chapter NINE: Call Waiting

Brant closed the door of his truck as he stepped out onto the pebbly surface of the parking lot. The shadow of a ten-story office building loomed overhead, better defined by the surrounding glow of street lamps and street fires contained within tall metal barrels. This was the bad part of town. Much of Charleston had been altered in the past few years, and the parts of it that remained old and delicate were too sparse to make the place stand out any longer. It was better known, now, for its rapid decay.

The air was still but cold. Brant wasn't dressed for this weather, but he wouldn't have to stand there for an hour. He hoped it would be a short meeting, maybe ten minutes at most. But, he didn't really know. He'd seen how the NSA worked, but he didn't know what this meeting would be like. The subject matter – Trinket – was far more sensitive than something you might hear during a tour of the headquarters or on your first day of work. The fact that they were meeting at an abandoned office building was also reason for speculation, but he tried not to.

He put on a serious face and started toward the office building.

He stopped at the front doors, under the overhanging ceiling, when he heard a voice coming out of the dark: "Hello, Joseph."

~*~

He'd parked his car outside the little restaurant and waited for the rain to calm down a bit before hurrying inside. He was seated quickly, seeing as there was hardly anyone accompanying him, right by the windows through which he could see the red and white lights of traffic fading in the rain. He had brought his folder inside with him and had laid it on the greasy yellow table, just beside the tacky green placemat.

It was a good ten to fifteen minutes before anyone came to wait on him, a woman who happened to be drastically overweight. Her auburn hair was twisted and frayed and her face was shiny and filthy from sweat and grease. Two of her teeth, her bottom front ones, were unusually undeveloped, hardly pushing through her gums to show themselves, and were also tainted a dull gray. When he saw her coming up to him, her cream apron on the verge of tearing in two down her front, he looked back to the windows and reexamined the traffic and the rain and the buildings and the lights and the darkened sky and the pale moon that had once been shining brightly, but was now shrouded by a dense screen of clouds.

The business of the city was heavily contrasted by the plainness of the restaurant, the monotonous beat of the faint music overhead, and the emptiness that surrounded him.

"Can I take your order?" the woman asked, slipping a small pad of paper out of her apron pocket and clicking a pen in her hand.

Daves looked at her and put on a warming smile, one that the woman took to be quite offensive. "You're American," she said, her accent heavy on the words she spoke. "Don't you go and criticize me for being overweight." Daves was rather taken aback, having not intended for his gesture to be taken negatively, but held the smile a little longer and then came back to earth.

"I'll have a Coke," he said, smiling again. The woman scribbled it down and waited. Peering over her little notepad over which she was hunched like a giant, she shot him a look of disgust and confusion.

"That it?" she grunted.

"That's all," he nodded. She slapped the notepad shut, shoved it into her apron, and went off to get his Coke. He decided to ignore her strangeness and turned his attention to the folder on the table. Sliding it onto the tacky green placemat, he flipped it open and quickly scanned the first packet of text – about ten pages stapled in the top left corner, highlighter marks and Post-it notes littering each page. 'KING – Counterterrorism Report' the first line read in bold print. There was a picture a ways down the page, off-center to the right, that carried an interesting caption.

'American agent 'KING' – Captured'

Daves reviewed the picture once more and sat silently for a time, before the waitress had come and slapped the Coke down in front of the folder. "There ya'are," she said, her voice seeming muffled, and then went off. Daves looked closer at the picture, trying to identify the man in it.

Then, the door opened, a number of silver bells clinking together as it did, and a man came inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him.

~*~

"So, what's the good word?" a soldier asked as another came through the heavy snow from the building far away. Snake was still hidden behind the drifts, but paid close attention to what the men were discussing.

"The storm should be passing, soon," the newcomer said, his voice gruff and aching. The cold had taken its toll on him, no doubt. There was a rasp in his words and his throat had been torn by the cold air and was bleeding painfully. "They're reporting an hour or two break in the weather."

"What's happening inside?" one of them asked. The newcomer coughed, his sound like a loud horn or a squawking bird.

"Harte's being held in the lower levels," he coughed again. 'Harte?' Snake thought. "They're taking him to see it in the next hour. Then, they'll go through with the deal and we'll get the hell away from this place."

'What's the deal?' Snake thought.

"They're not telling anyone what it's about," one of them said, almost seeming to be answering Snake. "Not much of a surprise, though."

Snake tried to move even closer against the drift, to be sure he was out of the enemies' view, and put his hand to his ear. He was trying to get a hold of Brant, but there wasn't an answer.

'What's he doing now?' Snake thought.

~*~

"You picked a nice place to meet," Brant said, joking. The man came further into the light, casting his shadows across the textured walls of the office building in the background. The man's wrinkles curled about his forehead, showing worry. He seemed inconvenienced by the meeting, but he knew that the meeting was necessary. Brant's attempt to lighten the mood failed.

"You wanted this information," the man said, pulling a folder from the confines of his heavy jacket. "Here you are." Brant took the folder and flipped it open, skimming quickly over the contents and scanning the pages that were inside. "It's everything you need to know about Trinket, or rather, everything the NSA has to offer you. What we know is still cloudy, at best, but it's more than you'll find searching the internet."

"Will, I'm not a fool. This isn't all you have," Brant said. Judging from the contents of the folder, the NSA didn't have much of anything.

"It's all we're willing to offer," he returned, almost as if he found humor in what he'd said. Brant looked at the folder again, disgusted, and then back to the man who only stood as tall as his chin.

"I want more," he said. "Give me more." Demanded.

Will turned an eye to the far end of the parking lot as the headlights belonging to a small black car rolled up from the surrounding streets. Then, turning back to Brant, he said: "Have you forgotten how the government works, Josef? I can't imagine you, of all people, could or would." The car came up to the overhang and the man turned away, went to the back door, and gripped the handle before turning.

"You've had a tough time, Josef," the man said as he opened the door. Brant watched him, almost upset at what the man had said. 'You've had a tough time.' What kind of bull shit was that? "We'll be in touch."

Will fell into his seat and closed the door, the car steadily passing out of the parking lot and disappearing down the streets. Brant pulled his phone out of his pocket and leaned against the doors of the office building, punching a number and then lifting it to his ear.

"Good day?"

"Desperado," Brant started, "how much do you know about Will Beck?"

~*~

Daves looked back down at the folder. The exposed file was the one with the image of KING printed on its front. The man who had come in from the cold scanned the restaurant with his eyes, not stepping in any direction yet, but when he saw Daves sitting in the booth he stopped and smiled weakly to himself. Then, he went over to the bar.

Daves couldn't believe the face he saw. The beard was cut the same, the eyes stung just the same, and the lip had a curl and twist identical to that in the picture before him. This man, who had come in from the cold, looked exactly the same as the man labeled in the folder – a KING.

"Good evening," the man said to the bartender as he stepped up and sat down on a tall stool. Then, he asked for some drink that Daves could not understand and waited as the bartender went to work. Daves kept a close eye on the bartender, watched as he tipped the bottles and filled the glass, then mixed them and stirred them together. The man at the bar pulled a wallet from his back pocket and threw down his money. The bartender turned, collected the money, gave him his change, and set down the tall glass, filled to the brim with a thick, red froth.

Daves examined the man further, noting his black raincoat that fell close to the tile, the stylish collar that buttoned up on his neck, and a gun holstered at his waist. Daves straitened his back and looked to the folder a last time. It was KING. No doubt. But, why was he there? And who was KING anyway?

~*~

"William Beck? Director of the NSA?"

"Yea," Brant answered. "What do you know about him? Anything?"

Desperado paused. "He was never a supporter of the President. I met him a couple years back before I was sent in to Manhattan regarding FACtion. He was watching a meeting between the President and myself, and a number of NSA execs. As soon as the strike was made the President was given word through a secure source in Manhattan. The President couldn't make an announcement to the public, knew it would be too risky – even for him – to go up against the Patriot like that. The meeting was held about an hour after the island was taken."

"What was it about?"

"The President wanted to know where these terrorists had come from. The NSA had come up with something. They believed that the preparations had begun at Trinket. The President asked for William to look into the facility and return to him more information within the next couple of hours."

"Did he find anything?"

"Enough to fill a file cabinet," Desperado replied. "A lot of it was useless and the President didn't spend much time with it."

"Where'd it all go?"

"Our copies were moved, but the NSA still has the originals."

"I have all that I can get from the NSA. They're not going to give me anything else," Brant sighed. "Where were the copies moved to?"

There was an uneasy silence on the other line. Desperado was reluctant to answer. "I can't tell you where, but I can tell you what I know."

"How could you know much? You don't have the files," Brant said, upset. Desperado seemed to treat the moment carefully, avoiding anything that could tell Brant more than he wished. He tapped his gloved fingers on his pant pocket and smiled a little smile to himself.

"I've been there," he said. But then, before Brant had returned any words, there was a beep on the phone. Eyeing the screen, he saw a number that struck him as familiar. Pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket he matched the numbers. "Sorry. I'll have to call you back."

Then, he switched to the other line, compliments of Call Waiting, and he slanted his brow and said with light concern: "Good morning, Springfield."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so very sorry that it has taken me so long to update. The winter break has been hectic and busy and my desire to continue has been scarce. Still, I have decided on many events to take place in this final installment of the series over the break, and though these events have not met you on fanfiction.net, I am sure you will be thankful for my hiatus once they do. Sorry again, but I promise you one hell of a ride – the best I am capable of giving. J Ciao!