Clear by Fire: A Search and Destroy Thriller

by Joshua Hood

  “Seriously?” he asked aloud, cursing himself for not checking earlier.

  Mason searched for a latch; there wasn’t one. The door had to be secured from the outside. He was about to kick it open when he noticed the welds on the door frame.

  There was a small recess near the door, partially obscured by an empty crate of wire. Mason moved back to the bathroom, unlocked the door, and flipped on the light. The smell of shit and stale urine poured out, and he checked to see if the man was coming before closing the door and wedging himself behind the crate.

  It was a bad spot, but it was all he had. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his knife and flipped the blade open with his thumb. Mason ducked down behind the box and prayed the dark corner would conceal him.

  I should just shoot this asshole, he thought as a shadow appeared against the wall. He knew the suppressor would be too loud, though, and the last thing he needed was the cops on his back.

  The man from the street slipped into his view, his light skin almost glowing against the dark walls. He was well dressed and had the deformed ears of a wrestler. Mason waited as the man slipped a pistol out of his jacket and shot a quick look back toward the computer terminals.

  Mason could tell that it was some kind of Beretta knockoff, and that meant the man was local. He just hoped he was poorly trained.

  The edges of the man’s mouth turned up in a smile as he took a shooting stance in the middle of the door and slowly began to turn the knob with his nonfiring hand. Mason silently rose into a crouch as the door cracked open. With the knife at the ready, he stepped out of the shadows.

  He was trying to time it so that he would slip behind the assassin just as the door came open all the way, but his hip gently bumped the crate and the subtle noise gave away his position as he stepped out into the open.

  The man stiffened and, with his hand still on the knob, turned toward the sound. Mason brought the knife up, the blade aimed at his spine, but the man was already moving. He missed his spine, but sunk the blade into his back. Yelling in pain, the man turned abruptly as Mason shoved him into the bathroom, losing control of the knife as the pistol arced toward his face.

  Mason tried to duck, but he was too close and he felt the jarring blow glance off his scalp. Dazed, the American stumbled backward as blood gushed from the wound. Recovering quickly, Mason got his hand on the man’s pistol and forced the slide back with his right hand.

  His attacker kneed him in the stomach and Mason gasped for air but managed to weakly hook the man’s leg with his heel, trying to force him off balance. Despite the knife stuck in his back, the man easily avoided the trip and sent an awkward cross toward Mason’s jaw.

  Refusing to let go of the pistol, Mason lowered his head and took the punch on the top of his skull. His attacker cursed and began frantically pulling the trigger, but the weapon refused to fire. Mason took advantage of the fact that his attacker’s finger was stuck inside the trigger guard and twisted hard on the pistol. Too late the man tried to free his finger. A second later Mason heard the fragile bones finally snap.

  Ignoring the man’s curses, he brought his elbow over the top and caught him in the chin. The assassin buckled at the knees and fell hard on his back. Mason heard the blade snap off as the man slammed into the filthy tile floor.

  Mason’s foot slipped in the pool of blood, but he caught his balance and drove his heel down on the man’s throat. The man gurgled and his legs shot out as Mason crushed his windpipe with a sickening crunch.

  Panting heavily, he closed the door behind him and checked to ensure his attacker was dead. Rifling through the man’s pockets, he grabbed his wallet and phone and moved painfully over to the dirty glass mirror stuck to the wall.

  He was bleeding from the gash on his forehead, and the left side of his face was caked in blood. Mason turned back to the corpse and ripped off a section of the man’s shirt. Returning to the mirror, he did his best to clean up. He was sure the fight had attracted unwanted attention and he needed to get moving.

  The American stepped out of the bathroom, broke the key off in the lock, and slipped his sunglasses on. The frames had been cracked in the fight, and they sat awkwardly on his face as he walked to the front. He had no idea how the man had tracked him to the café and couldn’t be sure if any more assassins were waiting for him on the outside.

  Mason headed for the front door, pausing for a second to look at the attendant, who had produced a rusted revolver from an open lockbox under the desk. The man’s hands shook as he took in the American’s savage expression and slowly placed the revolver on the ground.

  Mason nodded at the terrified Arab, cracked the front door, and then stepped out into the street. Ducking off into an alley, he pulled out his phone and smashed it beneath his foot. They were tracking him somehow, and he cursed himself for not checking the envelope he’d gotten from Vernon before leaving the café.

  “You’re getting sloppy,” he said to himself as he skimmed through the stack of bills, then paused to light a cigarette.

  There was no tracker, and he breathed out a smoke-filled sigh, knowing there was one more thing he needed to do before he could leave town and this was as good a place as any to do it.

  The American pulled a small pill case from his pocket. It was the same type found at any pharmacy in the States, except instead of pills, the case held a neat row of SIM cards. He removed the SIM card from the dead man’s phone and slipped it into the compartment labeled “Friday.” After replacing it with one of his own, he dialed the number to Vernon’s work phone.

  Mason had been on the ground in Iraq when the military realized the limitless possibilities of cell phone data. When he was in Task Force 120, they had techs attached who would hard-wire into the cell phone towers that the US was putting up all over the country and pull data usage and locations right from the source.

  Mason had configured the SIM card to project one of the trunk lines from CIA headquarters in Langley, so when Vernon answered the phone he assumed that he was taking a call from his boss.

  “Hello?” he said from across the city.

  Mason didn’t say anything; there really wasn’t a need. As soon as Vernon answered, Mason typed a three-digit code into the phone and hit the send key. The code activated the detonator attached to the small charge in the CIA man’s phone.

  When the line went dead, Mason knew it was because the phone had just exploded.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  Washington, DC

  Cage’s military bearing was the only thing that kept a smile from playing across his face as the DoD analyst worked through his PowerPoint briefing. He waited patiently as the man walked deeper into a trap that no one in the room knew had even been set.

  “Mr. President,” the man said as he used the small clicker to switch to a slide of the Mideast. “We believe that the conflict in Syria is burning out and that the recent up-swell in violence is simply the last gasps of a movement reaching the limit of its abilities.”

  “So you are telling me that there is nothing to worry about?” the president asked.

  “We believe so, but we are taking steps to ensure the outcome we desire,” Collins interjected smugly.

  “What in the hell does that mean?” Cage said, unable to contain himself any longer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I haven’t heard anything that sounds remotely like actionable intelligence, so what exactly are you talking about? I assume that you have someone on the ground giving you real-time information.”

  “We are using signal intercepts and UAVs to gather intelligence.”

  “That’s not going to be enough, and you know it.”

  “We have other measures in place,” Collins shot back.

  “Well, I think everyone would love to hear about them.”

  Collins looked at the president, hoping his boss would save him, but Bradley seemed to be agreeing with his security advisor.

  “Duke’s right, I don’t thin
k that’s going to be enough. What else do you have?”

  “We have a program in place that is arming and advising certain elements of the Syrian opposition,” the analyst said hesitantly.

  “Does the CIA know about this?” Cage demanded.

  “This isn’t a CIA briefing, it’s a DoD brief,” Collins interjected. “If you will let him finish, he might just answer all of your questions.”

  “Just a second, I’d like an answer to that,” President Bradley said. “Like I told everyone yesterday, I want a broad approach to these problems. Why aren’t you using the CIA?”

  “Mr. President, the CIA doesn’t have any assets in the region; we do. If we were to bring the Agency into the game at this point all they would do is get in the way,” Collins said.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Director Hollis said from across the table. “My office hasn’t been contacted in any way about what is happening in Syria, but I can promise you that arming the Syrian opposition isn’t going to help anything, and for the SecDef to infer that we don’t have any assets in the area is simply not accurate.”

  “So the DoD hasn’t even bothered to consult the director of the CIA on the situation in Syria? I would think that that would be the first person I would notify. I mean, isn’t that their job?” Cage said, waiting for Collins to step into his trap.

  “That is exactly our job,” the director of the CIA said, shooting a hard glance at Collins.

  “I thought that I was perfectly clear about how I wanted these problems handled,” the president said. “If we can’t work together as a team, then I am going to find someone who can.”

  Collins bristled under the threat, his eyes narrowing in anger. Cage waited for the president’s gaze to shift back to the front of the room before giving the SecDef a wink. Just as he expected, the man’s face turned a deep shade of crimson as Cage got to his feet.

  “Sir, I agree with you a hundred percent, and I believe I can speak for Director Hollis, who is mandated to handle these types of situations, when I say that we are playing with fire. The SecDef is way out of his depth, and it’s going to bite us in the ass, I can promise you that.”

  “Here we go,” Collins muttered.

  “Secretary Collins, I think that your appraisal of the situation in the Mideast is as dangerous as it is shortsighted. Who’s your man on the ground?”

  “That is classified,” Collins bellowed.

  “Classified? How am I supposed to do my job when you’re not sharing intel?” the director interrupted as Cage posted himself at the front of the room.

  “Mr. President, if we assume that the violence in Syria isn’t going to spill over into Iraq simply because we are giving weapons to a group of lesser terrorists, then we haven’t learned anything from our time in Iraq,” Cage said, holding up his hand.

  He took a laser pointer from the table, pointed it at the screen, and shot a red beam at the border between Iraq and Syria.

  “Right now we know that the rebels in Syria are receiving aid from Hezbollah and training from Iran, and that there is a movement building along the border that threatens northern Iraq.”

  “Mr. President, this is utter nonsense,” Collins interjected.

  “Is it?” Cage demanded. “Look at the map. In Syria, al-Nusra, a group we know is attached to al-Qaeda, is moving toward the Iraq border, while the Taliban is pouring over the Pakistani border, taking back key terrain in Afghanistan,” he said, running the pointer across the map. “What happens if they move into northern Iraq and take Mosul or Kurdistan?”

  “We can handle that when and if it happens,” Collins shouted.

  “You are arming these people while they are opening a route that stretches from Syria to Afghanistan. What the fuck do you think is going to happen?”

  “He’s right,” Hollis echoed from his place at the table.

  “This is bullshit, and exactly what I’d expect to hear from someone like you. Someone who wants nothing more than to keep this war going for another ten years,” Collins said, getting to his feet.

  “I’d love to hear what you think is going on,” Cage demanded, baiting the trap he’d been setting since he walked back into the White House.

  “Well, if you would let the man finish his brief instead of interrupting, maybe you could.”

  “Wait, Director Hollis, do you agree with Duke’s assessment?” the president asked.

  “Absolutely, sir, someone has to fill the vacuum we left when we pulled out of Iraq. This is a huge mistake, a mistake that could have been avoided with a little teamwork.”

  Collins was visibly shocked by the sudden onslaught and stood awkwardly near his chair. The rest of the National Security Council was obviously intrigued, and the president turned his gaze toward the SecDef in anticipation of his rebuttal.

  “Tell me I’m wrong,” Cage said simply.

  Collins made his way to the front of the room, his analyst taking a step back as his boss took the pointer, and looked up at the map.

  Cage smiled inwardly. He had forced the SecDef’s hand and now the man had to either put up or shut up.

  “Mr. President, I have been told by General Swift in Jalalabad that his men have made contact with the opposition in Syria and have begun setting up training camps with vetted members of the opposition. I do not have all the specifics right now, but I can promise you that everything is under control,” he began haltingly.

  “I’ve heard enough,” the president said. “I want some answers by tomorrow morning; we can’t keep going on like this. Duke, if you don’t mind I need a word with you. The rest of you are dismissed.”

  There was a scuffle of papers and folders being shut as the Security Council grabbed their stuff and headed out of the room. Secretary Collins stood dazed, staring at the president to see if he had to leave as well.

  “You too, Collins,” Bradley said.

  Once the room was clear President Bradley said, “Duke, I don’t like this cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  “Understood, sir,” he replied.

  “I want you to make sure the CIA has a handle on what is going on in Syria. I can’t afford to be blindsided this early in the game.”

  “Yes, sir, what do you want me to do?”

  “I need you to get to the bottom of this, make sure Collins isn’t biting off more than he can chew. Find out what you can about this asset, and bring it right to me.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Cage said as he turned for the door, a smile creeping across his face.

  CHAPTER 9

  * * *

  California

  It took about thirty minutes to navigate their way through the morning traffic and get on the freeway. The communication over the handhelds between the team vehicles was its own traffic. There were so many electric voices that it just turned to static, and for some reason, it made her think of the time her father took her camping after basic training. They had rented a van, and despite feeling carsick, she pretended she was having a good time. All the while her dad tried to get the Ole Miss game tuned in on the ancient radio.

  The campsite was near Natchez, Mississippi, a place so different from California that it might as well have been on a different planet. Compared to the pristine cityscape swishing by the raid van’s window, the rustic desolation that lined the road of her memory was both depressing and uninspiring.

  “So, how’s the army?” her father asked, abandoning the static-filled radio with a sigh.

  “It’s fine; it’s not bad now that basic is over.” It was rare for them to be alone together, especially now, but Renee was trying to relax and enjoy the time with him even though she knew that the trip was originally planned for her brothers.

  “You’ll be all right. How hard is it to put a damn antenna out here?” he said, turning on the radio again and fiddling with the dial.

  “I have an AM radio in my bag,” she offered. “It’s an emergency kind that gets a signal anywhere.”

  “Really?” She could tell he was interested and
it made her happy. Renee jumped in the back and grabbed the small radio out of the pack her mom had bought for her. Extending the antenna, she dutifully turned the knob until the game came on.

  “Dang, that is better,” her dad said, turning off the van’s radio and patting her knee with a smile. “You’re such a smart girl, you know that?”

  Renee smiled as she remembered the feeling of acceptance she had gotten from that pat on her leg.

  The radio on her vest came to life, shattering the memory.

  “Five minutes,” J.T. said.

  The men in the back conducted a final check of their weapons and gear and began standing up.

  It was almost time.

  The convoy turned off the main road and pulled into an upscale residential neighborhood. Renee could see the familiar two-story house appear ahead of them as the commander called, “One minute,” over the radio. It sat on a slight incline at the end of the street, dominating the avenue of approach. Any element of surprise was lost the moment they turned on the street.

  “That’s the house right there.” She pointed the target out to Steve, who took his foot off the gas.

  “Damn, they’re stopping right in the front yard,” he said as the lead vehicles jumped the curb and began unloading their squads in plain sight.

  “Stop here, it’s too congested,” Renee said.

  She’d done this too many times to be nervous, but her instincts were telling her that something bad was about to happen.

  Once their van came to a halt, the team jumped out and moved to take up their positions. Renee could see J.T. standing in the open, directing his men over the radio. She counted twenty men, dressed in MultiCam, swarming loosely toward the house. It was a goat rope, and she found herself praying that everything would go according to plan.

  J.T. called the breachers up to the door before the cordon was set, and they moved up to the breach point without a security element.