Skystorm (Ryan Decker)

by Steven Konkoly

  His father’s ensuing silence asked the million-dollar question: How?

  “We’ve proven resourceful enough to defeat a few Goliaths,” said Decker. “With Senator Steele’s help, we have a good shot at toppling this colossus.”

  “Did the senator recently acquire an aircraft carrier?”

  “Better, apparently,” said Decker. “She found an infinitely lethal team, with zero moral hang-ups.”

  “More mercenaries,” said Steven.

  “She said they’re working pro bono.”

  “Doesn’t sound like mercenaries. Maybe they’re working on a contingency fee of some sort.”

  “That’s all she said,” said Decker. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  James Guthrie rode the elevator to the second floor for his meeting with Ms. Dalton. Truth be told, he didn’t have a good feeling about the outcome. His team had been blindsided yesterday, with disastrous results. Worse than the extensive casualty count was the fact that they had left three bodies behind for law enforcement to identify. At least one of the operatives would be immediately identified, raising some serious questions.

  Jeff Donnelly, who had been tasked to grab the surveillance tech at Dalton’s town house, was former FBI. He’d led the FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, right up until a whistleblower complaint led to an audit of the team’s travel-expense budget. Donnelly had “lost” close to seventy thousand dollars over a two-year period.

  They could never prove he stole the money, but the discrepancy, compounded by some interesting testimony regarding travel-expense practices, had resulted in his immediate dismissal. APEX had hired him to apply his specialized skill set to the exact opposite of his job in the FBI. He had become APEX’s “kidnap guy,” a decision they were all one fingerprint or facial-recognition hit away from possibly regretting. Adding Donnelly’s team to the operation had been his decision. What had looked like a no-brainer at the time.

  Guthrie had assumed they were up against a sophisticated surveillance crew, protected by a solid security team. Nothing more than that. He certainly hadn’t expected a sudden Tier One response at Dalton’s town house and an explosives-rigged decoy. Nobody could have anticipated that. But none of that mattered in the end. The disaster had gone down on his watch, and he was prepared to pay the consequences. Part of him would be relieved to be done with APEX.

  His pay and bonus structure was second to none in the security-mercenary world, but field leadership suffered from “high turnover,” a euphemism for “significant casualty rate.” The reward for surviving long enough in the rapid security force (RSF) was an upward move into an operational role, where you worked the big projects and reaped even bigger benefits. Given recent rumors about disastrous Institute setbacks and the unexpected disaster yesterday, he’d started to rethink that goal.

  The elevator stopped, the door opening to the operations and analysis floor. A suit-clad security officer escorted him down a hallway that spanned the length of the building in both directions. The floor was silent aside from their footsteps, the sprawling operations hub hidden away behind a long, featureless wall.

  They passed a sturdy-looking, polished steel door flanked by a biometric handprint scanner and inset camera lens on the way to a compact, tucked-away conference room at the end of the hallway, where Ezra Dalton, Samuel Quinn, and Allan Kline sat at the far end of a short table. The thought that he might be reinterviewing for his job crossed Guthrie’s mind. Or begging for his life. He’d heard those rumors, too.

  “James. Please take a seat,” said Dalton, pointing toward a folder in front of him.

  He eased into the seat, his hand brushing over the folder. Termination paperwork?

  “Before we get started, James,” said Dalton, “we need you to sign a new employment contract—assuming you’re interested in the new position.”

  Guthrie glanced from face to face, trying to get a read on the situation. Kline was unreadable. His beady, penetrating eyes and expressionless look gave nothing away. Quinn looked like he always did. A little too laid-back for the situation. Dalton? Nothing new there. Pleasantly impatient.

  “Promotion or demotion?” said Guthrie, hoping to get some kind of reaction from any of them.

  Quinn softly chuckled, while Kline held the line.

  “Were you expecting a demotion?” asked Dalton.

  “After yesterday, I certainly don’t expect a promotion.”

  “Yesterday was an outlier,” said Quinn. “New information has cast some light on why the town house op went sideways. Unless you have precognition. If you have ESP, I have a completely different job in mind for you.”

  “I don’t have ESP,” said Guthrie.

  “Then you couldn’t have known what you were up against,” said Quinn. “Which brings us to the new interim position we’d like to offer you—within operations. We have a singular project for you to shepherd. If you succeed, your transition to operations becomes permanent. Interested?”

  Guthrie hesitated long enough for Dalton to jump in.

  “If it sounds too good to be true, you have good instincts,” said Dalton. “The job involves going up against the same group that kicked you in the teeth yesterday. It won’t be a picnic, not that any of your work up until this point has been easy. But this will be different, and exceedingly difficult. That’s all we can say until you sign the new contract.”

  He rubbed his chin and gave it as much thought as they would tolerate—a few seconds—before opening the folder and picking up the pen.

  “Count me in,” said Guthrie, flipping to the last page to sign.

  “You’re welcome to read through the contract,” said Dalton. “We can adjourn for ten minutes to give you the time.”

  “Any surprises?” said Guthrie, before twisting the heavy pen to reveal the ink tip.

  “No. The interim nature of the position is spelled out in detail, on top of the position in operations you will be offered upon successful completion of the project. Special Activities Division leadership trainee assignment. Pay remains the same until transfer to SAD,” said Dalton.

  He signed his name and dated the contract. “Sounds perfect. Thank you for the opportunity. When do I get started?”

  “Immediately after you recommend a replacement for your current position,” said Dalton.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “Laura Bachmann,” said Guthrie. “She’s the only reason we got out of there with most of the casualties before Metro PD arrived. Extensive section leader experience. Strong leadership skills. Levelheaded. My first pick would be Moreno, but I can’t imagine he’ll be back in business anytime soon.”

  Allan Kline got up. “Bachmann was at the top of my list. We’ll go with her. I may require you to spend a few hours bringing her up to speed.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” said Guthrie.

  “He’s all yours,” said Kline, brushing past him without any further acknowledgment.

  When the door closed behind Kline, Dalton leaned forward and laced her fingers. “Last chance to back out.”

  “I think I just gave my job away,” said Guthrie.

  “Mr. Kline would be happy to put you back on the job,” she said.

  “No. I’m in,” he said, sliding the folder across to her.

  “Very well,” she said, glancing at Quinn before continuing. “Your project is to locate and kill Senator Margaret Steele.”

  Guthrie sat stunned for a moment, really wishing he had taken her up on the offer to back out. Nothing about this sounded like a good idea. For APEX or himself. Authorizing a hunter-killer mission against a high-ranking member of the government reeked of desperation. Maybe the rumors about recent operational setbacks at APEX had been understated.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting such a focused mission.”

  Quinn laughed. “Focused. You’re damn right about that. It’s your only focus from now until the job is done.”

  “Do we have a
ny leads?” said Guthrie.

  “I like this. Straight to work,” said Quinn.

  “She chartered a private jet yesterday afternoon to fly her from Ronald Reagan National Airport to Hollywood Burbank Airport, but she wasn’t on the plane when it landed,” said Dalton. “Video surveillance at the airport confirms she took off with the plane, so obviously she diverted. The pilots were back in the air before we could question them, headed to George Bush Airport, where the plane sits right now. We expect to question the crew this morning—assuming they show up.”

  “How much latitude do I have with this project?”

  “Unlimited,” said Dalton. “Run your requests through me. At this point you ask, you get. Keep me apprised of all new developments, ongoing progress, changes to strategy. I don’t expect an update every five minutes, but I do expect regular reporting. I’ll let you know if I need more or less.”

  “Understood,” said Guthrie.

  “Any questions before I set you up with operations?” said Dalton.

  “The team? How will that work?” said Guthrie. “Especially with me kind of jumping into operations.”

  “Special projects call-up roster. Operations will walk you through it. We should be able to pull in some completely intact sections, which are always preferable to piecing together groups, but overall it’s a solid roster, with no hierarchy issues. You’re the project leader.”

  The call-up roster sounded similar to the method he’d used to source Donnelly. He couldn’t wait to see what would be at his fingertips now that he was part of operations. His menu of choices had been somewhat limited in security.

  “All right,” said Guthrie. “And Mr. Quinn mentioned some kind of information that explained how we got sideswiped yesterday?”

  “That’s going to be your biggest challenge, but it also gives you a little more to work with. You’ll have access to that file through operations, but the bottom line is that we finally identified the man that entered my town house, which led to a hit on the shooter in the alley. It’s not good. They’re operatives formerly associated with a mercenary group we thought had disbanded. Ever hear of General Terrence Sanderson?”

  He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “No reason it would,” said Dalton. “He ran an off-the-books black ops group for the military but ran into trouble and was forced to retire. A few years after that, he resurrected the group as a private mercenary entity. Rumor has it that the CIA used the group for some of its darkest projects.”

  “How dark?”

  She looked at Quinn, who nodded.

  “Direct-action missions on Russian soil. Elimination of domestic terror organizations. High-profile renditions in Europe. That kind of thing,” she said.

  “And we have a file on them?”

  “Not the most extensive file, but a list of names, aliases, profiles, suspected contacts. Enough to get started,” said Dalton. “Our hope is that this is just a few scraps from the past, working together on a specialized contract. If the original organization is still intact to any degree—and working for Senator Steele—that will undoubtedly change our approach.”

  “That bad?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” said Abbott. “First priority is finding Steele or anyone formerly associated with the two men we identified. We’ll decide how to proceed from there.”

  “Can’t wait to get started,” said Guthrie, hoping the spoken words hadn’t reflected the sarcasm on the inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Senator Steele sat in the front row of the mansion’s sprawling home theater, a camera on a tripod situated before her, just below her view of the massive, elevated movie screen. Rich sat a few seats away, a separate camera pointing at his face. The rest of Rich’s team sat in the seats next to and behind him.

  The team’s annoying and frenetic tech wizard, Anish Gupta, had explained to her that splitting them up into two groups would clearly delineate who was speaking during the videoconference. It had something to do with the microphone picking up noise and highlighting their icons.

  She’d suggested doing this old school, as a teleconference or a videoconference with one camera, but even Anish’s much-older colleague admitted the meeting would flow better, especially since none of their faces would be displayed for privacy and security reasons. Somehow they could “take turns” better—or something.

  “Ready, ma’am?” said Anish. “The other participants are ready. I can invite them into the conference at any time.”

  “And we won’t see any faces?” she asked.

  “No faces. Just the four black squares with initials where the images normally would appear. A yellow frame will line the active square—when someone in that group is talking.”

  “It works better than he’s making it sound,” said Tim.

  “Dude. She was getting it,” said Anish.

  “I wasn’t getting it.”

  “You were getting it, right—”

  “Enough bickering. It never ends with you two,” said Rich. “Senator Steele?”

  “I was sort of getting it,” she said.

  “Told you!” said Anish, pumping his fists high above his head.

  Rich buried his head in his hands. “Sorry, Senator. I meant are you ready to start the conference?”

  “I know what you meant,” she said, breaking into a reserved laugh. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Rich doesn’t like that, sucka!” said Anish, before going completely straight-faced. “I’m done. Ready, ma’am?”

  “Yes.”

  He darted off to the side and sat on a stool at the bar, typing on his laptop. “We’re live!”

  “Hello. It’s Senator Steele,” she said, activating the square with the single initial S.

  “Read you loud and clear, Senator,” said a familiar voice, triggering the RD square. “It’s Ryan Decker. And I’m here with the team. Everyone but the two in the hospital.”

  “How are they doing?” she asked.

  “Garza is fine,” said Decker. “Brooklyn is still in critical condition. She’s awake and hanging in there, but she has a long way to go.”

  “She sounds like a tough customer,” said Steele. “We’ll take good care of her.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Decker.

  “I know you’re familiar with HB,” said Steele. “Care to guess who that is?”

  “Can’t be. I thought he was lying low for a while,” said Decker.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Bernie. “Serves me right. Good to hear you, your family, and the whole crew made it out okay. Couldn’t believe they went after you. Total bullshit.”

  “Ryan. And everyone else on your end,” she said. “Bernie lost a surveillance jet yesterday morning, along with two crew members. They were shot down running an errand for me, which basically kicked off the whole messy chain of events.”

  “Quincy?” said Decker.

  “Still here,” said Quincy Rohm. “Not exactly sure how, but I’m still around.”

  “She had to walk something like ten miles to the edge of whatever counts as civilization out there,” said Bernie. “We lost a copilot and our best sensor array operator.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Pierce. “This is Brad.”

  “Hey, buddy,” said Bernie. “Heard you had a little scare, too.”

  “Not so bad. We’re all buttoned up nice and tight here.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Steele. “I can’t apologize strongly enough for setting off this chain reaction and endangering your lives and the lives of your families. I underestimated and underappreciated the potential consequences of prying into APEX’s affairs again. I was so enraged by their harassment of you and your families last fall and winter that I let it cloud my judgment. I’m truly sorry, and I’m going to make this right—which brings me to an introduction.

  “When I decided to keep looking into APEX, a team of unique specialists was recommended to me by an old
friend. I’ve been working with them for three months. Just a small team. We started with the surveillance of a senior board director and rather quickly stumbled onto something they very dearly wanted to conceal. They shot down a jet over the Texas Panhandle in broad daylight. Tried to assassinate my surveillance team. And went after the rest of you. We obviously hit a nerve.”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Harlow.

  “Good to hear your voice, Harlow,” said Steele.

  “I wish I could say the same, ma’am, but we’re back to square one here. With our backs against a wall.”

  Decker tried to interrupt, but she clearly wasn’t having it—which Steele completely understood. She’d feel the same way if the roles were reversed. Frankly, she was surprised they weren’t all yelling at her at once. For a group that she had nearly killed with her carelessness, they were a relatively sedate crowd.

  “Hold on, Decker. I’m not done. We’re living in RVs and tents up in Alderpoint, because that’s the only place we thought might be safe for a while. Alderpoint of all places. Sixteen of us, including Reeves’s and Kincaid’s families. FBI agents afraid for their family’s lives. So. You hit more than a nerve yesterday, and we’re all paying for it. I mean, how the hell do we even fix this? There’s a twenty-million-dollar bounty on our heads! This isn’t going away with a phone call and an apology to APEX.”

  A very long pause followed Harlow’s very justified reprimand.

  “I’m finished,” said Harlow. “Just needed to get that off my chest and let you know how we feel. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, back to my original question: How the hell do we make this go away? We’ve been tossing around ideas, but it’s a little hard to take any of them seriously given our obviously degraded state of affairs.”

  “Harlow. I appreciate your honesty, and you’re right. I created a mess for all of you,” she said. “And I plan to throw every resource I can muster or buy at solving the problem, which brings me back to my original point. We struck a nerve at APEX. There was nothing subtle about their response, which is strikingly uncharacteristic for them. There’s something going on over there.”