My mistake was turning off my phone when I got home just after two in the morning. I was exhausted—and the last thing I wanted was a phone call just after I’d dropped into alpha sleep. Hell, I’d earned an uninterrupted night.
I awakened a little after six, stumbled down, and hit the button on the coffee maker. Then I plodded in to enjoy a long shower. After I’d dressed, I microwaved a tamale and fried a couple of eggs over-easy for breakfast. Don’t knock it until you try it. While I sipped my coffee, I checked my personal email and paid the bills. My sister and her husband were taking a cruise to the Mexican Riviera.
It was that kind of morning.
The shit didn’t come down until I’d rolled up the garage door and wheeled out the Diavel. The big testastretta V twin barked softly as the machine idled and shook. I was buckling on my helmet when two black SUVs roared into my driveway. Before they screeched to a stop, guys in suits came tumbling out the doors.
You can tell they’re serious not only from their expressions, but the fact that while their weak-side hand is holding up their credentials, their strong-hand is resting on the butts of their handguns.
I did what anyone with sense would have. I raised my hands, fingers spread wide in a “whoa, boys. I’m not a threat” gesture. Then I waited, very still, for the first agent to warily approach.
“Colonel Timothy Ryan?”
“Yes, sir. And you are?”
“Special Agent Terry, FBI, sir. Please shut off the motorcycle.”
I reached down carefully with one hand and flipped the “chicken switch” that killed the engine.
In the sudden silence, Terry asked, “May I ask where you’re going?”
By this time, the rest of the agents had spread out in a ring, hands still on their undrawn weapons. I shot a nervous glance at their remarkably hostile and wary faces.
“I was going to work. I’m a psychiatrist, the director, at Grantham Barracks.”
Agent Terry, still in the “ready” position, said, “Would you mind stepping off the motorcycle, sir? Please keep your hands where we can see them and make no rapid moves.”
I did as directed. “Agent Terry, I assure you that I’m not offering any resistance. I’m delighted to assist you in any way. But if you could give me a hint about why you’re here . . . ?”
“All I know, sir, is that there’s been an escape from Grantham Barracks. We were told that attempts to contact you were futile. We were asked to check out your address and detain you if we found you.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Assuming you really are Dr. Timothy Ryan.”
I froze. An escape?
But why would special agents . . . ?
“Alpha,” I whispered.