by S L Shelton
“So the FBI was the requesting agency?” I asked.
John shook his head as he took another sip of beer. “Homeland Security.”
“And why again are you choosing me over the FBI?”
“You're an Agency-contracted analyst now,” he said with a grin. “I need tech support.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “So I need to put this into the system at TravTech?”
He tipped his head to the side and shook it. “Not until it’s over,” he replied. “But yes… It will be a billable job.”
“Okay!” I relented. “How can I help?”
“You have an incredible ability to ‘link analyze’ in your head. I saw it in action in Europe. I don’t have access to Agency software or specialists to do that kind of probability analysis, and even then, I’m not sure they would do as well as you could.”
I looked up at the living room’s vaulted ceiling for a moment, absorbing it all, and then let my gaze wander out the window of the small sun room across from me. John showed a lot of trust by sharing this. It might have been a test of my willingness, but I believed he was doing it out of a sense of duty.
Barb would have a cow, I thought, but I was suddenly angry for even considering that as a deciding factor. It was the tipping point I needed to agree.
“Okay. I’ll try. What do you know?” I asked, truly wanting to help the man. He had been nothing but supportive of me since the airbase in Mimon.
“I’ll brief you on the flight,” he said abruptly after downing the rest of his beer and standing.
“The ‘flight?’” I asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” he replied, setting the empty bottle on my solid maple coffee table. “I don’t have many details here, and I can’t go digging without raising red flags. We have to be on the ground.”
I picked the bottle up and walked it to the recycling container in the kitchen.
“John. I can’t just go running off to Colorado without any notice,” I said, suddenly regretting my consent to help. “I have new hires that haven’t even been officially cleared by Langley yet.”
“No choice. We have to head out. Pack a bag for two days, and let’s get going. I’ve got the tab on everything; I just need your brain,” he urged, moving his arms as if to shoo me toward my suitcase.
At that moment, I heard Barb come in from downstairs; that annoying door announced her presence. John spun his head in that direction. “Shit,” he muttered.
She came upstairs and into the living room before pausing upon seeing our guest. “Hi John,” she said, smiling thinly. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Barb. How are you?” he asked sincerely, but uneasily, as she came over and kissed me ‘hello’.
I suddenly realized he was trying to get me out of the house before Barb arrived. His plan had been complicated by her early arrival.
“As well as can be expected,” she replied cautiously, sensing that she had entered in the middle of a conversation. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” she asked, always the diplomat but clearly distrustful of his presence.
“Well,” he said, putting his hand to the back of his head in embarrassment. “I hate to say it, but I’m about to steal Scott from you for a while.”
Her face went pale, her smile melting away. “Why? What’s going on?” she asked with real concern in her voice.
“I can’t really go into it. But rest assured, it’s not international in nature,” he replied, smiling uneasily.
“Is it Company-related?” she asked, using the CIA vernacular for itself.
“Sort of. More of a personal favor, really, but yes—some housekeeping,” he said. “A TravTech contract.”
That had been a poor choice of words. “Housekeeping” usually meant taking care of a problem inside the Agency. Barb might not have gotten the reference, but if she talked to her dad, he would.
“Oh,” she replied, seeming a little more relaxed. “How long will you be gone?” she asked, turning to me.
She was asking me to verify what had been said to her already.
“Uh. I’m not sure. We hadn’t gotten to that yet,” I replied and then turned to John. “How long will we be gone, John?”
I could tell he hated being pinned down to anything like this, but by now it was clear that if he didn’t say something that was acceptable to Barb, this probably wouldn’t be happening.
“I’ll probably have him back to you by Sunday evening,” he offered, squirming.
“Promise,” Barb said in a tone that indicated that would be the only way she would let him have me.
“Okay. I promise. If we aren’t done by Sunday mid-afternoon, I’ll put him on a plane back home,” he conceded.
She turned to me. “Take it easy and don’t let him put you in the way of any terrorists or anything,” she said patronizingly, kissing me on the cheek.
“You take all the fun out of working for the CIA,” I jabbed jokingly, trying to swallow the anger that was building, and then I turned to John. “Okay, looks like you passed inspector number twelve. What do I need to pack?”
“Do you have a black suit?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Pack it and your shaving kit. If you need any hardware, computer-wise, pack it as well,” he added.
In a matter of minutes, I was packed and heading out the door to John’s truck. Barb stood in the doorway and watched as we backed out and left, waving before we disappeared around the corner.
“I wish you hadn’t said ‘housekeeping,’” I confided to him as we pulled out onto Monument Avenue.
A confused look crossed his face.
“As soon as we’re out of sight, she’ll be on the phone with her dad to see if he can find out what we're doing,” I explained.
Realization spread across his face. “Shit.” He thought for a moment before pulling his phone out and dialing.
“Hey, Nancy!” he said into the receiver. “How are you, beautiful?”
I watched him as he schmoozed the woman on the other end of the line.
“I’ve got a big favor to ask. Feel free to say no if you want.”
“Well, I’m supposed to be on call this weekend, but a buddy of mine is in town and we want to go do some fishing.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m terrible,” he said, smiling as he wove his story. “Anyway. If anyone calls the switchboard asking for me, can you say I had to go and do a debrief out on the coast and won’t be back in the office till Monday?”
“I sure do appreciate it darlin’…I owe you a dinner.”
“Oh really? Then damn! I owe you two dinners.”
“You’re the best. Thanks. Bye.”
He put his phone in his pocket and then looked at me.
“Nancy is the biggest gossip in communications. She’d never let a whisper of anything go out the door, but in-house, no secret is safe. She either loves me enough to tell the debrief story or is pissed off enough that I haven’t taken her to dinner yet to sell me out for fishing,” he grinned. “Either way, we’re covered.”
“Nice,” I muttered. “Aren’t you worried if you let me in on enough of your secrets you won’t be able to manipulate me anymore?”
“Son…you're only days away from that anyhow. I might as well teach you what I know.”
I could tell by the subtle markers in his expression that he didn’t truly believe I could become manipulation resistant, but I sensed sincerity in his desire to teach me.
On the way to the airport, I sent a secure email to my team at TravTech telling them I got called into a three-day orientation workshop, not to try and get hold of me unless it was important, and that I would see them on Monday.
I got a response from Bonbon in a matter of seconds:
Tell them I'm sorry about telling the people here and see if you can get me a reduced sentence. :P Don't let them inject you with a homing beacon. The bad guys always use it to find you in the movies. :o))))))
I smiled.
Hilarious, Bonb
on. Just hilarious.
**
6:15 p.m. local time—Colorado Springs, Colorado
MARK GAINES pulled up in front of the convenience store opposite the building where Heather Burton had worked. He had driven straight through from Huntsville, the sixteen-hour drive giving him all the time he needed and more to plan.
His grief and anger, however, threatened to undermine his operational objectivity. He knew he needed to use it to keep himself focused on the task at hand, his will sharpened—but reality was proving much harder to deal with.
As he walked into the store, he turned his head as if to look at something behind him, avoiding the store camera. He stepped up to the far end of the counter, keeping himself as far out of camera range as possible, and then cleared his throat to attract the attention of the clerk.
“Special Agent Steel, FBI,” he said, pulling out his authentic-looking badge and ID flip. “There was an incident across the street last night, and I need to examine your surveillance footage.”
The young man behind the counter looked nervously at the badge and then at the hard stare Mark was giving him.
“Don’t you need, like, a warrant or something?” the teen asked.
“Absolutely. If you deem procurement of a Federally issued warrant as necessary in obtaining evidence in a murder investigation, then that, by all means, can be supplied,” Gaines offered without altering his stone features. “But usually, only those guilty of a crime force that sort of procedure, which next, requires me to ask you your whereabouts this morning at 2:00 a.m.”
The young man turned pale and shifted uncomfortably. “I was at home, asleep,” he stuttered.
“And can anyone verify that information?” Gaines asked, leaning forward slightly, accusation suddenly clear in his tone.
“My mom,” he whimpered defensively. “Look, I don’t want no trouble. I was just askin’ is all.”
“So you are giving me permission to review your security recordings?” Gaines asked.
“I should call my boss first,” he replied.
“That’s fine, you can call him from the field office in Denver after you are questioned,” Gaines threatened. “Do you need to lock up or anything before I take you?”
“Wait!” the teen exclaimed, fear spreading across his face. “No. It’s okay, I’ll cooperate. Jeez!”
“Where are the recordings kept?” Gaines asked.
“Back here,” the boy said, leading him to the back office.
Gaines sat in the manager’s chair and pulled up the video feed for the previous night. The clerk stood behind him, watching over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Gaines sighed in mock regret. “If there's evidence on these recordings, you won’t be allowed to see it.”
The teen turned to walk out. “Fine,” he pouted. “I have to watch the counter anyway.”
As soon as the boy was gone, Gaines began scrolling through the video footage. There were two cameras that faced toward the parking lot of the building Heather had worked in—one of them had Heather’s car in the frame. He watched at high-speed until there was movement near her car and then slowed the recording down to get a better look.
“There you are,” Gaines whispered as the image of two men appeared in the corner of the screen.
He continued to watch until the men grabbed her from behind and punched her in the face until she fell limp into their arms. Anger swelled up in Gaines, followed by a shadow of grief, realizing these would be the last recorded moments he would see of Heather’s life—and there would be none of his sister’s or their child.
A pickup truck pulled up beside the scene and stopped. The two men threw Heather’s limp body into the back of the truck and sped off. He paused the video as the license plate came into view and zoomed in.
“Gotcha,” he muttered in a snarl, memorizing the plate number.
He quickly pulled up the menu on the DVR and deleted the security footage for the time period just before the men attacked Heather to the present time. He then turned off the recording device and rose from the chair.
On his way back out, he stopped at the counter, no longer having to dodge the cameras.
“There wasn’t anything useful,” he said to the clerk. “There seems to be some sort of flaw in the recording function.”
“A flaw?” the clerk exclaimed nervously, possibly worried he would be blamed for that as well.
“It was a long shot anyway,” Gaines added as he turned and walked toward the door. “Have a good evening.”
“Whatevs,” he muttered as Gaines exited the store.
Gaines pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number.
“CRIS resource. Operator 14,” came a woman’s voice from the other end of the call.
“Special Agent Harold Warren, access code Foxtrot 35723 Golf Golf,” Gaines replied, using a stolen ID and access code-—in fact, stolen from the same FBI Agent who had provided him with the badge. He, of course, had manufactured his own ID card, but the badge and CRIS access were legit—though not his.
“Authorized. Go ahead.”
“Colorado Plate, Golf, Alpha, Tango, Tango, Mike, Alpha, November, five,” Gaines said. “Pickup truck.”
“Searching.”
After a short pause her voice returned. “Roy Mullen—Mike, Uniform, Lima, Lima, Echo, November. 38547 C and S Road, Colorado Springs,” she replied. “No outstanding warrants.”
“Thank you,” Gaines said mechanically, ending the call as he got into his Crown Victoria and started the engine.
“Alright, Roy,” he said through gritted teeth as he drove out of the parking lot. “Let’s see who put you up to this.”
eight
Friday, July 23rd
12:15 a.m.—Colorado Springs, Colorado
Once on the ground, John went to procure a rental vehicle while I went and changed into my suit. I did as he instructed, shaved, and cleaned up a bit in the airport restroom. When I emerged, John whistled.
“You look like a proper G-man,” he said. It sounded like a compliment.
“Thanks…I guess,” I replied.
“Watch my bag. I’ve got to change too.” He disappeared into the men’s room with his suit and shaving bag.
When he reemerged, I couldn’t help but notice he was walking a little more rigidly…like a soldier.
“Let’s go,” he commanded before I had time to comment.
Once we were on the road, John reached into the backseat and pulled his carry-on bag up front, setting it on my lap.
“Inside is a shoulder rig with a Glock for you and two bundles wrapped in rubber bands. Pull them out for me,” he said plainly.
“A gun?” I asked. “Why do I need that?”
“Don’t freak out. It’s part of your cover,” he replied dismissively. “Feds carry guns.”
“Feds?” I asked, noting his sarcastic repeat of the word ‘guns’.
“You’re undercover.”
I did as he instructed, handing him the bundles and pulling my suit coat off before strapping on the holster.
When I was finished, he handed me an envelope.
“You're Agent Scott Rhodes of the ATF,” he said as I opened the package.
I opened the wallet to find an ATF badge, complete with an official-looking ATF ID and a small card folio with matching ATF Scott Rhodes business cards.
It was my picture. I looked up at him with a suspicious glare.
“Don’t give me the look,” he said defensively. “I figured I’d be using you for projects so I took the liberty of creating a couple of identity packages.”
“Kinda presumptuous,” I muttered with some snark. “And where the hell did you get my ID photo from?”
He just smiled.
“You know, privacy violations like this are the reason people don't trust their government,” I said indignantly. “You have heard of the Constitution, right?”
“Relax,” he replied. “It's your passport photo.”
I no
dded. “Still, I don't know why you'd assume I'd need one considering the outcome the last time we worked together.”
“Yeah. Well—you aren’t the only one who can read people.”
“Fair enough,” I muttered. “Who are you?”
“Special Agent John Stark.”
I laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Who comes up with the covers?”
“I don’t know. I put in the requests then the packages get built and sent back,” he replied. “Why?”
“Rhodes and Stark?” I asked incredulously. “Ironman?”
“You're such a nerd,” he muttered grinning, shaking his head.
“Yeah. I know… Where are we headed?”
“Crime scene,” he replied.
“Why? If he’s as good as you say he won’t go to the crime scene. We need to find him, not his calling card.”
“Okay. Where would you suggest we start?” he asked, seemingly open to my suggestion.
“How about the Colorado Springs Police Department?”
“Huh?” he grunted, questioning my logic.
“Why do leg work that’s probably already been done?” I asked. “They have a forensics team. We don’t. The evidence is probably all gathered and being analyzed.”
He tipped his head sideways as he drove, squinting in concentration. “Okay. CSPD it is.”
**
We arrived at the police station, and I followed John through the front doors. He walked in as if he owned the place.
“Who’s in charge of the Gaines and Burton murder investigation?” he asked to no one in particular.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” asked the desk sergeant—a “Sgt. Mills” according to his name tag.
“I’m Special Agent Stark, and this is Agent Rhodes. ATF,” John said, producing his badge and ID. I did the same.
Sgt. Mills took them both, examined them, and then handed them back to us. “Stark and Rhodes, huh? Like Ironman.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle.
