SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox

by Don Mann

  “Jared’s dead.”

  Crocker pulled two shards of glass out of his right forearm as the news sunk in. When he looked up into the mirror he saw Anders hold his chest as though he’d been shot.

  “What?”

  “Jared’s dead. I left him lying on the street with his brains spilled out.”

  “What the hell are you—Jared, the young case officer?”

  Crocker held his forearm under warm water, wrapped it tightly in a towel, and waited for the bleeding to stop.

  “They were attempting to kidnap him. There was a struggle. Someone pushed him in front of a bus. He fell. Crushed his head on the street.”

  Anders shook his head as if he couldn’t quite comprehend. “What the hell are you saying? This is awful. Who attacked him?”

  “Don’t know. At least four, maybe five young punks. Middle Eastern–looking. I checked the pockets of one of them. Found no ID. It was a planned op. Orchestrated.”

  “Where?”

  “On Torun, just around the corner from the Arasta Bazaar. A crowded street, broad daylight. They attacked Jared, then came after me.” Crocker pointed to his back. “Help me pull off this shirt.”

  The bloody fabric on the back stuck to his skin. Anders helped him peel it up slowly.

  “Broad daylight…”

  “Yeah, with people everywhere. Bold motherfuckers.”

  “Jared was one of our best operatives,” Anders said sadly. “You sure he’s dead?”

  When the hem reached his neck, Crocker pulled it over his head. “He’s dead, Anders. He’s dead. Yes.”

  Anders looked as if he was tearing up. “It’s hard to believe. Poor Jared. I…I…That’s a real nasty gash.”

  “I was lucky.”

  Anders shook his head. “Don’t say anything to Janice. Please don’t. She and Jared were close. They trained together at the Farm; maybe they dated, hooked up, whatever. I’d better notify the Station.”

  Anders retreated to the bedroom, spoke in a low voice on the phone, and returned ten minutes later and closed the bathroom door.

  “They follow you here? Were you able to ID them? They say anything to you? They identify themselves in any way?”

  “No. No. No. No,” Crocker answered. “I told you that already.”

  “So you saw nothing that could help us identify them?”

  “I saw four of them. Two on a motorcycle; two in a van. All young guys, trained, tough.”

  The front door buzzer sounded.

  “Who’s that?” Crocker asked, getting ready to defend himself.

  Janice answered it. A minute later she knocked on the bathroom door cradling towels, a bottle of peroxide, bandages, medical tape.

  “You absolutely sure you don’t need a doctor?” she asked.

  “No, I can handle this myself. Thanks.” She was pretty, with straight hair to her shoulders.

  “Are we still doing this?” he asked Anders.

  “What?”

  “The meeting. The meeting you called us to. My colleague Akil is supposed to be here, too.”

  An alarm sounded in a far corner of his brain.

  “That…uh, I don’t know.” Anders quickly looked at his watch. The news had clearly thrown him off his game.

  Crocker said, “Maybe we should do it later.”

  Anders frowned and shook his head. “No, no, can’t. Our source is bringing us critical information. Important evidence. My understanding is that he returns to Damascus right after this.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll get ready.”

  “This is so goddamn disturbing,” Anders continued. “I just spoke to Jared this morning. He was scheduled to go on R&R after the mission.” His face was beet red, and he looked like he wanted to scream.

  “What mission?”

  “You’ll soon find out.”

  “Seemed like a great guy.”

  “Dynamic, yeah. Smart, fun. A huge, huge loss.”

  As Anders was heating up, Crocker started to calm down.

  “All right,” he said. “If we’re going through with the meeting, I’m going to have to borrow a shirt.”

  “The timing sucks, I know. But I’ve been led to believe that our source is bringing intelligence that needs to be acted on immediately.”

  “The darker the better. The shirt, I mean.” Crocker’s wardrobe leaned toward black, but this time he had a reason that went beyond convenience. A dark color would hide the blood from his back if it leaked through.

  “Right.”

  Anders finished helping Crocker clean his back and secure the bandages. He looked at his watch again when they were done. “They’re scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes. I’d better tell Janice to order the drinks and snacks.”

  “They?”

  “A Syrian businessman and his assistant.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll wait.” He thought of something and grabbed Anders’s wrist. “What are you going to tell them about Jared?”

  “Jared? Good question. I don’t know if they’re expecting him. I’ll wait for him to ask.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Manshir Talab. He’s a friend of ours.”

  “You mean he’s a source.”

  Anders nodded.

  “Do we have any friends in this part of the world?” Crocker asked.

  “Good question.”

  “I mean people we can trust with our lives?”

  “I can’t answer that definitively. I’d better go.”

  He left. Crocker had no appetite, but he was thirsty. So he twisted open the bottle of Evian he found near the sink and sat on the edge of the tub drinking and remembering his Black Cell/SEAL colleague Akil, who had arrived with him yesterday.

  He should be here by now, Crocker thought as he checked his damaged cell.

  He punched out a text to Akil. “Do a SDR. Where r u?”

  Anders returned with a white T-shirt and a light-blue oxford that was almost identical to the one he was wearing. He didn’t look rested and relaxed anymore. “This is the best I could find,” he said, as if the weight of the world had fallen on his broad shoulders.

  Not dark or black, but it would do. “Did you inform Akil about the meeting?” asked Crocker.

  “Akil?”

  “My colleague Akil. The big Egyptian-American guy. You asked me to bring him because of his language skills. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” Anders answered. “I texted him about forty minutes ago.”

  “He respond?”

  “Yes. He’s on his way.”

  As Crocker buttoned the shirt, he worried. What if whatever organization that attacked me and Jared is lying in wait for Akil, too?

  He turned to Anders and asked, “How do I look?”

  “The same, except maybe a little more buttoned-up than usual.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Why?”

  Crocker pushed past him. “No reason. I think I’ll wait for Akil downstairs.”

  “Why?” Dr. Mathews had asked him during their second counseling session.

  “Why what?”

  He wanted to dislike her but couldn’t. She had a gentle manner and didn’t come across as judgmental. In the photos of her with her daughter, she appeared to be a kind, loving mother. No man in any of them.

  “You’ve chosen a very unique and extreme way to make a living,” she said. “I’m sure you know that.”

  “I do.”

  “Have you ever asked yourself why you chose to become a SEAL?” she asked. That’s all they had told her. She didn’t know that he was a member of ST-6 or about the existence of Black Cell. Only a handful of people in the CIA and the White House did.

  Crocker looked at Holly, to his left, who lowered her head and wouldn’t meet his eyes. He wanted to say that he resented being here and the doctor’s last question. He wasn’t the type of person who liked to dwell on psychological motivations. He did what he did, and understood why.

  Instead of snarling back, he answered
evenly, “I was a very energetic kid. I’ve always been drawn to adventure and danger. The town where I grew up in Massachusetts was full of motorcycle gangs and drugs. My young friends and I were drifting into that life. I started working out and running, and joined the navy at eighteen. From the navy, I passed the test to get onto SEAL teams. It turned out to suit me perfectly. I’m very grateful for the life it’s provided me. And I love what I do.”

  Dr. Mathews nodded. “It’s enormously satisfying to find a profession that suits you and gives you a sense of purpose, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, liking her even better.

  Now he sat in one of the big, silk-covered armchairs in the lobby, wondering about Jared’s family and how they would take the news about their son. Death, especially when it happened to someone he knew and liked, always affected him profoundly, drawing him deep inside himself.

  That’s where he was now, considering the unfathomable mystery of life and death, and how someone so vital and intelligent could vanish in a second, leaving behind an emotional vacuum and a lifeless shell.

  Crocker was thinking about the sacrifice Jared had made for his country, while most young people his age were playing video games and couldn’t find Syria on a map, when a tall, dapper-looking man strode through the lobby with a very attractive young woman by his side. She was dark-eyed and put together. His eyes followed her to the elevator. She walked as if she expected to be watched, the fabric of her dark skirt pulled tight against her full behind.

  Realizing that he still hadn’t heard from Akil, he reached for his burner cell phone and called him again. The call went directly to voice mail; he left a message: “Call me, knucklehead!”

  Two minutes later his cell pinged with a text from Anders: “They’re here! Soon as u return, we’ll start.”

  “Waiting for A,” he punched back.

  “Do we need him?” came Anders’s reply.

  The question annoyed him. “Want 2 make sure he’s ok. B there in 5.”

  Crocker called Akil’s burner cell again. No answer.

  He was getting anxious. The loss of another teammate would be too much. Looking again at his watch, he started to think that he’d been around so much death and destruction in the past year that maybe he was cursed. His teammate Ritchie had died in a helo crash near the Golan Heights. He’d been working with four FBI and DEA agents who were beheaded in Mexico. His teammate Mancini’s brother was shot through the front door by cartel assassins—the same ones who had killed his daughter’s friend Leslie. Now Jared. A lousy track record, for sure.

  Another ten minutes passed before his cell pinged again.

  It was Anders asking, “WTF are you?”

  “I’m still waiting for A. Hold on.”

  “This is getting awkward,” texted back Anders. “Maybe we should start without him.”

  Crocker got up and started pacing in front of the window that overlooked the entrance. His loyalty to the guys on his team was immense. Losing Ritchie had been like losing a brother. How many times since then had he dreamt of Ritchie running through the woods beside him, or imagining him with that mischievous grin on his face?

  A white Mini Cooper with a red stripe down the roof and hood pulled to the curb. Through the window he saw a long-haired blonde at the wheel. She looked like a Scandinavian model. Gorgeous, but too boney and bloodless to be his type. Still, she caught his attention. He started to wonder why she was stopping in front of the hotel, and what she was doing in Istanbul. Suddenly a smiling, seemingly carefree Akil came into the picture, emerging from the passenger’s side, bounding over to the driver’s open window, and kissing her, long and hard.

  WTF!

  She pulled him close. Akil whispered something in the young blonde’s ear that made her blush. She waved, put the little car in gear, and sped off in what might have been a scene from a James Bond movie.

  Fucking Akil, Crocker said to himself, half relieved, half pissed. His teammate amused him, even when he was totally friggin’ exasperating. Like now.

  He stood waiting as the burly, good-natured SEAL hurried through the glass doors, winking at the doorman and pulling on the blue blazer he’d been carrying on his shoulder.

  “You’re late,” Crocker barked.

  “Sorry, boss. Something wrong? You look stressed.”

  They knew each other so well that they could read the other’s mood.

  “Yeah, I’m stressed, because you don’t answer your fucking cell phone. You got it on you? It work?”

  “Yeah. Oh, yeah. I was stuck in traffic. No signal,” Akil explained with a pat on Crocker’s back and a smile. “What’s up? The powwow canceled?”

  “I texted you five fucking times.”

  “Ease up, boss. I’m present and accounted for. Sorry I’m a few minutes behind schedule, but I had to take care of something.”

  “I saw. Let’s go.”

  Crocker’s irritation didn’t dim in the elevator, even though he wanted it to. It didn’t help that Akil quipped, “Nice shirt. When did you start shopping at Brooks Brothers?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Looks like somebody got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

  “No. Actually, I slept fine. It’s what happened since that’s got me annoyed.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll tell you later. No more bimbos, understand? No more fucking around. I need you to be present and alert. We got eyes on us. Killers.”

  “She’s not a bimbo,” offered Akil. “She’s a visiting fellow at the archeological museum. Looks, brains, personality, and a fabulous tush all rolled into one.”

  “Stop screwing around.”

  “Okay. But honestly, how often in life do you find all three in one package?”

  Crocker stopped in front of 732 and lowered his voice. “I’m serious, Akil. Cut the bullshit. I’m glad you met someone you like. Now forget her and focus.”

  “I got it, boss,” Akil whispered back. “I figure we’re about to get into the shit, right? So I wanted to have some fun first.”

  “We’re in it already, deeper than you think.”

  “Have you experienced issues with PTSD yourself?” Dr. Mathews had asked two weeks ago.

  Crocker twisted in the metal chair. He assumed that she already knew the answer, because he saw his carefully redacted psychological file on the table by her side, provided by Dr. Petrovian.

  He nodded.

  It contained the results of a recent personality test, which revealed him to be a combination of an aggressive and introverted intuitive personality type. That meant he liked to command and exercise power, but also tried to stay in the background until he felt the need to take over. He was active, adventurous, and someone who relied primarily on his instincts. Others with his unique slate of characteristics included Al Capone, Fidel Castro, and Jeffrey Dahmer.

  The Al Capone part was a hoot. But the Castro and Dahmer associations were harder to swallow.

  “Do you think your PTSD issues have anything to do with why you want to continue doing what you’re doing?” Dr. Mathews asked.

  He lied. “No, ma’am. Not at all.”

  The “ma’am” was a tell. He caught that. Warned himself not to use it again.

  “Because research shows that PTSD is often triggered by guilt.”

  She’d hit the bull’s-eye again. He flashed to the image of Ritchie’s bisected body lying on the ground inside the Syrian border, and a cold flash blew through his body.

  “I’ve heard that,” he answered, shivering and quickly straightening his back. “But in my case, it’s a nonissue. The reason I continue has more to do with service to my country and loyalty to my teammates. They’re critical to me, Doc.”

  Holly sighed loudly. She’d been uncommunicative so far during this session. Lost in her head.

  “More important than saving your marriage?” Dr. Mathews asked.

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t say that.”

  He had a hard t
ime keeping his eyes off her. Mr. Talab’s secretary had been introduced to him as Fatima. She sat by Talab’s side, almost directly across from Crocker, in a tight black skirt and matching jacket with a white blouse underneath. Red lipstick on full lips, contrasted with her caramel-colored skin and sparkling dark eyes.

  He could feel the heat coming off her body, and had to resist the impulse to take her in his arms and rip her clothes off right there. He imagined himself pushing over the chair and taking her from behind, while reaching under her shirt and grabbing her breasts.

  Hard and fast.

  He stopped and asked himself, What the hell’s wrong with me? This is an operational meeting. I need to pay attention. Maybe it was this morning’s brush with death that made him preoccupied with sex.

  She dabbed her lips with a napkin, caught him looking, and shot him a quick and intense glance dense with history and emotion. It traveled like an electric spark to his groin.

  His burner cell phone vibrated, and he glanced at it in his lap.

  “Stop eyeballing F like a t-bone steak!”

  Akil, forty-five degrees to his right, grinned out of the side of his mouth. Crocker resisted the impulse to text something back.

  He made an effort to ignore her, but her magnetic pull was strong. They were in the tub together; they were furiously making love on the carpet; she was screaming in ecstasy and covered with sweat.

  Stop!

  Anders, to his immediate left, continued to talk with Mr. Talab informally about his background. Crocker learned that he came from a prominent Lebanese-Syrian family that owned hotels throughout the Middle East. Educated in France, he maintained residences in Beirut, London, and Dubai, where his wife and two daughters lived. A sophisticated, well-traveled man, who spoke several languages.

  Crocker immediately had questions and suspicions. Why is a guy like him working for us? He doesn’t seem to need the money. So what does he want?

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fatima recross her legs, a hint of silk and black garters.

  He focused on Anders and Talab so hard that it almost hurt.

  Anders asked if he still owned a small interest in the professional soccer team Al Ahli Club that played in the UAE League.