by Ronie Kendig
As he watched their vehicle lumber onto the road and speed off toward the docks, he heard something. To his right.
Tones.
Neil mastered his body. Forced himself not to betray what he’d detected—she was using a phone. Why couldn’t he see the light from the display? Had she killed it somehow? What was she sending through that device?
What if…what if she was behind everything?
They’re heading toward the port. Fury wormed through him. He’d been right! They had known. Cardinal. Burnett—they had to know. Why else would they make a run to the docks in the middle of the night? A dead weight plunked into his gut.
Cardinal had told him once: trust nobody. Not even yourself. And Neil had failed. He’d trusted himself, trusted his instincts. Believed that this demure woman was innocent. That she really cared about him and was in danger. Classic damsel-in-distress game. But…how? Why? Why would she target him? I’m nobody.
Yeah, a nobody with an arsenal of information and secrets.
Safe House, Djibouti
Cardinal. What did that mean? General Burnett had used it while talking to Dane. Was it some type of code?
Aspen shrugged off the questions, her mind still racing at the idea of going into a dockyard and sneaking around crates that potentially held yellowcake. She didn’t know enough about the mineral to know if she’d end up with radiation poisoning, so she trusted that Dane wouldn’t lead her into a situation that could potentially hurt her or the others.
Sitting between her feet, Talon panted and seemed to sense the thrumming adrenaline in the vehicle. Leaning into her touch, he whimpered. At least—she thought he did. With the high engine noise and the road chatter, sounds collided. He’d really been off lately. On the rooftop, in action. He’d been through a lot, and she wasn’t sure he was weathering the storms very well.
Next to her, Timbrel bumped her knee against Aspen’s. “You okay?”
Aspen nodded as her gaze made its way to Dane, who sat with his forearms on his legs. Decked out in an Interceptor vest and a weapon across his legs, he stared at a map using his small shoulder lamp. Intense. Direct. Strong. Being in his arms, that kiss…and just as swift, that regret.
Something bigger than herself compelled her to stand her ground and not let him slink away from their mutual attraction. She’d never been like that, confrontational. In fact, that type of behavior was Class-A Timbrel. Maybe her friend had rubbed off on her some.
“Go easy, Aspen,” Timbrel said in her ear, soft but firm. “He’s not who you think he is.”
Aspen glanced at her friend, surprised. “What does that mean?” Her attention swung back to Dane.
Watterboy said something that pushed Dane upright, and he adjusted the weapon on the strap and stretched his neck. His gaze struck hers. The granite expression softened, a flicker of a smile wavering on his lips. But she must’ve had confusion still on her face because his brow knotted, then his gaze slid to Timbrel. The momentary softening vanished as the granite slammed back into place.
The vehicle lurched to a stop. “All quiet,” Watterboy called.
Unloaded, they grouped up in the night-darkened alley behind a building that squatted in the dirt like a fat spider. Despite being a good seventy yards from the docks, port noises drifted loud and clear to their position.
Aspen lifted a ball from her pocket and let Talon nose it. It’d be his reward once they got back to the safe house and now served as an initiative to do a good, quick job.
With a Glock strapped to her thigh, Aspen had firepower, and with Talon at her side, she had dog power. But the power she found the greatest comfort in was her heavenly Father. He’d been her rock and fortress through every storm. Though she didn’t have the answers she wanted, the comfort of His presence remained true and steadfast. More than any human ever had.
Aspen would be a liar, though, if she didn’t admit to having an increased measure of comfort in the presence of someone else, too—Dane. She found herself looking to him even now as the team prepped to sneak onto the barge with the purported yellowcake.
Watterboy gave the signal that launched the mission.
The precision and stealth of the half-dozen men—Watterboy, Candyman, Scrip, Rocket, and two others whose names she couldn’t remember—amazed her. She’d been in the Air Force, but sitting behind a desk at the JAG offices didn’t compare to this in-your-face tactical stuff. She prayed for strength, prayed she could do her position as Talon’s handler justice and make the guys proud. Make Dane proud.
She scurried along the wall, sandwiched between Timbrel and Candyman, keeping Talon at her side. Though the preferred method for a CTT dog was to be off-lead or on a long lead, until they got on the boat they had to stay close and quiet.
The team slowed at a juncture, and she watched as they gave silent signals. Two bolted away from the building, their boots thumping quietly—but it felt much louder at this hour with the emptied docks and port—as they beat a path to a smaller structure. A shack that probably served as an office of sorts. Or something.
The lineup shortened as each member made tracks to the other side until it was her turn. She reached down and touched Talon’s head. “Go,” she said in a hushed but firm voice.
Aspen rushed from the protection of one building, across the alley, to the next. Only as she and Talon stepped up with the others did she release the pent-up breath. Muttering praise to Talon, she checked the others, checked for Dane.
His strong back was to her. He faced front with Watterboy and Candyman, assuming a stance to cover as the other two hustled the last dozen feet to the ship. With all the swishing of tactical pants and thumping of boots, she marveled that they hadn’t drawn attention. Then again, those not looking for trouble rarely found it.
From this position, if she peered out…just a little…she could see the barge that jutted beyond the lip of the harbor. Its red-and-white hull shone clearly. Water rippled and lapped, glittering. She glanced up at the moon, full in its brilliance, unfettered by clouds. Which meant the team could be seen just as clearly.
From her protective cover with Timbrel and Rocket, Aspen waited as the others did a close-up assessment of the barge. Candyman shifted and gave hand signals.
“Move,” Rocket said as he darted toward the barge.
Aspen and Timbrel jogged toward the team, Talon working with grace and without hesitation. It gave her hope that he’d be okay.
Watterboy and Candyman leapt from the dock onto the deck of the self-propelled barge. A dark form moved out from a shadow. Watterboy wheeled around and aimed his weapon. A small muted spark exploded in the darkness. The form wilted, and Candyman dropped in behind to catch the man and lower him to the steel.
On the dock, next to a barrel that gave flimsy cover, Scrip knelt, eyes out as he scanned the dock down the barrel of his M4.
“Candyman wants the dog,” Rocket said, hand on Aspen’s shoulder. “Go.”
Aspen’s gaze bounced to the deck where Candyman stood, motioning her up. Stomach in her throat, she moved forward with Talon. Even as she made the climb, there was resistance on the lead. “Talon, seek, seek!”
He surged forward, but as his paw hit the metal plank up to the barge, he turned back.
“Talon, hup!” Aspen continued forward, keeping her fear smothered and her authority focused. If she let him know his actions distressed her, it’d only add to his confusion, his momentary panic. He needed her to lead, to express certainty about their mission.
As they jumped across, Candyman hooked her arm and tugged her aside, into the shadows. “That way.” He pointed down a narrow steel catwalk that stretched over an open area filled with containers. Did he want her to cross it? Alone—she’d be completely exposed with the bow to her left and the stern with the wheelhouse to her right. Though she didn’t see danger, this hot, humid night screamed it.
Great. Heights and danger. Didn’t they know she wasn’t a combat veteran?
Yeah, but you have a combat
tracking team dog.
“Go!” Candyman prompted, his teeth gritted through the word.
Right. Okay. Talon was trained to protect her and the others by scouting ahead for danger, so she needed to let him do that. But they’d been through so much. He’d come a long way in their relatively short time together. Letting him go ahead of her, knowing there could be insurgents, Aspen knew how this could end.
She pushed that thought from her mind as she stepped onto the catwalk. It bounced a little beneath her feet. Talon’s nails scratched on the steel as they hurried over it. Not much separated her and a twenty-foot fall to the well floor. And nothing protected her from being seen. Bent, she crouch-scurried toward safety.
“Hey!”
Aspen froze as a shape loomed ahead of her.
Twenty-Eight
Two shapes stood on the catwalk. One was Aspen. The other was trouble.
Cardinal threw himself around, bringing his weapon to bear. He aimed—but in that split second, he knew if he shot the guy they’d alert everyone within a couple of miles to their presence. Would Aspen know to catch the guy? If he didn’t shoot, the guy would make a lot more noise.
Cardinal applied pressure to the trigger. Felt the kick of the weapon.
Kept his eyes trained on the target, who jerked back—the impact of the bullet.
Like lightning, someone darted behind the guy. Caught him.
Lowered him to the rail. Watterboy motioned Aspen and Talon onward. The breath that had lodged in the back of Cardinal’s throat finally processed as he trailed Aspen hurrying to cover.
Squatting at the lip of the deck, she looked down and hesitated.
In that move, he saw the dilemma—Talon. The jump was too high for him. She eyed the canisters. That’d be a big jump, but worse, it’d be loud.
They’d wake the neighborhood. Or at least the men shacked up in the cramped living quarters below deck.
Talon jumped. Right over Cardinal’s head and onto the first canister.
A metal thwunk resonated through the well.
Cardinal tensed, listening, alert. He flinched when he saw Aspen moving down the rungs of the wall-mounted ladder. Two more thwunks sounded by the time Aspen touched down.
Weapon pointed up, Cardinal’s gaze traced the wheelhouse, waiting for a light. For a shout. For a sign that Talon’s adventure had been heard.
He sensed something at his side and glanced there. Aspen stood next to him, coiling the lead around her arm, her expression tense, a mixture of relief and fear. She gave him a half smile that told him she felt safer with him, a smile that extended thanks for saving her from the guy on the catwalk.
“Phil? That you?” came a wary, groggy voice.
“Yeah.” The voice came from Candyman. “Just tripped. Go back to bed.”
“Bed? What the heck are you talking about?” Light flooded out from a side door and delivered a man into the middle of the team.
Cardinal grabbed Aspen and spun around, pinning her between himself and the crates stacked twenty feet up. From his location, he peered to the side, watching that door well.
Candyman slid up along the wall, hidden, as the man in overalls stepped into the open.
A scraggly, unkempt beard and hair framed a sea-bronzed face. Clearly the codger had seen years on the open waters. He looked around, scratching his head. “What are you tal—?”
An arm snaked around the back of the guy.
Old eyes bulged in fright. The man gripped the arm that encircled his neck.
A hand thrust a needle into the man’s carotid. Old Man of the Sea went limp, and Candyman dragged him out of sight between two of the fifteen-foot-tall canisters.
“Frank?”
Candyman widened his eyes and held out his hands, as if to say, “Seriously?” then jumped back against the wall again. Seconds later, the last guy joined Frank. Someone took out the light, and they were back in motion.
Cardinal keyed his mic. “Intel has about a dozen more men. Let’s not wake them.”
Candyman nodded.
“You okay?” Cardinal asked Aspen, who seemed to wilt now that the immediate threat had been eliminated.
She gave a nod.
Lowering his gun, he bobbed his head toward Talon, who trotted toward them. “We’ll find the crates. Keep him on guard.”
Aspen nodded again, smoothing a hand along Talon’s head.
About forty canisters sat in the well. Roughly a dozen of them could hold a small import with ease. But the smaller crates numbered close to thirty and resembled the images Burnett had shared with the team. If they had to search all of them, it’d be a long night. But that’s why they had the radiation device.
Cardinal joined Rocket and Watterboy who walked the crates, waving the device over them. They rose to about shoulder height on the outside and at least twice that in the middle. Stacked carefully, the crates in the middle had the best chance of being their gold mine.
He watched, waited, all the while keeping tabs on Aspen and Talon. As the minutes ticked away, so did his patience. Those crates had been buried well within the center of this cluster. Intentionally.
Cardinal wouldn’t surrender. Not yet. Not ever.
He climbed atop the crates and started shifting them. He motioned to Candyman to give him the device. Reader in hand, he wanded the wooden crates.
The thing squawked a positive reading. He grinned and tossed the reader back. Tapping the blade of his Ka-Bar knife between the lid and the rest, he worked it in then wedged it against the wood and lifted. A loud crack echoed through the well as he lifted the top.
Candyman climbed up next to him, his shoulder lamp hitting the packaging. “Vaults. Yellow vaults. That supposed to be a clue?”
His sarcasm only served to grate on Cardinal’s nerves. Cardinal snapped the lock with a multitool and flipped the lid.
Candyman cursed. Several times really fast.
Couldn’t have said it better. Cardinal slapped the lid closed, praying the radiation levels of the decaying uranium weren’t strong enough to contaminate him. “Check the others,” he said as he sheathed his knife. Knuckles against his lips, he watched as the others opened the other crates.
He eased back on another crate and drew out the camera and opened the live-feed connection to Burnett. Toeing the lid, he opened the vault and filmed the contents, then let the lens scrape over the rest, just enough to show Burnett that this shipment had to be intercepted before it got to wherever it was going.
This barge couldn’t deliver its contents. Most barges were hired. So maybe the owner didn’t realize what he carried. Or maybe he was being paid off—just like Admiral Kuhn? The shifting of the plot elements in this nightmare felt like tectonic plates colliding beneath the earth. There were bound to be seismic-scale responses.
Who was behind this? Where would the contents end up? Did that really matter when something like this being under the cover of darkness meant it wasn’t on the up-and-up? That meant treaties or laws or embargoes were being violated.
What if this stuff was headed to Iran?
As if led to that thought via the divine, Cardinal’s gaze fell on the canister across from him. More precisely, the markings on said canister. He climbed off the crates, squinting. Tried to aim the shoulder lamp at the stenciled marks as he moved.
“Whaddya got?” Candyman asked, his voice quiet and quick.
In a terrifying shift, the past surged over his barriers and rammed into the present. Heart backfiring, Cardinal traced the stenciled lettering.
Бeлapycь
Talon straightened, his keen eyes locked on one man. He rose and padded over to Dane, nosing the man’s thigh. Talon had done that a thousand times to Aspen over the past year as she struggled with her brother’s disappearance.
Sitting at Dane’s feet, Talon gazed up at him perceptively. Whimpered. Inched closer.
Dane didn’t move, his attention glued to the rusting red canister that loomed over him. Hand on painted letters that had
once been white, he stared. As if he could see straight through it.
“Dane?” Aspen whispered to him as she joined him.
No response. What was wrong? She peeked around at his face.
Haunted. Stricken.
Something rumbled in the pit of her belly. Aspen touched his back. “Dane?”
Jaw tightened, he snapped out of it. Lowered his gaze to the side but did not look at her. “We need to clear out.”
And that was it. He morphed back into the super soldier or whatever he was. “Cardinal.” The word burst from her lips before she had time to consider what it might do. What it might mean.
Dane flinched. Started to look at her. But froze. He turned—away from her. “Candyman, get a picture.” He tapped the canister. “Let’s move out.”
They were headed to the ladder when he strode past her.
She caught his arm. Held tight.
Though meaning flashed through his face, he seemed to harness it. Anger shifted and slid through his expression. His gaze went down. Then bounced to hers. “Can you get Talon topside or do you need help?”
Topside. Right. How would she get Talon out of there? Aspen felt disembodied from the events. Something happened back there. She wanted to know what it was. “He’s not who you think he is.” When she’d used that term—Cardinal—he’d responded. But it wasn’t the response she’d expected, though she wasn’t sure what she expected. Or why she’d even spoken the word. It’d made him angry.
Her gaze went to the hall where the ship’s workers had come from. Would that work?
“No.” Dane glared at her. “Too dangerous.” He shifted to the ladder as he scooped Talon’s lead from her hands. “Candyman, catch.”
Dane took Talon’s lead and tossed one end up. He clipped the other to Talon’s vest. He pointed Aspen to the ladder. “Climb with him.”
She started up the rungs, one arm hooked around Talon, who clamped his mouth shut, unsettled with the lifting method. “’S okay, boy.” Up…up…up.
Paws on deck, Talon sat. Huffed through a closed snout, letting his objection be known.