Haywood Micaye

By Ashlynne Doyle

To Haywood Micaye, other people mean nothing. A member of America's top sector of espionage, he asserts an arrogant dominance over anyone he comes in contact with. His elitist ideals enable him to rationalize killing a fellow agent on an assignment in Russia.
 

Back in the States, his superiors demand accountability for his actions that Micaye refuses to provide. Amid this, a rising terrorist organization known as the Leviticus strikes fear into the American public by threatening the impending destruction of the country.
 

If Micaye puts a stop to the terrorist organization, it could mean redemption in the eyes of his superiors. If he fails, he dies and takes America down with him. Not only that, but as he gets further ensnared in the complex web of the Leviticus, he has to confront his skewed moral compass head-on by coming to terms with his actions overseas.

It's time for him to decide what he values more: keeping his personal ideology alive, or dying to save his country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashlynne Doyle
• Release date: Mar 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781536557244

Ashlynne Doyle

Ashlynne Doyle is a Missouri native with aspirations to one day travel the world. She has had work collected in Budding Bards: Volumes Two, Three, and Four, and has a short story featured in Chaos Cocktail: Thirteen Fantasy Brawls. She lives happily with her husband and mastiff. Haywood Micaye is Ashlynne's first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE: A CAVEAT

In the days after his final decision, Haywood James Micaye would find himself reflecting on how he became a murderer.

He should correct himself. Murderer seemed to hold too much emotional connotation to define what he had done. Except it made sense.

Murderer. Noun. One who commits the crime of murder.

Murder. Noun. The crime of deliberately killing a person.

The problem with calling himself a murderer seemed, for the most part, a problem rooted in the word crime. Calling his actions a crime suggested his decision went against an established rule of morality. Perhaps others may have viewed the act as a moral wrong, but he felt no guilt over what had transpired, nor did he have any intent on changing his mind. He had been facing death when he made his decision. He chose to live. His life over the lives of others.

Perhaps the issue he had with the term murderer was he had decided to commit this deliberate crime on more than one person, yet the term serial killer did not aptly describe what he had done, either.

He entertained these thoughts for some time before they stopped amusing him and instead became a burden. They haunted him, lingering in the air heaviest when he tried to go to sleep at night. Micaye would chase the thoughts over his head, circling in unison with his ceiling fan.

Once, he confessed these deep thoughts to his newfound partner in crime in a passing statement. She laughed, wrote it off as a subconscious response developed because of the humanity the world once tried to instill into him.

In short, she had said, this too shall pass, yes?

He shrugged and dropped the matter with her. His mind did not. He stared, wide awake, up at the ceiling fan night after night.

What was he, if not a murderer? Was he to be defined by the same words that defined dictators of the past—genocidal, violent, cruel? Or had he transcended the earthly labels that described humans? Had he assumed the role of a god?

Did he feel human enough to even be bothered by these notions?

The answer was yes, he felt bothered. However, it wasn’t because of any lingering humanity on his part. He needed to justify his actions for himself.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. He pondered the many reasons why he made the choices he did. He could close his eyes and remember all the events that led to that ultimate choice. It had been important that he either take the hand stretched out to help him or die there on the floor. Despite the countless opportunities he had to change his course, to do the good thing, he made the only choice he could ever make.

Why?

He reflected through the sleepless nights. It took several nights before he came to his final conclusion.

Upon finding his answer, a relaxed smile rose up on to Micaye’s face. He turned off his bedside lamp and slept in peace.

PART ONE: THE KOVALEVSKY INCIDENT

It is the cause, not the death, that makes the martyr.

-Napoleon Bonaparte

1.

The stories people tell and the truth are rarely similar ideas, and the truth of Micaye’s story could be called into question. And it would be, time and time again, often to no avail. No matter what, he maintained the idea that the whole thing had been Harper Price’s fault.

After his torture, he had been left in the dungeon of a room to suffer. An exposed can light overhead lit the concrete walls and floor. Mysterious, dark stains speckled and splattered the floor. He imagined the blood running off his face and onto his clothes would add to the mess.

Micaye did not fear death. But that did not mean he felt perfectly content with dying. He would be lying if he said he claimed to be ready to face death.

He had always imagined he would be the one to kill himself, for no reason other than the fact he wanted his death to be his own choice, not that of someone else or the uncontrollable tides of fate. Death was one of the final worldly things he could exercise control over. He liked the comfort such a thought brought him.

He faded in and out of consciousness, the pain following him as he drifted. The lacerations on his body burned and festered, the wounds protesting with every rise and fall of his chest. He wondered if he would bleed out before the men came back for him.

A thought—a hope, really—passed through his mind. Maybe they had forgotten him, and would never come back. It wouldn’t be outside of his career qualifications to be forgotten. As a person trained in the subtle art of being forgotten, he prided himself in his ability. It's one of those things that came with having what he called a rather involved position in espionage.

Now though, Micaye tried not to think of anything. Being cognizant reminded him of his wounds, and of the looming prospect of death, and neither were things he wanted to think about. He worked a nail against the ropes that bound his wrists, filing desperately, knowing that it wouldn’t do much of anything for him.

He tried his best to force himself into the smallest compartments in his brain, away from his current state. His fingers twitched and tapped at his side as he did: two taps with the thumb, two taps with the pointer, two with the middle, two with the ring, two with pinkie, up and down, up and down.

A Pavlovian defense mechanism, it worked. For a moment, Micaye became a child again, innocent and carefree. Once again, he was a boy of seven years old, racing around outside with a die-cast airplane in his hand, the paint chipped, the rotors bent. He ran laps around a large oak tree in his backyard, laughing. The sunlight filtered in through the leaves as a gentle breeze pushed him forward.

The backdoor on the porch opened, and the mirage of his grandfather manifested in the frame. The old man’s glasses caught in the summer sun, but his closed lipped smile put the light to shame. He wore his plaid, pearl buttoned shirt tucked into comfortable jeans.

C’mon, Haywood! he called. It’s lesson time!

The squeal of the door opening jarred Micaye from the memory. Back in the dank room, two men entered, wearing dark clothes and wicked smiles. They wore a gun each on their hips, and the no-nonsense look in their cold eyes gave him enough plenty of data points to determine that a valiant escape would not be an option.

The man on the right snapped a burlap sack in his hand. Time to go, Agent, he said in thick English.

Micaye set his jaw and kept his body still as they undid the ties that held him to the chair. They left the ones that bound his wrists. Once the sack had been thrown over his head, they grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him out of the room into the hallway.

An excited energy hung in the air. He caught snippets of eager Russian chatter all around as they walked. Stupid Americans. Revenge. Dead. Firing squad.

Another body shoved into his. He turned his head and could see the promise of another bagged head at his side.

Micaye? Agent Price's voice came from right next to him, terror clear in the sound.

Hello, Micaye replied with as much ice as he could muster.

Are they going to kill us? I told them what they needed to know. I swear.

Silence! one of the men said.

They moved once more down the hall. Micaye gritted his teeth. Damn you, Price, he thought.

Price attempted to negotiate with their captors. Don't do this. Please. Let us free.

Silence! The sound of flesh being struck echoed in the hall. Price cried out.

They made a right turn, then a quick left. The sound of a door opening in front of them and the expanding echoes told Micaye they were in an open space.

Line them up, the voice of Mikhail Kovalevsky boomed over the mix of other low, masculine voices. He tried to guess how many were in the room. Two on my arms, probably two on Price. Plus, the crowd and Kovalevsky... Ten. Twelve, maybe.

Start with this one, Kovalevsky said.

Micaye's stomach dropped. His heart hammered as he waited for someone to grab him. Instead, the scuffle came to his right.

Micaye? Price moved from his side.

The bag ran against Micaye’s face as someone pulled it off. He blinked, eyes trying to adjust to the sudden light. Kovalevsky stood in front of him.

Looking at Kovalevsky up close, he looked nothing like the man in the photos they had on file of him. Kovalevsky’s eyes held no color and sank deep into his face, shrouded by a sharp brow. His lips were a little too thick, his teeth small and sharp behind them. He reeked of cologne.

I want you to watch, he said. I want you to watch us kill your partner.

Micaye glanced past Kovalevsky and watched as they tied Price to a pole, several yards away.

Kovalevsky put a hand on his shoulder. Such a shame. I know people who would pay to place a bullet through the head of an agent like you. And here I am, taking it all for myself.

Micaye’s eyes moved frantically, taking in his surroundings. They were gathered in a warehouse, with high ceilings and flickering can lights. He noted rows of metal shelves, the waiting trucks down at the far end. He continued to clandestinely rub at his bounds, fooling himself into believing he had made progress on the rope. And yet, he felt frayed edges brush against his thumb...

Kovalevsky grabbed his face, forcing him to look back at him. His finger pads sank deep into his cheeks. I wonder what must be running through that little head of yours. Why don't you tell me?

Go to hell.

Kovalevsky laughed. I'll see you there. Then, he let him go and lifted his volume to address the room around him. Ready the guns.

Several guns cocked at once and sent a resonant snap through the cold air. Price choked on a sob. Micaye froze in place. He took in a long breath of air, his heart hammering in his chest. Everything hurt.

We’re going to die. And you know what? Now that Micaye thought of it, he realized this was all Price’s fault.

He watched, helpless, as the men readied their aim.

2.

Adefinition, from the ever-famous Meriam-Webster: Incident. Noun. An action likely to lead to grave consequences, especially in diplomatic matters.

That served as the best descriptor of the events leading up to the firing line. The incident transpired in the span of a few months in Russia. Winter settled on the land in the time Micaye lived there, and it had not been gentle. He arrived late in October, but a bitter chill had staked its claim long before he stepped off his plane. The winter's grip only intensified as the long weeks bled into one another and the temperature dropped. For a foreigner accustomed to kinder climates, Russia proved to be a cruel hostess.

Moscow stood stark against the gray sky. Micaye imagined the sight invoked some sense of wonder in any tourist unlucky enough to find themselves visiting during this time of year. He felt nothing, save for a perpetual numbness in his hands as he shuddered in the omnipresent chill.

Earlier that morning there had been sunlight, but the promising rays had been swallowed up by dark clouds and showed no sign of ever returning. Now, snow fell down from the sky in thick clumps, whipping through the air in a frozen breeze. No sensible person wished to be outside in this weather, but the occasional pedestrian passed from one building to another that day in Moscow. A hush fell over this part of the city, and along each side of the street small shops and restaurants huddled close to one another as though the buildings, too, were trying to survive in the cold. Micaye was the only soul willing to stand outside. He fidgeted with a cigarette, lacking any conviction to the role of a smoker. He scanned the street, glaring at nothing. He glared at his watch and he cursed.

Harper Price was officially late.

A bitter breeze blew the snow against his neck. Micaye flipped up the collar of his dark coat. He tried to take another drag off the cigarette but the smoke caught in his throat and only sent him into a fit of coughing. All at once he felt disgusted with himself and took the thing away from his mouth, letting it burn between his fingers.

When Price failed to show up at the scheduled time, he thought it would be best to look for him. The cigarette, bummed off of a passerby, served an excuse he could give to explain why he lingered outside.

Now, the thing had almost burned to the filter, and Price remained absent from the scene. Micaye swore again, this time out loud. His free hand went to the back of his neck, seeking warmth. His fingers went underneath the long hair that brushed up on his collar.

He didn’t consider himself a sentimental man. But a sudden feeling of homesickness overwhelmed him, then, deep in the pit of his stomach. He hated Russia and the cold. He wanted to be back in America at the HND, where people had the decency to be on time for meetings and it never got this cold.

Micaye worked for a spy network known as the Headquarters of National Defense. As America's top sector in espionage, it contained the best of the best when it came to counterintelligence. He took pride in being the youngest agent employed at the HND at twenty-six-years old and also ranked as an EFA—Elite Field Agent, to those unversed in the acronyms that gave him a sense of importance—which made him superior to a majority of the other field agents at the HND. This position required much on his part, and right now it required that he attempt to care about the whereabouts of Agent Price.

"So who the hell is Harper Price?" he had said several days ago to the director of the Headquarters of National Defense, his superior. Micaye stood in the hotel room, cell phone pressed against his ear.

Room might have been too kind a euphemism to describe the place. It looked more a closet someone had managed to squeeze a twin bed, dresser, and desk into. The stained green walls only succeeded in turning his stomach. The dimly lit adjoining bathroom added to the sense of claustrophobia and unease, with a rosy pink porcelain toilet and countertops that looked like flesh under the harsh fluorescents. Usually, the HND would have taken better care of him, but at the time he had taken on the mission, he had only planned on being in Russia for two weeks. He justified the sacrifice on his part because of that.

He would find out too late that those two weeks would transmute into two long months.

Language, Agent, the Director chided.

He knew that the man had told him his name, on multiple occasions. And every time, he had made the deliberate decision to forget it. Names were often problematic to Micaye. A legacy attached itself to a name, desperate to be preserved, an identity in constant need of maintenance. How limiting, the confines of a simple Mark or Steven didn’t do the man justice. A sir on his part would suffice in most situations, and in any other Micaye simply referred to the man as the Director.

Besides, it was a long-standing tradition for a person's first name to be used in casual or friendly conversations. Both were scenarios Micaye avoided.

I just received a message says I am supposed to be meeting a man I know nothing about, Micaye said. I believe I am allowed the use of expletives to express my current state of disbelief and irritation. He paced the room, fueled by irritation and the insatiable need to keep himself busy. With the strings of his robe hanging freely behind him, he gave off the impression of a lion in a cage.

It’s not your style. Besides, if you would have read the report we sent along to you, this wouldn’t come as a shock, the Director said. He could hear snide sarcasm in his tone.

Does he enjoy this? Micaye's fist balled at his side. I did. I just don't understand why I have to babysit an inferior agent on such an important assignment.

He heard the Director shifting in his chair. He pictured him in his mind’s eye, up in his office looking out over the city. He sounded tired. Price has been assigned to the mission to help with the negotiation.

Are you implying I'm not capable enough to handle this myself?

We aren't doubting your abilities, the Director said.

But?

Another deep sigh. The council and I have been weighing the risk of the situation, Agent, the Director said. You remember what kind of impact the Lafferty Plot had. We all said a lot of things and made decisions with too much haste to get some control of the mess.

The Lafferty Plot. Had it already been close to two months since that day? Micaye didn’t know who coined the title, but it stuck.

The Lafferty Plot was a terror bombing meant to be carried out by two members of the Leviticus, a terrorist cell in Russia. Their target was the United Nations headquarters in New York City and had it been successful, the attack would have killed numerous civilians and members of the UN and severely injured several more. The two members were stopped before the bombing; though one committed suicide before he could be taken into custody, they kept the other one, a man named Daniel Lafferty, under careful watch and brought him in for interrogation. The surviving terrorist insisted the crime came as a divine order of the gods.

Shortly after this, the HND received a message from a man named Mikhail Kovalevsky, the main figurehead of the Leviticus. His organization had been growing in global prominence over the prior months, but when he announced in his message that they were responsible for the Lafferty Plot, the relevance of the Leviticus erupted overnight.

This came as a shock and a cause of distress to the American government. While they didn't let this information go public, the Headquarters of National Defense quickly assembled a team to send to Russia to go seek out Kovalevsky and put a stop to the cell.

Then the interrogation of the surviving half of the attempted UN bombing revealed another important piece of information: the Leviticus had at its disposal a powerful weapon which they planned to use very soon on America and the world at large.

A group of American officials privately conducted an emergency meeting, out of which the developed a new proposal: one agent would be sent to Russia to tap into Kovalevsky's correspondence and send information back to the States regarding the scope of what this weapon could do. From there, they would devise a better plan as to how to approach the Leviticus.

This agent was none other than Micaye. And two months later, their better plan was Harper Price.

Sir, Micaye said, I must request you reconsider this.

It was a council-voted decision, Micaye. While the Director most often referred to him as Agent Micaye, or Agent, he used an exasperated Micaye when he wanted to make a point.

Take it back to the council, then.

No. You're failing to keep in mind what exactly we have at stake. If Kovalevsky goes through with his plans—

You don't need to tell me what's at stake. I've been on this assignment for two months. I agreed to an investigation on Kovalevsky, some interception of correspondence, a bit of work trying to get the idea of what sort of weapon Kovalevsky had, and how we could stop it.

That's fine, the Director said. But you are aware that once the reports got back to the council, they ruled to keep you out for a longer time to continue providing us this important information.

And then to work out the schematics of an arms deal to get a hold of the weapon and try to develop a counter defense for it, Micaye added with growing irritation. And then longer still to execute this plan.

It didn't bother you before, the Director objected. What's changed?

He fell silent. The Director was right. Though Micaye would never admit it he did find the work enjoyable. In the beginning, the job excited him; he felt important; people said that, if his work proved good enough, he would be awarded enough career points for this to improve his rank if he did well. That would look nice on his résumé. After a while, the work felt to him what he imagined it must feel like for a hummingbird to drink feeder water with NutraSweet instead of cane sugar: it satisfied hunger, but there were no calories to sustain life in it. He craved something new.

He understood the politics behind keeping him out there. Not only would he do all this work and then some, but it was cheaper, in the long run, to keep him stranded over there than to send anyone else.

Another reason why he hated the idea of another person over here with him. He had done all this work alone. Why send someone else to steal all his credit?

So? the Director asked. No comment?

He caught a glimpse of himself in a dirty mirror hanging next to the dresser. Typically, he maintained a practical, well-composed appearance. In the reflection before him, he saw only a man who looked like something crucial to his being had been stolen. He approached the mirror and took note of the darkness forming under his eyes, the nagging feeling that something in his soul had been shifted a little too far one way or the other, like a sofa moved an unperceivable inch or so out of place.

The Director interrupted his silent sulking. Look, you're being melodramatic. You know you shouldn't try to do this on your own anymore. You're lying to yourself if you believe otherwise.

Micaye spoke to his reflection. "You know I have repeatedly requested to do assignments that don’t require a partner, especially someone who ranks below me, he said. I don’t like group work, sir."

For God's sake, Micaye, you'll be fine for a few days. He has a lot of experience in negotiation. I'm sure he'll prove himself useful to you.

Useful, he echoed. Adjective.

Don’t—

‘Capable of being put to use, such as to be serviceable for an end or purpose.’

The Director said nothing, but his annoyance radiated through the phone. The ghost of a satisfied smile haunted Micaye’s face in the mirror. He liked definitions. They felt nice to return to, when people made messes of connotative phrases. He could always rely on the dictionary to keep language grounded.

When am I going to be forced to meet this Harper Price?

Friday. Three o’clock, the Director snapped. Then, You have to be the smartest guy in the room, don’t you?

Now, Friday at 3:15, Price was nowhere to be seen. Micaye flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone to call the Director when lo and behold, there came Price around the corner at a run.

Micaye knew instantly he despised the man before him. Maybe it was his sandy blonde hair, wavy and slicked over messily to the side; his light tan, out of place on these winter streets; the atrocious sense of fashion (those slacks with that pair of shoes? And oh God, that scarf—); or maybe something unspoken about his sheer presence made him annoying.

His cheeks were flushed, his nose tinged red. He gasped for breath. For such a promising build, Price seemed out of shape. Sorry I'm late. He spoke with a breathy, nasally whine coupled with a Midwestern accent. I got lost.

Micaye's frown deepened and he crossed his arms. Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting for you?

He bowed his head. I know, I just got sorta turned around—

You can't make your way through a city, he said in a low tone. And you're supposed to help me negotiate an arms deal?

Price rubbed his arm, uncomfortable. Well, geography wasn't ever one of my strong suits, but I can be very persuasive, he replied with an awkward laugh. He held out a hand. Harper Price. Haywood, right?

Micaye pushed the hand away with the back of his own. Persuasive, you say? he sneered. "OK. Then persuade me to keep from calling your supervisors and my own right now to file a