by Stephen Frey
“MY FATHER is alive?” Skylar whispered. “That can’t be true.”
“It is absolutely true,” Baxter confirmed. “But he’s in hiding. He has been for years.”
For the second time in as many minutes the world blurred before Skylar. “Why is he in hiding?” And he hadn’t contacted her in all these years? That seemed impossible. “Tell me.”
President Dorn and Baxter exchanged glances.
“Tell me,” she demanded again.
She had to have details, specific details along with irrefutable evidence. Now the questions were piling up in her brain like car accidents on a foggy interstate. Where was he, how long had he been there, how did Baxter and Dorn know all this, along with that big question of why he was hiding in the first place.
She had a healthy skepticism for any story, after living in the dark shadows of her special-forces branch the last three years. In a setting where it seemed disinformation was always more prevalent than the truth.
“Why is he in hiding?” she repeated. “I need to know.”
“Of course you do,” Baxter agreed, “but—”
“I believe Stewart explained that your father has done work for the Office of Naval Intelligence,” Dorn cut in, gesturing at Baxter. “Isn’t that true, Stewart?”
“Yes, Mr. President. I told Commander McCoy about that.”
“He made his living on the Bering Sea,” Dorn went on. “But the Alaskan Star performed another very valuable task for this country while she was out there on those rough waters. The ship picked up and delivered U.S. spies to and from our submarines. Spies who were heading for or coming back from highly classified missions in Asia.”
“I know,” she said, nodding at Baxter. “Baxter told—”
“Your father is a patriot of the highest order,” Baxter interrupted. “He’s a great man.”
“I need proof of life,” she said bluntly.
Baxter reached for a large envelope that was leaning against the leg of his chair and handed it to Skylar.
With trembling fingers she opened it and carefully slid a large color photograph from inside. She gasped softly, and tears welled in her eyes as she stared at her father’s face. He looked older, much older than she remembered, but it was definitely Kevin McCoy.
As she gazed at the man she’d missed so much, an awful truth hit her squarely and inescapably between the eyes. If her father was alive, she might have to accept responsibility for killing an innocent man on that mountain in Denali. If her father was alive, then it was possible Red Cell Seven had caused that terrible accident in Alaska in which Bianca had died—but her boyfriend had survived. And if Red Cell Seven had caused the accident, then Bianca’s boyfriend hadn’t—which meant she had indeed killed an innocent young man on that steep slope high above the valley floor.
But the police report had claimed Bianca’s boyfriend was drunk at the time of the accident. And that he had been at fault for plowing his pickup into that grove of trees. Skylar had seen all that in the report with her own eyes. She’d even seen the gruesome picture of Bianca’s face after crashing through the windshield as she lay on a gurney in the morgue.
Of course, a group like RC7, with powerful men like Bill Jensen at the helm, could manipulate anything they wanted. Skylar and her superior had talked many times about how it seemed that a “black hand” was constantly at work behind the scenes, pulling strings. Perhaps they’d manipulated this.
She pointed at the photograph. “This doesn’t prove anything.”
She’d figured they would have had her father holding up a recent newspaper so the date was obvious in the photo. But they hadn’t. Of course, in this day and age that kind of thing could have been easily simulated, even by an amateur. Hell, these days the photograph could be a fake but look real as hell. Her father’s image in the picture might simply be some artist’s interpretation of what he would look like now if he were alive.
“No, it doesn’t,” President Dorn agreed. “You’ll have to take my word on that, Skylar. You’ll have to take my word for something else as well,” he continued.
“What?”
“Once you’ve completed the initial phase of your mission, you and your father will be reunited. It will be a short meeting at a secret location. But you will spend time with him. In fact, if you and the group you put together for this mission I’m asking you to execute for me are successful, your father might be able to come out of hiding for good.”
Skylar gazed into Dorn’s “floor model” eyes, wondering if she could trust the president of the United States. That seemed like a stupid question with a simple answer. “Why is my father in hiding?” she asked. “What did he find out about Red Cell Seven that forced him to go underground?”
Dorn gestured at Baxter. “Go ahead, Stewart. You can tell her.”
“I’ve already communicated to you, Commander McCoy, that RC7 doesn’t officially report to any branch of the United States government. It operates completely independently.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It doesn’t receive any money from the federal government, either. That makes it even harder for prying eyes to detect, nearly impossible, I would say.”
It was a creative way to keep things covert, she had to admit. Her superiors always complained about money trails potentially making their black ops transparent to scrutiny from overreaching congressional subcommittees—and others.
“As you can imagine, RC7 has a significant monthly nut they have to fund. They need money, but they have to be creative about how they get it if they’re going to stay invisible. Now,” Baxter continued after a short pause, “they also have the ability to procure weapons. We believe that comes primarily through contacts of Bill Jensen. First Manhattan does significant banking business with all the big defense contractors.” Baxter hesitated again, to let her know what he was about to say was extremely significant. “Bottom line, your father uncovered one of the major ways RC7 funded itself. The cell sold weapons to outlaw nations and then funneled the cash secretly back to hidden accounts. Bill Jensen arranged the arms deals without our defense contractors knowing exactly who the buyers were. And then, at his direction, First Manhattan laundered and redirected the cash transfers, erasing all records of the buyers.”
It sounded far-fetched—until Skylar remembered Iran-Contra and Oliver North.
“Because of Kevin McCoy’s quick thinking and bravery, federal authorities were able to stop the sale of those weapons to outlaw nations,” Baxter explained. “The money trails disappeared, so we couldn’t trace the cash back to RC7. But those outlaw countries stopped getting high-tech weapons.”
“How did my father uncover the conspiracy?”
President Dorn shook his head as though he couldn’t believe the answer. “It’s a crazy story with its punch line buried in a classic military-intel snafu. Go on, Stewart, tell her.”
“Red Cell Seven runs black ops in Asia, too. They use U.S. submarines for transport as well. And just like ONI, they use crab boats for pickup and delivery on the Bering Sea. One of them was called the Arctic Fire. So, one night—”
“Let me guess,” Skylar interrupted. “One night my father and the crew of the Alaskan Star—”
“Kodiak Sky for that mission,” Baxter reminded her.
“One night,” Skylar started again, “they pick up somebody off a U.S. submarine who was actually supposed to board the Arctic Fire. That was the snafu. During the course of taking that spy back to land, my father discovered something very sensitive.”
Dorn nodded. “Exactly.”
“And that RC7 agent found out that your father had discovered what was so sensitive,” Baxter continued.
“And then my father had to go underground.”
“The story of the Kodiak Sky being lost at sea during a storm was hatched, and your father went into hiding, with federal government protection,” Baxter expl
ained. “But the story goes that Troy Jensen knew his way around Dutch Harbor, the port up in Alaska a lot of those crab boat captains sail out of during the season. Anyway, after he spoke to a couple of the captains, he didn’t believe the story of the Alaskan Star going down. The storm ONI used as the one that swamped the Kodiak Sky wasn’t that intense. And apparently, those captains in Dutch Harbor told Troy that your father was much too good a sailor to have been beaten by it. So Red Cell Seven put out word that he needed to ‘make himself available or we would take revenge.’ ”
Skylar knew what that meant.
“So your sister was murdered when he didn’t. And it wasn’t because he was afraid. He couldn’t. He was not allowed to make himself available.”
Her chin dropped slowly to her chest. “Why didn’t they come after me?” she asked softly.
“You were already in the military,” Baxter answered. “And as further protection, you were fast-tracked into special forces, into a very dark sector of special forces.”
She glanced up. In fact, she hadn’t asked for the promotion. It had been thrust upon her. “To make me hard to find.”
“No,” Dorn said, “to make you impossible to find.”
“Then, of course, there is that matter of that young man falling off that cliff in Denali.”
Skylar’s gaze raced from the president back to Baxter.
“It would be unfortunate if you were implicated in the death of that—”
“I don’t think there’s any need to dredge up an unsolved mystery,” Dorn said. His eyes shifted smoothly from his chief of staff to Skylar. “Do you, Commander McCoy?”
She said nothing as she stared back at him.
“I didn’t think so.” Dorn gave her his most sincere smile. “Now, what should we call your unit, Commander McCoy?”
“I—I hadn’t given it much thought, sir.”
“Well, I have. You know, I’ve always believed in that old adage of imitation being the highest form of flattery.” Dorn chuckled. “So let’s call it Kodiak Four. I like the sound of that.” He hesitated. “Once word of your unit leaks, as it undoubtedly will, everyone will obsessively try to find Kodiak One, Two, and Three as well. But they won’t, because they won’t exist. What do you think, Commander?”
She was thinking two things. One, the president had been calling her “Commander” for the last few minutes, not Skylar. So, apparently, both Dorn and Baxter were acting the part of the bad cop now.
Second, she was thinking she’d just been hit with a classic one-two punch by two very experienced Washington insiders. The carrot had been dangled. She would see her father if she succeeded, possibly even get him his freedom. And the stick had been wielded though not applied. Somehow they knew what had happened on the Denali cliff. And they would release that information if she didn’t cooperate.
“Kodiak Four,” she murmured. “Okay.”
“I assume you’re ready to go now. I assume we’ve satisfied your concerns.”
Skylar took a few seconds to answer. “Yes, sir, I’m ready.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll need a place to start,” she said.
Baxter held out a piece of paper. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a list of all RC7 agents, Commander. I think it will provide you with an excellent place to start.”
Skylar’s eyes narrowed as she took it. Effectively, she was about to initiate what amounted to civil war. How had her life come to this so fast?
“Skylar,” Dorn said quietly as he rose from his chair and moved to where she sat, “I understand why this is a difficult mission for you to accept. You’ve been trained to kill this country’s enemies, not other members of its protective forces. I know it must be difficult for you to think about soldiers of this country as enemy combatants, particularly soldiers who are much like you.” He paused. “But they are enemies. The agents of Red Cell Seven are trying to kill me, and you must help me. I am your commander in chief, and you must protect me.”
She stood up as the president held out his hand. It was as if he could read her mind. “Well, I—”
“Will you help me?”
Skylar gazed at David Dorn for several moments. He was right. He was her commander in chief, and he was the president of the United States. If she disobeyed his order, she would be ignoring everything she had sworn to protect.
“Yes, sir,” she finally agreed. “I’ll help you.”
“Then I order you to destroy Red Cell Seven. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
She swallowed hard. But did she really? How could she know who was right and who was wrong in all this?
“HOW DID you choose Leigh-Ann as your stage name?”
As far as Shannon could tell they were in the back of another van. At least she was being allowed to sit up on a seat this time. When they’d hurled her into the back of the van outside the club in Nashville, she’d been roped and tied like a calf at a rodeo as the van sped away. And her abductors had forced her to lie on the hard metal floor that way until they’d gotten to the house she’d escaped from a few hours later—until the dogs had cornered her at the edge of the field and she’d been recaptured.
She was sitting this time, but she still wasn’t comfortable. Her wrists were bound behind her back by metal handcuffs that dug into her skin no matter how she sat; her feet were shackled; and the blindfold was, well, blinding. At least they’d removed the gag. She’d felt herself drooling all over her shirt, and she was parched.
“May I please have something to drink?” She hated the way the man kept stroking her face and sniffing her neck. His breath was awful. “Some water, maybe.”
“Don’t ignore me, damn it.”
“Leigh-Ann is my aunt’s name.”
“Bullshit, Shannon. I doubt there’s anyone in the city of Boston named Leigh-Ann, probably not in the entire state of Massachusetts. Not anyone who’s from Massachusetts, anyway, which you most definitely are.”
The man was right. Her aunt’s name wasn’t Leigh-Ann. It was Carol. But Aunt Carol had been the one who’d inspired Shannon to sing when she was just a little girl. And she had been the one who’d told Shannon she ought to use a stage name after she’d won a huge talent contest at eleven years old.
That evening, still basking in the glow of victory, she and Aunt Carol had decided on Leigh-Ann as the name she’d use when she sang.
Carol had died two nights later in a horrible car accident on a snowy night. Every time Shannon sang for an audience after that, she’d silently dedicated the first song to her aunt Carol.
“May I please have some water?”
“Maybe in a few,” the man said gruffly as the vehicle slowed down. “We’ll see how I’m feeling.”
When the van stopped, he pulled Shannon up off the seat and guided her to the open double doors, where two more men grabbed her and lowered her to the ground. Each man took her by an elbow and escorted her down a hallway and into another room, where they guided her onto what felt like a couch.
She sat there for a few minutes, alone, as far as she could tell.
And then, out of nowhere, she was being lifted off the couch again and hustled back into the hallway by two men holding her by the elbows. After a short distance, they turned her roughly from the hallway into another room, where they forced her face-first against a wall and secured her tightly to it with clamps up and down her arms and legs, one around her neck, and two around her torso. She couldn’t move at all.
“What’s happening?” she shouted. “Please tell me what’s happening.”
“You’re going on a long plane trip.”
“To where?”
“And we’re just trying to make that trip easier for you.”
Someone swabbed her upper arm with rubbing alcohol. The powerful smell rose to her
nostrils quickly, and she struggled wildly. But it was useless. She was completely immobilized against the wall.
“No, no!” she shouted, desperately trying to escape as the needle pierced her skin. “Stop, please stop!”
Thirty seconds later she was unconscious.
Ninety seconds later they had strapped her limp body to a gurney and were rolling her toward the waiting plane.
Five minutes later the plane was in the air.
“WHAT DO you think?” Baxter asked when Skylar was gone.
“I think Commander McCoy is in with both feet,” Dorn answered stoically, staring at the door she’d just used to exit the room. “She has a carrot and a stick staring her in the face. Which one would you choose? Isn’t it obvious, Stewart?”
“Of course.”
“I think Kodiak Four is off the ground, and Red Cell Seven has a severe problem on its hands,” Dorn continued, “especially the Jensens and your friend Shane Maddux.”
“He’s not my friend.” Baxter’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it from his suit coat pocket to check the text that had just come in. It was from the aide who had first delivered the news of Shannon’s kidnapping the other night. “Please stop saying that, sir.”
“You’ll take care of all the particulars, Stewart,” the president said as he rose from his chair. “I want my cell as protected and immune from prosecution as possible, just the way Nixon protected his.”
“I will.”
“You’ll speak to Chief Justice Espinosa.”
Dorn was already calling Espinosa by his nominated title, Baxter had noticed. “Yes, sir.”
“By the way, you did a nice job with Warren Bolger. A foggy morning, no visibility; he was driving himself to court. Excellent job, Stewart.”
“Thank you.” Dorn wasn’t going to like this, but he had to say something. “Sir?”
The president turned back as he reached the door. “What is it?”
“I just got a message from one of my aides. Shannon’s kidnappers have been in contact with him again.”
“What do they want?” Dorn asked hoarsely.
“That’s the strange part of it, sir. They didn’t demand anything.” It was odd for Baxter to see Dorn’s lower lip tremble just then. It was one of the few reactions he’d seen from the president that was pure, unrehearsed, and without motive or agenda, that wasn’t driven by ambition. David Dorn actually had a heart beneath that charismatic veneer. He was a father, and he was panic-stricken for his daughter. “They contacted us simply to say that she was still alive, and not to let this get into the press.”
