The Big Blue Sky: Fifty

Moon watched the Suburbans pull away, turning east back towards town. He waited until they disappeared behind the hill before climbing from the rocks and trees beside the beach. He jogged across the road to the motel where Molly waited, covering his crossing from the corner of the Inn. The rain had returned, whipped by sharp frigid gusts off the lake that howled, bending small trees back. Showers of wet autumn leaves joined the rain.

“I’m ready to turn the table on these guys,” Moon said, almost eagerly.

“Nothing good about these guys. Time we got some answers.” Molly opened her Agency jacket and checked the weapon holstered there. She wondered if all this would come to shooting, and hoped that it wouldn’t, but she wouldn’t retreat from that possibility either. Obviously, by the weapons found with the bodies on the island, these men were fully prepared for that eventuality.

“Looks like they were headed back to Munising. I’ll drive,” said Moon, jangling the keys in his pocket.

Molly held out her hand. “I’m pulling rank.”

He nodded and dropped him into her open palm. “Have to learn that I ain’t gonna be the knight come to rescue the fair maiden.”

“This fair maiden kicks ass when she has to,” said Molly, patting the pistol under her arm.

They climbed into the Jetta, giving each other a long encyclopedic look. Moon reached into the back seat for two bulky blue Kevlar vests and handed one over to Molly. She slipped her on over the thin Agency jacket she wore, noting as Moon set his on the floor at his feet. She said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t need the vests. Both knew the potential danger they were heading into. Neither had any illus ions about the men they were after.

The Jetta spit gravel as Molly pushed the gas pedal to the floor, turning east onto the dark two lane road. The agents had a determined look. Not in some sort of Rambo sort of way. Neitherof them had any intention of forcing a confrontation. Molly pulled the phone from her pocket and quickly dialed a number. The Operator at the State Police in Munising answered immediately.

“This is Agent Karaman with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…” Molly described the vehicles and the men, adding that they were likely armed. Her plan was simple enough. The State cops would stop the vehicles just outside town. That was the plan, at least. Molly and Moon were still nearly a half hour away, and a lot can happen in that little bit of time.

Molly wished that he had Doug’s number. She looked over at Moon, deciding.

“I have to tell you something,” she said.

“Let me guess,” he replied. “You spoke with Springer.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“You care about this guy?” he studied her, even as she didn’t answer right away. He was impressed by her. He was amazed at her thoughtfulness, and a certain sympathy Moon wondered wasn’t a better quality to her sex, because it struggled in him.

“Think its clouding my judgment?”

“Hope not,” he said simply, staring out into the night.

Molly looked over at the lake, painted in deep blue hues and breathed deeply. “Me too.”

The road left the lakeshore. It rose, allowing sweeping views of the coastline behind them. Ahead, in the distance, the textured expanse of Grand Island floated upon that midnight blue lake.

Molly was thinking about Doug. She smiled recalling that philosophical smirk that October Day at Ground Zero. Her thoughts tumbled invariably to Istanbul and how she wished to kiss him so desperately that night. Molly looked again at Moon, his attention fully on a web page on the tiny glowing white screen of his phone.

It was reasonable, she thought, that he might assume Molly’s feelings for Doug were a potential risk. If things were reversed about a suspect, Molly might feel the same way. That he didn’t spoke volumes about the trust he placed in her. For her part, Molly might have recused herself from the case once Doug became a suspect and fugitive in Fallahi’s murder. But she was more convinced than ever of his innocence, and knew that he was probably his last good hope.

“Anything interesting?” she asked. Molly fumbled with the phone in her lap.

“Just reading about this arms dealer, Shosa,” he said.”He’s moving heavily into this Nano-weapon technology market.”

“Nano-weapons?”

Machines, weapons that work on a molecular scale. They can be programmed to work independently, or with a trigger of some sort.”

“Like a cell phone ring tone?” she asked thoughtfully, her mind teetering on something.

“I suppose,” said Moon. “Anyway, real nightmare stuff. He’s been buying up congress people, buddy-ing up to the Pentagon and schmoozing the Administration.”

The image of Bernstein’s X-ray flashed in her mind, as if a light had suddenly come on, illuminating a terrible evil only now making itself apparent. She knew. She didn’t know everything, but Molly knew enough. Ay that instant the phone in her lap rang, startling her.

Molly held it up before her. She didn’t recognize the number. It was a local number, and she knew in an instant who it was, as if they were thinking the same thing at that very same moment. Molly pressed the receive button nd lifted the phone to her ear,

“Doug,” she began, almost breathless with nervousness. “Where are you? I need you to get to Munising as fast as you can. Go to the State Police…”

From the corner of her eye she saw the dark shape rushing towards her. It was huge and metallic, Molly’s mind struggling to make sense as it bore down upon the little Volkswagen Jetta. Moon saw it an instant later, but had no time to react before their world was abruptly and violently interrupted by the crushing of metal, of exploding glass, of shattering bone and screeching tires.

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-nine

After leaving Molly at the Clark Station Doug had slipped quickly down a narrow alley just off the highway, cutting his lights immediately, and coasting through the alley and out of sight without using his brakes. He watched the Suburban pass, and then headed inland, finding a deserted old logging roads through some of the deepest and darkest wilderness in the country. Bouncing and banging over deep ruts. Even with headlights they were often indiscernible from anything that could be even liberally considered a road. Deer crossed lazily in front the truck, at the limits of his headlights, eyeing the would-be interloper to their private domain curiously. In places the grass and weeds grew tall, only hinting at some sort of navigable lane through dense tunnels of overhanging trees whose branches and leaves scraped and slapped against the sides of the truck.

Such places might have evoked all sorts of dangers conjured by the conscious and sub-conscious mind. Doug might have felt lost or trapped here. He might have believed these dark woods were indeed inhabited by the spirits of ancient Ojibwa warriors and demons. But this is where he had grown up. The forests surrounded him protectively like a dear old friend. He could feel secure in the knowledge that no one could find him here, for there were uncountable trails such as this, running for thousands of miles through these forests. An army could disappear in the Hiawatha, or, in Doug’s case, it would take an army to find a single man.

These roads were completely disorienting, especially in the dark, even for Doug, who was accustomed to this place. When he came to Au Train Lake, just off the highway a brief bought of threatening panic at being lost subsided. Doug pulled across the highway into a tiny cemetery and pulled out the phone Carol and Geoff had given him. His heart breaking softly, Doug quickly dialed the ten digit number and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Sea Coast cottage,” a man’s voice answered quickly. “Geoff speaking.”

“Geoff, its Doug,” he said, afraid he might simply dissolve into tears at any moment. An owl cried lonely into the night from the tree above. “Are the girls all right?”

Geoff lowered his voice. Doug could hear the screen door open and close as Geoff went out onto the enclosed porch of the cottage.

“Doug,” he began, “don’t you worry now. Your girls are just fine. I’m cooking them up a couple of burgers. Carol ran out to Marquette and got them a few things; Pajamas, clothes, that sort of stuff.”

“Not sure I can ever…” Doug began. Geoff cut him off quickly.

“Nonsense,” he said, almost scolding. “You just clear all this up and come back to these girls safe and sound. Want to speak with them? I know they’re worried sick.”

Doug was quiet for a moment. He knew the technology, and knew these men had the capability of scanning a fair number of calls at once. Out here that didn’t leave a great many folks. As badly as he wanted to hear the girl’s voices, to tell them how much he loved them, and a thousand other things, but it was just too risky. Every second he spent on the phone exposed him and the girls to greater danger, and Doug just couldn’t risk that.

“Tell them I contacted you and that I’m okay, and will sort all this out soon.” The emotion caught in his chest. Doug paused, fighting through the moment. “And tell them…tell them I love them both more than life.”

“I will.” Said Geoff.

Doug switched off the phone and slid the battery from the back of the small plastic body. He slipped them into his pocket and shut his eyes for a moment. Sleep overtook him like a thief, as Doug, pushed well beyond simple exhaustion, was helpless to hold it back.

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-eight

Brower pulled up beside the others. The other Suburban was parked beside the road a mile or so east of the Sea Coast Inn. It had grown quite dark, and the worst of the rain had moved off, leaving a frigid drizzle that coated and glistened upon everything. McCullough was beside him, as reserved as ever about his private misgivings. Brower rolled down his window, which was speckled with rain drops, and glared silently at the other three men for a purposely long uncomfortable time.

He wasn’t happy, and if he failed to make that clear before, Brower intended to leave no doubt whatsoever now. Again, they had allowed Springer to slip through their fingers. All the high tech gear that could track and trace most anything on the planet, the ability to access and monitor cell phone calls and text messaging, wi-fi internet connections, access to BCI- the Federal Bureau of Criminal Identification, credit card and debit card transactions and databases, credit histories and real time satellite imagery, and still he managed to get by men who’d benefitted from the greatest military and intelligence training on the planet.

The dome light was off in the other Suburban, all but concealing the three men in shadow, and the ambient light of a deepening night. Brower could still see their stony faces. Even if he couldn’t have seen them he could feel their embarrassment and frustration, and not a small amount of trepidation at facing the full fury of their pissed-off boss.

“Really?” Brower shook his head in supreme disappointment. “I bet a pack of snot nosed cub scouts could find this guy quicker than you men.”

Brower could push, but he knew he could only push so far. None of them, not even Brower could pretend they weren’t part of a much larger conspiracy. No longer was the mission to train Iraqi cops, illiterate Afghan militias or protect Western oil workers and executives in Nigeria against rebels. The mission had moved into questionable territory, only made palpable for the legally tax-free cash each man was paid. Indeed, the nature of the mission was the only thing separating them from being an outright criminal enterprise. Maybe they could argue and convince themselves there was a higher, even patriotic purpose, but at the end of all rationalism were they shared crimes.

The mission now had changed and grown, something often called mission creep, which happened when facts on the ground necessitated changing the fundamental aspect of an operation. Brower’s training an experience eschewed so-called mission creep, and he took great pains in avoiding and minimizing it, but now he could feel it all getting away from him in the worst way. What had been a mission to shadow Fallahi to see who he contacted had grown at the last minute to an ad-hoc scheme to discredit and frame Doug Springer for Fallahi’s murder. He’d given the authorization to eliminate Springer after he’d escaped the first time. That he had made contact with an FBI agent who had let him walk away without notifying her superiors was perhaps most disturbing of all. What had he told her, and why was she keeping quiet about it?

Brower didn’t wait for, nor want an answer from the men in the other Suburban. He pulled a phone from his pocket and pressed the redial button. Despite the late hour it rang only once. The voice on the other end was familiar and low, as though not wanting to be heard.

“Please, tell me the mission is complete,” the voice said, with notable exasperation. He was Archer Waverly, the founder and director of FIRST THRUST INC, a stoic and resolute man, a deeply devout Christian man, who saw the company as far more than a military contracting business, but also a spiritual and political crusade.

“Need a little guidance on company policy,” said Brower. “Threat assessment criteria?”

Unchanged,” said Waverly.

“In a non-hostile environment?” His tone was purposely misleading.

“All environments are potentially hostile, Mister Brower. The deployment of your team and the mission presupposes a hostile environment. Are you unclear on the mission?”

“Clear, sir,” he replied. “Mission. Company. Team. God. Country.”

“That’s the order. Will this be concluded tonight? Things are ready to hit the fan in a big way, and this is one loose end that definitely needs cutting.”

“That loose end got a bit longer tonig…” said Brower.

“Are you a bunch of fucking new recruits?” Waverly erupted in anger, enough that the men in the next vehicle could hear as well. But for a furl of the brow, Brower made no reaction. “I want this concluded tonight. Mister Shosa will meet tomorrow with the president’s assistant National Security Advisor and several congressional leaders. Finish this, now! Before you left I authorized additional resources for you. This would be the time to use them.”

The line went dead abruptly. Brower looked off into the dark night and let it slip slowly to his lap. He looked over at McCullough and gave him a reassuring nod. They would deal with Springer, while the others handled the agents. He swallowed a yawn and looked over at the three men.

“Chicago authorized an additional five thousand dollar bonus for each man if this is concluded tonight.”

“By concluded?” asked the grizzled veteran, leaning uncomfortably across the driver, with an almost sexual sort of eagerness.

“McCullough and I will be on Springer. He can’t be far. By your report he’s dropped his girls somewhere close by. He’ll try to make contact with them or with the agent. The clock is ticking on all this, and Mister Springer understands that as well as we do. You men will be on the agents. All loose ends are to be cut, with no traces left behind. Clear?”

“Fuckin’ eh!” snarled the old veteran, pushing over the driver’s door and practically shoving the guy out the cab. “I’m pulling rank. I’ll drive.”

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-seven

“We have breaking news out of the Middle East,” the CNN announcer began, in the gravest possible tone. “There are unconfirmed reports that several of the American personnel held by the Iranians are dead. The report comes from a credible source within the Iranian foreign ministry, speaking with the Arab-language network, Al-Jezeera, said that four of the detainees were dead, but gave no immediate details. That same source indicated that a number of others had also died. CNN was unable to confirm the reports independently, and it is still too early to speculate that this might have been part of some possible rescue plan. The united States maintains a substantial military presence in the region, and it is not out of reason that a rescue mission might have been launch from Iraq or Afghanistan, an act, CNN’s military consultants agree, would be risky…”

The news swept through the nation. It was picked up hot off the wires by Rightwing talk Show hosts, who immediately speculated about all sorts of wild and unsubstantiated theories. One syndicated host out of Utah, a demegoging,-self inflating, ex-Top Forty Disc jockey who jumped on the Talk syndication bandwagon in the late nineties, accused the President of outright cowardice for not immediately carpet-bombing Tehran. A Republican loudmouth former Congressman renewed a post-September-11 call to Nuke Mecca. The Major News networks, the so-called Liberal Media according to Right Wing hosts like Rush Limbaugh, Laura Ingraham and the blustering imp, Mark Levin, were already using terms like enemy and adversary to describe Iran, to the delight of their corporate parents who were heavily invested in the weapons and war industry. They would belittle the spontaneous anti-war protests that would spring up around the country, choosing the most foolish among them for their broadcasts. Viewers around the nation would see a rabble of students, long haired teens, hysterical and ragged kids, never seeing the professors, doctors, housewives and veterans protesting the coming war. The video of two anarchists throwing a newspaper box through a Starbucks window in Baltimore would play again and again.

Even the government spoke with competing voices; one side talking of restraint and rationality, the other almost hysterical with cries for war and vengeance. Strange that the rational side never quite got to the proper arguments so many thinking Americans came to immediately. Just as they had during the lead up to the war in Iraq, those “proper” arguments would wait until the war, or something like it, was well under way.

All this was, of course, an endless circle, like two snakes feeding off one another. The media is a pimp; as much disease as a symptom of a misdirected society. It fed off a population that, insulated from the desperation of much of the world, could afford knee-jerk reactions to international turmoil. When the results of those reactions washed up upon her shores, America could rightly claim to be a victim. They were as woefully ignorant of the outside world, as many around the planet were of the average American. It was easy to grow frustrated and impatient with a world that seemed to intrude upon the blissful excess and blindness of American life. The world was a place to be feared, or so they were told. Foreigners, the media decried, were as the invading hordes and barbarians falling upon Rome’s beleaguered frontiers two thousand years before. It was echoed and promoted by the media, but the nation’s citizens were just as culpable in its reach and its abuse. Despite the pretend blustering of talk show hosts and personalities. The media was not the traitor of the people, but one in the same with them.

But the lessons of nationalist fervor are never learned on the eve of war, just as man never questions the excess of his pleasure during an orgy. Nationalism is the self-inflicted perversion of true patriotism. It is means to an end for someone, and the road to an end for the gullible populace. With history as a lesson, like a long stroll through a graveyard, it wasn’t certain the nation would make those same fatal mistakes, but with each passing moment that reality became a little more certain.

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-six

“Have you seen this man?’ asked the grizzled veteran, to the nervous cashier at the Clark Station in Munising. The cashier was a round middle aged woman, with short snow-white hair and white-framed eyeglasses. She was not at all accustomed to such rudeness. It wasn’t normally something she’d tolerate either, but the fury in the man’s eye made her blood run cold. They were the eyes of a demon, of a creature that saw little value in life other than its own.

“Jesus!” she gasped. The man shook the picture impatiently closer to her face, enough the image began to blur into a blend of pale and indistinguishable color.

“Don’t have all day!” he growled, his equally threatening partner blocking the door. The woman leaned away, straining her bad back, until she could make out the face clearly.

“He passed you when you came in!”

“Who?’

“He had a limp, a dark cap…”

The two men rushed out into the lot and onto the highway, looking up and back along the road. The rain came harder now, big fat drops that sent up a racket, coming in waves off the lake. A lone trailer truck rumbled into town, and an old pale-green Chevy Caprice turned down main Street. The grizzled old veteran ignored the rain and spit, fuming, as though this was all a personal affront. His jaw tightened, lips pursing almost painfully hard, forcing furious breaths through his nose like an enraged bull.

“Son of a mother…!” he snarled, ignoring a camper brushing past by mere inches.

“What the hell is going on?” his partner inquired. The third man jumped from the Suburban and joined them in the street. He cradled a half open laptop they had used to monitor Molly’s cell phone. It was partly protected inside his jacket. He held an arm across the thin black body.

“He was right here!” the grizzled veteran growled, grinding his teeth

“Where?”

“The hobbling old coot,” said the vet. “That was Springer!”

“I knew it was him, when the cell phone signal garbled,” said the man with the computer. “She was speaking to someone, but it was too low to make out clearly.”

“Yeah,” said the vet, ushering the others back to the vehicle, “well, he just made a serious mistake, because now we know what he’s driving. And when we find him, I’m gonna take great pleasure of relieving that liberal journalist head from his body. “

They climbed into the vehicle and roared out of town in pursuit. As they rounded the bend, leaving the town and bay behind, the heavens unburdened themselves in torrents. Lightening danced across the sky, chased by great rolling thunderclaps. Inside the Suburban the three men paid little mind to the gathering fury, instead gave fully currency to their own.

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-five

The presidential limousine pulled quickly into the underground garage of the Walter E Washington Convention Center In Downtown Washington. There were protesters on the street, their shouts and chants aver Gay marriage echoing hollowly. There was a veritable army of security between them and the President, a sad comment on the evolving concept of modern democracy, in which for reasons of security the man appointed by the people was completely insulated from them. It was ironic that the nature of government was to protect the weak and give voice to the powerless was surrounded and secured by abusive and powerful corporatists.

The car had hardly stopped when a Secret service agent, smart in a dark black suit was already out of the front door and reaching for the silver handle of the President’s door. As the door opened a phalanx of secret service converged around the door. A dozen pair of eyes searching the shadows and pillars for any sign of a threat to their client. On the ramp, hardly thirty yards away, two activists had somehow slipped into the basement, or had hidden there, and ran shouting towards the president, just now climbing from the Limousine. He hardly noticed as they were tackled, still shouting protests.

“Gay rights are Human Rights!” one of them cried.

“All men are created equal!” the other, a slight, attractive young woman, quoted the Constitution, before a knee to the side from an officer hammered the wind from her lungs.

An Aid met the President as he stood o straighten his suit coat, pressing herself through that formidable wall of security. They knew her, of course, allowing her a minimal gap to get through. Her name was Allison Danon, or “Ali D.” to friends and close colleagues. She was small, but strongly built. Not in an unattractive way, but her passion for triathlons was evident in toned physique and deeply focus unstoppable energy. A Harvard lawyer by trade, it was her passion and talent for poetry, and an internship with a prominent Washington Public Relations firm that won Ali a position on the President’s staff.

“The Iranians attempted to reach us through an intermediary about an hour ago, sir.” She said, with notable urgency.

“Legitimate?”

Ali fought to keep pace, scribbling notes as the President entered the hotel through a loading bay door and into a waiting freight elevator.

“We believe that it is. Mister President.”

“Let’s get out a strong statement,” he said. “My hope is that we can bring this to a fairly quick resolution.” He was thinking of the three Americans backpackers arrested for hiking inb the border region of Northern Iran. They were still in custody, while quiet, albeit painfully slow negotiations continued. There was a much higher priority with the servicemen that carried the specter of war and much greater tragedy, and involved a number of International players. That was the plan anyways, and plans have a way of going terribly awry. The elevator door opened to a backstage area behind the auditorium. The President stepped from the elevtor. Ali remained frozen, holding one more piece of news.

“One other thing,” Ali said, dimly.

He stopped dead in his tracks. The President turned, taken aback by the grave expression on the young woman’s face.

“Not good news, is it, Ali?” he asked.

“Mister President, the information is that four or more of the hostages are dead.”

The President weighed her words carefully a moment. “Dead or killed?”

“Sir, I…”

“Does the Press know about this yet?”

“Not sure” she replied. “No one has repeated it yet. A BBC reporter in Tehran asked if we could confirm the rumor. We cautioned him about any premature release of uncorroborated information, but that we would confirm our position with him first.”

“Can we hold onto this for a while?” he asked.

“Hard to say?” she replied, swallowing hard.

The President laughed dryly, rubbing the ever deepening tension from his forehead. His mind spun through a thousand different scenarios. “I have to face an auditorium filled with Veterans of Foreign Wars. How the fuck…?” he took deep breath, straining against the supreme pressure of the moment. “Shit.”

“Sir?”

“Feel like we are getting steamrolled into war?”

“Yes sir,” she said dutifully, not quite sure what he was talking about. For that matter, neither was he.

One of the Secret Service agents interrupted. “Mister President, you are about to be introduced.”

He nodded and turned back to the mortified young woman. “What’s our confidence level on this?”

“I won’t say one hundred percent,” she replied. “It comes from a very high level Chinese source, who quoted the Iranians as damn near begging forgiveness.”

The President looked to the stage, just visible through great blue flowing curtains. A gray-haired Vietnam veteran, a silver sash across the navy blue suit coat, metals sparkling upon his chest was well into an energetic introduction. Camera flashes painted the front of the man’s body. The President took a breath and checked his blue and red striped tie.

“We have no choice but to give them the benefit of the doubt until we know something for sure. At the end of the day, the Iranians are responsible for the lives of those young people, and no matter what we will absolutely hold them accountable.”

“Are you going to announce, sir?”

“Have to,” he said. “Send a message back as soon as have confirmation.”

She flipped over a notebook, but fumbled to find a pen. The President pulled one from his jacket pocket. It was shiny and blue, with a little Presidential seal on the side. He started dictating right away.

“This event…” he began, picking the words skillfully. “This grave event carries potentially grave repercussions…”

“Sounds too vengeance-ee,” she corrected respectfully, following up with a bashful smirk.

“…consequences for both our nations, and for the International community. The American people expect, scratch that. The American people demand a full accounting of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of their fellow citizens while in Iranian custody. I am sworn, destined, charged…”

“Compelled,” she offered, scribbling madly.

“…compelled to deliver that accounting.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “It needs something.”

“We expect?”

“We demand!” he said with emotion.

“Too ultimatum-ish, and you already used demand once.”

“We expect,” he nodded, “the full cooperation and transparency for an immediate and thorough multilateral investigation into the deaths…”

“Trial in US courts?” she suggested.

“Too much, too soon,” he said. “Hmm. “I am assembling a delegation…”

“How about just, ‘a delegation will,’ and give the impression we are always a step ahead on this?”

“Good,” he touched her arm. The veteran was concluding his introduction. The applause had already begun, thundering from the hall. “…a delegation to Geneva on Tuesday to meet with their Iranian counterparts and, and…”

“Assess the situation?”

He shook his head once. “…to assess the seriousness of their intentions. We expect that they will be as committed to that full and open accounting as the American people are, and though we pray and work for a peaceful resolution, the United States will use all means at its disposal to bring about-to bring those responsible to justice. That’s it.”

He turned on his heel and jogged the last few steps to the stage. He emerged from the curtain, waving and nearly obliterated by camera flashes, the hall shuddering with riotous cheers and clapping. He stood at the podium, looking out across thousands of veterans from a dozen different conflicts, spanning nearly a century and wondered if he wasn’t about to add a whole new generation to the auspicious club if at all possible. With each passing hour, it seemed, the chances for peace seemed to fade. The President formed a smile, nodding to a hand full of donors and familiar faces nearest the stage. In the end, no small part of being Commander-in-chief was marketing.

The Big Blue Sky: Forty-four

It was growing dark when Doug rounded the bend above little Munising. The bay was midnight blue, speckled with small whitecaps that grew and disappeared just as quickly. The freighter was still moored along the far shore, and the lights had been put up, so that the ship almost competed with the town for prominence among the black hills and forests. The storm clouds had spread across the sky, already reaching across Superior to the Canadian shore, fifty miles distant. The first furtive drops of rain fell, tapping hollowly upon the metal roof and hood of the old Ford.

Doug spotted the Jetta at the Clark Service Station in town, just down from the diner. Molly was just climbing from the car, lost to something on the blackberry in her hand. She went inside, leaving her partner to fill up the car with gasoline. Across the road, near a small gift shop, the black Suburban idled. Doug pulled up the collar of the jacket he’d bought from the old man, and turned off the highway into the station.

He pulled up close to the building, back a bit, but close enough that he could use the truck for as much cover as possible. He got out, hunched from the waist and feigning a limp. It wasn’t much of a disguise. In fact, it was dammed ridiculous, but what else did he have? Doug kept his head down, rubbing his nose with an open hand for a little extra measure of security.

Molly was at the back of the little store, where sodas, coffee, chips and the usual gas station junk food faire was sold. She was making her and Moon tall Styrofoam cups of coffee, her back turned to the door. Doug looked to the window. Molly’s partner was still filling the car. Past him, across the highway, the Suburban remained, apparently unsuspecting that anything was amiss.

Doug went right up to the counter where Molly was, keeping his face hidden as best he could. Molly politely moved aside for the stranger, stirring in a couple packets of sugar into Moon’s coffee, turning it a muddy brown.

“Gonna be a real pisser tonight,” he feigned a gravelly voice, letting it dissolve into a cough. As he did Doug let his hand slide across the counter, upending one of the cups of coffee, and dousing Molly’s slacks and shoes with the warm wet liquid.

“Hey!” she jumped back, more concerned about her clothes, than by the bent old fool fumbling with the tin napkin dispenser on the counter. “Look what you’ve done!”

“I’ll take care a…”

“Please!” she complained. “You’ve done quite enough already.”

Molly started for the women’s bathroom at the back of the shop, still fuming, and more than a little embarrassed by the wet stains covering the legs of her slacks. Doug followed, coming up quickly behind her. He pushed through the door behind her, knocking Molly forward. Without hesitation she turned, fading backwards away from the stranger and reaching for the weapon on her hip. Doug stood and removed his cap. Molly continued drawing her weapon, covering the trigger as she held it to her leg.

“Christ!” Molly, she exclaimed. Doug’s eyes went to the weapon.

He threw out his hands, as if to tell her not to be afraid, without so much as a word. He carefully opened the jacket wide, showing her that he wasn’t armed.

“You can arrest me if you want,” he said quietly, “in which case my girls and I are dead for sure, or you can help me, and maybe I get a fighting chance.”

“One minute.”

“All I’m asking, Molly?” he said. “First, give me your phone.”

“Why?’

“Give it to me,” he said forcefully, but still low.

She reluctantly handed it over to him, not at all certain it was the right thing to do. Doug pulled a plastic zip-lock bag from his pocket. He placed the phone inside, sealed it, turned faucet on in the sink and threw the phone under the running water.

“Are you crazy?” she shot back.

“You’re being monitored.”

“By whom?”

“Even with the phone switched off they can listen to every word we say. That’s how the CIA spied on the Taliban in Afghanistan.”

“Doug, you’re wanted for murder, at least, and maybe a couple dozen other crimes. Are you trying for an insanity plea?”

“I didn’t murder anybody,” he said. “Fallahi came to see me with this wild story. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. The next thing I know his brains are all over me.”

“What did he tell you?” she asked.

Doug rubbed his tortured forehead and paced the tiny room a moment. “He wasn’t making any sense. It’s all hazy and, and…He kept saying that we were being tricked into war. Something about a new weapon, and information he’d received from an informant with the opposition in Tehran.”

“What weapon?” Molly asked, still holding the pistol at her side. “What information? Doug, I can’t help you unless I have something concrete…?”

“I don’t know. Fallahi said someone was following him. Next think I know he’s dead and I’m out cold on the floor.”

“It’s pretty weak,” she said. “You’ve got to admit it…”

A knock at the door interrupted her. It was Moon. “Okay in there?”

There was a moment in which Molly had no idea just what she would do. She hesitated a moment before answering, as if unsure about Doug. Molly slowly holstered her gun.

“How do I find you?” she asked quietly.

“I’ll find you.”

“How do I know you won’t run?”

“I came to you, Molly,” he said. “I contacted you. I need your help if I’m going to keep my girls alive, but I have to stay in the shadows just a little longer.”

Moon knocked again, this time a little louder. “Molly, are you okay in there?”

Molly’s gaze narrowed on Doug. She looked to the door. “Um, yeah, I, uh, spilled coffee on myself. Wait in the car. I’ll be right out.” She turned to Doug. “I’m staying at the…”

“Sea Coast,” he finished.

“How did you know?”

He managed a stark and weary smile. “You only knew me when I wore sports coats and comfortable shoes. All those years running around wars, I picked up a few things.”

“Why did you have to be married?” she looked up into his eyes, finding that deep attraction she’d felt beside the Bosporus in Istanbul.

Doug wondered about what might have been. He knew he could have loved her, if not for Jane. That warm attraction was still there. There was a world in her eyes, and he was a wandering soul.

“Why’d you come along so late?”

“Hope she knew what a good man she married.”

“You were the only one that ever made me doubt my own character,” he said, wanting but refraining from touching her face. Doug shut off the water and handed her the bag abd phone. She put a hand on the nob and sighed.

“Despite my best efforts.”

“One last thing. You’re being tailed.”

“By who?”

“A black Suburban parked across the road. I think they’re with the guys who came after me and the girls on the island.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Doug watched her leave from the window, and smiled at the cashier before turning up his collar again and shuffling back out to the truck. The Suburban raced across the road, cutting off a camper, and drawing a loud horn blast. Two men climbed out, one of them pushing a hand inside his jacket to the holstered pistol there. Doug turned away as they passed, pushing through the door. Without looking back he climbed into the old Ford, gunned the reluctant motor and steered it onto the highway.