Daniel felt lucky, really, because he’d had more than nineteen years in, and by the time the whole JAG process was done, what with his lawyer successfully drawing it out and staving off the threat of a court-martial, he was happy to make a deal, sign that Article 15 and get his retirement orders. Twenty years, thirteen days, but it was enough to qualify, and life was much better as a retiree with fifty percent disability than as a disabled vet with nothing but the VA to help out.
Sitting there at the righted table, he tried to concentrate on the present. Brain fog was closing down again, because the speed was wearing off. He wanted a drink. He wanted a nap. He stared at the dead man leaking all over his old wall-to-wall carpet, and the body wasn’t going to resurrect itself if it hadn’t already, he was pretty sure. Elise, if she was telling the truth, had said Jenkins didn’t have the healing drug, or whatever it was.
At least there were no sirens racing for his house, so it appeared no one had reported the gunshots. His basement walls were thick, cinder block set mostly below ground. I guess no one heard the two extra pops when I…his mind shied away.
On the other hand, Elise was probably already reporting to her Agency masters and there would soon be a cleanup team on the way. They might make it all go away, or they might set it up to implicate him, or they might come try to recruit him using a different approach - something a lot more certain. Like eight Men In Black with body armor and tranquilizer darts and beanbag rounds. Imagination spinning, he tried to stay on track, tried to stick to the facts.
Instead, he sat there staring at the body.
Should he call the cops? Was it easier to deal with the local authorities, claim a righteous shoot in his own home? If he did, he’d have to rearrange the scene, because he’d simply executed Jenkins. No matter how you sliced it, he’d killed him in hot blood, without just cause.
With Miss Wallis, had she stayed dead, he’d have had justification. She’d had a weapon, she’d fired on him. In fact, the weapon should still be down there, all the proof he needed. Elise had bolted out his still-open side door. She’d had no time to detour to the basement.
No, he had to either deal with the Agency, or he had to run.
Flight was an attractive option. Disappear, get out of the country. Slip across to Mexico before the alarm went out, from there to points south. Take a tramp freighter to South Africa maybe, sell his skills. Private security firms there liked guys with combat experience. They’d get him a new identity, if he was willing to be one of their quasi-mercenary security contractors and kick back part of his pay. He’d made some good contacts in the Green Zone in Baghdad. The Zone had been a patchwork of embassy territories then, with South Africans, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Filipinos, even Gurkhas providing security for each little walled compound.
Shaking himself out of the fog of reminiscence, he told himself he had to do something, he had to act, or he was going to be acted upon, but he didn’t want to run. It was not in his nature.
His phone rang.
He stared at it stupidly for a couple of rings. Nobody called his home phone but telemarketers and work, and he didn’t have the kind of job that called him after hours.
Heaving himself up he grabbed the handset, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but it was local, Northern Virginia. Telemarketers had other numbers, weird ones from foreign countries that tried to scam people. He decided to answer.
Maybe they wanted to talk, whoever ‘they’ were. Maybe he wanted to listen. Maybe there was some way out of this mess.
“Hello?”
“Daniel?” It sounded like Elise.
“Yeah. Elise?” Bitch. Shoot at me then run away when I try to be nice.
“Yes, Daniel. We have a little time. They don’t know what happened yet. When they do, they will probably want to clean up and they’re going to insist you join up. If you don’t play ball, they’ll either do you the hard way, frame you or disappear you.” She had a trace of Texas in her voice now, if he knew his Westerns.
“About like I thought. What are we gonna do about it?” He suddenly had a feeling she was in a tough spot, too, having failed to recruit him, and lost her boss as well. Or maybe she wanted out of their grip. She’d said she’d had no choice. Maybe I misjudged her.
Or maybe it’s all a crock of bull.
“I want to talk with you, but not on an unsecure line, and not at the wrong end of a gun. Especially not when you’re all amped up like you are now. Somewhere a bit more friendly.”
He wondered at the tone of her voice, no-nonsense but with an undertone of concern. Or was he imagining it? “How do we do that? You could be armed next time, and I can’t come back from the dead like you can.”
“I didn’t come back from the dead, I wasn’t dead. I can be killed. It’s just harder. And it still hurts to be shot.”
“So you say. How and where? And don’t you think they are listening right now?”
“Possibly.” She sighed, audibly. “Look, I’m sick of being their slave. I have to get out from under, no matter how dangerous it is. So we have to meet, and we have to do it soon, before they can keep me from giving you everything. And I need your help too. You must have contacts. You spec ops guys always keep in touch.”
“Maybe. So if they are listening, why don’t they cut this line?”
She laughed, shaky. “You know, it’s not like on TV. They can do a lot but they’re only human. Don’t give them too much credit.”
“Or too little.”
“Yeah, well, even if they could, they would want to hear where we are going to meet. They’ll be waiting if they can.”
“Well, you’re the secret agent,” Daniel said sarcastically. “How do we do it without getting caught?”
“Daniel, I’m just a scientist that happened to get cancer and got sucked into this. I’m not a field operative. But I picked up a few things in the last couple of years, so here’s what we’re going to do. Go to a nearby shopping center drugstore. Don’t tell me which one. Go buy a fresh prepaid cell phone. Call this number.” She rattled off a phone number. “Add the number of shots I fired at you to the digit in that position. Get it?”
“Got it.” Right, he thought. Add four to the fourth digit. Writing it down on a scrap of paper, he stuck it in his pocket. He couldn’t trust his memory.
“Call that number in half an hour exactly. First and last number you ever dial on that phone. We should be able to talk freely on that connection for long enough to arrange a meet. As soon as we have, you stomp on the phone and throw the pieces into the nearest storm drain. Got it? And do the same with your own cell phone, right now. They might be able to track it.”
“Okay…”
“And don’t go home after that. Take anything valuable you can carry, but somewhere along the line you will have to ditch your own vehicle. I don’t think they have a tracker on it but they will eventually. And get as much cash as you can out of just one ATM near the drugstore. Then drive away and make that call.”
“Got it.” He thought, I’ve got to keep my focus. It was getting hard. His head hurt.
She hung up.
He slammed an energy drink and swallowed two black-market but genuine Ritalin. He stuck the bottle in his pocket, grabbed an old rucksack and started packing. Magazines and ammo, granola bars, water, energy drink, his work badge and ID, and his runaway packet containing twenty grand cash in several currencies and two passports, one his, one Canadian with a different name. He wasn’t a covert field operative but any special ops guy learns a few things in the black world.