Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  And while he was off meting vengeance in the shadows, Kate would move on.

  She should move on.

  With the death benefit from the Navy, and his sizable USAA life insurance policy, she would be able to pay off the house and still have a tidy nest egg to start her new life. His GI Bill would pay for Jacob’s college, and . . .

  He sighed—a heavy, raspy sigh.

  Despite the warm breeze blowing in from the Gulf, he began to shiver. He was already thinking like a dead man. He was a ghost, walking among the living, self-aware and feeling, but cold and unseen. Jack Kemper, and the life he’d spent four decades building, was dead and buried—along with almost every friend he’d ever had. He would never be Jack Kemper again.

  Not even in his own mind.

  “You don’t live here anymore,” a voice said behind him.

  Kemper didn’t startle, nor did he bother turning around. “Fuck off, Smith.”

  He felt the spook’s eyes on his back. Still, he didn’t turn. Eventually, he heard a series of splashes and Smith was standing beside him—boots and all. Kemper looked down at the watermark creeping up the other man’s khaki pants. “You’re a strange dude, Smith.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Smith shoved his hands in his pockets and matched Kemper’s gaze out at the sea. “And it’s Pozniak.”

  Kemper turned and looked at the spy.

  “What?”

  “My name,” he said. “Once upon a time, I would’ve said you can call me Barry.”

  “Barry Pozniak? That’s your name?” Kemper snorted. “Jesus, I woulda become Shane Smith, too.”

  “I figure if a man’s giving up his name forever, the least I can do is tell him mine,” Smith said.

  “I appreciate that,” Kemper said. “But I still don’t trust you.”

  “I don’t trust you, either,” Smith said. “But I trust Kelso Jarvis, and he trusts you, so here we are.”

  “Yeah, here we are.”

  “Did you drive by her house yet?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Kate,” Smith said, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.

  “What kinda question is that?”

  “You’re here. Don’t tell me the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  Kemper exhaled. “Fuck off, Smith.”

  “You already said that.”

  “I meant it then, too.” Kemper turned to face him. “Why are you here? Did Jarvis send you to talk me off the ledge—is that it? Does he think I cracked? That I’m going to run home to my ex-wife and ruin the brilliant plan the two of you cooked up during my MEDEVAC? Gimme a break. You fucking spooks are all the same.”

  Smith didn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought,” Kemper said with a victorious scowl.

  “I was Army,” Smith said, after a long pause. “Fifth Special Forces Group, and then over to Delta after 9/11. We spent a lot of time in Afghanistan and Iraq—just like you guys. After that, I was sent to Ethiopia with some guys I thought must be OGA, except they really had their shit together. They were spook types, but you could tell they’d been operators. We got tasked with ‘asset management’ and setting shit up for obliteration.” Smith drifted for a moment. Then, he shook his head vigorously, as if shaking off stars from a right hook. “Anyway, three years ago I got a visit from this weird dude, a former Tier One SEAL commander that you might know. He gave me this pitch about a special project I could join. He went on and on about how they were doing stuff I couldn’t imagine, making a difference in the war on terror, blah, blah, blah.” Smith took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest. “He was right. Since I signed on, we’ve done some absolutely amazing shit. Incredible things that no one knows about, even at the highest levels of the Pentagon.”

  “You were Delta?” Kemper asked, zeroing in on the piece of Smith’s story that held the most weight in his book.

  “Yeah,” Smith said with a proud, nostalgic smile he tried to hide and failed.

  “Do you miss it?”

  “All the time. Every day. It was a simpler life with simple rules. And I slept a helluva lot better back then,” he said with a hesitant chuckle. Then he turned to Kemper, all the humor gone from his face. “Here’s the thing, Jack. I’ve done more to affect the security of this country in the last two years than the culmination of my efforts over the decade before I joined Jarvis. Promises are an occupational hazard in our business, but I’ll make you one tonight: our group will never replace what you had with the teams, but I promise you’ll never regret the decision to join us. Even if you could go back to Tier One, you wouldn’t.”

  Kemper looked down at the water swirling around his calves. “I got nothing left to go back to, man,” he said, and then silently cursed the tears pooling in his eyes.

  “Yeah, it sucks,” Smith said softly. After a long, awkward moment he spoke again, his voice now conspicuously light. “I know you SEALs are all about the water, but can we get out of the surf now?”

  Kemper forced a laugh. “The ocean is your friend, Smith,” he said as they waded back to the beach. “It’s what connects us to every continent on the planet.”

  “The ocean scares the shit out of me. Give me a perfectly good airplane to jump out of and I’ll take that any day over a scuba INFIL.”

  “Has anyone ever told you,” Kemper said, shaking his head, “that you’re a strange dude?”

  “I get that a lot,” Smith said. “And ‘fuck off’—don’t forget that.”

  Kemper followed him up the beach, pausing only to scoop up his Oakley desert boots along the way. As they trudged through the sand toward the parking lot, Kemper decided he still didn’t trust Smith. Being former Delta helped, but unconditional trust had to be earned. Hopefully, it would happen organically in the coming months as they worked together. They were, after all, the same breed—a couple of Smiths forged by fire in Tier One units, only to wake up one day, inexplicably, as spies.

  CHAPTER 18

  5209 Brigstock Court

  Williamsburg, Virginia

  May 4, 1152 EDT

  Kemper clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

  Mindful of the position of his feet, he closed the gap to his adversary. He drove forward with the full power of his legs to unleash a brutal combination—left jab, right cross, elbow. Had the target of his rage actually been a man, this person would now require plastic surgery, but as it was, the heavy bag simply shuddered in mild protest and begged for more. Sweat poured from his scalp and forehead, running over his burn wounds and stinging like a Portuguese man-o’-war. He swallowed the pain and focused all his attention on pummeling the vintage-leather Everlast bag hanging from a ceiling joist in the basement of Shane Smith’s house.

  The fingerless mixed martial arts gloves he wore protected his knuckles; the wrap tape added stability and rigidity to his wrists. He reveled in the tightness in his forearms and the ache in his heavily muscled arms. He exhaled and moved through a rapid series of katas, each designed to neutralize a specific threat—a man with a handgun, a man with a knife, two men with rifles, finally ending with a jihadist bastard in need of an ass kicking. The lactic-acid burn was becoming a raging fire in his overtaxed pectoral and deltoid muscles, but he kept pounding the bag. For the first time in months, he felt alive. He felt strong and lethal. He felt like a fucking SEAL. His sweat had a tangy odor, undoubtedly due to the unusually large quantity of alcohol he had been consuming over the past week and the daily cocktail of meds he was slowly weaning himself off. Exercise was the catharsis his body craved, not mind-numbing booze and painkillers. He’d often heard the saying “As goes the mind, so goes the body,” but the inverse was also true. It was time to start rebuilding.

  Kemper slowly circled the bag, planning his next assault. His bare feet—now raw from an hour of shuffling on the cement floor—made a whisking sound as he shifted his stance. Normally, he would be pounding the bag with kicks and knee strikes, but he wasn’t sure if his bac
k was ready for that. His spine was feeling almost normal again; he saw no reason to risk putting himself in traction over a heavy bag workout. His left foot felt normal, except for his numb big toe, which he had decided would be that way forever. His right fibula, which had cracked four inches above his ankle, was still nagging him, which the docs said he could expect for several more weeks. The right side of his neck itched incessantly where the skin graft was finally healing, as did the other surgery sites on his face. Soon, the plastic-surgery scars would be impossible to see—faded into the weathered creases of this old new face whose reflection he still didn’t recognize. If there was one thing two decades on the teams had taught him, it was this: flesh heals, but imperfectly. Some of his wounds would ache forever, nagging reminders of a dark night on the Darya-ye Noor, and the darkest of all nights in Djibouti.

  As he drew back his right fist, he heard the floorboards creak overhead. He froze and listened. Footsteps—someone walking in the kitchen. Almost certainly it was Smith, but he was not in the mood to play roulette today. Using his teeth, he tore loose the Velcro wrist wraps on the borrowed gloves and shook them off onto the floor. He continued to pummel the heavy bag barehanded while angling left so that the Sig Sauer P229 pistol resting on the nearby table was within arm’s reach. He quickly scanned the basement, noting an emergency-egress window fifteen feet to his right. Keeping the bag between himself and the basement steps, he waited. A moment later, he heard feet on the unfinished wooden stairs. Black boots appeared, then 5.11 Tactical cargo pants. The gait was casual, nothing akin to infiltration or combat movement.

  A second later, Smith’s head entered Kemper’s line of sight. When the spook reached the staircase landing, he turned and nodded a “What’s up” in Kemper’s direction.

  Kemper gave a single nod in return and circled the bag. Setting his feet, he reengaged with a series of punches, elbows, and hammer-fist strikes—a final, brutal sequence to end his workout. In his peripheral vision, he saw Smith take a seat on the landing, a beer clutched in each hand. Completely spent, Kemper finished his final three-strike combination, then leaned his forehead against the bag, panting.

  “Good Lord,” Smith said, clicking the two beers together in applause. “You hit like Jack Dempsey reborn.”

  Kemper laughed and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Smith set the beers down on a step, grabbed a hand towel hanging on the banister, and tossed it to Kemper. “You do know who Jack Dempsey was, right?” he asked as Kemper toweled off.

  Kemper nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”

  “Heard the name?” Smith said, shaking his head. “Shit, Kemper, the man is a legend. They called him the Manassa Mauler. He won more than fifty of his fights by knockout. Seven years as a world heavyweight champion. Dempsey was one of the greatest boxers of all time.”

  “Sounds like you’re a boxing history buff,” Kemper said, walking toward the steps.

  Smith handed him a beer. They clinked bottles and Kemper took a long pull.

  “Yeah, I’ve always been fascinated by that period in American history—the gangsters, the Roaring Twenties, and the golden age of boxing. They don’t make fighters like Jack Dempsey anymore.”

  “Sure they do,” Kemper said with a grin. “They’re called Navy SEALs.”

  Smith blew air through his teeth. “Er, I think you mean Delta.”

  “Oh no, I definitely meant SEALs. Delta is for pussies and guys who can’t swim,” he said, sliding comfortably into the ball-busting rivalry between the brother Tier One units.

  Smith laughed and sat back down on the landing.

  Kemper took a seat on a folding chair beside the end table and his Sig. He took a long pull on his beer, then eyeing Smith, he said, “How much longer are we going to do this shit?”

  Smith looked surprised at the comment. “Do what, Jack?”

  “This,” Kemper said, waving his hand around. “As in nothing. How much longer are we going to sit on our collective asses wasting time when we should be down range, putting Al Qaeda assholes in the dirt?”

  Smith made a show of checking his watch. “One hour.”

  “What do you mean one hour?”

  “I picked up some Chinese food for lunch. It’s on the kitchen table,” Smith said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? We’ll pound some sesame chicken and rice, and then I’ll drive you to your appointment.”

  “What appointment?”

  “With the doc.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Smith,” Kemper huffed. “You just saw me working the heavy bag. Do I look like someone who needs more convalescence? I’m good to go, man. It’s time to kit up and hit the road.”

  “Not that kind of doc, Jack.”

  Kemper rolled his eyes. “A headshrinker? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Smith shook his head. “Boss’s orders.”

  For Tier One operators, psychologists were reviled almost as much as terrorists. He’d never met a shrink he’d liked. They were all the same—find a scab and pick, pick, pick until the wound opened up and started bleeding. How in God’s name was it therapeutic for him to be forced to relive all the pain and anguish from his darkest of all days in Djibouti? How did a compulsory stroll down memory lane—reminding him of everything and everyone he’d lost—help him move forward?

  Kemper felt the fury boiling up inside. But instead of erupting, he practiced his four-count tactical breathing and bottled his rage—bottled it up tight for later. Psychological evaluations were standard protocol after traumatic events, and what he survived in Djibouti qualified a hundred times over. Jarvis had to play it by the book, which meant so did he.

  Just keep your cool and say what the doc wants you to say. Let the vampire nibble, check the box, and move on.

  Kemper flashed Smith his cockiest smile. “Just kidding. I love fucking with those guys.”

  “Hooyah,” Smith barked, visibly relieved this hadn’t turned into a battle.

  “Hooyah,” Kemper echoed back. He peeled off his sweat-drenched T-shirt, chugged the rest of his beer, and belched loudly. Then, he exchanged the empty beer bottle for the Sig on the table and headed for the stairs.

  “Just one more thing,” Smith said.

  Kemper stopped, halfway up the basement steps. “What’s that?”

  “After you finish up with the doc, we have one more stop to make.”

  Kemper rolled his eyes. “Let me guess—you scheduled me for a colonoscopy?”

  “No.” Smith laughed. “Nothing that invasive. Actually, I thought you might like to swing by the office and meet the rest of the team.”

  Kemper grinned from ear to ear. “It’s about fucking time.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Ember Corporation Executive Hangar

  Patrick Henry Field

  Newport News, Virginia

  May 4, 1442 EDT

  Kemper surveyed the nondescript, windowless, metal building from the passenger seat as Smith parked the SUV. A lone gray door faced the parking lot; the sign above read EMBER CORPORATION in unadorned black letters. From the size of the structure, Kemper estimated the hangar could house two midsize biz jets—maybe three—plus still have room enough left over for tow vehicles and maintenance equipment.

  “Are we flying somewhere?” he asked Smith as he climbed out of the Chevy Tahoe. Gravel crunched underfoot as his boots hit the ground. He slammed the passenger-side door and trotted to catch up.

  Smith paused at the hangar entrance. “How’d it go with the doc?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You’re here, so that says something.”

  The appointment with the headshrinker had gone better than Kemper expected. Unlike most of the clowns he’d dealt with in the past, Dr. West seemed like a pretty good dude, but he’d never admit that to Smith.

  “We just gonna stand here like a couple of idiots,” Kemper snorted, “or are you gonna let me
in?”

  Smith smirked—enjoying himself entirely too much—as he punched a five-digit code into a generic twelve-button keypad mounted beside the door. Kemper arched his eyebrows as the entire panel slid upward to reveal a black glass surface beneath.

  “I haven’t seen that before. Very James Bond,” he said, with just enough condescension to gauge Smith’s reaction.

  Smith ignored the comment and pressed his left hand against the glass. An instant later, Kemper heard a beep, followed by a click as the magnetic door lock released. Kemper recognized this particular brand of security door—hardened, with reinforced internal hinges, and a magnetic lock that made it impossible to bust open by force. He scanned the overhung eaves above and noted the security-camera “eyeballs” in dome mounts. A servomotor whirred, and the keypad retracted back in place, concealing the palm reader. Smith opened the door and gestured for Kemper to enter the hangar.

  Inside, the first thing Kemper noticed was the polished concrete floor, and how it reflected the halogen lights evenly spaced and mounted in the truss-work overhead—dozens of little yellow suns, shining from above and below simultaneously. Two corporate jets sat ready, doors open, each behind its own tow vehicle already attached by a yellow tow bar. From the kerosene smell in the air, and the tic-tic-tic of cooling turbofan blades, he guessed the smaller jet—a Learjet 35—had recently arrived. The other jet was a model he didn’t recognize, but from the size and configuration, he figured that bad boy was outfitted for intercontinental travel with enough room inside for an eight-man team and plenty of gear.

  Thirty feet away, a middle-aged man in a pilot’s uniform was chatting with another guy in coveralls beside the smaller jet.