“But there is one thing, Mr. Jones.”
“What?”
“My employer, your former employer, is not an individual, but an organization that never dies, and never forgets.”
The Assembly.
“And as such, at some point in time, you, or one of your descendants, may be asked for a favor.”
“One of my…”
Descendants?
“You are to write a letter for your children, confessing to your crimes, and to how you acquired your wealth. You are to make no mention of our employers, beyond indicating that should they be approached, they must cooperate, or we will eliminate your entire lineage.”
“But…but…” Jones wasn’t sure what to say. His entire lineage? What did that even mean? Did he mean they would kill his children and grandchildren?
“I see you understand, Mr. Jones. You will write the letter tonight. Someone will collect it tomorrow and it will be held by us until such time as it is needed.”
“Wh-what might they ask them to do?”
Whitman shrugged. “I have no idea, Mr. Jones. It will depend most likely on what type of people your children and their children become. Perhaps your son will follow his father’s footsteps and join the military. His skills could prove useful to our employer. Or perhaps your daughter will work for a newspaperman, and she’ll be asked to plant a story.” He smiled. “The possibilities are endless, and their needs diverse.”
“But they won’t be harmed.”
“Not if they cooperate, Mr. Jones, not if they cooperate.” He leaned forward. “Which is why you should make that letter as compelling as possible. Because should they not, the consequences will be dire, as you well know.”
Jones nodded, his heart pounding, the blood rushing through his ears almost drowning out the noise surrounding them.
“And should I not have any children?”
Whitman’s eyebrows popped up slightly. “Why, then your family would be spared.” He flicked a wrist toward the apartment. “But I hardly think a woman as lovely as young Miss Margo would be satisfied without children.”
He was right. She wouldn’t. Which left him with only one choice.
“And if you’re thinking of killing yourself, Mr. Jones, I would advise against it. My employer has instructed me to eliminate Miss Margo should you attempt such a course of action.”
Jones’ shoulders slumped as his eyes closed, the blood draining from his face.
“Face it, Mr. Jones,” said Whitman as he retrieved a cigar from his pocket, biting the end off and spitting it out the window. “If you had only done your job, none of this would have happened. Our employer is generous and only expected one thing. Loyalty.” He lit the cigar, taking several hard puffs, the cherry glowing brightly. He jabbed the air between them with the cigar. “Mr. Jones, your actions have condemned you and your family.”
Jones nodded and opened his eyes. “For how long?”
“Three generations.”
He felt his chest tighten, not sure if he was pleased with the answer or not. “Three?”
“Should nothing be asked of your grandchildren, then nothing further shall be asked of your family, and our employer will consider your debt paid.”
Jones’ head dropped onto his chest.
“But that could be a hundred years.”
Moscone Convention Center, New Orleans
Present Day
“That is why we need to take a firm line when it comes to Russia’s newly aggressive tone. If Russia continues to go unchallenged, we risk returning to the days of the Cold War, where the entire planet teetered on the brink of nuclear holocaust, where two sides were in an arms race that neither could let up on for fear of an imbalance that might lead one side to think they could win, triggering an unthinkable retaliation.”
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson scanned the partisan crowd through his Oakley Standard Issue Ballistic sunglasses, their dark lenses preventing the audience from seeing who he might be looking at from one moment to the next. The key was to keep the head movement to a minimum. Watch the crowd out of the corner of your eye and you were more likely to catch a suspect who thought he was in the clear.
There had been several dozen threats against his assignment going into tonight’s speech, though most had been dismissed as harmless, yet in today’s day and age it simply didn’t pay to not be careful. It was a partisan, pre-screened crowd, but that didn’t mean much.
And this guy was controversial, to say the least.
Which might be why he was so wildly popular.
Yet one threat had made it onto the radar and Delta had been requested to provide a four-man team to assist with the security, the threat coming out of Russia.
One country that had shown it was willing to kill to further its agenda.
“We nearly came to full-scale global nuclear war in 1962 but fortunately a firm military response by President Kennedy forced the Soviets to back down. And today we face a similar crisis. Many think it began in the Ukraine, but it didn’t. Before Ukraine there was Chechnya, Georgia and Moldova. Threats against Poland, the Czech Republic and now the Baltic States, all NATO allies, could lead to the very all-out war our children’s generation never thought possible, it now twenty-five years since the Soviet Union was a threat.”
The man was right, though Dawson kept his politics to himself, it discouraged among serving members of the military to be political. Their job was to execute the orders issued by their elected Commander-in-Chief, whether they agreed with them or not, as long as they weren’t illegal orders.
Illegal orders.
It had been a few years now since the fiasco that had led them from Peru to London, the death toll disturbingly high.
All innocent.
Because the President and his inner circle had fed them false intel, leading him and his team to believe they were targeting a domestic terrorist cell.
Instead it was innocent students and their professor.
And an ancient organization almost two thousand years old.
I’ll be happy if I never hear of the Triarii again.
His eyes paused on someone reaching into an inner pocket, Dawson’s finger twitching.
A handkerchief was produced just in time to smother a sneeze.
His eyes moved on.
“If I become President, should I be fortunate enough for the American people to bestow such an honor upon me, I will fight back against the schoolyard bully in Moscow rather than kowtow to him. I will strengthen the sanctions, provide weapons and training to the legitimate government of the Ukraine, and station more troops in the Baltic Republics to make certain the Russian government understands that their belligerence, their violation of international law, will not be tolerated under my administration.”
About damned time someone told it like it was.
He exchanged a slight nod with Sergeant Carl “Niner” Sung who stood on the opposite side of the stage, sit reps coming in steadily over his comm.
All clear.
Niner was one of the most reliable men in The Unit, though that perhaps was a slight disservice to the others since they were all incredibly reliable—you didn’t make The Unit if you weren’t. But Niner was so gung-ho he seemed to infect the men of Bravo Team with his enthusiasm, it spurring them all on when things looked their bleakest.
And he was a funny sonofabitch too.
And that sense of humor had earned him the right to be the only man in The Unit to have chosen his own nickname, though Dawson had shortened it over time. They had been enjoying some brewskies when some rednecks took a dislike to Niner’s Korean heritage, hurling insults at him. Niner had responded with a string of his own, much better Asian slurs, including the pièce de résistance, “Nine Iron”.
His challenger hadn’t taken too kindly to the bar laughing at him and swung.
At a Delta Operator.
It hadn’t been a wise move.
Niner had insisted his new nickname be “
Nine Iron” and the team had agreed, not really wanting to challenge him when so full of adrenaline. Dawson had kept the tradition of the nickname being “assigned” by shortening it to “Niner” which he had readily agreed to, probably more in shock that his request was being honored.
And relieved to rid himself of his old nickname.
Beaver.
Dawson smiled slightly. Niner had been so excited about making The Unit that all it had taken was someone calling him an “eager beaver” at a barbecue for the name to stick.
And like most nicknames given to you by someone else, he didn’t like it.
Especially when he was forced to watch a Leave it to Beaver marathon one night, duct taped to a chair while everyone else drank beer and ate pizza around him.
Good times.
“It is time for America to be strong again, to not allow renewed Russian aggression to set the tone for our future, to not allow an increasingly militaristic China to increase its sphere of influence unchallenged. It is time for America to stop agreeing for the sake of agreeing. We have abandoned our traditional allies like Israel and Canada, and instead are appeasing Russia and Iran. Why? Are we a nation of cowards?”
Boos filled the room, fists thrown in the air.
“I didn’t think so. And under my administration, America will be strong again. We will stand up to the bully, stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons and the territorial expansion of Russia and China, and bring the full force of the American military to bear on Islamic fundamentalism. Under my watch, America and her allies will be the policeman of the world, the firemen of the world, the paramedics of the world, because the world needs strong leadership once again. No longer will America apologize for being the greatest nation on Earth, no longer will we be made to feel guilty of our accomplishments, no longer will we feel shame for our success. Remember, come election day, a vote for me is a vote for a strong, secure and prosperous future! It’s time to take America back!”
The crowd, whipped up into a frenzy by now, erupted in cheers, the rallying cry of the campaign, “Take America Back!” chanted by the hundreds gathered. Camera bulbs flashed, the effect almost strobe-like, this the time the sunglasses really paid off. He stepped forward, as did several others of the detail as the candidate began to glad-hand with the crowd, leaning over the stage to shake outstretched hands. His aide, Russell Saunders, whispered in his boss’ ear and the man straightened himself, waving to the crowd, shouting out a goodnight before exiting stage left, Dawson and Niner leading the way, Sergeants Leon “Atlas” James and Will “Spock” Lightman covering the rear.
They made their way with purpose through the cleared path to the rear exit and were inside the armored limousine within two minutes of leaving the stage. The motorcade was underway immediately with Dawson in the front passenger seat of the candidate’s vehicle, the rest of his team in an SUV behind them, a police motorcycle escort leading the way.
“Done for the day,” sighed the exhausted man from the back seat, the partition down. “Thank God.”
“It was a good day, sir,” replied Saunders. “I think we picked up some votes.”
“Let’s hope so. My wife?”
Dawson could hear the concern in the man’s voice, and for the first time in his life actually understood the concern a partner could have for their spouse. He had nearly lost the first woman he had ever truly loved in Paris only a few weeks ago. She was recovering well, yet it would be a tough haul for her.
To think you were going to break up with her!
When she had been shot he had decided in a moment of self-pity that it would be safer for her to be as far away from him as possible, yet in the end he had come around to realizing it would be selfish to do something so rash.
He had left the choice up to her.
And she had made it crystal clear she didn’t blame him and felt closer to him than ever before.
“I love you, more than ever.”
Those words, whispered from his beloved Maggie’s lips after she had woken from her coma, had forced a lump into his throat that had made him realize how much he actually loved this woman. It was something he never would have imagined, he having resigned himself long ago to the bachelor life, not wanting to bring a woman, let alone children, into the life he led as a special operations soldier. He was the head of Bravo Team, a group of twelve operators in America’s elite counter-terrorism unit, 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment – Delta, commonly known to the public as Delta Force. The Unit, as it was called, consisted of over one thousand personnel, the best of the best, and he would put any of them up against any enemy, any day.
Including on American soil. They were the only unit authorized to operate on home soil, the President authorized to suspend Posse Comitatus should it become necessary.
Today was just a protection detail and he honestly didn’t expect any action, though expecting the unexpected was his job, so he never let his guard down, even now, his eyes scanning sidewalks, windows, pedestrians, even their escort vehicles.
Everything.
“Your wife is feeling better, sir, and is at the hotel waiting for you. Apparently it was just a case of exhaustion.”
A relieved sigh of a husband who truly did seem to love his wife. Dawson had watched him dote on her the entire two days they had been here, he and his team only assigned yesterday morning after a fiery speech the night before where the presidential candidate had targeted Russia for the first time, deciding foreign policy was an area his rivals were weak.
It had lit up the Russian nationalists almost instantly, Homeland Security concerned enough to assign a Secret Service protection detail far earlier than the normal 120 day period leading up to the election. They had also asked for Delta assistance, the country still on edge after the Black Stone incident only weeks ago.
Dawson was only too happy to have been assigned, he and his team out of the rotation the past few weeks as they were fully debriefed on the events in Paris, Yemen and Saudi Arabia. Their Commanding Officer, Colonel Thomas Clancy, had reactivated them only two days ago. He had to admit he had felt a little guilty leaving Maggie, but she was in good hands. She was back at her apartment now and several of the wives in The Unit were taking shifts being with her, Maggie well known to them not only through her recent relationship with Dawson, but also the fact she had been the kinder, gentler face of Clancy, serving as his personal assistant for several years now.
Personal Assistant.
It had taken him over a year to figure out her job title, and he had managed to learn it through a Clancy tirade rather than having to sheepishly ask her after all this time. He had known what she did, he just hadn’t known what the hell it was called. His mother had been a secretary for years and seemed to do the same work, yet he knew enough to know calling someone a secretary was somehow insulting now, though he wasn’t sure why.
Mom was always proud of her job.
Clancy’s tirade had been expected, and understood, the man not actually mad at Dawson, just concerned about a woman he thought of as a daughter, and the fact a team he had assigned to Yemen had been disavowed. Dawson had simply been the first person involved that he had been able to vent at.
He didn’t take it personally.
The Colonel was the best CO he had ever had. A man who always had their back, as he had proven with the recent incident. A soldier’s soldier, he passionately believed in the principal of ‘no man left behind’, no matter what the brass might say. Officially the team had been disavowed, but Clancy hadn’t let that stop him from working the back channels and calling in favors.
It had saved them all.
“She’s been trying to keep up as best she can, but she shouldn’t be. I told her the American people would understand if she wasn’t by my side at every event. She’s recovering from chemo for Pete’s sake.”
“She’s a good woman,” said Saunders, softly.
“Too good for me.”
There was a break in the conversati
on and Dawson turned to look at those seated in the back. “Sir, any changes to tonight’s itinerary?”
“No, I’ll be in for the night with my wife. We’ll dine in the hotel room so your men should be able to take it easy. Any plans? Getting into some trouble?”
Dawson grinned. “We’re not Secret Service, sir.”
There was a grunt from the Secret Service driver.
A roar of laughter responded as Saunders’ iPhone rang. A whispered conversation ensued then he ended the call. “Mr. Quaid wants to meet with you tonight, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
“Fine, no rest for the wicked.”
Dawson’s eyes narrowed. “Quaid? He’s not on my list. I’ll have him vetted by my people.”
Saunders shook his head. “No need. He’s one of our biggest donors.”
Dawson nodded as they pulled up to the hotel, the security detail swarming out of their cars, a team already in place, along with hotel staff, forming a cordon from the limousine to the main entrance. “Okay. My team will hand over to the Secret Service team as soon as you’re in your room. We’ll take over again in the morning.”
He climbed out and looked around, the usual press contingent held back behind a barricade, curious onlookers, mostly hotel guests, gawking.
He opened the door and Saunders then his boss exited, the politician waving to the crowd, pausing a moment for photographs, ignoring the screamed questions from the press corps.
Dawson and his team led them inside, the din of the crowd cut off the moment the doors closed. They climbed aboard an elevator being held for them and a staff member twisted the key to turn it into an express, the car shooting up to the tenth floor where they were greeted by two Secret Service agents. Within moments they were inside the hotel room.
“My team and I are going off duty now, sir,” said Dawson after quickly inspecting the room.
“Have a good night, Mr. White.”
“You too, Mr. Jones.”
Acton & Palmer Residence, St. Paul, Maryland
“This is a good steak,” said Milton, pointing at it with his fork. “Very tender.”
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 9