Chapter 4

While Garrett was gone, Aaron wandered around the four-bedroom home. It was around a half hour away from the core of DC and its federal buildings.

A quiet suburban neighborhood in a cul-de-sac, away from the inner-city violence where his apartment house was located. Some areas of Baltimore had fallen on hard times.

Sadly, drug use and crime was rampant when poverty took hold.

Once Aaron settled his nerves, he inspected the place. Being nosy. Sure. What else was he going to do? Watch soap operas and eat bon-bons?

He was given strict orders by Garrett. And he knew better than to ignore them.

So? First, Aaron examined the living room. The interior of the home was painted white. The floors were mostly laminate or wood, but the upstairs bedrooms had wall-to-wall carpeting.

The kitchen was bright, modern, with white appliances and gray granite countertops.

If he had to guess, he’d say the house was in the high-two-hundred-thousand-dollar range. It was 1994, and the economy was so-so.

Clinton was in office, so slowly the housing market was climbing, and employment was up. Since Aaron was getting money from his ‘messenger’ work, he wasn’t employed in a nine-to-five job.

With a criminal record, it wasn’t easy to get hired.

He turned on a radio. It was already tuned to a station.

‘Hero’ by Mariah Carey aired.

With music to keep him company, Aaron glanced at the TV set, but didn’t bother turning it on. Maybe later. He sighed deeply and glanced down a short hallway.

In one room there was a PC on a desk. Computers were not common to own. Aaron had never used one. A big, bulky white box with a monitor screen sat near a keyboard, like a typewriter.

Able to hear the music while he snooped, Aaron paused to look at a maple bookshelf. An encyclopedia set filled most of it.

More hardbound books were also displayed. General Patton and Churchill’s biographies, nonfiction books about Samari warriors, their mindset and fearless nature, the art of war, battlefield strategy, works about Alexander the Great and Audie Murphy too.

“Dude…” Aaron was impressed and terrified at the same time. Mostly impressed.

No fluff here. Nope. No romance, no fiction, sci-fi or other fantasy tales.

This man was all about war and being tactically trained.

After browsing the book titles, Aaron noticed framed certificates and wall plaques. Silver star, Defense Superior Service, and… holy cow, the Medal of Honor for Valor.

“What the fuck!” Aaron thought about his measly life in comparison to this man’s.

Gawking at the many commendations and achievements this dude had earned, Aaron shook his head at his own life. “You miserable toad. You could have made something of yourself.”

Yes, it depressed him. But he was an orphan, sent from foster home to foster home, and didn’t think he was very bright.

After being neglected and left to mostly fend for himself, he was lucky he didn’t have needle marks all over his arms and still had teeth. He never became a drug addict. Sold some, but never took any.

He left the office where the computer was located, having no idea how to work the thing.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor and peeked into the master bedroom. The bed had been made so tightly you could bounce a quarter on it.

The room was perfect. Neat. Tidy.

A few more trophies for sports, military achievements, etcetera, were showcased.

Then, Aaron saw photographs.

Now we’re talking .

He glanced behind him, but that was stupid since he’d seen Garrett leave. He admired the man himself in uniform, a helmet on his head, holding a terrifying military grade weapon. Aaron had no idea what kind of gun it was, but it was scary.

Garrett’s massive arms were visible in the photo, his torso only covered by a bulletproof vest, and the look in his eyes was pure predator.

“Okay. I can jerk off to this photo. What is wrong with me?” Aaron laughed at himself. “I’m a sucker for you bad boys. So sue me.”

He opened a closet and stuck his head in, sniffing the air. It had a scent of cologne mixed with dry-cleaned clothing, maybe even wool. There were uniforms inside it, and he wanted to touch them.

“Stop. What are you doing?” Before he closed the closet door, he saw a large gun safe. Lord knew what it held.

“Yeah. Stop.” Aaron slid the sliding door closed and was about to leave the bedroom when he noticed the nightstand drawer. Man , it called him closer. The nightstand. The most private spot in the room. Bad boy. Very bad.

He opened the top drawer.

Condoms. Lube. And a magazine. Hmmm.

Oh, this is so wrong. Aaron chided himself as he smirked wickedly. He removed the magazine. Men! It was men! Naked men! Men sucking! Men fucking!

“You’re gay?!” he shouted.

~

Using the information he had from the file he photographed in the secure personnel office, Garrett parked near AJ Henderson’s family home. His real home. Not the fabricated information local police agencies would locate.

Parked under a towering shady oak tree, Garrett watched the house. The heat of the day was building but the tall trees swayed in the hot breeze.

The murdered man’s family lived in Bethesda. The house was a classic split-level, two sedans were in the driveway, a dog in the yard, kiddie pool, swing set…

No. No way did this man’s wife know what her husband was doing for a living.

The fake identity had Mr AJ Henderson working for a land developer for shopping malls. Uh, yeah. No. This man was an operator. His jacket was removed, and his shoulder holster was taken at the scene. That was why he was called to the director’s office to nail Aaron for the crime.

Garrett read the man’s real name. John Healey. He did not possess his obituary but no doubt, there was one in the local paper.

As Garrett watched the house, unobserved, he saw family members coming and going, paying their respects or possibly helping the widow grieve.

When the entire family left the house. Garrett assumed they were headed to the funeral home to make arrangements. No announcements had been made in the paper for the funeral… yet. He intended on attending. You never knew who would show their faces. Guilt did odd things to people.

The dog was penned in a small, fenced area in the yard, one with a doghouse.

Garrett slunk lower in the driver’s seat and watched two cars leave the area.

No one was left occupying the home, and no one other than himself was canvasing it.

He climbed out and walked to the opposite side of the house from where the dog was. It wasn’t a watchdog. It was a yellow lab. A big dumb furball sleeping in the shade in the summer heat.

Garrett was about to enter via a window, when he realized the backdoor wasn’t secure. As a matter of fact, it was partway open, with only the screen door closed.

This neighborhood wasn’t a hotbed for crime. At least not yet. He opened the screen door and listened. Not a sound.

Entering the premise, Garrett bypassed the kitchen and living room and located the master bedroom. He went right to the dresser drawers for information.

Shaking his head in frustration at the lack of paperwork, Garrett then opened a closet and crouched down to see if there were any locked files. And, bingo.

He took out his lock picks and sat on the floor as he worked the easy padlock. Once it opened, he pulled out the files.

Removing his small camera from his shirt pocket, Garrett took photograph after photograph, not knowing how much time he had.

He paused at one page of figures.

Huge sums of money were deposited in banks in foreign lands. The tax havens. The laundering spots.

Here we go .

Garrett knew it. Knew something was screwed up about this assignment. He reloaded the small camera with more film and took a photo of every goddamn piece of information in that file cabinet to read through later.

After nearly a half hour, Garrett relocked the padlock, then stood and shut the closet door. He jogged down the carpeted steps and noticed another door. A cellar.

He headed down, turning on a light. A washer/dryer, boxes for storage, and another file cabinet, also padlocked, occupied the unfinished space.

Sweat beginning to run down his temples and neck, Garrett used the same tool to open a similar lock. This was the man’s home. He certainly didn’t expect his wife or kids to be prying into his private files.

And no one knew this man’s real name, right?

Garrett pulled out the drawers. He smirked to see some hardcore pornography magazines. Straight porn. Women in obscene poses.

There were even VHS tapes, naughty ones.

Hell, each to his own.

Garrett crouched to open the lowest drawer and there were more suspicious papers with information from huge amounts of cash deposits and withdrawals. The banks these transactions were made in were highly suspect… enemy countries. Places run by oligarchs and dictators. Wars he’d fought in… against these tyrannical leaders.

Anger grew stronger in him.

Garrett once more got it all on film, then he thought he’d heard something. He quickly locked the cabinet and stood completely still. Listening.

He made for the stairs and a cat jumped in front of him, giving him a jolt. He then shut the basement light, closed the door, and left the same way he’d come.

Leaving the yard, Garrett heard the dog barking but didn’t slow down or turn around.

He climbed into his car, then headed to his office to use the dark room. Something wicked was going on here. And he couldn’t believe he’d stumbled upon it.

Thinking about why the director had chosen him, Garrett shook his head in disbelief.

No doubt the director had no clue Garrett would get wise to some seedy underbelly of the government’s corruption. Maybe he was seen as a henchman, a hired killer without a brain cell in his head. But underestimating him was his enemy’s first mistake.

He was a professional. Loyal to this country. Loyal to the president. And any US agent that dealt with foreign, hostile governments, especially arms dealing and money transfers, was his enemy.

All Garrett was supposed to do was find Zefron, arrest him, take him to the director, or… kill him.

Now Garrett had to find out what the dead man, the operator known as Henderson, had to do with the director, or… if the director was clueless, and someone else had arranged for Aaron to take the fall for this murder.

Wow.

Garrett shook his head. What on earth did I just uncover?

He had every intention of finding out after he developed the film he’d just shot.

~

Aaron grew hungry and heeded Garrett’s advice to not call for a pizza. He opened the kitchen cabinets, and the fridge. He sniffed the contents of a white container that held Chinese food, noodles and shrimp.

Aaron emptied it onto a plate and heated it up in the microwave… once he figured out how to program the stupid thing.

Then, he took juice from the fridge and filled a glass.

The military hottie had a liquor cabinet, but raiding it seemed precocious.

The food and soft drink consumption, Garrett would easily understand.

The microwave’s bell rang. Aaron took the plate out and steam rose from the food. He put it on the kitchen table as the radio in the living room aired Always by Bon Jovi.

Aaron located a fork and paper napkins and sat down to eat, blowing on the hot food. As he did, he wondered what was going to happen to him.

I have no place to live. My income has just stopped. And now I’m implicated in a murder.

Gee. Nothing to worry about here.

He shook his head at his thoughts. Then, he wondered if that guy, Steinmetz, would try and contact him. Hey. Yes. He could ask Steinmetz what happened to that guy.

Maybe I should go back to my apartment and wait…

No.

Nope.

How do I get in touch with that guy? He never gave me his phone number or anything. He always contacted me.

Aaron ate the reheated food and battled to find a way out of his dilemma, because sooner or later, hot, buff Garrett was going to boot him out.

~

Sweat trickling down his temple, Garrett hung the wet photographs on a string line with clips. Fans blew to dry them quickly, but the smell of the developing fluids surrounding him wasn’t refreshing or cooling.

He had locked the darkroom door so no one could gain entry. Outside it a small light showed it was ‘in-use’ so no one should try to go inside.

Garrett also knew he had to check in with the director soon. No doubt the head man wanted to know when Zefron was going to be in custody… or dead.

He heard someone knocking on the outer door. Garrett shouted, “Can’t you see the light? I’m developing film!”

He heard nothing after that. Garrett knew he was spending a lot of time in here, so he began taking down the dry photos and tucking them into an envelope.

After gathering all the prints and negatives and destroying anything incriminating, Garrett double-checked each tub of developing liquid to ensure nothing remained, then he opened the door. The air inside the darkroom, even with ventilation was nasty to inhale. He took several deep breaths once outside it.

Two men in dark suits glanced at him.

Garrett sneered and walked by them, holding the sealed folder with everything he gathered under his arm.

He located a SCIF, or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility and picked up the phone.

The director was the one to answer. But he didn’t utter a word when he picked it up.

“Colorado,” Garrett said.

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” the director replied.

“The suspect has temporarily slipped our net. But I have intel on his location.”

“We did assume he’d flee.” He paused, then asked, “Where do you think he fled to?”

“I located his car at the airport. But when I checked for his name on the passenger lists his wasn’t there.”

“He must be using an alias. He has a criminal past.”

Garrett needed time and he didn’t trust this man. Not yet. He didn’t trust anyone. “I’ll pursue.”

“I want him dead.”

“Ten four.” Garrett hung up the secure line and grounded his jaw. “You want him dead? What the fuck?”

Garrett left the SCIF and made his way out of the federal building, making sure he was not followed.

~

After lunch, Aaron lay on the bed in the guestroom and tried to decompress. As he thought about his lousy life, he wondered why? Why it had to be this way?

He could have joined the army, right?

Never even thought of it.

What did I do with my life? I’m such an idiot. Now I have a criminal record, and someone is framing me for murder. Great, Aaron, great.

He rolled over on the soft bed and crushed the pillow to his cheek. As the hours ticked by, Aaron wondered if Garrett was going to bring the police or someone worse, to come get him and lock him away in a cell without windows where he’d rot and die.

“What a wasted life.” He grew angry with himself and his choices. “You’re a fuck up. I should have said no. No to the stupid ‘messenger’ work. I’d have been out of prison in less than a year. Man, I’m a moron.”

With those depressing thoughts in his head, Aaron dozed off to an exhausted sleep.

~

Circling the neighborhood, ensuring he wasn’t tailed, Garrett returned to his home and parked in his garage. He gathered the file he’d made and entered his house through the connecting door.

Music played on the radio in the living room. A track from Pink Floyd’s Division Bell. Garrett entered the room, but Aaron wasn’t there. He shut off the radio and panicked.

He ran from room to room, then jogged up the stairs and opened the guestroom door. Seeing Aaron asleep in the bed was a huge relief. Garrett exhaled loudly and before he closed the door to let Aaron rest, he paused to stare at him.

Aaron was a handsome young man with designer stubble and dark black hair. He was trim, slender, and had that certain look that Garrett liked.

Vulnerable, yet not feminine.

Garrett lowered his head and closed the door quietly. He brought the folder to his study where his computer was located and withdrew the contents. One by one, he read the spreadsheets, the bank account locations, and the amount of money being laundered.

This was corruption at the highest level.

And the profits… holy shit. Money. It was all about money.

Money from illegal arms dealing, money to finance dictators to keep them in power, money to divert justice and back cruel regimes…

Money.

Most transfers came with six zeros.

Garrett would never know that kind of wealth, and if being an honest man meant he never would, he was fine with that. These men, these high-ranking CIA agents were traitors.

What was he supposed to do? Go to the DOJ? The White House?

This was the first time in his military career he could not trust his commanding officer.

Because the director was his commander for this assignment. And that man had asked him to murder an innocent man. Murder him to cover up another murder. The murder of an operator.

Wait.

Henderson.

Garrett leafed through more photos he’d taken out of Henderson’s files.

Henderson knew. Henderson knew the director was corrupt. That’s why he was killed!

Henderson was in too deep. Into this money laundering scheme with the director. That has to be it.

Garrett tapped the stack photos on his desk to straighten them, then set them down. He closed his eyes to think, because this was so screwed up, he didn’t know who to tell, or what to do.