ACHILLES HEEL
By Wendy

Bogota

The balding old man finished examining the papers in his hand before slipping his glasses off and acknowledging the bodyguard that stood in silence at the doorway. "You can let him in now, Dominic."

Nodding his compliance, the bodyguard pulled out his weapon and opened the door to call the waiting guest. "Mr. Ortega will see you now."

Stepping aside to let the man enter, Dominic never took his eyes of the stranger as he stepped back to usual stance of protection, his weapon still in his hand.

"Nice place you have here, Mr. Ortega." The stranger greeted the older man.

Though Ortega had checked his visitor out, he was still wary of the man who had gone to so much trouble to meet him. "My compound suits my needs. Much land. Land that a man could get lost in, if I have a mind to make it so."

The unveiled threat was not lost of the younger man, who quickly got to the point of his visit. Turning to guard to show him the folder he was about to pass to Ortega, he stepped over to the desk and slid across the desktop. "I come bearing gifts."

Ortega studied his visitor first. He knew a lot about the man before him. You don't get to be as old as he had got by being careless whom you let into your home. But what he didn't know was what this man actually wanted from him. "A gift, Mr. Creel? Gifts have a habit of expending a price. What would your price be for this gift that you give me?"

"Two million dollars," a smile creased the craggy features of Creel's face. "American, of course."

"Two million?" Ortega shot Creel a distorted smiled. "That is a lot of money for some paper, Mr. Creel."

"I assure, Mr. Ortega, I am offering more than paper. May I take a seat?" Creel asked, gesturing to an empty leather chair beside him.

Ortega nodded, as he picked up his glasses and opened the file.

Creel watched with some satisfaction as the old man's face clouded over, his lip's taunt as he read the folder's contents. "As you can see, Mr. Ortega. I bring you more than a gift. I bring you closure. I heard about your loss and the price you've put on the man's head, that caused that loss"

Ortega slammed the folder closed, his fingers digging into the folder, as he threw his glasses on to the desk. "You can get me this man?" Ortega's voice was hard, yet brittle as he remembered what was taken from him.

"I will rid you of this man for the two million I spoke of," Creel smiled.

Ortega lovingly picked up a picture frame that faced away from his visitor, and stared into the sweet face of his only son Rafael. A son murdered in cold blood, and a son that would never to be held by his mother again. His wife had become a shell of her former self since their child's execution and it was with her blessings that wanted someone to pay.

"No," Ortega said grimily as he replaced the photo frame tenderly back onto the desk. "You bring him to me, 'alive', Mr. Creel, and I will give you one million today and three more, when I have spit in his face and watched him die."

Creel's smile broadened, "Four? For that sir, I'll gift wrap him myself."

"Dominic will see to the arrangements," Ortega nodded to his guard. "But one thing before you go, Mr. Creel?" the old man asked, letting Creel know that the visit was now over. "This man is good. He has much at his disposal to protect himself. What makes you so sure that you can deliver him to me?"

Creel pushed himself up from the chair, his confidence evident in each move of his body, "I know how to get that logical brain of his off balance. Don't you worry, Mr. Ortega, I have the advantage here, I happen to know Frank Donovan's Achilles heel."

Part two

This new department was not going the way he planned. UC was supposed to be his step up the ladder, not Frank Donovan’s. < Not that Donovan needed one, with a reputation like he had; he could have his pick of any job he wanted in the justice department, even mine. > Bloom thought to himself.

With Murphy asking for the ex-hostage negotiator by name, added with the fact that the Attorney General’s son had been returned unharmed after his kidnapping ordeal, it had only managed to strengthen Frank’s standing in the eyes of those above. So, now the man seemed to be untouchable as well as damn unreachable.

Stalking toward Donovan’s office, Paul Bloom cursed the ghost of the former leader of UC, John Keller, damning him for having the stupidity to get himself killed. That one single act of pointless bravado, necessitating Donovan’s appointment and thereby forcing him to do the leg walk to talk too the inaccessible man in question.

"Where is he?" Bloom’s patience had worn too thin to warrant the use of manners, even to the members of the team that was faultless.

Cody hadn’t heard Bloom enter and startled by the harsh command of the voice, he leapt to feet, the action causing his chair to skid backwards across the room.

"And which he, would that be, sir?" he asked, more flippantly than he had intended as he silently cursed the absence of his fellow teammates.

"Donovan," Bloom snapped, glaring at the younger man. "Where is he?"

"In his office, sir," Cody answered more formally, as he pointed the way.

Without any further acknowledgment, Bloom headed toward Keller’s old office, only to find on his arrival, that the room was unoccupied.

"Are you looking for me?" A deep voice asked from a side room.

Following the voice, Bloom turned to see Frank Donovan watching him from what, if he remembered correctly, was the storage room doorway.

"If I wanted a dead man’s room," Frank said, answering Bloom’s question before it had found voice. "I would have taken it. I did not. This room will be adequate for my needs."

"I see where you got your reputation," Bloom made no attempt to completely hide the disregard he felt for the new UC leader. But he had to admit, even to himself, that it was a clever move on Donovan’s part. Take over a dead man’s chair too quickly, you risk the wrath of people in the team he left behind. Damn, clever move.

"And I see where you got yours," Frank responded, before turning on his heels and heading back into his office.

Undecided as to how he was to take Donovan’s tone, Bloom squared his shoulders, shrugging off the uncertainty that the imposing leader had produced in him, and marched into the former storeroom.

"Paul Bloom, I assume," Donovan greeted his superior with an outstretched hand.

"Yes, well," Bloom returned the acknowledgment with as firm a handshake as he could manage. "Now, that we both know who we are," he said forcefully, quickly releasing his grip as he reviewed the room. "Maybe we can get down to business."

"As you want. Please have a seat," Frank offered as he reclaimed his own chair behind his desk.

In the seconds he had known Frank Donovan, Bloom could see that Donovan was everything the Justice Department head, wasn’t. Where as the UC leader, was tall, dark, oozing an inner self-confidence than demanded you take notice, Paul was a balding, ex-cop who went unobserved no matter how hard he tried. The fact that by the time he was told, Donovan’s appointment was already a done deal, demonstrated his point precisely.

No, he would not take a seat and lose even more ground.

"I’ll stand thank you." Bloom declined. "I was sorry we didn’t get to meet when you were appointed the position, but I’m here now, so I would like to set the ground rules."

Frank leaned back in his chair; showing no emotion as he waited for his boss to continue.

"The UC is ‘my’ program, so, it’s my ass on the line when things go wrong." Bloom stated firmly. "We’ve always had a lot to prove here, but now, with Keller’s death, we have to demonstrate even more that taxpayer money is not being wasted on this unit. That our jobs are way too specialized to be accomplished by already funded and overworked branches of Justice department."

"I do understand the inner workings of government bureaucracy, Agent Bloom, and I was of the belief the team was accomplishing those aims, even with the unfortunate death of a good man," Frank defended in an even tone.

"Don’t get me wrong, Frank," Bloom responded as he turned to look out of office window, absent-mindedly scanning the inner sanctum of UC headquarters. "The team effort on Quito Real and Sonny Walker was great work, but it’s not over by a long shot and there are more just like them out there. But," Bloom curtly stopped, a pleasant smile slowly creasing his face as he turned and walked over to Frank’s desk. "That’s for another time. I really just wanted meet you, let you know where I stand."

"Well, I think I know exactly were you stand, Agent Bloom," Donovan said as he stood holding out his hand once again.

"And I you, Agent Donovan," Bloom answered as he once again shook the offered hand and started to leave, only to pause at the doorway, slapping his hand against its frame, before looking back. "Oh, by the way, next time I’d like to get in contact with you, I trust won’t have to come to you again."

"Noted," Donovan said, seemingly untroubled by his superior’s not so subtle rebuke.

< Well, that went well > Bloom silently mocked himself as he stalked from the room without looking back. <Damn, doesn’t anything unnerve that damn man? >

The lyrical chime of cell phone to an end to his self absorbed tirade and reaching into his jacket he answered.

"What!" He snapped down the line, having already ascertained by the number on the read out, that it was his office calling.

Abruptly stopping, Bloom frowned as he listened to the message. "Say that again." Needing to be sure he had heard right the first time.

"Are you sure?"

" No, no, don’t do anything. I’m coming back to the office now. I want to see this information for myself."

Canceling the call and slipping the phone back in his jacket, Bloom spun on his heels, wondering whether he should inform Agent Donovan about what he had just learned. Hesitant, he decided to wait. If there really was a price on Donovan’s head, he would have to be sure of his information.

Part three

The only sound to break the empty echo of the warehouse walls, was the noise of peanut shells being cracked and discarded, as four men sat in silence waiting for the final man to arrive.

"Kovak, you ever going to quit eating those damn things?" Jimmy Ragget asked as he sat throwing his knife above him, watching as it pirouetted into the air before coming to land hilt first in his hand.

Sitting opposite him, elbows resting on his knees, Charlie Kovak crunched another nut, and copying his teammates action with the knife, tossed the peanut into the air before catching in his mouth. "Nope." He grinned as he munched away on his snack.

"He’s late?" Enrique Salinas said as he stood to stretch his legs.

"He’s always late," Simon Creel added as he checked his watch. "The man still lives on Russian time."

"You have a problem?" A heavy accent reverberated around the empty rooms as Alek Baklanov joined the rest of the team. "It gives me that little extra time to say goodbye to your ladies."

"In your dreams Baklanov," Enrique refuted the tall blonde Russian’s implication. "Our girls look for taste, class and más carne que usted lleva dentro de sus pantalones rusos. < more meat than you carry inside your Russian trousers >"

The others chuckled at Salinas’ reference to size ‘really does’ matter.

"Don’t you worry about my ‘meat’ Salinas," Baklanov leered as he grabbed his crotch and gave it a lewd squeeze.

"If you boys are quite finished," Creel snapped, bringing each man back to the reason he had called the meeting. "I have a job for us. How would you like to get some poetic justice, and at the same time earn half a mil each?"

So Creel had left off a couple of numbers that made up the four million in total they would be paid by Ortega, he deserved it. After all, he was the one that found out about the bounty, took the risk in going to Bogota. It will be his face that Alejandro Ortega will remember should it all go wrong. Anyway, he’d wanted out, and getting paid Two million dollars to deliver Frank Donovan to his death seemed like the perfect way to finish his illustrious career as a paid mercenary.

Looking from man to man, Kovak could see they were all of the same mind, "I agree, and I think we’re all in ‘harmony’ here, Creel. So what’s the job?"

"I, myself am feeling very lyrical at the sound of that much folding money," Ragget grinned, "Who do we have to kill?"

"No killing this time." Creel cryptically explained. "We are merely postmen, picking up and delivering a package to Alejandro Ortega in Bogota."

"A kidnapping?" the Russian shook his head. "I don’t know. After last time….We got nichevo < nothing >."

"Yeah, but neither did they in the end," Ragget smirked as looked at his knife, remembering the feeling as he cut their hostage’s throat with its razor sharp blade.

"Yes, Ragget, we know, you enjoy your work," Creel acknowledged before focusing on the team as a whole. "This is not a kidnapping, it is a trade. A certain package for crisp US dollars. Anyway, how can you negotiate, if you don’t have a negotiator?"

Kovak’s face broke out in a broad smile, as he shook his head and looked up at Creel, "Our target is Frank Donovan, isn’t it, Creel? I see no more poetic justice than taking the man that cost us a million dollars."

"Hey, Kovak, be nice," Enrique sniggered. "The man’s going to make us more than a mil interest on what he owes us."

Creel worked his deadliest glare on the one member of the team whose temper was the hardest to control and reiterated Alejandro’s directions to him alone, "Ortega wants Donovan alive, Ragget, and if we want our money, that’s how he’s going to get there, understand?"

"I can do ‘alive’," Ragget maliciously smiled. "When it’s worth it to me."

Satisfied, Creel opened the suitcase he brought with him and pulled out all the intelligence he had on the leader of the UC, "Okay, gentlemen, let’s get this operation underway."

Part four

Well, that was interesting, Frank thought to himself, even going as far to allow the corners of his lips curl upward into a smile. He couldn’t help being reminded of a rooster in a hen house as he had watched Bloom puff out his chest and crow in an attempt to show Donovan who was boss. And though he was finding some personal amusement in Bloom’s need to ‘piss on the furniture and stake his claim’, Frank could also see where the man was coming from.

Paul Bloom was feeling that as head of the unit he should’ve had some say in who would head UC, and when things moved too quickly and he didn’t get a vote, of course he had to feel slighted. Somehow, Frank knew this wouldn’t be the last time his boss would find the need to wave his position of authority at him.

The interrupting tone of the telephone broke his thoughts.

"Frank?" A familiar voice asked on the other end of the line.

Donovan, closed his eyes, not wanting to reply to the voice.

"I know you’re there Frank, I need to see you. Half an hour, the usual place. Be there, buddy. It’s important. Frank?"

"I’ll be there," Donovan agreed as he placed the receiver back on its cradle.

"Damn you Harry," Frank cursed under his breath, as he stood and grabbed his coat. "Damn you!" He swore again as he headed out of his office.

UCUCUCUCUCUCUCUCUCUC

The well-dressed man looked more suited for a power lunch in an expensive restaurant than sitting on a park bench eating his lunch from a paper bag that he had just pulled from his overcoat pocket. The pinch of his nose and miserable forty-something face spoke volumes of his desire for something more appealing to eat.

"Curse that woman!" He scowled, before sighing and taking a reluctant bite out of one half of the unappetizing meal.

Sensing a presence, the prematurely graying-blonde, slid over and allowed his guest to take a seat beside him.

"What some," He offered a little too eagerly.

Frank Donovan passed on the repast from his old friend Harry Case with a wave of his hand. "Thanks anyway, Harry."

"Just as well," Harry snorted, screwing up his nose as he again attempted to swallow the inedible morsel that refused to leave his throat.

"Moira?" Frank grinned.

"Yeah," Harry groused. "The woman is trying to kill me, I swear. I’ve survived a dozen back alley wars, a coup d'état and worst still the office coffee, but it will be a middle aged secretary and her cross between rabbit food and cat litter that will eventually do me in." Unable to face another bite, Harry shoved the sandwich back in its bag and threw it in a nearby bin. "I won’t tell her, if you don’t."

This time Frank didn’t return the small talk as he hunched forward, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he got to the point. "What do you want, Harry?"

"A new secretary?" Harry quipped, before taking a more serious tone. "I heard about what you did for the Murphy kid. You did a good job."

"I did it for the kid, Harry, and because I was asked to, don’t read anything in to it," Frank replied, his voice wooden and distant. Turning his head to glance at Harry, Donovan became suddenly suspicious of this meeting. "Is that what this is all about? Seeing how I ‘handled’ it?"

"No, it isn’t," Harry defended, angry at the accusation, even if he knew that Donovan was partially right in his assumption. "Damn it, Frank, you’re my friend, don’t land on me because I care, okay?"

Donovan, sighed as he sat upright, running a hand through his short dark hair, "Sorry," the younger man apologized.

"It’s okay, you know that, water off a duck’s back. I never listen to you anyway," Harry smiled patiently, before the real reason he was here caused the smile to fade. "Look, Frank, the thing is, there is a serious hit out on you."

If Donovan was shocked, it never showed on his face. "Who’s paying?"

"We’re pretty sure Alejandro Ortega is behind it, but we haven’t been able to find out who took the job as yet. We’re still working on it," Harry replied as he fixed a determined glare on his friend. "Until then, you’ve got to let someone watch your back, Frank. It’s not an option."

"Okay, I’ll handle it." Frank reluctantly agreed, before getting to his feet and starting to walk away, knowing he was leaving a frustrated friend in his wake. Having taken only a couple of steps, Donovan yielded to his guilt and stopped, turning around he focused a softer gaze on his friend. "Thanks for the warning, Harry, and it ‘was’ good to see you again."

"He wouldn’t blame you know, Frank" Harry called out to his friend, taking one more chance to break through the barrier Donovan had put up between himself and the world. "If Michael could tell you himself, he would tell you that one thing, Frank, you’ve got to know that?"

Frank flinched, his eyes haunted by another time and place as he shrugged himself further into his overcoat, refusing to let his walls done. "Not now, Harry, can’t do this now," he said as he quickly turned and walked away.

Letting out an audible sigh of disappointment, Harry shook his head as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone and dialed his office. "Stupid, pig-headed….No, Moira, not you," he quickly placated his hurt secretary on the other end of the phone. "Yes, Moira, they were great….no Moira, I didn’t notice the sprinkling of parsley, but I’m sure my stomach did….Moira," Harry stumbled over his words as he tried to catch a break in the woman’s endless babbling. "Moira! Listen to me, this important. Ring Agent Paul Bloom of UC for me. Tell him I have to see him ASAP. And thanks for lunch." He lied, as he canceled the call. "If you’re not going to help yourself, Frank, then I’ll have to do it for you."

TBC