Agent G: Saboteur

by Phipps, C. T.

  The back of the toilet.

  “Let’s hope I’m right,” I muttered, walking through the men’s bathroom door. “Otherwise, we are fucked.”

  The interior of the airfield men’s bathroom was as crappy as the rest of the place. The walls had peeling floral-print wallpaper and dirty, yellow, white tile. Experience with the toilets let me know only a few of them worked. The sinks were all functioning but filthy. You got what you paid for when you used abandoned locations, though. There was also a broken door leading to a janitor’s closet right in front of the final toilet stall.

  The room was sparsely lit. Sunlight only barely came through a trio of small windows above the stalls, and the flickering lights gave only a dull fluorescence. Across the ground moved a cockroach that I stepped over on my way to the non-working toilets. They were old-fashioned white porcelain models with thick backsides, perfect for drug smugglers as well as our mutinous friend. Pulling the backs off the first two, I found nothing inside them, except that one of the soldiers had decided to use it despite it not being functional.

  Classy.

  The third toilet back, however, was stuffed with a plastic bag containing stacks of hundred-dollar bills. In a way, it was almost disappointing to be right. I was used to dealing with a higher class of criminal than this. Pulling out the plastic bag and giving it a once-over, I did a double take as I saw a ring at the bottom.

  My wife’s ring.

  Chapter Six

  In an instant, I was no longer present inside the grubby, smelly men’s bathroom of an abandoned Peruvian airport. Instead, it was nine in the evening, and I was sitting at a candlelit table on the rooftop of a Boston restaurant I’d rented. It was one of those silly little movie-like indulgences you could make when you were rich. Sitting across from me was S.

  We were married, but only as part of our cover as operatives working for the International Refugee Society (the organization from which the Society took its name). Even so, S was one of my few friends, and I’d started to delude myself into believing we had something more than a shared mission.

  S was a five-foot-six woman with long red hair, sculpted cheekbones, a firm muscular frame, and an English accent. She was a striking woman, which had its advantages in the intelligence game, but tended to make her identities professional swimmers or tennis players. Today, she was dressed up in a long black dress with a slit on the side and a rather generous exposure of cleavage provided by a particularly well-designed bra. Her expression was empty, though, and she’d barely touched her food.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, wearing a fine tuxedo that was more James Bond than my usual wear.

  “An interesting question,” S said, looking over at her ring. “You’ve added some extra stones.”

  “You don’t like them?” I asked.

  “You realize we’re not actually married, right?” S asked, looking over.

  “Even if we occasionally sleep together.”

  “I’m aware,” I said, poking at my food. “Just because we’re fake married doesn’t mean we can’t be good friends, though.”

  “Doesn’t it?” S asked.

  We’d been through this song and dance several times. We were kites in the wind of the Society, and while I wanted to make the best of a bad situation, she went between loathing and loving the Society.

  I tried not to say something flippant in response. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”

  “What did you do last week?” S asked.

  I blinked. “I thought we made it a point never to discuss work.”

  “Well, I’m unpointing it,” S said.

  I took a deep breath. “How detailed do you want me to be?”

  “Just a rough description.”

  I sighed. “I snuck into a Joshua Printer’s house and hacked his computer. I guessed his password was his daughter’s first name. From there, I made it look like Josh lost a fortune at Draft Kings. When he came home that night, I stayed in his guest room closet until he was asleep and injected him with a hypodermic full of prescription medicine available in his house. I wrote a suicide note on his laptop before sending it to his family and escaping out his window. That was Monday.”

  S stared at me. “Did he do anything to deserve that?”

  I looked at her. “Probably not, no.”

  “How many of the people do you wager do deserve it, of the people we kill?”

  “Half,” I said. “Maybe two-thirds.”

  “So many.”

  I picked up a fork full of a fish Italian blend I couldn’t pronounce the name of. “My Friday was spent with a sex trafficker named Thomas Burns. College-educated, not more than thirty, looked nice and clean-cut but ran a kidnapping ring in El Paso. He and his former basketball teammates used a Christian dating site to lure white girls from Mexico across the border before drugging them for resale to high-end brothels. I killed him and his buddies in a faked shoot-out, then called the cops to find their victims locked up in the basement.”

  “And that evens it out for you?” S asked, her expression cold. “Morally?”

  “What is this about?” I asked, knowing there was no answer that would satisfy her. The fact was, I killed people, and I accepted the consequences of what I did. Morally and otherwise.

  “I had to kill a murderer today,” S said. “An executive of the Karma Corporation wanted me to kill the man who poisoned a bunch of toddlers with an inadequately tested drug in the seventies. One of them was her father.”

  “A strange case to feel guilt over.”

  S looked down at the plate. “He spent the rest of his life trying to help others. When I killed him, he was consumed with guilt and glad he died in the end. If he couldn’t find redemption, then how can people like us?”

  “Who said we could be redeemed?” I said, half smiling. “Quia in inferno nulla est redemptio.”

  “There is no redemption in hell,” S said. “You can pronounce Latin sayings from Medieval literature, but you can’t pronounce tonight’s meal?”

  “I swear the chef just made the name up,” I looked at it, then took a bite. “It’s delicious, though.”

  S didn’t laugh, though. “So, if the Society is hell, does that make you the Devil?”

  “It is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven,” I said, not bringing up the fact that I hardly ruled in the Society. I was just one of Satan’s soldiers, doing the bad work that the Society assigned me. “We play the hand we’re dealt in life.”

  “I think it’s time we slept in separate parts of the house,” S said, removing her wedding ring.

  Our relationship had disintegrated not long after that. She’d taken to sleeping with other men and women, outside of missions, while I’d taken up with Marissa. I always regretted losing that connection because she’d been one of the few people who could understand the life I led. S hadn’t been one of the Letters I’d recruited in the aftermath of the Society’s meltdown. There was no way to tell if she was working for the Tribunal or one of the independent powers. Hell, if she’d been killed. That was when I heard footsteps from just outside the wall, followed by talking.

  Chapter Seven

  “Jesus Christ, David, this is getting hot. Are you sure—” a thick Texan accent spoke.

  “Shut up. I brought you in, didn’t I?” David Parker said in an Alabama accent. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Great, there were two of them. Heading to the janitor’s closet and closing the door in front of me, not making a sound as I did so. Opening it slightly, I watched two of Strike Force-22’s soldiers enter. Both had removed their gas masks, but they were still wearing their power armor, and that would pose a serious problem should this turn into a fight. Power armor was still a relatively rare example of Black Technology, not because the tech didn’t exist but because it was impractical.

  The United States and its military contractors could conceivably build something like Iron Man, but there was no use for that when a jet or soldier worked so much be
tter. Strike Force-22’s armor, though, was thin and cheap with a micro-thin exoskeleton that turned your regular soldier into a guerilla. I wouldn’t have a problem disabling one of these guys, but two? Two might be a problem. Still, I was going after them.

  Creeping out of the closet, I silently moved up behind Marcus’s partner and pulled out a long metal wire from my wristwatch. A garrote was a classic of assassination for a reason, but this version was modified in a way that made it perfect for my needs here. It was insulated at the beginning and end, for reasons that made it one of my favorite gadgets.

  Throwing the wire around his beck, I gave a twist of my wrist, which activated a Taser within the wire and sent a high-voltage electrical charge through his body. The soldier went down without a word and I let go of the garrote, the wire zipping back into the wristwatch.

  It wasn’t silent at that range, but I was already ready for Parker as he turned around, surprised by my presence. He had the bag of cash in his hands and stupidly clung to it while turning around. I braced myself against the ground and punched him as hard as I could across the jaw, sending him backward against the toilet where he landed with a thump.

  From there, I reached over to where his pistol was holstered, grabbed it, and aimed it at his head. “Hello, Parker.”

  Parker’s nose bled from where I’d broken it, but he still clung stubbornly to the money in his hands. “Fuck you, Robot.”

  “That’s not nice,” I said, cocking a round into the chamber and turning off the safety in one easy gesture. “You tried to kill me today. I take that personally.”

  “You can’t kill a machine,” Parker answered, confirming my suspicions. “You’re not a person either. Some of us have actual lives and families to worry about. I knew Daniel Gordon, the man you’re based off of, and he was a real soldier, not a—”

  I slammed my gun in the back of his head for emphasis before putting its barrel back against his skull. “And what if I told you could keep the money and we could keep this all to ourselves.”

  Parker blinked, feeling the back of his head with one hand as he looked back, confused. “Excuse me?”

  “Clearly, you have mistaken me for someone who gives two fucks about the morality of what you’ve done. I don’t. You’ve been in contact with the enemy, though, and I would like to know everything you know about them. In exchange, you can take your cash and go to Bermuda for all I care.”

  Parker seemed confused by this. “Bullshit. There’s no way you’re going to let me walk.”

  “I’m part of a kill squad, Parker. So are you. We don’t deal in moral ambiguities around here because we’re pretty much all black. I want the Tribunal, and knowing who paid you, where, and when, along with any other salient details you remember, is enough for me. After that, we’ll call it clean.” Honestly, I probably would have just shot him if not for the fact that S had given me a sign. Maybe I was reading too much into it that she knew I’d survive, but I cared a lot more about finding her than I did the Tribunal.

  “Just like that,” Parker said, turning his head back to the wall.

  “Just like that,” I said, lying. “I prefer to believe you don’t have any ideological commitment to betraying President Douglas.”

  “I voted for the white guy,” Parker said. “But no, this is just a job to me.”

  “Tell me everything you know.” I wasn’t sure how much I’d get from him, but I wanted to know every detail.

  Parker took a deep breath. “I was supposed to sabotage your equipment and then I’d receive another payment just as large as the rest. When it didn’t work, I was going to get my squad on it so we’d take you directly.”

  “That would have been messy and not at all what S wanted.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “The woman was beautiful, like a swimsuit model only with muscles. Red hair. Tough looking. I don’t know much, but we met in Bolivia and she gave me an email address to get in touch with details should the first plan go awry.”

  “Which you chose not to take advantage of.”

  Parker glared at me. “I don’t need some skirt telling me how to kill people.”

  Some skirt? Really? Where did he grow up? Mayberry? “Of course not. What’s the email?”

  He gave it me.

  “Thanks,” I said, nodding. “Now I need to frame you for sabotaging Delphi.”

  “What?” Parker asked, blinking.

  I shot him in the head.

  Chapter Eight

  “So, after he drew a gun on you is when you shot him?” Marissa asked, sitting across from me in the makeshift interrogation room. It was the yellowed, sawdust-covered former airfield snack shop. The table we were sitting at was metal with a pair of stools bolted into the floor for support.

  There was a pair of guards at the door, both looking bored, which was a good sign. If neither of them was anxious after the incident with Delphi and one of the strike force being killed, they probably weren’t expecting to have to shoot me. Alternatively, they were psychopaths expecting to shoot me and just waiting for the order. I gave it about 75-25 odds either way.

  “No,” I said, sticking to the story I’d concocted in my head. “He drew his gun and I was forced to wrestle it away from him.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t have a gun on him before,” Marissa said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re usually better than this.”

  “As you’ve been saying.”

  “I’m saying losing another witness is not a good thing,” Marissa said, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just your life on the line.”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “When I die in four years to five years, you’ll be what, thirty-five? Thirty-six? An entire lifetime ahead of you underneath the next president with a cushy promotion for your work here in the death squad.”

  Marissa’s eyes widened. “G—”

  I crossed my arms. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not supposed to be talking like that?”

  “You’re really not.”

  “Maybe I’d just like to know if I was getting more than a little gold star on a wall somewhere, assuming I’m getting even that much,” I said, surprised at the vehemence of my reaction. I’d intended to distract Marissa from her questions with a personal attack, but it surprised me to feel what I was saying.

  Marissa looked guilty. “What you’re doing is making the world a better place.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Would you prefer to leave? Live your life independently?”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “But if it was?” Marissa asked.

  I cursed the fact that Marissa had turned the question around on me.

  If I answered yes, it would implicate me to my employers, but if I answered no, it might hurt whatever lingering relationship I had with

  Marissa. I suppose it said a lot about me I never considered telling her the truth. “Any luck with that email address I got?”

  “We’ve sent a message to her in Parker’s style of writing,” Marissa said. “Requesting more money and another meeting.”

  “S isn’t likely to fall for that.”

  “No,” Marissa said. “However, it’s still given us a trail to follow. We’ve set James on trying to track her location down through the various proxy servers she used to make her communications.”

  “So, he’s free?” I asked, glad part of my plan had worked.

  “Yes,” Marissa said, narrowing her eyes. “Parker’s involvement provides an excellent explanation for Delphi being sabotaged, especially once we found that flash drive in his pocket full of root-kits and viruses.”

  Not exactly the work of a criminal mastermind slipping it in there, but I was glad it worked. “Good to know everything is wrapped up.”

  “Yeah,” Marissa said, narrowing her eyes. “Convenient.”

  Marissa had wanted to speak with me earlier about something but I decided not to bring it up, even as a deflection. M
arissa was clearly suspicious over what had happened with Delphi, but I didn’t want to start using my personal life as a tool against her. Once I started down that road, then the difference between me and the personas I adopted for an advantage became nonexistent. That would be the point I became a psychopath like A.

  “Does the other soldier remember anything?” I asked. “He can confirm my story.”

  Marissa rolled her eyes. “We had to use paddles to revive him after you electrocuted him.”

  I gave a half-hearted shrug. “Shoc—”

  “Don’t,” Marissa said.

  “Sorry,” I said, meaning it. I linked up with her cybernetically. “If you want to know what really happened, I will tell you.”

  “Not here. They monitor my transmissions.”

  “I see. So, they’re smarter than they appear.”

  “They’re the NSA, G.”

  “Like I said, they’re smarter than they appear.”

  I was about to say more when a white-suited twenty-something White House staffer walked in through the door past the guards carrying a laptop. He ignored Marissa and placed the laptop down in front of me.

  “Message from the President,” the man said. “For you both.”

  Marissa stood up from her stool and walked around. I got up out of mine to give her a place to sit, only for Marissa to roll her eyes. Chivalry, it seemed, was dead where she came from. Opening the laptop, the staffer typed several keys and brought up a video conference message box that seemed like a poor use of Black Technology. That was right before a hologram projected outward from the back into the middle of the room.

  President Sarah Douglas was a fifty-eight-year-old African American woman with plump cheeks and a severe expression. Today, she was wearing a business suit that lived in the valley between approachable and authoritative. She had the ability to fake endearing, a useful asset to a politician, but was one of the singularly most ruthless women I’d ever known. I’d killed over a hundred people in my life, but President Douglas did that every day before lunch. The Massachusetts-born senator had been the International Refugee Society’s enemy even before she’d known of its existence, devoting a considerable portion of her early political career to reigning in corporate power and the free-flow of money to politicians.