Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  She’s beautiful—and deadly. Don’t forget it. And stop acting like you’re in fucking high school! his inner voice screamed. Now is not the time for a boyhood romance. Then again, was there ever really a good time, especially in this line of work?

  “So they’re in some sort of god-awful, black-site prison, being subjected to God knows what.” John turned back to the station chief. “So when do we go? I assume that’s why Tim’s here now, to help with a rescue mission.”

  “We don’t,” Wendell said, responding immediately since he knew John wasn’t going to like the answer. In his experiences in dealing with men like John Quick, the brutal, honest truth was always the best course of action.

  “What are you talking about?” John said, closing his eyes and clenching his hands to control the rising tide of anger.

  “It’s not our mission. I’m sorry. There’s already an operation under way to get them, but it’s not going to be ours. We have a different task, one that comes straight from the president through the director,” Wendell said, giving them a moment to absorb the last statement.

  “Of course,” John said, hanging his head and already knowing what it was. “The ONERING. Where is it?”

  “Tuti Island, which is why we have it,” Wendell said, and pointed once more, this time to a half-moon-shaped island at the center of where the White and Blue Niles converged to form the main Nile River that flowed north.

  “You’re kidding me! How did we confirm it?” John said.

  “The engineers at DARPA built a fail-safe into the device. Since this thing is so dangerous and portable, they wanted to be able to track it. It was activated a little while ago, and when it went live, it initiated a satellite GPS chip embedded into the main system. I was also informed it’s not detectable to the users.”

  “Thank God,” John said, remembering the DARPA director telling them about the GPS device. Then the obvious implication of the ONERING’s activation hit him. “What did the bastards use it for?”

  “To hijack one of our space-based weapons to attack a Chinese oil site near the South Sudan border,” Wendell said flatly.

  “Why would Chinese operatives be trying to start a war between us and the Chinese?” John said to no one in particular. “That’s insane. It makes no sense.”

  “I know, which is why it’s all the more urgent that we get this back before they can do more damage with it,” Wendell said.

  “No kidding,” John replied, and turned back to Tim Greco. “So what do we know about this island?”

  “That it’s a very good place to hide things you don’t want discovered,” Tim said. “The island is only three square miles and has one village, whose residents are farmers that produce most of Khartoum’s fruits and vegetables. Most of the island is covered with citrus orchards and farmland. There are plenty of places to set up a small camp and remain undetected, especially from commercial or spy satellites.”

  “Have you been there?” John asked.

  “As the RSO, I like to know my environment,” Tim said, smiling. “It comes with the territory, so to speak. I’d heard about this ‘jewel of the Nile’ island that was supposedly an oasis from the chaos and congestion of Khartoum. So I took a day trip there on my own. You used to have to take a ferry to get to it, but in 2008 they finished the suspension bridge that connects to the mainland. The good thing for us is that the single-story homes and buildings are concentrated in the center of the island. If they’ve set up camp on the island and want to remain away from prying eyes, they’ll be near the water in the outskirts, where the crops and orchards are. But there’s one problem—the river. It makes this tricky because if they see us coming, they can use either the bridge or the water as escape routes.”

  “The agency provided what they think is the camp’s location, and we’ll get the other UAV up to confirm it,” Wendell said.

  “Do we have an assault time?” Tim asked, knowing if another operation were under way against the prison, theirs would be launched simultaneously in order to minimize the possibility of one location tipping off the other. The fact that the Sudanese government was clearly working with the Chinese only complicated matters.

  “We do,” Wendell replied. “A SEAL team out of Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti is going to do a high-altitude, low-opening insert at twenty hundred local time to hit the prison.” He looked at his watch. “Which is a little less than three hours from now.”

  John knew getting the ONERING was the right decision, but his loyalty to his friend pulled him at a gut level. Yet he knew that if Logan were in his place faced with this decision, he’d make the right call. Logan was unlike any other human being he’d encountered—merciless, moral, and singular in purpose. In the Marine Corps, it was always mission accomplishment first, troop welfare second. At the end of the day, everything they’d done was for one objective—to retrieve the ONERING and protect the national security of the United States and its citizens.

  Fuck it. Let the frogmen get him. They’re almost as crazy as Logan and might try to adopt him like a lost puppy.

  “Okay then,” John said. “What’s our plan?”

  CHAPTER 33

  “Okay then, boys. If you insist,” Cole muttered under his breath as he faced off against his would-be killers inside the ring.

  Two men stood before him, including the pack leader with the dented skull who’d escorted them from their cell. The man had removed his dirty tank top, revealing taut muscles designed for this kind of combat. The dead eye darted about the ring. Can he see with that thing? I guess I’ll find out, Cole thought.

  The second opponent was the same size as his leader, although he moved with a slight limp that made him appear as if he were rolling from side to side rather than stepping, a human buoy on a canvas sea. He wore his hair in braids that whipped about his head, reminding Cole of the mythological Medusa. Both wielded rusty machetes, the edges gleaming in the waning daylight in stark contrast to their overall condition. If they don’t kill me, I’ll probably get tetanus.

  They’d forced him into the ring unarmed. I guess it’s going to be that kind of fight. That’s fine. I can play dirty, he thought.

  A skilled practitioner in multiple martial arts, Cole had taken a particular interest in Krav Maga when he’d spent eight months with the Israeli Shin Bet in Jerusalem while hunting down a notorious Lebanese terrorist who had posed a significant threat to the CIA’s Israeli partner. A fighting style developed by the Israeli military for very real and ruthless hand-to-hand combat scenarios, Krav Maga focused on aggressively countering an enemy’s attack in order to quickly neutralize the threat, often with lethal force.

  When everyone around you wants you dead, you better know how to handle yourself, Cole thought, momentarily reflecting on the fact that Israel was surrounded by its enemies. Seems apropos right about now.

  Deadeye and Medusa moved apart and slowly closed the distance. Cole knew they would come at him from different directions, trying to overwhelm him as quickly as possible.

  The crowd sensed the coming attack, having seen this tactic before, and the shouts intensified. The courtyard of the prison had turned into a Sudanese version of the Colosseum, and bloodlust was in the air.

  Cole knew he’d have to act quickly to shut this confrontation down. He knew the moment was almost at hand when Deadeye stopped a little less than six feet in front of him and Medusa continued to circle to his left.

  Cole’s back was near one of the corner posts. The canvas shook from the pounding of the inmates’ hands on the apron. He took a deep breath and exhaled, a sense of battle calm enveloping him, not for the first time. Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it.

  Even as Deadeye stepped forward and swung the machete laterally toward him, Cole was already timing his counterattack. He planted his right foot forward and spun one hundred and eighty degrees to his left inside the arc of the machete. He delivered a vicious and precise elbow to Deadeye’s left temple, hoping to enlarge the dent in his head. He grabbed the
man’s wrist with his other hand, digging his fingers into the nerve bundle at the base.

  There was a pause in the cheering, a shocked intake of breath, as the prisoners processed what they were witnessing.

  Cole sensed Medusa reacting, but he pressed the attack, knowing if he didn’t finish Deadeye, he’d lose the tactical advantage he’d just gained.

  As Deadeye loosened his grip, the machete appeared in Cole’s right hand so quickly it could have been sleight of hand, and he spun another one hundred and eighty degrees, extending his right arm forward as he completed the circle. The razor-sharp blade slid into Deadeye’s abdomen, just below the sternum.

  Cole looked into his face momentarily, the maniacal grin gone, replaced with a mask of pain. He noticed the man’s milky eye open wider. Guess you can see out of it—if only for a few more seconds.

  He turned to his left and caught Medusa’s movement in his peripheral vision. The man had let out a primal scream of fury when he saw his partner impaled. Amateur. Thanks for telling me where you are.

  Medusa was almost upon him, his scream reaching a fevered pitch as he held the machete over his head, enraged at the sudden turn of events. Cole didn’t notice the total silence that had fallen over the prison yard or the shocked expressions of amazement on the inmates’ faces. He was completely engaged and focused on his next move. He saw the machete begin to fall, the blade of death searching for his flesh.

  Cole smoothly stepped aside, using both arms to push Deadeye’s weight to his left. Unable to stop its momentum, Medusa slammed the heavy blade into his tag teammate’s collarbone.

  The weapon buried itself into the still-breathing man until the top of it disappeared, stuck in the thick bundle of his trapezius muscle. Blood poured from the wound down the man’s chest, but Cole hardly noticed.

  Medusa stared in shock as he realized what he’d done, his hands frozen to the machete’s hilt.

  Cole withdrew the bloodied machete from Deadeye’s stomach—the man’s eyes had rolled up into his head; he was fairly certain he’d just earned his nickname—and moved around the man’s corpse with ghostly speed.

  Deadeye’s body began to fall to the canvas, a knockout from which he would never recover. His momentum pulled Medusa forward, knocking the man off balance, his grip still tight on the machete buried in his friend.

  No mercy, Cole told himself. It’s them or you.

  Cole brought the blade up and down so fluidly the move appeared almost casual.

  A loud gasp escaped the crowd. Cole was a statue, staring at the second attacker, the machete held down in both hands, waiting to be used again, even as his opponent bled out through the stumps of both arms, severed now below the elbow.

  The mortally wounded man looked around the ring, shock shutting down his nervous system as his lifeblood spewed onto the canvas in geysers. He gazed into Cole’s eyes—cold and unforgiving—and then his vision darkened at the edges. He fell backward onto the canvas and through it into oblivion.

  Silence. Cole waited for the next moments to play out, knowing they would determine his fate. He remained motionless, a gladiator soaked in blood. The inmates’ disbelieving reverie broke, and a tidal wave of applause and cheers roared through the prison’s inner sanctum, crashing against the walls in a crescendo.

  Logan looked around, only to see that the Chinese man who’d issued the instructions was now standing next to him.

  “Hey,” Logan said calmly. “Maybe you should’ve tried three guys.”

  The man stiffened and met Logan’s gaze, his eyes dancing with a combination of amusement and frustration. He smiled, and Logan felt a creeping dread insert itself into the back of his mind.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not done yet,” the man said, and walked away, nodding at the Sudanese guards surrounding the ring.

  The crowd continued to cheer as two guards leapt into the ring and pulled black pistols from shoulder holsters. They aimed them at Cole, but he didn’t need the encouragement. He’d already dropped the bloody machete.

  He exited the ring and dropped down to the dirt, the guards pushing him toward Logan. Prisoners slapped him on the back in congratulations, a victorious prizefighter leaving the ring of battle.

  Logan watched Cole approach, but then he spotted someone across the ring staring at him, seeming to soak him up with hatred-filled eyes. It was the giant, and he wasn’t basking in the glow of Cole’s victory. Uh-oh. I don’t think the champ’s too happy.

  Unable to contain himself, he waved and smiled at the towering killer. The man scowled and turned away.

  “What was that all about?” Cole asked as he reached Logan.

  “I don’t think your new popularity made the people’s choice too happy. I think he’s pouting,” Logan said.

  “Great. Just what I need—a jealous maniac,” Cole said.

  “I know,” Logan said, looking at Cole and smiling. “Isn’t Sudan wonderful?”

  “Yeah. It’s a fucking laugh riot,” Cole said, wiping blood off the backs of both hands.

  Logan sensed the man’s mood darken. “Hey, you did what you had to do. It was pretty impressive. I’m glad it’s them and not you.” He paused, and said, “If it makes you feel any better, I think the next match is for me.”

  Suddenly, hands roughly grabbed them from behind and shoved them away from the ring toward an opening in the crowd. Through it, Logan saw the door from which they’d entered earlier.

  “I guess it’s back to our cell for some rest and relaxation,” Logan said.

  “And maybe I can get a massage. I’m a little sore from that workout,” Cole said.

  “Sure. I bet they’d even throw in a pedicure—with a rusty machete,” Logan said, and grinned as he was shoved toward the opening.

  CHAPTER 34

  FBI Las Vegas Division, Nevada

  Almost twelve hundred here, which means it’s nineteen hundred in Sudan. Time is passing too quickly, Mike thought. It’d been more than seven hours since Logan and Cole Matthews had been captured. You better be alive, Logan, or I’ll kill you myself.

  The waiting was agonizing, and his investigation into Mrs. Natalie Chambers’s murder was progressing just as slowly. The pictures of the Chinese suspects had been disseminated all over town, and the local news channels were doing an excellent job of running hourly updates. But still, nothing new had come in, the lack of actionable information taunting him with each passing hour.

  Things were just as bad—if not worse—on the Sudanese front. In addition to Logan and Cole’s abduction, his uncle had just informed him about the activation of the ONERING to attack a Chinese oil site. More Chinese connections. It’s starting to feel like the world’s worst buffet, with a little death and destruction here, a little kidnapping there, and an act of war on the side.

  The HRT had set up shop in the FBI office’s vehicle bay, running their encrypted fiber-optic cables to mobile satellite dishes erected outside. The team was led by Special Agent Lance Foster, a fellow veteran of Mike, John, and Logan’s escapade in northern Mexico at the Los Toros cartel compound two years ago. Foster’s team was still the best, which made them exactly what Mike needed right now.

  Mike stood in the doorway of Special Agent Amanda Hunt’s office, watching the organized bedlam on the floor of the field office’s operations center. The investigation was in full swing, even if it was progressing slower than Mike preferred.

  Young agents were making phone calls to other federal agencies, taking call-in tips, looking through financial records, and trying to piece together a time line for the Chang brothers since they’d arrived in Vegas. He smiled inwardly, slightly nostalgic for the adrenaline rush he knew the agents were experiencing.

  A major case, the threat of a possible attack on the homeland, the hope that they would be the ones to save the day—these were the dark and exhilarating vices of all young agents, Mike thought. Let’s see how they feel in twenty-four hours, when they haven’t slept and real fatigue sets in for the first time.r />
  He shook his head nearly imperceptibly, remembering that it was moments like these that had led to his failed marriage—his first and last. His ex-wife, Corey—a botanist of all things—had understood the extreme demands of his job, especially as a junior, African-American agent eager to prove himself. She’d initially supported him through all of it. They’d entered the marriage together with eyes wide open, but after the first few years, they both realized it was untenable. Ironically, it was his success and the prospect of children that ultimately led to their divorce.

  Mike had known dozens of senior executives and midlevel agents throughout his career. Many had children and families whom they loved dearly, but at the end of the day, there were only so many hours in each one.

  Love was one thing, the foundation of a bond, the bedrock of a family. But time? Well, time was an entirely different animal. All the love in the world didn’t make up for all the lost time. It was always the same regret—not enough time with those who mattered most.

  Fortunately, he and Corey had recognized it, and they’d made a choice together. It hadn’t been his alone, and he was still grateful to her for it. She’d known who he was at his core, and she’d been the one to force him to look inward, to see who he truly was, and more importantly, what he wanted. For them, a divorce had been the right decision.

  His career had accelerated upward, his success secondary to the satisfaction he’d derived from protecting his country from the evils that plagued it and the world. Corey had rebounded and remarried, happily, and had two children now in their teens. Now that they were both in their midforties, they didn’t talk often, but Mike knew from their last correspondence that she was content, at least as much as anyone could be in a world like this.

  “I know this is an imposition and that our presence has thrown everyone into a frenzy. I sincerely appreciate the hospitality,” Mike said, turning to face the division’s special agent in charge.