Page 4 of The Fourth Option
Walker tilted his head to look out the side window and up into the dark clouds, his inner philosopher kicking into gear, questioning the workings of the universe, the unity of nature, thought, and consciousness. His mind flashed over Spinoza, who wrote that there was no good or evil, just substance and elements; even thoughts were elements.
He looked down at the pistol resting in his hand on his right leg, then up to an envelope taped just below his books. Earlier in the day he had written on it in Sharpie: “LEIGH ANN STAUB, NEW ORLEANS.”
Substance and elements. What the hell was going on?
Tired of you, inner philosopher.
The destruction, the loss, the injustice—those were his substance and elements, and they demanded atonement. Dignity. Finality.
He could not quell the question.
Leigh Ann Staub? Now?
He saw John’s lifeless body in the Afghan dirt, then alive and laughing in the CIA bar of Kabul’s Arania Hotel, a Kipling quote written on the wall behind him:
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
The sound that tore from Walker wasn’t a scream, it was a rupture. A raw, guttural cry, the pain of a soul ripped from its body.
Walker raised the 1911, pushed down on the thumb safety, and pressed the trigger.
PART ONE
“The soul is dyed the color of its thoughts.”
—Marcus Aurelius,Meditations
CHAPTER ONE
Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan
2019
“HOW MUCH DOESone of these Defenders go for back in the U.S.?” John Staub asked from the front passenger seat.
Walker scanned the vehicle’s interior. The Rover was a four-door 110 version with the longer wheelbase. The back seats were of the dual, inward-facing bench style. The windows were blacked out, but it was otherwise a standard model from the mid-nineties.
Walker scratched his beard. Like Staub, he had grown out his facial hair. The more robust, the more respect it garnered from the Afghans. While Walker’s retained the golden shade of his hair, resulting in his call sign “Viking,” Staub’s beard was starting to transition from jet black to the gray that had appeared at his temples. “I don’t think you could afford one in the States,” he replied. “Plus, you barely fit in here.”
“Yeah, why don’t these seats go back farther?” asked the barrel-chested frogman.
“I think the engineer was a little guy,” Walker responded.
Staub took a closer look at the utilitarian metal dash and manual transmission. He twisted to inspect the rear seats. “Maybe we can smuggle this thing back in a shipping container? Agency will never know. We can call it a combat loss. Leigh Ann has always wanted a Range Rover.”
“This isn’t a Range Rover. It’s aLandRover.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really.”
“Huh?”
