The Big Nowhere: Ch 2. Part 3

"Say, Juan, I ever told you how I got this ring?"
Juan looked up from the blanket stretched out on the sand. He felt the tent looming over his head, the heavy canvas bearing down on him. He squinted at the silhouette sitting near the open flap of the tent, its feet resting on a small fold-up table. As his eyes adjusted to the sun's light reflecting off the desert, that silhouette became Aldous Blood. He was holding his ring in his hand, spinning it between his fingers. What sunlight made it into the tent bounced off the gold and the rubies, throwing tiny pinpricks of light all over the interior.
"No," Juan said. He suspected he had heard the story before, but hadn't cared enough to remember it, or even to listen to it the first time. "Tell me."
"It's a long story," Blood said. "It'd probably bore you. In fact, I'm sure of it."
"You asked," Juan replied. More of Blood's little games. He went back to cleaning his submachine gun. It was a C-4, the newest Argentina had designed, and he had not yet mastered disassembling it. He wondered if the soldier he had stolen it from could have taught him anything about it, if he had been in the desert with him now.
"Yeah, but like I said, it's a long story. It's probably too confusing for you. You wouldn't be interested," Blood insisted, obviously eager to tell him the story.
"You can't be sure of that," Juan said, carefully scrubbing the C-4's barrel. He held the barrel up to his face to inspect it, seeing a distorted reflection staring back at him.
He wondered why he was here, an Argentinean in northern Africa. Perhaps the obvious answer would be that he was fighting a war. A war fought for freedom, and a war fought to destroy fascist oppressors.
"Oh, I'm sure." Blood slipped his ring back on, but continued to inspect it. Juan wondered about Aldous Blood sometimes. The man was an American, and like the rest of the group, a mercenary. Blood's country—like Juan's own—had not yet intervened in the war. Both claimed neutrality would be the best course of action. Both were more interested in money than ideals. Juan had to wonder what had happened to the world when soldiers of fortune were more willing to fight for their beliefs than nations. Perhaps that was one thing he and Aldous Blood had in common. They were both Tough Guys, as some had started calling them.
"Try me," Juan said, setting the gun's barrel down, next to the rest of the pieces.
"Well, you see," Blood said, taking his feet off the table and turning to face him. "It all started when I was a kid. My old man gave it to me." He stopped and stared at Juan.
Juan looked at the other man blankly. "And?"
"Told you it was a long story," Blood said, snickering.
Juan returned to cleaning the gun. Blood continued chuckling, amused with his own joke. He wondered about Aldous Blood sometimes. He wondered how a man could switch personas so quickly, so seamlessly. He wondered if he was taking the war seriously, or if he thought it would end quickly enough to laugh about.
"Actually, I was just reminded of something," Blood said, checking his watch. Juan noticed that it was the grinning black cartoon cat strapped to his wrist, rather than Blood's more traditional watch. He always wore the toy into combat, or on raids. Why he was doing so now—two days after the last mission, without any more planned for another week—Juan couldn't fathom. Maybe it was just on a whim. "I forgot something outside. I'm gonna go get it. Be back in a jiffy, champ."
Blood walked out of the tent whistling softly, his hands jammed in his pockets. Juan went back to assembling his gun, shaking his head. Blood was strange; that was that. Then again, they lived in strange times. This war was quickly becoming a worldwide affair. He had read that people were already calling it "World War II." He remembered when he was a child and they said they were fighting the war to end all wars. What had happened to that?
Maybe it was a sign of the times that humanity could end war twice within the span of a generation. Maybe disloyalty to one's own flag was also a sign of the times. People claimed that they were fighting for their country when they were fighting for ideas. The Nazis were fighting for their vision of the world, England for hers. Flags were just cloaks now. He had told Cortez that, and he had agreed.
Cloaks and daggers. Juan sighed. It wasn't easy, knowing that no matter how many enemies he killed, there would only be more of their kind at home. People were matter; ideas were indestructible. Fascism was an idea, and he had seen its forbearers gaining strength in Argentina.
Juan heard the sound of footsteps behind his tent and did not recognize the voices that whispered in hushed tones there. He whipped around to see three shadows behind him even as he felt bullets slam into his body.
Juan fell forward, landing on the scattered parts of his gun. Absentmindedly, he remembered that he had spent so much time arranging them in the right places. His right hand still grasped for his pistol even as it drifted out of reach; his left arm had turned to lead. He felt warmth rushing out of his back and seeping into the ground.
A silhouette entered his vision. He heard quiet voices—quiet voices speaking German—from around the side of the tent. The silhouette crept closer, squatted in front of him. Juan's vision began to fade. Blackness crept in from the edges.
The silhouette spoke, and became Aldous Blood.
"Shucks, Juan. You got blood in your eyes."
The darkness obscured everything, everything save the silver gun barrel and the hand with the black cartoon cat watch that held it.
---
Oppel stole a glance at the ring as Cortez examined it. He pulled the car out of the police station's parking lot and drove into the right lane.
"You sure that belongs to him?" Oppel asked.
"Positive," Cortez said.
"He held onto it after all these years?"
"He was very particular with his things." Cortez dropped the ring in his coatpocket. He could almost feel a cold aura radiating off it. Cold to match his mood.
"But not particular enough to remember his ring when he fled the scene?" Wesley pressed. He didn't like this. If Aldous Blood had been able to keep his ring for his entire involvement with the original Tough Guys, during his supposed death, and the sixteen years afterward, why would he lose it now? Surely a car crash wouldn't be enough to cause him to forget it.
"You were there, Agent Oppel." Cortez's tone caused Oppel to back off.
"Right," he said, after a pause. "He—if it was him at the scene—fled pretty quickly. If he didn't plant the ring, he'll be wanting it back."
"You think he wanted to leave it as a trap?" Cortez asked.
Wesley mulled the possibility over for a moment before answering.
"Maybe. Like I said, he was in a hurry. I think the crash had knocked him out. If he did leave it purposefully, there has to be someone he left it for." He glanced at Cortez, trying to see how the other man would react to this idea.
"How could he know I'm here?" Cortez asked.
"How could he kill Quentin Locklee with his bare hands? He's clearly capable of some tricks. Probably tracked you after you and the others tried to kill him."
Cortez scowled slightly. You and the others tried to kill him. In his mind's eye, he saw Blood writhing waist-high in red foam for the thousandth time. Tried to kill him.
"I only came to D.C. last week, when the Bureau sent for me. He couldn't have known." Cortez didn't like where this was going. Blood wouldn't stalk him. He wasn't that patient. Then again…
"Maybe Dra—Agent Kersey, then. He's been living here for years." Wesley made a turn towards the Department of Justice Building. "Blood could find him."
Cortez examined Oppel. The man seemed eager to pursue every theory, tracing it to its conclusion like a bloodhound, yet he ignored the obvious. The Bureau had sent for Cortez just after Aldous Blood had reappeared, putting the last two Tough Guys and their most hated enemy in the same city, ready for war. That struck Cortez as suspicious; whether Oppel felt the same and chose to ignore it, or he genuinely believed the Bureau could do no wrong, Cortez wasn't sure.
"If it was a trap," Cortez said wearily, "what will we do?"
"Set another," Oppel said quickly. "And I know the man for the job."