by S L Shelton
Nick shook his head. “And what happens when the President calls his Attorney General to tell him what he’s been given, and the communication is intercepted. Or worse, if the Oval is monitored and they find out before your conversation is even over?”
Casey stared at Nick then back to Kobe. He had no answer. Going by the book had a high probability of showing their hand—and costing the life of the President.
“Here’s another question,” Kobe interjected, drawing Casey’s attention back to him. “When would traitors in the protection detail have the best opportunity to kill the President without overwhelming force interceding?”
Casey knew that the Uniform Division of the Secret Service could be present in seconds, drawing huge amounts of firepower down on anyone who threatened the life of the President. The only time they wouldn’t be in close proximity would be—“When he’s in the air.”
Kobe nodded. “So, it would be to your benefit if there weren’t any traitors on his protection detail the next time he’s in the air.”
Casey nodded, slowly at first then with more surety. “How? I can’t just round them up and tell them to sit this one out without someone getting suspicious.”
“That’s where we come in,” Nick said.
Casey shook his head. “Oh no…no, no, no.”
Nick shrugged again. “Okay. Then you figure a way to notify the President before these guys take him out. When’s his next air trip again?”
Casey slapped the granite slab, frustration and a feeling of entrapment threatening to overwhelm his senses. “That’s not how we do things!”
Nick raised his finger to his lips, pointing upstairs. “They don’t need to be a part of this.”
Casey pointed his service weapon at Nick’s face again. “That’s another thing. If you mention my family again, I’ll open your head up and let the morning news take care of telling everyone about this.”
Nick shook his head. “Michael, we’re not trying to make your life harder. It was made harder before you knew anything about it.” He slid the iPad with the open text document over to Casey and tapped his finger on the screen. “We’re trying to make sure you can do your job even when forces you have no control over are trying to make sure you don’t.”
Casey looked down at the text document and saw a reassignment order from the Chief of Staff, addressed to the director of homeland security. He read the first few lines then the list beneath; he and his men were being reassigned, leaving only the unscreened DHS assassins on the Presidential detail.
Casey looked up, eyes wide. “Where did you get this?”
“There are parts of this government still working for the Constitution,” Kobe said. “Unfortunately, most of us are on the outside looking in.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Casey snapped.
Kobe took a shallow breath and let it out, smiling. “There’s a reason for that. We don’t know who we can trust. Even coming to you is a gamble.”
Casey looked down at the weapon in his hand then back to Kobe. “Well, it took a certain level of trust.”
“Not as much as you think,” Nick said, then rolled a firing pin across the counter to Casey.
He smiled and shook his head before decocking the hammer on his P229 and setting it on the granite. “Fuck you,” he muttered.
Nick smiled.
Casey nodded. “Okay. Tell me everything you know and what your plan is. I’ll tell you if it’ll work.”
Kobe smiled and patted Casey on the shoulder. “Good boy.”
Casey shook his head in disgust. “Woof.”
**
7:10 a.m.— Benadir Cafe, Via Benadir, Vercelli, Italy
WOLF walked to the corner and waited there until the cafe opened before crossing the street to go in. The traffic cameras were arranged to catch every lane, but apparently, some of the local criminals didn’t like the scrutiny, so most of them had been adjusted to point in the air. Wolf liked that the blind spots gave him a temporary respite from keeping his head down. His neck always ached when he walked the city streets.
Seifert followed him into the small restaurant a few minutes later, having changed his clothes and shaved his beard off. He sat and dropped a newspaper in front of Wolf.
Wolf glanced at it then pulled it over his laptop for a closer look; the caption was in Italian, but the gist of the story seemed clear;
A CIA Officer, presumed dead, appeared in Amsterdam escorting a rescued billionaire, also presumed dead. Shots fired by unknown assailants as they entered the US Consulate.
Wolf turned the paper over to check the date—it was from last night. “Shit.”
“I thought you’d have an opinion,” Seifert said quietly as the waitress brought two coffees and a plate of cold sliced meats, cheese, and warm bread. He nodded his thanks then pointed to the paper after she had left. “Why would he do that?”
Wolf set his jaw to the side and stared at the article. “For the same reason he insisted you go with me yesterday…he thinks he has a better plan than I do.”
“I don’t get it. Why would he send me with you?”
Wolf leaned back and sipped his coffee. “Because you believe in my plan.”
“It was the only one on the table as far as I could see.”
Wolf shrugged.
“I can’t believe he got Mac to go along with this,” Seifert said, shaking his head.
Wolf reached over and picked up a piece of meat. “He might not have even known what John was up to.”
“I hope you aren’t mad at him.”
Wolf shook his head. “Mac was following orders. That’s the real reason you came with me. John knew that if you’d stayed behind, he’d have never made it out the door.”
“But we got the name. Why the hell would he bail on us after we got the name?” Seifert rubbed his face in frustration. “Where does that leave us?”
“Up shit’s creek. We can’t fool Combine into thinking we’re just out for revenge anymore. They’ll know we’re collecting INTEL.”
“Is there any chance John’s plan will work?”
Wolf shook his head. “I doubt it. More than likely, he went to Amsterdam because Beverly Martin is the Consul General. He’d be able to talk her into a Consulate lockdown until he can get BeauLac’s testimony on record. But I can promise you Combine has thirty contingency plans in place for cracking that security and discrediting anything he has to say.”
“Do you think John would give the accountant’s name up?”
Wolf ran a fast simulation in his mind with everything he knew about John Temple then shook his head. “He knows I won’t stop. All we have to do is link up with the other team and we’re going after the accountant. If John gives up Goughin’s name, he’ll do it knowing it could cost our lives.”
“Then why? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who knows? Maybe he figured if he got enough government eyes on the problem, it would force Combine to pull back. Or maybe he was just thinking about POTUS and getting the spotlight on…” Wolf turned his head to the side abruptly as if someone had whispered in his ear. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?”
“He just executed his plan A while we are still running ours,” Wolf said sitting back, staring at the wall as a simulation of John Temple’s betrayal churned through his mind. “He drew the attention to him and BeauLac.”
“So, he was doing us a favor?”
Wolf shook his head and drew his mouth up into a sneer. “No. He did what he wanted to do from the beginning. He just chose his timing so we couldn’t stop him, and so it wouldn’t sink us in the process.”
“So, it works out, right?”
“Except, now we have to get to this Goughin guy before Combine figures out what we’re doing.”
Seifert leaned forward. “Then let’s find out where this guy is and go get him.”
Wolf nodded and moved the newspaper aside, bringing up his Wi-Fi cycling tool to connect to their network. After a few mo
ments of seeking a clean connection, he stopped, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“What?”
He turned the computer to Seifert. “It looks like we missed a few details while we were on the road. We have a blown team, and our Latin American accounts have been burned.”
Seifert looked nervous. “That’s why Temple left.”
Wolf nodded. “That’s why Temple left. And worse, he knew this when I talked to him yesterday and didn’t say anything.”
“Why?”
“I guess he didn’t want an argument. He knew I’d still go after Goughin.”
Seifert leaned closer to the screen and Wolf. “Were there any casualties?”
Wolf typed a few commands and pulled up the encrypted cloud repository of messages. He found Storc’s message to Jo, warning her not to come to their safe house.
“I don’t know,” Wolf said finally. “Storc didn’t put any details in his last message.”
“Can’t you contact them and find out?”
Wolf stared at the screen for a moment before responding. “I can post a request for update on Craigslist, but the burn phone SIMs were being managed by Storc and Jo for their own teams…I don’t have the numbers.”
Seifert nodded and sat back, obviously doing his best to keep emotion out of the conversation.
But Wolf knew their job had just gotten harder. “Goddamn it, John,” he muttered.
“So, what now?” Seifert asked after a minute of impressive restraint.
“Now, we find out where Goughin is.”
Wolf opened a web browser and navigated to the Prince-Underthall website. There, he found the number for the Washington, DC office and dialed the main switchboard.
“It’s too early,” Seifert said. “It’s midnight there.”
Wolf shook his head. “International Accounting firms don’t keep nine-to-five hours.”
After navigating the phone tree in search of a live person, it rang twice before someone answered. “Prince-Underthall, how may I direct your call?”
“Hello, yes,” Wolf said, using an authentic sounding Italian accent to go along with the Italian IP address his phone would convey. “I’m having an executed contract for a Meester Goughin, for executor privilege…I’m having a courier to hand deliver Washeentone DC. Please to give an address for him to sign for package?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to contact his office in the morning for an address. He’s still working off-site in Panama.”
“Ah, I see. And who should I ask for?”
“If you call back in the morning and ask for James Garfield, the switchboard will forward your call to him. Or I can put you in Mr. Garfield’s voice mail now.”
“Garfield. Grazie mille. Voice mail, please,” he replied.
“Thank you. Transferring now.”
As expected, it went right to voice mail. “You’ve reached Jim Garfield, assistant to M.C. Goughin. I’m not in the office now, but if you leave a message I’ll—”
Wolf ended the call. “M.C. Goughin. His assistant is Jim Garfield. They’re in Panama.”
Seifert rolled his eyes. “How the hell are we getting to Panama?”
Wolf smiled. “The same way we got to Europe…the US Air Force.”
“And I just shaved.” Seifert shook his head. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
“Maybe,” he said, after sipping his coffee and picking up a slice of salami. “But you have to admit, I keep it interesting.”
“I’d rather die of boredom.”
Wolf smiled. “Really? You’d really rather sit it out and die of boredom?”
Seifert laughed after trying to stare him down. “Okay, okay. You get me.”
“Grazie mille,” Wolf said, then popped the cold meat into his mouth as he started typing again. After a few moments, he read through their options. “We have a couple of choices, depending on how rested you feel.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“There’s a medical support flight leaving from Spangdahlem Air Base in eight-and-a-half hours for JTF-Bravo, Honduras…but we’ll have to drive hard through the Alps if we want to make it in time to find uniforms and cobble together some travel orders.”
“What’s our other option?”
“An equipment transfer from the Naval Air Station Sigonella, Sicily, to Columbia,” Wolf said, biting into a piece of cheese. “Leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
Seifert shook his head. “I know too many people in Sigonella. Too risky.”
“Spangdahlem it is then. Finish up your breakfast. I’ll get some coffee to go.”
Wolf closed his computer and went over to the counter to order food and coffee for the road. When he returned, Seifert hadn’t touched any of the food. Instead, he stared at the newspaper Wolf had pushed aside.
“What’s wrong?” Wolf asked.
Seifert looked up at him as he folded the paper. “How long do you think it’ll take Combine to figure out we’re coming for their guy?”
Wolf shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t just materialize on his doorstep and bag him. Transportation takes time.”
Seifert looked worried.
Wolf patted his freshly shaved face. “Don’t worry, Majesty. We gain seven hours as soon as we land in Honduras.”
Seifert laughed.
“But then again, it’s a seventeen-hour drive from Soto Cano to Panama City. Soooo, we really lose ten…and the twelve for the flight…and the eight-hour drive from here…”
“Stop, stop,” Seifert said holding up his hand, then shook his head. “Temple fucked us, didn’t he?”
“I don’t think he meant to, but yeah…he totally fucked us.”
**
10:15 a.m. — Defense Intelligence Agency Special Projects Section, research and training compound, Fort Detrick, Maryland
HEINRICH BRAUN had no interest in any more consultations, nor arguments over the state of Kathrin’s infection level. LOT 44 would be moved and put in place regardless of Emrick’s protests.
Braun just hoped he could get Kathrin packaged up and ready for transport before Tris discovered her missing. Tris’s protective posture over Kathrin had departed far from operational concerns. It was clear to Braun that Tris was in fact, emotionally compromised.
Braun watched from the safety of the hallway as the Lab technicians assigned to him entered the outer containment room, now covered in floor to ceiling containment plastic, complete with portable decontamination steamers. The two Jaggers who had become his semi-permanent familiars stood watch over the technicians ensuring they didn’t contact Albert Emrick to warn him.
LOT 44’s isolation cart sat empty in the makeshift clean room, waiting for her to be sealed within.
“Ten,” Braun mused, recalling the initial reports of the incursion at Loukis’s villa.
“Sir?” One of the Jaggers asked.
Braun looked at the man, his eyes moving slowly up and down the asset’s body. “Ten Jaggers killed by Scott Wolfe in Italy.”
The Jagger clenched his jaw and turned his attention back to the technicians.
Braun shook his head. “It’s almost as if they weren’t enhanced at all.”
“Most of them were new,” the Jagger said without diverting his attention from the clean room. “When we were turned, only one in twenty met program levels.”
Braun shook his head. “You’re first generation?”
“First generation with second and third generation treatments.”
Inside the containment room, the techs looked back at Braun who nodded. One of them tapped in a five-digit pin on the console then pushed the large red containment release button.
A tone sounded and the thick Lexan divider rose into the ceiling. A fan in the ceiling activated, attempting to draw any contaminated air away from the breach, making the clear plastic sheets flap gently in the new breeze. Once negative pressure was regained, the fan ceased. The techs were already busy rolling Kathrin into a
containment bag when the motors cut out.
Braun watched tensely, wondering if Kathrin would wake, being handled by the techs. But so far, she responded to the intrusion with as much interest as a rag doll would. As they had just begun to carry her through the decontamination list, a door burst open far down the hallway. Tris had apparently been alerted somehow and raced to claim her pound of flesh.
Braun hit the emergency breach alarm, sounding a claxon blaring from the speakers in the ceiling and slamming two Lexan shields from the ceiling into place, one on both sides of the containment unit, isolating Braun, the Jaggers, and the lab from outside interference.
Tris didn’t slow, instead slamming her body against the dense glass. The sound of the impact had Braun momentarily worried it wouldn’t hold under her assault. The Jaggers aligned themselves into a protective formation between the glass and Braun. Even with no hope of defeating her, the Jaggers instinctively prepared for battle.
He pressed the intercom button. “You are too angry over this.”
She kicked and punched the glass, each time sending an echo of the strike into the contained space like nearby thunder. The Jaggers tensed, raising their weapons at Tris. Perhaps that’s what Tris had counted on—perhaps she wanted the Jaggers to feel threatened enough to fire an armor-piercing round into the Lexan so she could smash through.
“Tris, we are going nowhere without you. She is being moved with all precautions in place, and—”
“I’m going to rip your throat out through your asshole,” she yelled at the ceiling.
Behind the safety of the Lexan, Braun found that more amusing than threatening, but he resisted the urge to smile, fearing it would only worsen tensions. “We were in need of her three days ago. Wolfe has shown himself again, and again, the only thing that will stop him without killing him is held there…” he pointed at Kathrin. “…in containment.”
“You don’t touch her without me knowing,” she yelled through the glass, pounding her fist against it as punctuation to each of her last three words.
“It wasn’t you I was trying to avoid,” Braun said as Albert Emrick ran around the corner on the other side of the hallway. He now had both sets of eyes on him that he had hoped to avoid.
