by Seeley James
All she’d wanted was to curl up on the couch and fall asleep with Dad’s leg for her pillow.
She looked left and right, half expecting his booming voice to echo down the halls any second, calling her name. His distinctive, confident march might round the corner at any second. She even ducked out of the drawing room to see if he were coming.
She wandered through the empty rooms, keenly aware of how Alan Sabel had filled the enormous space. People had come and gone every day. Business associates, executives, politicians, artists, and friends swirled through the rooms so often she couldn’t remember being alone. But now, without him, the emptiness was overwhelming.
Wandering into the dark library, she reached for the light switch. Then changed her mind. She liked the dark. It fit. Besides, there was a small fire burning in the third fireplace.
Nearing the warm glow, she realized a woman sat in one of two wingbacks. Middle-aged, sturdy, the woman wore a clerical collar. She held a book in her lap and rested her feet on a coffee table.
“Excuse me, are you the priest from Dad’s funeral?”
“Is that how you remember me?” She glanced over reading glasses.
“What are you doing here?”
“Reading a book, obviously.” She held up a copy of Sophocles’ tragedies.
“Can I tell you something, Reverend?” Pia eased around a matching chair and perched on the edge. “Once I stood on a cliff and watched the surf pounding against the basalt. A mountain of water pushed its way into the tiny cove, swelling the seas by ten feet. When the water pummeled into the bluff, it exploded skyward and fell back in tiny, frothy white bubbles. Then the momentum pulled the waters away from shore. The white foam broke away to reveal an ocean of infinite blue-green calm. I imagined myself jumping into the tranquil sea. In that moment, I felt connected to the entire ocean, from the shores of California to the Arctic Ice Shelf to sandy Caribbean beaches to the depths of the Mariana Trench. For just that instant, I felt the loving embrace of a universal creator and I understood how everyone on Earth is interdependent. I felt part of one great and cosmic plan for human beings to live well and love each other. Then the massive walls of water rose behind me and marched once again toward the land. The ocean carried me, helpless and flailing, toward the immovable cliff. Millions of tons of seawater would crush me against the jagged rock. I would explode skyward, to return again as nothing more than frothy red bubbles. I no longer felt connected. I was no longer in the presence of a loving creator. I was about to die at the whim of unimaginable power.”
“You’re not helpless in the ocean, Pia.” The woman tucked a marker in the book and slapped it closed. “You’re the rock.”
“Then why has God abandoned me?”
“Is that what He’s done?” She tilted her head. “You don’t consider yourself lucky to have all these wonderful people in your life, even if it’s not for as long as you’d like?”
“Excuse me? I’m supposed to be grateful that a monster murdered Dad?”
“My, how we like to complain.” She motioned to the cavernous wood-paneled room. “Have you tried telling your problems to a Holocaust survivor? Perhaps you’d like to trade places with a Syrian or Sudanese?”
“I’ve lost my whole family.” Pia edged into the chair and worried her hands. “I’m alone. And this is how you comfort me?”
Pia blew out an exasperated breath. She picked up her phone, ready to call security. Why listen to this interloper when she could have the woman ejected? Hesitation held her thumb over the panic button. She didn’t press it. As rude and mean as this priest was, Pia found herself just forsaken enough to want the company.
“Do you really think you’re so insignificant they aren’t tracking you with live satellite feeds?” An ugly snarl dominated the woman’s voice.
“What? I don’t know what you—”
“You led Viktor Popov to Stefan’s house.” The woman’s face hardened. Her eyes narrowed. “Popov won’t hesitate to kill them. He’ll start with Emma, then Ethan. He’ll leave Stefan for last. Then you’ll better understand why Olivier made his painful choices. And you sit here whining.”
CHAPTER 52
No one knows what gets into Ms. Sabel sometimes. Some say it’s the devil. Some say it’s an angel. Some say it’s the ghost of her mother. But when she gets a burr under her saddle, forty thousand employees jump. Even late on Thanksgiving night. Even if some of them bet on the Cowboys when it was tied in the fourth quarter. Even if they had more than their share of wine because they weren’t planning on driving anywhere.
We hadn’t been celebrating Thanksgiving all by itself. We were also celebrating Emily and Bianca’s engagement. Some of us were celebrating extra hard, hoping to forget Alan Sabel died on my watch.
Which is why I was walking—in a fashion—an eight-block circle through Stefan’s neighborhood. I fist-bumped the other Sabel agents when our patrols intersected. Every full circle I met Miguel. He let me know the Redskins were up by a touchdown. He considered the Redskins-Cowboys matchup a re-enactment of history and always bet on his people. Even if they have as much in common with Navajos as kangaroos.
Twelve of us circled around, weaving through alleys, using our Sabel Vision visors, and keeping in touch with our earbuds. Our mission: to keep Stefan protected—without him knowing we were outside.
The empty streets and alcohol gave me time to reflect on life. Since Alan’s death, I felt as if I’d fallen down a deep well. Way up top, I could see the New Jersey cops talking to Detective CJ about Kasey’s murder. Next to them, senators talked to the press about my role in the invasion of Kaliningrad. The fat lawyer called down to me about considering a plea deal. Less jail time.
But none of that bothered me as much as the sight of Sylvia walking out of Sabel Gardens after my implication that she was a woman of ill repute. In the history of cringe-memories, it was a new low for me. I’d never felt such a strong and instant bond with a woman before. I’d never blown it with so many megatons in such spectacular fashion in such a minuscule amount of time before, either. And, to top it off, Ms. Sabel was mad at me for doing poorly with a woman who helped foster kids.
All that thinking led me to contemplate those who had god on their side and how they firmly believed god would help them navigate treacherous times.
Mercury marched in step with me. Have some faith, dawg. Don’t you think I got you covered?
I said, Not really.
Mercury said, Oh yeah? Well. I still haven’t seen a shrine under construction back at your crib, yo. When you gonna get on that?
There was an argument I thought best to ignore.
Scenes of death played over and over in my head. Sylvia walking away. Alan’s head blown apart. Kasey’s body with three neat holes in it. I’d seen hundreds die. Most deserved it. A few were brothers in arms. But that night, it all weighed on me like never before.
Mercury never shuts up. See, if y’all was down with the shrine thang, we could talk about the three Russians who got past your patrols on the main street.
I said, What? Where? Never mind.
I barked into my comm link. “Yo, who has eyes on the front door?”
Three guys reported in.
I said, “Take cover and keep watch. You may have hostiles approaching.”
I took off running.
Mercury floated alongside me. And if you showed just one sign of respect, we could talk about the four Russians sneaking through the alley. Naturally, y’all know the front is a feint. They’re going for the back door.
My foot found a tree trunk and pushed off, allowing me a change of direction at full gallop.
“Who has eyes on the backyard?”
No one answered.
“Miguel, meet me in the alley.”
I jumped a hedge and cut through someone’s backyard. The next fence was easy to scale because they parked a table up against it. But the third house had a barking dog. They had a block wall that I grabbed onto at the same time the
dog caught the hem of my jeans. He wouldn’t let go and became the neighbor’s dog when I finally shook him off. His confusion about the landscape saved me.
In the backyard next to Stefan’s, I stood on the roof of a dollhouse and used my Sabel Visor to locate four heat signatures in the alley. They were waiting for a signal from the front door crew. As soon as Stefan went to answer the knock, they would sweep in the back and nab the kids. After that, Ms. Sabel’s tall skinny boyfriend would be putty in their evil hands.
Miguel’s large frame appeared on thermal imaging at the far end of the alley.
Two months earlier, Viktor Popov had been in a wheelchair. By now, he could be on crutches but not in a home invasion crew. Yet he didn’t seem the type to stay at home and watch it on pay-per-view either. I scanned the area around me. Nothing else moved. No waiting cars with warm bodies in them.
My front yard crew reported they were in position and ready to move. Miguel signaled his readiness. We had the element of surprise, yet something bothered me.
Mercury said, Dawg. If there was even the foundation for a shrine in your backyard, I would point out that they snuck through your patrols.
Which meant we did not have the element of surprise. And that implied they were waiting for us to engage them.
The seconds ticked by while I thought it through. You can’t keep special ops guys frosty for too long. One of them pinged me. “You giving the go, Jacob?”
“Hold off,” Miguel said.
When you work with a guy long enough, you gain something of a telepathic connection. Miguel was a leader in action, never in words. He had the same problem with the scenario but was waiting for me to give the orders. Having too much pride to ask him for guidance over an open channel, I turned to my resident deity.
Mercury shrugged. OK, homie, but this is the last freebie. Next time you want some advice, you better be buying some marble and have some plans drawn up. We clear?
I said, Absolutely. My word of honor.
Word of what? Mercury did a full over-the-shoulder eye roll. Metro Station, dude. Eight Russians showed up and got rolled by thirty Sabel agents. Think you’re gonna fool Popov twice?
“Shit.” I used the open comm link. “Everyone fall back to Stefan’s place. Make a visible defensive line behind the best available barricades. The guys we’re looking at are the ones they want us to see.”
Six of our guys jumped Stefan’s fence and took up positions on his back porch. Reports came in from the front door as well. I saw Stefan pull back a curtain to check out the noise. As long as he didn’t turn on a light, we were golden.
He turned on the lights.
His backyard lit up like daylight.
Miguel opened fire on the four in the alley. Even though he had no choice, it pretty much committed us to play right into the Russian ambush. I ran into the fray, firing Sabel Darts as I ran. Somewhere on the other side of the Russian crew, Miguel was coming at a dead run doing the same thing.
Our four targets hesitated a second, then jumped a fence and did a backyard tour parkour-style. We had to follow, even though it was a trap. If they got away from us, they could circle back and take Stefan’s kids.
My buddy, the newly-displaced dog, had one Russian by the leg. I darted the soldier and carried the mutt back where he belonged. He gave me a second to escape before resuming his barking. I made it to another alley where Miguel had dropped a guy. At the corner, my friend stood holding up a hand.
He was listening.
Mercury said, Congratulations, bro. You are officially boxed in by the enemy.
“Miguel!” I whispered. “Over the wall.”
In unison, we vaulted a chain-link fence obscured by a thick hedge and landed in someone’s yard. On the other side, four new Russians ran up the alley to join their two remaining counterparts. Without Mercury’s warning, we would’ve been Swiss cheese. Instead, we held our fire and wedged our way into vantage points in the bushes. When all six came into our field of fire, we put them down.
Behind us, a homeowner flipped on his lights and shouted about having a gun.
We were over the fence and down the alley in a heartbeat. There are too many well-intentioned-but-poorly-trained suburbanites who keep weapons handy. They shoot without regard to the trajectory and whether their neighbors might be in the line of fire. It was best not to make ourselves a target.
At the end of the alley, a bulletproof limo rolled by.
“Popov,” I said. “Gotta be.”
I ran to my car while Miguel went to the street to maintain visual contact. The Ferrari was not the best tactical vehicle due to its non-existent armor, but it excelled in pursuit. Miguel bailed into the passenger seat when I slowed near him.
He grabbed his .50 cal rifle out of his pack and assembled it.
I rounded a corner and saw the Russian limo three blocks ahead. I put my foot down. The Ferrari answered the call with a roar. Miguel stood up in the convertible, the wind buffeting his helmet. He aimed at the tires.
A Montgomery County Police Transport swerved out of a cross street. He slammed on his brakes. I slammed on my brakes. We skidded to a stop two inches from his back wheel.
Several barrels protruded through the transport’s gun portals aimed at our heads.
CHAPTER 53
It was a sad gathering for the SHaRCs. Nearly in tears over being hunted by Popov, Yuri sat in a rented mansion. His unfocused gaze wandered down the slope where the lights on yachts bobbed on gentle sways in the cove. They were on Saint Barthélemy, commonly referred to as St. Barts, in the Caribbean. He felt worse than General Grachev at the Battle of Grozny. Gloom filled the sunny island air. He had failed them.
The other surviving members of SHaRC arrived, one at a time. They piled their bags and backpacks in the living room. Roman handed out room assignments, gave them instructions, and a glass of vodka. They milled about on the veranda, chatting with each other in low tones. They related their narrow escapes.
Yuri listened to their voices with a heavy heart. Their rash decision to become stateless was costing them far more than they had bargained for. But then, revolutions always require sacrifice.
Sodade by Césaria Évora, the saddest song in human history, streamed in his ears. The Brazilian singer sang of longing for something missing in life. While he could relate, he had to concentrate. He turned it off.
He had already committed his melancholy little speech to memory. All he needed to do was deliver it and hope it helped. Threatening Roman worked, but Roman was different. He had eagerly learned the grim things that must be done in desperate times. Yuri worked with him in Brazil, teaching him how to kill drug dealers for practice. The young man had come a long way. Now Roman was the kind of lieutenant who would execute orders without remorse. The others were still young and idealistic. The world had not yet jaded them.
Which led him to wonder why his men meant so much to Popov. Why commit such vast resources to hunt down a few hackers? It would make more sense to forget about them. His people were good, maybe the best, but no one is irreplaceable. Even if his men were that good, the reasonable solution would be to assign three bandas to the project. Popov had unlimited resources. They would never miss eleven young men and a major.
Unless Yuri possessed something he didn’t fully appreciate.
Which must be the case.
Yuri observed his men across the pool through his open doors. What made them so special? Was it because he could tell the Americans who was behind #HuntersFail? Not without spending his life in jail. Popov knew they were on the run. That was better for everyone involved. So why kill Aleksandr on the balcony? Why send so many men to Belo Horizonte?
He looked at the pieces of the puzzle and realized his view was too limited. To a soldier like Yuri, Strangelove and Popov were as high up the food chain as he could see. But Popov was just a servant to someone else. Maybe several someone elses. Strangelove had alluded to being pushed around by strutting young peacocks.
; Yuri thought back to the basic building blocks of modern Russia’s economic and political structure: the oligarchy. It had risen from the ashes of the Soviet Union. At first, the oligarchy was in constant state of war inside Russia. Gang versus mob. Medevtin tamed them, but he never harnessed them as a team.
Yuri looked across the turquoise bay and put on his sunglasses to minimize the excessive sunshine. The glasses rubbed at his still-tender face.
Yeschenko, Prokhorov, Usmanov—in fact, all the Russian oligarchs—had gigantic egos. Their success in their given fields gave each man an unrealistic but resolute belief in his own omnipotence. They were vultures picking at the carcass of the global economy. They would tolerate each other, even work together to drive off competing species of scavengers. But they would peck the other’s eye out if one of them felt disrespected. Yuri considered how the Americans—Roche, Ellison, Koch, Walton—were similar.
Each of these ultra-rich men had carved out his own slice of the world’s pie. Each of them had convinced themselves he alone could run the world. All he needed was free rein.
As the world’s twenty-first-century billionaires rose in power and stature, something parallel happened in politics. Globalization created a free market tightly governed by the politicians. And therein lay the billionaire’s problem. When governments disagree, tycoons are often sacrificed at the whim of the officials.
Billionaires don’t like to bow to bureaucrats. They don’t bow to anyone.
A cool ocean breeze stroked Yuri’s face.
He tapped a pen on his chin. Then what are the billionaires trying to accomplish? What do they want?
The eternal pursuit of all the money in the world.
That’s where governments get in the way.
When Yuri earned his master’s in American history, he was struck by the ferocity of postwar American national pride. The Great Generation knew that to overcome the Depression and the world at war, their best hope was selfless teamwork on a national scale. That same national commitment had glued the Soviet Union together for the second half of the twentieth century despite its obviously failed economic system. A population committed to a common goal was a powerful entity. Working together, they put men in space and cured diseases, built highways and schools, and achieved a higher standard of living for everyone.
