Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  “It’s a different county, but not impossible. Anyway, Kimmie got to keep her half, and she won attorney’s fees. So she didn’t have to pay a dime.”

  “No risk.”

  “That’s right.”

  ***

  Amanda quietly exited through the back stairway that led to the garage. She padded through the darkness down the street to Jake’s truck and opened the passenger door.

  “Hey, babe, what gives?” Jake was wearing his blue-and-gold letterman jacket over a set of gray sweats. His hair was tossed in an unintentional way, as if he had come straight to her from running sprints.

  Amanda hugged him. “Thanks for coming,” she said pulling away. She slid across the bench seat, her knees touching the stick shift. “It just got too crazy for me in there.”

  Jake looked down. “How so? What’s that?”

  Amanda looked at the envelope in her hand. “Can we go somewhere?”

  Jake didn’t utter another word. He pushed in the clutch, punched the stick shift into first gear, and sped down the road.

  Twenty minutes later they were in King’s Mountain Battlefield Park, overlooking the battlefield where Brigadier General Daniel Morgan had finally routed Lord Cornwallis, stopping the British advance and pushing them back into Charleston Harbor.

  It was a warm spring night, though cooler at the top of the mountain. Jake let Amanda out of the truck and walked her to the scenic overlook. He kept his arm around her, knowing she just needed him close. This had been his first clue about two years ago. He saw the storm raging in Amanda’s life: two dominant, materialistic women continually putting Amanda between them and whatever problem arose.

  “North Carolina’s in that direction,” Jake said, pointing to the north. “And Spartanburg’s back over that way, across the parking lot. See how the night sky is brighter.”

  He knew she was listening and that his voice gave her a measure of peace. Sometimes she would encourage him to just talk for hours. She listened and cuddled up to him, finding safety in his presence.

  “Keep talking,” she whimpered into his chest. She was crying. “Please keep talking.”

  He pushed his face into her hair and whispered to her. “It’s going to be okay. I know what you need. When you’re ready, you just talk to me, okay? But here goes . . .”

  He told her about Morgan’s defense of King’s Mountain and the later battle at Cowpens about 30 miles to the east for nearly an hour before she abruptly began speaking.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening, Jake.” She went on to tell him about the major and the chaplain discussing the insurance money. She didn’t understand why her mother and grandmother had acted the way they did. “It’s so unlike them.”

  Jake listened and privately seethed. Finally, he said, “Can I see the envelope?”

  She handed him a sealed manila-colored page-length envelope. “I’m afraid to open it. I want you to do it.”

  Jake stared into Amanda’s eyes. “Are you sure? Do you want your mother to be with you?”

  “No. I want you to do it, right now. Just do it before I change my mind!” She emphasized her words with her hands, pushing outward, to provide herself reassurance. Jake could see she was uncertain, but he pressed on.

  He pulled a dull Buck knife from a sheath he wore on his belt, popped open the blade and slid it beneath the seal and the top of the envelope. He produced two sheets of white paper with large writing. The ample moon hanging low in the west provided sufficient light for him to read the documents.

  Jake looked at Amanda, who was covering her face with her hands, as if she were watching a horror flick. “It’s a lady’s name and address. There’s a date and time.” Jake looked at the date on his watch with the flick of his wrist. “The date’s for tomorrow. Tomorrow at four p.m. Miss Riley Dwyer. Tryon Street, Dilworth Office Complex, Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  Amanda looked at him. “That’s it?”

  “No, the second sheet of paper has a Sanford address. No date and time on this one. Just says that you have to do it in the next week. 6212 Haymarket Court, Sanford, North Carolina. That’s near Raleigh, right?”

  “That’s his address.”

  “Your dad’s? Well, you’re supposed to be there in the next seven days.”

  “No way am I doing that.”

  Jake paused. “Amanda, I think he’s talking to you.”

  “What about after all that Ballantine stuff when the country was supposed to be under attack. My dad was supposed to be dead then. I went to a funeral, Jake! There had been no life insurance, no nothing for a year. Everything was supposedly put into a trust for me when I turned eighteen, and my mom told me that’s not even true.”

  Amanda was right. There had been a funeral at the Garrett farm near Charlottesville, Virginia. She’d never seen any Army people show up at the door. She just knew that her mother had signed all of the paperwork.

  “I remember. Your uncle Matt saved him, and then they both took down Ballantine.”

  “That’s your version. Some people think that my dad and uncle were in on it. That’s what I’m saying, Jake. I don’t know what the truth is.”

  “I also remember when it was announced that your father was alive.”

  “Bastard never even had the decency to contact me.”

  “Amanda, he did come to see you.”

  “Once. That’s it. What good is that? He’s just a deadbeat like all the others.”

  “You don’t know that. He’s talking to you now, Amanda. Just listen to him, for once.”

  Amanda turned and looked at Jake. Damn, he was handsome, she thought. His square jaw, high cheekbones, and thick, dark hair that matched his deep coffee eyes made her melt in his arms. She was too tired to fight anymore. That was just it. At every turn with her father there was a fight. Her entire life, it seemed, had been a constant skirmish for child support or visitation rights or medical benefits. Her mother had fought the good fight, of that much she was sure.

  CHAPTER 10

  SOUTH CAROLINA

  MONDAY MORNING (EASTERN TIME)

  The sleepless night and following morning brought more confusion for Amanda, though she attempted to play the role that she knew she needed to perform. As she sat in her journalism class, her best friend Brianna Simpson smiled at her.

  “Hey, bitch, sorry to hear about your dad,” Brianna said.

  Amanda shrugged. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s like it happened to someone else, you know? Like something that happened on a TV show I didn’t watch very much.”

  “Cool. Know what you mean.”

  It was Monday morning and the two girlfriends sat in the back of Dagus’s class watching their journalism teacher bend over the DVD player, pressing some buttons.

  “He’s got a nice ass, don’t you think?” Brianna whispered to Amanda.

  “Hey, Len, you ever think of becoming a plumber with a crack like that?” one of their fellow students commented to broad laughter from the rest of the class.

  Dagus got the movie started, then turned, and said, “Actually, I do some plumbing in my spare time, Mister Johnston, and I will be happy to discuss this with you after school today. Say for an hour?”

  The kid groaned. “Come on, teach. You know I was just kidding.”

  “And Amanda and Brianna, you two have been talking all class. I think you can join young Mister Johnston here. Graduation’s in a week and a half; I’d hate for any of you to jeopardize that.”

  Amanda slumped in her chair. “No fricking way,” she whispered. “You don’t think he heard what you said . . .” She raised her hand and said, “Mister Dagus? I was the one who was talking to Brianna. It was my fault. She shouldn’t have to stay.”

  Dagus seemed to consider this a moment. He was rubbing a well-manicured hand across his strong jawline, as if to elicit thoughts directly from his brain like a genie from a lantern.

  “I’ll tell you what, Amanda, if you can answer one question, none of you have to stay.
Deal?”

  Amanda threw a quick glance around the room and nodded.

  “Better get it right, bitch,” Brianna whispered, smiling.

  “What is the Fourth Estate’s worst enemy? And why?”

  Amanda smiled. He had tossed her a softball. She knew the answer because she had discussed the notion with Dagus at length while editing the school magazine one day. She scratched her chin a moment, as if she had to think about it.

  “Why that would be an unverifiable source. Use of unverifiable sources leads to indiscipline in journalism. This indiscipline discredits the institution.”

  “You are correct,” Dagus grinned. “Clemency granted.”

  Mike Johnston and Brianna slapped palms.

  Amanda lowered herself in her chair, avoiding any further attention. Dagus dimmed the lights and began the movie, which was a documentary on war reporting. The basic themes were that the Afghan and Iraq wars were wrong and that the media had become too embedded with the soldiers—reporters failing in their duties to report responsibly during the buildup of each. They went native, so to speak, and did not objectively report the news. Dagus stopped the film twice and highlighted that all journalism should be reinforced by verifiable sources.

  “A story without sources is bad fiction,” he said.

  Most of the class snoozed through the forty-five-minute film, but Amanda was curiously drawn to its images. She found herself asking questions in her mind, never out loud. Her father had just been killed in one of those wars. She couldn’t remember which one right now.

  As the film concluded, with a few minutes of class remaining, Dagus leaned against his desk. Cotton tan pants were cuffed at the hems above khaki socks and copper-colored Rockport deck shoes. He wore an Egyptian cotton golf shirt. Soft, dark chest hair was visible as it peeked out of his open collar. His arms sported the same thick hair as well. Turning to the class, he asked, “So, what do you guys think? Did the media in these wars report and inform us? Or did they reinforce The Big Lie by pumping out unverified stories? Do you even care?”

  The class sat silent.

  Brianna’s hand shot up for the first time in perhaps a year.

  “Yes, Brianna?”

  “Well, I think this was particularly relevant since Amanda’s biological father was just killed over there.”

  Amanda whipped her head toward Brianna. “Shut up! I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  After an awkward pause, Dagus spoke softly. “Amanda, I’m so sorry. This must be a very challenging time.”

  She looked at Dagus and felt the staring eyes of the entire class on her as if she were center stage with a spotlight trained on her.

  “Class, dismissed.” Dagus said softly. “Amanda, if you could stay behind just a second, please?” He turned his attention to something on his desk as the students tumbled out of the classroom.

  “Brianna, why did you have to do that?” Amanda sighed.

  Brianna stuck her tongue out at Amanda. “You said you didn’t care, right? So what’s the big deal?”

  “Nothing. I just didn’t want any attention over this, you know? Bad enough he was such a loser.”

  “I’ll call you later. Don’t let Dagus get fresh.” Brianna winked as she looked over her shoulder at Amanda. She walked along the row of empty desks, and Amanda noticed her and Dagus exchange a glance.

  Amanda’s view of Brianna had oscillated from best friend to white trash over the course of their ten-year friendship. Today it was somewhere in between. Lately Brianna’s mother had been demoted at her work, which left them struggling to survive in the high-cost I-85 corridor serving Greenville, Spartanburg and Charlotte. Nobly, Brianna’s mother continued to send her to Spartanburg High School even though they had moved out of the district, and it cost her dearly. Amanda knew that Brianna’s mother, whom she liked, either had to keep Brianna in Spartanburg High or risk losing her along with the husband and job that had already departed.

  Amanda was still sitting in her desk when Mike Johnston, who really was a nice guy, rapped her desk lightly with his knuckles, as if to knock. “Hey, Amanda, sorry about your dad. Really.”

  As Mike walked away, she found herself wondering why anyone else would care if she didn’t. As the class emptied out, Dagus was turning a digital camera in his hands as if it was a space rock. He stared at it a second and then placed it back on his desk. Standing, he closed the door and walked over to Amanda. He sat in Brianna’s chair next to her and leveled his dark-brown eyes on her.

  “I’m so sorry.” He reached his hand forward on the desk toward her but avoided contact.

  “Mister Dagus, there’s nothing to talk about. I hated my father with a passion. He was a worthless son of a bitch, and what I don’t get is why I should feel guilty about his death.”

  “You shouldn’t, Amanda. But perhaps you should grieve. Maybe just open your mind a bit about this. I know you said he hasn’t been there for you. I remember the few times that you mentioned him it was always in a negative light. But, you know, you only die once.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that comment. You only die once. She was trying to understand what he was saying, but her mind had long ago shut like a vault door when it came to her father. She recalled that Jake had also said the same thing.

  “This is really no big deal.”

  “Okay. I understand. Just know that I’m a good listener if you need to talk to someone.”

  She watched him for a moment as he seemed to consider something. He had wavy brown hair and a thin, handsome face. Many of her girlfriends were attracted to him in a “cool teacher” way, and she had to admit that she had her moments as well. But she loved Jake and always considered her pull toward Dagus a natural student-teacher thing.

  “But be careful, Amanda. This may catch up with you when you least expect it to.”

  She tried to consider this, but was unsure what he was saying. “What are you talking about?”

  “The mind, Amanda. The mind.” He pointed at his temple and then began to emphasize with his hands again. “Try to imagine that you are the tip of a laser beam moving through the darkness penetrating untapped space. You have no idea what’s in front of you. In the same way, you have no idea how this is going to affect you one minute from now, an hour from now, or even a year from now. This may not be as inconsequential as you make it seem.”

  Dagus lifted his head as the door to his classroom opened.

  “Anyway, I think between Jake and me, you’ve got two men that you can talk to.”

  “Hey, Mister Dagus,” Jake said.

  “Hi, Jake.”

  “Jake,” Amanda said, standing. She pecked him on the cheek and then turned to her teacher. “I’m okay. I can guarantee you that this deal will not affect me in any way a minute from now or even a year from now.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Bagram Airbase, Afghanistan

  Monday Evening

  Sergeant Eversoll flipped open the blade of his Duane Dieter SpecOps knife and tossed it lazily into the dirt at his feet. He was sitting on an ammo crate outside of the Special Operations headquarters at the former Russian air base. Tall mountains loomed all around him, snow still capping their jagged peaks. He wore a black skullcap to keep his head warm and a black and gray Army physical training sweatsuit with running shoes.

  Eversoll picked up the knife and tossed it into the ground again with a flip of the wrist. He repeated the process time and again. He thought about his many conversations with Colonel Garrett over the past eighteen months. A year and a half in and out of combat was enough to make two men relatives. They knew each other completely; therefore, they trusted one another completely.

  Again with the knife. Eversoll remembered Colonel Garrett telling him about his brother, Matt. He had heard of Matt Garrett during the Ballantine attacks, as the nation referred to them now. Jacques Ballantine, a former Iraqi general, had unleashed a deadly series of attacks on the United States, and then followed up with the most surprising for
m of attack.

  Freakin’ nuclear and chemical Predators on a damn Chinese merchant ship, like an aircraft carrier, Eversoll thought to himself. It was ingenious, and, for that reason, scary. Colonel Garrett told him that his brother had come to rescue him in a fishing hole in Canada after Ballantine had captured him. Matt Garrett was a CIA big shot now.

  Maybe that’s my duty, Eversoll figured. Why can’t I seem to accept the fact that he’s dead? Is it denial?

  “Sergeant Eversoll!”

  The voice was from Command Sergeant Major Tom Palmen.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major,” Eversoll said, picking up his knife and standing.

  Palmen was a large man with a completely shaved head. There appeared to be no neck connecting his head to his shoulders. The man spoke with a distinct Chicago accent, a physically fit John Candy.

  “Pack your shit. You’ve got escort duty for some VIP. He specifically requested you.”

  “But, Sergeant Major . . .”

  “No buts, Eversoll, this is your mission.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Eversoll appeared back at the headquarters in his army combat uniform, pistol strapped to his leg and Humvee keys in his hand.

  “Where’s your M4?” Palmen barked. “And lose the keys; you’re not driving.”

  Eversoll was confused. “M4’s in the arms room, Sergeant Major.”

  “Go grab it. And pick up those two radios over there on your way back. Oh yeah, and make sure you’ve got a ruck packed for at least forty-eight hours.”

  Ten minutes later, Sergeant Eversoll returned. He popped his full rucksack off his shoulder and quickly stuffed the two satellite radios in its special compartments. He stood and watched across the room as Palmen, Major General Rampert and a third man, dressed in civilian clothes, stared at the large map on the wall. Rampert was pointing and talking.

  Palmen looked over his shoulder and said, “Eversoll, get over here.”