by Bex Dane
"A thousand more," I said.
"How about the real thing?"
"The Army will never let us go back for Jericho."
"We can go in on our own." Now that Falcon had officially gone rogue, his fear of authority—which was tenuous before—completely evaporated.
"We need air support, equipment."
"There's a guy in Boston. Dallas Monroe. He manages a private contractor outfit. I'll help you fund it."
"We'd need more money than you and I have."
"Then the guys will fund it too. It'll be a group effort. Everyone wants to see Jericho dead."
I dropped the launcher in the sand. "Give me some more time."
***
Two days and another quart of whiskey later, I got an encrypted message from Marla Brightman.
Langley 0800 ASU
If she was asking me to wear my Army service uniform, maybe she wasn't going to axe my ass. Or maybe she was.
***
Washington D.C
I arrived at Langley early and met with Brightman alone.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Nothing you could've done."
"Before we talk about anything else, you need to know I regret the loss of Eden's life more than anything else in my career." A shimmering wetness coated her eyes.
I looked at the floor, unable to bear watching the director of the CIA cry for my loss.
She sniffled and righted her shoulders. "So. Can you pass a mental health evaluation?"
"Pardon?"
"Are you fit for service or not?"
"I'm fit for service."
"Colonel Langbow is pushing for desertion and treason. He wants to see you court-martialed, stripped of your rank, and confined. I can get all charges against you dismissed and swept under the rug. None of this will reach the press."
"You have something on Langbow to keep him quiet?"
"Colonel Langbow fabricated stories to cover the cause of death for both his children. He's not an issue."
"What do you want in return?"
"Your continued service on Delta Force Alpha Squadron. You'd take command. The missions won't always be identified terrorists. It'll be more vague. Less hostage rescue and more focus on... eliminating threats."
"Diplomats and sabotage," I said.
She nodded.
"There's private contractors to do those tasks."
"And we can't hire them or afford them, but yes, you'd be doing the same tasks as a PMC but funded by the CIA under the umbrella of Delta Force and SOC."
"Be honest with me. Are you taking this beyond the war on terror to advance your career?"
"I can't discuss that with you."
In other words, yes.
"Would you ask me to kill Americans? Politicians?"
"In some cases."
"Women?"
"That would be… rare."
Shit. We'd be hired killers. As the sniper and commander, all the heat would be on me.
She was offering me the low road.
But the high road meant years of prison for treason and a boatload of other crimes. Not only for me, but for the other five men on my team. Dishonorable discharge for the most honorable men in America's military.
"If you accept, you must understand, the U.S. government will not publicly back you up. If anything happens to compromise security, you must testify you acted as rogue PMCs. We'll deny any knowledge of your missions. You'll be paid from untraceable foreign accounts. In public, you'll take on a persona who has been honorably discharged, but your official status is Delta Force NCO with normal salary and opportunities for advancement."
"I'd want my men behind me."
"They've been given the same offer. They're waiting for us in Room B."
She opened a door at the back of the room. The guys were all standing there waiting for me. I walked to each one and shook hands with them.
"I don't need to ask if you're in," I said to Falcon. Falcon would be eager, he had no reservations or morals. Even if he didn't know whether Jericho would be part of the deal, he'd be in.
Diesel had a wife, but nodded anyway. Coral must not mean that much to him. Blaze, Ruger and Oz agreed with a head tilt too, each for their own reasons.
I turned back to Brightman. "We'll accept on one condition."
She looked hopeful and raised her brow in question. She'd be lucky to have a team like this at her disposal and at bargain American military rates. She could eliminate anyone who put a thorn in her plans with very low risk to her career. It was an unbalanced deal because we take all the risk and she gets all the political advantage.
"My team goes back for Jericho."
She kept her eyes on me a moment, appearing to weigh my request. She lowered her chin and shook her head. "Jericho is a low-level threat. He's not on my agenda."
"Put him on your agenda and you've got America's top special ops team as your personal agents. But we won't do shit unless you find Jericho for us and send us in to get him."
She paced the room with her arms crossed, the barracuda in her surfacing and preparing to fight.
"I don't need you," I said. "I can go in as a private contractor and get my revenge, without having to assassinate politicians who block your path to the White House." She says she wants to be secretary of state, but the rumor is she's gunning for president, and she has the means to get there.
She stilled and nailed me to the spot with the ruthless glint in her eyes. "Not if you're confined."
Damn. She had me there. My team and I would spend the rest of our lives at Leavenworth because of the stupid mistakes I'd made.
"I'd like to help you, Sergeant Saxton. As I said, I feel a sense of responsibility for the tragedy, and I'd like to make amends. However, I'm not calling the shots as director of the CIA. You'll need to wait until I'm appointed secretary of state. Sending your team to take out Jericho will be my first action in office. It'll take some time. Possibly years. Can you wait?"
"Yes." I'd wait as long as it took.
"Until then, you remove anyone who blocks my path."
"Agreed."
She shook hands with each of us, sealing our fate. The U.S. military owned us, but if I got Jericho in return for selling my soul, it'd be more than worth it.
"First mission, extract Kovalev, but leave none of his captors or any witnesses alive."
Good. I wanted to go back for Kovalev and finish what we'd started there. Eliminating witnesses violated the code of honor, but I'd be forced to oblige.
"Retired General Dallas Monroe is your contact in the States. You'll rarely hear directly from me."
"Is his retired status the same as ours?"
The corners of her mouth turned down. "His status is not your concern. You'll report to him."
"Yes, ma'am."
Falcon had mentioned Dallas Monroe in Boston and I'd looked into him. He ran a PMC and bounty hunter operation out of his nightclub called Siege. He charged much higher than military rates. Brightman probably had some substantial dirt on him too if he was willing to cut deals for CIA covert ops.
"Get your mental health paperwork in order and prepare to deploy in the next month."
Suddenly, I had a purpose and an outlet for the rage burning in my gut. Each mission would bring me closer to killing Jericho. We'd go back for Kovalev, but if I found Jericho, I'd kill him.
***
Wilmington, North Carolina
In the middle of my tenth rep of burpees, my cell lit up with a call from my mom.
"Rogan, Marla Brightman asked me to check on you."
"She called you?"
"No. I sat next to her at a benefit for the foundation." I'd forgotten my mother ran in the same circles with Brightman as they both did charity work for the Dignity for Women Foundation. "I'm worried about you."
"I'm fine." If pushing your body to the point of failure and spending your days buying more ammo to slaughter the same man over and over is fine. "You spoke about me in public?"
&
nbsp; "We didn't mention specifics, just shared thoughts from one mother to another. Now, what's the situation with the Army?"
"Training with Falcon in North Carolina. I have a month before my next deployment."
"You're continuing with Delta Force?"
"Shit, Mom, are you on a secure line?"
"Of course."
"Even so. Don't discuss it."
"Come see me. We need to talk."
"No."
"Come here. Ride the horses. Swim. Leave some of the weight on your shoulders in the Caribbean Sea. Stay one week."
"I don't know."
"Your heart is hurting. When my boy's in pain, my heart feels it too. You need your momma right now."
"I need to train."
"Bring your gear. I'm not asking. I'm telling. I'll have a flight arranged for tomorrow."
I looked to the ceiling for divine guidance and received nothing. "I can come for a week. I'll make my own flight arrangements." When Guinevere Foor, the spouse of the prime minister of St. Amalie gave orders, everyone obeyed, no argument— including her son.
"That's wonderful. I love you."
"Love you too, Ma."
Chapter 16
"How was your trip?" Falcon turned his eyes toward me while keeping his head facing the windshield. Falcon and I didn't talk much. We communicated silently most of the time. For some reason, he'd decided the twelve-hour drive up I-95 to Massachusetts was the time to start chatting like girls.
I grunted. Not much to say. My soul grew heavier during my week in the Caribbean. Admitting my epic failure—as a husband and a soldier—to my mother did shit to lessen the crushing weight of the grief.
"You able to train?"
"Yes."
"Swim?"
"Nonstop swimming. Water's so warm and calm, you gotta swim five times as long to get a decent workout. My stepdad gave me access to the shooting range they use to train the small police force there. Spent time with the horses. What's with all the questions?"
"Did you tell your mom about the deal with Brightman?"
Ah, he wanted dirt. Not my travel diary.
"Of course not." I took a sip from my water bottle and twisted the cap shut. "Doesn't mean she didn't figure it out."
"She's a shrewd woman."
"I wouldn't be surprised if she and Bastien had a team of operators to do their dirty work."
"Like what? Confiscating coconuts?" He chuckled at his own joke, but he knew firsthand how the tentacles of underground crime infiltrated across borders and oceans.
"My stepsister took me aside and voiced her concern about drugs passing through Port Amalie. I can't get involved because of my mom's position, but I reckon Bastien Foor is as corrupt as any politician."
Falcon returned to his normal silence, my responses answering whatever inquiry he had on his mind. We pulled into a jiu-jitsu center in Somerville, outside Boston proper. Dallas Monroe asked us to wear our respective martial arts uniforms and our highest-ranked belt. We met the other guys in the parking lot. As we walked into the gym, first thing I noticed was the cage, black wire mesh enclosed on six sides.
The man I assumed to be Dallas Monroe approached us wearing a black karate gi and a red belt with golden Chinese lettering. His brick-house frame towered a good two inches above my six-foot-three. Falcon and Ruger were taller than him at six-foot-seven, but Dallas carried the bulk of a WWE wrestler. The lines on his thick, flat forehead were broken by a vertical scar from his left eyebrow to his temple. Not the kind of man you wanted to encounter in a dark alley.
After brief intros, he hopped onto the outside of the cage and hung out at an angle with one hand gripping the wire mesh. "No better way to get to know someone than to beat the crap out of each other." Blaze let out a nervous chuckle. None of us expected Dallas to challenge us to spar at our first meeting. "This is called bull in the ring. I'm the bull. I'll take each of you on in series. Freestyle. Only rules are no biting, don't jack up my face," he grinned because his face was already jacked, "or my family jewels. You win by a three-second shoulder-to-mat pin or knock out. No tapping out."
Ah, this would be tricky. When fighting a superior, the battle between the desire to win and deference to rank always threw me off my game. I hadn't fought a commander in a long time.
"Don't go easy on me because I'll be your boss. I'll respect you more if you hit hard and bring this old man down to the mat."
Old man? He looked a little older than us, maybe thirty-five to Falcon's thirty-one and my twenty-nine. Men in this profession aged fast though, so technically, he could be considered old. I'd call it experienced. Men like him had been through hell and mastered the art of survival.
We all removed our gi jackets and T-shirts and donned helmets, fingerless gloves, and mouthpieces.
"Lowest rank goes first," Dallas said.
Diesel and Blaze bickered a little over who would go first since they both had the same rank, but Diesel had a black belt to Blaze's brown. Ruger and Oz were SEALs so their ranks were different, but nearly equal to Diesel and Blaze. Their belts were both black. Falcon didn't have a martial arts belt of any color. He trained on the streets of Mexico, but he held the highest military rank.
"Okay. Form ranks by years of service," Dallas said in a frustrated tone.
Shit, the new Delta Force Alpha Squadron couldn't even form a line.
Years of service put me fifth to face Dallas and Falcon sixth. As Dallas entered the cage with Ruger, Falcon whispered to me, "Watch his technique."
Dallas's technique mixed boxing with karate and jiu-jitsu. By the time he'd pinned Ruger, Blaze, and Oz, I'd gained no advantage by watching those three matches because he'd mastered every martial arts skill available and switched between them with ease.
By Diesel's turn, sweat dripped off Dallas's face, and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. Diesel took him to the mat with a scissor hold and managed to pin Dallas on his front. Dallas worked a knee around and jammed it into Diesel's groin. Diesel recoiled in pain and Dallas pinned him on his back.
"One, two, three. Win!" I counted out Dallas's fourth win with two men left.
On my turn, he attacked off the block with a roundhouse, a move he hadn't tried at the beginning with any other men. I dodged the roundhouse, but he landed the follow-up side kick to my gut. With fatigue setting in, Dallas continually dropped his guard after a strike. I leveraged that by standing within distance for him to kick, but not punch. He threw a side kick with his guard down, allowing me to grab hold of his shin and twist him to the mat on his stomach. I him pinned the in same position Diesel had him. I knew he'd work his knee around to dislodge me, so I twisted his leg at an angle that would impart maximum pain. He groaned and rolled to his back, arching his torso to keep his shoulders from hitting the mat. Without letting go of his shin, I dropped my back to his chest and managed to get him to submit for three seconds. Dallas laughed under me as Falcon counted him out. He was having fun getting his ass kicked by Alpha Squadron, although so far I was the only one to win.
"Next!" Dallas called and Falcon stepped into the cage. Falcon may not have a martial arts belt, but he had height, freshness, and the fact that he was totally fucking crazy on his side.
"Fight!" Blaze called this one since I was still catching my breath.
The psycho-killer look Falcon gets when he fights lit up his face as he exploded off the block, body slamming his whole right side into Dallas with the brute force of a semi-truck, pinning Dallas against the side of the cage. Dallas landed a series of blows to his ribs and face, but Falcon didn't flinch. He knocked Dallas on his ass with a brutal sledgehammer fist to the temple.
The spectators, including me, grimaced as Dallas wobbled in place then dropped like lead to the mat.
"Dammit!" I ran into the cage and pushed Falcon away before he killed our new boss. "Win."
I kneeled beside Dallas to check him out. His eyes rolled back in his head and he grinned, showing off his blood-smeared teeth. "That was e
xcellent."
Just what I needed, another crazy fuck to look out for.
He climbed to his feet and said, "Meet me at Siege in an hour."
***
Siege was an upscale nightclub on the outskirts of Boston, not what most would consider downtown. The location wasn't ideal for walk-ins, but Dallas had a built-in clientele. Any place that catered to off-duty servicemen was sure to attract female customers as well.
Dallas gathered us in a private room upstairs in the back of the club he called the war room. "The CIA has proof of life on Kovalev. You'll fly in and out of Kabul International on a private jet. Then meet with Sergeant Akimo at Bagram to train with their equipment. Be quick in and out. You'll have specialized air support and communications. You leave tomorrow."
When he said tomorrow, the room came alive. We all sat up straight in our chairs and shared excited glances. Instead of swift termination or jail time, Brightman offered us a second chance. We'd be forced to murder when it wasn't called for or approved, but we had a clearly defined mission. Alpha Squadron had reunited. We deployed tomorrow. For the first time since Eden's death, I looked forward instead of backward. Rescue Kovalev. The first step to killing Jericho.
"We have a mission codename?" I asked.
"Operation Bloody Hammer," Dallas replied.
Shit. I'd never heard a codename like that as a Ranger.
***
Five hours into the flight to Kabul, I patted Takoda at my feet and closed my eyes. Eden's ghost interrupted my meditation on killing Jericho.
In all the hours I'd spent thinking of her since her death, this was the first time a vision of her materialized in my head. Her purple dress from our first night together glowed a vibrant fuchsia.
Violet. I love you, babe.
I love you too. Be careful. Don't do anything stupid.
I already did. I led them to you. Nothing more stupid than that.
It was my fault. I shouldn't have followed you.
No. This is all on me. And Jericho.
***