The man with the gun grunted as a long, curved blade darted out of his chest and then vanished, then he man fell from the sight.
Christie was too stunned to process what had just happened.
Then Robert’s head appeared, and he climbed up onto the foredeck, holding his special sword in his hand. The blade was dripping bright red blood. He approached, cleaned his blade with the hem of his shirt, sheathed his weapon and said softly, “CJ, honey, can you take me to my baby?”
Jackie was sure she was going to die. She’d clamped her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes tightly shut. She rocked back and forth on her bunk, crying. Why wouldn’t the horrible noise stop? Oh, God, she knew she was living her last seconds. Soon someone would come and kill her. She was sure of it. The fear was unbearable.
So bad, so bad.
She prayed. “God, please save me!” She said the prayer aloud, over and over, knowing there would never be an answer. Her time had come. This was the end, and she was terrified. Then she jumped in even greater horror as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She forced herself to open her eyes. It took everything she had. She looked up and saw a silhouette of a man outlined by the light from the deck behind the open door of the compartment.
“Please don’t hurt me!” she cried.
The man who had touched her dropped to his knees and took both of her shoulders gently in his large hands.
“No one will ever hurt you again, Jaqueline Dawson. I swear it.”
Her mind stopped. Time stopped.
Then she understood.
“Robert?”
“You’re safe now, baby,” Sand said softly. “Everything is going to be okay. You’re going home.”
“Are the bad men dead?”
“Yes,” said Christie, who appeared in the doorway. “Or at least a lot of them are. We need to get out of here, Jax. Let’s go.”
Kim lay dying on the deck, knowing he had failed and only had a few minutes left to live. He thought of his village in North Korea. He saw his mother and father. They seemed to be telling him something. Protect your sister, they were saying. Tears blurred his vision. He had not been able to relay the information he’d obtained—he could not prevent disaster. Beeman’s automated device would release the deadly virus in America, and as a result the US would reduce his nation to ashes.
The first night aboard the vessel, Beeman had handed him the condom containing the vial and computer chip, telling him he’d installed an insurance policy. He’d planted a self-arming viral “bomb” that would go off in a few weeks. He’d told him when and where, as a show of good faith.
“You can find it and disarm it or let it go off as you wish,” Beeman had said. “It gives you another option.” Kim had been horrified, knowing that if the device released the virus on US soil after the FBI had learned of Beeman’s betrayal of his nation, they would blame North Korea for the massive casualties they would suffer. They would surely unleash nuclear hell on his homeland. His family would all perish, as would his entire nation.
He had to avert the madman’s plan, but Kim was fading fast.
Kim was the only one who knew where Beeman had planted the device and when it would go off. Another half hour, and Kim could have had time to radio the information. But just as they’d been ready to cast off—after being docked for less than thirty minutes—the unexpected assault on their vessel had commenced. The FBI must have deployed one of their legendary counterterror tactical units to attack the ship. The entire North Korean intelligence apparatus in the US was aboard this ship as far as Kim knew.
Disaster.
Kim’s last thoughts were that he should have learned how to pray.
The entire world will burn, he thought, as numbness began to climb up from his legs to his torso. An odd humming filled his ears and resolved into the sound of his mother’s voice. Protect your sister.
He took no comfort from the fact he would not be there to experience his country’s end, but he knew he should. Death was not welcome, but it had come nonetheless. His precious little sister—for whose safety he had feared for years—was a DRPK hostage to ensure his fidelity while he operated in Western countries. She would also die, executed as retribution for his failure or reduced to ashes in America’s retributive strike.
He could do nothing to prevent it.
Both of his parents were calling out to him now, but their voices competed with the sound of distant sirens drawing nearer, drowning them out in his mind.
His vision cleared briefly. Faces looming above him replaced the image of his parents. Western faces. They held guns to his head, as if death was not sitting in his chest already.
A voice came to him as though from a great distance.
“Where is Beeman?”
Blood erupted from Kim’s mouth as he tried to speak. He coughed several times and managed to utter five final words.
“Crew … nine … ball … virus … smoke.”
Kim’s long-dead mother and father actually took his hand. He reached out for his mother, begging for forgiveness.
Chapter 50
The blazing red lights were everywhere. The pier and adjacent lot were flooded with police cruisers, ambulances, fire trucks and two—no, make that three, no, four—SWAT vans from which men poured in full tactical regalia. Coroner’s meat wagons, and, at last, a pair of helicopters touched down. Other choppers circled overhead, lighting up the harbor as if it were high noon with their airborne spotlights.
Kenehan keyed his throat mike. “Grayhound, this is Tomahawk.”
“Go ahead, Tomahawk. The audience is listening,” Thomas replied.
“Good news and bad. Sodbuster is KIA. Professor is in the wind.” He stopped talking. Let the worst news sink in before bringing the good.
Brecht’s voice was terse. “Continue, Tomahawk.”
“We have secured the virus and data.”
Brecht’s raspy voice chimed in. “Jesus, boy. Am I going to have to kick your ass? Get on with it!”
“Christie Jensen and Jackie Dawson are alive and well. They are unhurt. Mark is with them now.”
Kenehan did not expect an immediate reply, and he did not get one. After a moment, he continued. “Uncle isn’t giving us a lot of love, but no handcuffs yet. Can you run some interference?”
“Status of the Wallies?” Thomas asked.
“No known prisoners,” Kenehan said. “No choice. They severely outnumbered us. There may or may not be survivors. These were NorKor special forces, Tier One. The only people on this boat who didn’t shoot at us were the girls. All return fire was in self-defense. There may be actionable intel on board; Uncle will be scouring this shitcan for weeks.”
“The professor: elaborate, Tomahawk.” said Thomas.
“Whereabouts unknown. But I watched him board this vessel.”
“In hiding?”
“Could be, but I doubt it. I think he squirted. Over the side.”
There was a long pause Kenehan did not expect. Then Thomas came on the line. “Tomahawk be advised, Uncle is about to take you into custody. Go easy. Do not resist. This is procedure.”
Kenehan saw four SWAT team members approaching him with their rifles raised. “I see them coming, Grayhound. This is fucked.”
“Have faith, son,” Brecht said. “I’m calling the president now.”
“Hands where we can see them!” the SWAT lead yelled.
Kenehan dropped the AK that had been dangling loose at his side and raised his hands. Men in black combat fatigues and M4 rifles quickly surrounded him. His main goal right now was to avoid taking friendly fire. Bodies everywhere, nobody read-in, all hoping to get home tonight or even become heroes.
Late to the party, but full of adrenaline.
“I’m not a threat,” Kenehan said, raising his hands slowly. “I’m on your side.”
“Down on your knees, goddammit! Lace your fingers behind your head.”
Kenehan complied.
The SWAT leader keyed his own thro
at mike. “Skunk Actual, Skunk Two. We’ve got another operator,” he said. Then he turned to one of the men closest to him. “Cuff him, pat him down and put him in the van.”
The soldier obeyed, ratcheting the cuffs around Kenehan’s right wrist then pulling his arms down and locking them together behind his back. He pulled Kenehan to his knees, lifting his Wilson from his waist band without bothering to check the cuff-key pocket in his tactical trousers.
What was with these people?
“You let me go last time, Skunk Two.”
The SWAT leader pulled a tactical flashlight and shone it in Kenehan’s face, blinding him. “You,” he said.
“Me,” Kenehan said.
“I know who you are.”
“I doubt it,” Kenehan parried.
“Stand up.”
Kenehan rocked back onto his toes and rose to a standing position. He moved his right foot back to keep his balance, ready to deliver a fast kick to the man if there was some whip-ass on his mind.
“I know you,” Skunk Two repeated.
“You said that.”
“How did you get here so fast?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“You had to rub it in, with your private Black Hawk.” Skunk Two chuckled. “Even then, I thought it might be you.”
“How’s that?”
“I was in the First, Mosul, in sixteen and seventeen.”
“Nineveh,” Kenehan said.
Skunk Two nodded. “We were late to that party. Like tonight.”
“You came right on time,” Kenehan said. “Then and now.”
“You’re Tomahawk.”
Kenehan said nothing.
“What’s it like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Working for the Old Man?”
“It has its ups and downs. Now and then my own people cuff me.”
Skunk Two’s eyes shimmered. “It’s okay, Tomahawk. Take ’em off.”
Kenehan had the cuffs in a few seconds. “Thanks, Skunk Two. Been a rough night. We lost one of our own. A former Ranger. Treat him with respect.”
Skunk Two lowered his gaze; then he looked up again. “Point him out.”
Kenehan guided the team to where Sodbuster had fallen. “That’s him.”
“We’ll take care of him.”
“Thanks. And Snake?”
“Yeah?”
“The old black man?”
“Who?”
“The elderly African American gentleman you have in custody. He’s with us. A good guy.”
“We have no such detainee. He might have gone down, or over the side.”
I’ll catch up with you later, samurai.
Skunk Two’s eyes glazed over, focusing at a distance. Kenehan knew he was receiving information though his earpiece. He nodded several times and then said, “Acknowledged. We’ll bring him down.” He looked at Kenehan and said, “You’ve got friends in high places, Tomahawk. Let’s go.”
“Do me one favor.”
“What is it?”
“Take care of those girls as if they were princesses.”
Skunk Two’s eyes grew cloudy. He held very still.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was there,” he said, lowering his eyes. “When it happened. I was under orders.” He looked up, his face open, hoping for forgiveness that would never come, for he would never forgive himself. Kenehan looked into the man’s eyes and saw waves of unspeakable pain.
Chain of command can suck. He said nothing.
Skunk Two touched Kenehan’s shoulder. “Thanks from me, Tomahawk. I mean it. Those girls are royalty, and we’ll treat them as such. I guarantee it. They’re with Mr. Jensen, over there.” He pointed to one of the ambulances below. Near them, Kenehan saw Robert Sand tending to Jackie along with a paramedic.
Skunk Two told his man to give Kenehan back his gun. The man complied.
“Nice piece.”
“Thanks,” Kenehan said, holstering his Wilson beneath his shirt.
“Let’s head down, Tomahawk. People want to talk to you.”
Kenehan followed the men down the ramp to the asphalt where the official vehicles were waiting.
Chapter 51
A troupe of military intelligence and law enforcement muckety-mucks debriefed Christie over a three-day period in Jensen’s living room in Irvine. Every day, representatives from various planets of the intelligence and law enforcement galaxies took turns squeezing details from her. They’d set a video camera on a tripod, and Christie would sit in her father’s favorite chair answering their questions.
Most of the questions related to Beeman: did he talk about the North Koreans? Did he mention a virus, a biological weapon? Did she ever hear the phrase “Black Sunrise?” Did she have the feeling he was working with the men on the boat? Where were they going to take her? Did Beeman seem unhinged?
“What kind of question is that?” she asked. “Of course he was unhinged.”
“In what way?”
“Are you kidding me?”
At Brecht’s request, they permitted Kenehan and Thomas to observe. They sat with Christie and her father between sessions. To her surprise, the questioning didn’t turn to Antonio until the third day.
“The other man. Did you know him? Had you ever seen him before?”
“No.”
And that was it. No accusations, no explanations, no questions or remarks about how he had died. At the next break, she asked her father, “Do they know?”
“Know what?” Jensen asked.
She looked in turn at her father, Thomas and Kenehan. She kept her eyes on Roady because she could not look at her father to say what came next.
“I killed that man. I stomped his face in, and he died. I did it on purpose.” She thought she saw surprise on Kenehan’s face, but only for an instant.
Once the words were out, she looked at her father to gauge his reaction.
“I killed a man myself, getting to you,” he said. “It’s something we will both have to learn to live with.”
Kenehan remained silent.
Christie slept in her childhood bed, with her parents just down the hall, but nightmares plagued her sleep. On the second night, just as she was falling asleep, she awoke with a jolt, her heart racing, sure she heard whispering in her ear.
Dirty girls.
She threw back her covers and prowled the house. She went into the kitchen to make herself some warm milk. As she was tapping on the microwave, her father came in, wearing his robe and slippers.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“I’ll be okay.”
“What are you making?”
“Warm milk,” she replied. “Want some?”
“Sure.”
They sat at the table together, sipping in silence for a while. Christie stared at her glass.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“I saw you with that gun. You were fighting along with the other man. Bullets were flying everywhere. The dead people—did you and Roady kill them all? I mean other than the one Robert stabbed.”
“I killed one. Another member of the team shot some of them as well.”
“Why haven’t I met him?”
“He died, baby.”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What was his name?”
“Partridge. They called him Sodbuster.”
“So many dead people,” Christie said, her voice imbued with sadness. “How many were there?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen people died on that boat that night? Counting the one I killed?”
“Yes.”
“The people you were with when you came on the boat—you hired them? They weren’t police?”
“No. They work for a private agency. Mr. Brecht runs it. He’s a friend of Granddad’s. In fact, Granddad saved his life many years ago, during the Cold War.”
“I like Mr. Brecht. He’s very nice.”
“He likes you t
oo, Christie.”
“How could you be so brave, Daddy?”
“Brave?” Jensen gave a grim smile. “No, Christie.” He tipped his head, looking into her eyes. “Brave is the one thing I was not. I was lucky. If you want to see a really brave man, look at Roady Kenehan. He saved both of our lives.”
“What kind of a guy is he?”
Jensen pondered the question. “He’s hard to describe.”
“Did you spend a lot of time with him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“What does he do when he’s not—”
“Rescuing damsels in distress?”
She smiled. “Yes. When he’s not rescuing damsels in distress.”
“I don’t know. All I really know is that he works for Mr. Brecht. He was a soldier in the Army. He’s very highly trained.”
“He’s a professional killer?”
“No, Christie. He’s what they call a field operative—sort of a hired investigator with combat training.”
“He has really long hair for a soldier.”
“He works as a private contractor, sometimes undercover, in disguise. His long hair helps with that.”
“He’s really fit.”
“That he is.” Jensen wondered if she’d noticed that whenever Roady gazed at her, he looked like a puppy.
“I’m glad he’s sitting in with us. I’ll be glad when this debriefing thing is over. I’ve told them everything I know. And I don’t like everything I say being recorded. What are you smiling about, Daddy?”
“Nothing, baby. I’m just glad to have you home.”
“It was a hard thing to go through. I think I’m going to be okay, but I’m really worried about Jackie.”
During the next few weeks, Christie and Robert visited Jackie at the hospital almost every day. The early days with her were dark and difficult. At first, she would not talk about what had happened. Her doctor strictly limited access to her by the officials wanting to question her, warning that it could cause irreparable harm to force her to confront her experiences before she was ready.
Christie and Robert would sit with her in her room for hours on end, sometimes taking her on long walks around the hospital grounds. Other times they would just watch television together. A hospital psychiatrist by the name of Dr. White stopped by Jackie’s room each day and spent an hour alone with her. The stern-looking woman suggested that Jackie begin a regimen of antidepressants and benzodiazepines. Jackie refused.
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