Hollow Graves

“And you are?”

He traded his kevlar vest for a Brooks Brothers suit. No living in shadows. No jungle to blend in.

Just glass. Linoleum. Fluorescent lights blinking like gunfire.

Footsteps echoed soft and sharp like teeth clacking in the dark.

“Allen Robidoux,” he said.

Inside Brooks Brothers jacket. Left pocket swung heavy. One kiss if things get hardcore.

Everything else was foreign.

No mag: Just cellphone.

No knife: Just cuff links.

No camo face paint: Just Ray-Ban.

“I’m here to see director David Reeves.”

Cade takes off glasses.

“Oh my god,” she said. “What happened to your face?”

Cade paused. Flashback—fists, mud, shovels, and buried memories.

“Skiing.”

“You got to be kidding,” she chuckled.

“I was never good with the poles,” he said.

Receptionist’s smile brought you to your knees like being held at gunpoint. Eyes told you everything. And kept everything.

“You’re new. When did you start working here?”

“About a month ago,” she said.

26 days.

12 hours.

32 minutes.

12 seconds.

He already knew.

“It’s nice to see an employee with such a pleasant smile. What’s your name?”

“Bella DuPont.”

Her voice hid behind a veil of seduction. She knew. You knew. That was dangerous enough.

”Bella. Of course it is.”

He smiled. No mask. For once, he didn’t mind being exposed.

“The girl before you. Alexis. Nice girl, but didn’t smile.”

No Alexis. Never was.

Static.

Earpiece crackled. Boss man cut in.

“Hey Don Juan. Quit flirting. Get to those emails.”

Cade didn’t respond.

“I bet David treats you nice.”

“Honestly,” she whispered. “Mr. Reeves kinda terrifies me. Every time we make eye contact, he zones in with that mean look on his face. I think he’s gonna fire me.”

“Well, David has a lot on his shoulders now. But things will get better. I can guarantee that.”

Cade slid hand in pocket. Signal disrupter.

Click.

Zero bars.

“So, how about that appointment?”

Bella types. Types frantically. Pushing all keys. Taps monitor. Crtl, alt, delete. Nothing.

“God, I hate these stupid things. I’m sorry I’m having trouble with my computer.”

“Do you mind if I take a look? I’m pretty good with tech.”

“Be my guest.”

Around desk. Cade’s eyes scanned. Not on computer. Everything else.

Names.

Emails.

Floors.

Photo taped to the monitor—family, carnival, balloons. Smiles that meant something once. Happiness was possible. For others. Not agents. Cade stared too long. Forgetting the mission was one thing. Walking away was worse.

“Try rebooting it.”

Everything he needs:

—David Reeves.

—dreeves@morphyindustries.com.

—Room 643.

Click off disrupter.

“I guessed that worked,” she said. “You’re a real tech wizard.”

ID keycard: Bella DuPont. Cade palms card and pockets it. Sleight of hand in one motion.

“Not a wizard. A magician,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just help myself in. I know the place. Room 643.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. You’ve been more than helpful.”

She nodded. “Let me buzz you in.”

Buzz.

Cade paced himself into elevator. Going up.

Only room on sixth floor, office 643. No lock picks. A keycard with a smile.

Thanks Bella.

Room quiet and dark. Light switch didn’t work. Or it didn’t want to.

Computer on desk was a crypt.

Clean on outside.

Cobwebs, bodies, dirty secrets inside. Cade was too tired to dig. He already dug hollow graves hours ago.

———

Login: dreeves@morphyindustries.com

Password: [?]

Blinking.

———

Cade inserts thumb drive into USB port. Command-line opens.

> tilly --brute dreeves@morphyindustries.com

[Brute-forcing password...]

[Access granted: password = 12345678]

Email security like sandcastle protection.

———

Cade’s eyes scanning emails.

Subject lines:

Lunch meeting with senator O’Reilly: No.

Grand opening London branch: No.

Hot new receptionist: Locker room talk. Bella. Skip.

Final steps: Yes.

Open.

———

Reply-To: dreeves@morphyindustries.com

To: wthompson@morphyindustries.com

Subject: Final Steps

March 23 at 12:30 p.m

It’s almost time. We’ve come this far and our plan is at hand.

-Director of Operations, David Reeves

———

Reply-To: wthompson@morphyindustries.com

Subject: re: Final Steps

March 23 at 12:48 p.m.

Once the storm comes, it will only be a matter of time before the people fall to their knees.

Morphy CEO, William Thompson

———

Subject: re: Final Steps

March 23 at 1:33 p.m.

So far, about 120. Our organization is spread out among city officials, parliament, clergymen and even the Queen's inner circle.

Enough money can buy the best counterintelligence.

-Director of Operations, David Reeves

———

Subject: re: Final Steps

March 23 at 2:06 p.m.

Our plan is almost at hand. We have a mole within the U.S. government. Once we branch out and make the right contingencies, nothing will foil our plans.

For Queen and Country. Glory to Whitechapel Hands.

-Director of Operations, David Reeves

———

Static. Earpiece. Boss.

“Cade, anything coming up?”

Cade breathed.

“Our worst fears are confirmed. We might too late.”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

New email. Unread. 4:58 p.m.

———

To: dreeves@morphyindustries.com

Reply-To: wthompson@morphyindustries.com

Subject: Where have u been?

Sent: March 29 at 4:58 p.m.

Where have you been? It’s been a few days. Do you still want to begin?

I need your response, ASAP.

Morphy CEO, William Thompson

———

Cade looks at watch. 4:58 p.m.

He cracks his knuckles. And a smirk.

———

Subject: Cancel all operations

Sent: March 29 at 4:59 p.m.

“Cancel all operations.

Meet Allen Robidoux at Hereford Cemetery.

Give files, documents, drives, everything.

He is our mole.

Delete all emails, archives, drafts. Nothing that can lead back to us.

-Director of Operations, David Reeves

———

Pen mightier than sword. Keystrokes mightier than war.

Send.

Ping.

New email. Unread.

———

Subject: re: Cancel all operations

Sent: March 29 at 5:01 p.m.

Are you sure? What about all our contacts?

Morphy CEO, William Thompson

———

Cade looks again. 5:02.

Typing.

———

Subject re: Cancel all operations

Sent: March 29 at 5:03 p.m.

Just follow the instructions. If this thing gets out, we’re looking at jail time or worse. Just bring everything to Hereford Cemetery at 7:30 p.m. today.

-Reeves

———

Reeves wouldn’t be getting back to Thompson. No one returns from Hereford Cemetery. Cade made sure of that. One grave empty. One full. Both marked: Unknown.

He steps away from computer. Then stops.

All missions have casualties.

Not this one.

“Boss. With this information, how long until this blows up?”

Static.

“In a week, everything will hit the fan.”

Flashes—family, carnivals, balloons, smiles.

Open. New email.

Typing.

Each word—another round pulled from the mag.

One less collateral.

———

Reply-To:dreeves@morphyindustries.com

To:bdupont@morphyindustries.com

Subject: Termination

Sent: March 29 at 5:05 p.m.

Bella DuPont.

Effective immediately. Your access has been revoked. Security will escort you out.

-Reeves

———

Finger over key. Hesitation.

Just because someone is close to the fire, doesn’t mean they deserve to get burned.

Cade hits send. Signs off.

Static.

“Vulture. It’s time. Get to the extraction point.”

“Not yet. I’ve got an appointment.” And so does Thompson.

Cade draws his gun. Checks the chamber. One bullet. Dirty. Enough.

Click.

Gravediggers don’t wear jeans or carry shovels—just Brooks Brothers and Berettas.

“And I don’t plan on being late.”