of John’s neck. He hadn’t considered that he might also be a target. After all, he was there when Gaines was captured as well.
“Yeah,” Burgess said, reading John’s reaction perfectly.
“No,” John said shaking his head. “That route was secret. If the information leaked, there’s no telling who we can trust. He’s safer at the Farm.”
“What about you?” Burgess asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Let ’em come,” John snarled. “I’ll have a few surprises for them as well…and then we’ll have someone to interrogate.”
“You aren’t a young man, John,” Burgess said. “Maybe we should put a protection detail on you as well.”
“Who?” John asked incredulously. “Baynebridge? I’d be safer in a tank of sharks.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of SEALs on personal leave,” he replied with a knowing grin. “You’ve got a couple of guest rooms at your house.”
“I’ve lived with SEALs before,” John said with a grin, some of his agitation melting away. “I’ll take my chances on my own.”
Burgess got up, shaking his head. “That’s your call,” he said as he made his way to the door. “But if there is any sign of a breach at the training center, I want you to pull Scott out. He’s capable, but he doesn’t even know he’s being used as bait. That rubs against the grain.”
John nodded after a beat of reflection. “We should have origins data on some of the upstream accounts soon,” he said. “If Nick thinks he’s ready, I’ll send Scott to ground. That way, no one will know where he is.”
“Good,” Burgess said, stopping at the doorway. “But do me a favor and don’t wait too long to pull the trigger. Scott could be a real asset. It would be a shame to lose him because he was a tasty prize for the bad guys.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” John said with a knowing grin. “I’ve got eyes on him. He’s too valuable to leave dangling.”
Burgess nodded as he left the office.
A moment later, the phone on John’s desk rang. “Temple,” he answered tiredly.
“Sir, the trackers found a blood trail leading away from the attack site,” the caller said. “It looks like Gaines may have taken out the last of his pursuers and then fled into the woods.”
“Get the dogs on that trail,” John said quickly, his optimism beginning to rise. “If Mark is alive, I want him locked down someplace safe before nightfall…you got me?”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply. “We’re working on it.”
John hung up the phone and leaned back again. “I should have known you’d make it,” he muttered. “I just hope you can get somewhere safe before they find you.”
**
11:45 a.m. on Monday, December 20th—The Farm, Camp Peary, Virginia
As Dylan, Eric, and I entered the chow hall, I noticed Nick having a “close” conversation with Ray in the corner of the cafeteria. Ray nodded with a serious look on his face. I was attempting to read his lips when Dylan hit me lightly on my shoulder with his lunch tray.
“You’re holding up the line,” he said, nodding toward the big gap that had formed in front of me. I hastily grabbed my tray and began walking through.
As the cooks loaded my tray up, my attention kept drifting back to Nick and Ray.
That doesn’t look like idle gossip, I thought as I stood there, staring at them. Dylan nudged me again from behind after I had again, lingered too long in once place.
“What’s up with you?” Dylan whispered as we made our way to an empty table. “You didn’t even balk when they put cornbread on your plate.”
I looked down at my tray and realized there were two pieces of cornbread in addition to an ugly piece of greasy-looking pizza.
I just shook my head and returned my attention to Nick and Ray. They had separated, and Nick was now walking toward me.
I got up, leaving my tray behind when Nick nodded
his head sideways for a private conference.
“What’s going on?” I asked in a low voice.
“Your brother had an accident on his way to the bus station,” Nick said—Gaines! Something went wrong with the transfer.
“Is he alright?” I asked as worry began to churn my gut and work its way up my throat.
“We don’t know yet,” Nick whispered. “We sort of lost track of him.”
I could feel the blood leave my face and ears as the implications started caving in on me. I took a deep breath, doing my best to stay calm, and then realized I should clear up the obvious question.
“Was he causing trouble again?” I asked.
Nick shook his head slowly with a stern frown on his face.
Shit!
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I asked.
He shook his head again.
“Will you tell me if they find him?”
“If I can, I will,” he said. “That’s the best I can offer.”
“Good enough,” I muttered as I turned away. “Thanks Nick.”
He grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me back to face him. “This isn’t your fault,” he said in near whisper.
I took another shallow breath and nodded. “Thanks.”
When I got back to the lunch table, I had lost my appetite. “What’s wrong?” Eric asked. “You look like your dog just got run over by a car.”
I looked up. “Huh? Oh. No. Just…family stuff.”
“Well if you aren’t eating, can I have your cornbread?” Dylan asked.
I pushed my tray toward him. “I need some air,” I said before rising and walking to the door.
The crisp December air filled my lungs as I tried to calm my mind and figure out what might have happened. Clearly, the people behind the bribe accounts had hit the transfer. Why wouldn’t they know where he was?—unless he’d been captured. Oh shit, Mark. Anger started building in my head, but I was suddenly distracted by the sound of gravel crunching behind me. I turned to see Eric and Leyla.
“Is everything okay?” Eric asked as Leyla walked up to me and put her hand on my shoulder.
I nodded. “A project I was working on got put on hold,” I said, trying to deflect. Get a grip, Scott…they don’t need to see you upset about something.
“Are you sure?” Leyla asked.
I nodded again.
Eric clapped me on the back and nodded for Leyla to leave. She did so after rubbing my shoulder briefly. After she left, Eric stepped in front of me.
“Whatever it is,” he said. “I hope you know you can count on me to help if I can.”
“Thanks,” I replied with a thin smile. Then I lied. “But it’s nothing…really. Just a lot of work down the toilet.”
He squinted his eyes at me but smiled and nodded. “Still…I’m here if you need anything,” he reiterated. “It’s the least I could do for you. You’ve been carrying me since you got here.”
I grinned broadly and shook my head. “You give me too much credit, pal,” I replied with a light punch to his shoulder. “You’re most definitely up for most improved.”
That shook the somberness from our discussion as his face lit up. “Really?” he asked as we turned to go back to the mess hall. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I replied. “I’d be happy to have you on any team I was on.”
His eyebrows flicked up with pride. I had obviously done a perfect job of covering the growing sense of failure in my gut. I hope you are okay, Mark…wherever you are.
**
7:35 a.m. on Wednesday, December 22nd—The Farm, Camp Peary, Virginia
I waited until Eric left our room for breakfast before I pulled out my phone and checked my e-mail messages and voicemail. It had been two days since Gaines’s disappearance, and I still hadn’t heard a word. There was one message from John, asking for an update on the account search, and an e-mail from Storc, letting me know his “puzzle” was still giving him trouble—referring to the ghost hunt on the accounts—and asking if I’d be up in time on Friday for the office Christmas Party. Disturbingly, there was still nothing from Patricia Jones.
I had sent her two messages in the last four days, trying to confirm a date to get together, but she was being unusually tardy in her response. It wasn’t until I clicked over to the local news section of the Washington Post that I discovered why.
“Local woman drives car into Potomac” was the headline on the blurb. I clicked the story link to get more details as the feeling of vertigo began slipping around my head…like a cone closing around my neck, squeezing my skull up.
“The death of Suitland, Maryland resident Patricia Jones, age 27, was ruled a suicide this morning according to Potomac Maryland Police. Though officials stated earlier yesterday that mechanical failure might be to blame, they determined that suicide was the cause after toxicology reports and interviews with friends and colleagues confirmed she was recently battling severe depression.
A report filed by the Montgomery County Coroner’s office confirmed the presence of controlled substances in a toxicology screen, bringing an end to the investigation.
The Maryland State Police said that they responded to a 911 call late Monday evening when a pedestrian walking along the C&O Canal Path noticed headlights in the water of the Potomac and called—”
I turned off my browser abruptly and lay back, trying to calm myself. Anger and guilt were swirling in my mind, making it difficult to retreat into the calm for data collection. The tone in my ear told me Wolf was about to enter the discussion in my head.
Do not assume it was Roger Gallow, Wolf said. There are others who have far more to lose from investigations into GGP Labs.
You’re just saying that because you want me to get information from Gallow, I thought in reply. You couldn’t care less if I chop his head off as long as you get answers before I do it.
The squeal in my ear reached a painfully loud level.
I am not some vain personality that requires validation to be whole, Wolf replied angrily. I can’t help you if you act on rage.
I thought about my schizophrenia’s argument for a moment before letting myself release some of the boiling rage. I took a deep breath, trying to bleed off a little more before the tone started to recede.
Roger Gallow is all we have left, I responded finally.
This will take time, Wolf said. And caution.
With that, the piercing tone in my ear began to disappear and the tension in my chest and head along with it.
**
Later that afternoon, I was happy to be on the firing range despite the cold; it was helping me bleed off some of the lingering anger I was feeling over Patricia’s death and Mark’s disappearance. I was so focused on shooting, I wasn’t sandbagging my scores at all, revealing my true level of accuracy with a pistol.
“Damn, those are tight shot groups,” Dylan said as he kept track of my shots through the spotter scope.
I pulled my ear protection off as the slide locked back after my ten shots. “What?” I asked, looking down at him.
“Nothing,” he replied. “It’s just that after the first four shots, you could have been shooting into the air and gotten the same score.”
I laughed despite myself. In the booth next to us, Eric and Paul had been paired up, and Paul was busy harassing Eric.
“It was nine, Joiner,” Paul scoffed at Eric. “You didn’t even hit the target with one.”
Eric looked defeated. With Dylan’s and my help, his range scores had improved, but he still had bad days. My anger started to rise again, this time displaced and redirected at Paul for being such a dick.
“I only counted nine shots,” I said, leaning around the divider. “I think you shorted him one on the reload.”
“Always taking up for your boy,” Paul sneered, though I noticed it was with less venom since our confrontation last month. “He missed the target completely. The Agency doesn’t want people that incompetent with a weapon.”
I felt Dylan press a bullet into my hand behind me. Way to go, Dylan, I thought.
“Bullshit. I counted nine shots from over here,” I lied. I actually hadn’t been paying attention, but my reputation for being accurate in my recall allowed me to fudge facts from time to time, and most people just assumed I was correct. “I bet you dropped one when you were loading for him.”
I dropped down on my knees and began sorting through the expended brass cartridges on the ground. I moved a sizable pile out of the way and then magically produced the “missing” bullet that Dylan had provided for me.
“See!” I exclaimed as I handed it to Eric. “Here it is.”
The look on Eric’s face was one of confused gratitude.
“You lying sack of shit,” Paul barked, but he backed his posture down when I leaned toward him. I was certain he could see the fire in my eyes.
“We’re still hot on twelve,” I yelled at the range cadre without looking away from Paul.
“Go ahead,” the range safety said.
Eric dropped the spare round into the open ejector port and then let the slide clack forward. He raised his arm and fired, striking the target center mass.
“Well done, Eric,” I said, but my comment was directed at Paul and positively dripping with venom.
“Good job, Eric,” Dylan added for support.
Eric turned, smiling broadly. Paul just shook his head. “I’ll be counting the shots from your booth this time,” he said quietly. “I’ll bet I only hear nine.”
I just smiled.
After I returned to my side of the divider, Dylan slapped me in the arm with the back of his hand and winked at me, helping to dispel some of my anger. The range master was already walking down the line, checking that everyone was ready when our new targets went up. Down range, fresh paper targets on plastic frames rose above the berm, waiting for the last magazine in our weapons.
Looking both ways before starting, the instructor hit the button for the range bell; everyone began firing.
