by S L Shelton
I was feeling trapped by a debt she felt she owed to me and the debt I owed her for being there through my recovery. But our relationship would never be as she pictured it. She still wanted the old Scott Wolfe—more precisely, she wanted the old Scott Wolfe to have said he loved her and wanted her to stay in Fairfax instead of going back to Massachusetts—but that Scott Wolfe never existed. More than that, even the flawed and disappointing old Scott Wolfe didn't seem to exist anymore either.
“Damn it!” I muttered.
**
Afternoon—Dr. Rachel Hebron’s Office in Langley, Virginia
“How do you feel about the idea of working for the Agency?” Dr. Hebron asked.
It took me a second to realize she was talking about the contract work at TravTech. For a moment, I thought she was asking me if I wanted to be an Agent. I have to admit, I felt the briefest moment of excitement when she asked it—in addition to a cold chill running down my spine.
“It was a little overwhelming at first,” I replied. “But now—”
I tried to form a description around my current feeling on the new section.
“Take your time,” she said.
“It’s pretty exciting,” I confessed finally, but my answer didn’t quite cover the extent of what I was feeling. I wasn’t sure why.
She looked at me for a moment, waiting to see if I had more detail to share with her and then shifted in her chair.
“But?” she asked after a moment, sensing the incompleteness of my thought.
“I don’t know. I just thought—”
I hung on the edge of my words for a moment longer, trying to pinpoint what I was feeling.
“Maybe not as satisfying as you hoped it would be?” she asked.
I thought about it for a second as my eyes searched aimlessly across her desk, which was immaculately organized and absent of any clutter whatsoever.
Her office was likewise clutter-free. It had been painted a warm, dark beige beneath the chair rail and a lighter beige above. It made you subconsciously feel as if you were rising from darkness each time you sat in her office.
“That may be it,” I conceded half-heartedly. “Though I haven’t really gotten into any Agency projects yet.”
“Are you looking forward to the projects?” she asked. “I mean, they're going to be very different from what you are used to working on. It won’t just be servers and code anymore. These projects will have real-world implications.”
As I tried to sort through my expectations, my eyes drifted across the rest of her office. The bookshelves and other furniture in the room looked made of dark-stained oak, but I immediately saw the telltale edges of veneer, glued and trimmed. Dr. Hebron had gone to a great deal of trouble with a limited budget to make the surroundings look rich and learned while keeping costs down. She had done well.
“That certainly puts an edge on it that I hadn’t experienced before,” I muttered as I continued to ponder my response. “But it’s not like I’m going to have to hone my fighting skills or learn how to speak Mandarin to provide a service. It’s definitely well within my comfort zone.”
“Your comfort zone,” she repeated back to me. “Do you feel like your comfort zone has broadened?”
“Well, yeah!” I replied as if it were self-evident. “In a pinch, I can open the cargo ramp on a heavy aircraft now. If anyone needs that done, I'm the guy to call.” I grinned.
She glared at me for a second before her expression softened into a grin. “You learned a lot more than that,” she said gently.
I nodded in acceptance of her truth. The fact is, the week I spent in Europe was probably the most lesson-dense time of my life.
“…and you seemed to learn those lessons quickly,” she continued.
I brought my hand up to my shoulder, stroking my thumb across the scar under my shirt.
“Not all of them came fast enough,” I replied coolly.
“You’re alive, Barb's alive, and the other hostages are alive… and everyone that hurt you is dead,” she pointed out sharply. “And considering the resources and experience you were up against, I’d say you caught on pretty quickly.”
I smiled because it felt like a compliment, but I still wasn’t satisfied.
She must have seen that because she suddenly leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Everyone is born into this world with certain traits, good and bad. Most people never figure out how to use those traits as an edge. You're among the rare few who have been given an opportunity to do that. My question to you is simple—do you feel bigger because of it or smaller?”
“Bigger,” I blurted out, without even having to think about it.
She smiled at me. “The image you have of yourself is in flux,” she observed. “Give it time to readjust.”
“How so?”
“I’ve heard you call yourself a geek, a computer nerd, a ‘skinny kid’, and a whole string of other descriptors that don’t actually describe you,” she said coarsely. “I’ve heard you call yourself a crappy boyfriend and scared. But crappy boyfriends don’t fly halfway around the world to rescue damsels in distress. Skinny kids don’t get into fights with mercenaries and win. Computer nerd, though it may describe your talent with automation, certainly isn’t the best descriptor of a man who throws himself out of an airplane strapped to a cargo container full of hostages.”
I crinkled my face up as I absorbed her words, trying to superimpose her description onto my self-image.
She saw me working on the problem and smiled. “And just so you know, when you walk down the street, people don’t see a skinny nerd,” she said with a much softer tone. “Physically, you are quite impressive.”
I felt blood flush my ears and cheeks.
She grinned at my physical response.
“Okay. We are about out of time today, but I’d like you to work on something until our next appointment,” she stated and paused, waiting for me to be receptive to her words. “Try to cut Barb a little slack.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“I don’t mean you should let her lead you around by your sense of duty,” she quickly added, expanding on her thought. “But remember, she wants what she wants. You're under no obligation to make her happy at your expense, but you have to remember that she has her own wants and desires and many of them may be confused with a new sense of responsibility to you—for saving her life and nearly losing yours in the process.”
I nodded. I knew she was right.
“On the other hand,” Dr. Hebron continued. “Don’t let her push deeper into places you’d prefer not to have her. That is your responsibility—not hers.”
I nodded again. “Right. Own my responses.”
“Also—” she said as I began to rise out of my chair. “Let’s not have any more provoked physical aggression. You're smarter than the average bully. It’s not a fair fight if you can manipulate someone into aggression because you want to teach them a lesson.” She stared at me for a moment with a disapproving glare.
“Should I have just sat there and watched it happen?” I asked incredulously, offended by the notion.
“No. But you could have waited until she was alone and given her shelter information. Or had Barb do it so it seemed less threatening. You're smart…very smart. You could have thought of a thousand ways to resolve it without daring the big ape to stand up to you.” She paused and examined my face for understanding before she continued. “Admit it Scott… You did what you did because you wanted him to challenge you.”
I thought about it for a moment. I knew she was right, but there had to be a good defense for what I’d done. It felt right when I did it. I gave up and resigned myself to her argument.
“Okay. I’ll keep an eye on my intentions,” I finally responded.
On the way out of her office, I recognized that I actually felt better. By the time I was in my car driving toward the highway, I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I was just merging onto th
e interstate when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. I hit the speaker button.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hi, Scott. It’s John,” came the reply.
“Hey, John. How are you?”
“I’m good. Look. I wanted to apologize for not filling you in more on the contract with TravTech and to ask you a favor,” he said.
There was tension in his voice.
“Yeah. I was meaning to call you about that,” I complained. “You had two months to tell me before I walked into that bee’s nest. What’s up with that?”
“Don’t judge me too harshly. NoSuch wanted to bring your team in-house. I convinced them it would be a mistake to take them out of their environment and away from you,” he explained, referring to the NSA by the Agency nickname No Such Agency. “I can’t get into more detail than that over the phone, but I want you to know I was running interference for you and your pals.”
“Okay. What’s the favor?” I asked, swallowing some of my agitation.
“I can’t talk about that on the phone either… Can we meet?”
“Sure. I’m in my car right now,” I replied. “Where are you?”
“Parked outside your place,” he said with an amused edge. “See you in a bit.”
The call abruptly ended.
“Okay,” I sniped sarcastically to the dead connection. “I’ll meet you in a little while. Thanks for checking in, pal… Bye.”
**
3:45 p.m.—Fairfax, Virginia
When I pulled into the court at my condo, John was there leaning against his black Dodge pickup truck, waiting for me.
“Hey man. How are you feeling?” he asked as I got out of my car.
“A little better every day,” I replied, reaching my hand out to shake his.
“Good, good…You’re looking good. How’s Barb?”
“She’s fine. Taking everything in stride,” I lied.
“Excellent,” he said and then lowered his voice. “Do you mind if we go in?”
“Sure,” I replied as I unlocked the front door, its loud squeak announcing our entry to the empty condo.
“Nice entry alarm,” he teased.
“I need to reset the hinges,” I replied sheepishly. “The more humid it gets, the louder it is.”
We went upstairs, and I dropped my tattered shoulder bag on the dining alcove table before going to the fridge.
“Want a beer?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure. That would be great,” he replied as he leaned against the pillar that held up the loft above my kitchen and dining room.
I returned with two pop-top “Alts”. Several varieties were available from the German grocer in Alexandria, so I was usually fully stocked.
“Wunderbar! Ich kenne dieses Bier. Es ist gut,” he exclaimed in perfect German, approving of my beer choice.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ve really enjoy having it around. Though it’s not as good pasteurized.”
“Agreed, but it’s still better than that horse piss we make here,” he said, raising his bottle. “Here’s to bringing in the bad guys.”
We tapped our bottles together and then drank.
“Technically we didn’t bring in the bad guys—we killed them.”
“Well, we brought some of them in,” he replied with a sly grin before it turned more solemn. “But, about that. How are your sessions going?”
“You don’t get reports?” I asked, feigning surprise.
“Doctor patient confidentiality is sacred, even at the Company. We get recommendations from the shrinks, but nothing else,” he said, but I suspected there were exceptions to that rule.
“They’re going okay. Have you gotten a recommendation?” I asked and then took another sip of my beer to hide the amusement in my face.
“Actually…yes,” he said, responding quickly to my frank question.
I was surprised. “Well?”
He stared at me for a few beats, expressionless, trying to decide if he would tell me.
“She thinks you might be a good candidate for recruitment,” he said cautiously, ready to gauge my response.
I laughed. “I thought I was a loose cannon!” I exclaimed. “You named me Monkey Wrench.”
“That’s not always a bad thing,” he replied with a grin. “The Agency likes independent thinkers.”
I could tell he was still measuring my response.
I shook my head as I ambled over to my favorite green chair and sat on the edge of the cushion.
“I have a lot of physical healing ahead of me before I can think about something like that,” I said, and then quickly added, “Though the thought has crossed my mind a few times.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said dismissively and then quickly changed the subject, though he was clearly satisfied with my response. “Look. I hate to pile on after everything you’ve been through, but I need some help—a personal favor.”
“Okay. What’s up?” I asked, curious as to what I could offer someone with the resources he had at his disposal.
“There’s this guy. Someone I know. He’s gotten himself into trouble, and I need help locating him,” he said, obviously being vague until he had some indication of my willingness to help.
“Really? Why, with the vast arsenal of spying resources you have available, would you need my help?” I asked, confused by the request.
“This is unofficial,” he confided, pausing.
Something clicked in my mind. “You aren’t allowed to use CIA resources to track someone within the United States,” I said, looking for any changes in his expression. There were none.
“It’s a little more than that…”
I took a deep breath then released it in a sigh. “John. Speak plainly. I’ve just come back from Dr. Hebron’s office and don’t feel like playing twenty questions. If you need my help with something, spit it out. I’m certain I’ll agree…unless there are Serbs and Russians involved.”
He lowered his head and nodded in agreement. “Sorry. Habit of the trade.” He took his beer and sat on the couch opposite me. “There’s this guy. He used to be on my team. Good guy. Very skilled. Kind of a Boy Scout…like you.”
“To the Boy Scouts,” I toasted mildly, raising my beer. He responded in kind.
“Anyway. A couple of years ago, he was asked to do something that his conscience wouldn't let him do…by someone you’ve met, in fact—Dwight Miller.”
I raised my eyebrows at the new information.
“So. This guy—Mark—he left the Agency. Started doing some security jobs, a few odd bodyguard assignments for movie stars and such. Nothing to make him rich, but they paid the bills and he wasn’t asked to take any—shall we say—morally ambiguous actions,” he explained and then took another pull on his beer.
“He was seeing an Agency shrink. Not Hebron, but someone like her, and we were getting updates from time to time. He was on the watch list because of his less-than-flexible sense of right and wrong. Wounded people sometimes magnify those tendencies when they’re in pain.”
“Okay,” I said. “So he disappeared and you are worried he might do something stupid.”
“Not exactly,” he hinted, hesitating.
“Out with it, John,” I said with a smile on my face, but I was losing patience.
“Have you seen the news today?” he asked.
“Yeah,” and then it clicked. My eyes went wide. “Boy Scouts don’t kill families and then burn their houses down.”
“No…no, no, no,” he responded quickly, holding up his hand. “The family that was murdered—that was his sister, her partner, and their baby.”
It made sense then. But the fact that John was already at my house when he called me indicated something else had already happened.
“He found the guys who did it, huh?” I stated more than asked.
“Maybe,” he said, taking a sip of beer. “But that’s not why I’m interested.”
“So what do you need from me?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “Last week there was an all-agencies search on a cover ID he was using,” he said, settling back on the couch. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that his sister was murdered so soon after there was a query on his cover ID.”
“All-agencies,” I repeated. “That would mean a government agency was involved. Are you saying someone with the government killed his sister?”
“I hope not… It could be he was mixed up in something and it attracted government interest in addition to bad guy interest.”
“Why can’t you just contact the agency who ordered the search on the ID?” I asked. “Why sneak around using back channels?”
“Because we aren’t sure it was a clean search, and we don’t want to reveal that it set off a flag.”
I shook my head. “Politics,” I sniped, grinning.
“If the cover got blown because of the search, then it’s more than politics,” he said defensively. “It’s treason. Any agency with access to cover information is required to coordinate with the owning agency or get a court order to blow it…that never happened.”
Whoa! I thought. That’s a pretty heavy load to lay on a new analyst.
He must have seen the shock on my face. “The Agency can’t and won’t act on this. They won’t clue law enforcement in on it unless they have to do it to cover their asses. They won’t even take action that might hint they know about it. So I need someone outside of the Agency, with real tracking ability, to help me find him before he does more harm.”
“Harm?” I asked, not sure I understood what harm he could do to anyone but himself at this point.
“Yeah. Harm,” he replied. “His sister was just about the only person in the world he cared about. She was the reason he was out doing what he did, and the thought of her is what kept him from doing anything he would be ashamed of—she was his reality check. Last night, she was brutally raped and then murdered along with the love of her life and their daughter—I know him; he’s gone.”
“Are you sure you want to be the one to find him? If the Agency won’t touch it, what makes you think you should? Won’t that show their involvement?” I asked.
“The FBI can’t handle this guy. I know. No more than they could handle anyone else on my team,” he said with a hint of satisfaction, sitting back and crossing his legs. “I have a feeling if I don’t find him, there’s going to be a much higher body count before he’s done.”
