by E H Jennings
• • •
Rachel Sampson pushed herself onto her knees and spit blood in the dirt.
A thick mist of debris fell all around her like snow. Her head was pounding and she coughed again, spitting up more blood.
The shot had been fired by a man named Vladimir, one of Drago Ancic’s head commanders. She knew this because Lazarus had told her exactly how it would happen. Thus far, he hadn’t missed a single detail.
The bulletproof vest had saved her life, but certainly not her ribs. Several were broken. And considering the significant hemoptysis, a lung puncture seemed imminent.
She gingerly rose to her feet, stifling a cry as she straightened her torso. Pain consumed her body, pulsing like shock waves up and down her spine. This next phase would not be easy.
The explosion was proof that Carson had found Lazarus.
They had made it out alive. So far, so good.
When she heard gunshots in the distance, she willed herself into motion. Her body screamed, begging her to stop, but she pushed on, reaching a full sprint by the time she breached the thicket. She hustled through the brush, angling to her left. She knew right where to go; she had mentally rehearsed it thousands of times.
And just like always, Zeke came through.
The dirt bike was concealed beneath a dense layer of refuse. A camouflage tarp had been draped over it, shielding it from weather and prying eyes. Sampson hastily tore away the shrubbery and removed the tarp. There was an additional item hanging from the motorcycle’s handlebars and she threw it over her shoulder.
Despite tasting more blood in her mouth, Sampson kickstarted the bike and it rumbled to life. She pulled the clutch, downshifted, and violently tore her way out of the thicket and onto the narrow trail. When she saw the glow of headlights halfway down the slope, she shifted into second, then third, and pinned the throttle.
She was less than a hundred yards from the shootout when she saw one of the vehicles slide sideways and somersault off the road. She had to act quickly.
Shifting into fourth, Sampson continued to accelerate as she took the item off her shoulder and held it in her lap. She had an idea. It was absurd and it probably wouldn’t work, but it was the only chance they had.
She took shallow breaths as she shifted into fifth and roared toward the embankment.
• • •
Carson watched in horror as the jeep went airborne.
The Humvee had come out of nowhere, emerging from the brush to their right and laying heavy fire. But then the bulky machine had deftly swept in behind their convoy and pursued from the rear. Carson, Connor, and Sayid were all hanging out their windows returning fire, only to discover the Humvee had military-grade armoring.
“Who the hell are these guys?” Carson shouted.
Zeke’s one-word answer gave him chills. “Divljak.”
The Humvee rammed the Jeep twice, nearly throwing Connor from the vehicle. Sayid had been hit at least once but was still sending ordnance out the back when Drago’s men made the fatal move. It was a perfect Pittman maneuver, which was ironic considering Sampson had employed the same technique against Crna Kuga just days before. The Humvee was much larger than the Jeep, and despite Mick’s efforts to turn into the contact, the Jeep slid sideways and rolled.
Carson was screaming as he unloaded his HK on Drago’s men. Zeke was firing from the driver’s side while trying to keep the Jetta on the road. Both men were fighting, but both men were also smart enough to realize it was futile.
The Jetta wouldn’t be able to withstand the punishment and they were nearly out of ammunition. Bosworth was lying flat in the back floorboard, but was brandishing a pistol and firing the occasional shot out the empty hole where the back glass had been.
The thought of dying didn’t bother Carson. He had been dying slowly for a long time. What bothered him was McManus was going to win. And most of all, that more innocents were going to die. Colton, Amy, the girls. They were all dead and it was his fault. He could have stopped it—just like his father, just like Jessica—but he had failed. He had failed to see the bigger picture, to put it all together in time.
In this high-stakes game of chess, Warren McManus had just called checkmate.
That’s when Carson’s head exploded.
Or at least it felt like it. The sudden trauma dazed his already-bruised brain, but after a moment he realized he hadn’t actually been hit.
It was in his ear. The bone mic. Someone was yelling.
When the Humvee connected with the Jetta, Carson’s body was flung from his seat. His lower back hit the dashboard, which slammed his legs into the ceiling. Without a windshield to stop him, he slid out onto the hood. Glass shards tore into his back.
A bullet skimmed past him and he slid further down the hood until his head was hanging out over the grill. He felt the engine’s heat against his face, felt the blood running down his neck. He also felt the hand grab ahold of his ankle. In a remarkable display of strength, Zeke started to pull him back into the car.
“BRAKES!!!” someone screamed. “HIT YOUR BRAKES!”
This time, Carson understood. It was Sampson. She was yelling into her bone mic.
He fought the urge to stay low and forced himself to sit up. Zeke had a vice grip on his left ankle and it was the only reason he was still alive.
“Zeke!” he shouted. “Zeke! Hit the brakes!”
No reply. His voice was being drowned out by the cacophony of the gunfight.
“The brakes!” he shouted again, louder this time. “Hit the damn brakes!”
Zeke must have heard him because the Jetta slid to an abrupt halt, sending Carson flying off the hood.
• • •
Sampson hit the embankment just as the Humvee crashed into the back of the Jetta. At nearly seventy miles an hour, the slight embankment sent the bike soaring over the road.
The timing had been nearly perfect, and as she flew over top of the Humvee, she shouldered the RPG and fired it through the roof.
The Humvee was heavily armored but it was no match for an anti-tank rocket propelled grenade fired from close range. The warhead pierced directly through the ceiling, then the floor, and embedded in the ground beneath the vehicle.
In the three seconds it took for the RPG to explode, Lazarus gunned the Jetta and sped as far away as possible. Meanwhile, the torque from the recoil caused Sampson to land sideways and she was thrown over the handlebars.
Vlad and one of his men attempted to run but they were too late. The explosion lifted the Humvee ten feet off the ground and both men were tossed violently by the blast. The first man was dead on impact, but Vlad was still alive.
He was also on fire.
Thirty yards up the road, barely conscious, Carson watched him burn.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Carson woke staring into black eyes. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but everyone was gathered around him, waiting for him to resurface.
He started to sit up, but the black-eyed man placed a hand on his chest and eased him back down. “Take it easy, Carson. Give your brain a second to re-equilibrate. You just flew out of a moving vehicle.”
Carson tried to focus his vision but it felt like someone was carving on his corneas with a razor blade. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Sayid Moussafi. I work with the man you call Zeke.”
“How is he?” Lazarus asked, walking over to them.
“He’ll have a headache for several days, but he’ll be fine.” He took a small baggie from his pocket and handed it to Carson along with a water bottle. “Here. Take these. You’ll thank me later.”
Carson popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a gulp of water. He was extremely dizzy, but with Sayid’s help he slowly stood up.
They were a battered bunch. One of Mick’s arms was in a sling, Connor had blood caked on his face from a wound beneath his right eye, and Carson saw Sampson’s legs hanging out the back of the Jetta.
“She okay?” he ask
ed.
He didn’t need to verbalize the fact that what Sampson had just done was incredibly badass. Not to mention it had singlehandedly saved all their lives. Again.
“Tension pneumothorax,” said Sayid. “I already decompressed it, but she needs to stay still for a few hours. The lung re-inflated but too much activity could cause a repeat collapse. No more James Bond shit for now, please.”
“We’ve got a problem.” This came from Connor. He and Mick were leaning against the Jeep, which they had shoved back onto four wheels and kept driving.
“Yes,” said Lazarus. “I’m afraid we do.” He nodded toward the burnt-out Humvee, the blackened corpses lying on the ground. “McManus and Ancic will be expecting confirmation of our death soon. Unfortunately, Vladimir’s cell phone was destroyed. The radio silence will alert their suspicions.”
“Meaning what?”
Zeke looked at Connor, then back at Carson. “Meaning we need to move very quickly. McManus is on his heels, so he won’t waste any time.”
“Then what the hell are we standing around for?” asked Carson. “Let’s roll.”
Lazarus nodded. “Follow me.”
Sayid got in the Jetta with Lazarus, Bosworth, and Sampson, and Carson joined Mick and Connor in the ramshackle Jeep. They beat along another three miles of rocky trail before the ground opened up east of the lake. Here it was flat for miles and miles. There was nothing but open desert.
Which made it a perfect spot to land a Gulfstream G550.
The group pulled up alongside the plane and got out. As if on cue, a set of stairs descended and they climbed up. Sayid helped Sampson, who could barely walk. There was a tube protruding from her rib cage.
Once they were aboard, the stairwell raised and sealed back into the side of the plane. The jet engines revved as they prepared to finally leave Syria for good.
No one really said much when Roland Stonehill stuck his head out of the cockpit and tipped his fedora. “Evening, chaps. There’s tea, coffee, and whiskey in the wet bar. Help yourselves.” The good doctor took a moment to light a cigar then closed the door and prepared to fly them across the Atlantic.
Carson, Connor, and Mick all took a seat at a table near the window, while Sayid laid Sampson down on one of the couches and attended to the tube. Bosworth sat quietly in an armchair.
“It’ll be a long flight,” said Lazarus, pouring coffee into a red mug. “And it won’t be an easy one. We have much to discuss.”
That revelation didn’t disappoint Carson. He wanted answers and he wanted them ten minutes ago.
“As I’m sure many of you have discovered, we have a celebrity amongst us.” He smiled and handed the steaming mug to Bosworth. “Peter Bosworth is an exceptional reporter and beloved television personality, but he’s a lot more than that. He’s a great American, and I’m thankful to call him a friend. I suggest you do the same.”
When Lazarus turned and went back to the wet bar, Bosworth lifted his mug in a mock salute. Mick chuckled, but everyone else was too confused to appreciate the humor.
What the hell was Peter Bosworth doing with Ezekiel Lazarus in a terrorist compound in Syria? Two hours ago, Carson would have bet money both men were dead. Now they were sipping lattes together on a private plane. A plane flown by an eccentric billionaire in blue glasses.
Lazarus filled another red mug. “I’m going to take a few minutes to clean up, and while I do, there’s someone else you need to acquaint yourselves with.” He looked at Carson as he handed the coffee to Sampson. Sayid had removed the tube and she was now sitting up, albeit painfully.
When Lazarus kissed Sampson on the cheek, Carson and Connor looked at one another in horror.
Zeke strode past them, a smug grin on his face. “Carson, Connor…I’m proud to introduce you to Olivia. My daughter.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
11 hours remaining
Carson only had one question: How did I miss it?
Mick and Stonehill had given him all the information he needed to figure it out. In fact, he realized, they had probably hoped he would. It would have made the Q24 mission much simpler. But Carson understood they couldn’t just outright tell him. He wouldn’t have believed it. And worse, he would have stopped trusting them. Even with his newfound understanding of The Mirage Project and Warren McManus’s duplicity, the thought of Ezekiel Lazarus being alive, and of Rachel Sampson being his daughter, would have been too much to accept. It would have tipped the scales too far.
He thought back to his conversation with Sampson at the airport, when he had explained to her that Lazarus was among the vilest traitors in all of American history, and that Troy Mendez had killed him. He couldn’t help but marvel at her control, at her ability to completely conceal emotion.
She was looking at him, relief in her eyes. She hadn’t enjoyed lying to him, and Carson could tell the unveiling of truth had lifted a vast weight from her shoulders.
She was a professional, one of the best Carson had ever worked with. But what he remembered most was the sincere emotion in her eyes when he told her about Jessica. Her work hadn’t eroded her humanity, and in this business that was miraculous.
All conversation ceased as Zeke came back into the cabin. The Arabic attire had been replaced with a light gray suit and a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top. The suit, which had likely been tailored to perfection the last time it was worn, now fit loosely in the chest, shoulders, and waistline. Life off the grid was unpleasant, even for a man like Zeke Lazarus.
He poured himself a whiskey, then came and sat across from Carson.
“This is all my fault,” he said, closing his eyes as the liquor slid down his throat.
“What is?” asked Carson.
Lazarus lifted his palms. “This.”
Carson glanced around the cabin. All eyes were on Zeke.
“Lee, Diane, Seth, and Kimberly Jacobs. Maria Rosario, Angelica LeFleur, Xavier Thorsby, Wendell King.” His metallic blue irises bore straight into Carson. “Colton King, Amy King, Audrey and Alyssa King. All dead, injured, or in danger because of me.”
He looked at Connor. “Your family is being held hostage by a murderous lunatic because of what I did. All of it,” he said, turning back to Carson. “All of it. All these lives, all this pain—I’ll bear the blame. And before I tell you anything else or make any attempt to explain myself, the first thing you need to know is that I’m sorry.”
Carson was speechless. It was Connor who spoke. “But you didn’t kill them, Zeke. It was McManus. McManus and Ancic and his group of fucking mercenaries.”
Lazarus shook his head. “I actuated them. That’s the piece you’ve yet to see.”
“You actuated them?” said Carson. “What does that mean?”
“It means I put you in play. I’m apologizing for the horrible consequences of that decision, but I’m also asking you to hear me out. If you don’t, the pain and death will be worth nothing and more people will die.”
Zeke took another drink and let it settle. “Carson, I trust Roland and Mick briefed you thoroughly as to the true nature of The Mirage Project. And Connor, Mick has told me he filled you in.”
Both men nodded.
“Good. Now I want you to take what you think you know and multiply it a thousand-fold. The evil being perpetuated goes further than anything you can imagine. And I need you to understand that everything I have done has been in an effort to stop it.”
“What exactly have you done?” asked Carson.
“I realized the only way to defeat McManus was to draw him from cover. In a month, Mark Prosser will become President. In four months, Warren McManus will become Secretary of Defense. If those two things happen, Operation Red Shire is a certainty. We will be powerless to stop it.”
“I get that,” said Carson. “They already told me all this. What does it have to do with you joining Hamas?”
“Hamas was merely my entry point. The bigger picture is the civil war. Because Mirkwood fell apart in Syria, it�
�s still a sore spot for McManus. As you all know, he’s paranoid. He’s always thought there were loose ends.”
“So he knows you’re alive?”
“Most doubtful. McManus put an international hit out on me six years ago, which included rogue mercenary groups like Crna Kuga, but also state-sponsored organizations like Mossad. Warren McManus has a lot of friends.” He smiled sardonically. “But I have more, and mine are smarter. In January of oh-eight someone from Mossad contacted McManus with proof of my assassination. They had a picture and a blood sample to prove it. Three days later, McManus wired my pal Benjamin Caruso a four million dollar reward. Benji gave me half the earnings and we went our separate ways.”
Carson took a deep breath. Things just kept falling into place.
“But back to the point,” continued Lazarus. “McManus is afraid of Syria. So when the civil war broke out, I saw an opportunity. I joined Hamas and quickly earned their trust. They recognized my skill and experience and respected my opinion. So when I told them I could infiltrate the Syrian government and obtain information crucial to the rebel cause, they started salivating. What they didn’t know, of course, was that my trips to Damascus had nothing to do with secret gathering. I was acting as a double agent. It took nearly a dozen meetings to convince the Syrian Prime Minister to blackmail McManus, but when he did, the game was officially on.”
“Wait a second,” Connor protested. “Why would Syria do that for you?”
“Because the blackmail involved the death of three senior-ranking members of the NSC. The death of those three men dealt a dramatic blow to the the rebel cause.”
“So you convince Syria to blackmail McManus because you want to draw him from cover and expose him,” said Carson. “Ok, I get that. But you said you did it intentionally, that you knew the consequences when you chose it. How could you have possibly known we would get involved?”
“Simple,” said Zeke. “You and Connor were loose ends. You were also highly skilled Mirage operatives. So he planned to kill two birds with one stone. He hired you to kill the three NSC officials and he hired Drago Ancic to kill you.”