Out Of Time. Cliff Ryder

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СКАЧАТЬ or the chairs. Alex looked into the mirror on the other side of the bar, his eyes mocking him in the reflection. There was nothing in the image to indicate that something was wrong with him, but he stared at the image as if it were a puzzle, as if maybe, if he stared long enough he could make the pieces fit back together. Alex sipped his beer and thought quietly. A young boy wandered in, looking for an easy mark or a free meal.

      The boy looked sidelong at him, but didn’t approach immediately. Alex met the boy’s gaze and nodded him over. With a quick glance at the bartender, who seemed not to notice, the boy complied.

      In a disinterested voice, Alex asked if he was hungry. The boy didn’t answer, but instead glanced at the floor. Alex spoke quickly, explaining what he needed. He slid a few pesos across the table.

      The boy eyed them for a moment, considering. It had to be one of the strangest requests he’d heard, but he wanted the money. He reached out, and as he did, Alex caught his wrist in a snake-fast grab.

      He held the boy’s gaze, and studied him. There was fear, and a bit of pride, but they weren’t the dead, street eyes of one of Carrera’s boys. Maybe he was just out for an evening’s adventure, or maybe his parents worked late and left him to fend for himself. Whatever the story, he would do as he was told for the money, and that was enough. Alex released him and nodded again. The boy disappeared.

      Alex rose, slouched over the bar and ordered a second beer. He took the chance to glance out at the street, but he saw nothing out of place. They weren’t going door to door searching for him. Not yet anyway. But it was time for another change, and then it was time for him to disappear.

      Despite the problems, the mission could be considered a success. The head of the snake had been removed, and Carrera’s business would be taken over by someone else. Fights and power struggles would cause a shift at the top. And whoever ended up running it would have to rebuild. It would be a long time before they managed to work up to the threat Carrerra had become to the government, if they ever did. More than likely, wars would erupt among the underlings; lieutenants and street gangs would vie for control of their little parts of the business until it fractured. Most of the drug gangs were held together by violence, the threat of violence and fear of one leader. When that leader was gone, the disintegration was almost always just a matter of time.

      He finished his beer, marking the time the boy had been gone. Just as he began to think he’d slipped up again, the boy ducked back into the cantina. He carried a package wrapped in brown paper and moved a little uncertainly. He dropped the parcel on the table in front of Alex, who tore open the corner, looked inside, smiled thinly and nodded. Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more coins. He slid them across to the boy, who took them quickly. For the first time since the two had met, Alex saw a toothy grin emerge from the lonely shadows of the young face. Then the boy turned and exited so quickly and silently he might never have been there at all.

      Nonchalantly, Alex took the package and walked through the beaded curtains at the rear of the building and entered the men’s room. Less than five minutes later he emerged wearing a bright red T-shirt with the Union Jack flag emblazoned across the front. His dark hair was tousled. The contacts were gone, returning his eyes to their natural blue color, and the makeup had been washed off his face, lightening his skin tone by several shades. He wore cheap mirrored sunglasses and in all respects now looked like a tourist rather than a native.

      Without even glancing at the curtain, he entered the kitchen, crossed to the rear exit and slipped out into another alley. He was feeling better, and his thoughts had returned to the mechanical, clockwork efficiency of his art. There were streets at both ends of the alley. One was busier, and he chose it. He stopped just inside the mouth of the alley and waited.

      Moments later, a brightly colored taxi rolled slowly by. There were religious icons on the dashboard, bright, reflective stickers on the bumpers and enough chains dangling from the rear-view mirror to obscure half the windshield. Alex sauntered out of the alley, picked up his pace and raised his hand. The taxi was moving slowly, and the driver caught sight of him, pulling to the curb. Alex slipped open the rear door.

      He heard quick footsteps behind him and heavy breath. He didn’t turn. He slipped into the backseat.

      “Airport,” he said softly. “Quickly!”

      As the taxi rolled into traffic, Alex heard frustrated shouts behind them. Once again, the Chameleon had disappeared.

      The taxi shot through traffic and rounded the first curve, nearly rolling up onto two wheels in the process. Alex had two lockers waiting—one at each end of the airport. Depending on what he saw when he arrived, he’d go to one or the other, change again, take his tickets and board a flight for the United States. He wanted a hot meal and a long nap. Maybe something stronger to drink than a cheap Mexican beer.

      In his lap, his hand trembled, and he frowned, staring out into the growing darkness.

      2

      Three weeks later, Alex sat in the doctor’s office, trying to remain calm. He’d have better luck staring into the business end of a gun than staring at that damned clock. The door popped open, nearly sending him off his seat. The groan of new leather betrayed him, and he fought to relax his muscles, to sink casually back into the chair.

      Under normal circumstances, Alex would be utilizing one of the doctors who had been specially selected to serve the agents of Room 59. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and Alex wanted his situation to be private—at least until he could figure out what was going on and what to do about it. His mandatory time off after a mission was almost over, and he’d soon be sent out again. He needed to know what was wrong before that happened.

      Alex had chosen Dr. Britton because he had a reputation for being discreet, he was one of the top in his field and he was close to home. He was also blunt and to the point, which Alex appreciated. As Dr. Britton stepped through the door, Alex’s eyes riveted on his face, he shifted the file folder from one hand to the other. That folder bore the fruits of a battery of tests. It held Alex’s fate.

      “Sorry it took me so long.” Dr. Britton eased into his own chair; the wheels scraped across the plastic mat as he moved closer to the desk. “I had to take an emergency call.”

      “No worries, Doc. It’s not like I have somewhere else more important to be.” Alex dry swallowed and recrossed his legs.

      “Let’s see.” Britton sighed, licking one finger and turning quickly through the various lab results until he came to the one he wanted. “I’ll start with the good news. You’ll be happy to know that you’re in wonderful physical shape. Heart good, lungs good, muscle tone impressive. That’s all going to be a help to you with the bad news.”

      Alex offered up a tight grin by way of reply and recrossed his legs. Patience eluded him.

      “The bad news is that there is one problem and it’s a big one,” the doctor said.

      He paused, Alex supposed, awaiting a response. Alex gave none.

      Dr. Britton nodded. “I’ll put this as simply as I can, then. No sense fooling around with it. Your MRI showed extensive lesions—we call them plaque—on your brain and spinal cord, and the fluid we took from your spine has elevated protein markers. You have multiple sclerosis, and based on the history you’ve given me, it’s very progressive.”

      Alex felt the small lunch he’d eaten earlier rise into his throat, and his head spun. “MS. Like Muhammad Ali?”

      “Not quite. Ali has Parkinson’s СКАЧАТЬ