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This man who was in the park.
He sips at his tea, and wonders how best to make an example of Jad Bell.
Chapter Forty
YOU CAN get an awful lot of intelligence from a cell phone.
The following day, WilsonVille opened at its regular time. Almost all rides resumed operation, with the notable exception of Pooch Pursuit, now closed for maintenance. Attendance was, as expected, poor, with just under three thousand day passes sold.
“It’s three thousand more than I thought we’d sell,” Marcelin tells Ruiz. “It’ll come back. People have short attention spans, and technically, Bell was working for us.”
“So when you tell the media that WilsonVille security played a crucial role in retaking the park and rescuing the hostages, you’re telling the truth.”
“My understanding is that your people don’t want me to tell the truth.”
“That is correct.”
Marcelin nods slowly. “Bell.”
“What about him?”
“I’d like to thank him. Him and the rest of your men.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Ruiz tells him. “He’s on a new assignment. But I’ll be sure to pass it along.”
* * *
When Wallford offers to shake Bell’s hand, Bell grins and holds up his right, showing the bandaged palm.
“Ready for this?” Wallford asks.
Bell nods, the grin fading. He aches—his back, his face, his arm, his hand, all of him. When he fell, he’s certain he tore muscles in his shoulder and arm catching himself. Physical pain, and it rides a dull shotgun with the emotional pain, with the way Athena looks at him now and the way Amy won’t. With Dana Kincaid’s broken heart and broken life, and with Angel, which everyone tells him wasn’t his fault, none of whom he believes.
Wallford pushes open the door to Eric Porter’s office, where the man is seated at his desk, staring vacantly out the window. He turns in his chair, registers surprise as he sees Bell entering behind Wallford. Starts to rise.
“Jerry,” Porter says. “I was about to call you. Mr. Bell.”
Bell says nothing, fixing Porter with a stare.
“You were about to call me?” Wallford says. “That is remarkably ironic, Eric. Let me show you why.”
From his pocket, Wallford produces a cell phone, and sets it on Porter’s desk.
“Know what that is?” he asks.
Porter looks from one man to the other, bemused if not puzzled. “There’s a lot to do today, Jerry. Playing games isn’t one of them.”
“That is the cell phone that Master Sergeant Bell here recovered from Gabriel Fuller,” Wallford says. “Mr. Fuller discarded the phone after killing Shoshana Nuri, but before moving to arm and detonate the device.”
Porter says nothing.
“We got the prelim back on the device, as far as that goes.” Wallford flops into one of the two chairs facing Porter’s desk, throws his feet up on the edge. He’s wearing a suit and a tie, but the shoes, Bell notes, are Adidas. “Couple interesting things about that device. Want to hear them?”
“I’m sure you’ll share them even if I don’t.” Porter’s response is dry, or starts that way, but he looks at Bell halfway through it, and the sarcasm fades.
Bell just stares back.
“Had a timer, set to read sixty minutes from arming. But the timer was bullshit, it was to detonate immediately. Would’ve killed whoever set it off, blown them to pieces even before the radiation did its number. But the radioactive material? That’s very interesting. That radioactive material came out of Iran, the facility at Chalus, we think.”
Porter tears himself away from Bell’s stare. “Iran? Jesus Christ. That’s…that’s huge, Jerry, that’s a fucking act of war.”
“Sure looks that way.” Wallford moves his right foot, nudges the phone. “Gabriel Fuller didn’t have a lot of calls on this thing. Received one or two from a location within the park, one of his compatriots. Received a couple from a dead-end disposable, some guy in Los Angeles. That one was interesting, that took heavy lifting, but we were able to zero the location of origin on those calls, the L.A. calls.”
“You know who made them, then?”
“We do not.” Wallford looks at Porter, gives it a moment, then adds, “But there were other calls from that location, and those calls were to a man in Texas. A man in Texas who called you, Eric. A man in Texas who, it turns out, you’ve been talking with at least once a week for the last three months, and who you talked to three times yesterday. You want to tell us what you and he talked about?
“I—”
“I would think very carefully about how you answer this,” Wallford says. He leans back in the chair, craning his head to look pointedly at Bell, then to Porter.
“Jerry—”
Bell says, “We have a code. One of ours dies, someone answers.”
“One of yours? None of yours died.”
Bell takes three steps forward and grabs Eric Porter by his silk necktie, wraps it once around his fist, and yanks. Porter falls forward onto his desk, a strangled cry, and Bell puts his other hand to the back of the man’s head, pushing down, hard, so that Porter’s neck is caught at the edge.
“Angel was one of mine,” Bell says. “And I think you’re responsible for her death. Tell me how I’m wrong.”
Porter gags.
Then Porter talks.
The planning is completed quickly, in the passenger compartment of a chartered Learjet, with Chaindragger assigned to back Bell on the ground, Cardboard on overwatch. Bonebreaker is still out on medical, two broken ribs needing time to heal, though he was adamant that he wanted to Charlie Mike.
“You are continuing mission,” Bell told him. “You’re just doing it on medical leave.”
“Fuck you, Top.”
“Not with a stolen dick.”
“When you deliver, make sure a stamp comes from me,” Jorge said.
“To be paid in full,” Bell agreed.
Doctrine varies on the best time to make a night raid, but when Bell has the luxury of making the call himself, he prefers to roll between three and four in the morning. This time, Ruiz has given him the reins, and it’s 0340 when he and Chain begin the breach of the big house overlooking the lake outside Austin, Texas. Their target is a very, very rich man, who can pay for very, very good security, but what he cannot pay for is absolute privacy, and with the right floor plans and the right tools, nothing is impossible.
With the right plans and the right tools, sometimes it’s even easy.
By 0344, Bell and Chain are inside the big house, with the security guards outside still believing everything their cameras are telling them, and the alarm system on the house still believing it works properly. Floor plan memorized, it’s seventy seconds later before Bell is silently pushing open the door to the master bedroom. Chain follows him inside.
Night vision gives them two figures in the bed, one old man and one young woman, and Chain moves to the latter while Bell moves to the former. Bell waits while Chain puts the woman under, gets the nod, and then brings his gloved left hand to the mouth of Lee Jamieson. With his right, he puts the silencer on his pistol against the man’s forehead.
Eyes snap open in sudden terror.
“Eric Porter gave you up,” Bell says. “Eric Porter says you bought the hit on WilsonVille. What Eric Porter doesn’t know is who you bought the hit from. Give me a name.”
Bell lifts his hand from the old man’s mouth, moves the silencer a fraction away from the old man’s forehead. Lee Jamieson coughs softly, looks to his side, sees the woman asleep, and Chaindragger, a black silhouette that mirrors Bell’s, standing silently by. He looks up at Bell.
“You’re a soldier,” Jamieson says. “You should applaud what I tried to do.”
“I don’t care. I want a name.”
“But you should care. Everyone should care. We’re at war, you know that. What are you? SEAL? Delta? A soldier, a warrior; you know the stakes
.”
“Name.”
Jamieson chuckles, sitting up more fully, adjusting the pillows at his back, and Bell has to admit he recovers himself quickly. “Now, let’s be reasonable. I know many people, and I have more money than you can imagine.”
“You have five hundred million less than you should,” Bell says. “Which seems to me a bit steep for faking a terrorist incident, but I don’t normally buy such things, so I may not be equipped to judge.”
“They fucked me, you understand that, don’t you?” Jamieson squints up at him. “Nobody was ever supposed to die. The device was never supposed to be operational, it was just there to lay the blame at the feet of the Revolutionary Guard. To push us, to speed us along.”
Bell stares at the man, thinks it must be appalling arrogance rather than incredible naïveté that allows him to imagine that no lives would be lost. In a park filled with fifty thousand people, the fact that so few died was a miracle, one achieved only by the presence of himself, Chain, and Angel at the start.
He cannot help but wonder if his presence in the park was coincidence, or something more. If those whispers that put him into play didn’t start from this man here, or others connected to him. Or if those whispers were started from the inside, by this man’s associates, by others who share his agenda.
He doesn’t like thinking that. It would mean a betrayal of trust at the highest levels. It would mean that what this man before him put in motion was done with someone’s tacit consent.
“Name,” Bell says again. “You are running out of time.”
“These are the end times, son.” Jamieson leans forward. “This is the end of an ideological war. We’re fighting savages, they know nothing of civilized society, of the rule of law, of peace, they have no faith in God. We’ve got a president who gets down on his hands and knees in front of these people, their religion, we’ve got a populace who thinks that’s appropriate. They’re ‘war-weary,’ but they don’t even know where we’re fighting, let alone what we’re fighting for. You know this! You know they’ve forgotten. They make movies about the day the towers fell, in the name of Christ!
“We have to send a wake-up call!” Jamieson is warming to his words, more confident, defiant before Bell. “We have to bring this country back together, we have to reunite, focus ourselves on our common foe! This is the end, you’ve got to see it! They’re fighting a holy war? We’re fighting a holy war! You think I could do this alone? There are others like me, others who know what happens if we do not recover our will to fight. Others who share with me the understanding that we cannot falter. If that means showing America what these people are capable of, then I’m proud to have done it.”
Bell nods. Then he puts his hand over the old man’s mouth, and shoots him in the knee. The scream is muffled, dies against his glove, and Bell keeps his hand there for almost thirty seconds longer, watching as Jamieson’s eyes go from wide to half lidded before releasing his hold.
“Give me the name of the man you paid,” Bell says. “Or I shoot you in the other leg.”
“You fucking son of a whore,” the old man gasps.
Bell raises the pistol, sighting the other leg.
Jamieson’s hands fly out, tears of pain shining in the night of the room. “He tried to keep it from me, he tried to keep it all anonymous! But I was careful, I was…I was careful, I did a lot of checking before we moved the money. I don’t know if it’s a real name, I don’t, but it’s the name I found. He’s some Uzbek bastard, lives in Tashkent.”
“Name.”
“Tohir! Vosil Tohir!”
Bell moves a hand to his ear. “Get that?”
“Got it,” Ruiz says. “Finish and go home.”
“You go after him,” Jamieson says. “You go after him, you let him know it’s from me. Son of a bitch double-crossed me, tried to take me for a billion dollars. You go after him, you tell him you came from me.”
“I don’t work for you,” Bell says, and shoots the man twice in the head.
He and Chain leave as silently as they arrived.
By the time they’re wheels-down and have their gear stowed, Ruiz is ready to brief them for Tashkent.
Acknowledgments
The list is long, the gratitude not nearly enough. All the names here represent contributions, large and small, to the creation of this fiction. I have done my best to remember those who asked to be commended. For those omissions, I plead negligence rather than malice.
First and foremost, Gerard V. Hennelly, the warrior-poet who, once again, answered the most absurd questions at the most inopportune times, and did so with the precision and skill he brings to all aspects of his life.
Sterling Hershey, who agreed to make a map, not knowing exactly what he was getting into. WilsonVille came alive under his guidance, became real as a result of his work. A professional, a gentleman, and a man in whose debt I shall remain.
Gratitude to Eric Trautmann, who contributed in ways too numerous to mention; John Kozempel, who taught me about LD50 and other terrifying things; Christopher Schmitt, who took the implausible and injected reality into it, and who also taught me about terrifying things; Corinna Bechko, who told me that gazelles are stupid, and that you never want to work with a tired cat. No animals were harmed in the making of this novel. Special thanks to Dann Fuller and Alexander Hammond.
An enormous thank-you to Danny Perkins and Heather McCormack-Perkins. Athena belongs to you, and my debt to you both for your support, your eagerness to assist, and your time is quite literally incalculable. Truly and sincerely, I cannot thank you enough for all you did.
Thanks also to my editor, John Schoenfelder, who showed me a new way to write a novel, and had my back at every step. Where John had my back, David Hale Smith, my agent and my friend, took point. Both of you guided me through a very dark wilderness. I thank you for seeing me out the other side.
Finally, always, to the Raccoon. I love you.
About the Author
Greg Rucka is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen novels, including the Atticus Kodiak and Queen and Country series, and has won multiple Eisner Awards for his work in comics and graphic novels. He lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife and children.
Also by Greg Rucka
The Queen and Country Series
The Last Run
Private Wars
A Gentleman’s Game
The Atticus Kodiak Series
Walking Dead
Patriot Acts
Critical Space
Shooting at Midnight
Smoker
Finder
Keeper
A Fistful of Rain
Batman: No Man’s Land
Perfect Dark: Second Front
Perfect Dark: Initial Vector
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Map of Wilsonville
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-f
our
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Greg Rucka
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2012 by Greg Rucka
Cover design by Allison J. Warner
Cover copyright © 2012 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First e-book edition: May 2012
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ISBN: 978-0-316-20214-5