A menacing figure barred his path barely a meter away, cloaked in black with a wide hood that obscured his face. The security guard went for his nightstick, but he was too late. He barely saw the flash of the knife before it ripped across his throat. He grabbed at the wound with both hands and felt the sickening gush of his own warm blood pulsing through his fingers. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even scream.
—
The hooded figure stepped around the gurgling guard without waiting for him to fall. It was not until he turned down the next hallway that he heard the crack of the man’s skull hitting the tile next to his ruined sandwich. At the far end of the hall, he found the facility’s cold-storage locker. A red light glowed above the door, warning that structural power to the refrigeration units had been compromised, leaving them on the auxiliary batteries. The door was still locked, secured by a keycard reader and biometric pad that were also supported by backup batteries, but that was expected.
The intruder reached into the fold of his cloak and removed an access card that read VARGA, BIOCHEM. He swiped the card, causing the red LED on the biometric pad to turn orange and blink. Letting the card fall to the floor, he reached into his cloak again. This time he produced a white cloth, stained with blood, pinched between his fingers. As he raised it to the pad, the cloth unraveled over his hand to reveal a severed thumb. He pressed the thumb against the pad and the LED turned green. The lock clicked open.
Inside, the intruder opened a large canvas satchel and began sweeping chemicals off shelves. Most fell into the bag. Others fell to the floor. Glass vials filled with blue, amber, and clear liquids shattered at his feet. When the bag was half-full, he went to the rear of the locker and found a tall locked cabinet. He smashed the glass with his elbow. Again, the intruder indiscriminately swept vials and bottles into his satchel—this time continuing until it was full. Then he bent down to the bottom shelf and carefully lifted a pressurized titanium container. On all four sides of the box, bright yellow labels read BIOHAZARD: CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE.
CHAPTER 9
Get packed,” said Nick, letting the door slam behind him as he rushed across the tile foyer of his home. Katy sat on the living room couch working on her latest hobby. Photos and colored paper lay all around her on the cushions, a large open binder on her lap. Their son sat on the carpet at her feet, giggling as he knocked down stacks of blocks.
Katy did not look up from her scrapbooking. “My day was fine, dear. How was yours?”
“My day’s not over yet. I have to ship out tonight. Pack up. You’re going to stay at your mother’s while I’m gone.”
That got Katy’s attention. She put her scissors down. “What’s going on?”
As a young officer, Nick had learned to discern when it was appropriate to follow orders without questioning. His subordinates also had that skill. He often wished his wife could learn it too. “Look, it’s not complicated. I don’t want you and Luke here alone. As soon as you drop Dad off at the airport tomorrow, I want you on the road to your mom’s house. Don’t even come home in-between. Pack up the car before you leave with Dad. If he asks why you’re going out of town, make up an excuse.”
“Or you could tell him the truth,” said Kurt Baron, emerging from the hallway to the guest room. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s nothing, Dad.” Nick turned away from his father and shot Katy a look that said “Do as I say.”
Katy shot a glare right back at him, suddenly in one of her moods. “How is it nothing?” she argued, standing up and crossing her arms. “You’re telling me to flee our home, but you won’t say why.”
Nick heard a sniffle at his feet. “Dada?” Luke stared up at him, on the edge of tears, his hand frozen above the tumbled blocks as if he had caused all the anger in the room by knocking them down. Nick willed his tense features to relax and gave his son a reassuring smile. Luke smiled back and returned to his game.
When Nick looked up again, his wife’s expression had not softened. He slumped down into an oversized chair, defeated. “Our presence at the attack wasn’t happenstance,” he said, watching her hardened glare collapse into shock.
“You mean the bomber was trying to kill you?” asked Kurt.
“Maybe, or at least get my attention.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would a suicide bomber target you? You’re just an adviser.”
Just. Nick hated it when his dad used that word. You’re just a kid. You’re just an outfielder. You’re just a lieutenant. Just meant you didn’t matter. He bit back what he wanted to say and offered his dad a very uncomfortable truth. “I don’t know why.”
“Then how can you be sure?” asked Katy.
“The FBI has evidence.”
The older Baron stepped deeper into the room, a stern expression—his colonel face—bearing down on Nick. “What evidence?”
“Classified evidence, Dad.” Nick sat forward in his chair and sighed. “The how and the why don’t matter now. The fact remains that I’ve come up on some terrorist group’s radar, and if they were able to find us on the Mall, then they probably know where we live. I have to leave the country tonight, and I’m not comfortable leaving Katy here alone.” He matched his father’s stare. “I told Katy to go to her mother’s place. I’m trying to keep my family safe, and I would appreciate your support.”
“You don’t have it. You’re not making sense.”
Nick almost came out of the chair swinging at his father’s defiance, but he caught himself when Luke stopped playing and looked up at him again. He took a deep breath and settled back down into his seat. He settled his voice as well. “Dad, I’ve already explained that the FBI is sure about this.”
The elder Baron made a T with his hands, signaling détente. “That’s not what I meant. Listen, if they can figure out where you live, it won’t be long before they can figure out where Katy’s folks live. You can’t protect her by sending her to West Virginia.”
Nick leaned back against the cushion and looked up at his father. “You have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kurt bent down and scooped up his grandson, to the delight of the child. “Katy and Luke can come with me to Israel.”
“What?” Katy abruptly turned to face her former ally.
“I’m serious. My invitation to speak included travel and accommodations for two. That’s standard practice. Guest speakers usually bring a spouse or an assistant.” He sat down in the chair across from Nick and started bouncing Luke on his knee. The toddler laughed and squealed. “Two days in Frankfurt to speak at the campus there, two in Jerusalem, another day in Frankfurt on the way home. No terrorist would anticipate Katy and Luke hopping back and forth between Europe and the Holy Land. If you want to protect your family, keep them on the move.” He smiled down at his grandson and lightened his voice. “It will be fun! There’s going to be a total eclipse visible from Jerusalem. Not everybody gets to see one of those.”
As much as he wanted to find a flaw in his dad’s idea, Nick couldn’t argue with the logic. When crossing borders, vacationers only had to manage their suitcases and their children. Terrorists, on the other hand, had to manage identities and weapons, and those things took time. Katy’s surprise travel would keep her one step ahead.
Katy’s hands were on her hips. “Excuse me. Does the little woman get a say?”
“Of course, my dear. How thoughtless of us.” Kurt offered her a chivalrous bow, playing the white knight opposite Nick’s tyrant king.
Katy responded to the knight with a sweet nod of thanks and then knelt next to the tyrant’s throne, placing a hand on his arm. “I’ve always wanted to see Israel. And I think your son and I would be a lot safer traveling with your father than driving ourselves to Lewisburg.” Her light grip on his forearm became a heavy squeeze, with a couple of fingernails added for emphasis. “Don’t you?”
/> Without waiting for a response, Nick’s dad set Luke down and stood up, clapping his hands together. “It’s settled then. I’ll call the travel company right now and make all the arrangements.”
—
Had that been the end of it, Nick would have considered the status quo maintained—Dad wins and everyone else plays along. But that wasn’t the end of it. Shortly before he left for the base, Nick informed Katy that he had to take away her phone to keep her from being tracked. He had delayed the conversation because he knew it would turn into a fight, and it did. Katy cried, which set Luke off, and then of course his dad had to butt in. This time Nick did not back down, and he ordered his dad to minimize communications too. He was certainly not to call or text Nick. The elder Baron fought back. He could call his own son whenever he wanted to. “Fine,” said Nick, “but don’t expect me to answer.”
Nick made up with Katy, kissed her good-bye, kissed his little boy, but those were the last words he said to his father.
CHAPTER 10
Like the repurposed presidential bunker below, Romeo Seven’s hangar facility was a relic of days gone by, a testament to the excess of the Cold War. The two massive adjoining structures had been erected in 1958 to house Ike’s new Boeing 707 presidential fleet. There were only two aircraft, but like every Strategic Air Command endeavor, the grandeur of the new facility far exceeded its purpose. One hangar alone could have sheltered three 707s and included offices and shop space for an army of maintenance personnel.
As with the bunker, Walker had renovated the out-of-use hangars with black funds. On the outside, they looked the same as any of the unused hangars found on Air Force bases across the country. On the inside, they housed a state-of-the-art facility with propulsion, hydraulic, and avionics shops; a subterranean engineering lab; and a small fleet of aircraft, of which the flagship was a jumbo-jet-sized stealth striker called the M-2 Wraith.
As Nick entered the hangar an hour before the mission launch, two CIA pilots were preflighting the latest addition to Walker’s air force—a sleek, gray and black Gulfstream C-37B. Normally Nick and Drake piloted the Triple Seven’s aircraft, but the colonel had worked out a deal to have Agency pilots fly this militarized version of a G550 luxury business jet. Walker wanted his operators to use the Gulfstream as a mobile command center, and they couldn’t do that if they spent all their time playing around in the cockpit.
A blonde in greasy blue coveralls hopped down off one of the Wraith’s massive landing-gear assemblies and flagged Nick down with a dirty oil rag. “Aren’t you taking my baby with you?”
Amanda Navistrova led the aircraft maintenance team. She was also one of the Wraith’s principal designers, with multiple degrees from MIT. The coveralls, the unkempt ponytail, and the safety goggles strapped to her forehead did little to detract from her gorgeous features. In fact, Nick decided, few women could pull off that ensemble better.
“If you mean the Wraith,” he said, closing the distance between them, “I’ve got to leave her in the barn. We’re looking for subtle, and landing the world’s largest stealth aircraft at Budapest International doesn’t fit the bill. If you mean your other baby—”
“I don’t.” Amanda cut him off, casting an evil glare toward the entrance behind him.
Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw Drake stepping into the facility. When he turned back, Amanda was walking away beneath the broad belly of the striker. She slapped the rag down on a worktable and disappeared into the maintenance section.
“What did you do this time?” asked Nick, meeting Drake at a table covered with black duffels and hard equipment cases next to the Gulfstream’s cargo bay.
Drake unzipped one of the bags. “Nothing. I don’t know what her problem is.”
Amanda and Drake, known collectively as Mandrake by Walker’s techs, had been the Triple Seven’s token office romance for years. In Nick’s opinion, they should have been the Triple Seven’s token married couple, but Drake couldn’t pull the trigger. Every time things got serious, he did something stupid to pick a fight, like flirting with their waitress at dinner. Nick didn’t believe Drake’s nothing for an instant. “You’re an idiot.”
Drake lifted a Heckler and Koch MP7A1 compact submachine gun from the duffel and checked the chamber. “I know.”
Both fell silent and continued their equipment checks. While Drake moved on to a nine-millimeter Beretta Nano micro-compact, Nick popped open a wide, flat case, revealing six black boxes set in gray foam, each the size of a deck of cards. Each had a small screen and keyboard, and each had a tiny earpiece mounted on copper contacts in the upper left corner. These would serve as the team’s field radios, controlled by an app on their smartphones, or by touch and voice commands should the phones become unavailable.
Nick activated all the screens to make sure the earpieces were charged and then shut them off again. When he closed the case, Ethan Quinn was standing in front of him, glancing back and forth between the two quiet operatives. “What’d I miss?” he asked.
The older operatives responded simultaneously.
“Nothing,” said Drake.
“He’s an idiot,” said Nick.
Quinn clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Situation normal then. I guess it’s time to go catch ourselves a hacker.”
CHAPTER 11
Budapest, Hungary
Nick parked his team’s rented Suzuki Vitara against the chain-link fence of a snow-covered rail yard and glanced across the street at the target address, a six-story brick structure. “An apartment building,” he said. “That confirms the NSA’s assessment.”
“Why couldn’t it have been a mansion with armed sentries and killer guard dogs?” asked Drake, slowly shaking his head. “That would be so much easier.”
Dr. Scott Stone, the Triple Seven’s lead engineer and tech guru, leaned forward from the backseat and pushed a pair of wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Exactly what makes hired guns and killer dogs easy?”
“Not easy. Easier,” corrected Drake. He gestured at the building. “The IP addresses captured by the NSA all trace to this structure, but not to a specific apartment. We have to find a way to narrow it down without terrorizing the locals or spooking the target.”
Scott shot a glance at the icy slush that covered the street between the Vitara and the apartment building. He pulled his overcoat tighter around his small frame. “I have to go in with you.”
“Out of the question,” said Nick. “Your job is to sit in the car and play lookout until I send for you.” He hadn’t wanted to bring the engineer along at all. Scott had no field experience, but he convinced the colonel that he might have to hack Grendel’s hardware on-site, something he claimed would prove impossible for the knuckle-dragging ops team, even with his guidance over SATCOM.
The engineer scrunched his gaunt face into a sneer. “So, what then? Are you planning to search the entire building? Blow in a few doors, rough up a few old ladies and hope that one of them is the hacker?” He shook his head. “Get me into the utility room, and I can tell you exactly which apartment Grendel is hiding in.”
Nick and Scott stared at each other across the seat back for a few moments. Then Nick shut off the engine and cracked open his door. “Fine. Come on.”
The three older operatives gathered at the back of the Vitara, dressed in dark overcoats and slacks to blend in with locals. Scott had added a Windsor flat cap to cover his thinning hair. At the same time, Quinn made his way toward a bus stop a half block west of the apartments. He wore grunge jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt beneath a gray canvas jacket, better suited to the twentysomethings in the area.
“Nightmare Three, I’ll call you if Grendel makes a break for it,” said Nick, speaking through his SATCOM earpiece and using Quinn’s mission callsign. “I’ll give the best description I can. Taser is primary, drugs to knock him out. I want a live prisoner.”
“Copy that, Nightmare One. Check your ten o’clock. I think a good prospect for entry is heading your way.”
Nick glanced left and saw a grizzled old man in a hat with earflaps pass the bus stop and continue down the sidewalk toward the apartment building. He walked briskly, keeping his head down and his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his brown coat.
“That’s our cue,” said Drake. He pulled a large cardboard box marked AQUASTELLA WATER from the back of the Vitara, pretending to struggle with the weight of it. “Act like this is heavy,” he said, passing the box to Scott.
“It is heavy,” grunted the engineer as soon as Drake allowed the full weight to settle into his hands. “What’s in here?”
“Your tools, genius,” said Nick. He and Drake each pulled a similar box from the Vitara and then Nick closed the back end and led them across the street. He timed his approach to arrive at the apartment building’s entrance just before the old man. He barred the local’s way, pretending to struggle with his box and fumbling in his pocket for a nonexistent set of keys.
Within a few seconds, the old Hungarian lost patience. “Elnézést,” he said, gruffly excusing himself and squeezing around Nick. He used his own key to unlock the door and pushed through.
Nick caught the door and held it open with his foot. “Köszönöm,” he said, but the old man continued on without reply, trudging up a flight of stairs to the left of the door.
As soon as the local was out of sight, Nick led his team down to the basement level and into a short, dimly lit hallway. There were four wooden doors, each bearing a plastic sign. “Anybody know the Hungarian word for utilities?”
“This one.” Drake tilted his head toward the door closest to him. “Has to be. I can hear the heating unit.”
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