“They found a diary, Cooper. Brenda’s diary.”
Cooper’s bad knee hit the metal leg of his table and he jerked upright. Brent never mentioned the how’s and why’s. Cooper’s mind spun to an abrupt stop at the mention of his former lover’s name. Had she been his girlfriend? They’d never had the chance to talk about it, never got the chance to go further, but it sure felt that way. The endless possibilities of a life together, lost forever, lay on his heart like a lead weight.
Pain stabbed through his heart as a flood of memories clouded his vision for a split second. His training screamed at him to focus, to stay on mission, keep tracking the two guys who were so clearly a distraction while the knife wielding thug disentangled himself from the waitress.
Cooper smelled the scent of Brenda’s hair, felt the warmth of her soft hands in his—doctor’s hands, supple and strong, but unmarked by the scars and calluses of his own harder life. The world shrank around Cooper, his vision darkened at the edges. Blood thundered through his veins, his heart hammered away in his chest.
The Council—Reginald—had murdered Brenda, taken her from him when she’d been on the cusp of developing the vaccine that would stop the bioweapon attack in its tracks. Reginald was dead now, and most of the Council itself as well…but so was Brenda.
Cooper clenched his jaw. A big part of Cooper was dead, too—a part that he’d thought died in the Pandemic ten years ago, a part Brenda had brought back to life.
Brenda’s dead.
Cooper ignored Brent, still rambling on about her diary, how someone sent a copy to Derek Alston, her brother, a newly promoted major with the Rangers, by the way.
“Move,” Brenda whispered to him.
Cooper ducked the knife as it sliced through the air, aimed at the back of his neck, then jumped from his chair and turned, swinging the tea caddy with his free hand. The thug’s wide, dull eyes registered the fact that he was about to be injured, then he went down in a shower of porcelain shards. The waitress screamed as the man with the knife knocked over a table on his way to kiss the pavement. Tea cups flew and ceramic shattered on concrete.
One of the distracters managed to punch Cooper in the back, then took an elbow to the face for his trouble. Cooper spun again and swung up with the ruined remains of the tea caddy, connecting just under the jaw of the second man. His teeth clicked together, and he staggered back, gushing blood from a superficial cut, but remained on his feet.
The second thug dropped with a kick to the chest. The first tried to run, but Cooper vaulted over his chair and connected with a solid open field tackle. Unfortunately, the kid’s head smacked the ground too hard and his eyes rolled up.
Cooper got up and dusted himself off. The man with the knife twitched, but his chest rose and fell with a regular rhythm. Alive then. The other two moaned a little, but were likewise out of the fight. Cooper straightened his coat, pushed the AR glasses up his nose, and dropped a generous tip for the trembling waitress.
She stared at him with an open mouth, her serving tray held across her chest like a shield. When he moved to get around her, she flinched.
“Spasiba,” he muttered. “Sorry about the mess.”
“Have…have a nice night,” she breathed, her eyes wide and focused on the bodies on the ground.
Cooper walked away on shaky legs. His hands stung and his knee ached after the flying tackle, but he pushed the pain out of his mind. Atkins had gone silent.
“You still there?” he asked in a hoarse voice, his throat tight.
After a long moment, Atkins replied. “Yeah. What the hell is going on, Condor?”
As if you didn’t know. “Just a little misunderstanding about the seating arrangement.”
“What?” Atkins asked. “Why aren’t you out looking for the Ambassador?”
How the hell do you know he’s missing? And why are you suddenly anxious for me to get to work after wanting to chat for the past ten minutes?
Cooper decided to change the subject. “You mentioned…” Cooper swallowed, the constriction in his voice not entirely faked. “You mentioned a diary?” He ducked around the corner and leaned against a brick building housing a little electronics boutique. Shifting his phone to his other hand, he flexed his fingers, trying to control his breathing. The ring finger on his right hand felt stiff, like he’d sprained it.
“Brenda. She kept a diary during her time in the Underground. I heard it was mostly about her vaccine research, but there’s some personal stuff in there too. I thought you’d want to know.”
Breathe in…breathe out…breathe in…breathe out…
Out loud, he said: “Why now?”
Atkins paused. Cooper slid down the rough brick wall until he squatted, his weight supported by his feet and the wall itself. He wanted to throw up. He hadn’t thought about Brenda, not since he’d left his retreat in upstate Michigan, back before the op in Edinburgh. He closed his eyes.
Cooper couldn’t afford to open that door and unleash the feelings swirling around her memory. The memory of their relationship and what it had meant to him and what had been cut from him after she’d died…he couldn’t. Not now. It would get him killed, facing organized Russian mafia on their home turf. He had to be at the top of his game.
And Brent Atkins, a former SEAL, knew all this.
Cooper looked up, a cold sweat on his forehead when his AR glasses warned him Atkins had sent a data packet over. The bastard gave him her diary.
Cooper swiped the air with his shaking hand to dismiss the alert. I can’t do this…I can’t…
Cooper closed his eyes, willing it all to go away. He had to find the ambassador and his wife and get them to the Ukranian border. The clock was ticking. Bigger forces than him were working to bring Russia and America to the brink of war over North Korea, the Council, and the UN’s power to control first world superpowers. The politics made his head hurt, and Brent’s careless call made his soul hurt.
Cooper didn’t like to hurt. He preferred hurting the ones who wanted to bring pain to his country. He knew the bratva was in deep on this one. Twice now they’d been looking for him, waiting for him. He couldn’t believe the kid he’d interrogated had been able to hold out on him and send him to a setup, but that’s sure as hell what it looked like. Cooper clenched his fist. Everything came back to Atkins.
His glasses notified him he was receiving a second incoming call, from an unidentifiable contact.
The fuck is going on here?
He cut off Atkins. “Sorry, I gotta go.”
“What?”
“I got a lead. Thanks for the update. Condor out.” He killed the call and turned off his phone’s ringer before his boss could protest. Resting his head against the cool brick wall, Cooper closed his eyes again. The corner of his mouth ticked up as he imagined Atkins flinging his phone across the office.
Cooper sighed and activated the persistent incoming call. “Speak.”
“Braaten, it’s Danika.” As she spoke, a little image of 13 appeared in Cooper’s right-hand lens, a ghostly apparition of his counterpart in Edinburgh. She looked almost completely healed from her ordeal with Jayne, only a few days earlier.
“Jesus…how…? You look great.”
She smiled, and Cooper’s chest tightened.
“I mean, not that you look great, but you…” he stammered, feeling his cheeks grow warm. “I mean, you healed. Fast!”
13’s ghost nodded, but the smile remained. “A lasting gift from Project Sanguine. Look,” she said, her smile fading, “you know my history with Brenda. We’ve been over this, and I know you’re on mission—look, whatever you do, don’t open her diary.”
Cooper sighed and checked the alley. He was still alone. “Trust me, I have no intention of looking into that…yet. I can’t believe Atkins sent it to me—right now of all times.”
Danika frowned, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “I know you work for him, but Braaten, he’s not on your side,” she said in her soft Swedish accent.
“You got something concrete?” he asked. “Because he’s failing the smell test, but otherwise, I got nothin’.”
Her frown deepened. “No. Give me some time. I’m in the middle of something, too.”
“No worries. Hey listen, about Edinburgh…”
She smiled again, flashing her white teeth for a split second. “No regrets, Braaten. You can be my wingman any day. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait—your wingman?” The connection ended, and Cooper was left staring at the brick wall across the alley, his mouth hanging open.
Cooper got to his feet, his knee popping in protest, and rolled his shoulders. Danika was right. He had to compartmentalize and do it quick. The bratva played for keeps, had the home field advantage, and Atkins almost fucked his op sideways with his ill-timed social call. Until he had time to figure out what the hell was going on at Oakrock—and what the hell was going on with Danika—Cooper needed to go off the grid.
First, he disabled the GPS tracking in the AR glasses. The less Atkins—or anyone he was in contact with—knew about Cooper’s location, the better for everyone. His mouth twitched. Besides, Danika could probably hack into the damn thing and figure out how to call him no matter what he did.
He pulled up the local map on his HUD and found his Chechen contact’s location. It was time to see Beslan and gear up. Cooper debated with himself for a split second on taking a moment to read Brenda’s diary—or at least open it.
Brenda’s dead. Mission first.
Cooper gained control over his aching soul at last and frowned. He had a job to do. There would be payback…oh yes, there would be payback.
But not yet.
13
To Kill a Monster
Washington, D.C.
The White House
President Harris adjusted his stance behind the podium set up in the long hallway of the West Wing. He’d walked down the red carpet leading from the Oval Office and rather than launch directly into the announcement, glanced down at the cards his speechwriter had provided. He noted Vale’s handwritten notes to tone down the rhetoric and focus on Renolds’ crimes, not her death.
It was like his chief of staff didn’t even want to make the damn announcement in the first place. The president understood the sentiment behind loyal opposition, but enough was enough. He had to do something to bring Renolds to her knees…before she attacked again.
He cleared his throat and looked up from the podium. Before him, the usually packed room appeared severely depleted. Only a handful of reporters, mainly those part of international pools, lined the first two rows. The effects of the bioweapon attack were telling, even nearly a year later.
So many people had died because of the Council because of Reginald Tillcott…because of Jayne Renolds. Reginald was dead, the Council was on the ropes…and Jayne?
The president cleared his throat, and the reporters settled into an unsteady silence. There was nothing the president could do to bring back the millions of dead and ruptured families all around the world. He couldn’t interrogate Renolds—she’d gotten away again, that was clear. But he could hurt her in other ways.
“Good morning,” he began in a clear, confident voice. Gus’ egg sandwich and a fresh pot of coffee—in concert with some generous application of concealing makeup—went a long way to make him appear refreshed and ready for work.
“I am here to report to the American people, and the world, that the United States can now confirm the death of Jayne Renolds, the would-be dictator, murderer of Vice President Barron, and current leader of the terrorist organization known as the Council.”
He paused, letting the journalists take pictures and scribble notes. “While conducting security operations in Edinburgh, Scotland—during the recent United Nations summit held there—American forces successfully captured Renolds and were transporting her back to the United States to face justice.” He looked down right on cue, and slid his hands forward on the podium, as if he needed to do so for support. It wasn’t far from the truth. If he closed his eyes for a moment, The president worried he might fall asleep, despite all the coffee Gus had provided.
When he looked up, he hoped his expression portrayed the genuine grief that gripped his heart. In faking her own death, Renolds had caused the death of three more Americans.
“Tragically, the plane transporting Renolds encountered mechanical problems over the Irish Sea and crashed. Everyone on the plane, including three Air Force Special Operations Squadron airmen, and Jayne Renolds, lost their lives in the subsequent crash.”
He paused for more pictures, letting the drama of his words play out. he glanced down at the notes. Vale wanted to talk up her crimes and point out that justice prevailed. He gripped the podium tight. Screw that.
“Those three airmen, pilot: Lieutenant Colonel James Ewen, from Detroit, Michigan, flight surgeon: Captain Joshua McClaren from Amarillo, Texas, and flight engineer: Lieutenant Shawn Croft from Reno, Nevada. They will all be remembered as the heroes they were. They gave their lives in the attempt to bring the most wanted criminal in human history to face justice, and became the last in a long line of victims attributed to Renolds.” He took a breath and looked over the faces of the reporters in the first row to stare into the cameras. He wanted to look into the eyes of each American watching him, to convey the message: we are winning.
“From the death of Vice President Barron, to the nuclear attack on Atlanta, to the unthinkable destruction and death caused by the bioweapon attack—that we now know she helped orchestrate—this woman has caused more suffering than any single person in human history, surpassing Hitler and Stalin combined.”
“The United States,” he continued, “in concert with our allies, is even now in the process of dismantling the remnants of the Council’s web of operations. It is the sincere hope of this administration that the news of Jayne Renolds’ death will be met with celebration the world over. This monstrous woman, who is at least partially responsible for more than a billion deaths in the past year, has at last met her fate.”
President Harris straightened his shoulders and stared at the cameras again. “Justice has been served.”
He removed his hands from the podium and rested them on Vale’s notes—the notes he was purposely ignoring. “It has been a long fight to destroy this shadow upon humanity we call the Council, but the fight isn’t yet over,” he said, launching into an ad-lib conclusion.
“My fellow Americans, with Jayne Renolds’ death, our final victory is in sight. And with the help of our stalwart friends and allies overseas, America—and indeed humanity itself—will, God willing, emerge from this dark time stronger and more unified than ever.”
He glared at the cameras. “Make no mistake, we, the American people, will not stop our relentless pursuit of these barbaric terrorists until they have been rooted out—wherever they are hiding—and every last one has been exterminated. The United States will not stop until justice has been served, until vengeance has been taken for the millions of our citizens slain, and righteous retribution delivered upon our enemies, whether they are on the other side of the world or here on our own soil.”
There. Let North Korea think on that for while.
He rested his hands on the podium and squared his shoulders. Time for the sound-bite wrap up.
“My fellow Americans, mourn your dead. Mourn the brave airmen who died bringing Jayne Renolds to justice. Mourn the world.” He looked down for a moment, then back up, narrowing his eyes. “But I ask you to stand with me now. In the words of my late predecessor, President Denton, it’s time to rise. It’s time to rise up against the tide of cruelty and murder and fear. It is past time to rise up and destroy that which threatens all of mankind.”
He leaned forward again, gripping the sides of the podium one last time. “And to those Americans now living under the yoke of tyranny, in American land illegally occupied by the forces of North Korea, know this: I will not rest until you are free. You are not forgotten. We w
ill come for you, and we shall deliver upon your oppressors the frightening wrath of the American people to the last full measure.”
He stepped back from the podium and straightened his jacket. “God bless you, my fellow Americans, wherever you are, and God bless this, the greatest nation on earth.”
President Harris turned and walked away from the podium down the long dark hallway toward the Oval Office, careful to tread even, measured steps. As he walked away, ignoring the shouted questions from the clamoring reporters, he let one corner of his mouth curl up.
It’s time to take the gloves off…
14
The Experiment
Isle of Man, United Kingdom
Jayne leaned back in her chair and ran one fingertip around the rim of her wineglass. She smiled, peering across the crystal chalice, and half-closed her eyes at the computer screen on her desk. She felt a supreme excitement, knowing the researcher on the other end saw Lisa Melton, not a bruised, battered, disheveled Jayne Renolds. Thanks to the advanced AR gear she’d purchased to keep her cover, Jayne could have been sitting there naked, but all he would ever see was Lisa Melton in her conservative business attire. It was amazing technology, and she couldn’t wait to have some real fun with it.
She sighed. That will have to wait…
Out loud, she said: “Now then, what did you want tell me about, Jared, dear?"
On the screen, Jared Myles, CEO of and lead scientist at ProTek, rubbed a hand through his hair before glancing away at something off-camera. The image pixilated for a second, then came back clear. He frowned. "It's…it's complicated."
Jayne arched an eyebrow. "Try me."
Myles sighed, resting his elbows on his desk, which made the camera shake and caused the image to shudder. "There's a lot going on right now,” he said, at last. “Your acquisition of the company helped in so many ways and gives us so much hope…I still can't believe you c-c-cut through all that red tape so quickly…”
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