Threat Zero

by Nicholas Irving

  “I’m here to help you,” Harwood said.

  Hinojosa tossed her hair out of her eyes.

  “Reaper, this isn’t what you think it is,” Hinojosa said.

  A new voice to the scene made Harwood’s stomach sink.

  “Reaper. So good to see you,” Weathers said, stepping from the tunnel into the brick dungeon. He was holding a large pistol. “You know, Semper Fi and all that bullshit. Talked to Maximus Anon lately?”

  Then Weathers shot Harwood in the head.

  * * *

  “What’s all that commotion?” Campagne asked.

  A helicopter buzzing the house reverberated overhead, drowning out their voices for a moment. When the helicopter cleared the airspace, Brookes said, “Could have just been something from Pax River. They’re always flying different helicopters up and down the bay, testing new stuff.”

  Naval Air Station Patuxent River was less than fifty miles north of Brookes’s compound and had a potpourri of aircraft with which the military was constantly experimenting.

  “Where’s Ravenswood?” former CIA director Henry asked.

  “He went to check on Weathers. He’s our only guy.”

  “That helicopter is flying inside your compound, Senator,” Everett said. “You mentioned another way out of here.”

  “I don’t recall saying that,” she said.

  “What about your boat?” Kilmartin asked. “We can get to your boathouse and then get to the boat and then disperse somewhere in Maryland or wherever.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” she said.

  She had a plan for herself, for sure. Her calculation had been wrong, though. It wasn’t just Harwood and Hinojosa who knew what she had been doing. Everyone in this room could be squeezed by the FBI or CIA or Secret Service and ultimately spoil her chances.

  She walked across the room and listened to the commotion in the basement. It sounded like Ravenswood had finally earned his keep. Now she needed to put in place the rest of her plan. A helicopter searchlight swept back and forth across the expansive front lawn inside the compound walls. The rotor blades chopped overhead like a beating drum on the roof.

  “Okay, things are getting dicey,” Brookes said. “Helicopters from Pax River don’t normally shine spotlights in my yard.”

  “We can use the tunnel, Sloane,” Henry said. “I just got an update from Weathers.”

  Brookes looked at the former CIA director with a stony gaze.

  “Very well. We can go into the basement and get out that way.”

  Brookes’s nerves began to get the best of her. Henry had suggested this as the nuclear option, but she never liked it. Sure, they could always find another reporter to provide them constant coverage. And she wouldn’t worry about the beta male briefer, Everett. Kilmartin was a different issue, but still, he was expendable if there was no one alive who knew any of her crimes.

  She led them into the basement, a bit anxious at being the first one into the shackle room. The first thing she noticed was that Hinojosa was no longer captive against the wall. That could be either really good news or just the opposite. She continued walking to the small entryway that led to the tunnel. Peeking beyond the opening, she noticed the room was empty, though there was a dark, wet stain on the bricks.

  “Sometimes the oil leaks in here,” Brookes said. The group had gathered inside the small brick room and were facing the door to the tunnel. “But this is the way to my boat. We can get into the boathouse and slip out this way,” she said.

  “That’s not oil. That’s blood!” Everett shrieked.

  Weathers stepped from the tunnel through the doorway and leveled the pistol Harwood had been carrying at Everett’s face, frozen open in a silent scream. Weathers pulled the trigger, the bullet caught Everett directly beneath his broken nose, and entered his brain.

  Campagne turned and ran toward the opening when Weathers fired a second muffled shot into the back of Campagne’s head.

  “Hang on a minute!” Kilmartin said, reaching for his weapon concealed in a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.

  Weathers glanced at Brookes, who nodded, and then he shot Kilmartin in the forehead. He quickly turned his pistol on Henry, but Henry had his pistol up and was locked in a shooter’s stance, knees flexed, Beretta aimed at Weathers.

  “I could have already shot you, Marine. Now it’s just the three of us and that was the plan unless Stone made it and it doesn’t look like he did.”

  Weathers glanced at Brookes, who shook her head. “Don’t do it,” she said, which was a reverse signal, because Weathers pulled the trigger while he was still looking at Brookes. The bullet caught Henry in the neck, causing him to spin and fire at the same time. His Beretta sounded like a cannon in the small space. Weathers took a step toward Henry and fired a bullet into his head.

  “Oh my God,” Brookes said, trembling.

  “It’s done,” Weathers said. “It’s what you wanted, ultimately.”

  Still reeling from the shock, she was having a hard time processing everything that had just happened. These were friends. Well, as close to friends as she would find in the Washington, D.C., area.

  “Call the pilot and tell him he can quit buzzing the house,” Brookes said.

  Weathers nodded.

  “You okay?”

  She trembled and stepped toward him. “Let’s get out of here. Finish this.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Where are the Reaper and Hinojosa? Already dead?”

  “Something like that,” Weathers said. “Insurance policy until we’re clear. I’ll get you to the boat and then come back and clean this up as much as possible. There’s blankets out there to keep you warm.”

  “I want to go to Tangier,” she said. She was thinking of Jessup, perhaps her only true friend.

  “Not yet. Let this cool off,” Weathers said.

  Brookes had met Weathers on the campaign trail. She needed an advance man who could double as security. He was smart, reliable, and strategic. She didn’t realize he was a stone-cold killer until he had hatched the plan one night after sex. Lying in bed, he’d said, “What if Iran got a nuke? That’d make Smart look dumb, right?”

  And from that conversation, she had kept him closer and closer to her side. When Carly Masters had found Khoury stealing the intel and working the finances, they knew they had to do something. A solo hit on Masters seemed like the best option, but then she’d involved Samuelson, a former Army Ranger sniper.

  Weathers, having been a Force Recon Marine sniper, had the idea to catch Masters from a distance when she was in public. Then Brookes had mentioned, as long as we’re killing people, the Perzas and Sultans need to be dispatched as well.

  Dispatch was her euphemism. She still hadn’t pulled the trigger and didn’t know if she could. In fact, she was pretty sure she couldn’t. But Weathers again had come up with the concept of Team Zero, he and Stone and Team Valid, which included Harwood, because there was some suspicion that Harwood knew something.

  Before she knew it, the bloodthirsty marine had walked her into over forty deaths of some variety. Murder or self-defense, it didn’t matter. The term, “For want of a nail…” came to her as she followed Weathers onto the pier and into the boat.

  “Where are they?”

  “They’re in a good place, Sloane, now relax, please.”

  Shivering, she pulled a blanket around herself as she sat in the seat of the boat she used to regularly shuttle to Tangier. She was thinking of Jessup as she huddled onto the padded bench seat. What had he said to her? He was working to shut down Maximus Anon, but never seemed to be able to keep the Twitter phenom down for the count. Who else had such perfect knowledge other than Jessup?

  “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” Weathers said. “Then we’ll get out of here.”

  Brookes nodded, looking at her shoes.

  “Look at me, Sloane,” Weathers demanded. She looked up. His countenance had all the f
ury of a lightning storm. “Stay here until I get back.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He jogged back into the tunnel.

  CHAPTER 23

  Harwood had felt the beanbag strike his head, knew what was happening as Weathers pulled the trigger on the nonlethal weapon. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, but he was awake enough to have heard Weathers shout at Hinojosa and then slap her.

  “Your stupid, fucking brother jacked this all up. It was a simple kill on one person!” Weathers said.

  “Stop it,” Hinojosa pleaded.

  “Tell me, Valerie, did you fuck Harwood?”

  “No, Griffin, I never had sex with Harwood. I’ve been loyal to you even though I know you banged that senator in there.”

  “Among others.”

  The best he could tell was that Hinojosa was on the other side of the tunnel a few feet from him with Weathers standing in between them. He opened his eyes and saw a hazy image of Weathers standing over Hinojosa aiming a pistol at her head.

  “You and Harwood. Murder-suicide. Means you go first.”

  Then the voices could be heard from the room just meters away.

  “That’s not oil. That’s blood!” someone shouted.

  Weathers didn’t hesitate. He moved through the tunnel door into the same small room through which he had entered the home less than an hour ago. Several gunshots followed before he was escorting Sloane Brookes toward the boathouse.

  As he faded in and out of consciousness, Harwood was aware Weathers would be coming back quickly to do exactly as he had said: murder-suicide.

  Harwood had used Stone’s pistol not because he anticipated any of what had transpired, but because he didn’t want any of his ballistic fingerprints in the Brookes compound. But that was a moot issue now.

  During the moments of unconsciousness and recognition of the possibility of death, Harwood thought about lying in the sniper hide sites with Samuelson. They’d grown close as professionals and then as friends. Monisha looked up to him as a big brother. Redemption of Sammie’s name was as important as anything he was doing. While he was unclear why Hinojosa had initially drawn down on him a few minutes ago, he suspected Weathers had beaten her into submission during what sounded like a tormented relationship. Never leaving a soldier behind included not leaving their reputation to be wrongly smeared. Samuelson was a good soldier, a good man. He had served his country and earned a decent life. Brookes and Weathers, at a minimum, had stolen that life from him. If Harwood needed any fuel to regain his consciousness, his righteous anger at what had happened to his fellow Ranger was plenty.

  As Weathers had walked toward the boathouse, Harwood slid toward the rucksack he had stowed by the door. Now, the sound of boots slapping on the wooden pier ricocheted into the tunnel. He found Hinojosa as he slid across the path.

  “Valerie,” he whispered. Reaching out, he felt her head, wet with blood. Weathers had pistol-whipped her. Probably not the first time. He pressed his fingers against her neck and got a pulse.

  “Come on, Valerie, we’ve got to move.”

  He crawled to his knees and grabbed her by the armpits, lifting and dragging her into the brick room. He laid her among the dead bodies. He recognized the news anchor and maybe one other, but the other two were unknown to him. It didn’t matter, they were dead. Harwood stumbled to his feet, climbed out of the room and back into the tunnel, found his helmet and rucksack and dragged them back inside. By now, Hinojosa was on her hands and knees vomiting as she knelt among the dead.

  The footsteps rang louder.

  Bullets pinged off the door as Harwood closed it and did his best to secure the handle, but Weathers was already bulldozing through. He fired at Hinojosa, but Harwood surprised him with a hand-to-hand combat eye gouge followed by a throat punch, and a kick to the rib cage. Weathers stumbled as Harwood closed on him, chopping at the pistol with a series of fist slaps before grabbing his arm and slamming his knee into the forearm. The pistol dropped onto the back of one of the people Weathers had shot.

  Weathers’s surprise had worn off and he was gathering himself to fight back. Harwood felt the first of two punches reinjure an already shaky concussed brain. Still, he thought about Samuelson and fought back. He had nothing to lose, because if he quit then all would be lost. Backed into a literal corner, Harwood spun and delivered a high kick to Weathers’s chin, snapping his head upward, opening Weathers up for two more throat punches and an elbow across the chin.

  Weathers went for the close fight and attempted to bear-hug Harwood, who stepped aside and tripped Weathers. His opponent fell onto an older man, but he came up this time fumbling with a pistol, a Beretta to be more precise. Harwood gave Weathers no time to think about using it as he delivered a series of high kicks to Weathers’s hands, causing the pistol to flip up into the air like a football.

  Harwood attempted to catch it, but Weathers used that opportunity to rush Harwood and tackle him, landing a series of UFC moves that resulted in Weathers being in the position of advantage on top. Harwood arched his back, using his hands to block Weathers’s relentless onslaught.

  Harwood spun with force and threw Weathers off him up against the brick wall. As they backed toward the tunnel door, Harwood lured Weathers into the doorway where he grabbed the two-by-four from its perch on the side of the right U-bracket. Swinging it like a baseball bat, he connected with Weathers’s head, which was evidently shockproof because the marine kept coming at Harwood, who tumbled back into his rucksack.

  Instinctively, he reached for the knife in his outer tactical vest, but Weathers said, “Looking for this, bitch?” He flipped open Harwood’s spec ops knife and drove it toward him. Harwood used a basic double-V blocking maneuver, where both hands caught the downward arc of Weathers’s wrist. They remained frozen in isometric meltdown as Weathers tried to drive the knife into Harwood and Harwood attempted to prevent a fatal strike.

  Harwood kneed Weathers in the groin, perhaps the only vulnerable area on the marine. Weathers gasped and released just long enough for Harwood to gain control of the knife and plunge it into Weathers’s heart. The resistance was strong at first, but Harwood was leaning his weight into the supine frame of Weathers. He felt the knife slide to the hilt between two ribs, puncture the heart, and he knew it was only a matter of time. He twisted the knife, feeling its razor-sharp blade crunch against two ribs, giving him minimal lateral movement. When Weathers finally coughed blood and his eyes went blank with a vacant stare, Harwood said, “That was for Sammie.”

  He retrieved his knife and rucksack, leaned in the basement and shouted at Hinojosa. “Come on! Let’s go!”

  Hinojosa was up. She had a pistol.

  “Just for protection,” she said. “I’m on your side. I didn’t know. I was just scared.”

  As they walked quickly through the tunnel, she paused when she saw Weathers’s dead body.

  “About right,” she muttered, and kept walking.

  When they got to the boathouse, Sloane Brookes and her boat were gone. Harwood carried his ruck up to the high ground, which was her backyard. He quickly assembled his SR-25, attached the thermal scope, extended the bipods, and climbed the steps to the back deck that afforded the best view of the Potomac.

  Less than a half mile away was Brookes’s boat heading due east toward Tangier Island. Had the shot been perpendicular to his line of sight, it would have been measurably more difficult.

  As it was, he lined up the sight just above her head. The display in the retina gave him all the right measurements and calculations and he made the physical adjustment. Her head nearly filled the scope. Long hair was flowing with the wind as the boat slipped across the glassy Chesapeake Bay.

  He placed his finger on the trigger. Exhaled. Began his squeeze.

  “Cease fire, Reaper,” Bronson’s voice bellowed from behind. The agent was running toward him.

  Brookes was the person who had Sammie killed. She needed to die.

  Or at least be
in prison.

  “Reaper! Stand down!”

  He released the pressure on the trigger. The boat slid quietly into the night toward the lights of Tangier.

  “Tell me you’ll get her,” Harwood said.

  “We’ll get her.” Bronson turned away and lifted his phone to his ear.

  Harwood nodded, lifted his rifle, and backed away.

  “Get me out of here, Deke,” Harwood said.

  CHAPTER 24

  President Smart watched the action unfold from an iPad as he sat in the Oval Office. He held his official Twitter phone in his right hand. A call came in on his phone, but he didn’t answer it. It was the signal and he smiled.

  “Do we have the grid coordinate for the Iranian nuke that Brookes was having built?”

  “Yes, sir.” The general began to read the actual numbers.

  “I don’t need that. Just give me a stealth fighter or bomber to destroy it right now. Execute,” Smart said.

  “Execute? Iran is sovereign territory, sir.”

  “So’s my ass but you see people kissing it every day,” Smart said. “Do I need a new general to drop a bomb?”

  “No, sir. Just confirming.”

  “Confirmed. Next fifteen minutes. I want it done.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The general stood and departed.

  “And, General?”

  The four-star stopped and turned around.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When you’re done, I want to talk to this Reaper guy.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  When his office was empty, he banged out a quick draft tweet.

  Maximus Anon: A LOT of activity at former Senator Sloane’s house tonight. Getting reports that I’ll try to confirm as soon as possible. Appears she was involved in some very shady dealings. Instead of Slippery Sloane, maybe her new nickname should be NOT SO SLIM SHADY! Explosive stuff!

  He pressed Send, but of course it didn’t go to his own Twitter account. A man named Jessup received the tweet and bounced it around sufficiently to disguise its origin. In a moment, Smart saw the tweet appear on Maximus Anon’s account as it instantly began receiving thousands of comments, likes, and retweets.