by S L Shelton
“Try this,” he said, handing me a very small gun—a Glock 26. It felt like a toy in my hand.
He put another target up and sent it down range while I loaded the pistol. When it stopped, I held it up and squeezed off all ten rounds. He squinted down range.
“Not as tight as the others, but I have a feeling that has more to do with the weight,” he said as he pulled his pant leg up to display the compact he had in an ankle holster. “It makes a good backup or a concealed carry when you’re wearing lighter clothing—like that campus hipster shit you’re wearing now.”
“Although I do admire your stunning fashion sense,” I replied, “I refuse to permanently give up my shorts and t-shirts.”
He looked down at his leather jacket, dark blue polo shirt, and black trousers. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he asked incredulously.
“Besides the fact it’s a hundred degrees outside, you look like every bad guy or police detective in every French thriller ever made,” I said. “I couldn’t possibly pull that off as well as you do.”
He shook his head and scoffed. “You wouldn’t know style if it bit you on the ass.”
I chuckled. “So do I really need two guns?”
“You can never have too much iron,” he said, grinning. “And stop calling them guns—only civilians call them guns.”
I nodded, instantly recalling the times my words were repeated back to me sarcastically when I had called a weapon a gun.
“I don’t mind dressing the part until I can buy my own,” I replied.
“No need to buy one,” he said, shaking his head. “You won’t be here long enough to set up proper storage anyway.”
What? “Did I miss something?” I asked as we placed the weapons and ammunition back into the ammo pack. “You’ve mentioned the Farm twice, John said something about a Green Card last month, and now ‘I won’t be here long enough?’ What gives?”
“You haven’t missed anything,” he said with a knowing grin. “Everyone sees how this is going. You’ll be an Operator before the year is out, I’d bet my salary on it.”
“I thought I was just contract tech support,” I said as we left the range. “How did I get from there to being an agent?”
Nick shrugged. “Just so you know, ‘green card’ is slang for active duty. It used to be Reservists and National Guard carried a pink ID card. If John said something about getting you a green card, he probably meant putting you in the field.”
Ah! That explains the green card reference…I thought he was talking about me being a migrant worker.
“Is this a conversation I should be having with John?” I asked.
He shook his head. “That’s up to you,” he replied. “But if you’re interested, you better speak up soon. There’s a cycle starting in September.”
I laughed. “There’s no way I’m going to uproot my whole life with less than a month of research and reflection,” I said defiantly, though it only took me a second to realize that was a complete lie. I would do it in a hot second if I could be sure my TravTech team stayed together.
He looked over at me and grinned. “How long did it take you to decide to get on the plane to Amsterdam?” he asked, a victory smile spreading across his face.
“Touché,” I replied as we stopped in front of the armory… it had taken about ten seconds of thought.
“We’re keeping the nineteen and the twenty-six,” Nick said to the armorer. “Can you grab the accessory boxes for those?”
The man nodded and disappeared into the back of the vault.
“So you’ve been transferred back here?” I asked. “From what I gathered, you and John were stationed in Germany.”
“You ask a lot of questions,” he replied and then paused a beat before continuing. “After we dropped the ball on the nukes, the old man decided we needed a reorganization. Everything is still pretty much up in the air, and I’ve just been tasked with getting you trained. But it doesn’t matter where you’re stationed. You go where the mission is. I just got back from Azerbaijan.”
Ding, ding, ding! That’s where the Turkish arms dealer was when his tracking data started. Thanks for the INTEL!
“But now you’re both working from here,” I confirmed.
“John’s doing his own recruiting because of the thing with Gaines—he may not admit it openly, but he suspects Gaines was onto something and that he was targeted to shut him up,” he confided.
“That’s what I think too,” I muttered.
“The analysts you met today are among the first four,” he continued. “And you are the first green recruit for the section. It didn’t take much to convince the old man. Apparently you make a good first impression,” he said, looking at me with a smirk.
That comment reminded me of the first time I had met Nick and John—they were jumping me in an alley in Amsterdam. I had broken Nick’s nose when they ambushed me and then nearly broke John’s wrist in the consul general’s SUV afterward.
“Well. I didn’t break his nose on our first meeting,” I said, jokingly.
Nick laughed as the armorer reappeared, but beneath his expression, I saw a little sneer flit. Are you seriously still pissed at me about that? I thought. You were trying to abduct me!
“Do you need a threaded barrel for the twenty-six?” The man asked.
Nick shook his head absently as he cleaned the barrels of the borrowed weapons.
“How did you find your way into the CIA?” I asked.
He looked to make sure the armorer had gotten out of earshot before speaking. “I got recruited out of my first year of college,” he said in a lowered voice. “I was about to drop out and join the Marines. I was signed up but hadn’t been processed yet.”
He looked at me and smiled. “You know they keep their eyes open for certain types,” he said.
“Types. You mean orphans who’ve been abused and have a particular skill set?” I asked, repeating his words from earlier.
“Something like that,” he replied.
“What was your skill set?” I asked, getting personal. I half-expected him to tell me to fuck off. I was surprised when he didn’t.
“I had a couple,” he said. “I could fight. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t lose fights. I just kept going after bigger and bigger guys. My dad taught me to fight when I was young—not on purpose, but the effect was the same.”
I nodded as I ran a cleaning rod through the barrel of the .357 I had fired and then looked up at him. “You said you had a couple of skill sets,” I pushed.
“Yeah,” he replied with a somewhat sheepish grin. “I was also good with wires. Hot wires, alarms, cameras, booby traps. If it required electricity or an ignition of any sort, I could build it, break it, or by pass it. I had a bit of a rap sheet by nineteen too.”
“Nice,” I said, grinning.
“The judge told me it was the Marines or jail,” he elaborated. “I picked the Marines and then the CIA picked me.”
I nodded at his disclosure. That was a significant piece of personal information he had just shared—or maybe he just figured that if I wanted to know it, I could hack in and find out with little trouble. In either case, the information was delivered without a sneer, a threat, or an insult…I felt like I was making progress with Nick.
“I've always regretted not finishing college though,” he said as an afterthought. “I mean, it was just community college and a general degree…but it would have put me in a better life than my family was used to.”
“Dude,” I exclaimed. “You work for the CIA. You're a God-damned CIA Agent!”
He smiled as he reassembled a weapon. “Yeah,” he muttered. For a second, I thought he was going to giggle his smile was so sincere. “That is pretty awesome.”
Just then the armorer showed back up with the boxes for the two weapons. “Ammo?” he asked. Nick nodded. “Subsonic?” the armorer added.
“No,” Nick replied. “Gold Dot JHP.”
The armorer nodded and grabbed t
wo boxes from a cabinet before setting them on the counter.
Nick looked at me as if he were sizing me up, and then looked at the man behind the counter. “Can we get an ankle holster for the twenty-six and a nylon shoulder rig for the nineteen?”
“Will you be using a can on the nineteen?” the armorer asked.
“No.” Nick said too firmly with a bit of a smirk, as if it were funny he’d even ask.
“It has a threaded barrel,” the armorer said. “Do you want me to swap it out?”
Nick thought about it for a beat and then shook his head. “Nah, that’s fine,” he replied. “It’s good to have the option.”
The armorer nodded and disappeared into the back again.
“A can?” I asked.
“Sound suppressor,” Nick elaborated.
“Ah,”
Silencer, I thought, translating from military to civilian lingo.
We finished cleaning the weapons just as the man returned with a large grocery bag and loaded everything into it.
“Thanks, man,” Nick grunted as he signed the release for the weapons and ammunition before handing me the bag with a grin. “Happy birthday. Don’t shoot your foot off.”
“I’ll do my best,” I replied, looking into the bag and thought, Should I be trusted with these?
I quickly pushed that thought to the back of my head—my inner voice, that growing monster, might be getting more bloodthirsty, but I was still in control. However, I’d need to have a conversation with it soon and find out what was going on—I didn't want to end up like my dad, screaming at furniture and banging my head against the walls.
I followed Nick upstairs. When we got to the lobby level, he stopped on the stairway and let me pass him. “Do you have marching orders for a tech Op yet?” he asked.
I looked at him with a confused grin. “For Ukil?” I asked.
He was about to answer but stopped, suddenly looking at me like I was trying to trick him into giving me information—I had been.
“I'll get with you after I talk to John,” he said instead.
I nodded. “Thanks for the range time and the new weapons,” I said sincerely.
“Don't thank me,” he said with a little edge and then turned to walk upstairs. “But you're welcome.”
I grinned and exited the stairwell toward to lobby.
Once I was in my car, I put the weapons in my center console and the ammunition in my glove box, locking them both before starting the engine.
“Hey,” I muttered to my other voice once I was on the road. “Is it going to be a problem that I have my own guns now?”
No response.
I shook my head. “Because seriously…if I wake up from a blackout in the middle of a mall, surround by cops because I just gunned down all the high schoolers in the food court, I'm gonna be seriously pissed at you.”
Still no response.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered, but then wondered if I should.
That question would have to wait for another time. At the moment, I had real world issues that needed solving.
I got to my front door about an hour later—thanks, Northern Virginia traffic—and tried to put my key in but it didn’t fit. It dawned on me that John had said ‘door and locks’ were being swapped out. I looked for a note and then looked under my mat—nothing.
I pulled my phone out and dialed John.
“Hey there. How was the range?” he asked without bothering to say hello.
“I did okay,” I replied, allowing for some modesty.
“I bet you’re calling about your door.”
“Yeah.”
“The keys are in your mailbox,” he replied.
I pulled out my mailbox key and opened it. Along with the day’s mail was a new set of keys for my door and deadbolt. Strange-looking keys—I noticed there were magnets embedded in the shafts.
“Fancy,” I said. “Am I gonna get a bill?”
“No. It was Agency business that required it,” he replied. “Your temporary entry code should be in there too. Change it as soon as you get in. The instructions for the system should be on your kitchen counter.”
“Thanks man,” I said.
“No problem. Have a good night,” he said and hung up.
That was abrupt.
I went in, noticing first that the annoying squeak on my doorframe was absent. I smiled as I entered the six digit pin into the system and then swung the door back and forth several times, reveling in the smooth and quiet ease in which it moved.
Once I tired of my entry upgrade, I looked at the alarm box for directions to change the code as John had recommended. The instructions on the inside cover of the alarm were fairly straightforward so I was able to quickly figure out how to alter the arming PIN. Once done, I headed upstairs and noticed the panic button on the bar sitting on top of the system manual.
I smiled inwardly again, feeling a tiny increase in my sense of security—it was quite welcome.
I set my bag of toys on the floor in front of my favorite green chair before heading to the bedroom to retrieve my laptop. The search for breakdown instructions for the guns brought back a number of returns, and I spent several minutes downloading the documents and videos.
The two weapons sat on the floor in front of me, begging to be handled. I hadn’t ever owned my very own weapon before. Even as a kid in the country, I used my dad’s rifle. Just thinking about Dad and his instructions on shooting created a pinch in my chest—magnified significantly by my recent visit with Mom.
I had been no more than eight years old—maybe younger—the first time I remember shooting a rifle. My mind drifted back to one of the few coherent memories I had of my father.
“Pull it in tight!” he had said with tension in his voice as he jammed the butt of the rifle against my shoulder, then, “Calm down, he’ll get it,” as if to an invisible friend. I remembered seeing the bruise when I got ready for bed that night.
“Now relax,” he said.
Not an easy task after the shoulder pounding and the yelling.
“I said RELAX!” He kept turning his head to the side as if someone was talking to him. Occasionally he would even nod or shake his head as if responding.
When my body finally relaxed into the ground in the prone position, his voice calmed, and I remember the next set of instructions as if they had occurred yesterday.
“Take a couple of deep breaths,” he had said. “Aim a little high, then breathe out slowly, letting your aim come down to the target with your breath. Start squeezing just before you get to the bottom of your breath. Let your target fill your sight. All you’re doing is drawing a straight line with a bullet. At the bottom of your breath, finish your squeeze and draw your line.”
I had done as he directed. I aimed just above the metal can he had set up, and then let my breath out slowly, dropping my aim with my breath. I didn’t pull, I didn’t jerk…I squeezed—and I hit the can the first time.
“Good,” he had said to me, and then turned his head. “Yes, a quick study.”
The memory was one of the patience and support, so contrary to some of the other muddled memories I had of my father, and I suddenly wondered if it had been real memory at all.
The little Ruger .22 with the iron sights was a semiautomatic, so the next round had already chambered. I took another breath, let it out, and fired again.
Clank. Another hit.
“Good,” he said again. My heart began to swell with joy as that word seeped into my brain.
I fired twice more. Clank, clank.
“Excellent,” he had said. My heart jumped at the simple praise.
The euphoric feeling had been short-lived, though. That night, my mom had to pack us up in the car and drive us to her sister’s house for the evening. It had been my fault—I kept her distracted by detailing every moment of my shooting experience while she was making dinner—and she hadn’t seen the mood shift in my father.
Dad had hit the wall on the ot
her side of the kitchen so hard, it knocked plates out of the cabinet and sent her to the floor in panic. She cracked her head against the counter.
My first time shooting would forever be linked to the memory of my mom lying on the kitchen floor, blood pouring from her head, and my dad screaming at an imaginary antagonist in the next room.
It hadn’t escaped my notice that my dad and I both had imaginary people talking to us. I wondered if it was an inherited trait or if it was environmental. At least I seemed to be managing mine better than he had—so far.
Sitting there in my living room, I had an overwhelming desire to drive to my father’s grave and scream at him. But I quickly regained my senses and instead flipped to a new screen on my computer—there were other things I had to focus on before I could enjoy my new toys.
I brought up a couple of scripts from my archive folder and began customizing them—my fall-back hack templates. I spent more than an hour adjusting and customizing the scripts for the job I had in mind for them. When they were done, a couple of keystrokes sent them off, following a long and winding path through the internet to their intended destination—Baynebridge Security.
There, the combination Trojan/Worm would wind its way through the innards of the company file servers, creating a map for me to follow to the treasure I sought.
While the program ran, I pulled the specifications up on my new weapons from the manufacturer websites and followed the process to disassemble, clean, and then reassemble them. It was a simple enough process and quite satisfying. I actually found it quite therapeutic as soon as I started taking the pistols apart.
By the time I had finished reassembling the second weapon, one of my anonymous mail accounts dinged through the secure proxy—my map was ready.
You can tell a lot about a person or a company by the structure of their file systems. Clutter indicates overstressed or under qualified computer personnel—or both. Only an incredibly talented system administrator could manage in a cluttered environment and still be on top of everything—a quick look at the system’s customized scripts would show me how talented the Baynebridge techs were.
