The Traitor: Chapter Five

The Traitor

This is Chapter Five in the Traitor Series. Haven’t read Chapter Four yet? Check it out by clicking here. Reading The Traitor for the first time? Start from the beginning here.

Enjoy Chapter Five!


Puerto Rico, about a week ago…

The man cut the last link of chain and then pushed the links at the border of the hole a little apart to make the hole as big as it could possibly be. He did so very slowly and made almost no noise. The grounds were completely silent, apart from the deep grumbles of the engines of a couple of army jeeps in the distance. His forehead and neck glistened with sweat. He kept wiping it off with his glove-enclosed hand and as a result the glove was dripping wet by now. He kept blinking rapidly, partly because of the insects in the air but mostly out of nervousness.

He clutched his long rifle in both his hands as he stealthily walked through the chain and pushed his back to a large shipping container just as a mechanic came into view after fixing a circuit board near the large water tank in the south-east corner of the grounds.

The man with the gun signaled to the rest of his small army and they started jogging over to the container in the same way he had. All of their rifles glimmered in the light given off by the tall, powerful lamp a dozen containers away.

The mechanic got onto a bike and rode off, and almost immediately, the small platoon resumed their muted jog until they came to a huge building with multiple floors and lots of white tent-like structures around it. The building had two tall chimneys at the far end which were coughing up white smoke. The grounds were also for the most part covered in a foggy cover of white smoke. The troop squatted behind two small, deserted cabins and looked at their leader, who signaled them to look at the door of the structure, one that pointed right at them. When they looked at it closely, they found that it was latched and the only way the occupants were coming out, was from a door on the opposite side of the building. He then pointed at a big tent on the other side of this big building; its lights were out. The leader counted down from three to one and then the whole platoon began sprinting to the tent in a linear formation and the last soldier looked out for any surprises from the back.

As the troop sprinted to their next shield from the control building, Mr. Jacobsen settled down in his seat on the third floor of the control building, a seat that had a clear view, through the window in front of him, of the entire north-eastern part of the facility. He had a long look out the window, then one at his computer screen and then had a long sip from the cup of coffee that sat on his desk. Suddenly his eyes drifted to a part of the screen that housed the feeds from the nine security cameras on the borders of the premises, a part that was flashing yellow. He clicked on it and he realised it was flashing because the feeds from cameras four and five were blacked.

A checkup by a security guard would reveal that the cameras had been shot and ten seconds after that the alarm would go off and red lights would flash in all rooms in the facility and gunfire would erupt near a white dome-like structure near the control building. Fourteen minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the armed soldiers that guarded the facility would have shot all the members of the brigade and the Squadron Commander would be forced to come out, hands above his head, and be taken into custody by the soldiers. A call would then be made to the CIA Headquarters by a female official, obviously shaken up, saying: “This… this is the Puerto Rico Nuclear Facility. We’ve had an attack.”




The tall, broad-shouldered man entered the room and looked around listlessly before walking to his big, black, revolving leather chair and falling into it with a deep sigh. He pulled out a bottle of alcohol from a small refrigerator behind the chair and poured some of the golden liquid into a glass he picked up from a tray on top of a cabinet beside the refrigerator. He took a sip from the glass, placed it on the desk in front of him and proceeded to switch on the computer that sat on his desk. As the engine whirred and came back to life from its state of hibernation, he picked up the glass, took another sip, and revolved to his right to look at the alluring skyline of Chicago through the modernised French windows.

A few keys were then clicked to enter a highly complex password after which the computer took him to the screen on which he was before the computer went to ‘sleep’. The screen donned a big graph of the stocks of a company he had invested in many years ago. It showed how the value of the stocks had risen and fallen (but mostly risen, meteorically) in the last ten years. It was only after looking at that did a faint smile appear on the slightly chapped lips of Anthony Westbrook.

He took another sip from the glass and had looked at the photo frame beside his computer for a moment when a powerful knock on the door was heard and not two seconds later the doorknob was sublimely turned and in stepped a short but well-built man with long, dark brown hair.

He looked at Anthony, and Anthony looked back at him. Anthony then swiveled back towards the window and continued looking out into the darkness and the man followed his gaze.

“You want some?” Anthony asked between sips.

“Might as well.”

“What do you mean?” Anthony inquired, looking at the man for just the second time since he came in.

“Well, the ‘coup’, as you call it, is going according to plan. Our guy got caught and all the rest were shot, as we said it would happen. Our inside man will soon be called for because our guy won’t give them shit.” Anthony looked at the man with a glance that meant to ask him something.

“I guarantee, Tony. He won’t speak a word. Don’t you remember that thing in China from six years ago? He’s going to be zipped up tight, trust me.” That glance was now relaxed but the eyes were still fixed on the man.

“But…?” Anthony signaled him to continue.

“Yes. There has been a slight unexpected complication.”

“Of course there has,” Anthony exclaimed, dripping with sarcasm.

“There’s a guy, Marco Poole. Wannabe. Got on our trail. Knows about the base and he wants it. Apparently has a hidden donor; he must have one since he tried to bribe an FBI agent into giving him intel about the base.”

“Who’s the donor?”

“Don’t know yet. But the FBI ambushed him and his partner when they were meeting up with the FBI agent. They killed two FBI agents and the rogue FBI agent I was telling you about, a certain Morgan Boyd, ended up in a coma.”

“Ain’t that some shit? I don’t see the complication for us, though.”

“Yeah, see, the complication is that this incident took place three days prior to our ‘coup’ on the base,” the man emphasised the word ‘coup’ by putting up two fingers from both hands.

“So, the Agencies draw up a link between us and them. I see. How many guys with Poole?”

“Two. An intel guy and a partner for the field. Easy targets, I figure.”

“Good. I want them gone, Sean.”

Sean grimly nodded his head, let out a sigh, took a last look out the window and then left the room.




The small lamps by the bed were turned on. Their gentle, yellow glow serenely illuminated the room and gave it a relaxing appearance, unlike what this room had witnessed repeatedly in the past.

He flopped onto the bed and relaxed his head on his pillow. He saw the book lying on the table on the right of the bed. He picked it up and began reading from where he had left it last. He had barely gone through half the page when the phone on the table on the left started ringing. He set the book back down and looked at the number. He smiled and picked up the phone.

“Ah, Sean Banner!” he announced when the voice on the other line spoke.

“We have a task. Three guys. When, we’ll tell you.”

A grin spread from the man’s lips to his cheeks and up to his gritty, teal eyes as he set down the phone into its stand and switched off the lamps and closed his eyes. “Karma’s a bitch, Tony,” he sneered, chuckling to himself.

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