Chapter Text
Oh stand in front of me
Open your eyes like you know me
[...]
Bless the broken bowl
Make it whole, make it better than it was before
Make it better than it was before!
Kintsukuroi - Hey Rosetta!
1 Kings 14:9: You have done more evil than all who lived before you. You have made for yourself other gods, idols made of metal; you have aroused my anger and turned your back on me.
The Japanese have a practice in art called kintsugi , or as it’s sometimes also known, kintsukuroi . It’s where you take a piece of pottery that’s been broken, originally vessels used in tea ceremonies but now in other pieces of pottery, and repair it with a lacquer that’s been mixed with dusted gold, silver, or platinum. The philosophy behind it is that when something is broken or damaged, you rebuild it in a way that embraces its flaws instead of hiding them. This way, a teapot can still fulfill its intended use even after being smashed, and the gold liquid will show off all the places in which it was broken, all its flaws on display.
Before Aban Stone began military service, he was a broken man. Childhood had not been kind to him. Born smack in the middle between seven other siblings in a family that viewed having as many children as possible as a duty to God, he had to fight for everything he had. Sometimes it meant squirreling food away under his mattress, or spending his recess in the school library just so he had a moment of solitude. It didn’t help that the love of his parents was not equally distributed amongst his siblings either. No matter how much he achieved, he could never outshine the oldest brother, or his youngest sister. He found himself left out in the cold more times than not.
Joining the military was originally something he wanted to do just for attention. Surely, if he told his parents that he was going to go across the sea and throw himself into the line of fire, they’d ask him to stay. But he didn’t get the response he wanted.
“You want to serve God and our country?” His father had said, barely looking up from the fish he was gutting. Stone couldn’t tell if it was the smell or the lack of parental care that made him want to gag. “Good on you. Keeps us from having to shell out too much for college, either.”
On that day, his motivations changed. Now, joining the military wouldn’t be a cry for help. Instead, it would be to serve a purpose. He couldn’t have cared less about Uncle Sam, but as a soldier, he would be important. He would be needed. He would be noticed. If he got nothing else out of the experience, he would at least always have food on his plate and a bed to sleep in. He’d even have the opportunity to pursue an education and decide where his life took him for once. He could run far, far away from his hometown and never look back.
In the beginning, he saw the Army as a means to an end. Just a way to find some self-worth, get an education, then get out and make something of his life. He went through basic training and went straight to infantry afterward. It seemed like the natural path, and one of his commanding officers smacked him with the reality check that putting your body on the line for your country was the best way to make yourself useful. His first deployment sent him to Afghanistan, where the bodies of men, women, and children on the ground made his ears ring with the sounds of his fellow soldiers’ laughter. A cold chill began to run through his body from head to toe, freezing over his heart in a long winter. When spring came, nothing thawed. No flowers pushed up in his chest. The field of his inner self became a barren wasteland.
The nights were the most difficult. Even though his heart had gone cold, it didn’t stop the nightmares that chased him when he slept, or the thousand-yard stare he’d catch himself doing at the walls. Stone could hear the screams of weeping mothers and orphaned children, even when all was silent. He got used to them, eventually, but that didn’t mean that they hadn’t shaken him to his core.
When his time in Afghanistan let out its death rattle, he was returned back to the United States and found himself immediately shot into preparations for another deployment. On his division’s first day of mission-readiness exercises, he noticed a tense air that hung around the room. There was a twitch in his division officer’s eye, a tight clench in a commander’s jaw, and the all-around stench of anxiety unlike anything had ever seen in his superiors. For once in their lives, they looked like men instead of hardened machines. Something had gummed up the works and blown gaskets inside of them, and a deep, unsettling feeling sunk into Stone’s stomach.
“You’re not ready,” Sergeant O’Brien snapped. “How the hell are you going to protect yourself like this when terrorists come? What if you need to be deployed today, right now?”
Private Clark looked up and gave O’Brien a questioning look. “Hey, what gives? What’s all this rush to prepare? This is all fake, we’re not gonna be running off to fight terrorists anytime soon.”
O’Brien clenched his fist tight and let a shaky breath out. “This is very real, Private. There was an attack this morning.”
Eventually, the battalion was ushered into a room and sat in front of a glowing television, the images on the screen burning into their minds. Smoke and fire poured out of the Twin Towers, and Stone’s lungs began to constrict like he was there. Private Clark began to cry. Private Wang bolted from the room to check on his sister in Manhattan. A few days later, Stone called his parents for the first time in years.
“Dad?” Stone said into the phone, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Someone threw a rock at Anisa yesterday,” his father explained. The golden child. “We found feces at our door. It’s going to get bad, Aban. Very bad. We need to pray that these people will come to their senses and see us as the god-fearing people we are. Have you been praying lately?”
For the first time in his life, he actually felt bad for his family. But the urge to return home was quickly dampened by the thought of being under the thumb of religion again. He settled on sending them letters.
In the rush for preparations for another deployment to Afghanistan, Stone saw a change in the faces of his fellow soldiers. It didn’t matter that he didn’t practice Islam - the fact that he was brown was enough. Their brows furrowed when they passed him, and their conversations stopped when he entered a room. One day, he returned to his room to find that someone had pissed in his bed. And on that day, he pulled out of his battalion.
Although newfound pride for his country swelled inside of him like it had grown for everyone else in the wake of the attack, nationalism could only save him so much from being the target of discrimination. It was only after a passionate plea to a commanding officer that they allowed him to transfer to the army’s engineering school and work on a Bachelor’s degree.
He hoped his time at school would be a good mental change for him. Engineering was a field rife with opportunity. There was something appealing about making something useful from nothing. Something that served a purpose. Something that helped someone. And maybe, by learning how to do that, he could learn how to build himself into an efficient machine, too. Take out all the broken parts, replace them with special gears and engines, polish them until they shine, and make himself whole.
But he began to realize that he was missing too many parts to fully rebuild himself. They had malfunctioned between Sunday masses in his childhood and burned under the glares he got on the streets. He couldn’t settle anywhere, and no amount of rewiring could put him at the same level of efficiency as normal, functioning human beings that experienced emotions in a natural way.
Some nights, Stone would wake up in a cold sweat, finding himself in a panic over nothing at all. The gears were breaking down day after day. Part of him wanted to cry, but the tears had long gone dry. He couldn’t feel emotions that way anymore. It was all wrong and he didn’t know how to find a way out. The labyrinth was closing in, and quickly.
After finishing his Bachelor’s, Stone rushed straight to graduate school. He just couldn’t accept that there was no fix for who he was. He didn’t need a therapist. He didn’t need pills. And he sure as hell didn’t need companionship past a warm body for a night.
He finished his Master’s still alone, still seeking the thing that would fill him with a purpose. Armed with nothing but his degrees and a deep hunger, Stone went back to the only long-term companion he had ever known: Lady Liberty.
Near the end of his degree, he connected with a recruiter for the FBI at an alumni function. He introduced himself as Agent Burkhardt, and told Stone that he had seen some of his work before. A business card was slipped into his palm with the request that Stone would reach out after graduation. So on an unusually chilled day in June, or maybe it was just so because of the Arctic temperatures that had made their home in Stone’s heart, he signed away his life to the Bureau.
At first, his cold nature served him well. People relied on him to do the dirty work that no one else wanted to do in the field. He had seen the decaying bodies of men, women, and children more times than he could count back in Afghanistan. What were a few more? Stone earned the moniker ‘Stone Cold’ early on, and he wore it with a sick sense of pride.
Missions began to affect him less and less in a way that made him ache inside. It was an empty longing, one without reasonable feelings attached to it. The only thing he could identify as part of it was his continued lack of a purpose. What was his goal in the FBI? What did he think he was going to get out of it? He questioned himself regularly, but always came up short. He had to be here for a reason, but he still didn’t know what it was yet.
His honeymoon phase with the FBI lasted a good six years before it was cut short. His confidence made him sloppy, and he began to get called into his boss’ office a little too often for the Bureau’s liking. The only thing that seemed to save him time and time again was his previous track record, and the fact that the missions still got accomplished despite the higher-than-necessary death toll. Stone hadn’t failed yet, and every time he pointed that out in a disciplinary meeting, he was met with a sigh of resignation and empty words of warning. Never once did he leave the office without his ego still intact.
Then, Staten Island happened.
When the file first hit his desk, Stone didn’t think much of it. A threat to national security was supposedly going to rear its head at a military technology convention, and it was their job to neutralize that threat. The intel was murky, but there were two possibilities: either a lone terrorist, or two men. Their anti-government motives had them on the FBI’s radar for a while, but they’d finally revealed enough for the feds to know that they were planning something for the convention. Whether it was going to be just one or both of them was still up in the air, but either way, the FBI had to be ready for it.
The mission file was followed by a discreet letter not long after.
When Stone was rifling through his mail the day before the mission (junk, bill, junk, junk, magazine he forgot he subscribed to), an anonymous letter slipped out of his hands and hit the kitchen floor. He picked it up and turned it over a few times in his hands, inspecting it as if he could determine the contents just from a glance. Then, with a little paranoia pumping through his veins, he put a pair of latex gloves on before grabbing his letter opener. The odds of someone sending something lethal to an unknown FBI agent were pretty slim (he wasn’t the Unabomber’s type), but it was better to be safe than sorry.
Inside the envelope was a piece of white printer paper, the message on it written in a careful hand.
Agent Stone,
I’m not going to waste your time with flowery words about your reputation and your skills. You don’t know who I am, but I know who you are, and I know that you’re good. I also know that you’ve been selected for an important mission on Staten Island.
I have a request for you. I will be attending the upcoming convention, and there is something very important that I have to do. Something that, despite your expertise, your feeble mind wouldn’t begin to understand. The successful completion of your mission would interfere greatly with my little project.
You have been a loyal lapdog to the government your entire adult life. If you seek a purpose, something greater than just doing what someone tells you to do, then helping me will be your best shot at finding one. You’ll be assisting in a major advancement in the field of science and technology, one that the government does not realize is sorely needed. What could possibly be a greater purpose than that? Taking orders from superiors that think you’re a reckless little punk? I don’t think so.
What I need you to do is throw this mission. Be just incompetent enough that it fails, but not so incompetent that you’re caught. In return, I will make sure that the threat is still eliminated through other means, as well as cover for you so you don’t face any major punishment for your actions. And if that isn’t enough, I’m also willing to provide a monetary bonus to sweeten the deal. Fifty thousand dollars has been deposited into your bank account just for even considering this, and I’ll double that if you do what I’ve asked of you. Do whatever you want with that money; buy a new car, take a trip to Hawaii, donate to cancer research. I don’t care. Just get it done, and I’ll make it worth your while.
If you do not accept my offer, I won’t take it personally. I’m sure this sounds rather ludicrous. I will not bring harm to you just for saying no. However, if you report this to your superiors, I will take it personally, so I wouldn’t recommend doing so. I think your family has been through enough already without needing to lose a few extra members, haven’t they?
So if you intend on accepting my offer, I would like you to tie a yellow piece of fabric around your doorknob by noon tomorrow. I will see this and know that you’re in. If you do not intend to accept my offer, then either tie a red piece of fabric around your doorknob, or simply do nothing at all. I will see this as well and find another way to make sure my goal is accomplished.
Think of your future, Stone. Think of what you want out of life. You know in your heart that you deserve better than what you’re doing now. I can give that to you.
Sincerely,
X
Filled with disbelief, Stone checked the balance of his bank account on his computer. But the anonymous sender’s words were true. Deposited this morning, $50,000 from an unknown source. Stone had a feeling that trying to trace it would probably lead to some dead end in Switzerland, so there was no point in using that to track this dangerous donation. All he had to go off of was a letter and a large sum of money. Other than that, he had nothing else to prove that this wasn’t some insane hoax.
Stone could feel a fight with his wobbling legs beginning to brew, and he sat back on his couch before he could lose that battle. This still had to be too good to be true, despite the very real deposit. Could this have come from the terrorists? He chewed on that thought for a moment before remembering that the FBI’s current intel told them that their terrorist targets were scraping for the money they needed to fund their little project. There was no way they could’ve dropped that kind of cash into the bank account of an agent they probably didn’t know existed. Stone wasn’t on any public registries, nor any of the burgeoning social media sites. He was not an easy man to find.
That was why the information in the letter shocked him so much. Not only did the sender know that he worked for the government, but he also knew about inner machinations that Stone had never spoken aloud, not even to the wimpy FBI-assigned therapist they made him talk to after one of his missions. To her, he said all the right things he needed to for their sessions to end with a hearty pat on the back and no notes in his files. They ended just as quickly as they began. It must have taken a masterful behaviorist to pick any of this information up about him; perhaps some sort of evil genius.
On top of all that, they knew he was good . They praised him without coddling him like a child. He didn’t get praise from his superiors like this. All they did was tell him to stop making so many bodies drop on missions. Their admiration for him stopped years ago. These written words were like a very welcome visit from a favorite relative that he hadn’t seen in years, if he would’ve actually appreciated that kind of thing.
Somewhere deep inside of him, a match was lit, and a fire was stoked. A purpose. The thing he always wanted. And here it was, sitting on a silver platter right in front of him.
The next morning, well before noon, Stone ripped up a random off-yellow rag from around the house and tied it to the outdoor-facing side of his doorknob. It wasn’t exactly a bright form of the color, but it wasn’t anywhere near red either. Whoever sent the letter would understand.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to happen afterwards. More instructions? More money? A confirmation that this anonymous force knew he had accepted the offer? But the day of the mission came, and he had received no other correspondence from the individual yet. He had been hoping that at least they’d give him suggestions for how to appropriately throw the mission, but sadly, it seemed like he was going to be left to his own devices.
As he showered, got dressed, and ate breakfast, Stone contemplated what he could do that would subtly throw the FBI off their groove. Would his weapon jam at an inconvenient time? No, that was too simple. Would he trip and fall while chasing a suspect? No, too obvious. He had been one of the highest achievers on his physical exams throughout his time in the government. His superiors wouldn’t believe that he just so happened to trip over his own feet. Plus, he had to make sure that whatever happened would not only throw himself off, but the rest of his team, too.
But his saving grace came in the form of a small package at his door, right when he stepped outside. Again, he was wary at first, but the letter ‘X’ was written in the corner where the return address should be, in the same handwriting as the first letter sent to him. When he opened up the package, he found a new set of cufflinks, carefully wrapped in paper. There was a small note included with the package:
Agent Stone,
I imagine that coming up with a way to throw the mission would be a difficult task for your puny brain (despite you being far more intelligent than your colleagues), so I’ve sent along something to help you out. These cufflinks have a new type of tracking technology embedded inside of them and will subtly turn red when you are close to the terrorists, then green as you move away from them. Use these to determine their location. I would hope you know what to do from there.
Sincerely,
X
Stone carefully examined the cufflinks between his thumb and forefinger. There was a tiny logo on it that he didn’t recognize. Could this be the work of some new organization that would be popping up on the FBI’s radar soon? Or a rogue lone wolf? The logo was simple, but confusing. Was it just an oval? An egg? A sideways eye? He was baffled, but still interested in seeing where this new mission would go, so he replaced the cufflinks he had been wearing with the new ones and checked himself over in the mirror. Hopefully no one would be taking a very close look at the fine details of his outfit, because he wouldn’t have a good way to explain the strange new accessory if someone got too curious.
So with that, he was off to meet up with his fellow agents.
~
Stone walked into the convention center alone, separated from his fellow agents as directed by their mission leader. They would be reconvening during a major tech announcement later on in the day, as that was when the terrorists were going to allegedly begin setting up for their attack. While he waited for the announcement to happen, he decided to wander the convention center aimlessly in an effort to stave off boredom. Hell, maybe he could actually use his engineering degree and talk shop with some of the suppliers that were in attendance.
He weaved between convention attendees, hoping to find something in one of the booths worth a closer look. A few caught his eye, and he even stopped by one or two of them to see what they were working on. But one seemed to catch his attention more than the others: a booth with no one running it.
It wasn’t that the booth hadn’t been set up; there were various pieces of unfinished machinery scattered around the table. But there was no one there watching over it or working on the devices that had spilled their guts all over. Upon taking a closer look, he saw what seemed to be the beginnings of a rudimentary pair of night vision goggles.
Nothing special here , Stone thought to himself. But why leave it unattended? There had to be some sort of catch or trick here.
Despite being aware that this wasn’t just a case of carelessness, Stone’s curiosity got the best of him. He picked up the goggles and turned them in his hands, checking to see if there was any hidden function in them that would make them more special than the type he’d used in active duty. But he only found one thing - one thing that surprised him: the very same oval logo that was on his cufflinks.
Stone set the goggles down immediately. This wouldn’t have just been left out carelessly. This was a sign for him and him alone, as if to say ‘yes, I’m here, continue with the mission as planned.’ That was the clearest sign his anonymous sponsor could’ve left short of an actual note. In fact, he was certain that whoever it was was likely watching him at this very moment. He couldn’t tell if he was flattered or startled by the thought.
Stone looked around for a moment to see if he could spot anyone. After not noticing any suspicious activity, he stepped away from the booth and continued his casual stroll around the convention center, slightly more uncomfortable knowing that someone may be keeping tabs on him the whole time.
It took another hour of wandering before one of his colleagues tapped him on the shoulder to tell him that the announcement was coming soon and they needed to regroup and prepare. Stone gave him a firm nod and followed him to the front hall, where the other agents were gathered. There, they waited for the bigshot CEO of one of the military’s biggest suppliers to step up to the podium and begin his big speech. Once he started, the agents were supposed to be hypervigilant for anyone making any sudden moves or setting things down where they weren’t supposed to be. Stone tried to put himself more on edge than ever - if this was going to go down, he needed to be the first to see it so he could more effectively sabotage the FBI’s efforts.
When he checked his watch to see what time it was, he saw the cufflinks and was immediately reminded that he could be using those to try and track the locations of the terrorists. Sure, he didn’t know for a fact that they were going to be locked onto their proper targets and not some random John Doe who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but so far, everything seemed to be falling into place. Whoever made these cufflinks and sent him that money had to know what they were doing.
But what he didn’t know was exactly how the cufflinks worked, or when they would light up. Curiously, he tapped the face of one of them, and it instantly lit up in a sunset-shade of orange. Stone snapped to attention when he saw the color. That meant that the terrorists (or terrorist, it was possible that there was only one in attendance) weren’t right next to him, but they were close by. Now, the question was, should he wait for someone to make a move? Or try to alert his fellow agents right away? Perhaps he could start with correct directions at first, then proceed to leading them the wrong way. Or he could just send them down the wrong rabbit hole entirety and-
Before Stone could make a decision, a thick, yellow cloud dispersed amongst the crowd, and people began to scream.
His first thought was that this was some sort of harmful gas, either straight up toxic or just harmful enough to keep anyone from going anywhere. But after a few seconds, he didn’t feel any pain or experience any side effects other than his vision being clouded. This was just a smoke bomb, a distraction tactic. This was the terrorists kicking things off.
Fortunately, Stone could see the light on his cufflinks, and saw that it was gradually fading into green. They were getting away. It was hard to distinguish many voices from all the panicked shouting, but Stone could distinctly hear one of his colleagues calling his last name, so he kicked it into high gear and started running towards the sound of her voice.
“Stone! You there?” Agent Kinney said, just barely visible through the yellow fog.
“Right here. What’s the move?” He asked, taking quick glances at the cufflinks out of the corner of his eyes.
“We’re splitting up. One group’s doing damage control here, and the rest of us are gonna chase these fuckers down. Agent Brennan thinks he saw what direction the guys ran in. It’s both of them. If you’re with us, we’d better start moving now,” Kinney answered.
There was no question as to which group he would be with. “If you’re hunting them down, I’m going with you.”
Through the smoke, he could just barely see Kinney smile. “I knew that’s what Stone Cold would want to do. Let’s go, Brennan lit something up. I can see it from here.”
Stone and Kinney met up with Brennan and the three of them started looking to try and identify where the smoke bomb came from. All the while, Stone was still making sure he could glimpse the color of the cufflinks. So far, it was still fully green.
After a few minutes, Brennan waved some of the smoke out of his face and pointed to his right. “The smoke is starting to fade. I think I see someone who might be our guy. Over there!”
Stone looked and saw a man in a hoodie about thirty feet away, clutching a small device of some sort and looking around with furtive glances. The man couldn’t have been much more obviously who they were looking for if he had a big neon sign saying “I’M THE TERRORIST” above his head. The cufflinks quickly went from green, to orange, to something very close to red.
Brennan drew his gun and started to run in the direction of the man, which attracted his attention. Nearly tripping over his own feet, the terrorist dropped the device and booked it towards the stairs to the second floor of the convention center.
“You guys go on ahead, I’m going to get this device out of here in case it blows,” Kinney shouted, running for the little machine and scooping it up.
Stone didn’t think that was the wisest move for her safety, but not only would it be for the good of the civilians and other innocent parties in attendance, but it would mean one less witness if Stone did something big to throw the mission.
He followed Brennan and the terrorist as they made their way over to the stairs. He thought he heard Brennan shout some nonsense to the other man about stopping, about FBI authority, but it all sounded like static in Stone’s mind. There was only one thing on his mind right now: how was he going to give this guy the slip?
The opportunity presented itself when a group of frightened convention attendees slammed into Brennan just as he was beginning to catch up with the terrorist. Brennan was thrown backward, nearly crashing into Stone.
“Shit, are you alright?” Stone asked, helping Brennan readjust himself.
“That doesn’t matter, he’s getting away!” Brennan shouted, looking around desperately. The stairs began to diverge ahead of them, with one new set of stairs going left and another going right. “Fuck, which one did he go up? Should we split up and-”
Not bothering to listen to what Brennan had to say, Stone started to head for the set of stairs on the right, keeping an eye on his cufflinks. As he got closer to the first step, he noticed that his cufflinks were red, but slowly fading away. When he changed direction, the cufflinks turned green.
“I think I saw him go this way, come on,” Stone said, gesturing for Brennan to follow him up the left stairs.
Stone knew that he was leading Brennan on a wild goose chase that would amount to nothing, but what he didn’t know was how long he needed to keep this ruse up before Brennan would start to get suspicious. Maybe he’d get unlucky and the left set of stairs would lead to an obvious dead end, setting off Brennan’s suspicions.
Fortunately, it proved to be quite the opposite. The left side of the second floor led up to a spacious office area with at least twenty different cubicles for the terrorist to theoretically be hiding in. Stone looked at Brennan, who had a frustrated expression on his face.
“Shit, there’s so many, and he might even have gone past the cubicles!” He grumbled, scanning the area.
“We’ll just have to check them all and hope for the best,” Stone said. “We’ve gotta get this guy before he can do any more damage.”
The two of them split up and began to give quick, cursory searches to the cubicles. It only took a few seconds to see if anyone was hiding under the desk or behind the file cabinet, so they were able to quickly move onto the next, leaving all the cubicles checked within a few minutes.
“Do you think the guy is even in here?” Brennan asked, slamming his hand against the wall. “We should’ve split up, goddammit.”
“There’s still another hallway down there,” Stone said, pointing past the cubicles. “If you want, you can check down there, and I can go to the side we didn’t check?”
Brennan firmly nodded. “Let’s do it. Stay safe, Stone.”
“You too.”
The two dashed off in different directions, with Stone relieved that Brennan didn’t insist on being the one to check the other side of the stairs. But considering the fact that this guy was going to now be found wherever the right stairs led to, Stone wasn’t sure what to do with him when he found him. Was he supposed to just leave him there and walk away? Knock him unconscious? What did this anonymous guy need to do that required the terrorist being alive while the FBI ran around looking for him?
Luckily, Stone’s question was answered for him when he bolted up the other flight of stairs. The right side was a dead end, leading to nothing but a small janitor’s room. When he arrived, he found the terrorist, tied up to a pipe and dead from a bullet to the head. Safety-pinned to his shirt was a piece of paper with nothing but the same circular logo that Stone had now seen multiple times. Whatever that guy needed to do was now done, and Stone had accomplished his assigned task.
Assuming that Brennan would be over to check on him soon, Stone plucked the note from the terrorist’s shirt and untied him. Forensics would probably figure out that he didn’t kill the guy once they got a look at the crime scene and the body, but Stone could at least fool Brennan for the time being. He would have to figure out how to cover for the rest later - hopefully with the help of his anonymous friend.
Brennan did run over about five minutes later, once Stone had carefully rearranged the room to his satisfaction. “Shit, guess you got him,” Brennan said, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Yeah, I guess you were wrong when you said you saw him go up the left side,” Stone said casually.
Brennan paused. “Wait, I thought you were the one who said…”
Stone turned and gave him a curious look. “What are you talking about? When we stopped at that landing, I asked where we should go, and you said you thought you saw him on the left. That’s why we went that way first. Are you okay, Brennan?”
A puzzled look crossed Brennan’s features, as if he was questioning everything he had seen and experienced so far that day. Fortunately, he didn’t further push the issue. “I… I guess all the smoke made me a little dizzy. I’m sorry, Stone. Let’s just get out of here.”
After getting in touch with the mission leader to let them know that the terrorist had been neutralized, agents came to retrieve the body and Stone and Brennan were escorted out of the building with hearty pats on the back. Normally, Stone would’ve only felt a little bit of pride in a job well done, even if he actually had been the one to catch the guy. But now, even when he had done nothing but throw the mission, Stone felt a sick sense of glee beginning to arise inside of him. He had fucked with the FBI and at least for now, gotten away with it. And if the anonymous guy stayed true to his word, he would have someone to cover his back with it, too. It was almost too good to be true, so only time would tell if the other shoe would drop at some point.
The next day, Stone received a letter in the mail, signed with the same X as usual.
Agent Stone,
I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to you for ensuring the success of my plan. As you saw, I wrapped up the bad guy in a neat little bow for you to find. You and that other agent bumbling around in the offices bought me all the time I needed to wrap up what I needed to do. Trust me when I say that you will be serving a greater purpose here, more than your little mind could understand.
As promised, the remaining sum of money has been deposited into your bank account, and I will monitor the situation within the FBI to ensure that you will receive little, if any punishment once they receive the full forensic analysis of the crime scene.
Remember, do not say a word of this to anyone, even now that the mission is done. Not tomorrow, not in two months, not in two years, not in twenty years. I will know if you do, and I will make sure you regret it.
Until we meet again,
X
A shiver ran through Stone’s body. There was a lot going on in the letter, but what got him the most was the send-off. ‘Until we meet again.’ What the hell did that mean? Was Stone now beholden to the whims of this guy? Would he be expected to bend FBI rules and throw missions on a regular basis for him from now on? Only time would tell.
The other shoe did finally drop a few weeks later, when his division director called him into her office.
“Have a seat, Agent Stone,” Director Mayer said, gesturing for him to sit down in the chair across from her desk. He had been called into Mayer’s office a handful of times before, but usually she handed any issues related to him down to her assistant director, who was far more of a pushover than she was. If Mayer was the one calling the meeting, it meant real business.
Stone took a seat and sat back comfortably. If this was about Staten Island, he wasn’t too worried. His anonymous friend said that he would cover for him, and considering that he had already made good on his financial promise, Stone saw no reason why he wouldn’t be reliable with his cover-up. “How can I help you, ma’am?”
Mayer pulled a manila folder from a pile on her desk and opened it up. “I would like to congratulate you on your work in Staten Island. I understand that you and Brennan were essential to the capture of James Creary.”
Was that all this was about? Did she really just call him in to give him a gold star sticker? “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’ve had an… interesting track record with us, agent,” Mayer said, trailing her finger down the file. “So much so that there’s been some talk within the Bureau.”
“Oh?” Stone asked, tilting his head slightly. ‘Talk’ could either be very good, or very bad.
“We were starting to consider your skills in the protection of assets,” Mayer continued, flipping a page. “And we’ve found that you’ve done quite admirable work in that area.”
“Well, thank you, ma’am. But I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me,” Stone said.
Mayer quickly looked up at him with an unreadable expression, one he had seen many times before. He never liked that about her; it was always hard to get a read on whether she was pleased with you or was thinking about having you taken out back and shot. “This is a bit unconventional for us, but we were wondering what you would think about working with the Secret Service.”
Huh? Stone’s eyebrows raised. “The Secret Service?” He repeated, caught off guard by her sudden suggestion.
“Yes, Agent. As I said, your protection skills are exemplary. You might enjoy a bit of a change of pace. Less losing sleep over new assignments and more predictable situations,” Mayer said, setting down the folder and drumming her fingers on the table. “How have you been coping after Staten Island?”
“Fine?” Stone said, still confused. He wasn’t aware of any signs he may have been showing that would indicate stress or emotional turmoil. They called him Stone Cold for a reason, after all.
“We just thought that it may be a bit more up your alley, that’s all,” Mayer said.
“I’m sorry, I’m still a bit lost here,” Stone said. “I’m perfectly content with my position in counterterrorism.”
Mayer sighed, her lips pursed. “I didn’t want to have to say it like this, but I don’t think you’re getting the full picture. This is not a suggestion, Agent Stone. I’m telling you that you’re being reassigned.”
For the first time in his tenure with the Bureau, Stone was thrown off his groove. A mix of confusion and anger began to bubble up within him. He was simultaneously lost and offended that she would dare to do such a thing. “May I ask why?”
She picked the file up again and flipped to another page. “There were some discrepancies that forensics noticed at the Staten Island crime scene, and another few that were picked up during Mr. Creary’s autopsy. Would you like me to continue, or do you think you can see where I’m going?”
Stone’s face felt hot. He thought that the mysterious Mr. X was supposed to have found some sort of foolproof cover for him. Had he failed? Had he not even bothered? Did this guy even actually care? “I know I went a bit rogue, but I wouldn’t say it was much further than any other mission you’ve sent me on-”
“This is a bit more than rogue, Agent,” Mayer said, tapping one of the pages. “The bullet may have been from an FBI standard-issue gun, but it doesn’t seem like it was fired from one. I’m not quite sure how you managed to do it… or if it was even you at all.”
“But Agent Brennan was-”
Mayer raised her hand to cut him off. “This isn’t about Agent Brennan. You were the one who found James Creary, yes?”
“Yes, but-”
“And you were the one who neutralized him, correct?” Mayer asked, her gaze hardening. “That is what both you and Agent Brennan stated in your reports, after all.”
Stone paused. “So I’m being reassigned on account of these issues?”
“You’re being reassigned for a series of issues in your missions. This may not be the first time, but it is the tipping point,” Mayer answered. “And this time was a bit more unusual than the others. The Bureau was able to look the other way for a few extra bodies. They’re not willing to ignore whatever unorthodox method you took to complete the assignment.”
“Why not just fire me?” Stone asked, furrowing his brow.
“Is that what you want, Agent?”
The room was dead silent for a moment, save for the faintest murmurs of Agents speaking in the nearest common area. It was deafening in Stone’s ears. “No, ma’am,” he finally said.
“This wasn’t my call alone,” Mayer explained. “There was a meeting with multiple directors, including one from the Secret Service. He told me he was interested in taking you on despite your track record. In fact, he insisted on it for some reason.”
Was this the cover that X had promised? A transfer of position? Some kind of cover. “So that’s the final decision?”
“Unless you’d like to formally resign. I could potentially see to some desk work in another department, but I know you want to be in the field,” Mayer said. “If it were solely up to me, I don’t know that I’d trust you handling a federal weapon ever again. But I was overruled. So take the opportunity or don’t, Agent. The choice is yours.”
Stone began to sink into his seat. His choice? If it was really his choice, he would be staying where he was, no transfer required. But he was now stuck between a rock and a hard place. Protect a bunch of brain-dead elected officials, or file paperwork for the rest of his federal career. He’d sooner be a barista than do the latter. “Then I accept the reassignment,” he said reluctantly, clenching one of his fists at his side.
“I thought that’s what you’d say.” Mayer pulled a small stack of papers out from one of her desk drawers and slid them to him. “Please sign here to confirm that you will be leaving the FBI and moving to the Secret Service. There will be more paperwork and onboarding tasks you’ll need to do once the transfer is official.”
Stone picked up a loose pen from her desk and flipped the pages slowly. He didn’t care what was in the contract. Every word in the papers all but said he was signing his life away to being put in a muzzle. “Is that all, ma’am?” He asked once he had finished giving the contract his John Hancock.
“This is your last chance, Agent Stone. I don’t know what they see in you over there, but they’re going to be keeping you on a tight leash,” Mayer said, taking the contract and stuffing it into a large envelope. “Don’t blow it.”
He resisted the urge to tell her to blow him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re all set now. You may begin packing your desk. Someone from the Secret Service will contact you regarding your first day of employment,” Mayer said, flicking her hand to dismiss him from the room. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Stone said, nearly spitting the words at her. He turned and immediately stormed out of her office straight to his desk. Secret Service, huh? If that was the best that the government, or Mr. X had to offer him, he would have to take it and choke it down.
And hey, maybe someday, he’d make it out. Maybe someday he’d find himself in a room with Director Mayer again and be in a position of authority where he could professionally tell her where to shove it. That thought and that thought alone was the only way he made it through the rest of his day, and a little bit of gin was the only way he could find a vaguely peaceful rest at night.
He’d given about half of his life to the government, and this was how they thanked him. By giving him directions to the door, telling him what to do when he got there, and what not to let hit him on the way out.
All he wanted was a real purpose. And if Uncle Sam couldn’t give him the purpose he needed in life, who could?