Masterpost Green Means Go
Prologue
ComNet’s supposed to be easy to use, damnit. It’s hard. Why is it so hard today?
Oh. Right.
She punches in the code again. Her fingers trip. Bad fingers. She shakes them out, sets her tongue firmly between her teeth and hits connect.
There he is. She can feel her smile stretching her cheeks, pulling the corners of her mouth wide. “Hi!” She flops up against the side of the comscreen, twirling her hand in his direction. “I have to talk to you. Hi!”
“Jesus!” He leans in, his face spreading wider across the screen. She watches his chin move as he talks; the words wash past her and she has to think back through them. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m kinda… whoa,” she catches herself sliding down and hitches up her hip, propping herself against the wall of the public booth. “They can’t know I talked to you, okay? Don’t tell them I talked to you.”
“Are you hurt? Tell me where you are, we’ll get you out…”
She giggles. “Nothing hurts. Nothing at all. I can’t remember this conversation, is all. Okay?”
“Baby.” His face is sinking into hard lines, sharp planes and flat eyes; she doesn’t like that face, never liked it. “What did you do?”
She looks side to side, eyes wide, but there’s nobody there. “They’re getting set to reverse it. Government’s near to getting the reforms through.”
She glances behind her again; the street is empty.
“I told you before, right? Been building up again ever since the coup. They’re in real deep by now, and three weeks Thursday they’re gonna make their move.”
He starts to say something but the words are just background noise as she keeps talking. “The nephew, he’s the one they’re setting up for it. I got it all, I was in real close and I…”
She bites her lip. It doesn’t hurt like it should; she tries again. Huh. Still nothing.
“…I kinda fucked it up. Sorry. Too close.” She grimaces apologetically. “He knows it’s me. They can’t know I talked to you, okay? They’re real scared of Cali interfering.”
“They should be,” he says.
“Are you underwater?” she says, head lolling. “You sound…”
Her eyes don’t want to focus. Maybe she’s the one underwater.
Even with her distorted vision she can see the frantic movements in the screen. It looks like he’s banging his fist on it. “Stop it,” she mumbles. “You’ll fall out.”
“What the hell did he do to you?”
“Nothing yet,” she says.
Her arm is so heavy, her hand trailing up as though the air were molasses. She presses her palm against the screen, leans in, her forehead hot against the cool surface.
“Amnesty,” she whispers. “I took it right before I called. I won’t remember any of this.”
“Goddamnit!” his voice explodes from the speakers, “they are not going to catch you! Get to the usual spot, I’ll have someone there in twenty or less…”
“I’ve got another way out,” she whispers. “I’ll run, but they’re pretty close. Don’t be mad. I had to tell you. Before they got me.”
She’s never seen him cry, he doesn’t cry, but his eyes are bright. Maybe he’s angry with her. “Don’t be mad,” she pleads again. “You know I had to tell you. Just in case. And this way, they’ll never know. You know?”
“…Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds funny, but she’s flooded with relief. He knows. “I know.”
“I’m gonna run now,” she assures him. “I can still run. I’m a good runner.”
“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re the best.”
She beams. His face is blurred, this close up, but it’s a better face now. Softer. She likes this face.
“I like your face.”
“You’ll see it soon again, okay? But you have to go now.”
She looks down at her fingers. They’re blurry too for some reason; she wiggles them experimentally, but that makes it worse.
“I’ll disconnect, do the wipe from this end. Just go!”
She pulls herself up tall and gives him a wobbly salute.
“Go!”
The connection breaks. The screen flickers. Remote wipe. He’s good at this.
She’s good at running. One foot in front of the other, it’s all you have to do.
She backs out of the booth and starts down the sidewalk. One foot in front of the other. Not far now. She just has to…
Part One
Everyone knows Jared’s dogs are the best.
Jared’s pretty fucking amazing, too. Still, there are several of the Ghosts who can give him a run for his money. This is good; they’re stretched thin lately. But when the order comes to get his ass down to San Antonio as of yesterday, Jared knows it’s because of the dogs. No other reason Jeff would send him instead of Aldis or Katie. Jeff knows Jared hasn’t set foot there in over four years.
He drives. Alone, he might have flown - he could easily get around airport security, even considering how ridiculously stringent it’s gotten these past few bad years - but the dogs have never learned to love planes and if time is of the essence, he can’t afford to wait for sedatives to wear off.
He does, however, park several blocks away to let them stretch their legs on the way to reporting in. They deserve a walk.
Sadie’s dancing a bit, letting out excess energy. She’s the younger, and sensitive beyond belief: so much so they call her a ‘corpse dog.’ She found President Stanton’s murdered aide three years ago, despite all the concrete they’d dumped on him, and even though it never made the official news, Jared knows that’s what ultimately brought down that government. He recognized Jeff’s hand behind the way things played out.
Harley’s trotting along more sedately. They’re both extremely well-trained and disciplined, but Jared’s had Harley longer, watched him grow into a mature and reliable dog. Really, it was as much Harley’s example as Jared’s patient training that brought Sadie along so well.
So it’s a real shock to Jared when Harley starts going completely insane as they pass the entrance to the local farmers’ market.
He frowns and tugs on the leash. It’s just for show, to keep up with local regulations; these dogs no more need leashes to control them than they need to be told how to sleep or eat. Harley insists, though, pulling on the leash and heading for the archway.
Jared follows, signaling Sadie to come too. Something’s up. Harley turns to the right, leading through the bustling aisles. Jared’s constantly apologizing to people as they pass; he takes up enough room by himself, never mind the dogs, especially with Harley pulling hard. “What is wrong with you?”
Harley stops.
“The butcher? Harley, really?” Jared can’t believe it. Even Sadie looks puzzled.
But Harley doesn’t cast an eye at the slabs of beef and grass-fed lamb, just scents, and starts moving again, turning left at the next intersection.
Jared’s own senses are on high alert. He’s got no idea what’s caught Harley’s attention but the unexpected is pretty much always trouble, in his world.
They make brief pauses at a vegetable stand, then a stall selling fresh bread and pastries, and then they round a corner and Jared stops dead.
Harley is straining at the leash, a low whine escaping him. Jared has to exert all his considerable strength to haul him back round the corner, where he ducks down and talks quietly, urgently into his ear. “Good dog,” he soothes, scratching behind Harley’s ears. “That’s good, that’s good enough. You did it, boy. You’re done.”
The dog clearly wants to continue, reach his target. Jared continues petting him, repeating the same words, holding hard all the while to his leash. Sadie stands and watches them both curiously, tail occasionally thumping against Harley’s flank. Jared drops his head to Harley’s and rubs his face on the rough warm fur. The magnitude, the implications of what he’s just seen are starting to sink in. Even thinking the name feels like his brain is wading through taffy.
Jensen.
“Jesus. Fucking. Christ.”
Dean juggles the groceries and slaps his right hand on the scanner panel by the back door. There’s a click as the magnetic lock releases; he shoulders the door open and makes his way to the kitchen. He deposits the bags on the large butcher block table and glances at the phone. The message light is blinking.
He hits play and starts unloading the bags.
“Hey, Dean. Fred’s asked for a quick meeting at four but you know what he’s like. I might be running a bit late for supper. Sorry, see you soon. Mwah.”
Danni’s boss is on the long-winded side. Dean got stuck next to him once at a company dinner. By the time coffee and dessert were served, Dean had inserted maybe three sentences into Fred’s interminable monologue. The arrangement suited them both: the meal was excellent and Dean was happy not to have to interrupt his eating to make pointless small talk or deal with potentially awkward questions about himself. Fred keeps telling Danni to bring him around again. Apparently Dean made a good impression. He guesses Fred doesn’t find many people who listen to him for long.
He drops the vegetables next to the sink and pulls a cutting board out of the cupboard. The beef needs to marinate for at least half an hour so it’s the priority. He looks at the knife rack, running his hand along the handles. His fingers close around one he doesn’t use often; it’s a little long, a little heavy for his taste. Usually.
Today, it fits his hand nicely.
He cuts the meat up deftly and spreads it in the pan. The marinade’s at the back of the fridge and as he leans in, digging for it, a shadow moves across his arm. He whirls around without thinking.
There’s a flash of color at the window. A red flycatcher is attacking the feeder Danni hung there. The kitchen is silent and empty apart from Dean. He looks at his hands in front of him. One is curled and raised, the other has flipped the knife into attack position.
How the fuck he even knows it’s attack position, let alone how to assume it, is beyond him.
He hefts the knife in his hand, flips it from one to the other, and stares at his wavering reflection in the metal before turning back to the counter. He rinses the vegetables in cool water, and rubs an onion between his palms to flake off the dry outer layers. So easy to slough the outside, reveal the heart of it. Onions never make him cry.
Picking up the knife again, he slices the peppers into stir-fry strips, chops the onion, juliennes the carrots. The blade glints as it flashes down over and over. He watches it, tries to empty his mind and ignore the almost imperceptible tickle at the base of his skull. It’s been a long time since his mind has dredged up anything new. He knows from bitter experience it won’t come until it’s ready, and may not come at all. Chasing it, trying to stare at it head-on, is the surest way to make it disappear back down whatever rabbit hole it came from.
He’d spent two years trying on his own, before he met Danni, and had pretty much given up on it. He’d started again, though, for her sake. She’d taken him to therapists, hypnotists, psychologists. Nothing ever worked. The good ones just gave him killer migraines; the bad ones took it personally, accused him of being uncooperative, and gave him killer migraines. Dean had persisted, mainly because of the disappointment Danni tried unsuccessfully to mask after each failed attempt.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to know who he was, where he came from, what happened to him four years ago. But the wall was in his mind, not hers, and he could feel its permanence in a way she couldn’t understand. Once in a while, something would slip through: some small detail, some tantalizing hint of memory. He’d recognize a scent or the curve of a building’s shadow, hear fragments of lost conversations. Every time he tried to force it, though, it was an exercise in futility. Things come to him when they want to. He has been in this city before they moved here last year, he’s sure of that much.
One day, after yet another session, he and Danni were sitting at a sidewalk café, and he’d said, I’m done with this. I’ve got a life, I’m living it, and I’m not looking back any more. He hadn’t planned to say it, hadn’t even been thinking about it, but as he heard his own words he’d known it was right.
She’d looked at him in surprise, brow furrowing, but before she could speak he went on, Can you live with that? I’m grateful for all you’ve done, Danni, but - I’m happy the way I am. Can you be happy with me?
He’s always been grateful that she could. Not for the first, or even the hundredth, time, he thinks how lucky he was that Danni found him and took him on. She doesn’t mind the awkward gaps, the pauses in conversation, the lies he’s had to invent. She accepts that there are things she doesn’t know about him - because he doesn’t know them himself.
There’s nothing left to cut. He lays down the knife, flexing his hand. It had felt… natural there.
“Maybe I was a chef,” he says out loud to the kitchen, but it sounds hollow and he knows it isn’t true.
The kitchen’s too quiet. He flips on the radio and pulls out the largest frying pan. The news is on: more gridlock and traffic detours; another eco-warrior protest suppressed outside the legislature; the number of illegal border crossing attempts up this month.
A government employee has been missing since Tuesday. She was last seen leaving work on her lunch break and never returned. Foul play is suspected. Anyone…
The voice dies into silence. Dean stares over at the radio, at the tiny ‘off’ button he’d hit dead on with the wooden spoon hurled end over end.
He slides down the cupboard and sits there with his knees drawn up, wondering if there’d ever been a similar news bulletin about him, wondering if anyone had looked for him. He feels as if his very own Loch Ness monster is stirring in the murky depths of his subconscious: elusive, uncapturable, visible only as ripples disturbing the surface.
He pulls himself together, though - he always does - and by the time Danni hauls her ass in the door, dog-tired and bitching about Fred, the Szechuan beef stir-fry is ready and the wine’s chilling in the fridge. They eat, chat, decompress.
Dean’s got closing shift at the bar tonight, and means to head out directly after supper, but Danni’s giving him come-hither eyes. They leave the dishes, chasing each other up the stairs, shedding clothes as they go. He leaves the house fifteen minutes late but there’s almost no traffic on the road, and one thing he figured out early on is that he loves to drive. Fast.
Jared needs to figure out what to do about Jensen.
He knows he ought to call in and tell Jeff that he’s located the man they thought died four years ago. He wants to get a bit more info first, though. Because if Jensen’s alive, and working down here, and hiding from the Ghosts… that could mean a lot of things, most of them bad.
Jensen was one of the best agents Jeff ever had; if he’s sided against them, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with. Jared can’t quite believe that Jensen would betray them, though. What if he’s undercover? Maybe Jeff’s running something really complex, and left the rest of the Ghosts out of the loop. Maybe only the top brass know. Or maybe it was just Jared who wasn’t told. Because….
He needs to figure out what Jensen’s up to, who he’s working for and what he’s doing here in San Antonio of all places. And maybe if he focuses hard enough on the here-and-now, on observation and hard facts and politics, he can avoid thinking about the worst thing of all.
Jensen is alive. Has been, for the past four hellish years. And hasn’t contacted Jared.
He thinks about calling Gen to ask her advice, but decides against it. He’s sure she’d be thrilled - she spent so long helping Jared try to locate him, and was there for Jared when he found out Jensen had been in that blast - but he’s not absolutely sure he can trust her to keep it secret. She’s ambitious. She joined Jeff’s team not long after Jared did, and worked her way up the administration hierarchy almost as fast as Jared climbed the ranks of the Ghosts. And he’d been forced up them, massive leap forward when Jensen died - no, not died. Disappeared.
Because there’s no question it’s Jensen. His hair’s longer, and there are softer edges to his face; it’s missing the sharp, wolfish look Jared remembers. The scruff of beard is new - the golf hat is definitely new - but the body hasn’t lost any definition and the eyes are the same clear green Jared saw every time he closed his eyes for the first year after Jensen got blown to high heaven.
Gen might take this mess higher herself, if she thought she’d gain from it. Jared can’t afford to let that happen yet. Maybe Jeff and the others would all be surprised, too. Maybe it hadn’t been a lie.
But maybe someone knew Jensen survived and had decided not to tell Jared. And if that’s the case, Jared is going to take that person apart.
After he sorts out what the fuck to do about Jensen.
First, though, he needs to sort out what brought him down here in the first place. Harley’s impossible discovery has already cut significantly into the time he’d allowed to get to the rendezvous point. Protocol is strict: if Jared isn’t there within eight minutes of the agreed time, his contact will be gone, and any subsequent attempt to get in touch directly will be assumed to be compromised. He’ll have to call back in to Jeff and get a whole new set-up, orders coming down from the top once again.
Jared makes a point of never being late.
Moving through crowds with large dogs is tough enough. Doing it fast and unobtrusively, especially when you’re almost six and a half feet tall, takes skill. Which Jared has; he’s been doing this for years, and despite a particularly thick press of people around the subway exit he passes, he saunters into the coffee shop only three minutes behind schedule.
He orders an iced mocha latte and flashes his dimples at the barista. She winks back and makes him an extra-large, although he only paid for a medium. On the way out, Sadie’s wagging tail catches an edge of newspaper hanging off one of the tables and knocks it to the floor. Jared leaps forward and picks it up, apologizing profusely and offering it back to its owner, who grumbles something about animals in an eating establishment and ignores him.
Outside, Jared scratches Sadie behind the ears and heads for the tiny park two blocks away, a miniscule scrap of green space in an ocean of concrete. There’s only one tree and very little shade; Sadie and Harley flop down under the bench Jared sits on, trying to fit into his shadow.
A second shadow falls across them and Chris sits down next to Jared.
“It’s a shitty paper anyway,” Jared says. “Pure StarOil propaganda.”
“Still mine,” Chris says mildly. “Man’s got a right to read his propaganda in peace.”
“You probably wrote half of it.”
“Yup,” Chris nods. “Sad what passes for journalism these days. They’ll print almost anything I send ‘em word for word.”
“And Jeff sends it to you?”
Chris’ gaze turns steely. “You know what you need to, Jared. Quit pokin’.”
Jared lounges back, stretches out his legs, and takes a slurp of his drink. “Don’t know shit yet. You gonna tell me why I’m down here?”
His tone doesn’t waver but something, a breath, the faintest tension, must have been perceptible because Chris immediately softens, as much as Chris ever does. Not like he wouldn’t have noticed Jared hasn’t come back to San Antonio since - well, since.
“A girl.”
Jared waits.
“Name’s Alona. She worked security for the Republic. Or so they thought.”
“Another Ghost?” Jared’s surprised. He’s never heard of her. Jeff likes his secrets, but as need-to-know goes, Jared’s generally needed to know just about everything.
San Antonio, though. Jared might not have known about that.
Chris is shaking his head, though. “Nope. Free State of California.”
“Huh.”
Jared pops the top off his cup and licks the bottom of the straw. He swipes his fingers through the foam stuck to the sides and offers it to Sadie. She laps it off eagerly.
“Ugh,” Chris grimaces. “You and those dogs are way too cozy.”
“They’re family.” Jared sticks his fingers back in the cup, gives Harley a taste.
Chris makes a gagging noise. “Whatever. Anyway. She started working for the Republic about six months after it stabilized. Only she was actually sent over from Cali. She was good - they had no idea.”
“Jeff knew,” Jared says. It isn’t a question.
Chris nods anyway. “You know Jeff.”
Jared doesn’t really - he doesn’t think anyone does - but he knows that much. Jeff’s network of contacts is second to none. He buys and sells information, from the insignificant to the world-changing, and he has an unerring eye for value. In Jeff’s hands, often the apparently insignificant is world-changing.
“Far as I know, Jeff didn’t have dealings with her,” Chris continues, “till she got in touch with him two days ago.”
Jared blinks. That is unusual. People don’t go looking for Jeff. He knows you exist; it’s a one-way mirror.
“I said she was good,” Chris sighs. “Someone in the Republic had twigged to her, and she knew it. She was planning to get out.”
“And she went to Jeff?” Jared’s still puzzled. “If she was really that good, she should have had an exit plan.” Jared always has one. Usually at least three.
“She did. And she guessed that Jeff would be asked to stop her.”
Jared tries to mask his surprise, but Chris smirks at him anyway. “Sure enough, the Republic wanted her picked up quietly, no police. Someone called Jeff the same day she did. She figured she’d have trouble getting past him, and she gambled that Jeff would want her info enough to let this one fail.”
“She is good,” Jared admits.
“Was,” Chris says heavily. “She’s missing. Jeff took her up on it. Only she disappeared that afternoon, on her way in. Cali swears she isn’t with them, and Jeff believes them. I can’t find her, and Chad hasn’t managed to pick up a trace. So, you and your mutts are up next.”
Jared considers. “He needs her found fast.”
“He wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”
“I know,” Jared says. “I - it’s okay. Really.”
“I wasn’t down here regular myself until a few months ago,” Chris says. “Jeff usually gives Mike the San Antone jobs, but he must be in deep somewhere else right now. Hasn’t been around since January.”
“I never know what Mike’s up to,” Jared says, “even when he’s around.”
Chris is frowning at him. “You okay?”
He realizes his left knee is jittering wildly. He bites his lip and forces it to stop. God, he hasn’t been this unprofessional in years.
“Too much coffee,” he lies.
“Been here too long already,” Chris says. “I need to head back. You do what you do, report in to Jeff. We don’t meet up again.”
He stands, lays a hand heavy on Jared’s shoulder. “I miss him too, y’know.”
Jared hesitates, meaning to lie again, but Chris was there for the original search and was one of Jensen’s best friends. He deserves to know.
“I nearly missed the meeting today,” he says slowly, “because Harley picked up a trail that shouldn’t have been there.”
He looks Chris dead in the eye. “I let him follow it, and I saw - I saw Jensen. He’s alive.”
When Chris finally leaves, Jared takes a moment to sit and calm himself. The dogs wind around him, gazing at him soulfully and rubbing their heads against his legs. They always know when he’s hurting, always try to make it better.
Chris had pressed him for details. Jared had explained that he didn’t have any, at which point Chris got a little wild-eyed and started ranting.
“…can’t just fucking tell me something like that without proof, Jay! Why the hell didn’t you trail him? ‘S more important than…”
“Hey, it’s not like I was expecting…”
“You never did! Never took care of him like you should…”
Jared shut him down real quick after that and told Chris to get the fuck out before he said something he’d regret. Plus they were starting to attract attention and that was the last thing they needed.
He’ll have to sort that out tomorrow. Find Jensen, deal with Chris, talk to Jeff, all of it can wait. Right now, he’s got a job to do. A girl to find.
He picks up the newspaper Chris left on the bench and unfolds it. A small plastic ziplock bag falls out of the classified ads. Jared opens the bag and holds it down so that Harley, and especially Sadie, can sniff at the piece of pale green fabric inside. It looks like it’s been cut from a tank top or exercise bra; it’s a good choice, should have her sweat, her scent deeply embedded. He imagines Chris pocketing it from her laundry hamper or maybe her gym locker. Something she crumpled up and dropped in a pile to deal with later.
So many things left behind, incomplete, undone.
The dogs nuzzle his hands. They have it, now. He tucks the bag into his pocket for secure disposal later and leaves the park, heading back to the SUV. He deposits the newspaper in a bank of recycling bins outside the market, after reading the short article about the missing woman and noting the address from which she disappeared.
In the car, he fires up the GPS and plots a course that will cover the obvious exit routes to take from that block, without ever coming too close to the actual building in which she worked. He stares at the map, tilting his head in a couple of different directions, and then also plots out some routes that are very much not obvious. Finally, he works out the best way to cover the ground and where to leave the SUV.
Along the route, there’s a public ComNet point. He pulls over and sends a quick message from a mayfly account: Met up with C. SA is a great place to hang this time of year! Heading out to do some shopping. He continues on to his chosen spot and parks, being sure to Pay And Display. Nothing like having your vehicle tagged or towed while on assignment. Ask him how he knows this.
“Time for a walk,” he says, and the dogs bounce with enthusiasm.
He heads off down the street, smiling widely at people, looking in shop windows, being an obvious tourist. The dogs wind around obstacles, sniff and pant and charm people, and Jared keeps walking the route mapped out in his head, waiting for the moment when one of them signals, and watching for signs of trouble.
San Antonio’s a nice city to walk in. He always loved coming downtown. The sights and smells of the market, the crowds of tourists, the music and laughter spilling out of cafes and restaurants. Megan would want to stop in every store selling funky jewelry, while Jared usually added to his crazy T-shirt collection.
He’s missed being here. He has lots of good memories of the city. They’re just all overshadowed by the most recent, and most devastating. It made perfect sense that a floundering, desperate United States government trying to quell a Texas rebellion would target San Antonio. Its concentration of military bases made it an obvious threat. Jared’s studied strategy; he understands that. He also understands that there are always unpredictable happenings, unexpected consequences, casualties. Like the missiles, intended for the airfields, that took out half a subdivision. His only consolation was the thought that his parents and Megan likely never knew what hit them.
Three months later, Jensen was down here on a job, and died in another fucking explosion. Probably some guerilla reunification group, not that anyone knew for sure. Too much craziness that year, too many unimaginable things. Too many deaths to track.
Every year, when the Republic of Texas celebrates its independence, Jared stays indoors away from the crowds, turns up the music, and gets stinking drunk.
He’s thought about moving, but really, where else would he go? He makes good money with Jeff, and it’s not like he has any official credentials. Jeff’s been considerate enough to give him mostly northern jobs, with an occasional run outside the Republic. His only close friends are Ghosts - it’s not the kind of job that fosters outside attachments - and he wasn’t going be doing the relationship thing any time soon, if ever.
There’s been nothing to pull him anywhere else.
And now, it looks like there might be every reason to stay.
Chris kicks the door shut behind him and heads for the liquor cabinet. Twisting the top off a mostly-empty bottle of rye, he forgoes a glass and takes a swig straight from the bottle, relishing the slow burn that slides down to his stomach.
He drops down onto the sofa and stares at the far wall as he drinks, thinking about possibilities and opportunities, chances and costs.
He’d thought he’d made his peace with all of it, long ago, but this. This changes the playing field in ways he’s not even sure of yet.
There’s a chance, though, and by the time the bottle’s empty, he knows he’s not letting it get away this time. Sometimes, selfish is what you gotta be.
It takes several rings, and the female voice that picks up is far from friendly.
“Jared thinks he saw Jensen,” Chris says without preamble.
There’s a long pause, before she says, “What do you think?”
Chris stretches out and props his feet up on the coffee table. “I think I need to find him first.”
“With you on that,” she says, and Chris smiles to himself because he knew it. This is why he called; they are on exactly the same page.
“Fuck,” she says. “San Antonio. I swear we swept that place clean.”
“We did,” Chris says. “He must have come back pretty recently.”
“Kind of embarrassing for you,” she says. “You’re there two weeks out of every three; Jared shows up and finds him inside of an hour.”
“Fuck you, bitch, I thought he was dead,” Chris snaps. “We all quit looking years ago. You too. So don’t give me that shit. I actually gave a damn about him.”
“Do you think he’s got it?”
“I don’t know.” Chris chews his lip. “It’s been four years. Why hasn’t he made a move yet, if he does?”
He can practically hear her thinking.
“Not sure,” she says finally. “You figure it out. He’s your boy.”
“Yeah, not so much,” Chris says. “But I’m thinking you’ll wanna help me there.”
“I’ll work on it,” she says. “Still. Jensen hasn’t contacted him. That tells you something.”
“It does. I just don’t know what.”
She sighs. “Keep your head down. Give me till morning, I’ll find him for you.”
Chris laughs. “Oh, sweetheart. Already on it.”
“So why are you calling?”
“Figured you could help me call off the dogs,” Chris drawls, and it’s her turn to laugh.
“It won’t be easy,” she says.
“You don’t like it easy, baby,” Chris says, and hangs up before she can retaliate.
It’s Sadie who signals first. Harley follows suit within seconds, either picking it up himself or responding to Sadie.
Jared gives them the sign for undercover and follows their lead. That’s one of the things that sets Jared’s dogs apart: they don’t look like tracking dogs. If he asks them, they will sniff things and frolic and trot along and look as goofy and normal as they do on their days off, and all the while they’re leading Jared, not the other way around.
The route the dogs follow is a slightly odd one. Alona must have known, or suspected, she was being followed.
They stop halfway up a block of nondescript storefronts. Sadie casts around the sidewalk and curb. She must have been put in a car here. Jared smiles grimly, and leans down to rub Sadie behind the ears.
“You can do it, girl,” he whispers to her. “Take your time.”
She licks his hand briefly and goes back to work, scenting the ground, the air, the asphalt. Harley is doing his best, too, but cars are difficult; Jared’s putting his money on Sadie.
A man and woman are wandering down the street towards him. Harley obligingly pees on a parking meter, giving Jared a reason to be standing there. He gives the couple a bashful smile and small shrug as they pass.
Sadie tugs once, and she’s off. Jared decides to jog for now. There’s no way to tell how far the car went. If it looks like it might have left the city, he’ll have to head back and get the SUV, but that does make Sadie’s job a helluva lot harder. There are plenty of government facilities in the city, though, if the Republic took her. Someone else, it could go either way.
It’s early evening and the shadows are falling long and clean. A beautiful day for a run. Sadie hardly pauses at cross-streets, chasing, turning.
One last turn and the view opens up in front of him. There’s a large construction site ahead. His heart sinks.
It’s deserted, the workers long gone for the day, the excavators and cranes sitting idle and brooding. The surrounding fence is mostly to keep the public from falling in a hole; it’s not security in any real sense of the word. Jared loops the dog leads around a power pole and vaults the fence so he can take his time picking the lock unobserved on the inside. He might as well not have bothered, as it only takes him about six seconds.
He unclips the leashes and waves the dogs inside. Sadie lopes along the edge of the foundation, heading for the far side of the half-finished building. It looks like it’s going to be a large block of offices, maybe apartments, around a central courtyard. Most of it is framed up to the fourth story, walls already layered with pink slabs of insulation and blue sheets of vapor barrier. The back wing is farther along than the sides, metal siding panels hiding the bright colors. Jared hopes he doesn’t have to tear that down; he’d probably need machinery and that would attract attention at this time of day.
Sure enough, Sadie heads for the back corner and stops. Fortunately, the metal sheeting stops several yards short of the corner. Jared taps along the wall, listening closely to identify the placement of the steel beams. He pulls out his cutter and slices through the insulation and drywall between them with ease, breathing a sigh of relief that the crew had decided to knock off on time rather than press on and finish that section.
The panel pops out and he stands it against the adjacent wall. He peers into the hole but only sees some wiring. He fishes out his flashlight and looks down, left and right. Nothing. He glances at Sadie and raises his eyebrows. She just looks back at him, tongue lolling out. Alona’s here, all right. He really hopes she’s not in the foundation.
No, she can’t be. It’s too well cured, and the building’s too far along; it must have been poured at least a week ago.
He looks up, and there she is, caught on a crossbeam several feet up. Probably dropped down between the walls from the upper scaffolding.
He’d figured the minute he saw the construction site that she couldn’t be alive. But it’s still a shock of sadness, disappointment, and failure. Sometimes, it’s too late. You can’t save them all. He knows that, but every death haunts him.
Jared pulls himself together, and undoes his shirt.
He unwinds the rope from around his waist, weights it with the cutter, and lassos her ankle. He tugs her down with one hand, covering his nose and mouth with the other against the shower of insulation, dust and dirt that flies up when she lands.
Dead maybe forty-eight hours. Not that he’s a pathologist or anything, but he’s been around. That fits with the trail he’s just followed; she must have been brought here and killed directly.
He categorizes her injuries with grim detachment. Shot through the back of the head. Marks indicate her wrists were restrained, and one shoulder has been dislocated. Lacerations and bruising suggest the side of her face was smashed against the wall more than once. Her spine is bent backwards at an odd angle, probably broken, but Jared thinks that likely happened when they dropped the body into its hiding place.
It looks like she died right here, right away, and that makes Jared uneasy.
The Republic wanted her. But they’re unlikely to have killed her straight off: they would have wanted to know what she’d passed on to Cali. Even if she’d told them everything, there’s little reason for them to kill her; she’s a potentially valuable bargaining chip. And why ask Jeff to pick her up, if they were already set to take her out? It doesn’t make sense.
Some rival faction, maybe? The Republic won’t be happy if she died before they could work her over. This screw-up could seriously undermine Jeff’s credibility. And not just with the government; maybe even with Cali, too, if the Free State knew their agent had contacted Jeff. Jared’s always thought of Jeff and the Ghosts as unique but really, there’s no reason someone else couldn’t set up in the same way.
It’s a chilling thought. Jeff’s - Jeff. These days, some people think he and the Ghosts are the unofficial branch of Republic security: Men in Black; MI6. It hadn’t always been like that. Whatever Jeff did, he was in it for himself, and the operation he’d started had been pretty much illegal until the change in government a few years back. Being the ones responsible for the coup, they could hardly be deemed illegal under the new order, but they still aren’t exactly welcomed into official circles. Jeff likes it that way, Jared thinks, likes being a power behind the throne.
Jared had had high hopes for the new government. He’d believed that things would be different, that maybe the more liberal factions might start moving Texas back to a more centered position. It’s not like he’s hankering to move to the North or anything, but it’d be nice if his love life weren’t a felony. When they first took over, they talked a lot about reversing some of the right-wing laws the first Republic had instituted, yet it seems like nothing much has changed. Jeff says these things take time, but it’s been three years and Jared’s feeling cynical.
Jeff doesn’t seem disillusioned. Maybe he sees possibilities Jared doesn’t. Jeff’s good at that, at taking the long view. Or maybe, Jared thinks, Jeff never believed that in the first place. Maybe he just said what Jared needed to hear to make him fall in line. Make him a good little soldier.
Jared’s a loyal sort of person. In the end, Jeff’s loyal to himself.
Jared winds up the rope, tucks away his tools, and slides the panel back into place. He’s done his job finding her; he’s not going to haul a corpse through the streets. He sends the code words from his phone. Headquarters monitors the GPS of every agent; if Jeff decides he wants the corpse, they’ll have coordinates for the retrieval team. He takes some photos, too.
Sadie and Harley dance around his legs, looking up hopefully.
“Treats in the car,” he tells them.
It’s almost full dark now, as they walk back to the SUV. Jared thinks about going back to pick up Jensen’s trail, but they’d look a bit unusual, tracking through the streets late at night. He’ll crash for the night, head over to the market in the morning, and let Harley take it from there. It’s been four years. One more day can’t make that much difference.
His dreams that night are full of Jensen. But that’s nothing new.
It’s open mike night and the bar’s moderately crowded, with a mix of the usual crowd and tourists. There’s a small cluster of women at the far end of the bar who take turns ordering drinks with innuendo-laden names and shrieking with over-loud laughter. Dean smiles politely, makes the drinks, pockets the tips and ditches the phone numbers, and shoves Matt in their direction when he can’t take any more.
At least none of them get up to sing. The level of talent can vary widely at these things, but tonight’s attracted a fairly high quality crowd. The fourth guy in particular knows his way around a guitar and while his voice isn’t exactly pretty, it’s strong and perfectly suited to the soulful country-rock ballads he croons. He’s new; Dean doesn’t recall ever seeing him in here before, let alone on stage. The crowd likes him.
He does a set of three, then takes a bow and steps down and heads for the bar. He leaves his guitar case on the stage, though, giving a nod and a wink to the ladies clamoring for an encore, promise of more to come.
He slides on to a stool at Dean’s end of the bar but he doesn’t wave him over, just waits until Dean finishes polishing a glass and heads his way.
“Sam Adams, and a whisky chaser,” he requests. He meets Dean’s eyes directly and there’s an appraising look in his blue eyes that Dean doesn’t quite understand.
Dean fetches the drinks and slides them across to the man. He tips back half the beer in a single long series of gulps. “Thirsty business.”
“Nice job up there.”
“Thanks.” He finishes off most of the remaining beer. “You play?”
“Me? Nah, never learned.” Dean shrugs. “I’m plenty busy back here.”
“You should give it a try sometime,” the guy says. “Might surprise yourself.”
There’s something in his voice Dean can’t place.
“Maybe you’ve got hidden depths.”
It’s the kind of line he’s more used to hearing from the gaggle of girls down the other end, while they lean over the bar with cleavage on prominent display. Is the guy flirting with him? It doesn’t feel like it - though Dean supposes that any same-sex flirting is going to be pretty subtle, given that the criminalization of homosexuality was among the first batch of new laws the Republic passed after separating. Maybe gay guys have a code, a way to surreptitiously test the waters before making a move.
If so, Dean doesn’t know it.
“Don’t we all, man,” he says. “Another beer?”
“Sure,” the guy says, after a too-long pause.
He pays for his drinks - tipping nicely but not extravagantly, and there’s no phone number attached - and heads back to a table near the stage.
For the next couple of hours, Dean catches sight of him every so often, when the crowd around the bar swirls and parts, but he’s always looking at the stage, and he doesn’t come back to the bar, though one of his buddies collects a couple of pitchers for the table.
He does get up and sing once more, shortly before midnight. Those bright blue eyes never look Dean’s way, so it’s hard to say why Dean feels, the whole time, like someone is watching him.
The set ends; the guy leaves. Dean finishes his shift and closes out the place a couple of hours later. The parking lot’s deserted but as he walks to his car, he gets that feeling again.
He turns the wrong way out of the parking lot, swings up a few side streets, and takes a circuitous route home. Just in case. Like something he saw in a movie once, maybe. He feels a little dumb about it, but not enough to drive straight home. When he gets there, he kills the lights and sits in the car for a few minutes, until the neighbor’s cat jumps on the hood of the car and peers inquiringly at him through the windshield.
He laughs ruefully at himself - what the fuck does he think he’s doing? - and goes in to bed. Danni mutters but doesn’t wake up as he crawls in beside her.
He still feels unsettled. He lies awake staring at the spill of her hair on the pillow, dark in the moonlight, and wishes he at least knew his own name.
Sleep is a long time coming and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember.
She doesn’t block her ID on this call. She taps her fingers impatiently as the ComNet interface flashes. The audiolink connects but video is refused.
“The fuck? You know what time it is?” he grumbles.
“Shut up,” she says flatly. “It’s time to pick up after yourself. Jensen Ackles is alive and working in a bar in San Antonio.”
She takes pleasure in imagining his fish-mouthed expression.
“You are fucking kidding me,” he says finally.
She doesn’t dignify this with a response.
“Fuck,” he says, after another pause. “Does he have it? Why’s he been staying away from the Ghosts?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” she says, “but they’ll try and bring him in. Two of them are on the ground there already. You want to suppress this, you need to take care of it before they find him.”
“Goddamn,” he says. “Give me the address, I’ll head out now.”
She shakes her head automatically, even though he can’t see. “Not yet. Wait a few hours.”
“What the hell for?” She can hear him moving around the room, opening a drawer. “You don’t think your guys’ll be making this top priority? You already woke me up, you bitch. I’m going now. It’s dark, it’s easy.”
“Not so much,” she says, bitter amusement sliding into her voice. “See, I do my job thoroughly, unlike some people. There’s someone else at that address, and you’ll never guess who.”
She tells him. There is yet another long pause, followed by incredulous cursing.
“Yeah,” she says. “You might think you can handle that, but I’m not so sure. Plus,” she went on, talking steadily over his protests, “you know you can’t afford to be recognized. If the Republic finds out you’re shafting them on this, your bosses are going down. So, wait until it’s clear, and then get it done. I am not letting Ackles fuck my life up again.”
Part Two