Derek Haas - Dark men

The ASOD smiled. That, he had. At least for one of them.

Northville, Michigan is a quiet slice of suburbia outside of Detroit, with modest homes peppered around mansions. Although many neighborhoods in Detroit look as though they’ve been abandoned and forgotten, Northville could just as easily be situated outside Kansas City, Chicago, or Dayton. It is filled with regular folks making livings and raising families. Roland Deckman grew up here before he joined the army.

We drove straight to Michigan, taking shifts behind the wheel. Risina spent enough time driving in the States when she was in college that she isn’t intimidated by the width of our highways. In fact, she handled our sedan like it was primed for the Indy 500.

“Do you know what the fastest car in the world is?” she asked as we blasted through Ohio.

“What?”

“A rental car.”

Well, at least her jokes have gotten better.

It’s warm and rainy when we arrive, the kind of summer shower unique to Michigan that blows down like hell for fifteen minutes before it exhausts itself and retreats out to the lake.

We sit outside Deckman’s parents’ house. He’s now a government assassin, I’m sure of it, a breed of animal I’ve been fortunate to avoid until recently. He’s had training I’ve never had, supplies I can only dream of, access to targets that must be facilitated by entire teams of personnel and equipment, and a get-out-of-jail-free card that removes half the worry of making a kill.

But does he secretly despise his job? Does he question the political motivations behind his assignments? Does he rely too heavily on the system? Do his fortunes change with each new administration? And does this cement his loyalty to his friend Spilatro over his loyalty to his employers?

The real question, the only question that matters: is he a tiger?

No, I haven’t had to worry about government hitters until now, until they sought me out, forced me back in when I was content enough to ride out my days in obscurity.

We sip coffee and wait for the rain to die.

“Decker’s our key. He’s who we’re going to trade for Archie and how we’re going to get them off me.”

“What makes you think Spilatro or Spittrow, or whatever his name is, will be more willing to deal for Decker than Carla?”

“Because these cover stories people tell are mostly lies but always have moments of truth. I think Decker has been Spilatro’s friend and fellow soldier for twenty-plus years. I think they were already working jobs together when they were in the service. I think Decker went to the CIA first and rescued Spilatro from a dead-end life of middle-management and that formed a bond that is unbreakable.

“I could be wrong. He could mean nothing to Spilatro. But he helped him pull off that fake hit to fool his wife. After all that time, they were still together. My guess is the Agency isn’t too keen on fostering or facilitating friendships… they’d want their officers working alone and anonymous. So these guys still pulling a job together has to mean more than blood… it has to. At least, that’s what I’d like to believe.”

“Because it’s the best plan?”

“Because it’s all we have right now.”

The military is one thing, the CIA quite another. She couldn’t get inside Langley the way she did the Pentagon, so the only chance we have of confronting Decker has to come from his past. Spilatro certainly covered his tracks, burning down the “Aaron Spittrow” military records from both before and after his service, but Decker must’ve been comfortable no one would put the puzzle pieces together the way we did. He failed to erase the blackboard of his “Deckman” upbringing, and the military kept a record of his home address.

His brother, Lance, now lives in the same home they grew up in. He’s an alcoholic. He owes money to the bank, has sold the equity in the house, has tried unsuccessfully three times for a small business loan, and was rejected on the grounds of bad personal credit. All of this information, supposedly private, Risina pulled from the Internet during our ride west. A natural fence, like I said.

The rain abates, so we approach the house. After a minute, a man in his early forties opens the door. He holds a beer bottle in one hand, and his eyes are droopy, red-rimmed, like a basset hound’s.

“Help you?” he says as he takes a glance at me and then lets his gaze linger on Risina.

“Mr. Deckman?”

He turns back to me. “Yes?”

“Today’s your lucky day.”

He leans into the doorframe as his expression turns suspicious. I’m holding a duffel bag, and he eyes it, then looks back at me. “Hadn’t had too many of those. What’s the sale?”

“No sale. We’re here to give you money. Can we come in?”

He folds his arms but doesn’t budge.

“What’s this about, pal?”

“It’s about your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Roland Deckman’s your brother, correct?”

His eyes dart back and forth between us now, the lids pulled open. “Yes, but…”

“Well, he’s made a significant amount of money over the last twenty years, and he wanted you to have most of it.”

“Is he… has something happened to him?”

“Can we come in, sir? We’d rather not do this on the doorstep.”

“Yes, of course.” He blinks down at himself, tries to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt, then props the door open, stepping aside. “Please, come in. Sorry… we get solicitors all the time here.. ”

“No problem.”

Risina moves in first, and I follow. The house is a craftsman, lots of wood and rustic furniture. The living room is cramped and messy, like it hasn’t had a wipe-down in a while. The television is on, a video game in mid-pause on the screen.

“Can I get you guys a beer? Or a… or some water?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you.”

We take seats on the sofa and Lance looks nervously at the screen and then presses a button on the remote so the television snaps to black.

After I let him stew for a moment, biting at the nail on his pinky finger, I lean forward. “I’ll cut right to it then, Mr. Deckman. I don’t know if your brother told you, but he was working for Central Intelligence.”

“Yeah… he, uh, I don’t know if I was supposed to know but he mentioned…”

“Good. It’s certainly not against regulations.”

I pause a moment longer, then smile sadly. “I’m sorry to say that your brother died in the line of duty.”

I watch Lance’s eyes, and they continue to move back and forth between us but don’t cloud over. It’s easy to see inside his head: he doesn’t give a damn about his brother, he just wants to know what is in it for him. I suspect his credit cards are maxed out, his bills are piling up, and the house we’re sitting inside is one of the few possessions he owns outright, paid for by his parents before they croaked.

He catches himself and coughs into his fist. “Oh… oh no. I.. this is a shock, you know.”

“I understand.” I shift the duffel up to the coffee table, struggling for effect with the weight, and his eyes go to it like a prisoner looking at a key that fits his lock.

“Like I was saying, your brother socked away a significant sum during his employment, and his will states that he wants you to have it.”

“How much?” He catches himself again. “I mean, wow, this is incredible. I’m…” He stops, coloring.

“Well, that’s why we’re here in person, Lance. This bag holds a hundred thousand dollars in cash…”

He’s fun to watch. There’s obvious disappointment at that amount-like it’ll cover his debts but he isn’t completely out of the woods. He won’t be able to sit around playing video games for the rest of his life, all his bills paid. I keep playing with his emotions..