The Sowing

2. Trust

Butter coiled like a spring, ready to unleash as he held a menacing position in front of me.

My eyebrows furrowed. I hadn't heard that name in years, "Ten!"

The man yelled out a series of numbers, his hands still raised high. The numbers were consistent with James Brunson's credential numbers, as I recalled them.

He could be anybody. "Seven!"

I silently admonished myself for not bringing my handgun.

"We graduated class of '98! Me, you and Barry Schneider? You fed us your aubergine linguine before PFT? Come on, Mera. Shit," he sounded out of breath.

"Three!"

Butter's body lowered even closer to the ground as he readied, awaiting my cue.

"You told me once after training that Agent Davis had promised to uptick your 300-meter score if you –"

"Who's in the car with you?" I barked, scaring myself. I lurched forward, running now in a crouch, the barrel still aimed at the insistant man.

"I've gotta guy in witness protection, Mera. I need your help."

Squinting, I approached the gate with Butter still at the helm, "In the middle of the night?"

"I had nowhere else to go. Safe houses are compromised. We're both tired. Please, for goodness sake, can you please lower that damn thing?"

"Tell him to get out," I panted.

James kept his hands raised but turned his head toward the open door, "You heard her, okay? Nice and slow – keep your hands up."

The man wasn't moving fast enough for my liking, "Get out of the vehicle. If you try anything funny, I will shoot you in the kneecaps, got it?"

I could see the man's silhouette nodding with great vigor.

"Out!" My chin jutted defiantly.

The man complied, walking slowly away from the car with hands raised too high.

I gestured with the gun this time, "Over there. By that fence post."

He moved, trembling.

"Faster, unless you want new knees."

He scurried over to the post.

"Butter, on guard."

The otherwise chipper dog looked menacing as he barked at the man who seemed to wince in response.

I moved closer to the one who'd referred to himself as James, shining my flashlight in his eyes.

He squinted in agitation, "Jesus, Mera!"

I let out a sigh of relief, "It is you. What the hell, James? What are you doing on my property in the dead of night with," I gave the man a once-over, "baggage?"

"I left him at a safe house in Tillamook with a lookout. When I came back, the lookout was dead, and he was hiding in the woods. We drove straight here. You were the first person I could think of. Can you please lower the shotgun?"

He looked at me pleadingly, and I could see the weariness in his familiar face.

With some apprehension, I slowly lowered the barrel.

"You drove some 9 hours down?"

He nodded his head.

My eyes flitted to the still frazzled man near the wooden post, stock-still under Butter's ministrations.