Free Centralia by Mike Dellosso Page B

and traffic lights and the occasional pedestrian to deal with. This land of corn and wheat and shoulderless roads was as foreign to him as a grass-covered savanna was to a mountain goat. He glanced at his watch. He was now thirty minutes behind them. He’d have to be liberal on the gas pedal.
    Shortly after Lawrence had lost Patrick and reported his miscalculation, his employer had phoned back and given him the route and direction Patrick and the woman were headed. The call came from a different number this time, and it was a different voice on the other end, masculine but with an effeminate quality to it   —so mechanical and lifeless Lawrence at first thought it was a recording. To make sure it wasn’t an automated caller, he asked the voice what its favorite rock group of the 1970s was. An odd question, but personal enough that a computer-generated identity using artificial intelligence would not be programmed to answer it. The voice hesitated, then mumbled that it didn’t listen to seventies rock. Eighties was its music of choice. Red Hot Chili Peppers.
    Satisfied that he was indeed speaking to a real person, Lawrence told the voice to phone him again when Patrick reached his destination, wherever that might be. The voice agreed but said yet anotherindividual from yet another phone number would call Lawrence the next time.
    Lawrence was not surprised.
    Ten minutes later he received another call. A man this time, no mistaking it, with a hint of a New England accent. Bostonian. Patrick’s location was given with specific orders to take him alive. This made Lawrence’s job a lot trickier. Still, it was better than the alternative. He did not want to kill Patrick; after all, he owed the guy his life.
    Lawrence thanked the caller for the information and was about to disconnect the call when the man said, “One more thing you should take note of.”
    Lawrence pressed the phone harder against his ear. “I’m taking notes.”
    “If you fail this time, you will be discontinued.”
    That was it. Spoken coldly as if he’d read it from a script and didn’t realize what he’d said, the weight of his words, the finality of his simple sentence, until after the words had crossed his lips.
    “Thanks for the warning,” Lawrence said.
    The man disconnected.
    Discontinued. Lawrence ran his finger around the steering wheel. It certainly didn’t mean fired. The agency didn’t fire people. Either you were in or you were out. And if you were out, it meant you were dead. Discontinued.
    He wouldn’t fail, though. He never had and never would. Persistence was a trait of his that had gotten him through too many tours in desert wastelands and landed him countless scores for the agency. He was their most successful tool. A pit bull when it came to completing a mission. That wasn’t about to change now.

    Upon entering the coffee shop, another memory assaulted Peter.
    He’s at a booth, sipping coffee. He’s wearing a uniform, dark blue, short sleeves. Beneath the shirt is a thick vest, tight against his chest and around to his back. Another man is with him, another officer, presumably his partner. On the wall behind the booth is a large clock with a round white face and bold black numbers, its hands showing 7:45. The other cop   —what was his name?   —smirks and says, “You hear what happened with Rodriguez?”
    Peter shakes his head. “Which one?”
    “The old man.”
    The waitress behind the counter hands them each a steaming coffee. She smiles at Peter’s partner, but it isn’t the friendly type of smile that would normally pass between a waitress and her customers. No, this is a knowing smile, a more-than-friendly smile that makes Peter suspicious of their relationship.
    When she glances at Peter, he merely nods at her, then says to his partner, “What? Did someone get to him?”
    His partner drags his eyes from the waitress’s slender figure long enough to take a slow sip of coffee. “He’s gettin’