Chapter 1

Every morning started the same way. Brandon’s eyes would lie fixed on the glimmer of red the four digits of his alarm clock provided, sometimes for hours, sometimes just for a few a minutes. As the sun crept into his room through an open sliver in his thick curtains that often served as the only barrier between his room and the elements, the clock would click over to show the number six followed by zeroes and shrill beeping would fill the pleasant vacuum the early morning in Honduras gifted a man. This morning was no different. Brandon’s hand slapped at the device in protest and it took three attempts before the beeping stopped. He rolled away from the wall on his left and placed his feet gingerly on the floor. It had been nearly six years since his last knee surgery and he’d put them through the paces a number of times since, but working well and feeling well aren’t always the same thing. Audible pops broke the silence the alarm clock had left as he stood and stretched. Across the room from his bed, his reflection stood and matched his movements, they met eyes and Brandon strode slowly toward the mirror. Everyone goes through life with an understanding of who they are as a person: an acute self-awareness that may not always be accurate, but exists as the leftover remainder of life experiences and social interaction. It's possible, because of our skewed self-perspectives, that this idea can run a bit off course from time to time and sudden, painful moments of realization have to right our course: show us who we really are in times of rare lucidity, naked of our personal misconceptions. Standing there in front of the mirror in what acted as his bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, ten minutes from the heart of Roatan Island, Brandon had just such a moment. His skin looked loose, pale, even for a man of his Irish heritage; his eyes were sunken, and where they once held a bluish charm, they looked grey, dark. Dead. He was an old man. Now, he wasn’t necessarily in age, as he'd only recently turned thirty-two, but old none the less. Mileage had stripped the tread from his vitality; his face was weather-worn and greying to match his eyes. His shoulders still had a square power to them, but the strong appearance was tempered by a gut he'd never noticed having before, even if it was only slight. His tattoos, still stretched taught over his biceps and back, looked battle worn. He was no longer a warrior, he was a washed up ex-Marine who'd had too many drinks, too many nights, in too many of the wrong places. A shadow of the man he thought he’d be by now. As the sun rose over the beach combing people of Honduras, Roatan's finest criminals were heading home after another night of depravity, Island churches opened their doors for the Sunday rush, and Brandon Webb woke up with a hangover and broken memories for a tenth day in a row. The headache notwithstanding, Brandon still had a job to do. He turned both tarnished knobs on the faucet, knowing full well only cold water would come from either for at least ten minutes, and cupped enough to splash onto his face. Hoping the cold water would wake him from his stupor, it only served to add to his misery. He made eye contact with himself again and tried to blink away the glimmer of self-pity he was sure he could see. He clenched his jaw and stepped away from sink far enough to drop to the floor and knock out his morning push up regimen. When he was done, he’d follow up with sit ups, lunges and a number of other body weight exercises he didn’t remember if he did to stay in shape, to warm his ailing joints, or simply to wake up. Not that he ever put much thought to it. Brandon found he often wouldn’t really be aware of his thoughts until after he showered and got dressed, although whether that was as a result of grogginess or the alcohol still in his system left room for questioning. It was a warm Sunday, even for Honduras, and Brandon cursed his baggy, cotton button up shirt. He’d been instructed in training to dress in such things, his athletic build and tattoos were enough to stand out in a crowd, so his options were to find a different line of work or learn to slouch and cover his ink. Most days it was easy enough, but sometimes Brandon wished he could forgo the business casual attire and join the natives in their sleeveless shirts and cut off shorts. If he raised his arm the wrong way, a conscientious onlooker may notice a bit of exposed ink but nothing identifiable. Combined with a straw cowboy hat and a large pair of sunglasses, Brandon looked exactly like a man that worked for the cruise lines that brought thousands of tourists to Roatan every year. A clever disguise, because that’s exactly what Brandon did when he wasn’t reading local newspapers and collecting information on border disputes. It was a functional cover, explaining away the presence of a white man living in Honduras, frequenting the local establishments and generally keeping an eye on things – it was his responsibility to ensure the bars, eateries and excursion companies contracted to the major cruise lines were adhering to safety and decency standards. Effectively, he kept the reality of Honduras away from the tourists and acted as the liaison on site when changes needed to be made. As far as covers go, Brandon didn’t have the frame of reference to lodge a complaint, but he assumed he’d lucked out. Playing the role of a moderately wealthy (at least by comparison) white man with connections that could make a local rich was a pretty good gig. Most people were happy to see him, respected his privacy and even bought him a drink from time to time. He wasn’t the most popular man on the island, but he knew who was, as well as a list of every other local that had any social or political leverage. Intelligence is about people above all else. The human element is the missing context that must be sweat over when analyzing any document, photograph or file. Words and pictures are only a way for one person to attempt to accurately convey a message to another – but without an understanding of the person, the people, the message could be garbled or misunderstood. The difference between knowing the owner of the bay’s largest Tug Boat company is cheating on his wife and knowing that his wife is secretly aware and fine with the situation is the difference between successfully leveraging a secret and making a fool of yourself. Brandon had made a fool of himself once or twice, but he was a quick learner and horded favors. Half the island owed Brandon something, but never something substantial enough to warrant a second thought, just enough to answer a question or two when he needed it. Dressed and ready to face the day, Brandon sat back down on the edge of his bed and slid the single drawer in his nightstand open. In contrast to the worn wood and dull colors of his apartment, the shiny box with a dark plastic hand shape and flashing red lights was the only thing that would visibly tie Brandon to anything other than his cruise ship cover. He placed his palm down on the plastic and watched the flashing red light turn green. A quiet whirr let him know the two dead bolt locks were retracting just before the lid popped open slightly. With his left hand, he swung the small door open and he removed the black pistol from its enclosure with his right. He inspected it visually as he pulled the slide back slowly, revealing the head and a sliver of a brass jacket of a round in the chamber; exactly as he’d left it after cleaning the night before. He placed the gun back into the box, closed it and waited for the red light to begin flashing again. He slid the black box into a backpack that still contained his laptop, cash and multiple forms of identification, closed the drawer, stood and made his way across the small room to the door. He left nothing in the room that could tie it to him, and if need be, he could leave with only what was on his back and not set his investigation back a day. Of course, to date, his investigation had provided all of zero fruitful pieces of information, so no one would probably notice anyway. Despite the amount of light that managed to seep past his curtains, the bright Honduran sun caught Brandon across the face like a solid jab. He winced and raised his hand to block the sun as he fumbled for his sun glasses. The aviators did little to diminish the pain consciousness seemed intent on administering, but Brandon had a schedule to keep and hangovers were rarely acceptable as an excuse in the intelligence game. He locked the door behind him and tucked the keys into his backpack. As he slid it over his shoulder, he noticed his hands were shaking a bit. He’d slip a bit of whiskey into his coffee to take the edge off of his hangover when he got to Ramon’s, but for now he settled for the stern damnation of his own internal monologue to get him through, get your shit together, you need to get your shit together, he repeated to himself as he stepped down from the steps and onto the dirt path that served as both the road and sidewalk between his small apartment and the coffee shop. The air smelled sour, Brandon couldn’t know for sure if it was because of someone’s septic tank backing up, or possibly someone just dumping sewage freely. In places like Roatan Island, either was perfectly ordinary, though the closer you got to the tourist areas the more law enforcement tended to crack down on dumping your shit in the street. Brandon had learned long ago not to step in anything that looked like mud on a dry day, and not to wear shoes he wanted to keep on the wet ones. The combination of the soiled air and Brandon’s rapidly worsening hangover put a dull pressure on the back of his throat. He stopped for a moment and touched his neck, as though a few fingers could curb the tide of vomit fighting for its liberty. After a few seconds, it seemed the storm had passed and he could begin his slow walk again, now armed with the realization that his hangover was only getting worse. Mornings like this, Brandon wouldn’t have minded getting less sleep and waking up on the tail end of drunk. Making it to Ramon’s with a buzz would be second nature to Brandon, but waking up just in time to climb hangover mountain was a worst case scenario. He stopped and leaned against a steel fence, recognizing it as the fence just ten feet or so from his front door, Brandon knew he’d never make it through the day like this. His only hope was a little trick he’d learned in college whereby he’d keep drinking, slowly tapering his consumption until late afternoon when he could go to bed early and hopefully sleep through the entire hangover. The small flask he kept in his pack wouldn’t do it then, however. He turned around slowly, keeping one hand on the fence because for some reason the stability helped make him feel less as though he were about to vomit, and began the trudging walk back to his door. He fumbled for his key, slid it into the door and stepped back into cool darkness of his home. A few more paces left him at the foot of his bed where he picked up a clear bottle from the floor. The cap was missing and it had been laying on its side, but Brandon had drank enough of it the night prior to keep much from pouring out through the night. Brandon gagged at the thought of adding any alcohol to his current condition, but per his emergency hangover triage, it was his medicine and he knew he’d need to take it. He sighed, took a long pull from the bottle, and sat on the bed. He set his jaw and gulped preemptively to keep it from coming back up and looked down at the bottle. Kettle One wasn’t as easy to come by in Honduras as it had been back home and Brandon tended only to drink it on special occasions. The night prior was just such an occasion. It was his ex-wife’s birthday. His eyes welled a bit as he slid his thumb over the engraved letters on the glass bottle. Alcoholism, he used to joke, wasn’t a problem unless it affected your relationships, and my wife hasn’t left yet, he remembered the punch line. “I guess I’m an alcoholic then,” he smiled as he held the bottle up in a toast to his far away ex. He took another long swig and put the bottle down. A single tear crept beyond the border of the corner of his eye and Brandon caught it by pressing his finger into his cheek. He honestly wasn’t sure if he really missed her or he just missed his old life. His wife never knew Brandon; she knew him only by the name his parents gave him, but she wouldn’t like the new him anymore than the old. She thought he’d fallen in love with the party he’d found at the bottom of a bottle, then she thought he was drinking to cope with some internal struggle he was facing. Eventually, she came to understand that drinking was just intrinsic to who he was, it was as much a part of him as their marriage was and with that realization came the beginning of the end. When she found him on the floor of their bathroom throwing up blood, she told him she wouldn’t be there when he got back from the hospital. He’d ground up four Vicodin and snorted them off the coffee table the night before. He passed out immediately and the ensuing nose bleed mostly dripped down his throat. The doctor’s prognosis was that he needed to go to rehab, but was physically fine to return home that afternoon. When he got there, she was gone just like she’d said. He found a few more Vicodin and a bottle of vodka on the kitchen table, nice of her not to pack his things, and started up again where he’d left off. Six months later, he’d be hired as a “spy” (not that anyone ever called it that, nor did he ever do any actual spying) and his drinking problem would simply have to come along for the ride. To date, it hadn’t killed him yet. Shows what she knows. He half joked to himself before laying his head back on the pillow. The newspapers, it would seem, would have to wait until the afternoon… Brandon Webb was asleep before he could finish pitying himself. A few hours later, bottle in hand, Brandon began to stir. The headache was still present, but a bit duller now, maybe even manageable. He glanced at his alarm clock, almost noon, the fact that he still retained any of the hangover from six hours earlier was a testament to his alcohol intake the night before. Brandon stood up and pulled at the bottom of his shirt to release the wrinkles that had developed during his nap. Glancing in the mirror once more and now assured that he didn’t look as bad as he felt, Brandon headed for the door of his small apartment for the second time that day.