Path to Convergence
Copyright© 2025 by Vonalt
Chapter 14: Whack-a-Mole
Healing was slow, slow enough to make me wonder if I’d ever be the same. Sure, I could walk and talk, so my brain was functioning, though Karen and Andi might argue otherwise. My leg stiffened up some mornings, and moving took everything I had. I didn’t limp, but I always knew when the muscles in my thigh weren’t on my side.
And it was true; injuries like mine were like weather alarms. I could always tell that a storm was coming by how much my leg throbbed before the rain.
Not all my injuries were physical. I’d snap around to face anyone who approached me from behind or the side. I was improving, but the habit lingered less frequently, but still there. Randy said that it wasn’t uncommon. Those with that edge usually got help through the Army’s Medical Services, or the VA if they were out.
My situation wasn’t tied to any military action, so I doubted if the VA or the Army would help. Lawrence had connected me with a psychologist, who the Agency used for Agents dealing with shooting-related issues, after Ginny died. I couldn’t recall her name, and digging through my contacts didn’t help. My only option was to call Lawrence. The call was a dead end, as she’d recently retired and moved to Arizona to be with family. The Agency hadn’t found a replacement yet.
I was juggling two issues and getting little help with either. The weight of it was dragging me down, seeping into my home life and my work. Friends and coworkers tossed me suggestions, quick fixes, and empty reassurances, but nothing cut through the fog.
Help sometimes comes from the strangest places. It was February, and the cold air was brutal in making my injuries throb like a warning. I mentioned it during my last doctor’s visit. The surgeon who’d worked on me gave a rare, sympathetic nod.
He said, “I could prescribe painkillers, James, but they’re addictive. You’d end up worse off, and I won’t do that to you. There are other meds to help you cope, but they’d dull your mind and you need your sharpness. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that I can do right now. Don’t lose hope. Most of this pain should fade within a year.”
I was in a dark place. Karen and Andi were worried, and even Beast sensed it, doing what he could to offer some comfort in his own way.
I was struggling to focus at my desk one morning not long after, when a sudden commotion erupted at the front of the office and Molly was shouting. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and reacted. I didn’t rise fast, but I rose. I couldn’t take on all the men charging at me, but the first one to reach me wouldn’t see it coming.
Andi saw it and hollered, “No, James, they’re U.S. Marshals! Don’t resist!” I’d been primed to do as much damage as possible, but her shout cut clean through the fog in my head and froze me mid-motion.
The first Marshal sized me up. H was no desk jockey, that much was clear. He moved in slow, cautious steps, keeping his distance, strong hand lurking beneath his jacket, ready to draw. I matched his readiness, pain be damned. I could still land a hit if I had to.
“We’re not here to arrest you, Dr. Mercer. We’ve been sent to escort you to a meeting where your presence is required. Please, don’t resist, Sir. We don’t want to hurt you,” the second Marshal quietly said.
Andi snorted. “You have no idea who you’re addressing, do you? Play nice and he’ll play nice. Do as they’re asking and go with them, James. We’ll deal with this later, in court if necessary. I’m sure that Johannes can turn up several federal civil‑rights claims that we can file if it comes to that.”
Randy stepped back into the office and froze when he saw the Marshals crowding near my desk. “Are you good, Doc?” he asked, voice low. “You want me to make a call?”
One of the Marshals raised an eyebrow at the mention of ‘Doc’. “Wait, the Doc? I thought that he was just a DC myth.”
Randy chuckled, unfazed. “Oh, he’s real, and he’s standing right in front of you. I was with him in Russia and Kuwait, everything you heard is true. Now why don’t you tell us what this is really about?”
One of the Marshals shot Randy a look. “We’ve been ordered to detain Dr. James Mercer and deliver him to a secure location here in the District. We’re to use restraint’s if necessary.”
Randy chuckled. “Good luck with that,” he said. “The guy’s still recovering from a shootout a couple months back. Five went in, only one came out. Just thought that you should know what you’re dealing with.”
I wished that Randy would keep his damn mouth shut. Five U.S. Marshals were watching me, eyes sharp, unsure what I’d do next.
“Fine,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’ll come with you, but don’t try the good cop–bad cop routine. I’m not in the mood, and I’m still hurting.” I slowly stood, eyeing them both. “We all want to go home tonight, so let’s keep this civil. One of you grab my jacket from Molly at the front desk. I’m yours after that.”
My coat was being handed back when Scotty, John, and Todd walked in, fresh from meeting candidates for security positions that we were contracted to fill in the Middle East. My guys didn’t look happy. Our guests grew visibly uneasy with Scotty and the Twin Mountains in the room.
“Stay cool, Guys. The people on the Hill asked for me, and the Marshals are here to escort me to a meeting that I don’t want to attend. I’ll be back as soon as it’s over,” I said.
John, always playing the tough guy, glared at the nearest Marshal. “Make sure that he is, or we come looking and it won’t be pretty.”
I thought that the Marshal was going to have an accident with John staring at him like that. Hell, I probably would have if I didn’t know John.
I hugged Andi goodbye and followed the Marshals out to their vehicles. Their rides? All black SUVs, the official government fleet of Washington, DC. We piled in and headed north toward the city center.
We merged onto the George Washington Parkway a few blocks later, continuing north. The ride was silent. One of the Deputy Marshals would steal a glance my way occasionally, before turning back to watch the road ahead.
The SUV pushed north, passing National Airport, the Pentagon, and Arlington National Cemetery. None of those were our destination. We kept going, following the parkway past the Langley campus, the heart of the CIA.
Our caravan left the parkway and merged onto another freeway, heading north. I knew that we were now deep in Maryland when I saw a sign for Gaithersburg. I wondered how far we’d keep going before we finally stopped.
We left the main highway and still headed north, deeper into the suburbs. We turned onto a road that looked like the entrance to a state park after a few more miles. The SUVs pressed on for a couple thousand feet before pulling up in front of an eighteenth-century building, or maybe a replica. It looked like a state lodge or a conference center.
I spotted several more black SUVs parked nearby. The driver killed the engine, and everyone piled out, signaling for me to follow. We walked toward the lodge and stepped inside together.
My U.S. Marshal escorts disappeared once inside the lodge’s lobby, and were replaced by a new trio who wordlessly motioned for me to follow. This group moved with a precision that set off alarms in my head; Special Forces, maybe CIA paramilitary. They weren’t people I wanted to test either way.
I was led into a conference room where a dozen conversations overlapped, some quiet, some urgent. A few people were seated, others standing, all of them deep in discussion. No one looked happy. A few looked outright shaken. I spotted one or two familiar faces from the CIA, people who’d sat in the same briefings I had years ago. None of them looked thrilled to see me.
An older man made his way to the podium and sharply rapped it for attention. I scanned the room, doing a quick headcount; about twenty people, too many strangers.
The older man rapped the podium a second time. “Take your seats now that everyone’s here, and let’s begin.”
I sat there wondering what this was really about. I barely recognized more than a handful of the people in the room.
The old man’s voice cut through the room again. “Listen up. We have a crisis inside our own intelligence network. A trusted ally has warned us, off the record, of a mole, someone on the inside feeding our most guarded secrets to our enemies. This meeting has been ordered by the new administration to do one thing; identify the traitor and contain the damage before it spreads any further.”
“We understand that you no longer see yourself as one of us, Dr. Mercer,” the older man began from the podium, his tone clipped, but we didn’t bring you here for sentiment. We need your help to find the mole and seal the leak before it spreads any further. So bear with us ... while we try to clean up this mess.”
I nodded in acknowledgment. What was I supposed to do; complain that I’d been shanghaied and dragged here against my will? That’d do wonders for my business if anyone ever found out that I felt that way.
I listened to the people there argue and shift blame over how the mole slipped past detection for two hours. No one talked about stopping the damage. I already knew what could be done to prevent more fallout after fifteen minutes, but there was nothing anyone in that room could do to undo the damage from the earlier leaks. Man hadn’t figured out how to reverse time yet.
A break was called at the two-hour mark. I stood and stiffly moved, trying to shake the tightness in my thigh and fend off the threatening charley horses. I made my way to the restroom, then back across the room. Grabbing a drink, I settled on my meeting fuel, Jolt Cola, twice the caffeine, twice the sugar, just like the ads promised. I’d be reaching for another if this dragged on much longer.
Someone I recognized from the Agency came over, asking how I’d been and what was new with my company. I immediately sensed a fishing expedition, another outfit trying to pump me for intel. I played along. “Terrible,” I said. “I don’t expect us to last past Christmas with no new business from the government.” I didn’t mention that our Middle East contracts had quadrupled, three times what our U.S. business ever was.
The older gentleman rapped the podium to call the room to order and resume the session again. The same ideas circulated as before; no one had found a solution to unmask the mole or stop the damage.
I sat silently as before the break, and listened while the others talked to hear themselves. I quietly prayed with a guilty sort of wish, that some calamity would befall this assembled crew of Washington intelligence types and wipe them out. The chair must have felt the same when he rapped the table and ended the discussion.
He turned to me and asked, “What do you think we can do to stop the mole from causing more damage, Dr. Mercer? I’m very interested in your take.”
I let the silence hang a beat and then flatly said, “Not one of us will ever catch this mole, Sir.”
I was only allowed to briefly speak before the boo-birds and naysayers drowned me out in a rising tide of hostile voices.
The chair sharply rapped for silence and nodded at me to pick up my train of thought.
I continued, “You won’t catch the mole, Sir and distinguished colleagues, and I’ll tell you why. He’s had the same training that you’ve all had. He knows what you know. You zig, he zags. There’s no counter for that that I can offer. It’ll take someone far smarter, or far luckier, than me to pull it off.
“But I do know how to stop him from getting any more of our intelligence, and shut him down where it counts.”
My words ignited the room; voices overlapping, heated debates breaking out, as everyone scrambled to make sense of what I’d just dropped.
The chair rapped the table for order once again, then he said, “Please continue, Dr. Mercer.”