by Jeff Gunhus
He smiled. “You’re probably right, but it’s your call.”
She set her jaw, all playfulness gone, the pre-mission routine of mentally preparing herself already starting. Once a decision was made, she was all in. There was no other way. When she gave her answer, there was no doubt left in her voice.
“Let’s get these assholes.”
CHAPTER 34
Hawthorn left the W Hotel across from the Treasury Building just after eleven o’clock. He checked up and down the sidewalk, looking for tails out of habit. He hoped Scott and Mara were there, somewhere, but he had no illusion that he would be able to spot either of them. Not unless they meant for him to see them.
He wondered whether the operative deployed in Iowa was there. Maybe. Maybe others, too. His fingers drifted to the gun in his pocket, a reassurance he wouldn’t have allowed himself in his younger years as it tipped off anyone with sharp eyes where at least one of his weapons was located, but he needed the touch to steady his nerves.
He’d been on hundreds of meets before, often in foreign countries with governments that hated the United States. This one in the middle of his home turf ought to have been a walk in the park, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. And he had a good idea why.
He always knew his adversary, often better than they knew themselves. Armed with a psychological profile, Hawthorn could understand why a zealot claimed to love their country even as he betrayed it, or why a man was willing to kill for money even if he had more than he might ever spend.
But he didn’t know the woman he was about to meet. Not really.
He only knew that she was ruthless. That she’d demonstrated time and time again that Omega for which she spoke had incredible reach and resources. He didn’t know how deep they were burrowed into his own people, but he’d taken no chances. The few people he felt he could trust completely were on guard detail with little Joey. He owed at least that to Scott and Mara. He hoped they’d repaid the favor by coming to DC and backing him up.
He needed the help because he needed to take the Director alive. Even if it cost him his life.
The meet was at the Korean War Memorial. He’d chosen to walk to give Scott and Mara a chance to see if he picked up any tails. And just in case things didn’t go well, it gave him one last time to see this city that he both loved and hated.
It was a town filled with good and evil, altruism and cynicism. The brightest minds came hoping to make a difference, but even the strongest of them inevitably ran aground against the rocky shoals of DC politics. Broken and changed, most fled after a few years, heads shaking as they ran back to life in the private sector to cash in on their time in the cesspool. Those who stuck it out were changed, too, evolving into survivalists in a dystopian world of zero-sum politics and power struggles that rivaled any science fiction novel.
But it was the life he’d known. And he’d done the best he could with it.
He cut through the Ellipse in front of the White House, across Constitution, and entered the World War II Memorial. He stopped in front of the Freedom Wall, where four thousand sculpted gold stars commemorated the over four hundred thousand American lives lost during the war. His father was one of those casualties, and he wondered what his dad would have thought of the world he’d died to save.
Same shit, different day, was what came to mind. His dad had loved saying that. Hawthorn remembered clearly feeling like a man the first time his dad had said it around him.
And he was right. All of it was same shit, different day. But that was the only way the nation was going to survive. Fighting the good fight over and over. Playing relentless defense. Men and women willing to give their all to make a more perfect union even if it felt impossible at times.
Hawthorn smiled as he imagined the saying carved into the granite on the U.S. Capitol building. Same shit, different day. And ain’t it grand?
Movement to his left drew his attention, and for a fleeting second he saw a man walk behind a pillar. But it was enough of a look for him to know it was Scott. And that meant Mara was somewhere nearby. If Scott had been able to convince her to let his men take care of Joey, that was. He breathed a little easier knowing he had backup.
He looked at his watch and realized he’d lingered longer than he’d meant, a foolish old man lost in his thoughts.
Hawthorn struck out toward the Korean Memorial, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. If he was going to survive the next half hour, he needed to be sharp. And damn lucky.
CHAPTER 35
He saw Hawthorn. The old man hadn’t taken any measures to disguise his appearance or lower the profile of his approach. He walked down the middle of the gravel path next to the reflection pool that stretched from the Lincoln Memorial toward the Washington Monument like a man out simply to catch the night air.
Asset raised his Mk13 Mod7 and acquired the old man through his optics. With the magnification and the improved light-gathering properties of the Nightforce ATACR riflescope, he could clearly make out Hawthorn’s face. He took aim at the man’s head, imagining the red spray explosion if he chose to pull the trigger. The .300 Winchester magnum-caliber round wouldn’t leave much of Hawthorn’s head for the United States Park Police to piece together once they found him.
But his orders were specific. Townsend was on hold. His employer had set up a meet with Hawthorn, one that could impact his mission to kill the ex-president. Without a signal from his employer, he was only to observe the meet and ensure Hawthorn had come alone, as promised.
Asset shifted against the tree where he’d taken position and scanned the area behind Hawthorn for a tail. He’d already inspected the memorial and the area directly around it. He’d located the few cameras that covered the area and easily hijacked their feeds to play a loop of the empty memorial. He doubted if the precaution had been necessary. With thousands of videos canvassing the mall, it wasn’t like a human being was reviewing the footage.
But his employer didn’t like cameras. And if he ended up having to shoot Hawthorn during the meet, every security agency would be digging through the videos.
He was about to turn back to Hawthorn when he spotted another man on the far side of the reflection pool. He had a ball cap on and a windbreaker. He walked with his hands dug into his pockets, slouched over like a man who’d had a bad day. There was something about his walk that bothered him. A normal person would have missed it. Even he had trouble figuring out exactly what his instinct was telling him.
Asset increased the magnification on his scope, trying to get a closer look at the man’s face. The ball cap kept his features in shadow and he had his face just slightly turned away, as if knowing he was being watched.
Then he passed beneath a light and turned just enough for him to get a look.
Asset smiled at what he saw.
CHAPTER 36
Hawthorn approached the memorial carefully, his hand grazing across the gun in his pocket. Unlike the Vietnam Memorial, which sank below ground level as visitors followed along the black wall of names, the Korean War Memorial drew focus to the statues of nineteen soldiers on patrol. They were slightly larger than life, each over seven feet tall, recreated in haunting detail. Thirteen U.S. Army soldiers, three Marines, a Navy Corpsman, and an Air Force Forward Air Observer. Muscles tensed. Eyes scanning for danger. Their worn uniforms showing these were men who had seen action. Their expressions made it clear they knew the horror of what war meant.
Hawthorn felt that he was one of them.
There were a few tourists lingering at the far end, past the black wall that lined one side of the monument that held the etched likeness of men and women who had served in the conflict. They were young, maybe early twenties, and posed for photos in front of the statues. One of them copied the stance of the man on point, giving his friends a good laugh. The act bothered Hawthorn. On a different day he might have marched over to them and had a conversation about sacred ground and sacrifice, but this wasn’t the time.
He looked over the area, wondering where she would come from. Wondering if she would come at all.
“Hello, Jim,” a voice with a slight English accent came from beside him.
He turned, shocked that she’d been able to get so close to him without him knowing. She was tall, younger than he’d imagined, although her dark skin may have simply covered any signs of age. Her proud bearing was unmistakable. Confident, coiled tight but cocky, a cat walking among mice. She wore black tight running clothes and a hooded sweatshirt that she left up.
“Director, nice to finally meet you,” he said.
“Is it?” She cocked her head as if truly curious.
“Not really,” he said. “Just being polite.”
“Why don’t you worry less about being polite and instead tell me why you needed to meet?”
The tourists near the fountain at the far end of the monument were moving on. Hawthorn considered that they might all be operatives, working for this woman. If so, they were good. He walked along the path on the opposite side of the row of statues from them and the Director followed.
“I killed Scott and Mara Roberts,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
He allowed himself to look surprised, careful not to overplay it. “How could you know?”
She squinted as she looked at him, and he worried she’d caught some tell that he was playing a part. “Have you really forgotten who I am? Who I represent? We’re everywhere. We know everything.”
He slouched his shoulders just enough to look resigned to the truth of what she was saying.
“They were my friends.”
“You have a message from Townsend?”
He stopped and turned to her. “He wants in.”
“In where?”
“Omega. Life on the outside of power doesn’t suit him. He craves to be part of it all again. To be relevant. The book was a ploy to get your attention.”
“You could have told me this over the phone.”
“He wanted the message to go to only you.”
“What does he know about me?”
“That you can act on your own discretion, but that really you’re just a conduit. There are others behind you, men who tell you what to do, how to do it.”
She showed no reaction to the bait. The Director he knew wouldn’t have accepted the comment. The woman in front of him was too controlled. Too much into her performance. She was good, but Hawthorn’s power of observation was better.
The woman continued to walk. “What is Townsend willing to do to prove his intention?”
Hawthorn stopped and waited for the woman to do the same. “He wants that only to be communicated to the Director herself,” he said.
When she saw his face, her expression changed. She took a step back, a hand disappearing into her jacket. He had no doubt that he now had a gun trained on him.
“Is the real Director nearby?” he said. “Or has this just been a waste of time?”
The woman tried a flicker of indignation, but then gave up on it. Her expression turned hard, but she said nothing.
Hawthorn felt the energy drain out of him. It was all for nothing. The woman hadn’t come.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“I’m here, Jim,” a new voice said.
As he turned, he felt something hammer his chest. Not a heart attack, or a blow from a fist. A shock so great that he felt he might lose his balance as he tried to make sense of it.
A woman walked up from the shadows behind the fountains and Hawthorn found himself looking at a ghost.
Wendy Roberts.
CHAPTER 37
The old man’s head was still in the crosshairs of the Nightforce scope. Asset watched as the black woman turned and left the scene, taking position to the west of the monument. Asset didn’t like that there were players on the field he didn’t know about, but he wasn’t paid to like things. He was paid to kill.
He took three slow breaths and checked his pulse against his neck. Too quick. The professional in him demanded that he focus on the matter at hand. The hunter in him couldn’t help but feel the excitement.
Seeing Scott Roberts alive brought with it a rush of emotions. Clearly, Hawthorn had spotted him back in Iowa. How, he didn’t have a clue. But he had; then he’d staged the death of the other two for his benefit.
He’d been played for a fool.
But now he would set things right. Not only with Hawthorn, but with Scott Roberts and his daughter. He drifted his sniper rifle to his left and centered his scope on Scott crawling up toward the edge of the monument, where Hawthorn talked with his employer. He moved his finger to the trigger and felt its comforting cool metal against his skin. An easy shot. Too easy. Not nearly the sport he’d hoped for from an operative as renowned as the great Scott Roberts.
But wasn’t that just an indication of how much better he was? That he could take out his adversary so easily?
His orders were to kill anyone who appeared to violate Hawthorn’s promise to come alone, but to only shoot the old man on a signal.
He settled the entire weight of the rifle on the shooting sticks so it felt weightless in his hands. A deep breath. His heart slowed on command.
The world ceased to exist around him except for what was in the sight.
He envisioned the shot, then pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER 38
Mara followed in a flanking maneuver for the entire walk to the monument. She only spotted the sniper by chance, and with the help of one of Harry’s toys.
The sniper had passed on the most obvious positions to cover the meet and instead chosen a copse of trees on a small rise, where he took a prone position on the ground. Using a pair of thermal binoculars, she caught the barest trace of him, a heat signature that might have been a squirrel in the trees.
But staying on the position proved fruitful as the man made a movement, his hand to his neck from what she could tell, allowing her a quick look at his position before he covered back up with a thermal blanket.
She completed the scan, looking for a second sniper or any kind of support, but found none. But she knew from experience that not seeing something didn’t mean it wasn’t there. She needed to proceed with caution.
A look at the Korean War Memorial, where Hawthorn had just been joined by a tall woman in a hoodie, told her she didn’t have much time.
Taking a wide arc around the sniper’s position, she worked her way through the trees, coming up directly behind him. The ground was wet from rain earlier, otherwise she doubted the approach would have worked.
She was only a few feet away, behind a tree, when she saw him adjust the rifle on the shooting sticks.
He was about to fire.
Mara lunged forward and kicked the barrel just as the rifle discharged with a muffled thumph, its suppressor stifling the shot’s sound.
She dropped her body mass straight down at the lump under the thermal blanket, leading the point of the knife in her hand.
The man was gone, rolled out to the side an instant earlier.
Pain exploded in her right shoulder. She kicked and twisted her body as a knife sliced the air inches from her face.
She countered with a blind thrust, risking the exposure to buy time.
Her knife found flesh and dug in, eliciting a grunt of pain from the man.
She didn’t press the attack. She had no blade awareness of her opponent, and the opening she thought was there might have been a trap. Bait designed to get her to gamble and try to end the fight early.
Her instinct told her that it would end if she lunged forward, but not the way she wanted it.
Instead, she pushed back, rolled, and climbed to her feet. She reached for her gun, but it wasn’t there.
She’d lost it on the ground, somewhere in the leaves.
The man was on his feet in front of her, favoring his left leg, where she’d stuck him. He didn’t reach for a gun either. She wondered if he didn’t have one, or if his ego had the better of
him and he wanted the knife fight.
Either way, it showed overconfidence. A weakness she might exploit.
She recognized him from the farm in Iowa. He seemed to know her as well because he grinned and inclined his head, as if they were acquaintances enjoying a chance meeting on the street.
Her shoulder ached, a slashing wound through the muscle. Not bad, but enough to give the man in front of her an edge in a fight.
She shifted her knife to her left hand. She preferred her right, but not by much. Purposefully, she assumed an awkward grip and posture, as if fighting left was a foreign idea to her.
If she was correct about the man in front of her, she was going to need every advantage she could get.
CHAPTER 39
Wendy.
It couldn’t be. But there she was, walking toward Hawthorn. Alive. Her mannerisms unmistakable even from a distance. The tilt of her head. The movement of her hands. The way she glided instead of walked. The proud, confident bearing that had always made her stand out in any room she entered. It was her.
His wife.
Back from the dead.
He choked back a sob at the sheer surprise of it. The years of pain and false grief pouring off him like layers of accumulated sediment. The reality of seeing her slamming him forward into the moment.
Into the truth of what her presence meant.
Betrayal. All over again.
The shock passed through him and left behind a new emotion. It started as disappointment, grew to anger, and then ended in rage.
He climbed up from his hiding spot, snipers be damned, and set out to confront the woman who’d broken his heart all over again.
CHAPTER 40
Mara lunged with her left, leaving her right shoulder open to attack, trying to draw the man in. He didn’t take the bait. Instead, he retreated and circled her, first left and then right. Too cautious for her liking.
“The great Mara Roberts,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure’s all yours, asshole.”
