Chapter 2

I wince as I pull off the dressings on my torso. The gauze sticking to me through blood and ointment, detaching with sticky threads as if it did not want to let go. With a warm wash cloth I wipe down my three, stitched wounds. Eyes closing hard as warm pain ripples through my nerves and gains. My body lurches forward, my right hand drops the cloth in the sink and catches the edge. I breathe deeply and quickly, an attempt to catch my breath and continue with my self-inflicted torture. 

Once I was sure it was clean, I apply new ointment to a trauma patch big enough to cover all three wounds. Satisfied that the pad would stay, I grabbed the Kling from the sink and wrap the pad to my torso and finish up by wrapping an ACE Bandage, snug, over the Kling. Throwing away the old, blood stained dressings, I grab my glass of straight vodka and enter the living room, taking up a seat in my leather recliner.

Pressing the power button on the remote, I flip through the cable channels until I find a decent movie and begin to think. Sipping from my glass every so often. 

Where do I begin? First thing to do is investigate. Where and when did the request for the launch codes come? Before that though, I need to dig further into who my team was, because, apparently, my own agency couldn't handle that task. After a few moments of rest, I got up and went into my study and turn on my iMac, once it is booted up, I begin to dig.

I enter our system under a different agent and start searching my team. First on my list, Julia Stevinsons. 34 years old, graduate from Harvard with a Ph.D in law and criminal justice, speaks French, Spanish, German and Russian. Joined at the age of 25 and moved swiftly up the ranks. Excelling in the field as an agent and leader. She was put under my team for her resourcefulness and to hold a second in command position. Having her under my team for almost three years, at 42 I'm impressed with her abilities.

Next, the techie Colin St. George. 38, graduated from some MIT school. Top of his class and the school. He was picked up a few times by the FBI for pulling a handful of cyber pranks. When the knowledge of his ability to rebuild and create his own programs and write his own software, the CIA employed him and taught him the same languages as Julia and I.

Finally, there was Jason Brooks. He was a well skilled agent, excelled in all the training programs and scenarios, moved up the ranks in the military. He trained to be a sniper, with over 100 confirmed kills in his 5 year career in the Marines, we picked him up.

There is no connection between them- at least not on paper. This leads to many possibilities for their turn. It could be anything from being fed up with the corruption, to ransom, to an internal coupe. All which lead to several more questions of who and why and when and what cause. So I lean back in my chair and sip my vodka. I mean what do I do from here? 

My house phone rings, blowing the fog of thoughts from my mind. I lean forward, turn on the recorder and tracer on the iMac and answer the phone.

"Hello?"

"It's Peter DeWalt, I wanna meet up."

"Why?"

"I may have some answer for you."

I don't speak for a moment, debating on the authenticity of this call.

"There is a cafe five minutes from this location. Meet me there, and you better be alone," and I hung up before he could respond.

That call tells me one of two things, that this location is on file and whomever set me up knows. I go back to my room and put on a dark green turtle neck, off my bureau I slide my shoulder holster on, wincing slightly with the movements. From my closet I pull my black Carharrt Duck Traditional Coat out and slide it on. Grabbing my keys from the counter I step out and get into my Volvo. 

I knew which cafe he had in mind, I visit it all the time when I am up here during the summer. I have marked it as a good retreat point and watching station. They also make a good open faced tuna sandwich and a wonderful sweet tea.

Pulling in from behind the building, I park in back. I open my glove box and pull out my AGPtek dictaphone, turn it on and slide it into my inner pocket. Pulling my keys from the ignition I step out, casually looking around as I come to the front of the building. I go inside and order a coffee with milk and sugar along with a chocolate chip cookie. After paying I pick an empty table outside. As I wait my eyes scan the area for DeWalt.

I met him on a few occasions. He is suppose to be in the top group for collecting and confirming intelligence. The information is not allowed to be used or given out unless his group approves it. He is usually the silent man sitting in the corner of the room. He was the man who set up my last objective.

DeWalt slide into my vision, taking up the chair in front of me.

"DeWalt."

"Emerson."

"What i s the occasion for such a visit? You are either here to catch me, or you're about to be extremely stupid," i smile and take a bite of my cookie.

"I have reason to believe the director is the leader of Royal Blue," DeWalt's face showing no signs of bluffing.

"You're joking?" my mouth full of cookie. I swallow and speak again, "You think Henry is behind RB?"

"Yes. I have been running a top secret investigation with my team and I have substantial evidence to prove so," DeWalt pulls out a regular size envelope and hands it to me. "All you will need to know about our investigation is in there. The flash drive holds documents and photographic evidence."

"And what would you like me to do with it?" I sip my coffee.

"I'm hoping for your help. You're a burned agent at the moment and I need all the help I can get. You were framed and I believe that Henry Force had a hand in it."

I hold the envelope and think carefully, within a few moments I slide the envelope into my left, inner coat pocket. 

"What would you like me to do?"

"On the island Tasmania, there is a laboratory that Royal Blue has set up. No one has gone in yet and taken a look around."

"I'll take photos of whatever I can. How do I keep in contact?"

"Let me see your arm."

Reluctantly I stretch my right arm out, DeWalt pulls out a syringe and sticks it into one of my veins and depresses the plunger. "This is a dosage of nanites, they will monitor your vitals and give me access to things you see and hear. I will be the only one who can view and listen in on your conversations and activities."

I look at the spot where the syringe entered my arm, "Just 10 cc of liquid and I'm no longer alone."

DeWalt gives a faint smile, "Well, good like Emerson."

And with that, he stood up and walked away, meshing in with the crowd. I pick up my coffee and the envelope and head back to my Volvo. Pulling the dictaphone out, I shut it off and replace it into the glove box. I open the envelope and begin to read its contents.

Richard Royal is the leader of Royal Blue. No one has any documentation of his appearance and have no accounts of anyone seeing him in person. Royal Blue controls several underground rings from drugs to blood diamonds to acquire funds for their organizations. It had also given way to taking out several mob bosses, but Royal Blue has taken their places and improved the previous boss' system. This lead them to be able to buy Tasmania and several other small countries in the Pacific and other areas. 

DeWalt even has evidence of weapons of war- tanks and that sort of rubbish. But wait...I look at one of the pictures closer and see that the tanks are from different countries, on Chinese and one Russian in this particular photo. Which begs the question, who else is involved with Royal Blue? Are these a collection of generals? A collection of people with connections? If Royal Blue is blown, then so are a handful of other countries. 

I start the Volvo and head back to my place and pack a duffle bag.

Tasmania, Base of mount Ossa

I sit at a cafe. drinking crappy coffee in the hot sun. My eyes study the mountain behind my Oakley RAZRWIRE sunglasses. The ear pieces scanning for any kind of radio frequency or communications around the area. Nothing can be heard yet, but DeWalt's photos show the Ossa is where Royal Blue gutted and made their home.

After about an hour or so of sitting and waiting, I get out of the town and start hiking into the jungle with my back pack. Inside are various maps, several bottles of water, few extra clips for my 1911, couple of food and granola bars, sleeping bag and a two, military grade radio. With my machete in hand, I make my way into the dense jungle, heading to the top of the mountain or any modern obstruction.

I'm not sure for how long I walked, but when I looked down at my black, double buckle leather watch I discover it is 8:42 and growing darker. So I stop to build a fire and settle in for the night. All the noise sounding like home and yet so different. Insects sounding vicious and deadly with the calls and wales of the night time predators.

I feel right at home.