Camels and Corpses

by G. K. Parks

  “You have five broken ribs and a bruised spine. What do these morons expect from you?”

  “Perfection.”

  He muttered expletives under his breath. “What did Mark say?”

  “I haven’t talked to him yet. On the bright side, I’m still really great at shooting things.” I met his eyes. “It’s okay. Honestly, you would think I should know better. Drug use is law enforcement 101, and given my recent run-in with Mallick, I should have waited at least another two weeks before scheduling this. Maybe it was subconscious sabotage. I don’t know.”

  “Or maybe you were in a rush to get back out there.”

  “Since I’m an addict,” I retorted.

  “I’m sorry I said that.” He got up, and I grabbed his hand before he could walk away. “It wasn’t a fair comment. How about I order dinner while you strategize on what your next move will be?”

  “I’m not moving. Did I not mention this was the first comfortable position I found all day?” I smirked. “But a girl’s gotta eat, and I could kill for some spicy crab rolls.”

  “Well, since you’re still an excellent marksman, I’ll pick them up. The last time, they arrived warm. Anything else?” he offered, slipping on his jacket.

  “Hibachi shrimp and some miso soup. Plus, whatever you want, just grab the cash out of my wallet.” He tossed an offended glance my way and let himself out of my apartment.

  When he returned, he had a large shopping bag from the drugstore and a smaller bag containing our takeout containers for dinner. Still not moving, I managed to eat without dropping or spilling most of my food. Martin watched, slightly awed by the contortionist act I was performing. After we ate, he stood at my kitchen table, doing something. But since he was behind me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. Finally, he stepped back into view with a large gift bag.

  “What the hell is this?” I inquired, sifting through the contents. There were ice packs, heating pads, bandages, scar repair cream, antiseptic, muscle rub, and dozens of other items. “Is there anything left on the drugstore shelves?”

  He smiled. “Hey, this stuff might come in handy, especially when you go back to work. It’ll happen if you want it. You do know that, right?” I shrugged. “Although,” he knelt down on the floor next to me, “I much prefer when you stay in one piece, so hopefully, this is only preventative.” He pulled out a tube of superglue. “Prepare for the worst and assume the best, but let’s try not to need this stuff, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Now available:

  Lack of Jurisdiction

  “So were they impressed that we have a former federal agent on the job?” Paul Eastman, my supervisor at Personal Defense National, asked when I dropped the signed forms from the Secret Service on top of his desk. It seemed a bit extreme that PDN had to be vetted by a government agency before being allowed to work as a third party contractor during a two day international business and diplomacy convention which was being held at one of the prestigious five-star hotels in the city.

  “I’m not that impressive,” I remarked.

  He smiled. “Somehow, I doubt that. Keep in mind, Alexis, I’ve read your résumé. There isn’t a single thing about you that isn’t impressive, from your education to your career to your references.” Something flitted across his features briefly. “Have you completed your evaluation of our security plan for the hotel? I hired you to consult on our emergency protocols, but unfortunately, it seems your role has turned into that of a glorified courier.”

  “I’ll get it to you by the morning. Now that we have approval, I want to do a final walkthrough before the Secret Service locks the whole place down.”

  “Okay. I’ll make a few calls and let them know our consultant will be stopping by later tonight.”

  “Sure.” I turned on my heel, not wanting to do anything else for the rest of the evening, but I didn’t have a choice. Thankfully, once my report was finished, I wouldn’t have anything to do until the background checks were completed by the government agencies. “I’ll e-mail you my findings,” I called over my shoulder, not waiting to be dismissed. Eastman seemed like a decent guy, and I didn’t think he wanted to stand on ceremony for our impromptu meeting.

  After completing my final analysis of PDN’s protocols in relation to the hotel layout, I went home, typed my report, e-mailed Paul, and went to bed. Sleeping wasn’t one of my talents, and nightmares were a far too common occurrence. Tonight was no different, and after being forced to explain my reason for resigning from the Office of International Operations earlier today, a familiar nightmare played out in my subconscious mind.

  Agent Michael Carver, my old partner, was in the back of the ambulance. Agent Sam Boyle was dead. They didn’t even bother to put him in an ambulance after the explosion. It was my order that sent the two of them and my mentor, SSA Mark Jablonsky, into that warehouse. The bomb exploded, and now, I was next to Michael, clutching his hand and watching helplessly as he struggled to breathe. His eyes fluttered, and he flatlined. Jerking awake, I was covered in a cold sweat and screaming.

  After the two year anniversary of their deaths, Mark suggested that I stop punishing myself, accept what happened as beyond my control, and move on. I tried. Things were looking better, but with the mandated psych consults required to work as a third party contractor for the government, the depression was back. Although, I was assured by a professional that it was part of the grieving process, and since I never dealt with it properly, this time around, it was kicking my ass.

  Thankfully, I had a great support system in place and a job to keep me occupied. Being a private investigator and security consultant sometimes came with lulls in work, and I was grateful that now wasn’t one of those times, even if I could have used a break. My last case ended less than a month ago after I sustained a bruised spine, five broken ribs, and almost lost a close friend. Maybe some time off would have been better than signing on to consult for a personal security company.

  With any luck, my current job with PDN would be peaceful and nonviolent. Security analyst and corporate consultant might be boring, but they rarely involved blood, guts, and gore. And a break from the violence might be just what I needed.

  * * *

  “Agent Parker, do you copy?” the radio squawked in my ear, and I snorted at the absurdity. Agent was a vastly inappropriate title.

  “Copy,” I replied into the radio, running up the steps to the control room to make sure the camera feeds weren’t disrupted by the most recent power outage.

  PDN was conducting drills at the hotel since my role had been expanded from consulting to monitoring foreign diplomats and evaluating the vicinity for any threats. It sounded like work for the Secret Service, but since the point was to avoid an international incident and the place would be crawling with foreign dignitaries and business types with their own security details, it didn’t hurt that we were filling in as rent-a-cops. My reason for being here was simple. First, I was hired by PDN as a freelance consultant, and second, my personal goal was to find balance in the private sector. Ever since I quit my job at the OIO, I tried a little bit of everything, personal bodyguard, police consultant, insurance fraud investigator, stalking cheating spouses, corporate consultant, et cetera, but none of it was the same as being a federal agent.

  There was something wrong with me. I needed to solve crimes and arrest people. It’s who I am, or rather, who I used to be. Evidence collection, building a case, and filling out hours upon hours of paperwork were all tedious hassles of law enforcement, but I missed it. Maybe I just missed the agents we lost. But until I found closure, I could rub elbows with government employees as an independent contractor. The only real difference was the badge, or so I kept telling myself. There was a time the badge was my only desire. It was everything, and now it was basically nothing. Unfortunately, I never found anything to replace the deep-seated need to be a federal agent. My current job titles left something to be desired – namely arresting people. It must be a justice thing, knowing
the boundaries and where the lines were and not to cross them. Private sector work didn’t have clearly defined lines, and I’d crossed them a few times over the course of the last couple of years.

  “What the hell’s taking you so long, Parker?” Paul Eastman hissed in my ear. “Did you get lost on your way to the control room?”

  “Sorry.” I sighed, realizing I was stuck in my own head. “Cameras are functioning. Nothing odd to report.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Roger. I’ll continue to monitor the area from here. Teams one and four should be conducting their walkthroughs within the next ten minutes.”

  “Afterward, sign off in the lobby and call it a night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hey, Alexis,” he suddenly broke from his stiff radio protocol, “I know these practice runs are boring, but it’s important. We have to devise contingencies for every possibility. It’s how PDN works and why the Secret Service gave us the contract for this international conference. If your head’s not in the game, I need to know.”

  “I’m focused.”

  “You better be.” The radio let out a staticky sound, and then he added, “Going radio silent.”

  “Copy that.”

  I remained in the control room, watching the row of screens. Eventually, the unit assigned to guard the perimeter came into view and physically checked the exterior. A couple of minutes later, a secondary team assigned to the emergency stairwell appeared on monitor seven, ensuring all the doors were properly sealed. After watching the two teams go from monitor to monitor while performing their duties, I went downstairs to the lobby, signed the sheet, and disconnected the earpiece and radio. Before I could make it out of the small security office, Paul came up behind me.

  “Alex,” he nodded to the sheet, “any problems to report?”

  “None.” I met his eyes, wanting to go home and not get chewed out for the delay in responding earlier. I was distracted, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Don’t call me agent.”

  He narrowed his eyes slightly, and I realized it was a test. “Your psych evaluation indicated you were having some personal issues concerning your previous career.”

  “I always have personal issues. But guess what.” I forced a fake smile on my face. “They’re personal, and in no way will they interfere with my job performance.”

  “Can I ask you a question? According to your résumé and personnel file, you’ve been through some serious shit, but you always come out on top. So how come something from way back when is giving you pause now?”

  “You read the report?” He nodded, waiting for me to say the words. “I didn’t deal with it at the time, and now, I’m in a position to accept it and move on. A lot has happened since. This shouldn’t be a hindrance any longer.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. One more practice until the real thing.”

  “Can’t wait.” Feigning enthusiasm, I gave him another fake smile and left the building.

  On the drive home, I contemplated the gig and took a detour to my office. Something was bothering me about the building setup, and I wanted to check the blueprints. Since PDN hired me as a security consultant, I needed to assess their plans and implementations again. However, from the role I’d recently been assigned, it seemed obvious Mr. Eastman thought that I was just another one of the guards he could order around and harass with personal questions, which didn’t mesh well with my personality since taking orders wasn’t one of my many talents.

  The location chosen for the upcoming conference was one of the most elite hotels in the city. Level upon level was blocked off for nothing more than foreign dignitaries, their entourages, and their security details. For the most part, they weren’t my main concern. Each diplomat had their own protection. Bodyguards, trained military personnel, and the like would ensure their safety. Plus, the Secret Service had actual agents patrolling these areas and fulfilling the every whim of ambassadors, politicians, and diplomats. PDN’s role was much less pronounced. Even though we were all temporarily considered Secret Service agents, we were third party hired guns to maintain the peace on the main levels of the hotel. Actually, since I was hired to consult for a third party, did that make me a fourth party? My head spun with that possibility, so I got back on track.

  The reason for this meeting of the minds was to work on an international business proposal combining technology and transportation to improve the international rail system in Europe. Along with dignitaries, the European Union was sending their greatest and most influential men and women. Basically, whoever possessed the finances to pull the strings behind the curtains of government would be present. Most were billionaires with deep pockets and their hands in everything from energy to weapons to consumer products. It wasn’t that different from the types of business people I was used to dealing with at Martin Technologies, except the powers that be at my former corporate gig looked like a lemonade stand compared to the people at this conference.

  I did my best to avoid the details concerning the point of the conference. All I needed to know was that I was hired by PDN to evaluate their plans and techniques and ensure everything ran like clockwork. That was until the Secret Service made all PDN personnel, consultants included, undergo the official government vetting process and evaluation. Now I could consider myself on temporary loan to Homeland Security. Maybe I still wanted to be a federal agent, but not like this. Someone gag me.

  PDN had been in the personal and corporate security business for a few decades. Their plans were efficient, well thought, and the same ones used since the company’s creation. There was no reason to mess with tried and true, but that also meant their tactics could be easily discovered. After an initial review, I suggested some slight modifications. Paul Eastman, the man in charge of this operation and the one who hired me, took my advice and beefed up security. He even went so far as to implement some of the emergency procedures I created when I was the security advisor at Martin Technologies. However, those plans were meant for a single office building with regular employees. This was a hotel with guests, staff, and hundreds of visitors daily. The building wasn’t as secure, and that was a main concern for the actual government agencies to deal with. PDN was small potatoes compared to the three letter acronyms scouring the building and checking every guest and employee’s background.

  Instead, I focused my attention on the stairwells. When I was monitoring the walkthrough earlier, I noticed a few doors in the basement that supposedly led to nothing. After searching the online databases, particularly the fire department’s database for building codes, I realized that the hotel’s original foundation was expanded after an extensive remodel in the 1980s. Despite the thirty-something year difference, there was another subbasement underneath that originally connected to the underground metro system. Crap.

  Dialing Eastman, I checked the time. It was after ten, and I was tired of burning the midnight oil. Sleep when you’re dead, Parker. When the call went to voicemail, I suggested he reconsider the implemented basement security in light of these new details and hung up. Placing the phone back in its cradle, I hit the flashing red button and listened to half a dozen messages on my office answering machine.

  Mark Jablonsky, my friend and mentor from the OIO, called to check in. He was worried about me after my last case and failure to be reinstated at the OIO. We didn’t talk about it, but attempting to pass the government’s physical requirements with five broken ribs probably wasn’t the soundest decision a person could make, particularly after accidentally being drugged a couple of weeks prior to that. Then again, there was the very real possibility that was subconscious self-preservation to keep me from returning to something I swore I’d never do. Sabotage might just be my only saving grace.

  After calling him back and reassuring him that I was fine, I listened to the rest of the messages. The majority was telemarketers, but Luc Guillot, the vice president of Martin Technologies
, left a message in regards to my previous stint working for them. The last message was from James Martin himself. He was the CEO of MT and the love of my life. We’d been to hell and back, and he still didn’t run for the hills. Smiling, I listened as he warned that Luc would be calling soon for business reasons. Then he asked when we could see each other since he was going away on business next week. Unsure of what Luc wanted or how long the modifications would take once Eastman considered my request, I didn’t bother to call Martin back since I didn’t know what my schedule looked like. Scribbling a note to call Guillot first thing in the morning, I locked up the office and went home.

  My one bedroom apartment was quiet and depressing. After reheating some leftovers, I curled up on the couch with my dinner and flipped mindlessly through the channels, failing to find anything to watch. Turning to a late night show, I finished eating, put the plate on the coffee table, and slumped further into the cushions. When infomercials came on, I changed the channel, pulled the blanket off the back of the couch, and fell asleep to the TV. When morning came, I turned off the TV, tried to work the kinks out of my neck and back, feeling the slight pinch of still healing bones, dropped last night’s plate in the sink, set the coffeemaker, and took a shower.

  By the time I emerged, I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch and go back to sleep. Face it, Parker, you’re depressed. My internal voice commented while I poured a cup of coffee and phoned Guillot. The stupid mandated therapy sessions from PDN made it worse. Normally, I was excellent at compartmentalizing, but this was one of those stare down the enemy situations. And for the last two years, I’d been hiding from the enemy. It was time I got over this. Perhaps moving on really would be for the best.

  Pushing pointless thoughts away, I listened to the MT assistant inform me that Guillot was in a meeting, and he would have to call me back. That wasn’t helpful, so I dialed Martin’s cell. He was always busy; that was just a side effect of being a workaholic. Luckily, being his girlfriend came with a few perks.