“Now, I’ll agree with that,” Jazie chimed in. “Especially not when we’re up against Thomas Kunz and G.R.I.D.”
None of them were likely to forget this adversary. Kunz was the head of Group Resources for Individual Development, the biggest black-market intelligence broker of U.S. resources, assets, and personnel in the world, and both Thomas Kunz and his organization had committed atrocities so horrendous that no one in the intelligence community could forget them, much less the S.A.S.S. Special Abilities Team tasked with determining the truth.
S.A.S.S. units didn’t exist on paper, and the operatives assigned to them were buried in the Department of Defense’s Office of Personnel Management, like many covert or paramilitary operatives. The S.A.T.—Special Abilities Team, namely Morgan, Taylor Lee, and Jazie—were buried even deeper. They were civilian consultants and, while everyone in the chain of command had an occasional need for their subject-matter-expert services, not one person in that same chain of command wanted anyone else in or outside the chain to know it, or to even know the S.A.S.S.'s S.A.T. team existed. So Morgan and her team were assigned to Commander Sally Drake because, for reasons of national security, darn few knew the S.A.S.S. units existed either, and that was that. S.A.T. was official and buried deep, yet accessible to those in the highest circles with security clearances exceeding top secret.
But no matter how deeply they were buried, neither Morgan nor Taylor Lee nor Jazie had a single illusion about Thomas Kunz or G.R.I.D. He knew the S.A.T. existed. And with or without their special skills, he and his multinational, greedy G.R.I.D. henchmen were more than capable of killing every member of the team, or worse, of capturing them and keeping them alive to torture.
Kunz was a master at torture, and the twisted, sick bastard liked it.
Having viewed what was left of some of his victims still curdled Morgan’s blood.
Jazie moved beside them. “Well, let’s don’t linger at getting Captain Stern to Dr. Foster. If it took two shots to drop him, odds are good that he won’t stay out the full four hours and, like you said, Morgan, when he wakes up, he’s going to be one pissed-off puppy.”
Not exactly what Morgan had said, but close enough, and the sooner she got Stern delivered to Dr. Joan Foster, and the farther Morgan got away from him, the better she’d feel. Joan, however, wouldn’t exactly relish receiving the Kunz bait.
Once, Kunz had held Joan captive. After he’d killed her parents and grandparents, he’d abducted her husband and son and had threatened to kill them too unless Joan performed behavioral modifications and memory implants as well as other psychological warfare therapies on both Kunz’s body doubles and on those in sensitive military and other intelligence-rich positions that Kunz held captive.
Nearly two years ago, an S.A.S.S. unit led by Captain Amanda West had rescued Joan, her husband, and their son. She had been working under Commander Drake ever since, trying to help bring Thomas Kunz and G.R.I.D. to justice. Joan was the first woman alive with the knowledge and expertise needed to successfully deprogram one of Kunz’s body doubles. For a long time, she alone could tell the difference between the doubles and the originals. Now she had trained two other doctors, which helped Commander Drake sleep a little easier at night. But the sooner Joan verified that this man was the real Captain Jackson Stern, the better Morgan would feel about her decision to bring him in.
“Going live.” She warned Taylor Lee and Jazie she was opening up communications to Home Base again, then stepped back, tilted her lip mic into position, and turned it on, brushing her jaw with the backs of her fingers. “Home Base?”
“Go ahead, Guardian One,” Commander Drake said.
“No scarring or other visible signs of plastic surgery noted on the target.” By sight or feel, either of which could be inaccurate, they were operating in near blackout conditions. A flashlight-enhanced visual on more than his neck would have made Morgan more secure in her intuitive findings, but prolonged or frequent light was too dangerous; they could be spotted and destroy an opportunity to bring down those ashore who were purportedly waiting in the harbor for Stern’s arrival. One shot of light could be attributed to lightning. Any more than that was simply too risky. “I believe it’s him.”
“That’s enough for me,” the commander said, then delicately warned Morgan to take no unnecessary risks. “We’ve already got one corpse, and another individual who could be facing the needle. I don’t want any more complications.”
Facing the needle? Morgan frowned, confused. “But there is no death penalty.” At least there wasn’t in the military. The worst penalty that could be inflicted in this case was life in prison.
“If the victim was murdered off-base, then we’re out of it. The locals have jurisdiction, and they can—and probably will—put the death penalty on the table.”
“But we have possession—”
“For the moment, yes. We do,” Drake said. “The locals are being cooperative until we know for a fact where the actual murder occurred. Fortunately, we have a history of good relations there, and we’re both cooperating in a joint investigation,” she explained but stopped short of sounding convinced that the cooperation would continue indefinitely. “Get the target to the base for further determination. Transport is waiting,” she said, then added the coordinates.
“Yes, ma’am.” Morgan shoved the lip mic away from her face. “You heard her.” She grabbed Stern under the shoulders. “Catch his feet, Taylor Lee.”
Jazie took the Sunrise’s wheel, and Taylor and Morgan hauled Stern into their little boat then settled in, with Stern prone, Morgan beside him, and Taylor Lee driving. Lightning sizzled, striking eerily close. The smell of it filling her nose, Morgan looked back to the wheel. “Be careful, Jaz.” Plenty of reinforcements waited for her, but if for some unforeseen reason Kunz’s assassins were there too, anything could happen. He didn’t tolerate anything but the best from his associates, and that wasn’t good news for anyone up against them.
Jazie smiled and nodded. “No problem.”
Praying she was right, Morgan gave the signal. Jazie and Taylor Lee took off in their respective boats, cutting across the rough waves in parallel directions.
“Quit worrying. She’ll be fine,” Taylor Lee said, speed plastering her skin and pulling at her eyes.
“Of course, she will.” Thomas Kunz’s assassins expected Stern to be on the Sunrise and arriving later at Magnolia Beach’s harbor, but Jazie would take the yacht to the bay, dock it, and then turn it over to a forensics team from Providence. They’d do their thing and a joint forces team would take the boat on to the harbor.
Jazie wouldn’t be with them. After docking the boat, she would meet the team at the Providence Air Force Base hospital, where Joan Foster would be waiting for Morgan and Taylor to arrive with Captain Jackson Stern. If, as expected, the G.R.I.D. assassins should be waiting for Stern at Magnolia Beach’s harbor, members of Task Force 248 would greet them, and they were just itching to do battle. The guys on the task force had as many reasons as the S.A.S.S. to hate G.R.I.D. and Thomas Kunz, and their anger had been building up a head of steam for a long time. Morgan almost felt sorry for the assassins. Almost.
Thomas Kunz and G.R.I.D. had been responsible for the deaths of too many operatives and too many Americans for Morgan to feel genuine sympathy and not fear. Kunz was stunningly clever, a genius by anyone’s standards, and he’d proven it repeatedly in their clashes.
Capturing the would-be assassins would benefit the S.A.S.S. more than killing the lowlifes, but history had repeatedly proven that Thomas Kunz compartmentalized his G.R.I.D. operations and only he and his senior operations manager, Moss, aka Beefy, knew details beyond any individual’s operational segment. Not even Kunz’s second in command, Marcus Sandross, was privy to all phases of any operation. Unfortunately, neither Kunz nor Moss ever got within striking distance of anyone else to risk being intercepted, though S.A.S.S. once thought it had Kunz safely incarcerated in Leavenworth (it turned out to be on
e of his body doubles).
Two S.A.S.S. operatives had experienced close encounters.
Captain Amanda West had broken the operation’s manager’s nose once, and Katherine Kane had gut-wounded him in a G.R.I.D. compound cave in the Middle East. They had dubbed him Beefy and, unfortunately, he had survived the gut wound. Amanda had gone toe-to-toe with Kunz and barely lived.
At least these reports summarized prevailing belief. Kunz was as bad as or worse than Saddam Hussein with his dozen known body doubles. Who knew if any of the S.A.S.S. operatives had ever encountered the real Kunz? That is, besides Amanda, of course, who had originally discovered Kunz was using body doubles to infiltrate high-powered, sensitive government positions. She’d been abducted by Kunz and brought to one of his Middle Eastern compounds, where she ran into her own double in a mock apartment that matched her own home down to the minutest detail.
The shock of that discovery had rocked foreign governments, Homeland Security, the Department of Defense, all the intelligence agencies in the world, and the psychologist in Morgan. Even now it roiled through her, and she cringed against it and all it implied.
Morgan knew Kunz was involved in this mission and in the case that had spurred it and prompted the honchos at higher headquarters to assign the S.A.T. to it. His involvement blanketed her bones with fear and sent her flesh crawling, warning her that a horrific experience such as the one Amanda West had endured could happen again—this time, to her.
Morgan glanced down at Jackson Stern, bouncing against the deck with each wave and roll and pitch of the boat. Or was her intuition wrong? Was Stern really Stern and not a body double? Or had Kunz already successfully struck his first blow and won the battle in their ongoing war?
Either way, one thing still didn’t make sense, and it was significant. Why had Thomas Kunz gotten himself and G.R.I.D. involved in a domestic dispute that ended in homicide? No matter the angle, it just didn’t compute. Not to foreign or domestic intelligence agencies. Not to the honchos in D.C. Not to Commander Drake. And not to Morgan.
There had to be more to this than murder.
Knowing Kunz, much more. But what?
“Signal.” Taylor Lee pointed to a light on the shore.
“ETA?” Morgan shifted focus to the shoreline and guessed their estimated time of arrival to be in about three minutes.
“Three forty-five,” she said, honing the time.
Morgan shot a millisecond beam on the light and then double-checked the coordinates Commander Drake had given her on her wrist monitor. They matched; it was their ride. She pulled her lip mic into place. “Got you, Guardian Four,” Morgan said, acknowledging the waiting chopper’s signal. It would fly them to Providence. “ETA 3:45.”
“Roger that, Guardian One.”
Recognizing the voice as Captain Amanda West’s, Morgan stiffened. Another chill slithered up her backbone. Though others were involved, she headed the actual S.A.S.S. team assigned to bringing Kunz and G.R.I.D. down—the team Morgan previously had been brought in on multiple times as a consultant profiler. And the tense pitch in Amanda’s tone had Morgan’s intuition receiving rapid-fire warnings.
Fear.
Danger.
Death.
Amanda had good reason to fear Kunz, considering the man had held her captive for three months and subjected her to horrific torture. He had even buried her alive, and no doubt she couldn’t shake knowing that the only reason she had escaped with her life was that he had wanted her to escape.
She knew the specifics on the S.A.T. team. She knew their experience, their credentials. She knew Morgan tested off the charts as an intuitive, that Taylor Lee was similarly classified as a psychic who saw things, and that Jazie Craig heard things few other humans could hear; often, mere thoughts, and yet Amanda still feared Kunz would succeed at whatever terrorist activity he was attempting to launch against them through Jackson Stern.
Amanda feared he would outwit them and win—and if he did, then thousands, if not millions, would die.
Unfortunately, Morgan feared the same.
And if he did win, then that opened three questions in her mind.
What would his success cost the U.S.?
How many people would forfeit their lives?
And when the attack was over, how many in the S.A.S.S. and in the S.A. T. would lie among the dead?
CHAPTER 2
Amanda secured clearance and then landed the helicopter on the concrete pad adjacent to the hospital. Double doors on the ground floor of the nearby five-story gray-brick building opened wide, and two burly men dressed in hospital whites rushed out, pushing a gurney. A very pregnant Joan Foster followed them, hair pulled back in a bun, lab coat flapping in the wind stirred by the props.
In short order, the men had Jackson Stern out of the chopper and strapped to the gurney. They each grabbed a side and rolled him through an opening in the roped off area surrounding the pad, across the wide walkway to the building, then on inside using the same doors they’d exited. Joan escorted them down a long, wide hallway, and Morgan and Taylor Lee brought up the rear until the others disappeared with Stern behind broad wooden doors that marked the boundary of Joan Foster’s private domain. No one entered it without her express invitation, and that included Taylor Lee and Morgan.
“What we do now?” Taylor Lee asked, coming to a halt.
Morgan stopped beside her and, staring at the wood grain in the solid doors, offered a silent prayer that her intuition had been accurate and the man on the gurney was Jackson Stern. The closer they had gotten to Providence, the tighter the knots had wound in her stomach and the more she had doubted herself. It was fear. Pure and simple, unadorned fear, and the only cure rested in Joan. She would reveal the truth. God, please don’t let me be wrong. Please … A trickle of sweat slid down between Morgan’s breasts, and she felt clammy all over. “We do the only thing we can do.” She slid Taylor Lee a level look. “We wait.”
“Wearing this?” Taylor Lee motioned to her wet suit. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t breathe.”
It didn’t. “Borrow a pair of scrubs—a couple pair.” Morgan was eager to get out of her wet suit, too. In the water, it was great. Outside it, the suit was hot and itchy. “You know where the linen closet is—around that corner, on the right.” Morgan pointed down the hallway. “I’ll meet you in the waiting room.”
“Works for me.” Taylor Lee took off down the hall.
About 2:15 A.M., Commander Drake phoned. “Any word yet from Joan?”
“Not yet.” Wearing green scrubs and footies, Morgan hauled herself out of the hard blue chair without complaint. The scrubs and socks beat the wet suit and fins. She walked down the row of chairs toward the door, ignoring the weather report on the TV. Taylor Lee had muted the sound and then promptly dozed off. She’d slept soundly until Morgan’s cell phone rang. Now she sat straight up in her chair and stretched like a cat, working the kinks out of her shoulders. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“No, it shouldn’t,” the commander said, then added, more to herself than Morgan, “unless she’s run into something unusual.”
That comment put more knots in Morgan’s stomach. In the hallway, she leaned back against the drab wall. A coat of paint wouldn’t hurt. Something bright and cheerful would be welcome though, being the ass he was, the base commander, Colonel Gray, would spit nails before making anything on base cheerful or welcoming. “I did have to shoot him twice,” Morgan reminded her. “Could be taking longer because of the drugs.”
“Could be,” the commander agreed. “If Joan had run into anything odd, she would have stopped and called. She has in the past, anyway.”
That disclosure had Morgan feeling a bit better. She pushed away from the wall and peeked back into the waiting room. Taylor forked her fingers through her long black hair. Typically sleek and smooth, it was rumpled and no doubt her head itched too, after being confined in the wet suit. They’d both be more comfortable after a shower.
�
�Jazie there yet?”
Morgan glanced around the edge of the door to a small table in the corner next to the TV. Taylor moved over to it, then slid onto a chair on one side. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Jazie sat down across from her on the other. Keeping an eye on the tropical update on Lil, Jazie dealt from a deck of cards and they began their umpteenth game of spades. “She got in about two hours ago. We’re together in the waiting room.”
“I know you’re all exhausted, Morgan, but I have to ask you to hang around until we hear from Joan. We’re on hold on our next move until we do.”
“No problem.” Morgan rubbed her neck, trying to sound as if she meant it. Fighting the wave action in the gulf had her more than exhausted; she was positively bone weary. “After we hear from Joan, we should take a look at the body.”
“That can wait,” she said.
“Maybe, but we don’t know that.” Morgan hedged. “We could lose control of the body.”
“True.” The commander hesitated. “But that’s not the reason. Tell me why you wouldn’t rather get some rest first and then examine the body. The real reason.”
Leave it to Drake. Gift or experience, she was too astute by half. “Frankly, since I knew the victim, I would rather not have to examine the body at all.” Her mouth went dry. She licked at her lips then added, “It makes doing my job more difficult.” Morgan bounced back against the wall, knowing that the commander’s concern stemmed from a different source. She thought being tired would diminish their special abilities—and it might. Better to address that before being called out for holding back again. The commander had a notoriously short fuse. “We could have to scan twice,” Morgan admitted, rubbing the back of her neck with the palm of her hand.
“Which doesn’t do a damn thing toward explaining why you want to do it now, then,” the commander countered.
“No.” Morgan stared at a brown water spot on the tile ceiling. “I guess it doesn’t.”
Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04] Page 3