Kill Chain

by J. Robert Kennedy

  He felt completely at the mercy of either a computer programmed with a destination, or a human driving by wire somewhere else in the world.

  Kim’s breathing in the bag was rapid, it clear she wasn’t as calm as he was, she not trained to keep things under control mentally in situations like this. He was managing his breathing, it an effort so ingrained after years of training and combat, it had become second nature.

  But she wasn’t trained.

  He reached over blindly and found her arm. He squeezed it gently. Her arm jerked and he began to pull away, assuming the gesture of comfort was unwelcome, when she instead grabbed his hand and gripped it tightly.

  His chest fluttered, butterflies in his stomach.

  “One hell of a first date, huh?”

  He heard the plastic bag rustle as she probably turned her head. “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, I make jokes. It’s my thing.”

  “Oh, umm, then yes. Great first date.”

  Niner smiled. “I guess you haven’t been on a lot of dates then.”

  “N-no, not really. Korean men don’t like it when their women have more power than them.”

  “They don’t like knowing you can kick their ass if they get out of line?”

  Kim giggled, still holding his hand, the grip easing somewhat as her breathing slowed. “I guess not.”

  “In America, it’s the same for some guys.”

  “A-and you?”

  The question had him turn toward her slightly, the car’s mind-of-its-own driving forgotten. “Not at all. I’d love to date a woman who could put me in my place.”

  “America sounds nice.”

  “It is.”

  She sighed. “I hope your friend is okay.”

  His mind flashed to Jimmy, lying unconscious on the floor of the hallway.

  He must be awake by now.

  “He’ll be all right. Might have some cracked ribs and a bump on the noggin’, but he’ll be okay.”

  “Noggin’?”

  “Noggin’, as in noodle, melon, chrome dome, brain trap, bobble—”

  “Oh, head. Okay, I understand. They don’t teach American slang in school or at the academy.”

  “Yeah, well your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you. And so is your Korean.”

  It was then that Niner realized they were talking in English, perhaps not a wise choice since whoever was speaking through the drones definitely understood it, though perhaps not Korean. He switched. “It got rusty but when I joined the military they encourage you to learn languages, so I started practicing. Mostly just making my folks speak Korean when I visited or talked to them on the phone.” He shrugged. “It came back pretty quickly.”

  The car began to slow then came to a stop.

  “Do you think we’re here?”

  He turned his head to look, uselessly. “Yeah, wherever here is.”

  53

  Operations Center 1

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  “It’s definitely a theory, but we need proof.”

  “Yeah, but what kind of proof?” asked Leroux, the reasoning pretty sound behind Kane’s theory, yet probably not enough for Washington.

  “Proof. A proof is a proof. When we’ve got a good proof, it’s proven.”

  Leroux chuckled. “What the hell did you just say?”

  Kane groaned. “Sorry, I’ve been speaking Chinese for most of the past hour. If the factory in China did weaponize them, then they somehow got their hands on these weapons that were supposed to have been destroyed.”

  Leroux nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Could they have manufactured them on their own?”

  Kane grunted. “Possible, I guess. Even so, they’d have to have access to the exact plans.”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened,” interjected Child, a photo of one of the weapons found on a downed drone expanding on the display. He highlighted the Riker company name stamped on the grip. “Why would they do that if they were making their own?”

  “Do what?” asked Kane, not privy to the visuals.

  Leroux filled him in. “The Riker name is molded into the grip. They wouldn’t do that if they were making a clone. We need to find out how they got those weapons.”

  “Can you contact Riker? They should be able to tell us.”

  Leroux shook his head. “They’re bankrupt. We’ve got a call in with their lawyers but haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Well, if I were a hotshot analyst, I’d be trying to figure out if there’s any connection between the drone manufacturer and Riker Defensive Systems. We know these weapons made it into the Ukraine, so it’s conceivable they also made it to China. We need to lean on their CEO and figure out what happened to those weapons.”

  Leroux smiled. “Well, my hotshot analysts have thought of that. What we do know is that the founder, Grant Riker, faked the paperwork—they were never destroyed. It was kept quiet by Washington because nobody wanted the public to know there were hundreds of hi-tech prototype handguns suddenly on the black market.”

  Kane grunted. “Well, something tells me their secret will be out when the dust settles. Okay, you keep looking into a link from your end, I’m going to keep plugging away here.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  54

  Unknown Location

  Republic of Korea

  “Remove the bags and slowly exit the vehicle.”

  Niner yanked the plastic bag that reeked of week old takeout off his face and gasped in several lungsful of fresh air, Kim doing the same beside him. He gave her hand a squeeze, she giving him a shy smile. The sound of the drones rising from their resting places on the backseat spurred him to open the door a little quicker than he’d like, his eyes already taking in the scene.

  They were in some sort of warehouse, fairly large, and once again, no one in sight. Dozens of drones hovered nearby, a corridor formed leading to a set of arrows on the floor that ended at a door, a wall perhaps ten feet tall stretching most of the width of the warehouse, though nowhere near the height.

  Kim rounded the front of the car and he took her hand, cautiously threading the gap between the drones toward the arrows, carefully scanning the area. To the right there were dozens of drones resting on pads of some sort, the pads plugged into an array of wall sockets.

  Charging pads?

  It made sense. The drones needed power, and if there was no one around to plug them in, then they would need some sort of wireless transfer of energy. It essentially meant the drones could operate indefinitely, using this as a home base.

  There was only one problem with the scenario.

  Somebody had to set it up.

  Somebody inside Korea.

  It could have been the terrified man at the apartment, he the only human beyond the voice they had heard on the drone, and the person who had called the President—two voices that probably belonged to the same person.

  What he saw could be the work of one man. Rent a warehouse. Put down some charging pads and some arrows. It was the wall in front of him with the lone door that gave him doubts.

  It didn’t fit.

  It shouldn’t be here. If his gut was telling him the truth, the structure in front of them was purpose-built for this situation, and there was no way one man could do this, especially one man who was a tech-geek on cars.

  This required trade skills.

  He reached the door, the drones covering any escape routes.

  “I guess we go inside.”

  He put his hand on the knob and turned it, pushing the door open slowly. He peered inside and his eyebrows rose as he saw what appeared to be a large seating area, a number of couches surrounding a table.

  Couches occupied by the hostages.

  Suddenly one bounded toward him. “Niner!”

  And he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Nancy Starling.

  Alive.

  55

 
Seodaemun District

  Seoul, Republic of Korea

  Dawson stepped out of the vehicle, quickly surveying the scene. A rig parked on a side road swarmed with Korean personnel, weapons raised as they covered it and the surrounding area. Once again there was no driver, it another self-driving prototype from Shinhan Motors reported stolen two days ago—it had apparently just driven off the lot along with another, smaller truck, the security gate overridden somehow, allowing them to pass.

  All things that would have raised red flags had they been reported to him.

  And according to their liaison, the trucks were both custom orders with some unusual requests, requests he had no doubt were made by those behind what was going on here today—remote controlled rear gates, sliding floor panels, cameras and speakers mounted in the rear cargo areas as well as the undercarriage.

  The more they learned, the more he realized just how long this had been in the works, and just how well-funded and well-planned it was.

  Jimmy had reported their lone witness was dead, shot by drones, drones that had somehow kidnapped Niner and their liaison, Senior Inspector Kim. The latest briefing from Langley, while they were driving to this new location, indicated they might have found who had manufactured the drones and weaponized them, though they couldn’t be certain. If there was a way to figure it out, and figure it out fast, Kane was the right man for the job.

  Kane had been part of Bravo Team years ago before joining the CIA. The Special Forces were prime recruiting grounds for the Agency, and they had approached Dawson on numerous occasions. But he wasn’t interested. It didn’t suit his personality. You had to be a loner, and he enjoyed the comradery of the Unit far too much for that.

  Kane, however, had always been a loner.

  It had been a good fit.

  He watched as the rear locking mechanism was blown, the blast followed by screams from inside. Female screams. His heart leaped and he exchanged an excited glance with Atlas as they both battled the urge to rush into the mix. The rear gate slammed to the ground and the assault team surged forward, weapons aimed at the back of the truck.

  Shouts from the team lead had weapons lowering quickly, the beckoning arms of some of the officers suddenly filled with well-dressed women leaning into the sunlight as they accepted the welcoming arms of their saviors.

  Dawson activated his comm. “Control, Zero-One. Standby, we might have recovered the hostages, over.” He scanned the faces, recognizing them all as support staff, all of whom had files he had personally vetted.

  But no VIPs.

  No Nancy Starling.

  He walked over to the Canadian Prime Minister’s wife’s aide, someone he could be certain spoke English. “Where are the VIPs?”

  She shook her head, clearly rattled though relieved. “Sorry, I don’t know. They took them.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed at the truck. “There’s a panel in the floor. It opened and then they ordered Nancy to climb down first, into the sewer I think, then the rest of them, one by one.”

  He motioned to Atlas. “Check it out.”

  Atlas leaped in the back, examining the floor then bending down, yanking something aside. He dropped to his knees, his head disappearing for a moment before rising. “There’s an opening here that leads to a manhole.”

  Dawson’s eyebrows rose. “Like a sewer?”

  Atlas hopped back down to the pavement, several Korean officers dropping through the newly discovered opening. “Could be. Doesn’t smell as bad as all that, though.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “And you could see the hole? No manhole cover?”

  Atlas shook his head. “Nope. It’s been removed.”

  Dawson looked about. “Then where is it?”

  Atlas grunted, joining in the search. “Dunno.”

  “Well, somebody had to remove it.” That meant they had another potential witness, or perhaps finally an actual perpetrator. For all they knew at this point, they could be dealing with one lone nut, or a hundred well-organized and funded eco-terrorists. They needed more intel. More human intel.

  It was frustrating not having a target to shoot.

  He turned to the woman. “Did you see anyone?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no. Never. Just those cursed drones. They ordered the others through the floor then told us to wait quietly, otherwise the truck would blow up.”

  “How long ago?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry, not really sure. In all the excitement, I never thought to check my watch. An hour maybe?”

  “Okay, thank you.” He motioned toward a row of ambulances that were arriving, the others rescued led away by paramedics. “Go with them, they’ll help you.”

  She nodded, then paused. “You’re American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell your President that his daughter was okay when I last saw her, and that she was an extremely brave young woman.”

  Dawson bowed slightly. “He’ll be happy to hear that, I’m sure.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you.” She turned and joined the others as another half-dozen officers disappeared through the opening in the floor and into the sewers, a search evidently underway, a search Dawson had little doubt would turn up nothing.

  This was the final switch.

  There were no cameras underground. They could have been led anywhere, any distance. And this op had been so well planned, he had no doubt wherever they came out, would have been somewhere the perps had determined couldn’t be monitored.

  The hostages were gone.

  Without a trace.

  As he watched the Korean authorities do their job, he stared at the smoke still filling the horizon from the downed airliner with Mrs. Cheng on board. All of their witnesses were dead, and they had yet to see evidence of anyone actually involved, in-country. The vehicles had been hacked, with instructions and threats delivered via email. The drones had been weaponized most likely in China then shipped here, only to be opened innocently by curious bakery workers concerned about perishable goods. The transfer vehicle, this semi, was automated and custom-built for the purpose—by the manufacturer.

  So far, there had been no need for their adversary even to set foot on this side of the globe, let alone the city.

  Except for the manhole cover.

  A sudden burst of excitement over the radios had several of the senior on-site personnel rushing toward the truck.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, grabbing one of them.

  “They found something!”

  Dawson pointed at Jagger and Spock. “You two stay here, Atlas you’re with me.” He leaped into the back of the truck, Atlas on his heels, pushing the others aside. He dropped into the hole, sliding down the ladder, hitting the sewer floor with a splash.

  “Which way?”

  An officer standing at the bottom of the ladder pointed and he and Atlas sprinted through the tunnel, the rest of the South Koreans hot on their heels. An officer guided them through a three-way split in the tunnel and they soon arrived to find two more standing at the bottom of another access point.

  “What did you find?”

  One of them held up a gold chain, a small, plain cross dangling from it.

  “That’s hers.” He recognized it from their time in the jungle and from her file photos. “Where did you find it?”

  The man pointed at a narrow walkway. “It was sitting there.”

  Dawson smiled slightly at Atlas. “Do you think she left it there?”

  Atlas nodded. “Drones don’t rip necklaces off little girls.”

  Dawson grabbed the rungs and quickly rushed up the ladder, a manhole cover blocking his way.

  If they went out here, then someone replaced it.

  For a moment, he had his doubts. If the necklace had fallen off for some innocent reason, this might not be where they exited the tunnels—they could have gone anywhere. All they knew for certain was they had reached this point. The manhole cover hadn’t been replaced at their
entry point, but then, it didn’t need to be. The truck had been left to cover it, there no risk of it drawing attention.

  Yet here, if this was the exit point, and another vehicle had been waiting for them, then it would have needed to be replaced by someone, perhaps one of the hostages.

  So it could be their exit point.

  He pushed on the manhole cover and shoved his head up, dropping immediately back down as a car rushed toward him, the tire slamming the grate back into its hole. He grabbed a telescoping mirror from his utility belt and shoved it through one of the small holes in the grate, spotting a break in the traffic. He shoved up, hard, the grate lifting, then pushed it aside. He quickly pulled himself out of the hole and onto the pavement, rushing forward, a hand raised as the traffic accelerated toward him from a now green light.

  Brakes screeched and what he was sure were colorful Korean curses were shouted at him by several drivers before they noticed his impressive MP5.

  And Atlas’ massive frame now beside him.

  He had a feeling his partner was more responsible for the change in attitude than the submachine gun.

  Half a dozen Korean officers swarmed out of the hole, setting up a perimeter as Dawson surveyed the area.

  Nothing.

  He activated his comm. “Control, Zero-One. VIP support staff hostages recovered, but not the VIPs. Lock onto my current location and start checking for footage of any vehicle parked here for a while. We think they were transferred at this location, over.”

  “Roger that, Zero-One.”

  Dawson stared at the large, heavy grate, then at the street, pedestrians nearby.

  Atlas looked at him. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there’s no way a dozen well-dressed women climb out of a storm sewer, replace a grate, and get in a vehicle without someone noticing it, especially since the story’s hit the news.”