Chapter 4

Six o’clock again. The shrill beeping of the alarm clock tore Brandon from his sleep for the first time in as long as he could remember. Usually, no matter how drunk he’d gotten the night before, he was awake in time to witness the clock take its offensive. This morning was different, but not for lack of alcohol. Last night hadn’t been a record setting evening, but it certainly wasn’t dry. Maybe it was something a bit more complex than that, Brandon wondered as he rolled out of bed and onto the floor to begin his pushups. He rotated his hand positioning each morning in order to work different muscle groups harder each day. Today was diamonds, he placed his hands below his chest with his thumbs and index fingers touching and began to rattle them off, but his mind, more alert than usual at this juncture, was already thinking about Eve. Their lunch had ended as pleasantly as it began and the two of them agreed that they should do it again. Brandon paid (just like she wanted) but she insisted on leaving a tip, arguing that even an impoverished college student from America had a few dollars to spare for people who live with so much less. Despite that, Brandon left a tip too, on principle perhaps or maybe because he agreed. The two parted ways and she agreed to meet him for lunch again in a few days. Brandon had been ecstatic, then anxious, then nervous, then drunk. This morning he was a bit of all four. The impending hangover, looming over him like a thunder cloud on the horizon, would be an issue today: a cruise ship was coming in. It was the offseason, but that term really only referred to pricing and frequency of cruises; plenty of people still went on trips during the holidays (especially on Christmas, but thankfully Brandon still had a month or so to worry about that) and although he had already done his rounds earlier in the week, it was expected that he’d be present when the ship docked. He’d receive the staff officers (cruise ships had officers much like naval vessels) and make sure there were no complications with fueling and the like. Primarily, he was just there to solve any problems that may arise, which wasn’t uncommon. There were rarely any serious issues, but there was always something to be done. After he’d finished his workout, he spent a little extra time shaving. Usually he used a bread trimmer set to its lowest setting, in part out of laziness but also because he thought having a little stubble helped grant him a jaw line. His chin wasn’t as pronounced as the other men in his family, leaving a bit of a double chin when he looked down despite his low body fat. Whether or not his stubble trick worked was subject to debate among Brandon and his brothers back home, but fortunately they weren’t around much in his new life. Today was a clean shaven day, though. A thousand tourists and cruise line officials would be herded past him in a few hours and he needed to look as pleasant and inviting as possible. When he stepped out of his apartment he was wearing a light grey sport coat with matching pants and a white button up shirt with two unbuttoned buttons at the top. While it was traditional in the States to only leave the top unbuttoned without a tie, he found unbuttoning the second gave him more of a laid back appearance. This was supposed to be paradise, after all, where even the business men who are working should look relaxed. His backpack had been replaced with a leather briefcase, but the contents remained the same: one laptop, one lockbox with a pistol inside, and an unregistered cell phone he could use in an emergency. His weather worn copy of Casino Royale stayed in the backpack, it would still be some time before he decided to read it again. No matter how many times Brandon saw them, the scale of the cruise ships was always impressive. On the horizon, it looked like any other ship, but as it came closer it began to dwarf all the other sea traffic in the area. Of course, the cruise ships didn’t come into the same port as the rest of the ships on Roatan Island. Working docks tend to be filthy places, which would ruin the important illusion of paradise. Instead, working ships docked on the other side of the island, which was also the side where the locals tended to live. The ship docked and fueled without incident. Cell phone coverage on the island was sparse, so Brandon remained in the Carnival Cruise Lines office for the majority of the day to take calls on a land line if there were any issues with excursions or the like. Aside from the usual lost husbands (this time he was drunk at Jose’s) and angry old women who were simply impossible to please (the local term for these women was brujas, or “witches”) things went fine. The tourists were back aboard in time for dinner and Brandon had already had his first glass of scotch before the anchors were drawn. He had only one day left to complete his weekly report and despite the childlike infatuation he had with Eve, knowing she wouldn’t be in town granted him enough serenity to assume he’d be able to get it written. He stopped briefly at a small market frequented mostly by tourists (indicated by the substantial markup on all the products) and bought two cans of chili. It wouldn’t be a feast, but he could prepare it on his hot plate as he worked with little trouble. He crossed town swiftly, motivated to get the report done and spend the next day relaxing over local newspapers and a bottle of whiskey. Brandon walked into the darkness of his apartment and closed the door behind him. Somewhere between the market and his apartment his mood had shifted. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something made him think of his ex-wife for the first time since her birthday a few days prior. It wasn’t that he thought of her every day, nor did her memory often shake him from what was otherwise a perfectly ordinary day… but feeling the way he had these past few days for the first time in years made the memory somehow more sour. His face was flush, for some reason he felt embarrassed, ashamed even. He didn’t still love his ex-wife, he was almost completely sure of that, but he did once. His longing wasn’t to be with her now, but it was to feel like he did when he was. She left him soon after he graduated from college and all the decisions he made thereafter were directly related to that. The first job he took was to impress her, back when he was hoping to get her back, when he left that job to pursue a career in intelligence, he called her to let her know investigators would be reaching out to her. He had left the Marines with a Secret clearance from the Department of Defense, but he’d need at least a Top Secret for this work. That meant contacting just about anyone that played a role in his life for the past ten years… and few people played a larger role. That was the last time they spoke. She sent him a few e-mails before he left; pleasant, courteous and maybe even concerned ones asking him to keep in touch. He knew she meant it: she was always a better person than he was. He slid the laptop out of his backpack as he reached for the chain hanging from the exposed, single light bulb that lit his bedroom. After placing the laptop on the counter and pulling up his chair, he sat down and reached for the bottle of scotch, still waiting for him where he’d left it. As he poured himself a glass, his mind was rebelling against him, conjuring up images of his old life, his ex, the bed they shared together. For all of Brandon’s masculine exploits, his black belts, his sports, his adventures and his job… his mental undoing was always the same memory. Lying in bed with his head on his wife’s lap, talking about their day inside a bubble of intimacy that engulfed Brandon so completely he could still remember how warm it felt inside. Then, during a moment of silence, he turned to look at her, to kiss her goodnight and tell her that he loved her, but when he caught her eyes he saw it. She didn’t love him anymore. Brandon drank his first two fingers of scotch in one gulp and exhaled his satisfaction. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to get control of the situation. After a moment, he decided it would need more scotch. He poured another two fingers into the glass and looked at it as he swirled the scotch around. After a moment, he decided this glass would best be administered like the last and downed it in one gulp. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he considered the gravity of his method of self-medication. Alcoholism is portrayed in the movies so simplistically; someone develops a problem, their life falls apart, they either get help or they die. If that was true, why wasn’t he dead yet? Worse, he wasn’t sure if that was what he wanted. His computer finished booting up and a single yellow envelope appeared in the top left corner. He had a new message from his contact. Brandon’s contact was an older white man, or at least that was what he inferred based on his voice the few times he’d heard it. Usually contact was made like this, an e-mail or text message, a typed letter with a package or the like. He’d only spoken to him on the phone three times, to the best of his memory. It was always short, nothing but business. Brandon had taken to referring to him as “Deep Throat” in his mind – not after the famous scandal or the obvious porn connotation, but after the character in the X-Files that was always leading Mulder to his next case. He’d never mentioned it to his contact, but he doubted he’d get the joke. Brandon hesitated for a moment before opening the message. A read receipt would reach the sender as soon as he clicked on it, meaning any action indicated within the message would be expected immediately. Of course, Brandon knew they’d be aware of how long he’d been logged on, so the point was moot, he had to open it. His concern wasn’t unfounded. A message now probably meant trouble, he wasn’t late to report and superfluous communication was strictly prohibited. Brandon sighed and slid his finger across the touchpad on his keyboard, double clicked the e-mail, leaned back and focused on the small window the popped open. Meet tonight. Pier 40. 0200. Brandon closed and rubbed his eyes, leaned forward and read it again. It said the same thing the second time. What the hell is going on? Brandon wondered with a slight sense of panic. It was still early, hours before he’d have to head toward the pier, which was somehow even worse. That bought him plenty of time to worry about what this could possibly be about. It had to be something important, or they wouldn’t be meeting in person… but why meet in person at all? Brandon had grown accustomed to feeling in control in most situations. He studied the world around him because it was his job, but insulated by his real understanding that where he was served nearly no tactical importance. The real life spy game didn’t extend to the shores of Roatan Island; this was where entry level guys like him paid their dues or drank themselves to death. Meeting with his contact in person? Did that mean his dues were paid up? Were they transferring him? What if his cover was blown? He could be walking into a trap where he’d go from useless analyst to captured American spy in a heartbeat. His heart was racing, he poured himself another glass of scotch, drank it like the first two, stood up and began to pace. First, he’d clean and check the pistol, load the second magazine he usually left empty and iron the sport coat and pants he was wearing to make sure he looked professional. If he was going to die or be promoted, either way, it seemed fitting to be in a suit. Then, he’d leave two hours early and try to find a high enough point to get a clear view of the pier he was supposed to meet at and make sure there were no surprises in store for him when he got there. Finally, he’d hide the laptop somewhere safe in the event he was captured. If the enemy had infiltrated their secure intranet, it was probably a meaningless gesture, but it seemed appropriate none the less. He pulled the lock box from his backpack and set it on the counter beside the laptop, unlocked it and removed the pistol. It was immaculate, as one would expect a pistol to be when it’s cleaned regularly and never fired. He decided against disassembling it for further cleaning – the last thing he needed to do now was get nervous and lose the firing pin. Instead, he set it on the counter and poured himself another drink. This time he sipped it as he worked. At a little after midnight and wearing a freshly pressed suit, Brandon stepped out of his apartment carrying his backpack in his left hand. He had considered stashing it under the floor boards, but if something were to happen to him, it was inevitable that those responsible would find his apartment. He decided instead to stash it inside Ramon’s coffee shop. It would be closed and locked up, but it wouldn’t be difficult to pick the cheap padlocks he used to lock the shutters closed each night. He walked casually, but quickly, hoping not to draw attention to himself as he approached the dark building. He hadn’t learned how to pick locks in training, though they did cover it briefly. Brandon had actually learned the finer points of lock picking on YouTube. He used to pick the lock to the supply closet at work and rearrange the gear inside just to mess with a particularly unsavory janitor in his old office. Soon, the janitor started using a padlock on the door as well, but lucky for Brandon, there are videos on how to deal with them too. It had been a few years and he was sure he’d be rusty, but he remembered what he was doing and was confident he’d be inside in no time. When he arrived, there were some locals milling about on the street, one clearly drunk and the other looking after him. Brandon waited in the shadows for what seemed like an eternity as they passed. Once the coast was clear, he approached the locked shutter on the alley side of the building, hoping it would provide him the most cover from any more pedestrians, and began to work at the lock with two stiff pieces of wire. For a moment, he feared he may have overestimated his abilities, until the silence was broken by a satisfying click. The shutters were hinged at the top, creating a bit of an awning when open. Brandon slid the lock off and raised the shudder just enough to squeeze between it and the building, then he hoisted himself inside. The coffee shop seemed ominous from inside with the shutters closed and only the slightest bit of light provided by his small, pen sized flashlight. Brandon walked behind the counter to look for a good place to stash the bag, but couldn’t find a cabinet that wasn’t filled with something he knew Ramon would use in the morning. That left only the back room that Ramon had outfitted as a poor excuse for a kitchen. Surely, he’d find a good hiding place there. “Hola, Senior Webb.” A voice from the kitchen caught Brandon off guard just before he turned to head into it. It was Ramon’s voice. “If you wanted the secret to my wonderful coffee, you could have asked.” “Ramon… I…” Brandon’s mind was racing for an explanation for what he was doing there. “You are what? Robbing me? I think not, Mr. Webb. Your suit is worth more than the contents of my cash register. So what is it you are doing here then?” Ramon’s voice was calm, but coming from the shadows. Brandon stepped forward enough to see the silouhette of the man sitting upright on a cot in the kitchen. Why hadn’t he considered that Ramon would sleep here? Brandon sighed. He could go for his gun, but that would end with one of them dead, as he was certain Ramon was considering the same. “I’m in some trouble, Ramon. I’m just looking for a place to stash my bag.” Brandon decided a version of the truth was the easiest to reconcile. “And the contents of the bag?” It almost seemed as though Ramon’s interest had been peaked at the suggestion of trouble. “A computer. It’s got important information for the cruise lines and I can’t…” “Enough lies, Mr. Webb. You do not care about the cruise lines information any more than you care about the cruise lines themselves,” Ramon interrupted. This was starting to look bad. Was it possible that Brandon had been wrong about Ramon? He seemed to know more than Brandon was comfortable with. “What makes you say that?” Brandon was pleased with how confident his voice sounded. “Because they are merely your job. You have no passion for what you do, you would not risk for them. No, this… this is something else, but no matter. You may hide your bag here.” Ramon stood and gestured toward the back of the small kitchen as he spoke. Brandon still couldn’t make out anything behind him, “I will turn on this light and you and I will talk, si?” “Si.” Brandon slid his right hand along his waistband to his back, where the compact nine millimeter was tucked. He knew drawing his weapon would be no use unless he intended to use it. Men with burn scars all over their bodies tend not to flinch when threatened. Ramon kept his hands intentionally visible, or at least their profile, as he crossed the room and reached for the light switch. Instantly, the room was bathed in white light, causing Brandon to squint and step back as his eyes adjusted. Ramon was wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts and a white tank top, a small pistol, from the looks of it a twenty-two, was tucked into the front of his boxers. He kept his hands outstretched slightly to his sides to ensure Brandon didn’t misunderstand his motives. “Why come here?” Ramon asked staring Brandon in the eyes. He was clearly attempting to ascertain more information than Brandon was volunteering. “It seemed like a good enough spot… hide it in plain sight. I guess I didn’t think it through too thoroughly,” Brandon admitted, “why help me?” “Because you’re my best customer, Mr. Webb.” “Bullshit, I buy a two dollar cup of coffee and keep your business stocked with vagrants. I thought we were done lying,” Brandon may not have been an ace operative, but he was always good at spotting a liar. Ramon laughed and lowered his hands to his sides, still careful to keep them far from the grip of his pistol. “Okay, okay because if you do not come back, the bag and whatever valuables it contains will be mine. I will not touch it for dos dias. You have that much time to return for it. If you do not, then it is mine to do with what I will.” Every bit of training Brandon had undergone within the agency and during his time with the Marines told him this was a terrible idea. His gut disagreed. “And what if you come to find there’s nothing of value to you in it?” Brandon spoke as he tried to think of alternatives to leaving the bag with a stranger that may or may not know far too much about him. “What concern is that of yours? You will be gone. Dead perhaps, or maybe just off looking for a better life. Where you go is not my concern; what you have is valuable to someone or it would not be worth hiding. A man cannot live on coffee grounds alone.” Ramon gestured toward the open bag of coffee beans on the floor near Brandon’s feet. Brandon stood silent for a moment, considering his options. To try to leave now could end badly; he wasn’t sure how far Ramon would go to get the bag. Of course, there was no guarantee Ramon would honor their agreement either. The laptop would seem useless to him, sure, but Brandon had no way of knowing what kind of connections the old coffee shop owner could have. Still, for some reason, Brandon believed him. Something in his gut told him it would be all right, and in this situation, that was really all Brandon had to go on. “Okay… I have your word that you won’t touch it until I come back?” Brandon reiterated their terms. “As long as you come back,” Ramon answered with a smile. “Then we have a deal. I’ll be back for it later tonight… but this time, I’ll knock.” Brandon passed the backpack to Ramon’s now outstretched hand. “Try not to get yourself killed, gringo. I meant it when I said you were my best customer.” Ramon’s hand clasped around one of the straps of the backpack. Brandon noticed before letting go that the watch on Ramon’s wrist was an Omega. He certainly isn’t living on coffee grounds alone, Brandon thought to himself. “I’d hate to put you out of business. I’ll be back before sunrise.” Brandon turned to leave the way he came in. “Then tuck your pistol into the front of your pants. Any fool can tell when you’re reaching behind you.” Ramon answered as he slid his cot away from where it was with his foot. He pressed down hard onto one of the newly exposed pieces of floor tiling and a pop let him know when it had come loose. He pushed it over revealing a dark hold beneath the floor which he then placed the bag into before re-securing the wood in its original place. They made eye contact and Ramon smiled, Brandon smiled too, though he wasn’t sure why. “Thanks for the advice,” Brandon said with a hint of sarcasm before pressing the shudder away from the building and slipping back out into the night.