Corrupt Skies: Episode I-III

By Alex Rodgers

A best-selling thriller from Alex Rodgers.

Episode I
An air marshal on a bank robbery case?

As a series of armed bank robberies spring up in every corner of the nation, burnt-out Air Marshal Harris Fox finds himself thrust in the middle of this high-profile case. The danger unfolds and conspiracy unravels. With lives at stake, and his family in the balance, can Fox solve the mystery before it's too late?

Episode II
How far would you go to save your family?

The action continues as Air Marshal Harris Fox has to find a way to hijack a plane to keep his captive family alive as the biggest threat he's ever faced finally reveals himself. How does Harris make the call of who lives and who dies?

An unlikely hero is left to pick up the pieces from the fallout.

Episode III
An air marshal too unhinged to fly?

While all seems normal from the outside, inside Harris Fox struggles with personal demons that continue to haunt him. Can he keep his family and work life from fracturing as he tries to solve another life-threatening case before it's too late?

Harris and his partner Nevin team up and head to Miami to investigate an illegal contraband smuggling ring with alarming connections to an all-but-defeated foe.

An action-packed humor-filled thriller, this is the series for fans of 24, Rescue Me, Psych, and the Janet Evanovich Stephanie Plum novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Rodgers
• Release date: Sep 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311014900

Book preview

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Further, the Department of Homeland Security, the Transportation Security Administration, the Federal Air Marshal Service, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency, or any other government agency have not approved of or endorsed the use of their names or logos, or the product itself.

This work is for entertainment purposes only. It is in no way meant to be an accurate depiction or portrayal of the true dangers our heroes face or what methods they use, or to malign those who honorably perform their duties every day to keep us safe.

Copyright © 2014 by Alex Rodgers

Cover design by Alex Rodgers

Editing by Amanda Triplett at www.progressivedits.com

Corrupt Skies

Episode I

Chapter 1

September 7th, 0837 hours

Nation Airlines Flight 535 (Chicago O’Hare–Washington Dulles)

Uh-oh, it’s the air marshal; he’s in for it now! He heard the sentence among the whispers of passengers as he made his way down the aisle.

Too bad it’s more like Air Nightclub Bouncer, Harris mumbled under his breath as he moved down the aisle row by row. He stopped to address the person in question seated in 16C. Harris took a few long seconds to size the man up.

The passenger was tall, heavyset, jowly, and in his 40s, with thinning ginger-ish brown hair. He looked Harris up and down, and then dismissively looked away as if he judged him a non-threat. Considering Harris’s size, this meant the man was definitely drunk. The passenger was the kind of man who reminded Harris of the first boss who ever fired him. He disliked him on sight.

He didn’t care if the man wasn’t looking at him. Sir, did you just slap the flight attendant? Harris asked in the deep, clipped tones that he mentally called his Voice of Authority. Most sensible passengers, upon hearing The Voice, and noting Harris’s size and demeanor, became immediately cowed and cooperative. But not this man. The passenger pretended to ignore Harris, as if that would make him go away.

Harris’s voice grew even deeper. Sir!

The man looked up at Harris again and seemed to realize that this problem wasn’t going away. He drew himself up with some self-importance and said, Well, she wouldn’t serve me another—

Harris didn’t need to hear more than that. He reached for his handcuffs. Sir, put your hands on the seatback in front of you. Do. It. Now.

The passenger, who was seated, looked around as if he were checking for escape routes, and made a decidedly unwise move to tackle Harris. Harris easily pulled back and put his full weight on the drunken passenger’s upper body, causing the passenger to face plant in the aisle. Harris put his knees onto the passenger’s back and forced the man onto the floor even farther. He heard a muffled Hrmpf! from the man, as if the wind was just knocked out of him. After this, Harris simply crouched over the passenger, twisting his arms behind him while applying the handcuffs. All in a day’s work for an air marshal.

He brought the passenger to his feet as the man began the most undignified sobbing. Harris searched the crying passenger, as well as the area around him, and brought the passenger to an empty row in the economy section of the plane, where he was placed in a seat next to the window.

Harris beckoned to one of the watching flight attendants, the one with the rather angry large red palm print on her otherwise attractive face. Flight attendant, could you please let the Captain know that the cabin is secure? Also find out what time we are landing, and see if we can get local law enforcement to meet us, please. The flight attendant nodded with a satisfied smile on her face, and scurried off to follow Harris’s orders.

Harris slowly sank down next to the unruly passenger and, without looking over, asked, What’s your name sir?

The passenger, tears of humiliation and drunkenness still rolling down his face as he stared out of the window, managed to slur, It’s Jerry.

Harris brought his hand up to his face and searched a fingernail for dirt before, still using the Voice of Authority, saying, Well Jerry, do you think it was a good idea to lunge at me like that? Satisfied that his nails were clean enough, he tossed his hand back down and shot Jerry a glance as he waited for an answer.

No sir. Jerry took his eyes from the window and hung his head low, refusing to meet Harris’s eyes.

Harris threw his head back. Oh, now I’m a sir to you, that’s so nice. He leaned back in toward the bound passenger and said, But here’s the thing, Jerry. You just assaulted a federal officer, well that, and a flight attendant. Harris didn’t mind a captive audience.

Well— Jerry started to protest, once again showing the spark of some unwisely timed spirit.

Harris leaned even closer and cupped his hand behind his own ear. Well what, Jerry? Harris then pointed a few rows up in the direction of first class, toward the teenage boy who was seated next to Jerry before the incident. He had the same ginger-tinted hair, and had stared fixedly out the window during the entire incident between Harris and Jerry, as if taking notice of such unpleasantness was beneath him. But Harris had also marked the boy’s flaming cheeks of embarrassment, even as he refused to acknowledge that his father was being taken into custody by the air marshal. Is that kid up there your son Jerry?

Yes sir. Jerry immediately deflated once again.

And you’re okay acting like an asshole like that in front of him? Harris questioned, genuinely curious.

No sir. Jerry once again dropped his eyes to stare at a fascinating piece of lint on the floor. A tear ran unabashedly down his cheek and dropped into his lap.

But you did, Harris clarified.

Yes but— said Jerry slowly, wheels turning, trying desperately to work out some logic for his actions in his own mind.

There is no way I’d act like that in front of my kid, Jerry. No way, Harris continued sternly. And now you’re about to be dragged off this airplane in handcuffs right in front of him and everybody else, right down this very aisle. I’d be ashamed. Harris watched Jerry for a moment to see if his words were having any effect.

Well sure I am, but— Jerry stumbled valiantly on, his words slurring over each other as well.

Harris didn’t even pause to listen to the drunk’s feeble excuses. Are you going to rethink your choices in life after this, Jerry? I know I would. So many things I wish I could change, you know. I’m supposed to be up here fighting terrorists and saving the day, not babysitting drunks! Do you realize how much shit I’ve missed doing this job? Soccer games, birthdays, PTA meetings— okay, I’m lying about missing PTA meetings, but you get my point, Jerry. This job drove my wife away and I hardly see my daughter. It’s too late for me I think, Jerry, but I feel like there’s still a chance for you. What do you say?

Jerry just stared at Harris, trembling, eyes watering, sweating from his brow, mouth soundlessly opening and closing.

Harris noticed the reaction and settled back, full of satisfaction. Well, I’m glad to see I’m getting through to you Jerry. It’s okay to let it all out. I like a good cry now and then. I prefer not to do it in public, but you do—

BLLEEECCHH, the passenger groaned as he vomited his breakfast all over Harris. By the look of the gloppy light brown texture and dark bits, Harris guessed that the man had oatmeal with raisins. Jerry then put his face into his tray table and passed out in his own puke.

Taking in the sight of it all, Harris wiped the gunk from his eyes, sighed, and said, Yeah, that’s great Jerry, you be you. Let it all out. Glad we had this talk. Just another fine day in the life of an air marshal.

September 7th, 0903 hours

Centurial Bank—Mineral Springs, North Carolina

It was morning on a warm early fall day in the New South. The Centurial Bank near the outer edge of town had just opened for business when two of the most unusual customers ever walked into the gleaming building. These two were more interested in withdrawals than deposits.

With an explosion of light and sound, the two men, armed with AR-15 assault rifles and wearing light body armor, burst through the brightly polished metal and glass doors. Their faces were covered with ski masks and Oakley goggles.

The intruders moved with purpose and tactical precision. One man cleared the corners of the large bank lobby while the other subdued the gray-haired security guard. Before the old man could drop his half-eaten breakfast sandwich, the assailant disarmed, hooded, and zip-tied him.

The only patrons in the small-town bank were an older businessman and a young bike messenger. The businessman immediately showed his mettle by wetting his pants, mewling, and trying to shield himself with a burnished leather briefcase. The bike messenger, seemingly an old hand at such scenarios, immediately went facedown, palms flat on the floor, without needing further instructions. These two unlucky early morning customers were handled in the same manner as the security guard, zip-tied, hooded, and slid into the corner. All this was accomplished in a matter of seconds, with no words exchanged by the two armed, masked men.

One man then shifted to covering the bank door and the hooded hostages, body language relaxed yet watchful as he held the rifle in the ready position. The other masked man focused his attention on the bank manager and the teller, the only employees on shift. Initially, both cowered under his gaze. The teller moved her hands to simultaneously cover both her eyes and her dark hair, while outright whimpering loudly. In the meantime, the middle-aged, stout, graying manager tried to be more courageous as she put her hands up over her head slowly. Only her trembling hands and the beads of sweat dripping off her forehead betrayed her inner state.

The robber placed a large digital timer on the wooden customer counter and threw a large black duffel bag at the bank manager. He then set the timer for sixty seconds and pointed his weapon at the young teller, who promptly renewed her whimpering even more loudly. The bank manager was a fast one, and appeared to instantly get the message as she hurriedly opened all the drawers and placed their contents in the bag. She then moved on to the safe, stuffing as much as she could into the bag before hearing the time expire. The robber motioned for her to hand over the bag while he pointed the gun at the still-shrieking teller. The bank manager stumbled over with the bag as the robber grabbed it in haste, keeping his gun trained on the two bank employees the whole time as he backed away. The timer then went off with a deafening blare and the teller screamed even louder, diving to the floor. The manager followed her lead not a second later.

The armed men hardly spared the two ladies a glance. One man grabbed the timer, silenced it, and threw it into the bag with the money. The zip tie that had been used to lock the door was cut by the other, and the two masked men exited the bank as quickly as they had come. The only sound they left behind was the terrified sobs of the bank teller.

September 7th, 1213 hours

Kate’s Irish Pub—Cambridge, Massachusetts

Micah Shepard squinted at the TV screen intently, watching the news report. He was a little near-sighted, but refused to wear glasses in public, as the ladies always told him that his intense pale blue eyes were his best feature. Micah was otherwise pretty nondescript, of middling height, in his late thirties, with dark blonde hair and a face that even the most generous would have to admit was forgettable at best. He preferred to focus on the one feature that he actually got compliments on, blurry vision and astigmatism be damned.

A portly older bartender wandered over to the edge of the bar, wiped out some glasses, watched the news report for a quick second, and promptly changed the channel to ESPN, where they were focusing on cheerleading tryouts. The ladies on the screen bounced up and down in a most invigorating and hypnotic way, even when they weren’t doing anything more strenuous than talking at the camera and giggling. The bartender stopped wiping out the glasses and stared intently at the screen as one comely blonde showed off her flexibility by doing the splits. She giggled. They tended to do that a lot on this show.

Hey, change it back to the news, Parker, I was watching that! Micah demanded.

Okay, okay, let’s settle down some. Seeing how this is a sports bar and all, I thought I would put on some, oh, I don’t know—sports! Parker said sarcastically as he changed the channel back to the noon news. The reporter was finishing up the details of an afternoon bank robbery in Mineral Springs. After glancing at the screen with marked disinterest for a few more seconds, Parker resumed wiping out the glasses and wandered away from the television.

As he polished off his fourth glass of scotch for the day, sliding his empty glass toward Parker and signaling for another refill, Micah grumbled, Why in the hell would a bank robbery in the middle of nowhere make headline news all the way up here? You can change the channel back to the big-boob blonde chick for all I care.

Parker quickly changed the TV back. A close up of cleavage greeted the two men. He tore his gaze away for a second. Well for one, Mineral Springs is not too far from Charlotte, which is hardly the middle of nowhere, and two, these bank robberies have started appearing frequently outside larger cities like L.A., Atlanta, and Chicago, Parker rather pompously informed his more-than-buzzed customer.

Well, aren’t you up to date on geography and current events, Micah said with the same pompous tone. I was just wondering, that’s all. I wasn’t asking for a lecture from Professor Bartender. Now if only you could be more up to date on your bartending skills and stop watering down my drinks! Micah’s insult received a favorable grunt from the other occupant of the bar, an otherwise-silent fellow patron perched a few seats away from him.

Not one to be upstaged in front of an audience, Parker replied, That really didn’t make any sense, you realize, but maybe if you didn’t get so drunk and beat up all my customers, I wouldn’t have to water down your drinks.

You have to admit that the last guy asked for it! Micah protested.

Parker frowned. Asked for what?

You know—IT. Micah looked down, swirling the drink in his glass.

No, I don’t know IT. Parker idly wondered how long he could draw this conversation out.

Yeah, you know—IT. Micah slammed his glass down with some finality, a little bit of the remaining amber liquid sloshing over the glass and onto the wooden counter.

So you saying IT again helps me somehow? Parker questioned, as he deftly wiped up the spilled drops before they had time to soak into the wood.

It was his face. Just sayin’, Micah muttered as he took another long toss of his scotch. He failed to notice that his fellow bar patron and erstwhile supporter, who appeared to have been following the conversation between the two men with some fascination, had begun to edge away from him in a not-so-subtle fashion.

Okay, you’re cut off before things get any weirder, Parker declared. Go home, you angry, crazy bastard.

His face just made me hate him, just like your drinks make me hate you, Micah spit out with belligerence.

Go home, Micah! Parker demanded.

All right, all right, I’m outta here. You know you love me, P! Woozy from the booze, Micah got up, threw down some cash, and stumbled out of the bar.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Parker watched him leave. It was true, he thought, as he wiped down the bar. He felt a little bad for the guy. There was a reason why he kept letting Micah frequent his bar night after night, and it certainly wasn’t because of his tipping. Sure, Micah had issues, but who wouldn’t under his circumstances?

Parker had managed to carefully piece some of Micah’s story together in between his bouts of drunken antagonism.

While serving in Afghanistan, Micah’s unit was ambushed one night. They fought furiously until dawn. Eventually the enemy fell back, leaving Micah’s unit with only him and three other survivors. Micah somehow managed to get himself and his comrades to safety. He survived the rest of his tour only to come back and lose his security job at the airport. Some undescribed incidents centered on his post-traumatic stress syndrome were to blame, or so the story went. Someday, Parker knew he’d get the full story on that. Kate’s Irish Pub was Micah’s second home. It was only a matter of time. At the heart of it, Micah seemed to want to tell his story.

Parker got the bottle of scotch marked Micah’s Private Reserve in a handwritten label from under the bar. He carefully poured in a measure of scotch through a funnel into the bottle, and then an equal measure of water, until the bottle was full again. He then replaced the cap on the bottle.

Watered-down drinks, Parker muttered with a smile. Asshole. The fewer fights that Micah got himself into at his bar, the better, as far as Parker was concerned. As much as he liked Micah’s patronage, Parker loved his grimy and decrepit bar a lot more.

September 7th, 1238 hours

Washington Field Office—Dulles, Virginia

After two back-to-back showers in the locker room, Harris swore he could still smell the drunken man’s vomit, no matter how hard he tried to scrub the stench off.

Back when he worked street patrol for the Baltimore Police Department, he would get calls for dead bodies that had not been found for days or even weeks. The landlord would call the police in to investigate a foul smell. Harris would arrive at the apartment, to be greeted with the depressing sight and smell of someone dying alone in their apartment, left to rot. The standard method to dealing with such scenarios would be to stuff gauze laced with menthol vapor rub up his nose to ward off the putrid smell that the walls, floors, and furniture had absorbed.

Harris shook his head sadly. I wish I had some of that laying around my desk now, he said to no one in particular as he stopped to take a quick check of himself in the mirror on his way out of the locker room.

He noted that while the smell of vomit still clung to him like a whisper of skunk perfume, at least he still looked good. Harris was tall, about two inches over six feet, with an athletic build. He had dark hazel-green eyes, slightly upturned at the corners into an almond shape, and bronze skin. His features were of the sort that allowed people of every race to automatically assume that he was one of their own. And truth be told, they weren’t wrong. Harris was a true American mutt, his ancestors hailing from a few different continents. It made the work of blending in, no matter what country he was in at any particular time, that much easier.

Harris changed into the extra clothes he kept at the office, then sat at his desk to type up the report.

He put down a steaming mug of coffee, emblazoned with his beloved red and white Washington baseball logo, right next to the smiling photo of his daughter, Sienna. The office was full of its usual bustle. There were the sounds of copiers printing, file cabinets banging, footsteps hurrying here and there, and keyboards clicking. Then, of course, there was the usual banter of his co-workers complaining about the job and the self-proclaimed office lawyer giving his free unwanted advice and adding fuel to the fire. There were also the office rumormongers who seemed to be there just to stir things up even more with their stories of looming lay-offs or sweeping managerial disciplinary crackdowns.

Harris had his issues with the job like anyone else, but preferred to stay under the radar and do his job rather than feed into every rumor and fear that happened to be going around on that day. The job definitely had its faults, but at the end of the day it was still by far the best job he’d ever had. He didn’t understand why some of the younger air marshals joined believing that they were going to be chasing bad guys and kicking down doors. Harris could only laugh at their naiveté. He for one had done enough of that in his career, and he would be the first to tell you that all that action was overrated. Sure, the sedentary nature of this job could get to him, but the pay was good and the chances of coming home alive at the end of the day were much greater than at his previous job. Harris also really enjoyed the travel, both foreign and domestic. In one week, he could be eating wiener schnitzel and drinking beer in a German beer garden, then enjoying sushi in Seattle, then off to London for a steak and kidney pie. Another great perk of the job was not having to report to his boss every day. Not too many law enforcement jobs allow that kind of freedom. Not that he had much freedom now, typing up this report. Harris stared at the paper in front of him glumly. Incidents that involved arresting a passenger always required face time with the boss, just to make sure everyone’s i’s and t’s were dotted and crossed.

Harris was halfway through typing up the report about his slaphappy disruptive passenger when there was a knock on his office door. It was his buddy Nevin. He and Harris had gone through the Air Marshal Academy together, and had bonded over the mutual loathing they felt for many of their fellow challenging classmates, like the alpha types who thought they were better than everyone else. Harris also recognized that Nevin was weaker in areas that Harris was strong in, like shooting and fighting. Harris would spend afterhours with Nevin at the range and in the exercise room working on the proper moves to take down a passenger with minimal effort on the part of the air marshal. Nevin, for his part, would help Harris study for tests and show him how to properly write a report.

Like Harris, Nevin was another American mutt, hailing from the more brown portions of the world than Harris’s ancestors did, and standing several inches shorter than Harris, with a much more wiry build. Per usual, Nevin was dressed to the nines, his hair precisely cut, containing enough product that even a female supermodel would feel it was a bit excessive. As was his habit, he wore one of his bespoke suits that he made sure Harris knew was custom ordered from a tailor in Hong Kong, shoes that Nevin had made by a quaint cobbler whom he happened to know in Georgetown, and a Ferragamo tie. The man even wore cuff links, Harris thought sourly, no doubt made from the rarest of fairy skulls.

Nevin entered the room without being asked, took a breath, and stopped abruptly. Hey Harris, there’s something different about you.

Normally just looking at his friend made Harris laugh, but today he wasn’t in the mood. Shut up, Nevin, Harris told him in a warning tone as he turned away, pretending to type up more of his report. He reached over, grabbed his mug, and took a sip of his now-cold coffee.

No, I mean it, Nevin persisted. Really different. Did you change colognes? I really like it.

Shut up, Nevin. Harris finished the report with a final triumphant click of the keyboard.

No, I’m for real, dude, can you score me some? I’d like to smell like ass too. Nevin stopped pretending, and instead laughed at Harris outright, breaking into a smile that made him appear so proud of his joke.

You’re so funny, Nevin, Harris mocked laughed. Tell me how this works again with you being an air marshal but looking like a Muslim extremist?

Dude, for the hundredth time, I’m a Buddhist and I’m from Delaware. So racist. Nevin shook his head in faux sadness.

So you’re a Buddhist who carries a gun for work? That still confuses me.

Nevin just sighed, as he was tired of having to explain it to Harris all of the time. He quickly redirected. So, what game have you been playing?

Harris’s face lit up. Man, I’m playing Death Squad 4. You’re on a killing spree for the fourth time in a row and—

Oh, I so don’t care, nerd bait, but the boss wants to see you ASAP. Nevin sat with nonchalance on Harris’s desk, leaned over, opened a drawer, and began fishing for the sour candies that he knew Harris liked to hide within it.

Harris stared at Nevin blankly for a second, confused. Wait, what, why? I’m almost done with this report. I was going to see him after that.

Nevin shrugged, and popped a piece of candy into his mouth. I don’t know, he told me he needs you now. I’m just the messenger, bro! he said with difficulty around the candy in his mouth.

Harris sighed, frustrated, grabbed his report, and stood up. Well you certainly put the ASS in messenger, Nevin.

Nevin paused for a moment, considering it. Ah, yo, there is no ASS in messenger, dude. He shrugged, grabbed one last piece of candy from the drawer, and also stood.

Harris dismissively waved the report in a shooing motion at Nevin. Well, there sort of is, at least it sounds like there should be. You know what, never mind. I guess I’ll go see the boss. He paused for a split second as something else came to mind. Are we meeting up later?

Yeah, the steakhouse, bro. See you there, man, Nevin answered as he glided out, adjusting his cuff links.

******

Harris walked to his boss’s office down the hall. Joseph Cortez was ex-special forces turned JAG lawyer.

Very wise old sage, Harris joked. Cortez’s bark was louder than his bite, but it was a very loud bark. Truth be told, Cortez considered his squad to be the children he never got around to having. He had everyone’s back, and did his best to block any crap that would roll downhill from management. The Air Marshal Service was still young and full of upper management types who made all the rules, but very few had ever flown on any actual missions as air marshals. Cortez was one of the few who were promoted from the flying ranks and thus still had a firm grasp on what his people had to endure day to day. It was just one of those jobs a person actually had to physically do to fully understand and appreciate its challenges. He still signed up for trips now and then just to be reminded and to keep himself fresh. The squad rewarded Cortez’s loyalty with an intense allegiance of their own, even if they weren’t particularly reverent about it.

As Harris entered Cortez’s office, which was filled with trinkets, trophies, and memorabilia from his world travels, he saw a shapely red-haired woman in her mid-thirties sitting across the desk from his boss with notes in one hand and a steaming hot cup of tea in the other. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and a gray pants suit. Cortez, who was in mid-sentence with the woman, motioned his hand over to the seat next to her. Oh good, Harris, come in and have a seat. There is someone I’d like you to meet.

Still a little paranoid about smelling like puke, Harris hesitantly sat down in the black plastic and metal chair and studied the woman for a second. She had the severe, no-nonsense look of an air marshal, but he didn’t recall seeing her around the office before. With her curves and hair, Harris knew that he should have no trouble recalling her if he had met her.

Air Marshal Harris Fox, this is Special Agent Selene Adams, FBI. Cortez introduced the two of them succinctly. Harris stuck out a hand toward the agent, and suppressed a grin, knowing how Cortez felt about FBI agents working in his territory.

Agent Adams set down her cup on Cortez’s desk and clasped Harris’s hand in a nicely manicured, but firm, grip, pumping it exactly two times before releasing it. It’s nice to meet you Harris, your boss has been filling me in about you, she said in a rich, smoky contralto voice.

Selene is one of the special agents assigned to investigate all these bank robberies that have been springing up across the country, Cortez interjected hurriedly, no doubt hoping to feel relevant to the matter at hand.

Harris cleared his throat and nodded, on a little firmer ground, even if not yet fully understanding what was going on. Yes, I recall that, it’s been something like seven robberies in the last two months. All the robberies had the same MO, right?

Oh nice, you’re up to date on the headlines, Agent Adams purred with a twinkle in her eyes. We think it’s the same people who are attacking these banks to rob them.

Harris tried to determine, somewhat unsuccessfully, exactly what color her eyes were. Were they a light blue, or were they more gray? With a little difficulty, he turned his mind back to the conversation. Harris paused and leaned back. He looked down and casually brushed a piece of stray string off his sleeve before saying, I’m just not sure that I’m buying that it’s the same crew. How is it possible for them to hit Atlanta one day and Los Angeles the next? I’m thinking that either they are different crews, or the robbers are flying across the country robbing these banks, and that sounds like a logistical nightmare. Not to mention the expense involved. It would have to eat into their bank robbery profits big time.

Adams nodded, gave a triumphant glance at Cortez, and then nodded again to Harris. She leaned toward Harris excitedly, showing a little more cleavage than Harris was comfortable with. He shifted in his chair and turned his gaze to right above her head. Well, Mr. Fox, that’s the angle I’ve been assigned to work on. We do have a hunch that this crew is flying around and robbing banks, but we don’t exactly have enough evidence to support that theory.

Harris found himself enjoying the view in front of him again. He wrenched his eyes from the enticing sight and forced himself to look into Adams’s (gray? blue?) eyes. Well then, what makes you think the bank robbers are flying if you don’t have enough evidence? To me it sounds like a gang or organized crime spread out across the country. That’s the angle I’d be working.

Adams’s eyes narrowed. Well, that is an angle that the FBI is working on, but not the one with which I’ve been tasked. As I’ve said before, we don’t have much evidence to support this, but we do have a few leads. The Air Marshal Service was kind enough to cross reference the flight manifests for the days before, during, and after the robberies in their respective cities. We did get the names of a small number of passengers who met the criteria.

Let me guess, all dead ends, Harris deducted, raising an eyebrow in expectation.

How did you know? Agent Adams parried back with a smile.

You wouldn’t be here having this conversation with me, and because I told you already, flying around robbing banks would be a logistical nightmare. They are using AR-15 assault rifles and light body armor, and after a successful bank heist they might have a lot of cash. How does that all get through airport security? Or do they have people already in place who supply them with the equipment? These guys must land, pick up their equipment, rob a bank, and then leave the money behind, but this sounds highly unlikely. Why wait for some guys to show up if you already have people in place? This brings me back to thinking that you have an organized national crew. Harris outlined all this, ticking off the problems on his fingers one by one.

Well Mr. Fox, I’m inclined to agree with you, but there is one piece of vital evidence that made me think otherwise. Agent Adams leaned forward once again, pulled a disc from her purse, and pointed at Cortez’s computer. May I?

Cortez, who had been watching the interplay between the two with an unreadable expression on his face, silently slid his laptop around, and Agent Adams popped in the disc. It showed the bank video recording of Atlanta. It had no sound, and everything was sped up slightly, but it was still easy enough to make things out.

Agent Adams began narrating the video as it played, talking in very flat, crisp tones. Now, these guys appear to be well trained in tactics. They like to start off with a flash bang grenade to disorient the guard and go in for a quick takedown. This guard put up a little bit more of a fight than the others. Agent Adams played the recording, which showed the flash bang, then the two bank robbers entering the building. When one went through the usual routine of subduing the bank guard, instead of surrendering quietly, the guard quickly struck the armed masked man in the throat, picked him up, and tossed him like a rag doll onto the floor, where the robber became still. However, the other thief managed to hit the bank guard in the back of the head with the butt of his gun, causing the guard to collapse to the ground. The other robber stirred, stood up shakily, held his knee, and hobbled to cover the door.

Okay, so I’m not seeing your vital evidence here, Agent Adams, Harris said, still looking quite skeptical.

Agent Adams did not spare Harris a glance this time, as she still stared intently at the screen. Just wait for it. I’m showing you the L.A. robbery now, which happened the very next day, as I’m sure you’re aware. The video again showed the bright lights of the flash bang, and then the two masked men entered the bank. The first man took down the security guard much easier this time and walked back to cover the bank door.

Wait! Harris said excitedly, rewind to him moving to the door. Agent Adams obligingly went back and played the robber moving toward the door again. Is he…is he favoring that leg?

Agent Adams smiled at Harris, peering at him over the rims of her glasses. Bingo, Mr. Fox! Coincidence, no? Harris felt oddly pleased with himself, like he had just finished a Sudoku puzzle in less than fifteen minutes. He tried to grab a hold of himself before he let the feeling get the best of him.

He went for a disbelieving tone. Well, okay, I’m not sure I’d call this vital evidence, but I’m moved a little. You still have no leads after interviewing those passengers, though.

Agent Adams shrugged and switched off the laptop. Passengers were a dead end, yes, but then we broadened our search to flight crews, and came up with a team that was in these exact cities during the times of all these robberies, Agent Adams replied evenly.

Harris pondered that for a few moments, a little stunned. A flight crew? That sounds kind of crazy. You interviewed them too?

Agent Adams nodded. Yes, both the captain and first officer have military training, which could explain their use of tactics. We interviewed them and couldn’t find anything conclusive, but the agent felt that the first officer wasn’t being completely up front about his whereabouts during the robberies. We’ve searched his bank records thoroughly, but we haven’t seen anything unusual.

So why not have him tailed? Harris asked.

Well Mr. Fox, that’s where you come in, said Cortez, finally chiming in. We’re attaching you to this flight crew, so wherever they go, you go. Wherever they sleep, you sleep. Find out what this first officer does with his free time.

Harris mulled over this information for a second before looking up at Cortez. Sir, I don’t get it. Why doesn’t the FBI just tail him?

We would, but what better way to do it than as an air marshal, and who better to play the part? Agent Adams asked.

Harris, despite himself, was intrigued. So you just interviewed them, and now you’re attaching an air marshal to this flight crew. You don’t think they’ll suspect something?

No problem, Cortez said. There was already an air marshal attached to this flight crew and he interviewed the flight crew with the FBI. We are still waiting for his report, but he’s been taking a lot of leave lately, off and on, so we need someone we can count on, as this has become a priority. The flight crew will think that he is still on leave and you’re the replacement. You weren’t picked out of a hat, Fox. I know you’ve spent some time investigating robberies in Baltimore.

Harris felt a flicker of pride rise within him. It seemed that someone had actually taken the time to look into his background and chosen him based on his skills. Okay, point taken. When do I start?

Cortez nodded, pleased. Tomorrow. Here’s your boarding pass, and I’ve taken the liberty of booking your hotels. You meet the flight crew tomorrow at 0600 in Dulles.

Harris took the boarding pass from Cortez. Roger that, sir.

Okay then, Harris, you have your assignment, any more questions? Cortez asked.

Harris shook his head and began getting up. Agent Adams stood with him and shook his hand again. It was a pleasure meeting you, Harris. I’m looking forward to working with you. She gave him a parting smile.

He took her hand. Likewise ma’am. I’ll be in touch. Harris turned to walk out of the office when the boss’s voice reached him.

Oh and Harris, the wife wanted to know if you wanted to stop by for dinner. I think we’re having oatmeal with raisins, Cortez said with a sly grin. And let me know where you get that custom cologne made. The scent is…quite unique and intoxicating.

Why? Your wife getting tired of you smelling like hemorrhoid cream and old shoes? Harris responded quickly with a comeback. Adams couldn’t help but snicker.

Cortez was stalled looking for a witty comeback. He failed. All that he could do was smile and let that remark go, for now. He mulled over what he should have said. There was always next time.

Tell your wife that nobody eats oatmeal for dinner. Harris walked away with a bit of a strut to his step and a smile on his face, which quickly turned to a frown as he made a mental note to take another shower.

******

Harris left work and drove back to his small apartment in Herndon, Virginia. Even an inexperienced eye would note that it embodied every cliché of a bachelor pad, from the mismatched furniture, to the lack of any warm touches throughout the apartment. The only standout and decoration of note was a huge, garishly pink bear with an I Love My Daddy heart on its torso, which stared out with its button eyes from its top perch on the small bookshelf. Across from the couch was a giant TV prominently displayed on the wall, along with a cabinet full of electronics underneath. If Harris had a sanctuary in the world, the living room was it. Like most of the other men with his job, to stave off the boredom of long flights, Harris would read books and watch movies on the plane. Indeed, he did both of those activities so much that he didn’t tend to do either one on his time off. Nevertheless, there was one activity he did miss while on his flying missions. Harris found that console gaming was something he couldn’t do when he was out on his missions, so he kept quite the set up for it at home. One of the many things he missed about living in the house with his ex-wife was cranking up his surround sound at the highest level possible while shooting up alien invaders or enemy soldiers. Instead of the satisfying vibrations every time he scored and made a kill, in his little apartment he had to use a nice pair of headphones to keep the neighbors happy. It wasn’t optimal, but Harris found that he could make do. Hopefully his situation in the apartment was merely temporary. Harris often consoled himself with that thought.

Harris showered for the fourth time that day and threw on some khakis and a blue button-up shirt from his closet. Most of him really felt like sitting at home, ordering a pizza, and getting lost playing Death Squad 4, but he knew Nevin was already waiting for him at the steakhouse to have drinks. Harris left the apartment and drove along Sunrise Valley Drive in his four-door black Jeep to Reston Town Center. Reston was the place to be for the young professional types who could not bear the excitement of actually being in D.C., or did not want to pay for it. It was pretty close to the office, so it made a good meeting point for Harris and Nevin whenever they could get together, given their differing flight schedules.

Harris was feeling rather pleased about life. The sun was well on its way down and the sky was a deep orange and purple hue that seemed to come only in the fall. The jeep top was down, as the air was still warm for September, and the beautiful people were out and about enjoying happy hour.

Harris parked in the parking garage and walked into the swanky steakhouse. He looked around and saw Nevin at their usual spot at the bar. The place, as always, was more packed than Harris was usually comfortable with, but Nevin was the one who loved the place. Harris, on the other hand, preferred restaurants that weren’t chains or prone to overpricing their martinis. Judging by the two empty martini glasses in front of him, it appeared that Nevin had a head start on the night’s festivities. Harris bellied up to the bar and nodded to the bartender, who was already prepared with Harris’s favorite light beer in his hand.

Thanks, Ross. Can I have a menu, please? Harris said as he grabbed and polished off half the bottle before setting it down. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since his plane ride and was famished. The alcohol went straight to his empty stomach.

Nevin watched Harris guzzle down the beer, almost impressed. Whoa, you playing catch up, or did the boss just break your balls that bad?

Harris reluctantly set the beer down and looked over at Nevin, Actually, there was no reaming this time.

No ball breaking? For reals? Nevin looked doubtful, squinting an eye for added effect.

Harris turned back to his beer, picking up the bottle again, and swirling the suds around. Yeah, no breaking of the balls. For reals. He began studying the menu that Ross slid to him across the bar, even though he knew it by heart at this point.

You eat the same shit every time, Harris! Nevin snapped his finger impatiently at the bartender, who looked at Nevin with a sour expression that Nevin remained oblivious to, before pouring him a measure of Ciroc in a new martini glass and adding a twist of lime with a splash of cranberry