The Fog of Dreams
Page 98
********
"This small Ivy League college town in rural New Hampshire is still trying to recover from the events of Tuesday night," said the newscaster, just one more generic talking head among an entire media conglomerate of them.
"Details are still unknown, but rumors persist of a town-wide gas main rupture that destroyed a medical school library, caused the evacuation of the entire downtown area, and also dealt some unknown damage to this mysterious office building. Authorities aren't commenting on?" The small television up in the corner clicked and the channel shifted to a hockey game, the teams unknown to the bald man who sat at the bar watching.
William Strickland flexed his shoulder a bit, trying to loosen the muscle. He stared down at the almost empty glass in front of him that had been full of Moosehead about five minutes ago. As far as anyone was aware, William Strickland was dead and buried. He made sure his identification would be found in the battle zone of that office building in that small Ivy League town. He knew the NSA wouldn't fall for it, but they also hadn't seen all of his false identities that he'd had scattered throughout various locations within a 30-mile radius of his home in Norwood, Vermont. Some things he had been able to keep secret.
One of the good things about living in Vermont was that it was just a hop and a skip over the border, and thanks to his fake identification, he passed through customs without a second glance. Now he hoped he at least had some breathing room. He had some work to do, but he had to heal up first. Scattering some small bills on the counter, he slipped off the bar stool and pulled on his fall jacket. Walking out into the cool evening air, he approached the motorcycle that he had managed to hold on to, and made the mental note to ditch it shortly for something a little less conspicuous. He'd had to make a quick exit after the events of that night, and there wasn't much quicker mode of transport than this fine example of Italian engineering.
Strickland took it slow, and hoped to be in Montreal tomorrow morning, after just a short rest here. It had been a few days since the events in New Hampshire, and he'd taken a roundabout route to get where he was, and so far, there had been no sign of a tail.
"Well, stranger, fancy meeting you here," the voice was low and friendly, quite unlike it had been in previous meetings Strickland had with the speaker. He turned his head as Louisa Gutierrez scraped the stool away from the bar and sat down.
"You're late," he said softly.
She rolled her eyes and lifted the brown briefcase she'd clutched in her left hand. Balancing it and tilting it flat, she placed it lightly on the wooden surface of the bar and slid it softly towards the man seated next to her.
"My badge got me in your house, but I can't exactly just rifle through and take shit. I had to be careful." She lifted her hand in a gentle gesture and the bartended nodded at her.
"You got everything?" Strickland asked, tipping back his pint glass filled with dark liquid. A small, fluffy layer of tan foam rested on top, then left a slight light brush on his lip.
"Think so." The bartender approached and Louisa ordered herself a gin and tonic.
Strickland chuckled.
"What? I'm not classy enough for gin and tonic? Racist motherfucker."
"Easy, easy," Strickland coaxed, gesturing with his hand. Louisa had a slanted grin on her face. Strickland surprised himself by returning the look. He hadn't smiled in a very long time. The smile did not last long, and shortly his mouth had relaxed back into an uncertain grimace.
"So what made you change your mind?" he asked in a hushed whisper.
Louisa didn't answer immediately, just sitting there, watching the bartender make her drink.
"I couldn't live with myself," she replied. "Whatever they did to you?you didn't deserve it."
"How can you be so sure?" Strickland certainly wasn't smiling now. "You don't know what I've done."
Gutierrez tipped her glass up and drew in a swift swallow. "That first time we talked. At your house. Feels like a fucking lifetime ago."
"It does."
"I could tell. I'm a good judge of character. Whatever you might have done, and I don't want to know the details?whatever you did, like it or not, I think you're a good man."
Strickland took another drink.
"Anyway, you needed help, and you asked me. I still don't know why, considering what a bitch I was to you."
"We all have our lapses."
Louisa closed her eyes, thinking back to that night she'd refused to let him in her house. She wondered if things might have ended up differently if she had helped him that night. If some lives would have been saved.
"Well, I just did what I should have done the first time around. I got you that lockbox. The papers are all in there. I assume you can use them to skip town."
Strickland made no sign of a reply. She knew the answer to that question anyway.
"What's next for you?" Strickland asked.
"Northern New England Field Office opens up in a month or so. Already heard from the recruiting department. They want me there day one."
Strickland smiled. "Good for you."
"I don't know."
He glanced over at her, his eyes twisted into a look of curiosity.
"Jules really isn't happy how this all shook out. I don't know. Things are different at home."
"Sorry to hear that."
Louisa laughed softly. "Compared to your home life? I think I can deal."
Strickland nodded and took another drag of his beer glass. Next to him, Louisa Gutierrez slammed back the last of the clear liquid in her glass and set it down with a low clank.
"Well, I gotta head back. Can't be gone too long. Grace may be out of the picture, but I'm betting there's someone watching."
"There always is."
Louisa patted Strickland lightly on the back, three soft taps of affection. "Be seeing you, Strick. Sorry. For everything."
"Nothing to be sorry for. We all do what we have to."
Louisa stood and walked towards the door, then turned and glanced at the back of the man at the bar. Hat pulled down tight over what she knew was a bald head. A couple weeks of rough growth on his face. She told him she'd be seeing him, but she strongly doubted that.
Moments later she was back in her hatchback, pulling out of the gravel parking lot and making her way south, towards home.
Strickland had come to accept the fact that his wife was dead by his own hand, but his two daughters were likely still alive. Richard Grace had made it sound like they were in the clutches of the NSA, waiting in line to be the next test subjects for Operation: Harvest.
Yeah, that wasn't going to happen.
At the same time, he had to disappear, at least for a little while, get his bearings, and make the next move on his terms, not theirs. Setting down the beer glass on the bar, he tossed a few crumpled bills next to it and made his way to the exit door. It was chilly, the cool wave of approaching autumn already cutting leaves this far north. Winter would be here before he knew it, and he had to be at least somewhat settled by then.
He lowered himself down on the seat of the motorcycle and pulled the dark helmet down over his head. Gunning the engine, he veered off the gravel parking lot and ended up on the main road going north. The cool air engulfed him, and made him feel alive, even just a little bit, but he dared not give in to that feeling too much. For he knew that regardless of what had happened, and what was still to come, he had a beast inside of him, a beast just waiting to get out, and it didn't care who got in the way.
TO BE CONTINUED IN?
OPERATION: HARVEST (Book Two) - LOOSE STRANDS
The second book is FREE if you join the World of Wolf's Head!
The World of Wolf's Head Publishing is the only place where you will get exclusive free content (including both Books 1 and 2 of the Operation: Harvest trilogy) and the best access to author Justin Bell.
I occasionally send out emails to my readers and those emails contain lots of new and exclusive material that you can only
find as a member of the World of Wolf's Head.
Subscribing will get you the following:
1.Operation: Harvest Book 2 - Loose Strands
2.Exclusive Operation: Harvest "behind the scenes" Research Paper
3.Sneak Preview of G.I. Joe: Nerves of Stone
Did you enjoy this novel? Please consider leaving me a review, it is immensely helpful for any independent author!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in San Diego, California, Justin Bell has lived most of his life in the sleepy Upper Valley area on the New Hampshire and Vermont border, near where The Fog of Dreams takes place. He first realized his love of writing at a young age, and had grand visions to go to school for English. Somehow, he sidetracked into the world of Information Technology as a career, but throughout it all, he continued to write and write often.
The world of self-publishing has opened up his eyes, and in recent years, he has embraced writing much more thoroughly, polishing some work from past decades, and working on new material as well.
With an interest in military adventure, science fiction, and action, the focus of most of his work is within those genres.
He currently still resides in the Upper Valley area, and lives with his two beautiful little girls, his wife, and his part Bichon/part Rottweiler dog Maxwell.
Like what you read? Please subscribe to my mailing list to stay up to date on all my latest work!
You can follow my writing exploits at my blog at JustinBellAuthor.com, and keep up to date on the latest news from Wolf's Head Publishing at WolfsHeadPublishing.com as well as our Twitter and Facebook Page.
###END###