Authors: Fiona Quinn
I chanced a peek over the rim of my cup at Spyder. Spyder nodded his head like the general had just said that the birds had all flown south for the winter. Information, but nothing special or surprising.
“Herman Trudy said ‘winking.’ What does that mean?”
“That’s just him honing in on you.”
“And he suggested that I might be a remote viewer?”
“Remote viewer – that’s someone trained in our protocol, but who does the job on their own, without a monitor. You’re not from the program, and I seriously doubt you had training. But from, these findings, I can say you’ve had an OBE—an out of body experience—before, right? I do. It’s not at all the same as remote viewing.”
“I have left my body before, yes.”
“Head trauma?”
“I’ve had a few.” They weren’t the catalyst for the out of body experiences for me, though, when I walked behind the Veil. Walking behind the Veil was something I trained in with Miriam Laugherty. But I knew what he was talking about. One of the autobiographies I read was about a man who had a brush with death via a bullet to the head. It was okay with me that General Coleridge misunderstood what I was saying. Information about my psychic abilities was absolutely need-to-know
only
.
General Coleridge pulled at his lower lip. “Hell of a thing. I hope you can get some control over that. It can make life hard.” His eyes searched over my face. “I bet you have a lot of trouble hiding your emotions – do you tear up easily? Do your emotions seem to have more steam than other people’s?”
I nodded. I had been working on the trademark stoicism exhibited by my team, but truth be told, I walked around all the time masking the emotions that I wore like a second skin. Being emotional held a great deal of vulnerability to it that the general seemed to understand. The compassion in his voice brought a tear to my eye, and I wiped it quickly away, lest it freeze there. The temperatures were dipping further. I leaned into Spyder and he put a fatherly arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
“Yup, me too. It’s not the head trauma that causes the emotions, it’s being plugged into the collective unconscious. Hell of a burden, and not very good for a military career, I can tell you that for sure. Now, what else did you need to know?
T
wo days later, back in a much more temperate DC, Spyder and I sat at the end of a cul-de-sac with our binoculars trained on a warehouse. Zero two-thirty and even the neighborhood dogs slept too deeply to alert their owners that strangers loitered on the road outside. Syder saw no problem at all with this plan. I, on the other hand . . .
While we sat on the Wyoming battlefield, Spyder and I spent a long time discussing what came next. We decided that getting the artwork back and protecting Iniquus from Indigo — or whatever other remote viewer he had working on the project of destroying us — was our highest priority.
Reconnaissance was step one. Spyder’s hacking skills provided the property’s schematics. He’d pulled everything–electrical, plumbing, alarm systems and codes, payroll, scheduling, employee profiles . . . What we didn’t have was a decisive answer to the question, “Was our art still here?” That was my job.
Spyder would produce the distraction, and I would shadow walk inside and peek into boxes. Ta da - our plan in a nutshell. Simplicity at its best. On a Tuesday night, the warehouse staff couldn’t expect much to happen. It was the lightest shift of the week, with only three men in the whole place. We were waiting for the changing of the guard at zero three hundred. The graveyard shift was—well, I’d call them the less athletic of the bunch, weighing in around the four-hundred mark. I knew I couldn’t throw one of them over my hip, but I could probably outrun them. I hoped none of them was particularly trigger-happy, but I wore a bullet-proof vest just in case.
Our strategy was for me to head inside dressed in various shades of grey from the soles of my running shoes to the balaclava that rubbed my nose raw. Spyder had dressed in jeans and a gray hoodie. When I asked him about his distraction plan, he grinned broadly, and gave me nothing by way of information.
Zero three hundred. Spyder turned the engine over on our electric car, and we motored noiselessly toward the storage facility. Driving without his lights, Spider left me off at the dark edge of the parking lot. It had been a while since I’d practiced shadow walking on a mission. I’d be relying on muscle memory to get me through.
As he drove away, I scaled the fence, dropped in behind a black 4Runner, and took in the scene. Peeking up at the sky, I waited for the clouds to spread over the Cheshire Cat smile of a moon.
Slow is smooth and smooth is fast
, Striker’s SEAL mantra repeated in my mind. As soon as the moon’s glow dimmed, I moved toward the door like a phantom, exactly how I remembered doing it when I trained these skills with Master Wang. I became one with my environment. It was as easy a breathing. Light on the balls of my feet, I rounded the corner and slid to the door.
With a steady hand, I tumbled the lock, then depressed the toggle to release the door’s clasp. I heard the roar of an engine and loud music with an eardrum-annihilating bass, pounding out a beat. As it drew closer, I timed the sounds of the door opening and closing with the rhythm. I tapped the alarm code into the box, wondering what kind of ruse Spyder had going on, and hoping it didn’t raise suspicions and therefore vigilance.
The hall that I paced was black as coal. There was an art to pacing that Spyder had worked with me on for long hours during his mentorship. Each footfall was an exact measurement. My stride during this activity could not be any longer or any shorter than the last. Centimeters could accumulate and would make a difference over a distance. That difference could put me at the wrong door. I moved my feet exactly eighteen inches from heel to heel. Never rushed. Just an exact eighteen inches so I knew that when I came to pace one hundred and twenty-three, I would turn right and, counting from that corner, move forward another one hundred and ten steps, where I would find a door to my left that needed to be picked and a code entered before I turned the knob. It was a numbers game. Always. Distractions, a mind floundering and questioning—none of that could happen. It threw off the count. It made the numbers for the first code box versus the second versus the third all jumble into a pile of uselessness.
I had typed all of the numbers into my phone–but that meant light, and light could very well mean detection if whatever Spyder was doing outside didn’t have the desired effect. I touched the grip of my Glock 19 gen 4 pistol. I didn’t want to have to use my gun. Despite the warrant I had tucked into my pocket, I was the trespasser, and if someone tried to stop me, they were doing their job. These guys weren’t criminals. Just employed by criminals.
I held my breath as I twisted the knob and pushed forward. Laughter outside suddenly punctuated the driving beat of the music. A woman’s voice. No, two women’s voices. Then a man gave a whoop that coincided with the downbeat as I let the door slide back onto its catch.
I moved over to the boxes lined up in rows. I pulled my Gerber tool from its carrier on my back, using the downrange tomahawk to pry open the lids. I winced as the nails shrieked in resistance. I had two boxes left to check when boot-clad footfalls sounded in the hallway. I dropped to prone, lining myself up against the box, making myself as long and as thin as I could. The door popped open, banging off the wall, and a flashlight swept the room.
The man’s heavy body progressed past the doorframe toward me. He panted from the exertion of movement. The flashlight’s arc brushed over the room and included long pauses in the corners – novices at insertion often mistakenly move to the corners when they try to conceal themselves, like a child playing hide-and-go-seek. That, or they moved behind the doors. The first time Spyder showed me how the security guards pop the door open to break the intruder’s nose cured me of that bad choice. That was exactly what the guard did tonight when he banged the door open. As I lay very still, using my combat breaths, I made my mind go over the details and talk through the strategies of my actions as Spyder had trained me to do. Logical thinking appeased the fear drive that would otherwise cause tunnel vision and missteps. I needed to stay rational and controlled.
A call came over the guard’s radio that included giggling—a man’s giggling, hyper and high-pitched, like someone being tickled. Then the radio voice beckoned this guy to the front. “Come on, man, you gotta see this.”
The man made his way back out through the door. Now I applied the other kind of math Spyder taught me. The thirty breaths math. Not short breaths, puffing along like a freight train, but a slow and steady in-for-four, out-for-six of tactical breaths; because surely, someone almost catching me in the act would trigger my hypothalamus to react. My adrenaline and cortisol would climb, drawing blood from my hands and feet to feed my vital organs and keep me alive – except that that was usually not the case, I lectured myself as I worked my breathing technique. Typically, what happens when blood gets rerouted from the head, hands, and feet is that you get dizzy and clumsy and make fatal mistakes—as in, not waiting long enough to see if someone was trying to fake you out, like this guy did when he sprang the door back open and shot his flashlight wildly around the storage space. Had I been standing, I would have been blinded, caught with one very blocked exit, and now I’d be fighting instead of listening to the door click and once again beginning my slow steady breaths until I reached thirty.
I wondered if tomorrow they would notice that the boxes weren’t quite shut anymore. I couldn’t do anything about that. I had to hope that the next crew would be too hung over to care, and we could make it until tomorrow afternoon when the shipping company, aka Strike Force, showed up with the right paperwork to load all the Tsukamotos up into the moving van and drive them away. If my movements tipped anyone off, the art could disappear. That was one of the reasons why I needed to open each box; I’d placed GPS trackers on every piece. Spyder and I decided to go with the GPS rather than trying to put eyes on the place. A remote viewer might pick up on the human activity more easily than my bugs, and then the team could get ambushed.
Strike Force knew they’d be on a mission tomorrow; they just didn’t know what that mission would look like.
Spyder and I didn’t know what would happen — if the art was being monitored by a remote viewer, they could get tasked with something like, “Take me to a time when the art would be in danger of removal,” and they could know that Spyder and I were scouting right this minute. Or, they could know what our team would be up to tomorrow and have their counterattack in place.
Forewarned is forearmed. The more I tried to puzzle my way through the maze of thwarting a remote viewer, the more I realized this was like playing 3D chess. And that was definitely
not
my forte. Right now, a confined need-to-know circle was the best we could do. That and maintaining the best ‘brain hygiene’ possible – sleep, meditation, exercise, wholesome food. That’s not really a strategy with which I’ve contemplated fighting an enemy before.
With my next exhale, I reached thirty. I should be safe to move around again.
I reversed my pace counts as I moved back out of the building, across the parking lot, over the fence, and to my extraction point high on the hill. Positioned amongst the weeds, I lifted my binoculars to see what Spyder was up to. Holy smokes.
I
opened the front door and popped into the car. “Spyder, what in the heck did you have going on in the parking lot?”
With the illumination of the streetlight shining into the cab, I could see Spyder’s eyes were laughing at me. “I provided you with the cover of an appropriate distraction.”
“Not quite what I expected,” I said as I pulled the safety belt across my lap.
“Were you expecting C4 explosions, fire, and a strafe of bullets? This is not a Jason Bourne novel.”
“No. Obviously, that would have their guns in their hands, and the 911 operator in their earpieces. I don’t know what I expected. I thought you might pee on their wall and have a drunken song fest for their entertainment. Something like that.”
“I believe that, too, would bring the police on the scene. One must construct the distraction based on the psychology of the targets. In this event, we needed something positive and rewarding to give the security guards what they would want and make them feel good. Anything stressful would trigger their limbic system to open their senses in a wide search for other threats – meaning you. Now, what did we find when we read through the files for the security guards scheduled for this evening?”
“They performed adequately but not superlatively on their shooting and take-down skillsets. They performed subpar on their physical abilities tests. The intellectual aptitude tests put them at the slightly below average range.”
“This information is a good start. But think of them as human beings with needs and desires. Think socially.”
“They lived alone, or with their parents. Our searches of their computer histories showed they spent their free time on computers, ordering takeout, playing video games, and watching porn. . . oh, that is so gross, Spyder.” I covered my face with my hands and gave a shudder.
“It is our job to distract them with something they would want, something that could fulfill a desire.”
“So you set up an orgy in the parking lot?” My voice squeaked up.
“I provided them visual pleasure. Pizza showing up unannounced at zero three hundred – that would trigger their suspicions. A car full of drunken partiers trying to find a dark parking lot to carry on after the bar closes? That’s likely—there are six bars in the area. So I paid a few people—who relish opportunities for exhibitionism—to have sex on a car, and I provided them with an enthralled audience. It’s a win-win. Everyone gets what they want. Everyone is happy. And no one sent up an antenna.”
I turned in my seat. “How do you know people who enjoy exhibitionism?”
“Lexicon, in our business, it serves one well to know a diverse cadre of unique individuals.”
I looked out the window as we drove through sleepy DC. Striker was still in the field with Vine, the three days he was supposed to have been gone stretched out passed their limit. There was no need for me to head back to his apartment just to hang out there by myself and wonder what Ms. Vine contrived during their overnights in the hotel room. I wished them Godspeed on their mission. I’d prefer it was over and done. Though I needed to remind myself, this was but one mission for Striker, and others—with equally lush and sexy women—would follow. So this being over didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things.
I slept in Spyder’s guest room. His knock on my door early in the morning roused me for morning meditation. Knowing the importance, especially right now, for being solid and grounded made unravelling from my warm cocoon and putting my bare feet on the cold floor less of a hardship.
“I have called Strike Force to meet me at the Iniquus hangar at Dulles. I have their movers’ uniforms and equipment waiting for them there. They will be driving a container truck. The shipping paperwork and identifications are coming through an outside logistics source. I did not want any of this information to be available at Iniquus. Indeed, I don’t want you going onto campus this morning.”
“I can keep a secret and guard my mental space.”
“Ah, but I have told you many times the story of the monkey experiments in Japan and how they learned to wash their yams – once a hundred monkeys knew how to wash their yams, all of the monkeys, even those on different islands, knew as well. Knowledge is communal; thoughts enter into the atmosphere to be absorbed. There is no point in testing this theory when it could have dire consequences for your teammates.”
“Can I talk to anyone from Iniquus?”
“With whom do you wish to speak?”
“I thought I might like to go up to Bethesda and hang some bird-scare stuff, holographic ribbon and the like, up in General Elliot’s room.”
“I don’t believe Mrs. Elliot would allow such a thing,” Spyder said, accepting the teacup I brought over to him.
He was right—that would seem weird, and if she communicated with Colonel Grant and Mr. Spencer, my pulling something like that, especially after my falling asleep in the file room, would make me come off as someone who needed psychological observation. “It’s close enough to Christmas. What if I go and decorate a tree with things that are bright and shiny?”
“You are working with the suspicion that General Elliot’s illness is the result of remote influencing.”
I vividly remembered the dream I had of the general crawling up the road, begging me for help. The vibrancy of the dream felt like other premonition dreams that have shaken me from too many nights’ sleep. Information. Just not clear information. That General Elliot depended on me to intervene for him was a certainty in my own mind. Whether some twinkling lights had any bearing. . . well, that was to be seen. I didn’t know what else might help.
“Remote influencing would explain a lot,” I said. “But I’m not jumping to conclusions. I’m simply offering this as one avenue that might be explored without much in the way of negative consequences if it doesn’t work. I mean, why not give it a try? And if nothing else, maybe a pretty tree will boost Mrs. Elliot’s spirits. And a set of very sparkly Christmas ornaments could create a doorknob in his room on the off-chance that someone was interfering with the general’s lucidity by planting zombie seeds in his brain.”
“You and I agree that this is a distinct possibility, and it’s worth the effort to try this avenue.”
“So you asked whom I wanted to contact at Iniquus. Leanne was General Elliot’s PA. I think I’d have better success barging into his room with a six-foot tall tree if she came along. And Gater’s off the clock until this afternoon, so I thought we might bring him instead of a ladder.”
“Alright, but Gater must be at the airport by fourteen-hundred.”
“Roger that.”
Spyder patted my knee to indicate I should stay put, and left the room. He returned carrying a gun box. He opened the lid to reveal four tiny cameras with listening device capabilities. “We might as well gather as much data as we can in the process. Integrate these into your decorations.”
“Yes, sir.”
Leanne called Mrs. Elliot to make the arrangements. She bubbled with enthusiasm as she let Mrs. Elliot know about our plans to decorate the general’s room for Christmas. Mrs. Elliot, on the other hand, needed a little convincing. Leanne said she had been baking all morning and had a platter of gingerbread cookies and cider for her and the nurses. That shot Mrs. Elliot with enough guilt about our time and effort spent on the scheme that she stopped making excuses and attempts to postpone. Now the three of us, Gater, Leanne, and I, were on the hunt for a bakery that sold homemade-looking gingerbread cookies.
Gater pulled to a stop at
Kitty Cupcake
Leanne ran in to see what she could find.
“While we got a second, you asked me about the buzzing over at Iniquus before you took off on assignment,” Gater said. He unbuckled his seat belt, then pushed his hips up so he could dig in his back pocket and pull out a small notepad. “These are the dates and times. Then I ranked them with a number from one—barely noticeable to ten–my skin was on fire. Luckily, I never hit above a six.” He reached over his shoulder and scratched his back. “I had a rough time when I walked in this morning.” He adjusted himself in his seat. “Do you think the buzzing could have an emotion? Could it be mad? That’s crazy to say. I wouldn’t say it if it were anyone else. But this morning, the buzzing felt pissed off.”
“Was there anything drawn on the white board in the Puzzle Room?”
“Nada, why?”
“Thinking out loud. Did you walk around any? Was it more in one space than another?”
“Seemed connected to Striker’s office. I didn’t go in, though, cause Vine was in there with him. She sounded kind of heated.”
“Heated?” Oh, really? That was an interesting piece of information on several fronts. I thought Striker was out of town and wouldn’t be back in time to participate in our field op with the team today. I didn’t think Striker would bring Vine to his office because I made it clear that I didn’t want to meet her and have to play nice, especially after her outlandish behavior at the hospital the night he was shot. And thirdly, if the buzzing was generated by a remote viewer, I needed to know what happened in Striker’s office that would make the viewer angry enough for Gater to pick up on it.
“She wasn’t out and out yelling. I couldn’t hear exactly what she was sayin’, but she was sayin’ it pretty darned fast. Look, with this electricity going off all the time, I pretty much hate bein’ at Headquarters. I need this feeling to go away.”
“Agreed. I think that I have a solution, and I’m going to be implementing it over the next couple of days.”
“Good, because —” Gater’s gaze shot over to Leanne coming out the door with a satisfied grin and a white box dangling by its string from her finger. He pulled on his safety belt. “To be continued,” he said.
Leanne arranged the box of cookies onto the platter she brought from her hostess closet at Iniquus. “This is the nicest thing. I’m so glad to do something for the general. Even if he won’t have any idea it’s been done.”
When Leanne was satisfied with her cookie arrangement, we all climbed out of the SUV. Gater hauled the boxed artificial spruce from off of the roof, and I pulled out the huge bags filled with ornaments. The special five that I put together this morning, with my car idling under the beltway underpass, were kept separate from the others so I could place them in ways to catch the faces of the general’s visitors.
The receptionist bustled around the desk to open the door for us, a huge grin on her face. “Oh, look at this. Mrs. Elliot said to expect you. This is lovely of you.”
Leanne handed her the platter. “For the nurses’ station.”
The receptionist went to deposit the cookies in the room behind her while we signed in. Once she was back in her seat behind the desk, I handed the receptionist the log book and pen. She put up a hand to stop me. I’m sorry, I need more than a first initial, Mr. Aid. What’s your given name?” She looked up from the book, pen poised to write.
“Gater G-A-T-E-R.”
The woman’s brow came together, and she gave a half-smile of not understanding. “Gater
Aid
?”
Gater put his hands on hips to bring attention to his washboard abs, displayed by his Iniquus uniform compression shirt. “Yes, ma’am, my mama, she had a great sense of humor about all her kids’ names.” He tilted his head and beamed his no-fail grin at her. “My oldest sister, her name’s First ‘cause she was born first. And my younger brother, his name is Band, ‘cause his daddy played in a band. She called me Gater ‘cause I was born with two of my baby teeth already pushed through.”
I rolled my eyes at him. Leanne squeezed my arm and ducked her head behind my shoulder.
The receptionist nodded and pointed down the hall. We lifted our packages and headed on. Half way to General Elliot’s room, I elbowed Gater. “I was afraid you were going to tell her the twins are ‘Legal’ and ‘Financial’ because your mama fell on hard times when they were born.”
“Nah, that would have been over the top, and she’da known I were pulling her leg.” He moved through the open door and leaned down to give the waiting Mrs. Elliot a kiss on her cheek.