Henchmen (12 page)

The inside of this vault is like the inside of every vault I’ve ever been in.  They all have the same posters, and all of them are a variation on the same theme: Everyone’s out to get you.  In all honesty, they probably are. The Chinese are busy hacking every damn thing on the planet, and the Israelis will make a copy of your hard drive the second you land in their country.  Give any spook worth his weight in salt access to a place like this, and they’ll suck out every secret in a heartbeat.  Probably leave some tricks behind, too. 

There are two safes in the corner, big Mosler jobs, like two slabs of armor-plated dresser with combination locks on the front.  Fortunately, these guys follow procedure, and put the “open” or “secured” magnets in place.  All but two the drawers have the “open” magnet displaying.  Just for sanity’s sake, I pull open the six drawers that are unlocked, and find them empty - as expected.

“Guys,” Jean’s voice sounds in my right ear.  “I found something.  I’m sticking the data in the cloud.  You know where.  This is bad.”

“Gotcha, Jean.  We’re seducing the safe,” Frank says as Eve rips the locks off the other two drawers.  “Ok, maybe not seducing so much as backhanding.  Anyway, we should be done soon.”

Inside the drawers are a couple of folders marked Top Secret NF and a few CDs marked the same.  Frank puts them in a backpack and we’re starting back when the lights go out.

“Did that guy just fly?” Jessica asks.

“What was that, Jessica?” Eve asks.

“Jacob, what the fuck? Look over there!”

“I don’t see anything,” Jacob’s voice rings.

“Over there!  The roof!” Jessica sounds frustrated.

“Shit.  Someone’s on the roof,” Jacob says.

I can’t see a damn thing in here, so I pull out a glow stick.  Break and shake and we’ve got some light.  Eve and Frank take on a freaky visage in the green light.  Eve looks nervous.

“Jessica, Jacob.  Get out of there.  Hit the road.  Meet at the fallback point,” Eve says.  “Don’t question it, just go.  That goes for you, too, Jean.  Drop what you’re doing and get lost.”

“Eve, what the fuck is going on?” Frank asks.

“Get ready,” she says.  “Here they come.”

“Here who come?” I ask, pulling out my gun.

“The bad guys,” Eve says.

“I thought we were the bad guys,” Frank says quietly.

“We’re splitting,” Jessica says.  “Signing off.”

We hear the sound of Jacob’s bike starting up over the comms, then a click and the silence.

“Here who come?” I ask again.

“Watch yourselves,” Eve says, pulling her gun and checking a knife I didn’t even realize she had.

I catch a glimpse of a flicker in the doorway.  It’s hard to tell, but the shape looked vaguely person-shaped.  Another flicker, closer this time and Frank doubles over, clutching his stomach.  The flicker moves beside him and slams him face first into the table in front of him.  I move toward the wall, trying to get some bit of security, scanning all around as I move.  There’s a flicker directly in front of me, on the other side of a table.  Without thinking I kick the table as hard as I can and am rewarded with an “
oof”
as the table bumps back.

Eve flinches a bit, but doesn’t move.  Her eyes are closed and her face is slack, like she’s at the symphony listening to Holst.  Another flinch, like something’s hitting her.  Frank is getting back up, his gun tracking around the room, his head snaps back and he’s back down.

I’m glad the glow stick is still going, but I don’t know how much the faint glow is helping.

Eve flinches again and her arm shoots out like lightning. She latches onto - something’s - throat, and lifts.

Whatever she’s grabbed looks like mostly human, but with bulging, jittery eyes and a waxy complexion.  It grins at her, its eyes full of madness and fury, and reaches up to grab her wrist.  She squeezes, and there’s a sickening cracking sound before its head lolls to the side. She drops the thing like a bag of meat.

Frank is still on the floor, blood flowing out of his nose.  Eve roughly picks him up, tosses him over her shoulder, and heads for the door.  I follow, gun ready, keeping my fingers crossed that there’s no more of those things.

There are no emergency lights in this place, and the shades black out most of the outside light, so it’s pretty damn dark in here.  Someone should file an OSHA complaint.

I toss another glow stick down the hall and keep an eye out for flickers.  So far nothing.

We hit the stairs and Eve calmly climbs them, Frank still over her shoulder, looking dazed.  I take one last peek around and am starting up the stairs when everything goes black, and I feel myself falling.

The first thing I feel when I wake up is a splitting headache.  This is usually a sign that today will not be a good day.  Whatever I’m lying on is thin, and lumpy, and cold.

I try to open my eyes and am immediately decide that’s not a good idea.  Oh, fuck it.  I love sleeping anyway, and don’t have anything immediately pressing.  At least I don’t think I do.  I’m not entirely certain where I am or what’s going on, but I’m also not certain I care.  Sleep is a good thing, a sacred thing, and I’m usually loathe to let it go. 

“Well, hello, sunshine,” a familiar voice says.

I open my eyes, grit my teeth against the headache, and take a peek around.  I’m in a cell: bare concrete floor, gray cinderblock walls, and a single bare bulb covered in wire mesh in case I get uppity and decide I want some darkness.  This is the downstairs of the building I used to work in.  It sucks being on the other side.

“C’mon, man.  I don’t have all day,” The voice says.

“The fuck you don’t. You’re government, asshole.  You’ve got all the days in world, except for all the holidays you get,” I say, rubbing my eyes.

“There is that,” he says.  “We just got St. Olaf’s day off to appease the Norsemen up in Minnesota.”

“St. Olaf?” I ask.

“The patron saint of quality leather pants.”

“Jesus,” I say.

“Yeah, he’s got a handful of holidays already.”

“How have you been, Captain Willard?” I ask.

“You know my name is not Willard and I’m not a Captain,” he says.

“You still have no sense of culture,” I say.  “How’s the stick up your ass?  Still there?”

“You know, for someone on the wrong side of the cage, you’ve got quite a mouth on you,” he says.  “You never did have any respect for authority.”

“Respect is earned, pal.  You just thought you deserved it,” I tell him.

My head is still throbbing, so I lean back and put my hands behind my head. My hair is sticky, and there’s a huge lump.

“Damn it, asshole,” I tell him.  “Couldn’t you have used darts or some shit?”

“As you well know, the darts provide less-than-predictable results, and tend to result in even worse headaches.  Besides, I don’t really have a lot of time to wait for you to wake up.”

The man outside the bars is a former compatriot, of sorts.  We worked together at the Department of Homeland Security finding terrorists and preventing them from doing terrible things.  I was an analyst; he was a field guy.  I pointed him where he needed to go, and he did what he needed to do, usually quietly and efficiently.  When DHS needed a problem fixed, they’d call us - or someone like us.  Most people think the Department of Homeland Security is responsible for managing the groping mouth-breathers at the TSA, and that’s it. In fact, the Department of Homeland Security is responsible for tracking down and preventing domestic terrorist attacks without fanfare and glory.  We were also the clearing house for all kinds of dastardly things going on in America.  The information lurking in our brains would probably terrify you.  The Transportation Security Administration is responsible for separating you from you from your liquids in the name of Security Theater; we were responsible for separating people from their lives.

His name is Wilford Saxton, and he’s one of my many frenemies from my past life.  I’ll always respect him and his abilities, but he and I are about as far apart politically and socially as you can get.  He’s your standard issue all-American: tall, blonde, blue-eyed, played sports, worships the right God, and always follows orders without question.  He’ll happily tell you about how he always questions his orders, but his line of questioning is never very thorough, and he always winds up where he’s supposed to be.  He’s the perfect poster boy.

We had a falling-out that came to blows over a mission a few years ago and never worked together again.  I had this crazy idea that we were doing something noble and would happily question my orders if they seemed odd.  Saxton felt we were doing something noble, too, but always assumed his orders were like words from above and never once questioned them, even when it meant taking out a whole family.  I balked at the orders, Saxton followed them to perfection.  He pinned the execution of a family on my bad intel.  That’s when I decked him and left.

“Well, slick.  Time’s a wastin’,” I tell him.

“We need to find out what you’re up to,” he tells me, coming straight to the point.

“Well,” I tell him.  “It’s like this: I’m going to hunt down your sister and seduce her.  It shouldn’t be too hard - she’s supposed to be pretty easy.”

“Don’t get cute.  I don’t have the time.”

“She’s got a real pretty mouth, that one,” I say.

“Here’s the deal, buddy. You’ve been declared a terrorist, and you should remember exactly what that entails.”

“I need to hate America for its freedoms?” I ask.

“You do hate America,” he says. “And, as you well know, terrorists have no rights under the law.”

He’s right.  Terrorists have no rights under the law.  It’s not widely spoken about, but if you’re a terrorist and you get caught by American forces, you’re well and truly fucked.  I don’t have a problem with this.  Terrorists are pussies and not worthy of any kind of remorse.

“Fuck you.  I don’t hate America. I hate what you and people like you have done to it,” I tell him.

“I protect this country from those who would destroy it, and I intend to continue protecting it, by whatever means necessary.  Now, I know you killed Bedfellow, and I know you’re up to something bad right now.  I can’t prove it right now, but it’s just a matter of time.  You’ve stumbled into something that is way beyond you, and way beyond me, and this is your last chance to get out.”

“Bedfellow?” I say.

“Yes.  Senator Bedfellow.  His son killed your wife and son, and he covered it up.  Six months later he’s found dead.  Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, especially since you disappeared shortly thereafter.”

Let me set the record straight: all I did was move a chair.

“I heard Bedfellow hanged himself,” I tell him.

“He did.  I know you were behind it, though,” he tells me.

“Prove it, asshole.”

“If I could prove it, you would’ve been behind bars long ago.”

“Then fuck yourself and open these bars.”

“Yeah.  Neither of those things is going to happen.” He grins.  “Explain to our friend that he needs to focus.”

There’s a flicker next to me and then something slams me in the jaw.  Damn it.  I was hoping there was only one of those things.  I should have suspected there’d be more than one.  Government philosophy is why have one, when you can have two at twice the cost?

“What the fuck are those things?” I ask.

“Those are the real patriots.  They have sacrificed themselves to get a chance to go after monsters and terrorists like you.”

“I’m not a fucking terrorist.”

Flicker, and another slam.

“You are a threat to this country, and you will tell me what you are doing!” Saxton thunders.

“I told you already, I’m thinking of new and exciting ways to fuck your sister.”

Another flicker and I’m hit twice more, once in the gut and again in the jaw.  When my head clears slightly, I can tell I’ve lost a couple of teeth.  Shit.  I’m going to need to go to the dentist now.  I hate dentists.

“He can keep this up all night.  He will happily beat you down until the end of his life, and there is absolutely fuck-all you can do about it,” Wilford tells me.  “This is the new way of warfare, Steven.  This is what we use now.  We can’t use drones on U.S. soil yet, but we can use alternative weapons and alternative tactics.  To hunt monsters we made monsters of our own.”

“Nice work in Boston, shithead,” I tell him.

I probably shouldn’t goad him too much about that; there wasn’t much anyone could’ve done to foresee it.  Terrorism has gone open-source, and any asshole with a bone to pick can pick up Al Qaeda’s free monthly e-magazine, complete with the latest monthly tips on Jihad, what the sexy terrorists are wearing, and how to behead Westerners.  When I left government work, they were still trying to find ways to deal with threats like that without raising the fear factor.  It looks like they may have found one.

His head droops and he stares at the ground.

“The only way to prevent another Boston, or another Sandy Hook, or another 9/11 is to think outside the box.  We must to stop them before they can do anything, and we need to eliminate them quietly and with plausible deniability.  You yourself proposed watching news groups and tapping emails,” he says.

“So, now you think everyone is a potential terrorist?” I ask him.

“Everyone IS a potential terrorist.  Even our own people want to bring down the government,” Saxton yells.

“Ever wonder why that may be?” I ask him.

“It doesn’t matter.  It never mattered.  The only thing that matters is they are weak and we are strong, and we will do what we need to do to keep our people safe and fed and happy.”

“Keep ‘em happy and stupid and you can stay in power forever, right?  The only thing you need to worry about is who will fight for you, and you can always find and use those poor bastards that will fight and die for your causes – right?” I say.

“Our causes!  Ours!  Not mine!” he yells.  “I work for the good of the people!”

“What people?  All people or just the ones who pay your salary and give you your pittance of power?  They’ll walk all over you the second you’re no longer useful.”

“Someone needs to be prepared to sacrifice themselves for the good of the whole.”

“And that someone is you?” I ask him.

Wilford Allan Saxton comes from a traditional blue-blood family, with a history of service to “God and country.”  He’s a true believer, a fanatical patriot who has been trained to trust his superiors in all cases.  His family has had pastors and soldiers and various functionaries in its lineage.  They’ve orbited the upper echelons, but never made it into the ruling class.  Like so many others, his family has sacrificed, believing their sacrifice was for the good of the country, when it was really just to further the goals of the minority that claims to keep the best interests of everyone in mind.

“You should try sacrificing for the good of the whole sometime, Steven,” He tells me.

“So should you, Wilford.  You’ve sacrificed plenty of people, but you’ve never sacrificed anything yourself!  How much innocent blood have you spilt to make the country ‘safe?’  How many times have you tapped phones, intimidated witnesses, killed kids - and called it collateral damage?”

“A new kind of enemy deserves a new kind of tactics,” he says.

“You know, I used to think people shouldn’t be afraid of their governments - that governments should be afraid of their people - but the government is already afraid of the people, isn’t it?  You’re terrified of the very people you use, aren’t you?  You’re absolutely shit-scared, and you use this patriotic bullshit and bumper-sticker logic to justify walking all over the people you purport to serve.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then why do you have this freak thing smacking me around while you’ve got me in a cage?  Are you still pissed off that I beat you?” I ask him.

“You cheated,” he says.

“Fuck you.  The only unfair fight is the one you don’t win.”

“You threw pepper in my face.”

“What the fuck do you think those guys you’re hunting are going to do?”

I can tell he’s fuming.  His eye starts to twitch when he gets really mad.  We used to verbally spar like this when we worked together.  There was a time when we were friends, but he screwed up a mission and pinned the blame on me.

Saxton walks off. There’s a flicker, and I get punched again. 
Fucking pussy.

When Saxton comes back, he’s got a laptop with stickers all over it: punk bands, mariachi bands, LGBT rainbows.  Jean’s laptop. There’s blood all over it.

“Recognize it?” Saxton asks me.  “Look familiar?”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Shit.  Shit.  Shit.

Saxton looks at me, trying to figure out if I’m breaking.  I’m forcing myself to remain calm.  One of the first things you learn in the Intelligence world is keeping your head when the situation gets tense.  I close my eyes and breathe.  Jean’s dead, but if I freak out now, nothing good will come of it.  That’s when I sense a slight puff of air to my left - immediately before the punch slams me in the side of the head.