Home Base

San Marcos

          There was a knock at the bathroom door and it opened soundlessly. I turned, still holding the Neosporin tube in one hand.

          "Hey, you're home."

          "Yeah." Leticia nodded. "What did you do to yourself now?"

          "Uh, I cut myself on some of the equipment. I'll be fine, I swear."

          "All right." She sounded mirthfully unconvinced, and I smirked despite myself. She continued, "So explain to me what exactly is going on now?"

          "The murder case is probably linked to somebody higher-up in the CIA who thinks I'm a defection risk. And, oh, by the way, I think there might be another Code Five invasion going on, so I'm trying to train some people to become permanent slayers." I tried to say this like it didn't matter to put her at ease but it never worked (for me at least). The truth was I could band together the same group of people who helped me the last time, and they'd be willing and effective, but many of them had high-level jobs that involved field duty (whereas mine didn't mandate it). They had other responsibilites. CIB agents would need to be able to balance those responsibilities or not have to balance them at all.

          And as if I didn't know it already, I was definitely consigning myself to a lifetime of public service and giving up my dreams of filmmaking by moving forward. Once I headed up this CIB cell, once I returned to work at CTU, I was locked in. There wasn't any turning away from these responsibilities in a month or a few months; I was building a career. This may be what I chose, but it wasn't who I am. It still isn't, I don't think, not at heart. But part of the work is knowing to ignore the voice in the corner that says you're making a mistake, in order to listen to the cries of your better angels. One of whom was still talking to me.

          Leticia just paused a moment and then asked, "Is there anything you need?"

          "No, we're fine." I said 'we' because Detective Smith was still in my bedroom and Derek was still on our couch. She told me she'd be in her room again, and I finished washing up and headed back to the living room. My three-hour nap was really starting to wear off on me, but I was still overthinking. That's my biggest vice: I constantly overthink. Some people call it 'intelligence,' some people call it 'belligerance,' I call it 'complicating stupidity.'

          Derek looked up as I approached. "What happens next?"

          "We need to get you some backup," I said. "And I need to exonerate myself from this homicide case but other than that, it's mostly about getting other people involved. We had six people in one room and another half dozen or so outside on a perimeter and it was still a close fight, so we'll need some help obviously."

          "I can call in the team any time."

          "Whenever you think it's appropriate," I replied. "I'm going to look up some of the guys who fought with me in the last battle and see if they're available, but they may be our last best hope, per se." I tossed him the phone in silent approval, then grabbed another lifesaving Mountain Dew from the fridge and walked back into my bedroom, where Detective Smith had finished his research some time ago and was now just trying to connect the pieces.

          Though not related, he and Derek shared one characteristic beyond just a vague resemblance: an intensity when they focused. Both of them, when they were locked into something, looked the part and couldn't be dissuaded. That was the kind of front-line dedication that I respected. I'd gotten to work with a lot of people, but as I'd learned, not all of them were all they were made out to be, or even wanted to be, for that matter.

          "How's it going?" I said quietly.

          He looked over at me. "I'm just trying to back up your theory."

          "It's going to be hard to do that."

          "I have to try, at least." He exhaled. "And if you hadn't come along…"

          "This would have been so much easier?"

          "That's not what I was going to say."

          "I don't know, does Sergeant Friday think I'm crazy?"

          "Joe? Maybe for getting started at the age of 14, but not for your dedication."

          I started to say something, but then the phone rang. Putting my soda down next to my computer monitor, I turned and leaped onto my bed, tucking and rolling until I came up next to the phone and was able to grab it cleanly on the second ring. Ignoring Detective Smith's piqued look, I answered with my traditional, "Go ahead."

          "It's me again."

          "Lex? What's up?"

          "We're almost there."

          "Then it's true?"

          "Mason thinks he's found the operator."

          "Who?"

          "Teddy Hanlin."

          "That bastard!" I blurted. "I've always hated him."

          "I hated him on reputation," Lex quipped, never having worked with the annoying agent before, "but if he's Alberta's operator we've got a lock on her. Even if he's deniable, all we have to do is get him to give her up and correlate proof back to him. We'll probably hang her in the blowback and even if we don't, you're off the hook."

          "God, I love you."

          "Yeah, tell it to me tomorrow."

          "No, I mean it, you've saved my ass. And good timing too."

          "How's that?"

          "There could be another C5 incident."

          "What?"

          "Just a suspicion."

          "Still…"

          "I'll let you know. And let me know."

          "Always."

          I hung up the phone and sat there cradling it for a moment. Detective Smith looked over his shoulder at me, then eventually turned the whole chair around. "What was that all about?"

          "Lex believes they found the deniable operator used to commit the Fisher murder."

          "Are you serious?"

          "My partner's the best, Detective Smith. If he says it, I believe it." I checked the alarm clock by my bedside. "Anyway, I'm going to shower and call it a night. Is there anything you need?"

          "Maybe you could slap me so I'm sure I'm awake."

          "I don't think so," I said, chuckling dryly.

          When I went to bed half an hour later, I felt like I was back for good. The Chris Fisher homicide was about to be closed. I would no longer be in fear for my life (from that, anyway). My friends would find justice anyway. I had allies to work with in the impending storm. Never mind about my cover being blown – that could be handled in time. But as for immediate, pressing concerns, I found none.

          That was when the next dream vision hit me.

          I woke up ten minutes later and sat there silent in the darkness, shell-shocked, for another twenty.

          Michael and I were through, and he was gone.