Delete This

I was cleaning out my Spam folder, a task I did daily, when I saw a new email with “Delete This” in the subject line. I hadn’t seen that for quite a while and was suspicious that it might be a hacker, trying to gain control of my computer. No, it was for real. Damn. I didn’t have time for this, but I couldn’t delete it without reading.

I opened the email and found a cryptic message, as usual. It said: “Hi, Roman, this is the Mailman. Meet me at the Quarry, near K’s place, at 3:30 this afternoon, rain or shine. Come ready to rodeo. Be there or be dead.”

Damn and damn again. I really didn’t have time for this, not to mention that I didn’t want to do it. However, his comment that I should “be there or be dead” told me I didn’t have a choice. I checked my watch. It was already 2:30, and I was due to be at the meeting place in one hour. The Mailman didn’t like it when people were late, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. He did not react well to disappointment.

I quickly dressed in jeans and combat boots, with a fresh white T-shirt and a worn leather jacket hiding my favorite weapon tucked into my waistband at the center of my back. In my right boot was a knife I had picked up on a battlefield in Afghanistan. Another weapon was strapped to my left calf. I was ready to rodeo, as instructed.

As I drove toward Arlington Cemetery, also known in the intelligence community as the Quarry because of its acres and acres of marble headstones, my mind wandered back to previous meetings with the Mailman. He was called that because he was the guy who delivered the orders to the people under his command. My nickname was Roman because of my nose. I think we were the only two members of our team left standing. The others were already in permanent residence in the Quarry.

I got there with ten minutes to spare and parked the car in the tourist parking lot. In my jeans and T-shirt, I fit right in with the usual crowd heading up to the Kennedy Memorial. I stood there, gazing at the eternal flame. At least you would have thought so if you’d given me just a cursory glance. Hidden by my battered cowboy hat and aviator glasses, my eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for anyone acting suspicious. I already knew where to find the Mailman. Sure enough, there he was, leaning against a tree nearby, dressed as I was. I couldn’t see his weapons, but I knew they were there.

I gave it a couple of minutes, so I could walk over right at 3:30. It would bug him that I was there exactly on time, prompt and ready to rodeo. He liked to be the only person in any group who was perfect. So did I, and that fueled our relationship year after year, assignment after assignment.

I walked toward him, wondering what this assignment would be, where I would have to go, and who I’d have to kill this time.