Back Blast (13 page)

C
hris Travers ordered his fourth shot of Jameson at last call, then he polished off the last few gulps of his draft beer. He’d been drinking since before ten p.m., it was nearly one a.m. now, and he wanted one more for the road, or more precisely, one more for the six-block walk back to his apartment.

This was Travers’s favorite pub and he was a regular here, but he drank alone now. A couple of mates had sat with him for the first round, but they had to push off because the next day was Monday and, after all, who really hung out sipping whiskey till closing time on a Sunday night?

Chris Travers did, because he didn’t work a nine-to-five job. For large swaths of the year he was on the clock 24/7, and for other sizable chunks of the year he was in training and away from home. But for a few precious weeks here and there he was free from training, off from deployment, and on his own to do whatever the hell he wanted to do with his time.

And this evening he was determined to take advantage of one of the all-too-rare respites.

He held the whiskey up to the little light hanging over the bar of the Irish pub to appreciate the amber color, and while he did this he looked out the window into the night. By force of habit, he always kept an eye open. Even here, in the States.

He was surprised to see trash blowing down 19th Street. There had been only the lightest breeze when Travers headed out to the pub hours earlier, so he’d not bothered to dress for warmth—he’d just thrown on a flannel shirt and khaki pants, and boat shoes with no socks. Suddenly he found himself regretting his rare moment of poor preparation.

He’d not thought twice about making the six-block walk down here from his apartment to the Irish Whiskey, because Chris Travers had braved
elements a hell of a lot more severe than a D.C. spring. His mind took him back to a mountain in Pakistan where he’d once spent three days in temperatures below zero; he’d handled that without a second thought. Granted, at the time he’d been under fire from Taliban snipers, so he had bigger fish to fry than catching a chill, but still, he told himself, tonight’s ten-minute hump back to his apartment would be no big deal.

Travers had joined the army out of high school, served two years in straight-legged infantry and, with that, three tours of Iraq. He then earned his way into the Green Berets, spending three more years in 7th Special Forces Group. From there he left the military and went straight into the CIA, found his way to SAD Ground Branch, and, with his paramilitary unit, he had deployed all over the world for the past ten years.

This had been a life well spent, but he had a long-term plan for his life ahead, too. He’d earned his private and commercial pilot’s licenses along the way and, he told himself, once he got too old or too beat-up for the shooting and scooting life, he’d stay with the Agency, flying spooks and techs all over the world as a pilot for Air Branch.

But that was somewhere in the future. For now he was between deployments, spending his evening alone in a bar and thinking about all his mates who didn’t make it back home from Iraq, and from a dozen other shit holes of the world. He’d lost a lot of good friends, and he always dedicated his last drink of the night to them. Then he gave a silent wave to the bartender, a little wink to the waitress, whose attractiveness, like the wind outside, had increased dramatically in the time he’d been sitting on a bar stool drinking, and he headed out into the blustery night.

His apartment was on Florida, several blocks north, and it was directly into the wind, so he jammed his hands into his pockets, and leaned into it as he climbed the hill. There were next to no pedestrians out on a Sunday night, but he was careful to keep watch for movement on the sidewalk or on the street, ready to give a scrutinizing eye to anyone or anything that looked out of place.

He wasn’t aware of any specific threats, but men like Travers had personal security and counter-surveillance techniques trained into their muscle memory.

He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

—

C
ourt Gentry was completely enshrouded in his hoodie and neck gaiter; only his eyes, forehead, and the bridge of his nose remained visible. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he kept his head low into the wind. He stood on the sidewalk, three doors down from Chris Travers’s apartment, and he waited for his target to appear, walking back from the pub.

Once he saw the man in the distance make the turn onto Florida, he tucked himself into a little alley that ran south off the street, found the deepest and darkest place, well out of the wind, and waited with his hand on the pistol in his jacket pocket.

He imagined Travers was probably a little drunk, but Court also knew the majority of the effects of the alcohol would disappear almost instantly when the adrenaline kicked in, so he knew he had to presume Travers would remain formidable.

Court was also aware Travers would be hardwired with every counter-surveillance protocol and tactic known to man, and he would treat everyone he saw as a potential adversary. That said, Travers could not evaluate what he could not see, so Court waited here, just out of the sight line of his quarry.

Court knew where Chris Travers lived because Court knew Chris Travers.

Travers had been an SAD Ground Branch operations officer at the same time as Gentry. While they weren’t on the same task force, they had trained together from time to time and, to the extent Gentry got along with anyone, he had gotten along well with Travers.

The first time they met was in Court’s early days with the Goon Squad. Travers and some of his team were assigned to play the opposition force against Court’s Golf Sierra task force at a shoot house in Moyock, North Carolina. For two days Zack Hightower and his boys, all jocked up in combat gear, kicked in the doors of the shoot house and cleared rooms, opening fire on the other team, who were all dressed in robes or other Middle Eastern attire.

They fired Simunitions at one another. Plastic bullets loaded with paint that left a splotch on the clothing and blistering welts on the skin.

After the training the guys on both teams would go out to a local watering hole. For the most part the teams stayed to themselves, but Travers
saddled up next to the bar alongside Court and complimented him on his skills. He asked questions of a tactical nature, bought Court a couple of drinks, and rolled his eyes when Court’s team leader, Zack Hightower, told Court to stop fraternizing with the enemy and sit with his Golf Sierra unit.

The last time Gentry and Travers had run into each other had been at a funeral in D.C. Court barely knew the Ground Branch officer who’d been killed, but Zack Hightower had mandated all his team to go to the funeral because they were in town that week and few other SAD shooters were around to pay their respects.

Travers had been there; he’d been best friends with the man who had died, and after the funeral he invited all the Ground Branch men in attendance to his place, just a few blocks away. It was a two-bedroom second-floor walk-up in a part of town where 700-square-foot apartments sold for north of a million dollars. When Hightower asked Travers if he’d taken to spying for the Chinese to pay his mortgage, Travers replied that his mom owned the building and he lived here for free, and due to the deal he was getting and the convenience of the location he wouldn’t think about moving as long as he was CIA.

Court remembered the location, and although he didn’t know for sure if Travers was in town, as soon as he took up surveillance on the building tonight he saw the second-floor lights flip off and his old colleague step off the stoop and head south on foot.

Court had remained a hundred yards back, keeping out of the streetlights, while he tracked the distant figure to an Irish pub on 19th Street. Confident he’d return home after a few drinks, Court retraced his steps and found an alley nearby with a place to sit and wait.

He told himself it was Sunday night, and he doubted Travers would hang out at the bar till last call.

He’d been wrong. Court was bored and freezing now, but not for much longer, so he shook his arms and stamped his feet to prepare himself for action.

Travers had been a decent guy, Court remembered, but that was years ago, and in those intervening years Travers had no doubt been told that Gentry was both a rampaging murderer and an enemy of America. Court was here to talk to his old acquaintance, but he knew he had to take the other man down quick and hard. It didn’t have to get bloody, but Travers
would make the ultimate determination of how rough things were going to go tonight.

Now Travers passed along the sidewalk, moving abreast with the alleyway. Instinctively the man’s head turned to scan for threats in the dark, but it was already too late.

Court stood there, face obscured, with his small pistol in his hands. In a tone that was measured perfectly to command attention without being loud enough to alert nearby apartment dwellers, Court said, “Hands on your head, Chris, or you die.”

Travers stopped in his tracks, and his hands rose slowly. “What the fuck is this?”

“I’m going to search you for weapons, then we are going up to your place.”

“Who are you?”

Court knew the man wouldn’t remember his voice, and there was no way Travers would recognize him from just his eyes in a darkened alley.

“I’m only a threat if you make me a threat. I just want to have a little talk.”

“You can’t talk without a gun?”

“Of course I can. The gun is so
you
talk. Turn around and back up to me.”

Travers complied, clearly now aware that this man not only knew his name, but he also knew Travers had some training.

Court pushed him up against the brick wall of the alleyway. While keeping his gun leveled at the man’s back, Court felt over the man’s waistband with his left hand. Finding nothing there, he checked Travers’s pockets. He had a mobile phone, which Court slipped into his own pocket, a billfold, which Court left alone, and a set of keys, which Court took from the pocket and placed in Travers’s left hand.

Court then knelt quickly and grabbed at the man’s ankles. There was no ankle holster.

“I’m not carrying,” Travers said.

But Court wasn’t finished. He reached around to the front of the SAD operator’s body, grabbed the man’s belt buckle, feeling for a knife there, then he pulled Travers’s shirt out of his pants and swept his hand up the man’s chest.

Hanging from a chain around Travers’s neck Court found a small blade in a sheath. He yanked the chain, breaking it free, and he threw it into the alley behind him.

Travers grumbled, “That cost me three hundred bucks.”

Court finished the frisk and stepped back. “Bullshit. You can get them for sixty on the Internet.”

“Who
are
you?”

“Move.”

T
ravers led the way to his building and up his stoop, used a key on his chain to unlock the door, then climbed the stairs and entered his own apartment with a second key.

The space wasn’t large, less than a thousand square feet, and the living room was only twelve by fifteen. Court turned on the overhead, and Travers began moving towards the sofa.

Court stopped him. “Not there. Sit on the mantel in front of the fireplace. Hands on your lap where I can see them.”

Travers did as instructed. Court moved to the couch and, with his gun trained on the other man, yanked up the cushions.

The handle of a sheathed bowie knife jutted out of the corner where the springs met the side of the sofa.

Court pulled out the blade and tossed it on a side table. “You are just full of tricks, aren’t you?”

“And you seem to know every one. Again, who the fuck
are
you?”

Court sat down in a wicker chair next to the sofa, ten feet away from the man seated on the hearth. He then lowered his neck gaiter and took his hood and his cap off his head.

“Sierra Six?”

“We both know what’s about to happen.”

Travers cocked his head. “Maybe you do, but I don’t have a fuckin’ clue.”

“Sure you do. You’re going to act compliant, wait for me to let my guard down a little, say a bunch of shit about how we used to be buds, and you’re going to look for your opportunity. As soon as you see any chance, you’re going to take it.”

“Why would I—”

“Just know that I’m expecting it, and also know that as soon you fucking flinch, I’m putting three rounds through your heart.”

Travers said, “I don’t know why you think I’m going to attack you, and I sure as fuck don’t know why you are pointing a gun at me.”

“Because you’re SAD, and you have orders to kill me.”

“
Kill
you? What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t heard your name in years.”

Court was impressed. Travers did a good job selling his story.

“Bullshit.”

“I swear it, man.”

To that Court just replied, “Moscow.”

“
Moscow?
What about Moscow?”

“Two years ago, a market a couple blocks away from where I was staying. I saw you with another dude, I didn’t know him, but he was a Ground Branch–looking motherfucker. I followed you back to your hotel, the Hilton Leningradskaya, then watched you leave with your partner and four other guys. A full six-man element. I recognized Jenner. I figured him to be the team leader because he’s been around since forever.”

Court could see the wheels turning in Travers’s brain, but to be fair, they turned fast. “Yeah. Okay, we were there. But it didn’t have anything to do with you. Another op. Code worded, so I can’t talk about it.” He paused. Faked a little chuckle. “I didn’t see you at all. That’s a hell of a coincidence, I’ll give you that.”

“You’re full of shit. You guys were on my trail. You ran a full monty surveillance op outside the place I was renting. Bad luck for you that I saw you first and left town before you got set up.” Court smiled. “How long did you guys sit on the location before you realized I’d bugged out?”

Travers said, “Man . . . you’re just paranoid. I’m not after—”

“I know about the shoot on sight. I know Carmichael has JSOC and SAD hunting me all over the world. I
know
that’s what you were doing in Moscow. The longer you sit here and deny it, the more pissed off I get while pointing a gun at your face. Right now might be a good time to do things to minimize my anger.”

Travers looked like he was going to keep up the ruse, but after a few seconds he deflated, his shoulders drooping. He gave a shrug and a nod.
“You win, Gentry.” After another shrug he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I felt bad about it.”

“That’s a huge comfort,” Court said, then added, “asshole.”

“So? What are we doing? What do you want?”

“I want to know why. Why is there a shoot on sight out on me?”

Travers and Gentry made eye contact for several seconds, till Travers asked, “Why are you playing dumb?”

“Because I
am
dumb. I have a guess, but I don’t know for sure. Tell me.”

“
You’re
the enemy of the state, not me. Don’t ask me what you did.”

“Come on. They told you why. What did they say?”

Travers heaved his shoulders and closed his eyes. In frustration he said, “Dude, why’d you come back here? What the hell are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m trying to figure it out. To make it right.”

“Make it
right
? Jesus H. Christ, you really do
not
know why they are after you!”

“Tell me.”

Travers shrugged, and this gesture looked utterly real. “I don’t know the specifics. Just that you were sent out on an op, you were given good intel and clear orders, and then went off script.” Travers winced, like he didn’t want to say it. “You killed the wrong dude, bro.”

“What do you mean?”

“How else can I say it? You smoked the wrong guy. You capped a noncombatant. You fragged a friendly. You termed some innocent son of a bitch and fucked up the mission.”

Court shook his head slowly. “No. That’s not true. That must be disinformation Carmichael is using to get everyone on board with the term order. All my ops were solid. I never had an unauthorized termination.”

Travers kept his eyes on the gun. “Court, I didn’t get it from Carmichael. You think door-kickers like me hang out with Denny Carmichael?”

“Who told you?”

“Me and a lot of the guys asked for a full brief on the reasons behind the term order. We didn’t like hunting one of our brothers, know what I mean?”

Yeah,
Court thought.
I know exactly what you mean. You mean you
want me to lower this pistol because I’m supposed to act like we’re just members of the same big happy family.

“We were briefed by Jordan Mayes and some big-shot lawyer from the Office of General Council. Chunky dude, German name, don’t remember it. He wore this goofy bow tie, I do remember that. Anyway, he said you were derelict on a mission, but no one knew at the time. Years later intel filtered from some foreign service to Carmichael proving you zapped the wrong motherfucker. Bow tie dude told us Carmichael wanted you brought in for questioning. Your own task force was sent in to pick you up . . . and then you smoked them all.” Travers hesitated before saying the last part, as if he only just understood the repercussions of having a killer of CIA officers sitting in his apartment with a gun pointed at his chest.

Court said nothing.

“You going to tell me that didn’t happen, either?”

Court kept the gun up, but his body sagged a little. “They weren’t bringing me in. They were sent to terminate me.”

“
Term
you? Why would you be killed for schwacking an innocent person on a mission? Shit happens. You might have been cashiered from the Agency if the dereliction was bad enough, but they wouldn’t
kill
you. Not for that.”

Travers went on. “But once you killed your own guys . . . then it was on, bro. Denny has been after you ever since. You’ve done a hell of a good job hiding out, but if you kill me now, well, they’ll just know you are here in town.”

Court cocked his head in surprise. “Pretty sure they already know I’m here.”

Travers rolled his head back as if he was looking to the heavens. “Well, I sure wish someone would have bothered to give
me
the heads-up.”

“Look, you aren’t going to believe me over this suit from General Council . . . but I was
not
derelict. I never fragged the wrong target. Not once. Not
ever
.” He added, “And my team tried to murder me, not bring me in. I
had
to defend myself.”

Travers nodded like he believed, but Court didn’t think for a minute that he’d convinced him.

Travers said, “Okay. I guess they got it wrong. I’ll let everybody know. That should fix things.” It was sarcasm, brave considering Travers’s situation, but it was clear to Court the other man wanted to show he was not afraid.

Court thought a moment. “AAP. Does that mean anything to you?”

Travers was taken aback by the question. “You mean that magazine for old people?”

“No, Chris. That’s AA
R
P. I am talking about the Autonomous Asset Program. Did this guy from General Council say anything about that?”

Travers shook his head. “I don’t know what that is. He didn’t mention it. Sounds stupid.”

Court sagged low on the couch, frustrated and confused. But then he nodded to himself. Softly he said, “Carmichael needed an excuse to kill me, so he came up with a cover story. He had to erase the AAP. Terminate all the participants . . . But they couldn’t breathe a word about it to anyone. They blamed me for some imaginary screwup.”

“Whatever you say, dude,” Travers said. He hadn’t heard everything, because Court had been speaking to himself.

Court ignored him and stood up slowly.

“What are you going to do?” Travers asked, letting a little nervousness show in his voice now.

“I’m leaving. You are useless. You know even less about what went down than I do.” Then he said, “Stand up.”

Travers did so. Court reached into his coat and pulled out zip ties. The other man’s eyes widened just a little, but he made no comment.

Court said, “Your lucky day, right? You know how to get out of these in five seconds. Put them on. Behind your back.”

Travers followed Gentry’s orders, confused. He
did
know how to defeat zip ties, even when his arms were fastened behind his back, but if Gentry knew this already, why was he using them?

When his arms were secured, Court walked up to him and spun him around. A second later Travers heard the sound of thick duct tape being pulled from a roll.

“You motherfucker,” he mumbled. The zip ties were just to keep his hands down while Court restrained him in a way that would be much harder to defeat.

—

F
ive minutes later Travers’s arms and hands were completely secured, from the shoulders all the way down to the fingertips, with an entire roll of duct tape. His ankles were bound with wires from two table lamps. He sat
on the floor, arms outstretched behind him like a single wing, and his feet in front of him, lashed together.

Once Court was finished he knelt over the other man and surveyed his work. “You look ridiculous,” he said.

“I’ve got to piss.”

“Just think of that as additional incentive.” Court patted the other man on the head. “Good to see you, Chris.” He headed for the door.

“Fuck you. Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to get out of this?”

Court flipped off the overhead in the living room. The only remaining light was from the street, filtering in through the curtains. He said, “If this equation takes you more than ten minutes to solve, then you are a poor excuse for an asset.” Court reached for the door latch.

Travers called after him. “Hey, Court?”

“Yeah?”

Travers paused, then said, “I’m going to tell you this as a friend. I really hope you’ll take my advice. Run. Just fucking run. You had the right plan. Staying off grid, out of the States. That was working for you. There is no future to you sticking around here. Trust me on that. Now that you’re here. Now that they know. They’ll rain down on you with everything they have, and they
will
kill you.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Court said, and he left Travers there, alone in the dark.

—

I
t was well after two a.m. when Court pulled into a little market and gas station a mile from his long-term storage unit in Columbia Heights. He’d been driving around for a while, rolling into, and then back out of, a half dozen other convenience store parking lots, because he was looking for a very specific setup.

He needed a place with poor CCTV camera coverage of the parking lot.

Court took it on faith that the U.S. government would have access to civilian CCTV networks here in the area. They would also have facial recognition software working to identify him as he moved around the city. While there was nothing Court could do to avoid getting picked up on cameras inside stores—he couldn’t very well wear a ski mask as he
shopped—he knew it was in his best interests to show neither his face nor his vehicle on camera.

Court could mitigate the risk to himself by never going to the same place more than once. By the time he was identified on camera and CIA or police arrived to investigate, hours would have passed. Court merely had to know better than to ever return. But if he allowed his image to be recorded and identified
and
he allowed his vehicle to be identified by parking it in view of a CCTV camera, then he would be screwed, because he couldn’t very well change cars every time he went out into the city.

The parking lots of the first six late-night markets he pulled into had good camera coverage, with no place to park without exposing his vehicle. The seventh store, to Court’s great relief, did have a couple of outdoor cameras near the pumps, but the store’s owners were cutting corners and relying on the inside camera to film a portion of the lot near the window. Court only had to pull up to one side of the front window or the other, park in a space there, and then go inside.

Court stepped carefully into the Easy Market on Rhode Island with his head down. He lowered his hood, but he left his baseball cap on, low in front of his face. He moved slowly to the back corner of the establishment, far away from the register, and he pretended to look through the cooler for a drink. Soon he glanced up and around the little shop, scanning high and in the corners, searching for cameras.

And Court liked what he saw. Not only had the management here gone cheap with the cams outside; two of the cameras inside the market were hanging down with wires unplugged—clearly out of commission. A third camera was up to the right of the front register and facing down, but Court determined he could defeat it with his cap and by turning his face away from the proper angle needed for successful facial recog.