Landslide, page 7
When I emerged from baggage claim, the midday sun shone high in the sky. I’d neglected to call Ike—a facilitator from the firm whom I was probably closer to than I should be—to arrange a pickup, so I hailed a cab and headed straight to the Leadenhall Building. With a swift ascent to the fortieth floor, I proceeded straight to Alistair’s office to check in, my usual routine after traveling.
“My dear Mason, do come in.” Alistair stood behind his massive mahogany desk, leaning forward with his arms behind his back reading a spread of papers arrayed neatly before him. With his pure white hair, slate gray suit, French cuffs, and sixty-plus years, he might as well have worked for the East India Company in the time of Kipling.
I entered his office, and as I always did, admired the deep maroon Persian rug, built-in bookcases, wingback and captain’s chairs, and brass bar cart tucked against the wall adorned with bottles of gin and scotch I could never afford. The classic grandeur of the place made me immensely uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help but marvel at it. Old school, like my grandpa had been.
“So, Mason. How’d it go? Are the Germans really jumping in the sack with the Russians?”
I nodded and proceeded to outline all the details the ministry official had shared with Klaus and me. It only took a few minutes, and Alistair must have noticed me eyeing his scotch because once I was finished delivering my report, he got up and fixed us both a few fingers.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, handing me one of the tumblers. “Was bound to happen sooner or later given all the capital Putin’s funneling into the energy sector.”
“Yes,” I replied, taking a sip and rolling it around in my mouth.
“And the trip itself, a nice change?”
“Nice enough. I like Germany,” I replied, not daring to mention anything else. I doubt Alistair would have cared I stopped in Paris, but I wanted to save myself the embarrassment of explaining why. I didn’t feel like reviving the matter either, given I’d started to put it behind me.
“Good,” remarked Alistair. “I thought you could have used a little break after your last adventure.”
I allowed a thin, knowing smile. “It’s what you hired me for.”
“Yes. Still, I don’t care for Syrian radicals pointing guns at my employees.”
An image of a short, scruffy-faced Syrian border guard pushing the barrel of his AK-47 against my sternum came to mind. The incident occurred during my last trip just before Frankfurt as I was trying to cross the Lebanese–Syrian border, and I probably could have been a little more compliant. But waiting three hours with all the right paperwork had made me irritable. Things may not have worked out so well if the guard’s supervisor hadn’t shown up, realizing the prospect of a fat bribe.
“It’s fine, sir. I’ve seen worse.”
Alistair nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“Not yet. This move by Germany got me thinking, and speaking of Syria, I forgot to ask, or maybe you put it in your trip report.”
“What, sir?”
“Did you come across any Russian paramilitary types when you surveyed the Syrian oil fields? You know, my little hobby interest.”
I cocked my head, recalling a conversation we had during a company retreat a few years back when he asked that I remain attuned to the presence of private military contractors during my travels. He assessed that they—private companies offering military-like services, guns for hire—were a new variable in international business and of particular interest to Ruttfield’s clients in the defense and energy sectors. It made me think that if circumstances were different, I should arrange a lunch for Alistair and Doug so they could compare notes. It reiterated for me that government intelligence and industrial espionage are not that far apart.
“Yes,” I replied, “but only at a distance. They appeared to be running some kind of mobile security.”
“At a distance. Are you sure they were Russian?”
“Yes. I recognized their weapons and equipment—too high-speed for any regime nugs—and the markings on their trucks.”
“Right. Very well.”
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no. Like I said, this latest move merely got me thinking. The world’s changing.”
“Right, sir,” my own thoughts falling to Gomez again. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” replied Alistair with a smile. “Thank you.”
I nodded curtly and stood, feeling a need to get moving. “I’m going to finish out the day and take the weekend, sir.”
“Very well. Heading up to Yorkshire with Caroline, if memory serves me. Correct?”
“No, sir. We broke it off last week.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that. All amicable, I hope. Splits can be messy.”
“It’s fine, sir.”
“Good. I knew her father, you know.”
I nodded again, having heard the story about Alistair and Caroline’s father being contemporaries at Oxford. It’s a small world when your boss is chums with the father of your ex.
“Thank you for your time, sir. I’m going to get back at it,” I replied, downing the last of my drink and excusing myself.
Now back in my office, I spent the rest of the day reviewing the markets and laying the groundwork for my next excursion, probably in two weeks. I was destined for Bulgaria and Romania to look at another natural gas pipeline coming out of the Black Sea, with maybe a hop into Turkey at the end. I was looking forward to the trip. It was an exotic part of the world, and the folks I planned to meet with always put on a good spread. Wild game, fresh fish, good wine—certain to be a pleasant experience.
I finally shut my computer down and turned off the lights at nine. I texted Caroline to ask if she was still up and if I could stop by to get my stuff. The message back was a simple, Yes, as was her habit. Short and sweet.
Truth was, it was good we’d split. She was a wonderful woman, smart, kind, and beautiful; we simply came from very different walks of life. We lasted two years and some change, but I think she started to get bored with me—maybe exasperated—six months in; my indelicate ass could only enjoy cocktails with friends and posh galas for so long before I needed a strong ale or a few fingers of the hard stuff to keep my sanity.
And if I were honest, my own crap didn’t help matters. She wanted to know about my life before moving to England, my time in the Corps, too, but I played it off. I wanted to forget my past and start anew—thus my move to London a decade before. I’d rather be where no one would raise an eyebrow if they heard I was a vet. I’d prefer people not to know and not to care.
But I couldn’t erase everything. The few nights I spiraled into a rash of darkness fueled by bourbon grappling with my demons, it unsettled her. It was too complicated, downright nasty, and I don’t blame her. No one needs to be saddled with that mess.
When the time came last week, the break was unambiguous and final, nothing to drag out. It’s always easier when it’s mutual. Now I just wanted my clothes back and to wish her well.
“Have a good night, Mr. Hackett,” called the security guard at the front desk as I walked by.
“And you, Tom,” I replied. “How’s Gwen?”
“Just fine, Mr. Hackett. Thanks for asking. At university now.”
“Glad to hear it, Tom. See you Monday,” I said, breaching the exit doors.
The cool London air, bordering on cold, greeted me on the street with a refreshing gust. I was inclined to walk home, thinking the exertion would do me good. It would help settle things. The work had been effective in clearing my mind. Now I needed some exercise to put this Gomez-Delgado business to rest.
I looked left toward the car queue and saw Ike standing by the rear passenger door of the Bentley waiting for me. He had a hard presence to him, someone who’d weathered the elements and been in the thick of it more than once. Not surprising given he’d spent twenty-five years in the Paras, doing time with a rifle and boots in the Falklands, Iraq, Bosnia, and Lebanon—nice places to vacation—before joining the firm.
“Good evening, Ike. How are you?”
“Fine, sir. Missed you at the airport.”
“My fault. I failed to let you know.”
“Nonsense, sir.”
“I think I’m gonna walk home, if you don’t mind. I could use the fresh air. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”
“It’s no trouble, sir. Would you like me to take anything for you? Your valise, perhaps?”
“I left it upstairs.”
“It’s no trouble, sir.”
“You really need to stop calling me sir, Ike. It’s kind of insulting.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies. Won’t happen again.”
“See you Monday, usual time?”
“Yes, sir. But,” Ike said, catching me before I turned to go. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Why?”
“No reason, sir,” the old soldier replied, not making much of an effort to conceal his suspicion something unusual had gone on. He knew my patterns well. He was a good man and, in a way, the closest thing I had to a real friend over here.
“I’m fine, Ike.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Goodnight,” I said, turning to go at a not so casual pace. Walking, running, speed, physical activity—I knew it cleansed the mind. Had I not been in oxfords and a suit, I probably would have started jogging, inevitably increasing to a hard run. It would just happen whether I meant to or not, my body yearning to detox itself, letting Gomez go one last time.
Caroline’s place was a few miles away, so I took the Tube for part of it. I got off near Kensington Gardens so I could walk the last mile. I reached an intersection north of embassy row and would have blundered across were it not for the cars rushing by. A handful of other late-night pedestrians waited alongside me—fat ones, tall ones, skinny ones, short ones—mostly in their own world, indifferent to the strangers close enough to smell their cologne, perfume, and one bloke’s curry-laced breath. I’d drifted into my secluded world too.
Consequently, it took me a moment to notice one individual eyeballing me a little too intently. He wore a suit without a tie and appeared clean-cut, so the thought of getting mugged didn’t cross my mind, but I didn’t recognize him. I had the urge to ask, Do I know you, but refrained, once again looking straight ahead at the far side of the intersection like everyone else. I’d encountered weirder things on London’s streets.
The signal to walk flashed and I strode off, continuing my jaunt to Caroline’s house, wondering if we’d have sex one last time tonight. I wouldn’t complain if we did. Sex was one thing we’d connected quite well on.
Most of the other pedestrians disappeared into the night, and I found myself on a deserted street I rarely paid attention to, rounding the next corner out of habit. But as I did so, I noticed an individual trailing me, perhaps fifteen yards back, who seemed to have suddenly appeared. It was a woman from the intersection, I think.
I increased my pace, more out of irritation than anything else, having enjoyed the solitude of the walk. I reached the next block, crossed over, and took another glance behind. I expected to see the woman farther back strolling along, but didn’t. She was nowhere in sight.
I kept walking, but my mind paused, curious where she’d gone since there were no other side streets or alleys she could have turned down. The woman had simply vanished. A sudden appearance and disappearance, but I quickly stopped this line of thinking, dismissing the observation as nothing more than my inclination for paranoia.
I decided to slow down. I’d started to sweat, feeling the moisture on my back and a bead of sweat on my upper lip. I had at least another twenty minutes to go and didn’t want to arrive at Caroline’s a swampy mess. No one would appreciate that.
Then a dark figure stepped out from an alley in front of me. It was a man, and he planted himself right in the middle of the sidewalk, like a pillar in a river forcing the water to flow around it. I recognized him as the man from the crosswalk who’d stared too intently. He was no more than ten feet away and his eyes were locked on me, the provocation blatant.
Although the last twelve years had made me inclined to de-escalate confrontations—a brawling banker wasn’t good for business—something from long ago welled up inside me. All the frustration and confusion from the past thirty-six hours, the arrogance of Doug, the veiled threats by Garrett—it was too much. I snapped.
“Can I help you?” I challenged, advancing with long strides to close the distance. I felt my muscles go tense and I flexed my hands, balling them into fists.
The lone individual stayed firm, waiting for me.
“Hey, you,” I called. “I’m talking to you.” I pointed my finger like a drill instructor bearing down on a bewildered recruit, halting just out of arm’s reach.
“Good evening, Mr. Hackett,” the man said calmly. “I require a moment of your time.” He spoke with the hint of an unidentifiable accent. Not precisely British English, nor Northeast American. More like a boy who grew up in a household whose parents were first-generation immigrants, conditioned to straddle dialects.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“I’m a friend, Mr. Hackett. I need to speak with you about our mutual acquaintance, the journalist Henry Delgado.” The man pronounced the title and name with sardonic emphasis.
“Right. Henry f’ing Delgado,” I hissed. “Who sent you? Was it Doug? Garrett? Another reminder?”
The man cocked his head. “We care about Mr. Delgado, like you. It’s dangerous work, what he does, no?”
“Is it? Is it really? You sent him over there, and now you hang him out to dry.”
“It’s business, you know.”
“No, actually I don’t know. I don’t work for the damned CIA like you, like Doug, or like that other shit, Garrett. So, Mr….”
“John.”
“Right, John. Look, I got the hint the first time, so whatever you came here for, out with it.”
“Please, Mr. Hackett.” The man extended his hands, his palms outstretched, pleading, as if I were the one who had made things difficult, which only served to piss me off more.
“You know what, screw it. You know you’re abandoning a real hero out there, right?” And I was about to blurt out the name Kevin Gomez, but something stopped me, remembering the line from somewhere, The dead should stay dead. And Gomez was in fact dead; he was Delgado now, even to these fucks. “Delgado, Henry, Hank,” I continued. “I doubt you know it, but at one time he was a warrior with honor and courage, and most of all—loyalty. Something you shits are lacking.”
John listened, nodding his head, digesting my words. “Delgado. You know Mr. Delgado good, yes? You work together?”
Work together? The man’s question made me pause. And his grammar was slightly off, and ending the question with yes. He’d done that moments ago with no as if validating a statement with an unnecessary prompt for a response. A worrisome suspicion fractured my assumptions about who this man was.
“Who are you?”
John’s mouth pressed into a tight smile, akin to a guilty child caught in a white lie. “I’m John.”
“No, wait. We’re not doing this anymore until you tell me why you’re here.”
“Doug sent me to talk about Mr. Delgado. A reminder, as you say.”
I scrutinized the man more closely. He wore black pants, black shoes, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. His cheekbones were high, his hair nearly black, and his eyes were like dark holes. Eastern European or Balkan, I surmised.
Uncertainty mutated into alarm and I lunged forward, grabbing the man by the lapel. “Who the fuck are you?”
He took a small step back to maintain his balance, but he met my snarl without a flinch. Then his features narrowed. An instant later, he delivered a rib-cracking blow to my left side.
I immediately realized my mistake and tried to back away to create some space between me and the man calling himself John. But it was too late.
John delivered a crushing downward blow with his other arm and broke free from my grip. His right leg swung out and struck the side of my shin, sweeping both my legs out from under me and knocking me to the ground. Humiliation at being taken down so easily, coupled with the jolts of pain from the fall, sent me reeling.
“You stupid American,” spat John, twisting my left arm into a painful lock. “Why did Delgado contact you?” The man’s accent degenerated even more, the Slavic tones unmistakable.
“Fuck you,” I growled. “Who the hell are you?”
“You not get to ask questions. Why did Delgado send you email? Are you CIA too?”
“I’m not telling you shit.”
I tried to shake the man off my back, bucking my hips and struggling to bring my knees underneath me, but another sharp strike hit my side. My reflexes jumped uncontrollably and I lost whatever opening I might have gained.
“You tell me or this get worse,” John snarled.
“Fuck you.”
John used some type of blunt weapon to hit my outer thigh. Paralyzing pain coursed up and down my leg, and all my strength in that limb went flat.
“You no want to talk. How about we do this with your pretty girlfriend. Yes? She have nice house, nice ass, good life in Notting Hill. We will talk about many things.”
Fear flooded inside me. “You son of a bitch! You threaten her, I’ll kill you—”
John wrenched the arm lock and I cried out, rage overtaking me. I flailed and thrashed, no longer caring about what hurt or if my arm snapped. You could threaten me, you could beat me, you could try to kill me—so be it. But I will never stand for anyone doing harm to someone close to me, including those from my past. I wanted to destroy this man, slam his face into the pavement over and over again until it was a bloody mess.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing?” A voice shouted, but from where I couldn’t tell.
John’s grip loosened, which was all I needed. I bucked again and broke John’s hold. Ignoring the pain, I ripped my arm free and pulled up my knee. I managed a look up and saw John retracting, his attention switching between me and whoever was yelling.
“My dear Mason, do come in.” Alistair stood behind his massive mahogany desk, leaning forward with his arms behind his back reading a spread of papers arrayed neatly before him. With his pure white hair, slate gray suit, French cuffs, and sixty-plus years, he might as well have worked for the East India Company in the time of Kipling.
I entered his office, and as I always did, admired the deep maroon Persian rug, built-in bookcases, wingback and captain’s chairs, and brass bar cart tucked against the wall adorned with bottles of gin and scotch I could never afford. The classic grandeur of the place made me immensely uncomfortable, but I couldn’t help but marvel at it. Old school, like my grandpa had been.
“So, Mason. How’d it go? Are the Germans really jumping in the sack with the Russians?”
I nodded and proceeded to outline all the details the ministry official had shared with Klaus and me. It only took a few minutes, and Alistair must have noticed me eyeing his scotch because once I was finished delivering my report, he got up and fixed us both a few fingers.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, handing me one of the tumblers. “Was bound to happen sooner or later given all the capital Putin’s funneling into the energy sector.”
“Yes,” I replied, taking a sip and rolling it around in my mouth.
“And the trip itself, a nice change?”
“Nice enough. I like Germany,” I replied, not daring to mention anything else. I doubt Alistair would have cared I stopped in Paris, but I wanted to save myself the embarrassment of explaining why. I didn’t feel like reviving the matter either, given I’d started to put it behind me.
“Good,” remarked Alistair. “I thought you could have used a little break after your last adventure.”
I allowed a thin, knowing smile. “It’s what you hired me for.”
“Yes. Still, I don’t care for Syrian radicals pointing guns at my employees.”
An image of a short, scruffy-faced Syrian border guard pushing the barrel of his AK-47 against my sternum came to mind. The incident occurred during my last trip just before Frankfurt as I was trying to cross the Lebanese–Syrian border, and I probably could have been a little more compliant. But waiting three hours with all the right paperwork had made me irritable. Things may not have worked out so well if the guard’s supervisor hadn’t shown up, realizing the prospect of a fat bribe.
“It’s fine, sir. I’ve seen worse.”
Alistair nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“Not yet. This move by Germany got me thinking, and speaking of Syria, I forgot to ask, or maybe you put it in your trip report.”
“What, sir?”
“Did you come across any Russian paramilitary types when you surveyed the Syrian oil fields? You know, my little hobby interest.”
I cocked my head, recalling a conversation we had during a company retreat a few years back when he asked that I remain attuned to the presence of private military contractors during my travels. He assessed that they—private companies offering military-like services, guns for hire—were a new variable in international business and of particular interest to Ruttfield’s clients in the defense and energy sectors. It made me think that if circumstances were different, I should arrange a lunch for Alistair and Doug so they could compare notes. It reiterated for me that government intelligence and industrial espionage are not that far apart.
“Yes,” I replied, “but only at a distance. They appeared to be running some kind of mobile security.”
“At a distance. Are you sure they were Russian?”
“Yes. I recognized their weapons and equipment—too high-speed for any regime nugs—and the markings on their trucks.”
“Right. Very well.”
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“No, no. Like I said, this latest move merely got me thinking. The world’s changing.”
“Right, sir,” my own thoughts falling to Gomez again. “Is there anything else?”
“No,” replied Alistair with a smile. “Thank you.”
I nodded curtly and stood, feeling a need to get moving. “I’m going to finish out the day and take the weekend, sir.”
“Very well. Heading up to Yorkshire with Caroline, if memory serves me. Correct?”
“No, sir. We broke it off last week.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that. All amicable, I hope. Splits can be messy.”
“It’s fine, sir.”
“Good. I knew her father, you know.”
I nodded again, having heard the story about Alistair and Caroline’s father being contemporaries at Oxford. It’s a small world when your boss is chums with the father of your ex.
“Thank you for your time, sir. I’m going to get back at it,” I replied, downing the last of my drink and excusing myself.
Now back in my office, I spent the rest of the day reviewing the markets and laying the groundwork for my next excursion, probably in two weeks. I was destined for Bulgaria and Romania to look at another natural gas pipeline coming out of the Black Sea, with maybe a hop into Turkey at the end. I was looking forward to the trip. It was an exotic part of the world, and the folks I planned to meet with always put on a good spread. Wild game, fresh fish, good wine—certain to be a pleasant experience.
I finally shut my computer down and turned off the lights at nine. I texted Caroline to ask if she was still up and if I could stop by to get my stuff. The message back was a simple, Yes, as was her habit. Short and sweet.
Truth was, it was good we’d split. She was a wonderful woman, smart, kind, and beautiful; we simply came from very different walks of life. We lasted two years and some change, but I think she started to get bored with me—maybe exasperated—six months in; my indelicate ass could only enjoy cocktails with friends and posh galas for so long before I needed a strong ale or a few fingers of the hard stuff to keep my sanity.
And if I were honest, my own crap didn’t help matters. She wanted to know about my life before moving to England, my time in the Corps, too, but I played it off. I wanted to forget my past and start anew—thus my move to London a decade before. I’d rather be where no one would raise an eyebrow if they heard I was a vet. I’d prefer people not to know and not to care.
But I couldn’t erase everything. The few nights I spiraled into a rash of darkness fueled by bourbon grappling with my demons, it unsettled her. It was too complicated, downright nasty, and I don’t blame her. No one needs to be saddled with that mess.
When the time came last week, the break was unambiguous and final, nothing to drag out. It’s always easier when it’s mutual. Now I just wanted my clothes back and to wish her well.
“Have a good night, Mr. Hackett,” called the security guard at the front desk as I walked by.
“And you, Tom,” I replied. “How’s Gwen?”
“Just fine, Mr. Hackett. Thanks for asking. At university now.”
“Glad to hear it, Tom. See you Monday,” I said, breaching the exit doors.
The cool London air, bordering on cold, greeted me on the street with a refreshing gust. I was inclined to walk home, thinking the exertion would do me good. It would help settle things. The work had been effective in clearing my mind. Now I needed some exercise to put this Gomez-Delgado business to rest.
I looked left toward the car queue and saw Ike standing by the rear passenger door of the Bentley waiting for me. He had a hard presence to him, someone who’d weathered the elements and been in the thick of it more than once. Not surprising given he’d spent twenty-five years in the Paras, doing time with a rifle and boots in the Falklands, Iraq, Bosnia, and Lebanon—nice places to vacation—before joining the firm.
“Good evening, Ike. How are you?”
“Fine, sir. Missed you at the airport.”
“My fault. I failed to let you know.”
“Nonsense, sir.”
“I think I’m gonna walk home, if you don’t mind. I could use the fresh air. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off.”
“It’s no trouble, sir. Would you like me to take anything for you? Your valise, perhaps?”
“I left it upstairs.”
“It’s no trouble, sir.”
“You really need to stop calling me sir, Ike. It’s kind of insulting.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies. Won’t happen again.”
“See you Monday, usual time?”
“Yes, sir. But,” Ike said, catching me before I turned to go. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Why?”
“No reason, sir,” the old soldier replied, not making much of an effort to conceal his suspicion something unusual had gone on. He knew my patterns well. He was a good man and, in a way, the closest thing I had to a real friend over here.
“I’m fine, Ike.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Goodnight,” I said, turning to go at a not so casual pace. Walking, running, speed, physical activity—I knew it cleansed the mind. Had I not been in oxfords and a suit, I probably would have started jogging, inevitably increasing to a hard run. It would just happen whether I meant to or not, my body yearning to detox itself, letting Gomez go one last time.
Caroline’s place was a few miles away, so I took the Tube for part of it. I got off near Kensington Gardens so I could walk the last mile. I reached an intersection north of embassy row and would have blundered across were it not for the cars rushing by. A handful of other late-night pedestrians waited alongside me—fat ones, tall ones, skinny ones, short ones—mostly in their own world, indifferent to the strangers close enough to smell their cologne, perfume, and one bloke’s curry-laced breath. I’d drifted into my secluded world too.
Consequently, it took me a moment to notice one individual eyeballing me a little too intently. He wore a suit without a tie and appeared clean-cut, so the thought of getting mugged didn’t cross my mind, but I didn’t recognize him. I had the urge to ask, Do I know you, but refrained, once again looking straight ahead at the far side of the intersection like everyone else. I’d encountered weirder things on London’s streets.
The signal to walk flashed and I strode off, continuing my jaunt to Caroline’s house, wondering if we’d have sex one last time tonight. I wouldn’t complain if we did. Sex was one thing we’d connected quite well on.
Most of the other pedestrians disappeared into the night, and I found myself on a deserted street I rarely paid attention to, rounding the next corner out of habit. But as I did so, I noticed an individual trailing me, perhaps fifteen yards back, who seemed to have suddenly appeared. It was a woman from the intersection, I think.
I increased my pace, more out of irritation than anything else, having enjoyed the solitude of the walk. I reached the next block, crossed over, and took another glance behind. I expected to see the woman farther back strolling along, but didn’t. She was nowhere in sight.
I kept walking, but my mind paused, curious where she’d gone since there were no other side streets or alleys she could have turned down. The woman had simply vanished. A sudden appearance and disappearance, but I quickly stopped this line of thinking, dismissing the observation as nothing more than my inclination for paranoia.
I decided to slow down. I’d started to sweat, feeling the moisture on my back and a bead of sweat on my upper lip. I had at least another twenty minutes to go and didn’t want to arrive at Caroline’s a swampy mess. No one would appreciate that.
Then a dark figure stepped out from an alley in front of me. It was a man, and he planted himself right in the middle of the sidewalk, like a pillar in a river forcing the water to flow around it. I recognized him as the man from the crosswalk who’d stared too intently. He was no more than ten feet away and his eyes were locked on me, the provocation blatant.
Although the last twelve years had made me inclined to de-escalate confrontations—a brawling banker wasn’t good for business—something from long ago welled up inside me. All the frustration and confusion from the past thirty-six hours, the arrogance of Doug, the veiled threats by Garrett—it was too much. I snapped.
“Can I help you?” I challenged, advancing with long strides to close the distance. I felt my muscles go tense and I flexed my hands, balling them into fists.
The lone individual stayed firm, waiting for me.
“Hey, you,” I called. “I’m talking to you.” I pointed my finger like a drill instructor bearing down on a bewildered recruit, halting just out of arm’s reach.
“Good evening, Mr. Hackett,” the man said calmly. “I require a moment of your time.” He spoke with the hint of an unidentifiable accent. Not precisely British English, nor Northeast American. More like a boy who grew up in a household whose parents were first-generation immigrants, conditioned to straddle dialects.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“I’m a friend, Mr. Hackett. I need to speak with you about our mutual acquaintance, the journalist Henry Delgado.” The man pronounced the title and name with sardonic emphasis.
“Right. Henry f’ing Delgado,” I hissed. “Who sent you? Was it Doug? Garrett? Another reminder?”
The man cocked his head. “We care about Mr. Delgado, like you. It’s dangerous work, what he does, no?”
“Is it? Is it really? You sent him over there, and now you hang him out to dry.”
“It’s business, you know.”
“No, actually I don’t know. I don’t work for the damned CIA like you, like Doug, or like that other shit, Garrett. So, Mr….”
“John.”
“Right, John. Look, I got the hint the first time, so whatever you came here for, out with it.”
“Please, Mr. Hackett.” The man extended his hands, his palms outstretched, pleading, as if I were the one who had made things difficult, which only served to piss me off more.
“You know what, screw it. You know you’re abandoning a real hero out there, right?” And I was about to blurt out the name Kevin Gomez, but something stopped me, remembering the line from somewhere, The dead should stay dead. And Gomez was in fact dead; he was Delgado now, even to these fucks. “Delgado, Henry, Hank,” I continued. “I doubt you know it, but at one time he was a warrior with honor and courage, and most of all—loyalty. Something you shits are lacking.”
John listened, nodding his head, digesting my words. “Delgado. You know Mr. Delgado good, yes? You work together?”
Work together? The man’s question made me pause. And his grammar was slightly off, and ending the question with yes. He’d done that moments ago with no as if validating a statement with an unnecessary prompt for a response. A worrisome suspicion fractured my assumptions about who this man was.
“Who are you?”
John’s mouth pressed into a tight smile, akin to a guilty child caught in a white lie. “I’m John.”
“No, wait. We’re not doing this anymore until you tell me why you’re here.”
“Doug sent me to talk about Mr. Delgado. A reminder, as you say.”
I scrutinized the man more closely. He wore black pants, black shoes, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. His cheekbones were high, his hair nearly black, and his eyes were like dark holes. Eastern European or Balkan, I surmised.
Uncertainty mutated into alarm and I lunged forward, grabbing the man by the lapel. “Who the fuck are you?”
He took a small step back to maintain his balance, but he met my snarl without a flinch. Then his features narrowed. An instant later, he delivered a rib-cracking blow to my left side.
I immediately realized my mistake and tried to back away to create some space between me and the man calling himself John. But it was too late.
John delivered a crushing downward blow with his other arm and broke free from my grip. His right leg swung out and struck the side of my shin, sweeping both my legs out from under me and knocking me to the ground. Humiliation at being taken down so easily, coupled with the jolts of pain from the fall, sent me reeling.
“You stupid American,” spat John, twisting my left arm into a painful lock. “Why did Delgado contact you?” The man’s accent degenerated even more, the Slavic tones unmistakable.
“Fuck you,” I growled. “Who the hell are you?”
“You not get to ask questions. Why did Delgado send you email? Are you CIA too?”
“I’m not telling you shit.”
I tried to shake the man off my back, bucking my hips and struggling to bring my knees underneath me, but another sharp strike hit my side. My reflexes jumped uncontrollably and I lost whatever opening I might have gained.
“You tell me or this get worse,” John snarled.
“Fuck you.”
John used some type of blunt weapon to hit my outer thigh. Paralyzing pain coursed up and down my leg, and all my strength in that limb went flat.
“You no want to talk. How about we do this with your pretty girlfriend. Yes? She have nice house, nice ass, good life in Notting Hill. We will talk about many things.”
Fear flooded inside me. “You son of a bitch! You threaten her, I’ll kill you—”
John wrenched the arm lock and I cried out, rage overtaking me. I flailed and thrashed, no longer caring about what hurt or if my arm snapped. You could threaten me, you could beat me, you could try to kill me—so be it. But I will never stand for anyone doing harm to someone close to me, including those from my past. I wanted to destroy this man, slam his face into the pavement over and over again until it was a bloody mess.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing?” A voice shouted, but from where I couldn’t tell.
John’s grip loosened, which was all I needed. I bucked again and broke John’s hold. Ignoring the pain, I ripped my arm free and pulled up my knee. I managed a look up and saw John retracting, his attention switching between me and whoever was yelling.
