by Justin Bell
********
"Come on, Day Watch. You guys there yet?" The moon was slowly fading in the early morning sky as the clock approached 6:00 a.m. Godsoe and Smits had pulled extra hours tonight on request, fearing that any gap in coverage might miss something vital over the next thirty-six hours. It had been three days since Grace had ordered the beef-up in surveillance and new backup had arrived yesterday.
"Fuck this shit," Smits said unceremoniously.
"Come on, bro. I thought you didn't care as long as you were gettin' paid?" Godsoe couldn't help but crack a smile at his partner's grumpiness.
Hank Godsoe had grown up wanting to be a New York City cop, but had never quite made the right moves to get in there. Arrested four times before he was twenty years old for various offenses, he'd finally decided he'd never get his foot in the door in the law enforcement world, and settled for being a bouncer and two-bit enforcer for hire. Working with Irizarry and his crew had been the closest he'd gotten to true law enforcement, and the fact that he was paid to wear a Desert Eagle .50 caliber to serve and protect his clients made all of this bogus night shift stuff worthwhile. Godsoe smiled at this thought.
"Wanna share the joke?" Smits asked, noticing Godsoe's little smirk.
"No joke, man," Godsoe replied, easing the smile from his face. "So what do you think about all the new blood coming up north? Think that means we're gonna finally see some action up here?"
Smits let out a mix of a chuckle and a cough. "I don't know, man. Anything is better than this shit detail we've been pulling. I hope so. This job is cake, but damn is it dull."
Jose Smits was a Latino former gang member who had turned informer and had a number of his buddies thrown in jail out on the West Coast. For whatever reason, Irizarry took a shine to the kid, who was a fellow member of a now East Coast motorcycle club, and was impressed at the testicular fortitude he demonstrated in testifying against some gang brothers.
A small crackle interrupted his thoughts as the dashboard mounted short-range radio squawked awake.
"Night Watch, this is Day Watch. We are onsite."
Godsoe smiled at the sound of Burndock's fuzzy voice. "Affirmative, Day Watch. We are ready for handoff."
"Anything exciting happen last night?" the radio asked.
"Same ol', same ol'. More nightmares, no sleep walking. Got up about 2:00 a.m. for something to drink. Besides that, nada." Godsoe looked at his watch. "I've got 6:10 a.m. I'll send the report by 6:30."
"Sounds good. Sleep tight. Day Watch out."
Burndock clipped the radio to the back of his belt and resumed watching the Strickland backyard.
"We expecting more trouble?" Halifax asked, trying (and failing) to keep the tension out of his voice.
"Not sure. I think the added backup is just precautionary," Burndock replied, who thought nothing of the sort, but wanted to alleviate any fears from his two subordinates.
Mathis was the next one to break the silence. "Strickland's up. He's getting in the shower."
"Stand fast," Burndock didn't even really have to say, but he did it anyway.
William Strickland stepped out of the shower and toweled off, still wincing just a little as the towel brushed over his right ribcage, leaving a dull ache of pain even as the bullet hole had almost completely closed off. His entire body ached, which he figured was due to his routine of weight training, but this pain was different. His calves and lower legs especially throbbed dull aches throughout most of his daily life. He had starting doing squats on a regular basis hoping to build up those muscles enough to overcome the strange pain he felt, but so far, the effects had been negligible. And he'd had another whopper of a nightmare the night before, which didn't help his current mental state. Once again, he roamed through the mysterious path in the forest, and once again, he came across the evil-looking cabin looming above him. The dream ended, once again, with that matted brown/gray monster closing his massive, bloodstained jaws around the mysterious woman's throat. Every night the dream became more vivid and more real, and drove him more deeply to find this cabin. He hadn't ventured far beyond the firing range in the past two days, but he expected that might change today.
His normal routine of a four-hour internet search decreased to two this morning as he could feel his weapons reaching for him. This had been happening more and more often lately, though Strickland was determined to still maintain his search for his family. Squinting his eyes, Strickland tried to narrow his focus, but his weapons and that mysterious cabin permeated his thoughts. Giving up, he locked his laptop, stood up, and walked to the room behind him. This time, his hands passed over the familiar UMP .45 submachine gun and drifted right towards something of more substance. A Bushmaster Adaptive Combat Rifle carried a little more punch than the smaller UMP. At the least, it would hit a target at a farther range. Just for the hell of it, he pulled a silencer from the rack as well and slid it into the tactical vest hanging on a hook behind the blank panel. Unlike the UMP, a larger weapon did not replace the Glock 22, and it joined the Bushmaster on a small counter behind Strickland where he assembled his gear for his practice round today.
Satisfied with what he had assembled so far, the former NSA contractor pulled the vest off the hook and slipped it over his head, then hooked the various buckles required to tighten the vest around his mid-section. Sliding the Glock in a small holster at the small of his back, he then scooped up the ACR and slung it over his shoulder. He couldn't help but wonder if he just wanted to try out a different weapons kit this morning, or perhaps subconsciously he anticipated some possible other resistance? Less than a minute later, he exited out into his backyard, turned right, and headed towards the familiar path through the trees.
"Okay, boys, we have contact," Mathis spoke quietly, but urgently.
Burndock lifted his binoculars and cocked his head slightly. "Guy upgraded his weapons today, huh?"
"Yeah," confirmed Mathis. "He just practicing something new, or is he expecting trouble?"
Burndock cursed to himself. "We've got to get Emmanuele onsite now. We can't take any chances with this. Hold the fort, boys." Burndock crouched back into the woods and called Agent Grace's direct line.
"This is Grace. Got something for me?" Agent Grace was in his office running some paperwork and he scooped up the call immediately, standing from his office chair.
"Yeah, we might. We've got an eye on Strickland; he's close to normal routine, but he quit earlier than usual and he's walking to the firing range."
"How much earlier?" Grace asked, halting his pace for a moment.
"About forty-five minutes," replied Burndock. "But there is something else. Instead of his typical weapons load out, he's got a long-range assault rifle. Seems unusual, especially because his backyard gun range is only a couple hundred meters."
"All right, that's an issue," Grace replied. "I'll call Emmanuele."
"So what's the plan of attack?"
"Keep watching Strickland. Emmanuele and his two boys will come on station and guard the cabin. They'll put up the front, while you three keep tabs on him. If he makes a move on them, you make the move on him. Easy as that."
"Understood."
Burndock hung up and slowly crouched towards his other two partners.
"Whaddya got?" asked Halifax as he joined them at the tree line.
"We're following Strickland. Keep back. Don't let him see us. Emmanuele and his two boys are getting deployed ASAP and will be on station at the cabin."
"What's the big deal about this cabin, anyway?" asked Halifax as he packed up the gear scattered around on the ground.
"Beats the hell out of me. Whatever it is, Grace doesn't want Strickland getting in there, so we're going to stop him. That's all we need to know." Burndock waved his hand in a circular motion, and then pointed two fingers towards Strickland, who was about ten meters into the trees. The other two men nodded and they moved out through the trees, slowly and quietly.
Coming into the clearing, Stricklan
d could hardly wait to bring out the Bushmaster, and before he was even to the end of the clearing, he had the silencer screwed onto the barrel and the weapon cradled in his arms. Bracing the thick butt of the weapon against the inside of his shoulder, he supported the body with his left hand and rattled off a barrage of silenced shots towards the four canvas targets. The satisfying repeated thumps of rounds on targets resulted from the onslaught and small little puffs of smoke sprayed under the impact of the 5.56-millimeter rounds. It felt natural, like an extension of his arms, and he abruptly realized that targets he normally fired at were probably not canvas sandbags.
Three men in tactical gear ran through the woods as quietly as they could, but at this point, speed trumped stealth. The lead man stopped short, and raised a closed fist, indicating that his two partners do the same, which they did. Turning to his compatriots, and pointed out the direction of their target, then all three jumped back to their feet and continued running. Moments later, they could see the cabin lodged in the thickness of the trees, and they broke free of the grasping branches emerging into a small clearing, which surrounded the wooden structure on all sides. Geoffrey Emmanuele was the first one to reach the cabin itself, and he did some quick surveillance. Briefed on expectations for this operation, Emmanuele knew that the most likely direction of arrival was southeast, and at this point, the property owner was not expected to be violent, just curious. If he arrived, their main goal would be to simply keep him occupied until their backup team could arrive on the scene.
Emmanuele was a veteran of many military and law enforcement operations, first as a member of the Canadian Mounted Police, and then as the nation's covert operations Joint Task Force 2. However, he'd always walked that line of aggression, even as an operator for JTF2, and when a mission in Afghanistan went all kinds of wrong, he ended up taking the hit and being relieved of his duty. This had, understandably, provided a huge chip for him to place square on his shoulder, and thrust him even further outside of the regulations of the law and into contract work, no matter who was the highest bidder. Deep down, he knew his dismissal had been justified, as he had played a direct role in the killing of three Afghani citizens who may or may not have actually been Taliban insurgents.
Using some quick hand signals, Emmanuele called over his two partners and they formed up near the door of the cabin and checked their weapons, looking into the woods.
"Remember our orders. You have the dummy ammunition loaded?" Emmanuele reminded his two cohorts. Both men retrieved their magazines and pulled out the first round, verifying that they were indeed rubber bullets. "Okay, so remember, we're the bait in this situation. The local team should be watching our subject. We just need to draw him out."
"Just one guy?" Frankie Hammond asked with a curious look on his face. While Emmanuele was originally from Canada, Hammond had been a Vermont native all of his life, doing most of his shooting during deer season. He had a natural, innate ability with a weapon, and somehow ended up entangled with a protection unit out of Albany, New York.
"Yeah, believe it or not, just one guy for six of us. Either they want to be extra careful, or this dude is a badass of epic proportions. Either way, this should be fun." Emmanuele checked his own magazine to ensure the right rounds were inserted, and then pressed the button on his headset. "Team Bravo is on scene."
Not too far away, Burndock's headset buzzed and he heard those five words and acknowledged.
"Team Bravo is at the cabin, boys," he relayed to his fellow Day Watch members as they navigated through the thick trees and kept a watch on Strickland. He had just entered the woods to the north of the weapons range and walked slowly through the trees.
Each man in the Day Watch group carried a smartphone with location services turned on, and Grace used one of the NSA global tracking satellites to watch their movements through the woods north of the Strickland house. Their target had left his phone in his home, and they couldn't effectively track him at this point, but between Day Watch and Emmanuele's team, Agent Grace had a good idea of where the subject triangulated. Whatever was going to happen today was going to happen soon. Genetic modification was a tricky thing, especially when it came to the formula for triggering long-term memory, and Dr. Worthy had been concerned about Strickland's recent fascination with the log cabin. Considering what had happened there, he worried that revisiting the site might permanently alter the way they could genetically engineer him. They were so far on the bleeding edge of this technology that everything was uncharted territory. While William Strickland provided a terrific test base, they also all learned as they went along.
Agent Grace wasn't alone in his office. Dr. Worthy in fact stood behind him, watching the screen. "So that group of three? that's the cabin?" he asked, pointing to the blips representing Emmanuele's team.
Grace nodded. "Yes. Emmanuele's team is onsite."
"So if these other three are the Day Watch team, then Strickland is close."
Grace turned towards the scientist. "Yes, he is. Does this concern you that much?"
"I don't enjoy not knowing something, Agent Grace. This is completely unknown territory. I have no idea what might happen if Strickland stumbles back upon the source of such a dramatic memory event."
"Then forgive my ignorance, Dr. Worthy, but why perform the experiment so close to this event?"
Worthy looked as if he might almost laugh. "Not knowing what the results of these tests might be, we needed to put him in as comfortable a place as possible. Doing this from his home was really our only option." Worthy lowered his hand demonstrably and continued, "Imagine you wake up with no memory of who you are? and imagine you wake up in a lab, or some other completely alien location? What is your first assumption? Likely that you've been taken or kidnapped. We didn't want Strickland to operate under that assumption."
Grace nodded. "Makes sense. So why not just tear the damn cabin down?"
"Well, that would leave evidence. If he found that site of evidence, he might even further suspect some sort of insidious foul play."
"Fair enough? but if he finds the cabin and Emmanuele's team guarding it, won't that clue him in as well?"
"I'm under the impression you have something worked out in that regard, yes, Agent Grace?" Worthy turned and looked a bit concerned that Grace brought this up.
Agent Grace smirked. "Well, yes, but Strickland is no dummy. Who knows if he'll fall for it? Just wondering if there might have been some simpler alternatives."
"Ah, my dear Agent Grace. If this works out, the manpower involved is a tiny drop in the bucket when you consider the ramifications from this experiment?"
"?if it works out," Grace reminded him, giving him a curt nod of his head.
This time it was Dr. Worthy's turn to smirk. "Of course. But is not all scientific research a gamble at its basest level? We never know until we try. The payoff is simply too valuable to not at least try."
Agent Grace turned back to his screen and noted the new positions for the Day Watch team. They moved closer, further north.
Holy shit, it was right there.
He could see it.
Strickland could make out the pointed roof; it looked to be about fifteen feet off the ground, and he could just see it one-hundred yards ahead, through the thickening trees. Slowly proceeding forward, he could see the cabin getting closer and closer, and then he halted, his ears picking up some distinct sounds. He hadn't been crouching or advancing cautiously to this point, but the clear sound of echoing voices from near the cabin forced him to rethink that strategy. He dropped low, crouching slowly through the grabbing branches. Before he reached the edge of the trees, he could hear clear speech as the men spoke by the cabin, even though they were considerably far away. Strickland inched a little closer, hoping to translate what they said.
"Keep moving, keep moving!" shouted Agent Burndock in a hushed whisper. "Strickland is at the clearing. He is right on top of Bravo Team!"
The three members of Day Watch picked up their p
ace, moving in towards the cabin at top speed. Burndock winced as the thin branches and twigs scraped across his face, the wooded area becoming a blur of green and brown as they all picked up their pace.
"Bravo Team, be alert," Burndock called into his headset, "subject is incoming!"
Geoff Emmanuele peeked around the eastern corner of the small, rundown cabin, just taking a cursory look, his finger hovering around the trigger of his M4 carbine.
"Yo, Emmanuele," came an urgent breath from his right as he peeked. He spun back around and stopped short as he saw the man emerging from the woods. The man was tall, with hair neatly shaved from his head and a thin graying goatee around his stern lips. Over his broad shoulders was a black tactical vest. Emmanuele hesitated just a bit at the appearance of the Bushmaster ACR slung over his shoulder, and the man's fingerless glove-covered hands rested by his side. His baggy cargo pants bunched up around a pair of thick black combat boots. It was William Strickland, and he walked straight towards him.
"Hey, bro, what's happening?" asked Emmanuele, approaching the man carefully.
"What's happening?" asked Strickland, who decided to take the initiative in this conversation. "This is my property. I don't take kindly to guys with guns running around in my backyard." He didn't mince any words, and his narrow eyes burned right into the Canadian.
"Take it easy, friend. We're not here to hurt anyone," the Bravo Team leader drifted effortlessly into his cover story. "We know about your work history, okay? We're here as protection, not as enemies."
Strickland stopped walking. His gaze shifted ever so slightly to the cabin itself.
"Do I look like I need protection?" he asked.
Emmanuele chuckled to himself. "Not in the least, man. But we only do what we're told, okay?"
He understood the duty that went along with military service and the compulsion to obey orders without question. It wasn't their fault.
"Understood," he said, "I don't want any trouble. I just need to get in there." He nodded towards his cabin, which was an immediate red flag. That had been their most clear instruction. Under no circumstances should he get into that cabin. Can't happen.
"Look, bud, we're not trying to start anything, but?" Frankie Hammond started to say, taking a few steps towards the tall bald man.
Strickland's narrow glare almost stopped him in his tracks. "Step aside, 'friend.' I'm going into that cabin. Whether or not I step over your bodies to get there is totally up to you."
If there was a red flag before, that flag was now white-hot.
"Take it easy. We're all on the same side here," Hammond lifted his hand a bit, but Strickland didn't go near him.
"I'm not convinced."
The other two members of Bravo Team moved in slowly, bracketing Strickland.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Strickland said softly.
Geoffrey Emmanuele couldn't help but stifle a laugh. It wasn't a quiet laugh of appreciation; it was a 'go ahead and fucking try it' laugh, and the bald man got the message. Strickland's eyes narrowed even further and his fists clenched.
"Don't do it, Bill."
The voice was stern, and apparently knew his name, so Strickland turned slightly, just in time to see three more men in tactical gear exiting the woods where he had come. These three also sported M4 carbines, but theirs were drawn, cradled in the nook of their shoulders with hands firmly clutching the vertical grips underneath the front barrel.
"What the hell is this?" Strickland asked. He jerked his head towards the other men and continued, "These three say they're only here to protect me, and you've got M4's aimed at my center mass. You guys need to get on the same fucking page."
Agent Burndock lowered his weapon and lifted a calming hand. "Nobody wants anyone to get hurt, Mr. Strickland. He's right; we're just here to protect you. And part of protecting you is making sure you don't go in that cabin."
Strickland looked confused. "What could possibly be in that cabin that would hurt me? I'm not following you."
"I understand it's confusing," Burndock continued, "I'm just asking you to trust me. Come on with me. We'll all go inside your house and explain everything."
Strickland didn't like where this was headed. His answers were right there. In that cabin. Not thirty yards away, and he'd be damned if he was just going to walk off with these shmucks and leave these possible answers to drift in the cold wind.
"Okay," he said quietly, "try a different plan. That's not happening."
"Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be," Burndock said, his eyes thinning slightly.
"It's not difficult. I'm going in the cabin. Pretty straight forward." Strickland's eyes darted left and right, taking measure of the situation. Throughout the conversation, he had noticed that the armed operatives slowly surrounded him, now bracketed between the two groups of three. It certainly didn't look like a good situation for him, but as his adrenaline rose, he could feel focus coming to him. Different scenarios floated through his mind, and subtle calculations emerged with them. Situation analysis happened as he spoke, and the different likelihoods of each potential move operated like moving pictures in his mind's eye.
"Look," Strickland started, "I don't know who you are, or why you're all here with full tactical load out, but my instinct tells me you guys aren't friends. I get antsy when people who aren't my friends show up on my property with fully automatic weapons and tell me where I can and cannot go. Since you sent a full team of six out here to stop me, I'm assuming you know my background, and you know what I'm capable of. If you know that, how about you just back off and let me do what I want to do, so I don't have to hurt anyone."
Hammond was the first to make a mistake. Attempting to calm the agitated man, he placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. "Let's just relax, bud?"
He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence. Strickland's right hand shot to his shoulder and pulled off Hammond's clutch, then twisted the wrist with a satisfying crunch. Before Hammond's scream could even escape his lips, Strickland swiveled and pulled, yanking him off balance. Hammond flew sideways through the air. He traversed almost twelve feet and crashed into Agent Halifax, dropping them both backwards into the grassy surface of the ground. Burndock and Mathis both lifted their weapons quickly, and Strickland continued his movement to the right, charging into the remaining two third party contractors that had been standing behind him. He buried his elbow deep into the gut of the man next to Emmanuele, and before his eyes could close, Strickland pounded the heel of his hand into the bottom of his chin, rolling those bulging eyes into the back of his head. Emmanuele pulled up his weapon and swung it around, but before he could even think of pulling the trigger, Strickland slammed a forearm into it, and then drilled his left elbow directly into the former Canadian's forehead.
Within seconds, all three of the hired guns were taken out, and Burndock barely had time to process the events as they unfolded before him. All he could do was squeeze back on the trigger, unleashing a full stream of dummy rounds at the bald commando who had just taken out three men in less than ten seconds. His muscles surging from the quick expense of energy, Strickland dove forward, hitting the grass as bullets hummed just above his head, and then smacking into the surface of the cabin, sending splinters swirling. Strickland rolled and suddenly his Glock was in his hands.
As fast as he was with these new reflexes, though, he was not quite fast enough as Mathis who had swiveled and unloaded with his own M4 carbine. Yellow sparks shot into the air even though the silenced shots elicited nothing more than quiet coughs. One 5.56mm dummy round struck Strickland in the right side of his chest, and the breath exploded from his lungs even as his finger pulled the trigger on his Glock 22. The momentum shift from the rubber bullet threw his aim wide. Backpedaling, he tried desperately to regain his breath as sharp pain echoed from the point of impact on his pectoral muscle. Bullets flew into the trees, sending leaves and branches scattering, as Strickland lifted the Glock to his side as he spun.
Squinting out of the right side of his eye, he could barely make out the two black clad men near the tree line who both had fully automatic weapons trained on him and while he realized they were firing dummy rounds at him, he did not have that luxury. Therefore, he went for the mid-section, where he knew they were likely wearing Kevlar. The Glock jumped in his tight grasp as he fired four times at the first black target, and the man shouted, stumbling backwards, though he still clutched the M4 tightly in his hand. Strickland halted his spin and lunged backwards, just barely sliding behind the corner of the cabin as more bullets spat at him and sent wood chips spraying across the empty air.
"One left," Strickland said to himself. With a slide of his arm, his Glock was back in its holster, and he unslung the Bushmaster ACR and grasped it tightly in both hands. Drawing in a single, deep breath, he charged out from cover, lifting his weapon up to eye level and attempted to focus on any black-suited operatives in the area. There were none standing. A quick count showed him that three of his enemies had vacated the area. He walked through the clearing in front of the cabin, his eyes scanning the trees and far corner of the rickety building. Agent Halifax was first, leaning out from behind the cabin corner with his M4 rattling off a short grouping of silenced shots.
The first round pounded Strickland in the right arm, but he shook it off relatively easily, and pulled his ACR up and around, squeezing off a trio of single shots. One shot exploded the wooden corner of the cabin, but the second and third shots both struck Halifax right in center mass, blasting the wind from his lungs and sending him sprawling backwards, with his M4 spiraling high into the air. Before Halifax had even fallen to the ground, Mathis pumped a series of rounds at Strickland from his left, barely concealed by the tree line.
Dropping to a single knee, the bald commando swiveled his weapon around to his left and returned fire, holding the ACR stable as it threatened to kick out of his grasp, sparks shooting from the silenced barrel. All three shots blasted into Mathis headlong, striking his Kevlar vest with the impact of a sledgehammer. Before Strickland could stand, a black blur surged towards him from behind a weapon lifted high above his head.
The former NSA contractor had to admit, he hadn't been expecting a hand-to-hand attack from Agent Burndock, but here he was, coming down on him. He shifted to the left, and the swing of the M4 glanced off his right temple, sending white sparks slashing through the back of his eyes. Strickland swung his own rifle, striking the M4 held by Burndock with a nerve-shattering impact, and both guns skidded out of their hands. Burndock threw a right punch, but Strickland blocked it easily, and then returned the punch, directly in the ribcage of his opponent. Well-padded tactical pouches cushioned the blow, but he still staggered slightly before charging forward.
Strickland swatted aside the next strike, then parried a third and threw a swift back fist into Burndock's face, stunning him for a moment. Burndock slammed Strickland in the jaw with a vicious left punch, and the second punch to his nose surprised him even more. Strickland only hesitated slightly, then pulled his knee tight up into his chest, and unleashed a front kick, catching the advancing commando directly in the sternum. The NSA agent's breath exploded from pursed lips as he was tossed backwards, his back slamming hard into the wood corner of the cabin. He made one last little cough and slumped sideways, tumbling to the grass.
William Strickland narrowed his gaze directly on the cabin door that now stood before him, unimpeded.
Here in the afternoon sunlight, the windows and door didn't look nearly as insidious as they had in his nightmares, but he could still see a frightening correlation between the vacant eyes and mouth of an empty skull and the look of this mysterious wooden structure. He drew a breath and took a step forward.
"Dammit!" Agent Grace screamed, and slammed his clenched fist down on the thick, wooden desk.
"Unfortunate turn of events, to be sure, Agent," said Dr. Worthy, somewhat taken aback by the NSA agent's sudden outburst. "But you can't help but be impressed at the result of that skirmish. Strickland is everything we'd hoped he could be."
"Sure, except for that whole 'if he gets mad, he turns into a mindless monster' side effect. If we can get rid of that issue, then I consider this thing a success." Agent Grace shoved his swivel chair back with surprising strength. "But the whole damn point might be moot if he is exposed to the memories that cabin has stored inside those walls!"
"Quite true," replied Worthy. "But let's look at the bright side. We're not entirely sure what the exposure to those memories might mean? maybe he'll continue along the same path, and end up an even better operative?"
"I'm not buying it, Doc. We need to start thinking about a contingency plan."
It was only about fifteen feet to the cabin door, but the walk felt like a lifetime. Strickland put each foot in front of the other and reached for the doorknob, then rotated it softly and pulled the tall door open.
As soon as the door opened, Strickland could feel the hot breath of malice and darkness swarm over his body, then cling to him, circle him, and completely envelop him in its black aura. There was some bad mojo in here, and suddenly he wasn't sure if he even wanted to go in here anymore.
Were some answers not worth knowing?
His foot touched the first board as he entered the cabin, and the telltale screech of loose wood thrust him back into his frightening dream world. Like a massive weight, the thick crimson air descended upon his shoulders, driving him to his knees. Caught by a sudden breeze, the door slammed shut behind him. He whipped his head around, but only saw a single full-length mirror on the back of the door. The rest of the cabin interior was empty, except for furniture. Now that he was inside, he couldn't quite tell what all of his hesitation was about. It was a typical hunting cabin. There was sparse furniture throughout; a kitchen table and chairs, a small bed in one far corner, and a functional bathroom against the right wall. The left wall had a recessed fireplace with stone mantle, leading up to a thick chimney embedded in the roof of the cabin above. Empty rafters above his head led up to the peak of the roof, and a single kerosene lamp hung from those rafters by a chain. Dark wood covered every surface, from the floor to the walls to the roof above, and even the furniture was bland and devoid of color. An icebox sat in the kitchen next to the table and chairs, and as he saw the item, an equally cold chill ran up his spine.
Something about this place, something that made his heart race, bringing sweat to the base of his neck and along the smooth surface of his forehead. Again, a red mist clouded over his vision and he struggled mightily to fight back whatever urges were settling into his body at this point. Sharp pain jolted his jaw, at the base of every tooth, and his lower legs suddenly screamed in agony? an agony unlike anything he'd felt before. The pain was so intense that he dropped to both knees, barely catching himself with his outstretched palms, as sweat spattered onto the smooth wooden surface of the cabin floor.
Squinting his eyes tightly closed, he battled back the feeling that he might vomit? though it wasn't quite vomit he fought back; it was some sensation he had never felt before. A feeling of tiny little insects running through his entire body. His veins, his muscle tissue, everywhere. He felt like these little microscopic organisms were just doing gymnastics through every muscle fiber of his body, and the feeling was the strangest thing he had ever felt. Grasping at his arm, he scratched and clawed, trying to get at an itch that was below the surface of his flesh. With frustration and anger, he clenched his fist and pounded it into the floorboard, and the impact drove a loose piece down with a splintering snap. To Strickland's surprise, the other end of the 2 x 4 floorboard jolted upwards from the shock, and then came crashing down, about six inches from where it had popped up.
There was a hole underneath, containing something.
What the hell?
Strickland crawled forward, still trying to fight away the tiny vein-crawling bugs, and as he got closer, he saw what appeared to be a bound document underneath the floorboa
rd. Staring down into the dark hole, he was surprised he could actually read the cover through the murky crimson fog that had settled over his vision.
Operation: Harvest.
The document sported the trademark National Security Agency emblem on the front and looked to be at least an inch thick. Most importantly, though, Strickland knew? he just knew? that the answers he was looking for could be found within. He felt himself calming, just a little. The sweat cooled, the goose flesh subsided, and nearly as quickly as it had appeared, the reddened fog slid away, leaving things clear and focused for the first time since he'd entered this place. Turning his head, Strickland heard voices coming from outside, and he knew many of the combatants he'd faced outside the cabin were awakening from their non-lethal attacks. Crawling towards the hole in the floor, he reached in and slid out the report, then swiftly tucked it into his flak vest and shoved the floorboard back on top of the empty space. Just as he stood, the door opened and Agent Burndock walked in, unarmed.
"Easy there, killer," Burndock said as he approached, lifting both hands in an open palm posture to show peace. "We got enough trouble outside. You've seen what you need to see, I take it? How about we convince you to go back home and take five?"
Strickland's eyes bored deep into Burndock's brain. With no remorse there for what he had just done, he saw an indication that Strickland would have liked to have done worse. Regardless, the look eased a little bit, and he nodded slowly.
"Fair enough," he replied, walking towards the doorway.
As the two men walked out, the other five stood just a little ways away from them, not quite sure what to make of the bald assailant who had just single-handedly taken out six well trained contract agents without breaking a sweat.
Burndock raised a calming hand. "We're heading back to the house, boys." He looked towards Geoffrey Emmanuele and his two cohorts, one of whom was gingerly holding a broken wrist. "You guys are cleared. Pack up and pull out. Contact you know who for further instructions."
Emmanuele nodded and he signaled his two men to follow him back and out of the woods, towards their car. Halifax and Mathis fell in behind the other two as they walked through the woods, then crossed the firing range, and were soon walking out into the backyard. As they neared the house, Strickland turned to the three of them.
"I don't suppose asking you what the hell is going on will do me a bit of good, will it?"
Burndock almost looked like he wanted to say something, but caught himself and simply reported, "Sorry, it's classified."
"What about my family? Is information about my family classified too?!" Strickland was angry, the pent-up rage about his missing family coming close to the surface.
Burndock stopped dead in his tracks and looked almost surprised. "I? I'm sorry. I don't know anything about your family."
Strickland looked down at the ground, shaking his head slowly as if trying to understand, but he knew he would not. The three NSA agents stood in his yard as he walked towards his house, then slipped in the back door and disappeared from view. Burndock led his two partners back towards the tree line and as they walked into the woods, Day Watch team lead clicked the button on his headset and speed-dialed Agent Grace.
"How badly is the pooch screwed?" Grace responded without even a simple acknowledgement.
"Doesn't seem too bad, sir," Burndock replied. "He willingly returned with us to his home after only a few minutes in the cabin. He was inquisitive, but didn't appear any different than before he entered."
"Seems too good to be true," Grace replied uncertainly.
"Kinda what I thought. Either it's true or he's a damn good actor. And maybe I don't really know what the hell is going on here, but seems to me a guy in his state probably doesn't know well enough to act."
"Do not underestimate William Strickland, Agent Burndock. It would be your last mistake."
"Agent Grace, I just saw this guy single-handedly dismantle our entire damn strike team. There is no way I'm underestimating him." Burndock signaled to the others to get in their place and resume surveillance as he continued walking a short distance away.
"So what is your take away from this, Agent Burndock?" asked Grace from his office on the top floor of the brick building not too far away.
"Take away? I don't know what the hell you guys did to this Strickland guy, but it's fucking working. He is a one-man assault squad. Congratulations."
"It's not quite that simple."
"Heh," Burndock chuckled. "Didn't figure it was, or we wouldn't be going through this shit still. Should I be watching for something?"
"Nothing obvious. We will keep you posted."
"Understood. Burndock, out."
The NSA agent and team lead for Day Watch sighed softly and walked back to his other two partners. While the initial contact had gone quite smoothly, and everything looked to be kosher on the surface, Agent Burndock couldn't help but feel like this entire scenario had just changed dramatically.
