We’ll see.
At the very least, I want to know more about this promise Carter made Fowler. One thing I know about my little brother is heneverbreaks a vow. Toanyone.
If this man is somehow the exception to that rule, then that’s something I want to know more about.
And why.
Yes, it’s run through my mind a couple of times to take an extended vacation—or finally retire—and spend some time with Carter and Susa and their kids and see if I can fish in Owen’s pond. The guy’s a hunk.
Apparently, my brother’s very careful. Likely schooled Owen in how to not get clocked. That’s my supposition, anyway, because I’ve never heard anyone in my family raise even the hint of a suspicion that they think there’s something going on between the three of them.
Maybe I’m the only one who thinks Carter’s sons look remarkably like Owen. I mean, to a spooky extent.
Maybe Owen’s admittedly sad childhood story engendered enough sympathy from everyone else in our family to help them overlook pernicious suspicions that might flit through their minds.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I have no answers, and won’t, until I can get them out of Fowler.
Until then, I drive.
Chapter Eight
To the best of my knowledge, despite our family’s record of military service I’m the only one who ended up in intel and working deep undercover. My “work” is actually the perfect cover, because our father and all six of my brothers served, two of my brothers losing their lives during that service. Carter is the youngest, and I’m five years older than him. No one in my family thinks it’s unusual my post-military work is as a “civilian contractor.”
I race through the night with the uncomfortable metallic tang of adrenaline coursing through my veins and sharpening my senses. At this point, I believed I’d be driving leisurely back to the safehouse to nap before returning to Paris tomorrow.
I’ll need to go shopping tomorrow to stock the safehouse.
Meaning I’ll have to keep Fowler knocked out longer than I’m comfortable doing, but it can’t be helped.
Like the flat in Budapest, this is one of several safehouses I use while on assignment. It was paid for with black-account money provided to me in untraceable Bitcoin. I still remember the days when I’d literally be handed a Pelican trunk full of umarked cash, or given the account and routing numbers for a Swiss or Caymanian bank account.
Now, it’s all untraceable electronic payments from unseen wonks holed up in dingy government offices somewhere deep in the bowels of Langley, the Pentagon, Foggy Bottom, or somewhere equally depressing.
I’ve had this safehouse for six months. My vanilla cover is a software developer who’s a military contractor, and using the same name. Jason Wilson isn’t exactly John Smith, but there are plenty of us out there, more than enough to confuse anyone sniffing around, and it makes the passport issues easier for me to deal with.
Having six different valid social security numbers with matching DOBs to refer to helps as well. I mean, I do have a few valid passports in completely different aliases that I’ve acquired over the years, but not even my handler knows about those.
Always have a backup plan.
Tonight is proof of what happens when you don’t, and shit goes sideways in a manner completely unexpected.
Relief fills me when I make the final turn onto the quiet road that leads to the house. It’s only three a.m. and I haven’t passed a single vehicle in the last ten minutes. There are few security cameras on houses out here, because it’s a fairly rural area just outside a mid-sized town. Mostly farmers. But nearly every vehicle seems to have a dash cam because of accidents and fraud, and I don’t want this SUV showing up on any of those cameras this morning.
I stop at the old iron gate across my driveway, punch in the access number on the keypad, and impatiently wait for it to open. I pause after driving through to make sure it securely closes, then back into the garage, which I’ve already opened with the remote, where I park next to the older Renault I drive around town. Once the garage door rolls closed, I flip the handle to lock it, giving me a little security and allowing me to let out a relieved breath.
Part one, done.
Leaving Fowler in the SUV for now, I draw my sidearm and make a quick sweep of the house. I disarmed the alarm from an app on my tablet while at the gate and I know nothing was disturbed during my absence, but I take no chances. I have over a dozen IR cameras strategically placed inside and out, with motion detectors that would have tripped if so much as headlights swept the front of the house if someone pulled into the driveway and stopped at my gate. That’s in addition to door and window sensors, and motion detector sensors as part of the alarm.
It’s secure, and all the tells I left in place just in case someone managed to skirt my electronic system are still intact.
I make sure all my blackout curtains in the house are in place before I return to the garage and open the hatch to deal with Fowler. He’s still breathing, thankfully. I had to guess his weight when I dosed him and had prepared a second dose to give him in case he came to during the drive.
After pulling out the top tarp, I fold it double and lay it on the floor, then unceremoniously roll Fowler out of the cargo area. He limply lands on the floor without so much as a grunt, meaning he’s still deeply out of it.
My luck’s still holding, apparently.
