Chapter 16

August 21st, 2012

2353 hours



Ellie had spent the past four hours in a house that was barely deserving of the title “house”. Shack or cage seemed more appropriate to her. It was a single room, with little more than a table and two chairs. “An interrogation room. That’s what it reminds me of.” Suddenly, Henry came striding back in the room.



“You don’t realize how lucky you are.”



“What do you mean.”



“You said you were being chased by cops before my guys picked you up?”



“Yeah. Why? And why didn’t you just bring me here? Why didn’t you explain this earlier?”



“Would you have listened to anything I said if I had?”



He had a valid point.



“Anyways, we found a police car abandoned about a mile from where we picked you up. Nobody around. Then we dusted the car for prints.”



“So you played cop even more? Decided to do some real detective work?”



Chan’s voice started to rise. “Would you let me finish?” He took a deep breath, “Sorry. Anyways, we borrowed access to a few law enforcement databases, and ran the prints. The funny thing is, nothing showed up.”



“So, the cop wasn’t in whatever database you searched. He’s probably in the law enforcement database.”



“That’s the thing. We searched there. We searched everywhere. He wasn’t a cop.”



“That doesn’t make any sense.”



“It didn’t, until we found the body of Heinrich Richter.”



“I’m sorry, am I missing something?”



“Heinrich Richter is a wet work man. A gun for hire.”

Ellie interrupted him.



“A hitman? Why?”



“Will you let me finish?”



Ellie kept quiet.



“Does the name Henry Taylor mean anything to you?”



“Define ‘mean anything’”



“So you know him, yes?” Chan paused, “So he works at the NSA?”



“Define ‘works’”



Chan shot Ellie a disapproving look.



“Yes, he works there. Though he doesn’t do much but bitch all the time.”



“He’s a babysitter. His job is to watch the analysts and keep them in line. Make sure they don’t suspect anything. You see, those communiques you were processing were intercepted by computers, analyzed for key words and phrases, then fed on to you.”



“Yeah, it’s my job. But what do you mean ‘suspect anything’?”



“Those communiques weren’t from terrorist cells, or even people under suspicion. You see, these communiques were intercepted from across every US based email connection, every phone line running through the United States, every satellite that deals with information. If it is deemed suspicious, it’s sent to an NSA satellite office. An office like yours.”



“What does this mean?”



“You’re a smart girl, you know what it means.”



Ellie tried to make sense of what he was telling her. She was monitoring the communications of not terrorist organizations, but ordinary citizens of the United States.



“What about those ones that talked about bomb making, terrorist attacks?”



“Those ones are simply real terrorist communications thrown in with the rest to keep you happy and unsuspecting. Most of them had already been processed by other agencies that don’t even have initials. Agencies you’ve never heard of.”



Ellie wanted it to be untrue, to be able to laugh it off, to laugh in Chan’s smug looking face. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. It all made too much sense to be able to.



“How do you know all this?”



Henry sighed.



“What the news reports said was true. Stanford was one of us. That’s why they picked him. It was easy enough to pin it on him. Believe me; we were all heartbroken when we heard the news. His final act, that was just like him. Always putting others before himself.”



Ellie felt tears forming in her eyes; she knew she was going to break down. She figured that Chan sensed it too since he was leaving the room.



“Wait,” she said, “I want to know everything.”



Chan paused.



“Do you want to turn us in or something?”



“No, I want to help you.”



Chan smiled genially.



“In time, we still need to know we can trust you.”



Ellie nodded.



“Do you have any liquor?”



Chan did a double-take.



“Uh, yes. Why?”



“Where?”



Chan pointed to a cabinet. Ellie got up and walked to it. She pulled open the doors and selected two cups and a bottle of scotch. She poured it and brought a cup to Chan.



“To Stanford.”



“To Stanford, and all he believed in,” Chan said as he took a swig of the scotch.



Ellie took a sip of her own scotch. To Stanford, who had the right idea after all.



Chapter 17

August 22nd, 2012

0017 hours



“What the hell do you mean she’s not here!? She called me, asked me to bail her out!”



Taylor was on edge. In fact, he was downright pissed. What the hell! First she’s supposed to be dead, then she’s supposed to be in jail, and now, she’s nowhere!? He’d spent over an hour talking to half a dozen people at the lockup, trying to figure out where she’d gone. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She was supposed to be dead, and he was supposed to be back to his cushy corner office in a building in the middle of nowhere. Not to mention the most important thing, no people. Nobody to annoy him, to talk to him, to invade his thoughts. Focus Taylor. Job first, leisure later. Taylor threw on a façade of relief, smiled and thanked the guard. Time for “The Defenders of Freedom” to strike again.



Taylor walked a few blocks and found a motel. One that he didn’t think would mind if he “forgot” his ID. He rented a room for the night, and grabbed his “scramble kit” from his car. He smiled as he thought of what he named his little bag of gear. He named it that because it reminded him of when he was running ops in ‘Nam. Having to change bases at a moment’s notice, having to bed down in the rough foliage without so much as a sleeping bag, yes, that was the life for him.



His bag contained everything he needed. Toothbrush, toothpaste, though he could get by with some salt or baking soda in a pinch, hair gel, peroxide, bandages, a bug detector, a nine millimeter Beretta, a shoulder holster, an ankle holster, a few bricks of C4, hair from some captured members of “The Defenders of Freedom”, for the sole purpose of having evidence to plant when he couldn’t get enough leverage to force them to do his bidding, and his pride and joy, a Medusa Revolver. One of only twenty something in production. Five rounds, slightly larger than a deck of cards, and very versatile chambers, designed to hold anything from a .38 special, to a .45, to a .457 magnum. He never went anywhere without it at least waiting for him in his car. He chuckled, it was the closest thing he’d ever had to a relationship. Hell, he’d even talk to it sometimes. His last psychologist said it showed some degree of deep psychosis, but then again, his last psychologist “accidently” shot himself with his own gun. Three times. Nobody knows how, but people make mistakes, like telling people that they have deep psychosis when they’re already well aware of it, or like leaving your loaded gun in a drawer under your desk, and only having one lock on said drawer when you’re working with “seriously disturbed” people.



Taylor proceeded to make a detonator attached to a timer, and wire it to one of the blocks of C4. He smiled at his handiwork. He’d set the timer when he got back to the jail. This one should at least make an impression, and take care of anyone he talked to. Hell, he’d do society a favor and make sure a few of the convicts died as well. They were despicable people anyways. I may kill for a living, but at least I kill for a cause. He chuckled again. He took pride in his work, as any decent, honest, hardworking man should.



Chapter 18

August 22nd, 2012

0800 hours



Michael MacLeod patrolled the corridors of Tampa Bay Correctional Facility, his left hand resting casually on his Glock 19 in its holster. He thumbed the safety back and forth. A nervous habit. He passed cell after cell, usually containing a rather pissed of prisoner. In fact, most prisoners there were perpetually pissed off. He harrumphed. Probably had something to do with being locked up for 20 hours a day. Sure, they were less pissed off when they got yard time, but usually when they weren’t playing basketball or trading cigarettes, they were pummeling each other with their fists, or shivs, or whatever they could get their hands on. Has he turned the corner, something caught his eye. The thumbed the safety and drew his weapon.



“Hey, you! Turn around slowly with your hands up! What are you doing out of your cell!”



The person chuckled, “You’re assuming I’m a resident here.” The man turned around.



“You’re the guy that was looking for that chick Ellie yesterday. What the fuck are you doing here.” He held his weapon leveled at the man’s chest. Less fatal, bigger target. He probably should hit the shooting range after this. He hadn’t fired his weapon in over a year. “What’s your name?”



A slight pause. “Jeffery Braun.” The man replied. MacLeod picked up on this hesitation.



“Great, what’s your real name.”



The man lowered his arms and took a step towards him.



“Stop right there!”



The man kept advancing.



“My name… is none of your concern.”



“Freeze or I’ll shoot!”



The man kept advancing. Macleod fired a round. The man’s shoulder turned from the impact. But there was no blood. What the hell? The man took another step. MacLeod popped off three more rounds. The man grunted with each hit, but he didn’t go down. He didn’t even bleed. Bulletproof vest. Shit. MacLeod raised his gun to try and shoot the man in the head, but not before he felt white hot pain in his chest. He looked down, there was red seeping through his blue button-down shirt. The man had a revolver jammed to his ribs. Blood gurgled up in his throat, he tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was blood. He coughed, sending his blood spattering onto the man’s face.



The man looked at him with disgust and said, “Disgusting,” and shoved him back. The fall seemed to take an hour, and by the time he hit the floor, he was dead.