EXFIL Anthony Patton (short novels in english .TXT) 📖

When it looked like I would miss the next light, I accelerated and zipped through the intersection as the light turned red, nearly hitting a honking car that was making an oncoming left-hand turn. The three surveillance vehicles got stuck on the red light.

I imagined them slamming their steering wheels and yelling into their radios.

With surveillance now out of the picture, I got off the beaten path and found myself driving with no particular destination in mind. I knew the situation was hopeless, but I needed time to think, to turn myself in on my own terms. Before I knew it, I was heading west on the road to the remote motel where Tom had killed himself. The red neon vacancy light was lit.

I pulled over and parked near two pick-up trucks.

The bell on the door jingled as I entered, but the lobby was empty. The décor was a flashback to the 1970s, the deer heads mounted on the walls only appealing to the local clientele. I waited a few seconds before tapping the bell on the counter. The owner—the same man with long hair and a stained trucker baseball cap—arrived, wiping his hands.

“Welcome,” he said with smoke on his breath.

“I’d like a room,” I said.

“Of course.” He slid the registration book my way.

I grabbed the blue BIC pen with a plastic flower taped on the end and patted down my pockets with a shrug. “I left my wallet at home. Could I pay with cash?”

“Of course,” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “Truth is, we have lots of people out this way paying with cash. None of my business.”

As I signed in alias, I reviewed the names from the day of Tom’s death—no Tom Howard. Did he use an alias? Why? I finished signing, slid the book back, and noticed a Southwest Asia Service Medal pin on his baseball cap.

“You served in Iraq?”

“Yes, sir. Got a hip and leg injury from an IED,” he said with a glimmer of pride that was soon extinguished by the twitchy mannerisms of meth addiction. “I got a good disability package and a small business loan to buy this place. That’ll be forty bucks.”

I handed him the cash, which he set in a locked drawer and gestured to a receipt notepad. “No thanks,” I said. “Some people were talking about something going down here recently, a military death or suicide or something.”

He nodded and averted his eyes as he handed me a key.

“They, ah, told me it was an Army issue, you know,” he said, “so I kept my nose out of it. You’d be surprised how many troubled vets we have around here.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I said and exited the lobby.

I walked down the row of rooms and passed Tom’s before reaching mine. I locked the door, closed the curtains, lay on the bed, and turned on the television to catch up on events at the Pentagon. The whole thing was a disaster and fast spiraling out of control.

I oddly felt like an outsider, as if I had nothing to do with the cyberattack.

With a deep breath, I turned on my phone, shook my head with defeat when the location function symbol glowed cyan again, and called Beth.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said. She was talking to other teachers and excused herself. “I wanted to let you know that I wasn’t selected for brigadier general. The list hasn’t been released, officially, but, well, I was advised that my name wasn’t on it.”

She said she was sorry; she knew how important it was for me but the boys looked forward to having me back; the teaching position was still available, and so on.

“Nothing would make me happier, but I’m in a predicament,” I said, listening to her concerns. “You might hear some things about me soon, bad things, but I want you and the boys to know how much I love you and ask that you talk to me in person before reaching any conclusions.”

She was nervous—silent, controlled breathing.

“I’ll explain all of it to you in person,” I added, as if that would help.

She had to run to class and asked me to call her back as soon as possible.

“I love you,” I said and hung up.

A half-hour later, the sound of tires on gravel marked their arrival. I looked outside to see a Crown Victoria and opened the door. I put my hands behind my back as they handcuffed me and escorted me to the back seat.

TWENTY-SIX

Everyone has heard the apocryphal story of the sheriff who detains all the usual suspects after a robbery. The innocent men insist that the sheriff has the wrong guy and demand their release, whereas the guilty man sleeps calmly, knowing he’s been caught. Despite our propensity to not do what we know we ought to, and to do what we know we ought not do, normal people want to be punished for their crimes, to gain their chance at redemption.

There is always the rare sociopath who protests his guilt, less rare these days, but the rest of us know we’ve lost our way and long for someone or something to intervene. Needless to say, when my holding cell door closed, I cried in a way I had never cried before and fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, I found myself alone in silence.

There was one thing I realized with clarity: I wanted my chance at redemption, but my crime was beyond the pale and would land me in prison for the rest of my life.

So, it really was of no consequence what I wanted, and I assumed they would come for me in their own time so I turned on the television. The different channels were blitzing the airwaves with talking heads, with some calling the latest attack a wake-up call for the need to improve our cybersecurity capabilities and others calling for tougher measures against China.

To my surprise, though, there were no hints or suggestions of an inside job.

I dreaded the thought