Max Collins - Skin Game

“No, Mr. Thompson — I want to help you stay alive.”

The hand holding the gun was trembling; Logan realized the man with the weapon was seconds away from blasting him into eternity...

“Until about three months ago, Mr. Thompson,” Logan said as calmly as he could manage, “you worked for the NSA, where your supervisor was a very bad egg named Ames White.”

Thompson cocked the gun, and the barrel continued to tremble; but Logan knew he’d bought himself some time.

Thompson demanded, “Who are you?”

“My name’s Logan Cale. I’m a journalist. I was sent by Eyes Only — I think you should recognize that—”

The barrel waved an invitation. “Get in here!”

Logan did as he was told, and as soon as they were both in the room, Thompson shut and locked and night-latched the door.

The room was a mess — bedclothes scattered, pizza boxes and fast food cartons littering the floor, the scent of stale sweat permeating everything. A portable TV perched on a scratched-up dresser — news on, sound down — a worn-out armchair occupied a corner, and a nightstand next to the bed held a pitiful table lamp that at the moment supplied the only light in the room — even though it was mid-afternoon, the curtains were pulled tight and scant light made it in from outside.

The former NSA agent wore a sleeveless white undershirt, black suit pants, black socks, and no shoes. Logan wondered if the guy had been out of this room at all, since checking in.

Glock at the ready, Thompson peered quickly through the peephole into the hall. Satisfied, he turned back to Logan.

“Clasp your hands behind your head.”

“You will find a gun,” Logan said, as he complied, and Thompson patted him down and found the pistol.

“Since when do reporters go packing?” Thompson asked, an eyebrow raised in the bearded, skeptical mask of his face.

“Since they linked up with Eyes Only,” Logan said. “The authorities consider what we do to be cyber terrorism — you should know that... you were with the NSA.”

Thompson slipped the clip out of Logan’s pistol and ejected the shell in the chamber. He stuffed the pistol in his belt; the ammo he slipped in a pants pocket.

Then he pressed the snout of the Glock to Logan’s temple, eyes wild as he said, “How do I know White didn’t send you?”

“If White had sent me, you’d probably be dead right now.”

“Or you would.”

Logan — hands still clasped behind him, cold snout of the nine millimeter still kissing his temple — managed to shrug. “Or I would... White does want you dead, right?”

Thompson’s mouth dropped open. “Why the hell do you say that?”

“Pieces are falling together. Otto Gottlieb told me—”

The pistol pressed harder into Logan’s flesh. “Otto’s one of them.”

“No. He’s bolted the NSA too. And anyway, he was never on the inside of White’s schemes — he was like you, just a good little NSA soldier... Can I put my arms down?”

“No. But keep talking.”

“Gottlieb thinks that what happened to you and your partner — and some other off-kilter things that have been going down — are somehow White’s doing.”

“A transgenic killed my partner.”

“That’s the party line, isn’t it? Whatever the case, Gottlieb finally realizes White’s gone rogue. And part of what White’s up to has to do with some... some friends of mine, who he’s trying to hurt.”

Thompson wasn’t keeping up. “Rogue? Friends of yours?”

But the Glock had lowered; the bearded former agent had let it slip away from Logan’s head...

“Yeah,” Logan said. “Several of my friends, actually.”

Eyes flashing with the abruptness of it, Thompson changed subjects. “How the fuck did you find me?”

“People hiding under an assumed name often do so under a variant of their real name — helps them fight the loss of identity that comes with going underground.”

“Shit,” the ex-agent said, knowing.

Logan went on: “I started with your mother’s maiden name, names of people you went to school with, any name that you’d come in contact with, then I put every anagram of your name into the computer; after that, I listed synonyms for ‘sage’ and fed in Tom and Thomas, under various spellings, for Thompson... and waited for the computer to spit something out.”

Even hotels like the Armbruster had to list their guests with the government’s database; the Travel Security Act dated back pre-Pulse, one of many repressive laws born out of a fear of terrorism.

“Shit,” Thompson said again.

“Now,” Logan said, hands still behind his head, “I have a question for you.”

Thompson — gun in hand but not pointed at Logan — just looked at him, obviously still pissed at himself for picking a name that could be traced to him, a pro who should’ve known better.

“Why didn’t you run?” Logan asked.

“I didn’t know, at first.”

“That you were set up, you mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, I knew I was being railroaded out of the NSA; but I was healing up from a broken arm—”

“Your file says you took early retirement on full disability pay.”

“That’s right... which, frankly, made me even more suspicious. It was almost like—”

“You were being paid off.”

“Yes! But finally I knew White and his people would be looking for me, and after I sent my family away, I knew they would think I ran too. So... I didn’t.”

That made only vague sense to Logan, who said, “Look — could I put my hands down?”

“Yeah... yeah... sorry.”

“Why don’t we sit and talk about this?”

Logan took the chair and a dejected-looking Thompson sat on the bed, the Glock in his hands, draped between his legs. He looked like a man trying to decide whether or not to kill himself.

“Your arm looks like it healed fine,” Logan said conversationally.

Flexing his left arm, Thompson said, “It’s still sore sometimes.” His face changed, curiosity overcoming fear. “Why are you here? Why come looking for me?”

“Surely you know about what’s going on at Terminal City?”

Thompson nodded. “About all I do is watch the tube — I see the news. What about it?”

“Those people are the friends I was talking about — and I’m trying to help them. White’s putting the squeeze on, to get the federal government to invade and kill all the transgenics. Total genocide.”

Thompson shook his head. “Can’t help you, then. After what one of those... those freaks did to my partner, killing ’em all is fine by me.”

“Are you sure that a transgenic killed your partner?”

Thompson nodded so vigorously he bounced on the edge of the bed. “Listen, Cale — before the NSA, I did time in the Army and was a cop in Los Angeles. I’ve seen the evil shit that people can do to each other... but I’ve never seen anything like what happened to Hankins.”

“He wasn’t the last, either.”

“No — I mean, skinned ! No normal person could do that — only a monster bred to do atrocities, trained to kill—”

“Bred by the government. Trained to kill by men like Ames White.”

“Even so, these transgenics need to be put down — whether it’s out of getting even for victims like my partner, or just to put the bastards out of misery — I don’t really give a damn. As long as those monsters are wiped out.”

“And yet... you still believe you were set up by Ames White, right?”

The two men locked eyes, and Thompson said, “We were sent into combat with rubber bullets, Cale. Look — Hankins was a son of a bitch, but he was goddamn good at his job. We were using those new portable thermal imagers—”