by Dalton Fury
Maybe she didn’t love him, or even like him, but she was not going to have his death on her conscience.
“Okay, Troy. You win. But after this, you and I are going to have a talk.”
“You’re damn right, we are.”
She shook her head. “You really don’t get it, do you? You know what, you can come, but I’m driving. I don’t feel like giving you directions.”
“I know where you work.”
“No, Troy. You don’t.”
* * *
At first, he was incredulous, even going as far as to accuse her of lying. Then, he was dismissive.
“So you’re like an advisor for them on the NBC stuff?”
She decided to let him go on believing that, but almost as soon as he said it, something seemed to click inside him and he shut down completely. He stopped talking and simply stared straight ahead as she drove his truck down the back roads of Fort Bragg. At first, she thought this reaction was the result of his insecurity about Delta and the fact that he had washed out of selection, but then she realized it was something else.
Troy had finally figured out that Kolt Raynor, the guy Cindy Bird worked with day in and day out, wasn’t just some burned-out pogue officer keeping track of gas masks, but a Delta Force operator.
How was he supposed to compete with that?
The silence was fine with Hawk. She really didn’t want to talk to him anyway.
She pulled up to the gate leading into the secure area that Delta Force called home and stopped, rolling down the window to present her badge to the guard. The security team had probably been briefed on the emergency plan and knew to expect some unfamiliar faces, but just to avoid any problems, she turned to Troy and suggested he present his military ID as well.
She had explained to him, in the most general way possible, that there was a potential danger to the family and friends of Unit personnel, but by that point in the conversation, very little that she said seemed to reach him.
He refused to look at her, but in a tight voice said, “I’m not staying. You should get out here.”
That was all he said. There was no halfhearted attempt to soften the blow, no meaningless empty reassurances, no “I’ll call you.” He did not even inquire about how she would get back.
That was fine with her. In fact, it was better than fine.
“Yeah, all right.” She got out, leaving the door to the pickup wide open.
“He’s turning around, guys,” she said to the security officers, and headed into the compound, not once looking back.
She felt an amazing lightness as she trekked toward the cluster of large buildings and nearest security-controlled door, but the feeling evaporated when she headed into the Spine and remembered why she had come here.
* * *
Delta was not a typical military unit by any means, but one structure that was constant in all the armed services of the United States, no matter how elite or unconventional, was the chain of command. The death of Colonel Jeremy Webber was an unprecedented blow to the Unit, but just as in any other combat unit, there were protocols for ensuring that the chain of command remained intact.
After the call to Slapshot, the next thing Raynor did was contact Webber’s second in command and long-standing heir apparent, Lieutenant Colonel (promotable) Richard Penske, informing him that he was now the acting commander of Delta Force.
Penske was intimately familiar with the job and the personnel under his authority, so in that regard at least, Raynor had no doubt that the transition would go smoothly. But just because Webber had been grooming Penske for eventual command, it did not mean the two men were in full agreement. One particular area of friction between them had been Colonel Webber’s ongoing pet project: the redemption and rehabilitation of Kolt Raynor.
Penske’s position was that persona non grata was a life sentence, and that rescinding it set a bad example. The only reason he had given conditional support to Webber’s plan to bring Raynor back into the fold was that he expected Raynor to fail, and that inevitable failure would prove him right.
For five years, Raynor hadn’t given a shit if Penske had been impressed with his work ethic or not, and he knew it was a long shot that he’d be able to substantively change the other man’s opinion of him. Nonetheless, Raynor didn’t believe Penske would be anything but professional in the execution of his duties, but if he wanted Kolt out, he would find a way.
Raynor had given a condensed version of events over the phone, just enough to get things moving. The conversation had been short and focused, and without recriminations, but Raynor knew those would follow in short order. Once he knew that everyone in the squadron was present or accounted for, he headed to Penske’s office to make his report in person.
“Racer.” Penske acknowledged him with a grim nod and gestured for him to sit. “Rough night.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bringing everyone in like you did; that was the right move. Quick thinking.”
Raynor was wary of compliments, especially from Penske. “Thank you, sir.”
“For Pete’s sake, Racer, call me Dick.” Penske paused a beat. “Your removal was never actually formalized. I think Jeremy was waiting to see which way the wind would blow. Consider yourself reinstated for now.”
This was even more suspicious to Raynor. The only possible reason for the show of conciliation was that Penske intended to keep him on a very short leash.
Penske went on. “He was also keeping me in the loop on your search for this Russian sniper. I thought he was making a mistake letting you skirt posse comitatus to look for the guy, but I guess you were right about the threat. What I don’t get is how he found you. How were you compromised?”
Raynor let the mistake about Miric’s ethnicity slide. “I don’t know. But I do know that this isn’t over. Shiner flat out told me he’s going to take another shot at POTUS, and I think it’s going to happen soon. Maybe in the next day or two.”
Penske was interested despite himself. “Why do you say that? Your famous sixth sense?”
“He told me he didn’t miss in New York.”
“So he actually meant to kill the first lady? Why would he do that?”
“To create fear. Make the president look weak. Maybe to establish this bogus connection to the militia and the Russians. He said, ‘I did not miss.’ I don’t think he even wanted to kill her. Just wound her…” He trailed off for a moment. “Bethesda. That’s where it’s going to happen.”
“I’m sorry, Racer. I’m not following you.”
“A sniper doesn’t stalk his target. He waits for the target to come to him, but it takes time to set up a good position and recce the battlefield. Presidential security relies on unpredictability. Denial of opportunity. POTUS has to schedule some of his public appearances in advance, but the times and routes of travel are kept secret until the last possible second. Shiner’s original plan was to make the hit in Baltimore, but we stopped him. New York was rushed. Maybe he wasn’t confident that he could make a killing shot at that range, so he settled for the next best thing. Wounding POTUS or FLOTUS ensures that they will eventually be transported to the VIP suite at Walter Reed. FLOTUS is being moved there today. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that POTUS will put in an appearance at some point. That’s when Shiner will take the shot.”
“So, he wounded the first lady, just so he could maneuver his real target into a more favorable location.” Penske shook his head. “That’s byzantine, Kolt. The more complicated a plan, the more likely it is to fail. If he wanted POTUS dead, he wouldn’t have passed up the chance when he had it. And he sure as hell wouldn’t further complicate it by coming after you.”
“You’re wrong. This is a game to him. Setting up the pieces, executing the plan. He’s getting off on it. He’s a psychopath. The fact that I showed up just makes it even more of a challenge. That’s why he came after me. He wants to make it personal. He thinks he has to beat me. That’s his weakness. We can use that against
him, draw him out. Maybe find out who’s pulling his strings. And plug the leak.”
“Why the hell would it be personal against you?” Penske asked. “If it was, why did he shoot Webber tonight instead of you?”
“Sir, the guy holds me responsible for losing his eye.”
“Why you?”
“Long story. Bosnia PIFWIC hit that went wrong years ago. Shiner blames me to this day.”
Penske appeared to consider all this for a moment. “I’ll run it up the flagpole but I don’t know if anyone is going to salute. Posse comitatus aside, our collective ass is in a sling over what you did in New York.”
“Colonel Webber told me he was going to talk to the CG. Get him to put us back in the fight.”
“That’s not what he told me. In any case, General Allen would have just told him what I’m going to tell you. Stay in your lane. The manhunt for this assassin is not on JSOC’s target deck.”
“Talk to him,” Raynor urged. “Convince him. Get him to talk to SECDEF. Hell, have him ask POTUS. Nobody else has even gotten close to Shiner. That’s got to count for something.”
Penske snorted. “Look where that got us.”
“That’s why we need to be a part of this, Dick. For the colonel and Brett. Shiner just made this personal.”
“Racer. If I’m going to have any chance of saving the Unit, the only thing I need to convince him of is that we can get our house in order. That’s all that matters right now.”
“We were just attacked. Two of our brothers are dead and the guy that killed them is going after POTUS. That’s the only thing that matters to me.” Kolt’s voice was rising, almost to a shout. He knew it, and he didn’t care. “Does it matter to you, Dick?”
Penske placed his hands palms down on the desk and leaned forward. “Like it or not, this happened on American soil. There’s nothing we can do about it except cooperate fully with CID and the other agencies who are already looking for Miric.”
Raynor did not back down. “Then I’d like to take some leave.”
“Do not even think about going off the reservation, Racer. You are a squadron commander, not some lone-wolf superhero. That Tier One wild bullshit you pulled a few years ago will not be tolerated.” He continued to hold Raynor’s gaze, but leaned back in his chair. “Jeremy believed in you. I told him it was a mistake to bring you back. That you were incapable of following orders. You’ve got a choice right now. Prove me wrong, or spit on his memory?”
He dropped his stare, not waiting for Raynor’s answer. “Tell your squadron to sit tight until we get the all clear. That will be all.”
* * *
As he made his way back down the Spine, Raynor realized what he was going to have to do. The writing was on the wall, at least as far as his career in Delta was concerned. The only reason he had been put back in charge of Noble Squadron was so that Penske would have the satisfaction of calling in the Black Chinook himself, and showing the top brass how he was putting the house in order.
Yet Raynor felt no sense of outrage or loss at the thought of ending his career with Delta. The only thing that mattered to him now was stopping Shiner.
Slapshot was watching CNN on the television in Raynor’s office. The killings in Fayetteville had not made the news, and probably would not rate more than a passing mention at the level of the local network affiliates, but there had been a new development in one of the stories dominating the news cycle.
“Somebody leaked the Russian connection,” Slapshot said. “Ivan’s denying it, of course, but it just makes them look even guiltier. I think the shit might actually be hitting the fan this time.”
“There is no Russian connection,” Raynor said. He crossed the room to a free-standing shelf unit in the corner, opened it, and removed a plastic clamshell package that contained a ZTE Z223 flip-phone-style mobile device. “They’re denying it because they had nothing to do with it.”
“Tell that to Wolf Blitzer.”
“Believe me. I’m tempted.” As he headed back to his desk, Raynor pried the package open. He took out the phone and removed the plastic tab from the battery, then powered up the device. “Why aren’t you with your family?”
“They’re fine,” Slapshot said, waving a hand. “The best way to keep them safe right now is to take that fucker down.”
The news coverage switched to an update on the first lady’s condition. The graphic crawl at the bottom of the screen indicated that she would be moving to Bethesda as early as the following afternoon. Slapshot switched the set off. “So, did you get execute authority?”
“Penske’s actual words were ‘stay in your lane.’”
The big man clenched his fists. “You’re shitting me. Shiner killed the colonel. He killed Brett, Kolt. How can he ignore that?”
“There’s not a lot he can do. The law is the law.”
“Fucking law.” Slapshot’s face twisted into a sneer. “So what are we doing, another extended urban training exercise, hoping to get lucky a second time?”
“No.”
“But you’ve got some kind of plan.”
“I do.” Raynor finished activating the phone, then took a business card from his top desk drawer. He put both the business card and the burner phone in his pocket, then put his own mobile phone inside the drawer.
“Do we need to have another talk about sharing?”
Raynor looked his friend in the eye. “You’ve got things under control here. There’s something I have to take care of.”
“Boss, I’ve got your six, but you need to talk to me.”
He started for the door. “Not this time, Slap.”
“Kolt, wait.”
Raynor didn’t look back.
TWENTY-FIVE
Before becoming the owner-operator of Radiance Security and Surveillance Systems, a Virginia-based private military contractor, Colonel Pete Grauer had commanded an Army Ranger battalion. In that capacity, he had recommended a young officer named Kolt Raynor for Delta selection. Raynor had survived the grueling process and gone “behind the fence”—army slang for disappearing into the secretive ranks of Special Operations—and shortly thereafter, Grauer retired from active duty to serve his country as a private citizen. That should have been the end of their association, but subsequent events had brought them together again.
When Raynor had been cashiered from the Unit after the disastrous mission in Pakistan, Grauer had taken pity on his former subordinate, hiring Kolt for overseas security work, and ultimately providing operational support for the unsanctioned mission to rescue Delta personnel being held captive in the tribal area of Pakistan. That assignment had paved the way for Raynor’s return to the Unit, so Kolt was twice indebted to Pete Grauer.
Now, he was about to ask Grauer to grant a third wish.
Raynor drove all night to reach the Virginia suburb where Radiance was headquartered, arriving a little after 0630, but waited until 0800 to call the number printed on the business card. Grauer’s number. The call went to voice mail, so Raynor left a brief message with a request to meet for coffee. Grauer called back within the minute, and a time and place for the meeting were agreed upon.
Fifteen minutes later, Kolt pulled his truck into the parking lot of an IHOP located in a shopping center off the Jefferson Davis Highway. Grauer was waiting for him in a corner booth.
“Racer. You’re looking good. Helluva lot better than last time I saw you.” He stood and shook Kolt’s hand. He gestured for Raynor to sit but waited until the server had poured coffee for both of them to make his inquiry. “So, out with it. What’s wrong?”
Kolt’s former CO listened without comment as Raynor laid out the situation, beginning with the assassination of the Greek prime minister and culminating with the attack at Raynor’s home the previous evening. He had stopped short of telling Grauer that he was probably finished at Delta and technically AWOL, but if the other man had not already figured that out, he soon would.
Grauer was silent for a long time after Kolt st
opped speaking. Finally he said, “My condolences for your loss, Kolt. Webber and I went way back, and I know how much Jeremy meant to you. But … and forgive me for being frank … why are you here?”
“Shiner is an immediate threat to POTUS. And if we don’t stop him and figure out who he’s working for, we could be looking at a new Cold War with Russia. Or worse.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Grauer replied patiently, “but it doesn’t answer my question. The FBI is hunting him. The Secret Service is protecting the president. Delta doesn’t have the authority to do either of those jobs. Now I get that this is personal for you, but that doesn’t change the way things are. So, I say again, why are you here?”
“I’m going after him, Pete.”
“You as in … just you?”
“Obviously I can’t use Unit resources or personnel.”
“So you want to hire Radiance to do your legwork, is that it?” There was no mistaking the skepticism in Grauer’s tone. “Not only is this crazy by the fact you are an active-duty army officer, but besides that you do realize that even if you did contract with us, we’d be bound by the same laws that prevent your Unit from operating on U.S. soil.”
“I was thinking of something less official,” Raynor replied. “Something more along the lines of what you did for Colonel Webber when you sent me to Pakistan.”
“Unofficial doesn’t mean pro bono. That operation was fully funded from the black budget. That’s not me being stingy or unpatriotic. These operations cost money. A lot of money. I’m guessing you aren’t bringing anything like that to the table.”
“Not exactly.”
Grauer was silent for a while, then said, “What is it you specifically need from me?”
“I know that Radiance is flying UAVs for Homeland Security. You’ve already got the eyes in the sky. All I’m asking is that for the next couple days you pay particular attention to the area around the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. And that you let me have a look at your feeds. I could probably use some logistical support, too.”
“We do border security flights for DHS, not domestic urban surveillance. They rely on local police for that. Bethesda is inside the D.C. flight restricted zone, so even if we made up some excuse to divert one of our birds, we would only be allowed to fly where they tell us to. Working for DHS doesn’t give me a pass on that.”