Day at the Beach Ch 24

Chapter 24

    As Special Agent Armando Martinez entered the office of Director Ted Warner, Special Branch, Anti-Terrorism Task Force, he could sense tension in the room.
    “You wanted to see me, Sir?” Armando asked as he stood in front of the obviously angry man's desk.
    The director had been studying a sheet of paper. He placed it on his desk and spread his hands across it as if he was straightening wrinkles. He looked up at Armando appraisingly before speaking.  “Perhaps you would like to explain to me what the hell is going on.”  It was not a question.
    “I don't understand.” Armando said.
    “I just received a report that an agent in Monterey who was making an in-field delivery under your orders was found bound and gagged in the back of an SUV in a place called Knotts Landing between Monterey and Santa Cruz.
    “Why don't I know about this, Armando? Why is it I'm just now discovering an operation after the fact? Why is an agent you delegated found beat-up and gagged and is now in the hospital?”
    Armando's eyebrows raised in surprise. “What happened?”
    “That's what I'm asking you.” the Director said.
    “Brad called me at home.” Armando said, relaying the request from Brad and the planned 2:30AM pick up on the Santa Cruz pier. “I've been waiting for confirmation of the pickup. I was wondering why it was taking so long. I sent you an e-mail detailing the request and hand-over. It should be on your computer.”
    “It isn't.” The Director said.
    They stared at each other for a moment as the realization hit both of them. “The mole.” said Armando. “He knows what's going on and he's sabotaging the operation. He's in the system.”

                          ---------------------------------------------------------------------

    “Eichmann?” Brad said into the phone.
    “Hello, Brad. Yes, this is Joseph Eichmann. I see Susan kept this phone number.”
    “Considering the way our last meeting went I'm surprised to hear from you.”
    “I know who the mole is.” Brad responded. Joseph was silent for a moment.
    “How would you know that?” Joseph asked.
    “He had an agent deliver a bomb to me that was detonated through a call signal. I discovered it barely in time.”
    “What do you want from me?” Eichmann asked.
    “I want to know who you work for. How well connected are you?”
    “I can't tell you that. These people are very private. I'll refer to them as the committee, and they are very well connected.”
    “So, you're not really planning on selling this item, are you? You're working in behalf of this committee, and they're going to sell it.”
    “You see, Brad, that's the trouble with having little bits of information. You're trying to put a puzzle together when you don't have all the pieces.”
    “Maybe you could help me with that one, Joseph,” Brad said.
    “Maybe. Who's the mole?” Joseph asked.
    “Armando Martinez.”
    Joseph hesitated before speaking. “Hmm, I don't think so, Brad. He's just not the type. I know Martinez. In fact, I profiled him when he came into the agency. Money doesn't mean that much to him. Martinez is a dedicated agent. I doubt if I've ever met a more honorable man.
    “Tell me exactly what happened.” Joseph said. Brad explained the whole scenario starting with his phone call to Armando.
     “So, the only two people who know of this is Armando and Director Ted Warner?”
    "That's right.”
    “As far as you know.”
    “Well, yes, but I'm going by what Armando told me.”
    “There could be others then. If the mole has any indication of activity on the Jenkins case and even suspects Armando as being in an investigation, he may be a person in a position to have clandestine access to what is happening.
    “Have you spoken to Agent Martinez?”
    “Hell, no. He tried to kill me.”
    “Maybe not.” Joseph said. “I'll ask you again, what do you want from me?”
    “I need some inside help. I was requesting information on Alberto De La Cruz and you from Armando.”
    Joseph chuckled. “Well, I'm certainly honored that you consider me such a lead player.”
    “Are you a lead player, Joseph?”
    “We will have to see how things transpire to determine that.”
    “What does the committee intend to do with the memory stick?” Brad asked.
    “Mainly, they don't want to see Alberto get it. That type of weaponry loose in the hands of fanatics could disrupt the economy of the world in a most devastating way, not the mention the genocide that would take place.”
    “So, you're saying the people you work for are the good guys?” Brad asked.
    Joseph chuckled again. “Let's say they're better guys than Alberto, but they have their own interests in this.”
    “Which is?”
    “They have a vested interest in keeping the world economy as stable as possible.”
    “Okay. That tells me a lot about who they are. So, you are well connected, and that means you can help us, which, of course would be to your benefit."
    “Yes. Let's help each other. We seek similar solutions to a mutual problem.”
    “Okay. Let's say you help me and Susan stay alive and we find the stick. What happens then?”
    “You're asking for a definitive answer from a gray area. We'll have to see where all the player are on the board at that time and decide the best action to take.”
    “You answer cautiously, Joseph. Why is it that doesn't give me a safe feeling?”
    “I'm old, Brad. Experience teaches one to see things in a broader more realistic light and not jump to conclusions or make commitment until the picture is clear.”
    “Frankly, you're not giving me a lot of confidence in this partnership. How do I know that you're not going to kill us once you get the stick?”
    “You don't, but that's the nature of this type of business. You know what they say, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. The only trouble is it is sometimes hard to tell them apart.
    “Do you want protection?” Joseph asked.
    “Not from your goons. I'd rather have information. Let's start with De La Cruz, so we know what we're up against. I'd like history, a profile and where he is, also anything you have on his associates, especially his lead muscle.”
“Okay, call back in a few hours and we'll make arrangements.” Before hanging up Joseph said as an afterthought, “Oh! Brad. I suggest you call Armando, but do it on his private line. I think you're wrong about him, and you need all the help you can get.”

                                         ---------------------------------------------------------

    Susan had been sitting in the passenger seat of the Land Rover listening to Brad's conversation with Joseph on speaker phone. They were parked in a Rest Area near Paso Robles, 80 miles south of Santa Cruz. She could see Brad's frustration. He had been rattled since the bomb incident on the pier. Armando was one of his best friends, and he had laid a format out for Brad that was close enough to familiar for him. But, when it all went upside down, and he was no longer sure who his people were, not knowing if they were enemy or not, it stunned him, brought him to a psychological halt as he tried to evaluate that which could not be evaluated. Susan's job as an executive for a large government contracted firm made her a specialist in complex planning that often found solid ground only after she had created it.
    “This is a little different than what you're used to, isn't it?” she asked.
    “Yeah. A little. I'm used to planned out operations with back up plans. This has no plans at all. I don't know what the hell is going on.”
    “Then let's make a plan. So for, we've been in sort of a running battle Let's find out who the players are and where they stand, who's trying to kill us and who is willing to help us. But, most of all, let's turn the tide on our pursuers.”
    “How are we going to do that?” he asked.
    “First, let's find out who is who. I agree with Joseph. Call Armando. See what he has to say.”
    “You trust Joseph?” Brad asked in surprise.
    “No. He tells us only what is necessary to get what he wants. We can only hope our judgment is correct concerning his degree of truth, and what he said about calling Armando, I believe, was said with sincerity. So, let's start there. Call Armando.”


All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the beach Ch 23

Chapter 23

     Spike sat at the bar, hunched over in thought, an empty shot glass in front of him. His hand was characteristically wrapped around a half full bottle of beer. Spike was a big man and didn't look very friendly, thus the stools on either side of him were vacant. The lights of the room were dim, only the back light behind the rows of bottles in front of a mirror were sparkling and cheery, showing off the multitude of inebriating choices. The place smelled of decades of spilled drinks, a bar washed too many times with soda, and a slight scent of vomit. On the jukebox someone sang a country song about being left drunk on the curb by someone who didn't love him. Spike loved this kind of bar. He blended well.
     Club One was an old bar at the end of First Street in San Jose. A small window at the front of the building contained a neon sign with the simple glowing word 'Bar' buzzing behind the glass like a trapped fly. It was the only hint that life existed inside.
     Spike was staying in a nice hotel closer in to the city, but he didn't want to drink there. The bars down town were filled with snooty business people like that bitch, Susan Jenkins.
     Spike glanced around. These people, though - these were real people. Hard drinking, hard fighting, meat and potato people, hands thick with callouses. Working people.
     The front door swung open. Spike watched in admiration as a woman of about 40 with bright red hair, a short, very tight skirt and breast implants bursting over the top of a partially exposed push up bra in a too tight blouse, sashayed into the room with an exaggerated swing to her hips. The dim light favored her, cloaking lines from too many drinks and long sleepless nights that were claiming her beauty.
     Now, there's a real woman, Spike thought.
     “Hey, sweetheart!” Spike called to her. “Come on over here and sit down. Let me buy you a beer.”
     Her face lit up as she walked over and stood by the stool, sizing Spike up.
     “Well, aren't you the hunk of man.” she said admiringly. “Buy me a shot with that beer and you've got a date.”
     Just then Spike's cell phone rang. “Yeah.” he mumbled into the receiver.
     “It looks like we got him. The girl is open for the taking.”
     “How did you find them?” Spike asked.
     “He made contact and asked for a hand-off meeting for some stuff he needed. He got a bomb instead.” the voice responded.
     “Man, you're good. How'd you do that?”
     “What do you mean, how did I do that? How the hell do you think I did it? I had all communications filtered through my desk.
     “This all happened early this morning. I've been trying to call you since noon.”
     “I've been busy.” Spike responded shortly. He didn't want to say what really happened - that he had gotten royally drunk the night before and had slept most of the day, just turning his phone on when he had walked into the bar to drown his hangover.
     “The girl was at the Cliff Hotel in Santa Cruz.” the voice said. “She is probably gone by now, but check it out anyway. See if you can get a lead on her if she isn't there. If she is there, you know what to do. How long will it take you to get there?”
     “From here – I'd say a half hour, maybe a little more.”
     “Well, get going. Find her and get the stick. Don't leave any witnesses.”
     Spike slammed the phone shut and stood up, quickly emptying the bottle in front of him.
     “Where you going, big boy?” the redhead asked as he rose.
     “Gotta go. Work calls.”
     “What about my shot and beer?” she said, pouting.
     “I'll be back, and my bet is that you'll be here.” he said as he turned and walked out the door.
     Spike entered the luxurious lobby of the Cliff Hotel with purpose, walked up to the man behind the counter and flashed him a good facsimile of an FBI identification, allowing the man to see the distinguishing letters across the face of the card before returning it to his pocket.
     “I'm looking for a couple who has been staying here. I need to know what room that they're in.”
     “And they're names, sir?” the man asked cheerfully.
     “Susan Jenkins or Brad Wilson.”
     “The man scrolled down a computer screen. “Sorry. No one by those names.”
     “I'm not surprised.” Spike said. “Okay, she's about 5'8”, good looking chick with auburn hair and green eyes. Nice bod. He's over six feet, beard, longish hair and skinny.”
     The man stared at the ceiling in thought before responding. “Well, agent, the closest we have to that would be a blond lady who matches that description, other than the hair. She was with a rather handsome man, whom I wouldn't call skinny, but rather athletic and sinewy looking.”
     “Sinewy, huh” Spike said in near disgust. “Men don't use those kind of terms.”
     The clerk drew his head back in surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir. You asked me a question and I answered it in a manner I considered appropriate.”
     “Yeah. Well, can you tell me anything about them?”
     “They were very quiet people, and courteous.” he paused, delicately touching the side of his mouth with his index finger in thought. “Oh! Yes. The had a service dog with them. The man walked with a slight limp.”
     “A dog?” Spike said in surprise. There was no mention of a dog in the information he had been given. Maybe it wasn't significant. Maybe it wasn't them, but no point in taking chances.
     “Are they still here?” Spike asked.
     “No, sir. They were gone when the maid went into their room this morning.”
     “Okay. Give me the key to the room. I have to check it out. Official business.” The clerk looked at Spike suspiciously. “Come on.” Spike said impatiently, the fingers from his extended hand pulling through the air in a 'give me' gesture. The clerk reluctantly handed him the swipe card.
     “Don't trash it.” the clerk said to Spike's back as he walked towards the elevator. Spike ignored him.
     Spike entered the room with his jacket pulled back, his hand on the grip of the holstered pistol on his hip. Spike was not a man to take chances. It's what had kept him alive all these years and made all of his adversaries and contracts, dead.
     With his hand still on the butt of the semi-automatic, he checked the closet, bathroom and kitchenette before relaxing his stance.
     First he studied the rug, walking slowly across it, bending down and looking closely. Near the door he found a couple of short black hairs. He picked them up and inspected them. Dog hair, he thought. It must be one those – what the hell are those? Water dogs. They like water. Fucking ducks that bark. Retriever!! That's it. A Golden – no, wrong color – a Black Retriever. Damned hippie brought his dog – probably killed too when the bomb went off.
     Spike tossed the hairs aside and tore the bedding from the bed, then flipped the mattress and box springs. He pulled all the drawers out, inspected them carefully and left them open. The bathroom was spotless to the point of being forensic clean. He turned back to the bedroom and pulled a cushion from an easy chair. He scraped his finger along the inside edge of the chair, pulling out a 9 mm bullet.
     Spike frowned. This is her, alright, and she's armed. I'll have to be careful when I find her. I'm not suppose to kill her until I get the stick. I'll have to aim careful if I have to shoot her first.”
     Spike exited the hotel and stood under the columned canopy at it's main entrance, looking up and down the street, as if her scent was still there and he might smell it, or he could get a ghostly image of the night before, watching her walking either up or down the street, following the image until it ended at the real person. He envisioned putting his hands around her throat and squeezing until she passed out. He thought of taking her deep into the woods of Santa Cruz and how he would convince her to tell him where the stick is. Spike took a deep breath of salt air and smiled for the first time that day.
     He crossed the street to the Austin-Healey, unconcerned. She was an amateur. She would make a mistake, and when she did, he would be ready for her.

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 22

Chapter 22

     At 2:30 in the morning the lights of the boardwalk and the rumble of the rides had shut down for the night, The screams and laughter of the people had drifted off into the air as they departed. The festive strip was now a deserted ghost town, the sidewalks claimed by feral cats.
    Just north of the Boardwalk stood the pier - a wide structure that extended into the ocean for hundreds of feet. It had been there as long as anyone alive could remember, probably longer than the old 120 foot cement boat that had grounded in the 1930's and had been breaking up for decades in the storming winter surfs off Rio Del Mar.

    At one time the pier was a structure of wooden planks and was the favorite haunt of fishermen. Now, a slab of cement ran over the top of the planks and sturdy railings surrounded the edge of the pier, with periodic gated openings where ladders extended down to the waters edge for mooring boats.      Along the north side, wooden structures sprouted. They were coated with the same gray as the exposed wood of the pier, the color the sea paints wood too near it's shores. The structures were small seafood restaurants that required reservations, boutiques and bait shops further down the pier, where fishermen still congregated.

    A single street lamp cast a circle of light at it's entrance. The small businesses that lined its extension into the darkness of the bay, closed for the night. There was a second lamp midway down the pier and another one at it's distant end, lakes of ominous darkness between each one.
    As a boy, Brad had fished off this pier many times with his father. He knew the backs of the small buildings, the nooks and crevices, the back doorways that hid in the shadows, the slender spaces between buildings. He had gone to the beach below the structure and explored the rows of thick, wooden columns that rose from the sea and sand, holding the long bridge to nowhere sturdily in place.
    Now, he waited between two buildings in the darkness between the first and second street lamps. A wall at the back of the space blocked any back light. He waited quietly, stealthily, only his eyes moved as they constantly swept the silent street beyond the pier. The sound of surf sizzling on the shore far below where he stood ruled the quiet of the night.
    Brad was anticipating the arrival of an SUV, the typical vehicle of the agencies, but instead, a four door sedan drove slowly up the street passed the Boardwalk, turned into the entrance of the pier and came to a stop. Brad could not see the man inside, but he had no doubt that he was studying the scene, looking for anything that didn't look right.
    The car jerked forward and entered the pier, slowly traveling it's length to the end. Staying behind the shield of buildings, Brad made his way along the back side of the pier unobserved until he was about 100 feet from the pier's end where the car had stopped and the man had gotten out.
    He wore a dress hat reminiscent of the 1940's and 50's. It's brim pulled down on his forehead. He also wore a loose fitting windbreaker, zipped open almost to his belt. 'Easier to pull a gun if he needs to.' Brad thought. Brad could see a small package in the man's left hand. It entered Brad's mind almost as a periphery concept that the package appeared too small to hold the things that Brad had requested.
    The man looked around, obviously waiting for someone. Brad gave Recon the signal to stay. Recon sat down immediately and watched as Brad left the shadows and walked to the end of the pier.
    As the man spotted Brad walking towards him out of the darkness, he subtly reached up and tugged the zipper of his jacket all the way open, and let his hand fall to his side loosely, like an old time gunslinger getting ready for a gun fight. Brad could feel the weight of his own weapon tucked in a shoulder holster beneath his armpit, wishing he could approach this man with it in his hand instead. He had already seen two small red flags before even meeting him. The car was one and the size of the package was the other.
    Brad stopped about eight feet from the man, trying to see his face, but the hat was pulled down, his face hidden in the shadow of its brim.
    “Brad Wilson?” the man inquired. Another red flag went up. The agent was not suppose to know Brad's name.
    Brad tensed. “Yeah.”
    The man raised his left hand, offering the package to Brad. “Here's what you asked for.”
    Brad walked up to the man and took the package, all his senses prepared for quick action of the man made a sudden move.
    “Your agent said this is top secret and I am not to know anything about it's contents. So, I'm going to leave before you open it. If everything you need is not there, call your handler.” Without another word, the man got in his car turned around on the pier and drove away.
    Something wasn't right about all of this. In fact, a number of things wasn't right about it. Brad stared at the package. It was a box rather than a manila envelope. Too small to hold the 8-1/2 x 11 sheets of paper that Brad requested, unless they were folded many times. It was big enough to hold a cell phone, though.
    “Recon!” Brad called. The dog immediately ran to him. “Smell this.” he said holding the package down to his highly sensitive nose. Recon growled and then barked. “That's what I was afraid of.” Brad said. Just then, he heard a phone ringing. On the second ring, he realized it was coming from the package. The ringing confirmed what Recon had already told him. It was a bomb and it had just been detonated to go off in a matter of seconds
    With a twist of his body he flung the package as far as he could off the end of the pier and then dropped to the ground. The package splashed into the sea, a moment later a muffled boom raised a plum of water into the air that spray over Brad and Recon. The pilings of the pier shook with the impact of the shock waves through the sea that lapped against their bases.
    As Brad came came to his feet he looked out into the bay. A hundred feet away a mushroom of phosphorescence bloomed from the dark sea. He turned and looked down the long expanse of the pier, searching for the agent. He heard a distant engine start and fade into the distance. The man must have heard the explosion and was satisfied that the job was complete.
    Brad came to a sudden realization. He had to get back to the hotel right away. As dog and master ran the length of the pier, Brad looked over at the three story hotel that perched on the cliff overlooking the scenic sand and sea. Only one light was on, so nobody heard it or just didn't care. Accept for one person on the second floor. Even from this distance, Brad could see it was Susan. She stood on the veranda, back lit by the lights of their room. He knew she was looking for him. She had heard the explosion and put it all together. She saw him as he quickly passed through the light of entrance lamp post and exited the pier. He turned left at the road and ran up the hill to the hotel, his right leg complaining with each fast stride.
    He entered the room panting, his eyes almost wild with panic.
    “What happened?” Susan asked as he grabbed their packs and started throwing their things into them.
    “We've got to get out of here right now. The hand-off was a set-up. The package was a bomb. If it wasn't for Recon's training in explosives detection, I'd be all over the bay right now.”
    “What?!!” Susan said in shock.
    Brad stopped and looked at Susan, obviously shaken. “That's right. Also, I now know who the mole in the agency is. It's Armando, and he knows where we are. They think I'm dead and will be coming for you.”
    “Armando's your friend.” she said in disbelief.
    “Armando was my friend.” he said, a tone of hurt from betrayal in his voice. “Friends don't try to kill each other.”
    Susan sat in a heap on the edge of the bed, her shoulders sagged with disappointment. “Who can we trust?”
    “Until we can sort the bad guys from the good guys, each other.”
    Their world of the moment stuffed in back packs, they were ready to leave in minutes. As they strapped them on, Susan pulled a semi-automatic from a holster at her rear and checked the magazine. Brad did the same.
    “Okay. Here we go.” Brad said as he held the weapon to his side and cracked the door. He looked both ways down the hall. In the small hours of morning, there was no movement. They slipped out the door. “This way.” Brad said, avoiding the elevator and taking the back stairs.
    As they came out the back of the hotel into the crisp air just before dawn, they stopped and studied their surroundings. Then cautiously moving around the building to the front corner, Brad studied the street, the trees in the darkness, the cars at the curb covered in morning dew. It was quiet. They moved swiftly across the street into the shadows and walked quickly down the road, disappearing into the night.


All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 21

Chapter 21

No fog rolled in from the sea this night. Brad had dropped Susan and Recon off near the hotel on the cliff. The sea, now just a lazy sound of weak, tired waves lapping on the darkened sand. Any other time she would have enjoyed the sound, almost internalized it with appreciation, but on this night it hardly registered in her mind. The night had taken everything out of her and she was exhausted. As she went up to their suite, the drama and danger of the evening overwhelmed her. She could feel tears welling in her eyes and her hand shook so bad when she tried to unlock the door that she had to use two hands to get it open. Recon licked her hand sympathetically. She patted him on the head, wondering if the night was as traumatic for him as it was for her. He wagged his tail as she opened the door as if all was well and perfect with the world. All she wanted was a shower and sleep.

    Brad parked the Land Rover at a 24 hour parking lot near the Greyhound bus station. If the Rover was discovered, it would look as if they abandoned it and took a bus to get out of town. He walked the mile from the parking lot to the hotel, taking his time. He was also exhausted and his face hurt like hell. His cheek throbbed with each beat of his heart. As he left the bright lights of downtown and veered off on a side street that paralleled the busy boardwalk, he looked up at the stars as he walked, glad to see them. No more than an hour earlier men were more than prepared to kill him, willing to make sure he never saw stars again.
    'This is a real mess.' he thought as he went over the information he had accumulated since this had all started. It went from helping a young lady avoid a possible stalker to a problem with worldwide implications. Susan, now he and Susan, were in an incredibly dangerous situation.
    It was pure luck for her that she had stopped when she saw Brad on the side of the road mending a fence. Maybe it was fate. He wasn't really sure if he believed in fate, but as wrong as everything was, their meeting seemed very right. It seemed they were destined to find each other. Now, if they could only live long enough to actually get to know each other. He needed to contact Armando.
    Brad had bought another throw away phone at a pharmacy on the edge of the village before going down to the beach road next to the boardwalk. He walked passed the Santa Cruz's famous roller coaster, the long pier that extended out into the bay, and just before the hotel, he exited the sidewalk onto the expanse of darkened, deserted beach. The soft sand sucked at his boots as he walked towards the luminescent foam that climbed feebly up the shore, giving up in it's less than determined conquering of the beach and rolling back to sea, leaving it's footprint of packed, wet sand. He was totally alone here. No people or listening devices close enough to hear him. Brad stopped at the water's edge and punched in Armando's home phone number on the phone.
    “Hi Janet.” Brad said to the sound of a female voice answering.
    “Hi Brad.” She said cheerfully. “How's the ranching life treating you?”
    “Much better than Afghanistan.”, he replied. “Is Armando still awake?”
    “Yes.” She pulled the phone away from her mouth and called out, “Armando! Brad's on the phone!”
    Armando was on the line in seconds. Anxiously, he asked, “Where in the hell have you been? Wait a minute.” Brad listened, picturing from the sounds he heard, Armando going through the kitchen and out the back door.
    “I didn't want Janet or the kids to overhear our conversation.” Armando said as he went into his patio. “Okay, give me an update.”
    Brad relayed all that had happened since the last time they had spoken.
    “Joseph Eichmann, huh?” Armando said as Brad finished. “I remember him as a dedicated agent in the field. It sounds like he shared selective information with the office. He retired right after the Jenkins situation. By then he must have known what the memory stick contained and also it's value.
    “Where are you now?” Armando asked. Brad told him. “Tell me what you need. All agency accesses are at your disposal.”
    “Really?” Brad said, surprised. “For a civilian?”
    “You're no longer a civilian, Brad. You have been recalled to duty and assigned as an agent to the task force.”
    “Why would you do that to me, Armando?”
    “I didn't. The Director did.”
    “The Director.” Brad repeated. “Isn't the Director Ted Warner?”
    “That's right. His orders are that you work directly with me. Only he and I are to know what you are doing and where you are.” He paused. “What do you need, Brad?”
    “I need cash, so that we can move around without being electronically spotted. Also an encrypted cell phone to call you on. I also need all information you have on De La Cruz and his cohorts, and also Joseph Eichmann and any of his current associates that you are aware of. I need it in paper form rather than electronic so it cannot be traced to a laptop.”
    “It will be hand delivered to you by an agent. He won't know who you are. It will be a simple hand over.”
    “Good. How soon can I expect it?”
    “Quickly. I already have data access open to immediate request for this operation. I'll have it put together and delivered from the Monterey office, and I'll get it moving as soon as we hang up. Let's say, three hours.”
    “Good.” Brad responded. “Have your man meet me at the end of the Santa Cruz pier at 0230 hours.”
    “Roger, Agent Wilson.”
    “Don't call me that.” Brad said.
    “It is what you are, Major. Your ass, once again, belongs to the United States Government. So, don't kill anybody unless you have to, and report in for debriefing daily.”
    “Yes sir.” Brad responded.

                                   ------------------------------------------------------

    Brad opened the door to his and Susan's suite quietly. Recon met him at the door, tail wagging his entire rear, tongue lulling from a happy face. Susan was just exiting a steaming bathroom, wrapped in a large white towel as she dried her hair with another towel.
    “Hi, Good looking.” she said cheerfully, then stopped rubbing her wet head as she stared at him. “You look like hell, Brad. Why don't you take a shower and then let me clean up those cuts on your face.”
    “I thought you just said I was good looking.” he said teasingly.
    “Yeah. Well, at the moment your good looks are beyond skin deep. Those guys beat you up pretty badly.”
    “You think so?” he said. “I figure it's all a matter of perspective. The way I look at it, I beat their fists up with my face. They're the ones on the way to a hospital.”
    “Very funny.” she said with a grin.
    The shower against his face stung as the water cascaded over his body, washing away the sweat and fear that clung to him, the lingering scent that comes with anticipated death. But, Brad knew fear. Many times he had looked into death's empty, hollow eyes, and each time his body dressed itself in a layer of fear. It was not a friend, but, if anything, it was familiar, and had probably given him the caution needed to stay alive more than a few times.
     Brad came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped at his waist. While he sat on the edge of the bed Susan doctored him. As she gently applied antiseptics to his cuts, he told her about his conversation with Armando.
    She watched him wince as she touched his cheek bone. “Sorry.” she said softly. “Show me where it hurts.” He pointed to a swell on his cheek. She reached over and gently kissed him on the spot he pointed at. “Does that help at all?” she asked.
    “Yeah.” he nodded. He then pointed at the other cheek. “That hurts too.” She kissed him on that cheek.
    “Anywhere else.” she asked, drawing back slightly, her face close to his. He nodded and pointed at his lips. Their gentle kiss filled with passion as their towels dropped to the floor.
    “What about your pain?” she asked as they wrapped themselves around each other, their breath quickening in unison.
    “What pain?” he replied.

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 20

Chapter 20

    The three men didn't have time to register their confusion at Brad's command before a short deep growl ended with a man's painful scream. Recon clamped on to the man's upper calf at the hamstrings, sinking his teeth into the his leg with jaws powerful enough to break bones, Recon jerked his head to each side, maiming the muscle and tearing it from it's holding tendons. As the man went down, the dog released the leg and dove for his exposed neck with such speed that he didn't have time to put his hands up to protect himself.

    At the same moment that Recon attacked, Brad came to his feet and threw himself at the other man, who was distracted by the sudden commotion. The man's head was turned, giving him no time to prepare for the body slam from Brad that tumbled both of them to the floor. Brad was on top, and as the man began to raise his head, Brad head butted him, dazing him.
    Brad felt the old wood of the rickety chair cracking as he hit the floor. He lifted up and threw himself backwards, shattering the chair. Pulling his bound hands over his butt, he reached into his boot and pulled out the razor sharp T-bar. Pulling his bound hands over his feet so that they were facing him he gave a small thanks when he saw his bindings was duct tape. The knife had almost sliced completely through the tape when the dazed man came off the floor and kicked the knife out of Brad's hand, followed by a roundhouse right that Brad saw soon enough to move with the blow, giving it less impact, but still hard enough to bring stars. The man swung with a wide left, which Brad ducked, all the time trying to yank the last of the duct tape loose, releasing his hands, but it wasn't breaking. As the man came at Brad again, Brad clasped his hands together and brought them up hard against the man's chin, knocking off the man's momentum, sending him on his back across the floor. With a hard pull that took skin from his wrists, Brad tore off the last of the tape
    As the man came to his feet, Brad stepped forward and back wristed him at the temple, which if done properly momentarily shuts off the blood supply to the brain, rendering a person unconscious. As the man went down, Brad slammed a boot into the man's sternum, guaranteeing he would not be a problem for a while.
    As Recon was attacking one man and Brad fighting the other with bound hands, the old man, who was standing near Susan, took a moment to register what was happening. When Susan said, “Oh, my God.” in surprise and shock, it seemed to bring him out of his stunned stupor. He grabbed the handle of his cane and pulled on it, unsheathing a thin, deadly looking sword. Ignoring Susan, he turned to rush to his team mates aid. Susan threw her feet out in front of the old man. Tripping, he sprawled on the floor, his sword falling from his hand, skidding across the worn cement.
    Brad could see that Recon had a strangle hold on his adversary. He could have just as easily tore the man's throat out, but the hold he had was lethal enough. The man was slowly suffocating under Recon's grip.
    “Recon. Release.” Brad commanded. Recon immediately obeyed, but did not move, his face inches from the gasping man, his teeth bared menacingly.
    Brad turned to the old man who was getting to his feet. “No. Don't get up. Sit there and don't move until I tell you to.” The old man looked up at him and sat back down. Brad saw the T-bar in the shadows, picked it up and sliced threw Susan's bindings. She pulled the tape from her wrists and rubbed them as she stood. Brad turned the lamp to the floor. Finding the sword he picked it up and relieved the two other men of their sidearms.
    He then walked over to the old man and commanded, “Stand up.” The old man silently did as he was told. Brad frisked him, finding the taser and a Smith and Wesson.32 snub nose. “Bet you've had this a long time.” Brad said looking at the revolver.
    “Forty years.” the man responded softly.
    “Good for you.” Brad said. “Sit down.” He said brusquely. The man resumed his seated position.
    “I was right about you, wasn't I? We found a semi-automatic on you – not a common accessory for a hippie.” the old man said. “I know a professional when I see one. What's your part in this game?”
    “If you and all these other crazy bastards weren't after this lady, I wouldn't have any part in it at all.”
    “But, obviously, you do.”
    “I'll tell you who he is.” Susan said as she walked over to the sitting man. “He's the only person in the world I trust at the moment. “And you, my protector, was going to kill him.”
    “I seriously doubt that you would have let that happen, Susan. I was trying to get information, and I knew the threat of his death would loosen your tongue if you knew anything.”
    Susan snickered. “Well, in that case your two buddies over there.” she swept the darkness with her hand, “should get Academy Awards for acting.”
    She looked at Brad's face in the lamp light. She reached up to touch Brad's swollen cheek and said to the old man, “It looks to me like you guys were pretty sincere in your actions.” She looked at Brad again with concern as she touched his cheek and he pulled back slightly with pain. “Oh.” Susan said, pulling her hand back. “Sorry, baby.”
    “Ah!” the old man exclaimed. “So, you lied quite well. You are lovers.”
    Susan looked at Brad quizzically, “Are we lovers?”
    “I don't think we've known each other long enough to officially be lovers yet, even though, I've probably gone through more with you than any other woman I've ever known.”
    “Well, Ditto for me too, Cowboy.” she said with a grin.
    “Okay, Pop.” Brad said grabbing the man by his armpits and helping him to his feet. “Have a seat in that chair over there.” he said, pointing to the chair that Susan had been bound in.
    “Let's try this question and answer game from a new direction. Who are you?”
    “I'm not telling you a damned thing until I know who you are. You're not just some local. I'll bet that I.D. is a fake.” They looked at each other in silence, the old man's eyes filled with defiance.
    “If you want to beat me around, it won't do you any good.” He said. “It won't be the first time.”
    “No.” Brad said. “I suspected that it wouldn't be the first time. What agency do you work for.”
    The old man laughed. “I'm retired, you damned fool. Look at me. Do I look like someone who would be out in the field? I walk with a cane.”
    “Yes. A very deadly cane carried by a deceptively dangerous man.”
    Brad and the man studied each other before Brad spoke. “I'm retired Major Brad Wilson, Army Special Forces. The I.D. you looked at is accurate. Susan needed a little help, which I gave her.” He paused. “Okay. Now it's your turn. Who are you?”
    “So, you are saying you are neither an agent of the government or Alberto De La Cruz.”
    “Alberto De La Cruz.” Brad said thoughtfully. “I've heard that name somewhere before.”
    “If you have heard that name before, Major, I would suspect that you have worked with CIA or some other similar agency in your past career.”
    “I was Special Forces, Mister. What do you think? Of course we worked with them on occasions.”
    “I'm starting to believe you.”
    “Well, that's dandy. Now, tell us who you are.”
    “My name is Joseph Eichmann.”
    “Great, Mr. Eichmann. How about explaining your role in this fiasco.”
    Joseph Eichmann looked tired as he took a deep breath and started. “I spent most of my life working as a spy. Alberto De La Cruz was a person of interest to us because we knew he was a main supplier, arming Warlords and third world dictatorships. In many cases, through force and bloodshed, these people controlled resources the world needed, though not in large enough quantity to collapse world markets.
    “A Cartel of these vicious leaders was formed for the purpose of domination over countries that retained such resources as oil, minerals, lumber, even water access. The only problem is that the world would not let that happen. The United States and its allies would be forced to take action against these countries, which would not only result in war, but the demise of their plans, as the military force against them would be too great. They knew this.
    “American military technology is the most advanced in the world. What we have formulated and diagrammed, prepared for production is closely guarded. If produced, these would be the most lethal weapons systems in the world. Whoever had them would be near unstoppable. It is top secret and access to it is open to very few top echelon personnel. Even they must show proof of 'need to know'.
    “So, how come you know this information?” Susan broke in.
    “As I told you, I was a spy. I was attempting to penetrate the De La Cruz network when I met your brother. He was a fringe operative of De La Cruz who was quite easy to turn. He had been drawn into the De La Cruz organization when he was twenty years old through, what he saw at that time, as glamor, adventure and money. As he grew older and became more involved in the organization, his moral values came into play more and more. He became disenchanted and saw more clearly the horror that De La Cruz gave to the world as Jeff got closer to the center of the operation.
    “I turned Jeff and became his official handler, and he was our inside man to De La Cruz's operations.
    “At a meeting with Jeff, he informed me that there was a mole in our agency, which was quite a surprise to me. The mole had to be someone De La Cruz either had devastating information on, or had accepted a bribe he couldn't resist. Perhaps both.”
    “Do you know who the mole is?” Brad asked.
    “No. I never saw him. Jeff was ordered to pick up a small package from a specific location at a predetermined time, which was placed by the mole. I got to the spot an hour early and hid, waiting in hopes of seeing who it was, but the mole paid a homeless person to make the drop. I watched as Jeff picked it up and left.
    “I spoke to Jeff on the phone later, asking him what he had done with it. He asked me if I knew what was on the memory stick. I didn't even know that much, that it was on a memory stick. Because it was De La Cruz, I knew it had something to do with weapons.
    “Jeff told me that he had downloaded the stick, which he had orders from De La Cruz to not do. He was suppose to pick it up and deliver it. Nothing else.
    “Jeff said that he couldn't give it to Alberto. The stick was dangerous to Jeff on more than one level. He realized what the sales of the information would mean to the world and he couldn't live with being instrumental to such devastation. People of less moral value saw it only as something worth billions of dollars. Once knowledge of the sticks existence was out, who ever had it was in danger from many directions. He couldn't return it, as the mole was still in place and Jeff would be dead. He felt trapped.
    “He said that he would put it in a safe place and use its existence as leverage if he were caught or innocent people were snared into the scenario. He felt he couldn't do anything or truly trust anybody until the mole, or moles, were discovered. He trusted me enough to request my assistance if I got a call from you, which would only happen if you were in a threatening situation.” he said, looking at Susan.
    “The next time I heard of Jeff was when I was informed that he had been a mule for stolen information, and had gone down at sea, obviously trying to escape with a billion dollar payday in his pocket.”
    “What about your two goons here?” Brad asked, nodding towards the two men on the ground under Recon's watchful eye.
    “They are men who have worked for me in the past. When I need muscle applied, I call upon them.”
    “Do they know what this is all about?”
    “No. They are used to following orders without question, as long as they get paid well. They know just enough to fulfill their jobs.”
    “It looks to me like once you found out what was on that stick, and what it was worth, you had a change of heart as Susan's protector.”
    “I am only human.” Joseph said defensively. “Of course I want the stick, but I also had every intention of protecting Susan in the process.”
    “Would that be after you tortured her until you were satisfied she didn't know anything?” The old man stared at Brad in silence.
    “I'm not going to kill you, Joseph, which I may regret later. What I am going to do is take your vehicle. You can find it back at the Park where you abducted us. I suggest you call who ever your contacts are and get your men to a hospital.”
    “You're making a mistake, young man.” Joseph said. “One person does not have a chance against the power of the different people who are looking for Susan. This is worth well over a billion dollars, which would make us all very rich. Word will leak into Intelligence communities. Countries will know that it is here. It will be like an international Easter Egg hunt, only dangerous. Work with us and we will keep you safe.”
    “The term 'we' tells me a lot. You're not alone in this.
    “I'm afraid I don't trust you, Joseph.” Brad said, seeing the hard, calculative eyes peering at him from a kindly face.
    “I think you're telling the truth, but giving only as much information as necessary to be convincing.”
    Brad gathered up the three men's weapons, walked to the wide doors of the tannery and threw them out into the darkness.
    “Recon.” Brad said sharply. “Let's go.” Recon bared his teeth one more time and snapped an inch from the man's nose who lay frozen in terror of the dog. Recon turned and ran out the door in front of Brad and Susan, inspecting the darkness for hidden trouble, protecting his team.

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 19

Chapter 19

    It had once been a leather tannery, and not a very big one. Four huge metal vats lined a wall beyond the tanneries wide open doors. The tubs could probably hold 500 gallons a piece. They had been used to wash and cure the hides that passed through here. Now, spots of rust began a claim the vats and with slow persistence, would eventually cover them.
    Old wooden flats that once covered the floor heaped with finished hides now lay bare and stacked haphazardly against a far wall. Down from the vats, in the back right corner of the building, Brad and Susan sat in two rickety old wooden chairs that looked as if they came with the building. Their hands were bound behind them. They both slouched, their heads hanging to one side. The only light in the room was a swivel neck lamp that was perched on a desk near the chairs. The beam from the lamp was directly in Brad's face, of which he was oblivious.
    The little old man and well muscled helpers stood back in the shadows behind the lamp.
    “Okay. Let's hit him with a little smelling salts and find out who he is.” ordered the older man.  Brad jerked his head back as the salts brought him to consciousness.
    “Good-evening, young man.” A voice came from the dark. Brad guessed it was the old man's voice who had tasered him at the park. Brad did not respond but tried to clear his head as quickly as possible, depending on the senses that he had heightened over the last twenty years. He knew there were other people in the room. He could hear them breathing, sense their presence – the two goons he had seen just before being knocked out. There was also the slight hint of leather in the air and metal. He looked at the floor around him, which showed years of washing. He knew where he was. He had been here as a kid. It was the tannery, about three miles out of town on a winding, narrow road through the forested foothills that eventually opened into old Highway 9 like a small insignificant vein. There were no other buildings around.  The tannery stood back from the road about 200 feet next to a creek.
    “Apparently, you don't feel like talking.” the voice said. “That's a bad way for us to start off because I want you to talk, and you will.
    “Now, when I say something to you - ask you a question, you must respond. If you don't, as you just chose not to do, this is what will happen.” From the shadows a large body suddenly appeared and hit Brad with a right cross that brought stars to his eyes.
    “Now, do you have something to say?”
    “Yeah.” Brad said, spitting blood out of his mouth. “Your goon hits like a little girl.”
    “You son-of-a -” Brad heard an angry voice say as he saw a man moving from the shadows towards him. This time he watched closely, sizing him up as he came into view, measuring the distance from where they stood to where he sat.
    “Stop!” the older man commanded, and the man stopped in the light where Brad could see him clearly. He bent down in Brad's face and said, “You won't be saying that when I'm done with you.”
    “That's enough.” the older man's voice said sternly. “I'll tell you when to hit him.
    “By-the-way, Brad Wilson of Soquel Road, we have even better ways to convince you to talk if my colleague cannot convince you.”
    “Found my wallet, huh?” Brad said, ignoring the threat.
    “Yes, and I also found a non-duty military I.D. Card, which, if I'm not mistaking, gives you access to military bases.”
    “That's right. You get good deals in the PX. It's a perk for ex G.I.'s.”
    “I see. Well, you're doing quite well answering questions now.” said the old man. “What did you do in the military, Brad?”
    “I was in charge of Battalion Commo for an artillery unit.”
    “Fuckin wimp.” he heard one of the men say. “Sit around in some fucking commo shack drinking coffee all day.”
    “That's right, butthead.” Brad responded. “And as bad as that coffee was I bet it tasted a lot better than the camel dung sand that you probably chewed on.”
    “All right.  Enough.” The older man commanded. Speaking directly to Brad again in a more friendly tone, he said “What's your affiliation with the young lady here.”, referring to Susan who still had not moved.
    Brad looked over at Susan as if seeing her for the first time. “None, brother. I was just going to try to bum a dollar off of you and you zapped me with the electrical gadget. I don't know that woman.”
    “So, you're saying you just happened to be in the deserted side of Main street where there's hardly any people, panhandling.”
    “No, man.” Brad said, using the inflections of a Stoner. “I went down the street to smoke a joint, and on my way back to the village I saw you across the street and thought I'd hit you up for a buck.”
    “Do you believe him, Mack?” the older man asked a shadow.
    “No.” The other man moved forward and slammed a big fist into the side of Brad's head where the first man had hit him. He could feel swelling start.
    “How did that feel, commo man?”
    Brad turned to where the older man's voice had been coming from. “So, what's the deal here, Professor? Are you going to have these two girls beat me up for trying to bum a dollar off of you?”
     “Let's just kill the prick.” the other man said.
     “Calm down. Can't you see he's egging you on?” the old man said irritably, and then fell silent for a moment as if studying Brad.
    “You're not exactly the frightened hippie that I would expect under these circumstances. Quite the contrary. You're more like a man who has had experience at this sort of thing.” Brad heard footsteps. The older man appeared in the dim edge of the light in front of Susan. “So, you don't really care what we do to her, since you don't know her.”
    “Well, of course I do, man. She's a human being. But, under the circumstances, if you just untie me, I'll be on my way and forget this night ever happened, and the chick is all yours.”
    “How commendable of you.” the old man said sarcastically.
    “What do you want with her, anyway?” Brad asked innocently.
    “That's none of your business.” the man said.
    “Bring the girl around.” he ordered as he stepped back and a man came forward with a small bottle. He waved it under her nose, and she came too, twisting her head as if someone had waved a skunk in her face
    “Good evening, Susan.” the older man said kindly from the shadows.
    “Fuck you.” she responded groggily.
    “Now, young lady, that's no way to talk to someone who is trying to help you.”
    “Help me? You knock me out and I wake up tied to a chair in - “ she squinted into the darkness “What is this – an old warehouse?” Not waiting for a response she said, “So, you'll excuse me if I don't think you're trying to help me at all.”
    “Of course, I can see that this doesn't look good, but we met under questionable circumstances, and precautions had to be taken to assure everybody’s safety.”
    He appeared in the light of the lamp next to Brad and jabbed him with his cane as he asked, “Now, Susan, do you know this man?”
    Susan looked over at Brad, their eyes meeting. Susan showed no expression on her face, but studied Brad's eyes, trying to read what he wanted her to say.
    “No.” she finally said. “He's just some local freak. Why do you have him tied up and beaten?”
    “We've just been having a little conversation with him. Isn't that right, Brad?”
    “As the lady said, Fuck you.”
    One of the men stepped forward and hit Brad with a left and then a right, then bent down and smiled in Brad's face. “That felt real good, commo man. Was it as good for you?”
    “You do that one more time.” Brad said through his bleeding mouth, “and I'm going to kill you.”
    The man laughed harshly. “That must be pretty good pot you're smoking. I don't think you're in any position to do much of anything, much less kill me.”
    Brad smiled, but the smile was not friendly. It was cold and held menace. His eyes bore into the man like knives. The man stepped back into the shadows without another word.
    Brad's eyes had adjusted to the contrast of light and darkness enough to make out the silhouettes of the men in front of him. In the far reaches of the ambient light he saw another shadow of movement. It made no sound as it quietly came up behind the two men and stopped.
    “What shall we do, sir.” one of the men asked.
    Instead of answering the old man said, “Have you heard from your brother, Susan?”
    “No. He's dead.” she replied simply.
    “Yes. Well, that's debatable.” He said. “Did he leave you anything before he allegedly died at sea?”
    “We've had this discussion. I told you, no.”
    “I know what he had, Susan. I was his handler and he made me aware of the contents.”
    “Contents of what?” she asked.
     “You may be telling the truth.” the man said. “But this fellow here, Brad Wilson, I find troubling. There's something about him that doesn't ring true. I've spent my entire life in this business, and it was my job to read people, and I don't like what I'm reading, Brad Wilson.” He said, turning to Brad.
    “Now, Susan, since you don't know this man,” he said, still looking at Brad. “It wouldn't bother you if I cut off one of his fingers, would it?”
    Susan looked at him with astonishment. “Of course it would, you moron. Just because I don't know him doesn't mean I don't care if you hurt him.”
    “I won't do anything to him if you tell me the truth. As some philosopher once said, 'The truth will set you free.' Tell me the truth and we will set him free. Tell the truth and we will protect you from those who are hunting you.”
    “I could almost see your halo as you said that, but your growing nose was too distracting. I don't believe you.”
    “We are not people to trifle with, Susan. This man has become a bother in this situation and I want to prove to you our sincerity and determination.”  He turned to the two in the shadows.
    “Kill him.” he said. “And I give you permission to beat him to death, as I know you both want to do.” He turned back to Susan and moved her chair around with her in it so she was facing Brad. “And you get to watch, Susan. If at any time you have anything you would like to say, please speak up.”
    “I have something that I'd like to say.” Brad put in.
    “Ah! Finally. And what is that?” the old man asked.
    “Recon. Attack!!”

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 18

Chapter 18

 Special Agent Armando Martinez of the Special Branch, Anti-terrorism Task Force frowned as he clicked off the phone and set it down on his desk. He hadn't heard from Brad since their initial conversation which had brought the stolen secrets weapons problem back to life from what seemed a closed case.

    Armando needed to get an update of Brad's actions and an assessment of how dangerous Brad and Susan's situation was. He also needed to tell Brad that his commission as an army officer had been reinstated and that he was now assigned as an agent attached to Homeland Security. Brad was not the type to go rogue, and Armando knew it, but Brad assumed he was a civilian, unfettered by the rules of America's federal law enforcement agencies.
    Armando sat back in his chair and thought about that. Maybe that particular lack of knowledge wasn't all that bad. As far as Brad was concerned, he had no one to answer too. He would deal with the problems in any way that would give him the results that he wanted and keep him and Susan safe. The trouble was that Brad was working alone, not knowing that he had a safety net. That could make him extremely dangerous to any one who threatened or crossed him.
    “Special Agent Martinez.” A voice broke into his concentration. “You requested a meeting in the secured conference room. The people you summoned are assembled.”
    “Thank you. I'll be right there.”
    The conference room had no windows and was checked daily for listening devices. A long dark oak table with a highly polished surface commanded the center of the room. Matching oak chairs surrounded the table. The room wasn't particularly large, accommodating only the table and chairs with walk space around them. The walls were thick with sound proofing and covered over with the facade of a wooden finish. The carpet was wall to wall, thick and beige in color.
    Four people sat at one end of the table. Three men and one woman. Their heads turned in unison as Armando entered and closed the door behind him.
    Armando nodded to the group as he walked over to the end of the table where they were assembled and sat down in the end chair.
    As far as Armando was concerned, these four were the best of the best agents. He had personally witnessed their deadly expertise and loyalty many times in field operations. To Armando's left sat Agent Jack LaMoyne, previously a Gunny Sergeant, Expeditionary Forces, United States Marines. Next to Jack sat agent Beverly Jolson, previously a Captain with army intelligence. To Armando's right sat ex Chief Petty Officer, agents Howard Pluzinski and ex Lieutenant LeRoy Jackson, both navy seals.
    “What's up Armando?” inquired agent Jack LaMoyne.
    Armando laid a folder on the table and said, “Three years ago, some secrets were stolen.”
    Agent Howard Pluzinski snickered. “Armando, you make it sound like it was the only time any thing got stolen out of here.”
    “Okay. It's happened before, but that was the leaking of information. This was not leaked, but stolen for the purpose of selling it to our adversaries in the world. It would be comparable to giving a third world dictatorship the atomic bomb in the 1950's.
    “Certain things happened that I'm not at liberty to divulge and I'll explain why in a moment.
    “The items that were stolen had been thought destroyed, leaving the people who wanted it with nothing to get, ending the operation in a stale mate. But, the operation brought to our attention the fact that we had at least one mole in our midst, because that's the only was that it could have been stolen. The information was downloaded onto a memory stick, leaving the original information in place and seemingly untouched, but we have systems in place that reflect any tampering with highly sensitive material. The passing of the information to the sellers hit a snag when the deliverers discovered what the information was, which they were not suppose to do.
    “Anyway, what appeared to be the destruction of the material was just a rue to throw everybody off, and it worked up until now.
    “At the moment, we have a man on the ground who brought this to our attention and is now deep undercover. He's working alone. I have no idea what kind of situations he's going to get into or what's he's going to need. But, if he needs back up, extraction, or any kind of help at all, we are his team.
    I want you all to do a refresher course for hostile situations. I know you're all old pros, but we all know that practice before an operation keeps casualties down.
    “I can't give you any more information because we don't know who the mole is, and he or she might question you. Even if it's somebody you think is alright, you can't tell him something if you don't know anything. If we go into operation, I'll fill you in at that time.
    “What I've just told you is not to go beyond this room. If a superior questions you, you can refer them to myself or the Director. Any questions?”
    “Who is the agent?” Beverly asked.
    “I can't tell you that at the moment. It's best that his identity remain known to as few people as possible until we have a bigger picture of what's going on.”
    As Armando returned to his desk he thought about Brad Wilson. When Brad had gotten his third stripe, making him a buck sergeant, he was already a member of the elite Army Rangers. He had signed up for Special Forces training, a course of incredibly vigorous training and sensory deprivation. Many applied for and attempted the training. A rare few completed it. To be a member of Special Forces required almost super human physical abilities and high intelligence. Anybody who could claim to be a member of army Special Forces, Navy Seals or Delta was the very best of the very best. Brad completed the course at the top of his class, and Command Sergeant Major Armando Martinez was Brad's commander through many operations. When Brad completed OCS, Officers Candidate School and became a team leader, he requested his old friend, Armando, for his team and got him. Their friendship went beyond the military, as Armando's three children referred to Brad as 'Uncle Brad'.
    Armando was concerned about his old friend, but his feelings could not interfere with the job. The directive, as always, was the successful outcome of the operation, at what ever cost. These dedicated men and women knew this, and often put their lives on the line to fulfill the duty they had sworn to do. Nobody knew this better than Major Brad Wilson, U.S. Army Special Forces, Black Operations specialist.
    “Special Agent Martinez.” a voice behind him said formerly, intruding on his thoughts. He turned in his chair to see a tall, thin man with a beaked nose, a comb over of wisps of of graying hair that did little to hide a balding head. His normally hollow, pale eyes seemed intense as Assistant Director Samuel Levitt of the Special branch, anti-terrorism task force came up close to Armando so that only he would hear the man's words. “It has been brought to my attention - “ he said softly but with an edge to his voice. “that research on the closed secret weapons case is suddenly being done, and the research was traced to your computer. Also, I understand you had a meeting in the secure conference room with a team of operatives.
    “As the assistant director, I am to be appraised of all operations that are conducted from this agency, including cases that are being reopened. Perhaps you would like to tell me why that is not happening, and what, exactly you're doing without authorization.” It was not a request.
    Armando filed the face and name of the office clerk who had informed him that the conference room was ready before the meeting. He, apparently, was eyes in the field for Assistant Director Levitt.
    Armando smiled thinly at the man from his seat. “Good afternoon, sir.” He didn't like Levitt, and couldn't really tell you why, other than he was a person who went strictly by the book without taking human influences on a situation into consideration.
    Sam Levitt had started with the CIA straight out of Yale Law School, graduating third in his class. The man had a brilliant, analytical mind that moved him up in position more quickly than most. He had been disappointed that he had not been given the directorship, which had, instead been given to Ted Warner, a graduate of West Point, holder of the Silver Star medal for valor. He also held a law degree from Harvard. As far as Sam was concerned, the director was just a military thug, as was Armando Martinez, who, though had a bachelors degree, earned it from a minor college near his home base where he had been stationed. Men like Ted Warner and Armando Martinez belonged in the field doing dirty work, not in positions of power and authority. The brain work should be done by people with great minds, like himself. When he became director, and he would do everything in his power to achieve that goal, things would be different.
    “I didn't report to you, sir, because I have nothing to report.” Armando said courteously. “I was just doing some reviews of old cases to see if they related to any recent ones that have crossed my desk, which, of course, you are aware of.”
    “Did you find anything?” the assistant director asked.
    “No sir. Unfortunately, I didn't. When I do find something in these situations, I always inform my superiors.”
    Sam Levitt nodded. “Okay.” he said in acceptance. “What was the meeting with the field operatives all about?”
    “Reviewing current cases, sir.”
    “You needed the secure conference room for that?” he asked suspiciously.
    “Yes sir. It regarded operations in the middle east.”
    The assistant director studied Armando's face as if looking for a sign of deceit. Armando smiled causally. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” he asked.
    “No.” Assistant Director Levitt said as he turned and walked back down the hall to his office.
    Armando turned back to his desk and released a long, slow sigh. He picked up the phone and called Susan's number again. It was turned off and went directly to mail. “Hey! This is Armando.” he said cheerfully. “Give me a call.” He put the phone back on the desk and stared at it with worry on his face. 'What the hell is going on?', he thought. 'Why is the phone off? Where are those two?'

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch 17

Chapter 17

For a moment, silence filled the darkness. The SUV sped passed the restaurants and closed boutiques, It's braking lights disappearing into the night, the sound of its engine fading as it turned the distant corner where Main street became a mountain road. The door of the restaurant opened, releasing a group of talking people as the OPEN sign in the window blinked out. The tension of the drama that took place only moments ago dissipated into the sea tainted air as easily as smoke. The group walked towards the beckoning lights of the village just across the street, oblivious of anything other than a beautiful night. As they crossed the street and joined the crowd of strolling people, the mini park side grew even darker as all the front lights of the restaurants went out.

     This stretch of Main street was as quiet and deserted as the Village side of the street was busy, it's bright lights stretching into the distance towards the beach. Beyond the street lamp on the island where the clock rose, there were no other lights on the deserted street that led away from the village into the woods.
     A shadow eased out of the alley way from the dumpster. You would almost have to be looking for it to see it, and even then it was just a darker shade of darkness. The animal trotted out into the street and smelled the road. At first glance, one might think it was a coyote. Coyotes often come out of the woods and test the perimeters of the village for food. But, this animal was too big to be a coyote, too thickly muscles as well. He wasn't looking for food. He walked over to the sidewalk and sniffed where Brad and Susan encountered the mystery man and his thugs. He moved in circles and then criss-crossed the area over to where the SUV pulled up, his nose to the ground the whole time, his total focus on the smells that emanated from the sidewalk. Odors that told him a story only he would understand.
     He had done as he was told and stayed in the alley. He had watched the whole thing and fidgeted when he saw Brad and Susan being taken, but he waited, studying the men and their actions. He was doing what he had been trained to do. But now he was on his own and he knew it. His team had been stolen. He had lost team mates before. He had lost his handler. It's hard to know how he intellectualized that, but there was no doubt how Recon felt about it. He wasn't going to let that happen again.
     He looked down the street in the direction that the SUV had gone, lifted his head and sniffed the air. He trotted briskly down the side of the road in that direction, smelling the ground, then lifting his head high and smelling the air as he disappeared around the bend that led into the black forest.

                              ---------------------------------------------------------

     Spike threw the phone on the bed after Alberto De La Cruz hung up on him. He walked over to the small refrigerator that the hotel provided its suites and pulled out a cold beer. He drank half the bottle in gulps, sat the bottle on the dinette and belched loudly.

     He sat down in a chair and wrapped his hand around the bottle absent-mindlessly, as if it was an old habit.
     Spike regretted not leading his crew when they went to grab the Jenkins girl. It seemed like an easy kidnapping. Obviously, it wasn't. He would have given almost anything to know what happened - to be there. Had he been there, things would have gone much differently that they appeared to have gone. The six men just disappeared and the van was found on the side of the road in Watsonville. What the hell was it doing in Watsonville? That was miles from where his men were suppose to be.
     Spike struggled with the questions and loose ends. They tangled in his mind like spaghetti. This was to be a simple job, which is what Spike did best. He was muscle who did dirty work for Alberto. He wasn't used to having problems. It should have been a simple job of get rid of that nuisance of a hippie and grab the bitch. What the hell happened?
     Spike had used Joe as crew boss. He'd known Joe a long time. They had met as youngsters, running protection in their New York barrio. Joe was a little hot headed and too quick to pull a gun on someone he didn't like, but he always got the results bosses wanted. Joe had picked the crew and brought them out from Florida. Spike didn't really know any of them other than Vinnie, Joe's brother-in-law.
     Spiked chugged down the rest of the bottle, then grabbed a fresh one out of the refrigerator. He polished off half the bottle, as he had with the first one, and once again released a large belch.
     The worst thing is that the chick and the hippie disappeared. That was the one thing he failed to mention to Alberto. He didn't have a clue where they were. If Alberto knew that, he would be furious. Spike would lose his cush, high paying job and probably his life.
     He wasn't too worried about finding them, though. Spike had assets – Alberto's assets.
     Where ever these two were, they would eventually come up on a phone, computer, ATM – some kind of electronic device, and when they did, Spike knew who would be in a position to find them.
     He picked the phone up off the bed and tapped in a speed dial number. “They disappeared.” he said without identifying himself. “When they pop up in the system, let me know.” He listened and then spoke again. “I don't know who he is. He was just a guy on the side of the road, and suddenly he's involved, and also a problem. Forget about him for the moment. He probably doesn't have a credit card anyway. Focus on the chick. Put her in the system, she'll make a mistake somewhere along the way.” Without another word he terminated the connection.

All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Day at the Beach Ch. 16

Chapter 16

     The man was very reluctant to meet Susan, encouraging her to just tell him where she was for an extraction.
     “No.” Susan said firmly. “I just went through an entire night dealing with men with guns, so you'll understand if I'm being a little cautious. Plus, you're not telling me who you really are or what you have to do with all of this, not to mention, what the hell's an extraction, and just where, exactly, are you extracting me too? ”
     “Okay, Miss Jenkins, I can appreciate your concern. Please be calm. I'll meet with you, but a place of my choice.”
     “Make your choice in Santa Cruz, California.” Susan said. “I'll meet you there.”
     “One moment.” the voice said. She heard the line click to 'hold'. He came back on the line and said,      “There's a small corner park at the beginning of Santa Cruz proper's main street. There's a grassy center island in the middle of the street with a clock on a pedestal. In seven hours, that would be 8 PM Pacific time, stand in the street lamps glow under that clock for one minute, then cross the street and sit down on the bench that faces the corner of the block and wait. Describe yourself and what you will be wearing.”
     Susan described herself, saying she would be wearing jeans, a sweater and sandals.
     “Come alone. You will be safe.” he hung up.
     “Yeah. Right. I'll be safe.” Susan said to the dead line.
     She looked at Brad who still sat across from her at the veranda table. “We've got seven hours to blow. I don't know about you, but thirty-two hours of no sleep is catching up to me. What do you say we go to bed.”
     They closed the inner curtains, leaving the heavier outside curtains drawn As Susan removed her shirt, Brad saw a spot of blood on her dressing. “It looks like it's time to change the bandages.” he said, going into the bathroom to get the first aid kit.
     She watched him walking into the bathroom in the ambient light. All he wore was a pair of jeans. He didn't appear as muscular with a loose shirt on. His shoulders were broad and waist narrow. His back looked hard as a rock, and as he turned to switch on the light she was surprised by the size of his arms. She had hardly got to admire him when they were at his house before all hell broke loose. He walked back into the bedroom and she thought he looked even better from this side. He was chiseled to the perfection of an Olympian.
     She smiled as he looked up at her from the first aid kit. “I'll be gentle.” he said as he crouched in front of where she sat on the bed and carefully removed the bandages.
     “That's all I ask for from a man.” she said, which brought a laugh from him.
     “You're pretty funny.” Brad said as he cleaned the wound.
     “Yeah, I'm a riot when I'm not shooting people.” He chuckled again.
     He stood to wrap the bandage around her shoulder, leaning in close to her. She could smell the scent of soap and male. She leaned forward and kissed him on the stomach. Brad's hands stopped as she kissed him again on his chest, rising slowly she kissed him on the neck. Suddenly caught in his embrace their lips met, her nakedness pressed against the hardness of his body. Reaching down between them, she unsnapped his jeans. As his pants fell to the floor they pressed against each other as if trying to become one body, she consumed by his tender masculinity, he enraptured by her irresistible scent, the softness of her body against his, her femininity. Their kiss was passionate and deep, removing the world from the moment, leaving only the feeling of each other as an existence.
     This time when they kissed, Susan knew she was swooning, was completely speechless, and accepted it, falling into an abyss of wondrous emotions. Brad, holding her in his arms, reclined on the bed, each kiss to her mouth, neck, breasts were just steps in a trail of thrilling explosions that led down her stomach, through the small forest of hair that surrounded the pulsating want, the tease of his tongue bringing an ache of desire. All the sexuality that nature had given Susan begged to be touched and satisfied.
     “Now.” She gasped softly. “Now” she breathed again, pulling at his sides. He entered her slowly, exploring deeper with each stroke, her hands clinging to his back.
     “Oh, my God.” they both said at the same time, as if for a precious moment they had been totally released from their bodies, set free in ecstasy.
     After five solid hours of sleep, Brad awoke and quietly got out of bed, not disturbing Susan as she breathed softly, her lips slightly open. He sat at the table with a cleaning kit, oiling his Glock 9 mm. He filled an extra magazine with bullets and made sure the magazine in the Glock was full, quietly chambering one, he set the gun on lock, and than sat in silence, drawing the terrain and buildings around the old clock where the meeting was to take place from his memory. He wanted to be in a hidden location at least an hour before the meeting, just in case they set up an early observation, for he had no doubt there would be an observation. The man asked for an eight hour period before meeting. Even if he flew across the country for the meeting, it gave him plenty of time to set up a surveillance or an extraction crew if he wasn't the savior he claimed to be. As an added back up he slipped a T-bar knife into his boot top. You just never know, he thought as he secured the knife.
     Susan awoke reluctantly, groggy, as Brad touched her arm and kissed her on the forehead.. “No – let me sleep.” she mumbled, turning her face into the pillow. Even as she said it, she knew in the fog of her waking mind that he could not let her sleep.

                                       ----------------------------------------------------------
     As Brad pulled the Land Rover into the San Lorenzo Park parking lot the trees had already spread the shadows of the setting sun across the park into the first vestiges of night. They sat in silence for a moment, staring out the front window, but not really seeing the trees or the dimming expanse of lawn.
     “Well - “ Brad started. “Are we ready?”
     “As ready as we'll ever be.” Susan responded.
     “Okay, here's what I'd like for us to do.” He said, after a quick release of a sigh as if he had been holding his breath in thought. “I'm going to go ahead and find a good hiding location. If you leave here at ten to eight, cross over the bridge, you'll see the town clock a block away.”
     “Yes. I know where it is.” she informed him.
     “Sorry.” Brad said. “I'm just a little nervous about putting you in such a vulnerable position.”
     “It's not that bad.” she said with what she hoped sounded like confidence. “I know you will be close by.”
     “I'd feel better if you had a weapon on you, but I suspect one of the reasons they want you to stand under the light at the clock is so they can see if you're armed.”
     “How would they know?” she asked.
     “Trust me. If they know what they're doing, they'll know if you're armed or possibly armed. Either one could abort the meeting.”
     He reached over and kissed her. “Be careful.” he said as he pulled away from her and opened the door.
     “You be careful.” she responded.
     As the eastern sky filled with stars, Brad ambled casually down the street, a small back pack strapped to his shoulders and a dog at his side. He couldn't look more like a local than he did, offering any passing vehicle or pedestrian absolutely nothing of interest or memorable
     As he came to the corner where the clock rose from an island at the intersection, he stopped near the edge of the mini park on the corner and said, “Go pee, Recon.”
     Recon dutifully sniffed bushes for the perfect spot to relieve himself while Brad casually looked around. He looked down the main street, what is known as 'the mall', where lights of restaurants and art galleries mingled with the bright yellow of city street lamps. The sidewalks in the distance were filled with people going in and out of establishments or just window looking. The crowd dwindled sharply before the intersection where he stood. He looked across the street from the park, noticing two small cafes announced their existence with weak neon lights. The few buildings beyond the restaurants housed little boutiques that had already closed, the owners knowing that the mall crowd rarely came this far down the street. The city lights were fewer and the darkness more ominous.
     As Brad looked for anybody lingering in the darkness, or staring out the windows of the two restaurants, he was also looking for a location that was near but would give him cover. The park had a slight rise of a hill, but not enough to offer him the invisibility that he needed. He crossed the street, walking passed the restaurants and found a small alley way, a dumpster taking up most of the space at the alleys entrance. He pulled the dumpster from the wall of the building it nestled against until there was enough room to fit his body and give him cover if he needed it. He crouched between the wall and dumpster in the growing darkness and waited.
     Almost every car he saw turned into main street or came out of it, turning left or right at the intersection, none going straight into the dark street on which he hid. As darkness continued to fill the evening, Brad was motionless, undetectable as anything within the growing black of the dumpster shadow. A half hour passed before a black SUV turned the corner at the park and slowly drove passed him. He leaned back farther into the darkness, knowing that it's occupants were looking around. The SUV's taillights disappeared at a turn, then a moment later he saw it's headlights returning, coming down his side of the street at the same slow pace. The SUV turned right at the intersection, the buildings at his side blocking the vehicles movement. Brad touched the Glock in the shoulder holster under the windbreaker that he wore, almost as if in hopes it would give him a greater sense of security.
     Another fifteen minutes passed before he saw Susan walking quickly down the street. At the intersection she crossed to the street island that held the clock and stood beneath the lamplight. She raised her arms and turned in a circle. Brad smiled from his hiding place. Smart girl, he thought. She dropped her arms to her side and turned slowly studying the terrain around her, but not seeing anybody. A minute passed and she cross from the island back to the side of the street that she had come down and sat at the bench that faced the corner. Clasping her hands on her lap, she sat still and waited.
     Couple and small groups of people exited the mall, turning up or down the street at the intersection, talking among themselves, not noticing Susan sitting in the shadows of the park bench across the street. A couple came out of one of the restaurants and passed her, holding hands, noticing nothing but each other.
     An old man came to the intersection from the mall. He had flimsy white hair that went in chaotic directions. He leaned on a came as he studied the clock, not looking at Susan or seeming to notice her. He wore khaki pants. His ample belly protruded over them and he wore a tweed sports coat over a sports shirt. Looking both ways down the street before moving, he slowly crossed the street towards Susan. She felt her heart beat pick up as he stepped up on the curb, walked in front of her and then stopped. He looked as if he could have easily been one of the professors at the local University. His face looked kind and friendly as he smiled at her.
     “Lovely evening.” he said to her.
     “So far.” she responded, not smiling back.
     “Are you going to tell me who you are?” she asked.
     “In good time, Susan. In good time.” he said.
     Brad had cross the street so quietly that Susan didn't notice him behind the old man until he stepped up on the curb. The movement of Susan's eyes over the man's shoulder constituted an amazingly quick reaction from someone who seemed so feeble and careful in his actions. As the man turned, his hand went inside his coat, an object in his hand shot a blue jagged streak the few inches between him and Brad. Brad's entire body jerked spasmodically before crumpling to the pavement. As Susan rose in surprise the black SUV squealed around the corner and screeched to a stop at the curb. Two men leaped out, one grabbing Susan and placing a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. A sweet smell permeated her senses just before she passed out.
     Brad could see what was happening. He tried to move, but his body would not respond to his wishes.
     “Take him too.” the old man ordered gruffly. “Maybe we can get some information from him.”
     “Who is he?” asked a man who picked up Brad by the shoulders as if he was a sack of potatoes.
     “How the hell would I know? We'll find out, I can assure you.”
     Tossing Brad into the SUV, a cloth was placed over his face. He recognized the smell immediately. Ether. He held his breath until the man hit him in the stomach. Brad gasped, and passed out with the first inhalation of air.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.