The Game by Christopher J. Thomasson

picture . Singleton knew
this day would come. You can’t just up and tell a man like General
Potter that you quit—especially when the job is not only
classified, but unethical and illegal too. Singleton hoped that the
thousands of miles separating him from the General might delay the
inevitable—that maybe, just maybe, their years of working together
may have given Singleton a reprieve.
    Heavy footfalls echo on the steps and another
peal of lightning rips the sky. Singleton takes a tentative step
away from the door. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder,
somewhat surprised there’s not already an intruder waiting in the
house and using the person at the door as misdirection.
    Knuckles pound on the door and a voice calls
out, “Mister Singleton?”
    He’s frozen. Who could it be? Any man of
Potter’s—if they were coming to erase his existence—certainly
wouldn’t knock on the front door. Whoever it is, he knows who I
am .
    “ Who is it?” he asks, voice high and
mousy.
    There’s a pregnant pause filled by grumbling
thunder, then the man on the other side of the door says, “Sir, it
would be best if I explain it to you face to face—without the door
between us.”
    Singleton hesitates. Is this a trick? Will he
open the door to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his head?
Whether he opens the door or not, if it is Potter, there’s
no avoiding what’s coming. He covers the few feet to the door,
wraps his right hand around the knob, unlatches the chain lock with
his left, takes a halting breath, and opens the door.
* * *
    The young man stands several inches taller than
Singleton. His stare is youthful, but intense: grey eyes reflecting
the atmosphere outside. His light, sandy hair, cropped close to his
scalp, is wet from rain. Singleton guesses the man to be in his
early twenties and judging by the boys posture, hair, and
unwavering gaze, probably military too. Singleton stares into his
eyes. There’s recognition there. He knows him even though Singleton
doesn’t recollect ever meeting him before.
    “ I apologize for all the water, but
do you mind if I come in?”
    Singleton hesitates.
    “ Oh, I’m so sorry,” says the young
man. He trusts out his right hand and says, “I’m Robert
Daley.”
* * *
    Singleton extends his hand and shakes Paul’s.
“Pleasure to meet you—I guess.”
    The older man attempts to draw his hand back,
but Paul holds it tight. His eyes are wary but there’s no
recollection at the mention of Rob’s name, so he uses the name that
Singleton would be sure to know. He draws Singleton closer and
whispers, “Maybe you know me by my other name—Paul
Guest.”
    Singleton’s head snaps back as if slapped by an
invisible hand. Panic floods his eyes and his complexion turns
ghostly white. Again, he tries to pry his hand away, but Paul
continues to hold on to him. Finally, he ceases his struggling and
says, “What do you want? Have you come to kill me?”
    Rob laughs and the sound almost escapes through
Paul’s mouth. Even after so many years having a combined
consciousness, it’s sometimes hard for Rob not to take over
the physical too.
    Paul thinks, Rob, he’s afraid of
me—us.
    May I? asks Rob. Paul know what he
means.
    Yes , he thinks.
    Rob comes forward from the darkness of Paul’s
mind and takes control.
    “ Mr. Singleton, we’re not here to
hurt you. We need your help.” Then he explains his plans, plans
that include a former research scientist named Georgia
Cobb.
* * *
    “ It’ll never work,” says Singleton
with a shake of his head. He cradles a steaming cup of coffee in
his hands. “Potter will never go for it.”
    Rob, still in control of Paul, says, “Has he
ever had an offer like this?”
    “ To my knowledge, no.”
    “ And from what little I know of the
man, and from what you’ve told me about him tonight, I think he’ll
jump all over this opportunity.”
    Singleton still shakes his head.
    Rob tries another approach, one he knows will
work. “How