by Jack Carr
“They know. All they need to do is talk to Tedesco’s wife, and the pieces will fall into place. They’re probably figuring out their plan before hitting the news outlets.”
Reece could hear a private jet on final approach above them as Liz drove north through an intersection. The light turned yellow as she crossed the parallel street, and she hit the accelerator so as not to run a red light. As if in slow motion, the light turned red above them as a green and white Miami-Dade Police Dodge Charger sat at the traffic light to their right. The police car turned right and sped up behind them.
CHAPTER 61
“OH SHIT, REECE. So sorry.”
The Charger maintained its pace just a few feet behind the minivan for an agonizing ten seconds.
“Maybe he won’t pull us over?” she said hopefully.
Just then the red and blue light bar illuminated and the siren let loose a short blast that made Liz jump in her seat. She checked her mirror as she engaged her turn signal and pulled over to the curb.
“Don’t say a word, Reece, and please don’t shoot him,” Liz said, remembering her grandfather.
“Check.”
Reece faced forward and slipped the Glock under his right thigh, putting both hands on his knees, where they would be easily seen. Liz put the vehicle in park and removed the University of Alabama ball cap from her head. She quickly pulled the elastic band from her ponytail and flipped her head side to side to let her hair down. With her right hand she tugged at her tank top to expose as much cleavage as she could and put on her most seductive smile.
The officer who appeared at the window was young, fit, and Latin, with a uniform that was meticulously pressed. Liz thought he looked like a guy you’d see in a Spanish-language soap opera, which made her own acting performance that much easier. She pulled off her Ray-Bans to give him a look into her blue eyes. Her ample southern accent became even more pronounced as she addressed the officer while sounding like a character from Gone with the Wind.
“I am so sorry, Officer. That light changed, and I didn’t know what to do.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Reece nearly burst out laughing.
“Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance please, ma’am.”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
She retrieved her license from a small zippered bag on the passenger seat and opened the glove box to look for the rest of the documents. When Reece noticed the officer’s eyes shift to check out Liz’s fit body instead of watching her hands for a weapon, he was pretty sure that her acting job was paying off.
“This is a loaner van from the airport’s FBO, so I hope it has everything in here.”
She was relieved to see a short stack of paperwork when she opened the compartment, and grabbed the entire pile. She thumbed through the documents on her lap and quickly found a Florida vehicle registration sheet and a small insurance card. She placed her license on top and handed the stack to the stone-faced officer.
“I’m so sorry, I’m a pilot and had to pick up my client in Miami Lakes. I don’t know this area and was trying to do too many things at once.”
The officer glanced at Reece in the backseat and held his stare for several seconds, clearly sizing him up. Despite his disheveled appearance, Reece put on the most pleasant face possible. “I’ll be right back, ma’am.”
The officer retreated to his patrol car, where, Reece assumed, he was running both Liz and the van in his computer database. They were about to find out very quickly whether he was the subject of a nationwide manhunt and if anyone in the law enforcement community had tied him to Liz Riley.
I don’t want to shoot this poor bastard but hope is never a good plan. If there is even a hint he is onto us, I need to disable him, his vehicle, and his radio and drive east to find a marina. Steal a boat and head offshore. Think with your dick, Officer.
Reece shifted his eyes between the watch on his wrist and the rearview mirror, counting the minutes and looking for any sign that the officer was making a radio call. Four minutes passed before the door opened on the police car. Reece studied the officer’s body language as he approached. His right hand held a metal ticket book, not his sidearm, and his left hand hung calmly at his side. His stride showed swagger rather than fear. Any sane human approaching someone who they thought was an armed and dangerous domestic terrorist suspect would approach with more caution or stay in their car and call in SWAT.
The officer rested the metal ticket book on the van’s windowsill where Liz could read it.
“Ma’am, I’ve written you a warning for failure to obey a traffic control device, which would have cost you two hundred and four dollars, and three points on your license. If you’re a pilot, you should be more careful than that. Please sign the warning on the bottom line.”
Liz leaned forward to sign the warning and made sure to allow the officer as much of a view down her tank top as possible. It worked, as he paid no attention to Reece whatsoever.
“That is very understanding of you, Officer. Thank you so much for not giving me a ticket.”
“Yes, ma’am, please have a good day and try to be more careful. This copy is yours. If I pull you over again, I’m going to have to write you a ticket.”
“Yes, sir, I promise that won’t happen.”
The officer finally broke into a smile and nodded to Liz.
“Please have a safe flight, Miss Riley.”
“Oh, I will, thank you so much, sir.”
The officer was nearly blushing as he turned to walk back to his car. When he got to the rear of the minivan he came to a dead stop, paused, and turned back toward the window. Reece subconsciously flexed his right hand and took a deep breath to fight his racing heart rate. The officer stooped downward so that he had a direct view at Reece.
“Sir, why don’t you have any luggage?”
Reece did his best to force a smile. “I just flew down here to look at some real estate. I didn’t stay overnight so what little I brought is in the plane.”
The officer stared at Reece for a moment, looked back at Liz, and nodded his head.
“Safe travels.”
Holy fuck, that was close.
Liz started the van and put it into gear, pulling onto the road before the officer had even returned to his Charger. Reece felt the surge of euphoria that always followed a life-or-death encounter. His head began to swim with endorphins the way it usually did after a successful mission or firefight overseas.
“Reece, do you mind if your pilot for this evening intoxicated?”
Reece exhaled a giant lung full of air. “I’ll tell you what, I have never been so glad to have a hot female gym rat for a pilot.”
Liz looked back at Reece in the mirror and flashed an embarrassed grin. She immediately pulled her top up and reached over to put her hat on.
Ten minutes later, she was all business as she meticulously went through the preflight checklist. Neither Reece’s nor Liz’s blood pressures began to return to normal until they were wheels-up over northern Dade County.
CHAPTER 62
The Pentagon
Arlington Country, Virginia
GENERALS LEWANDOWSKY and Stuart waited in the secure conference room. They were given specific instructions not to include any deputies or aides in the meeting, which was highly unusual, if not unprecedented. Lewandowsky was nearing the end of his tenure as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He had been a stud fighter pilot, one of the few fortunate enough to see air-to-air combat during Operation Desert Storm. He also played the political game well enough to have risen to the pinnacle of the military food chain. Mentally, he already had one foot out the door as he looked forward to sitting on a few corporate boards in retirement. He had a laid-back demeanor that made him well liked among both his fellow generals and the men serving below him.
Ewell Stuart was very much the opposite: intense, opinionated, and decisive. A native of rural Virginia and direct descendant of Civil War general J. E. B. Stu
art, General Stuart was probably liked by no one, but respected by all. He’d spent his early career as an infantry officer in the Ranger Battalions before being selected for the Army’s Special xxxxxxx xxxx at Fort Bragg. He was currently in charge of the Joint Special Operations Command, xxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxx xxx xxx xxxx xxxx xx xxxx xx xxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxxxx xx xxx xxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxx xx xxxx xxxxx xxx xxxxx.
Neither man liked or respected Secretary Hartley, though both understood and valued the U.S. tradition of civilian control of the military. Hartley was a pure politician, checking the SECDEF box to build her credentials for a White House run. It wasn’t just that she was a phony who didn’t take the job seriously, it was her blatant practice of funneling every dollar she could muster through her husband’s consulting firm that they found so offensive. If you wanted to sell a fighter jet, aircraft carrier, or armored vehicle to the military, you’d better hire J. D. Hartley. Want the contract to run the mess hall at Bagram? Retain J. D. Hartley. The Hartleys treated the Pentagon like the world’s largest ATM machine.
Like many politicians, Lorraine Hartley had started out with good intentions. As a college student, with the help of a few of the more radical faculty members, she became outraged at what she came to see as injustices imposed by the U.S. government on countries around the globe. When she met J.D., she found a partner who would help her change the world. After J.D.’s election to Congress, their lives transformed dramatically. Everywhere she went, she was told how great she was, how smart she was, how talented she was. Before long, she was believing every word of it. The entitled behavior of both Congressman and Mrs. Hartley became increasingly outrageous, but in D.C. there were always suit-clad enablers willing to keep things quiet. By the time she was appointed secretary of defense, Madame Hartley had become the epitome of what her twenty-year-old self had sought to stand up against.
Both men had busy calendars, and it was fifteen minutes after the scheduled meeting time when the SECDEF finally arrived with her deputy secretary and young female aide carrying an iPad. The message was clear: you can’t bring your staff, but I can bring mine. You weren’t supposed to bring electronic devices into a secure room such as this, but neither man was willing to fall on a sword over that point. She greeted both men with a plastic smile before taking her seat at the head of the conference table. She was wearing a classic black suit made by St. John Knits, her usual attire. Her propensity for wearing all black, concocted after a focus group determined she was “most trusted” in that color, combined with her sour demeanor, was the reason for her nickname among the military officers who worked around her: “the Undertaker.” Though no one ever dared used the moniker in front of her, her network of civilian rats let her know that she was so named. The fact that she was viewed as intimidating and insensitive pleased her.
The Joint Chiefs don’t have direct command authority over military units; that structure flows directly from the SECDEF to the combatant commands. Though previous SECDEFs relied upon the Joint Chiefs for their advice and expertise, Hartley rarely did. Secretary Hartley acted as if Lewandowsky weren’t even in the room as she directed her comments only to General Stuart.
“I’ve just come from a meeting with the secretary of homeland security. The blast that killed Admiral Pilsner came from a suicide vest. The man wearing the vest was a financier with no terror connections, and he did so because his family was being held hostage.” She left out the fact that she’d known Mike Tedesco for well over ten years. “The man who strapped the vest on him was a SEAL officer, the one who led that shit show in Afghanistan that got everyone killed. We have reliable information that he’s hiding out in some shack in New Hampshire; my people can provide you with the details. General Stuart, I want your SEALs up there as soon as humanly possible. One of our contract security firms will send a team to accompany them.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Posse Comitatus Act prevents us from using military forces in such a role on U.S. soil. This is an FBI mission,” Stuart responded.
“I didn’t ask you for a legal opinion, General. I went to Harvard Law School and don’t want or need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m telling you to get your SEALs on a plane and get their asses to New Hampshire.”
“I cannot give that order, ma’am. It violates the Constitution.”
“Fuck the Constitution!”
The SECDEF’s aide, who hadn’t said a word thus far, glanced up from her iPad and interrupted. “Actually, Madame Secretary, it’s not in the Constitution. Posse Comitatus is part of the U.S. Code, it’s federal law. It didn’t even apply to the Navy until 1992.”
The SECDEF looked annoyed at her aide for the correction, but directed her anger back at General Stuart. “What are you, a fucking Eagle Scout? You give that order or not only will I demand your resignation and get it, but I will make sure that your beloved command is defunded into obscurity and that your men are reassigned to conventional units. You will be responsible for the death of special operations.”
Stuart sat back, stunned.
“What’s it gonna be, Stuart, are you gonna give the order or do I have to keep firing generals until I find one that will do his job?”
CHAPTER 63
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xxx xxxx, xxxxxxxx
SENIOR CHIEF FRED STRAIN had sent the recall text out to the Iridium satellite pagers of the operators in his assault team less than an hour ago. There was no excuse for missing that recall and now each member of his eight-man team was assembled in the conference space attached to their squadron room.
“All right, guys, this is a frigging crazy one.” Fred was trying to stop swearing so much. He gave it up along with drinking after his wife gave him an ultimatum: stop drinking or leave the Teams. Fred had stopped drinking.
He almost shook his head as he chose his next words carefully.
“We are going after one of our own. Are you all aware of what happened at WARCOM?” Heads nodded up and down. It had been hard to miss. The media loved the SEALs these days. Even before the bin Laden mission catapulted them to cult hero status, there had been movies, books, video games, and other high-profile missions that had brought them into the spotlight. “You are not going to believe this, but the evidence is pointing to a SEAL as the perpetrator.”
Looks of disbelief were shared among the group. Nobody liked WARCOM, and everyone had an intense dislike for the current admiral, but to blow him up? That seemed a bit out there. The current working theory in the media was that it was an Islamic terrorist group seeking retribution.
“Who’s the guy, Senior?” one of the younger SEALs asked.
Fred paused; he almost couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Lieutenant Commander James Reece.”
“No fucking way!” the younger SEAL shouted, shaking his head. “No fucking way! He was my platoon commander before I came here. Total stud! Prior enlisted. He gets it. No way that guy did this.”
Enlisted SEALs’ contempt for officers was well documented. Every now and again there would be one who broke the mold, who was admired for his leadership, battlefield prowess, aggressiveness, and character. James Reece was one such man.
“Sorry, Smitty. It looks like it’s true.”
“Well, if he did this, he had one damn good reason.”
“Doesn’t matter the reason, Smitty. He did it. Plain and simple. I knew him as well. We were paired up in sniper school and operated together back in the early days. As solid as they come. His family has a long history in the Teams.”
“Did he skip the country, Fred? Is that why they called us in?” another SEAL asked.
“Well, now here is where it gets a bit convoluted. You are all going to be asked to sign additional nondisclosures for what is about to happen.”
“Really?” Smitty piped in. “More nondisclosures? You mean the hundred other ones we signed don’t cover this? What the fuck, Senior?”
“Just listen up, Smitty, and let me get throu
gh this.”
“Sorry, Senior.”
“Okay, this is an unprecedented situation. This SEAL, who as we can see from what he did at WARCOM, is not your typical officer who just does his two platoons and then goes to a staff job for the next fifteen to twenty-five years—this guy knows what he’s doing. A SEAL domestic terrorist. It’s bound to hit the news soon. They are still calling it an act of terrorism, but that’s going to change in short order, and we want to be up and out of here before it does so it doesn’t put him more on edge than he already is. He is still in the country and the SECDEF wants him apprehended as soon as possible.”
“Fred, I haven’t been paying much attention to the west coast stuff in the news. How many people did he kill at WARCOM with that blast?” asked one of the Team’s more laid-back guys, who looked like he was in a perpetual state of drunkenness.
“That’s just the thing, only two: the admiral and some L.A. finance guy. The admiral’s aide had his eardrums blown out but other than that, no one else was injured. Apparently he wrapped this L.A. guy in an S-vest, took his family hostage, and made him detonate himself in the admiral’s office.”
“No way!” said the laid-back operator, finally showing signs of waking up. “That’s hard-core shit. I’m starting to like this guy.”
“Cut it out, Paul,” Fred said curtly. “This is serious business. We cannot underestimate him. This is a mission just like any other. Put the fact that he is a SEAL out of your minds except in the context that we are going up against a formidable adversary. He’s had a lot of the same training that we have and has seen his share of combat. Whatever his beef was with the admiral and this finance guy is none of our concern. What is our concern is planning a mission to kill or capture this HVI,” he said, intentionally verbalizing the high-value individual terminology used overseas.
“Hey, Fred, you said he was still in the U.S.,” commented one of the more thoughtful SEALs in the group. “How can we go after him here? Doesn’t Posse Comitatus still apply?”