“Change of plans,” said Leeds, grabbing at her free hand.
When she shook her head and buried her hands under her armpits, Leeds grabbed her shoulder-length hair and was using it to drag her toward the townhouse when the car door shattered from another explosive impact. She screamed and clawed at the ground to keep up, looking back at the mangled door she had moments ago assumed was safe cover.
Finally reaching her feet, Almeda stumbled over Preston’s body, glancing down long enough to see his glazed-over eyes and a small bullet hole to the right of his nose. The grip on her hair eased, replaced by an insistent tug on her arm. Leeds pulled her into the front hallway and kicked the door shut, turning to a severe-looking female agent who had somehow materialized in the townhouse.
“There’s a fifty-cal rifle to the south, covering the street,” Leeds said, pausing to catch his breath. “At least three shooters in covered positions at street level. Two south. One north. Place a Claymore at the front door. How does the back look?”
“No good. Night-vision sweep picked up IR beams. They’ll cut us down as soon as we step outside,” the agent answered.
“We need a new exit,” said Leeds.
“Already working on that. Downstairs,” she said, removing a paperback-size, olive-drab object from a pouch attached to her tactical vest.
The female agent brushed past them, dragging one of the antique wooden chairs from Almeda’s sitting room into the middle of the foyer. In one motion, she stepped up onto the ornately carved chair and jammed the olive-drab object into the plaster ceiling with two barbed spikes. On her way down, she flipped a switch, which momentarily bathed the hallway beyond the device in a faint green light. The woman pushed the chair against the wall and jogged away from the front door as Leeds yanked Almeda deeper into the townhouse.
“Stop it. You’re hurting me!” yelled the congresswoman, reluctantly following him to the basement staircase.
“My job is to keep you alive. You can fire me when this is over,” said Leeds, tightening his grip and pulling her down the staircase. “Watch your step.”
“The basement is a dead end,” she stated, before the smell of dust and smoke hit her nose.
“Not anymore,” he said, triggering his weapon’s attached flashlight.
The flashlight struggled to penetrate a thick layer of suspended dust at the bottom of the stairwell. A thunderous explosion rocked the townhouse above and behind her, showering them in wood and plaster fragments. A hand shoved her forcefully from behind.
“Let’s go, ma’am,” ordered a female voice.
Leeds pulled Almeda into the dust-choked darkness, moving them rapidly toward a flickering light on the other side of the narrow space. As they approached the light, Almeda realized the source of illumination couldn’t possibly come from her basement. A deeper-sounding explosion rumbled, dropping lines of dust from the ceiling in front of Leeds’s flashlight.
“What the hell was that?” asked Almeda. “Where the hell are we going?”
“My team is working on a new exit,” said Leeds.
“We should wait here until the police arrive,” said Almeda, pulling against his grip.
“DC Metro police scanners are quiet,” said Leeds, ducking through a jagged hole in the basement wall. “Nobody is coming for us.”
“How can they be quiet?” asked Almeda, hesitating. “Where the hell are we going?”
“Townhouse next to yours. Watch your head.”
She stumbled into the adjoining basement, tripping over broken bricks and wooden debris.
“Why aren’t the police responding? What happened to the Capitol police security detachment assigned to watch my residence?”
“Ma’am. We don’t have time for this,” said Leeds. “My backup vehicles are a few seconds away.”
None of this made sense. Who would want her dead badly enough to launch a high-profile attack in front of her house? Her colleagues in the House? The industries pulling their strings? Or were they all the same thing? The timing of the attack couldn’t be a coincidence. She’d just left a tense dinner meeting, no doubt sponsored by the same industries.
“How dare they?” she muttered. “Maybe it’s time to cut our losses.”
“Cut whose losses, ma’am?” asked Leeds, glancing furtively up the stairs leading into the adjoining townhouse.
“California’s,” said Almeda. “They just fucked with the wrong congresswoman.”
Leeds stared at her for a few seconds, for the first time seeming unsure how to proceed. “If you discover One Nation is behind this attack,” he asked, “will you support the liberation movement agenda?”
“What?” she responded, puzzled by his oddly timed question.
“If the One Nation Coalition is responsible for Mr. Preston’s murder, will you side with the secessionists?”
They didn’t have time for a drawn-out political discussion, so she answered bluntly.
“Mr. Leeds, if we uncover any connection between the ONC and this attack, I’ll personally barge onto the statehouse floor in Pasadena and demand that California cut ties with the federal government—and seize every industry asset within the state.”
“I really wish you hadn’t said that,” he stated, pointing his menacing weapon at her face.
She instantly understood the mistake she’d made with her brutally candid response.
“I should have known,” she said, spitting in his face before he pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 2
Deep-scarlet ribbons of scattered clouds layered the horizon, dissolving into a dark-blue sky. Mason Flagg sipped Canadian spring water from a tall glass, admiring the day’s quiet transition from his cliffside terrace. Occasionally, his glance dropped to the vanishing expanse of rippled ocean converging on the shoreline far beneath the balcony. He’d miss the view but not the state.
Nothing could save this place. Not the billions pumped into renewable energy projects by the state. Certainly not the untraceable millions transferred to Cerberus Group’s bank accounts to fund Flagg’s operations. None of it would make a shred of difference in the end. California faced a Malthusian-grade dilemma, solvable only by genocide—and the last time he checked, Cerberus didn’t accept that kind of work. Not on US soil, anyway.
The satphone lying on the table next to him rattled the smooth glass top, turning his head toward the indigo-blue hologram hovering an inch over the phone’s surface: “LEEDS.”
“Answer call,” he said.
The miniaturized earpiece fitted snuggly inside his right ear acknowledged the request, and the holograph changed to “ENCRYPTED CALL IN PROGRESS.”
“I assume our friend has retired for the evening?” asked Flagg.
“That’s one way to say it,” replied Leeds, pausing for a moment. “We need to have a very private conversation.”
Flagg stared at the softening colors in the distance, placing a half-empty glass of water on the white-marble tabletop. He took a deep breath before grabbing the phone and retreating to the home’s main-level safe room.
“I’m inside,” said Flagg, shutting the door to the eavesdropping-protected sanctuary.
“Almeda’s dead,” said Leeds. “Successful assassination attempt at ten forty-five eastern standard time.”
“I’m not in the mood for games, Leeds,” said Flagg.
“That makes two of us. We were ambushed in front of her townhouse. Preston and three of my agents are dead, in addition to Almeda.”
Flagg’s mind processed the implications. His continually updated feed of comprehensive—and extremely expensive—field intelligence reports didn’t support the possibility of a California Liberation Movement–sponsored assassination attempt. One of the patrons funding Cerberus’s operation got nervous about Almeda.
“I need to make a few calls,” said Flagg. “Are you set for now?”
“We’re not sticking around, if that’s what you’re asking. We took some pretty extreme measures to protect Almeda. Claymore mi
nes aren’t on DC Metro’s approved list of personal protective gear, not to mention breaching explosives and armor-piercing ammunition.”
Something didn’t make sense. If the team used Claymores and breaching charges, Almeda must have made it into the house alive.
“You used Claymores? What really happened to Almeda?” asked Flagg.
“We only used one,” said Leeds.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Someone fucked up big-time.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Flagg. “I just want to make sure it wasn’t you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Leeds, pausing before he continued. “Preston came through as predicted—and one of our patrons killed him right in front of her. Next stop would have been an impromptu press conference at the airport, declaring her support for the CLM. No way I could let her walk out of that house alive.”
Flagg took a deep breath and exhaled. “That’s why I assigned you to babysit Almeda. I never have to second-guess your decisions. What are we looking at in terms of forensics? Any way this traces back to the protective detail?”
“She took an unlucky bullet to the head when we tried to move her to the backup vehicle.”
“Witnesses?”
“Negative,” said Leeds. “Strickland was killed in the same gun battle. She was the only other agent in sight of the congresswoman.”
“Two lucky shots?”
“Would you have preferred a different outcome?” asked Leeds.
“No. We can’t afford any loose ends,” said Flagg. “And I didn’t just order you to deep-six the rest of the team.”
“The rest of her team was out of sight, clearing a path to the backup vehicle.”
“What did you do with Almeda’s body?”
“The backup team just delivered it to the George Washington University ER,” said Leeds. “They’ll stay behind to answer questions. As far as they’re concerned, I wasn’t here.”
“Perfect. A Cerberus cleanup team can handle the rest. I need you back in California immediately. I’m accelerating the timeline.”
“I’m headed to Hyde Field. Should be airborne in forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll call you with instructions when I have them,” said Flagg. “I expect you to hit the ground running.”
“How much of an acceleration are we talking about?”
“I expect you to be here for the recovery phase of the Del Mar mission,” said Flagg.
“Please tell me you’re not talking about tonight?”
“California needs to wake up to a more pressing distraction than Almeda’s assassination. See you in roughly eight hours.”
Flagg disconnected the call and sat on the edge of the mahogany desk dominating the center of the room. He had a long night ahead of him. Leeds had extinguished the most immediate fire, buying them a day or so before the separatist propaganda machine kicked into full gear.
“Dial Raymond Olmos,” he said.
“Dialing Raymond Olmos,” his cell responded. “Encrypted call in progress. Connected.”
“Good evening, Mr. Flagg,” said Olmos.
“Ray, I need to move up the timeline for the Del Mar mission,” said Flagg, pausing. “Is there any reason your team can’t execute the mission tonight?”
Olmos paused a little longer than Flagg had anticipated. “Is there a problem, Ray?”
“Negative,” said the operative. “We’ll make it happen. Everything is pre-staged.”
“Good. I’ll meet you in Point Loma. What’s your estimated time of departure?”
“Twenty-three hundred hours,” said Olmos. “We’ll make up the time on the water.”
“I’ll see you then. Call me immediately if you run into a problem.”
“There won’t be any problems, Mr. Flagg.”
The call ended, leaving Flagg with a distinctly unpleasant task: he had to call his executive handler at Cerberus and explain the mess One Nation Coalition had just created.
CHAPTER 3
Mason Flagg checked the illuminated dial on his watch again. So much for the boats making up time on the water. They had already been pushing mission parameters with an eleven o’clock start. He walked up to Raymond Olmos, who was inspecting one of his divers’ MK27 rebreather rigs.
“How much longer, Ray?” he said.
Olmos, a squat, muscular ex–Navy SEAL answered without turning around. “This is the last rig.”
“I feel like I’ve already heard that a few times tonight.”
“Well,” said Olmos, “I didn’t anticipate my equipment tech getting pinched at a police checkpoint.”
“He shouldn’t have been carrying a firearm under his front seat. We have specialized containers and procedures for that.”
“He shouldn’t have been pulled over in the first place. His car was supposed to be off-limits,” said Olmos, still without looking up. “Shit like that makes the team nervous. It’s not like we’re in town for a yoga retreat.”
Flagg stifled a laugh. “The last thing I’d want to do is make your team of hardened operators nervous. I’ll see what I can do about preventing a repeat. Until then, make sure your team transports firearms in approved containers. Checkpoint detection systems are too sophisticated for the Ziploc-bag-under-the-seat trick.”
Olmos slapped the dry suit–encased diver on the shoulder and turned to face Flagg. “We’re ready to roll, sir.”
“We need to make up some time,” said Flagg.
“I’ll take us over the horizon to throw off any of the Coast Guard radars that pick us up on the way out.”
“Just stay out of obvious visual range from the coast. Even the navy’s newest radars have a hard time detecting these,” said Flagg, patting the grayscale-painted hull of the sleek, shallow-angled craft next to him.
The Mark X SDP (Stealth Delivery Platform) had been designed to bring SEALs ashore undetected in the most radar-infested maritime environments imaginable. The Department of Defense put the program on indefinite hold two years ago—leaving General Dynamics Marine Systems with a sizable, and unrecoverable, research-and-development loss. Eager to plug the financial holes in their rapidly declining maritime portfolio, General Dynamics sold the program to Sentinel Group, Cerberus International’s parent corporation.
Mason Flagg had taken possession of two experimental craft several weeks ago, in an unobserved nighttime delivery to the beach outside of the building. The radar-invisible boats were instrumental to Cerberus’s plan to turn the tide against the separatists.
“We’ll scan for thermal signatures on the beach and in the structures,” said Olmos. “That’s the only time we’re vulnerable to a beach sighting. Even then, we’re barely visible.”
“All it takes is one self-styled vigilante with a night-vision scope to cast some serious doubt on the accident,” said Flagg, taking a step back. “Move your team out.”
“Roger that,” said Olmos, turning to face the team that had assembled in front of the boats. “Power up the winches! Open the doors! It’s go time!”
The squad dispersed, each team member tending to a different launch task. Within seconds, the harsh, fluorescent overhead lighting switched to a deep-red glow, releasing a monochromatic cascade of crimson-and-maroon shadows. A briny ocean smell instantly filled the two-story structure, carried under the doors by a brisk sea breeze. The boats started to move forward before the doors had cleared the halfway point, causing Flagg to glance at Olmos.
“It’s all synchronized to minimize the amount of time the doors are open. Never know who’s watching—and from where. Can’t be too careful, right?” asked Olmos, barely concealing a smirk.
The boats slid toward the rolling bay doors, their bows disappearing under the steadily rising hatches. A few seconds later, both of the MK X’s vanished into the darkness, barely discernible to Flagg as dark, receding shapes.
“This is where I say adios,” said Olmos, slapping Flagg on the shoulder before jogging into
the night.
He hated when Olmos did that. There was no reason for the man to touch him, under any circumstances. It was a purposeful act of disrespect. Almost enough to have him replaced—which meant far more than just a handshake and “Good luck with your next job” at this point in the operation. Fortunately for Olmos, he was the best in the business—one of Cerberus’s most effective operators. Replacing him was not an option at this point, unless he severely compromised one of their missions.
Recruiting morally ambiguous top-tier Special Operations types had become nearly impossible over the past decade. With Joint Special Operations Command’s footprint shrinking every year, turnover within the elite units had come to a standstill. Technology was rapidly replacing the elite soldier, making Flagg’s job difficult. Operations conducted by Cerberus simultaneously required the best warriors and the worst human beings. A rare combination in today’s market.
A deep rumble joined the sound of crashing waves, drawing Flagg through the open bay doors into the crisp surf-side air. His shoes crunched the thin layer of fine sand blown over the expanse of asphalt extending to the water, as a second rumble interrupted the night on the western side of Point Loma. The rhythmic thrum of the boat’s sound-damped engines faded into the pounding surf less than a hundred feet away.
To the untrained ear, the boats would draw little attention from the shore. The expanse of beach selected as their primary insertion and extraction point was located just outside the surf zone, in front of a hundred-yard stretch of nature conservation land. The nearest building or home was easily more than two hundred feet away. His only worry at this point was the timing.
Olmos’s team was working on a highly compressed timeline, which left him uneasy. Once they started working on the seawater-cooling intake pumps, there was no turning back. The schematics and firsthand intelligence provided to the team made that abundantly clear. Even under optimal time constraints, they could not reverse any work they had begun. The divers had to complete the work, and they were already two hours behind the originally planned timeline.
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