Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  Del Rio became the first of many recruits Collins would latch onto steer toward his division; the group was quickly referred to as “Baker’s Boys”, male or female notwithstanding. Each would quickly become the “adopted children” of Collins and his wife Sharon, a kindly woman who fussed and fretted over each of them as if they were her own flesh and blood. Each was assigned a nickname by their new boss, almost before they’d been handed their badge, and were nearly always addressed by that name over their own.

  Del Rio’s was “Rock”, not just because of his athletic build, but more for what Collins saw of the inside of his prized recruit. Del Rio’s steadiness under pressure, a presence that belied his youth and the sure knowledge that he would stand strong when needed most, had all brought to Collins’ mind the image of a giant slab of granite rock.

  So when the decision was made to send an agent over to England to serve as the FBI’s liaison agent between the security forces of the United Kingdom and those of the United States in regards to domestic counter-terrorism activities, only one name made Collins’ list.

  Rock.

  Within a week of being given the assignment, Del Rio had placed his belongings in storage after setting aside three bags and one trunk that would travel with him, settled his lease, stored his beloved car, and boarded a flight to London. He wasn’t afraid of flying per se, but he certainly was more than happy to be back on the ground once again when the plane landed at Heathrow Airport seven hours later.

  His first year in London had been somewhat uneventful. Even though he was assigned as part of a multi-agency team, his British counterparts preferred that their FBI cousin keep a very low profile. So Del Rio did exactly what Collins’ had hoped. He observed the tactics of the British as well as the terrorists they engaged, wrote reports on what he’d seen, what he’d thought was being done right, what was being done wrong, and exactly how the Bureau could do it a lot better.

  “Hey, Yank,” was how most of the conversations directed his way began. A year in, he was still considered somewhat of an outsider to the rest. It was no different when Tom Callum, the head of MI-5’s counter-terrorism division, included Del Rio on a quick pick-up mission of a suspected terrorist sympathizer.

  “He’s a Yank like you,” Callum explained as the team of six loaded up in a black SUV. “He hasn’t committed a crime over on our side of the pond, but we think he has ties with the Sinn Fein lads who haven’t heard there’s a peace accord these days. We’d like to have a private word with him. Maybe having a fellow Yank there will help encourage him to come along quietly, like a good lad.”

  Callum handed over a folder for a quick read-through giving Del Rio enough to go on as Tony James drove the team to its destination. Bart Doyle, a big man of Irish descent with a ruddy face and red hair to match, was from Boston and had two minor warrants out for his arrest. Not enough to draw the interest of the local authorities in Britain, but enough to justify sending him back home if the FBI caught him anywhere overseas. Del Rio closed the folder and handed it back to Callum.

  “Nice guy,” Del Rio said, glancing over at his seatmate, Laura Cassidy. A half-grunt, half-snort sounded off from the seat behind them; whether it was from Smith or Jones — two agents big enough to make King Kong nervous — he couldn’t tell.

  “The Provos seldom recruit from high society,” Cassidy replied. She was a couple of years older than he, and Del Rio, who thought she looked a lot like a young Helen Mirren with strawberry-blonde hair, had to admit he was forming something of a crush on her, but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to pursue it further to see if there was any interest on her part.

  The SUV pulled to a stop in front of an Irish Pub called Kate’s, the team stepping out almost before the SUV had come to a complete stop. Callum led them inside and swiftly scanned the pub looking for Doyle. As he did, Smith and Jones took up station by the entrance to ensure no one left early. James moved to cover the only other exit, near the back, while Cassidy and Del Rio stayed with Callum.

  “There he is,” Callum said, heading to the far end of the bar where Doyle was engaged in conversation with the bartender. Doyle’s face was flushed an even deeper shade of red than normal, and judging from the amount of empty glasses nearby, he was already a few pints in on the evening’s drinking with plenty more to come based on how heavy-set the man was.

  “Bart Doyle,” Callum said as he approached, showing his credentials, “my name is Callum. This is Cassidy and Del Rio. We’d like you to come with us and answer a few questions.”

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Doyle as he stared bleary-eyed at the ID in Callum’s hand.

  “No sir, you are not, but we would appreciate your cooperation regarding an investigation. Come along now like a good lad and we should have you on your way in short order.”

  “If you don’t have any paper on him,” the bartender, a short man with a thick Irish accent, interjected, “then you can bloody well get out of me pub and take your gorillas with you.”

  “Now look here…” Callum shot back hotly.

  “No chum, you look. This is me pub! Badge or no you can’t just march in here and roust me customers with no reason. Now then, get out with you!”

  “He’s right Tom,” Del Rio said, moving around Callum, drawing shocked stares from just about everyone within earshot. “As he is an American citizen who hasn’t committed a crime here, and you are merely an agent of British authority, you can’t detain him.”

  “Aye,” exclaimed the bartender smugly as Callum and Cassidy looked at Del Rio in outrage.

  “However,” Del Rio continued, turning to face Doyle as he pulled his ID out with his left hand, flipping it open to show him the badge, “as I am FBI Special Agent Jack Del Rio and there are two warrants for this man’s arrest back home…”

  The bottle of single malt whiskey had been aged over twenty-one long years before landing behind the bar at Kate’s. It was its unfortunate fate to be sitting next to the bartender’s hand when Del Rio had introduced himself as an FBI agent with warrants on Doyle. The temptation was too great to grab the bottle and try to create a diversion to allow Doyle to slip away. In a flash he had the bottle by the neck and whipped it back. Before he could even finish the backswing, he suddenly found himself staring straight down the barrel of a Glock that had simply materialized out of thin air. A gun that was pointing right at him, unwavering even in the slightest, ready to put a third hole in the forehead right between his two eyes.

  He’d never seen the FBI man move his head away from Doyle, much less the action of his right hand drawing the weapon, extend his arm straight out to his right, and level it on its target without actually looking at it. In the shocked silence that filled the room, the bartender realized that no one else had seen him move either.

  “Bloody hell,” a strangled whisper floated into the silence from near the back of the room. “did ya see how fast he got that fookin’ gun out?”

  “Mr. Bartender,” Del Rio said, his tone insanely casual under the circumstances, still not breaking eye contact with Doyle, “my trigger moves an inch for every inch that bottle moves without my say-so from now on. Understood?”

  “Aye, lad. May I put the bottle down now?” the speed of Del Rio’s draw had knocked every ounce of bluster out of the man.

  “Not right now,” Del Rio answered calmly. “Let’s see how well you can impersonate a statue. As for you Mr. Doyle, as I was saying, I can arrest you and ship you back to Boston, or you can accompany Mr. Callum, be as cooperative as you can be, and then be on your way. As long as it is anywhere outside of the U.K. and the States, of course. Now then, will you accompany those two gentlemen at the door?”

  After three tries at moving his lips and having no sound come out, Doyle nodded his head and meekly stepped outside with Smith and Jones.

  “You, sir,” Del Rio said, only now turning to face the bartender, the gun still locked on to its target, extended his left hand toward the bottle, “you may hand me that now.”

/>   As slowly as he could, the bartender lowered the bottle into Del Rio’s hand. Del Rio retrieved an empty glass and poured in a splash of the liquor. With an exaggerated gesture of salute, he lifted the glass, took a sniff and quickly downed it.

  “A pity you were going to waste it,” Del Rio said. “Would the gentleman in the green sweater sitting under that boar’s head on the wall directly behind me step over here please?”

  An older man in a green sweater, sitting in back of the pub and under the mounted head of a boar, very slowly stood up and approached.

  “Would you agree, sir,” Del Rio said, “that the gentleman was about to dispose of this fine bottle just a few moments ago and thus implying he no longer wanted it?”

  The older man nodded.

  “Well then I think that it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Why don’t you see to it that everyone here gets a share of this bottle,” Del Rio said, handing the bottle of expensive whiskey to the man, who smiled and mumbled a quick thanks before stepping away to share his prize as Del Rio turned back to the bartender. “You don’t have a problem with that do you?”

  “No, sir,” the man nearly whispered in reply, visibly wilting under the glare of the ice-cold blue eyes behind the gun.

  “Good. Well then, Mr. Callum, I believe we’re done here,” Del Rio said, holstering his gun as he walked out of the pub. James took up station at the door to wait for the others as Callum watched Del Rio exit before turning to Cassidy.

  “Well I’ll be damned.”

  Doyle proved to be very cooperative, leading to the arrest of a huge cell of domestic terrorists connected to factions of Sinn Fein, and was last seen boarding a plane at Heathrow for South Africa. Del Rio took Cassidy out to dinner the next night.

  The “Hey, Yank” moniker disappeared after that night at the pub and several attempts at a new name were made — usually bad spin-offs of famous Old West gunfighters — before James came up with the one that unfortunately stuck.

  “Bad-Ass Jack” was used by the team when not in polite company, but for the first time, Del Rio actually felt like a part of the team, so he didn’t protest too much. It was a name that would really stick two years later when Callum had taken the bait on a terrorist operation that nearly cost England its Queen.

  A tip had led the team to a supposed Sinn Fein operation aimed at assassinating the Queen during a public appearance outside Buckingham Palace. It was a rare intelligence coup; the information streaming in nearly too good to be true. Callum at once had seen an opportunity to round up a huge group of terror suspects and cripple future operations for years to come. They would swoop in and arrest all of them on site, minutes before the Queen appeared. Plans were made and practiced. It was just a matter of waiting for the day.

  For Del Rio each minute that passed brought more unease. Alarm bells were ringing. He couldn’t say why other than it just seemed too good. Everything seemed to be offered up on a silver platter, and Del Rio couldn’t see how that could be.

  “Look, Jackie,” Callum said, using the name he’d taken to calling Del Rio when it was just the two of them, “someone in their organization isn’t comfortable with trying to kill one of the Royals and he’s tipping us off. Happens all the time.”

  “But why now, Tom?” Del Rio questioned, unconvinced. “Why wait until they’re so close to get an attack of conscience? To do this kind of an op they would have had to start planning it a long time ago.”

  “Jackie, with all due respect for what you have done with us these past three years, you just don’t know these people like we do. There’s no making sense of their motives. We’ve confirmed just about all of what we’ve been given. Come on now boy-o, by this time tomorrow we’ll all be down at Charlie’s with a pint celebrating like madmen.”

  Del Rio remained unconvinced, but let the conversation go. He pulled out the plans and spent the next few hours going over everything they knew. Callum could be absolutely right, yet deep down, Del Rio knew he had it wrong.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, as the teams got into place and began tracking the suspected terrorists that it hit Del Rio. With a sinking feeling of dread, he knew what was wrong. The whole thing was a decoy to ensure all eyes were focused on the ground below. He was absolutely certain of it, but what were they supposed to be looking away from?

  Looking up from his position near the intersection of Victoria Street and Artillery Row, it suddenly became clear. The people on the ground were the decoys. The real attack was going to come from above and he saw the perfect building to set it up from. Sprinting across the street, Del Rio dashed inside the building, grabbed a maintenance man and shoved him into the only elevator that went all the way to the roof.

  “After I get out,” Del Rio instructed the man when he had inserted the security key to allow the elevator to go all the way up, “let the doors close, but keep this car right here. If anyone else but me tries to open them, head down and call for help. Understood?”

  Frightened, the man nodded yes. As soon as the doors opened, Del Rio had his gun drawn and quickly stepped out into the sunlight. Quietly working his way to the far corner of the roof, he rounded an air conditioning unit and spotted three men, all facing away from him and looking toward the Palace.

  One held a pair of binoculars and was gazing away from the Palace toward another tall building to the east, the other held a high-powered rifle, and the third was carrying a small rocket launcher. None of them were part of the security teams in the area. Inwardly, Jack cursed the building’s designer for constructing an area of the roof that offered perfect concealment from above and below, as well as Callum for not having aerial units sweeping the area despite his concern that they’d tip-off what were now decoys below.

  It was almost time for the Queen to make her way from the Palace for her appearance. With no way to call for backup, without alerting the assassins of his presence, and no time even if he could, Del Rio stepped out onto the rooftop.

  “Gentlemen, drop your weapons or I drop you!”

  As one, the trio turned and brought their weapons up toward their unexpected visitor. The one with the binoculars drew a small handgun even as he turned. Del Rio hadn’t expected them to do anything else and opened fire. Six shots, center mass, just like Gunny Johnson had trained him to do, but this time — for the first time — in a kill or be killed situation.

  He needn’t have bothered with the second shot for any of the three men. All three of his first shots had been kill shots. Kicking away their weapons, he checked all three and found no pulses.

  “Del Rio to Callum,” he called over the radio as he looked over in the direction the man in the binoculars had been so intently looking. When Callum responded, Del Rio quickly filled him in, but when Callum was about to call for his men to move in and arrest the decoys, Del Rio stopped him.

  “Not yet,” Del Rio said, picking up the rifle and looking through the scope toward one building about three blocks away.

  “What?”

  “I think there is one more team out there,” Del Rio replied, pinpointing the building in question so Callum could send some of his men there. As he looked through the scope, he caught a glint of light off of glass right where another hit team would be if they wanted a clear shot at the Queen’s route. “Tom, there were two teams, set up to catch the motorcade in a crossfire while we were busy chasing the decoys.”

  “Bloody hell, lad. Do you have a visual?”

  “One possible … no wait … there’s a second man. The third must just be out of sight,” Del Rio said as he watched movement on the roof through the scope. “How soon can you get people up there?”

  “Not soon enough,” Callum replied bitterly. “Jack, if you see a weapon and you have a shot, take it. No one is supposed to be up there, at least no one friendly.”

  “Got it,” Jack said. “Stand by.”

  Waiting a few more seconds paid off as the men on the roof moved to get into position for their shots, unaware of the first
team’s fate. With a quietly whispered thanks to Gunny’s insistence on training with all types of weapons, Jack drew a bead on the man with the rifle and pulled the trigger. Without looking to see the result of the first shot, he shifted to the other target and the man with the binoculars for the second team went down almost as soon as the rifle man, which left one man with a rocket launcher and he wasn’t making himself a target.

  Not knowing if the rocket could be fired even while pinned under cover, Del Rio decided to try to smoke the man out from the cubby hole of air conditioning units. Firing off ten quick bursts at the machinery, Del Rio was hoping the ricocheting bullets would drive the man out.

  Suddenly, the third man stood up and began stumbling away from the edge of the roof. Del Rio brought the rifle to bear for a final shot, but didn’t pull the trigger. Through the scope he could see that the bullets he’d fired had done their job. The man was bleeding from multiple wounds and only made three more halting steps before pitching forward to land face first on the rooftop. He never moved again.

  When Del Rio gave the all-clear, Callum ordered his men to swoop in and collect the decoys. By the time the Queen’s car had pulled out of the Palace and passed the intersection, they had all been pulled off the street and were heading off in SUVs to be interrogated.

  They had done such a good job of it that literally no one in the public domain even knew how close the attempt had come to being successful, much less that an attempt had been made on the Queen in the first place. It was decided to keep it that way. All of the men, living or dead, simply disappeared and were never heard from again. It had been decided to let those behind the attack wonder what had happened to their men and their plans.

  Callum was a mixture of anger and embarrassment as he learned he had been targeted all along. They’d baited him and he’d taken it hook, line, and sinker. Had it not been for Del Rio, they would have pulled it off. Callum had typed his resignation, but ran into Del Rio before he could hand it in.