(E1, C4) Crazing

                                    

                                          

           The sun rose lazily over the rolling waves of the ocean casting an almost pink hue on the sea spray. Against the darkness becoming light, a lone boat- stacked high with provisions and a mail bundle- made its way from the Errol Flynn Marina toward the Serranilla Bank. The driver listened to a Jamaican radio station, singing and nodding along as he made the long trek; a lone soul trying to make the best of an early morning.
    As the boat pulled up along the dock, the sun now well placed in the sky and beating down upon his head, the driver hopped out; expertly tying off his boat alone. He took a moment to admire the landscaping of the rehabilitation center, shaking his head some at the way money could talk. Getting out his hand truck, he began to unload, whistling the Bob Marley song that had just been playing on the radio before he'd turned the boat off. His dark eyes were ever watchful, taking in all of his surroundings, from the number of boats currently docked, to the men in navy and white uniforms watching him at the top of the hill. If he was bothered by it, it didn't show on his face as he smiled and waved, bringing his first load up the embankment.
    Clay Williams nodded at the men as he moved past, carefully noting everything happening. He looked around for any sign of Bryan Merrit, any clue as to what had happened to the kid he was supposed to be looking after. He had been against this mission, against it being Merrit to go in. He'd asked for the assignment but Steadman had been too concerned with his inimitable features thanks to the scarring he'd received from a grenade he'd been too close to while serving in Iraq.
    "Bryan can disappear in a crowd because he's just like every other white kid they get there. He's a dime a dozen; if we show his face, even in an area he's never been, someone will say they've seen him at a liquor store or something. You, you, we can't hide."
    "He's just a kid, Sir."
    "He's twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine. You know what I was doing at his age? And it's not like we're just throwing him in the deep end. We've got six months to get him ready; create a good backstory, get him to look the part."
    "It's not just about looking the part, Sir. It's knowing what to do if you get pinned down. It's making those snap decisions to protect yourself from discovery. You can't teach someone that. You can't teach someone to do what that Pine guy did. This is a mistake."
    Steadman had ignored him though. He'd ignored the signs that Merrit was in over his head, he'd pushed for the kid to do more, to play the part of a spy. Like the fan of spy films he'd been, Merrit had agreed with fervor. Clay knew it had been Steadman's pushing that had gotten the kid pinched; Steadman was too focused on succeeding that he'd missed the obvious.
    Forcing a smile onto his face once more, Clay greeted the sentries posted at the employee entrance. The brutishly Byronic-looking man to his left pressed a buzzer on the wall. There was a beep and a click before the man yanked the door open, allowing him entry. He thanked the man politely, continuing on his way and keeping up appearances as cameras followed him. He knew all the blind spots, he'd hidden in a few of them, never for longer than a moment or two, but it had been how he and Merrit had communicated during his stay. Part of him still hoped he'd look into the flower pot and find a letter from him; anything to say he was alive. He knew it was a pipe dream though.
    The facility, despite the yet undiscovered dark secret held within these walls, was clean and uncluttered. Even the delivery area Clay walked through had a certain poshness to it. It was unnerving.
    He walked down and along the service hallway, nodding in greeting as he passed employees of the rehabilitation center. He could hear the clatters of the kitchen drawing louder the closer he came, the first real signs of life at this time of day. Smiling, Clay entered the bustling atmosphere of steam and shouting. He could smell bacon sizzling in pans, heard sauces bubbling in pots, and saw fresh loaves of bread and pastries being pulled from dinging ovens. It was a euphony of smells, the kind that made his mouth water despite his extensive training to remain impartial and unaffected.