by Fiona Quinn
“Then you’ll have found the maps of each debarkation location with various routes mapped out. The blueprints for each location. The Embassies in London and Beirut will provide you with three armored cars. Before you go, your team is to head over to the vehicular training course—Winner, you put the address into their info?”
“Yes, sir.” Winner had slicked the black strands of her usually curly hair into a neat bun at the back of her neck. She’d left her face make-up free. “It’s twenty-five minutes from their hotel. They have the course reserved for fifteen hundred hours.”
“Copy,” T-Rex said with a quick glance at his watch. They didn’t have long until they needed to head out.
“I want your driving skills in England to be perfection,” Burnside growled. “Go through all of the maneuvers driving on the left-hand side until you’ve refreshed your muscle memory. I will not—hear me clearly—not have an incident like we had when our diplomat’s wife admittedly killed that teen with her poor driving skills. If that goes down—which it will not—I will be first in line to kick your can down the street, then hand you over to their police for a proper trial. You will not shame America.”
“Sir,” T-Rex said.
Burnside looked at Winner.
Winner sat up a little straighter. “Once you get to Lebanon, things will be more stressful. You should be aware that three French journalists, following a story at the Iraqi-Syrian border, were captured. ISIS tortured the three then released the male at the Lebanese border crossing. He’s in the hospital in Beirut. Jean Baptiste Rujean. His colleagues, Éloïse and Marie-Claude, remain hostages. From our CIA contact, we’ve learned that this has heightened the stress levels around the city. There was a major influx of Syrians into Lebanon as ISIS expanded its territory. Now, the populace is concerned that ISIS is growing bolder and might test the border, possibly expanding into Lebanon. One of the reasons that Blankenship is going to Beirut is to reassure their government that America is their ally.”
“That influx, how is that affecting Beirut?” T-Rex asked.
“Electricity in the area doesn’t meet demand. There are frequent blackouts, and they depend on diesel generators for backup. Lebanon is considered a ‘Threat Level Three—reconsider travel.’”
“What are the reasons listed?” Ty asked.
“Crime, terror, armed conflict, civil unrest, kidnappings—obviously,” Winner said. “The American Embassy in Beirut has only a limited capacity to support U.S. citizens if they run into issues. Of course, the senator is a VIP, so that doesn’t apply to her.”
“Do you have background on the journalists traveling with us?” T-Rex asked.
“The photographer is Jules Edwards,” Winner said. “He’s followed along on VIP trips before. He’s there to take photos, not have a personality. He’ll keep up and won’t add or subtract in any way. The fly on the wall, if you will.”
The three operators nodded.
“The journalist was traded out last minute. That might be a problem. You should be aware of her at any rate. Remi Taleb."
“Taleb?” Ty cocked his head to the side. “I thought she was a war correspondent.”
“Interesting, right? White House journalist Jasmine Tremblay was originally on the list. She’s been bumped.”
“Why?” T-Rex leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
“Best guess? Remi pulled strings to get back over to Lebanon,” Winner said.
“More?”
“Jean Baptiste et al. were pals of hers. I did a bit of research, and they’ve shared bylines for over a decade. I’m sure she wants to go and offer what support she can to Jean Baptiste.”
“Is she the type to pull some crap, try to jump off and go find the missing reporters on her own?” T-Rex asked.
“She’s got a reputation for being brazen and fearless. But in this case,” Winner shrugged, “I don’t see it happening.”
“Regardless,” Burnside said. “Taleb isn’t our principle. We’re tasked with keeping the senator safe. Period. Let’s stay mission-specific.”
“I’m putting links to a couple of articles that might have bearing on your conduct during the mission.” Winner looked down as her finger flew over the keyboard. “I’m going to be honest. Remi Taleb looks like she’s a one-woman wrecking ball for the special operations community.”
“All of us?” Ty asked.
“SEALs,” Winner said, wrinkling her nose. “You need to watch your backs.”
T-Rex leaned forward. “Why?”
“Remi Taleb is the reporter who broke the story on Ackerman that ultimately sent their whole platoon home.”
T-Rex processed that for a moment. “My reading of that story was they needed to be brought home and disciplined. Granted, an operational element that large—fourteen enlisted and two junior officers—takes two squads off the grid. That makes an impact. But they were starting to act like some of the lesser appreciated contractors like Omega. Their conduct was criminal.”
“Have you had the news on today?” Winner asked.
“No.” T-Rex stared into the camera.
“Ackerman was let off.”
“From the rape charges?”
“Non-consensual sex charges. Yes. All of it. Every last thing he did over there.”
T-Rex’s face hardened. It wasn’t often that T-Rex showed emotion, but this news made him seethe.
“So I guess he was innocent of the allegations, then?” Havoc asked. “Her reporting was wrong?”
“Let’s put it another way. He wasn’t proven guilty.” Winner sighed. “But DNA, lacerations, and bruises around the woman’s neck? That sounds like a technicality cut him free, not innocence.” Winner turned her focus from Havoc to T-Rex. “You were in the SEALs with him. What do you think really happened?”
“I kept my distance from Ackerman. He smelled like trouble. I moved on to SEAL Team Six before he started to become a SEAL problem.”
“Remi also broke the story of the snuff photos and trophies that led to the other arrests,” Winner said. “Hell of a hit for that team.”
“Accurate.” T-Rex let the emotions slide from his face, and he was back to his seemingly unperturbable self. “Still. We should be policing ourselves. News like that gets sucked into the propaganda machine overseas and puts us at higher risk—makes it harder to gain the trust of locals. Let’s move on from her reporting to the personal. What are we dealing with here? Does either Remi or the photographer have habits that can compromise the mission?”
Ty leaned over and pulled the piece of paper that Rory had snatched back out of his mouth, shaking a disciplinary finger at him. “Anything in their background about drugs or alcohol abuse? That would be some pretty serious lack of self-awareness if Taleb’s bringing down men’s careers over something she’s into herself.”
“I’m not worried about that,” T-Rex said. “We’re not babysitting them—we don’t have responsibility.”
“If either of them gets coked up around the senator…” Winner made a face. “That can lead to issues.”
“You kick her out of the car if it leads to issues, Master Chief,” Burnside said.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve had Jules Edwards out with us before. Unless things have changed,” Ty said, “Jules is benign. Solid family guy. Two kids in college, so he keeps his head down and pays the bills. Is Remi in a relationship that’s concerning? Anyone she might be passing Iraqi landing schedules to?”
“Nothing I can find on a romantic partner at any point. If someone’s in the picture, not even the CIA knows about it.”
“Remi is usually working hot spots,” T-Rex said. “Why’s she here in the United States now?”
“She was up for an award. The Excellence in International Journalism Award for her article on…us. Well, the special forces community.”
T-Rex let out a low whistle. “That’s an impressive award. You sent me that newspaper article?”
Winner nodded. “I
did. It’s in the links section.”
Looking down at his watch, T-Rex said, “Okay. We need to get rolling if we’re going to make it to the track and get our practice in. I’ll go over the files on the plane. Tomorrow is go day.”
“Remember, gentlemen,” their commander said, “you are the shadows that keeps the senator nice and safe. You will not stumble. You won’t give this Remi Taleb one iota of a reason to pick you apart in her article. Keep your noses clean and stay out of that woman’s way.”
Chapter Seven
T-Rex
Wednesday, Washington D.C.
Havoc rolled through the empty parking lot toward the private hangar owned by Senator Blankenship’s first cousin. The cousin was lending Blankenship her long-range jet that seated just the right number of people for this trip: Senator and staff member, 2 journos, 4 security, 1 flight attendant, four chaperones, and forty-eight students; two dozen on each team.
Rory had his head hanging out the open window of the SUV, sniffing the air. Hot macadam and jet fuel in the morning.
It was five a.m. Eastern Standard; they weren’t flying out for another hour yet.
T-Rex felt rested after sleeping nearly all the way home from Djibouti on Monday. Tuesday, his team had worked out their stiff muscles with massages and some time in an infrared sauna along with haircuts and training.
Now that Wednesday was here, his three-man team was primed and ready to go.
Fortunately, there was little chance that the level of “go” would surpass heads on a swivel and holding doors. It was all good.
“Hey, let me out here,” T-Rex said as they approached the glass door to the hangar. “Let’s drop the equipment.”
The unloading didn’t take long. Each man’s suitcase was packed with the specialized suits they wore in public while performing personal protection duties. Shoulder gussets, Lycra in the material, and extra support stitched into the waistband to help support their duty pistols meant their movement wouldn’t be constrained. Today, the team members were each dressed in a pair of pressed khakis and a black polo shirt, professional, casual wear for the trip. Was it weird for Laurel to go into their houses and pack them up?
Sure.
T-Rex was a private person.
But Laurel was a nurse, so for some reason, less uncomfortable than someone else doing it.
Echo’s standard weapons weren’t allowed in England. They’d be kitted up by the CIA when they reached Iraq, and they’d take those weapons with them into Lebanon.
Rory was the prima donna, needing the most equipment and space. Ty held Rory’s lead while Echo and T-Rex pulled the collapsed dog crate from the trunk, setting it next to the rest of their bags just inside the hangar door.
“Ty, go ahead and let Rory do his business in those woods over there. Havoc, you return the SUV to the rental office. I’ll wait here with the equipment and see if our VIP shows up.”
“Wilco,” Havoc said, rounding back to the driver’s seat.
Ty glanced down at Rory, tapped his leg, and they took off at a jog.
As his eyes acclimated to the dim interior, T-Rex found a group of girls in the far corner, sitting on the cement floor in conversation circles. They were playing string games and cards. Women with hijabs and long dresses stood against the wall chatting with half an eye watching to ensure the teens behaved.
As his gaze scanned the rest of the space, he caught sight of a figure dressed in black with a rose-colored scarf looped around her neck. Women in Lebanon often wore their scarves like that, readily available to drape over their hair if they needed to. European women also wore scarves that way. T-Rex hadn’t seen any women in America do that.
Though still far away, T-Rex would guess that that was Remi Taleb.
His first thought was, “We are at our best when our paths cross.” It was a quote by Nemr. That thought startled T-Rex. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.
As the figure drew closer, T-Rex was sure he’d been right. This was the famous Remi Taleb.
Remi moved forward with a long stride that belied the length of her legs. Though she was a tall woman, she walked with the kind of gait that someone develops when they walked next to someone much bigger over a long period of time.
She had an assertiveness about her, a steely but understated aggression in her look. Hard-assed, if not badass, like she could cause problems.
As she got closer, he assessed her physical qualities. He needed to know at the outset if she could hold her own on this mission. Keep up. Not that he had any plans to slow down for her. His duty was specifically to Senator Blankenship, and he couldn’t let either his men or him get pulled away because the journo needed a hand with her bags.
Remi wore two backpacks with cross-body straps. They overlapped in the front between her breasts, making her double D boobs jut out. Not provocatively, the look was more ‘warrior princess.’
He noted that this configuration allowed Remi to maintain her movement hands-free. If this was her only luggage, then she traveled light.
Stopping at the wall near the office door, Remi pulled one pack off, then the other, leaning them beside the bench there.
She’d spotted him, he was sure.
Of course, she had.
But Remi ignored T-Rex and the fact that he boldly stared at her.
She was close enough now that T-Rex could see the details.
Full lips, dark eyes, long lashes, tanned skin, slightly lighter around her eyes where her sunglasses would rest.
Her hair was black, appeared to be straight and silky. She cut it at a length that was just long enough to pull back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. The ponytail was maybe two inches long, not enough for someone to be able to grab and manipulate her hair or head, long enough that she could keep it back and out of her face, feminine enough to... She was a very attractive woman.
T-Rex had had trouble winding down to sleep last night. He’d been caught up by watching Remi’s reports on YouTube and doing searches on her articles. He was curious. T-Rex could admit that to himself. Like everything T-Rex had learned last night from watching videos of her reporting, even her haircut seemed to have been given thought and attention beyond her physical appearance. Pragmatic. Rational. Disciplined. All qualities T-Rex respected.
When she did an interview dressed in a dress and heels, he’d seen scars on her exposed legs. Where did they come from? How bad had the events been that marked her for life? That she was often right there smack dab in the middle of dangerous events was evident in the footage.
He’d thought of Ty’s new love, Kira. How tender she was, how affected she’d been by the events that had unraveled around her. These women were from different ends of the spectrum.
Pulling her phone and pen from the thigh pocket of what looked like tactical tights, Remi reached under her tunic, produced a pad, and then sat.
The cover on the pad he recognized, waterproof paper.
The pen, too, he recognized. It was a tactical pen. He, Ty, and Havoc all had them on the inside pockets of their suit jackets. They could write at any angle—wet weather or dry, hot or below freezing—without worrying about ink flow. And they served as a make-do kubaton—a pressure point weapon that was helpful in venues that didn’t allow his standard tactical weapons.
She had chosen the tactical pen with sharp ridges scalloping the end. Stabbed into the skin and twisted, not only did it leave a painful wound that was slow to heal, it left a unique injury, one that was readily identifiable by law enforcement. The pen would also collect DNA on its ridges, again for the identification of a perpetrator.
Did she know how to use it properly? Or was she a poser?
He glanced down at the thigh pocket where Remi had pulled the pen. Two other clips stuck out. Judging from the rounded length inside the pocket, T-Rex would say that she had a tactical flashlight and a multitool with her. If that flashlight was high enough lumen, then that too could be an effective weapon or at least a discouragement in the d
ark. And any woman who carried a multi-tool was the kind of woman that he’d…
T-Rex found himself cutting off that thought before it could form whole and problematic in his mind. This assessment is professional; that’s all, he disciplined himself.
Remi ended that call, and she accepted another one.
Her pen landed back on the pad, and she was nodding as she scribbled her thoughts.
Since journalists can’t carry weapons, a pen that wrote under adverse conditions was an implement for her job, not a weapon. A flashlight, the multitool, they were all everyday devices that wouldn’t necessarily be explicitly categorized as a weapon.
Smart.
The level of excitement streaming through his circuitry shocked T-Rex. It was a sensation that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Not since… Jess.
T-Rex dimmed the switch as soon as that light came on.
He looked away, but his attention was drawn immediately back.
It was an interesting outfit she wore. Her shoes looked like European walking shoes. That was good, no clattering of high heels and moaning over sore feet. She was a tall woman. He’d guess five foot ten, maybe five-eleven. Even so, the tactical tights seemed to rise up higher than was typical. He knew that they probably came up to her bra line because her tunic split up the sides to that point. The tunic had a Middle Eastern, maybe East Indian, cut. That made sense. That region from the horn of Africa to India seemed to be Remi’s beat.
Remi definitely had the look of someone who was undaunted by danger. Capable. Strong.
T-Rex had met his share of badass women like that before.
D-Day Rochambeau was like that…
Storm Meyers was like that. Storm was a soldier who had often attached to Echo when T-Rex was new to The Unit. On missions where they needed a female to interact with the local women, go in and do things that men weren’t allowed to do in the Middle Eastern culture—speak to the women, pat them down for weapons or suicide vests… Because she was female, Storm hadn’t been allowed into the training courses like the men. Special Forces trained her on the fly. After all, their team was only as good as their weakest link. And she was good. Storm had deserved the same level of opportunity and distinction as the men on his team.