High Treason

by Sean McFate

  “No. Locke has to be dead,” muttered Winters.

  “You have disappointed me for the last time, Mr. Winters,” said the old man, his tone imperious. “Locke undid your fragile work in four nights. You are an incompetent.”

  Winters’s scowled. “But Chevalier—”

  The old man cut him off. “You will return to the United States and make repair. You will finish what I commissioned you to start.” He tossed three more hunks of meat at the dogs, who swallowed them without chewing.

  “But I—”

  “And eliminate Locke this time,” interrupted the Chevalier again. “Everywhere he goes, calamity follows. No more mistakes, Mr. Winters.” He paused to throw a handful of meat, and the animals inahled it midair. The old man threw larger, boned morsels. “On pain of death.”

  Winters’s jaw went slack as he watched the Rottweilers rip apart their food. The valet mysteriously appeared again, followed by two armed men in body armor wielding cattle prods.

  The Chevalier faced Winters at last. “Never forget Mr. Winters; you’re expendable.”

  Winters face went ashen as the valet and guards escorted him out.

  Chapter 51

  Putin sat in Stalin’s old office in the Kremlin, cradling a gilded teacup. The room was smaller and less ornate than his official chambers, but he felt the great man’s presence here. The Soviet Union began its slow decline after the Man of Steel’s death in 1953. The fall of the Soviet Union remained a personal injury for Putin. If he could restore just an iota of the glory that Stalin had imbued in the USSR, then his reign would be a success. Working in the great man’s office reminded him of his charge.

  Putin sat behind Stalin’s smallish wooden desk, overlooking a large U-shape of chairs rimming an oriental rug before him, a court audience before a throne. The walls were deep red fabric with oil paintings of the great man on all sides, peering down on the occupants. Beside the desk sat the old couch where Uncle Joe would sleep during World War II. Putin tried it once but it was absurdly lumpy and he got no sleep.

  However, today Putin and his aides were doing something Stalin never did: watching TV. All the international news networks streamed live coverage of America’s turmoil. An aerial view of the smoking National Mall was shocking, even to the Kremlin apparatchiks, who smiled. Next came the pundits who agreed loose nukes may be covertly hidden in American cities by unknown foes, although many suspected Russia was behind it. The apparatchiks’ smiles grew. Lastly, live footage of National Security Advisor George Jackson being dragged out of his home wearing only a bathrobe and handcuffs and arrested for treason. The apparatchiks beamed.

  “What an idiot!” laughed one of the aides, and the rest joined in the ridicule chorus.

  “And to think,” said Putin while stirring his tea, “I barely lifted a finger.”

  Everyone chuckled in smug glee, a stark reversal from a few hours ago. Operation Zapad-20 (West-20) was launched in 2016 to sow chaos in America’s capital, but declared a failure earlier this morning after one of their safe houses was mysteriously taken out. Everyone assumed it was a CIA hit, but their sources in the Agency denied it. Putin didn’t care much because it was only mercenary casualties. The Wagner Group served many purposes, including dying.

  But now this? thought Putin as he sipped his tea, smiling. The chaos yield surpassed even his optimal hopes. This was no accident; it was the work of a master.

  “I wonder who did this,” said one of the aides.

  “Who knows. Who cares. How did Shakespeare put it?” said Putin, then spoke in heavily accented English. “‘All’s vell that ends vell.’”

  Everyone chuckled.

  Chapter 52

  “Who was that?” asked Lin after I hung up. Only her mouth moved. The rest of her lay immobile on top of me.

  “Dunno,” I replied, equally spent. How did they track me? I wondered. “We should leave.”

  After a pause, she said, “Yeah.”

  Neither of us moved.

  “We need to bounce,” I said in a tender whisper. With a sigh, she rolled off and I sat up, ruing our predicament. My head was puzzling through the mysterious call.

  “What did they want?” she asked, as I put on my pants and checked the time. It was 1900.

  “They said they know where Winters is, and invited me to the party,” I said from the bathroom.

  “It’s a trap,” she offered.

  “I know,” I agreed, lacing up my boots. “That’s why we need to scoot.”

  “Crap,” she uttered, putting the back of a hand over her eyes. Neither of us wanted to go; instead we wanted to make the evening last all night. Now we were on the run again, from people we did not know. Real life was intruding once more. “Crap,” she repeated.

  Jen got vertical and started putting on her pantsuit.

  “We need to find you something more practical to wear,” I said.

  “Practical to wear?” she guffawed.

  “Yeah. You can’t go running backstreets in a pantsuit,” I said. At least she wore tasteful running shoes; presumably her heels were still under her desk at work.

  “What?!” she retorted, offended. “As an FBI agent, I chased and arrested Russian mobsters all over New York City dressed in Ferragamo. Turns out Italian wool works just fine for roundhouse kicks and judo throws.” Her eyes bore into me. “What do you know about women’s clothes, anyway? When I want your fashion advice, I’ll give it to you.”

  Yikes! I thought, chastised, while doing a functions check on my H&K. Then I did her Saiga and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said coolly, taking the weapon while brushing knots out of her hair.

  Catching myself in the mirror, I realized it was me who needed civilian clothes. I looked like a lost SWAT team member.

  Knocking at the door.

  We both froze, looked at each other, and then at the door. The knocking continued. Thinking the same thing, we swapped weapons. She took up a protected position from the bathroom, aiming the H&K at the door. The Saiga’s wide shot pattern would have obliterated the enemy and me.

  The rapping got louder. I stood with my back to the wall that was flush with the door, Saiga pointed at whoever walked through it. Jen nodded at me and I nodded back.

  “Who is it?” I asked in a normal voice. The knock’s rhythm changed to something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Jen and I exchanged quizzical looks, and then fixed on the door again.

  “Who is it?” I repeated in a stern voice.

  “Open up,” said the voice, exacerbated.

  Tye?! I thought. How is that possible?

  “Let me in, lover boy,” whispered Tye. Jen looked revolted, as I waved an all clear sign, and opened the door. There was Tye, dressed in sport hiking clothes. The guy probably never wore a tie in his life.

  “Tye!” I said in shock after the door closed. He bear-hugged me and, I think, cracked a rib. Jen looked bewildered, lowering her weapon.

  “Introduce me to your lady,” said Tye before I could ask a single question.

  “Tye, Jen,” I said, motioning one to the other. “Jen, Tye.”

  Jen looked equal parts polite and appalled.

  “Nice weapon, Jen,” he said admiringly. “Sounds like you’re C4 in the sack, too. A real heat round,” he joked.

  Jen’s face turned crimson, and she unconsciously pointed the H&K at Tye’s chest.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I said, lowering the assault weapon with my hand. “Tye’s a friend.”

  “You know this jerkwad?” she asked me, astonished.

  “Yeah. He’s a battle buddy,” I replied.

  Her expression read: Are you serious? My expression replied: Hells yeah.

  “Come on, lovebirds, we gotta go, now!” said Tye. “If we can track you, so can they.”

  “Wait,” I interrupted, my head spinning. “How did you find us? I thought you were captured. How are you here?”

  “I’ll explain in the van. We need to evac now,” he said. Hastily we wrapp
ed our weapons in bedsheets and followed Tye down the hall. Clients were busy behind the thin walls, and Jen avoided touching surfaces, doorknobs, everything.

  We exited down a second-story fire escape with a defunct alarm. In the ally, a beat-up white van idled ready. I noticed it had new high-performance tires and was probably not your average plumber’s ride, despite appearances. Tye opened the rear doors and gestured for us to enter as if he were a butler. Jen shook her head at his puerile behavior despite the gravity of the situation, while I grinned. We clambered inside and sat on a few wooden crates that probably concealed weapons and ammo.

  “Let’s go,” Tye told the driver, and we sped out.

  My mind reeled in confusion, I had so many questions. Is he saving or abducting us? That Apollo was divided was clear; however, which side Tye and Lava fought for was not. Maybe they worked for Winters? My mind didn’t want to accept it, but I could not ignore it.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Someplace safe,” said Tye, watching the road ahead. Jen looked concerned.

  Exhaling deeply, I sat back. Tye was right about one thing: if he could find us, others could, too. The hotel was not safe. Probably no place was, except maybe with Tye and Lava. They were our least bad option. I regretted dragging Jen into Apollo’s civil war, and needed to find out more.

  “How did you find us so quickly?” I asked.

  “You never were lost, buddy. Remember when Lava came to your safe house and he gave you a thermos of special energy drink?”

  “Yeah, it tasted like fruit punch. I’m guessing now it had some sort of tracing agent.”

  “Correct, it was laced with nanotech. It lasts for a few days, and we’ve been tracking your every move.”

  I wondered who else could track me. The thought chilled me, but I needed to move on to the next question. “Tye, how is it possible you are here? I saw you and Lava get captured next to me on a rooftop by Winters’s men.” Then I realized the truth. “Have you both turned? Are you working for Winters now?”

  Tye laughed, as did the driver. “No, Tom. It was a setup. Winters’s men captured us, but not everyone on his team is working for him. We have guys on the inside feeding us intel and releasing captives, including Lava and me. We escaped. It was all part of the plan, and you were the bait.”

  “The bait?” asked Jen, shocked.

  “Correct. I’m sorry, Tom, but we had no choice,” said Tye, turning to face me with sincerity in his voice.

  “No choice?!” responded Jen defensively. She seemed more irate than me.

  “The public doesn’t know it, but there’s a secret war going on in the United States and the stakes are existential, just like during the Cold War,” said Tye. “Our client wants Winters’s foreign client identified and neutralized, ‘off the books’ in ways the CIA can’t do anymore. That’s our contract. We’ve been running a mole hunt to smoke Winters out, but he doesn’t make mistakes. Our mission in New York was to hack Elektra and reveal Winters’s client, but the mission failed. They now have nuclear weapons on U.S. soil, waiting to detonate.” Tye turned to me. “We are losing and need an edge. That edge is you.”

  I heard but did not comprehend. “Say again?”

  “We needed to flush out Winters but we didn’t know how, then you came back from the dead. We used you as bait, Tom, knowing you were the only thing that could lure Winters out of the shadows. But to set Winters in play, we had to get you captured, and fake our own capture. Then it was simply following the body trail, which led us here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?” asked Jen.

  “‘Here’ is the imminent demise of Brad Winters and his mysterious client,” said Tye, turning to face us again. “Are you still fit to fight, Locke?”

  “Always.”

  “How about your girlfriend?” he asked, looking at Jen.

  “Always,” she said, with less enthusiasm.

  “Good. Because we’re going to need every swinging muzzle we can find for this one.”

  “One what, exactly?” asked Jen distrustfully.

  “For this operation,” said Tye with resolve. “We are going to take down Winters once and for all. And we need your help. Both of you.”

  Chapter 53

  Winters slumped in the leather chair as the plane hit turbulence. His steak went untouched; it reminded him of the Rottweilers. He sat alone in the corporate jet, save the steward, who avoided him, and checked his watch again.

  Eight hours, he thought. He had eight hours to formulate a new plan, because that was when the plane would land outside of Washington. So far, his plan was rudimentary: kill Locke. Everything else was already in place: the nukes, the controller, and the extortion. Why could the old man not see his victory? But Winters knew the answer.

  “Inbred nitwit,” he muttered. Generations of intermarriage had dimmed aristocratic IQs over the centuries the same way a fine oil painting fades when left in sunlight. The old man was timid, like a serf. But the Chevalier’s treating him like a dog was unforgivable.

  “When I am done with Locke, I am coming for you, Chevalier,” he swore under his breath. Settling scores gave him purpose. Only now did Winters comprehend that he always possessed the tools he needed and had never required the Chevalier’s assistance. Experience is something you get only after you need it.

  It’s now my time, he thought. Once Locke and the Chevalier were disappeared, Winters would locate and reclaim the nuclear briefcase. Then he would bring the U.S. and Russia to the brink of war, exploiting the ensuing chaos for wealth and power. Iago was his favorite Shakespeare character, and Winters never understood why Iago was vilified rather than admired.

  Yes, it would be easy enough, he mused, inspired by the Chevalier’s near detonation of Washington, DC. Two crazed countries with a history of enmity; simply vaporize an American city and frame Russia. The rest would take care of itself. He didn’t give a damn about either anymore. The Americans were hunting him, owing to his connection to Jackson, and the Russians soon would be. The Chevalier would undoubtedly tip off Moscow once Winters had outlived his usefulness.

  Faithless black knight, Winters thought as his hand squeezed his cane. He was happy to see them all burn. Revenge is justice in an unjust world, he believed. But first, there was a personal matter begging his attention.

  “Locke, Locke, Locke,” hissed Winters. “Where are you?” Locke was a bad-luck charm that needed killing. Until he was off the gameboard, nothing was certain. More important, watching Locke tortured to death slowly would give Winters peace. After all, it was Locke who’d set him up in Saudi Arabia, where he spent a year in a torture gulag awaiting beheading. He escaped, but his larynx was crushed and his right knee smashed. Locke owed him, and he intended to collect with payday-loan interest.

  “Now that you have earned my full attention, Locke, there is no place you can slither to this time,” said Winters with the zeal of a trophy hunter. He had already activated every stringer at his disposal to search for the miscreant, although it would be instantaneous if Elektra was still online. What a waste, he thought with pity.

  Winters flipped through the news channels to get his mind off of Locke. They all replayed footage of Jackson being hauled out of his house drunk, in a bathrobe at ten that morning. Winters belly-laughed, and it made him feel better. Old fool. I warned you, didn’t I?

  The news prattled on about stock market jitters, politicians blaming one another, urban flight, domestic terrorism, Brad Winters.

  What?! Winters lurched out of his seat. There was a picture of him on the TV, an older photo taken from before his Riyadh internment. Winters turned up the volume.

  “Brad Winters . . . conspiracy . . . Winters . . . domestic terrorism . . .” The newscaster was remarkably well informed about Winters’s background. No journalist knew this much about his life.

  Impossible! he thought, feeling lightheaded and sweaty. Flipping channels, he saw every major news outlet carried a similar story. A foreign-language news cra
wl even had his name: brad winters. In a panic, he checked internet news sites; his name, picture, and biography were plastered everywhere.

  “Shit!” exclaimed Winters as he shut off the monitor, cringing. “Shit, shit!” Winters was always five steps of everyone else, and ten ahead of his foes. How had he been so spectacularly blindsided? It was a bullet in the head for a man like Winters.

  Who did this to me? His mind raced. Maybe it was the Chevalier? No, he has too much to lose by exposing me now. Jackson? No, I dusted my trail. All Jackson’s raving will lead the FBI in circles. Locke? No, the media would not find him a credible source. Apollo? No, they would never risk the blowback. A foreign power? Terrorists? Others? No. He had many enemies but none with this level of information.

  Whoever leaked my identity to the press has power, real power. The kind that Winters sought, and that was what scared him. It had been a long time since he tasted fear. Even in the Riyadh prison cell, he somehow knew he would negotiate a way out. But now, who would he bargain with?

  Damn you, whoever you are! he thought with venom. With shaky hands, he picked up a water glass and drank. I will outlast this, find you, and kill you.

  “I’ll need a new plan,” said Winters to himself. “Bold. Creative. Unexpected.” His fingers absentmindedly tapped the burl wood table. Gazing out the window, his brow furled in concentration as he puzzled out the angles. He considered turning the plane around to seek safe harbor; he had multiple secret bank accounts and a private island halfway around the world just for such a day. But he shook his head.

  “Nothing changes, except the timeline,” he concluded. “The sooner I control the WMD, the sooner I become a superpower, and then game on.” There would be no shortcuts. He still had to start with Locke, then the Chevalier, then the nuclear briefcase. All within days. Then find and fix whoever leaked his identity to the media. It was mission impossible for most, but not Winters.

  “I will survive this,” he resolved. He sat immobile with a grave expression, his fingers interlaced under his nose. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. At last he smiled, then laughed. It was so obvious! he thought.