Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

instead of something more mundane like baseball. It may be the country’s pastime, but she could never quite get into it. Why it mattered, she wasn’t sure. There was no guarantee she’d even see him again after they shared a meal. The disparate thoughts vying for top billing within her mind took a backseat to the curiosity that jumped to the forefront when the sound of a phone ringing broke the silence. It wasn’t hers.

Micah answered the phone quickly and appeared to regret it almost immediately as bacon grease chose that precise moment to launch an attack on his unprotected arm. He jumped, nearly dropping the phone before answering. “What’s up, Jimmy?”

“I hate to break up your date, Micah, but I need to meet with you. Pronto.”

“Wait, how the hell did you…?”

“It’s my job to know what goes on with my own. Now get down here.”

The phone clicked before Micah planned a more succinct argument. He instantly felt uneasy at the prospect of Castillo having such intimate knowledge of his comings and goings. Paranoia took over and Micah walked over to a nearby window. It overlooked the street in front of his apartment, showcasing a steady stream of subjects for people-watching enthusiasts. There was also a plain, white van parked across the street at a strip mall. Its lights were off, but there appeared to be someone inside. Micah couldn’t quite make out any features from his distance, but a pit welled up inside his stomach.

“Everything okay, Micah?”

“What? Yea, it’s fine,” he said, turning to face Valerie and coming back to the world around him. “I’ve just got to head out for an unexpected meeting.”

“You should call in sick. Take the day off and let me make up for the fact that I was so far-gone last night.”

“As much as I’d love to take you up on that, this isn’t something I can skip out on. Here,” Micah said, fishing a key out of a drawer in the island and sliding it across to Valerie. “This is a spare key to my place. I know we just met each other, and it may seem kind of crazy for me to trust you like this…”

“Yea, no kidding.”

“… but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. You can stay here until I get back or use this if you’ve got something else to do but want to see me later.”

“You could just give me your phone number.”

“True, but it’s easy to lose those. Or forget them. The key gives you something tangible to hold on to, to remember me by.”

“Makes sense,” Valerie said, pocketing the brass key.

“Besides, if it doesn’t work out between us, I can just change the locks,” Micah said. He laughed and served her a plate of eggs and bacon.

Chapter 32

They had cooped Sheridan up inside the walls of the OrCA facility for so long he had forgotten how great it felt to have the wind blow through your hair while driving. He couldn’t leave the windows down much longer, but the point at which his presence would be an issue hadn’t yet arrived. Hurst had given him a simple task. Go to the target’s house, infiltrate through whatever means necessary, and take them out. All the intel had shown the target was often alone and not afraid to open the door to strangers. OrCA had tested the latter out by sending agents dressed as Jehovah’s Witnesses once a fortnight to his home. He opened the door every time.

Sheridan was confident he could complete the task with minimal tools. He had gone to the equipment locker and requested only a pickup truck adorned with a fake pest control company’s logo and a matching set of coveralls. The target didn’t look all that imposing in the picture Hurst had shown him, even with Sheridan himself coming off a physically draining ordeal. Someone had scribbled various health statistics beside the target’s picture, but nothing of significance jumped out to him. However, when Sheridan signed off for the requested gear, making note of the codename associated with the hit, he received a black duffel bag with contents vastly different from what he had expected.

Instead of coveralls, they decked him out in a polo shirt and cargo shorts. The keys to a pickup truck were but a fading desire. His pocket held a small keyring which belonged to a gray, Sprinter van full of packages. Elsewhere in the duffel bag was an MP5 submachine gun, enough rounds to take out a platoon, black face paint, tactical gloves, and night vision goggles. Sheridan unlocked the van and sat inside. A tactical vest and a satellite phone rested on the seat beside him. What had once seemed like an easy kill was gradually feeling like a battle to test his abilities prior to venturing into the big leagues. Aware that dwelling on the unknown was a fool’s errand, Sheridan drove to the last known location of his target.

The home in Alexandria, Virginia, was a mere 14 miles away from the OrCA facility in Langley. With decent traffic, Sheridan could be there in twenty minutes. He assumed the nearby satellite phone would alert him to any changes in the target’s whereabouts. As he drew closer to his destination, Sheridan rolled the windows up and placed a hat on his head, careful to partially cover his eyes. In the event someone looked into the car as he drove past, their view needed to anything but clear.

Sometime later, Sheridan rolled to a stop outside of the house. It looked like every other house in the neighborhood. Every light on the first floor was on, the windows were open, and people milled about their lives, unaware of his existence. Wait, people? There’s only supposed to be one person in this house, he wondered to himself. It occurred to him he may have misunderstood the task. He retrieved the satellite phone and pressed call. The phone rang twice before clicking on. There was silence