Caldera

Chapter 5: Shane

Shane arrived at Staples, well into the second quarter of the Clippers-Warriors game. Just in time to see Blake Griffin drain a twenty-foot jumper after a fast-forward assist from Chris Paul. At first glance, things were looking up for the Clippers, for as long as they kept up the tempo. He hoped he'd be as lucky tonight in his own objective.

After Tate left for Puerto Rico, Shane wasted no time pounding the pavement for some legwork. With the help of their extensive network of contacts in the Greater LA area, he'd already gotten a bead on Drummond before he even met Tate at Kinokuniya. A bookstore clerk sent the CCTV feed to Shane, who then forwarded the electronic tail to a barista at Suehiro Café. The tail continued on, leading to two or three different contacts throughout the course of the week.

However, the trail revealed nothing useful. There were no contacts, no public places to visit. No leads to start from. They traced Drummond to a plush Bel Air mansion, which was listed under his name. A quick trace on the web showed him as a producer for a company churning out B-grade action movies for major streaming services. Shane knew this was a front, of course. But with their security clearances revoked, they no longer had access to the kind of intel they were hurting for.

He wasn't about to stop looking. For one thing, Tate's life – and possibly Carlie's now, too – would depend on whatever he came up with. Then there was the botched hit on both of them. He hadn't forgotten that one.

Fiona Watkins was the last person Shane wanted to see, let alone consult for any information whatsoever. Getting pumped full of lead by Carlie would've been preferable by far. It wasn't that their former handler for the Agency was unbearable or even unpleasant. She had treated them decently, if only thus. But that wasn't enough to endear her to them. Asking Fiona for anything was like asking a favor from a mother-in-law you didn't care for, and didn't care for you, either: Owe her one, and she would make you pay for it. And pay, and then pay some more.

The ordnance they needed for the Syria mission? Worth a couple of wetwork jobs in Belarus. Medical supplies for the Karens in Myanmar? Six months of mayhem in Pyongyang. And don't get me started on that million-dollar satcom equipment we needed to zap the troll farm in St. Petersburg. Seething, Shane ground his teeth.

These, among countless indignities too many for him to list.

Meanwhile, Stephen Curry buried one jumper after another in the closing minutes of the first half, padding Golden State's lead over the Clippers by nearly 11 points. Shane groaned. It was going to be a long night.

Earlier that day, Shane texted two strings of three characters apiece to a certain unregistered number, one of several forwarding internet numbers, that ultimately delivered it to his contact's main number. S3T Q2M.

Assuming she wasn't surprised and laughing her ass off five minutes after seeing how they were now calling her, she'd be dusting off one of her many ciphers in a black book, somewhere in her home's basement. "S3T," Sierra Three Tango was a call sign for Tate and Shane; before and during their time with the Agency, they usually worked as a pair. If Carlie was in the mix, he would have added "Two Charlie." "Q2M" was "query to meet."

Shane half-hoped Fiona wouldn't answer; it would spare him yet one more favor to owe. He was a little disappointed when she responded after five minutes. Her three-letter reply: "D4." Looking up the code on his own cipher, he found that the meeting place would be Staples Center, right in the heart of Downtown LA. Large crowd, and very much public.

After walking around the nosebleed section for a while, Shane found Fiona seated in a sparsely populated row. She wore a Clippers baseball cap and a plain gray jacket. Fiona looked up, trying not to act surprised. Or laugh.