Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

  He realized his mistake as it occurred. He’d moved too quickly. Had he slowed down, his left leg might not have made enough contact with the filament wire running six inches above his floor and across the hallway.

  Oh no.

  He heard a metallic ping followed by a louder clack. He recognized the sound of a pin popping out of its slot and the release of a safety lever, which landed on the floor. Grenade!

  John Quick spun on his heels, turning 180 degrees in a blur of dark motion. He lunged for the doorway and prayed that the grenade’s fuse would last long enough to provide him an extra second to clear the porch.

  He sprinted through the door and was halfway across the porch when he thought, I’m not going to make it.

  He clearly saw the edge, knowing that if he could reach the ground below, he’d likely be safe from flying shrapnel and debris.

  He took one more step and dove into the air, hoping he’d judged his leap accurately. As he sailed across his front porch, the remaining part of the fuse burned, detonating the 6.5 ounces of Composition B explosives.

  The explosion in the confined space of his hallway was tremendous. The concussion wave from the grenade was magnified by the walls and doorway. The blast split the front door in half and tore both pieces off their hinges, sending the giant wooden planks rocketing across the front porch.

  For a moment, he thought he was going to land in safety on the gravel below. I have enough time.

  As he sailed through the air, he momentarily saw his silhouette illuminated by the flash of the explosion, a dark shape elongated across the edge of the porch and down the steps.

  In that moment, the image reminded him of an old black-and-white negative, captured in some abstract and surreal world. Then the top half of the door smashed into the back of his head, propelling him over the edge of the porch. He didn’t feel the impact as he somersaulted over the edge and tumbled down the steps, coming to a sudden halt on the gravel below.

  As he lay on his back and looked up at the night sky, his only thought was, I guess I didn’t have enough time. The surrounding blackness closed in on him, and he thought no more.

  CHAPTER 14

  Carlos and Edward were jogging their way through the deep woods to the staged SUV when the booby-trapped grenade exploded. Both men abruptly halted, and Edward looked over to see Carlos smiling.

  Edward asked, “A booby trap? Nice touch.”

  “I just hope it killed him. That man is one tough hombre. Let’s go. We need to be out of here before company arrives. We’re not safe until we’re on the highway and heading south to the airport. Hopefully the explosion bought us some time and will cover our tracks.”

  They resumed their pace, weaving in and out of trees, leaping over fallen limbs as they ran. Carlos focused on his breathing and kept moving through the thick underbrush.

  Nothing can stand in our way now.

  * * *

  John Quick opened his eyes to find himself lying on a cot in the back of an ambulance. At least I’m not dead . . . yet.

  He heard several voices outside the vehicle. He turned to look, but the full brightness of the ambulance caused more pounding pain in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

  “Aghh . . . that hurts like hell,” he said to no one in particular.

  Surprisingly, a voice responded from the door of the ambulance. “Relax, Mr. Quick. You suffered a severe concussion. Your eyes are going to be extremely sensitive. You’re lucky—”

  “To be alive. I know,” John interrupted. “Not the first time either—and with a concussion. Not my first rodeo, so to speak . . . unfortunately.”

  He squinted and slightly opened his eyes to see a twenty-something, baby-faced paramedic looking at him intently, gauging his physical well-being.

  “Three questions, son. One, how long was I out? Two, what the hell happened? And three, what’s your name?”

  “It’s David, Mr. Quick. I’d say you’ve been out for at least an hour or so. We arrived on the scene after the FBI called it in. It’s a little after eight o’ clock. As for what happened, Mr. Quick, I have no idea. I’m just a paramedic, but it looks like you had yourself a small war here. Let me find an FBI agent for you. Back in a sec.”

  Before John could ask any more questions, David jumped out the back of the ambulance and disappeared.

  His eyes slowly adjusted to the light, and the first view John had through the back of the ambulance was of the front of his house—or at least what was left of it. The porch railing was shredded, most of the individual posts were gone, and the remaining ones were barely hanging by splinters. Parts of the porch surface itself had been stripped: some sections were vertical, as if someone had physically pried them up with an invisible, enormous crowbar. The most impressive damage was the enormous hole where his front door had once hung.

  Not only had the door been blown completely off its hinges, but all the framing was destroyed as well. He saw the top half of the door lying in the grass several feet from the front steps, and he instantly realized what had happened and how close he’d actually come to the afterlife . . . again.

  I am lucky to be alive. That could have taken my head off or even sliced me in half. Good Lord . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted when a serious-looking man in a dark-blue FBI field jacket appeared at the back of the ambulance. He wore a bulletproof vest underneath the lightweight jacket. The man’s black hair was combed back and fixed in place. It reminded John of that L.A. Lakers coach from the eighties who won all those championships, although he couldn’t quite remember his name under the current circumstances.

  “Mr. Quick, I’m Special Agent Jack Thorton. You’re lucky—”

  “I know. I know,” John said dismissively. “Another concussion. Sucks. The kid told me as much.”

  The agent continued. “Anyhow, at least you’re going to be okay.” He paused as another agent out of view said something to him John couldn’t understand.

  “Listen, Mr. Quick. There are several things I need to tell you because the men who did this are gone, minus the two that you killed, of course. But before I do, I have to ask you a very important question: did you have an Iraqi national flag from your time in Fallujah? And if so, where is it?”

  John studied the face of the agent. He was sure he’d misheard the man. My head must be more fucked up than I thought. An Iraqi flag?

  “Say again, Agent Thorton? A flag? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I wish I were, Mr. Quick. I’m not, and this is deadly serious, as you now know. Do you have it?”

  This entire situation felt preposterous and surreal to him, but he answered nonetheless. “I do. It’s in my study on the wall.”

  Agent Thorton turned and spoke to the agent out of John’s sight. “Check the study now. It should be on the wall if it’s still here.”

  He turned back to John as the other agent ran inside the house.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re not the first one attacked today. This same organization—they’re somehow connected to the Los Toros cartel—tried to kidnap your former commanding officer, Logan West.”

  John raised his eyebrows. “How’d that work out for them?”

  “Not so well. He killed a man in his Annapolis home.”

  “Not surprising,” John said.

  “Well, they then tried to hold his wife ransom. They got her, but only after she killed two of them herself.”

  “Good for Sarah,” John said.

  “Mr. West—after he survived the attempt on himself—called Special Agent Mike Benson. I believe you know him?”

  “I do. Sounds like quite the fiasco.”

  “It was. Special Agent Benson’s uncle just happens to be the assistant director for counterterrorism. Mr. West and Special Agent Benson then proceeded to rescue Mr. West’s wife. They left one gunman alive.”

  John sat up and smiled. “That asshole’s lucky. So where are Logan and Mike now?”

  “On their way to Qua
ntico. All we know is that these men were looking for that flag you had inside your study. I say ‘had’ because I’m guessing it’s already gone. The bottom line, someone or some organization has launched a serious campaign to get that flag, and we’re still struggling to figure out why. The surviving gunman stated that the flag is critical to some attack and mentioned the loss of—and I quote—‘thousands of innocent lives,’ but he didn’t have any more details.” He paused to allow John to process the gravity of the situation.

  “Jesus. I knew these were serious men. The one I killed with my KA-BAR—his name was Hector; he told me so before I killed him—was a professional and trained in hand-to-hand combat. He was good. Really good.” Just not as good as I am, he thought matter-of-factly and without a trace of arrogance.

  The second agent suddenly reappeared from the house and shook his head, confirming Special Agent Thorton’s suspicion.

  “As I thought. So now that we know the flag’s gone, can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  John recounted everything that occurred, including the fact that there’d been at least two more men, the sniper and the man whom John had heard exit his house. He’d had the flag in his possession as I heard him leave. Damnit.

  When he finished, Special Agent Thorton removed a BlackBerry from a cell phone holster on his belt, dialed a number, and waited.

  “Sir, he’s awake. The flag’s gone. Mr. Quick killed two of the attackers. At least two more were here, but they escaped with the flag.”

  He paused, staring at John. “Okay, sir. Will do. I’ll hold.”

  After a brief moment, he said, “Roger. Here he is,” and handed the phone to John. “It’s for you.”

  John grabbed the phone and placed it to his ear. His head still throbbed from the concussion.

  “This is John Quick.”

  “Still alive, are you? So much for your retirement . . . I think your peace and quiet just went away with the assholes that tried to kill you and blew up your house.”

  John smiled broadly at the sound of his friend’s voice.

  “Logan, your concern is overwhelming. I’m touched. But I hear you had your own excitement today.” His sarcasm switched to genuine concern. “You and Sarah both.” He paused and continued. “Seriously, brother, I’m glad you’re okay. This is some crazy shit, even for us. Any idea what the hell is going on, other than some assholes screwing up our retirements?”

  “Funny you should ask. As a matter of fact, the FBI is in the process of questioning the man I captured. I’m down in Quantico right now with Mike Benson. Remember him from Iraq?”

  “Of course. How is he? Guess he had your back today. Glad to see even a fed can get dirty once in a while.”

  “He definitely did. He shot one of Sarah’s captors through our kitchen window. It was a nice shot. You would’ve appreciated it,” he said, complimenting John’s own formidable skills as a marksman.

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Anyhow, we should know more after the interrogation is over. In the meantime, I have a proposition for you. Are you sitting down?”

  John sighed. Here it comes. “Man, I’m in the back of an ambulance. I was knocked out by a booby-trapped grenade inside my front door. So yes, I’m sitting down. Why is it that every time I seem to get blown up, it involves you?”

  Logan laughed, relieved that John at least had his sense of humor intact. “Must be my special karma.”

  “It’s definitely something,” John said.

  “So here it is: how do you feel about consulting with the FBI on this case? I’ve been asked to assist in an official capacity as a private contractor.”

  John remained silent, waiting for more before he responded.

  “I kid you not. Obviously, you remember Mike, and Agent Thorton probably mentioned his uncle. Well, his uncle called me directly and asked for our help. He figures the more manpower, the better, especially since several of the men we’re up against are former Special Forces.”

  John interrupted him. “These guys definitely were. I killed one of them in a knife fight, and trust me, he was no amateur.”

  “It’s why he wants us on the team. We have experience dealing with these guys. He also knows what happened with his nephew in Ramadi. He read the details of that classified operation. The bottom line is he thinks we can help. I told him I’d ask you, but that it was your decision. I’m already in.”

  Logan paused to let John decide for himself, although he already knew what John’s answer would be.

  “Do I get a company car? Looks like my SUV took some shrapnel in the explosion, and I’m going to need a new one.”

  Logan laughed. “A company car is the least of it. We have the full resources of the FBI. You’re actually going to be legitimate, which is one scary thought.”

  “Just as long as I don’t have to wear a suit. No offense, Agent Thorton.”

  Thorton just shook his head, raising his eyebrows. “None taken.”

  “You can wear anything you like, but I need you to pack a bag now. Pack both warm- and cold-weather clothes. Agent Thorton has to get you to the airport. I’ll see you in San Antonio tomorrow morning.”

  “San Antonio? What the hell is in San Antonio?”

  “A drug cartel enforcer. The bad guy we captured gave us that information. The FBI is working on the cell phones we retrieved as well,” Logan said.

  “Drug cartels? Special Forces mercenaries? Any more good news?”

  “Yeah, John,” Logan responded seriously, “If we’re lucky, we’ll get some payback on these motherfuckers. They came after me, killed my dog, and held my wife hostage. No way they get away with it—not as long as I have a say in it.”

  John closed his eyes. “I’m sorry about Daly, Logan. I know what he meant to you.” After a moment, he went on. “I’m with you. We’ll put a stop to whatever the hell’s going on. I’ll go pack right now. Be safe and see you soon.”

  John recognized the righteous, controlled rage in Logan’s voice. It concerned him, not for Logan’s sake, but for the sake of the men they were now hunting. He’d heard Logan talk like that once before, in a deserted compound in Fallujah after an ambush by insurgents weeks before Operation Phantom Fury had started.

  When Logan was finished, not one insurgent had remained alive. That operation had removed any semblance of mercy Logan West might’ve reserved. They’d all seen the true evil men were capable of that day, and Logan had been forced to accept the fact that the only successful strategy to defeat those insurgents involved eliminating them completely.

  John had no issue with it, but what had impressed him was how quickly Logan had transformed. The enemy had awakened the true warrior in Logan West, and he’d fully embraced it as if he were Ares himself. It was as if Logan had been made for a singular and lethal purpose. God help whoever’s behind this, because Logan will kill them all.

  He walked back into his home to pack his clothes and weapons. He thought again about that last ill-fated mission in Fallujah, fully aware that it’d been four years ago that both his and Logan’s fates were altered forever.

  The mission had ultimately resulted in his early retirement and Logan’s “medical retirement,” which he knew was a smokescreen and a failed attempt by the Marine Corps to somehow appease Logan’s sense of moral outrage at the events that had transpired.

  He shook his head as he walked through the gaping hole that had once been his door. He and Logan were back in business. Some things never change.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE GREEN ZONE

  BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  29 OCTOBER 2008

  Cain Frost paced back and forth across his office deep inside the Green Zone. He waited for confirmation that his team had retrieved the flag.

  The suspense was maddening as his attempts to control his emotions failed. He was a caged tiger, intense concern rippling across his hardened face.

  At five eleven, he wasn’t an imposing figure, but closer scrutiny revealed a lithe, fit, and cap
able man who moved with the ease and quickness of a trained fighter. Each movement was executed with maximum efficiency.

  His short black hair looked like it’d been tousled by the wind. A closely trimmed black beard, combined with the prestige of his position, afforded him a degree of credibility among the Iraqi generals and politicians he interacted with on a daily basis.

  He wore a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of ironed and impeccably tailored khaki trousers. The ensemble was completed by a pair of tan Oakley combat boots that had more in common with cross-trainers than actual boots. They were built for quickness in a rugged environment, which perfectly characterized Iraq.

  He looked around the office, his icy blue eyes analyzing his surroundings for the umpteenth time. He appreciated the sparseness of personal mementos, the only one a picture of him with his brother from when they’d played football together at USC, before the world and the injustice it dished out had pulled them into its crushing vortex.

  The two brothers had been a living dichotomy, two forces moving in opposite directions, yet inexorably connected. Steven had been the idealist, the one who thought individuals could change the world; Cain, the realist. He’d seen the truth at an early age. Ironically, it was Steven who’d shown it to him, albeit unintentionally.

  When Cain was fifteen and Steven seventeen, they’d taken their annual family trip to Wisconsin. Their father owned a successful metal manufacturing company in Akron, Ohio, and every summer, the family piled into the family van and drove up to the Door Peninsula for two weeks of boating, water-skiing, and fishing. It was on the way home that their world had changed.

  Two hunters, returning from a long day of drinking and hunting, had crossed the double yellow line and struck the Frost van head-on. Cain and Steven had been in the rear row of seats, engrossed in an intense game of travel Connect Four. The impact flipped the van on its side, and Cain had been trapped under the middle row. The vehicle had caught fire, and Steven, somehow unscathed, had managed to free Cain and drag him to safety.