by JT Sawyer
“This was an orchestrated hit pulled off by professionals, Cal. The only question now is what are they planning next?”
Cal couldn’t answer that, but he did know that his own manhunt for the suspects was just beginning, and he knew the caterers were his only lead for now.
Before departing the building, he took the elevator down to the third sub-level, passing through two security checkpoints then entering the tac-ops center run by Lynn Vogel. This was the heart of operations and intelligence for Foley’s two SD units. What occurred on this end ensured that Cal and his team had made it back home safely from countless harrowing missions abroad.
He walked past the double doors leading into the large operations room on the left and knocked on Vogel’s door ahead.
“Come in,” she said in the familiar voice he had heard a thousand times in his ear-mic.
Peering into the room, he saw Vogel immediately hop out of her chair and walk around her desk. “Cal, this is quite a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming down here.”
She leaned in, giving him a hug. He felt like his boots were bolted to the floor, and he robotically returned the sentiment.
“Thanks for coming to the service. It meant a lot to me.”
She nodded. “Sorry I had to leave without saying anything. I got called back here—what a surprise.”
“No worries.” He thrust his chin at the large window that overlooked the tac-ops center from her office then over towards a compressed sleeping bag in the corner beside a couch. “The lights in this place must never go off.”
“Not if I can help it. Would you care to sit down for a while?”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay.”
She took a step back, leaning against the edge of her desk. “Hatchet, Waxer and the rest of your old team have been asking how you’re holding up.”
“Yeah, I got texts from most of them, but thanks for letting me know.”
“Heard from Viper lately? I was told she’s itching to rejoin the team and just passed her medical screening.”
“She left a voicemail a few days ago. It was good to hear her voice. Surprised she’s been able to sit still this long.”
“How did your meeting with Patterson go? I assume that’s who you were here to see. He said you were due in sometime today.”
“Not much to report. He’s got as many questions as I do about what happened, but he also has to answer for a multi-million-dollar contract that the agency had with Burke, so he’s under a different sort of pressure to sort this out—and fast.”
“Well, at least it wasn’t a billion dollars, right?” She tried to make an awkward joke, and he realized it was the first time he’d ever heard her depart from the usual monotone analyst speak that he was so accustomed to hearing over his ear-mic in the field.
He gave a faint smile, looking around her neatly arranged office, marveling at the precisely arranged photos and books on her desk, as if she had each of their places outlined in pencil.
Shepard moved to a small table near the wall, picking up some of the new tech toys that her team was always working with to experiment with innovative methods of surveillance. His eyes settled on a palm-sized disk that resembled a small Frisbee but was a hybrid of aluminum alloy and some kind of composite plastic, with three arms that hinged out. In the center was a sleek rotor system.
“Our latest stealth drone for short-distance monitoring. It can be auto-programmed then sent on its way and can scramble security cameras with the embedded infra-red beams.”
He flipped it over, admiring the streamlined aerodynamics. “These things just keep getting smaller. Pretty soon they’ll be the size of a coin.”
“Take one and play with it for a while. I was going to send a package to the SD units in the field to see how they hold up.”
He nodded, placing it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “Thanks.” Shepard glanced around the rest of her immaculate room then over to her. “Actually, this is more than a social visit, Lynn. I was wondering if I could ask you for a favor?”
She pulled her shoulders back. “Of course. Anything.”
“The day of the…the attack at Burke’s…there was a catering crew who drove off just before the explosion. One of the guys had a prosthetic left leg—the older kind that resembled flesh-colored plastic. He also had a tattoo on his forearm of what looked like a large black ant in a red circle. I called the catering company, but their phone line is inactive, and when I drove by the building, it was vacant—like it had been for a long time. Any chance you can track this guy down?”
She bit her lower lip. “Look, I can’t imagine how devastated you are right now, and I’m not saying I won’t help, but are you sure about this, Cal? Maybe the FBI should handle this.”
“They ran into the same issues I did and couldn’t locate the catering van either. He’s my only lead.”
She took a step forward, putting her hand on his forearm. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Lynn. And maybe we should go old-school for communicating on this, if you don’t mind.”
“Dead drops and Craigslist, just like in the old days. I can do that. It would be a welcome break from the digital world and would help me brush up on my tradecraft which, I’m embarrassed to admit, is laced with cobwebs.”
Cal nodded. And, most importantly, it will eliminate any fallout back to you.
After visiting with a few of the other analysts in the tac-ops center, he had to pry himself away. The thought of another person offering their condolences was becoming overwhelming, and he needed to get outside. He arrived at the elevator at the same time as Vogel’s protégé, Jessica Quinn.
They stepped in together, both of them heading to the first floor. “So, how’s Lynn treatin’ you these days?”
“She’s awesome. If I can become one-tenth the analyst she is then I’ll be happy.”
He smirked. “But that’s not what I asked, Jessica… She can be quite the taskmaster from what I know. Don’t let her crack the whip on you all day long.” She had a sweetness and idealism about her that hadn’t been eroded by the agency, and he wondered how long she would last now that she was in what had to be the highest-pressure job within the intel community.
The young woman crossed her arms, staring at the ascending numbers above the door. “It’s OK. I work well with a gun to my head, so to speak.” She held a hand up to her mouth, her tan complexion hiding her blushing cheeks. “God, sorry…that’s probably the last thing someone like yourself wants to hear, since you’ve got guns pointed at you on a regular basis when you’re on a mission.”
“Used to be. Not so much anymore.”
She bit her lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I heard about what happened…to your wife and Mr. Burke and the others.”
He nodded. Please don’t say, ‘If there’s anything you need…’
“I remember when my father died when I was little, before we came to this country. I wasn’t sure if the sun would rise the next day or the one after that, but my mother told me that I had an angel who would always watch over me, and I’d never be alone.”
“That’s nice. I like that.”
The doors opened, and they stepped out. “I hope that there is some peace in the days ahead, sir.”
He watched her walk off, craving the sentiment but knowing that there was going to be a lot more blood spilt before his burning thirst for vengeance was satiated.
20
After he left Langley, his mind was swirling with questions and few answers. Cal headed out of the city, wandering on his Harley along secondary highways dotted with small towns, eventually making his way to the coast north of Virginia Beach on Highway 60.
He needed the solace of open spaces, not a confined office or the stifling walls of his house. While he had fleetingly found comfort in returning to the home he and Cassie had shared, it had now become a mausoleum of memories, and he was dreading returning to the depressingly empty abode.
Pulling into a roadside p
icnic area along the beach, he parked his motorcycle and walked along the shoreline.
The threads of his thinking kept coming back to what Burke had discovered in Caracas. He knew it didn’t take an intelligence analyst to figure out that the horrific events of the past few days had to be connected with the upcoming election in Venezuela.
Burke stumbled onto something that was too strategic or revealing about coming events. But who knew about Perseus’ capabilities to even detect such things?
He ran through a mental list, beginning with the senior staff at Burke Enterprises. All of them were now six feet under, along with Reggie, who would have been invaluable to question.
Though he was probably just bribed to pass off the security codes to the mercs who made the hit.
Cal reflected on past meetings at the Pentagon that Burke had attended with the various clandestine agency heads who had signed off on or been involved in some capacity with Perseus from the beginning.
The same names kept emerging:
Tim Rourke with the NSA
National Intelligence Director Jason Begley
Neil Patterson
Colonel Ryan Foley
Lynn Vogel
He immediately dismissed the latter three names before mulling over the positions and government work histories of the former two.
Then there was also the South American case officer Patterson mentioned—Milo Gardner. So, three guys with a long history of working in clandestine services and with plenty of international ties.
Begley signed off on Perseus, so what would he have to gain by killing everyone at Burke’s? And if he was running some off-the-books op in Venezuela then he’d know how to dodge any prodding by Burke’s program.
Gardner, on the other hand, has his feet in deep down there with the politicos, military and other assets on the ground. Maybe he’s on someone’s payroll in Caracas. An experienced agency guy in bed with the current president to sway the election would be a powerful ally.
Then there’s Rourke. He seems like a career intel guy who’s had the same stapler on his desk for twenty years. Likes his job and the routine and three weeks of vacation a year.
And this guy Montoya…how’s he connected?
Again, Gardner and Rourke were the names that kept emerging.
If Cal was working on a mission, he’d have the unlimited resources of the agency at his disposal—from drones to human assets to surveillance and eavesdropping—to help narrow down his target, but he was as adrift as the lone seagull out on the waves in the distance.
Hopefully, Lynn will turn something up on that van driver soon. That’s the first breadcrumb.
As he thought of the scope of what he was planning to undertake, his eyes focused on the horizon. The grief in him was as deep as the restless ocean, but beneath his anguish was a simmering cauldron of rage that he had kept in check during the past few days.
His wife dead, his colleagues buried, his hopes for a family erased in a single afternoon.
There’s nothing left for me here anymore. And I sure as hell don’t care about returning to some war-torn shithole, working for the agency.
His eyes drifted to the nearest wave, about to crash into the rocky shoreline, and he balled his fist.
There’s one mission left now.
The only one that matters.
21
Cal was too wired and restless to sleep. Instead, he spent the night driving along the coast, alternating between sitting at outdoor cafes or bars until they closed and stopping at seaside parks to lie down on the dunes.
Finally, with dusk a few hours away, he made the long drive back home, taking secondary roads again to avoid the Sunday morning tourists and partygoers who had just spent the night bar-hopping their way around Virginia Beach.
He parked his motorcycle in the corner of the garage, placing his helmet on the workbench near the side door. He heard a noise coming from the loft above the garage, then realized he had left a window open to vent some of the hot air. Cal trotted up the steps, walking down the narrow passage between boxes. He and Cassie had planned to make the space into a guest room, but his plans for home improvements often got sidelined with his continuous deployments abroad.
He closed the window, peering at the rising sun beyond the limbs of the large oak tree in the backyard, then headed back to the garage. The familiar chirp of his agency iPhone caused him to pause outside the entrance to the kitchen.
Cal scrutinized the text, which came from an unknown number, consisting of a symbol that looked vaguely familiar followed by a cryptic message.
)ooo(
Two Red, Two Black
H9R3X5N7
Cal re-read the puzzling text then tried to locate the source of the caller, but it only indicated a long string of alpha-numeric figures.
What the hell? Only a handful of people even have this phone number. Who sent this?
Cal deactivated the security system on his house then opened the door leading into the kitchen, walking robotically as he tried to sleuth through the nature of the symbol.
He hung up his leather jacket on a coat peg by the door then grabbed his ruggedized work laptop off the kitchen counter and sat down on the couch in the living room, waiting for the device to activate.
He glanced down at his phone again, muttering. Where do I know that symbol from?
Cal licked his lip, growing irritated. “I’m not in the mood for riddles. Who the hell sent me this?”
He got up, pacing around the living room, then realized his rumbling stomach was telling him he was overdue on breakfast. He went into the kitchen, pulling out a package of bagels then removing some sliced cheddar cheese and deli ham from the fridge. He hastily assembled the sandwich, stuffing it into the toaster oven as he glanced back at the laptop screen in the other room.
I better run this past Patterson and Vogel, see what they think. I’ve had enough headaches from all the mysteries this week.
He heard his personal cellphone in his leather jacket chirp, and he wondered who was calling at this early hour of the morning.
The noise was followed by another text, then another. He heard someone calling but let it ring until it went to voicemail.
I can’t take any more condolence calls right now.
After the fourth text, he walked to the door, retrieving the phone from his jacket on the wall.
The creases in his forehead deepened as he scrolled through the messages from his sister-in-law, Sara, and several friends and neighbors.
“Is it true, what they’re saying? Do you really work for the CIA? Call me, Cal. Please.”
All of the texts had the same disturbing phrases involving exclamations about him being a spy, secret agent or working undercover.
What the fuck?
He heard his encrypted phone in the other room ring, the screen illuminating in a hauntingly familiar red that meant it was high priority from Patterson.
He felt his heart punching through his ribs and rushed into the living room, answering.
Patterson’s frantic speech left little time to respond.
“Cal, just listen—someone leaked your identity with us to the media, and Vogel intercepted a federal dispatch that an FBI tac-team is heading there to take you in for the carnage at Burke’s place, dead or alive. Whoever is behind all of this wants you out of the picture, and if you end up in a federal prison, your days are numbered. Get out of there! Don’t go to any of our safehouses, and stay off the radar until I figure out what the hell is going on. My surveillance on that federal agent indicates they’re enroute to your place as we speak.”
Leaked identity…tac team. The words echoed in his weary brain.
“Run, goddammit!”
He felt the familiar sensation of adrenaline coursing through his veins, but this time it was coupled with a nearly nauseating sensation in his stomach. He’d never suspected that he’d be fleeing from federal agents zeroing in on his house. “Copy that.”
The world around hi
m narrowed to the entrance to the garage. He shoved the phone in his back pocket then sprinted to the door, grabbing his leather jacket. He burst into the garage just as the unnerving sound of screeching tires on the street outside pierced the air.
He looked longingly at his Harley, knowing his evasion efforts would be limited to foot power now. Cal glanced at the corner of the ground behind his bike. There’d be no time to remove the cylinder hidden in the cement that contained an evasion kit with passports, cash and credit cards.
He heard the sickening sound of footsteps running up the driveway then splitting off. One group was heading to the front door while the other was trotting up alongside the garage. He knew there was probably already a three-man team covering the rear exit. Battering rams, flash-bangs and a rapid assault were next, and he only had a few seconds to act if he was going to avoid being in flex-cuffs, bound for a federal holding cell.
He removed his HK pistol from its appendix-carry holster, then just as quickly returned it.
No way I’m turning this into a bloodbath in my own home. I’m not a fucking criminal.
Cal trotted up the loft stairs. Standing at the rear window, he slid it open, yanking out the screen. Cal saw the bushes in the back were trampled and knew the rear-entry team was probably stacking up under the eaves in preparation to burst in through the patio.
He closed the door to the loft and covered his ears, waiting for the orchestrated assaults and jarring commotion from the flash-bangs to cover his escape.
His very home, a place that had been a comfort and refuge from the horrors of battle overseas, was now about to become its own war zone. He felt his stomach churning at the thought that the last vestige of his world with Cassie was about to be desecrated by the government—the very government that he had fought to defend for his entire career.
The shock of it all and the outrage of the calamitous events of this week were threatening to override the flight syndrome rushing through every fiber of his being. He wanted to stay and fight, repel the intruders then work his way up the food chain and destroy everyone who had led him to this moment.