Chapter 9 – V

Nine PM. People were leaving the meeting, mostly in groups of two or three. Some were chatting about the meeting, but most were talking about their plans for the weekend. 

The man, simply known as “V,” moved the “Caution Wet Floor” sign once again before picking up his mop and going back to work on the floor. Damn high school kids, he thought. Dirtier than pigs. Truth is, he kind of enjoyed the repetitive, mind-numbing work. He kept his back hunched, head down, a baseball cap covering his eyes. No one ever noticed the janitor. It was the perfect cover. 

Shame about the previous janitor. Luckily, when the school was desperate, V had been right there to fill the spot, his background check spotlessly clean. It had been almost a month now.

V worked his way closer to the door of the PTA conference room. As usual, everyone had left after the meeting except for the “Fab Five,” as he called them. Always some excuse to stay behind. It was amazing to him that none of the other PTA members even remotely suspected that the Fab Five were doing anything but PTA subcommittee work. 

He could hear them chatting away. Nothing important until Alan Somerville closed the door. He’d have to keep a close eye on Somerville. That man was inherently suspicious with his eBay bug detector and counter-surveillance gear. Although far too primitive to detect the CIA-grade bugs he had planted, Somerville could still stumble onto one of them accidentally. Not that it mattered. The Fab Five seemed convinced that someone – the military? Foreign interests? Corporate? – was watching them, which, of course, was correct. Everyone was watching them. 

He finished up the last bit of mopping, anxious to get to his “HQ,” as he called it. He dropped off his cleaning gear in the janitorial closet, then headed downstairs to the basement. Behind the boiler was a room that, once upon a time, might have been used for maintenance. He had discovered it on a set of blueprints he acquired a few months earlier. At this time of night, the high school was empty except for him, as the only cleaning staff, and the Fab Five. A security guard would be by around midnight to lock up. For now, he could relax, put up his feet, and listen.

He opened the lock with a key hanging on a chain around his neck beside his Ranger dog tags. He flicked a light switch, locked the door, then slumped into a chair before a large electronics console with multiple monitors. V stretched both arms into the air and massaged the back of his neck. He tossed his cap onto a cot in the corner with blankets tucked taut enough to bounce a quarter. 

A variety of protective cases projected out from under the cot, one housing a long-range military-grade sniper rifle, another, a .50 caliber machine gun. Otherwise, the place was tidy and immaculate. V revered his state-of-the-art equipment and couldn’t tolerate the thought of rats chewing through sensitive wires or scattering scat amongst his objets d’art. The linoleum-tile floor sparkled, and a hint of ammonia hung in the air. 

V sat for a few moments staring at a central blank monitor. His reflection stared back – a very plain, forgettable, roundish face with dulled features topped by untidy medium-length brown hair much in need of a haircut. He had very average looks. No scars or markings of any sort on his face – unlike the rest of his body, which was riddled with bullet holes, knife wounds, and rope burns, marks of honor from a dozen or more lethal Ranger missions. He wore a baggy shirt and pants that gave him a pudgy, middle-aged look, camouflaging his twenty-seven-year-old wiry five-foot-ten-inch-tall muscular frame. He believed his body was capable of anything and could withstand any hardship. Such was the training and discipline of a Ranger. 

He was an elite fighting machine. That he was no longer officially a Ranger changed nothing. One day, they would realize their mistake in dismissing him. One day, they would ask him back, ask him to rejoin, and maybe even lead his Charlie Company. He was sure of it. For now, though, he needed to bide his time, to stay sharp and deadly, to blend in and hide in plain sight while he completed this mission. Mr. Drennan did say he would put in a good word for him if this mission was successful. Mr. Drennan was a powerful man with many contacts. He could be trusted.

Time to get to work. V flicked several switches, and the monitors all came to life. The large central monitor showed a wide-angled view of the PTA conference room. All five members of the Helios Group – the Fab Five – were present today for the first time. The other monitors revealed a variety of other locations, including all of the Helios Group’s offices at ASU, as well as their main conference room. He even had the Dean’s office bugged. Everything was voice-activated and recorded on a massive hard drive under the console that was backed up regularly to Mr. Drennan’s OneWorld Tower. 

As he focused on the central monitor, he put on his headset and adjusted the volume. Somerville was standing in front of a whiteboard, drawing furiously in complete silence. Diagrams and equations filled the whiteboard. This went on for what seemed like several hours. V struggled to stay alert. He was sure there was something important here, but he was becoming mentally fatigued, and it was getting difficult to focus. It was like reading a foreign language, pure gibberish to him. 

Eventually, Somerville stopped and verbally addressed the scientists. V listened intently until he heard something he could make out. Bewildered, he squinted his eyes and leaned closer to the monitor. 

What the hell is an epsilon particle?