What wasn’t out of reach were the man’s grenades.
He took them. There were only two; he would have to make them count. He couldn’t rely on killing both his enemies with grenades—they were too mobile, the space too open. But there was one possibility.
He took one grenade in each hand and held them to his chest. One chance, and he would probably die. But if he did, he would go out fighting. With his mouth, he pulled the pin on one grenade and sent it sailing in the direction of Novokoff. He removed the pin from the other and, in the cover of the first explosion, tossed it into the crate with the canisters. And then he ran.
The burst came along with a heat wave from the thermite, which was what he had hoped for. Almost immediately he heard Lubarsky gag and cough, and he turned to see him start convulsing. He had released the gas.
And then the tingling hit him. At his extremities, at first. He had to run, had to get out of there. He stumbled out the door the truck had come in.
He panted, his nose running. He stumbled and fell into the soft snow. Consciousness was fading; he knew he didn’t have long. He reached into his pocket and brought out the syringe Dr. Barrett had given him. He fumbled to open it. His hands were already losing their grip. With all his effort, he ripped the package and removed the needle’s cover with his mouth. He looked at it: it was one big mother of a needle. This had a slightly sobering effect. He tried to concentrate on the target of his chest. His hands were about to give out. He had one chance to do this, or he was dead.
He plunged the needle into his chest. His heart raced, and he began to black out just as he heard the sound of approaching vehicles.
The cavalry had come.
CHAPTER 6
Andover, Massachusetts, the previous August
Morgan had first been contacted by Zeta Division a few years after he retired from the CIA as an assassin to pursue a normal life. A man who called himself Smith had approached him in the echoing garage under the Boston Common. Smith had extended an invitation into . . . something. Morgan hadn’t known what it was, but it was big, and it was secret. He’d understood that it was some kind of nongovernmental intelligence and Black Ops organization, and that was about it. Morgan had said no at the time, but Smith still left him with a business card. Printed on it had been a phone number and nothing else.
At that time, Morgan had sworn to himself that it was over, that he was out of the life and the business, that he was going to live like a normal person. He was going to focus on what had previously been his cover career dealing in classic cars and live a regular family life in the suburbs with his beautiful wife and his lovely daughter. But as it usually went in this game, things were not that simple.
He’d felt an itch, one that grew less manageable every day. In all his years in Black Ops, he had known there were other agencies that operated outside of the purview of the government. As an independent contractor of sorts, Morgan had escaped the tightest scrutiny of the Agency, but his actions were still tightly controlled and subject to rules upon rules. He had always thought of all the good he could do, everything he could accomplish, if he were working with an independent group, not beholden to Washington bureaucrats. And now, here it was, an invitation into that world.
He tried to ignore the business card. He kept it in a closed drawer in his home office, and did his best to convince himself that his day-to-day responsibilities as a father, husband, and car broker were enough. But the card proved a constant prickle in his brain. It kept him up at night. He would frequently take it out of the drawer just to stare at the rich creamy stock, the fine classic typeface, and those tantalizing numbers. Telling himself it was just a matter of healthy caution, he went down to Boston to look for the surveillance footage from the parking garage that day—only to find that all of the video that might have shown him something useful was mysteriously missing. Nobody seemed to be able to tell him why or how it had disappeared. And Morgan was left without a lead.
Finally, one afternoon when his wife, Jenny, who was an interior decorator, had an appointment with a client and his daughter, Alex, was out for a run, he gave in to his curiosity. He sat at his mahogany desk and lay the card out carefully—which was unnecessary, as he had, since receiving it, memorized the ten digits backward and forward—and then set the phone beside it. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver, and dialed. He listened expectantly, but all he heard was a series of pulses, and then the line went dead.
Morgan set the receiver down. He’d known better than to think he would get a perky receptionist asking him where to direct his call, but he wondered if and how they would make contact now. He was slightly worried that the line was no longer in service, and that he had missed his window of opportunity.
That fear was put to rest the next day, during his morning run. He had dropped off Neika, his German shepherd, at the house after she’d grown too hot and tired, and had decided to keep going. As he turned onto a street perpendicular to his little cul-de-sac, a sleek black Audi pulled up next to him. The car kept pace with Morgan as he ran, and the driver’s window rolled down. Morgan’s fight-or-flight response was about to kick in when he recognized the man. Even with his large dark sunglasses, Morgan knew that precise short dark brown hair and that perfectly inexpressive face. It was a face that had played in his mind and in his dreams many times since he had first seen it. Smith.
“Why don’t you get in, Mr. Morgan?” said Smith. “I think you and I have much to talk about.”
Morgan shuffled scenarios around in his head. A spy getting into a car with a stranger could lead to someone getting killed, even in a sleepy Boston suburb. But sometimes, finding out the truth took risk. He opened the door to the passenger’s seat. The air in the car felt icy as the cold air-conditioning hit Morgan’s sweaty skin. Still, it felt great to come in from the heat, which had abated only a little from the height of the summer. His sweaty shirt clung to the leather seats as he sat down.
“Feel free to adjust the temperature to your liking, Mr. Morgan,” said Smith. He set off along the shady suburban street. “I’m afraid that’s about as much as I can do to set you at ease.”
“I think there’s plenty more you can do,” said Morgan, looking forward, but keeping the corner of his eye firmly fixed on Smith.
“Oh?” Smith asked.
“I have questions.”
“Of course you do,” said Smith. “That’s why you called, after all, isn’t it? It seems like curiosity is at least one weakness of the infamous Cobra.” Morgan’s brow furrowed at the comment. “Well, you know as well as I do that I cannot offer you full disclosure. But I will tell you whatever I can.”
“Oh yeah?” Morgan knew it was never that simple. “What are you getting out of coming down here and answering my questions?”
He looked surprised. “I thought that much was clear. My hope is that you will come to work for us, Mr. Morgan.”
“So this is a kind of job interview, then?”
“Oh, no. We’re very much past that point. I would not be here if I did not already know that I wish you to work for us. There is no point in making you jump through hoops as if you were vying for a position as assistant manager in a pet supply store. No, no. I am here to convince you.”
“All right, I’ll bite,” said Morgan. “You said you have no name. What’s your purpose?”
“We aim to make the world a safer and freer place.”
“What are you, running for president?” said Morgan. “That tells me jack. Are you with the U.S. government? Some kind of international coalition?”
“We are not beholden to the government or anyone else, Mr. Morgan.”
“No oversight?”
“I like to think that we oversee ourselves.”
“And who’s financing this little venture? Who’s calling the shots? And more importantly, who’s benefiting?”
“Our benefactors are of the kind that would rather remain anonymous. As for the benefits . . . we all benefit, Mr. Morgan. But I
am aware you cannot take my word for it, and neither will you trust me when I say that our interests are—I won’t say pure, but we are the good guys, Mr. Morgan. Among those who determine our mission are some names you would certainly recognize, and some you would not.” Morgan had some idea, but remained silent. “Of course, I cannot name any of them for you. But what I can tell you is that there is a balance of interests. We have no interest in playing favorites. Just that which makes us all richer. Peace. Prosperity. Freedom.”
“How about truth, justice, and the American way?” Morgan said sarcastically.
“Much in the way that the governmental intelligence and enforcement agencies would consider them, yes.”
“So why not let them take care of it?”
“You cannot leave it all to them, Mr. Morgan. You know that yourself, firsthand. Government agencies are often slow to action, riddled with corruption and petty personal squabbles, and with rewards based on obedience instead of effectiveness. Their work is not without its merit. But their failures can be spectacular.”
“And you?” Morgan asked.
“We step in when governments fail.”
Morgan mulled it over, looking out the window at the quiet rows of houses as they drove, with the sun filtering down the bright green canopies of the elms and sycamores. “How am I supposed to take your word for it, Mr. Smith?” He said the obviously fake name pointedly.
“I do see the conundrum, Mr. Morgan. You don’t know me, much less trust me enough to make a judgment like this. You can contact your old resources, but I can guarantee that none of them have heard of me or the people I represent. But perhaps that will not be an insurmountable problem. Perhaps a solution will present itself in good time.”
As he said this, he pulled into the parking lot of a chain drugstore. And the solution did present itself, six-foot-seven, khaki shorts on skinny legs and dark aviators. There, leaning against a Jeep in a parking space, was his old friend and partner, Peter Conley—known, professionally, as Cougar.
“Go on,” said Smith.
Morgan shot the mysterious man one last glance, then left the car. He couldn’t help but smile as he approached his old friend. Conley smiled broadly in return. “I’ve been hoping you would make the call sooner or later,” he said.
“I guess a normal life doesn’t quite suit me,” said Morgan.
“I could’ve told you that,” said Conley. “It gets to you. Something that wants to get out. You can’t keep a cobra down forever.”
Morgan grinned. “Or a cougar, apparently.”
“True enough,” said Conley.
“So, this Smith guy . . .” said Morgan. “This mysterious organization. Is it what he says it is?”
Conley squinted against the sunlight streaming through the trees and said, “As far as I can tell. We fight terrorists, tyrants, and criminals. We do things that the CIA and NSA can’t, or won’t, do. And I always get a choice. The right to refuse any mission.”
That was important. Morgan had always retained that right, even when working for the CIA. He’d never give up his own rights of conscience. “Does it worry you?” said Morgan. “That you’re the hand of an organization, and you don’t know where it keeps its head?”
“Was it different in the Agency?” asked Conley. “Did we ever know why they did what they did? The reason behind their decisions? Did we know that we weren’t supporting someone’s political career more than the American people? We did our best to choose whether or not to accept the mission. But ultimately, we had to trust that it all added up to something. That’s what I do now.”
It wasn’t satisfying, of course. But Conley was right. There was no better guarantee than this. There wasn’t always black and white in international politics, and the further you went into the spy game, the greyer things tended to become.
“Are you glad you’re in?” asked Morgan.
“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t,” said Conley. His tone turned personal and sincere. “We could really use you, Dan.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Morgan. “That’s all I can promise right now.”
Conley nodded. “Think on it. Meanwhile, want a ride?” he asked, motioning to his Jeep.
“Nah,” said Morgan. “I think I need to take some time to reflect on my own.”
“Give me a call if you want to talk,” said Conley. “You could be doing a lot of good here.”
Morgan had begun to run, planning a long way back to his house. As his feet hit the pavement, he’d tried to keep a level head and weigh this decision carefully. But with the giddy excitement in his gut about his new prospect, it had been hard to think that this was anything but a foregone conclusion.
CHAPTER 7
Boston, December 28
Lincoln Shepard’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, and he took a deep breath. He was about to set his already considerably high personal bar just a little bit higher.
The name of the thing was Hong Yan. Satellite—Chinese military, top secret, and with a big, deadly high-powered laser strapped on its back. It had been built to swat ballistic missiles right out of the sky, although Shepard had done some back-of-the-envelope calculations and figured out that it could probably even take out a target on the ground, provided it moved slowly enough. It was one of the most advanced pieces of technology in the world, the result of a years-long research and development process that was kept tightly under wraps. Its existence had so far evaded the notice of the CIA, the NSA, and MI6. Nobody outside of the People’s Republic was supposed to know it even existed yet.
And he, Lincoln Shepard, was going to hack it.
He was in Zeta Division headquarters, which took up several levels below the parking garage of a skyscraper in downtown Boston. They’d only just moved into the new digs three weeks ago. Shepard wasn’t allowed to see all the facilities in the new headquarters, although it was obviously far too big for just the current members of Zeta. What he had seen was more spacious than any of their temporary sites had been, which meant that Bloch, and whoever else called the shots, had every intention of expanding. Shepard had his own little command center, with a dozen empty workstations waiting to be filled. For himself, he had his own multiple-monitor station connected to enough computing power to control the air traffic for the entire Western hemisphere. In the corner he had his only non-computer requirement for his workspace: a minifridge stocked with energy drinks and a cabinet filled to capacity with snack food. The walls were a nice dark maroon, which were not conducive to a tranquil work environment, but he was fine with that—he found that he worked a lot better when he was perpetually on edge. He already had his Space Invaders poster up next to his workspace. It had been rolled up and put away for a while. He had stopped bothering to personalize his space while they had no permanent offices, because they never seemed to stay in one place, and each successive move just made it seem more pointless.
“Walk me through this again, Shep,” came the severe voice of Diana Bloch, who was behind him, hunching over his chair. She was the boss, head honcho at Zeta Division. The one who had interrupted his normal intelligence duties to put him to work on this Chinese satellite. Once the intel had come in on it, dealing with it had become top priority. After all, it was able to render the threat of nuclear strike harmless by making China impossible to hit with ballistic missiles, which would upset the threat of mutually assured destruction in nuclear war. The thing could tilt the balance of power between nations and aggravate international tensions. China would be able to act unilaterally with impunity, and it wasn’t hard to see how far things could devolve from there. Naturally, then, the only answer was to bring it down as discreetly as possible.
They’d had a mole who was feeding them information, that was plain, or else they wouldn’t even know about it in the first place. The most important thing that he’d brought in was a copy of the satellite’s operating system. Bloch had delivered it to Shepard in a hard drive along with his deadline to crack it: two weeks. They could
n’t wait longer and risk the Chinese discovering the mole or changing their security protocols significantly enough to keep them from being able to bring it down. “You’re kidding,” he’d said. But she hadn’t been. Diana Bloch was never anything other than completely serious.
“The target is in Low Earth Orbit,” he was telling her, now, exactly two weeks from the day she had delivered the drive, “fifteen minutes away from flying over the Nevada desert.” The fact that he had made the deadline had surprised even him, but Bloch had that quality of pushing people to do things beyond what they thought they were capable of. Sometimes, he was discovering, it was no more than a matter of expecting more from people. And now, everything was geared to go, and the satellite was about to enter an area thick with military satellite dishes—satellite dishes whose controls Bloch had, somehow, gotten him access to. Zeta wasn’t U.S. military, at least not as far as he knew—its exact nature wasn’t exactly crystal clear, not even to its members. But Shepard could be sure of one thing: they had friends in high places.
“So the satellite dishes are going to cause what’ll look like normal interference,” he said. “But in the meantime, I work my magic. I’ve got everything set up here.” He pointed to the six monitors arranged in a rough semicircle around his chair. There were a few windows open on each monitor, colored code against black, and on the upper right corner of the rightmost one, a red timer counted down from fourteen. “Ready to upload everything as soon as our window of opportunity opens.” He played a drum riff on the desk with his fingers. “This here”—he pointed to a monitor on his left—“is what they see.” The screen was taken up mostly by telemetry data and logs of running subroutines—information being fed to him by the satellite in orbit. “I’m basically cutting them off, and periodically feeding them corrupted data, so that it looks like digital interference. They’ll panic while it’s unreachable, but once it’s clear, and when they don’t see any sign of tampering—”
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