by Jason Kasper
“And the cargo transfer,” Ian agreed. “But I’m not satisfied that any of those represent what we’re after. I believe that someone handpicked Bari Khan for transport to Syria to take control of the rockets and lead an attack—and while we can’t yet begin to answer who that ‘someone’ might be, we can infer from the seemingly impossible connection between an attack in Charlottesville and the link to David’s family that none of this is a coincidence. All of it adds up to this thing being much bigger than we thought.”
He went silent as the door swung open. David entered the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
“I just got off the phone with Duchess,” he said. “She told me the Agency has identified the primary target but wouldn’t tell me what it was. Claims that my family’s names were off the employee roster of the University Hospital, which is a secondary target to kill survivors from the first. I don’t buy it.”
After a moment’s pause, Worthy asked, “Did she say we’re fired?”
“I’m not sure. Doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re running our own op now. Whatever’s going to happen in Charlottesville, you four fuckers are the only ones I trust to stop it. I say we get back, refit our equipment, and have Ian get to the bottom of this before anyone goes home. You guys in or out?”
Cancer replied without a beat of silence.
“In Ancient Greece, the politicians couldn’t agree on anything including the color of shit. Their nation survived because when all their leaders were arguing in a tent, one guy put their warriors in a position where they had no chance of retreat. So they had to fight to the death, or face annihilation. That was Leonidas at the Battle of Thermopylae, it was Themistocles at the Battle of Salamis.”
Reilly recoiled. “What are you, a military history major?”
Cancer gave a halfhearted shrug. “If I’m not at war, I’m reading about war—and I don’t mean your bullshit novels. But my point stands: the Administration and the Agency are too concerned about political consequences. They can’t make the hard decisions, but we can. We’re the guys who have to do the killing. If we don’t stop Bari Khan, he’s going to set the world on fire.” He looked to David. “So I’m in. We go rogue together or not at all.”
Worthy nodded. “Well if you two are going down in flames, it’s sure as hell not going to be alone. I’m in.”
Reilly stood from his chair, snatching an empty soda can from the table and crushing it against his forehead. “I’ve gone along with too many of your dumb ideas to quit now.” He spun and whipped the can at Ian, who gave a displeased grunt as the can’s remains hit his chest.
“Lord knows you four are too dumb to figure it out—especially you, Reilly—so I suppose I’m in. And if it were my family’s names we found on that objective, I know you’d do the same for me.”
“Well,” Cancer said, “maybe to save your dad, sure.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and Reilly took his seat with the proclamation, “No one’s fucking with ‘Mad Dog’ on our watch.”
Worthy asked, “David, why don’t you buy the hospital connection for your wife? You think Duchess is lying, or just mistaken?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he replied, “I don’t trust Duchess any further than I could throw her underwater. But even if she’s trying to help, she’s only looking at the current facts. My gut tells me that’s not where the answer lies. I can’t chalk any of this up to coincidence. Bari Khan could choose any major city in the world, he should be hitting China and not the US, and if he’s going to the trouble of shipping rockets across the Atlantic, there’s no shortage of targets on the Eastern Seaboard. Charlottesville is too obscure, too far inland to make sense. I’m thinking this has something to do with our previous career.”
Cancer folded his arms. “It’s possible. Keep in mind, Duchess found you in the first place because you were ratted out by an enemy survivor.”
“That’s true, but that guy has since died at a CIA black site. And to the best of our knowledge, he was the last survivor because we killed the rest. But to date I’ve pissed people off—”
“You mean killed people.”
“Semantics,” David said. “Let’s say I’ve accrued enemies for good reason in, let’s see, Somalia, a couple South American countries, Myanmar, and Russia. I know you’ve been to a lot more than that.”
Cancer grinned. “I’ve been to a few. But Syria was notably absent from the list until recently, and I’ve never been to BK’s backyard in China either. So I don’t see the connection there. Maybe a better question is, who would want to kill us?”
“Jesus, man, throw a dart. How many criminal syndicates have we operated against? How many terrorist organizations?”
“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place,” Reilly chimed in. “What if it’s someone from the Outfit?”
David looked as if he hadn’t considered that. There were certainly surviving members of their former mercenary unit, some who knew David’s identity.
But in the end, he shook his head.
“I just can’t see it. Those men were allies to the last, they were paid well for their services, and we went to what most would say were great lengths to assure their survival when no one else would. You have someone specific in mind?”
“No,” Reilly said, “I don’t.”
Then Ian offered, “I don’t trust Duchess any more than you do. Worst-case scenario, she could be holding our families as bargaining chips, in case things go sideways and one of us wants to wear a white hat to the press. The threat of putting our families at risk would shut us up pretty quick.”
David ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but that doesn’t explain how BK could have that info already. None of us have exactly given Duchess any indication of turning informant for the media, have we?”
Cancer shook his head, then added, “No, but I think that theory explains it just fine. China’s already hacked the top-secret clearance rosters. Maybe Duchess hasn’t fucked us down yet, but her information got breached.”
David nodded. “I’ve been thinking about the same thing. Deliberate or accidental, who knows, but Duchess got pretty upset when I brought up the possibility.”
It was Reilly who asked the next question, one that immediately piqued Ian’s interest.
“David, has Laila ever been to China?”
He thought for a moment.
“She did a mission trip when she was fourteen. I don’t think that qualifies as making her a party to a terrorist conspiracy.”
“Or does it? Just playing devil’s advocate here, but she could have met Bari Khan then and been a plant this whole time. How else would he know her name?”
Worthy said, “Because Duchess is right about the hospital roster. Maybe it’s that simple, boys. There’s a target in Charlottesville, the hospital is a secondary, and the Agency is going to have it shut down by the time we get back.”
“If that’s the case,” David replied, “we lose nothing by discussing other options.”
“There’s another possibility,” Ian said quietly, but with such conviction in his voice that everyone else shut up to listen. “It’s called the lone man theory.”
“Which is?”
“We all know Charlottesville is too unimportant for a terrorist organization to care about. But sometimes all it takes is one person to make a whole lot of people suffer. My dad told me about one of his deployments to the Congo—there was a village that was the sight of some of the worst fighting he’d ever seen. They had no idea why—there was no strategic value in it, no high-value targets or key terrain. It wasn’t even on his team’s radar until the battle broke out—but when it did, there was a bloodbath. Two previously allied tribal factions converged there and began slaughtering each other and everyone else for six straight days.”
“Well, what was the reason?”
“A woman, of course. Some tribal lieutenant defected and took the warlord�
�s wife with him. He made it to the village before someone ratted him out, and both sides turned it into a battleground. The town was only important to one man, but that man wielded enough power to turn it into a firestorm. And when it was all over, four dozen people were dead, many of them innocent.”
David nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re saying Bari Khan has some personal interest in Charlottesville.”
Ian shrugged. “Maybe it’s him, maybe someone above him is pulling the strings. Possibly the guy who hired him for this job.” Then he held up an index finger. “But it only takes one man.”
His words trailed off to the sound of a cargo plane on approach, a rumble that shook the building as the plane touched down on the dirt airstrip outside and began slowing to a halt.
There was a double knock on the door before it swung open, revealing a bearded operator in sweat-laced fatigues.
“Sorry to interrupt, fellas,” he said in a Texas drawl, “but your bird is here. Time for you boys to go home.”
32
Cancer stepped out of the small toilet nook on the plane, zipping up his fly as he swept his eyes across the cabin.
His team was once again aboard an Air Force C-17, though this flight differed considerably from their high-altitude infiltration into Syria.
Gone were the oxygen masks and tactical kit; the cabin was fully pressurized and filled with huge metal containers held to the floor by ratchet straps. This was no first-class plane arrangement—they were aboard a routine flight, practical stowaways added to the passenger roster at Duchess’s command.
The team was in civilian clothes, and spread across the cabin in varying degrees of comfort. Worthy had unrolled a sleeping pad atop one of the cargo containers and was currently asleep, while Reilly sat in a drop seat, resuming his progress in the same stupid paperback he’d been reading before infil.
Ian took the cake, having strung a hammock between two containers and resting in it as peacefully as if he were on the beach, though whether awake or sleeping, Cancer couldn’t tell.
Cancer felt a dim sense of pride as he looked across the men. He liked to run a tight ship with the team, and wasn’t the type to become overtly emotional. And in part he did this job for the sheer thrill of combat, sure. But beneath it all, Cancer loved warriors. Even the ones trying to kill him were cut from the same cloth he was; and when that commonality extended to the men fighting alongside him, it bred a degree of loyalty so absolute that not even Cancer could shake it.
But at present his concerns fell to the last remaining member of his team: David, currently brooding in a seat at the back of the plane. Cancer grimaced at the sight—his young team leader was deep in some furious thought, looking as if he were about to burst into flames at any moment.
Cancer sauntered over to him and dropped into a seat, speaking without introduction.
“You figure out the target yet?”
David looked over as if he’d just noticed Cancer was there, then returned his gaze to the aircraft’s shuddering floor.
“No. No idea. But once we get back, Ian’s not going to sleep until he figures it out.”
Cancer glanced over at the hammock, its occupant a motionless shape.
“Looks like he’ll be pretty well rested by then.” A sudden gust of turbulence rocked the plane, and Cancer steadied himself as he continued, “You do realize what you’re asking the boys to do, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Going off the legal grid, subjecting ourselves to prosecution and incarceration at an Agency black site for the rest of our natural lives.”
“I asked if they were in. Everyone volunteered.”
“’Course they did, same as you would have for any of them. Doesn’t change the stakes. The second we take Agency weapons out of our facility, there’s going to be hell to pay if Duchess finds out. She’ll crucify us, literally. Even if we just gain some intelligence and pass it along to her.”
“Well, that’s life in the fucking fast lane,” David said. “Put yourself in my position, pretend it’s your wife and kid on the line. Well,” he corrected himself, “imagine you had a wife and kid, and then pretend they’re on the line. There’s something bigger at play here. We don’t know what, and I’m not going to leave it to the Agency to figure it out. So we do,” he repeated, emphasizing his next three words, “whatever it takes.”
Cancer cracked the knuckles on his left hand, then the right, considering that there may be a mentorship opportunity in the middle of this train wreck that was the aftermath of their second operation in Syria.
“Slow down there, young Padawan. What happened to the guy who was so fuckin’ touchy about letting Elias interrogate that logistician, so grievously concerned about our operational authorities in Syria?”
“That was before my family was involved.”
“Oh.” Cancer turned his palms skyward. “So now you’re willing to do whatever it takes. Now that it’s your family, and not someone else’s.”
David’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”
“No more born-again-Christian sentimentality?”
“Not this time.”
Raising his voice over the wind that once again pitched the plane, Cancer said, “It’s all or nothing, David. You want to survive in this business, you can’t pick and choose your stance—”
David spun sideways and grabbed Cancer’s shirtfront, pulling his face close.
“I don’t need a lecture from you. My family’s in danger, and we’re goddamn well going to deal with it however we need to.”
Cancer’s eyes never wavered, and he felt his lips spreading into a wide grin.
“You may not like what I have to say. You may not agree. But you do have to listen. And don’t get me wrong, I like the new you.”
David let go of his shirt, glancing around the cabin to see if anyone from his team had just witnessed his loss of control. Cancer didn’t care either way; they weren’t colleagues on some corporate retreat. They were shooters, plain and simple, immersed in a business that was messy at best and fatal at worst.
Cancer continued, “Now you’re seeing the situation for what it is. I told you before that the biggest difference between us and the terrorists is our methods. So take this pain you feel and use it as a lesson: what we do has consequences, and the cost of us failing to kill a target could be hundreds or thousands of civilian lives. They may not be your family, but they’re someone’s family. Remember that.”
“We can discuss your philosophical leanings when my family is safe.”
“We’re discussing it now, because your family already is safe—you just don’t realize why.”
David looked at him sharply, his nostrils flaring. “Yeah? I must have missed the press release. Why are they safe?”
Cancer smiled again, a leering wolf’s grin.
“Because you’ve got me.”
33
Michaela Greene told her family to wait, and then sped up her pace on the bridge walkway. Stopping when she was abreast of the second flagpole in the road median beside her, she turned around and tapped her phone screen to film a video.
Then she called out above the noise—wind, traffic, rushing water, and a distant helicopter circling in the early morning sunlight.
“Okay, Greene family, go ahead.”
Her husband lifted his hands from the shoulders of their son and daughter as he said, “Race you!”
Her son Dayton took the bait at once, darting forward and taking a single bounding leap that ended with both feet striking the sidewalk as he announced, “I win!” The ten-year-old was beaming as he threw up two peace signs for the benefit of Michaela’s phone camera. She readjusted the angle to see that her daughter shared no such enthusiasm.
Raising her voice over the wind, Michaela announced, “Come on, Nora. You’ve got a whole year before you’re allowed to act like a brooding teenager.”
Nora uncrossed her arms, strolling forward for a few unapologetic paces before asking,
“Happy?”
“Very,” Michaela said. “All right, Dustin. Your turn.”
Her husband raised his arms to the side, closing the distance to his wife with long strides before bringing his hands to Michaela’s cheeks and giving her a loud kiss on the lips.
“You guys are so gross,” Nora said.
He ignored her comment, announcing instead, “All right, Greene family, welcome to Canada! Let’s take in the view.”
Michaela slid an arm around his side, turning to see the majestic blue expanse of the Niagara River ending in the crashing white mists of the falls. The sheer power was incredible—even at this distance, the rumble of thousands of gallons striking the river with each passing second caused the bridge to vibrate with a steady hum, underscoring the sounds of vehicle traffic behind them. A few riverboats made their rounds toward the falls, and a sightseeing helicopter cruised above them, carving lazy circles in the sky.
“We better keep going,” Dustin said to her. “Boat tour leaves in an hour.”
“Not yet, I want a picture of us at the border.”
She turned to locate a passing tourist—there wasn’t much foot traffic this early in the morning, and while they’d succeeded in beating the crowds, the walkway leading back to New York was largely empty.
Looking the other direction, she found a man approaching from the Canadian side, his ballcap pulled low to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare.
She pulled out her phone and waved it.
“Excuse me, sir? Would you mind taking our picture?”
He looked up, exposing an Asian face that quickly took on an expression of confusion at the sight of Michaela’s proffered phone.
Then he spoke in what she assumed to be Mandarin, his hands gesticulating to his ear.
“Sorry,” she said.
Then he broke into a smile and continued speaking in heavily accented English.
“I am joking, miss. I would be delighted to take your picture.”
Michaela laughed as she handed him the phone, turning to stand with her family in a tight cluster at the rail. She preemptively nudged her daughter with an elbow. “Smile, Nora.”