by Sean Parnell
“So what happened?”
“West happened.”
“West? You mean Nathaniel West?” Demo asked.
Steele caught the are you crazy? look Demo shot him.
“You are going to have to explain that one, my man, because last time I checked, Nate West was dead.”
“I saw him. He was at the Gatehouse, which means he was the one who punched Breul’s ticket.”
They rode in silence, with the only sound coming from the steady hum of the tires and the music bleeding out of the headphones. From the front seat it sounded like there was a tiny concert going on in a soup can.
“What about the package?”
“Breul must have stashed it at the Gatehouse.”
“Which means that ol’ Lazarus West has that too?”
“I could have gotten it, but . . .”
“But let me guess, our damsel in distress needed a knight in shining armor.” This time the look was full-on disappointment, and the only thing Steele could do was wait for the lecture. “What did I tell you during the counseling board at the end of Phase 1?”
“You said selflessness is not a virtue.”
“Annnnd?”
“I think it was along the lines of, ‘This is going to bite you in the ass one day.’”
Demo held both of his hands up. “You can’t save everyone in this business, mano . . .” It was the same exasperated look Eric’s mom used to give him. Then Demo chuckled and said, “Look at us now, just two lifers in a world of shit.”
“Just like old times.”
Ten minutes later Demo cut the lights and snaked the sedan off the road, stopping in front of a metal gate. Steele hopped out and spun the combination of the lock. The chain rattled when he pulled it free, followed by the grating of metal hinges. He pulled the gate open and stepped out of the way, thinking about what Demo had said. He’s right. We would be mission complete if I had just left her. The sedan cruised through and Steele manhandled the gate closed and secured it.
He stepped to a frazzled scrub bush and knelt down instead of heading back to the car. The dull red brake lights offered enough illumination to find the wire that snaked out of the ground. Steele twisted off the plastic cap and connected the end to the firing device staked inside the bush.
Demo took security seriously, and Steele knew that on the other end of the wire he had buried a pressure pad lengthwise beneath the drive. All Steele had to do to arm the explosives was pull the safety pin, which he did. Typically Demo bought local, so if things went kinetic no one could trace it back to the United States. Probably three 122 shells daisy-chained together. Simple but definitely not subtle.
Steele knew from Indoc that the man didn’t do subtle. When Demo was still an operational Alpha he had been an “8,” which meant he worked in Latin America. Fighting the rebels gave him the opportunity to develop his love of explosives from a hobby to high art. He hit labs, safehouses, training sites, and logistic hubs until a nasty bit of business in Colombia put him in traction and almost cost him his hand.
But instead of hanging up his cleats, Bobby “Demo” Cortez became an instructor at the Salt Pit. By the time Steele came through Indoc he was the lead cadre.
Steele hustled back to the car, hopped in, and they continued down the road.
“How much you got on the gate?”
“A pound of C-4 and three 122mm mortar rounds.”
“Jesus.”
“Yep, go big or go home.”
The computer beeped from the floorboard when Demo finally made it to the end of the drive. Bathed in the yellow glow of the headlights, the structure before them reminded Steele of something from a horror movie.
“This is it?” Steele asked, picking the device off the floor.
“Yeah, she’s perfect. Just make sure you stay away from the bushes, got a few Bouncing Bettys that I just set out.”
After Demo did his time at the Pit he switched over to the support side of the Program. Steele knew that it had been hard on him staying out of the action, but the only job that would get him back in the field was if he became a handler. The official Program term was “Housekeeper,” but the Alphas called them “keepers.” It was the last step before retirement and their job was to support the Alphas in the field by maintaining the safehouses and waypoints in their area of operations.
“Maybe it’s time for you to—”
“Listen here, I remember when you were wet behind the ears. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and save all comments until the end of the tour, young pup?”
“Fair enough.” Steele smiled.
“What they say about our girl?”
“Went to the University of Florida, majored in psych, graduated ROTC top of her class. She got commissioned and sent to MI.”
“Military Intelligence?”
“Yeah, did a pretty good job according to this. Got sent over to Fort Meade to do some secret squirrel work with the NSA and managed to get invited to the Activity.”
“The Activity? Worked with them in Colombia when we were going after El Padrino in Medellín. I think they were calling themselves Rivet Joint back then. They do good work.”
“So what do we do?”
Demo pulled a stub of a cigar out of his shirt pocket and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. Steele had never seen him smoke, but Demo loved to gnaw on them like his idol Telly Savalas. “I don’t think the Program has a policy on taking in strays. But hell, nothing wrong with giving her a bath and a saucer of milk.”
“You sure?”
“Screw it, what’s the worst they can do, send us to find a missing nuke?”
Steele stepped out and opened the back door. He gently lifted the headphones from her head, followed by the bag. Meg blinked in the dim light of the garage.
“Are we there yet?” she asked.
“Sorry about the theatrics. I checked you out and know you understand the game.”
Demo plodded over to a bench and lifted a pair of wire cutters from the pegboard. He nudged Steele out of the way with his hip. “No hard feelings?” he asked, holding the snips aloft.
“Never been a big fan of Metallica, but other than that, we’re good,” she said.
Demo cut the flex cuffs and both men stepped back, giving Meg room to get out. Steele thought she seemed wrung out, but even with the grime and dried blood she managed to look regal. I bet you’re one of those girls who looks good right when they wake up. Whoa, where the hell did that come from?
Steele hadn’t been around a woman in a long time. It wasn’t by choice, just one of the by-products of the job. Working in the Middle East didn’t help his cause. The notoriously male-centered world kept the fairer sex behind closed doors. He wasn’t sure what to do with Meg besides making sure she got food and a shower.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Meg said when they stepped inside.
“Is this because of the Metallica?” Demo asked.
“No, it’s because this place looks trashed. I’m not an interior decorator, Demo, so you are going to have to help me out. What exactly do you call this décor? Crack house chic?”
“I think it’s modern art,” Steele added.
At first glance Steele thought the walls were painted yellow, but on closer inspection it was obvious that the pallor was wallpaper adhesive that had yellowed over time. The floor was bare concrete. If Steele had to pick the worst part, it would have been the furniture. The couch and battered chair had seen better days and smelled as though bums had used them for urinals.
“Keep laughing. You guys ever heard of camouflage? Wait till you check this out.”
Demo moved the edge of the rug out of the way and pressed on the floor with the toe of his boot. There was a click, followed by a section of floor popping up half an inch.
A trapdoor. Sneaky Mexican bastard.
Demo lifted up the rug and the section of the floor it was attached to opened to reveal a rickety flight of stairs.
“Cool, a basem
ent,” Meg said.
“If you want, I can take you back to the city,” Demo huffed.
“And leave without the tour? Hell no.”
Demo headed down, with Meg and Steele bringing up the rear. By the time Eric got to the bottom, Demo had a small generator running. A set of workers’ lights illuminated a roughly cut tunnel, the sides reinforced with wood.
“You can’t be serious?” Steele asked.
“Used to belong to some money guy who handled all the finances for Al-Qaeda in the area. Ran across it while going through the database and thought I’d check it out. Wait until you see what’s on the other side.”
“Okay, so are you going to tell me who you guys work for or are we going to play ignore the elephant all night?”
“How ’bout that beer?” Steele said.
“Good call, right this way,” Demo said.
They both ignored Meg’s protests and walked down the hallway. Steele tracked the distance they walked by counting every time his left foot hit the ground. He guessed the tunnel was fifty yards long, with another rickety set of stairs at the far end. At the top was a trapdoor that was secured with a combination lock.
The interior was well lit and tastefully furnished.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, apparently funneling money for jihadists pays pretty well.”
“I’ll say,” Meg agreed. “Whatever happened to the previous owner?”
“Oh, they cut his head off for embezzling. Go figure.”
“Even has an ocean view,” Steele said, making his way to the plate glass door that overlooked the sea.
“Only the best for you, my friend.”
“Meg, if you will follow me I will show you your room. I might even have some clothes around here that will fit you.”
Steele dragged himself to the kitchen, cracked the fridge, and snagged a beer from the shelf. He twisted the top off and drained half the bottle before finding the trash can. The brew was ice cold and Steele couldn’t remember one ever tasting this good. He savored what was left at the window, staring out at the ink-black ocean. The rhythmic crash of the surf lulled his weary mind, reminding him that he was exhausted.
“When was the last time you slept?” Demo asked. Despite his size the old man had a silent step and the question startled Steele because he hadn’t heard him slip in.
“Had a nap on the helo out of Libya.”
“Real sleep, mano. When was the last time you had some real sleep?”
“Three, maybe four days.”
Demo nodded, clanked two fresh ones from the refrigerator, and motioned Steele to follow him. Eric drained the last of his beer and fell in behind his keeper. From the hallway he heard the shower running and the smell of shampoo. They passed another bedroom before ducking into the infirmary.
“Drop everything but your skivvies,” Demo ordered, setting the beers on the stainless steel table next to an exam chair.
While Steele stripped, his keeper disappeared through another doorway, followed a moment later by the sound of running water and the rattle of ice on metal. With his clothes on the floor, Steele dropped himself into the exam chair. Demo appeared a minute later and began collecting medical supplies. He placed the tray on the table, cracked both beers, and after handing one to Steele, snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“Walk me through it,” he said.
“I got the call that Breul had left Iran when we were exfilling Lebanon,” Steele began.
“Any idea why?”
“Someone had to reach out, that is the only thing that makes sense, because he took the device and went to Algiers. Somewhere along the way he got picked up and transported to Tunis.”
Demo nodded. “So you go to Tunis, Breul gets whacked, and no nuke?”
“Yeah, and now Nate has it.” By the time Steele had brought his keeper up to speed he had a new set of stitches in his side.
“I know some guys at the Agency who will find out what’s going on at Langley,” Demo said, picking up a penlight and checking his pupils.
“I’ve got to call in. POTUS is due for a situation report.”
Demo stripped the gloves off and got to his feet, taking his first pull of the beer.
“C’mon,” he said, walking toward the doorway he had disappeared through earlier.
Steele knew what was coming and wasn’t looking forward to it. “I’d rather take a shower.”
“I bet you would, but you need the tub.”
The galvanized tub was Demo’s prescription for everything, and Steele hated it. His keeper stuck his hand in the ice water while Steele dropped his underwear and eyed the blocks of ice floating on the surface. There was a stopwatch on the wall, a rectangular digital number with thirty minutes already punched in.
“Well, get in,” Demo said.
“Shit.”
Steele stepped in and felt his feet go immediately numb. He took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself through the water until it was up to his chin.
“You know that if Rockford follows Alpha protocol he is going to pull you out, right?” Demo said.
“We will see about that.”
Chapter 34
On board the cargo ship bobbing in the Mediterranean Sea, Nathaniel West pulled the shower door open and twisted the knob all the way to the left. The pipes bucked and shuddered against the bulkhead, before belching an intermittent stream of brown water.
He tore at the wrapper, but the soap was wet and the packaging slippery. The wax paper refused to come off. He gave up on the soap, letting it fall as he stepped under the nozzle, face upturned. “Dammit.” The smell of his burnt clothes was alive inside him and the only thing he could think to do was suck water up his nose.
It burned, but not enough. He groped for the knob, found it, and maxed out the heat. He opened his eyes, water going from lukewarm to scalding, chill bumps spread across the patches of unscarred skin—the ones that he could still feel. West was losing control, he would have puked but hadn’t eaten anything all day, and as hard as he retched, the only thing to come up was a little bit of bile.
He’d been here before and knew there was only one way out. Pain, and lots of it. The burning in his eyes and nasal cavity wasn’t enough, but, unable to see, he pawed for the wall with his left hand, rage scorching the fear.
He steadied himself, and a second after his left hand found the tile wall, he launched a jab with his right. It was a solid blow, the impact rushing up his arm and into his shoulder, but it wasn’t enough. He hit it again and again until his chest heaved and his arm was sore. He backed up to the tile on the opposite wall, cold on his ass. It sent a shiver up his spine that spread until he was sitting on the floor of the shower.
Nate sat there, calm now despite his shoulders, which rose and fell rapidly. “You’re good, it’s all good,” he self-soothed before sucking on his bloody knuckles. The blood rolled down his forearm, mixing with the water—reminding him of the oil that floated on the sea. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back like a junkie who had just spiked a vein. The hot water beat down on his face and rolled over the scars.
The memories were still just as vivid, but he could take them now.
He remembered swimming toward the light, lungs burning, arms and legs heavy—lead-filled. When his head broke the surface all he could think about was getting some air, but the world was on fire. He took a deep breath, sucking in a lungful of the black, acrid smoke. It tasted caustic and West realized he’d surfaced in the center of a large puddle of oil and gas. Horrified, he saw a wall of flame barreling down on him, orange and yellow fingers clawing at his gas-soaked face. He was burning, and his shirt had become a torch. He flailed at the flames and his last thought before sinking below the surface was his family.
Unable to breathe and too tired to swim, he let himself go.
Nate saw his wife in the blackness. She looked so beautiful and waved at him to join her. I’m coming, he said. Wait for me. He was moving toward her, feeling warm and at peace,
drifting forever, it seemed.
And then strong hands were lifting him out of the water.
West didn’t remember much after that except screaming at the men to let him die. They ignored him, heaved him over the boat’s gunwales like he was some charred fish, before tossing him flopping onto the flat bottom.
A vile mix of oil and water came rushing up, and he turned his head and caught a glimpse of the coastline.
Where am I? he wondered.
One of the fishermen came into view holding a bottle of brandy. “Dear God,” he said in Spanish. He crossed himself one-handed before leaning down to cradle West’s head, bringing the bottle to his lips.
The brandy burned going down his throat. Everything burned—his skin, his stomach, but most of all his heart.
“You are safe now,” the man said, but that was a lie.
But they’re dead, West thought before passing out.
Back in the shower he opened his eyes. The door was frosted with steam and his shoulders were red from the hot water. His hand closed around the knob and he twisted it to the right. The water turned cold in an instant, and the undamaged parts of his body grew tight with goose bumps. It was freezing, but West didn’t care.
Pain had been his only companion for so long that he missed it when he started to feel comfortable. After the explosion the current had carried him out to sea. He later learned that two fishermen from the island of Mallorca found him in the open water. They pulled him into their boat and rushed him to the local doctor.
The man kept him alive, but only barely. The first week was the worst. In and out of feverish dreams, he’d wake up to feel his skin crawling—the doctor was using maggots to eat the dead skin, and there was nothing he could do about it because the man had secured his arms and legs.
When West slept he dreamt about the moments before the blast. He paused before getting onto the boat and turned to wave at Eric. He noticed the figure on the motorcycle looking down at him from the entrance of the marina. They made eye contact and West noticed that he was holding something in his hand.