Rain unto Death

by Alex Ryan

  “You don’t understand, my dear, I see the way you look at me, and I feel your intense attraction. And I know that I’ve been in more than my fair share of fantasies in the shower lately.”

  Rex blushed. “Well, if you must put it that way.”

  “I’m not who you think I am.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Before things get physical, there is something you need to know.”

  “What is that?”

  “I have a penis.”

  “No way.”

  Carly stripped off her blouse and bra, letting them fall to the floor. Her breasts were perfect. Then she unzipped her slacks, pulled them down, and then stripped down her panties. She had, in fact, a rather large penis. “See? You happy?”

  “How the hell do you hide that thing?”

  “It takes creative dressing. How do you feel?”

  “Confused. Can you turn around?” Carly turned around. “Damn. Does that thing work?”

  “Fully. I was born with it.” Carly put her clothes back on, slowly, from top to bottom. “One of the problems with having one of these, is once it comes out, sometimes it can be hard to put back in. Carly zipped up her slacks with a struggle. The bulge was now noticeable. “I can take you back if you want, if you’re uncomfortable with sleeping on the couch.”

  “No. It’s okay. Really. Does Simon know about this?”

  “Of course he does. He’s known about it since I worked for him in MI5.”

  “You were in MI5?”

  “Yes. You would be surprised how many Soviet and East German diplomats have serious kinks.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Not a chance. They wouldn’t accept me. I trust that you will keep this in confidence?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course.”

  “Will you have a problem working with me?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’m going to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same.”

  “You don’t keep a supply of cups do you?” Rex chuckled.

  “If you have business to attend to, please keep it confined to the guest bath.”

  “When you give men those exams, do you ever get excited?”

  “Sometimes, maybe a little, but honestly, men don’t attract me that much. Actually, when I wank off, I’m normally thinking about the same things you think about. Rex, I just want to be accepted for who I am. I live in a world where it is nearly impossible. I’m not complaining, it was my choice, and a conscious choice, but to be honest with you, it is a little tough.” Carly stood up and walked towards the bedroom. “The couch folds out. I’ll bring you a blanket.”

  Rex extended the couch in to a bed, and Carly returned with a comforter. Rex gave her a hug. “It’s okay. I accept you.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how did you end up in MI5?” Rex asked.

  “I was a nurse, working the night shift in London, and after my shift I would hang out at this club, where a lot of other people in the transgender community used to gather. I met a like individual working for MI5, and I was recruited. It sounded exciting.”

  “How come you left?”

  “After Simon left, my new supervisor more or less expected me to prostitute myself out, for all intents and purposes. I didn’t particularly like that, so I left and joined back with Simon in the United States.”

  “Oh bloody hell, what has this place become?” Simon asked as he walked through the door.

  “How are you feeling?” Carly asked.

  “Wretched. Are we in a shambles now?”

  “Quite the contrary; your understudy did a rather remarkable job.”

  “Well good. Hopefully there are no flubs that I cannot fix.”

  Rex stepped out of the conference room with a stack of papers. “Hey Simon. Good to see you back.” he said.

  “You don’t sound one hundred percent convincing. At least you didn’t take over my office.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it. Just wouldn’t feel right.”

  “Glad you think that way. Carly, can you join us in the conference room so I can get a debriefing before Rex goes on his next mission?”

  “What is this next mission?” Rex asked.

  “Pay tac ops a visit. I need to send them to Angola for short mission. I just want to make sure they are mentally and physically up to the task.”

  Will Lattimore’s house was, for the most part, the rally center for tactical operations. Rex had actually never been there, but by all descriptions, the inside resembles a cross between a military barracks and frat house. Rex knocked on the door.

  “Yes?” A female voice answered.

  “It’s Rex.”

  “Come in.” Isadora unlatched the door, and led him to the living room. It looked like a party scene.

  “Hey kid, you picked the right time to come by. We’re having a fiesta. Grab yourself a plate.” Lattimore said. He was dressed in slacks and a cardigan sweater. If you handed him a microphone, you might think he was a pro football player turned sports commentator. Leroy was there, wearing a sports jacket. Champ was there, in jeans and a mock turtleneck. And a few of the other guys. “Let me introduce you to the rest of the team.”

  Rex grabbed a plate and heaped seafood paella on it, and sat next to Leroy. “You guys look... different,” Rex said.

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me about it. Boss has been all weird since we got back. We can’t fart and scratch our nuts in the house anymore. And look at the place. It’s all decorated now.” Leroy said in disgust.

  “You guys aren’t going soft, are you?”

  “Nah, we just going at things a bit differently. Isadora been sending us to spin class and yoga and shit. Hear you been the man back in LA while Simon was out.”

  “I’ve been helping out.”

  “We got any upcoming missions?”

  “Yeah, Angola is coming up.”

  “Angola. Damn. That’s where I met boss man. Save his life.”

  Lattimore approached. “What you boys talking about?” he asked.

  “I was just telling Leroy that there’s an upcoming mission in Angola.” Rex replied.

  “Angola, damn, you know, that’s the place where I saved Leroy’s ass. Now why did Simon send you out here to check up on us?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Tell Simon we’re more ready to go than ever. I got somebody to watch the house while I’m gone.”

  Epilogue

  The atmosphere seemed different this time. They were starting to know her. The waiter. The concierge on the ground floor. Even the two disjointed lounge jazz musicians. Some people like to hang out at bars, other people liked to hang out at the gym. She tried a bible study briefly but became increasingly convinced she was going to go to hell if she continued down that path, so she stopped. She just liked eating at this place, and liked the atmosphere; sometimes she would just take her time and sip a couple glasses of wine, sometimes she would read a book. They gave her space. They always had a table open for her and didn’t mind that she took her time. She was a good customer. And that episode with the used car salesman was hilarious.

  Rex walked through the entrance of the restaurant, smartly dressed in a sport coat, mock turtleneck, and slacks. The look was a west coast thing, a San Francisco thing to be specific. It was a different look for DC, but he didn’t at all look out of place.

  “Can’t stay away from this place, can you?” Kirsten asked with a smile.

  “Stay away from this place? This is the first time I’ve been here.” Rex said.

  “You clean up nicely, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” Rex took a seat. This was her element. It was almost like being in her home. Her space. Her territory. “What did the last guy that sat in this seat order?”

  “A hamburger and fries.”

  “I don’t see it on the menu.”

  “Do you like lamb chops?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good, well then o
rder something else, so we can share. Like the filet.”

  The waiter approached the table with an apprehensive stare. “Madam, are you ready to order?” Rex felt uncomfortable with the man’s sideways gaze. He felt that he was being sized up.

  “Lamb chops.”

  “A drink madam?”

  “Glass of cab. Surprise me.”

  “And for you sir?”

  “Filet, rare please.”

  “Excellent choice.” The waiter looked surprised. “A drink for you?”

  “Some kind of red wine.”

  “What kind sir?”

  “I don’t know, just the cheapest.” Rex said with a smile. The waiter looked miffed. “I’m joking. I’m kind of partial to Napa Valley wines.”

  “I thought you drank beer?” Kirsten said.

  “I do, it’s just that either I’m drinking beer or I’m not. I doubt these guys are going to bring out a twelve pack on ice for me.”

  Kirsten couldn’t help but notice the woman sitting alone at the next table, fidgeting with her wristwatch and sipping a glass of wine. Then he walked in, of all people. Pencil thin porn star mustache. Odd patterned suit. Ron Tiegbaum himself. The lounge lizard used car salesman. And he just had to sit down at the very next table. He had a horrified look when he noticed Kirsten. He nervously introduced himself to the woman.

  “Something wrong?” Rex asked.

  “No, nothing at all. Just the people around me. It’s entertaining. You wonder what their stories are.”

  “You mean like that loser that just showed up for a first date with that woman over there?”

  “Wow, you’re very perceptive. What leads you to believe that?”

  “He’s got loser written all over him. I’m going to predict that lady is going to ditch him within the first thirty minutes. In fact, want to make a bet?”

  “I’ll pass, I don’t think I’m going to take that bet.”

  “You know Simon was trying to find any excuse he could to not send me over here.”

  “He’s such a wet rag.”

  “So, what is the gig?”

  “One of the agency’s programs took a turn for the worse. The program manager disappeared. We’re afraid he’s going to defect with some sensitive information.”

  “Why isn’t the FBI handling it?”

  “It’s a sensitive issue.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find him, obviously.”

  “Where do you think he is?”

  “We think here in DC, actually. We have the Soviet embassy under surveillance watching for him. He’s probably smart enough not to go there.”

  “So tell me all the details of the mission.”

  “I will later, when we aren’t in a public place.”

  I will later, when we are not in a public place. That pretty much only means one thing. “I haven’t checked in to a hotel yet.”

  “Don’t bother,” Kirsten purred, with a smile.

  “Anything else for you sir?” The waiter asked the man, now sitting alone at the next table. “No, I think I’m good.”

  “Excellent. Here is the check, sir.” The waiter handed him the bill.

  Tiegbaum looked surprised, and then horrified as he opened the bill. “I’m afraid I don’t have quite enough cash. I need to make some sort of other arrangement.”

  “Certainly. Give me a few minutes, sir.”

  The waiter returned to the table several minutes later. “The kitchen manager informs me that he has an open position in the tableware cleanliness department.”

  “Uh, okay, how long do I need to wash dishes?”

  “Let’s see.” The waiter scribbled out a rough calculation. “At a rate of three dollars and thirty five cents per hour, approximately one week.”

  The two bodies intertwined under the satin sheets as an old movie played on the VCR. Rex reached downward with his right hand.

  “What are you grabbing for, silly?” Kirsten asked with a giggle.

  “Nothing. Just checking.”

  The military investigator shook his head as read the report. Counsel from the Judge Advocate General’s staff was sitting across the table. “I just don’t get it.” The investigator asked.

  “What’s the issue?” The JAG counsel asked.

  “The other set of fingerprints found on that nine millimeter pistol that First Sergeant Wilson used to shoot Sergeant Mueller, Corporal Starr, and himself. We ran them and they match Alex Dahl.”

  “Alex Dahl? That kid that shot Captain Lewis in Grenada on deployment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s conceivable that Dahl might have handled the weapon at some point prior to his apprehension. Or even after his escape.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Why, what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing. Just the same, you got Dahl’s case file handy?”

  “Yeah I can get it.”

  He was the sole occupant in the Officer’s Club, a man in a civilian suit bearing the credentials of an Army major. His minimum commitment would be up next year. He had to decide whether he wanted to stay in for a career, or take the out. He could walk into any major city’s police force and practically get handed a detective slot right off the bat. It’s not that the military hadn’t been good to him, but he was getting tired of the bullshit. Of course, they say that in the civilian world, there’s plenty of bullshit to go around too. And then there was the third option. Go private. Problem is, ninety five percent that go private life live paycheck to paycheck, handling divorce and worker’s compensation fraud cases. It was too much to think about for now.

  He read through Dahl’s case files. One thing was starting to become clear, the more he read. Whoever investigated the case was a hack. There were some serious inconsistencies. Statements and assumptions based on evidence destroyed on an unsecured battlefield. If this were a civilian trial, any competent defense attorney would have raised some serious issues. Incompetence? He wasn’t surrounded by incompetence. JAG was not incompetent. Maybe it’s something else...

  “Sir, we’re about to close.”

  “No problem, I’m almost out of here.”

  The major walked into the JAG office and handed the file back to his contact. “You really should take a look through this case file. I mean it’s too late now anyway, but damn, this Dahl guy was railroaded.

  “I’ll take that under advisement.” The uniformed officer disappeared back in to the file room.

  The major had an uneasy feeling that someone was watching him as he drank his last glass of scotch over ice. But again, he was alone in the O-club. “Sir,” the bartender said. “There is a call for you on the telephone line.”

  The major walked over to the bar and picked up the receiver laying on the counter. “Hello?”

  “Let it go,” a muffled, disguised voice said, and then the line went dead.

  “Something wrong sir?”

  “No, nothing at all.”

  The major walked out to his car. The driver’s door had been unlocked, and the window was scratched from a jimmy. In the driver’s seat was a live hand grenade, with the pin intact. It was a message.

  The major sat in his car. He was sick to his stomach. There was the issue of what to do next. Report it to the MPs? There is a rotten apple someplace. He put the hand grenade under his seat. Somebody was trying to fuck with him.

  And somebody might just get the grenade back.

  Al-Hasan watched the sunrise from a wooden chair overlooking the Mediterranean. Whoever shot Saleem did him a favor. He was able to evade the police and return to Lebanon. Had that not happened, he would likely still be somewhere in the middle of the Afghani desert, minus his head.

  But they were right. It was a botched job. An expensive botch job. That money could have gone to a lot of different places. Maybe it’s time to retire. Maybe leave the war. Al-Hasan was not a jihadist at heart. That flight crew, they we
re jihadists.

  A man pulled a wooden chair across the sand and sat it close to Al-Hasan’s chair, sat down, and lit a clove cigarette. “You know, there will be a day, after this place is part of the caliphate, when we can take a boat across to the other side of the sea, and still be in the caliphate,” the man said.

  Al-Hasan did not quite know how to respond to the man’s statement. Many of the groups that have pledged jihad have their own view of who the caliph should be and how it should be administered, and they don’t all agree, some violently. It was a loaded statement. “One would hope that Muslims can eventually unite.” Al-Hasan replied.

  “There is a commander. A supreme commander. He will launch an army. He will clear Afghanistan from the grips of the Russian swine. Then he will move on from there, striking at the imperialists.”

  “That is a lofty goal.”

  “Saleem is loyal to him. Or rather, he was, until he met his unfortunate demise.”

  “Who are you, and why are you here?”

  “You should return to Afghanistan.”

  “I don’t think they much like me over there.”

  The man let out a short laugh. “If they intended to kill you, you would already be dead.”

  Al-Hasan reflected on the statement. He was right. After all, the man was here. “I suppose that is so.”

  “Not everyone believes your mission was a failure. At least not entirely. Come back. Refine the plan. Learn some lessons.”

  “When will this army be active?”

  “Within a year, maybe two, its presence will be announced to the world.”

  “I will consider.”

  “Take your time.”

  “How do I contact you?”

  “We know where you are.”

  It was a veiled threat. No would not be accepted. And he couldn’t hide from them. Before he responded, he looked to his side, and the man had disappeared.

  So much for retirement.

  Contact the Author

  Feel free to contact Alex directly at authoralexryan@hotmail.com, or on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/authoralexryan