Here we go again, he thought as he dove into the bottom, crashing head-first, feeling the familiar elasticity as the chute’s floor stretched, giving under his downward momentum, thinning as it extended, as lightning cracked around it, flickering with energy just before it burst, releasing him into bright skies.
Jack squinted again as he free fell, checking his altimeter, realizing he had lost exactly 1.2 kilometers, emerging at 10.8 kilometers or 35,000 feet.
Thank you, Angie.
He transitioned into a traditional skydiving profile, once more stretching the fabric between his arms and legs to adopt a winglike shape as his eyes scanned the rapidly approaching ground, trying to get his bearings from this altitude, recognizing the tip of Florida, the Keys, locating the large metropolitan area of Miami off to the west.
Twenty-seven thousand feet.
He controlled his descent easily, just as he had done for so many years in the SEALs performing high-altitude low-opening insertions into hostile territory.
And that’s precisely how he had to view the world below. Hostile.
Twenty-two thousand feet.
He searched for highways, for roads, for any semblance of civilization, and shifted his arms to glide in that direction. West. Toward the greater Miami area.
Angela was raised there. And Jack guessed that would be precisely where she must have gone when in trouble, where she would have options, help, people willing to help her.
Seventeen thousand feet.
Jack selected his landing site. A grassy field close to a two-lane road that fed into a larger road running east-west, disappearing into the distant Miami metropolitan area.
Thirteen thousand feet.
He slowly opened a valve on the front of his suit to equal pressure with the atmosphere, feeling his ears ringing for an instant, before probing his target again, confirming his choice, free of trees or fences, the grass swaying gently toward the west providing him with wind direction as he dropped below nine thousand feet.
He reached for the rip cord handle secured with Velcro under his left arm and held it tight, waiting.
Six thousand feet.
Forty-five hundred feet.
Jack watched the ground rising rapidly toward him, but he waited just a bit longer, determined to reenter this world by the book, like a SEAL, hitting his selected site with precision.
Twenty-seven hundred feet.
Twenty-one hundred feet.
Fourteen hundred feet.
Nine hundred feet.
Jack waited just a couple more seconds, a hand on the rip cord handle, pulling it hard the moment he read five hundred feet.
The parachute performed flawlessly, blossoming above him with a hard tug, quickly arresting his fall, slowing him down to a gentle glide a hundred feet from the ground, allowing Jack to land with a slight wind drift.
He rolled the moment his feet touched the grass, letting his cushioned body absorb the impact, before sitting up against the wind, the parachute collapsing behind him.
The helmet came off first, and Jack took a deep breath of fresh air, filling his lungs, briefly closing his eyes as he once more thanked Angela for building something that, albeit not perfect, had been more than enough to do the job, to get him back in one piece.
The gloves came off next, before Jack unfolded the airtight flaps over the main zipper down the front of the suit and zipped it down his waist.
He walked out of it with ease in his skintight battle dress, which this time he would wear under a pair of loose jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt that Angela had secured for him to the bottom of the parachute compartment.
Last time he hadn’t had a choice, venturing into the world in his futuristic suit. This time around he wanted to blend in right away, to minimize attracting attention, but still without giving up the protection of this bulletproof piece of engineering.
He got dressed and tucked his Sig in the small of his back, covering it with the T-shirt and kept the SOG knife in its ankle sheath.
He looked around, selecting a cluster of trees separating the meadow from the road to hide the parachute and suit, covering them with branches before heading for the road, feeling the front right pocket of his jeans, where Dago had tucked in a roll of twenty-dollar bills.
Jack grinned, deciding that if anyone would know the whereabouts of his wife, it would be her old biker friend.
The road was Highway 41, which framed the north end of the Everglades National Park, meaning he hadn’t drifted significantly during the entire ascent and subsequent jump. And based on the sun, he estimated it to be mid-morning.
This time around, however, he had little luck hitching a ride, walking for almost thirty minutes before reaching a large gas station that had a convenience store and a large restaurant.
He bought a couple of bottles of water and some snacks, consuming them at a picnic table at the edge of the parking lot while watching the patrons come and go, biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity, which came about ten minutes later.
An elderly couple in an old Chevrolet convertible pulled up to one of the pumps, fueled up, and then parked just twenty feet from Jack, not bothering to put the top up before walking into the restaurant.
Thank you, he thought, waiting for them to go inside before jumping in and reaching under the dash, locating the right wires, bypassing the ignition, taking less than thirty seconds to hot-wire it.
He steered the vintage car, which was in impeccable condition, out of the gas station and headed west on the highway, checking his watch, deciding that unless someone alerted the couple, it would be at least thirty minutes before they came out, and probably even longer before a cop arrived and added it to the stolen vehicle database.
But Jack remained vigilant, keeping to the speed limit, trying to look relaxed, just another Floridian enjoying a morning ride on a sunny day. He even put on the owner’s Wayfarer sunglasses left on the console.
His right hand on the wheel and his left elbow resting on the door, Jack covered the thirty miles to Miami in fifteen minutes, turning south on Highway 997 and west on 296th Street, near Homestead Air Reserve, reaching the shop in another thirty minutes.
He drove past the building, noticing it was closed, which was strange for a weekday, and headed to the corner to go around the employee parking lot in back.
That’s when he spotted it. A white van with tinted windows parked across the street a block away from the shop’s entrance. Two men were inside. Jack pretended to ignore them while driving around the block, noticing another white van at the edge of the empty parking lot with two more men.
Hastings had this place covered front and back, and the fact that it was closed meant that Dago, his gang, and probably Angela were somewhere else.
Maybe even with Pete.
As he was about to drive off, the van in the parking lot sprung to life, accelerating toward him. Jack went for his gun, but the driver simply swerved around him, taking off, turning the corner and heading to the front, obviously not interested in him.
Jack’s instincts screamed at him to follow, and he did, also turning the corner just as the van in front also drove off, following the first one.
Where are you guys going in such a hurry?
* * *
They reached the farmhouse at one in the afternoon and spread across the front and back, covering the gravel entrance connecting the main house to the road, the path from the back porch to the large orange grove, and even the trail off to the left leading to a duck pond.
Davis decided to be thorough, to do this by the book, securing the perimeter first before tightening the noose.
The place was secluded, accessible only by a narrow road that wound its way to the northwest corner of the Everglades National Park.
There were no neighbors for miles. No witnesses.
Just the group who’d made a fool of Davis and his men two days ago.
But not today, he thought, each of his four team leads confirming their posit
ions, getting a visual on the motorcycles parked outside, as well as the satellite antenna providing the Internet access that the general’s IT staff, assisted by none other than the NSA, had used to track a series of hack attacks to this location.
Davis inspected the one-story structure once more with suspicion. The farmhouse looked quiet, peaceful.
Almost too good.
But Hastings had been clear: raid the place and hand over its occupants to the men waiting on the access road just beyond the edge of the woods in a pair of white vans parked behind his team’s SUVs.
The general’s Hispanic friends, he thought with a frown and a heavy sigh. The ones he had summoned after Davis had failed to raid that FBI safe house fast enough, allowing them to escape.
“Move in,” he spoke, leading the assault team himself, stepping out of the woods and rushing across the grassy meadow followed by three of his men, single file with a ten-foot separation, reaching the front in thirty seconds, glancing at the bikes, before motioning to one of his men to break down the door.
* * *
The figure, dressed in black and wielding a silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, collapsed the moment Jack chopped him behind the neck.
He eased him down next to his fallen comrades—all three of them making up one of four teams converging on the farmhouse.
Jack inspected them briefly, deciding that they were guilty by association with the men in the white vans he had followed here from Dago’s place. But it was the Harleys parked in front of the farmhouse that had justified his attack on these strangers.
Is Angie hiding there?
Grabbing the silenced MP5, he scrambled through the woods, approaching the next team, four more men standing by the edge of the woods looking toward the meadow—as they were ordered. But a better trained team leader would have posted at least one of his men facing the woods, their six o’clock, to prevent precisely what Jack did next.
From a distance of just ten feet, he fired, aiming for the back of their heads, where their fancy Kevlar vests wouldn’t protect them. Only the last man managed to turn around and return fire, which Jack was glad to see was from a silenced MP5 just like the one he held.
But it was a futile attempt.
Jack placed his final two shots on the side of his head, and he collapsed next to his team.
Dropping the empty MP5 and stealing one with a full magazine from one of his victims, Jack continued his hunt, rushing to the third team a couple hundred feet away, also under orders to watch the house, cover the exits, and keep its occupants from escaping.
Amateurs.
Slowly, Jack got ready to disable the last lookout team.
* * *
Davis reached the living room first, a sinking feeling descending on him when he found it empty. His men quickly separated, covering the bedrooms, the garage, the dining area, even going up into the attic.
But as had been the case less than forty-eight hours ago, the place was empty.
“Damn it,” he hissed, staring at the sofas facing a large fireplace and an even larger flat-screen television hanging on the wall. “How is this possible?”
The hackers had managed to elude him again, and Hastings would not be pleased.
Putting down his weapon and reaching for his mobile phone, he pressed a button on his speed dial. Hastings picked it up on the first ring.
“You’ve got them?”
“Negative, sir. The place is empty.”
Silence, followed by, “But I thought you said there were bikes parked in front.”
“There are, sir. At least someone’s bikes. But they’re not here. No one is.”
There was a heavy sigh and Davis closed his eyes, not relishing being the deliverer of bad news, especially when Hastings had a reputation for shooting the messenger. But fortunately for Davis, the general was back at his compound in West Virginia, where he had decided to weather the storm.
“Regroup with Javier and wait for my orders,” Hastings said, hanging up.
Davis stared at his phone and slowly shook his head before switching to his radio.
“All right, people, the package isn’t here. Repeat, the package is not here. Back to base.”
He frowned when no one responded.
“Damn it,” he hissed, clicking the radio off and back on. But he still got no response.
And that’s when he saw Jack, standing in the foyer, one of his men’s MP5s in his hands.
“I … I thought you were dead,” Davis said.
* * *
Jack motioned the team leader, whom his men called Davis, to his knees, hands behind his head, before sitting across from him with the MP5 pointed at his head.
“Where’s my team?”
“Some dead, some knocked out.”
Davis didn’t reply.
Jack tilted his head at him. “I remember you. The night before the jump. You were there with that other asshole … Riggs.”
Davis slowly nodded. “He turned out to be FBI.”
“Really?” Jack said, leaning forward. “Well, he had me fooled.”
“He had us all fooled.”
“Good for him.”
“Not really,” Davis said. “The general caught him, along with your friend Pete Flaherty.”
Jack didn’t like that. “And?”
“Last I heard, Riggs got the double-T.”
“The what?”
“Traitor treatment. He got to watch his family get … brutalized, murdered before they gouged out his eyes and castrated him.”
In spite of all the horrors he had witnessed in his life, Jack blinked. “You … saw this?”
“No. But Hastings has a thing for videotaping those … Hallmark moments and showing us clips for … motivation.”
Jack exhaled, then asked, “What about Pete?”
“Don’t know,” he said. “And that’s the truth.”
“Where’s Hastings now?”
“Look, they have my family, man,” Davis said. “Please understand I have no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice,” Jack replied. “And my choice right now is to kill the son of a bitch. So, where is he?”
Davis considered that for a moment before he said, “Would you please make it look like I fought back? That’s the only way to protect them.”
Jack considered that for a moment and said, “You got it.”
Davis slowly nodded. “All right. Apparently, your wife and some hacker and biker friends of hers have created a financial mess for the general, stealing bank accounts, freezing assets, disturbing factories, his operations, injecting his networks with viruses. If it can be done with a computer, they’ve sure as hell done it.”
Jack tried not to beam with pride. “Continue.”
“Anyway, we got a tip that the latest hack attacks had originated from this location. But it was just like the last time.”
“The last time?”
Davis looked down, apparently embarrassed. “Yeah. We got a tip to raid another place—an FBI safe house. And same thing. Missed them by a mile. And not only that, but the bastards watched us through Webcams they’d left behind.”
Jack was trying to process all of this. “So where’s Hastings now?” he finally asked, before checking his watch, deciding that it was time to move out. Although he had disabled fifteen soldiers in thirty minutes, there was always the chance of anyone he hadn’t killed waking up and bursting in here guns blazing. Or perhaps Davis had backup standing by in the vicinity, like those four guys in the white vans waiting up the road.
“He has a compound in West Virginia, off of IH-68, by Cheat Lake. Been there a couple of times. The place is off the reservation … so to speak. Can only get to it by boat, sea plane, or helicopter,” Davis said, giving him the actual directions.
“Anything I need to be aware of?”
“He’s got lots of cameras covering every angle in the place, plus a lot of guards,” Davis said, taking another minute to give him the details of the compound
’s defenses that he recalled seeing.
Jack took it all in before asking, “What about the men in the white vans parked by your SUVs?”
Davis shrugged. “Some associates of the general. We were supposed to hand over anyone we captured in here. But my guess is that they’re gone after I reported to Hastings that the place was empty.”
“Anything else?”
Davis slowly shook his head. “Please make it look good.”
Jack got up and walked behind him.
Everyone has a choice.
He pressed the muzzle against the back of his head and was about to pull the trigger, when he said, “There’s another way.”
Davis looked back at Jack. There were tears in the man’s face as he mumbled, “How?”
“By helping me kill the bastard.”
“I … can’t take that chance. Others have tried, and they all ended up in the same place as Riggs.”
“I won’t fail,” Jack said. “Your best chance is with me.”
“I … can’t. I’ve seen what he’s done to their families. I … just can’t.”
Jack took a deep breath, hating to put down someone who looked like a good soldier caught in an unfortunate situation.
“And please don’t just knock me out,” Davis said. “This makes my second time disappointing the general. He’s probably going to kill me anyway. That’s the risk I took by accepting his offer.”
“All right. Get up. Turn around,” Jack said.
Davis did, facing Jack, who took a few steps back before leveling the gun at his face.
“Thanks,” the veteran soldier said, a tear rolling down his camouflaged cheek. “I hope you stop him.”
Jack clenched his jaw, hating having to do this, but failing to see any other way. He had given Davis every chance he could think of, but it was clear that the general’s fear campaign was working as designed.
“Look, man,” Jack said, trying to give him a final chance. “Join me. We can beat Hastings.”
“I … I can’t risk it. Do it for my wife … for my kids.”
Jack frowned and took a deep breath.
“Please. I’m begging you. It’s the only way to be sure.”
Well aware that he would hate himself for doing this, Jack finally squeezed the trigger. The silenced round hit Davis in between the eyes, killing him instantly.
The Fall Page 37
