Deep Woods

“So I say no,” said Cal, still staring at the ground. “I want to help, but it feels like I’m right where I should be.”

“But something changed your mind?” I asked quietly.

“The CIA guy, he leans in close, and he says, Caleb—no one ever calls me Caleb—we need your help.” And he tells me they’re tracking people, around the world, people who are planning to do really bad shit. He says there are hundreds of thousands of Americans who don’t realize how much danger they’re in. Who are dead, if these guys get their hands on a nuke or a dirty bomb.” He let out a shuddering sigh and looked right at me. “He says they need someone to protect them.”

My chest ached. I knew Cal. I knew that deep, protective urge that lived inside him. That had been all the CIA guy had needed to say...and maybe he’d known that.

“So I become a specialist, working for the Central Intelligence Agency,” said Cal. “Three weeks later, they send me on my first mission, in Pakistan. Set me down ten miles from where I need to be, with a map and a rifle and some rations. Twenty-four hours later, I’m looking at a guy through the scope of my rifle as he goes outside for a smoke. He’s the head of a cluster of terrorist cells, he’s already organized an attack on an airport, an embassy bombing, he’s planning more. So I line him up and I pull the trigger.”

He looked right into my eyes. “No capture. No arrest or trial. I just kill him, like I’ve been ordered to.”

I slowly nodded.

“There are more. In Yemen, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran. All people plotting attacks. Twelve men, over about six months. And then they send me to Panama.” His voice slowed. “The target’s a private airfield, out in the middle of nowhere. I’m in the trees, watching this plane arrive, and...something doesn’t feel right. Terrorists don’t fly around in private jets.” His eyes were distant, remembering. “The jet taxis to a stop and the door opens. A guy appears at the top of the stairs and...he’s in a suit, carrying a briefcase. I check the photo they’ve given me. Definitely the right guy. And I realize that they haven’t told me much about this guy, other than this might be the only chance to get him. But there’s no one I can ask, I’m out there on my own, out of contact. So I line up the shot and...I take it.”

“He drops his briefcase as he dies and it goes bouncing down the steps and as it hits the runway, it springs open. It’s full of money. Must be hundreds of thousands of dollars. The engines are still spinning and all the banknotes get blown around, the air turns green.” He inhaled, long and slow. “When I get back, I ask the CIA guy, who was that guy? And they say, he was a banker, he was moving money for the terrorists.” Cal shook his head. “And I stew over it, for days, because it doesn’t feel right. But eventually, I tell myself, these people need money to recruit, to buy weapons, to buy bombs and fake passports. If the guy had been supplying them with plutonium, would I have had a problem with it?” He sat there silently for a moment, his thick forearms resting on his knees, brooding. “So...I carry on.”

I listened, a sick fear building. I squeezed his hand and I wasn’t sure which of us I was reassuring.

“There are more, around the world,” said Cal. “Libya. Turkey. Albania. They don’t tell me who they are, they just give me a time, a location and a photo. Sometimes, I see a crate of guns, and I’m like...okay, these are bad people. But sometimes, it’s drugs. And I ask questions and the CIA say, you gotta look at the big picture, because some of these people sell drugs to raise money for terror operations. But I’m thinking...isn’t this stuff criminal, not terrorism? Shouldn’t the FBI or Interpol or someone be doing this, shouldn’t these people be being arrested, not—” His throat closed up. “Murdered,” he spat out at last. “But I wanted to help. I wanted to protect the people back home. I figured my bosses knew what they were doing. So I stopped asking questions.”

“The months go by, and now, sometimes, I finish the job and I haven’t seen anything at all: no guns, no drugs, not even cash. I walk away and I have no idea who I’ve just killed, or why. But I don’t ask.” He said it wretchedly. “I’ve stopped asking.”

“Because you were loyal,” I said gently. “Because you trusted them.”

He looked right at me, those blue eyes hiding nothing. He wanted me to know the truth. Needed me to. “Because I was afraid of what I might find out.”