Free Alpha by Greg Rucka

them, the day after Marcelin had hired him. Wallford escorting Bell into Porter’s office, then remaining in the room with them, standing just behind and off to the left, the position deliberate, in the periphery. You are watched, Mr. Bell, you are being evaluated. To prove the point, he wasn’t offered a seat, and Porter remained behind his desk, absorbed in whatever was on his monitor for fully half a minute before bothering to acknowledge Bell’s presence.
    “Marcelin should’ve consulted with me before hiring you,” was the first thing Porter said.
    “I guess I made a good impression.”
    “He says you were army.”
    It wasn’t a question, but Bell decided to treat it as one. “Little under twenty years.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Little of this, little of that.”
    “You being coy with me, Mr. Bell?”
    “Not my intent, Mr. Porter.”
    Wallford, just outside his periphery, said, “You know we can find out.”
    Again, it hadn’t been a question, but this time Bell didn’t feel the need to answer.
    “Your job is to keep the park safe,” Porter said. “That’s all it is. Keep the park safe, keep the kids under control, keep the breakage to a minimum. You’re not pounding ground here. We have the whole, you have a piece, understand? If the matter goes outside the gates, it’s outside your purview. You understand? If it’s outside the gates, you refer it to Wallford, he brings it to me.”
    “Sure.”
    “We clear on this? Do you understand, Mr. Bell?”
    “Sure.”
    The look Bell got told him that his answer lacked something, perhaps enthusiasm, perhaps the requisite sincerity or obsequiousness that Porter felt was his due. The look Bell got told him that Porter didn’t have much faith in the ability of soldiers to follow orders, and if Porter thought that, he probably didn’t think much of soldiers in the first place.
    Bell had held hands with the CIA enough in the past to recognize it for what it was: typical Company bullshit.
    Less than a week later, during the morning call, things got worse. The Secret Service liaison, a woman named Linda Jovanovic, was on the line with them, going over details for a dignitary visit, and Bell had been holding his tongue, letting Wallford take the lead on Porter’s behalf. They’d proceeded to the issue of coverage while in the park, the close detail work, and Bell finally offered that he’d had some experience in that department, and that Jovanovic’s people could rely on his discretion and aid.
    “Jad?” Linda Jovanovic said. “Jad Bell, is that you?”
    “How you doing, Linda?”
    “I think my blood pressure just dropped ten points, that’s how I am. Fucking relieved is how I am. Give me your number; I’ll have my detail leader contact you directly.”
    They’d wrapped the call, and Bell had been parking the BMW, making his way into the park, when his phone rang again. Porter on the line, all indignation and insult.
    “You do not overstep, you do not make us look bad,” Porter said. “You fucking do not do that ever again, understand?”
    “We’re all on the same side,” Bell said. “Aren’t we, Eric?”
     
    Three weeks, then, Bell feels he’s got his legs under him. It’s not an easy job, not by any stretch, but mostly it’s managing details, and that’s something he’s learned to do very well indeed in the last twenty years. And like the army, WilsonVille has trained its people, and Bell is surrounded by men and women who know their jobs.
    One of them, a woman named Shoshana Nuri, has proven very helpful. He met her the start of his second week, found her waiting outside his office with a list of the various group tours that would be hitting the park that day. There were some two dozen, including a couple of graduating high school classes making late celebratory trips, and another smattering of special-needs and developmentally disabled groups. WilsonVille maintains a database of its employees, marks those with supplementary or