Primary Target

by Jack Mars

  Don shrugged. “If he resists arrest, then you terminate his command, and terminate his group’s ability to operate, by whatever means available to you at that time.”

  “You realize we’re talking about Americans?” Luke said.

  They both just looked at him. Neither one answered. A long moment passed. It was a silly question. Of course they realized.

  “Do you want it?” Don said.

  It took a minute before Luke spoke. Did he want it? Of course he wanted it. What choice did he have? What else was he going to do? Sit in this office building and go crazy? Sit here and turn down missions until Don finally got the message and let him go? This was what he had been hired for. Compared to the things he had done previously, it wasn’t even much of a mission. It was practically a weekend getaway.

  An image of Rebecca, very pregnant now, out at her family’s cabin, flashed across the screen in his mind. His son was growing inside her. He would be here soon. Despite this desk job, despite the long commute, despite the fact that he was gone all day five days a week, the past month was about the happiest they had ever been together.

  What was Becca going to think about this?

  “Luke?” Don said.

  Luke nodded. “Yeah. I want it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  6:15 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time

  Queen Anne’s County, Maryland—Eastern Shore of Chesapeake Bay

  “You look beautiful,” Luke said.

  He had just arrived. He had ripped off his shirt and tie and changed into jeans and a T-shirt as soon as he walked in the door. Now he had a can of beer in his hand. The beer was ice cold and delicious.

  The traffic was insane. It was a ninety-minute drive from DC, through Annapolis, across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and on to the Eastern Shore. But none of that mattered because he was home now.

  He and Becca were staying at her family’s cabin in Queen Anne’s County. The cabin was an ancient, rustic place sitting on a small bluff right above the bay. It was two floors, wooden everything, with creaks and squeaks everywhere you stepped. There was a screened-in porch facing the water and a kitchen door that slammed shut with enthusiasm.

  The living room furniture was generations old. The beds were old metal skeletons on springs; the bed in the master bedroom was almost long enough, but not quite, for Luke to sleep comfortably on it. By far the sturdiest thing in the house was the stone fireplace in the living room. It was almost as if the grand old fireplace had been there already, and someone with a sense of humor had built a clapboard shack all around it.

  To hear tell of it, the house had been in the family for a hundred years. Some of Becca’s earliest memories happened in that house.

  It really was a beautiful place. Luke loved it there.

  They were sitting on the back patio, enjoying the late afternoon as the sun slowly went west over the vast sweep of water. It was a breezy day, and white sails were everywhere out there. Luke almost wished that time would stop and he could just sit right in this spot forever. The setting was amazing, and Becca did look beautiful. Luke wasn’t lying about that.

  She was pretty as ever, and almost as petite. Their son was a basketball she was smuggling under her shirt. She had spent part of the afternoon digging a bit in her garden, and she was a little bit sweaty and flushed. She wore a big floppy sun hat and was drinking a big glass of ice water.

  She smiled. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

  A long pause drew out between them.

  “How did your day go?” she said.

  Luke took another sip of his beer. He believed that when trouble was brewing, the thing to do was to get right to it. Beating around the bush was not normally his style. And Becca deserved to hear it right away.

  “Well, it was different. Don is staffing the place up. And he dropped a project in my lap today.”

  “Well, that’s good,” Becca said. “It’s good news, right? Something to sink your teeth into? I know you’ve been feeling a little bored by the job, and frustrated by the commute.”

  Luke nodded. “Sure, it’s good. It could be. It’s police work, I guess you’d say. We’re the FBI, right? That’s what we do. The downside is, if I’m going to take the assignment—and really, I don’t have a lot of choice since it is my job—then I need to go out of town for a few days.”

  Luke could hear himself hemming and hawing. He didn’t like the sound of it. Go out of town? Was it a joke? Don wasn’t sending him to Pittsburgh.

  Now Becca sipped her water. Her eyes watched him over the top of the glass. They were wary eyes. “Where do you have to go?”

  Here it came. Might as well put it out there.

  “Iraq.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Luke. Come on.” She sighed heavily. “He wants you to go to Iraq? You just came from Afghanistan, and you nearly got killed. Doesn’t he realize we’re about to have a baby? I mean, he knows this, right?”

  Luke nodded. “He saw you, babe. Remember? He brought you down to see me.”

  “Then how can he even think of this? I hope you told him no.”

  Luke took another sip of his beer. It was a touch warmer now. Not quite as delicious as a moment ago.

  “Luke? You told him no, right?”

  “Sweetheart, it’s my job. There aren’t a lot of jobs like this available to me. Don threw me a rope and saved my neck. The Army was going to say I had PTSD and put me out on my butt. That didn’t happen because of Don. I don’t have a lot of room to tell him no right now. And as things go, this is a pretty easy assignment.”

  “An easy assignment in a war zone,” Becca said. “What’s the job? Assassinate Osama bin Laden?”

  Luke shook his head. “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “There’s an American military contractor over there that’s out of control. He’s looting old Saddam Hussein hideouts and stealing cash, artwork, gold, diamonds… They want me and a partner to arrest him. It’s not a military operation at all. It’s a police job.”

  “Who’s the partner?” she said. He could see in her eyes she was thinking about what happened to his last partner.

  “I haven’t met him yet.”

  “Why don’t they just have the military police do this?”

  Luke shook his head. “It’s not an issue for the military. Like I said, it’s a police matter. The contractor is technically a civilian. They want to make the difference clear.”

  Luke thought of all the things he was leaving out. The restive nature of the region, and the fierce fighting going on there. The atrocities Parr had committed. The team of badass operators and remorseless killers he had accumulated around himself. The desperation they must feel right now to get out alive, unscathed, with all their loot, and without being captured by the law. The dead men, decapitated and burned, and hanging from a bridge.

  Abruptly, Becca started crying. Luke put the beer down and went to her. He kneeled by her chair and hugged her.

  “Oh God, Luke. Tell me this isn’t going to start up again. I don’t think I can bear it. Our son is coming.”

  “I know,” he said. “I know that. It’s not going to be like before. It’s not a deployment. I’ll be gone three days, maybe four. I arrest a guy, I bring him home.”

  “What if you die?” she said.

  “I’m not going to die. I’m going to be very careful. I probably won’t even have to draw my gun.”

  He almost couldn’t believe the things he was telling her.

  She was shaking now from the tears.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she said.

  “I know, honey. I know. But I have to. It’ll be very quick. I will call you every night. You can stay with your folks. And then I’ll be right back. It’ll be like I never even left.”

  She shook her head, the tears coming harder now. “Please,” she said. “Please tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  Luke squeezed her tight, mindful of the baby growing inside her. “It’s going to be okay
. It’s going to be fine. I know it is.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  May 5

  3:45 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time

  Joint Base Andrews

  Prince George’s County, Maryland

  “You’re the boss,” Don said.

  He was a couple of inches taller than Luke, and quite a bit broader. With Don’s gray hair, and his size, and his age, and his experience… well, Luke always felt a little bit like a child next to Don.

  “Don’t let them forget who’s in charge. I’d be coming with you, but I’m stuck in meetings. You’re my representative. As far as this trip is concerned, you are me.”

  Luke nodded. “Okay, Don.”

  They were walking a long, wide corridor through the terminal. Swarms of people, mostly in uniforms of various kinds, milled about, moving to and fro. People were standing and eating at Taco Bell and Subway. Men and women were hugging. Piles of baggage were going by on carts. The place was busy. There were two wars on at once, and all across the armed services, personnel were on the move.

  “We’ve got a new guy joining you. He’s your partner, but you’re the senior partner. His name is Ed Newsam. I like him. He’s big, he’s cocky as hell, and he’s young. I plucked him out of Delta, even though he’s only been there a year.”

  “A year? Don…”

  “In a year, he’s already acquitted himself very admirably. Believe me, you’re going to be happy I acquired this guy. He’s a stud. He’s an animal, like you were at that age.”

  At thirty-two, Luke was already beginning to feel old. He had been back in the gym the past few weeks, and it was suddenly an uphill climb to get in shape. That was a rude awakening. He had let himself go during his stay in the hospital.

  “Trudy and Swann are traveling with you, but they won’t go into theater with you. They will stay in the Green Zone where it’s safe, and offer you guidance and intelligence from there. Under no circumstances should you put them in harm’s way. They are not military personnel, nor have they been.”

  Luke nodded. “Understood.”

  Don stopped. He turned to face Luke. His hard eyes softened a touch. It was like he was Luke’s dad—the father he never had. Don was just a big, gray-haired, broad-chested, face-like-a-granite-cliff dad.

  “You’re going to do fine, son. You’ve held command positions before. You’ve been in war zones before. You’ve been on difficult missions before, impossible missions. This isn’t like that. This one’s got a glass jaw, okay? Big Daddy Cronin is going to be running this operation on the ground. He’s got your back and he’s going to make sure you have the people you need in the air above you, and one step behind you.”

  Luke was glad to hear that. Bill Cronin was a CIA Special Agent. He had been around the block a few times, had a lot of Middle East experience. Luke had served under him twice before—once while on loan from Delta Force to the CIA, and once during a joint special op.

  Don went on. “I fully expect you guys to walk in there and for Parr to drop his weapon and throw his hands in the air. He’ll be relieved you’re not Al Qaeda. We need an early win to show the congressmen we mean business, so I padded your comeback schedule with an easy knockout. But don’t tell the others that. They think this is the most serious thing ever.”

  Luke smiled and shook his head. “Okay, Dad.”

  “I’d ruffle your hair, but you’re too old,” Don said.

  Up ahead was a small waiting area for their gate. Three rows of five seats each were clustered in front of a desk, and behind the desk, the door to the tarmac. The desk was abandoned, and no one sat in the chairs. This was an empty area of the terminal.

  Through the large windows, Luke could see a small blue State Department jet plane parked and waiting outside. A rollaway staircase led up to the open cabin door of the plane.

  A group of three people milled around at the gate. Two of them were Trudy Wellington and Mark Swann. Trudy was tiny, and looked every inch of it. Swann was tall and thin, but was positively dwarfed by the third member of their party, a black guy in jeans and a leather jacket. The black guy stood by himself, a little bit away from Trudy and Swann. He had a green rucksack on the floor at his feet.

  “That the guy?” Luke said. “Newsam?”

  Don nodded. “That’s the guy.

  Luke soaked him in as they approached. He looked to be six foot, five inches tall. His shoulders were broad, as was his chest. Beneath his leather jacket he wore a white T-shirt that clung to his massive frame. It looked like someone had painted it on there. His arms were covered by his jacket, but his fists were huge. He wore yellow work boots on his big feet. He looked like a cartoon rendering of a superhero.

  Except for his face—it was as arrogant and as young as that of any kid in high school. There wasn’t a line on it.

  “This guy has seen combat before?” Luke said.

  Don nodded again. “Oh yeah.”

  “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  “Yes I am.”

  They reached the group. The three of them turned. Trudy’s and Swann’s eyes were focused on Don, their boss. The newcomer, Newsam, stared at Luke.

  “Thanks for coming out, everyone. Trudy and Mark, you’ve had the opportunity to meet Luke Stone, your commander on this trip. Luke was one of the best special operators I had the pleasure to serve with in the United States Army. Luke, this is Ed Newsam, who I didn’t serve with, but who I’ve heard spectacular things about.”

  The two men shook hands. Luke looked into the eyes of the larger man. Newsam didn’t do anything overt—he didn’t, for example, try to crush Luke’s hand in his own. But his eyes said it all: You don’t command me.

  Luke begged to differ. But this wasn’t the time or the place to worry about it. If they were going to work together, though, especially in a combat zone, the time would almost certainly come.

  Don said a few words of encouragement to send the group off. But Luke wasn’t listening anymore. He just watched those hard young eyes, as they watched him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  11:15 p.m. Central European Summer Time (5:15 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  Institut Le Rosey

  Rolle, Switzerland

  It was the most famous school in the world.

  Well, it was the most expensive, anyway.

  But really, it was just very boring, and she didn’t want to be here. Her mom and dad had sent her here for a year of “finishing” before she went to college. And it had been the dreariest, loneliest year of her life. Maybe things would get better now that it was almost over. She was accepted to Yale for the fall.

  Of course she was. Her father was one of Yale’s most well-known alumni, so why wouldn’t they accept her? She was Elizabeth Barrett, younger daughter of David P. Barrett, the current President of the United States.

  In fact, she was finishing up on the telephone with her dad right now.

  “Well, sweetheart, are there any positives that you can take away from this year?”

  That was her father, always talking about “positives.” Was it even a real word? He said words and phrases like that all the time—there were always positives, and takeaways, and we were always moving forward, and climbing the ladder, and building something great. She had begun to suspect that he wasn’t nearly as optimistic as he talked. The whole act was a fake, a fraud. He just said these things because he knew that in his life, there was always someone listening.

  She hated that part of it. She hated the security detail from the Secret Service that hovered nearby twenty-four hours a day. She liked some of the agents themselves, but she hated the fact of it, that it was necessary, that her life was stilted and thwarted at every turn because of it. They were listening to this phone call, of course, and they were never far away—a man stood out in the hall all night while she slept.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” she said. “I just don’t know. I’ll be glad to get out of here.”

  “Well, you got to go skiing in the Swiss Alps, right? You met
people from all over the world.”

  “I liked our Colorado trips better when I was a kid,” she said. “And the people I met? Yeah, great. Kids from Russia whose dads are the gangsters that stole all the industries when the Soviet Union collapsed. Kids from Saudi Arabia and Dubai whose dads are all princes or whatever. Is everybody in Saudi Arabia a prince? I think that’s the big takeaway, Dad. Everybody in Saudi Arabia belongs to the royal family.”

  Her dad the President laughed. It made her smile. She hadn’t heard that from him in a long, long while. And it made her think about how things used to be, back when her dad worked in the family oil business and co-owned a pro football team. He had been a fun dad, once upon a time.

  When they used to have family barbecues, he would wear a chef’s apron that said World’s Funnest Dad on it. That seemed like a long time ago now.

  “Well, honey,” he said, “I’m pretty sure not everybody in Saudi Arabia is in the royal family.”

  “I know,” she said. “Some people are servants and slaves.”

  “Elizabeth!” he said, but he wasn’t angry. He was having fun with her. She was always the one to say the outrageous things, even when she was young.

  “The truth hurts, Dad.”

  “Elizabeth? That’s very funny. But I’ve got to run. Do this for me, will you? You’ve got just a week left to go there. Try to make the best of it. Take advantage of the opportunities presented, and do something that excites you, okay?”

  “I don’t know what that would be,” she said, except now she was lying to him. “But I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. You’re beautiful, hon. Your mom and I love you. Grandpa and Grandma send their love. And call your sister, will you?”

  “Okay,” Elizabeth said. “I love you too, Dad.”

  She hung up the telephone. In her mind, she imagined all the people who were hanging up at the same time. Her dad certainly, probably in the Oval Office. But also Secret Service people listening on other phones in the Oval Office—two or three of them, hanging up as one. Also, people sitting at computer screens in the CIA building, or the FBI headquarters. Also, her personal bodyguard standing out in the hall, with the wire going to his ear. Was he on the phone call? She bet he was.