Free Damascus Road by Charlie Cole

coat pocket, fingering the balisong knife.
I took a step toward Harrison when the bathroom door opened, and I froze.
    “Sir, you really need to let us know where you’re going,”
said the Secret Service agent as he came in the door. He was headed for
Harrison when he saw me. He stopped and locked me into his sights.
    “Oh, take it easy, Agent Walters,” Harrison said with a
grin. His teeth actually shone bone white in the light of the bathroom. He
moved to the sink to wash up. “We’re just a couple of men talking here.”
    Agent Walters wasn’t listening though. He was sizing me up,
ready to throw me out on my ear, but weighing how much of an effort he wanted
to make.
    “Sorry, sir, you need to step out,” Agent Walters said.
    He might not have been able to push Senator Harrison around,
but I was another matter. He was more than willing to kick me around. I needed
to come up with a plan fast.
    I jammed both hands into my pants pockets and nodded, buying
myself a moment. The thought of attacking the agent occurred to me, but I
quickly dismissed it. I couldn’t take on his security detail.
    My hand touched the ID from the hospital in my pocket. I
didn’t want to leave it behind and shoved it into my pocket out of reflex. A
plan developed quickly.
    “Senator Harrison,” I said, ignoring the agent. “I’m sorry
I’m not having a good time, sir. I’ve got some bad news for you. It’s about
Senator Marlowe.”
    Harrison’s brow furrowed, and I pulled the hospital ID from
my pocket, careful to cover the picture with my finger.
    “I’m  Dr. Danforth,” I said. “May I have a moment of your
time, sir?”
    Harrison considered the request and nodded.
    “I’m sorry,” I said to Agent Walters. “I’m afraid it’s
confidential.”
    Walters murmured something under his breath and stepped back
out the door. Once we were alone, I pocketed the ID.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Senator Ellis Marlowe is dead,” I said.
    Harrison looked as if he’d been shot. His face blanched, jaw
slackened. I didn’t buy it for a moment.
    “What? How did it happen?” he asked.
    I completely lost all interest in maintaining the charade
and had no intention of describing the details of his death.
    The balisong knife was in my hand.
    I let it fall open lazily in a slow cartwheel.
    “He was my father,” I said. “My name isn’t Danforth. It’s
James Marlowe.”
    Harrison’s eyes flicked to the door. I reached over and
snapped the deadbolt shut, shaking my head.
    “You killed my father,” I said.
    “No, I didn’t,” he pleaded. “Please don’t do this.”
    “Who is Gibson Pollack?”
    “Gibson?” he sputtered. “Gibson’s my nephew.”
    “Gone now, yes?” I said, advancing on him. “Died in Baghdad?
Qatar? During the Surge?”
    Harrison nodded.
    “Died under the leadership of Colonel Ellis Marlowe,” I
said. “That must have gotten to you a bit, eh? One of those misfortunes of war
that really sticks it in and breaks it off, am I right?”
    The blade was restless in my hand. I snapped it open in a
stainless steel blur and let him watch as the blade whirled, open, closed, back
open, reversed my grip, back forward, closed it and made it dance over my fingers
from index to middle to ring and back again.
    “Bothered you so much that you decided to take your revenge
on Ellis Marlowe?” I asked. “Kidnap, left him for dead?”
    Harrison was shaking his head vigorously, all signs of his
stellar smile gone now. His face was slack with fear. Blood drained from his
cheeks despite his country club tan.
    I lunged for his throat with my open hand, shoving him back
into the tiled wall. His head collided with a sickly satisfying sound, his eyes
popped wide as I lifted the blade to strike. My arm was coiled, waiting to be
unleashed. The ferocity of my attack, the not-so-righteous indignation, the
barrage of facts that hit so close to home, Harrison was frozen in place.
    “Was that you?” I growled.
    “What?” he