All characters and places in this series are fictional. Any resemblance they bear to actual people or places is purely coincidental.
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Detective Lieutenant Andrea “Andi” Desalis was in Chief Beam’s office with Detective Sergeant Jacob “Mac” MacGregor sitting next to her. They had been briefing the Chief on the status of the investigation into the recent spate of kidnappings and murders that had been occurring in Oceanside. The Chief’s aid was also present and pushing for the formation of a task force. “The manpower we could leverage would have to result in a quicker resolution to the investigation and allow us to bring forward charges faster,” he said.
“We already have a limited number of suspects,” replied Desalis. “Having more people won’t do us any good,” she insisted.
“And there’s no physical evidence linking any of the victims to any of the suspects?” the Chief asked.
“Not that we’ve found yet,” replied Sgt. Macregor. “But we haven’t been able to get a warrant for searches either. All three suspects have decent alibis for at least some of the murders. Unless we’re looking at two or more people conspiring to commit the crimes, we’re left re-examining what we have and looking for new info.”
“Which is why we need to form the task force,” said the Chief’s aid. Chief Beam glanced over at him with a neutral expression on his face. The aid couldn’t tell whether or not the Chief was happy with his position about forming a task force.
When the Chief looked back at Desalis he said, “I’ll give you another week.” Desalis looked relieved and then the Chief continued. “BUT…” he added on, “if you haven’t gotten anywhere in the next five working days, so by end of the day Friday, I’ll put together a task force and ask for assistance from the county and state.” Desalis and Macgregor both nodded their understanding. The Chief’s aid looked very displeased but no one in the room really seemed to care too much about it.
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Max and JP arrived at his place at almost the same time after both finished their day shift. It was about 1540 hours – or 3:40pm for those who couldn’t tell time using a 24-hour clock – and they were both happy to be taking off their gunbelts, body armor, etc. It helped that Max’s shower was big enough for both of them to rinse off and freshen up. They had dinner plans and had discussed options. The Tarpole Restaurant was always an option that came up, but neither was in the mood for it. Mentioning the place did, however, bring up the topic of their recent meeting with Travis Slade. JP had found him to be a friendly and interesting person and his offer to Max of joining a DHS task force, but only if Max switched his employment to the U.S. Marshal service, was intriguing. As they talked about the options, they idly wondered where he was and what his job had him doing.
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Major Travis Slade had been following his mark for the past hour. The subject, one Jimmy Feet, had picked up a package just a couple blocks away near the State House and had been wandering around the Annapolis Harbor ever since. Slade’s intelligence told him that Feet was going to meet with someone to drop off the package he was carrying. It looked like any other book bag or small backpack, but Slade knew what was inside of it. There were two documents inside the pack: one detailed the Department of Homeland Security response to a cyber-attack on the American economic system; the other contained information about three classified weapons development programs being worked on by the U.S. Army’s Office for Strategic Technology Development. Neither could be allowed to be passed on to whomever was paying Feet, but that was Slade’s current challenge and assignment: to find out who had hired Feet and who THAT person was working for.
The harbor had always been one of Slade’s favorite places. He liked the way every activity seemed somehow centered around the water, even if the people and businesses had no relation to it. There certainly were plenty of people and they all seemed dressed for a day out on a boat. Anytime the temperatures got above seventy (Fahrenheit), the tourists and visitors seemed to come out of the woodwork. There were people taking breaks from work, moms with children in strollers, and a couple of homeless people with blankets and cups set up panhandling for their lunch money.
The restaurants all served sea food. The souvenir shops all sold sea related items: clam shell shaped ashtrays, lamp stands that incorporated seahorses, or lamp shades with colorful conch shells decorating them. In shop windows there were quilts displaying sailing scenes and the tobacco shop had ashtrays available painted with various forms of sea life. It may have all been very hokey, but Slade enjoyed it. It was unfortunate that he had no time to appreciate his surroundings as he worked.
Feet was easy enough to follow. He was a tall gangly fellow with disheveled shoulder length dirty blond hair capping a pale freckled face that had so little facial hair he likely didn’t even need to shave. His file said he was 34 years old but he looked barely out of his teens. His long narrow nose made Slade think of a ferret. Feet was wearing faded jeans below an untucked sky blue polo shirt and looked highly unremarkable; much like every other tourist wandering around the harbor area. On his feet he wore deck shoes; his attempt, Slade thought, to further blend in to the water-centric environment. Between the bright color of his shirt and his scraggly hair, Feet was easy enough to pick out of the crowd. On the rare occasions when Slade lost sight of him, finding him again was easy enough.
Slade had dressed down for the occasion in his own attempt to blend in. There were enough businesses around the area that he could have gotten away with a suit or casual business attire, but he certainly couldn’t have worn an Air Force uniform to blend in; maybe a Navy uniform given the proximity of the Naval Academy. Instead, he wore tan slacks under a black and gray polo shirt, which he didn’t tuck in (and it drove him slightly nuts to wear it like that). Slade’s dark brown hair was razor cut and within military standards. Thanks to current fashion trends, he didn’t stand out because of it. Most of the men he saw had conservative haircuts. Slade refused to grow the trendy beard, although his modified uniform standards would have permitted it. He had tried growing a beard several times and hated it. He despised the itch and constant feeling of a dirty face. His gray eyes were quite pale and often worked against him when he was trying to go unnoticed. In this case, his bigger challenge was staying in so small a relative space, keeping Feet in view, while not being seen by Feet so often as to tip his own hand. His neutral colored clothing and practiced ability to blend in was helpful.
Slade had watched Feet carefully, looking for any sign of a weapon while following the man along, and he hadn’t seen anything. Sure, he could have a gun in the pack or a knife tucked inside his waist band; Slade acknowledged that. Slade’s own gun – a Doublestar C2S 1911, chambered in .45ACP – was worn inside his waistband just behind his right hip. That was why his shirt was untucked; so he could more easily hide the gun in the warm weather. Behind his left hip were two spare magazines for the weapon in a pouch that also rode inside the waistband of his slacks. His cell phone was in his left front pocket while his favorite folding knife – an Emerson Commander – was in his right front pocket. With his wallet in his right rear pocket and his credentials for the Air Force Office of Special Investigations in his left rear pocket, he almost wished he had worn the oh-so-common “tactical” pants favored by so many. Still, when you’re following a potential agent of espionage and you don’t want to stand out as an immediately recognizable member of the military, you avoid anything even remotely related. Those tactical pants were worn by an awful lot of military and law enforcement members during their off-duty hours, for the very benefit of being able to carry extra tools of the trade. In fact, the pants had been nicknamed the “Shoot me first” pants specifically because they were so often worn by off-duty police officers and members of the military. Slade’s bigger challenge was that he carried himself in a military manner. He was fit, comparatively tall (just over six feet), and his bearing was normally “military stiff.” To increase his ability to blend in, he consciously slouched and walked with one hand in a pocket, both being behaviors no military professional would embrace.
Slade knew what Feet was up to. He’d seen the man exercise acceptably good counter-surveillance trade craft. ‘Acceptably good’ was different from very good though, and Slade’s skill at tracking and surveillance was very good. After almost an hour of steadily wandering around, making sure he wasn’t being followed or watched, Feet finally drifted into one of the local bars. It was one Slade was familiar with so he knew the layout without having to go in. It was primarily a bar but it also served food, although the number of tables was limited.
Waiting a minute before approaching the bar, Slade gave the appearance of checking out the menu that was posted up in the front window. In reality, he was looking around the menu and down the interior length of the establishment, his eyes seeking his quarry. Feet was standing at the far end of the bar, close to the archway that Slade knew led down a short hallway where the public restrooms were located. Beyond that was the door to the kitchen and then, in the back of the kitchen, the rear exit. Deciding that there were enough people between he and Feet, Slade entered the bar, took an available seat at the closest end and double checked that he could see Feet reflected in the bar mirror.
The bartender tended to refreshing drinks for another few patrons before coming down to Slade. “What can I get you?”
“A menu,” said Slade at first. Then he added, “And Woodford Reserve, neat.”
“We don’t serve Woodford Reserve, sir,” said the barman, sounding apologetic. “Another bourbon perhaps?”
“No thanks,” said Slade. “Menu and ice water will do.” The barman nodded his head and went to fetch both. Slade checked and Feet was still at the other end of the bar. He had a beer in front of him on the bar and his phone in his hand.
The barman brought back Slade’s water and a menu. On the one hand, it was lunch time. On the other, Feet didn’t have any food in front of him and Slade had no way of knowing if he’d ordered any. He gave a quick glance at the menu and ordered an appetizer dish of calamari.
The bar had a television at either end with news showing on one and a sports channel on the other. From what Slade could see, as he watched Feet with periodic glances in the mirror, the man wasn’t interested in either. He stayed eyes down in his phone. Slade sipped his water and feigned interest in the news show. If you believed what was being reported, North Korea was on the brink of starting a nuclear war, terrorism didn’t exist and Russia’s President Putin was a man’s man. Slade knew that North Korea’s nuclear program wasn’t far enough developed to present a threat to the United States, although their controls of enrichment materials was concerning because they were so lax. Terrorism was a big and growing problem and President Putin… well, he was quite the macho man according to all reports Slade had seen.
Of bigger concern to Slade, and the focus of his assignment at the moment, was the on-going intelligence war that had been raging since the nineteen-fifties. Feet’s possession of classified information and his pending delivery to parties unknown showed just how challenging the job of protecting national secrets could be.
Just as the barman came and placed Slade’s calamari down in front of him, Feet stood up and went down the hall toward the bathroom. Slade couldn’t confirm that his target actually went into the bathroom without being very obvious, but he also couldn’t risk losing him if Feet decided to go through the kitchen and out the back door. Slade gave it a count of five and then stood up to head down toward the bathroom himself. He had no intention of going in. He went down the hall, through the door to the kitchen and through the kitchen’s rear exit to the small alleyway behind it. As little time had passed, if Feet had gone all the way through and out, he’d still be visible in the alleyway. If he wasn’t there, then he was in the bathroom and Slade could wait a few before going back out to the bar.
Slade got to the alleyway, still holding open the rear exit of the bar and looking both ways, saw no sign of Feet. Deciding the man must be in the restroom, Slade turned to go back in. His intention was to wait in the kitchen, watching through the small window in the door from the kitchen to the hallway, and then follow Feet out to the bar when the timing seemed right. He was not expecting Feet to come out of the restroom and turn to immediately enter the kitchen – putting them face to face.
Slade couldn’t hide the fact that he was out of place. He obviously didn’t work for the bar. He also just as obviously recognized Feet and was surprised by the sudden encounter. Feet took all that in, decided that Slade somehow represented a threat – simply by being an unknown quantity – and turned to run. Slade took off after him and the chase was on.
Feet even ran looking uncoordinated, Slade thought as he ran after him. But, in just a few seconds, Feet was well out in front and seemed to be spreading out the gap. Slade was almost within arm’s reach inside the bar, but once Feet got outside he didn’t even try to run on the sidewalk. That would have been a waste of time given the amount of tourist foot traffic. He went straight to the middle of the street and then veered north, running at a fast sprint up the slight hill toward the State House. Slade was right behind him and running as fast as he could, but not closing the gap much. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Slade remembered something in Feet’s file about having run track in high school; the 220 high hurdles. Apparently the man had kept his talent where running was concerned, but 220 yards wasn’t a far distance; not even a quarter mile. Idly Slade wondered how far Feet could keep up his speed for.
With a quick glance back, Slade’s quarry saw that he was still being pursued; although his pursuer was slightly farther away now than he had been coming out of the bar. Feet made a turn into an alley on his left, heading for a multi-level parking garage and the possibility of being able to hide, albeit temporarily, but perhaps long enough to evade his pursuer. The entryway to the parking structure was only 100 feet or so away and given the multi-level construction, Feet was able to run up the small retaining wall that bordered the entry and jump from it up to the first level, swinging himself over the guardrail and disappearing into the shadows of the structure.
Slade followed suit, vaguely concerned about an ambush that could be set up by Feet if he was that clever, but still not slowing down. Up the small wall, jump, land / catch, swing, land, run. Slade couldn’t see well in the shadows of the parking garage, but he could see enough to identify Feet heading up the interior ramps toward the second level and he could hear Feet’s shoes slapping the concrete as he ran. Slade’s steps weren’t as loud because he was still running on the balls of his feet; apparently not as fatigued as Feet was quickly getting.
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Around the turn to the right, and heading up to the next level, Feet began to realize he wasn’t outrunning his pursuer anymore and he was desperate not to get caught. If he couldn’t run away, he’d have to either hide or fight. He couldn’t allow himself to be arrested. They’d put him in jail forever. Hell, he thought, they’d put him UNDER the jail forever. Even though no one had been executed for the crime in decades, treason was still a capital offense and the punishment for it would be severe. No, Feet thought; he couldn’t allow himself to be caught.
As he ran, Feet began looking for the best place to set the ambush he had in mind. A blind corner or between cars… there. He found his spot. Around a corner and next to a concrete column that was beside a full size van. The column was more than two feet wide so it was enough for the skinny Feet to hide behind. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the folding knife and, using two hands, quietly clicked it open. He could hear Slade’s running footsteps approaching and prepared himself to swing. Timed right, he’d nearly decapitate Slade and leave him to bleed to death from the surely severed main artery in his neck.
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Slade had seen Feet take the corner but his body language had seemed somehow wrong for a man trying to increase distance. Given the space between predator and prey, Feet should have been working harder to increase his lead. Unless… Slade processed the thought and the scenario just in time to slow before rounding the corner himself. He went around ducking and fell into a roll when he saw Feet stepping out, something swinging high – where Slade’s head would have been had he not ducked and rolled.
Coming out of the roll, Slade was up on his feet and turning just in time to see Feet stepping forward, closing the gap between them, swinging back out of his miss. Slade saw the blade in Feet’s hand and dodged back, his hips leading while his shoulders and arms moved forward to keep his balance. Feet missed again and started to slash back. Before he could, Slade stepped in, his left arm coming up to block the swing and take the cut if his timing was off. At the same time he drove his right fist full force into Feet’s right shoulder, doing his level best to both dislocate the shoulder and/or break the man’s collarbone.
The impact jarred Feet’s arm enough to loosen his hold on the knife, so when his wrist contacted Slade’s blocking forearm, the knife fell out of his hand. Now it was a hand-to-hand fight, and Feet didn’t like his chances. Slade was bigger and obviously stronger, not to mention determined. Feet just didn’t want to get caught for fear of prison or a death sentence. Escape became his first priority. He didn’t believe he could kill this man without a weapon.
Even as he continued his defensive attack, Slade saw the look in his opponent’s eyes change and knew that the fight was over almost as soon as it had started. Feet had put all of his faith in his ability to ambush and quickly kill Slade. With that reality no longer an option, the man’s fear showed through. Slade took advantage of that, although he had no intention of killing Feet. Feet, however, didn’t know that.
Before Feet could mount a counter- or follow-up-attack, Slade stayed on the offensive. His block and shoulder strike were followed by a strong knee blitz to Feet’s abdomen, powerful enough to literally lift Feet off his… well, feet. The hard impact of Slade’s knee not only bent Feet over, but also paralyzed his diaphragm and knocked all the air out of his lungs. Clasping his hands together in a double fish, Slade slammed them down hard on Feet’s spine, directly between his shoulder blades. Any air he MIGHT have had left in him was forced out as he fell face first to the concrete.
As a final insult to Feet’s lungs, Slade dropped down onto his left knee… on Feet’s lower back, his weight and the impact further assaulting Feet’s already empty respiratory system. With his left hand, Slade got a good handful of Feet’s hair, grabbing it and then making a fist and beginning to twist, using the pain and pressure of the pulled hair to lift Feet’s head up off the ground even as Slade’s weight kept Feet’s torso pinned down. With his right hand, Slade pulled out his Emerson Commander knife, careful not to open it as he got it out of his pocket. Instead, he put it where Feet could see it and very slowly… very theatrically… very melodramatically opened it up to the full locked out position – identified by the solid CLICK of the liner lock securing.
“Now,” said Slade, so quietly that Feet could barely hear him over his own heavy breathing, “tell me who you are working for and do it quickly. I’m not a patient man.”
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Feet could see the blade and it looked so very sharp. It looked even sharper as Slade moved it toward Feet’s eyes and let him get a real good look before moving it to his neck, just under his ear. Feet felt the pressure of the blade there, not yet enough to cut, but enough that Feet’s pulse in his artery might be enough to break skin on the sharp edge. Feet tried to talk. All that came out was some raspy gurgling as he was still trying to get air back in his lungs.
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Slade knew what was happening but also used the circumstances to apply more psychological pressure… through the edge of his knife blade. He pressed it a little harder against Feet’s neck and said, “Talk!” It sounded like a growl.
With his lungs on fire for lack of air and still trying to get enough in so that he’d quit seeing spots in front of his eyes, Feet managed to croak out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just out for a walk and next thing I know you’re chasing me!”
Slade laughed; loudly. It was such a loud laugh that Feet was worried someone might here. Then he had a thought: why didn’t this man care if someone heard? A witness would see an attempted murder at this point. And the man didn’t care? He was either crazy or licensed to kill. Either way didn’t bode well for Feet. His fear notched up some more.
Slade pressed the blade even harder against Feet’s neck. Blood began to ooze out around the edge. “If you lie to me again,” Slade said, “I’ll slit you open and leave you to watch your life’s blood splatter out. Who are you working for?”
Feet took a breath; and then another. He tried to find strength in his breathing. He tried to find the courage to accept his fate and tell this man to screw off. In the end what he found was the realization that he was a coward. Even as his bladder emptied he sighed with the realization and answered Slade. “Simon. I’m working with a man named Simon.”
“Simon who?” asked Slade, making sure he didn’t get near or in the puddle growing out of the man’s groin.
“Simon is his last name,” replied Feet. “I don’t know his first.”
“Who does this Simon work for?” asked Slade.
“He’s South African I think,” said Feet. “I’m not really sure. He’s got an accent… but it’s not British or Australian.” He said it as if it answered all the questions ever asked.
“Why are you taking America’s secrets to him?” asked Slade. He put more pressure on the blade to imply that he’d enjoy nothing more than to actually slit Feet’s throat. The reality was that he really wouldn’t mind it, or lose sleep over it, but he wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t necessary either. Feet was coming out of circulation either way. The only question remaining was whether his new residence would be a jail cell or a casket.
“I’m not…” started Feet. The knife’s blade edge bit deeper. Blood flowed honestly now, running down the edge of the blade and tracing its way down Feet’s skin, trickling down his neck and into his shirt front.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Slade in his growling voice again. “Why?”
Feet hated saying the words. He was living with the reality but to say it out loud made him feel like he was confessing a sin or a crime. Of course, he was confessing a crime. Whether or not it was also a sin depended on his religious convictions. “Money,” he finally said. “They’re paying me.”
As if the release of his crime had brought about an inability to live with reality anymore, Feet suddenly lunged in an attempt to get up and/or push Slade off. The net result was Slade’s blade cutting deeper into Feet’s neck – and Slade went with the effort, pushing harder and then dragging back, the belly of the blade digging into Feet’s neck, severing not only Feet’s jugular and carotid but also half the muscles in his neck on that side.
Slade danced up and back quickly to avoid being hit by the arterial spray and watched as realization shined in Feet’s eyes. He reached up to grasp at the wound and almost choked himself as he squeezed his neck with both hands in an effort to stop the blood… until so much had flowed out that he lost his strength and fell back to the concrete, his blood soaked hands and forearms falling out to his sides.
Slade wiped his knife blade off on the part of Feet’s pants that were still dry and then picked up the backpack Feet could no longer deliver. Simon. South African. Not much to show for a dead espionage agent. Slade realized his supervisor wouldn’t be happy, but the Colonel would accept that circumstances are not always within an agent’s control. This was one of those times. And, in hindsight, no one would mourn the death of a traitor.
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Back in Oceanside, a murderer was thinking about his next victim... his next toy... his next "acquisition" as he thought of it. The timing was too close, and he knew it. It was too soon. But there was that itch he just had to scratch...
