The End

by James Patterson

  “Screw the mission.”

  She says, “You know what these paramilitaries do to female prisoners. Even dying ones. Especially dying ones who are American. Not happening.”

  “But…”

  Her free hand grabs mine.

  “Finish the damn op.”

  “I just can’t leave you here, damn it.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Boss…I won’t be alone…you know it. Pretty soon I’ll be hooking up with the rest of Wallaby Strike, and we’ll be watching to make sure you don’t screw up.”

  Words fail me. All I can do is look at her calm face, her bloody fingers, and the blood on the snow.

  Dark snow.

  She says, “You know I didn’t betray this op.”

  “Never thought you did.”

  “Maybe you didn’t say it aloud, but I know how your mind works. Me having a Serb background…nope, didn’t happen. But…”

  My NVGs seem to be fogging up, because my sight isn’t as sharp. “We sure got screwed over, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  Another squeeze of the hand, not as strong as before. “You get this op done, okay? And I mean goddamn complete. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And…Owen?”

  A shock to the system indeed, for we made a pledge some time ago never to use first names on duty, or drop any other clues about what we’ve been up to, violating about a half dozen regulations along the way.

  “This…is my last op…too…” Her hand slips away from my hand. “You get to that lake…think of me, will you?”

  I kiss her cold, dry lips.

  “Always, Emily. Always.”

  “Go…get it done…now.”

  I reach gloved fingers under my NVGs, wipe my eyes, gather up my gear, and limp away as fast as I can.

  Chapter 19

  Back up to the top of the slope again. I temporarily place my Emily in a box and add her to the crowded shelf back there in my mind. All I’m focused on now is what’s in front of me, and I’m not liking it.

  This was an op designed for five.

  Now it’s only me.

  And I’m bleeding, aching, and white-hot with fury.

  No longer cold. No longer wet. No longer tired.

  The NVGs come back up. Nothing much has changed, except the three gunmen by the large warehouse have been reduced to two.

  Goodie.

  The lights are still on, and dawn is less than a half hour away.

  No time to think, mourn, or plan.

  Time to act.

  I start down the slope, heading to the target…no, my target.

  It’s slow going, because I’m concerned that somewhere over there might be guards hidden away with binoculars and their own night vision gear. I’m on my belly, moving through slush and ice, using boulders and fallen tree trunks as cover. The closer I get to the house, the more focused I get. I can smell cigarette smoke wafting over from the compound, and the conversation of the guards—even though I can’t understand their language—is so loud that it seems to be coming from right next to me.

  I move, and move, and move again.

  A roar of engines as a convoy—two Mercedes-Benz trucks, a command car, and three BOV M-86 armored personnel carriers—race by the compound, and I use this opportunity to cover more distance, and then I flop down.

  Close.

  But now what?

  I peer around and smell diesel mixed with the cigarette smoke.

  That impertinent busy little voice inside my head says, all right, buddy, what next? Stroll across the road and ask the guards if I can share a quick takeout breakfast with Darko Latos, saying takeout is two 9mm rounds to his forehead?

  Doubtful, but at least it’s a plan.

  Right now I don’t have another one.

  I move closer, going past one more snow-covered boulder, and I scan the raised roadway, left to right, and—

  Hold on.

  Something oval is off to the right. I squirm closer.

  A culvert, by God, going underneath the road, and looking like it ends up on the other side of the compound.

  Nothing that had been noted in the overhead surveillance and ground intelligence reports in prep for this op, but I sure as hell ain’t complaining.

  I move closer.

  A trickling stream runs out of the culvert.

  Closer still.

  Well, shit.

  There’s a metal grille covering the entire outlet, and twigs and brush and other debris cover about a third of the bottom, where the outgoing stream has clogged the grille.

  Another truck races by, the headlights flashing quickly.

  Light’s coming.

  Dawn.

  Maybe Darko is not an early riser, but I’m going to lose all cover and concealment if I don’t haul my aching ass.

  I eyeball the width of the culvert and make a command decision, leaving my HK416 behind, because there’s a good chance it will snag on the way through the culvert.

  If I get through, of course.

  I slither through the stream and the mud, get up to the metal grille.

  Just for the hell of it, I give it a tug.

  No joy.

  All right, worth the five seconds wasted.

  From a near side pocket of my assault pack, I take out a customized roll of detonation cord—also known as detcord—and wrap small lengths around the bottom and top of the grille. I snap off the end, attach a pull-fuse, and give it a tug and turn around.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump.

  Usually detcords make loud noises and give off bright flashes of light.

  But this isn’t the usual detcord.

  I slowly slosh back, tug at one side of the grille.

  And it makes an ungodly loud squeak, like the Gates of Heaven suddenly needed a good dose of WD-40 lubricant.

  I freeze.

  And much worse, a voice from overhead.

  Šta je ovo?

  I don’t know Serbian, but I know the questioning tone. Somebody up there wants to know what’s going on. Maybe that squealing noise carried across to the other side of the road.

  I wait, knife now in hand. I’ve come too close to start firing left and right with my SIG Sauer 9mm pistol.

  Wait.

  Something starts trickling from up on the roadway, raining down in a narrow stream to where I’m located, a strong ammonia smell, the liquid nearly splashing me.

  Another voice pipes up.

  Ah, ništa.

  Again, I don’t recognize the words, but I recognize the dismissive tone.

  No more voices.

  I wait.

  Another vehicle seems to be approaching, and with the roar of the engine overhead, I tug open the grate and crawl into the culvert.

  I’m in.

  Chapter 20

  A random bit of luck comes my way. There’s no grate on the other end, just a collection of rocks and weeds. I slowly make my way out of the mud and cold and take in the scenery. I’m on the other side of the warehouse and the mansion, and the dark woods are about a hundred meters behind me. There’s a high chain-link fence with razor wire curled around the top, with spotlights set every ten meters.

  I’m covered with mud and twigs and other crap, which is fine. And the cold water of the stream has helped dull the pain in my legs.

  My 9mm is in my right hand. I take in the surroundings. The warehouse is still dimly lit and I don’t like what I see over at Darko’s house. There are more lights on than when I began crawling into the culvert. Off to the west there’s more gunfire, more rumbling of artillery.

  Almost there, but I take a moment.

  Take a moment.

  Too many ops have crumbled at the very end because there was a get-it-done rush, overlooking last-minute changes, last-minute developments.

  Not this early morning.

  A light comes on over at the mansion.

  Okay, then.

  I recall all the planning, replanning, and training that went i
nto this op.

  All tossed out the window.

  Just me and…well, just me.

  No coordinated assault, no elimination of the lighting, no diversionary attack on the warehouse, no three-person hard assault through the house.

  Just me.

  There’s the side entrance to the kitchen. That was the basis of the assault, go right through, up the stairs, and into Darko’s bedroom.

  Well, why not?

  I move slowly through the slush and the grass. A Toyota pickup truck drives by on the road. It’s not speeding, and the armed men clustered in the rear break out singing, like they’re paying tribute to their warlord.

  The two guards at the front of the warehouse wander out, wave and shout greetings at the Toyota. The driver honks the horn and then drives away.

  Another light comes on at the house.

  It’s the kitchen.

  Damn it all to hell.

  There are two or three guys in there, in camo gear, and it looks like they’re…

  Making breakfast.

  How damn domestic.

  They’re laughing, too, bustling around in the large kitchen.

  I retreat some.

  Check my watch.

  Dawn and the rising sun ain’t gonna wait for me.

  You get this op done, comes a challenging voice in my memory. You get this op done.

  The two guards who had been in front of the warehouse and waved at the pickup truck are now coming my way, chatting with each other, both smoking a cigarette.

  I freeze.

  Anything that moves within eyesight of these two guards could be enough to set them off, and then I’d die in the mud and slush here, the history of Operation Wallaby never being reported or known, except in a highly classified memo slipped into a burn bag somewhere, never to be seen again.

  The two guards saunter over to the kitchen door. One yells out, and then the door opens, spilling light out onto the yard. For all I know he’s placing a breakfast order.

  The light from the door misses me by a meter or so.

  Jesus Christ.

  Someone in the kitchen yells down to the guard, and someone else calls out, “Hej, umukni, hoćeš da se probudiš Darko?”

  Again, I don’t know the words, but I get the intent. Don’t wake up the boss, idiot.

  Some low laughs.

  The two guards outside walk away from the kitchen, the door closes, and the men are coming right at me.

  You get this op done, says the whisper.

  Which is what I do.

  Chapter 21

  During the final task, I’m amazed at how quickly and efficiently I dispatch two perimeter guards, who were probably bored and tired after a long night of work. I can tell that they aren’t used to working together as a team, because when I take the first one down, the second one seems surprised and doesn’t react instantly by coming to his partner’s aid.

  No matter.

  In less than a minute, they’re on their sides, duct tape across their mouths, wrists and ankles zip-tied, weapons stripped away and tossed into the darkness. I waste a few seconds to make sure both are alive and breathing, and with 9mm in hand, I move to the house.

  And don’t go through the kitchen entrance.

  I have another plan, one made on the run, which is sometimes the best kind.

  The foundation of this huge home has windows set in the granite. I carefully examine one at the rear, looking for an alarm system, and find one that’s pretty simple. It sounds off only when an open window breaks the circuit.

  I bypass the circuit, work in a shim, and slide the window open. I slip inside to the cellar, wincing at the pain in my legs.

  The cellar is dark and well organized. I find the stairs, move slowly but efficiently up to the first floor, open the door.

  No squeaking. No noise. Nothing.

  On the first floor, keeping to the walls, my NVGs lighting the way, I pass through a large and comfortable living room. Bookshelves with leather-bound volumes. Big couches. Comfortable heavy chairs. The room is about the size of my own quarters.

  There.

  Wide stairs ahead of me, with a banister.

  I avoid the banister and the center of the stairs.

  Too much of a chance of an errant creak to wake up the man slumbering up on the second floor, so I keep to the wall.

  Second floor now.

  Keep the focus.

  I know the upstairs layout of this place, so nothing surprises me as I advance to the large bedroom. A quick check of my watch. I still have enough time, though barely.

  I’m at the bedroom door.

  It’s closed.

  I take out a small container of lubricant, spray the three hinges. No noises allowed, thank you very much.

  I put the lubricant away. I’m still cold and damp and hurting.

  I turn the doorknob, open the door.

  The room comes into view.

  Large four-poster bed in the center. Two big windows overlooking the equally large rear yard.

  I move forward, across the carpeted floor.

  A man is sleeping in the bed.

  Alone.

  He’s curled up on the left side of the bed and I slide around and move forward. Now I can hear his regular breathing. Deep in sleep, probably having happy dreams, sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

  Or the innocence of the sociopath, whose only motive is to do what he wants, with no doubt or recriminations.

  I’m so close I can smell his cologne. His face is exactly what I was expecting, after seeing photo after photo after photo.

  I bring my SIG Sauer closer to him.

  You get this op done. The whole thing.

  Two quick squeezes of the trigger, two rounds into that peaceful forehead, and then I’m done.

  I tighten my finger.

  So very, very close.

  I let my finger loose.

  Not yet.

  I move the pistol down, right to his lips, and push the muzzle in.

  He instantly wakes up, eyes wide, hands reaching up, and I push the muzzle in deeper so he chokes and coughs.

  I speak to him. “Hello, Henry Hunley, Deputy Director for Directorate Operations, Central Intelligence Agency. So nice to finally meet you.”

  Chapter 22

  I give him props—he doesn’t raise a fuss, doesn’t yell, doesn’t protest his innocence. He’s wearing a light-blue pajama top and his gray hair is still in good shape. I pull the gun out a few inches, but keep it trained on his face. Then with my left hand, I lift up my NVGs and turn on a lampside light. Books and folders are piled high on the nightstand next to the lamp.

  He blinks, rubs his eyes.

  “My security force?”

  “Taking a break.”

  He looks around, blinks again. I say, “Hands right there.”

  “All right. Can I have my glasses?”

  I pick them up from the nightstand, pass them over. He slips them on and with awe in his voice, he says, “You…you’re Taylor.”

  “Good recall.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I say, “You know the phrase ‘tying up loose ends’? Let’s just say one way or another, I’m tying you up very tight tonight.”

  “But…why?”

  “What? You think I was through with the op once Darko got smoked? Nope. That was just Phase One. This is Phase Two. And I came up with it all by myself.”

  “You…” he stalls, then repeats himself. “But why are you here?”

  I’m not impressed.

  There’s a chair over to the side, up against a vanity. His wife and young boys are out in Oregon, visiting relatives. We have the place to ourselves. I back up, grab the chair, and drag it over to the bed. I sit down, shrug off my assault pack.

  “You’re not playing nice,” I say. “Obviously you don’t keep up with popular culture. I’m the one with the firearm. I’m the one that asks the questions.”

  “You…you were supposed to quie
tly take out Darko Latos,” he manages to stammer out. “Quietly!”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Dead? Yeah, he’s dead, along with a half dozen of his men, plus the top part of his mansion. It goddamn made CNN worldwide. What the hell did you use? An anti-tank weapon?”

  “Close,” I say. “I used a Russian-made RPG-7 with a TBG-7V thermobaric warhead. Used for urban warfare. You should have been there. It was as impressive as all get-out.”

  “Why the hell did you use that?”

  “It was handy.”

  “It was supposed to be quiet!” Hunley repeats himself again. Makes me wonder how he made it so high up in government. “What you did…it was like using a cannon to ring a doorbell!”

  “Still got the door open, didn’t it,” I deadpan.

  “The job was done. You…you shouldn’t be here. Why?”

  “To wrap up my op, to conclude Operation Wallaby,” I say. “No op ends out in the field. It ends some safe distance away, when there’s a debrief, a review, a list of lessons learned, mistakes made.”

  Hunley wipes at his eyes again. I say, “Dunton at Aviano said he was working for you. True?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he was the conduit for the planning, the operational orders, all that information.”

  “That was his job.”

  “He was pretty thorough,” I say. “Right up to making sure we were betrayed from the very beginning.”

  Hunley slowly blinks.

  Doesn’t say a word.

  I go on. “Fascinating op on your end, Deputy Director,” I say. “Betraying my four teammates and me, and for what? Dunton wasn’t sure, but I would guess that it was a larger geopolitical issue. One of our Stealth helicopters was sabotaged, Clayton’s parachute was disabled, paramilitary forces on the ground in that district knew we were coming. Why?”

  “Way above your pay grade,” he says with confidence.

  “No doubt,” I say. “But I still want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “To settle up accounts, to make things right.”

  He makes a point of yawning. “Well, that’s fascinating…I tell you what, let’s talk about it some, okay? I’ll even overlook the fact that you broke into my house and did…something to my perimeter security. I’ll make us some coffee.”