Saber Down

by Harrison Kone

  “Wait, those were gunshots?” she asked fearfully. Kathryn ignored her and bolted the door. She provided the dispatcher with her address, detailed the situation, and requested EMS.

  “Help is on the way,” the dispatcher assured. “I will stay on the line with you until they arrive.”

  “Thank you,” Kathryn said. Her body shook as the adrenaline faded. She exhaled forcefully and was surprised at how quickly she had recovered.

  “Kathryn, what is going on?” Patricia asked warily.

  “A home invasion,” she replied through her heavy breathing.

  “What?”

  “Yeah,” Kathryn confirmed. Something in her gut nagged at her. There was no denying that that man had come to kill her, but why? Had he desired to rape her, he would have retreated at the sight of the gun, wouldn’t he? Even after being shot, he continued his assault. It suggested that he was accustomed to such experience. A hitman? She couldn’t deny that he wasn’t. But why? The only rational conclusion fell on Yemen. She should have died, but alive she could reveal what really happened to her, the NGO reps, and the Marines.

  Why now? She had told her editor she was working on the Yemen project. Had someone else found out? Had he told someone? The questions scared her more than she would dare admit.

  • • •

  Aboard Scarlett’s Bosom,

  Off the Coast of Mozambique

  Shaw sipped his coffee as he watched Affré at work. His eyes glanced toward the metal briefcase he also kept close. If the case contained what he thought it contained, a plan was already forming in his mind.

  Wyatt entered the mess and headed their way. He took his seat across from Shaw and leaned forward. Shaw inclined his ear.

  “I just don’t get it,” he started, “why would Weber sell us out?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Affré interjected. Their stares did little to unnerve him.

  “Fill us in, Professor,” Wyatt sarcastically remarked. Affré looked up from his laptop and gazed directly at Wyatt.

  “For the money,” he answered.

  “Obviously,” Wyatt stated. He looked at Shaw, “but why?”

  “What do you mean?” Shaw asked.

  “Why risk exposing yourself to the weight of United States intelligence? Why not just sell to uninvolved parties?” Wyatt explained. Shaw scratched the side of his forehead before looking down at his coffee.

  “Maybe he thought he could cover it up,” Shaw offered.

  “But it can’t be that simple?” Wyatt protested.

  “Sometimes it is,” Affré added. The comment carried a weight neither Marine expected. It focused in on the notion that Weber might really have just killed Marines for the money, and that thought brewed deeper betrayal within Shaw and Wyatt. Neither man wanted to believe that their brothers had died for something so trivial. No one wants to die for money.

  “What’s in the case?” Shaw asked, changing the subject. Affré’s golden eyes glanced at the silver briefcase that rested on the table next to him.

  “It’s a computer that links to a satellite network for funds transfers,” the Frenchman responded.

  “How does it work?” Shaw asked. The question surprised him, but he didn’t show it.

  “Once I boot up the software, Mather-Pike or I have the client enter their account information and then enter Silva’s.”

  “Then it transfers the money to Silva’s account?”

  “Yes, but if you’re looking to access that account, you can’t, or rather there’s no money in it,” Affré said. Shaw mulled over his words. He had little interest in Silva’s accounts.

  “Hey, can I use that?” Wyatt asked, noticing the satellite phone resting next to Affré’s laptop.

  “Be my guest,” the Frenchman replied. Wyatt scooped up the phone and rose from his seat as he punched in the memorized number. He paced around the mess as it rang.

  “Hello?” came the timid voice on the other end of the line.

  “Kathryn!” Wyatt exclaimed. She immediately burst into tears.

  “John,” she whimpered.

  “What’s wrong?’ Wyatt’s gaze snapped to Shaw’s, and the veteran Raider recognized the expression painted across his friend’s face as he listened to her.

  “What is it?” Shaw probed urgently.

  “I need to get to Atlanta ASAP,” he stated sternly.

  “Wyatt?” Shaw asked for clarification.

  “It’s Kathryn. Someone tried to kill her.”

  40

  Hamburg, Germany

  Silva groaned and passed in and out of consciousness as he lay on the surgical bed at Asklepios Klinik Barmbek, one of Germany’s and the world’s most premier hospitals. His eyes attempted to focus on the faces swirling above him, but the bright light and the pain mingled to blur his vision and cloud his mind. He remembered the ambulance and the awful sirens, but had he lost consciousness? Where was Mr. Morgan? Was his contracted surgeon present?

  “Mr. Silva, I am going to administer anesthesia now,” came a distant voice the Spaniard didn’t recognize. He tried to source its owner, but blackness encroached from the corners of his eyes.

  • • •

  Over Maryland, USA

  The Gulfstream entered United States air space, and Natalie rapped her fingers against the cellphone lying on the table in front of her as she gazed out into the morning sky. She sighed. The cellphone rang, but she didn’t recognize the international number.

  “This is Hale,” she greeted.

  “Hey, Natalie, you alright?” the man on the other line asked. The joy that gushed within her radiated throughout her bloodstream and sent tingles up and down her spine. A smile wider than any she had ever worn traced its way across her face.

  “Is that becoming our thing?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Asking how each other is doing,” she clarified. Shaw chuckled, and she relished the sound.

  “I guess so,” he replied.

  “I’m glad to hear from you. How’s Wyatt?”

  “He’s fine,” Shaw replied.

  “And you?” she asked. Shaw smiled at the tenderness in her tone. He opened his shirt collar and looked at his wound dressing.

  “I’ll make it,” he replied. “Where are you?” Natalie fought against the guilt that tried to surface.

  “Just entered US airspace,” she answered. “Look, David, I … I didn’t have a choice.” Shaw nodded his head.

  “I understand.” The forgiveness present in his tone relieved her greatly and subdued the pang in her heart.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Silva knew we were coming,” he replied.

  “How?”

  “I’ll explain everything in person. Wyatt and I are headed for the US Consulate in Cape Town where we will obtain transportation to Atlanta. Can you meet us there?”

  “What’s in Atlanta?” she asked.

  “Kathryn Byrd,” he replied. “She’s been attacked, and we don’t think it’s coincidental.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I know everything, Natalie. I know who Silva’s supplier is and who leaked the intel about Yemen and likely this too.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t say over the phone. Can you arrange a safe place for Wyatt to lay low with Kathryn?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she replied.

  “Thanks, Natalie. Meet me in Atlanta and be careful.” Natalie nodded along with his words.

  “Alright, you too, David.”

  “See you soon,” he said. The call ended, and Natalie rubbed her eyes. When had she last slept, really slept? That night in Dubai? She couldn’t remember, but she wasn’t finished. Although relieved that Shaw was alive, the questions she had and Shaw’s tone suggested she had a long way still to go before she won justice for her fallen team.

  She glanced down at her phone. She had another call to make. She knew a senator with an estate in Shenandoah. It should be safe enough for Wyatt and Kath
ryn until all this was finished. She dialed the number saved in her phone. It would be good to hear her old commanding officer’s voice again.

  • • •

  Silva awoke and blinked rapidly. Fatigue assaulted him, but he pushed through the feeling. He took in his surroundings. His suite was decorated in a glossy, modern fashion, and natural light poured in through the large, one-way windows. Morgan sat on the couch watching Arsenal compete against Leicester City on the large, flat-screen television.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Silva managed. The man didn’t remove his gaze from the game.

  “Yes?”

  “What happened?”

  “You got fixed,” he replied, his English accent only added to the perceived apathy, and Silva immediately missed Affré. The Frenchman’s attention to detail would have propelled him to provide a comprehensive account of the recent hours. Morgan was far less sophisticated. What had happened to Affré? He didn’t know but assumed he was dead in Egypt. It was really a shame, but Silva was confident he could find someone to take his place.

  He turned his attention inward. He felt significantly better, and, other than the overwhelming weakness and dull pain, his body responded well to his commands, but his mind seemed fuzzy, likely due to the pain meds. He found the remote to his bed and pressed the blue call button, and within seconds, a nurse entered.

  “Ja?”

  “Get my doctor,” he commanded. She left as quickly as she had arrived. Thirty minutes passed before a man in a white coat entered the room. “Kasper,” Silva greeted, “how did it go?” Dr. Kasper Doevelaar, a Dutch surgeon whom Silva kept on retainer, pressed his lips firmly together as he prepared to respond to his VIP client.

  “You were very lucky, Francisco. The first round missed your left atrium by two centimeters and your spine by three, and the second missed your aorta by only a few millimeters. Your left lung briefly collapsed and was subject to tissue damage from the first round; the chest seals and the decompression needle saved your life,” Dr. Doevelaar explained. “The two bullets simply poked two small holes in your thoracic cavity as if someone stabbed you twice with an ice pick. Again, you are very lucky. What were you shot with?”

  “Five-point-seven millimeter,” Silva responded. Dr. Doevelaar chuckled. Silva’s expression contorted in anger.

  “The five-seven round is a proven underperformer. Sure, it penetrates Kevlar, but doesn’t do much damage after that.” Doevelaar’s eyebrows arched as he put together the pieces. “Oh, that makes sense. You were wearing armor. Well, had those bullets acted as they were designed, you probably would have died instantly. If I had to wager, I’d say someone shot you at pretty close range, not allowing for the bullets to drop in velocity enough to expand or tumble, and they just passed right through and kept going.” Silva’s eyes followed Doevelaar’s hand as it passed through the air mimicking the bullet trajectory.

  “Fascinating,” Silva replied sarcastically. For fear of appearing weak, he dared not show his relief or gratitude for Dr. Doevelaar’s aid, but he did trust his word wholeheartedly. Dr. Doevelaar had served in the Korps Commandotroepan, the special forces unit of the Royal Netherlands Army. It was only after medical school that he was recruited by the hospital for which he now worked. The salary alone was enough to persuade him to leave his beloved homeland. In short, the man knew his craft and knew it well.

  “When can I leave?” Silva asked.

  “Normally, not for several weeks, but I understand our arrangement. And since the damage isn’t too severe, you are free to leave whenever you like,” Dr. Doevelaar answered. “But give it a few days.” Silva had no intention of doing any such thing.

  “My business demands my immediate attention,” Silva replied.

  “Of course it does,” Dr. Doevelaar replied flatly, making his offense known. “I’ve already written you a prescription for the pain. I’ll have it delivered from the pharmacy.” He turned to leave but paused, “Oh, I tried my best to keep the scars small.” The doctor’s condescending tone irritated his patient, and Silva watched him until the door closed. The fact that Morgan kept his gaze on the game the entire time greatly annoyed Silva, but the Englishman’s loyalty could not be denied.

  Or rather, his loyalty to his generous salary.

  How unnerving, thought Silva. That was hardly grounds for true loyalty. Could anyone with enough money sway his new bodyguard’s allegiance? He assumed so, which drifted his mind toward Mather-Pike’s actions. What had spurred his betrayal?

  Silva had laughed when he saw his bodyguard with raised the pistol. Did he simply appreciate the execution of Mather-Pike’s plan? Perhaps, Silva thought as he contemplated the last several hours. Marco Capra had simply taken a little off the top with each transaction, but Mather-Pike had taken betrayal to a higher level. It baffled the Spaniard. Was it about Ella? Had Mather-Pike possessed some deep infatuation with the girl? Had he been so blind to have not seen it coming?

  Apparently.

  It didn’t matter. Silva had underestimated Mather-Pike, and now the South African had to die. He knew too much about his business, and the real question remained.

  Where was he?

  A thought spurred in his mind, and he glanced at Morgan. The Englishman still kept his gaze on the television, enticed by the game.

  “Mr. Morgan, have the jet ready to depart for the Bahamas in a week. I will keep my appointment,” Silva said. His words drew the man’s attention.

  “Still? You don’t want to reschedule? Mather-Pike knows when and where the meeting is,” Morgan countered.

  “Exactly. I want a team outfitted and ready. Handpick them. Make sure their loyalty is not in question, preferably men you know. Pay them whatever they want. I want them on the ground in the Bahamas before we arrive. When Mather-Pike comes for you and for me, he will die.”

  • • •

  Joint Base Andrews, Maryland

  The jet rolled to a stop on its designated runway at Joint Base Andrews, which lay to the southeast of Washington, D.C. The Gulfstream taxied off the illuminated runway and came to rest among four C-130s. As the stairs unfolded from the side of the craft, Natalie appeared at the opening and glanced down at the man dressed in casual, fall clothing who waited for her.

  “Ms. Hale,” he called, “if you’ll kindly come with me.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Director Caldwell has requested to see you,” the man answered. She nodded as she descended the stairs, and her mind raced to figure out how she could make it to Atlanta.

  “May I see some identification?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” the man replied with a smile. Natalie took the bifold he presented and opened it. She gazed at the picture that matched the likeness of the man before her. She recognized the seal of the CIA. His name was foreign to her, but the agency employed over twenty thousand individuals all around the world.

  “Alright, Mr. Roark,” she said confidently. “Lead on.”

  41

  Kathryn received the cup of coffee from the detective and took a sip before setting the mug on the man’s desk. She pulled the wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. Despite the loaned Atlanta Police Department sweatshirt, she still felt cold, however the blanket draped over her shoulders provided a sense of comfort after the night’s trauma. Two butterfly bandages closed the cut just below her hairline. She looked up from the mug to the detective who smiled warmly.

  Detective Devon Edwards had treated her with nothing but kindness throughout the entire ordeal. She had learned that he was a 2009 Morehouse graduate with a wife and three young children. He had been on the force for just over a decade.

  “So, I’ve got some good news, Ms. Byrd,” he started, “the city is not going to press charges. This is as clear-cut as self-defense gets.” Despite knowing the unlikelihood of legal action being taken against her, the words relaxed her significantly. Detective Edwards, seeing the relief across her face, smiled again. “I have to say, you handled yourself really well. Even no
w, you’re quite calm. It’s,” he paused as he sought the right word, “unusual.” Kathryn quickly reached for her coffee in hopes to settle the rising anxiety.

  She had killed two men in three months, and although Wyatt had been right that recovering from the trauma gets easier, it still shook her to the bone and left a permanent scar on her psyche. Both men’s faces, although different in practically every way, remained seared in her memory. She doubted she would forget even the slightest detail.

  Detective Edwards watched her, probing for some type of explanation revealed through her body language, but her gaze, hovering over her coffee, remained fixated on the ground.

  “The department should thank you, Ms. Byrd. We’ve connected your assailant to seven cold cases, all ending in rape and homicide. Who knows what else this guy has gotten away with? Needless to say, you’re lucky to be alive.” Kathryn nodded in comprehension, but her mind was elsewhere, dwelling still on the timing and the why.

  “Did you find a motive?” she asked. The question took Edwards by surprise, and he raised his eyebrows in response.

  “Well, your case seems to follow the other cases. Young, single woman,” he started.

  “I’m not single,” she protested.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Then that’s hardly a major deviance from his profile,” Edwards stated. Kathryn didn’t buy it, but she also didn’t trust Edwards enough to spill to him. Wyatt was coming, and he would try to sort this all out. At the very least, he could protect her from future harm. There were too many questions, and not enough answers.

  The door to the office opened and a sergeant greeted Edwards and said, “There’s a John Wyatt here for Ms. Byrd.” Kathryn leaped out of the seat and pushed past the portly officer. She raced down the hallway, her blanket billowing as she ran.

  Wyatt burst onto the floor, drawing all eyes. His blue eyes scoured the sea of cubicles, desks, and windows until he caught her gaze. Kathryn froze and whimpered as her eyes watered. Seeing him again broke down the wall she had thrown up in the wake of the violent encounter. Wyatt rushed forward and gently embraced her.