by Alex Howell
Worse, because Mason was now in that hell of a scenario, the worst-case situation, in which someone who knew who he was and what he was good at had the only thing left remaining in this world that he loved. He’d trade the house, the job, the cars, the money, anything to have Clara back, and, yet, it seemed likely the only thing the enemy wanted was the crumbling and desecration of America, the very land he’d sworn to protect and serve.
And this all would’ve been avoided if I could have just listened to Bree. Stay in my lane, stay in the simple life, serve a couple of tours in Iraq, and call it a career.
Instead, I had to go for the big, bad SEALs. But not just the SEALs, no. I went for the special black ops teams, all so that I could get out just a couple years earlier. Would bet anything if I hadn’t joined them, I wouldn’t be here today.
I screwed this up. I… I…
I gotta get it together.
Mason raised the car seat from the reclined position. It was absolutely true. He knew that he had probably made some mistakes in pursuing the black ops life that he had—at best, he knew it had cost him some time with Bree, and, at worst, it had put him in the position he was in now. But did that have any bearing, any impact on any action he could take now?
No.
If he’d learned anything in the SEALs, it was “do your job.” And his job right now was to rescue his daughter, not throw a pity party for his career and stable life.
Yes, there would come a time when he had to deal with these thoughts in his mind, the ones that kept bugging at him in a way that had never happened during his mission. Perhaps he had been too young and too stupid—not, at all, in a bad way—to have these thoughts back then. But this was not that time.
Instead, he had to think about the task at hand.
Blue eyes… white skin…
It was almost certainly an American behind all of this, someone in the White House or Congress who had enacted a kidnapping of his daughter. There just weren’t a lot of white-skinned, blue-eyed Arabs in the Middle East with access to the kinds of technology haunting Mason right now to cause this kind of trouble. And, if there were, the military would surely know about it as much as anyone.
But who, then? Who would know him well enough to hold his daughter hostage, knowing he had once served in the black ops? Who would have such audacious plans as to kidnap his daughter in the pursuit of some goal related to the CIA and the IRS?
Someone in the military?
That just seemed too ridiculously far-fetched. He had known the military had its share of hotheads, but what it did not have were people willing to sacrifice America. They had some who disagreed severely with the approach to help America, but they all wanted the same thing. They all wanted America to, at worst, remain protected and secure, and at best to stomp out evil across the globe however they saw fit.
No, this act was one that was involved in burning down the whole damn country. They obviously didn’t give a damn about the USA.
Perhaps someone in administration? But, if so, then who the hell could it be?
Knew I should’ve paid better attention to President Morgan’s cabinet announcements, Mason thought with a snort.
The addition of the men in the gas masks—once with an American accent, one with a Middle Eastern accent, one with an unknown voice—just made it more complicated. Then add Harnad Abdi, and good luck making any sense of the whole mess. It felt close to a giant puddle of mud than it did an unmarred book that anyone could open and read at their own convenience and pace.
It was obvious that whatever Mason was dealing with, it was multi-national, it was on a very high level, and it was beyond his pay grade. Hell, it probably would have been beyond the pay grade of Lieutenant Jones, or at least when he was lieutenant. Now, as a general?
Maybe…
But he didn’t want to bring anyone else in if he could help it, most especially a general in the military who had probably ten cases like this to deal with right now. The voice tracked him too well, and reaching out to a general in the military felt like a really good way to get his daughter killed within seconds. Tessa had caused enough problems; the most powerful man in the Navy would make things as bad as possible. If they killed his daughter, then the whole damn army would be on their ass—but, for now, he had to rely on Tessa, his own ingenuity, and nothing more.
And then he saw something odd.
As he was sitting in the car, he looked over to his left and saw an Arab man exiting a sandwich shop. The man looked beyond furious, a mood made evident by the way that he kicked over a nearby trash can, cursed loudly, and stormed off. It was made doubly interesting by how well-dressed the man was—this was not someone who had come to America looking for better opportunities, but someone who had come to America on high-paid tourism or some other purpose.
He would not make such a gesture unless something extremely unusual had happened.
Mason, cautiously, exited the car and headed to the shop where the man had just come from. He kept his gun close to him, just in case things got hairy. He opened the door slowly, finding an empty shop save for one TV showing CNN and a lone employee, a man who had fallen on hard times and probably had a better job before this, behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” the man said, looking completely unaffected and unconcerned with anything that had just gone down.
“You have any idea about that guy?” Mason said.
Then, as if his stomach realized he hadn’t eaten in almost 12 hours, it growled loudly.
“And can I get a Philly?”
“No and yes,” the man said, barely breaking stride as he started to chop up some beef and peppers.
Well, some help that was, Mason thought as he turned to CNN.
And then his eyes honed in on the “BREAKING NEWS” text in white font on the red background.
“BILLIONS STOLEN FROM SAUDI ARABIA. SUSPECTS UNKNOWN.”
Huh.
Some help this actually might just be.
18
It was not lost on Mason that though he actually did not know for sure if the dots connected or not—and he didn’t dare call back his original source of help with the first dot, Luke, at this point—he had strong reason to suspect that perhaps Harnad Abdi, the three men on the lobby of the office, and this odd mission he’d found himself on were connected to the billions—no, actually, he realized upon rereading, trillions—of dollars stolen from the Saudi government.
Coincidences aren’t real. They’re what lazy people write off so they don’t have to do work. This has to be all connected, at least very tangentially.
If so… then this was about to get ugly. No, actually, ugly was underselling it. This might get apocalyptic.
Mason knew how easily people reacted when a friend stole a couple hundred bucks from them and refused to pay. His mind drifted to the very real possibility of war, war, and more war at this act. His mind drifted to a global catastrophe, started all because first people were killed. Then cities were destroyed. Then nations were wiped out. Nuclear weapons would soon spell the end of days. And it all hinged, seemingly, on one question at that moment.
Who would the Saudis blame?
On the one hand, officially, the USA and Saudi Arabia were friends. Unofficially, though, tensions between the two countries were, to put it mildly, suspicious. The USA had long suspected Saudi Arabia of housing fugitives, while Saudi Arabia had long considered the USA intrusive and unnecessarily brutal in handling the Middle East. It didn’t take much of an imagination to foresee a scenario in which the two distrusting allies soon turned into a full-blown war.
Mason began to believe that whatever mission he was on was connected to all of this somehow. He didn’t want to elevate his current tasks to deity status or anything outlandish, but the more he thought of it, the more it seemed probable that his actions over the next several hours could have a dramatic impact on how this all played out.
But maybe Mason was overreacting. Maybe he was reading too much into i
t. What if Abdi was from Iran or Iraq, and this was related to something else?
Still, Mason had learned long ago not to ignore coincidences.
It was practically a mantra for him at that point, drilled into his head during his time on the black ops. But so long as he could not do anything about it on the highest of international levels, which was where he stood right now, he chose to focus solely on fulfilling his tasks, getting his daughter home, and letting the rest spill out from there.
Once he finished the Philly sandwich in his hand, that was.
And once Tessa got him access.
It felt like a lot longer than just a few minutes had gone by; a lot longer than the time Tessa had said had passed by. Had she been caught? Had her connections failed?
Don’t ask questions you can’t do anything about. You either account for it and act accordingly, or you stop those thoughts right there.
Seems like you’re doing an awfully poor job of doing that these days, huh?
Mason paused mid-bite, realizing how much this mission was starting to affect his well-being and his psyche. He never went into the tank like this on missions. The only rational explanation he could come to was that the possible death of his daughter was affecting him more than he let on.
Focus on what you can—
Yeah, yeah, control. How about you just admit this is making you more nervous than you want to admit? How about you admit to yourself that you fear losing her?
Maybe it’ll help.
Not a secret. Focus on what matters.
Mason finished his bite of the sandwich and finished the rest within a minute. He still had not heard from Tessa. At this point, her assistance could not be depended upon. Either she had failed, been captured, or had given up for some reason, but, regardless, the outcome was the same—Mason was on his own.
He decided it was time to make a move. If Tessa wasn’t going to come through for him, he was going to have to create a disguise, create an alibi, and somehow, someway, get into the CIA’s office and find that possession of Mr. Abdi’s. The number of layers this task involved seemed to pile by the minute.
If he had spent any time pondering the odds, Mason would have realized that it was like finding a needle in a haystack of needles in a conglomeration of barns.
But Mason, like many other things trying to divert his attention, ignored such thoughts as best as he could. Even if his best wasn’t very good at the moment.
He got out of his car, started walking east, and prepared to head into the tuxedo shop when his phone rang.
Tessa. Thank God. I was about to hunt you down myself if you didn’t call.
He hit answer, but just before he pulled it to his ear, he reminded himself he needed to stay in character.
“Baby!” he said, forcing the words out of his mouth. “I’m growing very impatient! I can’t stay like this forever! I need you!”
“Oh, darling, I know, but isn’t the wait making it more worth it?”
Not even close. Real funny, Tessa.
“That’s one person’s opinion,” Mason said, feeling the strain of having to carry on such a ridiculous conversation. “But are you ready?”
“Yes! Baby, yes, come over.”
“You know I’m on my way! Not going to waste a moment more!”
He hung up then, muttering to himself that he couldn’t believe he’d gotten himself into a situation in which he had to pretend to flirt with a former coworker because some terrorist group within the USA government had both kidnapped his daughter and wanted him to fake access into the CIA. The whole thing sounded like a movie, except the movie didn’t show the strain it had on the protagonist. It was small wonder that the military rarely had its members rescuing their own; the emotional gravitas of the situation required either Superman or Sociopath Man to help, and Mason was far, far removed from either.
Never again. Never, ever again. I’m taking Clara and we’re going to Argentina or Vietnam and leaving all of this behind.
Let’s just get this over with.
He headed into the building, smiling at the secretary as if he had gotten it all resolved.
“Did my boss get the word into you?”
“Why yes, she did, my apologies, Mr. Walker,” the woman said. “You may go right on ahead.”
Sliding doors opened the way, allowing Mason to enter. He did not think for two seconds that he was free of any trouble just because he’d gotten past one person; undoubtedly, he would continue to be watched.
The question was, who was doing the watching, and which side were they on?
He walked past numerous offices, following the signs for “International Diplomat Relations.” While he didn’t know if Mr. Abdi was a diplomat, the odds seemed as good as any place that his valuable device would be here. If it wasn’t and it was in some private locker or something to that effect, then God help him, because only divine intervention was going to work for Mason at that point.
That, and the idea of tearing this entire building from top to bottom with the hopes of finding a single device without also drawing the attention of the rest of the CIA seemed like a really poor strategy.
More sliding doors parted as Mason moved as comfortably as he could, noticing several TV screens, desks with computers, and a few large screens displaying what looked like heat maps, lines of some sort, and some financial data. He feared that he had entered the wrong place, but then heard words that almost had him jump.
“Welcome, Mason Walker,” a computer said as he entered. He looked to his right to see something scanning him. Well, like I need even more robots following me. “What can I help you with?”
“I’m good,” he said. “I’ll take care of myself.”
A pause came as the computer seemed to process this, perhaps having not gotten that statement very often.
“Very well.”
Mason turned his way back to the seemingly empty command center room. There was no one in here, although Mason had reason to believe the place had people hidden from view, remotely viewing the screens, or just at a higher ledge. Suspecting a trap, he kept his hand hovering near his gun, his eyes scanning the entire room.
“Mr. Walker.”
Mason looked up to see a tall man approaching him. His hand flashed to the gun, but then it relaxed and Mason did something even more unexpected.
No, not just any tall man.
It was a man that gave Mason the closest thing he’d had to a real smile all day.
Luke Simon.
19
“Luke,” Mason said.
The smile faded quickly when he saw that Luke Simon seemed to be in no mood to return the favor. He didn’t actually think that Luke would betray him at this very moment, but he couldn’t say the thought didn’t cross his mind. The seriousness of one of his closest allies in the SEALs did not put him at ease in the slightest.
“Come with me, we need to talk.”
Damn.
Mason, realizing if he did not walk he’d draw even more attention to himself than he already was, moved with his head ducked low, the better so that hidden people didn’t suddenly look his way or have more AI’s facially recognize him. He followed Luke into a small office, mentally making plans for how he’d defend himself if Luke sprung an attack on him. He did a quick check of cameras in the office but saw none.
Luke closed the door and sighed. Whatever you’re going to do, take the first swing. Not going to—
Then Luke opened his arms as if wanting a hug. Never been happier in my life to be wrong than right now. Mason went in for the hug, and the two war buddies came together tightly.
“How’s Clara?” Luke asked as he pulled back.
“So you don’t know,” Mason said. “Would’ve thought you’d have at least heard through the grapevine.”
“Nothing more than you do,” he said. “All I know is I got a call from a trusted source who said you were in trouble.”
Tessa.
Or… someone else?
“
I saw you come in here and wanted to get you into somewhere without tracking. You’re clearly here for a reason, and that reason isn’t to deliver us donuts.”
“I would to free Clara.”
Luke gave a short snort as he went back behind his desk and took a seat.
“Admirable,” he said. “But obviously, you’re not here to make jest, either.”
“Not in the slightest,” Mason said. “Before we get started, is this room bugged?”
“Nope,” Luke said.
That seemed… different from what Mason was expecting
“It’s an old school office,” Luke said, sensing the confusion in Mason’s face. “To be clear, my biometrics are being measured, and if they drop below a certain point, security will be in here within three seconds to do something. But I prefer it to be without cameras. It makes things like this much easier, and I don’t get my tail handed to me by some unexpected confession way down the line. Anyways, so what are you looking for?”
This seemed just a bit too inconvenient, Mason thought.
He walked in, Luke grabbed him, and now Luke wanted to know the purpose of his mission? It was great that his friend cared for him, but as he usually thought with coincidences…
Was Luke working for the enemy? Was Luke actually the enemy?
It bugged Mason to no end that one of the worst things that had happened as a result of this mission was the constant deception. Pretending to flirt with Tessa. Having to assume a fake identity. It was one thing to lie for the sake of your country. It was another because you were the errand boy of some unknown terrorist group.
It was having a psychological effect on Mason where his paranoia and self-talk was becoming increasingly self-destructive. It was not hard to envision a scenario wherein it led to his downfall, whether by trusting someone too little or taking unnecessary action, leading to someone getting hurt. Or worse.
If you can’t trust Luke, you don’t want to live anyways. Too dark of a world.