by E H Jennings
“He hired us?” spat Connor.
“That’s the nasty part. Ancic wasn’t just hired to kill you; he was hired to get you to Syria so you could get the job done. In order to do that, he needed to convince you the Syrians were after you, that they were out for vengeance. So they abducted Colton and killed Thorsby. And considering Thorsby’s covert involvement in Syria, it was natural to assume they were connected.
“The murder of Lee Jacobs’ and his family, along with the note, was merely confirmation of what you were already beginning to assume. You were confident former Mirkwood members were being targeted and Colton was being used as bait.”
“But that’s not what got us to Syria,” said Carson. “Those damn documents in Paris. Sampson’s old contact at the RG she randomly ran into at LeFleur’s flat. The files on Farzat, Gourani, and Yasri. That wasn’t Ancic…”
“No,” Lazarus relented. “I planted the files and Olivia delivered them at the appointed time. McManus wasn’t the only one that wanted to get you to Q24.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I was pulling the strings. McManus was leading you, but I was leading him. Which is why Roland Stonehill is so important. McManus and Stonehill have a history but Warren has no clue Roland and I know one another. So when he sent you to Switzerland, I knew I’d won. Roland sent you straight to me.”
Stonehill’s old friend was Ezekiel Lazarus. It was unthinkable.
“I needed you at Q24 for two primary reasons: one, I needed you to help me and Pete escape. And two, I knew you could help me take down McManus. Together, we can dismantle The MP and save your family in the process.”
Carson’s head was spinning. “I don’t get it. Why do all this? A plan six years in the making. Three years spent living with terrorists and negotiating with mass murderers. You sent your daughter halfway across the world to join the CIA, all so she could intersect paths with me at just the right moment. You were already off the grid; McManus thought you were dead. Why not take your two million and move to a damn island for the rest of your life?”
Lazarus looked at his daughter. She didn’t smile; she merely nodded her assent.
When Lazarus turned back, he pulled an envelope from his jacket. He laid it on the table and slid it over to Carson.
Inside were five pictures. Two women, a man, and two young boys. One of the women was older, but both were beautiful. The boys couldn’t have been any older than eight or nine.
“Who are they?”
“My family,” said Lazarus. “My wife, my son, my daughter-in-law, and my two grandsons. They were all murdered on December 12th, 2006 by a former Mirage asset. A man you all know as Troy Mendez. When McManus couldn’t find me, he went after my family in hopes of drawing me out.”
Carson looked away.
“But that isn’t all,” Zeke continued. “It would certainly be enough, but it isn’t all.”
He reached inside his jacket and produced another envelope, identical to the first. There were dozens of pictures in this one, all wallet size so they could fit. There were men, women, boys, and girls of all ages. Carson didn’t need to ask; he knew they were the families of Mirage operatives, all killed during the culling phase of either Mordor or Mirkwood. He glanced sidelong at Mick, who was staring out the window. Some of these photos were of his family.
“Why did I do it?” Lazarus repeated. “Why did Olivia do it? We did it for the same reason you should.” When he reached for a third envelope, Carson put his hands up. Enough was enough. But Zeke didn’t stop. “I’m sorry, Carson, but this is the most important one. You need to see it.”
Zeke opened it and slid the photos across the table.
Carson and Connor saw them at the same time.
“You motherfucker!” Connor screamed, pointing his pistol at Zeke’s face.
“Put it down,” whispered Carson.
The first image was of his father. He was sitting on a creek bank, fishing pole in hand, laughing. The second was of Jessica. She was in a white cotton dress and had a sunflower tucked behind her right ear. She had curled her hair.
Tears welled in Carson’s eyes as he looked back up at Lazarus.
“Your father didn’t kill himself. When McManus realized you and Connor had survived the attack in Syria, he was afraid you had talked. Your mother was already too demented to be a threat, but your father was an issue. I’m sorry.”
Carson started to tremble as sadness turned to rage.
Connor asked the question Carson couldn’t. “What about Jessica?”
“She never made it to the World Trade Center on the morning of 9/11. McManus had been watching you for years, ever since your college football days. He wanted you badly but knew you were both family men. You wouldn’t want the covert and lonely lifestyle the MP would offer. So he had her murdered and let you believe she’d gone down with the towers, in hopes your need for vengeance would convince you to join.”
The tears rolled down Carson’s cheeks and gathered on the table. “It worked.”
“Yeah,” said Lazarus. “It worked. On you and dozens of other young men.”
There was a long period where no one said anything. The only sound came from the slight turbulence pressing against the Gulfstream. Lazarus poured two more whiskeys and brought them over, giving one to Carson and one to Connor.
“They’re dead men,” said Carson, draining his glass. “McManus and Ancic. Prosser and Bradford. They’re all dead.”
Lazarus glanced at Peter Bosworth. “Actually, I think I have a better idea.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Georgetown
The silence was enough to convince Warren McManus his hunch was right: Carson King had not operated alone.
He and Ancic were still sitting in his library. They had made it through half a cigar before starting to worry. When Ancic called Vlad multiple times, all without an answer, their grimmest fears were realized.
“How the hell is this possible?” Ancic was saying. “Vladimir and his team were my best unit. I would have put them up against anyone in the world.”
“And you would have been wrong,” said McManus. “You were wrong. Your men were no match for King.”
Ancic sneered. “I know you think he’s some kind of damned super soldier, but he didn’t take out three of my men by himself. Not possible.”
“Connor,” said McManus. “He was there, too. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Vlad said he only saw Carson.”
“I don’t give a shit what Vlad saw!” In a rare fit of rage, he slammed his fist onto his desk. “You’re not getting it, Drago. You’re missing the fucking point! If Connor didn’t want Vlad to see him, they wouldn’t see him. Simple as that. Carson probably knew your guys were there and had Connor approach from the opposite direction. The Kings aren’t just warriors. They’re not just blunt-force mercenaries like the savages in your operation. They’re weapons, fucking WMDs. Once they get loose, they’re impossible to control.”
Ancic nearly erupted but took a breath and contained himself. A man like Drago Ancic understood when his back was against the wall; you didn’t survive fifteen years in the KGB without a healthy sense of your own mortality.
His men were dead. They had failed, which meant he had failed. And because Carson and Connor King were still alive, the mission was in great peril. So he swallowed hard and humbled himself. “What’s your next move?”
“It won’t be long before they figure it all out. We’ll need reinforcements.”
“I disagree,” said Ancic. “I know the situation’s bad. I know my guys severely fucked it up in Syria. But we’ve got two of mine and one of yours already in place. One of your best, I might add.”
McManus shook his head. “How stupid are you, Drago? Honestly? If Carson and Connor are teamed up, you can guarantee they aren’t alone. Even if they were, we would still need back up. These guys took down a terrorist compound. What about that do you not understand?”
A
gain, Ancic swallowed his pride. “What’d you have in mind?”
In response, McManus grabbed the phone off his desk and called Carter Bradford, who was in his office at Langley. He answered on the third ring.
“We have a serious problem,” said McManus, then proceeded to explain the situation.
“There may only be one solution,” said Bradford. “Albeit a very unfortunate one.”
“It’s time to press the button, Carter. It’s the only hope we have.”
“When?”
“I’m afraid the answer is now.”
McManus ended the call and gently sat the phone back on the desk. The rage was gone, replaced by steely composure. After Bradford activated the necessary channels, they would be back in control. The threat would be quelled. The Kings would be vanquished, once and for all.
For in an hour’s time, Operation Red Shire would be getting an early and unexpected start.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Lexington
It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening when it happened. Wheel of Fortune was about to go off and Lucian Blevins, reclined in one of the delightful couch-beds for which all hospitals are famous, was about to go to sleep.
He had been staying with Wendell King at the University of Kentucky hospital for three days. The first breakthrough had come on the morning of day two, when against all odds Wendell had awoken from his coma. The doctors were surprised and delighted, but wasted no time before explaining there would be long-term complications.
Nonetheless, after twenty-four hours of intense observation, Wendell was moved out of the Neuro ICU and into a regular room on the fourth floor.
The following day had been relatively quiet. Wendell had slept and Lucian had done the same, napping in between re-runs of Mash and Magnum P.I. But after Wheel of Fortune, just before Lucian turned off the lights, the quiet stopped.
Wendell King sat straight up in bed and screamed.
Lucian jumped from the couch as alarms started blaring. Wendell’s heart rate and blood pressure had spiked through the roof and he was starting to convulse. Lucian attempted to press Wendell’s shoulders back against the bed, but Wendell was much younger and a lot stronger. The convulsions grew in intensity and a horde of nurses and physicians crashed through the door fifteen seconds later.
“Ativan, STAT,” said one of the young men.
A nurse grabbed Wendell’s IV line. “Pushing two milligrams.”
The drug took effect almost immediately and the convulsions stopped. But Wendell didn’t. He violently clawed at his left arm, tearing flesh and spattering the bed sheets with blood.
“Give him another milligram,” the doctor said.
The nurse took out another syringe and pushed half of it into the line. This time, Wendell’s breathing finally slowed and he leaned against the bed, his eyes darting around nervously.
“It’s gonna be ok, Mr. King,” said the young doctor. “You had a seizure. It’s pretty common after what you’ve been through. No need to be worried. Becca will get you bandaged up and the meds we gave you should help you sleep. Try to get some rest.” He looked at the nurse. “I’ll order a Neuro consult for the morning. For now, just keep him comfortable.”
As the nurse named Becca started cleaning the wounds, Wendell fixed his eyes on Lucian. His lips were moving but no sound was coming out.
“What is it?” Lucian asked. He moved to the bedside and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think he’s trying to say something.”
“He keeps trying to lift this arm,” said Becca. “I’m holding it down but he’s struggling against me. After three milligrams of Ativan, that’s pretty impressive.”
Lucian moved in closer and put his ear next to Wendell’s mouth. He still couldn’t decipher what he was saying.
“Issagee,” Wendell whispered. “Issagee.”
“What? What are you saying?”
His eyes grew frantic and he started to tremble again. “ISS-A-GEE!”
Lucian shook his head, felt his own heart race. He could see the panic in Wendell’s eyes. Whatever he was saying was incredibly important to him.
“Oh wait,” said Becca, rising to her feet. “Look at this.”
Lucian had completely forgotten about the scabs on Wendell’s arm, the ones he had seemingly self-inflicted before collapsing into a coma. CPS. Lucian had told Carson about the letters and neither of them had gleaned anything from it. But during the seizure, Wendell had torn off the scabs and created new abrasions in the process.
As Lucian surveyed the damage, he realized Wendell hadn’t had a seizure at all. He was trying to tell them something.
Wendell and Lucian made meaningful eye contact, and Wendell repeated, very slowly, “Iss-a-gee.”
“It’s a G,” said Becca, still staring at Wendell’s arm. “Right here.”
It was a G. Wendell had dug into his flesh and turned the C into a G.
GPS.
Wendell lifted his wounded arm and pointed to the closet. He started to tremble and Lucian realized he was telling him to hurry.
Lucian shuffled over and took out Wendell’s small duffle bag. Inside it were the clothes Wendell had been wearing upon admission to the ER, a change of underwear and socks, and little else. But Wendell nodded vehemently.
Lucian and Becca watched as Wendell dug a phone from the pocket of his jeans and powered it on. He started pounding away at buttons, deftly navigating whatever data the phone had to offer.
“It’s amazing he’s even able to hold a phone, much less use one,” said Becca. She was watching Wendell with admiration.
Suddenly, Wendell stopped. His eyes were wide and he dropped the phone.
“What do you need?” Lucian asked. “What’s wrong?”
Wendell looked around the room, searching for something. When he pointed at the desk in the corner, Lucian knew exactly what to do. He grabbed a pen and a small leaflet of notebook paper and handed it to him.
With the medication weighing heavily, Wendell struggled to scrawl out a few letters before his head fell back against the bed. The piece of paper slipped out of his hand and fell into the floor.
When Becca picked it up, she looked perplexed. She handed it to Lucian. “What does it mean?”
On the paper, in messy block letters, Wendell had written a single word:
Monticello.
Lucian shook his head as he read it. “I have absolutely no idea.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Somewhere above the Atlantic
8 hours remaining
So you abducted Bosworth in Turkey?” Carson asked.
They had stopped to refuel in Madrid and were now several hours over the Atlantic. Mick was asleep in one of the armchairs, Olivia was asleep on the couch, and everyone else was sitting at the table. Fresh coffee had been made.
“Yes,” said Zeke. “But it’s not that simple.”
“You either abduct someone or you don’t.”
“Then no,” said Bosworth. “He didn’t abduct me.”
“And it wasn’t in Turkey,” Zeke added. “Pete met me in Beirut. It was a pre-arranged meeting. He came willingly.”
“Will you please stop with the bullshit and just tell us what the hell is going on?” Connor, never one to mince words, was growing impatient.
“It was a mutually beneficial arrangement,” said Zeke. “Following the Syrian Slaughter, Pete was tasked with covering the growing conflict in Syria. Given my position with Hamas, I reached out to him.”
“What’d you say?” asked Connor. “I’m a rogue American spy hell-bent on vengeance. Wanna have dinner sometime?”
“I told him the truth. I told him I was an American intelligence asset that had infiltrated Hamas and had a front-row seat for the civil war. If he needed information, if he wanted an inside track, this was an opportunity that would only come around once.”
Bosworth shrugged. “It’s the kind of opportunity that defines a career.”
“So you agreed to be imprisone
d in a terrorist compound for months, all so you could win a Pulitzer?” asked Carson.
“Of course I want the professional notoriety, but that’s small change in comparison to the story itself. Good journalism brings about change, and when done well, harnesses the power of information to make the world a better place. In that sense, this truly is a once in a lifetime opportunity.
“The Mirage Project is a nuclear bomb waiting to explode. The injustices can never be undone, but the loss can be validated. The story can be told.” He sipped his coffee and spun the mug in his hands. “I’m no soldier, Carson. I can’t do the things you can. But when it comes to justice being served, we all have a role to play.”
Carson turned to Lazarus. “So that’s it? You recruit a famous reporter, make him your prisoner, force him to live like a slave in a dungeon all so you can use him to exploit McManus? That doesn’t make sense. Why not just call him, for shit’s sake?”
“Because he isn’t going to report on The Mirage Project.”
Everyone stared at Zeke, including Bosworth.
“He’s not going to report on it because he can’t. Exposing The Mirage Project to the American public would set special operations back by at least a decade, maybe more. Congressional action would be immediate and heavy-handed, which means unnecessary sanctioning and unbridled oversight. The military would be in handcuffs; the CIA would be locked away for good. National security would never recover.”
Carson wanted to disagree but couldn’t. Zeke was right. The MP had to be murdered and buried. It was the only way to keep it from infecting America any further.
“So why take Bosworth?” asked Connor.
“Yes,” Bosworth added. “I’m a little curious about that one myself.”
“Pete, I brought you to Q24 so you could win your Pulitzer. You spent three months on the front lines, buried deep in the trenches. You’ve seen and experienced things few reporters ever will. Not to mention, America thinks you’re dead. They think you gave your life in pursuit of the story. When you come on the air at seven o’clock tomorrow night, it won’t just be a homecoming—it’ll be a resurrection.”