[IC] Delta Green: Whispers in the Darkness

[Leidenschaft]

Prologue

Last Things Last...

>SITE 332, COLLOQUIALLY CALLED ‘THE HOLE’
>SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY
>0034

“Ah, hell...”

It was silent in the room. That was never a good thing because it meant the fan had gone out again. It had a habit of doing that so much that Donnelley figured it hated being here as much as he did and wanted so badly to let the suffering of the heat stop. But if Donnelley had to be here…

He unplugged the little desk fan and plugged it in again, probably harder than he needed to. He tapped the little thing until it whirred to life again and let go a sigh of supreme relief at the tiny breeze it created, only a hair cooler than the room itself. “Should just get a new one.”

“And go back into town after what Smitty did? That was high-vis shit on a low-vis op. We’re lucky we even got this sonofabitch.” Donnelley gestured to the tiny television on the desk next to the fan. The only source of light inside the tiny office he and fellow Paramilitary Operations Officer Donald Kingsley were sweating to death in, showing a live feed of a man forced into a squatting position with a black bag over his head. Donnelley could tell he wasn’t used to this, not trained, by the frantic head movement. If the feed had audio, they’d hear calls for mercy, maybe. “He talk yet?”

“‘Course.” Kingsley said, nodding, eyes unwavering from the feed. “Just never said the words I wanted him to.”

“Shame.” Donnelley may have hated ISIL and their allies, but he didn’t hate the kid scared and alone with two monsters of men watching him through the all-seeing eye of a closed-circuit feed. “He’s a street kid, not a fighter. We gotta truss him up like that?”

“He’s their driver. He’s seen the faces of the foreign fighters, seen the commanders, he knows what they look like and he knows the routes.”

“Still. Are you sure your source wasn’t blowing smoke?” Donnelley looked sidelong at Kingsley. He was better at developing sources than he was, but there was always that little bit of chance somebody caught on. Somebody found out a source was giving you info and wanted to start feeding you horse shit instead of actionable intel.

Kingsley pursed his lips at Donnelley, folding his arms. Donnelley remembered confronting Kingsley’s source, Azad inside his tiny apartment on the outskirts of Adana. A dingy little place they had no trouble breaking into and setting up their theatrical little dramatic meeting by moonlight where they brokered a deal. A paid-for trip out of Turkey to anywhere of his choosing in Europe if he gave the names of his network of drivers.

Donnelley hid it well, the fact they had no plans nor the power of setting their end of the deal in motion. It was a cruel world. And maybe Azad would get left to the wolves or they’d sniff out his treachery, but as long as they got those names his screams as they tore him apart wouldn’t be in vain.

The phone started ringing. Kingsley grunted to his feet from the chair he was sitting in and snatched the phone up. “Hello… Oh.”

From behind him came Kingsley’s big hairy hand with the phone clutched in the thick fingers. He never got over how not-CIA Kingsley looked. Like the CIA set up a recruiting booth on the sidelines of a college football game years ago and Kingsley the linebacker stuck to it. Donnelley took the phone, putting it to his ear, “Donnelley.”

“You are activated. Stateside. Check your email.”

And that was never, ever a good thing. Kingsley sat down again, folded arms over his big barrel chest. “What’s it about?”

“Nothing good...” Donnelley sighed as he rose from his chair to go pack his things.

>BLACKRIVER COUNTY
>OUTSIDE 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 Joseph’s lips. He took a draw and exhaled, letting it disperse on the air, watching the cloud drift off to be lost among the morning mists.

The medium-sized house- if the glorified cabin could be called such- had been procured a week before Joseph 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, 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. Not that the walls looked like they were ready to stand a siege, let alone a particularly rough sigh. To add to everything, the electricity was supplied by a generator- one in backup, just in case- and that electricity did not run towards fixed light outlets. There were lamps arranged inside the tiny cottage, and one outside. That was about it for mood lighting.

More importantly, deep-down, in the places where Joseph refused to let soldiering and tradecraft taint, he loved to be able to see the sprawling mountains in every direction and the lights of White Tree speckled about the hills at night. The relatively low light-pollution lent the night sky an almost 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?”

Joseph 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.”

Joseph 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, Mathieu, Laurence, National Parks Service.

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. It almost made him smile to fantasize about a day where he could be sitting in his own rocking chair, on his own porch. Without Foster... “How much do they know?”

“Hmm?” Steve asked, following him closely and leaning on the porch’s banister.

“The team.” Joseph frowned, “How much do they know?”

“About the same I told you on your first.” Foster said.

“Well, that really addresses my concerns.” Joseph said. He'd never forgotten Afghanistan, he'd never forget Somalia. He shook his head and sighed, “Do they at least meet the criteria?”

“All. I made sure they’re not completely blind. A lot of them have seen a scary black rock.” Steve raised his eyebrows, as if that made things all better. Joseph had an urge to crack one on Foster's jaw about then, but then who'd babysit the newbies. “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, Joseph, we’re going to be old and grey. Or at least I hope we reach that, but...”

Joseph snorted, "You know," he lit up the burnt end of a half-smoked cigarette, puffing on it a couple times and then continuing, "I'm going to keep clinging to that whole narrative of one day winning this glorious holy war. Do you ever get tired of being so fucking depressing?"

"Just being realistic." Foster shrugged.

"The day I start being realistic to the exclusion of all else is the day I might just put a cyanide pill in my mouth and wait patiently." Joseph and Foster both chuckled. Gallows humor was a staple of surviving. You needed it, to see the humor in everything and anything. It was less an actual joke and a ritual, almost, the laughing its chants.

"At least their's won't be a baptism of fire. Just errand work. For now."

“More fuel for the flames.” Joseph nodded, slow. The words were quiet and more to himself than Steve, but he perked up a bit- little bit of that old bravado a younger Joseph had been bled of over the years, “I’ve got a few more fires in me.”

“Of course you do,” Foster said, smiling over his shoulder at Joseph ant then looking back out at the mountains, “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. Joseph only nodded in agreement, knowing the old lions of the Delta Green pride were nearing the end of their reigns. “Well.” Joseph sighed, getting to his feet from the chair, “Ain’t that a nice thought. What's their ETA?”

"Should be here later this morning if they can find the place." Foster smirked.

Joseph gave one of his own, "Oh, I'm sure the tough Ranger can."

"Which one?"

"Which one do you think?" Joseph chuckled, the sound of the front door closing after him...

[Gunther]

>SSA Thomas Stewart
>BRAINTREE, MASSACHUSETTS
>UNITED STATES
>1900HRS
>THE NIGHT BEFORE...///

“What’s the difference between first degree murder and manslaughter?” Jill asked her husband as they sat at the kitchen table eating dinner. The meal had been met with silence thus far. Jill felt uncomfortable and asked a neutral question to break the ice.

Tom was accustomed to her questions. She had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and was always asking him questions about the law. Having graduated Boston College School of Law, it was a subject he was quite familiar with. He did very well in law school and could have done well as either a criminal defense attorney or a prosecutor, but Tom had other goals he wanted to achieve. Spending all his time in a court room was not one of them. He still had wild oats to sew at age thirty-five. “Intent,” was his curt response without looking up at her.

“Excuse me?” she was put off by the brevity of his response and he knew it.

Tom looked up at her and met her eyes with his. “If person A possesses the capacity to kill another human and accidentally does what if takes to fatally injure person B and subsequently, person B dies, person A is responsible. A crime was committed. But person A never intended to kill person B. That is manslaughter. In some states, that is referred to as second degree murder. In Massachusetts, it is manslaughter.” Tom returned to eating his food. He looked up at Jill. He still saw the beauty in her face, but there was something about her that caused him to lose his taste for her. He only started noticing it this week. He really couldn’t identify what it was, but they had grown distant over the last few years; living in the same house.

The couple had celebrated their five-year anniversary this year and they still had no children to show for it. ‘Was she barren?’ Tom thought to himself. ‘When we were first married we made love every night. That lasted for almost two years. Then it slowed to once a week. Now, we’re lucky if we make love once a month. Can’t have a child that way.’ Maybe this was a subject they should have talked about before they were married. Tom felt uncomfortable bringing the subject up. He certainly wasn’t going to bring it up this evening. He was leaving in the morning.

“How’s Woods Hole?” Tom spoke dryly.

“Fascinating!” Jill was excited to talk about her work. “Did you know there is a large gam of sharks off Cape Cod?” Gam was one of a few terms defining a grouping of sharks.

“The news always seems to have a story about them. The movie, ‘Jaws’ was set in the area.” Tom knew she was from Nevada and went to the beaches in Southern California. She had no experience of the Northeast. This was a new experience for her. His apathy was growing. Besides, he had to leave and needed to figure out how to tell her.

“Honey, there is something I need to tell you,” Tom muttered to Jill.

“What is it, Tom?” Jill could tell there was something wrong. She sensed his distance. He was pulling away from her. It was easy to use work as an excuse to create distance. She felt they had lost their spark and were not making love as much anymore. She assumed his drive may have diminished.

“Work is sending me to West Virginia on a special case,” Tom finally let out.

“What kind of case?” Jill asked

“I really can’t discuss the details. It is an ongoing investigation.”

“Certainly the FBI has agents in West Virginia they can use. Why do they need you?” Jill was annoyed by his coyness. The way he averted his eyes from hers. It was almost as though he were lying to her; leaving out the truth. Maybe it was not a work related trip at all?

“I really can’t talk about it,” he didn’t want to say what it was. He then looked her in the eye and stated, “it has something to do with an operation I participated in, in Afghanistan about ten years ago.”

“Ok, Tom!” Jill was overly annoyed with all the secrecy of the FBI. “I’m only your wife! You don’t want to share with me. Fine! I packed up and moved out here to New England to be your wife! You can’t be honest with me! Maybe I just need to leave for awhile!” Jill stood up, threw her napkin on the table and stormed out the front door. Tom heard her car engine start up and she drove away.

It was an ugly scene. He hated it. The tension in the room had been palpable. Her outburst and subsequent hasty departure seemed to release the tension a bit. Tom felt more at ease about leaving now that she left. He didn’t feel like eating any more of his dinner. He did however down the half empty glass of wine. Refilled the glass and drank that. He may have had a third; can’t recall.

The next morning, his bags packed, he headed to the airport around zero dark thirty. Logan was not very crowded at this time of the morning. Only the red eyed businessmen were in line at the TSA check in. Tom identified himself, showing his federal credentials, and was ushered through security without a second glance. ‘Definitely one of the perks, working for the government. Don’t need to stand in line waiting to have everything checked. Got to keep my shoes on too.’ Tom smiled to himself as he walked toward the gate for his flight to West Virginia.

The JetBlue Airbus A320 taxied out onto the runway just before zero six hundred hours. Sitting at the rear of the cabin in order to have a decent view of all passengers, Tom Stewart sat back as the twin CFM56 Turbofan engines produced 34,000 pounds of force to move the aircraft into the skies over Boston harbor. It banked to the right as it turned toward the south and then to the west. Slowly the lumbering aircraft climbed into the sky. There was a noticeable upward tilt to the cabin from Tom’s seat. The aircraft would consume another hour and forty minutes before landing at Wheeling Ohio County airport.

After collecting his bags, which included one containing firearms, he needed to retrieve from TSA after showing his federal identification, he made his way to a special desk. The elder female here helped arrange a special Uber, courtesy of Delta Green. When the Ford Explorer arrived a young woman with long brown hair braided in the rear greeted him with a less than friendly expression. She wore a black leather jacket and a blue flower print blouse and jeans. “Tonya” was her name. She helped him gather his gear and stow it in the rear of the SUV.

“Great time,” Tom muttered once in the passenger seat.

“Pardon,” Tonya asked.

“Ah, it is just after eight thirty and we are on our way. Great time. Should be there in no time, right?” Tom was feeling a little bit of the jet lag, trying to get his bearing. He slept most of the flight. He typed out a missive on his laptop letting Jill know where he was going and as much as he could about what he was doing. He tried to apologize for the secrecy but felt if she didn’t understand by now, she may never. He couldn’t go into details and hoped she would understand. He hated how they left things at dinner. She hadn’t returned to the house that evening. He didn’t know where she went or where she slept last night. She had friends from work. He assumed she went to one of their places. It bothered him; weighed heavy on his mind.

“We should arrive at the Delta Green compound around eleven hundred hours, sir.” The woman was very professional. She did not smile. She acted like one of the young sergeants he had in the marine corps. She was not the type to make idle chatter with him and he was OK with that.

After a two-hour ride in silence, he finally asked a question, “were you in the military?”

She maintained her focus on the road, “aye, sir. Naval Intelligence. Six year. Petty Officer First Class, sir. I’m told you were a Marine Captain, aye sir?”

“Aye,” Tom responded out of habit. “I left the Corps eight years ago.”

“Aye aye, sir.” She drove on another five minutes. “Annapolis, class of 2006.”

Tom was mildly annoyed by the encyclopedia of information coming from his quiet driver. “Is there anything you don’t know about me, Petty Officer Tonya?” Tom questioned exasperated.

She did not miss a beat, “No sir.” She stated simply enough and drove up to the medium sized house, which appeared more like a cabin. “Here we are, Agent Stewart. I’ll get your equipment. You’ll need to check in with Mr. Foster and Mr. Donnelly. They should be just inside the building.”

“Thank you, very much,” Tom responded as Tonya unloaded his bags to be placed just inside the door. Tom entered ahead of her to introduce himself to the two CIA officers. Mr. Donnelly appeared to be about the same height as him with red hair like him, but several years more experience at life. His presence in the house alerted their attention. Tom took that as an opportunity to introduce himself, “Hello, I am special agent Thomas Stewart from Boston.”

[idlehands]

The cry of gulls and the salt tang in the air was familiar but the grey clouds and the fog clinging to the distant red bridge reminded Dr Laine too much of Seattle and the events a week ago. She closed her eyes as she half listened to her friend, Dr Mariana Jones, talk about her wedding plans and the honeymoon that was still undecided. She had every right to be excited, a woman in her mid thirties even as successful and beautiful as Mariana, naturally felt that almost instinctive fear of the biological clock ticking louder. She was marrying an Izod, what Laine called the type of man that dressed business casual even in his off time. Handsome and well to do, a realtor in San Francisco that had already made his first million in his mid twenties. Mariana would be fine, they would have an expensive town home and be painting a new nursery by this time next year.

“Elephants...”

“Huh?” Laine sat up, the last word she caught was unusual and it her attention was back on her friend.

“I said, we are thinking of going to ride elephants in Thailand, and see the beaches and ruins of course,” Mariana said, her bright smile startling white against her dark skin. The woman was a perfect blend of Brazilian and African American, with hazel eyes. Any man would be lucky to have her. Chuck the Khaki pants better remember that.

“Elephants stink. Besides, those poor bastards with tourists crawling all over them everyday,” Laine commented, tapping her manicured black painted fingernails against the table, “Why not Fiji? Or New Guinea, see the cannibals”

“Oh, yes that’s on the list,” she said, shuffling through her phone then shot Laine a glance, laughing slightly, “Not the cannibals though.”

Laine watched her a moment, intent on her friend’s face and the joy that radiated there. To remember it.

“Fiji might be safer,” Laine added, then drank the last of her coffee, checking the time on her own phone.

The air of distraction was not missed by Mariana who was a practicing psychiatrist. “So that Olympia Park case must have been rough.”

“Hmm, as rough as any,” Laine said, shrugging her shoulders, her dark bobbed hair swaying. She sat back, crossing her arms over her Misfits t-shirt she wore over a pair of jeans, dressed down on her day off.

“You don’t fool me so don’t even try.”

“Mariana, don’t bring Dr Jones out.”

The other woman leaned forward, “Then why aren’t you staying to make sure the killer is caught? I know you, once you got the scent you’re like a bloodhound. Do you really think your profile is enough?”

Laine blinked, then glanced away, “I got another offer...I can’t talk about it but it could help with the Olympia Park case.”

Mariana tilted her head, her eyes now focused and Laine saw the stubborn expression, one she was all too familiar with. “Are you leaving Quantico? The BAU?”

“For a little while,” she admitted, then said quickly, “Not permanently, no.”

“But you can’t talk about it.”

“Right.”

Mariana pressed her lips together then raised an eyebrow, “Oh, but if you’re not there at the training facility, maybe you and Alex have another shot?”

Laine rolled her eyes, reaching up under her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose, “No, we don’t.”

“But you’ll not be in a posi-”

“It was never that,” Laine almost snapped, then gave her friend an apologetic smile, “Not just that anyway. Look, I know you’re happy with Chuck and god knows you deserve it. But Alex and I, no matter where I work, are over. I still care about him but I can’t give him what he wants.”

Mariana blinked then reached her hand out, squeezing Laine’s hand, “Oh Heather...well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk about it. He said he was fine with it at first but ...you know how it is. He wanted a family and I can’t give him that,” Laine said, cringing slightly at hearing her first name and then checked the time again. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry, I know that. You know you should talk about it, if it bothers you that much.”

Laine sighed, “It doesn’t bother me until it becomes an issue with the man I thought I might marry. But it was, so now here we are. We’re still friends at least, I can count on that.”

She put her hand on her purse, a black leather Prada bag, a gift from Mariana on her last birthday. Dr Laine pulled out a thick envelope and handed it over. “I need you to take care of some things for me, just for safekeeping.”

Mariana looked over the overstuffed envelope, handwritten letters were shoved between documents. “Is that a will in here?”

“Yes, I had to refresh all my official documents, I need you to put that somewhere safe, it's only a copy. The original is in a safety deposit box. There’s a key also in the envelope. For my place in Virginia,” she said, her deep green eyes holding no humor. “Don’t ask me why or anything. I just know I can trust you more than anyone.”

Mariana met her gaze and nodded solemnly, “Of course, you’re my sister.”

“From another Mister,” Laine finished their old bit of banter.

The women smiled at each other but there was a sadness, a longing for times that seemed lost now. “I have to go, my Uber will be here.”

“You should let me drive you at least,” Mariana said, standing up when Laine did.

“I’d rather say goodbye here,” she replied, then moved to embrace her friend. They hugged tight and when she pulled back, Mariana had tears in her eyes.

“You better not...whatever it is you’re up to, I know you’ll be fine. You’ve never taken a stupid breath in your life,” she said, wiping her eyes before her mascara started to run. “And you better be at my wedding! I need my best woman.”

“Bridesmaid.”

“No, you’re my best woman,” Mariana said, cupping Dr Laine’s face. “My best friend. You have to be there.”

“I will,” Laine said softly, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

Her phone chimed with the alert her ride was waiting outside.

****

Dr. Heather Laine slept through most of the cross country flight, helped by a dose of Sudafed and a couple of tiny bottles of vodka. If she had dreamed, she did not remember it and was glad for that. The last week of nights had been disturbed by dark voices and the feeling of menace, something unnatural just beyond her grasp. The taxi ride in the growing darkness to her apartment seemed to take forever, the traffic between Dulles and Stafford County was always heavy and the driver seemed to rely too much on his GPS. They passed her street twice, the driver making a U turn to come back. Finally she leaned over, “Drop me at the corner here, I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Miss? That store looks shady,” the driver said, eyeing the shabby convenience store, half the signs written some southeast Asian language and ads for Bollywood movies to rent.

“Here? Yes, it is. Jakarata Mike is a shady bastard, never buy milk here,” she started to offer him her card then thought better of it, digging out a couple of twenty dollar bills.

The door chimed as she opened it, giving a nod to the man people called Jakarta Mike. A scrawny Indonesian man missing his two front teeth and whistled as he spoke. “Miss Laine, come in. We gonna close in five minutes.”

“You always are going to close in five minutes, Mike,” she countered, picking up a can of Diet Coke and setting it on the counter, “Got my blacks?”

“For you, yes,” he said, his bones or the stool creaking as he slid off, she was not sure which. The old man waddled to the back, mumbling in his singsong language to his grandson to mop the sticky floor by the Slurpee machine. “How many?”

Laine thought for a moment, normally she bought one or two and they would last her for about two weeks. “I’ll take the whole thing.”

He slid a black carton across the counter, “Gonna be gone for awhile?”

“Maybe,” she said, paying him cash, “Remember I was never here.”

“And I never sell you krektek,” he said, flashing the gaps in his teeth as he laughed. “Goodnight, Miss.”

Home was a French blue townhome with white trim, snugged between two other houses in the complex. It was quiet, no one was in the pool but she could see the lights on in the work out center and about half a dozen young professionals were working out or working up the courage to hook up. Dr Laine reached down to pet her neighbor’s cat, a black and white tuxedo who was overly friendly, wrapping himself around her ankles until he had enough scratches. It made her miss having a cat or even a dog, hell a hamster. Something living that needed her and waited for her to get home. But with all her travel, the poor thing would be lonely or spend half its life with someone else.

She unlocked the door and went into the silent house.

***

Dr. Laine left the airport in a rental car, a late model black Chevrolet Impala, a model she was familiar with as it was a favorite of law enforcement and rentacar companies. Pulling out onto the highway, she admired the rising green hills in the distance and turned up the bluetooth speaker, blaring a mix of her favorite songs and some dark southern gothic she had recently discovered. It fit the mood at least.

The drive was an hour and a half by the GPS estimates and Laine made it in just over an hour, pulling into the gravel drive outside the cabin. She spotted the other vehicles, all local plates and nothing ostentatious. Bland and basic, that was the way someone hid in plain sight. Her own name was not on this car, it was rented by a thirty one year old ethics professor Diana Kelly, who was on vacation. Ethics. That had to be someone’s idea of a joke considering the nature of such secrecy. No doubt the taxpayers were clueless, but that was also something that came with the territory working for the Feds.

She parked and waited for a moment, the motor ticking over as it cooled after being pushed hard on the hills. Perhaps it had been risky speeding, what if a local cop pulled her over? Laine reached for a black pack of Djarums and took one out, the black paper crinkling between her fingers. It would have been a test of her cover but a stupid risk. She mulled over her own behavior as she lit her cigarette, snapping the zippo shut and the Misfits crimson ghost grinned back at her. Maybe she had wanted to get caught, to end this before it began and go back to her office in the basement. Or maybe it was time she tested herself, pushed herself into the unknown.

Her cigarette crackled as she took another drag on it, observing the man on the porch. Trim, muscular, older than she was by maybe a decade or less. Red hair and a facial scar from what she could see. He was looking at her car and the other that approached, an SUV. It was time now. After the song ended she turned off the playlist and stuffed the phone into her pocket of the trim coat.

Dr Laine got out of the car, the clove cigarette dangling between her lips and her short dark hair tousled by the cool breeze of the morning until she tucked it behind her ears, the sunlight glinting off the silver skull studs in her lobes. She was dressed neatly in a knee length black pencil skirt over black hose with modest three inch heels. This was topped by a crisp white blouse with Victorian inspired lace at the collar and a trim, tailored dark gray blazer. She buttoned it up, and straightened out her skirt before dropping the cigarette onto the gravel and grinding it out with the toe of her shoe.

She could see the clean cut man that just exited the SUV, another ginger but better dressed, approach with a confident stride. She looped her purse over her shoulder and marched across the drive, the gravel crunching underfoot. Dr Laine waited for their introduction to conclude, the whole time glancing at both and reading what she could from their faces and postures. Professionals, both of them but the man on the porch had an air of sadness that seemed to hang around him. For himself, for them? For the poor fools that took a blind offer for answers they sought. The other man was an agent, FBI like herself and that much was a relief. He looked like a lawyer.

Once they concluded, she looked at the man that came out to greet them and held out her hand, “Dr. Laine, FBI Behavioral Analysis.”

[Andreyich]

Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

The sound echoed across the Highway as Laurence Mathieu rode along. In about an hour the Louisiana boy would swerve off of the I-20W and head off to some nearby address that. The rev of the engine, the Confederate flag waving in the breeze (and the annoyed drivers nearby taking pictures), the Death Grips he was blasting over the Radio, and of course the dip in his mouth. Everything was so perfect together, he really enjoyed himself.

---

Many hours earlier.

---

"Au-revoir memes, au-revoir pepes!" Laurie called out, waving to his Grandparents as he headed to his motorcycle. They liked it when he spoke French to them, damned the fact he borrowed vocabulary and pronunciation from English or Spanish half the time. The parts that he got right often sounded really Parisian, which they further got annoyed by but ultimately it put a smile on their face. Laurie made absolute sure to visit them one more time before he went off on this business the suits wanted from him. Some shit all the way up in West Virginia. Damn good song came from there, he liked playing it on the long nights in the swamps or woods when it was rainy or something of the sort. Real homely that song, real homely indeed. What was he on about? Oh right, he had to get to West Virginia. Heh.

He hopped on his bike and gave his grandparents one more wave before igniting the engine. Oh, he really love that roar. It was some right primal shit, shit mountain lions and really pissed bobcats might give, shit that was like an audible shot of testosterone oh yes sirreee.

Laurie loved riding his bike, it wasn't like normal driving. You were really there, not detached from it. Sure a car with no hood still got you the breeze but you aren't really part of the experience like a motorbike. A motorbike was... well, it was like the horse of the modern day as opposed to cars and trucks, the carriages and wagons of the modern day. Sure a carriage and wagon is useful but there's something special about just riding a horse and Laurie knew that firsthand.

Nothing much changed as you rode a motorcycle but it really didn't rouse Laurie's ADHD. He was calm then and if he got bored he could switch things up. Google Maps said it was sixteen hours from home to where he had to be and that was a lot of time. But he didn't want to ride a plane he wanted to be free. He could go down scenic ways, or feel the full speed of his Harley beast on the I-20. He could thunder music, or he could listen to the Knee-koh-muh-kee-yun ethics. Laurie liked audiobooks, they changed up the monotony of shit. He liked music but sometimes he ran out of the types he liked, and so he'd have to listen to something else. He didn't agree with all this philosophy bullshit he was hearing but damn it was captivating, and it was as clever as his neck was red. Damn clever.

He got to make excuses for eating cheap shit and drinking soda instead of tea and stuff, a sort of treat he supposed, a treat for having to deal with all sort of bullshit he'd have to deal with. Knowing his luck they'd make him find some rare rhino that a poacher let loose by accident and it was distinguishable by an arrow up the ass he'd have to remove. Nonsensical sure, but nonsensical were his forte weren't it?

You know, come to think of it how did those damn suits know so much shit about? And all the shit they didn't know they asked all the right questions for it. Forgive me mama but I'll hurt a man I catch tryna screw with me. He kissed the rosary around his neck, knowing he didn't have to ask God for forgiveness. It is writ in scripture Cursed be he who stays his sword from blood, and Laurie damn well took to that. The Lord really were asking him to be the slickest badass in the East, North, South, West, East and... wait he already said East. Well he was a slick badass, that's all that mattered really. He looked to his "concealed" carry and gave it a few taps as he waited for a red light to turn green. Ain't gon' stay you from blood my lil precious.

He sped up to the motel he noticed and took a room, taking all his stuff up to the room, locking it with a chair up to protect the handle from a door kicking badass who was close to rivalling Laurie in raw testosterone. Of course, nobody could get to his level oh no, Laurie knew he was too much of a man for that. He played with his rubik's cube for a few minutes before promptly falling asleep not having bothered to undress. He woke up with a start, which he considered strange. Maybe that bigfoot feller was kidding with him again, he didn't know.

Strange, he put on an alarm didn't he? He looked at his phone and cursed in a way much less Christian than even the "shit" he was used to. He turned it off to let it charge faster, but forgot to turn it off just as he fell asleep. He ran to the shower to clean himself up before getting dressed and running right back to his bike. His phone had just turned on, but he didn't put in the password and by the time Google Maps opened so he knew where the hell to go and everything... nah. He road over to the bikers he saw clustered at the Drive-thru opposite the motel with a wave.

"Howdy boys, you know the way to the I-20?" he queried. He got a few looks from them, and realized perhaps it was a mistake to let himself be surrounded from almost every direction by strangers in a strange land. They said something cheesy that Laurie really didn't pay attention to, but he knew it summed up would be along the lines of "give us your shit." Well, it was his shit thank you very much and no yokels would get it.

He stepped off his motorbike to go through his wallet quickly thinking of a badass move. But he wasn't that badass because he got what the old movies called a knuckle sandwich. But he turned into it for a softer hit on the cheek before giving a knuckle massage of the nuts to the fellow that gave him the sandwich. He felt owed a little remuneration so he reached into the guy's pockets to grab what was in and hopped back on his bike. With a kick he rode off, one of the bikers pulling and thus unbuckling a strap of his backpack, but nothing real happened. With a smug smile Laurie unfolded his fist to look at his spoils of war and... dropped the used condom on the ground.

Still, he won! Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! he cried, turning his phone on. Popping in the address into maps he got funny results, but it didn't matter once he was in the area he got a good feel of any new land he was in.

Took him half an hour, but he got there. Folks were already there, apparently which was fine by him, it meant he wasn't nearly as late as he thought. "Howdy fellows!" He shouted, dismounting just as the flag on his motorbike fell without a breeze to hold it up. Not bothering to say any more, he headed inside.

[CaptainBritton]

SSGT. Justin Clark
Fort Benning
Chattahoochee County, Georgia, USA
0400 hrs

Twelve minutes, twenty-two seconds. Still got it. Justin thought as he glanced down at his digital watch, recording the time. It was a good two-mile time, all things considered, although Justin wasn't completely satisfied as he did his cool-down exercises, using his PT t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. God, it was miserable here. Benning had been his station since 2010, and it never changed. All year it hovered near 100 percent humidity and never went below eighty degrees during the day. Even during the night, you felt like you were being waterboarded. All in all, he preferred Campbell.

It was just barely getting light out, and he was the only one doing his PT at that hour, on dimly light-lit roads which connected all the barracks dorms for station personnel. The regulars started their routine at 0600, but he had places to be. When his indefinite paid leave slip was signed and mailed by his command, he thought he was dreaming. Whoever these people were, they had to have their hands on a lot of people's strings. But after a shower, a light breakfast at the DFAC, and a change into his civvies, he was gone before the rest had even left formation.

And waiting for him was what he could only assume was a charter car, but with its almost-illegally tinted windows and black exterior, it looked more like secret service. But he knew it was the right one, it matched the model from his burner, his pre-paid LG that served as his only link to whoever it was he was working for. He got into the back seat, the door locking firmly behind him. As he tossed his travel bag in the seat beside, he tried to get a fix on who his driver was. It was a balding male, about early forties and wearing a dark grey suit, black tie, and a set of reflective oakleys. A bluetooth earpiece was fixed in his ear.

"You my driver?" Justin asked in his gravelly, sing-song drawl.

"Yes." The driver replied bluntly, in an indiscernible accent. Not one for conversation. Justin took note.

How he'd gotten in the gate was beyond Justin, but the driver did ask for his leave slip as they passed back out. The MPs quizzically ran their eyes over the slip, but handed it back without question, waving them through.

He wanted nothing more than to ask the driver how he knew their employers, but perhaps it was best to hold his tongue. Instead, he dug in the front pocket of his jeans, producing his phone. What better way to pass the time as they pulled out on the highway. Evidently they were heading towards the seventy-five by the route they were taking.

"No phones." The driver commanded, his glasses reflecting Justin in the rear view mirror. Justin opened his mouth to reply, but quietly put away his Pixel.

"You got any idea how long the drive's gonna take? All they gave me was this address, some backwood in West Virginia's all I get from it." Justin inquired, leaning back in his seat and relaxing.

"Ten hours."

"You're shittin' me-"

---

He resorted to sleeping most of that ten hours in the leather seats of that totally-not-suspicious car as it rolled northwards. The few times he did wake up, it was met by the view of the Blue Ridge, or more properly the Smokies as he knew them. Chattanooga, Knoxville, Bristol all passed in a blur. It was all too familiar, the run-down towns pockmarked across the valley, sandwiched between the Smokies and the Cumberlands. It was perfect daylight as they passed through Abingdon.

"I have to piss. Don't run off." The driver spoke, jostling Justin out of his 'sleep'. They were parked outside some nondescript gas station in buttfuck nowhere, along the Virginia-West Virginia border as best he could discern by the signs. The car's clock marked the time at 11:30 AM. They were making remarkably good time, maybe the driver had been speeding. Who knew. At least it wasn't completely ten hours. He was thankful enough for that, and all things considered was thankful for the stop. He needed a good piss and smoke break after six hours in that car.

Justin pried open the door cautiously, planting his boots on the ground for the first time in what felt like forever, heading into the gas station. A quick piss and a stretching of the legs later, he bought some Pall Mall Reds and a bottle of water with cash, before linking back up with his driver and getting back on the road. It wasn't far now. No sleeping required. And, evidently, he didn't have to even tell the driver where he was going, as they cut into some torn up backroads somewhere off I-79. He'd expected they were going to some facility somewhere, and it added up with the fact they were going somewhere that wasn't even on most of the road maps. White Tree? He found one old article about it years ago, but nothing of substance. This place really was off the grid.

They pulled off to some hill that overlooked the main hollers of White Tree. Some dilapidated cabin sat on the balded peak of the hill, some rocky cliffs giving a nice overlook. Could theoretically see miles in any direction, if the mountain air wasn't so damn hazy. That's part of it, though. The car's engine struggled against the gravel driveway and its sheer incline, but nonetheless he was dropped off out front, the car hauling ass to leave. And with his nicest Wranglers, his ATACs, a button-up plaid with sleeves rolled, and an unmarked tan ball cap, he approached the door, perhaps one of the last to properly arrive.

"Staff Sarn't Justin Clark, US Army." That, plus an outstretched hand was the greeting whoever was at the door got.

[Ionisus]

>MIDDLE-EAST
>AMMAN, JORDAN
>THREE DAYS PRIOR
>1340 HRS...///

The young man was on his knees, behind him seven men obscured in dusty shemaghs. He was looking at the ground in front of him; looking totally disheveled, his body slumped forward and exhaustedly calm, near lifeless. He was broken. Behind them were the upraised canopies of Palestine Oaks, Mediterranean timbers, and a black Da’ish flag wavering in the wind. Jason knew the young man. His name was Anis al-Shamard. He was nineteen.

The video had been posted early the same morning on a known Islamic State media account, though it was likely post dated and occurred a week or two before today. Jason knew what was coming next. The proclamations bitterly spat from the lead man behind Anis had stopped. Behind him the flash of a knife blade came over his shoulder and across his neck.

“Why don’t they fight?” asked Rich Weidman. The DEA Liaison was standing to Jason’s left in the dimly lit room of the compound, the glare of the monitors giving his apathy a glow. “I don't get why they never fight back.”

“By the time it's the real deal they usually go through a bunch of mock executions,” one of Jason's teammates answered. “They never know what's real or fake.”

Anis’s head was pulled back but Jason could still see his brow scrunch up in pain and his lips mouth out gurgled words. The knives were always dull and the executor began to saw into Anis's neck, locking in the young man's agonizing expression as he began to remove Anis's head. Anis was nineteen. He had worked in Syria selling hot coals on the street. He had wanted to leave Jordan and live in France.

“I ain't going down like that,” Rich said. “Soon as I feel them cutting I'm fighting.”

Jason had thought that way too once. He had told himself defiance until the bitter end, to always rage against the dying of the light. But he had never been where Anis had been. He had never been beaten and tortured and sodomized and at the imagined brink of death over and over again until living had become one fleeting moment into the next, like worthless terminal breaths. He had never been broken.

It was Jason that had convinced Anis to spy for his team. Anis had already lost his brother at the beginning of the Syrian Civil War, but when the Islamic State began their campaign of terror across the middle east Anis had lost his father and his only two sisters as well. It was all too easy for the DIA to recruit him.

“If I were in the same position you were in I'd do something,” Jason had told Anis in a crowded cafe in Amman, Jordan. “I'd get out of that refugee holding pen-”

“Holding pen?” Anis had asked.

“What you stuff cattle into,” Jason had answered. “I'd get out of there and help kill whoever was responsible. To help stop them.”

It seemed noble at the time, to spur a man into righteous danger, to handle him like an ideal on a leash. That was all anyone was to this cause anyway, Jason included. If I were in the same position, Jason would tell himself. Anis wasn’t the first Jason had seen fall. There was nothing noble in seeing Anis's head dangling in the dirt caked bloody hands of an amphetamine chemist cooking “go” pills for terrorists.

The man shifted towards the camera with Anis's head, muttering repeatedly a phrase softly in Arabic. Something dark in the background caught Jason’s attention, something over the man's shoulder. It looked like the dark outline of people standing in the background shade of the Syrian forest.

“Do you see that?” Rich asked.

“See what?” a team member said.

“Dan, what's he saying over and over again?” Jason asked, focusing on the outlines in the background. There was a sudden depth to the grainy video, like Jason was sinking into the background, pulled into the warped timbers and goblet shaped spruces like coral in a sea of darkness, on the edge of nothing. Their stuffy room in Amman began to squeeze inward, suddenly smaller.

“Someone is in the background,” Rich answered. “Look—three guys in the shade. Pause it.”

Dan Treston, their linguist, was shaking his head. “I don’t know, Jimmy,” he said to Jason. “Sounds like he’s murmuring ‘come and see’ over and over again.” Without Jason’s response Dan rewound the video and played it again.

تعال وشاهد (Tueal washahid). Come and see, come and see.

The room’s vosip phone erupted into life and Jason jerked away from his trance on the three figures in the background. Three figures Rich Weidman, Dan Treston, and two other people saw with Jason. He had to remind himself of that. They had seen it too. Three figures behind Anis al-Shamard’s killing. The phone continued its electronic wail. Jason bound for the phone as Rich was remarking about never hearing the landline ring before. Dan agreed, and the entire room went silent watching Jason.

“Jason Jimenez, DIA Amman.”

“Pack your shit, Jimenez. You’re headed stateside.”

---

>BLACKRIVER COUNTY
>WHITE TREE, WEST VIRGINIA
>UNITED STATES
>0605HRS...///

The air was different here, but Jason didn’t think it clean. It was clear and brisk, but it filled his lungs with a cold, dead bite like a fog could settle inside him any moment.Through the cracked asphalt veins of roads slithering through the Appalachian green hills there clung what meant to be a city, but White Tree seemed another world to Jason. It was some fringe place hidden in some forgotten frontier, and he felt he was deep in the womb of the past in all of its mystery and savagery. It reminded him of the most run down towns hollowing out along the Texas highways in his youth, but unlike those soon to be ghost towns White Tree was filled with people as far as he could tell.

Jason had flown into Lewisburg right as his jet lag from Jordan to Washington, D.C. had set in and the ambien was wearing off. On the drive from Lewisburg to White Tree he felt like he was drifting forward more than approaching his next assignment, slipping away into the eerie beauty of rural West Virginia.The director that had called him in for this special assignment had little to say, leaving Jason with the suspicion his superior wasn’t exactly in the know. The agencies involved, and what little he was told about Clyde Baughman’s work, had Jason’s mind reeling—but he also felt like he was coming to something different, something that was meant to happen.

Now he was drifting ever deeper into the woods, feeling choked and lonely. The drive was beautiful but the more lucid he was becoming the more he ached to be fucked up, and perhaps more. The urge came on like an anxiety, something roiling and nagging in his stomach. There were some pain pills, a few gel tabs of LSD, and a laughably small dose of MDMA he had left stateside that he had now, and although any mix of them could get the job done Jason was worried he was hungry for something more. Now that he was back in the states old habits were bubbling up again, and he did his best to focus on the trees, on Baughman, and on whatever dark state op he had been selected for.

Jason, driving a silver rental sudan via his personal fake alias, crested over the rise of the road as it peaked towards the safehouse. There were several cars parked on its closest side and Jason found a place of his own next to a roadster bike complete with a road worn stars and bars flag. Jason chuckled, pulling the flag’s corner to get a complete view of the confederate flag. It seemed out of character for the clandestine feel of the operation so far. An informant? Someone undercover? Only one way to find out, Jason thought, and quickly made his way to the cabin’s front doors.

[Arkitekt]

Lt. Gomez
Los Angeles, CA
06:01HRS

: ::PHONE BUZZING:: :(Music)

It was early in the morning when the call finally came through on the prepaid cellphone that was provided. She knew it would come, and she had already done a good bit of packing to prepare. She had already taken a leave of absence from work and after everything had gone through the proper channels was cleared by her superiors and she was now considered to be on extend work leave. She had also spoken to her parents and sister as soon as she had found out that she might be taking a new career path, but her mother disapproved just as much about this job (which she could know absolutely nothing about), as her mother had hated her for joining the SWAT unit. The phone vibrated and jostled about wildly on the coffee table until in nestled up against two empty beer bottles and the clanking of the glass and the rattling was horrendous. Serena had just poured a hot mug of coffee for herself and was about to set it down right when the phone went off. This made her jerk as it had startled her and she spilt coffee on the back of her hand while setting it down. Fuck that's hot!- she thought as she wiped the steaming liquid off the back of her hand. She quickly grabbed the cellphone as to silence that goddamned clamoring. Her head was slightly thick from the night before, perhaps she had a little too much. you know, one too many. The sound was wretched and made like huge hammers pounding away on the inside of her skull. She picked up the phone and answered, putting it to her ear.

"Lt. Gomez..." she said after gathering herself a bit. She tried to make herself sound as loud and as astute as possible. It was early but Serena could snap to in a hurry.

On the other end of the line was a man's voice, scruffy and agitated. The man's tempo was brisk and it was all very matter of fact-ly. He proceeded to tell her that she had roughly twelve hours to get her affairs in order, say her goodbyes. She was told to "be on a plane departing from LAX International Airport at 18:00 hours". It was all very brief and to the point. She grabbed the small notepad she had on the table and began to scribble everything down. She was also informed that she would be flying to Charleston, WV, and that there would also be "a black 2017 Chevy Suburban waiting for you at the airport. There'll be a set of keys for the SUV and your new place of residence located in a magnetic box under the passenger side fender-well." the man continued. "Inside the glovebox will be your new identification, as well as a passport, a bank card with petty cash for expenses, and a bit of information to help you get acquainted with your new self." Some serious sounding shit for anyone to hear, to be fair. She began to question whether or not she was making the right decision-

"Ma'am, you with me?" He said as if she had steeped away from phone, his voice bellowing over the line and into her ear.

"-Yessir, please continue.", she said abruptly.

The man soon fell back into the rhythm that he had before, not skipping a beat. "There'll also be a sidearm and some ammo for you in the glove box as well. Do I need to remind you of the seriousness of this assignment? You are in no way to tell anyone where you're heading, do not bring your cellphone, nothing in the way of personal affects. Loose your ID once you land and make certain that you leave no trace of yourself there back home. Are we clear Lt. Gomez? Do you understand?"

"Copy."

"Very good. There'll be a text message with the address to the safehouse sent to this phone. Do not give this number to anyone. Godspeed Lieutenant."

The conversation was over very fast, but the words rang out in her mind for a long while after it was over. She knew the call was coming.. So why was she acting like she was going into shock? She set the phone and the notepad down and picked her mug up from the coffee table. There was a new ring beginning to form where she had spilled it, right over top of a few old ones. She took a good sip of her coffee, still hot. The smell in the steam was pungent and bit a little as it cleared her head. The worst of it was to come. She at least had to notify her mother and father, and her sister, that she was going to be taking the job. She dreaded the call. She already knew the storm her mother would have already prepared, ready to unleash upon her in full Latino dramatization. She finished her coffee and went to take a hot shower to let everything sink in. The words West-fucking-Virgina resounding in her head, over and over. What the fuck could possibly be in West Virginia? Why'd they pick her? What for?
Serena pops the open the fridge door and grabs a cold one before walking back into her room to finish packing. Her hair was still wet and dripping onto her shoulders, leaving darkened water spots on her crème colored blouse. She took a swig from the longneck with one hand, her other drying her hair with a now overly damp towel. Her Ipod blasting The Breeders as she finished getting ready, her endorphins in full swing. She had already done most of her packing over the past few days. A few outfits, mostly semi formal stuff, a few lazy outfits, a bit of stuff for the gym, a pair of tennis shoes. She was instructed to pack light so she did. A bag full of the regular girly items, curling iron, hairdryer, the necessities, an excessive array of feminine hygiene products, tampons, pads. Pants. Where are my fucking pants? She sat her beer down and threw the towel in a corner, landing on a small mound of laundry that had already found a home there. She put one leg in, then another, slinging herself down on the bed as she pulled the pants up to her waist. She liked her jeans a little on the tight side.

Two beers later, Serena makes the call. Her sister answered the phone.. "You're doing it, you're leaving aren't you?" she said. "I fuckin' knew you would! Here's Ma. MAAAAA!! Serena's taking the job. Hold on a sec." yelling across the house. Fucking fantastic- she thought to herself. Soon a volley of muffled Spanish erupts from the other side, her mother relentless in her thwarting.

"Si, Momma.. I know, I know you worry about me Ma.." Serena said. The conversation went on for a while and soon was going in circles. "I've already got my bags packed and my plane leaves at 6.. I'm doing it Ma." the muffled rambling slows in pace, but the sobbing and the sniffling ensued. "Si Momma, I'll come by before I go." she said in the most reassuring voice she could muster. "No, I can't tell you where I'm going. I love you too, gottagobyyyye." - click. Whew, sure glad that was over. Almost two and a half hours of relentless pleading and begging. Scolding. They had been through this before. Neither her mother nor her father were enthused about her career choices. They were very disappointed, but they were also very proud. She had came a long way.
She later made good on her promise. She had called a cab. The last call she would make from her phone before disconnecting the battery and removing the card, placing it all into a drawer in the kitchen. The very same drawer that seems to catch all of the odd shit that has no business in a kitchen. batteries, various cords and old remotes. A bent screwdriver. Everybody has one.. The cab picked her up around one o'clock and she got to her parents around two pm. She made sure to keep the cab running so that she could make a speedy getaway. She said her goodbyes, as her mother and father showered her with hugs and tears, her sister cutting sharp eyes in her direction out of utter disgust from all the swooning. It was all very overbearing, one thing Serena and her sister would agree on. She hopped back in the cab after about twenty long minutes and it was on to Los Angeles International.

15:33(Music) LAX, Los Angeles International Airport, was a swirling cesspool, alive and writhing with heavy traffic. Herds of pedestrians bustling about in every direction. Madness. She checked in with American Airlines desk and retrieved her ticket for flight #5410 leaving at 18:00hrs, but was notified that there would be a 35 minute delay as well. She grabbed her ticket and checked her luggage with clerks at the check baggage line. One fairly large suitcase on rollers was all that she had. She then made her way through the security checks. She had left her badge back home so there would be no swift run through for her. It was all very exciting. The intrigue of it all was perhaps what was driving her the most. So many questions that she was going to want answers to. but did she really want them? The anticipation was crawling all over her.
She finally made it through after having to remove her belt and her shoes. She was quick to let them know she spoke good English.. She had about an hour to kill before her flight took of so she decided to grab a quick drink at one of several little bars dotting the airports lobbies. Two fingers of strong tequila should do the job. The first flight from LAX to Charlotte Douglas International was a blur. She had a three hour layover in Charlotte due to the delay at LAX. "Great fucking start." The weather was cloudy and it had been raining all day. Plenty of time to let her head clear a bit.
She finally made it Charleston, WV, touching down at Yeager CRW around 06:50. She retrieved her luggage and rolled it down the long corridors past all the other people still quickly hurrying about to catch flights. The worst of it is over-she thought to herself. She made her way to the parking decks and just like the man said there it was. Black Suburban, with a 30 day tag? Whatever. She reached under the fender-well and felt around for the magnetic box.. nothing there. Oh wait.. he said the PASSENGER side, fucking idiot.. She made her way around to the passenger side and tried again. Score. She retrieved the set of keys from the box and put it back in place. Might come in handy later. She hit the locks on the SUV and opened the back only to find that it already had the oversized utility drawers in the back for gear but were completely empty. "Nice.". She shut the hatch and opted to put her luggage in the backseat instead. She sat in the driver's seat and unlocked the glove box, giving way to her curiosity. There it was. A rather large manila envelope with a few prepaid phone cards, a new ID, passport, all there. A Suntrust Bank card. A Beretta, a CC holster with an extra mag, and two boxes of 9mm hollow-point rounds, Black Talons at that. These bad boys weren't fucking around. Whatever it was that she was getting herself into was some legit deep shit.. She loaded both mags, putting one in the pistol and one in the holster.

The drive was another couple of hours through some beautiful country. Serena had lived in California her entire life and she was unaccustomed to the Appalachian region. She stopped along the way for some coffee and a handful of Slim Jim's. She also picked up a bottle of lighter fluid and a lighter. The gas station wasn't very busy and the rain had left everything damp. She paid the grungy hick-toothed cashier with her new bank card. A good opportunity to see if it worked or not. She smiled on its approval and gathered her things and walked out. The ball's in motion- She made her way back outside to her vehicle and she opened the door. She was parked towards the edge of the lot so that she had a good bit of cover on the driver side. She pulled out her ID and threw it on the ground beside the SUV. She pulled the lid open on the lighter fluid and she squirted a healthy bit onto the plastic setting it aflame. It all became very real to Serena right then. She watched as her information and her face bubbled and hissed, as her life melted away. There was no turning back now. She soon was back on her way, in an out on those long smoky roads. She arrived some four hours later, sometime around eleven thirty, or little past then. Having made more than one wrong turn along the way. There were already a few cars already in the drive so she definitely wasn't the first one to the safe house. More like a shack than anything. She parked. She put her gold rimmed aviators on, and the Berretta on the small of her back before exiting. Her hair was neatly braided down the back. Very professional, she thought. She straightened her jacket from where it had gotten snagged on the grip of the Berretta and spit out her gum before making her way into the safehouse to greet the others. Time to find out why there was such a big party way out here in West-fucking-nowhere Virginia. All very cloak and dagger..

Time to get some answers..

"Lt. Gomez. Reporting in."

[Leidenschaft]

>THE SAFEHOUSE
>0630HRS...///

“Two days ago at 2200 hours,” Steve Foster, began, “Retired Army Lieutenant Baughman passed away in his apartment in Charleston. Years ago, Baughman was given the same chance at opening new avenues for his career, just like all of you here today.”

“Your first order of business is to go to his apartment and remove any… incriminating documents. Anything anybody but Clyde Baughman and everyone here doesn’t need to know.” Steve Foster eyed the assembled recruits as Joseph did the same, offering his arm out for a better look at Baughman's apartment key, giving them a little jingle, “Welcome to Working Group Umbra. Dismissed.”

As Foster closed the door to the tiny garage behind him, there was a silence that seemed to swell in his absence. It choked whatever comfort Joseph had being inside the living room. Joseph wasn't too much in a rush to fill it, but he figured some sort of bonding was going to have to happen for them to start being a cohesive unit. Joseph wasn't in the business of holding hands and singing songs around a fire, so that was that option out the window. He clapped his hands together, wringing them as he looked them all over. Standing or sitting in the couch, none of them seemed particularly fresh-faced, which was good. The day they started conscripting the young was not a day Joseph wanted to be around for. "Well," Joseph looked at everybody about the room, not attempting to mask that little stubborn bit of Texan in his words that never seemed to go away, "Let's introduce ourselves, then."

“I’m your team lead. My name is Joseph Donnelley. If you’re wondering if I’m going to tell you why you’re here,” Donnelley paused. He had the face on him, he knew. The one Holly always said looked like he was about to tell them the truth. A little sad smile and his kind eyes as he looked at whoever he was talking to from the other side of the threshold of disappointing truth. “I’m not. Yet. I can and will tell you that if you do well enough on this first errand, then the rest of your lives are going to be different.”

“I was given the same choice as you, a long damn time ago.” He said, reaching into a pocket and producing a black pack of Spirits, he clenched one in his smirking teeth, “I sure learned to appreciate the little things since then, tell you what.”

She looked around at the people around her then smiled slightly, and clasped her hands, "I'm Dr Laine, I am a profiler with the Behavioral Analysis department of the FBI."

Her green eyes peered from behind her black frame glasses flicking over to Donnelly. "And I'm here because I want answers. If cleaning this man's apartment will help lead me there, well...I should probably change clothes."

She tapped her high heel, the twin bows on the velvet material bobbing slightly.

Sprawled on the couch like the cowboy Laurie saw himself as, he didn’t really pay attention to what was said before him. He knew they had a meet and greet thing going on and already two people spoke up. Moving down the hands he was resting his head on Laurie looked about, seeing if anyone else felt like speaking. It seemed nobody else did, and thus he spoke up.

“I’m Laurie.” The man said plainly. “Park Ranger, I guess. I’m here to do my job whatever the heck that is.” He said, spitting out a bit of his dip. “Don’t know why the hell they brought a Park Ranger for some Suit’s cover-up bullshit.” he muttered as addendum.

Serena cocked her head to the side and slid her aviators down the bridge of her nose a bit at the mention of “cover-ups.”, especially taking note of the thick twang in the delivery. She also took note that he made a good point. Why the fuck was she there?

“Lieutenant Serena Gomez. LAPD, SWAT negotiator and unit B member. Five years prior with a special gang task force.” She said plainly. “LT for short.”, -short and sweet. She nodded round the room to her colleagues, an odd mashup she thought to herself, more questions.. She dropped her gaze to the center of the table, staring out. “I’m also here for some answers. I’d also like to know why this gang-bang is going on out here in ‘Way-the-fuck-out-West Virginia’.” she took her sunglasses off as she spoke. She did her best not to come off as too abrasive, she did what she could with the filter she had.

“I came a long way to get ‘em. I sure hope this trip was worth it.” she said, a bit of agitation on the fringe of her tongue.

Though it was hard for Jason to blend into the periphery of the living room he tried, his bulky frame sticking towards the walls and exterior edge of the furniture. His arms were crossed in the telltale body language of uncomfortability, and his expression was all focus and glare. Joseph Donnelley held the attention of the room, but them like the others Jason began to study each person in this ragtag spin up. He sure as hell wasn't going to speak first, but no one this far was connecting the dots like he wanted.

"Not without purpose, I'm sure," he replied to Serena. He looked around at everyone, continuing, "Jason Jimenez, DIA. Was an Air Force PJ before that. My guess is we're following a breadcrumb trail. The purpose is supposed to reveal itself, though why we have DoD, DoJ--hell even the Department of the Interior--working together is beyond me."

Jason crossed his arms and turned to Joseph. "This counter-narco?" He asked. It was the only type of op that made any rational sense. Even then it was a stretch, a conjecture, but weren't they supposed to be asking questions?

“That’d make the most sense outta anything I’ve heard over this past week.. That’s for damn sure.” Serena replied.. “I’m just as clueless as you are.” Serena wiped the lenses of her aviators on her blouse then slid them back on her face.

Laurie still wasn't exactly paying attention, but he knew the woman that just spoke had already said her piece and now she was just double-dipping. "Hey, let's have everyone say their name and then we'll get on with our job, alright Miss?" With that said, he went back to trying to find the most comfortable position on the couch.

There was a certain feeling of freedom that came from lighting a cigarette with four walls and a roof over your head. Harkened back to another time, to when America was so, so sure of its place in the world. Joseph felt that feeling wash over him as he lit the cigarette inside, not bothering to ask anyone if they were alright with it as they went about the room introducing themselves.

To Jason, Joseph only shrugged. He was a sharp one, alright. He wouldn’t be surprised if Jason was the first to catch on to what this was. He was right there before once.

As the decidedly awkward silence loomed, Justin opened his mouth to speak. He'd sat there pretty quietly as the others said their pieces, just gripping his cap tightly in one hand. Whether it was Appalachian mannerisms or his Army conditioning, he was disciplined about that cap. Always came off when he entered, always went back on when he left.

"I'm, uh, Justin. US Army, a little bit of the infantry, mostly the Ranger Regiment." He trailed off in his drawl. From the way he looked and the way he talked, he just about could be mistaken for some local, but the deep scar along his right hand and wrist along with a partially concealed tattoo of a Ranger tab on his left shoulder proved well enough he was Staff Sergeant Clark.

Tom kept his back to the wall. He had been dressed in a black T-shirt with the first marine raider patch over the left breast. He also wore a pair of black tactical trousers complete with cargo pockets and a pair of low cut tactical boots. He listened quietly to the other members of this team he would be working with.

“My name is Tom Stewart, I am from Boston, Massachusetts,” the FBI agent spoke with a definite Boston accent. “For the past five years, I have been a Federal Agent for the FBI in the Boston field office investigating crimes throughout New England, helping local law enforcement agencies with whatever they may need. I graduated from Boston College School of Law near the top of my class. I also graduated from the Naval Academy at Annapolis in 2006. Before law school, I was in the 1st Marine Raider Battalion; left active duty as a Captain. I am currently a Major serving with the first battalion, 25th Marine Infantry Reserve. I serve as Battalion Operations Officer. Which reminds me, I need to contact my battalion commander to let him know I will be out of the loop for quite some time. If you don’t know what Marine Raiders are, think a hybrid version of Marines and Rangers or Rangers, but in the Marine Corps. Actually, Raiders are a little more high speed than Rangers.” Tom looked over at Justin, “no offense, Staff Sergeant.” He allowed a slight smile.

“I’m not going to speculate on what our purpose here is. Looking at Mr. Donnelly, I’d say he works for the CIA in some capacity, possibly the SAD or some such organization. The young woman who drove me here this morning worked in naval intelligence. Undoubtedly, she also is employed by the CIA as well. I have no problem working with the CIA. As a combat veteran, they were a great source of intell. I guess now it is best that we get to know one another and get along.”

“On another note, I enjoy Jameson Whiskey and Cuban cigars. I also love listening to classic Rock; Hendrix, Zeppelin, The Who and the Doors...don’t forget CCR.” Tom intentionally failed to mention his wife back on Cape Cod.

Clapping was heard, slow, and only increased for five more of the loud staccato. Donnelley wagged a finger at Tom, a slight smile on his lips. “I like you.”

Joseph folded his arms, taking another drag before flicking the ash off into a coffee mug he’d emptied before the briefing. “I worked with some Raiders once.” One of them never returned home from Somalia and there was no body in his closed casket. Joseph and the others had to stab the hell out of it before weighing the bag down and sinking it into the Persian Gulf. There was no explaining to anybody outside of the Somalia Op why they’d had to do it, or how he died. “Good men.”

Donnelley’s eyes were distant. He remembered returning fire as they bobbed away on the waves in their little Zodiac, praying whatever was in that compound was dead. He remembered shaking the rest of the night, shaking and shaking into the morning and finally being able to sleep two days later. “Real good men.” He nodded, regaining his little smile after he realized he’d lost it. It fell away in favor of a more serious face and tone, “Anyways, you’ve all been called here for a reason. It doesn’t matter where you’re from, who you report to, what you were before this.”

“You’re here now. Keep your eyes peeled, ears open, you’ll be alright.” Donnelley nodded, looking them all over. “Get settled in. We head out early, pack light, 0100.”

[Leidenschaft]

>THE SAFEHOUSE
>0112HRS...///

Around midnight Dr Laine changed into a pair of black jeans and a black t-shirt with the words The Exploited emblazoned in red across her chest. Her Doc Marten's laced up past her ankles and she rolled her jeans to just rest against the tops of the boots. She packed a backpack with an extra set of clothes and her notebook and camera. Laine took two extra magazines for her 9mm which she tucked into her shoulder holster and tossed on her old leather jacket.

Her stomach twisted with sudden nerves, and she took a deep breath, reminding herself it was just a clean up operation. Just making sure nothing important fell into the wrong hands. Documents. Information. Maybe about murders and strange stones and voices from the void. Shouldering the bag, she looked around once more, the nerves starting to settle as she picked up the keys to one of the rentals.

There shouldn't be trouble, it's just a matter of forensics and cleaning up. Nothing that dangerous. Right?

Dr Laine stepped into the front room, twirling the keys into her palm, then glanced around for the lead man.

"Donnelly?"

The front door opened to reveal Donnelley stepping inside, only half his body visible from behind the door as he took in one long drag from his cigarette. Clad in a plain black shirt, a pullover hoodie, jeans and Vans, he didn’t much look like the shadowy CIA man Tom had pegged him for earlier. The Thrasher cap put him even farther afield of that. Behind him, the sound of a car running. He flicked the cigarette outside, sighting Laine. “Nice shirt.” He smirked, then looked around, “You’re driving the Chrysler with me. Where the fuck’s Gomez?"

"Had my hardcore phase," Laine replied, brushing her short hair behind her ear with a slight smile. She looked him over, trying not to linger on the burn scar or the deep eyes. At his question she glanced back at the room the two women shared then shrugged. "I'll wait in the car."

“Tell me about it.” Donnelley chuckled as Laine walked past him. “I’ll just wait here. Make sure everybody’s on schedule!”

He raised his voice good and loud, but still that bit jovial. Like a father to his children on the first day of school, hoping to rouse the team awake. Before his prodding could come to fruition, he produced his flask, taking a long pull from it and stashing it back in his pocket.

Serena heard Donnelley beckoning from the front room as she was coming down the hallway, her boots pounded against the plank-wood flooring. She had changed into some relaxed fit jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a black Carhart hoodie. She pulled a dark ball cap down tight against the edge of her brow as she rounded the corner.

“Right here boss.” she said as she passed him in the front room, not stopping on her way out the door. “You got shotty boss.. age before beauty and all that noise.”

Serena made her way out to the passenger side of the car and pulled her Beretta from her back, and slid back her slide to check and make sure she had some brass in the chamber, then returned it, pulling her hoodie back into place. She opened the door and entered the vehicle. She acknowledged Dr. Laine as she did.

“Nice ride.” she said while taking a seat, half a smirk held by a bit lip.

Laine was hooking up the piece of shit mp3 player that had to replace her phone for now, at least she had been able to put a few playlists on it. She glanced up as Serena slid into the car, looking at her in the rear view mirror.

"Thanks, it's not mine," she replied before hitting play. Whoever had driven the Chrysler last had not turned down the stereo and a sudden clash of drums and squealing guitar filled the vehicle, spilling out into the darkness of the yard.

Laine winced, reaching to turn it down a bit. Hell of a start. Real situational awareness on her part. Glancing up at the mirror she just mouthed the word, "Oops."

Serena snickered a bit, pulling a pack of Juicy Fruit from her hoodie pocket. Antsy. She still wasn’t one hundred percent certain that they weren’t riding out to some shallow grave somewhere, plastic sheeting laid neatly in rows on the forest floor out in the middle of nowhere. Five years on the gang unit had made trusting people hard for her. She pulled a piece of gum from the rather large pack and unwrapped it, throwing the stick in her mouth. Going to be one hell of a ride, Serena was certain. A sweet smell loomed about the cab of the Chrysler. She looked in the rear view to Dr. Laine, hoping to catch her eye. “Gum?”

Laine did catch the other woman's eyes in the mirror and the smell of the banana yellow wrapped gum brought her immediately back to being a kid, skating on the boardwalk and she grinned. "Thanks, normally I only chew sugar free but..."

She turned and plucked a piece of gum from Gomez's hand, "Living dangerously now, right?"

“That’s what my mother keeps telling me.” Serena replied, returning the pack of gum to her hoodie pocket.

The passenger door opened and Donnelley grunted as he plopped himself down in the seat, the suspension rocking with his entrance. He noted the music. “Sorry, I drove this thing here. Got a V8 too.” He smiled.

He sighed, push-checking his .40 cal. If anything, he was glad the South was no stranger to people carrying guns. It was as American as apple pie and big Pharma. While they waited, Donnelley produced a GPS from the glovebox, sticking the suction cup on the windshield and inputting the directions to Charleston. Not that there were many needed. Once you got on the highway it was pretty much a straight shot into town. “Looks like everyone’s where they’re supposed to be now,” Donnelley peered behind them as the last straggler shut the door of the Explorer behind them. “Let’s go.”

The Chrysler lurched forward and they turned onto the dirt road that led to the main one. Once they got enough speed on their descent from the mountains, Donnelley spoke again. “I’m sure you two have a lot of questions.” He said, looking out the window and watching the trees and hills pass them by. “I’ll answer the ones I can.”

Serena’s back pressed firm against the back seat. “How ‘bout something useful, for starters?” She had heard this sort of empty rhetoric before. “Not much on briefings around here, huh..?”. She turned and glared out the back before returning her attention to her company up in the front seats.

Laine kept her focus on the road, navigating the hills as fast as she dared but she listened above the din of Black Flag and Cro Mags, turning it down enough to talk.

"Specific questions might be better," she said. Many questions raced through her mind but the one that nagged her the most was also the ridiculous one she feared to ask. After a moment she asked it anyway, "Is this about the stone?"

The doctor flicked her gaze to the man next to her, hoping to catch his initial reaction.

“Well, I would’ve been more specific, but I didn’t feel like asking what some suits and spooks, a park ranger, a head doctor, a cop, and some soldier boys were doing playing commando at a gangbang all the way out here in Nowheresfuckingville was gonna get me very far.” she snipped. She was clearly agitated from being kept in the dark for so long. Serena didn’t like it. “What’s this shit about a stone?”

A spike of anxiety shot through Donnelley at the mention of a stone. It was in her case files. She’d seen it too. A lot of them had. “Due time.” Donnelley pursed his lips, “Let’s keep our eyes forward.”

“We’ve all got shit in our dossiers. Blacked out portions of things we only know. Things nobody wanted us to.” Donnelley snorted, fishing his pack of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket, biting one and pulling it free. “Either of you mind?”

Moving her gaze back to the black river of asphalt stretching before them and shook her head, her bobbed dark hair swishing against the seat, “I don’t mind if Gomez doesn’t, I’ll crack the windows.”

Tapping the button on the console the passenger window slid down half way. Glancing at the rear view mirror, trying to catch Gomez’s eye, Laine continued, “About the stone, I’m going to hold you do that, Mr. Donnelley. Now, if you can’t answer the blacked out portion right now, I have another. This man we are cleaning up after, he was one of you. How did he die?”

Serena waved them off. “It’s fine, I only smoke when I drink and I didn’t bring anything.. which I am starting to regret a little bit.”. She watched as the trees that were lit as they passed by them in a blur as they pushed on down the highway.

Donnelley nodded at the both of them, rolling his window up slightly so the spark could catch on the lighter. He puffed twice and rolled the window back down. He sighed, “Not everything has to be a classified top secret operation we’re cleaning up after.” He chuckled a bit, scratching at his forehead, “The guy was old as hell. Cardiac arrest. We keep tabs on everybody who gets let in.”

“You two. Them back there in the Ford.” Donnelley nodded and smirked, taking a drag and speaking through the harsh cloud that came after, “Even me. Even Foster. From the day we come in from the cold to the day we croak. One day some asshole is going to have to come clean up after me. The people who decide where Foster goes, where I go, these decisions are made in places I’ve never been by people I’ve never seen.”

“You want to last, you want to fight the good fight? Don’t dig too deep. The enemy wants you to.” Donnelley said, matter-of-factly, not pretending that he would be making sense to either of them until their blindfolds had been lifted, so to speak.

“That’s unfortunate,” Laine replied dryly, “Digging is what I do.”

“Tell me about it..” Serena said in accordance. “What else is a cop supposed to do?” Her tone coming of a bit more lax, having found some comfort in sharing a bit of common ground.

She turned over what he had said, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the next brief angry song that played at an inappropriately low level. “If we can’t dig, if we can’t find meaning in...what this enemy is...and I am assuming it is a deadly enemy if it’s so hush-hush. I’m an analyst, she’s SWAT. You need something figured out and you need something dead, that’s for certain. Just who is it? Terrorists, mafia, narcos? No, that’s not it.”

Her green eyes flashed behind her glasses but her voice remained smoke soft and even, “This is something no one is meant to know, everything is top secret about this. Donnelley, give us something. You’re taking us in blind. What documents are we looking for? What would he have in his own home that is so dangerous it needs to be destroyed.”

“You gotta give us something Boss, Doc is right on this one. We got shit. I just traveled 2,400 miles because I was instructed to over a phone call with a complete stranger, who also coincidentally told me to lose my identification.. A little bit of clarity would go a long way.” Serena firmly agreed with the doctor on this. How were they ever going to work as a unit she thought to herself. Her unit wouldn't have handled it like this. This shit was deep, really deep., Whatever it was.

“You ever hear about those crazy fucking Nazi scientists and SS fuckers running around Europe and Asia and the Mid East?” Donnelley said, blowing smoke out the window as he shook his head in frustration. “Ask the flyboy back there in the Ford about the Office of Special Intelligence. Gomez, ask yourself what the fuck was going on when you crashed that party with SWAT.”

He turned to Laine, “Ask yourself what the fuck that black slab in the middle of the forest you saw was.” He sniffed something into his face and spat it out the window, “I used to ask myself those things every day until I was given the answer. It’s the only war that matters. The truth’s a privilege, ladies, earn it.”

"I have been asking that since..." she paused, her mind flashing to the night under the pier and the ripple in the dark. 'Since we pulled that girl's body or what was left of it off that stone. I've been over the coroner's report and the statements of the victim's friends and family, the witness statements of the Park Ranger that found her. Who, incidentally, won't take our calls now. I tried to go back to examine the scene, and was told in so many words to kindly fuck off."

She took a deep breath, looking over briefly at Donnelly, "It's that damn stone. You can feel ... something."

Saying it out loud made it seem ridiculous, like something from the X Files. "I'm back to the stone. But I'm still working on this case, trying to build a profile of the killer. Sofie Childress was butchered and I'm not going to let it just get swept away under a black ops carpet."

Serena was stone silent, slumping ever deeper into the back seat, and in her mind. She could feel the Latin potena fleeting from her face being replaced by a sheet of alabaster. A sinking feeling in her gut. The doctor’s words faded like headlamps on a distant foggy highway. It was all rushing back in. That smell.. that awful wretched smell, came flooding back into her nostrils. She hadn’t mentioned it since it had happened. It couldn’t be.. could it?

“Are you referring to 2018? The Asian bangers’ place?” Serena was baffled, that had taken place nearly a year prior and she hadn’t mentioned it since. Her entire unit shied away from speaking about it, in any context.

“Do you think I am?” Donnelley said over his shoulder, turning back around and taking another drag, flicking ash out the window, “Like I said. Eyes peeled, ears open.”

...///

0100 was a long time off, too long for Jason to wrestle with an unanswered curiosity spinning day dreams in his head. At first being busy was the answer, the necessity of unpacking keeping his hands busy. Even then his mind coursed with questions and the hollow conjecture that attempted to answer them. His gear was packeted in unlabeled black pelican cases, one clearly housing a rifle by its telltale shape, but the others were an assortment of gear seemingly meant for field operations. A laptop, weapon accessories, a field satellite for classified data, even a BATDOK ready cell phone.

“Why the fuck would I need all of this?” Jason muttered. The agency had inundated him, a nobody field operative, with the very finest; right down to the latest in Pararescue loadouts. Ready for war. It was piece to the puzzle, but one that hardly revealed the composite picture. Jason rifled through his personal gear next, cautious to avoid exposing his cache of substances, and in the absence of tasks his mind began to uncomfortably dilate. The demographic of their team, the purposeful lack of information, the innocuous first mission. Jason knew there was a connection beyond any of their knowledge bases, but he was impatient and his curiosity near insistent. The remainder of evening was for him one spent in silence and an unsettling solitude, though he tried his best to project a warmth if he ran into any of the other team members.

When it was about time he holstered his HK45, pocketed a spare clip, and donned a pair of blue jeans, black boots, and a black and grey flannel button down. Someone outside was yelling, "Come on boys, daylight's not burning but it will be soon!" and he followed the call.

*****

In the interim, waiting for the time they would roll Laurie didn't really seek anyone out. He wasn't particularly sleepy and regardless he had much on his mind. So he went to the only thing he knew, his Bible. He almost got through Luke when it was time. He loaded his Nineteen-Eleven, secured his knife, a few spare magazines and Taser before he stepped outside with a few stretches. He dressed plainly in grey khakis and a grey sweater with a black baseball cap and necker chief. Laurie was the guy who knew for sure he wouldn't be caught on tape, he didn't want to embarrass all his friends by being found working with these yankee suits after all!

So instead he went over to lean on his assigned car all cowboy like with one foot on the ground and the other against the wheel while looking vaguely down on the ground. "Come on boys, daylight's not burning but it will be soon!" he called out, Laurie waiting for the other men to get in before following.

Tom noticed how most of the other had nondescript clothing on. He decided to do the same. He preferred the trousers and boots. They were comfortable and suited his needs. He put on a plain grey T-shirt, with a shoulder holster over it and then a gray windbreaker over the shirt. He picked up his SIG, hit the thumb release on the magazine catch pulling it out. Then he pulled back on the slide. The chamber was empty. He reinserted the magazine leaving the chamber empty. He would load it if he needed it. Finally, he holstered the pistol under his left arm and placed two spare magazines in the pockets on the shoulder holster. He insured he was wearing his Leatherman on the back of his belt and strapped a Gerber Mark II survival knife around his ankle, tucked into his boot and under his trousers. Finally, he pulled the navy blue baseball cap with the red letter “B” emblazoned across the front onto his head.

As he headed down the stairs, he pulled a fine brown cigar in an aluminum tube out of a drawer. He found the Park Ranger from Louisiana leaning up against the Ford Explorer they were going to take. It may have been the same vehicle he rode in to get here from the airport. “Hey kid, got a light?” Tom asked as he approached Laurie. He pulled the cigar from the tube. Tom bit the end of the cigar off and shoved it into his mouth. He tossed the tube aside.

Looking up from his stance Laurie nodded, going to his left-hand pocket before realizing it was in another, and retrieved a matchbox. He struck one as the man approached and held it out for his counterpart to light his cigar on. The moment the cigar caught flame the Park Ranger pulled the match back to blow out and dropped it on the ground to stomp out. “Forest fires, nasty shit.” He stated, shrugging as it might have been seen as excessive measures. “Baseball fan?” came the followup, a question by definition rhetorical. But why not make small talk, eh?

“Thanks,” Tom muttered as he drew the smoke into his lungs. He took a few more puffs and looked at the taller man, “yea, I’m a Sox fan.” He stood next to Laurie, smoking on the cigar.

"Yeah? My family were always a football bunch. Dad said I was a good batter but that was a load of bull, he wanted me to explore sports or something." The Ranger realized too late he probably had lead to a conversational dead end, but tried to fix that. "Looks like there's four of us, all like Sardines in this car. You're driving, right cowboy?"

Tom laughed. He had never been referred to as a cowboy before. That would be a Texas thing, hardly a nickname for a Northerner. “Oh yea, I’m a Pats fan too. But I remember when they sucked; worst team in the AFC east along with the Baltimore Colts. Lot of young people flock to the Pats because they are all about the double yous since the beginning of the century. It wasn’t all that wonderful years ago.”

"Damn." Laurie offered, spitting out a bit of his dip. "I remember hearing something like that at my first ranger station. Football has a lot of politics of its own but baseball seems to have politics like one of them shows on Tee-Vee soccer moms watch with wine. My first Superintendent loved to talk about them all, who was trading to who, I knew enough from him to just about pretend to get it when I crashed in New England for a bit. Baseball popular with the soldier-boys?" the Louisiana guy asked at last, realizing again his little affliction made him ramble on too long.

Jason came out the front door and approached the two as he overheard the conversation. Damn, he thought. He hated sports conversations and never had enough to say in them. This was especially true for baseball, the sport he found to be the most uninteresting. Another missed bonding topic, as per the course. Anything atomic or all-American was a connection lost between Jason and whoever he was working with.

“Only the dopey ones,” he answered, his inflection as sarcastic as he could manage. “I assume you two have the front seats?”

Jason glanced at the other car mounting up, and without waiting for either Tom or Laurie to answer he sat in the driver-side passenger seat.

Justin was the last out. He’d traded his t-shirt for a nice button-up with sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a zip-up fleece was thrown over one shoulder. He wore another set of Wranglers, some tac-shoes, and a different unmarked cap, this one olive green. He made for the only open passenger seat without protest, silently going through the little go-bag he’d packed. Had a box of 9x19, a couple bottles of water, hygiene supplies, an MRE, some protein snacks, and a carton of Pall Mall Reds for emergencies. These were all in plain view of the others in the vehicle as Justin went through his mental checklist.

“Right, I’m good, let’s get this fuckin’ thing on the road.”

The four men took their seats in the Ford Explorer. Tom followed the Chrysler to their objective. The ride to the Lemonbrook apartments in Charleston was pretty quiet. No one spoke. Tom puffed away on the stogie with his window open. He never even considered if the others cared if he smoked or not. It was not a thought he would have had. This situation, working with these men whom he is just meeting caused a flood of memories about his time in the Corps. His mindset fell back into those ways. He was a Marine again, rather than a Special Agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigations. It was a role he was comfortable with, but not on US soil. It almost felt contrary to everything he had done for the past five years, but he kept his options open.

He thought about Jill and the way they left things that night at dinner. He wished he could talk to her. He also needed to call Lieutenant Colonel Norman Miller at the armory in Worcester. He had to let him know what he was doing; or at least as much as he could say. Their next meeting was in a week and a half. These thoughts still weighed on his mind, but he could still function as a Marine or an SSA, depending on the situation. Hell, he could perform the duties of an attorney if called upon to do so. Yea, Tom was a Yankee Suit, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself.

About a mile from their objective rally point (ORP), the cigar was tossed from the window. It had diminished to a point where he felt it served its purpose. The four men were alert watching their side or corner of the moving vehicle; someone keeping an eye on the rear. Tom occasionally, looked in the rearview mirror or side mirrors to see if anyone was following them. It was late at night; the streets were deserted. He was surprised to see no local police patrols on the road either. Normally, a small city like this would have several patrols visible. Most law enforcement officers who work between the hours of midnight and zero five believe there are only two types of people they encounter; victims and assholes. He knew that if a police patrol encountered this crew of seven, he would not consider them to be victims.

---

>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
>OUTSIDE THE LEMONBROOK APARTMENTS
>0242HRS…///

Finally, some civilization. In America, no less. How many years had it been since he spent more than a week, a month stateside? When the car slowed to a stop and parked on the curb across the street from Lemonbrook, Donnelley closed his eyes as he stepped out of the Chrysler, inhaling all the American air he could. Even White Tree, even Blackriver didn’t feel like America. It felt like some slice of another world someone had carefully laid over what was supposed to be, long ago. But, as he opened his eyes and looked around, there it was. American civilization in all its prideful, calloused handed dirt and grime. The streets in this part of town were anything but clean, but the gloom of it all, the streetlights making bastions of orange light in the blues and blacks of the morning... There wasn’t even the tinge of diesel or the sound of blasting charges in the distance. Nor even the oppressing aura of the unnatural, the unknown. The cars, just honking. A police siren in the distance. A cool breeze over his face.

And somewhere in Charleston was a barstool with his name on it. But this assignment came first. He owed it to Clyde Baughman, one of the proud few to step back from fieldwork and get that coveted position as an advisor. Donnelley couldn’t see that for himself. Not until they won. He turned his head at the sound of brakes, the black Ford Explorer coming to a halt just behind them, headlights making him squint. Donnelley waved all of them over to him.

As they all came together like one big happy family, Donnelley looked all of them over. Satisfied, he nodded, “Alright. Over there in that building is Clyde Baughman’s former residence. We’re not expecting anybody else to come calling for Clyde, so Tom, Justin? Post up in the lobby and ping me on my phone if you hear anybody asking about Baughman.”

“Serena, Laurie, if anybody does, make a fuss about something. Anything, get creative.” Donnelley nodded to Jason and Laine, “You two are with me, we go up to Clyde’s, do a search. Take anything with us that’d raise eyebrows.”

Donnelley cast a glance towards the apartment building, that little resting smile on his lips. In a way, it felt good to be back to work. At least when Foster wasn’t breathing down his neck. “Questions?”

Dr Laine glanced at Jason Jimenez, her gaze running along his broad form, taking in his expression and the way he held himself. At their initial meeting, he had been tense and guarded, not unexpected in their situation but there was something else. Maybe the look in his eyes, a flicker of emptiness lost in memory. She had seen it before, in victims of violence. And in those who committed violence, at least those still left with a scrap of conscious.

Turning to Donnelley, she said, “Just the apartment number, lead the way.”

Jason was scanning the streets as Donnelley briefed the team, the heavy humidity a welcome southernly embrace. It reminded him of the stuffy nights of inner city Houston when the only relief from the heat was sleep. He didn't catch Dr. Laine's observation until it was a fleeting turn away from him, but just enough for him to notice. A tumult of anticipation, hunger, and nervousness racked his gut. Surely she isn't interested, it wasn't anything, he thought. The impending revelations inside were a welcome distraction from the aimless desire spurred from nothing but a glance. Just the mission, nothing but the mission Jason. Please, he pleaded to himself.

Serena’s thoughts of the previous conversation melted away as Donnelley began briefing the team. This was much more vernacular to what she was accustomed to. She retrieved the Beretta from her back and checked it a second time. It felt like home now, Serena was all about the pre-game. She nodded towards Donnelley and then at Laurie.

“Good shit Boss, waitin on GO.” she said, returning her sidearm to it’s holster.

Temperate, Laurie likewise was excited to at least move his legs a bit, and so tapped his forelock in a quasi salute. “On it.” he said, walking over to Serena and letting her lead the way for now.

“Alright.” Donnelley nodded, “Let’s go.”

With that, he walked towards the apartment building, looking both ways as he stepped out into the street. Wouldn’t do if all of a sudden they had to deal with their team lead flattened by some asshole. He nodded to an old man walking his dog, a golden retriever. The old man nodded back, offering that smile that wasn’t, the one reserved for people on the street you’d never see again. Just as Joseph reached out to pull the doors to the lobby open, he heard the old man speak at him. “Huh?” Donnelley asked.

“Said, you folk lookin’ for Clyde?” The man smiled.

Donnelley smiled back, almost having to remind himself that this wasn’t Turkey or Chechnya or some other backwater and it was okay for people to make small talk… but how did he know Clyde?

“Friend of his?”

“I was about to ask you the same.” The man chuckled, bending down to pat his old retriever on the head. “You friends? Family?”

“Yeah, friends.” Donnelley nodded, making like he wasn’t racing circles in his mind. “We came to get Clyde’s things in order. Better go.”

“Shame about Clyde. Take care!” The old man held up a hand, “Oh, do tell his son that I offer my condolences. Should be here in a little bit, I think.”

“I will.” Donnelley pulled the door open and he stepped inside, his two trainees behind him all the way.

---

FRESH, STEAMY ROLLS OF SUBTERFUGE-

Donnelley= Literally a fucking 5
Laurie= wow, a 20
Dr. Laine= An 8
Jason= 1 its the drugs
Serena= 14
Tom= 11
Justin= 22! i am your god

Group Total= 12

[Leidenschaft]

>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
>INSIDE THE LEMONBROOK APARTMENTS
>0250HRS…///

“Clyde has family on the way, I don’t know the ETA.” Donnelley said into his phone. They were waiting to reach their floor, the three of them packed in the elevator.

Foster’s came from the other side, starting with an annoyed sigh, “Make sure they don’t see you. The last thing we need is them calling security because some strangers are going through his things.”

“Obviously,” Donnelley muttered, “Get me a good picture of his son. Facebook, you know what that is?”

“I’m not that old, prick.” Foster chuckled, the line cut off and Donnelley shoved his phone back in his pocket. He rubbed his face, letting go of yet another annoyed sigh. “Well, fuck. At least we have Laurie and Gomez on the welcoming committee.”

Ding

Laine kept her face averted when the old man with the dog spoke to Donnelly, acting like a bored, disinterested youth hoping that's what he would take her for and the dimness would hide her mature features. What he must think, the three of us, "friends" showing up in the middle of the night to clear his apartment. They looked more like a trio that would rob an old man rather than befriend one.

"Son?" She asked as he hung up, "Is it his son the way we're his friends or his actual offspring?"

"We don't know anything about the son, too easy to get duped," Jason said. "Old business friends looking to crash after a night of drinking is what I'd go with. Close enough to the truth."

Not that it mattered much, either way it meant they had to move quickly. Dr Laine stayed between the men as the elevator slid to a stop. As it dinged, she reached into her pocket to get the small digital camera and held it against her palm. No matter what Donnelly said about natural death, she would treat it like a crime scene.

“Either Laurie and Gomez stop a bewildered young man in the lobby or we get into a gunfight.” Donnelley shrugged, “Either way, we’re finishing this.”

At the mention of a gunfight Jason appeared bewildered. He checked the ceiling of the elevator for cameras then pulled out his .45 and racked the slide, the weapon close to his body and the safety still on. To Donnelley he gave a wary glance, and to Dr. Laine an expression of rumination. Jason was thinking, but of what was buried behind an intensity.

Donnelley looked back at the two of them and the look on their faces was priceless. If only they knew it was a possibility. Or maybe they did, either way, they weren’t thrilled. Less so when he casually smirked at them and turned around, stepping out of the elevator as he chuckled, “Relax. Clyde never had any enemies.” Donnelley walked on, he knew that was a lie. Clyde was a Cowboy, an outlaw, his years in Delta Green smack dab in the era where the government itself was hunting down the only heroes it had.

He counted the numbers on the doors they passed, glancing at the number on the key he held intermittently, “That I know of, at least.”

She noticed Jason’s intent expression and when he pulled his weapon as she had her camera and for a moment she felt silly and vulnerable. Laine was treating this like a crime scene, after the danger had passed and all that was left was to piece together the puzzle of a broken life. Danger was still in the air, the unknown and secrecy added to her unsettled feeling. Stop it, this was an old man who died of being old. If he had enemies, it was cholesterol and hardening arteries.

Clearing her throat, she asked them, “Do you expect he did anything to his apartment? Any ah...security measures?”

“I knew a guy once. We were after a very hard-to-catch individual with a propensity to murder others for a cause.” Donnelley said, pausing at a door and checking the number on it against the key. He shook his head, continuing on, “We’re close. Anyways, the case was a hard one. If the man knew we were onto him he’d likely come after us. Spook or not, you’re mortal.”

“And the mortality rate for spooks? Don’t get me started. Well, this friend of mine who was helping me find this elusive murderer had jury-rigged a claymore mine to be set off if somebody entered their front door without doing the proper procedures.” Donnelley sucked at his teeth, looking at a door and then the key and then nodded. He slipped the key home, the sound of it rattling the tumblers graced his ears and he smirked as he turned it. He placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it and then opened the door without much ceremony.

“But Baughman didn’t have many enemies that would be dissuaded by a claymore mine.” Donnelley took the first step in. What greeted them was surprisingly normal to the other two. And, perhaps, maybe a little surprising to Joseph.

The doorway only offered a slice of the normality of the small apartment. It told the story of a man who lived like just about anybody else would, waiting out his retirement years with the usual fineries of a middle-class man. There was an empty coffee cup on the living room table, a tv that had gathered some dust on the screen and a dvd/vcr player under it in the entertainment station. Unopened envelopes and junk mail were spread out on the same table. Other than the paper, everything was just clean enough to look lived in but not dirty enough to tell of a man who lived a hard life of tragedy.

Directly ahead was a sliding glass door that led out onto a balcony with a humble view of Charleston. As Donnelley walked further in, he looked around. To his left was the bathroom, door still open. He looked along the wall and spotted the light switch, flipping one turned on the hallway lights. The other illuminated the doorway and living room. To his right and down a very short hall was the only bedroom, file cabinets and plastic containers were full of documents, some of which may or may not be interesting to Donnelley and his team.

A few steps toward it was the kitchen, and something caught Donnelley’s eye on the fridge- that looked to have been made 20 years ago. A crudely drawn family portrait, a collection of four people rendered by a child’s sloppy hand as smiling stick figures. The signature at the bottom- ‘for grampa.’ There was a stove that hadn’t been cleaned for a week, maybe, dishes in the sink. Donnelley shook his head and sighed. There was long-staled toast still in the toaster slots. He turned away, pushing the door open to the other room next to the bedroom. Only more paperwork and a computer in the office, the desk that held the computer had a file cabinet squatting next to it, parts of the paint flaking away to reveal bare and rusted metal. Whatever was in there was old. Case files?

Above all else, the only thing that Donnelley knew about Clyde’s apartment was there was going to be an effort to meticulously search every goddamn piece of paper in every container, folder, drawer, envelope.

“Feel free to take a look around. Doubt the old man would mind right now. We should go through those papers.” Donnelley said, looking around him reminded him that ‘those papers’ referred to a great many of the piles. “A lot of goddamn clutter, Clyde…”

When the lights came on, Dr Laine stood in the doorway, taking a long look at the apartment before raising her camera and snapping a picture, the muffled click the only sound. It looked normal, nothing overly clean and it was not a hoarding nightmare, both signs of mental instability in her opinion. She walked into the living room, taking in the details as her sharp green eyes gleamed behind her glasses.

“Fairly normal,” she commented, “Of course they’re always normal until you find the jar of severed fingers in the fridge. Not that Baughman would, I just...”

Laine trailed off as she made her way into the hallway, her FBI training taking over as she noted any smudges on door frames or stains on the carpet. Upon entering the bathroom she caught her reflection in the mirror, her short dark hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside and she reached to smooth it down. Then she opened the mirrored cabinet, looking at the contents. A razor, bottles of aspirin and Tylenol and the ubiquitous orange-brown prescription bottles of anyone over 35. Curious, she took one and read the label. Viagra.

She huffed a soft laugh and put it back, checking the others. Typical high blood pressure pills, the guy probably popped an artery trying to get it up. For who? The thought passed her mind but that was not what they were here for, and time was ticking.

Laine closed the cabinet, and checked under the sink, nothing but cleaners. She lifted the lid of the toilet tank, checking to see if anything might have been hidden in a plastic bag or container. Finding nothing but water, she closed it and moved out of the small room into the hallway.

Jason was the last to enter, hovering around the living room and taking the apartment in. Dr. Laine was right, normal was the perfect descriptor. Baughman was anything but normal, Jason reminded himself. Whatever he was a part of, what they all were now a part of, was beyond normalcy's fringe. The pattern, the eccentricity, just had to reveal itself.

Jason opened the coat closet and finding nothing of interest he grabbed a cloth bag with leather handles, the type that looked weathered but too sturdy of quality to be anything modern.

The doctor entered the bedroom, taking a picture of it before digging into the first tote, dumping it onto the bed and setting the empty bin next to her feet as she began shuffling through the documents. She dumped the old bills and junk back into it, hunting for something out of the ordinary. As Laine went through the paperwork, something Donnelly said came back to her. She must have missed it but now it planted itself forefront in her mind, “...Baughman didn’t have many enemies that would be dissuaded by a claymore mine.”

Pausing, gripping a manilla envelope in her hand she ran over the sentence, perhaps it was just his way of speaking, that slight Texas accent and manner but what would not be dissuaded by a claymore mine? Frowning slightly, she stored it back to ask later then folded the brass clasp to open the envelope.

“What am I even looking for?” she muttered, pulling out a tax return from 2002.

Jason passed the bedroom door and threw the bag on the bed next to the pile of letters Dr. Laine was sorting through. "If we find anything to haul," he said, and disappeared down the hall.

---

“Bills, junk mail, junk mail, bills.” Joseph leaned back in the couch and sighed, “It’s like I’m going through my own mail.”

Just then, he felt his phone vibrate. He tapped the power button and it came to life, showing a notification from Foster. Opening it revealed the face of Sam Baughman, as evidenced from Foster’s message below, ‘This is Sam. Be careful if you’re caught by him. Followed his daddy and he’s Army. At least you, Justin, and Sam can trade stories about being Rangers.’

He snorted, texting back, ‘Thanks. Maybe one day you’ll be a real man too.’

He forwarded the picture to the rest of his team with the warning, ‘Careful, he’s a Ranger. Take care.’

He looked around the room, his eyes snagging on a row of key hooks, on which three of the four were taken up. He stood, walking over and plucking one of them off the hooks and checking it against the door key. Not a match, another place he was staying? It was for a house or apartment, that was apparent.

The other was smaller, made for a storage unit or mailbox, perhaps… the mailboxes downstairs. He smirked, pocketing the mailbox key and the other, just in case. The other was for a car, but they weren’t in the business of repossessing his belongings. “Jason,” he fished the mailbox key out of his pocket, “Run this down to Gomez and Laurie.”

"Roger that," Jason replied from the hallway. His heavy steps entered the living room before he did but he was quick to take the keys, not stopping his stride to the front door as he asked, "We find anything worth while?"

“So far? Just the key. Maybe he’s got something in the mail but if he was as good at his job as I’m led to believe then we’ll never find anything classified here.” Donnelley shrugged, “I’ll message you and everybody posted while we look through this shit.”

Laine gave Jason a small smile and thanked him for the bag, then went back to tearing through the useless junk. Hadn't Baughman heard of a shredder? After she cleared the bin and put all the expired credit offers and bills back she got up to stretch her legs.

She wandered around his room, looking over the dresser and picked up the portrait of Clyde and his wife, she could see their matching wedding bands in the photo.They looked normal, smiling the happy couple smiles into the camera. She wondered briefly if his wife had any idea what her husband did for a living or was she blissfully ignorant. Laine wasn't even sure what Baughman had done for a living only that it had been secret and dangerous enough that a spook and his team were burglarizing his home. Flipping it over, she slipped the latches from the cardboard and removed it to see the back, checking for any writing or hidden items.

Once she checked that, Laine opened the top drawer and noted the gun and loose rounds, leaving them there for now. She scooped up the photos, thumbing through them.

“What’chu got?” Joseph asked, stepping up behind Laine with his hands in his pockets, casually surveying the aftermath of the tornado Laine was on the once peaceful stacks of otherwise useless mail and files.

“By the way, I was thinking of ripping open the computer and looking through that file cabinet he’s got.” Donnelley shrugged, “If you’re not too busy looking at… Clyde’s wife.” He said as he peeked over Laine’s shoulder.

Dr Laine jumped at the sound of his voice, turning halfway to see Donnelly just behind her. At the mention of the computer and filing cabinet, she nodded then glanced back at the couple in the photo.

"Do you think she knew?" Laine asked, looking back up at Donnelly. "About his work, I mean?"

Donnelley’s otherwise lackadaisical demeanor fell away for only a second. Clyde’s life told the same story as his own, but with happier endings. It made him jealous, almost. He remembered the arguments with Holly when he came back from Afghanistan.

Now those smiles that Clyde and his wife had in those photos could never be had with Donnelley and Holly. Tilly neither. He stepped up beside Laine, looking at the photos as she thumbed through each one. He shook his head, “No.” he said, “No, they never do. Work isn’t allowed to be talked about. You wouldn’t ever want to, anyways, if you knew what was good for them.”

Laine watched him, catching the movement of his expression, a flicker of emotion in his calm face. He recovered quickly, moving closer as she searched the photos.

Turning to him she made a guess and asked, "What did you tell your wife when the things you see and know keep you up at night, that make you bolt out of sleep and haunt your thoughts?"

Her gaze met his, "Did she want to know?"

Donnelley shrugged, shaking his head, “Maybe.” He frowned, working at the words though it felt like he had to pry them loose. He looked at Laine and shook his head, “Maybe not. I think she- all of them. Husbands, wives, they all think talking about it will make it go away. Sharing a burden, for better and for worse.”

“They weren’t thinking about people like me when they wrote that.” He sighed, leaning closer to Laine and holding her gaze long enough with that face of his. Could she understand until she saw for herself? Not just the black slab, but the things that put it there? Still, he stared into her, leaning just a hair closer, “Eyes peeled. Ears open.”

He turned and left, disappeared around the corner into the office. Whether she followed him or not was her choice, but her prying left a bad taste in his mouth with every word she let tumble out of him. Maybe he wanted to talk, after so long of just not. Even so, he called over his shoulder, “I don’t think the mission left any room for picking my brain, Doctor.”

Dr Laine kept her gaze steady on his blue eyes, she had stared into the eyes of dangerous men before, monsters wearing human flesh. Donnelly might have been CIA and a killer but he wasn't one of them, there was still too much humanity in his eyes. Sadness, regret perhaps, and he confirmed her guess at being married or at least had been so. She set the pictures back in the drawer and called after him, "Maybe you're right, but I'm here for information. And you..."

Then he was gone.

She let him go, bending to open the next drawers, searching through them, her hands reaching into the back of each drawer. Her fingers slid across smooth grain until she felt an irregularity at the back. Something had scratched or indented the wood so she pulled out the drawer until it hung down so she could examine it in the light.

Laine used her fingernails to pry at the indents, to see if it perhaps opened a false bottom or back."Better not chip a nail," she muttered.

Finally, the bottom gave way. The only contents were an envelope labeled, ‘Mr. Green,’ a green triangle drawn next to it.

Laine pulled out the envelope, turning it over and studying the writing for a moment. She should out in the bag and give it to Donnelly so he could dispose of it, whatever it was it had been hidden well. She should.

Instead, Laine slid a black laquered fingernail under the flap and opened it, removing whatever was inside.

It was a single sheet with an address written neatly across. Her heart sank a bit, nothing about murders or stones but it was a start.

---

“Fucking finally.” Donnelley muttered to himself, looking at the computer tower in pieces. He snatched up the hard drive and put it in his hoodie’s pocket, opening one of the drawers of the file cabinet. Empty.

He furrowed his brow and checked the second one down, empty. Third? Empty, but the fourth held something. Two Manila folders. He hiked up the legs of his pants and squatted down, flipping open one of the folders. He read the document inside. After a few seconds of reading, it was apparent that the paper was a therapist’s report on his mental health.

He reached down and grabbed the folder up, reading the second page. Nothing out of the ordinary, just talking about how he missed Marlene- so that’s her name- and he had ‘work-related stress and nightmares’ and he always wondered if he did the right thing. “Don’t we all, Clyde.”

Other than that, there was nothing else worth anything to Donnelley in the file cabinets. He leaned his head into the bedroom, “I’ve got the hard drive.”

She set it on the dresser and snapped a picture of it just as Donnelly poked his head in. Stuffing the small camera back in her jacket pocket quickly, she turned to him then grabbed the envelope and paper, handing it over.

"An address," Laine said, then gave him a curious smile, "Do you have code names? Like in Reservoir Dogs? You know, Mr Pink?"

She held up the envelope, "Mr Green, for Baughman?"

Donnelley raised his brows, nodding at the envelope in Laine’s hands. Mr. Green, the green triangle. “Something like that, sure.” He looked at Laine, “Let’s go join the others. Whatever that address is could be important, huh?”

With that he left the room, tucking a ncigarette between his lips just waiting to be lit while the man himself waited for Laine to join him so he could very literally close the door on this part of the mission.

Dr Laine put the contents back in the drawer and pushed it into place, the totes now sealed and shoved into their corners. She started to walk out when she remembered the portrait and clipped it back into place under the glass, setting it back on the dresser.

"Tidied up a bit," she said, hurrying out to where Donnelly waited. Laine tucked her hands in her jacket, the leather creaking softly in the quiet apartment.
"That's it then?"

Donnelley and Laine went out the way they came in, flicking the lights off and shutting the door of Clyde’s apartment. Donnelley locked it, stepping back and nodding. “That’s it.”

The two continued down the hall from whence they came, walking fast and not making any small talk. At least not until they got to the elevator. They stepped inside, quiet for only a few moments while Donnelley pressed the Lobby Button. “What was that, back there?” Donnelley looked sidelong at Laine, “You usually just try to psychoanalyze your co-workers?”

In the elevator she met his glance and shrugged slightly, "No, just my bosses."

After a beat, she turned to look at him fully,"Mr Donnelly, it was only a question because I am curious about you, I apologize if it seemed I was trying to put you on the couch."

“I don’t know you. Least of all know you well enough to spill the shit about my life.” Donnelley spoke, the dangling cigarette jumping with each word, though not altogether fuming. He did shake his head, “It’s just…”

Donnelley chuckled ruefully, rubbing his eyes, “Ain’t professional, s’all.” Although he did turn his head to look at her, “You did good back there. Crafty.”

Ding

He stepped off the elevator and away from her before she could reply. He looked right, then left, scanning for his team. When he spotted them huddled around the mailboxes, he raised his hand as he approached them, “Care for a smoke?”

Laine watched him walk away, perhaps he was right but there were so many unanswered questions. About him, about Foster and who, other than the mystery government types, they were and why the motley team was put together. But that wasn't why she had asked, not wholly.

She followed behind, reaching up into her pocket to find the pack of Djarums, feeling the stick of gum beside it. She pulled out a black cigarette and held it between her fingers as she fished out the cheap Zippo from her jeans.

[Leidenschaft]

>CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
>LEMONBROOK APARTMENTS, LOBBY
>LAURIE, GOMEZ
>0247HRS…///

Serena moved to cross the street with the group but she kept some distance between herself and the others, letting them get ahead a bit as she did. She looked over her left shoulder to see if the southern boy was with her and nodded to him. Crossing the street she noticed the man walking his dog. Odd time for an old man to be walking a dog she thought to herself, very odd. Her cop instincts were going haywire, and then the man spoke. He mentioned a son, but Donnelley hadn’t. She passed by a trash can on the corner of the street next to a few benches at a bus stop next to the sidewalk. She bent down and grabbed a spent tallboy wrapped in a brown bag next to the bin and smelled it. Gross- It had a very robust and stale odor, and the stench tickled her nose. Probably only a few hours old and ripe with some homeless man’s DNA. There was only a small amount of liquid in the bottom. She tucked the can in her arms as if it were hers. She cut her eyes to the man with the dog, and then to Laurie.

“Laurie, you seeing this?” she said in a low but audible voice. “Eyes on him.” Serena kept a brisk pace keeping a few paces behind the group, eyes steadily fixated on the man and his dog.

Laurie was honestly very, very skeptical and even somewhat annoyed. “Calm the fuck down, its nothing.” he hissed, shaking his head. “That’s fucking nasty, just drop it and let’s go in nobody will give us any shit if we glance in his direction every so often. Come on, let’s go.” He said, but he’d wait for her to go in before following. “You know you people drove real shitty but now you’re so fast, doesn’t add up.” Laurie stated, hinting he was interested in hearing what the fuck they blabbed on for so long with Donnelly.

She could tell something was bugging him, but she kept on walking. Small talk would have to come later. “Let’s just stay focused on this for right now.” she said, her tone still very low. “There’ll be time for small talk later.”

She pulled the glass door open with her left hand, now holding the can in her right. She slowed her pace and held the door open long enough for Laurie to catch it before continuing on inside. She gave the room a quick glance. A bench to the left, empty of course, right next to a small rack of those business and apartment brochures on the wall with a sign overtop for the apartments proper. A reception desk further back, also empty, but the door behind it was open and the light was also on. She pulled her hat down tighter, and tucked the tall boy back under her left arm and came to a halt just inside, and waited for Laurie.

Laurie snickered as followed, giving yet another shake of the head. "Madamesoille, you are the one rooting around in trash for a beer can, and creeping on an old man with his pupper, you're the one who has to stay focused."

Entering the building he thanked the officer for holding the door as he made his way to the centre of the room, leaning against a wall quite comfortably. "Come on now, we got time. What's going on here, you had a chance to talk to the boss whereas I don't know Jack-shit about who the fuck this Clyde fellow really is, what we really do." The Ranger paused to spit a bit more of his dip, before continuing. "Really I just want to do my job but I got to wonder why some hick park ranger like me got hooked up with some yankee suits, soldier boys, cops and other boot-lickers. Why they got this motley crew full of people not trained for this shit be the ones here nevertheless."

Serena followed and stopped fairly close and facing him, a big gaudy [i}Lemonbrook[/i] sign behind him. She leaned in closer pulling out her phone. She began texting Donnelley for Baughman’s box number. Glancing over her shoulder at the desk to her right to make sure it was still clear. She could hear a game over a TV, coming from the back office. Stay there.

“The beer is for cover. There’s a camera on my right above the desk facing the entrance and one directly over my right shoulder, fixed on the mailboxes. We need to check Baughman’s to see if there is anything in there.” she said.

“Look Laurie, I really don’t know any more than you do at this point. Donnelley still hasn’t came off with very much. Something about some fucked up shit in everyone’s file or something.” she said, sending the message to Donnelley’s phone and looking back at Laurie making an awful face. “Goddamnit this fucking thing stinks..”.

The Ranger sighed, giving an amused look to Serena. "Cops, man, cops. You really think a drunk broad would keep a beer can around in her hands to demonstrate she's drunk so conveniently? That's not how it fucking works. A guy called into the Ranger station said he been attacked by a gator by the vending machine down on the trail. He was still holding a pack of chips, all ready to show what he was doing before a gator attacked. You think he won the lawsuit he scared us with?"

Walking over to the camera to conveniently block it, the Ranger kept his eye near the door to make sure he wouldn't miss any shit coming through. "Your breath doesn't smell a single bit like beer, but if you want to give that can a practiced suck then be my guest." He said, with another ptew of spat dip. "I don't give a shit at this point. None of this is on my résumé, I'm not getting caught breaking the law when I don't even have a promise of a pay-raise." Laurie cursed, wiping down his brow. "What I'm paid for, that's what I'll do my yankee lady."

Serena’s phone vibrated in her hand. A text from Donnelly. “Well lucky for you that’s all we have to do now. Jason is coming down with the key. We just gotta stay alert and cover the camera when he gets here.” she said, clearing the message from her phone. She then held it up and shook it. “Motorola's got wings.”

She took an apartment finder from the rack beside the bench and walked over to the boxes and stood with Laurie, again facing him, but she could still see the elevator and entrance as well. “You got eyes on the desk? I think there’s a receptionist in the back room.” she said, hoping Laurie had a decent line of sight on the counter.

Just a little pissed Serena ignored the comment on her little beer can prop, Laurie nodded. "Yeah I got it covered, but then I can't check for people coming from the door, your choice. Like I said I ain't paid for this shit and if things go sour I'm fucking sprinting."

“I got eyes on the entrance, just keep an eye out for the receptionist.” she said, glancing in its general direction. She was hoping the others would hurry. “What about your ride over here? You guys not come up with anything either? All I know is Donnelley mentioned something about some fucked up shit in everyone’s files. Doc mentioned something about a weird ass stone.” leaning closer to Laurie, almost whispering. “I was at a banger’s house two years ago and they had some red skinned flesh eating Chinese midgets in the basement cutting up girls.. Choo-Choo’s, Tcho-Tcho’s, or something like that..” she said, propping herself on the wall with her right hand. She shuddered at the thought of it all. That fucking smell. She wasn’t sure if it was the stench of the can or if she was reverting to the incident at this point.

“What about you? What kind of fucked up Paul Bunyon type shit you got going on in your files?”. Serena looked him in the eye when she spoke, still managing a whisper. She was genuinely curious, but she didn’t want to make a scene in there if they didn’t have to.

"Nah, we weren't like that. Quiet tough guys, us. Like I said, in and out, that's how I operate, just doing our job." Still leaning with legs crossed, Laurie's nose curled back as Serena described some cannibal yellow people.

"The fuck are you on about?" he demanded, forehead creasing. "No I ain't ever seen something like that, "Doc" sounds like a shrink that needs her own fucking medicine." Laurie had seen stuff out of the ordinary, but the sight of bigfoot didn't come up in his head when he was thinking on the topic of shit Gomez mentioned. "Crazy fucks…." he amended.

>LOBBY
>LAURIE, GOMEZ, JASON
>0300(?) HRS…///

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open revealing the stagnant lobby. Jason stepped out, eyed the lobby for cameras, and then spotted Laurie and Serena talking in sotto voce. He approached, the narrow ring holding Baughman’s mail key barely spanning his index finger. The agent looked dour or at the very least unenthused. As he approached the pair he said softly, “Ready to commit your first felony?” and raised the key in front of him.

Serena heard the elevator open and nodded as Jason approached the two of them. She pulled herself from the wall and straightened herself up as he passed by, smirking at his comment she rolled her eyes. “Who said it was my first?”

“Atta pepper,” he replied, and managed a weak smirk.

Laurie on the contrary shook his head, making a false laugh. "Ha-mother-fucking-ha."

Serena took another glance towards the counter, hoping the elevator had not roused the sleeping dragon in the back room, if there was in fact someone in there. Serena grabbed the key from Jason, but kept her eyes trained on the desk but spoke towards Laurie and Jason both. “I don’t think we should stick around here for too long.” Her attention torn between the entrance and the desk. “Maybe we should step outside once he checks the box, maybe have a smoke? Lookin’ a little crowded for three o’clock in the morning.” Serena didn’t have any cigarettes on her. “Hey Jason, you got a smoke?”

Jason grimaced. “Don’t smoke,” he said, and waited for the criticism to be hurled.

“Fuck.” she said. She shook the can in jest. “I only smoke when I drink.” It wasn't a lie though, she really didn’t. She nodded to the both of them and then turned and leaned in close so that her shoulders would block at least one row boxes where she was standing. She found the box with the corresponding number that matched the key, and turned the tumblers opening the small brass door. She grabbed a small stack of papers, mostly coupons from what she could gather, spam mail. She didn’t bother to look at it right then and folded it all up, stowing it in her hoodie pocket. She closed the box and locked it back before turning back to Laurie and Jason.

“You boys wanna get some fresh air? Kind of stifling in here.” nodding towards the main entrance as she spoke.

The Louisiana boy shrugged. "I'll follow your lead." He said, voicing his modus operandi. He didn't feel real good in this building, but the outdoors of this shithole weren't much better, were they.

The elevator dinged again, the doors sliding open like stage curtains to reveal Laine and Donnelley. As the two approached, their footsteps echoed in the empty space of the tile-floor lobby. Donnelley raised his hand, “Care for a smoke?”

Jason smirked at the mention of smokes, replying, “Was going to ask you the same thing.” He turned to Laurie and for the first time since arriving in West Virginia he exuded a welcoming warmth. “Fresh air sounds great,” he said. Jason studied Dr. Laine for a moment after, scanning her outline like she was wearing some part of Baughman’s remnant, like the indeterminant goal of their searching was adorned like a shroud. Whatever it may be wasn’t meant for the lobby, and he strode out the building while chuckling lowly at Gomez’s worn can of Steel Reserve.

Still pinching the clove cigarette between her fingers, she nodded a greeting at the others, her distracted expression could be blamed on trying to wriggle the Zippo lighter from the pocket of her tight jeans. Without a word to Gomez, leaving her to Donnelly she followed Jason out of the lobby.

Finally wrenching the lighter out, she thought, Skinny jeans and hips don't agree.

She flicked the steel and a bright flame leaped at the beckoning, and she put the cigarette between her lips, touching the tip with the flame as she inhaled. The cloves crickled and cracked as she sucked on it, the numbing smoke entering her throat and lungs before she exhaled deeply, the frustrations of the evening billowing out with it.

Serena nodded at Donnelley and started for the entrance. Upon exiting the building she had noticed that the darkness of the twilight hours was dwindling and the sky was getting brighter. Sun would rise soon. She dropped the can back in the trash and stuck both of her hands in her hoodie pocket as if to make certain that nothing was going to fall out, her fingers ruffling through the mail. She went and sat down on the bench at the bus stop and waited for the others.

Seeing the rest of the group going out, Laurie followed suit thinking back to what Serena told him earlier. He wasn't exactly socially tact in these things, so as he stepped outside and faced Laine before he asked quite bluntly: "You really see a fucking big rock?", looking back in to Gomez with some confusion. He wanted to clear confusion, but only got more of it. Jason looked back and forth between the two, looking intrigued but puzzled.

“Yeah, they’re called mountains. They’re everywhere.” Donnelley cocked a brow at Laurie and looked at Serena as he followed the rest outside. Once out, he followed suit and let the flame of his lighter kiss the tip of his cigarette. He puffed on it a couple times before speaking again, “Save it for the drive home, Laurie.”

He looked to Serena once he stood opposite her, “So, you holding out on me?”

Serena looked at Donnelly as she retrieved the stack of mail from her pocket. She held it up so he could see it and then started going through the pile. “Looks like a bunch of coupons and sales papers..”, she replied. “Oh, wait a minute. This could be something.”

She pulled a pastel yellow envelope out from the pile and looked it over. The words Thank you written across the front. She opened it up to reveal a photograph and a thank you card addressing him on the inside with a small note saying - Thanks for the wonderful weekend at the cabin! She handed it to Donnelley and kept sifting through the junk mail. A few bills, credit card offers, the usual shit that fills everyone’s mailbox though they wish it wouldn’t.

“Huh...” Donnelley said, looking at the family in the picture. Sure enough, there was Sam Baughman, a wife, two kids. Behind them was a cabin. “Maybe.”

But why let his family stay somewhere he was stashing Delta Green intel and case files? Unless, “That envelope.” He muttered, “We’re mounting up, get in the cars.”

Laine took a few more drags and glanced at the bus bench where Donnelly and the others were. When they started to move, she flicked the growing stem of ash and reached for the keys of the Chrysler in her jacket pocket.

Donnelley flinched slightly when his phone began vibrating in his pocket, reaching down with a cocked brow and bringing it to his ear. He stood silently while whoever was on the other line spoke. A muttered, “Oh.” was all that came from him. He looked behind him, walking towards Tom…

Serena discarded the rest of the mail in the trash and headed towards the Chrysler, and glad to be out of the apartment building. Three o’clock in the morning made anyone look sketchy. Dew was starting to accumulate on the few small patches of grass next to the highway and glistened like diamonds under the orange light of the streetlamps. She was due for a drink.

---

>SOME TIME BEFORE...///

Tom walked about 10 meters off to the left and rear of Joe Donnelly, Dr. Laine and Jason Jimenez. He was thinking tactical. It may not have been necessary, but better safe than sorry. No one had weapons drawn, they were just walking across a city street in the middle of the night in America. Tom kept going, stopping at the building wall. He turned to face Donnelly when he spoke to the old man walking the dog. He noticed the man had several people’s attention. He listened to the conversation and wondered how the possible presence of Baughman’s son would effect this operation. I guess it depended on what he did when he arrived and what Joe did when the son arrived.

As the group went inside, Tom moved to the nearest corner of the building so he could see down two walls and anyone approaching the building from three directions. He knew Mr. Clark would move to the opposite corner. It was tactically, the smart thing to do. From this vantage point, two men could see all entrances and approach avenues. Besides, there were plenty of bushes to conceal his location if someone were to walk up on them.

Justin mirrored Tom’s moves, taking the opposing corner as he adjusted his baseball cap. Flipping open his burner, he tapped through the ancient device to bring up the pixelated picture of Baughman’s son. Looking at it to burn the picture into his mind, he placed the phone back in his pocket, glancing around. Quietly, as he leaned against the wall and kept his eyes peeled, he pulled his pack of Pall Mall Reds from his shirt pocket, using some cheap BIC lighter to ignite one. He casually smoked, ready to make for cover if need be, albeit he wasn’t too concerned about anyone except the son.

‘Like I said earlier, I wish I had my M4’ Tom spotted a vehicle less than a hundred yards down on the left side of the road. Tom called Justin’s number on the burner phone he received from Mr. Donnelly, “hey Mr. Clark, there is a nosey individual in a late model Toyota about seventy meters up the street. I can keep my eyes on it, if you would like to go check him out?” Tom could tell there was someone in the car due to the way the suspension rocked ever so slightly when the person moved around. He knew the car was there when the group of seven arrived. No one new approached the area. It was a slight movement from the interior that alerted him to the person’s presence.

After their conversation on the phone, Tom called Mr. Donnelly’s number. “Sir, there is an unknown individual sitting in a Toyota about seventy meters up the street who appears to have taken an interest in our activities. I’ve sent Mr. Clark to go check him out, while I watch from the bushes.”

Footsteps were heard and Tom looked to see Donnelley, the others in the distance. Donnelley didn’t look in the direction of Tom had been, but when he did, he too saw it. It wasn’t exactly where he’d park if he was staking out a place or tailing someone. Did they know they were coming? Were they also after Clyde’s things and watching them when the team got there first? Had the team gotten there first? “I’ve got eyes on him.” Donnelley nodded, “We’re about to head out to somewhere else. When’d you notice that nosey sumbitch?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” Tom replied. “I called Mr. Clark to go check it out. I haven’t heard from him yet.”

“Clark here, I got it, will keep you updated.” Clark flipped his burner closed, slipping it into his pocket once more. Sweeping any furls of his button-up and fleece jacket from his side, he took a stroll down the street, keeping his figure as firmly glued to the shadows as humanly possible. Slowly, surely he unbuttoned his hip sheathe, and pulled out his folded SMF knife, backhand gripping it as he ducked behind a nearby car, careful of the presence of street lights or building entrance lights.

He removed his ball cap, stuffing it in his zip-up fleece’s front right pocket, peeking his eyes up and over the hood of the car he was using as cover. Full view of rear plates, and the silhouette of its occupant. Couldn’t be identified. Damn. At least he could get the license plate number and model. Pulling out his burner, he tapped at the buttons steadily, his breath wavering. He leaned back out, snapped a picture, and hastily retreated, hoping to god he hadn’t been seen. Planting himself on his ass in front of his cover vehicle, he dialed up Tom.

“Yeah, I got it. Driver is unidentifiable likely male, can’t discern any features. Vehicle is a silver Toyota Corolla, 2010s model. Got a picture of its rear plates, number is-” Clark looked down at his phone momentarily, bringing up the photo. “-Seven-Xray-Four-Five-Three-Four. I’ll send the picture your way.”

‘Break off, meet in the cars.’ Donnelley’s message.

Some ways away, the man himself was stuffing his phone in his pocket and turning towards the cars. The sounds of them closing their doors in the vehicles echoed down the road towards him and soon both cars were starting.

Justin made his own hasty retreat, taking up his previous spot in the Ford Explorer, making sure all his shit was in order as he buckled in.

Laine slid into the driver's seat of the Chrysler 300, starting the car as she waited for the others. It idled quietly, the stereo silent. The Explorer was parked behind her and in the rearview mirror she could see the dark shape of one of the men from the team get in the truck.

“You boys don’t mind if I hitch one with you?” Donnelley asked as he planted himself in the front passenger seat of the Explorer. All the while, he kept his eyes on the Corolla, watching and waiting for the bastard to follow them. He never did.

Just let them disappear down the road, past a corner, and onto the next little place with a shroud of mystery. The next quiet place waiting for them to stir up its secrets like silt in the water...

[Leidenschaft]

>APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
>0538HRS...///

Laine had the GPS that Donnelly had left in the car and she entered the address that was on the paper, following it out of town and into the hills. She smoked the rest of her cigarette, the scent of burning cloves filling the car until she put down the window, the cool night air whipping the smoke out.

Serena took the back seat again on the way to the cabin, hoping that Laurie would finally give her ears a break. Besides, Doctor Laine seemed more qualified to answer the sort of questions he was asking. She didn’t know shit. She had been up since six o’clock the previous morning, and was close to running on fumes. She had tried to get a bit of rest in the lull back at the safehouse but she couldn’t fall asleep. Hopefully Laurie would chew on Doc’s ear for a while. She leaned her head back against the rest as the sweet smell of cloves and fresh mountain air were a welcome change from the streets of Los Angeles. The sky was actually blue here, free from the brown tinge of smog. Her head swayed slightly back and forth with the curves of the mountain highway.

Laurie sat in the car and tried to keep quiet. He played with his Rubik's cube solving it a couple of times with a feint muttering under his breath. Halfway through the third or fourth go he violently dropped the toy and looked between his two comrades. With all that shit about the black stone and cannibals Laurie only got blue balls from Joseph's intervention, and them blue balls needed draining. "Alright, be straight with me. What is this bullshit about some big rock and cannibal chihuahuas, you're all fucking with me right?"

Serena’s eyelids slid slightly open at the mention of cannibal chihuahuas and smirked, only feeling a little sympathetic for Dr. Laine. Her head still cradled by the headrest and swaying. She wasn’t about to go digging in that box again. Her decision to sit in the back was a solid move.

Laine glanced over at him, then looked back at the road. "I take it we all have seen something strange. Unexplainable. That's the only reason I could see all of us brought together, otherwise why just pull random people from the FBI, military, LAPD, and national park service? Yes, I saw something I can't explain, I simple terms it was a black stone that was the site of a brutal murder of a missing woman."

She took a drag on the clove cigarette, down to the filter before dropping it in a near empty water bottle in the cup holder. "In Olympia National Park, a ranger found her. He called the local FBI. I was already in Seattle working on the profile of the kidnapper, so I went along."

Laine was quiet for a moment, then added, "There was something there in the woods with us, even that ranger was spooked. And it sure as hell wasn't Sasquatch. That stone...blacker than anything...no reflection or light hitting it made a change in the surface. The blood was nearly completely drained from Sofie Childress, she was gutted and splayed open. Pieces were missing, butchered like a hog."

Her eyes flickered at the rearview mirror, looking at Laine before returning to the winding rural highway. "I've seen a lot doing what I do, but never have I felt the menace I felt that day. The crime scene team felt it, the ranger. Agent Chan, he had been the lead. He ate a bullet two days later. He was the one who spent the most time examining the body in situ."

She fell silent, the green of the trees rushing past the car in a blur and she said quietly, "Ranger Mathieu, is that enough explanation to why I need answers?"

Laurie listened to what "Doc" as Serena called the shrink said, occupying himself with staring out the window. Sounded like fucking crazy shit, really really fucking crazy and honestly a product of circumstance and perspective. He knew a lot of people on the job just didn't stay hydrated, made them real fucking loony. But he didn't really doubt the death, and it was clear the woman was personally touched by the tragedy.

It took a long moment but he swallowed all his words an simply replied "Yeah." quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a glance at Serena, considering asking the SWAT lady to tell her chihuahua story but then decided against it. Staring back out the window, he decided he was for now content to ride in silence. Man, he missed the quiet and all the rest of the fucking sausage fest car.

Serena had been half listening to the conversation in the back but she opted to remain silent. She let the gentle curves of the highway and the sweet aroma from Laine’s cigarette taunt her into dozing off in spurts along the way to the cabin. She was ready to get some proper sleep in but there was no telling how long that was going to be from then.

Dr Laine cast a sidelong glance at Laurie and shook her head slightly, then focused on the road. Whatever had brought this man in was a mystery and she did not have the energy to pry it out of him.

>...///

“So, where the hell we goin’?” Justin spoke up, relaxing back in his seat, taking a bite out of a protein bar, a genuine Ranger Bar to be specific, the fabled treat of any MRE. This one was banana nut. Of course he’d have those in his go-bag. And it made for a decent enough breakfast, anyways. They’d been out and about for four and a half hours now, had to eat some time.

Donnelley flicked the last of his cigarette out the window, blowing the smoke out with his talk, “Laine and her crafty little black-clad self found an address hidden away in a compartment. False bottom of a drawer.” Donnelley cleared his throat, “Real spy shit. Whatever’s out here, he didn’t seem keen on anybody but him knowing about it.”

“So I take it there wasn’t anythin’ juicy or interestin’ in the apartment?” Justin pulled another Ranger Bar from his bag, offering it over to Jason in the seat beside him silently, cracking a slight grin as he held a finger up to his own lips. Jason looked near incredulous at the bar being offered, moments ago laughing internally at Justin’s proto-typical “hooah” moment. He returned the grin and took the bar, shaking his head before chowing down himself.

“Nah, just my fine self.” Donnelley grinned at his own joke, chuckling as he shook his head when he saw the painfully obvious hand-off, “You know I got mirrors up here, asshole. If I show you my Special Forces tab do I get one too?”

“Shit, dude, you served? Coulda’ led with that-” He chuckled dryly, passing up a chocolate Ranger Bar. It’s not like he was in shortage. Tom was offered one as well, whether he took it was up to him.

“No thanks,” Tom refused the Bulldog bar. “I gave up that shit. Only eat them on drill weekends now.”

“Afghanistan,” Donnelley nodded, sighing, “First time I went I was with the Ranger Batt’s jumping out of planes. Second time was in an ODA deep in them mountains.”

He took the Ranger bar, raising it to Justin before he opened it, “You were in Afghanistan, right?” Donnelley raised a brow and cracked a smirk, speaking around the morsel he bit off, “Who here wasn’t?”

“Guess the tab tattoo gave me away, eh?” Justin idly patted his left shoulder. “I was there, too. Third of the seventy-fifth. Well, mostly. First one was with the 101st.”

“What about you, Jimenez?” Donnelley nodded at the other man through the mirror.

“RC-South for the first, in Kandahar doing medivac. Then I was attached to the 75th in Ghazni as a QRF toe-tagging HVTs,” Jason replied. "That was...short lived.” He tore off a piece of his ranger bar to keep from talking anymore.

“So Joe, I’ve been meaning to ask, What the fuck are we doing out here? I thought this was some joint FBI/CIA operation which is what I signed up for. Where the fuck are we going and what the hell are we doing out here at oh dark thirty!?” Tom was slightly annoyed, primarily because he was tired.

“You really want to know?” Donnelley’s demeanor seemed to change completely as the heaviness of his brow became apparent. He looked to Tom in the driver’s seat, looked back at the two others and then righted himself, watching the Chrysler amble on ahead of them. “Consider this an interview. A test run.”

“The people far away from here gave me the same choice that was given to all of you. None of you said no. I want to see how you all work.” Donnelley said, his eyes going from Justin to Jimenez from the rear view mirror before they went back to the road, “I’ll tell it to you like I told it to Laine. You keep your eyes peeled and your ears open, you’ll learn. You’ll get those answers.”

Jason wished he had popped an adderall earlier to ward off the nagging dullness of staying up all night, but Donnelley’s words coursed through him like a cold spring and his drowsiness subsided. He knew this was all a test, but still the puzzle’s image wasn’t revealed and he had to have more pieces, pieces invariably waiting at the cabin. He took another bite of his bar to appear socially busy, but inside he was giddy and impatient. Could this be what I’ve been waiting for all this time?

Donnelley let the silence grow, “Until then, just do your fucking jobs.” Donnelley sighed, “I can’t give you everything. Not yet.”

>0623...///

“They’re stopping.” Came Donnelley’s voice.

They’d come this far on the scribblings of a dead man. It wasn’t the craziest thing Donnelley had done, all things told. They’d made the hours long drive through the city and then the countryside, letting civilization slip away from them to replace concrete with green underbrush and tall trees, pavement with dirt. The roads had been kept well, the Chrysler in front of them having little trouble traversing the packed dirt, jostling every so often but otherwise still going strong.

For all the deep talks and prodding Laine and Serena had pressed him down with it was a little liberating to be in the Explorer. They spent their time whittling down the hours smoking cigarettes and thinking, making odd small talk intermittently. Quiet professionals all. “Let’s dismount.”

Tom stopped the Ford when the Chrysler stopped. He stepped out of the vehicle to see what Dr. Laine had found.

There was no cabin in sight yet, but turnoffs on the road had made conjecture easy that they were here somewhere. There was no sign of the Corolla, hell, no sign of anybody else. Still, his eyes set themselves to scanning the trees as he got out of the car, closing the door shut behind him as the engine whirred down, tick-ticking away. The sun had just come up, but the oppressive cover of the trees still gripped onto the darkness and lent a sort of quiet sinister way to the expanse beyond the road.

Finally, he tore his gaze from them, walking to Laine. Once he got confirmation from her that this was the place, there was only one thing left to do to get to their objective. Walk. Again, he rallied his team. “I know a lot of you have questions. All of you, probably.” Donnelley shrugged, “Some just voicing it more than others. We huff it to this cabin, figure out what needs figuring out. We do that, Foster and I will feed your curiosity about everything.”

“I know we got some soldiers here,” Donnelley nodded to Justin, “I won’t have to tell them, but the rest of you, keep an even spread while we’re making the march up to that cabin. Heads on a swivel.”

“We got any more questions? No?” Donnelley smirked, “Let’s get to it then.”

He was the first to break away, noting the fact the little trail up to the cabin Baughman owned had been overgrown, and it looked to have been that way for some time. This couldn’t have been where Sam and his family had been staying. That left a lot of questions for Donnelley himself, and he never liked not being the one with answers. He pushed a branch out of his way and stepped under another. They made the quiet trek up the path. They’d crossed maybe 300 meters of it, all of it uphill. He needed to stop smoking so many goddamn cigarettes, he thought, as he drew in a long breath as they made it to a clearing at the head of the trail.

He put his hands on his hips as he scanned the perimeter. It was a modest little thing, sprawling out in a single floor, wood walls and stone chimney. Quaint. There was an outhouse beyond the cabin and a small shed between the two. He hiked up his pants, bent down, surveyed the dirt and found no other bootprints but for a deer. A little ways away, a bear paw and some dried excrement from the animal. Satisfied, he rose again. “Nobody’s been here for a bit.”

He walked the rest of the way, looking left and right on his approach to the door. A try at twisting the knob told him it was locked. “Alright, let’s see if I’m still good at this.” He bent down to produce a set of lockpicking tools. It was a good five minutes before he got it open, but goddamn, he did. “Goddamn.”

“Alright, Laine, Jimenez. Same order of business.” Donnelley said, turning to the rest of them, “Watch that treeline. Tom, Justin, check the perimeter for anything weird. Laurie, Serena, you take the shed.”

"Let's hope he didn't stash old Sears catalogues here," Dr Laine sighed, thinking back on the hours digging through useless junk. She went up to the porch, then carefully stepped inside and moving to the left to leave room for Jimenez to enter the cabin.

The two men stepped through the doorway. It was almost just as big as his apartment. A single room setup with a bed in the far left corner next to the chimney, still using wood even though the light fixtures hinted the place had electricity. A faucet told Donnelley there was running water as well. Donnelley checked his phone. No service. Next to the bed was a nightstand on which a loaded .45 lay. The far right corner of the cabin had a bookshelf, mostly empty save for a few books. In the middle of the cabin floor was an old and dusty rug.

“Alright, well. Not many places to stash things, is there?” Donnelley looked back at the door, his eyes betraying surprise, “Remember talking about claymore mines?”

A shotgun was rigged by its trigger to a tripwire, though the tripwire hadn’t been fixed to its hook. He took a knee and took the fishing line between thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. Perhaps Clyde forgot to fix the trap before he left the last time. Either way, Laine was spared from having her right leg amputated by .00 buck. Donnelley whistled, stepping further into the cabin, steps careful after that experience.

When Donnelly mentioned claymore mines Laine followed his gaze to the rigged shotgun. Her face grew even more pale as the blood drained out of it and she staggered back slightly, out of the line potential shotgun blast.

"Jesus fuck," she breathed out, tightening her stomach against the roll of nausea that threatened.

She was afraid to step forward, her trembling hands pressing against her hips as she tried to look casual. "Why don't you go first, Mr Jimenez, Mr Donnelly. This is more your thing," Dr Laine said, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. "I need a moment."

Pistol in hand and pointed low, Jason approached Laine and the trap with cautious steps, his weight teasing creaks out of the old floorboards. He made a quick assessment of Laine, concluded she wasn't in shock, and met her gaze.

Donnelley nodded to Laine, seeing the very apparent shock on her face. If he was the first one in and came fact to face with the prospect of getting his leg blown off, he’d look the same. More often than not, he did, all the fighting he was used to doing by now. “Take your time,” he raised his brows at Jimenez, “Something here’s important if he’s booby-trapping the place.”

"You're in one piece, that's all that matters. Something happens I can patch you up," Jason said to Heather.

Dr Laine focused her wide eyes on Jason’s freckles, unexpected on his olive skin therefore fascinating for the moment as she calmed herself. She then met his gaze, nodding at his assurance. He was the medic, of course. She had forgotten among all the introductions and alphabet soup of military acronyms that had been thrown at her at the other cabin. Air Force, Donnelly had said.

“Right, yes, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be fine,” she said, breathing in deep, tucking back a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Laine turned to look around the cabin, gingerly taking a step behind Jason where it was safe. Letting him assess the danger, she began to look for possible stash places, hidden spots that might hold clues as the false bottom in the drawer had.

"Pretty clear the family is a moniker. Your outfit recruit the son?” Jason asked, turning to Donnelley. “If not I'd say we just found a rabbit hole. "

Jason began to look around, letting any bias or presumption fade as he focused on the entirety of the cabin. Instead of patterns or deduction Jason instead read the room like an auspex, letting its totality reveal whatever it might. Each step from his bulky frame made the floor squeal with protest, giving the silent morning an ominous rhythm.

The bed, the shelves, the fireplace, she made mental notes of what she wanted to check. The floor creaked under the weight of the man in front of her. Under the floorboards, of course. She felt a knot of dread at the thought of belly crawling beneath the cabin in the dark. Her Docs tread more lightly as she made her way towards the fireplace.

Donnelley went for the bed, focused on the two things bathed in the dusty light coming in from the window, reaching down on the nightstand to look at the Colt just sitting there. The serial number had been scratched off, which wasn’t uncommon for agents to do way back when. Oh, Donnelley thought, how it would be to fight the good fight back then. Hunted by the government you swore to protect, having to hide every movement. Next to the Colt was another little framed picture of Clyde’s wife. His mind went back to Laine’s words, if Marlene knew about Clyde, if Holly knew about him. He looked at Laine and shook his head, putting the photo of Marlene back on the nightstand. He hated how much Laine’s words picked at the edges of his conscience.

He opened the drawer, finding a bible, a pack of cigarettes, and a metal flask not unlike Joseph’s own. Marlboros. Jesus. Jameson. He wondered if Clyde really felt safety in that, after all the things he’d have to have seen. Had to have done. Joseph knew praying never felt right after Somalia. Not that he ever did it much anyway, but back then he tried anything just to sleep. Just to save his marriage. Just to try to be in Tilly’s future. All the good it did.

He picked up the flask, the smell of whiskey wafting up to tickle at his thirsts and hungers. So this is where Clyde went then. They all had a place, everybody. This was Clyde’s, he thought, turning the flask over and taking one last look at everything before he shut the drawer, thudding it closed with a finality. Marlene gave him a last look, a smile, and nothing behind her eyes. The pictures in the apartment had been different. Like they were following the jagged and sharp trail Clyde’s life had sliced through Marlene’s. He turned away and sighed. Thankful, in a way, that Holly and Tilly never looked like that in the pictures he had.

On a nightstand beside Clyde’s bed was a photo of who Jason assumed was Clyde’s wife. He picked it up, studying the crows feet and smile lines on her face. Her smile was tainted by eyes that seemed empty. If it weren’t for the man’s death Jason would feel intrusive, but now his memories were a hollow imprint of what he had left behind. He had lived a life, one of secrecy and facades. What had he hidden from her? Maybe that was the lifeless depth in her gaze, Jason wondered, a thin veneer to hide a lifetime of not knowing who her husband really was. It was an uncomfortable conclusion for him, and one he didn’t undermine with the assumption they could have been happy once. None of it mattered anymore.

Jason shuffled past the bed, his foot knocking into something solid under the foot of the bed. He gave Laine a wary look before crouching down and seeing a footlocker secured with a padlock. Rounding the end of the bed, he crouched again and pulled the footlocker from under it. Jason stepped back, impressed with himself and showing it with a smirk.

“Bing—” he said, but paused as he noticed something peculiar as he back-stepped away from the bed. The creaking of the floorboards became different, even hollow. He crouched yet again and rasped the floor with a knock, first where he had been and then underneath him. Both produced distinctly different sounds. He repeated the knocking again to be sure, this time certain he had found something.

“—go,” he finished. “Donnelley, I think we have something here.”

Dr Laine watched Jason pull out the box from under the bed, it was not exactly a clever hiding place but it was a footlocker, not many places to hide it in this spartan cabin. Her hand ran along the stone of the mantle on the fireplace, feeling for any loose spots but the mortar held fast. Her attention was diverted back to the bed as Jason knocked on the boards.

“Be careful,” she said, “Let me know if you need help.”

“Yeah,” he replied, fingers probing the groves of the floorboards.

Her attention went back to the fireplace, using her phone’s flashlight to peer into the darkness. Laine had to get on her hands and knees, laying the light down to point up as she tried to find any wires that might be strung on a trap. Her hand moved up into the sooty chimney, feeling around gingerly. Her fingernails scraped the grit but she felt something move, a brick jiggled in place. Her heart jumped, the same exhilaration as she had when making a critical discovery on a case.

Laine bent down, pushing her rear in the air as she got half way into the fireplace, twisting her arm up to get a better purchase on the loose stone. Her fingers gripped it, it was almost too far up as Baughman must have been taller with a longer reach. But she had it and she worked it back and forth until it slid out. It fell and hit the cold ash with a thunk and in the hole it left Laine felt something flat and hard, metallic. She grabbed it and pulled herself out of the fireplace, holding up a key in the sunlight through the window, the brass gleaming under the dust.

Her black hair and shirt was coated in ash and soot, her nail polish chipped on her forefinger. Laine shook her head, swiping aside bangs and leaving a smudge across her forehead. “Found a key, just need the lock. How’s that floor look?”

“Let’s find out.” Donnelley bent down, taking a corner of the rug and throwing it away from its resting place. The space it left was a shape of itself, the wood looking fresher and less dusty. “This hasn’t been moved for a long damn time.”

And there in the floor was a door, Donnelley looked at Laine and Jason, “Who goes first?”

No answer, not that he waited long for one. He stood, stepped over to position himself in front of the handholds. Little holes cut out of the floor. His fingers slipped into them, dug in as he lifted and then threw the thing creaking open on its hinges. It wasn’t a stairway like he hoped, but it was something. Another footlocker, another lock. Donnelley whistled, “Plot thickens, huh?”

He reached down for the footlocker in the wooden recess of the floor, fingers stopping just short of it. His mind flashed to the shotgun at the door. His fingers changed course. Feeling along the bottom of the box, the corners of the recess in the floorboards. He didn’t feel anything. Satisfied, he placed his hands on the metal handles of the lockbox, knowing full well what kind of traps the Taliban, the militias in Somalia, Chechen separatists, and now finally old Clyde Baughman could rig.

Maybe a hole drilled at the bottom of the box, strings attached to something inside so when it’s lifted, it pulls the pins on seven grenades and finishes the last of Joseph’s good looks that the burn scar didn’t get to. He let go of the handles. “Goddamnit, Clyde.”

“Key.” Donnelley said, “And step back.”

Once Laine placed the key in his waiting, sweaty palm, he tried at the padlock with no success. “Damn it,” he hissed, offering the key back to Laine, “Try it on that other one.”

She backed up after handing Donnelly the key, all the way back to the stone fireplace and watched with bated breath. Laine breathed a sigh, both disappointed and relieved, it did not open but it did not explode either. She would count that as a win. Once he gave her the key back, she went to the foot locker Jason had removed from under the bed. Laine looked at him, then raised her brow at the irony when she said, “Living dangerously now.”

Laine slipped the key into the padlock on the wooden box and turned it, hearing the click of the lock releasing. Taking it off, she tossed it onto the bed and opened the lid, slowly and overly suspicious but the memory of the unrigged shotgun was still fresh.

Inside the box was an arrayment of memories, more photos of family, tiny white Christening gowns and a pair of blue baby shoes and a pink blanket. His children’s mementos and perhaps their children, she thought as she picked up a yellowed photo of beaming Baughmans with an infant and toddler at some park. Her fingers rifled through the items, and landed on a box, small and the old velvet worn off on the corners. A ring box.

Laine popped it open, expecting his wife’s engagement ring or their wedding bands but instead there sat another key. She plucked it out and looked at the men, “This might help, Mr. Donnelly.”

Donnelley watched her rifle through the past up until she handed him another key. He took it, smiling, “Living dangerous is about all I got.”

He chuckled as he slipped the key home, the chuckle guttering as he placed his hands on the lid. He took a breath, looking at Laine and Jimenez before he flung it open.

He wasn’t dead, so that was nice.

“Huh.” Donnelley sucked his teeth. Reel-to-reel tapes, masking tape on one dating it 8/15/62. The other’s masking tape label was 9/29/62. He carefully picked them up and placed them on the floor. A closed cardboard box was under them, an envelope with a green triangle, again made out to a ‘Mr. Green.’ He handed the envelope to whoever took it, his attention still on the cardboard box.

Jason took the envelope after giving Laine a testing glance, opened it, and began reading.

Donnelley carefully opened the box, revealing a neatly folded suit. Neat. But very bloody. “Alright…”

He folded the box’s lid back up, lifting it to reveal three safe tear gas grenades sitting at the bottom, next to a leather pouch and a knife. The knife looked old, like Clyde had pulled it out of a museum or straight out of the ground. Curious script went along the blade of the knife, hilt to point. He took the knife’s hilt in his hand and made to test its weight when he noticed a small glass sphere stuck to the knife. He pulled at it. No glue. “What the fuck?”

After a great deal of struggling, the glass sphere came free. Was it a magnet? But glass. Again and again, he stuck and unstuck the glass sphere to the metal knife. He shook his head, “What the fuck.”

He picked up a stack of papers at the bottom, read the title, ‘Sky Devils: Archetypical Figures in Native American Mythology’, by a Karen Barr, dated 1975. “Never heard of this.” He put it back in the box, “Some weird damn stuff.”

He shook his head deciding not to probe deeper at whatever else the box held. The leather pouch was the only stone unturned and he didn’t seem keen to after the glass magnet. Which dropped and stuck in place on the metal footlocker next the knife. “What, uh,” he shook his head again as he closed the lid on the strangeness, “What’s in the envelope? Don’t let it be another address.”

With growing wonder, Dr Laine looked through the box, a thrill of adventure she had not felt since she was a child looking through her Grandpa's attic. The knife was fascinating, but the strange glass sphere was unlike anything she had ever seen or heard about. When Donnelly set it down, she picked it up and tried to pluck the glass ball from the bed of the locker and feeling the pull against the iron. It took more force than she expected to try and pull it free, the glass sphere clinging stubbornly. Laine set the knife down, then went for the untouched leather pouch as the envelope not unlike the one she found earlier went into Jason's hands. All the while Jason glared at the note, his expression furrowing into concern.

Holding the pouch, she tugged the leather cords that tied it closed and felt them give way. Inside was collection of natural materials. She poured some of it out in her hand, small pebbles that on closer inspection were human teeth and a tangle of dusty feathers and long strands of brown hair. Laine pulled it out further and saw it was still attached to a dried, grisly piece of scalp.

She had an idea of what it might be but said nothing, glancing up only when she heard Donnelly ask Jason about the envelope.

Jason whipped his head to the far side of the cabin as if he was searching for something. Extending the note to either of them, he began to make for the door in a distracted gait. “Read it,” he muttered to both of them, eyes locked to the door.

Laine watched his reaction and turned to toss the pouch back into the locker as Donnelly took the letter. Jason was off, striding out the door and she looked at the red haired man, “What is it?”

>...///

Serena nodded to Donnelley, again- it was a pretty straightforward task. She pulled a piece of gum from her pack and unwrapped it. She was careful to put the wrapper back in her pocket along with the pack. She nodded at Laurie and started to head for the shed.

"God-damn fucking right you don't litter that shit." Laurie said while following Serena; the woman had just gained a few points in Laurie's head and prompted a smile. "The two of us again eh hot-shit?" he commented, going around to the shed. He didn't draw his weapon or anything of the sort, but he crouched keeping an eye out while waving a hand to motion for Gomez to do likewise.

He got over to the shed, noticing there was a door. It was quite an obvious obstacle. He looked to Serena who he took it didn't take lockpicking tools and thus knew the two of them would only have one remedy for the door problem. Laurie stepped back, took a breath, and slammed the door with his shoulder.

“Uh right. Good for the environment and shit..” she said with a smirk, “I’d just rather not leave my DNA and prints laying around our second B&E of the day.” Serena rolled her eyes a bit.

Serena stayed close to Laurie’s six, staying in a crouched position. The sky had given way to the sun and it was much brighter now. She glanced over her shoulder back towards the car as she heard Laurie breaching the door. The calamity shifting her attention back to the front. Her right hand habitually finding the grip of her Beretta, but it remained holstered.

As the thing came out of its fucking frame Laurie laughed, a powerful but not obnoxiously loud "Yeehaw!" coming from him. "Oh. Don't really give a shit about that." Laurie added, Serena having gotten herself back to a balanced zero of neutrality in his eye.

"You know you really should watch your step." He said as he stepped into the shed. "You step on more twigs and dried leaves than a drunk Klansman." The Ranger explained as he looked around the building. Nothing really out of the ordinary was here, he knew his dad had all the same shit in his own cottage's shed.

But going down, he hit the potential jackpot. "Hey, Gomez, get your ass down here!" he yelled, looking at the lock and chain. He ran back to grab some of the carpentry tools, and assuming Serena followed him queried "You got a hair pin or something to try to help pick this?" he could use the tools to try and force his way in but he'd rather try pick the lock first. Something about the piping that told him this potential jackpot had pretty good odds.

Serena’s hand still harbored the grip of her Beretta as she entered the shed. It was dusty and dark, and the air inside smelled stale. She glanced about the room, light piercing through the cracks of the walls. The beams were lit by the dust that Laurie had kicked up from breaking the door.

“Uh, yeah. Hang on.” she said, pulling a bobby pin she had tucked in her hair to keep the loose strands out of her face.

She passed by the table used to clean game animals and shuddered as the hair on the back of her neck stood in contempt. “Fucking gross.” she said, as she tried not to gag. Thoughts of the Tcho Tcho again surfaced. She made her way to the back and handed the pin to Laurie over his shoulder. He took it from her as she looked to the chained entrance wondering what the fuck could be hidden on the other side.

After he received the bobby pin, and played with the tools for a bit with a grunt of effort here and there he heard the distinct click that told him he done good. “Am I hot shit or what?” he asked Serena, taking the lock off and opening the door. He cursed under his breath lamenting he didn’t bring a flashlight, but he assumed Serena had one for now.

Chains were set aside triumphantly as the hick boy looked in, and noticed the pipes connected to a septic tank which alleviated some of his curiosity. Until a voice came out.

“Clyde?” came a feminine voice. Laurie was, to be frank, dumbstruck. He hadn’t thought this far ahead of what he might come across and even if he had this probably wouldn’t be in the list of the possibilities he would consider. “...Yeah.” He said, trying his best not to sound like himself. At the same time, he turned to Serena and balled his hand into a fist with pinky and thumb sticking out to symbolize a phone, while his other hand pointed to Serena and then used index with middle finger to make the motion of a person walking — all of this was in an attempt to tell Serena to go and call Donnelly or anyone really for backup.

Serena pulled the Beretta from her holster and flipped off the safety and then backed herself up against the adjacent wall covering Laurie over his shoulder. She nodded to him and pulled her cell from her pocket as quick as she could and hit send on Donnelley’s number. He answered promptly..

“You need to get over here Donnelley, now!” she said in a low and firm voice. “We have a situation..” She then hung up the phone and braced her sidearm with her other hand, her forearms were tight, straining with rigidity.

>CLYDE’S CABIN...///

‘If you are reading this note, I can assume I have died or become incapacitated before I had the courage to complete my final mission for the group. You will find about twenty gallons of gas in the shed behind this cabin. Pour them into the septic tank beside the cabin and ignite it. You'd be happier if you didn't look inside. Please make sure that the remains are kept from my children. I am so sorry. God please forgive me.

Clyde Baughman’

When a Delta Green agent asks God for forgiveness, it was never something good. There was something in the septic tank and Laurie and Serena might have just uncovered it. His phone started buzzing and he immediately pressed it to his ear, his heart pounding in his ears. ‘You need to get over here, Donnelley, now! We have a situation!’

“I’m coming, hold tight,” Donnelley said, his voice staccato in his throat as he unholstered his .40 and waved Laine along with him, shoving the note in her hand and heading for the door.

Dr Laine swiftly read the note, the request shocked her and she felt a dread, regret at not asking more questions about Baughman. She trotted after Donnelly, not taking her weapon out and she glanced at him, "Whatever is in that tank, we need to look first. If he's committed a murder, it can't just be burned away."

“Why,” Donnelley asked, casting a glance over his shoulder at Laine behind him, his weapon kept at low-ready, “You gonna prosecute him?”

"Obviously not, but if there's a victim then that victim has a family that might want to know whatever happened to them," Laine replied as they approached and she saw the two with their guns drawn. "What's going on?"

They were at the shed in a few and saw Laurie standing at the entrance to a dugout, a septic tank lid was at his feet. Serena was back a ways with Jason, “Laurie get the fuck away from that lid.”

Laurie was first about to object, but noticed the tone and the readiness for a fight of the group, and so he promptly ran back and got behind Jason. If they wanted to start a shootout that was fine but sure as shit he wouldn’t be catching lead when there were a whole four people to take it instead of him.

“Clyde?” The voice came again. The exact same intonation, as if she was calling him from the kitchen on a normal day and not from a locked and chained septic tank. “Clyde?”

When no one replied to her question, Laine put her hands on her hips, about to ask again when the voice came. Calm, not frightened but clearly female and in a damn septic tank. Her mind raced to kidnapping cases that she had studied; Castro and Fritzl, men who had chained their victims in homemade cellars.

"There's a woman in there, she's alive! And he wanted us to burn...my God," Laine started forward, towards the tank. "And you've all got your guns drawn."

"Listen to her tone, damn it," Jason growled, his stance mirroring Donnelley's with his weapon low and poised for use. His tone was incredulous and he knew it, the analyst irritated Dr. Laine was giving credence to a disembodied voice and not one of their 'own.' Something was wrong and it rang in the nonchalance of the women's voice. Anyone trapped in a tank of filth, toxic no less, wouldn't be so calm. It made the hair of his skin stand on end.

Donnelley’s grip on his pistol became that much tighter. Laine’s concern started to leech at his resolve. What if it was just a woman down there, frightened and alone and broken. He called out, “Ma’am, are you in a condition to walk?”

She edged past Serena and Jason, calling out, "It's alright, we...I'm with the FBI. We're here to help, we'll get you out of there."

Tensions of the group transmitted through their gripped guns and hesitation. The air was close and warm, a whiff of the stench from the septic tank greeted her as she got closer.

“Laine,” Donnelley called out, but she kept walking, “Laine, damn it, step away!”

“If you can hear us, just come to the sound of my voice, alright?” He called out to the woman in the tank, but he still had his handgun trained on the mouth, “Laine, come on.” He growled.

Dr Laine kept going until she was at the edge of the tank, "Please, come out. We're not going to hurt you, ma'am. Clyde isn't here, he can't hurt you either."

She glanced back, seeing the guns still pointing and then turned to the darkness of the tank. Laine remembered what she was wearing, and she carried no badge to flash. Certainly the woman had no reason to believe they meant her no harm.

"Clyde?" There was a slight echo of the woman's voice.

"He's not here, please come out so we can talk, it must be miserable in there," Laine beckoned, squinting into the darkness. There was movement and Laine reached her hand out towards it.

Between Donnelly’s reaction, all the drawn guns and now Laine approaching the voice that was calling for Clyde, Laurie had a moment of… well, let’s call it a premonition? He drew his .45, and walked over to the shrink to gently put a hand on her shoulder. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let’s take a step back, let the boss handle it alright?” he suggested, uneasiness all over his voice.

"Listen to him, Doctor," Jason added, annoyance and intensity bleeding into his pleading.

Feeling the hand, she turned slightly, giving the park ranger an annoyed glance and hissed a whisper, "There's a woman down there. A woman trapped in a septic tank in the middle of nowhere, that seems very suspicious. We don't know anything about this man we're cleaning up after."

“Yeah… yeah alright.” Laurie stuttered, stepping back. Something was really fucky here, and he was feeling far too demoralized to try and argue with the Doctor. He just hoped this spineless moment of his wouldn’t cost anyone their life.

Laine hesitated, the voice was calm and inquisitive, unlike a typical victim. In her rush to want to save the woman that detail had passed unnoticed until Jason pointed it out. People reacted to captivity in different ways, perhaps the woman suffered from Stockholm syndrome or was drugged, the possibilities flew through her mind in the moments after Laurie stepped back. She stopped and started to pull her hand away, then heard the sound of movement again.

...///

“I wish I brought that God Damn M4,” this time Stewart uttered it aloud. Stewart and Clark remained together this time since they were in the woods. Better to support one another in the event something went down. They were no longer in town, but out in the woods. If something happened to Clark, Stewart wouldn’t be in any position to help him if they were separate. Tom was very curious what this trip to the cabin in the woods was all about too.

The pair walked around the buildings looking for anything that might be out of place or ready to alert the rest if some unexpected company showed up. It was pretty quiet in the West Virginia forest and the sun had crested the horizon already or at least the first rays of the morning were spreading across the land; Beginning Morning Nautical Twilight (BMNT).

“Hey, do you smell that?” Stewart asked Clark. A foul stench slowly permeated the area they walked through. It stronger the further they walked; a westerly direction away from the cabin. Flies hovered over something. It was the stench of death. Both men had smelled it before. It was familiar, but this sight was more than either could stand.

Tom grasped at his jacket pulling it up to cover his nose and mouth. Hidden in the undergrowth was the corpse of a black bear. “Oh crap,” Tom uttered as they recognized the dead bear. “Hunter?”

“No way. It’s fuckin’ decomposing, Christ!” Justin whispered, pulling his own fleece to his nostrils.

The bear was reposed on a tree’s root, near-decomposing. It had to have been long dead. And as Justin’s eyes adjusted, he eyed something along its form. Not hair. Fungal-looking growths seemed to line the poor animal’s nether regions, which due to its position were on display for the whole world to see. They were shaped like tops of cauliflower, and did not help with the already pungent smell of the cadaver.

“What the fuck is this? Looks like-”

CRACK! The oh-so-familiar sound of a bullet going full velocity assailed their ears. The acoustics of the area made it difficult to tell if it was one shot or more at first, and the echo of it made it impossible to tell if it was supersonic or not. Soon after the shot was followed with a cacophony of firepower, all of it seeming subsonic that point after. Pistols. Clark was taken off-guard, flinching forward with his hand instinctively moving to his sidearm. Brushing aside his bunched-up fleece, he thumbed back the release and drew his SIG.

Stewart looked toward the sound of the gunfire. He drew his .40 caliber, looked at Clark, “let’s go check it out.”

>...///

“Clyde?” Was all Donnelley heard before a pale, crooked hand shot up from the mouth of the tank like a striking cobra latching onto Laine’s wrist.

What came out of the tank hardly looked like a person. A cruel travesty, a rough approximation. Her hair, what was left of it, clung together in matted ropes. Her skin was bloated and rotting, almost taking on a green undertone. Her face was slack and the two eyes in it lolling about, purple lips hung open on a loose jaw. Despite her gnarled limbs and useless eyes, she moved like she could see as well as Donnelley. Her other hand was around Laine’s throat, choking soft cries out of her. “Clyde?”

They all stood in shock.

The high pitched shriek of horror and surprise was cut short as the cold hand gripped Laine’s throat with surprising strength Her free hand reached and pushed her palm against the rotting woman’s slack face, feeling the flesh of her cheek slough off as her hand slid across. Teeth scraped against her through the now exposed face and bile rose in Laine’s throat along with another sanity shaking scream strangled out.

She needed to breathe but the air around her was filled with the foul rotting stench, it seemed to be alive, writhing up her nose and she could taste it on her tongue. The smell, it was rot and wet, it was like the stench of sea and dead things. The girl under the pier. The dark voice.

Laine screamed again, her voice cracking in the grip of the corpse.

Donnelley raised his pistol, stone faced, sighted up on center mass and started squeezing. bang, bang, bang, bang, over and over. He wasn’t going to let Laine die.

Laurie paused momentarily at the sight, but he was second to react. His Nineteen-Eleven was already raised and all seven plus one shots came out in a moment. Before the smoke even cleared, he drew on his knife and taser getting ready to have a go at the thing up close and personal like a man.

Serena’s line of sight wasn’t very good so she didn’t discharge her weapon. She was also terrified and was probably also in a state of shock at the sight. Thoughts of those disgusting things she had seen before came rushing back with the stench. She had swallowed her gum and her jaw was tense at the volleys of gunfire rang out. The smoke was thick afterwards and she could barely hear. Live fire in small spaces wasn’t ever fun, and it’s never like it is on TV. She watched as round after round penetrated the target’s rotting flesh, riddling her torso.

“Fuck me..” she whispered in complete awe. She removed her finger from the trigger and lowered her Beretta as to not accidentally put one off in Dr. Laine’s or Laurie’s back by mistake. Her eyes wide with disbelief.

Dr Laine barely registered the gunshots going off in a deafening staccato around her, the writhing corpse pulling her closer as she struggled to breathe under the tightening grip. Her knees buckled as her head spun, the lack of oxygen and the shock of being grabbed by dead person dead, it should be dead and unmoving and just a body, there is nothing in those lifeless eyes had Laine off balance.

Justin ran up eventually, his SIG balanced in his hands at the low ready. He came out from behind a thick tree trunk with sights leveled, moving in towards the shed, but as he made out the forms of his colleagues absolutely unloading into the dugout with Laine on the ground, he lowered his SIG, grasping it with two hands and moving to get a better look.

Tom ran with Justin toward the sound of the gunfire. When they arrived, they witnessed their teammates unloading their firearms on something that may have once been a human woman. But what it was now, was indescribable. It was not a living breathing human yet behaved in a manner that a rotting corpse could not possibly... It behaved like something between a rotting corpse and a living human. It was animated, yet it was dead. With the introduction of at least a dozen small lead projectiles into her grayed flesh, her ability to animate movement was gone. The creature slipped to the floor and was really dead.

Tom could not believe his eyes. He softly muttered under his breath, “what the fu…?” He could not believe what he was seeing. He then recalled that day in Northern Afghanistan about ten years ago. This woman resembled many of the corpses they pulled off that black stone. The corpses in Afghanistan appeared as though they could have been buried for a month or more prior to piling up on the stone. Their level of decomposition proved just that. This woman was just as bad as the Afghani dead; maybe a few weeks of death. At least the corpses he found in the Middle East were not animated. Then Laurie’s reaction woke him up. He couldn’t help but feel weird, clammy and just a bit nauseous.

While the others were recovering, Laurie had a slightly different reaction. As it became apparent the thing was dead he threw his arms up and gave a loud “Woooooooooooo!” and then spun once or twice. “You fucking see that shit? It was like that episode of what’s it fucking called, uhh, walking dead the one where they went by a sewer and some fat rotten guy was up and I was all like ‘pow-pow-pow’ and it just fucking died and man that was cool as hell!” He shouted, putting away his two weapons as he stooped to reload before picking up his casings. “Am I hot shit or what?”

“Holy shit…” Donnelley breathed. He stood in place like his feet had rooted themselves to the floorboards. The crumpled mass on the floor oozed black and long-thickened blood like tar. Beyond the buzz of Laurie’s voice in his ears, all was silent and still around him. He hadn’t even noticed Tom and Justin’s arrival.

Slowly, awareness seeped back into him and he thumbed the mag release and slapped in a new magazine as he advanced with cautious steps toward Laine. His eyes remained on the corpse as he held a hand out to Laine, expecting it to stir again. He looked at the face of it, or what was left, and a cold chill ran up his spine. “She’s dead…” he spoke, standing stock still, “She died… she died…”

He grabbed onto Laine’s wrist and helped her to her feet and backed away, holding his pistol in one hand, front sight leveled on the corpse still. “Marlene.” He whispered, the eyes, the face, jawline, delicate nose. Everything matched in his head to the smiling woman in Clyde’s photos, images of the woman that once was flashing through his mind juxtaposed with the thing on the floor she had become. “That’s fucking Marlene…”

He turned to Laurie, pointing to the jerry cans, “Laurie, shut the fuck up! Burn it.” He said, “Burn it all.”

“Jeeeeeeez, alright boss, I’m just saying maybe this show of prowess will have some folk listen when good advice is given, nah?” the man said, grabbing the cans as he over-pronounced his words while getting to work.

Laine felt the world raise up to meet her face as the corpse dragged her down, the unlife leaving her. The hand slipped from her throat and she gave a shaky cry, rolling over before getting dragged to her feet by Donnelley. She whispered, "It is, it's her. His wife, how...oh God."

She backed up, almost bumping into Laurie and she shoved past him and ran into the darkness.

>...///

Flames.

The shed made good kindling. He stared into the flames like he was in a trance, the writhing air around the huge inferno they’d made of the shed, breathing out thick, black smoke to oppose the light gray sky above. He could feel the heat washing over him as he brought the lit cigarette to his mouth. He breathed out the smoke, but nicotine wasn’t enough to black out the memories of what he’d seen. He turned and walked away down the trail to the others.

Clyde was a fucking madman. A monster. A horrible, horrible beast. Or maybe he was just human. Unwilling to let Marlene die within the empty years his career had left, the deep crevasse it had cracked open between the two while he lived a thankless life filled with death and insanity, turning away the apocalypse whenever it cropped up and never getting to talk about it.

Letting the empty spaces between a healthy life and family and burning away his sanity for The Program grow and grow until his life fizzled out like the heat death of the universe.

The worst feeling Donnelley got for Clyde Baughman was empathy. Empathy and understanding. He wasn’t sure what he’d do in the other man’s place. But he desperately clung to the notion of ‘not this.’

He took one last drag and flicked it away from him with disgust, like the cigarette was at fault for his line of thinking, for all of this. At least no one was dead, he thought, as he looked at his team. They were milling about, some loading up the box they’d found in Clyde’s cabin into the back of the Explorer. No one was dead, he thought, taking one last look at the fire they’d left behind them. The angry flames eating up what remained of Marlene and Clyde’s secret life. There was a poetry in it that Donnelley couldn’t piece together.

No one was dead, he thought, at least none of them that mattered.

Good riddance.

Laurie walked towards Donnelly and the rest of the group, slapping his hands against each other to get whatever they accumulated on them to fall off, the air of a job well done on the Park Ranger. “You know for a bunch of tacti-cool boys some of y’all some lily livered crybabies.”

“Y’aint seen the shit I seen, son.” Donnelley shook his head, and jabbed a sharp finger into Laurie’s chest, “Until you have, show some fucking respect.”

The Ranger recoiled a little from the touch, his smile turning upside down “Relax bro, just a fucking joke.” He said, going over to the car.

He walked off after that, Laurie’s demeanor leaving a foul taste in his mouth, just as bad as the stench of dead Marlene. He found himself next to Laine, looked her over and sighed, “How you holding up?”

Laine ran to the Chrysler, reaching into her jacket pocket for the keys when she felt the viscous blood splatter on the leather and she quickly yanked it off. The jacket hit the ground and she could see in the firelight the gore splattered t-shirt and the slimy residue on her neck. She screamed through clenched teeth and tore off her t-shirt, wadding it up to use a dry part to viciously wipe at her neck until more red marks appeared over the purpling bruise.

She crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, as she stood in just her sensible black bra and jeans, pressed against the car unable to watch the burning. Laine could smell the corpse still and leaned forward, vomiting up liquid into the dark grass.

At the sound of Donnelly's voice, Dr Laine turned her head, her green eyes rimmed in smeared eyeliner. "Not good," she replied, her voice hoarse. "I'm pretty fucking far from good."

“Yeah, I can understand.” He said, shaking his head and eyes from Laine’s barely covered torso. He did note the tattoos, focusing on them and trying to put them over the remnants of Marlene’s face. He swore under his breath and slipped his hoodie from over his head, offering it out to Laine, “Here, it’s clean. Might smell like cigarettes.”

He deftly brought the flask out of the pocket of the hoodie and unscrewed the top, taking a pull from it and offering that too to Laine, “I’m sorry.”

Laine took the hoodie, holding it to her face and chest, the cigarette stink was perfume after the smell of what was left of Marlene. She pulled it on, yanking it down over pale skin marked with black ink. "Thanks," she muttered, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

At the flask she hesitated then reached for it, meeting his eyes for a brief moment as he apologized. Laine shook her head slightly, then tipped the flask to her lips and took a few swallows of whiskey. She shivered as it traced a hot path through her insides and handed it back.

"He did that to her? How....how is it even possible? She's dead, she..." Laine stopped, then bit her lower lip, tears rising in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. "He kept her like this, didn't he?"

“Laine,” Donnelley shook his head. There really was no use keeping things under wraps now. They had all seen it, shot at it, killed it. “I don’t know how. Marlene died a long time ago, funeral and everything, open casket, no foul play.”

“That was Marlene.” He said, “Was. What attacked you wasn’t… her. There’s things out there. I told you this is the only war that matters. Foster can give it to you better than me, but,” Donnelley sighed, “Pay attention to when the sun rises. Every day. For one more day. Because you stay this course with me and Foster, it’ll rise only because of us. And no one will thank you for it.”

As he explained her mind rebelled, it was not possible. The dead stay dead, maybe she had been alive and in very bad condition. No, she had been dead, dead but alive.

She wouldn't call it that, not the Z word that Laurie had been hooting about. Laine touched her bruised throat, looking at the burn scar on Donnelley's careworn face then his sad blue eyes. A thankless profession that stood between humanity and the abyss.

"How can I go back after this? Knowing this... unnaturalness, this horror, exists. I don't..."

She trailed off, her hand trembled as she pushed the black frames up the bridge of her nose, then rubbed her mouth. She could still smell death and bile and Laine dropped her hand. "I could use a shower, Mr Donnelley. A hot shower and more whiskey."

Donnelley managed a smile and a small chuckle, Laine was alright, “Stick with me and there’ll be no shortage.” He kept the smile for a bit, looking back at the pillar of smoke that was all too close still, he looked back at Laine, trying a bit of humor, “Living dangerous now, huh?”

Tucking her hands into the pockets of his hoodie, she could not help a tentative crooked smile as he repeated her words. "It seems so," Laine replied, hating the tremor still in her soft low pitched voice. "You think there could be an ending to it?"

“Whiskey? No. Dealing with this type of shit? Maybe one day. Our lives?” Donnelley looked around, chewing over his answer, he sucked his teeth, putting another cigarette in his mouth, lighting it, “Let’s just focus on how many sunrises we can get to, Doctor. Now let’s get back to the house.”

He winked at her with a smile, knowing she’d taken everything well. All things considered, no one was dead, least the ones that mattered. “Living dangerous now.” He called back to her as he walked back to the Explorer.

The writhing pillar of flame shrank away from sight as they drove, leaving behind the last pieces of Clyde Baughman’s life. The Program would be satisfied, Foster and Donnelley could rest well at night knowing at worst Clyde would be labeled as a kidnapper with a septic tank of horrors. But at least the world would never know the truth. They shouldn’t have to.

Not ever.

Truth is a privilege. Or a burden.

[Leidenschaft]

>THE SAFEHOUSE
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
>0800HRS...///

“So, you killed his wife?” Donnelley could see the confusion on Foster’s face. He hardly believed it either, but what happened happened. Truth be told, with all the crazy shit Donnelley and Foster had been through together, Donnelley was more surprised at Foster’s confusion than what they’d shot to death at the Cabin. “His wife, who died years ago?”

“Yeah.” Donnelley shrugged, they sat across from each other in the garage at Foster’s desk, “His wife was choking Laine. Me and Laurie filled Marlene- his wife- with lead and we went on our way securing the scene and disposing of anything incriminating for the Program, like his wife.”

“Where’d he get that fucking knowledge? Did you find tomes, treatises on rituals?” Foster asked, grimacing and scratching at his scalp.

“Just whatever he had in that Green Box in his cabin.” Donnelley shook his head, taking a drag from his cigarette, “We should get this over with. They’ve been up my ass all night about finding out why a Park Ranger, a couple of FBI, a DIA spook and some other poor fools got roped into an operation by a couple of OGA spooks.”

Foster sighed, rubbing at his jaw. He shrugged and nodded, “Alright. You want to break it to them? You’re the one that’s been around them most.” Foster frowned, “They might take it better from you.”

Donnelley shook his head, a little smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, “All these years together and you’re throwing me to the piranhas.”

“Just this once. We can only play spooky, mysterious men in black for so long before they just get pissed off.” Foster chuckled, the office chair he was in creaking as he leaned back and folded his arms. “Like you and Peake.”

“Let’s not bring that asshole up.” Donnelley said, the knowing smirk on his lips opposite the daggers in his eye. He got up from his chair and stretched, his shoulder popping from the effort, before heading for the door.

“Since this isn’t something agents hear often for all the things we do,” Foster called after him, “Thank you.”

Donnelley showed his gratitude by erecting his middle finger over his shoulder just before he closed the door behind him. He trusted Foster could feel his shit-eating grin if he couldn’t see it.

>...///

“You know,” Donnelley said as he strolled into the middle of them all in the living room, dressed in his usual ratty jeans, Vans, and a FEAR band tee. He liked to be the punk in the office, never mind he was never in one and hadn’t been for years. It was a quaint little space where they were mostly lounging in their own collective silence in the room, lit by the windows shining in rays where dust danced and drifted. A silence he interrupted with his feet creaking the floorboards, the jingle of bottles and his talk, “I got these and didn’t stop to think if I should.”

He shrugged, setting down the big case of Modelo bottles in their cardboard box and a bundle of cigars. “But I did. So now, I’m going to have to somehow justify this expense.” Donnelley put his hands on his hips, sucked his teeth as if he was foisting a great burden unto them, “Who’s going to help me? We’ve got a little time to kill before we start talking business again.”

Justin sat there on the couch, expression deadpan as he ran a hand across his stubbles. He was still sour to all of it. What the fuck was that thing? More importantly, to him, what the fuck had happened to that bear? He’d snapped a low-res picture on his burner, and gave it a few looks. But now he debated whether to even bring it up. Who the fuck was this Donnelley guy? And that spook who shadowed him. He eyed the case of Modelo and the bundle of tobacco.

“Fuck it, pass me one.” Justin muttered. Rolling the bottle in his hand, he pulled his Gerber from his pocket. The cap came off with a hiss, the beer foaming.

Dr Laine emerged from the bathroom, towel drying her hair and looked over the gathered group in the living room. The bruises were vivid on her throat and wrist where Marlene had grabbed her. She padded into the room, dressed comfortably in socks and black leggings, an oversized Joy Division t-shirt hanging to her hips. “I’ll take one of those,” she said, then glanced at Donnelley but changed her mind about mentioning his flask.

Taking a bottle, Laine flopped into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg under her body. She held the bottle of beer out to Justin, “Do you mind opening it for me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Justin took it, popping the cap with his multitool, offering it back. “There ya’ go.”

She took it back, taking a sip and looked him over, scrutinizing his poker face and said, “Thanks.”

Laine pushed her glasses up, looking over the soldier. “You almost missed the party in the shed. What a shit show.”

Jason grunted a hum in response, his gaze was, as it had been for the majority of his skulking in the livingroom, locked to the floorboards. It was an interesting way to describe the event, but a shitshow it was not. Shocking, unreal, but otherwise under control. So says the guy not getting choked by a dead body, he thought. Fucking adderall. It was making him overthink everything, but he didn’t want to sleep and took it as soon as the team returned. Something, anything could be beyond the edge of unconsciousness. Mrs. Baughman’s revenge, perhaps, or any other unexplainable ‘thing’ waiting to unsettle their idea of what was real and not. Jason stood from his seat on one of the couches and grabbed a beer, already halfway through it by the time he sat back down.

The scene came back to Laine and she grimaced but it was hard to think of anything else. She chugged her beer, throwing back her head and nearly finishing it all. Laine held her hand over her mouth, stifling a burp then shook the empty bottle. “Excuse me,” she said, “It’s been awhile.”

Justin did seem a little shook up despite his best attempt at keeping a stony exterior. “So, you good? After- all that, I mean.” He eyed Laine up and down, bringing the bottle to his lips. He was a lot more paced with his consumption.

She stayed quiet a moment before bouncing up to fetch another beer, holding it out for him to open, “Good? No, I think that’ll take some time but at least I am no longer shaking in my shoes.”

Laine rocked on her stocking feet and raised a brow, “So to speak.”

Once he opened it, she retreated to her corner of the couch, drawing a knee up and tucking her other leg underneath. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had guns fired around me and I have to say the first time I’ve been choked by a corpse. All the other corpses I’ve inspected knew how to stay dead.”

Despite her dark humor, there was still a little tremble in her voice at the end and her eyes flashed behind her glasses, glancing at the faces of the team. Her gaze was drawn to Donnelley and she noted the shirt he wore, “A bold choice.”

He lit the cigar between his lips before he took a swig from his bottle, looking back at Laine, “I like being bold.” He smirked, “You’re doing a lot better than what I expect out of most. I’ll drink to that.”

He raised his bottle and did just that, draining about as much as Laine did, wiping his mouth off in his forearm and he too stifled a burp. He took a breath, took a couple puffs, and shook his head. “To a mission well done.” He said, though something more was at the corners of his smile, weighing them down. “I fucking hate cigars.”

He held his out and looked at it as if it had wronged him some way, putting it down and instead trading its place with a cigarette. As he fished for his lighter, he looked at Laine, “Joy Division, Exploited, clove cigarettes, lots of black,” Donnelley finally found the lighter and touched the tip of his cigarette to its flame, “I’m beginning to think we have something in common, Doctor.”

And then there was something behind his smirk, something deeper, “And it’s not just the black slabs.” His eyes flashed to Laine and then to the neck of his bottle, which he upturned for another swig.

Laine mirrored his half smile then tipped the beer bottle towards him. She did not bother with the cigars, instead lifting her t-shirt to take out the pack of Djarums that was tucked into her waistband and shook one free, slipping it between two fingers. “And I thought I was the profiler, Mr. Donnelley. I believe you’re right, maybe a little too right if you like Fear. We’ll have to trade mix tapes sometime.”

Her smile flashed briefly at the subtle joke and she leaned back into the couch corner, bracing her elbow on the plush arm. She took out her lighter from the half empty pack of cloves and lit her cigarette, the crackling audible in the quiet room as she took a drag. Her gaze never left him, studying his expression and when he mentioned the black slabs, she clicked the zippo shut.

“Sometime.” Donnelley flashed a smile to her before turning over to the others, “How’re the rest of the gang doing?”

“Peachy,” Jason said, gulping down some beer and raising the bottle. “After a few more of these and a warm and fuzzy talk.”

“Warm and fuzzy?” Donnelley chuckled, “I can try, no promises.

Tom washed up quickly when they returned to the safehouse. He chose to change his clothing like many of the others. Shortly after entering the room, Donnelley showed up with a case of Modellos and a box of cigars. They weren’t Cubans and the beers weren’t Sam Adams, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Tom was wearing a pair of jeans, white running shoes and a black AC/DC Tee shirt, the one with the band’s name in bold red letters and lightning bolt. He was still more into classic rock than the stuff that had come out in the past ten years. He topped his outfit off with his usual Boston Red Sox baseball cap.

The next to come forth was the Park Ranger, the man opting to go for a walk in the woods to do a bit of exploring and head clearing. Laurie knew he probably didn't earn himself many points with the company despite - what he considered - outstanding performance. He muttered to himself holding little internal dialogues, frustrations building up before being released – but only partially.

He stepped back inside, wiping his shoes and taking off his baseball cap. From what he heard on the way in and a quick scan of the room it seemed Donnelly was giving everybody the Q and A of what the fuck happened. Laurie was fairly interested, but frankly he knew the inquisitiveness of the rest of the party was largely born out of rationalizing the fright and shock of the zombie lady, a fright and shock he hadn't felt. Most surprising to him was Donnelly. Seen shit had he? Then shouldn't he be desensitized by now? It all didn't really make sense. For now he grabbed a cigar and a beer he opened with his teeth before leaning against a wall. He rummaged in his stuff to find his Tetris toy, turning it on to play. There was something special to him about the quick and orderly mathematics and geometry of the thing juxtaposed to the little sounds of electrified orchestral music and pretty colours that soothed him much more than whatever answers Donnelly might give.

It's not like the motley crew would be getting any Truth with a capital T.

“Thanks, Mr. Donnelley,” Tom muttered as he grabbed a beer and a cigar. He used the bottle opener on his leatherman to open the bottle and bit the tip off the cigar. After pulling the lighter from his pocket, he lit the cigar enjoying its flavor. It wasn’t Cubano, but had a decent flavor he could appreciate.

He still couldn’t get the image of that thing choking Dr. Laine at the cabin in the woods out of his head or the dead bear. He couldn’t explain it and was hoping the CIA analyst could give them some insight. He figured the smell of death and shit permeating the air in the woods was another sense he wouldn’t quickly forget. It was all a nightmare. “So, Mr. Donnelley, are you going to explain what this is all about? What was that thing out at the cabin?”

Serena had been in her and Laine’s room since they had returned. She was shuffling through the events that had unfolded, trying to make a mental index of what had transpired. She stood in front of her bunk with her head buried in the top mat. Internal screams. She ran her hands through her hair, still pulled taut into a ponytail, as if to cleanse her mind. The clanking of bottles was enough to cause her to stir. She paced for a second with one hand on her forehead and the other on her waist. She then changed into a comfortable pair of sweats and an undershirt. She then entered into the living room with the rest of them, who had already taken to conversation. She slightly nodded to everyone and then to Donnelley.

“Hit me..” she said, “I’ve been looking for one of those since I landed.”

“And now,” Donnelley leaned forward and grabbed up a bottle by the neck, tossing it Serena’s way, “You found some.”

Donnelley watched her snatch it out of the air and he gave her a smile, “You gonna be like Tom over there and beat me in the head with questions?”

The bottle landed in her palm with a thwack. “Bout goddamned time.” she walked over to the dining table and then nestled the cap against the edge giving it a good whack to liberate the top which went flying to some unknown location on the floor, jingling several times as it landed.

“You mean besides the collective What the fuck just happened bit? Nope, not likely. I’m way too fucking tired, and at this point, borderline delusional.” she said taking a long pull from her bottle in an attempt to drown out the thought of flesh eating midgets and rotten septic tank hookers. “All I got right now is ears Boss. That, and a very strong will to drink.” she said in a snarky fashion while moving to the couch, flopping down on the other arm opposite of the Doc. “Anyone got a regular smoke? No offense Doc.” Serena inquired to the group, taking another long pull from the bottle.

Laine took a drag from the black cigarette, the sweet smell of cloves and tobacco mingling as it crickled in the glowing embers. "None taken, Officer," she replied, then blew out smoke in a thin stream between her lips.

Tom killed the first bottle and dropped it back into the box pulling out a second. He took a long drag on the cigar before opening the second. “Well, I’m about as patriotic as they come, Mr. Donnelley, as an American, I am nothing but curious. I’d like to know if what we saw at that cabin in the woods was anything like what I saw in Northern Afghanistan ten years ago. Curiosity has me by the short hairs boss and I’d appreciate some answers,” Tom spat out. “Unless of course, you have no idea either?” Tom didn’t believe that. He took a long pull on the bottle, half finishing it before taking a breath. Then another drag on the cigar.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re goddamn persistent?” Donnelley chuckled, polishing off his bottle of beer and setting it aside for a new one. He nodded to Serena, “Here.”

His pack of cigarettes landed on the couch right next to her, his lighter following. Donnelley turned back to Tom, “Anybody ever tell you if you work hard you gotta play hard too unless you end up like Baughman?” Donnelley’s beer hissed open, “Taliban couldn’t kill me, my own heart ain’t. I ain’t talking business yet, Mister Stewart, not while the beer’s still there.”

“Let me help you with that,” Jason said, getting up, pounding a beer back, and grabbing a third for the couch.

“You’re pretty quiet over there,” Donnelley called over to Laurie, smirking, “That was some damn good shooting back there, Ranger Mathieu. Nerves of steel.”

Laurie looked up from his game, pausing it and tapping his forelock with middle and index finger in a casual salute. “First shot was yours, boss, and so’s the glory.” He said, taking a sip of his beer. “At least, that’s how it is hunting. But I don’t think that one had any good bits to take for a trophy, eh?”

Serena grabbed the pack of smokes from the couch and held it up slightly as a generally sign of gratitude at Donnelley and then pulled two out of the pack. She slid one behind her ear and lit the other, taking a long drag and then exhaled. She would only smoke when she drank alcohol or was extremely stressed out, and this occasion called for both. She listened to Tom’s inquiries as she polished off the bottle of beer, rolling the empty between her fingers in contemplation, a physical portrayal of what was going on in her mind. Thoughts and questions swirling about aimlessly and void of any fulfillment in the way of answers. She leaned forward and looked down to the floorboards of the cabin taking another pull from the cigarette and exhaled producing a slender slow plume of smoke. She stood and made her way back over to the beers and to return Donnelley’s pack and lighter. Her bare feet falling softly on the worn boards below.

“That was definitely some fucked up shit back there, but I’m not nearly inebriated enough for answers just yet.” she said, laying Donnelley’s pack and lighter on the table next to the case of beer. She retrieved another and opened it on the table once more. She usually had better manners than that but the table had seen better days anyway. She took a swig and made her way back to a set of double windows behind the couch, gazing over the yard. She was antsy about the situation but also didn’t want to take it in just yet, at least not until the alcohol could numb her mind a bit, but it was slowly taking affect.

Dr Laine tapped her ashes carefully into the empty bottle snugged in the crook of her leg and took another drink, listening and watching. There was a tension running through the cabin that no beer or chit chat would relieve, the huge zombie elephant in the room. None of them would leave without an explanation, something to make sense of the unsensible. There had to be something, anything. A virus, a fungus, a god among us, her thoughts flickered merrily in a sing song pattern and she covered up the urge to laugh, to relieve the building uneasiness in her chest.

Laine finished the second beer, feeling the warmth of the pleasant buzz starting to take hold. When Jason stood up, her green eyes followed his movements and then held a hand out, “I’ll take another, I’m not driving tonight.”

Jason hooked his finger around the neck of another bottle and extended it Laine’s way on he moved back to the couch, his eyes dark as they explored her. “My guess is we’re all deep sea fish and we’ll need someone to get a refill.” He plopped on the couch near Serena, his large frame shifting the furniture. “If I was in Amman still it would be hashish time.” He took a swig of beer. “Could run in town soon. Can I ask you a weird question, Dr. Laine? Was she strong?” Jason asked.

“Good thing I didn’t invite any of the DEA boys.” Joseph muttered into his bottle before finishing it off.

She reached for the bottle, and gave him a nod as thanks. Laine’s attention piqued when Jason mentioned hashish but the line of thought vanished once he asked her about the strength of dead Mrs. Baughman. She took a drag on her clove cigarette, the embers crackling towards her lips and then tugged down the collar of her t-shirt for him to get a full view of the purpling finger marks.

“I’ve been strangled before but not to the point of thinking it would kill me,” she said, letting the shirt pop back into place, her mouth quirking in a brief half smile that faded quickly. “To answer you, yes, she was very strong. Stronger than a woman her size, and her amount of decay would lead you to believe.”

Her eyes met his and she glanced away, reminded suddenly at the memory of Marlene’s dead gaze. Some force had propelled the corpse into animation. What she knew of biology did not answer this and no answer would ever come from an autopsy now. Something had flickered there but perhaps it had just been maggots. Nothing else had swirled in those vacant orbs.

"That's what I was thinking," Jason said. "Too strong for a body in that state." He regarded her clove cigarette and filled the idle pause with a swig of beer. What had she meant by being strangled before?

"You seem to be taking it well, though. Better than Laurie over there. He's so shocked he forgot she was a person." It was a teasing notion more than a jab, but Jason didn't use a non-verbal to let them know either way. In fact he was muted, toned down. Expectant.

“Trauma reveals itself in different ways,” the psychologist replied, peering at Jason over the rim of her glasses as she leaned forward. “I know what to expect from myself and others, it takes some people longer to absorb and I don’t think any of us is unaffected by what happened.”

Laine glanced in Laurie’s direction then finished her beer, ready to start on the third given to her. She held it out in the general direction of Justin or Jason, whoever would have their bottle openers handy at the moment. “Then there is the good old scab of dark humor.”

The Park Ranger was largely focused on his game, but he was aware of the situation having long since developed an ear independent in its attention from his eyes. He gave an audible chuckle at the references to him, winking at Jason. "Yeah, it happens to someone not paid to killed people in the past. And as the wise Doctor says some folks deal with it by humour. Of course that requires someone to actually have a sense of it, removing that as what she'd call a coping mechanism for some people.."

“A body in that state should be fucking buried already.” Serena said, as she took another drink.

She stood there for a moment staring out the pane into oblivion. Her nerves were appreciative of both the nicotine kick and the alcohol. She turned from the window and took a long pull off her cigarette before grabbing Laine’s bottle as she realized that she needed some assistance. She made her way back over to the table.

“I’m about due for another one too.” she said, grabbing another beer from the case. She then popped them both open and made her way back to the sofa handing it back, before taking a seat on the armrest.

Donnelley finished his cigarette, puffing it down to the filter before stuffing it into the neck of his empty bottle. He looked around the room. Nobody was set on rousing cheers or happy bonding. In their defense, he wasn’t either. He could feel the tension in the room in all their downturned and vacant eyes. The reckoning should be soon, so to speak. The answers. Almost as if summoned by a bell, Foster came out of the garage, closing the door with a delicate snikt.

Foster and Donnelley caught each other’s eye, nodding to the other. Foster stood with his arms crossed behind Donnelley. He knew he was because he could feel Foster’s eyes boring holes in the back of his head, wondering if he was going to fuck this up. Donnelley hated giving speeches or anything of the sort. A man of action, they’d called him. Didn’t even like giving briefings.

Yet, here they were.

“Bring it in.” Foster raised his voice.

Donnelley sniffled, placing a cigarette between his lips, “By now, you’re all wondering just what the fuck you’re all doing out here committing felonies.” Donnelley looked each and every one of his team in the eye, the Texan in his voice running rampant, “Your code of honor, your sense of right and wrong, your law enforcement mentality is screaming at you.”

“When I was a Sheriff Deputy in a small Texas town filled with junkies, tweakers, whores, and scum, I wished sometimes I could do something more. Wished I wasn’t burdened by a law saying that just because I never saw Jimmy’s mother over in the next county serving pussy for ice, it never happened.” Donnelley took another drag, clucking his tongue, “Now, I do whatever the fuck I want if it means furthering the greater good. Everything is my jurisdiction.”

He pointed in whatever vague direction he needed to point, but he knew they’d get his, “Over there is Clyde Baughman’s cabin. Some of us saw more than was absolutely necessary. At one point, I may have had the choice of picking who would stay and who would never hear of us again and be given a big fucking sum of money and a real fucking clear warning to never talk about what happened.”

“Now that we all just watched some of us shoot and kill Clyde Baughman’s wife, who died way back in nineteen-forgotten, I figure you’re all just real keen on getting the real answers.” Donnelley shrugged, “So, you will.”

“In 1928, a little town of Innsmouth was raided by the Bureau of Investigation and elements of the Navy. What they found there would forever change our view of the world and our universe and how it worked. How the pieces fit.” Another pause, another sweeping gaze, “From then on, there was always a much-needed secret compartment of people in the government willing to go above and beyond to secure not only the safety of the American people, but often the entire world.”

“The Security Studies Group, Silver See. Petrel Hill, Yellow Combine, Threshold Curve.” Donnelley counted down the names on his fingers, “We change our name every so often so we can remain in the shadows doing what we do best. Saving this little green ball of shit, and we’ve been doing it thanklessly, behind the scenes for years. Pretty good at it by now, you ask me.”

“From World War Two to now. I told some of you that the war we fight is the only war that matters. Against what enemy? Against whoever cooked up whatever evil that was that let Clyde Baughman’s wife wake up from death.” Donnelley crossed his arms, “Don’t play dumb. I know everything about your files. I know you’ve all seen shit that really challenges you. Mine was Pakistan in 2008. Again in Somalia, and then Chechnya.”

“We’re fighting an enemy whose weapon is knowledge of them. Things the world doesn’t believe exists outside of horror movies. Things that make Clyde Baughman’s wife waking up from death look tame.” Donnelley said. His voice grew quieter, “We’re the only ones fighting a war for each and every sunrise our children and our wives and lovers, our family back home gets to see. They will never get to thank us for it because they will never know, and they never should have to.”

“But you and I know. And that’s enough.” He said, nodding, “I fought with honor for my country. I work for the Agency doing the dirty work that nobody thanks me for because they’ll never know. You all uphold the laws of the United States.”

“But us as a team? Everyone in this room, working in the capacity that we are at this very moment and have been?” Donnelley spoke, “We’re The Program. We’re Delta Green. We’re the black helicopter. We are the government conspiracy. And our work is too important for the average Joe to know about. Too important to be hindered even by the Constitution itself if it really gets dirty. We’re at war, ladies and gentlemen. With an enemy with no other goal than to kill or subjugate. A holy war. A war for survival in a universe with no sympathy. We do the horrific to stop the apocalyptic. We travel light, we probe deep, and we strike goddamn hard.”

“I don’t have to remind you that when anybody asks what you do for The Program, you can kindly tell them to fuck off, or ‘it’s classified.’ Welcome to Working Group UMBRA.” Donnelley said, watching the flame kiss the end of his cigarette and then expelling the smoke through his nose as he looked all of them in the eye one last time. “Dismissed.”

[Gunther]

>OHIO AIRPORT
>WHEELING, WEST VIRGINIA
>1300HRS...///

Tom was exhausted. It had been a long night and he was heading home. He did not expect to be heading home so early. He thought he would be in West Virginia for at least a few weeks, maybe even a month or more. But it was a refreshing thought to be heading home. He dressed in a pair of tan khaki trousers, brown loafers and a navy blue golf shirt. His hair was shaped just the way he liked it. He did put his Boston Red Sox baseball cap on his head and he placed a pair of sunglasses on his face.

As he walked along the airport concourse he saw a woman walking toward him with matted hair, clung together more in ropes than straight. Her skin was bloated and rotting with a green undertone. Tom could smell it. He was back at the cabin. The woman’s eyes lolled about in her useless sockets. Her limbs flailed about and she staggered as she walked. As she got closer to Tom, she hissed at him. He rubbed his eyes and took a double take. When he looked back at her, he saw a 40-ish year old woman dragging a black suitcase behind her wearing a business suit. She had a beautiful blonde mane with blue eyes and a confident smile. Her skin tone was a healthy tan. Tom stopped, leaning in the wall of the concourse, rubbing his eyes. He was tired, but couldn’t get the image out of his mind. The hallucinations were too much.

While waiting at gate nine for his flight, he texted his wife. He let her know he was coming home. He gave her the flight information but hadn’t heard anything from her since he sent the email, what yesterday? Two days ago? Could have been two months ago. It seemed so long ago. Next, he texted his boss at the FBI office. He let him know his CIA-FBI collaboration work ended a lot quicker than he expected. He said he would be back to work in two days but had a reservist weekend coming up. Finally, he texted his marine battalion commander to let him know he would be in the armory this weekend. Also, that his work assignment was cut short.

With business taken care of he allowed his head to sink back into the seat and drift off uncomfortably. It wasn’t good sleep, but enough to refresh him a little. He planned to sleep more on the flight. Just before the attendant called to board, he heard a vibrating buzz from his phone. Sorry, babe. I’m working now. We can talk when I get home. Love ya. Tom smiled and stood. He proceeded forward to show his ticket.

He awoke in Boston around 1400 hours. Gathered his luggage and hailed a taxi to Braintree. By 1530 hours, he was unlocking the door and heading to his bed for more sleep. He stripped off his clothes and lay in the bed. His eyes wide open thinking about the events of the past 24 hours. Eventually he drifted off.

A few hours later, he was dreaming about Clyde’s wife and the burning cabin. Only this time, he was the one being choked, and he was being drawn into the tank with it. He was screaming at Donnelly, Justin, Jason, Serena, Laine and Laurie to help; but they stood around tank with fire blazing behind them in a circle laughing. Donnelly was reeling over backward and then bent forward in fierce fits of laughter, pointing at Stewart as Clyde’s wife pulled him into the tank. Then he woke in a startled sweat.

“Honey, are you OK?” Jill asked her husband as he roused.

He looked around the room disoriented, wiping his sweat covered face, “yea, yea…” He paused. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.” Tom was out of it and would need another day to recover. He planned to take a day in the gym. Do some weights and get in some cardio.

“How was your trip?” Jill asked.

Oh how he would love to just dump all that ghoulish nonsense on her. It haunted his conscious, his dreams and his nasal passages. “Huh!?” Tom looked up at her. “Can you give me a moment? I’m going to take a shower. I’ll tell you about it when I come downstairs. Can we order a pizza for dinner?”

“Sure thing, babe. Get yourself cleaned up. We’ll have a pizza and talk about your trip.” She turned to leave the room, “honestly, I thought you would be gone longer.”

“Yea, me too.” Jill left Tom alone in the room. He pulled his legs over the edge of the bed rising to his feet. He grabbed a towel heading to the shower.

Several minutes later, he was downstairs wearing T-shirt and sweatpants. He shuffled over to his wife and gave her a kiss. She ordered the pizza, handing Tom a glass of Chardonnay. He sipped the wine and took a seat at the kitchen table.

“How was your trip?” Jill asked him. She was very curious about what he did. He was always very reluctant to talk about his work, but felt she deserved something.

“It was…” He searched for the right words. She could see that he was really searching for what to say. He was grasping for a way to tell her what happened without frightening her.

“Don’t worry, hun’. If you can’t tell me, I’ll understand.” Jill was over eager to hear about his trip and wanted nothing more for her husband to unload the world on her right now. She silently pleaded with him to tell her something. He needed this release. She could tell by his expression that he had the weight of the world dragging him down.

Tom looked her straight in the eye and began, “Do you remember a television show that was on about six or more years ago called, Fringe?” Tom asked Jill.

“Yea, I watched it when I was out in California.”

“You know how they encountered otherworldly creatures and situations that just couldn’t be explained?”

“Sure, that was what made the show exciting.”

“Well, what I saw at this cabin in the woods in West Virginia was a lot like that show. I still do not know how to explain it. I saw a corpse come alive and attack one of my colleagues. This Mr. Donnelly I met from another Federal Agency heads up the group. I get the impression he has seen shit like this before and now I am very curious to see what else we are going to get into. As you know, I really can’t go into details about what we do, but I am on call and need to be ready to go wherever and whenever he calls.” Tom stopped to recollect what happened. It was only a day, but it was an eventful day. He had already made up his mind he would go again when Donnelly called. It was just too much…too much to pass up.

“Unexplainable, huh?” Jill was comfortable with his response. “Was it like The Walking Dead?” She allowed a nervous laughter.

Tom looked up at her, “Yes…yes, Jill. It was exactly like The Walking Dead!” The doorbell rang interrupting Tom’s train of thought. Jill plucked a twenty-dollar bill off the counter and headed to the door. She returned in a few minutes with a pizza from Angelina’s on Elm St.

“What you get?”

“Spinach, Eggplant, Roasted Peppers and Olives,” Jill said with a glee in her voice. She enjoyed vegetarian pizzas. Meat pizzas didn’t agree with her.

“Yea, sounds delicious,” Tom responded. “A little sausage or pepperoni could go a long way, you know.”

“Right, they never agree with my stomach. I always get too much acid. Besides, these vegetable pizzas are better for you.”

After dinner, Tom tried to explain a bit more on what happened during the trip. He felt torn between telling her everything and not wanting to scare her too much. They retired to their sitting room to watch television and drink wine.

Later that evening, the couple engaged in marital bliss. The relief of tension was just enough to knock Tom out until morning.

>FBI FIELD OFFICE, FEDERAL BUILDING
>BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
>0900HRS...///

Two days later…

“Ray, do you have a minute?” Tom asked his boss, Ray Calhoun, sliding into his office.

“What’s up, Tom?”

“You know that special assignment I was on the last few days out in West Virginia?”

“Yea, how’d it go?” Ray asked.

“It was billed as a joint CIA-FBI venture with people from other agencies including military. We conducted an investigation into a man named Clyde Baughman, which took us out into the woods to a cabin Baughman owned. We found him dead. I’m not sure what he had done and I’m sure if we dig deep enough, we can find out what. When we visited Clyde’s cabin in the woods, we found something very disturbing. We met his wife out there. Apparently, she died quite some time ago. The wife was in a septic tank. She crawled out of the tank…”

“Wait!” Ray put up his hand. “How could she crawl out of a septic tank if she had been dead?...for quite some time.”

“Well, that’s an excellent question, Ray. One I hope to answer some day. It was right out of Dawn of the Dead.” Tom paused briefly. “Anyway, the corpse stood up and tried to choke Doctor Heather Laine a psychologist at the BAU down in DC. Two of the others opened fire on the animated corpse and dropped her for good. It was the most bizarre thing I have ever seen. Now, I can’t seem to get that image out of my mind. I honestly don’t care if you believe me, but I know it happened.”

“I would imagine, if what you are telling me is true, it would be difficult to get that out of your mind.” Ray confirmed. “Is there any chance the wife was alive when she climbed out of the tank and then your new friends killed her after she attacked Doctor Laine?”

“No way, Ray. She was all bloated and her skin color was a pale green. She was definitely dead. There was no way she could have looked like that and be alive.”

“Thanks for telling me this. Keep me informed if you run into anymore zombies, OK?” Ray didn’t believe Tom. He considered having him psychologically evaluated after telling such a fantastical story. But Tom was a good investigator. He would do no such thing. He would wait and see if Tom was called away on another such investigation. Maybe next time Tom could bring back some verifiable evidence?

“No problem, Ray,” Tom left the office and began going over old cases to see what he needed to get into.

>FORT DEVENS
>AYER, MASSACHUSETTS
>0700HRS...///

The drive out to Devens Reserve Forces Training Area or more often called, Fort Devens was roughly an hour and a half. He stopped for coffee at Dunkin Donuts. He wore his US Marine Corps Multicam uniform, carrying a flight bag with a few essentials and his briefcase. He had a change of clothing in his car. The first place he went after depositing his bags in his own office was to the office of his battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Norman Miller. The man was in his late 30s and had seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq. Colonel Miller was a Lieutenant during the March up to Baghdad in ’03.

“Colonel Miller,” Major Stewart addressed his battalion commander.

“Tom, come on in. Have a seat.”

“Sir, what is the strangest, most bizarre thing you have ever seen the Corps? Especially on deployment?” Tom asked his commander.

Colonel Miller was a bit taken aback by the question. But Tom was one of his best friends in the reserves and he would humor him. “I remember these prostitutes in Bangkok who had this acrobatic act. It was quite strange, but you had to pay for both of them and it was private showings only.”

Tom smiled at his Commander’s story. “No, I mean something inexplicable. Something that really just threw you for a loop?”

“I don’t know, Tom. What’s going on? Did you see something?”

“Ten years ago, I was in Northern Afghanistan with the First Raider Battalion. My platoon was on a patrol and we came across a pile of bodies.” Tom told Norm Miller.

“I saw a few mass graves myself while in country too, Tom.”

“No, not like this,” Tom continued. “These corpses had already begun to decompose. They appeared to have been dead for months. We found them in an area where the goat herders would pass through maybe once a day. There was no way, a pile like this could have gone unnoticed for two months. The decomposition was pretty far gone. My platoon was tasked with removing the bodies and we turned them over to graves registration who eventually interred them.”

“The corpses couldn’t have moved themselves,” Colonel Miller stated matter of factly with a laugh.

“Yes sir, that’s what I thought too,” Tom responded. “At least when I was a lieutenant. I almost suspect the Russians or someone in Turkmenistan had crossed the border and left them there; carted in trucks. Once all the corpses were gone. There was a strange black stone at the bottom. The thing was shaped in a perfect square with shiny smooth surface. The four foot by four foot rock was curious as patterns on its surface appeared to move. The rock did not physically move, but it appeared as though there were slow moving clouds inside the color of the rock, which also seemed to be one of the densest materials I had ever seen. The movement of clouds in the rock was more like a dark swirling effect, without light. It gave me a creepy feeling, a tingling sensation up my spine. It was as though nothing good and positive would ever come for the rest of my life. To be honest, being in its presence gave me the urge to harm myself. I knew I had to get away from this rock. You know, I could have sworn several of the corpses’ eyes actually moved as they were being pulled away.” Tom paused for several minutes allowing that to sink in.

“That is truly bizarre, Tom. I can’t say I have ever seen anything quite like that and I never heard anything like that either. Why are you sharing this with me now?” Colonel Miller asked his operations officer.

“Something happened this past week that brought those old memories back to the front,” Tom told the Colonel. “I went to West Virginia for a work assignment as you well know. I can’t tell you too much about it, but I saw a woman who had been dead for a long period of time, crawl out of a hole and attack one of my co-workers. The dead animated corpse choked an FBI behavioral analyst. Two other members of the group shot the dead woman dead for good after that.” Tom sat in the colonel’s office for several minutes. “I contemplated not telling you anything because it sounds so ridiculous, but we’ve been friends for years and I trust you. Maybe you’ve seen something like this?”

“No Tom, I can honestly say I have never seen anything like that,” Colonel Miller was now worried about his friend. “Are you OK, Tom?”

“Yes, sir. I’m fine. Forget I even mentioned this to you,” Tom quickly recovered. He regretted telling the colonel about the animated corpse now. He wanted to change the subject, “I’ll bet you a bottle of Jamison I score higher on the pistol range than you today.”

“You’re on!” Colonel Miller exclaimed with a smile. “You ready to take a hike to the range with the battalion?”

“Yes sir!” Major Stewart remarked. “I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

A few hours later, the first battalion, 25th Marines was spread out over a mile of road marching in formations of five columns with full pack, assault vests, Kevlar helmets, and weapons slung. The unit’s battalion red colors flapped in the breeze as the color bearer walked just behind and the the right of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Miller. The rest of the battalion staff, including Major Stewart marched in front of the A Company Commander, Captain Spellacy. They did not march in step, but did stay together. The battalion of marines marched four miles from the armory to the rifle ranges to begin a day of shooting. By Sunday afternoon, the entire battalion would need to be qualified in their primary weapons. The Commander also wanted the infantry squads to have a chance to run through the Infantry Battle Course and for all riflemen and NCOs to have a chance to fire on the Known Distance (KD) range. Rifle marksmanship has always been and will continue to be of utmost priority with the United States Marine Corps.

Captain Washington, the Battalion Intelligence Officer (S2) stood next to Major Stewart. “How you feeling today, Tom?”

“I feel great, Reg,” Tom responded with a smile. “How’s your pistol shooting lately?”

“I can’t complain. I usually hit expert every time.”

“You still working the graveyard shift?” Tom asked Captain Reginald Washington who worked as a Mass State Police Trooper out of the Leominster barracks.

“Yes sir, I’m one of the shift supervisors now,” Captain Washington quipped.

“Congratulations!” The officers on battalion staff advanced to the firing line on the pistol course. They took all their commands from the tower. When instructed to do so, Major Stewart locked and loaded one 14-round magazine into his M9 pistol to begin the Combat Pistol Program. The first phase begins with the pistol in the holster. Tom stood on the line, waiting on the command from the tower to begin. Upon the command, he drew his pistol, assumed a natural Weaver stance and lined his sights up on the target.

Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, he saw a woman walking toward him with matted hair, clung together more in ropes than straight. Her skin was bloated and rotting with a green undertone. Tom could smell it. He was back at the cabin. The woman’s eyes lolled about in her useless sockets. Her limbs flailed about and she staggered as she walked. He lined the sites up on the animated corpse and squeezed his trigger. He fired several times until he heard the command in the tower to cease fire. Tom’s pulse quickened. He could feel the sweat under his helmet and around his neck. He was nervous. When the day was over, he owed Lieutenant Colonel Norm Miller a bottle of Jameson’s Whiskey. He swore he would never tell anyone that story…ever.

>FBI FIELD OFFICE, FEDERAL BUILDING
>BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
>1000HRS...///

Two weeks later…

Tom was back at the Federal Building in Boston reviewing cold cases, those files that the Mass State Police and local law enforcement agencies failed to solve for one reason or another. He flipped through the files, one after another. A young girl, Grace Wollansky of Haverhill who had gone missing and no one knew where she was. Another young woman, Victoria McQueen had told an outlandish story of an antiquated Rolls Royce Wraith taking the young girl to someplace called Christmasland.

A second file mentions a possible homicide in a residence in the rural community of Leyden. Apparently, the victim was an avid hunter and owned several firearms including shotguns and rifles. The man was found dead in the floor of his living room. One of his shotguns was found near the corpse and the man’s brain matter was splattered over a wall and ceiling. The State Police out of Shelburne believe it was a suicide, but there was something about the case that spoke otherwise.

Finally, the third file was of two bodies washed ashore in Cohaset, not far from Hingham and Boston. The bodies had been in the water for more than a week and were bloated. The track suit, the man was wearing hinted of Russian Mafia, but they weren’t very prevalent in the Boston area. The State Police’s Crime Prevention and Control (CPAC) unit ran into a roadblock and passed it on to the FBI to have a crack at it. He decided to take a look at all three files.

>STEWART RESIDENCE
>BRAINTREE, MASSACHUSETTS
>1800HRS, 15 MAY///

Tom walked into the house on John Paul Circle in North Braintree. “Hi Honey!” Jill was in the kitchen preparing a meal.

“I hope you’re up for grilled chicken salad and Pinot for dinner?”

“Sounds great, Sweetie.”

The house in Braintree was close enough to the freeway to make an easy drive into the city, but in the suburbs where traffic was no concern and he could avoid the hassles associated with city living. Fortunately working for the US Government paid well as well as a Marine Biologist at Woods Hole on Cape Cod. Jill had a 50-mile drive to work, which took roughly an hour both ways. It slowed down when she encountered the summer traffic heading onto the Cape. The couple had a comfortable living, more than enough means to support a child or two.

Tom still thought about having a child but didn’t let it interfere with him too much. He dropped his briefcase next to his desk in his home office along with his suit coat.

His cell phone began to ring. He looked at the caller ID and didn’t immediately recognize the number. But it was a Northern Virginia extension which he did recognize. He assumed it was work related, “SSA Stewart, how may I help you?”

"Hey, Tom," a soft feminine voice on the other end replied. "It's Dr Heather Laine, from Quantico. We met in West Virginia. Are you busy?"

Tom was caught off guard, but recognized her voice as soon as she spoke her name into the phone. “Heather! How are you?”

"Doing about as well as expected, just working late on a case from your neck of the woods and I thought about you," she said, "How about you?"

“I’m doing well. West Virginia feels like a lifetime ago now. I know it was only a month, but things have gotten better here. What case are you working on? Maybe I can help?” Tom was curious about the case. She must be dealing with Cold Cases like him.

"That's great to hear, Tom," She responded. "Oh, the case. Yes, it's two John Does, both found washed up along the coast near…near Cohasset, I probably butchered that pronunciation. Anyway, both unsolved, unidentified and bodies damaged by exposure on the water within a week of each other. State police first caught the case but it went cold pretty fast. So, we're taking a look at it."

“I do recall this case. The bodies were reportedly in the water for over a week. They were quite bloated. The first was a male close to 30 wearing a tracksuit found near Kimball’s Point and the second a female in her early 20s found on Black Rock Beach near Forest Ave.” Tom paused to think about the case some more. He had read the file over a few weeks ago and was familiar with it. “The saltwater could have been used as a forensics countermeasure. The only thing CPAC could uncover was that the people in Cohasset wouldn’t tell them anything. It wasn’t just that possibly they didn’t know, but they appeared frightened about something, fearing that if they did talk it could mean the end of their life; kind of like Whitey Bulger’s Winter Hill Gang.” Tom mentioned the Massachusetts State Police’s Crime Prevention and Control Division.

"Being dumped at sea certainly is a forensic countermeasure," Laine said wryly. "It does have a strong feeling of execution. Cause of death was determined as multiple GSW on both. And the track suit, suggests Russians, it was Adidas after all. I'm glad you're familiar with this case. It was just given to me today to try and create a profile of the suspect."

“Yea, that’s about right. I kind of suspected the Russians too. They haven’t really taken over much in Boston but are growing in Providence and are entrenched in the Coney Island neighborhood of Brooklyn. I even hear they are making inroads in Bridgeport, Connecticut. You know who grew up in Bridgeport, right?” Tom didn’t wait for Dr. Laine to respond. “Aaron Hernandez!”

“Hey, are you coming up to Boston or are you doing your work from Virginia?”

"Oh, the football player convicted murderer, they must be very proud. I might pop up there, check out the crime scene area. It's probably not going to help much but I miss the water. And maybe talk to some people mentioned in this case file. Sometimes they're willing to share more with a stranger, someone that will be gone in a few days and never pull them over for a speeding ticket. I'll have to see how far I get with the autopsies; our pathologist is going over them with me."

Jill popped her head into the office, “Your salad is ready, if you are interested.” She stated in a hushed tone.

“Sounds great, give me a call when you come to town. I can pick you up and go check on some of your leads together. It was good hearing from you, Heather. I do need to get going.”

"Thanks for the help. Have you heard from Donnelley or Foster, or any of the others?"

“No, you are the only one. I’ve tried to put that behind me for now. I am still curious and will respond when he calls...I’m sure he will call again.” He didn’t want to tell her about the hallucinations and nightmares he had experienced from their adventure in the woods of West Virginia. It was not his place to share such personal experience with someone he barely knew.

"Probably a good idea, have a good night, Tom."

Tom hung up the phone and headed into the kitchen for grilled chicken salad.

“Who was on the phone?” Jill asked.

“Doctor Heather Laine, a Forensics Psychologist from the Behavioral Analysis Unit in DC. She is working a cold case that washed ashore in Cohasset awhile back. She was asking for my take on the case. She may come up to work on it with me.”

“Oh, do you get calls like that often?” Jill asked. She was just curious.

“Quite often at work. Rarely at home. I mean, how often do you hear me talking to colleagues at home? Yea, it happens once in a while, but rarely.” Tom neglected to mention he met Dr. Laine on his trip to West Virginia. For all she knew Heather was a colleague in the FBI. He was lost in thought; dwelling on that day in West Virginia.

“Tom, I missed my period this month,” Jill allowed that little pellet to just hang out there. Given his frame of mind, it did not register.

[Andreyich]

Back on the open read, yeah boy! The Park Ranger was giddy as ever as he left the building, having given the doctor his phone number. He hoisted the Confederate flag onto his bike and gave it a short salute before hopping on and revving the Engine like every single asshole who owned a Ferrari. A wooping announced that he was leaving as he hit the open road.

Free. Now he was really free. Gone from all that bullshit of secrecy and doing a job he wasn't trained for before realizing he'd have to keep on doing a job he wasn't trained for. Well, at least he'd be a badass modern day van helsing or some shit, he really liked the sound of that. "Bum-bum, bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum-bum-bum...." he muttered, going along with the tune of his song. "Fuck." Laurie stated, noticing he was quite low on gas. He could have sworn he had filled up before he had come to the little headquarters but he supposed not.

He turned into a gas station, the place seeming familiar. But much had happened over the last two days and he wasn't quite going to dig into some faint ass memory to remember why this place was notable to him. A mistake, perhaps. He filled up his tank, and then went inside to pay for his gas. Laurie bought some gum and a monster energy in addition before realizing he had quite the hankering for taking a piss. He went over to the bathroom, not quite noticing the biker fellows that followed him in. He went to the urinal and unzipped, whistling on as he felt the relief wash over him. He nodded to the guy who took the urinal beside him, feeling something was wrong when both stalls suddenly were occupied as were the urinals on either side of him and a sink being used by some dude washing his hands. He finished, closing his zipper and moving to wash his hands.

Laurie was slick, but he realized too late he wasn't slick enough to dodge being picked up and having his face smashed into the mirror. Twice more he was used as a battering ram, his head making a crater in the shitty drywall. He turned his head to look at his assailant as he was held in the air, but between the poor range of motion he could get and all the dust in his eyes he couldn't make him out. To finish it off he was thrown into the urinal his ass barely saved from breaking by the squished urinal cake. He coughed, trying to spit out an insult at the dudes but they didn't care, walking off with their job apparently done.

He sat resting for a while, maybe an hour or so before at last limping out, ignoring the owner of the place as he asked Laurie if he was alright. Of course he fucking wasn't, but you asking wasn't going to make it better! The Ranger wondered why his bike was wet, looking up to see no rainclouds until the smell hit him. "Of-fucking-course." He muttered, sitting on his ride and driving off wearily.

This drive brought no joy, save the prospect he'd make it home.

---

He had gotten to his dad's place, making his way to the basement quietly so he could shower and change, putting some of his shit away before going to sleep in his bed. He usually lived in the Ranger station, but he didn't want to drive all the way after that shit. He woke up to the smell of eggs and bacon, all that miscellaneous spicy cajun shit poured on it in excess of what any person would deem tasteful emanating all the way down to his bed. "I fucking love you mom." He said, getting up and walking upstairs. "Smells delicious!" he remarked, to his mother, the woman smiling before she saw his face. She cried out some archaic curse before grabbing his face to look at, making note of every single wound. "Maman, maman, it's not so serious...." He tried, but this only made the woman call his father. He sighed, going over to the breakfast to save lest by virtue of inattention it burn. He sat down to eat, listening to the berating words of his parents. He finished off his meal, wiping his mouth and hands with a tissue before going to wash himself off, mother and father now waiting for his reply. Laurie dried his hands, before articulating a reply. "It's the job. New responsibilities, secret government things, if only I could tell you. There's suits, soldier-boys, all of them, it's so exciting!" he said, not actually elaborating on whether or not that excitement was positive or negative. "Love you, but I have a shift today!" he said, putting on his hat and then going outside back to his bike.

He drove to the Ranger station, clocking in and then going over to the swamps. It was good to be back, he even greeted his old friend bigfoot a couple of times! But life was back to how it should be, and while boredom did get him quite often it wasn't nearly as bad of an irritant to his condition as before. Perhaps the experience with Delta Green done him good, he wasn't now quite as interested in stimulating experience as before.

Laurie wondered if maybe this would go too far. He could deal with a fucking zombie, but he wondered what other shit them glow in the dark freaks would have him do. He shuddered at the thought every time he had it, thanking God for making him smart enough to not blab. Who knew what the fuck them cunts were doing with their fancy listening equipment.

[idlehands]

The flight was short and when the plane landed, a light drizzle fell in the Virginia evening. A taxi, a walk, and a lock lead Dr Laine back to her town home. It was dark inside, the curtains drawn against the watery light and she stood in the entrance, surveying the familiar landscape of her home. What she knew now seemed to change everything yet nothing seemed affected, the furniture in the same place and the too loud hum of the refrigerator. Closing the door behind her, she dropped her bag on the black leather recliner and went directly to the freezer.

Laine was not a drinker, never had been, but the last few nights seemed to put that to the test. She pulled out a bottle of vodka, Grey Goose Cherry Noire, something she had picked up on a whim. Now she poured it straight into a small glass tumbler and took a drink, wincing slightly.

The quiet house rested around her, weighing on her shoulders and the darkness seemed to seep in, shadows drawing closer. She shook her head, knocking back the rest of the vodka and rinsed the glass before heading back to the living room.

She lived alone, despite the areas popularity of roommates, she preferred her space. Her table was often covered in graphic crime scene photos and after one incident with a weak stomached roomie and a ruined laptop that finalized that decision. Laine flicked the lights on, a pair of lamps with grey silk shades sending soft illumination which just seemed to chase the shadows back. They curled in expectation, like prowling cats under chairs and in corners. She flipped the last switch that turned on the track lighting that lined the sides of the ceiling.

The room was bright now, the black leather furniture against crisp white rental property walls. Her stereo was next, the speakers thumping to life with whatever had been on her playlist before she left for West Virginia. An old Nine Inch Nails track, a haunting melody about longing and failure. She sank down on the couch to listen, kicking off her shoes and curled up on the plump cushions. Her eyes darted to the sliver of shadow under the entertainment center, a corner shelf and the bruise on her wrist responded with a throb of pain.

Laine laughed softly at herself, at the anxious crawling in her skin. It was a typical response to trauma and she took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It would pass, the fear, tension, and anxiety at shadows and what they might hold.

Heather Laine was not afraid of the dark.

****

Her first night she slept soundly on the couch, exhaustion and cherry vodka combining to send her into a dreamless unconscious. The second night Laine lay in bed and woke up with a choking scream stuck in her throat and the pressing down of her chest. She could not move or speak and her mind wildly groped to find a reason. Marlene. She had come back to revenge herself.

Once she could move, Laine rolled over, grabbing her phone from the nightstand. In the glow of the light she could see nothing on her bed and no evidence there had ever been. Sleep paralysis, she told herself noting the time was still early, 1:11AM.

It was not the first time she had experienced the condition and each time it was just as intense until it was over. No wonder people once believed in incubi and later alien abductions, the feeling of helplessness was terrifying. Laine sat up, tapping her phone to check any messages. There was ten unread messages on Facebook from her mother and she rolled her eyes, reluctantly opening them. The first was a question about a new dress she took a selfie in and then nine messages about why she did not ‘like’ the picture. It was still a decent hour in California so she replied.

Mom, sorry, been busy with work, will call tomorrow. Give my love to Dad.

Laine paused then added, Love you, too.

She liked the selfie, her mother still a beautiful woman even in her fifties and she could tell there had been another round of Botox. Laine sighed and liked a few of her other posts, hardly looking at what they said.

Laine brought up her work email and sent a message to her supervisor to let her know she was back in town and would be in the office tomorrow. She still needed to finish her analysis of the suspect in the Sofie Childress case. Delta Green or no, it was still an open homicide in the FBI’s jurisdiction and as far as she was concerned she was still working to help solve it. Her thoughts turned to Agent Michael Chan, dead now by his own hand, and her own encounter with Marlene. Had he seen something she missed or was he affected that deeply by just the presence of the black slab of stone. The strange, alien feeling that accompanied the crime scene was certainly palatable but was it enough to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

********************************************************************
April 23, Seattle, WA

Rain fell in a steady rhythm at the SeaTac airport, the shades of concrete and sky becoming almost indistinguishable behind the hazy curtain. Dr Laine stood with her laptop bag slung over her chest, a black turtleneck covering to now faded bruise on her neck and pulled her small rolling suitcase along the row of taxis. The black pea coat was buttoned against the cold spring breeze, her old leather jacket had been tossed in the bonfire of the shed. She ducked her head against the rain, walking quickly to the first available cab.

"Welcome to Seattle, home of warm beaches and sunshine, where can I take you, Miss?" The driver quipped in a dry voice,the glanced I the rear view mirror when the well polished gem did not elicit a smile from his passenger. He was in his late fifties, heavyset with a florid face chapped from cold wind and his hands on the steering wheel looked calloused. She wondered briefly if he had worked the fishing boats until age caught up with him.

"1110 3rd Ave, please," Laine replied, shoving down the handle of her suitcase and pushing it across the seat.

"Right away."

Laine leaned back, watching the city, gloom settling over it despite the landscaped daffodils and crocus blooming, the bright blossoms hanging low in the steady downpour. She swiped her new phone open and scrolled through her contact list, passing the members of Team UMBRA each under their own code name she made up. Then there was Special Agent Chan, she had his number still despite the brief few days before reality shifted forever.

The agent had been only a couple years older than her, experienced but not jaded, with a quick intelligence and eye for detail. He had seemed to Laine a steady man with a level head, a wife and son and a mortgage. Perhaps he had been under more pressure than she saw, her attention had been on the case after all. And yet her mind kept turning back to the morning in Olympia and the black slab and how long Chan had lingered there.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the driver pointed out the Space Needle as they entered downtown.

"Thanks, it's not my first time in the city," she replied politely, not wanting to encourage conversation.

Once he pulled to a stop outside the FBI field office she paid him and made no comment when he asked if she was a G-man. "Or is it G-woman? Uh, G-person?" He shook his greying head as she closed the door.

"Just agent these days," she replied unbuckling her seat belt and grabbing her gear.

Laine made a dash for the entrance, carrying the small suitcase rather than deploying the wheels. Once inside the guard gave her a suspicious look, opening her cases and running the metal detector over her once then twice as it beeped. She gave him a coy smile, "Piercings."

***

Once inside she found the Special Agent-in-Charge Angela Gino in her office. A blonde woman in her forties with a no nonsense air and thin pursed lips. "What can I tell you Doctor, the case isn't in our hands. I assumed you knew this."

Her tone said she assumed Laine had made sure it was moved. So she asked, "Seattle PD?"

"Your people took over," Gino replied, "At least that's what they said. They had all the paperwork anyway."

"All the evidence? Photos?"

"At an office in Washington they said, look Dr Laine, I'm a busy woman and you're obviously out of the loop. Good day," she said, a hint of nervous energy in her voice and she rose from her chair to show Laine out of the office.

Dr Laine started out then paused, "I'm sorry about Agent Chan, by the way. He seemed like a good guy, very sharp."

Something flickered in Agent Gino's dark eyes, sadness then suspicion. "We appreciate your thoughts."

Then she closed the door.

Laine left the building, standing in the rain for a moment then popped the black umbrella open as she started walking down the street. Her phone was in her hand and her thumb scrolled along before finally tapping on the contact labeled Mike Muir.

Wherever he was, Joseph Donnelly's phone would light up with the incoming call.

The phone changed screens as Donnelley picked up, counting up the time of the call. A tired sigh that sounded as if the man had just awoken, an equally tired and droning voice coming from the other end, “Laine?”

His voice brought her back to the cabin and she paused a brief moment before replying, "Hey, yeah, it's me. Did I wake you?"

She watched the rain from the security of the umbrella, almost tempted to back out but the questions needed answers. "I just need a few minutes."

“Yeah?” He said, ignoring the previous question. A sound like shuffling came from the receiver before he spoke again, sitting up in bed maybe, “What is it?”

"I'm in Seattle, following up on the Sofie Childress murder," she said, stepping back as a car splashed through a puddle. "Only everything is gone. You wouldn't know where that box of evidence might have ended up?"

A long pause, a pregnant silence filled in the spaces their voices left empty. After a few moments, Donnelley sighed, “Laine, I know what I know.” He said, “I don’t know that. I can tell you someone does. It’s not your case anymore.”

Laine glanced up at the leaden sky then nodded, unsurprised by his answer. "I understand this whole thing is in a green file folder somewhere but I'm still working on a suspect profile. This isn't just about one victim, Donnelley."

She paused and tucked her hand into her coat pocket, thinking for a moment then she said, "Don't tell me I flew out here just to enjoy the weather. I also have some questions I'm working on in an agent's suicide, nothing official but..."

Laine sighed then continued, "How are you, by the way?"

Donnelley huffed through his nose, “Don’t do that.” He said, a little more stern than he might have wanted, but he corrected himself in step, “I’m… fine.”

He took his moment on the other end. A slight sound of static coming through before he continued, “If you’re asking what I know you’re asking,” he said, “No. Not unless he knew and wanted to spill. He would’ve been snatched up just like the rest of you otherwise.”

He let that sink in. It wasn’t until after he yawned that Laine heard his voice, “I’m sorry. If they were close.” There was a sincerity to his voice, “Happens a lot.”

"I'm not putting you on the couch again, Mr Donnelley," Laine replied, smiling slightly. "I asked in genuine concern after our weekend in the mountains."

After his explanation, Laine said, "Not close but Agent Chan worked the Childress case, I went with him as a consultant. He spent more time around that stone than anyone else. We were all spooked but..."

She started walking again, the sound of her boot heels clicking on the wet pavement seemed too loud in her ears. "He just didn't seem like he was at that point. And if this thing pushed him too this I can't help but think well, about the cabin."

Her hand unconsciously raised to her neck, rubbing where she had been grabbed. “Yeah.” Donnelley said, “That was more of an introduction than I would’ve given any of you.”

“But not all of it was up to me. I still remember my first. But,” he paused a few beats, “But you handled yourself about as well as anybody on their first. Just remember Laine, look at the sunrises.”

Laine stood on the corner of 3rd and Spring, waiting for the light to change. She listened to Donnelley, his tired voice and wondered briefly how many he had given those same words of encouragement and how many of those were still alive and with all their marbles.

"I handled it well after I ran shrieking and tearing half my clothes off," she said, huffing a soft self effacing chuckle. "I should have listened to you, lesson learned."

At his mention of sunrises she looked over the buildings, the very tops shrouded in low clouds as the rain still fell though it has started to slacken. "Sunrises will probably have to wait until I'm back in Virginia."

Laine crossed the street and kept heading west, her mind turning over the things he told her and the sound of his voice, "Late night?"

“Couldn’t sleep.” Though he didn’t tell her why. He didn’t feel anybody needed to know. Maybe he felt she didn’t want to. Whether it was what he got up to during the night before or otherwise. “Just, uh… unwinding.”

"I've had a few of those myself lately," Laine admitted, omitting the details of the sweat soaked sheets and racing heart when she would bolt awake. "I could use some strong coffee. No sleep on the red-eye."

After a moment she grinned to herself unable to keep the curiosity of what a man like Donnelley would do to relax, "Unwinding? So nice hot bubble bath with some mystic yoga music playing?"

She could hear the smirk in Donnelley’s voice, “Only the best for this girl.” Donnelley said, “Listen, we both got shit sleep. I’ll let you go try at it again.”

Laine looked out at the small coffee shop across the street, making for it, avoiding both cars and puddles. "I'll be trying at it again but not sleep. If you're in the area in the next few days, let me know. I'll buy you a vente mocha with extra foam. And Donnelley, I don't spook easily."

She stood under the awning, collapsing her umbrella one handed, shaking it out.

“‘Course not. Figured there’s a reason I’d keep you around.” He chuckled, letting it gutter out before he added, “Who knows though, might see me, might not. Keep in touch.”

And the call ended.

Laine shook her head,a half smile touching her lips as he hung up and she put the phone in her pocket. Inside the coffee shop it was warm, a few people already settled in with their laptops writing the next Great American Novel or tapping away at their phones on some money grabbing game.

"What can I get you?" The barista asked, a tall lanky man with a beard and a bun of fashionably messy hair bundled at the back of his head. He gave her the once over, a hint of interest dampened with wariness.

"Just a regular coffee, dark roast, black and one of those chocolate croissants, please," she said, "I'll be needing refills, too."

"Sure, on the house," he said, though all regular coffee had free refills likely but Laine gave him a smile of gratitude and he grinned in return. "I'll bring it over, and I recommend the booth at the far corner. A little secret, it has the best WiFi."

"Thanks, um..." She glanced for a name tag but it was a local place and he wasn't wearing one. She did not recognize him from the last time she had been here with Chan and a local detective when Sofie Childress' abandoned car had been discovered in the parking lot.

"Austin," he said, still grinning. "Like the city."

Before retreating to the corner booth she said, "Oh, well thank you, Austin. Very much appreciated."

Setting her laptop up in the corner booth, Laine ruminated over Donnelley's words. It's not your case anymore.

Like hell it wasn't. She stubbornly furrowed her brow, tapping her black painted nails on the table as her computer booted up. She had said she should have listened to him but she told herself that was in physical situations. This was different and self delusional reasoning was a powerful force.

She pulled up her personal files, things she collected for her thoughts on the profile of a killer. Under the Childress file she had copies of pictures she took on her own camera, not a standard practice so it the Agency did not know and what they did not know DG could not confiscate. Her photos were not as high quality as the crime scene unit but the distinctive black slab under the pale body of dead Sophie Childress was visible. Laine cursed herself for not getting better pictures of it but that was what Chan and his team were doing.

She zoomed in, the stone looked featureless and smooth, no light reflecting and no shadow darker than its own color. Laine wondered if it was still there, in the small glade among the temperate rainforest. Moving the mouse, she zoomed in on corpse of the college girl. Her long hair matted with blood and the frozen expression of horror on her face, mouth open in a silent scream.

Dr Laine gazed at it for awhile, the world around her fading away as she recalled the shambling corpse of Marlene. If they had not found Sofie, would that have been her fate or was Mrs Baughman a special case?

“Jesus.”

Laine snapped out of her thoughts and looked up at the stunned expression of Austin the barista. She folded down her laptop screen enough for it not to show. Resurrection of some kind but not holy, she thought wryly.

“Sorry about that, I’m working on a case.”

“No shi...really? You’re a cop?” he seemed wary again as he set her coffee and pastry on the table.

“Heather Laine,FBI. A profiler actually,” she said, hoping it would sway his judgement.

“Like the tv show?”

“Uh...something like that. You have heard of Sofie Childress? She came here often, her car was found here after she went missing,” Laine said, watching his expression.

He furrowed his brow, then rubbed at his ear, the multiple piercings clicking faintly, “Yeah, I heard about her.”

“I didn’t see you here that day.”

“I was off work, sucks though. She was pretty cool,” he offered, then started to back away as the door chimed with another customer shaking off the rain.

Laine could see something bothered him and she leaned back, giving him a warm smile. “Maybe we could talk about it later. After your shift?”

“Um, sure, yeah,” Austin replied, bumping into the table behind him before turning to hurry back to the coffee bar.

She opened her computer back up and started typing notes, things she remembered from the case and discussions with the detectives working it. One was dead but the local PD still might have information, if their files had not been raided as well. Laine picked up her phone and called the Seattle headquarters.

“Can I speak with Detective Gary Smith? Tell him it’s Dr Heather Laine, FBI, ” Laine asked the operator and waited until she heard the heavy baritone of the senior detective.

“Smith here, didn’t expect to hear from the feds again. What did you want?”

There was shortness to his voice but it was natural from the hours spent in his presence during the search for the victim. “I’m just checking in, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

Silence then a reluctant grunt she took as acknowledgement.

“I’m still working on a detailed profile and I was wondering if I could look into your files there on the Childress case, anything would be helpful,” Laine said, picking up her cup of coffee to take a sip as she waited for his answer.

On the other end there was a snort of derision, “Files? Feds already cleaned us out, took everything. Might want to check with your buddies in Washington.”

“Everything?” Laine asked, setting the cup down and sloshing a bit of the hot liquid onto her finger. Wincing, she added, “Nothing is there, not even for local use. We don’t know if the suspect is local.”

“Like I said, check with them. I’m surprised you didn’t know, Dr Laine. Figured you’d be the first after Chan’s suicide,” Smith replied, his tone changing slightly from annoyed to interested.

“I was on leave last week,” she said quickly, “Thank you for your time, Detective. I’ll be in touch.”

“Uh huh, not sure what about but we’re always thrilled to help the FBI.”

The line went dead and she set her phone down, rubbing her the bridge of her nose under her glasses. It wasn’t her case anymore, she reminded herself and it seemed like it was not anyone’s case. What would they do with the evidence. Work it, destroy it? She looked at her phone and resisted the urge to call Donnelley back and ask for his local contacts. It would do no good as he was not a man to give anything without purpose. He was a spook, a mystery, and the right person she needed for this task. It’s not your case anymore

“I’ll never learn my lesson,” Laine muttered and took a bite of the chocolate croissant. It had smelled divine but now tasted like cardboard.

It was evening when Austin the barista clocked out and met Laine in the parking lot. She leaned against the wall, smoking a Djarum and offered him one from the black package.

As she lit it she asked, “How long have you worked at the Bouncing Bean?”

Austin took a drag, his sinewy tattooed arms exposed from the rolled sleeves of his cardigan. “Like a year or so, I took some time off to do a tour with my band, just down the coast. I just came back two weeks ago, Marla held my job. She’s pretty cool for a boss.”

“Did you know Sofie?”

“I guess, I knew what she liked to drink. Ordered the same thing every day, a medium nondairy chai latte. We talked about music, she saw the band a few times, and...”

He shifted, turning his arm down in a manner that caught Laine’s eye. A tattoo among the field of colorful ink swirls, dark black and hard lined unlike the rest of his work.

“And?” she encouraged him, looking up at him, holding his gaze.

“We kinda, might have messed around a couple times. It wasn’t anything serious you know. Just hung out,” Austin said, then took a long drag, blowing the smoke through his nose. “It really sucked hearing she was killed. And those pictures...Jesus. She didn’t deserve that. What kinda psycho does that?”

“That’s what I am trying to figure out,” Laine said, then flicked her ashes. “Did she ever seem scared or think someone might be following her?”

Austin shrugged, then surreptitiously pulled his sweater sleeves down. “She never said, I don’t think so.”

Dr Laine looked him over, then nodded, “Thank you, Austin. I appreciate your time.”

“Sure. Hey, if you don’t have anything else to do, my band’s playing tomorrow night. The Eternal Lie. We’re playing at Rick’s Records. Kind at this cool hole in the wall club slash record store,” the barista offered, looking her over, his eyes lingering on her chest now that her coat was unbuttoned.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Laine said.

****

It was past 3AM and Dr Laine lay awake in the hotel bed, staring into the darkness. After a few days in Seattle she was still nowhere closer to answers than she had been when she arrived. Leads were cold and evidence, everything that had been processed and recorded, was gone into the shadows.

Sleep refused to settle in, everytime she dozed an errant thought woke her. Rolling over she thought about Donnelley and his unwinding. It probably involved a lot of alcohol.

Laine raided the minibar, taking two small Jack Daniels bottles out before running a hot bath. Sitting on the edge of the large tub, she knocked back the shots of bourbon and then turned on her phone to play a list of dark slow music.

The water settled around her body, warm and embracing as Laine leaned her head back on a folded towel. Already she felt tensions loosen in her back and neck. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply the steam of the hot water, lightly fragrant with one of the rosemary and lavender bath bombs she bought earlier in the day.

Suddenly she smelled rot, decay and a hand with grey skin and flesh pulling away from the fingers shot out of the water and seized her neck. Laine tried to scream but could not, the hand on her throat in a death grip. In the water she could see a face rising up. Marlene Baughman. The dark tendrils of her hair seemed lighter as her face broke the surface and Laine tried to scream again when she saw not the dead wife's face bit that of the younger, blonder, Sofie Childress. Accusing dead eyes stared into her own as the corpse in her tub throttled her. A thick wet voice came from Sofie. " Clyde."

With a splash and a gasp, Laine woke kicking and thrashing in the tub. Her hand went to her neck but there was nothing.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, her teeth chattering. The water was cold by now so she climbed out and wrapped herself in a hotel towel. Wet hair and all, she bundled herself into the bed, hot tears stinging her eyelids as she burrowed under the covers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the darkness.

(to be continued)

[Leidenschaft]

You could have heard a pin drop in the tiny house on the outskirts of Seattle if it weren’t for the soft stippling of a fledgling bout of rain. The feeling of a sky blanketed over by light gray, no sign of blue as much as there were signs of streets or lawns under fresh snow. It wasn’t something Donnelley was fond of, and he had no understanding of those who romanticized the constant rain, where the sun was muffled and dulled behind clouds. He sighed, managing to fog up the window he was standing and staring out of, completely lost in the cherished quiet moments of a thoughtless few minutes watching the tide of the clouds.

He turned from the window, sighed again, eyes scanning the walls and floor and windows of this place. It was like a memory, or a dream. Like Holly and Tilly leaving, closing the door that one last time had stopped it all, plugged the neck of the hourglass. Donnelley, even, was frozen in place and his return here was like a reverie he regretted. It smelled of dust, and naught else, but the only thing haunting the house was the lonely squeal of the hinges for the first time in years. His footsteps echoing off the wood panel floors and his intermittent sighs. New cigarette butts joining the old in the coffee can just outside the front door. He walked the house like a ghost, but only part of him had died here long ago. He thought this was what limbo had to be like, a quiet mockery of old happy memories with all that made it happy missing. The house was dulled somehow, rendered in washed out hues of what once was, dark despite being broad daylight outside. He blamed the clouds, logically, but…

From the first steps he took past the threshold into this mausoleum he felt as old and lifeless as the couches and the dishes, the pictures from another life with the eyes of a family that was no more, standing lonely vigil over nothing. Back before he left for Virginia to train at the CIA’s eponymous Farm he had little strength or want to take down the pictures of him and Holly with Tilly. It was all too fresh then, the wounds still yawning open and gushing. But as his fingers traced the frame of a younger Joseph cradling a newborn Tilly, smiling next to his loving wife, those old knives could only blunt themselves on the scar tissue. He grabbed the picture off its hook and set to work. He didn’t want to have to stay here and be watched over by a dark cloud.

One by one, he stuffed the old pictures, frame and all, into a black trash bag. He swept through the house with the effort and urgency of a glacier, but he managed to liberate the walls of the life he once had. By the end of it, he was right back where he started, clutching onto the black bag that had grown heavy and bloated with the past. He stood opposite one picture, the last battle. He couldn’t avert his eyes, for the ones staring back at him were so much like his own, but so full of the things his were empty of now. There she was, a little red cardigan over her tiny shirt, short legs of her jeans stuffed sloppily into rainboots, pudgy cheeks bunched up and making way for the big smile full of love, her face framed with towheaded curls. There was no one else in the picture with her, and that made the decision that much harder. There was almost no reason to. The longer he stared, he started remembering. He took it, that picture of little Tilly Donnelley. They were playing in the backyard and she’d asked for it because he and Holly were taking their own. Laine’s questions echoed in his head. Whether Holly wanted to know. She tried, but Joseph never let her in. She couldn’t understand. Should not.

He left it. He left it all with a shake of his head, snatching a set of keys off the row of hooks without breaking stride and making his way to the garage. Waiting for him there was the one thing still in the house that Holly let him keep and he was thankful for. A matte black 1951 Indian Warrior 500, all real, and none of that Royal Enfield imposter shit from after 1953. It was the one thing his father left him before he died and the only thing from his old hometown he took with him to Washington. He accepted it, but it only got the older man a handful of half-hearted forgiveness for all the things he’d put him and his mother through. There was an old relic of a Ford Bronco beside it, but he wanted something more dangerous. Something to get his heart beating and his mind occupied. When his fingers brushed the coating of dust off of the seat, it took that line of thinking with the heavy layer, scattering in motes across the stagnant air of the lonely garage. He took the helmet off the handlebar, shook his leather jacket free of any spiders that might’ve been hiding and slipped it on. The old Warrior was true to her name, roaring to life with a little effort, but a roar it was. For the first time since returning home, a smirk crossed his lips with the deep thrum of the engine’s idle, and as soon as the garage door opened he left the coffin of a house for something more…

...///

Life was easier when the only thing he could hear was the roaring engine and the whooping wind. Sending himself down the highways like a bullet, taking turns at dumb speeds and the like, the only consequence thus far were car horns and middle fingers. His journey was fueled by a singular mission, a hunger and a thirst that led him like a hook through his nose. It tugged him in directions he hadn’t been for some time. It had been hours since he’d left and now his boot crunched into the gravel of a parking lot of the first seedy looking bar he’d found by the time the sun was swallowed by the horizon.

He sat there for a moment, taking his helmet off and tucking a cigarette between his lips. Eyes scanning the entirety of the scene before him as he lit the end of it. A line of motorcycles were out front, old pickups at rest on the edges of the lot. The sounds of a few different conversations weaved together in the growing night. Finally, he spotted what he wanted. From one of the lonely semi’s a blonde girl in her twenties emerged and smoothed down her denim skirt, pulling up her tube top as she shimmied. She looked fine enough, a pretty girl with the hands of a hard life set upon her. When he was finally finished, he dropped the cigarette at his feet, grinding it into the protesting gravel as he swung his leg over the bike. He made for the door sometime after the woman disappeared inside. A conversation by a few people a yard from it quieting with his presence to be taken over by the thumping music inside. He locked eyes with one, a big bald slab of man with a brown rug of beard, their gazes suspended and electrified by a quiet current of aggression. Just waiting. Their eyes did not break from each other until the door shut behind Donnelley and it seemed everything around him was sound. Goddamn, he hated crowded in places like this, the distorted guitars and kick drum in the song seeming like saws and hammers taken to his head. He was no longer the youth attracted to noise and violence. The bouncer waved him through without even checking his ID, you didn’t look like Donnelley if you were still young and dumb. No matter how much of those two he was at heart.

Almost as if a sign from above, an empty booth called to him, the light above it shining down. He took the one more dimly lit. A rushed and uninterested waitress sliding a menu his way before going off on her own way again. For the second time, he spotted the woman from the parking lot in the crowd inside, coming from the bathroom. She took a seat at the bar and Donnelley abandoned his menu, taking flight like a carrion bird from a tree branch after scraps. He plopped down on the seat next to her, “What’s your drink?”

“Whatever you’re buying.” She smirked, but her eyes didn’t change, they stayed empty. Marlene’s empty eyes in the photos came to him and he shook them from his head. She continued, “No bitch beer, though.”

“I look like I drink bitch beer?” Donnelley said, half joke, half insulted before he ripped his eyes away from her to look at the barkeep, “Johnny Walker Blue, two glasses, two fingers. Straight.”

The barkeep nodded and set to work, leaving Donnelley and the woman alone again. A bout of silence between them before she flicked her hair over her shoulder, looking at Donnelley, “People usually want something if they buy me a few.” She frowned at him, looking him up and down before meeting Donnelley’s sidelong gaze, “It still costs the same, Johnny Walker Blue.”

“I’m not looking for pussy. I’m looking to wake up half dead.”

“There’s some pissed off bikers here that’ll give that to you for free. Just need to ask for it right.” She said before tapping her jaw with a fist.

“You know what I mean. I need some uppers, some downers, whatever you got.” Donnelley spoke plain as he grabbed up his glass and then set it back down empty, never breaking his stare on her all the while. “Do that for me?”

She returned the stare and threw back her own glass, setting it down knocking sharp on the bar top, “You police?”

“I look it?”

“Yeah.” She said. Donnelley grimaced. She chuckled, “You piss somebody off, police man?”

Donnelley flinched away from her fingers probing at the scar on his cheek, a smirk playing across his lips despite the knee-jerk anger, “Looking’s the only thing that’s free.”

She snorted, her hand straying away from his face to squeeze his thigh. Truth be told, he wasn’t averse to it. There was a stirring in him for a moment before she asked, “What’s your price?”

“Whatever I get for two-hundred.” Donnelley’s smirk was gone. His patience was wearing thin and if he wanted to flirt with a Prost... well, he just didn’t. “Oxy, heroin, coke. All. and none of that fentanyl shit.”

“I might know a guy.”

...///

“...Keep in touch.” He hung up the phone, sighing and looking about the tiny motel room. Laine’s voice brought him back there. A wave of guilt for not doing more to keep her safe. He wondered what he would feel like now if she’d died instead of just ran away, screaming. Even so, her helpless, blood-curdling cries echoed in his head...

A handmirror with a leftover line of what could’ve been cocaine or china white for all he could remember sat on a table across the room, beckoning him. Whatever drug it was, he’d play detective and solve the mystery. He groaned to his feet, making his slow, shuffling way to the prize at the other end of the motel room.

He rolled up the dollar bill next to the mirror and ripped the line up a nostril, brushing the excess off of the outside of his nose from whatever he’d snorted last night. “Girlfriend?”

“Fuck!” Donnelley flinched, the dollar bill uncoiling from his fingers and fluttering to the ground. The sudden commotion made his head spin and his mouth filled with saliva, readying itself for the bile rising at the back of his throat. The Prost was still in bed, stretching her arms up with her chest bare. He regained himself, a Herculean task, “You’re still here? Ain’t you missing out on other johns?”

“I can take a day off.” She smirked.

“I won’t be in it.” Donnelley shook his head, slow. He turned back to the table and grabbed the mirror, checking his eyes over. It looked like he hadn’t slept for days. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Well, fuck you too, then.” She scowled, throwing the sheets from her naked lower half and getting dressed, a task that sent her about the room picking clothes from the floor. “I hope she leaves you.” She muttered, acid on her tongue.

“I hope you leave me.” He counted out a hundred from a bundle of twenties, satisfied the rest of the bills hadn’t been pocketed from him in his sleep, “For your troubles.”

He handed it over and the Prost snatched it from his hand, flipping him off as she slammed the door violent enough for the closed blinds to shiver and the cups to rattle. Again, he was alone. At least he wasn’t the poorer for it. He found a baggy of white powder and divvied a couple lines for himself. Before he could snort it up, his phone rang again. He rolled his eyes, looking at his phone’s screen. Smitty. He’d wanted to forget he had other obligations for at least a day longer. He put it to his ear, “Donnelley.”

“Yeah, no shit. Find your way to us. You’re gonna wanna hear all about the shit this kid’s telling us.”

>TURKEY
>SITE 332
>ONE WEEK LATER
>1230HRS...///

The sun was at its precipice, bearing down on the world in all its fury. Even the breezes were hot, and there was no AC in the little Toyota pickup. Thankfully, he’d broken away from the traffic of the city and was able to send the Toyota down the packed dirt roads through the hills however fast he wanted, making the suspension work for the day. When he finally got to the little hut he turned the key back and the engine cut off. Looked around in the rear view and side mirrors. No one. Good.

He took the rear view and pointed it at himself. His eyes still looked like he hadn’t slept for days but at least it wasn’t because of the drugs. Losing his clearance would ruin him. Foster would be pissed. Even then, at that point, he couldn’t even get a contracting job at CACI or Booz-Allen, no matter how many strings Foster had his hands on. He moved the mirror back and opened the door, stepping out of the truck and push checking the Glock 40 cal before stuffing it back in its IWB holster. He swore under his breath at the heat as he pounded his fist on the door until it opened, Smitty’s stubbled, impish little grin on the other side.

“Oh, the prodigal son.” Smitty waved at Donnelley, “You weren’t followed were you?”

“You know how fucking hard it is to be the grey man in the Middle East with red hair?” He snatched the cap off his head to reveal that he did indeed dye it black to the roots. His beard too. “What do you think?”

“You look like an asshole.” Kingsley said, not looking away from the little tv with the live feed. There was a newer one too, right beside it.

“You’re not even looking.”

“Don’t have to.” Kingsley chuckled, swiveling around in his office chair, “Missed you. So did he.”

Donnelley chuckled, following Kingsley’s thumb thrust over his shoulder to see a feed looking out the rear windshield of a car, scenery a blur moving past. The other television showed the boy at the wheel of his car, looking as natural as ever. Donnelley smirked, an appreciative chuckle, “You got him working for us.”

“Uh huh. And guess who we saw in his backseat.” Smitty held up a printed out screenshot of someone riding in the car. Recognition grew inwards from the dark corners of his mind and he frowned something black.

“This fucking guy.” Donnelley shook his head slow, “When, going where?”

“Last time we met with the kid he confirmed it. Hamit said it was him. That’s Viktor Ozan, Colonel Anzor Bekzhaev’s shitty little cousin. Little fuck grew up, moved from Chechnya and went to Syria through Turkey. Now he’s doing something with ISIL in the region just like his rat fucking cousin.” Smitty said.

“My guys are saying he’s being sent to Iraq. His cousin might still be there after Mosul. They don’t know what for or where, but he’s set to leave next week.” Kingsley shrugged, “Folks up top want us to confirm, follow, sick the hounds on him. Sniff him out. We’ll be bunking in Baghdad.”

“Uh huh.” Smitty frowned, “With Iraqi Intelligence and their fists firmly around our balls. Top wants us to make it out like they’re the big boys.”

“Well, we’ll be playing in their yard.” Donnelley shook his head, “Seems appropriate, don’t it?”

“Doesn’t mean I like it.” Kingsley rolled his eyes.

“Don’t have to.” Donnelley plopped himself on a chair and lit a cigarette. “Who’s our babysitter?”

“Kasim Ramaan.” Kingsley said the name like a swear, “Former Intelligence Officer for Saddam’s regime. Iraqi Army before that.”

“Ah.” Donnelley nodded, now more on the side of caution and not-liking-it as the two other men. “Old salt.”

Time passed, the team whiling away the hours with small talk and cigarettes. Hours and hours, boring downtime to Joseph. Until a knock came at the door. Smitty cracked it open. “What’s the password?” He said, squeezing his lips through.

“What? What password, what is this?” Hamit’s voice was heard on the other side, thoroughly confused. Donnelley looked to Kingsley, who was grinning and shaking his head at Smitty’s stupid antics.

The door creaked open and Hamit strolled inside, taking up a seat at the table in the little hut. Everything seemed to stand quiet in an awkward silence as they all stood opposite each other, Hamit and the CIA spooks. The only sound heard was the whirring of that faithful little fan. “So...”

“Yeah.” Smitty reached into a backpack, pulling out the most expensive shampoo, conditioner, and a bottle of French wine Donnelley had ever seen. Hamit too, probably. Smitty set them all on the table and Hamit grasped them up in his arms, a huge smile on his face that threatened to tear his cheeks open like a little boy’s at Christmas.

“Thank you, thank you!” Hamit said, looking at his gifts and nodding vigorously. Things quieted again and Donnelley spoke up.

“Now that we’re all cozy,” he said, looking from Kingsley back to Hamit, “Tell me about Viktor Ozan. You gave him a ride somewhere, right?”

Hamit nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, yes! Someone’s house. I think, um… Anzai, Anzi...”

Smitty sat up in his office chair, “Anzor?”

Hamit pointed at Smitty, smiling and nodding. The three CIA Officers looked at each other. They’d got Anzor too, placed him here in Turkey. But for how long? “Do you know why he was meeting him?”

“They were going to travel. Viktor talks a lot, says he is very important and acts like it. I nod and let him, like you tell me.” Hamit said, glancing back at the bottle of wine. “Thank you again.”

“It’s nothing. So, Viktor said he was traveling? Where?” Donnelley asked.

“Who is this? I have never seen him.” Hamit nodded at Donnelley, voice a whisper to Smitty.

“A friend. Of yours.” Smitty frowned, “Like us. Where was Viktor traveling?”

Hamit nodded, looking over his wine, turning it over in his hands. He shook his head, glancing at the rest of them in the room. His mouth worked at the words, mind working at whether he should spill. Donnelley knew what he was thinking. If he was swimming with the sharks and the only way out was listening to the people telling him to tie chum to his balls, he’d be hesitant too. “It’s alright. Hamit, this is almost over, you tell us where he’s going and we can give you whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” Hamit’s eyes went wide.

Donnelley kept himself from grinning. They had Hamit by his balls, and they had to confirm it was Iraq. Kingsley was good at developing assets, but you always, always had to confirm. Donnelley got up from his chair, taking a seat across from Hamit and sliding him some cash. “Whatever you goddamn like.”

Hamit looked at the cash, looked at Donnelley, the cash…

“His cousin was not at his house. His cousin has many houses in many places. He was going somewhere else from that house. Where his cousin is.” Hamit said, still not liking the prospect of being abducted and very publicly killed for the Internet for talking to infidels. Donnelley’s eyebrows rose as Hamit leaned in closer, the boy’s voice quiet, “Iraq.”

>BAGHDAD, IRAQ
>THREE DAYS LATER
>1334HRS...///

Another fucking desert.

The car had AC. But the Iraqi fucker driving didn’t need it and it was not up for a vote.

Donnelley took his cap off and wiped his sweaty brow with his sweaty forearm, blew a breath out that puffed his cheeks while checking his watch. He just couldn’t get used to the goddamn desert. The three CIA Officers were being ferried from Erbil to Baghdad. Stopped at the gate and the four of them in the car, the INIS driver included, produced their credentials. State Department for Donnelley and his fellows, INIS for the young guy in the driver seat. They were dumped in a waiting room with nothing to do, the official looking suits they were wearing no longer stifling them. Finally, some damned AC. They’d been sitting in the waiting room making idle conversation before a younger man leaned his head into the room. “Kasim wants to see you.” A young officer told them before going off on his way. “You have a few hours of his time.”

“Alright!” Smitty grinned, “Didn’t even have to wait that fucking long.”

“Shut up and let me and Kingsley do the talking.” Donnelley shook his head at Smitty as he stood.

Donnelley fingered the phone in his pocket. The phone cleared for Delta Green. Of course they knew he’d often be called off for things they weren’t allowed to know. Joseph just didn’t want to constantly remind them there were things he knew that they couldn’t.

They made their way through the headquarters building led by another young employee, white men in a den of foreign spies. Some nodded, some only stared at their passing. It was a little bit until they got to the door of Kasim’s office. They were welcomed in, “How can I help you, sirs?”

“Here to see you about an important development.” Donnelley said, looking Kasim over. He trusted the INIS Officers about as much as he trusted anybody else when he was alone among foreigners in a country that was not his own. Little, that was to say.

Kasim was a man about Donnelley’s height, skin middling between black and white, but paler than most in the region. Clean shaven and slicked back gray hair, he smoothed his black tie down on his chest while in his seat at his desk.

“Ah, come, come.” Kasim said, waving them inside while getting up from his desk to close the door as they all settled themselves. Donnelley and Kingsley taking their seats at his desk while Smitty crossed his arms and watched the door. There were pictures of the former army officer along the walls, shaking hands with a few people, posing with soldiers in others.

Donnelley looked at all of them before his eyes finally went to Kasim’s desk. Knick-knacks. A 5.45 bullet still in the casing, more pictures. Wife and children, judging from the plain clothes the former Iraqi Army Officer was wearing in them. Kasim shifted in his seat before settling, “What is this about?”

“Someone I think you’d like to meet.” Donnelley said, Kingsley rummaging around in his suitcase to pull a picture of Anzor and Viktor to hand them to Donnelley. Donnelley offered the pictures to Kasim, who took them and immediately his eyes went to studying the men in the pictures. “Bekzhaev. Chief of ISIS’s Moral Police in Mosul before the battle. He has a cousin we believe is here in Iraq, or will be soon.”

“Real bad guys.” Kingsley growled.

“Real sick fucks, yes.” Kasim nodded, expression black as Kingsley’s as he was still studying the pictures, “Anzor went deep in his hole with the rest of the cockroaches that survived the bombs and bullets in Mosul. Unfortunately, we do not know where his cousin is. We will, though. I promise you this, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you.” Donnelley said, smiling and nodding like he was supposed to. “What about us? Is there anything we can help you with?”

Kasim sat back in his chair, thumb and forefinger rubbing together. He was in thought, Donnelley could see that much, about something that weighed heavy on him. You didn’t sit that long and ruminate on an easy question. Donnelley watched Kasim’s face, trying to suss out whatever was in the other intelligence officer’s mind. Finally, Kasim got up, cracked open his office’s door and told the guards outside of it to shoo. Something dark played across his heavy brow as he sat, eyes on his desk before he lifted them to meet Donnelley’s, “You are a leader of men, yes? You were special forces of America?” Donnelley nodded, the thought of him knowing that bit about him pushed to the back of his mind. He wouldn’t insult Kasim by assuming it was a lucky guess. Kasim continued. “You know what it is like, then? Keeping the men under you from making up stories at the fire, scaring themselves like women?”

Donnelley nodded and heard Smitty snort, Kingsley looking back at him with a chiding gaze. Confusion and curiosity started to grow on Donnelley’s face, “Of course.”

Kasim placed his hands on his desk, leaning forward, “Anzor is a bogeyman, like you say in the West. A demon, they are saying in my country.” Kasim’s hardened eyes went from Donnelley’s own to Kingsley’s and back to Donnelley, “In Yezidi villages, mothers and sisters and daughters will weep. Sons, brothers, fathers. He will come in the night and it is said they will kill them.”

“They?” Smitty asked, coming to stand with his hands on his hips between Donnelley and Kingsley.

Donnelley was expectant of something like that. ISIL wasn’t a bunch of church boys going around knocking on doors and asking if they’ve heard of their Prophet Muhammed. But whatever weighed heavy on Kasim even gave Donnelley a little fear. A little curiosity. “Anzor.”

“What happens?” Donnelley spoke, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Kasim slid pictures across his desk for them to see, the man himself looking away from them and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Donnelley didn’t know what he was looking at, at first. He thought it was just goats after being skinned before he saw true. He leaned back, hand hiding his frown as he looked at Kasim. The pictures were of people, skinned down to the muscle and tendon. “You try telling faithful Sunni policemen to care about Yezidis.” Kasim shook his head, sighing. “Some say they worship demons. But they live in Iraq. They are Iraqi. They are my people, in my country. They are butchered while their women watch, skinned like animals, left with no tongues in their mouths.”

The four men in the room were silent, thinking all of that over. They all might be thinking and fretting on how Anzor was a brutal butcher, how ISIL kills wantonly and more brazenly now for some reason. And Donnelley, not the CIA Officer, but Donnelley of Working Group UMBRA. Of The Program, his mind lingered on the methods, on the whys and hows. “What kind of stories do they tell at the fires?”

Kasim eyed Donnelley and the man saw a flicker of something in his face. For only a second, his fingers stopped rubbing together. “The Yezidis say that Shayatin or Djinn come in the night on wings of black that whisper words to Anzor and his people.”

“Mm.” Donnelley’s eyes narrowed as he nodded slow.

“I will take you?”

Donnelley looked to Kingsley, the office seeming stifling to them now. Kingsley and Donnelley nodded, Donnelley spoke up, “Take us.”

>OUTSIDE...///

While Kingsley and Smitty stayed with Kasim, Donnelley slunk back to the car and dialed one of the only numbers on his phone. Kasim and Donnelley’s team would be busy for a bit organizing the expedition to the most recent village ransacked. They’d need an escort from Iraqi police. While he waited for the others he had music playing, just in case anyone was listening in on what he was saying. His phone trilled with the dial-tone before Foster picked up, “We’ve got a situation. I’m working a case for the Agency in Iraq.”

“A situation in Iraq? I had no idea, this was so unexpected.” Foster said, sarcasm barely hidden and dripping from the phone.

“You know what the fuck I mean, dickhead.” Donnelley growled before he continued quieter, “People out in the villages. Yezidis, they’re being fucking skinned.”

“By what?” Foster grew more serious.

“First suspect is a man named Anzor Bekzhaev, used to be high up in the Moral Police in Mosul for ISIL.” Donnelley whispered, “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Because? A brutal shithead is skinning people brutally.” Foster said. “Why should this be our problem?”

“All the men in the village, in one night. Usually they just dismember them, shoot them. But that shit they save for the cameras.” Donnelley said, “He’s going out every night with his boys and butchering people without provocation. The Yezidis say it’s Satan himself that comes, or Djinn.”

“Superstition. You and I both know that people can be pieces of shit, Donnelley. They don’t need to do it for some dark being whispering in their ear. They do it for some asshole giving them orders.” Foster reasoned. “Killing infidels and heretics. Yezidis. That’s Anzor’s, that’s ISIL’s M.O.”

“Goddamnit, Foster.”

“You do that then. Feed me everything, Donnelley.” Foster said. “While you’re at it, you can call me every time your piss is too dark, maybe it’s aliens making you dehydrated.”

“Something else too.” Donnelley said, almost regretting speaking up now, but he’d already said it, “Laine’s case in Washington… the evidence is all gone. You wouldn’t know…”

“No.” Foster said, “And what I do know, you don’t need to. It’s not her case anymore and it was never yours. Leave it be, Donnelley.”

“All I need to know is if it’s in good hands. Give me something, Foster.” Donnelley shook his head, pleading. For what? He asked himself. Foster was right, he didn’t have a stake in Laine’s case. But anywhere a black slab was, he wanted it gone. “You know how I feel about scary black rocks.”

Foster sighed, and Donnelley wished he was face to face with the man to at least see what he was thinking. Foster came through the phone again, “The Program has it now. Another Working Group. Trust them, Donnelley.” Donnelley frowned, and Foster added as if he could see it, “You have to.”

“Fine.” Donnelley spat with a bit more acid than was needed before he settled himself, taking a few breaths. “Fine. Alright.”

“Good. Anything else?” Foster asked.

“No, no.” He saw Smitty and Kingsley walking back to the car, Kasim in tow with a couple other official looking men. “I have to go.”

“Look, keep me posted on Iraq and Anzor if you want. But we don’t have the resources to play Interpol.” Foster said, “Understand?”

“Yes, yeah.” Donnelley hurriedly hung up the phone.

...End of Part I

[idlehands]

Mid May, FBI Academy

Dr Laine sat at her desk, it was past six o'clock PM but a new case file opened on her desk and she was typing her notes. The Childress case was cold and no longer theirs, her boss had shuffled her to new work on two homicides in Massachusetts. No black rock slabs or weird vibes, just standard wrath.

Never far from her thoughts was West Virginia and as she perused the autopsy reports she picked up her phone. Scrolling through the contacts she stopped at Tom Stewart, then tapped it.

Wherever Tom was his phone would light up with the incoming call.

“SSA Stewart, how may I help you?”

"Hey, Tom," a soft feminine voice on the other end replied. "It's Dr Heather Laine, from Quantico. We met in West Virginia. Are you busy?"

Laine kept it simple, unsure if she was on speaker, realizing it was the time when normal people went home and ate dinner.

“Heather! How are you?”

"Doing about as well as expected, just working late on a case from your neck of the woods and I thought about you," she said, "How about you?"

“I’m doing well. West Virginia feels like a lifetime ago now. I know it was only a month, but things have gotten better here. What case are you working on? Maybe I can help?”

"That's great to hear, Tom," Laine replied, feeling a small knot of envy as she still was not sleeping well. "Oh, the case. Yes, it's a John and Jane Doe, both found washed up along the coast near..."

Laine checked the location again, "Near Cohasset, I probably butchered that pronunciation. Anyway, both unsolved, unidentified and bodies damaged by exposure on the water within a week of each other. State police first caught the case but it went cold pretty fast. So we're taking a look at it."

She paused, feeling the weight of the questions she really wanted to ask.

“I do recall this case. The bodies were reportedly in the water for over a week. They were quite bloated. The first was a male close to 30 wearing a tracksuit found near Kimball’s Point and the second a female in her early 20s found on Black Rock Beach near Forest Ave. The salt water could have been used as a forensics countermeasure. The only thing CPAC could uncover was that the people in Cohasset wouldn’t tell them anything. It wasn’t just that possibly they didn’t know, but they appeared frightened about something, fearing that if they did talk it could mean the end of their life; kind of like Whitey Bulger’s Winter Hill Gang.”

"Being dumped at sea certainly is a forensic countermeasure," Laine said wryly, then took a few notes on a steno pad. "It does have a strong feeling of execution. Cause of death was determined as multiple GSW on both. And the track suit, suggests Russians, it was Adidas after all."

There was a hint of dark humor in her voice then she sobered, "I'm glad you're familiar with this case. It was just given to me today to try and create a profile of the suspect."

“Yea, that’s about right. I kind of suspected the Russians too. They haven’t really taken over much in Boston, but are growing in Providence and are entrenched in the Coney Island neighborhood of Brooklyn. I even hear they are making inroads in Bridgeport, Connecticut. You know who grew up in Bridgeport, right?” Tom didn’t wait for Dr. Laine to respond. “Aaron Hernandez!”

“Hey, are you coming up to Boston or are you doing your work from Virginia?”

Laine blinked at the name, leaning over to reach the keyboard and searched it on Google before answering. "Oh, the football player convicted murderer, they must be very proud. I might pop up there, check out the crime scene area. It's probably not going to help much but I miss the water. And maybe talk to some people mentioned in this case file. Sometimes they're willing to share more with a stranger, someone that will be gone in a few days and never pull them over for a speeding ticket. I'll have to see how far I get with the autopsies, our pathologist is going over them with me."

“Sounds great, give me a call when you come to town. I can pick you up and go check on some of your leads together. It was good hearing from you, Heather. I do need to get going.”

"Thanks for the help," Laine said then hurriedly asked, "Have you heard from Donnelley or Foster, or any of the others?"

“No, you are the only one. I’ve tried to put that behind me for now. I am still curious and will respond when he calls...I’m sure he will call again.”

"That's probably a good idea, have a good night, Tom," she said.

Once the call ended, Laine added her notes from his details and leaned back in her chair. He put it behind him, she wished she could but her mind continued to dwell on the matter, picking at details when she was not occupied. It probably helped that Tom had a wife and family life outside work.

Not long after hanging up with him, her phone buzzed again and Mariana's contact picture popped up.

"Hey girl," she said when Laine answered, "Catch you driving?"

"No, I'm still here at the office, what's up?"

*****
The coffee table was littered with the detritus of a near empty bottle of wine and the remnants of take out Pad Thai. Laine sat on the sofa, a BBC nature documentary playing in the background. When she was lonely, David Attenbourgh’s voice was pleasant and soothing. She finished the last of the wine and got up to toss it in the trash, then went to the freezer. The cherry vodka was almost empty but she took it anyway.

Pouring it into her wine glass, she raised it sardonically at a picture of Mariana and herself, when they graduated at UC Irvine. Their last chat had been rough, an unexpected turn. Mariana had broke the news that her mother was insisting her sister be the maid of honor rather than Laine. She knew her sister and Mari had never been close, they were antagonistic but her best friend had a strong willed mother. Laine was disappointed, not so much that she wanted the status but it was the last act as two single women. She would be giving her friend away as much as Mariana’s father would be.

Maybe it was already over, when their lives had parted ways and they had been keeping the deep friendship on life support over a continent and an engagement. Laine took a drink of vodka, knowing she was being dramatic and winced as she reminded herself suddenly of her self centered mother.

The wedding was less than three months away, she still had to be fitted for the seafoam blue bridesmaid dress and find shoes and book her flight and hotel. Laine would be there for her best friend, the time off was already approved for both wedding and bachelorette party. Mariana had reminded her that if she did not have a date there was plenty of eligible groomsmen.

Laine shuddered. Drunk ex frat dudes driving Escalades. They probably had khakis on under their tuxedo pants. She needed a buffer against that nightmare but not many prospects to fly across the country for a wedding.

Laine had not had a serious relationship for over a year, since she and Alex broke up. He was still a friend, she thought about reaching out to him. He might be a safe choice but the temptation to want to get back with him might prove too much while surrounded by newly wedded bliss. She put her phone down and looked at the ceiling, maybe she would just find some hot juicy Marine on the base nearby with a week of leave to spare.

********

Early June (collab between idlehands and Ionisus)

There was nothing like a summer downpour in Houston, the stifling heat met with an equally oppressive torrent. A thunderstorm had made the world a scalding sauna and the rain beat mercilessly into the night, thumping the windows of a rental house with each gust of wind. The humidity seeped inside and choked the air, but the night had provided a reprieve from the worst of the heat. Jason was still damp with sweat, and now he was itchy. It was the percocets he had washed down an hour ago with a healthy swig of a disgusting banana flavored vodka. He could never avoid a stupid cheap bottle of booze.

The storm outside flashed and he looked out the window, vodka bottle in one hand and his cell phone in the other. There it was, he thought, the secrets of the universe flashing in the blue. He was beginning to see the world as a codified veil where only the dark truths were found in its cracks. Lightning, darkness, the instant of a strange moment and its quick passing. It flashed the proof of something dark, unknown. Something like Mrs. Baughman, or Ghazni.

Whether it was the storm, the pills, or the restless two months since West Virginia Jason needed to connect with it. The high strangeness, the paranormal, the unknown riding the rim of the knowable and comfortable and sane. He had the team’s numbers but reaching out to most he found unappealing. In all their own ways Jason would feel silly, too vulnerable to connect with over it. Dr. Laine came to mind, and before he could sift through the haze of liquor and opiates he was dialing her number.

Fuck, too late now.

Dr Laine sat up in her bed laptop open to work files, Netflix playing on the flat screen so only flickers of light from changing scenes was noticed. Music from her computer filled the quiet as she typed and read, flipping among several tabs of photos. Her phone lay on the comforter nearby and from the corner of her eye she saw her screen pop up with an incoming call. Jason Jimenez, or as she had him in her phone, “Freckles”.

“Hello?” Laine answered.

“Hey,” Jason said, sounding relaxed. “I, uh, well…” As he trailed off another flash of blue came in from the rain pelted windows and the boom of thunder followed it.

“I was wondering if you had a minute to talk,” he finally said.

Laine sat up, turning down the music and setting aside the computer. “Yes, of course,” she answered, interest perking up. “What’s going on?”

She had not heard from anyone else since her two calls and despite the time that went by, West Virginia was always in a corner of her mind.

“Ah, nothin’ going on,” Jason answered. “I just can’t stop thinking about Black River and uh-”

Jason paused, staring out the window and assessing the moment. It was hard, he was addled and comfortably numb. He took a sip of vodka, and said, “I feel like if I don’t talk about it I might start bouncing off the walls. Now that I think about it it sounds dumb. It all meant something else to you.”

“It doesn’t sound dumb,” Laine assured him, rolling off her bed, walking barefoot through the carpeted hall in her oversized Smiths t-shirt. “Trust me, it’s never far from thought for me. I haven’t talked about it, who would I tell that would believe me? Huh...no, it’s been psychologist heal thyself.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out a leftover bottle of red moscato from the block party the complex had held. One she had went to despite her apathy for her neighbors and she had stood in the back, the weird girl in black at the party once again. The free booze had made up for the boredom.

“I can’t say it’s worked too well,” Laine admitted, pouring a glass of chilled wine and took a sip. “So let’s talk about it, Jason. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jason chuckled. “Not like that,” he said. “You’re talking to me like you should be taking notes.”

He looked down at himself, pantsless in socks and a moth chewed shirt. The storm spoke again from outside, rain smacking the empty house in heavy sheets. He was happy to be alone, if only in the unfamiliar spaces he always seemed to be in these days.

“It makes me feel validated in a way,” he said, and sighed. “Donnelley mentioned we had all seen something, and that morning sort of proves it was real for me, but now I want all the answers and that world is still hidden away from us.”

Laine leaned forward, as if to listen harder to him. Donnelley had been cryptic and Tom wanted to hide from it but here was what she wanted. Answers. Not just for Marlene but for Sofie and perhaps for that thing she thought she saw under the pier that summer she was fourteen.

“I want that, too,” she said intensely and she took another drink. The frustrations of having her work taken away and the silence after bubbled near the surface. “I have seen things, sensed them. A murder I was working on...”

Laine paused, she was not ready to spill about the pier at Redondo Beach. Not yet.

“A college girl kidnapped and murdered in a forest, laid over a black slab of stone that was putting out some bad juju. You could feel it in the air, like vibrations. Just like all the bad in the world was in tune with this thing. I’ve been to dozens of murder scenes, you know? Nothing ever like this. The field agent from Seattle spent time around it the most, investigating the body and he ended up killing himself two days later.”

“Shit,” Jason breathed.

Laine stopped, slightly breathless after spilling what had constantly battled in her mind. “What it has to do with poor Mrs Baughman, I don’t know but good old powers that be swept away all the evidence and reports on Sofie Childress. I was never able to complete a good profile...the killer is still walking around out there.”

She drank deeply then sighed, “Sorry, you wanted to talk and I just hit you with a wave. But I can’t let it go.”

“It’s all kind of the same thing,” Jason said. He sank as best he could into a stiff couch, the bottle cradled in his lap. “I’ve been thinking about my own experience. It’s always sort of there, you know, lurking in the background world. What happened to me...I think I saw it again. Before I got the call.”

He shook his head, looked around the vacant room and its furnishings. There was no identity, nothing of a home. It might as well been a hotel room or cell. “I’m not saying it’s connected, or your killer either, but maybe the connection is us. Not like we were picked because the shoe fits. More like we were meant to be here.”

Jason chuckled at himself and the opiate itch spread to his back, a shuffling muffle heard over the phone as he scratched at it.

Laine thought about it, refilling her glass and walked back to her bedroom. She stood still, the dark room illuminated only by the mute television, blue light flickering and the shadows shifted and grew. “Maybe we are,” she said finally, setting the wine on the nightstand then went to the bed, jumping slightly to keep her feet from the edge of the bedskirt. An old childhood habit that had long ago disappeared, the fear of monsters snatching her ankles. Laine rolled her eyes at herself, then settled back against the black decorative pillows.

“What did you see out there?” she asked, a gentle urging in her tone.

The question gave Jason pause. He had been so apt to call her, to brush against the idea of the unknown, but now when she wanted it out of him he felt hesitant. Was he avoiding it? He had spent years holding the story back, keeping it to himself. There had been no reason to chip away at its memory with each skeptical snicker or doubtful explanation.

“I, uh…” he said, and after a pause continued, “I was in Afghanistan. Called out to a firefight that turned south, we were the backup.”

He took a swig of vodka, this time exhaling its noxious sweet fumes from his mouth.

“Something happened out there. The people we were meant to save, they turned on us. Kicked our ass really, but the whole time I was hearing these horrible sounds. I can’t describe them, not like any animal I’ve ever heard but still animalistic. And then uh…”

Another pause, one clear with the silence of someone suddenly in the midst of their trauma. The storm roared and it pulled him back into the present.

“The guy we were all supposed to be there for, I found him. He was doing something, looked like a ritual of some sort, like some crazy shit you see in a movie. And it felt like your stones, Dr. Laine. Like the world wasn’t meant for it.” He had left out mention of the Three, of their guiding presence that night in Ghazni, or their lurking in the video. He wasn’t ready to reveal their presence to the larger world.

“I’ve spent the last two months trying to figure out what the hell Baughman did. Donnelley talked like he did something to make his wife that way. Have you...have you considered what it might be?”

She listened, fighting the urge to write notes and instead just heard him out. In her mind’s eye could see flickering fire, muzzle flashes and tried to imagine what sound her might have heard. Before West Virginia she might have reasoned it out, effects of combat stress and unfamiliar tribal culture but now it was different. There was nothing she could do to explain a murderous corpse living in a septic tank.

“I believe you,” Laine said simply, “As for Baughman, I don’t know. I think he might have tried to bring his wife back, I would like to look at records of where she was buried. Maybe she was dug up illegally and who Clyde Baughman was. If he had some sort of medical or science background. I asked our pathologist here, Dr. Bakker, if he thought it was possible to reanimate the dead. He said so far some guys at Yale were able to bring brain cells back to life from some slaughtered pigs but the pigs never regained consciousness and it lasted only two days. But you’re talking about a lab at Yale fully equipped with some of the best in their field, not some cabin in the woods.”

Laine paused, “I didn’t tell him anything else, he’s used to my macabre questions.”

She reached over, picking up her wine glass and downed half of it. “You said you witnessed a ritual. What were they trying to accomplish? If you had to guess.”

There was a prolonged pause and Jason considered his words. "Perhaps ritual is too strong a word. Maybe it was just that. In any case I haven't a clue. People were dying, I was wounded, it was all a fuckin' mess. I couldn't tell you what any of it was. If anyone did know they weren't talking and they made sure to bury me with the secret."

He sighed, and continued," If I had to guess it felt like something was supposed to 'arrive.' I have no idea what that means but I felt it. Like intuition but in a survival sense."

"Whatever we encountered--Mrs. Baughman--that was the interview. I have a feeling training wheels come off next time around."

Laine stayed quiet after he had finished, whatever he had seen it had been violent and intense, perhaps enough for lasting trauma. As Jason had said, maybe they were chosen for the weird shit they saw or maybe it was something more. She needed more than a glass of wine to deal with it.

Something arriving, drawn by blood. Or was it the dying?

“It certainly sounds like ritual sacrifice and that is what I thought of when I saw the Childress scene. What is sacrifice but an offering for a higher power...something otherworldly. The Aztecs ripped out hearts and offered them to Huitzilopochtli. Ancient Celts threw their sacrifices into a bog after strangling them or cutting their throats. The modern world forgets easily but culture does not, sometimes old habits die hard. Maybe this is a cult or some kind of ancient tribal tradition that existed before the word of Muhammed ever came to that corner of the world,” Laine said, shifting on the bed then remembered. “Baughman had some papers in that box, research about Native American stories and some artifacts. I don’t know if or how they tie in with his wife but it was apparently important enough to keep hidden.”

“Yeah,” Jason responded. He leaned over and grabbed at the water damaged book resting on the coffee table in front of him. He had found it tucked away in nondescript used bookstore downtown. “Sky Devils,” he read on the cover. “Archetypical Figures in Native American Mythology. He had a copy in the footlocker. I just picked it up. Next time we meet I’ll have read it but it doesn’t look like that type of book.”

She pulled her knees up, wrapping an arm around them as she thought over the situation and over what Jason had described. While there was a chance the trauma had played into his memory of events she did not doubt he saw something frightening and unexplainable. Not after the cabin. Empirical senses were for deducting but sometimes a good investigator used his or her gut. And Jason’s gut had helped keep him alive.

“That’s my thoughts. Read it anyway, everything is a clue until it’s a dead end,” she said after a deep breath. “As for what lays ahead, it’s probably places angels fear to tread.”

Angels. How fitting a word, how ironic. Pararescuemen were called Guardian Angels. Jason had always felt pride in their motto, “That others may live.” The reminiscence in all of its shallow comfort turned at the thought of Anis al-Shamard. He hadn’t been saving anyone these days. Just killing or sending off to be killed. “That you may live.”

“...Weren’t meant for the clouds,” he muttered, thinking of what Laine had just said. “My mom said that to me once. Wherever we go, Laine, we deserve to be there.”

“Deserve is a heavy word,” she replied after a moment of silence. “Maybe we’re not being punished, but we’re what is needed to help... ‘fight the only war that matters’. Whatever that means, it’s what Donnelley told me anyway.”

Laine fidgeted with the hem of the old t-shirt, pulling on a thread. It started to unravel, the seam fraying under her finger tips.

"I'm already tired of fighting wars I don't understand for and against powers I don't even know. Right now we're just doing more of the same. Hell, I don't even care anymore. I just keep going to see where I end up, where I burrow down in this universe."

Jason realized he was overstaying his welcome in the phone call. Between lucidity and stupor he had a knack for becoming abstract, and the combination of sickly sweet vodka and pain pills made his social filter degrade into a slur of consciousness. At least he could recognize as much.

"Don't you ever get sick of the comfort of putting one foot in front of the other? Until we get real answers that is all this is. One foot in front of the other fighting someone else's shadow war."

Outside the wind howled. It rattled the windows and sent wood creaks ticking throughout the hollow spaces of the house. Something distant was calling, beckoning.

"Listen, sorry to cut this off but I gotta go."

“I haven’t shared that experience, and I am not envious of you. What you’ve seen and done, it’s ...well, it’s appreciated. I suppose, necessary even, ” she said, referring to the war. She added quickly, not quite hiding the sardonic tone in her voice, “Or not and we’re all just tools of great powers to use and throw away.”

Laine at least thought she understood what she fought, humans with mental or behavioral conditions that lead them to gruesome murder. Nothing evil, nothing other worldly, just humans being inhuman. The experience with Childress case, then Marlene Baughman were new. “I have to keep going, because the answers I need are out there.”

When he said he had to go, Laine nodded in the darkness, “Take care of yourself, Jason. Call me if you need anything. Good night.”

After the line went dead, Laine sat up in bed, watching the mute tv flickering blankly in the dark bedroom. Jason’s words had stirred a faint anxiety, for both him and herself. There was so much unknown out there, Laine doubted if she even knew the right questions to ask, let alone what the answers would do for her. The Baughmans, Sofie Childress and now Jason’s story of the tribesmen and the madness of that night. Sooner or later the call would come and Laine would answer it.

[Ionisus]

Part 1

>USCENTCOM HQ
>Tampa, Florida
>1412 HRS...///

"Take a seat, Agent Jimenez."

The room, once an windowless office now discarded as a empty closet, was enclosed within the labyrinth of USCENTCOM headquarters outside of Tampa, Florida. A table was between Jason, who had just walked in, and two men poised grimly on its other end. One of them was a boss of Jason's immediate boss, some assistant director whose responsibilities were a vagueness in the hierarchy of directors and coordinators and "leaders." His name was Charles Brunser and he always had a displeasure for Jason. Every criticism or denial or even plain interaction was barbed with a disdain Jason found palpable. The other man Jason didn't recognize. He had a forgettable appearance that sank into an unfitted business suit. Beady dark eyes and clean shaven, sunken cheeks. Charles Brunser motioned at him.

"This is Stephen Ariello with internal affairs, I thought it be best to have him here for this," Brunser said.

Ariello jerked his head in an expectant nod as Jason muttered a hello in return. His stomach began immediately churning. What had they busted him for? It could be any drug charge and he couldn’t recall any specific event that might have culminated in this sudden cornering. Could Umbra bail him out if they caught him for substances? He tried his best not to show his anxiety but it sank like hot rocks in his gut.

"Um, yeah," Jason said. "Mr. Brunser, what's this for?"

Stephen Ariello produced a digital recorder from under his end of the table, set it on the empty desk, and pressed record.

"We want to know some details about your recent tasking," Brunser said. His fingers were laced together, his composure clearly welcoming and interrogative. Jason was somewhat offended Brunser was using such clear tactics to get him to open up, the same methods the DIA had taught him. It made him rigid and defensive, but what windowless room with Internal Affairs wouldn’t?

"What do you mean?" Jason asked.

"Flight plans had you going into West Virginia," Ariello added flatly. "Is that right?"

"Sir, I dont know if-"

"Jimenez," Brunser mouthed, irritation lining his words,"We have to be sure you weren't breaking any EOs. Flight plan had you going stateside for the tasking, did you stay in the US?"

Jason looked back and forth between them. Something was off, and he didn't understand why they were probing him to break the coveted tenet of OpSec. It wasn’t to say they didn’t make up the rules, or broke then regularly, but interagency taskings were a subject best left to the straight and narrow. It’s what they all adhered to. The scene gave him the realization he was being shaken down, but he didn't understand the why. Was Donnelley and Foster testing him?

"Mr. Brunser I'm sorry but we aren't cleared to discuss this," Jason replied.

Ariello turned off the recording with a forcefully jab of his finger.

"Jimmy, you want things to go smoothly for you?" Brunser asked.

"We're doing this for your sake," Ariello added.

"The recording or the interrogation?"

"Jesus Christ," Brunser hissed. "Are you acting fucking stupid or is this your normal?"

"You flew me to Florida to ask me to share secrets," Jason said. "You're shaking me down for what? What you have on me?"

Ariello hit record again and asked, "At any time did you return to the Middle East?"

"What?"

This time Brunser stopped the recording.

"Before you left on your little adventure Anis al-Shamard was executed by the Daish cell you were tracking. Anis turned."

"What do you mean 'turned'?" Jason asked. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy and oppressive, and it carried the stagnant smell of a neglected place.

"Anis led the cell to our ops in Amman," Brunser spat, his vehemence implicating Jason. "Two agents were abducted and we have three dead Delta Force from the attempted rescue. One agent confirmed dead and we can't find the other. Our whole network of humint assets has been purged out of Syria, they either fled or Daish offed them."

Jason couldn't believe it. He was sure Anis had outed some information, everyone caves to torture eventually. What he had gone through must have been horrendous. He pitied the boy for that. What didn't make sense was how Anis was able to lead them to their operations in Jordan. Anis literally was never exposed to anyone but Jason, and he had never led on about their team. None of this had anything to do with West Virginia either, and internal affairs didn't add up as well. He got the sudden dreadful thought he was being played.

"No way it was Anis," Jason said. "I covered my tracks every time I handled him. It had to be someone else."

"That's not what our sources indicate," Ariello said, his inflection the most stable of the three.

"What do you mean your fucking sources?" Jason growled.

"Watch your fucking mouth," Brunser barked. "'I have half a mind to detain you for the shit show you left behind in Syria. We have five dead Americans because your asset IDed everyone south of Izraa. It's worse than the fucking Lebanon purge. CIA is losing their shit over this."

"I don't know what the fuck this," Jason mouthed, "but one amphetamine asset couldn't collapse our ops and you know that. You're fucking throwing me under the bus."

"British SIS tracked a stocky American arriving in Beirut and traveling inland," Ariello interjected. "They lost him somewhere in Syria after contacting your cell. They were IDed by Jordanian intelligence in Amman before the attack."

"And?"

"Fuck, Jimmy," Brunser exclaimed, "Let us know what you were up to so IA doesn't have to investigate your sorry ass."

"West Virginia," Jason sighed. "You know that already. Check flight patterns, you'll see I didn't go anywhere."

"That's not enough," Ariello said. "Who was your immediate supervisor?"

Jason noticed neither of them had hit record on the device again. The meeting wasn't about the dead agents or Syria at all. It was about Marlene Baughman, Foster, and Donnelley. Lettered agencies played 'my secrets, not yours' between each other all the time, but this wasn't antagonistic. It was blunt and dangerous. They were trying to scare Jason, but was any of it true?

"I'd like to exercise my right to--"

"Oh please," Brunser wheezed out through a disgusted sneer. "Do not go there, Jimenez."

"Agent Jimenez," Ariello said, his voice eerily calm like he was answering a phone, "I understand you don't want to break OpSec. We can go through the right channels to be cleared for it but that'll mean we have to keep you non-operational. We'll have to start an investigation."

"Fine," Jason mouthed. “You going to hit record or is the investigation off the books too?”

"Embassy duty, revoked clearances, reduction in rank," Brunser spat.

Jason leaned back and chuckled. "'Wow, you really want to know, don't you?"

"Get the fuck out of here before I have you scrubbing embassy toilets in the ass end of no where."

>Middle-east
>Amman, Jordan
>1705 HRS...///

The Embassy in Amman was meant to be a punishment, the standard agent likely to feel the sting of administrative busy work, but Jason tried his spiteful best to enjoy it. The work was soul crushing but doable, hardly the worst he’d endured, and It didn’t matter if he was sending emails or working field ops; he was disillusioned with the song and dance and happy to not be in the midst of whatever fallout had transpired. The important thing was to lay low, feel out what Brunser or his keepers wanted to do with him. He had a hard time believing the details of the story, especially about Anis. He knew Anis, knew him. His personality quirks, his modus operandi. His dreams. If he had be played by the teenager he would have seen it from the start, and Anis certainly wouldn’t be headless. Reaching out to his old team would also tip off Brunser, so as much as Jason wanted to he wouldn’t let himself make that call. Instead, after three uneventful weeks pushing pencils in Amman the call came to him, or rather a note.

Cafe Nassam. 8pm local, no phones. Come and see.

It was left on his desk below his keyboard, but he had seen the scribbled chicken scratch before. It was Dan Treston, his linguist. It could have been another ploy against him but Jason had to take this bait. Dan was a good guy, one of the few he liked, and he liked to think Dan felt the same way. How pathetically uncommon, Jason thought.

He commuted to his sweltering condo as usual after work, keen on keeping up appearances. Strapping his .45 to his back, Jason set out in Amman on foot. Cafe Nassam was in a district far from the US embassy and the international housing where his condo resided, so by the time he had found it he was half an hour late. It was a ratty place stuffed in a congested souq back alley with a green canvas sign that stood out against the sagging electrical wires and rusted out overhangs. A thick aroma of sweet shisha wafted from inside, the interior addled with standing smoke as he entered. The walls were once white with a several lines of intricate blue tiles, but years of hookah had stained them an off grey with tinges of sickly yellow. He ignored the wary stares as he began looking for Dan, an equally out of place American caucasian.

Dan’s sheepish yell rang out somewhere in the back and Jason zigzagged through the cafe until he found an impressively hidden nook with a narrow two person table. Dan in all of his pasty, skinny glory, was sucking flavored smoke through a hookah hose, his breath bellowing out in a minty cloud as he said, “Was about to bail after this bowl. You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry bud. It’s good to see you,” Jason said, sitting down and taking the hookah hose that Dan offered.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something like that, Jason,” Dan said, grinning impishly.

“Recent events have left me feeling—” He took a drag from the hookah, felt the buzz of the hoksa as he exhaled, “—sentimental.”

“Yeah, me too. We heard Brunser was blaming you for the shitstorm that’s been happening. I’m sorry man, that guy is a prick. Career prick at that.”

“I think it’s more than just finding a fall man,” Jason said.

“I think so too,” Dan said. That surprised Jason. Dan noticed, and continued, “Official story is the cell we were following did the attack.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, that group was shwacked by an air strike a week before the Amman attack in Deir al-Zour. Confirmed, Jason. Their story is bullshit.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Jason muttered. He was shocked despite already deciding the narrative he had been fed was fake. There was something comforting in the affirmation of his gut feeling, but it still felt icy. “So why?”

“I don’t think they even knew, to be honest,” Dan replied. “So far no one can make sense of how or why it all happened.”

“They tried to say Anis outted us. That I let him,” Jason said. He took another hit of hookah and shook his head. There wasn’t anyone around but he scanned their surroundings regardless. His fears had suddenly become incorporeal.

“Well you’ll get a kick out of this, then.” Dan said. He retrieved a folded piece of paper from inside his shirt and handed it to Jason. When he unfolded it the contents were time stamps and a list of IP addresses.

“What is this?” Jason asked.

“So after Anis’s execution video and just after you left one of our secured accounts kept getting encrypted messages. Didn’t think anything of it until I backtraced the IPs. Guess who it belongs to?”

“No…”

“Yep. Anis,” Dan said. He shouted something in Arabic to the host who quickly retrieved an unlabeled bottle of skunky liquor and two glasses. He poured them both a hefty serving while Jason stared at the IPs like the list would reveal something vital. It was just a bunch of numbers that meant nothing to him but he felt their importance. Thank God for the IT folks.

“So what, someone is using his cell phone or lap top or something,” Jason said, looking up over the paper.

“It’s the phone we gave him,” Dan said, gagging as choked down a sip of his whiskey. Jason answered with a gulp of his own, the liquor harsh and fume heavy. It was a good call, they both looked like they needed it. “Good God this shit is bad,” Dan coughed out.

“Okay so it’s Brunser or one of his ass puppets.”

“That’s what I thought,” Dan replied, “but I double checked. Comm team says the phone was never recovered and was deactivated. Unless they’re in on it too they would have found any IP spoof. Shit’s real.”

“You said there were messages?”

Dan sighed. “Yeah, it’s some weird shit man. I’d have given you a log but—”

“Too risky,” Jason interrupted.

“Bingo. My spidey sense was tingling but I have a plan. It’ll take some time and I’ll have to route it all to a stateside website. Deep web one. You planning on leaving Jordan again any time soon?”

“Fuck, I hope so,” Jason answered. “I can take leave whenever. Hell I don’t think they have real work for me in the embassy anyway.”

“Once you leave Jordan I’ll work on it. I think it’s something you’ll want to see for yourself.”

“Damn, alright,” Jason said, grimacing at the thought of having to wait on the messages. It was better than nothing. It was better than wasting away in Amman any moment longer. Besides, West Virginia had made his existence a distracting annoyance. He’d have started his research but just like reaching out to his team he felt it would be too risky. “Dan, thanks man. I really appreciate it.”

“Hook me up with some special K on your way out and you won’t have to thank me. Besides, I want to see where this shit goes. Get the fuck out of Jordan, you’ll hear from me stateside.”

[Leidenschaft]

>YEZIDI VILLAGE
>IRAQ/KURDISTAN BORDER
>1420HRS...///

“Welcome to Iraq.” Kasim threw a hand out to gesture at the grisly sight before them. Iraqi police were busy with the digging of a pit with the use of an excavator. Donnelley shook his head at that. Kasim was right, the Muslims did not care for the Yezidis, throwing them away in a big pile like they would garbage.

And a pile they were. On the outskirts of the village, ringed by weeping mothers and sisters and daughters, almost as plentiful as the flies was a pile of the men of the village. From four to forty years old, they rotted in the sun. He heard Smitty somewhere behind them retching up whatever breakfast they’d had back in Erbil.

“Fucking savages.” Kingsley growled, but for all his righteous anger he still had his hand over his mouth and nose for all the stench.

Only Donnelley and Kasim stood seemingly unperturbed by the aftermath of people put to the blade like sheep. It was something medieval in a time where men found quicker ways to kill. The minds of cruel children at work. This was ISIL. This was Anzor.

“When did you hear about this?” Donnelley asked, listening to the engine of the excavator gear up as it swept the first of the bodies into the pit, the screaming and wailing of the village women growing with it.

“This morning. Before you arrived.” Kasim scrunched his face as he looked at the pitiful scene before him. “I will have Anzor’s head.”

“It goes without saying you’ll have it after we get a chance to question Anzor?” Donnelley said cautiously, hoping Kasim would see it his way.

Kasim only nodded, which did little for Donnelley’s nerves about the operation. “The census put this village at a population of one-hundred.” Kasim looked at Donnelley, “Now it is forty-seven.”

“Fuck.” Donnelley shook his head. “Alright, I’ve seen enough.”

“You know now what we are dealing with?” Kasim asked him as they turned back towards the cars. “These monsters?”

“Yes.” Donnelley spoke. He’d seen death before. This type of death reeked the same way Somalia did. When his car door closed and Kasim turned for his own car the stench was still there with him, “Too well.” He muttered to himself.

“Fucking Christ…” Smitty said as he slammed his door shut, shaking his head and rubbing at his face.

Kingsley got in after, Donnelley noticing the perplexed visage of his. Donnelley raised an eyebrow, “What?”

“Where’s all the skin? Where’d they put it after?” Kingsley said, staring out at the police shoveling the bodies into the pit. He looked at Donnelley, “Where the fuck is all the skin?”

Donnelley didn’t like what that implied. He shook his head and his mind raced for every possibility except for the ones The Program would think up. He desperately wanted it to not come to that. “I…” Donnelley rubbed his face, before speaking again in a resigned sigh, “Fuck, I don’t know.”

>THREE WEEKS LATER...///

Donnelley sat in his room, doing his routine cleaning of his pistol while taking the occasional glance at the news on the television in his room. The story about Anzor’s killing sprees was absent from them, but attacks by ISIS in Syria and in Iraq were still there. Mundane, bomb here, rocket there. Donnelley knew they would be in the public eye for a while. The scene at the village wouldn’t stop barging into his thoughts and he hung his head, sighed at the umpteenth time he thought he could still smell it on his clothes. A knocking at his door took him from his thoughts, somewhat thankfully. “I’ve got the do not disturb sign on the door, go away.”

“It’s me!” He heard from the other side, Kingsley, “Let me in!”

Donnelley grunted as he rose and unlocked his door, turning back around while Kingsley pushed it open and closed it again. He folded his arms and looked at Donnelley like he’d gotten him a surprise. It took the other man a moment to catch on, but he did. “No…” Donnelley felt his lip twitch to a smirk, “You’re shitting me.”

“Hell no.” Kingsley shook his head and waved for him to come along, “We’re headed to Kasim now.”

>INIS HEADQUARTERS
>BAGHDAD, IRAQ
>0923HRS...///

The three of them and Kasim waited impatiently in the situation room. They were standing while the rest of them cleared to watch over the mission sat at the table. The big screen at the far wall at the head of the long table was the only big source of illumination in the room. Smitty had a laptop open and a headpiece, mission control, with a direct line of communication to the Operators on the other end of it. The light of the laptop screen played with the shadows of his face in the darkness. The big screen showed a live feed from a drone, overlooking the city they’d placed Viktor in. Following leads, bracing detainees, and a powerful effort in SIGINT on behalf of the NSA/CIA Special Collection Service and INIS’ HUMINT worked tirelessly for this very moment.

Kingsley smiled, elbowing Donnelley gently in his folded arms. Donnelley gave his own smile and carefully reached over to the table, lightly rapping his knuckles over it before turning his attention back to the noiseless feed. Three men had left the building they were paying especially close attention to, a restaurant in Baghdad that Viktor favored. Shitty tradecraft on Viktor’s part meant a set routine and a set route to and from the restaurant. Lucky for them, unlucky for the piece of shit. “That’s him, zoom.”

The feed slowly zoomed in, focusing in on the three men getting into the car. Even though it didn’t show them in cutting edge HD, they heard chattering from the headset. “Positive ID on the package.” Pause. “Two others.”

“Hold, ROE is you follow.” Smitty said.

“Copy.” The man in charge of the small team of CIA Paramilitary and CAG Operators on the ground confirmed, his voice almost muffled to anyone outside of Smitty’s headset.

The car on the feed left, a few moments later another two cars took off after it, the Paramilitary Officers and CAG Operators inside following at a good enough distance. It was a long, tense block of time while the drone followed the two vehicles. All the while, Donnelley could feel his heartbeat quicken and he touched his thumb to his lips, expecting it to go wrong somehow but he tried to shake himself from the thoughts. Superstition telling him to belay that line of thinking lest it fuck everything.

Finally, they’d broken away from the city. After watching them get far enough away, Donnelley turned to Smitty and nodded. Smitty nodded back, “Execute, green light.”

An EC635 helicopter zoomed into view of the feed, Iraqi Special Forces, dropping altitude and pacing Viktor’s car. Two holes appeared in the white paint of the hood and the Toyota Corolla lagged to stop. The helicopter circled over head as the Paramilitary car skidded in front of the Corolla while the other car stayed behind, four men in plain clothes wielding rifles making an aggressive approach from the first car while four others held at the rear car. They didn’t break stride killing Viktor’s bodyguards with disciplined fire as they threw their doors open and made to lift their weapons at the Officers. They pulled Viktor from the back of the Corolla, zip-tying his wrists and hauling him up while they none too gently dragged him to the landing helicopter.

“Fuck yes.” Kingsley’s sharp whisper almost made Donnelley flinch in the former silence, everyone else in the room holding their breath and leaning forward as if this was the greatest action film of all time. “Fuck yes.”

They were one step closer to Anzor. Viktor was the only thing blocking justice from getting to Anzor Bekzhaev and they’d plucked him from the path of the bullet with Anzor’s name on it. The door of the helicopter shutting like a casket on Viktor.

>THAT NIGHT
>2326HRS...///

Donnelley’s eyes finally opened and he threw the sheets off of himself. It felt like someone had come in and dumped a gallon of water over him. He put his head in his hands and rubbed vigorously. He couldn’t remember what he was dreaming about, but his heart seemed to. It was beating out of his chest, any more hard or fast and his ribs would be dust. He labored just to breathe, reaching over and grabbing up his flask and took a long pull from it, the burn doing little to steady him. But little was not nothing. He braced his quaking hands on his knees and leveraged himself to his feet, rolling his popping shoulders and grabbing up his smokes. He was unperturbed by the fact he was still in his underwear as he opened the sliding glass door to the balcony, overlooking the pool. Beyond that, an entire city.

Baghdad held a quaint beauty to it that no American that hadn’t been here could picture. Most could only bring up images of dusty, loud streets and skeletons of buildings long bombed out. The city lights, the cars on the street, the way the city never slept anymore. It reminded him of home, the lukewarm night air calling to mind West Texas. He closed his eyes, breathed in and out. He opened his eyes and took a drag of his cigarette when he heard something inside his room.

After a bit, he realized his phone was buzzing when it dropped from the nightstand and thudded to the floor a few times. The phone cleared for Delta Green. He crossed the distance between the balcony and his phone as quick as he could. Or liked. Before he could pick it up the call ended. Maybe it’d stop, he thought.

Maybe that’d be the last try.

It started buzzing again. Foster. He swore under his breath as he picked it up, pressing the touch screen to answer and pressing it to his ear. “What?”

“Working Group UMBRA is being activated. Park Service found something in the woods.” Foster said. His voice was dead serious. Donnelley was quiet for a few moments. “You’re going to really want in on this case-“

“You’re shitting me. I just nabbed one of the shitheads I desperately needed to nab and we’re going to get fucking Anzor.” Donnelley shook his head, “You laughed at me when I called you about Iraq and now you’re gonna rope me into something else? Get someone else.”

“Skinned. People. Lots.” Donnelley was quiet again. Donnelley Shut his mouth after that, and Foster started again, “You see?”

“Oh...” Donnelley didn’t realize he was holding his breath, “Shit.”

“West Virginia. Blackriver.” Foster said, “Understood?”

Donnelley rubbed his face again, sighing hard enough it growled in his throat. “Yeah.”

He tapped the screen, ending the call. He again looked out at the city and now the lights that stretched out from his vision held no beauty. The city was a campfire, the darkness of the untamed desert outside its outskirts were filled with the hungry eyes of wolves drooling at the edges of its lights. And now, he knew, worse things yet. Anzor was out there somewhere. What if he’d somehow gotten to America, a wolf in his manger? To Holly? Tilly?

His phone was clenched in his hand as he stood with his eyes closed, breath laborious and mouth in a quivering scowl. Long ago he’d told himself the things he dealt with for Foster and The Program were foreign, only found in the darkest corners of the world. His missions for The Program, for the Agency had kept away from his doorstep. Until recently. He lashed out and kicked the nightstand, sending the lamp on it tumbling to the ground, “Fuck!”

He stood, his shoulders rising and falling with heaving breath. He needed to pack.

>OUTSIDE WHITE TREE
>BLACKRIVER COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
>0800...///

The world moved past Donnelley’s eyes, but not too fast. The trip through the mountains was serene, almost. Like wiping a slate clean before it was dirtied up again by a brief foray through White Tree. What he saw reminded him too damn much of his little hometown in West Texas. Trailers, tweakers, trash. And he wasn’t talking about the litter. He shook his head with a grimacing sigh as a man with a gnarled face of sores stared blankly at them as they turned a corner.

His mind went back to Texas as they drove through the the near-empty mining town of White Tree. Like the young Sheriff Deputy Joseph Donnelley right out of the Army, he set to wondering just how he’d clean up this town on his lonesome. Most likely with the same results as last try. He thought back to the fruitless door kicking and yelling matches and booking processes. Nothing ever changed. Ever.

“Place looks sad.” He heard Foster from the driver’s seat break him from his reverie, “I like the hair, by the way. Nice color.”

“I liked the silence.” Donnelley said simply, and the silence went on.

They broke free from White Tree and made their way back up out of the little valley it was in, towards the mountains. In the distance, Donnelley could see flat where flat wasn’t supposed to be. Pillars of smoke like black snakes reached up like the miners were smoking the angels out of heaven. “They blast the tops clean off. Don’t even want to know what that’s doing to the rivers.” Foster said, “Oh, sorry, silence. That’s right.”

Donnelley only gave Foster some heavy side-eye before looking back out at the mines just before the apocalyptic sight disappeared behind trees. A few more minutes of driving until Foster started slowing the car down. A roadblock had been set up by the County Sheriffs, Foster flashed an FBI badge and they were waved through up a packed dirt road. “I didn’t know that.”

“Huh?”

“FBI?” Donnelley smirked, “You’re FBI material, alright. Fucking-“

“Big Idiot, yeah. Here.” And Foster tossed a wallet to Donnelley, plopping in his lap.

Donnelley folded it open to reveal a very, very good fake FBI ID for a John Davidson with his face. He didn’t ask Foster how or where. He didn’t want to know. The less he did, the better, and it wasn’t as if it was the first time they were breaking the law together. The brakes let out a high-pitched complaint as they came to a stop at the scene. Donnelley looked past Foster to see State CID in windbreakers and white-clad forensics specialists in their jumpsuits.

“How long ago?” Donnelley asked, hanging an arm over the top of his door and the other over the roof, watching Foster get out.

“NPS called me first before they called it in officially.” Foster winked at Donnelley.

The other man only shook his head as he closed his door. The two of them closed in on the scene, receiving hard stares or cautious glances. They were Suits to these people, but they had no idea just how far up the government chain they were. They flashed their fake badges again, “Special Agents Forrest and Davidson.” Foster said. “We’ll be attached to this case.”

“Detective Maryanne Roy, West Virginia CID. Good to have you two.” She lied through her teeth. Donnelley knew it was a lie because nobody liked having Feds around. “Body was found a couple days ago, still fresh. Dental records were sent off for identification of the body first thing.” Detective Roy had a slight scowl on her lips as she put her hands on her hips, “Come with me.”

She took them over to the edges of the cordon where holes were seen. As Donnelley peered in, he could pick out dull and dirtied luster in among the dirt. Bones. Roy gestured to the shallow graves, “There’s more of these too. Several people, one grave.”

“Can I get a look at the body?” Donnelley asked.

“Of course, yeah.” Roy nodded, waving him and Foster on. They followed her back deep into the center of the cordon and sure enough, there it was. Images of the Yezidis being pushed into a pit flashed through his mind before he shook them off. Roy shook her head, “Whoever did this was practiced. A hunter, with a fucking good knife.”

“Uh huh.” Donnelley hiked up the legs of his jeans to squat next to the body. It was a woman, he could tell by the small but still noticeable mounds of tissue around the chest. “Medical books.”

Donnelley muttered. He hadn’t been this close to the Yezidis back in Iraq and even the pictures didn’t do it justice. “What?” Foster asked.

“It’s like those fucking drawings in the medical books, you know? The skinless people just posing.” Donnelley grunted as he got back to his feet, knees crackling. “Fucking clean.”

“Too clean.” Foster frowned.

Donnelley nodded and excused himself. He took one last look at the body and made his way back to the privacy of the car, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting his door. He looked at through his phone, picking out the numbers, not there were many. He sent out the text, ‘Working Group UMBRA is activated. Blackriver, WV.’

Another fucked up case. Rubbing his forehead, he looked up and through the trees at the mines far away, writhing smoke rising from the scarred and dead mountaintop. He looked back at Foster and Roy, and the body. The girl. He shook his head. It was too easy to dehumanize the dead. A defense mechanism. Not people, just bodies.

He sighed, looking back at the heartbroken hills.