by Anderson, S
I look to the right. An empty training room stares back at me.
“This is all you have. This is all you can count on and all that you will be allowed to protect,” General Zolkov says. “You might, on very rare occasions, find yourself in the same time and space as a fellow agent, but your missions will not intersect. You will be responsible for your own ass and only your own ass.”
A warm, acidic burn lights in my stomach. Hassan used to tell me there was no such thing as friends. There were only people who are nice to me in the moment. All I can ever be sure of is myself. This lesson is starting to sound a lot like something he’d tell me.
“Question.”
I don’t have to turn to know Recruit MacNeal is the one speaking. His Scottish accent is unmistakable.
“Yes, Recruit MacNeal,” General Zolkov says.
“Why are you training us as a team, calling us team members, if we’re gonna work alone?”
“For the same reason the Army has that saying.”
I peek toward the sound of the General’s voice. He’s up in Recruit MacNeal’s face with his lips pulled tight with what I’ve come to recognize as disappointment. He stands there for a few seconds, asserting his authority with silence.
Then he steps away, saying, “Dismissed.”
He doesn’t hang around to chat with any of us, moving swiftly to the exit. I shake my head as I move from the formal stance. Everyone breaks off into couples to process what we just went through.
The General isn’t easily understood.
Recruit MacNeal turns to me with a wide smile. “I frankly preferred it when I knew you were on my ass.”
My eyes roll. “I’m more likely to shoot you in the ass than provide cover of it.”
He laughs. Even his laugh has a Scottish accent. “Aye. I heard about your… unfortunate knife throwing the other day.”
I grimace. Unfortunate is a nice way of saying it. I missed the target and impaled a janitor through the leg. Poor guy was several feet out of the danger zone.
He scratches the underside of his chin, casting a sideways look at the recruits closest to us.
“I can help with that,” he says. I shake my head with confusion. “Throwing. I’ve got a fair understanding of the physics of blade wielding.”
“Aw… sure.”
My hands are nervous without an exercise to utilize them. I pop my knuckles with my thumb as we continue to stand there, staring at each other.
I’m not afraid of him. Honestly, Recruit MacNeal is probably the first person in my life I’ve ever felt instantly comfortable around. But small talk might as well be the plague.
“Aye,” he says, reading the unease in my stance. He turns to the couple next to us, raising his voice. “So what the hell was all that about then?”
Recruit Faher shrugs. “You got me. Something about fooling us all into believing we’re in a team, but we’re really not.”
“Nikolai has a gift with bullshit is what that’s about,” Recruit Lacroix says. “Half the time I think he just gets off on confusing us.”
I glance at the spot on the mat where General Zolkov stood. His steps were so light I couldn’t hear them, but the indent of his boots hasn’t fully smoothed out.
“It’s about conditioning,” I say. I don’t mean to say it out loud, small talk and all, but my mind is piecing together the abstract elements to show me the overall picture of the lesson.
“Conditioning?” Recruit Faher echoes. “How do you mean?”
All of a sudden, three pairs of eyes are set on me, and my throat goes dry as I try to explain. “Basically, he said soldiers are conditioned to pull themselves out of the equation, eliminate responsibility for their actions because it’s for a greater good. More so than even protecting our country, we’re trained to protect the life of the man next to us. It’s no longer about the purpose of the war—just the immediate dog fight we’re in.”
“Aye,” Recruit MacNeal says. “And?”
And I haven’t had a chance to really figure it all out myself. I’m lying my ass off. “And… I assume the lesson is that we have to train ourselves to just not care. We’re not in this to protect each other. We’re not even in this to serve our country. We’re just meant to complete our mission and stay alive.”
They’re all quiet for half a minute, and then Recruit Faher laughs. “That sounds like something out of a spy novel.”
“Well, we are training to be spies, you jackanapes,” Recruit MacNeal says.
Recruit Faher sighs. I wonder how many years are between their ages and mine. Both men tend to act younger than me most of the time. “Sure, we’re being trained for covert missions, but this shit sounds…”
“What?” Recruit MacNeal prompts with a nod of his head.
Recruit Faher stands straighter, glaring at Recruit MacNeal as he says, “Like we’re being trained to be Terminators.”
Terminators. I vaguely remember seeing that movie once. It made me less afraid of technology and more afraid of people misusing it.
“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” I say.
The others have broken off to head to the mess hall for dinner. It’s just Recruit Faher, Recruit MacNeal, and me, standing close and talking.
Recruit MacNeal makes a rude sound that I think is laughter, but he looks anything but amused. “Will you lay off the Russian conspiracy theory garbage for one damn night, mate?”
Recruit Faher holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying that it’s a valid theory.”
“What is?” I ask, looking from him to Recruit MacNeal and back again.
“Don’t humor it, Vincent,” Recruit MacNeal warns. “He’s nothing but wanking.”
Wanking. I need a dictionary to talk to Recruit MacNeal sometimes.
“Think about it,” Recruit Faher says, holding up his hands and counting off fingers as he makes his points. “He’s got full authority in how we’re trained, no oversight from anyone above him. We’re off the grid so far we can’t ever get back. And he’s got us not only being mind-fucked by him, but mind-fucking each other on the regular. That’s not normal.”
That sick feeling in my stomach intensifies.
“Don’t do that,” Recruit MacNeal says, wagging a finger at me.
“What?” I say.
“Don’t let him get in your head. You heard him. Zolkov is fucking with all our minds. This bastard,” Recruit MacNeal says, waving to Recruit Faher. “Has his own agenda of doing the same.”
Recruit Faher reminds me of the Mona Lisa when I look back at him. His face is clear, but a hint of a smile lingers in his eyes. “Just food for thought.”
“Go put food in your face and shut your shit,” Recruit MacNeal says. He swings his leg forward, trying to kick Recruit Faher, but he dances out of reach before he can connect.
“See you there,” Recruit Faher says, jogging toward the exit.
I’m so confused at this point that I just want to skip eating and go straight to bed.
“Don’t let either of them get to you,” Recruit MacNeal says, draping his arm over my shoulders. I wonder why it doesn’t bug me when he gets this close. I don’t like anyone invading my personal space, but he never feels like an invasion.
“Do you think we’re being trained like that?” I ask.
“I think the concept of the super soldier isn’t that original. And… aye, we’re being trained for more personal responsibility in the field than most soldiers.”
I nod, finding it hard to swallow.
“But we’re also being trained to realize that we’re not alone. I might not go on a mission with you, but I know the same tricks, and I know how to help you. And same with you and I.” He nudges me until I look up at him. “Aye?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Don’t fret over it, Vincent. We’re all gonna die someday.”
He slaps my back, laughing as he walks away.
“You missed your true calling, MacNeal,” I shout after him.
/> He really should have been a life coach.
6
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
I crouch down behind a bush, using the shadows and my CIA ninja-wear to my advantage. Claymore’s knife is twirling to the left of my face. If I turn too fast, I’ll catch the blade on my cheek.
“You mind not doing that right now?”
“Aye, I mind. You’ve got us on a damn fool's errand. This keeps me calm.”
“Well, it’s freaking me out,” I say, shoving his arm with my elbow. “So give me some space.”
He moves a little more to the left, leaning against the side of the building. “Remind me again why we’re here?”
I ignore him. He knows why. Asking a second and third time on the ride over was out of nerves. Now he’s just doing it to be obnoxious.
I peer through the small opening in the foliage, watching as the last few employees head out for the night. The building behind them, brick with a wall of five inch thick fiberglass windows along the entrance, is dark. I scan my eyes around what little of the perimeter I can see.
No night security, simple alarm system that will be easy to override from the breaker box around back.
“Shade,” Claymore says.
I ignore him.
The last employee, a secretary, climbs into her Ford Fiesta and drives off.
“Come on,” I whisper, leaping over the bush before he can bug me to explain myself one more time.
We trace our way along the right side of the building. I pick the lock on the breaker box, and he cuts the wire leading to the alarm system.
“I seriously can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he says again, but he follows as I lead us around back.
I’m not tall enough to reach the window, so I keep lookout as he pries it open using his knife. He slides it up, motioning to give me a lift. I climb in, easing my feet down on to the plush tan carpeting. He pulls himself through the window next, hopping in with more finesse than a man his size should have.
“Have I told you how ridiculous this is?”
I bop my finger on the tip of his nose in response and nod toward the room to indicate I’ll lead. It’s a sea of plastic chairs that barely reach my shins. A Playschool Kitchen set up and a pile of discarded books.
“What kind of lazy ass librarian goes home for the night without putting the books away?” he asks.
“What part of us killing the alarm and sneaking into this place after hours didn’t tip you off that we’re trying to be covert?”
“The part where you talked me into breaking into a children’s library in the middle of the damn night like it’s the Kremlin.”
I sigh. “We have an hour before the night custodian shows up. I’d rather we not draw any attention to ourselves before then.”
He picks up a dragon puppet and slides his hand inside, making it nod. Its mouth opens as he says, “Aye.”
I follow the bookshelves around to the middle of the room. Three curved tables are joined together in a circle. Atop each sits two computers.
“You know, there are plenty of other public places where you can borrow a computer.”
“I know, but this one is least likely to be monitored by anyone looking for us.”
I say that as if someone has actually expressed an interest in finding either of us in the past twenty-four hours. He didn’t report to his assignment two days ago, and I was kidnapped from the CIA. Either neither group wants to report that we’re missing, or our own team is too tied up with implicating Countess for bullshit charges in Moscow to care about our whereabouts for the time being.
Whatever the reason, I’m not going to take a chance on sticking out like a come-and-find-me sore thumb.
We each boot up a computer.
“You got the chip?”
He tosses me a USB that I plug into the CPU. It’s a fun fact most people don’t consider about public technology. The servers used by most libraries and other public access computers have to be able to handle high volume traffic. As such, the internet routers aren’t monitored as closely as a personal router might be. Too many variables and unknown users to track.
Hence the weird guy with no kid using a computer in the middle of the day at the children’s library is probably up to shit that would land him on a tracking list with the FBI.
I glance up at Claymore and laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Just reminding myself why we didn’t do this during the day.”
I decrypt the computer’s software to allow me to run the firewall program on the USB. It’s a safeguard that will keep me cloaked while I do what I’m about to do.
“What am I looking for again?”
I install the program and wait for the prompt screen. “You’re looking into whatever might be out there on Countess. And see if you can find any news reports from around the time Vixen died.”
The prompt screen loads, and I slip into binary code like it’s my first language. Maybe it is. I’ve always had an easier time talking to computers than to people. I fly through the firewall and lower level encryption of the council’s database, knowing full well that the upper levels are more difficult.
After all, I’m the one who designed them.
“They’re saying Countess has been instigating government protests for the past three months.”
I peek over the computer at him. “Really?”
“Aye. Mila Novosad,” he recites. “Former soldier for the Russian army was pronounced dead today in Moscow. Novosad has been linked to over a dozen displays of civic unrest, culminating in the bombing of a state building this afternoon. It is believed Novosad was a member of the global terror network known only as DMG.”
He looks to me, and we both pause.
I frown. “DMG? Countess was one of the leading members actively seeking them out. That doesn’t make any sense.”
I implement the backdoor program I wired into the council’s system. “I’m in.”
“Where are you looking?”
“The council’s mission log database.”
“You’re going to look up what she was really doing?”
I nod. “That, and I want to see if they’ve ever approved the use of psychochemical weaponry.”
“I know I’ve never been briefed on any,” he says.
I haven’t, either, but that doesn’t mean one of our teammates isn’t secretly skilled in it. “Plausible deniability,” I remind him.
The files are encrypted, and I work my magic to clear it, but each line of the screen has to be worked on a separately.
“You find anything on Vixen?” I ask.
“No. No reports including her name. They didn’t burn her. Maybe whatever happened to her isn’t connected.”
Possible. If two strings are the same color, chances are they were once a solid rope, Poppy.
The screen is halfway unlocked, and I began to read Countess’ last mission report. “She was under as a nursemaid.”
“No shit? Who was she watching over?”
Nursemaid is a deeper form of security detail than what Claymore and I do playing bodyguard for the government biggies. When you nursemaid a delegate, it’s to keep a person who is suspected of wanting to from defecting when they travel abroad.
More of the screen unlocks and I read on. Roman Veltriv. “Marko’s dad.”
“Marko’s father was planning on defecting? That’s not something he told his son about.”
Before the last bit of the page can load, the part that would usually contain a summary of the mission completion, the screen goes dead.
“Shit.”
“What?”
I eject the USB and yank the DSL cord from the back of the CPU. Claymore doesn’t waste time asking me what’s going on again. He just follows my lead.
Whether it was just a reaction to me triggering the back door, or if the monitoring team realized I had hacked into the system, it won’t take them long to figure out t
he hacker's location. We don’t bother with the window. The alarm system is off, so we unlock the front door and stroll outside as if we were supposed to be in the building.
Claymore checks his watch. “We’ve got about ten minutes before they deploy a team with a helicopter.”
I know that, but I save my breath pointing it out to him.
We keep a casual pace down the block. It’s a residential area, still in the middle of Englewood. His truck is parked a few blocks up and around the corner.
Not going to make it there before the team shows up.
He throws his arm over my shoulders as we cut through the parking lot of a gas station. I’m scanning the block for the first viable vehicle to take. Anything at the gas station would be noticed too soon, not to mention be caught on camera.
We turn at the corner, and I point to a burgundy Chevy Spectrum.
“That thing looks like it was made the year I lost my virginity,” he says.
“I’m sure it’s newer than that.”
It’s an old school model with keyholes in the doors. He picks the lock for the driver’s side and climbs in, searching the door for a solid minute before he realizes nothing in the thing is electronic. Leaning over, he unlocks my door and gets set hotwiring the starter.
“Did you lose your virginity in 1987?”
He shoots me a flat look. “A few years after that.”
The engine comes to life and we pull away from the curb slowly to not draw any unwanted attention. He takes us up the street, crossing by the block we just left. A searchlight illuminates the US flag in front of the library. Two S.W.A.T. officers are standing in the ring of light, aiming guns at the windows.
“Shit,” I say, scooting down in my seat.
“Aye. This is deep six shit, Shade. What do we do?”
What do we do?
The honest answer is I have no clue. I have a bunch of rhetoric that I tell myself in the way of Nikolai’s memory. I have bullshit that I can keep stringing along.
But I have no idea who to trust or what to think anymore.
Claymore stares straight ahead as he drives, waiting for me to come up with the plan. He doesn’t just trust me, he also believes in me. He has that last drop of faith in my ability.
