Episode Five

- Boyd.

“- You've been doing this for the whole time,”

and you're just a bit of a fool.

Just a little bit of a fool. And then you're a bit stupid. - No, not at all. Like, you're a bit like my safe space. - You're a bit like my safe space.

- Yeah, exactly. Like, you're a bit like a guy who's just a couple. Like, a guy who's a studio, job, or... - A bit like a guy. - I don't think I'm a bit like a guy.

- You're a guy? - Safe. - With what? - What? - A strange, strange, gross Britannian. (dramatic music)

- Outside number station 46 in New Orleans,

a five-gallon canister released carbon dioxide into the building's HVAC system.

“Casey Netale looked out the window of the room known”

as the vault, and saw four of her co-workers go limp and unconscious at their stations. Because of the sensitivity of the drives it held, the vault was on its own independent system, which kept the environment at the right temperature

and humidity. But Casey knew she couldn't stay here forever. Whoever was gassing the station would finish her off if she remained in the vault. (sighs)

She took a deep breath and bolted into the vault. Passing through it too, the stairs provided the only exit but would lead her directly into the path of whomever was outside. She was not armed.

They might be. Casey spotted a ladder, bolted to the wall

that she'd never noticed.

“The ladder disappeared up through a hatch,”

barely large enough to squeeze through. She made for it, but had to grab the uprights for support. As she flew fuzzy and lightheaded, she couldn't hold her breath anymore. She sucked air into her lungs.

Hoping there was an off-o-toe within the shaft to counteract the gas that filled the station below. Keep going, keep going. Her legs and arms will wobbly, but she managed to pull herself from one wrong at a time.

At the top, she threw the locking lever aside. A pushed open the access hatch to the roof. Cool air pulled in around her. She pulled herself through the tiny opening and sprawled out onto the tar and gravel roof

among the arrays of antennae and satellite issues. (laughing) Casey left the hatch open behind her and the feudal hope that anyone else might make out. She went into a crouch when she heard

in distinct voices below. She waited, catching her breath. When the voices disappeared into the building, she went over the side and climbed onto the fire escape. And jumped down to the asphalt.

She applied to revike and rode off as fast as it would take her. (light music) 15 minutes later, a burner phone rang in the office of the deputy director of National Intelligence. - Do you have an assessment?

- Six bodies. - There was supposed to be seven. - Jackie Morehouse pulled up the surveillance for Station 46. The feed had a two minute delay

and she watched as one of the cameras caught the data officer, Casey Neto, climbing down from the fire escape and dropping out of sight. - God deal it. Switch her off, Zoe, or I'll switch you off.

- Copy that. - One more thing. Blow the station. - Zoe wasn't surprised by the DDNI's directive, which was as easy to execute as the carbon monoxide poisoning.

All it took to make it look like an accident was a simple tap into the natural gas lines. (explosion) The explosion blew out the windows of buildings within a block radius, including mine.

- Jesus Christ! - I didn't know what was going on at 46, but it wasn't good.

and ordered Casey to be put on the human redboard

as a rendition. A rendition was a snatch and delivered

“to a designated black site for harsh interrogation,”

which meant torture and eventual disposal. (phone ringing) (phone ringing) - I have a face on the redboard and star-grindition for you. - It would go out to all operatives in the district,

including me. - It took priority. - Over the T-guard and woman? - Everything. - Get me the CCTV footage surrounding the building.

- Take your box. (suspenseful music) - I returned to the postal to go and opened my mailbox.

In it was a thumb drive with the surveillance angles

around station 46. I paused the video on Casey Neto escaping the building and it occurred to me, this must be the woman my half-brother Robert Brickshaw asked me to protect. That would explain leveling the number station.

They missed.

“Casey Neto made her way to the convenience store.”

Frequently checking over her shoulder for anyone that might have latched onto her. She paid cash for a prepaid cell phone. Texted the number to Robert Brickshaw, then tossed the old burner down a storm drain.

(phone ringing) - I am arranging to get you out of New Orleans. If your place is clear, grab your gold bag and get out of there.

Leave everything else, no tech, fuck the phone.

- Got it. - A peeling paper sign on the side of the store provided the number of a local cap company. She dialed it up to ferry her back to her dueplex. On the ride, Casey checked the doorbell

and security camera events from devices installed at her place. Finding no activity since she left. But still cautious, she had the cabby dropper

“on the back street and paid cash for the ride.”

A narrow, crumbling alleyway ran up behind fencetyards on either side. Casey spied the back of her dueplex for any signs of movement. Seeing none, she went through the gate,

crossed the small yard and let herself into her place through the back door. She retrieved her go back, a black backpack from the front hall closet. In addition to a thousand in cash

and loose fitting sweats, the bag also held the laptop portable battery, two burner phones, a large brimmed floppy hat, a short wig in burnt oven, a combination flashlight's stun gun,

a few toiletries, and a stack of free paid debit cards. Casey used one of the cards to get her to a doll phone's abode, a flee bag motel up by the I-10 freeway. She'd never stayed there and had no connection to the place.

She knew she wouldn't get any questions checking in and didn't. Casey bought a bottle of water from a vending machine outside the office and went to her room. Not wanting to touch anything in the place,

she settled on the edge of the room's only chair and waited for her burner to ring. Little did Casey know that he'd inside the vows of the NSA, a file with her picture and metadata was being tagged for notification, facial recognition software

and data matching algorithms were running against an unfathomable number of camera feeds from across the country. When I discovered that all of the files for the Margaret Sins case had been scrubbed,

I knew I needed something to replace them. Especially the video of dead bodies being shot up in Angola to mask their true cause of death and unregulated vaccine trial. That was my ace in the hole, but it was gone.

Along with everything else, if I was going to have any chance of winning against the farm behind the vaccine trial, I needed to speak to the one other person alive

who I knew had seen that video. I called the office of Congressman Elliott. His chief of staff gave me the typical run around and said the Congressman is very concerned about the situation in Angola,

but that his involvement would jeopardize his congressional inquiry into the matter. That's all well and good, but I've got a client taking on Goliath and it is my understanding that Congressman Elliott has evidence

that can support my client's claim

I'm not looking to drag the Congressman into a civil trial,

but I do need to depose him and obtain whatever evidence he has that can help my client. The representative's chief of staff

“continued to bob and weave until I'll obtain a court order”

to appear if I have to, after that, the staff are seemed open to a meeting. It turned out that Tampa Bay Area Congressman was about to fly through New Orleans on his way to a $5,000 plate fundraiser.

He has a layover in New Orleans. Perfect, I'll meet him at the airport. What airline? A white tail? Oh, I know them.

The semi-private lear jets. They have a VIP lounge.

Just tell me his arrival time

and I'll take care of the rest. Oh, one more thing. Tell the Congressman. Breakfast is on me. [MUSIC PLAYING]

I wanted to keep an eye on Jolene T. Garden without her seeing me.

“I made sure to keep my distance since she knew my face now.”

I tailed Jolene from her apartment to Louis Armstrong Airport. Then followed her to the terminal used by private operations like white tail. You didn't have to go through TSA to access the lounge, but there was security.

I deeply, yes, sure. Here you go. I flashed the security guard in New Orleans PD Detectives

badge at once acquired for a job.

Not some fake piece of tin. This was the real thing. And it come in handy ever since. Thanks, Detective Ronson. What's going on?

Got a tip. I need to check out the staff. I can't really say more than that. On her cover, so call me Mike. The guard nodded, thrilled to be in on something,

even if he didn't know what. Used a key cart to open the door and walked me into the VIP lounge.

“The smell of coffee and pastries filled my nostrils.”

I picked up a newspaper and took a seat that gave me a view of the entire VIP lounge. I spotted Jolene in one of the bank cats by the windows. She checked her watch a few times. It seemed like a strange place to be meeting someone,

but I'd seen Stranger. I kept my baseball hat low and my head down as I settled into my chair, peering over the top of the sports section. I kept an eye on Jolene.

What I didn't know until later is that shortly before Jolene and I arrived at the airport, there'd been a sudden staffing change at White Tail. A long time employee dressed in black with a White Tail logo on her shirt

pulled into an employee parking spot. She was on her way to Waitress, the morning shift at the VIP lounge. When she got out of the car, she was surprised to find another woman,

a blonde with a ponytail standing there. The blonde was similarly dressed in White Tail company attire. The waitress assumed this was a new coworker, until she saw the strange Jolene device in the blonde's hand.

The last thing she remembered was the blonde smiling at her as she stuck that device against her ribs. The waitress shuddered, then collapsed in a heap. The blonde retrieved her keys, phone and license. She opened the trunk and heaved the waitress inside of it.

With professional efficiency, the blonde bound the waitress's hands, feet, and mouth with duct tape. Then stuck a hypodermic needle in the woman's neck and depressed the plunger,

sending propaphole into her bloodstream. Then she headed for the White Tail Aviation employees entrance. After her 50th glance at her watch, Jolene set up straight in anticipation. I followed her gaze to the door,

where Clarence Elliott breathed into the lounge. The Florida Legislator was in his early 50s, gray-flect hair and olive skin. With a face I recognized from his frequent cable news hits. Congressman Elliott, thank you for taking the time to meet with me.

You got 15 minutes at the time. I didn't know why Jolene was meeting him, but it's not every day an accident attorney from New Orleans meets with a member of the United States Congress. I was too far away to overhear their conversation.

Instead, my thoughts ran ahead of me. I knew I needed to impart to Jolene that she was in danger. But how? What parts, if any, could I leave out of my story

She would need to know everything,

“but I still didn't know how to tell her.”

Detective Ronson? Shit, I mean, like... I looked over my shoulder to see the security guard hovering on comfortably close. We'd a staff in change.

I got a text from Chrissy calling in sick, like last minute. Another girl showed up for her shift, said she was from the late front airport. Which one is she? There, ponytail.

He pointed across the lounge to the blonde taking drink orders at another table. Call it intuition or experience, but something bring off about her. Her apron did not match the other female staff.

It appeared heavy, ill-fitting. You know her? No, first time her. All right, let's check her out. Thanks for looking at her.

Now I'm gonna enjoy my coffee and paper. Let me know if you need anything, Mike. As the security guard walked off, I waved to the blonde waitress for her to come take my order.

“She walked past my table, but did not stop.”

A client stopped at her face. beneath all the lipstick and eyeshadow was something familiar. It was the eyes, a predator's eyes. I couldn't place where we met,

but in my line of work, something like this is never a coincidence. She went to the bar and placed two bloody marries on her tray. I watched her right hand slip into her apron,

then hover over each drink for a second

before slipping back in out of sight. Then she scooped up the tray and brought it to Jolyne's table, setting the drinks down before her and the congressman. The waitress drifted off to the buffet,

but turned and kept an eye on the table she just served. Wanting a better look, I got up from my chair and approached. Excuse me, I've been sitting here and I'd like to order a drink. She turned towards me, giving me a good look at her face.

Those eyes, I had her. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see congressman Elliot pulled the celery from his bloody Mary and raised the glass to his lips. Don't drink that!

I flashed my N.O.P.D. badge. Why the hell not? It's poisoned!

“I looked at Jolyne, her eyes widened in recognition.”

I was made and so was the blonde. She reached into her apron and whipped out a small automatic pistol. I had brought a block 17, a cops gun, but in my experience, yelling gun like a cop didn't do anything. But get people looking to see who yelled it.

I put my glock on her, but the blonde was quick.

Her first shot pierced the vinyl bank hat

is Elliot Dough for cover. I put two in her chest, her second shot went into the ceiling, as she dropped to the corporate debt. The congressman remained frozen,

lying across the bank hat. Jolyne was on the floor. I flashed my badge to the whole room. New Orleans police, I need everyone to clear out. The airport security guard ran into the lounge, weapon drawn.

Shooter is down. I holstered my gun and pointed to the drinks on the table. That's evidence. These drinks need to be analyzed for poison. Nobody touches them until my people get here.

Got it? The security guard nodded, looking dumbfounded at the hitter's body sprawled across the floor. Oh, shit! I spotted a fire alarm pullbox near the entrance

to the kitchen. Then I helped Jolyne to her feet. She was still in the state of shock. Come with me. Wait, he pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket

and handed it to Jolyne. This is my only copy. The rest of it disappeared off my computer. Anything else I had is gone. It's all yours now.

I usher Jolyne towards the exit. [MUSIC PLAYING] Stop. Stop. What just happened?

And why the hell are you here? You almost got killed. That woman, the waitress, she shot at the congressman, not me. Trust me. You were target number two.

How do you know? I'll explain later. We have to get out of here. I'm not going anywhere with you. You think this is over?

It's not. They won't stop till your dead. Who? Why? Your case.

It's what got your boss killed. So it wasn't a heart attack. No. How do you know for sure? As the words left her mouth, I could all

but see the wheels turning in her mind. You? You were the hair. You were the one who delivered those blank documents and Pat Hawkins read before he died.

You killed him, didn't you?

I never once been confronted for any of my kills.

Not by anyone who knew them and certainly not by anyone on my dance card. It's complicated. Wait, where are you going? No, we're with you.

I watched her walk away. She was practically running when she got to the cap stand. And with one furtive look at me from the back seat, she was gone. Ah, damn.

Robert Brickshaw, why not so beloved half-brother, was the special agent in charge of the FBI in New Orleans? A title which, if you asked me, went to his head. I caught him as he walked out of the building. Robert?

“You must be pretty desperate to show up here.”

I need a favor. Ah, ah, ah, ah.

So now you need a favor from me.

I told him about Jolene and why she needed to be taken into FBI protective custody. What's your stake in this case? None. So why do you want to protect her?

Ah. I explained who Jolene T. Garden was to me and by extension to him. She's your niece. Will I be goddamn?

Does she know? She didn't at first. I tried to keep it that way. But she found a picture of me and her mother's closet. I also let him know about the notice, which the DDNI put out on Casey.

Yeah, it looks like we got us an old fashion

but in a modern situation, I'll protect your girl if you protect mine. Casey hadn't moved from the spot on the edge of the chair and nearly an hour. She held the burner phone in her hand and took sips of water from her bottle. Agent Brickshaw?

Give me your number. Who are you? No names. If you want to survive, you're going to do exactly what I say. Understand?

How do I know he gave you my number?

“If you're going to listen or am I going to hang up?”

I'm listening. In five hours, go to the app solution, jam on Randboard. Walk number two 11. The combination is 7117.

7117. Inside, you'll find a pickup code in the center. What's a pickup code? Like a record locator. It'll be with a set of instructions.

Follow them to the letter. Got it. You've your off. You're on your own. I said I got it.

Anything else? Change your appearance if you can. And keep your face off any CCTV.

“Keep yourself safe and out of sight until the drop.”

Yeah, I'm in. I don't want to know. Who's the phone? How will it? Hello?

Hello? Shit. Casey wasn't a field operative. She didn't understand the risks both of us took just by having that call. Casey powered off the phone and set it down on the bureau,

as if it were radioactive. She walked up to the mirror and looked herself over. Change my appearance. Braded hair extensions hung of foot past her shoulders on either side. She'd only had this set for a month.

Besides the 1200 bucks they cost and four hours it took to weave them in. She really liked them, but they were at give away. Collecting the braids in one hand, she pulled them back to hide them. No way would they fit under a wig. The extensions had to go.

In the past, that men attribute to a salon for professional help and some carrots and remover. She considered simply cutting them off, but decided the result might be more eye-catching than leaving them on. Using the room's small blow dryer on the highest heat setting, she melted the bonds. It took nearly two hours to work the keratin between her fingers and get the braids to let go. The heat from the blow dryer roasted her fingers and they were red and raw by the time she was down.

She pulled the Auburn wig out of her go bag and did a test fit in front of the mirror. It was a bob cut with wisps that curled under her jawline. And that's actually cute. She turned her head side to side and cocked it this way in that. I could get used to this.

Inside the gym, KC strode past the desk attended with a wave.

The woman behind the desk could not have been less interested and barely looked up.

“KC located the locker, dialed in the combination and opened it up.”

As she had been told over the phone, she found a slip that looked like a receipt with the will-call pickup code in old ink and with that, a sealed envelope. She returned to Adolfo's Adobe Motel. Back in a room, KC opened the envelope to find detailed instructions.

She read through them three times, then started her journey with the first step on the list.

Is that how you cap? 20 minutes later, with her wig in place. She opened the door a crack with the security barn gauged and looked out at the man wearing the bayou cab's baseball cap, standing outside her door. Dettolis. The man nodded and back in KC to his cab.

The cab rolled out. After a 20 minute ride through the city, the cab he stopped outside a brick front building, that looked like an old military garrison, a small sign on the side red

hope house. What is this place? This is where you get out.

KC grabbed her go back and exited the cab. She checked in with a young man sitting at a small desk. He found her false name, Charlotte Fisk, on a registration list and put a checkmark next to it. Then he warned her that should she be found with any drugs or drug paraphernalia, she'll be back on the street.

“That's cool. I don't even do aspirin. He gave her a room key and pointed down the hall and suggested”

she keep her door locked when sleeping.

The tiny room, more akin to a cell, had a six-foot cut, pillow blanket, side table and limb.

A half way house. Nice. She found a plastic grocery bag on the table, left for her. In it, she found a blonde wig and a pair of oversized sunglasses. Seriously? Then, as instructed, she pulled out one of her burner phones and dialed the required number. My burner. Hope house. You guys really go all out. Meet me in Lafayette Square at 10 tomorrow morning.

Take a cab, pay cash, go into the park, and find a bench. If I've not met you there, wait 15 minutes and head until the feeds were over. It's a restaurant. Go there and wait. How will I know you? 10 o'clock.

“KC had an eaten since her bowl of oatmeal at 6.30 that morning.”

Waring the blonde wig, she left her room and locked the door behind her. KC walked the neighborhood until she found a decent looking sandwich shop. She ordered a shrimp poe boy, which she devoured, unaware that her face had been captured by the security camera. Nor was she aware how her image was sent to an NSA data center in Alabama. The facial recognition software found a match with KC's tagged record.

The event notification was then sent to the requesting party in DC. The deputy DNI. Within minutes, Jackie Morehouse submitted an order to collect location data for all destinations hours before and after the event. The cleaner Zoe received the coded transmission and would a wait confirmation of the target location when available. Holding her instructions, KC arrived at Lafayette Park at 955

the next morning, wearing the blonde wig, sunglasses, and a backpack slung over one shoulder. She moved along the path and grabbed a seat on a bench about midway down. I watched from the river side where I had my car waiting. A slight Asian woman with crop blonde hair and dark shades at a baseball cap was hovering at the edge of the park. She had a large folded tourist map in her right hand and she started

down the path once KC had sat down. Her stride was a touch too deliberate for a tourist. I started into the park on an angle that put me over KC's white shoulder. KC didn't know me,

coming until I was practically on top of her. She didn't seem to notice the woman coming torn her.

“I plucked a greasy brown paper breakfast sack out of a trash bin and walked like I needed to be”

somewhere. I slid my suppressed compact sick P22940 count into the paper bag, my finger resting on the trigger. If baseball cap was clogging me, she didn't let on.

She was 15 yards out when I rounded the bench. KC was singing quietly to herself and nearly

jumped as I strove up. Then it clicked for me. Baseball caps hair was different than the last time

“I'd seen her, but her frame, the curb of her face, I think it was the shit of lipstick that seal it.”

As Baseball cap approached, I recognized her as Zoe. We worked together on an operation in

Prop 2 years earlier. She was good, cold, and efficient. She must have put it together in the same

instant. I took two steps past KC. Get down! KC ducked and raised her back back for cover. I saw the tourist map fall away from Zoe's hand, revealing her gun. I dropped the brown bag.

“Revealing mine. The cleaner is a production of Voyage Media.”

The series is produced by Natalie Dahl, Adam Prince, and Dave Vettemoir. Executive produced by Jeff Cowen and Wesley Miller. Based on the book series, The Intrigance. I've been able to chew 1226 at Leading Book Nutellers. When links are available, we will include them in the show notes. Written and directed by Adam Prince, story by Jeff Cowen, who was similar in Adam Prince.

Starring Kia Jun, as Alton, and Annie Abrams as Joe Ween. Additional cast credits available to show us. Edited, sound designed, and next by Joel Lippman. Original music by Carlos Gonzalez. If you're enjoying the show, please leave us a 5 star review on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or anywhere you listen about cast. Mama, how much do you love the big love?

Hmm, size, and so creamy. Hey, we can give you a kiss. Nutella. Or from Mama and dad. But Nutella is Nutella.