away from civilization and work. He drew on the pipe, letting the fragrant smoke fill his mouth and held it but a moment, then let it drift from his mouth. His dark brown eyes crinkled when the smoke hit them. His long legs were propped on a log stool that he’d made years ago. Around him, the forest was filled with the buzzing drone of cicadas and the chatter of birds; their conversations were soothing to his battered soul.

His property, a forty-acre piece of forested land, was nestled near the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The property boasted a four-acre pond, fed by Fie Creek which ran north to south on the land. Xander had purchased the property some twenty odd years before, when he’d first been recruited by the agency. He’d found it, seated near Maggy Valley, North Carolina. He’d grown up in Phoenix, Arizona, but had never gone back to the state, nor his hometown. Even at a young age, he’d not been foolish enough to think that when it came time to retire from the agency, he’d perhaps wish to disappear. It wasn’t unheard of for agents to be retired, with extreme prejudice. Some agents vanished, while others went on to the desk, to ride that horse until it was shot. For Xander, he preferred to have a few options. One had been the acquisition of the hidden property. He’d obviated the queries over the years, when asked what he would do when his career ended.

As far as he knew, no one from the agency was cognizant of his property. He’d been assiduous in his visits, keeping a strict circuitous route when he visited his home. He was adept at countersurveillance, it was a proportionally large part of his job. Agent Echo worked for a black clandestine sub-agency. Xander was an assassin for the United States government, though the agency was known only to a select few on Capitol Hill. Credible deniability was key. The agency was also compartmentalized, leaning more toward internal secrecy. Xander figured if the agency could do it, he could as well. He also kept a small studio apartment in D.C. that the agency did know of.

He was an exceptionally trained operative, functioning both inside and outside of the country. When he was given assignments, he was allowed to execute the jobs as he saw fit. He was given a greater amount of latitude because he’d been at it for nearly twenty years. At forty-five, Alexander was in his prime. An apex operative. As good as he was, he still needed that decompression after months of hunting down and neutralizing his targets. He had over the last few years, shifted his agenda, however. As a government employee, his paycheck was less than stellar. He’d begun to pick up side jobs via the Dark Net, unbeknownst to his government. When given an assignment, Xander freelanced in the country he was to operate. He would go dark and disappear for a day and surface quite a bit richer. He was padding his numbered bank accounts. Should the government find out about his little side jobs, then Xander would be retired, permanently.

He wasn’t worried however; he was a careful and canny man, he knew his fieldcraft well. He yawned and scratched his chin, which rasped loudly; he’d not shaven in two weeks. Though he had dirty blond hair, his beard was nearly black. He’d been peeved to see gray growing in increasing numbers. The darker beard had come in handy during several of his ops. Xander was just under six foot, with dirty blond hair and dark brown eyes; he was relatively unremarkable. He had an athlete’s build, not too bulky, but not too slender either. It was essential in his line of work, that he not stand out. To walk among the people as some kind of shadow or ghost. Completely forgettable.

He took another deep draw on the long-stemmed pipe and nearly choked when he felt the tiny hairs along his body give a strident scream of warning. He’d lived too long on the edge of life to ignore it. Though his body appeared relaxed, his gaze shifted quickly. He let the smoke escape him, slow and lazy, as though he’d not a care in the world. Something or someone was out there and he felt its presence. Who was it? He didn’t know any of his neighbors, who were miles away from him. His land was wired for intruders and his smart phone hadn’t buzzed with warning. Was it an animal? Perhaps a predator of some kind? Something was out there, he knew that. He shifted in the chair and felt the Glock 26 at his lower back. It was small and he could carry it anywhere undetected.

He stretched lazily and yawned wide, scratched his side and brought down his feet from the stool. His boots made a thump on the scarred knotty pine porch floor and Xander slowly stood. He worked his neck from side to side; the bones popping softly and he brought the pipe to his lips and took a lazy puff. Stepping off the porch, he ambled across the yard, letting the blue smoke stream behind him. He walked down the slight decline toward the large pond. He enjoyed fishing off the small dock, though he did have a small flat skiff he could use. That was for when he was feeling ambitious. The feeling of being watched persisted as he reached the pond. He stood looking around, as though he were enjoying the view. He kicked at a rock, then squatted and picked up a stone. He hurled the stone, skipping it across the water. All the while, his gaze scanning into the trees, around bushes and rocks. He sniffed the air, but detected nothing. Dragonflies danced along the glittering water’s surface, as cattail fluff floated on the breeze. He reached out his hand and caught one of the delicate filaments on his

Вы читаете The Wilder Side of Z
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