by Ross Elder
This gives me pause. This little woman hasn’t been unsettled by just about anything that has occurred since I was released from the hospital. She has such a strong sense of loyalty. She knows I killed people. She knows I don’t mind it. She should be running from me as fast as her pretty, little feet can take her but she isn’t. I think she might mean it when she says she would have killed someone if necessary. She’s strong, too. Shit, she might just strangle them.
“Okay, okay, baby. You’re here. I’m here. We’re okay.”
“I was so scared, Mason. I was so afraid.”
“I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay now.” I have no idea if it really is okay, but I’m going to tell her anything I need to make sure she stays right here, in my arms.
“Is it?”
I think she’s crying a little. Yes. Yes, I can feel her gentle sobs against my shoulder. Dampness is forming there. But, if she doesn’t let go of my neck soon I’m going to be paralyzed. “Baby, the neck. You’re killing me.”
“Oh! Sorry. I just… you know…”
She’s loosened her grip to a more appropriate, not-gonna-choke-you level. That’s better. Oh, okay. There’s kissing now. I like kissing. We can do that.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
No! No, not the banging again. Leave us alone, for crying out loud. Don’t you know I just got out of the joint?
“Go away!” Amanda shouts. That’s my girl.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“Dammit!” I’m pulling Amanda away so I can go to the door. She’s unhappy about it. Peephole. It’s Kyle. “Dammit, Kyle! Come back later.”
“Much later!” Amanda adds.
“Open up, Mason. I won’t take up too much of your time. You can play house later, I promise,” he says.
I’m starting to not like this guy. But, I guess he is my new boss. I grudgingly let him in. He’s carrying a canvas duffel bag that seems to weigh quite a lot. He places it on the floor gingerly. I hope there isn’t something that can explode in there. That’s how he’s treating it.
“Hey,” he says to Amanda.
“Hi,” she replies bitterly.
I’m a little distracted by the bag so I ask him.
“It’s your stuff. ID, sidearm, backup, magazines, ammunition, comm gear, shit like that. You can use one of your own firearms if you want but I think they confiscated most of your stuff when they grabbed you and searched your house. You’ll get it all back, but it will be a few days. Until then, you’re stuck with a Glock, like the rest of us.” He’s moving his gaze from me to Amanda and back. “Hey, look, I know you two have, um, things… to discuss. I won’t be long. I just needed to get this stuff into your hands and make sure you knew where you needed to be in the coming days. You have some training days, and there are a lot of briefings, people to meet, indoc, things like that. You know the drill.”
I do? I know this drill of which he speaks? Okay, I guess I do. I seem to remember some of it from the last time I sold my soul to Uncle Sam. Ridiculous amounts of paperwork and a seemingly endless string of briefings and PowerPoint presentations. I hope they’ve improved them, but I’m betting it’s going to be the same slides I saw years ago.
“Doesn’t he get a few days? He’s been through an incredible ordeal. He needs to rest and continue healing,” Amanda reminds him.
“Don’t worry, he’s all yours for the next five days, I promise. We need to keep him secure anyway. We have to keep looking for these guys so we can put an end to this bullshit. While we’re doing that, he’s going to be here. With you, if you wish.”
“I wish,” she says with a raised chin.
“Then it’s settled. Magazines are in. Nothing in the chambers. I threw in a selection of holsters since I don’t know your preference. Give them a try and let me know what works best for you. The phone and radio gear are charged. Chargers are all in there as well. Here…” He’s digging in a side pouch of the bag now. “Your identification. Keep it on you at all times. It’s your, “get out of jail but not always free,” card.” He made the air quotes. I hate that. “Anyway, unless Hector knocks on the door, it doesn’t open. Got me?”
“Yes. Got it.” I had already forgotten the guard’s name. He doesn’t look like a Hector, though. Kind of pale.
Okay! Well, we’re all just sort of standing around glancing back and forth at each other now. Awkward moment. It’s as though Kyle isn’t sure what else to say with Amanda in the room and Amanda isn’t in the mood to hear any of it anyway, so we are all just wondering if I will be the person to break the silence. Nope. I’m not doing it. I just want him to leave, but he’s the new boss, and I don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with him. I also need a shower and I really, really need to get Amanda into that other room over there for some adult therapy time.
“Nice suite, huh?” Kyle says casually.
“Very nice,” Amanda agrees quickly. “Are we done? Can we, you know, have some privacy now?”
“Oh, uh, sure. Sorry. Yeah, you two enjoy the next few days. Things are going to get a little crazy after that. Rest up, Mason. You’re gonna need it.” Kyle shakes my hand and turns to the door. As he opens it, he looks back and points at the bag on the floor. “Check the stuff,” he instructs me with a cold look in the eye.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do it today.”
“Good. And, none of that sir shit. We are a civilian organization. Call me Frank, okay?” He says with a wink.
“Frank? I thought your name was Kyle?” He told me Kyle before, right?
“It was. Yesterday. Have a good night, Amanda. Take care.”
Chapter Thirty-One
September 26, 2016
0730 hours
I could get used to this life. The room service in this place is amazing, and the staff here are incredible. A simple phone call to the front desk and BAM. Whatever you want is delivered to your door. Of course, the staff is getting a little tired of being shaken down by Hector every time they come to the door, but they are mostly keeping that to themselves, only occasionally making comments to me, quietly of course, once they are inside.
Amanda hasn’t worn much other than a fluffy bathrobe since we showered two mornings ago. I needed to get the jail off me. I’ve been lounging in sweatpants and a t-shirt, eating hot food delivered in fancy dishes, which I paid for myself instead of putting on the room tab. You’re welcome, taxpayers. We’ve had wine, champagne, chocolate covered fruit and a variety of cheeses for snacks. Steak and shrimp were last night’s dinner. It was surprisingly well prepared. I’m generally picky about how my steaks are done. I may have been slightly distracted by Amanda, but I’m also sure the steak was good. I think. Amanda was good. This time has been good.
She has awakened me in the night twice because I was talking or whispering in my sleep. Nightmares, I guess. Once I was awake, they were gone. I have no memory of them. She says I was talking about blood and pain. I imagine those nightmares are common for me. Sometimes I remember them. Other times, nothing.
The awesome thing about having Amanda with me, other than her attentiveness and assistance, is that when she is trying to calm me down, she thinks sex is a great way to do it. I must say, I agree with her assessment. When she is with me, I don’t think I need a doctor or therapy. I just need her. She heals me. I could be completely wrong, but I don’t care.
She’s still snoozing quietly, all curled up in the blankets, drooling a little on my right biceps. No, it’s not gross. It’s kind of cute. I don’t want to disturb her, but I really need to get up and use the bathroom. Something woke me. I’m not sure what it may have been. A noise, I suppose. I heard knocking in my dream and then I was semi-awake, then awake, Amanda’s deep breathing the only sound.
There it is again. Bam, bam, bam. Shit, someone is knocking on the door of the suite. What time is it? Oh, yeah. The watch. Still gone. Still haven’t replaced it. Amanda stirs a little as I lean over to view the alarm clock on the nightstand. She’s rolled over and off my arm. Now I have to get up. That’s gre
at. Definitely Hector’s knock. He should be showing up for his shift around now. The night guard, another guy whose name I don’t remember, has a milder knock. You know, like a normal human. Now I have got to find my sweatpants.
“I’m coming! Jesus. Hold your horses,” I yell toward the door as I stumble around attempting to don my sweatpants while walking. Hector has banged on the door twice more since I crawled from the bed. The guy is persistent. Persistently annoying. Peephole. Kyle, or Frank, whatever his name is, is standing behind Hector. Hector is raising his fist preparing to knock again, even though he must know I’m at the door by now. I quickly release the locks and jerk the door open.
People are rushing past me. Several of them. People I don’t know. Kyle Frank Whoever is the last through the door so I grab him by the arm. He raises his eyebrows at me but seems friendly. Maybe grinning.
“Uh, good morning, Mason.”
“What the hell is going on? Who are these people?”
“Ah! Well, it’s time you met the team,” he explains.
“Now? I’m supposed to be, you know, like, on a mini vacation.”
“Yeah, about that. Something came up. Vacation time is over. You’re going into the field,” he says as he walks toward the other invaders.
Frank places a small briefcase on the coffee table and then stands erect, taking a breath while looking toward the curtains covering the balcony’s sliding glass door. He turns suddenly. He raises his left arm in a casual way and points it to the other people, one by one.
“Clarence Ellis. He’s our tech guy. He handles most of our communications and information warfare. Career agency guy,” he says.
Clarence is an African American man with a pencil thin mustache and goatee beneath a scalp full of short, knotted hair, similar to dreadlocks. He raised his chin at me. He appears to be around thirty years of age. Seems to be in great shape. Built like a runner. He’s opening computers and laying out smartphones on the coffee table.
“Carl Watson. Carl wears several hats, including liaison officer with our various sister agencies and local authorities when needed. He’s a former Special Forces Intel guy. Killed more people than malaria,” Frank explains with a smirk.
Carl appears to be a bit crusty. In his late forties, still in pretty good physical condition, and wears a full beard streaked with gray in a distinguished sort of way. He shook my hand. Firm grip. Called me “brother” which felt a little weird.
“Susan Shaw. She’s our chief analyst. She’s our puzzle-solver and researcher. Smart. Smarter than you. Always remember that.”
Susan is in her thirties, I would guess. When she walked through the door, I estimated her height at around five-foot-four-inches. Slim. Attractive, but in that school teacher or librarian kind of way. Dirty blonde hair, mostly straight, cascades down her face until it just touches her neck. Thin-rimmed glasses adorn her face. I can’t really tell if she’s wearing makeup.
Hey, Mason,” Susan says without looking up from her laptop. “You should, um, put on some clothes when company comes over.” She’s tapping her keyboard. “Give me a minute to get up on the net.”
I’m suddenly reminded of my near nakedness. I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious, which seems to be out of character for me. I need to get back to working out. “There’s no password for the hotel Wi-Fi. It’s included with the room.” Susan stopped tapping and glared at me from the corner of her eyes. Clarence seems to be looking at me too. What?
“Is this guy serious?” Susan mumbles as she returns to her speedy tapping.
“William “Wild Bill” Carter. He hates it when I call him that, by the way. Don’t do it. He’s a former Delta Force officer who came to the agency a few years ago, and now he’s part of this team. He’s our tactical guru, and the guy writes our TTPs. He also saved my ass in Tikrit several years ago,” Frank says, seeming to remember the incident fondly.
“And Ghormach,” Carter adds.
“Yes, and Ghormach. And Cleveland,” Frank says.
“That was just a bad woman, man. That doesn’t count, does it?” Carter laughs.
“Definitely counts. Anyway, team, this is Mason McCall. Mason is going to be joining us, as I explained. He was an agency hotshot who decided he wanted to be a civilian again. That doesn’t appear to be working out for him, so he’s decided to come back.”
“I didn’t really…” I try to explain the situation to the team, but he wouldn’t let me.
“He totally decided to come back of his own free will. Just like everyone else in this room. He was in authentications, has some field training, and is a pretty experienced researcher. He also recently whacked a couple of Belarusian strongmen who tried to murder him. So, welcome aboard, Mason. Let’s get down to business.”
“Hey, uh, there’s a…woman…in the other room. Amanda.” Suddenly I was struck by a sense of operations security. There was an uncleared person around, and I somehow knew that wasn’t kosher when it came to discussing classified information.
“Nice!” Clarence says as he extends his right fist toward me in a manly request for a fist-bump.
I was moving toward him to bump fists with a grin when Amanda emerged from the bedroom. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt but is still barefoot, and her hair is a bit disheveled. Very cute. She mentions something about coffee and at least a few of us respond in the affirmative. She’s in the kitchen putting a pot on. Now the rest of us are looking around at each other, wondering if we should continue or not. Frank finally breaks the silence.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to work.”
Susan finally looks up from her screen and informs me that they believe they have located Upton, or at least the person, or persons, behind the name Upton. The address I recovered from one of the dead Belarusians, and the research the team did over the last few days, has led them to believe a house in the countryside, just south of Navarre, Ohio, is serving as a sort of safe house for a Russian intelligence operation.
Ohio is known in political terms as a battleground state. Only seven of the 45 Presidents of the United States to be elected did so without winning the vote in Ohio. None have occurred since 1960. It has only happened twice since 1896. If you are running for President, you’ve got to campaign in Ohio. Period. You must have campaign offices in Ohio, and you have to invest money in Ohio. It is one of the most fought-for states in the union. And, if you are going to influence the opinions of the voters and interfere with the process of electing the next President, you need to do the same things. You’ll want to be close to the action and the players. You’ll want to be at the same events, talk to the same people, and grease the same palms as the politicians.
You also have to influence the media. Television, newspapers, online news outlets; they all need to be massaged and manipulated to, whether willingly or unwittingly, promulgate your message. Feed a rumor into this mill, spread a half-truth through that pipeline, insert propaganda into a widely distributed “news” item; these are all things that are done daily by both our enemies and our own. With the advent of the internet, it all got worse. Much worse. It also got easier.
“That nurse you were…uh…” Clarence is glancing toward the kitchen. “You know…it took us a long time to track her down. She had a very thorough legend, as did everyone around her. It’s pretty obvious to us she’s part of the Russian illegals program. She targeted you specifically, and we think it was all for the purpose of stopping you from publishing your findings. Or, at least preventing it until after the election. When that didn’t work out, they just went for the old-fashioned solution.”
Russian “Illegals” are agents placed within the societies of a target nation by Russian Foreign Intelligence, the SVR. They are trained extensively and are given very in-depth backgrounds, or legends, that pass most levels of scrutiny. In most cases, you wouldn’t be able to tell the illegal wasn’t a citizen, or at least a foreigner authorized to be in the country. They can go years, or perhaps forever, without being
discovered.
Amanda is bringing the first two cups of coffee into the room, having filled them before the pot was finished brewing. I’m given the first cup, along with a peck on the cheek and a reminder to go put a shirt on. The second cup is placed in front of Clarence, who politely thanks her.
“Screwing, dear. He was screwing her. You know, the nurse,” she whispers to Clarence with a wicked grin.
Clarence quickly returns his gaze to his laptop screen and appears suddenly very interested in something being displayed there. Susan gave a slight chuckle. Everyone else is sort of glancing around like nothing is happening. Awkward. Amanda must be loving this.
“Anyway,” Frank now. “We have one slight problem. You drew the attention of the freaking FBI. They want to take the lead on this one. We usually work autonomously, but I don’t have a way to get around the feds this time. They are willing to let us play along, but they are running the show.”
While waiting for the next cups of coffee to be ready, Amanda went to the bedroom and retrieved a t-shirt for me. I’m putting it on. “So, what are we doing?”
“We’re… well, the FBI is going to hit the house and take down the cell using it. We’re hoping it’s the same cell that ran the nurse. We need to get our hands on these people and put the screws to them,” Carter says. “The feds are willing to let us participate in the raid and assist with site exploitation.”
He’s talking about something called Sensitive Site Exploitation, or SSE. That’s where you pick the place apart and find every piece of intelligence and evidence available and make sure none of it can be used to further any nefarious threat. It often leads to the discovery of other people and other sites within a network. It also gives insight into how the cells operate and communicate with others. I don’t recall being involved in SSE during my previous stint with the agency. I don’t think that would have been part of my responsibilities. I do recall once being asked to validate some documents and credentials collected during an SSE conducted by others. The credentials were creative forgeries. Not as creative as my own but, hey, we all can’t be rock stars, can we?
