by Peter Darley
“You what?”
“It was another investment, Dad. Nothing more.”
“How much?”
“Two million dollars for Nikki’s project, and a fifty-percent share in the company. If they can reach new heights they’ll take her with them, and I’ll do all right out of it for myself.”
Charlton gestured to the living room and headed straight for the bar. “What do you know about the music business, Ty?”
Tyler raised his hands in surrender and sank down onto the sofa. Nikki sat beside him. “Practically nothing . . . yet. That’s the whole point. I need to keep my hand in there so I can learn. It isn’t the first time I’ve invested in a business I knew nothing about, and I haven’t had a failure yet, have I?”
Charlton sat in the armchair opposite with a glass of bourbon. “No, you haven’t.”
“So, are you gonna tell me what all this home security crap is about?”
“Think about it, Tyler. You were involved in taking down a human trafficking ring. You’re a wealthy young man, and now I have Belinda and Emily’s safety to consider. I should have done this weeks ago.”
Tyler was about to respond when Belinda and Emily entered.
“Is everything OK?” Belinda said. “We heard what sounded like shouting.”
Tyler stood, kissed her on the cheek, and then moved over to give Emily a hug. “How’re you doin’, Sis?”
“I’m OK,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well, how do you like Fort Knox?”
Emily giggled, typically nervous.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse us,” Charlton said. “Tyler and I have business to discuss.” He gestured for Tyler to follow him out.
Tyler swallowed hard. The last time he’d seen his father so uptight was after he’d helped Brandon escape from Fort Leavenworth. He’d won his dad over on that occasion. Now, he wasn’t as confident.
In an effort to lighten the mood, Belinda took Emily by the hand and over to the window. The guards were still holding their posts, looking particularly intense. “So, Em. Which one do you like?”
“What?”
“The guards. They are kinda hot, don’t you think?”
Emily looked away bashfully.
Belinda grinned. “So, there is one, isn’t there? Tell me.”
Nikki joined them and peered out the window. “That tall, dark one is gorgeous.”
Within moments, they were laughing. The atmosphere of a few moments ago was quickly evaporating.
“What were you thinking investing two million into a record company, Tyler?” Charlton said, his tone demonstrating the height of disapproval.
“It was my money, Dad. I didn’t use company funds.”
“I know, but I don’t want to see you losing money on a reckless venture.”
“There’s more to it than that. I was helping Nikki.”
Charlton gently gripped Tyler’s shoulders. “It’s not your responsibility to save the world, Son. You’ve only known her for a few weeks.”
“I . . . I’m in love with her. Besides, you’d only known me for a few minutes when you decided to save me. Maybe you shouldn’t have been such a great teacher, Dad.”
As usual, Tyler had his father at a loss for words.
Tyler returned to the living room and joined the women at the window. As he watched the guards with them, he didn’t share their sense of novelty. What the hell is happening to us?
Six
Target
Four weeks had passed since Brandon Drake had awoken. Andrew Wilmot strolled along a corridor on the second floor of the Mojave Desert complex, unable to stop a smug grin from cracking the corners of his mouth. So much in life was going his way. He had the opportunity to resurrect Operation: Nemesis from the ashes and take it to heights of which Treadwell had never dreamed. Now, with legitimate threats to fight, he had the chance to propose it to Congress, with an elite task force of his own creation as his bargaining chip. It was certain to accomplish his own personal objective in taking his career farther toward the corridors of power.
Kane Slamer would be invaluable to his plans. Slamer, a thirty-eight-year-old, freelance soldier of fortune, was the best of the best with guns, knives, hand-to-hand combat, and an essential lack of conscience. Two years earlier, he’d escaped from captivity by ISIS in Syria. For almost a year, he’d been tortured beyond the endurance of most. Biding his time, he’d waited for the moment he could escape, and cause the most damage in the process. That day came when he was being led to his execution—a slow beheading with a knife. He hadn’t left one of his captors alive.
Slamer’s knowledge of the Syrian terrain made him the perfect operative to assist in covert operations against the terrorists, which, in turn, would provide Wilmot with his sorely-desired acclaim. With Slamer and Drake leading the strike force, he was sure he couldn’t lose.
Only two problems gnawed at him. Drake could not learn the truth about what had happened to him during the previous four years. How was he going to keep the truth from him? Drake believed it was now November, 2012. Sooner or later he was going to discover it was July, 2016. Wilmot hoped the legendary temperatures of the Mojave Desert would suffice for creating ambiguity with the weather, at least for now.
But Drake couldn’t be confined to the complex indefinitely. It was only a matter of time before he saw a date on something.
Wilmot’s other concern was escaped operative, Jed Crane, who knew too much about the operation. Crane knew of Wilmot’s connection to Treadwell, his involvement in the murder of Director Elias Wolfe, and the other agents concerned. But where was he? Where had he run to?
Wilmot arrived at a window and looked down onto a basketball-sized arena. Drake and Slamer were sparring, wearing camouflage pants, protective headwear, and boxing gloves. The display was spectacular. Drake, now sporting a military-style crew cut, had recovered and returned to form remarkably quickly. His aerial spin-kicks and acrobatic prowess showed he was clearly the more agile of the two, although Slamer was the more powerful combatant. He was able to deflect many of Drake’s sharp and rapid blows, but it was also apparent that the younger fighter was wearing him down.
Wilmot’s attention was distracted as Cynthia Garrett turned a corner. She walked toward him in a hurry, briefcase in hand.
“What have you got?” he said.
“Everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“At the time of the Hamlin fish factory explosion, there was only one ship that disembarked from the harbor within ninety minutes of the incident.” She opened the briefcase, rested it on her forearm, and took out a report. Wilmot took it before she could offer to hand it to him. “Vega Ocean Cargo Express. They were shipping a consignment of fruit to Rio.”
“So I see.” Wilmot didn’t look up from the report as he eagerly absorbed the information.
“He’s shacked up in a favela just outside of Copacabana.”
His head snapped up.
Cynthia pointed to the report. “It’s all there.”
He turned the page and came to a loose eight-by-twelve grainy photograph. There was no doubt it was Jed Crane walking along a slum-like street outside one of the hundreds of hillside homes-upon-homes.
“We have an exact address,” she said.
He closed the report and briskly walked past her.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs to give those two their first field mission.”
She came up behind him with a hint of urgency. “Are you serious?”
“Slamer’s fine, but I need to put Drake to the test so that I can ascertain his reliability. And it’s a test in more ways than one.”
“What do you mean?”
“Crane was his friend.”
Slamer lunged at Drake, but Drake side-stepped him, flipping his leg out to the left. It caught Slamer just below the knees, sending him plummeting to the floor.
Slamer rolled onto his back and wrapped his legs around Drake’s, pulling hi
m onto the ground with him.
The door opened. Wilmot and Garrett stepped inside, halting their contest.
“Nice to see you two are getting along so well,” Wilmot quipped. “Since you’ve floored one another, I’d say it was a draw.”
The two combatants got to their feet breathlessly.
“What’s goin’ on?” Drake said.
“Get yourselves showered, changed, and in the briefing room in thirty minutes,” Wilmot said. “You’re going to Rio.”
Attired in casual clothing, Drake and Slamer made their way along a corridor toward the briefing room.
“What do you think this is all about?” Drake said.
“How should I know?”
“I’m not complaining. I’m just itchin’ to get the hell out of this goddamn place and see some real action, like the old days.”
Slamer stopped in his tracks. “The old days weren’t pretty, Drake. At least not for me.” He pointed to the scar on his face.
“If you ask me, it’s an improvement.”
“We’re just in this for the money, Drake. At least we’ve got that in common. But I don’t mind tellin’ you, you ain’t my favorite person.”
“You think I could give a shit? I almost got my ass blown off on account of your screw up.”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Al Fajr. They were onto you. You planted the false attack plans, but they knew. If it hadn’t been for that, we’d have gone in and taken them down easily, leaving survivors to initiate the retaliation.”
“There were survivors. They didn’t retaliate. The whole operation was a failure.”
“Yeah, but—”
Slamer placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder, almost sympathetically. “It’s ancient history, man.”
Drake brushed his hand away. “Ancient history? It was ten weeks ago.”
Slamer was silent and swallowed hard. Drake noticed. It was almost as though he’d just realized he’d said something he shouldn’t have. The swallowing and silence were certainly out of character for him.
“Look, let’s get in there and find out what they’re sellin’.” Slamer said.
“Yeah, let’s.” Drake followed him into the briefing room.
Drake and Slamer entered from the far side of the bare, sterile, windowless room.
Wilmot looked up from an open briefcase on a stretched conference table, with Garrett beside him. “Take your seats, gentlemen. This operation is important to all of us. We have an enemy. He’s the only man alive outside of Operation: Nemesis who knows about it, and I can assure you, he’s not sympathetic.”
The two fighters leaned forward slightly.
Wilmot took out the grainy photograph of Jed Crane and pushed it toward them. Slamer studied it first and then passed it to Drake.
“Who’s that supposed to be?” Drake said.
Garrett took another photograph from the case and took it over to Drake.
Wilmot eased himself around the desk to face them, eagerly gauging Drake’s expression as he studied a clear, official head shot of his former ally, Jedediah Crane. But there wasn’t even a glimmer of recognition in Drake’s eyes.
“His name is Jed Crane,” Wilmot said, and then stressed the point again just to see if it triggered anything. “Jed. Crane.”
“All right, already. We got it. His name is Jed. Crane.” Drake mimicked. “So who is he?”
Wilmot breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So who is he?’ Incredible. “He’s a former SDT agent who discovered what we were doing and fled to Rio. He is your target. Make no mistake, boys, this man is dangerous. I’m making the arrangements to get you flown out there tomorrow.”
Garrett placed two copies of the details on the table.
“We’ll provide you with the necessary artillery. It’ll be a quick hit-and-run operation.”
“What about my money?” Drake said.
“I’m a man of my word. Fifty thousand. Twenty-five up front. Twenty-five on completion. Same goes for you, Slamer.”
There was a moment of silence as Drake and Slamer’s gazes fixed on Wilmot.
“All right, gentlemen,” Wilmot said. “I think we’re done here. Study your files. I want you both fully apprised by oh-six-hundred, so do your homework.” He closed the briefcase and made his way toward the door with Garrett.
Drake stepped out the rear exit of the complex and lit a cigarette. The desert heat struck him immediately. Before him was an endless plain of sand, rock, and cacti. To his left, the edge of a helicopter landing pad was visible from the far corner of the complex, and an aircraft runway in the distance.
Something wasn’t right. He didn’t know what it was, but something didn’t seem as it should. He just couldn’t pinpoint it.
Beads of perspiration formed on his brow within moments. Even Afghanistan wasn’t as hot as this.
He sensed a presence behind him and turned around. Garrett approached him as he blew out a lungful of smoke. “What are you doing out here?”
“I was going to ask you the same question,” she said.
“I’m havin’ a smoke. Want one?”
“No thanks.”
He dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with his boot. “You keeping tabs on me, or what?”
“Maybe, but it’s not what you think.” A seductive smile appeared on her face.
Drake reciprocated with an opportunistic grin of his own. “Oh, I get it.”
She moved closer to him and gently caressed his cheek. They held one another’s stare for a moment, and then their lips met.
Garrett broke it off, teasingly. “You do this job for us tomorrow, and there just might be more than fifty gees in it for you, handsome.” She stroked her forefinger under his chin and walked back inside.
It had been a brief encounter, but Drake was more eager than ever to get this mission out of the way and return. Garrett was an extremely appealing woman, and one he’d been wanting since he first met her. His reservations about making a move on her had been motivated by him not wanting to compromise his financial opportunities. Now, she had taken that concern away.
Once again, he became aware of the heat and his moment of sexual excitement abated. That was what wasn’t right. The penny finally dropped. It’s November. There’s no way it would be as hot as this, even in the Mojave Desert.
Seven
Flashback
20:04 hrs
Attired in unmarked, black combat fatigues and a utility belt, Drake walked ahead of Slamer toward a sleek, executive-class Learjet 55, with a protective visor helmet under his arm.
Wilmot came up behind Slamer and gripped his shoulder. “When you reach the target site,” he whispered, “make sure Drake is wearing his helmet. I don’t want Crane recognizing him and letting on that he knows him.”
“You got it.”
“Good. Keep me posted every step of the way.”
“Will do,” Slamer said, and followed Drake into the Learjet. They faced a twelve hour flight to Rio, and with the time zone difference they would arrive at approximately 13:00 hrs, Brazil time, the following day.
As he ascended the steps to the aircraft, Slamer glanced back to see Wilmot was already heading back inside the complex.
***
Drake and Slamer landed at Rio de Janeiro/Galeão–Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport at 13:37 hrs, owing to a little turbulence en route. They’d slept for most of the journey, and conversation between them had been virtually non-existent.
Wilmot had arranged for them to be received in a military capacity, as ‘a matter of national security’—such a convenient use of the term.
Upon exiting the Learjet, they were transported by an airport security official into the heart of Rio, in an inconspicuous sedan.
Once they arrived at the outskirts of the slum, they exited the car and smuggled themselves into a series of alleyways. From there, they made their way into the favela with their helmets under their arms, and automatic weapons concealed in leather c
arriers.
Drake took in the extraordinary scenery surrounding him—hundreds of meager homes piled upon one another. Rising up into the hills in such vast quantities, the properties formed a giant, sprawling cluster. It was the most elaborate example of poverty he had ever imagined, so far removed from the thriving, bustling city. Unique to Rio, the favelas were a sight one would find nowhere else.
Slamer took out a palm-sized satellite navigation device, and Drake looked over his shoulder, noticing a flashing red dot in the middle of the map screen.
“We’re here,” Slamer said. “Crane’s apartment is on the other side of this shithole.” He tapped the brickwork that made up part of the rear of a dilapidated structure.
Drake looked up and saw a flat roof approximately thirty feet above them.
Slamer took a twelve inch cylindrical tube from his belt. A targeting sight was fixed to the exterior. “You ever used one of these?”
Drake took an identical device from his own belt and looked at it curiously. “Nope.”
“It’s an upgraded spider cable launcher. Apparently the originals had the cable inside a ball-like container. Pretty clumsy, if you ask me.”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“Well, let’s get up there.” Slamer aligned the targeting sight with a railing that lined the roof and depressed a button on the casing. A high-tensile steel cable shot out of the end and a metallic claw clasped the rail.
Drake aimed and fired his cable. The claw gripped the railing almost a yard apart from Slamer’s.
They put their helmets on and secured them. The visors covered their eyes. After hooking their gun-carrier straps over their shoulders, they pulled out hand grips from either sides of the cable launcher tubes and held them tightly. Depressing the quick-release switches at the ends of the grips, motors within the devices reeled the cable in, drawing Drake and Slamer up to the railing.
As Drake held on to the handgrips, a feeling came over him. There was something familiar about the sensation of being pulled up from the ground, but it wasn’t exactly a memory. It was a feeling akin to déjà vu, although it seemed as though he shouldn’t be pulled upward. It should have been a horizontal glide.