Authors: Ernie Lindsey
P
oint blank
, George Silver lied to me that day in the cabin, and I knew that he did, but, damn, he was trying hard to be convincing with all those tears. That bit about how Patriotman had killed the American dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness by switching sides, by hating President Palmer and SALCON so much that he joined forces with the North Koreans and “became a commie bastard” sounded so persuasive, so real, that he almost had
me
convinced.
It’s not often you get the Secretary of Defense bawling about how America is going to shit—and that it’s already gone to shit enough for the All-American Hero to shake hands with the devil.
The rest of his story went like this: someone under the President’s command had already tried to recruit one of the assassins to take out Patriotman before he could go public with his decision to abandon the American way of life.
He told me that Patriotman uncovered the plan and had done such an excellent job of convincing his would-be murderer that his decisions were for the greater good, he’d turned
that
person against the United States.
Within a month, Patriotman was going to renounce his citizenship, publicly pledge faith to the red flag of doom, and this mystery person in my group would turn the White House, and President Palmer, into a fine mist and leave only a hole in the ground.
Of course, I questioned it as I sat there with him. Of course, it was fantastically unbelievable that the man who is universally beloved, who has come to embody every sense of nationalistic pride, would turn his back on the people he’d sworn to defend.
Silver told me they had no idea who the member of SASS was that had been recruited, only that they had narrowed it down to one of the twelve.
As I rush away from Phil’s house, it occurs to me that I might have a pretty good idea of who Silver might be trying to blame, and that Phil likely isn’t going to find a connection to any other member of SASS.
I
land
at Dulles International in northern Virginia.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I don’t care if it’s two o’clock in the morning or not, I’m going after them one by one.
Who? Eric Landers, Joe Gaylord, and Conner Carson, the heads of the NSA, the CIA, and the FBI; one of them has to know something. They didn’t just hand me over to the DPS without reason. They would never do it on their own. At least, I don’t think they would. We’re more than colleagues. We’re friends.
Friends by proxy, I suppose, because they’ve asked me to do lots of inglorious shit to some of the world’s most adored superheroes, and I’ve kept their secrets because that’s what I get paid to do, but damn, they wouldn’t do what I suspect them of contributing to…would they?
I climb into the rental car and flop down on the soft leather seats. It’s got that new-car smell, but the last person that was in here left behind a hint of perfume that reminds me of Shelby. She was the first woman I dared to reveal my job requirements to, and once wasn’t enough to learn my lesson.
Man, I’m exhausted. I had spent most of the day back in Portland, driving in circles, thinking and coming up with no decent leads or solutions. Phil called twice and got nowhere either. I let him in on my theory, and he agreed that it was certainly plausible, which is why I’m here in northern Virginia instead of at home, sleeping in my own bed.
I’ve been paranoid all day that I’m under surveillance, and there’s even a little part of me that’s scared to turn the key in the ignition.
You know what? Better safe than sorry.
I realize I must look like a fool, but now that I’m down here underneath the car, checking for flashing red blips or any wires that might lead to a bomb, I feel better. That minor surge of adrenaline gives me another boost. It’s just after eleven back home, and my body hasn’t adjusted yet.
And, given the circumstances, if I’m awake, Eric, Joe, and Conner might as well be too, right?
I leave the airport parking lot, heading for a super rich area of Alexandria where I know Eric Landers, head of the NSA, lives in a three-story home so large that it could house the entire population of New Guinea.
D.C. is dead this time of night, and I love it when it’s like this. I spent about two years here, and if it hadn’t been for the pure insanity of the go-go-go world everyone here inhabits, I might’ve stuck around.
It’s foggy, too, adding a certain gloomy touch to the quiet city and surrounding suburbs. Stoplights cast green, yellow, and red halos as they cycle through their routines, and it strikes me how odd it is that we’re conditioned to obey these things, even in the dead of night, when barely anyone is awake. This is D.C., though, and there’s enough traffic on the roads to keep up the tradition of traffic laws.
I drive with the radio tuned to some talk show as a distraction. It works until I see a billboard along the highway. The model—I think it’s for shampoo—is a ravishing redhead with a smile that doesn’t need giant bulbs to light up her face. It makes me think of Charlene. I’m wary of her, considering she’s supposedly with DPS and knows more about me than she should, yet I feel that tug of longing.
Different world, different time, different jobs—you mix all those together magically, and we might have a chance. I don’t know this, obviously, because we’ve never spoken much outside of Group Sharing. It’s a feeling. A strong notion of connection, and I’m sure she feels it, too. That’s why she was concerned about Dallas stealing my glory. She was feeling protective of me.
Charlene
. There are too many questions about her that don’t have answers.
I need to think about something else.
The radio doesn’t help much. Elevator music signals the end of one program and the beginning of another. There’s some nighttime DJ spewing talk radio bullshit about how the world is going to end now that Patriotman is dead. “It’s the end of humanity as we know it, my friends,” says the DJ, “and you voted this guy in. It’s all Palmer’s fault. Remember that the next time you cast your ballots in November.”
All Palmer’s fault. If the guy only knew he should be saying, “It’s all Leo Craft’s fault.”
And then something he said strikes me. It’s not so much a smack in the face as it is that flickering of kindling catching fire. “
Remember that the next time you vote
.”
It’s an election year. Palmer’s numbers are abysmal.
Would it be a stretch to think this is related to the election?
I toss the idea around and decide that no, it’s all too big to be a part of an election rigging scandal. If you’re a spin-doctor for the Republican Party, there are easier ways to completely obliterate what little confidence remains in Palmer’s ability to run this country. But, as bad as he is, all the talking heads suggest he’ll remain in office because the opposition doesn’t have anyone suitable enough to run against him.
They should know that it’s a risky maneuver for little to no return.
Hmm. That doesn’t mean it’s entirely out of the question.
If you’re a motivated
Vice
President who might be completely sick of having your good name tarnished because of the incompetency of the Grand Poobah, and you don’t want to spend four more years cleaning up his messes, and you think you can do a better job…
A car horn honks behind me, and I snap out of my plotting daze. The light above is green, and I wonder how long it’s been that way. I hold my hand up apologetically and press down on the gas pedal. The car behind me swings up to my side and in true D.C. hospitality, the driver flips me the bird and yells something in Russian. He’s gone before I have a chance to return the gesture.
So many possibilities to choose from and the more I think about it, the more muddled the details become in my mind.
The GPS announces that I’m five miles from my destination and tells me to turn right. I make a left instead and grab a cup of coffee from a dingy convenience store with a sleepy clerk behind the register and a one-eyed Pomeranian flopped on the counter like he’s a placemat.
“Nice dog,” I tell the woman.
“That’s Sparky,” she mumbles. “Don’t get near him. He’s a real bastard.”
Funny. I know another Sparky that’s a real bastard.
Back in the car, I sit with the engine running, trying to plan my approach to the three men who might be the connecting points of this complicated puzzle. I’m thinking over my plan to visit the head of the NSA first.
I find a pen and a notepad in the glove compartment and start jotting down some notes. It helps me process things thoroughly when I can see it on paper.
Eric Landers is fifty-three years old. He’s about a foot taller than I am, which is to say he bumps his head on the moon when it’s hanging low in the sky. He’s a family man; Dolores is his wife of thirty years, and they have two boys, Mark and Sam, who are a year apart and attend Harvard. Out of my three government contacts, I like Eric the most. He’s a bulldog when he needs to be, but he can also flip the switch and be all chummy with you in the same conversation. I’ve seen him turn an intern into a blubbering mess of tears and then share nachos with the guy ten minutes later.
He bleeds red, white, and blue, and from what I can tell, he’s fiercely loyal to President Palmer, considering they were roommates back at West Point. While I’m simply going on election rigging as a theory, I can’t see him purposely taking part in it just to get his buddy out of office. Wouldn’t happen.
So do I even need to go see him?
Yes. His lack of motive regarding Palmer doesn’t mean he’s not involved on some other level.
Okay, Eric Landers it is. He should appreciate a visit from his old pal Leo at two-thirty in the morning. Who wouldn’t?
I
didn’t actually expect
him to be happy about the rude awakening, but I surely didn’t expect the vitriol that I receive as he yanks me inside and slams the door behind me.
“What in the blue blazes fuck are you doing here at my house? Are you insane?” He says this with hushed anger, like he’s trying not to wake his wife up, but it doesn’t work.
A soft, female voice comes down the stairs. I assume she’s poking her head over the railing. “Eric? Everything okay?”
He calls up the stairs, “It’s fine, Dolly. Work stuff.”
“At this hour? It couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Just go back to sleep, hon. This won’t take long,” he says, then turns to me and adds, “will it, Leo?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Okay, then,” Dolores says. “There’s fresh French Roast in the pantry if you need it.”
Cheerfully, he replies, “Thanks, dear,” and then practically shoves me into the study at my left. I take quick mental notes of the room as he swiftly but quietly shuts the door. Books line shelves, plants hang from hooks, I can see that the windows could use a touch of cleaning, and his desk is cluttered with stacks of manila folders, letters, books, a laptop, a pencil holder, and a family photo in a silver frame.
Eric says, “Do you have any idea how risky this is, coming here? What’re you thinking?”
“I need some answers.”
“Leo, I’m not sure that—”
“Why does George Silver want Patriotman dead?” I interrupt. “And why is the DPS planning to use me as a scapegoat for whatever else is coming?”
I nearly have to lift him off the ground by his throat before he’ll give me an answer.
O
kay
, so regardless of how ticked off Agent Kelly is, I still have a job to complete.
She was kind enough to remind me that they wired an inordinately large amount of money to my Swiss bank account, which means I should probably get to work—seriously this time—trying to find out which one of my counterparts is a traitorous bastard.
The thing is, I’m starting to wonder whether there’s actually someone out to blow up the White House. If Silver was lying to me about Patriotman’s involvement, and I know he was, then it could also mean that the other half of this assignment is total bunk, too.
For now, though, I’m going to proceed as if that part of the mission is true, simply because Agent Kelly had no idea what Silver could’ve told me, and, she said, “Patriotman was never supposed to be a part of this.”
It’s a stretch, yeah, but stranger things have happened, and if you think about it, it makes sense in a way. Her superiors want Patriotman dead for reasons unrelated to her and Deke’s original mission of preventing a presidential assassination attempt, and she’s annoyed that they’re butting in on her domain. It’s a turf war. Has to be. Superiors versus subordinates and yeah, it sucks, which is exactly why I’m an entrepreneur. I like being my own boss.
Sometimes it’s a good thing, though, because going back to what I said to her earlier, we’d never make any progress as a society if life weren’t one huge pissing match.
Okay, that’s settled. We have a wolf in sheep’s clothing to find.
And to ensure that Silver knows I’m on board, I’ve scheduled my trip to the Maldives for later in the week. They’ve shown a few blurry photos of him, so it’s not confirmed that he’s officially there, but all the tabloids say that Patriotman is supposedly vacationing in the Maldives until the end of April, and I figure I’ll go after I attend another SASS meeting.
My tasks: kill Patriotman and find a domestic terrorist in order to prevent an assassination. Simple enough.
It’s not that I’m a fan of President Palmer—however, the guy did have a great platform when he ran on the promise of bolstering education, which I’m all for—but once he was in office, the D.C. machine railroaded him into just another talking head who couldn’t get anything passed by the divided House and Senate. They were too interested in seeing who had the biggest
schlongs
to pass any real reform.
I think after a year the guy just got bitter and was burdened by petty jealousy. There were all these superheroes on
Tonight with Don Donner
getting more accolades than the man who was trying to do his best for an entire nation. Some masked muscle man on the street that saved an old lady from a mugger would be handed the keys to a city while every talking head on television skewered poor Palmer. He couldn’t take it.
That’s my theory, anyway. It wasn’t long after his failed attempts at any real reform that the late night phone calls started with secretive, electronically disguised voices placing orders.
They went something like this:
“
We’re aware of your activities, Mr. Craft, and we’d like you to come work with us.
Carl Banks, and you may know him as Gray Ghoul, has been secretly operating with the Russians to sabotage oil pipelines through Eastern Europe. He’ll be hard to track down over there, but he’s worth three hundred thousand. Plus, get on our good list with this one and there’ll be plenty more
.”
“
Deathmarch, a.k.a. Bill Frederickson, had a hand in helping the IRA procure the appropriate items for explosive devices back in the ‘80s. He’s been on a low-priority wanted list for thirty years, but with his recent work as a hero, we’d been cutting him some slack. It’s time for the chickens to come home to roost. Five hundred thousand if you can get rid of him by Thursday
.”
“
Tom Liverpelt, who goes by the handle Captain Kane, has become one of our top priorities in the past week. It involves child pornography, and we can’t say more than that. Highest order, Mr. Craft. He’s in San Diego for a conference and if you can get it done by tonight, we’ll tack on a bonus. Million five.
”
Before all this started—officially working for the government, I mean—I was on a mission of my own, trying to take out a superhero named BlazeWire who was on the take from some real bad guys.
I’d been undercover for about six weeks, running jobs for the Bandito Cartel down in Mexico, and honestly, it took me a couple of days to make up my mind when I got the first NSA invite, because I couldn’t decide who was more dangerous: a bunch of cutthroat bastards holed up in Juarez or the United States government.
So yeah, that’s how I got here, and, anyway, that’s all beside the point. The President isn’t a bad guy, but he’s probably a little misguided. I’m not part of Palmer’s Army, by any means. Still doesn’t mean he deserves to die, even if I have more fingers than he has points in his approval rating.
I’ll do my part to make sure he doesn’t go on display in a coffin, and in the meantime, I’ll try to figure out what’s going on with George Silver. Why was he lying to me about Patriotman?
And speaking of which, this “eliminate Patriotman” thing is really cramping my style, too, because it has far more serious implications than I’d like to admit.
Okay, too much going on up in the old gray matter.
I should get the Palmer thing squared away first, then I’ll tackle what to do about Patriotman. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.
W
hen you’re trying
to do investigative work on a group of international assassins who are good enough to sneak up on superheroes with abnormal powers—and murder them—it’s not like you can simply sit down in a café and hide behind a newspaper and some dark sunglasses.
I learn this quickly, on Day One of Serious Investigation Commencement, when Charlie Delta spots me from across the way during Portland’s Saturday Market downtown. He waves at me and strolls over, holding a t-shirt with a screen-printed owl on the front.
I play it off like I’m there to browse the artisanal cheeses and homemade jams in support of all the fantastic local artists. We have a beer together, talk shop, and he tells me he’s late for a flight to Guam.
“Apparently,” he says, glancing around, making sure no one is eavesdropping, “Green Devil has been trading arms with some underground outfit along the border of Pakistan. Those damn cave dwellers. Can you believe it? I would’ve never expected Devil to be in on something like that, but all the data points from Homefront indicate it’s as true as the sun rising. And you think you know people, huh?”
Pffft. Tell me about it.
“Anyway, I figure I’ll catch him in Guam while he’s visiting his mama.”
“That’s cruel.”
Charlie Delta shrugs. “You mess with the bull…”
I nod in acknowledgement, trying to study his microexpressions to see if he’s hiding anything. Charlie Delta has a long list of accomplishments when it comes to eliminating people on the wrong side of justice, but he’s not a murderer.
That sounds weird when I say it like that. The dude kills people for a living.
What I mean is, he doesn’t kill the innocent ones. He’s a good guy, but I’m not ready to check him off my list.
You think you know people…
That faint smell of damp city wafts over me as Charlie Delta stands up from the table. He pushes his white plastic chair out of the way. The table wobbles, unstable. He offers to shake my hand, which I accept, and then he asks me, “See you at SASS on Tuesday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good, good.” He pauses, nodding somberly, like he’s got something to add. He hasn’t let go of my hand yet, and it’s slightly awkward. He squeezes and shakes again, finally relaxing his grip. “We’re all friends there, Leo. Those guys have done a lot of good for me and my mental state. This work is hard, but I don’t have to tell you that. Preaching to the choir. Whatever’s bothering you, keep your head up. There are plenty of shoulders to cry on.” With that, he’s gone.
I watch him go, feeling like that was the most genuine thing I’ve heard out of a human being in a long time. I don’t think Charlie Delta is my guy, but I’m not counting him out yet. I’m not counting anybody out.
I
hop
on a quick flight down to SFO because that’s where Tara and Mara make their home when they’re not travelling the world, killing people for a living. They live in an old 1950s, Eichler-style home, with lots of windows and an open-air courtyard in the middle. Their place has an incredible view of the San Francisco Bay, and to call me jealous would be an understatement. This city is second on my list, but Jesus, who can afford it, even if you have millions of dollars from eliminating superheroes?
The twins are too smart for me to hang out in a warm car, chugging coffee and eating doughnuts, pretending I’m on a stakeout, so what I do is, I walk right up to their front door, and I knock.
Tara comes to the door—and I know it’s her because of the chicken pox scar to the right of her nose—and she’s wearing pink, flowery pajamas. Her feet are tucked into blue slippers. She smiles and says, “Leo? I didn’t know you were in town.” I spot Mara behind her, wearing blue, flowery pajamas and pink slippers, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“I’m just down for the day, looking at some real estate. Figured I’d stop by.”
Tara steps to the side and beckons for me to enter. “Come in, come in. Sorry we’re in our jammies. We’re still recovering.”
“From what?” I ask, stepping into the front entryway.
She rolls her eyes. “You would not
believe
the trouble we had with Commander Cro-Magnon in Sydney. It went downhill in a hurry, and, besides, that’s a long-ass flight back.”
Mara calls to me from the kitchen. “Hey, Leo!” She waves and asks if she can get me a cup of coffee or a scone. When I decline, she gives me the pish-posh scoff and gets up to serve me something anyway.
We sit at their kitchen table, eating the best homemade scone I think I’ve ever had along with homemade strawberry jam that would rival some of the masters down at the Saturday Market. I ask them how they have time to do all this from scratch, given our schedules, and they pass it off as, “Oh, it’s nothing. You should see the energy our mother has, and she’s in her mid-seventies.”
You’d think that if I were trying to figure out whether or not these two were planning to assassinate President Palmer, I’d be sneakier and more cautious instead of trying the direct approach. While that makes sense, it also makes sense to catch these people unaware, especially Tara and Mara, when they’re relaxing in their own environment.
We’re all inherently suspicious of everything, even each other, and I can guarantee you that no matter how much they’re smiling and sharing their kickass jam, there are at least five different things hidden around this kitchen that would lead to my imminent death if they think anything is shady about me or the reason I’m here.
Tara and Mara tell different parts of the Commander Cro-Magnon story interchangeably, finishing each other’s sentences in true, stereotypical, twins-in-a-chewing-gum-commercial fashion, while I sit patiently and study them. They, too, are highly skilled, professional assassins, some of the best in the world, but I’m not getting that gut-bomb vibe that says they’re domestic terrorists. Still, they’ll remain on the list for now.
Here’s why I think that the surveillance and investigations into my SASS counterparts will be easier than I originally expected: my interlude with Charlie Delta leads me to believe that they’re all there for a shoulder to cry on, just like he said, and I have two perfectly good ones.
My task is to figure out which one of the eleven is shedding the least amount of tears. It’s not these two, so that’s three out of the way. Are the ones that are left capable of murdering the President? Definitely, but which one of them has the mindset to do it?