Quick Read (Badger Thompson Book 3), page 2
“The first part is from your Army record in the war zone: disarmed a suicide bomber, took out a sniper, saved a child from a burning building. That was all in your first night on the perimeter. Then on other nights you repelled a grenade attack, tracked down a bomb making facility, rescued a company commander, and on one occasion prevented an ambush just by observation. Do you remember that one?”
“Sure I do,” I said.
I thought back to that night. I’d forgotten about that tiny singular moment with everything else that happened since clouding it out of my memory banks, but they had it on record to remind me. One of those instances that happen suddenly in a war zone, where your reaction can mean life or death.
I continued: “I remember it, but I don’t know what it was exactly that caught my eye and made me stop our platoon from going forward. Maybe there was a swirl of dust, a reflection off a window, a flying bug that suddenly changed direction.”
“All this occurred in a foreign country where you stuck out like a sore thumb a hell of a lot more than you do in this country,” he finished.
Something I knew for certain was that in a lot of ways, a perimeter defense was the same whether you were in the middle of the city, or the middle of a dense jungle surrounded by wild animals all which wanted to eat you. Stay alert, and have enough firepower.
“You’re part American Indian,” he continued.
That comment rattled me, though I never showed it throughout my life whenever it was brought up in conversation.
“Yes. Why does that matter?”
“They kept you on the perimeter because you were the best at it, you kept your platoon out of trouble.”
“More often than not.”
“You’re part American Indian, and that’s why your parents named you after an animal, it’s a tradition.”
“Yes. My mother was half Cree Indian, so I’m a quarter. Why do you keep bringing that up?”
He kept reading. “Then when you worked for the security firm you prevented violence against a certain high profile client on three separate occasions, working the perimeter security team, three individuals with hand guns that never got close to that client.”
I nodded, those events were still clearly in my memory. One was a simple robber who had no idea what he was getting into and that he was going to get disarmed and have his hand broken in the process, one was a disgruntled former employee who wanted revenge on the rich boss, and one was a professional hitman sent by a rival.
“Two of those guys were easy to spot.”
“I could go on, but I think you get the idea.”
“You forgot Gale Nighting.”
“It’s right here.” He looked back down at the paper. “Your security team was ambushed and Gale was abducted. Every government and private company in the country was looking for her. Within two days, working on your own, you were able to track her down and save her.”
“I got lucky.”
“And then there’s the two assassins last night. We’ve been looking for them for two years. Was that luck?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“And you say I’ve been busy. Compared to what you’ve been up to, I’ve been living like a hermit in a cave. We’ve talked it over with some our best people. You have what we call in this business a natural instinct. There’s only so much you can teach and train for, and at some point in time, for specifically important cases you find that you need people with that extra something, that something that can’t be defined, or trained for.”
Sometimes the path chooses you.
“This a volunteer position. If you want in, we’ll set you up with all the tools and info you need to get the job done. We’ll provide money, weapons, high tech equipment, transportation, anything you need.”
“I have everything I need.”
He continued. “If you decline, we’ll destroy your file. You go your way and we’ll go ours.”
He was hiding something. All of the small talk about my past and the Triad was a bluff, a counter-feint. Like jabbing in a boxing match before trying for the knock-out punch. He was still feeling me out before leveling with me. I could see it in his eyes, the way he was tilting his head slightly to the right, tension in his jaw.
“What is it that you really want? And don’t give me some BS about the Triad and some mysterious replacement hitman.”
He understood that I knew, and leaned forward. His voice got lower, the tone more even, serious. “Somebody stole something from a research facility in Palo Alto last week. We need to get it back.”
“What kind of something?”
His eyes hardened. “Something that makes normal people do things they wouldn’t normally do. We’re in a bit of trouble here and could use your help.”
I turned my head towards the island, looking towards the casino. Both the semi-trailer with the wrecked truck and the bulldozer had disappeared. One mess was swept up and gone, and another was looming in front of me.
“How much time do I have to give you an answer?”
“In this business, a single lost minute could make all the difference in the world.”
“I can barely walk, I hope you have someone else as a back-up.”
I saw the look in his eyes change.
“You do have other people working on this, I hope.”
“Of course. We have to cover all the angles. But for this specific role, we’ve chosen you. You’re the perfect candidate for the job, but there is absolutely no pressure at all. If you don’t want it. We’ll find someone else who may be less qualified and hope for the best. Take some time to think it over, recover from your injuries and let us know. I have to catch a flight back to Washington in about an hour. Bob here will be your contact, he’s our bureau chief in Los Angeles.”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two cards and handed them to me. One of them had no name, no address, just ten numbers centered in the middle of the card, the top left corner was torn off. “This is my private cell phone number. Call me anytime. And this is Bob’s card, call him if you decide to take the job.”
I didn’t have a pocket so I handed the cards to Amber.
“Alright, I’ll think about it.”
“There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t asked about compensation.”
“I haven’t decided whether to work with you people yet. But I charge a thousand a day plus expenses whether I succeed or not.”
“We’ll up the ante for you. Your thousand a day plus expenses, and if you do succeed we’ll pay you a quarter million. Tax free.”
Now if anyone could pay you tax free it was the government. A quarter million was nothing to sneeze at. Unless you were getting shot to pieces for it.
My expression remained unchanged. If my gut didn’t tell me to take a job, he could have said a billion and it wouldn’t have mattered. What’s a billion dollars if you’re on the wrong side of right? What’s a billion dollars if you’re dead.
I reiterated. “I’ll think about it.”
He nodded then got up and handed the file to his assistant who also rose to his feet, then they both climbed aboard the cutter, the engines rumbled to life, water churning from the back engines as it headed to the dock.
I watched them the whole time as the boat cruised slowly away. The drumming of the diesel engines fading into the distance. Neither one of them looked back at me till the very end of their little journey, when they were just about at the dock. The chief looked back, just for a brief moment ours eyes met, then they were onto the dock and bustled into a police car for the trip back up the hill to the airport.
Amber looked me in the eyes.
“What do you think?”
I shook my head and watched the police car weave through pedestrian traffic in the center of town then head up the hill and disappear behind a maze of buildings.
“I don’t know. Why does the biggest spy agency in the world need a two bit bodyguard like me to help them find something?”
The two bit bodyguard crack was an attempt to make light of the situation, but she didn’t smile.
“What are you going to do?”
I could see the concern in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to make any rash decisions. Right now I just need a nap.”
She patted my hand gently as I eased into a long slumber.
2.
It was a typical Monday morning on the outskirts of San Francisco. A middle aged man parked his lime green electric car, and walked briskly through the fog towards the entrance of the subway system that would take him to his office in the city.
Everything about this day was as ordinary as ever. He woke at six, coffee at six ten, breakfast at six twenty, shower and shave at six thirty, parked the car at the park and ride at seven AM sharp. Everything about this day was as predictable as the rotation of the earth. And that’s the way he liked it.
Ralph O’Neil was a systems analyst for one of the top software companies in the world, and he thrived on predictability. From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, until he closed them at night his goal was to compartmentalize the world and everything in it into neat little boxes that could be counted, and be counted on.
He wasn’t just a systems analyst for his company; he was a systems analyst for his life.
He glanced quickly at his watch as he strode confidently towards the entrance. “Seven oh three,” he said to himself and smiled. In exactly two more minutes he would be at the gate with ticket in hand waiting for the seven fifteen train. And, as he always said: “If you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late.”
He passed a row of neatly trimmed bushes and suddenly and uncharacteristically stopped, for out of the corner of his eye he spotted a small stack of white paper under one of the shrubs.
“That’s odd,” he remarked with a frown, and bent down to pick it up. He flipped quickly through the pages and looked around to see if he could spot anyone who might have dropped them. The misty fog swirled through the parking lot, there was no one in sight, so he continued walking and flipped through the pages again. It was only fifteen pages long, single spaced courier twelve point font with a staple at the top left hand corner holding the pages together.
“It looks like a short story,” he thought to himself as he looked around again, then shrugged his shoulders, put the papers in his briefcase and continued to the entrance.
The train was crowded, but since he was early he’d managed to find a seat. Throughout the cabin his fellow travelers were reading and texting on their phones, all quietly enraptured by the silent digital communication. Not a word was spoken throughout the train.
Ralph remembered the papers and pulled them out of his soft case. A few people looked at him askance. One frumpy woman with her hair tied at the top in a bunch frowned at the sight of the papers. She narrowed her eyes at him, but when he stared icily back, she looked away.
He began to read.
The story started slow, but picked up speed as the pages turned.
The train burrowed under the bay, hurtling through the tunnel towards the city as he read, sometimes laughing out loud, sometimes wanting to cry, and wiping away a slow tear. It was a good story, and he almost missed his stop because of it. He looked up just in time to see the Powell Street station and hustled out the doors before they closed with a hiss.
Powell Street was crowded with people heading to work. He checked his watch while hurrying down the street. Seven Forty. Perfect timing. Seven minutes to walk the two blocks to his office building, a three minute elevator ride, and he’d be sitting at his desk ten minutes early as usual. It was a fairly easy walk through the streets since in this part of town no cars were allowed. He thought about reading the story as he walked, but decided it wasn’t safe. There weren’t any cars, but there were too many bicycles weaving in and out of the pedestrians, you had to be on your toes, or you’d get run over.
When he was safely situated in his office and sitting at his desk, he pulled out the papers and began reading again where he’d left off.
Since I’m ten minutes early, he reasoned, I’ll read for ten more minutes, and start my work on time.
The office was quiet and he was able to read in peace, completely enraptured by the story.
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The Pacific Coast Highway winds along nearly the entire California coast from Mendocino County in the north to Dana Point in the south. At one stretch of highway just south of San Francisco, the road edges precariously close to the cliffs with the ocean looming below. Motorists are protected from plunging off the cliff by a six foot thick concrete barrier that runs along the edge of the road.
The police car was parked by the side of the barrier, its lights flashing to warn approaching cars. On the other side of the barrier was a hundred foot sheer cliff that went straight down and ended on a boulder strewn beach. The heavy smell of salt, seaweed and fog filled the air. The tide was high and the kelp lined waves surged onto the boulders. When the waves receded, the rocks rolled with a crescendo.
Officer Macklin peered over the cliff at the scene below. It was a cold foggy morning and he could just barely make out the figures moving on the rocks. They stopped near a sprawled figure and his radio crackled with static, then a voice came across clear as a bell.
“You there Mack?”
“Right here.”
“We’ve reached the victim, over.”
“And?”
“He’s definitely dead, no doubt about that. Severe trauma from the fall most likely.”
“Any ID on the guy?”
“His driver’s license says he’s Ralph O’Neil, home address just outside Oakland. He’s got a business card that says he’s a systems analyst for a company in San Francisco.”
“Ten four. Let’s get the basket in there and get the poor guy out of there.”
The Coast Guard helicopter that was hovering over the ocean slowly maneuvered until it was directly over the figures and lowered the basket.
“Poor bastard”, officer Macklin muttered. “I wonder what happened.”
He walked over to his squad car, opened the trunk, and pulled out a black case. Inside the case was a CSI kit, including a camera, fingerprint tape, assorted hermitically sealed bags and tools for retrieving evidence. He put on some new plastic gloves and got to work.
A lime green electric car was parked in front of his squad car.
Officer Macklin thoroughly photographed it from every angle, gently lifted fingerprints from every surface, then searched the perimeter for evidence. He bagged cigarette butts, candy wrappers, beer cans, soda caps, even an old diaper.
“Damn litterbugs”, he muttered.
Once he had the evidence secure in the trunk, he turned his attention to the interior of the car. He saw that the latch was up, but before he opened the driver’s side door he got his little mirror on a stick and looked at every nook and cranny under the car, the shocks, the wheels, the door hinges, everything.
“Can’t be too careful.”
Ten years ago some crackpot was booby trapping cars with C-4 explosives and leaving them abandoned in front of banks and police stations, blowing up unsuspecting tow truck drivers and traffic cops. They never caught the perp, and now this was normal operating procedure.
He got out the PBSD, the ‘Portable Bomb Sniffing Device’ and whiffed it around the vehicle. Finally satisfied that it was safe, he slowly opened the driver’s side door and repeated the procedure with the mirror on a stick under the seats, and a PBS whiff of the interior. All clean.
A soft briefcase was on the passenger’s seat and he opened the side flap. The usual. A cell phone, sunglasses, and a laptop computer. He opened the other flap.
“Well, what do we have here?”
He pulled out the papers neatly stapled on the top left corner.
“Looks like a story.” He started to read it.
After a while the tow truck pulled up and backed in front of the lime green car. Officer Macklin was now sitting on the concrete barrier completely engrossed in his reading, and barely noticed the tow truck.
The driver whistled loudly snapping Officer Macklin out of his trance. He looked up with a frown.
“It’s all clear, you can take it to the station.”
“Must be interesting!” laughed the driver as he hooked onto the car’s front bumper.
Officer Macklin didn’t respond. He put the briefcase in the trunk of the squad car and drove off.
The story was sitting on the passenger seat as he headed back to the precinct station.
“Well it is an interesting story,” he thought as he drove while glancing over at the papers. “And it’s strange, since I’m not a real fan of reading stories of any kind. After a hard day at work all I want to do is eat, watch some sports, and sleep.”
His eyes kept hovering over to the page on the passenger seat.
“I have to read the end of that story,” he thought.
He pulled over to the side of the road.
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The staccato clap of gunfire echoed through the city, broken at times by a loud explosion.
Golden rays of the impending sunset bathed the city in an unearthly glow, and the San Francisco Police Station was under attack.
Sirens filled the air as squad cars raced to the scene. A police helicopter circled overhead, while black smoke billowed from burning cars and buildings.
Officer Macklin sprinted from an alley and took up position behind an abandoned trolley car. The pop of large caliber weapons shattered the windows and tail lights of the trolley, and he crouched by the wheel well and covered his head with his arms to avoid the flying glass.
He counted to three, took a deep breath, and then leaped into the open, his AK47 on full automatic spraying hot lead in all directions.
Bullets ricocheted all around him kicking up asphalt, metal and glass. He felt a sharp pain in his ankle and he rolled back under the trolley.
He clicked the mic on his chest and yelled into it. “This is Officer Macklin. I’m hit!”
