Unexpected Gaines

by S L Shelton

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, smiling broadly. “There’ve been a few changes for me, but for the most part, I’m back to doing what I was doing before.” I didn’t want to lie to her, but I wasn’t going to be able to tell her I was doing analyst work for the CIA over an unsecure line—besides, it wasn’t a complete lie. I was still solving puzzles for a TravTech paycheck—I was just doing it for the Agency now.

  “How is Barb?” she asked with genuine concern in her voice. I didn’t want to get into that business on the phone either.

  “We’ve all had to deal with some unpleasant changes,” I replied. “But she’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “The last time I saw you, you didn’t look well. Are you healing?”

  “Yes,” I replied sincerely. “A few days ago, I actually climbed for the first time since Europe. It wasn’t a pretty climb, but I’m definitely on my way to full recovery.” I left out the part where I nearly beat Mark Gaines to death and disarmed an assassin in the alleyway in LA.

  “Wunderbar,” she exclaimed. “I will come to you and you can take me climbing on my next holiday—if Barb doesn’t mind.”

  “That would be great,” I replied, glossing over the lack of concern for Barb’s opinion on the matter. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I’m sorry to have to make this call so short, und I am almost hesitant to break the connection for fear I won’t get it back, but I have to go—work stuff,” she explained apologetically.

  I quickly calculated the time difference and was struck by the oddity of her having to do “work stuff” at 3:30 a.m. on a Tuesday in Germany.

  “Why so early?” I asked.

  “What?” she replied. “Oh! No. I’m not in Germany. I’m in Asia.”

  Asia?!

  I was about to ask her to elaborate when she spoke again. “I’m sorry. I really do have to go,” she reiterated urgently. “But I promise, now that I know I can get through, you will receive more emails from me…starting with the first few I sent that bounced.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “I’ll be looking for them…and I hope we can talk again soon.”

  “We will,” she assured me. “It’s so good to hear your voice. Be well, Scott Wolfe.”

  I smiled. That had been the last thing she said to me in Germany as well. “Be well, Kathrin Fuchs.”

  She chuckled and ended the call. I slipped my phone back into my pocket as I merged onto the Fairfax County Parkway.

  It amazed me that I had just spoken with the woman I had been trying to reach for so many weeks unhampered by guilt of any sort. It was, in fact, a huge relief. It immediately occurred to me that I hadn't thought of Barb at all in the past couple of days.

  I guess I have Doctor Hebron's answer for her, I thought. Barb and I are done. Now I have to tell Barb—ouch.

  When I got home, it was hard to focus on anything, so I made a small meal and then sat in the living room to watch TV while I ate.

  It took no time to get tired of listening to the same repetitious news reports concerning the deaths of the media personalities. When I had finished eating, I flipped to an old movie, turned the volume down a bit so I could concentrate and opened my laptop to do some work.

  I was organizing my notes for the coming day, having missed doing so much by getting called to Langley. I was about to open a new email from Storc when my phone rang. I took the opportunity to stand and stretch. I answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Scott,” came Barb’s voice from the other end of the line.

  I paused for a second, taken off guard. “Hi.”

  “Daddy told me what he did,” she said with embarrassment.

  She waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, she continued. “I am furious with him. I told him he had no right.”

  “Yeah. He told me that as well.”

  “I just want you to know—all other issues aside for a second—I didn’t know anything about him blocking Kathrin from communicating with you.”

  “I believe you,” I replied as gently as I could.

  “And it really made me understand why you were so pissed off at me for suggesting I'd have Daddy interfere with your contract,” she added.

  Like that wouldn't be bad enough in itself?

  “I know that doesn’t fix everything,” she admitted quietly. “But I wanted you to know that, at least.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said uncomfortably, suddenly just wanting the call to end.

  “Oh, and I probably should have clued you in before—I hope it's not too late,” she said. “I told Bonbon that I was going to stay with my dad for a few days. When she asked if everything was alright with you and me, I knew what would happen if I said no…so I didn't. She assumed that meant something was wrong with Dad.”

  “That explains a lot,” I replied.

  “If you don't tell her before Friday, we are supposed to have lunch,” she continued. “I'll let her know then.”

  I suddenly found it amusing that we were both more worried about our friend's reaction to our break up than we were about each other.

  “Do you think we could talk?” she asked.

  “You mean other than over the phone?” I asked, suddenly nervous about a face-to-face.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I have some things I’d like to say that are better said in person.”

  “Barb. I know I haven’t been easy. But I think we both know where we stand,” I said, trying to avoid a face-to-face. I knew it was the coward's way out, but I needed a few more days wrapped around the idea before I faced her. I knew that otherwise I'd be tempted to try and resolve our differences and give it another shot. That damned guilt thing was going to get me killed one day.

  “I know,” she said, pausing for a second. “But I want you to know that regardless of how difficult post-abduction is to deal with: you are my hero—and I will never forget that. You're the man who traveled halfway around the world to save me.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. I wanted to be gracious, but at that point it was easier to stay angry at her for trying to manipulate me.

  “I appreciate that,” I replied honestly, letting the awkward silence that followed fill our minds—it said far more than I could.

  It became more than I could stand.

  “It’s still a little raw for me, Barb,” I said abruptly—a little too abruptly. “Can we hold off on our farewells for a while?”

  “I see,” she said tersely.

  I could tell it was not what she wanted to hear.

  “Well. I just wanted to clear that bit up anyway,” she continued. “I didn’t want you to continue thinking I was complicit in blocking your friend from contacting you.”

  My friend. This was getting awkward. Any goodwill she had built by calling had dissolved when she said “your friend”. Kathrin had risked her life to help save Barb as well. It felt like a personal insult.

  “Thanks, Barb,” I blurted. “Look. I hate to cut it short, but—”

  “No. No. That’s okay,” she said, cutting me off. “That’s really all I wanted to say. Take care, Scott.”

  “You too, Barb,” I replied and then quickly ended the call.

  I stared at the phone a moment after hanging up, and though I felt bad for not being ready to have the face-to-face good-bye, I really did feel much better having made it clear we were actually done with the relationship. I breathed in deeply through my nose and then sat down, ready to work some more.

  I should have known better. There was no possibility of finishing any work after that. I shut down my system and went back to the bedroom to get ready for bed. As I went through my routine—shower, brushing my teeth, setting up the coffee pot for the next morning—I couldn’t help but feel alone after that call. Frustratingly so.

  I finished up in the rest of the house, turned off the lights, and retreated to the bedroom. I lay on top of the blanket for a few minutes while I scrolled through new emails. When my eyes
were too blurry to focus on the screen, I put my iPad on the nightstand to charge and then turned out the lights.

  I had barely started to drift off when I heard my front door squeak.

  Odd, I thought as I abruptly sat up in bed. Who had a key besides Barb? Bonbon? Storc?

  And something was different about the sound—it was just a quick squeal, then silence.

  Arm yourself, my other voice whispered.

  A chill ran up my spine and my muscles tensed as I slid off the bed. I slunk over to my closet to get my baseball bat. It was not the first time I’d wished I had a gun, but after all that had transpired over the last few months, I felt a little ridiculous grabbing a bat.

  I walked down the hallway barefoot, shirtless, and only in my underwear. I was only halfway to the living room when I saw a dark figure in the dim light of the landing. I launched myself forward and over the railing, down on top of the man. He was in all black and carrying what looked like a silenced handgun.

  I was so focused on the intruder, I didn’t see the second figure just turning the corner on the stairs.

  My feet landed squarely on the shoulders of the first man, smashing him face first into the top stair. I heard a disturbing crack come from the vicinity of his neck. He was motionless. I had no time to celebrate before the butt of a handgun struck me on my shoulder from behind. I’m certain the target had been the base of my skull, but I was in motion and it was dark.

  I fell forward but immediately grabbed the shoulders of the man I had just put down and flipped his body around so it faced the second man. I heard the unmistakable clack of silenced gunfire.

  Blood splattered my face.

  I pushed up on the dead man’s shoulders enough to get my feet under his back, and then launched him forward with my legs, slamming him into the second man. Both men rolled down the stairs, the dead one tumbling over the live one.

  I didn’t wait to see how it turned out. I was on my feet and grabbing my baseball bat in a second. I sailed down the stairs and through the air, dropping the baseball bat down solidly on the arm holding the gun. The man screamed in pain as the gun flipped backward and down into the downstairs foyer, clanking into the corner.

  I was severely off balance and continued to tumble over his head, able to do little more than spin around before my back landed with a hard thud on the foyer floor. My assailant landed solidly on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs. He wasted no time in trying to turn himself around, but he was hampered by a severely injured arm—damaged by my Louisville Slugger.

  He was halfway through his turn when I brought the bat up and pressed it against his neck, trying to push him off me. His elbow crashed down hard into my stomach, preventing me from taking a deep enough breath to recover.

  He managed to turn himself so he was facing me before forcing his damaged arm between the baseball bat and his throat. Once in the superior fighting position, he began raining blows down on my midsection with his knee. Because of the angle, my one leg was crossed over the other, which prevented him from kneeing my groin, but the pain he was inflicting on my midsection was distracting, to say the least.

  The light from the lamppost outside shone through the window. I could see his eyes and the anger contained within. I didn’t know if this intrusion was meant to be a capture or a kill, but it was kill that was written on the man’s face.

  He looked to the side, scanning the dimly lit alcove.

  He’s looking for the gun, my other voice said into my ear.

  It was only a split second later that his good hand reached out away from my throat toward the wall. He had spotted it.

  I released my grip on the fat end of the baseball bat and reached out, not to the gun, but to his arm.

  “You are going to die,” the man growled.

  I grunted under his weight. “Not tonight, though,” I replied.

  I rocked myself to the side, pulling his reach away from the weapon, and then quickly, rashly, I rolled back toward the gun. With his own strength being used to pull us in that direction, I was able to build enough momentum to flip and roll on top of him.

  But his hand had reached the gun. A satisfied grunt emanated from his throat. As far as he was concerned, this fight was over—I had to sap that confidence.

  I placed my thumb in the center of his wrist and squeezed hard, pressing his arm away from us as forcefully as my climber's strength could muster. My other elbow was now across the man's throat, and his injured hand was trapped uselessly between us. While pressing with all my might into his wrist, I found the top of his boot with my bare feet.

  My hand was holding his arm away; my thumb dug deeply into the groove of his wrist. As he struggled to get it free, I scissored my legs apart, forcing the bottom of his feet against the staircase.

  “Drop it,” I hoarsely whispered into his ear.

  “Ha,” he laughed weakly—but I could hear doubt.

  I dug my heel into the toe of his trapped boot and then pressed up with my elbow, forcing his chin up and back.

  “Drop it,” I croaked again.

  I got no response from him that time. With my heel pressed against his foot on the stairs, he was experiencing a “rack” moment—like an ancient torture device created to stretch a person until their joints popped and broke.

  “Last…chance…” I grunted through my effort. His breathing had gotten shallow and quick. I reached down to the core of my being and strained with all my strength, continuing to push his head further away from the rest of his body.

  After what seemed like an eternity, his arm went limp, followed by a grotesque arch of his neck with my elbow rolling over top of it. The crunch of bone was disturbing and sent a flash of panic through my chest—but it signaled the end of the battle.

  A long, slow exhale rasped through his windpipe and whistled out of his mouth. I felt his chest collapsing beneath me, like lying on an inflatable mattress that was losing its air rapidly.

  I lay there on top of him for long minutes, trying to catch my breath, when it suddenly dawned on me that these two might not be alone. I struggled to push myself up. After prying the gun out of his dead fingers, I stumbled up the stairs, stepping over the first man who had been killed. There, on the landing, was his gun. I grabbed it as I headed for my bedroom and my cell phone.

  I dialed John’s number.

  “Hey, Scott. What’s up?” he asked groggily.

  I was still out of breath. “I have two dead guys in my front foyer,” I said. “Dressed in black and carrying silenced pistols.”

  He was awake then. “Are you hurt?” he asked concerned.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  “I’m leaving now. I’ll call internal security on the way. They’ll probably be there before me,” he said, and then hung up.

  I reached into my closet and grabbed a pair of pants and a T-shirt before pulling on my hiking sandals. After walking slowly, cautiously, back into the living room, I listened for anything out of the ordinary. I could smell the mixture of gunpowder and strange sweat emanating from my landing and suddenly had an overwhelming desire to retch.

  I made it to the hall bathroom toilet just in time.

  After cleaning myself up, I returned to the living room and laid the two guns on the floor in front of me as I squatted down to sit in front of my favorite chair. I leaned back and looked at the ceiling, letting the quiet return to my head.

  I stared at the lights that flashed across the ceiling from time to time as a car drove by on the street below. After a few moments, I took my first deep breath since my evening had been interrupted.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Scott?” I asked out loud.

  Is this what I really wanted with my life? I thought to myself.

  Yes, was the simple, gentle reply I heard from my other voice.

  I thought about my hitchhiker’s answer for a moment, exploring my feelings—and then I smiled.

  “God help me. You’re right,” I whispered. “It is what
I want.”

  Two armed men had just broken into my house, trying to do me harm—and I had defeated them with nothing but a Louisville Slugger and my bare hands. I had won.

  I am happy.

  Epilogue

  12:15 a.m. on Wednesday, July 28th—Fairfax, Virginia

  The CIA security team had been at my house for about five minutes when John arrived. I heard him talking to the guys downstairs before coming up to the living room where I was still sitting on the floor—the handguns had been taken by the security team’s forensics guy.

  John stood in front of me for a second without saying anything and then sat on the couch across from me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I looked up at him. “Why? Did you send them after me?” I asked quietly with a grim smile.

  He chuckled and shook his head.

  “I should have set security up immediately,” he said after a moment of silence.

  “That’s bullshit,” I replied, letting him off the hook. “If you had to put security on everyone who ever crossed a bad guy, ninety percent of your budget would be blown on protection details.”

  He raised his eyebrow at the observation. “That’s a rather enlightened response,” he said.

  “What can I say? I’m an enlightened fellow,” I said with a grin, dropping my head back into my hands and rubbing my tired eyes.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Just tired.”

  “Okay. I’ll get the bodies out of the house and get things wrapped up,” he said. “Do you want to stay somewhere else tonight?”

  “No. I’m fine,” I said. “But if you were to drop one of their guns on the way out and a couple of spare mags, I wouldn’t be offended.”

  He looked at me for a second, measuring my request, before reaching into his belt and pulling out his own 9mm handgun and an extra magazine.

  “You can use this until we get you one of your own,” he said, setting them down on the coffee table in front of me, smiling. “Not that you need it.”

  I looked up at him quizzically.