And a duffel bag to carry it all in.
The girl at the cash gave him a curious look at the mishmash of items, but said nothing, instead seeming to focus on the skin exposed by the several buttons of his shirt left undone. She smiled at him as he paid with a large money roll, and he gave her a wink that he was pretty sure made her young heart beat a bit faster, the blush he was rewarded with speaking volumes.
A glance at the door confirmed the man sent to tail him was still standing in the entrance. He’d have to lose him somehow.
“Where’s your garden center?”
She pointed toward the right. “Down there.”
“And your bathrooms?”
“Same direction, you can see the sign from here.”
He looked and spotted the universal symbols for relief.
“Got it, thanks!”
He gave her another smile and pushed the cart toward the exit and the elderly lady checking receipts. Positioning the cart against the wall, between a gumball machine and a coin operated spaceship ride for tots that he hadn’t been on since he was drunk and seventeen, he stepped over to the woman with his best smile.
“Excuse me, miss?”
“Miss? My dear heavens, young man, I haven’t been called ‘miss’ since I was your age.”
Kane touched her shoulder briefly, smiling. “Oh, you lie, I know it!”
She turned her head with a smile and dismissed his statement with a wave of her hand.
“What can I do for you?”
“Quick favor. I need to go to the bathroom, and I just paid for my stuff”—he pointed toward the cart—“but I don’t want to leave it unattended, just in case someone takes something. Could you be a dear and keep an eye on it for me, just for a minute or two?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to—”
“I’ll be quick. Just a number one!” he said, holding up a finger next to his winning smile.
She laughed and lowered her voice, leaning in.
“Okay, make it quick, Dear!”
Kane gave her a wink, then intentionally looked directly at the man in the door watching him, and narrowed his eyes as if in suspicion. He headed for the bathroom, and a quick glance over his shoulder showed his tail in pursuit, albeit attempting to look inconspicuous. To the untrained eye he would have just been any other customer. The man was good at his job, which meant Company or private. FBI weren’t trained to follow people like him, and locals definitely weren’t.
And the only reason he had spotted this one is because they were working a one vehicle team. Normally he would have expected a three vehicle pursuit, or if only one, then satellite support so the tailing vehicle could remain out of sight.
Which meant either this was a rogue Company operation, private with no satellite support an option, or it was just a routine tail to see why he was back without reporting it to his handler.
He stepped into the bathroom, found it thankfully empty, then entered the larger stall reserved for the handicapped. And waited. It didn’t take long, the door opening, and careful footsteps echoing on the tile. He heard the door of the stall next to him creak slightly, then a gentle push on his own door, a pair of boots he recognized as standard issue Company making an appearance.
He dropped to his knees, reached forward and grabbed the man by both ankles, yanking hard. He heard a yelp as the man fell backward. Kane repositioned his hands, yanking on the man’s pants, hauling him into the stall. He punched him in the nose, the man’s head smacking the tile from the recoil, knocking him out cold.
Kane froze, listening to see if anyone else had come in during the four seconds it had taken him to disable the man.
Nothing.
He quickly did a pat down and relieved his tail of a .40 caliber Glock 23, another standard Company issue, and a nasty coil of wire on a retractable spool he guessed was used for strangling its victims. Not standard issue.
Was he intending to use that on me?
There was no ID, no wallet, just a wad of cash and a cellphone Kane wouldn’t trust to take with him. He pulled the SIM card, tossed the phone in the toilet, then used the wire to tie the man’s hands behind his back, and to the plumbing. He couldn’t risk staying any longer, his buddies would be wondering where he was, and besides, he had made a promise to a little old lady whose day was tough enough without him causing her worry.
He slid himself out from under the stall, leaving it locked from the inside, washed his hands, then quickly returned to his cart.
“Thanks, miss!” He gave her a wink and she batted the air with her hand, giving him a bashful smile as she checked someone’s cart. He pushed his toward the gardening center, and was soon outside. Filling his duffel bag with his purchases, he strode behind two construction workers, far enough to their side to not look odd to the workers, but at an angle that would hide him from the SUV the rest of his pursuit team was in.
Clear of their forward angles, he walked behind the row of vehicles they were parked in, then stopped two vehicles short, crouching down. He removed the two cans of Raid spray, popped their caps, stuck the attached straws into both, and shook them hard. Crawling behind the final vehicle, he looked to make sure no innocent bystanders were about to stumble upon him, then rolled behind the SUV. He shoved the straws into each of the two tailpipes of the performance exhaust system, then pressed the buttons hard. The hiss sounded unbelievably loud to him, but inside the well-insulated cabin, he hoped they would hear nothing.
A door opened.
His heart stopped.
He let go of the buttons, the hiss stopping.
“I’ll go look for him,” he heard a voice say as boots appeared, then the door slammed shut. He watched the boots disappear, then pressed the buttons again, emptying the cans into the exhaust system.
Rolling away, he put the two cans into his duffle bag, strode back down the row of vehicles about half way, cut between two cars and over to his rental. He tossed the duffel bag in the trunk, then climbed in the car. A check of his mirror showed the SUV still parked. He fired up the Expedition and pulled out, driving by the SUV with his window down. He could hear the engine turning over, coughing, then stalling out with a thunk. He smiled and pulled out onto the freeway, a final glance showing the two remaining occupants outside of the vehicle.
Assuming they don’t have satellite support, I should be good for a while.
Resuming his course to Ogden, he pulled out his secure phone, and placed a scrambled call to Washington, DC.
Time to warn our friend.
Chris Leroux Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia
Chris Leroux tucked in his shirt, paying careful attention to buttoning up properly. Today he was going to ask Sherrie White out. At least that was the plan. He was hoping to be saved by either food poisoning from breakfast, a car accident that didn’t result in injury—for her or him—or her announcing her nuptials to the entire office before he had a chance to embarrass himself.
Essentially he was praying for a way out.
Because if one wasn’t provided, he was asking her out.
For coffee.
And what really was the big deal? It was just two colleagues, going for coffee. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing unusual. He adjusted his tie, opting for a plain dark gray with subtle pattern, rather than the garish yellow one he had received at last year’s gift exchange, a tie so unusual he wasn’t sure if it was a joke gift or not. He had simply blushed, held it up, and thanked the anonymous purchaser.
And never worn it.
He checked his teeth for the umpteenth time, then headed for the door. Slipping on his dress shoes, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror and cursed. Hair! Rushing back to the bathroom, he combed his hair neatly, then returned to the front door of his apartment, only to find an envelope had been stuffed under his door.
What the hell?
He opened the door and looked down the hallway, but saw no one. He was quite certain it hadn’t been there when h
e was putting his shoes on, but then he was so distracted with today’s plans and how one question might change his entire life, that there could have been an R2 unit whistling for attention in the corner, and he might have missed it.
He picked up the envelope. It was a standard white business envelope, no window, no writing beyond the typed ‘Chris Leroux’ centered on the front. He examined the type and determined it was most likely from a laser printer, most likely untraceable.
Grabbing an opener, he stuck the long blade inside the tiny gap, and gently cut it open, careful to not tear anything that might be inside. He shoved the blade back in the cup that had held it unused for so long, the last time he had received an actual envelope that he cared about months ago at least. Popping the envelope open, he dumped the contents on the counter.
A single yellow piece of paper, folded in quarters, was the entire contents. He reconfirmed by looking inside the envelope, then set it aside. He debated on whether or not to preserve fingerprint evidence, his heart slamming against his ribcage as he stared at the ordinary yellow paper lying in front of him, begging to be opened.
It was his first ever secret communique.
Or it could be an anonymous letter from a neighbor, complaining about his late night viewing of the latest season of The Walking Dead.
He grabbed the page and quickly unfolded it, fingerprint evidence be damned.
The words had his head swimming, and he reached for a chair, dropping in it before he passed out.
You are being watched. K.
Super 8 Motel, Ogden, Utah
It wasn’t his usual level of accommodations, but this was the job, and it called for a more low-key approach. Which meant the Super 8 Motel. He didn’t care if the sinks were marble, or the faucets gold plated. All he cared about was whether or not he had to go through a lobby, which he didn’t, and if it was clean.
And it was.
He’d find out tonight what type of clientele it had when the headboards started thumping against the walls. After a quick shower to refresh from the flight and the drive, he massaged his feet for a few minutes as he sat in front of the window, the curtain open, the sun pouring in on his face, as he reset his internal circadian rhythm to the new time zone. Getting a good sleep on the plane helped, and an old trick his college archaeology prof had taught him helped as well—take your shoes off on the flight.
He had wondered for years, during those days of staking out some terrorist hideout, or in between drunken stupors in some den of inequity, what his life would have been like if 9/11 had never happened. He had been in college at St. Paul’s University in Maryland on a full-ride scholarship for football when the attack had happened. Though it was an archaeology class, the conversations had been dominated by those events, and how they related to history. He couldn’t remember how now, but some parallel was drawn with the fall of Rome.
And that’s when he had made his decision. He talked it over with Professor Acton, the one professor he felt would understand his decision, and give him an honest opinion. And the Doc had. When he announced he was thinking of leaving college to join the army and fight the terrorists, all the Doc had asked was, “Why?”
“Because I feel it’s my duty.”
“To serve your country, or to seek revenge?”
He wasn’t sure, so he decided to answer honestly. “Both, I think.”
“If your motivations are revenge, then you might want to rethink your decision. Emotional decisions made in the heat of the moment quite often backfire; you’re setting yourself on a track that may be hard to deviate from, and may ultimately cost you your life. If you’re looking to serve your country in its armed forces, then there’s no greater calling in my opinion, and if you think that will make you happy, then leave with my blessing. Just know what your reasons are. Your real reasons. And if you think, ten, twenty, thirty years from now, when you’re sitting at home with your family, you’ll still be comfortable with those reasons, then go. And if you decide to come back at some point, you call me, and I’ll get you back in.”
The Doc had even seen him off at the airport. Professor James Acton was a man he had always respected, whose opinion he had always valued, whose class he had always looked forward to, and with the information he had read on him over the past couple of years, was a man who seemed to not only be able to handle himself, but always did the right thing.
And was a magnet for trouble.
Kane had no doubt the Doc would be able to sit back one day with his family, and know he had done the things he had done for the right reasons.
The Doc was a man he would love to sit down with and swap horror stories. But that was never to be. Perhaps on the Doc’s deathbed. For the Doc he hoped that would be as an old man, in his home, surrounded by the ones he loved. But with what he had read, especially most recently in China, he had a bad feeling the Doc’s death would be in some far away land, at the end of a bullet or tank round.
Which was supposed to be his fate.
He stood up and returned to the bathroom, washing his face and retrieving a shaving brush and soap from his travel kit. Wetting the brush, he swirled it in the shaving soap and when he had a good lather, covered his face with a generous layer of the foam, its rich amaretto aroma stimulating his nostrils, triggering a response in his brain, telling it to ‘wake up!’. He flicked open a straight razor and began the long practiced art of the straight shave, a skill he had learned from a nice lady in Kathmandu he had spent a week with. It had been his first time. No, not for that, but for a shave with a blade that could just as easily kill you as up your handsomeness quotient.
It was the end of a mission, he was celebrating a little early, and had complained to the mid-priced talent he had acquired that he couldn’t wait to shave off the beard he had grown to help blend into the streets of Istanbul. A phone call to the front desk by her, and ten minutes later she was shaving him from behind, in the small cracked mirror of the shithole he was in.
Naked.
It was erotic, and terrifying. It was perfect. And he taught himself the skill. To him the ritual seemed civilized, a throwback to a bygone era when men took pride in the act of personal grooming, rather than trying to accomplish it as quickly as possible.
When was the last time you actually cleaned between your toes?
He carefully shaved around his Adam’s apple, then rinsed off the blade, then his face, and inspected his handiwork. Toweling himself dry, he returned his shaving equipment to the travel bag, and unzipping his garment bag, he retrieved a black suit and white shirt, still crisp from when room service in Phuket had last handled it.
Minutes later he was stepping out the door as Dylan Kane, Insurance Investigator for Shaw’s of London.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
To say Chris Leroux was jumpy would be an understatement. Every tap, every door closing, every chime of the elevator, had his heart racing. If someone walked by his cubicle, he’d turn his head slightly, looking from the corner of his eye to see if he were being watched.
And the only person who seemed to be watching him was Sherrie White.
Any idea of asking her for coffee was out the window. She was the one who was watching him. That much was obvious. She had sat near him for the past couple of months, and in fact he seemed to remember asking himself why she had been put where she had. There were other perfectly good, vacant offices at the time.
The Director had put her there to spy on him.
But why?
He thought he was a good analyst, good at his job. Loyal. Never broke any of the rules.
Never?
Okay, so he had with this particular case. But that was only because he was convinced the others were wrong.
But you’re just an analyst. What gives you the right to ignore orders?
“Are you okay?”
Leroux jumped he was sure six inches just from the push his clenching butt cheeks gave him as his body instinctively tried not to shit his pants. He spu
n around, his heart hammering, and it hammered a little more when he saw who had asked the question.
It was Sherrie.
Standing in his office for the first time ever, he was certain.
At least while you’re there.
And that was true. Sometimes he found his desk in the morning slightly different than he remembered leaving it. He had always chalked it up to cleaning staff, or security staff making certain he hadn’t left any classified information out, but now he wasn’t so sure.
It’s her.
“Yeah, just a little jumpy today, I guess,” he sputtered.
“Then I guess you don’t need any more coffee?”
“Huh?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me for coffee.”
No! She’s just trying to pump you for information!
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
He stood and did a cheek squeeze to make sure he hadn’t had an accident, and followed her down the corridor, the creature of his desires actually having asked him the very question he had wanted to.
A creature he knew he couldn’t trust.
Ogden Police Department
2186 Lincoln Ave, Ogden, Utah
“Excuse me, Sergeant. I’m Dylan Kane, with Shaw’s of London. I need to talk to the detective in charge of the Maggie Peterson disappearance. A Detective Percy, I believe?”
Unfortunately his charm didn’t work on crusty old desk sergeants.
“Have a seat.”
Kane suppressed a frown, instead smiling, and choosing a seat on the edge of a row, hoping it would mean at worst he’d have to compete with only one person for the arm rest. As it turned out, the fifteen minute wait was uneventful, and he instead reread the files Leroux had sent him.
Finally a door opened and a man in a cheap but neat suit stepped out.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Detective Percy?” asked Kane as he rose.
The man nodded.
“Dylan Kane, Shaw’s of London.”
Kane extended his hand, firmly shaking the Detective’s, immediately sizing him up. The returned shake was firm, dry and no longer than it needed to be. This man was confident, and felt in control. Bags under his eyes though suggested he was having trouble sleeping, and the slight shake in his hand when he accepted the business card Kane offered, suggested caffeine was being used to compensate for the lack of sleep.
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 8
