by Ward Larsen
Slaton hesitated.
He knew that if they didn’t get Park out, the Korean was as good as dead. Given that the man had ordered the kidnapping of his family, Slaton wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. But there was another consideration. One he couldn’t shake away.
He sided up to Danford. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Make it quick,” Danford said.
Slaton relayed what his wife had just told him.
The big man eyed him. “You sure about this?”
“If my wife said it, it’s solid. And it makes sense. You’ve searched the entire house and come up empty—but Park couldn’t have gone far.”
Danford looked at his watch. “Can you show me where?”
Slaton looked at Christine, then Danford. “You saved my life—and my family. What goes around comes around.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“I need two quick things.”
Slaton got them both. Danford went to the nearest Black Hawk and requisitioned an MP5 from one of his departing men. He handed it to Slaton, then looked at the pilot in the left seat and spun a finger in the air. The Black Hawk’s engine began spooling up.
Slaton looked at Christine. At first she looked uncertain, and reached out a hand pleadingly.
He backed clear of the rotor wash and tried to shout, “It’s okay, I’m on the next one.”
His words were drowned out by the noise.
* * *
Danford had his platoon organized quickly. After the second Black Hawk took off, the third landed in its spot. He assigned two of the team to stay with the helo, then led the way back into the house. Slaton and Danford were joined by two other men. On the fly, Danford introduced them as Cutter and Snipe. Slaton doubted those were the names on their birth certificates, but he hardly cared. He was sure they were among the most capable men on a very capable team.
They moved quickly to the study, everyone on alert—they couldn’t be sure every hostile had been dealt with. According to Christine, Park and another man had gone through a door in the southern wall of the room—a door that had to be concealed. She’d also described to Slaton the man who’d apparently forced Park inside—she said it was the same one who’d abducted her and Davy from Mallorca. Based on that description, Slaton asked if the man had an injured leg. His wife had looked at him like he was a mind reader. He didn’t take the time to explain.
The wall in question was roughly twenty feet in length, and it didn’t take long to find the hidden entry. Rapping on panels and fingering gaps, Danford was the one who hit paydirt. He beckoned Slaton and pointed to a false panel.
The commander cautiously cracked it open an inch, trying to peer through the gap. “Looks like a tunnel,” he said.
“Booby traps?” suggested the stocky man who went by Cutter.
“No way to tell,” Danford said.
“No time to find out,” said Slaton. “We go now or we don’t go.”
Danford looked at his men, got two nods. Slaton echoed the sentiment.
From that point hand signals took over. Danford, apparently, had validated Slaton as an operator of some kind. Or perhaps he’d been briefed on his background. Either way, he did what any good commander would do—he paired himself with the new guy.
Flashlights and weapons were readied. Danford pulled the door open slowly, cautious for the least resistance. It opened with little more than a few creaks on the hinges. Cutter and Snipe moved through and began clearing.
* * *
It was indeed a tunnel, and flashlights weren’t necessary. A strip of lights lined one wall—dim, but enough to see the passageway. The tunnel was cut through rock, uneven edges over a dirt floor.
With the other pair established inside, Slaton and Danford leapfrogged, moving ten steps ahead, then taking cover in recesses along the ragged wall. They went through two more iterations, trying to keep a balance between speed and recklessness.
At that point, with his shoulder against the cut rock wall, Slaton could see thirty feet ahead. Beyond that, the passage seemed to widen and eventually terminate in a flat wall. It was either a junction where the tunnel branched, or possibly a terminus … which meant a room of some sort. He looked to Danford, who was preparing to signal another advance, when the silence was shattered by gunfire.
Bullets tore into the walls, chipping stone and shattering one of the overhead lights.
Everyone backed into cover as best they could, and Slaton and Danford immediately returned fire. It was dense counter-fire, and soon the two men in back had positioned themselves to add to the response. There was a quick signal from Danford, and seconds later Cutter threw a grenade into the opening ahead. Slaton knew it had to be a flashbang—they wanted Park alive—so he averted his eyes. Even from thirty feet away, the sound was deafening inside the tunnel. For anyone at the junction it would have been disabling—which, of course, was the point.
Cutter and Snipe vaulted ahead on Danford’s signal. Slaton waited, his MP5 ready to lay down fire. His ears were ringing mightily.
Seconds later, Cutter shouted down the tunnel, “All clear!”
Slaton followed Danford’s big frame to the end. He rounded the corner. It was indeed a room.
The man who had to be Park was rolling on the ground holding the sides of his head. He was moaning and looked bewildered as Cutter searched him. The other man was slumped against the back wall. Slaton of course recognized Scarhead—a man he’d last seen stumbling out of Paul Mordechai’s flat. Snipe approached him cautiously, and with Danford covering, he bent down to make sure the Korean wasn’t armed. Scarhead looked catatonic, his eyes glassy. He’d taken at least two hits from their return fire—one in his chest, the other in what would have been his good leg. The chest wound was bleeding badly.
Slaton held steady. Before him were the two men who’d abducted his family. One had placed the order, the other carried it out. He also remembered what Scarhead had done to Mordechai. The hammer, the knife.
Snipe stood, and said, “He’s clean. This guy’s gonna bleed out.”
“Can’t be our problem,” Danford said. “We need to move!”
Cutter and Snipe each took one of Park’s arms and lifted him. They began carrying him toward the study, his feet dragging in the dirt between them.
Slaton bent down and looked at Scarhead. His gray eyes probed, and soon he saw recognition. The Korean looked angry at first, tried to move. A hand began to rise, but Slaton blocked it effortlessly. The man tried to speak, but was unable to generate any sound. Whatever surge of adrenaline had come faded just as quickly. Slaton looked at the chest wound. Snipe was right—without attention very soon, he was done for.
“Come on!” Danford said, backing out toward the tunnel. Slaton stood, his MP5 poised across his chest. He turned and ran down the tunnel.
As they reached the door to the study, Danford leapt through. Slaton slid to a stop in the dirt just short of the entrance.
“What the hell are you doing?” Danford said. “Kwon’s force is less than a klick up the road!”
Slaton looked down the tunnel. He saw five lights remaining on the side wall. He trained the MP5 and took careful aim. Beginning with the farthest he took each one out. Five lights, five shots. The tunnel fell to complete darkness. He stepped out into the study, then very carefully closed the door. Properly closed, it was an artfully crafted panel—no hint whatsoever of the passageway behind.
He turned to see Danford staring at him. Without comment, the big man turned and ran with stunning speed. Slaton could barely keep up. They were out the front doors seconds later, pitching themselves through the helo’s side door.
The last Black Hawk rose quickly, throwing a massive cloud of dust, and soon faded into the night sky.
EIGHTY-SIX
Eight weeks later
Spring had come early to Montana. The hills remained tawny and the distant mountains were capped in snow, yet tendrils of green had begun to emerge. Sprouting from highway
overpasses, budding beneath stones, clawing from melting snow banks. According to local prognosticators, it was probably all for naught—a late cold front was on the way. Even so, after the long winter, even false starts were welcome.
Sorensen drove her rented Nissan along a winding mountain road. She could barely take her eyes off the scenery. The desolation was as absolute as it was inviting. They called it Big Sky country, and she could see why. The blue dome above seemed cast through a fish-eye lens, the high popcorn clouds untouchable. Altogether, a scene light-years removed from where she’d started her day—the Washington Beltway. An early-morning commercial flight had taken her to Denver, and a connection to Missoula put her in the right neighborhood. But a big neighborhood it was.
She’d been driving for two hours, long enough to understand why speed limits here were effectively optional. Sorensen followed the directions as best she could—the signal on her phone was spotty, and she’d already missed one turn in a place called Paradise.
Paradise, Montana, she thought. How perfect is that?
The final turn point wasn’t a road but a landmark—a rust-brown barn fronted by a pond on the far side of mile marker 119. She found it, or so she thought, and was stunned to have to give way to another car for the left turn. It was the first traffic she’d seen in twenty miles. The road turned out to be unimproved, but it was in decent shape with a raised bed and a recently groomed surface. She’d been warned it might degrade farther on, but four-wheel drive wasn’t required—as long as the weather held.
Five miles on, she came to a fork in the road. This too had been briefed—she steered left. There Sorensen’s directions ended. Assuming she hadn’t taken any wrong turns, there would be but one residence at the end. The road paralleled a stream for a time. To the left were high hills, to the right a broad plain fed to the distant Rockies. Five minutes later she came to a fence and a cattle guard. She eased the Nissan over, rattling across the grate, and accelerated up an easy rise. At the top of the next hill the house came into view.
It was a modest one-story ranch—of course—with a multi-peaked roof that cradled snow in the shingled valleys. To one side she saw a big wooden playground—the kind that came with extensive directions and got delivered by a lumber truck. Assembled by a dad. A faint swirl of smoke climbed from the chimney. She saw one vehicle on the wide parking apron—a standard pickup truck, not new, not old.
Sorensen pulled in behind the truck and killed the engine. She got out and paused on the gravel drive. She stood and listened for a time, stunned by the silence. Then the sensation came again—the same one she’d had standing between twin fountains at Frankfurt’s Alte Oper.
“Is that like a personal challenge for you or something?” she asked blindly. Sorensen turned to find Slaton standing casually five steps away. How he could have approached so silently over the gravel she had no idea.
“How are you, Anna?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“Never better.”
She smiled, and thought he probably meant it. Slaton looked good—far better than the last time she’d seen him. That had been in a hospital at Osan Air Base. He’d had multiple shrapnel wounds and a bullet graze on one foot—he probably would have been admitted if his wife wasn’t a physician. Today he was wearing cargo pants, a light jacket, and trail boots. The five-day shadow she remembered was gone. He’d even gotten a haircut.
“So is it really forty acres?” she asked, casting her gaze across the hills.
“That’s what the lot diagram says, but I never bothered to measure it. Doesn’t matter, really. There’s national forest on two sides, and my neighbor has about eight thousand acres—his place is three miles up the other fork in the road.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a lot of ground to watch over. The offer still stands—I can give you a security detail.”
Slaton shook his head. “I tried to talk Christine into that, but she wanted no part of it. She said it would make her feel like a prisoner. She wants a normal life. She wants to get out and work, have a social life for her and Davy—maybe even one for me.”
Sorensen smirked. “I’m having a vision of you joining the Elks club.”
“Maybe I will. Anyway, a big security contingent … that can be a flag in itself. I keep a close eye on my family—as close as Christine will allow. But I have to admit, the way things are now—we’re relying pretty heavily on the identities you gave us.”
Sorensen looked at the noticeable bump beneath his jacket. “But not completely.”
He grinned. “If there’s one way to stand out up here, it’s to not carry.”
“Makes sense. So no problems with what NROC put together?” The National Resettlement Operations Center was the CIA’s protection program for agents and officers thought to be at risk—like the FBI’s Witness Protection Program, but on steroids.
“Seems to be working so far. Thankfully, our legends kept our first names in line—it’d be hard to explain to Davy otherwise.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. There were a couple of awkward questions, a few bad dreams. But at his age … I don’t think he’ll remember much.”
“And Christine is working?”
“Yeah, she’s there now.”
“Out of your sight?”
“Yeah, I know … with what we’ve been through and all. But she refuses to go through life looking over her shoulder. She does a half shift four days a week at the local clinic. Usually takes Davy with her—the PA lives across the street and has a girl the same age. Her husband stays with them.”
“A play date with a girl?”
“They have a trampoline.”
“Ah. Sounds like a pretty good gig for everyone.”
“Christine didn’t have any trouble finding work. Small communities in these parts are starved for primary care physicians. The group that hired her offered to pay off her student loans—unfortunately, she didn’t have any.”
Sorensen laughed. “Speaking of money, Sirius sold. I made sure the proceeds were routed very quietly to your new account—no way the funds could ever be traced.”
His eyes went to the horizon.
“Will you miss it?” she asked.
“The sailing?”
“The running.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. Instead of answering, he said, “Come for a walk with me.”
* * *
Slaton led up a well-worn path that rounded a stand of trees, then turned up a steep hill. The air was getting cooler in the late afternoon, and Sorensen turned up the collar of her jacket.
“Have you been following the news?” she asked.
“A few things trickle through up here—but I find my interest in world events waning. Has the crisis in North Korea abated?”
“For the most part. The Kwon regime is damaged, but still in place. They took some serious heat for what happened on Midway.”
“Let me guess—they weren’t the only ones to get blamed?”
“Park figured it perfectly. The waters were just muddy enough to spread the outrage—some of the uranium was sourced from elsewhere, then there was a Thai fishing boat. The IAEA had its share of internal failures. Of course, ISIS laid claim to the attack, but we’ve shot that down pretty effectively for political reasons.”
“Not hard to do when you’re running the investigation.”
“True enough. The bottom line—there’s a lot of finger-pointing going on around the world, but nothing much has changed.”
“Imagine that. And the CIA will never admit they knew it was coming all along.”
She looked at him sharply.
“Sorry,” he said, “cheap shot. I know Park put you in a bad spot. Are his debriefings proving productive?”
“I can’t say too much … but yes, he’s been very helpful. We wouldn’t have gotten him out without your help.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten my family out without Danford and Team Five. All the same, if yo
u end up giving Park his own forty acres, make it in a swamp somewhere.”
“I can promise it won’t be here.”
“That would be best for his sake,” Slaton said.
“Midway Atoll is getting cleaned up. It’s going to take time, but it could have been far worse.”
Slaton paused and looked at her directly. “Yeah, you and I did okay.” He veered onto a secondary path, more a deer trail than anything manmade. The vegetation suddenly gave way to a broad clearing.
Sorensen stopped in her tracks. “Wow.”
She looked once at him, then back at the scene in front of her. Laid out along a long swale between hills was a comprehensive shooting range. There were pop-up targets, fixed targets, all at a wide variety of ranges, along with multiple shooting stands. Upright plywood walls stood randomly around the basin, different heights and widths. There was a wood-framed room with four walls and a door. An obstacle course ran the length of one side.
“I lost a step on the boat,” he said. “Perishable skills. I won’t let that happen again.”
Having seen Slaton work on three missions now, she wanted to argue the point. What she said was, “So this is what you wanted to show me?”
“No.”
He turned and led back to the trail. They kept going on the path, climbing a gradual rise. After a few minutes they reached the crest of the highest hill in sight.
“This was what I wanted to show you.”
Sorensen looked out over a breathtaking view. A broad wintering plain was cut by a fast-running stream, all of yearning to burst to life with the new season. The great mountains in the distance shone amber in the fading light.
They both stood still for a long time, just watching and listening. Breathing the mountain air.
“Someday you’re going to call me, aren’t you?” he finally said.
She turned and looked at him directly. “Not anytime soon. But you do have a unique skill set, David. And I promise, if we do call, it won’t be for anything that can’t be done by your rules.”
