The waiter dropped off the plate of hummus, and Mason tore a strip off the pita bread and used it to spoon some of the hummus into his mouth. He knew just as much about Vernon as the spy knew about him.
“The job was compromised. I think you tried to burn me,” Mason said.
“Now hold on, I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but someone is filling your head with a bunch of bullshit.”
Vernon was reaching, and they both knew it. He was buying time — hoping he could regain control of the situation.
“Really? For the last six months I’ve put a fucking continent between me and Decklin. For all he knew, I was dead, but the moment I show up in Kona, there he is. Are you saying that he’s clairvoyant or that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing?”
The spy tried to go on the offensive. “You had a bad op — it happens — but don’t try to put this on me. Five different countries want you dead, including the US. Before you start making accusations, I think you might want to take a second to remember who your friends are.”
“Friends like Barnes? Is that whose dirty work you’re doing?” It was a gamble, but Mason couldn’t give the man an inch of traction. He had to push him now, or he’d never get the truth.
“What?” Vernon was frozen by the question, and Mason knew he had him.
“I know what you’re up to, and it’s never going to happen,” Mason lied.
Vernon stared at him, his mouth hanging open like a broken gate. The spy was stunned, but recovered quickly and pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Passing it across the table, he locked eyes with Mason.
“Look, I didn’t tell you to grow a conscience and fuck up your life. You did that on your own, pal. You made a choice and it backfired. I’m sorry the world’s not fair.”
Mason reached for the envelope, which Vernon was holding down with the tip of his fingers. The spy felt a shift in the momentum; Mason still needed him.
“Do you know what they had us doing out there?” he asked.
“I don’t know or care. Mason, you need to grow up. There’s a war going on and you need to get over the past. I’ve read your file, and it’s a sad story, but here’s a news flash: no one gives a shit. The only reason you’re not dead or locked away is because I want it that way.” He lifted his fingers off the envelope and let Mason take it. “The only people who care about you are gone. The only record of your existence is in a file that I burned the day I found you. Remember that.”
Mason slipped the envelope into his pocket as the waiter returned with the bill and a carafe of water. The young Arab sat the check on the table and began filling Vernon’s glass. Mason reached for the check, bumping the waiter’s arm, causing him to spill the water across the white tablecloth and onto Vernon’s pants.
“What the fuck,” Vernon yelled, pushing away from the table as water soaked his pants. Mason’s hand flashed to his pistol at the spy’s sudden movement, but he quickly regained his composure as the waiter set the carafe on the table and made a big show of blotting the water on Vernon’s jacket.
“Jesus, Mason, what is this bullshit?” Vernon’s face was red with anger as he tried to brush off the waiter’s clumsy attempts to help him.
“Calm down, it’s just water,” he said as Vernon finally untangled himself from the zealous Arab.
Vernon sat back down, keeping his chair away from the dripping white linen, and looked accusingly at Mason. “That was some bush-league bullshit.”
It was obvious that the CIA man thought he had done it on purpose.
“Look, I said I was sorry. It was just a little water.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one who looks like he pissed his pants, not you.”
“Fuck, maybe I just need to find someplace to hide out for a while and get my shit together,” Mason said, a plan forming in his mind as he lit another cigarette and the other patrons turned back to their meals.
“You need to do something. You’re falling apart on me. Go get laid or whatever it is you do. I’ll make some calls and see if we can get you back in the States in a few weeks.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry for getting in your face like that.”
Vernon looked across the table and studied him. Mason looked defeated, and that was exactly what the spy wanted.
“I told you that I would take care of you. You’re going to have to trust me, okay?” Vernon’s voice had softened, but it was all an act.
“I know. I’ll take care of the check and then I’m going to get out of here. I think I need a new country. Can you get me some papers?”
“Where are you trying to go?” Vernon asked as he stood up. He wanted to get the hell out while Mason was off balance.
“Maybe up the coast. I’ve got friends in Libya,” Mason replied, lowering his head in false defeat as his mind scrambled to connect the dots. He needed to get Decklin out in the open, and he hoped Vernon would take the bait.
“Let me see what I can do. Give me an hour,” Vernon said, shouldering his assault pack and walking away from the table.
Mason finished the rest of his coffee and pulled a handful of crumpled bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. The waiter came back to collect the bill and looked down at the desolate American.
“Do you want some more coffee?”
“Yeah, I’ll take another cup,” Mason said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of fresh American bills from Vernon’s envelope.
The waiter nodded, took the money from the American, and then placed a phone on the table.
“That was a nice switch,” Mason told him.
“I know.” The waiter smiled as he pocketed the cash and began clearing the table.
Mason had never trusted Vernon and had paid a great deal of money to keep the man under surveillance. The cloned phone was a result of that significant investment. Picking it up off the table, he ran his fingers across the small screen, clearing away a layer of dust. He needed to get out of the country but had to be sure that Vernon had taken the bait.
The American had learned the hard way that there were very few people he could trust. He’d trusted Colonel Barnes once and was still paying for that mistake. Finishing the coffee, he slipped the phone into his pocket and headed to the street.
CHAPTER 3
The middle-class neighborhood looked like a postcard sent from the god of suburbia. Stately trees and cookie-cutter houses stood watch over the men and women jogging up the impossibly black asphalt as Renee Hart turned down the street for the third time.
Sprinklers lazily baptized manicured lawns and pruned bushes while perfectly distributed drops of water sparkled brilliantly in the fading sunlight.
Renee frowned behind the wheel and squinted against the sun’s fading rays as it slipped behind the Sierra Nevadas. She was living a nightmare, a Special Operations soldier lost in suburbia.
She felt out of place in the blue jeans and polo shirt she was wearing instead of her normal combat gear. Being in civilian clothes made her feel vulnerable, and her left hand slipped to the horseshoe pendant hanging from her neck, an unconscious grounding technique. Her mother had given her the simple talisman, and the sterling silver was worn to a glossy finish from nervous friction. It reminded her of the life she had left behind and the damage her decision had done to her tight-knit family.
It had been hard telling her mother that she was joining the army. She’d felt guilty as the tears spilled down her mom’s face, but she had made her choice, and there was nothing more to talk about.
“You’re giving up your future to follow a boy?” her mom had screamed at her. “You are going to regret this for the rest of your life.”