by J. T. Patten
“Red Team. Shit. Hope they didn’t breach our sector.”
The security captain put down his sleeve of Hostess donut gems and headed to the back of the little shanty. “I’m going to kill the camera and check the feeds, so our asses are covered just in case.”
“And that’s why they pay you the big bucks, Dale.” The watch officer reached across the desk and swiped a snack.
With gates open wide and tire shredders down, Drake Woolf ignored the ten-mile-an-hour speed zone by the guard shack and shot through the checkpoint, fishtailing as he turned onto the main road and flew past state and local police with a hand wave out the window.
Chapter 7
Tresa Halliday looked straight ahead into the mirror, thinking how much she hated Washington, DC. Above the bottles of spirits, she could see a cute guy’s reflection three barstools over. He had dark hair that faded into a closely shaven beard. His cheekbones and jawline were pronounced. She liked his flannel shirt, which Halliday didn’t see enough of in the National Capital Region. The handsome man, maybe late twenties, hopefully early to mid-thirties, was the only thing in this Georgetown Irish pub that reminded her of home, despite the hipster bend to rugged northern Wisconsin or Yooper manhood. Although, Wisconsin wasn’t really home; Cicero, Illinois, was. But not many guys wore flannels in Cicero, either, unless they were Latino gang cholos, and she hadn’t lived there since she was a child. Once they fled.
“Same?” the bartender responded to her push of the empty pint.
“Yeah. Harp. Another Jameson, too. And hey”—she leaned in over the bar rail—“get whatever the guy in the flannel is drinking and give him a Jameson too.”
The bartender turned and nodded. “Going in, huh?”
“Girl’s gotta sometimes strap on a pair if that itch is gonna get scratched.”
He smiled. “I’m guessing you don’t need to try too hard. Coming up. Harp, two Jamesons, and a Michelob Ultra with a lemon.” He winked and shrugged his shoulder.
“He’s drinking a Michelob Ultra with a lemon?” She looked back up into the mirror to check. “Pussy,” she accused. “Guess that makes me a lesbo tonight. I could put the softie under the table in fifteen minutes.”
The bartender just laughed as he cleaned another glass.
The round would make six beers and three shots since she bellied up, and that wasn’t too long ago. Just short of six feet tall in bare feet, Halliday could put any woman away in a drinking contest, and most men. Except, of course, those who gave her a run for her money in the northern Midwest. And forget about the Indian reservations in the upper lakes chains. Those day drinkers were pros, even as they moved from bar to bar on snowmobiles, or sleds, as they called them.
It had been only days since she lost the trail of Drake Woolf and his band of merry men. Woolf had saved her life; his partner had put her in a sleeper hold, knocking Halliday out until she awoke receiving accolades from responding police for saving the secretary of state. Her boss, head of FBI Counterintelligence, Earl Johnson, had encouraged her to just roll with it and get back on the scent to put an end to these rogue operators who were in blatant violation of the law.
“Hi, I thought I should probably do the shot with you, right?” the man from the mirror said, almost shoulder to shoulder.
Tresa turned her head and attention to the conquest target. God, she hoped it would be a conquest. It had been so long, she might call it a hundred-year pilgrimage. “Hey, yeah. I’m Tresa.” She extended her hand right into his hand holding an overfilled shot. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool.” He swapped hands and looked around for a napkin to wipe his hands.
You could use your pants, sport.
“Thanks for the drink and shot. I don’t usually do shots, but cheers, Theresa.”
Tresa, but whatever. “Cheers.” They clinked and swallowed. “Whoo. And you are?”
“I am damned glad to meet you. Mind if I get my beer?”
Avoided the name. Whatever. As he grabbed his beer and barstool, Tresa did a quick mental inventory of her undergarments. Sports bra and a gray cotton pair of Jockey hip-huggers. Tough. He was getting laid. He won’t care. Legs might be a bit rough, and the…well, best get him a few more drinks.
“’Scuse me, can I squeeze in here a bit?” he who remained nameless, holding a beer and a chair, asked the conjoined couple sitting closest to Tresa.
The conquest stood about six feet. That will be fine, she thought. His voice was a bit higher-pitched than she would have liked. His frame a little wirier than he looked in the bar’s mirror. His face, still perfect. Exactly her type. He could have been related to Drake Woolf. She smiled as she sighed. But he wasn’t Drake Woolf, and it pissed her off that that sucked.
When Earl Johnson phoned her in the next moment, she had mixed emotions about picking up. If Earl was calling this late, it meant the task force had been spotted. Game over for boot-knocking.
“Excuse me.” She shrunk to her prospect, feeling both embarrassed and annoyed. His dark eyes were gorgeous. Teeth looked clean. Yes, still very doable. “Hey, boss,” Tresa answered. Don’t go away, she mouthed, feeling a little tipsy. More than she initially thought. She gave a light parting brush of her hand on his shoulder, feminine when she wanted to be.
“Apologies. It sounds like I’ve caught you at an inopportune time, SA Halliday.”
“It would have been worse in an hour or two. Can you hear me? It’s a little loud in my quiet Quantico apartment,” she joked. “Neighbors are loud. I think they’re agents from Alabama.”
“I can barely hear you. Will you please step out of the bar? If you want a bar with some actual character, consider McClellan’s. I suppose you prefer the type with hockey and cheesesteaks though. No matter.”
Tresa took a deep breath and chose not to ask how he knew her whereabouts aside from the obvious. Plain and simple, Earl just knew things. “Yes, hang on a sec. I’ll go outside.” She held up a finger to the nameless man sitting on his stool like an anxious puppy. My boss, she mouthed. “Be right back,” she enunciated again, pointing to the door.
The stool puppy nodded, implicitly assured that he may get a treat later.
A few short weaves around patrons and Halliday was in the cool air of old Georgetown. “Sorry. So what’s up? Usually it’s me calling you late in the night.”
“Indeed. I think you may want to go for a ride.”
You have no idea how close I was to getting one. “Ride to where?”
“We think the task force was just in South Carolina. You can fly out of Reagan. Bureau plane. Go to the private executive aircraft entrance. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes, I…” She decided against more smartass comments with Earl. He already considered her a second-class citizen. “I’ll need to Uber it. I’ve got a few under my belt tonight.”
“I’ll have an agent waiting for you in Georgia. The incident happened in a nuclear waste repository just over the state border. Seven bodies.”
“Shit.”
“From the information we received, I suspect one may be from the task force.”
Halliday’s chest tightened. “Oh, wow. Which one? I mean how can you tell?”
“I’ll let you tell me once you get there. Again, my apologies, but thought you’d like to be tapped for this trip. I’m running interference for the moment. You’re the lead for now, but I’m releasing the site to the local office after you get a head start on the scene.”
“Okay. Thanks, Earl. You owe me some sex, though.” She cringed as soon as the words passed her lips.
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Earl, did you just make a joke?”
“Happy hunting, Agent Halliday.”
Two girls walked around Tresa to enter the pub. “Hey, if I give you guys twenty bucks for the effort, will you pay the bartender here sixty for my tab
? I gotta go.”
“Sure,” one responded eagerly, with hand held out.
“Thanks,” said Halliday, trying to get one last peek through the door. “And, hey, there’s a pretty cute guy at the bar sitting near an open stool. Dark hair, trim beard, flannel. If you’re into the lumberjack thing.”
The second girl’s face wrinkled. “Is his name Dan? That’s my boyfriend.” Her head cocked, her eyes squinted.
Tresa handed over the cash and turned to the street. “Of course, he’s your boyfriend.” She cringed then chastised herself despite knowing a plastic spoon threesome with Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk ice cream was the outcome she’d really end up choosing if a one-night stand was truly on the table. Even if she was originally from that one part of town in Cicero where girls rarely, if ever, said no.
Chapter 8
Drake’s mouth clicked. He fidgeted his hands on the wheel. It wasn’t the first time he had transported a casualty, but it was admittedly the first colleague he’d truly bonded with in past years. The thought of losing him rattled Woolf.
Drake glanced over at Havens again. He was in bad shape. Sean’s breathing looked shallow from what Woolf could tell by the low-light chest movement and Havens’s slipping lucidity.
Twelve more miles. Tension pneumothorax. We’ll need a fourteen-gauge needle initial pneumo treatment to let air out. Occlusive dressing. That just buys time. Maybe they can do a thoracotomy. Then need to get you to a thoracic surgeon for exploratory surgery. Sebastian will need to evac us to…
He’s going to die. You have no one left. They’re all gone. You let everyone die.
“No, I don’t!” Drake yelled. He slapped the wheel and stomped the floor in a fit of rage.
“Dude! What the hell?” Havens was startled, wide-eyed. He leaned away, a little freaked by the tantrum.
“Fuck!” Drake wiped his face as if his hands could reset his mind. The lithium wasn’t working even with a megadose. Doctors were never an option. “Sorry, man. Just trying to decide if I need to let some pressure out of your chest.”
“For what?” Havens wiped his lip and saw the blood in the glow of the dash electronics. “Damn, you got me good.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“Bit my lip when you lifted me over your shoulder. Cut the shit out of the inside. Might need a stitch there, too.”
“Are you serious?” Drake broke a smile. “I thought you took one to the chest that I missed.” He let his head fall back on the headrest in relief.
“Drake, how are the meds holding out?”
“I think I’m doing better.”
Sean stiffened and changed the topic. “I saw you put something on Lars’s body from your pocket.”
“You were supposed to be hopping away.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I had a quarter in my pocket. Thought it was right.”
“Lars wouldn’t have known what the tradition meant, but he would have been honored if he did,” Havens acknowledged, recalling the practice when soldiers put a quarter on the grave of a fallen comrade they had been present with at time of death.
“He was a good man. He deserved better than how I left him.”
“You did what I asked. I’m the one who left him.”
After a long silence, Drake cleared his throat. “I know we talked some time back about stuff, but not sure if I mentioned that I lost my dad when I was pretty young. They got my mom, too. I was a pretty messed-up kid afterward. Some wounds never heal, especially family.”
“How did it happen? I remember bits and pieces from what I heard before I knew you.”
“You probably know, Dad was CIA. We were in Tunisia. They first came in and killed my mom. Dad and I were in the kitchen. He tried to get me out. I froze. Total choke.”
“How old?”
“Thirteen, fourteen. Dad would’ve died anyway, even if I had left when he told me. I just know he went out and got killed not knowing if his sacrifice was worth it.”
“How’d you make it out?”
“No clue. I blacked out. I killed a couple with the ice pick my dad was using. Can’t remember any of that part unless it comes back in my dreams. Then I got shot. Shrinks said I blocked a lot out.”
“You killed armed men with an ice pick? Holy shit, you must have.” Havens paused in a moment of thought. “OT knew. That’s why this group is Project ICEPICK? Ho-ly shit.”
Drake deflected Sean’s realization. “My dad was a good dad. OT was not.”
“OT took you in then?” Sean asked, referring to Robert O’Toole, a renowned special operator and intel czar who had just recently met an untimely end amidst the recent attacks. Although, OT’s demise was strongly personal.
“Yeah. Him and my aunt. My aunt was great. More of a mom than my real mom was. Like cookies, and caring, and shit like that. She was crypto with NSA. But she couldn’t really dictate how my uncle should be a dad. OT, as you can imagine, had a unique way of parenting. More like how you beat a pit bull into becoming a ring dog.”
“I would imagine he was pretty tough.”
“You have no idea.”
“Siblings?”
“Older brother. They thought he was involved with my folks’ murder. Dexter was his name. Dex was a lot older. Always on the streets, always getting in trouble.”
“Yeah, so why did the Agency want him as an asset?”
Drake whipped his head at Sean’s fucked-up remark. “Asset to what? What are you talking about?”
“His work.” Sean shrugged. “With the Agency.” He winced from the shrug that sent a jolt of pain throughout his arm.
“What are you talking about?”
Sean tensed.
“Dude. What in the fuck are you saying?”
“Drake, I’m sorry, I thought you knew. From what I remember hearing about the Woolfs, your dad was Alex Woolf, right?”
“Yes,” Drake confirmed, hanging on every word.
“Yeah, he got your brother in, and then your brother changed his name.”
“In to what?”
“As an access agent that became a full-on operations asset. He’s not a CIA officer. He’s a deep black NOC. Completely flying in the wind save for his handler and only a few others in Langley. He’s as native as native gets.”
“How do you know this?”
“Like all things Langley. You’re standing with someone or sitting in a room, and someone assumes you’re read in. I heard a lot about Alex Woolf over the years, but only once did I hear about his son who was an asset and another one, you, who was military. That’s all. I just kept my mouth shut, since I knew it wasn’t anything I was probably supposed to know. But I really don’t know anything more.”
So, it’s true.
Chapter 9
Special Agent Halliday crunched on a second handful of Breathsavers as she exited the Savannah field office’s Chevy Suburban SUV. Special Agent David Scullen, her local point of contact, met her around the side of the car. “You doing a little better?”
“Yeah. I’m good. Another cup of coffee and I’ll float away.”
As they approached the gaggles of local and state law enforcement, Halliday saw them muddled about the rather unusual crime scene with a lot of posed photographs being taken that didn’t appear to be for forensic work.
The area was awash in lights, both vehicle headlamps and the spots from type one and two fire engines. The charred van in the center of all the fanfare dripped with fire-fighting water. White cloth covers dotted the area where bodies remained.
“David,” Tresa spoke softly to her Savannah counterpart, “would you mind talking to the locals? Since I’m just observing for another case, may be best if you be the face of your office.”
“I’d sure appreciate it, Agent Halliday,” he said with a slight Southern twang. She fig
ured he was from Arkansas, probably assigned to this sleepy area by a bad luck of the draw. Unless, of course, he was looking for a place to hide and raise a family. Maybe it was genius.
“Probably should have discussed it on the ride in. I just figured you were, uh, tired,” he joshed, giving her a friendly elbow to the side.
She gave him back a friendly poke to the arm with the back of her balled hand. “Stop. But thanks.”
“All right, everyone,” Special Agent Scullen called to the masses, clapping his hands. “Could y’all gather ’round for a quick minute and squeeze in here. I’d appreciate knowin’ what y’all have seen, learned, and figured out so far, so I can tell my bosses.”
The law enforcement bubbas slowly sauntered over.
David added, “I’m just here to support you, if you have any needs or if we can bring some resources to the party.” Agent Scullen gave Halliday a wink. “Scoot, missy,” he whispered. “Just bought you some time to sniff around alone for a bit.”
Only in the past weeks had Tresa experienced the teaming and warmth of the greater Bureau. She realized that she had either not seen it, gotten in with a bad lot, or maybe it was there all along and she had been the one to shun it. No, the harassment had been real. Threats had been real. The thumb in the ass was damned real. She was just seeing another side now, and it made her proud. Because it enabled her to do the job. A job that she really wanted to do well.
Tresa sauntered out to the side of the nearing responders. She remained casual, not wanting to encroach on turf or stick out as taking any liberties. The ground was soaked, which told her the fire response teams were less concerned about evidence than dousing what appeared to be an enflamed vehicle. She knew the make and model was the same as the task force’s. They’d been here all right. But the burning question that was at the forefront of her mind and a fist-sized lump in her chest was whether one of the bodies was Warren Drake Woolf.