8. It's the Principle of the Matter

June 2020 BCE
Blackstone, VA

Half of his face buried in liquid, Paul struggled furiously against his restraints. As water filled his throat, the instinctual drive to survive kicked in, lending extra strength to his struggle for freedom. This boost in power made no difference to the straps which mocked his captivity, barely flexing and refusing to break. He tried to regain a sense of calm, but this fight against instinct was too much.  Wisps of red began to swirl about his hands and wrists as the bonds he sought to tear, instead tore into him.

Paul felt the surface he was strapped to begin to rise. Tired as he was, a new energy overcame him as he focused his energy on expelling this unwelcome guest residing in his lungs.  Returned to his rationale, Paul began to notice his aches and pains, the throbbing torment of breath, being the most notable.

A gaunt face with short black and white hair came into his view. A rather nasal sounding voice pierced the splashing of disturbed waters.
"Mr. Smith, perhaps now you are feeling more a little less obstinate? We merely want the information you've gathered on your client, Oscar Chavez."
The man who had introduced himself as Agent Fuentes stared at Paul with a demanding expression.
Was this really what they were after? Paul wondered at such an insignificant character in his repertoire of clients.  Oscar had money to be sure, but had little else to boast of when it came to influence and power. His waste disposal company was a front for some more devious dealings, but nothing which would have garnered attention of the state police, much less the feds.  Paul didn't think he would have remembered his name at all except that his company name, "Doo Me a Solid Waste Disposal", had been so ridiculous he couldn't forget it.  Regardless, nothing had been suspicious in his requests and his background checked out with no flags at all.

Paul had promised though.  He kept all his client information completely secret.

"Go to Hell.", Paul coughed.

"This will not get tiring for me, Mr. Smith.  I hope for your sake that you see reason soon."
Agent Fuentes pressed a switch at his side and Paul began to lean back toward the water. The sound of moaning hydraulics faded as water filled his ears. This had to be bigger than Oscar Chavez, but Paul was at a loss for how or why.  Once again he struggled in vain at his unyielding prison.  How long could he keep this up? As darkness closed in on his vision, Paul knew the answer to his question. Long enough for his enemies to run out of patience. Long enough.

7. More Questions Than Answers

The White Rock Cafe
Dallas, TX USA

Heat permeated the air as the Texas sun blazed indiscriminately upon anything unlucky enough to be within it's reach. Josh wiped the sweat from his brow before opening the door of the coffee shop. He was greeted by a pleasant chill, the sweet aroma of roasted coffee, and a rather unpleasant blast of mediocre music.
"Of course it's live music night," Josh thought rather sullenly, though this would mean their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.  The door swung open behind him and Brent joined the line.
"There's my friend! How's life treating you, Richie Rich?" Josh jabbed jovially.
"Incredibly rough, I'm having to sell my least favorite summer home so that i can finish gold plating the bathroom tile in my other two." Brent said with a rather wry smile.

"Truly yours is a life filled with hardships," Josh laughed.  

Brent and Josh made their way up the stairs with their drinks in hand and found a semi private table near the far side of the balcony railing.  A wave of nostalgia swept over Josh, bringing to memory the joyful occasions all three of them had shared in this shop.

"It's hard to believe we haven't been here in four years," exclaimed Josh.

"It does seem that time has passed unusually fast, but hardly surprising given how busy things have been."

Josh pulled out his phone and passed it to Brent.  

"This is the email I received from Paul.  Of course, the last time we saw him was about 4 years ago at the incident in Manitoba.  To say that I was surprised would be quite the understatement."

Brent perused the email carefully, eyes flitting back and forth attempting to soak up every last detail.  "Did you find out anything about the coordinates he sent you?" Brent asked without bothering to look up.

"Seems to be a location in Iran. Nothing but desert as far as I can tell.  I couldn't find any notable news from the area.  Perhaps you'll be able to uncover what happened?"

Brent returned Josh's phone to him and sat in contemplation, seemingly oblivious to the cacophony of terribly blended notes and ill written lyrics that abused the walls and patrons alike.   Brent reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook. His pen inked out a hefty sum and he handed the completed document to Josh.  

"Okay?.."  Josh questioned with a good bit of confusion.

"You needed the money for a need at the orphanage.  You called me down here to appeal to my emotion and I gave you what you needed.  Paul was not mentioned and you did not share the email with me."

Josh began to understand where this was going.  "Okay, can I help in any other way?"

"Yes," Brent continued, "continue this search wholeheartedly, but don't contact me about it.  Paul said it would take nine months to crack that email, but with the recent advancements that have been made in cyber tech, it wouldn't surprise me if it was compromised in three weeks."

Josh felt the tension begin to rise within his chest.  There was so much he hadn't anticipated, he felt embarrassed by his lack of foresight.  

"I'll continue my search then, Brent.  Good luck on whatever plan you're hatching."

Brent stood up from the table, his eyes reflecting a sad determination to see this matter put to rest. "The same to you, Josh. Try not to screw things up, you miserable failure."

Josh abruptly laughed, taken off guard by Brent's insult.  "I couldn't do any worse than you would." He retorted with a mischievous grin.  

The two said their good byes and parted ways, the air becoming increasingly humid as they went.  It had been a few weeks since it last rained, Josh mused; They were well overdue for a storm.

6. Sanctuary!

May 2020 BCE
Dallas, TX USA

Josh sunk back into the warmth and repose of his deep brown office chair. It was the one comfort he had insisted upon and it certainly seemed out of place in his moderate, Spartan office.
The room was a narrow rectangle with the door at one end and Josh's desk at the other. A few dingy filing cabinets rested atop the 25 year old grey tiles which contrasted the freshly painted brick walls. The off-white walls boasted only of a few handwritten letters, cheapily framed, yet carefully hung. All in all, the shabby office seemed a carefully concocted ruse which existed to belie the millions that the church received and redistributed.  He couldn't read them from here, but the framed letters  he had all but memorized.  "The Most Reverend Joshua R. Brown, Bishop of Dallas, and the New Hope Catholic Church,  Thank you for your donation.  Your continued support..."
There were several from orphanages and a variety of other non-profit organizations, but they all echoed the same sentiments.  It was those letters that had inspired him to keep pressing on despite the usual drama and paperwork involved in the upkeep of a church.
Josh gave a deep sigh as he sat upright and began combing through the litany of documents that covered his desk.  His phone gave a familiar chirp and Josh looked to see his newly arrived emails.  They were mostly spam per usual, some notifications from Amazon.com,  a monthly meeting reminder from Opus Dei, and-
Josh could hardly believe it. After 4 years of nothing but silence, there was a personal message from Paul.

"Josh, if you are receiving this message, something has gone wrong with my most recent operation. I always leave a email pending and remove it it when i get back. I will have been missing 2 weeks since my scheduled operation date, i've included the gps coordinates and all the details regarding what i was doing with this email. The security on this email should take at least 9 months for any team of experts to crack. (Remind me to thank your brother for his help with that).

Thank you,

Paul"

Josh sat in his chair, letting the words wash over him one more time. He hadn't seen Paul since... Manitoba. Well, Brent would want to know. Realistically,  Josh would need Brent's help to unravel what had happened.
He dialed Brent's number and skimmed over the email one more time. Where were those coordinates pointing to? Need to look that up on google, Josh thought as the ringing stopped and a familiar voice said hello.
"Brent, this is Josh, do you have a minute?"
"Anything for you, your imminent popeliness. Another orphanage on the brink of financial ruin?"
"No. Unfortunately i've got something much more urgent and important. It's Paul. He's contacted me. I can't discuss this over the phone."
"Wow. That's a bit surprising.  Okay. Let me make arrangements with my pilot. I can probably meet with you in about 5 hours."
"Sounds perfect. Meet me at 7 pm at White Rock Café."
"Sure thing, your sanctimonious holiness."
Josh chuckled to himself as he hung up the phone. All these ridiculous titles. It might be a while before he laughed like that again. For someone to have gotten to Paul, it would've taken an enormous amount of manpower and would've been a extremely costly venture... this would be a grim search indeed.

5. I'm From the Government and I'm Here to Help

Paul slid to a stop just outside the ruined gate and grabbed his MP5 SMG. Now this is where the real fun would start. Making sure he had all of his additional ammo mags, Paul headed in, keeping his head down low, even though the smoke screen was still in full effect.  He could hear muffled voices coming from the main entrance, definitely not his first choice for a main assault, but it would do well as a distraction. Paul grabbed two grenades letting the first fly towards the closed door. The explosion was greeted with a chorus of shouts. He paused briefly to avoid the rain of debris before throwing his second explosive through the doorway. He didn't have time to watch the reign of terror, however, seeing as he was hurriedly sneaking towards the side entrance. His target, prince Mohammed Abdul-Karim Bin Al-Rahman would be anxious to leave before he arrived, so every second was critical.
"Ali Baba." Paul mused with a grim smile. It was a lot easier to remember, although something like that would've earned him an overnight visit to jail in the states. Welcome to Bernie's America. Thankfully for Paul, it didn't matter which party was "in power" because the oil industry had remained lucrative and being a Saudi prince was still perilous.
It only took a few bullets and a couple kicks to gain entrance. Two surprised guards stood behind the door, obviously expecting an attack from where the explosions had been. He sunk fourteen bullets into each of them before he remembered to switch back to semi-auto. A vast hallway lay before him. Up to the left was a marble staircase complete with gold trim. He approached the staircase warily constantly checking his surroundings.  He made his way up the staircase without a sound, sights aimed above daring anyone to come forward. The upstairs was almost identical to it's lower counterpart. Large mirrors with extravagant borders, displays with valuable heirlooms, a showy display of wealth for the neighbors, no doubt.
Paul's gaze found it's way to a single doorway shimmering in soft light. No doubt, this would lead him to Ali.
Peering around the corner, he could see three armed guards and a tense looking sheik packing as quickly as he could.
Paul flicked his SMG back to full auto and walked in, gun blazing like a mobile fireworks display.
Four bodies hit the rich carpeting and Paul walked forward, camera in hand. Here was the 1.2 million dollar evidence.  He had used more equipment than usual, but even so, this would be quite a haul. 
His calculations were interupted by an ominous and repetive thump, slowly growing louder.
Those weren't just any helicopters, thought Paul. He recognized that familiar rhythym, the nuances of the intonation. If the American government had just gotten involved things were about to turn ugly.

4. Blood money part 2

Three shots resounded in rapid succession with a mere second between them. His speed with a bolt action rifle seemed beyond human, but it really reflected his weeks of practice, years of experience,  and hundreds of thousands of bullets expent. The perimeter guards already had their guns in the air nervously waiting for any movement to betray their attacker.
"Not today," Paul muttered as their bodies hit the ground. He hurriedly grabbed his Javelin 148, targeted the gate and initiated launch.  He left the CLU on the ground, determined to pick it up at the end of his mission.
As he ignited the fuzes on his mortars, he heard the blast of his missile hitting it's target.  Paul dashed to the awaiting dirtbike. It was 600 yards to the compound, but he was going to have to make it down these switchbacks first.
The first mortar fired and Paul checked his watch. It was 60 seconds early. But he knew he had used a 2 minute fuze. "Piece of Chinese Garbage!" Paul muttered darkly, already plotting revenge on that two-faced, Estonian arms dealer.
There was no longer time to take the switch backs. Thankfully, there were hardly any trees or shrubbery to speak of, but this steep incline was littered with rocks of all sizes.  With the throttle wide open, the bike lurched forward careening wildly toward the approaching drop off. A feeling of weightlessness overtook Paul as he flew through the air. The bike gave a harsh groan as he landed where he quickly swerved leaving mere inches between him and a rather large boulder.  With the worst behind him, he knew that he was back on schedule. The first three mortars had fired. He could see the smoke screen rising from three different areas just past the mangled remains of the entry gate.  The last one would hit a couple minutes later, but this time it would be an HE round to take care of any guards who were feeling particularly brave.  As the last mortar bomb arced through the air the scene was picturesque. Death rode a dirtbike while the sand trailed behind him, twinkling crimson in the setting sun.

3. Blood Money

May 2020 BCE

Southern Iran

Three guards on the rooftop.
Two walking inside the fenced in perimeter.  The 10 foot concrete wall was adorned with 2 rows of circular barbed wire.  It was a testament to the value of the prize within. 
Paul had scoped this place for a week tracking shipments, counting personel, and writing down daily movement schedules, especially the changing of the guards. There were 27 in total, but the barracks were inside the compound so he hadn't been able to definitively track their sleep schedule. 
The level of security was hardly unexpected, he had known this would be a tough assignment from the start. Nobody offers a 1.2 million dollar bounty for an easy job, but Paul wasn't in the habit of taking easy jobs anyways.  If he had wanted the easy cash, he would have stayed with the U.S. Navy in DEVGRU, but where was gut wrenching thrill in knowing that your teammate would always have your back? Not to mention having to cover for their less than perfect planning and reactions. No, it was much better riding solo, and that's exactly what he intended to do. 
Paul's breathing slowed and he put the rooftop guard in his sights. There were three of them, but only one was close to the wooden rooftop door.  Running through the motions, he put each one in his sights. 1, 2, and 3, then the two perimeter guards and last up, anyone who was foolish enough to check the window.
"Here goes nothing", Paul thought in mental preperation.
His breathing stopped altogether and he squeezed the trigger.

2. The Fantastic Flashback

15 years earlier.
2021 BCE
Dale City, Virginia, USA

"Brent Redman, come to office seven-B please. Brent Redman to office seven-B.", the intercom crackled.
Brent took a moment to arrange his materials and test tubes before he headed down the hallway. He didn't need to look up to know that his coworkers were staring at him with curiousity. They had good reason to be puzzled. Most of the lab technicians had only seen the office the day that they were hired, but this was the fifth time he had been called up this month.
Brent wasn't about to fill them in. Ever since he began working for the Health Research Initiative seven months ago, he only had one aim: he wanted to work on project Deadpan.

The HRI office would have been better labeled as the office conglomerate. Although there was a large room with the usual bland decoration, it was the twenty smaller rooms attached to the main office where the true business of HRI was enacted. Each door had an alpha-numeric delegation pasted on top of the cheap cloudy covers with which both of the full size windows had been accosted.
This was mostly likely done under the guise of protecting their clients privacy, but there was more than one source who claimed that HRI had plenty to hide as well. 

The office door opened with ease and Brent quickly crossed the nearly vacant room to office 7B. Inside sat a heavy set man whose face seemed set in a permanent scowl. "Take a seat, Redman!", he barked. Brent slid into his seat and crossed his arms non-chalantly. He had expected this to be somewhat unpleasant. Even though the name badge on the desk read "Senior Resource Coordinator", Charles Mertle wasn't the top dog in this department, not by a longshot.

"Well, I suppose you're pretty pleased with yourself."

"What do you mean?", Brent replied innocently.

"Cut the crap, Redman! I know you submitted your transfer request to Mr. Pless! I already denied your request 3 different times. You just don't have the tenure to make that kind of move!"

"While my experience with HRI has been limited, I think you'll find my qualifications to be in line with what the experimental weaponry division is looking for."

"That's hardly the point. You need to wait your turn like everybody else! Stop trying to make me look incompetent!"

"I'm merely trying to help HRI put good use to my many talents. That includes removing any obstacles that keep me from doing so. If you're afraid of looking incompetent I suggest you do the job you're paid to do instead of looking to continue this pseudo hazing, sadistic ritual of holding back talent until you feel like it."

Charles' face flushed with anger. It was probably the first time he had experienced such blunt words from someone he considered to be beneath him. Brent didn't care in the least. If he was going to get to where he needed to be, the feelings of a middle level manager were hardly a concern.  Charles had been rude and controlling from day one. If Brent was honest with himself he would admit that he was enjoying this bit of well earned revenge.

"YOU NEED MY RECOMMENDATION TO MOVE ANYWHERE YOU INSIGNIFICANT DINGBAT!", raged Charles, his voice near it's max.

"Oh dear", Brent said, oozing with sarcasm as he pulled out two letters.  "I guess this letter of recommendation from Mr. Chris Pless pales in significance to your own. You'll find a letter of acceptance from the head of the experimental weapons division as well. Apparently he didn't realize he was supposed to wait for your divine holiness' stamp of approval."

Charles snatched the letters from his hand and quietly looked them over.
"Get out." He said with a strange mix of menace and exasperation.
"It was a pleasure working with you." Brent said with an insincere smile.
"Now!"

Brent meandered back down the hallway. That had been rather fun. More than he'd had in the past few months. It was truly the little things that made life so enjoyable, He surmised.

He was transferred at the start of his shift first thing in the morning.