Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  Logan reached forward and pushed the power button on the stereo, twisting the dial to the right. Fuck it. Might as well go out with a little music just for the occasion.

  “Here we go,” Logan said, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Buckle up and enjoy the ride. It’s going to be a rough one.”

  * * *

  Quantico, Virginia

  Thursday, 0745 EST

  “Here we go,” Logan said, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Buckle up and enjoy the ride, brother. It’s going to be a rough one.”

  Logan slammed the accelerator to the floor, and the pickup shot forward, a missile on four wheels with only one target—the open compartment of the Suburban.

  John pointed the Kimber through one of the holes in the front windshield and opened fire, trying to minimize the rise and sway of the barrel as the vehicle rumbled across the end of the gravel road.

  The Secret Service agent holding the RPG flinched and seemed to nonchalantly relax, and the front of the rocket lowered, pointing at the road.

  Did I hit him? John wondered. It was a question he’d never get to answer. The agent pulled the trigger, obscuring the Suburban in a huge flash and puff of smoke. The rocket shot downward into the ground, striking the spot where the pavement met the gravel road. Incredibly, it failed to detonate and ricocheted upward at an angle.

  Both Logan and John had seen RPGs defy physics and do nearly impossible things—careen off cars when they should’ve detonated, tear into the side of a Humvee and fail to detonate, and even impale a Marine after failing to explode. For a moment, both warriors thought the same thing—It’s going to hit us.

  But then the rocket shot over the pickup’s roof so close that Logan momentarily smelled the exhaust and felt the heat. Thank you, God, was all he had time to think as the pickup accelerated and closed the remaining distance to the Suburban.

  With a deafening crunch, the front of John Quick’s F-150 smashed into the side of the specialized Suburban, rocking the vehicle onto its two right wheels. The impact crushed the RPG-wielding agent, slamming the empty launcher into the bottom of his chin, shattering it and slamming his head backward. The blow knocked him unconscious, which spared him the pain as his body was flung across the compartment inside the Suburban and into the edge of the opposite open door, breaking his back.

  A loud boom reverberated across the ground and shook the pickup as the RPG detonated behind them over the second Suburban.

  Both airbags in the pickup deployed, and the smell of gun smoke and burnt plastic was added to the mix of noxious fumes inside the cab. Logan’s head snapped forward, but he was far enough away from the steering wheel that only his forehead struck the inflatable safety device.

  The pickup shoved the Suburban sideways, but its size wasn’t enough to flip the heavily armored SUV. Both vehicles ground to a halt, and the weight of the Suburban shifted back to the left, pushing the F-150 backward as its left two wheels touched back onto the ground, the nose of the pickup embedded partially in the open compartment.

  Logan sat slumped against the door, his neck sore from the impact. He opened his eyes, and all he saw was the white of the air-bag slowly deflating. He heard a moan from his right, and John muttered, “You really are trying to kill me.”

  His friend’s voice spurred Logan into action. We’re not out of this yet. Not even close. “Stay here. We’ll get you help soon, brother. Just hang in there.”

  John coughed. “I’m not going anywhere. Just don’t stop for coffee in your quest for help. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I got this,” Logan said, confidence and concern in his voice.

  John recognized his friend’s tone and knew what he said was true. These guys are about to get both barrels from Logan West. I just hope I don’t die before I see it.

  Logan heard a movement from the front seat of the Suburban. No way they get away with this. No way.

  Unbuckling his seat belt, the shock from the impact wearing off and the adrenaline from his rage surging, he withdrew the Mark II fighting knife from its home on his belt. He needed to move fast.

  He pushed the deflated airbag aside, revealing several holes where most of the center part of the windshield had been shattered and was missing several large pieces. Aware he only had seconds before the agents from the second Suburban reacted, Logan crawled over the dashboard and through one of the large holes, his pants catching on the jagged edges. He heard a tearing noise and felt the laceration, but he didn’t care. It was fight or die.

  He spilled out onto the crumpled hood of the F-150 and low-crawled to the edge of the nose. Not stopping, he rolled onto his right shoulder and brought his legs up slightly and around. His momentum carried him off the front of the F-150, and he landed on his feet inside the Suburban.

  Directly in front of him was the driver of the Suburban, half out of his seat, trying to climb over the bank of radios and communications equipment that was mounted between the seats in a rack on the floor. The Secret Service agent heard Logan approaching, and his head whipped around over his right shoulder. He managed to climb on top of the radios, but that was as far as he made it, even as he attempted to draw his Five-seveN from a holster on his belt inside his suit coat.

  With a burst of speed and power, Logan rushed forward, his arms outstretched in front of him, the knife held in his right hand, but angled back. In two short strides, he reached the agent and struck him as if he were an offensive lineman hitting a practice dummy. The Secret Service agent was thrown backward and crashed into the mounted Panasonic Toughbook laptop computer.

  He grunted with pain, but even off balance, his training demanded he fight back, and he tried to reach for his weapon once again.

  “No! ” Logan screamed, plunging the Mark II knife directly into the agent’s chest, just below the sternum. No vest. Good. He felt the agent recoil in shock, but he didn’t care. All Logan West could see was clouded over with a black veil of rage. “You’re done. I killed your friends, I’m going to kill that motherfucker in charge of your detail, and now I’ve killed you,” he snarled as he withdrew the blade and quickly stabbed him two more times, shredding the bottom of the agent’s heart. “So just fucking die already.” There was no mercy to be found inside the Secret Service SUV. You brought this ruin upon yourself.

  Blood flowed from the wounds and onto Logan’s hands, and when the agent’s body stopped trembling and his eyes turned vacant, Logan pulled the knife out and let the dead man fall backward against the computer.

  Logan bent over, withdrew the FN Five-seveN, resheathed the knife after wiping the blood on the agent’s suit pants, and risked a glance out the window. The Suburban that had chased them had stopped forty feet behind the F-150, its windshield pockmarked with small spiderwebs and holes where shrapnel from the RPG ricochet had peppered it. The driver’s side door was open, and Special Agent Harkens had one foot on the gravel road.

  Logan pulled his phone from his front pocket and checked the home screen. Damn. Still no bars. He looked back out the window, realizing his only move was to exit the Suburban on the passenger side and try to flank Harkens. But then he saw past the parked Suburban and smiled. This will all be over soon.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cole aimed the Ford Explorer at the side of the stopped Suburban thirty yards in front of him, preparing himself for the impact. Amira did the same in the passenger seat, bracing herself with one hand on the handle over the window and another on the middle armrest, her muscles taut to absorb the energy. Cole smiled. Whatever idiot spread the lie that you should relax your muscles before an accident should be shot.

  Once they’d fled Ares headquarters, they’d only been less than a minute behind Logan and John. As they’d sped toward the entrance, they’d caught up enough to witness Logan’s Last Stand and the ensuing RPG ricochet.

  But now, with the last sounds of battle fading, Special Agent Harkens heard the Ford Explorer behind him, and he turned to face the newest threat.


  With quickness that Cole respected from a professional standpoint, the head of the vice president’s detail drew his Five-seveN, leaned against the parked SUV for stability, and started firing at the speeding Explorer.

  “He’s fast. I’ll give him that,” Cole said, his hands clenching the steering wheel as the armor-piercing rounds hit the windshield with limited results. Several pockmarks appeared on the level eight bullet-resistant glass, but none of the high-velocity rounds passed through.

  “Fuck him,” Amira said.

  “Absolutely,” Cole replied, and pressed the accelerator. “Hold on.”

  Realizing he had no direct approach at Harkens since his body was pressed against the Suburban, Cole quickly swerved to the left and then back to the right, giving himself a better angle of attack.

  Ten yards . . .

  Special Agent Harkens realized he had nowhere to run, and he did the only thing he could—he leapt back into the open door of the Suburban.

  The front right corner of the Explorer crashed into the back left door of the Suburban and shot forward, grinding up the side of the vehicle. The Explorer tore along the black metal and smashed through the open door, bending it backward until the metal hinges snapped, pinning the door against the left front quarter panel.

  Amira looked out her window and into the Suburban, spotting the prone figure of Harkens lying across the front seat, his hands on his head. Don’t worry. We’re not done with you yet.

  The damage done, the Explorer disengaged from the Suburban as it roared past, leaving the destroyed door to drop to the gravel road.

  Cole slammed on the brakes, and the Explorer slid across the loose rock and onto the pavement of MCB-1. The hard surface gripped the tires, and the vehicle jerked to a stop between the Suburban and John’s pickup.

  Cole looked in the rearview mirror but saw no movement. He looked over at Amira, who was already unbuckling her seat belt.

  “I take it you’re fine?” Cole asked.

  “Of course,” Amira replied calmly. “Let’s get this bastard.”

  “Unless he gets him first,” Cole responded calmly, pointing to the bloody and purposeful figure of Logan West striding across the pavement toward the Suburban and its human trophy inside. His face was a mask of merciless determination, an expression Cole had only witnessed a select number of times. Uh-oh. This isn’t going to end well.

  * * *

  The door inside Logan’s mind was wide open, and the beast that was his suppressed rage and frustration was running wild throughout the synapses in his brain. All that was wrong with the world, all the death and violence that he and his team had endured, the Organization that was responsible for the global mayhem, and most painfully, Mike Benson’s death—Special Agent Harkens represented all of it. It was an insidious cancer, and Logan intended to fight it until his last breath and cut out every tumor possible, beginning with the one stumbling out of the Suburban in front of him.

  Special Agent Harkens fell to the gravel, tottering from the aftereffects of the blow he’d sustained inside the SUV. He rose to his knees and stood up, using the exposed frame where the Explorer had sheared off the door. He looked forward and saw Logan West, and for the first time that day, he thought, What did I get myself into?

  Stalking methodically toward him was a man of purpose and intent, his front soaked in blood. He held a Secret Service–issued FN Five-seveN in his right hand and a cell phone in his left. He didn’t speak, and Special Agent Harkens realized a half second too late that there was no conversation to be had. He’s going to kill me, he thought, even as his body responded to the threat and impending doom pitilessly staring him in the face.

  Logan waited, knowing the moment had arrived. The battle rage had returned in full force, yearning for its master to bear witness to its power. Not yet. Not yet, he thought again, step after step.

  Harkens then did exactly what Logan had hoped for—he reached for the FN Five-seveN on his hip. Thank you, Logan thought, and raised his right arm in such a fluid and fast motion that one moment his arm was down and the next it was pointing directly at the Secret Service agent, fifteen feet away. He squeezed the trigger.

  Crack!

  The 5.57x28mm SS190 projectile punctured the Kevlar vest Special Agent Harkens wore under his suit—precisely as the ammunition had been designed to do—stunning the agent. He looked at his right hand, which had cleared his holster by only a few inches and now held his own Five-seveN. He looked back at Logan as his consciousness started to fade owing to the catastrophic damage to his heart from the armor-piercing bullet. Logan’s eyes bored into his, dancing with a ferocious intensity. He’s death incarnate, was his last thought as the black edges of his vision closed together in front of him.

  Logan pulled the trigger again, placing two more rounds in the center of Harkens’ chest. He elevated the Five-seveN and fired one last round from less than eight feet into the unconscious man’s forehead, definitively ending his life. Harkens fell to the gravel next to the Suburban and lay still.

  Logan kept walking toward the corpse, and without uttering a word, he stepped over the dead agent, an Oakley boot unintentionally kicking his side. Fuck him, his mind registered as he looked at his cell phone—which still had no bars—and then inside the SUV.

  The round antenna on top of the Suburban was still intact, and the electronic countermeasures controlled by the computer equipment built into the SUV were still activated. “Enough with this shit,” Logan said in frustration, and emptied the fifteen-round magazine into every piece of equipment in the front seat.

  The armor-piercing rounds tore through steel cases and computer terminals, resulting in several pops as sparks showered the interior, which was filled with electrical smoke moments later.

  Finished, Logan looked at his phone. Bingo. He pulled up his contact list, hit the sixth name on the list, and waited.

  Looking back toward the F-150, he saw Cole and Amira had exited Cole’s Explorer, and Logan shouted to them, “John’s in the front seat. He’s been hit. Go check on him.”

  Amira’s expression turned to one of concern, and she whirled on her black tactical hiking boots and dashed toward the remains of John’s pickup.

  Cole walked toward Logan, and said, “Are you okay?”

  Logan only nodded as Lance Foster, the head of the FBI’s HRT, answered his phone.

  “What’s up, brother-man?” Lance said in his typical nonchalant voice.

  “Lance, listen closely. There’s been an attack on the compound. John’s been shot. Sommers is dead. How fast can you get a medic over here at the entrance to MCB-One? You’ll see the wreckage. You still have the helo on standby, right? John needs to get to a hospital,” Logan said.

  “Jesus,” Lance said, obvious anger and concern all wrapped into one word. “Wait one,” he said. Logan heard shouting in the background as Lance issued orders to whomever he was talking to. It continued for twenty seconds until he came back on the line. “We’ll be there in less than five minutes, and then we’ll get him to Inova Fairfax Hospital. They’ve got a level one trauma center, which is his best chance. Just keep him alive until we get there. We’ll take it the rest of the way.”

  “Roger, brother,” Logan said, a slight tinge of relief in his voice now that he knew the best medical help was minutes away. “One more thing. After you drop John off, I need you to come back and get us at the compound. We have a trip to make to see Jake at FBI Headquarters in DC, and then we’re going hunting.”

  “You got it,” Lance said. “And myself and a few of my guys will be coming with you. What level of threat are we dealing with so I can get my guys kitted up?”

  Logan paused. It’s not going to sound any less crazy, no matter how long you wait. “The highest, Lance. We’re going to take down the vice president of the United States.” He smiled for the first time that morning at the expected silence. “Almost forgot, I just found out Sarah’s pregnant, too. I need to call her right now. See you soon.”

 
Rather than wait for Lance’s response, Logan hung up and ran over to the F-150 to check on his wounded brother-in-arms. He never heard Lance Foster utter, “Just when I thought I’d heard it all . . .”

  PART VII

  EXECUTIVE ORDERS

  CHAPTER 33

  J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Northwest Washington DC

  The roar of the rotors echoed across the concrete canyons of downtown DC as the helicopter descended. The side doors of the FBI HRT Black Hawk helicopter slid open as soon as the skids touched down on the helipad on the roof of the eight-story building that comprised half of FBI Headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Logan West, Cole Matthews—both now in fresh khaki cargo pants and dark-blue polos—Lance Foster, and eight HRT members in full tactical gear and OD green Nomex assault suits piled out both sides of the black bird. They wore black backpacks and carried black gun bags filled with weapons, ammunition, communications equipment, and body armor. After what Logan had told him, Special Agent Foster had decided to pack heavy, loaded for bear . . . and rogue Secret Service agents.

  Logan walked over to the solitary figure waiting on the roof, as the pilot immediately began shutdown procedures on the Black Hawk. Logan squinted in the high-noon sunlight and heat. Christ, it’s hot up here, he thought. Not Africa hot—or even worse, Kuwait hot—but hot enough.

  “How’s John?” Jake Benson asked as soon as Logan was within earshot.

  “He’s in surgery, but he was conscious when they dropped him off at Inova Fairfax. Amira’s with him and will update us as soon as she knows something. He’s as tough as they come. He’ll pull through,” Logan said, shaking his head. “It went south as soon as you sent me the text confirming Harkens wasn’t actually part of the president’s detail. Have you been able to reach him?”

  “Negative,” Jake replied. “He’s in the middle of delivering his speech right now. I’ve got the director of the Secret Service in contact with the head of his detail. Director Mullins told me he’d have the president call me as soon as he’s finished, but there’s no way in hell I’m having that conversation with the president on my cell phone, even if it’s supposedly encrypted and unbreakable, not these days. I also have no idea who called me and pretended to be from the president’s detail, but I’m guessing it was someone that you killed this morning.”