About Henry Fellows (Added Content)

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On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Added Content:

Chapter 1: Identity

I’m sitting in a stolen car with expired tags in the parking lot of a police station. Downtown Fort Worth, Texas. There’s nothing special about this station. I’ve been to many, sitting in stolen cars or atop purloined motorbikes. Funny thing about police station parking lots—the cops that pass you by, going in and out to do whatever it is cops do, they never suspect there’s a criminal whiling away out there.

            It’s the perfect hiding place.

            I discovered this by happy accident. Happy accident—maybe that’s the story of my life.

            Happy probably isn’t the word you would use; neither would I.

            Either way. Here I sit.

            My name—well, I’ll get to that, cause you’ve all heard of me, and I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Before you say anything, I know. A conventional human being wouldn’t need to think about giving out his name.

            Conventions. Conventional wisdom says I shouldn’t be alive. For a spell, conventional wisdom said I was dead. Maybe conventions aren’t worth what they used to be.

            “Hello,” I say to the officers walking by. They look bulky and authentic, nodding their heads at me with a polite seriousness. I myself am a fraud. The whole package. Even my hello. Just said hello, because… there’s some weird reason I’m sure, some little siding in my brain that believes it makes sense to draw attention to myself.

Maybe part of me considers it a game. Always good at games. I remember being the best at hearts, or Monopoly, or darts, even chess. And so it goes. A 38-year-old man still playing.

            “Hello,” I say to another pair of officers. These fellas seem to be in a hurry. Must be a pressing matter. Something of import. Perhaps one of Tarrant County’s fine banking establishments has just been robbed. Perhaps someone’s child has been abducted. Perhaps somebody ran the wrong red light and his picture got flagged and now he’s got to go back to Mexico where he belongs.

            Doubt it. Pretty sure I know what’s wrong.

            The world is a twisted place. In my travels, I found that Mexico was particularly twisted. Particular like every person you meet is particular: they have certain tendencies, qualities, foibles, imperfections, quirks. The United States is extremely particular about its twistedness. That’s probably why I always came back. Love it here. Not that it’s better or worse than any other twisted place. Not judging. Not judging Mexico, either. If Mexico was all that bad, Americans wouldn’t flee there for their two weeks of sun, tequila and whatever other twists they might encounter.

            Who am I to say? I’m a criminal, after all.

            Turning on the car radio, I dial up the news. There’s a manhunt on. Yeah, they’re looking for me. It’s interesting to be the subject of a manhunt. Not the good kind of interesting. That’s why I’m here, but only in a way. We’ll revisit that momentarily. Right now I have to decide whether or not to walk into that building of brick and forms and little rooms and law. It won’t be pleasant, what with all the shouting and the handcuffs and the questions and the disbelief and the testosterone. Who knows? I turn up the radio.

            The man can’t spit the over-annunciated words out fast enough. Some local somebody has informed on me; now the Long Arm is hip to my presence in the North Texas area. That’s why cops were running. Dudes were probably amped up to catch me. Notorious criminals get police amped up. It’s understandable. Having to walk by the same notorious pictures on the wall everyday has to get annoying. The photos themselves; it’s rare to find a flattering likeness, if ever. It must leave them with an insatiable desire to catch the guy so they can tear down the picture and replace it with somebody else just as notorious.

            Round and round we go.

            The man on the radio says that I’m “armed and dangerous.” To “be on the lookout.” He says it like he’s announcing the winner of concert tickets, like he’s introducing the next crappy pop song. Annoying. Anyway, apparently I have two numbers now. One if you want to talk to me, which nobody knows, another if you want to talk about seeing me. I turn the dial off. I’ve heard this all before. For a while now. It’s all so unfulfilling. I used to be a fairly normal guy—now I have two numbers and they talk about my misdeeds on the radio.

            Here I sit. I feel like it’s time for confession, but I don’t think I’m going into the station, yet again. God knows the desire is there. I’m weak, enervating under the high Texas sun. The pavement is baking, radiating off heat. Everything real looks like a mirage. My hands are starting to quiver, but that’s nothing new.

“Hi there,” I say, waving to more running officers. It would be a shame to spoil all their fun. Maybe with all the hullaballoo, the guy from Mexico will get away and back to his loving family. It’s a small comfort, completely fabricated. The things you do when you’re alone for too long.

            I want nothing more than to walk into that drab cop shop and drink their stale coffee, watching a public defender squirm under the weight of counseling me. The guy would probably be terrified. I want nothing more than my one phone call. Likely I’d use it to call my other number, or maybe call the radio station to tell the guy that the search was over.

            I’m a criminal. Think I already let that out of the bag. Fifteen months ago I escaped from the highest level maximum security prison in America, and ever since it’s been nothing but work.

My name is Henry Fellows. It used to be a moderately well-known name. Certain circles anyway. Business circles. Former heir to the Fellows Security Corporation. Now it’s the name of the FBI’s number one Most Wanted.

            There goes the mystery.

Chapter 2: Motive

            They don’t know I’m Henry Fellows because I don’t have Henry Fellows’ face anymore. A doctor in the Caribbean made sure of that. A doctor in Europe made sure the work done in the Caribbean wasn’t so aesthetically upsetting. Not that I blame the first doctor. He wasn’t exactly starting with a pristine palette. At that point my face was winded, cracked, bruised and bloody. Escaping from prison can take a toll. I’m sure you weep for me.

            After all, I did bad things.

            I’m wanted for murder, corporate malfeasance, bank fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, any other fraud I can’t think of right now. God knows what else. Well, escaping from prison, for one. Guess that’s technically a crime, but it’s not like when you’re caught they send you to a courtroom. Just back behind the walls. They don’t want to do any of that, I’m sure. A bullet is the only sane conclusion to my story, says the average lawman. The average lawman wants to put me down, the menacing goblin that I am, the threat to who knows what and who knows where. Not that it really matters. You go out one way or another. A felon on the run with a plan for the future is the definition of hubris.

             This is the fifth time I’ve sat outside a police station, deciding. Been all over the world. Walked up the steps to Scotland Yard, fumbled over words with desk sergeants in San Francisco and New York and Sydney. The truth just won’t come out. They won’t believe it. I’m not the guy they’re looking for. Yeah, I could make a fuss, blow out into some histrionics and they’d pull me in, slap some stainless steel on my wrists, but then what? A DNA test, if I’m lucky. More likely, they’ll ship the wish-he-was Henry off to some place with white coats and large black men.

I know about those places. Prison’s not so terrible next to those places. Had a tussle with depression years back, said some things to a friend on a phone, next thing I knew, there they were: white coats and large black men. I’ll admit, there are times when insanity breeches the ramparts of my mind. Not important. Not when white coats and large black men are in the offing. Guessing the coats are white so they can tell when the crazies have urinated on themselves or bludgeoned their bodies or whatever. The black men are there because they are strong, imposing, and know how to put a crazy down. Not that I’m a racist. There were some white guys too. They just don’t stand out in a sea of white coats. I was grateful for the big black guys. When they weren’t pulling some super-strong, meth-fried lunatic to the ground, they would talk to me. I just sat there. It was too scary to do anything else, not to mention dirty. I’ll never forget what one of them said to me. His name was Chris. The dude had arms that could strangle a water buffalo and a voice as calm as the afterward of a lobotomy.

“Why here? Why now?” he asked me. I was sitting as rigid as the furniture, watching the crazies, minding everyone’s business.

“Don’t know,” I said, not really wanting to get into it. “Just counting the minutes until I can get out of this place.” It was a lie. I remember counting the seconds.

“Yeah, you need to get your mess in order. You one of these?” He turned and pointed to poor souls manifesting poor behavior: schizophrenics throwing food, bipolar beasts banging their heads into the walls. As they do.

“No, sir,” I said. “I’m not one of these.” It was maybe one of a handful of times when I unequivocally knew what I was and what I wasn’t. If you’re feeling a little sad, lost in the cosmos, whatever, go and take a field trip to the place with white coats and large black men. It’ll sort you right out.

Just an observation.

Back to the present. I’m pulling out of the station now. Can’t turn myself in just yet. Oh yeah, guess I should have mentioned, I didn’t do it. But that’s what they all say, right? Still, I didn’t. Not what they put me in for. No way. Chris was right that day, and afterward for a long stretch I really did get my mess together. Then came the event. The day of reckoning. Look, I don’t want to be dramatic either, but when you find out that your famous parents were hacked up and that you were the one that did it, dramatic seems appropriate. My motive was apparently jealousy. My prints were apparently at the scene of the crime. Apparently I had a history of belligerence with the victims. Not to mention being institutionalized for a brief spell. A cap full of feathers.

            All that was true. If you were the heir to a true mogul, the owner of one of the biggest companies in the world, you’d have a chip on your shoulder, too. Oh yeah, they were my parents, so I’d been to their mansion a time or two, touched whatever, the way you do when you don’t anticipate being accused of a gruesome double homicide. And the belligerence? Guilty! My father was a brilliant but aging man and had no want of his ungrateful son’s advice when it concerned the future of the company. By then I was basically running things anyway, taking Fellows Security to heights and depths he never could’ve dreamed. So we’d argue. Emails, eyewitness accounts a-many all confirmed what everyone suspected. No other suspects. Just Henry Fellows. They filmed the trial. The trial of the century, they called it, but they call every trial that until a better one comes along. Think there’s been five trials of the century since mine.

            It wasn’t just my high profile or my parents’ fame that made the case so captivating to the masses. That might have been brushed aside after a few days, what with all the wars and the poverty and the famine in the world. What struck a chord was the nature of the crime. Did I say hacked? Think I did. That’s putting it lightly. You probably know most of the details, but I know every single one. The whole thing’s seared into my memory. Massive brain trauma couldn’t wipe that slate clean. Body parts all over the house. It turned into a macabre Easter egg hunt for police. For days they were pulling a kidney from this nook, teeth from this cranny. Disgusting. I was guilty for jealousy, guilty for having visited, guilty for being recalcitrant with my father, but not the rest. My service record should’ve helped. Didn’t matter. They had their man. Henry Fellows. They didn’t care about me heeding the words of Chris at the nuthouse. Only that I was at the nuthouse. My wife? Oh yeah, my precious prep-school sweetheart. We’d been having problems. Convenient. She’d been sleeping around due to my “distance,” not to mention building a trumped-up case for a divorce I had no knowledge was coming until the day of my arrest.

            So much for a character witness.

            Poor Henry Fellows. For a while, life was cloud nine: money, pictures in magazines, press conferences, all the accoutrements of excess and esteem. Then nothing. You don’t believe me, probably never will. That’s why I’m turning around, pulling out of this police station. I mean, have you asked the question yet? Who the hell is informing on a guy that can’t be found? Let’s see, best guess, the people who killed my folks and left me to rot in a dungeon. I’ll probably die first, they’re probably watching me at this moment, but I need to find out who really did it. Throwing myself to the wolves would be nice. Finally relax. But I can’t do it, not without… what do they call it—closure?

            Eh. What a bunch of crap.

Chapter 3: BMW

            I’ve been accused of everything, mostly by people that don’t have a clue. Can’t blame those people. As far as they know, I’m the worst person on the planet, a planet already chock full of assholes. Maybe it was my appearance. The media termed it “all-American,” whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Makes what I did that much creepier. The old face, that is. Old Henry Fellows. Have to say, not a bad looking guy, old Henry. That’s how I got the prettiest girl in school. My sweetheart. Somebody told me her name and I walked right up to her in history class and introduced myself like somebody she needed to know. Worked great. Emma married me before we finished college. It was that sure of a thing. Henry and Emma. Emma and Henry. Sounded good either way, perfect for towels and Christmas cards.

            Sure things.

            I remember asking Emma why she was taken by me. You know what she said? She said I was handsome. I’m not tooting the horn right here, just trying to make a point. The question came after many conversations, dates, events, socials, the whole thing. We’d talked about everything from family to gravity to Thomas Aquinas and she’d followed right along, giving as well as she got. You’d think after diving those depths she would’ve come up with something better than “You were handsome.” Struck me funny then. Still does. You don’t explore the reefs and the wonders of the deep and look over at your partner and blurt out, “You’re handsome.” Whatever. Metaphors aren’t my forte.

            Hell.

            Over it and over it I go. She was going to leave me, and before I could really find out why, it was too late. The mess had started. I was up the creek; she was back on shore with the paddle.

            I suck at metaphors.

            In truth, the sucking doesn’t stop there. I’m willing to own that. I love my kids fiercely, but I wasn’t around enough, given to caprice, etc. I’d make a more comprehensive list but I want to get through this before I die.

            There’s a few people reliable people out there, a few individuals that presently need to be engaged. What? You think I survived this long completely on my own? That would truly be a talent. As I make my way southward on I-35, I call Floyd. I can use his name because it’s not his name. Not about to throw anyone under the bus. Besides, nobody knows Floyd’s real name. I can tell you that he has snowy hair and that his robust forearms hint at the physique he once had. Can tell you he drinks only good scotch and how many times he’s been shot. A lot more, too. Just not the name his mama gave him.

            “Yeah?” His voice is gravel but nevertheless a welcome sound. He doesn’t know this number; I’ve probably thrown away fifty phones since the last time we talked.

            “Floyd. It’s me. You drunk or asleep?”

            “Well, I was both. Now I’m just the one. What’s going on, Deer?” Floyd knows my name is Henry but he calls me Deer. There’s a story behind that. “You staying underground?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you’re doing that police station bit again? Crazy kid.”

            “Not a kid, Floyd.”

            “But you are crazy.” I feel around my right jean pocket for my pills but pull out the wrong bottle. Not those. Not right now. There’s a method to staving off madness. It’s all about timing.

“Kid?”

            “Yeah,” I say, turning my attention back to the call and the road. Have to be cautious, stay between the lines. I can’t get clipped for some traffic violation, even with the fake face and the fake papers. Inconvenient. “Look. I’m back in my hometown. Just heard on the radio that someone spotted me.”

            “It’s bogus.”

            “Yeah, just hold on.”

            “No it’s bogus.” I can picture him through the phone, hand over heavy eyes, still trying to teach me right from left.

            “Just let me finish.”

            “You have the floor,” he grumbles. “Thirty seconds to make sense or I’m hanging up.”

            “The news report. It said where I was staying last night. Even knew the car I was driving.”

            “Impossible.”

            “And yet it happened all the same. Not making this up for kicks.”

            “You ditched the car?”

            “Like I do every morning.”

            “Well,” he says, obviously more awake to the situation. “Change rides twice a day now. Until we know what’s going on.”

            I check my mirrors and frame a shot in my head of the cars behind just in case. “Floyd?”

            “Yeah, yeah. Thinking. So someone who knows your new face put out a tip, but didn’t bother until you were where?”

            “Just like before.”

            “You mean…?”

            “Yeah. I mean I was sitting outside the frigging Fort Worth PD building ten minutes ago. They didn’t have a clue.”

            “You’re a nutbar. These little experiments are gonna get you shot.”

            “Chastise me later.”

            A few more grumbles. “Okay. I’m up. Let me get back to you in twenty. Just keep moving. You know the drill.”           

            “I’ll call you. Changing phones.”

            “That’s my boy. Got it.”

            As he hangs up I put my knee under the steering wheel, freeing my hands to crack the now useless burner cell.

            Mysteries. Never a good thing for a man in my situation. Somebody out there is on to me, has been for a while, and neither Floyd nor I have a clue who it might be. My head is hurting. Like a bell pealing in my brain. The pills. I reach for the other pocket and pull out the right ones.

            If this were your morning, you’d probably need them too.

            It doesn’t bother me that Floyd calls me crazy all the time. He’s a grizzled old man, seen it all, and I’m not talking front porch wisdom. World wisdom. Lived in a hundred places, touched the parts of life normal people wouldn’t go near with a ten-foot pole wisdom. He knew me before the pills, before the headaches and the shakes and all the rest. I think that’s why he still answers my calls. In his own way he feels responsible for my erratic tendencies. Maybe he is.

            I look back at a police car cruising up toward me in the left lane. Can tell by his speed that he’s going to pass and I relax. As much as a guy like me can, anyway. I’m trained for this. That’s what they didn’t know when they locked me up. You didn’t know it either. Blame Floyd. He’s the one who recruited me. For what, you ask?

            A lot’s happened since then, but if memory serves, I was in some sandbox in one of the world’s orifices, trying to take a nap. Had gone over to fight after school at the insistence of dear old dad. He had his mind on having a politician for a son. Nothing like a war record. Figure it was a win-win for him. Either I serve with distinction or die. No telling the outcome he would’ve preferred. To my surprise, I was a pretty good soldier, though I never made it past Lieutenant. Had a bit of a knack for pissing off the higher-ups. Anyway, there was some mission, blah blah blah, and here comes this guy from Agency X saying he needed a couple guys from my unit to sort it out. We were a squad of about ten, used to the rough and tumble, but he only needed three. I was in charge, so of course I volunteered.

            It wasn’t bravery. Not even close.

            It was insecurity. Most of the guys doing the fighting are insecure. Bravery, cowardice, selflessness, endurance, it all comes from pretty much the same place. An indictment? Hell no. You try getting shot at by people that mean it, then tell me how secure you feel. Maybe it’s happened, but in the cacophony of mag checks and radio cues preceding a true firefight I’ve never looked over and seen the face of a guy relaxing at the beach.

            So anyhow, I volunteered for a suicide mission because I didn’t want to look bad.

            There’s no way to know, but by then I’m fairly sure I was starting to go a little crazy. Tremulous hands. I’d get cold when it was 130 degrees for no reason. Symptoms? Nah. Rub some dirt on it.

            Somehow or another, we pulled it off. Killed a couple guys, one of mine took a slug in the shoulder, but not too bad. Apparently the jerk from Agency whatever had come up with a pretty good plan for getting us in and out. That was Floyd. I was impressed, and to be honest, a little mystified to still be above ground. He never told me exactly what it was, but apparently I had done something to impress him as well. I was out of the sandbox and working for him and a few others 24 hours later. This is why my service record wasn’t part of the defense proceedings in the trial you people watched with such glee. Redacted. Expunged. Never happened. Life’s a real stitch. Seems like the good things go to some incinerator in subbasement who gives a shit. The bad feels like it all gets put on tape. In my case, this is not a metaphor.

            I pull out another burner phone to call Floyd and figure out some sort of plan going forward. Do another check of the mirrors to see if any trailing cars match the picture I took earlier. There’s one—a black BMW. Something about it doesn’t sit right. Still about a hundred yards back, still one lane over. It could be a tail. Could be the people that sent in the tip. Like I said, I was trained for this, so I pull the wheel right for the next exit to see if they follow. No matter what you see in the movies, it’s not that easy to spot a tail. Movies. It’s always two guys talking about their wives or the electric bill, and all of a sudden one of them says, “we picked up a tail.” Rare. Unless you’re working against real morons. One, I’m on a highway. It could just be a guy going south to Austin or San Antonio set on cruise control. Two, any decent follow job requires multiple vehicles to pass you off as you go along. In this case it’s unlikely, however. Nobody knows where I’m going, including me. Having somebody stationed around this exit ready to pick up the follow would be prophetic.

            Damn. I see the BMW swerving just in time to catch the exit. My headache is going away. It’s been a while since I’ve been this close to getting caught. I know what you’re thinking. This, coming from a fugitive whose favorite hobby is sitting outside police stations. I do the math. They aren’t cops. Cops don’t drive BMWs, and with a guy like me, they’d have a freaking helicopter overhead by now. Roadblocks, flares and all the rest of that nonsense.       

            The exit is outside the Fort Worth city limits and just south of the surrounding suburban areas. A large hill separates the highway from the frontage road now. I assess. They’re pretty close behind. I’d love to slam on the breaks and let them ram me but that might render both vehicles inoperable. That wouldn’t be good at all. It’s too hot to be walking along a feeder road for miles. I opt for the crazy choice. Off to the right there’s a fairly steep embankment, so I start to slow down, checking my jacket pockets for my fake papers, phone, pills, and pull my 9 mm from the glove compartment.

I hit the gas hard as the right front tire goes off the road and then slam the breaks, turning the wheel left. Fishtailing the back end, the car goes over, then the hard part. The car rolls two or three times before coming to violent stop, upside down at the bottom of the embankment. There’s glass everywhere, and I can smell fuel leaking. I wiggle everything. It all hurts but nothing is broken as far as I can tell.

            My head is ringing and probably concussed, but thankfully the driver’s side window is broken. Lucky break. Crawling out I pick up a few new cuts from the glass but hardly notice because I hear the BMW stop at the place where the car went over. Just like I wanted. They can’t see me behind the car. I peek out from behind the inverted left rear tire and see two guys coming down the slope. There’s a thicket of woods behind me, pretty dense. Figure they’re thinking I’m either dead or unconscious in the car or fleeing through the trees.

            Truthfully, it’s anybody’s guess what they’re thinking. Probably trying to understand why I lost control so suddenly. Hopefully it looked real, but it’s not something to bet on. What I don’t have to guess or doubt over is that they are both armed. They look like guys from somewhere else. One older, one younger, both dressed wrong. It’s Texas—everybody wears jeans. These mopes are sporting black cargo pants and form-fitting jackets. Combat boots.

Then I hear it; the sound of a cocked pistol is unmistakable.

Don’t like what I’m about to do, but when you hear that snap you better do something. Still crouched behind the rear wheel, I reach out a foot and crunch down some glass still in the car. Thankfully the older one takes the bait. As he bends down to see my broken body there’s nothing. He’s a fish in a barrel, half in and half out of the car. Bad for him. I lean down and fire one round right above his eyes, returning to my wheel knowing it did the trick.

            I can hear the younger one slam himself up against the opposite side of the overturned car. He doesn’t know if his partner was shot by someone inside or out—at least I hope not. Sweat is seeping through my shirt. I too have a jacket on, not because I want to—because I needed a lot of pockets for all the crap I carry when careening off of roads. “Hey,” I call out.

            Nothing but labored breathing.

            “Hey. Your buddy’s dead. Didn’t want that. Don’t want to kill you either. Give it up. Any chance you tell me who you are?”

More breathing.

“Come on. It’d be a big help.”

            More nothing. His nervousness is starting to catch. I’m starting to realize the gravity of what’s happening and it does kind of suck. Perhaps it’s just my strange ways, but I always found that in the pitched heat of life or death there are small ponderous moments where everything slows down. I don’t mean respite. Moments when there’s a choice, to deny instinct and slump into cravenness, give up the fight. I’ve been running and fighting for so long. I let that weakness flow through me and then let it out, like spitting up bad medicine. It’s getting to him. It’s in his breathing. Can’t let it get to me.

            “Throw down your gun, Fellows,” I hear. Okay, so the guy knows my name. Something I could assume, but hearing a stranger say it out loud is arresting all the same. I press the clip release on my 9mm and see I’m nearly full. Thirteen rounds. One in the chamber. Might as well use them. Dropping down I fire at an angle through the broken windows of the car. I don’t have a clear shot but the bullets are enough to make him move just enough from behind the front right wheel. He’s stuck his foot out. I take a breath and catch him through the heel. There’s screaming, but mostly now he’s just firing into the car as I roll back around the side and the front where he’s squirming. I hear the desperate sound of his empty chamber and get to my feet, walking slowly toward him.

            “Enough, kid.” He’s sitting up, writhing in agony as I approach. My gun is aimed center mast.

“Throw it,” I say. His weapon’s empty but there’s nothing comforting about a guy waving a pistol around. Take your peace of mind where you can get it. “Who are you? How do you know I’m here?” The hope is that he’ll talk. Dude doesn’t have a lot of options, braying like a mule and reaching for his heel.

            “Traitor” is the only reply offered. Strange. It’s spit more than spoken. Only about six feet away I get a better look at his face. Damn. Just a kid. Either he was too impetuous for the job or he wasn’t given the right intelligence concerning his target. My guess is both.

            “Don’t want to talk, huh?” I ask. It’s hot and this kind of scene attracts attention; need to get moving.

            “You and your family are dead,” he says, reaching once again for his heel. It’s not the wound he’s groping for; I can see that now. He’s got a backup on his lower leg and it’s in his hand. The chrome of a small revolver catches in the sun. I want to yell stop but act on instinct, firing two rounds into his chest.

            No time. I remember the fuel leaking into the car and pull both bodies fully inside through the broken windows. Taking out their wallets and keys I light a match. It feels a bit Viking to burn the dead, but there was blood in the car, some of it mine. With modern forensics they’d probably find some remnants of me. I can’t have the official authorities closing in tighter, not yet. Ascending the hill toward the BMW, I hear the car going up in flames. The heat behind me is like a kick in the pants, telling me to hustle. Time to switch cars again and regroup. Driving down the feeder road I look for the nearest entrance back onto the freeway. My hands are shaking. More than usual. Two men dead. Two men I’d never seen or met. Don’t like what the last one said about my family. Not good.

            I’m still a killer. The idea of turning myself in floods back into my brain. Still a killer.

Henry Fellows, wrongfully accused. And not an innocent bone in my body.

Chapter 4: Travelodge

            Two cars later. Four hours later. I’m in Austin now, feeling aimless. The airport seems like a good idea, but I decide to sit tight. That was Floyd’s advice. There’s a cheap motel on the north end of town, so I check in, use my fake ID and cash to rent the room, then fall on to the bed. Smell a year’s worth of sadness on the comforter, probably people running away from something, like me.

            Wish I was like one of those losers, the people that make up an imaginary world that is coming after them. That, or they’re running for something just over the mean horizon. For most people, nobody’s coming and they’re not going anywhere. They don’t realize the horizon just stays the same, no matter where you run or how long you sit.

            Hey, I get it. I used to live under the same delusions. I’m still seeking the pot of gold, despite what I tell myself. As far as running, in my case, afraid it’s a matter of necessity.

            Trying to slip off into a nap, the phone rings. Figure it’s Floyd, has to be Floyd, so I answer.

            It’s not Floyd.

“Hank, you there?”

It’s a woman. The voice is familiar.

            “How’d you get this number?”

            “How you think?” Dammit Floyd. Too trusting. I silently curse and smile at my old handler. The person who taught me that trust will get you killed and that trusting no one is just plain crazy. A man of contradictions, an impossible man. Always figured his obtuseness was a deliberate ploy to separate teacher from student. Whatever. Most of the time it was just annoying. I always felt like one of those neophytes in a martial arts movie, constantly chastised for asking a question, or asking the wrong question, or asking too many questions. Etc. You know what I’m talking about. Just get to the point already, you know?

            Still, part of me bends to his sagacity, the prudence that kept me alive more than once. “So Floyd gave you this number, I take it?”

            “How else would I get it? Where are you now?”

            My mouth opens but nothing wants to slip out. I give a little bit. “I’m back in Texas, Nina.” Nina’s my lawyer, or was. Don’t really know anymore. We started speaking a while ago, maybe five or six months. Before that she was left out. Didn’t want her reputation to be dragged further down. Finally reached out in a moment of weakness, at a point when talking to nobody was starting to turn me certifiable. But I never give her my number. Don’t want her in compromising situations. I hired her at the behest of my dad’s oldest friend and my closest mentor, Mr. Jensen. Made sense. She’s rated as top ten in the country, according to “get my rich ass out of prison” magazine. Of course I know what you’re thinking: If she’s so good, how come I’m on the lam, laying in a Travelodge on a comforter from twenty years ago? You saw the trial. She made sound arguments, but the preponderance of evidence against me was too much. I was a terrible client. She wanted to tell tales to counteract the prosecution’s lies, but I wasn’t into it. The jury could see. I was annoyed and scared, but to the twelve retards in the box, it came off as aloof and uncaring. Like my parents being dead wasn’t a big deal to me. Plus, a rich white guy can’t play many sympathy cards. We could’ve brought up my abusive father, but wait, I chopped him up. See what I’m getting at? Probably not. The jury certainly didn’t.

            “Floyd told me you did your thing again today.”

            “The police station thing?

            “Yeah, Henry. That’s the one.”

            “Well, I have to do something. That’s five times now. I reach for the gallows and someone goes out of their way to let me know they’re watching.”

            “Are you any closer to finding out who they are?” she asks. There’s something in her voice, maybe skepticism. It’s hard to get a read. She’s a smart, complicated woman. I imagine her sitting at her big mahogany desk in her big office building, surrounded by a billion books and a billion other things she’d rather be doing.

            “Well,” I say, turning on my side to examine the wallets of the two thugs from the BMW. “Do we still have the confidential thing going on?”

            “I’m your lawyer. To this day. Though you could pay me once in a while. It might serve to strengthen what I know is already a tight and heartfelt bond.”

            “Cute. So—I killed two guys today.”

            There’s a pause. The kind of pause you expect when you’ve just told someone you killed two guys.

            “Perfect. Any reason?”

            “Yeah. They were coming at me with guns. Frigging mopes knew who I was.”

            “How can that be?”

            “What have I been telling you? Someone’s playing me. Been telling you guys. Guess it takes actual gunplay to convince you.” More silence on the other end of the line. “Do you believe I’m innocent, or am I just talking to a lawyer here?”

            She storms back. “I’ve always believed. You know that. Do you think I would’ve—never mind. Do you still believe?”

            I reach for the pills stashed in my right pants pocket. Three times a day for these. Her question has me squirming; why she asked it, the fact that she needed to, that the way I am leads her inexorably to the fact that she needs to.

            “I believe. But I don’t like having to kill guys. Even ones who deserve it. Makes me think of what I did, what I might have done.”

            “Stop it. Enough with the soldier’s remorse. I get it, but there’s no shame in serving, Hank. You put your life on the line for the country.”

            She doesn’t know all the things I did for my country.

            “Nina, it doesn’t make sense.” I pause to do a cursory inspection of the thugs’ identification and papers and tell straightaway that they’re fake. My fake face makes a real smirk.

            “I was getting ready to say that,” she says. “But which part? There’s a lot going on here.”

            “How long since I escaped?”

            “Over a year.”

            “Right. Fifteen months. Most of that time, nothing. Not a guy following me on the street, not a car tailing me, not a bug in my hotel room.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Yet the last few months, every time I think about turning myself in, boom, they blast it out over everywhere. Radio, TV, all of a sudden I’m a murderous phoenix rising from the ashes to shower your local neighborhood with blood.”

            “Decent summation. I get it.” Nina’s always saying words like summation in real life. She’s like a carpenter who brings a hammer to a friend’s house on the off chance anything needs to be nailed down. Far as habits go, it’s half annoying and half adorable. If she wasn’t a gorgeous, professional woman, it’d probably be 80/20 on the annoying side.

            “Tell me how you get it? What’s the real million-dollar question?”

            She wastes no time. “Somebody knows you’re out there, could be ten people, could be a thousand. They know what you look like. Most important, they don’t want you to turn yourself in.”

            “And?”

            “Give me a second to breathe, Henry. AND—if they don’t want you talking to the police they could just kill you. But they haven’t killed you. They want you alive for something. Wait, did you really need to kill those guys today?”

            The question turns me pale as the Travelodge drapes. It’s the question I was asking myself the whole way down to Austin. I heard the guy’s gun click. I thought that was the signal to go into pure self-defense mode, but nothing’s a total certainty. As Nina reasons out the situation with me it becomes more apparent that they may have just approached the car being cautious. There’s no way to know, not for sure, but deep down my crazy conscience wants me to think I needlessly killed two guys who meant me no harm.

            I slowly begin to hear Nina again. She’s saying my name a lot, trying to get my attention. I get lost in thought very easily. It drives her up the wall. One of the reasons I haven’t bothered her for a while. “Hank? You still there?”

            I tell her yes as I sit up on the bed. I feel dirty and dead. As dirty as the comforter, as dead as the mortuary that is the rest of the room. “Still here. So what do you think? I’ve heard of mysteries, but this one goes over my head.” My breathing is becoming stunted, like all the unknowns are a wet rag down my throat. “It could be the crazy, Nina. Maybe I was sane before, I don’t know, but the running, the paranoia—it’s getting to me.”

            Nina doesn’t say anything. Nothing but breath through the phone, full and rough. “Henry, what you’ve been through… it would get to anybody. Besides, you sound perfectly reasonable to me.”

            “How’s that?”

            “I just got a text from an unknown number. It says STOP TALKING TO HENRY FELLOWS.”

Chapter 5: Balls

            Since escaping from the clink, my only tangible thought was to stay alive. Yeah, now and again I’d find myself ready to give up, but I can’t be sure how serious I took all that. Maybe you can understand the existential crisis though, how everyday it’s on the news that I’m a patricidal/matricidal maniac, how I look in the mirror and see somebody else’s face. Literally. Put that together with PTSD, depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety, and you’ve got one ailing puppy. As a sentient being, the cold unfeeling universe can be off-putting enough, even on the best of days. We have our beliefs, our constructs, little boilerplate epistemologies cradling us, patting us on the back as we lean forward into the hard world. They used to work for me. I see people every day. They seem to be working for them. Picking up the kids, taking them to practice so they can have little identities of their own, I get it. Not everybody in the world can be Kant.

            I read a couple of his books while I was waiting to be sentenced to death. Not bad, I guess. The layman assessment goes that he was able to synthesize the various theories on the way people think. He took a little from column A, a little from column B, then wrapped it up in a bow that nobody could possibly understand. It’s quite possible that I’m simply too dense to ingest his truth, but if I had to critique his critique on reason, have to say it was too boring. Little advice from Uncle Henry: If you need philosophy and you’re waiting on the gas chamber, stick to Socrates. At least he had a sense of humor.

            The old story is that Socrates died the way he lived, verbally punching everybody in the balls. The guy had fun. The speech he gave to save his own life was just another ball-busting attack on his accusers. I remember wanting to stand up in court and bust some balls, but I’m no Socrates. I didn’t have the balls.

            Enough about balls.

            This thing with Nina’s got me fired up. There are things to protect besides myself. Nina. My family. Sometimes priorities get obscured. But it’s clear now. She’s obviously being tapped, watched, violated in who knows how many ways. Then there’s my family. They’ve been violating themselves for the news media, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to have their lives threatened or to live in fear. My son’s only eight, the daughter thirteen. They don’t know any better. As for the ex-wife, what do you want me to say?

            My hands are starting to shake again. It’s time for more anxiety medicine. I say it’s anxiety medicine, but I can’t exactly get a prescription these days. Smuggled prescriptions are a roll of the dice. Could be downing XTC. Whatever it is, it helps.

            Time to make a plan. First, get the hell out of Texas. My family’s in Texas, and I figure the farther away I am, the safer they are. It’ll take calling in a few more favors to make sure they’re watched and safe, but whatever it takes. I make a list of what I know in my head, then start repeating, packing up pills and the few items with me in the hotel room.

1.     Someone has eyes on me and knows what I look like.

2.     They could’ve killed me or at least tried at any point in the last fifteen months.

3.     Every time I want to turn myself in, they tip off the authorities.

4.     This time they had somebody following close. Now those guys are dead.

5.     My lawyer’s being surveilled, how intrusively I don’t know.

            Walking outside into waning sunlight, it takes a minute to spot my car in the lot. Lot of stolen cars today. There. I see the innocuous jalopy, make another call to Floyd.

            “Hey old man. Thanks for reaching out to Nina.”

            “Look, I knew you’d be pissed, but—”

            “Floyd. Seriously. I’m glad. Can you meet?”

            “Wow. Okay. When?”

            I look at my watch. “I figure twenty-four hours with the time change should be plenty.”

            “You got it, Deer.”

            “See you soon. Hey. One more thing. Important. Get back in touch with Nina. Tell her to have someone sit on my family’s house. Hell, two or three guys if need be. She knows people in the protection racket. Tell her to do the same for herself, if she hasn’t already. Insist on it. Can’t be too safe.”

            “Maybe the guys…”

            “Out with it, Floyd.”

            “Maybe the guys you shot—they were the only ones after you.”

            “No. Someone just threatened her while we were talking. She’s being tapped.”

            “Shit. How do I get a hold of her without—whoever it is, hearing?”

            “You’re a professional. Think of something. I’m low on time. Can I trust you to get this done?”

            The old man does his grumbling thing but eventually gives in. “Of course. You didn’t say anything about your next move, tip off whoever was listening?”

            “No. Thankfully I’m not that stupid. Soon as I heard it was a party line, I hung up. Cracked the cell. Called you on this one.”

            “So you’re—”

            “Burned.”

            “Okay. Sorry. Get moving.”

            As I break down another phone I wipe it down, just in case. Nothing is too cautious at this point. Separate the pieces of each burner into different bags. I’ll dump them randomly between here and the next destination.

            The joys of being me.

            I spot an old plastic bin, no trash bag. Throw my old shirt and some chip wrappers in it. The insects flying patterns around it go with the whole vibe of the place. I take one last look for cameras, but see none. I stay at crapholes all the time for this very reason. Big Brother rarely visits these joints. In a crazy world, the cheap motel can be an oasis of freedom.

            Walking to the car I do a quick scan around the parking lot. Can’t see anybody watching, but if they were any good, I wouldn’t be able to. By now I’ve gone over the list of what I know ad nauseam, so I start on another list, one of deductions.

1.     Somebody could’ve ratted me out. The doctors, anyone who helped along the way. Unlikely, considering how much I pay.

2.     They are keeping me alive and on the run for some purpose. Probably not a good one. Something new. I’ve been out over a year but this other thing is new.

3.     Have to assume everyone in my tiny circle is being watched. Can only trust meeting people with experience in being anonymous, like Floyd.

4.     After killing the two thugs, the they might be more apt to precipitate an encounter with me.

            Not exactly Sherlock Holmes. Check my watch again, mumbling my deductions and pulling back out onto the freeway. Call ahead for departure times and ticket availabilities. I’m going to the airport, after all. Hate the airport. Most people say that. Used to hear it all the time. Folks in the neighborhood, acquaintances at work, I’d always hear the same thing. One of those complaints everyone has in their back pocket. I hate the airport.

            Try it when you’re wanted by the FBI, Texas Rangers, U.S. Marshals, Homeland Security and Interpol. Then tell me how inconvenient baggage claim is.

Chapter 6: Escape

            It’s twelve hours later and I’m in London. Love London, except for two things. First, the hour spent going through customs almost gave me a heart attack. Smelled people from at least forty countries whilst pushing my bag forward one inch at a time. Nobody smells great getting off of an international flight, but I have to say, some countries smell better than others. Not saying anyone’s better than the next—just an observation. Like airplanes and airports are a terrible place for babies. Nobody’s fault, we all need babies, we all were babies, but there it is. Babies suck. Plus, they smell worse than most any country I’ve ever smelled.

            I hate the airport. Pretty sure Heathrow is the most used hub in the world. It’s right up there, anyway. Used is a good word for it. I was tense the whole time. Not because they would find anything on me. All my prescriptions look the part. My papers are so good I can’t even tell that they’re bogus. Plus I ditched my gun in a lake by the airport.

            A general tenseness, I’d say. Not that I’m being hunted, or that I’m coming off two fresh kills, or that I’m in a foreign country. None of that. Just the din of countless muttered languages, the drabness of the walls and the paint and the metallic view outside walking down to the customs mousetrap. Whatever. It’s London. The guy looked at me and looked at my little nylon bag and back down at my passport and gave it a smug stamp. In truth, not sure he looked at anything. Can’t really blame him. Having to work with the smell and all.

            The train into the heart of town was a breeze. Less noise, less people, a good twenty minutes to catch a nap. Much needed. I don’t enjoy flying and I didn’t rest much, despite taking more than my usual dosage. As we sped into the station I woke with a sharp snap. There was an Arab man half staring at me. So I thought. I’d only been awake for one and a half seconds. Immediately my mind drifted to dark places: maybe this is the guy, the one who’s after me, or one of his henchman.

            Two long seconds later, the man’s two little children jumped over the seat and onto his lap. Laughing. Embracing. The way families do.

            Probably not an assassin.

            But one can never be too careful on trains. Really, if something’s wrong, where you gonna go?

            Guess I shouldn’t say that. You probably think a guy like me could get out of anywhere; after all, Henry Fellows is the most notorious escape artist in the world today.

            Fine. Let’s get it on the table. Escape I did, though that probably isn’t the best word for it. You might call it an unofficial release. Kind of feels like a magician revealing his big secret, and like a magic trick, once you know, you’re going to be let down. Here it is: Before sentencing, Nina pulled a few strings to figure out exactly where I was to be remanded for the remainder of my days. Don’t ask me how she did it, but I told you she was good.

            Having ascertained my destination, I learned everything about the place. Procured files on the entire staff, warden on down. Information and security were my trade, after all. Other than a very specific skillset, the one thing I still had access to was money. A lot of money. Really rich people know how to hide it, and if you’re really good, you know how to let a lot of it be found. That’ll make sense in a second. Anyway, I found out exactly who could be bribed, right down to the last guy. Basically that’s it. There was a tall guy paid to accidentally dismantle the locking mechanism on my cell, an alcoholic guy who looked the other way while I walked by him on my cell block. Another guy, actually he was a girl, to unlock the door to the loading dock at the rear of the prison, and one more to smuggle me out in a truck that hauled industrial size cleaners in and out of the place. I paid the tired guy checking people in and out of the south gate and the two stiff guards that stood sentry on either side of it. There was one guy I didn’t pay, some unplanned-for newbie smoking a cigarette on the loading dock. Didn’t pay him. He went to sleep, but I swear, no harm done. Slipped up behind and choked him gently to rest. The kid had a neck like pencil. No more than a bad headache the next day.

            You’re calling B.S., right? I’d agree, except that I forgot to mention paying off the guys in the surveillance room to have a temporary “gap” in their security footage. Yeah, I had to walk in some shadows to avoid a few other guards, be on my toes, but it really wasn’t that difficult.

            It was obvious the next day that it had been some kind of inside job, but they all knew the risk. The whole thing cost me 20 million bucks. I know. Can’t put a price on freedom. From there I hitched another ride in a semi down to the coast and hopped a freighter to a little Caribbean island where my new face was waiting for me. It was needed. My face had been pummeled by the Aryan Nation, the Nation of Islam, and the Mexican Nation the first three days in there. One more nation would have killed me.

            As a little insurance policy for the people that helped me, I set them up with untraceable offshore numbered accounts. Banks that deal in anonymity. You know, banks for criminals. No way I deal with regular, criminal banks. As an extra insurance policy I had a very traceable million dollars wired into the accounts of the warden, the head of corrections, and the head of the U.S. Marshal Service. None of them were complicit in my escape, but I figured they’d be a little less inclined to poke around if they had to explain that one.

            Believe it? Well, either way, I’m in London, home of my ancestors. What’d you think, I Shawshanked my way out of there in less than a week? Nope.

            I get off at Paddington Station and take this tube and that tube to Covent Garden. Floyd’s got a flat right near the station, a bit central for my taste but if I was just a guy on a visit it would be ideal. Cosmopolitan. Big for fashion types, stage actors and dancers that have cash. Busy. He likes it for the reasons I don’t, hiding in plain sight and all that nonsense. See his place up ahead, one flat in a row of dozens. It’s not an opulent or large place, but it must be expensive. Shoulders scrape shoulders through the hustle and bustle of the London scene; tourists maneuvering their way down the little streets while buses plow by and people drive on the wrong side of the street. It’s raining, but only slightly. Nobody seems to notice. It’s England, after all. Suddenly my person and my locale are in focus. I’ve spent a lot of time in this town, but I’m every bit a man from the New World.

            Finally, I arrive and buzz for his flat. Wave to the security camera angled at my face and the door pops open just enough to let me know I’m welcome. There’s a lift but I take the stairs, still needing to stretch my legs. On the landing of the third floor I’m met by my old mentor. It’s been too long. There’s a pause, something in the air, the need for an embrace. I go in for a hug but am met with a handshake. Floyd looks rugged and lean like always, just a little grayer. Two or three inches shorter than me, shorter than I remember. He’s still good looking for a guy his age. Tight, strong jaw. Thick salt and pepper mustache, the kind that works for hipsters or guys in westerns.

            “You frigging codger,” I say.

            “Well you know,” he grumbles, smiling and slapping me on the back in a way that reminds me of my grandfather. He’s wearing worn out jeans, clod in black biker boots. I wonder if that was his Triumph I saw parked out on the street.

            As we go inside I see there’s still sheets covering some of the furniture. He didn’t beat me here by much.

            “So how’s it going, Deer? Let me see that face. Still in shape I see,” he says, sizing me up with a few touches on the chin and shoulders.

            “Well, I left my ‘I paid twenty million dollars to break out of jail and got a new identity’ shirt in my other bag, but other than that, fairly good, boss.”

            “Boss,” he laughs.

            “Sorry. Habit.”

            Like a shot it occurred to me. This is Floyd’s first time to behold the new visage. Me waving to the camera must’ve been the dumbest thing… Thus the truncated laugh. Thus the arrested hug. How could he not be circumspect in manner? He had to adjust to my shorter, flatter nose; my new, thinner, green eyes. The slightly raised hairline. The dimpled chin. He knew it was me, but clearly that wasn’t making it any easier for him. I stop talking and watch Floyd watching me. His probing blue eyes are refusing to yield.

            While trying to comprehend Floyd’s state of mind, I feel someone grab me from behind. Forearm around the throat, brutally tight squeeze. My old handler’s just watching, right there in his living room. Weird. I’m starting to get lightheaded, to go all foggy. Can’t exactly ask questions, so I figure it’s time to try to not die. Throwing my head back told me that my attacker was short—strong and short—that’s about all I know. Reaching with my free arm behind won’t get me any leverage so I decide to crash into the wall behind, throwing all the weight I have in order to sandwich the assailant between me and the drywall. A grunt accompanies the concussion; the grip is finally loose enough for me to turn out of the choke.

            My eyes are cloudy, but I know who this is.

            There’s about half a second to wonder what the hell is going on before receiving a vicious kick to the liver. Everything from God to gravity tells me to go down, but somehow I come back, grabbing the attacker’s jacket and hurling two dirty uppercuts into his gut. He drops, but an attempted knee across the face is blocked and suddenly my feet are out from underneath me. I’m flying, crashing on my back—he’s already on me, reigning partially blocked punches down. This is a bad place to be. My forearms are turning to pounded meat and my wind is gone and I was never really that good at this crap anyway—

            “Alright,” I hear. Suddenly the punches stop. I look up and see a sardonic smile coming down. “You satisfied?” It’s Floyd doing the talking. I think he’s actually sitting in a chair. I’m receiving a world-class beat down and he’s positively recumbent. Gracious.

            “I’m satisfied. It’s ‘bout what I remember,” the man says, dismounting from the precarious position he had me in.

            “What the hell, Billy?” I moan, rolling around on Floyd’s hardwood. Feels like I just got taken by my little brother.

            “Sorry, Deer. Billy just wanted to make sure it was you. Called him in to help.”

            “Help what?” I ask, trying to sit up. “You know that hurts, right?”

            Billy offers a hand to get up. “Come on. You’re just out of practice. But you never could close out. Get you on the ground, it was always over.” He’s right. I got out of the game when all that ninja leg-lock ankle twisting crap was coming into vogue. Never really went in for it. Depended on my quickness and my head. And weapons. Which is why Billy remembers kicking the crap out of me when we used to spar.

            I take a minute, walking little circles in the flat with my arms akimbo, trying not to look at either of them.

            I’m bloody and pissed.

            “So I called Billy in,” Floyd says, feet up on a glass coffee table in the middle of the room.

            “Yeah, you said that.” Still wincing, I try to find a cruel rejoinder but the pain is beating back any semblance of wit. It’s a shame. The moment deserves some.

            I gather myself and get a proper look at Billy. William Kaftan, to be more accurate. Back in the day we did a lot of jobs together. It’s been years, but he looks about the same. Slight beard, a few grays starting to creep in. He’s still got the same wrestler’s build and the same pug face. A permanent who gives a crap expression. He takes a spot on the corner of the table between me and Floyd and I can see a few new scars over and around his eyes.

“Whatcha been up to, Bill?” I ask, half sarcastically.

            “Same as you, moving around a lot, doing my own thing.”

            “Yeah. Same as me.” I know he’s taking a piss, but he’s also alerting me to the fact that he’s still in the game—a freelancer. “Too many of you guys floating around these days.”

            “Well, sometimes things need getting done, Hank. Hear you’re in a bit of a spot.”

            “So you’ve watched a TV in the last two years. Good for you.”

            “What’s with the animosity, brother? Thought you’d be happy to see me. I’m happy to see you, even with that douchebag mug you got going on.”

            All the jabbering is starting to annoy. Billy’s making me feel uncomfortable, the way he likes to, so I move over to the sofa and a little more space. There’s no doubt that Floyd called him in for good reasons. Kaftan’s a top-level operator, born killer, highly proficient with tech, bombs, the works. “Yeah,” I mutter. I can see Floyd putting his hands up, looking over at Billy.

            “What’s that?” It’s Floyd. I guess he caught me mumbling.

            “Nothing,” I say. I really don’t feel like talking. Not a lie.

            “What’s the deal? You don’t want Billy?”

            I can’t take it anymore. “Billy’s fine. He’s great. Can he help? Almost certainly. The guy’s a pro. Did we need him to give me a field test to authenticate my identity? Could’ve done without that. Pretty sure I’ve been through enough shit lately. I mean the pile is mile-high. You want to keep stacking it, fine.” I reach for my pocket, my pills. I’m really getting worked up. I want a mirror to see how red my stupid face is getting. “But Billy’s only here for money, correct?”

            “That’s affirmative, big guy,” Billy says, standing up. “Floyd said you’d pay a million to each of us if we helped.” I scoff at his bulky little body. He’s got one of those shiny loud t-shirts on, the kind cage fighters wear. What a tool.

            “Floyd? Help with what? We don’t even know what’s going on here. Who’s chasing me? Why? Who killed my parents? Again, why? What’s the link? Is there a link? Can anyone in this apartment answer any of those questions?” I bury my head in my hands. I sound really over the edge. Probably need to conjure up some forced apology; Floyd’s used to this nonsense, but Billy’s probably thinking he just tussled with a full blown nutter.

            “Geez, Floyd. You didn’t say he was this bad.”

            We all look toward the source of the comment. It’s new. Female. Slight European accent.

            “Oh no,” I say.

            “Hey buddy. Nice to see the new you. Heard you shmucks might need a brain around here?”

            Great. Her.

Chapter 7: Security!

            “I need a gun,” I say. She’s entering the flat like she owns the place, like she enters every place. The gun isn’t for her, but my mind is so discomposed it’s the first thought and the only thing that comes out of my stupid mouth.

            “You’re probably going to need more than that,” she says, dropping bags by her side, setting a laptop on the coffee table so that all may huddle around and see. Plopping down on the couch she punches up a video clip circulating on the web. I see it has millions of views. That’s all I see. She’s right next to me and I have to close my eyes. No time to prepare, no warning at all that I might be in her presence. I think our legs are actually touching.

            Her name is Marie Vigier. Not her real name. She’s like Floyd, like Billy, like I used to be. Claimed to be from France, and with her slight accent, guess nobody ever had reason to doubt it. She’s not exactly the type you question. Everybody just called her Marie V. Doesn’t matter. She’s full of crap. A spy. A rogue. Most important, she’s someone I came close to being involved with. Kind of. Way back in the day. It never went all the way, though for a spell I thought it was going to ruin my marriage; you know, before I knew my wife was boning other dudes.

            Warning: Never try your hand at romance with trained killers. Especially women. First, they’re moody, secretive, and given to wild turns of emotion. And that’s just the woman part.

            The incredulity scale is redlining. What have you done, Floyd?

            “Million bucks, right?” She presses play and motions everyone over with her index fingers. It annoys me. Like saying “gather around” would be putting her out. God knows she couldn’t actually use a whole arm to signal her request. My left pocket pills are beckoning, but they’re so close to her leg they almost seem contaminated. The only recourse is to watch the screen with one eye open and fix in the fetal position.

            “What is this?” Floyd asks, leaning in. Billy’s on my right, trying to position his bulk comfortably on the armrest of the couch. I could move over, but then again, no.

            “It’s the guy that’s after the whimpering fugitive here,” she says. I open my other eye. The video is rough, like it was shot from one of those little cameras people wear on their bodies to make themselves feel important. Yeah. There’s two men in the picture, one chasing the other through a dingy urban alleyway. The man being chased turns and fires two wild shots. Amazingly, one of the bullets hits the man in pursuit.

            It’s crazy. Somebody in the background screams, “deputy’s been hit!” but the guy keeps running, rabidly, insanely. The camerawork is fitful, adding to the tension of the scene.

            “Probably had a vest on,” Billy says, trying not to be impressed.

            “Yes. But he didn’t even stop to catch his breath,” Floyd says, stroking at his mustache.

            The prey is clearly running toward a chain-link fence at the far end of the shot. As he jumps for it, the chaser throws something that connects with the guy’s head, crumpling him to the ground.

            “What just happened?” I ask.

            “Keep watching,” Marie says. There’s a note of ironic humor under her voice.

            Standing over his splayed out game, the hunter gives the body two dirty kicks to the ribs before checking for a pulse. Finally, he looks up into the camera. I’m almost surprised it’s not the face of the devil. Nope. Just a normal looking black guy, mid-thirties, shiny bald head. Handsome I guess, save the snarl on his face.

            “He alive?” asks a voice from off-camera.

            “Living. For now,” he says, applying handcuffs to the runner.

            “What’d he throw?” Billy asks.

            “His gun,” Marie says.

            “That’s idiotic,” I say. “Who throws their gun in a gunfight?”

            Before I can even get the words out, the black man is pushing his face right up into the camera’s lens. “You see that, Fellows? You’re next. I’m coming for you. Hide, run, whatever. See him?” the guy asks the camera, pointing down at the sad sack in the cuffs. It feels like we’re having a frigging conversation all of a sudden. Honestly, can the pile get any higher? “He was number two. Just a warm-up. Hope you’re watching. Get a good night’s sleep, Henry. You sick bastard.”

            The clip stops. The green in my eyes is giving way to red. “That’s not who’s been after me,” I say, trying to control my breathing. It’s self-evident—the need to seem collected and vacantly inscrutable. The room’s full of spies and cutthroats, after all.

            “So who is he?” Floyd asks, sitting up a little, peering right at Marie.

            “Yeah. That’s Deputy Trevor Hawker,” she says, patting me on the leg. “U.S. Marshals.” I recoil from the touch. “And if he wasn’t after you before, I’d say the game is officially afoot.”

            “You’re kidding me,” I say. “Hawker. Great name. Why does it sound familiar?”

            “I think you know his older brother. Former Director of the U.S. Marshals Service. James Hawker. Forced retirement after some nefarious allegations came up concerning his bank records.”

            “Wonderful.”

            “What do you mean?” It’s Floyd again, standing up now.

            “I slipped some dirty money to the guy, made it look like he was on the take.”

            “No wonder his brother’s pissed,” Billy says, ever the poignant one.

            “There’s five or six of these videos on the internet. Hundreds of millions of views. Films all his recent arrests, big time fugitives, drug traffickers, hit men. Always finishes with the same post script. He’s coming after you.” I give Marie a tacit acknowledgment, still trying to gather my wits.

            “So he’s good,” Floyd says, crossing his arms.

            “And clean,” Marie adds, closing the laptop. “As in not corrupt. I did a hard press on his background. Masters in criminology. Went to LSU undergrad on a baseball scholarship.”

            “Lemme guess,” I say. “Pitcher?”

            “No. Right fielder, I think.” Marie didn’t get my joke. She’s French, after all. “He’s about the best there is, Henry. Pushes the line of what’s legal, but as far as I can tell, this is the one guy you don’t want on your ass.”

            It’s more ominous news, but suddenly I get why the old man brought Marie here. At least she’s done some research. Not like anybody else in the room has a clue what’s going on. I get up from my seat on the couch and take a few steps toward the fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Need the separation. Need to breathe.

            Floyd’s face is heavier now. “Sorry I didn’t talk about bringing people in—look, I knew you could afford it. And you don’t have to pay me a dime.”

            “It’s okay,” I mumble, staring at the mantle. There’s three highly trained professionals behind me. Apparently a million bucks each for their services. Fine. Time to start making them earn it. “We know Hawker here is gunning for me, but let’s assume he has no idea what I look like.”

            “Cause you’d already be in chains,” Floyd says.

            “Right. Let’s assume he’s the best, eventually he catches up to me.”

            “Law of averages,” Marie says.

            I’m not looking but I can feel Billy wanting to say something. He does. “We could always just take him out.”

            “Shut up, Billy.” The three of us say it at the same time.

            After shaking my head, I continue. “Hawker here is a problem, but he didn’t kill my parents. And his guys weren’t the ones I shot in Texas. He’s law. He’s got rules. Some, anyway. Best guess, who’s been watching me, watching my lawyer, all the rest?”

            “Oh, so you get to kill guys—”

            “Shut up, Billy.” Again, three-part unison.

            “Henry, it has to do with your business.” There it is. Marie’s making sense. It’s the only thing that ever made sense. The Fellows Security Company. You can still buy the stock, though the name’s been changed. After Vietnam, my dad got married and went into the personal protection racket. Started the company with his old war buddy, Clifton Jansen. A few years go by, about the time I was born, he diversifies into armored cars. Making sure people’s valuables move discreetly from one place to another. A few more years go by, he hires a gaggle of fresh-faced nerds from the Valley to design web protection programs; before you ever the heard the term “identity theft,” our company was all over it. That end started as a luxury for the ultra-rich but before long everybody and their grandmother was looking for security. But we were ahead of the game. Grandmothers didn’t make Fellows Security a multibillion-dollar supranational.

            By the time I came aboard, our main clients were Fortune 500 companies, banks, currency exchanges, even governments. A lot has come out in the papers since my parents’ murder and my arrest, but the published information surrounding the company is spotty at best. See, there are giant corporations that have public faces, i.e. cellphone manufacturers, wholesale chains, media companies, etc. You know about them because that’s what they depend on. They tell you who they are because there’s an inherent dependency on the everyday guy. If Joe Sixer doesn’t know you make TV’s, then Joe Sixer won’t buy your TV.

            Then there’s the other kind. Like the company that has the market cornered on pesticides. Billions of dollars in revenue, but who advertises pesticides? Sure, an exposé comes out every now and then, but it all gets lost in the minutiae. Think some do-gooder and his documentary are anything next to something like that? There are multi-billion dollar companies that just make pipelines. They don’t get the gas out of the ground, don’t put their little label on it, so why would you ever know they exist? Most of time, you wouldn’t. People get their tanks filled and their houses heated and go their merry way. Just how things work. Basically that’s it. You never had your ballgame interrupted by a pipeline manufacturing commercial or a mass pesticide commercial or a commercial for Fellows Security Company. Some businesses, your clients find you. The job of our company was to be good, perfect, beyond reproach. Yeah, advertising isn’t job one, but screw up, and you’re finished. Word gets around when multi-million dollar contracts are a matter of course.

            I smile a little, thinking about joking around with some of the less uptight people at our corporate headquarters. Fellows Security, making sure your cell phone conversations never, ever, ever go away. Fellows Security, storing all your personal financial information on a server you didn’t pay for, free of charge! Fellows Security, screw with us, and we’ll open your country’s commodities markets to the hackers of the world! I even made up jingles. It really pissed my dad off. He had no idea how the company worked, in the end. The man was born in a time when a computer filled an entire room. He covered himself with the mantra, privacy and discretion is a basic human right. Really, dear old dad didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. We were way past privacy. Fellows Security was the gatekeeper for secrets. For some reason, scary people trusted us with their terabytes. Let’s just put it this way: Fellows had to help out the NSA on more than one occasion. We had government and military liaisons working right alongside. Ostensibly, we were a defense contractor. Governments worked for us as much as we worked for them. My responsibilities centered around information protection and secure data storage; hence the skills at surreptitious money manipulation. Perks.

            I know what you’re saying. Sounds crazy. Agreed. But there are pills for that.

            “But impossible,” I say, coming out of my little trance. Everyone’s staring, wondering where my mind has been.  

            “What is?” Floyd asks.

            “What Marie said. We went over this during the trial. If the murders were about getting information, we will never find them. It could literally be anybody. Anybody with secrets needing to be erased, someone who wanted access to data. Don’t you think it was my first thought? None of that crap could even come out. It’s all locked behind thousands of pages of confidentiality agreements and lawyer shit I can’t even pronounce.”

            “But it’s our best guess,” Marie says, holding a hand up, like she’s anticipating being interrupted. “Hold on. I get it. Needle in a haystack. But someone killed your parents, someone who knows things.”

            “That may well be true, but—”

            “But they didn’t get it, whatever it is they were after.”

            “You guys probably heard all this. My father wasn’t schooled in the day-to-day. He couldn’t have provided access if he wanted to.”

            “Were they tortured?” Billy asks. I’m about to tell him to shut up, but the look in his eyes stays my ire.

            “Yes, Billy. Cut up into hundreds of pieces. It was on the news.”

            “I know. But in the trial, did you ever find out if they were tortured? A cow is butchered, but it doesn’t necessarily imply torture. Get me?”

            We all look fixedly at Billy, past the vestures of a tool, blocking out the spiked up greasy hair and the shiny shirt. “Hearing you out,” I say. “But again, we thought of all this. If anyone wanted to get information they could figure out in two seconds that he was incapable of providing it.”

            “Right. But he could tell them who could. A person uniquely equipped with both the know-how and the access to get at the deep and the dark. You were COO.”

            “That’s a plausible theory. But it’s one that Nina and I explored. Again, nothing.” Annoyance is seeping into my speech. Going over old frustrations can be quite frustrating. They were terrible times, times when I still had enough hope to soldier on. Made coming up empty all the worse. My “chemical dependencies” really ramped up during those dark days.      

            “Take us through one more time, Hank.” I can see my old handler is fully engaged; might as well humor him.

            “Some real nasty guys show up. They case my parents’ estate, find a way past the guards, or pay them to take a break. This makes it look like the killer was somebody they knew, since none of the guards were touched and apparently none of them heard a damn thing.”

            “Right. And they were vetted? Thoroughly?”

            “Yeah. They were vetted. What do I look like?” Realizing I don’t want an answer to the question, I hold my hand up. “So they drill down on my folks for information, literally, God only knows what, and they can’t provide it.” My lungs reach for air. It’s easy to forget that in all the mystery and strangeness these were still the people who raised me. “So they torture them. Maybe they hurt my mom. That’d be about the only way to get that old cuss to talk. Loved her like nothing else.”

            “And he gives you up,” Marie says. “You were privy to most operations of the company at that point, correct?”

            “Yeah. I was hands-on with the programmers, in as many places as I could be at once. So operating off of Billy’s line—only thing that makes sense—they go all Nightmare on Elm Street to obfuscate any signs of interrogation. They take nothing. Leave millions in art and jewelry. Make it look very, very personal.”

            “But they screw up,” Floyd says. “Don’t realize quite the job they’re doing. Before they can get to you the police already have you in custody.”

            “Yeah. Cops had their man from the jump.” I sit back down on the stool in the corner. “If this is the way it went down—and I’m not saying it is—it’s pretty ironic. Getting pinched for their crime, the guy that they did the whole thing for.”

            “Which they didn’t know going in. Can’t assume anything, really. Could be they just blew it. Found out you were the guy they needed right then and there. The media made a big deal about your dad being the brains behind the tech. You were relatively obscure, you know. Shit happens on a job. Maybe they just got it wrong,” Marie says. She’s looking up at me now, big brown eyes. She’s changed in a few spots but I think age has made her even prettier. Shorter hair, less of that youthful weight around her jaws. All of a sudden I have the crazy notion of sitting down with her in a café around the corner, talking about the old days, watching normal people walking by. This, after going over my parents’ butchering.

            I’m a nutbar.

            “It’s a black hole,” I mutter, surveying all the thinking going on in the room. Terrains I’ve plotted time and time again.  

            “It is all very strange,” Marie says. “But I don’t know… maybe you should reach out to what’s his name—Jansen. Weren’t the two of you close?”

            “Yeah, we were close. But he doesn’t know anything, didn’t know anything.” I put a pillow over my head and think of Mr. Jansen. He was more a father to me than my actual father. A very smart guy; he used to say things in weird little ways. Taught me people skills, the way to get around people just by using words. But in the end, smarts weren’t enough for good Mr. Jansen. My dad seized more and more of the company, leaving him out in the cold. Don’t think I ever heard him say a thing during a board meeting those last few years. It bothered me, watching a great man, a founder of the company, basically marginalized. It was one of those things I used to argue with my father about. Mr. Jansen would advise me to keep my wits, don’t get overruled by emotion, that kind of thing.  Had some weird expression for it: Illegitimi non carborundum. Some bastardized Latin thing he said he picked up from a commanding officer during the war. Guess it was another way of telling a overwrought son not to get beaten down by an overstepping father. Not sure. I suck at languages. “Let’s leave Jansen out of this,” I say. “Much as I miss the old guy.”

            Marie’s not satisfied. Again she says, “I don’t know.”

            “Oh, you don’t? What we’ve got here is a nice theory, a theory that ends with the people of interest being most of the free world. That, and now you’re telling me that Captain America is on my ass—a guy who if he doesn’t shoot me will throw a ninety mile-an-hour Beretta at my head.”

            “That was pretty cool, now that I think about it,” Billy says.

            “I appreciate it, guys. Take any payment you want, but I’m out of here. Nobody else is getting caught up in this.”

            I stand up to go. Really don’t see what good any of this is. Marie hops up and blocks my way. I stop out of respect for her… you know.

“Hold it. Think I’ve got an idea—actually it’s your idea. How about you turn yourself in?”

            My shoulders slink so low I think I hear one of them hit the floor. From behind, Billy’s sounding off as well. “Something else. If we can’t kill this Trevor Hawker guy, maybe we should just kidnap him.” There goes the other shoulder.

            “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Floyd says. It sounds like he’s serious. I’ve run out of shoulders.

            Yes. This is my life.

Chapter 8: Fishing

            Can’t believe I’m doing this. Once more, sitting outside a police station. It’s Scotland Yard again, crowded as hell, right in the middle of everything. The Prime Meridian for retarded ideas. Cramped. There’s no space in London. Texas feels a planet away now. I think about my kids. They’re being watched by some decent people. I checked in with Nina earlier using a proxy, but still. Doesn’t seem like enough.

            Traffic is swishing by, throwing the wet from the street against my jacket and jeans. I’m on a motorbike I pinched about an hour ago. Two earpieces, one listening over the police channels, one listening to local radio news. Floyd’s inside one of those big white vans across the street, the kind that makes me think of trapezoids. You know, European. Ugly. It fits right in. Billy’s on some nearby roof looking down on me, checking the surrounding streets and alleys for signs of anything interesting. No idea where Marie is. I’m starting to forget the whole plan.

Plan. What a joke. This is the best that three million of my money and a team of trained agents can come up with?

            There’s a walkie in my leather coat pocket. I turn it on. “Anybody hear anything yet?” There’s nothing but silence. “Maybe I lost the tail? Or they’re not coming today? Maybe when I killed the last two—”

            “Would you shut up, Henry?” It’s Marie. Now I remember. She’s across the street, parked in a tight spot between a Bentley and an area marked for construction. Everything’s under construction over here. “We’ve only been in position for three minutes.”

            “Okay. Good point.” Yeah, probably give it a little more time. I’m just not comfortable. There’s the big box sign up ahead, the one that says New Scotland Yard. And the weird looking cops with the neon yellow coats. Guess it’s to let everyone know who they are. Mission accomplished. More women than men. Too many women cops in England. Not enough guns. Lacks a bit of teeth. Not that I would mention that to Marie. Just when I’m about to ask myself why Scotland Yard is in England, my walkie cracks. It’s Floyd.

            “Everyone, turn your radios up. Civilian.”

            I push the left earpiece in and listen to the news. It’s weird to hear a lady with a proper British accent talking about me. Can’t believe this plan is working: “According to police, there is credible evidence and eyewitness reports that the notorious American fugitive Henry Fellows is in the central London area. Please call 999 if you see or hear anything suspicious. In case you have forgotten, Fellows was convicted of brutally murdering his parents fifteen months ago. Most of you will recall that his father was the CEO of the Fellows Security Corporation and one of the world’s preeminent  philanthropists. He is also suspected of two more murders committed just outside his hometown of Fort Worth, Texas, two days ago. Fellows is an extraordinarily despicable, dangerous man.”

            That last part was a bit harsh. Anyway, I take the earpiece out before the follow-up guy chimes in. The one that follows dances on a stage of facts with fear mongering and sensationalist imagery. I can’t stomach that guy right now. He’s a real asshole.

            “Go now?” I ask, clamping hard down on the walkie. My hands are stony, turning stiff in the unrelenting London rain.

            “Do it,” I hear Floyd say. Everyone’s in position. Billy’s playing spotter. Floyd’s running the play. I’m the bait. Marie V. will be the chaser. My starting point is a curb on the right side of the road, just in front of the big office building on Broadway. I plug the headphones into the walkie and fire up the bike with a sharp kick start. Here we go.

            On a good day, driving the roads in London makes me want to kill myself. The coordination is difficult for anyone. That’s why I chose the bike. Can’t be driving with the wheel on the wrong side. Anyone who tells you the adjustment is easy is a liar. And we’ve got a possible high-speed chase in the offing. The bike will help. That, and the fact that I’m going to drive down the right side of the road. Today I will be the obstinate contrarian jerkoff every Brit pictures when they think of Americans.

            Sure, it’s idiotic. But we want to make a splash, to be noticed, to bring the wolves to the sheep. Might as well be conspicuous.

            The bike almost flies out from under as I yank the gas. Switching gears, I see a line of cars coming right for me. No free hands. All I can do is listen and wait for news of a follower—whilst trying not to die. Cars are beeping and careening every which way. The rain is coming down hard, moving down Victoria against a tide of onrushing metal.

            “Floyd, Marie. Gray Audi, A6. They’re going with him.” It’s Billy.

            I hear them confirm over the radio but can’t answer, can’t look back.

            “Okay, you know the way, right?” Billy asks, as if I can respond. “Never mind, I’m coming down off the roof. En route. See you there in ten if you’re still alive.”

            Lovely.

            Up ahead it’s going to get a bit tricky. The going is getting slow and I’m having to drive between lanes and on curbs. Profanity is in the air all around me. It almost helps. The limeys really know how to hurl the imprecations. I’m finding it strangely motivating.

            Here it comes. The roundabout around Parliament Square, only the wrong way. Give a quick nod to Churchill’s statue and skid out into the back of a red sightseer bus, downshifting the gears to get the bike going again.

            “Okay Hank, we’re on the Audi. I’m three cars back and Floyd is two cars behind me. You can get back on the right—the left side of the road anytime you want.”

            Something like spit and sarcasm is blowing through my squeezed lips as I avoid another series of life-threatening situations. Up ahead I jump over to the regular flow of traffic and cross the Thames on the Westminster Bridge. Tourists. Politicians. Regular folks. They have no idea who the maniac on the motorcycle is, and I have no intention of getting caught. Not today. There’s a slight fading din of that whiny noise European police sirens make. The sound only gets softer. No way they’re catching up.

            Slowing down, I’m able to free a hand and hit the radio. “You guys still got the tail car?”

            Marie chimes in. “Henry. You’re a crazy son of a bitch. You caused ten accidents back there, minimum.”

            Good to know. “They still with me?”

            “Yep. They’re on the bridge now. We’re not far behind.”

            “Good. See you there in a few.”

            There’s a place we’ve picked out on the south side that’s perfect. Apparently Marie used it in the past for a safe house and whatever else the job required. A little dodgy, the kind of area where people look the other way. No statues of Churchill. I can see the Audi peeking out every now and then in my little side mirror. The one that didn’t break off.

            I’m starting to put my mind to the next task now. The logic of acting like a maniac back there was to convince my pursuers that I believed I had lost them. That, and to give them no time to suspect that they themselves were the prey.

            Yeah. Well, it’s some kind of logic.

Chapter 9: Memories

            Believe it or not, the ridiculous plan to capture my pursuers was a huge success. It was great. I turned into a dead-end street that felt like Jack the Ripper’s home away from home. Dark. Smelly. Rainwater and foulness collecting in little pools of broken concrete. A mixture of stone and brick walls rising up on both sides.

             Took off my helmet and shook out my hair, playing like I had triumphantly eluded the bad guys. Then made a show at throwing myself up against a sheet metal door as they turned down the alley to box me in.

            Then the enjoyment of watching my compatriots box in the boxers.

            I was surprised at how good I was at faking. Kind of stupid for a person that’s been pretending to be another person. A person who used to be a freaking covert operative.  

            Everything should be copacetic. It’s answer time, get to the bottom of things time, but once again I’m clutching for pills.

            I can see Floyd, Marie and Billy tying up a man and woman to chairs in the middle of a room that has the feel of a medieval dungeon.

            I can see them, but things are getting hazy. It’s hard to tell if it happens fast or slow, but my world is different all of sudden. It’s hotter. Like an oven. The sweat is pouring off my chin and the tips of my burnt fingers and the ends of my hair. I’m in a chair. Unable to move. Somebody is hurling questions; they seem to be coming in my direction. I can feel the urging cries, like the next thing I say will determine the fate of the human race. It’s a scene straight out of hell. Imagined or real, I can’t say for sure.  

            Then I’m back. Looking at Floyd, who’s looking at down at me with a face that says, what the hell Henry?

            “What happened?” I ask, moving fingers and toes. They’re kind of numb, like my brain. “What’s with the third degree?”

            “What third degree?” he asks.

            “The questions and the yelling? Not cool, man.”

            Floyd’s face is doing an epiphany thing. Like he’s figured out how to turn water into wine. “Oh. I get it,” he says.

            “Obvious you’re getting something. Why don’t you curl your mustache and dance a jig while you’re at it? I’m freaking out over here.” Behind Floyd the noises of a full-on interrogation are firing off. It’s starting to get ugly. My eyes squint down as the sound of flesh and bone being pounded reverberates around the room. “Have they given us anything?”

            “It’s just starting—Deer, you know how these things go. Let’s go upstairs. Marie’s got an apartment up there. Beats the hell out of this pit.”

            They’re starting to scream. Part of me wants to join in, but the other part is following my old mentor up creaky wooden stairs and into a drastically different environment. Fancy. Loft style, I guess. Modern kitchen and amenities, intentionally scuffed up hardwood. Turning around I see Floyd closing a heavy cast iron door that’s flush with the floor. A carpet and couch has been moved, obviously there for concealment. “How’d we get into the cellar?” I’m trying to decide if I’m waking up from a nightmare or just plain losing it… again.

            “You were just in this room, Henry. For God’s sake, it was less than five minutes ago.”

            To another person this might elicit shock. I answer with a casual nod.

            “This is Marie’s place… one of them,” Floyd says. “You know—the plan?”

            It’s all still wearing off. Like I was dosed with drugs. Different than the ones I’m dosed on. “Lost time or something.”

            “No, kid. I’m thinking you went back for a minute or two.”

            “Back to—” My mouth stops moving as the realization comes home. Floyd’s in front of me, clear as day, but he’s not Floyd. He’s the shrink from the agency. Not the good one my family endowment paid for. The onsite shrink, some 28-year-old captain with too little experience and too many freaked out soldiers on his docket. I’d been fifty days inside some bunker when they finally got me out. That was their estimate, anyway. Beaten. Starved. Beaten some more. Used a cheese grater to grind layers of skin off. After it was over, they made me talk about it. I heard some poor bastards going on about waterboarding being the worst of it. Nah. The electrocution was worse. You could smell the hair on your balls as it singed. And the trunk. Metal. Like an oven. Not big enough for even a small guy to fit in. Nothing left of the skin of your knees and elbows. Then they’d lift you up and drop you while you were still in it. The concussions. Like nothing I’ve ever felt since or after. The questions. As if I knew anything. Can’t remember. Whatever. They drugged the hell out of me—amphetamines to keep me awake in the box, pentothal to ask me questions—pretty sure they even dosed me with LSD-25 and mescaline one time or another just to make it interesting. Hard to really say. Time wasn’t exactly a “thing” in there. And they didn’t use labels.  

            “You with me, Deer? Come on, kid.”

            “Hey, Floyd.” It’s him and the present again. The young overwrought doctor’s evaporated. I’m back, as much as I can be. “I’m with you. That was weird.”

            “Guess taking prisoners triggered one of your bad times.”

            “Guess it did.” I shake my head and stomp my feet out. Gravity seems a more pressing thing but I’m fighting through it. Bad times. Nice way to put it.

            “Maybe let us do the questioning,” Floyd says, putting a hand to my shoulder. It feels equal parts fatherly and condescending. “Not like we haven’t done this kind of thing before.” He’s a good man in his own way, I suppose. Trying to protect me, doing the best he can to, anyway. Afraid it’s a little late for that.

            “True,” I say, gathering momentum. “But I want it done quick, and I’m the only one that’s been on both sides of the equation.” Check my watch. Reach for my left—my right pocket. Down a couple pills. Floyd’s eyebrows are almost touching his hairline from doubt-face. “Mind getting me some water to wash these down?”

            “Sure.” He goes toward the kitchen. “What about a beer?”

            “Even better.” It sucks that he had to see me like that. I make a mental note to pay him a little more. Money. Nothing it can’t buy.

            Right.

            After Floyd lifts the big basement door we descend back into Marie’s underground chamber. The beer is shaking in my hand but my senses have mostly recovered. I notice a long workbench on the wall to my left, a vice and other tools used for fashioning bullets. The right wall is covered with weapons. Pistols, shotguns of every type, fully automatic assault rifles and even a couple of handheld rocket launchers. It’s all pretty cliché. Next to the heavy stuff is what makes Marie somewhat unique in the business. Knives. There must be hundreds: small, long, serrated, hooked, Chinese, American military. Antiques. It’s an encyclopedia as much as a display case. Almost forgot how much she loved her blades, how good she is at using them.

            The room is bigger than I thought; the cage they’ve got the two captives in only takes up a small portion of the space. Behind it I see two great looking cars, one being a vintage Aston Martin.

            “Never got over your James Bond thing, did you, Marie?” I ask it like we’re not in a torture chamber, like she hadn’t just hit a guy with a telephone book across the dome.

            To anybody but her, the question might’ve seemed ill-timed. She rolls with it. “Only Englishman ever worth a damn.”

            “Connery?” I ask.

            “Are you kidding?” she says, slamming the guy harder this time. Insulting question, I suppose.

            “Connery is Scottish,” Billy says, surprising us. He’s working on the woman. It’s on purpose. Women are more easily intimidated by men, no matter what the torture pamphlet says. Either that or irritated. Especially by a professional chauvinist like Billy. Marie’s working the guy, because men have an ego thing about getting tuned up by women—again, no matter what the pamphlet says.

            There’s a small table and chair in the corner of the cage. I set my beer down momentarily and hop up on the table. Floyd sits down in the chair, just to my right. Everything seems to stop for a moment. Suddenly I realize this is my operation. Marie and Billy are waiting for my cues; I am writing the checks, after all. The two captives are looking at me because I was their objective.

            “How we doing so far?”

            “Their papers are right next to you on the table,” Billy says. “No radios. The car was clean. Forms in the glove box say it’s a rental.”

            “Prints?” Floyd asks.

            “They were wearing gloves when we nabbed them,” Marie says, shrugging.

            “Don’t bother dusting,” I say. It’s just for the captives to hear. “We have their hands right here. If we don’t get ID, then we’ll just cut them off. Can do that later.”

            Mr. and Mrs. chase car are still upright in their chairs, defiant, pretending to enjoy themselves. Everybody in the room knows they’re not enjoying themselves, but I understand. That’s what you do when you get caught. Act like the world’s biggest badass. Standard Operating Procedure.

            It’s easy to be stoic when you’ve only been hit ten or twenty times. Hopelessness hasn’t had time to sink in, to start asking its gnawing little questions of you.

            I look at the floor and then into the woman’s eyes. She’s pretty, or was, five minutes ago. There’s hardly any blood on her blouse or under the chair. She’s got a ways to go. “We’re not going to kill you,” I say. There’s really no way to be original in these situations. “But we will let you die. Blood loss. Dehydration. Whatever. Come on. You guys are professionals, not very good ones, but professionals. Just tell me who it is that’s got you running around after me and we’ll let you go. Hell, name your price. I’ll double it.” I slide off the table and kneel down just make sure I’ve never seen either of these mutts before. They’re young. Cardboard cut-outs. Little toy soldiers. Can’t say I have.

            Nothing but defiant eyes, piss-off expressions. “Okay then,” I say. “Loosen them up a little for me, Billy.”

            Walking out of the room I grab my beer and stride as nonchalantly as I can, like I could walk in and out of this cage a million times and it would never get old. Like a machine just off the assembly line and my only function is to walk in, get answers, and leave. It’s all theater. My insides are churning over from snapshot memories and phantom pain.

            As the pummeling recommences, I take a few steps from the cage. Marie’s screaming questions, Billy’s using the girl’s body for a punching bag. Suddenly it all goes wrong again. I’m hearing the sounds, but it’s like before. Like I’ve stepped through one of those worm holes and entered another plane—this one has me being questioned in a cage.

            I can still hear Billy, still smell the fresh blood of the interrogation, but I can’t tell if it’s my blood or the two toy soldiers’.

            My beer drops. I can barely tell, but the sound of broken glass is unmistakable. I’m seeing even more now, though I don’t know why. My time in the box, the time spent being throttled and drugged and hung on a meat rack.

            This is not some metaphysical journey into a parallel universe. No Einstein Bridge. It ain’t that interesting. Just recovering memories, memories taken away once by plain old trauma or plain old guilt. Plain old drugs.

            “Stop,” I say, turning back toward the cage. Billy and Marie can see the epiphany face I’m wearing, probably about the same as the one Floyd was wearing earlier. “Pretty sure I know who’s after me.”

            “Really?” Billy says. There’s a bit of disappointment in his voice, like I just filched his last token at the batting cages. What a tool.

            “You know who killed your folks, then?” Marie asks.

            For the first time in a while all is quiet. Everyone’s looking at me, pining for the punch line. Even the two kids seem interested.

            “Yeah. It was me.”

Chapter 10: Therapy

            Remember Chris? You know, the guy who asked me what was what back at the nuthouse. Guess I forgot to mention that the nuthouse wasn’t the end of our relationship. He ended up working for me, actually. Figured he was owed something after shaking a suicidal back to a garden-variety depressive. Maybe it was obligation, maybe there’s no good thing in me, but right now I think my mind’s searching its archives to find anything clean or decent in the past.

            So a rich kid gives a guy a job? Yeah, I’m not exactly Santa Claus, but in the end it was a good thing to do. Weeks after my release, I went back to the hospital and offered him a security position at our corporate headquarters in Dallas. Initially he said no, thinking (not unwisely) he had a crazy stalker on his hands. Threw out a figure anyway— hundred thousand bucks a year. As before, he told me to “get my mess together.” Didn’t believe a thing, not about the job, not about who I was. I nodded and put my hands up, told him to check me out.

            Three days later, he traded in the hospital garb for a suit and tie, helping handle security for one of the largest downtown office buildings in the state. After a year of passing polite hellos he was moved up the ladder, taking charge of my personal security. It was then that we became close. Chris had been in the service too, falling into the army after a troubled youth. He “got his mess together” in the military, the same place mine was made. We never again spoke about the nuthouse, but we did talk; Chris knew a little about the things I did, the little I could tell him. He had his own tales of blood and guts but he was too dignified to share anything but humble vagaries.

            One night on a business trip in Chicago we went out and got hammered, listening to good blues in some basement bar until four in the morning. We swapped inflated woman stories and fish stories and I said thank you and he said thank you and the next day we woke up hung over and pretended that our night of bonding didn’t mean anything.

            As you do.

            Guess I’m thinking about him right now because he was one of the only people that believed in my innocence. The image of his pained face watching me in cuffs is a mainstay in my memory shanty. The authorities made it a spectacle. Came up to my office on the top floor with all kinds of guys. Like they were hauling in frigging Al Capone or something. Instinctively, Chris tried to stop them, barring the door to the conference room with his massive body while some blue-jacketed grandstander yelled “warrant!” from the other side of the glass. The whole thing was ridiculous. It’s not like I was making a dash for it. It was a frigging budget meeting. My arrest came between quarterlies and coffee. I urged Chris to let them through; the police were going to do what they do. Read me my rights and everything. I told him to call my loving wife while a gaggle of imperious drones escorted me to the elevators and down to the front of the building. Of course, the cops had the integrity to alert the media that I was getting taken in; a truly dizzying amount of cameras and reporters greeted me on the forced walk to the cars. I can still hear the chorus of questions, feel the anxiety and stress, see the look of my friend Chris when they took me away.

            Chris would be nice to have around at the moment, but he’s on the other side of the ocean. Hope he’s doing well. Hope he still has a job with whatever it is they call Fellows Security Company now.

            I’m not doing well. Still waffling from post-epiphany shock. Then there’s the two captives in the basement and the question of what to do with them. They’re down there stewing in the what’s next, probably imagining all the different kinds of impending horrors yet to be visited on them from the baleful Henry Fellows. That’s all they know about me, my name. My vicious, checkered past. That’s what I’m trying to explain to Marie, Floyd and Billy. They’re having a hard time understanding me.

            “So why aren’t we tuning these pricks up, again?” Billy asks. He’s standing in between Marie and Floyd, arms crossed. We’re all packed into the little kitchen space of the loft. They want answers. Another beer is the only thing on my mind. Sometimes booze mixes well with the pills.

            “Because,” I say, cracking open another Newcastle. “He wouldn’t have told them anything. He’s too good. They won’t even know who they’re working for.”

            Floyd’s carrying himself cautiously, but he’s clearly agitated. “Who we talking about here?” he asks, fiddling with his mustache again. “You’re freaking me out, Deer. A minute ago you said you killed your folks. Are we dealing with some kinda schizoid type situation here?” He takes a second to look me up and down, leaning away, like I’m a brand of wild animal needing to be tagged and tranquilized. “You aren’t saying that you’re He, right?”

            “They never found his body.” I’m mumbling now, head down, dangling by the neck.

            “What body?” Marie asks.

            “Never found his body.”

            “Okay, if I can’t beat it out of you, I’m gonna go back downstairs and beat on somebody. They may be stupid but at least they’re sane,” Billy says, striding over to the door in the floor.

            “Never found his bo—”

            A slap across my drooping fake face brings me back. Sometimes the booze really screws with the pills. Floyd delivered the blow. He’s got a hold of each of my shoulders. I can smell the Old Spice wafting from his old man-ness. “Whose body?”

            “Marks.” One name. One syllable. It’s all that needs saying. For a while now I can go over to the couch and check out. Taking a seat and another pill and another sip of beer. The sound of a debate thickens. The others can see the no vacancy sign pinned on my head. On and on they talk.

            “Marks is dead.” Don’t think so.

            “Stover Marks?” Yep.

            “I thought he lost it in that big bombing in Lebanon? Or was it Syria?” Iraq.

            “Think it was Iraq.” Yep.

            “Yeah. That was a bad one. He was good agent. Kinda nuts though.” Yeah.

            “He ran a couple ops I was on back in the day. Ran it hard. But his people trusted him. Not the friendliest sort, really cut and dry. But his family and all. Bad stuff.” Yes it was.

            “Who was he with?” Does it matter anymore?

            “Does it make a difference? Remember which outfit you were with at the time?” Thank you.

            “They found the remains of his wife. The two little girls.” Indeed they did.

            “Closed casket.” They’d pretty much been cremated by the blast.

            “And Marks? His casket?”

            “It was empty,” I say, checking back in. “That’s what I heard, anyway. That’s what they told me after I got out.”

            “Was he running you, there at the end, Hank?” Floyd asks.

            There’s nothing left but to spill it. “Never met him, never actually shook hands or whatever, but he was in charge of the operation to capture—I don’t know, Muhammad al—can’t remember. I had the follow. Thirty yards from that radical psycho, and then nothing. Somebody had me. It was amateur. Me, I mean. Should’ve killed myself, bit my tongue off and choked on it the second it happened. Would’ve been the honorable thing.”

            The room feels colder now. The three around me are all hiding, covering up, trying not to imagine what they would’ve done in the same scenario. Denial is a prerequisite for the types I used to run with, the ones I’m running with now. Deny it could ever happen to you. Deny that you’re in danger, deny that you can be killed or captured because you’re just so good. Deny the enemy could ever break you, no matter what, no matter how long.

            “I broke. Gave up his name.” I can feel the judgment, watch countenances falling around me.

            Coughing to stifle his disappointment, my old handler puts his hairy arms up in a manner that commands me to explain.

            So I do. I tell them about the things that were done to me, the constant barrage of physical and psychological torture, the broken English spat my way, the screaming tirades in Arabic flying back and forth across whatever room I was in. As I give an accounting of my time in captivity, more and more comes back. Baseball day. Five hours straight of being nailed in the good part of my thighs with a wooden bat. The psychos loved it, using American things to torture Americans. That day sucked, but it wasn’t atypical or anything. Hands hung from a hook, one turban counting down the seconds, then another delivering the blow. That was the program; a swing every minute for five hours. The torture was in the monotony of it, knowing it was coming every sixty seconds, not knowing it would be five hours. Every now and then they’d lower the apparatus holding me up so that my feet could touch the ground. It wasn’t for relief. The addition of weight to all those frayed nerves and capillaries caused them to singe with a whole new type of pain. Gotta give it to the turbans; they were pretty colorful with their sadism. Some like to label it religious extremism, but I think it all comes down to enjoying your work. Worst part was listening them try to say Louisville Slugger with their rapid-fire Bronze Age accents. Yeah I know. Racist. Torture can make an ass out of you.

            The waterboarding. Days or weeks with no sleep. The box. The flaying. Usual stuff. It wasn’t a special case. Maybe I held out longer than most, maybe not. Are there statistics for that kinda thing? Actually, forget I said that. There is a department that comes up with statistics for that kinda thing. A department comprised entirely of people that have never had so much as a fingernail yanked out.

            When the extraction team came, there wasn’t much left of my body. It had taken Floyd and every resource at his disposal to locate me. As I tell them the rest of the story I remember him looking, seeing what they’d done. It was the more disheartening than the torture. Pity in his eyes. I’m pitiful all over again.

            “Afterward, you said you hadn’t given them anything,” he says.

            “I know. I didn’t remember it. Swear to God I didn’t remember.”

            “And now?”

            “Being down there, watching those two kids about to get the same business…”

            “It came back,” Marie says. Her expression is complicated, contorted by a mix of understanding and disgust. She’s seeing me as a talker. Nobody’s proud of a talker.

            “You told them, then? Where they could find Marks?” Billy asks.  

            “Must’ve.”

            “Meaning?”

            “They’d been asking, weeks and weeks, the same damn questions. Who’s running the operation, who’s in charge?”

            “So you told them?”

            I want things to be simple, to shut Billy up, but it’s not simple. “Must’ve,” I repeat. “Don’t remember talking, but I must’ve. They came in, threw a picture of Marks and his and family at my feet and pissed all over it. Thanked me. Fed me for the first time in days. That, I do remember.”

            “How the hell you forget all that?” Billy asks.

            There’s a million rejoinders to Billy’s question, but none are complete, none are whole. It’s an inscrutable situation; all of it. “Don’t know how I forgot. Only that I did. And now I remember.”

            “But you don’t recall talking?” Marie asks. She doesn’t want to admit to my defeat. Marie’s not a complex animal. She needs things simple so she can know what to do next. This simply ain’t.

            “No—it’s just a fog of beatings and smells, hell without end, amen.”

            Floyd sits down, still stroking his mustache. He’s got a beer of his own now. “It explains a lot, your current mental state.”

            “What are you, a shrink now?” I ask, realizing I’m on a couch and he’s in a chair opposite me.

            “It computes, is all. Like you been carrying the weight of something around, not knowing what it is, not knowing how to face it. All the therapy and pills in the world aren’t gonna treat something if you can’t even remember it. It’s like you had a tiny little knife scraping the walls of a secret room in your brain. For some reason we just found the key.”

            “Wonder how many other secret rooms there are,” I say, reaching for more pills. “And if there’s a knife up there, it ain’t out yet.”

            “So what about the rest?” Billy asks, pushing my feet off the end of the couch to make room. What a tool. “The rest, Henry? How can you be sure this is Marks?”

            Having stumbled over very few absolutes in my time, I’m reticent to use the word sure.

            But I’m sure.

            “It all just came together. Those pushed down memories. And then the guys from the BMW. One said I was a traitor. The other said that me and my whole family were dead. Didn’t make sense at the time.”

            “How’s that?” Billy asks, looking over at Floyd and Marie. Looking like he’s sitting next to the most inept human on the planet.

            “It happened fast,” I say. “They seemed like henchmen. Average at best. You ever put hard stock in the last words of henchmen?”

            They all look at each other, shrugging. I can see their acquiescence. Last words are usually crap. Henchmen’s last words are absolute trifles. Except now, it would seem.

            “Okay, Deer. From now on you gotta start communicating. Like, everything. No matter how innocuous, no matter how fatuous it may sound.”

            “Yep.”

            “It plays,” Marie says, taking an old frumpy chair next to Floyd. “Wanting to keep you from turning yourself in, to kill you himself. The revenge plot. It’s simpler. Have to say I hadn’t thought of it.”

            The more turns it takes in my head the more it starts to stick. Thought figuring out who was after me would give me some relief. Not so.

            “Stover Marks. He might literally be the worst person in the world you want on your ass. Heard some weird stuff about that dude,” Billy says. I chuckle and feel a tear leak out of my right eye. So many things. Me and Billy having the exact thought at the exact moment. Having to admit my failure as a man, my complete and utter failure. Inept is right. The kind of ineptitude that got innocent people killed. An assassin, no—a trainer of assassins—exacting slow and horrifying vengeance on me and my family. My family.

            “Right now I need to make a call,” I say, getting up to fish a new burner from my bag on the kitchen counter. No more time to sit around ruminating on my inadequacies as a warrior or a man.

            “Call? Who?” Marie asks, coming up behind me, gently. Have to say I’m surprised by her manner. She’s being pretty understanding through all this. Never could figure her out.

            As the SIM card snaps into place, I look at her and then the rest of my compatriots. “Just want you guys to know, if you stay in, I’ll pay double. If not, I’ll wire you what I owe right now.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Billy says, standing up from the couch. “Who you calling there, big guy?”

            “Deputy Hawker. Captain YouTube. We need his help.”

Chapter 11: Astronaut

            “Hello?”

            “Deputy Trevor Hawker?”

            “Who in hell is this?”

            “This is Henry Fellows. The murderer. Please don’t hang up.”

            “Who?”

            “You know… number one?”

            “Look creep, I don’t know how you got this number, but stick it.”

            “Wouldn’t you like to know how I got this number? You are kind of a cop, aren’t you?”

            “You could’ve got it from a card I handed out at one of a million places. Call again and I’ll bust your ass.”

            I hear nothing. That was brief.

            My three cohorts are standing around me, all manifesting particular brands of nervousness. Floyd, as usual, is letting his fingers dance through his mustache. Billy’s doing that neck-rolling thing guys with too many muscles do. Marie V’s biting her fingernails. I think they’re scared of Hawker. Even spooks get spooked.

            “That didn’t sound good,” she says.

            “How’d he come off?” Billy asks.

            “Really well, actually,” I say. “Pretty sure he’ll be phoning real soon to invite me to dinner with his family.”

            “Did the press ever find out—you know, ‘bout you dumping that money into his brother’s account?” Floyd asks.

            “Nope.”

            “Go there.”

            I nod at the old man, hitting redial on the burner. Sweat is pouring from my face; I can’t blow this.

            “Alright, you son-of-a-b—”

            “Deputy Hawker. I know you want to know how I screwed your brother over. Let’s make a deal.”

            The line falls silent. I can hear him breathing, calculating what to say, whether he should say anything at all.

            I don’t wait. “Look superstar, I’m sure you’re getting all kinds of whack-jobs calling up the office, messing with you at home. What’d you expect? Frigging internet shenanigans.”

            More breathing.

            “Trying to be a hero, Hawker?”

            It isn’t going well. But it was never going to. I’ve just got to convince him to stall his rage for enough time to think.

            “What do you know about my brother?”

            Progress. “I know him and a bunch of the others lit out of the DOJ about as fast they could. There was an account, a bunch of money. My money. Congress was bound to pick up on the scent. He made the smart play.”

            “When I find you—”

            “Look. I’m gonna find you. Turn myself in.”

            “Is that right?”

            “And when I do, I’m going to admit to screwing with those bank accounts. Clear your brother, or whatever you guys want. Sorry about the whole thing. Not like I wasn’t up against it.”

            “What’s the catch?” He’s gone from pissed to bored. Like making deals isn’t his thing. Probably isn’t. The guy takes bullets in the chest for fun. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, on the road, trying to get some with his wife. I don’t where he is or what time of the day he’s living in. We’re in frigging England.

            “I need you to get my family. They’re in danger. Don’t know where you are, but call the Texas field office and put them in protective custody. Is there a Texas office?”

            “Oh so now you want to protect the family.”

            Yeah, I get the jab. I’m a butcher, a menace. It’ll take more than a phone call’s convincing to get him off that tack.

            “Fellows, are you saying you’re coming after your family? What is this, like an irresistible impulse you’re begging me to stop?”

            “There’s no time for this, Hawker.”

            “Hey!”

            “Just look up the name Stover Marks. You’ll probably get nothing, but if you have any real connections, you may find something at the bottom of the rabbit hole.”

            “And who is he?”

            “He’s the guy who killed my parents. I mean, I’m close to positive, anyway. Lately he’s the guy who’s been trying to kill me. His attempts aren’t going well. The next move will be for my family. And you, bright eyes, since you made yourself an internet sensation, he’s probably gonna kill you just to make sure you don’t get in his way. Amazed you’re not dead already.”

            A bit of a scoff forces its way through the line. Can’t say I blame the guy. “What the hell is going on, Fellows? I honestly can’t tell if you’re crazy or something else entirely.”

            “Makes two of us, pal. Sending you an email. All I have on Marks. It’s not much. Get to my family, Hawker.”

            “Hey when do you—”

            “You’ll be contacted soon. Don’t waste time, and watch your ass. Sorry to involve you, but you shouldn’t have made those videos. Kinda dumb. Fellows out.”

            The tail-end bravado was done out of instinct. Something tells me this guy wants nothing more than someone to challenge the fact that he’s the best, he’s the smartest guy in the room, whatever. Men and their egos. I get it. Used to have one myself.

            Sometimes men’s egos move mountains. Think of the sack it took to sally forth to the moon. They say it was rocket propulsion and math, but all of that crap played second fiddle to ego. On the other hand, ego can make men do nothing. Make a guy discard everything he just heard because he’s too clever or too full of pride.

            “Hope he’s an astronaut,” I say. Not like I got a lot of other options.

            “What?” Marie asks.

I reach down into my pockets for you-know-what.

            “So what’s next?” Billy asks. He looks like he’s ready to do something. Pretty sure I know what it is. Pretty sure I’m not okay with it.

            “We’re not gonna kill the youngsters.” I can see Marie starting to hold her hands out in exasperation. She stops herself. Let’s me talk. “You know anyone in town you trust enough to watch over them?”

            “I’ll make some calls. But not cool, Hank. This is a nice out-of-the-way spot for me. You know how long it takes to get set up in a city. Now it’s blown.”

            “Marie. Get a cabin on a lake. Without a dungeon. Paying you enough.”

            She walks off to the bedroom while I sit back down, looking at Billy and Floyd. “Thinking we need to bring Al in on this one. In case Hawker doesn’t get the job done. You still know how to get in touch, Boss?”

            The day’s events seem have taken a toll on the old guy. He looks ragged, years stolen in a day. “I suppose. Question is, should we? You know how Al can be.”

            “Exactly. Kinda the point. This is my family. No chances. Marks could be on them already.” The thought makes the shakes run down my arms and legs. Pills. “Make the call. Billy, come with me. Need to shore up some transport.”

            “Okay. Where we going?”

            “You’re going to Switzerland to kidnap a doctor for me. We’ll meet up in the Caribbean.”

            “What?”

            “I’ll tell you where to find him. And be nice. He’s a good guy.”

            “What am I doing this for again?”

            “Need to get my face back.”

Chapter 12: Awake

            How long’s it been? No freaking clue. It’s different now, that much is clear. It seemed like an eternity, all the memories, the unconscious consciousness that you call sleep, but further down, darker. Nebulous visions of my childhood, innocence mixed with so-called traumas that are really just part of being a kid. The re-creation of my parents’ crime scene, stepping over plastic bags and little evidence markers on that bloody stage of some psycho’s performance, men floating around in blue uniforms asking me questions, me not having any answers, images all twisted and wrapped around each other.

            Strange. Laying down, bright lights raging overhead, buzzing fluorescence burning off the slime, that sticky substance that chokes thought. I get it. I’ll parcel that all up, shove it to the back, try and forget what needs forgetting.

            Crap, my face hurts.

            “How you doing, son?”

            Thank God. It’s old Floyd, but I can barely see him. It’s like coming out of the womb, or how I imagine that would be.

            “You’ve been out for eight hours.”

            Eight hours? What about the eternity I was just talking about? He can’t be right. No. I was away for a long time, down in the dark—

            “You remember, right? You told the doc to put you out just enough. Your orders.”

            Stupid orders. What’s going on? Are my kids okay? The ex? Why can’t I get anything out of—

            “Don’t try to talk. They got you bandaged up like a damn mummy. Gotta say, it looks like hell. Couple days, maybe, but you can’t go around like that for a while.”

            He’s right. About the talking. My lips and every muscle that would make them function seem to be paralyzed by drugs, reset bones, cuts, or pure pain. Still, gotta try and communicate. Shake your right hand. Sack up, Henry. There you go. Keep shaking.

            “I don’t understand.”

            Keep shaking.

            “Kid, what do you need?”

            Floyd. Use your thinking cap. It’s starting to cramp.

            “You want pills?”

            Finally.

            “We’ll get you fixed up, but this doc says they won’t react well with the drugs you’re already on.”

            I make a fist. Shake it as menacingly as I know how.

            “Okay. I’ll tell him to figure it out.”

            They should’ve made us learn sign language. I open up my hand and wave it in little circles, like you do when you want someone to spill.

            “So apparently that deputy character got to your family. He’s with them now. Our man is watching over the protective detail, keeping his distance, says they’re decent but not the best he’s ever seen. You want to keep him on it?

            My hand makes a thumbs up. Damn right I want to keep him on it. It makes sense that Floyd is apprehensive about using his name. He’s talking about Al, a specialist amongst specialists in our line of work. The kind of guy op runners like Floyd try to stay away from. Guess you could call him a wild card. Don’t want to paint him with the crazy brush, but overly-zealous might be a fitting description. One could generously refer to folks like myself and Al as idiosyncrasy collectors. If we were characters, he’d be Patton and I’d be the dude in Johnny Got His Gun.

            Floyd’s also got some history with Al to draw from. There was one deal, think it was the extraction of a political dissident being held hostage by a radical Islamic group. They needed this mug to lead the moderates, you know, prop up some wannabe government over there that had little to no chance of survival. Dude was a sheikh or imam, whatever it’s called. The place he was being held in was a veritable fortress. Fifteen turbans had this guy under lock and key, probably to chop his head off or some such. Floyd and his people couldn’t get the okay to go in. No reliable intelligence. No decent points of ingress or egress. In our business, that’s when you say abort.

            Al didn’t care.

            He just waded on in. Alone. Five grenades, a machine-gun, and a really big knife was all he needed.

            The rescue ended in success, kind of. Al picked up the guy, frazzled as heck, threw him over his shoulder and handed him off to the extract team. Problem was, after witnessing the complete and total carnage left in the wake of one sole American, the moderate was radicalized and ended up becoming one of our biggest enemies in the region. Pissed off the brass something fierce.

            Always thought that assessment was a little unfair.

            When asked to recount his actions, Al replied simply, “I killed the bad guys.”

            Always thought that his assessment was fair.

            I have to admit to some inherent bias. Like the sheikh, Al threw me over his shoulder and rescued me from the torture bunker I was in. Kind of puts me irrevocably in his corner. Floyd on the other hand—just a bit too much bureaucrat in him to appreciate the bluntness of an instrument like Al.

            I’m not done. I use my left hand to simulate a notepad and my right to signal for a pen to write down some more questions. He looks annoyed but leaves the room to look around. God knows what out-of-the-way dump we’re in. Too much pain to remember.

            Moments go by before he comes back in. I try to see through the gauze and shakily pen my queries.

            Where are we?

            “Montserrat. Caribbean. Like you said. There’s nobody around, no problems.”

            Volcano.

            “Yeah, we’re in the exclusion zone. Can’t say it’s the most comforting thought, but we’re definitely off-the-grid. Only you would pick an active disaster area for a safe house. We talked about this before, Deer.” Not sure what he’s braying about. Seems like a half-abandoned island is a perfect out of the way destination. Assuming lava doesn’t come seeping through the walls.

            Drugs.

            “Yeah, they got you on some serious stuff.”

            NO. DRUGS.

            “The doc’s coming. The poor guy needed a break. Billy has a bag over his head at all times so he can’t see any of us. Only takes it off so he can work on you. Most of the time he mutters in Swiss.”

            French. You guys are assholes.

            “Eh, it’s for the best. Billy would want to kill him otherwise.”

            Where exactly are the kids?

            “Little ranch outside of Fort Worth, southwest of the city.”

            How many acres? Approaches?

            “I don’t know all the details. I mean, it’s a frigging ranch or whatever. Probably approach it from damn near anywhere.”

            Is Hawker there?

            “Al says no. Zero signs of danger. Some other deputies are keeping an eye out, sounds like. Important thing is the kids are there, with your ex and that husband of hers.”

            I’m done laying around. Yanking out the needle from my left arm causes an eruption of noises from the little machine next to me. Floyd tries to hold me down but even his meaty hands and forearms aren’t enough to get it done. Shoving him off, I point to the door of the makeshift operating room. He gets the picture. It’s the picture of a mummy in a half-cinched hospital gown with his junk hanging out.

            We’re leaving. It doesn’t sound like Hawker knows what he’s doing; either that, or he just doesn’t care enough. If he did he would be onsite to nail the thing down. It’s possible he doesn’t believe it was me calling. That was the idea behind getting my face back. It was a precaution. Now it seems my fears were justified. I look in the mirror, expecting to see my old self. Nothing. Just puss and blood covered with layers and layers of gauze and bandages. Good lord. So much for recognizing me. Doctor!

Chapter 13: Asshat

            Back in Texas. Got to say, never would’ve predicted having to come home so soon. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Fear and chemicals are sloshing around. Tried to eat, but it made me sick. How do you eat when your kids are in danger? No matter how crazy, regardless of the escaping and running and wigging out, my children can’t see the real bad side of this thing. I’ve screwed up their lives enough. There was a time when I thought I’d never look on them again. Now it’s all I want in the world. Billy says we’re still working on a hunch. Floyd’s still worried about my sanity, Al’s sanity. Real team unity.

            Have to say, Marie V’s been good. While I was being turned back into the old Henry, she’d been looking into the Stover Marks thing. True, she said, they never found the body. She was clever enough to hack into some agency report following the death of his family. Most of it was redacted, but it did explain that a prominent western businessman (Marks’ cover) in the middle east was targeted at random by a local independent terrorist group. Several news websites picked up on it, just for a moment in time, just another tragedy in a sandy sea of violence and degradation. There were a few pictures of the scene, a few little parts of a few little innocent bodies. Made my stomach turn again. My fault.

            “It’s suspicious,” she admitted. “You know, how much this thing doesn’t tell us.”

            Yeah. Spy shit. Sucks like that.

            We’re landing at a little airport in Cleburne, Texas after one stop in Cancun. I had a Raytheon Premier 1A jet sitting in Montserrat for emergencies. It’s a thing. If you’re rich and on the run, you need different types of planes in different types of places. This one’s small enough to get into Cleburne, the closest 5000 ft. plus runway near the safe house. It’s not far from my old hometown, and luckily I know a guy who keeps a few cars in a hangar at the airport. Yeah, I’m not gonna ask, but I’ll leave some money. He’d understand, you know, if he didn’t think I’d gone insane and killed a bunch of people.

            It’s late. Nobody around, really. Little airstrips tend to be ghost towns during the night. Good thing. We’ve gone a bit overboard with the equipment, and it would look slightly suspicious unloading stacks of arms that would make most third-world countries jealous.

            Billy insisted that we raid Marie’s basement arsenal before leaving for the western hemisphere. For once, I was in total agreement. No telling what’s over the next hill.

            “Ah!”

            “What is it?” Marie asks.

            “Hit my frigging head on something.”

            “It’s a wing. This dude’s hanger is crowded.”

            “Thanks for the warning, Bill. Turn the frigging lights on.”

            “They are on, big guy. Still having trouble seeing?”

            I tug at the layers of gauze covering every inch of my head. I must look like a papier-mâché cyborg. Ridiculous. “What happened to the doc?”

            “Let him go, bro. You don’t remember? Dude, you suck.” 

            “Oh yeah. Sorry, I’m a little loopy.”

            “You don’t say.”

            It’s not possible to see, but I know it’s there. Billy and his bull-crap bleached grin. What a tool. “We ready? Someone check in with Al, let’s get moving.”

            On cue I hear the side door to the hangar slam open and the trudging footfalls of Floyd. “That was Al.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Apparently the ranch house is under attack. Said they came out of nowhere.”

            “Wasn’t he watchi—let’s move!”

            There’s no more discussion. At once we’re in the old stolen suburban and off to the scene. Everybody’s gearing up. It’s crowded and hot. I fish for a handle and roll down the window. The round sounds of silencers being applied to barrels and the clanking sounds of clips locking into place fill the interior of the vehicle.

            “What’s the last thing you heard?” I ask Floyd. He’s driving up in the front seat. Marie’s in the back with me, trying to slide a vest over my stupid mummy head. “Floyd?”          

            “He saw a few agents drop, like they were hit by a sniper. Coordinated attack, sounds like.”

            “Hawker down?” I ask.

            “That’s another thing. He actually showed up about the time we were landing. He was inside with your family. Al couldn’t see what happened. Hawker and two other agents were inside. Apparently a flash bang grenade went off when they breeched and the line went dead.”

            “You try him back?”

            “I think we all know what he was off to do.”

            God I hope so. God tell me Al waded in like he did when he rescued the sheikh, when he rescued me. God help that crazy, maladjusted merchant of death.

            “ETA? Marie asks, finishing dressing me.

            “Four minutes.” Floyd says. He hasn’t been in a fight for a spell. It’s in his voice.

            “We don’t have time to set up. Just roll right in, yah?” It sounds like a question, but Billy’s stating the obvious. Suddenly I feel the old SUV hit a dirt road, ancient shocks taking each bump and rut with a thud. My head hits the collapsing roof, serving to wake me up. No time for pills. No time for anything. Just another plea to God.

            Crashing through a metal gate, the vehicle bottoms out, heading downward.

            “There it is. Lit up still,” Floyd says.

            To hell with the soundtrack. I’m tired of getting a play-by-play. With both hands I tear at the pads covering my eyes. Things are murky, but I’ll figure it out. The first thing I see is Marie. Looks like she’s witnessing Frankenstein becoming self-aware. Whatever.         

            Floyd slams on the breaks and the suburban skids to a dusty stop on the dirt road about fifty yards from the ranch house. It’s nothing big, nothing fancy. Clapboard. No way to hole up in there. Even with my severely impaired vision it’s apparent that the front door’s been smashed in and three fed-type bodies are laying lifeless around the porch. I can faintly see Marie and Billy fanning out to the right and left respectfully. Somehow they know I’m to be first through the front. Floyd’s just behind, on my left. “You okay, old-timer?”

            “Don’t worry about me,” he says, gruff and defiant. It’s clear he’s scared, but good on him; doing his best and all. Making our way slowly up to the first body, submachine guns tucked tight, I hear him say, “this ain’t no fed.”

            “What?”         

            “Those other two, yeah. But not this fella. He’s got full tactical on. Come here.”   

            Though I’m miles from fully coherent, it’s obvious Floyd’s right. Broken neck. Al’s work.

            Voices. Not Billy, not Marie. Children’s voices. My children. “Go,” I say, watching Floyd run up to the left of the door. Stopping in position for a brief moment, I swivel around, frenetically training my weapon across the entryway and front rooms, checking for any signs of movement. Problem is I’m desperate, those little voices have me moving too fast, too loose, and dammit, my face hurts like a mother—

            “Ugh.”

            I feel the slug slap against my vest, the concussion reverberating through my body, feel blood warming the left side of my chest and beginning to work its way around my torso. The things that happen when you get shot.

            “Stay down, asshat!” I hear. I want to respond, but the wind’s been knocked out of me. That, and my jaws have been reset. That, and there’s seven thousand stitches in my face. That, and I’ve been shot, currently spread eagle in the entranceway. I’ll need a moment.

            “You’re surrounded,” I hear Floyd say.

            My ears are ringing, but the sound of children is still there. The rustling little footsteps of Billy and Marie are barely detectable. Heavy shoes are moving about in one of the other rooms, shaking the entire structure. Still flat on my back, I rotate my head to the left. It’s the dining area, an area I already checked when I plodded in toward the firing squad. What I failed to see the first time was the body laid out halfway underneath the table. Dead eyes staring at me through goggles. Creepy. Again, a dude in full tactical. Again, I was sloppy to have missed it.

            “Floyd,” I gasp, bending my head awkwardly backward toward the door where he’s planted. “It’s Hawker. He said asshat. Sounds like something he’d say.” It’s more than a hunch. I’d watched his greatest hits on the internet enough to know the tenor of his voice. As soon as the words sputter from my lips my body collapses back down; the entirety of my anatomy had been commissioned to utter those few simple phrases.

            “Agent Hawker? I’m with Henry Fellows. You just shot him, by the way. Hope it was an accident. Mind explaining the situation?”

            “Who the hell are you?!”

            “Name’s Floyd. I’m here along with some friends of Henry’s. They’re outside. Armed. Are the kids okay?”

            Finally, old man.

            “They’re good. All my men are down. I guess—so is everybody else.”

            “I’m coming out,” Floyd says, hands up, gun still in hand. “Al, you there?”

            “Yes.”

            The destroyed and ill-used thing that is my body is starting to find its equilibrium, there on the floor, a sort of humanoid place-setting in between a conversation of people with automatic weapons. With my left hand I reach under the vest. Another happy accident. The hollow-point pierced the vest but caught a piece of a Leatherman tool. A few little shards broke the skin but nothing life-threatening. For a guy with more battered limbs than Evel Knievel, not all that dramatic.

            Floyd asks me if I’m okay as he helps me to my feet. The gun I so expertly used is dragging behind by the strap; it looks ridiculous, though it’s a little late in the game to go striving for dignity. “Give me your shoulder,” I say as we advance toward the back of the house. Billy and Marie are in the house now trailing us, walking tentatively behind. Once again I’m blind. The wrap on from my forehead has fallen down over my eyes. Whatever.

            “Who are you?” I hear. The voice is unmistakable. My beloved ex-wife. A shame she couldn’t have taken one in the chest during the firefight. Eh. I don’t mean that. Not really, anyway.

            I pull the gauze up over my eyebrows as Floyd sets me down in an old frumpy chair filled with bullet holes. It’s in the corner of what used to be a modest living room. Now it looks like Beirut come to Texas. There’s blood, shell casings, drywall, a few dead bodies, more shell casings, and yeah, my family. I nod at them, like that’s supposed to mean something. The mindless things you do after being on the run, undergoing two facial reconstructions, and being shot. It’s obvious that they have no idea what they’re looking at. It’ll be days before I can de-mummify, so my voice is essential.

            “Hey, Al,” I mumble. He’s in the room too, sat up against a wall painted in blood with a knife stuck in his shoulder. It feels more comfortable to address him first.

            “Hank?” he asks. “You look like hell. Always do, it seems.”

            “You catch me on bad days,” I mutter. The words come out like wet concrete. “Ah!” I scream. “What the hell, Billy?”

            “My watch went off. I’m supposed to inject you with this every three hours. It’s adrenaline mixed with some kind of tissue-building catalyst. I don’t know, Swiss shit. You paid two-hundred grand for it. Doc’s orders.”

            I don’t bother to argue. Every syllable is uttered on credit at this point. Waste not, you know.

            “So. Here we are,” I say, still smarting from the injection. Can’t decide what hurts most, can’t decide on anything decent or apropos to say. It’s all a bit awkward. You know the type of situation I’m talking about. The one where you’re in a room with the family you haven’t seen in over a year, a federal agent who wants to put you in jail, an assassin extraordinaire with a knife protruding from his chest, and three other people that are only on your side because you’re paying them seven figures. Standard issue stuff.

            It’s all smoke and bitter blood and silence. Hawker’s at the far corner of the room, poking up from behind a couch where he was obviously covering my family. Astronaut.

            “How’d it go down?” I ask, ignoring the fact that my wife’s new husband and the kids are crying.

            “What?” Hawker asks. My words are still mush. I repeat myself through dry lips. Al answers.

            “Four-man team. Just after the fed here arrived. They took out the two agents in the front and the one guarding the back door like they were nothing. No security at the gate. Pretty sad set up,” he says, pausing to glare at Hawker. “They didn’t know I was coming so I managed to slip in behind. Snapped one’s neck. Shot two more. Fairly simple. Think our hero behind the couch took one out, then threw this frigging knife at me. Nice way of saying thank you.”

            I give a thumbs up to Al. He deserves more, for saving my family, and for giving me the rundown through an unending tirade from my ex-wife. I wish she would just shut up and tweet about it or whatever. Somebody should tell her to pipe down. Someone other than me.

            Hawker’s still clutching his Beretta in his muscular right hand. Breathing heavy. Clearly not used to being cornered. I’m pissed that he hurt Al and shot me, but it’s understandable. Probably felt like the Alamo before we showed up. He didn’t abandon the kids. Something I won’t forget.

            “Checked the bodies,” Marie says, reentering the living room, stopping somewhere between my family and me. She’s all business and calm, smiles at the kids and puts a hand up in the air to silence my yapping ex. “Ma’am. Please. Give it a rest. Deputy. Your people are all dead. Sorry.”

            “The others?” Floyd asks.

            “Never seen them before. Eastern European, if I had to guess. Marks definitely isn’t here.”

            “He wouldn’t be,” I mumble.

            “Why’s that?” It’s the first time Hawker’s spoken since asshat. I point at Al to give him the answer. He may be a blunt merchant of mortality, but he’s no dummy. Far from it.

            “Because,” he says, pulling the blade from his chest and tossing it aside. “This was a kidnapping. If it was a simple murder, I wouldn’t’ve had time. They could’ve blown the whole house up from the road, for God sake. Come on, Marshal. Frigging cops.”

            Half listening to Al, I realize what’s most important. “Billy, Marie. Take the kids out to the cars.” I put a hand over my eyes. They get what it means. They’ve been through enough trauma; no sense in making them see any more. I’d do it myself, want to do it myself. Just a hug. Some kind of embrace. But it’s too much too soon. Have to get them out. If any semblance of a fence remains, I’ll focus on mending it later. It’s a wound that hurts more than my wound.

            Watching them getting carried out to the front allows me a second of reflection before the coming deluge. Rising from behind the couch are the figures of Emma and—

            “What’s your name again, chief?”

            Guy can barely speak. Sounds worse than I do. But I know his name. Just want to embarrass him. Little victories. Frigging cardigan-wearing pantywaist. The wife definitely went the other way with the next guy.

            Then my precious sweetheart. She’s starting up again—hurling all kinds of insults and bile in my direction. If she could, she’d probably pick up the dead body in the middle of the room and launch it at my face. Never mind the white knight job we just pulled. It’s emotional seeing her, complicated—hell, I almost want to say something nice, but that too will have to keep. Floyd swoops in to guide her and her new beloved out in front of the house, leaving me, the Deputy, and Al all alone. In a life comprised primarily of strange situations, this one pokes out a bit. Nobody wants to speak. I give it a go.

            “How you been, Al?”

            “Better than you. Holding up ok? Besides the face? Bullet hurt?” His tone and manner bring back a lot of memories. Same old Al. Talking fast, like talking is some annoying thing the world has forced on him. It’s oddly comforting.

            “Not bad. The old right leg never really healed. Couple vertebrae that’ll never be the same. I took up chess.”

            “Really? I was always terrible at chess.”

            “Well, it’s a different way of playing with yourself. Lotta long nights lately. How’s the knife wound?”

            “Ah, it’ll mend. Spare some gauze from your head?”

            “Sure.” I unwrap a few layers from the upper hemisphere and rip it off for him as he swipes it from my hand. He looks pretty much the same. Square shouldered, bearded, toothy and truly enormous. Indefatigability wrapped in muscle. Low hair line, slightly graying and cropped short. Hawker is watching us, mouth agape. No masters in criminology could prepare him for a couple of guys like us.

            “Who the hell are you, Fellows?”

            “Pretty much who you suspect I am. Pretty much not the person you suspected I was. You do any research on Marks?”

            “A little. Got a few friends at FBI who hooked me up with a file. Rumors. Another guy working outside the chain. Kind of a freelancer. He might be on to something. Is this Marks CIA? Give me something to go on.”

            “He wasn’t CIA.”

            “And what… you guys were?”

            No time for a meal, so I feed him some scraps. “There were some things needed doing back in the day, before I became the murdering trust-fund baby you heard all about. CIA, military intelligence, there are places on this earth where all that organizational crap runs together and atop itself. Guys like us could tell you who we were working for, but even we can’t be sure.” Yeah, it sounds ridiculous and conspiratorial, but it’ll have to do for now. “Your little file on Marks say he was dead?”

            “The official one did, matter of fact. But I’m beginning to think official doesn’t have a damn thing to do with any of this mess.”

            “Al, get me one of those radios. Cell if he has one.” I can see the big man knows what I’m thinking as he fishes through the blood-soaked pockets of the dead mercenary in our midst. Hawker appears to be disarmed, figuratively at least. The Beretta is down by his side. My vision is still blurry enough to be surprised when Al hits me on the lap with the walkie and phone. I turn the nob to on. Long shot. Why not. “Come in. Anyone on this channel? Marks, your men are dead. Should’ve sent better guys. Hey. Jerkoff. Respond.” Hawker is standing over me with a look like nothing’s going to happen. It’d be great if something did. Reach for my pills. The nerves are biting. A trying bit of business, earning the trust of someone sworn to find and even kill you if need be. The Deputy is everything advertised. Over six feet, ripped, hard cheeks and peering, intelligent eyes. The kind of person that seems perpetually held back until the spring is released. I have to assume ambivalence was the reason for the weak protection detail. Simply put, he’s not convinced of anything I say. If there’s any way to disabuse him of that notion, gotta see it done. “Stover Marks? I know it’s you, asshat.” I give the Deputy a little wink as he watches me. Can’t even tell if he saw it with all the gauze flung about my head. Can’t get a read on the guy. He’s not exactly garrulous. Frigging sphinx.

            Floyd reenters the room. “They’re all packed in the suburban. Marie’s doing another check of the property and Billy’s watching over them.”

            I nod. It’s only the four of us in the living room, waiting for something to happen.

            “You hear that?” Hawker asks. I look down at the radio and phone in my lap, thinking that’s what he’s talking about. He’s not.

            “I hear it too,” Al says. “Chopper.”

            As he darts about the house I get up, but in doing so I fumble the phone and the radio. Henry Fellows. All thumbs and barely any eyes. Shit’s getting old. Suddenly the cell on the floor starts to vibrate as the noise from helicopter crescendos. The men around me are in various stages of action while I slide my thumb across the face of the screen.

            “Hello? Who is this?”

            The voice coming through the other end of the line is calm but obscured by a hell of a lot of background noise. “It’s me, Fellows. You wanted to speak? I figured it’d be rude not to respond.”

            “Marks.” Floyd, Hawker, and Al all stop what they’re doing momentarily to turn and look at me. I cover the phone and motion for Floyd to get out to the cars. My body is chilled to the core. I was 99% sure about Stover Marks, but that last percentage of certainty is an emotional Grand Canyon.

            We all rush out toward the front door but it’s too late. The unmistakable sound of a minigun firing an insanely high volume of rounds rips through our ears and tears the front porch into pieces, forcing us to back off. The chopper lands, still firing, just over the suburban and my family. I want to fire back, all the good it’ll do, but it’s too dangerous. I hear the tiny sound of Marks’ voice emanating through the cell phone. “Henry? Henry? You know you can’t fire. Yes, I know there’s four of you in the house.” There’s a sardonic satisfaction in his tone. It’s detectable even though the world is exploding around me.

            “You’ve got infrared,” I say. What else can I say? Some idle threat, I suppose. Al taps me on the shoulder like he wants to make a move to the car. I nod and rise back to my feet. We’re met by another barrage from the minigun. The choices are suicide or backing down, coughing on acrylic paint particles and wood chips.

            “Yes, we have you on infrared. Now those men you see coming out of the helicopter are going to take your family. I believe your two little friends out here are already dead. Brave. Hope all that money you paid was worth it.”

            It’s hard to hear every word but I get the thrust. I’m sitting ass to floor, gun in hand, watching some vendetta-obsessed psycho take my kids. My feet move under me but Floyd sits me back down with a strong pull. There’s nothing to do but look on and suffer. It’s too much. I try rising again. Finally, Al has to punch me in the stomach. That puts me down for good and keeps me from having to see the writhing little bodies of a teenage girl and 8-year-old boy behind hauled away by emotionless cretins. It keeps me from seeing the woman I used to love forced from the clutches of a pansy to a madman.

“Don’t worry, Henry,” I hear. “They’ll be safe. I know it’s frustrating to be so close to me and yet be so helpless. I’ll do you a favor.”

            I hear gunfire, not the whoosh of the minigun but distinctive staccato rounds. Having recovered from Al’s punch, I see the last bullet of a clip being emptied into my wife’s new husband. Oh shit. The pansy.

            “How about that? Figured you didn’t much like him, right Henry?” The shakes are coming hard, the heavy breathing, all the normal stuff amplified to a whole new level.

            Pouring down pills I put my mouth right up the phone, like that does anything. “What do you want, Marks? Just let me walk out and you can shoot me right now. Take me and make it slow. Just let them go. This is crazy. End it!”

            “Later.” I see the call end and watch the helicopter ascend abruptly, taking with it my mortal enemy and my family. As they disappear into the night sky, Marks offers a final thought. “And don’t try finding me. Any whiff of you or one of your lackeys and I’ll start taking pieces from your family.”

            Lovely.

            “What the hell was that?” Hawker asks. It barely registers. I’m punch drunk.

            Floyd answers for me. “That was a Blackhawk, high-rate weaponry, and some guys that know what they’re doing.” The old man is right. But where did Marks get the gear and the men, the balls to go full military operational on United States soil? Either he’s become the new master of the universe or something else is going on. I can’t figure it.

            As the wind from the chopper’s rotors dies down, I follow Al to where the Suburban was parked. It’s almost completely dark but there’s enough moonlight to see Billy’s body. He’s in pieces, a gelatinous mess. “7.62 rounds,” Al says. “Shredded him up.” I’m finding it hard to breathe. Billy’s obnoxious flaws are disappearing into the ether. Suddenly all I recall are the things that made him a good fighter and loyal soldier.

            “You see Marie anywhere?” I ask, struggling to form the words. Grabbing a few flashlights from the suburban, we do a quick scan with our lights. Before we can venture out deeper into the property, I hear a voice calling from beneath the car. A startling hand grabs me by the leg. Marie. She’s alive.

            Pulling her out is a struggle. The barrage from the minigun blew the tires on the SUV, causing it to sag near to the dirt. Once free and afoot, her first thought is not of herself. The soupy wreckage of Billy is sitting right there by the car. “He covered me while I hit the deck,” she says. Her voice is charged with the expected guilt and sadness of a normal person, plus the pure underlying rage of a trained killer/spy/soldier. We’re all in a sort of circle around the remains, eyes fixed downward. To look away would be a disservice somehow. Poor Billy. He’s seeping into the soil, leaking onto our boots.

            Deputy Hawker is the first to move back. A man with too much hard sense for this senselessness. His head is swirling about: there’s the collapsing house, the dead marshals, the fugitive standing right in front of him. I get it. All a bit thick. Expected. What he says next is just as expected. “Who are you people?”

Chapter 14: Road

            Ever have your eyes on the prize? No really, it’s a legitimate question. Out of the gate, it sounds like the type of thing a pedantic pill-popping sophist would ask, but for real? How many times in life are you put in that scenario? Most of it is just running away, keeping your head down, trying not to think about the inane crap you’re doing along the wire. Then comes a moment when there it is, the thing you want, right in front, just out of reaching distance. Your eyes are on the prize. Could be anything, a new job, the girl or guy of your dreams, house you’ve always wanted. Moments like that are precious, and if precious is too maudlin a word, at least admit they’re rare. If the word prize is to mean anything, it can’t be something you win every frigging week. I don’t know.

            The expression just keeps popping up, like a hand choking out any other thoughts or ideas in my head. That my life has been nothing but a protracted evasive maneuver is plain enough, but seeing my daughter and son and their mother suddenly slapped me still: there was my prize, eyes on.

            Where my story differs is that I’m still a fugitive of the federal government and that my prize was whisked away by a psycho in a helicopter.

            We all have our stories.

            They could be anywhere, my kids. A cocktail of pills grind down my gullet as I hear a question from the back of the SUV. It’s a new one—the vehicle, not the question. I’m in the passenger seat. Al’s driving. Floyd and Marie are in the back. Weapons and supplies are in the way back, piled alongside what’s left of our fallen friend. I can hear his bits and pieces sloshing around like stew. He’s beginning to smell. Before the rest of the feds could come down on us we lit out of the scene, zipping up poor Billy so they wouldn’t find him. The rest of the place we torched. No DNA, like before, this time for my friends. Think I’m blown. Calling the authorities and asking for protective custody for my family will do that.

            Hawker’s tentatively on our side. He tentatively let us take one of the dead agent’s cars back to another stash house of mine, tentatively agreed to let us go and find some answers. It’s hard for a guy like that, going along without understanding all the facts. We could all see it. We could all get it. Not like we haven’t been there before, looking at a picture that only makes sense in scattered pieces, a frigging Picasso painting of a situation. You know, there’s a fact over there, here’s another one, only they’re not exactly where they should be. Incongruous. Frustrating. Like getting shot frustrating. Like getting knifed frustrating. Like losing a colleague. Hawker was feeling the loss of his people, just like we were mourning poor Billy.

            I listen as the question comes again. It’s from Marie. “You know it’s not all bad, right?”

            It sounds like an insensitive inquiry, considering what we’ve just been through, but I know what she means. Objectively, no, it’s not all bad. First, we’re still alive. Second, Marks is definitely the guy that’s been on my ass, no more doubt. Third, there’s an ally on the inside, a capable ally, highly motivated, hot-eyed. A frigging deputy marshal. We had a brief conversation while Floyd, Al and Marie got rid of whatever evidence they could at the ranch house. It went something like this:

            Hawker: “Fellows, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. I mean this is nuts.”

            Me: “Yeah, I can see that. But is it manifestly obvious that you are in over your head?”

            Hawker: “Won’t be for long. Just tell me how this thing ends?”

            Me: “Still not exactly sure how it began.”

            Hawker: “Not helping.”

            Me: “The creep in the helicopter thinks I’m responsible for his family’s death. I think so, anyway…”

            Hawker: “What the hell did you do?”

            Me: “That’s a long story. Hate saying ‘trust me,’ but I’m gonna try it on you, Deputy. Need you to get everything you can on Marks. Like you said, the unofficial stuff. Normal channels are gonna give us nothing but static. We’ll work it from our end. Won’t be easy. Call the frigging president if you have to. Do your thing. Help me get my family back, and I’ll let you shoot me in the head on YouTube. It’ll be your biggest video yet.”

            Hawker: “There’s things to answer for…”

            Me: “I’ll answer for the Lincoln assassination if you want. Just stall your people. The government’s gonna pin this massacre on me, just like last time. Not sure where this puts you with your people, how much you’ve told. Doesn’t matter until that lunatic is caught or killed.”

            It went on for another minute or two—Hawker somehow managed to look understanding and violent at the same time. I looked like a bleeding leper begging for alms outside a burning church. The conversation ended abruptly but on good enough terms. Think I said something like thanks for shooting me, by the way. Not sure if he got the humor. Not sure if Hawker is capable of it.

            The vehicle is moving at a pretty good clip on a deserted farm road. It’s time to get somewhere safe, regroup. Through my watery eyes the sun is starting to become visible, poking over the wide Texas horizon. Sleep is calling but there’s something I need to do. The chemicals are making it hard, but after a minute I set mind to purpose.

            “I’ve got to call Nina.”

            “Who the hell is Nina?” Al asks. The others know. They watched the trial, saw her trying to defend me day after day against the body blows of circumstantial evidence. Al has no clue. Not a big TV guy. And he was probably busy killing people at the time.

            “My lawyer.”

            “You think she’s in danger?” Floyd asks. The old man’s sitting in the seat right behind me, looking like he’s ready for a retirement party. Can’t say I’m surprised. Not used to the action. Even back in the day he was more the type to stay out of harm’s way, calling the plays. Of course, he earned his stripes at the tip of the spear, but that was when the rest of us were in grade school. I give him a look, the kind you give when someone’s asked an overly obvious question. Don’t mean anything by it, but there isn’t time for the usual niceties.

            The condescension in my voice is as tempered as I can muster. “You think anybody is safe?”

            “Where is she?” Marie asks.

            “Fort Worth. Just west of downtown. Neighborhood’s called Rivercrest. Real rich. Lots of security. Couldn’t be worse.” Marie nods ever so slightly. She knows what I mean. The affluent fancy themselves protected by armed neighborhood security, high walls, and cutting edge alarm systems. Not really. Having a big opulent property means having a lot of places where people like us can slip in unnoticed. It’s too much to watch. You’re better off living in the middle of nowhere or in an average tract house in anonymous housing development, USA.

            “Think we should be avoiding the city right now, big guy,” Al says. “And if she is okay, there could be someone watching her, the feds, cops, or worse, Marks’ people.”

            He’s right. We can’t go after her. It’s a bad situation. Can’t contact her, even with a burner. Her line was tapped before, back when I was calling her from Austin. Can’t go after her. Even Hawker doesn’t have enough pull to dissuade the rest of the authorities that I’m not priority number one. He can throw them off our scent here and there, but they’ll be watching. Probably have been since I escaped. Just one option comes to mind. “You guys all check your offshore accounts?” I ask.

            The car is silent except for the road noise. It’s an obviously strange question in the moment, but I’m about to plead for them to trust me—the kind of ask that usually gets people thinking of jumping ship.

            Al finally cuts through the quiet. “Two million, like you said.”

            Looking back, I see Marie and Floyd nodding along. “Alright. Well, I’ll add another mill when we get to where we’re going.”

            “What’s this about?” Al asks. I can tell he doesn’t care about the money; his matter-of-factness is a boon to the soul.

            “Gotta bring somebody else in. He’s ex-military. I trust him. Think I’ll see if he’s up to helping out with Nina.”

            “So you call just like that? Will he be tapped?” Marie asks.

            “Na. No one knows about this guy.” It’s a half-lie. Not like there’s a way to be sure. Hence the extra mill. Looking back at uneasy faces I pull out a fresh burner and dial the number for my old buddy Chris. Time to get another mess together.

Chapter 15: Pharmacy

            “What’s going on?”

            Come now Henry, just tell me what I want to know.

            “I can’t feel… my legs.”

            We can fix that. Just let it out. Give me the access codes to your company’s internal network. Protocols, client lists—we can start there.

            “I’m just a soldier. Who—who is you—want?”

            Oh you’re not making any sense. We’ll get you something to stop mushing those thoughts together.

            “How long is—how long I been here?”

            Too long. Too long for my taste. Do you feel this?

            “Stop!”

            That’s a good boy. See, the mind is still present. Just takes a little coaxing. It has been a trying time. I’ve been there myself. Oh look. Eh. Now I’ve gotten your blood on my pants. You’ve got more sand than I would’ve guessed. Or is it blind integrity? Just answer their questions. Answer my questions. It’ll stop. You can go home.

            “Why?! Motherf—”

            There’s more blood Henry. It’s seeping out. We can only stich a person back together so many times.

            “Please. I’m just a soldier.”

            You said that already. Over and over. Given the state you’re in I’d like to think you simply can’t remember, but I’m beginning to suspect that there’s more to it. There’s purpose in those eyes. Those big, evasive eyes.

            “Just a soldier.”

            Enough. This is not a game. You are not going to wait it out. That’s not how it works. You cannot win. Strapped to a metal chair. Beaten. Captured. Soldier? Soldier for who? Who do you work for? Those bad things, what—for some purpose? Oh… I’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic, all this playacting, this simplemindedness. I know the reason why you’re over here, it’s something to put on your resume, another notch on a blueblood’s belt. The lies you’ve told—they’ve become the only identity you have left.

            “Identity.”

            Indeed. The self, the silly construct. We all do it. Let me share my feelings on self. Ready? Henry?

            “Ahhhh! Motherfu—”

            That’s better. See, you just made my point. All of you, right there, screaming, reacting to my finger plunging into this wound, screaming as the pain receptors light up in your brain. Should thank me, Henry. When all is said and done, that is the closest you’ll ever get to yourself. It’s sad that it takes so much privation and violence to make you understand. Is it starting to make sense?

            “I think I get it.”

            So tell me what I want to hear.

            “Okay.”

            Waiting.

            “Sure. Here goes… Right now I need a drink of water and a nap. Can you get on that? No—well, go to hell. Cause the only thing I’m going to tell you about my self is that whatever there is, whatever’s left, it’s all one thing: giving you fuck all.”

            Interesting.

            “Just kill me, asshole. If you know who I am, then you’re some kind of turncoat, cause you’re no turban. And if you don’t, then you’re a worthless hack that doesn’t deserve to be in the same room with me.”

            Interesting.

            “And what’s with the creepy tone? Sounds to me like you’re some kind of fag whispering to make himself sound smart and dark. The cute words, the wannabe shrink act? Sound like a guy that bought a paperback dictionary and took a correspondence class in philosophy.”

            Impressive. Really, I’m impressed. Henry, you’re really outdoing yourself here. Not bad for a spoiled rich boy. Before I step away it’s important to understand that I’m no hack. I know you were recruited out of the Army Rangers by a DOD handler for Unacknowledged Special Access Programs. I know the date of your recruitment, the last mission you were on, the operatives you prefer to work with, your contacts, your little family back home, your dog, your street address back in Texas, your real social security number, your overseas aliases, your kids’ faces, the schools they go to, on and on and on.

            “Good for you.”

            Should I continue?

            “It’s getting boring. By the way, why not take off that mask? We both know I’m never leaving this place.”

            Oh, allow me this little bit of stagecraft. It’s the least you can do.

            “Drama queen, huh?”

            Ha. That’s right. Big drama queen. Have to admit, it’s a weakness. Whenever life affords me the time, I’m constantly at the theater.

            “Wouldn’t have guessed. Or maybe I would’ve. Douche.”

            I understand.

            “That’s very understanding.”

            Sure.

            “Always more of a movie guy myself. Of course, you know that about me, being such a professional and all.”

            Actually no. Let me guess. Action films?

            “Well, who doesn’t love a shoot ‘em up? But not really. More into the classics.”

            Henry, you’re full of surprises. Any favorites?

            “Oh, the old standards. War movies, epics, that kind of deal.”

            Indeed. Some fine stories came out of the golden age.

            “Any favorites?”

            “Bridge on the River Kwai” always resonated with me.

            “That figures.”

            I suppose an insult is forthcoming?

            “No, not at all. But if I’m watching David Lean I’m gonna have to go with Lawrence of Arabia, or hell, even Zhivago.”

            You know your films. I’m surprised a man your age has even seen them. What makes them superior, in your estimation?

            “Not necessarily superior. Matter of taste.”

            Fair enough.

            “I suppose you like the River Kwai ‘cause of all the moral ambiguity, all that fencing Obi-Wan does with himself. Kinda comes off like a pussy if you ask me.”

            It makes for compelling drama.

            “Sure. But if we’re talking captivity movies, and look around, it seems appropriate, give me Steve McQueen any day.”

            You mean Hilts, of course.

            “Right. Great Escape. Good old American badass showing everybody how we got to be the best. Resist until it kills you, balls out, that kind of thing.”

            A tad simplistic.

            Sure it is. But it’s a damn movie. What are you, a snob torturer?”

            And I suppose you’re trying to tell me that you mean to take on the defiant characteristics displayed in that film?

            “I suppose you weren’t trying to get me to think about the complicated nature of being a prisoner when you brought up the other one?”           

            Very good, young man.

            “Yeah. Basic psychology ain’t that tough, chief. And you’re no Freud.”

            Alright, then.

            “Alright. Bullet to the head and let’s be done with this crap. I’d literally rather be dead than talk to you. Sure you’ve heard that before.”

            Hey now, don’t be that way. I’ve enjoyed this little tete-a-tete, almost to the point where I want to let you free. Alas, I still need that information. Some men are going to come in now and burn your flesh. If you don’t talk, they’ll keep burning, drowning, cutting, peeling, the way they have been for the last three weeks. It’s been fun, Mr. Fellows. You’re an admirable young man. Sort of. Sorry this has to happen.

            “Wait… Bastards!!”

            “Hank. Big guy, wake up. Hank. Come on, buddy, we’re here.”

            “Stop!”

            “Stop what? Dammit.” A slap in the face is jolting enough to reframe my reality. Crap. I was dreaming. Exhaustion dreaming. Pharmaceutical dreaming.

            “How long was I out?” I ask, looking over at Al. My hands are up instinctively to prevent another wake-up slap. He thinks it’s a love tap, God bless him, but my face feels like it was slammed with a brick.

            Marie answers from the back. “Only about twenty minutes. We’re almost to the place. Remember? You said you wanted to stop before the sun came up?”

            It’s all coming back as the haze gives way. We’re heading to a private compound just outside of Granbury, Texas, roughly forty-five minutes southwest of Fort Worth. One of my little off-the-grid getaways.

            Looking up I see the bright red lights of a 24-hour pharmacy sign. It’s still dark enough to give off a strong glow. It would’ve been better to stop in the middle of the night, less chance of civilian involvement, but there’s some things I need and a large amount of our supplies were lost in the whole gunfight/escape thing.

            “Pull around to the back,” I say. “You guys go in and clear the place for me—you know—ah, I don’t need to tell you what to do.”

            Marie and Al get out before the sentence is finished. They think this is a stupid idea. It is a stupid idea. The pharmacy’s on a main road and it’s coming up on the time when old people like to get their early morning shopping done. There’s a few cobwebs left to shake out, wits to gather.

            “You okay, Deer?” It’s Floyd, still slumped in the backseat. Guess he’s not going in.

            “Is that a joke?”

            “Not talking about your family. Obviously—I mean, do you have any idea what you were saying a few minutes ago?”

            “You heard that?”

            “Well, we heard something. Like you being interrogated. There was real dread in it. Just making sure it wasn’t more than a dream.”

            There’s a lot I want to suss out before having a conversation about it, but whatever. “Can’t be sure, Boss. It’s all mixed up, like half of me thinks it was a dream, other half thinks it’s a frigging repressed memory. Probably the meds. Haven’t been taking them normally. Been a bit of a rollercoaster lately. Sure you’ve noticed.”

            “I get it,” he says, reaching from the front to put a hand on my arm. It’s a fatherly gesture, almost comforting enough to give me a moment’s reprieve from the insanity. With my other hand I turn the overhead light on and give old Floyd a look. The surgical gauze has mostly come apart so my vision is fairly unclouded. His face looks gaunt except for the slumping bags under his eyes. Maybe it’s time for the old guy to get off.

            “Just saying. Sounded like you were talking to a guy. Not one of those jihadist sons of bitches, somebody else.”

            It’s amazing what you can forget just minutes after waking. It takes everything I have to hone in on it. “Not sure what good going over it will do. Probably just something my imagination churned up. You know, all that bull.”

            “Okay,” he says, patting me once more. There’s a reluctant resignation to his countenance, like there’s more to say. But he leaves off. Thank God. “Okay, kid. They’re coming back.”

            Al opens up the driver side door and pokes his huge head in. “Sure you want to go in?”

            “Where we at with it?” I ask.

            “There were only two people working, one behind the counter, one stocking shelves. We walked in, masks on, took them out.”

            “How?” I ask. Gotta make sure he didn’t go full Al.

            “I punched the kid at the counter, he was out quick. No permanent damage. Mild concussion, tops. Marie grabbed the lady doing the shelves and choked her to sleep. Harmless.”

            “Cameras?”

            “Marie says we’re good.”

            “Yeah, it’s closed circuit. The video’s already been erased, just to be sure I trashed all the recording equipment. But the signal isn’t going anywhere. Old school stuff.” There’s something else on her mind. “Why don’t you just tell us what to get and we’ll be in and out?”

            “I’m not sure what I need. Just tell me we’re kosher.” Marie and Al give each other a whatever look and nod.

            “Okay. Once we’re inside you guys just watch the door in case of walk-ins. Five minutes, tops. Floyd, get up here and be on the wheel, just in case.”

            “Got it. Let’s just get this over with.”

            Their frustration is completely understandable, and though I’m paying them to cater to my weirdness, it doesn’t make it any less weird. The fact is I might want to raid some extra drugs. Pain pills, opiate suppositories, Ritalin, SSRI’s, whatever. Maybe I want to get as high as possible and still be able to function. Plus, the safe house we’re going to hasn’t been stocked in ages. Kinda of a “don’t know what I need till I see it” type situation.

            Walking in makes me feel like a normal person. Almost. I hear them locking the door behind me as I grab a shopping cart and go off to pick out what I need like a regular type guy. It’s peaceful. The light is bright but not too strong, the music is soft and unaggressive. Been awhile since I’ve been in a place like this. With this face. Okay, move it Henry.

            First thing on my list: Soap and shampoo. We’re smelly.

            Second: Twenty or thirty toothbrushes.

            Third: Fifteen boxes of various gauzes. My face needs some patching.

            Fourth: Basically the skin care aisle. Don’t even know what half the crap does, don’t have time to mess with it.

            Fifth: Razors and shaving cream for Floyd. Noticed his mustache was losing its distinctiveness to stubble.

            Sixth: Toiletries. We’re not barbarians.

            Seventh: Vitamins. Don’t know why, maybe some fish oil or something will make my skin heal faster. I take about thirty bottles, don’t bother to check. A good chunk of the alphabet.

            Eighth: Water and food, mostly canned, but a lot. Who knows what you’re gonna need?

            “You done yet, chief?”

            “Shut up, Al!”

            Ninth: The good stuff. The pharmacy lock is easy to break, first time with a smack from the fire extinguisher. I chuck in industrial size bottles of Hydrocodone, Clonazepam, a tub of Adderall, three jars of various anti-depressants, a vat of Prednisone, and an arm’s worth of cortisone and antibiotic needles. Some pills that I think are for arthritis, but I can’t remember. I just remember that I have arthritis. The cart’s just about full. Guess that’ll have to do.

            Al and Marie are still waiting for me as I weave through the aisles. They’ve got to be growing impatient. I’ve stopped more than once to observe. Maybe it’s just having the run of the joint, but the experience has been somewhat revelatory; the pharmacy is a very ironic place. There was an aisle that contained half prophylactics and half diapers and other baby stuff.

            Okay.

            The vitamins take up a huge portion of the place, located right in front of the place to pick up prescriptions. Here’s some natural stuff, but hey, screw it, why not throw some lab-tested body altering substances down while you’re at it.

            Options.

            My last stop before heading to the exit is number ten: Two cases of beer. It’s right next to the soy milk.

            “You guys need cigarettes?” I ask, emerging near the front counter with my cart. The wheel bearings are grinding, close to giving out.

            “Forget anything?” Marie asks. She’s been unflappable over the last few days, a total soldier. Knowing she’s got my back, seeing her handle herself, it’s been a true comfort. I don’t want to admit to being attracted to her, considering my family’s dire situation, but yeah, I am.

            Who knows?

            Who cares?

            “Let’s move,” Al says, grabbing the cart by the end. I think even he’s surprised by the weight of it. “Your friend called while you were back there. Said he’s got the lawyer and is headed this way.”

            “How’d he do it?” Marie asks. She’s smart and skeptical, as always. My gut tells me Nina was being watched, but it also tells me that Chris found a way to get her without anyone seeing.

            “No idea,” I say. “Just gave him Nina’s address and told him to get it done.”

            “They could be leading the cops or Marks right to us.”

            “That’s why I gave him the wrong coordinates.”

            “What?”

            “Right now they’re heading to a rest stop about forty miles away. That should be more than enough time to spot a follow. Let him wait awhile, then we’ll give the real location.”

            “So you don’t trust him?” Marie asks.

            “Sure I do. Nothing wrong with being cautious, though. Just because I’m a junkie with a shopping cart, it doesn’t mean I don’t have my shit together.”

Chapter 16: Things

            “Hank?” The question is loud, booming. Chris is here.

            “Yeah, in here man.” Me and the rest of the group are taking a much needed load off in the common area of the safe house. Al’s removing sheets from the rest of the furniture. Place is pretty sweet, really. Would make for a nice bachelor pad. It looks a bit throwback from the outside, but that’s a positive. People are less inclined to pillage a derelict structure. Probably a redundancy. It’s set way back on sixty acres, made doubly invisible by an overgrowth of pecan trees. Without the coordinates, we might’ve never found the place. Rural Texas has countless properties with the same façade. A rusty gate with a sign saying stay away, off a road that’s off another road. You drive by every day if you live in the country, minding your own business. Only thing places like these have in common is a guy with a shotgun somewhere on the property, ready to defend his castle.

            Texas.

            Chris looks a bit overwrought entering the room. Nina’s slung over his shoulder, flailing like a little kid. She’s not happy.

            “Hey guys,” I say. Decent icebreaker, I think.

            “Who the hell are you?” Chris asks. My first reaction is to look around the room, you know, but then I realize.

            “It’s me, brother. Give it a few days, had some work done.”

            “What’s the name of the girl I took home in Chicago?” he asks.

            It takes me a minute. Ah. “Lois. If I recall, she had some huge—”

            “Alright, alright. Just making sure. Man, you look like you been stepped on.”

            “I get that a lot.”

            “You wanna tell me why I got this wild Mexican lady out of her bed in the middle of the night? And who are all these other white people? I been hearing about you on the news. You goin’ crazy again?”

            I walk through the questions, getting up to give my old friend a hug with my left arm. It’s a stiff and awkward reaction, but he allows it, letting Nina slump off his shoulder and into my right arm. “Good to see you, brother.”

            “You too. Been worried after your punk ass, little bit anyway.”

            I smile at the way we can fall back into it. I’d forgotten how much crap we used to talk. Stupid stuff. It feels good.

            Unfortunately, the good feelings are interrupted as Nina turns around to see my mug. “Henry, take me—oh my God.” Here it comes. “You smell awful. You look awful,” she says.

            “Sorry. And sorry to make you come here. It doesn’t seem like it, but I’m trying to do right by you.”

            Nina’s not hearing me. Can’t block out the visuals enough to listen. It’s gonna take a few.  

            I don’t know what the big deal is, frankly. It’s not like she can see anything but a wrapped up head with maybe a cup or two of blood and puss seeping through the bandages. I’ve been worse. “Marie, you want to take her into one of the bedrooms, give her the lowdown.”

            “Henry, you’re insane.” She’s not happy.

            As the ladies walk away we do the meet and greet. Seeing Chris and Al introducing themselves almost makes me laugh. They look like twins, except for the whole black/white thing.

            It’s obvious that they’re sizing each other up. “Okay boys, you’re both monsters. Let’s sit down a spell. Floyd, mind making us some coffee?”

            “Sure,” he says, heading to the kitchen. It’s up three or four little steps, connected to the common area.

            “No signs of a tail?” Al asks, staring cold at Chris. It’s a little blunt for my taste, but I let it roll.

            Chris’ head cocks toward the question. “No tail. Remember how I told you about doing a little criminal mischief back before my days in the service?”

            “I do indeed.”

            “Parked two blocks away, jumped a couple fences, watched for any surveillance, went in, snatched her up. Scared the hell of her. Feel bad. Girl was going crazy all the way here, trying to punch holes in the backseat.”

            “What’d you tell her?” I ask.

            “I told her I was friend of Henry Fellows. Didn’t seem to help.”

            “That’s not a shocker.”          

            I can tell there’s some tension left in the room. Can’t say if it’s an alpha male thing or whatever, but it’s palpable. Both Al and Chris are acting jittery, shrugging occasional shoulders, doing that little neck crack thing. “So who are you, again?” Al asks.

            Oh God.

            “Who the hell are you?” Chris fires back. I seriously don’t get it. Floyd’s making coffee, Marie and Nina are having girl time, and these two are about to come to blows like a couple of brothers fighting over a ball. Maybe that’s it. Brothers. All of sudden it occurs to me—well, a theory, anyway.

            “Hey,” I say, putting a hand on each of them. “This is ridiculous. Chris, this is Al. He saved my life when I was in the shit, risked his life to do it. I don’t know who’s the bigger man or whatever, but Al’s pretty well recognized as one of the world’s best killers. So there’s that.” It’s obvious Chris wants to jump in but I cut him off. “And this is Chris. After I came home he helped me turn my life around, got me straightened up as any person could. Also, he’s the best security team leader I’ve ever seen. The guy can put a person down.” My mostly rewrapped mug is steady, looking at Al. “You think I’m trusting my life to the buddy system? This is a meritocracy, and dammit, you’re all here for a reason. Now check your bank accounts, take a breath, and suck it up. Let’s not forget we just lost Billy and watched my family get snatched by a nutter with a minigun.”

            I’m half full of crap but I go with it, walking demonstrably toward the kitchen. Floyd’s standing there frozen, eyes flared open. Sidling up next to him, I whisper, “what are they doing?”

            Gotta love the old man. He doesn’t react at all. Just mumbles like a ventriloquist without the dummy. “Holy shit. They’re shaking hands. Didn’t think Al shook hands.”

            I keep moving, sifting aimlessly through cabinets, reveling in my leadership abilities. My theory, completely unverifiable, is that the two were having an unconscious territorial dispute. The brother thing. They both look at me like a little brother, helpless, pathetic, in need. Stands to reason. In their own way they each saved my life. Probably some stupid emotional attachment that comes along with it.

            How’s that for in touch with one’s feelings?

            I clap my hands loud enough for everyone in the house to hear, a signal to gather back up. The point is to get my family back, no more time for Dr. Phil. The whole thing is starting to feel too domestic.

            “Everyone comfortable?” I ask. The drivel that comes out of my mouth.

            Clearly, nobody’s comfortable.

            Floyd looks like a flight attendant on her first day, trying not to spill everyone’s coffee.

            The big boys have settled down, but they need orders.

            Marie has her arm draped around the bent frame of Nina as they walk back into the common room; I don’t even want to start with that.

            Light is pouring through the back windows, highlighting dust particles that have been waiting around patiently while my world went insane.

            “Nina, I’m sorry to snatch you up like that, but you’ll thank me later, after wishing we’d never met.” She gives a tacit acknowledgment. Her lack of reaction makes me think that Marie has informed her of my family’s kidnapping.

            It’s a captive audience. A great team. They’re looking at me like the coach before a big game.

            I have nothing to say.

            “What’s the plan?” asks Marie. She’s in the back of the room but nobody turns to look at her. They just keep fixed on coach.

            There’s too much experience and moxie here to try and be elliptical. “Don’t know. Hoping you guys can help with that. Stating the obvious, Marks has our—has my number, and I want to take the fight to him. Any theories on how we find my family?”

            Nothing. Everyone’s tired, devoid. Empty. We’re all thinking the same thing; sit back on the ropes and wait for the next punch. I’m near collapsing. My own failure, thinking about my two little kids terrified out of their minds, my wife witnessing the death of her husband, Billy, my frigging face, the litany of disasters—clearly it’s time for a few hours’ sleep. “Ok,” I say, clapping once again, lighter this time. “Let’s all try and get some shut-eye, come back at this thing in a bit.”

            It’s the only thing that makes sense. I need individual time with almost everyone. Nina needs more catching up, Chris is still mostly in the dark, etc.

            “We got a car approaching,” Al says. Suddenly the coach is no longer the center of attention.

            Guess all that other stuff will have to wait.

            My first reaction is to take Nina by the arm and hurry her into one of the back bedrooms. I can feel her body trembling as we move quickly. In a way she’s still a kid, still in her pajamas. Al’s out the back door with Marie, while Floyd and Chris man windows at the front of the house, watching the car. Everyone’s armed and ready. I tell Nina to stay down and stay put; she tells me where to stick it. I block her ire, but only partially. The old, I’m saving your life and yes and I realize it wouldn’t need saving if I didn’t exist thing is alive in my head, but no time to dwell.

            Reentering the common room, I see Floyd and Chris in the foyer ahead peeking out through the curtains. “How many?” I ask.

            “Just the one car, no movement. New model Tahoe, looks government,” Floyd says.

            Crouching down I run to the front and duck down behind a short bookcase next to the old man. “The feds?”

            “Be my guess.”

            We’re tired, slow, not sure what to do. Luckily we have Al. I lift my head in time to see him and Marie flanking the SUV from behind; then the sound of a few warning shots fired into the running boards.

            We run out, pointing our guns at the trees lining the dirt drive. We see Al on top of a helpless body, hands spread out in the prickly Texas wild grass.

            “Hawker?” I ask, truly surprised. “Dude?”

            “Would you tell this monster to get off me?”

            “Why you here? Be quick. Y’all lift him up.”

            “I put a tracker in your jacket back at the ranch house. Wanted to keep tabs. Don’t tell me it’s not the kind of thing you people do.” I start rummaging through my pockets and find it. So sloppy. With all the bullshit I carry around, it’s no wonder he could get one over on me. The rest of the group tries not to roll their eyes at my ineptitude.

            “Told you we’d make contact shortly.” My teeth are grinding as I say it.

            “You didn’t give me a number.”

            “We change numbers.”

            “Thus the tracker.” Hawker’s got a real kick to his voice. It’s understandable; he’s got Marie’s pistol jabbed into his side and Al’s sinewy arms bear hugging him with little anatomical concern.

            “Anyone else coming?” I ask. Pretty sure of the answer. Pretty sure the Deputy is here to help. It’s the only thing that makes sense. He saw what kind of people he was dealing with back at the ranch house—no way he would’ve pulled up by himself and let backup linger out of sight. Still. Caution and all that.

            “No one else. See anyone else?”

            I don’t. The only people I see are the members of my team, some looking at me, some looking at Hawker. All looking perplexed. “Let’s get him inside. Marie, have a walk around the property just in case. Al, you got his weapons?”

            “Didn’t have any on him.”

            “Figured he didn’t. Ok, let him go.”

            Al is quick to obey my command; Hawker seems surprised to be freed so quickly. I can see him gathering himself while he finds his own footing. Clearly pissed off, trying to hold it in. There’s him and there’s us; it’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable, but I’m not the one who drove up unannounced.

            Despite the bent look on his face he manages a relatively measured delivery. “Have you gotten anywhere on finding Marks?”

            “No,” I say, leaning up against his SUV, tapping on the fender. “Does this thing have a tracker in it? It’s government issue, right?”

            “No. My personal vehicle. Not a problem.”

            “Very original taste. If you’d come up in an ‘86 Camaro we probably wouldn’t have been so volatile.”

            “I get it.”

            “Okay. Rest of you guys, give us a second. Check on Nina, make sure she hasn’t run off into the woods or something. Be nice.”

            “Nina?” Hawker asks, watching my companions back to the house. “Your lawyer?”

            “Had people watching her? Figured as much.”

            “Who the hell are you people?”

            “I’m more concerned that you know who we’re not. We’re not murderers—not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. It’s obvious that you’re a very capable man, far as that goes, but you’re what, thirty-two?”

            “Thirty-one.”

            “Still a lot to learn. Like not to come here uninvited.”

            There’s an intractability to the young Marshal, an impetuous naivety that gets most in this line of work burnt out or dead before the inevitable mid-life crisis has its chance to flatten out the edges. I like him. I like that he’s almost completely adamantine, positively unlikeable.

            “Do you want to know why I’m here?”

            “Eventually.”

            “You mean to bust my balls in the front yard all day, Fellows? I came to help.”

            “And I’m trying to figure out if the guy helping has a brain between his ears. Very few people I trust, Deputy.”

            “Makes sense.” I realize I’m leaning back, arms crossed, judging the hell out of this kid. My head is still too padded up for him to see the imperious asshole look my face is making, though I’m pretty sure he can sense it. Time to leave off.

            “Alright. What brings you out here, YouTube?”

            “This is gonna sound crazy, but bear with me.”

            “Go,” I say, fishing through my pockets. The word crazy is all I need for a reminder.

            “I’ve got a source. Mentioned him back at the ranch house. He’s a little—”

            “What?”

            “Out there… you know, a little touched.”

            “Sounds promising.” Suddenly Hawker’s whole demeanor is changed. His eyes, body, they all scream defender. Almost nurturer. My sarcasm had an effect.

            “It’s the best we’ve got. He’s kind of my secret weapon—helped me catch some guys that nobody else could find.”

            “You telling me you’re not the one-man internet legend we all know and love?” I was wrong. He’s protecting his own ego, ashamed to admit the need for help in apprehending all those big bad men.

            “My source is very private, but very plugged in. I made a call, said some asshole named Stover Marks was going around killing agents, flying around in helicopters. He recognized the name immediately.”

            “You mention me?”

            “I didn’t.”

            Okay. I guess. “Keep going. Who is this guy?”

            “He’s a former NSA super-geek, got fired for some bureaucratic something or other years back. Hacked some—you know what, I have no idea what he did. Doesn’t matter. If anyone can help get Marks, it’s him.”

            “Why not? Call the guy.”

            “Don’t freak out or anything, but I have to go to him. It’s just the way he does things. Reclusive, you know?”

            “Don’t have time, Hawker. My kids are out there. Frigging ex-wife. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

            “They must be.”

            “Don’t tell me they must be. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Guy thinks I did his family. Maybe he’s already done mine.”

            “Doesn’t make sense.”

            “What part?”

            “Takes your family for revenge, then what? Just lets you wonder?”

            “Trust me, it’s torturous. He’s letting me stew in it.”

            “I get it. But something else is going on. Don’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you. He could’ve killed them right there, killed all of us right there. Obviously he knows you and your people, that you’re not normal. None of this is normal. We need my guy for this. Fellows, what have you got? Sitting around in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing?”

            “Eh.” It’s frustrating, but we are kinda sitting around, doing nothing.

            “He’s already working on Marks. Like I said. But it’s a matter of going to him. He’s difficult. Don’t tell me you can’t sympathize.”

            “Where?”

            “Idaho.”

            “Idaho… Of course he is.”

            “We’ll need a plane.”

            My eyes roll on cue. “Yeah. I can find one laying around here somewhere. Just hope you’re not playing me. This guy better pan out.”

            “Way I see it, you don’t have a choice. I need to get this Marks. You need to get your family. You can explain the rest of this madness along the way.”

            “Better be sure about this, Deputy. For all we know he’s coming for us right now. Something tells me he’ll leave you just as dead as the rest of us when he does.”

            “I’ll take my chances.”

            “Figured you’d say something stupid like that.”

            Despite my default veneer of aloof calm, I still don’t trust Hawker. Don’t know if this source is gonna give me anything. Even if he is acting on his own, the feds might be watching his moves. Nah. They’d already be here by now. Remember Henry, you’re still the most evil man in the world. A rapacious murderer ripped from the pages of a penny dreadful.

            Guess I might as well trust the kid. Guess it’s time to go to frigging Idaho.

Chapter 17: Moscow

            Not the one in Russia. The one in frigging Idaho. Thought I’d hidden in every nook and cranny the world had to offer. Not so. Never knew there was a Moscow in Idaho. Anyway:

            The flight up gave me a chance for a little sleep, but I’m not quite in the mood for reading. “Give me the highlights, but first, tell me who you are.”

            “I’m—ah—I made copies. That’s everything I have on Marks.” The guy handing out copies is a little off, just as Hawker foretold. Maybe five and a half feet tall, maybe 120 pounds. Blonde hair. Black-rimmed glasses. Flannel shirt. Cheeks full of patchy, struggling hairs. Kind of a hipster, but not quite hip enough. “My name is Gary. I’d rather not say any more. My story isn’t all that interesting, if you want to know the truth.”

            “I think you’re very interesting, Gary,” Marie says. “You must be, for us to be getting cabin fever in the middle of potato land, talking to you. Unless this is a complete waste—”

            “Marie Vigier,” he says, cutting her off in a way that’s somehow inoffensive. Could be that his head is looking at corner of the room, cocked like he just heard a loud noise over there. “A.K.A. Marie Wilson, Colette Vigier, Diana Marquez, etc. I’m a—really big—fan of your work.”

            I try not to laugh. That’ll piss her off. We’re all gathered in Gary’s retreat. It’s a decent place, set between two timber-laden bluffs. Big living room, connected kitchen. Nothing too fancy, but tidy and nice. Nobody else around for miles. But it was a pain and a half getting here. My people are wondering why, running low on patience. Gary’s got no tact. Gary’s about to get his ass kicked by my female compatriot.

            “What do you mean, fan? Is that a joke or something?” Marie asks. It has that last question I’m gonna ask tenor to it.

            “Not at all. Not at all,” Gary says, completely unaware of her state or anyone else’s. “Fine work. Is all. Libya was—really nice. Getting three insurgent generals. One blast. Very neat—how you orchestrated that.”

            “Okay, Gary,” I say, wrapping my arm around his tiny little shoulders. “I think Marie probably wants to keep her business to herself.” Part of me thinks she’s gonna kill this guy, the other part thinks he might hyperventilate before she gets the chance.

            “Oh, of course. As do I, as do I. You’ll have to excuse—flaws in manners, Ms. Vigier. It’s been a bit. Since I’ve had any… prolonged social interaction.”

            I sit down with Gary on a suede love seat opposite the big stone fireplace in his living room. The weight of my body lifts him and his side of the cushion a good four inches. The guy’s frigging tiny, the token computer nerd living off the grid. Completely at odds with the rustic setting; he’d be at odds anywhere.

            Nobody speaks for the next few minutes. I lean back and let them sift the files Gary provided. My eyes are still heavy. Somehow my body feels different, chemically I mean. More pills. Maybe some Ritalin.

            “Is this everything you have?” Hawker asks, breaking the brief silence.

            “I’m still working. You didn’t, you know—give me—much time.” Gary chatters his teeth as he talks. Probably got beat as a kid or something. Think raising Marie’s ire has him a little more spooked than usual. Not sure I blame him. Knowing what he obviously knows about this lot, most people would be scared to death to be in the same room.

            “Anything useful?” I ask.

            “Not sure. Don’t know—what—you know already.”

            “Just assume we’re completely in the dark. It’s pretty much the truth. No need to be nervous, little fella. Settle down and tell me what you know. Like you were doing an analysis for the NS—”

            “Stover Marks, age 46 years old. Born Trent R. Wilson in West Virginia. I won’t bother you with his other aliases. Recruited for black ops by the DOD for counter terrorist missions and counter espionage, etc., after two rotations with the Seals. The book on him is he’s good at commanding, no real specialties. Average aptitude and sniper scores, decent but not adept with explosives. Kind of an anomaly. Distinguished himself mostly through bravery or blind luck. As most of you know, he ran many of the off-the-books missions in the middle east for various allied countries. Some years back he went off the map, not discharged, not promoted, nothing. Just disappeared. Assumed dead. A lot of rumors floating around, guys like me, secure access channel gossip. Nothing solid. Until now, of course. I will keep working, use my backchannels, see if anything pops up. He’s very good at covering his tracks, though. My guess is someone’s covering them for him.”

            “Why’s that?” I ask.

            “Because of what I just told you, Mr. Fellows. This isn’t a man that can shirk off a digital hunt from someone like me. You should know that, yourself. Being familiar with cyber security—that is.”

            Hawker’s standing by the fire across from us, looking pleased. Everyone else looks amazed. The little guy is clearly one of those types that can’t communicate things except the things he knows. You know what I mean.

            “What do you have on his family?” I ask.

            “No family.”

            “Oh, he had a family,” Floyd says, setting down the file. “I knew this guy. Back in the day.”

            “No family.” We all want to re-refute Gary’s assertion but he won’t let us. “No family. How many people here worked with him, personally? Marie, Al, and Floyd, correct?”

            “How do you know?” Floyd asks.

            “It’s all out there, just takes someone good to find it. Even these cross-agency operations—leave a trail. Not digital. Necessarily. Local news. Local police. Local CC cameras. You people never think of everything. I put together puzzles. That was the entirety of my job, what I did—before.” Gary’s getting worked up again, doing that panting staccato form of talking.

            “You’re saying he had no family?” Floyd asks again.

            “No. And I know he said he did. But that was a cover story. Or one of them. For one of his last postings. Totally fabricated. It’s all very provable.”

            Marie’s unconvinced. “I got CIA reports…”

            “Based on newspaper articles. The CIA doesn’t run—the likes of you—people. Not telling you. Anything you don’t know.”

            “You’re wrong,” I say, standing up in frustration. It doesn’t make sense. Hawker. “Hey, Deputy, thought you said this guy was good.”

            Now Hawker’s looking sideways. “Gary just told you secretive assholes the in’s and out’s of your own history’s. You were impressed until twelve seconds ago.” I can see the agent trying to relax his stiffened body. Clearly he’s defensive about his crazy little forest nerd. “This guy tracked every one of those fugitives I caught. He’s never failed me. Ever.”

            “So digital Sherlock Holmes lives in Moscow, Idaho? And you have him all to yourself?”

            The room is charged, but I can’t help but feel bad. We’re talking about a guy three feet away like he’s in the real Moscow.

            Al finally chimes in. Surprises me. “I never met any family. Just heard stories. We’re all liars. Part of the job. Why not?”

            “No,” I say. “I remember the picture. The kids’ faces. I remember.”

            Too much to process. My brain is a scrambled mess, no matter how much I will it to be otherwise. I walk away from the little confab and head outside. It’s a nice wooden porch, nice mountain air, crisp night. Take your pills. My face is feeling better, but now my head is starting to hurt. Memories. New revelations. Helplessness. If Marks never had a family, what’s he got against me? Whose family picture do I remember getting pissed on? That dream I had back in Texas comes to mind. Maybe… What the hell am I doing in the middle of nowhere, with no answers?

            Frigging Moscow.

            “Henry? Can I come out?” It’s Nina. Me and nature time will have to wait. She deserves some attention.

            “Yeah, sure. Been meaning to say I’m sorry properly. So, you know…sorry.”

            “Very poignant.”

            “Poignancy is for poets. Certainly not one of those.” I look over at her. She’s dressed in comfortable clothes and looks great despite being obviously exhausted. Her deep, dark eyes and shapely form become more obvious in the Idaho moonlight. It’d be great to say something magical to atone for bringing her into to all this. All I can muster is another weak, “I’m sorry.”

            She smiles a little. “Alright. I get that this is for my protection, or what you think is my protection.”

            “Didn’t know what else to do. Seems the farther I go, the less this thing makes sense. Until it’s over, you need to stay with me or the Deputy.”

            “Seems like standing next to you guys might be the perfect way to get killed.”

            “Good point.” It was. “But it’s a trick bag. I’m afraid the only people you can trust right now are the people in the most danger. Frigging nightmare.”

            “I’m sorry, Henry.”

            “What are you sorry for?” I can hear her turning girl on me, starting to sniffle from the irritation of oncoming tears.

            “All this. You never told me the extent, the scope of your past. So violent. These people. And your parents. Now the rest of your family…”

            “Not your fault. It’s all my fault, even the stuff that isn’t.”

            Nina’s crying harder now. Uncontrollably. Hell, it’s bad, but she was never the overly emotional type. I sense that there’s more behind her words, so I lean in to do a consolation type thing. She pulls away. Guess being alone for over a year can make you awkward around the ladies. I give it another try, giving her hug while a deluge of womanish-type stuff starts rushing out of her. My attention is so focused on it, I don’t even notice the lights from an approaching truck coming toward the cabin. Not at first.

            What now? It’s all very sudden. The lights, Nina backing away, the rest of my crew flanking out and setting up barriers, arming up. Al comes up behind me all heavy-footed and slaps a Sig into my palm. “Take this and get the hell off the porch,” he says, pulling me back into the now lightless cabin.

            “I thought you said nobody knew about this place?” It’s Marie. She’s pissed, looking over at Hawker kneeling under the left front window.

            “Nobody does. Gary?”

            I hear a little voice from a dark corner of the cabin reply. “Nobody did.”

            There are trees on either side of the dirt road leading up to the cabin. Chris, Floyd and Al are somewhere out there, setting up on whoever it may be. They know what they’re doing.

            Looking out I see the truck come to a stop. Just sitting there, lights on. What the dump is going on?

            It’s too dark to see how many are in the truck. Before my mind can ask any more questions, we hear a voice call out from the cab. Man’s voice. Guessing thirties. “I’m alone. Unarmed. Your people can come out and search me if they want. Putting my hands outside the truck.”

            Vision through the window is obscured by the headlights blasting. I ask Marie if she has a better view.

            “Looks like Al’s creeping the passenger side. Floyd’s got the driver. Your buddy’s backing him. Yeah. They got him.”

            “Any ideas?” I ask.

            I barely see Marie shaking her head. “Nope.”

            The cabin lights are back on. Marie’s talking with Al and Floyd. Chris has the guy cuffed and on his knees. Dude looks like—nobody really. White. Not lean, not chubby. Just an average, guileless face. Guy looks like he works at the mall. What’s he doing here?

            Marie starts the questioning. I’m right next to her. We’re all in a line, everyone standing except the nerd and Nina in the corner and Chris behind him, keeping a pistol trained and ready.

            “What are you doing here?” she asks. My thoughts exactly.

            “I come for two reasons,” he says. His eyes are blank slabs, staring right through us. “To deliver something on behalf of Mr. Marks—”

            Suddenly everything is forgotten. All my pain, anxiety. This asshole’s chilly demeanor has me dialed in. So I punch him. About as hard as I know how. “Who are you? Where’s my family?” Another punch, this one with my left. “Think we’re just gonna let you come in here and walk out? We know how to make a man suffer.”

            Yeah, I was never good at sounding sinister.

            He’s bloody in the face but smiling. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Fellows. But you will let me go. If I’m not free and reporting back in ten minutes, one of your children—well, you know.” It’s all very cozy, nice country cabin, fire crackling in the background. Mindless freak in the living room.

            Hawker grabs me, knows I’m about to start wailing on the guy.

            “What are you delivering?” It’s Floyd, ignoring my histrionics.

            “A message. Play it at your leisure. Don’t wait too long, though. The memory stick is in my right jacket pocket.”

            Floyd fishes it out, holds it up in front of the dude’s face. “What’s on it?”

            “Clock’s ticking.”

            Marie interjects. “You said two things.”

            “Yes I did. I also came for her.”

            Somewhere in the back of my mind there’s a kernel of a thought; secluded locale, one lonely figure unexpectedly approaching a house full of me and allies. Last time it turned out okay, turned to be Hawker. This time, not so much. It’s weird how many times my mind has been blown. But what did he just say? Her who?

            “Nina, let’s go,” he says.

            Chris is already facing her direction, keeping his gun buried deep between the shoulder blades of Mr. Creepy. The rest of us turn around. There’s only one other she, and he wasn’t talking at Marie.

            Nina stands up, wiping off tears in the process.

            Nothing’s coming out of my mouth. It’s one of those things that you’re getting, but not computing. A fog. A haze. Words are crap all of a sudden.

            “I’m sorry, Henry. Kind of sorry, anyway. None of this was my doing. Like I said outside, this life, these people—it was always going to catch up to you.”

            Before I utter a word she starts back in. I’m like a man-sponge, full of holes and just as soft. Whatever. “What? You think this is my fault? The day I decided to represent you was the last day of my life.” It’s not my Nina anymore. Somehow a second’s time has transmuted her into something vicious, still small but with sharp teeth. “They came to me days after the verdict, these freaks, offered me money and the ability to keep the lives of me and my family. We were clearly going to lose… you know what, I don’t have to explain myself. Whatever sordid past you had, your pathetic existence—it ruined mine. I’m just trying to get some of it back. You let me take that case in bad faith. Don’t be stunned at my need for redress.”

            She’s standing there like she just ended with her closing statement, full of herself, like she owns the place. I think even Gary’s offended. The lawyer talk. Good old, bad new Nina.

            I see my companions; they’re all showing tells, rubbing their hair, rolling their eyes—they know we have to let them go, that the shit just got deeper. Still, it’s an act of pure will to sputter out the words: “Get out.”

            The weirdo and Nina brush by me like the whole thing was all part of a p—what am I saying? It was their frigging plan. The air is thick with failure. Gary’s place is blown. Hawker looks like his ass has been kicked. There’s a note of sympathy coming from the faces of Marie and Chris, even Al. They know we can’t follow. It’s too risky. Can’t do much of anything except stand around like a bunch of idiots no closer to getting my family back.

            Floyd’s still holding the memory stick. “Where do we play this damn thing?”

Chapter 18: Message

            Marie puts the thumb drive and clicks on the video file. There’s a collective breath being drawn as she maneuvers the cursor toward the play button. The cabin feels like a vacuum.

            There he is.

            I don’t recognize the face, but I know it’s him.

            Marie and Floyd don’t react, like they’re seeing exactly what they expected.

            The visage of a devil? Not really, just a guy, older looking than I would’ve guessed. A few light scars on the forehead and cheeks. Freshly shaved with a music staff of wrinkle lines on his forehead. Tailored shirt. Thin, straight lips. A satisfied haughtiness around the eyes. Bout it.

            Then he starts. I do recognize the voice:

            “Hello, all. Not sure who’s there, but… eh, let’s not kid ourselves, I know exactly who’s there. Marie, hope you’re doing well, still looking fit I hear, still doing odd jobs for odd little countries around the world. Floyd, my good man. You always did have a soft spot for the sad ones. Al! When I heard you were working with these lightweights it made my heart sad. You’re better than that. Chris Wyatt, sad to see you get mixed up in all the madness. It is madness, isn’t it? Well you’d know better than me. You worked at the puzzle factory, after all. Don’t blame me. Not my plan. Walk away—really, no harm done. You were actually helpful. I won’t bother with the techie, but yeah, I know you’re there too, little guy. Never had much respect for the spectators. And Agent Hawker. You’ll be happy to know that I recently subscribed to your YouTube channel. It was lovely to see you down in Texas. Hope you give the families of your dead agents my best. Couldn’t be helped—maybe it could’ve, but woohoo! Got to say that was fun. You like the helicopter? Let me guess, I’m on that famous list of yours now? Ha. Don’t think you’ll be apprehending me in one of your vainglorious viral videos.”

            Here it comes.

            “And of course, last but not—well, anyway, hello, Mr. Fellows. How’s that face? Healing I hope. You looked like a burn victim last we saw each other.

            Get to the point, douchebag.

            “Here’s the scoop. I killed your parents. Maybe you know it, but best you hear it straight from the horse.”

            This piece of shit.

            “I won’t apologize, of course. It’s really not—my nature. Not for chopping them up either. Not a big deal. Just a thing that happened. I’ll explain as we go.”

            Nutbar.

            “Though there’s one apology I feel compelled to issue. I underestimated you. Have from the start. Yes, I had you captured. Those were my men beating your body to pulp day after day, week after week. Do you remember meeting? Oh, how I’ve wondered. It must be hard, trying to gauge whether those voices in your head stem from the past or from your splintered psyche. Whew. What a nightmare.”

            I hoped they were nightmares. So much for that theory.

            “What do you want from me!?” I yell. It’s loud and smacks of amateurism. Marie has to stop the recording for a second.

            “Of course, you’ve had a lot of a help from your friends. You must inspire some degree of loyalty. Hadn’t a notion that Floyd would be so dogged in the search and rescue, hadn’t an inkling that he would bring in someone as unflagging and insuperable as Al. Cheers to all of you. My men were dead, you were miraculously saved, and for awhile I wiled away in abject failure.”

             The way he’s talking. Certain words. Doesn’t seem right.

            Again, I hear the snap from Marie pausing the message. “You met him, Henry? Why didn’t you say anything?”

            It’s a fair question. I’m cycling back through the events of the past few weeks, picking at the husk of cotton encrusting my head. What I know or didn’t know isn’t exactly an exact science. They can’t understand, nor should they. An offering of the closest thing I know to be true will have to suffice. “Recently—very recently, been having nightmares, visions. You heard me in the car. At least that’s—point is, yeah, we met, but I never saw his face. Never heard his name. Obviously, the visions were memories. Real, authentic stuff.”

            Silence.

            “So we met. He was an asshole. Things haven’t changed. Play the tape.”

            Figure there will be more questions later.

            “It started out very simply. Capture you, make it look like terrorists, then when the time was right, use your life to gain access to certain codes and accounts contained within the then upstart Fellows Security Company. I was aware that you knew nothing at the time, but one has to go through the motions—for appearances, as they say. The hope was that your father would be amenable to a trade at the time. Just a little information for the life of his son… but I’m afraid he was unwilling to cooperate. You and daddy must’ve had quite the quarrelsome relationship.”

            I can feel the everyone in the room wanting to look at me. Give me some weak attempt at sympathy. Thankfully they stay focused on the douche on the screen.

            “It was just so strange. I had turned on my government by then, obviously, and this was one of my first missions ‘out on my own.’ The price was really a pittance, the terrorist organization an upstart, like me. It would’ve been a simple exchange, but no dice. Your father was quite the man. Willing to let his only son die without blinking. Think me and him would’ve gotten along—you know, before I cut his throat.”

            Floyd and Marie hear the familiar sound of me going through my pockets. Again, she stops the video. “You need a break? This is pretty heavy.”

            “Nope. Let it roll.”

            “Okay.”

            “We were going to kill you and let that be the end of it, but then old Floyd and the crew had to get wise to my location. Of course, Al being Al, he massacred everyone that could’ve implicated me in the operation. Still, I couldn’t take the chance. Hence the reports of the dead family. They weren’t mine. Just some people that were kind enough to let me stay with them in Syria. I got them new papers with my name, backlogged a fake history, you know the drill. Something I did at every posting. Habit, I suppose. Made it look like a insurgent hit squad. Even put an extra body in there, hoping I’d be assumed dead. It worked for awhile.”

            This is one crazy puppy.

             “It’s actually really funny. When my men showed you a picture of that murdered family, they weren’t mine, and they weren’t the ones I had to kill for the cover story either. Just another convenient family, thought it would be good for effect. Turned out to be a kind of accidental adumbration. Have to find the humor in things.”

            “Hold it,” Al says. “This guy’s language is as weird as it is sick. What does that mean? Adum-what?”

            “It’s like forecasting of future events,” I say. “He’s threatening my kids. Trying to sound smart.” Al turns and nods, noticing me still grabbing at my pocket. “How much more, Marie?”

            “Not much. We’re about three-quarters through.”

            “Finish it.”

            “…So there was a lot of fun to be had, imagining you blaming yourself. Anyway, I moved on, thought to let bygones be bygones, let the years go. The rich boy got to go home, keep his name, rise in the company, etc. Meanwhile I became a ghost, created an independent operation of mercenaries more dangerous and more focused than any nation’s covert service. You all feel it. Everywhere we went, people like us, fighting each other for this country or that country, so many disillusioned souls. It wasn’t hard to recruit. Now we kill for ourselves. For money. We used to kill for their selves, their money. But there are responsibilities. Then came the idea to use Fellows Security to our advantage. To go to the source. The plan was to kidnap your parents, play them as leverage. See if you would bend where your father wouldn’t. Seemed poetic at the time. Unfortunately your father was not at all cooperative. He fought and fought—fact is we were forced to kill him. Your mother—you know, witnesses. It was messy. A sad blunder. Only compounded by the fact that you let yourself get taken in, put in prison. But that’s all over now. With Nina’s help, we’ve got you right where you need to be. Mend a few days. Get over it. There’s much to do. Your family will remain alive and I will return them if you do what I want.”

            Always the same bullshit. Money and intelligence.

            “Instead of forcing a burgeoning Fellows Security to help some fledgling dictator, you’re going to get me access to everything. That, or I kill all of you. But not before I dismember your family. The next message will come soon. Be well, boys and girls. Henry, keep your head up. Any luck and this will soon be over. What’s the phrase? Illegitimi Non Carborundum.”

            As the screen goes black we all let out a collective breath. I find myself backing away, toward the wall opposite the desk where we watched the computer. Everybody’s looking at me. The questions are obvious. What do we do? Are you okay? Was there anything we missed? Should we all just run for the freaking hills? What the hell was he talking about with all that crap?         

            They’re scared. Not something I’m accustomed to seeing from this lot. Al’s actually feeling guilty, like he should’ve saved a few bad guys for questioning back in the day, Marie and Floyd are feeling guilty for not knowing about this damned Bond villain growing beneath their feet. Hawker looks like he needs to call somebody, only there’s no one to call. Chris and the nerd appear as if they’ve stepped into the seventh circle of hell.

            I’m actually okay. Fishing away in my pocket, now with more assured purpose.

            “How’d the guy find us out here?” I ask, knowing the answer. Sideways looks and pinched eyebrows tell me it’s not the question they expected.

            Clearing her throat, Marie answers. “They probably tracked her cell phone.”

            “Chris left it. Checked everything she had.”

            “Sure I did.”

            “So they had a tracker on her. Maybe something embedded in the skin. Could’ve been anything.” I take a breath, pulling out a small cell phone sized device. “It’s not on you, Chris. They knew I’d protect Nina, knew that was a weakness. I played right in.” Everybody’s checking me up and down, waiting me to break apart in shame. Maybe later. Right now there isn’t time. “Anyway, it gives me an idea.” I toss the device to Floyd. After a second, he gives me a knowing look. “When they were walking out, they brushed up against me. I put two on her. Two on him. Those little ones that stick to anything, look like flattened contact lenses.”

            “There’s only two signals reading on the screen,” Floyd says.

            “They would’ve checked her, but the douchebag didn’t think to check himself. He’s leading us somewhere. Hopefully back to Marks.” I rub my eyes and take a heavy breath. “Hopefully.”

            “Cheeky stuff,” Marie says. I can see her spirits are a bit higher. It’s not all that cheeky, more like standard, but she’s looking for some light through the clouds.

            Even nerd Gary seems purposeful. He’s checking the specs on the readout device. “What model is this?” he asks. Like the device is the world, a new one worth exploring. Not the world of shit that it actually is.

            “It’s a Fellows Mini, the 7 series.”

            “Wow. I only thought they went to 5.”

            “Better start doing your homework, youngster. Now, who’s up for a field trip?”

            “Does your field trip include killing this son of a bitch?” Al asks.

            “First we have to move. Search everything for bugs. No more carelessness. After that, gear up. We won’t be coming back. Gary, you’re coming with. I’ll pay you for your place. Sorry to get you mixed up in all this.” I take a moment to let the instructions sink in. “If possible, I’d like to get a word with Trevor and Marie outside.”

            As we walk to the porch, I’m trying to calculate what to say. I wasn’t speaking my whole mind in the there.

            “What do you think?” I ask, eyes down. Don’t care who responds first.

            It’s quiet. Idaho quiet. Like we’re not here. Same crisp night air. Stillness. I keep waiting.

            Finally, Hawker offers his portion. “Think you might be the most screwed over person in history.”

            “Marie?”

            “I’m with you, Henry. Whatever. Maybe we follow the signal, go guns blazing. Understandable impulse, don’t get me wrong, but this guy—he’s a step ahead. Gives me pause, if you want honesty.”

            “Worried, huh?”

            “Crazy if I wasn’t. We’re all in this now. No idle threat back there. Marks already killed Billy. Killed families for theatrical purposes. Now he wants all our heads.”

            Her honesty is appreciated. Need to know where she stands. From the jump, Marie has proved my most reasonable ally. Her level head will be a necessity when mine is flagging. Hawker’s out here because I’m still trying to figure him, and because he might end up being the most important cog in the wheel. Not sure yet. “So you say we call off the dogs, wait for him to contact us? Play it on his terms?”

            “Maybe, yeah. There’s no good answer here.”

            Hawker interjects. “Maybe it’s time to shut this thing down.”

            “Meaning?”

            “Meaning I’ve gone along, want to get to this psycho like everyone else, but things have changed.”

            “What, exactly?”

            “You’re innocent, Henry. Like, really innocent. The authorities. Bring them in. I’m still a deputized U.S. Marshal. And there’s proof. The video. Dude just handed it on a platter.”

            “Changed for you,” I say.

            “What’s that mean?”
            “Things have changed for you. I’ve always been innocent. For me, nothing’s changed. Family’s still gone.”

            “So what, then?” Marie asks.

            “I go myself. Follow the signal.”

            “You’re suicidal.”

            “Not suicide. There’s no time—just listen. I think they want me to follow. And I’m not talking about Marks. Someone else was talking through that message. Marks didn’t write it.”

            “What are you going on about?” Hawker asks. “Is everything something else masquerading as who the hell knows what? This shit is tedious.”

            “This shit is the intelligence business. Look. The video. It sounded like a jock reading a term paper written by the valedictorian. He ran the same style game during my interrogation. The parts I can remember, anyway. And that Latin thing at the end? I’ve heard it before. Somebody wants to talk to me. Can’t quite put it together, but there’s a dialogue going on underneath. Kind of a code.”

            “But can you be sure?” Marie’s pretty eyes are full of worry as she grabs my arm.

            “No. But sure enough to follow through.”

            It’s obvious that neither of them wants to hear what I’m laying out. Another guy behind the guy situation. Don’t blame them—it’s tedious.

            “Either way, why go by yourself?” Hawker asks. “Gonna turn down the full force and resources of the government?”

            Marie’s still concerned. “So this plan…”

            “Just get everybody out of here, go dark. I’ll contact you after I catch up to the signal. If I don’t reach out in the next ten hours, bail. Assume I’m dead.”

            “Sounds like you’re playing fast and loose with your life.”

            “Maybe. But I’m done playing with anybody else’s.”

Chapter 19: Song

            On my own again. It’s strange to admit, but there’s comfort in it. Fifteen months of complete isolation molded me into something a few weeks of help couldn’t break.

            Habits.

            Just me and the road. Mountains all around. Middle of the night. Highway 12, the quickest way to the two remaining signals. They’ve been stationary for an hour now, rooted to one spot on the tracker screen, on the outskirts of Missoula, Montana.

            I’m in nerd Gary’s late 90’s Subaru hatchback. Can’t say I’m surprised by his choice of vehicle. He seemed genuinely sad to part company with it, though I vowed to reunite him with it post haste.

            Been in the car for about two hours, driving carefully, trying to stay awake. A fresh cocktail of uppers, cortisone, and anti-anxiety pills are in my body. This whole trip is a half-hunch, but I’m confident. Feeling pretty good. Wish I could say the same about Gary’s music collection. Bands I’ve never heard of, burned cd’s of raging house music mostly. I found one album that wasn’t terrible, so it’s been playing the entirety of the trip. Almost have the title track memorized. Basic country-rock stuff. About the only thing I could find with lyrics.

            Nerds. Never understood them. Guess they’re the cool ones now. When I was young, you kept the fact that you were smart to yourself or you got beat up. The way things ought to be.

            The gauze around my face is gone. The stitches and cuts are covered with a collage of Band-Aids. Not quite as ridiculous. Still, pretty ridiculous. I turn on the overhead light to catch another glimpse of my mug. Yeah, the doc did a pretty good job. There’s old Henry’s underneath the mess; the healing is making it manifestly obvious. Anybody’s guess how many scars will remain, anybody’s guess if I’ll live long enough to find out.

            The entire drive has given me a chance to stretch out my lips, jaw muscles, eyebrows, etc. Used the not-so-crappy music to help. Started with strained humming, but the tendons are loosening to the point where I can sing along with the chorus:

            Coming back from God knows where,

            The quiet climb down devil’s stairs,

            Not to look behind.

            They told him not to try,

            The fathers screamed the mothers cried,

            Their promises a lie.

            The wishing life ain’t good enough,

            The journey’s taken oh so much,

            Still the steps he tries.

            Still the steps he tries.

            Still the steps he tries.

            Still the steps he tries.

            I sing it over and over, along with the gravely vocals and the messy 4/4 guitar strum pattern. The lyrics are crap, the kind that can mean something very specific or apply to every situation in one’s life. Having it on repeat has me thinking it was written singularly for this time and place. Projecting. As you do.

            There are certain parallels. Except I can’t figure out the quiet climb down devil’s stairs part. Suspect that climb wouldn’t be quiet. Whatever. It’s a metaphor, and I suck with those.

            Still humming when I start nearing the signal. I’m in the valley, where the mountains give way to gentle hills down into the flats of town. Everything long and wide, whatever seems a mile away is five. Pretty cool place, if memory serves. Used to fish the Blackfoot River, back sometime between the bad and the worse. Right now it’s quiet, all the nice people tucked away in their beds. I imagine men and their wives snoring under bearskins and native American blankets, fisherman waking up in the middle of the night to get after the best trout. I like it up here. Coming from Texas, it’s like an alien landscape, formed in a time when the world hadn’t even considered offering up the chance for disruptive things like me to come along.

            Whatever. Your mistake, world.

The tracker says there’s about a half-mile to the point of origin. Close enough to get out and do the rest on foot. I have darkness on my side for at least two more hours and the element of surprise.

            I pull up into a little dirt siding alongside the road. Haven’t seen another car pass for at least an hour. Look down at the screen and out the window through infrared binoculars. Doesn’t seem to be anything out there but a rocky hill interrupting the falling landscape. Only one way to find out.

            Time to gear up. I don’t have much with me. Two handguns, a Beretta 92s and a Sig 45. Four clips and a HK MP5N fitted for a silencer. No stun grenades, no real grenades. It occurred that a sniper rifle might come in handy, but I thought better of it. If there’s a bunch of bad guys, you can’t take out more than one or two from long range. The rest get wise after that. Better to dive into the belly of the beast, cut it apart from inside.

            Hopefully guns won’t be necessary. Marie lent me a few knives.

After a final check, I close the hatchback, strap on my night-vision headset and start out on foot, southeast toward the signal. The MP5 has a shoulder strap but I steady it against my body with one hand while the other is occupied with the tracker module. No way I’m in shape for this, but my breathing is controlled, moving along at a pretty good clip over uneven terrain. All that training kicking back in. Like riding a bike, I guess.

            There are little mind tricks you use to keep calm. That stupid song is in my head so I go with it.

            The wishing life ain’t good enough,

            The journey’s taken oh so much,

            Still the steps he tries.

            Still the steps he tries.

            Still the steps he tries.

            Not long and I’m at the rise of the hill. Less than a quarter-mile to the signal’s point of origin. Flattening out, I pull the binoculars out and take another peek.

            Gotcha.

            It’s a secluded warehouse-type building, out in the middle of nothing. Seems newly built. Even one Montana winter and any building’s façade will show the strain. Enough buffer from the town to do what you like, close enough to the major roads to get away quick if need be. The kind of location I’d choose. Only two trucks outside the building, side-by-side, aimed in my direction. I keep my body locked in place, waiting for any people leaving or coming. Nothing. Just three sentries, bored, trying to keep their blood warm against the Big Sky air.

            Coming back from God knows where,

            The quiet climb down devil’s stairs

            Instinct is telling me to move, my overwrought muscles seem to have a rejuvenated vigor not felt for some time.

            So I wait a little longer. Have to be measured. Can’t get let this or that emotion steer the ship. Something old Floyd taught me, back in the day. The right amount of patience will keep you alive. Too much patience will get you caught. What’s the right amount? Eh, just go with your gut. Then add three minutes. Probably get killed anyway.

I start down the remainder of the hill. No way the mopes outside the warehouse can see me. It’s a lucky night, clouds covering the moon. Staying low I glide through the wet calf-high grass, trying to remember. Stay calm.           

            The journey’s taken oh so much.

            Still the steps he—ah, to hell with it.

            I close the quarter mile in less than two minutes, coming to a chain-link fence. Looked for a way around it when I was on top of the hill, no dice. Thing completely outlines the property.

            Cutters. I take them out and snip away at the metal, link by link, looking up after every snip to see what the three blind mice are doing. The one I can see is directly ahead, standing in the narrow sliver of space between the two parked cars and in front of a standard-sized metal side door. Weird. He’s boxed himself in. I see him light up a smoke. Now it makes sense. He wants some privacy. God. Even henchman are ashamed to smoke. What a sad commentary. The other two aren’t visible; I’m too close to the building and don’t have a good angle at the sides.

            No more lyrics in my head. There’s a time to be calm and a time to be a little keyed up. Like when you have to kill a bunch of people quick and quiet. Not a time for singing.

There’s about thirty-five yards between me and the building. The only chance is to make a quick dash to the front of the parked cars before the smoker or his buddies spot me. Not much light, just a lonely bulb with a rain cover over the side door where the smoker is posted. That’s good. Probably should wait a few more seconds, but screw it. Staying low, I run as fast as my crap body will allow, coming to an abrupt but quiet stop against one of the parked trucks. Control your breathing, douchebag. Think.

            Three guys. With big guns. Vests. Can’t make any noise. Limits my options.

            The smoker is finishing his cigarette, just on the other side of the truck from where I’m crouched. I recognize his face. The one that showed up to the cabin. The one that took Nina. I duck down lower and slide into the space between the two vehicles. He has no idea. Hasn’t heard a thing. Poor idiot. No need for night vision, he’s perfectly spotlighted. Rising up from my crouch I turn the selector to semi-auto and fire one shot into his head, running up to catch the already dead body. The whole thing’s pretty quiet, save the slight whoosh from the blood spatter against the building.

            Only seconds before one or both of his buddies come around the corner. I haul the dead smoker down between the two trucks and crouch on top of his corpse. Little tasteless. No time for taste. Henchman X is rounding the corner to my right, pulling a stupid face because he can’t see me—just the remnant cloud of blood in the air and gore on the ground where his buddy just was. He’s a good way’s off, but I sight quickly and fire. Another head shot. His body drops with a thud onto the little moat of gravel surrounding the building. It’s pretty loud, all that meat and metal bouncing on bits of rock. I do a 180 degree turn on the smoker, almost twisting an ankle. Nothing. Guess henchman Y didn’t get wise.

            Okay then. Clipping the MP5 to my body, I pull one of Marie’s knives, reach for the Beretta, and make my way toward the other corner, moving along the warehouse. The sidearm is trained on the corner, just in case he arrives before me. He doesn’t. Inching up I listen for footsteps. They’re not too close but moving in my direction.

            Henchman Y never had a chance. Soon as he’s at the corner I bury the blade upward through his throat and into his mouth, swiveling behind his body to get more leverage and prevent myself from getting shot in the gut. Pretty decent move.

            I set Y down gently where he is, yanking the bloody blade from his head. Made quite a mess, but whatever. Still rusty.

            Next is the big mystery: finding out who’s inside. Pretty sure who I’ll run into, but don’t know if they’ll be an army alongside him. I round the building looking for any kind of window. Luckily, there’s a little chunk of metal missing from one of the side panels on the back wall. I hold my breath and peek in with as little face as possible.

            Too dark. I pull my headset down and turn on my night vision. Few seconds go by. Nothing. A couple things ramble through my mind. Maybe there’s nobody home. Yeah, maybe, but post guards around an empty building? Why? Maybe they were just guarding a thing, and nobody else is around. I dismiss that one before it has a chance to linger. You’re still getting a signal, remember? Go with the hunch. It’s not a damn hunch.

            Staying low and quiet I move around the building to the front. There are no windows and no more holes to try and get a look. Nearing the door, I stop to gather my thoughts. No good options. Can’t exactly stroll into a dark building; might get my head blown off before I have a chance to do anything productive.

So I take the polite approach: Knock on the door. Three times. Not too hard, but firm. Polite, obligatory knocks. Like someone familiar showing up to a dinner party. I run for cover behind the truck nearest the door. My instincts are telling me that there’s no one left to shoot—yet.

            Ten seconds go by. Thirty. Then a minute. My body is frozen in a firing position, firm and steady. Another minute. The tension is rising with every breath. Suddenly, I’m freaking out and losing my focus. The bruises and cuts on my face are yelling out, my hands are back to shaking. If I go up to knock again I put myself out in the open. Not a good plan. But standing here losing my shit isn’t exactly optimal either.

            Coming back from God knows where…

            Eh, shut up Henry. No more calm. That’s gone now, replaced by all the old neuroses and foibles. I take a step out from behind the truck. Before I can take another, I hear three knocks on the door, same rhythm and force as mine. Okay?

            The door opens slightly, but no light escapes from inside. It’s starting to feel like a bad horror movie. Is someone playing games, or is there a two-headed hell beast about to come crashing out to eat my entrails?

            I need drugs.

“Henry? Is that you?” The voice coming out through the crack is strained and creaky, like an old man’s voice.

            “Who is that?” I ask, wishing I could act surprised. I’m not. But I am. One of those ambiguous-type deals.

            “Come on in, boy.”

            “You come out. And anybody else that’s in there. Now, dammit! I’ve had a bad couple of days.”

            “You won’t shoot me?”

            “Scout’s honor.”

            “I remember when you were in the scouts. Suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. Steady on the trigger finger. I’m unarmed.”

            The voice and the response has me knowing what I suspected, but nonetheless I’m on my toes for anything, be it a mythological monster or a troop of Nazis. Still in the firing position, my finger feels for the selector switch and full auto. My muscles tighten as the door slowly opens.

            No swastikas. No leviathans. The figure matches the voice. I’m so on edge and lightheaded it almost doesn’t matter. A teddy bear could’ve come out and it might’ve knocked me over.  

A rickety figure. A familiar figure. As haggard and insubstantial as the voice portended. As outdated as the expression that hinted he might be here waiting for me. Illigitimi Non Carborundum. Don’t let them get you down. Or whatever. Bunch of crap either way. He’s in an expensive tweed suit that would probably look good on someone less feeble, maybe a guy with shoulders. Three or four long grey hairs combed over the top of his spotted head. Dude even has a cane. Don’t remember the cane. I’m blinking like the freak I am. The situation is on parallel with the Marks encounter. I had a feeling, but seeing is a whole different thing.

            “Hello, kiddo,” he says.

            “Mr. Jansen.”

            “Yes indeed. I know, you don’t have to say it. I look pretty old. Health isn’t what it once was.”

            “Pardon me, but what the hell?”

            “Don’t tell me you’re surprised at this point.”

            He’s got me there. I try to block out everything; anger, betrayal, just to focus back on the moment. “Who else is in there? Marks?”

            “It’s just us, Hank. I wanted to see you. Mr. Marks isn’t close; thank heavens, he won’t be bothering us. You’re safe.”

            “Why are the lights off?” I ask, stepping forward, turning his slight body around to check for weapons. It feels ridiculous, like an overzealous TSA agent going through grandma’s personals, but what the hell am I supposed to do?

“I see the computers better in the dark. Satellite feeds. Wanted to watch the show outside. There’s one trained on us as we speak. Very nice work. Seems you’ve forgotten very little of your training.”

            “Turn on the lights,” I say, almost picking him up through the doorway to the warehouse.

            “The switch is right there by the door. You’ll have to ease your grip a bit.”

            “Just do it.”

            It takes him a minute of groping but he finally finds it. I retreat and use what little body he has as a shield against any trap that might be forthcoming. Nothing comes.

            “Let’s go have a seat,” he says, calm as you like. I’m still on guard, swiveling my head around and squinting from the sudden fluorescent light. “I’m not accustomed to these long hours anymore. Would you like some coffee?”

            “What is this?” I say, shoving his little frame from my grasp. “Start talking or I’ll start shooting. I’m not messing around.”

            “Abundantly clear,” he says, walking to the center of the building with stunted little steps. It’s all one big space, like an airplane hangar with no airplanes. Just three large tables laid out in a the shape of a u equidistant from each wall. A few wires running to computers set up at the tables from a generator in the corner. Looks like it was all done on the fly, very recently. Satisfied that it’s just us in the building, my mind drifts back to drugs. Fishing through my pocket, I grab as many pills as I can. No more method. Too much madness to care.

            My gun nods toward some padded folding chairs at the desk. He sits down with a weak-legged wobble. “When did you figure it out?”

            “Figured out might not be the right word for it. You pretty much invited me here, the ending of that message. The whole thing sounded like you talking. I knew it wasn’t Marks. That guy strikes me as a bit dense. Doesn’t explain anything, though. Explain!”

“For instance?” Jansen’s wearing a quizzical expression, like an eager 90-year-old elementary student.

            “The whole thing. I mean what the hell is going on here, Jansen?”

            “I can see how it could be very confusing.”

            “You want a bullet?”

            “That would be unwise, considering your family’s situation.”

            He’s got me by the balls on that one. Nevertheless, I put the warm muzzle of my gun right against his wrinkled-ass forehead.

            “Okay there,” he says, dropping his cane. “Not necessary.”

            “Don’t tell me about necessary. You know what being on the run can do to a man in my mental state? You’re playing with fire, old timer.”

            “It’s fluid.”

            “What?”

            “The situation. It’s fluid. It’s been fluid from the very start. But you have to believe me, Henry. I’m trying to help you.”

            “What? You’re working with Marks. He’s got my kids, Jansen. What happened? They were like family. I was like family.”

            “And they will be fine. You have my word. As will Emma.”

            The whole thing is surreal. Training a gun on my mentor, learning he’s involved in the kidnapping of my children. I mean, come on. “How’d you know I’d show up? That I even put trackers on your stooge out there?”

            He gives a little chuckle before coughing into a handkerchief. “You were tracking Nina, not him.”

            “Explain.”

            “Actually quite clever, if I might say. There was already one tracker on your pretty lawyer friend. That’s how we found you in Idaho, obviously. But it was under the skin. The boy that came and got her knew that, didn’t want to take the chance of damaging it by digging it out, so I had him remove one that you placed on Nina and both that were on his person. I figured you’d think he wouldn’t check himself. I know how you think, Henry. And it seems I was right. The series 7 you were using picked up one of your trackers and one of mine, both on the body of the lawyer.”

            I’m not following, so I tell him. “I’m not following. Where the hell’s Nina?” As the question escapes I can feel the darkness that the answer will bring. It’s not like it’s been sunshine and roses up to this point.  

“Obviously, my purpose was to get you here. But I also wanted the young man and his friends dead. Needed them dead is more accurate. I couldn’t tell them about—everything. But I knew you’d follow the signal. Understand?”

            It doesn’t make any sense. “No, you old bastard.”

            “Her tracker was subdermal. The original.”

            “Yeah I got that. I just don’t get how you knew I’d bank on the kid being an amateur, or that you’d know what I’d be using for gear.

            “The Fellows Mini is the best. You use the best. And you think the worst of most people. Figured you would do so in the case of the kid. That, or you just figured I was leading you here so we could talk.”

            “Makes sense. I guess. Why not just call me? What’s the real game here? And where’s Nina at?

            “Over there, of course.”

            Without deviating his head, Jansen curls an arm up to point over his shoulder. I look up and over toward a back corner where most of the light can’t reach. Ah crap. It’s Nina—more accurately, Nina’s body. All drained and brutalized. They gave her an indecent drumming before finally finishing her off. All that beauty a brutal memory. Can’t believe it wasn’t the first thing I noticed. Can’t say I didn’t think they might kill her, but the way she looks—it’s obvious the job was done slowly or at the very least sloppily. A loose end, slumped against a wall like a mugging victim in an alley. My heart can only reach out so far for her, deceiving me as she did, but still. Her involvement was ultimately a product of being associated with me. But was it? It was Jansen who recommended Nina. How much of her story back at the cabin was crap? How long has this asshole been playing me? Either way, she was a pretty girl, smart, tossed like dirty rag in some nowhere building. It pisses me off. The damn meaningless of it.       

            Of course it pisses me off.

            Of course I want vengeance, want to kill a lot more guys.

            Of course I want to kill Jansen. He’s the only guy here.

            So I go to shoot him. Right in his desiccated face.

“Before you do…” he says, oddly measured, “…shouldn’t you think on the consequences? Don’t you want to know the real story?”

            Again, damn him. I move the muzzle just to the right of his head and fire inches from his ear. He screams in pain—he’ll be hurting for awhile, if the hearing ever recovers. “Stupid,” he cries, all withered and quiet. It makes me feel a little better.

            “The next thing out of your mouth better be something I like. Otherwise the next one’s going off by your other ear.”

            “Of course you won’t like it… but nonetheless, I’m the arbiter of your family’s fate.”

            “You got me here, freak. Just say what you want so we can skip ahead to the third act. We’re running out of Benedict Arnold’s.”

            “I want to clear your name.”

            Wasn’t expecting that one.

            “Come again?”

            “I want control of the company I built. Isn’t it obvious? I have every right to it, and the only person that can give it to me is you—dammit, my ear!”

            “The company? You’re a crazy, diluted son of a bitch. Give it up. Die on a golf course somewhere. Just let the kids and woman go.”

            “Not yet, I’m afraid. Truly—how much have you really figured out, Henry?” The haggard jackass looks intent. The crooked lines on his face are a bit straighter. “You obviously intuited that Marks couldn’t be the one behind all of this, so I know you’re still smart enough to realize that you don’t know everything.”

            “Don’t bet on my brains. Years of suffering and addiction have stifled the spark.”

“Nonsense. You always were a smart boy.” Man this guy’s a sicko. The way he calls me boy. Like we’re just as likely to go play catch as I am to plug him in his face. All those years of bonding, sharing the mutual scorn of my father and his self-aggrandizing nature. I cringe at my history. It gets creepier the further I get from it.

            “Not smart enough to realize you killed my parents.”

            “Technically, that was Marks. I had no hand in it, no idea it would happen.”

            “Technically, that was you. This gun means you stop with the bullshit.”

            “No really. That was Marks. I never told him to kill them. The man’s a loose wire. Very volatile. I’m afraid my life has been in danger ever since he arrived to exact his revenge on you and your family. But you’re going to put an end to all that.”

            “But you get Marks to kidnap me years back, work out some split on the rewards if my dad would negotiate?” I’m almost sure I’m right. Almost.

            “Things are never simple. But yes, I hired Marks for that job. He wasn’t supposed to hurt you the way he did. The man has a way of taking things that aren’t his and twisting them. Henry, it all went so wrong. But you know better than anyone that by that time I was a sycophant, merely a figurehead at the company. I tried desperately, urging Henry Sr. to pay to get you back. He refused. Intractable as ever. I couldn’t believe the intransigence. He shunned me all the more for it—think about it, son. Who was the one who tried to stop you from going over there in the first place? You were always trying to prove something to your father. Damn that man.”

            “Easy with the judgment.” I take a step back, still focusing my gun on Jansen, trying to let my emotions drip away a bit. It’s a moment where I need to be aware of every nuance, every word. Blind rage will have to keep.

“Forgive my reticence to believe anything you say. The kidnapped family and harmless dead woman in the corner kind of sully that old folksy credibility you used to have.”

            “Believe what you will. But I never wanted to see you hurt. Let alone tortured. We were like family.”

            I almost throw up in my mouth. “But you ordered the play for my captivity?”

            “I shouldn’t have used Marks. He’s a fool. Thank God, frankly. Saved by your friends, because the man is incapable of doing anything clean. His stridency doesn’t compensate for the lack of wit. In the end it’s my fault.”

            “Really? Thanks for owning up. Noble.”

            “It was just so infuriating. What your father did to me. I was impetuous and for that I will always be regretful. This entire thing has been such a mess. Marks was employed him to make your father sign my interest in the company back over. I only wanted what was fair.”

            I tap the 9mm against my head, trying to put the pieces together, trying to decide what to believe. He starts to creak up from the chair. I quickly pull out the Sig from my other holster and steady the barrel inches from his head. He gets the message. Lurches back down.

            “So your plan went to shit. Dad didn’t comply, I didn’t break, neither of you got what you wanted. And you thought that would be the end. Only he shows up to get what was coming to him. Massacres an old man and his dutiful wife.”

            “Like I said, Henry. He’s a fool.”

            “Who’s the fool? The fool or the fool that hires him?”

            “There’s always risk when you work with these types of people. Henry, you’d know.”

            “And then I take the fall for it.”

            “And then you did. Not my doing. Matter of unfortunate happenstance.”

            I take a moment to contemplate the pure absurdity of it all. This little troll and his gargantuan ideas. Men and their egos. “Nina wasn’t in from the start, was she? She was telling me the truth at the cabin. It was only after.”

            “True enough. By then I’d resigned myself to my lot. I recommended her because she was the best. There was nothing else in it. But then Marks showed up. Told me we were partners once more. That we would use Nina. What was I going to say?” Jansen still hasn’t looked at her. I grab his cadaverous neck and twist it so he has to. While he struggles to maintain consciousness I do some more thinking. She didn’t tank the trial. Did everything she could. When the gavel came down guilty, Marks and Jansen must’ve been the ones to get her the information on the prison. They wanted me out.

            I let go a little, let him have a little break. “So he wants what he always wanted. Access to the networks, classified info he can sell on the black market or use for operational intelligence. I get that. What do you get?” I choke him again, this time a bit lighter. It’s just too much fun.

            “My life, for one,” he says, straining against the pressure of my hand.

            “Speak. What else?”

            “Please let me go.”

            I squeeze tighter.

“So here’s how we proceed. I’m going to give you everything you need to eliminate Marks and his little band of thugs. Just like I led you here to kill the three that were protecting me. Thank you, by the way. They were becoming a nuisance, and Marks was beginning to suspect my intentions to defect, so to speak. Never the mind. Your family will be safe. Safe, Henry. But not before you are once and for all exonerated.”

            “I see. If I’m cleared, my father’s controlling interest reverts back to me. Is that where this is going?”

            “Indeed.”

            “Why would they set me free?”

            “Stover Marks’ mere presence is a sign of something bigger and more nefarious at work in the death of your parents. It’s why I had him make the video. He never even suspected. Outthinking this man has kept me alive. Finally I’ll be rid of him. We’ll all be rid of him. It’ll make waves in the intelligence community. I’m a big part of it, once again. Besides, you seem to have a famous Deputy Marshal as a friend. A real nice story. Unlikely heroes team up to right wrongs. Good for newspapers. Of course, he’ll have to die, eventually. Just try to keep him out of the loop as much as you can.

“And assuming all that, you just think I’ll sign it over to you? The board would never allow it.”

            “Of course they will.”

            “You’re a frigging lunatic. Even if that’s the case, what? I’m just gonna sit around for the rest of my life knowing what I know? Let you live out your golden years and not say anything?”

            “A matter of time will pass. And then you’ll die.”

            “Kill myself?”

            “Seems plausible enough. Someone that’s been through war, years of depression, isolation, drug abuse, public scrutiny, so on and so forth.”

            “Convoluted. Your plan. And I’m being generous. No wonder my dad had you benched.”

            “No,” he says, ire in his thin voice. “For once it’s simple. Either kill yourself, or I kill your family.”

            Finally I get it. He used every piece on the board to get me here and kill Marks’ men. He couldn’t move freely, so he engineered a situation where the one experienced killer he knew would have the proper motivation and skills to get the job done. He’s clearing the way, and I just helped him clear it.

Chapter 20: Brothers

            “Let me do the talking.” It’s Hawker. We’re in the suburbs, just north of Chicago. Place called Winnetka. Upscale, only a social step or two down from the kind of place my family once occupied. It’s just us. Standing on the doorstep of a beautiful multi-storied home—two regular guys. Unlikely heroes. Right.

            “No problem,” I say. The impulse to speak has almost left me entirely. Maybe if there was something on my mind. Whatever. It’s cold as balls from the token Lake Michigan wind and this is probably a really bad idea and—

            “Hello.” I can’t help it. When someone opens the door, the impulse is to say hello, unless you’re some kinda jerk. The Marshal’s not pleased. Neither is the man at the door. I guess my face has healed considerably: seems like he recognizes me right from the jump.

            “James,” Hawker says, hands raised. “Just calm down. This looks weird, but you need to dig deep and let me explain.”

            He doesn’t seem to be getting the message. “You bring this piece of filth to my home? I’ve got a family inside. What the hell is wro—why isn’t he in cuffs?” It’s weird. The fact that I’m utterly notorious escapes me on occasion. One needs little reminders like this.

            “Look, Sir, I know you’re pissed about getting framed with the money thing. Just, you know—sorry.”

            “Shut the hell up, Henry,” Hawker snaps. “Let me talk to my brother.”

            “Right.”

            “Nothing right about it.”

            Before I know it the older Hawker is at me. A little sidestep doesn’t do much to help. Without regard he barrels into my chest and sends us both flying into a thicket of manicured shrubbery to the left of the doorway. Little pricks and cuts are the least of my worries; as we stumble out of the landscaping the bigger man has one hand around my neck and the other cocked back to smash my head in. My side is still smarting from the tumble but I manage a short sharp kick to his balls.

            Desperate times.

He drops to his knees and I reel back to punch him in the face. It’s all out of instinct. Thankfully, the younger Hawker is eager to abate the situation—he tackles me and pins me down on the soft, dormant suburban grass. There we are, a white guy and two black guys rolling around on a freaking lawn in an upscale neighborhood. The whole thing is ridiculous.

            “Daddy, are you okay?”

            The sound is sweet and fragile enough to arrest the melee. The three of us spring up to see a young girl, about eight, wearing an innocently concerned look on her face.

            “Go back inside, sweetheart. Daddy’s just playing. And don’t tell mommy.”

            She turns and runs back inside the house, suddenly vibrant and happy. She’s got a secret. The look is obvious. She’s definitely going to tell mommy.

            Alert: Strange white guy in the yard.

            Trevor is covered in grass, trying to get his breath. He’s right between me and his brother, hands spread out. “Everyone just calm down. James, let us go inside. We need to go inside. I can’t have him out here. Your neighbors are gonna call the damn cops.”

            “My house? Let this murdering, Band-Aided up looking piece of garbage… ”

            “Now James. And he’s not a murderer.”

            “I did do that thing with your account though,” I say, rubbing my fresh wounds. They’re not so bad. “Like I said—before you form-tackled me into the hedge—sorry.”

            “Gun.” The older Hawker has his hand out, obviously insisting and expecting Trevor to immediately hand over his sidearm. There’s a family dynamic thing going on but it’s hard to read. I never had a brother, don’t know the little mental battles that play out. A moment’s hesitation gives way to the elder’s authority. Strange seeing the Deputy acquiesce. Also, a tad concerning. This frigging guy could shoot me.

“James, you won’t need that. But whatever makes you feel better.” Seems like my words are totally lost; he’s checking the clip and chambering a round, looking around at the houses adjacent and across the street. If he’s going to put me down, at least he’s got the good sense to look and see if anyone’s coming.

            “Around the back. There’s a door to the cellar. No way I’m letting him near my family.”

            “Thanks brother,” Trevor says.

            “Don’t thank me. I’m gonna beat your ass later. Five minutes to explain yourself, then I’m calling it in. The guy is hotter than the Unabomber.”

            “Fair enough,” I say. “Beautiful home, by the way. Love that lawn. And the Unabomber reference. That’s a new one.”

            There’s an audible grunt from James and a visible smirk from his brother as we walk by the side garage and into the backyard. The door to the basement is angled up slightly and padlocked, next to three polished air-conditioning units. The former Director tries to keep his eye on me while rotating in the combination. The pistol’s barrel is carelessly waving about while he does it. A real comfort.

            A moment later we’re down in the basement. It’s not what I expected. Just looks like a big room. Maybe a tad cozier. Pretty nice. Growing up in Texas, we never really did basements. “Sit down,” he says, standing imperiously with his gun hand crossed over the other, leaning against a pool table. There’s a couch a couple feet away so I take a load off. It actually feels good. Except for the twig digging in my crotch.

“Give me a sec.” Fishing down my pants probably isn’t the best way to ingratiate myself, but some things just need doing.

            “This damn guy.”

            “He’s a mess, I get it,” Hawker says. Have to say I’m kind of offended. My face is near healed; haven’t looked so good in quite some time. Eh, you give a little.

“Fellows is innocent. Believe me, there’s no arguing it. Come on, how often do I admit to being wrong?”

            It seems to have some effect on his older brother. I can see him mulling it around, at least, trying to figure out the answer to the question he’s about to ask. Seems he’s that kind of guy. It’s a hunch, anyway. “So why come here?”

            “Help,” I say, happy to be twig free in my underpants. Well, you know.

            “You destroyed my career—now you want help?”

            “Trust me man—well don’t—do what you want, but after this is all over, you’ll get your name back, probably your job. You were the head of the Marshals.

            “I’m aware.”

            “Betting you still have good connects inside the bureaucracies. Things that could come in handy. Mostly, you’re still on the right side of the law. And I trust your brother.”

            “Who the hell are you, Fellows?”

            Here we go. I give him the most succinct rundown possible. Who I was, what I did, the things that were done to me and by me. The people and plans taking place right now to undermine and essentially pound me into dust. Leave a few things out. No one likes a wordy fugitive. Finishing, I take the time to assess my interviewer. James Hawker’s a bulkier, less handsome version of his brother. His face is darker and more nondescript, but it seems to dance to the craziness of my story. His eyes are thin and piercing; eyes used to seeing through the bullshit. He strikes me as a wise man, but ultimately pragmatic. It’s why I’m sitting in the basement. Why he didn’t bang his brother over the head and immediately call the cops on me. He wants his name back. What decent man wouldn’t?

“So that’s basically it,” I say, standing up from the couch to stretch. Like I said, the short version. Looking at my watch I see an hour has passed. Peel another Band-Aid off. “You got a trash can?”
            “And you’re vouching for this ridiculousness?” he asks, looking over at Trevor. “Pretty wild. And so you come here, where my two little girls and wife live? Seems like an unnecessary thing to do.” He says unnecessary like he wants to say retarded or insane. Totally get it.

            I decide to take that one off of Trevor. Clearly there’s a hardened territorial cyst that needs dissection. “Let me guess what’s going on here. You were the Director of the Marshals. Trev here was your little brother and probably looked up at you and you looked down at him. Wouldn’t know myself, never had any siblings. My father hated me enough to spare himself from another. Okay, so you get fired, which is completely my fault by the way, and your little brother steps up and starts wrecking shop and doing it in front of millions of viewers on YouTube. You resigned in disgrace of something that you never did, but your idiot brother, who was just trying to impress you and rub his success in your face, got no sanctions or reprimands whatsoever, despite the fact that he broke a thousand rules by basically doing his own version of Cops for the Marshals. They can’t fire him, because politics and whatever, and here you sit, wasting away with your two little girls and wife. If I was you I would hate me and your brother in equal measure. That sound about right?”

            I immediately get the feeling that the nail has been hit on the head. My diagnoses is a lance to the infection in the elder Hawker’s heart. Still, he persists with the hurt feelings routine. Moments pass. Maybe coming here was dumb. Maybe he’s gonna call the authorities and try to get me hauled in, simultaneously throwing his own kin under the bus. In a way, I want him to. Suddenly I feel a bit like I’m back in Fort Worth, mulling over my possible surrender to the law. It makes more sense now, now that I have the face of Henry Fellows; they’ll believe me, ironically, the original, the evil one.

And yet it makes no sense. The kids. The ex. And just pure vindication. Since my enemies are finally clear to me there’s more purpose in my step, a feeling of a goal. Like there is something out on the horizon. The former Director can’t call the authorities. If his thoughts don’t turn toward amenability then it may put me in a awkward spot. Don’t want to hurt him. Might have to. And then there’s the Marshal. What a mess.

            Then I’m saved.

“You idiots come upstairs. My wife made some food. You look like you could use a recharge.”

            Can’t say it was what I expected. In the end, Trevor was right in convincing me to come. His brother was a core of reason encased in several layers of asshole. Not the worst type to be. Not in his line of work.

            As we ascend into the house part of his house he asks, “so what’s the plan now?”

            That’s the next pill he’s gonna have to swallow. At this point, we’re absent any real plan. I swallow some of my own pills, preparing to hash it all out.

Chapter 21: Debrief

            “I don’t know if it’s possible,” says the older Hawker. We’re just finishing up some leftovers—some casserole or whatever. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in years. Literally. The softness of the meal is exactly what I need. My jawbones are almost back to normal, but the muscles surrounding my mouth are still in pain. The food settles my stomach; it’s good to have something in there besides the usual cocktail of drugs.

            Wiping my mouth, I look up to offer a retort. “Don’t know either, Mr. Hawker.” I should be more worried, more stressed, but the warm feelings associated with a normal house and a normal family are overwhelming the bad. “Can I have a second? Restroom?”

            He’s had a close watch on me throughout the meal. Clear he’s apprehensive—me traipsing through the house, eating at the table like some normal dude. It’s not that I want to overindulge his hospitality; just really need to go.

            “I’ll walk him,” Trevor says, ending the mini-dilemma. We get up and make our way out of the kitchen, walking on Persian rugs toward a half-bath in the adjoining hallway. He’s so close we almost trip on each other.

            “You wanna help?” I ask, turning on the light.

            “Just hurry up. You need him on your side. Me too. Don’t think my patience is endless.” He’s right. I close the door and look in the mirror, throwing some water on my face. It’s amazing. Clearly I’ll never again resemble the boy next door, but it’ll be close. More like the boy next door that decided to go into boxing. I use the water from the sink to down a few more pills. One for pain, one to wake up. Some noise from upstairs serves as distraction as I pull the last Band-Aid from my face. The clamor of kids. The sound of little people utterly detached from the crap of the world. It makes me smile, little tinny giggles and tiny feet stomping around. It’s a reminder—back when mine were small, the wife didn’t hate me—the world didn’t hate me—I was just a guy with a family and a job and a past that needed leaving behind. Best times of my life. That kind of happiness isn’t in the cards for me again. Doesn’t matter. I owe it to those memories to get them back.

            Five minutes later we’re again at the table. The former Director is talking at me, asking questions. All the while the sound of the kids upstairs continues. It overwhelms any sense of decency or politeness; my brain is completely tuned out. I see his mouth stop moving and lifted, waiting eyes. “Are you listening, Fellows?”

            Nope. “Yeah,” I say. It sounds exactly like the sound of a person that hasn’t been listening.

            “So what happened in Montana?”

            “Huh?”

            “Are you high?”

            “Always.”

            “Montana?” He’s pissed.

            “Well, like I was saying, there were some things in Marks’ video that didn’t work. Like he was reading it, almost. Like someone else wrote it for him. Kind of a clue to what was really going on. More than a hunch, less than a certainty. So I went after Nina and the guy—figured why not?”

“You went alone?”

            “I tried to go with him,” Trevor says, leaning back in the chair. He’s unsettled, and tired of hearing the story. The two seasoned lawmen are playing typical brothers in the moment. The elder is seated firmly, unwavering, able to focus. The younger looks like he’s yearning to get up and go play—or in this case, catch some bad guys. Kind of a black Rockwellian type scene.

            I know. Just what I’m thinking. Sorry.

            “And then what happened?” I start to talk and watch Trevor get up to mill about the house. The guy is tense.

            “There were some guys there.”
            “How many?”

            “Only three. If you don’t count the old man.”

            “How’d you get past them?”

            It takes me a minute to think. My elbows are on the table. The rest of me is leaning toward the former Director earnestly. “Let’s see… I shot one—no—two of them. Then I stuck a knife up another one’s throat. He was a real moron.”

            “You did what?”

            “What do you mean, what? Could you be more specific?”

            “You murdered three men. That’s what I mean.”

            “They were bad guys.”          

            “So you kill them?”

            “I was supposed to kill them. Or I wasn’t. I don’t know. Either way, they had to die.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Told you. There was no certainty in the thing. But I was sure Mr. Jansen was leading me there. That he had third-rate goons watching the place. They ended up being Marks’ goons, like I was saying.”

            “And if they weren’t—whatever, third rate? If your theory was wrong?”

            “Then it was definitely the right call. See, if they were toy soldiers, I couldn’t know for sure. And unskilled or not, the dudes were still packing serious weapons. Sentries don’t line up in a row where one bullet can take the whole lot out. Kill one, it alerts the others. Come on, man. This is simple stuff.” I can tell there’s a snappy retort coming but I raise my hand to it. “And if they were experienced, highly trained, the only thing going for me was surprise. So if you’ll put yourself in my place for a second, killing them on the quick was the only plausible course of action.”

“Why go alone? Really?” It’s obvious Hawker wants to ask more, maybe make another bureaucratic comment about me being a lunatic; after what I just said, it appears his speech is a bit stunted. Either way, it’s a good question. The right question. Instantly, I like him more.

            “Now there you go. There were clues as to the real author of the message, things that only I would pick up on. Things he used to say. Not too many, but enough so that I and I alone would know. Figured it meant he wanted a private sit-down. The guy’s been playing me for a long time. He knows what I’m gonna do. Anyway, I went ahead on my own. Had doubts, like any sane bipolar drug addict, but it felt right. Going after the signal made more sense than anything else at the time; going after it alone made even more sense.”

            “Still not following. What if a whole crew of these mercenaries was at the warehouse? What if the whole thing was a trap?”
            I smile a little. “It was a trap.”

            “Say again?”

            “A trap to get me in a spot where I had to kill the guys protecting him. It’s chess to this guy. He’s frigging Sun Tzu and Machiavelli’s mutant old man child.”

            “So he wants these thugs dead.”

            He’s getting it. “That’s what the man said.”

            “And you counted on Jansen knowing you’d come alone—”

            “Because of the line in the message, the one he had Marks saying—”

            “But if you’re Jansen, why even bother playing along with Marks? It’s the part I’m not getting.”

            “I don’t think he had a choice. Think Marks has been hovering over him ever since I got convicted. In my opinion, Nina was the key.”

            “How so?”     

            “Look man, I don’t know the dynamics of the relationship between psycho number one and two, but they needed her and each other. If I don’t contact her five months ago, none of this jumps off. They wanted me to escape, but they had no idea I’d be so adept at staying gone. Soon as I brought her into my fold, they brought her back into theirs. Thus the ensuing hell.”

Hawker leans back in the padded kitchen chair and lets out a considerable breath. I catch some of it. Smells like he’s had a few already, and it’s not far past noon. Guess you don’t have much going on when you retire in lieu of being fired. “This whole thing,” he says, “seems a bit like guesswork. Bad planning. Hoping the other guy will do this, expecting him to do that.”

“Oh I agree. It’s totally inefficient. He called it “fluid.” Comedy of errors. But go look at that company. Jansen’s somehow got the ear of the board and wants total control. Just pull up the defense budget and see how much goes into Fellows—whatever it’s called now. We’re talking huge stakes—stakes that would make an embarrassment out of half the world’s national GDP’s. Makes people do some crazy shit.”

            “So you’re supposed to kill Marks for him?”

            “Yeah. He wants to tie up any loose ends. It’s the only reason we’re still alive.” It’s trite but on point.

            “And the lawyer was beaten and killed when you found her?”

            “Dead as she probably deserved.” It’s cold but on point. I can see it bothers him. He saw her on television during the trial, smart business suit, walking around, making arguments. Picturing her as a corpse is a jolt to the system.

            “So what are we gonna do?” he asks.

            I’m almost glad to be interrupted. Trevor’s found one of his nieces playing upstairs and has her dangling by the arms at the foot of the landing. I lean over to get a glimpse of her laughing. It’s a cool sight. Uncle Trev being human for a second. Smiling even.

            The little girl wriggles from his clutches and runs over to her dad. She’s six, maybe seven, cute as can be. “Papa? You going back to work?”

            It makes me laugh. Don’t even notice the facial pain. It’s obvious where the question is coming from, really. His wife’s probably been whining for months about him getting out of the house and doing something. The little one’s just echoing familiar sentiments. It’s a shame she’s too young to get the irony of the situation. The man who ruined her father’s career, sitting in the kitchen, trying to help him get it back.

“Get on upstairs. We’ll go play in a minute,” he says.

            Good man, good house, good family. Oh well.

            “Yeah, Papa,” Trevor says, letting her run between his legs and back up the staircase. “We going back to work? You’ve got depression beard. Need some action.”

            Papa Hawker just stares at the trail his precious daughter left behind. On the way to fun and games. To more laughing. More whatever. She couldn’t care less about our plans or problems. I peer into his face, motionless as him, trying to delve into the psyche of a man I’ve known for a couple hours. Finally, his thoughts drift back to me. “Your Mr. Jansen can’t expect this scheme to work. It’s too ridiculous.”

            I pop a few more pills, brazenly, right in his face. After admitting to killing a bunch of guys, table manners seem a moot point. It’s all out there. My ridiculous backstory. The recent history. All that’s left is the unsteady future. Maybe I shouldn’t have disclosed the whole blood-stained narrative, but the Deputy made me promise. He’s mulling it all over, swimming out against a tide. Figure it’s time to throw something out. “Sir, I’d pay you a couple million dollars, but that didn’t work out so good last time.”

Trevor throws a what the hell look in my direction.

            Sorry. Trying to lighten the mood. Eh, plow ahead. “Pretend I didn’t say that. Marshal, come sit down. Mr. Hawker, just let me lay it out. Clearly there’s more than a trifle doing a number on your brain.” A little clear of the throat. “Here’s what I propose. We go get Marks. Jansen gave me a time and a place, points of entry. And we’ll have one of the company’s satellite links. With the people I’ve got, it shouldn’t be a problem. You two upstanding gentlemen don’t need to be a part of that.”

            “Dude’s got helicopters,” Trevor says. “And a truckload of punks in his little army. Think you just gonna sally forth and do your thing?”

            “Yeah. Sally forth. I like that.”

            “Kill him?” The younger brother is smirking; still more justice than vengeance. Goodie.

            “Not sure. Be nice to take him out, but maybe alive is better. Could lie to you fellas, say I don’t want to disembowel him; the whole capture, torture, kill my parents, make my life a living hell bit kinda sticks in my crawl. But we’re just talking here. Got any better ideas?”

            Apparently Papa Hawker’s had his fill. He’s up from the table and into another part of the house before I can open my stupid mouth again. Younger brother’s after him. It’s just me. What do they want me to say? Jansen. Marks. These are dangerous people, very close to dangerous amounts of power. Whatever. I get it. If I was rocking the comfy suburban spread I wouldn’t want some psycho coming in to piss all over it. The dude’s got a family. I tried to tell the Deputy all of this before we arrived. Trevor told me I had a family too. It was a nice thing to say, sympathetic. More so because sympathy isn’t in Hawker’s nature. He went on even. Said the family thing was the reason James Hawker would listen. Maybe they’re hashing it out now.

Maybe’s getting really tedious.

            Two sets of footfalls signal the brothers’ return. “Hi guys,” I say. The two of them are standing shoulder to shoulder, lips pregnant with something. Good. They’ve talked it through. Ready to make a plan.

            I’m sitting there relaxed, like an idiot. Fresh pills in my system. A new cocktail. Not even paying attention to dosages. It’s a surprise every four hours. Then, another surprise. Papa Hawker punches me square in the right cheek. High up. Near the ear. Even though I’m sitting it has a disorienting effect. Blinking, I stagger up and hold out my arms, awaiting another shot. The haze clears. Nothing else happens.

            “Sit your ass back down, Fellows,” he says.

            I look over at his brother. He nods at the chair, like yeah, sit your ass back down.

            “What the hell, man?”

            All of a sudden the big-shouldered Spartan is a bag of emotion. “I needed to hit you. Really hard. You may be a victim in all of this, but you killed my career. And you’re undeniably nuts.”

            “Undeniably.”

            “And in my house. And you want my help. I got a lot going here.”

            Totally understandable. “But did you have to hit me in the face? Hasn’t it been through enough?”

            “Trev, get him some ice.”

            “How kind.” I’m splayed out, butt half out of the chair. There’s a noise in my ear. It ain’t the ocean.

            “My brother talked to me. Said when it comes down to it, you’re not the worst person in the world.”

            “Let me guess—hearing that made you want to hit me even more.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well, glad to assist the catharsis.”

“I’m not sure what help I can give you, but I’ll try. And let it be known, this is to get your family back, along with my good name.”

            Cool with me. No motivators like decency and self-interest. “Sounds good, Mr. Hawker.”

            “So how do we get this thing moving?” He asks, finally talking to me.

            Finally. Getting somewhere.  

Chapter 22: Deer

            “You look like you’re carrying more weight than usual.” It’s Marie, looking well and well rested. It’s been a week since we’ve seen each other. She’s beautiful. Tough. Lean. Her hair has grown over the course of our little adventure. A little more of her natural brown has seeped it’s way back against the blond. My feelings toward her are pure. Of course she’s attractive, but there’s a true admiration there. It’s surprising and warm—not to get too cheesy, but it’s about the only nice thing going on in my soul.  

            And she’s right about the weight. The weight of bunch of lives that need taking. I always tried to picture my enemies as speed bumps on the road between where you are and home. Just slow down, let momentum take you over, and move on, closer and closer.

Kind of a mental exercise, a trick of the brain to tell yourself that you’re not a monster.

            Obviously it doesn’t work at all. 

            Weight. Marie knows me too well, seen me in so many situations. Always with the weight. I’m wondering when it started. When it starts in general. Was it my father’s immediate and intentional heavy-handed manner? The war? The killing? The murder of my parents? The list is too long to recount, and even if the desire was present, I couldn’t call back half the things pressing down on me.

            Thirty-eight years. Some would say you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Others would say you’re half-way there. Don’t know what I’d say. Maybe that I don’t want a whole life ahead of me, not if it goes the way of the previous one. Think even if it’s only half over, that’d be too much.

            Too much weight.

It’s not lost on me—my responsibility in all this. Nobody says anything. Not because they’re scared or afraid of hurting my feelings. The people around me aren’t sycophants. Then again, they won’t tell me the whole truth either. They don’t know the whole truth, aren’t capable of seeing it. We’re all too much alike. Allowing me some culpability in all this would be to throw some on themselves.

            After all, we’ve all done bad things.

            As pedantic as it sounds, little crossroads keep coming to mind. I could’ve done anything: taken an easier road, gotten off the hard road once it became clear it was barren. Nothing special about it, I guess. Sure everyone that thinks at all about life thinks about those stupid Robert Frost moments. That guy. Hey, I get it. Don’t go down the safe path, the one every other loser’s been down. Anything but the easy way, the path of least resistance. But what did that guy do? Guess the point is that he became a poet and a famous dude, so great for him. But big freaking deal. It just comes to mind from time to time; I’ve always wanted to be that guy, the one facing the hard road. Look where it got me? Maybe Frost should’ve put an addendum on his little ditty. “It’s made all the difference for me, but it could get you tortured, shot, and caught in a situation where everyone that matters to you will die a horrible death.”

Think that might make it a more complete work. Perhaps it all comes down to positivity. Whatever. Having no knowledge of his person or body of work, and having a decent awareness of my present situation, I’m inclined to think the guy was a bit of a douche.

            Back to the road I’m on. The one with Marie and the rest of my crew. And the speed bumps. She snaps her fingers lightly near my face. After a wiggle of my head my attention is fully back to the moment. “The nerd get me those financials?”

            “Sure did,” she says, handing me over a laptop. “Last two years, corporate documents, stock transfers, employee records, the whole nine. The kid’s really good.” She’s talking about Gary, our little computer genius friend from Moscow, Idaho. The geek’s been doing a lot of work for me lately; what’s another million bucks? Owed him, anyway. The last few days he’s been slipping through secure servers, getting me as much information on the corporation formerly known as Fellows Security as possible. Scanning through it, it’s apparent that the lad’s done the due diligence.

“Jansen’s been busy,” I say aloud, not meaning to. “Marks too, unless I’m completely wrong.”

            “What do you mean?” A moment passes. I choose to deflect.

            “You didn’t look through all this stuff?” I ask her.

            “I did. Nothing popped out at me.”

            It shouldn’t surprise me. For years I had my head buried in papers just like these, stacks and stacks of documents to be read and shredded immediately after committing to memory. Unfortunately, not even the best companies in the world can hide everything. The second it’s on a drive, a disk, a text, you’re done. Don’t get panicked. Not everyone is like me, well-schooled in this crap. And not everyone has a pimpled genius named Gary helping out.

            “It’s probably nothing,” I say, softening my eyes to Marie. Whatever I’m pondering will keep. Closing the computer, I give her a playful tap on the arm. “So what do you think?”

            “About what? That question could literally be about anything.”

            “Very true. But come on—the face? How’s it looking? Be honest.”

            She crosses her arms and curls her little nose up. Not the most promising look I’ve beheld on a chick. “Well… it’s definitely you. I mean, as much as is possible to remember.”

            “What? You need a picture?”

            “No, Henry. And—it looks like you. Really.”

            “So that’s good, right?”

            “Yes, of course.” Clearly she’s just putting on airs. She’s a spy. She should be way better at putting on airs.  

            “Hey, kid. Just because the damn thing’s been broken seventy times in the last couple years, don’t do me any favors.”

            She’s right on my heels. “I never liked you for your face, Henry.”

            “Really?” The way I say really is equal parts sad and uncool. Just never heard it before. “Okay. Just—eh, weird. Used to think you were in to me.”

            She gives me a tap, the same kind I gave her a minute ago. “I was, you idiot. Thought you were funny.”

            “Funny?”

            “Yeah. Funny. As in, a person with a sense of humor.”

            “That’s not a compliment coming from someone with a French background. Jerry Lewis is a God to you people.”

            “That’s a myth.”

            “I don’t think so. Two things I know about the French. They’re pussies and they like Jerry Lewis.”

            I say it all with a smile. Marie rolls her eyes and does other cute woman things with her face. I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Before I get the chance, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Jansen, telling me that Marks and his crew are back at our target destination.

“Is that him?”

            “Yeah. He’s there.”

            “Do we load up?”

            “By all means. But tell the others to be on standby. Don’t wanna move quite yet.”

            “What are we waiting for?” she asks.

            “Hey. Just tell them. And relax. You know me, I have a funny way of doing things.”

            “Very good, Mr. Fellows.”

            “I think I’m starting to get it,” I say, waving her out the door. It’s natural for Marie to question my desire to wait. Jansen isn’t handing out requests; he’s making demands, and my family’s life is in the balance. But something’s not right. Never has been.

            Like you didn’t already know that.

            As she closes the door I can hear her barking out orders. We’re on a farmstead in far Northeast Oklahoma, about halfway between Tulsa and Fayetteville, Arkansas. Driving distance to Marks’ compound, but not too close. Besides Marie, my team is pretty thin. Al and Chris decided to stick around, and of course, there’s Floyd. He’s looking better, having gotten a respite over the past few days. The Hawker’s are in the D.C. area with Gary the nerd. It’d be nice to have them, but they are occupied with matters just as pressing as ours.

            According to Jansen, Marks has around twenty-five guys in his employ. Yeah, it’d be nice not to have to go one against five, but we have the element of surprise.

            Whatever.

            Floyd begged me to reach out to some more people from our past to even the odds, but after Billy, I talked him off the idea. No more getting people killed. It’s the real reason I wanted the elder Hawker and his brother away from the melee. No way I’m entertaining leaving a couple of kiddos without a dad and uncle.

            About twenty minutes go by. I continue to peruse the scanned documents of the company. The information is telling. Jansen’s been up to a hell of a lot since my arrest. It’s not surprising. I knew his scheme wasn’t as stupid as he made it out to be. Gary’s work, while impressive, is something I could’ve been doing for the last year. Just never occurred. That, and there were a few other things going on. I pop a few more pills and head for the door. It’s a rusty little single-wide, adjacent to the main farmhouse, smelly and cold. Stomping my feet for warmth, the entire trailer shakes. Dust flies everywhere. What a piece of crap. Before I can turn the knob there’s a perfunctory knock and suddenly Trevor Hawker is standing in front of me. Him and another guy. Other guy’s aren’t my thing.

            “Easy, Henry,” he says, seeing my hand reach toward my side.

            It’s a gut reaction. New faces and all. “What are you—who the hell is this dude?”

            This is Baker. Colt Baker. Fellow deputy. Been working with him for years.”

            “Dude. This couldn’t be more not what we talked about.”

            “I know you wanted me out of the way on this one, but my brother and Gary have their side locked down. Haven’t seen James so motivated in years.”

            “You’re sure about that? I don’t like the two of them on their own.”

            “Yeah. I’m sure about that.” There’s no equivocation in his voice; it’s the same cold, flat delivery I’ve grown accustomed to.

            About to head into a major gunfight, I’m still uncomfortable. Hawker’s not exactly a guy you’d want to get a beer with, but he’s decent. Don’t want to see him get killed. And now another yokel. “Who’s this yokel?”

            “Baker.”

            “Yes, but who is he.”

            “He’s good, Fellows. Best guy I’ve ever worked with. He’s up to speed—”

            “I’m not even up to speed.”

            “Trusts me, and he’s good in a scrap. If he’d been at the farmhouse in Texas, your family might’ve been safe.”

“Come in here,” I say. Don’t want to have it out in front of the rest of the group. Need to look calm for the troops. The guy Baker is trying not to stare but he can’t help it. He’s got eyes on the most notorious fugitive in the world. In a single-wide. In Oklahoma. Don’t know what he thought he knew, but whatever it was didn’t prepare him for this scene.

            “Not a fan of you being here, Hawker. Got to say. Hey, you. What’s your story?”

            Baker tries to wipe his expression and look suddenly conversant with hardcore celebrity fugitives. Comes off like an amateur. He’s youngish, about thirty-three, receding brown hair-line, fair complexion. Fit looking, but nothing too impressive. Hawker looks imposing next him. “Not much of a story,” he says. All of sudden it seems he’s found himself. “Just here for Trevor, here to do my job, catch bad guys.”

            Baker’s answer has me thinking. He doesn’t seem too concerned. It’s either a good thing or a really bad one. “You seem alright, Baker. And I tend to trust the Deputy. Until now, anyway. You lied. Showed up here uninvited. Stay while we take care of this.”

It’s all a bit awkward. I start to storm out but receive a hand on my arm from Trey. “You really telling me you have enough, Henry?” he asks.

            There’s not a ton of time for small talk. So I figure it’s story time. “Ever been in a big firefight, Baker? You’re name is stupid, by the way. Colt Baker. Sounds like a high-school quarterback or third-rate Hollywood actor. Anyway, ever been in one?”

            “Yeah. A few.”

            “Not like what we’re walking into.” Don’t want to have to be the speech guy, but I’m being the speech guy. “First nasty covert op I ever went on, something like what we’re headed for, maybe worse, I thought I was ready. Wearing that same vacant face you’ve got on right now. You, know, the I’ve been around face. It was true. I was younger than you are, but I’d survived my share and then some. The job was to get in and blow up some cache of high-grade weapons stolen by some badass dudes over in Saudi Arabia. We infiltrated the building clean, took out their lookouts and a few more once we got inside. The team was me and five other guys. Being the newbie, they had me watching the rear. We cleared all the rooms going in, then out of nowhere a covered up side door swings open and there I am, standing in front of six turbans with some heavy shit. They’re barking me at me in Muhammad, and I froze. Still don’t know how long. Could’ve been ten seconds or a tenth of a second. Whatever time passed was too much. My job was to be ready, and I wasn’t. The firing started, and when the smoke cleared, I was shot, not too bad, but one of the guys on my team had taken a slug in the back. Never walked again. Pretty sure he still spends his days crapping in bedpans, getting wheeled around the house by a dutiful, miserable wife. And that’s on me. Nobody on the team realized it was my fault at first. All the dust and blood everywhere, chaos. Whatever. I knew. Couldn’t keep it to myself. In debrief I said I was a deer in the headlights. Deer. They called me that a long time. Had to kill a lot of guys until the name became something more like a term of endearment.”

“Okay,” Baker says. Not too interested.

            “Know anything about Deer, kid?”

            “They don’t freeze because they’re stupid. They freeze cause they’re blind. The eyes can’t process the information going into their brains. Just not equipped.”

            “Okay.”

            “The point is, you go into something like this, you’re either blind or equipped. Trite, maybe, but if you’re blind, you may get yourself killed. Worse, somebody else. Follow?”

            “I follow.”

            “No you don’t,” I say, throwing a harsh look at Hawker. “Trev, you watch his ass. This one ain’t on me. My conscious is carrying enough.”

            “You got it.”

            The introduction of this neophyte has me frazzled, but it’s an emotion that can’t take hold. “Your brother and Gary still at the place?”

            “Sure,” Hawker says, a little softer, a bit more polite than usual. He can tell I’m pissed. “Some NSA annex. James got them in off using a few IOU’s, Gary did the rest, forged some security—you know the drill better than me.”

            “Fine.”

            It’s better than fine, but my mood won’t allow me to express the sentiment. Pushing my way through the deputies, I swing the door open and see my team finishing the load up. We’ve got three new vehicles, all SUV’s, equipped with bulletproof glass and good powerful engines. A crap-ton of weapons. Claymores, grenades, C-4, RPG’s, two fifty-cals, four high velocity sniper rifles. Add the satellite feed and thermal imaging, it shouldn’t be hard to get the drop on Marks and his men, no matter how good they are.  

Everyone is standing by the vehicles, ready and waiting. “Let’s do this.” It’s all I’ve got right now. There’s more to say, but it can wait till the staging area. It’s cold outside and the my body’s crying out for a fresh dosage of drugs. The calming kind.

Chapter 23: Never Mind

            Two miles out. We pull the SUV’s over on a side road at my behest. About a half mile to the south there’s a thicket of trees, enough cover to stay hidden to any farmhouses or roads in the area. Not that there’s much going on. Everything appears abandoned. I’m looking down at the tablet, flipping back and forth between the physical layout of Marks’ compound and the heat signatures showing me the position of every living thing in the vicinity. The drive seemed a long one, but I chalk that up to nerves. The compound is just south of a little town called Westville. Pretty much a one-horse operation. Bleak or quaint, however you want look at it. Our little convoy probably looks like a presidential motorcade set next to this backdrop.

“What are you seeing?” Al asks. I’m up in the passenger seat next to him. We’re in the lead car with Chris. Marie and Floyd are just behind, with Hawker and the new kid bringing up the rear.

            Handing the tablet over to Al, I ask Chris to get on the radio and message the group to wait one. It doesn’t take long for Al to see what I’d been suspecting. “They’re setting up on us. They know we’re coming.”

            “Wait, what?” Chris asks, making sure his hand is off the transmitter button.

            “Makes sense.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean, Henry?” Chris isn’t quite there yet, but looking over at Al, it’s obvious he is. I let him answer for me.

            “It means the whole thing’s a setup. This Jansen asshole wants us to take each other out.”

            The polite thing to do would be to spell it out, but I let my two companions have at it. Figure Al can speak for my side. He knows this life better than almost anyone in the world. Most likely he suspects that I anticipated this for a while. If he did, he was right.

            “But I thought this whole thing was about getting Henry exonerated? That was the story, right? Get him cleared, give it all up, then we get the wife and kids back?”

            “Come on, big guy. You’re not stupid. Does that plan even sound like a plan?” Al’s body is turned toward the backseat, meaty arm draped over the headrest. “Even if it was, what about the rest of us? He’d have to off us one way or another. The moment we all got involved we became witnesses, pure and simple. Loose ends to be snipped off.”

            I’m not looking but I can hear Chris doing some heavy breathing back there. He sounds like a bear coming out of a long hibernation. “It would’ve been nice to hear this a little earlier, you think?”

            I don’t move a muscle. Just thinking about my family. How it would be nice to have a place somewhere in the sticks, a place like this to take my kids. Somewhere I could get to know them. Al continues.

            “What good would it have done—you knowing? These guys still need killing, and we’re the only one’s good enough or crazy enough to do it. Plus, there’s a difference between knowing and knowing. A little while ago we knew. Now we know. Make sense?”

            “You want me to lie and say yes?”

Chris’ bemusement is completely understandable and pretty much expected. Maybe it was a dick move to keep everybody quarantined from my inner thoughts, but it seemed the thing to do. The situation being fluid, and all. Couldn’t have said it better; I knew, but now we know. It’s been sort of a running theme with this whole thing.

            “Henry, you wanna jump in here, man?”

            I turn around as much as possible, craning toward the backseat. Takes a bit of maneuvering because Al’s occupying most of the middle console space.

            “He’s right, brother. It was gonna end up here, either way. Didn’t want to bother you with the details.”

            “Why not?”

            “It’s hard to explain. If you don’t have a complete picture of something, it’s best not to go shooting off at the mouth. What if I was wrong? What if Jansen was playing straight? So you get filled up with a bunch of theories and what-ifs, get yourself worked up, then it all turns out to be wrong. See what I mean?”

            “Not really. Hell man…”

            “Chris. Just go with the nevermind,” Al says.

            “What?” Chris asks.

            I can’t help but smile with my stupid new old face. “It’s a saying we used to have. Actually, Al here kinda embodies the whole ethos of the nevermind. It’s… Al, you wanna elucidate here?”

            “Na, you got it.”

            “More than anything, it means you do what you can with what you got. Nevermind the consequences. Nevermind the gaps that haven’t been filled—just, nevermind.”

From the look on Chris’ face, it’s clear he wants to punch me through the windshield. Wouldn’t blame the guy in the least. Nevermind takes practice, a certain perverted discipline. We’re working with a lot of neverminds at the present. Nevermind that the leader of this operation is a drug addicted maladjusted weirdo with every functioning sociopathy in the DSM. Nevermind the idea of rolling up into a gaggle of well-trained miscreants with raging hard-ons to kill each and every one of us. Nevermind the thousand things that might go wrong.

            “Nevermind,” Chris says, head in huge hands.

            “Yep.” I say. “Dude, you’ve already done enough. You can stay back, it won’t bother me in the least. This ain’t what you signed up for.” I nod to Al, a signal that it’s time to get moving. We exit the front cab of the SUV and motion for everyone else to get out and start gearing up. Behind me I hear a door slam shut and see Chris’ lineman frame following us to the cargo. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

            “Nevermind.”

            That a boy.

For the next few minutes it’s all clicks and clacks and the sound of zippers and metal hitting metal. We’re going in heavy, that’s for sure. Of course, Marks has a helicopter. At least. So there’s that.

            Floyd and Marie are looking over the sat images. “They’re waiting for us,” she says.

            “What do you think, Floyd?”

            “Oh yeah. Definitely waiting. Fanned out all over the property. Must be well fortified.”

            “You surprised?” I’m looking at the old man but the question is for both of them.

            “Not really,” he says.

            Marie smiles. “Nevermind. Right, Al?”

            “Nevermind what?” he says.

            I catch a quick glimpse of Chris, still loading up at the back of the SUV. He looks ready to swallow me whole. Ready to go back in time and make sure I got committed all those years ago.

            Yeah. Guess the nevermind thing gets pretty annoying.

            “Hawker, get me on the horn with your brother.”

            “Sure. Hey—what were you saying about them waiting for us?”

            I hold up a finger as he gives me the phone. “Mr. Hawker, Gary there? Good—oh yeah, things are kosher. No problems. Should have this wrapped up in no time… Gary? How’s it going, pal? Hey thanks for the documents. Nice work. Yeah. Yes, Gary, we’ll be fine. Calm down. Did you get a trace on Jansen’s sat uplink? Perfect. Shut it down. Do whatever you have to do, just hold him off as long as you can. And see if you can triangulate his position. Extra million in it for ya.”

            The clacking of keystrokes is audible through the phone. It’s easy to imagine the scene: Little nerdy dude sitting at a workstation in some sterile office-type space, surrounded by screens, huge imperious black man watching his every move. You know, that one. Finally, Gary answers. “Still trying to pin his location. But the satellite’s shifting now. He’s got no control over it.”

            “So…”

            “Yeah, so I’m linking you to another one—so—get moving.”

            “Thanks, Gary. Get back to you after the shooting’s over. And tell Hawker to relax.”

            Here we are. It’s the best I could’ve hoped for. Marks is flying blind, Jansen is probably wondering what the hell is going on. The killing should be a whole lot easier. It’s a thought that warms the heart.

            The Deputy’s about to ask another question. I stop him. “Trevor, why else would I need your brother and Gary at a NSA substation? It wasn’t to update my online profile.”

            “But—”

            “If you had stayed put, you would’ve known.” I look off him and his little buddy, setting my mind to what’s in the offing. “Let me see the tablet,” I say, holding out a hand to Floyd. Take a quick peek around and see that everybody is “strapped,” ready for action. Between us and Marks’ stronghold is a dormant farmer’s field and a gentle cut of water, canopied by a dense growth of oak trees. “All right, kids. Now’s the time. Get across the field, we’ll set up the primary staging area once we cross the river. Fan out from there.”

            I’m first to head across the striated plot of unused land. It’s as ineffectual as the town itself. Government’s probably paid someone not to farm it, another community subsidized into the lowest common denominator of existence. Guess there are worse things in the world than getting paid to do nothing. Beats the hell out of what I’ve got going on.

Behind, Al’s asking a question. “Hey there Hank—what you got that thing for?” He’s looking at my pack, at one particular item that doesn’t fit in amongst the Kevlar and the rifles and the tactical gear.

            I keep walking, keep my answer short. “Just a little something extra for Mr. Marks.”

Chapter 24: Slugger

            The nerves. Frigging relentless. Kinda thought they were in check, but here again, I’m fishing through my pants for something to clarify my vision and calm the shakes. Screw it. A bit of the crazy might serve me well at this point.

            “Here’s the deal,” I say, leaning on the slope descending toward the stream. Everybody gathers round like I’m setting up a pick and roll with a clipboard. “The imaging is picking up twenty-five bad-guys. Keep your radios clear, you know the drill. All your devices linked up?” I see everyone checking their wrists and nodding. They’re mini-tablets, about the size of large cell phones, showing the position of Marks’ men and basic topography.

            “Why know where they are—why not just blow this place back to hell and be done with it?” It’s Baker. Old, reliable, never heard of you before Baker. Actually, a vaguely decent question. I give him the short answer. Infiltration is a logistical nightmare. Once we ascend the wall of the creek bed it’s nothing but a little a huddle of trees. After that, just open space, frigging tundra. The compound has one main house, two-story, what looks to be a large barn, and another long, hangar-type structure. The buildings are basically set in the center of the property, and worse, the land is too flat and too open to try any kind of flanking. Then the really bad news. The part that has me annoyed with Baker’s question.

“But mostly because we need eyes on your targets before you shoot,” I say.

            Nobody else reacts to this solemn bit of information. They get it. Baker’s still a little behind.

            “We need Marks alive,” Marie says, casting a condescending stare toward the junior deputy. “It’s kind of the reason for the whole operation. At this point in the game he’s the best thing we have to getting up the ladder—to Jansen. Jansen has the woman and kids. Who the hell are you, again?”

            Hawker looks ashamed for his sidekick. Al doesn’t seem too concerned with anything. Marie appears annoyed but salty and ready to get it over with. Floyd is showing his age all over again, biting his chaffed lower lip nervously. I don’t mind. It’s amazing he’s made it this far.

“Floyd. You take position in the trees. Here—use the big monitor and your binoculars. I’d say go for higher ground but there isn’t any.” Instantly I see his countenance fall; he’s ashamed of his years, of his outdated body, but mostly, he’s ashamed to be relieved. Whatever. Time for feelings later. We’ll hold hands or something.

            “Plan?” Al asks. He looks like a warrior statue, like something dreamed up for a video game, magnificent, weapons hanging off his body at every angle. It gives me confidence, helps me forget about Baker and the wet behind his ears.

            “Okay. Look at your readouts. There’s four guys patrolling the grounds between us and the buildings. Two more on the north and south, four more on the east. Figure me and whoever’s quickest crawl up out of the brush as far as we can, maybe get two or three hundred yards away from that barn. Barn’s the closest thing to cover we’re gonna get. Floyd, you watch for my signal. When you see it, I want our two best long range shooters to take out the four in our way. At that point, me and—”

            “Me,” Al says. “I’m as quick as you are on those broke-ass legs.”

            “Fair enough. Me and Al bike it to the wall of that barn. Looks like there’s two guys in there. We’ll throw some gas in, whoever comes out, we identify and take down. Whatever we have to do. Al, you got that frigging bazooka?”

            “I got stuff.”

            “Sounds perfect. Looks like there’s nobody in the hangar, but that’s gotta be where they keep that damn helicopter, probably some other crap we don’t want these bastards to use. So blow it up.” It’s a calculated risk. I doubt Marks is sitting around guarding the chopper, and I have to balance that with the danger of that thing getting airborne. We’d be real dead if it did.

“I like it.” Al’s starting to get creepy excited. A few look overwhelmed. A few more are sporting sweaty brows.

            “The explosion’s likely to be huge. Maybe it’ll disorient these mopes for a second, but don’t count on anything. Either way, when the rest of you see me and Al reach the barn, you’re already moving, heading toward us. Leave a shooter behind if it’ll be affective, if not, move out with the rest. From there, watch your readouts, use your comms, identify, kill, etc. It’s gonna get ugly. We’re heading east. We’ll call the barn west one, the hangar north one, house is primary. Best case, they’ll be down quite a few men by the time the real action starts. Remember, they can’t see us, but once that building goes, a lot of the advantage goes with it.

“Figure Marks is in the main house?” Hawker asks.

            “Likely. And that’s gonna be the tricky part. They’ll wanna hunker down and pick us off. Use whatever cover you can find. There are two dirt roads leading to the main house. Looks like a fairly large rig parked on the western road. Should be decent cover.”

            “How’d do you intend to breech without getting shot?” Hawker’s getting the impetuousness of the plan, but at least he’s still engaged.

            I laugh. “Deputy, don’t worry. We’ll probably be dead before we get the chance.”

            Hawker rolls his eyes, patting Baker on the shoulder. “He’s joking.”

            I roll mine, smiling at Al and Marie. “Yeah, I’m joking.”

            One more look at the satellite image. The heat signatures are mostly static, some moving back and forth within a confined area. Some moving slow, sentry style. They know it’s coming but don’t know when or from where. Marie’s swinging her sniper rifle over her shoulder, crawling up the embankment. “I’ll be one of the shooters.”

“Okay then,” I say. “Who else?”

            “Give me one of those damn things,” Hawker says, tapping me on the shoulder. “You won’t need it weighing you down.”

            “You any good?”

            He looks at me like I stepped on his essence. “Just give me the gun, Fellows.”

            “Chris, Baker—you good? Be ready to run. Listen for Floyd’s calls.”

            Each of them nod in their own way. Chris is reticent, honest. The kid is acting like he’s completely underwhelmed. Damn fool.

            After one more reminder to move as little as possible, we all head up the bank of the river and into the trees. I tap Al on the shoulder and we set off on a quick crawl through the field. The brush is about thigh high, hopefully thick enough to keep us undetected. Marks has to be watching the tree line, but without overhead imaging, he’s forced to have his men survey the entire area. About a hundred yards into the crawl I hear Floyd in my earpiece. “Stay low, boys.”

            Al’s right next to me. He gives me a no shit look. We continue on, careful not to muck up our barrels. The ground is soft. Probably rained the day before. Our elbows and knees our sinking slightly in the mire, but it’s hardly worth noticing. On the whole it’s a nice day, crisp, cool. Kind of weather and spot that’d be perfect for hunting quail or dove; I try to imagine that’s all this is—just going for relaxing hunt. It works for about three seconds.

            The time has me slightly encouraged; it’s passing late afternoon, getting late in the day. Still plenty of light, but the sun is starting to dip low in the west. It puts Marie and Hawker in good position for shooting, puts Marks and his men firing into a low-hanging sun. Hope to hell the deputy is as good a shot as he put on—hope to hell Marie hasn’t lost her touch. Oh well, it’s only everything on the line.

“Floyd, where we at?”

            “Okay. Two bad guys to your left, about fifty yards apart. Two more to your right, staggered, but in roughly the same configuration. Marie, take left, Hawker right.”

            After a beat I hear them both confirm that they’re ready. “Al, how far to the barn?” I whisper. “I forgot my rangefinder.”

            “Very professional,” he says, fishing through his cargo pants. Hiking himself on his elbows, he gets a reading. “One hundred sixty-five yards.”

            “Floyd. How close are we to these assholes?”

            “Close as you wanna get. And Marks ain’t one of them. It’s time.”

            “Hold one,” I say.

            Al’s looking back at me. Pretty sure he wants to say what are we waiting for but he knows, knows I don’t possess his adamantine sense for violence and mayhem. “I’m working up to it,” I say, trying little movements to shake the nerves tightening around every muscle in my body.

            “Floyd. Call the shots.”

            “Got it, Deer. Hawker, Marie. Fire in three, two, one, fire… ”

            Me and Al hear the impact of the slugs hitting the first two sentries. Instinctively we raise our heads in time to see two more heads exploding from direct impacts. That was easy.

“Targets down. Move your asses.”

            “Let’s go little man.” Al’s grabbing me like a kid on his first day of basic, hauling my body out of the muck, pushing us toward the east side of the barn. It’s a solid-looking structure, roughly perpendicular to the front of the main house. The ground is uneven and my ankles are close to buckling with every step. Barn’s just ahead, but there’s still fifty yards to go. That’s when things go tits up.

            The main house is two story, and somebody’s spotted us running across the field, a field absent four guys that were there only seconds ago. Suddenly mud and grass is flying all around me and Al. It’s a fifty cal. We’re about to get chewed to pieces, only feet from momentary safety.

“Move, Hank!” I hear him scream. I dive wildly for the cover of the barn wall and hear an explosion. Ears ringing, body shaking, it seems that it’s all over. I’m pinned down, compromised, and my best man is gone.

            Or not.

            “Sons of bitches grazed my ankle.”

            Al collapses against the rickety wood right next to me.

            “How are you still here?” I ask, listening to men screaming and bullets flying.

            “They’re trying to kill you, Henry. You drew their fire, gave me time to use this.” Al’s holding up an old-fashioned favorite of his, an RPG called a M79 Thump-gun. “Put a single shot into that window.”

            “Hope Marks wasn’t up there,” I say. “That thing probably disintegrated half the second floor.”

            “Not a lot of options. And he wasn’t up there.”

            “How do you know?”

            “Because,” Al says, fidgeting with this bleeding boot, “if he was up there, we’re screwed.

            “Okay then.” I almost say nevermind.

            “Better call the rest of the troops.”

            No. No more getting caught in the open. Need to make a decision. It’s only seconds before they really start opening up on the barn, so I look down at my readout and make one.

            “Give me that Bazooka,” I say, taking it off his back. Two careful steps from the barn wall, I get enough of an angle to fire at the hangar, positioned thirty yards north of the main house. The explosion is bigger than anticipated, sending a plume of fire and smoke a hundred feet in the air. Tossing the launcher down, I round the barn and tap on the door. “Let’s go! Marks needs you out here!” There’s no way for the men inside to see who is talking. My 9mm is ready as soon as they come wading out. Headshots both, never had a chance.

            Take a quick look inside and then step quickly back, keeping my wrist in front of me to avail myself of the movements of Marks’ men. My mind is in it now, no drugs required.

            Al’s grunting when I get back. His ankle. “You okay? We’ve got to move.”

            “How many?” he asks.

            “Better than we could’ve hoped. I’ve only got fifteen signatures left.”

            “Two two and two,” he says, wincing. Al means that I killed two with the bazooka blast on the north side, another two with my nine, and he must’ve gotten a couple more with the Thump-gun. That and the four dead sentries on approach. “Get me on my feet.”

            The weight of the man almost collapses us both. He’s really hurting. I tear his bloody pant leg to get better look at the wound. “Floyd, hold one. We’re gonna fire heavy at that building. When we do, y’all make your way over to the trucks on the west road. That’ll give you—”

            Two bursts of automatic fire ring in my ears before I can finish. Swiveling around, I see two bloody bodies crumpled in the mud, throbbing the way corpses do just after the moment of expiration. Al’s still got his rifle extended, just in case anybody else decides to round the corner. Checking my wrist, I tell him it’s clear.

            “This doesn’t look good. Your foot is barely attached. Think you’re done, buddy.”

            “Done my balls. Just saved your neck.”

“Okay then. You wanna lay some cover down?”

            “I’m not here for the company.”

            “Fair enough. Alright Floyd. Send them on.”

            For the next minute we light the place up. I go through five magazines on my HK and Al does about the same with his M16A4. It’s a hell of a big gun but he fires it like a toy, laying on his side, using one hand. Intermittent bursts are coming from the house, chewing up the corner of the barn. It’s not enough to slow us down, but by the time we’re through, the place is a creaking remnant of bullet holes and broken wood.

            “They’re in position, Hank.”

            “Yep. Hey buddy, we gotta move.” I grab Al and help him hop to the south end of the barn, away from the house, sneaking another look at my wrist. The outside threats are gone. Looks like the four sentries stationed on the eastern side of the property are back inside the house.

            Marie jumps on the radio. “We’re behind the big flatbed, northwest side. I’ve got Chris and the deputies with me. We can’t stay. What’s the plan?”       

            I help Al sit down and take a second. Look at my wrist. They’re scrambling around inside. Marie’s right. Marks isn’t just gonna recline back and let himself be taken easily. They might be setting up with RPG’s of their own, God only knows. “Stand by,” I say. Al’s grunting again, cursing at his wound. Even he can’t deny his immobility. “Watch your readout, make sure nobody coming out the back flanks you. Got ammo?”

            Al doesn’t like questions. He answers me with one. “What are you doing?”

            “I’ve got a plan. Need to get back inside that barn.”

            “For what?”

            “Trust me. When the time comes, get ready to blast whoever comes out of that house. Think you can crawl around to a firing position?”

            “Yes. I can crawl.”

            “Just make sure you don’t shoot Marks. I need that bastard alive.”

            Al’s furious. Turning himself around, he starts punching the wood siding of the barn. For a second it appears he’s just letting off steam in his own special way, but with a head-butt he smashes clear through the side and rips out an opening big enough for a person to get through. “There. You’ll get yourself shot running around to the front.”

            “One of a kind, Al.”

“Don’t get killed, Hank.” It’s the most sentimental thing I’ve ever heard from the big man.

            “No worries. Just gonna huff and puff.”

            Crawling through the hole, I find what I’m looking for. Only caught a glimpse of it when I killed the two men coming out. A big-ass bulldozer. Never driven one, but it shouldn’t be too hard. Before jumping in the cab, I scour the barn for anything flammable. Two metal containers of turpentine. Poking my head back out the hole I ask Al for his ripped pant leg. He says whatever, I say thanks, and get back to it. Once inside, the machine fires up quickly with a magical, belching roar. Two or three minutes go by; I’m pulling levers, mechanisms are going up and down, little beeps and buzzers are sounding off. The thing is huge and complicated. Feels like the cockpit of a jet fighter. Finally, after finagling the stick on my left and the floor pedals, the powerful machine starts to move forward. As it starts gaining momentum, the sound of a lot of people trying to kill each other is impossible to shut out.

“Okay everyone, one more minute.” All of a sudden I’m feeling pretty good about the whole bulldozer thing. It doesn’t last. For some reason the beast won’t stop. Oh well. My right hand locks the cabin door and for an instant I can’t help but close my eyes as the dozer smashes right through the front of the building. Turn right, dammit. The house is about thirty yards in front of me, fairly big, probably fifteen rooms. There’s a front veranda but no steps leading up to it. Somehow I get the thing yanked on a vector to collide with corner of the house. The men inside are shooting the hell out of it but they might as well try firing at the moon. Hunched down, I yell cover me into the radio and jump out. The two cans are already lit as I throw them into the inevitable path of the machine. It all explodes in one big moment of terrific violence. The fire makes its way quickly inside and the bulldozer’s not stopping. “Run!” is all I hear on the radio. Don’t know who’s saying it, but they’re right. Bullets are whizzing by me; I haul ass back for the spot I left Al in. Just short of the barn’s back corner and cover, two concussions knock me face-first into the dirt. Al’s right there, pulling me with one hand back behind the safety of what’s left of the structure, still unloading on the house with the M16 in his other hand.

“You crazy son of a bitch.”

            I take a moment before responding. Several reasons. First, don’t know if I’m fatally shot. Second, I can’t get any air. Cause I got shot.

            Gasping like a man coming up from a long lingering dive, Al sits me up, checking my vest. “You’re a lucky bastard,” he says.

            Yeah. Lucky.

            Breathing isn’t possible, let alone talking, but there’s enough oxygen banging around my head to glimpse my wrist. With all the fire, it’s got the heat signature readout all muddled up. Switching to a straight sat view, it’s clear there’s three men making a run for it out the back. One of them could be Marks. I get up to give chase but my legs buckle. Nothing left to do but let go, tumble on top of Al.

            “You alright?”

            Still gasping.

            “Hank?”

            Still… gasping.

            “Son of a—” Al says. I’m hunched over his lap in an awkward position. He’s digging out the flattened slugs from my vest. Guess they’re still hot. I take a few more gulps, trying to summon some clarity back. Meanwhile, the fire is turning into a full blown conflagration and there are guns going off all over the place. “Henry. Get off of me. This ain’t over.”

            Yeah. This ain’t over. Can’t let Marks escape. Can’t let him die. Every time the notion of tapping out strikes, once again I’ve got somebody shooting at me or yelling at me or some other damn thing.

            Still can’t talk. I prop myself off of Al and tap my wrist screen, hold up three fingers to his face. He gets it.

            “Floyd. This is Al. Me and boy wonder are pinned behind what’s left of the barn. We got three hostiles trying to escape out the back. What’s everybody’s status?”