Embrace the Fire (Shadow Warriors Book 3)

by Stephen England

  The first had happened—the second…well, Delta hadn’t taken him back.

  Oh, they’d given him the chance—and he’d given it his best shot, but he had failed the re-certification. Twice.

  Couldn’t say he blamed them, in the end. You couldn’t take a chance that something might go wrong, out there on the edge of the knife.

  And he could never have lived with himself if something had. The knowledge that one of his brothers had died because he had been a split-second too slow. The guilt that went with that knowledge.

  He’d looked into enough widows’ eyes as it was. Far too many.

  His pace slowed as he came to the footbridge, a faint sheen of ice glazing one of the planks, water gurgling from the darkness below.

  The last time he had come to this park…it was a night he didn’t like to think about. He grimaced at the memory, chill morning air stabbing at his lungs. The memory of what had been necessary. Blood on his hands.

  Ahead of him was the access road, a blacked-out Suburban parked behind his car, blocking his exit.

  The figure of a man standing there in front of the vehicle, the glow of the cigar in his mouth visible in the early morning twilight.

  Kranemeyer slowed instinctively, his hand slipping into his jacket, toward the butt of the Heckler & Koch USP .45 holstered on his hip in a cross-draw position.

  “Nearly thought you wouldn’t show,” a familiar voice called out, and he felt himself relax. “Had in mind to finish my Cuban and head back out.”

  “I always keep my appointments, Roy,” Kranemeyer replied, walking up to the older man.

  Roy Coftey snorted, the lapels of his trench coat turned up against his neck against the cold, a silver-haired figure standing there in the semi-darkness.

  A six-term senator from the state of Oklahoma, Coftey was the chairman of the powerful Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, a career politician who’d long since learned how to swim in the swamp that was the Beltway.

  He’d also been in the Special Forces once upon a time, a nasty war its survivors remembered simply as “Nam.” And a soldier was always a soldier, Kranemeyer had found. No matter the passage of time.

  “You made sure you weren’t followed?” Kranemeyer asked, glancing down the access road as if he expected to see lights, to hear the crunch of wheels against the gravel. His jacket was still unzipped, the pistol not far from his fingers.

  “Of course,” the senator replied with a wave of his hand. “Spent the last hour running one of those…SD—SDRs, I believe you called them?”

  A nod. “A surveillance detection route.”

  “Yeah, exactly. Cloak and dagger.” Coftey took another puff on the Romeo y Julieta, exhaling smoke into the dawn. “I thought I’d made it clear after all that happened with…Hancock, that we needed to put space between ourselves. Minimize the risk.”

  Roger Hancock, the predecessor to Richard Norton in the office of President of the United States. A man who had betrayed his oath and his country in order to gain re-election.

  And my men, Kranemeyer thought, for Hancock’s treason had led to the death of a CIA officer on the far side of the world. A young man, one of his country’s finest. Davood Sarami.

  A backroom deal for peace and oil, with Iran on the other side of the bargaining table. He’d never learned the details, had never cared to know. All that mattered was that his men had been betrayed.

  An eye for an eye.

  “And that’s the reason for the cloak and dagger,” Kranemeyer replied, looking the older man in the eye. “We don’t need to be seen in public together. Now more than ever.”

  Hancock’s re-election had been bogged down in a recount of ballots alleged to have been cast by illegal immigrants in New Mexico, the case taken before the Supreme Court the previous December. And the administration had attempted to exert…“influence” on the high court, with Coftey carrying their water. Offering them deniability.

  Until Kranemeyer had gotten to him.

  “Then we’re agreed,” Coftey responded calmly. “So tell me, Barney, what’s on your mind?”

  “Walk with me.”

  They set off down the trail, back toward the wooden bridge, the smoldering cigar still clutched between Coftey’s fingers. “Is this about the President?”

  A nod from Kranemeyer. “Norton authorized the finding for TALISMAN, but it was touch-and-go all the way. And now with that last speech—he’s going to come gunnin’ for the intelligence community. All in the name of freedom.”

  “God save us all from the patrons of good intentions,” Coftey intoned, flicking ash into the slushy snow. “His people on the Hill are organizing—have been ever since Snowden defected to Mother Russia. But Norton’s election gave them the momentum they’d been looking for.”

  “What can you do to buy us time, Roy?”

  There was a long silence before the senator replied. “Very little, I’m afraid.”

  Kranemeyer swore. “You’re the chairman of the intel committee. If you can’t slow them down, no one can.”

  A shrug. “A chairman can only do so much. I’d need allies. And I don’t have any, not anymore. Cahill’s been busy. Word has it that I’m to be primaried next election.”

  Coftey snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Primaried, can you imagine that? And with our control of the Senate itself hanging in the balance. Fifty-one, forty-nine after last November.”

  A hundred men and women, Kranemeyer thought, listening disinterestedly as the senator went on. And scarce a one of them worth shooting. All of them consumed with their own petty agendas, obsessed with re-election. With control.

  For most of them, “good of the country” was something which had fallen by the wayside long ago. If it had ever been reckoned among their priorities to begin with.

  “A single seat flips to the Republicans two years from now, and Vice President Havern gets to break any tie votes Norton wants broken for the remainder of his term in office. But apparently that’s less important than seeing me gone.” Coftey shook his head, anger building in his voice. “Three decades of my life that I’ve given to the party, and this is how they repay me. All because I helped purge a traitor from our midst. Politics is a devil of a thing, Barney.”

  Which was why he hadn’t voted since the early ‘90s. Why anyone who placed faith in their elected representatives to “save the country” was deluding themselves. “So there’s nothing you can do?”

  The senator held up a hand, gesturing with the stub of his cigar. “I didn’t say that. Perhaps it’s time to remind Norton who put him where he sits today.”

  There was just something about the way he said it that caused Kranemeyer to stop short, turning to face his friend. “What are you saying, Roy?”

  For a moment, Coftey looked incredulous. “You didn’t know?”

  “Go on,” Kranemeyer said, the night seeming to grow suddenly colder around him.

  Coftey responded with a shake of his massive head. “I was brought in to make doubly sure that everything went smoothly with the high court…but Hancock won the election, Barney. As fair and square as any election like that ever is. You, me—the Chief Justice—we overthrew the duly elected President of the United States…”

  3:18 P.M. Greenwich Mean Time

  Deptford

  South London, England

  He had passed two pushers on the way in, hawking their wares from underneath the eaves of graffiti-anointed buildings, the sidewalk cracked and broken under his feet. A junkie fallen asleep on the stoop of a flat, his pockets turned inside out, his clothing torn.

  The church that had been set as the rendezvous point for his contact was old, worn by the passage of time—a plaque embedded in the stone outside bearing the inscription, Anno Domini 1897.

  In the year of our Lord.

  Harry removed his hat as he stepped into the sanctuary, his eyes falling upon a single supplicant kneeling near the altar, an image of the crucified Christ staring down upon the scene.


  He hadn’t seen the inside of a church since…well, since Carol’s funeral. Didn’t know why.

  Or didn’t want to face the reason. That might have been closer to the truth of the matter.

  He’d been outside for nearly two hours, maintaining surveillance on the site of the meet. Watching for activity, any sign of assets being pre-positioned.

  It had been long enough to bring one of the pushers over his way, a thin black man who looked like he had been using too much of his own product. The hilt of a knife displayed prominently beneath his threadbare jacket.

  He’d spoken, a hoarse “What you doin’, bruv?” and Harry had just looked at him, a cold stare that had delivered his message more effectively than words. Move on.

  And he had.

  Eyes scanning the sanctuary for threats, Harry moved down the center aisle, toward the worshipper. The only man he’d seen enter since he had taken up watch.

  “There were roses,” he said quietly, coming up behind the man—staying just far enough back to avoid surprises. His jacket was open, the Walther in an inside pocket. Not ideal, but you made the best of what you had.

  “That there were, mate,” the man replied, rising from his knees. His rough clothes suited the neighborhood, his hands those of a worker, hard and callused. “What’s it to you?”

  It wasn’t his contact, but the Belfast accent told Harry everything he needed to know.

  “Flaharty sent you?” he asked, watching the man’s eyes—his hand not far from the butt of the Walther.

  “Aye, that he did,” a second voice announced, Harry’s head swiveling to see another man emerge from back near the confessional, a compact CZ 75 leveled in his right hand.

  He looked back to see the “worshipper” standing before him, his Beretta drawn, only inches away from Harry’s face.

  Close enough to take.

  He could have seized it, killed them both before they had time to react. Being held at gunpoint with a pistol wasn’t the game-ender that Hollywood portrayed. Not if you had the training to deal with it.

  But it wouldn’t have gotten him a single step closer to his objective.

  “Put this over your ‘ead,” the man with the CZ ordered, pulling a black hood from within his jacket and throwing it at Harry’s feet. “We’ll be goin’ out the back.”

  6:17 P.M.

  Thames House

  “If you’ll come right this way,” Alec MacCallum said, looking back as Thomas hung the visitor ID around his neck, following Roth into Five’s Operations Centre. “We have a conference room set up for the briefing.”

  He led them past bank after bank of screens, moving hurriedly, as if to minimize their exposure to the visitor. So much for the special relationship, Thomas thought. Maybe that really was a thing of the past.

  “We’ve obtained a positive ID on the ‘lookout’, if that’s indeed what he was,” he announced, ushering them into a small soundproofed conference down a hallway off the “floor” of the op-center. He gestured toward a man already seated at the table. “Parker, I’d like you to meet Simon Norris, a fine analyst in his own right—and one of my best officers. Simon, this is Thomas Parker, the CIA liaison officer.”

  Thomas merely nodded by way of acknowledgment, taking a seat as MacCallum moved to the head of the table, throwing up the surveillance photo taken the previous night on the screen at the far wall.

  “Keon Davison,” he said, clicking his remote to put up another picture, this time a mug shot. “Twenty-two years of age, natural born citizen of the UK. No current address. Changed his name to Nadeem Abdul al-Qawi after converting to Islam while serving a stint up at Feltham for armed robbery.”

  Prison conversion. That was a familiar song and dance, Thomas thought, glancing over at Roth. Both sides of the Atlantic.

  For some the conversion was genuine, for others it was just a way to stay alive. You needed to “belong” in prison if you wanted to survive. Either way, once you were in—getting out was more problematic.

  “Does he have any family? Anyone we could lean on?”

  MacCallum shook his head. “No father listed in our databases, his mother’s been in and out of alky-clinics ever since he was a kid. Davison was first arrested when he was thirteen, sent up for shoplifting.”

  Alky-clinics, Thomas winced. Rehab for alcoholics. That struck a bit too close to home. “So we have no idea where to find him?”

  “That’s a different question,” the British officer smiled. “He has a Twitter account…and we’ve been working to cross-reference his geo-location data over the past three weeks. Simon?”

  The analyst nodded. “We have two possible addresses. I’m currently liaising with Special Branch to have them checked out, see if he shows up. In the meantime, we’ve pulled his phone logs and are combing through his contact history for any possible matches against our watchlists.”

  “And then what?” Thomas asked, glancing from Roth to MacCallum.

  “Then we’ll have to make the decision. Either maintain surveillance—or have Special Branch lift him so that the quizmasters can have a go.”

  “On what charges?”

  Norris smiled. “He’s not seen his probation officer in nine months.”

  7:03 P.M.

  Somewhere in the UK

  Darkness. A noise-filled, disorienting darkness, every bump in the road transmitting itself through Harry’s body as he lay in the boot of the car, arms ziptied behind his back, the hood over his head completely robbing him of sight.

  Sensory deprivation. He’d never forget the first time the hood had been placed over his head, back during his training at Camp Peary, the inescapable feeling of panic, his breath quickening. It hadn’t mattered that it was a controlled test—your mind didn’t process that at first.

  Just the panic.

  But that was exactly what training was for, preparing you for the day when it would no longer be a test. No control. He rolled over on his back, feeling the bulge of a spare tire against his foot—trying to determine just how long he’d been in the car.

  Hours. It had to have been close to four, maybe more, but it was impossible to say with any certainty. Trying to keep track of turns would have been pointless—he knew Flaharty, knew his men. They’d probably spent half their time running SDRs through southwest London, crisscrossing the city in an effort to determine if he had back-up.

  It’s what he would have done.

  The car’s pattern of movement had changed over the last couple hours, though—changing from the familiar stop-and-go of city traffic to the smoother acceleration of highway driving.

  And then later on it had gotten rough, as if they had left the highway for more rural roads. Slowing down.

  The vehicle swung suddenly into another turn and he felt himself roll, ending up with his cheek pressed against the wheel well as the car came to a stop, the sound of the motor fading away.

  Footsteps crunching outside. Gravel. They were walking on gravel. Then the sound of the boot’s lid being opened, hands seizing hold of his arms, lifting him out.

  He felt the muzzle of the CZ jam into his ribs as he was shoved forward. “Keep it moving,” a voice growled in his ear, so very close.

  He heard a door open and shut behind him, the gun forcing him down a small set of stone steps—moving cautiously. Arms still bound, there was no way he was going to catch himself if he went down.

  Voices murmuring around him, faint. Indistinct.

  The hood was ripped from his head without warning, the zipties cut from his hands.

  “It’s been a long time since we last stood in the same room, Harry. A very long time.”

  He blinked against the sudden light, glancing about him, taking in the massive rough-hewn beams over his head, the walls of stone. A farmhouse? Over to where a short, balding man stood at the end of a table in the basement room, cleaning his glasses. Flaharty.

  “That it has, Stephen,” he replied, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation as he looked th
e former IRA bombmaker in the eye. “Do you have the weapons we spoke of?”

  “All in good time,” the man smiled, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He picked up the small Walther from off the table, favoring it with a look of disdain. “Seriously, old son…a PPK?”

  Harry shrugged. “You know what they say. Any port in a storm.”

  7:15 P.M.

  The flat

  Ealing, London

  Treason. That’s what it was, no getting around it—no matter how she might justify it. Every member of the Security Service knew the consequences for violating the Official Secrets Act. No exceptions.

  Mehreen leaned back in her chair, the cup of tea warming her hands as she gazed at the small thumb drive on the table before her.

  The drive containing London’s dead-ground map…including OSIRIS. Smuggling the files out of the Registry without being detected had not been easy—she’d nearly reconsidered twice. Questioned what she was doing, risking all that she had worked so hard to achieve.

  And now, as she sat in her home, the evidence of her crime before her, the questions had returned.

  The flat had been empty when she’d arrived home, no sign of Nichols to be found. Vanished, like a ghost into the darkness.

  What had she expected?

  She’d known he was keeping something from her even yet—known and gone ahead to retrieve the files anyway. “He’s not going to live long enough to strike again, Mehr. I will see to that.”

  And she was aiding an assassin.

  7:22 P.M.

  Somewhere in the UK

  “I was surprised to hear from you, considering the circumstances of our last meeting,” Flaharty said, gesturing for his men to give them the room as he placed a long gun case on the table between them, flicking back the catches.

  Harry forced a smile, waiting until the door had closed behind the Irishman’s enforcers before he spoke. “No more surprised than I was to be contacting you.”

  Once upon a time, Stephen Flaharty had been a legend—and for all the wrong reasons. One of the best bombmakers the Provisional Irish Republican Army had ever seen, back during the times of the Troubles.

  The Provos.

  But the world had changed, or so people liked to believe. And when the Provos had laid down their arms in 2005, rebels like Flaharty had been scattered to the wind, fanning out across the globe with Her Majesty’s government still on their heels.