The Rogue Agent (The Agent Series) Page 10

  But for every fond memory that was evoked, there was an equal number of unwanted reminders of the lives cut short.

  He passed the funeral home in which his mother and sister, and then his father two years later, had lain in repose; then the Episcopalian church in which the memorial services had been held; and finally, the cemetery in which their remains, along with generations of Tom’s ancestors, had been buried.

  He felt, though, very little connection to the life he had lived prior to joining the navy.

  Despite the reminders springing up all around him, that life remained strangely vague to him, as though it weren’t his at all but instead belonged to some distant relative who had come and gone long before him and whose actions were something Tom had merely heard about from someone who had heard them from someone who had heard them from someone else.

  A string of events that felt more like narration than personal recollection.

  What Tom did feel as the landmarks rolled past was a sharpening of his conviction to preserve everything he now had.

  Preserve the life he had built with Stella, this chance they had taken together in hopes of achieving some semblance of financial security, as well as that quiet existence, free from any and all violence, that they both deeply craved.

  Not a lot to ask, to want to be left alone.

  Though he had the habit of carefully but quickly studying each individual who entered their restaurant, or whom he passed while out running errands, Tom had never once glimpsed the kind of man for whom he was always on the lookout.

  There were two very specific yet opposite types, actually: Those who dressed in suits and were well groomed with neatly cropped hair. These were the kind of men who accompanied Sam Raveis everywhere he went, surrounding him like multiple silent shadows. The other type had bearded faces and stoic scowls and wore their hair long. These were former military elite who worked now as private-sector special operators and often dressed with at least one, though often more, military affectations—tactical cargo pants, combat boots, a long-billed cap, Oakley sunglasses, an earth-toned safari shirt. These contractors were always easy for Tom to spot simply by the efforts they made to look like mere drifters.

  Every moment of every day, Tom had kept an eye out for those two variations, doing so as if the sight of them—even one of them, walking into the restaurant one morning—carried with it the potential for immediate violence, or at the very least, the abrupt and irrevocable end of the world as he and Stella knew it.

  Though Tom’s protocols required that no security personnel be present at any meeting he was called to, he had no doubt that such men would be waiting somewhere beyond his sight, armed and at the ready.

  He and Raveis had one thing in common: a belief in secure perimeters.

  It wasn’t long before Maple and Church Streets were just a few blocks away, so Tom removed the holstered Colt from the map bag and laid the weapon within quick reach on the seat.

  Then he drove a grid of the surrounding blocks, looking for any vehicles that didn’t fit in this quaint Vermont town—a watch vehicle disguised as a laborer’s van; nondescript sedans with out-of-state plates; a random black SUV, or even a caravan of them.

  He saw nothing that stood out, but after parking his pickup in a lot behind a bank and exiting his vehicle in full view of the bank’s external security cameras, he nonetheless followed a circuitous route as he made his way on foot to his destination.

  The holstered Colt was tucked into his waistband at the four o’clock position, concealed by his open sweatshirt, and the map bag with the two spare mags and tactical flashlight was slung diagonally over his shoulder.

  Stopping in front of a hardware store, Tom waited in the darkness that was growing around him for the arrival of the man who was the closest thing to a father he had.

  The man who’d had, more than anyone else, the greatest hand in shaping Tom into what he was today.

  He remembered the first time he’d met Carrington.

  Tom had been qualifying on the M16A3 at the Naval Construction Battalion Center in Gulfport, Mississippi.

  Carrington had shown up at the range and talked for a moment with Tom’s then-commanding officer before the two men had approached Tom.

  After introductions, it had been explained to Tom that Carrington was looking for the right man to fill an open slot in his Seabee Engineer Reconnaissance Team.

  A SERT was composed of three elements: liaison, security, and reconnaissance.

  Carrington was the officer in charge of the security element.

  You’ve got everything the captain here is looking for, and then some, so I recommended you.

  Dropping all military posturing, Carrington had stepped in close to Tom and extended his hand.

  As they shook, Carrington had smiled warmly. Pack your gear, son. You’re with me now.

  Tom had served eight years under James Carrington, ultimately being awarded both the Purple Heart and Silver Star by the man.

  Carrington had retired from the navy shortly before Tom’s eight years were up, and a month after Tom’s discharge he had met with Tom in New York City and offered him a job as a private-sector security contractor.

  A lucrative job, Carrington had assured him. And one with a real future for someone like you.

  But Tom had never seen himself as the type of man the private paramilitary industry produced, so he’d turned Carrington down.

  More than that, though, Tom had wanted to find his own way, to make his own decisions after spending most of his adult life following orders. He had spent the following five years as a wanderer, drifting around the Northeast, going from odd job to odd job, spending his nights reading, never really straying too far from this Vermont town, and doing so without realizing it.

  Every step he’d taken during those five years had brought him closer to his chance meeting with Stella.

  And it was that chance meeting with Stella that had set him on the course leading him to this street corner right now.

  Tom pondered the significance of his meeting Carrington here tonight—the father figure he’d encountered shortly after his father’s death, coming to the same town in which his father was buried.

  Some kind of full circle?

  But then he pushed all that from his mind; this wasn’t the time for such thoughts, nor was it time for memories, pleasant and unpleasant.

  Now was the time to stay sharp, focus on what mattered, and not be distracted by what didn’t.

  What Tom could control and what he couldn’t.

  With his hands hanging ready at his sides, he proceeded to scan his surroundings.

  This part of town was quiet, which was one of the reasons why he had chosen it as a meeting place.

  Right now, there were maybe ten pedestrians on the sidewalks and half a dozen vehicles parked along both sides of the street.

  Secluded enough that no one would get in the way, and yet not so secluded that a man waiting on a corner would stand out.

  Everything Tom did was done to avoid drawing attention to himself.

  It wasn’t long—two minutes, tops, of Tom standing there in the open, and that felt long enough—before James Carrington finally came into sight.

  Tom watched the man approach. He was only fifteen years older than Tom and had never seemed to age during the eight years Tom had served under his command, but that wasn’t the case any longer.

  There was gray in his hair, some lines around his eyes, and dark half circles below them.

  Tom knew that the man had quit drinking, and he would have thought the soft life of a prep-school instructor would have him looking better than when Tom had last seen him, when the time since the man’s final drink had been only weeks, not years.

  But Carrington had always been tireless—as a commander, then as a recruiter for the CIA and private-sector employers like Raveis.

  Tireless men often didn’t slow down well. Tom remembered having seen the same thing in his father in the two years fol
lowing the murders of Tom’s mother and sister.

  A career as a civil engineer lost to a two-year quest for vengeance.

  Carrington extended his hand. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”

  Tom took his hand and they shook. “It’s good to see you, too, sir.”

  Carrington smiled. “You don’t have to lie. And I’m sorry about this. I really am.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “They’ll debrief you. I’ll take you there, but that’s the extent of my involvement.”

  “I’d rather you were present when I talk to them.”

  Carrington shook his head. “I don’t have clearance anymore.”

  Tom said nothing.

  “I wasn’t about to bring you in without knowing what it was they wanted, so I pushed them a bit and got them to give me the general idea. You should hear them out, Tom. Okay?”

  Tom nodded. “Understood.”

  Carrington paused. “How is Stella?”

  “She’s good.”

  “And the business?”

  “Busy. We appreciate you helping us get things started the way you did. Neither of us would have thought of that on our own.”

  “It was the least I could do. Wish we could have more time, but they’re waiting, right where you said they should be waiting.”

  Tom nodded.

  Carrington extended his hand again, and Tom took it.

  As they shook, Carrington turned their hands so his was above Tom’s.

  Tom saw on the back of Carrington’s hand a sequence of numbers, written in black ink.

  He recognized them immediately as coordinates.

  Latitude and longitude.

  “How’s that remarkable memory of yours doing?” Carrington said. “Still able to look at long numbers and instantly memorize them?”

  Tom met Carrington’s eyes.

  “If you need anything, Tom, just shoot me a text. One of three words, it doesn’t matter which one.”

  “What three words?”

  “Marcus Aurelius wrote that there are three contingent disciplines necessary to overcoming any obstacle. What are they?”

  It only took Tom a moment to answer. “Perception, action, and will.”

  Carrington smiled proudly. He’d always considered himself as much a teacher to his men as a commander. And he’d had no better student than Tom.

  “If you need me,” Carrington said, “I’ll be there for you. Remember that. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  They released hands.

  Carrington paused one last time. “We both know what kind of man Raveis is. And I know you trust Cahill and the Colonel. But the stakes are high, and even good men can do fucked-up things when their backs are against the wall. So be careful, Tom. Watch your back, and remember who you are. Never forget who you are. Understand?”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Carrington turned and retraced his steps across the street. Tom watched till the man was gone from sight, then started for the corner.

  He had only taken a few steps when the smartphone in his pocket vibrated.

  The pattern of the buzzing—a quick pair, followed by another, then a third—told him that this was a text from Stella.

  Removing the phone and glancing at its display, he saw the phrase for which he’d been hoping.

  Staying for CrossFit.

  This text was followed immediately by another.

  I love you!

  Tom composed and sent a brief reply, which was characteristic of him since, as far as Stella knew, he was working out as well.

  Getting himself ready, as he did every night, to stand and fight, should they need to.

  Or if it came to it, grab her and run, just as they had done once before.

  As he approached the corner, he checked his watch.

  5:16.

  He still had every intention of getting back home before Stella did.

  Seventeen

  The black Chevy SUVs hadn’t been parked along Bank Street when Tom had run his grid moments ago, but as he rounded the corner he saw them lined up along the curb.

  Gleaming, aggressive-looking hulks.

  Raveis traveled in a caravan of three, but there were four here tonight, and even a variation as slight as this one was enough to get Tom’s attention.

  His gut told him that something more than added security was in that fourth SUV.

  But he didn’t break his stride as he walked toward the two center vehicles, one of which he was certain would be occupied by the three men who had traveled so far to see him.

  The rear driver’s-side door of the second vehicle opened as Tom got closer. A suited figure exited, and to Tom’s surprise it wasn’t the clean-cut yet hard-edged male he was expecting but rather a female.

  Late twenties, five ten, athletic, her fine blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail that swung as she moved.

  As a Seabee, Tom had been around enough marines, male and female, to recognize a former jarhead when he saw one.

  The rear passenger-side door opened as well, and another suited figure exited, this one not only a man but also the exact sort of man Tom had been expecting.

  Hurrying around to the other side of the SUV, the man stood just a few feet behind the woman.

  Tom knew the security procedures and stopped when he was within arm’s reach of the woman. He held his hands out to the side as she frisked his torso.

  She found the Colt almost immediately and removed the weapon from its holster, passing it back to the man behind her, who released the mag and cleared the chamber of its round before placing the items into the pockets of his jacket.

  The woman then moved down, patting Tom’s hips. She removed his smartphone and keys, slipping them both into the right pocket of her slacks before completing her search by crouching down and brushing Tom’s legs and ankles, inside and out.

  Standing again, she said to Tom, “I’ll take the bag, too.”

  Tom recognized a Southern accent.

  Pulling the strap over his head, he handed the map bag to her. The woman shouldered it and gestured toward the third SUV. “You can go ahead now, sir.”

  Carrington had said there would be three men at this meeting, but as Tom stepped to the vehicle’s open door, he saw only one man seated inside.

  Of the three he was expecting, here was the one man he didn’t want to see.

  “Get in, Tom,” Raveis said.

  But Tom didn’t move, instead asked where the others were.

  “They’re waiting for you in a secure location,” Raveis answered. “C’mon, we’re wasting time. Get in, I’ll take you to them.”

  Tom hesitated, then climbed inside.

  The SUV’s two rows of backseats were positioned so they faced each other. Tom opted to sit diagonally across from Raveis—the furthest possible point from the man in that confined space.

  The suited bodyguard closed the door, and Tom watched through the window as the blonde woman handed him a set of keys.

  Tom’s keys.

  The bodyguard turned and walked away, moving quickly as he headed in the direction of the bank where Tom’s pickup was parked.

  Obviously, Tom wasn’t the only one to run a full recon of the area.

  Tom assumed that the man was to follow them to the meeting place. The idea pleased him, because it meant with his truck there, he would be in a position to control his exit.

  All he needed to do was endure the ride to the meeting and the meeting itself, and his life would be his own again.

  The blonde hurried around to the other side of the SUV, got in, and sat beside Tom.

  The instant she closed the door, the caravan was in motion, its bumper-to-bumper formation as tight as a train.

  Raveis said to Tom, “This is Grunn.”

  Tom didn’t recall Raveis ever having introduced a member of his security detail before, but he couldn’t care about that now.

  He glanced at the woman briefly before looking back at Raveis. “So wha
t’s going on?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. But it’s bad. Worst-case-scenario bad. Right now, though, I have questions of my own. We only have a few minutes, so keep your answers short and to the point. The first thing I want to know is why you chose to settle down just outside your home town.”

  “I didn’t choose to, it just worked out that way.”

  “How, exactly?”

  Tom explained that Stella had wanted to see where he’d grown up, and on their way out of town, intending to keep on moving, they’d driven past a property for sale.

  A ghost of a business, standing alone on an empty stretch of road.

  Stella had seen in that place the possibility of starting over, maybe even achieving some financial security, which had always mattered to her.

  All Tom had been concerned with was the state of the structure—what it would take to bring it up to code―and the layout of the surrounding property, how defendable the building and its perimeter were.

  That was all that mattered to him.

  Once a Seabee, always a Seabee.

  Raveis said, “We had staked you both fairly well, I thought. The idea was for you to remain in motion while things played out on our end.”

  “That payout was generous, but it wasn’t going to last forever. Living in hiding is costly. And as far as things playing out on your end, how many men would you need to have killed before Stella and I were safe? I mean truly safe.”

  “We are none of us truly safe these days,” Raveis said. He studied Tom for a moment, then said, “The issue of you being too close to your home town aside, I suppose it makes sense that you would choose Vermont. Being a constitutional carry state, residents aren’t required to obtain a permit to purchase and carry a firearm. I know it’s important to you that you don’t break any laws. I know that’s your thing, and I think I understand why. It took me a while, but I get it. It seems to me, though, that using falsified documents to get a Vermont state driver’s license under an alias isn’t exactly law-abiding behavior. Neither is using the lax motor vehicle salvage laws they have up here to sell your pickup to your new self. That was smart. No paper trail for anyone to follow. Tom Sexton junked his truck, and some stranger up in Vermont purchased it.” Raveis paused. “I’m curious, whose idea was all that?”