Chapter 34 - Unwarranted Operation

"Ahem," the radio finally blared, making us both jump in our seats, Proctor's eleventh day of Christmas interrupted. Immediately Lieutenant Proctor turned down the volume and grabbed his police radio, replying to Harris's gruff voice.

"What a very nice elevator you've got here!" Harris said now in a mockingly cheerful voice, clearly speaking to someone else while letting Proctor know his location. "So clean and spacious. Floor 16, please."

We could hear the soft bings as the elevator moved past each floor, and finally it ended with the sound of the doors sliding open rather loudly.

"Is this where I come to interview for the security guard position?" Harris questioned, and we could hear a woman explaining where the waiting area was.

Another minute or so and we could hear the air deflating from a seat cushion, as Harris presumably sat down.

"What soft cushions these are in this waiting room," Harris muttered. "Remind me, what room is this again?"

"1603," a man replied in the distance.

"Right. 1603," Harris repeated. "Thank you, Sir."

"Why is he telling you all this?" I finally asked Proctor, after it had finally fallen quiet for a minute or two. "Are there cops that are trying to find just the right place to wait to break through the walls and arrest the whole company?"

"Nope; it's just you and me here. I think he just likes to chat, you know? Must be awfully boring being undercover, not getting to be yourself."

"Yeah, well I don't know why he's doing this," I countered. "I think he should leave Larry well enough alone. My family has always teased me and apparently he thinks it means more than what it does. Can't you try to convince him to stop? He's not going to get anywhere with this."

"It may be a bit too late to try, uh, right now, being as the operation is underway," Proctor replied with a goofy grin. "Let's just see what he finds. I for one would be devastated if Larry Allen was up to something illegal. Like, how can someone who loves animals possibly be crooked, you know?"

I stifled my look of disbelief at his way of thinking and tried to focus instead on the street outside the car. Just then a tall man strode by, his hands in his pockets. Wait, was that Captain Tackleberry?

"Isn't that Captain Tackleberry?" I asked, pointing at the tall man walking down the street, the man who then entered Larry Allen's building.

"It does look like him," Proctor commented, scratching his head. "Huh. I wonder what he's doing here. That's a pretty weird coincidence; wouldn't you think?"

"Well, maybe he's trying to get a security guard position, being as he can't work right now," I suggested.

"Maybe," Proctor replied, "or maybe it's his bank. You know, the building is the First Bank building. Or maybe Lieutenant Harris is involving him in this operation as well. I wouldn't put it past him. He's just so sneaky, keeping us all on our toes!"

Again he began singing Christmas songs, beginning with Jingle Bell Rock. I fidgeted in my seat, thinking of what else Tackleberry could possibly be doing in that building. There was no way in hell that Harris had asked him to help out—in fact, he was actively trying to destroy the man's career! Suddenly it occurred to me how very bad this was, how very bad this could be. Panic rose in my throat.

"'…mix and a-mingle in the jinglin' feet—'"

"Lieutenant Proctor—"

"Oh, please don't interrupt," he remarked, looking saddened. "Aw man, I was almost done. Now I have to start all over again. 'Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock—'"

"But wait—won't Captain Tackleberry recognize Lieutenant Harris?" I said. "Or what if he's been sent to do something to him?"

"Lieutenant Harris is a master of disguise. There's absolutely no way he'll—"

"Lieutenant Harris?" a voice said on the radio. Notably it was not Harris's gravelly voice. Shit. That hadn't taken long.

"Tackleberry?! What the hell are you doin' here—"

"I could ask you the same."

"I'm partaking in a covert operation," Harris's voice practically whispered. "Very exclusive, very hush hush. Don't you dare blow my cover. You think you're on thin ice now; you just wait—"

"A covert operation about whom?"

"The very nature of the covert operation is that it's covert, Tackleberry. Which means I don't gotta tell you or anyone else anything."

"Mister, uh, Smith?" a woman's voice called out.

"That's me!" Harris called out. "Gotta go. Nice, uh, meeting you, Sir."

Now I could hear Harris walking down the hallway. A door opened, and now I could hear another man's voice—not Larry's, however.

"Welcome! Mr. Smith, is it?"

"Yes."

"I see you brought your resume with you. May I see it?"

"Of course," Harris replied, his voice followed by the sound of papers rustling. "Does this interview include speaking with Mr. Allen? I was under the impression that I would be working for him—"

"I'm John Franklin, the head of the security detail for Mr. Allen," the voice answered. "I would be your direct supervisor."

"—but I just saw someone leavin' Mr. Allen's office—"

"Yes, well, that's the second part of the interview, if you show promise here. Please, tell me about your relevant experience."

Immediately Harris began droning on about his very real experiences, but as an instructor at an academy for security guards. Did those even exist? I rolled my eyes—how the hell would this ever hold up? Proctor quickly began to get bored of Harris's brag fest and began to sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

"Don't you want to hear what they're talking about?" I interrupted, after he'd sang the first line.

"I already know everything there is to know about Lieutenant Harris!" Proctor exclaimed. "Besides, this guy isn't our target. It's Mr. Allen."

"Yeah, but what if he says something incriminating in between?"

"You can't seriously think Larry Allen's people would be so dumb as to tell Harris exactly what he wants to know!" Proctor remarked. "Believe me, it's harder than it looks, catching people in a lie!"

"And you worked for Brinks beginning in what year?" the interviewer asked.

"Nineteen eighty… two," Harris muttered, after a beat.

"It says here it was nineteen eighty-four."

"Must have been a typo then," Harris began babbling, obviously having screwed up his dates. "It was definitely 1982."

"And then you worked for the Metropolitan Mall as a security guard in… 1985," the man said. "Supervisor Tim Linel. Huh. I worked there as well during that time. Don't remember you being there. Never heard of a guy named Tim Linel either."

"Huh?" Harris remarked, the sound of clothes rubbing together as he fidgeted. "Well, that's not right."

"Well, please, correct the statement. It seems that you could benefit from re-reading your resume a couple of times. Who was your supervisor? Or maybe you had the date wrong again?"

"I believe that was in fact the 1984 date. Yes. I'm almost certain."

"Ah, I was working there at that time as well. Definitely no Tim Linel at that time, I'm sure."

"I must have put down the wrong name. I actually never really interacted much with the supervisor, to be honest."

"The supervisor being…?"

Holy shit. I held my breath now, my face hot. They'd caught him. Ugh, why hadn't he pretended to be from far away, where it would have been harder to track down old supervisor names and security details? He was applying for a damn security guard position amidst security guards who surely knew of the positions in the local area. He'd been caught. How the hell was he going to get out of this?

"The man who signed my damn checks, and nothing more," Harris muttered. "Do you know how many people I interact with in the course of a single day? If I squirreled away every damn name I encounter, I'd have no room for my impressive critical thinking skills and attention to detail."

"Right." I heard a chair shift. "Would you, uh, excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back."

Now a door opened and shut and Harris was apparently left alone in the room.

"How's it going, Sir?" Proctor finally asked, after it was clear that Harris was alone.

"I think I'm on to something," Harris admitted. "It's just a matter of time before I crack this guy."

I grabbed Proctor's radio and spoke into it next.

"The guy is onto you, more like," I shot back. "The best thing you can hope for is that they'll show you to the door."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Harris growled. "Proctor, this was meant to be our operation. Since when do we let cadets tag along on our important police work? Carnegie, leave this operation to the experts."

Proctor took back the radio.

"She insisted she come. I couldn't convince her otherwise, Sir."

"Shh," Harris murmured. "I think they're listening in."

"Will do, Sir!"

And with that, Proctor put down the police radio and went back to smiling like a goober.

Something very wrong was happening. And yet, I knew that if Proctor or I went in after him, we'd be recognized and escorted right back out, blowing Harris's cover if he hadn't already been officially recognized. Harris needed to get the hell out of there. Did he even realize the deep shit he was getting himself into?

Minute after minute of silence passed. Thankfully Proctor was smart enough to not sing again, instead whistling a medley of Christmas songs. That was slightly more acceptable. Even so, the pit in my stomach continued to deepen, wondering what in the world was the hold-up. I hadn't heard any loud clicks or sounds indicating that they'd ripped the wire off of his chest. Hopefully he was still sitting in that room and staying safe in the meantime.

After what felt like forever, I heard a door open.

"Hello, Mr. Smith? Congratulations. You have moved onto the second phase of the interview process. Will you please follow me?"

I could hear Harris standing up and walking down the hallway again. He was falling for it! Notably I did not hear any more exchange with Tackleberry. Apparently he wasn't being brought back to the waiting room.

"Here is your sidearm," the voice said, once the walking stopped. "There are no bullets in the gun—this is a test of your proper handling of the weapon. The next phase involves a mock drill. Please step into this room and wait. The moment someone opens the door, I want you to train your weapon on them and make them retreat without the need to use the weapon."

"That's it?"

"The one caveat is you will remain in the dark in this room. It's a test of your ability to orient quickly to your surroundings. Very important for a security guard that may be dealing with a chaotic situation."

"Makes sense to me."

Now I could hear the door shutting. So apparently they'd left Harris in the dark with an unloaded gun. Alarm bells were ringing in my head. I grabbed the police radio from Proctor once again.

"Are you in the dark right now?" I asked.

"Yeah. So what? I thought I told you to scram—"

"So you're telling me they put you in a dark room with a gun."

"They told me it's unloaded, and they weren't lying—not one bullet."

"What room are you in?"

"Now, how the hell am I supposed to know that? It's pitch black in here."

"Do you have a flashlight? Can you see where they put you?"

"Here, gimme a second."

I could hear the fabric of his clothes moving as he drew a flashlight out of his belt buckle.

"Huh. There's a bunch of safes in here."

That did it. They were going to kill him. They were going to pretend as if he was a thief, having broken into their safe room, and they were going to shoot him. Oh God….

"You have to get out of there. It's a trap!" I said, panting now. "Put down the gun and get down! They're going to open that door and shoot you dead!"

"What the hell are you prattling on about? This is interview stage two. Huh, and you thought I'd never get this far, remember?"

"Don't you see? This is a setup!" I exclaimed. "They're trying to make you look like a thief, putting you in their safe room in the dark with a gun! They're going to kill you! Throw the gun away and get down! Do it!"

Now I could hear the door opening. I felt the urge to puke, my heart thundering in my ears. Oh my God…