The black Firebird ripped down I-81 South.

Gasper had pushed a steady 85 since crossing the Pennsylvania line from Jersey.  He had not spotted a single trooper lurking in the crevices for a hundred miles or more.

He wore aviator-style shades and a red V-neck that squeezed his muscles like the costume of a professional wrestler. He checked his rearview every few seconds, waiting for the green Volvo to show itself.

He first made them in rural New York. 

Gasper had felt them tickling his brain's synapses before he noticed the car that waxed and ebbed on the horizon.  Two presences that overlapped– one moderately youthful and the other like a steel-grey icebreaker bounding through tidewater glaciers.

Even though the ESP was an accident of genetic recombination, it seemed to work in a sensible way, almost as if it were the result of trial and error in the court of nature. 

From a distance, he could feel the presence of another mind.  Not every mind, however; there seemed to be a selectiveness at play that snatched relevant information from the ether.  Like a hunting dog that caught the upwind scent of quail through a jungle of other smells.

They had tried their best to be procedural. Relaxed distance. Not too eager. It was too far for him to dig into their thoughts,  but he could feel their intentions like the shank of an icepick.

It was inevitable that Mikhail – or his superiors - would want someone to watch over things.  It occurred to Gasper that they might kill him after he finished with Abraham.  He did a lot of bad things outside the scope of work, even with a monthly allowance of rough trade.

He let up on the gas pedal and eased onto a rest-stop exit. The lot was deserted.  It was a scenic sort of place. Sheltered picnic area with a charcoal grill.  Display stand with dozens of travel brochures.

Gasper waited. A minute later the Volvo pulled in and parked.

As far as he could make out, there were two men. Casual dress. One on the youngish side of his thirties. The other stocky and balding with a face that screamed professional responsibility.  They were still too far to read, but he could feel the buzzing of their minds like the hungry violence of a wasp's nest.

Gasper stepped out of the Firebird and walked to the men's room.

****

Thomas Macklin struck the steering wheel with his open palm.

"That motherfucker has been in the bathroom for half-an-hour. Think he's got a case of the traveler's trots, or is he just flexing in the mirror like The Rock?"

His younger companion glanced from his phone.

"I don't think they call him The Rock anymore. Strictly Dwayne Johnson. Only old dudes still call him The Rock.  Can't put that shit on movie credits."

"What?"

"Never mind. I got no clue what he's doing. Keeled over, maybe? They say his type don't live long.  The ones who make it end up topping out at thirty anyway.  Blood clots and shit.  Nature doesn't like it too much when you start trying to fuck with her."

Macklin considered that their charge might be slumped-over dead on a commode. It bothered him immensely.

"I have to take a look", Tom said.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, fella.  What if he gets inside your head?"

"Not likely, Robbie-Boy. For them, the reading of minds takes effort. It's intentional. Why would he do it to me?  I'm just a regular guy who needs to use the pisser."

***

The restroom door swung open and Thomas Macklin – 45 years-old and a veteran of conflicts which never quite made it into the public eye – stepped inside. He wore cargo shorts with a baggy Adidas tee-shirt to hide his sidearm.

The air was heavy with the essence of pine-scented urinal cakes.  It was a small restroom, with three motion-sensor urinals and four commode stalls.  Three of the stalls were regular, but the last was an oversized setup for the disabled.  It was the only one with a closed door. 

It was impossible to see legs from the cross-angle. He needed a straight line-of-sight.

Thomas walked to the far urinal and spat.  It was a crude gesture, but he wanted to maintain a casual presence. Just stopping in, Fellow Traveler.  No problems here.  He gave his Poland Spring bottle a slight tip. The splash on the pissmat was authentic enough.

He listened for signs of life. Breathing. Shifting weight. The sound of shit hitting water. 

Nothing.

He took a knee on the tile floor and bent low to gaze beneath the stalls. Then he heard groans.

"Oh God, it hurts......"

The voice was strange, like hissing air escaping from a punctured tired. Strained. Desperate.

Thomas was an old hand at sizing up situations. At certain times in his life, it had been his only way to escape the fray in one piece. 

There was one rule – a signal rule, in fact - that had helped him survive over and over again. It was almost always better to take action than to sit things out.

"You okay?" he called out.

"Help me. Please help."

Thomas strode to the end stall and hit it with his closed fist.

"I'm here. Can you get to the door?"

By the time he saw Gasper's hands emerge from beneath the stall door, he didn't have time to adjust his stance or backstep. 

His feet were yanked from under him like a filthy tablecloth. He tucked his chin and slapped the floor with his palms to absorb the shock from falling.

He tried to kick free, but realized he was being dragged into the stall from underneath. Thomas grasped at the stall door, but the dragging force was like a steel towline.

He grabbed for the Baretta with his left hand.  His bottom-half was now completely in the stall. 

Gasper reached the holster first. With a display of strength that Thomas would have considered impossible outside the realms of carnival trickery, Gasper ripped it free from the gunbelt and tossed it aside.

Switch up, Thomas thought, his logic wheels still spinning like clock-gears.

Thomas grabbed the bottom edge of the stall door and pulled his body towards his attacker. The rest of him slid under the door like a mechanic on a creeper seat. When Gasper came into view, Thomas used his abdomen to perform a fast, violent situp.  He swung his left fist in a wide arc.

Gasper blocked the left-hook and landed a short, hard rabbit punch to Thomas' nose.

Swiftly, and with the confidence of a trained fighter, Gasper snaked his left arm around the back of Thomas' neck and leveled his right forearm against his throat.  Then he forced the agent back to the ground.  He pushed down with his body-weight.

"I'm soooooo sorry about this" Gasper announced in strained, effortful voice. "All this....very unfortunate."

Thomas' face went scarlet. Spit ran down his chin as he gasped for air. He was on the verge of losing consciousness.

"Does your phone have a passcode?"

Gasper dug into the stranger's mind like an eel sliding into a dark cleft of coral.  It was almost lights out, but he plucked his answer easily enough.

"Thumbprints. Even better, friend.  By the way, what's the gentleman's name in the car?"

When the man beneath him went limp, Gasper released the choke.  He wanted the stranger unconscious – not dead. His netherparts didn't react from killing men.

He reached into the agent's left pocket and took out the cell. Print-based. It surprised him that agents weren't using more sophisticated gear.  Retina scanning. Voice recognition.

Seconds later, he had the phone unlocked and the contacts list down slid to the W's.  Robert White.  Partner Extraordinaire.  Next lucky winner.

The text was short.

"You're right. He's dead. Need help with body."

In the space of a quarter-hour, Thomas' partner suffered a similar fate.  He left both men unconscious and intricately tie-wrapped inside the shitter stalls.

As he left the men's room, he tossed both of their cell-phones into the woods. Then, he took out his own and dialed Mikhail's office.

Mikhail answered directly.

"Gasper?"

"I appreciate your solicitude Franklin.  I want you to know that I just gave your two emissaries the red carpet treatment."

"Just a couple fellows to assist you . . . if the need presented itself."

For a moment, silence.

"Are they dead?"

"No. They're tied up in a rest-stop bathroom.""

"You realize how this looks, don't you?  Considering your origins, we've nearly given you carte blanche.  And then, of course, the women.  It's an unheard of concession to cater to fetishes, Gasper.  Especially ones that require cleanup. "

"I understand, Mikhail, but a thought occurred to me.  I mean, I realize it isn't so now, but the thought crossed my mind that they could be hit men.

I've already finished the others that escaped.  After the last one, I figured 'where's my value?'  I'm needy and sometimes a little reckless.  A champion-hitter, nonetheless, but a player still has to answer to somebody.  You do too, I suppose."

"I do", Franklin conceded.  "But our intentions were never to let you go. You're a part of our team."

"That's a nice thing to hear, Franklin.  In other news, I think I may be taking a different route to Linell.  Something more circuitous."

He hung up before Franklin could answer.

Gasper went to the Pontiac and pulled a switchblade and a small box of band-aids from the glove compartment. With the dexterity of a field surgeon, he made a small, quick, incision in the skin-flap between his index and middle fingers. With the blade tip, he dug into the cut. There was blood, but he seemed to be operating on a very effective principle of tactile location.

When he removed the blade, there was something small stuck to the tip.  He took it between his fingers and wiped the blood away. Squarish and with a dull gold luster.  He flicked the object off his finger through the open window, then bandaged the small cut.

Follow me now, he thought as he turned the key in the ignition.