Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  “So the Russians in Spain who picked up the equipment have mob ties,” Logan said, returning to their conversation. “I remember reading about two major operations against the Russian mob that captured several high-ranking members.”

  Cole Matthews nodded. “That’s true. The government of Spain pulled off a coup. They captured four of the Russian mob’s senior leaders and dozens of mid- and low-level enforcers. Unfortunately, they also discovered that the Russians were embedded in almost every branch of the government, and they’re still rooting them out.”

  “If nothing else, you have to admire the Spanish resolve,” John added. “But what I don’t get is why the mob would help a Russian covert team that’s being directed by the government in Moscow.”

  Cole smiled, and said, “Until recently, that puzzled us as well; however, thanks to that jackass kid who gave all those documents to WikiLeaks, we have an answer. As much as I’d like to put a bullet in his head for compromising the identities of numerous operatives in various agencies, one of his documents revealed that the Russian government is closely connected to the Russian mob. We now know the Russians are using the mob as proxies wherever and whenever it suits their interests, both home and abroad.”

  John replied, “And I thought the Russian government was a lover of democracy and free-thinking individuals. You know, for a CIA guy, you’re not half bad.” He looked at Logan and then back at Cole.

  “We don’t exactly have a great track record with the CIA,” John continued. “One of your ilk led us into an ambush in Fallujah in ’04—an ambush that led to the violent deaths of most of our Force Recon platoon.”

  John knew Logan still harbored the same resentment and anger that he felt toward that agency.

  “That same man then supported a megalomaniac who wanted to start another war in the Middle East, all to settle a personal score with the Iranian government,” John said.

  Cole nodded. “Trust me, Mr. Quick. I’m well aware of what Mr. Carlson did to you, your unit, and this country. I’m disgusted as anyone by his despicable actions. If Mr. West hadn’t ended his life in Haditha a few years back, I’d have been tempted to sanction an off-the-books action on him.” He looked to Logan. “Fortunately, you took care of that for me.”

  Cole turned to John. “You don’t know me. I know you don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either. What I can tell you is that I spent over a decade with that unit at Fort Bragg everyone loves to glorify, and my current job was a personal calling for me after something went south on a mission.”

  Logan wondered what could’ve forced a Delta operator out of the community on his own volition but knew better than to ask.

  “Most importantly,” Cole continued, “you need to know I’ll do whatever it takes to protect our country from all threats, whatever the origin.”

  John studied the man for a moment and then shrugged. “Works for me. I figured you can’t all be bad. And I just hope for your sake you’re as good a shot as you were in Delta.” He paused, and added, “I hear you can get soft as a civilian.”

  “From what I hear about you two, you’re not that soft, even at your advanced age and as civilians.” Cole smirked.

  “Well played, Mr. Matthews,” John said.

  “Are you two done? Or would you like me to join the pilots so you can hold hands and cuddle?” Logan asked. Something still nagged at him about the Russians. “So what should we expect in Valdemoro?”

  Cole looked at John. “Is he always like this?”

  John laughed. “This is on a good day. Sometimes he gets really serious, and then the fun begins, usually with explosions, screams, and bodies.”

  “Great. Okay then.” Cole shifted in his chair, and said, “Down to business. We know the Russian mob still has several networks that continue to operate throughout Spain. Like cockroaches, it’s hard to kill them all.”

  “Sure, but we can always try,” John said.

  “Spanish police traced the license plate of the white box truck that picked up the equipment to a Madrid Chinese restaurant.”

  Logan interrupted. “Chinese?”

  “Turns out, like in all major cities, there’s quite a Chinese population in Madrid. Anyhow, they thought the restaurant was a dead end until they checked with their organized crime task force, who realized it was a money-laundering front for the Chinese mafia. The head of that Chinese family also has an arrangement with a team of Russian businessmen who just happen to operate an illegal casino in the same district. The Spanish police raided the casino with a small unit from their Special Group of Operations, the Grupo Especial de Operaciónes, referred to as GEOs. They’re equivalent to the FBI’s HRT.” Cole paused, and added, “I understand you’re both quite familiar with them.”

  This guy seems to know a lot about us, Logan thought cautiously.

  “From what the embassy told me, after less than ten minutes of ‘persuasive’ conversation, the Russian mobster they cornered at the casino gave up the location of a safe house in Valdemoro. He said he’d received a phone call earlier in the day from his leadership in Moscow to arrange for pickup and delivery of a shipment from Barajas Airport. His men had specific instructions to pick up the shipment, head to Valdemoro, and wait for follow-on orders. He provided Moscow with their cell numbers, and for all he knows, they’ve already received their instructions and are gone.”

  “Great. You know, I really, really hate playing catch-up,” Logan said. Changing subjects, he asked, “Do the GEOs—or anyone for that matter—have the safe house under surveillance?”

  “As a matter of fact, they do. There’s a car waiting for us at the airport. It’s going to take us directly to Valdemoro, where the team leader has orders to assist us in any way possible.”

  “I’m sure he’ll love that,” John said.

  “Depends on how professional he is. In my experience, these guys are like us. They’re just a different flavor of the same candy,” Cole said.

  “Agreed,” Logan said, and then stuck out his hand. “And the name’s Logan, and this is John. I don’t want my battle buddy using ‘Mr. West’ and ‘Mr. Quick.’ Sounds so fucking formal.”

  Cole shook his hand firmly and said, “Please, call me Cole. It actually is my real name, by the way.”

  “Good to know you are who you say you are,” Logan said. “And now that introductions are over, I’m going to sleep for an hour before we gear up and hit the ground.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Policía Municipal Headquarters, Valdemoro, Spain

  Logan studied the commercial satellite image on the inspector’s iPad. In the center was a farm on the eastern outskirts of the city’s main municipal district. The farmhouse was set back more than a hundred yards from the nearest road, with a barn and garage in close proximity. It was surrounded by slightly rolling hills and wheat fields, the main crop of the sleepy commuter town.

  No observable cover in any direction. No avenues of approach, Logan thought.

  Inspector Adan Antonio Romero, a man in his early forties with dark-brown hair worn in a crew cut, seemed to read Logan’s expression as he examined the topography. “Señor West, the climate is too dry, which makes it difficult for any trees to survive.”

  The inspector was the commander of the GEO team that had executed the raid on the Chinese casino. His instructions from several rungs above him had been clear—assist the Americans in any way possible; recover the truck at all costs; and arrest all Russian mafia members.

  He didn’t know what was in the truck, but whatever it was, it had members of his government concerned. And that was really all he needed to know. A loyal Spaniard to the core, he served the monarch of Spain and was sworn to uphold the Spanish constitution. Romero was duty bound to fulfill his obligation to his newfound international friends.

  “I’d hoped at least for some cover,” Logan said. “The nearest building is over half a mile away.” He pointed to a small industrial shed surrounded by a small fence. “If we want to find
out where the truck is, we need to take someone alive. If they see us coming, that possibility goes out the window. That leaves only one other option.”

  “And what exactly is that?” Cole asked.

  “I know,” John said, sighing loudly. He looked at Logan. “You want to go in like Dutch Harbor again, don’t you?”

  Inspector Romero asked, “What’s Dutch Harbor?”

  “You mean you haven’t seen the news coverage?” Cole said in mock disbelief. “Sorry, inspector. Bad joke. It’s not a what. It’s a where. Logan here, two days ago, initiated a gun battle and boat chase by posing as a marina worker. I’m guessing he already has something in mind.”

  “I do,” Logan said, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I pose as a tourist with a broken-down car.”

  The men standing around the table stared at him in silence. Finally, John said, “You’re fucking kidding me. A tourist? Why not just wear a sign that says ‘American cowboy and law enforcement officer. Shoot me in the head now, please.’ It’s too obvious.”

  “That’s exactly my point, John. It is obvious, but only to us. If the Russians are still there, they’re on edge waiting for their instructions. They’re going to assume anyone coming on their property is Spanish law enforcement. They’re not going to suspect US involvement. A lost American, especially one whose car blows up in front of their farmhouse, might not raise any suspicions. And if the truck is gone, the guys left behind are going to be even less suspicious. They won’t see it coming. No way. And after all, all I need is to get to the front door without getting gunned down in the dirt.”

  Logan looked at Inspector Romero and said, “This is your country. You know these people. What do you think?”

  “I think, Señor West, you are a very brave and foolish man,” Inspector Romero said.

  “Inspector, I could’ve told you that,” John interjected.

  “However,” the inspector continued, “it might work. Tourism is common all throughout the country. The proximity of Valdemoro to Madrid makes it a stop on the commuter rail, as well as a sort of—how do you say it?—gateway to the rest of the country. You wouldn’t be the first lost American they’ve seen.”

  Logan smiled triumphantly at John. “See?”

  “Don’t declare victory just yet, Señor West. In order for this to work, you still have to be convincing. But once you get to the door, what’s your plan?”

  “Yeah, smart guy, what’s your plan? Politely ask them to throw down their weapons and come out with their hands up?” John asked.

  Logan studied the iPad’s map, shifting the image around and studying the terrain. “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” he said emphatically.

  Cole glanced at the positions Logan had just examined on the iPad, and comprehension dawned. Very nice, Logan. Very nice indeed . . .

  ———

  Even by local weather standards, the day was especially moderate, with the temperature in the low fifties. The sun added an additional layer of warmth as Logan casually walked up the dirt driveway to the secluded farmhouse.

  He held a cell phone to his ear and pretended to be engaged in an animated conversation. In reality, he spoke to Inspector Romero and provided real-time intelligence as he moved. They’d made the decision to avoid radios in the event the Russians were monitoring police communications.

  Logan wore blue jeans, a khaki, lightweight coat that ended below his belt and covered a dark tee shirt, and tan Oakley hiking boots. His Kimber .45 was hidden on a belt holster, which was further back on his waist and tightly secured after the incident on the Arctic Glide. A concealed combat harness under his jacket held his Mark II knife in a sheath, two extra magazines, and a flashbang grenade. He hoped to use none of it.

  He kept his eyes focused on the white stucco house covered by a gray slate-tile roof, a trademark of Spanish homes that helped to effectively reduce the oppressive summertime heat.

  Behind him, parked alongside the main road near the driveway’s entrance, smoke poured from under the hood of a dark-green Spanish SEAT León sports hatchback. The incendiary device’s timer was set to diminish in intensity over a two-minute period before the smoke disappeared completely.

  As he waved his arms in mock frustration and glanced back at the car, he said, “Fifty yards from the front door. No signs of movement in the main house, the garage, or barn. Stand by. Here comes the award-winning performance.”

  “Roger,” replied Inspector Romero.

  “He’s a horrible actor,” Logan heard John say in the background. “Although he did once convince a man he was going to drown him. But then again, he did have him underwater at the time.” Logan smiled. Hopefully, I won’t have to do anything like that this time around.

  As Logan closed the distance to the front door of the house, he shouted into the phone, “How soon can you send another car? I’m supposed to be in Madrid in two hours to meet my fiancée. This is ridiculous!”

  He stopped on the driveway at a small gravel walkway that led to the front door. He spoke loudly once again as he heard movement inside the extra-wide multicar garage. Bastards had someone in there the whole time, must have gone around back when I started up the driveway. Could make things a little more interesting.

  “Okay. No problem. I walked to the nearest house on Ronda Prado Road. Looks like the house number is fourteen-oh-three, and I’m about to knock on the door. Hopefully, I can wait here. You think an hour or so?”

  He paused a moment longer.

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Armando. I’ll see your driver soon.” Logan pretended to hang up the phone but still held it in his left hand as the black front door of the house opened. Showtime . . .

  Logan turned to the house and almost stopped in his tracks. Holy Christ. This may not be as easy as I thought.

  A young behemoth in his early twenties completely filled the doorway. He stood at least six foot eight inches tall and wore a black tee shirt that barely covered his engorged muscles. His size dwarfed Logan in comparison. He’s got to be at least two sixty and all muscle—probably steroids. Great, an unstable giant, just what I need.

  He glared at Logan with dead, black eyes, his short black hair cut in a flattop that would have made any Marine Corps barber proud.

  Logan heard the sounds of a soccer match coming from a TV somewhere deep inside the house. He couldn’t see past the slab of meat in front of him, but he thought he heard movement. There are at least three of them here. No point in delaying the inevitable.

  Logan spoke in a friendly manner. “Hi, my name’s Mark. Do you speak English?” He paused and then added for effect. “I really hope you do. I could use a break the way my day’s going.”

  No response. The man stared at Logan and then scanned the property behind him. His eyes stopped on the smoking car. He smirked and returned his gaze to Logan.

  “You’re an American,” the man stated in a flat, thick Russian accent. “What do you want?” The expressionless tone raised the hair on Logan’s neck, not out of fear but in recognition of the sociopathic quality to his voice.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you, but that’s my rental car out there in front of your property. I was supposed to be in Madrid meeting my fiancée for dinner in a few hours, but the engine blew. I just got off the phone with the rental car company, and they’re sending another one, but the guy told me it’s going to be an hour.”

  Before Logan could continue, the mountain spoke again. “How is that my problem?”

  “Well—and again, I’m sorry to interrupt your day—I was wondering if I could wait here until they showed up?”

  “No,” the Russian answered singularly, and stepped back to close the door.

  “Come on, buddy. Cut me my some slack here. There’s nowhere else for me to go. I hate to ask, but I really need to use a bathroom too. You don’t want me going in your yard, do you?”

  Silence. And then the man emerged from the door and lumbered down the front porch like a mythological god stepping down fr
om Mount Olympus. He towered over Logan, now within arm’s reach on the walkway.

  “Listen, American, you cannot stay here. Go back to your car and wait there.” The Russian accent was extremely thick now, almost to the point of being comedic. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

  Logan glanced around the giant. Another man lurked in the shadows of the hallway, his hand behind his back.

  Logan’s demeanor and posture changed. His back stiffened, and he assumed a combative stance the Russian recognized immediately for what it was—hostile. Most dramatically, the carelessly casual visage he’d worn up the driveway was replaced by the hardened, calculated expression that was his natural countenance. Green eyes blazed at the younger man, who visibly reacted at the sudden transformation.

  Logan’s voice was suddenly as expressionless as the titan’s. “Here’s the deal, Yuri, or whatever the hell your name is. I am an American, but I’m here with the Spanish National Police, specifically, the GEOs. This place is surrounded. There’s nowhere for you to go.” He paused for a second to allow the information to sink in. “You have two choices—one, tell us where the van is, or two, die on this farm. I’m not going to ask again.”

  His body coiled, preparing to act.

  The man looked around the property again. Seeing nothing suspicious or alarming, he made his fateful choice.

  “Fuck you,” the man growled, and reached down to grab Logan by the shoulders.

  The man was surprisingly fast for his size, but Logan was faster. He dropped to the ground on his left knee as he let the cell phone fall from his hand. Logan used the height difference between the walkway and the porch to his advantage and delivered a vicious hammer fist to the outside of the man’s knee.

  The Russian buckled but didn’t fall.

  Logan heard rapid movement from inside the hallway and looked into the home as he delivered a second blow. The second man lurking inside the shadows ran toward the doorway, a black pistol aimed in Logan’s direction.

  Logan reached around the giant’s right leg and yanked hard on his ankle.