The Eden Plague

No, he had to either deal with the Agency, or he had to run.

Flight was an attractive option. Disappear, get out of the country. Slip across to Mexico before the alarm went out, from there to points south. Take a tramp freighter to South Africa maybe, sell his skills. Private security firms there liked guys with combat experience. They’d get him a new identity, if he was willing to be one of their quasi-mercenary security contractors and kick back part of his pay. He’d made some good contacts in the Green Zone in Baghdad. The Zone had been a patchwork of embassy territories then, with South Africans, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Filipinos, even Gurkhas providing security for each little walled compound.

Shaking himself out of the fog of reminiscence, he told himself he had to do something, he had to act, or he was going to be acted upon, but he didn’t want to run. It was not in his nature.

His phone rang.

He stared at it stupidly for a couple of rings. Nobody called his home phone but telemarketers and work, and he didn’t have the kind of job that called him after hours.

Heaving himself up he grabbed the handset, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but it was local, Northern Virginia. Telemarketers had other numbers, weird ones from foreign countries that tried to scam people. He decided to answer.

Maybe they wanted to talk, whoever ‘they’ were. Maybe he wanted to listen. Maybe there was some way out of this mess.

“Hello?”

“Daniel?” It sounded like Elise.

“Yeah. Elise?” Bitch. Shoot at me then run away when I try to be nice.

“Yes, Daniel. We have a little time. They don’t know what happened yet. When they do, they will probably want to clean up and they’re going to insist you join up. If you don’t play ball, they’ll either do you the hard way, frame you or disappear you.” She had a trace of Texas in her voice now, if he knew his Westerns.

“About like I thought. What are we go

Or maybe it’s all a crock of bull.

“I want to talk with you, but not on an unsecure line, and not at the wrong end of a gun. Especially not when you’re all amped up like you are now. Somewhere a bit more friendly.”

He wondered at the tone of her voice, no-nonsense but with an undertone of concern. Or was he imagining it? “How do we do that? You could be armed next time, and I can’t come back from the dead like you can.”

“I didn’t come back from the dead, I wasn’t dead. I can be killed. It’s just harder. And it still hurts to be shot.”

“So you say. How and where? And don’t you think they are listening right now?”

“Possibly.” She sighed, audibly. “Look, I’m sick of being their slave. I have to get out from under, no matter how dangerous it is. So we have to meet, and we have to do it soon, before they can keep me from giving you everything. And I need your help too. You must have contacts. You spec ops guys always keep in touch.”

“Maybe. So if they are listening, why don’t they cut this line?”

She laughed, shaky. “You know, it’s not like on TV. They can do a lot but they’re only human. Don’t give them too much credit.”

“Or too little.”

“Yeah, well, even if they could, they would want to hear where we are going to meet. They’ll be waiting if they can.”

“Well, you’re the secret agent,” Daniel said sarcastically. “How do we do it without getting caught?”

“Daniel, I’m just a scientist that happened to get cancer and got sucked into this. I’m not a field operative. But I picked up a few things in the last couple of years, so here’s what we’re going to do. Go to a nearby shopping center drugstore. Don’t tell me which one. Go buy a fresh prepaid cell phone. Call this number.” She rattled off a phone number. “Add the number of shots I fired at you to the digit in that position. Get it?”

“Got it.” Right, he thought. Add four to the fourth digit. Writing it down on a scrap of paper, he stuck it in his pocket. He couldn’t trust his memory.

“Call that number in half an hour exactly. First and last number you ever dial on that phone. We should be able to talk freely on that co

“Okay…”

“And don’t go home after that. Take anything valuable you can carry, but somewhere along the line you will have to ditch your own vehicle. I don’t think they have a tracker on it but they will eventually. And get as much cash as you can out of just one ATM near the drugstore. Then drive away and make that call.”

“Got it.” He thought, I’ve got to keep my focus. It was getting hard. His head hurt.

She hung up.

He slammed an energy drink and swallowed two black-market but genuine Ritalin. He stuck the bottle in his pocket, grabbed an old rucksack and started packing. Magazines and ammo, granola bars, water, energy drink, his work badge and ID, and his runaway packet containing twenty grand cash in several currencies and two passports, one his, one Canadian with a different name. He wasn’t a covert field operative but any special ops guy learns a few things in the black world.

Also, he wouldn’t visit that ATM. Grabbing his travel Bible, he tossed it into the rucksack. He might need it, and he was sure to need the twelve hundred dollars he kept zipped inside it. It made him feel better anyway. Sorry, Lord, and please help me out of this one.

He pulled on a hoodie, then a windbreaker. February was still cold on the East Coast, especially at night, and the sun was going down. He threw his laptop into the ruck, too, then booted up his desktop computer and put in a suicide code, watching the special software start to burn his hard drive one sector at a time. They won’t get anything off that. Then he smashed his cell phone.

He also grabbed his M4 in its case, ten full magazines, his Remington 870 pump shotgun, and an Army surplus ammo box, heavy with cartridges. The last thing he tossed into his van was his aid bag. Everything imaginable from band-aids to Benzedrine, scalpels to syringes.

Doing as Elise had said, more or less, he drove to the second-nearest drugstore to his house in case “they” had been listening, and bought a disposable phone with cash. It was all cash from now on.

Back in the van, he drove out of town on the main road heading west as he waited for the half hour mark after pulling over into a gas station and filling up. As soon as he was done, he drove around a corner onto a side street, parked, and then dialed the number.

“Yes?” He heard Elise’s voice.

“It’s me. I’m mobile, I got money and some supplies.” He could hear traffic sounds behind her. He figured she was at a pay phone. Not many of those around anymore.

“All right. You know the Iron Saddle?”

“Biker bar, on Route One south of Quantico.”

“Yeah. Meet me there, one hour.”

“Roger wilco.”

After the call ended he started wending his way south, then back eastward to pick up US-1 at Dumfries north of Quantico Marine base. He was glad to stay in Virginia, where it was legal to carry around loaded firearms.

Laughing to himself without humor, he realized he was a recent murderer, or at least a manslaughterer, and no matter how justified it seemed, he had lost control. He was guilty, but he didn’t want to become a guest of the state just yet, and maybe he could do something to make up for it later. Some kind of penance.

Right. I keep trying to convince myself of that. The serpent doesn’t believe it either.