Point of No Return

by Rita Henuber

  Time to end the pity party. Think about what you’re doing. He took in long breaths, letting them out slowly. Why you’re doing it. If it had been just him, he’d destroy Global. Make sure in the process he’d be destroyed, ending his pain. It wasn’t just him. The blowback would hurt his mother. The media would have no mercy. They’d play up the angle of a former agency man now a contract spy. His employers would protect themselves. Do what they do best. Spread disinformation. Another deep breath. They’d make him out to be a rogue psychopath so as not to bring crap down on them. They’d find the women he’d been with. Even Honey. Say he had a sex addiction. Hell, for all he knew he did. Women were his weakness. He liked everything about them. Liked watching them move. Their feel, their scent. The sex. Didn’t every guy? Once he was dead, they could say anything. None of his so-called agency friends would, could, stand up for him. Global would get away with everything.

  “Damn it.”

  He paced the porch, anger and frustration blanketing him like the crap from the roof. He glanced around. The hills across the lake were silhouetted against the last light of the day. Already too dark for a run. He dropped and began doing push-ups. Up, down. Up, down. At two-fifty his heart raced, sweat dripped from his face and soaked his clothes. He was getting soft. Not so long ago he would have been closer to five hundred before he felt like this. He kept going, working on forgetting he could be the reason Lee and Becca were dead and forgetting her. Her scent. How sweet she tasted. How his heart kicked when she smiled. How their slick bodies sounded and felt slamming together. He went to his feet and did lunges until he passed the point of his physical endurance. Until the sound of Ali’s sobs faded in his head. The memory of his mother’s pain subsided. Until he was too exhausted to want her.

  He dropped, rolled to a sit and pressed his back against the rough wood of the cabin. Waiting for his breathing and heart rate to return to normal, he began planning how to deal with Honey. It stood to reason, if they wanted to nail him they would hit his weakness. Sex. If they thought they could send her to get information by fucking him, they were beyond stupid. He used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his face. Sending Honey meant they knew about their affair. And they didn’t find out from him. He’d been careful when arranging and going to their meetings. It had come from her. He pushed to his feet and picked up the scattered bottles. Fuck. Let her come. He would use her as an asset and find out what she knew, what she’d learned from Ramsey and Saunders, then send her packing. He paused and lifted the photo, using his elbow to wipe away the roof gunk. Lee looked out at him seeming to say, Be careful, brother.

  Lee was right. Lee was always right.

  Jack stripped away his sweaty, grunge-coated clothes, leaving them where they lay on the porch. Inside, he put a match to the oil lamps and debated starting a fire. Soon the day’s heat would let go and be replaced with the night chill. Screw it. At the cast iron sink, he worked the pump handle and stuck his head under the flow of freezing water. He soaked a towel, using it to wipe his body, raising gooseflesh on his damp skin. He pulled on sweats and changed his fire decision, stacking the old fire grate high with wood. Before long soaring flames warmed him and childhood memories swirled like the smoke curling up the chimney. The family spent six weeks every summer here. Some weekends, when his dad could get away. His mom wasn’t fond of the outdoor facilities but she and Dad were happy, even silly here. Here, he and Lee enjoyed complete freedom and loved every minute. They slept on the screen porch most nights and learned to hunt, fish and drive that old pickup. After he went to work for the agency, he often wondered how his dad, the big CIA agent, had been able to take such huge chunks of vacation time. How had Honey been able to take chunks of time to meet? Damn it. He shook his head to chase thoughts of her away and turned to the backpack containing Becca’s records and notes. Work would clear his head. He dumped the papers on the table, separating her handwritten journals from other documents and files. Papers more than three years old were returned to the bag. It was unlikely anything that old would be relevant. He made a pile of what was left, sorted them in chronological order, and settled in with a beer and a bag of chips to read.

  Three beers and as many hours later he called it quits. Words ran together and Becca hadn’t been writing a thriller. He shuffled the stack he’d looked through into a neat pile, yawned and stretched. An image of Honey naked on the bed in Amsterdam doing the same overtook his mind. A shudder rattled him to the core. “Motherfucker.” Betrayal hurt.

  Chapter 10

  Honey entered Global’s classroom and was greeted with perfunctory nods, grunts and hard looks. Staff, trainees, and company veterans milled around drinking coffee. Long hair and beards made the seven veterans easy to spot among the clean-shaven, buzz-cut trainees.

  Bristol swaggered through a door looking like something had crawled up his ass and died and came straight for her. She expected some wiseass remark about her uniform.

  “About time you got here.” He puffed up and dramatically checked the wall clock. “I told you we started at seven.”

  What the fuck? He said seven thirty. Surprised by his attempt to discredit her, Honey plastered a cold smile on her face and spoke clearly, slowly. “I won’t be late again,” she said, squashing his bid for a confrontation and affectively deflating him.

  “Attention,” he called out. “We can begin now. Major Thornton, from the DoD, has finally graced us with her presence.” The eyes of everyone in the room were on her. Without another word, Bristol turned and left.

  Men silently deposited cups on tables and streamed out. Honey fell in and followed the group down a corridor and outside to board a coach bus for the fifteen-minute ride to the simulated village. They debussed and proceeded to an outdoor training pavilion, where four instructors stood patiently next to tables holding an array of laptops and monitors.

  “Listen up,” an instructor holding an iPad called out. When it was so silent all that could be heard was the hum of ceiling fans whirling the still morning air, he continued. “Today it’s five four-man teams and one three-man. No switching.” He called names and Honey verified the names with those in the roster on her device. She noted six names flagged as foreign nationals. The men found each other and sat in their respective groups. The short, three-man team consisted of the veterans. It was curious the veterans weren’t integrated with trainees. She would have mixed it up. Let the newbies benefit from the experienced men. But then, maybe the vets didn’t want to risk getting shot. It was a live ammo drill.

  “Since one team is short”—the older grizzled instructor looked at her—“can I get you to participate, Major?” All heads turned in her direction, waiting for an answer. Some snickered. How easy it would be to show these gentlemen what she was capable of. That was not her job, her mission. “Seeing that I haven’t been in village training in a few years”—true, her experience was in real-world villages—“especially in one as elaborate as this”—more snickers—“I’d love to, but my orders are to observe and not influence the outcome of training in any way.”

  “You mean like fail a team or shoot someone?” a voice called out, bringing outright laughs this time.

  Honey ignored it. There was nothing in their tone that indicated anything other than good- natured razzing. It was normal to give the new man, or woman, grief and was expected in gatherings heavy on testosterone. “When the runs are over and if there’s time, I would like to fire a few rounds at a target. See how rusty I am.”

  “Sure.” The instructor smirked. “We’ll let you empty a couple of magazines.” The instructor’s tone wasn’t good-natured.

  “Thank you,” she said, fighting the urge to crawl down his throat and chew her way out. “That would be so nice of you.” The words dripped sugar. She’d play along and not give them any reason to complain. “Oh,” she went on, “would one of you instructors please send the link for the team evaluations to my iPad so I can follow along?”

  “Sure.” A man sitting with a laptop in f
ront of him worked a keyboard, and a moment later she had the link.

  An older man Honey took to be the senior instructor held up an H&K. “Today we’ll be firing the USP tactical H&K forty-five auto.” His voice boomed across the space. Honey loved the Tactical. It was easy to shoot, simple to maintain, reliable, and accurate.

  “You’ve been through the virtual simulation five times and evaluated.” He paced back and forth in front of the group. “In the virtual you had a laser gun, fired at bad guys on a screen and no one could get hurt. Over there”—he cocked his head the direction of the buildings—“the targets are flat surfaces, move along rails and pop up. You have a weapon loaded with live ammo that weighs two pounds. Think about mistakes you made in the virtual house and don’t make them today. I’ve never had a casualty on my watch and don’t intend to have one.”

  “Will Mr. Bristol be joining us today?” Honey asked an instructor seated near her. The name on his shirt said Wilcox.

  “Bristol? Nah, he only likes to watch,” he said. “I was surprised to see him here so early this morning.”

  Honey pushed a totally unprofessional double entendre from her mind.

  “And so you know, if you want to be notified of training time changes like today’s,” Wilcox went on, “give us a number where you can receive text messages.” He paused. “I’m assuming you didn’t get today’s change.”

  “I didn’t.” She nodded.

  Group rotation numbers were assigned, and while the teams geared up Honey stepped away to get a look at the village. The main street was straight like a narrow alley running between sun-baked mud buildings. Seventy yards of hard-packed dirt punctuated with two intersections. The targets were well hidden, the only location giveaways being walls peppered with bullet holes from missed shots. It was easy to imagine villagers going about their business and scurfy dogs wandering the street. The only thing missing was the smell. She returned to the pavilion as the first team prepared to go, itching to go with them. Practice was always good. The team entered the complex and the others gathered around the screens. She remained off to the side and watched on her screen. The four men were overcautious. They hit more than 90 percent of their targets but were too slow. The next team overcompensated and blasted away, missing more than 60 percent of their targets. Their methods were sound; it was clear that teamwork was their problem. Whatever their previous jobs or experience, the training these men were receiving was above all standards she’d seen. The setup to watch the street sweep and critique right and wrong immediately was excellent.

  The veteran team entered last. They destroyed targets moving through the street at record speed. For all their excellent work, Honey would not want to go into a real-world scenario with any of them. They had the feel of a gang of bullies. The head bully, a big muscular guy they called Bear, looked like a serial steroid abuser. He made a couple of tactical errors that were quickly covered by another man.

  The staff gave a thorough debriefing followed with atta boys for everyone. As the men packed their gear into the belly of the bus, they became boisterous. Bear and his two buds ambled Honey’s way.

  “If you still want to fire the tech we can set you up for two exterior blocks,” Bear said. The three of them were grinning, glancing at each other like fifth-graders who put a whoopee cushion on the teacher’s chair.

  She looked at the man and said, “Sure,” wondering what the hell they were going to pull. She glanced over her shoulder. The other men were drifting their way. She put her canvas bag on the hood of a junked Toyota. The truck added reality to the training and was exactly like the one she’d struggled in a couple of weeks ago.

  “I’ll get the gear,” one of Bear’s buddies said.

  “She won’t need ’em,” Bear declared. “A gy-reen oughta be able to fire a couple of mags without hurting their ears and she’s got on those fancy shades that’ll do just fine.” He referred to her Gatorz eyewear.

  “She needs them,” the senior instructor said, heading toward them, vest, helmet and hearing protection in hand. “Rules.” He held them out. Honey took the gear and warily followed Bear and his two partners in steroid use around the corner of the building, half expecting to be hit with water balloons.

  “Questions,” the instructor said.

  Honey shook her head. Targets were set to pop at random intervals. Pop-ups weren’t always bad guys. The operative was expected to fire a kill shot on the correct target. Not grandma or a child.

  “Come on.” Bear waved the other men over. “Missy gy-reen is gonna show us how to go through the course.” He paused and gave her a smug look. “Well, you want to show us what ya got or not?” he said way too loud.

  “Sure, I’d be happy to show you,” she said, shrugging into the vest. They honored her with a helmet and hearing protectors dank and stinking from the sweat of previous wearers. She put them on with no hesitation. “Ready,” she said when everything was in place. She looked around, hand extended. “Gun.”

  Bear made a display of holding up an H&K and magazine. “These are real nine-millimeter rounds, not play bullets.” He shoved in the mag and drew back the slide to chamber a round. “Wouldn’t want you to break a nail.” He held the gun by the barrel, extending it her direction. She gripped it knowing full well firing an unknown weapon was asking for trouble. The moment he released the barrel an instructor called out, “You have ten seconds to prepare.”

  Honey double-handed the grip, turned to the narrow street, thumbed down the safety, raised the gun to her chin, and saw it. The fuckers had jacked with the sights. Hadn’t even bothered to cover the scratches. She whirled on the three men. Bear stood in the middle and she pointed the barrel at his forehead. Smug looks vanished. Men behind them scattered. She ignored shouts of Gun, that’s live ammo and other idiocies. “I’m going to pull the trigger in three. One.” Color drained from the ferret-faced asshole on the right. “Depending on how these sights have been screwed with—two—a person on one side of you is going down. Three.” The asshole to her left squeaked like bad brakes on a worn-out ’64 Falcon, dropped and rolled.

  Honey spun back to the street as the first target flew up five yards on her left. An image of a dark-haired, bearded man, holding a blonde child in one hand and a gun in the other. She adjusted for the sight deviation, fired. A hole appeared in the image’s forehead but not center. She adjusted again, fired once, then twice, hitting center. She entered the street sweeping the H&K side to side, shifting her weight carefully, preparing for the next target, and took out a likeness of a man holding an RPG launcher then double tapped a figure aiming a rifle. She ignored Little Red Riding Hood in a window and moved on, also ignoring the next pop-up, the likeness of a man Navy SEALs had taken out some time ago. Her last two rounds were used on the image of a man gracing the terrorist most wanted list. She caved against the wall and called, “Changing.” Before the empty magazine bounced on the hard-packed ground, its replacement was set and ready. Five seconds passed with no more targets. She looked back. The group stared at her. Ten seconds and no more targets. They’d halted the run. She straightened, released the magazine and cleared the tube.

  “Clear and secure,” she said from habit and for the benefit of the run boss, then headed back to the knot of men. Bear was her first stop. “Thank you,” she said, deadpanning her expression. Before passing over the gun and magazines, she held up the H&K, making a show of displaying to him no mag and the empty chamber. “It was fun.” She turned to go then stopped, facing him again. “Sorry about, you know . . . before.” She slid her glasses up, winked then leaned and lowered her voice. “So you know, I wouldn’t have fired.” She straightened and offered a hand. “No hard feelings.” He ignored her hand and moved away.

  Honey headed for the instructor who’d given her the equipment. “Nice setup,” she said, coming out of the helmet. “While I’m here, if the time works out, I’d like to run the whole route. Go through a practice run with a team.” She shed the vest and handed it over. “O
n my own time, of course.”

  The man nodded but said nothing. The trainees were a different matter. As she went to retrieve her bag, they cleared a way, generously praising her run. Without looking back, she boarded the bus and dropped onto a seat in the second row. The group filed past, staring blatantly. No one sat within two rows. Fucking assholes. She felt like standing and yelling, Yeah, this is how a Marine rolls. The ride back was quiet and she could feel their eyes boring into her back.

  The lead instructor stood as the bus approached the center. “An hour and a half for lunch, then meet up at the cement pond.”

  The moment the driver opened the door Honey was up and making her way inside. She had to pee like a racehorse. Thankfully, a head was close to the entrance. Ignoring the two men at the urinals and their protests, she went into a stall and considered the ramifications of her target practice. The way Bristol treated her this morning, he knew she was more than the façade she’d presented. No need to hide who she was anymore. She went to the sinks. The one man at the urinals did a double-take and started his protest by calling her a female dog.

  “Deal,” she barked back and gave him the finger. He zipped up and went for the door. “Geeze, man, haven’t you heard of washing?” He gave her the finger. She soaped up, washing the dust and that façade away. She wrangled her hair into order, squared away her uniform and left to find food. Damn, she was hungry.