by Mike Maden
“You didn’t pick up your damn phone. Twenty times you didn’t pick up.” Early watched Pearce make another cast. “You got an extra rig I can borrow?”
“Reception’s bad around here. And, no, I don’t. Not for amateurs like you, anyway.”
Early glanced around. There were a few other anglers around, all within earshot. He stepped closer to the riverbank. He lowered his voice. “We need to talk.”
“Can’t hear you,” Pearce said.
Early glanced around again. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He waded a few feet into the water. He was wearing hiking boots, not waders.
“I’m serious, Troy. It’s important.”
Pearce sighed and reeled in his line. “Fine.”
Without looking at Early, Pearce marched onto the shore toward his pickup truck parked a quarter mile back.
Early raced after him, his boots squishing with water. “If these boots get ruined, I’m sending you the bill.”
“You do that,” Pearce called over his shoulder, hiding his grin.
—
The two men stood over a stump. Early had a beer in his hand. Pearce cradled an ax in his two hands and was stripped to the waist. An ice chest squatted in the shade near his grandfather’s cabin.
“So, are you ready to talk?” Early asked.
“Sure, if you’re ready to hear a one-word answer.” Pearce swung the ax, easily splitting the log on the stump. He tossed the two pieces aside and grabbed another log.
“We had some bad news.”
“Yeah, I know. ‘Free meth.’”
Whap! Another log split in half.
“How’d you know?” Early asked.
Pearce threw him a cutting glance.
“Of course. You still have access to the DEA mainframes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“As a common courtesy, you shouldn’t be doing that.”
“I figure I’m doing the DEA a favor. Might help motivate them to do a better job with their network security.”
“Myers has another job for you,” Early said. He decided he might as well get the first blow in.
“I told her and I told you, one job, one mission, that’s it.”
Pearce lifted the ax high over his head. His deltoids bunched. Whap! Pearce cleared the pieces away. “It was pretty damn obvious that this thing wouldn’t stay contained. I don’t want any part of it.”
“You don’t even know what the job is.”
“Decapitation. Has to be.”
Early flinched. He should have known Pearce had already figured things out.
“At least she’s bright enough not to continue with the tit-for-tat bullshit. We both know where that winds up,” Early countered. He was referring to the Vietnam War, an endless escalation up a staircase of increasing casualties. Americans never won that kind of conflict. “She made a strong case for it. And I think she’s right. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. You know that.”
“Yeah. I hear she gives good speech.” Pearce pulled a beer out of the ice chest and cracked it open. His torso glistened with sweat.
Early bristled. “A little respect for the boss, okay?”
“That’s your problem right there, Mikey. She’s not my boss. She’s supposed to be a public servant, not God Almighty. I’m the taxpayer. She works for me, not the other way around.”
“I checked your tax records, Troy. You haven’t paid any taxes in five years. You just better damn well hope the IRS doesn’t go all Occupy on your one percent ass.”
Pearce shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve got a good accountant.” He pointed at the ax with his beer bottle. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?” He took a swig.
“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you,” Early said. He tossed his empty bottle into a bag and stripped off his shirt. There were a few pounds of behind-the-desk flab around his gut, but he was still in fighting shape. He snatched up the ax.
“I’m surprised you know which end to hold,” Pearce chuckled.
Early placed a log on the stump, spit in his hands, and grabbed the ax handle. “I don’t see what the problem is. You’re still in the business of hurting people and breaking things, aren’t you? I mean with your toys?” Early raised the ax high over his head and smashed it down, but he misjudged the distance and hit the log with the ax handle. A stinger jolted through both of his arms.
“Son of a—” Early dropped the ax and shook out the tingling sensation from his arms.
“Don’t break my ax,” Pearce said. “And, yes, I use ‘toys’ because I want my people to stay safe. Haven’t lost a man yet.” He hesitated, then added darkly, “Or a woman.”
Early turned to him. “Is that what this is all about?”
“What?”
“Annie.”
Pearced daggered Early with his eyes. “Don’t even think about going there.”
Baneh, Iran
August 24, 2005
A fertilizer warehouse squatted in the western district of the city, a converted American army Quonset hut from the ’50s. Electric light glowed beneath the wooden side doors and from behind the shuttered windows. There were no other lights on in the area. There was a quarter moon that night, but no street lamps. At least none that worked. The small regional capital of seventy thousand people was just across the border from Iraq.
Troy, Mike, and Annie had worked their way to the warehouse by foot after traveling overland from Iraq in a battered 1979 Toyota Land Cruiser, a common vehicle in these parts. They dressed like civilian day laborers but wore soft Kevlar vests beneath their cotton shirts. Annie wore a keffiyeh to hide her face and hair.
Annie peeked through a gap in the warehouse window shutter while Troy and Mike stood guard. She counted seven stolen 155mm artillery shells, huge and lethal, lined up along the far wall. One of the American-made shells was lying on a table like a surgical patient surrounded by three Quds Force technicians. They were connecting wires to detonators and a remote control.
The only locals on the street were a couple of wild dogs feeding on a bag of garbage lying in the gutter, too famished to pay attention to strangers.
Annie flashed hand signals. Mike gently tried the handle on a side door. He signaled with a nod that it was unlocked. Troy pulled out two flash bangs, and Annie slid her short-stock MP5 9mm submachine gun into firing position. She knew it was better to not fire her weapon if at all possible. Just one of those 155mm shells was powerful enough to flatten the entire block.
Troy nodded to Mike, who cracked the door open just enough for Troy to toss in the two flash bangs. Mike shut the door. The charges cracked sharply on the concrete floor in the large open room—perfect for flash bangs. Nowhere to hide when they went off.
Troy dashed in first in a low crouch, a suppressed 9mm Glock in his hand. Mike followed in right behind him, pistol drawn, while Annie stayed put, scanning the perimeter behind them. She watched the dogs skitter away, frightened by the flash bangs. When she was certain it was all clear, she made her way inside the building.
Annie turned the corner into the doorway just in time to see Mike and Troy popping caps into the heads of two unconscious men slumped on the floor. The three bomb makers were the actual targets; they were far more lethal than the ordnance in the room.
“Clock’s ticking,” Annie said. Her voice distorted by a slight electronic buzz in the microphone.
“I’m killing as fast as I can,” Troy said as he put a slug into the temple of the last technician. They all agreed it would have been better to bring at least one back for interrogation, but there was no way they could pull off an extraction with such limited resources.
“Wish there’d been ten more of ’em,” Mike said.
Annie pointed at the detonators, r/c units, timers, and motherboards on the table. “Grab those. Evidence.”
&nbs
p; “Roger that,” Mike replied. He opened up his rucksack and started loading them in.
Troy scooted over to the far wall where the artillery shells were lined up. He slapped a wad of C4 onto three of them, then ran wires to a digital timer and set it. By blowing the ordnance, it would appear as if the Iranian technicians had accidentally killed themselves.
“Three minutes,” he said.
Annie stepped back over to the door and sighted her weapon in the direction they’d come in from. Early scooped up the last detonators and remote-control units.
“Damn it!” Annie shouted.
Troy whipped around just in time to see a hand grenade bounce onto the concrete floor. It was halfway between her and Mike. Troy was still on the other side of the room.
Like in every bad war movie Troy had ever seen, time slowed to a near crawl. It was the adrenaline kicking in, heightening his senses.
Annie glanced up at him. Her bright eyes locked with his for an eternity.
For a second.
She smiled.
And then she whispered, “It was a ring.”
The ring that was still in Troy’s pocket.
Before Troy could react, Annie took three slow bounding steps toward the grenade.
Troy shouted for her to stop. Bullets shattered the door and spanged on the sheet-metal wall curving above his head.
Annie leaped onto the hand grenade. A muffled thump. Her body bounced a few inches into the air.
Troy’s senses recovered. The shit was hitting the fan in real time now.
He raced over to Annie. A Quds soldier stepped into the doorway, an AK-47 sloped in Mike’s direction. Troy raised his pistol and shot the man in the throat, just below his scraggly beard. The AK-47 clattered to the floor. The fighter crumpled to his knees, grasping at his neck, choking on his own blood.
Troy grabbed Annie’s corpse by the collar, pulling her behind him toward the rear door. The toes of her Reeboks dragged through her own blood on the floor.
Mike shouldered his loaded rucksack and followed Troy. Troy didn’t even try the exit door; he just smashed a size-fourteen foot against the wood and the door broke off of its frame. He dragged Annie’s limp body outside just around the corner, scanning for trouble. He whispered, “Clear,” and Mike bolted out into the street as Troy lifted Annie onto his back in a fireman’s carry and followed him. They ducked into the shadows of an alley two blocks away and turned a corner just as the C4 ripped. The artillery shells roared. The earth shivered beneath their feet as the sky lit up like a sunrise. Neither man stopped to look back. Both shared the same desperate thought as they raced down the alleyway.
Time to get Annie home.
Snake River, Wyoming
“Annie was a soldier and a good one. She knew what she was getting into when she signed on. We all did. She had a job to do, and she did it.”
“Shut your piehole, Mikey.”
“She paid the price. It could’ve been us. Should have been us. I get that, believe me. I think about it every damn day.”
Pearce got in Early’s face.
“She laid it all down all right, but for what? So that a shit-faced senator can dodge an awkward question at a cocktail party? You know those pukes. The Ivy Leaguers call all the shots for guys like us, but less than one half of one percent of them ever swear the oath themselves. We’re the ones who do the bleeding and the dying out in the boonies while they’re doing reach-arounds in the clubhouse sauna. To hell with them. I’ll take their money, but I won’t bleed for them anymore, and I won’t let my people die for them, either.”
“That’s why we need you. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, not on our side, at least. Take the job. Besides, it’ll make you filthy rich, I promise.”
“I already am filthy rich. And the nice thing about being rich is that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And by the way, nobody ever got killed for saying no.”
Pearce grabbed another beer. “You need to get out of this thing, Mikey. It’s going to go south in a hurry. She’s going to march your ass straight into a shooting war and a lot of people are going to die on both sides.”
“That’s exactly why I can’t leave. I’ve got to do what I can. I don’t want another American soldier to die in a war we don’t have to fight. Besides, I swore an oath to protect and defend the nation. So did you.”
“I didn’t break my oath. They did.”
“Bullshit. You walked away. I can’t make politicians or bureaucrats or the ring knockers do the right thing, but I sure as hell can stand up like a man and do my job. Myers is right. The nation is under assault. You want to keep us out of a shooting war? So does she. The only difference is, you’re the only one who can prevent one by doing what you do best. Now. Before it’s too late.”
“It’s not that simple,” Pearce said.
“Sure it is. You’re hiding behind a bad memory. You loved her. She died. I get it. But ask yourself this. What would Annie do if she were you?”
Early tossed the ax aside, grabbed up his shirt, and yanked it on.
“Where are you going, muffin top?” Pearce asked.
“Plane to catch.” Early stormed toward his government car.
“Hold on,” Pearce called out.
Early whipped around. “What?”
Pearce opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He still had Annie’s voice in his head. Knew exactly what she’d say to him.
Still had her ring, too.
“Say again?” Early asked.
Pearce snapped out of his fog.
“Wait up. I’ll grab my stuff.”
21
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
November 28, 2005
Pearce stood as cold and lifeless as the Vermont marble wall in the lobby. The ceremony was over. Everyone else had left. Even Early. The newest star had been carved into the Memorial Wall.
Annie’s.
No name, of course. None of them had names. But even in the black leather book sealed under glass attached to the wall there was only a gold star by her number. Her name would be kept secret forever. Killed on a mission she shouldn’t have been on. Killed in a country she wasn’t supposed to be in. Killed because some political fucks were playing their political fuck games instead of fighting the real goddamn war.
So Annie stepped up. Hell, they all did. But Annie was the one who laid it all down. Now she was a nameless star. One among many. There’d be more.
Pearce’s vacant eyes scanned the inscription in gold block letters again.
IN HONOR OF THOSE MEMBERS OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY.
That was Annie all right.
Pearce had resigned a month ago. The deputy DCI had personally asked him to take a sabbatical, think it over. He was too important to the war effort to quit. Needed him to lead a team into Syria right away. The best we have.
The country needs you.
Pearce turned him down. Mumbled something about how he loved his country, hated politics. Should’ve said “politicians,” too. Maybe he did.
The deputy said he understood. Had the decency to include Pearce in Annie’s memorial. Early was there. So were her parents.
Annie was a spook to the end. Kept her secrets. Hadn’t told her folks about Pearce so he hadn’t been invited to her funeral. It was just as well. He’d stood beside too many graves already.
Pearce left. Stepped out into the cold Virginia sunshine and didn’t look back.
Coronado, California
Pearce lived in a high-rise condo on the beach, not a hand grenade’s throw from the famed Naval Amphibious Base, home to the West Coast Navy SEALs, among other commands. There was nothing like watching a Pacific sunset from his penthouse balcony, but he also enjoyed rooting for the soaking wet BUD/S trainees po
unding the sand in front of his building, hauling a three-hundred-pound Zodiac over their shaved heads into the freezing surf.
The CIA’s Secret Activities Division (SAD) recruited heavily from among the SEAL teams for its paramilitary Special Operations Group (SOG), to which Pearce had belonged. And not the other way around, he’d remind his squid friends with a nudge. In the special forces community, SOG was considered the elite of the elite. Pearce had been one of the few SOG members recruited directly from civilian life straight out of grad school. Still, some of his best friends from his SOG days had been former frogmen and he felt a deep kinship with anybody wearing the fearsome SEAL trident.
Pearce wasn’t on his balcony tonight. Instead, he was in his media room on a video conference call with his team. Early was still in Washington with Jackson, while the rest of Pearce’s team was already in position around their various targets in Mexico.
Early had developed the target list with Jackson’s help. The DEA had kept close tabs on the Castillo organization’s leadership for years.
“When you said decapitation, you weren’t fooling around. This is almost genetic cleansing,” Early told Jackson as he reviewed the list. Nearly every name on the list was related to César Castillo.
“Castillo’s a bad seed. We’re just weeding out the garden,” Jackson said. “Castillo puts a lot of faith in blood relations. He doesn’t trust outsiders much. He’s the one who’s condemned his family to be blotted out, not us.”
With the list of targets in hand, DAS had gone to work two weeks earlier, sifting through terabytes of information sucked out of public and restricted databases. People are creatures of habit, and DAS exploited that human frailty to the maximum. DAS established travel patterns, identified the most frequented locations, and tagged the regularly used vehicles of the fourteen targets through data provided by Mexican city, traffic, and surveillance cameras; local and national air-traffic-control flight data; and even cell tower usage.
