Written by Ralphael Pacheco
Caleb
didn’t wake until the landing gear hit the tarmac. It took a moment for his
mind to reconcile with the fact that he was onboard a Boeing 747, due in part
to the splitting headache competing for his attention. He smashed his eyelids
together, wishing the flight attendant hadn’t offered him anything the night before.
It was all her fault. Some complete stranger was paid to send his twenty-nine
days of sobriety plummeting down the drain. Not that it was going anywhere. Oh
well. He rubbed his eyes, resolving to gun for that one month medal as soon as
he returned stateside.
The
aircraft slowed to a stop. The pilot said something or other over the intercom.
It was hard to distinguish through the migraine. He was fortunate to find the
seat next to him empty. Waking to the gaze of judgement surely would’ve made things
no better.
It
was another few minutes before he was given the opportunity to zombie-walk out
into the terminal. He found a bathroom in a discount McDonald’s and used it to
wash the agony off his face. The mirror said he looked like death. A little
more water, a comb of the hair, a wink and a smile and he was back to the usual
Caleb. Or California, he should say. He
checked the inside of his wrist as he returned to the terminal. The analog
watch read quarter to twelve. The smart phone in his pocket, courtesy of the agency,
was already adjusted for local time and read quarter to five. He fixed his
watch accordingly, taking special care not to activate any of its more
particular functions. He recalled Tinker in her lab, advising him against using
it in public without the safety pushed in.
“Yeah,
all right, just tell me what it does.” Caleb turned the watch over in his hands
like a child with a toy.
“The
button on the corner of the ten activates a localized EMP in a twenty meter
radius,” Tinker continued. “Should knockout all power sources for at least a
quarter of an hour unless someone hits a breaker.”
“Mmhm.”
“The
button closest to the two starts a five-second fuse on a self-destruct. Factoring
in fragmentation, it should have the effective range of an Em-Sixty-Seven.”
“Mm…”
“The
button by the eight powers a carbon dioxide laser cutter. It’s not quite
industrial grade, but it should burn through wires, chain link fences, or even
thin sheet metal if you’re patient enough. It eats up a lot of power, though.
So don’t expect to go around using it for long periods at a time. Any questions,
Cal?”
“Uh,
yeah. How do you fit all these gizmos into a little wrist watch?”
As
expected, Caleb’s contact was waiting outside the terminal, clad in a thick
winter coat, scrolling through his phone atop a silver Bentley. He dismounted
the car as Caleb approached, welcoming his new passenger inside.
“Welcome
to London,” the contact said, with a degree of politeness afforded only by an
English accent. “What do I call you by?”
“California.
You?”
“Archer.
Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
There
was something curious about Archer’s speech. It became more apparent as the
headache subsided and Cal’s focus restored. He chose not to pursue it at first,
but the brief drive to the hotel had enough dead air to ask. “You’re not local,
are you?”
“What
makes you say that, mate?”
“Don’t
throw me for a loop, I know a Londoner when I hear one. You’re… farther North.”
Archer
smirked. “Good ears. I’m from Birmingham originally, but the SAS knocked most
of the Brummie outta me.”
Cal
smiled for this small victory of wit.
The
Apex hotel was less than half an hour’s drive from London City Airport. That
put them a solid hour ahead of nightfall, and another two hours ahead of the
meet. Plenty of time to prep. They were booked for different rooms, but gathered
into the same one to discuss preliminary planning. Cal closed the blinds, ran
the faucets, and flipped the television to the local news. “Should be enough
white noise to nullify any possible bugs,” Cal explained. “I trust you’ve read
the briefing?”
“Your
original contact got held up in Burma,” Archer clarified. The removal of his
coat unearthed the solid arms of a soldier. “I was brought up to speed
yesterday, but you’d best run it by me again.”
Cal
went on to explain the situation regarding the mole in Atlas Intelligence, along
with their forthcoming negotiations with an information broker willing to sell
his identity. Archer’s role was to provide support, if need be, while California
secures the transaction.
As
soon as a mutual understanding of a plan was reached, they went their separate
ways. Archer returned to his room on the floor above, readying the duffle bag
he’d left there ahead of time. Below, Caleb sifted through his baggage,
unpacking the three-piece suit Tinker prepared for him.
“I
know this op’s supposed to be low-key,” Caleb told her before leaving the labs.
“But on the off-chance something slips, what are my options for weapons and
armor?”
“What?
Is the watch not good enough for you?” Tinker responded.
“Give
me a break, what’ve we got?”
Tinker
guided him to a set of dress clothes—dark jacket, dark slacks, grey vest, and a
blue dress shirt—freshly pressed and laid out on a table. “This is a standard
three-piece suit in your personal color preference. This should allow you to
blend in, seeing as the meet’s going down in a rather classy restaurant.”
“Great,”
Caleb groaned. “But can it stop bullets?”
Tinker
shot him a playfully aggravated look. “I appreciate your condescension, Agent
California, but as a matter of fact it can. Between the fabrics of the vest are
a few layers of graphene fibers, which hold a tensile strength of one-hundred
and thirty gigapascals.”
“I
take it that’s a lot?”
She
refrained from rolling her eyes. “All you need to know is it’s significantly
lighter, stronger, and more flexible than Kevlar. Capeesh?”
“If
this ‘graphene’ is so great, couldn’t the whole suit be laced with the stuff?”
“I’m
afraid that option’s above your paygrade. Besides, this incentivizes you to
keep things quiet.”
“Fair
enough. What about firearms?”
Tinker
moved him along. A small, open, matte black case rested on the next table. “You
obviously won’t be bringing this through the airport, but it’ll be shipped
ahead of you and planted at the target location by your contact.” She moved her
finger over the main item in the case: a handgun. “This here’s a Colt Em-Nineteen-Eleven.
With it you’ll find in this package one attachable suppressor, one laser sight,
and one seven-round magazine of forty-five ACP.”
Cal
picked the gun out of the case, getting a feel for the weight in his hands and testing
the iron sights with his eyes. “No gimmicks with this one?”
Tinker
shrugged. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”
At
the Apex hotel, it took Caleb only a few moments to don the three-piece suit.
He plunged into a corner chair and checked his wrist watch. Still nearly two
hours to spare. He switched the television back on and flipped between the
local news and a TV show to ease the monotony. But all these distractions
couldn’t keep him from noticing the minibar glowing in the corner of his eye.
Caleb
knew he didn’t need it.
In
the distance the BBC yammered on about North Korea’s nuclear potential. He
tried to refocus on the TV. The high refresh rate proved bothersome to look at,
especially when he could be staring down the serene insides of a minibar,
stocked like a gallery with the finest liquor the hotel could afford. Just a
peek wouldn’t hurt anyone, he decided. Caleb waltzed over to the room’s
kitchen, crouching down by the minibar to see two small rows of elegant bottles
backlit by an LED lamp. The glow off the stark walls made it appear like a
chamber of heaven. He was so consumed with the imagery that he failed to notice
the keyhole before reaching to open it. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs. For
a moment he was glad it was outside his control. Knowing he’d have to go out of
his way to get a hotel staff to unlock it, he returned to his comfortable
corner chair.
The
offerings of the TV soon grew stale. Caleb connected his phone to the hotel’s
Wi-Fi and browsed the internet for a good few minutes before a knock landed on
his door. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. Protocol insisted he dig his weapon
out of its holster, but the handgun Tinker had prepared was packaged as a dead
drop a few blocks away. He approached the door reluctantly.
“Who’s
there?” He asked from a fair distance.
“Room
service.”
#
“Atlas Control, this is
Archer, how copy?” Archer murmured as he exited his room. He was back in full
winter attire, this time with a scarf, a beanie, and a duffle bag thrown over
his shoulder.
“Read
you loud and clear, Agent Archer,” a distorted voice answered through his
earpiece. “What’s the status of Agent California? It’s twenty-hundred hours and
he hasn’t done his comms check.”
Archer
shuddered. It was possible his partner was just running late, but he feared for
the worst. “I’ll check. If he’s compromised how should I proceed?”
On
the floor below, Caleb scrambled to fish his earpiece out of his suitcase. He
dropped the wire at least twice before priming it for communication. “This is Califuuurrnia,
howya copy, Control?”
“California?”
Archer’s voice came in over the airwaves. “Where you been? I was just on my way
to your room.”
“I,
uh got uh, held up, y’know? Look s’all good. Leh’s get goin’.”
“You
don’t sound all right, lad.”
“I
said I’m fine! Get to yer position, I’m leavin’ my room now.”
Archer
heeded his words and took the stairs down to street level. The restaurant in
question was a fancy Turkish place called Haz, located almost a kilometer north
of their hotel. The tight streets made it a faster walk than drive, so Archer
avoided taking a cab.
The
building across from Haz belonged to a media and web design company. They
closed after dark, but Atlas had equipped Archer with a skeleton keycard—an all access pass to every room in the office. He
set up shop on the second floor, assembling his personal Arctic Warfare rifle
from the pieces in his duffel bag. With the bipod planted on the carpet, he
tested the scope out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. From his perch, Archer
could see partway into the restaurant--enough to notice the man in a white suit
jacket checking his phone. White male, mid-thirties, blond hair, slim build, he
was a spitting image of the description they’d been given. And better yet: he
was seated by a window as agreed upon. This was definitely their guy.
Caleb
stumbled around the block, setting his sights on the restaurant and making a
shaky stride toward it. Archer spotted his partner, shaking his head as he
observed the display from above. “Control, I don’t think this’ll end well.
Agent California’s rather smashed.”
“I
said I got this!”
“Proceed
as planned, Agent Archer.”
Archer
breathed a sigh, focusing down the sights. Cal entered the front doors of the
restaurant, looking right at home in his dapper attire.
“Aight,
point me, Archer.”
“The
target’s sitting alone on a table hugging the window, third on your left.”
Cal
spotted him immediately. Even if he wasn’t the sole occupant of that row, he’d
be difficult to miss with that white suit jacket reflecting the golden
chandelier lights. Cal took the seat opposite. He cleared his throat. “You must
be Dimitri.”
The
broker scanned Caleb with his eyes. “And you would be?” A rather boyish Russian
accent escaped his lips.
“Call
meh California.” He coughed, clearing his throat again. “I’ll be negotiating
the trade.”
“And
you bring money?”
Caleb
stared into emptiness for a moment. Then smirked. He recalled the fat manila
envelope lying in a secret compartment of his suitcase. It never left the hotel
room. He locked eyes with Dimitri, maintaining his personable smile. An actual
purchase was to be a last resort in case his charms failed. It seemed the
latter was all he had left. “Listen, red, I’m the middleman between you and a
very powerful force. You have something we want, and one way or another we’re
going to get it.”
“Easy,
Cal, we need him receptive,” the disembodied English voice whispered into his
ear. Even from Archer’s vantage point, Dimitri’s body language didn’t read
well. The sharp-dressed broker shifted in his seat, returning the eye-lock with
a glare.
“Perhaps
you should reconsider priorities, California.” What at first sounded like timid
boyishness now sounded like snarky boyishness. “You seem to forget that I have
what you want. I have power here. I can do far worse than deny information. I
can make it disappear.” His eyes drifted aside for a moment. Though Cal’s
intoxication made him more inclined to follow his instincts, he refrained from
breaking eye contact to see where that drift led. “Or how about I make you go
home in body bag until your people send better offer?”
But
it didn’t matter. Cal knew what Dimitri was looking at when the hard steel
brushed against his back through a layer of fabric. He didn’t need to turn
around to know that a tall, probably well-built enforcer-type was standing
behind him. “Is that a nine-mil in your pocket, or are you just happy to see
me?”
“Get
up. We’re goin’ outside.” The big one sounded English. Cockney, particularly. Definitely
muscle hired local.
Cal
stood up, albeit in a wobbly fashion, as requested. He composed himself, the
newfound adrenaline shaking the drunken veil away as he straightened his suit.
“You’re making a big mistake.”
Dimitri
smiled. “We see how you feel after--”
With
the sound of broken glass, the tall enforcer’s brain matter exited his left
temple. Archer bolted another seven-six-two NATO round into the chamber, while
the patrons in Haz scattered in fits of screams. As much as Cal would’ve
enjoyed seeing Dimitri’s look of shock, his focus was on scanning the
surroundings. It became clear that every patron in the restaurant who wasn’t
running and screaming was drawing a firearm and setting their sights on him.
Cal flipped the table and clawed at the upper-left button on his watch. In a
gated area behind the restaurant’s kitchen, a circuit breaker sparked and
combusted before dying out entirely. The building went dark, along with the
whole corner it resided on.
With
the turn of a knob on his rifle’s scope, Archer activated its night vision
capabilities. This came soon enough to see Dimitri stumbling out the
restaurant’s front doors before disappearing into an alleyway.
Meanwhile,
Cal was hunkered down behind a flipped table. He could hear the henchmen making
a clueless stroll across the floor. None of them dared waste bullets on a
target they couldn’t see. “Archer, where’s my firearm?” Cal whispered.
“Dumpster.
Alley behind Haz. Dimitri looked to be heading that way. You can get the piece
and cut him off if you leg it.”
Cal
saw a gunman walk right past him. It seemed it was much too dark for him to be
seen at that level. This could change if their eyes were given time to adjust,
so he didn’t waste time crawling towards the back. As soon as he found a clear
path to the kitchen doors, he stood upright and made a break for it. He got in
without a hitch. That was, until a hiding chef caught sight of him and let out
an involuntary screech. Cal tried to “shush” her, but it didn’t do much good
when the bullets started flying through the wall. He was floored by a round to
the side, but he didn’t feel wounded—Tinker wasn’t kidding about the strength
of the vest.
Again
Cal found himself crawling on his stomach to the back door. There was a brief
ceasefire that he used to climb up onto his feet and storm out.
He
exited to a pitch-black alley, closing the door behind him. He hoped the
gunners were blind firing and didn’t actually see him leave, but it was hard to
be certain. He fished around in a nearby dumpster for anything that felt like a
gun case. After wiping his hands across a few greasy trash bags, he eventually
pulled one out and set it on the ground. Without the alley lamps it was
impossible to see the contents of the box. There was little choice but to
assemble the weapon by touch, a task easier said than done, and easier done
sober than otherwise. With that being the case, his time wasn’t record-breaking
but the gun got pieced together nonetheless, just as he’d seen it in Tinker’s
lab.
Cal
scanned the alley for any sign of Dimitri. Around the corner he found the
information broker kneeling down, mumbling Russian swears as he tried to turn
his phone back on. It wasn’t until the cold suppressor pressed against his
cheek that he knew Cal was there. Dimitri raised his hands. “My men in
restaurant will find us soon.”
“And
you’ll make an excellent meat shield when they do.” Cal released the safety on
his handgun. “Or you can save us both a world of hurt and get this over with
quickly. Where is it?” It took only a moment, but Dimitri swallowed his pride
and produced a flash drive from his pocket. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
It
felt like only a few seconds later that the gunmen flooded the alley, but even
by that time Agent California was long gone. They could’ve pursued, but the
sirens signaled them to get lost.
Archer
observed the train wreck from above, again pondering why a wild card like
California was given such a delicate assignment. Or better yet: why Control
delegated much confidence in his abilities. But as Archer disassembled his
rifle and packed up his duffel bag, he couldn’t help but notice that in the
end: the job got done. It became even more apparent over the next week when
Atlas rid itself of not one, but two moles that Dimitri’s intel shed light on. It
was a strange order of events that he still couldn’t rectify in his head. After
all, from the way things went down it would seem their success was only a
matter of blind luck.
The
only rationale he could muster was a phrase often echoed by his former
instructor: “It takes a wolf to catch a wolf.” Perhaps, Archer thought, this
was of some merit. Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps California would one day face the
consequences of being himself. But until that day came, he was in a gambler’s
limbo with no intention of playing the odds.
THE END
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