Safe House #27
Southeast Washington, DC – 8PM
Mac Morrison sat, welded to his computer as he prowled the hacker networks to fetch his dose of evening news. Brushstrokes of reds and oranges painted the beautiful sunset across the sky out of his window. Having taken the advice of his doctor, Mac was getting more sunlight by setting his workstation near the large window of his apartment. The view overlooked Nationals Park, the city's Major League Baseball stadium. With six suspended monitors surrounding him like an IMAX movie screen, he couldn't see much of the view and despite his futile efforts, remained fully immersed in his virtual world.
Mac's last apartment matched his taste in clothes, the apartment was decorated in a modern swank. There were pastels and buffalo plaid throughout and always obscure music sounding through the speakers. Alt-J was the music of choice this morning as he surfed with one hand and sipped his coffee with the other.
Mac's eyes narrowed as they found a link from a hacker friend, Rogue7. Of course his friend wasn't a friend and had no idea of his origins. Rogue7 could be a teenager for all Mac knew – anonymity was a friendship requirement in the hacker world. All Mac was able to gather on him was that he didn't care about anything other than Dungeons and Dragons, Game of Thrones and World of Warcraft. Regardless, they corresponded back and forth and recently Mac used one of his de-encryption programs to help in cracking a terrorist cell communication.
Mac clicked on Rogue7's link and up popped a surveillance feed. Mac tried to decipher the scene. The feed showed someone in a large inflated suit working in a laboratory. Then the suit hid and a second person with a bloody knife came onto the screen. And so, Mac witnessed the heist of the NIH. The text chat appeared from Rogue7.
"Dude... that's the NIH?... crazy shit, huh?"
"Where did you find this?" Mac responded.
"I hacked it myself. I heard a rumor that something went down at the NIH today so I wanted to see for myself," Rogue7 answered.
"Who have you shared this with?" Mac's second inquiry was immediate.
"No one, other than you... yet"
"I will pay you $5,000 not to share this with anyone else. I will know if you do." Even through the short text, his deliberate tone was received.
"Let's round it up to $7,500..." Rogue7 replied.
"You have terrible math skills. Deal. I'll wire it later today." Mac had to keep the footage from leaking as long as he could. He x'ed out of the conversation and played the feed again. His eyes narrowed on the attacker. Mac brought up a program from another drive that zoomed in on the figure and ran multiple clearing filters over the intruder's face. The man's image became clear enough to confirm Mac's suspicion.
"Oh Shiii---"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Xander's dream materialized before him. He had grown familiar with the recurring dream that often haunted him. He sat in the same backseat of the same station wagon as always. He recognized the back of his parents' heads in front of him. His mother's brunette curls bounced down the back of her seat and dangled before him. As always, he reached his hand out and grazed her locks. He noticed his hand was smooth and hairless.
Oh yeah... I'm eight years old.
"Isn't that right, Xander?" As always he joined in mid conversation – unsure of the topic of discussion. Xander took this chance to tell them how much he missed them.
"I love you, Mom and Dad," he said the same thing every time. His mom turned and sat up on her knees, her smiling face poked up over the head rest. She had glacier blue eyes, similar to his wife's.
"And we love you, Xander. You are so sweet." The answer was exactly the same.
This dream is the same every time.
"I miss you so much..." Xander's mother reached back and wiped his tears away as usual.
"We're right here, Xander," she said in her same reassuring tone.
Right on cue, Xander's father turned from the steering wheel, adding his response.
"Yeah, son we're not going anywh—" Just as every time before, an eighteen wheeler plowed into the side of the car. As always the last moments played in slow motion. Xander saw as the windows shattered and the debris floated by his nose. Xander watched as his dad's neck snapped and his mother flew out of the passenger window. She impacted the asphalt next to the car and a thud sounded as the car spun over her. Xander's head then impacted the window with such force that the window cracked. The dream faded and Xander came to, darting up in bed, huffing and puffing.
Xander found his bearing in the five-star accommodations of the Royal Sonesta Harbor Court hotel room. For a moment, he focused on the dream and how it played exactly the same way every time.
Only if they could live one time for me.
Xander grabbed at the crucifix that hung around his neck. The sterling silver figure nailed to it glimmered in the dawn light. Upon gripping it, Xander's panting slowed and his gaze turned to the bed. His crucifix was a gift from his foster mother before he left for Project Sparta. He never left it behind and it remained a consultation device for any moral dilemma he found himself in. His gaze settled on the figure on the cross. His mind retreated to a mix of hard memories and the sacrifices he had endured.
Dawn had crept into the hotel room, illuminating the figure tangled in the bed sheets. The rays of light drew Xander's eyes to the valley between Fiona's shoulders to the small of her back. She was sleeping soundly. The alcohol and the physical workout had lulled her into an immediate deep sleep. As soon as his sight settled on her, he forgot the dream and the dismay that came from it.
Xander couldn't help but smile at his wife and the most perilous adventure they had just embarked upon. They wanted a child and no mission to assassinate a terrorist was as terrifying or audacious. He imagined for a moment his child running up to him at the door when he had come up from work as Phillip Templeton, hugging his legs and tripping him into the kitchen. His internal impulses had entertained the suburban life and its picturesque happiness. But it was more than that now. It wasn't an idea. It was slowly becoming a possibility. He scratched at the stubble budding on his jaw line as he considered his place.
Should I end this covert life? Retire early and go sell something. Move my family to Fiji and make fruit smoothies on the beach for tourists? I caught Ezra... he's in prison... job well done. When is it enough? When is this enough?
His fingers twirled the red hair sprawled out over her pillow. He leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder. The sun shined on every tiny hair across her freckle-laced skin. His transfixed eyes began drying and the sight before him blurred. He blinked – snapped back to a harsh reality as his cell phone rang. The caller ID flashed 'Mac'.
"Whatcha got?" Xander asked low, careful to not wake up his sleeping lover.
"Footage from a siege of the NIH. One man only armed with a knife – he got in through the garbage dock, killed 8 people," Mac briefed him.
"Just a random terror attack or what?" It was surprisingly a low death toll for his line of work.
"No, he was after something and he got it. Watch your phone." Xander lowered his phone from his ear and watched the footage of the man kill Dr. Woslowski and take the vile with the bacteria.
"It's not just the fact that a bacteria was stolen from a level 4 security laboratory, but look at who stole it...." Mac ran the same filter over the feed to clear the man's image. Xander recognized the man immediately, but he did not shift or show any inkling of a reaction. Rather, he stood still in the dim, silent hotel room only illuminated by the light peering through the window slats. His mind raced like cars on an interstate as theory after theory merged and exited. It wasn't until he processed its implications that he brought the phone back up to his ear.
"Call everybody. Send me everything you got. We meet at Tobias's warehouse in an hour." Xander clicked his phone, threw on his clothes and gathered his bag. He leaned down and kissed his wife's head. She shifted in the sheets with a high pitched exhale and a blissful smile.
After scrawling a quick note on a cocktail napkin, that merely read, "Duty calls" – he was gone.
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