I’m about to reply just as Mia makes her entry, standing there with her arms crossed, lips twisted into a frown, and a finish-this-hugging-fest-so-we-can-talk look in her eyes.
“I’m here now, Franky,” I tell her, kissing the top of her head. “Okay?”
She raises her very blue and very wet stare, and all I can think of is that damn robe parting as I carried her to my forward berth.
I know.
Sick.
But this woman makes me feel like no one else, and the craziest thing is that we’ve never even gone beyond that one kiss.
“You two need to get a damn room,” Mia finally says when looks alone fail to do the job.
We actually really, really do.
“And you need to mind your own damn business,” Franky retorts before glaring at me with a pay-no-mind-to-her look.
Murph steps in the room behind Mia and clears his throat loudly. He’s holding a set of NWUs and a pair of boots, which he tosses on the bed.
“Murph? What the hell are you doing here, man? You need to be with Adanna.”
“Her mom’s with her now,” he says. “Besides, she told me—” and he proceeds to throw air quotes, “—that I wasn’t going to catch the motherfuckers behind this by sitting on my ass in her hospital room. So…”
“Definitely a keeper,” I say, before looking at Franky again, and again, losing myself in those damn blue eyes.
Mia is spot on. We do need to get a room.
Slowly, Franky presses a palm against my chest and gives my gown a wide-eyed inspection. “I think you’d better put these on, Marine.” Then she sits on the side of the bed next to me and places my clothes and boots on her lap and proceeds to hand me the pants.
As I go to take them, Franky reaches for one of my wrists and runs a finger over the purple marks. “What did those bastards do to you?”
“That can wait,” Mia says before I can reply, and just as Roy Ledet steps in the room. He’s got his phone pressed against his right ear and has this constipated look as he mumbles, “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Yes, sir, I’m on top of—”
He frowns and stares at the screen, then at me, before putting the phone away and mumbling, “Fucking Quantico.”
“Law,” Mia presses. “You need to tell us what the hell’s going on. We’re at a complete loss here.”
“Where are Cope and my uncle?”
“Who?” Ledet asks, stepping up to me alongside Mia and Murph.
“The…” I stop, realizing that I’m under presidential orders. Cope and Uncle D. probably took Tupolev straight to some interrogation cell while alerting Granite to figure out how to contain this. And that means that I also need to do my part to hold the fort until the Highest Law cavalry gets here.
“Law,” Mia repeats, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “What were you doing two blocks from where we found what was left of Jonesy, Kessler, and eight other bodies? The place looks like a damn warzone. And what’s with the shot-up black truck where we found you, plus all that blood? Whose is it? And according to the MCRT update I just got, most were killed by either fifty-cal rounds or 5.56 NATOs while you were armed with an MP7. And the explosion on the back porch has traces of Semtex. Plus, you ought to see the interior of the place. There’s enough weaponry in there to start a revolution.”
For a moment, I feel just like Dix and Cope did, finally understanding why my SEAL brothers reacted the way they had from that first day outside Compound 35. After all, we’re talking here about violating a Presidential Directive, which trumps NCIS, local law enforcement, and the entire U.S. military for that matter.
“I’m not allowed to talk about it,” I finally say, instantly hating saying it because I know exactly how I sound.
“What does that mean, Commander?” Ledet asks.
“It means precisely what it means,” Franky decides to intercede on my behalf, still holding my pants in her hands, which for some reason my strung-out mind finds amusing.
I do a double take on her, then say, “Sir. I’m not allowed to discuss what happened.”
“Alright,” Ledet says. “Everyone out. Now.”
“But, sir,” Mia says. “We need to—”
“Now. All of you. I need a word in private with Commander Pacheco.”
“Dammit,” Mia protests. “This is my damn investigation and—”
“OUT!”
She drops her arms to her sides and lets her palms noisily slap her thighs. But, reluctantly, she still retreats. Murph also follows along, though not without signaling me that he’ll be right outside—in case I didn’t know that. But Franky, to my surprise and continued amusement, just grabs my hand and remains glued to my side, holding on to my clothes with her other hand.
“You too, Ma’am,” Ledet says.
“Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Ledet forces a politician’s smile, then says, “Please, Ma’am. Trust me. It’ll only be a minute and—”
“Last time I trusted your kind, my husband lost both legs, an arm, and, for all practical purposes, also his balls.”
The outburst makes Ledet blink. But I can tell that the feisty bartender is just getting warmed up.
“Then, you failed to protect him while some low-life Russian bastard forced him to kill himself. Then, Law and I almost got run over outside my house by the same assholes who tried to kill us at the marina. Then, someone tried to kill Law outside the ME building. And then, you people found him all bruised up after taking three rounds to his body armor. So, forgive me if I have a difficult time trusting you.”
“Look—”
“No, you look,” she interrupts him while standing and stretching an index finger at him. “You mother—”
“Franky,” I say, running a hand around her little waist and tugging her gently toward me. “I appreciate this. Really. But it’ll only take a minute, okay. And I can’t really go anywhere. I mean, look at me. Okay?”
Breathing deeply, she sizes up Ledet, then turns to me with fire in her eyes and says, “Fine. But only because you won’t get far.” And she grabs my clothes and storms out of the room.
Ledet looks over his shoulder, then back at me. “Jesus. What a pistol.”
“You have no idea, sir.”
“A lot of energy packed in that little body.”
I just nod.
“I thought she was with Dix.”
“She is—was. It’s, ah, shit… complicated.”
“No shit. The little woman went postal when she heard you were hurt. Then she tore Mia and me new assholes when we told her to wait at the Norfolk office while we came to check in on you.”
I shake my head, then say, “Look, sir, it doesn’t matter if people are in this room or not, I still can’t talk about—”
“Commander, stop. I may look like a suit to you, but I didn’t get to where I am by being naive. I know you must have been plugged into something above my paygrade. What I need is a way to contact anyone at that higher level that could help me sort out this mess. I just delivered Harry too many damn bodies, including Jonesy and Kessler, who we both know are CIA. Plus, there’s also the other dead outside the Calypso bar. MCRT is combing through the house now, and I get the feeling that what they’re going to find, as well as what Harry will discover, will only lead to more questions—questions that I lack answers to. And on top of that, the Norfolk Chief of Police is breathing down my neck as well as the deputy director up in Quantico who just hung up on me. And,” he says, waving his phone, “I just got a text that the damn governor of Virginia wants to have a word with me. So, you get my dilemma? You feel me?”
“I do, sir.”
“So, am I correct to assume that you are now part of something above my clearance and paygrade?”
I inhale deeply while trying to figure out how far I can go before crossing the line in t
he sand that Colonel Granite so clearly drew for me the moment I signed on the dotted line. Finally, I risk a slow nod.
“Thought so,” he says, thrusting his hands inside his pockets while pouting and staring at his polished black shoes, apparently considering how to proceed. Then he raises his gaze and asks, “Is there a name you can give me? I’m trying to take this burden off of your shoulders, Commander, but you need to help me do that.”
Another deep breath as I chew on that. But mercifully, and perfectly on cue, Colonel Granite storms into the room followed by Cope.
Chapter 31
“You’ve given more than your fair share to these assholes, Law,” Franky protests while Granite briefs Ledet, Mia, and Murph in the conference room down the short hallway.
We’re back at the Norfolk Field Office, where apparently, it was decided that they would have to be signed in to Highest Law since they’ve seen more than they should have.
We just got word from Uncle D. that after two hours cuddling with Tupolev—and that’s the word my beloved uncle actually used, cuddling—we have a lead on Sokolov, but we need to act fast. Granite already made arrangements for a pair of SUVs to take us to the airfield, where a transport jet is being fueled.
“Do you think they’ll take care of you any better than they did Dix if you get all shot up?”
“Look, Franky, I—”
“We could barely make ends meet, Law! That’s how much those assholes cared about us after pinning those goddamned medals on him! Do you have any idea how hard I had to fight at that VA hospital to get his treatments approved? It was like pulling teeth with those useless bureaucrats!”
“Sorry.”
“Dammit! I don’t want a fucking apology!” she shouts, planting her face just beneath mine, staring up at me. “I want an answer! You got damn lucky that those bullets hit your plates and not your balls and—”
“I really have to do this.”
“Have to or want to?” she counters, her blue lasers boring holes in my face.
At my silence, Franky slaps me across the face and shouts, “Wake the fuck up, Law! These people don’t give a shit about you!”
I stand there, shocked, my right cheek burning.
“Tell me, Law, how exactly are you going to make good on the promise you made to Dix two nights ago if you lose your legs and your balls?”
“You… heard that?”
She just glares at me, tears in her eyes, while I remain standing there, now double shocked.
“Is this how you plan to,” she makes quotes with her little fingers, “be there for me?”
She definitely got me there.
“Well, don’t expect me to be here if you ever manage to make it back!” she barks, before running off.
As I watch her disappear through the lobby, I feel eyes on me. I turn around and find Granite and Ledet standing in the doorway to the conference room staring my way.
“Lawson? What the hell was that?” the colonel asks.
I’m about to reply, but Ledet beats me to it. “It’s complicated, Colonel,” he says. “Then again, everything about that man seems… very complicated.”
PART FOUR
DOWN SOUTH
Chapter 32
Granite’s jaws are throbbing, signaling his altered state of mind, which is equally matched by his armor-piercing stare.
The colonel occupies the head of the conference table at the front of a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III flying at 40,000 feet over the Gulf of Mexico, 120 miles off the coast of Merida.
The military transport aircraft was developed to carry troops and cargo throughout the world. But the set-up at the front of this particular bird has been optimized as a VIP transport with this working table as well as two rows of club-style seats, and even a couple of sofas—all secured to the floor.
Ledet, Mia, and I sit to Granite’s right, opposite Cope and Murph. But the colonel has his attention focused on the flat screen television bolted to the wall at the opposite end of the table. Uncle D. stares back at us from outside a holding cell three levels below ground at Oceana.
He’s wearing the same jeans and T-shirt I saw him in almost eight hours ago, shortly after I took a bullet for him. The T-shirt is smeared in blood, which is also splattered across his right cheek, and he seems distracted, signaling something to somebody off camera. A moment later we see someone’s hand holding a towel, which Uncle D. takes.
“You okay there, Danny Boy?” Granite asks.
Uncle D. stretches a thumb over his right shoulder to point at the room behind him. “Dirty business. Just finishing up,” he says, before he proceeds to wipe the blood off his face.
“And?”
“Productive,” he says. “He yielded.”
Granite considers that for a moment. “How do you know he isn’t gaming us?”
Uncle D.’s face tightens at the question, before he leans into the camera, reminding me of actor Anthony Hopkins in the movie Silence of the Lambs, his face taking up the entire screen. His eyes are dark, a reflection of his soul, the result of a lifetime of the worst form of violence. But it’s his words that grip me.
“There’s a level of pain,” he starts, “after which a man sticking to his story means he’s telling the truth.”
He calmly rubs the towel against his neck before inspecting the red stain on the cloth. Gazing back at the camera with those crazy eyes, he adds, “We reached that point five minutes ago.”
He finishes wiping his face and tosses the towel aside.
“So, it is confirmed,” Granite says.
He nods. “Sokolov’s onboard, confirmed. Not sure about the prototypes, but Tupolev claims the man never lets them out of his sight.”
“So, we’ll need eyes on the ground.”
“Yes, sir. But I have confirmed that the deployment medium are steel canisters, smaller than the ones used for SCUBA diving, about a foot tall each. Four of them. Also, confirmed that the buyer is Mario Espinoza, head of the Sinaloa Cartel. And you already have the coordinates.”
“Alright, Danny. We’ll take it from here.”
Uncle D. nods again, then looks at me for a moment, his gaze and face softening. “Kid. Thanks.” And the screen goes blank.
Granite turns to me. “What was that about?”
“Took a bullet for the man.”
He nods, then, “Are you ready to do it again? The way it looks, just blowing the bastard off the map won’t work. We need visual confirmation, and we may only get one chance.”
And that’s the question that has bothered me since signing up for this emergency mission in the wake of Uncle D. catching Tupolev and forcing him to yield the location of his superior in the Gulf of Mexico and now this latest bit of intel.
Fortunately, the region is plastered by aerial assets supporting America’s War on Drugs. One of them was a Northrop Grumman RQ-4 Global Hawk, a long range, high altitude Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or UAV, circling the region at 50,000 feet. Its infrared cameras picked up a mega yacht that at the time had been cruising some three hundred miles from Cancun, on the Yucatan Peninsula. The vessel is registered to Prince Mohammed al Markab, eighth in line for the throne of Saudi Arabia.
And this is where things get tricky. Prince al Markab is personal friends with several world leaders, including our very own president, the Russian president, the president of the People’s Republic of China, and the President of Mexico. On top of that, al Markab is also the chairman of OPEC, meaning he steers control of oil prices all over the world. And according to the CIA, the prince also has loose connections to al Qaeda. Officially, the prince is supposed to be aboard enjoying the warm waters of the gulf on his way to Cancun for a series of meetings with the Mexican president. In fact, the word is that the actual meetings will take place on the mega yacht, Blue Topaz, after it docks. But unofficially, we have eyes placing the good pri
nce at this very instant at a private casino table in Monaco, and he’s scheduled to fly out in one of his private jets to Cancun in a couple of hours to meet up with Blue Topaz. By then Sokolov and his bioweapons are supposed to be long gone from the scene, setting up shop somewhere in cartel country while the prince conducts his official business.
Yeah, the little prince is playing it both ways, allowing Sokolov to use the three-hundred-foot-long vessel to conduct this covert business with the Sinaloa Cartel, which is in cahoots with the Russian Mafia boss. And this was confirmed by the number of smaller yachts and speed boats that left the coast of Cancun an hour ago to meet up with Blue Topaz as it got within a hundred miles of the Mexican coast.
And all that means we simply can’t deploy a couple of Coast Guard cutters to intercept and board it. Doing so would prompt Sokolov to try to take his bioweapons and escape in one of the smaller vessels before those cutters could get anywhere near the mega yacht. And besides, those cutters would first have to get through at least the dozen yachts and speed boats now conveniently surrounding Blue Topaz as it heads straight into Cartel country. Plus, the mega yacht is far from being a sitting duck. According to the blueprints we obtained from its builder, the prestigious Blohm & Voss GmBH, it includes a series of military-level defenses like surface-to-air and surface-to-ship missiles.
So far, according to our high assets, no one has left Blue Topaz since we started tracking it some three hundred miles from Cancun, long before Espinoza deployed his escort flotilla to meet up with his partner in crime.
And we need to keep it that way.
So, it boils down to a mission requiring ghosts to drop on that vessel cruising toward Mexico’s territorial waters while surrounded by a number of support vessels, in the middle of the night, secure the bioweapons, take Sokolov—alive if possible, but dead is also okay—and exfil SEAL style.
And that’s where I come in.
Before that shrapnel sent me to Landstuhl, I was rated the best operator among all the teams for HALO jumps as well as for ops requiring helo exfils out of hot LZs—or in this case, hot mega yachts.
Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 31