[u][b]Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling, Washington, D.C. [/b][/u] “Agent Jimenez, this is Greg Anapest from the CIA. Greg, this is special agent Jimenez,” Deputy Director Bob Weissing mouthed as Jason stepped into his office. The director's hand was out stretched towards Jason, open palmed as if he was presenting the grand finale of an act only Greg Anapest was audience to. A courteous knife hand Jason thought, but Bob Weissing's expression was anything but amused. The deputy director was a curmudgeon of a man but had a particular distaste for Jason, a mood he expected to walk into since being pulled suddenly without reason from Amman. The stranger, a gangly man whose gaunt visage showed his age as much as his snowy combed over hair, pushed himself out of his seat and extended a handshake Jason's way. Jason took it readily, feeling the man's bulbous joints through his skin as he squeezed. Hunger oozed out of the bottomless pits of his eyes. Despite Bob Weissing's order in the DIA's hierarchy his office was small, a box of a room with large panel windows overlooking a verdant horizon of trees where the base hadn't snuffed the earth with concrete. Adorning the walls were keep safes of old military send offs and numerous photographs of Weissing mid-handshake with officials. Jason thought he saw Leon Panetta in one of them. It was picturesque, the total of a lifetime of successful sums. It said stability, the factory line American dream, and it felt like a cage. Weissing ushered Jason to take a seat next to Anapest, the emaciated man studying Jason closely with the vaguest expression of amusement glowing through his thin, stretched out face. He glanced to Weissing, eyebrows raising as if to cue him to begin talking. “Jason, I didn't keep you in the know about pulling you out of Jordan because I didn't want anyone talking, especially you,” Bob said. “DOJ is putting together an inter-agency task force, counter-narco. Just up your alley.” Jason's eyes squinted, not sure why the Department of Justice would have anything to do with his agency, especially for narcotics operations. “AOR?” “Mexico...,” Anapest interjected, the word trailing off as he decided what would follow, “and potentially some other countries.” “You worked SOUTHCOM before coming here right,” Weissing continued, “OSI?” “Yes sir,” Jason responded, knowing Weissing knew that already. It made him feel like he was being talked into a trap. “Working HUMINT, following military purchases, drugs – excuse me, Sir – why get the DIA in on this? Foreign military making some shady deals or-” “Jesus Christ, Jimenez,” Weissing spat, shaking his head, “You wanted your boots touching sand right? Field work, high speed?” “Yes sir, I ju-” “Right?” Weissing emphasized. Jason repeated the word back, choosing not to test his commander's consistently short fuse. Anapest sat quietly watching Weissing, the same content expression making his inhuman face that much more haunting. It reminded Jason of a shark wearing a wolf suit. “Jason, I don't know what to do with you. I didn't ask for you, I didn't appoint you – you want to chase jihadi meth labs with your hands tied by the UN be my fucking guest, I'll forget you were even stationed there.” Jason scanned the floor for the right words, realizing just how deep the hole he had suddenly dug. Weissing was just looking for him to nod his head until he wasn't his problem anymore, but the set up seemed off. The fact that there were no Department of Justice representatives in this meeting was enough to pique Jason's intrigue, but now hearing his boss not wanting him sent his focus reeling. “Ghazni,” Greg said. “What?” Jason asked. Even Weissing looked confused, now darting his eyes between Jason and Anapest. “Ghazni, you walked in on something that closed some doors for you. Am I right?” Anapest said, any animation of emotion sucked into the void of his gaze. It bored into Jason, made his back tense up and want to curl. He sat unresponsive, face wracked with confusion as he stared back at Anapest. “Yeah...” Jason finally whispered. “You work with us, maybe you'll get to open a different door.” [center]*****[/center] The plane ride was a dreamless sleep, the droning of the commercial aircraft a white noise lullaby that let the ambien Jason downed last night ease him back in. The flight was a red eye to begin with but the time difference from Washington D.C. to Tuscon left Jason enough hours to sleep off the rest of the sedative. Normally he wouldn't take ambien unless it was for fun but he always had enough around to help hard reset his sleep cycle to fit the time zone. When he did sleep on ambien he hardly remembered his dreams but he always woke up with the sense that he had been somewhere else. The vague recollection wasn't so much remembrance as it was instinctual, three steps removed from the fleeting memory of a dream. When the final approach rocked him awake he felt nothing instead, as if the time had slipped away between moments and some part of him with it. Jason groggily departing the plane to the airport tarmac, turning around and staring at the graveyard shift workers take his pelican cases and luggage bags and stack them on a wheeled cart right outside the private passenger plane. In his hypnagogic state he envisioned the aircraft was a longboat, his missing time a stagnant river of black stretched out into starless haze of the dwindling night beyond. It reminded him of the river Styx. He scoffed at his dramatic imagination, wiping his face with his hand as the luggage cart was wheeled to him. No words between them but a muttered 'thank you' and an automatic 'you bet'. Jason ordered a local taxi to take him to a car rental lot across town, skipping the convenience of getting a ride at the airport. The rule Jason had given himself was to never take an airport rental, the government travel card would be too easy to anticipate and to trace. He wasn't anticipating being monitored or followed and more than pretending he was the spy that never was he was afraid of leaving any trail of evidence that could in some way link back to his off duty habits. Waiting outside the terminal Jason began to look at Tuscon's craiglist page for casual encounters. He didn't know why he meant to start there, it was always the same in each city. Bots, too many woman asking for “flowers” for sex, or the occasional 'want BBC only' ads. He moved on to other sites he was successful with before, browsing the catalog of available partners while a dark blue dodge caravan eased to a stop in front of him with a faint protest of squealing breaks. “Mr. Jason?” the driver asked out his passenger window. He was a Native American man with clay red skin and a hooked nose like a sloping butte, his salt and pepper hair pulled back and braided into a tail. Jason confirmed it was him and they both began loading his various cases. “I thought you would be Mexican,” the driver said, not looking at Jason as they loaded his luggage in the back. “I thought you would be too,” Jason said through a smirk. The driver chuckled, rounding his car with Jason heading towards the other side. The driver replied, “Heh, I guess so. Where are you heading?” “In town, I need a car rental place. Doesn't matter which just not here.” The driver began to traverse the city, the orange-purple expanse giving way to sun peaking over the elevation in the distance. Jason hadn't been here in a few years but it felt as if it had been decades. The scenery, the drab accumulation of strip malls and urban patchwork in the sparse valley of tall cacti, was exactly how he had left it. Yet he felt unfamiliar to this place and had felt so since waking up from the plane. When the ambiguous, ugly architecture of the city lost his attention he went back to his phone. [i]Wanting a few drinks and good company. Let's see where the night takes us![/i] Pass, Jason thought. He wasn't interested in someone that didn't know what she was looking for or was too afraid to outright ask for it. Any inkling of wanting a relationship was a pass as well. He didn't want anything that could give the illusion of long term figuring this was the equivalent of a TDY in terms of how long he'd be in Arizona. [i]I'm looking for someone that can keep up with me and my friend and satisfy our kinkier wants. 420 friendly, be disease free. Send pic of your face and your cock and you'll get pics in return. No face no pics boys ;)[/i]. Better, could be a bot though, Jason thought. He took the bait and began writing an email in response. “So what's with the name?” the driver asked. He sounded cordial enough, genuinely curious and not just sounding bored. There was a confident calmness to him. Every motion, every glance seemed deliberate but measured. It was equally comforting and unnerving to Jason. “I'm a coconut I guess,” Jason said through a smile. “Coconut? Boy you look like mayonnaise. Spanish name? European or something?” the driver asked. Jason sighed out, “The great diaspora of America. Part Puerto Rican. I'm sure I have a little of your tribe in me too.” “Which tribe is that?” “You tell me,” Jason quipped. The man shook his head and gave him a glance, looking amused more than critical. He didn't answer as he focused back on the road, giving Jason the impression despite the smile he might have told the wrong joke. He checked his email for the ops house location one more time, trying to commit Foster's name to memory. He'd call him when he got his rental car but for now he looked around the front seats trying to spot some sort of cigarette case. He asked for one and the man produced a crumbled package of Camels. “No American Spirit, nothing um-” “What, Native? You looking for my peace pipe and whole leaf tobacco?” the drive asked sharply. Jason shook his head, stammering out a sorry that never quite jumped from his lips before the driver burst out in raucous laughter. Jason gave him a perplexed expression but still managed to laugh with him despite his embarrassment. “Ah hah haha – Oh man! Don't worry there Mr. Jason. You want a smoke or not?” “To tell you the truth,” Jason answered, “ I usually don't smoke. I just wanted to see if you had anything different.” He waved his hand and the driver produced one for himself, letting the unlit cigarette bob between his lips as he asked, “Different? You looking for grass?” “Eh,” Jason said with a shrug. He meant tobacco but the driver was willing enough to talk drugs so he obliged, “lasts too long in the system. Blow, molly, lucy – any of that?” The car turned into a residential street adorned with shabby houses hidden in sageland trees, sheet metal fences, or some neglected car or machinery. The roads snaked up low hills away from the airport part of town and Jason could only guess how far away from downtown. It didn't matter, he was heading out of Tuscon after this to the safe house. The driver gave an uncertain answer with the sway of his head, saying, “I have a nephew – real big in the party scene, you know? Flips coke from the Mexicans. Gets other drugs from Cali, makes runs and what not. He probably has what you're looking for.” “You aren't worried I'm gonna sting you?” Jason was surprised how open the man was about it all, he could have easily passed for a cop. The man gave him a slow regard, the lightheartedness draining from his countenance. “You?” he asked in a low, tense tone. “I have nothing to worry about. Not from you.” “What do you mean by that?” Jason said, looking all the more confused. His phone began to ring. “You have tunnels in your eyes. Holes, deep ones. At the bottom I see Three,” the driver said, right as Jason saw Foster's number come up on his phone. His stomach tried to reach the ground when he heard the man, but before he could say anything the call went through. “You hit the ground?” Foster asked succinctly. He sounded rushed. “Yeah,” Jason replied, shaking his head to get out of his shock,” I mean uh yes sir. Sorry, Ambien's still hitting me.” The car came to a stop in front of a dilapidated rental lot, its wire fence wrapped in cheap tarp signs that were long ago shredded by the elements. The driver stepped out and began to stack Jason's luggage outside the car. “Blythe knows you're coming. You're running solo for the most part on intel. No RFIs, no training wheels, no special clearances. Use what the agency has you cleared for. I need you on this quick.” Jason stepped out of the car, “Rog, boss. Hey c-” [i]Click.[/i] What the fuck, Jason thought. No indoc briefing, no details, no support. It was all looking to be a 'spook' operation, and while he always wanted such an assignment the vagueness of everything was unsettling. The sensation reminded him of the driver. He was already in his mini-van with his left arm pressed flat against the outside of the door, a slip of paper between his middle and index finger. Jason asked for the price of the ride and the man gave it, extending the number Jason's way and taking a wad of cash from him. “Take these numbers, the second one is my nephew. Tell him Uncle Mitch give it to you,” Mitch said. Jason took the number, replying, “Thank you. Hey what did you mean earlier? With my eyes and holes and what not?” “The Coyote is after you.” A grimness emanated from the man, a predatory presence that barbed his reply. “We'll meet again, Jason.” He left Jason standing in front of the lot watching the man's car chase the sunrise into the nothingness of the Arizona wilderness. He saw the outline of the car seats inside through the back window but for the briefest of moments he thought he saw the outline of three figures sitting in the back staring back at him.