My Retirement from the Agency

. . . There were three very big, black Suburbans following me. They were traveling in convoy formation and tailgating me.

I foolishly argued with my little voice: They aren’t following me.

You should make sure.

I exited the expressway at a travel stop, and they followed—not very subtle. I drove directly back onto the expressway, and they still followed. They didn’t care whether I knew they were following.

Being followed twice in one day?

Again, I had no idea who it could be, or why they were following me. There were a lot of people who didn’t like me. I needed to clear this up, but I couldn’t just stop at a coffee shop and manhandle three Suburbans full of soldiers.

Shit!

It wasn’t my decision any longer. The head Suburban pulled in front of me and cut me off. The second Suburban pulled alongside and began to crowd me over to the right shoulder of the road, while the third nearly bumped my rear bumper. I only had one direction I could go—to the shoulder of the road. I moved to the edge of the pavement. They continued pressing me until I was in the dirt. The three worked together as if they had done this many times before. They brought me to a full stop on the shoulder of the expressway.

Where are the cops when you need them?

. . .

Men poured out of the front and rear Suburbans. They were carrying exotic little submachine guns. I didn’t recognize the brand. One of them tapped on the passenger-side window with his gun barrel. I was seriously outgunned and decided to try dumb and innocent—at least at first.

I rolled the window down. “May I help you?” I was smiling.

I think me smiling under the circumstances threw him. He didn’t expect that. He backed up a step, looked around at his buddies, and then returned to the window. “Out!”

I couldn’t open the driver’s-side door because of the roadside Suburban was nearly touching the Mercedes. So I scooted across the front seats and opened the passenger-side door. As soon as I did, two big bullies grabbed me and dragged me all the way out. This wasn’t going to be civilized. They spun me around, searched me, and found my and Mary’s pistols. Fortunately, Mutt and Jeff’s pistols, the spray cans, flash drives, and the other cute little gadgets I’d stolen earlier at the office were locked in the trunk. Someone slapped a pair of cold steel handcuffs on me from behind, and two men shoved me toward the front Suburban.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

No one answered my question. They didn’t even grunt.

. . .

A thug slipped a black hood over my head. I was now blind and handcuffed, with huge knuckle draggers bracketing me. Nothing today was working the way I had anticipated when I’d awakened this morning.

“What’s the problem fellas?”

No one answered.

“If you tell me what you want, I’ll cooperate.”

Still—silence.

Maybe they don’t know how to talk.

We drove silently for some time, and then the vehicle stopped. A window opened, there was an electronic beeping sound, and a man’s speaker-voice said, “You’re cleared.” We were entering a secure facility. I heard a loud jet taking off—near an airport.

We made a series of turns, drove over a speed bump, and then stopped. No one moved or spoke. It was spooky. They could put a bullet in my head right now, and I wouldn’t stand a chance. Just as I was about to try something foolish, one of the knuckle draggers removed my hood. We were inside a large building with no windows, possibly a hangar, maybe underground. The Suburban’s door opened, and the talking knuckle dagger growled, “Out!”

Four very large men were waiting for me outside.

“This way,” ordered the knuckle dragger who had learned to talk. He led me and the others through a steel door and down a narrow, poorly lit hallway. We passed several closed, unmarked doors. We finally stopped in front of a closed door that looked the same as the others.

The talking-model knuckle dragger had also been trained to turn doorknobs. He opened the door and said, “In!”

Maybe eventually he’ll learn to speak in whole sentences.

We now stood inside a plain room with no furniture or other decorations. The walls and ceiling were concrete. There was a drain in the center of the floor. My hands were still handcuffed behind me, and there were still four very large men watching over me. I felt panic edging. I thought of running, but there was nowhere to go, so I waited.

. . .

We passed through a smaller room. This one had furniture and a male receptionist guarding an entrance on the far side apparently leading to another room. The receptionist looked very tough, and I could see the bulge of a gun under his sports jacket—a shoulder holster. His eyes never left me as I walked across the room. Talker opened the door and nodded for me to enter.

Sitting behind a large glass-top desk was possibly the largest man I’d ever seen, at least in circumference. I had no idea how tall he was. The chair he sat in had to be custom-made to hold the massive amount of weight and accommodate his size. He had fiery-red hair that was thinning on the top, but he had allowed it to grow long on the sides. His face had deep scarring, probably from a severe burn sometime in the distant past. His pale-almost yellow-hazel eyes were small for his head, but they were also hard, focused, and penetrating. I could see no humor in them. I soon discovered he always appeared intensely angry. His expression never varied. The total effect gave him a bizarre, almost clownish look—an evil clown that children would run away from.

“Hello, Mr. Wolfe.