TEradS poured inside, fanning out, clearing both floors within minutes.
The peacekeepers were already dead.
“Found the shooter,” Fowler called out.
Ryan approached the body, eyes locked on the man who had taken Izzy’s life; and for a second, Bradley thought his CO was going to shoot the man again.
“Double-tapped,” Fowler said. “A professional raid. Then—for some reason—the bodies were posed so they appeared to be asleep.”
“Uh, Major,” Gallagher said. “There’s something you need to see in the garage.”
Bradley followed Ryan past a filthy kitchen, through a claustrophobic laundry room, and into a cluttered two-car garage. The pungent smell of ammonia hung in the musty air, and his rifle barrel pivoted, following the sound of scuffling vermin. A length of chain stretched between a urine-soaked cot and the steel door rails.
Someone was being held here, he thought, noting a Chi-phone lying on the soiled bed.
“Could be a trigger for a bomb, sir,” Gallagher added.
Ryan seized the phone. “Clear everybody out of the house. Now!”
Once both teams were a safe distance from the structure, he switched on the phone, and a stifled gasp escaped him.
A picture of Captain Defina appeared. Dressed in a bloody undershirt and boxers, he sat on the cot, a gun barrel pressed to his temple. His face was swollen and bruised. His arms hung limp, elbows flexed at unnatural angles that made Bradley wince.
“But I got an e-mail from his clerk,” Ryan whispered, disbelief and regret wrestling in his tone. “Confirming that he was never missing. That his satphone had crapped out and caused the confusion.”
“What’s that taped to Defina’s chest?” Bradley asked.
Ryan slid his thumb and index finger across the glass screen in a backward pinch to zoom in on the image.
Bradley’s jaw dropped.
“I take it, you recognize the dead guy,” his commanding officer concluded.
“His name was Dmitry. One of the Russians I dispatched inside Forest Glen Metro Station.”
Ryan thumbed forward, and another picture appeared, this one an aerial shot of Bradley outside Glenmont Station.
“Son of a bitch!” Bradley grunted. “They know about the black op.”
Ryan paged forward again, to the image of a handwritten note.
Will trade Captain Defina for Bradley Webber. Time and coordinates will follow.
Chapter 2
><>< DAY 458 ><><
Wednesday, May 18th
1
Edgar Air Force Base
District Nine, California
THE C-130 ROCKED AND pitched and shuddered as it descended through layers of clouds.
Eyes closed, vivid memories replayed through Abby Webber’s mind. She could feel the tenderness of Bradley’s kiss, the heat radiating from his body as they made love.
“After Ryan gets married,” he had whispered, nuzzling her ear. “Let’s go back to District Six with your folks and have a wedding of our own. We can make it official and enjoy a three-day honeymoon before we have to report back to base.”
How did everything derail so quickly? Abby wondered. Izzy’s death, a hasty op, leave rescinded, and new orders.
Major Andrews had abruptly transferred her to District Nine in Southern California, a move that supported Abby’s suspicion that she had been the assassin’s target at the chapel.
At seventeen years old, she was the youngest member of the TEradS, a five-foot-eight personification of the word stubborn. Even in battle dress uniform, she looked more like a china doll than a Sniper—blonde hair braided into a crown, high cheekbones, a button nose, and brilliant deep-blue eyes.
The aircraft touched down hard, slamming her against the seat, exacerbating the dull headache behind her eyes, then it taxied to a stop. The large rear door slowly opened, revealing a curtain of water that darkened the gray, overcast morning. Abby lifted her rucksack strap onto her shoulder and ventured into the downpour. The walk across the tarmac saturated her uniform, making it feel like a heavy anchor hindering her progress; and despite an air temperature in the midseventies, a shiver coursed through her.
Damn, this base is depressing, she thought, chalking it up to the lousy weather.
She checked in, completed the necessary paperwork, and acquired her room assignment. TEradS Team 9A was quartered within an apartment complex that was home to scores of military families. Each building was comprised of four apartments, two on ground level, two on the second story; and unfortunately for Abby, Building H was a mile from her location.
Walking along the sidewalk, she attempted to navigate around the massive puddles which proved too large and numerous to avoid. Rain drummed against the top of her head; then, hearing a siren, Abby glanced behind her. A Humvee modified to function as an ambulance sped past, its tires spewing a fire-hoselike blast of water. The force knocked her off-balance and she stumbled, spitting onto the ground and wiping the filth from her eyes.
Medical personnel were rushing into Building G, adjacent to her new home. Between the structures, a utility pole supported newly strung wires, its length lined with blackbirds sitting motionless. The sight heightened an irrational feeling of uneasiness.
All four apartments shared a covered porch; and to her right, a man was perched in the doorway, arms folded, watching the drama in Building G. He was lanky, about Bradley’s height, with reddish-blond hair that was longer on top, shorter on the sides. He had shrewd brown eyes, and his thin mouth curved into a dour expression.
“You must be Webber, our new Sniper,” he said, extending his hand, his voice without a hint of welcome. “I’m John Cozart.”
“Nice to meet you.” Abby shook his hand, sizing up her new team leader. Is he disappointed to have a female on his team? Or is this miserable weather weighing on him?
“Another suicide,” he said. A bob of his head prompted her to glance toward Building G.
Medics were carrying a stretcher through the deluge, the patient’s face covered with a sheet.
“Number seven today,” he added.
Abby jammed her key into the lock, her mood sinking further. “That’s horrible.”
“Better than yesterday,” he said with a shrug. “And twenty-two offed themselves on Monday.”
“Twenty-two suicides? In a single day?” Abby pushed open her door and tossed her heavy rucksack onto the landing at the foot of the steps. “That’s ...” She hesitated, searching for an appropriate word. “That’s tragic. Can’t they deter it?”
“There’s talk about bringing in those UV lights they use in Alaska to combat seasonal affective disorder, but that’s about all they can do. It’s not like they can confiscate every steak knife and bootlace. Or bar every window to prevent somebody from taking a swan dive.”
Abby rubbed her neck, trying to brush away the sensation of insects crawling over flesh. Is it the weather creeping me out? Or my new team leader? “I’m sure things will improve once this rain moves out.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Cozart told her. “It’s been pouring nonstop for thirty-eight days. They’re calling it an ARkStorm.”
“As in time to build an ark?” Abby asked.
“No, it stands for Atmospheric River 1000 Storm because it’s only supposed to happen every thousand years. Last one was back in the winter of 1861, and it lasted forty-five days. Ruined so much taxable real estate that California went bankrupt.”
Abby stared upward into the gray swirling clouds that seemed to be spewing vertical columns of water rather than individual drops.
“Were suicides a problem back at Langden?” Cozart asked.
“Not to my knowledge.”
He gave a curt nod then returned to his apartment.
Abby hoisted her bag, which now felt twice as heavy, and trudged up the flight of stairs, mumbling, “Welcome to Team 9A.”
2
Langden Air Force Base, Texas
MAJOR RYAN A
NDREWS nodded for Bradley to sit down then rocked back against his desk chair.
Ryan had light-brown hair, a customary buzz cut, and inquisitive honey-brown eyes that were constantly in motion. The contours of his cheeks and chin were smooth and rounded, yet there was an inherent strength in his face.
“How are Franny and Sybil?” Bradley asked.
Shrugging, Ryan said, “As well as can be expected.” He didn’t mention that he’d avoided his new wife last night; going home late, insisting he was too tired to talk, then leaving in a rush to get to the ops center this morning. Ryan just couldn’t bear to hear his ex-wife’s words come out of Franny’s mouth; he couldn’t relive that old argument; and deep down, he was afraid that his marriage was self-destructing even before he’d consummated it.
“So, given Abby’s sudden transfer,” Bradley said, fingers gripping the chair’s armrest. “Am I correct in assuming that she was the target?”
Ryan’s eyes dropped to the assassin’s Chi-phone on his desk, encased in a radio frequency/EMI shielding pouch. “There was no intel on the shooter’s phone. I’m operating under the assumption that it was retribution for Burr’s death. By order of General Sun.”
A scowl flittered over Bradley’s expression. The former Marine was six foot three with chiseled features, piercing hazel eyes, and dark hair that gave him an aura of granite toughness. “Have you located the bastard?”
“Negative. And even if I did, I couldn’t legally touch him until zero hundred on Friday, when Quenten’s grace period expires. If Sun’s smart, he’ll turn himself in.”
Bradley’s fingers tightened; blood rushed from his knuckles turning them stark white. “So we just sit here and do nothing?”
“I’m doing everything I can to track down Sun—”
“His kill order still stands. Other peacekeepers will go after Abby.”
“Look, Bradley, I’m aware of the threat. But I can’t lock Abby away in a safe room. There’s not a lot I can do to protect her.”
“Who’s taking over command of TEradS West?” Bradley asked, tagging a belated “sir” onto the question.
“Fitzgerald—”
“Does he know about the threat?”
“Yes, but he believes the danger stems from her familial connection to Governor Murphy—not Burr’s assassination.”
“Fitzgerald is first-rate. I trust him implicitly.”
“Glad you approve of my decision, Master Sergeant,” Ryan said sarcastically to remind Bradley who was in command. He understood his friend’s concern, but he had bigger problems to contend with—the capture of Captain Defina and the consequences of any information divulged under interrogation.
He drew in a slow breath then said, “The CIA has identified your buddy from the tunnel. Dmitry Volkov, a newly minted Spetsnaz. He was the only son of General Vladislav Volkov, characterized by his men as more ruthlessness and power hungry than Ivan the Terrible, more vindictive and violent than Vlad the Impaler.”
“So I pissed off the wrong guy,” Bradley said, massaging his temples. “But why didn’t Volkov just abduct me? Why drag Defina into it?”
Although it made perfect sense to Ryan, he opted not to reveal further details. According to the CIA, the general had joined the Russian army in his early twenties and quickly advanced through the ranks, regarded as a conscienceless killing machine. Volkov evolved into a corrupt officer, who made sure his men feared him even more than they hated him; and as a general, he had earned a vile reputation. He was known for toying with his prey, spiraling in on the inner circle of friends and loved ones—a prolonged emotional death far more painful than the execution that ultimately followed. Volkov was the reason Ryan had sent Abby to District Nine.
Bradley’s barely coping with the threat posed by Sun; if he knew the truth about the Russian madman ...
He couldn’t finish the thought.
“The Chinese abducted Defina a few hours before they tried to take me,” Ryan told him. “They faked communications, so I didn’t realize that he was missing.” He paused, recalling the congratulatory e-mail he’d received from Defina upon his promotion to commander of the TEradS.
“And at some point,” Bradley said, “the Russians snatched him from the Chinese. The question is, why?”
Ryan looked away, second-guessing his decision to withhold information from Bradley. If I were him, would I want to know?
Absolutely ... But then I would be lying awake at night, worrying. Frustrated, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing I could do.
As commander of the TEradS, he knew he’d made the right decision; as Bradley’s friend, he felt like a traitor.
The Sniper snapped his fingers. “The hard drive that Dmitry wanted—General Volkov probably assumed I’d turned it over to my commanding officer. Maybe that’s why he took the Captain.”
“Then he would be trading Defina for the hard drive, not you,” Ryan said, dousing another flare of guilt.
“Have you taken a look at that hard drive?”
Ryan shook his head. “Between the wedding and Izzy’s death, I haven’t had time.” He removed a multi-tool from his desk drawer, crossed the room, and crouched beneath his wall of fallen heroes—which now included a picture of Izzy positioned alongside his father. Then he removed the screws from the cold-air-return vent.
Reaching inside the metal duct, he retrieved the hard drive and the Chinese laptop he’d acquired at Mount Wheatly. Since all the files had been duplicated, he intended to use that laptop to explore the drive.
Just in case Aldrich Ames installed any secret CIA malware, he thought. Military computers won’t become infected.
Using a three-foot cable, he attached the drive then booted up the laptop.
Bradley pushed himself from the chair and walked around the desk, peering over Ryan’s shoulder as he navigated the Mandarin menus by memory.
No files were present.
“Ames was peddling an empty hard drive to the Spetsnaz?” Bradley muttered. “That’s suicidal.”
Ryan right-clicked inside the window and systematically tried each option until he found the properties tab. A color pie chart indicated ninety-eight percent of the terabyte drive had been used.
Bradley harrumphed. “How can an empty hard drive be ninety-eight percent full?”
3
District Six, Texas
NEARLY TWO HOURS had passed since Kyle Murphy loaded his wife and two young children into Harvey Rigby’s old Chevy and began the drive from Langden back to District Six. What should have been a joyous occasion had turned into a nightmare. Following Izzy’s death, Ryan had transferred Abby to a California-based TEradS team; and the sense of dread in his gut was expanding like a black hole destined to devour him. It was more than the unexpected redeployment; it was the stoic concern he had seen in Ryan’s eyes.
Was I really the target? Kyle asked himself. Or are the Chinese gunning for Abby?
After all, they had stoned an innocent woman to convince the U.S. military she was dead. And that first bullet at the chapel had sailed much closer to Abby. He ran a hand through his sandy-brown hair, streaked at the temple by a recent influx of gray. At forty-nine, he was a handsome man with a square jaw, a tall athletic frame, and a weathered complexion from his days as a Major League shortstop.
Trying to banish the notion that his daughter was in danger, his weary green eyes glanced in the rearview mirror. Billy was asleep, his little head cocked sideways, resting on his shoulder in a position that would cripple an adult. Nikki’s cheek was pressed against the side window, her breath fogging the fingerprint-streaked glass.
“Uncle Kyle?” she asked, addressing him using the agreed upon title. “What’s that?”
To his right, a black cloud was swerving and dipping, changing shape with the grace of a supernatural entity. Thirty feet above the ground, the bizarre mist twisted, moving to the south, perpendicular to the highway, and cast an ominous shadow over the ranchland.
Kyle braked to a stop, mesmeriz
ed.
“Insects?” Jessie asked, squinting at the surreal sight.
Prior to the EMP, he had heard rumors of bug swarms so large that they appeared on weather radar.
Is this what that looks like?
“There must be millions of them,” Jessie said. “And they look ravenous.”
Oh no! Kyle thought. We could lose our spring crops. His mind raced for a course of action, something that could mitigate the damage to District Six. Is there a way to repel them? To exterminate them?
As the gloomy shadow enveloped the car, the river of bugs branched into two fingers, one veering southeast, the other northeast. Both swirled inward toward the ground; and for a second, they looked like miniature tornadoes. Then the lower layer ballooned outward, a living puddle suspended above the earth, and closed on a herd of Texas longhorns gathered around a wateringhole. Thousands of insects descended like kamikazes while the majority hovered overhead, a menacing haze of reserve soldiers, observing the attack, waiting for an opportunity.
Jessie glanced at Kyle, her expression asking, is this normal in Texas?
He shrugged.
The longhorns were becoming increasingly agitated. Steer began shaking their heads. Their tails swatted the pests. They pawed the ground and jostled one another. Snorts and shrieks wafted across the landscape. Horns swung like daggers.
“Uncle Kyle, why are they fighting?” Nikki asked.
“The bugs are annoying them, and they’re taking it out on their neighbors,” he told her, thinking that humans behaved the same way.
A large bull charged the split-rail fence, shattering it, and the entire herd joined the stampede, trampling scrub and kicking up a plume of dust. Vibrations from their thundering feet traveled through the ground and made the vehicle tremble.
“Thank God they’re not coming toward us,” Jessie mumbled.
Kyle felt a jolt of fear course through him. “They’re headed for District Six!”
Power Play- America's Fate Page 2