by Dc Alden
“Of course.”
Beeton leaned forward in his chair. “You know the sonofabitch best, Keyes. We don’t care what you have to do, just find him. Right now Marshall’s a goddam tumour that needs cutting out. Quickly.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Josh assured them.
“Do that. And after he’s been wrung dry, you can drop the bastard back into that goddam lake. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. The clock’s ticking. Any more fuck ups and it’s on you.”
Lund picked up a telephone, signalling the end of the meeting.
Josh got to his feet and headed straight for the car park. He had to swallow his anger, focus.
Outside the sun had set, the eastern slopes shrouded in a cold grey blanket. Josh steered the Grand Cherokee down the twisting dirt road, headlamps slicing through the mist. Did they really think Frank would be picked up that easily, confess his crimes and cheerfully place a noose around his own neck? The Committee wasn’t stupid, no sir, but they had to know that an experienced field operative like Frank would be an extremely hard target to hit. And where to begin? Like all operators, Frank’s real identity had long been erased: birth certificate, medical records, even his social security number. Frank Marshall did not exist, period.
In fact, there was never any Frank Marshall in the first place.
Nor a Josh Keyes.
What was real - and very dangerous - were the lies he’d told to Lund and Beeton.
He’d not only respected Frank Marshall, he’d felt a deep sense of loyalty to the man. Frank had taken him under his wing from the very beginning, fast-tracking his career, promoting him to trusted lieutenant, anointing Josh with authority, responsibility, praising him to others in the organisation. He owed Frank everything.
Later, when the anxiety attacks began, the secret boozing and erratic behaviour, Josh had covered his boss’ ass as much as he could. He’d pleaded with Frank to get help, got him prescription drugs, cleaned up his puke, dry-cleaned his suits, stood in for him at meetings. Yet even in his darkest moments, Frank had never confided in him, not once. Josh figured it was some kind of delayed post-traumatic stress. Whatever it was, it had turned his former mentor from a stone-cold killer into a pussy-ass cry-baby. If Josh delivered him to Lund and Beeton in one piece, Frank would probably spill his guts about his breakdown. They would discover the extent of the lies and cover-ups that Josh had committed to save Frank’s drunken ass. If that happened, Josh was finished. The Committee demanded loyalty from its people. Anything else was simply unacceptable. And unforgivable.
And there was something else too, something that Frank was keeping from everyone, something that made them all nervous.
He recalled the surveillance footage, the field-craft that had fooled the cameras, that familiar posture, the loping stride, the resolve in those watchful eyes. Whatever mental hellhole Frank had descended into, he’d managed to claw his way out, and now Frank was back.
More than that, Frank was on a mission.
Before Josh killed him, he would find out what it was.
The Hunt Begins
Will Frank evade the hunter teams before they can kill him? And what will Roy do when he learns that Sammy is the least of his problems?
The action and suspense doesn’t end here…
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Also by DC Alden
Invasion: Downfall
Invasion: The Lost Chapters
Invasion: Uprising
Invasion: Chronicles
The Horse at the Gates
The Angola Deception
Fortress
End Zone
The Deep State Trilogy
UFO Down
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