The Fever Dream

by Sam Jones

  Lizzie.

  “Did it work?” Cassie asked.

  Black thought about it.

  It didn’t…

  He didn’t bother telling that to Cassie.

  Cassie downed the last of her coffee and swirled the remnants around the mug. “I’m going to go,” she said.

  Black felt his heart drop into his stomach.

  “Just like that?” he asked her.

  Cassie stood up. “Just like that.”

  Stall. Think of something!

  “You know your way around okay?” he asked.

  Cassie scanned the horizon. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “What about the money? I’ve still got in that envelope of yours. Plenty to go around.”

  Cassie waved him off.

  “Keep it,” she said.

  Got that ten grand…

  …Plus some.

  Black leaned back in his plastic chair and grinned. “I gotta say,” he began. “Pretty anticlimactic ending to our story, don’t you think? I mean, the first time we met we had plenty to say.”

  Cassie smiled.

  Black would miss seeing it.

  “Not everything requires a catharsis or a cinematic ending, Martin Black. Sometimes a cup of coffee works just fine,” Cassie said as she took her first step off the porch and back into the real world.

  Right before she began her journey up the road, she turned back.

  “One last thing,” she said.

  Black perked up.

  “How long has it been since you smoked?”

  Black thought about it and couldn’t recall the last time he had partaken.

  I don’t even want one!

  “I’m not sure,” he said, delighted at the progress in his tone.

  “Keep it up then,” Cassie told him as she vanished behind the barbecues and into the forested area behind Ruth’s Club.

  And just like that, Cassie Palizzi disappeared into the wilderness and left Martin Black with the odd yet comforting feeling that he would someday see her again.

  Catch you later, Palizzers.

  Black ordered one more round of coffee.

  He finished his cup, left the guy another twenty, and headed for the cab of the truck, the payment for his job and the signed Commitment Waiver still in his pocket as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  Drive to McCarran.

  Catch a flight to Philly.

  Reimburse Stan Hope.

  Mail in the CW.

  As simple as the plan was, a hangover lingered around as a result of the events that had unfolded in the past several days. It still smelled of lies, deceit, and some kind of cover-up.

  None of this felt right.

  What about the Feds?

  Who blew up the building?

  Why were there three extra bodies?

  It doesn’t matter.

  The job is done, and the girl is safe…

  But it doesn’t... feel... right.

  Black pulled out his burner phone and dialed.

  It rang… and rang… and rang…

  The line picked up—

  “Hello, and thank you for calling The Trust. My name is Tara. How may I help you today?”

  “Bravo, Echo, One-Nine.”

  Another pause.

  “Confirmation, please. ID challenge is ‘Ruby.’”

  Black recalled the response—

  “Red.”

  One last pause.

  “Hello, Mister Black. How can I help you?”

  “Please inform Miss Trask that the Amanda Dubin contract has been completed.”

  “And the Commitment Waiver?” Tara asked with anticipation in her voice.

  Black patted his pocket. “I’ll mail it in within the hour.”

  “Splendid, Mister Black. I will inform Miss Trask. Have a wonderful day.”

  The line went dead as Martin Black felt the invisible strings attached to his body being tugged on from a distance by the puppet masters he had never met.

  Trask.

  You’re behind this whole thing, aren’t you?

  Black thought about Amanda Dubin and the former Trust employee he had killed to get to her.

  Nothing about this contract was a coincidence.

  Was it, Miss Trask?

  Black smiled as he started in with the theories, one of which was the lingering notion that the entirety of the mission had been nothing but a dream.

  I’ll figure it out.

  I’ll figure the whole thing out.

  I’ll just bite my time until then.

  ...I’m not done by a LONG SHOT.

  Martin Black turned on the radio, and in a stroke of good fortune the beginning rift of a Spinner’s tune played. He smiled at the well-timed coincidence and cranked up the volume on the radio, then he put the vehicle into gear and merged onto the highway. As his truck blended into the landscape, the clap-your-hands rhythm provided a warm and welcomed distraction while his uncertain future and the organization that ran his life followed after him.

  A color lost in a sea of other colors.

  The Trust

  In an unknown location, in an unknown high-rise, in an unknown part of the world, a woman with expensive clothing sat on a black leather chair inside a windowless office the size of a small airplane hangar.

  Her blonde hair was back in a tight bun. Her face was rigid and never showed expression. Her small and tight lips were highlighted with a subtle tint of ruby. She was a tall and slender woman. Every inch of her 5’11” felt imposing, even as she sat.

  Her tight-fitting dress was a blinding shade of white that blended in with the all-white interior and matching furnishings that occupied the floor of her office, save for the black leather chair she sat on and the matching, glossy black desk.

  Her composure was rigid and her stare was hollow. Her methods were unique, and the only person who ever knew the entirety of plan was herself.

  Her name was Trask and she was one of the Executives that ran The Trust.

  The phone on her desk rang. She reached forward and pressed the speaker button—

  “Miss Trask,” the voice of Tara said over the line.

  Trask replied in her smoky and just shy of sinister voice—

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Alexandra Bleu is here to see you.”

  “Send her in.”

  The line went dead.

  The front door, resting twenty-some-odd feet away from Trask’s desk, opened. The area behind it was soaked with light.

  A woman in a silver business suit entered, her hair tied back in a ponytail. She walked with a confident stride over to Trask, high heels clicking along the polished floor as her petite frame with well-defined curves came into better view. Her dark auburn hair with red hints caught the light. Her face was an oval shape that sported quirky, overgrown sideburns, which fell past the middle of her jawline and curled up at the ends in a delicate, feminine twist. She once had the perfect nose, or ‘perfect’ by whatever shallow gauge one judged physical looks upon.

  Her name was Alexandra Blue, and she was one of the top Contractor’s working for The Trust.

  But people like Martin Black, the now-deceased Roenick, and Cassie Palizzi had known her as Amanda Dubin.

  Trask motioned a hand towards the black, matching leather guest seat across from her own. “Have a seat, Miss Bleu.”

  Bleu sat down and showcased a professional half-smile as Trask tracked her in the manner that a bird of prey would.

  “How are you, my dear?” asked Trask.

  “I’m well,” Bleu replied. “It’s nice to be back home.”

  Trask pulled out a white file folder with The Trust’s logo printed across the front: a half circle with a sharp-edged ‘T’ in the middle, the shade of silver it was printed in caught the light overhead.

  “You were undercover for two years,” said Trask. “That’s quite a long time.”

  Bleu tilted her head. “It was the job you assigned me to do.”

  Trask patte
d the file folder. “And you did it phenomenally well, though I kept you in the dark with some of the details.”

  “It’s not my job to question your orders, ma’am.”

  “Though you want to… Don’t worry, Miss Bleu. I’ll allow you to ask a few for your own clarification. You do have questions still lingering in your mind, don’t you?”

  Bleu nodded.

  “You went so far as to seduce and take a husband during your mission to infiltrate Roenick,” said Trask.

  “Per your request, ma’am.”

  “Yes, it was. I guess what I’m getting at is the notion of how you coped with living and consistently sticking to the details of that lie for such a long time.”

  “I stuck to my narrative,” Cassie said as she braced the armrests on the side of the chair.

  “I kept to the history I created around Amanda Dubin. My job was to play the victim, not to stand out. Aside from the errors and the plot holes I’m sure I had in my narrative, hopefully, I accomplished that.”

  “I would say you did. Was there any particular method you used to ground yourself while you posed as Amanda Dubin?”

  “A narrative I created, a made-up story about my ‘foster parents’ that included a token. The more elaborate I made it, the more I myself began to believe it.”

  “A token? What kind of ‘token’ did you use?”

  “A pine tree keychain I found in a gas station my first day undercover. I sat there and created a story around it that gave it value. From there, it was easy to create the rest of Amanda Dubin’s backstory.”

  Trask smiled with admiration at the deception. “Well done, Miss Bleu…”

  Trask opened the front flap of the file folder and began scanning the documents in front of her.

  “Your secondary goal in this operation was to evaluate one of our employees. A Contractor by the name of Martin Black.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And what was your assessment of him?”

  Bleu thought it over and chose her words carefully.

  “A wildcard, to put it quite frankly… But an effective one, nevertheless. It seems he has developed a knack at… surviving. He’s quite difficult to kill.”

  Trask smiled like a proud mother. “That he is. And that is his purpose… What else did you conclude?”

  “He’s a blunt instrument. Though he is well trained and thorough in the art of combat, the idea of subtlety and eliminating his targets at a distance are secondary thoughts that he will only indulge in if they’re convenient. He’d rather blow up a building than try to infiltrate it. He’s…”

  Bleu couldn’t help but grin. “He’s like if James Bond were a celibate with social anxiety disorder.”

  Trask’s eyes wandered. “That’s an astute observation, not far from what we have on file…”

  “Is a question all right at this point, ma’am?”

  Trask nodded.

  “Then may I ask why you would keep someone as volatile as Black in your employ, ma’am? If I’m not crossing the line asking.”

  “There’s a history with our Contractors. They are all trained for specific purposes. Black is no different, and neither are you. And though he may seem to be unpredictable, there is a method to the madness…”

  Bleu leaned forward, a barrage of questions sizzling on the tip of her tongue.

  “Who is he, ma’am? Where did he come from? Roenick spoke of some sort of ‘unique history’ he had. What is it?”

  Trask’s smile faded and her lips turned back into a static line. “That,” she said, “is none of your concern, Miss Bleu.”

  Bleu nodded and looked away. It was a secret that only Trask and a handful of others knew.

  Eventually the mystery would be divulged.

  But now was not the time.

  “You are well aware of the intentions of this operation. Correct?” asked Trask.

  “The termination of the rogue Trust Contractor, Marcus Silver, otherwise known as ‘Roenick,’” replied Bleu.

  “And terminated he was.”

  “May I inquire something?”

  Trask waited for her inquiry.

  “Why such elaborate theatrics to track down and exterminate a former Contractor?” asked Bleu.

  “Again, Miss Bleu, this is not information you need to know.”

  Bleu nodded.

  Trask sneered.

  “I will say that Marcus Silver, in a way, was still working for our best interests, though he just didn’t know it… His departure has helped us as much as it has hurt a certain FBI agent’s investigation into us…”

  Bleu started putting a few of the pieces together.

  “All of this, my dear,” said Trask. “Every inch of what happened… Well, it was as much a test for Martin Black as it was for you.”

  Bleu swallowed the lump in her throat as she realized she was as much in the dark as Martin Black was.

  “Did he pass?” she asked.

  Trask nodded.

  “Did I?”

  Trask smiled. “Martin Black, as well as you, demonstrated steadfast loyalty to us, to our organization, despite the fact that he had several opportunities to run away. He was on the verge of termination, due to a few missteps he had taken, and we needed to put him through the ultimate test. He passed.”

  “I believe he did it to save me, ma’am. To save Amanda Dubin, that is.”

  Again, Trask smiled, like she knew the answers to Bleu’s questions before she even asked them.

  “He’s trying to pay back his past,” Trask said.

  Bleu’s interest was piqued.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  Trask said nothing.

  Bleu didn’t push it.

  “Martin Black’s life, his career, is about to turn all the more interesting over the course of this next year. The Trust is undergoing some… changes. New programs. New Contractors. He is going to play a special part in that due to, as Roenick put it, ‘his unique history.’ Martin Black is going to play a vital role within this organization. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  Trask closed the file folder and slid it aside.

  Underneath that folder was another folder, the same half-circle and jagged-edge ‘T’ printed in silver across the front. Below that were three words written in big, black and bold letters:

  The Dallas Project

  “You will play a part as well, Miss Bleu,” said Trask.

  Bleu looked Trask dead in her eyes as Trask opened the project folder and asked—

  “Are you ready to begin?”

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