Page 120 of Agency
Now, you could have heard a pin drop as I roused myself and went to sit upright in the queen size bed, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the western windows and painting leafy silhouettes all along Jericho’s face as he continued to sleep the sleep of the exhausted.
I got out of bed and made my way into the shared main room, which consisted also of dining, living, and kitchen areas. I wanted to be alert when my guy called to confirm transport time for the next leg of our journey, so I went into the kitchen area and filled the coffee maker with some actual coffee grounds I found in one of the cabinets. Then, I turned my eyes back to the kitchen island, and the voluminous dossier and files I’d spent most of the night reading by flashlight in one of the Escalade’s rear seats.
The coffee maker, prepping the water to brew, began to gurgle and hiss at my back as I flipped and scanned pages in an effort to refresh my memory.
We’d dropped Aunt Val in, of all places, North Dakota. She already had a car and an associate waiting for her at some crossroads–an associate whom she swore was reliable. We’d trusted her. How could we not? After all, she’d just blown up her own multi-million dollar home to cover our tracks, while also delivering exactly what we needed to maybe bring this whole madness to an end.
Ambyr and she had kissed and made up along the way, even hugged long enough at the time of their final separation that the guys and I were exchanging glances as we wondered whether they’d ever let go. Eventually, they’d dried their tears and separated, and her aunt had climbed into the car’s passenger’s side before disappearing down the dusty, intersecting road.
But, she’d left the files with us.
The location of Management was on Minnesota’s Northwest Angle, out on the far northwestern edge of the lake where we were staying. The Angle was the location of their data servers, as well. Right there, right next to him, hidden in a bunker beneath his barn.
The plan was simple, just like with Ambyr’s aunt’s place. Simple was good. Simple meant less chances to fuck things up.
We slip in. Management gets handled, while we also handle the servers with the USB Aunt Val had given us.
Like I said. Simple.
Not many people outside of Minnesota residents even know about the Northwest Angle’s existence, but the small strip of land is actually the furthest north point of the lower forty-eight states. Just a little sprig jutting out from our neighbors to the great white north, which the US of A had retained after a mapmaking error back in the late 1700s.
The only way to reach the Angle, other than crossing into Canada by car and going up on the western side, was by boat or floatplane, or ice road was possible during the winter months. But, since we were still in fall and wanted to get in quick and easy, floatplane was preferable.
Luckily, I still knew a guy from growing up a couple hundred miles south of there. He was a good, reliable pilot, if a little crazy–you kind of had to be to live his life as a backwoods guide. But, Mac would get us across the lake later tonight. Of that I had no doubt.
More importantly, he wouldn’t ask any questions as long as the pay was right. Once, while I was back on leave and we were tipping a few cold ones back, he’d let slip that he’d fallen in with a group who was running stuff in over the lake, and that the money was good. I didn’t need him to elaborate, and didn’t want to become privy to any kind of felonious activity while still on TS clearance. Besides, I’d heard the rumors all the way back when I was a kid. We knew people were moving illicit goods.
Someone moved inside one of the cabin’s back bedrooms as I flipped pages and came back to Management’s half-discernible picture. Taken as he was stepping from the rear of a vehicle, the grainy black-and-white photo looked to be from the turn of the millennium. He didn’t appear different from any bureaucrat or businessman you might see on the street, and wore dark sunglasses to accompany his closely cropped hair and strong jaw.
Lajos Backlund. Swedish heritage. I recognized that much from the name. Can’t grow up in Minnesota without eating some Swedish meatballs at a Sunday picnic every now and again, that’s for sure.
The coffee had finished brewing, and I went and poured myself some. No cream or sugar, or even salt. Don’t get me wrong, the Folger’s tasted like shit, but real coffee was still manna from heaven compared to the freeze-dried stuff we’d been stuck with over in Nebraska. I returned to the file, mug in hand.
Born across the pond, his family had immigrated during the 60s, to Arizona of all places. Barely graduated high school, but was regarded as a talented and highly intelligent underachiever by his teachers. He proceeded to volunteer for Vietnam, where he served as infantry before being selected Army Special Forces and getting his own green beret as a member of the 5thSpecial Forces Group.
Eight years in Army Special Forces in the 1970s; ten years in the CIA’s Special Actions Divison; another two decades in the private sector. And now this. Working for the Agency for another decade or so, before wresting control from his former partners and assuming his mantle as Management.
One of the bedroom doors opened, and soft steps padded their way down the hall. I didn’t need to even see the owner of the feet to know they were Ambyr’s, and a smile slowly began to grow on my face despite, or maybein spiteof, the current dire circumstances. The bathroom door closed, and I sipped more coffee as I flipped to details of shell corporations, known associated companies, and more.
One in particular struck me: Seismic. Hadn’t the guys down in Dallas had a run-in with them a little while ago, before we’d even joined Trinity? Apparently, Seismic changed names recently, but still maintained a close business relationship with the Agency.
That was how these companies worked, though. Change names, transfer assets around, but always maintain contacts and files. Organizations like this all knew how to run the shell game, and they’d dip from the eyes of the Feds at a moment’s notice, before springing up as something new before the end of the next financial quarter.
Ambyr joined me in the kitchen a few minutes later, but I was so deep in the file that I didn’t even look up when she walked in. Her hands snaking around my body from behind, though? That drew my attention. Long, soft fingers lifted my shirt and ran over my abs. Her warm body pressed into mine from behind, so that I could feel every curve of her fit form through the thin fabric separating us.
“Afternoon,” I said, not turning around to face her. Instead, I closed my eyes and focused on the feel and rhythm of her soft digits massaging my skin. God, to be caressed like that felt so good, so right, so perfect. To have the feel of genuine affection behind the touch, and not just drunken horniness and lust as the reason.
Not that I minded those either, of course.
But this? This was real. Not alcohol-fueled. Not hiding behind lies and covers, or a ruse for her to escape.
This was true.
“Afternoon,” she replied in a low whisper as she lay her cheek against my back, her fingers still sliding over me. “How’d you sleep?”
“Like a stump. You?”
“Like a log. Glad I got my own room. Thanks for sharing with Jericho.”
