Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

  Footsteps. Four people, maybe five in total. A small party coming up. Hud peered down the stairwell and saw a hand sliding up the wood balustrade. Hud’s first thought was the Old Man.

  He backtracked, using the quiet heel-toe movement he’d been taught at Valor. He tucked his body into the cutout that gave tenants on lower floors roof access in the case of a fire.

  The footfalls stopped at the door to his apartment. Someone whispered—a girl—possibly Middle Eastern, lightly accented.

  “Open it,” she said. Who at Valor had that voice? Hud couldn’t place it.

  A man whispered back, Latin-sounding but unintelligible.

  The girl said louder, “Do not kick it in. Use the pick.”

  The hairs on Hud’s arms and on the back of his neck stood at attention. These were not people from Valor. Hud listened to the efficient metallic sounds of tools expertly handled.

  The Latin man whispering, again, deep and low. “Remember, do not kill him until we can interrogate. No prints. Gloves on.”

  Hud heard the door creak open. Footsteps shuffled. The door closed. The people, whoever they were, had entered the apartment. Now was the time to move, to sneak past the apartment, and run. To run like hell.

  Hud stepped from the alcove and saw a startlingly beautiful girl, with blond hair and olive skin, so pretty that had he seen her on the street he would have stopped to pick his jaw up off the ground. And he wanted to keep staring … except for the syringe he noticed in her hand.

  “Here!” She ran at him, yelling. Cable ties clutched in her other hand.

  Hud pivoted and ran back toward the roof. He took the stairs three at a time and slammed his shoulder into the door, blasting it open, feeling something sharp jab into the back of his calf. Hud kicked as hard as he could, foot to face, catching her right in the pretty little mouth.

  The blonde tumbled back down the stairs, crashing into the men now scrambling after Hud. Hud swept his hand down to pull the syringe out of his leg, and ran out onto the roof, glancing down at the syringe in his hand, seeing the plunger depressed and the tube empty. Whatever had been in the syringe was in his blood now. And he could feel it. A sedative. Strong. Damn strong.

  He felt like he was running through concrete, his mind dimming, his vision fading. He had a single thought—Valor. Protect Valor. With the last light remaining in his eyes and in his mind, Hud sprinted toward the street side of the rooftop, toward Central Park, lush and green and glorious in the late summer.

  * * *

  Unlike the young bucks, Pablo had not scrambled for the roof after the boy Hudson Decker. At eighty-two, he was never much of a sprinter. Not to mention his prosthesis. He stayed in the apartment, listening to the scuffle in the stairwell, footfalls on the roof. Pablo kept his eyes on the giant floor-to-ceiling windows facing the park, where he saw a teenage boy sail past view, in a free-fall dive, head down, arms to his sides, hooded sweatshirt flapping. Pablo could have sworn he was smiling.

  Damn him, Pablo thought, and damn Raquel. He heard a thud, followed by screams coming up from the street, and decided it was time to get out of the building. Pablo turned back toward the staircase and saw a young woman step inside the door to the apartment. She was probably early twenties, breathing heavy. She’d clearly just run up the stairs. And she held out a gun, a pistol, aimed at Pablo.

  “Put your hands up and get on the ground,” she commanded, and by her stance, he assumed she must be law enforcement, but she did not carry a badge. Strangely, Pablo noticed half her face was webbed in scars. Burn scars, he thought.

  “Where is he? Where is Hud?”

  Pablo said nothing but raised his hands slowly and signaled toward the window. The girl’s eyes shifted that way, registering the screams rising up from the street.

  Watching her reaction to the screams, something clicked for Pablo. She knew him. It was personal to her. “You are one of them, aren’t you?” he said.

  Her hesitation was only a millisecond, but he watched her process his words. And he knew. Pablo knew. He was right.

  “On the ground,” the woman repeated, eyes moving back as she readjusted her aim.

  A flash of movement, like a club swinging, behind the woman. Silver and hands and a flash but no sound. The woman’s head spun to the side and her body crumpled to the floor of the apartment.

  Raquel stood where the woman had been, a 9mm with a long silencer in her hands. “Are you trying to get caught?” She glared at Pablo. “You need to move, now.”

  “That was one of them,” Pablo said. “You just killed two people who could have taken us to them.”

  “I can make it three if you push me.” She aimed at his head. “Move. Now.”

  CHAPTER 29

  August 2017

  Camp Valor

  They sat around the fire grieving. Dolly, Ebbie, Samy, Rory, Hallsy, Avi, Mum, and the Old Man. Tears in eyes, hearts broken. Dolly by far the worst.

  Dolly would not make eye contact with Wyatt. Hud had died. Cass was only slightly luckier, but not by much. She lay in a medically induced coma as surgeons at NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital debated how to remove the 9mm shell from her brain without killing her.

  The Old Man rose slowly, bone-tired and gaunt. “Normally, the final days of the summer are a time for celebration. As all of you have heard by now, your former Valor candidate, Hudson Decker, has died, and Cassidy Allen is in critical condition.”

  Dolly put her head in her hands, sobbing silently. Hallsy kneeled next to her. Wyatt had heard the rumor Cass and Hallsy had once been together. Whether it was true or not, Hallsy too was struggling with the news. He patted Dolly’s back. “Your sister will be okay,” he said. “She’s tough as hell. She won’t give up.”

  Dolly nodded, wiped her eyes, and looked back at the Old Man.

  The Old Man continued, “The official cause of Hud’s death, and what will be reported in the news, is suicide. However, we know that is not what happened. We lost track of Hud briefly after his escape. But from the moment of Hud’s arrest in Pennsylvania, Cass had him under surveillance. She was awaiting word from me for the proper time to reengage him.”

  “You mean to wipe his brain?” Dolly said.

  “Yes.” The Old Man did not flinch. “The plan was to complete the memory removal process. But around 2 p.m. yesterday, Cass discovered that all communication in a several-block radius had been compromised. Internet service ceased, security cameras were shut down, and all cellular phones, cable, and radio were scrambled. When Cass went to investigate, she was ambushed by whoever had come for Hud. Thanks to our partner agencies, her involvement has been made completely confidential. And I am sure we will learn more when she recuperates. For now, the only clue to go on is that there were reports—a visual sighting—of a blond girl on the roof. Other than that, we have not a single lead.”

  “Sir,” Ebbie said. “I don’t mean to be thick here. But are you trying to say that Hud jumped to his death from a rooftop in New York and there isn’t footage of it anywhere?”

  “As of right now, that’s what we are saying.”

  Wyatt said, “How could that happen? Who could do that?”

  “I’ll let Avi answer that in more detail.” The Old Man nodded to his security man.

  “Thank you,” Avi said and cleared his throat. “We think an agent—a sophisticated state player or organization or country—has been trolling for Valor. We do not yet know who they are, and I believe … at least, I don’t see any evidence that suggests that any of our systems here at Valor have been compromised. But in the hours after Hud’s arrest, the Williamsburg, Pennsylvania Police Department was hacked. And other databases a hacker might use to find us have also been compromised.”

  “Such as?” Ebbie asked.

  “Every juvenile detention center in the United States, the Department of Defense…”

  “Those systems can be hacked?” Dolly said.

  “Of course.” Avi nodded. “I could teach some of you to do it in a c
ouple hours. Any other questions?”

  “Yes.” Wyatt kicked a log into the fire, sending a cloud of sparks roiling toward the sky. “So what now? What do we do about it?”

  “It’s not what do we do,” Dolly said, “but when and where.”

  “I can understand how you feel,” Avi said. “But that is not my question to answer.”

  Avi turned to the Old Man, who stepped back into the light of the fire. He stared into the flames. “I have been wrestling with that question all day,” the Old Man said. “On one hand, we have an agent clearly trying to do us harm. On the other hand, we have a young and inexperienced group of operators. In most years, I would not take a Group-C into the field where we might encounter an enemy, let alone one we do not know. But as I mentioned earlier, this summer is not typical. And Valor’s security is at risk. I can pull in some members from Group-A and Group-B from their deployments, but we need them sooner than they can get here. Furthermore, you are not a normal Group-C. You are five of the most promising Valor candidates I have seen in my lifetime. And we have no other options. We must act quickly and decisively.

  “So, tomorrow morning, all remaining members of Group-C and staff will be flying to New York to attend Hud’s funeral. We’ll mourn him and we’ll pray for Cass, and then we’ll find those who are responsible. I have little doubt those very same people will be at the funeral, looking for us. It will be our mission to identify these players without revealing ourselves. We will not make contact, only observe.”

  The Old Man paused to make sure his words were heard clearly. “If this group is as dangerous as I believe it is, this mission could absolutely see an engagement. We will do everything we can to avoid that. But it is a possibility. You must go into this with eyes open. This is live. This is not a test … not one I have devised, anyway.”

  CHAPTER 30

  August 2017

  Indianapolis Airport

  Like his plane, the Glowworm’s limousine had been modified to suit its star occupant. The windows blacked out, stocked with computer gadgetry and his blender, which currently contained a hunk of flesh from Pablo’s rump and the tip of his nose—both removed mid-flight as punishment for Hudson Decker’s dive off the roof of his Fifth Avenue apartment. It had actually been Raquel’s failure. She was the one who terrified Hud into jumping. But the Glowworm would not see fault in the little demon he used to lure people to their deaths.

  Whatever the case, there was nothing he could do about it. Pablo took the hit for the mistakes and now sat precariously trying to balance his weight on his left butt cheek, his nose bandaged.

  The Glowworm grinned in the back, a slimy legume from hell, chuckling. “Enjoy your flight?” he asked. Raquel sat beside him, perched like a cat, drinking milk.

  Pablo ignored the question, enduring crippling pain and silence as they drove to Pound Ridge, Indiana, to the home of the widow of the late Sheriff Bouchard. They were following up on a hunch Pablo had about a long-dead teenage runaway, Eldon Waanders.

  * * *

  Pablo and Raquel stepped from the modified party bus and leaned into the wind and drizzling rain as they made their way up the cracked drive. Off to their right, in the foggy darkness, they could make out two buildings—a dilapidated barn and shed, the roofs thick with moss and collapsing.

  Evidently, at some point, there had been livestock on the property. Those days, however, were long gone, and the only animals in the yard were wild. The main house, the farmhouse, looked like it had once been maintained and well appointed. But now, like the barns, the main house had fallen into disrepair.

  The rain poured over the dented gutters, choked by many autumns of leaves. A chunk of stone was missing under the steps to the front door. A light glowed somewhere deep within the house, and even with his disfigured nose Pablo could smell the tang of a microwave dinner wafting from a distant open window. He looked at Raquel. “Let me talk.” He pressed the doorbell.

  It took a good three and a half minutes for someone to come to the door. It opened without creaking, revealing a walker, a tripod of three chewed-up tennis balls, a pinkish robe that was either silk or the oldest polyester known to man, dingy pajamas, and the face of an old lady whose halo of hair was so white and perfectly round that it looked like her wrinkly face grew out of the center of a ping-pong ball.

  “Madame, we spoke earlier,” Pablo said, putting on his most exotic, most tropical voice. He removed his hat, bowed, mindful of the bandages covering his missing ear and nose. “I am Pablo Gutierrez and this”—he turned to Raquel—“is my granddaughter. I do apologize for the late hour.”

  Nancy Bouchard looked out into the rain. “You made good time, despite the weather. I didn’t expect you to make it until tomorrow, otherwise I would have put on something a little nicer.”

  “You look like a woman enjoying a summer night,” Pablo said as warmly as he could. “Do you think it’s too late for us to come in? If it is, we can come back in the morning.”

  “Oh no,” Mrs. Bouchard said. “I was just about to start watching Dr. Phil. I tape it so I can watch it twice,” she said with a sly grin. “Follow me.”

  Pablo and Raquel trailed the elderly woman into the dark house, the old lady navigating around clutter like a bat. Her destination, of course, was the kitchen, brightly decorated in two-tone pink and lime-green styling and dotted with many photographs.

  “Is this your husband?” Pablo asked, motioning to a small silver frame that needed polishing.

  “Sure,” she said. “That was in Laos.” In the photo, a young Sheriff Bouchard sat in the jungle, a Russian-made AK-47 slung over his shoulder, wearing a green beret and a mischievous smirk.

  “So your husband was special forces during the war?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, “he was in the early days of all that SEAL and CIA business. Was surprised he wanted to move back to Pound Ridge after the war. But guess he’d had enough.” She smiled.

  So had Pablo. More elements fitting together.

  “Sit, please,” she said.

  Pablo and Raquel slid into a breakfast nook overlooking the backyard shrouded in fog. The old lady groaned as she lowered herself into the seat across from them. “I’m sorry I don’t have any coffee made, but I can offer you a Sanka. Or an aspirin for your nose.” The old lady squinted at Pablo. “That a sunspot you had removed? Looks like it stings.”

  “Yes,” said Pablo, awkwardly touching the bandage on his nose. “Early cancer spot. But it’s okay,” Pablo said. “Thank you. It’s kind enough that you would talk to us.”

  “Don’t have anything better to do. Now, let me get this straight,” the old widow said. “You two think you’re somehow related to Eldon Waanders?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Pablo. “As I told you earlier, my granddaughter and I are from España. Some time ago, we learned that I was actually a twin, separated at birth. We believe that my missing twin brother is the father of the boy, Eldon Waanders, and we are simply trying to confirm it. With DNA, or perhaps police records, or even a fingerprint.”

  The woman nodded, a little confused but rolling with it. “And how did you come to find me?”

  From his pocket, Pablo removed a printout of the article, reporting that Eldon Waanders, who had been missing since Thanksgiving, had been found dead before Christmas. “I found you through this article, which mentions your husband. He found the boy … after the boy had died. But did he know Eldon in life?”

  “Yes, he did,” she said. “We didn’t have any children of our own. My husband, Marion, was very involved in youth sports, the Boy Scouts—things of that sort. He took a particular interest in some juvenile delinquents we had in the area. Particularly, the ones he thought showed promise. And Eldon was one of the hardest cases he’d ever dealt with. The boy was in and out of trouble, very tough. Very mean. As you know, his parents—your brother, I guess—died when he was young, so he was a foster child. Bounced around the area. He seemed to live either in the jail, in the lockup, or w
ith a rotating list of families.

  “For some reason, my husband just took a liking to the boy. He was very smart, and just … I don’t know. Restless. I think Marion believed that if he put the boy to work and set his hands in motion, they wouldn’t do bad things.” She motioned out into the backyard and the fog swirling around the crumbling barn and shed. “Marion and Eldon got the barn and chicken coop in tip-top shape. Fixed them up. Painted them. We had two dozen birds, a horse, a couple goats at one time.”

  “They worked together fixing things up? Your husband … and Eldon?” Pablo asked.

  “Yes. He really responded to the work. Came out of his shell.” The old lady rubbed her swollen, rheumatoid knuckles. “And so did Marion. Marion just loved the kid. And Eldon started spending a lot of time over here. Always doing something, whether it was taking care of the animals or painting. In fact, we got so close to the boy, and he had been staying out of trouble so long, that my husband thought we might make a room for him here, which we did. The boy painted it himself. Fixed all the tongue and groove. Sanded the floor, waxed it. Did it all by himself.”

  “Did he move in?” Raquel asked. “With you and your husband here?”

  The woman startled, hearing Raquel speak for the first time. “I just got to tell you, darlin’, you are gorgeous.” The widow smiled.

  Raquel sighed in annoyance.

  “No, is the answer,” the old widow continued. “Unfortunately, he did not move in. Couple weeks before we were going to take custody of the boy, Eldon up and disappeared. I was the one who reported him missing. Marion found him in the van on the outside of town after the blizzard.”

  Pablo nodded. “Terribly tragic.”

  “Marion was devastated. Crushed. We all were. In fact, I never did anything with the room that the boy had made for himself here.”

  “You mentioned that he had painted the room himself?” Pablo asked.

  “I did,” she said.

  “He did all the work himself?” Pablo repeated.