Recall

by David McCaleb

  Marksman pointed to a fast rope, a thick braided mass fastened to the ceiling near the rear of the craft, hanging and coiled on the ramp like a cobra.

  Lanyard held up bare hands, fingers splayed. “I didn’t bring my leather gloves.” He glanced at the rest of the team. “Neither did you guys.”

  Marksman lifted a fist, then the other, in a reverse hand-over-hand motion. “This ain’t an insertion. It’s an oyster roast. We’re not in a hurry, so use your arms.”

  Lanyard gave a thumbs-up.

  Red gripped a handrail and made his way to the rear of the aircraft, next to the fifty cal, then peered over the edge. Because they were in flight, the ramp wasn’t lowered all the way. Thus even he had to duck to keep from smacking his head on the ceiling. Lanyard gripped the fast rope and joined him, studying the suburban streets as the chopper flew toward the Chesapeake Bay. The roads melted into wintry brown park, which faded to stripped hardwood forest, then dark green salt marsh, and finally into a long tan beach.

  The pilot, keeping the helicopter two hundred feet above the deck, passed over the site of the beach party. Several civilian four-wheel-drives were parked at odd angles around a bonfire, and metal racks held oysters baking over beds of hot coals. Behind an eighties blue Ford pickup with dropped tailgate stood a keg with a pump valve and several filler hoses stretching from it. The contraption always reminded Red of a diving respirator. The craft flew through the fire’s column of white smoke, chopping it in turbulence, filling the interior with hickory, beech, and saltwater scents.

  Lanyard turned toward Red. “Why’s the pilot passing by?”

  Red quenched a smile, forcing his lips tight in one of Jim’s more common expressions. “Probably just lining up for an approach.”

  A minute later, from her seat the copilot stuck a fist into the aisle. Quarter mile out. Good to go. The craft slowed and settled into a shallow hover and frigid salt spray washed into the cargo bay. Red nodded to Marksman. He and Crawler had snuck close, pretending to peer out the opening. Each grabbed one of Lanyard’s shoulders and slammed him to the ramp.

  “What the hell!” the Marine yelled.

  Richards yanked off the soldier’s sneakers and pants. His feet flailed as if he was trying to take off the captain’s head. Maybe he was. Marksman and Crawler managed to strip off the sweatshirt, but had to tear loose a waffle patterned thermal underwear jersey. Crawler took an elbow to the chin, but it didn’t shift his smile. The bullet bruises on Lanyard’s bare stomach had faded, but one still appeared deep purple and sore. With bandage scissors, Ali cut off the man’s underwear and the operator stopped struggling. His entire body was goose pimpled in the cold.

  “A little tradition we have in the Det,” Red hollered, vapor swirling about his head, misting his beard. “After your first op, a naked ocean swim back to the party. In summer it’s a mile, but since the water’s only forty-eight degrees, we’ve cut it down to a quarter that.” With two fingers he pointed over the ramp’s edge. Marksman and Crawler pitched him ass over heels into the air. Lanyard tucked himself into a tight ball as he fell forty feet into the water.

  A second later, his head bobbed up, barely visible above the whirl of rotor-washed spray. Red pointed toward the beach to give the man his bearings.

  Crawler leaned over the ramp, fingers gripping a rib on the ceiling like a mountain climber wedging digits into a crack. For the last week the man had boasted about how the explosion of the VEVAK warehouse had been such a work of art, going so far as to liken it to the Mona Lisa. Could the man could even spell her name? He told how he’d splashed a MIG 29, as if he’d done it by himself. “Enjoy your swim, jarhead!” Crawler called down to Lanyard as the helicopter drifted away. “Gonna need tweezers to take a piss!”

  Red locked Marksman’s gaze, then shot his eyes to Lanyard in the water. Marksman beamed and gave Crawler a firm shove in his back. The chunky grunt tumbled down, not tucking tight like Lanyard had done, and splashed flat on his back. He bobbed up like a buoy, shock on his face, held up a fist, and hollered something indecipherable over the pulsing slap of the rotors.

  Ali had set up a green tent with propane heater on the beach in anticipation of the event. Red had instructed it to be stocked with a six pack of Bud Light to appease Crawler. He’d come out of the water an angry bear, but once the man was full of his favorite brew, his character mellowed.

  Red tightened his grip on the handrail. You never know if some other joker was going to get an idea to toss him out as well. The Sikorsky shuddered for a few seconds, then smoothed. Red sensed the old girl didn’t like leaving any of her team in the water, but obeyed the pilot’s command. Glancing around the group, he saw that everyone wore broad smiles. Richards slapped Red on the back, waving to Lanyard and Crawler in the water. The team was tight. A woven sheet of fibers, like the hardened skin of a cloak, cemented into place, formed for a purpose, a function, each strand lending its particular strength, all forming a greater whole.

  Yes, for Jim, he’d hold the Det together. They’d done so much good. Such a team should be protected.

  As the Sikorsky approached the beach, his mouth watered at the scent of roasting oysters.

  * * *

  Penny, Nick, and Jackson shuffled in front of the chrome-wire shopping cart. A wheel with a flat spot clacked a steady cadence on a vinyl-tiled floor. Just Red’s luck, another broken cart. And no matter how many times the kids got their feet run over, they’d still stop randomly when different toys caught their attention.

  The family was walking through Gloucester’s Walmart, only one county over from their old one. The CIA had insisted a move and a new identity would help ensure the family’s safety. In an area with over 1.6 million people, even a short hop from one county to another was significant, though not nearly as thorough as the Witness Protection Program.

  Jackson jerked to a halt again, reached out and grabbed a package off a hangar. Lori leaned over him. “What does David like?” she asked. Red hated venturing down the toy aisles, but his son was on the hunt for a birthday present. He’d been in his new kindergarten class for three days and had come home with a birthday party invitation for a new friend, David.

  Jackson rubbed the shiny clear package. “He likes Legos and Star Wars.”

  Funny. They hadn’t made it to the Lego aisle yet. “What you holding there, buddy?” Red asked.

  The boy turned and held the package over his head. It was a black pistol, a three-quarter-size model Colt 1911 with orange-tipped barrel. Except for STINGER stamped on the side, it appeared relatively anatomically correct, down to the beavertail grip safety.

  “I don’t think David’s mother would appreciate that. What do you think?” Lori glanced at Red, eyebrows high, her agree with me or die expression.

  Red stepped around the cart and took the package. Squatting down next to his son, he rubbed fingers across the clear plastic. “You mother is right. This is a cool sidearm but—” a knee smacked his back. “It’s a nice weapon—” another jab. “A good toy, but it’s for older kids. And some parents don’t like pistols.”

  Jackson’s feet marched in place, as if jogging. “It’s not for him. I wanna buy it. How much money do I have?”

  Red glanced at Lori. She held up a palm, eyes narrowed, Not on your life written in her face. Red placed the package back on its hanger, in front of three identical boxes. “I don’t think you have enough saved up yet, buddy.”

  “But Nana gave me ten dollars for my birthday.” $9.89 was written in black on the orange price tag.

  Red tousled his son’s hair. “Maybe next time. This one shoots plastic bullets. When you’re older.” He pointed to a yellow Nerf revolver that shot foam darts. “Maybe that one would be better.”

  Jackson hopped, pointing to the 1911’s box. “But this one looks like yours.” He pushed on Red’s chest, beside where his Det Sig Saur sidearm was strapped beneath his shoulder. How’d he know Red was carrying? “You’ve got one. Why can’t I?”

 
A tall brunette in tight black sweats stepped behind Lori, towing a chubby girl gripping a green-taffeta-clad party-Barbie by the hair. The woman glanced at the bulge under Red’s arm, then yanked her child down the aisle.

  Once the woman had stepped around the corner, Red tapped the 1911’s package. “This one says you have to be ten years old to buy it. The store won’t let us. In a couple years, maybe.”

  They strolled to the Lego aisle without further protests. The far end was dedicated to pink toys.

  The brunette glared at Red and jerked her daughter’s hand as the girl held a huge box. “That’s a good one. Mommy will get it for you.” Then they scurried around the end.

  Outside, making their way across the parking lot, bright sun warmed Red’s face. Lori held Nick’s hand this time, her hips rocking in the same graceful sway. “A little different than last visit to Walmart.”

  Lori smiled back. They hadn’t spoken much of the op. Just letting things calm a bit first. One night after a glass of wine she’d confessed she was in the employ of the CIA, but assured him it was only as an analyst, more administrative than anything. Not an executive at Merkel Research, a high-powered think tank. That was a cover. But the conversation hadn’t gone any further, and Red wasn’t inclined to force it. Not yet, he thought. So often Jim had said, Always trust your team. Like family. But why had she helped keep his past hidden under recall for six years? How’d she know how to incapacitate Amin so skillfully? Could he trust her? His wife?

  She lifted Jackson’s arm high, helping him jump over a pothole as deep as his knee. Blond hair fell across her face. She lifted her head and brushed bangs behind an ear. A glance at Red, and she grinned, puckering lips for a split second.

  To hell with doubt. Always trust your team.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe a huge debt of thanks to my mother and late father for encouraging creativity in our family, and so many others beyond. To my wife and kids, for pretending to enjoy black ops thrillers. To Dorie, for letting me know when I get too dark. To Abigail, for that neat twist about Mossad. To Jesse, for helping this Type A laugh. To Troy Farlow, for your brutally honest feedback. Sorry, but I’ll never be Proust.

  I cannot express sufficient gratitude to my writers’ workshop. To Lenore Hart and David Poyer, for endless wisdom, willingness to teach, and that cursed red pen. To my partners in crime, Frances Williams, Mark Nuckols, Ken Sutton, and Joan La Blanc, for your endurance, insight, skill, and criticism.

  To my editor, Michaela Hamilton, for catching the vision and believing in the manuscript. To my agent, Anne Hawkins, for working so hard on my behalf.

  Thank you to the entire thriller community of authors. You have been supportive, open, and willing to share. To my readers, you rock! Thank you for your comments, feedback, and suggestions on my website, DavidMcCaleb.com, and on Facebook (McCalebBooks) and Twitter (@McCalebBooks). They are always welcome.

  Ready for more Red? Turn the page to enjoy an exciting preview of the next Red Harmon thriller by David McCaleb!

  RELOAD

  Coming soon from Lyrical Underground, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Chapter 1

  Baseball

  New Kent County, Virginia

  Tony “Red” Harmon glanced at unrepaired holes from automatic weapons fire that had stitched a neat line in beige siding beneath his neighbor’s second-story window. The wet team had hit three weeks ago. You’d think the Cutlers could have gotten a contractor to patch up the five-five-six millimeter perforations by now. Considering how many times the covenant committee had told Red to cut his own grass, surely they’d be hot to get the punctures fixed so the place didn’t look like a Beirut slum. He could imagine the blond witch from the homeowners’ association visiting Mr. Cutler now, tossing her head. Bullet holes and unkempt yards bring down property values, she’d say.

  Red stepped on to the pitcher’s mound centered in his cramped backyard and flipped a Wiffle ball from palm to back of hand. He smiled as he waited for his four-year-old son, Nick, kneeling in the batter’s box, to tie mismatched laces. No matter. His kid would be tripping over them again in minutes. But his boy just had to have real sneakers. The ones without Velcro. Nick switched to the other foot, fingers gripping 550 paracord. Red could almost read Nick’s mind as he made the loop. Around the tree and through the—

  Something moved off to the side. Another neighbor snapping shut white-lined curtains, blue scalloped hem, then tugging the edges so they sealed tight. The night of the attack, their home had escaped with only a single hole punched through the garage door. The projectile had been 9mm, copper with a hardened tungsten steel core, coated with polytetrafluoroethylene.

  Red and his family hadn’t been back since armor-piercing bullets had flown through their middle-class neighborhood by the magful. But he’d promised the kids a good-bye to their home, because that’s what this house had been called for the last six years.

  He stepped off the mound toward second base. It was Sunday, but no one was outside except them. He shouldn’t have brought the family back here, not even for this quick last visit.

  A white Chevy Suburban parked out front weighed almost twice what it had coming off the assembly line, heavy now with bulletproof glass and armor plates hidden inside the doors. The engine had been supercharged to compensate, the drivetrain beefed up as well. The driver had a Glock 17 beneath a shoulder, an MP5 in the center console. A single day in this vehicle and Nick had already managed to empty a juice box into the adjoining leather seat, while Penny had dropped her bubble gum on the carpet.

  Penny wound up and threw a second Wiffle ball back to Red, this time necessitating a jog outside third base. He stifled a contented laugh as he stooped and picked it up. She had been all ballet and Barbie dolls for years, but now had a 50-cal for an arm. Get some accuracy and college was paid. Jackson and Nick were still too young to predict.

  “Okay, kids. We need to go.”

  Penny’s shoulders slumped. “Dad-de-e-e! We just got here. You promised.”

  “I promised you could say good-bye, not play a whole baseball game. One more pitch.”

  Red planted a boot atop the brown spot where the dog had peed and burned the grass—now his pitcher’s mound. Nick stood in the batter’s box, thick orange plastic bat slung atop a shoulder like a hobo’s satchel. This would be quick.

  Red’s arm drew a slow arc back, giving the boy plenty of forewarning. Nick pounded home plate with the bat like Bam-Bam from the Flintstones, closed his eyes, and swung. A hollow tunk and the ball flew between first and second. He stood there, motionless.

  Penny slapped his calf. “Run, dork!”

  Nick hesitated, then turned toward third base. His older brother, Jackson, shoved him at first. The boy looked down at his feet as if expecting them to decide, then started pumping in a half-trot, flinging the bat back toward Penny’s head. The ball smashed into a holly hedge against a gray-patinaed privacy fence and dropped out of sight in the prickly green shrub.

  Red raised arms and shouted, “Home run! We’re done. Inside.”

  “But what about my ball?” whined Nick.

  “I’ll get you another.”

  “But it won’t be a home run ball!”

  Red stomped over to the bushes. Dandelions rubbed his cheek as he searched under the branches on hands and knees. Dandelions that wouldn’t die no matter what chemical he sprayed. Dandelions he no longer gave a damn about, now that new identity had landed atop the family’s to-do list. Their home was property of the CIA. In fact, county tax records showed it had never been their own. Someone by the name of Marsha Peekly was listed on the trumped-up deed. Ms. Peekly was selling it because a new job was sending her to Arizona, or Alabama, or one of those other A states.

  “I can’t see it,” he said. “It’s not under here.”

  “There it is!” Nick exclaimed, kneeling beside him. He pointed toward the back of the holly row, near the bottom of the fence.

  Red followed
the line of Nick’s index finger. His hand still held the scent of citrus from the orange Lori had given him in the Suburban. It was the two boys’ favorite treat. “Come on. Not even Br’er Rabbit could wiggle in there.”

  Penny’s nose wrinkled. “Who’s Briar Rabbit?”

  Red gasped. “You mean, I never—we’ve never . . . Oh, forget it.” He lay on his belly and stretched an arm under the hedge. Stiff twigs pushed up his sleeve and leaf barbs clawed at his wrist. His hand was still a couple of feet short. Muttering low curses, he ducked again and low-crawled underneath, breathing in damp partially decayed leaves. A brown wolf spider sprinted out, just below his forehead. He closed his eyes and shoved in a few more inches, the sharp leaves now scoring his neck. His fingers landed upon the plastic orb. He hooked two fingers into the holes and wriggled out backward.

  The ball caught on a branch and popped off. He shoved a hand back in after it and hit something else—something cold, hard, like metal. Maybe a beer can from a summer barbeque? No, heavier. The ratchet he’d lost two years ago? How’d it get way out here?

  He wrapped his fingers around the thing and it fell knowingly into his palm, like the familiar tool it was. No, not a ratchet.

  * * *

  A light turned green and the supercharger gulped air, force-feeding the engine, singing a muffled high note. The driver of the Suburban rolled a shoulder back, as if his holster was chafing. He pressed a phone to one ear and spoke in low tones, probably to another CIA goon, about a UPS shipment, tracking numbers, arrival dates, and other drivel. Red sat in the seat behind him, jacket folded across his lap. He lifted the corner toward Lori, next to him.

  “What is it?” she asked, glancing down.

  He turned to look at the third seat. All three kids were strapped in, heads down, each thumbing some small electronic gadget. The driver was still mumbling something in code. “A pistol,” Red whispered.