Code of Honor

by Marc Cameron

  They were going to get Ding back.

  “In position,” Clark said, pulling a black balaclava over his head. Apart from concealing his identity to cameras, any kind of mask provided a little extra psychological gut punch to the opposing force. “Our primary goal is to get the tech. I’ll provide you overwatch. Everyone knows their area of responsibility. ROE remain the same: Kill everyone who isn’t Ding.”

  * * *

  —

  Ding Chavez turned his head, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor. His hands and ankles were tied to the back of a heavy wooden chair. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

  “You guys are in a shitload of trouble.”

  The stubby man who’d been hitting him nonstop for the past three minutes must have had some boxing experience. Chavez felt like he was getting kicked by a very angry mule. He’d knocked the chair over three times, to the delight of the other three men in the room. The lateral movement had allowed Chavez to give with the force of the blows and taken out a good deal of the sting, but he pretended it hurt even worse. Thankfully, the boxer must not have been doing his cardio and got winded from the effort, giving Chavez a short break.

  His neck was still on fire from the initial stomp in the van and his right eye was swollen shut. Mercifully, his teeth—usually the first thing to go in this kind of beating—were still intact for now.

  The apparent leader, a guy in a sweat-soaked gray mechanic’s shirt, stood by, smacking a length of twisted steel cable against an open palm. Chavez suppressed a shudder. He’d seen bodies that had been beaten with rods and cable. Human anatomy didn’t stand up to that sort of treatment for long. Bones shattered, soft tissue burst. It wasn’t a pretty picture.

  The man with the cable yanked Chavez’s head up by his forelock. “You are American?”

  Chavez gave a feeble nod. “Yep.” It was the first question they’d asked. No point in lying about it.

  “What do you want with Mr. Suparman?”

  “I . . . Who?”

  The boxer hit him again, bringing a round of chuckles from the two bystanders against the wall.

  Chavez needed to come up with a story before this guy got serious and broke his jaw.

  “I am trying to warn you,” he said. “You really need to stop. My people . . . they are more dangerous than you know.”

  “And what people are they?” Cable Guy asked.

  “Whatever it is you think you know,” Chavez said, “you’re wrong.”

  “Is that so?” the man with the cable said. “You think to target the most technologically advanced company in Indonesia for attack and then expect to slip by unnoticed? Your American audacity is laughable.” He prodded Chavez in the chin with the jagged end of the cable, tilting his head up again. “Mr. Suparman receives threats from all over the world. Extortion, kidnapping, industrial theft. We have facial-recognition software in many areas around the store, always looking for people who loiter for too long.” He smiled. “So, you see, I already know you were watching the store from the hotel across the street. Would you like to tell me why or shall we advance to the next level?” He swung the cable over his head, making it whir menacingly through the air. “I don’t know if you are aware, but this length of steel is capable of removing a person’s head. I have seen it personally.”

  “I’ll bet,” Chavez said. “You run Suparman’s security?”

  “I do,” the man said. “My name is Sebastian. Though I must admit, my name will be of no consequence to you unless you tell me why you are here.”

  Chavez groaned, head lolling, hoping he looked completely subdued. “My people will call the police if I am not back within the hour.”

  “Please,” Sebastian scoffed. “The police are quite—how shall I put this?—friendly to Mr. Suparman. I would not depend on them.” He prodded Chavez’s chin again with the cable, harder this time, drawing blood with the raw wires. “It will go much better for you if you tell me who you are working for.”

  Chavez just sat there, panting, waiting, hoping the transmitter in his belt was still working.

  “Nothing?” Sebastian sighed. “Very well. Then there is no point in being gentle any longer.” He gave the boxer a nod. The two along the wall began to giggle again.

  Bracing himself for another blow, Chavez heard a faint pop outside the window, then the rattle of breaking glass in the hallway.

  An instant later, a fist-size metal canister clattered into the office through the open door. Chavez opened his mouth and closed his eyes, recognizing it immediately for what it was.

  Sebastian and his men . . . did not.

  41

  With a black balaclava over his face, Caruso used the Ruger Mark IV to take out the two cameras under the rear of the building the moment Clark gave the go order. With the Gemtech suppressor, the .22 made little more noise than a Red Ryder BB gun. Ryan saw the glass door in the back move slightly, indicating a pressure change inside caused when Clark, Adara, and Midas came through the front. He popped the lock on the back door with a Halligan tool, shattering the glass in the process, and button-hooked inside behind Caruso. No audible alarms, but that wasn’t surprising, since there were so many guards on-site.

  With the H&K on a single-point sling around his neck, Ryan pulled the pin on a CTS stun grenade known as a 9-Bang, which, as its name implied, gave off nine bright, arrhythmic bangs spaced roughly eight-tenths of a second apart, temporarily blinding and disorienting those around it if they weren’t prepared. Earpieces worn by Campus operators amplified ambient noise but momentarily cut out for any sudden sound over ninety decibels.

  The flash-bang began to detonate roughly a second and a half after it left Ryan’s hand and the spoon flew away. Ryan and Caruso, prepared for the concussion and flash, advanced rapidly. Ryan put two rounds center-mass in the man who was holding the length of cable, sidestepping as he fired to bring Chavez into view. Disoriented and holding his ears from the effects of the flash-bang, a thickly muscled man who’d been standing over Chavez turned to make a run for the door. Chavez threw his body sideways, tipping the chair laterally into the man’s knee. The man screamed, clawing for the pistol in his belt as he tried to push up on all fours. Ryan anchored him to the ground with a double tap to the back of his head.

  Caruso took care of the two by the wall with two quick shots each. They weren’t actively shooting, but pistols were visible at their waists, and anyone standing around the same room while Ding was being beaten was bought and paid for as far as the team was concerned.

  “Clear!” Caruso said, as both men slumped at virtually the same moment.

  Ryan scanned his area of the room. “Clear!”

  Caruso took a knee and turned to cover the door with his rifle.

  Ryan let the H&K rest on his sling, parking it across his body on the left so he could reach either it or his handgun if the need arose. He’d knelt by Chavez, who lay on his side, still strapped to the chair, moving his jaw back and forth.

  Chavez blinked up with the only eye not damaged too much to open. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see your ugly mug.”

  Ryan flicked open his Benchmade and cut him free. “Anything broken?”

  Chavez winced as he rolled to a sitting position, then climbed to his feet. He rubbed his wrists. “I’m not bending anywhere I shouldn’t be.”

  Gunfire clattered in the lobby—guards shooting back. The pistols were suppressed, but there was no doubt they’d heard the 9-Bang.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” Ryan asked.

  “Four,” Chavez said. “Seriously, I’m good. Give me a gun. I’ll help.”

  Clark’s voice crackled in Ryan’s ear. The man was astoundingly calm considering the circumstances—like a sloth, if a sloth could kick your ass and shoot a forty-five.

  “Three down in the lobby,” he said.

  Adara came ba
ck next. “Upstairs is clear.”

  “Northeast office is clear,” Ryan said. “Checking the other rooms now. Missing man accounted for.”

  “Copy,” Clark said. “Let’s get that tech and get out of here.”

  “Shit!” Chavez said. “They have man-down radios!”

  “We have a problem,” Ryan said, relaying Chavez’s message since he didn’t yet have commo with the rest of the team.

  Sometimes called a “lone worker,” the “man down” feature on radios worn by utility, security, and law enforcement personnel notified central dispatch in the event the device canted more than a given number of degrees, i.e., if the wearer fell on his or her side.

  “Copy,” Clark said. “We’ll assume someone is responding. Get the tech and let’s get out of here.”

  “I think we’re just . . . about . . . there,” Midas said.

  * * *

  —

  Suparman’s office was a shrine to himself. A life-size painting of him, helmet in hand, wearing a red-and-white NASCAR racing suit took up much of the wall directly across the thirty-foot room from his glass desk. A silk scarf around his neck blew in the wind, making him look more like Evel Knievel than a race car driver. Another painting, about half that size but still large enough to be unsettling, depicted Suparman dressed like Theodore Roosevelt on a rearing horse—complete with slouch hat and cavalry saber. A marble bust of the man sat on a pedestal by the window, where it would get plenty of natural light. With bare shoulders, it read SUPARMAN: CINCINNATUS OF GAMES. The sleepy marble eyes, absent the thick glasses, gazed toward the desk, leaving Adara to wonder if Suparman carried on conversations with the ugly thing. She was genuinely surprised that despite his name, Suparman had no paintings of himself in a cape or a single big red S anywhere in the office other than the company logo.

  Suparman didn’t get where he was by narcissism alone. Two large bookcases held well-read volumes on computer theory, linear algebra, calculus, and neural networks. An arcade-style Space Invaders game stood like a shrine near the Cincinnatus bust. Adara found three obvious cameras, one over the vault, one over the door, facing into the office, and another in the same location, facing out. She gave each lens a blast of spray paint before posting with her rifle by the office door while Midas worked on the vault.

  “How’s it coming there, sport?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Thought I had it with the digital photo,” Midas said. “I’m going to try one other thing with this scanner.”

  Adara glanced back to see Midas leaning forward, cheek to the locking mechanism, the screen of his smartphone pressed between his face and the scanner. There was a momentary red glow as the scanner did its work, and then a satisfying metallic click as the vault lock slid out of battery.

  “We’re in,” Midas said over the radio, slipping the phone back into his pocket, ready to open the heavy steel door. “Moment of truth . . .”

  * * *

  —

  Jack Ryan, Jr., was posted outside in front of the glass double doors. He crouched behind a low hedge, ready to give the rest of the team a heads-up if he saw anyone approaching. The feeble headlight of a lone scooter bounced down Sam Ratulangi Road from the north, then turned into the driveway. The rider, a kid in his late teens or early twenties, got off the bike long enough to slide open the metal gate. He wore a blue uniform like the guards in the lobby did, but his shirt was untucked. It was hard to tell, but it didn’t look like he was wearing his Sam Browne belt. Probably off duty. It sure didn’t look like he was responding to a break-in.

  Ryan alerted the rest of the team and let the kid approach. If he was a scout sent ahead by some tactical team he should have won an Oscar. He carried two plastic bags that looked to be loaded with food. Oblivious to the world around him, he looked at his feet as he walked, shoulders bouncing as if he were dancing. Eighties metal poured from a set of white earbuds, loud enough for Ryan to recognize it as “Girls, Girls, Girls,” by Mötley Crüe. With his eyes on his shoes, the kid had yet to notice that the door was broken.

  Ryan waited for him to get within ten feet, then stepped out, aimed with the MP5.

  The kid’s mouth fell open, and he said something in Indonesian—likely a curse, judging from the startled look on his thin face. He raised his arms, the bags still in his hands. “Who are you?”

  Ryan motioned him inside with the gun muzzle.

  Clark and the others were waiting.

  The kid, who said his name was Ismaya, gazed at the carnage, mouth agape.

  “What . . . Who are you people?” More of the Oscar-worthy performance. Hands still up, Ismaya grimaced when he saw Chavez. “What happened to you?”

  “How long have you been gone?” Clark asked, his voice stern, businesslike.

  The kid’s eyes softened, less confrontational. He seemed to realize his life depended on the answer.

  “My boss . . .” He pointed to the dead man at the base of the stairs. “He told me I did not have to come in tonight. I thought to bring them some panada for a snack . . .”

  Caruso looked up from searching the bags. “Homemade hot pockets, all right,” he said.

  “Got it!” Midas said over the radio. “We’re coming down.”

  “Very well,” Clark said. “Let’s get going before someone shows up with more meat pies.” He looked at Ismaya and gave a slow shake of his head, groaning like he was very, very tired. “Kid,” he said, “I sure wish you would have stayed home.”

  * * *

  —

  Four minutes later, Chavez, Adara, and Caruso were heading north on Sam Ratulangi with the four-by-four plastic box containing the tech in hand. Oddly, the terabyte thumb drive was laser-etched CALLIOPE. Clark, Ryan, and Midas followed in the van behind them. Clark made the call and got the F-15s in the air.

  “Glad you brought the ketamine,” Midas said over the radio.

  “We could have just tied him up,” Adara said.

  “We could have,” Clark said. “But I never trust knots alone.”

  “Truth,” Midas said. “Batman always figures a way out of that shit when they leave him alone. Anyhow, I don’t think the kid knew a damn thing about Ding.”

  “Probably not,” Clark said. “He’ll be fine in an hour or so. By then we’ll be gone. So, let me get this straight, Ding. Suparman’s guys caught you on video during your game store recon, and then the facial-recognition software running on the cameras at the hotel across the street popped you as a possible threat?”

  “Appears so,” Chavez said. “The way his thug Sebastian sounded, they thought I was hanging around to assassinate Suparman. He never mentioned the tech at all.” Chavez paused. “Anybody following us?”

  “Looks good so far.” Clark checked his watch. “Eagles will touch down in . . . eighty-seven minutes.”

  42

  Sophie Li spoke between ragged breaths, trying in vain to control her sobs. “We have got to call the police.”

  She was in the backseat, staring up at the headliner while her daughter used paper towels from the SUV’s glove box to stanch the flow of blood from the wound on her arm. The gash hurt like hell, but there didn’t appear to be any major arteries clipped. They left so quickly that none of them had time to change clothes. James and Martha had grabbed jackets. Peter had on a pair of gray sweats and a white T-shirt, and Sophie still wore the Navy football jersey she used as a nightgown. The emergency go-bag Peter insisted they keep in the closet had cash, copies of their passports, a pistol, and a few snacks, but no extra clothes.

  Sophie kicked the front seat. “Peter! Are you even listening to me?”

  Li took a corner a little too fast, chirping the tires on the pavement. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his face glowing eerily from the dash lights. “Let’s wait on that a minute.”

  Sophie bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming. “Wait? What are y
ou talking about? Who are those people? Why were they in our house?”

  “I don’t know who they were,” Peter said. “But it has to have something to do with one of my projects.”

  “I think . . . I . . . They were speaking Mandarin,” James said, rocking back and forth, hyperventilating. “I caught . . . a couple . . . of words.”

  Peter took one hand off the wheel long enough to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “Slow down your breathing, son,” he said. “In fact, everyone slow it down. Count to three while you breathe in. Count to five while you exhale.” He looked in the mirror again. “You, too, sweetheart. It’ll lower your heart rate.”

  “One of your projects?” Sophie asked, needing answers.

  “There’s been a little trouble at work,” Peter said. “I caught one of my engineers going into the vault with an ID stolen from another employee.”

  “And he wants you dead?”

  “She,” Peter said. “I don’t think she’s that high up in the food chain. But it could be who she’s working for.”

  “We still have to call the police,” Sophie said.

  “And we will,” Peter said. “But they’ll go after the people who tried to kill us.”

  “Good,” Sophie said.

  “Right,” Peter said. “But this feels a little too big for our local department.”

  “Then call the FBI,” Sophie said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who you call, but I want some badges and guns here right damned now!”

  “Listen,” Peter said, gripping the wheel until his knuckles went white. “Those guys were Chinese. There’s reason to believe my employee is an agent of the Chinese government. That means the people in our house were also agents of the Chinese government. They could have people everywhere. My number-one priority here is to keep you safe, not solve any crime.”