“Well, the food is a nice touch,” Syler mused, stepping into the elevator after Dufault. In the days since their shared meal, Syler often found stray sandwiches appearing at his elbow whilst running ops and hot take out containers at his desk when he returned from the labs. “The coffee too. Creepy since I’ve never caught you refilling it, but nice. Are you angling for a miniaturized missile launcher on your next assignment or just practicing discreet drops?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, darling,” he countered, eyes glinting with mischief. Syler narrowed his eyes as the man leaned closer. “Maybe I just want to make sure the most valuable mind in the CIA is well fueled before my next assignment. Although, if you’re offering—”
“No miniaturized missile launcher for you.” Arthur pouted. “I’ll send you out with your beloved Sig though. Those kebabs were excellent.”
Arthur grinned. “Fair trade.” The elevator doors dinged open, and Arthur stepped out, heading briskly towards the operations department security doors. Syler led him through to his office, pointedly ignoring the increasingly mystified stares from his staff at his recently acquired shadow.
Arthur whistled when he brought the dolly to a stop in the office, carding a hand through his short blond hair. “You really did need more space, didn’t you?” Of the six shelves, three were almost entirely filled with manuals, a fourth with prototypes, and the fifth with tools and components, absolutely none of it in anything resembling order. There might just be enough room for the boxes on the dolly. Syler was contemplating forgoing his view and putting a seventh shelf in the space where the window overlooked the bull pen. “I hope there’s not more coming.”
“That’s the last of it,” Syler replied, starting to work unpacking the manuals. Arthur moved to help him. A short while later, he dropped the last of the manuals onto his desk, resolving to find space for them later, and cleared a small stack of paperwork off of his chair to sit, tucking it next to the overflowing incoming requests box on the corner of his desk.
“My favorite part,” Arthur commented idly, yet somehow fully conveying his horror, “is how this is just an expansion of what the command desk used to look like.” The man had the air of a consummate neat freak. Oh, career military…
“My apartment, actually,” Syler replied, settling into the chair. Arthur moved to take a seat in the visitor’s chair, but quickly changed course to lean against the desk when he saw that it was housing a spare computer monitor. “It’s a work in progress.”
“You need more seating,” Arthur replied, “and possibly a maid.”
“For that,” Syler sighed, “I would give you an entire box of miniaturized missile launchers.” Syler’s office phone rang, announcing the end of his working lunch, and he shot an apologetic look at Dufault, waving him on his way.
---
The next morning was another early start for Syler, who received notification shortly after six a.m. that Dufault would be deploying to the Baltic to investigate the link between a drug trafficker and a pair of missing American students. It was half past six as he stumbled back into the bullpen, eyes mostly open behind his glasses, still fussing with his tie.
Dufault was waiting at the command desk with two take away coffee containers, entirely too put together for what amounted to the pre-ass crack of dawn. He grinned at Syler, who snatched one of the takeaway cups from him without preamble and took a long drag.
“Not much of a morning person, are you sunshine?” he commented, watching Syler struggle to disentangle himself from the mess he’d made of his half-knotted tie and messenger bag. Syler grunted, bag finally coming free of his shoulder but taking his tie with it, and dumped them both on the desk. Arthur couldn’t help but think it was an improvement. The green brocade monstrosity clashed fiercely with the pale blue button down his handler was wearing. And, honestly, were those suede elbow patches? Who dressed this man?
“I promised myself I was done with this shit when I finished grad school,” he groused, half-heartedly attempting to rescue his tie. Giving it up as a bad job, he huffed, settling into the chair and logging in. “Thank you for bringing me life blood.”
“Anything for my favorite handler.” Arthur paused. “Although, now I’m concerned by the thought that you drove like this.”
“Company cars are a godsend. I can do without, but having a driver to make sure I’m actually awake enough to get out the door helps.” Syler pulled open the latest files, familiarizing himself with them quickly. “Have you received the updated dossier?”
“Only what Boothman told me over the phone. Send me a copy for the flight?”
“Done,” Syler replied. “Target is Jonas Sruoga. He’s been tracked to Vilnius in Lithuania. Major drug trafficking into the US and Europe. Periodically goes to ground and crops up somewhere else, but he’s returned to his hometown for now. Two American students doing research at Vilnius University were reported missing a week ago. Members of his organization were spotted in the area and reports point to an abduction with the goal of ferrying drugs back into the US.” He pulled up photos of Sruoga, as well as both missing women.
“Jesus, they look your age.”
“Ten years my juniors, which is actually worse. Retrieve the students and bring Sruoga into custody. You’re authorized use of lethal force if necessary, which is to say, likely.”
“Noted. Armory?” Syler nodded, already up and moving.
“Your flight leaves Reagan in ninety minutes. Itinerary is included in your dossier.” Syler noted, passing the agent a set of falsified identification documents as they entered the weapons store. “Sig P226 special, two for luck.”
Arthur tucked the guns into his shoulder and waist holsters before accepting the spare magazines that followed. “What do we know about the location of Sruoga and the women?”
“Warehouse district for both. Directions in your dossier. I’ll forward blueprints after you leave.” He passed the other man his earwig, which Arthur immediately slipped on as he followed Syler to the back of the weapons store. “Missile launchers are a bit much for a major city, I’m afraid, but I won’t send you empty handed.” He produced a small box containing a pair of silver cuff links and a tie pin. “Cufflinks are explosive, tie pin is the control. Tap the links to the pin once to arm and the concealed trigger on the inside of the pin twice to detonate.”
“Classic,” Arthur commented, slipping one into each sleeve cuff.
“Flash bangs,” Syler continued, passing over three, “and this one contains a neurotoxin knockout gas.” Arthur pocketed all four. “There’s a car out front waiting for you. I’ll be on comms.”
“Good,” Arthur replied.
---
Syler spent the remainder of the morning reviewing the blueprints for Sruoga’s hideout and the surrounding area, then hacking into the security cameras in the nearby buildings to track the movement of the guards posted outside. He passed monitoring of the situation over to Miranda around noon when she threatened to lock him out of his own system if he didn’t eat something. As Dufault was still somewhere over the Atlantic and would be for quite some time, he allowed it.
Well, that and Benson scared him a bit. She built firewalls that made him weep and regularly wore stilettos that brought her eye level with his own nearly six-foot frame; every single one of the minions was rightfully terrified of her. Between her and Reyes, he was spoiled for choices when he inevitably had to select his own deputy and that was assuming neither of them decided to throw their hat in the ring to run the department themselves.
“Move, boss,” Miranda ordered, shooing him out of the bullpen. “Go enjoy a nap on that cozy looking couch you’ve got in there.”
“What couch?” She raised a well manicured eyebrow at him, amused. “Right, yes, thank you. You’re a gem and I don’t deserve you.”
She grinned. “Just for that, I’ll throw in an order of pad thai for you when I call in lunch.”
“You’re my favorite and don�
��t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“Oh, say that in front of Dufault. I want to see the look on his face.”
“Not you too,” Syler whined, collecting his most recent allotment of bureaucratic paperwork hell.
She laughed, low and almost cackling, eyes absolutely wicked. “Oh, but it’s so fun to watch him resist his natural impulse to flirt with everything that moves in hopes of impressing you. I think he has a crush!”
“Et tu, Brute?” He shook his head forlornly, slowly retreating to the relative safety of his office.
“Not my headache anymore!” She called after him.
---
The Couch, Syler soon discovered, and it really did deserve capital letters, was an entirely beautiful thing—well worn mahogany leather long enough to stretch out on and just the right height to fit neatly beneath the window overlooking the bullpen. He’d ask where the hell it had come from, but the pristine condition of his previously chaotic office left little doubt in his mind. Apparently, he owed Dufault a box of miniaturized missile launchers.
He suspected they’d last about as long as the meticulously arranged bookshelves.
Thirteen
The moment he hit the ground in Vilnius the following afternoon, Arthur’s gut told him something was wrong. The city was beautiful in the fading autumn sunlight, full of the sort of old world charm and sprawling districts that attracted tourists in droves, but as he made his way to the outskirts of town and deeper into the industrial complex, he remained on high alert. The closer he came to the warehouse Sruoga was utilizing for his drug cartel operation, the more of his men he picked out, half a dozen scattered around the surrounding blocks. The security surrounding the building itself was discreet but obvious, seemingly more interested in regulating the traffic in and out of the premises than simply keeping passersby away.
“S,” he inquired, tucked into an alleyway overlooking the main entrance to Sruoga’s warehouse.
“I’m with you,” came the immediate reply. “One guard posted at the northern entrance, and one at the southern. There’s a fire door two hundred yards ahead of you on the east side of the building. I can disable the alarm.”
“Do you have eyes inside of the building?”
“Limited,” Syler replied, staccato quick rhythm of his keyboard coming through clearly over the line. “I count five men on the main floor in addition to the exterior guards, two of them posted at the entrance to the basement. Open floor plan, minimal cover. No sign of the students or Sruoga on tape, but there aren’t any cameras in the basement to verify activity down there.”
“Do we know for sure they’re in there?”
“Sruoga was seen entering the premises an hour ago. The women haven’t been seen in several days and are assumed to be held hostage in the lower level. Primary concern is securing safe return of the civilians; capturing Sruoga is secondary.”
“Understood.” Arthur slipped out of the alleyway, making his way to the side entrance as the sky turned dark, another shadow in the advancing night. “I’m in position.” His body tensed as he drew his gun, hand hovering over the door handle.
“First guard directly to your front as you enter, second and third will be at your four o’clock. The entrance to the basement is at your ten,” Syler paused. “Security is disabled. On my mark—”Arthur breathed in low and steady, listening as his handler counted down from three, exhaling on the last mark. “Go!”
Arthur slammed the door open, firing off his first round dead center of mass and turning to the other two men before the first body hit the floor. Their shouts of alarm were drowned out by two more bullets in rapid succession.
“Basement door guards are approaching, weapons drawn.” Arthur grunted his acknowledgment, spinning to his ten o’clock as he slipped behind a steel support beam, return fire from the guards pinging off the metal.
“Sounds like more than two.” He popped off three more rounds, grazing one of the guards in the shoulder before ducking back behind the beam and palming the stun grenade in his pocket, a rain of bullets punctuating his statement.
“Four now. You’ve drawn the attention of the outer guards. Might I suggest a flash bang?”
Arthur spat out the pin, rolling the grenade towards the rapidly encroaching guards and ducking back behind the beam. “Way ahead of you.” The explosion ricocheted, room bursting into light even behind his closed eyes. He counted to three, then threw himself from behind the beam, advancing as he fired. The two men to his front fell. Of the remaining two, one of the guards had scattered to the right, the other to his left, and both were firing wildly in the confusion.
He tucked and rolled behind a table as crossfire came from both sides, one of the guards grazed by the friendly fire of his blinded companion but not down for the count. He palmed another flash bang, pulled the pin, and threw it under the table, eyes shutting at the last second. Another explosion of light flooded the world beyond his eyelids and he felt the vibrations of bullets pinging randomly off of the metal table he crouched behind.
“On your eight,” came Syler’s voice. Arthur settled his breath and rose fluidly from his crouch, two more rounds silencing the last of the main floor guards as he headed for the locked basement door at a run. He heard the clatter of footsteps coming up the stairway, counting two more men shouting in Polish. He tugged roughly on the handle, but it didn’t budge, locked from the inside.
“What’s the radius on the cuffs?” he asked, tapping one against his tie pin, settling it against the handle and watching as the stone in it glowed red, armed.
“Fifteen feet, shrapnel heavy. Cover on your four o’clock, twenty feet.” He spun and dropped behind the beam, dropping his spent magazine and reloading as he went, before triggering the ignition on the pin. The door exploded inwards with a deafening bang, debris hitting the men behind it. Without breaking stride down the stairs, he met both guards with two neat bullets to the center of the chest.
Arthur came to a dead stop at the base of the steps, weapon drawn on Sruoga. In the dim light of the room, the man stood behind a flipped table, packages of fentanyl-laced heroin still spilling to the floor in a wave. He held a gun to the head of a terrified young woman. Between one breath and the next, Arthur fired, bullet landing left of center in Sruoga’s forehead, his body and the screaming woman dropping to the floor.
Arthur stood still, breathing heavily, the room eerily silent but for the sobbing woman. “Dufault, report,” his handler called.
Arthur stepped around the table, taking in the scene. “Guards neutralized. Target eliminated.” He removed his jacket, kneeling next to the distraught woman, covering her gently. “Special Agent Dufault. Tell me your name.”
The woman babbled to him in Russian and Arthur’s blood ran cold, head craning as he reassessed the room.
“Dufault, update.”
“Send medevac.” He hushed her, careful not to touch her as he did, soft reassurances of safety delivered in her native tongue. He barely registered his handler ordering evac on the other end of the comms as he turned towards the sounds of shuffling bodies, muffled sobs slowly growing in number.
“For the hostages?”
He stepped back around the table, counting. “For twenty.”
“What?”
“This is a human trafficking ring.”
Fourteen
Arthur had remained on the line until the medical evacuation team had arrived, then overseen clean up into the early morning hours, confirmed his return flight, and gone dark, all with long stretches of silence in between. Syler found that he didn’t blame him. Viewing it through the security cameras as the victims were evacuated had been grim, the handful of bodies more than enough to set his stomach roiling, and the nausea lingering long after he’d confirmed Dufault had checked into the airport. Even once Syler had finally gone to bed for the night, he’d found his mind going back to the mission, turning it over and over, unable to sleep.
Twenty women, including the two missing un
iversity students, one of whom had not survived. Not just drug trafficking after all. Sruoga’s constant pattern of movement took on a new light. Local authorities had been horrified; Vilnius wasn’t known for crime, and especially not violence of this degree. He received Dufault’s after action report early the following morning, sent between airport layovers without further comment, and quickly compiled and signed off on his own, more than ready to focus his attention elsewhere.
He worked diligently through the standard fare of Friday morning meetings, submitted the resulting adjustments to expense reports by early afternoon, then tucked himself away in his office, finalizing modifications to an HK416 assault rifle. The methodical work of retrofitting time-delayed explosive munitions did wonders for distracting him, his mind settled by the low drone of his staffers working just outside the door. It was nearly eight p.m. by the time he resurfaced, swing shift having taken over several hours prior, leaving the department in a quiet lull.
The sharp rap at his door was entirely unexpected, as was the barely restrained storm cloud of a man that saw himself in. The door snicked shut with a controlled click in his wake, at odds with the preternatural fury that seemed to roll off of the agent in waves.
“Agent Dufault,” he noted, briefly wrong footed. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Silence. Syler pressed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose from where they’d slipped while working before trying again. “How can I help you?
“Equipment drop off,” he answered, voice gruff. Christ, he looked like shit. Probably felt it too, if the red tinge around his eyes was anything to go by. Syler suspected he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept well the prior night, and he hadn’t been on a plane for it.
“Of course,” he elected not to argue, reaching for the equipment return tray. He was roughly presented with what remained of the agent’s weapons and munitions as well as his ear piece. “Are you alright?” Syler asked tentatively. Arthur’s nostrils flared and he turned to leave without reply.
Covert Affairs: Partnership : A Covert Affairs Romance (Book One) Page 6