The manager laughed. “Surely, you’re joking, right?”
No one said anything.
“You are joking?” he asked again.
Banks shook her head. “I’m afraid we aren’t.”
“Well, you’ll need to talk with the locker operator and see if he noticed anything suspicious. He would’ve seen anything that’s happened around here tonight, suspicious or otherwise.”
The lock operator was engrossed in a news report about a troop of Americans who were killed in a firefight with the Taliban in a remote region of Afghanistan. He got up and introduced himself as Greg McClendon, offering to shake after he put down his doughnut and wiped his hand on his pants.
Banks and Lang simply nodded, while Flynn touched his index finger to his forehead as a salute.
McClendon withdrew his hand. “So, what can I help you with tonight? Is there some major drug bust going down? Is this gonna be on television?”
“Mr. McClendon,” Banks began, “I need you to focus for me and think back about all the people you’ve allowed through the docks tonight, perhaps in the past few hours. Did anyone seem a little off to you?”
He squinted and cocked his head to the side. “Off in what way?”
“Like perhaps they weren’t your normal clientele?” Lang responded.
“Hmmm. Nothing out of the ordinary as I recall off the top of my head.” He paused. “I did have a yacht come through, which doesn’t happen every day, but I know who that guy is—Frank Yankoski. He owns half of the town.”
“Anyone else, Mr. McClendon? It’s very important that you think hard about this,” Banks said.
McClendon took a deep breath. “Well, there were these three foreigners who came through the locks on a speedboat.”
“Foreigners?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. They had an accent of some sort.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“Mostly just fishermen or rich people or their spoiled kids use this waterway. It’s rare that I hear anyone with an accent.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“Not much of one. Just two men and a woman. They looked like they were out for a good time. Very serious, though. I chalked that up to being from another country. Not everyone is as easygoing as the folks around here.”
“If you had to guess, what kind of accent would you say they had?” Lang queried.
“Well, I’ve never been to Moscow—except the city just north of here,” McClendon said with a chuckle. “But if I had to guess, I’d say Russia.”
“And what time was that?” Banks asked.
“Maybe about two hours or an hour and a half ago—I can’t be sure.”
“What kind of boat was it?” Lang asked.
“It looked like a Bayliner.”
“Thank you for your time,” Banks said.
“Is that all you need?” the manager asked.
“It’s all for now. We’ve got your number and we’ll call you if we need anything,” Lang said.
The manager split while the three stepped outside to discuss next steps.
“It has to be them,” Flynn said. “Do we have access to a boat?”
Banks shook her head.
“Well, we’ll have to commandeer one,” he answered.
Before she could protest or suggest an alternate action, Flynn raced toward the docks and found a speedboat. From surveying the contents of the boat, he assumed the people were into skiing—and going fast. The twin 150 horsepower engine on the back told him as much. It made for the perfect boat to pursue the terrorists.
“You can’t just take this boat,” Banks shouted as she ran down the dock.
“We can ask for forgiveness later—and I can assure you everyone will be far more forgiving once we’ve apprehended the terrorists,” Flynn said.
Lang stormed down the dock and grabbed Banks by the arm. “Screw protocol. We need to catch them before they escape the country with plutonium.”
Flynn prepped the boat before he hot-wired it.
“How do you know how to do that?” Banks asked.
Flynn shot her a look.
“Never mind. I don’t wanna know.”
Flynn backed the boat slowly out of the dock.
Without reservation, Lang put his hands on the wheel. “Here. Let me drive. I spent my summers ripping up and down rivers like this one.”
“Be my guest,” Flynn said.
He sat down next to Banks near the front of the boat.
“Still afraid we’re barking up the wrong tree?” he asked.
“I’m more afraid that you’re right.”
“Afraid?”
“If terrorists can sneak into this country and steal out of here with nuclear material, I’m very afraid. How much longer until they decide not to leave the country and use it on our own people?”
“Until it happens, it’s nothing more than an unfounded fear.”
“That’s what they said about nine-eleven.”
“True—but terrorism these days seems to be about making a point, not simply terrorizing people. It’s an art.”
She sighed. “It sounds like you almost admire these people.”
“Don’t get me wrong—anyone who has the guts to storm a nuclear facility and take off with Plutonium has my respect. But I despise terrorists. They’re like cockroaches though—you stomp on one and three more appear.”
“It’s why I chose the FBI over the CIA.”
“Yet, here you are.”
She smiled. “Yes, here I am.”
They rode along for several hours, nothing but the hum of the outboard engines and the boat cutting through the water to fill the air. Four hours, then six. Nothing.
The dawn started to break just after 5 AM. Banks had fallen asleep, using Flynn’s arm as a pillow. He nudged her.
“Hand me your binoculars,” he said.
Startled, she rubbed her eyes and gave them to him. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, but there’s another boat up ahead.”
“Fishermen?”
“Could be. But they’re flying down the river pretty fast.”
“Looking for their spot, perhaps?”
Flynn motioned for Lang to throttle up. “I think that’s them,” he said.
The boat lurched forward, shoved into another gear by Lang.
Flynn studied them closely through his binoculars. He wasn’t close enough to make out many details yet, but he knew they soon would be.
“That looks like a Bayliner, the kind McClendon said they were driving,” Flynn said.
“Two men and a woman?” Banks asked.
“I can’t tell yet.”
Flynn peered through his binoculars as they drew closer to the boat. Despite the low light, he was finally able to make out one of the men aiming a gun in their direction.
“Everybody get down,” he said.
Before he could say another word, the boat broke hard to the right. Flynn glanced over at Lang, who was clutching his chest.
“I’m hit,” Lang said, trying to hold the boat steady.
Flynn crept back toward Lang but got hit in the arm with a bullet. He hit the deck as he heard several more bullets pepper the water near them.
“Lang, are you okay?” Banks said as she rushed toward him.
“Stay down,” Flynn yelled.
She dropped to her her hands and knees but kept crawling toward him. Noticing the blood dripping from Flynn’s arm, she looked at him. “Did you get hit?”
“Yeah, but I’ll be okay,” he answered. “I need you to drive the boat.”
“But what about Lang?” she said.
“We’ll tend to him when we get a chance, but I need you to navigate the boat closer toward them. We can’t let them get away.”
Bullets sprayed the water around them as they neared the boat ahead. Flynn said a little prayer under his breath. Their long night was far from over.
CHAPTER 15
SERGEANT DAN THATCHER never bro
ke protocol, except in the rare case where the life of one of his troops was in danger. He needed an evacuation—and protocol called for him to radio command for help. But this time, his life was in danger and the last place he wanted to contact for help was the same place that apparently tried to kill him.
He wiped the sweat off his brow while he rested with his back against a rock.
Think, Thatcher. This had to be a mistake. They wouldn’t try to kill you and your troops, would they?
He couldn’t make sense of anything. While his survival instincts kicked in, what he really wanted to do was sit there and cry. He’d lost some great friends—not at the hands of enemy combatants, but at the hands of the side they fought for.
Perhaps the real enemy is my own country.
He shook his head, unwilling to believe it. Somebody, somewhere messed up an order. It was a costly one, but an error nonetheless. That’s what he had to believe. His own country wouldn’t purposefully try to kill him—would it?
He stood up, his head spinning just as much as his mind. Still at a loss for what to do, he surveyed the smoldering rubble. The only sign of life was the birds that had started to peck away at the bodies—and a stable of pack mules.
He raced down a short incline toward the stable, which was about 200 meters east of the compound. Feverishly working to untie the mules, he assessed which two might be best suited to get him over the mountains and up the ridge toward the nearest outpost. If he hurried, he might be able to make it there before nightfall.
Thatcher gathered what supplies he could find for the journey and saddled up. He looted the bodies for munitions and weapons, just in case. But he was cautious about appearing combative with an additional mule laboring under the burden of enough firepower to wipe out a small settlement. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.
With the threat of a return visit by the drones, he wanted to vacate the area as quickly as possible. If they had a satellite overhead, it wouldn’t matter. They’d already know he survived. But if not—he still had a chance to escape.
He started his journey quickly, distancing himself from the site. But after thirty minutes of riding his mule as hard as it would go, he settled into a more comfortable pace.
As he began to ascend into the mountains, he looked back on the valley behind him. It was mostly barren and dry, but from afar it appeared serene, almost quaint. After having trekked through it, however, he knew no matter what it looked like, it was a valley of war.
With the sun starting to slip beyond the horizon, Thatcher arrived at the outpost. With little more than tents and a couple of permanent structures, the area looked more like a temporary campsite than a permanent dwelling. Goats roamed freely in the common areas, searching for anything they could eat. Sheep huddled together inside makeshift fences. The people cooked evening meals over open fires—a chore from which they stopped to inspect the stranger invading their settlement.
Thatcher started to set up camp away from the other villagers. After he hoisted his tent, one of the men approached him with a bowl of soup. Thatcher took it and thanked the man with a kind gesture. He had no idea if it translated, but these people spoke a language he’d never heard. Without any other way to communicate, he smiled and bowed often, trying to remain humble that they might allow him into their encampment, if only for a night.
He settled into his sleeping bag and stared at the stars. He wanted to sleep, but didn’t know if he could trust the people. Inside his bag, he gripped a knife. After all that had happened in the past twelve hours, he couldn’t trust anyone—not even his own government.
Around 1 AM, Thatcher heard someone rummaging around near one of his mules. He slipped up on the man, who spun around and slashed toward Thatcher with a knife. Thatcher withdrew and avoided any contact before striking the man on his arm. The man lunged toward him again, but Thatcher darted to the side and jabbed the man again, this time in his leg. It was enough to make the man retreat, hobbling as he went.
The next morning, he awoke to a surprising sound—a small single-engine airplane buzzing the community. He sprang to his feet and went outside his tent in time to watch it fly off.
A few meters away, he noticed the man who’d delivered him soup staring up in the sky with a wide grin on his face.
“Will that airplane come back?” Thatcher asked.
The man shrugged and furrowed his brow.
Thatcher asked again, this time with hand gestures that seemed to communicate the gist of his question.
“Ah,” the man said before continuing on in his native tongue. He gestured back what Thatcher took to mean that the airplane would return later.
Thatcher broke camp and waited and waited. He passed the time watching the young boys play a game with a stick and some rocks. After intensely observing them for a few minutes, he asked if he could play. Before he knew it, he was running around like a kid and laughing. It provided a brief respite from the pain he felt every waking moment since he mounted his mule.
When Thatcher heard the familiar buzz of the airplane, he dropped his stick and ran toward what appeared to be a makeshift landing strip. The plane touched down and rolled over toward a small wooden shed with a windsock attached to the top of it.
The pilot walked toward the villagers, speaking to them in their native language. But he froze when he saw the soldier.
“Lost your way, soldier?” the pilot asked.
Thatcher broke into a grin at the sound of the man’s voice. An American pilot. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
The pilot looked at him cautiously. “And why’s that?”
“I need a ride outta here.”
“This is not a military transport vehicle,” the pilot said. “We only fly humanitarian missions. I’m sure someone else could come and pick you up.”
Thatcher leaned in closer. “What’s your name?”
“Jason Roberts. And you are?”
“Staff Sgt. Thatcher. Now, Jason, I really need your help.”
“How come you’re out here by yourself.”
“It’s a long story—but the short version is that American drones fired on our position and killed everyone in our squad except for me.”
Roberts scratched his neck and adjusted his cap. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Exactly. So right now, I’m trying to get somewhere safe so I can figure out what’s going on.”
“Tomorrow’s load is light. I might be able to get you tomorrow. But I’m all full today.”
Thatcher shook his head. “That won’t work. Last night a guy almost stabbed me.”
“I can put in a good word for you with the people—but I can’t make any guarantees they won’t try to do the same again tonight.”
“Can’t you make another trip back?”
“These are three-hour trips one way—and we don’t fly at night. There’s no way I’d be back in time even if I got permission. Just be ready tomorrow.”
Thatcher nodded. “Okay, if that’s the best you can do.”
Roberts slapped him on the arm. “I’ll put in a good word for you with the leader—but in the meantime, why don’t you help me load this plane. I sure could use those muscles of yours.”
Thatcher helped stuff the small Cessna with goods the people had made, which Roberts said he helped transport to other countries where they’d be sold at a substantial markup. Wool hats hand-woven, leather sandals, purses and handbags—all packed into scores of boxes.
“Do you come out here often?” Thatcher asked.
“Once every two weeks,” Roberts said. “Sometimes more, if necessary.”
Before Thatcher could hoist the next box to Roberts inside the plane, chaotic yelling arrested their attention. They both looked in the direction of the noise where several people were running toward the plane, waving their arms.
Roberts began to converse with them and within seconds, an elderly woman was excitedly talking and pointing toward a younger man staggering toward the plane.
“What is it?” Thatcher asked.
“Start unloading the plane. We’ve got an emergency.”
Thatcher started ripping off the boxes to create space in the plane, while Roberts gathered more information. Roberts pulled out a stretcher from the back of the plane and he helped some of the locals put the man on it.
When Thatcher came over to help lift the injured man into the plane, the man’s eyes widened. He started yelling something at Roberts.
Roberts looked at Thatcher. “It seems like they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” He pointed at the man’s wounds. “Is this your doing?”
“I was only defending myself.”
“Well, it’s your lucky day.”
Thatcher’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“This is a new humanitarian mission. I’ll come back tomorrow and get their things, but this man is in critical need of medical care. And now I’ll have room for one more passenger.”
“Are you serious?” Thatcher said.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe, soldier.”
CHAPTER 16
“GET ME CLOSER!” Flynn said over the hum of the engines and the relentless wind beating against them. He crouched low and positioned himself near the edge of the boat. Another smattering of bullets hit near them and he pushed Banks’ head down.
“What do you think you’re going to do?” she asked.
“Just get me close enough and keep it steady. Then peel away.”
“You’re going to jump into their boat?”
“Do you have any other ideas?”
Flynn watched one of the men aboard the other boat begin to reload his gun.
“If we’re gonna do this, we have to do it now. Gun it!”
Banks pushed the throttle forward and the boat’s nose tilted upward.
“Good work. We’re almost there.”
Flynn watched as the man located another clip and prepared to jam it into the gun.
Ten meters, five meters.
“Steady,” Flynn said.
The boat held steady for three more seconds, just enough time for Flynn to leap into the other boat and tackle the gunmen. With both men holding on to the gun, Flynn jerked it upward and held down the trigger, harmlessly emptying the clip. The man then tightened his grip on the gun and ripped it away from Flynn. He used it as a battering ram, trying to jab Flynn in the head with it.
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