Deadly Force

by Chase Austin

  Right after the hearing, Wick was told Helms wanted to see him.

  Helms squinted through the windscreen of the Suburban as the SUV turned into the empty fast lane, accelerating past a Kia. The skyline was clear and cloudless, but his mind was swirling with questions. He put on his shades to avoid the glare. Sitting in the passenger seat, he opened his laptop to check the news. It was filled with Iran’s accusations against America. The US had taken the counteroffensive by showing incriminating evidence against Iran in the chemical attack which Iran called a conspiracy. A battle was ongoing between the US and Iran through media headlines.

  The White House was doing its best, of course. A statement had already been made denying any connection with the cleric or the blast. The President had also strongly condemned the massacre and given his assurance that everything would be done to help Iran in its investigation, but in return he wanted Iran to hand over the culprits who planned the attack on the USA. Iran had vehemently denied any such terror group operating from its soil, but America remained insistent, and it decided to remain so till the news of the cleric would die down.

  Helms asked the driver to turn on the radio. After the weather forecast of searing heat, the lead item in the news was the murder of the cleric. The motive for the killing had not been found. It was “senseless and shameless,” an Iranian policeman concluded.

  Helms knew this wasn’t true. It wasn’t senseless, and it wasn’t a mistake. The operation had been in the works for a long time, one hundred and seventeen days to be exact—identifying security details, cultivating targets, understanding their routine, gaining the trust of their aides in Iran, followed by weeks setting up the set pieces.

  The objective had almost been successfully achieved, but then it wasn’t. The director had seen botched operations, but this was an operation that had been botched deliberately.

  This raised doubts over the performance of the man who had carried out the operation. The fact that it was Sam Wick was troubling. It had been the director’s operation—a direct chain of command from the top. He knew the targets; he was involved in the planning. He had stopped doing that for almost all the other missions, but he had done it for this one. A decision had been made, within the walls of the Oval Office, that Majeed knew too much and he needed to be brought in. That decision was stamped with the presidential seal and passed on to NSA to be closed. It was critical, and that’s why Sam had been selected to close the file.

  As the Suburban entered the headquarters, the director reviewed his preparation. He thought hard about whether there had been any flaw in the original plan. No, the plan was faultless. The problems were all of Wick’s making. The dead man would give Iran’s secret service agencies a strong personal motive to locate the killer; religion and terrorism were strong motives to accomplish things in any country, and here the slain man combined both. It would make them more tenacious and less likely to shelve the investigation when the trail went cold, as Helms knew it would.

  The SUV slowed and turned into the parking lot at the National Security Agency headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland.

  TF-77 wasn’t run from this building, but Helms’ office was located there, and that’s why the inquiry was taking place there.

  Mirrored and forbidding, the NSA campus stood like a fortress surrounded by a moat of parking. The general public knew almost nothing about what happened inside. It was like a reminder that the environment of state security has taken dark turns over the last three decades. The architecture of the building was as compelling as it was unsettling—much like the J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI headquarters. Hundreds of cars were parked around the building, standing in for the thousands of intelligence workers inside—the serfs of the deep state, as it were. Fort Meade looked like it might be the end of the earth, an exurb you never hope to have reason to visit. Like the FBI Building, the NSA headquarters was a metaphor for the agency it hosted. Helms took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors hissed opened, and he stepped out into the bustling open space beyond, full of analysts staring at large monitors and tapping keyboards, printers chattering and telephones ringing incessantly. He walked through the chaotic space to a corridor with gray tiles, white walls and red oak doors. The clamor behind him slowly faded to a gentle hum of activity. He pushed one of the doors open. Vanessa Lisbon, his private secretary, looked up from her computer. “Good morning, Director,” she said.

  “Morning, Captain,” he said. “And what does this morning look like?”

  “You’re speaking to the Secretary of State at midday for an update on the Iran situation, and Sam Wick is waiting for you in your cabin, sir.”

  William Helms said nothing and kept walking. His office was a large room dominated by his desk at the center with minimal accessories to adorn it. A set of sofas clubbed around the table. There were no filing cabinets or anything that looked official. Sam stood at the wide window at the other end of the room looking outside. Helms paused for a moment and regarded him. Dressed in plain white shirt and black trousers he looked lean.

  “Good morning, Sam,” Helms said.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Take a seat.”

  He watched as Wick sat down. His eyes were impenetrable. He looked a little weary, maybe from the nonstop grilling and lack of sleep, but overall, he was still sharp. As always, Wick was dressed sharply, perfectly groomed. Over time, Helms had decided that these things do matter, but only in diplomatic situations, which this was not.

  “Anything you would like to say about the mission?”

  “Everything is in my final report.” Wick was talking about the final report he had submitted a week ago, corroborating his theory and the evidence.

  “Nothing to add?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The only good news amid all this is that the girl… what was her name?

  “Hiba.”

  “She is now with her family.”

  “I know.”

  “It took time, but they found her family.”

  “Yes.” This time director felt that there was a slight hint of a smile on Wick’s lips, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Have you had any contact with Olivia, Logan or Elijah after the mission?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea what they could have said during their testimonies?”

  “No.” Wick’s responses gave Helms no room to maneuver further.

  “The inquiry will take another week to conclude.”

  “You did good with Maksud. Once the team analyzes the evidences in your report, we can use it to strengthen our case against Iran.”

  Wick said nothing but the director could tell that he didn’t care much about it. He had done his job and now cared nothing about it.

  “I’m sorry but the inquiry will still go on for not following orders.”

  “I understand.”

  “Your future in the agency depends on it.”

  “I understand,” Wick said, looking blankly at Helms.

  CHAPTER 25

  Ten days later

  Wick sat at the window of his apartment, overlooking the street. He had been asked to stay home while the inquiry was in progress. He had not raised a question on why he was being grounded. He knew the protocols. They had called him for a hearing, and after that he had to stay put.

  He had no friends, no family, no one to call and talk to about his feelings. Even if there had been someone, he doubted he would have reached out. What could he tell them? His was not a regular job, and he wasn’t a regular guy. It was better this way. Fight for yourself and live for yourself—it was easier to focus. And focus meant a better survival ratio.

  He knew that his house was bugged and everything he said would be heard by some analyst sitting in the black tomb, better known as the TF-77 headquarters. Every one of the agency’s assets’ houses and cars was bugged, and he knew that the agency continued this practice even after you left it. Only the agency didn’t know that Wick knew.

  Wick had said not
hing for days. He didn’t have a television. He didn’t use the Internet and so had not opened his laptop since he came home. He didn’t care about the news or anything else. He checked his cell occasionally but did not send anyone any messages or speak to anyone. It was as if he had gone mute. So much so, that the TF-77 team had had to send agents dressed like delivery boys or lost paper boys to ring his doorbell to see if he actually was in the apartment or not. It took him no time to see through their act, but he said nothing, just played along, politely helping them with their fake questions as best as he could.

  Ignorance was bliss as far as the agency was concerned. The agency had to feel safe. And Wick made sure of that by making them believe that the collective heads in the agency were smarter than him. He didn’t know what would happen if they knew he was usually miles ahead of them in the game, even when not on active duty. The reason was that he didn’t want them to try new tactics which he would then have to waste time deciphering. That was trivial shit he cared nothing about. He just cared about sitting still as a sculpture for as long as he could. It was his way to test his limits. And knowing his limits made him win battles and rise to the occasion when he needed to.

  He had had a meeting with Helms after his hearing and it had been uneventful, at least from his side. He was not perturbed by the radio silence that followed.

  He knew that if he was to be terminated from the agency, there would be a target painted on his back, with all the agency’s assets aiming to eliminate him ASAP. If he was reinstated, then his next mission would be one that he would have to fight hard to come out of alive. Either way, he would have to wrestle to survive, and he was ready for both.

  It was all part and parcel of this job.

  He was lost in his thoughts when his cell phone vibrated.

  This was the first sound he had heard coming from his cell in several days. He gently picked up the phone. 1 new email.

  He plugged in his access code and opened the application.

  There was a one-liner email waiting for him. Acknowledge mission specifics.

  There was a file attached. He opened the file and gave it a cursory read. Once satisfied that he had everything he needed to know, he typed two words—On it—and pressed the send button.

  Two minutes later he received another email. In thirty minutes, his transport would be waiting for him in the back alley of his apartment building.

  He didn't care what was in the final inquiry report, or how he had gotten out of it unscathed. All he cared about was that his next mission had just begun.

  Read Sam Wick’s New Adventure in Task Force-77’s third thriller

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  SINGULAR FORCE (TASK FORCE-77 THRILLER #3)

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  ABOUT WICKED DECEIT

  What do you do when your own President wants you dead?

  You call Sam Wick.

  Task Force-77 (TF-77) is a black ops team of NSA and the US Military. This is the team the U.S. government calls when it needs to get people out of the most dangerous places on earth.

  Sam Wick. Task Force 77's best. Master Extractor. Perfect Assassin. Where the government cannot and will not go, he will.

  His mission: Extract Carlos Cruz-Diez—a New York Times reporter—from the clutches of death.

  Location: Venezuela Consulate in Vienna, Austria.

  The Obstacle: Venezuela’s National Intelligence Service has sent sixteen of their best to execute this mission.

  Timeline: Twenty-four hours. Time is running out. Bullets are flying. Bodies are piling up. Nothing is as it seems.

  Will Sam Wick succeed?

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  CHAPTER 1

  President Chambers, Caracas Venezuela

  What could you possibly offer the man who controlled not only your destiny but that of your whole country? The man who ruled with an iron fist. The man who had the Russian President on his speed-dial. The man who had once given the finger to the US President at a diplomatic convention. What could you possibly give the President of your country on his birthday?

  But Henrique Arias Cárdenas, the director of the Venezuela Intelligence Service, had more on his mind than a birthday present while he waited in the visitor’s lounge of the Palacio de Miraflores—the President of Venezuela’s office. He glanced at the 19th-century wall clock above the majestic office door behind which the President was about to meet him. It was thirteen past two in the morning and the city was quiet after a long day of travails, but Henrique wasn’t even thinking of sleep. There wasn’t any time. He sat at the edge of the couch with his back straight, his hands sweating even in the temperature-controlled room.

  Since his phone rang an hour ago, he was racking his brain to construe a reason for the urgency of this meeting but got nothing. Not a pleasant situation to be in, especially for the Director of Venezuela’s premier intelligence agency.

  He already had a meeting scheduled with the President at eight in the morning, just before the whole country would start celebrating their leader’s birthday. Festivities had been planned for the next seven days, and over the past few weeks, he and his men had been busy foiling the attempts by radical extremists to devise disruptions in the celebrations. His office had been diligent in sending daily briefs to the President’s office. What then had warranted this late-night summons? What was it that could not wait for six more hours?

  One of the officers standing alert near the grand door lifted his right hand to his earpiece and then glanced at Henrique. It was time.

  As Henrique fell in step with his escort, he coughed twice, attempting to relax the lump in his throat. It didn’t work. He took his hands out of his trouser pockets to reduce the sweating; that didn’t work eith
er. Then the big gates opened before him and it was too late to do anything. He took a deep breath and hoped for the best.

  The President was standing at the royal desk, his fingers resting on a folded publication. Henrique walked in and stopped at a respectful distance, carefully observing the President’s face to gauge his mood. The man was not just upset; he was seething with anger.