Agents of Change - Espionage with a twist! #ScienceFiction #MysterySuspense

Agents of Change

by Guy Harrison


Protagonist Calvin Newsome is being interrogated after trespassing on school grounds with the ID of a teenage girl whose identity he earlier assumed...

“Read me her name, maybe that’ll help you remember.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I—”
“Read the girl’s name. That's not a suggestion.”
I look the man in the eye and gulp before opening my mouth. “Jenny Cooper.”
“That’s right,” he says, nodding his head as he bites his lower lip. “Jenny Cooper. You remember what happened to her, don’t you?”
I shake my head.
“Found dead in Pennypack Creek three years ago. Blunt-force trauma to the head, cracked orbital bone, broken leg. Scuffmarks on her bike that made it look like an accident. Tell me; is that the price for saying no these days?”
“No!” I say. “You think I killed her?”
He shrugs. “The evidence doesn’t lie.”
I can feel my face radiating as my arteries and veins pound the walls of my neck. I damn near faint as I sit back in my chair, letting the detective’s words reverberate in my mind. I’ve been set up...by way of human error, I think. I don’t believe an organization as benevolent as the Agency of Influence would go to such elaborate lengths to see to it that Jenny Cooper’s death—which, by all accounts, appeared to have been a cold case—was pinned on me.
The detective clears his throat. “I’ll give you credit...the marks on the bike, the absence of DNA...you covered your tracks.”
“But it’s just an ID,” I say, my eyes fixed on the card instead of the man.
“Unless you have one helluva story, it’s all we need.” He leans forward and places his interlocked hands on the table. “C’mon. Just admit it.”

From "3 LIES" by Helen Hanson

Clint–on quitting his corporate gig and buying a sailboat:

“The day I got the divorce papers, I decided a divorce was exactly what I needed. From her. From work. From the plugged-in world.” He reached down to pat Louie’s firm belly. “I found the No Moor on eBay down in Newport News. I flew down to pick her up and set sail for Boston equipped with a one-week sailing course from my college days. I figured if I didn’t fatten up a shark en route, it was a sign.”

Merlin seemed to absorb the story as if it were what he’d expected, another wayfarer adrift in the current, another unique set of circumstances: Technology-magnate-masquerading-as-seadog? That’s him on the end.

Merlin had no apparent expectations of him, unlike everyone else in Clint’s life.
Save Beth.

With her, he was a face-value commodity. She didn’t treat him like he was ore waiting to be mined and wanted nothing from him other than his company. Women like the one at the medical supply store, or the drunk at the bar, pretended to find him fascinating because he was wealthy. He could torture invalids, slaughter kittens, or use singing bluebirds for target practice and still scare up a date for the weekend.

From "Mission Critical - A Cold War Novel" by Jamie Fredric

Commander Grant Stevens, Navy SEAL, aboard the carrier USS JOHN PRESTON:

He leaned against the edge of the port bulkhead, staring out at the ink-colored Sea of Japan.  All was quiet except for the sound of the carrier's screws, agitating the water into a white, foaming frenzy, leaving a distinct, trailing wake.  He glanced overhead with the cold wind whipping around him, bringing with it a hint of high octane jet fuel.  These were the same smells, the same quiet, the same darkness, reminding him of his Bolivian mission as he stood on the helo pad with his team, waiting for the helo to crank up.  All these things were part of his life.  But tonight it wasn't the cold that sent a chill through his body.

His head ached.  The throbbing wouldn't go away and he tried to revert to mental concentration by invoking his karate discipline by blotting the pain from his mind.  He turned and went back into the darkness, walking toward the forward bulkhead.  Sitting down heavily, he pressed his back against the bulkhead, wedging himself in behind the towing winch, then he pulled his knees in toward his chest.  Hidden behind the intensity of his eyes was a mental imagery of a game plan he was attempting to piece together, a means for stopping the Russians.

From "Red Flags" by Jon F. Baxley

Moscow, USSR, January 1972

“Izveneetye, pojaluista,” was all Danni had understood of what she'd said. It was the way she said it, though, that had shifted his heart into overdrive. That, and the scent of Red perfume that swirled up from her fur coat as she eased past him onto the top stair of the down escalator.

            A pair of long blonde braids contrasted sharply with the dark fur. How typical, Danni thought, while he eyed what had to be a perfect hourglass shape. It's a shame to shroud something that spectacular with mink. But, maybe she's just a little too perfect, he added.

            The long, noisy escalator ride to the bottom of the Moscow subway gave Danni a full minute to contemplate her. Before the thousand-foot descent had ended, he found himself becoming more than a little intrigued. There was no doubt—the woman's striking presence was intensely distracting in a world that, up until that moment, had seemed so nondescript.