by Jeff Gunhus
Still, she positioned herself with her back to the wall, so she had a view of the entire room. And she felt the reassuring bulge of her Glock resting in her shoulder holster. She wasn’t looking for trouble, but trouble often found her. She didn’t have to wait long for it to show up.
Rick delivered the beers and sat down. Surprisingly, they were in frosted mugs and cold enough that a thin layer of ice formed in the beer. Turned out ol’ Buck had a nice touch.
“To getting away,” Rick said, lifting his beer.
“To getting away,” she agreed, joining her mug to his and taking a deep drink. She wondered if a beer had ever felt so good going down.
“How long do you think it will last?” Rick said.
Mara choked a little mid-drink and wiped her mouth. Rick’s no-bullshit frankness was something she liked about him, but the question caught her off guard.
“Well, you’re a great guy,” Mara started carefully. “And think we . . . what?”
Rick was laughing and holding his hand up. “I didn’t mean how long do you think we would last. Jesus, even I know better than to ask that question.”
She felt a surge of relief. He’d been asking how long she was going to stay out of the game, away from the CIA. That question she could handle. “Thank God,” she laughed.
“I did like seeing you squirm, though,” Rick said. “And now I’m curious how you planned on answering.”
“I was going to say it’ll last as long as you don’t turn into one of those guys always asking about how long it’s going to last.”
He raised his beer to her. “Then let’s go with the question as it was intended. How long until you go crazy being on the outside? Two weeks and no visible signs yet.”
From his position as part of the Presidential Protective Detail, Rick knew she along with her father and Jim Hawthorn had been regulars in the White House to brief the president. He knew she was CIA but part of some special directorate. Beyond that, it was all conjecture. But he was a smart man and, while they’d never discussed it directly, she was certain he’d pieced together that she wasn’t a peace emissary.
“I was going crazy on the inside,” she said. “All activity and no progress.”
“That’s the nature of the beast sometimes, isn’t it?” he asked. “Things take time.”
“What’s going on here? Are you getting tired of having me around?”
“No, it’s been great. It really has. You’re not like anyone I’ve been with before. Smart, sexy. You kick my ass at everything.”
“Except fly-fishing.”
“It’s a matter of time,” he said. “I’m guessing you’ll lose sleep practicing your cast until you nail it.”
She shrugged. “I give you two months until I’m outfish-ing you.”
“I bet it’s faster,” he chuckled. Then his demeanor turned more serious. “I don’t know exactly what you do for the president, and I’m not asking. But I’d bet my pension that you’re likely the best person in the world to do it.”
She looked away, the weightless feeling she’d carried with her most of the day leaving her. She knew what would replace it. Obligation. Guilt. A sense of duty that waited for her back in DC.
“I wasn’t fulfilling my promise to take care of Joey,” she said. Rick had met Joey. In fact, Rick had been the Secret Service agent assigned to Joey after he’d been retrieved from the Omega kidnapping. It was his kindness to him that first caught her attention.
“Ted and Marie have a great home for him,” Rick said. “You’ve seen it, he loves it there.”
It was true. They’d visited Lucy’s in-laws together many times to hang out with Joey. As much as Mara wanted to have him live with her, she wasn’t blind. What she could offer him was nothing compared to a retired couple with nothing to do but dote on their grandson all day. And he was happy there. What right did she have to take him away from that? She was certain her sister would have felt the same way.
“I’m comfortable with my decision,” she said, adding an edge to her voice she hoped he’d pick up on. “I’m not going back.”
They fell silent, a rare awkward pause for them. Finally, Rick put his mug on the table and said, “That’s my cue to hit the john. Another round?”
She nodded but didn’t say anything. He hesitated and she tensed, hoping he wasn’t going to make things worse. But he seemed to think better of it. She watched him walk across the bar and disappear through the bathroom door.
She took a deep breath, trying to shake off the last few minutes. The problem was that she knew he was right. Of course he was. But she couldn’t think of going back. Not now.
As she sat there, she noticed one of the bikers slide off his tall bar chair by the dartboard and start the walk over to her table. His buddies laughed and urged him on, casting long looks in her direction. The man was early thirties with long hair to his shoulders. He was decked out in full Harley Davidson regalia: leather jacket, leather pants, wallet chain, silver rings on his fingers, tattoos on his forearms and neck. He was wiry and high-strung. She didn’t like the look of him.
“Anyone sitting here?” the man said.
She smiled, deciding on a gentle approach instead of aggressive. “Yeah, I’m with my friend. He’s in the bathroom.”
“Your friend, huh?” the man said. Mara noticed the other bikers were drifting closer, listening to their buddy talk. “Figured that’s all he was.”
Mara felt a cool stillness come over her. “And why’s that?”
“Cuz he’s black, that’s why,” the man said.
“Oh shit,” Rick said, walking up to the table. “And here I just thought I had a kick-ass tan.”
Instead of being embarrassed at being caught mouthing off or looking intimidated by Rick’s size, the biker’s lips parted in a half grin, half sneer.
“I never seen a black cowboy before,” he said. “Have you fellas?”
The other bikers laughed, spreading out discreetly on either side of their table.
Mara pushed back her chair, but Rick held up a hand to stop her, a gesture that said I got this.
“You boys never saw Pale Rider? With Clint Eastwood? Morgan Freeman was a great cowboy in that one,” Rick said.
The biker looked momentarily confused by Rick’s reaction. “I meant, I’ve never seen one out here. Where you people ought to know better.”
“This is your unlucky day, you little piece of shit,” Mara said. “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”
The bikers laughed at this, genuinely enjoying themselves. Mara knew that wasn’t going to last long. She couldn’t believe the next words that came from Rick.
“How about I buy you fellas a drink instead?” Rick said. “On me.”
“How about you get the hell out of here?” the biker said. “And take your race-traitor whore with you.”
Mara stood, her movement faster than the men expected, making them take a step back.
Rick’s eyes were locked on the man in front of him, clearly fighting an internal battle to control his emotions. The cords of muscle in his neck rippled as they tensed up. He reached out to Mara. “Let’s go.”
She imagined he might think she found it weak for wanting to leave, but she understood. As a Secret Service agent, he couldn’t be getting into bar fights with a bunch of locals, even if they were white supremacist assholes. She got it. She even respected the hell out of the emotional control on display.
She was just happy she didn’t live by the same set of rules that he did.
“All right,” she said. “If you think it’s for the best.”
“I do,” he said. “Seriously.”
“Yeah, get out of here, bitch,” the biker said.
Mara had walked around the table, but now made a show of stopping in her tracks. She turned to the man. “Do you want to apologize now or after?”
He looked confused. “After what?”
“After I put each of you on the ground.”
“Mara,” Ric
k said, but it seemed halfhearted to her. At least that’s what she told herself.
The biker walked up to her, his face a mask of hate now. “I’d put you on the ground myself and show you a real good time, but I don’t go after no ni––”
Mara punched the man in the throat before the word was out. His eyes bulged with surprise as his hands went up to his neck. Mara followed up with a swift kick to the man’s balls. A gargling sound came from his mouth, a cry of pain trying to pass through a damaged windpipe. He bent in half and dropped to the floor.
The biker’s friends didn’t rush to help him, but they didn’t run away, either. Two of them pulled knives from sheaths attached to their belts. One pulled a bully stick. The fourth slid on brass knuckles, a set on each hand.
“Put the weapons down, now,” Rick shouted. He pulled a badge from his coat pocket. “United States Secret Service.”
“Secret Service?” one of the bikers said. “You protect that bastard Patterson. If he ever came up here, I’d shoot that son of a bitch right between the eyes.”
Mara smiled. “You all feel the same way? You’d all like to kill the president?”
“Hell yes,” came the answer.
“Agent Hallsey,” Mara said. “The floor is yours.”
Rick already had his jacket off. “Sorry, gentlemen. You can say what you want about me, because I don’t give a damn what you lowlifes say. But threatening the President of the United States? That’s something else altogether.”
As if sensing what was on the way, one of the bikers with a knife lunged at Rick. He deftly sidestepped, trapping the man’s arm against his side. With a twist, the man’s arm snapped, broken at the elbow. The man screamed and dropped to the floor as his two buddies charged.
Mara resisted the temptation to join in the melee. She wanted Rick to have the satisfaction on his own. Besides, she got a rush out of seeing him in action.
The two attackers were smarter than the first. They took their time, getting on either side of Rick before charging, one with a knife and the other wielding a bully stick. Despite his size, Rick was fast. He waited until the last moment and then dodged the attack, throwing one man into the other.
The man with the bully stick screamed in pain as his friend’s knife lodged in his shoulder. But the friend didn’t have a chance to retrieve his knife or apologize for what he’d done. Rick’s left hook connected with the man’s chin and down he went.
The last biker had backed up a few steps and Mara thought he might turn and run.
Instead the man dug into his jacket and pulled out a gun.
In a second, Mara had her Glock out. She didn’t give a warning. It wasn’t in her nature.
The first shot hit the gun and sent it flying through the air. Once it thumped on the floor, she shot it again, sending it tumbling. She shot it again and again, making it dance. Finally, it skittered out of sight.
The biker stood there, holding his hand in shock.
“I ain’t got nothing against the president,” the biker said, his voice shaking. “Hell, I even voted for him. I swear I did.” The man turned and ran from the saloon.
Rick surveyed the men in front of them. “Nice shooting, Tex,” he said to Mara.
“I saw that in an old Western once,” she said. “I think there were some black cowboys in it.”
Rick laughed as he pulled out his cell phone. Mara pointed over to the bartender, who was on the phone. “I think he beat you to the punch.”
Rick still raised the phone to his ear. “I’m going to make sure the locals don’t come in guns blazing. I know all the law enforcement around here. Won’t be a problem.”
A deep rhythmic vibration rose up from outside. It built quickly, the saloon windows shook, and the corrugated metal walls shuddered like the whole place might fall in on itself.
Mara knew exactly what the sound was and likely what it meant.
She and Rick walked outside just as a wall of dust and gravel reached them. Rick ran to the horses and tried to steady them as the helicopter landed in the field next to the saloon.
The door opened and, as Mara had expected the second she’d heard the rotors, her father climbed out. He walked over to her, nodding in acknowledgment to Rick.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” he shouted. The helo pilot still had the engines going, indicating he didn’t expect to stay long.
“Yeah, on purpose.”
“We need you back,” he said. “Something’s happened.”
“Something’s always happening.”
“Not like this,” Scott said. “It’s a threat to you. It’s a threat to Joey.”
Mara felt the rage flare inside her. “Omega?” she asked.
“No,” Scott said. “It worse than that. I’ll tell you on the ride.”
Mara looked to Rick, holding the horses. By the expression on his face, he already knew what she was only slowly coming to accept.
Her leave of absence was over.
CHAPTER 5
Hawthorn was impatient. He’d always thought that age would provide him wisdom and forbearance; instead he constantly fought a nagging sensation that he was running out of time. At the age of seventy-four, it wasn’t an inaccurate statement. He’d had a grandfather who’d lived to a hundred and four, but dementia had robbed him of the last decade so that didn’t really count. Other men in his family had died early, but most of them in the service of their country.
Verdun.
Omaha Beach.
Chosin Reservoir.
Brave fighters who carried rifles and faced their enemies head-on.
He’d fought the wars of his country in a different way. The results were a mixed bag. The service medals and accolades applauded his victories, the ones the general public would never hear about. But all he seemed to be able to remember were the failures.
And the weight of them felt heavier on the scales as he neared the end of his life.
Hawthorn knew there was nothing he could do to absolve himself of the many errors of his past. The only way to bring the scales into balance, even tip them so that the good outweighed the bad, was to continue to fight the good fight. To find ways to protect his country.
That was what Alpha Team was all about. Finding the shadowy extra-national group called Omega and running them into the ground.
Only it hadn’t gone that way. Their prey’s camouflage had proven to be sophisticated and impossible to penetrate. Omega was like a windstorm and they were always finding its debris long after it had passed. The effects of the organization were discernable and real, now that they were looking for it. But using what they found to make any advancement against them had proven to be a problem.
And now, in the middle of it all, he had to deal with the apparent return of Jacobslav Scarvan.
He’d watched the man die twenty years ago. At least as close to dying without actually seeing the body and feeling for a pulse.
Hawthorn tipped back his glass of Macallan 25, relishing the smooth lingering taste of the single-malt Scotch. It was a rare indulgence, but he felt he needed it tonight.
If Scarvan was back, then their hunt for Omega would have to wait.
He reopened the letter he’d received hours earlier and went through the dossier for the tenth time. The proof was there, spread out in detail, but it still made no sense.
Twenty years.
Scarvan would be over seventy now. An old man like him.
Then why did every intelligence officer he’d reached out to have the same reaction he did?
Fear.
A knock on his office door. “Come in.”
Jordi cracked the door open. “The family Roberts ’ave landed at Andrews. They’re on their way up now.”
Hawthorn waved the man in. He’d taken a liking to the odd computer genius after a bumpy beginning. He’d had to learn to accept the man’s bizarre fashion sense that sometimes included wearing a bathrobe over his clothes when working on a challenging project. And his trash-heap o
f a workstation that included superhero action figures set up in fake battles, empty bags of Cheetos, and at least a dozen cans of Coke. Then there was the fake Cockney accent.
But he’d fast come to agree with Mara that Jordi was the best in the business at what he did. Then, once the two of them discovered their mutual love of Downton Abbey, they’d gotten along perfectly.
“Anything new to add to the dossier?” he asked.
“Not yet. Tracking down a few things, but it was very complete.”
Hawthorn nodded toward a row of glasses against the wall and Jordi picked one up and brought it to Hawthorn’s desk.
“Neat, I believe,” Hawthorn said, pouring two fingers into the glass. Neat meant with no ice or mixers, the only civilized way to drink.
“You believe correctly,” Jordi said. “What are we drinking to?”
“Killing old friends,” Hawthorn said. “For a second time.”
Jordi looked confused but didn’t ask for clarification. He raised his glass and took a drink. Hawthorn eyed the clock. He needed to leave in fifteen minutes for the White House. It wasn’t polite to keep the most powerful man in the world waiting. Especially when you were delivering bad news.
CHAPTER 6
“Here, try this.” Hawthorn pushed a glass of Macallan across the table, nudging aside the shot glasses they’d been using for vodka since just before midnight.
Jacobslav Scarvan picked up the glass and held it to the light. “Hard to trust alcohol you can’t see through.” He tipped the drink back and chugged it down. His eyes lit up and he nodded appreciatively.
“See, Jacob,” Hawthorn said, “sometimes trust pays off.”
Scarvan laughed and reached for the bottle of Scotch and poured them both another.
“If such a thing only translated to countries,” Scarvan said. “Me and you, we learned to trust through action. Through blood. Through survival.”
“You saved my life,” Hawthorn said, raising a glass to toast.
Scarvan raised his. “And you saved mine.”
They drank silently. The moment was surreal. Scarvan was a legend in the KGB, a man whispered about and feared whenever it was suspected he’d been assigned to a mission. His ruthlessness was part of his legend. While he didn’t doubt the tales were based in truth, what he’d seen of the man in their mission together in Afghanistan framed him differently. He was no madman. Hawthorn now saw him as no different from himself. A warrior willing to do what it took to get the job done.