Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Christina raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got that look you sometimes get when you’re about to do something really stupid.”

  “It’s either really stupid, or really smart.” Connor started his car. “I haven’t figured out which yet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mohammad leaned over the gunwale, looking out over the flat blue ocean. The seas were calmer today than they’d been through their entire journey so far, and for Mohammad’s land-legs, it was a gift. He’d been on boats before, but never out in the middle of the Pacific, an ocean so vast it made his own pitiful existence pale in comparison. He had trouble even processing the width of it, not to mention the depth.

  God is definitely great to create such a wonder, he thought.

  He’d finished his first prayer twenty minutes ago and since then had been silently contemplating the power of Allah. Every morning he expected to see the land of the infidels appear on the horizon, beckoning him toward his calling. But the vastness of this ocean meant that he wouldn’t see land for another few days—giving him the opportunity to bask in Allah’s glory for a little while longer.

  He turned, put his back to the rail, and watched his men continue to modify the rack to the scientist’s exact specifications. A construction schematic had been provided, and tools and fabricated metal components lay on the deck all around the rectangular housing container.

  The container’s top panels were currently open, folded down on either side. Two hoses snaked across the deck, attached to intake valves on either end, ready to pump in the thousands of gallons of water needed to make this work. Mohammad still didn’t understand how water was supposed to fool the Americans, but the scientist had been adamant.

  He’d better be right, Mohammad thought. Mohammad had visited the man’s workroom only once since their journey began; the man’s incessant talking and need to explain everything in technical detail gave Mohammad a headache. And the truth was, Mohammad had no interest in knowing the ins and outs of how the device worked—just that it would. He would have to count on the irritating scientist’s expertise. The man was Russian, but seemed to be familiar with the capabilities of American technology.

  The Americans had highly specialized equipment, head and shoulders above what the rest of the world considered state-of-the-art. Mohammad found it amusing that, despite the safety and security that this technology provided to the citizens of the United States, many of them nevertheless decried the exorbitant amount of spending allocated to the military. The sheep actually campaigned for less security.

  That made absolutely no sense to Mohammad. The safety and security of his people was his number one priority, and the cost never even entered his mind. He would do everything in his power to protect his people and preserve Allah’s will. Money and wealth and possessions meant nothing to him. Serving Allah meant everything.

  “A beautiful morning.”

  Mohammad looked up, and smiled when he saw his friend approaching. “Indeed. Allahu Akbar.”

  Ramzi bin Sadir repeated the customary greeting and stepped up to the ship’s railing, looking out over the still ocean. “I wish I could show my son this sight. He would never believe how enormous this ocean is.”

  “It’s hard for me to believe it myself, and I’m standing here looking at it,” Mohammad replied. “It is wondrous, is it not?”

  “It is. But the captain says we should be within sight of land in another three days.”

  “Should?” Mohammad frowned. “Is he not certain? Shouldn’t his chart tell him this?”

  “He says there is a storm front moving in from the north. It could slow us down.”

  Mohammad stared at the horizon. “I see no storm.”

  “That is what I told the captain. But he assured me that it is coming.”

  “That will affect our construction. How close is the scientist to being complete?”

  “I have not seen him yet this morning,” Ramzi said, “and I spent only ten minutes with him last night. The moody bastard actually yelled at me for disturbing him and then began his incessant yammering about what he was doing. He is such a—”

  “I know. We need to encourage him to speed up his work. We cannot afford to let a thing like bad weather set us back. We’re on a tight timeline.”

  “You’ve already made the calls, then?”

  “I have. Everything will be prepared for us. Allah will guide our path. Come.” Mohammad motioned for Ramzi to follow. “Let’s go encourage our friend to make haste.”

  Mohammad led Ramzi into the bowels of the ship, to the enclosed cargo bay just below the main deck. A work area had been set up in the center of the large space, lit by floodlights on stands positioned around the perimeter. The remains of the old American bomb lay scattered across the deck.

  Doctor Vladimir Rusakov stood hunched over a long table topped with complicated equipment, computers, schematics, and printouts. His long black hair was matted and unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved since before he’d arrived. His white lab coat was draped over the back of the lone chair at the end of the table, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his blue button-up shirt to just below the elbow. Whereas that shirt had been nicely tucked in and pressed when he’d arrived, it was now hanging free and sweat-stained.

  Rusakov had been working almost nonstop since they’d delivered the old bomb to him, painstakingly taking the weapon casing apart and removing the plutonium core.

  As Mohammad and Ramzi approached, the scientist looked up from his work and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. Dark circles hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. He regarded the two men for only a moment before returning to his work without saying a word.

  Mohammad stopped at the end of the table. “How does the project progress, Doctor?”

  “I tolding you,” Rusakov said without looking up, “I’m busy here.”

  Mohammad pursed his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. It took everything he had not to smack the disrespect out of the impertinent scientist right where he stood. But he refrained. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed this infidel.

  “Of course,” he said. “My apologies.”

  “I don’t needing apologies. What I needing is peace and quiet. I said no interruptions. This is necessary.” The Russian’s broken English was thickly accented, but Mohammad understood him well enough.

  Ramzi put a hand on Mohammad’s shoulder, and he wondered if his friend had gleaned what he was thinking. It galled him beyond measure to have to indulge this infidel, regardless of how useful he was. Mohammad had all but decided that he would kill the man when his work was finished. Not to preserve the secrecy of his plan, but for Mohammad’s own selfish pride. Allah would forgive him that.

  “And you shall have it,” Mohammad said, taking care to keep his tone free of his increasing rage. “But I must know where we stand and if you are on schedule. Much depends on whether or not you can do what you say you can.”

  Rusakov stopped what he was doing and stiffly raised himself to his full height, which was just barely over five and a half feet. He looked at Mohammad over the top of his glasses. “If I can? Do you having idea how to rewiring and prepping device? Do you having someone else knowing with nuclear physics? No? Then leaving me to my work.”

  Mohammad leaned forward, putting his palms on the table. “Do not misunderstand me, my friend. You are in no position to make demands here. Or have you forgotten who is responsible for your wife and daughter’s safety?”

  The man’s eyes widened slightly. “You said they not being harmed.”

  “I did, and they won’t be.” Mohammad pointed to the steel framework surrounding the circular core. “As long as the work is done to my satisfaction.”

  “I have said, work will be finished.” Rusakov again pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “But is no good stopping and talking about progress now. I telling you is done or is not done. Yes?”

  The scientist had a point. Ultimately the only thing Mohamm
ad cared about was whether or not the device would function as prescribed.

  “Is close,” Rusakov said after a moment. “Will be finishing in time.”

  “And it will function properly?”

  “Yes.”

  Mohammad nodded. That was all he needed to hear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Connor’s phone beeped as he climbed out of his Honda SUV in the back lot of his apartment building. When he checked the name of the sender, he felt an unexpected pang of regret. He didn’t want to read the message. In fact, he wanted to delete the text and never consider the fact that he’d been on the verge of committing treason. At the same time, he still felt it was the only logical decision to make.

  He sighed and scanned the parking lot, ensuring there was no one within sight, then unlocked his phone and read the message.

  Let’s meet in person.

  The message was from Beverly Cooper, a reporter with the Washington Herald. She was responding to his anonymous text about a pending national crisis that he had inside information on. He’d had almost an entire day to consider the ramifications, and now that his initial anger had subsided, he was having second thoughts.

  His fingers hovered above the keys, his intent alternating between telling her where to meet him and telling her thanks but no thanks. Both sides of this coin held merit in his mind, and both sides generated serious consequences. Not saying anything could result in untold thousands, maybe millions, of deaths. And saying something meant almost certain jail time if he was ever discovered.

  Images of Robert Hannsen being paraded into the Virginia District court flashed through his mind. The famous Russian spy and traitor had earned fifteen consecutive life sentences for his troubles, locked in a supermax prison in Colorado, spending twenty-three hours a day on lockdown. Of course, Hannsen’s motivations had been purely financial. Over his twenty-two years of working for the Russians, he’d been paid over $1.4 million dollars.

  Connor re-read the text and shook his head. You’re considering throwing it all away for free.

  He switched off the screen and slid the phone back into his pocket. “Come on, Sloane, what are you thinking about?”

  He reached back into his car and grabbed two plastic grocery bags from the passenger seat. The scent of the rotisserie chicken had filled the Honda’s interior, reminding him of how hungry he was. He straightened and shut the door. As he fumbled in his pocket for the key fob, he sensed a motion behind him and turned to look over his shoulder.

  Two men in black suits approached. Both had short haircuts, clean-shaven, and dark sunglasses.

  As Connor turned to face them, he slowly moving his free hand from his pocket to the small of his back where his single-stack Glock nine-millimeter was holstered.

  The man on the right raised a hand. “No need for that, Mr. Sloane. We’re not here to steal your chicken.”

  “You know who I am?” Connor asked. It was a dumb question; it was obvious they knew that. But that didn’t stop him from wrapping his fingers around the handle of his pistol.

  The second man removed his sunglasses. “We know a lot about you, Mr. Sloane. In fact, I’d be willing to bet we know more about you than anybody else on the planet. Including your teacher, Mrs. Vaughn.”

  Connor frowned. How did they know about Mrs. Vaughn?

  She was one of his high school teachers—and the person he’d confided in more than he had anyone else in his entire life. His foster parents had been less than involved in most aspects of his life, and Mrs. Vaughn was the only person who’d ever really taken an interest. She was the reason he joined the army; she’d served for twenty years, and had started teaching later in life. And she was the one who first encouraged him to try out for the Special Forces.

  But he’d never told anyone about her. Ever.

  The fact that he was still standing here—not dead or in handcuffs—told Connor these men probably weren’t here to do him harm. But for them to know this nugget of information from his history… that sent up a red flag.

  They definitely weren’t from the agency. If Pennington had wanted to talk to him, he could’ve just called or sent Christina. And as much as the movies liked to portray “G-Men,” the FBI didn’t make a habit of contacting agents of sister agencies without first going through their chain of command. Which meant it would’ve been Pennington again.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Connor said, his fingers still on his pistol. “You’re not with the bureau.”

  The first man laughed. “The FBI can hardly keep track of their own people, much less anyone else.”

  “Well, you’re not CIA, and the vampires in the NSA wouldn’t dare be caught out in the daylight. So who are you?”

  “We’re… with a different agency,” the first man said, putting his hands in his pockets.

  The second man grimaced. “Honestly, we really shouldn’t call it that. It’s more like… let’s just call it the Outfit. Would you mind taking your hand off your gun?”

  Connor canted his head to the side. “Agency or Outfit, neither tells me anything about who you are or what you want. If you know who I am, then you know what I’m capable of doing. So until we’re on the same playing field, my hand stays right where it’s at.”

  The first man laughed. “Fair enough. I’m Thompson, that’s Richards. And we’re not here to do you any harm. In fact, we have a proposition for you.”

  “Proposition, huh?” For the second time in less than twenty minutes, images of Robert Hannsen flashed through Connor’s mind. He frowned. “Don’t you people usually do this in seedy bars or back alleys?”

  Thompson raised an eyebrow. “You people?”

  “Come on, you’re going to try and get me to come work for your government, right? Selling secrets and crap, right? Not very original. Haven’t you guys had enough bad publicity? Not bad on the accents though.”

  The two men exchanged a confused glance. Thompson cleared his throat. “I think you have the wrong idea. We aren’t foreign agents, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though sometimes Richards drinks like a Russian.”

  “All right then… what are you?”

  “Before we get into that, we’d like you to take a ride with us.” Richards motioned to a black Lincoln parked behind them, the engine still running.

  Connor tightened his grip on the Glock. “Jesus, you guys really are bad at this.”

  Thompson held up his hands, palms out. “Don’t. One hundred percent, we just want to talk. There are just certain things we can’t say out in the open like this.” He tapped his ear. “You never know who might be listening. Five minutes. If you don’t like what we have to say, you can walk—no questions asked. I trust you as a fellow operator. You can keep your gun, but we’d rather nobody gets any more holes than they already have.” He nodded at Connor. “De oppresso liber.”

  Connor clenched his jaw at the reference to the Special Forces motto. So they also knew about his service.

  He held their gazes for a long moment, trying to decide if they were putting him on or not. If they were, they’d certainly gone to a lot of unnecessary trouble. If they’d dug that deep, they should have known that Connor Sloane was a patriot first; every other consideration in his life was secondary. They weren’t Bureau or CIA or NSA, which really didn’t leave a lot of options. The secret government alphabet soup only went so far. And if they weren’t foreign agents trying to recruit him…

  He had to admit, he was curious.

  “Can I put the chicken in the fridge first?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “All right, we’re here,” Connor said, sliding into the Lincoln’s spacious back seat. Thompson took the seat next to him and Richards got behind the wheel. “Now what’s this all about?”

  Richards pulled out of the lot and merged into traffic. The ride was smooth, and the sound buffering was better than anything Connor had ever experienced. Every noise, down to the purring of the engine, was effectively reduced to nothing.


  Beside Connor, Thompson turned and draped his arm across the back of the seat. “First, I’d really like to thank you for not making us shoot you back there. That would have turned out badly for everyone.”

  “Oh?” Connor said. “Way I had it figured, you guys would have been pushing daisies before you’d cleared leather.”

  “Maybe,” Thompson said. “But the sniper we had aiming at your dome would have put you in line at the pearly gates right behind us.”

  Connor laughed. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

  As if on cue, Richards pulled the car to the side of the road and the front passenger door opened. A man dressed in an identical suit slid into the seat in front of Connor, balancing a long package wrapped in a navy-blue sheet between his knees. He looked over his shoulder and nodded at Connor. “Thanks for not doing anything stupid in that parking lot.”

  Connor opened his mouth but found he didn’t have the words to respond. A part of him still maintained that these guys were full of crap, but the rest of him was somewhat impressed. Even if this third guy was just for effect, it was a convincing act.

  The sniper extended a hand over the back of his seat. “I’m Shane. Shane Henderson.”

  Connor hesitated, then shook the man’s hand. “Connor Sloane.”

  “Yeah.” Henderson pulled a crumpled paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Got your profile right here.”

  “You really were going to shoot me?” Connor asked, his confusion beginning to morph into a kind of admiration. He prided himself on being aware of his surroundings; it was a skill that all field operators picked up. But these men had not only managed to approach him without him so much as realizing they were there, they’d done it in broad daylight. And carrying around a rifle like that, in the open in DC, was a brave man’s game. This guy had done it without so much as a sneeze from anyone.