by Jack Carr
Sergeant Major Holloway folded his arms and dropped his head in thought.
“Well, I guess that’s more reasonable than trying to 1149 one of the helos. How many?”
“Five should do.”
Holloway rubbed a hand through his heavily stubbled face as if calculating the possibilities.
“I think I can probably part with five kits like that in the name of interagency cooperation. Post-9/11 we are all supposed to share our information and our toys. As you know, we always travel with extra gear, especially when we are not sure of the mission ahead of time.”
Reece took a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll get Marcus to put together the 1149s for you to sign and the boys will help load everything up.”
“And, Christian, just curious, how long would we have before these would come up in the system?”
“They will come up at next inventory in…” Holloway looked at the date on his G-Shock. “Twenty days. But even then, they will come up as 1149’d to you. Until we need them back, which we won’t, those are officially the property of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
* * *
[Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X]
The airfield was jointly operated, half Coast Guard and half civilian, with [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X] aircraft sitting opposite a collection of civil aviation aircraft, mostly single-engine propeller-driven planes. Though [XXX] didn’t ordinarily see much Gulfstream traffic, its [Redacted] runway offered plenty of room for the business jet to land. It touched down gently, tufts of blue smoke swirling off the tires.
The pilot steered the jet toward the black Chevy 2500 Suburban parked outside of one of the civilian hangars near the FBO on the south side of the airfield. James Reece was leaning against the hood. The engines were still whining when the door folded downward and Liz Riley descended the steps.
“You’re flying this thing now?” Reece asked.
“I’m just the copilot. I’m working on my pilot rating. It won’t be long with you and Raife jetting all over the world! Thanks for helping me with my hours.”
“Liz, I have some gear to load. It’s not much but I’m guessing it should go in cargo. Do you have a laptop on board? I need to do some planning on the way back to Montana. Does this thing have Wi-Fi?”
Liz nodded. “Of course it has Wi-Fi. It’s a G550. What do you think we are, Spirit Airlines?”
The two friends wasted little time opening the rear of the SUV and loading the Pelican cases and kit bags into the Gulfstream. Liz assessed the approximate weight of the gear and made some notes on an iPad.
Twenty minutes after the G550 had touched down, the fuel had been topped off, the cockpit crew had filed their flight plan, and they were airborne again, on their way to Kalispell.
CHAPTER 61
Petersburg Petroleum Company, Saint Petersburg, Russia
SVETLANA REALLY DID FEEL sorry for him. He’d morphed over the last month, gained confidence as he put his plan in place, only to have retreated into his shell as that plan had deteriorated into abject failure. She couldn’t help but wonder if the thumb drive she’d provided to the SVR had anything to do with it. Maybe she’d even take him home one night and help him find pleasure in a true sexual experience instead of the manufactured embarrassments she’d employed to gain access to his computer. Who knows? She might even enjoy it herself.
“I’ve made you some tea.”
“Thank you, Svetlana,” he said, continuing to stare into his computer. “Are you taking the metro home tonight?”
“Oh, Oliver, you work too hard. The metro only runs until midnight. It’s already half-past.”
“I am so sorry. I lost track of time. Let me get you a cab,” Oliver offered, reaching for his desk phone.
“You are too kind, but don’t trouble yourself. The city is full of them, even at this hour. I can manage. Don’t stay up too late.”
She lingered for a moment, resting her hand on his shoulder and giving it a sensuous squeeze. She did not see movement in his pants.
“I won’t,” Oliver lied. “Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” she repeated.
“Good night, Svetlana.”
As soon as she was gone Oliver picked up his cell phone and sent a text. He then reached for his pipe and stood, moving to the large glass window that dominated the wall of his office.
Four men took their positions on the deserted street below. One walked past the building and took up station at the far end of the street. Another loitered at the opposite end of the block while two others stepped into an alley.
Oliver would have known they were bratva thugs even if he hadn’t just texted them to let them know their target was about to leave the building. In their dark jackets, jeans, and watch caps they looked the part.
Svetlana looked up and down the street for a cab and then began walking north to a corner where hailing one would be easier.
She’d never make it.
The two enforcers stepped out of the shadows into her path. Oliver’s heart beat faster as he saw her stop and take a step back, then hold out her purse to them.
She stole a glace up at his office window and when she did, Oliver lit his pipe. As the fire from the wooden match illuminated his silhouette through the glass, the knives came out. They were upon her. Oliver could see the three bodies mix together in a violent clash for survival and caught the glint of a blade reflect off a streetlight.
His breathing rate increased with the excitement of his voyeuristic encounter. He might not be able to lead men into battle, but he’d proven adroit at hiring low-level criminals to ambush the unsuspecting. He’d done it long ago in Buenos Aires.
Observing the primal dance taking place on the gloomy street, he felt a now-familiar rise against the fabric of his trousers.
His hand found its way past his belt and into his pants. One stroke and his knees shuddered as he leaned into the wall for support, almost dropping his pipe as his body spasmed.
Regaining his composure, he watched as a black Mercedes sedan pulled up to the curb. The lookouts had joined the knife men and all four squeezed into the German import before it sped away.
Oliver thought of the life slipping out of his matronly assistant, her blood running into the gutters of the old city. Straightening himself up, he set his pipe on his desk and went to the bathroom to clean up.
CHAPTER 62
Glacier Park International Airport, Kalispell, Montana
REECE GAZED OUT THE window as the jet rolled to a stop. There, waiting on the tarmac and leaning against a two-tone early-nineties F-250, was Elias Malick. Jonathan had emailed Reece in flight to let him know the team was assembled and would be waiting on him.
Liz opened the door from the cockpit.
“We have to do some post-flight and get ready for tomorrow. Eli is out there waiting to take you and the gear to the ranch. I’ll be about an hour behind you.”
Reece descended the steps and approached his longtime friend.
“What’s up, Kahuna?” the larger man asked. People often assumed Eli was from Hawaii due to his dark skin, affinity for all activities water related, and fondness for inserting words from the ancient Polynesian language into everyday speech. He had an aptitude for language and picked up a few words during his time attached to SDV-1 on Ford Island. Few knew his patriotism and devotion to country really stemmed from his family’s escape from their native Lebanon in 1981 to his mother’s home country of Sweden and eventually on to the United States.
Eli’s early years were spent just northeast of Beirut. He remembered the pine and cedar trees, eating pine nuts while watching the deer, squirrels, and rabbits, and even his introduction to skiing not far from his home. As Maronite Christians, those memories faded to recollections of his father and uncles picking up rifles and leaving to defend their enclave while the Lebanese Civil War destroyed what had been called the “Switzerland of the East.” With the dawn of the 19
80s, the writing was on the wall; the old Lebanon was gone. It was time to leave. As they made their way to the airport, passing roadblocks in the uncertainty of a new decade, he remembered his mother telling him, “be strong, my ‘lilla kri gare.’ ” My little warrior. Fluent in Arabic, Lebanese Arabic, Swedish, French, and English, and with the features of a Swedish mother and Lebanese father, Eli could pass as a “local” almost anywhere on earth, a trait that would make him a valuable asset to the U.S. military following 9/11.
The two embraced in a hug Reece thought might squeeze the life out of him.
“Thanks for being here, brother. How’s the family?”
“Jules and the kids are a little unsure what to do this far from the water, but they’re adapting. I want them to live the mountain life for a few years while I help Raife stand up his Warrior/Guardian program. Then we’ll probably head back to Cali or the islands. There are a couple business opportunities in the CBD space that I think can really help some of the guys struggling back at the command.”
Eli had dropped out of college to serve his country at a time when the Navy needed corpsmen. With the recruiter’s promise of a slot at BUD/S “just as soon as you finish corps school,” Eli dove headfirst into the world of combat medicine. First assigned to the 1st Marine Division at Camp Pendleton, California, Eli found that getting to BUD/S once you were in the system was a difficult proposition. He also found he had a propensity for taking care of those in need. Dive Med Tech and 1st Class Dive schools followed with eventual orders to SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team One in Hawaii. It was there that Eli’s eyes were opened to the world of special operations. Following the events of September 11, the call went out to those with language skills and Eli raised his hand. He soon found himself on the front lines of the War on Terror as a combat medic for the [Redacted X X X X X X X X X X X X X]. He never made it to BUD/S, but he’d seen more combat than most who’d passed the crucible in Coronado, and he’d more than earned the respect of those who wore the Trident.
“I have some gear in cargo,” Reece said, nodding back to the plane behind him.
“Well, let’s load it up, Kahuna. The rest of the team is waiting at the ranch.”
CHAPTER 63
Columbia Country Club, Chevy Chase, Maryland
IF THERE WAS A downside to Reginald Pyne’s job, it was the hours. After a highly lucrative career, he’d played golf five days a week working on the relationships necessary to move up the political ladder. Now he played once a week, if he was lucky.
He had joined his usual Saturday foursome early that morning, monitoring the events of the day on his iPhone as he moved across the fairway in his signature pastel pink polo with popped collar. Though the use of cell phones was prohibited on the exclusive club’s property and calls were usually restricted to members inside their cars, Pyne’s position meant that he could bend the rules for official business related to national security.
Pyne shot well that day, scoring only two over par according to his scorecard. He’d picked his ball up once and kicked it out of the rough a few times, but didn’t everybody? After a kale salad lunch in the grill overlooking the eighteenth green, he headed for the indoor pool, glancing at his watch as he walked through the sliding glass doors to confirm that he was on time. A lone figure was rhythmically swimming laps, his body gliding through the water in long, powerful freestyle strokes.
Pyne took a seat on one of the padded wicker chaise lounges and waited patiently for the man to finish his workout.
The swimmer emerged from the pool, paying Pyne no notice as he ascended the steps and pulled off his goggles. He wrapped one towel over his Speedo and picked up a second before taking a seat on the chair across from his visitor.
Grant Larue was tall and relatively fit for a man in his sixties, the result of his daily pool workouts. Still, a paunch of belly fat he couldn’t quite defeat dangled over the towel as he turned his attention to the president’s chief of staff.
Larue was a D.C. lobbyist whose primary clients were overseas companies, mainly Russian. Larue played by the rules and was paid handsome retainers by businesses based in the largest country in the world. This also gave him plenty of reasons to meet with Russian businessmen on a regular basis.
Pyne had first met Larue through a tobacco industry campaign to counter anti-smoking efforts in Russia. The two Washington power players had formed a long and mutually beneficial relationship over the years. In exchange for information from the executive branch, Pyne would have a soft spot to land as a partner in Grant’s lobbying firm after the next election. Quid pro quo.
“How was your swim, Grant?”
“Refreshing as always,” the older man responded, toweling off his short gray hair. “What is it that brings you off the greens?”
“Just a quick chat. I have some information that might be of use to you.”
“Shoot.”
“It seems that one of your Russian friends has a problem with a Montana family, last name of Hastings. There was a big shoot-out at their ranch, and someone grabbed their youngest daughter in Romania. Word is they’ve taken her to some island in the Bering Sea and that her brother, a Navy SEAL of all things, has somehow joined her. Sounds like one of your friends is there with them both.”
Larue stopped drying himself. “I’m listening.”
“You should also know that the CIA wanted to launch a hostage rescue mission and I put the kibosh on it.”
“My business associates will appreciate that.”
“That’s not all. Given the personalities involved, I wouldn’t be surprised if these deplorables try to go it alone. Your people should be ready.”
“How credible?”
“They’re former spec ops types, SEALs and whatnot. They have money behind them so they may actually have the resources to pull off an attack, a rescue, or whatever you call it.”
Grant rubbed his angular chin, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
“Understood.”
“Do you, Grant? I want to make sure we are absolutely clear here. Your associates, they need to get rid of these Hastings people and make sure the bodies are never found. I don’t need the president getting all patriotic on me. No evidence.”
“That’s a bit harsh, Pyne, even for you.”
“I just want to avert World War III.”
“If they are still alive, I can assure you they will not be for long. It will be as if they never set foot in Russia.”
“Good.”
“My friends will not forget your discretion when your man is out of office.”
“I’m counting on that,” Pyne responded as he rose to leave. “Let’s do lunch one of these days.”
“Let’s do that.”
Absolute power.
CHAPTER 64
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
AS REECE AND ELI approached the main house, the door swung open and Jonathan stepped onto the porch. A motley crew emerged and walked down to the circular gravel driveway. Reece almost choked up, seeing the men who had once been as close to him as brothers answer yet another call. This time it wasn’t for the country, it was for a man who had fought with them and offered them a way to transition from military service to the private sector while reconnecting with their families as part of the Warrior/Guardian program.
“Farkus,” Reece said, approaching a redhead who bore an unfortunate resemblance to the bully character in A Christmas Story. In special operations and aviation circles it was best to just accept your nickname and learn to live with it. The fact that he, like his Hollywood namesake, wore a permanent scowl only added to the legend. A native of Boston, Sean Fleming had been a RECCE team member at his last command. He’d specialized in Advanced Force Operations, inserting into denied or nonpermissive areas, performing reconnaissance missions to identify targets, threats, HLZs, DZs, potential avenues of approach, and escape and evasion corridors. As part of this specialized role, Farkus was a subject matter expert on free-fall parachuting. With tho
usands of jumps under his belt, he was a tremendous asset when it came to putting men onto a target from the air. Upon his retirement the previous summer, he had come to work for Raife’s outfitting business without hesitation to get some fresh air and figure out his next move.
Wearing Carhartts and a T-shirt from Tucson’s Trident Bar and Grill, Farkus spit into an empty beer bottle and smiled. “Looks like we’ll be jumping out of a perfectly good airplane tomorrow. As I recall, jumping is not your favorite activity.”
“Good memory,” Reece responded. If Reece never exited an aircraft with a parachute again it would be too soon. He preferred his feet remain firmly planted on the ground.
“Just follow me out the back as usual. Nothing to worry about.”
“Just gravity.” Reece smiled and moved on to the next man in line, slapping hands and embracing in a half man-hug.
“What’s up, Devan?” Reece asked, as he greeted the golden-haired, board-shorts-, flip-flop-, and tank-top-clad SEAL. Reece couldn’t remember ever having seen Devan without a smile. “How’s Edo doing?”
Edo sat obediently at his handler’s side awaiting a command. The Belgian Malinois had been Devan Blanding’s last multipurpose canine as part of the Naval Special Warfare canine program. When Devan was sidelined by an IED that almost killed him in Yemen, Edo never left his side. Knowing that, had he been killed, Edo would have been put down by a system ill equipped and not funded to run a retirement home for aging attack dogs, Devan found his purpose.
After consulting with Raife, Devan had packed up his 1976 Volkswagen Bus pop-top camper and headed to Whitefish. There he found a beautiful piece of property about twenty minutes outside of town that would allow him to build his dream, Devine K9s. He built a canine facility where he could train personal protection dogs, many for the high-net-worth clients of Raife’s program, as well as service dogs for citizens with impairments and disabilities. With Raife’s help he started a foundation called Rescue 22, named for the twenty-two veterans who took their own lives each day in the United States. He trained service and emotional support dogs for veterans dealing with PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and the physical and emotional trauma of combat. A separate section of the property was reserved for retired or transitioning military and police working dogs, animals who would otherwise be quietly put to sleep. He set up an entity called the Warrior Dog Foundation to give them a beautiful place to live out their lives in dignity. Though he still had it, the VW Bus had been retired in favor of a new Mercedes 4x4 Sprinter Van, custom built for moving dogs to and from the airport in Kalispell.
