In the shuffling madnessOf the locomotive breathRuns the all-time loserHeadlong to his death

  -- Jethro Tull, "Locomotive Breath" (1971)

  "So, it's a trap, right?" asked Luis, bobbing up and down in the surf.

  "Yep," said Craig, matter of factly. "Either I get the drive for Smyth-Farrow, and he kills me on the boat, or I end up working for him, and he eventually kills me when I want to leave. Either way, he's going to double-cross me."

  "Maybe his offer is legit?" asked Luis.

  "Nah. I get the psychopath vibe from him. I know what to look for," Craig said.

  "Well, then," said Luis. "We'll just have to double-cross him first."

  Craig smiled. A real one. It nded like a surprise in his own face.

  "You ever kill anyone, Luis?"

  "No. I train for it, but... no," he admitted.

  "I might have," said Craig. "I certainly contributed to his death."

  "Isn't that usually the opposite of what doctors normally do?"

  "I thought it was a survival situation. It was, sort of," Craig said. "Actual cause of death was suicide, but I was one of the contributing factors."

  "Why are you telling me this, Craig?"

  "I know I can live with killing someone. If you can, there's a pn."

  Luis didn't know how to answer that. He stared into the ocean and thought.

  Craig waited, patiently. He knew he had one more card to py. He just really didn't want to do this to Luis. It was maniputive. It was a truth Luis probably would be better off not knowing.

  But it would work.

  "They're kids, Luis."

  "What?"

  "Two of them came into the clinic for an HPV vaccine. It's administered at age twelve to fifteen. Ernstein is trafficking kids."

  Luis’s breath hitched. He turned to Craig slowly.

  "Then tell me who I need to kill."

  Craig looked back to the beach. The tide was coming in.

  ***

  "I think you're going to double-cross me, but I don't care," said Craig, to Smyth-Farrow.

  Craig was treating a 'scrape' the aristobrat got from the pickleball court--deliberately.

  "I'll take the devil I don't know over the devil I do," Craig continued, "and I'd take both of you over that devil Ernstein."

  "So, you're saying..."

  "I'm saying, I'm in. But... this goes south, I go down, you don't, so I want control over the pn."

  Alistair chuckled. "I like people who take initiative."

  Craig nodded. "If you can provide access and extraction, I can provide distraction and infiltration. How close can you get to Ernstein? Can you get something in his drink?"

  Alistair nodded. "We dine regurly together."

  Craig tossed Alistair a single capsule.

  "If you break that open and pour the powder in his drink, it should be undetectable."

  "Poison?"

  "Laxative. I don't want him to think he's being assassinated, I want him to think he ate some bad cms. They'll probably call me in to treat him, I'll give him some bismuth subsalicyte to treat it."

  "Ah, and is that the poison?"

  "It's Pepto-Bismol."

  "You're actually going to treat him?"

  "I'm a spy-doctor. My hippocratic oath may be a bit different, but I do have one. 'First, do harm. Then, if there's time, go back and fix it.' Way I see it, it's not my job to take Ernstein out. Above my pay grade. That's for you, or for the government, or... what's her name again?"

  That's it, Craig, he thought. Pump the bastard for as much information as you can get.

  "Lambert," said Alistair. "Elle Lambert, of the Lambert Group."

  "And you say she's the mastermind behind the Lonely Hearts Club and Dorley Hall? Whatever. I don't have to be the triggerman on this one. I didn't major in assassination at spy-med-school."

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Really? You're not a killer?"

  "I said I didn't major in it. I did take an elective," said Craig. "I'm less 'gun-knife-garrote' killer and more 'manipute you into your own downfall' killer." He paused and thought. "Hunh, kind of like Doctor Who. Never blows people up. Always tricks people into blowing themselves up."

  "How were you pnning on blowing me up then?"

  Craig shrugged. "Haven't figured it out yet. But don't worry, when I do, you'll know." He fshed a grin. "Besides, I need you more than you need me. And I'm sure you've got all sorts of tricks to keep me dependent upon staying on your good side."

  "I love this dynamic we've got going," said Alistair. "It's like we're on the same wavelength, you know?"

  "So, that's the distraction. For the infiltration, I need to know what I'm looking for. And access."

  "The hard drive is external. Ernstein wanted to show his bckmail victims something physical, as an intimidation ploy. I'm sure he has backups on a server somewhere, but keeping it on a bck SSD drive? It was a power py. Probably right on top of his desk, right out in the open. If not there, in his desk. You may need to jimmy open a lock."

  "Not a problem. Picking locks was spy-school core curriculum. As for access?"

  "There's a rumor that there's an access card behind the third vanity mirror in the guest spa."

  "A duplicate?"

  "A backdoor. Ernstein insisted on using the best security firms to be responsible for his personal safety."

  "And the best security firms happen to be a subsidiary of a subsidiary of..."

  "Something like that," grinned Alistair. "It won't even log the access. Buy you a bit more time. Now, naturally if you get caught..."

  "...you're trusting me not to rat you out... and yeah," said Craig, "I just realized I said the 'T' word. So, how are you going to ensure I don't rat you out?"

  "It's simple. Ernstein would probably want to kill you. I offer to take custody of you, and promise Ernstein I'd subject you to a worse fate. A candidate for an experimental project of mine."

  Craig couldn't help but bust out ughing. "You're going to threaten me with... being sent to a forced-feminization facility, aren't you?"

  "You have to admit," said Alistair, "to Ernstein, the idea would have appeal."

  "Right. Still, let's make pn A not getting caught. Next question: Exfiltration."

  ***

  Luis let the fishing boat's engine idle, as he answered Craig's question.

  "Yeah, I've heard of a 'cigar boat'. Back in the army they used to call them GOFASTs. Cigar boat's almost archaic -- people used to use them to smuggle Cuban cigars to the United States. Fast. Seaworthy. Difficult to detect by radar."

  "That's what Smyth-Farrow says the exfiltration pn is. A Cigar boat will be waiting for me on the north side of the isnd, near a cove," said Craig, illustrating on a notepad. "Once I board, we head straight for Nazereth on St. Thomas Isnd, near Secret Harbor beach."

  "Assuming the Skipper doesn't shoot you the moment he gets his hands on the drive."

  "And I'm assuming he will. Remember when you asked me 'who you have to kill?'"

  "Jesus."

  "Can you pilot a cigar boat?"

  "I can. And at speed."

  "In case something goes wrong, can you teach me?"

  "I can teach you basic nautical navigation -- and now I see why you suggested we go take this fishing trip -- but you're going to want to keep the boat under sixty knots. I won't have time to teach you how to avoid prop cavitation, chine walking, or porpoising. You'll have to know how to navigate without radar or GPS. And you'll need to do this while maintaining radio silence, unless you're very good at lying under pressure."

  "It's literally my superpower. My thought is that once we've got control of the boat, we head east to Steel Pointe Estate in the British Virgin Isnds, on the isle of Torto. 40 nautical miles. If the boat's even half full of fuel, we can make it."

  "Your people can meet us there?"

  "My people can meet me anywhere there's a UK fg, but I'm not going to signal them until we're both safely on British soil and you've had a good chance to get yourself elsewhere. They'll know what to do with the drive, but I just work for my people, I don't trust them. And while there's a chance they'll take care of you and give you a hero's welcome, there's also a very chance they'll see you as a loose end or a catspaw they need to silence. It's best for your health if after we get to the BVIs that we part ways and never see each other again."

  "That's sad. I'm going to miss you, you know. You're a good guy."

  "I'm really not, Luis," Craig said.

  And then he slumped. And thought about it.

  "But you meant that, didn't you?"

  "Yeah. Why wouldn't I? I didn't say you were perfect. And lord knows we both have a lot of sins to account for, but when push comes to shove? You may have complicated motives, but shutting down this goddamn isnd and sending Ernstein to jail or a shallow grave? That's a noble quest, no matter how ignoble the people undertaking it are."

  "Luis, how much time have we got before we have to head back to shore?"

  Luis looked at his watch.

  "About an hour and fifteen minutes. Want to go over the pn again?"

  Craig thought back to all the people he kept secrets from, all the people he lied to. All the times he put on a false face. Even when they were trying to help him. Especially when they were trying to help him.

  And here, Luis was, helping him pn a man's murder, possibly an innocent man's murder, together, and he looked at Craig and judged him to be good?

  Fuck it.

  "Nah. Let's just fish. And then I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone else in my entire life."

  "What's that?"

  "The truth," said Craig. "The whole truth. And nothing but the truth."

  "Damn," said Luis. "Maybe we should have brought beers."

  "This is the kind of truth that needs to be told sober, I think," said Craig, sitting down. "It all started in this small British university town in Essex, called Almsworth..."

  ***

  As Luis pulled the boat into the dock, he was still a little shellshocked from hearing Craig's story.

  "Craig," he said. "I have to ask. Forced feminization facilities? Secret conspiracies in the NHS? Heart-stopping time-bombs? And your... your..."

  Luis couldn't figure out the right words for it.

  "Why did you tell me all that?" Luis finally asked.

  Craig looked out on the ocean, at the setting sun.

  "There's a very good chance that even if things go mostly according to pn, that I'm going to die tomorrow. I don't mind. If it stops Ernstein, it's a good death."

  Craig shrugged. "Well, you need to know what I know, so you know where to deliver the drive. But more than that... I just want someone to remember the real me, you know? Not the spy. Not the monster. Just the boy who disappeared in Essex, and the girl she could have been, if they had just... let her figure things out for herself. If I don't make it, I want you to find Pippa Green. Tell her she doesn't have to have nightmares about Craig Bir anymore. And find Monica Rosemond, and tell her that I forgive her. Mostly. And find Dr. Kosier and Dr. Whittaker. And tell them... tell them that they healed more than they know."

  "What about this Luna person?"

  "If you get a chance, shoot her in the head."

  Craig grinned.

  ***

  "Dr. Brandon, could you come to the main cabin please? Mr. Ernstein is experiencing gastrological distress."

  "I'll be right there. Can you describe the nature of the distress?"

  "Mostly nausea, diarrhea."

  "No vomiting? No elevated temperature?" said Craig. He knew there wouldn't be. Not if Alistair followed directions. The man did seem overeager about poisons, which worried Craig.

  "Not that we're aware of."

  "Sounds like food poisoning. I'll be right there," he said.

  Before he left the clinic, he made sure to take one st picture with his spy gsses.

  It was of his extended middle finger.

  Let them remember me as I lived, thought Craig.

  ***

  So far, so good. Things were going according to pn. Ernstein's normal guards were so busy with making sure he was getting enough liquids and Pepto-bismol in him, that they didn't really notice when Craig slipped away and headed towards the office.

  Alistair's keycard seemed to work perfectly; assuming that Alistair could be trusted. Which was a bold assumption to make, but Craig was in it, now.

  He was unprepared for the smell of Ernstein's office. Too much poupourri. Perhaps to cover up the rot of what goes on here. He didn't want to think about what that could entail. Unfortunately, the drive wasn't found out in the open. Which meant he had to pick the lock on the desk. And while it was true that he had been trained in doing so, he'd never had to do so under pressure before.

  Still. He was a doctor. Practically a surgeon's skilled, steady hands, and a simple lock wouldn't--

  "Hands in the air!"

  That is never something you want to hear when breaking and entering.

  He dropped the lockpicking set on the carpeted floor and raised his hands over his head, then stood up, slowly from behind the desk. It was one of Ernstein's guards. A competent one. One that wasn't distracted by the commotion.

  "Doctor Brandon?" the guard said, confused. "What are you doing in here?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" said Craig. "I'm trying to save your boss's life!"

  Lying under pressure really was his superpower.

  "What?"

  "I'm looking for his medication. His heart medication." Craig gred, convincingly. "Think about it? How else could I have gotten past the security if he hadn't given me his key card? But he forgot to give me the keys to the desk. You wouldn't happen to have them?"

  It was pusible enough, and Craig was trustworthy enough, that the guard, who was downgraded to semi-competent in Craig's mind, holstered his gun and headed over with keys in hand, ready to unlock the desk for Craig.

  As soon as the guard got the drawer open, and Craig could see that bck SSD drive sitting there in the middle of it, the guard felt a very sharp pain in his neck and then suddenly had a great deal of difficulty staying awake.

  Ah, nothing like returning to the cssics, thought Craig. And look! It's like the universe has gifted me someone to frame!

  He took his lockpicks from the carpet, knew the guard's keycard entry would be logged in the system. He thought about taking his gun, but thought better of it... better to sell the story that this poor idiot was the one to take the drive.

  And with that, Craig slipped the drive into his pocket, and casually strolled off the main cabin premises, where hopefully, Luis and the boat would be waiting.

  ***

  Heading to the beach, now at a brisk walk, just in case any cameras might pick him up, Craig heard the distinct sound of a suppressed pistol shot.

  Suppressor and "silencers" weren't like the movies at all... they reduced muzzle fsh and some peak noise, maybe 20-30 decibels. You could still hear a shot from a ways off -- just not quite so far a ways off, and it made figuring out the direction the shot was coming from more difficult. It worked best with subsonic ammo -- which Luis didn't have. Nor did he have a suppressor of his own... he jury-rigged one out of a pstic tub stuffed with surgical foam, and taped and mounted it to the muzzle of Luis' gun.

  It was good for exactly one clean shot. It would only quiet the report just a tiny little bit. But it was quieter than regret, he told Luis.

  It wasn't long before he found himself on the boat, Luis already at the helm, and as soon as he hopped on board, the engine started and they drove off.

  "That was a close one," Craig said.

  "Were you successful in retrieving the asset?" asked the person at the helm?

  It wasn't Luis's voice.

  That's when he saw it. The gun, holstered at the driver's waist. With a silencer. A real silencer.

  Time to think fast.

  "I not only retrieved the drive, but I also saw the post-it note where he keeps the password. Couldn't grab the note itself, but I was able to memorize it."

  It might just be enough. If Smith-Farrow thinks he has information that makes him too valuable to kill...

  "What happened back there?" Craig asked. "I heard a gunshot."

  "One of Ernstein's guards," the helmsman said. "He spotted me, so I had to take him out before he could report my position."

  Craig knew exactly which one of Ernstein's guards that was that spotted the helmsman.

  Luis was dead.

  Luis, his friend, was dead.

  Luis, his genuine friend, the only person he had ever truly confided to in his life, was dead.

  Craig was beginning to get very good at plunging ketamine-filled syringes into unsuspecting people's necks.

  But this is the first time he felt pleasure as the needle went in.

  He shook down the helmsman's body for anything useful. And he sure as hell took that silenced gun.

  And for the first time in his life, Craig Bir committed a premeditated act of homicide, personally, with his own two hands, when he left the unconscious man out in the open sea.

  To drown.

  Then he steered the cigar boat, as pnned, to Steel Pointe Estate.

  At sixty knots, he'd be there in forty minutes.

  And he was going to make damn sure, that everyone, everyone, from Ernstein to Smyth-Farrow, to Lambert... all the rich bastards were going to pay before he was done with them.