The Eyes of Others

by Mikael Carlson

  “Do you think the agents that were posted outside his house are down?”

  I want to hope they aren’t, but I know better. They were sent in after Gina a half hour ago and haven’t been heard from since. Boston evaded Grimman’s ambush and has to be there by now. If Gina’s there, who knows if he’s still alive. Who knows if any of them are?

  “More than likely.”

  “Will she still be there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Boston caught up to her and killed her. Maybe she was gone and he’s chasing her. Maybe they’re just tied up on her living room sofa. Getting ourselves over there is the only way we’re going to know. I’m sure as hell not waiting fifteen minutes to find out.”

  Remsen nods his head a few times and makes a hard turn onto his street. “Then we get her.”

  .

  ~ Chapter 84 ~

  eugene “Boston” hollinger

  “You’re just full of questions, aren’t you?” she asks me callously.

  If I make it through this, I want to be able to tell the story. More than that, the longer she talks, the more time I have. The FBI must not have heard from those agents she shot for some time. They will be coming eventually. If they don’t, then I’m going to have to distract her long enough to make a try for her gun and hope for the best.

  “I suppose I am,” I respond quietly.

  “Once I get what I need, I’m going to leave the country. It’s not the way I expected it all to turn out. I wanted the grand political statement and the opportunity at trial to expose the hypocrisy of it all. I mean, can you imagine the embarrassment of watching a United States Senator being hauled into court to testify under oath about my activities? It would have been beautiful!”

  “Do you really think it would have solved anything?” I mutter.

  “The colonial unrest that sparked the American Revolution started with a bold act of defiance by dumping tea in a harbor. Sometimes the most random events change the world, Boston.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “One man’s insanity is another woman’s enlightenment. Now stop looking so glum. You got what you wanted in the end, right? You found out who the mole is. Congratulations!”

  I shoot her a glare of pure hatred. She returns it with an evil smile. I can’t wait for the chance to wipe it from her face. I look out the window, my eyes desperately searching for signs of a car or some movement on the lawn in the crack between the curtains.

  “Are you still hoping for that last minute rescue?” she asks, following my eyes.

  “It’s closer than you think,” I lie.

  “You’ve seen way too many movies, Boston. The ones where the hero wins and the bad guy loses,” she concludes.

  “People like happy endings.”

  “Yes, yes they do. Unfortunately for you, Boston, this isn’t Hollywood.”

  Gina moves a few steps closer, training her gun on my forehead. Seven feet away. She still isn’t close enough to do anything about it.

  “So I guess a happy ending is out of the question?” I goad her into coming closer.

  “Not for one of us,” she answers with a grin.

  I stare down the barrel of her weapon, unflinching. I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of watching me beg for my life. I will never let her know just how scared I am.

  “Sleep well, sweetie.”

  It’s a cruel last comment as I watch as her index finger begins to move the trigger ever so slightly to the rear. The unmistakable red and blue strobes of a law enforcement vehicle seep through the crack in the curtain. It’s followed by tires squealing on the asphalt. My window of opportunity is a small one. It’s now or never. I begin to lunge for her just as she glances at the window.

  .

  ~ Chapter 85 ~

  FBI Agent zach bruhte

  We see the dark Ford Crown Victoria parked on the side of the street and we know we’re in the right place. The agents tasked to watch after Gina are nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, the car is empty and the house is mostly dark except for a small light on in the living room. There’s no reason that they would be in there with her for this long. They were directed to take her back to headquarters. Neither of these things are good signs.

  I spot the light gray Malibu parked on the curb up the street and immediately know we’re too late. Boston is already here. I spot Gina’s Audi parked in front of the house. Where the hell are they?

  Agent Remsen slams on the brakes of the car and it slides violently on the wet pavement. He slams it into park and we jump from the vehicle with our weapons already drawn and out. There’s a high degree of probability that we’ll need them. Remsen opens a slight lead on me as we race across the small front yard towards the door of Hollinger’s house.

  A shot rings out from the front room of the house and a muzzle flash is visible through the crack in the curtain. It’s followed by two more in quick succession. We duck and dodge, slowing our momentum a little in case any of the gunfire was directed at us.

  Running with my weapon up at the high ready, I’m not watching my footing. I feel my foot snag on something sticking out of the ground and begin to lose my balance. Unable to recover, I fall face first, hitting the ground hard and sliding on my stomach through the grass.

  I look back and curse at the sprinkler head in the raised position on the lawn. Remsen doesn’t bother to wait for me. The small light in the living room flickers out just as he reaches the door. He didn’t see it. Whoever fired those shots is still in there waiting for us.

  “Wait for me!” I shout as I scramble back up to my feet and limp to retrieve my weapon from the wet grass. Remsen’s locked in to what he’s doing and doesn’t hear my plea. He tries to open the door, and when it doesn’t budge, rears back and kicks it open with his foot.

  The door swings open and I watch as he charges in with his gun out and extended in front of him. Gunfire rings out instantly. Three shots erupt in the silence of the darkness, and then two are returned from a different weapon.

  My heart is pounding as I see muzzle flashes and the report of two more rounds piercing the air. There’s no time to catch my breath. No time to stop at the door and take a peek. Remsen’s in trouble. At full speed, I plow through the opening into the darkness of Hollinger’s house after him.

  I trip as soon as I enter the doorway. Surprised and off-balance again, I start to fall forward as I see two flashes of light erupt from the far side of the room. I hear the sound of the shots a split second before I register a searing pain in my left shoulder. Another shot rings out as I fall, and I hear the snapping sound of the bullet passing by my head. My vision explodes in a kaleidoscope of bright white stars as my head hits something during the fall. I collapse on the ground, unable to move.

  Darkness closes in on me. I hear steps but am powerless to do anything about them. I feel … drowsy … groggy. Finally the darkness fills my vision until everything goes completely black.

  .

  ~ Chapter 86 ~

  eric “Maryland” williams

  Four days later …

  “Ready! Aim! Fire!”

  The report of seven simultaneous shots fired from the honor guard that has done this hundreds of times before pierces the still morning air. With recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and now against ISIS, there has been an unfortunate amount of opportunities. So many men and women have given “the last full measure of devotion,” as Lincoln once put it.

  “Aim! Fire!”

  The gunfire causes Tara to jump a little in the chair next to me. For her, the military is a different world. It’s a far cry from what she told me she experienced growing up.

  “Aim! Fire!”

  The firing detail, clad in their navy and royal blue dress uniforms, fire off the third volley expertly as the shells clink to the ground. They present arms as a lone bugler, standing fifty feet away, sounds Taps.

  I hate that melody. It’s one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. It’s also the most tragic. In the m
ilitary, it signifies the end of a day, or in this case, the end of a life. I’ve heard it too many times.

  There’s only a small crowd at the funeral, mostly made up of DIA employees and soldiers. Boston’s parents died when he was a teenager and his only sibling died of a drug overdose when we were on active duty. The members of our unit were his family, and the reason he was so dedicated to honoring their memory by uncovering who was responsible for their deaths. It took me the last three days mourning for my friend to figure that out. Had I been more sensitive to it, I wonder if he would be alive today.

  Six soldiers expertly fold a flag at the casket as Tara fights to hold back her tears. The bugler finishes playing and the detail officer in charge kneels in front of Tara and presents the folded flag. Without a next of kin, the flag goes to a close friend of the deceased. Louisiana insisted to me it be Tara. We didn’t tell her she would be receiving it.

  “This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service,” the officer whispers. The tears she sought so hard to quell are now streaming down her cheeks.

  We stay seated as the funeral attendees depart. After five minutes, they are all gone and we are accompanied only by a lone soldier who stands watch over Boston’s casket. Tara rises and walks over to it, clutching the flag close to her black dress. She runs her finger along the edge of the lacquered wood, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “I feel like I’m the one who’s been in a dream. I expect to wake up and see things as they were before.”

  “Says the sleep doctor. Sweetheart, this is as real as it gets,” Louisiana responds. His words lack the compassion I’m sure Tara needs. He was never good about dealing with stuff like this.

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Boston’s not the first fallen soldier we’ve had to bury, just the most recent.”

  “Yeah, well he’s the first one I've had to bury!” she snaps.

  “You loved him, didn’t you?” I ask her in a near whisper.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters to us,” I tell her.

  “He’s dead, Maryland! He was murdered by her in cold blood! He’s gone now, so no, it doesn’t matter anymore!” Tara screams.

  “Ease up, girl. Don’t get pissed at us. Be angry at the one bitch you should be angry at.”

  “Tell me, Louisiana, what good does it do? She’s gone forever. She gets to live her life and Boston doesn’t. Do you think I’ll ever be okay with that?”

  A long silence grows between us. How can you respond to that? Through some sadistic twist of fate, Tara is now feeling the very emotion Boston dealt with for the two years since Iraq after the deaths of Colombia and Georgia. She turns away as she fights to hold off another round of tears. Louisiana just stares off into space and I kick at some loose soil with my foot.

  “How do you guys do it?” Tara inquires after what feels like an eternity.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “Learn to live with the hatred.”

  “I’ve tried to forget. When we got back from the desert and out of the hospital, I went out and got a career I enjoy. I spend every day thankful for my life and I tried to get on with living it.”

  “He also bought a gray loser mobile and became a chickenshit little wimp,” Louisiana clarifies with a grin. “Me? I dream up the best way I know how to blow things up in a spectacular conflagration of fire and violence. Spa-doosh!”

  “And what happens when that isn’t good enough?” Tara asks me, not responding to Louisiana’s attempt at humor.

  “You end up living like Boston did. You spend every waking moment looking for answers that may never come.”

  “He finally found his answers,” Tara says through her sniffs.

  “Yeah, love, it’s the only thing that makes his death easier.”

  “Easier?” Tara yells. I need to intervene before she decides to choke Louisiana.

  “Tara, if you had asked Boston whether finding the truth was worth dying for, he’d have said it was. He knew it was a possibility when he left the sleep center that night. It’s why he didn’t want us there.”

  “And you guys are okay with that?”

  “We’re not being given the choice, my love.”

  “You’re a piece of work, Louisiana,” Tara says in disgust.

  “Hey, I'm a glass half-full kinda guy.”

  “Well, I’m a full glass kind of girl, especially if it’s a nice wine, because I could use a bottle right now. Or three of them.”

  “Right on! Let’s get drunk, naked, and make bad decisions.” Yup, that’s basically his motto.

  “I’m all for toasting the fallen until we pass out,” I chime in. “Let’s get out of here. I know a place that has some great wines.”

  I offer Tara my arm and she accepts as we start our walk out of the garden of stone. After a few steps, I look back and see Louisiana isn’t following.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Yeah, I’m comin’. I prefer beer, but I guess I could stomach a glass of Merlot,” he states.

  Tara freezes in her tracks, her eyes searching back and forth. What the hell? Her eyes get big before finally settling on mine.

  “Tara, what is it?” I ask, concerned.

  “Merlot. The Mountain State Gas Station!”

  “What?”

  “What’s going on?” Louisiana asks, joining us.

  “If I told the two of you where I think we might be able to find Gina, what are you willing to do about it?”

  “I thought we were talkin’ about drinkin’?” Louisiana asks, completely confused.

  “Yes, we are. Boys, we could all use a glass of Merlot … but we’ll have to go to West Virginia to get it.”

  .

  ~ Chapter 87 ~

  FBI Agent zach bruhte

  “Where are the three of you going in such a rush?” I ask Louisiana, as he and the others open the doors of a white sedan I assume is a rental since all three of their cars are damaged, destroyed, or abandoned. It’s a beautiful day and my windows are down in my own rental SUV.

  “None of your damn business,” Louisiana retorts as the other two just stop and stare at me. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “It hurts like hell.”

  Charging into Hollinger’s house was nearly a suicide mission. Gina was waiting for me, and only tripping over my fallen partner saved my life. When I lurched, the shot aimed at the center of my chest only struck me in the shoulder just above the pectoral muscle. With my comrades bearing down on the house, Gina decided to flee instead of finishing the job. My arm’s in a sling, but I’ll take it over being dead.

  “Have you come to pay your respects to the fallen?”

  I don’t appreciate the sarcasm of his statement, but I’ll let it slide. I parked next to them and hung towards the back of the funeral for the purpose of talking to them, not engaging in a testy verbal sparring match. We have some unfinished business to attend to. I know catching them on the way out of Arlington will be the last chance I have to see get the three of them together.

  “Yes, actually, and don’t think for a moment you’re the only ones who suffered a loss. Agent Remsen was a good man. We came up through Quantico together. He was a colleague, but he was also a friend. Gina killed him in cold blood just like she did Boston and the other agents in my section.”

  “Why are you here?” My comments didn’t seem to earn me any sympathy from any of them.

  “Two years ago I was assigned a case here in Washington. Someone was leaking highly classified documents to media sources. Even after so much time, the whole Snowden fiasco with WikiLeaks was still on everyone’s mind, so there was a lot of attention paid to it. I was told to get to the bottom of the case at any cost.

  “After a few months, we got a lead and followed it. It led right to a low-ranking analyst in the CIA who had access to some of the deepest secrets that agency has. I followed
him for months, trying to catch him in the act with no results. The bureaucrats applied a lot of pressure on me, so I dialed it up on him by confronting him about what we had. He denied everything, of course. He swore that he would never do that. For the next year, I covered him like a blanket. I knew more about this kid and his habits than I did about my ex-wife. Every time he turned around, I was there.”

  “Is there a point to this story?” Louisiana asks impatiently. “Because I’m really not in the mood to listen to your sob story.”

  “The police responded to a call from his apartment building one night not long after,” I continue without acknowledging his insolence. “He had hung himself. He left a note saying ‘I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry.’ And with that, we got our man. The case was closed. I got a pat on the back and a citation for a job well done. I moved on to the next thing as the bureau’s rising superstar.”

  “Only it wasn’t over, was it?” Maryland asks, far more interested in the story than his friend is.

  “A little over a month ago, an analyst in the same section as him was caught in a sting operation trying to pass gigabytes worth of classified documents on a thumb drive to an agent posing to be representative from an online blog. It was a parallel investigation nobody ever bothered telling me about.

  “It turns out that my target didn’t kill himself because he couldn’t live with being a spy anymore. He did it because he couldn’t handle the stress of everyone thinking he was one. So he was dead and I was castigated by my superiors for being wrong. The same people who only weeks before were congratulating me threw me to the dogs. I was ostracized and turned to the solace one finds in the bottom of a whisky bottle.”

  “It’s a really sad story, but you’re wasting our time―”

  “When Garrett approached me to tail Boston, he promised me redemption. He thought I’d be eager to take him down to make amends for what I’d done. Only the opposite was true. I was more interested in the truth, just like Boston was. We both got it, but we both sacrificed a lot to get it.”