by Brad C Scott
“The one that looked like it got pulled from a fire? No, nothing yet. Facial recognition confirmed Conry and Muirland but nothing on the third fellow. I’ve got a friend over at NSA diving into it. Oh, and check the network. I’ve left something there for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Portions of your man’s dossier, courtesy of DSS. And not that cover flap nonsense. Deep, dark, and very very classified – there’s a lot of reading there.”
“Thanks, Gerard. I owe you one.”
“Two if you’re counting, but I’m not. Patton has his CID code. Happy hunting.”
The call ends. A towel hits me in the face.
“There you go,” says Evans, wrinkling her nose at me over a cup of coffee.
“Can I get one of those?”
“When you’re done in the shower. You stink. I already laid out some clothes for you.”
“Thanks.” That draws a scowl. “No, really, Kari, I mean it.”
“You can repay me by not doing anything stupid like that again.”
“Like what?” I say, climbing to my feet and stretching. Patton, are you there?
Yes, he thoughtspeaks. I am caged in Kari’s garage for a recharge cycle.
“Hold on,” I say to Evans, causing her open mouth to shut and her eyes to glitter with menace. Do you have a location on Krayge?
Affirmative. His CID code began registering in all federal databases approximately six hours after the detonation drone activation. The two events are probably linked. There is also a significant probability that his CID code is being emulated.
Deep-seated sigh. Can they be any more obvious about it?
“Can I join the conversation?” asks Evans, suddenly all sweetness.
Got to go. “Sorry about that,” I say, edging toward the hallway where the shower awaits. “I’ll get cleaned up, then we’ll go over it together.”
“Next time, you’ll sleep in the garage,” she mutters.
◊ ◊ ◊
Kari can actually cook. Best damned breakfast I’ve had in months – an omelet with bacon and toast. She forced a wheatgrass smoothie on me, too, which wasn’t half bad.
Afterward, we have coffee in her living room and review Cato’s intel on the man who’s nearly done me in twice. Birth name Randall Conry, close to a dozen aliases acquired over the years, though he’ll always be Krayge to me.
There’s a lot to it. The bastard had a busy eight years with DSS.
He started in tactical operations, parlaying his overseas spec-ops experience into counter-terror at home. Krayge planned and ran ops targeting a motley array of groups, jihadist and otherwise, NDL included. I skim quickly through the operation reports, all dry, dark reading, especially the after-action stuff with body counts and assessments. Kari disagrees, finding them to be fascinating, so I let her tackle them.
After two years, the operation reports end with a memo stating his promotion to intelligence specialist. Finally, the good stuff.
Based on the first dozen or so reports I read through, Krayge was a quick study at intelligence work, specifically HUMINT, the DSS specialty. While NSA maintains domestic dominance in SIGINT and CYBINT, the sentinels long ago surpassed every other agency with their vast network of confidential contacts, sympathizers, and agents embedded in virtually every power group in the homeland. Krayge did his part from day one, cultivating productive relationships with contacts in various jihadist movements. Seems that’s his area of expertise: he speaks Arabic, knows Islam and its offshoots intimately, and understands the motivations of its radical adherents. For his first two years in intelligence, he did a lot of damage to the cause of jihad. Wherever he acquired his hatred – probably overseas in JSOC – it got put to good use.
Then Krayge got promoted again, but not upwards, to section or station chief. Seems his ambitions don’t include being an armchair warrior.
Krayge took the plunge to deep-cover work, allowing himself to be “recruited” into a jihadist group. Scanning the relevant files reveals most to be facilitator reports – “facilitator” being the title DSS gives to the handlers or case officers for their field agents. I skim them, looking for patterns and significant changes. After about a year of feeding useable intel to his DSS facilitator, he was compromised but managed to escape. The group he’d infiltrated then got eliminated down to the last man. Krayge pushed for that.
He then transferred to a different section dealing with home-grown terror cells. For the next few years, he walked the tightrope as a double agent in the Seattle NDL cell. They knew he was a sentinel, believing him to be a dangle, a duplicitous operative only pretending to want to join their cause, and they used him as such by feeding him disinformation. But Krayge turned the tables, gaining an influential contact in the NDL cell who believed he was genuine in wanting to switch sides, an operative named Casey Winters. With her help, he acquired and relayed actionable intelligence to DSS while feeding inconsequential intel, or chicken feed, back to NDL.
I stop reading. This is borderline unbelievable. How could a man so amoral and brutal get anyone to trust them? And Krayge, pulling a honey trap? Was Casey Winters demented?
I skip ahead to the final facilitator report, eager to know the answer. Reading through it reveals a handle we can use.
“What is it? Found something good?” asks Evans, her own pad forgotten in her lap.
“Yeah. This gives us a better read on our target than anything else I’ve found.”
Selecting the report for holographic playback, I set the pad on the coffee table. The file text slow-scrolls above it as a crisp, masculine voice – the facilitator who wrote it? – reads aloud:
March 2, 2059
Facilitator Report DF-121
RE: Agent 57D-134, Operation Northwest Corridor, Phase 3
Met with asset at established safe house. He provided general intel on a pending op being planned by the North Seattle NDL cell with the goals of power grid sabotage and interlink disruption in the Northwest (ref TAR-G101-1145). Asset also reported lethal sanction on NDL operative Casey Winters (aka Hummingbird, ref TAR-P15573, hereafter “operative”), citing the need to protect his cover, and that cover was maintained as a result.
Contextual observations: Asset had a large bandage covering the left side of his face suggestive of a recent injury. He also displayed subtle signs of mental and emotional instability.
“His scar,” mutters Evans. “That’s when he got it.”
When questioned about the incident leading to his sanction of operative, asset became evasive. Repeated requests for full disclosure met with no success. Following protocol, asset was detained and interrogated (ref REDACTED). Under interrogation, asset’s story was verified, and his actions in sanctioning operative deemed appropriate.
Interrogation also revealed asset had been compromised by emotional ties to operative. He maintained a sexual relationship with her for five months, successfully protecting his cover during that time. Due to asset’s compromised judgment, he exposed his cover, triggering the incident. They argued, and when operative threatened to expose asset to others, he eliminated her via strangulation. The injury to asset’s face was sustained during the incident, caused by a wound inflicted by operative with scissors. Asset’s strong emotional reactions to the incident and refusal to accept treatment for his injury further demonstrated his compromised state.
Conclusions: Asset violated protocols in exposing his cover and rendered poor judgment in allowing himself to become emotionally compromised, thereby leading to the incident and the threat to mission integrity. Further, asset’s actions in eliminating operative, while correct, have caused emotional and mental instability that makes him unfit for reinsertion into the field at this time. Recommend full psychiatric evaluation, reeducation, and reassignment.
Personal Notes: I believe asset was in love with Casey Winters and killing her has unbalanced him in some fundamental way. Of particular note, he never once blamed himself for her death, repeatedly stating that he �
�did what he had to do.” He expressed regret, sadness, anger, but no guilt. I’ve seen it before, this unwillingness to accept reality, in field agents forced by duty to do horrible things. Such agents are most susceptible to being turned. I trust the reeducators will ensure that doesn’t happen.
The file ends, the voice goes silent.
“Poor bastard,” says Evans.
“What?”
“He’s broken, maybe something like PTSD. Don’t give me that look. I won’t hesitate to take the shot when the time comes, but I still feel sorry for him.”
I take a big gulp of coffee. “You were right about the scar.”
“My dad had a buddy come to a bad end because of it. When he returned to the states, he lasted three months before blowing his brains out with his service sidearm. He couldn’t get over it, what he saw over there. Indonesia, the Surabaya massacres. The way he was… It was scary. I’d hide out upstairs when he and the old man were drinking in the living room.”
“That’s different. Krayge wasn’t on a battlefield. He killed her to protect his own ass.”
“He was still killing for his country. What? That’s what they trained him to believe. It’s right there in the report, they endorsed what he did. Did they return him to service?”
“Let’s see,” I say, referencing the pad again. “Yeah, here’s the memo, was reassigned to… resource management. Wet work, that figures.”
“A government assassin?”
“That’s what they call them: resource managers. I’m sure he excelled at it. Krayge’s not interested in redemption, he wants just the opposite, revenge. Question is, against who?”
“Maybe against everyone.”
“Maybe. Wherever he goes, people die. More coffee?”
I grab our empties and head into her kitchen. As I’m pouring the coffee, my commset buzzes. An unknown number, audio only. Alright, I’ll bite…
“I hear you’re looking for me,” says a bored-sounding baritone. Krayge.
I overfill the cup, splashing coffee all over the counter. I set the carafe aside and step away from the window, eyes on swivel. “Do you prefer Conry or Krayge?”
“I’d prefer you’d died last night. Thanks for fucking up my shit, asshole.”
“Your security was impressive.” I tap my commset to activate a tracing program. “Did you use the hundred grand you got for murdering my people to help pay for it?”
“I had a job to do. You expecting an apology for that?”
“Hired gun or not, their deaths are on you. You can redeem yourself for your part in it, starting by telling me who hired you.”
He chuckles. “Thanks for nothing, Reverend. Redemption is a myth told to children. None of us are getting away with anything.”
“Like your work for DSS? Makes for some interesting reading. Operations specialist, intelligence specialist, resource manager. What’s next, life counselor?”
“That’s the spirit. I can’t wait for the chance to break it. I read your life story, too. What a waste. It would have been mercy to put you out of your misery.”
“What do you want, Krayge?”
“To meet with you, asshole. I’m sure you’ve picked up my CID signal by now. Bring the redhead, if you like, but no one else – I see any tac teams, you’ll never lay eyes on me.”
“How about your NDL pals? Or is it DSS this time? They invited, too?”
“This’s a meeting, not a gunfight. Neutral ground. Don’t make me wait too long.”
The call ends. The tracing program reveals no hits.
“Was that him?” asks Evans, standing in the kitchen doorway.
There’s no doubt in my mind we’re being set up. The devil may want to talk, but he’s still after your soul. So be it – we’ll just have to be careful. Failing to show is not an option. “Gear up. We’ve another trap to spring.”
CHAPTER 17
Side by side, we walk into the veiled jaws of a murderous beast. Before passing beneath the exterior awning, I glance up a final time at the signage mounted on the massive building’s side: Department of Health and Human Services Regional Facility, Montgomery County, Maryland. The calm daylight of mid-morning enhances its illusion of benevolence. It’s only at night that the facility reveals its real character, the bold letters glowing blood-red above a benighted grid of windows.
“Cato better know what he’s doing,” mutters Evans.
We enter the security checkpoint, bypassing the scanning corridor for civilians and stepping through the frame for employees. Dressed in dark blue scrubs with HHS patches, forged picture badges clipped to our pockets, we do look the part. Two administrators in their white hard suits eyeball us while another manning a security console checks our creds. Cato got us fake IDs, reprogramming our neural interface devices and entering the bogus identities into the HHS servers as registered physician assistants. If he screwed up, the party starts early.
“James Hill,” says the administrator, “newly arrived from St. Louis. First time here?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Welcome to Montgomery County. And Amanda Bates. Also from St. Louis. A matched set, eh? Admin is on sub-level one. Go on through.”
We enter a vast lobby illuminated by daylight streaming in through the diagonal windows comprising the outer wall. Over a hundred civilians congregate in the waiting area or walk to and from the elevators and access corridors, a crowd ample enough to conceal any lookouts Krayge has posted. Medical personnel also circulate, most wearing dark blue smocks like ours. Armed administrators post in pairs at different spots in the lobby, the only obvious threats. I shake my head at the whole “do no harm” racket, but then, this whole place calls that into question.
We’re in, I thoughtspeak, stopping to look around.
Understood, replies Patton. Be nice to have him with us, but HHS doesn’t allow outside drones into their facilities. He’s out back near the loading dock to cover a fast exfil.
My eyes alight on four rectangular outlines on the interior wall of the waiting area. Sentry drones sit behind those retractable panels, ready for deployment at the touch of a button or sound of an alarm. I wonder if they’ve upgraded the shielding. Not that it matters, I don’t have any EMP grenades like last time.
“James?” says Evans.
“Hmmm? Right, let’s go.”
We walk past reception toward the elevator bank, just two more inconspicuous med techs. Evans didn’t need a physical disguise other than the scrubs. With her fresh face, red hair in a ponytail, and green eyes roaming about with interest, she looks the part. More was needed for me. I’m wearing a synthiskin mask, a hand-crafted prosthetic that alters my features enough to defeat facial recognition algorithms. I still look like me – mostly – only younger and better looking. And without the redness and blemishes from the half-healed burns. Still, fear makes me careful as I follow in Evans’ wake.
I’m not welcome here.
Which is why Krayge chose this location – he must know about my history with this place. Does he hope to distract me, use my own past against me somehow? Or is this just a continuation of the torture session he started, another way to hurt me? Regardless, we assume he plans to corral us into an encounter without backup or weapons.
We’ll disappoint him on both counts.
We take an elevator down to sub-basement level two. A long walk and two security checkpoints later, we enter one of the facility’s many inventory areas, a large rectangular room parsed by cages and shelves, boxes and assorted paraphernalia stacked to the ceiling five meters up. The security cameras on the walls are already disabled, Cato’s doing.
We find the box he had delivered this morning. Inside waits the gear he smuggled in for us: commsets, penlights, stethoscopes, and diagnostic sets. I open one of the black hard cases and see what I’m meant to see: an ophthalmoscope and its accessories fitted into slots. Levering open the covering façade reveals a stub pistol and spare magazine beneath.
“Master tech does know his stuf
f,” says Evans.
As we don our gear, stuffing the concealed weapons cases into the overlarge pockets of our scrubs, I activate the commset and establish a secure channel with DRR HQ.
“Hello?” answers Cato.
“We’re in.”
“In? Ah, wonderful news!”
“Any updates?” I ask.
“Updates? No, no, nothing new, Conry’s signal is still transmitting from the facility. Now that you’re in, you should be able to get a precise read.” It’s standard policy for HHS to spoof ID transmissions to prevent patients from being pinpointed in their facilities. A sensible precaution: not everyone who ends up in a hospital wants to be found. “I reviewed admin records and camera footage again but no’ seen anyone matching our man. The real-time feeds, I’m sorry, I can no’ get at them. I’ll keep trying, but someone is tinkering on the sly to keep me out.”
So, our adversaries have beaten us to the surveillance resources – we’ll be flying blind inside the facility. “We already know they’re expecting us. OK, let’s see if this works.” Activating the tracking app on my holobracer, I have it display the facility map with a pulsing dot showing Krayge’s CID signal. The dot shimmers and then winks out from the main lobby – the spoofed location – before reappearing on the fourth floor.
I grimace. The fourth floor? Of course, why wouldn’t it be the goddamn fourth floor?
“Target acquired,” says Evans. “Come on, time’s almost up.”
“Is it working?” asks Cato.
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you have the security channels?”
“Oh, aye, that I do,” he says. “I’ve synced them to Patton, so he’ll squawk if there are any alerts. I’ve also got the satellite feed for exterior coverage – they could no’ keep me out of that.”
“Alright, keep trying with the cameras.” We can’t keep the comm line open without risking detection by security. “You will call with any updates, right?”
“No worries, I’ll be right here. Well, perhaps some wee ones. Good luck.”
Ending the call, I follow in Evans’ wake as we head back to the elevators.
