Remember how I said I hate stakeouts? I hate sitting in the back of police vehicles more.
The police had shown up promptly enough considering the shooting was just a block down from, The River of Life Rescued Mission. I was escorted from the building and stuffed into the back seat of an SUV with a wire divider between the front seat and the back.
“This is for your protection as well as ours. Please wait here and remain calm as we sort this all out,” a tall thick chested officer said to me as she pushed my head down and shoved me insides.
I was surprised that not one of them had asked me what happened, but perhaps they were a little busy with the interrogation to start. After all, there was a catatonic Marv they were having problems moving, and a dead thing that looked like a street girl with her head blown off. I guess they figured I’d been calm so why make more work for themselves?
They’d searched me well enough. I’m pretty sure that Ox shouldered officer and I were past second base and headed to third, though somehow, I missed out on rounding first. She had taken my multi-tool, and ID, and cash, which I guess that made sense.
No one wanted me taking their car apart with the SOG tool or spending money in the back seat there. No good times in custody, I guess.
It was too nice for that, anyway. The SUV was one of the new Ford Interceptor Utility SUVs, that ran off unicorn farts and leaf sweat or something, but it smelled like any new car. I figured after a few weekends it would smell like alcohol, vomit, and body in odor, and that was with nightly cleanings. So I was kind of lucky.
The facts of this case, sadly, were not in my favor. I’d stalked the victim. I used an accomplice to get inside the lady’s house, then destroyed the place and shot her several times.
I mean, I knew what happened, but who was going to believe me? “Excuse me officer Obee, I shot her because she had glowing eyes, and was sucking the life out of Marv.
No, not in the ex-wife, sort of way, she was some kind of a succubus.”
And then the judge would play the recording from his currently body camera, and I’d be doing 7-10 years at Max in the psych ward, even if I had a recovery warrant.
My head was still fuzzy from adrenalin and shock, so it was kind of hard to remember the name of the last Lawyer I used. I was trying to make my mind work when I watched a lean man in khaki cargo pants, and another in who was obviously a federal agent, approached the incident commander and handed her some documents, and a ziplock bag filled with more blue, red, and yellow wax Nik-L-Nip Mini Drinks, and what appeared to be red-wax lips.
"What the hell is up with those things? Retro candy fetish?" I thought.
The cop immediately looked at me in the SUV, and rolled her eyes, and I could see she was giving them some shit. The man looked kind of familiar, but he kept his back to me, and the other one was so plain jane that he could have blended in almost anywhere.
Based on their body language they didn’t like each other, so I was guessing rival federal agencies.
As I watched, the incident Commander marched up to the SUV, pulled out her keys and drug me out of the car, unlocking the cuffs as she muttered. “I don’t have time for dick measuring over who gets you. Just get out.”
She stepped out of the way as if to send me on down the road but the federal agent dude was already walking toward me. “Miss Remington, I see,” he looked around slowly before peering back at me. “You've had a interesting night. I’m agent Smith, perhaps you have a few moments? I’d like to talk to you about what you saw.”
Agent Smith - Matrix by Lun-art on DeviantArt [https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQHJ0bQYVvlHXk7ktJ6u9-SZur7jPOVhyn6B7H7xeD4Fn71oan--zjbr206FHOQgMkUmRc&usqp=CAU]
He was dressed like the bad guys in the Matrix movies and had a name to match. I almost expected him to talk about what a virus human where, but instead he did his best to smile.
It was like seeing one of those Japanese robot’s smile, freaky and counterproductive. I was left feeling like a sheep spotting a wolf trying to blend into the herd.
The other man glanced over his shoulder briefly, then walked away. Just like that, left me standing there with the fed, and I knew he was about to put the screws to me.
“I’m not talking without a lawyer,” I said confidently, but he only grinned wider and nodded to the policewoman, who rolled her eyes again before heading back toward her men.
“You are not under arrest Miss Remington. You’re not even being detained.”
“Then what is there to talk about?” I demanded, ready to hurry away.
“I would think you would want to talk about the girl with glowing violet eyes. You know, the one you fatally shot in three places but didn’t stay down until your partner hit her with nerve gas, then you blew her brains out?”
That caught my attention, but I wasn’t walking through that door without knowing what was hiding in the corners. The first step in avoiding a trap is knowing people are trying to trap you. This guy wasn’t talking just to commiserate with me in case I had some emotional struggle to work through.
“She must have been on drugs. I saw a terrorist in Africa so hopped up on shit that he took a round from a 7.62 in the guts and kept coming.”
“And your little friend there?” He pointed to Marv, who was being led toward an ambulance stammering, “She had pale purple eyes, that glowed, and, and her nipples…”
“I don’t know, I am guessing she got him horny and slipped him something so she could rob him. I hope he is okay.”
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Agent Smith raised both brows as he peered down in thought. “I see he was right. You know how to keep your mouth shut. But will you?”
I started to answer, but he raised both hands and stepped backward a little.
“Let me be clear, Ms. Remington,” he said with a sneer that made his face look boorish.
“Things happen in this world. Things, that people don’t want the population to know about. Things that go bump in the night that would leave a normal person screaming in terror, or locked up in a mental institution for life,” he blurted out like that shit was normal to say, and nodded toward Marv.
Where the hell did he think we were? In some eighties horror movie?
“I don’t know what brand of dope you’re smoking agent Smith, but get a refund old son, you’re off your rocker,” I said automatically. I was born a smart ass with no filter, and for once it didn’t look like it was going to get me in trouble.
“You have two choices and a very little time to decide which path you’ll take,” Smith said all Morpheus like.
“You can take your blue pill and red pill and shove them up your ass," I said blandly.
"Now leave me alone, I need a bath, a glass of wine, and twelve hours’ sleep,” I mouthed off, and the agent looked totally confused.
“Very well, Ms. Remington, we will speak again, my people will be around with a NDA, and you’ll sign it,” he said ominously and pushed a business card into my hand.
“I don’t want your cheap ass government business card!” I balked, but Smith squeezed my hand until I thought my bones would crack.
“By speaking again, I mean in a nice cell with an ocean side view of Guantanamo Bay, if you don’t sign every paper, and initial every box,” he said, and I knew he meant every word.
Releasing my hand, he once more shot me that fake smile and turned ready to leave, but now I had a sinking feeling in my guts. These freaks would be watching me for the rest of my life. I didn’t need that big brother shit on that level, I already have Amazon Prime.
“Agent Smith,” I called, and the boorish man turned and looked at me once more.
“You said I had two choices, what was the other choice? I mean, if that is the blue pill, what’s the red pill?”
My phone suddenly buzzed, and Smith glanced at it. A smirk touched the corners of his mouth and turned away, calling over his should as he walked.
“Why, Ms. Remington it’s simple. You simply answer your phone.”
My phone buzzed and the sensation made me yelp like a damn fool. The cops glanced my way, so I sheepishly held up my phone so they could see it for some dumb ass reason and looked the caller ID.
“Felix Fackler.” the caller id read, and it rang a bell, though not clearly. So, I picked up the phone, and tried my best to sound friendly.
“Yeah, what is it?” I said, but In my head I was already slipping my shoes off pulling at the buttons on my jeans.
“Lieutenant Remington. It has been a long time,” said a cadenced voice that made me think of sandy deserts, Dirty bodies, and blood.
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“You don’t remember your old friend, Felix? Felix Fackler,” he said with a hint of sadness in his grizzled voice.
“Sergeant First Class Fackler, holy hell!” I burst out laughing, though I don’t know why.
“Oh, you remember, good, good. How have you been you old troop master?” He said with his Germanic accent peaking through.
I wanted to get home, get out my jeans and to hit the shower, but hearing Felix’s voice was good.
He was our procurement NCO back in the war. A tough old badger with proper NCO disposition and intensity, but he was one hell of a good guy to have with you in a pinch.
He was an old fart, had me by at least ten years, he was exceptionally charming. He was short but built well, and his mind was as fascinating as any I had known. Often, he joined me at the recreation center to blow off steam, shooting pool, or playing spades, though I never found out exactly what his place was in the organization. He was just, “the procurement officer”.
“That's good Felix,” I responded, then looked at my soiled clothes and all the cops standing around me. I felt awkward.
Things hadn’t been good at all, and I was a little embarrassed by it. Felix had suggested I stay in the military, perhaps consider getting involved with some other field. He had warned me the economy was bad, but I didn’t really care.
“I’ve been better, but I’m still kicking. Hey now might not be the best time. Can I call you back later?” I asked, thinking I needed to find an Uber to get home.
Fidgeting, I realized I still had the agent’s card in my hand and turned it over as Felix spoke.
“S.C.P Foundation: Fugitive Recovery Division”
I mouthed the words confused. I’d never heard of that federal agency before.
“It’s just weird. I have gotten a call asking about your qualifications. It was a small but powerful quasi-government organization I worked with briefly. I think they might be out to recruit you.”
“Let me guess, the S.C.P Foundation-“
“No, no, those assholes just get in the way. I’m talking about something smaller, private, I guess you could call them contractors,” he said.
“You said you retired to work for fish and game.” I asked, with no idea what this was all about. Part of me was glad to hear from the dude, but the other part of me was thinking how shitty the timing was, and now he was talking about a job?
“I don’t understand. Why would they want to recruit me? I quit the government. I’m not interesting being a game warden.”
“I’m not a game warden, I am a Marshal for the US Forest service. Officially, anyway.
Look, I’m not the one who wants to talk to you. They will be in contact, and they will explain everything. The reason I ask is to let you know that if they do, and you accept. I can help you. You have friends Rhett, if you need us, please reach out.”
“I’m pretty lost here old son, so unless you can explain it all really quick like, I’m going home,” I said.
Based on our current conversation he knew something was going on that I wasn’t read in on, or Marv slipped me some on some serious THC Gummies, which would NOT have been cool with me.
“Just know if things go well, I have your back. I have some things I am going to set up to help all of us, but I’ll be there if you need me.”
He didn’t stay on the line long after that, just gave me his number and begged my forgiveness for the interruption in my evening, then signed off.
“That was...” I was at a loss for words, so I simply got a ride home and tried to put it out of my mind. I needed a hot bath, and a glass of wine, or four, to wash all that rot out of my head.
The Uber pulled up about fifteen minutes later, a sweet new white Jeep Grand Cherokee with a freckle-faced girl around nineteen driving.
“Five foot seven, blue eyes, brown hair and athletic build," You must be Rhett Remington?” The girl asked, and I nodded, feeling relieved and exhausted.
"Where did you get all that, info?" I asked, but didn't much care. These days you get a name and cyberstalk Facebook or Instagram, it wasn't rocket science.
"I always check out my passengers before picking them up. Gotta be safe these days," she grinned.
"You have no idea," I said as they wheeled the body of Porsha out of the building.
“Front or back is up to you,” she said and slipped on a pair tinted sunglasses.
Sighing, I pulled open the back door and slid into the heated back seat. It was good to be going home, to be done with all the insanity. I was ready.
“Address, Ms. Remington? Is it okay that I called you that, or do you prefer Rhett?” she asked and glanced at me in the rear view mirror, and I noticed a pink bunny tattoo on her right shoulder and cringed.
Why do kids these days get such stupid tattoos?
“My friends call me Rhett,” I said and shot her reflection a smile. Then, for a moment, my heart stuttered as I caught a violet reflection on her glasses.
“Ah, what do I call you?” I said and sent her the GPS coordinates to my office.
The girl raised her pink and white coffee mug and saluted me, “My name is Veronica Fonseca, but you can call me Mogwai.”