The Rogue Agent

by Daniel Judson

  He paused to grip the Walther in his coat pocket before entering.

  A group of men were milling about inside.

  Gateno counted twelve.

  The hangar also housed three vehicles, two SUVs and a panel van.

  Most of the men were dressed in black tactical clothing.

  The few who weren’t stood apart from the rest of the group.

  Gateno easily recognized the type of men they were.

  They came from different parts of the world, but each one no doubt had been forged in a crucible similar to the one that had forged him.

  Poverty, desperation, military service, then a career as mercs, killers for hire.

  The only difference was that Gateno had preferred to work alone.

  He would form and lead a wet team when necessary, but he never wanted to be part of one.

  A man stepped out of the crowd and approached Gateno and Rene. He was in his forties, tall and powerfully built, walked with the swagger of someone who knew exactly what he was capable of.

  Knew the power he wielded—had wielded in the past and would wield again.

  The man told Rene that she was free to go.

  She left, and as she did, he nodded to the other two men dressed in civilian clothing.

  Gateno sensed what was coming and knew what that would mean to his plan regarding the flash drive hidden inside his courier.

  The two men followed her out, and Gateno waited for the sound of a pistol fitted with a suppressor being fired.

  Two such sounds were heard a moment later, after which the men returned inside.

  Their leader sent four of the men dressed in black out to tend to the dead body.

  Gateno doubted these men would do more than a quick search of the dead woman’s clothing, so his fail-safe remained viable, to a degree.

  His entire life was a series of calculated risks.

  And while he had no attachment to the girl he knew as Rene, he nonetheless found himself staring at the man who had ordered her death and imagining the ways in which he would kill him, should it come to that.

  The leader looked at Gateno and said, “We’re on standby. If the order comes, though, my men and I are tasked with getting you in. Then you do what you’re supposed to. Up to that point, and after you make the kill, I’m in charge. Understand?”

  “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “So do you have a name, or do I call you what he calls you? The Algerian?”

  “The Algerian is what I prefer.”

  The team leader nodded. “Okay.”

  Gateno said, “And how shall I address you?”

  “The same way my men do. Call me Gunny.”

  So, a marine.

  A call came to Gunny’s cell phone.

  Stepping away, he answered it, listened more than he spoke, then ended the call and turned back to Gateno. “There’s another target, one the Benefactor referred to as ‘the child.’ I was told you’d know what that means.”

  Gateno nodded. The child was no longer a child but an asset the Benefactor’s enemy had kept hidden for a long time. “I do.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means we may get to kill someone the Benefactor has feared for more than two decades.”

  PART TWO

  Thirteen

  In a small rented house a half mile from the Taft School, James Carrington was awake.

  He had heard the low-flying helicopter just after midnight, had continued to listen as the copter touched down less than a mile to the north.

  Fifteen minutes later, the copter had taken off again, reversing its course, the dull thumping of the rotors finally fading away.

  It was dawn now, and quiet, though he doubted this stillness would last for very long.

  In fact, he was counting on it coming to an end, and his current existence with it.

  Exiled from his private security firm for his excessive drinking, among other things, he’d endured a year and a half of teaching history to the children of the wealthy—a nightmare more tedious than horrific, but one from which he was nonetheless desperate to be released.

  The late-night arrival of a copter just up the hill carried with it the possibility of exactly that.

  A retired navy captain, he had been making a handsome living for five years as a recruiter, specializing in selecting and screening ex-military personnel for private security work, with a handful of the men and women he employed being “encouraged” to pursue work as government contractors.

  An even more select few were recruited for private-sector special operations.

  It was an “up-sell” few ever turned down.

  The money alone was reason enough, though there were, even among ex-military, those who did not trust government and therefore didn’t have the heart for that kind of work.

  Carrington’s drinking had brought that success to an end, and this posting as a teacher at a small prep school was an opportunity for him to redeem himself.

  He would do this mainly by remaining sober, though staying put was just as important, for the simple reason that he’d be easily found should the day come when he was needed.

  When the one and only card he held would be required by those who had once employed him, and his banishment would end, either once and for all or only briefly.

  But even a day away from his humiliation would bring relief.

  Of all the possible scenarios that Carrington could imagine that required the transfer via helicopter of a person or persons to the farm-turned-veterinarian-hospital atop Litchfield Road, none were good.

  One scenario in particular could even be bad for him.

  But in the end, his desire for escape overrode his apprehension.

  All that mattered to him was getting out of this life and back into his old one.

  Or maybe even one better than that.

  So he was up before his alarm, waiting. Sitting on the edge of his bed and looking toward the only window of his back bedroom, he watched the dawn give way to a gray spring morning and wondered when and how they would approach him.

  And what exactly would play out after that?

  The walk from his house on the corner of Main Street and Hawley Lane to the campus took six minutes if he cut through Evergreen Cemetery—a shortcut he avoided only on winter mornings when the snow was too deep.

  Leaving at a quarter to eight, he followed Hawley to its end, crossed North Street, and entered the hillside cemetery through its main gate.

  Walking to the top of the main road, he stepped off the pavement and crossed a few rows of graves before making his way through a border of hedges and onto the far edge of the campus.

  From there he saw the playing fields below and the cluster of brick buildings beyond them.

  He’d expected the caravan of SUVs that Raveis always traveled in to come rushing upon him as he made his habitual walk, but there was no sign of them.

  And no such activity ahead as he continued down to the empty playing fields and approached the residence halls.

  Any point he had passed so far would have been more than suitable for the kind of private meeting that Raveis preferred.

  The man was shadow that moved in shadows.

  Carrington began questioning whether or not the escape he craved would arrive today after all. Passing the residence halls and following the curving walkway around to the front parking lot, he noted only the usual vehicles.

  But when he was only a few dozen steps from Taft Hall, where his office was located, he at last spotted what he’d been expecting since last night.

  Three black SUVs traveling in a tight formation.

  The caravan was coming from the direction of the farm. Had Raveis’s men just now driven up from New York City, their vehicles would have approached not from the north but rather from the south.

  Carrington felt the urge to panic, but he fought it.

  Aware of the SIG P230 in his leather satchel—a violation of campus rules and grounds for im
mediate termination and possible arrest should it be discovered—he watched as the two SUVs turned into the circular driveway and accelerated toward him.

  The expertly driven caravan came to an abrupt stop a few yards away.

  The location that had been chosen for the ambush, as well as the manner in which the vehicles had approached, like police cars overcoming a criminal, was intended to maximize Carrington’s discomfort—a specialty of Sam Raveis, though Carrington thought “obsession” might be the more accurate description.

  He realized then that it had been foolish of him to expect anything resembling stealth.

  The three vehicles parked nose to bumper, but only the doors of the middle vehicle opened.

  Carrington expected to see several of Raveis’s men pour out, but to his surprise, only one individual exited, and he wasn’t one of the many armed private contractors that were almost always with Raveis.

  Stoic-faced men dressed in black suits.

  These men, though, were visible seated inside the vehicle, watching him, open hands resting within easy reach of holstered firearms.

  The man who emerged from the vehicle was Raveis himself, dressed, as always, in an expensive and well-fitting suit, his dark hair cropped and combed, his face freshly shaven.

  Carrington had always thought of Raveis as a finely crafted piece of military-grade weaponry—polished to the point of gleaming but nonetheless menacing as hell.

  Raveis looked at Carrington, both men remaining expressionless.

  Despite the fact that Carrington had imagined this moment countless times—obsessed about it, even—he was uncertain now how to react.

  After all, how does a person in exile greet the very man who exiled him?

  The man who had pushed for a punishment more severe.

  Knowing Raveis as he did, Carrington decided to be the first to break the standoff. “Good morning, Sam.”

  Raveis’s expression didn’t lighten. He shifted his attention to the building behind Carrington—stately, ivy-covered, narrow windows made up of small leaded panes.

  Outwardly, Carrington’s life looked idyllic.

  For some men it would be, but not Carrington.

  And Raveis knew this. “You and I are going to take a little ride, Jim.”

  So, down to business. “Where to?”

  “Where do you think?”

  Carrington glanced toward the north. “How about you tell me what’s going on first?”

  “There’s only one reason I’d be here like this, Jim. I’m sure you heard the activity last night—unless you slept through it. All your urine tests have come back clean, from what I’ve been told. But maybe last night was the night you suddenly fell off the wagon. Maybe last night you got blackout drunk.”

  Raveis paused, but Carrington didn’t take the bait.

  “Or is there something I don’t know about?” Raveis said. “Some other reason, maybe, for me to be paying you a surprise visit like this first thing in the morning?”

  “Nothing that I can think of,” Carrington said.

  “Because we sent you here to keep you out of trouble, Jim. I’d hate to think you were getting into some on your own. I know they don’t pay you a lot here. Believe me, I feel terrible about that.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “As far I’m concerned, you got off easy. If it had been up to me, you’d be in federal prison right now.”

  “Convicted of what crime, exactly?”

  “Whatever crime I wanted you convicted of.”

  Carrington ignored that, too. “You need me to bring in Tom,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”

  Raveis nodded. “It’s your lucky day. We need him. And we need him fast.”

  “Yeah, well, fast is going to be a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “I only have one means of contacting him to set up a meeting. He insisted on it being that way. If I break protocol and contact him in any other way, he’ll take it to mean I’m compromised. He’ll disappear and go even deeper than he is now.”

  Raveis didn’t hide his irritation. “You and your fucking codes.”

  “This one’s all him, Sam. I didn’t come up with it.”

  “You taught him what he knows.”

  “You give me too much credit. He’s smarter than the two of us combined. You know that.”

  “What kind of delay are we talking about?”

  “The device I’m to contact him on is only monitored between four and five in the afternoon.”

  “Why that hour only?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “You know where he is, though.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t?”

  “I’m under orders never to look.”

  “Thank God the Colonel’s in charge. Of course, what are orders to you, right?”

  Raveis ignored that. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you know where he is?”

  Carrington hesitated. “Yes. But I can’t tell you. That was part of the deal.”

  “Can you at least confirm that he’s in the country?”

  “He is.”

  Raveis glanced at his watch, looked again at Carrington, and said, “We’re going to need you to come in for the next few days.”

  “What has happened?”

  “I’m taking you to the old tavern for safekeeping. You’ll be briefed there. As you’re our only means to Tom, I’m required to keep you alive. That was the Colonel’s deal with him.”

  Carrington knew about that—or enough about it.

  If there is anything I can do for you, I will do it, Tom had said to the Colonel before disappearing. But the only person I want to contact me is James Carrington.

  And what if something were to happen to him? the Colonel had asked.

  You’ll have to make sure nothing does.

  It was Tom’s deal with the Colonel that had saved Carrington from a fate far worse than this one.

  He was grateful for that, despite his many misgivings about his current posting. But that deal had also made clear that Tom refused to be squandered, so whatever had happened last night had to be bad enough to set in motion the delicate process of bringing him in.

  As much as Carrington wanted out of his dull daily grind, he did not wish to achieve this at the expense of the man who had sacrificed so much for him.

  “I have to cancel my classes,” Carrington said. “I’ll go inside and make the call.”

  Raveis shook his head. “You have a cell, Jim. You can make the call as we drive. You’re not leaving my sight. And there’s even less time to waste now.”

  Fourteen

  Tom stood in the doorway as Stella completed putting on the first layer of her workout clothes—a sports bra and boy shorts.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “You just missed it,” she teased. “I was naked.”

  Tom smiled. “Damn it.” He entered the room and crossed to its only window, looking down at the empty parking lot.

  Then he scanned what he could see of their property’s perimeter.

  Once a Seabee, always a Seabee.

  “So, we might skip the CrossFit tonight,” Stella said. “We’ll see how we feel after our run.”

  Rarely did Stella and her short-order cook, Krista, miss their eight-mile run. Taking just over an hour, it ended at the neighboring farm where Krista rented a room. There, in the makeshift gym she had set up in the barn, they pushed through another forty-five minutes of grueling CrossFit training.

  “Long day,” Tom said. The diner was closed on most days by two thirty, but there had been a later-than-usual lunch rush today, ending with a party of six walking in just minutes before closing, so the place hadn’t been cleaned and restocked for the next day till three thirty.

  It was a quarter to four now.

  Normally Tom was done with his own workout by this time, not about to begin it.

  Done and showered and dressed, ready to monitor the smartphone he only powered up
for one hour a day, every day.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Stella saw that. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She stepped into her sweatpants and pulled them up. “Shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I left our dinners in the walk-in downstairs.”

  At the end of every shift, Krista made three plates of food—two for Tom and Stella, one for herself. Lots of protein and vegetables, and one cup of brown rice, though sometimes she’d treat them all with a plain baked potato.

  “I’ll get it after my workout.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll text you when we’re done with our run, let you know whether I’m staying for CrossFit or not.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A figure appeared below, emerging from the line of pine trees that surrounded the property. It moved at a light sprint across the gravel parking lot, then came to a stop.

  “She’s here,” Tom said.

  Krista was twenty-six—nine years younger than Tom and twenty years younger than Stella.

  She had always struck Tom as an odd young woman—edgy and intense, yet shy to the point of being unable to look Tom in the eye.

  When talking about her in private with Stella, he jokingly referred to her as “their feral.” Stella insisted she was merely a stray.

  Upon hiring the girl, she had almost immediately taken her under her wing.

  They’d begun their nightly workouts within a week.

  Tom did notice that Krista seemed more at ease with Stella, and that, among other things, she was able to look Stella in the eye whenever they spoke.

  Stella suggested the reason for this was Tom’s generally rough appearance and somewhat stoic demeanor, yet softening his manner around Krista hadn’t changed her reticence.

  But he had a business to run and a building to maintain, so he didn’t think too much about it.

  One thing he did think about was that for the year and a half Krista had worked for them, she had never once mentioned anything about a significant other—neither to him nor to Stella.

  As far as either of them could glean, she had no wish to find someone, nor any concern that she didn’t have one.