The SUV slammed on its brakes as its driver realized the damage was done. The dead man was flung backward into the air just as violently, arms and legs akimbo as he was propelled at least twenty feet. He landed with a sickening crunch in a pile of bones, barely recognizable as the human being he’d been only a second before.
As Eugene stared in stunned silence, the SUV ground to a halt, and the front door opened. Out stepped the large African-American man who’d been in the backseat behind the FBI’s deputy director. He looked at the motionless jumbled remains. The passenger door opened, and one of the back-row shooters—Chaney or Champion, Eugene couldn’t recall which—emerged, his assault rifle raised and trained on the motionless figure of Eugene’s would-be killer.
Satisfied the shooter was no longer a threat, the man with the goatee turned to Eugene and smiled. “You think we forgot about you, Eugene? Not a chance, my friend. Looks like you’ve been busy. Nice job, son.”
Normally quick to respond, Eugene just looked at him in astonishment, searching for the right words of appreciation and gratitude.
“Thanks” was all he managed to say.
“No,” the man said, “thank you. Believe it or not, Marine, you’re a hero.”
Eugene nodded in stunned acknowledgment. The battle for Wild Horse Mountain was over.
CHAPTER 49
Special Agent Marcus had initially tried to treat the gunshot wound to Special Agent Champion’s upper leg with pressure, hoping the wound might clot on its own until actual medical personnel arrived. After her attempts to stem the flow of blood had failed, she’d secured the operator’s black web belt around his upper leg. The bleeding had stopped, and then the world had been torn in half.
The tremendous explosion had shaken the power plant so violently that she’d been sure the tourniquet wasn’t necessary—they were both going to die. Pieces of heavy machinery had broken loose from the floor, and one of the immense stacks that soared through the ceiling into the air outside had cracked in a diagonal spiral that ran down to the ground.
But they hadn’t been killed, which meant that Deputy Director Benson had succeeded in getting the truck to the quarry, sheltering them from the brunt of the blast.
Once she was sure the building wasn’t going to fall down around them, she left Special Agent Champion. He was still conscious and in communication with his boss, who’d informed him that that second truck had been secured.
It’s a win-win, she thought as she exited the building, hoping Deputy Director Benson had somehow survived.
The air was still thick with swirling dust, and an acrid smell she didn’t recognize filled her nose. She knew the general direction of the quarry and set off into the shifting landscape between the power plant and the giant pit.
The sandy air cleared more and more by the minute as the winds dissipated the heavy cloud of grit, expanding her field of view. After a few more feet, she could see the edge of the pit, as well as the sitting figure of Mike Benson, his back facing her.
Hope accelerated her pulse, and she covered the remaining distance in a sprint, thinking, He’s alive. Thank God, he’s alive!
“Sir, that was an—” was all she uttered as she stopped next to him, realizing her words had fallen on permanently deaf ears. He was gone.
The deputy director of the FBI was in a sitting position, his legs splayed out flat in front of him. His head was bent forward, chin resting on his chest. Sightless brown eyes stared at the chasm of the quarry. A cell phone was gripped in his right hand, which rested on his thigh.
As she studied him, she realized that he must have leapt out of the vehicle, miraculously survived, and amid the chaos of the blast, had the tenacity to make a phone call. Special Agent Marcus choked back a sob.
She looked at the phone and realized the call timer was still ticking upward. Oh my God. It’s still connected.
She reached down, carefully pried the phone out of his fingers, and looked at the name on the display. She didn’t recognize it immediately, but then it came to her, recalling a conversation she’d overheard in Special Agent Hunt’s office earlier in the day.
Out of respect for the personal, private nature of his final act, she hit the end button, disconnecting the call. She placed the phone in her pocket, bent over, and closed his eyes. Not knowing what else to do next—the remaining bomb was secure, the bad guys were dead, and Special Agent Champion was stabilized—she sat down next to him and quietly cried for the loss of a man who’d critically impacted her life in a very brief period.
No matter what else transpired, his sacrifice—saving her life and giving his own—would guide her actions for the rest of her days. It would be a tax on her soul that she’d earnestly pay, in both words and deeds.
PART VII
REAP WHAT YOU SOW
CHAPTER 50
US Embassy, Khartoum
“Logan,” the voice said urgently. “Logan, wake up.”
Logan West, groggy with exhaustion from the day’s violent labors, sat up on the leather couch he’d claimed as a bed. The tubular fluorescent lights flickered on, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught of illumination.
“All right already,” he said brusquely. “I’m up. What is it?”
Wendell Sharp stood in the doorway, a peculiar look on his face.
What’s wrong with him? Logan thought.
“There’s a call for you in my office. You need to take it,” Wendell said, the flat tone of his voice disconcerting.
“What time is it?” Logan asked, instantly knowing better than to ask what was happening. The chief of station wasn’t about to tell him. He’d have to take the phone call.
“It’s a little after two in the morning,” Wendell said.
Whatever it was that required his immediate attention in the middle of the night had to be critical. They’d accomplished their mission, obtained the ONERING, and were just waiting for their flight out of Khartoum. He moved quickly, lacing up his tan tactical Oakley boots and rising from the couch to follow the CIA officer.
They walked down a short hallway that contained several offices, all currently occupied by Logan’s sleeping friends. They stepped into Wendell’s office, and the man motioned for him to take a seat at his desk, where a black handset sat, ominously waiting for him.
What the hell is going on? Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He had a premonition it was about to be a long night.
“Wendell, can you please wake John?” Logan asked politely. His instincts told him he might need his closest friend and advisor.
Wendell nodded and left the room without uttering a word.
Whatever it is, he already knows.
Logan grabbed the handset carefully, as if by doing so he was about to make some unspeakable horror a reality. He wasn’t wrong.
Logan took a deep breath. “Hello?”
“Logan, it’s Jake Benson.” Mike’s uncle and the director of the FBI sounded exhausted, but there was something else in his voice Logan couldn’t pin down.
“Sir, what’s going on?” Logan asked cautiously. “We heard that the situation was resolved at the MGM, all terrorists dead and hostages secure. As you know, we’re on a plane out of here in the morning with the package.”
“I know. It’s not that,” Jake said. “It’s about Mike.”
The moment the words were spoken aloud, Logan knew. A monstrous steel door slammed down inside his mind—Mike’s dead.
He closed his eyes as a rushing sensation filled his head, threatening to overwhelm him as he listened to the details. A practical man, Logan didn’t try to argue or deny what Jake told him. Death was an occupational hazard, a cliché he simultaneously detested and respected. He’d had more than his fair share of close calls, but somehow he’d always survived. Yet one of his dearest friends—someone he considered family, a fellow warrior fighting a tide of evil threatening the globe, someone who’d risked his life and career to save Sarah, a good man—had died.
The emotional p
ain was swift, an unexpected visceral punch that threatened to double him over. He struggled to retain control of his emotions. Now wasn’t the time to grieve. He breathed deeply and allowed each intake of stale air to calm the intensifying fire burning through him, a raging monster to be unleashed as needed. Soon, but not yet.
When Jake said, “Logan, I’m so sorry. I know how close you were,” Logan knew the conversation was over.
“Thank you for calling me personally, sir. I appreciate it. I know what Mike meant to you,” Logan said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, son,” the director of the FBI said. “I’m sorry for our loss. He was special, a man of character and conviction. When he was sworn in as deputy director, he took it seriously—deadly seriously. It wasn’t just words to him. It was an oath, an oath of honor.”
“I know,” Logan said. “It’s one of the many things I loved about him. It’s the same way we felt—the same way all Marines feel—when they first receive that Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, and then finally take the oath. It’s a calling, and Mike lived it every day.”
“That’s good, Logan, because those are the things you’re going to need to remember. Dark days are coming,” Jake said suddenly, his tone changing, flattening. “We’ll talk when you get back. Oh . . . and one more thing.”
“What’s that, sir?” Logan replied.
“Stop calling me ‘sir.’ I don’t give a damn where we are or who we’re in front of. I’m ‘Jake’ to you, from now until you or I stop drawing breath. You were family to Mike, and now you’re family to me.”
Logan struggled to respond but emotion seized his voice in its oppressive choke hold. The raw declaration by Mike’s uncle had humbled him to the point of nonresponsiveness. What did I do to deserve this type of loyalty? How could I be so blessed?
John appeared in the doorway, his appearance a jarring reminder that Logan had to share the news with him next. The weight of that responsibility helped him regain his composure, and he was finally able to respond.
But the fury was back, banging relentlessly at the door, pleading to be let out and unleashed on those who deserved its wrath.
“Thanks. I can’t express to you in words how much that means to me,” Logan said.
“I know, and don’t forget it. I mean every word. Now get some sleep, and like I said, we’ll talk when you get back. Safe travels, Logan,” Jake said.
“Thanks, Jake. I’ll see you soon, but I think there’s one more thing we need to do before we head home,” Logan said, staring at the floor before lifting his eyes to John.
Jake sensed the implication in Logan’s words. “If it has to do with what happened to Mike, then do it. Don’t hesitate with these monsters. They set the board for this very lethal game, and it’s about time we start playing by the same rules.”
“Understood. We’ll be careful. See you soon,” Logan said, and hung up.
“Logan, what’s going on?” John said, obvious concern on his face.
“You’re going to want to sit down,” Logan said. “It’s bad . . . really bad.”
Logan told him everything, his voice growing steadier by the moment. He concluded with the battle with the four Chinese operatives at the rare earth elements processing facility.
“More fucking Chinese strikes?” John said, his grief now fully replaced by the same anger that plagued Logan’s soul.
“Yup,” Logan said, and waited for his friend to ask the question he knew was coming.
“And from the way you ended that conversation, I assume we’re not leaving just yet, are we?” John asked.
“As a matter of fact, we’re not,” Logan said. “But we’re going to need a few friends for this one, and we need Amira to talk to Langley ASAP.”
“Good. Because I really want to kill the motherfuckers responsible for all of this, and if she can help us identify them, she will,” John said, and then added as an afterthought, “She really is the female version of you.”
Logan smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of warmth. It was a grin that shone through with pure malevolent purpose, green eyes blazing in intensity. It was the face of death itself.
CHAPTER 51
North Side of the Blue Nile, Khartoum
Several recent high-rise construction projects were interspersed among Khartoum’s largely poverty-stricken, mostly flat neighborhoods. The buildings had the added benefit of providing security personnel for their residents’ protection. The occupants consisted mainly of wealthy foreign nationals in Khartoum on business or local politicians who desired an additional layer of separation from the citizens they halfheartedly served.
Their target was a ten-story building, the middle of three planned luxury towers. The adjacent two were still under construction.
Langley had come through in a big way, providing the location of a cell phone that had been in contact with the one Amira had obtained from the dead operative on the bridge. The activity was significant enough for the CIA analysts to determine with a “high probability” that it had to be either a member of the Chinese clandestine team or someone closely connected to it. Logan disagreed with their “high probability” assessment—his gut told him it had to be the young leader he’d seen in the cemetery.
After their escape from the prison and the raid on Tuti Island, Logan guessed the Chinese bastard had sought refuge at his Sudanese collaborator’s residence. The only real question remaining was how high the conspiracy ascended in the Sudanese and Chinese governments.
The analysts at Langley had obtained the list of residents and cross-referenced it with known Sudanese government officials. Once they’d confirmed one name on the list in particular, it’d made perfect sense.
Namir Badawi, the head of the Al Amn al-Dakhili, owned a secure penthouse suite overlooking the Blue Nile and the Republican Palace—which housed his office—beyond. The man’s involvement explained the coordination and support the Chinese had received from the government of Sudan, at least in capturing Logan and Cole and using the remote prison to hide them. They needed to discover what exactly the chief of Sudan’s internal security knew. Just as important was who was with him in his apartment. In fact, that was critical.
But to answer that question, they had to capture Namir Badawi and his guest, a tactical challenge made more difficult by the security of the building. With more time to plan and conduct reconnaissance, they might have found a way to infiltrate the building through the roof, kidnapping him from the suite. But time was not a luxury they had, and since Langley had provided a dossier on Badawi—complete with recent pictures—the plan was simple: they’d take him on the street outside his residence.
Based on the proximity of Badawi’s home to his workplace, they’d surmised that he walked to work, had a driver, or took a cab. Driving himself in Khartoum’s bedlam of traffic didn’t befit a man in his position.
In addition to Logan, John, Amira, and Cole, they’d recruited the assistance of Chief Sorenson and Lieutenant Reed, both of whom had experience in urban environments and could adequately blend in with the local population, thanks to their deep tans and full beards. The fact that the rest of the group hadn’t shaved in days made disguising themselves a little easier.
Before leaving the embassy, the men had changed into khakis and long, white button-down shirts. Long, flowing white robes they could easily discard completed the outfits and concealed their weapons. As non-Muslim foreigners, they weren’t expected to dress in the conservative, traditional attire of Sudanese men; however, doing so in this case would minimize unwanted attention.
Because of the constant layer of trash on the streets and the abundance of white cars parked around the block in which to blend, setting up surveillance had been easy, especially in the middle of the night. Logan and John had driven a white sedan into the block and found a spot along the road fifty yards up the street on the opposite side of the building. Cole, Chief Sorenson, and Lieutenant Reed occupied a white van on the same side of the street as the apartment
complex. Amira had established herself as a homeless woman and created a nest of cardboard and paper at the opening of an alley in between two worn-down buildings directly across from the front entrance to Badawi’s building.
The time approached seven o’clock. The first daily call to prayer, the fajr, had been a little more than an hour ago, and the sun would soon be rising. As Logan watched the front of the building, his thoughts drifted to Mike and the various operations they’d shared, including the showdown in Iraq two years ago. The memories fueled his desire for justice, although he was also aware that part of his motivation was the predatory bloodlust the loss of his friend had triggered.
“Do you really plan to take them alive?” John asked, his own memories of an insurgent compound in Iraq evoking the question. “You’re not exactly keen on taking prisoners.”
Logan had considered it, and as much as he needed his thirst for vengeance to be quenched, it was more important that they take Badawi and his friend alive and then bleed them—for every ounce of information they had.
“It all depends on how they react. But yes, I do want to capture them. We’ve got a global conspiracy seemingly led by the Chinese and involving the Russians, North Koreans, and Sudanese, not to mention the four dead assholes in Vegas. We still don’t know who those fuckers really were. While I don’t want to go X-Files crazy, this sure feels like some kind of global conspiracy, one targeted directly at our country,” Logan said, his voice strengthening with each word. “So as much as I want to wipe these bastards from the face of the earth, I’m going to have to keep my emotions in check.” He turned and looked his friend squarely in the eyes and said, “And that goes for you as well.”
“Understood, brother,” John said. “Only kill ’em if we have no choice. Whether or not they give us one? Well, that waits to be seen.”
“The doors are opening,” Amira suddenly said quietly across the encrypted channel on their tactical radios. An enemy utilizing SIGINT for force protection purposes might pick up the signal, but they’d never be able to understand what was being said.
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