Danger Close

by James P. Sumner

  “Boss?” asked Julie.

  There was a moment’s silence before she got a response.

  “Fisher. Everything okay?” said Moses, his voice hushed and impatient.

  “I mean… it’s no worse than it was twelve hours ago, I guess. How’s it going in New York? Are you still at the U.N.?”

  “No, it finished about an hour ago. I’m heading back to the plane. I need to fly to D.C.”

  Julie frowned. “How did it go?”

  “Not great but as expected. Any luck with the bullet? What did Devon say?”

  She noticed how quickly he dismissed her question and didn’t feel it prudent to push.

  “For now, it’s a dead end,” she said. “He hasn’t seen anything like it, and the technology is beyond anything he’s ever seen.”

  “So, no idea where it came from? Who made it?”

  Julie shook her head. “Nothing. He said designers and engineers always leave a signature, even a microscopic one, like a calling card. Something to say, look what I did. But this has nothing. It’s clean. Too clean.”

  Buchanan was silent for a moment.

  “Wouldn’t whoever made something this revolutionary want to be known?” he asked.

  “That’s what we thought too. Apparently not.”

  “Thoughts?”

  She sighed, measuring her response. “Devon said these things would cost upwards of six grand to make. And that’s per bullet. Clearly not designed for mass production. No ID from whoever made it, so they didn’t do this for the infamy or the cash. I think it was made-to-order. A limited edition, one-off design purpose-built for the job at hand. My gut says whoever manufactured that thing is the same person who fired it. Or, at the very least, the same person who hired the shooter. That means, for whatever reason, whoever that is wanted President Herrera dead.”

  “I agree,” said Buchanan. “Jericho thinks the Palugan military is behind it.”

  Julie thought for a moment. “Possibly. Still seems a bit beyond their reach, though.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Their president hired us. We’re beyond their military’s reach. Without concrete evidence either way, we can’t rule out anything.”

  “I agree.”

  “This is your mission, Fisher. What’s your next move?”

  She pushed herself off the tree and paced over to Collins. “We need to focus on the shooter. If we find him, we find who hired him and where the bullet came from.”

  “Okay. I know Jericho is looking over the surveillance footage of the event. He has our satellite feeds too. I’m sure he would appreciate any help. Do whatever you need to, Miss Fisher. Understand? Clock’s ticking.”

  She heard a strain in his voice, as if he were lifting something.

  “Everything okay, Boss?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m just getting out of my car,” he replied. “I’m at the airport now.”

  She sensed it was more than that. Wary of overstepping her boundaries, she said, “Sir… Moses… what happened at the U.N.?”

  She was standing beside Collins. He looked over, concerned, when he heard her ask.

  There was a long, distorted sigh on the line. “The U.N. blame GlobaTech for what happened, so they’re on PR clean-up duty. Fisher, they’ve terminated the peacekeeping contract. We’re no longer acting on behalf of the U.N. Effectively immediately.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “Can they do that?”

  “They’re the U.N.,” replied Buchanan. “They can do what they want. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with it.”

  “But wait… what does that mean for Jericho? For the operatives still in Paluga? Does he even know?”

  “I called him as soon as the meeting finished. We’re on borrowed time to get to the bottom of this. They no longer have the protection that comes from being peacekeepers. They’re just mercenaries on foreign soil, stuck in the middle of a divided military taking pot-shots at itself.”

  She put a hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God…”

  Collins silently asked what was being said, but she waved his inquiry away.

  “Why are you heading to Washington?” she asked.

  Buchanan sighed again. “Because the Security Council also recommended GlobaTech be brought before a Senate committee on anti-monopoly charges. So, I need to go before the secretary of state and the justice department to talk them out of shutting GlobaTech down entirely.”

  “That’s crazy! They can’t do that!”

  “Turns out they can, so that’s where I’ll be. You need me, call. Keep Jericho in the loop. He’ll do the same.” He paused for a moment. “Julie, I don’t need to tell you how bad this might get. We need to get the shooter. We need to find who made that bullet. That’s all that matters now. Understand?”

  She nodded to herself. “I do. Good luck.”

  The call ended. She stared at the device in her hand, stunned silent.

  Collins tapped her arm. “Hey, what’s going on, Jules?”

  She looked at him blankly for a moment, then relayed everything Buchanan had told her.

  Five minutes later, Collins tossed his cup into the air, then punted it with his right foot in frustration, like he was kicking a field goal.

  “This is bullshit!” he yelled, attracting the attention of some personnel passing by. “They can’t do this to us, Jules. After everything we’ve done for this world… they can’t do this!”

  Julie didn’t attempt to calm him down. She agreed with him and allowed him to vent on behalf of them both.

  Collins paced back and forth like a caged animal, fists clenched, teeth grinding, walking his frustration out. When he finally stopped, he stood in front of Julie and nodded.

  “Okay. We track down the shooter, right? Help Jerry?”

  She nodded back. “That’s the plan. And I think I know where we can start.”

  “Huh. Me too. What’s your idea?”

  “Remember a couple of weeks back, Jericho and I went to Des Moines to speak with Roachford?”

  Collins thought for a moment. “Is he the fella we gave that Tristar data to?”

  “That’s him. Well, there was a bar in town. A hangout for mercenaries and contractors. Perhaps a little small-time for a job assassinating a world leader, but it’s a start.”

  Collins smiled. “Well, I… ah… I kinda had a similar idea. I know a place in New York: Mama’s Bakery.”

  Julie raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “Mama’s one of the best fixers around. If something this big went down, she’ll either know about it or know who does. Guaranteed.”

  Julie stroked her chin thoughtfully. Her eyes fixed on a small whirlwind of dust being ushered along at her feet by the warm breeze.

  “New York is closer to Moses…” she mused. “Useful, should he need us.”

  Collins clapped his hands together. “The Big Apple it is. We good using a jet?”

  “Moses said whatever it takes.” She shrugged. “Let’s go.”

  They set off walking toward the hangar. It was on the other side of the compound, roughly ten minutes away on foot. The persistent breeze tugged at their clothes and hair, doing little except keep them uncomfortably hot.

  Julie glanced at Collins. “So, I gotta ask… how do you know the best fixer in New York?”

  He looked back at her. His expression hardened. For a brief moment, a memory of his old life washed to the forefront of his mind. He saw himself and Patty Velasquez talking together, laughing.

  The memory faded as quickly as it had appeared. He tilted his head and arched his brow. “We all had a life before this place, Jules.”

  13

  The air in Paluga sizzled with tension. Almost every street in Maville had a military presence on it. Soldiers manned checkpoints. MPVs rolled around patrol routes. Helicopters surveyed the city from above. Few civilians walked freely. As soon as they were spotted, they were ushered at gunpoint to their homes, with a firm word that it was for their own
safety.

  General Guerrero’s army had been deployed around the country within hours of President Herrera’s body hitting the floor. The bases emptied, filling the streets with military personnel. The general made a public address on their local TV network, assuring the citizens of Paluga that they were safe and their army would protect them.

  On Jericho’s orders, every GlobaTech operative in Paluga was to return to their designated camps and await orders. They were not to interfere with the Palugan military nor react if provoked. They should still protect themselves if necessary and protect the lives of any innocents in danger, but if they were left alone, they should respect that.

  Jericho stood in the palace’s war room, staring at the bank of computers and wall-mounted screens before him. It was a far cry from what he imagined the situation room in the White House looked like. This was a large boardroom in the center of the palace, one floor below ground level. However, it was secure and well-guarded at all times.

  Beside him, Colonel Ramirez looked at one of the large monitors, which was playing security footage of Herrera’s assassination captured from a surveillance camera in a nearby building. Two military analysts and a GlobaTech operative presided over the network of machines.

  Jericho leaned back on the conference table that stretched out behind him. Around it, more military advisers huddled and muttered to themselves, seemingly led by Raul Montez, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since the assassination.

  Ramirez clapped his hands together in frustration. “We are wasting our time! We have nothing.”

  “Take a breath, Colonel,” said Jericho, trying to reassure him. “We don’t have nothing. We know where the shot was fired from. I’ve given that information to my boss, who has given it to the U.N. That’s not nothing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stone, but we still don’t know who the shooter is. We have no footage, no angle that shows anyone entering or leaving that building on the day of the shooting.”

  Jericho nodded patiently. “Not yet. But we’ll find it. This is the job.”

  Ramirez took a moment to compose himself, then smiled. “You are right, of course. This is just… unprecedented. I joined the army to avoid politics. Now here we all are, in the middle of… whatever the hell this is.”

  Jericho folded his arms across his chest. His muscles bulged and flexed naturally. He looked at the floor, choosing his words before looking up at the colonel.

  “I don’t think I’ve actually said this to you, but… I’m truly sorry for what happened,” he said. “I was fortunate to get to spend some time with the president before all this. He was a good man. I liked him. I’m sorry for your country’s loss and for my failure to protect him. I won’t rest until—”

  Ramirez held up a hand, smiling. “Mr. Stone, while I appreciate your kind words, they are not necessary. I do not hold you or your company responsible for this mess.” His smile faded. He moved beside Jericho and sat back against the edge of the table. “If I’m being honest, we brought this on ourselves.”

  Jericho frowned. “How do you mean, Colonel?”

  Ramirez let out a heavy sigh. “This country… it wasn’t ready for the changes President Herrera wanted to make. I’m not saying they weren’t what we needed. But these people have been through a lot. Generations of oppression cannot be erased overnight. Paluga… we need to learn to trust someone before we follow them.”

  Jericho nodded his understanding. “Did you agree with the president’s plan to downsize and defund the military?”

  Ramirez shrugged. “I’m a soldier, Mr. Stone. I do as I am told. If I’m told that tomorrow, I am no longer needed, then so be it. The day after… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll become a carpenter. Why do you ask this?”

  “Your general took serious issue with it. That’s why we’re all here. I just wondered why you didn’t.”

  “I am not a young man, Mr. Stone, but I am younger than the general. He and I… we are from different generations. I am probably the last generation that is open-minded enough to change. To adapt. To evolve as a nation. The general…” He screwed his face up and held out his hand flat, tilting it from side to side. “Not so much. He’s what you might call… old school.”

  Jericho smiled. “I know the type.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s respected enough that when he talks, people listen.”

  “People listened to Herrera too.”

  Ramirez smiled politely, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not nearly enough.”

  “Yeah. Hopefully, we can find the shooter before the situation escalates any further. How are your men doing? It must be hard on them, having to pick sides like this.”

  Ramirez shrugged. “Not as hard as you might think. Our soldiers are strong. We may not train them like your Marines, Mr. Stone, but we train them to be strong here.” He tapped his temple with his finger. “They love their country. We do not force patriotism upon them. Their morals are their own.”

  “That is an admirable approach, Colonel, but there’s a reason our soldiers have the morals trained out of them. If you let them think for themselves, they begin questioning orders. And that leads us here.”

  “True. But what use is a unified military force if it is fighting for the wrong cause?”

  Jericho shrugged. “That depends. Who decides the right and wrong thing to fight for?”

  Ramirez smiled, relishing the friendly debate. “Whomever the people elect should make those decisions.”

  “You’re right. But it’s hard to stop people from arguing with you without looking like you’re just another dictator.”

  “It is. That is why, if the general wanted his voice to be heard, he should have run for office. But he didn’t. He said Herrera was wrong without providing an alternative.”

  “And people bought into it because he’s a respected military figure and knows how to work a crowd.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Yeah… because, historically, people like that have such a great reputation of leading their countries, right?”

  Ramirez smiled. “You make a good point, Mr. Stone. You have perhaps missed your calling as a politician yourself.”

  Jericho rolled his eyes. “Your president said the same thing.”

  As the men shared a laugh, the GlobaTech analyst turned in his seat to face them.

  “Sir, we’ve scanned every angle we have for the twenty-four hours before the shooting,” he said to Jericho. “No one entered or left that building.”

  Jericho pushed himself upright and placed his hands on his hips. He stared with frustration at the screens before him. “What are we missing? How did the shooter smuggle a revolutionary sniper rifle into a building without anyone noticing?”

  “He could be the Mole Man,” muttered one of the Palugan soldiers, which prompted the other to chuckle.

  A flash of clarity hit Jericho like a lightning bolt.

  He pointed to the soldier. “What did you just say?”

  The soldier turned around. He was young, with a fresh face and innocent eyes that had never seen real conflict. “I’m sorry, sir. It was a bad joke.”

  Jericho shook his head. “No, explain to me what you just said.”

  The soldier was unsure. He looked at Ramirez for confirmation.

  “Don’t look at me, soldier,” said the colonel. “Answer him.”

  The young soldier swallowed hard, fearful he was in some kind of trouble. “I-I said he could be the Mole Man, sir.”

  Jericho frowned. “And who’s that?”

  “It’s a fable to scare children who misbehave, sir. The Mole Man crawls under your house and bursts up into your room at night to take you away if you’re naughty. My mother threatened me with it all the time.”

  Jericho’s mind began racing. He looked over at Ramirez, who, after a moment, began thinking the same thing.

  “What’s underneath that building?” he said to the men before him. “Can you pull up some schematics?”

  “I’ll try,” he replied
, turning back to face the screen.

  “Forgive our system,” said Ramirez pre-emptively. “It is not as advanced as what I imagine you are used to.”

  Jericho waved the comment away. “It’s fine. Just find me what’s beneath those offices.”

  A few minutes of tense silence passed as the three men sitting in front of their keyboards worked together.

  “Got it,” said the young Palugan soldier finally. “It’s a…” He turned to look at Jericho and the colonel. “It’s a sewer system, sir. Built within the last decade. The tunnels form a strategic network beneath the city.”

  Ramirez nodded. “It was the first of its kind. Designed to be built upon and expanded across the country.”

  “So, where does it lead?” asked Jericho. “Show me the entrance points.”

  On the screen, a topographical map of Maville appeared. It then switched to a view resembling a blueprint, which overlaid the tunnel network on the buildings and streets. Jericho leaned in, resting a giant hand on the back of an analyst’s chair as he studied the map.

  A tunnel ran directly beneath the building.

  He tapped the screen. “There. How would I get to that tunnel?”

  The soldier worked the screen, moving the map around, following the path until he found the entrance. He switched the view back to the original satellite imagery. It showed a large, gated, circular tunnel entrance leading out onto a small beach along the coastline approximately one mile away, bordered by steep cliff faces.

  Jericho looked at his operative, who was already tapping feverishly away on his own computer. “Pull up our feed of this area from twenty-four hours before.”

  “On it, sir,” he said.

  A few more moments of palpable silence, then they saw it. A speedboat approached the beach alcove at dawn, just under ten hours before Herrera gave his speech. A shadowy figure stepped onto the shore, carrying a large bag.

  “That’s him,” said Ramirez. “That’s the shooter!”

  Jericho ignored him. “Now fast forward to the time of shooting, same location.”

  The operative did. He then skipped the feed forward in fifteen-second intervals from the time the president was shot. A little over twenty minutes sped by before the shadowy figure emerged back onto the beach, bag in hand, just as the speedboat reappeared. Everyone watched as the figure climbed into the boat and it accelerated away.