Anthrax Affections

Second Affliction

Winter on the border was hardly winter at all, to which the Florida-raised girl had once been accustomed. Leaves swayed on trees that affronted nature with their foliage and the temperature made every article of clothing in Olivia's suitcase inappropriate. Not that the recruits in their mini drug war cared how much she was sweating. The equator couldn't thaw hr new reputation; the ice queen. Painfully unoriginal, the reality that she was soft, weak, remained buried under the layers. When she allowed herself to think of her former civilian-partner, her mind always wrapped him in a wool coat. He'd warmed her once with a grin and backhanded sentiments. There might have been something there had they not been too busy battling the unexplainable. There might have been something, had her indecision not sent him a continent away.

"You're doing good work, Agent Durram."

The supervising agent, Terence Brinhauser, nodded to the phone in her hand, butchering her name for the tenth time since she'd landed in his domain last week. The compliment was forced and not for the first time she wondered if Brinhauser was afraid of her.

"Of course," Todd Jenkins yelled from the lone bathroom. "She's already the brains of this outfit."

There was no malice in her teammate's voice, but the others bathed in snide. Life had spun her into a web of wariness and anyone near her could be the spider.

The office, a loose description at best, was a metal construction trailer lacking air conditioners or functioning windows where the seven member team assembled to receive instructions and plot a way into the cartel. Every cover imaginable had been tried and three nearby offices had run out of fresh faces. Too many identities were known, several dying for the cause and when they looked at their quasi-receptionist, Olivia nearly fell out of her yellow plastic chair. Finally some action, something to occupy the dulling mind.

"She's new here, but her face isn't." McKinney leaned dangerously close to the outskirts of her personal space. "I jack to it nightly."

Olivia cringed under the disturbing image and grasped tight her only straw. "I doubt drug lords fit Time into their busy schedule." Though they did if they were smart.

Brinhauser tore open his second pack of the young day and lit up. "Sorry, but you're just… too pretty." Which effectively rerouted the course of discussion to other means by which the boys club might succeed.

No one wanted to lay their fortunes on the woman responsible for taking down an upstanding, charitable company and though she'd been cleared of Nina Sharp's murder, the stain wouldn't fade. Her skin was raw in the daily effort. The men in her group went out for drinks and Olivia retired to her hotel room to contemplate how many ways a Swiss army knife can solve a bad day.

Astrid's call woke her before dawn with a rambling deluge of information. Walter had called on the cell his son had rigged, explaining that he'd used the skillfully forged credit card Peter had left for him to buy a flight to Saudi Arabia. The exact location was not divulged but Walter assured Astrid that he'd call again if he found his wayward child. At 3:52 am, Olivia moved one step closer to a direction, pulling her clothes from the rickety closet and packed them with military precision. And hour later, the luggage remained by the door as she prepared for work. She'd never leave; jeopardize the tatters of her career to hunt down an unresponsive con man. But that didn't stop the occasional glances to the bags nor stifle the urge to make a damned decision

The next two days were spent holed up in the tin can with unshowered men and a mound of wire-tap transcripts. It was clear that the target, known only as Stanislaw, wasn't just trading drugs for money; they were swapping victims. Bodies were piling up on both sides, corpses becoming shows of allegiance among the various factions Stanislaw was tying together for his profit. She squinted at the fine print of dictation, translations of Russian, Spanish and French. Each speaker was vague, seemingly inventing words that could mean a million things. Except one.

'See, I killed this spy for you,' one new lieutenant announced by tapped cell phone, in English no less. 'This is proof of my loyalty.' Loyalty, in her experience, was easy to shed. Somewhere in the transcripts Stanislaw's third in command mentioned a poker game with Roxies as the stake. The meaning was open to argumentative interpretation, but it takes a woman to know when her gender is being insulted by pet names. And it could give her a way in.

Non-operational windows and close quarters boiling human flesh, Olivia bound her damp hair and sensed eyes behind her. Turning her sticky body in her chair, she found Jenkins watching her openly. He'd been bolder in his appreciation in the two days that they'd been locked in the trailer to work, apparently unaffected by the rumors. Or maybe it was the lack of other female options that prompted his testosterone to act. Not especially attractive, the too-thin man proposed a round of drinks once they were released, holding out the first olive branch she'd seen in months. She nearly declined, knowing he'd talk about her afterward. She'd choked on enough gossip already.

But three rounds later, the bed shook beneath them as Jenkins fought with her shirt and Olivia fought her rising revulsion. She didn't do this, not even with men she wanted to do it with. The eyes didn't dazzle, the lips were wrong and there was no muscle under his dry skin. Jenkins possessed a shocking lack of strength in his large hands, which grasped at her like a phantom. If she dug her nails into his shoulders, the man might crumble. There was an eventual entry, fumbling like a blind man inserting a pool cue into a keyhole. Did virgins exist in the FBI? Knowing she'd face a short night of dissatisfaction, she almost cheered when the sweaty man rolled off.

Of course the night concluded with his apologies for a failed performance. She laughed at him then, securing her harsh reputation. At least he wouldn't brag about conquering the ice queen for fear she'd divulge his incompetence. Damn, it wouldn't have been like this with…

The moment the door closed soundly behind Jenkins, the tears she'd been storing for months came in torrents. Through the hiccuping gasps for breath, his name choked out of her mouth.

…….

Participants in one night stands aren't supposed to be seen the following morning somewhere other than bed. Olivia had seen Jenkins naked and now was bound to see the back of his disinterested head. In a fit of high school drama, Olivia got to the FBI trailer first, as though this gave her dominion. But she didn't stay there long. The ritualistic go-get-um meeting would be one member short.

In a box store café on a bright Wednesday, a sunburned woman in a tank top and capris sat hunched in a molded booth sipping a coffee two hours from hot. Two things went wrong before lunch, the first involving a lack of sunscreen while tailing a hulking man through an outdoor shopping district. This chain bookstore and its faux designer brew were adding to her list of mistakes. She'd been careful, tottering behind the soccer moms and students throwing down espressos but the long haired gym rat was paranoid, turning constantly and scanning the crowd. Convinced he hadn't spotted her at the bazaar or here, Olivia stayed at her table, allowing the man to wander through the aisles while she guarded the doors and stared over her shoulder at the security convex dome in the corner.

Milo Gant's picture had appeared in a briefing last night, a mug shot after a fifth arrest for suspected trafficking. He was believed to be a recent addition to Stanislaw's menagerie, a career criminal with a drugs and weapons background. The address Gant provided was in far too decent a development to house such an unsavory character so when he was released at dawn, the local sheriff followed Gant to an apartment building in the slums. The location was radioed to Brinhauser and miraculously, he'd given Olivia the privilege of baking in a hot car for three hours waiting for the cockroach to scurry. In the opening minutes of her watch, Olivia's isolation was as overpowering as the early humidity. The empty passenger seat mocked her.

She'd been expecting a trip to a hideout or a bar. But his morning constitutionals thus far didn't fit the profile, anchoring her hope of catching a meeting. One good day, she prayed. One good day could set her right. One good day wouldn't be today, she realized because after hours of meandering though the non-fiction racks, Gant drove back to his refrigerator box of a home.

Months tracking the brightest adversaries had taught her that nothing was ever gained from sitting in the damned car. Climbing out cautiously and dashing to the curb, she located the trash can corresponding to Gant's apartment number and peered inside. Inside the dented metal can resided a mound of empty vitamin supplement bottles and dog-eared fitness magazines. No pizza boxes or ladies' items detailed a health conscious, single man. A crumpled orange post it, smeared from yesterday's rain, bore a phone number with a Mexican exchange. Public domain was a marvelous thing.

Her shift replacement, the evolution challenged McKinney, rolled up in a typical stake out vehicle, darkened windows and a passenger seat stacked with junk food. Olivia accepted the replacement gladly. Dinner consisted of Spongebob pasta with cold carrots and a Shiner Bock. The Austin team was sunning the phone number she'd found, giving her something to look forward to.

That night, she didn't look at the luggage.