Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  Lansky studied the bottle from behind the pair of leather chairs in front of Rockford’s desk, eyes narrowed like a deer smelling a hunter in the woods.

  “Blanton’s—what’s the occasion?”

  Rockford knew where his mind was going. Lansky was still as cagey as ever.

  The Vice President chuckled softly and popped the cork. He poured two fingers into each glass and set the bottle down. When he turned, Lansky had a worn pipe in his hand, the stem scarred with teeth marks.

  He quit smoking ten years ago, but still carries that damn thing around with him.

  The pipe was a crutch, an object that had been part of Lansky’s life for so long that he found himself unable to think without it. Lansky stuck the pipe between his teeth, a sign that he had his guard up, and asked:

  “What is going on?”

  Rockford handed one of the glasses to his chief of staff before lowering himself into one of the leather chairs. He took a sip and savored the liquor’s burning march down his throat while Lansky sucked on the empty pipe so hard it caused the bowl to whistle.

  “Who told Ali Breul to leave Iran, Ted?”

  The sound of Lansky’s teeth grinding on the pipe stem told Rockford that the question had caught him off guard.

  “That is a complicated question,” he finally answered.

  “Complicated questions are the reason you have a job.”

  “One of the reasons,” Ted admitted.

  “This isn’t the Inquisition, Ted. I called you down here because even though you are an angry bastard, you happen to know more about clandestine operations than anyone else in the country.”

  Lansky relaxed and took a seat. He pulled the pipe from his mouth and finally took a sip of the bourbon. “The official word out of Langley is that the convoy was hit by a terrorist group out of Tunis. Some ISIS offshoot.”

  “You buy that?”

  Ted rolled his eyes.

  “So what really happened?”

  Lansky set the glass on the end table.

  “Boss, my advice is that you leave this alone. Let the old man handle this one.”

  “Let’s say I can’t leave it. What would you say if I told you that the President put me in charge of this one?”

  Rockford watched his chief of staff and could swear that he saw the wheels turning in his head.

  “Now why in the hell would he do something like that?” Ted asked, leaning forward.

  Rockford saw the intensity in the man’s eyes, a brief glimpse of the old spy now fully engaged.

  “What do you know about the Program?”

  Ted winced at the mention of the classified organization. He ran his hands through his hair. They had both cut their teeth in the intelligence game, and had run across the Alpha Program more than once. It was hard to hide missions from men trained to bring the secrets into the light of day. But when questions were raised, a simple cease-and-desist notice would show up from the White House.

  “Where are you going with this, Rock?”

  “I think Styles is dirty.” He let the statement hang there. “I can’t prove it, but I believe that she had something to do with getting Breul to leave Iran, and I need you to help me prove it.”

  “Shit.” Lansky got to his feet. He started pacing, and Rockford could tell he was walking through the particulars in his mind.

  “She definitely has the ability to pull it off. I mean, she is the Director of the CIA. Robin might be a coldhearted bitch, but she isn’t stupid. Why would she do something like that?”

  “That is what you are going to find out.”

  “Rock, it isn’t that easy. I’m not with the Agency anymore, and it’s not like there are a line of people at Langley lining up to help me.”

  “Just get it done,” the Vice President said, rising to his feet.

  It was the universal sign that the meeting was over. Lansky nodded and headed to the door, but stopped when Rockford said, “And, Ted, the clock’s ticking.”

  Chapter 32

  Meg’s head was still throbbing from the beating she had taken at the Gatehouse. She was holding on to Steele's back for dear life on the motorcycle and when he slammed on the brakes, Meg looked up to see a man pointing an AK-47 at her. She knew she had to do something.

  Shoot, shoot, her brain commanded.

  The tires squealed in the confines of the tight alley. Meg smelled the smoke from the burning rubber as the back end of the motorcycle whipped around.

  She shut her eyes and waited for the chatter of the AK. Instead she heard:

  “Good to see you, mano. You didn’t tell me that you were bringing a friend.”

  What the hell?

  Meg cracked her eyelids. She was alive and the only sound was the gentle blub, blub, blub of the engine vibrating against her legs. The man with the AK had brown eyes that twinkled like they were waiting to deliver a punch line.

  “Hey,” Steele said, shaking his shoulders from side to side in an attempt to get her attention.

  “Huh, what?” Meg came out of the nightmare slow but defensive.

  “Can you . . .” The words came out through gritted teeth, short and choppy. “Can you let up? I think my ribs are broken.”

  “Oh—sorry,” she muttered, unlocking her arms.

  “Oh God, that feels good.”

  “You look like hammered shit,” the man with the Kalashnikov said to Eric.

  Meg hopped off the bike, the blood flowing back through her oxygen-starved muscles with a tingle. Does he know this guy? What in the hell is going on?

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Steele said.

  She stumbled but caught herself before the man with the rifle offered his hand. Steele pushed the bike farther into the alley, making the introductions while he moved. “Meg, this is Demo; Demo, Meg.”

  He extended his hand, which swallowed hers.

  “Now that we have that straight, we need to get the hell out of here.”

  A heavy roll of automatic fire coupled with an explosion from a block away highlighted his point. Demo climbed into a van and it took Meg a second to realize it was actually an ambulance. Inside she saw that there was blood on her hands. She wiped them on her pants legs, before patting herself down, checking for broken bones or bleeds.

  “It’s not me,” she said aloud.

  “What?” Steele asked.

  Meg held up her hands, showing what was left of the blood. “I think you are hit. Do you have a med kit back here?” She immediately realized it was a stupid question. It’s a freaking ambulance.

  “Yeah, behind the seat.”

  “Take your plate carrier off.” Meg grabbed the orange bag.

  “I’m fine,” Steele lied.

  “No you’re not.” She pushed on the plate carrier to prove her point, noticing the grimace of pain. “You said your arm was messed up back at the Gatehouse. Let me take a look.”

  “I’m—”

  “Just shut up and do it,” she ordered.

  Meg took the headlamp from the bag and stretched it over her head while Steele lifted the armor free. She found the source of the blood. The wound had clotted, and when the fabric fell away, revealing Steele’s well-defined torso, a section still clung to him. Meg concentrated on cutting around it while Steele talked to Demo.

  “Primary exfil is blown.”

  “Yep, but don’t worry, I know a way around. You know, mano, it seems every time the CIA comes out to play, a nice spot like this goes from cool to scorching in a blink of an eye.”

  The CIA comment drew Meg’s attention away from her work and toward the cab. She looked up in time to see an orange fireball blossom skyward. Out of habit she counted the seconds until she heard the explosion. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three—

  The low rumbling told her that the blast was two and a half miles away. The Hydra district. “They are hitting the embassy.”

  “One of them,” Steele said.

  She looked up at Eric. His face was soot-stained and his ha
ir singed from the flames. Meg remembered a Bugs Bunny cartoon where a bomb blows up in Yosemite Sam’s face. Steele had the same blackened look, except his green eyes were red-rimmed and watery from the smoke.

  They were the kind of green that made “piercing” seem an understatement, but the way his pupils reacted to the light troubled her.

  “You get hit in the head?” she asked, abandoning the shears for the moment to reach for his skull.

  “Why? You want to bag on my jokes again?” He grinned. “Or do you want to play doctor?”

  “I get it, you don’t want to look weak in front of a girl so you make jokes. Well, jokes aren’t going to help you if you have a concussion.”

  “A concussion?” Demo snorted. “Ain’t nothing hard enough to hurt his cabeza. Damn thing’s harder than an anvil.”

  “Hey, no one pulled your chain, ese,” Steele said. Meg thought he seemed all too eager to switch the focus off of what she had just said.

  Meg tiptoed her fingers across his head, and let a triumphant smile spread across her face. When her fingertips stepped on the knot protruding from the side of Steele’s head, she gave it a little push.

  “Owwww, damn it.”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “It hurts.”

  She tsked at him like her mom used to do to her brothers and continued her inspection. There was another knot on the back of his head, but this one was harder—older.

  “That’s old.”

  “How old?”

  “A night. Hell, what day is it?”

  “Just how many times have you been hit in the head lately?”

  “Uhhhh, a couple.”

  “I don’t think you have a skull fracture, but you can’t ever tell with head trauma. Your pupils are irregular, which suggests that you have a serious concussion.”

  “Drink water and drive on.”

  Meg rolled her eyes and squatted down to finish cutting the wound free. “We’ve got all the balls in the world in here,” she muttered. Another few seconds of cutting and the shirt was free. Meg knew the next part was going to hurt and tried to distract Steele with some questions.

  “So how was the embassy when you left it?”

  “No idea, haven’t seen the Algerian embassy in four years.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I’m not from the embassy.”

  Meg’s brain fumbled over the statement. She understood the words by themselves, but when she tried to make sense of the sentence as a whole her mental gears began to grind. She recognized what was happening. She had been riding the crest of adrenaline since getting off the motorbike. The aches and pains erupting along her synapses told her that she had reached the end of the line.

  “You mean, you guys aren’t with the CIA?”

  “Do we look like Christians In Action?” Demo belly-laughed from the front.

  Shit, of course.

  Meg had assumed Steele was with the CIA, because it made sense. Upon closer examination she couldn’t believe that she’d missed the signs. She’d worked with every Special Operations unit under the sun and could easily pick out a SEAL from a Ranger just by the way they acted. Steele, on the other hand, was unreadable. He had the quiet reserve of a Green Beret, but the macho nonchalance of a SEAL mixed with the skill set of a Delta operator.

  “Who do you work for?” she asked, picking the edge of the shirt free with her fingernails.

  “That’s classified.”

  “Good thing I’m cleared all the way up to Top Secret.”

  “Not for this,” Steele said.

  “Hmmm.” Meg pursed her lips and ripped the shirt free with a violent tug.

  “Holy shit . . .” She tossed the cloth away and took her time collecting a handful of gauze before pressing against the wound.

  “Damn, woman.”

  “Sorry,” she lied. “Demo, I hope you know how to suture, because I was never cleared for that class.”

  Meg saw Demo’s shoulders bouncing over the edge of the seat in her peripheral vision. He made no attempt to hide his laughter and she accepted it as a sliver of acceptance. “I—I think we can work something out.”

  “Judas.”

  Steele put his hand on top of hers and they locked eyes. The simple skin-on-skin contact was nothing special, but Meg swore she felt a tiny charge.

  “You are definitely going to need stitches,” she said.

  Demo chimed in from the front seat. “Try to stay out of sight,” he said, flipping on the ambulance’s emergency lights before making another turn. “There is a checkpoint ahead.”

  He rolled down the window and shouted, “I have to get through.”

  It was too dark for Meg to see without the headlamp. Her heart pounded in her chest then she heard the snick of a safety catch. She squinted and was able to make out the outlines of a 1911 in Steele’s hand. Eager voices began shouting over the engine noise.

  “Yes, yes, I have money. Here, take it and move.”

  “Good, very good,” a voice said in Arabic. “Twice this much if you come back.”

  “Fine,” Demo replied, and then they were moving again. “Holy shit, I didn’t think that was going to work.”

  You weren’t the only one, Meg thought.

  “Got to have a little faith,” Steele replied with a wink.

  They finally cleared the city and Demo pulled the ambulance off the road, gravel popping beneath the weight of the tires. Meg looked through the windshield and saw the headlights play over an empty lot with a wall running half of its length. Demo wheeled the ambulance in a wide arc, cut the lights, and pulled up to the dark side of the wall.

  “And we are good,” he said, cutting the engine and hopping out.

  “What’s up?”

  “Changing cars,” Steele explained.

  Meg slid the door open and stepped down, with Eric grumbling on her heels. Behind the wall there was a battered sedan that looked puke yellow in the moonlight. Demo was already at the trunk. He popped it open and pulled out a black duffel.

  “Got you some clothes,” Demo said to Steele, dropping the bag and turning to Meg. “And if I’d known you were bringing a plus one I could have brought you something.”

  “It’s fine,” Meg replied, glancing toward a roll of gunfire. A line of tracers shot skyward like a row of bottle rockets, and she knew they had gotten out of the city just in time. “I’m sure I can . . .” she began.

  The words froze when her eyes made contact with the .40 Sig Sauer Demo held at her chest. “What’s going on?”

  Steele was the first to answer. “Meg, you’ve been around the block, so I assume you know the rules.” His voice was ice cold and she knew he wasn’t waiting for an answer. The anger flared inside her like flash paper. She was tired, beat up, and the only thing she wanted was a cold beer and a handful of aspirin.

  “This is bullshit.”

  “No,” Steele replied, “this is business. You don’t know me, and I sure as hell don’t know you. Any other time and we could sit around and figure it out, but as you can see”—he stopped and pointed at the tracers arcing skyward—“time isn’t something we have right now. So it is up to you. Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

  Meg had to draw the last drop of reserves from the tank to keep from losing her shit. Her mind told her that Steele was making the right call, but her frayed emotions were focused on the betrayal polluting the bond that she thought they had formed.

  “I like you, chica, even if you are with the CIA,” Demo said.

  Meg looked at him. His eyes were flat black, like a shark’s, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that if she made the wrong call he wouldn’t hesitate to put her down.

  Steele pulled a fresh shirt from the bag and slipped it over his head. Next he took a black box and held it up. Meg recognized it as an RF scanner. She had used them herself, and when he flipped the switch she waited for the red lights to boot up.

  “You think I’m bugged, or maybe the spooky CI
A is tracking me?”

  Demo shrugged. “Just following the book.”

  Steele stopped an arm’s length away and wanded the box from her head to her feet. When it didn’t beep, he nodded and flipped it off. “Almost done.” He switched the RF scanner out with what looked like a Polaroid camera.

  Give me a break. He’s going to retinal-scan me now? What in the hell happened to him to put these guys on edge?

  “Hold still and give me a smile.”

  “Fuck off.”

  The scanner beeped, telling them that it had captured the image.

  “Are we done?”

  “Almost,” Steele replied, waving a pair of zip ties and a black hood.

  Meg knew that the time for action had passed. If she bolted now there were two outcomes. Either Steele would take her to the ground or Demo would put a bullet in her head.

  These are serious men, girl. Get hold of yourself.

  She looked into Steele’s eyes and for some reason knew he wouldn’t hurt her.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

  Steele gave her a wink and then pulled the bag over her head.

  Chapter 33

  Eric strapped Meg into the backseat and set a pair of headphones over her ears. He held the iPod up, noticing that the screen was broken, which meant he couldn’t tell what songs were on it.

  “What’s on here?”

  “The usual mix,” Demo said laconically.

  “Are you kidding? She isn’t a detainee.”

  “Mano, you’re the one who brought the fucking spook with you.”

  “Hope you like Metallica,” he said, hitting the play button and turning up the volume so that it was loud, but not deafening.

  Steele closed the door and gingerly took a seat up front. Demo put the car in gear and made a few wide circles around the gravel lot. The idea was to mess up her internal navigation, and when Steele flashed the thumbs-up, Demo bumped onto the road.

  He used the rearview to check on Meg. She looked so frail sitting there with the bag on her head. Man, this feels shitty. But he knew that if she were a dude he wouldn’t even be thinking about it. He left the thoughts and plugged the retinal scanner into the laptop and uploaded the data. It would take some time before he got a response from the database.