Fire and Forget

by Andrew Warren

  “We have a mutual friend,” he said. “He sent word that he was working with you, in South Sudan.”

  “This is Jason … Mr. Carter. He works with the World Health Organization. I met him in Malakal, in the South. He said he was investigating a possible outbreak, a new strain of Ebola. His equipment was stolen, so I offered to run some tests for him at my clinic there.”

  “Is that what those men were looking for, in Khartoum?”

  She shuddered. “The big one, he grabbed me … hit me. He kept asking me where the case was. The samples Mr. Carter gave me, they were in a small silver case. I assume that’s what they meant, but I can’t be sure.”

  A pair of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror. Caine glanced up to confirm no one was following too closely. The road behind them had been long, dark and empty. Now, a trio of three large trucks followed them on the narrow lane of pavement. Caine slowed and let them pass. The trucks each pulled blue cargo trailers, marked by the letters AHA. They rumbled past and disappeared into the distance.

  No other vehicles appeared behind them. Caine turned his attention back to Nena.

  “How would they know this Carter gave you the case in the first place?”

  She was silent for a moment. She reached up and tucked a strand of black hair into the scarf wrapped around her head. She took a long sip of water, then handed the bottle back to Caine.

  “I have no idea. You say Mr. Carter is your friend, but you don’t seem concerned about him. He sounds like a stranger to you.”

  Caine kept his eyes on the road ahead. “It’s complicated.”

  “Please, I am no fool. Who are you? I mean, who are you really?”

  Caine winced again as he lifted the bottle to his lips. “My name is Thomas Caine, and I’m looking for your friend, Mr. Carter. But I’m also looking for someone else. Does the name Simon Takuba mean anything to you?”

  He heard her sharp inhale of breath and turned to look at her. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared.

  “I have heard of him. In the south, once the civil war began, many rebel groups sprang up. The SPLM, The Nuer White Army, the Arrow Boys. Even the LRA was active in the region. Some of these people are considered freedom fighters. Others are little more than thieves and terrorists."

  "It's usually a fine line," Caine said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  Nena’s breathing quickened. "A few years ago, a new militia group formed, one people say is worse than all the others. The Army of the Chosen. They attack villages at night. They steal whatever food or medical supplies the people have. They kill the men, take the children. And the women …” Her voice trailed off.

  “I understand,” Caine said.

  “This man you speak of, Takuba. They say he is their leader. Some of his men fight for food, or merely to survive. Others were taken as children, they know no other life. But he has a small group of bodyguards who worship him like a god. They believe he controls the spirits of the dead, that he can speak to their ancestors. He claims to have the power to prevent these spirits from crossing into the afterlife.”

  “Every cult needs a messiah,” Caine said.

  “They call these men ‘Ghost Jackals’. They wear red scarves and armbands in battle. They paint their faces … the mark of the skull.”

  She mumbled something in Arabic. Caine could not understand the words, but her hands clasped together as if she was praying. When she finished, she looked up at him. “Like the man in my apartment. The one you killed."

  Caine glanced over at her. “I don’t want to frighten you. But if what you say is true, Takuba is obviously after you and these samples."

  “And what are you after?" she asked. "You work for the oil companies? You must be a soldier. Are you private security, a mercenary of some kind?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She looked out the window at the stark, empty landscape. Pale and gray, the desert was as smooth as a silk sheet billowing in the wind.

  “You know how to fight," she replied. "You are a killer. And you are white.” She turned back to him. “If you are here, you must be getting paid. Who else would pay you for this? What else is there of value here but oil?”

  “Nena, listen, I can’t tell you everything. The more you know, the more danger you will be in. But I promise you, I don’t work for an oil company, or anyone else. I’m here for my own reasons. This man, Takuba … in a way, he’s my responsibility.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Caine was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I do either,” he finally answered. “It’s a long story. You said you left your samples at your clinic?”

  “Yes, in Malakal.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  She nodded, and Caine again saw the determined glare light up her eyes. “Yes. If Takuba’s men are after those samples, we must get to them first. They could be dangerous. We cannot let a monster like that get his hands on them.”

  The truck lurched as they bounced over another pothole in the road. Caine hissed in pain and dropped his hand to his side. The look of determination in Nena’s eyes softened to one of concern.

  “Pull over,” she said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to check your bandage.”

  “I don’t want to lose the time. I’ve been hurt much worse than this, trust me.”

  “Don’t be a fool. If you bleed out before we reach the border, what good will you be then?”

  Caine shrugged. “You’ve got a point.” He pulled over to the side of the road. Nena threw open the passenger door and hopped out into the warm night air. They switched places, and Nena turned the key in the ignition. She let the car idle, and the AC blow, as she reached over Caine’s lap and opened the glove compartment. She removed the paper bag of bandages and iodine they had purchased back in the city.

  She looked up at him. “Take off your shirt.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to change your bandages. When we reach my clinic, I’ll stitch you up. Until then, I don’t want to risk infection.”

  “Nena, trust me, it’s—”

  “Doctor’s orders,” she snapped in a commanding voice.

  “Fine,” he grunted. He shrugged out of the torn shirt, wincing in pain with each movement of his arm and shoulder. Nena used a tiny pair of scissors to cut off the old bandages, then she began wrapping fresh white linen around his torso.

  She made a clucking sound and squinted. Her eyes traveled over the patchwork of old scars and wounds that traversed Caine’s toned, muscular body. Her fingers brushed over a small white scar beneath his shoulder blade.

  “This is a bullet wound. I was right, you are a soldier.”

  “I’ve seen combat,” Caine said.

  “What were you? Army? Marines?”

  Caine shook his head. “The uniform doesn’t matter. The bullets are always the same.”

  He raised his arm and she reached across his chest, tying off the fresh bandage. In the close confines of the truck, Caine could smell her skin and hair … a combination of essential oils and shampoo. And beneath the light, sweet fragrance, a perfume of dirt and sweat. The lingering hint of adrenaline.

  She leaned back and examined her handwork. “This will do for now.” She looked up and saw him staring at her. “What are you looking at? You like my hijab?”

  Caine laughed. “No. The shampoo you use … it smells nice.”

  She blinked, then smiled. “Thank you. Unfortunately, you smell like a dog who fell in the river.” She tossed his shirt at him. “Put this back on. After we cross the border, you need a shower.”

  Caine slipped the shirt over his shoulders. Nena put the car in gear and pulled away from the shoulder of the road.

  “Doctor’s orders?” Caine asked with a grin.

  She smiled but kept her eyes locked on the road. “You are finally learning.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open, but all she could see
was a dark blur. She felt numb. She blinked, and the black opiate haze of the painkillers receded. A bright light shone down on her from above. She moved her head side to side. She tried to see past the blinding white circle of illumination, tried to make out some detail. Where was she? What had happened?

  Details and memories snapped into place. A jolt of adrenaline flooded her body, replacing the liquid warmth that had seeped into her limbs. The convoy … the explosion. Ted.

  She opened her mouth and tried to speak. All she could manage was a murmured groan.

  She felt a soft pressure on her shoulder. A face came into view, blocking the light above her.

  “Director? Director, can you hear me?”

  She blinked again. The room seemed to spin around her. With each revolution, details began to sharpen and come into focus. She could make out sterile white walls, and she heard the electronic beeping of the EKG machine. Nurses and doctors rushed past the glass panels that surrounded her room.

  She was in a hospital.

  The face above her resolved into a familiar sight.

  “Clayton,” she murmured. “Is that you?”

  DuBose smiled. “Welcome back, Director.” He shook his head. “Doctor Corrigan said you were alright. He said you were just in shock, but … You gave me a scare. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  Rebecca wrapped her fingers around his arm in a weak grip. “SITREP,” she murmured. “The convoy … Ted?”

  DuBose frowned. “They hit us hard. I’ve never seen anything like it. Right in the middle of Georgetown, for God’s sake. Whoever they were, they were well-armed and highly trained. Cool under fire, precise.”

  She forced herself to focus on his face. “I remember … there was a sniper?”

  DuBose clenched his jaw. “We never put eyes on them, wherever they were hiding. That’s how they stopped the convoy. We pulled the slugs from the engine block of Ted’s SUV.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a squat, deformed lump of metal. Rebecca squinted as he held it up to the light.

  “50 BMG, better known as 12.7x99 NATO,” he said in a quiet voice. “The slugs in Ted’s SUV had armor-piercing cores. Boys in the lab checked the striation patterns on the bullets. Results show they were fired from an Accuracy International AX50 Anti-Material rifle. That’s some serious hardware. Designed for snipers to take out armored vehicles and military equipment. I haven’t seen an AX50 in the wild since Iraq.”

  He shook his head. “You combine this kind of firepower with the ground team’s FN P90s … Nine hundred rounds per minute of high velocity ammo. Body armor's worthless against those suckers. The Federal Marshals didn’t stand a chance.”

  “And the explosion?”

  DuBose leaned closer to her. “You called it in the field, Director. EFPs, Explosive Formed Projectiles. Shaped charges with multiple detonators, mounted behind a concave metal disk. The detonators go off in a precise pattern and mold the disk into a giant seven-pound slug. That thing hit the SUV at over Mach 6.”

  She nodded weakly. “I recognized the canisters they were using from an old briefing. They’re popular with insurgent groups all over the world. Cheap, easy to make, and very effective.”

  “Yeah, just one of those things took out everyone in that SUV. And they had a second one ready to go.” He shook his head. “The sniper team had to be at least two people, and there were eight more on the ground. Four men arming the EFPs, and four providing cover fire. That means whoever set this up was able to get at least ten men, armed with heavy military hardware, in and out of the area. And in under five minutes. Rebecca … that intersection was less than six miles from the Goddamn White House!”

  Rebecca shivered as she remembered the explosion rippling through the SUV; the dark metal fragments hurtling towards her through the heat and fire.

  She halted the horrific train of thoughts, and bit her lip in concentration. She was missing something …

  Ted’s face, in the car. His pale blue eyes, that blank, emotionless stare. His phone … pressed against the cracked glass.

  He was trying to tell me something, she thought.

  Rebecca’s arm flailed and her fingers reached for the leather strap of her purse.

  “Clayton, my purse. I need my phone.”

  DuBose reached over and grabbed the heavy leather bag. He fished around inside, looking for her cell phone.

  “Were the other convoys hit?” she asked.

  DuBose looked up and shook his head. “Negative. Special Agent Zavala said we were the only ones attacked.”

  Rebecca exhaled. “Then we have another leak. Someone in the FBI, or the Federal Marshals. Or someone closer to home.”

  “You mean internal? CIA?”

  She nodded. “The attackers knew Ted was in that car. Someone tipped them off. Until we know who, we have to assume anyone could be the leak.”

  DuBose pulled out her phone and handed it to her. She grabbed it and scrolled through the messages.

  “Here.” She held up the phone. “Ted sent me a text. I watched him do it; he held up the phone for me to see, before the explosion.”

  DuBose took the phone and read the message on the screen. “Blackwing Capital. What the hell is that?”

  She thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But I looked him in the eye before … before it happened. He knew he was going to die. This has to be important. You need to look into it.”

  He handed her back the phone and raised his eyebrows. “Director, I need to be here. I promised Josh I'd protect—”

  Before he could finish his thought, the door to the room swung open and Doctor Corrigan walked in. He was consulting a series of medical charts on a large tablet he cradled in his hands.

  “Rebecca,” he snapped, “what part of ‘take it easy’ did you not understand?”

  Rebecca gave him a weak smile. “Told you I was no good at following orders.” Her expression turned grim. “How serious is it. Does this mean I won’t … I can’t …” Her voice cracked, and she let the unfinished question hang in the air.

  Corrigan swiped the screen and examined the next chart. “I can’t say for sure, but it looks like the chair took the brunt of the impact. There’s definitely some bruising and blunt force trauma involved. I’ll have to remove shrapnel fragments from your left thigh and abdomen.” He looked up at her. “But it doesn’t look like your previous injury was affected. Rebecca, that wheelchair of yours may have just saved your life.”

  Rebecca nodded. She began to speak but found herself unable to form words. Her eyes glistened in the harsh light of the hospital room. “Good,” she finally muttered. “That’s good.”

  Corrigan glanced at DuBose. “She has to be prepped for surgery. I’m afraid you need to leave. Now.”

  DuBose looked down at Rebecca. She squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Go ahead, you have work to do. Don’t you?”

  He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, okay. I'm on it.”

  Corrigan tapped some information into the tablet, then slid it into a holder on the door. “The nurses will be here any minute. With any luck, we’ll have you in the operating room within the hour. Try not to engage in any guerrilla warfare while I’m gone.”

  He smiled at the two of them, then left the room. DuBose turned to follow.

  “Clayton,” Rebecca called after him. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her.

  “Remember, Zavala said only a few people knew which convoy Ted was in. The Marshals, her superior at the FBI, and Director Paulis. We have to keep this between us, for now. We’re on our own.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I got it.” He shut the door behind him.

  DuBose paced down the long sterile corridor that ran past Rebecca’s room. A storm of dark thoughts clouded his mind. If Rebecca was right, if there was another leak, could it really go as high as Michael Paulis? Could the Director of the CIA be compromised?

  It sounded like a paranoid delusion, the deranged product of Ted Lapinski'
s imagination. But he couldn't rule out the possibility that it was all true.

  The men, the military hardware, the EFPs … That attack was no delusion, he reminded himself. Someone wanted Lapinski dead. And whoever it was, they got their wish.

  “DuBose!” The deep, commanding voice boomed down the hall.

  He spun around. Speak of the devil.

  Director Paulis marched towards him, flanked on either side by a pair of tall athletic men in dark suits. DuBose picked up on their smooth, precise movements; the way they glanced at their surroundings, noting details, possible exits, blind corners. He spotted the slight bulge of weapons under their jackets. These men were from the Special Operations Group, like himself.

  “Director, I … I didn’t know you were coming,” he stammered. “I thought—”

  “After I heard what happened I canceled my afternoon’s appointments.” Paulis came to a halt and glanced towards the windows of Rebecca’s room. A pair of nurses entered the room and pulled the shades down, blocking her from view.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “She took a beating. They’re prepping her for surgery, but Corrigan seems to think it’s nothing serious,” DuBose replied. He shook his head. “Galloway told me she was a fighter, but sir … I’ve never seen anything like it. She engaged the attackers in her chair, with nothing but a pistol. And she took at least one of them out.”

  Paulis nodded. “Impressive, but let’s not start pinning medals yet. We lost Lapinski, and that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Sir?”

  Paulis cocked his head and gave DuBose a strange look. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, the FBI ran three decoy convoys. None of the other vehicles were hit. Somehow, the attackers knew which route to target. Someone leaked.”

  DuBose stared back at him and said nothing,

  “What about this Special Agent Zavala?” Paulis asked in a low voice. “Can she be trusted?”

  DuBose looked away, then nodded. “I saw Zavala risk her life to help Director Freeling. My gut tells me she’s one of the good guys, but there’s no way to be sure.”