Double Crossfire

by Anthony J. Tata

  While she missed her father, she was glad to have proven him wrong.

  “Yeah? Well, now it’s a billion-dollar development. The fish people made some money and never set up shop again, as far as I know.”

  Cassie swallowed and stuffed the memories away. To the south was Reagan National Airport. Flights between ten p.m. and seven a.m. were limited due to noise restrictions, so the early-morning hours were quiet. Zara had opened the sliding glass door, allowing cool air to drift in from her terrace. They had narrowly escaped the imaging sensors of the MH-47, the MH-6 helicopters, the infrared beams, the security cameras, and whoever was lying in wait for them near their car. It all seemed pretty incredible to Cassie, and perhaps it was. She wondered what Zara thought, so she asked her.

  “Go as expected?”

  “We will only know that, once we hear that the president and vice president are okay,” she said.

  “Seems to me that we should be plugged into some kind of communications network. We should know the results of our work right away. In the Army we call it battle damage assessment,” Cassie said.

  “We’re not in the Army, though we did do a daring raid to save the commander in chief. No news is good news, as the saying goes.”

  “Still, we should have some confirmation that we were successful.”

  “What? You want a medal?” Zara asked.

  “Just the opposite. I simply want to know that our effort was worth it. The mission was high risk.”

  Cassie looked at the rucksack with the two tanks of Zyklon B, which they had removed from the premises of the CIA safe house. She wondered why Zara was nonchalant about having the poison gas in her home. There was no Hey, we better turn these over to the police, so they can fingerprint them, or Let’s ditch these so we don’t suffer the intended fate of the president and vice president.

  “What’s the plan for these?” Cassie asked. She used her foot to nudge the rucksack sitting inertly on the floor.

  Perro paused, looked away, then stared at the river. “We will dump them in the river at first chance.”

  “Why not turn them over to authorities? People tried to kill the president and vice president. Why hide what we’ve done?”

  “We were not supposed to be there. There are people that will be very unhappy with our actions. They will come after us if they learn what we did. Going to the authorities is like hanging a bull’s-eye on our backs,” Perro said.

  “You seem pretty comfortable with two containers of cyanide in your living room,” Cassie said.

  Zara smirked. “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing more than I said. I barely know you. Perhaps you’ve got nerves of steel. Maybe your PhD also gives you special knowledge about the seams and fittings of these regulators. Your skills could be vast and deep. Me? I’m a little nervous sitting here, wondering if, in all of the hustle, we didn’t pop a leak somewhere.”

  “I’m surprised, Cassie, that anything makes you nervous. You’ve been shot in combat. You’ve been stabbed. You fought off notorious Serbian martial-arts specialist Dax Stasovich . . . and won. You fought side by side with Mossad and Jordanian Special Forces, some of the most hardened and elite commandos in the world.” She paused and leveled her eyes on Cassie, who returned the stare. “So, why do two containers scare you? Like a snake, they leave you alone if you leave them alone.”

  “Fair enough. I said I was nervous, not scared. Nervous is smart. And just because I’ve been there, done that doesn’t make me immune to fear. Just the opposite, it helps me recognize a threat that much more acutely.”

  “And do you see a threat?”

  Their eyes remained locked.

  “I think the containers are, as you say, inert until made active. It’s not as if you’re going to open the valve of one if I were to fall asleep. So there’s nothing to be concerned about. Let’s move along, as they say,” Cassie replied.

  “No, but you’re giving me interesting ideas. Perhaps the containers are excellent motivation for you to follow my lead, instead of going rogue.”

  “Why would I go rogue? What is my incentive in that? I am here of my own free will, am I not?”

  “I don’t know, are you?”

  “It’s all about trust, Zara. Through our actions just now, we are connected, whether we want to be or not. We have to trust each other.”

  Zara smiled again.

  “You’re feeling better, I see,” she said.

  Cassie rubbed her arm. “Going to give me another shot?”

  “You’re my patient and I have a duty to help you heal. The medicine I’ve been giving you counteracts your depression and post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “I don’t really look at it as a disorder, Zara,” Cassie said.

  Zara’s phone rang. As she retrieved it, Cassie saw that it was Senator Carter calling.

  “Perro,” she said.

  Carter’s voice was loud enough for Cassie to hear through the iPhone speaker. “Status?” Jamie asked.

  “We are waiting on the intelligence,” Zara replied.

  “What does the Speaker have to say?”

  “He’s who we’re waiting on,” Zara said.

  “Okay, keep me up to date,” Jamie demanded.

  “Nothing has changed. I know who I work for,” Zara said.

  She hung up and looked at Cassie. “Our boss wants us to keep her informed.” She tossed the phone on the sofa next to her and picked up a remote to switch on the television. CNN filled the screen with BREAKING NEWS ALERT.

  The screen faded to CNN anchor Wolf Blitzer, who was standing in the middle of his The Situation Room set at a little past four in the morning.

  “As many of you know, this is not my usual time for being on television, but extraordinary events have brought me and the entire CNN news team into the studio, yes, at four a.m.” He did his signature pause, stared into the camera, and said, “Our sources tell us that White House doctor Benjamin White confirms for us this morning that the president and vice president have been killed in an alleged terrorist attack on a CIA safe house in Loudoun County. These are initial reports, but Dr. White issued this release just minutes ago. It says, ‘I am saddened to confirm the deaths of the president and vice president. Cause of death for each man was shrapnel from an improvised explosive device detonated from the secret facility, known as the SCIF.’ This is a startling development at a time when the nation is under siege both domestically and internationally. Regardless of what you think of the administration, whether you are for or against this president and what he stands for, you have to take pause at what is being reported. Again, we have confirmation from the White House physician, Dr. Colin White, that the president and vice president were killed by an explosion at a safe house in Loudoun County. Information is incomplete at this time, but we at least have the statement from the doctor confirming that our president and vice president have been killed. It is impossible to confirm whether this was an accidental mishap or a terrorist attack, but given the doctor’s statement, it sounds like a terrorist attack of some type. A bomb intended to kill the two leaders of the Free World.”

  Blitzer held his hand to his ear for a moment, listening.

  Cassie said, “Oh my God.”

  “Reports are coming in rapidly now. CNN has been able to obtain video footage of two people who appear to be women retreating from the safe house into the woods just minutes before the explosion. There is confirmation from area residents that helicopters and vehicles perhaps chased these two people from the scene. Of course, no one understood the president and vice president were in the vicinity, but as the news is breaking, we are getting confirmation of high-speed chases both in the air and on the ground. We’re going to play video that even I haven’t seen yet. Here it is.”

  Cassie and Zara leaned forward, staring at the large-screen television, watching the grainy security camera footage replay their jogging retreat into the woods. Cassie immediately recognized her gait. Anyone who knew her would realize
that was Cassie Bagwell.

  “This image clearly shows two people, presumed to be women, running from the back of the house directly prior to the explosion.”

  “Where the hell did they get that footage?” Zara asked.

  It was a rhetorical question, Cassie knew, but the Little Bird helicopters had the capability to film. She decided to change the topic.

  “What exactly was in those tanks, Zara?”

  Cassie watched the dark water of the Potomac slide massively and powerfully to the south. The floor-to-ceiling windows of Zara’s penthouse apartment provided expansive 360-degree views of Washington, DC, and Northern Virginia. To her left was the Capitol dome, to her right the Jefferson Memorial. Light traffic buzzed along the Fourteenth Street Bridge, steadily increasing with the leading edge of rush hour approaching.

  Cassie shook her head as if to clear the fog. At times, she felt whole and normal, as if she hadn’t nearly bled out on a dank cave floor in Iran just three months earlier. At others, she felt almost bipolar. She struggled with the mood swings ranging from near normalcy to hyperaggression. She had become reliant upon the elixir that Zara had pumped into her veins.

  She licked her lips. She yearned for the needle. That feeling of adrenaline rushing through her body. The drugs gave new meaning to the term adrenaline junkie. Here, at just past four a.m., she was feeling the ebb of the surge, a wave receding out to sea. The excitement of the swell lifting and cresting and curling along the beach was gone. Crashed and washed up onto the shore, the resultant descent from the high was a sucking riptide that funneled into the ocean.

  Cassie rubbed her arm. Zara noticed.

  “Oxygen, Cassie. The tanks had exactly what I said was in them. Something else must have caused that explosion. Our mission was to replace the tanks. That’s it. We aren’t responsible for what the Secret Service did or failed to do.”

  She kept rubbing her arm, looked at Zara, who nodded.

  “I’ve got more in the bathroom, but I’m concerned you’re becoming hooked.”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted with me? Addicted to your drug?”

  Cassie had seen Zara murder Dr. Broome. Had heard her tell him about the Resistance and the immediate plans for what amounted to a coup. How could she pretend even now not to be the architect of this coup? Watching Zara, Cassie was even more convinced that the dramatic plan—The Plan—was more necessary than ever. Still, without being able to communicate with Jake, she was operating in an information deficit that diminished her situational awareness.

  “I want you well. I have a Hippocratic oath to do no harm.”

  “You give me these treatments at alternating intervals, as if you want me confused sometimes. I believe I know what I’ve seen. My memory is fine sometimes, and at other times, I question it.”

  Keep playing the role, Cass. Can’t afford any cracks in the legend.

  “Believing you know is the operative term, Cassie. The brain reformats itself, like a hard drive. You want to believe Jake was there for you, so your mind creates those conditions, forces you to believe it, as if it is second nature. You’ve heard the term fake news, I’m sure. Well, about half the people in the country believe whatever the other half is calling fake. So, what is real? The very origins of our belief systems are being challenged by information overload. It is all so complicated and we are learning more about the brain every day.”

  “Yes, it’s complicated,” Cassie whispered. She watched a lone scull crew rhythmically dip their oars in the water and stroke, lift, and repeat the process, navigating the dark waters and predawn blackness.

  “We are counting on your patriotism here. I’m trying to help you remember. Navigate you back toward a healthy mind, Cassie. Just as your physical wounds need time to heal, so do your mental wounds. Those perhaps need more time. The memories don’t really go away. Every nightmare tears away the stitches, so to speak, and we have to start all over again.”

  “Yes,” Cassie said, lifting her head. “It’s like that. I want to be helpful, but sometimes I find myself resisting, believing the other narrative. The other fifty percent. What is real anymore, as you said?”

  Zara’s phone rang with the soft tones of a spa, a subtle gong followed by chimes blowing in the wind.

  “Zara here,” she said. She pressed her thumb down to lower the volume so that Cassie couldn’t hear the conversation on the other end.

  After a minute of silence, Zara hung up and said, “We have to go. The Speaker of the House needs protection. His team has been infiltrated and he needs us to help him get to the swearing-in ceremony.”

  “What happened to all those guys we dealt with?”

  “They’re still there, but believe me, I have a special relationship with the Speaker. He trusts me more than anyone.”

  Cassie thought about those words, remembered how all of this started, with the cold-blooded execution of Dr. Broome.

  Without talking to Jake, Cassie had to rely on her own intuition, which admittedly was not as honed and refined as it was pre-Iran. While she had signed up for The Plan, Cassie still found herself oscillating, like now. Was Zara a member of the Resistance leading the charge? Or was she a counteragent inside the Resistance, attempting to prevent the pending coup? Was her murder of Dr. Broome a legitimate anti-Resistance act, as she claimed? Or was it a part of the grand plan, as his task was done? Wasn’t that why she was here? To figure that out? And the only way to confirm or deny Zara’s status was to be right here, right now, with her.

  She stood, weary, and followed Zara to the closet in her master bedroom. There was a circular king-sized bed with a pulley countersunk into the ceiling. Ropes angled off the pulley and were tied off on hitches along the baseboard, like a sailor would find on the pier for the lines to secure a boat. At the apex near the pulley, a small two-slatted seat hung three feet below the ceiling.

  Zara saw Cassie staring and said, “Everybody has their kink, Cassie. You should try it sometime.”

  “I’m good,” Cassie said. Her eyes drifted from the ropes to the bed, which was covered in mauve satin sheets and had pillows stacked high on the headboard. They stepped into a substantial walk-in closet with dresses, blouses, pants, and coats all hung perfectly by color, size, and formality. Above the hanging bars were glassed-in displays filled with Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, Gucci, and Chanel shoes.

  “Little high end for Washington, DC, don’t you think?”

  “Ever since a supermodel moved into the White House, the standards are different now,” Zara said.

  Cassie nodded.

  “We’re not in here to marvel at my wardrobe, Cassie,” Zara said, handing her an M4 rifle, fully kitted out with a rail mount system, infrared aiming light, Maglite, muzzle suppressor, and red-dot scope.

  “Goes with the Chanel gown over there,” Cassie said, gripping the rifle.

  Zara actually smiled. “That’s more like it, girl.”

  “This is the real deal. How did you get this, much less have it here in the gun-free zone of DC?”

  “I’m resourceful,” she said. Her long arm produced another M4, tricked out with the same equipment. She retrieved four magazines, closed the gun case, spun the dial, and brushed past Cassie.

  “All this for a simple meet and greet with the Speaker?”

  “Shit’s breaking loose, Cassie. The Resistance is at full throttle. Obviously, if the president and vice president are dead, then the coup is under way.”

  “Obviously. Do you think the Speaker woke up this morning thinking he’d be president?”

  “I think the Speaker just went to sleep trashed out of his mind with four hookers passed out around him.”

  Cassie stared at Zara, then said, “Huh. I didn’t see that, but maybe now I can.”

  “Seems you’re thinking more clearly,” Zara said.

  Cassie lifted the rifle. “Always when you give me one of these. Universal language.”

  “One more thing before we go,” Zara said.

&
nbsp; In a small anteroom off the master, there were two IV drips positioned next to two wooden chairs. The entire condo was appointed with the finest in Scandinavian space-saving, sleek furniture, but these two chairs looked like she might have borrowed them from a schoolhouse.

  “Juice up before we go,” Zara said. “Shit might get real.”

  “Roger that,” Cassie said.

  Cassie poked Zara’s arm with the IV and Zara returned the favor. They both took on about five minutes’ worth of fluids, which were laced with Zara’s concoction. Cassie could feel the burn in her arms and throughout her body. More important, she felt the rage building within. It was the same fire that had burned when she was on the run. The “juice,” as Zara nicknamed it, didn’t cloud her judgment as much as make her hyperaggressive. She never had any issues in that department, anyway, being the first female graduate of the U.S. Army Ranger School. Yet, this concoction took her to her primal core. Like a T. rex, she began scanning the room, looking for targets. She could feel her decisiveness blur a bit, bringing her back to the basic question of the morality of what she was doing. She had to stay in control, at least as much as possible, while also trying to govern what Zara was ultimately going to do. As Zara said, “The shit is getting real.” Cassie had to maintain control while also remaining believable as a confused and recovering soldier.

  “You seem . . . focused,” Zara said.

  With a slow turn of her head, Cassie said, “I am.” She spread an evil grin on her face that prompted a wary look from Zara.

  “Have I created a monster?”

  “You’ve given me more focus. I was already a monster.”

  They both removed their IV needles, cleaned up briefly, and then grabbed their gear as they walked to the elevator. Zara produced two guitar cases, just another girl band heading to a gig, then stepped into the elevator car. They rode it down to Zara’s Range Rover. They slid the gear into the back and Zara jumped into the driver’s seat.