Nike's Wings

by Valerie Douglas

  Chapter Eleven

  Ty was aware of eyes on him, watching him surreptitiously as he walked through the halls of the CIA station toward his new office. One particular set, though, was more than a little concerned as Ty walked into his new office. Buck. Ty knew he wasn’t alone in his concern. Some of those who studied him as he’d gone by did so because he was the new boss, the newly appointed Agent in Charge of this section. A few of those watching did so because they’d heard rumors about what had happened in Qatar. Ty had the feeling there would be people, both above and below him in the chain of command watching him for a while, waiting to see if he’d make a mistake. He could understand it since he watched himself as well. It sometimes felt as if he’d been in one world and now he stood in another. Reality had shifted for him. He would get used to it.

  He’d been lucky in a way. He’d healed remarkably quickly despite all the damage. His progress in Qatar had been impressive, according to the doctors, enabling him to return to the States and the stateside physicians a lot sooner than anyone anticipated. Nor had he stinted on the physical therapy, trying not to lose any more muscle tone than he had during his days of convalescence.

  The psych doctors cleared him too, surprisingly. The nightmares hadn’t ended, but that would take time they told him. It would get better, easier.

  Some of the higher ups had been hesitant, but only a few. He was damned by his own success; he was too good an agent for them to lose. He’d recovered quickly and thoroughly enough that they’d put him back into covert intelligence again, overseas. But not in the field. They’d promoted him to a desk.

  He’d be the one running the ops, the agents. The responsibility weighed on him, but he felt it should. Who knew better than he did the risks their people took? Not some desk jockey out of intelligence gathering.

  “Stop worrying, Buck,” Ty said, quietly, as he walked into his office, conscious of that particular set of concerned eyes on him. “I’m fine.”

  And if not really fine he gave a good imitation. He avoided looking in mirrors so he wouldn’t have that reminder. It helped. As much as the doctors had tried to minimize the scarring, eliminating them hadn’t been completely possible.

  Even so, he was healing, inside and out. It was getting easier.

  He had work that needed to be done, too, important work, even if he wasn’t out in the field himself, and that would help also.

  So they’d bumped him up a grade or two, and now he would be the one sending people out into the field. Knowing the challenges they would face, knowing the price they’d pay for a mistake. The responsibility wasn’t a light one. He was already haunted by one ghost; he didn’t need more. That picture was still tucked in his wallet, a reminder of the price of not planning well enough, of not seeing all the possibilities.

  “Bring me up to speed,” Ty said.

  Buck nodded and laid out the trouble spots for Ty as Ty scanned the e-mails and reports on his computer.

  Watching him a little less attentively, Buck relaxed a little.

  That was more like it. This was the Ty Connor of old, steady, intent and quietly intense, focused. Maybe even a little more so, a little more grim, but that wasn’t unexpected after what had happened.

  For a minute, Buck hesitated, looking at the stack of papers in his lap. What he was about to say was like adding insult to injury, though.

  He really didn’t want to do this, but there was no choice. Sooner or later Ty would see it. It was better for the news to come from a friend than for him to find it out the hard way.

  Ty looked at Buck, sensed his old friend waver. “What is it?”

  “Have you seen the newspapers?” Buck asked, tapping the one he had on one knee.

  “No, not this morning,” Ty said. There was something in Buck’s voice, a warning and something else. “Not yet. Is there something I should know?”

  Buck tossed the newspaper onto Ty’s desk, folded to the relevant page, just below the fold. It was a fairly innocuous news item unless you knew the story behind it.

  “I almost didn’t recognize the sonovabitch,” Buck said. “He must be making good money now. He got his teeth fixed, looks almost presentable.”

  Picking up the paper, Ty studied the picture closely.

  Arturo ‘Ocho’ Santiago, once a Marxist rebel, had made the big time. He was listed as one of the biggest drug dealers in the world, head of his own cartel.

  It was definitely Ocho. He’d given himself a better first name, not that there was any birth certificate except maybe a baptismal record in some church somewhere.

  His teeth did look better.

  Ty tossed the paper back onto his desk in disgust.

  Another image haunted him. A face.

  He turned away to look out the window, took a breath.

  She was dead, long dead.

  “All right,” he said, “moving on…”

  Chapter Twelve

  Present day - Washington, D.C.

  It wasn’t often that Ty had the opportunity - if you could call it that - to be summoned to the new Office of Homeland Security. After his time with the CIA he’d done some special ops work for some of the other divisions, but he’d had no specific title beyond ‘consultant’.

  A number of people waited, specifically the directors of those various other divisions. CIA, FBI, NSA, DEA, the lot. That was a little surprising.

  And one other man, a tall, graying African-American, a man Ty deeply respected.

  Gen. Byron Hood, one of the most revered men in the service, the retired head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the Joint Task Force.

  Ty knew them all, some by sight, others more personally. He shook hands with those even as the Secretary stood.

  As the Secretary of Homeland Security, Elizabeth Bonham also had a reputation. She’d risen from D.A. to Attorney General for her state before serving as a judge when her term as A.G. ended. She was a tough, strong-minded lady who looked surprisingly young for her age, but while the difficult decisions she’d had to make over the years hadn’t etched themselves into her face, they were reflected in her gray eyes.

  “Madam Secretary,” he said, respectfully, as she also stood and offered her hand for him to shake, before she gestured him to sit.

  “Mr. Connor,” she said, in acknowledgment.

  He looked around, a bit mystified by the secrecy and the presence of the others.

  “Ty, ma’am.”

  With a thin smile, she nodded. “Ty, then. Please call me Elizabeth. I’m sure you’d like to know what this is all about?”

  “Yes, Madame Secretary…Elizabeth,” Ty said, cautiously, “I would.”

  “As you no doubt know, the last administration didn’t make us any friends overseas,” she said, “or even on our own borders. Despite all the attention paid, things in Mexico were allowed to get out of hand to the extent that some of the cartels down there now have their own private armies. There’s a concern that narco-terrorism could take on an entirely new meaning with the cartels taking the place of al-Qaida. Given what we’re seeing in Arizona and the assassinations overseas, it’s not as far-fetched as some might believe.”

  Considering Ty’s experiences in Central and South America years before and some of the things he’d seen there, the people he’d met - one or two in particular - it wasn’t far-fetched at all. In fact he’d warned of that very eventuality once, if he remembered correctly.

  “Nor have the genocides in Africa made us any friends there and in some cases they made us enemies. With men like Chavez in Venezuela fueling anti-American sentiment in South America and the opinion among some of those in the Islamic community even in this country that the invasion of Iraq was wrong, we have issues within our own borders. And not without reason in light of the facts that have come to light about the decision to go in. There’s also the growing animosity of the Russians - and the large number of Russian mobsters in this country.”

  She eyed him.

  “We’re a lot less capable of re
sponding to threats like these than we’d like. Too many agencies are involved. All we have to do is look at the disastrous delay in the response to Hurricane Katrina, the lag time in the response to the tornado in Kansas, the disaster in the Gulf, the oil pipelines, and other disasters since.

  The President is aware of all this. We’ve determined that what we need is a fast strike force capable of responding to almost any kind of a situation - natural disaster or terrorist attack. Covert, but not against the American people. Something a little like Britain’s MI-5, covering domestic terrorism as well as giving us a rapid response team for any emergency. People who can be on the ground in a matter of hours rather than days to assess the situation and determine the response or to act as needed. When they’re not called upon for those duties, they’ll investigate and aid other agencies across the country in tracking down any possible sources of trouble - and take preventative action, if necessary. That will free those agencies to investigate within their responsibilities without distractions or interagency…disputes.

  Being in the middle of the situation and not knowing of a similar situation in, say, Chicago or Los Angeles, one city may not see the similarities in another. Both would react individually to their own threat. This unit would help coordinate that information and the reaction to those threats while warning other cities of potential problems in their own backyard.

  The unit we’re proposing would be made up of individuals from all branches of Homeland, so we use the skills of all the available divisions. The NSA will contribute intelligence and supply the strike force with the information necessary to foresee possible problems inside US borders. We’ll also set up units within each major city, with the national branch providing coordination and support.”

  Ty looked at her, looked at the heads of the other divisions.

  “What does this have to do with me?” he asked.

  Elizabeth Bonham looked at him levelly.

  Happily married, even so Elizabeth had to admit that with his prematurely white hair and high cheekbones he was a handsome man. He had a firm determined mouth, and haunted blue eyes. He had a solid quietness to him, a sense of still waters running deep.

  She’d read his file, knew what he’d been through, knew the decisions he’d made. He’d earned that look. It hadn’t been easy and she wouldn’t entirely blame him if he turned this down. But he couldn’t. They needed him.

  The one thing that set Tyler James Connor apart from all the other candidates was his humility. They didn’t need a zealot, a grandstander, a patriot, or a cowboy – the country had had enough of that. What they needed was someone who would get the job done, quietly, without fanfare, without the need for promotion or recognition, who would do it because it needed doing. That was Ty Connor. It was everywhere in his record, he was one of the unsung heroes. A true patriot.

  She liked his steadiness and his brevity. His two questions had been brief and to the point, with no extra words, no statements of his qualifications…or lack thereof and therefore projecting a false humility.

  “Several people recommended you as the best man to head this strike force,” she continued. “General Hood has consented to be the temporary head of the new division, the National Intelligence Organization, during its infancy, to help build the infrastructure and coordinate all the individual units. As well as lending it his considerable gravitas. He, and several others, recommended you to head the operations side.”

  Having made her case, Elizabeth met Ty Connor’s even gaze.

  Ty hadn’t even been aware the General knew him.

  Even so, to be honest, his first instinct was to refuse the offer. He was torn. Well and truly torn. He’d been through enough, had paid the price.

  He’d also seen the need for just this sort of response.

  The situation in Mexico alone was enough. Some of the drug cartels had operations that generated billions - more than the gross national product of some small countries. One of their leaders had become one of the world’s richest men, and Ocho Santiago in South America wasn’t far behind. They had their own armies, regularly fought the police and army. It was only a matter of time before it boiled over the border.

  Not to mention all the hotspots already discussed.

  How did you combat that?

  Those who thought the border wall would make a difference had clearly missed the fact that there had never been a wall that hadn’t been breached. Not the Berlin wall, not even the Great Wall of China. People always found a way. Tunnel under, balloon over, ramps, it had all been done. Sometimes they just did an end run around it. Now they flew ultra-lights or used catapults to pitch bales of marijuana over it.

  Never underestimate the ingenuity of human beings desperate for a buck.

  It would be a hell of a lot of responsibility, but he also couldn’t think of any one person in any of the agencies who would do the job the way he knew it should be done, with the diplomacy necessary when stepping into someone else’s back yard.

  That was the problem a lot of the time, those intra-agency squabbles, everyone more interested in who would get the credit than in getting the situation resolved. Sometimes with justification, when budgets and careers were involved.

  Even now, looking into some of the faces in the room, he could see they were unhappy with the idea.

  Certainly the FBI, who often saw themselves as being the national guardians, didn’t look pleased, but they were frequently at odds with both the DEA and the ATF, whose duties sometimes overlapped theirs. The CIA often didn’t share information with any of the others. Information that would have saved lives.

  General Hood would have his work cut out for him. Getting all the agencies to cooperate would be like herding cats.

  As for the ops side…

  It would be easier for him to send people out to risk their lives for something Ty knew to be a good cause. The last few years had been difficult. Knowing your cover could be blown because you disagreed with current political policy disturbed him. Knowing he put his people at risk for policies he had difficulty supporting had been even worse.

  So he’d retired to consult.

  At least with this job, he knew he’d be doing good work.

  He looked at Secretary Bonham.

  “On one condition,” he said.

  Her eyebrow arched.

  “I get to pick my people. The best of the best. Everyone volunteers. No coercion. I don’t want anyone assigned who doesn’t want to work with me.”

  With a chuckle and relief in his voice, Byron Hood said, holding out his hand, “That’s the idea, Ty, that’s the idea. Welcome aboard.”

  Ty nodded.

  It seemed he’d taken the job after all.

  The decision wasn’t conscious, but it was right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the choppers flew over the buildings and those seated inside looked down at the warren of gray soot-streaked apartment towers below them, heat signatures everywhere indicated guards at every entry point. Ty shook his head, understanding what Mark Foster and Detective Miranda Cochran had tried to tell him. Foster, the D.A., was the primary here in NYC, Cochran the ops leader.

  Foster was a good man, smart enough to let Cochran do her job while he did his without being macho. Instead he cleared the way for her, making sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s were crossed. And while he might be an attorney he was no pushover either. There was muscle beneath his tailored shirt. He’d taken the F.B.I. training course at Quantico and passed with flying colors. So much so that the F.B.I. had asked if he’d like to come on board. Sincerely.

  He’d declined, saying he could get more good done where he was. He’d been right.

  Until Ty approached him.

  Foster had recommended Cochran.

  “Damnit,” Miri Cochran said sharply as she ended the call she’d just received.

  It was a little odd to look at the petite woman with her soft oval face and wealth of black hair and see her leading a bunch of tough cops,
but it didn’t take long before you just saw the tough cop. That was just before you noticed the dual holsters underneath her jacket, the guns in them small, but sufficient. Some people needed cannons. Miri didn’t. A good shot only needed enough to do the job. Having seen her marksman’s scores, Ty knew she carried only what she needed.

  “What’s up?” Ty asked.

  “I just learned from ICE and the supporting NYPD officers that a number of men ran into the building from the outside as our people pulled back, waiting for backup. Who they are we don’t yet know, but it can’t be good.”

  ICE. Ty thought the change in acronym from INS - Immigration and Naturalization Services - to ICE - Immigration and Customs Enforcement had been particularly evocative of the period after 9/11. As feared as the INS had been at times it had still been considered a service, welcoming people IN as opposed to becoming ‘enforcement’ and freezing people out. He had no problem with wanting to include the best and the brightest, but what about your poor, your hungry, your huddled masses longing to be free?

  He shook his head and with it the mood.

  Foster, Cochran, and their team impressed him, but that didn’t come as a surprise. Whatever else, the New York City Police Department had a reputation for quality. New York had been the first city to realize it couldn’t rely on the federal government alone for its anti-terrorism intel and so had created its own division. Some of that was now melded into the new federal initiative.

  In the gathering darkness, the helicopters circled above the buildings warily. The weapons some of those below them carried were capable of taking the chopper out with ease, if they had a clear shot.

  Fortunately, at night and with a skilled pilot they didn’t.

  It felt more like they flew into a war zone than a major American city, something many American inner cities resembled what with the proliferation of automatic and semi-automatic weapons, the weapons of choice of terrorists and drug dealers and by many Americans as proof of their right to bear arms.