Kill Shot

by Liliana Hart

  Logan took a seat next to Ethan, and Gabe slid thick black folders to each of them.

  “All of this information is in your packet in greater detail, but I’ll hit the high points.” Gabe took his seat at the head of the table and flipped open his folder. “Before World War II, the United States began research on a biochemical weapon called The Passover Project. It started much like its counterpart—The Manhattan Project—as an experiment for annihilation. But it was never meant for mass destruction like The Manhattan Project was with the atomic bomb. The Passover Project was meant as an assassination tool designed for one specific target. Of course, the target at the time was Hitler. All The Passover Project needed to become viable was a single strand of DNA—a piece of hair or skin cells to add to the basic formula—and the weapon would turn live. In theory, once it was launched, it could seek out its DNA match from a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people and eliminate the target once contact was made.

  “Holy shit,” Jack said under his breath.

  “To say the least,” Gabe said. “The core formula could be modified for any specific target by changing the DNA.”

  “I’ve never heard of The Passover Project before,” Ethan said. “I’ve never even seen it mentioned in any Pentagon or CIA files.”

  Gabe nodded and stood up to move around the room. He never liked being in one place very long. It made him restless.

  “It never came to fruition,” he said. “The Passover Project began production in 1939 in an underground laboratory in Nevada. The whole purpose for experiments like The Passover and Manhattan Projects was that intelligence indicated that the Nazis were already working on similar weapons. At that point, it was just a race to see who could finish first.

  “Clearance was so restricted on The Passover Project that there were only four scientists on the original development team. Dr. Josef Schmidt, a biochemistry professor from Stanford, was the project’s creator and lead scientist.”

  “And what happened to Dr. Schmidt?” Grace asked cynically. “Knowing our government the way I do, they wouldn’t let a man with that kind of knowledge live very long.”

  “The lab, the research, and the weapon’s developer were all destroyed in an explosion before it could do what it had been created for. The lab wreckage was carefully searched, and all traces of The Passover Project were removed and taken to the Pentagon. It was hushed up and swept under the rug. Not even Roosevelt knew of its existence.”

  “Whoever was responsible for the explosives did a piss-poor job,” Logan said, his English accent barely noticeable. “If it had been my job, my first priority would have been to make sure there was nothing to sift out of the rubble.”

  “Well for our sakes, I’m glad you didn’t handle the demolition.” Gabe went back to the table and took out the photographs he’d shown Grace on the plane. “As you can tell from the pictures, someone is trying to resurrect The Passover Project.”

  “Just to play devil’s advocate, why would you make that leap?” Grace asked. “It does look like something bigger than an assassination attempt on one person happened in all of these photos. These places have been completely obliterated.”

  “You’re right. But I had a little help in connecting the dots. Former Deputy Director of the CIA Frank Bennett sent me this information eighteen hours before his death. He made copies of everything that was left from the 1943 explosion site, and he included the current photos of the destruction done to these different locations. All he said in his note was that he trusted I would take care of this and find who was responsible.”

  “I heard Bennett’s death was ruled a suicide,” Ethan said. “And I’ll look to be sure, but I believe that’s the final ruling in Frank Bennett’s CIA file. Rumor was that he was being forced to retire because of a drinking problem, and he just couldn’t handle being let go. His whole life was the agency.”

  Ethan shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Gabe’s eyes narrowed to thin blue slits and addressed the rumor in question. “Bennett was found hanged in his office, and a suicide note was left on his desk in his handwriting. The medical examiner said it was an open-and-shut case, but everyone in this room knows how easy it is to fake a suicide and forge a note. It’s a basic tactic learned early on. Not to mention that Frank would be the last person I know who’d kill himself. I was the closest friend he had, and if anyone at the CIA had bothered to check before they started the rumors that he had a drinking problem, they’d know that Frank Bennett had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life because his father was an alcoholic and beat the shit out of him and his mom as often as he could. Frank Bennett was murdered.”

  Gabe stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned against the bookshelf. Bennett’s death was still a bitter pill to swallow. The man had been like a father to him—more than his own father had ever been. There was no way in hell Frank had killed himself. Frank was dead because of The Passover Project.

  “So if Frank didn’t kill himself, who did?” Ethan asked.

  “I don’t know, but I know the documents in these folders are the reason he’s dead. Frank did all the beginning legwork for us. A portion of the formula base was found in the wreckage of the lab. It seems pretty obvious by the testing pattern in these photos that someone is trying to recreate the formula. They haven’t hit on the right combination just yet, but it’s only a matter of time. All I know is that we have to stop whoever it is. If we find out who’s behind recreating The Passover Project, then we’ll find Frank’s killer.

  “They’ve got a pretty big hunting ground to choose from for these experiments,” Jack said. “We can’t keep eyes on every small, unknown tribe around the world. Hell, we both know there are tribes in the jungle that aren’t even documented. They have languages we’ve never heard spoken.”

  “We’ll start with the scientists behind the testing. The list of those capable of recreating something like this can’t be long. But we have to hurry. The next step in any scientific experiment is moving to the next level—raising the bar higher. We don’t want them to start testing in major cities around the world.”

  “If the knowledge of The Passover Project has been sitting in the CIA vaults for half a century, then it has to be someone high up who’s behind it all,” Grace said. “Especially factoring in Frank’s death. Only someone who had high-level security clearance would know what Frank had access to.”

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Ethan said. “I hacked into top-level CIA security when I was a sophomore in high school. Nothing electronic is fail-safe. I’m guessing the only reason I’ve never heard of The Passover Project is that everything is still in hard copy. Breaking and entering that doesn’t involve a computer isn’t my style. So you’re looking for someone who has access to the vault and enough money to pay off the guards, or someone that could break into Langley and sneak past the guards without being noticed. The only person I know who could do that is you, Ghost.”

  Ethan had his feet propped up on the corner of the table and was drumming his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair. He seemed to be back in an affable mood, their earlier tension already forgotten. Gabe didn’t remember what it felt like to be that young or carefree. And he hoped above all else that Ethan grew up soon. He’d really hate to have to kill him.

  Gabe sighed. “There’s always someone younger and better coming up behind you, kid. You’ll learn that someday. As far as suspects to Frank’s murder, no one is popping to the surface. I’m hoping you’ll have more luck in that regard once you start digging a little deeper.”

  “So what’s the mission?” Jack asked.

  Gabe gave his friend a hard smile. “This is where things get fun. Bennett had done quite a bit of research on Josef Schmidt. It turns out Schmidt was a Nazi sympathizer and had plans to turn the weapon over to Hitler when it was completed.”

  “How do we know he didn’t succeed?” Ethan asked.

  “I’ve been digging through the German government files. Their technology is outdated,
and their data is disorganized.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Did they know you were searching? Surely you know you leave a fingerprint every time you mess with technology. A good hacker could trace it back to here and find us.” Ethan mumbled something under his breath about safeguards and amateurs.

  Jack laughed at Ethan’s naivety. “There’s a reason why they call him the Ghost. Stick around kid, and you may learn something.”

  Ethan scowled at being called a kid. “It wouldn’t hurt for me to double-check and make sure. No offense, but as much as any of you could kick my ass, none of you are as good as I am with computers.”

  “I know my way around computers, Ethan, but go ahead and take a look if it will make you feel better,” Gabe said. “You’re going to be going through all their files again anyway.”

  “Did you find anything useful?” Logan asked.

  “You could say that. When the German equivalent of the CIA—MAD—was created in the 1950s, they took control of everything seized during Hitler’s reign—artwork, journals, correspondence, family photos, everything. Most of the journals have been transferred to computer, and I found a very interesting reference to Josef Schmidt.”

  Gabe walked back to the table and sat down in his chair. A dull ache was starting to form at the back of his neck, and his eyes burned and felt gritty with lack of sleep.

  “It seems Hitler met with Schmidt twice. He writes about his frustration with Schmidt because the man’s demands for payment kept growing. Each time he met with Hitler, Schmidt gave him a portion of the formula. They were scheduled to meet one last time before the explosion destroyed Schmidt’s lab, and Hitler planned to execute him so he couldn’t sell the formula elsewhere. But Hitler only ended up with two-thirds of the formula.”

  “Did he write them down?” Grace asked.

  “No. He painted them.”

  Grace sighed quietly, but even that small sound had Gabe looking at her sharply. Her green eyes were bright with anticipation, and her spine was straight. He could practically see the energy running across her skin. He leaned forward and set his arms on the table to cover the erection that had been plaguing him for the last twenty-four hours.

  “That’s right,” she said. “Hitler was an amateur artist. He was never good enough to get accepted into the Royal Academy.”

  “No, but after his death his paintings were sold for millions.”

  “Oh, man,” said Ethan. “That is wicked awesome. Where are they? Do we get to steal them?”

  Gabe wanted to laugh at Ethan’s enthusiasm but kept his mouth firm. God, had he ever been that young and eager? Maybe. When had the rose-colored glasses come off? After his first kill? After his twentieth?

  “One of them is in the Tehran Museum,” Gabe answered. “The second was bought by a private collector from a Sotheby’s auction. The purchaser is hidden behind anonymous bidders and a couple of private corporations. I don’t have a name yet.”

  “So let me get this straight,” Jack said. “We’re going to Iran to break into their national museum so we can destroy a painting created by the most hated man in the world?”

  “That pretty much sums it up.”

  Gabe’s gaze never strayed from Grace, and he could see the slight stiffening of her shoulders as she realized what this could mean for them. Tussad spent a lot of time in Iran. They could kill two birds with one stone. And then maybe, just maybe, once they’d taken their revenge, they could start to put their lives back together.

  “Everyone get a good night’s sleep,” he said. “We’ll start recon in the morning at 0800.”

  * * *

  Jack stayed behind in the conference room when everyone else left. He’d known Gabe too long and knew in his gut that something else was going on. Gabe and Grace had always set fire to each other, and it looked like things hadn’t changed much. But very few people knew Gabe’s true identity, and even fewer knew he’d once had a wife and family. The two of them needed to cool it in a hurry if they didn’t want Ethan and Logan to speculate.

  “What the hell is going on, Gabe?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “The part about you having the hots for your wife is real obvious. At least to me. I’ve never had a meeting before where my commanding officer sported a boner the whole time.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ll pass. Besides, your sex life isn’t what I’m referring to, though it’s damned entertaining. There’s something else going on, and I want to know what it is. You two are planning something.”

  “Shit.” Gabe closed his eyes and massaged his neck. “Have I ever told you having you for a friend is a pain in the ass?”

  “Daily,” Jack said.

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Some ideas are better in theory than reality. I need to get out of here. Let’s go get a beer.”

  Jack unfolded his long body from the chair and followed his friend outside. The night was warm and the humidity thick. Fog rolled low across the London streets and crept into alleyways. The steady drizzle of the afternoon fell faster in darkness, and the wet soaked right through to the skin. The black lampposts that lined Chapel Street glowed a soft yellow, and umbrellas of red and black covered the heads of those walking home from work along the dismal grey streets.

  Neither of them noticed as passersby veered far out of their way. They looked exactly like what they were—dangerous.

  The Lamp and Light was dimly lit and sparsely populated. It wasn’t one of the nicer establishments in Westminster, so the tourist crowd was always small. If you wanted booze and privacy, then The Lamp and Light was the place to go.

  Jack noticed the blonde working the bar right away. He looked her over slowly from head to toe, appreciating what the leather halter top did for her breasts. He caught her eye, winked, and held up two fingers. He followed Gabe to a round corner booth and sat across from his friend.

  The bartender brought the drinks herself—hips swaying in tight black jeans and the edge of a tattoo peaking from her midriff. Yum, he loved tattoos. She set the bottles on the table and laid a folded napkin in front of Jack with a number written on it in black marker.

  “Christ, can’t you go anywhere without attracting women?” Gabe asked. “It’s damned embarrassing the way they throw themselves at you.”

  “I’m just sowing my oats till the right woman comes along. They’d throw themselves at you too if you didn’t look so damned scary all the time. Haven’t you ever heard of a razor? Maybe getting a haircut?”

  “I don’t want them to throw themselves at me. I’m not interested.”

  “Are you telling me you haven’t had sex since Grace left you?”

  “Excuse me for not being a man-whore like you. I happen to think marriage means something.”

  “You might oughta tell your wife that, you know, since she divorced you and all. Speaking of Grace—”

  “Were we?”

  “Tell me what’s going on. Why’d you bring her in?”

  Gabe took a long drink of beer, his gaze constantly moving, looking for threats that weren’t there. “Because I was afraid the rumors might be true. I thought bringing her back into a legitimate game might—I don’t know—make her not so hell-bent on the path of self-destruction. She’s not that person. I have to at least try.”

  Love was a ridiculous thing, Jack thought. For something that, in his mind, didn’t even exist to have the power to make a man like Gabe Brennan vulnerable when the worst terrorists in the world had been trying and failing for the last sixteen years.

  “You can’t choose the timetable for a person to heal after trauma. Have you stopped thinking with your dick long enough to consider she might not be ready for this?”

  “Yeah, I have. We can’t do this job without her. There’s not a marine sniper or an agent anywhere in the world who’s as good at the long shots as she is.”

  “I agree with you. But you’re leaving something out.” Jack signaled for another beer and wa
ited Gabe out patiently.

  “She only agreed to come with me if I promised to help her take out Kamir Tussad.”

  Jack took an unfortunate swallow of beer just before Gabe dropped that bombshell, and the bitter liquid lodged in his throat. He coughed until he caught his breath and then said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Are you both so desperate to die?”

  “It was only a matter of time. If I could have gotten to him before now, I would have taken him out, but the man knows how to disappear. I have contacts who still keep me informed of his movements.”

  “Gabe,” Jack said, shaking his head.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do, my friend. There’s never a more powerful motivator than revenge. But sometimes it’s hard to see the outcome from the red haze clouding your vision.”

  “He ripped my life to shreds with one bullet, Jack. I lost my daughter and my wife because of him. I lost everything. Grace has just given me the excuse to do what I’ve been dreaming about. And I can do it easier with her than without her.”

  Jack closed his eyes and damned all friendships to hell. That’s what happened when people started mattering. The checks and balances system never got even.

  “Count me in,” he said. “You’re going to need me. I’ve been across damned near every square mile of Iran with my SEALs.”

  “Thanks. I’ll owe you.”

  “They don’t take paybacks in hell.” Jack scooted out of the booth. “You want some advice?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Go make love to your wife. Watching the two of you makes me feel like a voyeur.”

  “Yeah, except that my wife hates my guts and blames me for the death of our child. And she has every right.”

  “To borrow one of your favorite sayings, fuck that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get laid before you send me to my death. I suggest you do the same.”