Don't Fret the Timing

  Don't Fret the Timing

  by

  A.R. Moler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012, 2017 by AR Moler

  Cover illustration by P.E. Ash

  Chronology of stories in the Division P universe

  Braided Lives

  Hell Dogs Squadron

  Seeking The Balance

  Falling From a Height

  Zero to 165

  Don't Fret the Timing

  Braided Lives 2

  Begin and End With You

  The LD50 of Memories

  Fragmentation (Coming in 2017)

  Chapter One

  "Have a seat, Agent Breckenridge," said the slender blond woman sitting behind the desk.

  Secret Service Agent Vaughn Breckenridge had to stop himself from saying something appallingly stupid. When you're told that you're being interviewed by a woman named Sumiko Pierce, you expect a petite, dark-haired Asian woman. Ms. Sumiko Pierce was neither. She was very blond, her hair pulled back in a demure chignon, and judging from the gray eyes and very Nordic-looking features, there didn't appear to be a single hint of Asian genetics anywhere in her background.

  She had a dossier spread open on the desk in front of her. He found himself wondering if he could lean far enough forward to get a peek; instead, he forced himself to sit down in the indicated chair.

  "It says you have requested consideration for upgrading from field agent to protective detail." Ms. Pierce glanced up at him. "Why?"

  Vaughn was disconcerted by the question. "It's a career advancing move," he replied.

  "Are you hoping to take a bullet for someone important?" Her tone was cool and even.

  "No...Very few Secret Service agents have ever died in protecting a designated individual from an assassin." He was being truthful, but he also found the questions kind of bizarre.

  "Have you ever considered working for a different government agency?"

  "Yes, I originally contemplated applying to the FBI, but decided that I preferred the opportunities the Secret Service offered." Where was this heading? Had he stepped on somebody's bureaucratic toes? Or unwittingly pissed off someone among the powers that be?

  "Have you ever heard of Division P?" she asked.

  "A rumor, but I'm not sure that anyone around here actually believes it." He watched the woman tilt her head a little. Her features were somewhat sharp. She was neither beautiful nor ugly. Something in the way she looked at him kind of made him want to check and see if he had broccoli in his teeth or toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

  "Well, Division P has heard of you, and we've decided you are worth looking at," Ms. Pierce said.

  Breckenridge felt like he had swallowed an ice cube. The pit of his stomach was suddenly very cold. Division P was rumored to be a covert ops group of psychics run by the federal government. Nobody he'd ever talked to seemed to know for sure if they were real or just a hoax that ranked up there with X-files and UFOs.

  ***

  It was kind of like watching a bug squirm in a spider web, thought Sumiko, except she had no intention of actually harming Agent Breckenridge in any real way. Every month she went out from the Division P headquarters in Virginia, seeking candidates for recruitment. Division P had access to any and all personnel files and records for federal government employees. It was their preferred recruiting ground, since very few Division P people worked for the group full time. The man seated across from her was dark-haired, dark-eyed, dressed in a conservative navy suit and tie. Mmm, hot. The guy looked like an advertisement in GQ, and those dimples... Lord, he was gorgeous.

  According to his file, the man had grown up in Texas, gone to college in Florida, and joined the Secret Service in 2003. Parts of his service record were average, showing years of good solid work. Sumiko was however not interested in the average parts. There were also four separate instances of pull-it-out-of-your-ass case breaking miracles and two near disasters.

  Over the past couple of years Sumiko had learned that men with psychic talent tended to fall at either end of the bell curve. Women tended to hide in the middle. The men either trusted their "gut" and gained reputations for insightful last minute saves or they distrusted their instincts and tended to fall from one catastrophe to the next. Both had their value. Agent Breckenridge had a little of each. Standard case reports seldom told more than the surface point of view compared to what Division P was interested in, hence the need for face to face interviews.

  "With all due respect ma'am, why would a group of psychics want me?" Agent Breckenridge asked.

  "Because we believe you might have talents that could be enhanced by training and then put to use for our projects." She watched his hand twitch. Even if she hadn't seen the momentary clench of his fingers on the arm of the chair, she would have felt the nervous skitter of his thoughts. His brain was rifling through ideas and scenarios. Her own telepathic talent allowed her to hear bits of what he was thinking if she concentrated, but for the moment she just let the impressions wash through her.

  "My intention is to observe you on the job at intervals for the next couple of days and also to test you. If you have what we're looking for, a job offer may be made. If not, this will in no way impede your pursuit of career advancement. Are you interested?"

  His response was a little hesitant. "What benefit do I get out of this?"

  Good, he wasn't giving her a straight refusal. She'd had a few of those. "Money, a higher security clearance, and access to some rather unusual resources. Some of our people claim the best perk is knowing others who face the same challenges."

  "I'm... interested."

  "Good, please read and sign." She slid a document across the desk to him. "It's a relatively standard non-disclosure agreement. I'll give you a little time to read over it."

  ***

  When Ms. Pierce pushed herself back from the desk, Vaughn scarcely paid attention; he was wondering exactly what the non-disclosure agreement said. When she turned and began to roll forward, however, his mouth dropped open. She was in a wheelchair. How absolutely fucking unobservant could he get? He hastily shut his mouth and wondered if his face was a flaming shade of red. She glanced at him as she headed for the door and he leaped to his feet, yanking open the door for her and nearly banged it into her feet.

  "I... um... sorry," he mumbled.

  "I'll be back in about twenty minutes. You can let me know if you have questions about the agreement," she said, then departed.

  Vaughn sank back into the chair in front of the desk. Oh, that had gone well... Act like an ass in front of the woman who might offer you a job, because you were too brain dead to notice she was in a wheelchair when you walked into the office. Didn't it dawn on you as odd that she hadn't stood up to shake your hand? Okay, pull it together, and read the damn document, he told himself.

  ***

  Blindsiding a potential Division P candidate was generally a good strategy for gauging emotional responsiveness. Sumiko had been moderately sure that Vaughn Breckenridge hadn't noticed her wheelchair until she moved away from the desk. That momentary flush of embarrassment, the mad scramble to open the door for her, demonstrated the man had some ethics and compassion in a way that could never be quantified on paper.

  Sumiko stirred sugar into her coffee. The stuff was only about two percent better than the airport coffee. She had come to the Boston Secret Service office straight from the airport. Going to the hotel to check in would have made her even later. Damn, damn, damn. Once upon a time she would have just grabbed her luggage, jumped in a cab and gotten it all done in less than an hour and arrived with time to spare. But that was pre-accident, pre-injury, pre-life changing event. These days most things took longer, way longer.

  She drank about half the coffee, tucked the cup between her legs and rolled back down the hallway to see if Agent Breckenridge had looked at the paperwork yet.

  ***

  Everything in the non-disclosure seemed pretty standard, thought Vaughn. He looked up from the pages when Ms. Pierce came back into the room, then he picked up a pen from the desk and signed it.

  "Any questions?" she asked.

  "Only... what next?" he replied. He watched her wheel around behind the desk and settle herself. He wondered if she'd been in the wheelchair all her life. Somehow he doubted it.

  "Tell me about your current case."

  "Counterfeit tens are being used, primarily in vending machines," he said.

  "So somebody's faking money to buy candy bars?"

  Vaughn had to laugh a little. "No it's not that kind of vending machines. It's the high end ones. Some of the colleges in the city have vending machines that sell calculators and thumb drives and batteries. The airports, specifically Logan and Manchester Regional, have machines that sell MP3 players and other electronic devices. This has been going on for a little over a month."

  "Any idea why they're hitting vending machines?"

  "Their paper isn't very good. The printing is top notch and they even use some magnetic inks that are an extremely close approximation of the legitimate ones, but if somebody handed you the bills, they'd feel wrong."

  "Is this a big operation?" Ms. Pierce asked.

  "No, very small actually. We've collected only about $5000 worth of the fakes."

  "Any leads?"

  "
Nothing's panned out so far. My afternoon is supposed to involve spending a couple hours wading through a security tape from one of the airports followed by a trip over to Stonehill College's campus. They had four of the bills put in one of their machines."

  "What does your instinct tell you about these people? I'm not your boss. I'm not Secret Service. I want to know what you think. It doesn't have to be logical in any way," said Ms. Pierce.

  Vaughn was silent for moment. What did she want him to say? My spidey sense is tingling or something equally flaky? "This is a preliminary for something else, maybe something big," Vaughn offered.

  "Does your boss agree?"

  "No," he said flatly.

  "Are you likely to buck the system and fight him about it?"

  "Um, only if I can find evidence to support my hunch."

  "And if you can't?" she pressed.

  "Then basically I'm stuck until we catch some kind of a break on the case."

  "Okay."

  "Okay? What does that mean?" He was irritated and confused and wondered if somehow he'd been played.

  "I think you're trying to compromise between what you feel is true and what you can convince the powers that be of."

  "That makes it sound like... like I'm wimping out."

  "Mmm, it makes you a realist. I'm starving. Suggest a place for lunch, preferably fairly close so I don't have to load my wheels into a car. I'm buying," said Ms. Pierce.

  "Okay. Sandwiches? Pizza? Tacos? Something else?" he asked, trying to get an idea what to shoot for.

  "Some place with coffee that doesn't taste like it was made with dirt and battery acid."

  "There's a place about two blocks away that has amazing coffee, but there's a... hiccup."

  "It has steps and no ramp?" she speculated.

  He was back to gaping a little again. Ms. Pierce definitely didn't seem to pull any punches regarding her disabled status.

  "Uh, no, access shouldn't be a problem. It's a favorite hangout for the college kids who play music, and I'm not talking cellos and pianos, more like electric guitars and drum kits. Sometimes there are people playing there in the daytime. It can be loud..." Glancing at the conservatively cut gray pants suit, he wondered if she was the type to keep her car radio set to a classical music station. Then again, there was no guarantee she was even capable of driving a car. Maybe if it had those hand control things?

  "No problem," she said, and he was surprised. He was beginning to get the impression she enjoyed flustering people.

  ***

  It took about fifteen minutes to get to the coffee shop as the wind whipped frigid January air up the street. The sign above the door proclaimed the place to be called Overtones. The glorious smell of freshly ground coffee and the accompanying undertones of other spices wafted through the doorway as Agent Breckenridge held the door for her. A low stage bordered by a couple of sofas was tucked off to the right, inside the front door. A long counter started a dozen feet later and ran all the way to the back, while an eclectic mix of mismatched tables and chairs were scattered along the left side.

  Sumiko ordered a vanilla latte and a sandwich. Vaughn got a bagel with cream cheese and lox and cup of brewed coffee, and they went to a table to wait on their order. Up on the stage a couple of young men in T-shirts and jeans were unpacking a guitar and a keyboard.

  "Guess we're going to get some music," said Breckenridge.

  Sumiko turned a little to look at the musicians. "Oh, he has a Vox. That's cool."

  "A what?"

  "A Vox, it's a brand name for electric guitars. It's not as recognizable as Fender or Gibson."

  "You sound like a fan," replied Breckenridge.

  "Nope, a player. I have a Vox. I ended up switching after my accident. It's a little easier to hold while sitting. I used to have a Fender. Well actually I still do. It just lives in my closet these days."

  "How long ago...?" he asked.

  She noted a touch of reticence in his question. He was definitely unsure if it was a subject he ought to even touch on. "Eleven months. I'd like to say it was the result of something really daring and radical like sky diving, but it was a car accident. Me in my little two-seater versus a big-ass SUV that ran a red light and T-boned me into a dump truck."

  Breckenridge had the grace to grimace a little. As she brushed her telepathic talent across his mind, she sensed that he assumed she was paralyzed. She decided to prod his uncertainty meter a little more. She turned her wheelchair a little further to the side.

  "Just because I'm in a wheelchair doesn't mean I'm paralyzed," she said and proceeded to wiggle her toes so that he could see them. He blinked and frowned a bit.

  "Are you making an assumption that I would think that or are you... fishing through my brain?" he asked.

  "And exactly why would you jump to the conclusion that I am -- as you inelegantly put it -- fishing through your brain?"

  "If you work for Division P, it would stand to reason they would use one psychic to recruit another."

  "Ah... At least you jump to logical conclusions. And yes, I fish, a lot," she admitted. The waitress brought their lunch and they were silent for a few moments until she left.

  "Can you teach me to fish too?" he asked meeting her gaze.

  She was amused. "Maybe, depends on whether you have a talent for it. You might be better at something else: hunting or gathering maybe. My job not only involves figuring out if you have enough of what we're looking for, but also if you have any idea how to control it."

  He was silent and contemplative. She decided she would let him think for a few minutes while she ate her lunch.

  "And if I don't have what you want?" he finally asked.

  "As I said before, no harm, no foul. This will have no impact on your career. In terms of your personnel file, this never happened."

  Oh, she could tell that disconcerted him. In his world, everything got noted and duly recorded. The concept that Division P had the power to make this interview not exist was something he found just a little creepy.

  Lunch finished, they made their way toward the door. Sumiko paused to speak to the musicians.

  "Nice Vox," she said. "I have one just like it."

  "You been playing long?" asked the young man plugging the cord into the amp.

  "About fifteen years. Would you mind if I..?" She gestured to the guitar.

  "Yeah sure," said the man. She could tell it was pure blatant curiosity about the concept of the chick in the wheelchair playing. She carefully took it from him when he handed it to her and began to play a driving guitar riff. She saw his eyes widen. She was good and she knew it. The keyboardist gave her an adoring grin and she smiled back at him. She finished and handed the guitar back to its owner.

  "Thanks," she said, turned and headed for the door again.

  "Hey! We're gonna have a jam session tomorrow night if you're interested," called the keyboard player after her.

  "I'll think about it," she replied and gave him her best flirty smile. Breckenridge opened the door and she rolled through it. The keyboard player had definite thoughts of getting in her pants, wheelchair be damned. Leave it to a college guy to have a one track mind.

  ***

  When Ms. Pierce smiled at the musician, Vaughn had a flash of irrational irritation. It was his lunch date. Oh hell where had that thought come from? The sheer happy intensity of her face when she was playing was gorgeous. She was smart and secretive and interesting and shrewd... and... in a wheelchair. That part made him pause. She had pointedly shown him that paralysis was not a factor. What exactly did it involve?

  He followed her out the door and they made their way back up the street toward the office.

  Chapter 2

  The room light was dimmed a little and Vaughn sat with his fingers on the mouse as he watched security footage. Sumiko mostly watched him. The video feed had that jerky quality that goes with the four frames a second type of recording. He sped through sections where no one used the vending machine in question. A total of twenty three people bought items from the machine. Vaughn made notes of time codes, then backed the recording up to have a second look at those individuals.

  "See anything suspicious?" asked Sumiko.

  "Mmm, nothing that really jumps out. There are seventeen men and six women who bought something from the machine. Statistics would say that makes it more likely that the person passing the counterfeit bills is male," replied Vaughn. She could feel the slight disagreement in his thoughts.