The Terminal List

by Carr, Jack

  Reece nodded and slipped into the dark waters of the Atlantic.

  CHAPTER 71

  J. D. AND LORRAINE HARTLEY had rented the Fishers Island home for the past fifteen years through a shell corporation attached to their family foundation. It afforded them both the anonymity they sometimes required as well as a healthy write-off for tax purposes. It sat just off a beautiful beach facing New London, Connecticut. Nothing like living the good life to help the world’s downtrodden. Though not nearly as opulent as homes belonging to families with names like Rockefeller and Du Pont, it was not quite a shack, either. Despite their picturesque location, the Hartleys had been eyeing an estate on the east end of the island, closer to the golf course.

  A rock stairway built into the cliff led to a perfectly manicured lawn above which a New England–style home straight out of a Currier & Ives print sat surveying its domain. J.D. had spent considerably more time there over the years since his untimely departure from politics. He found it was the perfect place to conceal his philandering ways from the watchful eyes of the paparazzi, not to mention his wife, who had proven much more adept at the political game than her ne’er-do-well husband.

  Tonight that ne’er-do-well husband was missing from the picture of classic east coast perfection. His body was confirmed to have been the one inside an armored Chevrolet Suburban outside the SoHo apartment of a blonde less than half his age. It took a few hours to confirm the identity of the congressman, due to the fact that there was not much left of him after he was eviscerated by a slug of molten copper that turned his armored car and his body into an inferno of melted steel, glass, flesh, and bone.

  “How the fuck did that bastard find him?” Lorraine Hartley asked as much to herself as to the well-dressed Steve Horn next to her. She had enough trouble tracking down her husband. That Reece was able to do it with apparent ease made her even angrier. She noted the calm, composed demeanor of the man next to her. He was beginning to annoy her with how, even in their current predicament, he still maintained an element of style and poise.

  Steve Horn swirled the Rémy Martin Louis XIII cognac in his crystal snifter, leaned back in the massive leather chair, and looked into the smoldering embers of the fire in the great stone fireplace before him, noticing that the secretary of defense seemed much more concerned with how Reece found her husband than she was with the fact that he was now dead. He chose his words carefully before responding.

  “Listen to me, Lorraine,” he began, sounding almost condescending. “This entire venture has no doubt taken a turn for the worse. I made my money being strong when others were weak, looking for opportunity in the chaos. In this case, Madame Secretary, we have an opportunity, an opportunity to make even more money than before.”

  Lorraine Hartley couldn’t believe what he was saying. Even at a time like this, he still thought about how to maximize profits.

  “While Commander Reece has been running around killing everyone like a madman, he has also been stacking the deck in our favor and playing right into our hands. With Boykin, Holder, Saul, Howard, Pilsner, and now your husband, God rest his soul, out of the way, we stand to make a significantly greater sum of money, not to mention there are far fewer loose lips. With your capital still intact and with you the seemingly obvious choice to win your party’s nomination for the presidency, you will be able to push FDA approvals for the vital drugs needed to inoculate our servicemen from the ravages of PTSD before they go into combat. Think, Lorraine, who better to push for this initiative than a female president whose very husband was murdered by a veteran suffering the effects of PTSD? Also, thanks to Commander Reece, you will be able to greatly expand the powers of the executive branch and pass the Domestic Security Act. We get richer and more powerful, and the country gets safer. And we can all live without fear,” he added for effect.

  “Steve, you don’t get it, do you? He is going to kill us all.”

  “Nonsense.” He could see she was coming unglued. He could not have that in a commander in chief he planned to control. It was unbecoming.

  “Do I need to remind you what he’s done so far, Steve?” she said, almost on the verge of hysteria. “He cut off that Muslim cleric’s head. He left it on a spike outside the mosque! He gutted poor Howard! My people tell me he was eaten alive!”

  “Madam Secretary, I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. What happens here tonight, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next, will catapult you into the White House.”

  Hartley looked at him incredulously. Has he lost his mind?

  “We are not safe here, Madame Secretary. At some point very soon, that maniac Reece will make an attempt to kill us, which is exactly what we want. Our trap is set. It is time we finished this.”

  “You said my house here would be safe,” she stated meekly.

  “I had to get you here, Lorraine. It is nearly impossible to hide everything in today’s age of information. Someone who knows how to dig will find it, and in this case,” he said, pausing, “someone did.”

  CHAPTER 72

  REECE’S SCAN VIA BOTH thermal and night vision from the Protector had yielded nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe they weren’t there? Maybe he had missed his shot. Another headache had hit him on the way in, though this one was not nearly as severe as the one that almost crippled him in the mosque. He never knew which headache might be his last. Not knowing the speed with which his tumor was growing made it even more imperative that he finish the names on his list before joining his wife and daughter. The insertion via LAR V, a classic Frogman combat swimmer operation, allowed him to avoid the thermals and night vision of any security detail.

  Ending up under the long-abandoned dock attached to a part of Fishers Island still owned by the Navy and occasionally used to monitor submarine activity off the coast, Reece used a pylon to conceal his combat peek, slowly scanning the beach, cliffs, stairs, and high ground of the long-defunct outpost. Conspiracy theories had swirled around the island for years that the prohibited area was operating some sort of biological weapons development lab, akin to the rumors surrounding Plum Island, to the south. Reece hoped tonight that the speculations were just that, rumors.

  Reece unhooked his Draeger, flooded it, and let it sink away. Then he attached his fins to his weight belt and dropped them to the ocean floor before working his way under the dock to the rocky shore. He was committed. The rain and wind masked any noise he made removing his M4 from its waterproof bag and quickly transitioned out of his wetsuit and into his AOR2 woodland-patterned camouflage combat pants and shirt. He slipped his magazine carrier over his head and attached his pistol belt to his waist. Then, donning his bump helmet with NODs, he scanned ahead and moved toward the stairs.

  At the top of the steps, Reece turned and headed northeast, coming to a kneel in a small clearing to listen and observe. The weather played to his advantage tonight, masking his movement and keeping civilized people indoors, where it was dry and warm. Reece studied the GPS he always kept on the stock of his M4, bringing back memories of the last time he had checked it, just prior to the ambush in Afghanistan. It would all be over soon.

  Moving as if guided by the souls of those warriors who could not exact vengeance themselves, Reece pushed through the thick woods of the island paradise, past red oaks, American beech, and red maples, aided by the howling wind and pelting rain. It was a good night for a reckoning.

  Sticking to the wood line, Reece skirted the meadows and ponds, giving the large homes he encountered a wide berth even though they were essentially abandoned at this time of year. Unencumbered by the usual weight of his body armor, he worked his way swiftly and silently toward his target. The thick shrubs and grasses, soft earth, and decaying logs through which he now moved reminded him more of Central America than what he had assumed he would find off the coast of New York. He would have loved to explore wilderness like this with his children, had they not been murdered by those he now hunted.

  Arriving at what overseas he would
have termed his “set point,” Reece stopped again just back from the tree line, looking out at his target building. The rain combined with the humidity created by his body during his patrol from the Atlantic side of the island caused his NODs to fog up with irritating regularity, though it certainly was better than not having them at all. Reece settled into a comfortable position and observed his objective.

  Finally he saw them, sitting out of the rain in the dry warmth of the idling SUV, with a commanding view of the water just to the side of the opulent home’s driveway. The four men, who were undoubtedly supposed to be out in the elements patrolling the perimeter, were sitting in the Chevy Tahoe texting away to fight the boredom. Apparently they didn’t think it was possible for him to get there this quickly, which explained the absence of a rear security element. Through his NODs he could see their faces illuminated by the light of their smartphones; all of them not only distracted from their jobs by the lure of the digital world, but their night vision ruined by the LCD screens. They undoubtedly had access to NODs, but none appeared to be wearing them.

  Odd. The same senses that had kept him and his men alive on the front lines of the war on terror until that last deployment were now telling him something was wrong. Last time you didn’t listen to that voice you got your entire element killed, Reece. Last time I cared about keeping my men alive. Now it is just me, and I am already dead.

  Patience, Reece. No need to rush to your death. Make it count and finish the job. Keep scanning.

  That’s when he spotted the sniper.

  CHAPTER 73

  TO THE SOUTH, FIFTY YARDS off the main home, sat a quintessential guest cottage built in the same style as its larger companion. A flicker of light, perhaps from a headlamp or cigarette lighter, illuminated a window and then went out. Sometimes that’s all it takes in this game.

  It was a good position, an urban hide site, out of the elements, in control of the high ground with a commanding view of the water, dock, and beach below. The goons in the Tahoe were bait. The sniper was there to finish him. Their mistake had been assuming Reece would come directly from the sea; that, and not posting rear security.

  Reece crept farther back into the wood line and worked his way into the dead space behind the cottage, stopping once again to look and listen for anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied that he had the critical element of surprise in his favor, he moved smoothly from tree to tree until he was standing at the entrance to the cottage, M4 at the ready. The door was unlocked and Reece slowly pushed it to the side.

  “Hey, Tim, you’re suppose to radio in before coming over!” the sniper said angrily, turning from his seated position at a table, set up the same way a bench-rest shooter would in competition. He was situated in the back of the small living area, furniture pushed to the side to give the gunman an unobscured view and clear bullet path down to the low ground. Reece’s M4 spat once, the suppressor muffling the sound to an almost inaudible level, with the howling wind as a backdrop. The bullet impacted his would-be killer’s head with a wet thwack, throwing brains and tissue over what Reece recognized as an Accuracy International .338 Lapua topped with a Schmidt & Bender scope. Nice rifle.

  Reece approached the contorted body and, slinging his carbine, found the man’s radio and headset, listened for a moment for any incoming radio traffic, and then attached it to his web gear before moving back into the storm.

  One more group of contractors to deal with. To Reece it mattered little that they undoubtedly had wives, children, girlfriends, or parents waiting for them at home. To him they were mere targets, obstacles blocking him from his ultimate objective. To that end they were going down. When you lived this life, that was part of the contract. Don’t let it be a surprise when the reaper comes to call.

  Reaching into his pack, Reece readied the demolition charge, the last of his armory acquisitions from back in Coronado. It seemed like years ago that he had started preparing for this evening’s mission, though in a way he had been preparing for it his entire life. Starting the timer on the MK147 time-delay firing device, Reece set it for a ten-minute countdown. He crawled on his hands and knees to the rear of the SUV and slid the demo as far forward as he could reach. Then, retreating from the vehicle, he set his sights on the mansion.

  CHAPTER 74

  STEVE HORN WAS ON his third brandy when he felt, rather than saw, the figure emerge from the shadows. Though he knew it was a possibility, he couldn’t quite fathom how Reece had made it past the contractors; they were supposed to be the toughest mercenaries available. Even with one last fail-safe contingency plan still in place to kill the Navy commando, Horn was surprised by the fear the dark man in NODs appearing from nowhere instilled in him.

  “Commander Reece!” Horn said in a louder voice than necessary, in an attempt to bolster his confidence and composure.

  Lorraine Hartley jumped in her seat at Horn’s abrupt shout.

  Reece moved slowly into the room, lifting his NODs back on his helmet. His dark beard, face paint, and gear dripping rainwater only added to his intimidating appearance.

  In front of the fire, sitting with Lorraine Hartley and Steve Horn, a brandy in one hand and what appeared to be a small box in the other, was Ben Edwards. Reece had expected all three. What he didn’t expect was the fourth person; kneeling on the rug next to Ben, hands bound behind her back, a bandana running between her teeth and tied around her head, face battered and hair a mess, was Katie Buranek.

  “You son of a bitch!” Reece hissed, raising the M4.

  “Ah . . .” Ben said, holding up and shaking the box in his hand.

  In response to Reece’s questioning look, Ben brushed Katie’s hair back with the hand holding his snifter, revealing multiple strands of what looked to be thin yellow rope wrapped around her neck.

  “Yeah, that’s det cord, buddy, and yes, this is a detonator,” he said, shaking the box once more. “You don’t have these little toys in the Teams yet, bro. In case you were wondering, my thumb has depressed the button here. As soon as it comes off, pop! Off comes Katie’s head.”

  Reece kept his weapon trained on Ben but had a healthy eye on the SECDEF and Horn.

  “You don’t look surprised to see me, bro.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when I finally put it together, Ben. I had my suspicions but the assault force at your cabin confirmed it. You were the only one who knew I was going there.”

  “Yeah, I figured that would cue you in. Mistake on my part. It did allow you to almost finish your list, though, which helped us out immensely, by the way. I still can’t believe you had those guys in a textbook ambush and let them live. Getting soft, buddy.”

  “How could you be involved in this, Ben? How could you be a part of killing Lauren and Lucy?”

  “Shit, bro, I didn’t do that. By the time I was brought in, those decisions were made. The SECDEF here just wanted me to see what you knew about the tumors. I had no idea they were going to kill your family. Once they did, there was no turning back the clock. I’m sorry how it went down, bro, but this is bigger than you or me.”

  “So you kept it from me and then used me to kill off everyone who knew about the experiments. SECDEF gets elected, the Domestic Safety Act gets passed, and you all make your fortunes from RD4895.”

  “Everybody has a price, bro. Apparently mine has ten figures.”

  Reece stared at his best friend in a disgusted rage.

  “That’s why you never gave me any location information on this guy?” Reece asked gesturing toward Horn. “You needed him to keep this plan moving forward. You needed him in place for your payday?”

  “You were always the smart one, Reece. And yeah, that was why you weren’t killed at the condo. You were being so efficient tying up our loose ends while at the same time increasing our share of the profits that the logical business decision was to allow you to keep at it, up until now that is. I was actually nervous you would put it together quicker than you did. Those emotions got you, bro. Kept you from seeing
the whole picture.”

  “And J. D. Hartley?” Reece asked, looking at the SECDEF.

  Not able to even form a sentence, Lorraine Hartley looked in loathing at Steve Horn.

  “Don’t act surprised, Lorraine,” Horn said in partial dismissal. “His death helps propel you into the White House with the sympathy vote. You haven’t spent the night in the same house in years. He was a liability to your campaign as it was. Don’t pretend like you are going to miss him.”

  “You concocted a plan to let Reece keep killing our business partners and didn’t inform me?” the SECDEF asked Horn in shock.

  “As much as I’d like to take credit for that part of the plan, I can’t. It was all Ben’s idea. Following your jihadi’s failure to take him out on the streets of L.A., Ben went a bit further off the reservation and devised a plan that allowed Reece to continue his crusade, making us all richer in the process. When he finally read me in after Reece killed Holder, Tedesco, and Pilsner, I thought it was genius. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

  Secretary Hartley shook her head in disbelief as Horn continued: “Ben’s actually a lot smarter than he looks. Don’t be fooled by the tattoos. He’s been right about a lot of things, including the fact that Reece would make it past my contractors and into this very room; hence our insurance policy tied up on the floor there,” he said, pointing at Katie. “Your friend had more faith in your skills than I did, Mr. Reece; well founded, it now seems.”

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, bro,” Ben said. “Horn is going to make us all very rich. Almost everyone else who stood to profit from this is dead, thanks to you. Yeah, you will have to do a little time, but the SECDEF will pardon you with her newfound presidential powers, blaming your actions on the ravages of PTSD. I am going to disappear, never to be heard from again, and you and Katie can live happily ever after. Maybe they can even operate on that tumor of yours and save your life?”