Assassin's Shadow: Shadowhawk, #3

By Dominic L Cameron

Berserker, the most successful assassin the CIA ever had. Feared by everybody, even those within the agency. But it was an ill-deserved moniker for Mason Crest. Mason was broken, the result of three years in a private Russian prison at the mercy of the Wagner private military force. After being exchanged he lived in absolute pain, existing by means of a ketamine mix made by a drug dealer, and a handful of pain medication. He skirted the boundaries of addiction, but knew that ultimately this was no life for him.

Then he met Caitlin, an operative on the cusp of being relegated to a desk job, as she did not possess the mental requirements to be an effective field operative. But she possessed compassion and empathy, which was what they needed to reach Mason. Nobody could predict the effect she would have on Mason. Together they find a new purpose as a highly effective Hunter/Killer team, all whilst Mason deals with surgeries to repair the damage done to him in prison.

They also navigate his mental healing, Mason finding himself in a very unfamiliar role as the Agency shows their deep admiration for his unorthodox methods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Compaan
• Release date: Nov 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223528111

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The deputy director walked into the basement office, threading his way through all the shelving packed with hard copies of all the files the agency had. He swore under his breath. This little trip cost him ten minutes extra, all because the jackass hates computer screens. He found the doctor in the back corner, his desk full of files. One single agent’s files.

Director, sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.

Doctor Matthew Hansen stood nervously. Deputy Director Sacks regarded him. The doctor was barely twenty-five and held three Ph.D.'s: Psychology, Behavioral Science, and Sociology. He entered university at fourteen and received his first doctorate at eighteen. The doctor’s quirks were well tolerated because he was rarely wrong. He never liked venturing outside the basement because of light sensitivity, even though he had an office upstairs where it would be so much easier for everybody else.

Is he a threat?

Sir, I cannot confirm it. He shows all the marks of a true patriot. His success rates are beyond average.

Yes, I know, but is he a threat?

He was betrayed, and there is no data beyond that point. You say that none of the surveillance on him lasted more than thirty minutes before discovery?

The doctor tried to give the director some answers, but the subject of their discussion was a closed book.

Yes, he is that good. Sacks sighed, We need to take him out if you cannot say.

I... the doctor paused. I could do a live observation.

You mean up there?

Yes sir, if his life is in play, I should be sure.

Very well. Be there in twenty minutes. And you need to have as much information as possible ready.

Like? Hansen asked nervously.

You could be asked to explain your findings.

Twenty minutes, sir. Hansen looked like he was going to throw up.

Keep it together, Sacks grumbled as he turned and walked away, the doctor frantically grabbing at the files.

He rode the elevator up to the operations center, and tensions snapped to the red when he walked in. He was especially moody when it was one of their own, and this one is special. Even the best operators feared their current target.

Any news from Evergreen?

Negative, sir, she is moving in right now. She had to wait for him to settle first, one of the support staff answered.

Audio up, please.

They heard the sounds of a coffee shop.

Catcher, radio check, the operations controller called on the radio.

Seeker, this is Catcher, Lima Charlie, loud and clear. Her bright sparkling voice did not fit the somber mood in the operations room.

Proceed with your mission, Sacks ordered.

MASON CREST WAS SITTING alone at the table. He had checked his watch a few times. He still had ten minutes before he had to leave. He wanted to listen to humanity for one last time. His release will be soon, then the pain will stop. He felt the dull throb in his joints, knowing that in an hour it would be more pronounced, and within three hours, it would be excruciating. He sipped his latte and felt for the thumb drive in his pocket. It would be enough to make sure they followed through. It held all the information on five highly classified missions he had executed. Years ago, Mason Crest was the top hitman for the agency, but now he was broken.

He thought of his family in Grand Rapids, wishing he could see them one last time. He was one of four foster kids. His parents had two biological children as well. Mason loved them, as they had loved him from the day he arrived. Vanessa, his baby sister, would be devastated if she heard, but it would be worse if she had to see him in this state.

He looked at the line of people waiting for their coffee and saw a brunette getting her coffee. She then scanned the shop for an open table. He wanted to warn her off or move away. She reached his table, and he saw her almost supernatural beauty.

Please, may I share the table for just a minute? I just need to read a document?

Her voice was sweet and gentle with no telltale nervousness in it. He nodded against his better judgment. She could easily become a target by just sitting with him. He made sure to keep his hands well visible in case he had missed an observer apart from the two at the corner table. He had been responsible for too many innocent lives, simply because they were associated with him. But part of him was glad, as he had one last glimpse of true beauty as he looked at her.

My name is Misty. Do you know legalese? she asked him.

Uh, no, he said, almost shocked at her nonchalant tone.

Her long curly hair hung loose to the middle of her back. Her eyes were almost turquoise. She was dressed modestly, with a hippie-like tendency, but it looked good on her. He judged her to be about twenty-five. She was breath-taking, and her eyes did not look at him like agency eyes. They all feared him. When she looked at him, it seemed to be with compassion and care. He felt his breath catch as she made eye contact. Never had he laid eyes on someone as beautiful.

I was offered a part, aspiring actress, she continued. I have never seen an acting contract, and do not know the pitfalls.

Tell you what, take this number down.

He gave her a local number of a lawyer he had used to settle his affairs. Mason still had a thousand dollars in credit, which he was never going to need.

He helped me settle my affairs. Tell him Mason sent you. He will help you make sure you are protected.

Thanks, Mason. Are you sure?

Yes, my account has credit, which I am not going to need. He waited as she wrote it down.

Wait, are you going to kill yourself? she asked, slightly alarmed.

Mason barely hid the frown at her assumption. But something about her genuine concern touched him. This girl truly cared.

No, I am not. But my destiny has run out. I will not need a lawyer anymore.

Are you sick?

Yes, in a way.

He scolded himself, but it was the last time he would interact with a normal person.

In ten minutes, he will have at least three snipers tracking him, plus two CAG or Covert Activities Group teams boxing him in. They would be people he had worked with, friends to some extent. The execution would be thorough. He made sure there would be no complications. On the news, he will be called out as a terrorist or something, but his family will never believe the lies they would use to justify his death.

Is there anything I can do for you? she asked.

Misty was sincere, but so was the other one, long ago. The painfully beautiful honeypot. This one didn’t look at him like that one did. Misty had authentic compassion, but Mason’s time was over. The first domino had started to fall already.

No, but thanks for being kind. He looked at his watch, and she saw the slight tremor in his hand. I need to go. I have an appointment.

He half-smiled at her, which she returned.

It would be nice if we had coffee again, she said as she greeted him, and watched him leave, showing a hint of a limp.

Catcher, report, her earwig sounded.

Her eyes flickered in annoyance at the intrusion as she mulled over the meeting with the operator everybody feared. He was nothing as she expected, and he drew her in almost immediately. Now she watched him through the window as he walked toward the bridge. Everything in her wanted to rush after him, but that would certainly ruin her career.

I have nothing definitive. He seems nervous, she replied to the intrusion in her ear.

Does he look like he is going to do something stupid? It was Sacks himself on the radio now.

No, not from what I can see. He seemed sad, almost defeated.

He does not get sad, Sacks snapped. Hold your position.

Misty was glad he could not see her face. Something was very off. The man she just spoke to is not violently crazy, and the ‘Berserker’ moniker did not fit him.

Mason walked the short distance to the bridge, then crossed it, stopping right in the middle. He listened to the city sounds. Honking horns and the ship’s horns echoed through the city as the sound bounced off high-rise buildings. He was too far away to hear the people, but it also meant nobody would be in the line of fire. Mason looked around, feeling remorse. He felt as if his life was wasted, and wondered why they did not just leave him there instead of bringing him home. He thought back on the girl he just met and wondered if she would have been more to him given time.

He allowed the thought, knowing it would be his last hopeful thought. He saw the visions of him dating her, pouring his love into her. Mason hated that he had never really loved. He had lusted after the honeypot, but it was not true love. That was her purpose, to keep him hooked by promising things she had no intention of delivering on. But he knew deep within himself he carried immense capacity to love someone.

His thoughts returned to the current situation. He had no tactical advantage as he scanned again. He spotted the sniper nests within seconds and gave no indication he saw them. Right on time, he heard two vehicles pull up. He noticed that the bridge had now been blocked on both sides by construction vehicles. Then he turned around as he heard a car door close. His heart betrayed him, and he knew she saw it on his face. She was as beautiful as he remembered, except he now saw the cold focus in her eyes. His honeypot approached him and stopped ten meters away, well out of the line of fire for the snipers.

Hello, Mason.

Hello, Jayne, he replied. A bit of a pickle, isn’t it?

I’ll say, she answered, her shoulder-length blonde hair gently moving in the early autumn wind, revealing her delicate features. Then he saw her eyes flicker. Someone just spoke to her.

Why did you do it, Mason?

Seemed like a good idea, he replied and saw that it did not sit well with her.

You do not do good ideas, why?

Why did you leak my name?

He ignored her question. For the first time, he saw real emotion on her face. He was sure she did not expect him to blame her, but he did.

I didn’t.

Nice try. It came from Division. The leak was internal, as the mission was only in hard-copy files in your safe, as well as the one in Sacks’ office. It was either him or you.

He allowed his rage to surface. It would make their decision easier if he escalated. He breathed in, then out. Jayne watched as he repeated the process a few times.

This is the way it happens. My name gets leaked, and a foreign agency does your dirty work for you, Mason continued and saw her lose her cold focus now.

Sometimes, but not this time, she answered carefully.

Three people that mattered to me were butchered by the Russians because of it.

It is life, Jayne said, and Mason saw that she was not happy with the direction of the conversation.

No, fuck you! He spat the words out. It is the life we live, not them. They were civilians. It is not the life I wanted to live, either.

You chose it.

No, you seduced me. And all I found was a graveyard, he smiled a wry smile. If I pulled a gun, would you shoot me?

Yes.

Pity. He mused and saw her confusion. Suddenly, she heard the weird doctor speaking in her ear.

Does he have a weapon? the doctor asked.

No, she answered the radio after scanning Mason’s body to make sure.

Stand down. He wants you to kill him, Hansen said. Jayne frowned at the authority she heard in his normally timid voice.

What!? she snapped.

I said he wants you to kill him. The doctor was insistent. She looked at Mason, who had no expression. He knew she was talking with the operations center. The shot will come soon.

Where is it? she asked Mason. She watched nervously as he reached into his jacket pocket and then took out a thumb drive. She breathed a sigh of relief, as she knew what he could do with a knife even at this distance.

Throw it, she commanded.

Fetch it.

He held it out to her, but she didn’t move. Then he turned around, his back to her, and leaned against the railing. He opened his jacket, his white shirt providing good contrast for at least two snipers.

Are you playing games, Mason? Jayne asked, nervous tension audible in her voice.

She definitely did not want to see him die, not like this. She did not leak his information, but the man who did was now in Leavenworth. He had felt threatened by Mason. She barely had any interaction with Mason after he was exchanged out of the Russian prison. They had made arrangements for him and gave him an expense card.

She had hoped he would come around to the office, but he didn’t. None of her efforts at surveillance yielded any result, as he spotted them within minutes. She had no information on his current existence, except for his charges on the card. The only anomalies were the excessive number of painkillers he bought and his contact with a known drug dealer, but she saw no trace of drug abuse. They did not want to force Mason into a debrief, feeling that he needed to be respected, but he never volunteered any information.

No, Jayne, I was never good at games. That was your area of expertise. His answer jerked her back to the present and she was shocked at the venom in his voice.

And yet, here we are, she replied carefully, heeding the doctor’s advice.

Yes, but it is no game, Jayne. Look around.

What do you mean?

Does it look like I could pull anything?

No, she frowned. Which is exactly why I am suspicious.

He spun around and flung the drive at her. She caught it and frowned.

Now do what you fucking plan to do. I know guys like me do not get to live. Just do it.

You misunderstand, Mason. This was never to take you out. We have no plan to that extent, please. Fucksake, Mason.

For the first time, she saw anguish on his face. The doctor was right, he wanted to die. He wanted her to kill him.

No, Mason, I won’t, Jayne said firmly. He was her friend, and at times she did consider him romantically. Part of her loved him. The anger he aimed at her did not matter and was somewhat understood. She cared for him, as they had too much history that she refused to let go of. She wished she could tell him of her relentless efforts to find him, and the unexpected help she got from a wanted man. But this was not the time.

You killed my soul years ago. Why not my body now?

He was almost begging, as this was not the way he saw it going. He turned around, opened the jacket, and pointed to his chest in desperation, looking for the snipers. But the nests were empty, and snipers were packing their weapons.

No! He retched a sob as he realized he wasn’t going to die today.

Mason, please. Come in, let us help you, Jayne tried and watched as he just walked away. The mighty Mason Crest seemed broken.

Chapter 2

Three and a half years earlier.

Jayne had called Mason in. Mason, Harris has been taken. He is in the Ruslinta prison. She sounded worried. Jayne Neumeier was one of the great beauties. Classic features surrounded by shoulder-length blonde hair.

She had recruited Mason out of the Rangers after he had left his overwatch position and proceeded to take down a dozen Boko Haram fighters with his M4 and sidearm. They had pinned his unit down, and he could see two mounted guns moving in. His unit stood no chance. The drone footage saw him almost running into the street, barely pausing to fire, and by the time the enemy knew what was happening, he had taken down nine hostiles. They were focused on the rest of the team and did not expect a single gunman to blindside them.

It took him a few more minutes to clear the rest, his superior marksmanship making sure he laid them down. He stepped into the street as the gun trucks rolled in, Toyota pickup trucks with thirty-millimeter cannons mounted. As they tried to stop the vehicle and get the guns on him, he started firing single shots, each one taking a hostile down. His unit took down the last hostile, but not before he raked Mason’s upper body. The armor took the brunt of it, but three rounds got through. It was in the hospital that he first laid eyes on Jayne.

She had enticed him with promises of good deeds for good people, but he soon realized he was caught in a web, one you do not escape from. He became a hired killer, but that disillusionment came later. Mason had earned the nickname Berserker because of the way he did his first mission. He had taken out four bodyguards of a low-level criminal in Manila with two Ka-bar fighting knives, then shot the target with his own chromed weapon. He got into trouble for it, but he never gave the reason, as it did not matter to his superiors. No one could have predicted four teenagers stepping out of the arcade next door to where the hit was supposed to happen, right when he was drawing his suppressed Glock. They would have been right in the crossfire, so he changed his tactics. Other operators would have been less considerate, calling it collateral.

Do we have schematics for the prison? he asked Jayne.

Yes, it is a private prison. It only houses fifty inmates, but they are mostly foreign operators, so Spetsnaz will be guarding the place.

How long has he been in there?

A week. We did not know where he was.

Mason looked at the woman who had held his heart, very much against his will. She was asking him to rescue her lover, the man she chose above him. He cursed as he realized he would do anything she asked in any case and cursed his useless heart again.

Do we have any assets that can assist? he asked.

None I trust fully, Jayne looked frustrated.

Get me a surveillance package, Mason muttered.

Already done. She handed him the folder. If there was one man who could pull this off, it was Mason.

Four hours later, he was on a plane to Russia. He had a proper battle on his hands. He had no support because the local contractors vanished at a critical moment. Mason fought his way in, found Harris, and fought his way out, leaving almost twenty guards dead. Harris was a pointless exercise. He was a wreck and barely able to comprehend any conversation, let alone use a weapon. Mason saw the signs of a broken man and felt sorry for the idiot. Thankfully, the extract was run by dependable assets, so twenty-eight hours after leaving the US, they landed again. Mason had boxed his weapon, so he walked off the ramp to his motorcycle whilst Jayne walked to the idiot. When she turned to talk to Mason, she saw him vanish in the distance, running the bike into the red. He was angry, as too many men had died at his hand that day.

He noticed her looking at him differently after that, almost admiring him. Harris was suffering from PTSD, so they gave him soft assignments.

He should never have been in the field. Mason once told Jayne, who did not reply because he was right. Harris did not have the mental fortitude for the job.

A week after that, Mason began seeing things around him he did not like. He was being surveilled, so he vanished. Then Mason saw on the news that a friend of his had been found brutally murdered, gutted alive. Two days later, another friend died in the same way, and later that same day another. The news came to him through the coffee shop near his apartment, as one of the deceased friends was the barista there. He was young and had a very open and optimistic outlook on life. Mason often touched base with him to counter the harshness of his own occupation, and then would openly speak of these conversations at the office because they balanced him. They were being killed because they could not find Mason, so he set himself up as a target, knowing it was a one-way ticket. He was expecting a bullet, not to be captured. Three days later, he was in the very prison he had broken Harris out of. They broke his legs upon arrival.

The torture he endured had a pattern. They would break his right leg, first the lower leg, then a week later the upper. Then his arms, always the forearm, then his upper arm. Once a week, a bone would be broken, which meant each bone had eight weeks to heal before being broken again. It was always just one guy, the commander of the squad that had guarded the prison when Mason broke Harris out. Then he brought in a medieval torture device simply called the rack. It would stretch Mason, dislocating his limbs. The commander, Yuri Semchek, would turn the screws, then help dislocate each joint: wrists, then elbows, then shoulders. He would then dislocate Mason’s hips, knees, and finally, his ankles. He would leave Mason for a day, then reset the joints. Soon, he added the dislocation of Mason’s thumbs and big toes. He was never really interrogated, and he knew Yuri was taking revenge for all the men Mason had killed when he had broken the idiot out.

Mason did not know such pain existed, but he finally gave up when Yuri told him the US had betrayed him and that Yuri had been the one who killed Mason’s friends. He often boasted about how stupid Americans were and how many he had gutted alive, some just for the thrill of it. Yuri tortured him for just short of three years, coming once a week. The last few months before the exchange, Mason spent in pain. The torture had stopped, but Mason was never without excruciating pain. It seemed his joints were permanently damaged; it felt like he had razor blades in them. He could barely move, and it was always excruciating.

Mason remembered walking off the plane at Andrews. He had taken six opioids, which just dulled the pain of moving, but he limped badly. Jayne was there to welcome him back and showed him to an agency jet, which flew him back to New York. He gulped down four more painkillers on the flight and tried not to move. Jayne tried to get him to talk, but gave up as he looked at her with dead eyes. Mason had died inside, and he did not trust her at all. He expected he would be killed soon.

They had maintained his apartment, so they dropped him there with an expense card. His weapons had been taken, and he found eight cameras, which he dumped in a drawer in his kitchen. His motorcycle had also been sold as the government was not prepared to cover the licensing and insurance for a dead man. It would have been useless in any case. There was no way Mason could ride. He made it to a nearby drugstore after taking four more painkillers he had liberated from the medkit on the jet. There he bought the strongest over-the-counter painkillers. He took six, then slept, his first night home. It could not be called sleep, but Mason had learned to rest even when in pain.

The next morning Mason could barely move, an all too familiar feeling. He was used to screaming in pain when he woke up and was always tired, as he had not slept well in years. He struggled to get to the painkillers. Eventually, he managed to get the painkillers down and waited half an hour before he could move. He showered, or rather, just stood under the water as it washed over him. There was no way he could reach everywhere to actually wash. He found the clothes he left behind three sizes too big. Then he went to a coffee shop where he ate, making sure he did not eat too much. He settled for half a muffin that he ate by picking off little pieces, taking the other half home for later. He started his scouting, and within hours, found a drug dealer. He walked into the eatery where they were hanging out and sat down at the dealer’s table.

You lost? the guy asked, almost amused.

No.

Mason watched as the rest stood closer, lifting shirts to show weapons. He knew he had no chance, as his body was too broken.

Then I suggest you leave.

I need something for pain, lots of pain.

And you think I can help?

Yes. Please. Mason begged and saw the dealer’s attitude change.

What is your preference? Oxy?

No, no opioids. I heard Ketamine injected might work.

The dealer pursed his lips as he contemplated Mason's words. He realized that he was not dealing with a junkie looking for a fix.

What type of pain? he asked Mason.

My joints, all of them.

Arthritis?

No, Mason made eye contact, Torture. I was in a Russian prison till yesterday.

Fuck man, for real?

Mason nodded, then reached for his painkillers. He dumped the bottle on the table, and they watched as he used his index and middle finger to pick the tablets up and swallow, his thumb refusing to work.

Do they help? the dealer asked with a frown.

They allow me to walk with a lot of pain.

Give me your address; I will come around. You need to know how to use K. I used to make a mix for my mom; she had bad arthritis.

Thanks.

Mason gave his address, then got up from the table. They watched him struggle out the door.

Hey Peepo, why did you help him? one of the dealer’s friends asked as they watched Mason struggle down the stairs outside.

I don’t know. There is something about him. He definitely is hurting. Peepo left them and fetched what he needed. Three hours later, he knocked on Mason’s door.

It’s open, they heard him call and walked in. Mason was trying to get his legs to move, but it wasn’t working. Peepo had two big guys with him, who checked the apartment.

Get him on the bed. He needs to be flat.

They picked Mason up and carried him to his bedroom. Peepo took out a vial and a syringe. For the next half hour, he showed Mason how to inject himself by doing it for him. Mason immediately felt relief, and he started to cry.

Thank you.

Mason pointed to a pouch. There is cash in there. If it is not enough, I will get you the rest.

Peepo reached for the bag and took the wad of bills out. He peeled off two hundred and replaced the rest.

Now remember, my man, on this tiny syringe, just one line per joint, and make sure you hit the joint, otherwise you go high. My number is in the bag. If you use it right, you have about two weeks’ worth. We can always adapt the mix, so keep track of the pain.

Thanks, Mason said as he got up and tested his movement. There was still a dull throb, but he could easily handle it.

God, this is the first time I can actually move in years.

It is a mix of ketamine with a touch of a few other things, all non-addictive. It helped my mom a lot.

Talking about being in the right trade for your family. Mason grinned, and it felt weird.

Peepo laughed as well. Mason walked them out after thanking them again. That changed his routine. Wake up in pain, inject himself, and then take oral painkillers late afternoon. It took a day or two to realize he would save himself a lot of pain if he set the ketamine up next to him on the bed at night. His life became bearable, though the pain never left. The second biggest struggle he faced was the detox from opioids a fellow inmate had given him in prison. The process took almost a week to become manageable.

Mason longed to go for a run or any form of exercise, but knew it would probably exacerbate the problem that was causing him the pain. One thing he really loved was that he could have a proper shower, washing everywhere properly. This alone did something for his outlook on life, feeling clean. He tried to walk as much as possible. His new routine became a walk to a nearby coffee shop after injecting himself. The picture of Sam, the barista he had befriended, was still hanging on the wall with messages of condolences. Sam was the first one killed by Yuri.

He had met Sofia and Glen in the same coffee shop. They were planning to get engaged. Glen had a copy shop, and Sofia was a kindergarten teacher. None of the three knew him well enough to tell Yuri where he lived, but he still gutted them. Mason’s last words to Yuri as they left the prison were ‘Next time I see you, you will die.’ Yuri laughed as he beat Mason up one last time.

Mason thought it laughable that the CIA still tried to tail him until he realized the surveillance teams were getting younger, which meant he was seen as a training mission because he never doubled back on them. A tail needed to be dealt with in his trade. He did spot a few Russians, and they got the opposite treatment. They would still be looking where they lost him when they found themselves with a Ka-bar EK Model 4 to the throat.

Mason did not really have the strength, but he found when he had his knife against a Russian’s throat, they would vanish for a week or so. His reputation was still intact because nobody saw how much pain he actually hid. He would see some return, and on those days Mason maxed the ketamine and soon after a Russian operative would die with a blade to the brainstem or to the lungs.

It was three weeks after the first ketamine shots when Mason went to the New York CIA office. He had pushed the ketamine to the limit that morning, hoping it did not get into his blood too quickly as it caused a good buzz. The fact that he injected away from blood vessels kept him fine, but he made a mistake a few times, which knocked him out for a while. He would wake up with a massive headache and severe nausea.

He was amused as he walked into the office. His retinal scan still worked, as did his handprint. He was still in the system, but he figured that they would use the biometrics to ascertain his health. He saw a few new faces and some familiar faces. They responded to him when he greeted them, then scurried away. None noticed his eyes, the hurt as he tried to connect in some way. Mason was lonely to where it tore through him like a bladed rotor. These were the people he could connect with, who were shielded from retaliation, and yet they did not want to. Mason checked the entire office area and noticed no sign of Harris, not that he was looking.

Can I use this terminal? he asked a new face, who nodded.

Do you need anything specific? the new face asked him. He seemed friendly and helpful.

No, I am sure my credentials still work. What are the day’s colors?

Red, pink, and grey.

Appreciate it. Mason logged in, the new face looking over his shoulder to see if he came right.

You’re Mason Crest? Mason heard his tone change to alarm.

I am, you? Mason smiled at the nervousness the new face suddenly displayed.

M...Martin Dryden. A pleasure to meet you.

Mason greeted him and saw the telltale signs that he was going to bolt.

Well, Martin. I am not really as scary as they say, so calm down.

I am calm, sir, Drydon said as he started sweating. He realized he was talking to Berserker. Drones like him rarely met operatives at Mason’s level.

I just want to review some of my missions. Are they still on the beta system?

No sir, try the Delta.

Ah, the archive.

Y...yes sir.

I am not surprised. It has been almost three and a half years. He pointed to Martin’s chair. Carry on Martin. I will ask if I need any more help.

He watched bemusedly as Martin sat down, twisting his body to keep an eye on Mason. He had noticed the usual office buzz had quietened. There was just an initial ripple of whispers, and now heads popped up inside cubicles to check him out.

He called up his first mission and plugged in his earphones, but kept one earbud out. He listened to his debrief and grinned at the crap they gave him for deviating from their plan. Then he opened the security video, which he had not seen. The teenagers were clearly visible on it. He saw himself walk past them, wearing a mask. In Asia, almost everybody wore masks because of bird flu. He watched the takedown and realized why they thought him nuts. Ten seconds from launch four guards lay bleeding out, their jugulars ripped apart. Mason had carried two Ka-Bar EK Mark 4’s on every mission. He noticed the glint as the target pulled his chromed .45. Mason had kicked him on the elbow, making him drop the gun, which bounced just right for Mason to pick it up and put two in his chest and one in the head. He dropped the gun and vanished off the screen. It took less than thirty seconds to take down the target and his security detail.

Fucking Berserker, Mason muttered.

Sorry, sir?

Nothing Martin, just verbalizing.

He noticed as Martin looked at the rest, who had found work to do with an eye-line to Mason. None saw him insert the tiny thumb drive and copy the mission to it. Five missions followed the first onto the drive. He felt the telltale stabs in his joints, so he decided to end the excursion. He had been in the office for four hours. They should know by the next morning that he had downloaded some files, and he set his plan in motion. He knew it was inevitable. He would be taken down, so he adjusted the timeline. Burnt agents of his caliber did not live long based solely on the amount of sensitive information they possessed. Living on ketamine was also not a solution. Mason wondered where she was, and why she had not approached him.

Mason, she called him as he started to leave. He had hoped to not see her. He turned towards her voice.

Jayne.

What a nice surprise. Why did you not tell me you were coming in?

What would have happened? he smirked. A welcome party?

It would have been nice.

She readjusted her face, shocked at his attitude, did you need anything Mason, anything at all?

Jayne noticed a little fire in him, which was a change from the dead look when they returned. She wanted to tell him that she was at the Pentagon and rushed to the office as soon as she heard he was there. She wanted to do so much more for him than she had. Jayne wanted her friend back, not the operator. She also needed to determine what information he had divulged while in captivity.

Not from you, unless I can have my life back before I met you.

He turned and walked out of the office, missing the pained look on her face. He caught a cab back to his apartment. There was no way he would make the ninety-minute walk. At home, he sucked down a few painkillers, then removed six newly hidden cameras, throwing them in the drawer. He would find them every time he returned after having his coffee. There were almost fifty cameras and other devices in the drawer already.

Two weeks later, he went back to the office and saw the faces watching him like before, way before when they were terrified of him. They feared him, and it hurt Mason because it was all for nothing. He noticed the extra careful search by security, but he had no drive this time. He had hidden it in one of the useless cameras he had found during a sweep of the apartment. He had purposely damaged a few visibly, as they would not think to look in their own broken equipment.

Please come to my office, Jayne asked as she met him at the entrance to their offices.

He followed her, watching her move. There was a hint of his old feelings for her again, though they were different. He could not fathom why his stupid heart could not let go of her. He took an offered seat.

Can I help you with anything? she asked.

She was less open, and he felt her interrogation mood. Jayne was guarded now, trying to preserve herself from any backlash.

Not really. I would like to see a doctor. Would the expense card cover it?

No. You need to disclose your medical needs to us, as per protocol.

Okay.

Why do you need to see a doctor?

Don’t worry about it, he said, trying to sound flippant.

Fine.

They danced around the subject, she never really asking him about the drive. If she asked, it could show him they did not trust him, and neither she nor Sacks wanted to give Mason that impression. It bothered Mason as it revealed that there was some sentiment. Had she outright gunned for him, he would have had his answer, but this was different.

They had not observed any contact with anybody by him as far as they could. There was no chatter about an information package on the black market. They had watched every single intelligence contact Mason had, and none ventured near him. She was confused as to why he had the information. It would cause him far more damage than it would the agency. She had scoured the video of the missions. It was missions where he had colored well outside the lines. She saw no common thread, nothing to connect with them. The geeky doctor was down in the basement, looking at possible psychological reasons. He also had to determine if Mason was a threat.

Mason, we are sorry for what happened to you.

Are we now?

She saw anger aimed at her. He knew the agency was sorry, but not for what happened to him. They had to trade Russian operatives, which meant the loss of intel. None of them could care if he lived. They were also nervous regarding the information in his head.

I am trying to help you, Mason.

You have never had my welfare, or anybody else’s, as a priority. Just your climb to power. That was what mattered, only that.

He frowned at himself. Maybe I am wrong. You did send me to go and get that castrated useless piece of shit from a Russian prison. Where is the shithead, in any case?

Gone.

He saw the sadness in her eyes.

Good, he was a danger to everyone, especially to those who answered to you.

I never comp...

What the fuck do you call sending me in to kill twenty Russians? Your shit for him compromised you! Mason got up.

I will see myself out.

His tone was intentionally menacing, as he needed them to consider him hostile. He was met by security outside her door and was led out. He knew his credentials would now be wiped from the system. She picked up her phone.

Deputy Director, Jayne here.

And?

Sir, I cannot get any measure of him, and I usually could. He is completely closed off to the point of hostility.

What is he going to do with the information?

Nothing, as far as I can tell. There is no one we can see in his current orbit that is at all connected on an intelligence level.

And the drug dealer?

No connection to anything.

What does he supply Mason with?

We do not know. We have found remnants of syringe packaging and used syringes, but nothing more. He cleans the syringes out so we have no idea what was in them.

Is he using?

Again, I have to say no. There was absolutely no indication of dependency. His pupils on the retinal scanner were normal. We saw slight tremors in his hands, but it was similar to what would be present in anybody having PTSD, which Mason undoubtedly does suffer from.

She had hoped to use the medical request to coax some details, but it did not work. She saw nothing that would warrant granting the request in any case. Jayne felt that maybe she should visit him and take him to see a doctor.

Just keep trying, Jayne.

Sacks sounded glum. Jayne knew that he had a soft spot for operators who had been captured. He took care of Harris, who had seemed to lose it until it became clear that Harris leaked Mason’s identity. Jayne knew Mason was right. Harris was never supposed to be a Division operator. She also knew Harris was never supposed to be her lover, but he scratched an itch. Had she followed her heart, it would have destroyed her. She settled for a warm campfire as opposed to a blazing inferno, which any relationship with Mason would have been. Her mood was similar to Sacks’, glum. But she also knew that Mason could be reached, but not by anybody from the old guard.

Now Harris is locked up. She had barely escaped the fallout of his betrayal. The director had given her this position as a way to find redemption for herself. She did not want redemption. She wanted Mason well and healed from his disillusionment, his mistrust, and his pain. She wanted the optimist and kind man Mason used to be restored.

I will, sir, but I would need to color outside the lines because he knows them very well. I just wish I knew what his plan was because I know him. He is not going to sell or leak information that could compromise peripheral assets. I did not see any arrogance in him, just anger.

I hope you are right, but it seems the weirdo is agreeing with you.

I will meander to the basement. Maybe we can compare notes.

That would be good. Take decaf. He will like you.

They ended the call. She clicked on a link and watched the security feed. She saw Mason walk to the curb and hail a cab. She did not take note of the hint of difficulty with which he got into the car. She wished he would come back so she could tell him the truth.

Mason walked into his apartment. He had hoped that she would grant his request without asking. She was very good at following protocol when it suited her, but he had seen her body slam protocol in the past, also when it suited her agenda. He dumped six painkillers on the counter and consumed them one by one after taking down four cameras. His thumbs were the first indicators that his pain was back, so he had to use his index and middle fingers to pick the pills up. He then rubbed some anti-inflammatory ointment on his joints. Sometimes it helped.

For the next two weeks, Mason scouted for a site where it would happen. The park where he was taken seemed poetic, but he didn’t like it as there were too many families at any time of day. Eventually, he settled on a bridge over Overpeck Creek, near the World Trade Center memorial. He liked the view, and there would be almost no risk of collateral damage. He further set the stage by killing two more Russians. He had recognized them from the team that had captured him, so he felt no remorse. He left the knives badly cleaned and knew they would run blood analyses when they found the knives during their searches. Then he called her from a phone booth.

Jayne, it’s Mason.

Mason, how can I help you?

He imagined people scurrying to get a tap on the line.

Tomorrow, two in the afternoon, the Challenger road bridge. I will give you the drive.

Why did you take it?

Be there. He ended the call.

Jayne made the call to the operations center, and the operative appeared at her door two minutes later.

Miss Neumeier?

Ah, Caitlin. He called, so you are on. There is a meeting set, and I will need you to make contact before it and see if you can get a read on his state of mind. That is all. Observe.

Thanks for the opportunity, Miss Neumeier.

Jayne, please. We care for him. No, I care for him. But if things go sideways, we need to decide, and you will add to the information packet.

Jayne handed the stunning woman a folder, and Caitlin studied it. She knew he was supernaturally good at spotting any observers. Caitlin looked at