Name: Carter Alton Price
Alias: Jack Bristow
Born: April 3, 1972, Las Vegas, NV
Embrace: Feb 16, 2010, Los Angeles, CA
Sire: Ivan Spalko (Blood Bound)
Prey: Military, Cops, Firemen, men in uniform…
Occupation: Fixer—you got a problem he takes care of it. Former Air Force fighter pilot, CIA agent.
I was born the year Nixon went to China. The year of the last draft. Nixon and Brezhnev signed the first SALT treaty, and Watergate. 1972 was a hell of a year. Dad was in the Air Force. I was born in the base hospital at Nellis outside of Las Vegas, and the family shipped out with dad from one base to another all over the world until the old man settled down. I remember cracking up when I got the recruitment flyers in the mail during my senior year—as if I wouldn’t be following in dad’s footsteps. I wanted to fly.
Dad was happy about it. My older brother had no interest in entering the military, and I don’t think there was a drop of patriotic blood in his body. Pretty sure he hasn’t changed much over the past 40 years either. He’s up in Oregon, growing pot, and hooking up with chicks with hairy armpits and munching granola. Not my style. Dad used to grumble that I should’ve been the junior in the family since I was his mini-me.
Instead of being Alan Price, Jr, I’m Carter Price. Mom’s maiden name for my first, which is nice since it’s a part of her I can keep with me. She died when I was 16 and Junior was 18. Our little sister, Elizabeth Marie aka Ems was 12. Dad’s still around, by the way. I visit him once in a blue moon. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t aged. In his mind, I’m still 12 anyway. At least he recognizes who I am. Ems lives near the retirement home and keeps a close eye on him. I don’t let her see me, of course.
Lying wasn’t my stock and trade back then. I went to college and thought about doing law school. Didn’t do the Air Force Academy. I wasn’t ready to toe the line yet, not that I was a hellion in school, I was the good kid. Good grades. Never got in a fight unless it was to stand up for someone who couldn’t take care of themselves.
It also would’ve cut down on me making out with my roommate. Don’t Ask Don’t Tell happened the year I turned 20, which meant I could serve as long as no one found out, and by then I’d been hiding for my entire life. So, I guess I lied when I said I didn’t make my living as a liar. I lived a lie from the beginning. Ems is the only one in the family who knew I liked boys better than I did girls.
Funny how a quarter century later and no one cares who I sleep with, but now I have still have to hide what I am. It’s OK to have a rainbow keyring, but no one can know about the fangs. Once a liar, always a liar.
My career in the Air Force was nearly perfect. Made it to Major, not quite as high as dad did, but I was proud of it. I was in command of my wing. I didn’t get picked for NASA, which was a bummer. Going to space, being an astronaut was high on my wish list (and the old man’s for me). But I still got to fly although I did get pretty bored with the No-Fly Zone over Iraq. The desert’s not exactly an interesting landscape to soar over.
It’s even less when you’ve punched out and you’re crossing your fingers and toes that you don’t land on the wrong side of the war. I landed badly, on the right side, thank god, but the damage to my leg was enough to end my future in the sky. Am I bitter about it? Less than I was 10 years ago, but it was probably more of a turning point in my life than any other thing that’s happened, including the Embrace.
Working with the CIA was something we did. You talk to the independent contractors on the transports. You give air support to CIA covert operations. You make friends along the way. One of those friends found me in the VA hospital and recruited me into the Company. That was in 2007. I left the Air Force, with an honorable discharge and a Purple Heart to go with a few other bits of military jewelry and became a spy.
I devoted myself to the Company the same way I did everything else in my life—100%. There was no job I wouldn’t do for my country. I was trusted. I was faithful. I was a goddamn Boy Scout with a gun who would break into any office, camp, or military stronghold I was ordered into. Sometimes I even got to play James Bond and get dressed up to charm the pants off of someone to find out what they knew. Finally, in the CIA, I didn’t have to hide being gay. If anything, it was an advantage on some of my missions.
Then they sent me after Dr. Ivan Spalko. The Spalko family was out of the Ukraine. His people had been scientists, mystics, and mad scientists working for the Kremlin for decades. Some of the stuff I saw in the files made me wonder which side they’d been on during WWII. They were that twisted and brutal.
Ivan was supposed to be the weak link, but I found out that was just an act. He was danger incarnate and evil as sin. I was sent to find out all I could about his family’s operation, which meant killing only if necessary, and I had to play nice. I won’t go into the details here. Maybe I’ll write a book someday about it.
But let’s just say I spooked (and spooned) the wrong guy. He turned me the same night I figured out what he was. We’d flown into LAX on his private jet. Ivan, his scary aunt, Irina, and me. I’d been playing the part of a rich, American playboy, and thought I’d convinced him that his company should invest in my father’s company. It was all bullshit, but then apparently so was Ivan’s game.
He needed to get me back to the states, LA specifically, so I could work for him—whether I want to or not. I’m blood bound. I do my master’s bidding, and I fucking hate him for it. It’s been years now, but not enough that anyone’s notice I’m not getting any older. Besides, it’s LA. I must have a hell of a great plastic surgeon.
My family thinks I’m dead. The CIA thinks I’m dead or a traitor—not sure which is the official story—the former would be better than the latter.
Right now, I’m waiting to hear what Ivan or Irina want me to do in Los Angeles. They like to give me enough time off to start to enjoy it before they yank on my leash and make me heel like a good dog.
Fuck my eternal life.
Contacts: Former CIA operative who knows I’m not dead or a traitor—Sam Weston.
Elite Influence: CIA Los Angeles