An Opportunist, Seeking An Opportunity

The Greyhound rolled to a stop in the Brooklyn bus terminal, its door swinging open to disgorge a motley group of passengers. One of the last in line was a tall, dark-skinned man with ebon eyes and long, raven-black hair. His bearing indicated a military background, and his alert, self-confident manner hinted that this was a man best left alone. He followed the driver toward the rear of the bus to the luggage compartment, and waited as bags and cases were removed, ready to go to the baggage claim room.

"I'll take that one," he said, as the driver pulled out a small duffel bag. "Pick it up at the baggage counter," the driver replied. Kahtenny's voice became flat, unemotional, stating the fact without emphasis, but with the weight of an undeniable truth. "I'll take it now."

"Now look, you," the driver rose smoothly and turned, ready to do battle. He found himself looking up -- up into a face that might have been carved from mahogany with a dull axe. Swallowing hard, he said, "Uh, yessir. Yessir. Here you are." Kahtenny handed him the claim check. "Thank you."

Shouldering the bag, he left the bus station in search of a hotel he had heard about from some of the members of Seal Team Six -- a refuge and gathering place for unemployed mercenaries. Four blocks up and two over, and he saw the sign, weatherbeaten but solid, just like the hotel itself, if the stories were true. He registered as John Eagle, took his key, and easily climbed the stairs to the third floor. He gave the room a quick once-over, noting the television and radio, computer hookup, refrigerator, microwave and coffee maker, then made a more thorough search, using a small meter he pulled out of the duffel bag.

One obvious bug, carelessly planted in the telephone, and one well-hidden in the radio beside the bed. His lips twitched in a parody of a smile. That was easy enough to counter. He turned the radio on to a hip-hop station, setting the volume just loud enough to cover any other sounds made in the room. That done, he took a leisurely shower and lay down for a much-needed full night's sleep.

Early the next morning, dressed in nondescript clothing and with a surprising number of lethal devices concealed under his battered leather jacket and elsewhere about his person, Kahtenny set a motion sensor micro-camera in an unobtrusive spot where it would cover the doorway and most of the room. He checked the receiver, tucked it in his shirt pocket, and left the room.

In the dining room, he ate a high-protien breakfast, checking the patrons for signs that they might be military or mercenaries. One or two possibles, but he did not make eye contact. Time for that later. He finished his meal, tipped the waitress heavily enough that she would remember him, and asked for directions to the nearest library. "Three blocks up and four over," she said, "but be careful, it's a tough neighborhood between here and there."

"I'll be very polite," he assured her earnestly, the twitch of his lips belying the hard look in his eyes. Leaving the hotel, he followed the path she had indicated, always alert for possible trouble. He saw a few characters on his way, but one good look at him was enough to discourage any from approaching.

He entered the library, smiling at the lady behind the counter, his eyes always busy. There they were, the computers. He chose one in a corner, from which he could keep an eye on the rest of the room and the door. Shutting the machine down, he inserted a thumb drive and did a cold boot, calling up his own operating system and Internet browser - one undetectable and untraceable. After searching through the local news for employment possibilities suitable to his talents, he turned to the blogosphere, posting messages along the lines of: "Squid-6 for A-T in orchard. In or out re here." Translated, "Navy Seal from Team 6 looking for anti-terrorist job in New York area. Can install or destroy security systems. Reply here."

That done, he checked for email on several different accounts. Nothing of importance, except a letter from a cousin on the Mescalero reservation. Not much change there, but there never was. Rumor had it that the White Eyes were going to abandon Carlsbad Caverns park and give it back to the Apache. Kahtenny smiled at the thought. "I'll bet we can run it at a profit." He then ran a search for catastrophies at local factories, government buildings or large businesses and spent the rest of the morning and until mid-afternoon following up the stories, seeking the little details that might give him an edge if one of them fell his way.

Hunger finally got the best of him. He closed down the computer, removed his thumb drive with all the information he had collected, and re-booted once again. A different clerk sat at the desk. "What do I owe you for the use of the computer?" he asked. On being told it was a free service to the community, he thanked her and headed for a restaurant he had passed that morning.