Knife Point

by Jim Heskett

  Layne met Harry’s eyes, and he jerked his head in the other direction. The two moved to the far end of the room, next to the window drapes. While they huddled close together to talk, Layne kept an eye on Jonah. His head was down, his ears not pointed at them, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening. In the darkness of the hotel room, he seemed a broken man, a shell of the vibrant shadow he’d been when Layne had known him. A hard thing to see now.

  “What do you think?” Layne asked.

  “He does seem better. And, while he’s not as sedated as he was before, I don’t think he’d be capable of causing too much physical damage.”

  “You’d be surprised, man. He gave me quite a bit of trouble last night.”

  Harry bit his lower lip as his eyes darted to Jonah. “At some point, we’re going to have to take a step toward trusting him. He’s told us a lot already.”

  “I don’t know how to figure out if any of it is true.”

  Harry shrugged and folded his hands in front of his chest, which Layne took to mean Harry was punting the decision to him. One way or the other, he had to make a choice.

  Layne crossed the room and knelt in front of Jonah again. Jonah's eyes had been closed, and Layne gave his knee a shake to wake him up. “What did Farhad want to know about Tehran?”

  Jonah winced, then his eyes trailed over the ceiling. “I’m not a hundred percent sure. It’s all so fuzzy. I think he was asking about financial stuff. If we seized assets of targets there, what happened to the money after ops. If we had the ability to freeze bank accounts, and how we did it. That kind of thing, I think.”

  “So Farhad needs funding.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I can basically remember the stuff on the edges of hypnosis, you know? The meat of our sessions is all a big black hole.”

  Layne nodded at Harry, who then proceeded to remove the electrodes and used a pair of scissors to cut through the duct tape on his hands and legs. Jonah leaned forward, heaving deep breaths and rubbing his wrists.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Layne said. “I didn’t see how I had a better option.”

  “No, I understand. I would have done the same thing.”

  “What does Farhad want with this information?”

  Jonah stared for a second, blank-eyed. Then, he sucked in a quick breath, and his eyes widened. “He’s selling it. Or giving it to someone in Iran. I don’t know who or why. Just details about ops. When he drugged me, I would lose days at a time. Like sleepwalking. But, I know that’s when he hypnotized me, when I was wandering around in a daze like a drunk on payday.”

  “Did he do that the other day at the fundraiser?”

  Jonah shook his head. “I think that was just for the side effects. The stuff he gives me, it makes me lightheaded. Forgetful, even when I’m not blacked out.”

  “Is he planning something?” Harry asked as he stood next to Layne.

  “I just don’t know.”

  Layne looked up at Harry. “Will more come back?”

  Harry puffed up his lips like a trumpet player then blew out a breath. “Hard to say. It could happen, but maybe not fast. And maybe not all of it.”

  Layne helped Jonah move from the chair over to the bed. “What are his people doing with this information? Why do the Iranians want it?”

  “I don’t know. But I know there is something else he wants from me. A final piece of information. Something big.”

  “What?”

  Jonah's face strained, his teeth gritted. “I can’t remember. Shit, I can’t remember. But it’s big. It’s the main thing he wants to know, but it’s not for his people. He wants to know it for himself. I don’t know why he wants to know it.”

  “Think, Jonah. What is it he’s after?”

  For a few seconds, Jonah stared at Layne, blank-faced. His mouth open, air leaking out. He shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  INTERLUDE #2

  New Orleans, LA | Six Years Ago

  The house is in Metairie, which Layne was surprised to learn he’s been pronouncing entirely wrong. It's a simple, two-story structure with a wooden porch enclosed in a bug net and with a creaky porch swing. Pink paint peeled and faded almost to a tan color.

  This suburb is geographically close, yet a far cry from the noise and flashing lights of the French Quarter. No frat boys chucking beads at girls to coax them to lift their shirts. No backstreets so narrow they seem impossible to drive down. No street musicians hustling tourists for pocket change. It feels like a regular city out here.

  Layne and Jonah sit at a coffee shop across the street for a couple hours until they’ve decided no one is home. They're not even sure if their target is in this house. They have a lead, but Layne doesn't know how trustworthy it is.

  “Wait a second,” Jonah says, keeping his voice lower than the twangy country music leaking out of the speakers above their heads.

  “What’s up, man?” Layne asks as he stirs his coffee. He usually likes it black, but the coffee at this place is so strong, he had to temper it with a little cream and sugar.

  “Got someone matching the description walking down the street.”

  “Can you see his face?”

  “No, but he’s close enough in the body.”

  “Roger that,” Layne says as he takes one sip from his bitter beverage. Jonah has been trying to get him to try some beer named Turbodog, but Layne hasn’t felt much like drinking here. Maybe it’s the debauchery he has observed in the touristy areas, but he wants to keep his wits about him until the job is finished.

  They stand from their little table in the coffee shop and head for the exit. Both of them pull their hoodies up over their heads. Jonah points to the figure walking along Cleary Avenue, hands in pockets, head down. He’s about the same height and weight Satori should be, but Layne isn’t convinced.

  Standing under the awning of the coffee shop, Layne says, “I think we should stay on the house. It’ll be dark in five minutes.”

  “You can stay if you want. I’m going to tail this sucker.”

  With that, Jonah takes off across the street, and Layne grunts as he follows him. They keep about fifty paces behind their target as they march down Cleary toward Haddon Street. The sun has set, and the lights of cars driving along the street keep ruining Layne’s burgeoning night vision.

  The man up ahead slips his hands in his pockets. Doing so triggers Layne’s danger sensors, but he also can’t help thinking this is the wrong guy.

  “Did you see that?” Jonah asks.

  “I did. Doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I’m going to pick up the pace and see if he matches. We might’ve been spotted.”

  Layne grits his teeth at Jonah as he goes from a regular march to a half-jog. But, to Layne’s surprise, the guy ahead does also speed up. It’s a telltale sign. Layne’s still not convinced, but he doesn’t like what he sees up ahead.

  “Shit,” Layne says as he puts one hand over the Beretta in his waistband. He pushes against the pavement to catch up with Jonah, who is now almost running. The man ahead still has his head down, hands in his pockets, moving quickly.

  Jonah narrows the distance. Layne hopes he doesn’t tackle the guy out here. There are cars driving by, pedestrians on the other side of the street. When they find Satori, it needs to be quiet.

  And then, the figure in the hood reaches Haddon and takes a right onto it. He cuts his speed in half, and then in half again. No longer walking fast. As he slows, his face tilts back toward Jonah.

  It’s not Satori. This man they’re currently tailing is African-American.

  Jonah stops dead in the street and turns around. Layne is five paces behind him. Jonah is panting, hands on his hips, an aww-shucks look on his face.

  “Ready to go back?” Layne says, annoyed.

  “Lead the way, Boy Scout.”

  Layne grunts as he turns. They’ve only been away from the house for a couple minutes, but a lot could’ve happened in that time. He keeps his eyes glued on the front and
the rear as they approach.

  When they return to the house, it's dark, and no lights have flicked on. They decide to go in with zero fanfare since all evidence suggests it’s empty. Still, they’re quiet as they approach.

  Around the back, Layne finds a door, unlocked. It’s almost too easy. No alarm on the house, nothing marking the door—like tape—to track if someone has opened it.

  “This feel extra abandoned to you?” Jonah says.

  “It does. But I’m still going to look around.”

  Layne pokes around in the kitchen while Jonah scurries down a branching hallway to check the garage. A couple of minutes later, they meet up in the living room. The walls of the interior are covered with wallpaper, black and white vertical stripes. It’s a little off-putting.

  “This is horseshit,” Jonah says, leaning over a couch.

  “What?”

  “There’s nobody here now, and I don’t think Satori was ever here. I don’t know why we’re here. It’s like I’m buck-naked and dipping my balls in the creek and hoping they don’t get bit.”

  “That’s pretty graphic.”

  “And true, Boy Scout. Graphic but true. I hate being sent around like this. Is Harry on the comms now?”

  Layne shakes his head. “We’re dark for another half hour.”

  “I don’t get what we’re doing here.”

  “We were given an op. We track down the killer of the senator’s brother, ask him a few questions, then we take him out. It has to be quick, clean, and quiet, with no trace we were ever here. Nothing we haven’t done before.”

  Jonah scowls as he lifts the lid on a roll-top desk and examines the contents. “Do you know why they want him taken out, not arrested and given a trial?”

  Layne’s across the room, thumbing through the mail on the dinner table. The newest piece of mail is at least a month old, and none of it is addressed to Satori Watanabe. “I imagine there are things they don’t want to come out.”

  Jonah lowers the roll-top desk, letting it slam. “Exactly. The senator’s brother is a piece of shit. Was a piece of shit. He had ties to the KKK and a big ol’ rap sheet, and they don’t want the senator’s name to get dragged in the mud. Then, people look a little deeper into the senator’s background, and maybe they start asking if he has those same ties. We assassinate this man, it all goes away. Does that feel like we’re doing the work of patriots here?”

  Layne drops the mail and peels off his latex gloves. “Okay, so what? Maybe you’re right. We still have a job to do. Satori isn’t some innocent bystander. He has been suspected of running drugs, guns, all sorts of nasty things. Taking him out is good for the world, no matter the reason they gave us for doing it.”

  Jonah drops a pitying smile on Layne. “It’s easy for you, Boy Scout. You know how to follow orders and still sleep at night.”

  Layne crosses the room and stops a few feet away to look Jonah in the eyes. “This isn’t like you. What’s going on with you, man?”

  “Nothing,” Jonah says, letting a broad sigh escape his lips. “He’s not here, and I don’t see any evidence he was ever here. What do you want to do next?”

  Layne thinks on this for a moment. “Let’s get back to HQ and wait to talk to Harry. Maybe he can go over the documents again and give us a better idea of where to look next. One thing I know for sure, we’re not leaving New Orleans until Satori is dead. We abandon this before it’s done, there will be hell to pay.”

  “Let’s check upstairs.”

  Layne doubts anyone is hiding upstairs, but he shrugs his agreement. They proceed up aging wooden steps, each creak sounding like one of the dozen alley cats in this neighborhood begging for food.

  On the second floor, there are only two rooms. A bedroom and a bathroom. Jonah heads for the bathroom while Layne checks the main room. No discussion. They’ve done this together enough times that none is needed.

  With his pistol out, Layne crosses toward the bed, then waits for his breathing to still before moving. The room sounds quiet, but he doesn’t automatically trust it. An open window on the north end of the room allows a little muggy breeze.

  “These people have a thing for lavender lotion,” Jonah says from the bathroom. “They’ve got about six different kinds in here. Who needs six types of one scent of lotion?”

  Instead of answering, Layne looks under the bed. A blanket, couple pairs of shoes, but nothing interesting. He rises to his feet and approaches the closet. It has slats, and Layne moves his head up and down to spy through them.

  He whips back the door to find a collection of dresses on hangars. They sway from the ripple effect of the door opening, but there’s nothing useful in here, either. Just the clothes and some shoeboxes stacked up on a shelf overhead.

  “You clear?” Jonah asks.

  Layne taps the back of the closet wall to check for a false door and finds nothing. “Clear. Let’s get back downstairs.”

  He and Jonah meet at the top of the stairs and make their descent, the wood creaking with each step. But, at the bottom of the stairs, their eyes meet. Something isn’t right. Layne doesn’t have to say anything, because he can see Jonah is thinking the same thing.

  Jonah's head tilts for a second, his eyes searching. Layne hears it too. Something made a sound under the stairs, and not just the old wood creaking. Layne whips around to find a door under the stairs opening. A secret door, no seam, like a small closet under there.

  A figure in black bursts forth. Short, thin, male. Dark skin and dark clothing, only a sliver of his eyes and the skin around it exposed between a bandanna and a dark skullcap. Satori.

  Layne pops out a quick jab at the figure, and he feels his fist connect with flesh. He tries to swing his other fist, but the figure is already in motion. Pulling away from him, backing up toward the closet.

  There’s a click. A burst of light follows, a flashbang grenade. Powerful. Layne’s ears ring, and his eyes slam shut.

  Layne reaches back for his pistol, but he’s disoriented, and the figure is too quick. He’s got something in his hand, a heavy porcelain object. He whips it, and Layne has time to see it’s a figurine of a small child. It moves in slow motion through the air. His eyes shut again when it beams him in the forehead.

  Layne blinks to readjust to the light for a half a second. But, during that half-second, several things happen. Layne listens to Satori Watanabe sprint across the room. A lamp falls over, cracking on the floor. He hears a smack and a thud.

  By the time his eyes have adjusted to the light again, Jonah is falling backward, over the couch. A blur of dark clothing heads for the door.

  Layne pivots and leaps toward the blur. The jolt to the head has slowed him a notch, and he has to take his best guess where Satori will be. As he lunges, he extends his arms.

  Both of them headed in the direction of the front door of the house. Satori a couple feet in the lead.

  As Layne begins his descent, he closes his arms, and he manages to snag the back of Satori’s shirt. He tugs, trying to knock the man off balance. But, Satori is too quick. He spins, throwing a fist out, punching Layne not in the face, but in one of his hands. Layne loses his grasp. He topples forward, crashing into an end table next to the front door.

  And, within a half second, Satori is out the front door. It swings closed after him.

  Layne cranes his neck to check on Jonah, who is scrambling to wrestle free of the couch cushions. But, he’s okay. Doesn’t look injured.

  Layne staggers to his feet, head swimming. He pulls back the front door and hustles outside. To the left, to the right, nothing but other houses. Across the street, the strip mall with the coffee shop has gone quiet.

  No sign of Satori.

  14

  Harry Boukadakis returned to the room with lunch. Layne had gone to Hillcrest to continue his undercover observation gig since he didn’t want both he and Jonah to disappear on the same day. Layne had spent a few minutes debating whether or not to go, but Harry had talked him into it. Better
to see if Farhad would display any reaction for Jonah pulling a no-show at work, and to see if he had any idea Layne was onto him. At least, that was Harry’s thinking at the time.

  Layne had his hands full with Hillcrest and managing his ex and daughter, so, Harry had accepted the task of babysitting. No big deal, really. Harry had known Jonah for as long as Layne. He’d provided operational support for Jonah several times, including his final op in New Orleans.

  Jonah had joined the team straight out of college, recruited by Daphne. Typical story. She liked them young and full of passion for espionage. He’d worked on ops in the Middle East and Africa, but his path had crossed with others on the team from time to time.

  Harry had worked with Jonah over his last year on the team, and he’d seen Thorny’s dissatisfaction grow. Daphne had tried to mitigate it by giving him more US-based assignments, but it hadn’t mattered. Textbook burnout. Harry had seen it more than a few times.

  He probably hadn’t burned out after all this time since he mostly was able to do his work from home, in his pajamas, hunched over his keyboard.

  Most surprising was that Daphne had given the okay for Harry to come out here to California, ignoring his other duties. His boss seemed to have a soft spot in her heart for Layne, even though he’d been retired as long as Jonah and didn’t have too many good things to say about his time with the team. Still, Layne and Daphne were cosmically linked in some weird way. To this day, she still hadn’t admitted to sleeping with Layne from the time he joined the team until he met Inessa and got married. Such a strange dynamic between those two.

  Harry set the food down on the dresser next to the desk. Jonah was on the bed, his eyes fixed on the television. A late morning talk show, featuring a shifty-eyed man claiming he wasn’t the father of a baby and an angry woman saying the opposite. Both of them standing, pointing fingers in each others’ faces while the host sat in a chair and let the drama play out.