by Mike Maden
Pearce and Kang worked their way through the trees, careful to avoid the sight lines of the cameras. With any luck they were triggered by motion detection and were not on continuous surveillance mode. Once they reached the edge of the trees, Pearce signaled for Kang to stay put and remain hidden while he moved forward toward the front of the house.
61
Pearce searched the house. It was orderly but clearly occupied, and it looked like Pike was coming back soon, judging by the beer and food stocked in the fridge. His clothes closet was full, as were his dresser drawers. If Pike had fled, he didn’t take much with him and he had left in a hurry.
There were no electronics to be found in the house—at least, no computers, cell phones, or tablets. Nor did he find a secret safe, ammo caches, or weapons-grade anything except for a collection of flint arrowheads locked in a small glass case and stashed in a sock drawer.
Neither were there any clues that Tamar had been in the house at all. But Pearce didn’t find any smashed furniture, bloodstains, or bullet holes, either. If Tamar had been there and had been subdued, it was done quickly and with little violence. Pearce doubted it. Tamar was a skilled operator and a good fighter. Pike looked like a harmless schlub with a talent for computers. But then again, he was a commercial fisherman who navigated the dangerous waters of the Great Lakes for a living. That was a real workingman’s job, and it took guts and strength to survive out there.
The garage was filled with neatly stacked and organized fishing and boating gear. A quick perusal didn’t uncover any weapons or contraband there, either. He thought about checking the attic but he was getting the feeling this entire trip was a waste of time. He half expected Pike to walk in at any moment with a bucket of fish in one hand and a slew of questions. Pearce wouldn’t have any answers.
Pearce began to despair. This was the last stop on the search for his missing friend, at least for today. He wondered if he could call up the attorney general and beg a favor from her despite their recent clashes. The FBI was still one of the world’s premier investigative organizations. Perhaps with a little more focus and incentive from Peguero, the local field office might put out a more sustained effort.
Pearce headed for the hallway and stopped at the last unexplored room. There was a heavy security bracket and hasp attached to the door frame and door but no lock. Where was it? Strange.
He pushed the door open.
The room was empty except for two long workstation tables. Pearce stepped inside. A thin layer of dust on the tables outlined the shapes of keyboards, monitors, and other peripherals. Exactly as Werntz’s report stated. The IT officer assisting Tamar said that he tried to hack the system but couldn’t break in after several attempts. Thirty-eight minutes into the hacking attempt, Tamar’s phone went dead and he lost the connection to both her and the computer.
Pearce ran a finger through the dust. No reason. Just habit. Something he’d seen in the movies a hundred times. Like the dust itself contained some sort of clue.
It didn’t.
The only other object in the room was a painting on the far wall. It looked familiar, like a museum piece. People on a raft. Pearce shrugged. He wasn’t much into paintings.
If he’d have looked closer, he might have seen the micro-camera embedded in the picture frame.
—
PIKE HAD WARNED al-Saud against going after Pearce personally. “He’s a trained operator. Fuck. A trained SOG operator. Those guys recruit from the SEAL teams, not the other way around.”
But al-Saud wouldn’t listen. Even argued Pearce was one of the few CIA spec ops fighters recruited out of the civilian community, as if that mattered. Pike was a gun for hire and he knew how to obey orders. He also knew how to do an end run. The imperious prince never suspected that his computer contractor might use those skills on him as well. Pike watched the entire Pearce fiasco unfold at the prince’s golf course residence. He even tried to warn al-Saud at the last minute that an attack by Saudi forces was imminent, but the prince wouldn’t pick up his phone. Too busy putting a gun to Pearce’s skull. Couldn’t be bothered. Arrogant prick, Pike reminded himself. But al-Saud paid well. Very well.
Once al-Saud kicked the hornet’s nest, it was up to Pike to keep track of the hornets, and Pearce was the nastiest of the bunch. He had no idea that Pearce was connected to Werntz but shouldn’t have been surprised. The espionage community was small and clubby, like an East Coast prep school—but with guns. He was lucky Werntz didn’t spill the beans entirely on him to Pearce. But it wasn’t luck that kept him one step ahead of Werntz and the assassins he’d sent his way. His mole in Werntz’s organization had seen to that. Keeping tabs on Werntz now meant he could keep tabs on Pearce, at least from a distance.
Until now.
Pike watched Pearce through the fish-eye camera lens embedded in the picture frame. It was a guessing game now. Pike hoped Pearce would call his female friend into the house to help search, but instead Pearce wisely left her outside on overwatch. Pearce had checked the place pretty thoroughly. Pike watched him do it swiftly and expertly on the two dozen other micro-cameras he had hidden throughout the house. It was clear that Pearce hadn’t found anything because there was nothing for him to find. The only thing that really mattered to Pike was the computer setup at his house that allowed him to remotely control the drone and hacking operations from Black Lake, and he’d already spirited those components away and dumped them in the middle of Lake Michigan before selling his beloved Ayasi.
Pike checked his watch, his finger hovering over the switch. Pearce was nearly done. If he wasn’t going to call the woman into the house, that meant he’d be leaving soon. It was now or never.
Good thing Pearce didn’t bother checking the attic.
—
IAN NEVER DOUBTED his ability as a hacker, especially after breaking into Jasmine Bath’s seemingly impregnable system last year. But Pike had proved himself no slouch, either.
The Scot finally found a back door into the wireless camera system and, once there, was able to ride the unprotected video signal all the way back to Pike’s remote station, somewhere on the other end of the satellite connection. Suddenly he was watching Pearce through the same fish-eye camera lens that Pike was using, and a moment later Ian discovered the remote triggering software connected to the camera system.
Ian shouted at Pearce through his comms as he tried to disable the trigger, but he was too late.
—
TROY HEARD IAN SHOUT in his earpiece, “Pearce! The window! Now!”
Pearce instantly lunged for the window directly in front of him. Felt his clenched fists break the glass just as the world exploded.
—
STELLA KANG SCREAMED as Pearce’s huge frame broke through the window, the house erupting all around him. The roof flipped up on one sturdy wall, like a hinged lid, propelled by a ball of fire and shattered lumber, but the other three walls blew out. Pearce’s body tumbled through the air like a rag doll. He landed clear of the house as the flaming roof smashed back down onto the remains of the structure and collapsed it.
Stella sprinted through the trees and fell down at the side of Pearce’s body, twisted and limp in the pine needles. She called Ian for help, but Pearce wasn’t responsive and she couldn’t find a pulse.
62
ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN
Pearce’s eyes blinked open. Where the hell am I?
He glanced at his feet tenting beneath the blanket on his elevated bed. Saw the bed rails and the TV attached to the far wall. It was hard to focus. A hospital room. His back and shoulders were sore. He felt the feeding tube snaking through his nose and down his throat. Instinctively he reached up to yank it out.
“Hold your horses, fella.”
The voice was familiar. Pearce turned to look.
Myers smiled at him. “Welcome back, sleepyhead. Better leave that tube alone until s
omeone can take it out for you.”
Pearce nodded. He couldn’t speak with the feeding tube, and his throat was sore and parched. Myers looked tired. She reached for the call button. A pretty Ghanaian nurse soon appeared. She gently extricated the feeding tube and took his vitals. “Everything looks good, Mr. Pearce. I’ll call the doctor. She should be back to see you shortly.” She poured him a glass of water, which Pearce drank greedily. She left, shutting the door behind her to give them some privacy.
“So what’s the story?” Pearce asked in a croaking voice. “The last thing I remember was Ian yelling something in my comms.”
“You were in an explosion. Knocked out cold. Good thing Stella knows CPR.”
“Stella? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She stayed here with me the first few days but I sent her home to get some rest.”
“How long have I been in here?”
“You’ve been in a medically induced coma for seven days. She and Ian got you to an emergency room and then arranged to have you transferred here to the neurology department at the University of Michigan. It’s one of the best in the nation.”
“Neurology? You mean brain damage. I mean, more than usual.”
Myers couldn’t help but grin. Pearce always made her laugh. “You had some serious brain swelling going on. The coma gave your brain a chance to heal itself. The prognosis is good.”
“Speaking of which, how is your noggin?”
“All checked out.”
Pearce nodded at her left arm, covered up in a sleeved jacket. “What about that?”
“Passed clean through.”
“That’s lucky.”
“A few stitches, oral antibiotics. Should heal completely within eight weeks. But we were talking about you.”
“Oh, yeah.” He took another sip of water and coughed a little. Then he took another. “Brain damage, you said.”
Myers’s grin slipped away. “I’ll let the doctor fill in the details.”
“I’m a big boy. Tell me what you know.”
“You definitely suffered some traumatic brain injury. But the MRI scans they ran showed you had previous brain injuries. Some quite serious. Probably from combat.”
“Comes with the job.”
“Helps explain the anger issues.”
“Some of them.” Pearce wanted to fill her in on what he’d been going through the last few days during the crisis but decided against it. She seemed stressed enough.
There was a soft knock on the door before it swung open.
“Mr. Pearce? I’m Dr. Guth.” She extended her small, fine-boned hand. Pearce was afraid he’d crush it in his large paw. The diminutive physician looked as if she were in her early twenties. Without the white coat and name tag, he might have mistaken her for a college student.
“Thanks for the help, doc.”
Dr. Guth nodded at Myers. “Good to see you again, Madam President. I mean, Margaret. Sorry.”
“I’m glad you two finally got to meet,” Myers said. “It was a rather one-sided conversation the two of you were having until today.”
“She hasn’t left your side since the day you arrived,” Guth said. “As bad as the food is here, that’s saying something. You’re a lucky man.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Have you both had a chance to talk?” Dr. Guth asked.
“Briefly.”
“I know you’ll both want to catch up, but I wanted to stop by and give you a quick overview of where things stand right now and the path forward. But the good news is that while you’ve suffered some severe TBI recently and in the past, there’s no reason not to expect a full recovery of cognitive and vocational function over time with appropriate therapies. But then there’s the other issue.”
Pearce raised an unruly eyebrow. “What issue?”
Guth shared a look with Myers. “Since you were unconscious, Margaret was the only person I could consult with regarding your medical history. Everything she described to me sounds like a classic case of PTSD, though technically I’m not able to offer you a formal diagnosis.”
Guth pulled up her tablet and swiped it for her notes. “You have extensive combat experience. Combat can cause traumatic brain injury or PTSD or both. The symptoms for both overlap and the treatments for TBI can be different than for PTSD. You need a skilled clinician to fully assess your situation and design a customized treatment plan. The VA has established the PolyTrauma System of Care for people exactly like you, and I’m recommending you to the PolyTrauma Network Site at the D.C. VA center as soon as you are discharged.”
“When’s that?” Pearce asked.
Guth smiled. “I want to keep you under observation for a little while. You’re bound to feel some physical symptoms—blurred vision, headaches, that sort of thing. And don’t be surprised if there’s some memory loss. But those should all clear up quickly. I’ll discharge you tomorrow morning if you feel up to it.”
“I’m ready now,” Pearce said.
Guth smiled kindly, as if addressing the village idiot. “But I’m afraid I’m not.” She tapped her tablet. “I’ll have someone come up from the kitchen and take your order. Try to eat and drink as much as you can.” She turned back to Pearce. “You can except a full recovery if you decide to do whatever it takes to get better.”
Pearce nodded. “That’s the plan.”
“Good. TBI is nothing to fool around with. And, Mr. Pearce, that means taking it easy for the next few weeks. Your brain needs time to heal. I understand you were up for some serious government post but I highly recommend you put that on hold for a while. You don’t need to do anything but rest and maybe watch a ballgame or two for the next few weeks. Okay?”
Myers resisted the temptation to shout amen.
“One more thing,” Guth said. Her brow furrowed. “I don’t want to cause you any alarm but I need you to be aware of the possibility of CTE.”
“Chronic traumatic encephalopathy,” Myers said. She had plenty of time to Google it while Pearce was unconscious.
Pearce saw the look on Myers’s face. Apparently this was the “not great” part of the news she couldn’t share before. He’d heard of it before. “Like the football players get. Comes with repeated blows to the head. That isn’t exactly me.”
“I agree. But at least one study indicates that a single incidence of blast exposure can cause the condition. CTE is a degenerative disease that eventuates in death.” Guth laid a hand on Pearce’s shoulder. “I’m only telling you all of this because I want you to take your situation seriously. I have no idea at all if you are suffering from the condition because the only way to confirm a diagnosis of CTE is an autopsy.”
“I’d just as soon skip that,” Pearce said, grinning.
Guth smiled back. “Me too. But you need to get to the VA as quickly as possible for evaluation and treatment—and follow their directions to the letter. Am I being clear?”
Pearce nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. I’m confident you’ll be just fine. I’ll check back later this afternoon, but don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions before then.”
Pearce and Myers thanked her and she left to finish her rounds.
Pearce asked Myers. “So what’s going on with the war?”
“Didn’t you hear the doctor? You need to let your brain rest.”
“I can turn on the TV if you prefer.”
“Just for the record, being a wisenheimer isn’t one of your symptoms.”
“Seriously. What’s going on?”
Myers sighed. Pearce was relentless. “The bombing campaign against Raqqa has ceased. Civilian casualties are estimated to be in the tens of thousands. ISIS has declared victory even though American and Saudi troops are on their way to the city. There have been terror attacks all across Europe. Baghdad, Doha, and even Saint P
etersburg have been hit as well. Lone wolf, mostly. Light casualties but lots of press attention.”
“Lane needs to stop this war.”
“Too late, I’m afraid.”
“If I can talk to him, tell him what’s really going on, he’ll stop it.”
Myers glanced away. “He’s asked about you. He’s worried about your health.”
“But he won’t talk to me.”
“He’s unavailable until after the Asia summit.”
Pearce saw something else in her eyes but decided to let it go. “So fill me in. What did you find out while I was napping?”
“Ian’s been busy putting the pieces together. After he hacked into Pike’s computer he found some interesting connections.”
“Like what?”
“It turns out the outfit he was contracting for in Iraq was owned by a shell company. Can you guess who owned it?”
Pearce frowned, connecting the dots. “Al-Saud?”
Myers smiled. “You know, even with your brain bruised, you’re pretty good at this analytical stuff.”
“Was Pike still connected to al-Saud?”
“Ian believes Pike was al-Saud’s drone operative.” Myers laid a hand on one of Pearce’s. “He also confirmed that Pike killed Tamar. I’m so sorry.”
Myers saw the sadness fill his eyes. She wished she could take it away. “He also killed Daniel Brody, and at least two other Israelis over the last few years.”
“That explains the Mossad connection.” He wished Werntz had clued him in. Pearce’s eyes narrowed. “What’s Pike’s status?”
“Disappeared. But Ian’s still on the hunt.”
“What about al-Saud?”
“Still under ‘house arrest.’”
“We’ve got to get that sonofabitch and put him on trial.”
Myers shook her weary head. “Not going to happen. If the American people suspected the Saudis were behind the recent attacks, they’d demand we invade them first.”