DARC Ops: The Complete Series

by Jamie Garrett

  But it also scared the shit out of her. Being the subject of Jackson's intent focus— and lust—was both arousing and terrifying. The way she jumped right into it was also a new and frightening territory, a departure from the usually calm and calculated strategy which had carried her relatively unscathed into adulthood. It had been a logical path. But it was also one that somehow crossed with the more curved paths of morally ambiguous paramilitary men and crooked politicians. Working for a gun-runner while falling for someone she didn’t even know. Was this really her doing these things? It was stuff she liked to read about, urges she'd normally satisfy through the safe and distant fantasy world of bedtime romance novels. But now, with her life itself becoming the sexy, dangerous plot, it was no longer as easy as closing the book and turning out the light.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” asked Lashay.

  “Tell you what?”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Lashay pulled a cigarette out from behind her ear. “Come on, girl, don't play me like that,” she said, lighting up a long menthol with a puff of smoke.

  “I told you,” said Mira. “You knew I thought he was cute.”

  “So? Everyone who sees him thinks that. But not everyone gets to make out with him in a parking garage. The fuck you holding back for?”

  “I had no idea it would go that far.”

  “Really? He was giving you no signs?”

  Mira shrugged. She pointed to a short concrete wall at the bottom of the library's rolling green lawn. “Wanna sit here?”

  “Yeah, that’ll do.” Lashay took a hit of menthol and then talked with smoke trailing out of her mouth. “Damn. I set you up with a Navy SEAL and you leave me in the dark. That's cold, Mira.”

  They sat atop the lowered concrete barrier. Mira took a cold sip of cappuccino and gazed across the street to the rear of the Capitol Building. In between was a small park where a dog handler was working with a young, wiry German Shepherd, holding a treat above his head and moving it back until the dog sat.

  “Cold hearted,” said Lashay.

  “Hey, it just happened. And I still don't even know if it should've to begin with.” Mira went to take a sip but then stopped herself. “It was crazy. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, I just went for it.”

  “Well, good for you, Mira. Go get him.”

  “Yeah, but I don't even know who he is. I know just as much now as I did when we first talked about him.”

  “Sounds like you know enough,” Lashay snickered and flicked ash to the sidewalk. “Don't worry about it. You're a good judge of character.”

  Mira frowned. Just a few weeks ago she’d respected and admired her boss. How quickly and horribly everything she thought she knew about a person could change.

  “Mira, you've spent enough time with him. You know him.”

  “Yeah,” she said half-heartedly.

  “Is he as funny and smart as his interviews?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he nice to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he treat you like a queen?”

  “What?”

  “Do you feel like he'd protect you, your life, when all the chips are down?”

  “Yeah, definitely.” She didn’t even have to think about it.

  “Mm-hm. There you go.” Lashay took another drag from her cigarette.

  “He's almost too protective. I bet he's probably watching me right now.”

  “Well you're in danger,” said Lashay. “You're his queen.”

  “I'm his client. He said so.”

  “Semantics,” Lashay said, waving a hand through the air.

  Maybe it was semantics. She wasn’t blind. Mira could she was becoming increasingly personal for Jackson. Not just her case, but her safety, and her sanity. She'd seen a moment of panic in his eyes when she’d told him about her invitation to the Embassy Row Ball. A flicker of worry after every time she'd say goodbye. Everything culminating to his embrace in the parking garage, his hunger for her, his heat.

  “Do you want to fuck him?”

  “What!?” Mira tried to quiet herself as a mother and her toddler ambled by. “Can you watch your mouth?”

  “Yeah, you just watch yours before it gets all over his—”

  “Lashay! Jesus...”

  “Well, it seems like it's headed that way. How many more times can you say no to that hot piece of ass? Hmm?”

  It was a good question. One that Mira had no answer for.

  “I'm guessing not too many more,” said Lashay.

  “That's if he ever gives me the opportunity again.”

  “He will. You're probably driving him crazy.”

  Mira watched as the German Shepherd sat and waited obediently for his treat. A string of drool hung from his mouth, glistened in the afternoon sun. Gross. “You're right,” she said, turning to Lashay. “I think I fucked it all up. I started it, then put the brakes on like an idiot. He thinks I'm playing games now.”

  “So? Play him.”

  Mira sighed and then sucked hopelessly on her straw.

  Lashay pointed at her with her cigarette. “He's an alpha, he needs to win. Remember that.”

  “I don't want a game.”

  “Nah, you don't know what you want. That's why you should listen to me. Hook up with him before someone else comes along.”

  “You make it sound so impersonal.”

  “Stake your claim.”

  Mira laughed. “I can hardly claim him.”

  “Well, there you go, selling yourself short again.”

  Mira looked through the plastic lid to the frothy bottom of her cappuccino. There was barely anything left.

  “Okay, I'm done.” Lashay took a drag and blew smoke through her nose. “Hey, who's that guy over there with the bike? He looks like he’s trying to fix something on it, but he keeps looking over at us.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Mira, only half joking. “Don't get me started. I feel like someone's been watching me for the last week.” Following Lashay’s gaze, she looked across the street to where a scruffy looking thirty-something guy was bent over his bike, seemingly inspecting the rear gears. The bike propped up against a tree trunk, half-hidden. He wore a courier bag, black sunglasses, and a headband that kept back a long mane of dirty blonde hair.

  “Of course you felt like someone was watching you. It was Jackson.”

  “Okay, then it feels like two people are following me around.” Mira kept her eyes on the impromptu bicycle repairer. There was something familiar about him. Maybe the headband. “And I've been getting these phone calls. That's not you, right?”

  “What's not me?” asked Lashay.

  “You haven’t been calling and hanging up?”

  “What the fuck would I do that for?”

  “Wait,” said Mira, talking quieter. “Didn’t you see that guy inside the library? The bike guy?”

  “Damn...”

  “Yeah? Did you?”

  “You are paranoid.”

  “Lashay, I'm serious. I think I remember him walking behind us in the reading room.” Mira's eyes didn’t leave him now, scrutinizing the way he puttered around the bicycle. He'd spin the pedals around, check the brakes, feel the tire. And then steal a glance at Mira.

  “Look,” said Lashay. “He does keep checking us out.”

  “Okay, stop looking back at him.”

  “He's not even trying to fix anything!”

  “Shh!” Mira nudged her hard in the ribs.

  “Ow! What the fuck!?”

  Mira suddenly saw a dark shape out of the corner of her eye. “Hey, girls,” the shape said.

  Lashay screamed at the shape. Mira shrieked at Lashay's scream. And Matthias sat calmly next to Lashay.

  “Wow,” he said, receiving a swift punch in the shoulder from his ex-girlfriend. “That was quite the entrance.”

  “Bad timing,” Mira said. “I was just freaking myself out about that guy over there.”

  “She thought he was
following us,” said Lashay. “The guy with the bike.”

  “I still think he is.” Mira picked up her overturned cappuccino cup and placed it on the concrete ledge, her hands still a little shaky.

  “Why? What's he doing?” asked Matthias.

  “Following me,” said Mira.

  “Really? I don't think he is.”

  “How do you know?”

  Matthias grinned. “Because I'm following you.”

  Mira felt almost violated at Matthias’ declaration, almost as if Jackson should be the only one tasked with nosing through the humdrum of her day-to-day existence. The only one allowed to be that close to her without her knowledge. But it shouldn’t have mattered. Matthias was a professional. He worked for Jackson...

  “Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable,” he said. “Jackson's orders. I've been looking out for you all morning.”

  Still, there was something she didn’t like about it. She had felt a certain comfort in the knowledge that Jackson, at any moment, was carefully waiting in the background, a vigilant guardian poised to swoop in for the rescue. Without that, Mira felt vulnerable. And alone. Even with Matthias on standby.

  “Mira, come on,” he said. “You look so glum. You don't think I'm qualified?”

  He seemed to be joking. But Mira knew there was some truth in what he was saying, that he noticed her real disappointment.

  “I'm actually better than Jackson at counter-surveillance, if you can believe it.”

  “I know I don't,” said Lashay. “I kept catching you for months after we broke up, driving by the house every now and then, stalking me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Matthias grabbed Lashay's iced cappuccino. “I didn’t do that.” He took a long sip, as if protesting the charge. “Besides, I was just checking in on you, making sure you were okay. You knew I was there.” He grinned, then asked Mira, “You okay, though? For real?”

  Jackson hadn’t said anything to her about Matthias. Should he have? A heads-up or something?

  “Yeah, I'm good,” she said. “So how long have you been watching?”

  “Oh, just recently.”

  Fuck... Maybe her little flip-flop in the parking garage was enough to push Jackson off the case. Could he be so petty? Fuck it. She deserved petty.

  “Anyway, stop worrying,” said Matthias. “If that guy was following you, I'd know about it. And then you would know about it.”

  “Sorry, I'm just all...” Mira let out a desperate, exhausted-sounding little laugh. “I'm all fucked up lately.” She felt Lashay's hand patting her on the shoulder. “I'm not used to this whole thing.”

  “Girl, you got this.”

  “Yeah, Mira, just hang tough. We're in the home stretch.”

  “Yep,” Mira nodded. “Home stretch.”

  Matthias handed the cappuccino back to Lashay. “But I need to let you know about something.”

  Oh, God... She wasn’t in the mood to hear any more bad news.

  “I came by your apartment last night.” He sounded almost somber. “I know your pass code. So anyway, uh... So I went up and your door was... Well, not only was it unlocked, but it was opened.”

  Mira felt her heart sink before her brain even processed the information.

  “Not wide open. But it was ajar. Did you, um... Do you remember doing that?”

  No... She didn’t remember doing that. But she didn’t remember locking it, either.

  Mira sat in silence, trying to replay the last events of the previous night. Brushed her teeth? Yep. Washed her face? Yep. Opened the door before going to bed and then leaving it ajar like a total idiot? Fuck no. Checked to make sure it was closed and locked? She couldn’t say.

  “Mira? Do you remember that?”

  All she could do was stare across the street. The dog handler, his spunky German Shepherd, and the creepy bike guy, had disappeared.

  15

  Jackson

  It wasn't so much the bullets or the bombs, but how well you could deal with mind-numbing boredom. The tedium of waiting. Sometimes for hours, and often for nothing. It was a silent killer, the type of waiting that could make any soldier comfortable and soft. All it took was a few hours of desert wind and bleating goats and nothing else. The void would eventually fill with the need for comfort and sleep. Breathing would slow, eyelids got heavy. Ears stopped listening for Arabic.

  When was the last time he fell asleep on duty? Was it Mogadishu? On the beach?

  Not the safest place for a cat nap, but it happened, the grogginess coming on just after the sun dipped below a skyline of bombed-out buildings. It might have been the waves, a natural sedative, plus memories of home wafting from the open campfires beneath sizzling piles of lobster. Relief finally came in the distant glow of ships, their lantern lights bobbing in rough seas as they approached the shore. It was something to keep him awake, an opportunity to carry out his mission of observing potential pirates and their potentially deadly goods.

  But the excitement didn’t last. The pirate fleet turned out to be a few humble fishing trawlers. He watched as the kids came streaming down the beach to unload the boats, each of them barefoot and coming away with a swordfish draped over their shoulder. They would have eventually tripped over Jackson had he not been sleeping under a stack of busted-up rowboats. And had he not fallen asleep, he would have noticed the adults who showed up after the kids for a cache of AK-47s. He'd find out the hard way, several days later, about the different type of prized catch that had been stored beneath the swordfish.

  Still, that night's might have been the best sleep he'd ever had on the job, until a few hours later when the storm surge had come frothing into his face. Or until the D.C. cop knocked on his window.

  Three hard knocks.

  “Excuse me, sir. Welfare check.”

  Jackson stirred awake.

  “Welfare check, sir. You okay in there?” asked the cop through Jackson's half-open driver side window.

  “Uh, yeah.” The words came sputtering out slowly and half-slurred as Jackson's eyes squinted into focus. “Yeah. Yes, Officer. I just fell asleep.”

  “Have you consumed any drugs or alcohol tonight, sir?”

  “No, I just, uh... I just fell asleep.”

  “You can't sleep in your vehicle, sir.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Jackson, looking around his car to make sure he had nothing "interesting" lying about. “It wasn't like I was planning on it.”

  “Planning on what, sir?”

  He was smart enough not to have an open Beretta for a passenger. But a cop didn’t need much. Just him sleeping was probably enough for probable cause.

  “Hey,” the officer said firmly. “What are you looking for?”

  “My license and registration.”

  “Well, stop. I'm not asking for it.”

  “Okay,” said Jackson, leaning back in his seat. He looked out the window and saw the cop's hand at his holster. “Relax, it's all good,” he told the cop.

  “I am relaxed, sir. Very relaxed. Can you just keep your hands on the wheel there?”

  Jackson complied.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No problem.”

  “I just wanted to remind you that non-parking activities are prohibited in the District of Columbia. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Jackson.

  The officer lowered his head to the window, probably sniffing for booze or weed, or doughnuts. He then seemed to delight in asking Jackson if he'd had any car trouble, if he was having a medical emergency, if he needed directions. Dumb questions from a dumb grin. Jackson could have straightened the whole thing out in a similarly prickish fashion. If he really wanted to, he could've asked for a supervisor who'd promptly tell the traffic cop to take a hike. He could've really embarrassed the kid.

  But Jackson had his own embarrassment to worry about, like falling asleep on a surveillance run. The lowest, most rookie move in the whole business. He'd rather stay anonymous about that. Stay quiet and drive
away from his sleepy parking spot across from the Watergate Hotel with a "warning."

  “Yeah, I'm leaving right now,” Jackson said on his call to Matthias a minute later. “Langhorne's not coming out and I've got too much shit to do.”

  In actuality, Jackson had no clue where Langhorne was, or when he left, or if he even left at all. Either way, the trail was officially cold, the surveillance useless. It evaporated his plan to complete the whole day's cycle, from the senator's morning commute to his rush-hour return—including all the things in between, like an unscheduled meeting at the Watergate. And if Jackson's security contact there hadn’t been on vacation, he would’ve had closer access to whatever it was that brought Langhorne to the infamous hotel. The change in scenery might have even kept him awake. It was exhausting, the way he dwelled on missed opportunities with Langhorne, and his missteps with Mira, the latter keeping him up at night all on its own.

  “So what about that follow-up with Jaheem?”

  “Yeah,” said Matthias.

  “Yeah? Is he staying sober out there?”

  “To the best of my knowledge.”

  Jackson gunned his car up a freeway ramp, heading north to his own gated community, to his suburban McMansion, and maybe going straight to bed when he got there. “So what's the story?” he asked.

  “It's General Diop. He's suspicious of elements in his own government colluding with some big shots in the gold mining industry, using gold money to buy off politicians and to obtain weapons.”

  “Weapons like LK-491s?”

  “He didn’t say anything about that,” said Matthias. “But I mean... put two and two together and you get LK-491s landing at Kilaguni next week. Al-Shabaab is marching a group of refugees down there to collect them. And then they'll cross into Tanzania to wage a proxy war against the government, all on the behalf of the opposition party, Chadema. That's Jaheem's story, anyway.”

  It was a believable story. All the bases covered. All the main figures and motives were connected and independently corroborated. “But why did Diop drop out of contact with me?” asked Jackson.

  “I don't know. Fear?”

  “There's got to be more to it than that. East African generals don't scare very easily.”