by Dalton Fury
Although the door to the room was open, Raynor knocked anyway before poking his head inside. “Hawk? You decent?”
Cindy Bird looked up from her hospital bed. She did not smile. “Come on in, boss.”
Her voice was strained and she winced a little as she spoke. The lightweight body armor she had been wearing under her jacket had stopped the crow’s bullet and saved her life, but she had not escaped completely uninjured.
Raynor entered. A helium-filled Mylar balloon trailed behind him, attached by a ribbon to a chocolate bouquet. The balloon was decorated with a camouflage pattern and a cartoon of a shouting drill sergeant and the message “Get Well, NOW!” in comic typeface. He had found it at the Base Exchange.
The television set in Hawk’s room was on, tuned to CNN. The graphic crawl at the bottom of the screen read: PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS NATION—LIVE.
As far as Raynor knew, POTUS was still on the base, and intended to stay there over the objections of his protection detail. The first lady’s surgery was going ahead as scheduled, and the president had made it clear that he was going to be there when she woke up. The unscheduled speech would probably touch on that topic, but it was far more likely that he would be speaking about the events of the past few hours. Raynor didn’t think news about the bomb had leaked, but the media was already buzzing about the shootouts in Bethesda and on the roof of the naval hospital tower. The president would have to tell the country some version of the truth.
Hawk hit the Mute button, silencing the broadcast.
“Did Digger and Shaft get one of those?” she asked.
“Of course,” Raynor lied. He set the bouquet on the table, then pulled a chair close to the bed. “How are you doing?”
“Couple cracked ribs. I’ll live.” She winced almost as soon as she said it. Raynor suspected her reaction had little to do with physical discomfort. “How’re the others?”
“Digger picked up a new scar. Already got his stitches. Shaft is going to be here a few more days. They want to make sure there’s no cranial bleeding. Digger and Slap are in with him right now.” He didn’t mention Joker and Venti. She already knew. “I drew the short straw and had to come keep you company.”
“What about Todd Kearney?”
“Still in surgery.” The Secret Service agent had been hit in the neck and had nearly bled out before the medics found him. His prognosis was guarded. Raynor felt like he needed to change the subject. “At least it’s over now. Shiner’s dead. So are the guys he was working with.”
“Yeah. It’s all over but the crying. The Secret Service will get all the credit, and we’ll probably all go to jail.”
“If you wanted glory, you should have joined SEAL Team Six,” Raynor said, only half joking.
Delta operators were used to letting other agencies have the spotlight. Hawk knew that, and Raynor knew she didn’t really care about who got the credit. She was just drained, physically and emotionally. They had won—stopped Miric; prevented a bomb attack that would have killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people, along with the president; and averted a geopolitical crisis—but they had paid a heavy price for victory.
“And nobody’s going to jail,” he added. “The president is going to know who really saved him, even if no one else ever does.”
“So … we just drive on? Bury our dead and go back to work?”
“That’s the job you signed up for.”
She cocked her head to the side. “I signed up for? Don’t you mean ‘we’?”
Raynor managed a smile. “I think … I’m done with the job.”
The declaration seemed to snap Hawk out of her funk. She sat up straighter in the bed, wincing a little. “What the hell, Kolt?”
Raynor had not anticipated having this conversation with her. He looked away, trying to figure out how to put what he was feeling into words. “When Colonel Webber let me back in, he told me I would have to work twice as hard, and that even that wouldn’t be enough for some people. He was right. I did. And it wasn’t. Now that he’s gone, there’s no future for me in the Unit.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“It is true, Hawk. Penske, or the CG … they might not get rid of me right away. They might wait a few weeks, but eventually, they’ll find a reason to push me out. And you know what? I don’t mind.
“When I was PNG, I … well, it was bad. Everything just went completely to shit, but I think the worst part was that it was all completely out of my control. I didn’t get to leave on my own terms. I was just out.
“What Colonel Webber did, sending me back to Pakistan, letting me come back to the Unit … It was like I got to come back from the dead, fix my mistakes. Atone. I’ve done that, and a lot more.” Raynor brought his gaze back to her, saw that she was blinking furiously, trying to hide tears. He smiled. “But it was never going to be a permanent thing. At least this time, I get to leave on my own terms.”
“You’re gonna hate it.” She made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “So what are you gonna do?”
“I thought I might ask Pete Grauer if he’s got anything for me. If he’s still talking to me after today, that is.”
She nodded. “Well, I’m going to miss you.”
“Hey, I’m just quitting my job. Resigning my commission. It’s not like I’m going to the moon.” He gave her shoulder a gentle, playful slug, and then in what was almost a passable Bogart impression said, “We’ll always have Cairo.”
She laughed, a real laugh this time. “That was a hell of a honeymoon.”
There was a hopeful look in her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she was going to say something more, but then the look was gone, replaced by something almost like horror. She was looking past him, looking at the television. “Oh, my God.”
Kolt turned and saw President Noonan speaking from behind a lectern adorned with the presidential seal. The graphic crawl at the bottom of the screen had changed. It now read: PRESIDENT TO RESIGN.
“I have to go.” Raynor jumped to his feet and headed out of the room with just one thought. He had to speak to the president while he still was the president, because if he did not—if he could not convince Noonan to use his executive authority to legitimize the actions of Noble Squadron—then everything they had fought for, bled for, died for would be turned against them.
Mason—President Mason—would not pass up a chance to utterly destroy Kolt Raynor or the Delta Force.
As he started down the corridor, he dug out his phone and dialed the only person he knew who might be able to get him close to Noonan: SAIC Jess Simmons.
The electronic countermeasures had been turned off. The phone had a signal, but the call went to voice mail.
Raynor hung up and called again, but as the voice mail message began to play, somebody stepped directly into his path. He shifted right, trying to get around the human obstacle, but the man moved as well, intentionally blocking his escape.
“Colonel Raynor?”
Kolt looked up and saw not one but four men wearing dark suits. He thought they had to be Secret Service, but he did not recognize any of them.
“No, sorry. That’s not me.”
The man in front of him opened his jacket to reveal his creds—Secret Service all right—but not from the presidential protective detail. “Colonel Raynor, you’re going to need to come with us.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Seeing no alternative, Raynor gestured for them to lead the way.
They surrounded him in a diamond formation and escorted him down to the first floor and out the rear of the hospital, to one of the garden spaces in the courtyard between the buildings. The park was unoccupied but for one person sitting on a bench—a woman, tall and slender, with long straight dark hair, full lips, and high, sharp cheekbones.
“Hello again, Racer.”
Raynor recognized her right away and felt his blood start to boil. It was Lauren Gellar.
; Gellar was a spook—an intelligence operative—though her specific affiliation was unknown to Raynor. She might have even been a freelancer. All Raynor really knew about her was that she had been the person working behind the scenes to deliver Raynor and his squadron to a Syrian terrorist as part of a treasonous backroom deal to bring down ISIS, a deal that had almost certainly been brokered by then Secretary of State Bill Mason.
Hawk had given Gellar the nickname “Maleficent.” Kolt was content to simply call her “the bitch.”
“We need to talk.”
“You don’t want to hear what I’ve got to say,” he said through clenched teeth. He started to turn away, but the Secret Service agents were blocking his egress route.
“Sit down, Raynor.” Gellar’s voice was sharp, like someone scolding a child. “Hear me out, then if you want, you can walk away and take your chances.”
He stopped but did not turn. “Take my chances?”
“Sit. Please.”
He relented, sinking onto the bench beside her. “Fine. Talk.”
Gellar regarded him with a cool smile. “I hear you’ve been a busy boy today.”
He didn’t respond.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard the news,” she went on, “but our dear commander in chief has announced his intention to resign from office.”
“I heard,” Raynor growled.
“It was a very moving speech, courageous.” She lowered her voice to approximate Noonan. “‘America needs a leader who can put country ahead of everything else, and I can no longer be that leader. My family needs me more.’” She shook her head. “Just between you and me, he’s scared shitless. People trying to kill him left and right. That definitely was not what he bargained for.”
She paused a beat. “So you know what’s going to happen next, right? Tomorrow at ten A.M. eastern daylight time, William Mason will take the oath of office and become the forty-sixth president of the United States.”
“Your point?”
Gellar leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You broke the law today, Racer.”
“We saved the president’s life,” he shot back. “And a lot of other lives, too.”
Gellar shrugged. “That’s one possible narrative. Here’s another. Two of your men were killed today. Their deaths are directly related to your illegal activity, which means you are guilty of second-degree murder.”
Raynor was breathing hard in an effort to contain his anger. “I guess that will be something for a jury to decide. I look forward to testifying.”
Gellar smiled again, but this time it was forced. Impatient. “Do you really want to take that chance? It’s not just your career; your life is at stake here. You’ll drag everyone else who followed you down as well. But President Mason doesn’t—”
“Vice president.”
“For another eighteen hours … Very well, Vice President Mason doesn’t want to see you in prison, Racer. I know you and he have … history … but he respects you. That’s why I’m here.”
“He respects me.” Raynor shook his head. “That’s why he tried to have me and my squadron killed in Syria last year.”
“You don’t have any evidence of that. And we’ve already had that conversation.” She let that sink in for a moment. “You asked me to get to the point, so here it is.
“You are a weapon, Kolt. An attack dog. You get the job done no matter what. Any obstacle in your way—rules, regulations, laws—you blow through them. You don’t quit. President Mason doesn’t want to lock you up. He wants to set you free so that you can do the job you were born to do.”
She raised a hand to silence any protest and kept talking. “This isn’t ever going to be common knowledge, but we’ve identified the man you killed today. The man trying to detonate the bomb. He’s an officer of the Turkish Intelligence Service.”
“Turkey?” Despite his rage, Raynor was curious. “Turkey’s our ally.”
It made a lot of sense, though, and explained how Shiner had learned Raynor’s identity and location.
“An ally is just a patient enemy,” Gellar said. “We have a lot of enemies, Kolt. The Turkish government is denying involvement, of course, calling the man a rogue agent. Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. That particular fire is out for now, but the burns are going to sting for a while. We’re more vulnerable now than we’ve ever been, which is why we need men like you.”
Raynor leaned forward as if preparing to leave. “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s the job I’ve been doing.”
“And now it’s time for you to move to the next level, where you won’t have to deal with bureaucratic bullshit and red tape. No more chains of command. I want you to work for me.”
“For you?”
“After he takes the oath of office tomorrow, President Mason will appoint me the next ambassador to Tungsten. I believe you’re familiar with that agency.”
Raynor was. A couple years earlier, he had been temporarily seconded to the ultrasecret counterterror shop headquartered in Atlanta. “You want me as an embed again?”
“No, Kolt. I want you to run operations.”
Raynor blinked in disbelief, then shook his head slowly. “You just want to keep me on a short leash. You’re afraid I’ll tell the world Bill Mason is a traitor. I don’t even have to prove it. Just that accusation will be enough.”
“You’re right. Unfortunately. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that we’re vulnerable. Like it or not, Mason is going to be the president, and if you decide to take him down, there’s a chance you could take the rest of the country down in the bargain.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be like that. The choice is yours.
“Come work for me at Tungsten. Keep serving your country and killing America’s enemies. Or…” She shrugged. “Do it your way. Take your chances.”
She rose and stood over him, one hand extended, holding out a crisp white business card. “Take some time to think about it. Just not too much time.”
Raynor didn’t take the card. “I don’t need to think about it,” he said. “I won’t serve under Bill Mason in any capacity. Period. I’m out. And before you say something you’re going to regret, let me tell you how this is going to go down. You’re not going to prosecute me or any of my people for anything. They’re all heroes, and you’re going to treat them that way.”
Gellar opened her mouth to respond, but Raynor raised a hand to cut her off. “You’re right. Things are pretty fucking unstable right now, and whether I like it or not, Mason is going to be president. At least until he fucks up again. I’m betting he won’t be able to help himself, but that’s on him, not me. I’m not going to be the one to pull the pin on this shit grenade.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that you’re just going to drop your vendetta?”
“Vendetta,” Raynor snorted. “Grudges are for people like you and your boss. Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. I’ve put in my twenty and then some. Just give me my letter and give my people the respect they deserve.” He turned and started back down the path to the hospital building.
“You’re making a mistake,” Gellar called after him. “That’s not a threat. Just an observation. You live for this. The action. The rush. You’re going to miss it.”
Raynor kept walking, but Gellar’s parting shot hung over him like a cloud. Hawk had said almost the same thing. He hoped they were both wrong, that he was more than just an adrenaline junkie or a mad-dog killer.
There had to be other reasons to get out of bed in the morning, right?
He looked forward to finding out.
“Cindy,” he muttered as he pushed through the door. He was going to have to get used to calling her that.
He looked forward to that, too.
ALSO BY DALTON FURY
Black Site
Tier One Wild
Full Assault Mode
One Killer Force
All Lines Black
Kill Bin Laden
ABOUT T
HE AUTHOR
DALTON FURY was the senior ranking military officer at the Battle of Tora Bora. As a Delta troop commander, he helped author the operation to hunt and kill Bin Laden. He told his tale of that mission in the book Kill Bin Laden, which went on to become a national bestseller. Execute Authority is the fifth and final novel in his New York Times bestselling Delta Force series. Dalton Fury passed away in 2016. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
A Note from the Editor
Prologue
Part One: Natural
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Part Two: First Target
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Part Three: Final Maneuver
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Also by Dalton Fury
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EXECUTE AUTHORITY. Copyright © 2017 by Dalton Fury. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
