Taking a deep, silent breath, he fluidly slid one leg at a time over the last buttress, allowing his boots to make a slight rustle.
The guard whirled around, wide-eyed.
Steel swung the butt of his knife into the man’s temple. The soldier slumped to the ground. Clenching his knife, Steel stared at the limp body. The guard looked young, maybe eighteen. A novice. Not an experienced soldier guarding a terrorist camp.
It cemented his distrust in the mission. Maybe the mission had nothing to do with terrorists. He swallowed. They would be out of here before the guard came to. The risk was that one of Danker’s team would discover the man alive.
He picked up the guard’s assault rifle, ran forward, and flung it away. Racing through the darkened forest, he slowed when the ranch-style stone building appeared, a lighter shape against the dark forest. Stopping behind a tree, he paused when he heard footsteps.
The friar broke from the surrounding trees in a run, his ankle-length habit flying out behind him as he yelled, “Intrusos! Intrusos!” The small man darted past the startled guards and into the building.
Steel was glad the friar had made it out of the forest without getting shot. He remained behind the tree—he was Danker’s backup.
Machine gun fire erupted from several different locations.
Colonel Danker sprinted up beside a nearby tree. He dropped to one knee and sprayed a short burst at the two guards crouched in front of the building. Both men fell to the ground and Danker charged across the open clearing. A guard on the roof leaned over. Danker dove to the ground, rolling toward the building.
Steel stepped out from behind the tree and fired a spray of bullets to cover Danker, his shots much quieter than the staccato bursts coming from the guards around the compound.
The guard of the roof reeled backward.
Rising to his knees, Danker paused only a moment before he rose and ran through the door.
Steel followed at a dead run, adrenaline pumping his legs. More gunfire erupted in the forest. The other guards were fighting back, but he doubted it would help them. The radio silence from the Blackhood team confirmed it.
He rushed through the main entryway, past a large living room to the right. No civilians or soldiers. And none of the other Blackhood operatives were inside yet. A short hallway ran left. At the end of it stood Danker, facing a closed door. Steel kept his feet quiet on the stone floor as he ran forward, hoping the colonel didn’t look back.
Danker kicked in the door and stepped into the room.
Steel ran harder, his hands like stone on his gun. He heard Danker’s gun fire.
He stopped in the doorway just as the colonel swung his machine gun from one corner of the small darkened room toward the other. He glimpsed a desk and chair to the left. An interrupted line of bullet holes streaked across the wall behind the desk—it probably hid a corpse—most likely the target.
To the right, over the colonel’s shoulder, he saw the friar—his small hands empty, his face hidden in the shadows. Steel snapped a kick into the side of Danker’s left knee.
Danker grunted as his knee bent and his back twisted, but he remained upright. He tried to twist around, swinging his gun.
Steel jarred a knife hand into the side of Danker’s neck and the colonel collapsed. Adrenaline flooded his limbs and his ears roared as he stared at Danker’s crumpled body on the floor. Glancing at the gaping friar, he motioned his gun to the waist-high open window.
The friar’s eyes widened, but he ran to it and climbed through.
Steel crossed the room, keeping to the side of the window. He watched the friar disappear in the forest. Shots were fired almost immediately in the direction of the friar’s flight. He grimaced. All of it for nothing. And there was nothing he could do for the other civilians. Now he had to worry about his own survival.
He barely whispered, “BB down, south wing.”
Danker was unconscious, but a groan came from behind the desk. Simultaneously boots sounded on the stone floor down the hallway.
Steel fired a spray of bullets, aiming high into the forest. Pausing, he turned. A hooded Blackhood operative stood in the doorway, looking down at Danker.
“Let’s get him out of here.” Steel slung his weapon over his shoulder and hurried to Danker, helping to lift him to his feet. Steel grunted. Danker was heavy.
They half-dragged, half-carried the colonel, who mostly kept his eyes closed. On the way back they all took turns carrying Danker, but it still took an hour to return to the plane. After they loaded the colonel, Steel untied the line, pushed them away from the shoreline, and jumped aboard. The pilot started the engine, sending the smell of burned fuel into the air.
Sitting in a corner, Steel stared at Danker.
The colonel was stretched out on the floor between the others. His hood had been pulled back, revealing his thick black hair, eyebrows, and mustache. Opening his dark eyes briefly, he regarded Steel for a few moments before he closed them again.
There was no light in the plane, but in addition to the pain from a torn knee and screwed-up back, Steel thought he saw hate in Danker’s eyes. He also wondered if the colonel sensed the out-of-control feeling sweeping his chest and locking his arms around his knees.
CHAPTER 3
Komodo: debriefing, 0800 hours
Steel wanted to throw Major Flaut into a wall. But he kept his emotion below the surface and allowed it to evaporate. What had happened on the mission had been shuffled into the background. Now he just wanted to go home to Carol.
He gave a quick upward glance, knowing Flaut would have those blue ice eyes on him, unwavering, cold as his bony face. The man stood over six feet and looked strong, wiry, with nothing that indicated compassion in his manner or words. Probably ex-Special Forces. He wore all black; jeans, turtleneck, and hard-soled shoes.
Flaut would have been assigned by the general running Komodo Op to replace Danker in debriefing. The man was as emotionless as the room they were in.
Steel looked at the bare table, rubbing his forehead with one hand and heaving a sigh, sure the blond-haired Flaut would take it as a sign of weariness. That much was true. He hadn’t slept much, instead spending most of the flight preparing his story.
They had flown back to the U.S. in the Beechcraft, first landing briefly somewhere to refuel. Eventually they arrived at a small airfield where all the operatives were separated for debriefing. Steel had waited in the interrogation room for an hour before Flaut arrived. With no chance to shower, he needed fresh clothes and a shave. His uniform reeked.
“Let’s go over it again, Major Steel, beginning after you killed the guard.”
Steel looked up with a frown. “I ran behind a tree near the target site and saw Danker.”
“Colonel Danker.”
“Danker killed the two door guards. A guard appeared on the roof. I took him out and then followed Danker in.”
“And?”
“I ran in, saw Danker lying in a doorway at the end of a hallway, and ran down. I glimpsed someone outside a window and ran to it.” He paused, the image of the friar’s face tightening his chest. “I fired, but the person escaped into the forest. Then we dragged Danker out.”
“Colonel Danker.”
“That’s all.”
“You didn’t see anyone else in the building?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t see who attacked Colonel Danker?”
“Are you listening?” He glared at Flaut.
“What do you think happened to Colonel Danker?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He arched his eyebrows, sensing anticipation in Flaut’s stance and his sharp-featured face. The man reveled in this.
Steel focused on Flaut’s blue eyes and fair-skinned face. He intuited something else just below the surface. This man could be violent. It was written in his thin
lips and taut lines.
“Tell me what’s so obvious.”
Steel looked down. “Someone in the building surprised Danker.”
“Why wasn’t Colonel Danker shot?”
He shrugged. “Ask Danker.”
“How many other people were in the building?”
“A friar, a cook, a maid, a driver. Maybe a few others. People came and went and I did my reconnaissance at night.” That wasn’t true. He had used camouflage to observe daytime activities too.
Flaut crossed the small room and sat on a corner of the metal table. He stared from three feet away. Steel didn’t look up, but he noted Flaut’s smooth movements. Athletic.
Flaut continued. “The other men say that the cook and the maid were the only civilians.”
Steel glanced at him. Flaut was lying. They had to know about the friar and the driver. It made him wonder how many others might have been inside the building. His gut tightened. “What happened to the cook and maid?”
“One of the other operatives killed them as they ran out the back door.”
“Were they armed?” He locked eyes with Flaut. Tell me that, you SOB. He decided Flaut knew the Komodo Op was a hit squad, probably before he did.
Flaut gave a small smile. “I’m sure they were. You know the mandate for Blackhood missions.”
“Covert Blackhood Ops approved by the president to terminate or kidnap terrorists on foreign soil for interrogation and closed trial for crimes committed or planned.” He paused. “Noncombatants can be killed only if necessary for mission success, and only if they give primary support to terrorists.” He watched Flaut for a reaction, but the major didn’t give one.
Flaut pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. He blew the smoke into Steel’s face.
Steel sat back. “Do you mind? There’s no smoking.”
“Everyone on this Op seems to have a different story, Steel.”
“Major Steel to you.” He glared at Flaut. “Haven’t you ever seen combat? Everyone always has a different story.”
A flicker of anger slid through Flaut’s eyes “We’ve been over your map. It looks like you were the closest man to Colonel Danker. It would have made sense that you went in immediately behind him and would have seen his attacker.” He blew another cloud of smoke.
Steel had expected this. It was the weakest part of his story. He decided to go on the offensive. “Danker’s orders were for no one to leave the site alive.” He looked at Flaut. “Those were Danker’s orders, weren’t they?”
“The mission statement for Blackhood Ops doesn’t allow for that. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
“Then it sounds like a lot of people might be mistaken about what they saw and heard.”
Flaut gave a weak smile. “It was a very capable man who attacked Colonel Danker. There doesn’t seem to be a likely candidate.”
“How long am I going to be kept here?”
“A few more hours, if you cooperate. You will cooperate, won’t you?”
“Sure, as long as you’re civil.” He gave a plastic smile when Flaut’s face darkened. “Look, we’re wasting time here, aren’t we?” Bunching his shoulders, he leaned forward. “What motive could any of our men possibly have for disobeying orders and attacking a senior officer?”
He waited, knowing Flaut would have no answer, and that if Flaut did have an answer, he couldn’t state it. He shook his head. “Had to be someone in the building, one of the target’s guards.” Sitting back, he waited, knowing he had stated his case as strongly as he could.
Flaut moved off the table and leaned against one of the walls. “Let’s go over it a few more times. Maybe something will turn up.”
CHAPTER 4
Several hours later Flaut was alone in a small office. He stared through the open door and down the hallway at Steel’s receding back—imagining it exploding and spattering the walls in red.
He dialed a number on his phone and said, “You’re not sedated?”
“I am but tell me anyway.”
“Steel’s story holds water. Barely. I’m wasting time at this point so I released him.”
“But you think he’s lying?”
“Sure.”
“He doesn’t know that you’ve been on Blackhood Ops before?”
“No chance.”
“Good. I’ll take it from here.”
Flaut hung up and made another call. To Torr. He had a hunger and he wanted Torr to feed it.
***
Danker put his phone down on the table next to the hospital bed. He bunched his big hands into fists on his white nightgown and clenched his jaw. The Komodo Op had been a complete failure and his reputation had been tarnished. Worse, he had always prized his healthy body, which was now a mess. A cripple for life.
Pillows supported his aching knee, which still had the surgery dressing wrapped around it. His neck felt like it had a spike rammed into it. But he would be out of here in a day or two. The most painful part was that he wanted to put a bullet into Steel—and couldn’t. It wasn’t legal stateside. Though he wouldn’t have hesitated on the Op.
He believed in following the law. Even in the little things like not going over the speed limit. That frustrated people sometimes, but that was okay with him. A few friends were enough. His dad had drilled it into him that if people didn’t follow the law, all you had left was chaos.
He had followed orders. And Steel was the only operative who had questioned his command to neutralize everyone at the compound. When Danker considered the assault positions of the other men on the Komodo Op, and the targets at the compound, only Steel would have been close enough to attack him. And only Steel had the ability to surprise him and take him down so fast.
That was part of the reason Steel was always desirable on Ops. He had an uncanny, nearly virtuoso skill set that few could match. The guy was also one messed up SOB.
Questions about Steel’s decision-making skills had been raised a year ago in a previous Op, Hellfire, which had caused Danker to wonder about Steel’s sense of priorities. At the time he had no proof, and Steel had been heroic. However, Komodo Op confirmed that the man would disobey orders in favor of his own set of values.
Time and planning would bring Steel to him. Being practical and methodical had always served him well. Patience. He would find a way to bring Steel down.
He looked at his aching knee. The doctor said it would never be the same again. He started moving his foot up and down—and gasped in pain.
For the first time in his life he considered breaking the law.
CHAPTER 5
The navigator’s voice woke Steel when they landed at Langley Air Force Base. Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed his bag and hurried down the steps to the tarmac. The October sun was high and warm. He was glad for the heat. He had slept in his jeans and sweatshirt and looked forward to a shower and food.
In twenty minutes he pulled his black Jeep out of the parking ramp and began the three-hour ride home. Northwest from Hampton, skirting Richmond, north to Fredericksburg, then northwest on highways and county roads to Rappahannock County.
He drove the speed limit on the interstate until he was out of Fredericksburg and free of heavy traffic, still traveling northwest. Buildings and concrete were slowly replaced by open farmland. Eventually scattered forest took over. He drove faster.
On the way home his forehead remained creased. He replayed the interrogation with Flaut over and over in his mind, quickly exhausting it. Convinced they had nothing on him, and thus had been forced to release him, he still eyed his mirrors to see if he was being followed.
This was the first time he had stepped outside the chain of command. Through four years of Army, four in Special Forces, and seven in Delta Force—including tours in Afghanistan, where he earned the rank of major—he had always remained the obedient soldier. Yet on two
Blackhood Ops he had strayed beyond orders. Maybe it was time to do something else.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Someone had gotten away with murder and used him to do it. It left him with an ugly feeling to have been a part of it. He wanted those responsible to pay.
***
The Jeep’s tires crunched over the gravel of the half mile driveway of his property. Sugar and silver maples were scattered along the sides of the drive, along with dogwood, ash, and black oak.
The leaves had turned. Bright reds, yellows, and oranges splashed against the skyline. Usually that change brought a smile to his face and a light to his eyes. But today his chest tightened.
Song sparrows mobbed a red-tailed hawk flying across the driveway ahead of him. He rolled down his window. Carolina wrens flitted between bushes and a woodpecker’s bill echoed off a tree trunk in the distance. The smell of fallen leaves filled the air. His eyes raced ahead.
Trees hid the two-story, four-bedroom rustic house at the end of the winding drive. The forest also gave him privacy from neighbors. County roads ran on three sides of his property, and to the west the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains loomed not far from his back door, isolating him further from prying eyes.
They had moved onto the square mile of woods ten years ago, when everything around them was forested. Now suburbia had nearly reached their door. Even the mountains couldn’t escape the never-ending tide of people moving out of the cities.
His parents had left him everything in their will, which had allowed him to buy the place. He would rather have them back. He missed them. They had given him a mixed heritage of Cajun creole—Spanish, French, Native American, and Caribbean— leaving him with a light olive color skin. Born in Louisiana, he had moved to Virginia at age one—so his roots were here.
Near the house stood a giant sycamore. From one of its lower branches hung a tree swing. His gaze, as usual, paused on the swing as a lump formed in his throat. A flat stick with Rachel painted on it was stuck in the ground near the swing.
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