Beyond Betrayal

by L. T. Ryan

  “Pull over at the next exit,” he said.

  “There’s nothing at the next one,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “The sign on the side of the interstate had nothing under gas, food and lodging. It’ll be a waste to pull over if you need any of those three things.”

  “Okay, take the following exit, then.”

  They passed the off-ramp to nowhere. She crossed into the right hand lane in advance of the next one. The sign indicated there were multiple gas stations there. He could get a drink or food or use the restroom, whatever it was he needed.

  She studied the cars behind them. So far, there hadn’t been a single one that paced her. That didn’t mean anything, though. An experienced team would use five or six different vehicles, changing places as often as possible. Possibly even having the drivers switch out cars along the way. There was no guarantee of a pattern, other than the people behind the wheel. She’d been on the lookout for a certain type of person. The problem was, between Boston and New York, half the drivers on the road matched that type. Even halfway to Philadelphia, at least four out of every ten cars had someone who fit the profile in her head.

  So she let it go and watched for a constant tail.

  She pulled off the interstate, made a right at a blinking red light. They had a choice between three different gas stations. She turned left into the first one they encountered. This way, she wouldn’t have to cross traffic to drive back to the interstate. The gas gauge read half-full. She pulled up to a pump, got out, reached for the hose. A man wearing greasy blue coveralls trotted over. He waved his arms and whistled and yelled at her to stop.

  Beck had stepped out of the car. He looked at her over the roof.

  “We’re in New Jersey, Clarissa. You can’t pump your gas here. If you touch that hose, you’ll be in violation of a state Supreme Court ruling that dates back to 1951.”

  She’d driven through the state enough to know this, yet it escaped her mind. When was the last time she’d stopped for gas in Jersey?

  The man smiled as he placed himself between her and the gas pump, like he guarded an endangered species. She lifted her hands and backed up. Looking to her left, she noticed Beck stepping into the convenience store. She decided to join him inside and grab a cup of coffee.

  A bell dinged when she pulled the door open. Three people stood in line, staring straight ahead. None of them appeared to be with one another. Clarissa walked behind them, taking note of the largest of the three, a man wearing a Mets t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He was big, but out of shape. His gut protruded over his waist. She deemed him not much of a threat, and moved on.

  She found the coffee maker in the back corner. The brew in the pot looked old and smelled stale. The odor lingered in her nose even after she took a step back. She imagined the bottom quarter of the pot was thick sludge.

  Beck emerged from a hallway and walked up to her.

  “High octane,” he said, wincing at the sight of the coffee.

  “I think I’ll pass,” she said, looking toward the cooler. “Grab a soda instead.”

  He followed her to the fridge, then the register. They stood next to each other. The appearance of a couple again. It worked, she figured. He used the change from the parking garage and another twenty to pay for two drinks, a bag of sunflower seeds and the gas.

  Outside, he asked, “Want me to drive?”

  “I got it.” She detested the idea of giving up control of the vehicle. At least behind the wheel she had the option of running. She wasn’t armed. Neither was he, best she could tell. The only thing he could do was hit her. And if she pushed the gas to eighty or so miles per hour, he’d be less inclined to lay a hand on her.

  They took their seats in the Infiniti. She turned the key in the ignition. The LCD screen lit up. It calculated their route time and distance. A little over three hours to go.

  Chapter 3

  Traffic thickened as they neared Philadelphia. She glanced at the dash clock for the seventieth time. Almost five o’clock. The sun still lingered overhead. Plenty of daylight remaining. As long as they got through the city in a reasonable amount of time, they’d arrive in D.C. before sunset.

  A sign told her they had entered Cherry Hill, New Jersey. They traveled at a pace of thirty miles per hour. It felt like crawling. Cars gathered around them on the sides, front and back. Along the long line of vehicles, brake lights rhythmically lit up and faded away in front of her. She kept two car lengths of distance between the Infiniti and the vehicle in front of her. The man behind her didn’t give her the same consideration. She saw his oversized face in her rear-view as if he sat in the back seat.

  “Pull off at the next exit,” Beck said.

  Clarissa glanced at him. He did not return the look.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He said nothing.

  “Beck, why?”

  “Relax.” The man let out an exaggerated exhale through his nose. “Do you like being in this traffic?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s only going to get worse. So let’s get off here, find a place to eat, and pick up later. We’re not getting to D.C. until after eight, anyway.”

  Clarissa watched the passenger side mirror for an opening. A gap appeared and she took it. The person behind her honked his horn and flashed his lights and flicked her off. She managed to keep herself from responding. It was enough knowing what she could do to the man in a one-on-one situation that helped her remain calm.

  She pulled onto the exit ramp. She asked, “What’s going to happen when we get to Washington?”

  Beck shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I’m out of it at that point. I suppose Sinclair will want to meet with you. Brief you, or debrief you, whatever.”

  “You’re not going to accompany me to see him?”

  “Why would I?”

  She glanced over at him. His gaze met hers. She hiked her shoulders an inch while clutching the wheel with both hands.

  “I don’t know, Beck. I mean, why are you here in the first place? If I’m going to D.C., why didn’t I fly in there to begin with? Why Boston?”

  “You’re with me because I flew in today, too.”

  “From where?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “We weren’t in long term parking. It only cost us five dollars to get out.” She thought back to the chart near the exit. Two dollars for the first hour, one dollar each additional hour. “Your car hadn’t been there for more than four hours.”

  “First, who says I parked it? Second, who says it is mine?”

  The stoplight turned green. Clarissa pulled forward and made a left turn. They drove over I-95. A passing eighteen-wheeler caused the overpass to feel like it shook beneath them.

  “Why would it matter if I flew into Reagan or Dulles?” she asked.

  “I see you’re trying to figure this out, Ms. Abbot. I’ll help you. There’s nothing nefarious going on here. You couldn’t fly into either of the D.C. airports because someone might spot you there. Same for me. Logan is close enough, yet far enough away. It’s not as big as some of the others, so there’s less likely to be attention drawn to someone like yourself.”

  “That makes no sense. What do you mean, spot me there? I’ve flown in and out of both before.”

  Beck said nothing. Clarissa glanced in his direction. He turned his head away. His eyes reflected off the side window. She noticed a solid streak of white hair behind his ear. Birthmark? A single frightening moment in his life? Or just because?

  “Are you like me?” she asked.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Outsourced help.” She paused, added, “Expendable.”

  He shook his head.

  “CIA, then?”

  He pointed at a Ruby Tuesday’s.

  “NSA? Is this happening behind the Agency’s back? Am I still supposed to be in London?”

  “I could go for a steak,” Beck said.

  “Scre
w your steak,” Clarissa said. She jammed her feet down on the brake pedal and the clutch while shifting the transmission into neutral. The rear of the car slipped. She over-corrected and barely missed the curb and sidewalk, where several people sat on a bench or stood near the curb waiting for the bus.

  An old man swore at her through Beck’s partially open window.

  Beck turned his head toward her. He smiled. “I think you could use one, too. And I’ll be driving the rest of the way to D.C.”

  Clarissa shifted into first and eased forward, turning into the restaurant’s parking lot. All the spaces near the front door were occupied by Mercedes, Lexus, and Audis. Happy hour for the high profile. She found a spot behind the building that put them out of sight of the road. She cut the engine, pulled the key from the ignition, then handed it to Beck.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Wait.” She shifted in the seat and turned at her waist. Her left arm remained outstretched, her hand draped over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “Do you have a weapon for me?”

  His smile returned. “I thought you’d never ask.” He reached for the glove box with the key extended. It slid into a lock and it turned with ease. The cover lowered an inch per second. Beck reached inside. When his hand emerged, it wrapped around the handle of a pistol. He extended it.

  Clarissa grabbed the barrel.

  Beck didn’t let go. “There’s no ammunition in it yet. I’m going to retrieve mine out of the trunk. You’ll go into the restroom after we are seated. When you return, I’ll get up. After I’ve left the table, you grab my napkin. You’ll find the magazine there.”

  She nodded. He released the weapon.

  “Are you familiar with the M9?” he asked.

  “Yeah, plenty.”

  “Okay.” He pushed his door open and stepped outside. “Now, let’s go deal with the natives and put something in our stomachs.”

  Just don’t piss me off, Clarissa thought. Or your dessert will be made of lead and covered with glycerine.

  Chapter 4

  Everything went as planned. No one around them noticed the exchange. Clarissa loaded the magazine into the M9 while both items were in her purse. She felt relaxed again after having gone twenty hours unarmed. Had to be a new record.

  They both ordered the rib eye. Beck had fries and a potato. She had a salad. Beck drank three beers. She drank one. Neither of them was affected by the alcohol.

  The bar filled up with men wearing ties and women in pants suits. They shook hands and talked and laughed. Everyone seemed to know everybody else. Beck would have fit in. He fit the look of a high-earning executive, so bored with his home life that he went to the local Ruby Tuesday’s instead of driving the five extra minutes to spend time with his wife and kids and dog.

  Clarissa knew she’d never fit in. Not because she’d go home to her family, but rather because they’d take one look at her and know she was below them. No matter how she tried to change her appearance, her mannerisms, the way she spoke, most folks looked down on her and pegged her as nothing but a gutter dweller.

  “What are you thinking about?” Beck said.

  Her gaze drifted away from the bar and met his. It was the first time she noticed that his eyes weren’t dark brown. They were hazel, with a touch of gray.

  “You look like you’re about to take that M9 and go take out the bartender.”

  Clarissa smiled. “Not the bartender. He’s my kind of people. The others, not so much.”

  “Don’t get along with your peers?”

  “My peers? I’ve got nothing in common with those folks up there. They wouldn’t offer me a drink even if I walked up there on fire.”

  Beck looked over his shoulder, back at her, shrugged. “For starters, don’t use the word ‘folks.’ And maybe they’d ignore you while they’re all in a group. But, I bet individually, any one of those guys would be offering you all the drinks you wanted.”

  “Right,” she said. “Thanks for proving my point.”

  He held out his hands, smiled and cocked his head to the side.

  “Your charm won’t work on me,” she said. “I’ve got a post-graduate degree in bullshit.”

  This elicited a laugh from Beck.

  Clarissa glanced beyond the booth. She’d caught the attention of four of the bar’s patrons. One pointed at her, said something, smiled. The others did, too.

  “Beck,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m just getting comfortable,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, so are those guys. They’ll be over here in five minutes.”

  He picked up his mug and finished his beer. “Okay, let me run to the restroom first.”

  “Give me the key, Beck.”

  He slid out of the booth, rose and walked toward the restrooms, ignoring her request.

  The men shifted their attention toward Beck. One nodded at the others. Three of them followed Beck toward the dim hallway with the restroom sign hanging overhead.

  Clarissa grabbed the edge of the table. The lone man started toward her. He had short brown hair, a clean-shaven face. His khaki pants and blue polo shirt looked recently pressed. She stuck one foot in the aisle. He took three long steps and blocked her.

  “Where are you running off to?”

  The whiskey on his breath pervaded the air around her.

  “Not the drunk tank, which is where you’ll be going after you get behind the wheel of your overpriced car.”

  “Maybe you should drive me.”

  “Maybe you should get one of your boys to do that for you.” She jutted her chin toward the restrooms.

  The guy hiked his thumb over his shoulder and leaned back. “Yeah, they’re gonna be busy for a few minutes.” He leaned forward and glanced at her hands. “And so is your boyfriend.”

  She heard a door open and fall shut in the background. She looked past the man in front of her. Beck appeared in the hallway opening. The right side of his face was red. He dabbed at his lip with the back of his hand. No one else followed him out.

  Clarissa smiled at the man in front of her. “One thing first.”

  The guy placed his hands on the table and leaned forward as she set her purse down. She opened it. His eyes grew wide. She wrapped her hand around the pistol, shoved it against the end of the bag, and placed the bag against his crotch.

  “Now you’re going to get your hands off my table, take three steps back, turn around and go pick your boys up off the bathroom floor.”

  The guy jumped backward. He turned without looking back first, and came face to face with Beck. Beck brought his hands in tight and shoved them forward. The motion caught the guy in the stomach, and he stumbled to the side and fell onto an empty table.

  “Ready?” Beck said.

  “What happened to you in there?” she said.

  Beck shrugged. “The place is filthy. The floor is literally covered in human waste.”

  They returned to the Infiniti. Beck sat behind the wheel. Clarissa adjusted the passenger seat and leaned back. She hadn’t slept on the plane, and had been up for close to thirty-six hours. The engine roared, then hummed. Beck shifted into first and rounded the front of the building, driving past the restaurant’s entrance. The four men stood on the sidewalk. Three of them had taken a beating. One looked like he needed to go to the emergency room. It was obvious at that moment that Beck was not someone to be messed with.

  “Does trouble always follow you like that?” he asked her.

  “Since I was a little girl,” she said. “Pays to be tough, though.”

  “And to have tough associates,” he added.

  “That too.”

  Beck took the I-95 south on-ramp. Traffic had thinned, but Clarissa wouldn’t call it light. Beck pressed the gas pedal and weaved through the maze of vehicles.

  They crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. The sun hovered deep in the western sky, dancing with the ripples in the water. The rigid design of the bridge, and the orange glow in the sky behind it, and the red a
nd purple swirling ballet that took place on the river below left Clarissa in a tranquil state.

  She closed her eyes. The sounds of the radio and the high-pitched hum of the tires tearing across weathered asphalt faded away.

  Chapter 5

  Clarissa jerked forward against a stiffened seat belt that cut into her chest. The sounds of brakes squealing flew past her. Her head snapped back against the leather headrest.

  “This is your stop,” Beck said.

  Clarissa opened her eyes. It was dark out. Streetlights illuminated the sidewalk and part of a building next to the car. She looked up the familiar condominium’s facade. Only a few of the windows were brightened.

  “That’s my apartment building,” she said.

  He nodded. “That’s where the directions led to.”

  Clarissa rubbed her eyes and turned to face the man. “Are you supposed to come in, too?”

  He shook his head in response, fixed his gaze on her.

  “This makes no sense, Beck. Why did we have to travel all the way down here together if the only reason was to take me home?”

  Beck glanced at the rear-view mirror, then back at her. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured this out, Clarissa. Or, perhaps you have, and you’re looking for confirmation?”

  She shrugged. He escorted her, plain and simple. She got off a plane in Boston, and he made sure she got to D.C., and into her building. She knew the city too well, that was why she didn’t fly into Reagan or Dulles. Likewise, she would have spotted a tail from a mile away. There was no point in following her home, so they did the next best thing. They put a man they trusted in the car with her.

  Clarissa relayed her thoughts to Beck.

  “Pretty much spot on, Ms. Abbot.”

  “So, will you tell me who you really are now?”

  Beck smiled and said nothing. Headlights approached and reflected off his eyes. The car passed. Shadows danced from right to left.

  Clarissa grabbed the chilled door handle and pulled it toward her. She swiveled in the seat, placed both feet on the ground. Before turning and walking away, she leaned forward and ducked her head inside the car.