The Offer

Cigar smoke and orange blossom filled my nostrils. Whiskey warmed my veins, but it was her scarlet curls on my shoulders that clouded my thoughts and blocked any memories from before that night. I could taste merlot on her lips and would gladly drink a bottle from her mouth. Her diamond earrings caught the light as she moved from my mouth to my neck. Her fingers found my necktie and I shuddered at the mere suggestion of what else they might find as the evening pressed on.

She murmured my name into my neck, fiddling with the button of my shirt. She could famously undo three of them in a single motion – five if you were wearing a tux shirt. She was toying with me, and I relished the teasing. The deck rocked gently beneath us in the ocean breeze, and she matched its rhythm, rolling her body against mine as the waves rolled from stern to bow.

“Mmm, tickets and passports,” she moaned, her lips massaging my earlobe. I tangled my fingers into her perfect curls. “Ohhh, yes, sir, tickets and passports, yes.”

“Ticket and passport, sir. Sir? Sir!” The redhead was gone and a much-less intriguing bloke in a grey uniform stood before me, lips and eyebrows scrunched. Conductor. He was a train conductor. He wanted my ticket. Why did he want my ticket?

The rocking beneath me was the train. The cigar smoke was real, but much less enjoyable without the fresh cigar. The redhead did not give a shit about my train tickets, but this bloke sure did. And it probably had not been whiskey quickening my blood and fogging my brain. Shit.

Pockets. Passport. Wallet. Shit. Shit shit shit.

The conductor huffed and looked around the car. He stood just a hair shorter than the door, maybe one-sixty, one-seventy – yeah, about a hundred and seventy pounds. His uniform hugged his hips and chest and the jacket cut off at the belt, but the wide legs meant I couldn’t rule out a knife or a pistol. No one else in the car, though. Suspicious, but an advantage. For now.

“Sir, if you don’t have a ticket, you’re going to have to move to the steerage car and wait there.” The conductor kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. “This is an express train, so you can ride until we stop in Newesburg, but without a ticket, you’ll need to disembark there.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you. Just give me one minute.” Maybe he was just an irritated conductor. Whoever stranded me here might not even be on the train. Nice change of pace, really – nowadays I usually know who’s trying to kill me. Bit more fun with a little mystery.

The door slid closed behind him with almost no sound. The wheels churned beneath us – the tracks sounded wet, and the ground between the railties was gravel, probably, or dirt. Grass would soak up more sound, and a bridge would resonate at a lower pitch. No raindrops streaked the single window of my car, so the rain had finished some time ago. A smattering of lights fell behind us slowly in the distance, but no moon or stars revealed any other frame of reference from which to determine our speed, or the distance and therefore size of the town. No light reflected onto the clouds, which told me that either the clouds were high or the town was small. Not much to go on, but I’d done more with less.

Inside the car, the luggage rack was empty except for a single brown leather briefcase I’d never seen before. The windowless sliding door hung on a track outside the compartment. I’d never seen that before either except on a cattle car. I pressed my ear against the door. The door felt cool – bulletproof. Not completely soundproof, but close – voices in the passageway loud enough to be heard over the sound of the wheels were entirely indiscernible. They moved closer and then past my compartment, and I heard no footsteps. There had been at least three voices.

I looked down and saw the same summer linens I’d been wearing at the Flitchley House. Hiding weapons under linens required creativity, but I’d managed to smuggle a custom pistol strapped to my chest. It felt cool against my skin. Fuck. It shouldn’t. I had to undo two buttons to draw, like fucking Jimmy Deltas in basic. I’d beaten him to the draw hungover with my wrist in a damn brace. The holster had been moved out of position. Sure enough – chamber empty, clips gone. Fuck.

Ok. Briefcase, empty gun, windowless door, wet train tracks, no spatial reference, same clothes, hot dream. Briefcase.

The briefcase was locked. Old combination locks on each side. Not spy shit, just a regular briefcase. Any teenage James Bond wannabe could open this. I brought it to my ear, exhaled, and held my breath. No sound. Ok. I touched the combination. No heat. I turned the lock one click with my middle finger. Just the regular feel of the mechanism. No suspicious sound. All the idiot shit checked out, nothing to do but jump. I turned the mechanisms until they settled in, pictured those red curls in my lap in case it turned out to be my final thought, and opened the latches.

Nothing exploded. Great. So what the hell then?

Stacks of manila folders half-filled the case and a white envelope laid on top. Inside the manila folders were documents in French and Spanish, I think. Tax forms or something. Cash in the envelope, of course. And no ticket. Hidden bomb underneath? Nope, just a briefcase full of documents. Great. This looks like the kind of job I leave for the boys on the second floor, but given that I don’t know where the hell they are, or where the hell I am, it looks like I’ll have to do my own homework today.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t try to figure out who dropped me here with good old-fashioned fieldwork before I bother with some dusty old documents. I’d take two poisonings and a firefight any day over translating finance forms like some nerd.

I pressed my ear against the door again. No sound except the wheels on the wet tracks. With my back against the door, I slid it open until I could see down the carriage passageway. Empty except for Conductor StickUpTheAss. The passage had windows. Finally some luck. Empty the other way too. I threw my head and shoulders backward into “rich-playboy-on-the-Riviera” posture and swaggered out into the passage with the briefcase under my arm.

Three other compartments in this car. I was in the second from the front of the train. The first one was empty, door propped open, identical to mine. Third one’s door is narrow and much closer to the ones on each side – probably a service compartment. Normally full of coffee and sleep masks, today potentially full of weapons or information. Fourth one was closed, tracks hung on the outside, just like mine. A black wire ran up the side of the wall and over the door, with two red lights blinking at opposite intervals on either side of the door. Trigger wire? Recording device?

I checked out the conductor again. I swung my whole head around to look at him. Sizing a guy up can read as “I’m definitely better than you, but do you know that?” and not “Are you a threat or a bystander?” if you’re irritatingly obvious about it. Of course, if he stranded me here, there’s a good chance that he already knew who I was, but I wasn’t about to throw away the possibility just yet. He stood in guy-at-work at-attention, not military-training at-attention. Could be a cover. But we could both play the game for now.

“Must be somebody thinks they’re a big deal in there, heh? Security video?” It definitely wasn’t a video feed, but one of the best ways to get people to give up information is to state wrong information arrogantly. If he knew what that wire was for, he almost surely couldn’t resist correcting me.

“No, sir, no one is in that compartment. The wire is a sensor to detect if the door is forced open.” I could practically hear his eyes rolling. Works every time.

“Oh, so something secret! Or expensive! Bet you don’t even know what it is though, they probably don’t tell you guys.” Jasper would say I was pressing my luck, but he wasn’t here to bitch at me this time. Plus, it wasn’t his name at the top of the recruiters’ scorecards, was it?

“You’re right, sir, they rarely tell us anything. Shall we head to steerage, then?” Damn. This guy no-fucks-to-give hated his job, not how-dare-they-and-how-dare-you hated his job. That’s a little harder to use. If they know, they’ll probably still tell you, but the trouble is they’re usually not bothered to pay attention in the first place. The best are the ones who LOVE their job and feel lucky for the chance to help, or who hate their job but are on a power trip about it. Those idiots will tell you anything. No-fucks-to-give is a tougher nut to crack than most people think. Usually, you have to annoy them enough that they’ll tell you just to shut you up, but not clue them in that it matters to you, where they'll stay quiet just to spite you.

“Although,” the conductor practically sang, “I did notice an awfully official-looking crate get wheeled straight onto the train instead of into the cargo hold.” Yes! Knew it. Needs people to know how smart he is. My favorite flavor.

“Right, but you still don’t know what was inside. Maybe the crate belonged to a passenger. That doesn’t tell you anything.” I paused before the word “you” and gave him a little side-eye as I passed through the door he was holding open for me. Lay it on thick. If he doesn’t bite, make a wild guess like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Classic. Like taking candy from a baby. And sweeter than any candy I’ve ever tasted.

“Maybe it doesn’t tell you anything,” he snapped, letting the door into the next carriage slam shut. “I see every passenger and every piece of luggage that enters this train. Passengers who take their luggage onto the train must keep it in their sight at all times. A bellman would help them, but they would need to stay with the luggage. The bellman with the crate was unaccompanied, which means it was a government delivery.” The conductor wriggled his skinny neck side to side like a python swallowing a rat.

“Ok genius, did they put it in that compartment though?” I looked him up and down and lowered my chin. This made short men feel shorter without knowing why. Sure enough, he stretched to his full height and puffed out his chest.

“No, it went to the dispatcher first, like every important delivery. It wouldn’t just go straight into a compartment without any insurance record.” Jackpot.

“Well where is the dispatcher? If it’s really so important, why wouldn’t the package just stay with him?”

“Because you wouldn’t want sensitive cargo stored in the same location as all of the train’s insurance and passenger records. Are we trying to make a hold-up easy?”

Passenger records, too. Perfect.

By now we’d passed through two more carriages and had reached the steerage car. The conductor opened the door for me, revealing an empty carriage except for three men in matching suits and a woman with a baby, spread out evenly across the car. What did they take me for, an amateur? I stayed in character while laying bait for the suits.

“Oh, so if somebody tried to rob the train, they’d have to choose between the mysterious, heavily-guarded cargo with no one watching it, or the super-secret room of information. Tough call. Can’t decide where I’d go first.” I paused to let it sting a little, then laughed. “Listen man, no hard feelings, I’m just playing. You’ve been a good sport.” I pulled the envelope of cash from the briefcase out of my pocket, deliberately rustling the paper, and handed the conductor a bill.

One of the suits turned the page of his book. The one at the opposite end of the car, facing me and the page-turner, scratched his nose. I moved only my eyes to check their positions again.

“Can’t believe I left my ticket. Must have been a crazy night, y’know what I mean?” The woman leaned down to check on the baby. “How far now to Newesburg?”

“Oh, you won’t be making it to Newesburg.”

The conductor let the compartment door slam behind him and threw the firelock. The suits all moved at once. The bloke at the end of the carriage blocked the exit, the middle one hit the floor and aimed a pistol at my forehead, and the one closest to me lurched forward to engage. My pulse slowed, settled, and I felt a smile curl my lips. Let’s do this, I thought. Bring it.

I dropped my center of gravity and leaned my shoulders forward toward my opponents, abandoning the pretense of a rich jackass on vacation and preparing for hand-to-hand combat. Exhale. Drop. See. Gauge.

The suit closest to me was my height and had probably forty or fifty pounds on me, but his shoulders sat on top of his spine like a single block, and he stood on flat feet and locked knees. He would be slow, stiff, predictable. I could take him easily. The gunman had stood a head shorter than me and looked, stood, and moved like a street boxer – main opponent. The one blocking the door was a wall. He would be a formidable guard to push past, but likely would engage only as a last resort.

The woman had slid to the edge of her seat in an aborted escape attempt, then scrunched herself against the wall with her knees pulled up to curl her body around her baby. She sat in the third row of seats on my left side, closer to me than the suit with his gun drawn but far enough to the side that she should be safe. If the suit fired at me, the ricochet would angle up and away from her.

Ok. Let’s go.

I shifted my hips right, then lunged left. Agent Triceps followed my fake and lurched right. He threw a thick arm sideways, like a basketball player fouling on an easy drive. I jabbed into the crook of his elbow and rolled my wrist around his arm, using his momentum to hook his elbow behind his back, at the same time swinging his body between me and the pistol. His shoulders were exactly as flexible as they looked, and he failed to stifle a yowl of pain. I wrenched his elbow straight up toward the nape of his neck. His cry covered the sound, but I felt his muscles ripping. Down to a knee. He waived his good arm uselessly, trying to reach me behind his back. I put my foot in the bend of his knee to hold him, then lodged my elbow into the subcranial cavity. Like an arrow or a battering ram – aim, swing, crash. He crumpled at my feet. One down.

The instant he fell I ducked and lunged left again, between two seats, to dodge an easy shot from Pistol Guy and to keep the ricochet angle away from the woman. Pistol Guy didn’t shoot, though, even though he kept the gun trained on my forehead. Trigger-shy, slower reflexes than I’d guessed, or maybe they didn’t want a shot to alert the rest of the train. Whatever it was, odds tipped to me.

I considered drawing my own pistol for half a second. He didn’t know it wasn’t loaded. But that would make him more likely to shoot. Better that he should underestimate me.

I recalculated – if he wasn’t going to fire off wildly, a single bullet would ricochet much more unpredictably if the shooter and I were both low, and the seat cushions and carpets could slow a stray bullet. I leapt over Suit One’s slumped body and slid into a bench seat on the right side of the train, five or six rows behind the woman. She held her body curled around her swaddled child, but her eyes followed me from across the train. I pulled my legs up onto the seat beneath me into a crouch.

I’d glimpsed the gunman's position when I'd crossed the aisle – same spot he’d been the whole time. It was like they’d dropped a sniper into close combat, with no strategy or adjustments. What kind of agent would “snipe” from six yards away? Even the legacies in my class who would end up doing media appearances or data entry knew to recalibrate with such an extreme situation change. I’d never seen something like this before.

No – I’d seen this kind of thing once before. Once, in BRI-OP, after a brutal field test day, my team and I had pizzas and beer and played Hawkeye Mission Control: BlackOps until midnight. The internet in our bunker sucked, and my sniper regenerated at close quarters once because the game lag stopped the character specs from updating. We all had a good laugh screwing with the game’s logic and watching my sniper blowing NPCs brains out from pointblank range, talking shit about how our superiors wouldn’t get the joke from their fancy bullshit offices. But despite our ribbing, even the most pointy-headed academic in the Service would know something was wrong.

Ok. Risk-of-death calculus – if he’s a sniper and can’t adjust to close quarters, he probably sucks at hand-to-hand, despite how he looks. If he hasn’t shot yet, he probably doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s covering an escape attempt – maybe they’re waiting for reinforcements and he just has to keep me here. You don’t take this job if you’re not willing to flirt with meeting the devil every now and then. We’ll all be wormfood soon enough, and I have more control than most people over when and where. But one thing’s for sure – I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit here and get shot hiding on a fucking benchseat. If I die today, I’m going to cause some damage on my way out.

I launched myself over the three seats in front of me like a bullfrog on fucking cocaine. I tucked my legs into my body to clear the headrests and control my fall, tucking and rolling as I landed just behind the sniper. I rolled sideways as my back touched the floor so that when I popped up into my fight stance, I faced my opponent.

He started to roll onto his back, but I jammed my kneecap into the side of his knee before he’d fully turned. The squelching rip I felt through my own bones told me I’d done my job, though he didn’t cry out like his partner. I crossed my forearm with his to block his pistol as I landed on his knee. As his IT band tore from the bone, he seized, and I flung his right elbow up and behind his head. His hardened muscles did most of my work for me, but I gave them the game-winning spike, then kept his arm behind him with my bodyweight and knocked the gun from his hand. His grip had looked right-handed, but I moved my foot to his other wrist, just in case, then reached over and grabbed the gun.

It was impossibly light in my hand. Either these guys had much better smithing technology than we did, or the gun wasn’t loaded. I turned to look at the hulk in front of the door. He stared back at me, stone-faced, then nodded once. He did not move away from the door, but he clasped his hands behind his back and brought his feet together, assuming a formal, not fighting stance. I almost threw the pistol at him.

Is this a fucking test?!? I wanted to shout. Is my ASCA score and field test record not enough for you people? Just put me out there, I’ve had it with training! I want to do something that matters! I’d completed all of the requirements and passed every assessment with top or near-top scores, but my handler kept telling me I wasn’t ready. I was a wild card, I was a liability to other agents, I had talent and looked good on paper but they couldn’t risk a rogue actor on sensitive missions. Bullshit, I said, I’m the best you’ve got and you know it. Everybody knows it. The brass don’t want me out there because I might actually use my fucking head in the field, instead of blindly following orders like a good little soldier. But we weren’t soldiers. This wasn’t fucking army training, this was BRI-CON. They needed some agents with some fucking brains, or at least some fucking balls.

In my rage, I had let my guard down. I hadn’t heard the sound of someone approaching from my five until suddenly, there they were. I whipped around, gun ready, even though it was unloaded, and saw the woman with the baby.

Except she wasn’t holding the baby anymore. The blanket that had swaddled the child lay in a heap on the floor. And the child wasn’t a child at all. In her right arm, she held a tablet with a microphone at the top, and in her left hand, she held a clipboard. I blinked and waited a beat, then lowered the useless gun in my hand.

“Hello, Agent Hendricks. My name is Commander Portal. My sources at BRI-CON have told me that you are frustrated at being kept from the field, and after today I can see why. I know you’re sick of tests, but this was more of a job interview. We have an offer for you.”