by Ward Larsen
35
Freeman stood stunned. It was a gross breach of protocol for a detainee to know his interrogator’s name. A damned bad thing in a lot of ways. “How the hell—”
“In five minutes I can tell you everything you need to know. And it won’t be what you expect. Agreed?”
The colonel said nothing.
The man in the hood began.
“You are Colonel Brian Freeman, United States Army. Green Beret, and six years on Delta Force. Your team is Unit 9, a highly selective squad embedded in SOCOM. In the rooms behind you are Major Randy Piasecki, United States Army. Petty Officer Second Class Jack Stevens, and Petty Officer First Class Patrick Baumann, both Navy SEALs. Air Force Master Sergeant Jeffrey Chambliss is your unit comm specialist.”
“How … no … nobody knows that.”
“Right now we’re in a safe house at 3443 Saddle Lane in Watertown, Massachusetts. I was brought here from the O’Neill Federal Building in downtown Boston.” The man paused, as if to let the burn in Freeman’s gut etch deeper. “You attended West Point and deployed for three tours, Iraq and Afghanistan, before being selected for the Green Berets.” Another pause. “Last night you went to your bank’s website and transferred eight hundred dollars from savings to checking. You were married on December 26, 2000, to the former Marie Angleton. You have two daughters, Bethany and Jackie.”
Freeman went rigid. He took two steps toward the man, and hissed, “Are you making idle threats against my family, Coastie?”
“Idle? Is that an assumption you can afford to make right now?”
Freeman felt something rise inside him, imminent like thunder after lightning. “What are you implying?”
“At this minute your wife is pulling into the driveway of a house in Fredericksburg … her parents’ place. She’s dropping off the girls so she can go to her book club, which meets once a month, rotating between the houses of the nine women who take part.”
Freeman lunged and took the man by the collar, constricting the fabric around his throat. There was a momentary gag, and he said, “Listen, you mother—”
The Coastie showed a sudden strength. He dropped a shoulder, loosening Freeman’s grip but not breaking it. It was enough to allow a breath, and he said, “Colonel … I think it’s time for you to join me in the darkness.”
Seconds later, every light in the room went dark. The blackness was absolute.
Then the Coastie said, “Your phone is about to ring.”
On that cue, Freeman felt the familiar vibration in his breast pocket—he’d set the ringer volume to mute.
“It’s your wife, answer it.”
In the darkness, a disbelieving Freeman let go with one hand and retrieved his phone. He saw a call from his wife. An electric jolt went down his spine. He swiped to take the call. “Marie! Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine … but what about you? I got your text to call right away, you said it was something urgent.”
Freeman’s thoughts began to spin out of control. He enforced order on his military mind, the same as when he was under fire on a battlefield. “Where are you?”
A stutter from his wife, who was typically rock-solid, then, “I’m at Mom and Dad’s. My book club is tonight and—”
“Marie, listen very closely! I want you to take the girls inside and stay there. Lock the doors and don’t let anybody in the house! I will call you back in ten minutes.”
“Brian … you’re scaring me.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. Ten minutes.”
He ended the call, but before he could speak again the man behind the hood said, “Lights back on now.”
There was a pause, and Freeman stood silent and stunned. Five seconds later the lights flickered to life.
The door behind him suddenly opened, and Piasecki said, “Power outage, boss. No explanation, but we’re looking into it. You okay in here?”
Freeman hesitated and, without turning to face the major, said, “Yeah, I’m good. Stand up the watch outside.”
“Will do.”
The door closed.
One of Freeman’s hands was still on the Coastie’s collar, but his grip had loosened considerably. No longer throttling, but keeping a distance, in the way a snake handler might hold a pit viper. Then Freeman did something he hadn’t done since he was a lieutenant. He completely lost his cool.
He ripped the hood off the man’s head, and his free hand balled into a fist. Ready to go. He watched the blue eyes blink in surprise, adjusting to the light. Then they met Freeman’s gaze.
As a Green Beret, Freeman had seen his share of terrorists and lowlifes. He’d seen well-trained officers and raw recruits. The man in front of him was none of those things. For reasons he couldn’t quantify, he felt like he was staring at an alien. He said nothing for a time, and managed to keep his fists in check. He searched the strong young face, the steady gaze for … For what?
A threat?
An explanation?
“Who?” Freeman finally growled. “Who the hell are you?”
* * *
When DeBolt finally saw his interrogator’s face, it confirmed the voice association he’d made—in front of him was the man he’d last seen on the floor of the lodge in Calais. Same square jaw, same military haircut. The primary difference now was in the eyes. In Calais, DeBolt had seen a soldier’s steady gaze. The man had been on the defensive then, but continuously acquiring information, searching for a tactical advantage. The man he was looking at now was positively befuddled, as if the sun had risen in the west. DeBolt thought he might have overplayed his hand.
“Your family is in no danger,” he said. “I was only making a point.”
The officer’s eyes went narrow and tilted upward. He was wondering about the lights.
“This home has a computerized system to manage everything electrical,” DeBolt explained. “Heating, lights, CO2 sensors, ceiling fans. All of it can be monitored and controlled remotely—good for saving energy. All you need is the right codes and a connection.”
“Connection? You don’t have a phone—no way. You’ve been thoroughly searched three times, once by me personally.”
Once again, DeBolt considered how to say the unsayable.
He knew that at least one dynamic had changed—this team was no longer trying to kill him. With reaching optimism, he thought the colonel might even be persuaded to help him. But first he would have to earn the man’s trust. In measured words he presented it much as he had yesterday to Lund. As he talked, DeBolt saw a range of emotions play across Freeman’s face. Disinterest was not among them. On finishing his story, he turned and showed Freeman the scars on his scalp, exactly as he’d done with Lund. The physical badge to reinforce his otherwise wildly implausible story.
“At this point, I’m sure I at least have your attention,” said DeBolt. “So let’s clear up a few things. Before today, you wanted me dead. Now we’re standing here talking. What changed?”
“My wife,” the colonel said, as if not hearing the question, “how did you know about her?”
“It was simple phone play. Call logs, a triangulated location. I sent her a text in your name. It’s not hard to do—not if you have the right backing.”
“You can do all that with…”—he hesitated and pointed to DeBolt’s head—“with whatever you’ve got in there?”
DeBolt nodded. “And a lot more.”
Freeman was still skeptical. “No—you’d need more than a connection to the internet. Information like that, following someone’s phone and hijacking call logs? That requires access. Some people might even call it hacking. I know because my unit gets exactly that kind of help, only we have a dedicated tech team, dozens of specialists who make it happen.”
“Exactly—so you know it’s operationally feasible. Now take the next step. Allow that I have access to something similar.”
“Who does it go through?” Freeman asked, order slowly returning to his upended world. “Who’s the provider?”
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“That’s the million-dollar question. I really don’t know. A couple of months ago I had a pretty normal life. Then I was injured in a helicopter accident—the rest of my crew didn’t make it, and I almost died. I woke up at a beach house having no idea how I got there, or what had been done to me. I spent weeks rehabbing, getting back on my feet—until you and your team came in with guns blazing. That’s all I know. I’m figuring out what I can do, day by day, but if you ask me who’s behind it? I have no idea. I’d really like to find out though.” DeBolt held his breath, then added, “Maybe you can help me.”
“Help you? Yesterday I was trying to kill you.”
“But not today. Why?”
Freeman almost said something, then shook his head. “I need to bring the rest of my team in on this.”
“No problem,” said DeBolt. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”
36
The house was nicely furnished, from top to bottom a cut above any place DeBolt had ever lived. There were wood floors, burnt brown and rich, and a smooth stone fireplace the color of an iron winter sky. High-end steel dominated the kitchen, marble the bathrooms. More telling was what was missing. He saw no pictures on the walls, no travel keepsakes, no letters on the kitchen counter. Altogether, a scrupulously warm place, but without the soul of a home.
The shackles came off, and DeBolt rubbed his wrists and ankles as he sat on the plush living room couch. He was unbound, but it was hardly freedom. Not when I’m surrounded by five of the world’s most thoroughly trained killers.
He’d already downloaded their names and service affiliations, but now, with Unit 9 presented in person, DeBolt could make a more palpable study. There were slight variations in height and build, but the similarities were more pronounced. The sinewy necks and athletic postures, the way they stretched to unwind coiled muscles. Their shared facial expression must have been standard issue: a stare that was in equal measure resolute and impassive. As individual soldiers they were intelligent and capable. As a unit they exuded bravado. At that moment every bit of it was directed at the lone newcomer. A pack of alpha dogs working together, deciding how to deal with an encircled quarry.
They denied his request to see Lund, but assured him she was reasonably comfortable in the basement. For the sake of the others, DeBolt repeated what he’d told Freeman. His description of META was met by a sea of blank faces, suggesting none of them knew their recent missions were derived from a deep-black DARPA project. He then performed an abbreviated version of the act he’d been using to demonstrate his abilities. Any remaining skepticism was soon crushed.
In turn, Freeman gave DeBolt a condensed briefing on his team, enough for him to understand their unit mission, along with a measured description of the orders they’d received to hunt him down. With all the facts laid bare, it was this final point, the kill order against DeBolt, that clearly perplexed everyone. The central lie was apparent, but not the reasons behind it, and confusion reigned on both sides of the room.
DeBolt was sure Freeman was holding back certain elements, gaps and details left unsaid. Possibly because they were classified, but more likely because they were incriminating. He didn’t care—he was desperate for anything to help him understand his situation. At the end, Freeman explained that Unit 9’s provisional commander, a brigadier general, had been murdered the day before in Austria. It was another unimaginable complication. And far too much of a coincidence to ignore.
Freeman cleared his team in hot to ask questions of DeBolt.
Major Piasecki was first in line. “The woman we killed at the cabin … you’re sure she was only a nurse?”
DeBolt said, “I can tell you she had medical training, and I found records of her job history. She also had personal issues, drank more than she should have. But in my personal opinion—there’s no way on God’s earth she was any kind of terrorist.”
“The place where she worked—we were ordered to take that out as well. It was supposedly a lab set up by a terrorist cell for manufacturing biological agents.”
Here DeBolt was less sure. “I don’t know anything about that. I remember being in a hospital of some kind, and that could have been the building. I did find evidence that Joan Chandler spent a lot of time there in the weeks before I ended up at her cabin. The few details I have suggest my surgery was performed there, but it’s all circumstantial—I don’t have any evidence to prove it. I also can’t tell you what else might have gone on in the place.” As they all chewed on it, DeBolt asked, “Was I supposedly part of this terrorist cell? Was that the justification for the kill order on me?”
Freeman nodded. “No questions asked. You were to be eliminated at any cost, made to disappear and all evidence destroyed. Benefield’s rationale was clear—everything had to be kept quiet. In a way it made sense. A biological attack, the components of which were already in place on home soil—the mere mention of it could instigate a nationwide panic. Apparently that was all just eyewash.”
The weight of so many new facts brought silence to the room.
Eventually DeBolt spoke, almost at a whisper. “What could I have done?”
“What do you mean?” Freeman asked.
“That night on the beach, at the cabin. I’ve run it through my mind a hundred times. I lie awake thinking about it. Was there anything I could have done to save her? Could I have … I don’t know, distracted you? Split you up and fought somehow?”
Freeman shook his head. “Look … I’ve been where you are. Don’t waste time beating yourself up. You were unarmed, outnumbered, and had no means of communication.” He looked at his team one by one. “There’s not a man in this room who could have done more than you did. You survived.”
DeBolt didn’t reply for a time. Then he nodded, and said, “Okay. So where do we go from here?”
Freeman spoke for his squad. “I’m convinced the general was bent—I only wish I’d seen it sooner. There were a lot of red flags, but I missed every one. We didn’t get enough background on you or what was happening at the clinic—not enough to justify what we did. I take the blame for that.” He looked around the room before announcing, “As far as I’m concerned, this mission is over.”
One by one, DeBolt saw the other four nod in agreement.
Piasecki said, “We’re all to blame. I wish we could take back what happened, both at the cottage and the clinic. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad we couldn’t shoot straight on that beach.”
Freeman said to DeBolt, “For the sake of my team, I have to ask—are you going to pursue this? We made mistakes, bad ones, but in the strictest sense my men were only following orders. If there’s any culpability it shouldn’t go beyond me.”
DeBolt considered it, and said, “I have access to a lot of information. I can probably verify everything you’ve told me, for better or worse. If it all happened as you say, then the general who issued your orders is responsible—and it sounds like he’s already found his justice.”
“That’s something I will personally verify,” said Freeman.
“But I’m stuck with one big problem,” said DeBolt. “Aside from me, it seems that everyone associated with this META Project is dead. If that’s the case, I’ll never find out what I’ve got in my head.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Piasecki. “If everybody associated with the project is dead—then who killed General Benefield? And why?”
Everyone pondered it, and Freeman said, “He’s right. We may be missing something. Someone. And I’d say we all have a vested interest in making sure every loose end is cleared up.”
The five men looked at DeBolt, who nodded agreement. “Like I said, I could use some help. But there’s one thing I want done before we go any further.”
DeBolt explained what it was, and Freeman said, “You don’t trust us?”
“Actually, I do—about ninety-nine percent, anyway.”
The colonel grinned. “Well, that’s considerably above our approval rating for you … but okay. We’ll d
o it your way.”
37
Lund heard a door open, then footsteps across the concrete floor. She tensed unavoidably, and startled when the hood was pulled off her head. The first thing she saw was Trey DeBolt’s eyes. She looked past him and saw no one else. The room’s only door was ajar.
She opened her mouth to speak, but it was cut short when he pulled her in and held her. After so many hours of isolation and, she had to admit, fear, the warmth of his gesture brought a wave of relief.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly, keeping her close. “It’s going to be okay.” When DeBolt finally backed away, she saw that he was holding a pair of wire cutters. He reached down and cut the flex cuffs from her wrists and ankles.
“You’re all right,” she said breathlessly. “I was so worried about … what they might have done to you.”
“I’m fine. We’re going to get you out of here.”
Lund heard footsteps outside the door. For the first time she studied her surroundings. The floor was broomed concrete, the walls painted cement. The door led to a set of stairs that disappeared upward, and one of the walls was topped by three transom windows. The windows were water-spotted and opaque, almost no light filtering in. A basement, obviously, probably beneath a house. She could see no one at the door but sensed a presence outside.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“They say it’s a safe house.”
“They?”
“The guys who brought us here—I’ve been talking to them.”
“Okay, that’s good. But you said there was a group of men who’d been trying to kill you, and I thought—”
“Yeah, it’s them. But we’re good now.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion pleating her face. “A gang of killers abduct us off a sidewalk, hold us hostage? But we’re good now?”
“Things have changed, Shannon. It’s a long story, one that none of us completely understands. I’m convinced these guys are not a threat anymore. At least not to me or you.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“I was right to a point. They’re soldiers, a special unit.”
