Aftermath

"You sure this the right address?" the driver asked in broken English, seeing the building roped off in cheery, yellow police tape. The tape was the only fresh, colorful object on the grey street.

"Yeah, but it looks like I was late for the party."

Gregor was a bit surprised by his own response. Wit was not a word most used to describe him; invisible was a more suitable word – and it kept him out of trouble. Perhaps Peter was right: Gregor was slipping.

As Gregor was handing the taxi driver his MasterCard, he asked for the time, wanting to confirm yet again what time zone he was in.

"15.75", was the reply.

"Put 20 on the card," Gregor responded.

The driver may not have mastered the English language, Gregor thought to himself. He was glad that he did not live in this city. As an afterthought, Gregor almost scoffed to himself, "but he understood what a tip was."

Gregor hears the wheels of the Lincoln Continental throw loose gravel into the street as the cabbie returns to find his next fare.

Gregor initially was going to enter the building – he knew he missed something the other night – but two police officers stepped out from the shadow if the entrance. Gregor immediately sized them up, his eye catching an ear-bud in each officer's right ear. That, combined with shoes too pricey for uniformed officers, signaled that these cops were more than they seemed. CIA, perhaps? Gregor did not want to find out.

So instead of entering through the main entrance, Gregor walks to the end of the apartment building, and nonchalantly ducks into the alley between two 1960's looking flats.

"Great place to get mugged," Gregor says to his most loyal companion, himself.

He knew there would be another way to get into the building, but he also wanted to enter undetected, a more difficult feat. As he scanned for an alternative place of entry, the girl's pleading continued to haunt him, "Help me!"

She had died in this apartment building the other night, and yet her voice was on his phone the following day. It was her voice, he was sure it was.

Moving a crate under the second floor balcony, Gregor balanced himself and gingerly reached for the railing. He judged that the iron railing, forged nearly forty years ago, should hold his weight, and in what his mind would suggest was a leap of faith, he swung and pulled himself up to the outside edge of the balcony. One quick maneuver, and he was over the railing, standing nonchalantly on the neglected balcony.

Gregor took a deep breath, and walked through the windowless sliding glass door. Observing the blown-out window, Gregor began wondering what was awaiting him inside. He needed answers; being in the dark was uncomfortable, and he disliked being uncomfortable.

24 Hours

Gregor looked at his phone in disbelief. The voice was real. He listened to it again, covering his opposite ear with his hand. There it was, like a slap in the face with a brick. He immediately turned the phone off and with a shaky arm waved at an orange taxi. The Crown Victoria cut off two other vehicles to run up to the curb, pausing to allow any paying customer to get in. He opened the rear door and slipped inside, he was developing a more insistent headache.

Help me.

"Where to?" The driver's accent was thick, Gregor imagined himself wading through it to find the real words. He shut the door and allowed his eyes to close, Gregor's head lolled back against the head rest.

"Tucker and Fourth."

"Tucker and Fourth." the driver repeated it and whipped out into traffic again, it was a 15 minute drive at least. Gregor took the opportunity to let his mind wander, to get rid of the voice in his mind. The drone of the car took him to another place entirely.

Gregor set the plans of the apartment building on the table. It was on Lexington drive, the more unsavory stretch of the road. It sad on the border of the revitalization project the city had started two years ago. Taxes had apparently been a key factor for the entire deal grinding to a halt. The apartment was an important building; though, not because some group or another was trying to save it. That wasn't the case at all, everyone was all too eager to see those buildings come crashing down. In that particular building, a two story four family flat, an ambassador's wife and children were being held. He didn't care about the politics involved, that was for someone else to worry over. He was a gun hand, and that meant when they said shoot, that's what happened.

He'd gotten the formal background, a diplomat from South America with large stakes in the oil industry brought his family up for a conference. It had all been very hush hush, and before the media jumped on any leaks he needed his family back. It would look excellent in the eyes of the governments if everyone were non the wiser. And that is where this building came in. It was rumored paramilitary forces were at work, but to Gregor it didn't matter one bit. He had simply decided it was a very nasty situation all around.

"We've verified the upper northern apartment right?" he looked at Johansen across the table.

He glanced at the photographs strewn about the table and nodded. "Yeah. Upper north. Five men. Have to assume they are armed. No one's come or gone from the place and there is no phone work going on. Other three apartments are vacant."

Gregor furrowed his brow and after a moment of nibbling on his own lower lip, "Why?" he leaned back in his seat as Johansen shot back a response.

"What?"

"Why are they vacant?"

"Oh, not sure. The super said something about the project buying out the place later in the year."

Gregor didn't think further than that, and went back to his assessment of the raid. "We have a bird to sit on our shoulder?"

Johansen motioned to and then laid an index atop a building perpendicular to the main site. "Casey is going to be right here. It's completely empty. Cited it condemned with an agent couple of days ago. So no big deal there, sweeping field of fire."

"Adams?"

"Going through the basement with two and coming up the back stairwell. We think the steps are wood though, so we're going to be slow on that side. Same with the front."

"Great, so we're okay then. Piece of cake right?"

Johansen smiled and picked up his pack of cigarettes, "Piece of cake."

The taxi must have hit a bump.

"They're coming out hot!" Gregor heard Casey's voice over the ear piece, he had just taken the last stair when the door opened. Automatic fire ate through the wall just to his left. With no where to run in the small hallway, he returned fire. The others began moving back and sprayed the doorway. The AK-108 that the target held in his hands deafened everyone and sent Gregor colliding with the door to his left. He thanked God that the hinges gave way. He scrambled back and to the side, trying to find shelter inside the empty apartment he'd just fallen into.

Casey's voice acknowledged the man had gone down. "He's down, hit him in the neck. The others are taking cover."

Gregor's heart was beating hard in his chest, he'd nearly had his brains painted across the wall of the hallway. Shouting started and over his ear piece he thought he heard 'grenade'. An explosion shook the walls and Gregor found himself up on his feet again, moving forward. He was going through that door. Rifles sounded off and the door that had been flung open only moments ago was ripped apart by flying metal. He pressed forward coming in low.

"Flash bang!" the room he was in was nearly instantly turned into a glowing sun. He managed to turn his face and close his eyes, the noise distracted him for a moment as he felt someone brush by him.

"Get down, friendly!" there was erratic fire and glass began to shatter from deeper within the apartment.

Gregor willed himself forward, ears ringing and sight haloed. Two had gathered at the last bastion of the targets, Johansen was kicking the door open. Thunder erupted from the room, blowing the door into a thousand different pieces. Johansen vanished in the cloud of smoke, everyone else was taken to the floor. The entire apartment was filled with dust and still shaking.

"What the fuck was that?" Gregor took the lead this time, as he came forward the room was nothing more than a husk. He expected to see the remains of everyone scattered about the floor in some grotesque menagerie of self sacrifice; instead, he saw movement from beneath him.

"Help me!" it was a small voice at least in his half deaf state it was. He looked her right in the eye, she couldn't have been more than 16. Her face was that of an angel in fear. Gregor ducked back from the gaping mouth within the floor narrowly escaping having his foot separated from the rest of his body.

"They're down below! Casey, check the street!" There were a few people from his team covering the exits, but no one had expected a wall to blown all to hell. Two of his men had been wounded and unable to give chase. Gregor lined up a shot on one of the four remaining men and fired. The shot was wide and struck something unseen. The return fire littered the apartment building, making him duck away from the opening in the wall.

"$15.75." Gregor opened his eyes.

"Wha-?"

"15.75."

Damage Done

He continued to sip his coffee as he listened to the instructions but he no longer tasted it. It was just a reflex action, nothing more. While it may not have appeared so to the casual observer, his concentration was focused solely on the man next to him. He listened intently as the litany of instructions Peter gave him and silently filed them away for future reference.

As Peter spoke, it dawned on Gregor that the previous night's escapades had done more damage to his reputation than he'd anticipated. Not only was he being reminded of things that a rookie would know in his sleep, but it appeared that Peter would be supervising him - at least for the time being.

Normally, he was in complete control of his emotions but after last night's events his nerves were frayed. It was all he could do to choke back his anger and remain seated. He noticed his leg shaking and fought to keep it still. He picked a point on the opposite wall and focused on it, taking slow, deep breaths. Slowly he felt his anger subside. He tuned back in to Peter's words as he wrapped up.

"I hope you understand that there will be no more fuck-ups...or there will be no more Gregor. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." replied Gregor with a smile that resembled a lion bearing his teeth. He leaned slightly to his left and muttered "And I hope you understand that if you ever threaten me like that again, I'll rip your balls off and feed them to you."

With that, Peter waved to a woman strolling through the lobby as if she was the one he'd been waiting for and feel into step with her as they left the lobby.

By the time she reached the curb, he'd alredy melted into the crowd of pedestrians on the busy sidewalk.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He was relieved to see that even in his diminished state the previous evening, he'd remembered to turn the power off. Forgetting to do so was a mistake many made, and they paid for it when there location was traced by the periodic beeps the phone sent out to inform the service of its location.

When the phone powered on, he was surprised to see that he had a message. As far as he knew, nobody had his number.

He dialed his voice mail. As the phone rang, he caught sight of himself in a store window.

"You look like shit" he said to his reflection.

He punched in the password and listened to the automated voice.

"You have one unheard message."

"I know. That's why I'm calling." Gregor mumbled into the phone.

He played the message.

"Gregor. We have something that I think you want."

The ensuing silence was broken by the sound of a slap. He heard someone whimper, then in a tiny voice spoke the words that made his blood run cold..

"Help me."

Contact

The Embassy Suites hotel was a good twenty blocks away, but Gregor walked. Despite the bright sun that laughed its way through his Ray Bans, he needed the time and the motion to bring himself fully to life. Some things still needed processing.

Sully's coffee shop was on the way, and even though it was probably the last thing he should add to the churn of bile and blood that he was sharing with the sink most mornings, caffeine was definitely in order. The waitress at the register—"Anna" her tag read, wore a pale smock too big for her small frame and she kept adjusting it up, afraid she was exposing herself. He was trained to notice things like that. She had violet eyes that at the moment bored into Gregor more than the sun outside.

"Help me."

Gregor never spoke to anyone. It was rule—hell it was self preservation. Talk as little as possible; never look them in the eye if you could help it, and keep moving. But everyone has a moment; a moment they lose themselves in. On a day much like this; it was warm and bright, and there was no blight on his soul. He came to hear her voice so soft and sweet. She was singing quietly to herself as he walked up the steps to the front door of the building. Something about the melody made him stop mid-step:

A promise made will never fade
Fly me away on the nightingale's wings
And my love will always return

Without even a thought he had asked her, "Where do you know that song?"

"Help me!"

It was like a slap. The haunting refrain was not content to remain buried under his covers and piles of clothes. It had become a collective consciousness, personified and sitting on his shoulder like some antithetical Jiminy Cricket doppelganger. Just stop it! God dammit go away!

"Sir?"

Did he say that out loud? She was looking at him expectantly.

"The coffee? It's a buck twenty-five," she said. She probably had ten hours more to go in her shift and a toddler back at an apartment even crappier than his. Gregor pointed to the plastic display case on the counter next to them.

"Are those donuts fresh Anna?" He asked her. That's right, talk to her Gregor.

"Sure," she said, "We get 'em from the pastry place on Fourth."

"I'll take a glazed."

His wallet held a Benjamin and four singles. He took his coffee and donut, handed Anna the hundred-dollar bill and walked out without a word.

******

The lobby of the Embassy Suites was as generic as any other large chain hotel located in every city across America. Large, fronded plants in fake-cemented urns ornamented pillars, and everyone, whether they were coming or going, sitting or standing in line, looked like they were anticipating being somewhere else. Except the man Gregor noted sitting on a settee across the room. He wore a blue suit and was reading a newspaper. Well, pretending to read most likely. While the fabric bench was a quiet retreat from the people checking in an out for the day, it afforded a view of the whole lobby. His eyes peered above the tabloid's edge and met Gregor's.

It's show time, he thought.

Gregor sat down next to the man, placed his cup of coffee on the ground between his feet, and pulled the glazed donut out of the bag. Staring straight ahead, he took a large bite and moaned with pleasure, exaggerating each chewing motion with his mouth and cheeks. The suited man looked at him from behind the newspaper.

"You look like hell."

"Nice, very nice," Gregor said and took a sip of his coffee. He spoke softly and to no one in particular. "I even shaved for you, and that's how you greet me Peter? It's been so long."

Peter gave his paper and shake, and turned the page. "Don't be a snot. What the fuck happened last night?"

"Last night was a huge fucking mistake that's what," Gregor said with much more fervor than he should have, and instantly regretted it. He knew Peter Havershaw from way back, but it was impossible to know who you could trust anymore. The last thing Gregor needed was Peter going back and telling everyone he was losing it.

"It must have been huge for them to have called me out of Vancouver to deal with your sorry ass." Peter looked at him, newspaper still concealing his gaze. "Gregor listen to me. I don’t need to emphasize to you the importance of this mission. Are you with us or no? Because there will be no more 'huge fucking mistakes.'"

Gregor shoved the rest of the donut in his mouth defiantly, picked up the coffee once more and took a sip to wash it down.

"Tell me what to do next."

Time to go

“What does an out-to-pasture spy wear to a hotel and not be noticed?” Gregor asked himself as he lookes through the closet of his low-rent studio apartment.

He didn’t have much of a choice. He had exactly two blazers and an Aloha shirt hanging feebly by wire-hangers stolen from some “rooms by the hour” motel nine years ago.

The other jacket lay crumpled and stained on the floor with the rest of his clothes from last night. Gregor glances their way again.

“Help me…please.” The whispering scream rattles though him again, as he looks away from the pile.

Shaking his head, as if he can dislodge the memory, he begins to dress and prepare for the meeting scheduled by his director. A “Handler” is the old term for the head guy who would use him like a disposable razor…they didn’t like that term anymore. It brought up too many old memories of the “good old days”, when a spy was a spy, not some glorified hack of a business lawyer.

The chest of drawers, with its stained mirror, held most of the tools he would use today. Faded blue jeans, pocket knife, PDA, and clean socks.

“Just a meet’n greet. No need for the heavy artillery.” Gregor sarcastically chuckles to himself as he passes over his drawer of weapons. Mostly, these are the silent types: garrote wire, knives that look more like ice picks, and four small caliber handguns with silencers.

Grabbing his wallet and shades to block the eye stabbing pain that the sun will bring, once again, a puzzled look creases his forehead.

“Fucking keys.”

He begins to scan the apartment, muttering to himself and glancing at his watch.

“Dumbass.” He looks under the pillow. Nothing.

“First thing to go, you know.” He looks by the sink. Not there.

“Then it’s the eyes.” Opens the door and checks the keyhole.

Gregor’s one vice, outside of scotch, was that he talked to himself. Mostly because he needed to vocalize his thoughts, but also because he didn’t have anyone else worth talking to.

Looking at the ceiling, as if the answer is written in the watermarks, he remembers.

“Fuck.” He turns to his crumpled mess of clothes.

Slowly walking towards them, like child walking to a dentist’s chair, he says, “Gregor, a man of many seasoned years.” Step.

“Killed more men than heart disease.” Step.

“Survived not one, but two failed parachutes behind enemy lines.” Step.

“And he’s afraid of a suit.” Stopping, he stares at the clothes for a moment. Not fully understanding why, as sweat begins to roll down his brow.

“Shit.”

He reaches down for his slacks from the previous night. As he lifts them, he hears the familiar jingle of keys and allows himself to smile. Gregor quickly reaches into the pocket and grabs a handful of metal.

As he opens his hand and looks, he sees the lost keys and something else. A coin for the train.

“Help me.”

Gregor holds the coin out in front of him as if to chastise it. Anger and shame rising within him like a rushing tide. He throws the coin as hard as he can across the room, chipping the mirror. Before the coin bounces a fourth time, Gregor is already through the door.

Besides the sound of the coin slowly finishing it’s spin, the only other sound left in the ratty studio apartment are Gregor’s footsteps as the descends the buildings’ stairs.

Shaving . . . and a phone call

Gregor methodically, instinctively, begins shaving. Though he has more wrinkles than a forty-some-odd man should have, the blade smoothly glides over his stubble. Every three or four seconds, he places the blade in a stream of warm, running water, and his stubble slowly disappears.

After erasing the previous day's stubble, Gregor takes stock of himself in the mirror. As he slowly inhales and exhales, he begins to wonder if he still likes himself.

Inside his mind, he hears the scream again.

"Help me."

It haunts his mind.

"Help me."

Why the fuck could he not have arrived in time?

"Help me."

As he washes the last of the shaving cream off of his face, the phone rings.

"Hello," Gregor says.

"Sorry about the girl," an aged, raspy voice consoles Gregor. "It couldn't have been helped."

Gregor knew this was a lie, but he also knew that he could not tell his superiors that he knew the truth. They could have saved the innocent – but it would have cost too much. The mission was all that mattered to his superiors, and all that normally mattered to him as well

Groping for his watch, Gregor asks, "So what's the plan now?"

Gregor was used to action – drop him in some random country with a picture and some intel, and he could quietly make problems go away. That's what he was good at. But to be in the US, trying to infiltrate a global leader in energy exploration, he was out of his natural element. Perhaps his aging body had something to do with the assignment – his boss was beginning to be more protective of his advancing age.

The elderly gentleman droned on, and Gregor took notes in his aching head, looking at his watch to determine how much time he had.

After hanging up the phone, he muttered, "Embassy Suites". That is where he would reestablish contact. At the Embassy Suites, 11:30 am.

Starting Anew

Sunlight filtered by soft white blinds cast a yellowed glow on his face. As it warms his skin stubbled by black hair threatened by shades of grey, he begins to stir. Crows feet about the corners of his eyes flex and give way to his eyes opening, his chest expanding with the inhalation of breath. The weight of his lids seem immense as he struggles to grasp reality, but is threatened to be pulled back into darkness which swirls at the peripheral of sight. He turns his head and curls his body upon the futon mattress that is his bed, and he finds himself slipping back into the arms of sleep. It's not unlike finding comfort in the arms of your lover, a gentle embrace that makes you sigh in relief.

"Help me." it's a whisper that flutters through his mind, touching his spine in an icy tingle that flows from the base of his brain and crawls along each nerve each vertebrae. "Help me." The child like voice whimpers in his ear. It slips around his heart and begins to squeeze.

Gregor bolts from his bed, tendrils of shadow peeling away to reveal his room. The pile of clothes off in the corner no longer a huddled mass of someone goading his conscience. He rubs his eyes with the back of his left hand, slowly laying down on the small square pillow once more. The sun is annoying in its persistent heat, he escapes it by gathering himself up and coming to a stand. As he passes by the mirror on his metallic chest of drawers, he sees a 5'11" man staggering along. Hair shorn, slightly canted eyes from parents that weren't any one race, he passes a hand over his stubbled beard. Deeply reddened eyes blink back before the man is in the bathroom. Cold tile upon his feet bring little relief to the inferno building within him.

His hands support his furling body over the sink, musculature visible and strained. His ears ring as his vision blacks for a moment, never quite capable of standing the sight of his own vomit. He wretches. Black and various shades of red and green fill the sink and begin to flow into the drain. It tastes of half digested blood, typical, and he congratulates himself on another day of being exactly the same as before. He turns the water on to hurry the stench of vomit away.

Airily, he hears his own voice echo about the bathroom. "Here's to today Gregor. One foot in the grave."