Back Blast

17

Travers led the way to his building and up his stoop, used a key on his chain to unlock the door, then climbed the stairs and entered his own apartment with a second key.

The space wasn’t large, less than a thousand square feet, and the living room was only twelve by fifteen. Court turned on the overhead, and Travers began moving towards the sofa.

Court stopped him. “Not there. Sit on the mantel in front of the fireplace. Hands on your lap where I can see them.”

Travers did as instructed. Court moved to the couch and, with his gun trained on the other man, yanked up the cushions.

The handle of a sheathed bowie knife jutted out of the corner where the springs met the side of the sofa.

Court pulled out the blade and tossed it on a side table. “You are just full of tricks, aren’t you?”

“And you seem to know every one. Again, who the fuck are you?”

Court sat down in a wicker chair next to the sofa, ten feet away from the man seated on the hearth. He then lowered his neck gaiter and took his hood and his cap off his head.

“Sierra Six?”

“We both know what’s about to happen.”

Travers cocked his head. “Maybe you do, but I don’t have a fuckin’ clue.”

“Sure you do. You’re going to act compliant, wait for me to let my guard down a little, say a bunch of shit about how we used to be buds, and you’re going to look for your opportunity. As soon as you see any chance, you’re going to take it.”

“Why would I—”

“Just know that I’m expecting it, and also know that as soon you fucking flinch, I’m putting three rounds through your heart.”

Travers said, “I don’t know why you think I’m going to attack you, and I sure as fuck don’t know why you are pointing a gun at me.”

“Because you’re SAD, and you have orders to kill me.”

“Kill you? What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t heard your name in years.”

Court was impressed. Travers did a good job selling his story.

“Bullshit.”

“I swear it, man.”

To that Court just replied, “Moscow.”

“Moscow? What about Moscow?”

“Two years ago, a market a couple blocks away from where I was staying. I saw you with another dude, I didn’t know him, but he was a Ground Branch — looking motherfucker. I followed you back to your hotel, the Hilton Leningradskaya, then watched you leave with your partner and four other guys. A full six-man element. I recognized Jenner. I figured him to be the team leader because he’s been around since forever.”

Court could see the wheels turning in Travers’s brain, but to be fair, they turned fast. “Yeah. Okay, we were there. But it didn’t have anything to do with you. Another op. Code worded, so I can’t talk about it.” He paused. Faked a little chuckle. “I didn’t see you at all. That’s a hell of a coincidence, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re full of shit. You guys were on my trail. You ran a full monty surveillance op outside the place I was renting. Bad luck for you that I saw you first and left town before you got set up.” Court smiled. “How long did you guys sit on the location before you realized I’d bugged out?”

Travers said, “Man… you’re just paranoid. I’m not after—”

“I know about the shoot on sight. I know Carmichael has JSOC and SAD hunting me all over the world. I know that’s what you were doing in Moscow. The longer you sit here and deny it, the more pissed off I get while pointing a gun at your face. Right now might be a good time to do things to minimize my anger.”

Travers looked like he was going to keep up the ruse, but after a few seconds he deflated, his shoulders drooping. He gave a shrug and a nod. “You win, Gentry.” After another shrug he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I felt bad about it.”

“That’s a huge comfort,” Court said, then added, “asshole.”

“So? What are we doing? What do you want?”

“I want to know why. Why is there a shoot on sight out on me?”

Travers and Gentry made eye contact for several seconds, till Travers asked, “Why are you playing dumb?”

“Because I am dumb. I have a guess, but I don’t know for sure. Tell me.”

“You’re the enemy of the state, not me. Don’t ask me what you did.”

“Come on. They told you why. What did they say?”

Travers heaved his shoulders and closed his eyes. In frustration he said, “Dude, why’d you come back here? What the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m trying to figure it out. To make it right.”

“Make it right? Jesus H. Christ, you really do not know why they are after you!”

“Tell me.”

Travers shrugged, and this gesture looked utterly real. “I don’t know the specifics. Just that you were sent out on an op, you were given good intel and clear orders, and then went off script.” Travers winced, like he didn’t want to say it. “You killed the wrong dude, bro.”

“What do you mean?”

“How else can I say it? You smoked the wrong guy. You capped a noncombatant. You fragged a friendly. You termed some innocent son of a bitch and fucked up the mission.”

Court shook his head slowly. “No. That’s not true. That must be disinformation Carmichael is using to get everyone on board with the term order. All my ops were solid. I never had an unauthorized termination.”

Travers kept his eyes on the gun. “Court, I didn’t get it from Carmichael. You think door-kickers like me hang out with Denny Carmichael?”

“Who told you?”

“Me and a lot of the guys asked for a full brief on the reasons behind the term order. We didn’t like hunting one of our brothers, know what I mean?”

Yeah, Court thought. I know exactly what you mean. You mean you want me to lower this pistol because I’m supposed to act like we’re just members of the same big happy family.

“We were briefed by Jordan Mayes and some big-shot lawyer from the Office of General Council. Chunky dude, German name, don’t remember it. He wore this goofy bow tie, I do remember that. Anyway, he said you were derelict on a mission, but no one knew at the time. Years later intel filtered from some foreign service to Carmichael proving you zapped the wrong motherfucker. Bow tie dude told us Carmichael wanted you brought in for questioning. Your own task force was sent in to pick you up… and then you smoked them all.” Travers hesitated before saying the last part, as if he only just understood the repercussions of having a killer of CIA officers sitting in his apartment with a gun pointed at his chest.

Court said nothing.

“You going to tell me that didn’t happen, either?”

Court kept the gun up, but his body sagged a little. “They weren’t bringing me in. They were sent to terminate me.”

“Term you? Why would you be killed for schwacking an innocent person on a mission? Shit happens. You might have been cashiered from the Agency if the dereliction was bad enough, but they wouldn’t kill you. Not for that.”

Travers went on. “But once you killed your own guys… then it was on, bro. Denny has been after you ever since. You’ve done a hell of a good job hiding out, but if you kill me now, well, they’ll just know you are here in town.”

Court cocked his head in surprise. “Pretty sure they already know I’m here.”

Travers rolled his head back as if he was looking to the heavens. “Well, I sure wish someone would have bothered to give me the heads-up.”

“Look, you aren’t going to believe me over this suit from General Council… but I was not derelict. I never fragged the wrong target. Not once. Not ever.” He added, “And my team tried to murder me, not bring me in. I had to defend myself.”

Travers nodded like he believed, but Court didn’t think for a minute that he’d convinced him.

Travers said, “Okay. I guess they got it wrong. I’ll let everybody know. That should fix things.” It was sarcasm, brave considering Travers’s situation, but it was clear to Court the other man wanted to show he was not afraid.

Court thought a moment. “AAP. Does that mean anything to you?”

Travers was taken aback by the question. “You mean that magazine for old people?”

“No, Chris. That’s AARP. I am talking about the Autonomous Asset Program. Did this guy from General Council say anything about that?”

Travers shook his head. “I don’t know what that is. He didn’t mention it. Sounds stupid.”

Court sagged low on the couch, frustrated and confused. But then he nodded to himself. Softly he said, “Carmichael needed an excuse to kill me, so he came up with a cover story. He had to erase the AAP. Terminate all the participants… But they couldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. They blamed me for some imaginary screwup.”

“Whatever you say, dude,” Travers said. He hadn’t heard everything, because Court had been speaking to himself.

Court ignored him and stood up slowly.

“What are you going to do?” Travers asked, letting a little nervousness show in his voice now.

“I’m leaving. You are useless. You know even less about what went down than I do.” Then he said, “Stand up.”

Travers did so. Court reached into his coat and pulled out zip ties. The other man’s eyes widened just a little, but he made no comment.

Court said, “Your lucky day, right? You know how to get out of these in five seconds. Put them on. Behind your back.”

Travers followed Gentry’s orders, confused. He did know how to defeat zip ties, even when his arms were fastened behind his back, but if Gentry knew this already, why was he using them?

When his arms were secured, Court walked up to him and spun him around. A second later Travers heard the sound of thick duct tape being pulled from a roll.

“You motherfucker,” he mumbled. The zip ties were just to keep his hands down while Court restrained him in a way that would be much harder to defeat.

Five minutes later Travers’s arms and hands were completely secured, from the shoulders all the way down to the fingertips, with an entire roll of duct tape. His ankles were bound with wires from two table lamps. He sat on the floor, arms outstretched behind him like a single wing, and his feet in front of him, lashed together.

Once Court was finished he knelt over the other man and surveyed his work. “You look ridiculous,” he said.

“I’ve got to piss.”

“Just think of that as additional incentive.” Court patted the other man on the head. “Good to see you, Chris.” He headed for the door.

“Fuck you. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get out of this?”

Court flipped off the overhead in the living room. The only remaining light was from the street, filtering in through the curtains. He said, “If this equation takes you more than ten minutes to solve, then you are a poor excuse for an asset.” Court reached for the door latch.

Travers called after him. “Hey, Court?”

“Yeah?”

Travers paused, then said, “I’m going to tell you this as a friend. I really hope you’ll take my advice. Run. Just fucking run. You had the right plan. Staying off grid, out of the States. That was working for you. There is no future to you sticking around here. Trust me on that. Now that you’re here. Now that they know. They’ll rain down on you with everything they have, and they will kill you.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Court said, and he left Travers there, alone in the dark.

It was well after two a.m. when Court pulled into a little market and gas station a mile from his long-term storage unit in Columbia Heights. He’d been driving around for a while, rolling into, and then back out of, a half dozen other convenience store parking lots, because he was looking for a very specific setup.

He needed a place with poor CCTV camera coverage of the parking lot.

Court took it on faith that the U.S. government would have access to civilian CCTV networks here in the area. They would also have facial recognition software working to identify him as he moved around the city. While there was nothing Court could do to avoid getting picked up on cameras inside stores — he couldn’t very well wear a ski mask as he shopped — he knew it was in his best interests to show neither his face nor his vehicle on camera.

Court could mitigate the risk to himself by never going to the same place more than once. By the time he was identified on camera and CIA or police arrived to investigate, hours would have passed. Court merely had to know better than to ever return. But if he allowed his image to be recorded and identified and he allowed his vehicle to be identified by parking it in view of a CCTV camera, then he would be screwed, because he couldn’t very well change cars every time he went out into the city.

The parking lots of the first six late-night markets he pulled into had good camera coverage, with no place to park without exposing his vehicle. The seventh store, to Court’s great relief, did have a couple of outdoor cameras near the pumps, but the store’s owners were cutting corners and relying on the inside camera to film a portion of the lot near the window. Court only had to pull up to one side of the front window or the other, park in a space there, and then go inside.

Court stepped carefully into the Easy Market on Rhode Island with his head down. He lowered his hood, but he left his baseball cap on, low in front of his face. He moved slowly to the back corner of the establishment, far away from the register, and he pretended to look through the cooler for a drink. Soon he glanced up and around the little shop, scanning high and in the corners, searching for cameras.

And Court liked what he saw. Not only had the management here gone cheap with the cams outside; two of the cameras inside the market were hanging down with wires unplugged — clearly out of commission. A third camera was up to the right of the front register and facing down, but Court determined he could defeat it with his cap and by turning his face away from the proper angle needed for successful facial recog.

Within one minute of passing through the door, Court decided he would become a faithful customer here at the Easy Market on Rhode Island Avenue.

Court grabbed a few items off shelves — more duct tape, a few cans of food, a bottle of water, and a candy bar — then he carefully stepped up to the register at a forty-five-degree angle, with his head turned slightly to the left and the bill of his baseball cap slightly cocked to the right. A lone clerk stood behind the counter, watching his approach. She was mid-twenties, heavyset, and African American. Her nametag read LaShondra. When Court put his items up on the counter he glanced at her again and noticed she had a severely lazy left eye, with the pupil drooping down.

She looked tired, but she wore a kind smile. “Hey, baby doll, how’s your night goin’?”

Baby doll? “It’s goin’,” Court said, looking to the left.

He paid for the tape, the canned food, the water, and the candy bar, and LaShondra put it all into a plastic bag. While he waited Court spent his time scanning reflective surfaces behind the woman, making sure there were no threats behind him. He glanced to his left, back out to the parking lot, and saw that it remained clear. He was careful, however, to avoid looking to the right, where the camera hung down pointing at him, just eight feet away.

As he left the store, careful to avoid looking up to the camera recording the front two aisles of the market, the clerk called after him, “You have a good night now, honey.”

“You, too,” Court muttered on his way out the door.

As he climbed into his car Court realized that he hadn’t carried on such a pleasant conversation with anyone in a long time.