Active Shooter Page 3

  I waited for him to respond, but he seemed content to let my words linger in the space between us. Either that or getting into the topic of my past missions and the blood that came with them comprised subject matter best left to a more secure venue.

  I added, “I've done nothing to even remotely suggest a connection between this incident and what I'm supposed to protect.”

  “Still, you had to come to New York and give that interview, didn't you? You just had to get as close to the line as you could.”

  I paused, musing that his last remark probably derived from an observation in my personnel profile. Thrill seeker, I imagined it saying, with an added correlation to the way I loved chasing the double-X chromosome.

  I pushed the thought aside and said, “I came because if I didn't, it would have caused more attention. All in the name of protecting. Get it? As it is, I came across nice and boring, 6 KIAs notwithstanding. Before you know it, this presto-celeb storm will blow over.” I pointed at the window, letting it stand for an imaginary Bridget, “And I gave her nothing. Whatever she has on you -- yes, on you, because I'm out of it -- she got somewhere else. You best focus your attention on her and her sources.”

  He smiled the sort of smile that told me I had just walked into the dark alley where he'd intended to trap me all along.

  “Yes, about that,” he said. “We were thinking--”

  “Don't waste any saliva on it. Not happening. Already crossed that dead sea, and left it a little deader than I found it.”

  “It would give us assurance. It'd let us know you're still trustworthy.”

  “Really. Trustworthy. You already know full well I'm not trustworthy. Mentally unstable, isn't that what your report said when I last served my country?”

  “Time heals all things.”

  “And you're ready to give me a second chance.”

  “I hear your banking account is a little depleted these days,” he said with another of his grins. “This would give you a chance to rebuild your reserves, pay off a few bills, maybe buy that nice latest model camera you've been craving.”

  My cellphone started buzzing on the desk, and we both looked at it. He took it and looked at the screen, then stood up and tossed it to me.

  “Your girlfriend's calling, probably worried about you.” From the room's door he said, “I know it was difficult last time, but think about it. We'd appreciate it.”

  He stood there for a second, trying his best -- and failing -- to pay-forward his appreciation.

  “My name's Walter,” he said. “I left my contact info in your laptop. You need anything, you call me. 24/7, I'll answer.”

  He stood there, wooden and uncomfortable. As if to relay his sincerity he forced himself to stay for a few awkward moments before he let himself out of my room.

  As the door closed, I found myself breathing in shallow breaths. My chest tightened in that familiar way it did when I sensed this fragile world of mine was about to implode.

  Chapter 3

  I let my phone go on buzzing. It stopped by the time I finished doing twenty-five pushups. With a dozen sighs I worked to lower my heart rate. Once I felt I had subdued the worst of my anxiety, I called Bridget.

  “Did you get my message?” she asked.

  “Nah. Saw the missed call and called you.”

  “Are you okay? I saw some guys following you.”

  “Some of my fans. You'll be happy to know I managed to get to my hotel without giving out a single autograph.” Bridget started to say something about how we left off, but I cut in with, “Listen. If you're still up for it, I'd like to finish our lunch.”

  “Sure, actually, I'm still here.”

  I cut her off again to tell her I'd be right over. I scribbled a quick note on the hotel's provided notepad, read it over, tore off the sheet and folded in fourths then stashed it in my shirt pocket. For good measure, I tore off the next three sheets and crumpled them into my pocket.

  A quick taxi ride later, I was walking into the restaurant. Before Bridget could say anything, I slipped her the note. She read it, concealed between her dishes and the booth's wall, then looked up at me and nodded.

  As my note suggested, for the next hour we shared and enjoyed white rice, black beans, croquetas and a breaded steak, capping it all off with Coconut flavored mojitos. Our conversation meandered around inane topics like my Cuban heritage, how much she loved Cuban food, how she was working to set up a trip to Cuba, and would I be interested in coming along.

  When we decided we were sufficiently satiated and marinated in garlic, we worked off the surplus Caribbean calories with a slow, long walk to Central park where, as my note had requested, Bridget guided us a fountain.

  We found an empty spot, sat on the fountain's ledge, and I whispered, “No cellphone, right?”

  She nodded.

  “We talk softly,” I added. “Let the water provide us with white noise above the volume of our voices. That's important. Our voices never rise above the volume of the water, no matter how excited we become. Can you handle that?”

  Her lips contracted into a tight line. “How are they listening?”

  “You need to kick up your feet for a few in between those world-changing investigative reports, rent a spy movie or two, or if you're running low on time, just Google parabolic dish microphone.”

  She nodded.

  “Speaking of running low on time, let's get right to it. You game?” I asked.

  She looked away. I pressed on. “If I am to be of help to you, I will need to know how you know what you know about me.”

  “Is that what they want you to do?”

  “Now who's being direct?”

  “Well?”

  “It's what I need.”

  She turned back with a frown. “Really.”

  “It's my neck on the line. Really and truly. So I repeat. Are you game?”

  She considered my question for a moment. “Suppose I share all that I know. Then what?”

  “Then comes full cooperation. You want that, right? Full cooperation?”

  “Sure--”

  “We need each other,” I said, feeling a little rude for cutting her off.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  I pointed at my Adam's apple “My neck, remember?”

  “What are we into here?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  Her frown deepened. “You're trying to spook me. They sent you to frighten me away.”

  “If you're not spooked already, I don't know what I could do to make it happen.”

  She looked away, still frowning. I watched her profile, her face slowly returning to a softer expression, her lips tightening into a thin line.

  “I'm not sure this is best,” she said.

  “Getting cold feet, then.”

  She paused to let her bright blue eyes drill into my dead brown ones. “Just like you want. Me backing off and walking away.”

  “I've given up worrying about what I want. I never get it. So when presented with a choice, I don't bother asking what I want. I just react. Like I did in that terminal. Like I did when you called me to ask for an interview. Like I'm doing now. Just doing what feels right in the moment.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “No, Bridget. I'm crazy. Your source hopefully told you that. If not, all the same, there. Full disclosure. That's why I turned to a life as a photographer. Because I find it immensely therapeutic.”

  She looked away and shook her head.

  “Careful, now,” I whispered. “They may not hear us, but they are watching your reactions and mine. Remember, most communication comes through body language.”

  “You have five minutes to explain what you want.”

  “For the third time, my neck. I want it intact and attached.”

  “I'm not buying it. There's something else going on here.”

  “And if there is, what would that be?” I asked, acknowledging to myself her instincts were solid.

  “You
're working for them. For whoever is listening or not listening or watching or whatever. You're here to pump me for information, maybe feed me junk along the way, and find out who my source is.”

  “You forgot the part where I seduce you and setup a gooey honey trap.”

  “Your five minutes are dwindling, Andre.”

  “Here’s what I find interesting,” I said. “You probably have never seen this source of yours. My guess is that you do all your communications via computer through a variety of protected means. How am I doing?”

  Bridget didn’t respond, but the way she shifted her weight told me I had connected.

  “Yet,” I went on. “In spite of all the caution you know about, you decide to meet me out in the open, where God and country and all its demons can monitor us. You burn us, and you expect--”

  “I tried to be discrete. To use counter-measures.”

  At this point I could have belittled her. I could have chastised her for her lack of a clue. That wouldn’t take me anywhere, however, so I opted for, “We’re burned, Bridget. You and I. They know we’re talking, and they know it’s not because we’ve gotten sweet on each other.”

  “You obviously knew that coming into this meeting. Why are we here?”

  “Because I want to explore the possibilities.”

  “Can we stop playing here? What are you after? What do you get out of it?”

  “Ouch, speaking of direct.”

  “Well? Why would I want to go along with this craziness?” she asked. “Your craziness, as you called it.”

  “Oh, so the real question is what do you get out of it.”

  “Both of the above.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But you have to be ready for the answer.”

  “Which is?”

  “To make sure you and your source don't end up dead and pull me down with you.”

  She looked away. At that moment, a photographer walking backwards and snapping shots of a couple walking toward him came into our field of view. I almost made a comment about how much I'd rather be doing that, but I left it unsaid for fear I'd sound whiny and petty. Then I realized that the photographer and the couple were play actors, as was Guayabera man, standing behind a tree, now having traded his shirt for one of the loud Hawaiian variety.

  “You think that's a possibility,” she said. “Us ending up dead.”

  “Death always is. In this case its probability increases with your proximity to pay dirt.”

  “You're worried about me.”

  “I guess I am. Yes.”

  She considered that before turning to face me. “Funny you should say that. She's worried about you.”

  “Who?”

  “My source.”

  “Your source is concerned about me.” I said that wanting to sound cynical, but hearing the fear in my wavering voice.

  Bridget kept looking at me, as if to gauge the impact of her revelation, or perhaps to judge whether what she was about to say would betray the identify of her source. She looked away and scanned our surroundings.

  “She says there's something odd about the way your social profile hasn't taken off.”

  “You mean after the shooting?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It's taken off enough.”

  “According to her, not the way it should have,” Bridget replied. “Like someone is dampening it, she says.” She let that word, dampening float between us. Her eyes sharpened, glimmering with her scrutiny of my reaction to it.

  “Dampening,” I said, unable to restrain myself from confirming that much.

  “You know about this. The capability to manipulate stories and the perception of news events.”

  “Politicians and their handlers do it all the time.”

  “More than that,” she said. “Government-sponsored, algorithmically aided.”

  Now I looked away. Could they have gone live this soon? If what I knew before my prior career came to an end still held true, deployment was years away, not yet approved. Had things changed? Had the powers that be accelerated the program? But above all those questions, her claim that someone had aimed and fired the capability at me disturbed me most.

  “If your source is right, then we really have reason to worry.”

  “Or we are that much closer to exposing whatever the hell is going on,” she said. “I can’t believe they would take a chance on exposing themselves by trying to minimize a story like yours. Unless…” Bridget paused there, not needing to say that they would never risk it unless they thought my anonymity was worth it.

  I pondered how best to proceed. It would do me no good to push for Bridget to tell me who this source of hers was. It was my business to know, now that my safety came into question. Still, I knew Bridget wouldn't budge.

  “Tell your source I'm touched by her concern,” I said. “Tell her to text me or friend me on Facebook next time.”

  “She can't do that. You know why.”

  Yeah, I knew why. I thought about this for a moment, and my mind landed on my phone's display earlier that day, showing me the notification of an incoming text message.

  “Ever get strange text messages, Bridget? From withheld?”

  She was frowning at me now. “Got one this morning, before the interview.”

  “Your first?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Play along.” Bridget hissed more than whispered those words.

  The same foreboding that overtook me at the hotel before I returned Bridget's call came over me now. I couldn't explain it. I only had the impression that I should know who she was based on what Bridget had shared thus far, without the need for further details. But I needed Bridget to elaborate. If she could only show me a picture, I thought. My mind raced cognizant that it should know her source's identity only to draw dry pails out of a black well.

  “I guess we should, then,” I said. “Play along to get along.”

  Chapter 4

  “She wanted to talk,” I said, hearing my voice echo off the smooth whitewashed walls of what doubled as a conference room or interrogation room. “That’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? Talk to her?”

  “Why did you choose a location where we couldn't hear you?”

  “She insisted.”

  “You mean Ms. Suarez.”

  “Who else are we talking about here?” I asked.

  My interrogator, a man in his twenties with a salt and pepper goatee, sighed and leaned back in his chair. He kept staring at me, as if his glare alone could break me. His partner, standing a few feet away with arms folded, gave me a similar look.

  So intimidating, I wanted to say, but didn't. Had they already forgotten how the trained me to survive much worse than this?

  When he satisfied himself he'd impressed me enough, he said to his side-kick, “What do you think, Jim? This guy playing us?”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Of course I am,” I said. “I can't do otherwise.” I pointed to the half-inch thick folder on the table, the one they'd dropped there with a clap and not touched since. “I'm sure it says so right in there.”

  They both stared at me now. The room was cold. They'd brought me in here wearing nothing but a T-shirt while they wore ties and jackets. Given the blowing air-conditioning, I should have been shivering from the inside out. But I wasn't.

  “What's your game?” the lead interrogator said.

  “No longer in the game. You guys kicked me out, remember? No longer fit to play.”

  “Did she tell you anything about her source?”

  “What did I say the first time you asked me that question? And the second time?”

  “You tell us.”

  “Why should I? You're obviously not paying attention to anything I say. But then there’s the video recording. Go hit replay. No need for me to waste my saliva.”

  “You like that one. Saying you're wasting your saliva.”

  If I answered that, I would be wasting more of it,
so I didn't. Instead, knowing they would realize what I was doing, I closed my eyes and started counting. A thousand-one, a thousand-two, a thousand-three, and so on, until I got to twenty, then all over again. I kept doing that through their shouting, through their banging on the table, through their pushing me until I almost fell off my chair, and until they walked out of the room.

  A couple of minutes later, I heard the door click open. When I opened my eyes, I saw Walter, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

  “I didn't take you for a praying man,” he said with a wry smile.

  “But it worked.” I stretched out my hands and arms to him. “You said you'd come when I needed you, and here you are.”

  “What's going on, Andre?”

  “What you wanted to go on. Me playing counter-intel with Bridget, just like you asked. The other thing that's going is you guys going all spastic on me.”

  He unfolded his arms and pushed off the wall. Still smiling, he came toward me and took a seat across the table. “Some people get nervous when they can't keep tap on things.”

  “But not you, obviously.”

  “No, it unsettles me, too. You of all people should understand why.”

  “Yeah, but that's why you have me there, isn't it? Some things can't be monitored with your toys. They require a human touch.”

  “What did you and Bridget talk about?”

  “How she wants me to tell her about my past life.”

  “Which she somehow knows about.”

  “No thanks to me.”

  “Did you ask her how she came into that information?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “She did her clam impersonation. Something about journalistic integrity and protecting her sources, which she then turned into a pitch for how she'd do the same for me.”

  “What sort of details did she give you? About your past, I mean.”

  “Same thing she fed me at the restaurant. Song and dance about TechOps.”

  “Anything more specific?”

  I looked up at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, then back down. “Nope. Drawing a blank.”

  He cupped his hands behind his neck and slid down the chair until he was almost lying down.

  “It's very late, Andre. We're all very tired and would like to go home.”