Chapter 5

Brandon stood up straight and brushed himself off; making sure nothing from the dirty window sill had stuck to his coat or pants. He still had an impression to make. His anxiety about leaving the backpack with Ramon was only surpassed by his anxiety for what was next: case the meeting point. Brandon had received a few days of training on doing just that, though it was two years ago and his memory of it was vague, at best. His plan to investigate the pier was as much the product of his training as it was the movies he’d seen. He knew that probably didn’t bode particularly well for him, but you have to play the hand you’re dealt. He slid the pistol out from his waistband as he walked casually on empty streets. The slide pulled back smoothly and he let it propel itself forward, seating a round in the chamber. In the Marines, they’d called carrying a weapon with a round in the chamber a “condition one” weapon, meaning that he could simply draw and fire. Even on deployments, rarely did you carry your weapon in such a state. Your chances of shooting yourself or someone else in your platoon were much higher than shooting an enemy, especially because none of his deployments had been to combat zones. Somehow though, feeling the pistol in his hand, knowing it was loaded, comforted him. Not from a security standpoint, he still had no idea what to expect from the evening, but because of the familiarity. He’d spent his entire adult life, save a year or so in a cubicle, carrying a weapon. At least something about tonight was familiar. He flicked the safety off, then back on again, and slid it into the front of his pants… just in case Ramon was right. Pier forty was the furthest pier from the gate: the worst possible place for Brandon to be if his host brought a sniper or two. From his vantage point on the hill he’d climbed, he could make out just enough to know for sure that there would be no cover, and also that he wished he had binoculars. Make a note of that if you survive for next time, Brandon joked to himself. It would still be an hour and a half before he was supposed to meet Deepthroat, and he had really hoped a plan would form after getting a view of the location. Instead, he found himself utterly helpless and now more aware of it than ever. If he needed to run, his best bet would be to dive into the water. Unlike you see in movies, bullets don’t travel far under water and they tend to break apart at the surface. If he dove deep enough, he might even be able to evade a fifty caliber sniper rifle, not that it would do him any good. The distance you could cover with a Barrett fifty-cal meant he’d be dead before the sound of the shot reached him. If this was a trap and he managed to escape, his main priority would be to get back to Ramon’s and destroy the laptop. In a way, he kicked himself for not doing it ahead of time, but if it was a legitimate meeting with his immediate superiors, explaining that he smashed their laptop to pieces upon receiving his orders wouldn’t be a great way to start the conversation. That said, he assumed the way he communicated with his command wasn’t unique to him, meaning the laptop could provide enemies of the state with the means by which to infiltrate their communications. Ultimately, Brandon knew, the laptop was more valuable than he was. He tried to pick out exit points, but the gate eliminated most. He had an access card that would permit him entry; how the man he was meeting would get inside was beyond him, but he assumed a locked door would do little to keep anyone in his agency, or one of its enemies out. The gate itself acted as a funnel point; with a good rifle and iron sights, Brandon could keep a pretty sizeable force from getting through the door at a few hundred yards without breaking a sweat. Information that would have been extremely valuable if Brandon had any backup, or a decent rifle. Once inside the gate, three buildings (one on the left and two on the right) created an excellent firing position for anyone who might want it. If they had the high ground, it would turn the area he’d have to walk through to get to the pier into what he and his Marine friends used to refer to as a “kill zone.” Brandon sighed and slumped down onto the grass. He came out here expecting to find a situation he might be able to get a handle on, but he was wrong. It was a perfectly chosen location: no cover, fire superiority could be achieved with a minimal amount of support, and because Brandon would have to use his key card to unlock the door, it prevented anyone else from casually strolling into their business. Not that it should have come as any kind of surprise, but whoever e-mailed him seemed to be pretty good at this game. He looked at his watch, still had another hour to go. He would wait another twenty minutes or so before walking back down into town via the side of the hill facing away from the port, then he’d slowly make his way to the gate in as indirect and casual a manner as he could manage. For now though, all he could do was wait. Before he knew it, it was time to start his walk. Brandon stood up again, shaking off his pants and slapping at his behind to make sure no clumps of dirt would be making the trip with him, and started down the hill. His heart was racing already; he needed to get a hold of himself. He had forty minutes before the meet would occur, that was too long to spend hyperventilating. He stopped and took a deep breath. For a split second, he thought about Christine, his ex-wife, and wondered where she was tonight. If he died in the next hour, she would never know. Even if she somehow did hear, Brandon Webb was nothing but a stranger to her. What about his family? What about Eve? She’d show up for lunch the day after tomorrow and assume she was stood up. The last time anyone ever thought of him would be to curse his name for flaking on a lunch date before everything that he was faded into oblivion. He shook his head and smiled; it was a ridiculous thing to worry about a time like this. Of course, that didn’t stop him from worrying. The walk took exactly as long as he expected, finding him at the gate just over fifteen minutes prior to their meet. The gate was at least two feet taller than he was and easily thirty feet across. It was made up of two huge doors that swung outward to permit trucks from entering, but there was a normal sized steel door within the larger door that made up the gate’s right side. A small red light near the door knob indicated where to slide your key. As he did so, it chirped its approval. The lock released with a clunk and he stepped through it as he had a thousand times before. He wondered if he ever would again. There didn’t appear to be any shooters stacked on the rooftops. That was little comfort. He knew that in his prime, he could hit a target at five hundred yards in these conditions, which meant any sniper worth his salt could probably triple that distance. Seeing no one was in no way an indicator of his safety, but it was still a bit or a relief. Well, not dead yet, he said to himself as he walked through the middle of the “kill zone.” Once he reached the end of the wood pier, he looked to his right and left. No sign of his contact. He turned around to check back the way he came and noticed he’d left the door open behind him. Idiot! He thought to himself and started toward it. “I wouldn’t worry about that,” A raspy voice came from the shadows of a nearby building, “nobody will make it within a hundred feet of that door unless I want them to.” Brandon froze. The voice seemed like the one he’d heard on the phone, but it had been so long and the conversations so brief, there was no way to know for sure. “So you’re my blind date?” He spoke toward the shadows, “I hope you look like your pictu…” Jokes probably weren’t standard procedure in these situations but Brandon was nervous. “Neither of us have time for your jokes, Agent Carter,” the man interrupted. Agent Carter. The words gave Brandon goose bumps. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Then why don’t we get to what I’m doing here,” Brandon responded with a bit more force than he intended. “Indeed. Let’s.” The man stepped out of the shadows and into the light provided by one of the three working street lights on the pier. He was wearing a grey, double breasted suit, out of style and a bit old fashioned as far as Brandon knew, but then again, Brandon knew little about style. He had the weathered face of a long time smoker and a lit cigarette in his left hand, in his right was a large manila envelope that appeared to be sealed, “I assume meeting like this has you concerned.” “I don’t suppose trust is that common a practice in our line of work,” Brandon stood uneasily, still not sure what to expect from this meeting. “You speak as though we’re in the same line of work,” the man replied with a smile that was hard to pin down. It wasn’t friendly, but almost taunting. “Okay, I’ll bite. What line of work is it that you’re in?” Brandon was more uneasy than ever. He judged the stranger, looking for any sign that he might be communicating with someone he couldn’t see, someone with a scope and good view. “You are in the business of collecting information, Agent Carter,” the man took a drag from his cigarette; “I am in the business of using it.” “For a man that deals in information, you’re not very forthcoming,” Brandon was beginning to grow tired of worrying about a bullet. His tone did little to hide the momentum shifting from fear and adrenaline to the mentality of a military man with little patience for games. “Very well, Agent Carter, let’s dispose of the formalities. We have intercepted a communication that suggests there may be a terrorist cell that’s active in this region of the world. Because of the nature of our intel, we suspect an attack on US interests in Central America is impending,” he took another drag, “we have very little information about the nature of the attack, but I’ve brought you a copy of what little we have.” “Seems like the kind of information you could have easily relayed by e-mail. Why meet?” Brandon reached his hand out for the envelope expecting the man to pass it over; he didn’t. “This is the real deal and we don’t have enough assets to canvas the region. That means analysts like you are our first,” he paused, “only line of defense to speak of. Our assumption was that a meet in person would help demonstrate the gravity of the situation.” “Well, it certainly made an impression.” Brandon pulled his hand back and widened his eyes to demonstrate the stress he’d experienced in the last few hours. “Yes… your reconnaissance was inspired. A hill, Agent Carter? Without binoculars?” His mocking tone didn’t sting as much as the realization that he’d been watched throughout the evening. Brandon clearly wasn’t as good at this as he’d hoped. “Read the files, then burn them,” now he reached the envelope across the void between the two men, “oh, there’s one more thing…” His tone indicated that he had actually forgotten, and was the first sign that the man speaking was actually a human. He reached into the interior pocket of his grey sport coat and for a split second Brandon wondered if he was retrieving a pistol. There didn’t seem to be space for one in the jacket, but then again, what did he know. Fortunately, it was simply a small cell phone. “Can I get 900 numbers on this thing?” Brandon kidded as he accepted the phone into his free hand. “It can only receive calls, Agent Carter. If you need to reach me, text the number one to the only contact in the phone. I’ll call when I can.” He was already facing away from Brandon and beginning to walk toward the gate. Brandon considered walking in the same direction, as it was the only way off the pier, but decided to wait and allow his friend to make his departure first. Walking alongside him now that their business was concluded could only be awkward. “What do I call you?” Brandon called to him while he was still within earshot. “You don’t call me a damn thing, Agent Carter. Not a damn thing.” His reply faded as he did from view. Brandon thought he could make out his profile in the darkness, but after a few minutes, that was gone too. Brandon slid the phone into his pocket and took a deep breath. He wasn’t dead. In fact, he felt awfully foolish for being as concerned that he would be. Roatan Island wasn’t a mastermind’s lair, a tactical stronghold, or even a thriving metropolis. If he were going to be killed, they wouldn’t go through all the trouble of hacking an encrypted e-mail system and asking him to meet, they’d probably just have paid a few local drug addicts to jump him in an alley. Paranoia is only helpful in the intelligence game if you know what you’re doing, he supposed, and Brandon did not. Then again, he did just have a secret meeting with a real life spy. If ever he could tell her, he wondered what Eve would think of that.