Story code: ST-000912
Part 2: The Decoy
The voice did not pause to acknowledge Elias’s ragged breathing. “Phase one complete. Operative is in position at the primary residence. Do not mute your microphone, Sergeant.”
Elias’s thumb hovered over the screen, his hand shaking so violently he almost dropped the device onto the cracked asphalt of the alley. He backed away from the green dumpster, pressing his spine against the rough brick of the community center. The festival music-a jarringly cheerful rendition of a Sousa march-bled through the walls, mocking the ice flooding his veins.
“Who are you?” Elias hissed, keeping his voice to a strained whisper. His left knee gave a sharp throb, a phantom echo of the shrapnel wound that had bought him his discharge.
“That is irrelevant,” the smooth, modulated voice replied. It lacked any human inflection, a digital mask hiding the speaker’s true cadence. “What is relevant is the man currently standing on your grandmother’s front porch. Open your perimeter feed, Sergeant. Verify.”
Elias didn’t ask how the caller knew about the hidden cameras he had installed under the farmhouse eaves last spring. He swiped down on his screen, opening the encrypted security application. The loading circle spun, agonizingly slow, choked by the thousands of civilian cell phones crowding the local network on the other side of the community center.
*Come on, come on,* Elias thought, sweat stinging his eyes.
The feed snapped into focus. The black-and-white lens overlooking the wraparound porch showed a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a high-visibility vest and a baseball cap pulled low. The man was holding a heavy metallic clipboard and pressing a gloved finger to the illuminated doorbell.
“He is posing as a municipal gas inspector,” the voice in Elias’s ear narrated calmly. “Your grandmother is currently navigating the hallway. She will reach the door in approximately twelve seconds. If you terminate this connection, if you dial 911, or if you alert any festival security, the operative will bypass the deadbolt and initiate a kinetic extraction. She will not survive the process.”
Elias watched the grainy video feed. The familiar, frail silhouette of his grandmother appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door. She was leaning heavily on her aluminum walker.
“What do you want?” Elias choked out, his throat tight. He checked the alleyway. It was empty save for the dumpster and a stack of broken wooden pallets.
“We require the decryption key you secured in the Korangal Valley,” the voice stated. “The one your commanding officer believes was destroyed in the transport fire.”
Elias’s blood ran cold. No one was supposed to know about that drive. He had wiped the registry himself, burying the flash drive deep in his go-bag because he didn’t trust the private intelligence contractors who had ordered the raid in the first place. It was his insurance policy, a highly classified ledger of shadow transactions he couldn’t decrypt but knew was dangerous.
Before Elias could formulate a lie, the heavy metal door of the community center clanked open.
Elias jumped, spinning around. A blast of air-conditioned air hit him, carrying the scent of floor wax and stale coffee. The frantic event coordinator with the headset stepped into the alley, followed closely by a uniformed local police officer whose hand rested casually on his utility belt.
“There you are!” the coordinator gasped, her eyes darting to the glass plaque Elias had abandoned on the dumpster lid. “Elias, they’re waiting for you at the press tent. The mayor is asking where you went.”
“You have an audience,” the voice in the phone whispered. “Dismiss them. Now. Or the operative kicks the door.”
On the phone screen, Elias saw his grandmother open the front door just a crack, the heavy brass chain lock engaging. The man in the vest smiled, holding up a fake ID badge.
“Is everything alright, Sergeant?” the police officer asked, stepping forward. He frowned, taking in Elias’s pale face and the dark patches of sweat soaking through the collar of his heavy dress uniform. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Tell him you’re fine,” the voice commanded.
Elias forced the muscles in his face to relax. He curved his lips into an easy, apologetic smile, drawing on every ounce of discipline drilled into him over a decade of service. “I’m okay, Officer. Just… the heat. And the crowd. I needed a minute to catch my breath in the shade.”
“Well, it is a scorcher,” the cop said, his suspicion easing slightly but his hand remaining near his belt. “But we really need to get you back inside. Protocol.”
Elias nodded, pointing to the phone pressed against his ear. “I understand. I just got a call from my grandmother’s nursing aid. There’s a minor issue with her medication schedule. I just need to finish talking her through the dosage, then I’ll be right in.”
The coordinator sighed, tapping her glowing tablet. “Two minutes, Elias. Please. The press is getting restless.”
They backed inside, the heavy metal door clicking shut, leaving Elias alone in the sweltering alley once more. His heart hammered a brutal rhythm against his ribs.
“Well handled,” the voice purred. “Now, you will walk to the north parking lot. You will leave the festival grounds. You have twenty minutes to deliver the drive to the coordinates I am sending you.”
Elias pulled the phone away from his ear just enough to check the camera feed again. The man on the porch was holding a short, blackened crowbar behind his back, completely hidden from his grandmother’s failing eyesight.
Elias looked down the alley. The north lot was over a mile away, and his rental car was entirely boxed in by three flatbed trucks meant for the afternoon parade. He would never make it in twenty minutes on foot, not with his bad knee throbbing and the streets barricaded with concrete planters and pedestrian fencing.
“I can’t make that timeline,” Elias said, limping toward the mouth of the alley, his eyes scanning for any running vehicle. “The streets are barricaded for the parade. I’m trapped here.”
“That is your problem, Sergeant,” the voice replied, the audio feed from the porch picking up the metallic clatter of his grandmother unlatching the chain. “Nineteen minutes. If you are late, we make our own entry.”