Natalie nodded. She stared out the window. The blank look on her face told Flynn the trauma of the past few days disturbed her, to say the least. This isn’t exactly the way to impress a woman. She’s probably wondering if it will be like this forever.
She wasn’t the only one wondering that. Flynn tried to imagine any scenario where the Kuklovod would give up on him and just let him live his life. They had before—but that was only because he hadn’t uncovered their plot to incite a war between the U.S. and Russia. Now, Flynn proved to be an even bigger liability. They couldn’t just let him go get on television and broadcast such plans to the public now that he had more detailed firsthand knowledge. They would make every effort to silence him, if not for his intelligence, for murdering three of their operatives—though Flynn wondered if they were simply freelancers. Either way, he wasn’t safe. And neither was Natalie.
I’ve got to talk to Osborne.
He dialed Osborne’s number on the burner phone he purchased in the train station while waiting to board.
“Osborne.”
“Osborne, it’s Flynn.”
Osborne’s voice turned to a whisper. “Are you OK, man? Where are you?”
“We’re heading back to D.C.,” Flynn said.
“We? Who’s with you?”
“Natalie. They took her hostage as leverage.”
“Natalie? The gal from the archives?”
“Yeah, that’s her.” Flynn looked at Natalie and smiled. She didn’t look at him, continuing to gaze out the window in a stupor.
“Are you guys dating?”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about that right now. We’ve got more important things to discuss.”
“You’re telling me. Barksdale listed you as the prime suspect before I proved that you were trying to stop the assassin. Of course I knew he would be with you, but I couldn’t risk some trigger-happy blockhead wanting to squeeze a round off into you because he wanted Seal Team Six fame.”
“Thanks. But the assassin is still on the loose. I left a mess for you to clean up at a warehouse a few miles from the U.N. building.”
“Who’s the assassin?”
“Ivan. This was a Kuklovod hit.”
“What else do you know?”
“I know they’re trying to start a war between us and Russia.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know. They don’t need to help that process.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Gerald Sandford is now the acting President and he’s ready to fire the first shot, if my sources are right.”
Flynn then asked Osborne if he could help hide Natalie at a CIA safe house until this whole thing settled down. They set up a time to meet and go over any other information Flynn learned.
“There’s something else you need to know, Flynn.”
“What’s that?”
“I can’t talk about it now, but I need to know something.”
“Oh?”
“Are you still up for a mission?”
CHAPTER 37
IVAN SEETHED AS HE WATCHED the news from his hotel room. Three Russian terrorists were found dead in a warehouse several miles from the U.N. According to the report, law enforcement officials hadn’t yet identified if they were involved in the assassination attempt on the President, but early indications showed this was likely the case.
He flipped through the television channels. He wanted a shred of good news, something that let him know his mission wasn’t a waste. Though he was in critical condition, the President was still alive. His men had let his hostages escape. And no news agency reported any sign of impending war. Maybe there was still hope that something would go right.
After thirty minutes of sitting and waiting, Ivan fumed even more. James Flynn was still out there, that rock in his shoe. More like a gash on his wrist. If this plan failed to incite a war, Ivan knew it would be because of Flynn’s meddling. With no other directive at the moment, he needed a diversion. Time to make Flynn pay. He picked up his phone and began dialing some numbers. Time to get serious.
CHAPTER 38
BY THE TIME FLYNN MET with Osborne on Saturday afternoon in Washington, the President’s death had been erroneously reported via Twitter by three different reporters. Every newsperson worth his weight in salt wanted to be credited as the journalist who broke the news first. This race to be first trumped the race to be right, leaving the general public weary of their ridiculous games. Flynn had fallen for news of Brad Pitt’s death, Jay Leno’s campaign donations to the Republican party, and Miley Cyrus’s decision to quit making music—the first sad, the second shocking, and the third wishful thinking. And all of it on Twitter, not a word of it true. Where’s my cynicism when I need it most?
With plenty of rumors swirling around the Beltway over who was really running the show at the White House and who was at whose throat, only one thing seemed clear: A leadership vacuum existed. Not that this came as any surprise to Flynn—or any other American. The country had been floundering in the eyes of the international community due to its constant meddling in foreign affairs and inability to stabilize the global financial sector. Now a new drummer was thrumming for a war.
“Thanks for coming down here,” Osborne said to Flynn as he shut the door to his office.
“Well, I’m curious as to what you might have in mind,” Flynn said.
“Without being overly dramatic, I need you. This country needs you. The world needs you.”
Flynn chuckled. “Do I look like Jesus Christ to you?”
“Save your sarcasm for later. I’m serious. There’s some big stuff about to go down—and I need you to do something about it.”
Flynn drummed his fingers on the desk before leaning forward to speak.
“What could I possibly do to stop this madness?”
“If you execute an off-the-books mission, the answer is everything .”
“And what if I happen to fail?”
Osborne let Flynn’s question hang in the air before answering. “I think you know.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“No, but you’re the best option I’ve got.”
“You seriously don’t have any other operatives who can do this mission to save the world ?” Flynn asked.
“Sure, I do. But none of them could pull it off. It’d be a death sentence. You on the other hand —”
“So, I’ve been gone from the agency for several years and you still think I’m your best option?”
“Yes.”
“Playing to my ego won’t work.”
“If only I was simply playing to your ego. But I’m being honest. I need you like never before.”
Flynn buried his head in his hands then tugged at fistfuls of his hair. He let out a low growl.
“If it works out, I know it’d make a heck of a book—though you wouldn’t be allowed to actually write it,” Osborne said.
Flynn looked up and glared at Osborne.
“OK, OK, I’m sorry—just a little humor. But I’m serious when I say I need you.”
“Suppose I say yes. What exactly is it you want me to do?”
“Go to Russia and disarm the missiles at the Kuklovod’s base camp. They are planning on launching the first salvo to incite a war—that is if Sandford doesn’t launch our missiles first.”
Flynn stared out the window and shook his head. He would’ve jumped at this chance when he was with the agency, but things felt different now. Everything about his life was different. This was what he left behind. Adrenaline. Fear. Danger. Heroism. Appearing on cable network news to discuss dark government secrets fascinated him far more than rushing into a situation that could have lethal repercussions for himself. He remained silent, lost in thought.
“If you can’t do it for your country, will you at least do it for the one person who always believed in you?”
Flynn jerked his gaze back toward Osborne.
“You want me to do this for my mother?” Flynn said as he
leaked a wry smile.
Osborne shook his head and smiled. Flynn was in.
“How’s your Russian?”
CHAPTER 39
BETHANY BRIGGS SQUEEZED her husband’s hand before leaving his side for the first time to do anything other than use the restroom since her husband was shot. The past twenty-four hours tested her faith in ways she never imagined. Is this really happening?
She turned the door handle before looking back at her husband lying in a coma, fighting for his life. Tears streamed down her face, smearing her mascara. She daubed her wet checks with the back of her hand, unwilling to be seen as a weak woman. Pushing past the two Secret Service agents guarding the door, Bethany made her way down the hall and into a private unoccupied conference room.
Bethany pulled the door shut behind her, locking it. She loved her husband—and she loved her country. And right now, if she believed everything she heard, both were in danger of vanishing as she knew them. The television in the corner of the room displayed images from the chaos interspersed with talking heads opining about the future of America’s leadership or how much longer the President would live.
She pulled out her cell phone and hit redial. Even the most bull-headed of personalities struggled to say no to Diane Dixon. But Bethany didn’t foresee any problems with the request Diane was about to make.
“So what do you want me to do?” Bethany asked, foregoing any formalities as Diane answered.
“I want you to be the acting President,” Diane said.
“What? I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Just think of yourself as the second coming of Edith Wilson.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you.”
“When Woodrow Wilson fell ill, it was his wife Edith who kept up pretenses that her husband was still fit to run the country.”
“I know the story—but Wilson wasn’t in a coma. He was just partially paralyzed.”
“Sure, but who’s getting in to see the President these days? Anyone other than his physicians? I can be very persuasive at getting people to keep quiet.”
“Can we legally do this?”
“Can you forge your husband’s signature?”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s the answer to your question. Just don’t ask me too many other questions. I need plausible deniability.”
“OK, fine. What do I need to do first?”
Diane explained all the fine details to Bethany before hanging up.
Bethany wondered what her husband—a real patriot—would think about what she was about to do. If it will stop a war, I’m sure he would understand. She was lying to herself and she knew it. Her rationale would be defeated by the President’s principled approach to following protocol and precedence. At least there was one good thing about him being in a coma.
CHAPTER 40
IVAN SQUATTED IN THE DARK, hoping his hunch was right. So far, things were going according to plan. The President was sidelined and his replacement was itching to fire missiles in the air and start the next world war.
Yet a fly in the ointment remained: James Flynn.
He had disposed of some of the world’s most ruthless MI-6 agents with about as much trouble as it took him to eat a piece of cake. But not Flynn. The enigmatic journalist seemed to get the jump on him at every turn. Ivan wondered how a former CIA agent with such intuition could have left the agency so easily. As much as Ivan wanted to kill Flynn, he also strangely admired him.
Only once before had an agent challenged him, pushing him to the brink of death. On a mission to secure long-range missiles in Nepal, Ivan crossed paths with a CIA operative who somehow learned about the deal he was about to make with foreign mercenaries. Having never met his contact, Ivan set everything up in a clandestine site near a frozen lake. It was how Ivan conducted business: get what he wants, then murder the seller. Nobody came looking for these lowlifes, and even if they did, they’d be hard pressed to find them at the bottom of the lake.
But on this particular day, Ivan was the one surprised. A sniper hit him with a tranquilizer. Ivan never even saw his face. Twenty minutes later, Ivan awoke naked and gasping for air beneath a partially frozen lake. He had no idea how long he’d been underwater—or how he survived for that matter. When he resurfaced, figuring out how was the furthest thing from his mind. He wanted revenge. It was all he could think about as he warmed himself by a fire, one he found blazing with all the money he’d brought to the exchange. The sniper had laid Ivan’s clothes neatly laid by the fire along with a note that read: “If I see you again, I won’t be so kind.”
Ivan lost a couple of toes due to frostbite he suffered during that mission, but he didn’t lose his resolve. He was more determined than ever to fulfill the Kuklovod’s mission, even if it meant taking out the CIA one operative at a time. Yet all his years of persistent and hard work had resulted in bringing the organization to the precipice of achieving his seemingly unattainable goal.
And everything was going to be fine once James Flynn was out of the picture.
CHAPTER 41
FLYNN RETURNED TO HIS APARTMENT to pack. He had an hour to gather his things and report to the airfield where he would fly halfway around the world and hope to accomplish a solo mission that would stave off a world war. He worried about Natalie and what might happen to her as a result of his reckless entrance into this investigation. But there was no time to let his emotions distract him. He nearly called Osborne a half dozen times on his way home, mulling over the impending disaster that would befall the U.S. if he did nothing. But his country needed him—even if it said it didn’t. Osborne needed him, which trumped any vindictiveness hurled at him by the agency. As long as one person believed in him, that’s all Flynn needed.
As Flynn packed, he winced. The mere thought of returning to Russia made him shudder. Bitter cold. Sketchy intel. Knives waiting to be shoved in your back. The country bred traitors like it was its top export commodity. Anything for money. Honor and valor meant nothing to anyone. It was all about getting paid. At times, such a culture played to his advantage, but a higher bidder almost always cost him. This time, he would avoid such tactics. The fewer prisoners, the better. He knew this was a mess even some members of the Russian government wouldn’t mind cleaning up.
Flynn stuffed thermal undergarments into a duffle bag and a few gadgets he hadn’t surrendered to the agency upon his dismissal. These gadgets would never make James Bond envious, but they got the job done. A remote optical camera. A shotgun mic that could pick up conversations from long distances. Even a pair of boots concealing a knife. You never know when you might need one. Flynn shook his head as he stared at the relics of past missions. What are you doing? Are you out of your mind? You’re an investigative reporter now, not some vigilante hero. As quickly as the thoughts pinged around his head, he dismissed them. Osborne needs me.
As Flynn closed one of his drawers, he froze. A creaking noise put him on alert. Breathless, Flynn waited another moment or two. Nothing. Must be the house settling.
He pulled open his top drawer to fetch his final necessary item—his lucky bullet, complete with a chain around it. Flynn wore it on all his missions after a doctor retrieved it from his stomach following an incident in the Congo. Tasked with identifying the buyer of weapons dealer Joseph Kyenge’s cache of long-range ballistic missiles, Flynn made a mistake during his surveillance. The sun glinted off his binoculars while he lay prostrate on a cliff above Kyenge’s camp. After avoiding the initial hail of bullets, Flynn suffered a near fatal shot when one of the bullets glanced off a rock and lodged in his stomach. The agony of driving while trying to escape capture was a memory he couldn’t shake. He managed to lose Kyenge’s guards and found his way back to the bush plane where his pilot flew him to a village with a visiting doctor from the U.S. Flynn learned later that there were a few tense moments, but the doctor saved his life as he put together a makeshift operating room, retrieved the bullet and sutured the wound. He never found out who pu
rchased the weapons—and it ate at him. Those stupid binoculars .
Flynn stared at the warped bullet in his hand. It stirred courage in him like nothing else. Not even a bullet can stop me . He knew he was overstating his ability to survive such a hit, but he didn’t care. If he dwelled on the reality of how close he came to dying, he might lock himself up in a room and never see the outside world again. He lived in a dangerous world for a long time, but he also knew he could just as well die in a car accident or from a heart attack going about his everyday life. Dead was dead. Better to die doing something meaningful .
Creeeeeeeak!
Flynn froze again. Am I imagining things? He waited a couple of seconds before moving.
Without warning, Flynn’s closet door burst open as an assailant raced toward him. Flynn recognized him immediately—Ivan. Flynn dodged the blade being waved about. Thinking on his feet, Flynn used the bullet chain to grasp Ivan’s blade-carrying hand, forcing the blade to the floor. The two exchanged blows before Ivan earned the upper hand, taking Flynn down with a swift kick to his outer shin and pouncing on top of him. Flynn struggled beneath Ivan’s imposing frame.
Ivan pinned Flynn’s arms to the ground and grabbed the closest object he could find—Flynn’s bullet chain. He began choking Flynn. Squirming to relieve the pressure on his neck, Flynn freed his arms and jammed the fingers on his right hand beneath the chain to prevent rapid asphyxiation. With his left hand, Flynn groped underneath his bed. He kept trying to wrestle away from Ivan as he felt several items. A pair of socks. Dirty boxes. Where is it? Then, he found it—the cold cylindrical can of bear spray. Gasping for air, Flynn directed the spray right at Ivan, who rolled off him, clutching his eyes in pain. The agonizing yelp pierced Flynn’s ears.
Flynn fished out the pistol from his bag and held it on Ivan as he kicked the knife away from him.
“Now get up!” Flynn barked.
Ivan staggered to his feet, still burying his face in his hands and whimpering from the pain.
The Warren Omissions Page 13