Notes

By K. A. Bryant

In a forgotten town at the base of an arid, rocky mountain tucked in the middle east, a secret United States military test mission went completely wrong. A man was brutally murdered and justice absent. Fifteen years later, the wound still hasn’t healed and a different type of justice is sought.

A rash of terrorist attacks break out in America and pepper the United Kingdom. Dozens are killed and thousands are wounded with no end in sight. Each one is unique. There is no paradigm. Pain and anger blanket every public media platform and threatens to perpetuate a cycle of vengeance. Pressure mounts from big cities to small towns. If they aren’t stopped, it will come to an explosive head. People are grieving.

Independent agent, Caleb Promise is unexpectedly contacted by his ex-handler, Agent Jason Jones. Considering how they parted after the last mission, he thought they would never speak again but a mysterious note appeared on Jason’s desk at the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. Another is slipped beneath the door of MI-5 Agent, Jean Boxley’s flat in Greenford, United Kingdom. Yet another, found in the burned purse of a lead choir singer.

Finding the tie between the notes and attacks, risks the one thing he vowed he would never lose again... family. The solution is simple yet... terrifying. Can Caleb absolve his personal fears to break the cycle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. A. Bryant
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005712150

K. A. Bryant

Author of Thriller- Espionage, and political mystery novels. Amazon Best Seller in the categories of Thriller Espionage and International Mystery-Crime. A certified Paralegal with education history in Psychology enhances the methodological and strategic aspects of my characters. My purpose for writing? Simply to take you to a world that offers an adventure, a mind-bending plot that opens your imagination to fill in the blanks. Coming soon, non-fiction books.When the kettle is whistling itself into a rattle but you don't want to put the book down, I have done my job well.

Book preview

1

Mid-flight from Biarritz

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The pointed bullet head popped through Caleb Promise’s skin, sliced the quadriceps muscle, and burst out the other side of his thigh. A Smith and Wessen nine millimeter compact military grade pistol. How it found its way down that shabby dirt road and into that sallow, cigarette-stained hand, Caleb will never know. He just can’t forget how that crooked, yellow-toothed smile flashed just before he heard the booming crack of its discharge.

Staring out of the airplane window at the city below, he recalled the moment. It wasn’t a traumatic memory, just a pivotal one. It wasn’t the first time he was shot at. But it was the first time someone enjoyed doing it with such a completely disconnected coldness. He took the bullet without retribution. It was essential to his strategy in completing that mission. At the time, saving Christian Bleu was the mission. This guy was just a tool. They were even.

The effect of that bullet ran deeper than the thigh muscle. Caleb pondered just how many people that man had shot. How many times was that deranged smile the final sight someone saw before they slipped from this world? At what point did his curdled brain vacate itself of empathy, compassion, and sensitivity? Increasingly dispiriting was wondering whether he ever possessed those traits and who would have the guts to stop him and those like him.

After the mission, Caleb returned home achy, nerves still coiled tight like a rattlesnake ready to strike, and decided that he was finished. He wanted as close to a normal life as he could manage, far from heart-wrenching stories and emotionally draining missions that dragged him into uncomfortable circumstances. He was young enough to start doing something else and the idea of moving back to New York always held appeal. But before his wound could heal, Central Intelligence Agent Jason Jones called, and once that crooked, yellow smile flashed before him and despite ten good reasons to walk away, Caleb turned, answered the call, and found himself on a flight soon after.

Here he is again. Jet-lagged on a musty airplane from his London connection destined for New York, an eight-hour layover, then another flight to Washington, DC to meet Agent Jones. Knowing his feet would touch familiar ground even if just for a layover added an element of anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time. His fingers tapped on the thin armrest separating him from the woman beside him. The pulse of vitality, the tireless rhythm of New York City, is tangible just by walking down the street in any of the five boroughs. It’s the only place he called home. It was his city for all its faults and had been calling him. Tugging on him like an ex-girlfriend that can’t accept the relationship is over. He would never confess it, but something in him exhaled when his plane lifted off in Biarritz. Yet, he now wonders if setting a meeting with Mandy during his layover was the right thing to do.

A bump of turbulence and Caleb’s jaw clenched at the piercing ache and stabbing pain in his thigh without showing it on his face at all. He heard his father’s voice in the back of his head, Suit up. That was his exit line as Caleb climbed out of their rickety car, wrangling his overstuffed Batman backpack in front of his elementary school. His father was referring to a practice of Roman soldiers; beneath their armor, they wore a scarlet garment so if injured mid-battle, their enemy couldn’t see their blood and had no indication that they were wounded. If they could hide the fact that he was wounded and not yield to their weakened side, they had a better chance of escaping the battle alive. Caleb mastered the skill almost to the point of appearing unfeeling. His Oxycodone prescriptions remain unclaimed at the pharmacy. It opened a never-ending rabbit hole for someone like him, someone likely to suffer injury after injury and loss after loss.

Now he’s not sure if he was pulled into meeting Jason Jones at his home in Washington, DC by an itch he just can’t seem to scratch or the curiosity of whether New York would feel like home again. One thing he knew for certain was that Jason must have been desperate to call him, considering how they parted after his last mission.

Caleb works the heel of his hand into the tender wound, heat barely radiating through the thick white bandage beneath his black jeans. The bottom of his brown leather jacket conceals him tending to his discomfort from the fidgety woman twisted in the seat beside him posing for selfies.

Caleb paid the nominal fee for the seat in an exit row. It gave him extra legroom and usually meant he would be seated beside a man of equal height or substantial build who also relished distance. That’s what he paid for, distance. He could have splurged on a priority seat, but has been saving money for months and is close to reaching his goal.

The woman beside him shifts restlessly in her seat, digging through her bag tucked by her side and lifting her phone high above her head snapping selfies. He tries to ignore her. The moment the light on the Fasten Seatbelt sign goes off, she slinks out of her seat, and balancing a selfie-stick that grips her pink glittery cell phone case, she records herself digging into her carry-on case in the overhead compartment in a hurried manner indicating urgency, but there is none. She emerges with something meaningless like an eyeliner pencil and sparkly notepad, frantically scribbles something equally meaningless, then repeats the process.

Hi guys! she says into her phone. "Welcome to my channel. I’m still on the flight as you can see. I am soooo tired guys but I can’t sleep. Supposed to be landing soon. The food was horrible. Can you all see what that lady is wearing? I don’t know what she was thinking, but someone her size should n-e-v-e-r do that. It’s just wrong." She chatters on about a crying baby in the back and how derelict the mother is for not being able to hush her.

Caleb becomes irritated by her inconsiderate comments as she records video after video in an irksome, strained whisper, micro-scrutinizing the plane and every person that sat within her view. Void of sensitivity to those ducking the range of her recording in the narrow rows, she films people who never gave consent to being recorded. She mocks. She criticizes and she is too old for her actions to be chalked-up to immaturity.

He closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the open portal window on his left. A fingernail worth of good old New York common sense coupled with a quick hand is the remedy for her and she may have even escaped that, but then she commits her greatest fallacy. She snaps pictures of Caleb while his eyes were closed and then giggles about it. She doesn’t consider that every shut eye isn’t necessarily asleep. When the plane lands, she tilts her sharp chin toward Caleb, fluttering her oversized false eyelashes at him.

Could you help me get my bag down? she asks with her phone tucked at her side. Caleb pretends that he does not speak English. He gives a wide-eyed shrug and shakes his head. She takes the bait. He finds it amazing what people mumble about someone they think doesn’t speak their language. This seals her fate. She rolls her eyes and resorts to awkward hand gestures. It is entirely believable that he may speak Italian, French, or some blended dialect. His pronounced jawline and piercing eyes give him a universal form.

He pretends to follow her Neanderthalic sign language, reaches up to her bag, secretly unzips its side pocket, and turns it upside down on their descent. A cheap tube of lipstick and hair accessories flutter onto the floor. She curses, mutters about how stupid he is, then quickly shoves her phone into her back pocket. With a bouncy squat, she picks them up one at a time, and he relieves her of her phone with one quick swoop. He slips the glittery cover off and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Now it is an indiscriminate black cell phone.

He steps into the aisle in front of her, slings his black duffel cross-body bag over his shoulder knowing it grazes the tip of her pointy nose and is showered with profanity. Caleb lifts her phone high as if trying to find a signal but lets the camera’s facial recognition feature unlock the phone. It works. Lowering the phone to his waist, he taps and swoops, deleting photos of him and the multiple unkind videos she had taken.

My phone! It’s gone! Has anyone . . . seen my phone? She turns and twists in a panic as if searching for a lost child. She looks in the seat and around the narrow aisle. Are you deaf? I lost my phone! I just had it. She pulls on Caleb’s shoulder but immediately takes a step back, jolted by the icy glare and strong, tight jawline. Releasing his shoulder, she glances at his hand holding a black screened cell phone. Did you see it?

I don’t speak English, remember? Caleb turns and strides off the plane. Few people can keep up with his pace without ending up breathless.

Idiot! If you didn’t drop my stuff, I wouldn’t have lost it! she yells at his back.

Until that moment, he had considered handing the phone back but . . . no. His initial intention was to delete the items and returned her three thousand-dollar phone. One great lesson he learned from living in the melting pot of nationalities that is New York: every native usually know a small amount of English, so be nice or shut up.

He eyeballs a cylinder garbage can at the end of the gateway and hears the phone land with a thump at the bottom. Overhead, the intercom system crackles. Welcome to John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. Cheers.

* * *

He has eight hours before his flight to Dulles International Airport in Washington, DC—plenty of time to meet with Mandy. He approaches the automatic doors leading to the circling line of wide-eyed drivers on the passenger pick-up line. Caleb stops and scans the line to see Mandy’s wide-bodied black Mercedes Benz. Her blond, bouncy curls cascade onto her shoulders. Bright red shiny fingernails matching her lipstick clutch the steering wheel. She leans forward, peering into the airport. He exhales, takes a step back, and dials her number. His thumb hovers for a second over the call button.

"He-llo, she sings with a broad, white toothy smile. I’m here in the front, well, until the cop comes back around. Her head swivels in the rearview mirror. Where are you?"

Mandy.

I know that tone, she exhales loudly. Her smile fades, heavily lined eyes widen. Don’t say it.

Can’t make it.

Her shoulders drop, mouth falls open. After a quick shake of her head, she finds her words. We can make this work. I . . . I don’t understand. You said to be here. I’m right here.

It’s not you.

A police cruiser approaches a few cars behind her. She closes her eyes. Tell me you’re not doing this to me again. Just . . . let’s talk. We’ll get some coffee and talk it through.

It’s not time.

"That’s it? Three words. That’s all I get after five months? Traffic in this city sucks— Caleb watches as the police officer raps on her car window. I know, officer, please . . . can I just have two minutes? The officer shakes his head. Caleb, come talk to me. I’m in front. It’s not too late."

"Ma’am, you have to move now."

For crying out loud, give me a break here, would you? she huffs then returns to the phone. Caleb, I will wait for you.

You’re two seconds from a ticket. One . . . says the officer.

All right . . . all right already!

I’ll call you, whispers Caleb.

Mandy exhales. And I will answer.

"Lady, come on!" The officer swoops his arm, ushering her forward.

You’re a real prince, ya know? Mandy spits the words at the officer. Caleb watches her black Mercedes pass the airport window.

He slips his phone back into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, swings his satchel bag in front of him, tucks his fists into his jacket pockets, and strolls back into the noisy airport. Caleb barely hears his phone ring. Jason. He clenches his jaw and answers.

What?

Where are you?

New York.

I’m sending you an address. It’s a diner. We can meet there. I live in the area so—

Already got a hotel.

Fine, Surprised, Jason clears his throat. See you in a few hours.

Caleb disconnects the call and struggles to resist the urge to climb into the back of a taxi and forget all about Jason and whatever it is he needs to show him. The city is tugging at him.

2

MI-5 Agent at MI-5 Headquarters, London, England

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––––––––

Why there? Emily Watts couldn’t shake the question. It plagued the entire MI-5 International Counter-Terrorist team, the ICT team, the moment the call came in. A typical Tuesday 11:27 a.m. The modus operandi trickle effect began at the inception of the first emergency call to the local authorities and dripped its way to MI-5, wetting everyone in between. There was an explosion at a street market in Cotswold and, according to the local authorities first on the scene, was not due to the utilities. She must call him first, and quickly. He never liked hearing things secondhand.

* * *

MI-5 ICT Director Francis Dupont reaches into his creased trouser pocket as he stands on his terraced doorstep on Oakley Street in Chelsea. After bolting his front door, he answers the phone. His hand drops to his side as Emily spurts the facts. A set of silver keys dangle in the scratched lock.

Dear Lord, he mutters. He unlocks the door to his stately townhouse, ignoring his wife’s questions and their five-year-old son tugging on his trouser pocket. Stay home today, he tells her with a pointed finger.

You promised. I planned for weeks, she shakes her head sadly.

He ushers her and his two young children back inside and rushes down the stone steps with the phone pressed to his ear toward his car, unaware that this was the last straw.

It is the last time he will disappoint her and the children for work. She slams the door behind him but he doesn’t notice that either. Climbing into his compact vehicle, he processes the information.

How far has this gotten? he asks Emily.

Videos are already sprouting up on every social media platform. Some claim to be in the market. Emily shakes her head. Don’t know how they got there so quickly. Some declare family members were in the blast. Local authorities sent backup help for the constable on site.

The site is sealed, yes?

Affirmative, sir. Those images are nothing more than click-bait.

Good, he starts his car. See that we keep it that way. I want full control of the site, air-space, and no outside agencies beyond the perimeter without my say so.

Yes, sir.

And Emily, anything you learn about this, you bring it to me first. Get Agent Buxley out of bed.

Right away, sir. Emily guiltily looks down at her finger drawing a circle on her desk. She hangs up the phone and proceeds down her list of protocol.

* * *

Lying in a walnut wooden tray on a white kitchen counter in Washington, DC, the keys beside a second black phone shake. It is 6:27 a.m. in the home of Agent Jason Jones of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. The sound breaks the blanket of silence in his stark townhome. A habitual early riser with no worry of waking anyone, he takes a sip of his hot coffee, puts down his thick, white mug painted with a blue Bass fish, and reads the paragraph-length text. He forgets to swallow. He replies to the text with a period. Emily expects nothing more from him.

Emily intentionally saves calling MI-5 Agent Jean Buxley for last. She dials Jean’s number. The mobile hums for minutes, determined to wake Jean. It vibrates madly beside the toppled half-empty sleeping pill bottle on the dusty nightstand in the boxy flat in Greenford, United Kingdom.

Come on, Jean. Answer. Emily lets it ring until it rolls into voice mail, then sends the text.

To Jean, the buzzing mobile sounds like a muffled purr. Like that of the neighbor’s cat outside her flat’s window. Emily calls again. The purring grows louder and finally breaks her from sleep. Jean groans and blindly gropes for her mobile, drawing it beneath the toasty feather blanket.

Who? Jean grumbles.

It’s me, Emily.

Em, for pity’s sake! It’s my day off.

Read the text.

You’re kidding me.

Not at all. Listen, we need to meet . . . Emily’s voice lowers to a whisper. It’s about that other thing we talked about.

Jean opens her eyes and stares at the blanket over her face. Where?

I’ll call you. But if you want to keep your job, read the text. We’ll talk about that other thing later. Director Dupont wants you on this one.

––––––––

It takes Jean Buxley longer to dress than usual despite popping the two painkillers she set out the night before. They were taking longer and longer to work nowadays, and the relentless, nagging, piercing pain robbed her of sleep . . . again. It was a cruel dichotomy. The relationship between painkiller and sleeping pill. Where one failed, the other triumphed, but it left her feeling fragmented in their wake. It left her needing more.

Curled beneath the lonely blankets, she pushes the phone out onto the dresser, hears it thump on the floor, and takes a moment to imagine that her life is normal, ideal, and pleasant. Eyes squeezed closed, she envisions herself taking time off from work and shuffling up the steps of her mother’s modest brick townhouse in Nottingham greeted by her soft, warm, concerned eyes. She hugs herself, imagining her mother’s soft warm arms wrapped around her, supporting her, as she steps inside the sun-drenched entryway of her childhood home. She draws a deep breath of the cheap fragrant lavender potpourri in the chipped crystal dish on the hall table. Worn, secondhand mismatched picture frames of Jean and her mother dot the narrow hall on both sides, their footsteps dulled by the thick runner rug beneath their feet leading to the bedroom. Yet, there was a hollow sound beneath the floor.

It wasn’t a posh terraced house of Hampstead Heath or Kensington Gardens. The basement burned out when she was a child and her mother never could afford to rebuild it properly, so she sealed the door to the downstairs. Hollow floors still remind her of her life. As much as her mother tried to fill their lives, there was always something empty. Missing. Her childhood bedroom shelves were lined with bedazzled diaries lined up on a rustic bookshelf she made herself, along with the complete set of dog-eared, brown-paged Nancy Drew books. Faded pink wallpaper with tiny blue periwinkles peeked out between the dresser and bookcase. Every inch of it was smothered by drawings with the most sophisticated signature she could muster at nine years old.

The air was musty, the room warm and cozy. She remembers being lovingly tucked into her creaky bed and spoon-fed chicken soup beneath a patch quilt, fading gently into sleep serenaded by her mother gently stroking her hair and humming. An extraordinary, powerful medicine . . . love.

But beneath her blankets in her cold flat, there is no hum; she hasn’t heard her mother’s hum in years. Three to be exact. The moment Arden left, she was truly alone. Roughly, she wipes the tears away and shoves back the covers to face her cold reality. The flat smells of stale pizza, their cardboard boxes stacked on the dresser. Gratefully, her barefoot finds the edge of the area rug barely sticking out beneath the bed and she shoves her mobile with her foot, picks it up, and reads the text. Jean raises the mobile to hurl it but squeezes it tightly instead, then tosses it onto the rumpled bed.

After a quick shower and tussle of her dark hair, she pulls on the warm, formfitting black shirt she wore yesterday, jeans, and thick, tan, speckled socks. She grabs her favorite thick knit scarf, swings it around her neck twice, and pulls on her jacket. The fat pill bottle rattles as she drops it into her black leather backpack-style bag. She snatches the bag off the dresser and the strap hooks the top drawer, yanking it open. Her eyes lock on something in it and she draws a short, quick breath. She slams the drawer shut and grabs the car keys.