Shadow Of The Past Trilogy ∞ THE DISPLACED

49 ∞ stay away

Day Thirteen ∞ Wednesday evening

"I WONDER HOW LONG she's going to take," Dawson said as he closed the garage doors, hiding their car from view. "What if she never recovers her memory? We'd be on permanent vacation."

"Patience," Weaver mumbled and, on passing, tapped on the wooden post that proudly held the sign with 'SOLD' splashed across it.

The question reminded him of the risk they were taking. Permanent vacation or permanent retirement—he couldn't picture himself in either position. He had to be investigating something or be undercover, or else he'd be a dead dog.

It wasn't like he had a life—he'd lost all that soon after the end of his tour in the 'Nam, after he'd already been recruited by the CIA. That virtually killed any chance he might have had. And whatever chance he had, he gave it up. He was no longer fit to be part of a family. The divorce made Cambodia a perfect outlet for his frustration and anger, a way to numb the guilt of being an absentee father during all those years in service. Instead, he ended up compounding it with his worst images of guilt.

The faces.

It was always the faces... of the women.

Both young and old. 

Just because they lived in a village where the main livelihood was heroin.

But that was water long gone under the bridge. The same water that came circling back to haunt him when he least expected it.

And now there was something else to worry about.

Apoc.

The end of the world.

Weaver hadn't told his partner yet. He wondered how Selina was holding up. No doubt she'd be under severe pressure. He wouldn't wish that man's tactics on anyone, but it was something he was well versed with himself. If the situation dictated it, he had the training to do it.

He was the first down the stairs to the basement when agitated movements on the surveillance feed caught his attention. He rushed the last few steps and grabbed a headset, staring intently at the monitor.

The mother was wringing her hands, then holding her forehead as she turned to the window.

"You're blowing this way out of proportion, Mom." The subject's sister came into view.

"You don't know that. Last time your brother went out on that contraption, he almost got himself killed! 'It is written, Thou shalt not make trial—'"

"Mom! You've got to stop worrying so much. That's like six, seven years ago."

"I'm always going to regret not selling it when I could—I don't know why I thought I should be keeping a promise to your father."

"Mom, Dan's not going to be doing—"

Weaver turned to Dawson who was waving a flashing tracker at him. "They're on the move," they said in unison and Weaver pulled off the headset, a corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

"He's on his bike. Looks like the day hasn't ended yet!" Dawson continued, practically rubbing his hands. He was looking forward to a change of pace.

∞

They caught sight of the two motorcycle riders as they turned the last corner leaving the neighborhood, on the westbound. They were both wearing helmets, but Weaver recognized them as a male and a female on the right kind of bikes, plus the tracker confirmed that they were on target.