The Devil's Hand

by Carr, Jack

  “Well, don’t you go getting all smitten with any of those young female spies,” Katie said, pointing her fork at the former SEAL.

  “Speaking of smitten,” Reece said, pulling a box from his pocket.

  “It’s not a ring, so don’t get nervous,” he said, smiling. “Just a little something…”

  Katie put her hand to her heart.

  “James, you did not have to do that.”

  She opened the box and looked down at a gleaming diamond pendant in a platinum setting with chain.

  “But I’m glad you did. It’s beautiful, James. I love it!”

  “I know I missed your birthday while I was away. And I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? For what?”

  “For leaving the way I did. I was so focused on the mission, I didn’t stop to think about anything else. I had the opportunity to go after Grey and finish it. I couldn’t have him coming after you again.”

  Katie saw the candlelight reflected in the dark green eyes of the man who had killed for her. She swallowed knowing that he was capable of intense violence and intense passion; she had firsthand experience with both.

  “I had one of Raife’s outfitters bring it down from the Northwest Territories. I had no idea Canada was such a big player in the diamond industry. Jonathan Hastings knows Martin Katz, so he set the stone for you.”

  “So fancy,” she said. “I had no idea you had such refined taste.”

  Katie pulled the stone from the box and brushed her blond hair aside as she tilted her head to clasp the catch behind her neck.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asked.

  “It’s striking. But not nearly as stunning as who’s wearing it. You look beautiful.”

  “Oh, stop it, Mr. Reece. You are going to make me blush.”

  “What do you say we settle up and get out of here?” Reece asked.

  “You think this diamond means you’re getting lucky tonight?”

  “One can hope.”

  “I thought you told me that hope is not a course of action.”

  “I did, hence the diamond,” the former frogman said, pointing to the rare gem around the reporter’s neck.

  “Your place or mine?” Katie asked, with a gleam in her eye.

  Reece signaled the waiter for the check.

  “Yours is closer,” he said.

  “We can have dessert at my condo.”

  “I’m in. What are you serving?”

  “You’re looking at it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THEY HIT THE STREET arm in arm, bundled up against the evening chill. Katie noted Reece’s eyes scanning up and down the street, moving their way back over the windows and rooftops. Old habits die hard. He had been a little more on edge lately, perhaps due to the CIA training. Katie knew it involved a lot of basic spy tradecraft, surveillance detection, driving, and asset assessment and recruitment.

  Katie had been unsuccessful in getting him to open up about his trek across Siberia. She knew he was alone for six months and had somehow made it from Medny Island, off the Kamchatka Peninsula, more than a thousand miles into the interior in search of his prey. She could only imagine the demons he’d wrestled alone, cold, tired, and hungry. How he had ventured from the Russian interior to the Central African Republic remained a mystery. She knew that from the American embassy in Bangui, the CIA had stepped in and brought him home.

  Since his return he’d made a point of taking her to the range and running drills with her Glock 19 and Bravo Company AR topped with an Aimpoint Micro red-dot optic. She was pleasantly surprised that tonight’s gift was jewelry and not a blade, gun, or weapon of some sort.

  Both her firearms were legal in Virginia, but if she forgot and drove over the invisible boundary into the District of Columbia, she risked imprisonment. Beware of the government that fears your guns. In less than the distance of a foot, she’d go from law-abiding citizen to felon. Citizens could be trusted in Virginia but not in D.C., though even that could change. Virginia had been trending away from the state motto so boldly emblazoned on their official state seal and flag: Sic semper tyrannis—Thus always to tyrants.

  She’d written a few articles for Town Hall and National Review on the irony of politicians calling to defund the police, while surrounding themselves and their families with armed security paid for by the taxpayers. More often than not, these were the same politicians taking active measures to ensure private citizens could not own firearms. The irony seemed to be lost on the mob, but not on Katie. She proposed that any politician who supported legislation to defund law enforcement should also be responsible for funding their own security. How they could live with themselves in a constant state of hypocrisy, Katie would never comprehend. As long as she had a platform, she was going to hold them accountable. That was the responsibility of a free press, or what was left of it.

  Knowing that husbands or boyfriends were inevitably the worst teachers due to relationship dynamics, Reece had his buddy, Ox, come up to run them through drills in individual and team tactics, working barricades, training in vehicle dynamics, room clearing, malfunctions, tactical communication, and combat medicine.

  Rick “Ox” Andrews had been around the block a time or two. Closing in on sixty years old, he’d earned his nickname as a young Ranger weighted down with a mortar tube across his shoulders and belts of linked M60 ammo crisscrossing his chest, sprinting across the Port Salines Airport runway in Grenada. He’d eventually serve as a sergeant major in Delta Force before he retired into the waiting arms of Ground Branch, continuing to put rounds into terrorists and insurgents the world over. When not deployed with the CIA, he trained up new recruits stateside at the Farm and conducted more specialized training at a black site in Florida. As luck would have it, he was running the basic rifle and pistol courses for Reece’s clandestine services class and was available to help teach Katie the way of the gun.

  Katie was a quick study and was feeling more and more comfortable with her pistol and rifle. She learned to win the fight before rendering aid to her partner, regardless of how horrific the wound. She now had RATS tourniquets in her purse, car, and condo. At home, they trained to both barricade in place and clear the two-floor structure. Reece had even made them test out their pistol and rifle-mounted lights, shining them against the off-white walls to ensure the bright beams wouldn’t reflect and blind them in a stressful situation. Ox also ran them through scenarios in personal protective detail tactics and vehicle dynamics with Katie as the principal moving to cover in the event of an attack.

  Katie thought a lot of it was overkill. Then she remembered being bound and gagged on the floor of Secretary of Defense Hartley’s Fishers Island mansion, being thrown to the ground on the streets of Chinatown in LA with an assassin moving in for the kill, and taking aim at a Russian mafia hit man with a rifle through a sliding glass door of the Hastingses’ Montana home. It did not escape her that the common denominator in all of that violence was Reece. The devastating loss of his family was directly related to the weapons and tactical training he was so intent on putting her through.

  She had come to terms with the idea that being with Reece was inherently dangerous. Could she live a life of constant vigilance? The closer they became, the more she found herself asking that question. She also knew he longed for the wilds of Montana and Alaska. With a country that seemed more divided with each passing day, she was more amenable to leaving her life as a journalist behind and moving with Reece to the mountains. That meant abandoning the possibility of hosting a prime-time cable news show, but it would allow her time to focus on research and writing. Maybe it was time? Would Reece begin a new life with her? Would he start a new family? Those were questions she had yet to explore. She knew he wasn’t ready. There was something he still needed to do; she could sense it. She had respected his privacy and not pushed; there was still a demon in Reece’s crosshairs.

  Katie moved to Reece’s left side, his support arm pulling her close, leaving
his right hand free to go to the gun, his mind subconsciously noting cover, concealment, and avenues of egress, storing the information away in the event he needed it. To Reece, it was as natural as breathing.

  * * *

  Even with his preliminary and secondary scan of the area, Reece didn’t notice the nondescript dark blue minivan with Maryland plates half a block down. Nothing made it seem like anything other than a run-of-the-mill grocery getter for a local soccer mom. It certainly did not stand out as a specially designed rolling surveillance vehicle, with miniature cameras installed and concealed to record in 360-degree high definition.

  “Target’s moving,” a man dressed in the dark casual clothes of the season said into a mic attached to an encrypted radio.

  “Copy. I have visual,” a voice responded.

  The operative in the back of the minivan didn’t ask why his team had been tasked with surveillance of a killer who was once the most wanted domestic terrorist in the country. Charlie Crimmins had been out of the military for only a couple of years. The drug charges didn’t stick, but they ruined his Marine Corps career. The former sergeant found refuge in private contracting, and right now that paid the bills and let him strap on an M4 in the same places where he’d once deployed as a leatherneck.

  He’d heard rumors that their target had terminated an entire protective detail on an island off upstate New York before killing the secretary of defense a few years back. The former SEAL didn’t look so tough now as he walked with his lady friend through the early winter snow. Crimmins felt himself begin to perspire, thinking that one day he might get a chance to take out a frogman.

  The founder and CEO of Masada wanted him surveilling James Reece. He hoped the company would order him to take things to the next level and install listening devices in the hot reporter’s apartment, better yet, audio and video. He’d like to see what she looked like out of those tight clothes they made the female reporters wear on cable news. He’d make sure he suggested that to his boss. For now, he’d have to be content just to imagine.

  They’d been told to avoid detection at all costs, to get photographs of anyone he met, and to track his every movement. The surveillance team had been reminded that James Reece had a close relationship with violence. And to increase their chances of being witness to the next sunrise, they’d be wise to keep it professional and do their jobs from a distance.

  If the news reports from three years ago were any indication, James Reece was not a man you wanted to cross.

  CHAPTER 15

  White House Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  SECRET SERVICE AGENT FRANK Sharp held the door open and the president of the United States entered the Situation Room.

  “Keep your seats,” the president said, as he made his way to the head of the table.

  Officially called the John F. Kennedy Conference Room, the secure area in what amounted to the basement of the West Wing of the White House had been in operation since 1961. It was installed following the Bay of Pigs fiasco, to ensure the executive branch would have a secure facility to monitor sensitive world events and military operations in real time. Finally updated in 2007, the fax machines and computers that were state-of-the-art during Reagan’s second term were replaced with encrypted communications equipment and flat screens. The room was layered in sensors to detect illicit monitoring. Lead-lined cabinets for smartphones and tablets were built in by the entrance as a reminder to leave unsecure devices on the outside.

  Six black leather swivel chairs were arranged on each side of the rectangular mahogany table and additional chairs lined the walls. There was one seat at the head. The presidential seal affixed to the wall behind it made clear who controlled the room. This was no Knights of the Round Table. Responsibility and accountability fell on the shoulders of only one man, the commander in chief of the United States armed forces.

  The president had entered precisely at 6:00 a.m., balancing a cup of coffee he’d been handed on his way into the secure conference room. Veterans of previous administrations sometimes still called it the “Sit Room,” a term this new generation only knew from books, movies, or fireside chats with their grandparents. It was now called “WHIZZER,” for “White House Situation Room.”

  The young president glanced at his watch, still set five minutes ahead, and smiled at the memory of his father. The room itself was really a collection of rooms manned by a rotating team 24/7, 365 days a year. The staff was assigned for two-year cycles and occupied a Watch Floor just off the main conference area, where they constantly monitored world events for the National Security Council. There were additional offices and breakout rooms for private calls and conversations, one of which had been immortalized in the photo of President Obama’s national security team the night U.S. special operations forces killed Osama bin Laden. Though the area occupied more than five thousand square feet, it still felt surprisingly cramped to those who met there to discuss the government’s most sensitive secrets.

  President Alec Christensen ran his hand down his bright blue tie out of habit and leaned forward in his chair.

  “Thank you all for coming. I know this is not our usual morning crew, but the vice president is attending a funeral in Japan and I wanted to have a more limited discussion today.”

  The president still found it odd not to shake hands with everyone, but the previous year’s coronavirus pandemic had shifted some of the country’s cultural norms. The nation had still not recovered from the devastating impact of an almost complete economic shutdown. It was Alec Christensen’s job to lead the way back to financial prosperity and create the conditions for small businesses to revive. The country had seen technology giants flourish, increasing the distrust between rich and poor, a divide exploited by both parties for political gain. As a Democrat who came from the one percent, the president was acutely aware that any move he made would always be scrutinized through the lens of his past life, privilege offset by service in Afghanistan.

  During the economic shutdown, the power of big business and the technology sector was highlighted on a daily basis. Blue-collar workers read headlines to learn a tech mogul dropped $165 million on a Beverly Hills mansion for his new wife, while regular people wondered how they were going to pay the rent and feed their families. Disdain for the ultrarich grew, their wealth increasing as unemployment soared. The middle class had been decimated, and there were those who blamed a progressive ideology that advanced its base only if Americans became increasingly dependent on government. Christensen understood the theory. Before his foray into politics, he would have categorized it as a fringe conspiracy, but after fifteen years in the swamp he now understood the draw of absolute power for power’s sake. This game was all about control.

  It was the president’s job to bring the Democratic Party back to the ideals that embraced the values of working-class American voters, the people his party claimed to represent, but who in reality had been left behind for Wall Street, Hollywood, tech titans, and media elites long ago. If he succeeded, there was still hope for the country. A predecessor of his had run on a campaign of hope and change only to further commit the United States in the Middle East and escalate a drone war that fed the enemy’s recruiting efforts. If Afghanistan had taught the new president anything, it was that the country needed more than hope. It needed a leader.

  The president went around the table greeting the participants by name. His national security advisor sat to his right, across from the director of national intelligence. His White House counsel shuffled papers opposite Janice Motley, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The president’s eyes settled on a man to her left and one of the only people not usually present for the president’s morning briefing.

  “Mr. Rodriguez, thank you for taking the time out of your morning to be here. I know you have a full plate running the Special Activities Center.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. It’s an honor.”

  “Greg?” the president said, acknowledgin
g his national security advisor.

  Greg Farber’s dark blue suit and red tie were offset by prematurely white hair that lent him an air of distinction usually befitting a much older statesman. He’d been a major in the Army’s Reserve JAG Corps, which let him practice law in the private sector between government appointments in both Democratic and Republican administrations, to include chairing a commission on justice reform in Afghanistan and a successful term as the Special Presidential Envoy for Hostage Affairs.

  “Before we delve into the PDB,” Farber said, referencing the highly classified President’s Daily Brief, “we wanted to convene this working group. The administration is conducting a review of the past extreme rendition programs run by the CIA and targeted drone strikes by both the CIA and armed forces.”

  Motley’s face betrayed nothing, but Terrance Lowe, the director of national intelligence, to whom she reported, turned to her and interjected, “It is time to take a look at these programs to determine what lessons we can learn from the past as we forge ahead.”

  Motley nodded. Director of National Intelligence was a position created out of the 2004 Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act. Prior to 2004, the director of the CIA had overseen the U.S. intelligence apparatus. Now the CIA director was solely focused on her agency, while the DNI was responsible for seventeen different intelligence agencies to include the CIA. The DNI also produced the PDB, the most exclusive and restricted document in the world.

  Terrance Lowe was new to the job. He’d been a SEAL admiral and the commanding officer of the Joint Special Operations Command the night his forces had crossed into Pakistan targeting the world’s most wanted terrorist. After his tenure at JSOC came to a close, he had accepted an offer from his alma mater, Texas A&M University, to serve as president. There he quickly built up his Democratic bona fides, publishing a popular SEAL leadership book and becoming a roundtable regular on the more progressive Sunday morning political talk shows. Some suggested he was building a resume in the hopes of becoming a vice presidential pick to help turn Texas blue. Instead, the president had decided on a female running mate from Florida to bring that swing state into play. He still wanted to reward the former flag officer for his support, which is why he now sat at the commander in chief’s left side. Some editorials were already suggesting the retired admiral planned to challenge the new president in the next election cycle.