by Scott McEwen
* * *
The gazpacho soup sat untouched in the iced terrine. The salads, covered in late-summer fruit slices, slowly wilted on the edge of bone-white place mats. And the Chilean sea bass, cooked head on, lay on its plate wide-eyed in the center of the heavily waxed dining room table, watching as Barbara and Frank Henryson argued with each other from opposite ends of the long wooden table. Their twin son and daughter sat in the middle, each as wide-eyed as the dead fish, watching the fight unfold. Hanging on the wall behind the table was a Revolutionary War–era musket and a plaque with the NFA coat of arms and the Second Amendment written out in golden script.
The veins bulged on Barbara’s neck, her hands shook, and tears ran from her eyes. “Frank, I have never argued with you on this issue before and would never say a word against you in the press or to our friends. But”—she breathed deeply, trying to calm herself—“after our kids were nearly in a mass shooting you have to tell me—by the love of God—that our laws need to change. Now that it hit home you have to tell me you agree that we have to take these goddamned machine guns out of the hands of mentally deranged and dangerous people! Tell me you see it. Or I am going to lose my mind.”
Frank dabbed his lips. The only item on the table being consumed with any regularity was the red wine enjoyed by both parents that evening. “Babs,” Frank shook his head softly. He did this when she was being silly. “I am very sorry and ashamed to hear you speak like this. I sure as heck agree that we got a mental health issue in this country. We got an overeating epidemic, too. Should we ban spoons cuz fat folks can’t stop eating ice cream?” Frank laughed. “Yeah, I think we should change the laws. Right now you know there’s lawmakers in the state of California that are trying to make it illegal to buy a thirty-round magazine for an assault rifle. If you got a nutcase with four magazines and you’re trying to stop him with a magazine with five rounds, how the hell do you think that’s gonna work out?”
Barbara laughed and then screamed across the table. “Don’t you see? More guns and more bullets will not solve this problem!”
“No, I don’t see! What the hell do you think will stop the mass shootings? More Band-Aids? That’s goddamn crazy talk! And I’m not gonna sit in my house and listen to crazy talk!” Frank stood up and slapped his napkin down into his seat.
“You are insane,” Barbara yelled back as she stood. “And this, don’t you forget, is not your house. It’s our house!”
“Dad … Mom…” A quiet voice rose up from the center of table. Frank Jr. addressed his parents timidly. “Please, let’s settle down. I … we … don’t know what the solution is, if it’s what you’re saying, Dad, or if it’s what Mom is talking about. I don’t know. It’s probably not either. But it’s clear there is a problem.” Frank Jr. looked across the table at his sister, Coleen. “And we need to fix it. The good news is, we can figure it out together. It might take some time and lots of talking, but there is a solution.”
“Mom … Dad,” Coleen said, “please sit back down.”
The elder Henrysons looked at each other from across the table and slowly each slid back into their seats.
CHAPTER 67
Though he was forced to alter his schedule somewhat, from his suite at UCSF Med Center, John Darsie still found a way to conduct business. In the early morning, Wyatt slipped in and found the billionaire propped in his hospital bed with a fresh glass of tomato juice, sliced San Francisco sourdough, and a copy of the Times.
“Not a bad setup,” Wyatt said, pulling up a chair.
“Suppose it helps to rent out the entire floor.” Darsie folded the newspaper in his lap.
“How do you feel?”
“Never better.” Darsie motioned to his heavily bandaged torso and smiled. His face, though cut and bruised, was clean shaven and smelled of a light cologne. “Didn’t turn out as we predicted, did it?”
Wyatt looked out past white orchids lining the windows that let in the bright morning sun. “No.”
Darsie sighed. “Red Trident is still swarming with feds. They confiscated all of Morgan’s files, all of his work.”
“I figured.”
“Just too bad they didn’t get there first.” Darsie grinned mischievously.
“Wait, you didn’t take any of it … did you?”
“Of course I did. And let me tell you, that boy was more of a genius than I ever gave him credit for. What he was doing with facial-recognition software … it’s unprecedented.”
“Jeez, Darsie.”
“Yes, well, what’s done is done. And I don’t suppose I need to ask why you’re here. I made you a promise, and you want me to make good on it.”
“Yes,” Wyatt said eagerly.
“I’m not one to moralize … but are you really sure you want to take this step?”
“What step?” Wyatt asked, confused.
“I’m not going to mince words, Wyatt. But to me it looks like you are hell-bent on finding Hallsy and killing him. Is a revenge killing really what you want to do with your life?”
“Hallsy’s a rogue agent. He’s dangerous and he needs to be brought to justice. What do you think I should do … become like you … a privateer? No, thanks.”
“Very well. But from an objective perspective, the odds are you’ll not gain what you seek.”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
“There are two types of men in this world, Wyatt—ones who live for themselves. They see the best path and they take it. They do a lot of good, yes, but only if it is a by-product of serving themselves.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “And the other?”
“Like your father. The kind who must live for a cause. A group. Whose relentless altruism grows like kudzu in the summertime.” Darsie smiled. “The more you chop it, the more it persists. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you which kind I am … but perhaps my one redemptive quality is that I am able to admit it.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Or you could change it.”
“At my age, not likely. But you still have some time.” He took a notepad from the table and scribbled something down. “Here you go.”
“No dissolving paper this time?” Wyatt said sarcastically as he took the note.
“Fresh out. So those are the coordinates, but I’m not sure how much it will help.”
Wyatt’s eyes lit up. “You found him?”
“Hallsy is currently hiding out in one of Rio’s most dangerous favelas. The U.S. military cannot operate without clearance, and Hallsy has paid hundreds of local mafia handsomely for his protection. In short, they are the hive, and he is their queen. So yes, I found him, but I’m not sure what you’re going to do about it.”
“I have an idea,” Wyatt said. “Just need one more favor from you.”
“Which is?”
“I need to borrow some technology.”
EPILOGUE
The motorcycle chewed dirt as it wound up the mountainous path that wove through the neighborhood, the favela built from stolen cabling and housing a giant makeshift city above a city. Squalid and overrun with poverty, the favela, lit pink with the setting sun, was altogether a different planet. With its own rules, its own terra firma.
The motorcycle that the young boy rode looked like any of the other ones used by the millions of Brazilians who couldn’t get around by car. Two bikes rode up into the town that operated outside of the law, stopping when they came to a rusty gate. A young Brazilian came forward to see the teenagers step off the motorcycles and remove their helmets. One was a gringo, and with him, a local. The foreigner handled the money and the Brazilian did the talking.
There was a thumb drive and a shoebox full of cash—American dollars. The Brazilian told the sentry, “Take this to the Gringo.” He pointed at Wyatt. “The boy just wants to speak with him.”
The sentry studied Wyatt. “Você conhece ele?” he asked in Portuguese.
Wyatt looked at his Brazilian guide, who translated. “He wants to know if you know the Gringo.”
Wyat
t nodded.
The sentry looked into the shoebox of cash, weighing the decision. He shrugged, took a few bills out for himself, then ran it up through the rabbit warren of tunnels and shanties where Wyatt imagined a large gringo paced in a small room high above Rio.
“Someone is here for you,” the sentry said, extending the box of cash.
“What?”
“Someone’s here and wants to talk to you.”
“In Rio?”
“Yes, a boy has brought you cash.”
“Let me see that,” Hallsy said. He took the box and very carefully removed the top.
“I didn’t take any money,” the sentry said, but Hallsy ignored him, dumping out the cash and fishing through the shoebox looking for something until he found the thumb drive.
“What the…” He inspected it closely, realizing that it was not a thumb drive at all. It flashed. Hallsy turned it over. It was a beacon—with facial recognition software. That’s when he heard the faint hum of drones.
“Identity has been verified … Attack,” Rory told the gamers through her headset.
“Roger that,” Samy said.
“I’m on him,” said Pierce.
Some six thousand miles away, logged into the technology called Infinite Warhead, Jalen and the members of Group-A, Team Z—outside of Valor sanction—were in their respective bedrooms back home, flying drones outfitted with infrared cameras and warheads. Like bats swooping over Rio, they whirred under the nearly full moon and the newly risen stars. They soared over the favela.
Standing outside the gates of Hallsy’s compound, Wyatt saw the missile streaking out of the sky, exploding behind the walls like the sky erupted, shooting fireworks down at the ground.
The missiles were small, but deadly. His guide sped away on his bike back down the mountain, and Wyatt pulled the seat off his motorcycle, containing a handgun and an Israeli carbine called an IWI Tavor. He tucked the gun in his waistband and holding the Tavor, Wyatt kicked the gate open and passed into the compound. In his hand, Wyatt had a tracker, showing where the beacon was. Seeing the attack had come from the sky, the panicked mafiosos shot up at the clouds, and in the pure pandemonium, Wyatt was able to weave his way through. He wound up the stairs, taking down two guards in the process, and kicked in a door that led to a room overlooking the city. He saw the shoebox and the beacon, men’s clothing scattered on the floor. On the ground, a couple of bloody footprints leading out.
“Hallsy, come out and face me,” Wyatt said.
“I never meant to hurt anyone.” Hallsy’s once-familiar voice was weak. “It was the money. It was always about the money.”
“I don’t want any excuses. Step out.”
Hallsy broke left and Wyatt saw the hulking gorilla limping toward a railing of the small balcony, blood dripping from his foot. Wyatt sighted his back. Two bullets: one in the brain stem and one in the lungs. Sergeant Eric Hallsy was no more. Wyatt felt an intense wave of pure cruel joy wash over him. That was for Dolly. He spat on the body. He then felt the desire to kill Hallsy a thousand times more. But he could not. The joy dissipated and the hollowness Wyatt had been feeling since Dolly’s death washed back over Wyatt. Time to go home.
* * *
Wyatt pushed open the door to the condo his mother had rented. It was only a mile from the house Wyatt’s father lived in, and she had only rented it for a year, but it was a space for her to start something new, a way to reset and see if—on her terms—her real husband and the reality he offered were right for her. Wyatt agreed it was the right move. And both chose to move in with her and Narcy. Cody chose to stay with his father.
Before he even opened the door, he knew Narcy was home. From the front steps, he could smell the fried chicken, Aunt Narcy’s love offering, her welcome-home meal whenever Wyatt or Cody came back from a camping trip or a sports game.
“Hi, honey,” Wyatt’s mom greeted him at the door. “How was the camping weekend?”
“Great,” Wyatt said, slipping off his backpack.
“Want me to take that?” His mom reached for the pack.
“It’s okay, Mom.” Wyatt held it back. “Pretty heavy.”
And it was heavy, the rucksack laden with drones and weapons and thousands of dollars in various South American currencies.
“So did you and Uncle Avi hike the whole trail?” Katherine asked as she swooped about the condo picking up.
“Yep.” Wyatt nodded and put the bag in the small room he slept in on the first floor.
“Well, then you must be starving,” Narcy bellowed from the kitchen. “Get in here and eat some chicken!”
Wyatt rounded the corner, and was stunned to see his father, sitting in his mother’s kitchen opposite the SecDef at the folding table his mother had bought at a garage sale and had been using until she could afford a proper dinner table. The SecDef smiled. She was wearing red lipstick and a crisp navy suit. “Hi, Wyatt.”
Wyatt said nothing. He simply walked back out of the kitchen and found his mother in the landing. “What’s Dad doing here? I thought this was your space.”
His mother stepped close and practically whispered, “Your father called me and asked if he and the secretary of defense could talk to you, alone … That’s not something you say no to. And he asked? That’s a start.”
“Okay.” Wyatt walked back into the kitchen but did not sit down or smile at the SecDef. He nodded to her politely and said, “Madame Secretary, with all due respect, I’m not sure why my father would bring you here. You canceled the Valor program.” Wyatt looked at his father. “I don’t know why you’d let her in.”
The SecDef’s smile dropped. Narcy made a face. “Think I’m goin’ back into the kitchen.”
“Why would you say that, Wyatt?” Eldon asked.
“She killed Valor. The world is less safe because of that decision.” Wyatt glared at the SecDef.
“Well, it was less safe,” Elaine said. “And your father was not the one who asked me to come see you or him. I’m here now at the order of the president … Camp Valor is being reinstated.” She let that hang in the air. “And he, the president, wants you to rejoin. I need to know now.”
“How is that possible?” Wyatt asked. “I’m out. I quit Valor. I can’t go back.”
“That, too, is changing per the order of POTUS. If you’re interested … But I need to know now.”
“I’m certainly interested,” Wyatt said, cutting his eyes at his father and taking a seat at the table. “What’s the rush?”
“We have a situation,” the SecDef said. “Are you aware the president has a teenage son?”
“Of course,” Wyatt said. “They keep him out of the media, but of course I know about him.”
“Well, he’s in trouble. The president is aware of your skill set. And he’s convinced only you and Valor can help.” The SecDef leveled her eyes at Wyatt. “So what’s it going to be?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors want to thank Marc Resnick, Hannah O’Grady, the Valor team at St. Martin’s, Elizabeth Bohlke, and Ian Kleinert, for the tireless work, patience, and unwavering commitment to bringing the Valor books to life.
ALSO BY SCOTT McEWEN AND HOF WILLIAMS
Camp Valor
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SCOTT McEWEN is the author of many books and the coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestseller American Sniper, which has sold more than one million copies and has been translated into more than twenty languages. American Sniper the movie, starring Bradley Cooper and directed by Clint Eastwood, was the highest-grossing movie in the United States that year and was nominated for six Academy Awards, winning one. McEwen lives in San Diego, California, where he began writing while practicing law. You can sign up for email updates here.
HOF WILLIAMS lives in Westport, Connecticut. The Trigger Mechanism is the second collaboration between Williams and McEwen. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Two
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
