by Ross Elder
“Is Max going to call when he lands, baby?” I’m walking toward the bathroom. “Amanda? Is Max…?” And there she lays, fast asleep, curled up in a small, very cute ball. Her face is placid and glowing. So, beautiful. So much so, in fact, that I’m not even upset she fell asleep on me. She needs to rest after all the bullshit I’ve put her through lately. Tonight had to be particularly difficult.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
September 23, 2016
0941 hours
The time has passed far too quickly. I’m awake, but just. I haven’t opened my eyes yet, but I can see the glow of daylight in the room. I don’t want to move. Amanda’s warm figure is snuggled against my back, her right arm around my middle. I need to get up, but I don’t want to disturb her. She feels very peaceful and calm. Her presence is causing me to feel the same. Peaceful and calm is not what I need to be right now, though. I need to be alert and… aggressive. Violent, even.
Last night, after the hospital incident, after I…holy shit, I killed two guys last night. Headshots, close range, boom, dead. I should be a wreck right about now. I’m not. I’m not upset about it at all. That isn’t normal, is it? I should be filled with dread and remorse and fear. I’m not. I’m calm. Is that a result of the coma? Did it damage some part of my mind? The part that cares about human life?
I do care about human life. I care about the warm life holding me as she sleeps. I care about my own life. I care about Max’s life. I care about the innocents who are caught up in violent intrigue of which they were not involved. I care that the security guard, caught unaware, was shot trying to protect me. I hope he is okay. I hope Crank and Shaft are okay, but I fear Shaft may be dead. They were protecting me. They all were. I care that they have suffered because of me.
But, me. What of me? I’m trying to force myself to feel something… negative about taking the lives of those two men. It isn’t working. I’m numb to it. I don’t like not feeling but, then again, why should I care about the lives of those intent on my murder? Fuck those guys. I was kind. They died quickly. Merciful, even. That’s me.
It should at least feel…new, shouldn’t it? It doesn’t. I don’t remember anything remotely like last night’s experiences, and yet, it doesn’t feel new. I don’t like how all of this feels and…
“What the hell is that?” My voice is just above a whisper.
“mmm…Peanut Butter Jelly Time,” Amanda informs me with a slight giggle.
“What?”
“Long story. Max’s ringtone.”
“Peanut what?”
“Never mind,” she says as she slips away from me, removing her warmth.
She’s reaching for her phone. The covers follow her, and I feel the chill of the room’s air on my torso. I suddenly miss her. There’s an ache in my stomach. Maybe it’s hunger, I don’t know. Maybe it’s love. She’s groggy but carrying on a conversation with Max, I assume. I can tell he has landed at the airport and is letting her know his itinerary. She started to tell him where we are but she stopped as though she was interrupted. She’s nodding her head now, like he can see that. It seems silly, the things we do on the phone; hand gestures, head movements, things like that. Meaningless to the other end of the line but somehow necessary. Their conversation is over, but she is still tapping on the screen.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“He wants me to send our location via encrypted text message instead of over the phone. He says if the attempt on your life came from a state sponsor, they might have access to our calls.”
“Ah! Smart guy, that Max.” I should have thought of that. I am apparently very adept with electronics and surveillance technology. Encryption and secure communications should have been at the top of my list of precautions to take. Shit, I don’t even know where my phone is. It’s probably still at the hospital with the rest of my things. Would be an easy thing for someone to slip in there and grab it. All my personal communications could be compromised at this point. They’ll know I’m associated with Amanda and Max, too, so it’s certain their communications are also compromised.
“He’s on his way. About forty minutes, he says.”
“Good. I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary. We’ll leave the BMW here and go in his rental. Any news on the…”
“They are all going to make it. It’s okay. Max says Sam’s was in…”
“Sam’s?”
“Oh, yeah. You…uh…Shaft, I think. Shaft?”
“Ah, okay. Good.” It is a relief.
“He was in surgery for a while but is stable and expected to recover. The others were treated and will stay in the hospital for a few days.”
“What about the…the uh…other…”
“The guys you killed?” Amanda clarifies for me.
“Uh…yeah.”
“Belarusian thugs working for the Russian mafia on the orders of the SVR. They all had diplomatic visas under false names. Their prints flagged through Interpol. They were well-known in criminal circles,” she explains as she reads an ongoing text conversation with Max.
“Tell him not to text and drive. He should know better. I’m very disappointed.”
“Shhh.”
I’m examining her curves under the covers. Mesmerizing, really. She doesn’t resist when I slip my left hand under the sheet and caress her abdomen. She’s still tapping, squinting at the screen, a severe expression on her face. Focused. Alert and energetic. Suddenly, I feel inappropriate about my caress and pull my hand away slowly.
“What are you doing?”
“Huh? Nothing.”
“Put that back. It feels nice,” she says, grinning as she reaches under and places my hand against the soft but firm flesh of her stomach.
“You know, we still have…” I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “About thirty minutes.”
She stops her assault on the phone’s screen and turns her sparkling green eyes toward me. She squints at me, pausing. Thinking. “That’s not nearly enough time.”
“uh…seems like enou…”
“Nope. All or nothing, darling. You’ll wait.”
I groan, but I see her point. Why rush? I need to get up, wash my face, and brush my teeth so I begin to turn away. Again, she stops me and holds my hand in place. She has a wicked grin on her face. She’s torturing me, and she’s doing it on purpose and…she seems to be enjoying it.
“Five more minutes, please,” she whispers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
September 23, 2016
1032 hours
The knock on the door came as no surprise. I was watching Max through the peephole as he parked next to my car. You may find it strange that I knew he was at the door and still made him knock before opening it. It’s just another security measure that is somehow embedded in my brain. If I had opened the door as soon as he arrived, anyone waiting around the corner, or just out of view, would have had clear access to just rush in. By making him wait at the door, it gives him a few seconds to scan the area around him and possibly detect any surveillance or potential threats. Through the peephole, he isn’t even looking at the door. He does a scan, left, right, left again. He knows I’m watching him. I can see it in his behavior. One more scan. He looks directly into the peephole and nods. All clear.
He rushed in when I opened the door. He did a quick question and answer about security and how things went overnight. He seemed satisfied that we are safe, for the moment. Amanda was just putting on her shoes following a quick shower. I was fully dressed, which is beginning to feel weird, considering recent history.
“Alright, here’s the thing,” Max starts, pacing in the small room. “This Upton guy, even the Agency isn’t quite sure who he is. They haven’t dedicated any resources to it, but I had a couple of guys do some quick searches and link analysis. He’s tied to quite a few…what do they call them? Alt-news? Yeah, alternative media crap.”
“Yeah, I remember finding a lot of that stuff during my own research.”
“Yes! And we think that may be the problem. Some of the stuff he has is an obvious forgery. Well, to you and me it’s obvious. Especially since you made some of it. But it was all part of that file you created for that leak thing.” He’s stopped pacing, but now he’s scratching his head. “There are a couple of possibilities, really. He could be a foreign agent who was fooled into accepting the fake leak or he could be the leaker, which is even more interesting.”
“Why is that more interesting?” Amanda asks.
“Because that means he’s one of us?” Then, “An agency guy,” I explain to her.
Max is pacing again. “Yes, but not a part of our division. Someone who wasn’t aware of the fake leak operation. He would…well, I guess I’m assuming he is a he…kind of rude of me. Anyway, this person would have to be someone who didn’t know the leak was fake, so that makes them a traitor as well. A real shitbag.”
Treason. That’s serious. Actually, it’s a charge that hasn’t been levied against anyone in the U.S. since the Rosenbergs, and that wasn’t really a treason charge. I’m not sure why the charge isn’t used more often. There have been so many spies and leakers over the last few decades, you’d think we would have a treason-specific court setup somewhere. Probably Texas. They like killing people in Texas.
I remember having these same thoughts in the past when I was researching. This person has got to be connected to an intelligence agency in some way, whether ours or theirs. I’m leaning toward theirs because I think it is much more likely the SVR sent the fake information to the author after intercepting it, or having it handed to them by the leaker. There simply isn’t a way to be sure either way. Not until I get my hands on him, or her, anyway. I hope I have the opportunity. At this stage, I may be in the prison cell next to him. I guess that would give us plenty of time to talk about it. Maybe shank him in the shower.
“I’m confused,” Amanda tells us.
“I know.” I really didn’t know what else to say. Judging by the glare she’s giving me, I’d have to say it wasn’t well-received. At least Max has stopped pacing. He’s annoying the shit out of me with that.
“His finances are all pretty well hidden through shell corporations using legitimate agents and things like that. Nothing is in his own name, but we assume his name is just a pseudonym anyway. He’s making a buttload of money, though,” Max adds.
“Exactly how much is a buttload, anyway?” Amanda contemplates. “More than a shit-ton, or less?”
“I…” I’ve never really thought about this before. Is it? “I… don’t really know. And, why are we discussing this?” Wait, I think I know this one. “Obviously, a shit-ton would be more than a buttload.”
“A butt is 126 gallons, so a buttload is around one-thousand-fifty-two pounds, which makes it just more than half a ton. Therefore, Mason would be correct,” Max assures us.
Amanda and I are currently just staring at Max with equally puzzled looks on both our faces. I mean, I thought my answer made sense but, holy cow, who knows how much a buttload weighs? That is not going to be in a Trivial Pursuit game.
“You guys are both seriously weird.”
“We know,” Max and I both say.
Suddenly, Max is retrieving his vibrating phone from his jacket pocket. He’s flinging imaginary things across the touch screen and squinting his eyes at something mysterious. Amanda and I both stand quietly as though we would be interrupting a personal phone call if we spoke, or made any noise. I guess it is a symptom of an earlier generation when people really spoke to each other.
“Uh…guys?” Max began, still staring at his phone, our gaze firmly upon his face. He looks very concerned. His face is slowly rising from the screen now. Eye contact with me. Something is wrong.
The crash of the motel room door froze time for an instant.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
September 23, 2016
1501 hours
Their entry into the room seemed to be instantaneous. There was no time to react or even to think before a heavily-armored body slammed into my back and drove me to the carpet. A hard, plastic, kneepad cover at the base of my skull held me in place while handcuffs were expertly applied. Painfully applied, I might add.
Amanda was afforded a more gracious greeting. She was screaming, and it sounded like she was struggling a little, but she was hauled from the room as though she was being rescued from kidnappers. I wonder if that is what they thought was happening at the time.
Max was rushed and shoved against the small sink countertop at the back of the room by the bathroom door. He did not resist, as far as I could tell. I don’t think my guy has washed his tactical gear in a while. It smelled like dirt and sweat. Probably the last perp’s sweat. Yuck.
They entered screaming, “FBI! FBI! Everybody down!” But they didn’t give us any time to get down. It was so fast. These guys are good. There wasn’t enough time for them to muster a team from the FBI HRT or Hostage Rescue Team, so I assume these were FBI Regional SWAT officers gathered from the local offices. I have no idea how I know this. I just know.
I was frisked, briskly, and then tossed in the back of an unmarked, black panel van. The agents sat in the back with Max and me during a twenty-minute ride. They wouldn’t speak to us. Max and I did not attempt to speak to each other, either. It was as though we knew it was best just to shut up and go along for the ride. We weren’t even read our rights or informed why we were in custody. It was like everyone knew, so what was the point?
Max and Amanda were harboring a fugitive and acting as accessories after the fact. That’s serious. I, on the other hand, fled the scene of a serious crime. I’m in serious trouble, no matter how you look at it. I’m not going to fare well in prison, I don’t think. I’ll need a tattoo or something.
We were separated upon our arrival at what I assumed was a county sheriff’s office and county jail facility. My assumption was confirmed once we were inside. There were plaques and signs all over the place indicating such. The place is drab. Everything is that weird shade of government gray, black, and blue. It appears it had been painted within the last year or so. It was clean. The painter missed a spot over there in the corner of the little room in which I sit.
I was stripped of everything except my pants and shirt, was searched yet again, and was led here by two deputies who removed my FBI handcuffs and applied new cuffs – these connected by a longer chain, maybe a foot long, with the chain passing through a steel eyelet that is welded to the steel tabletop in front of me. The small, steel bench under my butt is very uncomfortable, too. It’s bolted to the floor, just like the table. This is not meant to be a comfy stay.
I’ve been in this room for over an hour now. I know this because the simple, government-issue clock on the wall tells me so. There is a surveillance camera in the corner near the doorway. It is aimed directly at me. Whoever installed it half-assed the job. The power and video cables pass through a rough-cut hole in the ceiling tile above the camera. Not very professional. It’s an older camera as well. I’d estimate it is at least a decade old. The painters did a poor job around the camera mount that is bolted to the cinderblock wall behind it. This is typical government contract work.
I feel like screaming, but I don’t. I’m remaining silent, just as I was instructed by all those episodes of Matlock and NCIS. Damn. I have to pee. And, my throat is really dry. I could use some water, but I’m not saying anything. If worst comes to worst, I’ll just piss my pants right here in the room and let some cadet or rookie clean it up. Would that make a bad impression? I guess I’m not too concerned about making a bad impression at this point.
Every time I think about how much trouble I am in, I have a little anxiety attack. Future prospects are nothing but a vapor in my mind. My life is essentially over. Amanda and I will never fully realize our relationship, and that saddens me greatly. I’m sure I’m in love with her. She isn’t going to sit idle, waiting for me as I complete a twenty-year prison term, or longer. No, she would never do that. I can�
��t blame her, of course. I wouldn’t.
I feel bad about Max getting dragged into this, too. Really bad. The guy was just trying to help a friend, and now he’s probably sitting in a room just like this one getting grilled by some overweight detective who is attempting to extract a written confession of Max’s crimes. I can see it in my mind. God only knows what they are doing to poor Amanda.
Images from the last few days continue to flash against my mind’s viewing screen. The attempts on my life, the gunshots, the wounds. There is something new inside there now. Things I don’t remember doing. Dark rooms, people, and memories of pain. My eyes are closed. I’m studying them, attempting to remember them or memorize them. I don’t know which.
I see myself being taken off the street, grabbed by several men. Then, I’m in a dark room, shackled to a chair. I’m blindfolded and gagged by some sort of cloth stuffed in my mouth. The cloth is absorbing my saliva, leaving my mouth bone dry. I’m biting down on the cloth, attempting to wring some of the moisture out of it. There is pain. Pain in my arms and legs. A sharp pain in my side where the wound was stitched closed at the hospital. I’m being punched and poked with needles. Drugs are being injected into my system.
There was something wrong. Even amid the drug haze and pain, something wasn’t right about the restraints. Yes. Yes, the left wrist was loose. I’m not certain in which manner of restraints I was held, but my left wrist moved more than intended. There was a blow to my head. I’m not sure of my level of consciousness. I can sense that in my memory. I wasn’t sure if it was a reality any longer. The memory is confused and shattered; pieces of things without reference or connection.
My left hand worked free. There is something sharp and jagged in my hand, but I don’t know what, or where I found it. Blood. Spurting and gushing, coating my hand and forearm. The jagged thing is in a man’s neck, inserted through the front at an upward angle. It is ripped away with a curved slashing motion away from me.
