by S L Shelton
Seifert turned back to the captain. “See, sir? No problem.” He extended his hand with the copy of the fake orders. “We’ll be out of your hair as soon as we find a quiet corner to hunker down in.”
The captain gave a cursory glance at the paper in Seifert’s hand and seemed reluctant to touch it. But after examining it and the official JSOC “from” heading on the orders, he quickly returned it and stepped aside. Seifert saluted and waited for the return before re-shouldering his bag and weapon.
Once aboard, the trio took seats in front of two Humvees strapped to the center rails. Mac’s duffel bag slipped from his shoulder and Wolf grabbed it before it tipped him over. He looked around to make sure no one had noticed the display of weakness.
Mac nodded his thanks with a sheepish look. He lowered himself into the seat a little more carefully, rebuilding the mask of fierce warrior. But as soon as he had the weight off his feet, he seemed to melt from exhaustion.
Wolf stowed Mac’s and his duffel bags in the seat next to them and strapped them in as if they were passengers, then sat next Mac.
Seifert stretched and looked around the rapidly filling cavernous cargo hold then sat on Mac’s other side. “Hang in there, brother. You can sleep now.”
Mac nodded without opening his eyes. A curious staff sergeant walked over and pointed at the duffel bags. A warning glance from Seifert was all it took to turn him around and send him in the other direction.
Within the hour, the lumbering C17 Globemaster III took to the air. Shortly after that, the lights in the cargo hold were dimmed. Wolf waited until most of the activity in the back had ceased before he knelt in front of Mac and began unbuttoning his camouflaged jacket.
Mac stirred and looked down. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You’re bleeding again.”
Mac looked around nervously, but Seifert patted him on the shoulder. “Relax. We’re fine.”
Mac nodded and settled back in his seat. Wolf set to work checking the bandage and wound. When he lifted it, he got a whiff of bowel. Wolf looked at Seifert and signaled his worry with a tense glance. Seifert nodded and got up.
Mac opened his eyes again. “Where you going?”
“Just stretching my legs. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Mac nodded and closed his eyes again. The heat coming from his belly told Wolf that Mac had a fever. He pulled the gauze from the bullet hole and a stronger odor wafted up. Infection had already set in. Mac groaned, obviously smelling it himself. “Shit.”
Wolf winked at him. “No. It’s too high up to be shit. It’s just your lunch. What did you have? Fried skunk ass?”
Mac chuckled then groaned again, rewarded by a flash of pain for his effort.
They watched Seifert approach a soldier with a medical insignia. He scratched his crotch and lifted his leg as if to rearrange his testicles in discomfort before kneeling in front of the medic. “Hey, man…help a brother out?”
The medic looked up, shaken from his nap. He tensed seeing the big SEAL crouched in front of him. “Yeah. Sure. What’s up?”
Seifert scratched his crotch again. “I think I picked up a case of the clap…you got some penicillin in that bag of yours?”
The medic hesitated, but Seifert put his hand on the man’s knee in an obvious intimidation ploy. “Come on. Help a brother out.”
The medic nodded and pulled his bag out from under his seat. “Drop trou.”
“Nah. Just give it to me. I know what to do,” Seifert said, squeezing the man’s knee again and winking. “It ain't my first time.”
The medic nodded and handed Seifert the syringe. Seifert pocketed it and stood, giving him a chuck on the shoulder. “Thanks, bro. The last thing I need is to be pissing blood in the field.”
Wolf watched as Seifert walked back toward them and discretely dropped the syringe. Wolf caught it, but Seifert continued to walk toward the bathroom cubicle at the end of the aisle.
“This’ll hold you over until we can get you fixed up proper like,” Wolf said after checking to make sure the medic wasn’t watching them.
Mac nodded and pulled down his trousers at the waist, turning sideways so Wolf could inject him. He moaned through the entire motion.
Wolf jabbed the needle in and injected the antibiotic. When Mac settled back into place, a fresh flow of blood had sprung from the gauze. Wolf quickly pinched the sides of the hole together and re-bandaged it.
“It’ll be fine,” Wolf said, receiving only a weak nod from Mac in response.
When Seifert came back Wolf discretely handed the empty syringe to him. Seifert pocketed it and shot Wolf a questioning glance, nodding toward Mac.
Wolf replied with a shrug and a worried look.
“Cut it out,” Mac said, opening one eye weakly. “I’m not dying. Go the fuck to sleep and let me rest.”
Wolf laughed and patted Mac’s knee. “I know, big guy.”
Mac waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “Then fuck off.”
Wolf returned to his seat, shooting Seifert a supportive wink and nod. There was nothing else they could do for him until they landed and got off base. Wolf hoped Mac would be able to move under his own power once they were on the ground. If he wasn’t, their departure from Ramstein would be nearly impossible.
Hang in there, big guy.
**
3:05 a.m. on April 30th—Private Hangar, Tampa International Airport, Tampa, Florida
TRIS stepped off the small Gulfstream jet and was assaulted by the wet, sticky air. She breathed in and her body automatically dilated the alveoli in her lungs to compensate for the thicker air and moisture. And though it was automatic, she felt each cluster change.
A man in black tactical gear, wearing a federal ID-flip hung around his neck, got out of a black Dodge SUV and walked toward the plane.
“Are you, Torino?” he asked.
Tris nodded and shouldered her bag as she walked down the short set of fold-out steps.
“I’m Special Agent Turner,” the man said as she approached. “I’m supposed to take you to the site.”
“Are all your men at least five blocks from the target location?” she asked as he opened the passenger door for her.
“They are, though we’ve been sitting in place for almost four hours waiting for orders.”
She tossed her bag into the back seat and got in. Turner ran around and climbed in behind the wheel as she buckled her seat belt. “I thought we were waiting for a specialty team,” he said.
“You were… I’m here now.”
He lifted his eyebrows as if he wanted to question her further but lacked the courage to do so. As they merged onto I-275 and crossed Frankland Bridge, Tris lowered the window and sniffed the air. She looked out at Old Tampa Bay and watched the lights from shore ripple in reflection across the water, wishing she could have brought Kathrin with her. Kat, she thought and smiled at the nickname.
It agitated her that she couldn’t have her new playmate with her and wondered what Braun would do with Kathrin if Wolfe was found and killed.
She tensed at the thought of Kathrin being terminated once no longer needed. It sent an angry ripple through her chest that she hadn’t felt since…since Gannon had been killed—her enhancement paired Jagger partner. As Special Agent Turner droned on about the tactical response to the property so far, a new urgency filled Tris’s mind; capturing Scott Wolfe alive.
“I don’t care how capable you think you are. If Wolfe is present he is to be captured alive,” Tris said, interrupting Turner’s briefing about team strength on-site.
“We already have that order. Alive if possible.”
She faced him slowly and leaned toward him. “He is to be taken alive at all costs…even the lives of your team.”
“You hold on a second there, little girl—”
Tris grabbed the wheel with one hand and his throat with the other, squeezing tightly. “Wolfe has the most valuable INTEL on the planet, tucked away in his head. I don’t care if every single one of your
toy soldiers is lying on the ground bleeding out when this is over as long as Wolfe is still alive and able to talk…you got me?”
Turner grasped at her fingers trying to break the deathlock she had on his throat. His foot slammed on the brake and they slid on the wet pavement. Without looking, Tris turned the wheel to keep them from fishtailing, though keeping her firm grip on his throat.
When Turner had the presence of mind to reach for his sidearm, Tris released him before he’d drawn it from the holster. He fumbled his weapon out and pointed at her, rubbing his throat with his other hand.
She stared at him, unflinching. “Do you understand?”
When he didn’t reply fast enough for Tris’s liking, her hand lashed out like a cobra, snatching his pistol from his hand. “I’m going to need a response from you or I’m going to have you stand down from your—”
“I’m not in charge! Stevens is in charge!”
“I’ll present the same information to Stevens… But, do you understand?”
His cheek twitched in anger, but by now he was certainly aware that he had no way of standing up to her. He nodded, terse and angry, the corner of his lip curled like a snarling dog.
“Then say it,” she said sweetly, softly, as if to a lover.
He pressed his lips together tightly, still curled. “I understand. Alive. No exceptions.”
“Good,” Tris said, settling back in her seat and smiling.
She handed his weapon back, pointing the barrel at him as he took it, just to drive the message home. A horn blast from a passing car moved him to drive forward.
“That’s pretty fucked up, lady,” Turner said.
“It’ll get worse. If Stevens doesn’t agree to the order, then I’m putting you in charge of the tactical force.”
Turner looked at her briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Who are you?”
“I’m the specialty team.”
He shook his head, his face tense with frustration. As they pulled up to the impromptu command center—no more than two SUV’s pulled together tail to tail—Tris opened her door.
“I’ll do the talking,” she said to Turner, getting out.
He shrugged dismissively.
“Is this it?” Asked a man in similar tactical garb, over a black suit. “I was expecting a secondary breach team.”
Turner pointed at Tris and shrugged. “Talk to her.”
He stepped forward and offered his hand. “Special Agent Fred Stevens. I’m in charge.”
“You were in charge,” Tris said. “You can call me Torino or ma’am.”
He stepped back, angry, as if he’d been punched. “Hold on a second. I don—”
“I’m sorry for the delay. We’re going to remedy that right now. But first I want all of your men to deposit their firearms in the vehicles and carry nothing but nonlethals.”
“You’re fuckin’ nuts, sister. First off I’m in char—”
Tris pulled her twin pistols, aiming one at Stevens’s head and the other at the three agents gathered at the rear of the SUVs. They clumsily reached for their weapons.
“Don’t do it,” she said, smiling. “You’ll make me nervous.”
They relaxed their posture and moved their hands away from their weapons.
“Special Agent Stevens, I didn’t come here to debate chain of command. I’m here at the behest of the White House to capture Scott Wolfe,” she said, calmly, sweetly. “It took a great deal of time for me to get here, so every moment we spend arguing is another moment Wolfe has to prepare for departure, escape, rig booby traps, or warn his associates.”
“Now let’s step this down a little bit,” Stevens said, his hands raised, stepping closer to her.
Tris could tell he was maneuvering to disarm her. No matter. “The only way your team would ever be able to bring Wolfe in would be by killing him… He is one of the most skilled operatives the CIA ever trained.”
Stevens moved closer, ever so slowly. “Then why do you want us to go in unarmed?”
“First of all, you’ll be armed…just not with lethal weapons. And secondly, you’ll have me.”
“And what’s so special about you—” He moved fast, slamming his hand against the barrel of her pistol and the other against her wrist.
The move should have disarmed her. She should have been standing there with her own weapon turned against her. But that’s not what happened.
Tris threaded her hand through Steven’s outstretched arms and pulled him toward her with a powerful yank. Before he could regain his footing, her arm was under his, his back pressed against her chest and the barrel of her gun pressed firmly under his chin.
“I know things,” she said. “And so does Wolfe. So, it would be better if I’m the one who faces him.”
She could feel him tense and tremble beneath her grasp. The scent of his heightened state aroused her.
“You make a good point,” he muttered, nodding as far as Tris’s barrel would allow.
She shoved him away and re-holstered both weapons behind her. The men who had been caught unaware twitched toward their weapons.
“That would be stupid at this point,” Tris said, sounding bored.
Stevens shook his head at the others then looked at her. “Okay, Crouching Dragon…you’re in charge. What’s next.”
“Nonlethals only. Follow me. Seal the exits,” she said, walking toward the metal shop four blocks away. “If he gets past me, you do not have permission to terminate under any circumstances. Clear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want to know what we’ve found?”
“I know what you’ve found. I was briefed the entire time I was in the air, listening to your copious radio traffic,” she said then shot him a disgusted glare. “High EM signatures throughout the structure, multiple heat signatures, no visibility in or out, and only two ways to breach unless you pull a garage door… That about cover it?”
“Yep. Pretty much.” Amused resignation showed on Stevens’s face. He clearly had no faith in this breach or its new leader, but would likely have no desire to piss off the Washington power player who dumped “Torino” in his lap—and Tris didn’t blame him. But neither did she care. These men would die were she not there to make the capture—if Wolfe was there at all. He had proven slippery for months.
Turner handed out copies of Wolfe’s passport photo to each team member. He offered one to Tris, but she shook her head. She knew every wrinkle, crease, and edge on Wolfe’s face—she had seen it up close in Colorado when she and the other Jaggers broke into the Super Max prison to assassinate Greg Bailey, then again in Cayman Brac when she’d put the bullet in his head.
As they approached the industrial building the signals had been traced to, Tris signaled for them to spread out and take positions on the exits. Once in place, one of the three teams cracked a brief transmission over the radio—just a crack of static and the word “set”.
Immediately, all their phones began ringing chaotically. As they scrambled to silence them, a flash of orange light appeared under the two doors that accessed the building—then smoke.
Tris rushed the door, not waiting for the Homeland Security teams. With a powerful blow, she kicked the metal door, smashing the bolt that had held it closed. Flames licked out of the door and heat singed the hair on her arms as she attempted to go inside. In her pocket her phone began to overheat, and before she could decide on pushing further into the inferno in front of her, the device burst into flames of its own, burning her hip and scorching a hole in her pants.
She rolled backward, away from the door and pulled her pants down, prying the hot device away from her from the inside. She tossed the burning clump of plastic and cloth away and pulled her pants up.
Around her, Homeland team members were discarding their phones on the ground as they approached the building. She got up and walked away, pushing past them. Radio earbuds hung loosely from their collars, and the smell of singed hair and skin enveloped her. Wolfe had used a focused range
EMP to disable all electronic devices.
“Smart boy,” she muttered to herself as she approached Stevens, still standing at the corner of the next building.
“Is he dead?” Stevens asked as she walked past.
“He was never there.”
“How do you know?!” He yelled at her back as she walked away.
She turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “Because he knew we would be here before we did.”
**
3:30 a.m. — Rebel Team 2 Safe house, Adams County, Ohio
JO ANN ZOOK sat in front of three computer monitors that cast a ghostly blue light across the dark room, trying hard not to laugh. A breathy, involuntary burst of amusement slipped out and she put her hand over her mouth.
“What did you do?” Nick’s voice made her jump.
Jo quickly closed one of her screens and turned. “Nothing, really…well…a little housekeeping.”
Nick reached over her shoulder and clicked the video window she had closed. Tactical-clad figures in black fatigues or suits scrambled away from a flaming building. A woman in the center of the screen rolled on the ground, trying to pull her pants up.
“Where’s this?” Nick asked.
“Clearwater.”
Jo pushed his hand away from the mouse and clicked three other screens that cracked with static. She moved the video position bar back on one of them until the stream image returned. A high-resolution view showed footage from a few minutes earlier as the tactical team stood around two SUVs, planning a breach.
“Why is this video better than the live stream?”
“Because those were our feeds… High-resolution micro cameras.”
Nick’s brow creased in confusion. “Were our feeds?”
Jo nodded as she pulled up the other windows and rolled the video back on them as well. “Yeah. I dropped a frequency range targeted EMP pulse on the Homeland Security team to kill their communications. Unfortunately, the cameras operated in the same frequency range.”
Nick watched the live stream as the Homeland team set up roadblocks approaching the building that burned. “What’s this camera then?”