by E H Jennings
“It really shouldn’t surprise us, Mark,” said Carter Bradford. “We always knew this day would eventually come. It’s the reason he chose us. Hell, it’s the reason he let us live.”
“Yeah, well I guess I had hoped it would come on a smaller scale,” said Prosser.
Bradford shook his head. “That’s not how this game’s played.”
They stopped talking as Moose hulked over to them. The man’s name was fitting—he was large and had two sizable knots protruding from his forehead, almost like antlers. “Here you go, gentlemen. Enjoy.” His accent was thick.
Prosser thanked him. Bradford said nothing.
As Moose plodded back behind the counter, they started eating. Prosser had three egg whites, turkey bacon, and a grapefruit; Bradford had pancakes and sausage. Both drank coffee, black.
Prosser took a bite of bacon and said, “So if he blackmailed us, the question we should be asking is who blackmailed him?”
Bradford shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
“Iran?”
The DCI shook his head. He was chewing pancakes.
“Please tell me it’s not the damn Iraqis or Afghanis. I’ve had my fill of those bastards.”
“Nah,” said Bradford, washing the pancakes down with a gulp of coffee. “I think you need to move further west. Think Mediterranean.”
Prosser gave him a questioning look.
Eventually, the DCI elaborated. “For my money, I’m taking Syria.”
“Why?” asked Prosser.
“The geopolitics make perfect sense. If you’re Assad, you order the public execution of three American soldiers, then you pay some techie towelhead to make sure the video footage knocks down the door at CNN and Fox. And because he knows Americans are mostly spoiled brats that couldn’t give two shits about the soldiers dying to protect them, he sweetens the pot by killing that reporter. What’s his name?”
“Peter Bosworth,” said Prosser.
Bradford raised his eyebrows. “You watch too much damn TV, you know that? Anyway, if Bosworth isn’t dead you can guarantee he will be soon. I’ll bet you a thousand bucks we watch him get his head chopped off on Al-Jazeera by the end of the week.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”
“So The Syrian Slaughter and all that histrionic shit was just a ploy to strengthen the leverage?”
Bradford smiled and kept eating. “That’s exactly what it was. They used the American media to their advantage. And it’s not exactly a novel idea.”
The Senator grew quiet and Bradford looked over at him. Prosser was staring out at the water. “It’s Syria, Mark. It makes too much sense. The American people are incensed. Which means, if the demands of the blackmail aren’t heeded, the whole structure comes tumbling down and important heads roll. And you, my friend, know better than anyone that important heads don’t roll easily in this country.”
“What do they have?” asked Prosser. “What do they want?”
Bradford finally looked stumped. “I don’t know. The Project had plenty of missions that crossed into Syria, but those wouldn’t serve as effective blackmail. Those missions were meant to take down terrorism and restore order.”
Prosser gave Bradford an ominous look. The DCI spoke in a quieter voice. “Given, some of the platforms could be construed in a very negative light. But you and I both know the truth. The Mirage Project fortified our national security unlike any other military initiative in history.”
“Carter, dammit, you’re still thinking like an operator. You have to see this from my angle, from a politician’s viewpoint. What you and I know doesn’t matter. It’s what the people think they know that matters. If they knew the truth about us, about The Project, about the blueprints…” He rested his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the implications.
“Just breathe,” said Bradford. “There’s a plan in place.”
“And I want to be read in. Right now. Right this minute, Carter.”
Bradford chuckled and picked up his cup. “Yeah, you and me both. The old man’s playing this one incredibly close to the vest. Even closer than usual.”
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
Bradford shrugged. “It concerns me.”
Prosser tried to steady himself. Carter Bradford’s cavalierism was about to give him a coronary.
“I need to know everything, Carter. Everything. If someone in the Middle East has gotten their hands on Project details, Leavenworth will be the least of our worries.”
“He told me he received correspondence from an organization in the Mediterranean,” said Bradford. “He didn’t offer details but he said it was bad. I could tell it had shaken him. Beyond that, I was tasked with getting the King brothers to Paris. That’s all I know.”
Prosser felt defeated. Someone knew. If any of it came to light, his presidential candidacy was over. If the in-country element came to light, his life was over.
“What can I do?” Prosser asked.
“Nothing yet. I’ll get another briefing once the Kings get to France.”
“You seem awfully confident. If they have the leverage I think they have, we might as well go home, drink a fifth of bourbon, and wash it down with a bullet.”
Bradford formed a steeple with his hands. “I’ve got a good agent working the case. I trust her.”
Prosser perked up. “Who?”
“Sampson.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Bradford stood from the table, his expression smug. “It means I’ve got things under control. You just worry about winning that debate tonight. By the end of the week, this little problem will disappear and we’ll go on with our lives. In a month, you’ll be the President and together we’ll return America to greatness.”
He threw on his sport coat, adjusted the collar, and winked at Prosser. “We’ll talk again soon.”
As he watched the DCI leave the diner, Senator Mark Prosser realized that despite the excellent breakfast, he had a sour taste in his mouth. That was the second time in twelve hours someone had promised him this “little” problem would just disappear.
Two people in whom he had placed absolute trust had made those promises.
And he was absolutely certain he didn’t believe either one of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lexington
The conversation with Troy Mendez had lasted about twenty minutes. The man’s voice had been steady and calm as he related the grim news.
According to Mendez, Chuck Rosario had been dead considerably longer than Lee Jacobs. Mendez estimated somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-eight hours. Like Lee, Rosario’s wife had also been killed. That had been the only point in the conversation where Mendez let emotion slip into his tone.
“Thank God his daughters were away at college.”
Chuck and Maria Rosario had been killed in the exact same manner as Lee and his wife. Maria had been shot in the chest, while Chuck had been shot in the back of the head, execution style. Carson and Mendez agreed this was a clear and intentional message from the killers: they wanted them to know it was connected. And more than that, they wanted them to know they were next.
There was no note at the Rosario residence, but Mendez had located a tripwire, much like the one at the bottom of the Jacobs’ staircase. Unlike Carson, Mendez had noticed it and avoided tripping the bomb to which it was rigged.
The assassins had left the Rosario’s kitchen sink running. Mendez recognized the ploy and thoroughly cleared the space before entering. The tripwire had been tied to the kitchen’s door facing; the bomb was buried in the flower arrangement on the counter.
Mendez agreed with Carson’s theory that Lee and Chuck’s killers were also behind Colton’s abduction. But the resultant questions were numerous. Namely, who were they and why did they want former Unit members dead?
When Connor beeped in, Carson told Mendez he would do his best to have more answers by the time they met up at the airport. Carson had expected bad news when he an
swered Connor’s call. But thankfully his brother was just calling to thoroughly cuss him for not telling him about Jake Nichols.
Carson knew Connor would have declined any offer of help, so he had taken it on himself to make the arrangements. If these assassins had the ability to kill Lee Jacobs and Chuck Rosario, then Connor wasn’t safe either.
Carson didn’t care if his brother was mad. He cared that he was alive and well.
Connor got him back, though. He asked Carson to stop by Wal-Mart and pick up a charger for the burn phone.
Carson hated Wal-Mart.
The phone looked like a prepay but it said Android across the top. Connor assured him they would have a charger that fit in the electronics section. And he also told him they needed coffee creamer. Carson cussed him back before hanging up.
• • •
The Land Rover pulled into Connor’s driveway at 0615.
Jake Nichols met Carson in the yard and the former teammates shook hands.
“I really appreciate this, Jake,” said Carson. “I know it wasn’t convenient.”
Nichols laughed. “Being friends with you and Connor rarely is. He nearly murdered my deputy, by the way. Arm-barred the kid. I think he shit in his pants a little, so I sent him home to clean up.”
When they finished laughing, Carson said, “But really, it means a lot.”
“If you need anything else, you call me,” said Nichols. “I mean it. I’ll whip your ass if you don’t.”
Nichols waved as he climbed into his cruiser and drove off.
Amy was waiting at the door. She hugged Carson tightly and kissed him on the cheek. She blanched at the sight of Sampson but eventually stuck out her hand.
“I’m Amy King,” she said, forcing a smile. “Welcome to our home.”
She led Carson and Sampson down the hall to the kitchen where they found Connor sitting at the table, working on his laptop. There was a spit cup and a can of Copenhagen snuff on the table beside him.
He looked up. “Mornin’.”
Like his wife, Connor clearly wasn’t thrilled by Sampson’s presence in his home, but the reality was that she had saved his brother’s life. He met her eyes and nodded. She returned the gesture, acknowledging the subtle act of gratitude.
“Please have a seat,” said Amy, shuffling across the kitchen. “And thanks for grabbing the creamer, Carson. Coffee’s brewing.”
Carson collapsed into a chair across from his brother and rubbed his eyes. “Better thank Sampson. She’s the one who actually found it.”
Connor had told Amy what happened in Wytheville, so when Amy turned and smiled softly at Sampson, it was about a lot more than creamer.
Sampson didn’t like the attention, so she deferred it. “I’ve truly never seen anyone so intimidated by a grocery store.”
Connor suppressed an amused grunt as he spit.
Carson had his head in his hands and didn’t acknowledge the remark. His brother was typing like a fiend and Carson looked over at him through his fingers. “What are you doing?”
Connor glanced at Sampson and hesitated, then thought better of it. “I’m trying to remember all our missions. I’m mapping out a matrix. Unfortunately, I already have a lot of viable options.” He pointed at the grocery bag on the counter. “Get the charger out. We need to plug that phone in.”
Carson dug the phone from his pocket. It was a prepaid type, probably bought at some place like RadioShack and meant to be used for a very short time. It was a great find. Sampson handed Connor the charger and he plugged it in.
“Who wants cream?” asked Amy.
Carson and Connor both raised their hands, while Sampson opted for black. She almost laughed. The big bad King brothers liked their coffee sweet.
Sampson offered to help but Amy politely declined, carrying the coffees over on a tray and taking a seat beside her husband. She slid the mugs across the table.
As they sipped, the only sound came from Connor’s fingers flying across the keys. When he finally stopped, he turned the screen so Carson could see it. Operation Mirkwood had consisted of nineteen missions spread over a thirty-four-month period. January 2003 through October 2005.
When Carson saw the matrix, he shook his head. It would not be helpful. It looked like the world had been knit together by a talented seamstress—lines twisted and coiled over nearly every country in the Middle East, Asia, most of Africa, and the great majority of Europe.
Mirkwood had touched millions of people, and though the world would never know it, the domino effects of their work had impacted billions.
“I know it’s huge, but there are patterns,” said Connor, pointing to a spot on the screen. “In my opinion, these guys are either Middle Eastern or Russian.” Again, he glanced at Sampson. “Our most…controversial missions took place in those areas. They’re the regions with the most incentive to seek revenge.”
Carson was shaking his head. “Russia alone constitutes an eighth of the world’s total land mass. Add in the Middle Eastern nations and we’re talking about a billion people. We have to find some way to narrow it down.”
“What about Colton?” They all looked up at Amy, who had fresh tears staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I have to know.”
Connor squeezed her hand. “What about Colton, babe?
“Could he…could he still be alive?”
Connor started to answer then looked to Carson for help.
“Actually,” said Carson. “I think there’s a great chance he’s still alive.”
Everyone but Sampson looked surprised. “I agree,” she said.
Carson looked back at Amy. “We believe these assassins, whoever they are, abducted Colton to use him as bait.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Bait?”
“Sorry, that’s not a good way to say it. It’s, uh, it’s more like a…”
“Like a ransom,” added Connor.
“A ransom for what?
At that, Connor squeezed her hand tighter. “For us,” he said quietly.
“But that’s good news for Colton,” said Carson. “If we’re right and they’re using him to get to us, it would make no sense to kill him. Keeping him alive assures we’ll come after him, which is exactly what they want.”
Amy shook her head. “Sounds to me like you’re playing right into their hands.”
No one said anything. There really wasn’t anything to say.
Connor used the awkward moment to repack his Copenhagen. He put in a pinch and offered the can to Carson, who accepted. He had always much preferred chew to dip, but it had been a shitty twelve hours and he had finished off his Red Man in Wytheville.
He put in a big pinch and thought about his peaceful visit to his father’s grave. He had thought about change, about how it was the only constant in life.
Life, he realized, had a way of being brutally satirical.
The sudden beep made them all jump.
They looked around for a few seconds before realizing the source of the noise. Connor leaned down and picked up the phone.
He pushed a button and held it up for them to see. “It’s powering on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As the screen came to life, Connor moved his laptop and set the phone on the table. They all leaned in. The screen’s background was a nondescript gray and the only graphics were the date and time.
Connor deftly dissected the phone while the others waited. When he was done, he looked up, an unreadable expression on his face.
“It’s almost completely clean. There are no emails, no text messages, no Internet or data usage activity, no photos, and no applications. The GPS feature has been disabled. It’s a classic burn phone.” He scooted it closer to the others. “Almost. The call history shows three calls, all in the last sixteen hours.”
Carson peered down at the call log. “They’re all to the same number.”
Connor nodded.
There was a creaking sound from the hallway and they all looked up expecting the wo
rst. What they saw was a sleepy five-year old.
Alyssa’s brown hair fell over her face in messy swaths and one leg of her purple pajamas was stuck above her knee. “Mommy?” she said, rubbing her eyes and staggering into the kitchen. Suddenly, her brown eyes brightened. “Uncle Carson!”
Carson laughed as she jumped into his lap. “Hey sweetie.” He kissed her on the head and gave her a squeeze. “What are you doing up so early?”
“I always get up this early,” she said, beaming up at him.
“Yeah right!” said Connor.
“Who’s she?”
Alyssa was pointing at Sampson.
There was a moment of tension but Amy cut in. “That’s Rachel. She’s one of Uncle Carson’s friends.”
Sampson held her breath as the little girl stared her down. Relief filled her when Alyssa smiled. “You’re pretty.”
“So are you,” said Sampson.
Amy stood from the table. “Come on, Lizzie. Let’s go get ready for school.”
Alyssa clung to Carson. He grinned. “Why don’t you go with your momma and get ready for school.” He pointed at his watch. “If you get back downstairs by seven thirty, maybe I’ll make you and your sister one of my famous omelets?”
Her brown eyes brightened again.
Connor, Carson, and Sampson waited until Amy and Alyssa were upstairs before they continued. The obvious conclusion was quickly reached: they had to call the number.
After some discussion about who should do it, they sat the phone in the middle of table, dialed the number, and put it on speaker.
It rang three times before they heard it click.
“This is Div,” a voice said.
It was so raspy and weak they could barely make out the words. It was a male and there was an accent, but that was about all they could deduce.
“This is Div,” the voice repeated, louder but just as sickly.
There was a long silence as they looked at each other. The plan had been for Carson to do the talking. Just when he started to speak, a chilling sound filled the room.