The Committee Celebrity in 2019

A Salute to Lee Child

I entered the Wall-Mart at 11:17am on the 2nd of June 2012, which made it ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 17 minutes and 31 seconds since the day it all changed. The day when the towers fell. I paused just inside the door. Civilians were everywhere, a throng of Saturday shoppers milling around, picking things up, putting them into carts, taking them to the registers and paying for them. I glanced left and right: lots of security on hand to keep an eye on the shoppers. Just the amount of security you'd expect ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 17 minutes and 39 seconds after September the 11th. Also just the amount of security you'd expect to be looking out for a certain Sam Ripcord, the one thorn in the side of a problem which just needed a bow slapped on it. The security guards were looking away, not showing their hand too soon, but I knew better than to buy their feigned disinterest. I also knew better than to believe that one guard stifling a yawn was doing only that. I could practically see the microphone which was probably taped to his wrist as he mumbled a codeword to his superiors. I had expected them to pull out all the stops for a lone-wolf anti hero like myself. Using the crowd to my advantage I began moving through the store, using my rugged tough guy training to find the most efficient route. Before long I had reached my target: aftershave. Highly flammable, irritating to the eyes. They wouldn't dare shoot in a crowded space if a stray bullet might create a blinding firestorm. I slipped it under my jacket along with three other bottles. Sometimes a hard-eyed outsider has to drink whatever's handy, especially when he's sitting round a barrel fire under a turnpike. I turned to go, sensing the situation to be too risky, even for somebody accustomed to being a gritty renegade. But my chisel-jawed plans fell apart when I saw the security guards suddenly close in around me. This was it. They had sprung the trap. And I was caught. Like a rat. In a trap. 9/11.
"Would you mind coming with us, sir?" The guard was polite, too polite. "I'm only being polite until I shoot you" his politeness seemed to say. Obviously none of them were armed, that would be too obvious, but I could feel the eyes of a dozen snipers on me, half aiming for my chest, the other half aiming for my head. And if they opened fire they'd have no choice but to eliminate every witness in the store. As I was led through a side door to the manager's office I wondered if any of the shoppers realised that they owed their lives to me.

As I entered Sheen's office I was struck by the realization that it had been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 27 minutes and 31 seconds since 9/11. Then I noticed that the clock on the wall read 11:30 and reflected that it had really been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 30 minutes and 31 seconds since 9/11. Sheen noticed where my gaze was directed.
"That clock is two minutes slow." He said. I couldn't believe it. That must mean that it had been ten years, eight months-
"Ripcord, this is the third time we've caught you." Sheen barked. Interrupted in my thoughts, I said nothing. Finally my iron will broke him. "What did he take this time?"
"Aftershave." Replied a guard. Hands forced their way into my pockets and the bottles were taken. I now had no way of dissuading them from opening fire.
"I suppose this is where you shoot me." I growled.
"For god's sake Ripcord, we're not going to shoot you." This didn't add up. I was at Sheen's mercy, and he wasn't going to take my ass down. Was somebody else pulling Sheen's strings? The CIA? MI5? Russians? Chinese? There was only one way to know what he was going to do- I was going to have to ask him what he was going to do.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm afraid we're going to have to call the police." The police? How did Sheen end up in the police chief's pocket? Had deals been cut underneath the table? Money changed hands? Had somebody bitten the hand which fed him? Maybe Sheen had bitten his own hands.
"Did you bite your own hands, Sheen?" I screamed, lunging forward. "Show me what's under your table!" I was forced back into my seat. Sheen sighed. I could see the mockery behind his apparent pity.
"Sam, we've given you a lot of slack. I've allowed you to continue living in the parking lot, even after head office told me to move you on. Last Christmas I gave you the leftover chocolate we didn't sell-"
"Yeah, the chocolate. Nice try with that poison Sheen, but I was onto you from the start. I tried some on a stray dog. It died. Funny coincidence, huh?"
"Well of course the dog died if you gave it-" He broke off and buried his face in his hands. He was rattled by how easily I had seen through his assassination attempt. He must have realized I was no ordinary grunt, and I could see his confidence collapse as I met his gaze.
"Just... get him out of here." He said at last, waving a hand at the door. My grizzled gambit had checkmated his trump card.

As the goons pushed me out into the parking lot and I began the long walk back to headquarters I knew two things for certain: Sheen was out of his depth, and it had been ten years, eight months, 20 days, eleven hours, 20 minutes and seven seconds since 9/11.