Chapter 24

James tried his best to focus on his work, despite how monotonous it was and how little value it seemed to provide in the grand scheme of things. He was familiar with the need to keep up with such administrative tasks, the Marine Corps had been no different, but had this really been worth giving him an open line of credit and flying him halfway around the world? They could have hired a teenager to do this job for about how much he’d just spent on his new jacket. It was a waste of resources and a waste of his time. James knew that he didn’t have any particular “right” to this case; he was aware that the death and destruction he’d witnessed firsthand was not his tragedy to claim, nor was it his to avenge, but deep in his gut, he wanted to. None of the people in this room watched those people die. None of the people, now busily answering phones and scribbling on legal pads, were there pulling bodies, alive and dead, out of the ocean. None of them watched the clear, blue waters of what had become his home fade into a murky brown as blood mixed with whatever else spilled from the ship. No, he didn’t have a right to this case, but he sure as hell wanted one.

It took him the better part of an hour to fix the first few files, frequently referring back to the reference he’d been provided, using a small ruler he’d borrowed from another well dressed and nameless agent to ensure each file folder was no more than a half an inch thick and had a proper stick-on label indicating its file number and the date the file was opened and closed. He remembered watching his Lance Corporals do this for him when he was a sergeant and as he stacked folders into a banker’s box for easy transfer to the filing cabinets, he considered his new position: an agency lance corporal. Of course, he was a lance corporal in a suit he would have needed a bank loan to purchase just a few weeks earlier, and his accommodations made any apartment he’d ever had look impoverished by comparison. Barcelona was an aging city and he’d struggled a bit with their Spanish (as it was quite different from the Honduran dialect he’d been speaking for the past two years) but it was beautiful in its own right. He didn’t have sunshine and white sand, but Europe’s ancient charm wasn’t lost on him. Somehow, he kidded to himself, he’d managed to take huge steps both toward and away from living the James Bond lifestyle he’d dreamed of. He finished sliding the folders into their appropriate places in the cabinets and turned to see Agent DePietro approaching him, casually swaying her hips as she walked as though it wouldn’t put half the men in the room into cardiac arrest.

“Good work, Agent Carter. You seem well suited for such things,” the sarcastic tenor of her voice did nothing to hinder the brilliance of her smile. James was learning to hate that about her.

“I’m good at all sorts of things, DePietro. Just try me.” James words came once again without his approval. He wasn’t sure if she’d take it as an invitation to fight or have sex. He wasn’t sure which he meant it as. She rolled her eyes, indicating she wasn’t interested in either.

“Get your coat; we’re going to dinner.” Barely noticeable but none the less present, was a hint of amusement in her voice. The corner of her mouth perked upwards for an instant before she turned and walked away, presumably to get her things. James stood there for a moment, in part begrudgingly watching her shapely body as she walked away, but also trying to translate the body language she’d failed to mask as she spoke. Was she entertained as the prospect of the two of them having sex? Or was it fighting? Maybe she was just enjoying the fact that her looks had clearly gotten to him. Maybe she was better at this than he thought, and she was just playing him. He looked around and noticed at least two male agents looking at him and a half dozen more watching her as she crossed the room. He may be the new kid, but at least he was hanging out with the right crowd. James returned to his seat, grabbed his jacket, and met her at the door.

“Ready to go?” He asked her as a formality. She was already wearing a soft wool coat with a fur collar that looked like it wouldn’t have felt out of place on a movie star from the nineteen fifties. She pulled it off exquisitely.

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m starving,” she looked to the man at the desk near the door, “could you please have a car brought around?” He nodded and picked up the telephone.

“Why not just issue each agent a vehicle?” James asked as they headed toward the elevator.

“All the cars are kept in a secure garage under twenty-four hour guard to ensure no one can tamper with them,” she answered him as she pressed the down arrow.

“Worried about bombs?” James nodded his head. Marines are not spies, and they’ll be the first to tell you so, but to most people they’re indistinguishable from any service member and certainly no more important, but even they took serious precautions against car bombs.

“A recording device could do far more damage, Agent Carter.” They stepped into the elevator. James couldn’t help but notice that it seemed like she was standing a bit closer to him than she had in the past.

“I keep forgetting that it’s only the information that’s valuable,” James’ eyes glazed a bit as he thought, once again, about the body count he felt responsible for.

“You speak like an idealist that doesn’t yet understand how the world works.” DePietro seemed annoyed by his misery. It made him like her even less.

“How many dead bodies have you seen?” James turned his head and stared into the side of hers this time. She remained silent, “I was twenty-two years old the first time I saw a dead body. He was sitting upright in a chair, half hidden in the dark shadow of concrete walls and bunk beds. The only light in the room came from the half open bathroom door: a crack of light spilling over his feet and lower legs. His head was slumped down and his curly blonde hair was hard to see in the dim light. I had called his name angrily as I swung the door open and despite his being on the other side of the room, despite the darkness, despite his sitting upright; I knew immediately that he was dead. There was just no life in the room.” James traveled back to an awful morning in Southern California.

“You think seeing a dead man means you know hardship?” She turned to face him now, her eyes projecting a ferocity that James recognized: a pain he shared.

“I could have saved him. I should have saved him.” James’ eyes met hers, her anger and his sadness intertwined in the air between them.

“He was close to you?” Her tone paused somewhere between anger and patience.

“He was my responsibility,” James turned his head back toward the elevator door, “he was my Marine. I should have seen it coming. Just like Roatan.” DePietro didn’t say anything. James didn’t want her to. If was the first time James even realized the familiarity of the pain, the confused sense of responsibility, the sadness of knowing he could have saved a life.

“He killed himself?” She finally asked. James nodded slightly, the better portion of his mind still wrapped up in his frustrated sadness.

“But those people in Honduras didn’t. They were killed by some son of a bitch that I should have seen coming. They died because I didn’t see the signs, because I didn’t see the writing on the wall. Just like Shawn. They’re all dead now because I let them down.” James felt a tear struggling to free itself from the duct of his left eye. He panicked and acting like he was rubbing his eyes as he took a deep breath. DePietro didn’t offer any consolation. She turned her attention to the door as well, allowing him to regain his composure while she pretended not to see. For the first time since they’d met, James was grateful. The elevator door opened and he let her step out first, content to remain a few paces behind for the time being. Once they both sat down in what he was pretty sure was a different Mercedes (though the same model) she broke the lingering silence.

“No one makes it here without some painful regret, James,” he’d never heard her speak like this before, as though he was just another person and not the cause of some annoyance, “we’ve all lost people. We all know that burden.”

“I apologize for saying those things. I didn’t mean to make this about me.” James regretted opening up. He regretted letting her see him so weak, but more so, he regretted the weakness itself.

“I’m not giving you a pep talk. I’m giving you some advice and it’d do you some good to hear it. The pain won’t go away, it won’t get better, you won’t find solace on this earth,” she put the car in drive, “so use it. Let the pain grow, let it mature into anger. If you must live with this pain, then use it to drive you.” James climbed out of his embarrassment just enough to realize the woman next to him was speaking from experience. She too was here for a reason.

“Who did you lose?” James asked coyly.

“My father, and that’s the last I’ll speak of it.” With that, the conversation was over. They both rode in silence until they arrived at a small restaurant a few blocks away. She parked the car where it would be easily visible from inside and got out. James followed her in, where the hostess immediately recognized her and simply gestured toward a table in the corner with a respectful nod. There at the table, through the dim mood lighting and the cigar smoke of a portly man at the bar, James saw someone he knew.

“That’s a much better suit,” Deep Throat spoke to James first as they approached the table.

“Nice to see a familiar face,” James replied as he outstretched his hand to shake. The older man’s hand felt like concrete wrapped in sand paper. Age be damned, it was all James needed to know that this man could still handle himself in a fight.

“Agent DePietro, as always, it’s my pleasure,” he used the same stone hand to bring hers to his lips. It was hard to tell in the pleasant darkness of the restaurant, but he thought he saw her blush.

“Agent Black,” she smiled, “the pleasure is mine.” James’ eyes widened. Agent Black? He had a name? Why did she know it?

“You look surprised, James.” Agent Black directed his attention back to James as they all took their seats.

“I guess I had settled on the idea that you didn’t have a name,” James admitted, still looking back and forth between the two.

“I have many names,” He replied with a knowing glance toward DePietro.

“Like the devil.” James nodded his head and was surprised to see Agent Black’s head bob with a subtle nod in return.

“Perhaps to some,” he acknowledged, “now, let’s order something to drink before we get down to business.” He raised his hand in the air to draw the attention of the waiter. He hurriedly approached the table.

“Yes, Mr. Black, what can I get you sir?” The waiter spoke in Spanish. James was still looking at the older man, wondering just who he really was.

“Scotch and soda.” He answered the waiter.

“I’d like a glass of the house red,” DePietro’s order was the first predictable thing about the evening. She looked like a red wine girl.

“Vodka and ginger ale, please.” James ignored the strange look DePietro gave him as he ordered.

“An interesting drink, James.” Agent Black remarked as he opened the menu and began to peruse it.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I drink, Mr. Black.” James continued to stare. Agent Black didn’t look up from the menu.

“That doesn’t make it any less interesting,” he uttered nonchalantly as he read, “you see Agent DePietro, James loves a good drink.” James recognized the inference. He’d heard it from his ex-wife plenty of times.

“Is this when you suggest I quit drinking?” James leaned forward in his chair, unaware of his confrontational tone.

“Not at all. I’ve found it helps me sleep. If I manage to live until the alcohol kills me, I’m luckier than I thought.” Agent Black looked up from his menu and met James’ stare with his own. His eyes were dark and intimidating: the eyes of a killer.

“What’s good here?” DePietro interrupted the two men’s stare intentionally. The bell on the door rang as a small crowd of twenty-somethings poured in and found seats near the bar.

“The steak is fantastic,” Agent Black replied as the waiter returned with their drinks.

They ate and spoke sparingly for the next half hour. James ordered the steak, not one to ignore a good suggestion.

“So am I really supposed to assume this is just a social call? What are you doing here?” James decided to cut to the chase as he finished the last sip of his third drink.

“When the attack happened within my jurisdiction, I made a few calls so I could play a more active role in pursuing a resolution,” Agent Black began, “it didn’t take much convincing. The powers that be are highly motivated in this matter.”

“So I’m answering to you now?” James wasn’t sure if that would be a good thing.

“Unless you’d rather return to your filing cabinets?” Agent Black asked with a smile. Agent DePietro chuckled as she brought one last piece of lettuce to her lips. Of course she’d order a salad.

“I was going to work for you all along, wasn’t I?” James smiled now too; having him file papers had just been some new guy hazing while they awaited Agent Black’s arrival.

“You didn’t really think we’d buy you those clothes and fly you here to be our new secretary, did you?” DePietro’s quiet chuckle became a less quiet laugh.

“I’ve seen the government pay two thousand dollars for a toilet seat, DePietro. I’ll believe just about anything on an expense report.” James laughed a bit too. It was a good practical joke, he had to admit.

“So what’s next?” James asked Agent Black.

“We’re here for what’s next. Our intel suggests that two members of Al-Hejaz are going to be meeting here tonight.” James’ eyes grew wide once again and he subconsciously lowered his head as if to hide.

“Should we really be sitting out in the open like this then?” He asked.

“Not if you’re going to keep acting like an idiot,” DePietro scolded him. James realized his mistake and sat upright again.

“Three tourists having dinner and drinks is a lot less conspicuous than a surveillance van and snipers when you’re looking for them,” Agent Black answered his question.

“How will we know them when we see them?” James followed up with another question.

“We’ll just have to hope they stand out, I guess,” Agent Black’s response was as casual as James’ line of questioning wasn’t. He raised his empty glass and the waiter returned briskly.

“I’ll have another round, how about you guys?” He asked the table. DePietro smiled and nodded and James was impressed with her. He nodded as well, though he was aware of how much less comfortable he must have seemed. The waiter mumbled a “muy bien” before scurrying off again and leaving them alone once more with the weight of the situation.

“So if they show up, then what?” James continued his questions.

“Then we follow them. With any luck, they’ll lead us right to Lal.” The plan was so simple it was borderline elegant.

“Can it really be that easy?” James asked himself as much as the more experienced agents at the table.

“Sometimes it is,” Agent Black’s attention turned toward the door as the bell rang once more to indicate the entrance of new customers. The seasoned agent looked over at DePietro lovingly and placed his hand atop hers. She smiled at him and placed her elbow on the table so she could lean her face against her hand.

“What is it?” her words were business, but her expression was not.

“Our guests of honor may have just arrived,” Agent Black Spoke to them both, though he only looked at DePietro. James felt a twinge of jealousy, not because he had feelings for her, but because she was too beautiful for him to pretend he didn’t want her to look at him that way.

“What’s next?” James looked at his watch, it was quarter to eleven, if they were expecting to stay there and drink until these men decided to leave, he may want to pull back on the throttle to stay sober enough to work.

“Why don’t we have another drink, darling? We can sleep in tomorrow after all,” Agent Black cooed to DePietro, indicating to the entire table that the men they were here to see were within earshot.

“Only if James can stay too, dear. I would love to hear him tell us another story about sailing.” DePietro dove into their cover.

“Oh, I suppose I can stay for one more round, what harm could it do, right?” James played along, cautiously eyeing his two counterparts for any sign that danger could be approaching from behind him. He heard two male voices, speaking in a familiar dialect of Spanish: a Honduran dialect. They were approaching from behind him, possibly heading for one of the booths in the quiet corner of the restaurant. James fell silent as they passed by. The waiter arrived with their drinks at just the same moment, and the two politely stepped out of his way as he delivered them. James looked up at the waiter to thank him and noticed the familiar face of the man behind him. The man stared at James from over the waiter’s shoulder and James paused, trying to place where he knew the terrorist from.

Agent Black watched the realization wash over their target’s face and he casually rested his hand over the steak knife on the table. When he picked it up again, the knife was gone. The waiter picked up James’ plate and, unaware of the situation developing around him, casually stepped aside to reach for DePietro’s. That’s when James saw the spider tattoo on the man’s right hand. James’ heart began to race: he was one of the men that had attacked him in Honduras. Unsure of what to do, the two men stared at one another for a long second. Finally, the Honduran man swept his coat back with his left hand as he reached toward the now barely exposed shoulder pistol holster with his right. James could do nothing but flinch as he reached for his own but before the man could produce the pistol, Agent Black leapt to his feet and drove the steak knife through the man’s sternum.

For a moment, the entire restaurant stopped eating, drinking, and speaking to simply stare at the middle aged white man as he twisted the knife with his right hand and then swung down on it with his left, breaking the blade off in his chest and permitting the blood to pour down his torso. Then pandemonium broke out. Screaming erupted and filled the void the silence had created, glasses shattered and the second man took off for the door. Before he reached it, James was already up and running.