The Rogue Agent

by Daniel Judson

  As the girl passed by, he got his first real look at her. And he saw a face that was no longer that of a child but not yet that of an adult.

  She was thin, maybe even a little gangly, but didn’t strike Tom as frail. If anything, she was the opposite of that, which wasn’t at all what Tom had expected to see, especially in a Syrian refugee.

  What Tom did see was the look in her eyes, which was a mix of sorrow and fear and anger.

  It was a look Tom had seen in his own reflection twenty years before, when he had found himself the only surviving member of his family.

  A family taken by violence.

  Unlike the girl, however, Tom wasn’t alone in a strange country back then, being hustled around from one secret location to another by a pack of armed strangers.

  All things considered, she was actually holding up pretty well.

  Stella and Krista had come down the back stairs and were standing at the bottom step. Just as Tom had done, Krista stepped aside when Stella waved the detail forward.

  They reached the stairs, and Stella led them up.

  Krista, too, studied the girl as she passed, then looked at Tom.

  It was one of the rare occasions when they were alone.

  What was even rarer, however, was the fact that Krista was looking Tom in the eye.

  Granted, the distance of the dining area was between them, but it was a small dining area, five booths long, and Krista usually averted her gaze nervously, no matter how far away or close Tom was to her.

  But here she was doing the opposite, as if suddenly something had changed between them.

  Tom couldn’t put his finger on the nature of the shift in her.

  One thing he did know for certain was that she seemed to regard him not as her boss or as an intimidating male, like she had always done before, but as an equal.

  He couldn’t explain it—there really weren’t any words for it—but there was an air about her, a kind of recognition mixed with regret.

  Maybe it was simply that, like Tom, she was a loner by nature, and there was now no escaping the obvious fact that the life he had made for himself was over, at least for now.

  It had never dawned on him before that he and this odd girl—this stray, as Stella fondly referred to her—had something so fundamental to their personalities in common.

  They continued to stare at each other, and then Krista said, “You look tired, Jim. You should get some sleep.”

  Tom had no doubt that he looked the way he felt.

  But before he could say anything, Krista walked toward the door.

  Passing him, she said, “See you in the morning.”

  He stepped to the door and watched through its window as she got into her rugged-looking Jeep and drove away.

  Then he listened to the footsteps above for a moment, thought of those to whom the heaviest among them belonged.

  Men he did not know but had no choice except to trust.

  Fully vetted, the Colonel had said. I trust them with my life, and so can you.

  Still, they were strangers who had entered the sanctuary he’d made for himself and Stella.

  Their private quarters, where they didn’t have to pretend to be people they weren’t.

  Where they could speak their real names to each other in more than whispers and do so without fear of being overheard.

  Tom had taken solace in the fact that they had a place where they could rest in relative safety between their long shifts. He had come to rely on it, counting the hours as they worked till they could retreat to it and reveal to each other their true selves.

  But he knew the day would come when they would have to abandon that.

  He told himself now that at any hint of trouble—the first indication that something or someone wasn’t right—he and Stella would bail, leave alone and do so without looking back.

  More than that, having seen the girl’s face, the mask of pain and sorrow she wore, he had no intention of using the horror they had in common in an attempt to get her to open up.

  What he would do was aid in her protection in every way he could, but the girl had a security detail—a skilled one, from what Tom had observed—and Stella did not.

  She had only Tom, and Tom had only her.

  If it came down to it, Grunn and her men would likely sacrifice themselves for the girl. The training they had endured at Raveis’s compound—identical to the training given to CIA special operatives at the secret facility known as “The Farm”—had no doubt instilled that in them.

  They were also just as likely to sacrifice Stella and himself, if it meant saving the girl.

  He would not—could not—risk Stella, not for anyone or anything.

  What mattered to him—what could only matter—was Stella.

  It was as simple as that, and Tom preferred to always keep things simple.

  He waited a moment more before finally turning off the lights and casting the restaurant into darkness.

  From outside, the business now appeared closed.

  Tom would feel better when the upstairs was dark, too.

  Locking the front door, he crossed through the dining room and headed up the back stairs.

  It occurred to him then that their building had been unoccupied from the moment he’d left for his meeting to when Stella and Krista had driven up with the mattress.

  Plenty of time for someone to have entered.

  Tom had to consider all possibilities now.

  Making his way to their bedroom, he made a quick sweep for listening devices, checking all the likely hiding places in which one or more could have been planted. But he found none.

  To be certain, he double-checked, then checked again.

  Finally, Tom hurried to the safe room and removed the Marlin Camp carbine from its secure location beneath the floorboards, carrying the weapon with him back to their bedroom and returning it to its place in the corner by his side of the bed.

  His Colt was still in its holster inside his waistband, concealed by his sweatshirt, the spare magazines in the map bag hanging off his left shoulder.

  The pistol would remain on him for the duration of his assignment, even as he worked clearing tables and washing dishes.

  Twenty-Four

  Later, Tom stood at their bedroom window.

  He knew the view beyond it well, had studied it morning and night for close to two years now.

  There was, however, one notable change tonight—the presence of a black Chevy Tahoe parked in the shaded corner by the dumpsters, not far from Tom’s pickup.

  Inside the SUV were Grunn and her two men, DiBano and Sheridan.

  They had a long night ahead of them, sitting together in that SUV, waiting and watching and listening.

  But there were, Tom knew, worse ways to spend a night.

  Valena had been taken to the room down the hall, which was next to the bathroom and across from the safe room. Stella was with her, getting her settled in for her first night spent in hiding above a breakfast-and-lunch place in a small Vermont town.

  Surrounded by people whom, like Tom, she had no choice but to trust.

  Tom had not seen the girl since she was rushed past him downstairs, and he had no intention of seeing her again till morning, if even then. The process of opening the restaurant kept him busy, and her breakfast would be brought to her room, since there was no reason for her to leave it except for trips to the bathroom.

  The very act of keeping her safe and out of sight while running the business, then, meant that Tom would have little to no contact with her.

  This absence of any reason for interaction comforted him.

  Maintaining that became his game plan: avoid as much as possible, for as long as possible.

  He was grateful now for his long and busy days, and for Stella having taken point the way she had, seeing to their guest’s initial needs. His only regret was that he hadn’t pressed the Colonel for a more specific end date, something less general than his promise that it would take just
a few days for them to locate a safe house that was known only to him and Raveis.

  Tom was thinking about that—about the end of this mission and the resumption of their quiet life—when he heard a door down the hall open and then close, followed by the sound of footsteps. Stella entered the bedroom a moment later, closing the door as quietly as she could.

  “She’s asleep,” she whispered. “Poor thing is spent.”

  She walked to the dresser and opened drawers, gathering together the clothes she would change into after her postworkout shower.

  “It’s the last thing you need,” Stella said. “Something else to keep you up at night.”

  Tom told her that he’d be okay, then faced her and thanked her for taking care of the girl.

  Stella shrugged. “Hey, what’s another stray, right?”

  “Yeah, speaking of, I want to ask you a question that’s going to sound kind of weird.”

  Stella stopped and looked at him. “What?”

  “Have you ever seen Krista’s place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The room she rents. Have you ever gone up and seen it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “What’s on your mind, Tom?”

  “She got that mattress awfully fast, that’s all.”

  “Her landlord has a few unrented rooms in his house. I think he loaned it to her.”

  Tom nodded. “That makes sense, yeah. Ignore me—I’m just thinking out loud. Five minutes with Raveis and I start to get paranoid.”

  “You’re just doing what you were trained to do, that’s all. What that brain of yours does.”

  Stella watched him, waited for him to say more, but when he didn’t, she began to undress.

  “Where are—what’s her name?”

  “Grunn.”

  “Where are Grunn and her men?”

  “In position. Out by my truck.”

  “Should I bring them something? Food, coffee?”

  “No. They would have come prepared for a long night.” He paused. “This is their job. They’re paid well for it.”

  “You know me. I take care of people.”

  Tom fell quiet again.

  Stella said, “You all right?”

  “This was a mistake. Letting them bring her here.”

  Stella stopped undressing. She was down to her sports bra and boy shorts. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked out the window again, then faced Stella. “We’ll get a few hours’ sleep, but after that, we’re going to bug out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where to?”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “Grunn and her men, too?”

  “No, just the three of us.”

  “But how are we going to get away without them knowing? You said they’re parked right next to your truck.”

  “Text Krista when it’s time, tell her to meet us in her Jeep down the road. You and I can slip out the back with the girl, and Krista can drop us off somewhere. From there we’ll go somewhere safe; you can watch the girl and I can watch the perimeter.”

  “Won’t they be pissed? Raveis and the Colonel.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “If you had doubts about doing this, why did you say yes to begin with?”

  Tom faced her. “Raveis offered us something.”

  “What?”

  “Reinforcement of our cover.”

  “I didn’t know our cover needed reinforcing. I thought Carrington said it was rock solid.”

  “It is, but we don’t have government-issued passports. Raveis would get us those. But there was something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “He assured me that no one would tip off the IRS about our situation. It was a threat.”

  Stella shook her head. “Yeah, well, fuck him, then. We can start over somewhere else, right? If it comes to that. Carrington can help us get set up again. He’s the only one I really trust anyway.”

  “There’s a chance we won’t have to walk away for good. I’m still going to do what they want. I’m still going to keep the girl safe till they’re ready for her. I just have to do it on my terms.”

  “So this is definite. We’re going to bug out.”

  Tom nodded.

  “I’d better take my shower,” Stella said.

  She resumed undressing.

  Tom waited till she’d put her robe on and had picked up her change of clothes, then said, “I saw Cahill tonight.”

  “How is he?”

  “Not good.”

  Stella took a breath, let it out, then crossed the room and stood face-to-face with him.

  “I’m sorry your friend is suffering, Tom, but he can get help. His family has the means. He has the means. And he could go to the VA if he wanted to. Tom Sexton can’t. Tom Sexton doesn’t exist anymore.” She paused, placed her palm on his wide chest, felt his heartbeat. “You know, maybe we should leave now. Maybe we should get far away from here, as far away as we can. That might put an end to your nightmares.”

  “No, we’ll wait till morning,” Tom said. “Krista usually gets here at four thirty. Text her right before that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Take your shower, then I’ll take mine.”

  She smiled. “Or you could join me.”

  “I should keep watch.”

  Stella understood that he needed to do this, despite the presence of the security force parked outside. Tom’s most driving need was guarding their perimeter. She knew that the seed for that had been planted before he’d even joined the Seabees and been trained to do that, to see the world in those terms.

  She leaned close and kissed him once, then leaned back again to look at his face. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Tom stayed by the window. A minute later he was listening to the muffled sound of water running through the pipes beneath his feet.

  He thought about the work they had done together to bring this place up to code, and then the work they had done to transform the upper floor into something resembling living quarters.

  He had lived in similarly rough conditions during his years in forward-operating bases in Afghanistan. And he had often lived out of his pickup during those five years of wandering the Northeast following his discharge.

  As crude as this place was, it was their home, something they had put a lot of sweat into, along with nearly all of Stella’s money.

  Leaving what they had built wasn’t something Tom relished, even if this was the best-case scenario and they’d be gone for just a few nights.

  Even if it meant that he could find some degree of relief from his troubling dreams.

  The sound of the water ceased, and a few minutes later Stella came back to the bedroom. Tom took his turn, though he barely spent more than a minute under the stream.

  Returning to their room, he found that the lights were off and the single lemon-scented candle on Stella’s dresser had been lit.

  She was seated on the edge of the bed, naked except for her string of knotted pearls.

  Tom had only a towel wound around his waist, and she looked him up and down.

  He didn’t immediately approach her, though he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Stella recognized that his obvious interest was mixed with hesitation. “We’ll be quick,” she said. “I just need to feel you on top of me. I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

  She paused, then added, “Life goes on, right?”

  Afterward, Tom found sleep quickly—well, quickly for him.

  But he dreamed that dream again, dreamed that he was a helpless witness to what he had not witnessed.

  To the moment his life had forever changed.

  In the weeks and months that had followed the murder of his mother and sister, a man Tom assumed was a detective would often come by in the evening to talk to Tom’s father and bring him up to speed
on the investigation.

  In his bedroom, directly above his father’s study, Tom had heard their voices through the heating grate.

  He had heard the strain in the voice of his father—a man torn by grief and rage, a man whose desire for justice had been crossing over into the need for vengeance.

  Tom had heard, too, the sympathy in the other man’s voice.

  It had been a well-intentioned gesture, the bringing of updates to a bereft husband and father, keeping him informed on the progress—or lack thereof, for the most part—of the investigation.

  But how could this man not have known that he was feeding a fire?

  How could he not have recognized what Tom was able to simply by eavesdropping?

  Tom’s father had been crossing into madness.

  Over the course of those several months, Tom had overheard details that served to fuel his own imagination.

  Four pairs of boot prints, so four men.

  Entry through the front door, between midnight and two a.m.

  A simple robbery gone wrong.

  Or perhaps a home invasion.

  On his last nighttime visit, the man had offered only one new detail.

  Your wife put up a fight.

  It was at that point that Tom had stopped listening to the voices downstairs.

  By then, of course, it was too late, because the knowledge that his mother and sister had suffered before they were finally killed had been firmly planted in his mind and would never leave.

  The dreams had begun then, had occupied Tom through his one year at Yale, after which his father had sought revenge and came close to accomplishing it, only to get himself killed.

  War had put an end to Tom’s bad dreams, had eventually replaced them with a new kind of bad dream.

  Dreams of battle, lives saved, and lives shattered.

  These had plagued Tom during the years that he had wandered, the years that he had unconsciously followed a meandering path that would one day lead him to Stella.

  And from there back to his hometown.

  He had believed all the bad dreams were gone for good, then, only to be proven wrong when they’d settled down here.

  Tonight’s dream begins the same—Tom is standing outside his childhood home, across the tree-lined residential street from it, watching as four faceless men stride quietly but steadily through the darkness.