Chapter I
I Did Not Come to Bring Peace...
...But a Sword...
>WHITE TREE, WEST VIRGINIA
>UNITED STATES
>0541HRS...///
The cold winds cutting along the porch of the run-down shack of a safehouse complemented the dark iron of the clouds well. The smell of the woods and the mountain air was tainted by the smell of diesel and smoke from the nearby mines, the only thing that drowned the stench of the tireless, obstinate march of industry was the cigarette held between Fossten’s lips. He took a draw and exhaled, letting it disperse on the air, watching the cloud drift off to be lost among the clouds.
The medium-sized house had been procured a week before Fossten and Steve’s landing, the accoutrements and vehicles set up by nameless, faceless busy-bodies of the Agency. All of it- the vehicles, the house itself, the living arrangements, decorations, and the sizeable stockpile of ammunition, weapons and tactical gear- was paid for by Steve Foster’s slice of the CIA black budget offshore account. Untraceable by local authorities and anyone else without proper clearance. At least it had good location, perched atop a hill where a lookout could be posted and see anyone approaching from any direction.
More importantly, deep-down, in the places where Fossten refused to let soldiering and tradecraft taint, he loved to be able to see the sprawling mountains in every direction and the lights speckled about the hills and the town at night. The relatively low light-pollution lent the night sky a clear complexion, an unimpeded view of the stars when it wasn’t cloudy. Although, despite even his hardest efforts to beat back the rigors of work, the front door from the porch to the living room creaked open. Footsteps, slow. “Review the files yet?”
Fossten shook his head. He could hear Foster sigh, “You know they’ll be here. You should look at their dossiers and get a feel for them.”
Fossten nodded. He turned around and brushed past Foster, entering the living room where the dossiers were arranged neatly in columns on the coffee table. He took a seat and grabbed up the first one, Gregory, Heather.
After a good hour of reading and review of each of the team handpicked by Steve, he leaned back on the couch, took a swig from his flask and then walked back outside, sitting on the rocking chair on the porch. “How much do they know?”
“Hmm?” Steve asked, following him closely and leaning on the porch’s banister.
“The team.” Fossten frowned, “How much do they know? One’s a private-eye, one’s a crooked cop, a museum curator, even an attorney. A murder survivor, Steve?”
“A Con-Artist with experience of staying off the grid and untouched by the law. Until recently.” Foster corrected.
“A Cleaner.” Fossten said, quietly.
“Just in case.” Steve shrugged. “Same reason I picked you to lead. We both know how these go sometimes.”
“Yes,” Fossten nodded, “We do. But do they? How much did you tell them?”
“About the same I told you on your first.” Foster said.
“Well, that really addresses my concerns.” Fossten said. He shook his head and sighed, “Do they at least meet the criteria?”
“All. I made sure they’re not completely blind. Stillman’s already worked a case with our Security Clearance before and he’s not under review to be sent to a nuthouse.” Steve raised his eyebrows, as if that made things all better. “The rest know there’s things out there at the fringes of our sight. Things the rest of the world, the public, the average joe shouldn’t know. Just not enough to be locked up like a gibbering mess.” Foster turned around and leaned over the banister, his hands propping him up as he looked out over the town, “Pretty soon, Fossten, we’re going to be old and grey. Or at least I hope we reach that, but...”
“More fuel for the flames.” Fossten nodded, more to himself than Steve, “I’ve got a few more fires in me.”
“Of course you do,” Foster said, “I do too. But that time will come, where we either find a good reason to use that special bullet we all keep secret, or we accept a little house on the prairie with a comfortable sum of money lest we trip and fall and accidentally shoot ourselves twice in the chest and once in the head.”
Foster didn’t have to elaborate any more. Fossten only nodded in agreement, knowing the old lions of the Delta Green pride were nearing the end of their reigns. “Well.” Fossten sighed, “Ain’t that a nice thought.”
===
>2141HRS...///
Fossten looked over the assembled team, seated either at the couches or the kitchen’s bar. An eclectic bunch, that was for sure. Foster continued the briefing, but Fossten was too busy wondering just how the fuck Foster decided on this flock of youngbloods, loners, and outcasts. His attention figured it would be better placed on Foster when one of the youngest people on a sensitive operation averted her gaze from him as if he was a monster. She didn’t look at all a fighter, or strong, even. That must have been Jane Smith, she looked different in her picture, but Foster put it that every picture of her looked different.
“The Blackriver Killer is a new kid on the block for this town. He’s only shitting up the situation more by taking part in his antics. Kidnappings, killings, the usual for perps of this type. What brings me and all of you here is catching this person.” Foster looked out at the assembled team, “There is no clear ‘type’ that the victims have in common except the appearance of black welts on the face and/or genitals, but that’s almost half the damned town. The CDC sent in a team to analyze just what is causing this, they haven’t heard from them in a week. At twenty-two hundred hours a week ago, today, Officer Gregory Morales- a blacksheep in these parts for not being white and poverty-class- disappeared after responding to a disturbance at the Mulligan residence.”
“The Mulligans were dead at some point between him responding and his disappearance. State Detective Maryanne Roy is the only one on this case besides us. She’s your first priority now. Other than that, take a trip around town, get a reading of this place. We’ll be living in it for a while, it’ll be good for you.” Foster nodded and clapped his hands together, “Questions? Good. I advise you to mingle, a good team is one that knows each other.”
Fossten couldn’t help but to smile, “Good luck with that.”
A thick french accent, was the first to break the Silence. The figure leaned against the bar, an thick veil of Cigarette smoke around it, slowly sipping on a cup of water. Its dry coughing had sometimes interrupted the Conversation, and its two cold eyes had wandered over the bunch surrounding him. "So, shall we take it as a social event now? Shame, i forgot to bring snacks.."
His eyes wandered shortly onto his wrist, where a golden glitter betrayed a watch far out of the reach of a Police officer, even one who had turned into a Private Eye himself. Slowly getting out of his leaning position, he stepped off the Bar, leaving his Glass half-empty "May i ask for plans for Dinner, while we are at it?"
A man, brown haired, brown eyed, of average height and unremarkable save for a brown trenchcoat and T-shirt that proclaimed, in bold all caps font, "DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE." leapt out of his chair and offered his hand to the man, speaking in a harsh New York accent, "Ordered some chink food actually! More than welcome to have some, my casas your casa. I'm William Stillman, by the way."
A short smile ran over the Frenchman´s face, as he quickly offered his hand. "Cédric Quint! I appreciate the offer, but chinese cusine has a tendency to ruin my stomach. Still, pleasure to make your acquaintance"
For the next ten minutes, Stillman began to explain how he loved the French and, in fact, even enjoyed their Chardenoy. In the middle of his explanation of why Chardenoy was superior to a Merla, he retrieved from a bar cupboard a box labelled "FRAZIA" and explained, despite it being boxed, it was a ten year old vintage and was a Chardenoy he had brought with him. The flavor was labelled as "SUNSET BLUSH." Realistically, the flavor of a ten year old vintage box wine would be something akin to vinegar.
Lisening to Stillman with one ear, Cédric tried his best to ignore the horrible butchery of his native langauge, the New Yorker was seemingly committing in front of him. Yet the sudden apperance of the box made the former Cop almost chuckle, as he tipped his finger onto it. "I presume that drinking this would cause our first Fatality on this case! Beside, i am more of a Grenache and Syrah man myself! The Spaniards do know, how to make a good Red one. Oh,and please, speak after me C-har-don-nay!"
Stillman laughed at the comment of the Frazia. "Yeah, maybe. Drank a vintage Frazia a few days ago, puked my sunday dinner for hours the next day. Got drunk as hell though!" He added after a brief pause, "I like Syrah too! Shoulda brought some of that. Those Syrians got to be good at making something. Say, what do you think of the case?" He retrieved a Shasta Cola he had been keeping in his trench coat, and opened it. It fizzed and overflowed, but Stillman persisted in drinking it, foam dripping from his fingers and onto his pants. "I think the whole face welt thing sounds like a black plague kinda situation, but then they also had it on their genitals. If it's only affecting genitals and faces, looks like some sorta STI to me. Know if any of 'em were prostitutes?"
Lance, after pulling out his ear buds. Slowly lowered his magazine of sporting goods, something commonly seen in the area. His attire of a korean design suit. Unorthodox with a short tie, untucked dress shirt and tight suits pants. "Ahem, before introductions or dinner are due I think there are questions that do need to be asked." He calmly put the magazine back into his leather bag, looking from the bar past Stillman directly at Fossten. "With the targets being those primarily afflicted with these... black welts, the dissappearence of the CDC team; and little to no foreknowledge of what disease we are dealing with here it begs to question many things. Are we absolutely sure these manifestations of black welts aren't a precursor to a dangerous pandemic scale disease? Is the place going to be placed under marshal law? How far up the chain is this? And more interestingly, amid all these afflictions, why is it prioritized that we catch a serial killer whose only interest in victims are those affected by these blemishes?" He nodded to Fossten respectably his eyes level. "But I digress some questions lead to more questions, but it still stands as odd to me, that there wouldn't be a concerted effort on a potentially more dangerous situation; with the focus being the killings." Lance pulled out a metal link puzzle meticously beginging to work it out, a low clanging as metal grated together in the process. "Perhaps there is more to this killer than you would tell us, or our superiors would. Interesting." He refrained from talking waiting for a response, concetrated on the puzzle before him.
"English, please? Or at least get your head out of your ass and do your crazy talking in your own head." Spoke a harsh, strained voice from behind the bar. [Lance heard him alright, but didn't show the slightest naunce of caring. Still playing with his puzzle, concetrated on his task.] After pouring himself a tumbler of the most expensive looking whiskey he could get his hands on, he moved with chillingly smooth strides around to the Frenchman and New Yorker. He looked the two men up and down, before clapping them both on the back. "Call me Ren. LAPD, P.I., et cetera. I think we should 'grab dinner' with some locals, and see what we can't figure out about the missing CDC team and Morales." He said, his voice piercing, for how broken it sounded. "As for which one we chase down first... I think that Morales will be the most useful, if we can get him alive."
Fossten cleared his throat and pushed himself off the wall, walking to the bar. He thought about Lance's question for a bit, chewing it over as he poured himself two shots into a glass and topped it all off with a coke. He turned back around and took a sip, ready to address this man's concerns. "You're not from the CDC. I'm not from the CDC." Fossten looked around and shrugged, "I don't see any CDC here. The people sent here to investigate whatever pandemic this might be disappeared a week ago." Another sip, "You don't exactly see firefighters arresting carjackers anytime. The black welts aren't our job."
At that, he nodded to Lance, already knowing he'd be a thorn in his side. Of course, if he wasn't how he was back in Afghanistan, he might have asked Long about the real reason they'd crossed the Pakistani border and leveled a tiny spit of a village with two JDAMs. Lance was smart and inquisitive with a background in the DIA. It was readily apparent why Foster wanted him brought on. Fossten looked at Jane again, not quite knowing what to make of the girl. He decided to bite the bullet, turning back around and grabbing a can of coke out of the fridge. A few slow, leisurely steps brought him over to her, where he held out the can. A peace offering. He wasn't as scary as he looked, at least not to the people who had no reason for him to drag them off the sidewalk and into an unmarked white van. "My name is Fossten," He said, "What's your name?" He knew full well, but it never hurt to develop rapport.
Jane’s foot twitched against the middle rung of the bar stool as she gazed beneath her eyelashes towards the door. No one was guarding it, there was nothing keeping her from leaving. She could be out onto the street and changed into a new look in a matter of minutes.
She pursed her lips together before releasing her breath, which she had unintentionally been holding since Foster started his speech. This place was already a bit of a sausage fest. It was just putting her more on edge, so when Fossten made eye contact with her, she scrunched up her nose and quickly looked down at her hands instead. Her fingers were anxiously tugging on the loose thread of her sweater. Jane examined the string before carefully pulling her gaze back towards the group, eventually letting it rest on the other woman across the room. She was like a breath of fresh air in a room clouded with cologne and testosterone. Maybe this would be okay. At the very least, someone had to do it. One less deranged killer in the world would be a good start.
She could do this. It was fine. The others were slowly starting to talk but no one was forcing her into the conversation. Everything was okay. She could just quietly observe and do her job. It’s not like she had to… oh god… oh god no. Just as her shoulders had begun to relax, Fossten started to approach. He looked like he should be starring in a remake of Grapes of Wrath. Was the homeless look a conscious choice on his part to be as offputting as possible?
He held out a soda as he towered over the petite girl and it was all Jane could do not to scrunch up her face a second time. It took her a long pause before she timidly reached out and plucked it from his fingers, careful not to touch him at any point in the process.
“J-Jane.” She whispered, clutching the can tightly between both her hands. She focused on the cold against her palms and keeping her breathing even. He was probably wondering why she was here. The others were all so official looking, or at the very least seemed competent, and here she was struggling just to maintain eye contact. Probably not the best first impression. “I’m not as… useless… as I look. I promise.”
Fossten shrugged, putting on a small smile he hoped came off as fatherly or friendly, "No one said you were. I'm sure you'll do fine, stick close to the vets and be a sponge, ask if you don't know." He nodded, "Looking forward to having you on the team."
Despite his best efforts, he knew Jane would be a tough nut to crack. Knowing her history, or at least what the dossier had to say, he couldn't blame her. "Also, I'd advise you to get some new rags. Folk 'round here aren't exactly gussied up like that."
With that, he caught sight of a somewhat familiar face, and not just from the personnel dossiers. A large man even older than himself was stood in the kitchen holding a beer. The longer he looked, the more he recognized the man. They'd never talked before, but Pieter Gunn was a name from the Agency's GRS he knew from his time in Somalia. He stood in front of Pieter in a few short steps and held his hand out, "It's damn good to have someone who isn't some secretive fucking agency spook here. Fossten Hughes, we were in Somalia around the same time, I reckon. Foster and I led the team that took the case off you boys."
Pieter grasped Fossten’s hand with a smile and gave it a firm shake, “Howzit, bru.” Looking Steve up and down for a second he unintentionally recalled the events of Somalia, something he was trying hard to drown with alcohol. “Ja-nah…” Pieter muttered, stepping back slightly and pulling on his beard, trying to place the ragged man who stood before him. “Can’t say I recall you bru, so I guess that would make you one of them spooks as well, ne?”
Despite being half-way across the world, he felt well at home in this band of misfits. It was hardly the first time he had joined a new team, and as he grew older realised that more and more he’d be working a younger (if a slightly more befok) crowd, most of the men his age already retired. “So bru, Is it only you, me and that kerel who make up the operational experience of this miulhus?” he asked, this thumb jutting in the direction of Stillman, who was grabbing a beer from the fridge.
Fossten let go a good-natured laugh at Pieter's jibe at the relative tight-lipped secrecy his job came with, "I just might be," he laughed, "Though, we're from the same circle, yeah? Soldiers."
At Pieter's observation of their team, he looked over at the 'kerel' in question, wearing a trenchcoat and looking very much not a professional killer. Or very much like one, given the right set of eyes. "Yep, that would be right, my friend." He held up a hand to Pieter, "Foster figured we only needed you, me and, uh, that kerel over there. We'd be doing our jobs wrong if too many doors needed to be kicked that we couldn't handle."
"Ja, ja," Pieter nodded in agreement. "Well.. I saw the armory on the way in. I'm sure we can handle anything that comes our way." Leaning back against the wall, he swirled the remaining beer in his bottle andscanned the room. "Anyway, laanie, can you tell me about the otherside of my work here. Can we expect any sort of uplink with your lads in Langley? Or Washington?" He looked back at the team leader. "Can we expect to be able to get SIGINT like that," he asked, snapping his fingers for emphasis, "or is that something we're gonna have to do ourselves."
Fossten tilted his head and clucked his tongue before speaking more hushed, "You see the amount of people here that don't know what we know? We all got the same speech when we entered into the agency. Officially, for legality, this is off the books." He nodded to the basement, "Any SIGINT gadgets we have in there and these three-" he pointed his index finger to Pieter, then his thumb to Stillman and finally, himself, "-are what we've got. Foster's got his friends in high places, if that helps."
He crossed his arms and nodded, fully knowing how Pieter felt about that. At least they were on American soil and not in the backcountry of Indonesia. "We aren't even here right now, as far as Langley is concerned. I'm still in Turkey, you're still wherever you were."
"Ja-nah," Pieter muttered, finishing his beer and stretching with a sigh, "I can feel the african sun warming my bones as we speak!" He looked up at the light and closed his eyes, leaning back slightly, imagining being under the hot sun, on the red dirt, thousands of kilometers away from this nonsense. He stretched and sighed with happiness, felt something go click and his hand shot out to steady himself against the wall. "Fook I'm getting old," he groaned. Sighing for a third time, he looked down at Fossten's almost empty drink, "You want another, bru? Bourbon and coke, ja?"
"Ain't we all," Fossten chuckled, "And nah, figure we should wrap this shindig up soon anyway. Got work to do tomorrow, my friend. Hopefully nothing gets too exciting too soon." With that, Fossten put a hand on Pieter's shoulder before walking towards Lance and the Attorney, Heather.
Pieter smiled as the team leader walked away. "You don't have to force old-people hours on the young-ones," he called.
Pieter shook his head, and made his way towards the bar, knowing that the younger man was right. The dreary cold of Virginia had replaced the warmth of Africa in his bones and he knew it would be an early night for him as well. First things first, he didn't feel comfortable sleeping until he knew the immediate surroundings and he intended to see if the american cop would join him in a late night stroll.
People introduced themeselves in the background, while Lance thought. His time here with this unit was going to be interesting. The lack of information provided if anything was a disadvantage, but it would be the nature of the beast and more of a challenge anyhow. No matter the case, everything was linked, and all he has to do is pull the links appart to see how they fitted together. Just like his puzzle, the brass rings neatly lined up on the bar. He resseambled the charming puzzle before scanning the room. Fossten trying to engage the timid women who up to this point and still did look like an utter nervous wreck. If he was going to work with her, he would have to figure out her problem. The same with that LAPD cop, who rudely interjected before stumbling over to the fridge, trying to kindle fireside chats. He wasn't used to this informal team structure, but this was a clandestine investigative team after all.
Lance decided to embrace it, instead of staying to his own corner of the cabin. Brushing himself off and pressing the seams of his suit down as he walked over to the fridge, and fireside chats. Catching Ren's attention from the corner of his eye as he approached. His hand extended "Hello, Ren. The name's Havel, Lance Havel."
Ren nodded to Lance as he approached, filling up a second glass of whiskey, putting it in Lance's extended hand. "A pleasure, Havel. I might've come across as rude, but there's no hard feelings, yeah?" Ren said in a very loud whisper, dark eyes peering through a messy curtain of hair. "I'm looking forward to working with someone with your experience in..." He trailed off, pointedly leaving the sentence for Lance to finish.
"My experience in not being an asshole? Sure I'll take what I can get" Chuckling at the sight of the premature drinking. "But I see you like to get ahead of yourself-" Lance stopped himself, realizing he was getting ahead of himself and not the other way around. Ren turning his back to him, his words left hanging in the air. Ok well atleast we aren't quite on bad terms... Noticing in the corner the women sitting aside from the whole meeting since Fossten had introduced himself.
Stillman, having been abandoned by Pieter after his claim that the black welts were caused by prostitutes, decided to meet someone else. Then he noticed one of three frankly gorgeous broads he'd seen when he came in. What was her name again? Right, Heather. She didn't really look like a Heather. More like a Daphne or a Veronica. They just didn't build Heathers like this. A Heather had brown hair, a droopy expression, and was probably fat. This was altogether a different story.
He offered his sweaty hand, grinning, "Hi, I'm William Stillman! I'm a cleaner! That's with a capital C, by the way. Good job. Lots of hours."
Heather had been sitting quietly, taking it all in. She had assumed she would be working with other high level agents on some sort of newly formed team. Yet, based on what she had been hearing, she was in the minority. There were some...shady characters present. It was her job to deal with shady characters, but this was another level. Still, they had to be here for a reason. Right?
As the others talked, she kept an eye on one particular man. She recognized him from back when she was thrusted into this whole mess. She couldn't place his name right away, but it came to her fairly quickly. She wanted to poke his brain a bit. Find out more about what's going on.
Before she could respond any which way, a man came up to her and offered his hand. She could see the sweat on it, but it would be rude otherwise. She took it and shook, but quickly pulled her hand back, subtley wiping it on her pants. "Heather Gregory. I'm an attorney. So why don't you tell me more about your....cleaning?" She gave him a knowing smile that maybe, she wasn't the best of people to confide in about this particular topic.
He just laughed at this, "Yeah, don't worry it's legal! I think. Probably?" He shouted to Fossten, "This is legal right?" But the man seemed to be busy talking to others.
"Ahem, by legal you mean classified. And as far as I can see, many of us have a background in the intelligence community. So rest assured most of us do have at the least Top Secret clearence." Lance said "Havel, Lance Havel DIA Analyst and you two?"
Heather looked from Stillman to the familiar face. At least he confirmed what she thought. She was still concerned with who exactly was among them, but that could be sorted out at a later time. "Heather Gregory. Pardon my saying so, but you look familiar. I've seen your picture in a case file of mine. The case that kind of kicked this whole thing off, I suppose. The one in Indonesia? Remember?"
"Indonesia...." Lance tapped a finger on his chest thinking. "Ah yes I was correspondent for certain CIA affiliates." Lance seemed to take a more guarded stance. "I feel at a disadvantage here, you are well informed of me but not the other way around." Lance smirked a keen interest in his eyes. "We should fix that when we have the time."
Stillman pointed to himself with this thumb, "Names William Stillman! My boss, Mike, made me come to this one. Threw a mug at me and shouted something about having no idea what was going on, that he had lost sleep for two days after hearing about it. Said he was goin' to a shrink to see if he could be hypnotized to forget about work for a while. Good guy, Mick."
What he didn't mention is this sounded an awful lot like the airplane incident. During a freefall he had caused, there was this man who had pointed at him. His voice. His voice quietened everything except his words. It was the most unnatural thing Stillman had ever seen.
"We are quite the odd team. But I don't doubt we were all put together because of our respective attributes." Lance said extending his hand out to Stillman. "Nice to meet you William."
Stillman shook his hand, "I mean, me bein' here must mean something big is going on. I deny any job that sounds like this. One time I was asked to enter a cave system in the Himalayan Mountains, to make absolutely no noise and to not make any light whatsoever. This doesn't sound too bad though. We're just investigating, right?"
Heather kept silent as she listened. Lance was already somewhat familiar with the case, but she didn't want to spill the beans about it to the others just yet, unless it was deemed necessary. The story itself was crazy. She wouldn't believe it if she didn't experience it firsthand. Though she was sure these people would at least be a bit more tolerant, she didn't want to show off her hand too early. She just met these people, after all. She may be blonde, but she wasn't dumb.
"Well at the very least we'll have a story or two to come out of this." Lance said, looking over to Fossten then back. "I'd gauge we're dealing with something we'd never suspect. It isn't everyday that you find a team like ours trying to find one suspect. I look foward to seeing how things pan out." Lance resumed tapping his chest his hand habitually going into his right pocket. As if he was deep in thought. "But Heather, you didn't quite mention where you worked. Before well, you came to be here."
"I'm an attorney, as I said. Part of the CIA General Counsel. Not super exciting work, but it has its moments. That case from Indonesia is how I came to be here. I look forward to finding out more information. I don't like being kept in the dark about things."
Lance chuckled. "Then you choose the wrong employer." Pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time he continued. "So any hobbies either of you? I myself dabble in things here and there."
"Play a little harmonica." Fossten said, stepping up beside the conversation at hand. He knew he'd have to keep a tight hold on Stillman. Despite the man's skill and experience keeping mouths shut and memories miraculously blank all of a sudden, the man had a problem doing the same for himself. Pitting a man like that against these two, well, it's how whistleblowers happened. "I don't believe I've talked personally with the two of you," He smiled to Stillman and Heather, "Reckon we'll have a few more chances 'fore our time together's done, though. Fossten Hughes, pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Gregory."
Heather had to admit to herself that there were quite a few good looking men among their group. She would have to be dead to not realize such. However, she had to be wary. After recent events, she didn't trust anyone anymore. Even if they were part of the CIA. "Nice to meet you as well." She was still anxiously waiting for this whole thing to get started.
He raised his glass and smiled to Heather before looking at the others, "Any of you have much field experience?"
"As I said with my hobbies I dabbled in things here and there. The DIA seemed to become very flexible with the use of my job title." Lance gave Fossten an even glance. "I suspect the same will be true for my time here."
Fossten only nodded, not knowing whether to smirk impishly or offer a consoling shrug. In the end, he only took a drink from his glass. "Just might."
One night of light drinking to calm the nerves was alright for the team, got them loose, got them talking in a relaxed environment. Bonding was an invaluable tool for a team's morale. "Figure I'd also wrangle the bunch of you up 'fore bed. It's an early night, sure, but we've got an early morning ahead of us. Nice to meet you both. Stillman." He nodded to the man before he left their little circle and then turned back to the others, "Be up at zero-six-thirty. Two bedrooms to bunk in, pretty big. One for women, the other's for the guys."
With that, he decided he himself would turn in for the night. He swirled the watered down remnants of his final drink in his glass before tipping it back with his head and sighing, placing the glass on the counter. He didn't feel right, truth be told, and trying at sleep when he didn't feel right was never good. His hand went to the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled free a pack of cigarettes. He turned for the door, flipping open the lid and taking one between his lips as he stepped out, able to make out the silhouettes of trees and the looming mountains past the fringes of the property. The air sent a chill down his arms and his eyes took in the sight of White Tree, but a speckling of lights on the hills.
It was an odd day. Odd experiences... Odd people... Judith normally wouldn't have doubted immediately mingling with the fantastic cast of characters, trying to get an angle on each one, but for the moment she stayed the observer. In fact, she played the observer for a long while, simply swirling about a glass of whiskey as her covered eyes traced each character around the place. It certainly was a motley crew. The air of some gave off impressions of soliders. Others were the silly secret agent type. That much was obviously by their adversity to share information and similar almost stereotypical tropes. Strange... Judith wasn't normally this analytical, or maybe she was, but she was just too occupied getting down to business to know. This pause in the action that was Ms. Calapsis's life was... offputting.
As things finally seemed to be winding down, Judith rose from her seat, retrieving the dark glasses from her eyes. Each one of her new colleagues had their own interesting traits, and Judith had full intentions to get to know all of them, but for the time being, there was one man that caught her eye. 'Fossten' was it? Either a silly codename or a surname. Either way, he seemed rather knowledgable to the whole ordeal the ragtag bunch found themselves in. Judith on the other hand was quite the opposite, but she didn't intend to maintain her ignorance for long. The perfect opportunity soon presented itself as Fossten stepped off outside. What was a more perfect opportunity to milk someone for information than being momentarily alone with them at a gathering? This was Judith's specialty. She made haste to step after him, pausing only a moment as he left the building. The watchful eye may have noticed her hand just catching the door without an interruptive sound. A bit of a creak made her presence obvious as she pressed the door back open again, though.
A chill braced her as the wind rolled through her form. A quick glance towards Fossten left Judith with his purpose for escaping his comrades. A pack of cigarettes was posed opportunistically in his hand. Judith proceeded posing herself gently against the wall adjacent to her conversational partner before finally speaking. "Mister Fossten... Not with the CDC, did a tour in Somalia..." She paused a moment, one corner of her lips curling upwards. "Plays a little harmonica, but you're still an enigma. You can't be a normal soldier boy, can you?"
So much for solitude. And the kicker was, the woman wanted a sparring session of words. He let go one last exhalation of smoke before leaning against the parapet of the porch. At her last quip, his lips frowned for but a single twitch, "No." He said.
He left, 'you don't know the fucking half of it' unsaid. He sucked his teeth before taking another drag and blowing it out on the wind, "Judith Calapsis, lengthy trail of criminal activity across the United States, apprehended by Steve Foster while attempting to sell a very interesting piece of history. I hear you keep some odd company. Or did in the past." Fossten himself smirked and took another draw, speaking through an exhalation of smoke, "Says one enigma to the other." Wordless, he flipped open the pack of cigarettes and held it out to his new teammate.
Not close? Judith wasn't surprised, but her smug expression remained. Her brows lifted as he commented further, switching the positions of the pair. She would have looked surprised if that ever present crooked smirk wasn't still crossing her lips. Her teeth did grit together a bit as Fossten mentioned his knowledge of her, bracing such a gesture with a weak chuckle beneath her breath. He was Foster's guy alright...
"Ooh... It seems you have me beat, deputy..." Luckily, Judith managed to hold back a 'Trust that I'm more than I appear in your files'. It was curious how easily information seemed to change hands in such a secretive bunch. Judith only hoped it was just Fossten that would recognize the name. "We'll just have to wait and see how long the mystery lasts." Judith flicked a hand forward, allowing herself to grasp at one of the cigarettes from Fossten's pack. Ms. Calapsis wasn't an avid smoker, but damned if she didn't play every bit of every character she created. "Well then, as the man with all the info, you've surely got a plan to deal with the whole scenario, yes?"
"Not all the information." He held out his lighter, flicking the wheel with his thumb and the flame came to life. "Just the information on everyone in this house."
He let the 'deputy' comment slide. Dig any deeper in his past and let him know about it, things would stop being so cute. He kept his calm smirk, no reason to ruin a good conversation. When she leaned into the sparse light of his lighter's flame for a moment, he could see she looked exactly like she did in her pictures. Except the tattoos. He thought for a moment, chewing on the question as he took another drag. "Why museum curator?" He asked, "History buff?"
Judith held in a groan. If Mr. Deputy didn't know the whole story, maybe she'd have to try and get close with Foster, himself. Of course, Judith couldn't imagine I guy like that ever breaking for her. "I'll have to keep that in mind for when I need gossip on the colleagues..."
Why museum curator... Judith didn't know herself. She didn't really think of herself as anyone special in the antique business. She knew her cards. That's what got her here. Her moment of thought was evident before her reply. "No-no. Not a big history gal. My opponents just... ran out of money." Judith halted herself there. She wasn't about to get played off into revealing more about herself. "Interested in the ancient, yourself?" She didn't expect much or care much about the answer. Judith knew how to make her way around a conversation, though, and Fossten was one character which she felt she needed to dig deeper with.
"Not so much." Fossten shook his head. He'd worked Human Intelligence plenty, put through the mental ringer at The Farm to get his skills. He knew when someone was being guarded, but who wasn't in his line of work? At least she didn't blab as much as Stillman. If she knew something so infinitessimal in his life as his time as a Sherriff's Deputy in Texas, he had to wonder just what all she knew. He liked her so far. So he hoped she didn't know too much. At least not before the team's time. "So," he nodded, "It's mighty apparent there are things under wraps here. I am curious, though." He took another drag and clucked his tongue, "What did Foster say to you. You know, before he brought you and the others here?"
Judith allowed herself to casually respire further, the faint ember in the tip of her cigarette alighting with new fires each time she released a breath. She couldn't get anywhere with this guy. An enigma through and through, yes, but there was always something behind the front. Judith knew that much well. After all, who was better equipped to deal with facades than the face of facades? Judith's eyes wandered as she allowed the thoughts to overcome her present mind. What did she know about the whole ordeal? "Not much... I was likely given less information than was just spewed to us as bullshit in our little 'meeting'. I figured you might know more... If anyone, at least..."
"Would I tell you, though?" Fossten said, before taking his final drag and crushing his cigarette butt on the wood porch beneath his shoe. He walked to the door and layed his hand on the knob before pausing, "Not every day you meet someone like you. Between you and Mister Havel, I know who to watch for. A fair warning, though," He turned back around and his face was more pleading father than menacing spy with a thousand secrets, more forlorn crusader battered by what he's seen of the true enemy of mankind, "It's possible to know too much."
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Judith was left with only the oppressingly open sky and its myriad stars for company, more questions, and only her dying cigarette's cherry to protect herself from all of it. Fossten knew she knew a lot, but she didn't know what he did. He sniffed and looked back out the window to the porch, Judith not being displayed by it, but the sentiment was all the same. No one should know what he and Foster did.
---
He shut the door to his personal room opposite Foster's just as the man started to quiet everyone's conversations and send them to bed. He sat on his own bed, finding himself slipping into that empty-headed trance in the relative silence of his private room. That was the calm before the storm, usually. The memories would march through his head again like a returning army come home. He unholstered his handgun from its inside-the-waistband concealed carry holster and push-checked the slide, revealing the neat, dull brass of a chambered round. Satisfied, he set it down and replaced it in his hand with his sleep meds, popping two into his mouth and gulping them down with a glass of water. He lay down and closed his eyes, shooing the fear of his meds failing to work away.
Morning would hopefully find him dreamless.
---
Stillman eventually strolled outside to breathe in the crisp Virginia air. He didn't often see forests, or mountains. He was a New York man and loved that city. Pizzarias on every other corner. Broadway. That anime store he frequented. There wasn't any anime to be seen out here and he just couldn't call it home. Looking off to his left he saw the telltale glow of a cigarette, and he grinned, approaching the South African standing in the eaves of the old house.
The glowing butt of the cigaretee was flicked down on the ground and snuffed out under the toe of a boot. "Howzit, bru," said Pieter as he stepped out into the light coming through one of the windows. "You were a contractor with the Agency as well, ja?" Pieter squinted up at the slightly taller man. He had heard things, rumours on the agency grapevine about a crazy hitman from New York... and this loud-mouth seemed to fit the description.
Stillman nodded, yawning, "Yeah, best job I've ever had."
"I figure we should at least learn the lay of the land, do a quick lap and check the security of the site," Pieter stated, checking his Beretta before reholstering it. "Between me and you, I don't see any of those spooks inside doing any real work when push comes to shove."
Stillman grinned sideways, walking out from the hideout and casually pulling a damn double barrel from his trench coat, like he was a school shooter or something. He began walking and said "Gotta have more faith in these guys! They might not know how to kill guys good, but you see everyone inside? Seem like a decent crew. I'm more worried about people like that blondie, Heather. Looks like she's never gotten into a scrape in her life. Which is fine, she's probably got some other skills, but I've got a feeling I'm going to need to break some teeth by the time this is done." He lifted the shotgun in his right hand and his clenched fist in his other, "And I only have two hands! Spooks will at least start shooting if anything goes wrong."
"Or turn tail and run." Pieter added as they crossed about halfway around the lay of the nearby property. He felt with even this brief evaluation, he could sleep easy. They were atop a hill and one could easily see anyone approaching. If it were to a raid, any attacking force would find itself with heavy casualties before they reached the top. Or they'd find a mysterious, heavily armed house.
Stillman laughed, "Not a bad idea! I don't work this job to die, right?"
Pieter grunted. Most soldiers said that, but few ever came out of it without having at least had something die, even if it weren't themselves. Maybe they lost a hand. Maybe they remembered the dead. Maybe they lost their mind. There were stories of men, after retiring, strangling their wives in their sleep. Even their dreams sought death. Yeah he drank a bit, but who didn't these days?
They reached the end of their survey of the land with at least a sense of having sanctuary. There was at least one place to turn to after whatever came tomorrow. On their ambling return to the doorstep, the lights in the house winked out one by one until the two of them were alone with the night for but a few seconds. Somewhere hidden in the pitch blackness of the treeline, and far from the attention of those in the house or the two men outside, two pairs of eyes stared at them...
"Who do you suppose they are?" One voice said to the other.
The other turned to the one, "Obstacles."