by Brad Taylor
“Hey, what happened to all the bullshit threats about the Taskforce bringing down the administration? Everyone kept saying we had to do all the work because using it was too risky. Why isn’t there the big disaster everyone talked about?”
I knew what she was asking was highly classified, but it never crossed my mind to tell her a story. More than anyone else, she had earned the truth.
“It turns out that Dr. Evil is a guy in the National Security Council. He hired all of the trained killers. Their attempts in Bosnia gave the Taskforce a way out. We’ve blamed the whole thing on them, saying that a Lone Ranger hired a bunch of mercenaries to stop a terrorist. He’s going to be indicted as a reluctant hero.”
“That’s the guy I saw on the news? Standish something-or-other?”
“Yeah. With all the press talk of the U.S. outsourcing combat power to independent contractors, it’s plausible. The Taskforce is good to go.”
She bristled. “Good to go? Are you kidding? What’s going to happen to him? He tortured and killed a whole family. He tried to kill us. He should be strung up from the nearest tree. Now he’s going down in history as ‘helping America’? How’s that justice?”
I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to leave all of this behind for others to sort out. I tried to soothe her. “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
Jennifer squinted at me, her expression alone telling me she didn’t think that was good enough. After what she had said to me on the hillside in Bosnia, I wasn’t going to elaborate on what that meant. She wanted justice for the man’s actions but probably couldn’t stomach the Taskforce version. Luckily, she let it go.
“Okay. I guess in Washington getting indicted and suffering humiliation is what constitutes the worst that can happen.”
I crawled onto the bed, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t rub my burns. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? Maybe we can go get a bite to eat at a real restaurant for a change.”
For the first time, Jennifer seemed to realize she was wearing the same peasant clothes she had worn for days. She ran a hand through her greasy, black-dyed hair.
“Yeah, that sounds good. Great, actually. What am I going to do about clothes?”
“We can go shopping first. Maybe put it on the president’s tab.”
“Even better. He owes me more than a hotel room. Give me thirty minutes.”
She went inside the bathroom and I heard the sink start to run.
Jennifer hadn’t asked the obvious question of why on earth Standish had wanted a bomb to go off in the first place. I had seen his initial FBI interrogation and it had made me sick to my stomach. Made me want to jump through the two-way mirror and slice him open with the broken shards. Of course, the Taskforce would have frowned on that. Not because I had killed him, but because I had done it in front of everyone. Bad form. I’d have to be satisfied with someone else delivering justice.
Standish had been completely unrepentant, shouting at the interrogators that his actions were necessary to protect American lives. He seemed to firmly believe that his efforts were not only legitimate, but good for the nation. The thought disgusted me. He sounded just like all of the terrorists I had ever chased. The only thing missing was him shouting, “It’s God’s will!” Like every other psychopath who justified his actions as nothing more than destiny.
I knew there was no such thing. “Destiny” was a tool used by the vicious or weak to explain a tragedy — nothing more. If God controlled our destiny, then wouldn’t the good guy always win? Where was God when Hitler killed the Jews? Where was He when the planes hit WTC one and two? In the genocide in Bosnia or Rwanda? Was mass rape a destiny? Or just fucking evil? Where was the destiny in my family being murdered?
Jennifer had asked about the chances of us colliding, thinking that it was meant to be because the odds were astronomically against it, but I knew better. I had seen the truth. God, or fate, or destiny — whatever the hell you wanted to call it — had never crossed my path. You make your own luck. Just like I did in Machete’s compound.
The thought sounded like a cracked bell as soon as it came into my head. No way should I have survived that. The more I reflected on the last couple of weeks, the more it seemed there was some invisible hand looking out for Jennifer and me. Every time we were on the verge of failing, something happened that spurred us forward. It made me wonder. Maybe there is a purpose. Maybe Jennifer’s right.
I didn’t like the thread I was working, didn’t want to stare too hard into the looking glass, because believing in one meant I had to believe in the other. That the loss of my family was for a reason, which was something I could never embrace.
I heard the shower stop, blessedly bringing me back to the present, or more precisely, my future. Kurt had offered me a job back at the Taskforce. A recall to active duty. The offer was compelling and conflicting at the same time. I could go back to being a rough man protecting our way of life, but the choice would mean losing Jennifer.
After all we had both been through together, I had become as close to her as any other teammate I had known. A part of me, I knew, wanted more than that. Another part, much more powerful, was repulsed by the notion. It would be a very, very long time before I could ever let go of Heather. Maybe never.
Even so, I wanted to continue working with her. She was as switched on as anyone I had operated with before, and we clicked as a team. I had toyed with an idea the whole flight home and now had the beginnings of a plan on how to make that happen. Jennifer held the key. She’d be graduating soon and looking for employment, but I knew she’d no longer be happy doing something boring. She’d tasted what it was like to work for something greater than personal gratification, and while she’d probably get the same satisfaction doing her anthropological work, she’d miss the thrill. The question was whether she’d admit that to herself. I couldn’t tell her what I had planned, because it was classified, not to mention she’d think it was nuts, but that was okay. I’d see if she was willing soon enough, and could get her the clearance if she was agreeable — later, after the groundwork was laid. All I needed was some start-up funds — and I had a good idea how to get those.
Minutes later Jennifer came out in a plush robe, smelling freshly scrubbed but looking puzzled.
She said, “Okay, I got it on Standish, but what about the other guy? The one in the trunk? He did the actual killing. What’s the Taskforce doing about him? Just let him go free?”
Truthfully, in the aftermath of the explosion and the exfiltration, I had forgotten about Lucas. “He’s in the same boat. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“So they found him?”
“What?”
“They found him after the bomb went off?” She could see the puzzlement on my face. “You didn’t know?”
“Know what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Pike, Lucas wasn’t in the trunk when I switched cars. He got away.”
104
Thirty miles away, in the swank Chevy Chase section of Washington, D.C., a nondescript sedan pulled into the circular drive of the Honorable Harold Standish. Three men exited. They had already done their reconnaissance earlier and knew Standish was home alone. One manipulated the alarm system while the other two worked the lock on the door. All three entered. They moved directly to Standish’s study, finding him facedown on his desk, a spreading pool of blood beginning to leak onto the floor.
The team leader called directly to the Taskforce Ops Center on his secure cell phone. “Someone beat us to him. He’s already dead.”
“How?”
“Gunshot wound. This guy must have made quite a few enemies.”
“Can you still make it look like a suicide?”
The team leader studied the dead man for a few seconds. “Possibly. He’s been shot in the temple at close range, and there’s no exit wound, so it was a small-caliber weapon. That works.” He pulled out the.22 rim-fire handgun they’d taken from Standish’s bedroom earlier i
n the day. “The problem is that a ballistics check will show the bullet inside his head didn’t come from the gun I’m going to leave in his hand.”
“We can work that issue. Just make sure there aren’t any other anomalies that give them a reason to look.”
“Okay. I’ll have to build a bullet trap, then squeeze off a round in his hand to get gunshot residue on him, but that’s not an issue. He’ll just be missing a phone book.”
“Get it done.”
Eight minutes later the sedan pulled away, the alarm reset, no evidence at all of a break-in. Only a dead man and a suicide note.
* * *
I was awakened by Jennifer insistently poking me in the thigh.
“Pike, wake up! Look at the TV.”
I cracked my eyes open, seeing a breaking news story about someone committing suicide.
“It’s that National Security guy. He killed himself.”
Big surprise. Couldn’t see that coming. “Wow. I guess he couldn’t live with the shame.”
Jennifer looked at me suspiciously. I thought she was going to say something, but she must have thought better of it.
She turned off the TV. “Well, what now? Are we headed home?”
That depends on you.
“Kurt asked me to come back to the Taskforce,” I said.
I saw her face fall and felt the tension leave my body. This might actually work.
“That’s great,” she said, without a lot of conviction. “I know it means a lot to you. Are you going to do it?”
“I think I have a better idea. Go to my jeans and check the front right pocket.”
She did as I asked, pulling out a thumb drive.
“Is this the window-jumper’s drive?”
“Yeah. The Taskforce guys looked at it. Turns out it’s a physical key for a steganography program. You still have your uncle’s e-mail?”
She nodded.
“You want to go find a lost temple?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, this book is a work of fiction. There is no such thing as the Taskforce, the Oversight Council, or Omega operations, contrary to what Hollywood and some reporters want you to believe.
Pike Logan, however, is real. He represents a small fraternity that, more than anything else, is the catalyst of this book. I had the honor of serving with many, many Pike Logans, but make no mistake, I am not he. I owe them a debt of gratitude, not only for what you’re holding in your hand, but for allowing me to serve alongside them. Greater still, the nation owes them a debt of gratitude for successful operations that will never see the light of day.
When I first put pen to paper, this was, of course, the finest novel ever written. Family swooned over it. Friends begged to read it. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to realize it needed massive work to reach a level worthy of publication. Through a series of fortuitous events, I met Caroline Upcher, a freelance editor and published novelist in her own right. She has the distinction of being the singular reason you’re reading these words. She not only helped me frame the story, but literally taught a knuckle-dragger like me how to write. If any new writers are reading these words for a clue of how I managed to get published, there’s your big black X.
Even after all the work, someone still had to be willing to take a risk on an unknown. I’m indebted to John Talbot of the Talbot Fortune Agency for doing just that. When nobody else seemed willing to even want to open the Word document, he decided to see where it would go. Hopefully, it was worth the look.
As for the book itself, a huge thank-you to Major Beau Spafford, of the South Carolina Army National Guard and a James Island Red-neck, who’s currently getting shot at in Afghanistan. You won’t find anyone with more common sense. Well, I should say more common sense who’s willing to use the book as an excuse to go drink beer. He corrected innumerable inconsistencies.
To select people from my former life: thank you. The special mission world is close-knit and very unique. Writing for publication of any sort is frowned upon, but some friends agreed to read the manuscript to make sure I hadn’t said anything that would compromise the safety of those still in harm’s way — namely themselves. I say agreed, not supported, because my name on the cover is irritating enough.
A huge thank-you goes out to Dutton publishing and my editor, Ben Sevier. Honestly, I was worried when I signed the contract that I’d also sold my soul. I had visions of this big-name publisher ordering me to change everything in it that I held dear. Far from it, Ben took the manuscript to the next level, coaching, mentoring, and providing invaluable guidance. Again, I found myself learning.
Unlike what I originally naively believed, getting a book published entails more than just hitting print. Although that’s certainly an option, I’m grateful that the Dutton team chose not to take that route and have relentlessly supported the effort to see this succeed.
Finally, I’d like to publicly thank my wife, Elaine. One, for not losing her mind at the risk of leaving the military for a writing career, and two, for fixing all of my knuckle-dragging mistakes before anyone else had a chance to read them. When we were first married, she started a tally of what I owed her for various deployments and problems she was forced to solve in my absence, all based on the size of a diamond. I’m up to forty-three carats, which is roughly the size of the Hope diamond. So, if you see me in the Smithsonian “researching diamonds” for my “next book,” you’ll know why. Just don’t turn me in when it comes up missing. I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brad served for more than twenty-one years in the U.S. Army, retiring as a Special Forces Lieutenant Colonel. During that time he held numerous infantry and special operations positions, including eight years in 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment — Delta where he commanded multiple troops and a squadron. He has conducted operations in support of U.S. national interests in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other classified locations. He holds a master’s of science in defense analysis with a concentration in irregular warfare from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California. When not writing, Brad serves as a security consultant on asymmetric threats to various agencies. He currently lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with his wife and two daughters.
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