Bad Influences (Agent Juliet Book 2)

by E. M. Smith

  “The clock is running on this one, people,” Whiskey said.

  My ears got hot and I looked down at the binder. I couldn’t even go eight hours without pissing her off.

  “The official op is the extraction of Audi Miller,” Wesson said. “Trent is a self-defense casualty only. No witnesses who can say otherwise.”

  *****

  We suited up in full combat gear then caught one of NOC-Unit’s private jets to Texas. On the flight, Whiskey outlined the plan.

  “Agent Wesson made it very clear to me that we are to go in full-force, no snipers,” she said. “That means he’ll have another operative somewhere whose sole objective is taking down Trent if we don’t get the shot.”

  I must’ve looked surprised because Mike explained.

  “Checks and balances,” he said. “You’ll get that a lot from the unofficial-official side of the government. They don’t trust anybody to get the job done on their own.”

  “Romeo, we’ll drop you on the way in,” Whiskey said. “Get to a vantage point and locate Wesson’s sniper. I’m not having my mission fucked up by some trigger-happy lone wolf.”

  “Want me to neutralize him?” Romeo asked.

  Whiskey shook her head.

  “Visual contact only. Report if he makes a move. Everyone else is with me.” She pointed to the sat photo of the Brotherhood’s commune from the CIA binder. “We drive right up to the front door and make our intentions clear. This is a SWAT-type extraction of a very wealthy politician’s daughter, not a military operation. Everything we do today is on the record. And if Trent pulls a gun, defend yourself.”

  *****

  The airstrip where we landed was surrounded by rocks, little scrubby plants, and wide open space. Off in the distance one way there was an oil well. Off the other direction was some kind of rock face sticking up out of the ground.

  Romeo looked at it through her scope and whistled.

  “Nineteen and a half mile visibility,” she said. “Let’s hope there’s more cover at the commune or it’s just going to be Wes’s guy and me staring at each other across a field.”

  We loaded into a waiting armored van and took off. I checked the action on my M16, checked the strap on my Sig’s ankle holster, checked my extra magazines, checked my vest, checked that my boots were tied and my fly was done. We still weren’t there. How the hell far out was this place?

  “Nervous, bitch-boy?” Bravo asked.

  “Shit, I forgot to tell you to go fuck yourself today,” I said. “If you get the chance later, go fuck yourself.”

  “Juliet, Bravo,” Whiskey said, flexing her hand into a fist. “I’m going to make this as clear as I possibly can. If either of you hinders this mission in the slightest, you will never see active duty with NOC-Unit again. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we both said.

  “Good.”

  Bravo went back to smacking his gum extra loud.

  I leaned the M16 against my leg and sat back as much as I could on the bench, trying not to look like I cared. I was getting that shaking feeling inside, same as I’d gotten when we landed in Belize on my first mission. That time, we’d had the element of surprise on our side. This time we were just walking in, hoping they were ready to go down shooting.

  I shut my eyes and prayed to Jesus that whatever happened, I wouldn’t fuck up. I couldn’t lose my spot on Whiskey’s team. She was the only reason I had visitation rights with Della and Eva at all. The girls were all I had left.

  “Here’s your stop, Romeo,” Fox said, pulling the van over to the side of the road.

  Romeo opened the back doors and hopped out. Nothing but miles and miles of soybeans in barely terraced ground.

  “Great,” she said. “I was hoping there’d be no cover. Toss me that net, Bravo.”

  Bravo threw her a mesh bag. Romeo rearranged the sniper rifle on her back and hung the bag over her shoulder like a backpack.

  Whiskey handed her a headset. Romeo put it over her ear, then messed with the black bandana she was wearing so that it covered the earpiece.

  “Confirm your headset is working, Romeo,” Whiskey said.

  “Check, check one,” Romeo said. “Sibilance. Sibilance.”

  Everyone but Whiskey got it.

  “The BLA commune is three miles directly northwest of this point,” Whiskey said. “Report when you’re in position. If there’s no delay, we should be driving through the front gate in forty-five minutes.”

  Romeo gave Whiskey a half-salute, then took off through cattycornered through the field.

  “See you on the other side,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  *****

  We hit BLA property exactly forty-four minutes later. The ground was so flat and empty out here that Brother Gerry Ray had to see us coming as soon as we turned down his dirt lane.

  “Romeo, report,” Whiskey said.

  Mike had passed out the rest of the headsets during the last leg of the drive, so Whiskey’s voice came through the earpiece. Romeo’s answer was right behind it.

  “Still no sign of the lone wolf. I’m going to make another sweep.”

  “Roger,” Whiskey said. “We’re almost in position.” She gave us the signal to lock and load. “Report when you make visual.”

  “Roger.”

  I craned my neck to look out the front window. People had come outside to watch us drive up. A couple little kids went running toward a long, low building off to the side of the big house. My stomach clenched when I saw them. Kids. One more way this op could go horribly fucking wrong.

  The van stopped and the dust cloud we’d stirred up rolled past. Fox kept the engine running.

  This was it. Don’t fuck up—that was my one goal. Don’t fuck up.

  Whiskey made it out first. Mike opened the back doors of the van so that he, Bravo, and I could cover her. One of the women screamed and started backing toward the big house. Somewhere a dog started yipping crazily.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Whiskey yelled. “We’re here for Audi Miller. Her father wants her back safely. If you know where Audi Miller is, please take us to her.”

  A tall guy with a long, gray ponytail came out of the house with a shotgun. Not Trent. I eased off the trigger, but kept him covered.

  “Drop your weapon,” Whiskey yelled.

  “We’re a peaceful people,” Ponytail said. He was shaking so hard the shotgun rattled. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Produce Audi Miller and we’ll leave,” Whiskey said.

  “We will cooperate, but you must understand the consequences of your request,” Ponytail said. “Sister Audi is Brother Gerry Ray’s mate. They’re eternal lovers. If you remove her from him, they will both die.”

  “Give me a fucking break,” Bravo mumbled.

  “He’s stalling,” Mike said.

  “Whiskey, this is Romeo. We’ve got runners between the main house and the barn. I count two…three…five. Three visibly armed and—yep, that’s our target. Repeat: Target is on the move.”

  “Around back,” Whiskey ordered. “Juliet with Mike. Bravo on me.”

  I was closer to the side of the house, so I took the lead and Mike got my six. I came around the back in a squat, surveying the area.

  An old barn about a hundred yards from the house. Two guys—one with a TEC-9 and extended magazine, one with an AR15—on either side of the open barn door. Another guy inside throwing the tarp off of a shiny black SUV, handgun clipped onto the back of his jeans.

  Trent and Audi were still forty yards from the barn. Audi was hanging on his arm, screaming, “Don’t let them take me away, Gerry. I love you. Don’t let them.”

  “Drop your weapons,” Whiskey yelled.

  The guys by the barn jerked their guns up to draw a bead on her. I shot the guy with the TEC-9—two shots, center mass, conserve ammo. He went down. Bravo or Whiskey or both took down the guy with the AR.

  The last guy came charging out of the barn with his .357 drawn. All f
our of us shot. He jerked sideways and dropped.

  Whiskey didn’t lower her M16, just turned it toward Trent and Audi, who were back on their feet and running.

  “Audi Miller,” Whiskey yelled. “Stop fleeing. Your father—”

  “Don’t let them, Gerry! I love you!”

  Whiskey gave us the signal.

  Bravo and I both sprinted. I was faster. Bravo pulled up short.

  I slammed into Trent. We spun around in the air. Audi came down with us.

  About halfway to the ground, I heard the crack of a rifle. Romeo yelled, “What?” into the headset. There was a sound like somebody sucking in a quick breath.

  Trent’s head vaporized.

  “Romeo,” Whiskey yelled into the headset.

  “Tracking it,” Romeo said. Sounded like she was running.

  It was all over me. It was dripping in my eyes. Blood.

  “Gerry?” Audi whimpered. “Gerald, baby?”

  I tried to wipe my face—but my hands, my fatigues, my rifle. Chunks of skin with hair sticking to everything. Little white bone shards. Squishy pieces that had to be brain.

  Whiskey took a knee beside me. “Juliet? Are you hit?”

  Trent’s head had been there—right in front of my face—then it’d been mist.

  “Juliet?” Whiskey asked, louder. “Bravo, keep them back. Mike—”

  “Behind you.”

  “Gerald, baby, are you okay?” Audi yelled next to my ear. Somebody pulled her off the body. “You bitch! You killed him!”

  “Sedate her, Mike.”

  “Hold her still.”

  Somewhere, Romeo was still talking into the headset. “Nobody would take that shot. Fox, you should’ve seen it. No one could’ve…”

  I shoved Trent’s body off me and fought to sit up. Spit. I had to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. Oh, Jesus, that was a tooth. I made it to my knees before I started throwing up.

  “You weren’t hit, Juliet,” Mike said in his medic voice. “You’re all right. You’re okay.”

  I tried to nod. I knew that, but there were pieces of the fucker all over me. My stomach heaved again.

  “This guy’s a ghost, Whiskey,” Romeo said.

  “Well, keep fucking looking,” Whiskey yelled into the headset.

  “Come on, Juliet,” Mike said. “You’re all right. I need you up, buddy. Get up.”

  A little bit at a time, the rest of the world came back into focus. People from out front had come around the back of the house. Bravo held position between us and them. Ponytail was there. No shotgun this time. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks while he tried to console a group of half a dozen women in sundresses.

  “Juliet—” Whiskey started.

  “I’m up.” My gear felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but I stumbled and scratched my way back to my feet. I couldn’t fuck this up. That was the one goal. Somehow I kept from puking again. “I’m up. Where do you need me?”

  Whiskey squinted at me, looking back and forth from one of my eyes to the other.

  Finally, she said, “Mike, take Juliet. Load the girl into the van.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mike scooped Audi up by the shoulders and I got her legs. Bright red blood peppered with skull fragments and hair stuck her white sundress to her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I one hundred percent didn’t care. It was just another fact. The sun was up, the grass was dusty, the breeze was hot, and she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “Romeo, report,” Whiskey’s voice came through the headset.

  “I’m out two miles plus,” Romeo answered. “This is the absolute limit—we’re talking even for superhero, Hawkeye, trick-shot, magic-bullet shit. Couldn’t have been farther out than this. Shit! I can’t even see where he would’ve set up. He didn’t have the angle, dammit.”

  “Obviously, he had it,” Fox said. “You’re just not seeing it.”

  “You want to come out here and fucking look for your fucking self?”

  “Stop,” Whiskey ordered. “Everyone back to the van.”

  *****

  “Nothing unusual about taking some bone fragments when you’re that close,” Mike said as he picked another bone splinter out of my cheek with the tweezers and scraped it onto the towel draped over his leg.

  He had treated Audi on the van-ride. Now that we were on the jet headed back, he’d gotten around to me.

  “We’ll do a blood test on you and on Trent’s remains when we get back to base,” Mike said. “And we’ll go ahead and start you on some meds—just in case—but it’s not likely that we’ll find anything. With AIDs and all that stuff being taught nowadays, people are pretty careful.”

  “Can you get an STD from blood splatter?” I asked. “I was kind of hoping to get one from unprotected sex.”

  Mike laughed.

  Whiskey, who was sitting at the table on the other side of the jet, glared at me.

  “I was kidding,” I said. “I don’t have sex.”

  Mike thought it was funny, too, but I didn’t even get a headshake from Whiskey. I just hoped all that pissed-off was aimed at Wesson’s ghost sniper, not me.

  Romeo came out of the bedroom at the back of the jet and shut the door behind her.

  “Are you sure Audi’ll be out until we land?” she asked Mike. “Because you probably don’t want her waking up with Bravo staring at her. I could’ve stayed.”

  “I need to talk to you,” Whiskey said. “Tell me about the shot.”

  Romeo shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Distance, angle—and you don’t shoot into a mess like that unless you’re willing to risk collateral damage.”

  “Would you have taken it?”

  “No.”

  “Not even if Trent was your target and you didn’t care about casualties?”

  Romeo sat in the chair across from Whiskey and leaned her elbows on the table.

  “It’s like this,” she said. “I get my orders to shoot Trent. Trent is the target. Nobody else is the target. I wouldn’t take the shot while there was a chance I would hit an innocent—or even not-so-innocent—bystander. They’re not the target.”

  “What if it meant you lost your chance to take him out?”

  “I’m a sniper,” Romeo said. “I’ll make another chance.”

  Whiskey nodded. “That’s what Fox said, too.”

  “Something we haven’t considered,” Mike said. “A Kilo.”

  “Not likely,” Whiskey said. “The Mark-17 is programmed with the same protocol as a soldier. If they sent one to snipe Trent, it would’ve followed protocol. Kilos never deviate.”

  “What are they, like, drones?” I felt kind of stupid asking, but the only thing I’d come across related to Kilos in my assigned reading was that the NATO phonetic letter “Kilo” had been reserved for NOC-Unit’s Research & Development projects. Any operative whose name began with a K had to use their last or middle initial as their call sign.

  “They’re boogeymen,” Romeo said, wiggling her fingers at me like a little kid telling a scary story. “They don’t exist, woooo-oooo.”

  “I don’t either, anymore,” I said. “So, what are they? Remote-controlled or cyborgs or something?”

  “More like R&D’s attempt at a super-soldier,” Mike said. He pulled a bottle of Bactine out of the med kit and stood up. “Come on, Juliet. We need to rinse your face.”

  “Wait, wait, wait. I want to hear more about this.”

  “Sure you do,” he said. “I’ll tell you more about it while I’m rinsing your cuts.”

  “Just go, you big baby,” Romeo said. “You’ll barely feel it.”

  “I’ve used Bactine before,” I said, pointing at the scar where my eyebrow ring used to be. “That shit stings.”

  “There’s not much else to tell, anyway,” Mike said. “Kilos can do everything we can do, but better, faster, stronger. More accurate, too.”

  “Which would explain the range,” Romeo said. “But not the shooting into a
tangled mass of falling bodies.”

  “It might,” Whiskey said. “The last I’d heard, R&D had pulled all Kilo Mark-17s off assignment. Bugs in the programming.”

  “You think Wes checked one out of reprogramming for a day?” Mike asked.

  Whiskey shrugged. “Or they’re field-testing the Mark-18.”

  I looked at Mike. “So, are they cyborgs or not?”

  “The sales pitch I heard when I asked my squint buddy was, ‘The perfect dovetail of behavioral science and technology, the future of modern warfare,’” Mike said.

  I nodded. “Cyborgs. That’s all you had to say.”

  *****

  Beige walls. Gray exam table. Black cabinets, green marble counter, stainless steel sink. Nurse Regina’s white hair teased so high it would make any good Southern girl jealous. The yellow emoticons on her scrubs. The bright blue soles on her shoes. I’d been in this room and ones like it a hundred times over the last few months, but everything was brighter than I remembered. Sharp enough to cut. Ten times higher definition than real life. Especially the tube filling up with my blood.

  Nurse Regina swapped the red-capped blood tube for a blue one. Then she grabbed my forearm and adjusted the butterfly needle.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “Stop fidgeting and I won’t have to do it again,” she said.

  “I wasn’t fidgeting.”

  “This will go faster if you relax,” Nurse Regina said.

  “I am relaxed.”

  She sighed. “Always with the attitude.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I said. “Don’t you ever go home?”

  “Somebody has to be here to push you tough guys around.” She smacked my knee. “Stop. Fidgeting.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  The exam room door opened and Whiskey came in.

  “How are you feeling, Juliet?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Nurse Regina rolled her eyes. “Fine he says, with the bone splinters in the face and the possible blood poisoning.”

  Whiskey glanced sideways at the fat little smartass nurse, then turned back to me.

  “Mentally,” she said. “You were almost shot. I’ve seen more experienced operatives traumatized by that kind of close call.”

  “Honestly, I hadn’t thought about it like that,” I said.