Midnight Fire

by Lisa Marie Rice

  He cut across two lawns, wondering whether fences had been built in the intervening years, but nope. Everything was more or less exactly as he remembered it, except the trees were bigger.

  Better to hide behind.

  He was coming up to the back entrance. Moving quietly, he skirted the edge of the Waterstone estate, making sure he didn’t disturb any vegetation. He was behind a row of hedges and it was very dark, though the fire was catching in the back of the Blake house. He’d brought along night vision gear but it wouldn’t work with fire in his line of sight. It would blind him.

  Would also blind anyone else wearing night vision gear, so that was good. Quietly rounding a corner, he carefully parted the branches of a laurel hedge, the sharp scent of bay leaves overwhelming the smell of smoke for a second.

  Jack stood stock-still, unfocusing his eyes, letting them run a pattern-recognition program, slowing his heart rate, breathing slowly. He had acute hearing and had been taught to use that while undercover.

  The smell of smoke was now overwhelming. A few flames licked at the walls, as the fire spread to the back. The sirens were loud, as were the voices of the firefighters out front, quickly setting up their gear. These homes were worth millions. Local firefighters would be good and fast.

  The noise and smells and crackling flames were excellent cover. Anyone lingering to see how the fire was going would be lulled into complacence, thinking they’d be invisible.

  And...there it was. First a noise, then a flash of light. A low murmur of a voice, head turning and Jack could see the glow of a cellphone pressed against an ear. Idiot. Who went into the field with a bright cell screen?

  But clearly the fucker thought he was invulnerable, invisible. And he was, to the neighbors and firefighters out front. The guy didn’t have 360 degree situational awareness. Didn’t even think of checking his six.

  Fire exerted a fascination to humans, most people were mesmerized by flames. Certainly this guy was. Jack imagined him—watching the effects of his arson, giving himself a little congratulatory pat on the back for a job well done. Because it was well done. The flames were now engulfing the entire house. Flashovers had been carefully planned and carried out. Investigators might or might not find arson evidence, depending on how carefully they looked, but the fire was doing its job of eating the house, fast.

  Who knew how hard they would look? Hector Blake was dead. Not currently married, no issue. Insurance would take the brunt of the cost, the estate to be divided up among Blake’s ex-wives, presumably, depending on his will. Knowing Blake’s nastiness, he very well could have left his estate to his cats. But there would be no one to press for the investigation, no one who cared.

  The Glades had essentially become an abandoned house.

  The man closed the call, put his cell in a pocket of his combat vest. Now that there was more light as the fire spread out back, Jack could see he was dressed for an op. Combat vest, combat trousers and a weapon in a thigh holster. He couldn’t see the type, the angle was wrong. But he didn’t have an assault rifle. It wasn’t that kind of op.

  Didn’t make any difference. He could have been armed with a nuke and Jack was going to punch his lights out. This man had a direct contact with the men who’d killed his family, who’d attacked his country, who were working for a foreign power. Traitors, in every sense of the term.

  Jack moved quietly, but steadily. He wasn’t making any noise but if he were, a steady background noise was better than random sounds that came from stopping and starting. Crouched low, walking toe to heel. He had the advantage of surprise and he knew the terrain well.

  And he was motivated. Oh yeah. Every cell in his body was swollen with rage. He’d carried out ops dispassionately, out of duty. This wasn’t duty, this was as personal as it gets.

  The man was watching the fire still. Not a minute had passed—nothing to the man, everything to Jack. A minute was enough to cross the space to where the man was.

  He caught the man by total surprise, snaking an arm around his neck, grabbing his right fist with his left hand to increase pressure. It was a hold that put immense pressure on the carotid arteries. The man fought, hands scratching at Jack’s arms, feet kicking. But Jack was wearing a jacket threaded through with Kevlar and he couldn’t even feel the scrabbling fingers, and the man’s kicks against his boots were useless. But even if the guy drew blood and broke bones, Jack’s hold wouldn’t loosen.

  The man writhed and fought from an awkward position—off the ground, head forced back—while Jack stood solid and unmoving, tightening the choke hold.

  The man suddenly slumped in his arms after a minute and a half. He was lean but it was all dense muscle, probably 180. Jack held him up for another half minute then eased the man down to the grass.

  He looked up and around very carefully, but they were alone.

  He stared down at the man, seeing his face for the first time. The fire was roaring now and there was plenty of light. The man had a hard face, lean and drawn. Weather-beaten skin, definitely not a metrosexual. A knife scar along his right jawbone.

  Jack had never seen him before.

  He took out his cell and took four photos—two from the front, two profiles, left and right. Never taking his own gloves off, he removed the gloves from the man’s right hand and pressed each digit to the screen of his cell and took photos.

  There were no identifying documents in his pockets, but then Jack wasn’t expecting any. You don’t go on an op with passport and driver’s license in your pocket. But the gear was really interesting, and there was a tiny tablet connected via Bluetooth to an ear bud.

  The gun turned out to be a Glock 20. Which didn’t mean much. There were an estimated three hundred million handguns in the US and the Glock was one of the most popular. It was probably the guy’s regular piece—he hadn’t been outfitted with anything special, because no one was expecting trouble.

  Though trouble had found him.

  Jack took the cellphone, the Glock, the three magazines in special pouches on the combat vest, together with a small knife in an ankle holder. In the last pocket he searched was a flash drive. Felicity—the computer genius back in Portland who had become a good friend of Isabel’s—would go to town on the contents of the phone, tablet and flash drive.

  Time to go. But Jack stood for a few seconds longer, staring at the unconscious man on the ground, hands opening and closing. He needed to dissipate tension because the urge to kill the unconscious man was very, very strong. He was a bad guy, undoubtedly part of the team that was planning another huge attack like the one that had taken his family’s lives.

  He didn’t deserve to live, not one second more. He was already out. Jack could argue that he miscalculated the chokehold.

  Sorry. Shit happens.

  But a dead body made waves. There would be an investigation. Jack had been very careful but you could never be one hundred percent sure you hadn’t left a few cells of DNA behind. The last thing he needed was a murder investigation while he was still underground. Law enforcement needed to focus on the coming attack, not on the murder of one more scumbag.

  No. Much as Jack wanted to whack the scumbag, he left him there on the grass, unconscious and stripped of everything.

  Let him explain that to his bosses, how he was overcome without warning by an unknown enemy and that intel had fallen into the wrong hands.

  Maybe his bosses would whack the guy for Jack. That would be a good outcome, oh, yeah.

  Jack sent the photographs and prints to Nick along with a terse message:

  Have cell, thumb drive and weapons. ID the fucker.

  Between Felicity and the resources of the FBI, they’d find out who this guy was and with any luck who he was working for.

  Jack checked his watch by the light of the roaring fire. He’d been gone almost half an hour. Summer would be wo
rried. He turned and started loping back to her.

  * * *

  Marcus Springer watched the TV monitor, liking what he saw. It was actually quite cinematic—a beautiful old mansion up in flames in the night, the bright orange contrasting nicely with the antique bricks of the façade. Hmm. Yes.

  A pretty reporter showed up on the screen. Very pretty. It was chilly outside but she had on a short sleeved dress showing a great deal of cleavage. Ah, the metabolism of youth. She was probably blue with cold but who could tell under the pancake makeup? Dark, almond-shaped eyes, big luscious mouth shiny with red lipstick, matching fingernail polish. A little excited, a little cold. A hint of nipple.

  “This is Lucia Almeida reporting to you from Prince George County where one of the area’s famous homes is going up in flames.” She turned, showing a pert profile. “As you can see behind me, fire has broken out in The Glades, the home of Hector Blake, whose funeral was held just today in the National Cathedral.”

  Cut to the funeral and oh my! There Marcus was, up on the podium, reciting falsehoods about Blake in a perfectly convincing way. Yes, he did cut a good figure up there. Just a touch of avoirdupois, alas. He’d have to tell Dorothy to tell the cook to cut down on the sauces.

  The screen cut back to the pretty Latina and the blazing house. She was positioned right in front of the fire so that it looked like she was that pretty actress whose name he could never remember in The Hunger Games. The Girl on Fire.

  “Firefighters say that the blaze has spread to the entire house and that there is very little likelihood of salvaging the structure. The house itself dates back to 1814 and was acquired by Hector Blake’s great-grandfather at the turn of the last century. The house has been featured in several decorating magazines. Hector Blake has several ex-wives and no descendants. I managed to speak with a member of the police force, and he said it is too early to say whether this is an accidental fire or arson, though he did point out that these old homes have timbered sections made of very old and dry wood.” She stepped slightly to the side so that a part of her pretty face was lit up, the rest in relative shadow. “So far it seems as if the fire started accidentally, with no suspicion of arson, but we expect a statement will be made tomorrow morning from the Sheriff’s office. This is Lucia Almeida for Newsweb.com.”

  Springer checked the other news websites, then the various news channels but no one had anything to report. The fire was still alive and would burn until the house was gone. Then they would have to wait for the embers to cool before arson experts sifted through the ashes.

  He was certain that his man, Kearns, had found someone to do a good job and if worse came to worst, and the authorities ruled it arson—well, no one could ever connect it back to him. He was safe, he was—

  His cell rang, Kearns’s tone. “Hello,” Springer said genially. “I’m watching the fire on my monitor. Excellent.” He sipped his whiskey and frowned when Kearns didn’t answer immediately. The smile dropped from his face and he leaned forward to put the cut crystal glass on the coffee table. Then, sighing, put a silver coaster under it. Dorothy gave him hell if she found rings on the table. “What?” he barked. “Talk to me.”

  “Ah, sir, as you can see the fire is burning Blake’s house down. My operator assured me that there would be no overt signs of arson. Maybe if a highly specialized forensic scientist came, but you said that there would be no one to push for an investigation and—”

  “Yes, yes,” Springer said testily, pressing the satphone closer to his ear. The conversation was encrypted, the sound waves bouncing from a satellite twenty thousand miles up in space. There was a slight delay and a faint echo, minor issues when all was well, but now annoying. “Come to the point.”

  Silence.

  “The point, sir,” Kearns said, reluctance in every syllable, “is that my man was found unconscious at the back of the property.”

  A jolt of electricity shot through Springer. He was always careful, never betrayed emotions, but this was bad news. He remained silent. There was undoubtedly more bad news and sure enough—

  “Someone placed him in a chokehold, almost killed him. Firefighters found him. Unfortunately, he was in combat dress, covered in Tyvek, so as to be sure not to leave any trace behind, but any law enforcement officer would recognize that as a sign of criminal activity. His night vision gear, his weapon, his tablet and his cell were taken. He is now in custody.”

  A huff of breath escaped Springer, an involuntary stress reaction. Kearns heard it.

  “He won’t talk, sir. Guaranteed.” A moment’s silence. “Because he knows we’ll get him out.”

  It was an implicit question. Would Springer work to get Kearns’s idiot operator out of custody? No, a thousand times no. The man was a moron, getting caught like that. Getting caught by an unknown entity. Someone good enough to get at the man unseen, someone strong enough to knock a battle-hardened soldier out with a chokehold. That took knowledge and brute strength, yes, but Kearns’s man was an operator. Not a newbie.

  But letting Kearns’s operator languish in the hands of law enforcement, satisfying as it would be, would be counterproductive. Kearns worked hard for Springer. He showed loyalty and, distasteful though it might be, Springer had to show loyalty back. And it was a measure of his power. Kearns was a good soldier, but crude. He would see it as a dick-measuring exercise. My guy’s dick is bigger than yours.

  So Springer had to figure out a way to get this moron out of custody. He was Deputy Director of the CIA, true, and he could always cite that tried and true excuse, national security. They’d let Kearns’s man go, no question.

  But it would definitely raise red flags, big billowing ones. There would be written records. Kearns’s man would be fingerprinted and since all his private army of operators were ex-military, the man would be in the system. He’d be identified. And even if he didn’t talk, there’d be questions as big as the Washington Monument asked.

  Springer was mulling these factors over in his head when Kearns spoke again. “There’s something else, sir.” That electric shock again. Something else? Besides one of Kearns’s operators being found unconscious and his cell and tablet in the hands of someone unknown? What could that something else be?

  “Yes.” This time Springer didn’t hide the coldness in his voice and he could practically hear Kearns wincing. Quite right. Springer affected an attitude of bonhomie, a civilized man who could be counted on to behave in a civilized manner. But they were playing with fire here and though he was certain of the ultimate triumph of The Plan, nothing was absolutely certain in this world.

  World-altering events were in play, events as momentous as World War II. The world would look entirely different once The Plan came to fruition. Only instead of a four year war costing two hundred million lives with a combined military force of seven hundred million troops that left the civilized world in rubble, it would be using cyberwarfare with minimal damage.

  No, this was going to be a thoroughly modern operation with very few soldiers, leveraging data instead of bullets. No atom bomb leaving ruins lasting generations. Oh, no. As a matter of fact, it was entirely possible that by the end of The Plan, many Americans wouldn’t even realize that they’d fought in a war and lost. Much would go on exactly as before except the ruling class would change.

  They were mid-way through The Plan, so any unforeseen events were borderline dangerous, possibly catastrophic.

  He waited for Kearns to explain.

  Instead of explaining, a photo appeared on the screen of his cell. At first, Springer couldn’t figure it out. The photo was dark and most of the light came from the sky, the fire which appeared to be about a block away. A human figure, standing outside a vehicle. One of those small hybrid vehicles that looked quite out of place among the manicured grounds of the area. The photos were on a carousel and as they flicked across the screen, a feeling of deep unease
, akin to fear except Marcus Springer didn’t do fear, pooled in his guts.

  The figure was female. In increments, she closed the door of the vehicle, moved to the front of the car. Moved to an intersection. Shaded her eyes with her hand, as if from that position she could see straight to the fire that was too bright to look at directly. Then she turned and Springer got a clear look at her, full face, and gasped.

  Summer Redding.

  Summer Redding who owned and ran Area 8, a famous—and in his circles notorious—political blog. What was she doing at the blazing fire destroying Hector Blake’s home? It had just hit the news services, and the time tag on the photo was half an hour ago, so she wasn’t ambulance chasing. Did she have prior knowledge? She must have had, to be there so early. But how?

  She had to be connected to whoever had taken down Kearns’s operator. Clearly she was investigating Hector Blake and clearly she had some inside knowledge.

  She was a liability. She had to be stopped right now, before anything she learned appeared in Area 8. Whatever she knew, it was too much. If who she was with identified Kearns’s operator, there was a path that led straight to Springer. And it would be published in Area 8.

  This had to be stopped. Right now.

  “That is Summer Redding,” he told Kearns. “Find out where she lives and eliminate her. Immediately.”

  And he heard his two favorite words. “Yes, sir,” Kearns replied.

  Chapter Four

  Summer waited and waited and waited. And waited some more. It felt like hours went by, though her watch—which must be broken—showed that only twenty minutes had passed since Jack slipped out of the car and disappeared into the night.

  Amazing. He was a huge man, took up a lot of space. He’d been there on the sidewalk and then suddenly he wasn’t. Gone in an instant.