There are perks to this lifestyle.
He was paid well, and his cover afforded him pretty much the best of everything when on the job, if that’s what it called for. More often than not he was in some shithole with a six inch fan to keep him cool where the term running water meant there was a boy who would fetch a bucket “real quick like”.
But when he was off duty?
The sky was the limit. He didn’t save for retirement; he didn’t expect to see it. He had no wife, no kids; his parents were well off so didn’t need his money, and he had no siblings. He had a small apartment back in Virginia, and a modest car, paid off. Ostentatiousness was frowned upon at the Agency. At least locally.
But out of country? Look out. Nothing but the finest for him. Whether that was the five star hotel he was in now, or the five star escorts. Or the fine bottle of imported Budweiser sitting in a bucket of melting ice.
God I need that beer!
When he began drinking, it usually was to drown out the memories of whatever mission he was just finished with. But a night like last night. That was something more. That was a bender worthy of yet another futile attempt to kill off the brain cells storing the memories that haunted him every moment of every day.
His chest tightened, and he decided the beer must be had. He gently extricated himself from the two ladies by lifting his arms straight over his head, then sitting up. Moans of protest greeted him, but they quickly waned as the ladies returned to sleep. He scooted to the end of the bed and dropped his feet on the floor, only to be greeted with something soft that yelped. He leaned over and looked.
Three?
Definitely worthy of remembrance.
He carefully planted his feet and stood, rounding the bed only to find a fourth girl curled up on a blanket, her pillow appearing to be his tuxedo jacket rolled into a ball.
What the hell happened last night?
He freed the beer from the chilled waters and ran the still dripping bottle over his forehead then the back of his neck. Twisting the cap off, he snapped it to the other side of the room and heard a cry of protest from the dark.
Five?
He looked down his naked form and at the little guy.
A little over ambitious, weren’t we?
He chugged the ice cold brew, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, the cool water dripping off the bottle and down his chin then chiseled chest, the water snaking its way down a set of abs any athlete would be proud to have. It was a body any man would take pride in, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he had any negative opinion of his physique, but to him it was a tool. A tool necessary for his work, and if he were to let himself “go”, he’d most likely die.
The spy business didn’t have portly operatives.
Not at least in his type of work. Yes, there were spies of all types. Men. Women. Twenty somethings and sixty somethings. Short, tall, fat, ridiculously skinny. Whatever the job called for, there were spies to fit the bill. But those were mostly for the undercover jobs where a portly gentleman assigned to an embassy was sent to a dinner party to eavesdrop. If he was caught he was deported, not tortured then held until a prisoner exchange could be organized.
But not Dylan Kane.
Kane was a Special Activities Division operator, part of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Special Operations Group. He was one of those sent in with little or no support to every hellhole the world had to offer to follow out orders given by suits in dark rooms whose code names were a lot cooler sounding than a letter chosen for a purpose sometimes forgotten years later. He had committed sabotage, assassinations, interrogations, covert influence missions—you name it, he had done it.
In other words he was trained in how to kill, and how to avoid being killed.
And one of the best ways to avoid being killed was being in shape.
His body was a tool.
Somebody came out of the bathroom.
“Good morning,” the man mumbled, then dropped into a chair and curled up.
God, I hope I didn’t sleep with everyone here.
The phone vibrated, again eliciting a sigh. He picked it up from the nightstand and looked at the call display.
Odd.
He answered.
“Kane.”
“Hi, Dylan, it’s me, Chris. Chris Leroux.”
He had known Leroux since high school. Kane had been a senior on the football team, and needed to keep his grades up to keep his privileged position. Which meant tutoring. And that had ended up being Leroux, a pimply faced grade ten genius, who had been able to get him through all of his courses, and had had the time and patience to actually have everything make sense.
And rather than just taking cash to do his assignments, Leroux had actually made Kane do the work.
And Kane had become the young geek’s protector, at least for that year. They had become very close, at least as close as a senior and sophomore could. Kane had finished high school with great grades, and went on to college, quickly losing touch with his high school friends, including Chris.
But after 9/11, he had quit college and joined the army, which he had excelled at, eventually joining the Delta Force. A two year stint and he’d been recruited into the CIA’s Special Operations Group.
Then the training really began.
Over the years he had lost track of Leroux, and it was during his orientation that he had bumped into him in a CIA cafeteria. They had immediately recognized each other, and renewed their friendship. He was still a geek, but had filled out far better than Kane had thought the poor kid would.
He just needed to tame that hair, clean up the wardrobe, and stick to a regular personal hygiene schedule. There was nothing Kane wanted more for the poor kid than to find a nice girl and settle down. He knew that’s what Leroux wanted, but he was his own worst enemy at times.
Kane looked at the bevy of near perfect specimens adorning the furniture of his five star suite, and felt a pang of guilt.
“What can I do for you, Chris?”
“Are you in the middle of something?”
Chailai rolled over, exposing her store-bought breasts and he felt a twinge.
“About to be.”
“Well, there’s something going on that I need your help with.”
Kane listened, his eyebrows climbing, his eyes widening, as he heard his friend lay out the background intel.
“So what do you think? Am I crazy?”
Kane shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. There’s definitely something going on, but why not just leave it to the FBI?”
“Because they don’t know what these guys were working on, so I don’t think they’re giving it the attention it needs.”
“Why, what were they working on?”
And when Leroux explained the type of research, his heart slammed into his chest at the implications.
“I’ll be in Salt Lake City tomorrow.” Chailai pushed herself up on her elbow, smiling at him. “But first I’ve got a few things to try and take care of.”
Ogden-Hinckley Airport
Last Week, Day of the Kidnappings
“I thought you said you had something for me?”
Detective Percy looked at Terry O’Toole through narrowed eyes. The phone call had been clear, at least to him, and now all his Air Traffic Control buddy had was a single complaint, phoned in by an old lady who lived on the outskirts of town.
“No, I said I had an answer for you.”
“You could have told me that over the phone.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
Percy sighed. O’Toole was right. He had been so mad back at the station, that he hadn’t really listened.
“Sorry, Terry, it’s okay, I’m just frustrated right now.”
“It’s okay, Jack, I’m ATC. I feel that way every day. Now listen, I wouldn’t be too quick to ignore this complaint however.”
“Why?” asked Jamie, until now having kept quiet, apparently not wanting to interrupt the two friends disapp
ointing each other.
Percy smiled slightly as he saw his friend give his partner the elevator eyes, checking her out for the first time.
Did you just flush, Terry?
O’Toole stuck out his hand, a little too quickly.
“Terry O’Toole. And you are?”
“Detective Conway. Jamie.”
Percy leaned in and whispered, “Like I said when we arrived, you old dog.”
O’Toole shook Jamie’s hand, definitely turning red this time.
“That’s right, sorry, forgot.” He let go of her hand, and wiped his brow. “To answer your question, we almost never get complaints about helicopters, and never have we had one from that area. In fact, we never get complaints from that area. It’s not on any of our flight paths.”
Percy frowned through half his mouth, looking at the paper O’Toole had handed him earlier. He was about to thank his friend when someone poked their head out of the small ATC unit of the mostly private airport.
“Terry, you better get in here, you’re gonna wanna hear this.”
O’Toole nodded then motioned with his head for them to follow. They stepped inside, the dusk replaced by not much more light, the control room kept fairly dark.
“What is it?” asked O’Toole.
“Salt Lake’s got a Delta flight claiming a military transport crossed their flight path.”
“What? Anything on the scopes?” asked O’Toole as he rushed into the fray to check for himself.
“No, nothing, but they were apparently descending so might be off scope. And their transponder was apparently off.”
The other controller hit a button, and tin can voices could be heard over the speakers.
“United two-oh-four, I have unidentified traffic your two o’clock for five miles closing. No Secondary.”
“They’re checking with another flight,” whispered O’Toole as everyone leaned in to hear the conversation.
“Roger approach, United looking.”
“United, traffic is now your one o’clock for two miles altitude unknown will pass from right to left.”
“They’ve spotted him on their scopes,” explained O’Toole for the benefit of the two detectives.
“Roger, United still looking.”
“United, traffic now your twelve o’clock, less than a mile.”
Suddenly excitement could be heard from the pilot. “Approach, that was close! A C130 just passed in a steep descent. Our TCAS didn’t pick that one up!”
“United, I am recording as a near miss.”
“Thank you, approach.”
O’Toole flicked the switch, silencing the speakers.
“What’s that mean?” asked Percy.
“It means if our United crew aren’t seeing things, we’ve got a military transport plane landing somewhere around here, flying without his transponder turned on, and without an approved flight plan.”
“What’s the procedure?”
“It’s Salt Lake’s problem. They’ll call Hill Air Force Base and see if they have any birds in the air in this vicinity.” O’Toole held up a finger before Percy could object. “Buuut, I have a friend at Hill.”
O’Toole picked up the phone and hit one of the speed dial numbers, and after a couple of quick exchanges, hit the speaker button, placing the receiver down.
“This is Major Perez. Sir, we can confirm we have nothing in your area, and nothing on our scopes.”
“Ricky, come on, we have a Delta crew saying they spotted something descending, and a United crew swearing they were almost hit!”
“If they were, it wasn’t by anything we have in the air, sir. And like I said, we’ve got nothing on our scopes in your area. I’m afraid I can’t help you any further, sir. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
The call ended with a dial tone, and O’Toole jammed his thumb at the button, killing the speaker.
“What do you think?” asked Percy.
“I think it’s bullshit. But unfortunately there’s nothing we can do. If the Delta crew want to, they can file a report with the FAA, they’ll investigate, but if the military isn’t going to cooperate, there’s not much that will come of it.”
“You think they’re lying?” asked Jamie.
“Who? The military? Absolutely. I’ve dealt with the Major before. He’s a good guy, very friendly, and has never called me ‘Sir’. He was feeding us the same story that was fed to him. The real question here is who has the power to force a major in the United States Air Force to lie? And why?”
“National security?” suggested Percy.
O’Toole frowned. “I could see that with some fighter jet under development, but our United crew reported a plain old transport, a C130 Hercules. That’s only national security if it’s on a mission, which would be illegal on American soil.”
“I’m not sure if Posse Comitatus would apply here,” said Percy, his understanding of the act governing the use of military forces on domestic soil limited.
O’Toole shook his head. “I don’t know either. I’m just pissed. I hate being lied to, especially by a guy I’ve had beers with and known for the past three years.”
Jamie cleared her throat. Percy looked at her, as did O’Toole.
“I think the real question here is whether or not this is related to our case.”
O’Toole’s eyebrows shot up.
“How so?”
“We have two highly sophisticated kidnappings, with a helicopter involved, that you guys”—she nodded toward O’Toole—“know nothing about, then we have a transport plane—military no less—landing in the vicinity. That sounds like a pick-up to me.”
“Bright girl,” said O’Toole, nodding.
“If you’re right, this keeps getting bigger and bigger.” Percy turned to O’Toole. “Can you tell me where they might have landed?”
O’Toole smiled.
“I can make an educated guess.”
Unknown Location
Jason Peterson awoke to a curious sensation. He could hear the drone of the propellers still churning away, and judging from the vibrations, he was still on the cold metal floor, his lower body aching, his back propped up against the fuselage.
But there was something else.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk opening his eyes to find out what it was that was pressing against both his sides. Whatever it was felt soft. And warm.
What could it be?
He jerked when the warm mass on his right moved, then opened his eyes. He found a head of hair tucked into the divot created by his arm and chest, his hands still tied behind his back. A quick glance to the other side and he found another tuft of hair.
He wanted to cry out in horror and joy at the same time. It was his babies, his most precious possessions. His head spun and he saw Maggie lying on her side, beside his daughter Ayla, and across from them, Carl with his wife and son, all three still unconscious.
Something moved to his left and his eyes darted toward the front of the aircraft, and he saw a man walking toward him, knife in hand. Peterson began to shake his head as his heart pounded in his chest.
“Please, no, I won’t cause any trouble. Just don’t hurt my family.”
The man stopped in front of him, his stance wide, as he looked down at Peterson. He waved the knife in the air, as if punctuating each syllable.
“Now that we have your family, can I expect your cooperation?”
Peterson’s head bobbed up and down rapidly.
“Good.” The man leaned over, grabbing Peterson by the shoulder and pulling him forward. He felt a tugging at his hands, then they suddenly jerked apart, freed at last as the man stood back up. He waved the knife again. “One bit of trouble out of you, and I carve an ear off that lovely wife of yours.”
Peterson trembled out a nod, his freed arms now enveloping his children protectively.
But he had to know.
“Why are you doing this?”
The man, already walking away, stopped and turned.<
br />
“Certainly not for God and Country.”
The smile that accompanied the statement sent shivers down Peterson’s spine.
“Where are you taking us?”
The man laughed, shaking his head.
“You’ll find out, Professor, when you get there.”
With that he returned to the front of the plane where there were several rows of seats set up, their high backs concealing how many were actually occupied. He returned his attention to his family. He desperately wanted to know what had happened to them, how they had been kidnapped, but they looked so peaceful in his arms, at his side, that he dismissed any thoughts of waking them, and instead closed his eyes, trying to figure out a way out of their situation.
But at a presumed thirty thousand feet or more, he entertained little hope of escape.
Crossing Bear River Bay, Utah
“What do you expect to find?”
It was a reasonable question, a question for which Percy didn’t really have an answer. He glanced at his young partner, quickly returning his eyes to the dark road ahead. His buddy Terry O’Toole had made an educated guess alright. A seasonal airfield about an hour out of town that nobody would notice a helicopter or military transport plane landing at, it not being shrimping season.
“I don’t know.”
It was an honest answer. In fact, this trip was pretty stupid. It was pitch black, it was an abandoned airfield in the middle of nowhere. If there was something to find, they wouldn’t find it until morning, and besides, they were officially off the case.
And if they needed backup, it would be a long time coming.
“You don’t know?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the answer you were expecting?”
Jamie reached into her purse and pulled out a protein bar. Before he could ask if she had another, she stuck it in his face.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the bar and tearing it open with his teeth as she retrieved a second bar for herself.
“Oh, it was the answer I was expecting, it just wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.”
He chewed on the gooey mass, using it as an excuse not to answer. She was right. This was stupid. It was his stubborn pigheadedness that had them roaring across the evaporation pads, toward an airfield without a single light on it four hours after sunset.
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 6