They walked across the operations floor, consisting of analysts sitting at desks scattered around a high-tech space. Steps led to a balcony packed with more desks, where the watch officers and higher-ups sat. A central twenty-foot monitor hung off the main wall with slightly smaller ones to each side. Everywhere Ford looked he saw a computer screen and watchful eyes staring back at him.
He didn’t fault the questioning looks. Not wearing a suit was only one way in which he stuck out around here. These people were trained intelligence officers with a wealth of experience. They didn’t joke around and wouldn’t hesitate to hit the panic button or reach for a weapon if he got too close.
Paranoia qualified as a necessary personality trait in undercover work. The locked-down facility included both the counterterrorism center and the headquarters for the Director of National Intelligence. That meant, in theory, all intelligence operations across numerous U.S. government agencies contributed to what happened inside these walls, and it all passed directly from here to the President. One wrong step in this building guaranteed being taken down by armed guards dressed in black who shot first and only checked badges on the fallen bodies after.
So Ford and West did what they always did. They kept walking, ignoring the stares and not saying a word, until they reached the private area at the far side of the room. Several more rounds of security, including a fingerprint reader and body scanner, and they entered the steel-walled elevator that took them underground and into the official Alliance headquarters. The room where the tech folks and administrative types sat. Not Ford and his team.
When in town, Bravo and Delta teams ran out of the Warehouse, a building on the Liberty Crossing grounds that housed the important things like a shooting range and gym. These offices and the conference rooms and all that by-the-rules crap struck Ford as unnecessary to Alliance’s very simple directive—get the job done, no matter the cost and body count.
He’d left the CIA to escape all the intelligence-gathering, overseas-only restrictions and all they’d cost him on his last assignment. If a bad guy landed in Kansas, Ford refused to turn the job over to local law enforcement or the FBI, which is why Alliance and it’s “do anything to get the job done” charter appealed to him.
In this job, the people at the top watched but didn’t interfere. They let Harlan and Ward Bennett, the CIA’s chosen command counterpart to Harlan’s MI6 supervisor position in Alliance, run the show. In return, the U.S. and UK got an expert kill squad not bound by the restrictions in either country or by international law, and complete deniability about its work outside of the Warehouse’s walls. Even the two thousand employees working in Liberty Crossing above and loaded down with security clearances didn’t know exactly what happened out in the Warehouse or what Alliance did with the intel the analysts uncovered.
It all sounded good, but right now, in practice, Ford thought it amounted to a load of shit. He signed on to stop terrorist attacks before they launched or expanded operations. That required top tier information. So far on this assignment they’d had anything but.
Nearly being incinerated would have been bad enough, but he’d messed up. Jumped the gun and tied up his work life and his personal life against orders. Just thinking about Shay sent his mind spinning. Lying to her, having the type of mind-blowing sex that had him squirming in his seat on the plane ride back home from thinking about it. She represented everything normal and safe and honest . . . and he was fucking her in every way possible.
He thought his time as a CIA field operative had sucked. He’d reached a new level of suck shoveling over the last few days.
Harlan greeted them as they entered, all tall and thin and British. He wore a permanent frown and at forty-three his hair started to show more gray than black. Likely it had something to do with dedicating his entire adult life to black ops. He’d infiltrated the IRA and spent years on an assignment with French intelligence in Rwanda before moving into administration and agreeing to set up Alliance. Those bright blue eyes were always watching.
Right or not, Ford traced the Hampstead failure right back to Harlan.
Ford stopped right in front of his makeshift boss and asked the only thing that mattered. “How many are dead?”
“Seven. Two guards and five from the neighborhood. The guy you took down ran and got lost in the neighborhood.”
“So, an excellent operation the whole way around.” Loss of life and they got nothing. That pissed Ford off more than anything else.
Harlan’s gaze didn’t shift. He never broke eye contact. “We’ve talked about your choice of clothing before. A bit much, isn’t it?”
Ford knew the long-sleeve tee with the beer advertisement pushed the informal code, but he didn’t care. His nerves ran right on the edge and he wanted answers, not lectures. “I don’t wear a uniform.”
“I’m done arguing about this.” Harlan turned and walked deeper into the room. He stopped at the conference table, on the opposite end from Ward, with files stacked in haphazard piles between them.
Monitors lined the walls. The only other people in the room were the tech specialists, who rarely saw field action. They sat and typed and collated and did a whole bunch of crap Ford knew was important but had no hand in.
Additional screens on the desks on either side of the long table displayed a constant flash of images. One set showed the building’s internal and external security images, covering thousands of square feet. The other set ran news programs from around the world.
Ford had no idea what the two monitors with lines of computer code referenced. He might play an IT specialist on the current job but he sure as hell wasn’t one.
As he pulled out the closest chair and watched West circle the table to sit across from him, Ford focused on all the gadgets that had failed them so far. Monitors filled with information. Folders stacked in front of them. None of that had warned of an explosion.
Harlan used a remote control to change the images on the main monitor. Live footage of a forensics crew sorting through the fire rubble in Hampstead held the prominent position. In daylight the situation looked far worse than the nighttime version. Scorched land and blown out husks of buildings. Ford could almost smell the smoke.
“Our clean-up crews moved in first,” Ward said.
Ford didn’t want to know how that happened but he imagined searchlights and fake police personnel played roles. “Any chance we found the guy who is supposed to be fronting this toxin auction?”
Ward exhaled. “Not yet.”
“He wasn’t there.” West fiddled with the edge of the file in front of him, opening the cover then shutting it again without reading.
“Let’s stay focused.” Ward put a hand on the folder and dragged it closer to him. “We don’t know that yet.”
“Do we know anything for sure other than some pissant piece of garbage walked out of a secure US government facility with a vial of deadly shit and disappeared?” The news hadn’t leaked, and as the days ticked by the chances increased. Ford knew from experience these things had a way of getting out even with the tightest net thrown around them. People panicked. They talked. Then his job went from impossible to whatever crap storm came after that.
“Admittedly, we had an intelligence failure.”
Ford didn’t wait for Harlan to come up with a second sentence. “No shit.”
“That’s enough of that.” Ward used his remote to bring up all the data they had on Trent Creighton, the young scientist who went missing along with the toxin. Photos of him and his apartment filled the screen. His passport and security clearance documents. “We’re tracking every piece of paper Trent ever signed or even read and trying to tie him to this supposed auction that’s scheduled for less than two weeks from now.”
“That’s fine,” Ford said, “but West and I were five steps away from having our memories reduced to stars on the w
all at Langley.” He lounged back in the leather chair even though he felt anything but relaxed.
Ward kept clicking through photos. “You don’t technically work for the CIA anymore, so your heirs shouldn’t count on a star ceremony.”
Talk about not getting the hint. “Is that the point?”
Ward slammed the remote on the table hard enough to crack the plastic. “I’m trying to get you to calm the fuck down.”
If Ward wanted a fight, Ford would give him one. They’d worked together for years. Stormed into situations where the chance of survival hovered around five percent, yet they walked out again. Ward understood the dangers in the field, how a situation could turn in a second and bodies would stop dropping. He sat behind a desk now, but Ford knew deep down that wouldn’t make a difference.
“This isn’t working,” he said.
“What is the ‘this’ in your sentence?” But the do-not-cross-this-line scowl on Ward’s face suggested he knew.
“Alliance. Joint resources. You billed this whole team-up as a way to ensure that bullshit like two days ago never happened.” It was why Ford had transferred over from the CIA rather than just leaving the service as planned. That and because the CIA didn’t want him anymore. He considered it a mutual breakup but he wasn’t sure his old bosses did.
Truth was, the bad guys were winning the ground game. They combined forces and communicated through back channels. They traveled on faked documents and didn’t play by any rules. The number of killings mattered most to them—the more the better, and the bigger the destruction the greater the reward. Collateral damage didn’t bother them because they refused to see anyone as innocent.
The fight had become so stacked against those trying to prevent disaster that Ford now measured successes in terms of the bodies left standing. Blood stained his hands and deaths weighed on his shoulders. He’d watched good men fall and stood there while others disappeared.
His final CIA operation left him hollow and raw and he’d wanted to step away. Needed the fresh air and days free from confronting piles of bodies on a daily basis. But Ward had made promises. Talked about cooperation and resources that could finally pinpoint the madness and crush it before it grew. Ford threw in.
Alliance trained together for three months. Since then, Bravo and Delta teams conducted raids and recovered kidnapping victims and weapons. Stopped attacks and eliminated targets. The usual ops for a group getting its footing and finding a rhythm.
But in this thing with Trent Creighton, the danger magnified as the minutes passed. This guy, little more than a kid, developed GB-19, an odorless gas, a more lethal version of its cousin, sarin. No treatment, and too easy to weaponize and disperse with a guarantee of large-scale annihilation.
“Hey, man.” Josiah King, leader of Delta team, walked in and nodded in Ward’s direction. Dumping his keys on the table, Josiah shook Ford’s hand before dropping into the seat next to him.
“The one Brit I trust,” Ford said.
Josiah possessed a clean-cut look in his khakis and buttoned-down shirt and had a connected father. Ford liked his counterpart anyway. They worked together without battling for control. On the very first op, Josiah stepped up, ready to sacrifice his life for the team, and proved he’d earned his leadership position with his tactical abilities and expert shot, not from a nasty case of nepotism.
Ford earned his position as Bravo team leader the hard way—by working his ass off. He’d known Ward since their time at the Farm, the CIA training facility where they learned everything from paramilitary tactics to flying a helicopter. Ward was two years older and just crossed over the magic over-thirty-five line. He’d settled into a desk job. Ford would rather be dead.
“Can we get back to work?” Harlan asked.
“Maybe we could call in a contact in Mossad.” Ford had more than one of those. This job was about forming relationships with the right people. Knowing who to trust and when to pull back. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the room, but he had those skills down.
Harlan frowned “Why?”
“Since Brit intel sucks so bad, I thought we could try another country.”
Everyone waited, except Ward, who shoved a stack of files to the side and leaned forward to eye up Ford. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m not kidding.” Ford tapped a stray pen against the glass overlay on the table. A steady click, click, click that beat in time with the ticking of the nerve at the back of his neck. “I’m willing to try the French.”
“We could go with GIA,” West suggested.
Ward swore under his breath, something he did often enough to consider it his trademark move. “Don’t help him.”
“What country is that?” Ford asked at the same time.
“General Intelligence Agency.” West closed one eye and stared at the ceiling as if he were trying to remember even though he clearly knew. “Mongolia.”
“How do you even remember that?” Josiah shook his head as he laughed. “Have you been studying again?”
“Give him credit.” Ford spun his pen across the table, and West stopped it with the slap of his hand, which only impressed Ford more. “Nice drop, man.”
“Are you all done?” An unexpected smack had them looking to one end of the table. Harlan held part of his remote control in his hand. Two other pieces lay on the table where he’d banged the device. He fidgeted, trying to get the back cover on again but finally dropped it all and folded his arms in front of him. “If so, let’s get back to operational details, shall we?”
Ford stopped whatever the other man was going to say by launching into a heavy dose of truth. “This was a rope-a-dope, a sting . . . hell, a suicide mission. Call it whatever you want. Point is, we got played. Shitty intel brought us in, the tech went bad and the sky lit up.”
“Poetic,” Josiah said.
“Yeah, well. You weren’t almost toast.” Ford still couldn’t come down. The adrenaline coursed through him.
He’d meant to land, debrief, and stay away from people until he cooled off. Instead his brain turned off and took his common sense with it. Despite every silent promise he’d made during the long flight, he headed for Shay’s condo and worked off some excess energy having sex. But not enough.
“Which is why we need everyone on this.” Ward glanced over at the tech table. “I want Bravo and Delta to muster within forty minutes.”
Ford swore under his breath. “More bodies aren’t going to save this op.”
“We need intel on this supposed auction and to locate Trent Creighton now, before he sells or loses or unleashes, or whatever the hell he plans to do with his new toy.” More photos flashed on the screen as Ward scrolled through Trent’s last known contacts and the contents of his apartment and work space.
“Have we figured out how he got the GB-19 out of the government facility in the first place?” They were missing something. Something obvious. The pieces clicked together in Ford’s head, and he said them as he thought them. “Employees are searched when leaving, yet this kid smuggles a deadly toxin into the open and fucking disappears with it? No way.”
“No one knows.” Harlan flipped the pages in front of him. “Creighton is supposed to be a novice.”
Ford didn’t buy that either. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
Young and socially awkward, but Trent had made all the rights moves so far. He stayed under and cut contact, making the fear that he was a true believer in whatever cause he planned to use GB-19 to support a real possibility.
That was the danger. Greed, bribery—those were easy to combat. Martyrs to the cause couldn’t be reasoned with or turned. The only answer was a bullet, and Ford didn’t relish the idea of killing Trent Creighton . . . for many reasons.
“Ford is right.” Josiah folded his hands together then stopped and did it again. The cycle kept repeating.
>
“I’ll be the one to say it,” Ford said. “Trent’s getting help.”
“We’ve got eyes on the father and cousin.” Ward clicked a button and two more photos flashed up on the screen.
The faces blurred. Ford rubbed his eyes to focus on the problem at hand instead of the woman on the screen whose face he knew all too well. He’d handle that personal disaster later. “That’s not the kind of assistance I meant. A few drops of this toxin could wipe out thousands. Tens of thousands, depending on the conditions.”
“Then stop him,” Ward said.
Harlan nodded. “Best and brightest and all that, right?”
“I think you’re mixing up your American war story references.” Josiah tapped his fingers against the table. “But, you know, if there’s an issue, Delta team can take lead.”
“Bite me.” Ford treated the threat for what it was—a joke. He and Josiah had an unspoken agreement not to poach. More than likely Josiah’s dig was meant to issue a challenge and get him on track. And it worked. No way was he handing this job over. “You Brits have fucked this up enough already.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Call it a case of pants-on-fire.” Ford winked. “Lucky for you, Bravo team is here to clean up your mess.”
4
TWO HOURS later Ford sat on a locker room bench in the Warehouse gym and looked around at his team. No monitors or fancy equipment. No bullshit briefings or plodding through a list of possible actions. Just an informal meeting with the three most lethal men he knew. Men he would die to protect and could trust at his back.
He’d handpicked every one of them, even Lucas Garner. The order for Ford to put a Brit on Bravo sent him digging. Lucas came from something called the science division of British intelligence. It made him sound like a nerd but it really meant he could get in anywhere, blow up anything. The guy liked fire and found a job that let him set them without getting arrested. Ford admired anyone who could walk that line.
Playing Dirty Page 3