The Shadow Walker

by William R Hunt

  Washburn snorted. “Last time I try to do something nice. And it wasn’t like it was only for her. I wanted us to go together. Where’s the harm in that?”

  Victor nodded absently, his eyes passing around the white, torpedo-like cabin. The first time he had climbed into one of these jets, he’d felt as if he was getting a cat scan.

  “What’s your secret?” Washburn asked.

  “My secret?”

  “With Cam. You two seem to have hit it off pretty well.”

  “We’ve been dating four months, Wash.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. You act like you’ve been together a week. The last time Lynn and I were like that was when a friend of hers brought some crystal to the house.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “It was fun until I woke up beside her the next morning.” He chuckled humorlessly. “So, what’s your secret? Are you guys high all the time?”

  “No secret.”

  “Come on, man. Don’t tell me it’s easy. I’ve been married five years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about marriage, it’s that nothing’s easy. You have to fight for every inch of ground.”

  Victor shrugged. “We make a good team, I guess.”

  Washburn unzipped his laptop, set the case on the floor, and opened his MacBook Air. “Yeah, well, give it time. You’ll see. Marriage makes fools of us all.”

  Victor stared at Washburn for a few moments, wondering if he was watching a preview of himself. Was that where things between him and Cam were headed? A Cold War of avoidance and excuses, fought in the passive-aggressive tones of their voices and the dead glances of their eyes, each side keeping a mental tally of the other’s wrongs? He didn’t think so. He and Cam trusted one another, and as much of a cliche as it might be, they were still “in love.”

  If that’s the case, he thought suddenly, why am I heading overseas to risk my life when I could be back home with her?

  He didn’t like this idea, so he unzipped his backpack and withdrew a book. Washburn squinted at the cover, one of those cheesy mashups of ideas that does no justice to the work it represents.

  “Saw the movie, it was okay,” Washburn said, losing interest as a pale glow of artificial light sprang from his laptop. “You’ll probably like it, though. It’s about revenge. I hear it’s better in the original French.”

  Victor nodded at Washburn’s laptop. “What are you working on?”

  Washburn smiled. “Fantasy Football. I think Gronk’s going to be my keeper.”

  The jet shot through the night, the moon showing pale on the landscape rippling beneath them, forests and ribbons of highway and clusters of lights like dew on morning grass. Victor felt like he was passing over the alien civilization of a strange planet, millions of strangers following their own schedules, none of them pausing to stare up at the jet blinking into the vast darkness cradling this part of the world. Somewhere down there a young man was nervously bouncing his knee as he met a girl for a date. A woman was bobbing her head to the radio, a girl twisting her hands as she stood on the lonely fringe of a party, a boy sitting outside a tent and staring up at the twinkling stars and wondering if he was the only person in the universe who felt he needed a reason to get up every morning.

  Victor pulled out his phone and sent Camila a text saying he was in the air. She responded with “Be safe!” and two emojis: a smiling face and a sad face.

  Washburn was busy studying up on the latest player rankings. Victor could almost read the article in the reflection of his glasses. While in the air, Washburn did just about anything he could to take his mind off the work ahead. He was the one who had convinced Victor to join the private sector in the first place, leaving the military for greater freedom, higher pay, and the opportunity to put his talents to use on the world stage.

  With these benefits, however, came a greater risk of danger. One of the first things Washburn had told Victor before he joined was that if anything went wrong, if they were captured and tortured in an underground facility for the next decade, the U.S. government would not bat an eye. Nobody would come for them. And if they died during a mission, nobody would return for their bodies.

  It might have been a deal-breaker if Camila had known about these dangers, but Victor had been careful about what he told her. His pitch had been that greater freedom would mean spending more time with her, and he could always turn down a contract he didn’t like.

  Thus far, he hadn’t missed a single one.

  The organization was called Tecumseh, an elite group of a hundred or so U.S. and foreign nationals who accepted lucrative contracts with the Defense Department in return for risking their lives in the most dangerous parts of the world. The greatest selling point for Victor, in addition to the pay and the freedom, was the opportunity to participate in crucial global conflicts, unhindered by jurisdictional limits or political agendas or other red tape.

  Their mission leader was Oliver Jones, a grizzled old veteran whose beard and weathered face put his age somewhere between forty and eighty. He outranked everyone else in the eight-man group, but since this was a private organization, the only real power he wielded was to kick them off the team or withhold their pay.

  “Listen up!” he said, his bulky form filling the aisle as he gripped the seats on either side in his wrinkled fingers. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news by now and know what happened. But just in case you were too busy playing with your dicks, let me tell you: There’s been a chemical attack on a village in Kerovia, and there’s a helluva lot of people angry about it.

  “Authorities are calling it Agent Z. Z as in the last resort, in case you retards weren’t sure. The White House issued a statement this afternoon pledging to work with America’s allies to bring swift justice to those responsible. Gentlemen, consider yourselves the fist of said justice.”

  “Hoorah,” someone said. Victor scanned the faces of the other members of the team, but he didn’t recognize anyone except Washburn and Jones.

  “We believe we know where the chemical weapons used in the attack on Prievska were developed,” Jones continued. “We also believe there may be an underground laboratory on the site.”

  “We believe, we believe,” Washburn repeated. “This is starting to sound like a creed.” Since leaving the navy, one of Washburn’s rules was to never take anything too seriously. He had once told Victor that after dealing with a navy drill instructor for months, nothing in the world could scare him any more.

  Jones gave Washburn a withering stare, his tongue working across a lower lip packed with dip. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we’re expecting heavy resistance, so if you have anything worth saying to those back home, I suggest you say it now while you still can.”

  A thoughtful silence pervaded the cabin for a few seconds. “Exactly what kind of security measures are we going up against?” Victor asked.

  “The works—steel fences, guard towers, patrol dogs.”

  “Dogs,” Washburn muttered, shaking his head. “I hate dogs.”

  “If it was easy,” Jones added with a ghost of a smile, “they’d send in the Rangers.”

  ___

  Their plane touched down around noon local time (six in the morning back in the States). They spent the day going over their plans, double-checking the surveillance reports, prepping their gear, and performing whatever routines they needed to prepare themselves mentally and psychologically for the coming morning. For some it meant catching a few hours of shut-eye. For others it was prayer, long conversations with friends and family back home, a shot of lucky liquor, even yoga.

  After getting to know some of the other guys he’d be counting on to watch his back, Victor took his third cup of coffee to his bedroom at the end of the palatial country estate that served as their safe house, the jokes and the hum of the TV fading as he closed the door.

  The bedroom’s two windows opened out on the backyard, revealing a sea of gold rolling down to the plains. Rapeseed, the plant was called—a bad name if Victor had eve
r heard one. Somewhere below these flowering fields was a dump where you brought your trash by the truckload and paid according to its weight. A narrow road cut its winding way through the rapeseed, and Victor watched a rusted green ‘58 Chevy trundle up the hill with a bed full of bundles of hay, the engine laboring to reach the top.

  One of the cardinal rules in Victor’s line of work was that when you stepped on the plane, you left your home life behind. If you carried it with you, if you tortured yourself with thoughts of loved ones hearing about your death, it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  He was usually able to compartmentalize, leaving the other half of his life waiting for his return on the runway, but this time felt different. Staring out at the towns as he rode here from the airport, he’d thought, Camila would love this place. He pictured her stopping to buy fresh vegetables at roadside stands, marveling about the hay stacked in tall, Yeti-like humps in the fields, breathing the clean air and walking the dirt paths. She was a simple woman in all the best ways, and Kerovia was a simple place. Maybe he would bring her here some day.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Washburn stepped in, his face already slashed green and black with paint. He surveyed the room: the weapons laid across the bed, cleaned and loaded; the paperback resting on the edge of the chair, unopened. His eyes landed on Victor’s face, finishing their tour.

  “You ready for the dance?” Washburn asked.

  “You came to check up on me? How sweet of you.”

  Washburn picked up the paperback, frowned at the cover again, and tossed it on the bed. He sat down. “Actually, now that you mention it, you did seem a little distracted on the plane. Not getting cold feet, are you?”

  Victor stepped away from the window. That was the real culprit, he thought—the window. The guys you worried about were the ones you caught staring off into space, a dreamy, slightly yearning expression spreading across their faces. It was the first crack of the ice breaking beneath their feet.

  “How long have you known me, Wash?” he asked.

  Washburn raised his hands in defense. “Hey, it happens to everyone eventually. It’s what the life does to you. It keeps hammering away until you finally crack.”

  Victor nodded, picking his MP5 up off the bed. He ejected the magazine and checked it for the third time. “But it’s all worth it, right?” he said offhandedly, as if he wasn’t all that interested in the question.

  “You mean does it beat sitting at a cubicle from nine to five? Hell yeah, brother! Don’t tell that to Lynn, though. I’ve got her convinced that getting a “real job” would involve a serious pay cut, and since she’s not too excited about the idea of selling the house and losing her granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances…” He laughed. “Like I said, you gotta fight for every inch.”

  Victor slammed the magazine home and stared down the sights of the rifle, aiming at a dove swooping past the window.

  “Why?” Washburn asked. “Are you thinking about quitting?”

  “Not really.” He paused and lowered the rifle. “But don’t you ever wonder when something’s gonna go sideways?”

  “That’s why we’re professionals.”

  “Professionals at putting ourselves in the line of fire, maybe.”

  Washburn rose, grinning. “Hey, getting shot at is half the fun. Don’t think about it too much, okay? You get the jitters sometimes—that happens. You start thinking about that body bag, the sound of the zipper closing over your face, and you ask yourself what it’s all about and why you aren’t back home with the people you love.”

  “So what is it all about, Wash?”

  Washburn sighed. “Hell if I know. But it sure is a rush taking out the bad guys.” He clapped his hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it too long. I don’t want to get shot in the ass because my partner was busy figuring out the meaning of life.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry if your ass wasn’t such a big target.”

  Washburn’s eyes brightened. “There’s the Victor we all know and love! Better get your warpaint on. We roll out in five.” He rapped his knuckles on the back of the chair and left.

  “Hey, Wash!” Victor called as Washburn stepped into the hall.

  Washburn stuck his head back around the corner.

  “You said getting shot at is half the fun. What’s the other half?”

  Washburn smiled. “Shooting back.”

  Chapter 3

  They hid the Jeep in a tangle of brush fifty feet from the dirt road. The sky at 2:00 AM was dark shale, dense and unimaginative, the moon no more than the beam of a child’s flashlight. It was the kind of night a child peers at through the glass, sleepless, thinking of corpses climbing from their graves, wolves howling at the moon, vampires rattling the locks on bedroom windows.

  The shadows of the trees trailed long and arm-like across the gray fields of moonlight. There was no wind, no sound but the high keening cry of a strange animal in the distance and the soft crunch of wet leaves underfoot.

  The compound rose in the distance—the web of the steel fence, the cold concrete of the buildings, the brilliant beam of a spotlight as it scanned the edge of the forest, freezing the soldiers in place. The light, brightened to a sunspot glare by Victor’s night-vision goggles, dazzled his eyes.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  His eyes refocused, catching the gleam of Washburn’s teeth in the darkness.

  “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you?” Washburn whispered back. He raised the pair of bolt cutters hanging from his left hand. “Used to do this shit back as a teenager, me and some other kids. We’d steal roadsigns, graffiti front doors. One time we took an impounded car for a joy ride, I shit you not.”

  Victor lifted his eyebrows. “Should I be worried about you, Wash?”

  Washburn gave a dry chuckle. “It was harmless. A release valve, you know? Kids being kids. You have to worry about the ones who don’t find a way to get that stuff out—and believe me, we all have a little anarchy on the inside.”

  “So I don’t need to check your record, see if you’ve been robbing banks in your free time?”

  Washburn flipped him the bird.

  The spotlight had passed, blazing another part of the forest in artificial light. Washburn met Victor’s eyes, nodded, and started toward the steel fence, hunched low. Victor followed. His gaze swept the forest floor, creating a mental map of roots and stones to avoid, and then rose to scan the compound.

  “Hold up!” he whispered.

  Washburn paused, turning his head side to side. “We’re clear, Vic.” He rose and stepped forward.

  “Wait!” Victor hissed.

  Just then a figure emerged from behind a truck, patrolling the inside of the fence with a dog as big as a black bear. Washburn finally noticed and sank into the leaves. It was almost too late. The guard’s flashlight swept casually over Washburn’s head, striking past the two men and through the trees.

  Suddenly the dog whined and pulled against its leash.

  “Co je to?” the soldier asked, squatting beside the dog and peering toward the trees. He might have been in his fifties, his cheeks showing a few days’ worth of peppered stubble. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  Victor slowly raised his MP5 and sighted the soldier. First the man, then the dog. Two quick shots, the crumple of the soldier’s body as he hit the concrete, and then the night would be quiet again.

  He could feel the excitement building, a warm tingle that began in his chest and spread out toward his limbs. His thoughts raced with uncanny speed, courtesy of the adrenaline now hitting his bloodstream. If life-and-death situations were addictive, he thought, he was a junkie. Guilty as charged.

  The dog pushed its muzzle through one of the steel diamonds and sniffed the air. Victor’s finger caressed the submachine gun’s trigger.

  “Pojďme,” the soldier said, sighing, and gave the dog
’s leash a sharp pull. The dog retreated, glanced anxiously at its master, and then padded after him along the fence.

  Victor released a lungful of stale air. Washburn craned his head around to look at him.

  Moron, Victor mouthed.

  ___

  The tension was building in his bones, the gears ratcheting tighter with every minute that passed. The quiet was the worst—the way it amplified every breath, making his heartbeat sound like a rock concert in his ears. He nursed the grip of the MP5 as Washburn clipped the steel fence.