BO-42: Sam Granger (4-5)
Chapter 4: All About Me
The Past
Okay, the cheap stuff first. I think I mentioned earlier I have no family. Neither of my parents had any siblings, and I was orphaned at the age of two in a traffic accident that left two minuscule scars above my left eyebrow. I think it gave me a stiff neck too, but that might be only my attitude. But that was all in my first life, which lasted exactly 18 years and the few seconds it took me to hit the doors of the orphanage at a dead run. By the time the doors closed again I was a half-block away.
I’m not military. Been there, done that for six years—that was my second life—but I didn’t keep the olive-drab t-shirt with the sweat-yellowed pits and neckband to prove it, though I do still have my bucket hat as a souvenir. I was a sniper for five and a half of those six years, but those days are three years gone. Sniping for the military, I mean.
The Present
Today, in my third life, I’m a 6’2” blond-haired hazel-eyed fair-skinned son of Odin. If I wanted a beard, I’d have to buy one and glue it on. That doesn’t keep me from sprouting a light stubble after a couple of days of not shaving, but it never seems to develop much farther than that.
I keep myself in good shape for three reasons: one, when your core goes soft you’re basically a bag of water; two, muscle protects bone; and three, I never know when I might have to hotfoot it out of a tense situation. When it’s tense for me, I mean. It’s always tense for the target, though he seldom experiences the tension except right at the end and all at once.
I work as an operative for TJ Blackwell and Blackwell Ops. The pay is a lot better, and when I’m off, I’m off. I like that stark division of labor.
How I Got Started
After seeing an intriguing ad in a magazine, I called the number. The woman who answered gave me some basic info and a control number, and the next day I flew to Denver, took a cab to Golden, and interviewed with TJ. That was three years ago. I was 25 then.
If you know much about the company—and you shouldn’t or TJ might wonder why and maybe send someone to check you out—you know about the interview process, so I won’t go into that in any detail. If you don’t know about it, suffice it to say most of the interview is a pretty intense, extensive, and mind-twisting experience. All operative applicants go through that part.
But during the final phase of my interview everything took an unusual turn, at least according to TJ. And if anybody can define unusual it’s TJ.
We were back in his office for that phase.
After he sat down, he rapped on his desk. “You’re a little different, aren’t you, Mr. Granger?” He held up one hand. “No, belay that. I didn’t mean you’re different. But you have skills I’ve rarely come across in the past. So I actually meant if you hire on, I’m going to employ you a little differently than I employ my other operatives. Would that be all right with you?”
I don’t know a lot and like everyone else who isn’t an operative at that point I had only a theory about how he employs his other operatives, but I know which side my bread is buttered on. So I went eye to eye with him and responded crisply. “Yes sir.”
He nodded. “All right.” He eyed me for a moment. “I thought you might ask how I would use you differently. You didn’t, but I’ll explain anyway.” He leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers on his abdomen. “Most of my operatives receive an assignment every four to six weeks.” He wagged a hand like a teeter-totter. “Sometimes more often, but seldom less. So that’s an average. Then they resolve the assignment with their varied skills and the use of various weapons with which they have expertise. Some are sidearm junkies or accomplished in the martial arts or have expertise in the use of knives.” He wagged a hand. “Or some combination of those skills.” He paused. “But none of the operatives I’ve hired to date is an accomplished long-range sniper. You are, and that’s—”
“Yes sir.“
He canted his head slightly at my interruption. “As I was saying, that’s how you’re different. And for that reason, should you sign on, I think I will reserve you for when a job requires your particular skill set.” He paused. “For example, when, owing to the target’s paranoia or whatever else, if in my estimation no other operative would be able to get up close and personal.” He paused. “And I define ‘up close and personal’ as say a hundred yards. So if I employed you in that capacity, would that be agreeable to you?”
“Yes sir.” I hesitated. “I don’t miss. Regardless of the distance.”
He nodded. “Now, you might get an assignment only days after you finish another one—I have no control over what comes in—but I suspect on average, I’ll bring you off the bench only once every two or three months. Maybe even less often than that.” He held up one hand. “Of course, you’ll receive the same monthly salary the other operatives receive.” He paused. “You might consider it a retainer of sorts.”
“Yes si—”
He held up that hand again. “But you will not have the right to refuse an assignment like the others usually can.” He sat forward. “All of your assignments will effectively be ‘eyes only,’ meaning I’m not sending those assignments to anyone else. I consider you a specialist.” He paused. “So may I assume that’s still all right with you?”
“Yes sir, that’s fine with me.”
“All right.” He leaned back in his chair again. “Oh, and I suspect you’ll have to fly a lot. You don’t mind flying?”
I almost laughed at that one, and one corner of my mouth turned upward a little. “No sir.”
He frowned. “Something humorous, Mr. Granger?”
“No sir. Something ironic.” I’ve got more time jumping out of the cargo bays of choppers and fixed-wing aircraft than most people have getting out of bed in the morning. “Let’s just say I’m good with flying.”
“Oh? You’re a pilot yourself? Because I only have two pi—”
“No sir, I’m not a pilot. But I do make excellent cargo.”
“Ah. Well, good. Finally, whereas my other operatives work occasionally with a contact, often you will work with more than one contact. In fact, that might happen on virtually every job. And you won’t always know in advance who the contacts are, or at least who all of them are, or what roles I’ve assigned them to play. For security reasons, I like to keep the left hand from knowing what the right hand’s doing. Still okay?”
I was growing tired of the twenty-questions concept. “I’m good with all of it, Mr. Blackwell. I want to hire on with you.”
And that effectively ended the interview. “Very well then. Of course, you’re aware it’s a lifetime commitment?”
“Yes sir.”
He nodded. “Any questions for me?”
“No sir.”
He rocked forward again and stood, and I took that as a cue and stood too. He leaned slightly forward and shook my hand over his desk. “Welcome aboard.” Then he pulled a VaporStream device out of a desk drawer, passed it to me, and explained it briefly.
That was it, and I caught the next flight from Denver back to Salt Lake City.
Oh, and How I Measure Time
From what I’ve seen and heard, most people measure life in seconds and hours, days and months and years. But fate is anchored in instants, and only the finest line separates this instant from the next. That line is also a line of demarcation, meaning once you cross it, you can’t take a step back.
This instant TJ’s saying “Welcome aboard” and in the next I’m an operative with a lifetime commitment.
This instant the target’s taking a breath and about to speak, and in the next he’s part of eternity.
This instant I’m still glued to a scope or a cheek weld and witnessing the results of my efforts, and the next I’m launching into my egress.
Lines of demarcation keep life interesting and lend weight to the notion of personal responsibility.
Your results might differ, and that’s fine. It’s all good.
*
Up to this point, my assignments have averaged one every three or four months. It’s like being on a major league ball team and getting called up to bat only when the manager wants a guaranteed home run.
Not that I’m a Babe Ruth or whatever, but I do know my way around a scoped rifle. My longest confirmed kill was just over 1400 yards—just over eight tenths of a mile—with a Barrett .50 caliber Model 82A1.
If you’re a techie, the 82A1 will reach out and touch someone at well over a mile away. But I prefer shorter distances with a scoped Browning X-Bolt chambered in .308 or .30-06 or a Winchester .270 short magnum or .300 magnum. And so far, I still haven’t missed.
Anyway, enough of all that. You already know about my most recent assignment, the one involving General Tran, so I’ll tell you about some of the earlier ones.
Chapter 5: My First Assignment
I’d only been back from Golden for a little over a week when my VaporStream device went off for the first time at around 6:15 a.m. on a Friday. I’d enjoyed a good 4-mile run, cooled down, and had just lowered the bar to my chest in preparation for the ninth of ten repetitions bench-pressing 210 pounds. I don’t care about bulk so much as muscle tone and strength.
TJ wasn’t kidding about the tone the gadget would make—it screeched like three angry bobcats being pulled through a garden hose—but it lasted for only a few seconds. He’d also said it would go off again every fifteen seconds until I checked the message, so I pushed through and finished my reps quickly. Then I rested the bar in the frame, got up, pulled the thing out of the pocket of my workout shorts, and pressed the On button:
RTO Huntsville AL
TWP Jaxon Stine +3
8420 Haycroft Road
Tassel, AL
Belamie Farm, near the silos
C Aspen Delaney
8 a.m. local
[Date]
I memorized the information—the date was just over two days away, a Sunday—then hit the Accept button and went to my laptop.
Twenty minutes later, I’d located the small town of Tassel on Google Maps, found Belamie Farm, and booked a seat on a flight to Huntsville, a seat on a flight back, and a suite at the ‘Bama-Red Inn & Suites. My flight would leave at 9:30 a.m. On Google Earth, I also looked over Belamie Farm.
The silos were there, and a small white brick building stood next to them. Then a grassy gap of thirty yards or so to a large, tire-track covered concrete pad where only a car and a pickup were currently parked, then a little farther to the right and up a slight incline among heavy trees, the house.
There was also a hilltop just over 1700 feet away—so about 580 yards, a little under a third of a mile—that should overlook the silos and the clear ground between them and the concrete slab. A narrow dirt track curled around the back of that hill. I didn’t have time to trace that road back to a main road, but I could do that later.
I closed my laptop, showered, dressed, and packed a bag, then slipped into my Avalon and drove to the airport.
*
With the time difference, the plane landed at 3:45 p.m. I was descending the escalator and looking around for rental car kiosks when I spotted a young woman around eighty feet away, her arms extended straight up, holding a sign over her head: S. Granger.
Weird.
But probably not for me.
Still, trim at around 5’6” with short brown hair and in her early twenties in white leather flip-flops, white shorts—nicely tanned legs—and a red and white checkered short-sleeved blouse, she was pleasant enough to look at. So when I stepped off the bottom of the escalator I headed in her direction.
She tentatively glanced at me then back at the escalator a couple of times, but when I was maybe twenty feet away and still closing she looked at me again, lowered the sign, and started toward me with the sign in her left hand.
As she met my gaze—her eyes were an electric blue—she quietly said, “Mr. Granger? Sam Granger?”
I smiled. “Yes, but I’m probably not the Sam Granger you’re—”
She averted her gaze and leaned a little toward me. “You have a passphrase for me?”
I frowned. Can she actually be here for me? I glanced at a rental agency kiosk, then all but whispered, “Real-time solution?”
She looked up at me with those eyes and a broad smile. “Yep, you’re him. I mean,” she quieted her voice, “for a real-world problem.” Her smile still in place, she said, “Come with me, Mr. Granger.” She curtly turned away.
The view was pretty good. I shifted my focus up to the back of her head. “Sam’s fine.”
Without looking back, she said, “Yes, I’m sure you are.” She sounded bored. Or maybe a little nervous.
I followed her through the exit doors, then across the driveway and to the left around a long, curving sidewalk to an opening in a tall cast-iron fence. A small sign on the fence read Short-Term Lot. From there she turned right. As she started past a row of front bumpers, she clicked a beeper and the door latches of a grey BMW popped quietly. She turned at the passenger side of the car and opened the rear passenger door. “Bag in the back seat, please. You’re up front with me.”
As I slung my bag onto the seat and closed the door, she popped the trunk and dropped her S. Granger sign in, then closed the trunk and rounded the left rear corner of the car. Over the roof, she said, “So where’ you stayin’?”
Other people were passing by so I didn’t answer immediately. I opened the front passenger door and got in.
She opened her door, huffed, and sat down. As she buckled her seatbelt, she said, “Mr. Granger, I said where—”
“‘Bama-Red Inn and Suites.”
“Got it.” She started the car, put the gearshift into Reverse, and backed out of the space. As she shifted into Drive, she said, “That’s only about ten minutes from here. We’ll be there in no time.” She stopped at the little exit booth, passed a dollar bill to the man inside, said “Thanks,” and powered-up the window. As the bar raised and she pulled forward, she looked directly at me while she whipped the car across three traffic lanes. “You hungry? You have lunch yet?”
A car horn blared to the right rear.
I grabbed the little handle above the door. “Oh!”
She raised her right hand so the other driver could ostensibly see it through her tinted back window, then whipped into the right-most lane.
As sweat beads broke out on my forehead, she glanced into the rear-view mirror and muttered, “Sorry. My exit’s right up here, dude.” Then she looked at me again. “You were sayin’? Somethin’ about oh?”
I grinned weakly. “Oh nah. As in I don’t eat lunch. At least very often. But we can stop somewhere if you want.”
True story. I’ve always thought lunch is probably something most people do in the middle of the day to alleviate their boredom. I usually eat breakfast at around 5 a.m., then go for a run or a swim, lift for an hour, do whatever else, and eat supper at around 5 p.m. That gives me time to digest a little before I sack out at 10 or so.
She shrugged. “No, it’s okay. We’ll just head up to the room then.” She glanced at me, then looked away, then glanced at me again, blushing slightly. “‘Course I mean I’ll drop you off an’ you’ll go up to the room.”
“Right.”
“Sorry. This is a little differ’nt than what I’m used to. TJ told me your name an’ he told me to meet you at the airport an’ do whatever you need me to do.” She put up one hand. “For the assignment, of course.”
“Of course.”
She fell silent.
Enjoyed!