Day Zero

by Marc Cameron

  Secretary Filson sat to the President’s immediate left, across the oak table from McKeon. He was a pinch-faced man who glared at his cup as if he was angry at the coffee.

  “You know my views, Mr. President,” Filson said. Usually a man to bounce around the room when he spoke, the Secretary of Defense stayed glued to his seat, as if he was afraid someone might steal it if he got up. “I say we waterboard the shit out of them until they tell us what we want to know.”

  Drake nodded thoughtfully, like that might actually be something he’d consider with so many eyes and ears in the room. The depth of this man’s stupidity made McKeon’s head hurt. The Hell’s Angels’ adage “Two can keep a secret—if one of them is dead” held doubly true amid the vaporous political alliances of the White House. Security precautions only lasted as far as the door. In a place where leaked insider information was the coin of the realm that lead to multimillion-dollar book deals, the President’s body language, let alone his spoken word, was a potential land mine.

  “The Pakistanis want them back,” Air Force three-star Greg Tolliver spoke up, stepping in front of Filson’s proposal with one almost as outlandish.

  “That would make trouble for me diplomatically,” Tom Watchel, the Secretary of State, said. He rested the flat of his hands on a black leather desk blotter in front of him.

  The President laughed out loud. “And that’s why we’re having this meeting, Tom,” he said. “So we can all be certain and shield you from diplomatic damage.”

  The Sec State appeared to shrink in his chair. “Of course I meant us, Mr. President. We, I mean to say, the United States would be damaged. These men blew up a train in . . .” He shuffled thorough a file folder in front of him, hunting for a particular note.

  “Urumqi.” McKeon helped him, feeling impatience more than pity. For a Secretary of State, this man was sorely undereducated in world geography. “The train was leaving the northwestern Chinese city of Urumqi.”

  “Yes, of course.” Watchel nodded. “Urumqi.” He closed his folder. “Beijing demands to put them on trial for terrorism.”

  “What do I tell the Pakistanis?” Drake asked. “These guys blew up a . . . what, some kind of a store there, right?”

  McKeon blinked away the look of frustration on his face. “It was a café, Mr. President.”

  Drake gave a flip of his hand. “That’s right. Anyway, the point is, Pakistan wants them for trial too. And their bombing was first.”

  “That’s true,” the Sec State said. “But the café was closed when it blew up so no one was killed.”

  “But the building was destroyed?” Drake said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well.” Drake put both hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the acoustic ceiling. “Seems to me it would be a step in the right direction if Pakistan actually put a terrorist on trial.”

  Watchel nodded. “It would,” he said. “But—”

  Filson pounded his fist on the table, sending a little coffee tsunami over the lip of his mug. “We should not be in the habit of turning over terrorists to anyone. These men have a great deal of valuable information rolling around in their heads.”

  “Mr. President.” Watchel made a last-ditch effort to bolster his case. “China is in a . . . how do I put this . . . in a bit of a spot at the moment. Chen Min is a very unique leader.”

  Drake cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t forget,” he said. “If you’re one in a million in China, there are only three thousand more just like you.”

  McKeon groaned inside himself.

  “Mr. President,” General Tolliver said. “There is no doubt that the Chinese, specifically Chen Min, will view it as a slap in the face if we turn the prisoners over to Pakistan. But Pakistan will feel the same way if we give them to China. The question is, who do we need right now?”

  “Let me see,” Drake said, screwing up his face in thought. “Do I piss off a son of a bitch Chinaman who’d like to eat our guts, or the Pakistanis, who, at least in lip service, are our allies?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President,” Secretary Watchel said. “Chen Min does not appear to be a rash man. He leads at a time when the Chinese are swollen with nationalistic tension. If we were to turn these men over to anyone other than China, Chen Min might have no other choice than to step up his rhetoric.”

  The President pushed back from the table and got to his feet, forcing everyone else in the room to stand out of protocol.

  “Listen,” he said, looking at the line of digital world clocks that ran along the far wall. “I have to shoehorn in a meeting in the Oval Office before I get my ass to the gym. It’s leg day,” he added. “And a guy can’t miss leg day. I’ll leave the rhetoric to you, Tom. I have to be honest, though, the Pakistanis seem to have more value in this fight than the Chinese. Work me up a brief of possible outcomes if I decide to hand the prisoners over to President Kassar.”

  McKeon smiled inside himself. Despite Drake’s stupidity, things were working out just as his father had imagined.

  Chapter 7

  Alaska

  Knee-high beach grass rose up from the muddy bank. It grew quickly in the short Arctic summers and covered the hillside above the Yukon. Village women used the stuff to weave decorative baskets during the long winter nights and the sweet, wet-hay scent was prevalent in every home that had a basket maker. Quinn breathed in a lungful as he sprinted up the hill.

  Rather than hiding, he had always found it more tactical to fight through the objective. Quinn’s father was not much of a talker. The senior Quinn had expressed the notion most succinctly when he’d sat Jericho down at the kitchen table before his first deployment to the Middle East. “Attack back, son,” his old man had said, dispensing serious counsel. “If you think you’re going to be captured, fight your way through it. I’d rather you die in that initial assault than find yourself in the hands of this enemy.”

  Quinn knew then, and certainly learned later, that it was sound advice. And it still held true with men like the ones who’d come for him in Mountain Village. No badges, no agency authority, they had no intention of arresting him. These men had demonstrated that when they shot into a crowd of Eskimo families just to get him. These were contractors sent in with one mission, to kill Quinn and take back proof of his death.

  Quinn tucked the MP7 he’d taken from the dead contractor tight against his side and dove into the willows, running for Ukka’s house, nearly half a mile away.

  Ken Proctor shoved the slender Eskimo woman across the room to his partner, a stocky little Italian pug everyone called Fico.

  “Take care of Mama,” Proctor snapped. He grabbed the woman’s teenage daughter by her black hair and wound it around his fist, dragging her backwards to the front door.

  The terrified girl’s entire body shook so badly her teeth chattered. “Mom?” she whimpered.

  “It’s all right, Kaylee girl,” James Perry’s wife said. Her voice was tight, but under control. “Daddy and Jericho will be here soon. They’ll take care of these guys, no problem.”

  Fico gave her a backhand across the face, splitting her lower lip. Blood poured down the front of her shirt.

  She glared back at him.

  “Oh, that’s just precious,” the broad-faced Italian said. “You’re all angry at me now. Don’t go giving your little girl hope.” He leaned in and ran his tongue up the side of her cheek, then raised an eyebrow as if passing judgment on how she tasted. “Seems I read somewheres that your Eskimo men liked to loan out their women to visitors.” His lips pulled back into a cruel snarl and he prodded her with the barrel of his pistol. “Well, I’m a visitor, ain’t I? How about you show me a little of that northern hospitality I read about?”

  “I don’t really think you can read.” Christina Perry wagged her head, eyes narrowed in defiance.

  “Maybe you’d rather loan me your daughter.”

  She spat in his face, earning her another punch. This one broke her glasses, gashing
her nose in the process. She didn’t make a sound. Instead, she turned to wipe her face against her shoulder, leaving a bright swath of blood across the cloth of her kuspuk.

  She sat perfectly still, panting, trying to make sense of what was happening around her—and then Proctor ran a hand down Kaylee’s thigh. Eyes flying wild, Christina jerked away from Fico and sprang toward the door.

  “You are a dead man!”

  Proctor released the girl and smashed Christina in the side of her head with his pistol, knocking her back onto the couch. Fico gave her another cuff across the ear for good measure, but it was a useless blow. She was already unconscious.

  “Someone needs to teach these bitches a lesson on how to treat a man,” Fico said, rubbing the back of his hand where it had impacted with her jaw.

  Proctor tossed his head in disgust at his partner’s inability to control a prisoner. He was frankly not surprised. The Italian hothead was just the sort of man his boss was looking for—if they could only control him. He was recruited in Kosovo after he’d been fired from another security job, and found a new home with The Oryx Group. It was a private contractor firm specializing in gray-area heavy work in the rough edges of the world.

  Ken Proctor’s Special Forces training—if you left out the part about him getting booted for insubordination—made him a natural for Oryx. Fico’s coarse demeanor and general distaste for anyone who didn’t think exactly like he did made it seem like he would be a good attack dog—until his emotions got in the way. Proctor reported the erratic behavior to his superiors after Fico’s hatred of all things female had nearly cost them their last mission in West Africa. The boss pointed out that Oryx was the perfect place for misogynistic killers, reminding Proctor that if they were all well-adjusted family men, they’d be fighting for God and country instead of the almighty dollar. The problem of Fico was shoved back to him as team leader.

  Proctor gave the Eskimo girl’s hair a cruel yank, taking out his frustration and trying to put Fico’s ineptness out of his mind.

  “You must be losing it,” he said to his partner. “What do you think she weighs? A buck ten soaking wet? Just keep her quiet until we get Quinn, then you can teach her whatever lessons you want.”

  Fico ran a hand over the unconscious woman’s knee.

  “Get on with it then,” he said. “We’ll be just fine here. I’ll see to this one.”

  Proctor got a better grasp on the quivering Kaylee’s hair and dragged her backwards through the front door. Once outside, he stood on the raised porch and pulled the girl in close so she was in front of him. Quinn’s dossier said he’d been a special operator, but that was with the Air Force so there was nothing to worry about. He’d probably get a call on the radio any minute that the guys down at the river had taken care of things. Still, Proctor took the precaution of using the quaking girl as a human shield.

  There were two snowmobiles and two pickup trucks in front of the house, but anyone approaching would have to cross fifty meters of open ground before they made it to the vehicles.

  Proctor switched on the voice-activated mike clipped to his collar, then pressed the barrel of his pistol to the back of the girl’s head. He hauled her neck back so she had to look up at the sky. Her sobs grew so violent her entire body shook and he found himself holding most of her weight just to keep her on her feet. Proctor groaned inside himself. He’d been a soldier once. How in the world had it come to pulling girls’ hair?

  “Shut up!” He yanked her head from side to side, taking his frustration out on her.

  “Van, Perkins,” he said, tilting his head enough the mike would pick him up over the stupid girl’s bawling. “Haul ass down to the river and find out what happened. Watch yourselves. I’m sure every house in this shithole town has a gun in it.”

  “We’re at the river now,” Perkins came back. “It’s—”

  Someone else spoke, causing nothing but a garbled squelch to come across the radio.

  “You two stop talking at the same time,” Proctor said. “You’re stepping on each other.”

  “Wasn’t Van,” Perkins came back. “He’s standing right beside me.”

  “It was me,” another voice carried across the radio, low and slow.

  “Quinn?” Proctor pulled the girl closer as insurance. His head snapped around as he scanned the area in front of the house.

  “I borrowed Lane’s radio,” the voice said. “He was finished with it.”

  “Van . . . Perkins . . .” Proctor clenched his teeth. “You two double-time it back here.”

  “Too late for that,” the voice said. “I’m here . . . now.”

  “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Proctor spat. He yanked the girl backwards so her entire body arched. “You show yourself or I’ll—”

  Kaylee threw her legs out from under her, letting her dead weight yank her out of Proctor’s grasp, completely exposing him to Quinn’s shots. The first round hit him just below the nose, the second, above his left ear as he began the corkscrewing fall peculiar to those who are already dead on their feet.

  “I know,” Quinn whispered to himself, mimicking Proctor’s cadence. “‘Show yourself or you’ll kill the girl. . . .’ ” He surveyed the scene for a ten-count before rolling out from under the rusted pickup nearest the house.

  Eyes on the front door, he bounded up the steps to put an arm around Kaylee and shoo her quickly off the front porch.

  Like any good cop, Ukka was diligent about practicing hostage drills with his family. His wife and each of his children knew that when they heard the word now, they should do their best to drop out of the way and give any rescuer the best possible shot. Kaylee had been a little late on the uptake, but the training and role-play had paid off. When she did move, Quinn had been ready to carry out his part of the bargain.

  “Your mom?” he whispered, squeezing the girl’s shoulder, but watching the house.

  “That guy hit her really hard.” Great sobs wracked her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.

  “But she was still alive when you left?”

  The girl nodded.

  “How many in there with her?”

  “Just one,” Kaylee sniffed. “The guy who had me called him Fico. He said he’s going to . . .” She started to cry again. “He’s going to do awful things. . . .”

  “Run to your auntie’s house,” Quinn said. “There are more of these guys down at the river and they’re probably coming this way. Work your way around behind the school. That’ll keep you out of their way. I’ll go take care of your mom.”

  “Okay.” Kaylee sniffed. “Where’s my dad?”

  “He’ll be with me,” Quinn said, as a shattered scream tore from the windows of the Perry home.

  Chapter 8

  Langley

  Ronnie Garcia’s group supervisor turned to go, and then spun at the last minute, Colombo-style.

  “You know,” Bobby Jeffrey said. “Why don’t you just call it a night? Get out of here. Go home, go to a bar, go for a run or whatever it is you do when you’re not guarding the nation’s secrets.”

  Garcia’s heart was in her throat, but she smiled broadly, trying to keep it light. “I’m always guarding the nation’s secrets, Bobby,” she said. “You know that.”

  “I’m serious.” Jeffery looked over the top of his wire glasses. He tugged at his tie to loosen it even more than it already was. “They didn’t order me to hold you, so I’m ordering you to haul ass. I’ll talk to this ID guy. You and I can discuss what to do about it in the morning.”

  Ronnie took a deep breath. Jeffery had the face and demeanor of a man she could trust, with a reputation as a supervisor who took care of his people. A fifteen-year veteran of the Clandestine Service, he’d been yanked off what had to be a juicy counterterrorism assignment on the Pakistan Desk, and moved to be a group supervisor in Regional and Transnational Issues—Russia and Central Asia—just weeks after the new president took office. It was still important work, but pulling him off the major
case was the equivalent of benching him.

  A consummate spy, he kept his cards close, even among friends. He’d never say it out loud, but he seemed to know there was a movement against the new administration, and considering Ronnie’s association with the former national security advisor, he was smart enough to know she would be a part of it.

  “Okay,” she said. “If you’re going to order me.” She logged out of her computer, then pulled the security ID card out of the slot in her keyboard and looped the lanyard around her neck. It was difficult to look nonchalant with her gut gurgling the way it was. Still, she didn’t want to look as though she’d just been caught looking for evidence that could bring down the presidency. “I’m not going to argue with my boss when he’s trying to get me to leave the office.”

  She threw on a thin linen jacket to cover the butt of a Kahr 9MM. The pistol rested in a flat inside-the-pants holster that peeked above her light wool gabardine slacks and pressed against the fabric of a silk blouse. It was small enough that she hardly knew it was there. The light jacket made sure no one else did either. Reaching under her credenza, she grabbed the leather backpack that contained her credentials, some makeup, and most important, her prepaid cell phones. Giving the dial on her desk safe one last spin, she turned to leave.

  Jeffrey stepped to the door of her cubicle, blocking her exit. She gave him the most relaxed smile she could muster.

  “So.” She batted her eyelashes. “You’ll let me know what’s going on tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” he said, “if they don’t cart me off to the gulag.” Jeffrey sighed, stepping out of her way. The lines around his eyes said he was only half joking. “But I have a feeling you already know what they want.”

  He touched her shoulder as she slipped past. “Watch yourself, Garcia,” he said.