Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  Steele turned off the street, pulling up to a gate where a serious-looking guard with a Beretta strapped to his waist blocked their path. Steele flashed the man his passport and the guard replied with a light to his face before studying the photo.

  “Very good,” he grunted, opening the gate.

  There were more guards on the inside, armed with pistols and rifles. One of them led a Belgian Malinois on a leash. The working dog, often confused with a German shepherd, tugged against the leather when Steele cruised by.

  “I’ve seen those land sharks do a number on the insurgents in Syria,” Meg said. “That is one dog I never want to meet in a dark alley.”

  Special Operations used the Malinois for a multitude of applications. They were called dual-purpose dogs, good for bombs and people, and typical of the breed, they were single-minded in their day-to-day life. When they were working it seemed they were always looking for something soft to sink their teeth into.

  Steele stopped at a corrugated warehouse and hopped out to type in the code. The door rolled open and he got back in and pulled inside the warehouse.

  “What is this place?” Meg asked once they were inside.

  “We call them way stations. The Program has them set up all over the world.”

  Meg nodded and walked over to a stack of crates that had the shipping bill already filled out and attached to the side. “Tractor parts,” she read, “and they are heading to . . . of course. They are heading to Yemen.”

  She flashed Eric an are you serious? look, before opening the clasp that secured the lid. “Oh, look, Kalashnikov makes tractor parts now, how nice.”

  He walked over, fighting the urge to grin as she placed her hands on her hips. Inside the crate was a row of AK-74s, still gleaming with packing grease.

  “How did those get in there?” he said.

  Meg didn’t smile.

  “C’mon, Meg, you know the CIA does the same thing. I can’t tell you how many Agency shipments of opium I have run across in Afghanistan.”

  “So that makes it okay? You are sending automatic rifles into a war zone? You can’t tell me that these guns don’t end up in Syria, because I know they do. A year ago when I was over there we found a stash of brand-new AKs just like these.”

  “Don’t worry, most of these guns come with a tracking chip.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Unlike the Agency, the Program doesn’t profit off of people’s misfortune.” He reached over and tapped on the fore end. “It was Demo’s idea. He figured out how to embed them in there. Leads us right to the bad guys.”

  “Okay, you’ve got guns and a cute little minivan with antennas all over it,” Meg said, pointing to the dark-colored Ford Transit Connect sitting in the center of the warehouse. “But where is this secret weapon?”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” he said, walking over to the Transit. “And it’s not a station wagon, it’s a leisure activity vehicle.” The Transit looked like an engineer had put a courier van in the dryer and shrunk it. At first glance it was nothing to write home about.

  Steele swung the back door open and stepped out of the way. “Allow me to introduce you to Johnny Number Five.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” Meg said, looking inside.

  “What? This thing is awesome.”

  “That thing is your secret weapon?”

  “Yep,” he said.

  Steele was making his way to a large metal locker when the computer terminal beeped from the table to his right. His fingers flew over the keyboard, and after accessing the mainframe he found a message waiting for him.

  “What’s going on?” Meg asked.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” Steele said, waiting for the message to be run through the decryption software. Finally it popped up, showing him an authentication pin number along with a note:

  From everyone at Cutlass Main, happy hunting—Rock.

  Steele typed the pin number into Keyhole and a moment later a photo of a man’s face looking up at a stoplight appeared on the screen.

  “Who is that?”

  “That is our friend Bassar,” Steele answered. He clicked on the data tag, which provided the date of the image capture. It was two weeks ago, and Steele knew the only way the boys back at Cutlass Main could have found it was by running a sweep of every traffic camera along the coast.

  Got to love those guys.

  “Okay, next question . . .”

  “Meg, you definitely don’t have the clearance . . .”

  “Really, Eric?”

  Steele knew it wasn’t a fight he could win.

  “It’s called Keyhole,” he began. “This picture was taken two weeks ago.”

  “Okay, how does it help us find Bassar?”

  “By itself it is worthless. A good analyst might be able to pull some metadata off the file. But the guys we have . . .” Steele pointed to the screen as additional text boxes started popping up.

  “How are they doing that?” Meg asked, obviously in awe of what she was witnessing.

  “According to the this”—Steele moved his cursor over one of the boxes—“they used the ATM camera to get the plate off the car.” He moved to a second box. “They traced the plate to a dealership, and finally”—a red dot appeared on the map—“they got a phone number from the dealer’s hard drive and located the phone.”

  “How many man-hours did that take?”

  “What do you mean?” Steele asked.

  “To do all of that. It must have taken them days.”

  “No, you just watched them do it.”

  “Wait, that was in real time?”

  “Uh, yeah, you just watched it.”

  “Are you guys hiring?”

  “Just so happens,” Steele said, moving back to the locker, “that we have an immediate opening.” He placed his palm on the reader and the locker’s heavy doors clicked open, revealing a weapons vault. “Timeline has changed. We are going now. C’mon, it will be fun. We get to hang out, shoot some guns, and save the world.”

  The locker was packed with guns and gear. Steele grabbed a set of cammies and held them up in front of Meg. They were a bit long, but would do in a pinch.

  “Eric, we are going right now? What about West?”

  “No time, we have to go,” he said, handing her a pair of boots. “Those might not fit, but it’s all I’ve got.” He picked a set for himself and, not one to worry about modesty, started changing, a sly grin playing across his face.

  Meg just stared at him openmouthed.

  “I can take you back to the hotel if you are scared,” he quipped.

  “Really?”

  She kicked off her shoes, careful not to scuff them, and Steele watched her undress.

  “Are you just going to stare at me, or do you want to hang this up?” she demanded, stepping out of the dress.

  “I’m just going to stare at you,” Steele joked.

  “Men.”

  Steele hung up her dress, pulled a combat shirt over his head, and began collecting the tools of his trade. He took a Milkor MGL, a South African 40mm grenade launcher, from the rack and placed it in a bag. Behind him, he could hear Meg pulling on her clothes. The launcher looked like a revolver with a stock and fired 40mm grenades. In the Army, they called them 40 mike-mike, and they were a force multiplier in combat. He took a 5.56 SCAR with a Vortex Razor HD 1–6 and a suppressor attached to the barrel. Preloaded magazines were hanging in a pouch and they all went into the bag.

  Meg slipped up behind him. She ran her hand up his back, looking over the contents. Steele handed her a Glock 19 and a holster.

  “Grab the shotgun. It’s time to go to work.”

  Chapter 48

  Rockford found President Cole in the White House Medical Unit hooked to an IV machine. He looked gaunt and exhausted but smiled weakly when Rockford stepped into the room.

  “Claire here was just telling me that I need to watch my sodium, do you believe that?” he joked.

  Rockford notice
d the smile didn’t go to Cole’s eyes and knew that the President was putting on a show for his benefit. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he looked at the nurse and asked, “What are you giving him?”

  “Just some fluids and a few other things to keep his immune system up.”

  “Got to look good for the people,” Cole said.

  Rockford saw the yellow label stuck to the bag of fluid. He recognized it from his aunt’s battle with breast cancer, and didn’t need to read it to know that it said:

  Chemotherapy—Dispose of Properly

  Cole caught him looking and offered an apologetic shrug. “I can only assume by the look on your face that your meeting with Director Styles didn’t go so well. I’d offer you a drink, but all we have is saline.”

  Rockford smiled and was about to ask Claire to leave the room, but she was already heading for the door. Usually he would wait to hear it close, but Cole was already asking:

  “How bad is it, John?”

  “It isn’t cancer, but . . .” He handed the paper to his boss.

  Rockford watched Cole’s tired eyes tick over the heading and then shift down to the picture. “Jesus Christ, Robin,” Cole said warily. “A Red Notice? What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Sir, she hasn’t passed through security yet. I can have Secret Service grab her.”

  “So I can face her like this?” Cole asked, holding up his arm and jiggling the clear tubing. It was the first time Rockford had seen him feel sorry for himself, and it cut him to the core. Cole was a strong, proud man, and being laid low by such an insidious disease was heartbreaking.

  The President paused and took a sip of water, and when he had finished, Rockford saw that the leader of the free world had composed himself.

  “John, I am not a vindictive man, but when I am forced to take scalps, I take ’em on my own two feet.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  The machine beeped and Claire stepped into the room, another bag of fluid with the same yellow label in her hand. Rockford thought that Cole would wait to give his answer, but he was wrong.

  “We stick to the plan. I want her at the State of the Union so she can hear how this country is going to get back on track after she and Bentley tried to destroy it. When I finish the address I will have her brought to the Oval, and then I am going to bury her.”

  Styles and Claire had dinner brought in from Marcel’s. It was a silent affair with Claire drinking freely, while Styles nursed the same glass of wine she had started with. She wanted to get drunk, but after the call she had gotten from Claire earlier in the day, she knew she needed a clear head.

  “He said he is going to bury you,” Claire had said.

  Finally Styles broke the silence. “I need you to do something for me.”

  Claire looked up at her, eyes glassy and wet from the wine. “Sure, anything.” Styles got to her feet and walked around the table, reaching for Claire’s hand. She looked so innocent sitting there, and a lesser woman might have faltered, but not Robin Styles. She had been planning for this eventuality since the first day they met.

  Styles knew that Cole was in bad shape, because she had already taken to an oncologist she knew the list of medications that Claire told her the President was taking. Cole’s cancer was terminal.

  “Prolaxic is the outlier here,” the oncologist had said. “The FDA has been sitting on it for a few years because of the side effects.”

  “A friend of mine is taking it. Is there anything she should be worried about?”

  “Not if she keeps taking it. The problem is when you miss a dose. Prolaxic has an extremely short half-life, and the research has shown that you can miss one dose and be fine, but the second typically causes seizures.”

  Styles knew that if she couldn’t convince Claire to switch the pills before the State of the Union address, her life was over.

  “I need you to switch his Prolaxic.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Claire pulled her hand away. She was drunk, but Styles’s request had a sobering effect.

  “Look, it won’t kill him, I already checked.”

  “You told someone? Robin, that was confidential, I could lose my license.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course . . . but I . . . I can’t do that.”

  Break her now.

  Styles stood up. It was time Claire learned the hardest lesson there was. Nothing in this world is free.

  “Claire, I’ve taken care of you and never asked for anything but your love in return.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “I want you to think about the consequences, darlin’.” Styles’s voice turned to ice. “You have put yourself in a terrible position, and if you—”

  “Go to hell, Robin.”

  Styles got to her feet and backhanded Claire across the face as hard as she could, knocking Claire to her side. Styles wasn’t finished. She grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, ready to beat her to death if she had to.

  “I saved you from going to jail, you little coke whore. The only reason you aren’t in jail, fighting off a bunch of butch bitches in the shower, is because of me,” she shouted. “You are going to do what I tell you and you are going to do it tomorrow or I will destroy you.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Claire cried.

  Styles dragged her to the floor and lifted her foot. Her fury was a living thing and she was ready to stomp Claire’s face into the ground if she had to. But further violence wasn’t needed; Claire was broken and sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Stop. Please. Stop. I’ll do whatever you want,” she bawled.

  Chapter 49

  According to the map the target house had been a farm and was well outside the city. Steele had Meg drop him off south of the house on the edge of an olive orchard. He knew that at this time of year the olive trees would be untended and he could use them to make his way to the house unseen.

  It also gave Meg access to a gravel road that looped through the low ground before coming up on a ridge. He waited for the sound of the van to fade before checking his compass and moving north through the trees.

  Steele stayed low, moving slowly and keeping a lookout for any tripwires or anti-intrusion devices. In fifteen minutes he had made it to the edge of the clearing.

  The night was still and silent, the moon partially obscured by a cloudbank, and he adjusted the PSQ 36s until he could see the back of the house. The goggles were the best of both worlds, fusing the night amplification capability of traditional NVGs with thermal imaging. Traditional night vision needed ambient light to work properly, which the cloud cover interfered with. To compensate, Steele adjusted the thermal setting and the residual heat left over from the day gave him a clear, greenish picture of the house and the low wall ahead of him.

  The layout was a tactical nightmare. Steele was surrounded by high ground, which he was sure West’s men had locked down.

  “Make the call,” he said over the radio.

  “Copy that,” Meg answered.

  Steele was counting on her to convince Bassar to play ball, otherwise Steele was going to have to breach the house and force the man to comply. Getting inside and setting up the ambush on his terms was the only way the operation was going to work.

  “Making the call.”

  Steele wasn’t sure exactly where Meg had chosen to set up, but he had given her explicit instructions. If things went south she was to head back to the hotel and get the hell out of Spain.

  A flicker of movement on the edge of the property grabbed his attention and Steele pressed the SCAR’s buttstock into his shoulder. Finger on the safety, he watched and waited.

  Just a damn deer.

  “Okay, I made contact. Bassar sounds cagey, but he is coming to the door. The proword is ‘Raven,’ your answer is ‘Sparrow.’”

  “Got it.”

  Steele moved to the wall, the bag of gear shifting awkwardly on his back. The side door cracked open, hing
es whining in the dark, and a sliver of yellow light trickled out. Slowly a head appeared. It was Dr. Asif Bassar’s, and he squinted through the darkness. Steele knew he couldn’t see him, but he felt exposed.

  Let me see your damn hands.

  He raised the SCAR, ready to put a bullet in the man’s head if he made the wrong move. They didn’t necessarily need him alive, so whether the doctor lived or died was up to him.

  Waiting was always the hardest part, but patience had kept Steele from gathering more holes than he had started with more times than he could count. Finally, Bassar crossed the threshold and Steele could see that he was unarmed.

  “Raven,” the doctor whispered. It was the signal that Steele could approach.

  Steele crept silently through the darkness. He had the rifle up, trained on his target, with his thumb on the safety.

  “Raven,” Bassar said again.

  Steele was a foot away when he answered:

  “Sparrow.”

  Bassar jumped, eyes big as saucers, when the barrel came to a halt a few inches from his face.

  “You move and I will burn you down,” Steele said in Arabic. “How many people are inside?”

  “My wife an . . . and daughter.”

  “Ali Breul sent me, and you have five seconds to make a choice.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Men are coming for you and your family. I don’t know exactly what they want, but I can promise you that when they leave, you and your family will not be breathing.”

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  Bassar did as he was told and Steele slipped a pair of flex cuffs over his wrists and pulled them tight. He nudged Bassar forward with the barrel and closed the door behind him with his foot.

  “Where is Ali?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Papa, who is that?” a timid voice asked.

  “Go back to sleep, my angel,” Bassar said. To Steele, he pleaded, “Do not kill me in front of my daughter. She has done nothing.”