Page 3 of Yankee in the Wind

A buzzing sound indicated that the gate was being unlocked. Jack pushed it open and stepped into the generous front yard. He headed for the wooden entrance door with the small portico meant to protect any visitors from rain or snow in the winter months and sun in the summer.

Without turning his head to either side, Jack scanned the area to his left and right, prepared to react if this was an ambush. But nobody approached him from either side. Instead, the door opened, and a pretty woman in her thirties greeted him.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Porter,” she said politely and ushered him inside.

He walked into the large entrance hall and gave the woman a once-over. She was casually dressed, but he wasn’t sure whether she was unarmed or not. He couldn’t see any weapon, but perhaps she’d concealed it cleverly under her belly, which made her look pregnant.

She smiled at him and pointed to the two armchairs in the foyer. “I’ll get Nick for you. Please take a seat.”

“Thanks,” he said just as politely. “But I’d rather stand if you don’t mind.”

She left the entrance hall through a door to the right. When she was gone, Jack looked around. There was a desk with an old-fashioned phone as well as a few files on it that showed the colored tags a medical office used for their patient files. Jack walked closer. He flipped one of the files open. It contained only blank sheets of paper. Props. It confirmed that this wasn’t a rehab facility for alcoholics or drug addicts. This was a front for something else.

Jack felt a tingling sensation at his nape, and instinctively his hand went to his weapon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Jack whirled around to the male voice addressing him. This wasn’t Nick Young. He’d never met the man pointing a gun at him, but he knew who he was, or rather what. The tingling sensation his presence had caused identified him as a precognitive. But that didn’t mean Jack could trust him. After all, he suspected that it had been a precognitive who’d betrayed the top-secret CIA program he’d been part of. However, for some reason, there was something familiar about the guy.

“Where’s Nick? What have you done with him?” Jack asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m right here.”

Jack whipped his head toward the stairs and saw Nicholas “Fox” Young walk down from the second floor. He too held a gun in his hand.

“What’s going on here?” Jack asked pointing at the stranger. “Who the fuck is he?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Fox replied.

“You know who I am! For fuck’s sake, I helped you break into Langley only a week ago.”

“Yeah, and maybe you had a reason for helping me, but you sure as shit aren’t Yankee.” Fox reached the first floor and now stood alongside the other man.

Jack looked the stranger up and down. Had they met before?

“I told you I’m Yankee, and that’s the truth. I was part of Stargate, just like you.” He tipped his chin toward the stranger. “And I’m assuming you’re too. You’re a precognitive, just like I am. I can sense it.”

The stranger nodded. “You’re right about that. But that doesn’t mean you’re a friendly. Or that you are who you say you are. You look nothing like Yankee.”

Suddenly it clicked. “The list.” He looked at Fox. “You looked at my photo on the list that you stole from the CIA.”

Fox gave a quick nod. “Yeah, and turns out, you don’t match Yankee’s photo. Sure, you’re his size, his hair color, eye color, you know, the usual stuff, and you’re a precognitive, but you’re not him.”

“There’s a reason why I don’t look like the photo Henry Sheppard had of me.”

“Of course there is,” the stranger said sarcastically.

“I underwent plastic surgery to—”

“No wonder you’re a pretty boy,” the stranger interrupted, his tone revealing that he didn’t believe a single word. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“It’s true. You want to see the surgery scars?”

Fox and the stranger exchanged a look. “Wouldn’t prove anything.”

“Scott,” Fox said to the man next to him, “how about running his face through the cranio-facial measurement program?”

“Scott?” Jack repeated, staring at the man next to Fox. “You wouldn’t by any chance be Scott Thompson?”