Sacrifice of One

Chapter 1

The fifth floor furnished apartment on Virginia Avenue overlooked the Potomac River. Within the nine hundred square foot space was a small kitchen, one bedroom, one bath, and living room, with simple furnishings throughout, no pictures, no curtains. Easy to take care of, easy to move out of when new orders were received. That’s all Grant Stevens needed or wanted.

He was in the bedroom pulling a white skivvy shirt over his head when he heard a knock at the door. “Wait one!” He smoothed back his brown hair, still damp after his shower.

Walking across the carpeted hallway in his stocking feet, he tucked his shirt into the back of his dark blue slacks as he opened the door. “Hey, Joe! Come on in. You’re early.”

“That’s because I’m hungry,” Adler indicated by patting his stomach. He closed the door behind him.

“Like that’s a surprise!” Grant laughed, while he buckled his belt. All the years they’d known one another, Adler had hardly changed. The clear blue eyes were still sharp, the same crew cut — albeit with a few more gray hairs, the rugged face, his 5’10” frame still held a body weight hovering around one eighty. Grant always said he was built like a brick shithouse.

“How about a beer?” Grant asked as he stepped into the kitchen to the right of the front door.

“Sure. I’ll have one.” Unzipping his beige windbreaker, he asked, “How ya doing, skipper?” He took the cold bottle Grant handed him.

“Doin’ good.”

“Weren’t you supposed to see Doc Irwin today?” Adler pointed to Grant’s shoulder. The lower part of a scar showed just below his T-shirt sleeve.

“Yeah, I did. He finally released me from his clutches.”

Following Grant into the living room, Adler asked, “So I take it your shoulder’s good as new?”

Grant motioned for Adler to sit on the couch as he answered, “Never will be good as new, Joe, but shouldn’t limit my activities, and it feels a helluva lot better than before. Got back from the pool about an hour ago. Did my usual number of laps without a problem.”

“What was that? Two?” Adler smirked.

“Smart ass. Made it to three!”

Light from a bright, setting sun began streaming through the double windows. Grant walked past Adler. “So, where do you want to go for dinner?” he asked as he adjusted the blinds.

“I’m in the mood for steak. Wait a minute! I know! Maybe we could get steak!”

“While you decide which, and where, I’ll go finish dressing.” Just then, the phone rang. Grant turned around and came back to the couch, picking up the receiver on the end table. “Stevens.”

“How the hell are ya, Grant?”

It took Grant a second before finally recognizing the voice. “Well, I’ll be damned! Tony!” He backed up then sat on the couch armrest, grinning from ear to ear. Tony Mullins was the CIA agent aboard the USS Bronson, during the time the Russians attempted a takeover of the sophisticated ship.

Mullins laughed. “Long time no hear, buddy!”

Adler leaned toward the receiver, saying, “How ya doing, Agent Mullins?”

“That was Joe, Tony. So, when’d you get back in town?”

“Arrived from Korea a week ago. Sorry I didn’t make contact sooner.”

“Not a problem. I’m just glad you called! Where the hell are you now?”

“At Langley.”

“Of course. A place near and dear to my heart,” Grant laughed. “Hey, listen! We were getting ready to go grab a bite to eat. Why don’t you meet us? We’ve got some catching up to do.” Grant took a swig of beer, waiting for a response. “Tony?”

“We need to talk, Grant.”

Grant put the bottle on the coffee table, giving Adler one of his oh shit looks. Adler scooted forward near the edge of the cushion, rolling the cold bottle between his palms, staring up at Grant.

“I’m listening.”

“Can you and Joe come out to Langley tonight?”

“Sure. I suppose we can.”

“You both still have White House clearances, right?”

“Yeah, we do. I’m assuming that’s a ‘just in case,’ right?”

“Roger that. I’ll leave word and your passes at security, then you come to the lobby. I’ll meet you there. How does 2000 hours sound?”

Grant checked his submariner. “We can do it. Tony, you know I’ve gotta ask, but has Admiral Torrinson been brought in on whatever the hell this is about?”

“The director should be informing him as we speak. Look, Grant, I’m sorry I can’t fill you in right now, but… ”

“No explanation necessary. It’s all part of the game we play. See you at 2000 hours.” Grant hung up, lingering briefly before hearing Adler.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“Not a clue,” Grant answered. “We’re meeting Tony at Langley. He’ll fill us in when we get there.”

“I take it we’re not eating,” Adler said disappointed. He took a last mouthful of beer, then carried the bottle to the garbage pail in the kitchen.

“We can get something on the way.” Grant grabbed his beer off the table, and followed Adler toward the kitchen. As he turned down the hallway to the bedroom, he said over his shoulder, “There’s some leftover roast beef in the fridge if you want to make a sandwich. There should be some Swiss cheese.”

“No steak, but I suppose it’ll have do,” Adler mumbled. “Do you want me to make you one?”

“Negative.”

Reaching into the fridge, Adler pulled out a dish of rare roast beef, cheese, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of yellow mustard.

Grant stood in front of the dresser mirror buttoning his light blue, long-sleeve Oxford shirt. He tried to come up with a reason for Mullins’ call, a reason to go to Langley. Nothing came to mind.

He gave his hair a quick comb, then stepped into his loafers, grabbing his black windbreaker from a hanger. As he walked to the kitchen, he swallowed the last mouthful of beer, and dropped the bottle in the trash next to the stove. Looking up at Adler, he laughed. “You got enough stuffed in your mouth?” Adler’s cheeks were bulging with sandwich material. “You look like an overgrown chipmunk.”

Adler pushed the last food remnants in with a finger. “I was hungry… and in a hurry! You sure we’re stopping on the way?”

Grabbing his keys from the side table, Grant slung his windbreaker over his shoulder. “Get a couple of root beers from the fridge.” As he opened the door, Adler handed him a bottle. “Come on,” Grant said, “and wipe those crumbs from your shirt. No crumbs allowed in the Vette!”