The Kurt Vetter Trilogy: The Reluctant Hero

One

Mike Vetter hated this kind of weather. Rain. Endless, miserable rain. Relentless torrents of misery pissed from swollen black clouds above the treetops. Aside from the occasional flash of chalky white lightning and the pathetic illumination from his headlights, he could see nothing of the road ahead.

This is what it feels like to drown.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and peered through the furious slip-slap of his wipers. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Red lights twinkled through the shifting curtains of rain.

Shit! Mike jumped on the clutch and brake simultaneously with all of his might. His Audi hydroplaned for an interminable moment, the rear end threatening to break loose, and then juddered hard as the tires bit pavement and the antilock brakes kicked in. A moment later, he jolted to a stop inches behind an old Ford Explorer.

He tensed, bracing for impact from the rear. When it didn’t come, Mike opened his eyes in time to see a semi-trailer roar by on his left, missing his side mirror by inches. He checked his rear-view mirror and breathed a sigh of relief. It was clear.

The traffic lurched to life again, and Mike pushed the Audi back up to speed. Through a brief gap in the rain, he saw what he had been looking for, an office park at the bottom of the next exit ramp.

Almost missing his turn, he cut across two lanes of traffic, triggering a barrage of angry horn blasting. A minute later, he pulled to a stop a few yards short of a lone FedEx drop box and knocked his car into neutral.

He looked around to make sure he was alone, then opened his glove box and dug out a small flash memory card. He placed it in the FedEx envelope in his lap and sealed the envelope tight, going over it twice to make sure it was secure. As an afterthought, he took his gun from the front seat and stuffed it into the glove box.

He fished a billing label from his pocket and jotted down a long string of digits. The account number was stolen, but the seller from Craigslist had guaranteed it would be good for at least a week. That was six days more than he needed. He paused for a moment, tapping his pen against the steering wheel and chewing his lip as he considered whether he had made the right decision.

Screw it. He scribbled a name and address on the label and stuffed it into the pouch on the front of the envelope. He inched the car forward until he reached the drop box.

The rain swept in, drenching him to the skin as his window descended. He stretched out, stuffed the envelope into the drop box slot, and jabbed the window button, restoring the barrier between him and the storm.

Mike got back onto the interstate. This is it. Technically, he had committed high treason. Was it really treason, though, if he was doing the right thing? If he was the only one willing to stop a lunatic? A wave of doubt washed over him. Maybe we were right. Maybe. He pushed the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter anymore.

He saw a hole in the traffic and mashed down on the accelerator. He drove on autopilot for the next twenty minutes, not really paying attention to where he was going, just moving.

The rain tapered off as he approached the Haymarket exit. His car chimed, jolting him back to the moment. What the hell? He checked the instrument cluster and saw that the fuel light was on. Scanning the road ahead, he saw a well-lit, but empty BP station at the bottom of the exit. He cut the wheel hard and darted down the ramp and into the station, pulling around to the pumps farthest from the highway.

Mike killed the engine, got out of the car, and reached for the premium nozzle. On the other side of the island, a metallic-blue Cadillac sedan rolled to a stop, wet tires chirping on the dry cement pad. Startled, Mike turned at the noise. Riding low to the ground, the Caddy looked fast even standing still. On any other day, he would have been impressed. Turning back to his pump, he swiped his credit card and stabbed the nozzle into his tank. From the other car, he heard the hum of an electric window rolling down. He glanced over, curious.

Mike Vetter. It was more of a statement than a question. The man who had spoken from the front passenger seat was about Mike’s age, clean-cut and nondescript with shaggy brown hair and a medium build. Agency.

A wave of crippling nausea washed through him as he realized they had caught up with him. He was going to die right here, right now. Years of training kicked in, sending him scurrying away from the Cadillac, seeking cover behind a thick concrete pillar that stretched from the ground to the roof far above. My gun, he thought in a panic, it’s in the car!

Peeking around the pillar, he saw the man in the Cadillac signal to his driver. Mike made a break for his Audi. With a guttural roar, the Cadillac jumped forward and cut hard to the right, blocking his exit.

At that moment, Mike reached his door and hauled on the handle. Some sense of morbid curiosity, however, made him look up at the Cadillac. Mike recognized the look, the dead eyes, the feigned indifference at the razor-thin line between life and death. It was impossible to miss, for it was the same look he himself had cultivated a lifetime ago as a new CIA recruit at Langley.

He froze. That was all the time the man in the Cadillac needed. As Mike stared, the man drew a compact matte-black pistol from his jacket, leveled it at Mike’s face, and pulled the trigger.

Mike’s last thoughts, of his wife and children, flew through the back of his skull at four hundred and fifty feet per second.

Two

"Una más, por favor," Kurt mumbled from the end of the bar as he raised his glass toward the pretty bartender. She nodded. No more than nineteen, her dark eyes lingered on him just a little too long, probably curious as to what he was doing in this corner of Peru.

She topped off his glass, giving it a slight twist at the end to bust the foam, and slid it across the scarred bar to his waiting hand. "Veinte soles, señor," she said, with a demure smile.

He fished a tattered wad of bills from an inner pocket of his leather jacket, ruffled through them, squinting in the dingy light of the bar, and handed over a hundred Sole note. "Muchas gracias."

Her eyes lit up at the sight of the cash, and she straightened and threw her shoulders back, giving him a spectacular view of her cleavage. Her flirting wasn’t lost on Kurt, but instead of acknowledging it, he took his beer, turned, and ambled out the front door.

She has potential, he noted, and she’s definitely interested.

"Señor!" Kurt turned and found the bartender at his side, holding a crumpled fistful of bills, his change.

He waved her off with a smile. "No. Gracias. For you. Muchas gracias."

He didn’t have to tell her twice. With a sly grin, the girl tucked the money into her blouse. "Gracias señor. I very much thank—" He dismissed her with a friendly wave, handed her his half-empty glass, and continued on his way.

He was tired. Tired of the road, tired of drinking his days away alone and waking up with a different woman every week. It was a fatigue he never could have anticipated, and he couldn’t figure out how to take the next step, to move beyond it. This trip was supposed to be his salvation, a chance to reconnect with the world and rediscover who he was. Instead, it had turned into a slow grind that was killing him.

Shielding his eyes against the early afternoon sun, Kurt paused outside the door and scanned the plaza spread before him. Blue tarps dominated the vista. Stretched across makeshift stalls, they served as storefronts for the hundreds of vendors hawking their wares to the tourists who flowed through the city on the way to and from the Inca trail. The tarp closest to him chuffed as a gust of wind caught it from below, reminding him of the sound of sails snapping tight at the Chesapeake Harbour Marina.

No. He shook his head. I’m sick of this goddamned place. He turned to the right and picked his way down the fractured sidewalk toward a side street that led to a park that didn’t allow street vendors. Kurt was relieved to discover that the park was mostly deserted. Aside from a young mother and her three children, he was alone.

He chose a bench on the far side, more for the view of the mountains towering over the city than for its comfort, and took a seat. The three children scurried around the plaza chasing pigeons and screaming in delight every time they got close. Their mother appeared content to let her children burn off their energy, as she split her time between a magazine and watching them play.

Despite the blazing sun high overhead, the air still held a slight chill. Kurt shrugged back into his jacket, leaving it unzipped in a fruitless attempt to achieve a comfortable temperature. As he fiddled with his zipper, his wrist bumped against the mobile phone stashed in his breast pocket. He took it out. It had been three full weeks, no, four, since he had last spoken with anyone back home.

He flipped the phone open with his thumb and pressed the power button. It took only a moment for the phone to come to life and snatch a signal from the thin mountain air. Once it did, he saw that he had a voicemail. He accessed his voicemail and put the phone to his ear.

There was the usual burst of machine-gun Spanish as the automated recording told him how to place a call on his home network. He already knew the routine.

You have two new messages; press one to listen to your new messages, said the soothing computer voice on the other end.

He pressed one before the voice could list the other options.

After the date and time information, he heard, Kurt. Hey. It’s me. Listen. I’ve got to talk to you. There was a long silence. It’s really important. Call me as soon as you get this. Kurt made a mental note to call his brother as he deleted the message.

The next was from his mother. Kurt. There’s been an accident. Mike—he’s dead. Please, please come home. Her voice dissolved into sobs, and a moment later, his father came on. Kurt, it just happened. We don’t know the details yet. His father’s voice choked up for a moment, and then continued, Call me when you get this.

Kurt closed his eyes and bit back a scream. He didn’t delete this message. He closed the phone and, staring at the mountains high above without seeing them, he slumped on the bench. His stomach roiled, and he felt as if he were about to vomit. With a concentrated effort, he managed to swallow back the bile that had crept up his throat, associating the sour taste with the direction his life had taken.

His trip was over; that much was clear. It was time to leave.

Three

Jack Carson hoisted himself from his chair and went to the tinted window overlooking the lush green lawns surrounding the CIA campus. A steady rain fell, but nothing like the night before. He returned to his desk, settling into the plush, black leather executive chair that was his home away from home.

At sixty-one years old, Jack was a big fish in the small pond of the National Clandestine Service, the arm of the Central Intelligence Agency responsible for in-field intelligence gathering. The spies. He had entered the agency thirty-five years earlier, straight out of Harvard Law, after deciding a career wearing a suit for the FBI wasn’t for him. A veteran of the Cold War, he had completed tours of duty in several Eastern Bloc and Southeast Asian countries before finally succumbing to the lure of a stable desk job. Despite the comfortable life within the CIA management structure, a fire still burned deep within, an all-consuming desire to finish the war his government had all but forgotten.

Standing a hair over six foot three, with a full head of steel-gray hair and a razor-sharp intellect, Jack cut an imposing figure within the halls of the agency. He was comfortable with his power and had no compunction about wielding his considerable influence to further his goals.

With a deep sigh, Jack picked up his phone and punched in a four-digit number. My office. Bring Mason.

A minute later, there was a knock on his door. Come in, he bellowed.

The door opened without a sound, and a man and a woman entered, the woman pushing the door shut behind her. Only thirty-one-years-old, Helen Bartholomew was an accomplished field agent with extensive experience hunting terrorists in the former Russian republics. She was also a savant at intelligence synthesis, able to see through the torrent of data that inundated the agency and pick and choose the pieces she needed. That was the reason Jack had pulled her into his division in the first place. On the pretty side of beautiful, she was the quintessential spy, able to blend into almost any crowd and learn any language.

The man beside her was another story altogether. Mason Perot was short and swarthy and always had an easy grin on his face. Ruthless, yet dependable, he had served with Helen on several missions and he knew how to make things happen.

Since the pair had begun working for him, Jack had suspected some sort of romantic entanglement, but he had never been able to put his finger on it. Regardless, they worked well together, and that was the only thing that mattered.

He reached under his desk and pressed a discreet button connected to a white noise generator. Although the office was soundproofed and swept for electronic listening devices daily, he felt there was no such thing as too much privacy. Have a seat, he said, waving at the chairs opposite his desk.

Helen sat and crossed her legs. Mason’s girth made it a tight fit in his chair, and he grumbled as he squeezed himself in.

I just got off the phone with our friends, Jack said. Everything is in place.

Helen and Mason both nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop. They knew Jack wouldn’t have called them in for a routine status update. They were right.

Jack adjusted his tie and narrowed his eyes. What I need to know from the two of you is why in the hell I have complete operational control on the other side of the planet, yet one of my own people can walk out of the front of this agency with our entire plan in his back pocket? What the fuck is up with that?

Helen and Mason shared a quick glance. Helen cleared her throat. Jack, she said in a deferential tone, you know how it went down. After we took Vetter out, we had less than two minutes before the local police arrived. We searched him. He was clean.

She’s right, Mason added. He had been the one to search Mike Vetter’s body and vehicle after the shooting.

Jack clucked his tongue in frustration. "It doesn’t make any sense. He carried classified information out of my office!"

Helen held up one hand. Hold on, Jack. There was something. She fished in her pocket and pulled out a long string of white paper with a tab on one end and a hint of blue lettering along its length.

What’s that? Jack asked, anger morphing into curiosity.

It’s a zipper from a FedEx envelope. It was on his front seat.

Now we’re getting somewhere. He let a half-smile slip onto his face. Was there any sign of the envelope?

Helen shook her head. No. His smile vanished.

There are sixty-one FedEx drop off points between here and where we took him down, Mason volunteered, looking up from his tablet.

Jack leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. Interesting. Jack stood and went back to the window. He stared out for a moment, considering the possibilities, then turned back. Put a trace on his immediate family and associates. We need to know if anyone receives a package from him in the next day or two.

Helen smiled. Already done. We’ve got his family as well as his civilian acquaintances covered.

Can we trace the packages shipped from those locations?

Not without a warrant.

Jack raised an eyebrow.

There’s no visibility until they reach the pickup center. We were too late.

Okay. What about the other carriers? UPS and DHL?

Covered.

Good. Jack took a seat on the edge of his desk. Consider this your top priority, he said, alternating his gaze between the two agents. Until we understand where the information went, our entire plan is in jeopardy.

Helen asked, Have you heard from Fish?

Fisher Fish Coldwell was the third person in Jack’s leadership triumvirate, the yin to Jack’s yang and a royal pain in Mike Vetter’s ass. Where Mike had ethics, Fish had none.

No, Jack lied. Not a word.

I thought you said you just spoke with —

Jack cut her off. No. That was another asset in the field. None of your concern.

She frowned, obviously frustrated at his answer.

Is that it? Mason asked.

Yes. We’ll talk later.

Four

Kurt pulled his jacket and helmet on, and in a well-practiced motion, slung his leg over the saddle, taking care not to catch it on the bulky silver panniers protruding from the rear of the machine. He detached the key from the lanyard around his neck, jabbed it into the ignition, and fired up the bike with his right thumb. It came to life with the same buzz and clatter he had grown to love over the past months.

He looked both ways, goosed the throttle, and darted into traffic. He had seen a sign for the airport on the way into town, so he backtracked until he found it again. Only four kilometers. Not bad.

It took only a few minutes to reach the airport, but the trip was the typical Peruvian obstacle course of deathtrap taxis hurtling over rutted roads. He wouldn’t miss that aspect of South America. Not one bit.

He pulled into the lot in front of the airport and glanced around. The sun was dipping low behind the western mountains, and long shadows reached across the asphalt. For a brief moment, he reflected on the cocoon in which he had existed for the past months. He had managed to leave the outside world behind, existing solely for the moment, whether it was climbing a mountain pass or getting to the next town without hitting a cow.

Mike is dead. He shook his head, still not sure what to make of the news. He and Mike had grown up together. His brother, four years older, had been there for him at every turn. Hell, his first girlfriend was the little sister of one of his brother’s friends.

A tear came to his eye, snaking down his dusty cheek and splashing on his jacket collar. He pulled off his helmet then removed his gloves, placing them inside the helmet.

He went to the rear of the bike and unfastened his saddlebags, setting them on the ground beside the bike. He took a quick inventory of his belongings. His bike looked naked now, unloved and forlorn. It had the usual nicks and dings that were part of any long voyage, but aside from the gadgets bolted directly to the bike, it could have been anyone’s machine. He turned, picked up his gear, and headed for the terminal.

He stopped at the door and scanned the room. There was only one thing left to do. No, there was something else. He surveyed the late afternoon crowd, looking from face to face, making quick mental calculations about who was about to have a lucky day. He settled on a man about his size lounging beside a newspaper stand and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked American, or maybe European, and appeared to be in his early twenties.

Kurt walked over to him. "Hola."

The man sized him up and nodded in response.

Look, Kurt continued, I have to leave the country. Out in the parking lot there’s a BMW motorcycle. It’s yellow.

The man eyed him with suspicion, still not speaking.

Take good care of her. Kurt tossed the keys to the guy, who snatched them from the air.

Are you kidding, mate? New Zealand.

No. It’s legit. Something came up. I have to leave.

I don’t understand— the man started, flustered.

Oh yeah, you’ll need this. Kurt fished around in the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted the title to the motorcycle. He flipped it over on the newsstand counter and grabbed a pen from the counter. Yanking the cap off with his teeth, he signed the document with a quick flourish, leaving the buyer’s name blank. It would be up to the Kiwi to fill it in. Kurt put the cap back on the pen and pushed the paper across the counter.

The man stared, mouth agape. A smile blossomed on his face as he realized Kurt’s offer was legitimate.

Enjoy her. She’s been good to me, Kurt said.

Thanks, man!

A young woman with a backpack strolled up carrying two liter-sized bottles of water.

What’s going on, Ben? she asked. Kurt liked her accent. It sounded like she said ‘Bin.’

This bloke just gave me his bike! the Kiwi said with a stupid grin.

You’re kidding. She turned to Kurt with a suspicious look.

He smiled. Yep.

Ben couldn’t stop grinning. It is. He gave me the title and everything!

Can we give you anything? she asked incredulously. I mean—

Kurt waved her off. Don’t worry about it. He turned and started towards the Delta ticket counter, leaving the Kiwis to enjoy their newfound vehicle.

"Buenas tardes," he said to the ticket agent.

Good afternoon, sir, she replied in mellifluous English. How can I help you today?

I need a one way ticket to Washington, DC. He slid his passport and American Express gold card across the counter. As soon as possible. She took the card and held his stare for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning to her computer.

Five minutes later, he strolled through the security stalls. His panniers were traveling as luggage; all he carried was the small backpack he normally kept attached to his gas tank. His flight left in three hours, going first through Miami, and from there, to Dulles International, outside of Washington.

Looking around the boarding lounge, Kurt scoped out a comfortable-looking seat near his gate.

Home.

Five

Kurt awoke as the packed Boeing 757 banked hard to the right. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then it all came back in a rush. An airplane. Going home.

He stretched, contorting his lanky frame in a futile effort to get his blood flowing. Opening the shade on his right, he pressed his face against the scuffed Lexan and peered out. Thick, sodden clouds enveloped the jet. Fat water rivulets streaked the window, crawling across the glass in convoluted streams. He snapped the window shade shut.

The cabin bell chimed, and a flight attendant came on the intercom, informing the passengers that they were beginning their final approach. Seatbelts secure. Tray tables upright. All of that.

Kurt had been asleep since shortly after lifting off from Miami, the stress of Mike’s death serving as a potent sedative. He didn’t feel refreshed, though. If anything, he felt a numbing sense of dread as his past and his future raced toward each other on a collision course.

Thirty minutes later, he was on the ground, elbowing his way through the crowds to reach the baggage carousel. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the last time he had been here, at this same carousel, meeting his wife and daughter. Amelia and Heidi. Kurt squeezed his hands tight, nails digging into his palms, cutting bloody half-moons. It helped.

Like Mike, they were gone, cut down by a speeding ambulance eleven months earlier. He squeezed harder. He felt himself slipping, starting to tumble into the well of despair he had so carefully avoided for the past four months. He gave himself a hard mental slap, an openhanded blow to the mind, and the memories went scurrying back into the dark corners of his conscience where they belonged. He wasn’t ready to think about them. Not yet.

He had spoken with his mother during his Miami layover, calling to inform her of his travel plans. Why he hadn’t called her from Peru, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter now. He was almost home.

The doors leading to the exterior of the airport whooshed open as he approached, his tank bag slung over his shoulder, and a pannier in each hand. The humidity assaulted him like an unwanted lover, pasting a thick sheen of sweat on every inch of exposed skin. He stopped and shed his dirt- and oil-encrusted leather jacket and stuffed it into one of his panniers. Picking up his luggage again, he made his way towards the taxi line. There were only two people in front of him, and at least ten taxis waiting for fares.

A late model yellow Crown Vic pulled up, and a slender Ethiopian man jumped from the driver’s seat to help him load his gear. Kurt waved him off. Thanks, I’ve got it.

Are you sure? the cabbie asked in a singsong voice.

Uh huh. He took a step toward the trunk. The driver was persistent, holding the trunk open as Kurt dumped in his panniers.

Where to? the driver asked, as he slid behind the wheel.

Forty-five Quail Court. Fairfax.

Kurt put his head back and closed his eyes, hoping the cabbie wasn’t the talkative type. The cab lurched out of the pickup lane with a squeal and merged into the maelstrom of northern Virginia traffic.

The eyes-closed trick must have worked because the cabbie didn’t say a word. The next thing Kurt knew, they were parked in front of his house, idling. Keep the change, he muttered, slipping the man two twenties to cover the thirty-dollar fare.

Of course. Have a good day, sir.

Standing three stories tall, the old brick building stared back at him with empty eyes. It had been four months since he had last set foot in the place, four months during which he had made every effort possible to forget about it and everything it represented. With a sigh, Kurt grabbed his bags and lumbered up the short sidewalk to the front door. There was a moldering pile of Washington Posts on the right side of the porch. The freshest paper bore a date a month after his exodus.

He held up his key and stared at it, watching the sunlight bounce off the small brass talisman of his former existence. It was the same key he had used at least twice a day for the three years he, Amelia, and Heidi had lived here, the same key that had been stashed out of sight in the bottom of his tank bag as he fled south.

The key sank into the lock as if no time had passed. Kurt took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was next.

After Amelia and Heidi had died, the promise of the trip was his only lifeline, the only thing that kept him moving forward. In the deep of the night, when loneliness clawed at his heart, the trip was the only thing that prevented him from eating a bullet and joining his wife and daughter in oblivion.

In a practiced motion, Kurt twisted the key and put his shoulder to the door. It swung open easily, revealing the sunny entryway of a thousand days of happiness and one terrible day of sorrow. He stepped through and inhaled. The house smelled much as he had left it, maybe a little mustier. A jumbled pile of old mail sat on a table beside the door—magazines for Amelia, business correspondence for him. In addition, peeking out from the bottom was what appeared to be an unopened birthday card for Heidi.

Kurt dropped his bag, threw his keys on the table, then kicked the door closed with his heel. He cocked his head and listened. Silence. No, not quite. The air conditioner hummed from somewhere on the other side of the house.

He made his way into the living room, where he sank into the leather couch in the darkest corner. He didn’t bother with the lights; there was still plenty coming in through the glass doors on the opposite side of the room.

He put his feet up on the coffee table and pulled out his mobile phone. He had purposefully not called his mother upon arrival. He knew she would only make things more complicated by demanding to see him right away. He didn’t need that. This homecoming had to happen on his terms, or it couldn’t happen at all.

He thumbed the phone on and watched it gather a signal. As soon as it finished synchronizing with the network, he dialed his parents.

His mother picked up on the second ring. Kurt?

Hi, Mom.

Are you home? I tracked your flight and saw that it landed over an hour ago. Where are you?

Yes. I’m at home. Sweat poured from his brow despite the air conditioning.

His mother let out a long sigh. How are you?

He glanced around the room. I’m okay.

Are you sure, honey?

Kurt rubbed his right eye, halting a stray tear in its tracks. I’m fine. I need to do this.

Kurt, your father wants a word.

He heard it in her voice. Things were not good between Kurt and his father. They never had been. His mom had served as the buffer between him and the old man as his life had fallen apart. She had been the only person to encourage him to take his trip, to leave everything behind, while his father had tried to act as if nothing had happened.

Kurt knew he couldn’t avoid his father forever. Okay. Put him on.

Just a second. He heard a soft clunk and pictured her placing the phone on the table, the one beside the green sitting room armchair; the sound was followed by the click of her heels as she left the room. She would never stoop so low as to call through the house.

Son?

Yeah. Hey, Dad.

Thanks for coming… There was a long pause. His dad coughed, cleared his throat, and continued. Since your brother died…

This is ridiculous, Kurt thought. He had to end this, to put his father out of his misery. I know, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the funeral. We can talk then. He had intended to talk to his dad, to clear the air. As the last surviving Vetter son, an enormous responsibility was now on his shoulders; it was a responsibility Kurt wasn’t quite sure he wanted.

His father seemed surprised by the rebuke. Right. Tomorrow. Do you want to speak to your mother again?

No. This is enough for tonight.

Okay. And Kurt?

Yeah?

I love you. Always remember that. I always have. For the first time in as long as Kurt could remember, his father sounded genuine.

I know, Dad. I know, he responded.

The line went dead. He envisioned his father on the other end. He understood his pain. Your children weren’t supposed to die before you, and all of that bullshit his shrink had said after the accident. He knew more about loss than any one man should ever have to know.

Kurt thumbed off the phone and shoved it back in his pocket. He shifted his feet to the couch and stretched his body the full length, the rich leather crunching and crinkling as he made himself comfortable.

It was eight o’clock. Only another hour or so of daylight remained. Already, shadows were slinking across the room, disguising the familiar shapes of his old life in dusky cloaks of black and gray. What he didn’t know, and couldn’t possibly fathom, was what was waiting for him on the other side of this experience. The one thing he knew for sure was that there would be a lot more pain before things got better.

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, finally succumbing to the cozy embrace of the couch and the familiar surroundings.

Six

Kurt sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His face was greasy, and his hair was a tangled nest of road grime, salt, sweat, and maybe even a few bugs. He needed a shower, and he needed it now.

Pushing himself from the couch, finding his way by memory alone, he stumbled up the dark stairs to the master bedroom. He stopped at the doorway and leaned against the jamb for a second, taking it in. Light from a nearby street lamp cast a soft glow through the room. Someone had made the bed and cleaned up, probably his mother, maybe Mike. Whoever it was, they had done a good job. The room had never looked this clean when he and Amelia had lived here.

The bathroom was on the far side of the room. Kurt made his way across, ignoring the family portrait on the nightstand, focusing on the shower. His palm found the switch, and he squinted as the lights flickered on. His clothes went into the hamper beside the door. He held his fingers under the shower faucet and dialed the hot water almost to scalding.

He stepped into the shower and closed his eyes. Almost losing his balance, he reached for the walls to steady himself. For a terrifying moment, he thought he was going to collapse. Counting backward from ten, he forced himself to relax, just as his shrink had taught him. By the time he reached two, the world had stopped gyrating. The images of his former life dissolved into the clouds of steam billowing around him. With renewed vigor, he raced through the rest of his shower, scrubbing away the last remnants of his trip.

Five minutes later, his beard was trimmed to a more respectable length, and his unruly sideburns were gone. He promised himself he would pay a visit to the barber as soon as he dealt with Mike’s funeral. For now though, his long hair would have to suffice. He pulled it back in a ponytail, holding it in place with a stray rubber band from the medicine cabinet. Good enough.

Turning, he headed into the bedroom to find some clean clothes. The room was enormous, with two walk-in closets and a king-sized bed. The closet on the left, the one with the door cracked open, was his. He was tempted to peek inside Amelia’s closet, to see if her scent lingered, and found himself taking an involuntary step in that direction. He stopped. No.

He went to his closet instead, grabbing a pair of boxer briefs from a drawer on the left. As he pulled them on, he realized how much weight he had lost. The briefs hung loose on his hips, threatening to slide down his legs. From a shelf halfway up, Kurt pulled out a pair of olive green cargo shorts. Next were a navy blue web belt and a t-shirt.

Exiting the closet, he padded out of the bedroom and down the stairs, passing by Heidi’s door without a glance. In the foyer, he cracked open one of his aluminum panniers and pulled out his favorite pair of sandals. Made from recycled automobile tires, they were the most comfortable shoes he owned.

Hello, old friends, he whispered as he slipped them on.

He turned and made his way into the kitchen. Coffee. Grabbing his French press, he loaded it with sugar and fresh grounds, then filled the kettle and set it to boil.

The water finished boiling, but as he was about to pour it into the press, there was a sharp knock at the front door. He glanced at the clock over the microwave and cursed. Who’s knocking on my door at this hour?

He poured the water in, gave the coffee a quick stir, set the lid on the press, and then hurried down the hall. Through the frosted window to the right of the door, Kurt made out the distorted image of a man. He opened the door to a FedEx delivery man.

 Kurt Vetter?

Yeah?

Sign here, the driver said, handing him a small electronic device and a plastic stylus.

Kurt scribbled his name in the small window at the top and handed it back.

Thanks. The man gave him an envelope, then turned and jogged back to his truck. Kurt inspected the label on the package. The only indication of the sender’s identity was a long string of digits.

 He found his coffee was ready and filled his favorite mug to the rim. Armed for the morning, he took the coffee and the letter and ambled into the dining nook, located by a large bay window with a view of the back yard.

His curiosity got the best of him; he set the coffee aside and pulled the tab on the envelope. He looked inside and didn’t see anything. He turned the envelope upside down and knocked it against the table. A small flash memory card clattered out onto the table.

Huh? He picked up the card and inspected it. It was a Secure Digital card, the same model he had in his digital camera. His curiosity was piqued. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the laptop they kept in the kitchen. It had a flash reader.

He spied the machine buried under a pile of magazines on the counter. The battery was probably dead, but it was worth a try. The other alternative was to go up to his study and use his office computer.

Two minutes later, the computer was booted and ready. Kurt slid the memory card into a slot on the right side and waited for it to be recognized. When it was ready, the computer created a new folder on his desktop with lettering underneath indicating two items. Kurt double-clicked on the folder.

It popped open in a new window, and he saw that it contained one file, along with another directory. The second directory contained 1,342 items.

Kurt double clicked on the file, titled Listen-to-me-First.mp3, and took a sip of coffee as his audio player started up. Kurt. It’s Mike. If you’re listening to this, then things have gone terribly wrong. His brother’s voice was low and calm, the way Kurt remembered it.

Kurt pressed pause and sat back, stunned. He checked the time stamp on the file. Three days ago. The same day Mike had died.

He pressed Play. I’ve gotten involved in something…something that I should have never touched. The people I work for, they’ve taken an idea that should have remained buried in a vault, and they’re trying to make it real. There was a long pause, and Mike’s voice resumed, this time a little less steady. Tell Amy that I’m sorry and that I love her. Tell her I was a good man—that I tried to do the right thing. Tell mom and dad that I love them, too. And Kurt—I’m sorry to drag you into my problems when you’ve been to hell and back. I really need you, one last time. You need to get this information to Amanda Carter in London. She’ll know what to do with it.

Time slowed to a crawl as he stared at the computer screen. Then, without warning, it sped back up and crashed over him like a rogue wave. He let out an anguished moan and slammed his fist down on the kitchen table so hard the computer jumped in place.

This is Mike’s last message, he realized, his last will and testament.

He pushed back from the computer, unsure what to make of the whole thing. Who is Amanda Carter? What’s in the other folder? Moreover, why did Mike send it to him rather than going straight to her?

As he thought about the recording, turning it over repeatedly in his mind, he was hit by a sinister realization. They’ll come for me next.

Kurt leapt up and dashed over to the bay window. He stood to one side and peered out, trying to appear as casual as possible. He didn’t see anything. With a quick yank, he closed the blinds. He repeated this process throughout the house, everywhere except Heidi’s room. He still couldn’t go in there.

Satisfied no one could see in, he returned to the computer. He replayed Mike’s message, listening for anything he had missed. There was nothing.

He moved on, opening the other folder. A new window opened, displaying an enormous alphabetical list of files. They appeared to be of many different types, Microsoft Word documents, MPEG video files, and even some more mp3 files. He clicked on one of the video files at random.

It took a few seconds to load. The video was grainy and showed what appeared to be a campsite somewhere in the mountains. The camera panned and settled on the face of a young man with a long, scraggly beard, not unlike the one Kurt had just shaved off. The man spoke in a language Kurt didn’t understand. He watched the video for a few more seconds, skipping ahead several times, but it didn’t make any more sense, so he closed it.

He picked a Microsoft Word file at random. The file popped open, and he began to skim through it. It contained a long list of financial transactions between offshore accounts. He paged through the document to the end. That was it. He was getting frustrated, but an idea was forming. He selected search from the menu and entered his brother’s name. Nothing. He scratched his head.

He decided to push the search a little farther. He minimized the document, returned to the main window, typed Mike’s name into the search box, and hit Enter. A list of twenty-six files opened. Kurt sucked in his breath and chose the first one.

He blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was Mike’s CIA personnel file. He yanked his hands from the keyboard as if he had received an electric shock. The classification level on this information was so high that even Mike wouldn’t have been able to view it. Probably not even the President, Kurt thought, without congressional authorization. Yet, there it was. Kurt drummed his fingers on the table, considering what to do next.

What the hell did you get yourself into? he whispered.

Kurt spent the next several minutes scanning his brother’s records, absorbing all of the gory details concerning the secret life his brother had led for the past ten years. The last entry in the record, however, was the most intriguing, and at the same time, the least informative. It noted a transfer to a new program, yet the program was unnamed.

It listed his supervisor as a man named Jack Carson. Kurt knew the name. From where, he wasn’t sure, but he had heard it on more than one occasion. He filed the information away and moved on to the next document.

He continued until he had plowed through all of the documents that contained his brother’s name. As he finished the last document, he sat back in his chair and let out a deep breath. At first glance, it appeared Mike had been intimately involved in some type of money-laundering effort between the CIA and a separatist organization in Chechnya, the breakaway Russian republic. The details were murky, but the amount of money involved, in the tens of millions of Euros, was staggering.

Kurt checked the clock over the microwave and leaped to his feet, cursing. He was due at the funeral in two hours, and he was not at all ready. Now he had a new dilemma. How could he keep a straight face at the funeral with this information? How could he act as if Mike’s death was a tragic accident when it might have been an assassination? Mike had sent him the information for a reason. He had run out of people to trust, and he had circumvented all security channels.

Kurt scanned the room for a good place to stash the information. If whoever had killed Mike knew he had it, he wouldn’t get much of a warning before they came after him. The only thing that made sense, he decided, was to keep the memory card on his body. That way he could react if someone came after it, and maybe buy himself enough time to figure out what else was there.

As a contingency, he created an encrypted partition on the laptop drive and copied all of the files into it. He secured it with AES 256-bit encryption, which as far as he knew, was still unbreakable, even by the NSA.

He stuffed the memory card into his pocket and raced upstairs to get dressed. Fifteen minutes later, the garage door rumbled open, and he eased his vintage silver Porsche 911 to the edge of the driveway. He looked both ways, and then took off with a screech.

Seven

Kurt punched his accelerator and shot across the highway into the church parking lot, skidding to a stop beside a shiny Mercedes SUV. Although he didn’t like to think of himself as wealthy, it was hard to deny reality. His great grandfather, Augustus Vetter, had been an early pioneer in oil-extraction technology, and his patents had generated an enormous fortune for the family over the past hundred years. After that initial burst of wealth-generating effort, Augustus’ descendants had diversified, going into a host of other businesses and eventually ending up as members of the political and financial elite. The result of this ancestral entrepreneurship was that Kurt and his family had more money than they could ever spend.

He climbed from his Porsche and gazed toward the cemetery, the same cemetery that held Amelia and Heidi. He looked away.

Kurt!

Kurt followed the call and saw his mom bustling through the door of the church and heading his way. His father was right behind her, struggling to keep up. He strode toward them, but before he could get halfway, his mother closed the gap in a shuffling run.

She flew into his arms and threw her head against his shoulder, breaking into a fresh round of sobs. Kurt—I’m so glad you made it, she gasped.

I’m here, Mom. He patted her on the shoulder. Looking up, he nodded at his father. Dad.

Son.

Kurt disentangled himself from his mother and took a step back. After being on the road for so long, his sense of personal space was a bit out of adjustment. He held his hand out for his dad, who took it, before pulling him into an awkward embrace.

Is everyone here? Kurt asked, not knowing what else to say. His mother wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She isn’t taking this well, he observed. But how could she?

His father showed no emotion as usual. He stood ramrod straight, watching his wife blubber on, yet offering no condolences of his own. We start in a few minutes, he said.

Kurt looked toward the church. At the same time, his father reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes—Camel, unfiltered. He held out the pack , and when Kurt shook his head, his father shrugged, knocked one out for himself, and lit up.

Is everyone here? Kurt asked again. Before his parents could answer, the door to the church swung open again and Amy, Mike’s widow, stepped out. She had a determined smile on her face, which brightened a bit when she saw Kurt. She waved and started across the lot.

Kurt, she said, as she approached. Thank you so much for coming.

Kurt bit back the tears that were straining to break loose. He knew exactly what she was going through. I’m so sorry, Amy, he said, opening his arms.

Amy melted into his embrace, molding herself to him. He was so young, so full of life… she sniffed. She was past the initial shock and probably well into the acceptance phase. The funeral was the worst part, everyone trying to comfort you, telling you everything would be all right. Fuck them. They have no idea.

Amy pulled back and gazed into Kurt’s eyes. This must hurt so much for you. Mike was such an amazing brother. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.

Kurt stared down at his feet, and then looked back at Amy. Yeah. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He felt the same sense of loss, but unlike her, he was still in shock and acceptance was a long way off.

Can I talk to you afterward? he asked in a low voice, so no one else could hear.

Sure. She gave him a quizzical look.

Shall we? his father interjected, gesturing