You Can Never Walk Away

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Kegan was sure someone from the Agency would come looking for him when he didn’t show up for debriefing, but that was easily dealt with. He knew how to hide his tracks, take on a new persona, and get his hands on ID that would pass even the closest scrutiny. After all, that’s what he’d been trained to do—what he did as part of any job.

Finding a place to stay was not a problem, either. He’d planned for that contingency as a way to hide out if things went bad on a job. It was his secret. His and Tony’s. He hadn’t revealed it to anyone, even Morse. The cabin was in a remote area of the Rockies, fifteen miles from the nearest town. Kegan and Tony had found out about it three years ago, when they’d driven through a small town and stopped for breakfast at a diner just off the main street. They’d chatted up the waitress, asking her if there were any homes for sale in the area.

“Two,” she’d replied. “That I know of. One here in town and the other one…Well, I’m not sure you’d call it a home. It’s way the hell-and-gone up in the mountains. Somewhere off that road, or so they say.” She’d pointed to badly paved road barely visible through the trees outside the diner’s side window. “The old guy who owned it used it as a hunting cabin until he died. From what I’ve heard, his son, or maybe grandson—” she’d shrugged, “—decided it wasn’t worth the bother of doing anything to keep it up. It’s been on the market for, hell, ten years now, I think.”

Kegan had chuckled, telling her, “I don’t think that’s what we’re looking for.” But it had been exactly what they wanted, as they had found out when they drove up the road she’d indicated. It wound through the forest, the deteriorating pavement giving way to a dirt road and then a barely passable one, running through a narrow canyon, that was more ruts than anything else.

They’d co-opted the cabin. It was set in a tiny clearing with a small stream running beside it. Making it habitable gave them something to do when they had a few days or a week off between jobs. It was good stress relief. The place had two rooms, the main one—with a stone fireplace and a nook that passed for a kitchen—and a small bedroom. There was an outhouse behind the cabin, which hadn’t surprised Kegan, as there was no running water in normal terms. A cistern on the roof, plus the stream, provided what water there was. One of the first things they’d done was set up a filtration system. Neither of them was willing to get sick because of impure drinking water.

Apparently the previous owner had been partial to kerosene lanterns, and used the fireplace to cook. Kegan was less than enthusiastic about that so, at Tony’s suggestion, they’d invested in a fancy propane camp stove and several battery-operated lanterns.

The table and chairs were in surprisingly decent condition. The sofa looked as if mice had gotten to it, so one weekend they had stripped it down to the frame and bought some cushions for it. For their bed, they had used good sleeping bags set on an air mattress that they blew up with a pump. At the time, they had figured that would be sufficient for short stays, rather than hauling up a real bed and mattress.

* * * *

“This was our private hideaway,” Kegan said morosely after parking his bike behind the cabin then going inside—two days after Tony’s death. “Now it’s mine until…” He wasn’t certain how long until would be. A week, a month, years? All he knew was, he wouldn’t return to what he and Tony had done for the Agency.

From the day he’d arrived, he did everything in his power not to think about the last job—and how it had ended. He worked out to the point of exhaustion, hiked for miles every day—forcing himself to pay attention to his surroundings until he could have walked them blindfolded. He read until he was cross-eyed, tended the small garden he and Tony had planted a few months previously, and hunted so he’d have fresh meat. Anything so that he’d fall into bed and sleep without dreaming.

For two months it worked, until he went into town early one morning to get a few supplies he needed—bread, canned goods, and other staples he’d run out of. As he left the small grocery store, he decided to pick up a newspaper. To see if the outside world has blown itself up yet.

On an inside page was a story about the murder of Calvin James, a small drug company’s vice president. That might not have caught his attention if it hadn’t been for one detail. The police were looking for the man whose fingerprints had been found on the weapon used to s***h the man’s throat—one Mark Quincy Raines. That had been Kegan’s real name, before he joined the Agency. When he had, Mark Raines had ceased to exist—or so he’d thought, until now.

It could be a coincidence. He didn’t believe that for one moment. Morse wants me back in the fold and this is his way of making it happen.

* * * *

“Will it work?” Gage Dekker asked Morse, the day the story about Calvin James’ murder hit the news outlets.

“It had better. Wherever Kegan’s gone to ground, he’s done it superbly. It’s been two months and we haven’t found a trace of him anywhere.”

Gage nodded. “You trained him well. Too well, it seems.”

“Apparently,” Morse grumbled.

The killing of Calvin James had been well thought out by Morse and Gage—and executed by Gage. James had been part of an illicit organization that used the seemingly legitimate firm he had worked for to manufacture and sell counterfeit drugs.

Gage had committed the killing in a very public venue, to send a message to both the people running the drug organization—and Kegan.

* * * *

Two days previously

To all intents and purposes Gage appeared to be your average tourist—dressed in jeans, colorful long-sleeved shirt, and baseball cap. Average as long as no one noticed the fact he was wearing thin latex gloves. A tourist who was enjoying the cool evening as he sipped his espresso, while sitting at a table on the patio of a coffee shop. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. He was looking for someone.

He had been there for forty-five minutes when his target arrived. The man, middle-aged with a slight paunch, went inside, returning a few minutes later with a cup of coffee. He checked his watch before taking a seat at a table at the far end of the patio from Gage.

Gage gave himself ten minutes before standing. He put on his sunglasses, adjusted his cap so the bill shaded his face, then walked casually across the patio. When he was almost to the man’s table, he appeared to stumble and grab for the man’s shoulder with his left hand to keep from falling. At the same instant, he pulled a folding knife from the sheath on his waistband, flipped it open, and then slashed it across the target’s throat, twisting it as he did. The target fell forward, blood pouring from the wound. A woman—one of Morse’s operatives—had screamed. Appearing to panic, Gage had dropped the knife on the pavement beside the table and raced off the patio to meld into the foot traffic on the sidewalk. The only perceptible thing that pointed to him as the killer was the blood on his shirtsleeve, almost invisible against the sleeve’s bright floral pattern.

Turning the corner onto a side street, Gage made a beeline for a bar halfway down. It was crowded, noisy, and dark, just as he knew it would be. He wended his way through the patrons to the restroom, waited for the lone occupant to leave, then quickly washed his hands before entering the middle stall.

Five minutes later, he exited. A messenger bag was slung over one shoulder. It had been hidden above the ceiling tiles in the stall and had held the long-sleeved, dark blue shirt and black slacks that he had changed into. Now, it contained the jeans, shirt, cap, and sunglasses, as well as the blond wig and mustache Gage has been sporting when he entered the bar.

Gage nodded to the two men entering the restroom as he left, then casually made his way to the bar’s back door. As he stepped into the alley, he heard sirens and smiled. Too late, guys. He’s dead and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.

* * * *

Kegan reread the article in the newspaper when he returned to the cabin. Reread it and knew it was time to get in contact with Morse. The last thing I need is a concentrated search for me by him or the police. More than he undoubtedly instigated when I disappeared.

That was one reason. The second, more important one was finding out who had done the actual killing. The idea that someone—and he was more than certain it was Morse, using one of his operatives—might be trying to frame him, did not sit well. It wouldn’t have when he worked for Morse and it damned well didn’t when he wasn’t around to defend himself.

However, he wasn’t about to return to civilization without preparing first. He was in top shape physically. That was a given, considering how he’d always lived his life. But he was out of practice as far as using his weapons was concerned. There was a big difference between shooting a deer for food and taking out someone who would fight back, or fire back, if they could. He spent the following day re-honing his skills.

Finally, he was ready. He packed what he was taking with him—clothes and weapons—in the bike’s saddlebags, then stored the rest, disposing of what little perishable food he had by leaving it out, well away from the cabin, for the local wildlife. He wasn’t worried about anyone breaking into the cabin. In the last month he’d seen only two hikers and they’d kept their distance once he let it be known the place was occupied. Also, the cabin had the type of security on it that would stop any but the most dedicated professional from entering.

As he rode away, heading to the highway that would take him back where he’d come from, he wondered if he was crazy for doing so. Maybe. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some bastard ruin my—he chuckled dryly—good name.

* * * *

“Still no sign of him,” Morse said when Gage came into his office, four days after the James murder.

“He’ll show eventually. He’ll want to know who the hell is trying to—” Gage stopped talking when Morse’s intercom beeped.

“You have a call on line two,” the receptionist told Morse. “He wouldn’t give me his name. Instead he said to tell you he was an old acquaintance who hasn’t talked with you in a couple of months.”

Morse thanked her, then answered the phone. “How may I help you?” he asked.

“Find out who the bastard is who’s impersonating me,” a rough voice replied.

Smiling, Morse said, “Welcome home, Kegan.”

“I’m not home,” Kegan told him. “Far from it.”

“Then welcome back.”

There was a low laugh before Kegan said, “Same song, different words. I’m not back—yet. I might never be.”

“Would it be too much for me to ask if you’re in the city?”

“I am.”

“Can we meet somewhere? You name the time and place.”

After a brief pause, Kegan said, “The boathouse at the park. Ten P.M. Any tricks and I’ll be gone before you know I was there.”

Genuinely puzzled, Morse asked, “Why would I try to trick you?”

“Because you’re you. It’s what you do.”

“Good point. All right, I’ll be there at ten. Alone.”