Oh God, his head was spinning.
He hadn’t shared any of this with Jarvis, beyond telling him that Elinor was a double agent. At the moment, he considered his judgment to be compromised. He didn’t trust himself to be objective when it came to her, and so he’d simply debriefed the facts of the operation in the Grand Bazaar and left the onus of interpretation and extrapolation to his boss. He would have the uncomfortable soul-baring conversation when the time was right, but that conversation would be with one person and one person only—Levi Harel.
He blinked and the BBC website on the computer monitor in front of him came back into focus. The press was having a field day, and the talking heads were like sharks in the throes of a feeding frenzy, devouring one another and any so-called expert brave and foolish enough to be interviewed on the Iran-Israeli conflict that was dominating all the channels. Despite failing to capture and disappear Amir Modiri, Jarvis’s plan had achieved its geopolitical objective of de-escalation. Tehran had released a statement that a rogue element within the Iranian Foreign Ministry had been uncovered, just about the time that the President released information that they had killed the mastermind from the same rogue element near the border of Iraq. It didn’t matter that Modiri had actually been killed in the Grand Bazaar in Tehran, or that it was his nephew who had been killed near the border. These were details Dempsey suspected Jarvis had advised the President to keep secret in an effort to let Iran maintain a modicum of self-respect. Tehran went on to claim that their security forces had covertly killed an operator from the rogue element within the Pakistani embassy in Washington, DC—a “poke in the eye” that the White House categorically denied. Regarding the nuke, Tehran’s official position was that the explosion in the desert had been caused by a collision between a fuel truck and a munitions convoy. Iran did not possess nuclear weapons; this was all simply a big misunderstanding. But despite the rhetoric and despite the obfuscation, the genie was out of the bottle. Iran had the bomb, and the world would never be the same again.
Dempsey sighed and clicked the mouse to close the web page. Nuclear politics was above his pay grade. He’d done his part to safeguard the world, and when called on to do it again, he would step up to the challenge. But until that day came, he just wanted to put it all out of his mind. He was about to get up when a nagging, familiar compulsion nudged at him. He opened a new browser window and typed in the URL address for Kate’s Facebook page. The social media site loaded, and pinned to the top of her wall was an image that made his heart skip a beat: Kate smiling and holding up her left hand to the camera while her new boyfriend, Steve, kissed her cheek. The sparkle from the diamond engagement ring on her finger paled compared to the sparkle he saw in her eyes. Steve, in his golf shirt and khaki slacks, was about as far from an operator as a man could get . . . but maybe that was a good thing.
Why am I not angry? Why am I not cursing, stomping around, and punching walls right now?
Instead of feeling jealous, hurt, or betrayed, he felt . . .
Relieved.
Kate was happy. Finally, happy. The look on her face melted his heart, and the strange thing was, he was happy for her, too. What else was there for him to feel for Kate but happiness? She had finally moved on. US Navy SEAL Senior Chief and Tier One operator Jack Kemper had been a year in the grave, and it was time for his ghost to stop haunting her. Maybe it was time, Dempsey realized, for Jack Kemper’s ghost to stop haunting him, too.
He scrolled down, looking at the happy pictures, until he got to one with Jake. He paused, and the contentment he’d been feeling faded a little. Jake was smiling, but his eyes were distant. He’d seen that look before. Unlike Kate, Jake had not let go. And the truth was, Dempsey was not ready to let go of his son yet, either. But if he was dead to Kate, then shouldn’t he be gone from Jake’s life forever as well? He couldn’t play by two sets of rules—one for Kate and one for Jake.
So he had to let go of both of them, and it hurt.
It hurt bad.
“You coming?” a familiar voice said behind him.
He closed the browser and swiveled in his chair to face Smith. “Yep, right behind you,” he said, rising slowly, painfully, from his chair.
He felt old.
“You all right?” Smith asked with an unsure smile.
“Yeah, I’m just raw . . . really fucking raw.”
Smith was one of the handful of people alive who could say they had seen him get emotional, but not today. He didn’t have anything left. The past year—hell, the past twenty-four hours—had sucked him dry. There wasn’t any warm blood left in his veins to give.
“This will cheer you up, I can promise,” Smith said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
He followed Smith into the conference room, and he immediately saw what had him smiling so big.
“Hi, John,” Grimes said, seated in the chair at the far end of the table. “Dude, you look like shit.”
He tried to think of a barb, a bantering insult, something to fire back at her, but nothing came to him. Instead, he simply strode over to her and wrapped his arms gently around her. She hugged him back, squeezing tighter than she probably should. It felt good, like maybe the tension from the past weeks was gone. Near-death experience had a way of doing that to people. He realized he loved her—more than the love for a teammate, but what kind of love it was he couldn’t say.
He felt Smith’s eyes on him and looked over. Smith was looking at him, both friendship and envy in his eyes. Dempsey smiled at him in a way he hoped his friend understood. Then he closed his eyes and hugged Grimes more tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear.
“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” she said, but when he didn’t let go, she whispered in his ear, “You okay, JD?”
“I am now,” he said, breaking the embrace and smiling at her. She looked thin, and pale, and her eyes were a little glazed—pain medicine, he was sure—but she was more beautiful in that moment than ever before. “I thought I’d lost you there,” he said, blinking just to make sure this wasn’t a dream.
“Yeah, well, bad penny and all of that,” she said, her cheeks flushing. Then, after an awkward beat, she added, “I’m sorry about Elinor. I heard what happened. I know the two of you had gotten, um, close.”
His stomach tensed at the sound of her name. “Things didn’t go down in Tehran like I thought they would. It got . . . complicated.” This, of course, was the understatement of the century, but what else was there to say? A part of him desperately wanted to tell Elizabeth the truth—unload every decision, detail, and doubt—but another part of him worried that would be a mistake. It wasn’t about trust; it was about jeopardizing this tenuous reconciliation he was feeling between them.
“If you ever need to talk about it, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks. And maybe someday . . .”
Munn emerged from the break room carrying two cups of black brew and a smile plastered ear to ear across his face. He set the coffees on the table, walked straight over to Dempsey, and said, “See, I told you you’d be back.”
Dempsey extended his hand with a wry smile.
Munn scoffed at this and yanked him into a manly SEAL embrace. “We’re family now, bro.”
After Munn’s bear hug, the impromptu homecoming continued with Dempsey talking with Adamo, Rouvin, and Daniel—and a round of shadow boxing with Wang. When the handshakes, hugs, and high-fives had run their course, Smith cleared his throat and said, “All right, all right, now that we’ve got the band back together, the boss has something he’d like to say.” The Ember Ops officer pressed a button on the podium, and the oversize flat-screen monitor on the wall flickered to life—streaming Kelso Jarvis dressed in a suit, sitting in an unfamiliar office, and smiling.
“Where is he?” Dempsey whispered to Munn, who shrugged.
“First, let me begin by saying that I’m sorry I can’t be there with you today in person. It’s been a difficult and emotional week, and
I’m proud of each and every one of you for your courage, commitment, and sacrifice. And to our friends at the Seventh Order, we’re sorry for your loss, and we owe you both our gratitude and our thanks for everything you did to support this joint operation.”
Jarvis paused, and Dempsey saw a strange look wash over the Skipper’s face. After a beat, he cleared his throat and said, “We’ve got changes coming down the pipe, both policy and personnel, but I’ll leave Director Smith to brief you on that and your new roles. I’ll see you when you’re back in the States. That will be all.”
Jarvis signaled with a hand, and someone on his side ended the transmission.
Smith stared at the screen for a beat, then turned to look at Dempsey, his face all kinds of screwed up.
“What the hell was that about?” Dempsey said.
“I have no friggin’ idea,” Smith said. “We’re all hearing this at the same time.”
“Well, it sounds like you just got promoted, dude,” Munn said, grinning. “I know I’m the new guy, but I think the Skipper made a fine choice for his successor.” Munn started a slow clap, and the rest of the team—Daniel and Rouvin included—joined in.
Smith waved his hand, still in a daze. “Okay, okay. Let’s everybody take five and give me a second to process what just happened.”
“And then what, boss?” Dempsey said, grinning at Ember’s new Director in Chief. “What’s next on the Ember agenda?”
He felt Grimes slip her fingers around his. “We go home,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “We go home and we start over, again.”
EPILOGUE
Hoza Restaurant
Hoza 25A
Warsaw, Poland
June 17
2130 Local Time
Catherine Morgan rotated the stem of her wine glass in her fingers as she waited. The red wine she was sipping, a fine Spanish Rioja from a vineyard she’d never heard of, was helping knock the edge off her nerves. But she needed to be careful. She rarely drank, and wine went straight to her head.
She checked the time on her phone. He was late . . .
Some things never change.
Next, she used the front-facing camera on her phone to check her makeup. The face looking back at her on the screen did nothing to improve her mood.
So old . . . so hideous.
She had once been beautiful. Many men had told her as much. It was one of the reasons she’d been selected for the program. She closed the camera app and then powered down her phone. Then she slipped it into a special little sleeve with technology that supposedly rendered the device impotent.
She took a sip of wine.
And then another.
The ambience and decor were masculine and tasteful—an indoor brick facade, burgundy-colored carpet, and dark stained-wood cabinetry. Wine bottles were prominently displayed in wooden racks and shelves throughout, serving double duty as convenient storage and decoration. The decor set the mood and, along with the wine, kind of made her horny. It had been so very, very long . . . Hopefully tonight they could find a way to make love, despite the risk.
The waiter checked on her and made an attempt to refill her glass. She stopped him and said she would be fine until her guest arrived. Her Polish was passable enough for benign interactions like this. Someone on the staff turned up the volume of the music in the restaurant. A beat later, someone turned it back down to where it had been.
A metaphor for my life.
She became aware of his arrival a moment later—a beat before he stepped foot inside the restaurant. They’d always had a strong connection. The moment their eyes met, her heart skipped a beat. How long had it been since they’d seen each other? Eleven? No, twelve years, she thought. He’d aged, yes, but not as much as she had. Time was kinder to his gender. She smiled at him and stood to greet him.
He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Ahhh, my little Maschenka. I’ve missed you so.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” she answered, her voice a desperate whisper.
The table he’d reserved was in the corner. She’d taken the seat with her back to the wall, giving her a view of the entire restaurant. She switched chairs with him as a courtesy. And as a statement of trust.
“So, how are you, Catherine?” he asked, waving off the approaching waiter and pouring his own glass of wine.
After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I failed you. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, Maschenka, you have not failed me. Quite the contrary, I could not be more proud of what you’ve accomplished.”
“But the President chose another,” she said. “There won’t be a second chance. I’ve plateaued.”
He smiled warmly at her. “The rules of advancement break down when you reach the top. The stars must align perfectly, and none of us controls the stars.”
She studied his face for tells of insincerity but found none, and this made her relax . . . but only a little. It had been difficult, her assignment, so very, very difficult. And she’d had to do it alone.
He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “There’s no need for shame. No need for embarrassment. Your career, your performance”—he laughed with genuine mirth and tribute—“has exceeded all expectations. We are so proud of you.”
“Really?” she said, switching to Russian. “You’re not just saying that because you know it’s what I want to hear?”
“You know me better than anyone. I could never lie to you. And even if I could, what would be the point? We’re both at the apogee of this rocket ride called life, you and I, and it’s not like we can change our trajectory now. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would . . . I do,” she said and smiled at him warmly.
“So,” he said, taking a sip of wine, “tell me about the new DNI—Kelso Jarvis.”
She didn’t answer immediately, choosing to collect her thoughts on the matter first. “What would you like to know?” she said at last.
“Your personal assessment of the man.”
“Stalwart, overconfident, observant, mildly misogynistic, and clever . . . The two of you would probably get on like brothers.”
Arkady laughed. “I like him already. He is a former SEAL, yes?”
She nodded. “A Tier One unit commander who stepped out of the shadows and into the dark to run a black ops counterterrorism unit called Ember.”
The Russian spymaster nodded and then rubbed his nose. “Okay, so in your opinion, how big of a problem is Director Jarvis going to be for us?”
“I don’t know. Until now, all he’s focused on is the terrorist threat. He eats, sleeps, and breathes hunting down crazy Muslims, and he’s quite good at it. He’s spent his entire career either planning, running, or overseeing covert counterterrorism operations in the Middle East and Africa.”
“Good,” Arkady said, taking a sip of wine. “He sounds like a man locked inside a paradigm. We can take advantage of that.”
“Yes . . . Except now as DNI, he has been forced to open his eyes. That’s why he sent me here, to meet with the Poles and discuss Russian aggression in Eastern Europe and the Baltics.”
“Well, that is unfortunate, but I still would rather have Jarvis as DNI than someone like Evans, who used to sit on the Moscow desk and knows Russians.”
“Can we talk about something else?” she said, reaching over and squeezing his hand.
“One more thing. Can you get close to Jarvis?”
She sighed. “I don’t know.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“Good. Then you have an opening.”
She rolled her eyes. “Put on your glasses, you old charmer, and take a good look at the woman across the table. My skin has gone to shit, my hair’s turned silver, and the body under these clothes is not the one you remember.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said with a mischievous smile.
She felt her cheeks flush and looked down at her hands.
“You are a beautiful woman, Catherine, no m
atter at what age,” he went on. “And I like your hair—short and silver. You look sophisticated. Powerful.”
“Enough,” she said. “I’m tiring of this game.”
“It’s not a game,” he said, his expression darkening ever so slightly. “You need to try; it’s what we do.”
“Men like Kelso Jarvis don’t generally want to sleep with old ladies who tried to submarine their careers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the same age as him.”
She shooed the comment away with the wave of her hand.
“Has it been so long you’ve forgotten your own motto?”
“What motto is that?” she asked.
“You said, and I quote, ‘You’d be surprised what a woman can get a man to do by telling him everything he wants to hear while maintaining an illusion of being unobtainable.’”
“I said that?”
He nodded.
She smiled wanly. “I don’t remember that. Was I right?”
“It worked with me,” he said.
“Pffftt . . . You seduced me,” she said. “When I was young and naive.”
“Are you saying if we met today, Maschenka, my charms would have fallen flat?”
She smiled and took a sip of wine. “I could lie to you, but what would be the point?”
He laughed like a Russian at this and then raised his glass in a toast. “To our next conquest, Kelso Jarvis.”
“To our next conquest,” she echoed, clinking glasses. “Now, let’s eat because I’m horny and I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”
He snapped his fingers at a waiter walking by and asked for the check. Then, turning back to her, he said, “Forget the entrees; I’m ready for dessert.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are a lot of dedicated and talented people that go into taking our stories and making them novels. We would like to thank our entire team at Thomas & Mercer for their endless support and tireless work in keeping the Tier One series moving forward. We owe special thanks to Caitlin Alexander, our developmental editor and the very best in the business. As always, we thank Gina, our agent, who never rests until everything is right.
Crusader One Page 37