Higgins Page 5

  Abrams’ smile stayed in place, but the twinkle in his eye turned serious. He rapped his knuckle on the table twice and stood up. “You’re full of good advice, Ms. York. I’ll do well to follow it.”

  She watched him saunter back across the cafeteria, saying hi to someone every couple of feet. Instead of sitting down with his usual group of friends, he grabbed a banana and a muffin and walked back in the direction of his room.

  No one else bothered York while she ate, which she was certain had to do with the fact that it looked like even Abrams had been given the heave-ho.

  But she wanted to have friends in this program. She wanted to be surrounded by people she could trust. So far, the only person she felt even a fraction sympathetic toward was Dr. Alvin Higgins.

  Alvin – named after a friggin’ chipmunk. He was awkward, and at times insufferable, but she could sense a kind of steadfast earnestness inside him. He wanted in the EIU as much as she did, but he also wasn’t going to give up who he was to do it. You could spot him a mile away in his tweed jacket and his loafers, but that was the skin he was comfortable in. She envied him for it.

  As far as everyone else was concerned, she felt like she was wearing two masks. For half the day, she wore the mask of a daughter worrying about her mother back home. For the other half, she wore the mask of confidence that hid the true face of doubt.

  And yet, she belonged here for some reason. She just wasn’t sure if she could stay.

  Chapter Nine

  Decker took a deep breath and steeled himself for the conversation he was about to have with his partner.

  Partner. If there was ever a term destined to be in the air quotes, Partner would be it. He and Zyga had known each other for years. They’d even been close at one time. That was a long time ago, and now some god of fate with a sick sense of humor had seen fit to stick them together again.

  The veteran agent entered Zyga’s office. The man sat behind his desk treading water in a sea of scattered paperwork.

  “Decker.” The greeting was flat and directed at the desk.

  “Chuck.” Decker ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m balls deep here, Decker. I don’t have a lot of time. Spit it out.”

  Decker kept his anger locked down. Zyga thrived on conflict, and Decker wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. He had always been the calm and cool one. Once, it used to balance them out. Made them a good team. Now their differences just grated on each other.

  “You sent two agents home the other day for no reason.”

  “Yes, I did.” Zyga was still flipping through folders, arranging and rearranging papers. He’d yet to look Decker in the eye.

  “They could’ve been ideal candidates.”

  “They weren’t.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know that.”

  Zyga finally put his papers to the side, folded his hands in front of him, and looked up at Decker. “What’s the problem here? I cut one candidate I had chosen, and one you had picked. I wasn’t playing favorites or taking sides.”

  “You didn’t even give them a chance. On top of it, you had to go and pull some Full Metal Jacket crap on them.”

  “That was for the benefit of the others. Jesus, Decker. I have to explain this shit to you? Let me spell it out plain. We can’t coddle these folks. That’s how you breed failure.”

  “I know of plenty of mistakes made by agents you didn’t coddle.”

  Zyga looked up sharply. “Spencer is paying for his mistakes. As am I. We all are.”

  “My point is that those were good agents. You and I picked them for a reason.”

  Zyga looked back down at his desk. “Just trying to expedite the process, that’s all.”

  Decker had the urge to cross his arms over his chest, but he refrained. It would just show Zyga that he was getting to him. “You’re carelessly rushing the process.”

  The man exhaled impatiently. “What’s this really about, Decker?”

  “You’re not invested in the program, I get that.”

  Zyga threw his hands up in the air.

  Decker pushed on. “Now just a second. We both agreed this is an avenue we need to follow until we know for sure. Something has to change.”

  Zyga leaned back in his chair. “Uh huh. So, this is about Beirut.”

  “Of course, it’s about Beirut.”

  “Unbelievable.” Zyga pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I don’t know what happened to you, Chuck. Where did all this sloppy impatience come from? You burning out?”

  Zyga stood up. “Listen, friend. I’m not the only one who’s made mistakes. You best remember that.”

  “I never forget.” Decker took a step forward and placed his hands on Zyga’s desk. They were eye to eye now. “And I know you haven’t either. But I own mine. You’re going to run this program into the ground if you don’t set your ego aside for two seconds. You know we need this. You’re deliberately trying to sabotage it, aren’t you?”

  Zyga waved dismissively. “It’s a goddamn waste of time. You think our savior is going to be some rookie agent who can make a few lucky guesses? Or worse, some dweeb in a tweed jacket who thinks he can play with the big boys? We’re wasting time with this psychoanalytical bullshit. We need decisive agents with field experience.”

  “You saw how Higgins solved the Pasadena experiment.”

  “Pssh. There were no stakes. It was a game. You really think he could do that under pressure?”

  “We don’t know yet; that’s my point. You’re not giving anyone the benefit of the doubt.”

  For the first time since Decker had entered his office, Zyga looked weary. He sat back down in his chair. “We don’t have time to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.”

  Decker sat, too. “We don’t have a choice, Chuck. The director wants to see this program through to the end. We might as well run with it.”

  Zyga laughed. It didn’t have much humor in it. “You’re only saying that because it was your idea.”

  Decker smiled. “Well, yeah.” Then the smile faded. “Who’s caught your attention?”

  Zyga pulled one of his many folders in front of him and flipped it open. He pointed to the top sheet. “York. She’s brilliant, and she’s a good detective, but she’s green compared to the rest of them.”

  “She’s also a quick learner who doesn’t fold under pressure.”

  “Just because she hasn’t folded yet doesn’t mean she won’t.”

  “Jesus, you’ve gotten cynical in your old age, Chuck.”

  “And you’ve gotten soft, Joe.”

  The comment was intended to pierce skin, but Decker shrugged it off. He could stand a couple digs if it meant they were making progress. “Who else?”

  “Johnson, of course. Good agent. Tactical brain. Efficient. Decisive.”

  “Hothead.”

  “Weren’t we all at that age?”

  Decker nodded reluctantly. “Pierce and Brown have been holding steady.”

  “They need to step up. I don’t like middle-of-the-pack agents.”

  “Michaels has shown a surprising amount of ingenuity.”

  “He got his team across the finish line, but coming in second-to-last is nothing to brag about.”

  “True.” Decker worked his jaw.

  “Aw, come on, Joe. Just say it.”

  Decker leaned back in his chair and spread his arms wide. “Higgins.”

  Zyga looked as though he was fighting back a roll of the eyes. “He’s smart, I’ll give you that. But he wouldn’t last two seconds in the field.”

  “I’ll admit he’s greener than York, but he’s a problem solver. I think we’re going to be surprised.”

  “You hope we’re going to be surprised. He’s your golden boy.”

  “What can I say? I have a thing for underdogs.”

  “You have a thing for losers. Just because you made your way through the program against all odd
s doesn’t mean every nerd with an affinity for bowties is worth our time.”

  Decker backed up his chair and stood as if he was merely stretching his legs. They were both losing patience with each other and needed to cool down. Might as well end the conversation while they were still ahead.

  “Chuck, the only reason why Higgins’s team didn’t come in first was because of Johnson. York had been a solid half an hour behind them. That sounds like a winner to me.”

  Zyga waved away the comment. “We both know that Zyga-session was child’s play.”

  “Maybe you’re right. They’re not going to be happy about what we’ve got for them next.”

  Zyga smiled as Decker made his way over to the door. “That really shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.”

  Chapter Ten

  The tension in the classroom rippled like heat. Something was brewing. They all felt it.

  York swept into the room, and Higgins tried in vain to play his little game of deduction with her. Her clothes indicated that she was well-off, or at least knew how to dress to appear so, but other than that, there was no information to gather. She was quiet, succinct, and detached. What could he read with those clues?

  Two more agents arrived after her, scurrying through the door like roaches caught in the light. There were only thirteen candidates present following the faux interrogation. One of the three-member teams had gone home that night.

  Zyga sauntered through the door looking happier than he had in the entire time Higgins had known him. The mood of the room shifted in reaction to Zyga’s mania like the way all of nature quiets itself at the approach of a tornado.

  “Each of you will pick up a bag of provisions from Meyers. It will contain the essentials for a backpacking expedition. We’re not going to tell you where we’re dropping you, so don’t bother asking. It’s remote enough that if you can’t complete the mission, there’s a good chance you’ll get lost and die out there. Don’t do that. It’s a lot of extra paperwork for me.”

  Higgins noticed Decker standing behind his fellow agent. Hands on hips. Eyes stony. Lips tight. The three trainers looked harried, shifting from foot to foot, stealing glances at the clock.

  “You will have one week to maneuver your way through your assigned wilderness and locate an objective. This target location will be manned by a group of hostiles. You must neutralize and interrogate said hostiles. You do not get a handy passphrase this time. You must figure out what information you need to gather from your enemies.”

  Zyga held up the stack of folders. “Each team gets their own target. All relevant information is in here. They contain the bare minimum for you to find your destination, a standing structure, and figure out what you need to get out of the suspects.”

  The senior agent’s face lit up as he said, “There’s a twist, too. Not one as easy as last time. Nearly all of you figured out your suspect was a CIA operative. For those of you who didn’t… surprise. Everyone you’ll be dealing with this time is an agent, which means they know our tricks. You’ll have to come up with your own ideas to get them to talk. But... that’s not the real twist. The real twist is that the woods will be crawling with other operatives, armed with simulation rounds and looking to take you out one by one. They’ll be shooting paint pellets. You’ll have to be aware of your surroundings at all times. If you can’t complete your mission in a week, you’re out of the program. If you come in last, you’re out of the program. If you get shot, whether it’s a bullet straight to the chest or a splatter of paint on your left earlobe, you’re out of the program. Everybody understand?”

  Johnson and Abrams were looking wary. There were a lot of factors in play just to get to the cabin. Once they made it, there was no guarantee they could extract the information in time. On the surface, this seemed like an impossible task.

  Higgins felt his stomach turn. He was not a field agent. He had the tactical game of a chess player, but throw him into a fight and he’d be more likely to win by curling up into a ball and hoping he could outlast his opponent. What he’d conveniently failed to keep in his frontal lobe was that interrogators didn’t just work in Spartan rooms at headquarters; he’d be expected to travel all over the world and conduct his questioning wherever he was needed. This exercise was specifically designed to weed out the less physically-inclined among them. Higgins was the most obvious weed in the yard.

  Meyers entered the room pushing a cart filled with thirteen military-style packs and began distributing them. Higgins took his. It immediately fell to the floor with a thunk. He felt color rise to his cheeks as Johnson snickered.

  Decker took the floor next. “This is a team exercise. Your group must approach your target location as a unit, or else you will be disqualified. The only exception is if one of your team members is shot. We will spare you the burden of carrying them to the objective. You can proceed to your destination without fear of disqualification, but you will be penalized for failing to protect your own. For every hour you travel without your fallen teammate, an hour will be added to your time. I don’t need to tell you that this could mean the difference between staying here another week or going back to your regular jobs.”

  One of the supervising officers gathered the folders from Zyga and began passing them out to the groups.

  “These are your assignments,” Zyga said. “You have one hour to review the files and return them to me.” Zyga paused for a moment, then said, “Any questions?”

  The room knew better than to ask anything, but one brave soul raised his hand nonetheless. Zyga stared him down until the agent meekly asked his question.

  “When do we leave, sir?”

  Zyga grinned. It was the first real smile Higgins had seen on his face. “Right now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Three terrorists occupied a cabin in the middle of the woods. They were suspected of having been involved in an attack that killed several hundred American civilians traveling to work on a Monday morning metro. All three were Russian natives who were in the country on work visas. Not long after their entry into the U.S., they were caught on video planting bombs on a train. They fled when pursued by security, but had been tracked to a stretch of forest -- the name of which had been redacted in their dossier. Consequently, once they entered the wooded terrain, they were lost.

  A fourth accomplice had allegedly been involved, though not seen in the immediate vicinity. This person was the suspected leader of their group, someone with direct ties to Moscow and was planning more attacks on the New York metropolitan area. Higgins and his group were tasked with finding out where this person was.

  Higgins stayed alert for the entire car ride, or as alert as he could be outfitted with a hood and a pair of noise-cancelling headphones. Johnson and Abrams rode with him, decked out the same. He was sure several hours had passed since he’d gotten into the car, but had no idea in which direction they had been driving. Had Zyga cleared out an entire national forest just for the training exercise? Higgins was taking shots in the dark, but the mental ping pong kept him alert and ready.

  When the car stopped, it was a full sixty seconds before his door was opened. Someone gripped his arm and pulled him from the vehicle. He stumbled and went down on one knee. He righted himself, expecting someone to remove his headphones and hood—the last thing he wanted to do was disqualify himself by seeing something he shouldn’t before the task actually began. He stood waiting for what seemed like several minutes.

  Just as he was going to lift his hood to take a peek for himself, it was ripped from his head, sending his headphones crashing to the ground. Higgins blinked the sunlight out of his eyes and stared up at Johnson.

  Johnson looked down at him with such contempt, Higgins took a step back.

  “We’re not going to hold your hand.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to.” Higgins straightened his jacket and adjusted his glasses. He chided himself for the nervous tick and put his arms back down at his sides.

  “Let’s check ou
r packs,” Abrams said. It was the first time Higgins had seen the man all business.

  Higgins looked around, noting that the car was gone, and his pack had been thrown onto the ground at his feet. What had Johnson and Abrams discussed while he couldn’t see or hear them? Another thought hit Higgins as he peered into the tree line: Were they being watched? Shouldn’t they be better concealed?

  The other two didn’t seem to care. They rifled through their packs, and Higgins followed suit. Most of the packs’ contents were the same—equal shares of food, water, and bedding—but each one contained unique items to aid them on their journey. Higgins had a compass, a length of rope, and a water filter. Abrams had a long hunting knife, a map, and a pack of matches. Johnson had a tarp, binoculars, and a flashlight.

  Abrams grabbed Higgins’s compass and tossed it to Johnson, along with his map. “Here, you’re probably the best navigator. You tell us which way to go. I’ll keep an eye out in the lead. Al can look for water.”

  “How do you know he’s the best navigator? Maybe they gave me the compass for a reason.”

  Abrams avoided his gaze. “Nonsense. It was probably a random assignment.”

  “Have you ever been in the field before, Higgins?” Johnson asked. “Have you ever gotten your hands dirty?”

  “I’ve got a good sense of direction. I know how to read a map and use a compass.”

  “Navigating is about more than having a good sense of direction.”

  “No one’s saying you can’t take care of yourself, Al.” Abrams’ voice was empathetic, but there was still something off about it. “But it’s time to get real. We have to play to our strengths. Johnson’s the better leader, much as I hate to admit it. If we want to complete this mission, we don’t have time to argue over who gets to hold the compass.”

  Higgins didn’t know what to say. Abrams wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t like the dismissive way it came across.

  “Look, we’re already at a disadvantage with you out here.” Johnson hefted his pack over his shoulder and started turning in a circle, presumably looking for the best way through the forest. “Let’s not make it worse. We have to keep you alive to avoid a penalty, so try not to make it harder on us than it already is.”