A few seconds later, Ragan tapped her shoulder before whispering in her ear. “This can’t wait. SKYSTORM.”
Steele tensed. A combination of excitement and distress instantly elevated her heartbeat. She’d taken an awful risk over the past few months. A high-stakes shadow investigation with one purpose—to bury the APEX Institute once and for all. To make them pay dearly for their complicity, no matter how indirect, in her daughter’s murder.
She didn’t care how far removed they claimed to be from Jacob Harcourt. Their bloodstained business model of Beltway power broking enabled the worst our broken military-industrial complex had to offer. The kinds of murderous, greedy rogues who steamrolled the competition and anyone caught in the cross fire—all to secure more power and money. She would soon expose this shadow industry to the sunlight, turning these vampires to dust.
Without saying a word, she stood and took the phone, leaving Ragan to represent her at the briefing. Once outside the conference room, Steele put the phone to her ear and sought an empty corner or alcove to keep the ensuing conversation private.
“That was quick,” she said.
“We have a problem,” said Bernie. “My surveillance bird is down. SARSAT registered a distress signal at eleven-oh-five Eastern Standard Time. The signal lasted two-point-two seconds. Crash site confirmed from the air. Nothing but pieces left.”
She stopped in the middle of the brightly lit hallway, trying to process what she had just heard. It took her a few seconds to come back online.
“The crew?”
“No word on that yet. Rescue crews haven’t reached the site, but I’m not very hopeful,” said Bernie.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, pausing for a few moments. “Is there any way this was an accident?”
“This wasn’t an accident. We’re talking about a perfectly maintained aircraft and my best pilot,” said Bernie. “Someone shot it out of the sky, which changes the game significantly.”
“Yes. It does,” she said, suddenly thinking about the surveillance operation in Georgetown. “I need to make a call right away.”
“I figured you might,” said Bernie. “Let me know what I can do. I have no intention of letting this go unanswered.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You know how to reach me,” said Bernie, before disconnecting the call.
Steele glanced up and down the hallway, no longer feeling safe deep inside the Hart Senate Office Building.
“Calm down. Think,” she muttered, moving herself into a small alcove outside another meeting room.
Steele gave the news some time to settle in before making her next move. One thing was clear: Bernie’s surveillance flight had seriously rattled someone’s cage. She was onto something with SKYSTORM, and that something was located in the Texas Panhandle and connected to APEX. What she didn’t know was exactly how far and wide APEX would take their response.
They’d more than likely dig a little deeper before taking any further action. She fully expected an afternoon visit from Ezra Dalton, who would deliver a “final” cease-and-desist warning from the Institute while probing for information. Steele would deny any involvement, agree to stay out of APEX’s business—and immediately modify her strategy to unmask SKYSTORM.
One way or the other, she’d get to the bottom of whatever had necessitated blowing a jet out of the sky. Until then, she’d ease up on the other side of her intelligence-gathering operation.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rich held a finger up while absorbing Senator Steele’s words. The team had been moments from walking out the back door and moving on Ezra Dalton’s brownstone.
“Ma’am. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to put this on speakerphone so we’re all on the same page,” he said.
“I’m fine with that,” said Steele.
“Our client has just learned that a separate surveillance asset assigned to investigate one of the leads we developed . . . has been terminated. As in a very expensive jet has been shot out of the sky over the area we identified.”
“Shit,” muttered Jared, who was joined by a similar chorus from the rest of the team.
Tim asked the first and most logical question. “Did the surveillance bird send any pictures before it went down?”
“No,” said Steele. “For reference, the incident occurred less than forty minutes into their mission. They had only covered a sixth of the designated surveillance zone before they went down.”
“Someone moved on them fast,” said Anish.
“Right. Which is why I think you should reconsider the visit you have planned,” said Steele.
A few seconds of heavy silence fell over the crew. Steele was the client, and if she wanted them to pull back, so be it. But she hadn’t ordered them to cancel the trip. She left it open for discussion, which meant she didn’t want to close that door for good.
“Without overstating the obvious, we’re clearly onto something with SKYSTORM,” said Rich. “Moving the camera to take advantage of Dalton’s new reading habit might provide the insight needed to further your investigation. We’ve been at this for close to three months and haven’t detected a trace of focused counterintelligence. They do regular visual and electronic sweeps of the neighborhood and Dalton’s brownstone, but our efforts have remained undetected. We’re confident of that.”
“My concern is that she will link her new habit to the flight and suspect she’s under surveillance,” said Steele.
“Then we have nothing to lose by moving the camera,” said Tim. “If they swoop in and tear the place apart later, that’s that. They’ll find the gear. If not, we might get another chance to glean some actionable intelligence. Either way, they can’t trace this back to you or us.”
“I’m mostly concerned with your safety at this point,” said Steele. “If we need to rethink this entire operation, I’m fine with that.”
“Our stakeout location is secure,” said Rich. “Let’s see how this plays out at the target’s brownstone. If the mission there gets burned, we’ll come up with another approach.”
Steele took several moments before she responded. While they waited, Jared shrugged in a show of noncommittal solidarity. He was good with whatever she decided. They all were. That was the way this worked. It didn’t matter how much they believed in the job or wanted to see it through to the end. The client had the final say.
“Just be careful. Any sign of trouble and you pull your team back,” said Steele.
“Understood,” said Rich. “I’ll call you when it’s done. I estimate thirty minutes at most.”
“Talk to you then,” said Steele.
Rich stuffed the encrypted phone into his sport coat pocket and turned to Tim, who was making a final adjustment to Anish’s earpiece.
“Watch everything with an eagle’s eye,” said Rich. “If anything feels off, you pull the plug. You have the absolute authority to make that call.”
“Got it,” said Tim, patting Anish’s shoulder. “I have a nifty program that has analyzed neighborhood vehicle and pedestrian traffic since we arrived. License plates. Facial recognition. Dozens of metrics.”
“Don’t overly rely on the technology. Look and listen,” said Rich. “Nothing will ever replace a set of seasoned eyes and ears. That goes for everyone.”
He locked eyes with each member of the team long enough to gauge their nonverbal reaction. So far, so good.
“Anish. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” he said, pausing for a moment. “But ready to roll like a motha-effin’ gangsta!”
“Maybe a little amped,” said Tim.
“I can live with nervous and amped,” said Rich. “All of you. Remember. If anything goes sideways, Tim will coordinate your exfil and extract. Do what you have to do to get clear of trouble, but listen to Tim. We have a team standing by for pickups—just in case. Any last questions or comments?”
“Can I have a gun?” asked Anish.
Rich just stared at him. Anish had
proved untrainable with a firearm, making no progress after hours of patient instruction on several different occasions. It was like something on a deep DNA level prevented him from competently handling and using any kind of weapon.
“Thought I’d try,” said Anish.
“I’d expect nothing less,” said Rich. “Tim?”
“On it. Give me a minute or two to double-check the streets and target house,” said Tim, before heading for the stairs.
While they waited, Rich made everyone check their equipment one last time before stepping off. He and Jared carried the same gear: Sig Sauer MPX submachine gun with several spare magazines, detached suppressor for the MPX, two flash bang grenades, and two smoke grenades. Everything quickly accessible. Rich’s gear fit snugly in a leather satchel that matched his business casual attire. Jared’s was hidden inside a roomier, custom-designed backpack that blended in with more of a young, hipster look.
“Final comms check,” said Tim through his earpiece.
They answered one at a time.
“Everyone sounds good,” said Tim. “You have a green light.”
“Let’s do this,” said Rich, opening the back door to a brick courtyard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Anish started to seriously regret his overly enthusiastic support of the camera-swap idea the moment he turned down the cramped alley behind the target house. He was truly on his own from now until he reemerged onto Thirty-Third Street. Jared was somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t hover too closely without drawing attention if APEX was somehow watching the streets. That mentally jarring logic, unexpectedly proclaimed by Rich a few minutes earlier, had entirely undermined Anish’s confidence. If APEX was watching the street, wouldn’t they also be watching the house?
Just keep moving and get the job done, Anish told himself. Jared would take care of any problem that arose. Hopefully. He really didn’t want to be here right now.
“Everything okay?” asked Tim through his earpiece. “You’ve slowed down.”
“Fine. Just taking in the sights,” said Anish, his voice automatically activating his headset microphone.
“Pick up the pace, please,” said Rich. “You can sightsee later.”
“Yes, sir,” said Anish, forcing his unsteady legs to move faster.
Good thing he wasn’t hooked up to a remote heart-rate monitor. They might think he was having a myocardial infarction. He’d feel a lot better if they’d given him a pistol. Actually, that wasn’t true. That would probably make things worse.
“You’re almost there, buddy,” said Tim. “Everything looks clear on the streets. The house is clear. This is a walk in the park. Nothing to it.”
Anish could sense the snide remarks forming in Rich’s and Jared’s minds. When they didn’t materialize over the radio net, he settled into a solid stride. The thick, dark-green ivy along the six-foot-tall redbrick wall cleared to reveal a black metal door. He took a few deep breaths and reached for the inset keypad, punching in the six-digit code they had observed Dalton’s security team use to admit the housecleaning crew yesterday. The door clicked, and he paused to take another deep, cleansing breath before pushing the heavy door inward and stepping inside.
“I’m through the first door,” said Anish, closing the door behind him.
“Told you. Nothing to it,” said Tim.
Anish took a moment to observe the compact courtyard between the brick wall and the three-story brownstone. A pergola-covered slate patio took up most of the space, furnished with expensive-looking all-weather seating for up to four. Overall, a comfortable outdoor refuge in the middle of the capital. He walked past the furniture and approached the back door with a set of keys.
“Ready to breach,” said Anish, regretting his choice of words.
The peanut gallery would no doubt lambaste him later for equating what he was about to do with a tactical breach.
“The alarm is disabled. Proceed,” said Tim. “Carefully.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Take the time to look, listen, and smell once you step inside,” said Rich. “Trust your senses and your gut. If something feels off, that may be the only warning we get.”
Wow. This is not helping.
“Got it,” said Anish, before inserting the key marked with black electrical tape into the dead bolt lock.
A few seconds later, after pocketing the keys, he turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door. The faint aroma of a cooked meal froze him in place. As Rich had suggested, he took a few moments to analyze the odor. Definitely nothing too recent. Anish proceeded inside and shut the door behind him, reengaging the locks as Rich had suggested. If an unexpected visitor showed up, the time they spent on the locks could spell the difference between a quick escape through the front door or a less-than-optimal scenario.
He walked slowly and softly through a short hallway to reach a spacious and modern kitchen. Anish stopped next to the black granite island and engaged all his senses. The countertops looked immaculate, as always. Nothing left out after breakfast. Not an item out of place. If their three-month-long surveillance had proved anything, it was that Ezra Dalton was meticulous about keeping the place organized and clean. Obsessive might be a better word.
Several more seconds of absolute stillness pretty much convinced him he was alone in the brownstone. Not one hundred percent, but as close as he’d get under the circumstances. Anish started walking toward the front foyer, where he knew the stairs were located.
“All quiet inside. Headed for the study.”
He had reached the hallway leading out of the kitchen when Rich spoke a single word that stopped him in his tracks.
“Tim?”
A long pause ensued, which was entirely unlike his colleague of many years.
“Tim?” said Anish.
“Get the hell out of there. Right now,” said Tim. “Go back the way you came.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m going,” said Anish, taking off for the back door.
“Talk to me, Tim,” said Rich.
“Vehicle and pedestrian patterns just went haywire on North Street, moving in from Thirty-Third and Potomac.”
They were converging on the street in front of the house. Not good, but it would give him a solid chance of slipping away. Maybe this was some kind of false alarm. Anish threw the dead bolt and opened the door, only to find a murderous-looking, body armor–clad man pointing a pistol at him from across the patio.
“Down on your knees!” yelled the man, before moving deliberately toward Anish.
No longer in control of his body, Anish started to back up. His brain told him to get back inside and lock the door. Let Jared and Rich figure this out.
“You move another inch, and I’ll blow your brains right out of your fucking head!”
That stopped him.
“On your knees!” the man repeated, before taking one hand off the pistol to trigger his radio. “I have him on the patio.”
A second man rushed onto the patio through the open alleyway door. He raised a compact submachine gun from under his unbuttoned gray blazer.
“We need to ready him for transport,” said the new arrival. “Shit’s about to get noisy across the street.”
Two distinct, muted snaps drew the shooters’ attention toward the alley behind them. A figure crumpled to the cement just beyond the doorway as Jared slipped inside the courtyard, the business end of his weapon leading the way. He fired twice, shifting from one hostile target to the other faster than Anish, and apparently the two operatives, could register. The men dropped to the slate as though their breakers had been tripped.
Anish just stood there, staring at their sprawled bodies. He would never get used to the sudden and often unpredictable finality in this business, where even under the most controlled circumstances, the margin for error was minimal. And almost always lethal.
“Let’s go,” said Jared, motioning for him to follow.
He couldn’t move.
“We need to get moving—right
now,” hissed Jared. “Tim. How are we looking?”
“Head east to Potomac. Then north. Rich should be able to cover you when you reach Potomac,” said Tim.
Tires screeched somewhere on the street in front of Dalton’s house, jolting Anish out of his paralysis. He sprinted toward Jared, who nodded at him before disappearing into the alley.
“How far out is our extraction?” asked Jared.
“Just do what I told you,” said Tim.
He’d never heard Tim talk like that to anyone on the team before. The situation was worse than the dead men lying on the ground behind Dalton’s house indicated—which was hard to imagine.
CHAPTER NINE
James Guthrie put both hands on the dashboard to brace himself for the sudden stop. In three. Two. One.
“Here,” he said to the driver.
The fast-moving SUV screeched to a halt in front of the target house, skidding into place to block oncoming eastbound traffic, as his assault teams stacked up on the front porch. The men and women wore bulky olive-drab ballistic vests over civilian clothes, giving them the option of quickly ditching their gear and melting away if things somehow went completely sideways.
“ALPHA in position,” squawked his headset.
“BRAVO. Status,” said Guthrie.
He needed the team watching the back door in place before initiating the breach. Dalton had been clear. She wanted the entire surveillance crew that had been working her brownstone dead or captured. No exceptions. Donnelly’s team had grabbed the cat burglar presumably sent to adjust the camera in her study. The lure of gleaning sensitive information from her new favorite reading location had worked almost too predictably.
Now to clean up the rest of this infestation. APEX countersurveillance technicians had identified the town house across the street as the source of the stakeout after detecting a distinctly out-of-place pattern of radio frequency emissions.
“BRAVO ready,” said another voice.
Time to wrap this up.
Skystorm (Ryan Decker) Page 4