Tom ignored the comment. He was the Southern gentleman, making sure June got food on her plate before he did. “Now we know what Zhao looks like,” Tom said, “but we still don’t know what he plans to do with the anthrax.”
Max swallowed a bite of kalbi. “True, but Zhao probably killed Admiral Earp. And he killed Admiral Gilliam. That much we know.”
June set down her fork and raised her hand awkwardly as if in a classroom. “This seems like some sort of first strike to paralyze the US Navy in the Pacific before China launches a larger attack,” she said.
Tom took a drink of lilikoi-passion fruit juice. “Preparation for China to launch a full-scale war.”
“Shawn Lok said that Zhao’s actions aren’t sanctioned by Beijing,” Max said, “and Shawn tried to stop Zhao. But Agent Akaka and I got in the way.”
“Beijing is trying to bury Zhao before he launches World War Three,” Tom said.
“So what’s Zhao’s next move?” June asked.
“If he continues to assassinate up the military chain of command, he’ll go after the combatant commander of the Pacific next,” Max said.
Tom scooted forward to the edge of his chair. “The combatant commander is in charge of all Army, Navy, Marine, Air Force, and Coast Guard forces in the Pacific. And he’s here in Pearl Harbor, too.”
June set her drink on the table. “The Autumn Wind file had four documents: Horizontal, Pearl, Five, and Country. We guessed Horizontal was a code word for Yokosuka, where the Seventh Fleet commander was stationed. And Pearl is for Pearl Harbor, where the Pacific Fleet commander is. Does Pearl also refer to the combatant commander here in Pearl Harbor? And possibly his deputy commander? Or do the code words Five and Country refer to them?”
“I don’t know,” Max said before turning to Tom as if eliciting his input.
Tom swallowed a bite of food. “I’m racking my brain trying to figure this out.”
“Me, too,” June said.
“I’ll contact Dad, Willy, and Young,” Max said. “See if they have any ideas.”
“Bane left us his cell number,” Tom said. “I’ll call him and let him know that we think the combatant commander and possibly his deputy are in danger.”
“I’ll see how Agent Akaka is doing,” June said.
“Tell Agent Akaka hi for us,” Max said. “Hope he’s okay.” Max shared Akaka’s contact info with her.
After the three finished their calls, June had already cleaned up the table.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Tom said.
“No biggie,” she said. “You guys were still on the phones. I called Agent Akaka, and he said he’s doing much better. Told us to be careful.”
“Great,” Max said. “I didn’t speak to Dad directly; he was asleep, but I found out that he’s getting better.”
“Awesome,” Tom said.
“Wonderful,” June said.
“Yeah,” Max said, “but I haven’t heard back from Willy or Young.”
“Bane told me that NCIS needs our assistance for a couple days or so,” Tom said. “He asked if you two can help him lay a trap for Zhao at the deputy commander’s residence. And he wants me to help out with the commander’s protective detail. He’s heading back over here now with another NCIS agent. They’ll be here in about thirty minutes. He says we won’t return to the hotel soon, so pack up what we need.”
Max and June looked at each other.
“What kind of trap?” June asked.
“He didn’t give details over the phone,” Tom said. “My understanding is that he’ll give us more info when we reach our areas of operation.”
“Whatever Bane has in mind, I’m sure it’ll be an adventure,” Max said.
“I’ll get my stuff and meet you guys here.” June left the room.
Max and Tom were used to living out of a seabag or a suitcase and being able to bug out at the drop of a mortar round, so with little effort they prepped their weapons, ammo, comms, clothing, and other gear. Half an hour later, June rolled her luggage into Max and Tom’s room. The three of them were ready to go.
Bane arrived with a Hawaiian heavyweight. “This is Samson, an NCIS buddy of mine,” Bane said. “He’s a former Marine and a force to be reckoned with. Tom, he’ll take you to the safe house.”
Samson’s facial expression was neutral and he moved like he was in a hurry. “Howzit?”
Tom shook Samson’s hand. “Great.”
Max and June each gave a short wave.
“Ready to roll, Tom?” Samson asked.
“Always.”
Samson helped Tom carry his bags, and they departed.
23
New guys are strange when you’re a stranger, Tom thought. He had two concerns about his new NCIS teammates: Will they get me killed? Or will I get them killed? The latter was his greatest concern. All shooters are not created equal.
As Samson drove, he spent most of fifteen minutes talking on his phone with his wife about recently having to work a lot more overtime. In contrast, Tom spent most of the time looking out for a possible ambush. Samson pulled in to the parking lot of a hotel facing Waikiki Beach and parked. Then he escorted Tom to the seventh floor. They walked past several doors in the hall before Samson stopped at one and knocked on it. The light in the peephole became dark before the door opened.
A white guy with a pistol on his hip answered the door and introduced himself with a broad smile and a friendly handshake. “I’m Peter.”
“Tom.”
Tom and Samson stepped inside, and Peter locked the door behind them. Two more guys with pistols in hip holsters cleaned up dirty dishes and utensils from the kitchen table. They’d likely eaten a late lunch, early dinner, or large snack. The black agent had a forehead as thick as a brick. “That’s David,” Samson said before pointing to the Asian man, who fired a suspicious glance at Tom. “And that’s Quon.”
If their room had an ocean view, Tom couldn’t see it because the blinds were closed, probably as a precaution to keep outsiders from looking in.
“This is Admiral Pence,” Samson said, gesturing to the older gentleman in the room. “Sir, this is Tom.”
The admiral acknowledged Tom with a slight nod before he retreated with his laptop computer to another room within the suite.
After the table was cleared, Samson, Peter, David, and Quon sat and broke out a deck of cards. No one invited Tom to join them, but he sat in an empty chair at the table anyway.
Samson placed his ante, some pennies, on the center of the table for a game of poker and shuffled the cards.
Tom fished out pennies from his wallet before stacking them on the table.
Peter placed his ante. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out two rolls of pennies, and tossed them to Tom. “You can pay me back later.”
“Thanks.” Rather than wait until later, Tom checked his wallet again, took out a dollar bill, and paid him back.
Peter smiled.
Quon eyed Tom suspiciously again. Then he put down his money.
Samson dealt the cards.
Tom surveyed his hand—a whole lot of nothing.
After the first round of bets, Samson looked at Tom and asked, “Why are you here?”
Tom raised Quon’s bet. “I thought Bane told you. He asked me to help out.”
Beneath his brick forehead, David’s eyes shifted from his cards to Tom. “Why’d Bane ask you?”
Tom leaned back defensively. “He just said to help you guys.”
“Are you saying we don’t know how to do our job? Or are you here to spy on us?” Samson asked.
“I’m just doing what I was asked to do,” Tom said.
Peter folded. “Samson, he’s just doing what he was asked.”
Samson ignored Peter’s comment and gave Tom the stink eye. “He’s at the adults’ table. Let him speak for himself. Why’d Bane ask you to help us?”
Tom raised the pot again. “Because five guys are better than four?”
David added
more pennies to the pot, too.
“I don’t understand,” Samson said. “Maybe we’re just a bunch of island monkeys and we’re not as talented as you. Why’d Bane send you? Because we need a zookeeper?”
They all stared at Tom.
Tom pressed back against his chair. Getting into an argument with a pistol-packing posse didn’t seem like a good idea. “I’m just doing what he asked,” he repeated matter-of-factly. “Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know, is there a problem?” Samson said. “I don’t know why the hell he asked you. If there’s no reason for you to be here, cut the bullshit and get the hell out.”
Tom figured either this guy had a serious attitude problem, or he was just toying with him. Tom favored the latter. He laughed. “You guys are messing with me.”
Samson laughed, too.
The others joined in the laughter, and the tension leaked out of the room.
“I had you going for a moment,” Samson said. “Didn’t I?”
Tom and the others laughed more.
“Just wanted to yank your chain a little,” Samson said. “If Bane asked you to be here, he must’ve had a good reason.”
Peter messed with his cell phone. “Damn phone,” the agent complained.
Peter’s complaint seemed ironic. He carried a phone in his pocket that sent messages through space, and he couldn’t give it a second or two?
There was a kicking sound under the table, and David said, “She’s got you whipped.”
“Are you jealous?” Peter asked and toyed with the phone again. Now it seemed to be working for him.
David shook his head.
Quon was about to put more money in the pot when he stopped and stared at Tom. “You’re cheating.”
“What?” Tom asked.
Quon threw down his cards. “You cheated. You looked at my cards, you damn cheat.”
“Relax,” Samson said. “He didn’t look at your cards.”
“He did. He’s a damn cheat,” Quon said.
Tom tried to reason with him. “There’s no way I could see your hand from here. Chill.”
“I saw what you did.”
“Good, then you know I didn’t cheat,” Tom said. “Let’s continue the game before someone gets hurt.”
“Who decided you could be a part of this detail, anyway?” Quon asked.
“Just calm down,” Samson said, “and let’s finish this hand.”
“I’m not playing with this haole cheat,” Quon said.
They’d been so busy arguing that Tom hadn’t heard the room’s phone ring. Peter left the table and answered it. After hanging up, he said, “That was Jack calling from the lobby. He’s on his way up.”
“Who’s Jack?” Tom asked.
“Our supervisor,” Samson answered. He turned to Peter and asked, “What does he want?”
“Didn’t say,” Peter said. “Probably wants to chew our asses for something.”
“All right, let’s put away the cards,” Samson said. “So we don’t give him any excuses to give us trouble.”
They put away their cards and pennies. The agents seemed more worried about their supervisor than assassins, but Tom didn’t care about supervisors. As long as the door stayed locked, it provided them some protection, but when the door opened, their safety would be compromised, even if for only a moment. While the agents cleaned up like housemaids, Tom drew his highly customized Colt .45 pistol and held it discreetly down at his side. He stepped away from the table. Then he swiftly opened the admiral’s door without knocking. This would be his first time pissing off a flag officer, but he didn’t worry about the admiral busting him in rank—Tom wasn’t in the military anymore. This was just temporary contract work to help Dad.
Tom entered the admiral’s room. “Sir.”
The admiral’s upper body jerked away from his desktop, and his eyes met Tom’s.
“Did they tell you what to do if we’re under attack?” Tom asked.
The admiral hesitated as if shifting gears from the work on his laptop to Tom’s quiz. “Go in the bathroom and hide in the—I mean, lock the door and then lay down in the spa.”
“Good,” Tom said.
“Are we under attack?” the admiral asked.
“Our hotel door is about to be unlocked, and NCIS supervisor Jack is supposed to come in, but I don’t know Jack or who might try to come through with him.”
“So we could be in danger,” the admiral said.
“If you hear a gunshot, you know what to do, sir. Don’t wait for someone to tell you.”
The admiral opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Colt .45 pistol.
Tom smiled, pleased that the admiral was prepared to defend himself and doubly pleased at the admiral’s choice of pistols. He left the room and closed his door behind him but kept his pistol down at his side. He took a step, but stopped within arm’s reach of the admiral’s door.
A knock came at the front door to the suite.
Peter drew his pistol and held it down to his side as he neared the door. Wisely, he stood beside the door, presenting his narrow profile rather than a full frontal target as he leaned over and peeked through the peephole.
Shots could come flying into the safe house at any moment, and adrenaline dumped into Tom’s system like jet fuel. If things get hairy, I can duck into the admiral’s room and use the wall for partial concealment. If the threat became more serious, he could drop low, and the furniture in the common room might provide some protection against flying bullets.
After checking the peephole, Peter said, “It’s Jack.”
The easiness in the agent’s voice gave Tom some relief.
Peter opened the door, but in contrast to his smooth demeanor, the other agents appeared agitated. Something is wrong.
Samson had a clearer view of what was outside the door than Tom did from his angle, and he drew his pistol, but Peter blasted him in the chest. Through the closed bedroom door, Tom heard the admiral retreat to the bathroom.
Peter continued to blast at Samson, who returned fire. Tom aimed at Peter and squeezed the trigger. Before Tom’s bullet could hit, a man armed with a sound-suppressed pistol entered and took Tom’s bullet, but the shot only slowed the attacker half a step—as if he were wearing a bullet-resistant vest underneath his shirt.
Tom backed into the admiral’s room and used the wall for partial cover. A bullet passed through the wall next to him and cracked the sliding glass door leading to the lanai in the admiral’s room. He took an extra moment to aim at the man’s head and squeezed. He hacked him down like a tree, and the enemy hit the floor with a jarring thud. When his face hit the floor, his head bounced. Tom shifted to acquire a new target but was distracted when the fallen enemy pushed up with both hands. It wasn’t clear if the movement was some automatic reflex, or if the dude was back in the fight. Then the dude collapsed.
David and Quon joined Samson in busting caps at the white traitor, but with agents and enemies wearing bullet-resistant vests, only head shots counted. Both Peter and Samson fell.
Three more enemy assaulters blazed into the room with Chinese QCW-05 suppressed submachine guns. They swiftly passed over their two fallen comrades and continued to light up the common area. The first of the enemy assaulters was a handsome man wearing a sea-green aloha shirt and khaki slacks, and he looked more like a GQ model than a shooter. Tom aimed for a head shot but GQ’s head moved out of the way, and he missed. An upper body shot would be easier, but Tom figured his rounds wouldn’t penetrate body armor. Even so, he popped GQ in the vest hoping to slow him down. GQ barely missed a beat as he blasted controlled bursts of automatic submachine gun fire, shredding the wall next to Tom with what seemed like steel-core armor-piercing bullets. Tom dropped to a knee, using the positions of a love seat and coffee table in the common area to shield him, but GQ pressed closer, achieving an angle that allowed him to aim over the love seat and low table. Tom aimed for his head and squeezed, but missed.
David and Quon
succumbed to their wounds and collapsed.
GQ and his two comrades bore down on Tom. Their armor-piercing submachine gun rounds could pierce Tom’s bullet-resistant vest, and Tom wanted to kick himself in the ass for not bringing armor-piercing ammo. A salvo of steel shredded the love seat and low table, and even though Tom backed into the admiral’s room for additional cover, the bullets kept coming as if the wall didn’t exist, spraying debris all over Tom and the room. He desperately hugged the floor for survival, wishing he could dig a damn hole and hide under a rock. It was nearly game over, and he knew he needed a Hail Mary, so he grasped a flashbang off his belt. He pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, and tossed the stun grenade into the common area.
Bang! If he didn’t strike now, he was finished. And so was the admiral. He hopped to his feet, but his ears rang so intensely that his equilibrium was off, and he staggered and clipped the door frame with his shoulder as he rushed into the common area. GQ’s hand was charred, blood oozed out of his missing fingertips, and crimson covered his green aloha shirt. He’d probably caught the stun grenade in an attempt to throw it back. Although the flashbang contained no shrapnel, it still packed a punch. The 180 decibels and eight million candela would momentarily make GQ deaf and blind. Tom aimed for the middle of his forehead, but his shot struck above the left eye. Tom was still off balance, and his head ached, but GQ’s headache was terminal.
Tom knew time wasn’t on his side. He transitioned to the next enemy, who was also dazed by the stun grenade. Tom aligned the man’s head with his pistol sights and drilled a hole through his face. The enemy went sideways as if trying to avoid the shot, but his feet didn’t go with him and he crashed into the carpet. The third assaulter, who was the last enemy standing, sprayed his weapon on full auto. His shots climbed high and wide of Tom. It sounded like puffs of air, but these puffs were deadly. Tom lined up his sights and fired. Pop. The shooter fell sideways.
The door to the outside had swung shut. Tom dashed to it and made sure it was locked to slow down any more bad guys who might want to take a shot at the admiral. Tom checked the NCIS agents for vital signs, but they were all dead. He picked up the NCIS traitor’s phone and logged into Young’s website so he could hack the phone and analyze the contents to see who he was texting immediately prior to the attack.
Autumn Assassins: [#3] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 16