Execute Authority

by Dalton Fury

  Aside from the parked sedan, there was nothing out of the ordinary, but he wasn’t going to make the mistake of going into denial mode, dismissing the vehicle’s sudden appearance as coincidence and his own reaction as paranoia.

  In order for the car to have pulled up so quickly, it had to have been following him. He kicked himself for not paying attention on the road; personal security was never something to take for granted, even on home turf.

  He was fully alert now.

  He didn’t allow himself to speculate on the nature of the threat; there would be time for that later.

  With the pistol still pointed forward, he backed away from the opening. He nudged the door of the BMW closed with his hip, and was reaching for the button to close the garage door when he spied movement across the hood of the vehicle. He swung the Glock toward it.

  He saw the gun, pointed right at him, before he saw anything else, and that was all the PID he needed to break the five-pound trigger. But before he could, he saw a flash, and then he saw nothing at all.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Raynor was still wide awake, eyes glued to the fifty-inch high-def, when he again heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive. He checked the time—almost 2230—before grabbing his shotgun. He didn’t believe for a second that it was Slapshot and Barnes, back with another six-pack, and he was pretty sure it was too late for a visit from the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  He edged closer to the large window in the front room, careful not to silhouette himself, and looked outside. The porch light revealed another familiar vehicle: not Barnes’s flashy POV, but a more conservative black Jeep Wrangler. Colonel Webber’s ride.

  Raynor set the shotgun down on the coffee table before heading to the front door, but he remained uneasy. An unannounced late-night visit from the Delta commander was either a very good sign, or a very bad one. He opened the door just as Webber started up the steps. “Sir?”

  “Sorry if I woke you, Racer.” Webber still looked weary, but appeared to have recovered some of his hard edge. “We need to talk.”

  Raynor stepped back to let him in, and then hit the Mute button on the television remote. He was burning with curiosity, but knew better than to barrage his commander with questions that would probably be answered in short order.

  “Keeping up on current affairs, I see,” Webber said, nodding his head toward the silent TV. “Have you talked to anyone?”

  “Slap and Major Barnes came by for a beer. We didn’t talk shop.” Much, he added silently.

  Webber gave an indifferent grunt. He gestured to Raynor’s chair, and then sank wearily onto the sofa. He stared at the shotgun for a moment, then met Raynor’s gaze again. “You know they’ve identified the suicide you found in Jersey City. Lyle Dooley. I’m sure you’ve heard that the leader of the Michigan militia group Dooley belonged to turned himself in to the FBI. What you probably haven’t heard is that he’s identified the man the shooter was working with. A Russian calling himself Khavin. Described as medium height and build, and missing his left eye.”

  Raynor shook his head emphatically. “It’s Shiner. He’s Bosnian, not Russian.”

  Webber frowned at the interruption. “I’ve been paying attention, Racer. The only thing the FBI has to go on right now is what those redneck weekend warriors are telling them, and I doubt any of them know the difference between a Russian accent and a Bosnian one. The only thing that mattered to them was the fact that he was Spetsnaz.”

  “Spetsnaz? Bullshit.”

  “Of course it’s bullshit,” Webber growled. “Now let me finish. The militia hired this Khavin to provide a block of instruction in rifle marksmanship a few weeks back. I guess these patriots like the idea of getting trained by our enemies. That’s when Khavin apparently recruited this kid, Dooley. After that, they both dropped off the radar.”

  “Shiner recruited him all right, but only because he needed a patsy. I’ll bet you money that Dooley did not pull the trigger. On FLOTUS or on himself.”

  “You’re missing the point, Racer.”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “This Khavin was able to convince the militia of his bona fides as a former Russian special forces sniper. Of course it was an alias, and you and I both know that he wasn’t really Russian, but any connection to Russia is something our government takes very seriously.”

  “What connection? He conned the militia. Talked smack. No different than those jerk-offs you find in sleazy bars all over the world that claim to be SEALs or snake-eaters.”

  “There’s a lot more to it than that. The Bureau and Langley are pursuing multiple lines of evidence, but long story short, Khavin … or Shiner, if you prefer … has been getting a level of operational support consistent with an outside party. Possibly a foreign government.”

  “Russia?”

  “They would have a lot to gain by creating instability. To them the Cold War never really ended. We’ve been facing a sustained propaganda attack for the last decade. Putin has teams of GRU hackers targeting our agencies and personnel, looking for anything that they can use to diminish America’s presence in Europe, destabilize NATO. The hit on the Greek PM could represent an escalation of that effort. Our best guess is that the plan was to break the alliance overseas first, then hit POTUS and capitalize on the political chaos that follows.”

  Raynor did not fail to note that Webber had connected the Athens assassination with the attempt on the president in New York. “Capitalize, how?”

  Webber shrugged. “Probably by reclaiming some or all of the real estate lost after the fall of the Soviet Union.”

  “Your professional opinion, sir?” Kolt asked.

  “Not mine,” Webber said, “Langley’s.”

  Raynor pondered this for a moment, but then shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Shiner wouldn’t work for Putin. He hates the Russians almost as much as he hates us.”

  “Racer, I’m not here because of your obsession with Rasim Miric.”

  “Then, respectfully, sir, why the hell are you here?”

  “You’re not that thick. An enemy government just tried to assassinate POTUS. I don’t know what his reaction to that is going to be, but I have a feeling things are about to get very hot.”

  Raynor blinked as the message finally got through. “You think we’re going to war with Russia.”

  “War with a little w. Our kind of war.” He said it without even a trace of satisfaction.

  Raynor knew what that meant. In the short term, the response would be a proportionate reprisal, to include targeting specific members of the conspiracy for capture or even assassination. Wetwork. Delta’s bread and butter.

  That probably wouldn’t be the end of it though.

  “If you made a house call at this hour then I assume I’m not grounded anymore?”

  “Partly because we are still strung out across the globe,” Webber said, “mostly because the Unit needs you right now. I’ll make it official in the morning, but I wanted to tell you myself. I doubt anyone is going to make a fuss. I think the CG will back me. You were way ahead of the curve on this, and I intend to make sure everyone above my pay grade that matters understands that.”

  “Sir, I don’t want recognition, I want Shiner. Something about this stinks. Maybe he is working with someone else, but it’s not Russia.”

  “What’s your bet?”

  “Anyone that benefits from a shooting war between us and Putin. Take your pick.” A buzzing from his belt holder momentarily broke his train of thought before he could start down the list of enemies. He dug out his phone and checked the caller ID—it was Barnes—then looked back up to meet Webber’s gaze. “We need to focus on finding Shiner. That’s the only way to figure out who’s really behind this.”

  “Forget about fucking Shiner. As long as he’s on U.S. soil, he’s the FBI’s problem.” Webber’s tone was as unyielding as it had been the day before, but then he softened a little. “Look, I’ll pass along your thoughts on this, but until it becomes an in
ternational manhunt, there’s nothing we can do about it.” He pointed to the still-vibrating phone in Raynor’s hand. “You going to answer that?”

  Raynor hit the button to accept the call. “Yeah.”

  There was only silence on the line. After a few seconds, he checked to see if the call had dropped—it had not. “Hello? Brett, what’s up?”

  There was an odd noise, like a sigh, and then he heard, “Racer. I have waited so long to speak with you.”

  It was not Barnes.

  TWENTY-TWO

  For a long time, there was only silence on the line. Then Miric heard the voice again, that familiar voice that he heard sometimes in his dreams.

  “How in the hell did you get this number? Or the fucking phone you are calling from?” Racer’s voice was taut, as if each word was a trigger wire that might snap, unleashing a detonation of rage.

  “You know how,” Miric replied.

  Racer was silent, motionless for several long seconds. Then he lowered the phone and turned to the man sitting across from him. Miric could see them moving, gesturing as they conversed, but no voices were audible over the phone connection and he realized that Racer had activated the mute function. In the display of the sophisticated M-wave receiver, which augmented the paired PSO-1M2 optical scope and SVD-63 sniper rifle, the two men were little more than vaguely human-shaped blobs, a lighter shade of blue than their surrounding environment. The M-wave device, which utilized the same technology found in airport security scanners and some video game controllers, didn’t amplify visible light or even infrared, but microwave backscatter, interpreted by a computer to give him a rough approximation of what was going on inside Racer’s home. The fact that Miric could distinguish that much was nothing short of astonishing since he was literally seeing them through the walls of the trailer, but he didn’t need a clear view to imagine Racer in the grip of impotent rage.

  Miric thought about commenting on this observation, but decided against it. They did not know that he could see them, and he was not yet ready to reveal that fact to them.

  “Your friend is dead, Racer. I found him. I killed him. Soon, I will find you as well.”

  Racer’s reaction was not quite what he expected. “You motherfucker. I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

  Miric smiled behind his rifle. The weapon, along with its hi-tech imaging system, had been an unexpected gift from Mehmet, who had assured him that he would need every advantage when going up against the commandos of the army’s Delta Force. Miric would not have even believed a device like the M-wave receiver was possible, but as amazing as it was, the equipment was of less worth to him than the information that had put him here. Mehmet had given him something he could never have found on his own—the identity and location of the man who had taken his eye.

  Lieutenant Colonel Kolt Raynor.

  Mehmet had explained that the special operations forces from NATO countries were a close-knit community, often conducting joint training exercises and working together in highly secret operations abroad. Mehmet himself had once been a soldier in the OKK—Turkish special forces—and still had contacts within the organization, some of whom had access to the uncovered identities and service records of their counterparts in allied nations.

  Of course, that was something Miric could not ever reveal to Kolt Raynor.

  Miric had traveled to North Carolina and easily located Racer’s home—the man would always be “Racer” to him—and begun stalking him. He could have killed him at any time, but Mehmet’s cooperation had a price. He could not kill Racer. Not yet. But he could hurt him.

  “I do this for myself alone,” he replied. “You took something from me, Racer. Now, I take something from you.”

  There was another silence as the men in the trailer discussed this. Then, “You didn’t shoot the first lady for yourself. Or the Greek prime minister. Who called those shots?”

  The question, and the dispassion with which it was asked, surprised Miric. “You are wrong, Racer. Everything I have done, every blow I have struck against America and her puppet kingdoms, was for me. Only me.”

  “You’re the puppet, Rasim. They’re using you like a dog, and when you’ve done what they want, they’ll throw you down.”

  Racer’s words made no impression on Miric. He knew that Mehmet was using him, that he was just a game piece to be sacrificed when the time came, but he did not care.

  “When you came to my country, I thought you were heroes. That you would help us avenge ourselves against the Serb butchers, but you did not.” The words spilled out of him. He didn’t know if Racer would understand him, if he was speaking Serbo-Croatian or English, and he did not care. He had held it in for so long. “You only pretended to care, but when you had the chance, you let them go, over and over again. Your peace”—he spat the word out like a curse—“brought no justice, no end to suffering. Instead of avenging us, you protected them! You ignored what they did to us, excused it because we were Muslims.”

  He realized he was on the verge of shouting and caught himself. The woods around him had gone still. The walls of the trailer were thin, and his voice would carry.

  “Bullshit,” Racer snapped. “You were there with us. You know how bad we wanted to take them down. It didn’t matter to us one bit if you were Muslim or Christian or a fucking Hare Krishna. And yeah, I get that you were frustrated and that the politics were fucked up, but you can’t put that on me or any of the guys that were there.

  “I think this is personal,” Racer went on. “Between you and me. Fine. Let’s deal with it. Stop hiding behind a rifle like a coward and come face me.”

  Miric felt his cheeks go hot at the accusation of cowardice. He knew that Racer was trying to bait him, goad him into saying or doing something foolish, but he nevertheless had to fight the urge to simply pull the trigger. He took a deep breath, aiming the weapon. There was no need to calculate holdover and windage. The trailer was less than two hundred meters away. Still, there was a good chance his first shot would miss. There had been neither the time nor the opportunity to zero the rifle, although he had boresighted it before leaving the safe house in Maryland. That would suffice. The rifle had a ten-round magazine, and he would be able to make the necessary adjustments with each shot. He kept the reticle on the part of the light blue blob where he thought the left eye must surely be, and let his finger curl around the trigger.

  The exercise calmed him. He was not a coward. He had the power of life and death in his hands, and he was going to demonstrate that to Racer.

  * * *

  Raynor fought to stay focused on the conversation. A few feet away, Webber was speaking quietly into his own mobile phone, calling for someone to head to Barnes’s house. Raynor didn’t know if the colonel was talking to the police or someone else from the Unit. He hoped it was the latter. The cops weren’t equipped to deal with someone like Shiner.

  Evidently, Brett Barnes had not been either.

  Just thinking about it made Raynor feel ill. He had lost men in battle. TJ had died in his arms. But this? Losing a subordinate officer, a mate he’d just shared a beer with a couple hours earlier, on home turf?

  Personal? Fucking-A it was personal. He wasn’t just going to hunt Shiner; he was going to fucking kill him.

  He muted the phone again. “How the hell did he find Barnes?”

  Webber shook his head, raising a hand to ask for silence, but Raynor could tell his commander was just as worried about the question as he was. The Department of Defense went to extraordinary lengths to protect the identities of Unit members. Miric could have surmised that Raynor was at least American Special Forces sixteen years ago but it was a giant stretch that he would have learned that he was from a Tier One Special Missions Unit. Identifying and locating the men in Raynor’s command was not as simple as doing a Google search.

  Miric was definitely getting heavy-duty operational support from someone, and Raynor didn’t believe for a second that it was the Russians. No, it had to be someone
with solid intel on Unit operations.

  “Fuck!” he whispered again, recalling the last time he had been compromised, just a few months before. Bill Mason, the traitorous VPOTUS, had sold Noble Squadron out to a Syrian fighter who blamed Raynor—incorrectly, as it turned out—for the death of his son. Raynor didn’t have any proof, of course, which was why Mason was still alive.

  Did Mason want to be president so badly that he was willing to hire an international serial killer to assassinate POTUS? Was that why Miric was now going after Raynor and his men?

  Part of him wanted to believe it was true, but there were a lot of holes in the theory. The Greek hit, as Webber had pointed out, looked suspiciously like an attack on NATO. No matter how cynical Mason was, Raynor couldn’t believe he was willing to burn everything down just to get into the Oval Office.

  So if not Mason, then who?

  Miric was talking again. “You once called me a natural. I kill with rifle. It is what I am best at. Why would I reject my gift?”

  Raynor unmuted the phone. “I was wrong. You’re just average. You missed the president in New York. I think you just got lucky in Athens.”

  “I did not miss.” Miric sounded calm again.

  “So … what, you meant to hit the first lady? Really? Your fight is against unarmed women now? You’re more of a coward than I thought.”

  “The age of America is at its end. Your empire is crumbling. I have hurt your leader, just as I have hurt you. Now, I will finish him.”

  “What do you mean?” Raynor repeated, his voice edging up. “Who are you working for, Rasim? Who?”

  “It is day of reckoning, Racer. For America and you. An eye for an eye.”