Darren Lemke - Gemini Man

If so, what would happen when the real good guys finally showed up to bring her and Henry in? Was she going to spend the rest of her life in maximum security for being the stupidest DIA agent who had ever lived?

“Henry,” she said, and he looked up from his phone again. “Has this ever happened to you before?”

“‘This?’” He frowned. “Can you be more specific?”

“Your own government trying to kill you.”

Henry gave a short laugh. “No. That’s brand new.”

“No, now really—you’ve been with the agency for a while,” she said. “Can’t you guess what this is all about?”

Henry gave her an arch look. “If I could, I wouldn’t be taking this lovely vacation with you.”

“When I’m head of the agency, we’re going to handle retirement very differently,” she promised him.

He was about to answer, then suddenly turned to look up at the clouds to the south and west. Danny heard the distant sound of an approaching aircraft. It gradually became louder until finally a twin-engine Aztec seaplane broke through the billows of white into the blue sky. It made a wide circle above them before it began to descend.

Henry’s face lit up as he got to his feet.

The Aztec was similar to a lot of planes run by sightseeing businesses that catered to tourists along the Georgia and Florida coastline, although the logo on the side—Baron Air—was one Danny had never seen before. It was probably a one-man operation; many of them were. There was always more than enough business to go around in tourist season, and during the rest of the year there were courier jobs that the larger companies considered too small, too dubious, or too risky.

Danny watched the Aztec make a perfect, even graceful landing. It water-taxied over to them, maneuvering until it was right next to the Corsair. For a moment, she held her breath, hoping she was looking at the next step in solving all her problems and not one more bad choice. Then the pilot’s side door opened and she saw a man with an impressive moustache smiling out at her. He was wearing a t-shirt, a vest with several pockets, cargo shorts, and motorcycle boots.

“Baron Tours here to pick up Brogan, party of two?” he said, eyes twinkling.

At a complete loss, Danny turned to Henry.

“Danny, meet the Baron,” he said. “Middle-aged reprobate and the best pilot I know.” Henry was grinning from ear to ear; she couldn’t remember the last time she had ever seen anyone look so happy. “Baron, Danny.”

“Hey, Toast,” Baron said genially.

Danny grimaced, feeling her face grow warm again, now with mortification. In the DIA, once you got a nickname from a senior agent, you were usually stuck with it whether you liked it or not; complaining would only guarantee it would be permanent.

As Baron helped her board the plane, she spotted the tattoo on his right wrist, a green spade identical to Henry’s, and felt herself relax a little. The two men had that kind of bond, which meant if she could trust Henry ninety-nine percent, she could trust this man just as much.

“Your burners, as requested.” Baron handed Henry a plastic bag full of cell phones. “ But ,” he added as Henry looked inside, “before you use them, maybe consider Cartagena as an option?”

Henry didn’t say anything and Danny wondered if he was actually thinking it over.

“It’s a nice life,” Baron went on, addressing her, too, now. “You’d be anonymous, and safe. ”

Henry’s eyes glinted and for a split second, Danny thought he was actually going to say yes. Then he shook his head apologetically. “Baron, we’re in the shit here. I’m pretty sure Jack Willis is dead.”

For the first time, Baron’s smile vanished completely. “Jesus. Did anyone follow you?”

“No,” Henry assured him.

“They will. Let’s go. Hey, Toast, can I have one of those crackers?” he added, nodding at the box. “I skipped lunch. And breakfast.”

Danny had actually forgotten she was still holding it and handed it to him.

“Brace yourselves,” Baron said over his shoulder and revved the engine. “The ride tends to get pretty noisy.”

Del Patterson was a man with a lot of problems.

Of course, his road never had been completely smooth. Something always went wrong, and if it had already gone wrong, it would develop further complications. From an early age, Patterson had had to learn how to think on his feet, make repairs on the fly, and never let his insurance lapse. This probably accounted for how he had ended up in the DIA, doing what he did. He was never more in his comfort zone than when he was outside of it.

Recently, however, the going was tough even for him. There was no time when he didn’t have at least a dozen problems simmering on the verge of a rolling boil. A few were personal: he had lost his hair and gained a belly, he had the blood pressure of a man twenty years older and fifty pounds heavier, and the desire for a drink was starting to outweigh the desire not to have a drinking problem. As it happened, these were all due to ongoing troubles that either directly or indirectly posed a threat to the existence of the US or the world or both.

Not that he could share any of these burdens with anyone outside the agency. Patterson wasn’t allowed to tell anyone where he worked. He couldn’t even tell his family what he did for a living, which was why his wife was now his ex-wife and his kid was—well, he was a teenager and as far as Patterson knew, there was no cure for adolescence except growing up. And even that didn’t always work.

Which was probably why Patterson had taken to fantasizing about spilling his guts to people with no security clearance, simply coming right out and saying, I orchestrate strategic abductions and assassinations in foreign countries to ensure the safety of the free world, if only for the shock value. Especially in situations like the one currently unfolding in the principal’s office at his kid’s school.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been summoned here to sit through a detailed list of his son’s high crimes and misdemeanors. Yeah, everybody knew that teaching was a difficult, frustrating, and thankless job, and being a principal was all that with a punchline on top. But sometimes Patterson had a powerful urge to interrupt the man’s litany of complaints with something like, Oh, gosh, I’m really sorry he’s acting out again. I’ve been so busy on the other side of the world making sure the right people get assassinated for the sake of our national security—i.e. to prevent another attack on US soil—that I guess I missed all the warning signs.

The man would probably swallow his tongue.

“Does he do this at home?” the principal demanded, jarring him out of his daydream.

“I don’t think so.” Patterson had no idea what he was referring to. “I don’t know.” He turned to his son, who was slumped in the chair beside him in the classic teenage position of defiant apathy. “ Do you?”

His son shook his head and Patterson suddenly realized the kid was dying of embarrassment. Although he wasn’t sure who the boy was embarrassed by, himself or the principal.

The principal’s glower intensified. “Then can you tell me why, if it’s inappropriate to do this sort of thing at home, you would think it appropriate to do it in your science class ?”

“I dunno,” the kid said querulously. “Probably because science is so wicked boring. ”

Patterson was about to tell him what he thought of that statement when his phone rang. Sighing, he turned to the principal. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” he said. “Try not to do anything incriminating until I get back,” he added to his son as he got up.