Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  No response was necessary, and Haskel didn’t wait for one. “A Barrett M98B—it’s an Agency weapon, Barney.”

  Kranemeyer shook his head. “What have you been smoking, Haskel? No way that’s possible.”

  Haskel ran three fingers through his sandy hair, the gesture causing his coat to fall open. A suit and tie? At midnight?

  Even Haskel wasn’t that sartorial. Not on short notice. “I don’t know what to tell you, Barney. Give me another working option. We’ve spent the last two hours running the rifle’s serial through our database—finally lost it in a maze of near untraceable JSOC procurements. You know what that means.”

  Agency. Kranemeyer hit the door with the flat of his hand, leading the way back onto the street. “Mind telling me what your man was doing here in the first place? You want to talk to my people—you come through me.”

  The FBI director put up both hands, a defensive posture. “He wasn’t on official business, that much I can tell you. Trust me, no one wants to know the answer to that question more than I.”

  Trust me. Never trust a man that asks for it, Kranemeyer mused, staring into the darkness of the December night. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, agents converging on the perimeter.

  “Weapon on the ground! Get down—hands behind your head. Now!”

  A thin black man stumbled into the bright beams of FBI flashlights, a small Glock held loosely in his right hand.

  Carter. Kranemeyer watched as his analyst fell to his knees on the cold pavement, dropping the pistol. The Bureau was all over him in seconds, cuffing his hands behind his back.

  The DCS turned to see Haskel standing there, open-mouthed and strangely pale. It was probably the closest the former DOJ lawyer had ever been to the scene of an actual arrest.

  “I want him,” Kranemeyer announced suddenly, sizing up his opponent.

  The FBI director looked up, startled—as if he hadn’t heard the question. “What?”

  “I want Carter transferred to my custody.”

  A disbelieving look crossed Haskel’s face. “That flies in the face of every procedure in the book. No way. Not happening.”

  “Think about it,” Kranemeyer said, taking a step toward Haskel—moving in close, into the man’s comfort zone. “Just think about it, Haskel. This nation’s been under attack for the last five days. You’ve lost more agents than any prior director. Let me take responsibility for Carter’s protection—we’ll use an Agency safehouse.”

  “Two of my agents go with you?” The FBI director’s acquiescence seemed sudden, unnatural. Kranemeyer’s eyes narrowed. What are you playing at?

  There was nothing to do—nothing except play it through, to the end. “Of course.”

  5:21 A.M. Pacific Time

  Van Nuys Airport

  Los Angeles, California

  Try as you might, you never really slept on a plane. Not really. Then again, he hadn’t really slept in years.

  Korsakov roused himself as the Gulfstream’s landing gear touched down, striking the tarmac with a barely discernible thump. This pilot was good—a lot better than the underpaid, underfed Federation pilots that had flown he and his comrades into Chechnya.

  The fall of communism had brought no freedom to Russia—they had but traded one set of shackles for another. Party had been replaced by capital, the ruble by the petrodollar. But the end was the same. The few controlled everything.

  A few—the oligarchs. Like Valentin Stephanovich Andropov. Those who had succeeded where he’d failed.

  In the end, it was curious how little resentment he felt, Korsakov mused, drawing back the curtain of the luxury jet’s windows to gaze out at the airport lights—the convoy of vehicles awaiting him, the nose of Andropov’s Sikorsky executive helicopter peeking out of a nearby hangar. Perhaps, in his younger years, he would have. Now? Now he was only concerned with parlaying his talents to the highest bidder—grateful that there still were high bidders like Andropov.

  Perhaps he too was a capitalist. Perhaps. As the Gulfstream taxied to a stop, the assassin rose from his seat, touching Viktor on the arm as he moved toward the door. “It is time to be going.”

  5:41 A.M.

  The hotel

  Keep her safe. Those were his orders. She was his responsibility. That was all.

  Or was it? He looked back toward the bed to where Carol lay, her form outlined beneath the sheets. He couldn’t describe how he felt, except that he had started to care and it bothered him.

  Out in the field, you learned to fear your emotions. Isolate. Compartmentalize. Don’t let anything break down those barriers. Never become emotionally attached to your principal. All those cardinal rules—so easy to recite, so hard to keep.

  He clipped the holstered Colt into the waistband of his pants, padding softly across the carpeted room. Day was coming, all too soon.

  Her hair was splayed out against the pillow, a tousled mess of gold in the dim glow of the nightlight. Beautiful.

  Focus. It had been years since he’d felt this…this reluctant stirring within. Years since he’d permitted himself to care—about anyone.

  Perhaps, after all this was over…

  Don’t go there. She stirred in her sleep, and he turned away, turning his back on her, and those emotions.

  It would do nothing…except get them both killed.

  9:03 A.M. Central Time

  The mosque

  Dearborn, Michigan

  “It is a beautiful weapon,” Tarik announced, sliding a hand across the polished receiver of the Kalashnikov, fingers brushing the folding polymer stock, an aftermarket American addition. “Have any of you ever fired one?”

  Jamal looked over to see al-Fileestini and Omar shaking their heads. The shaikh’s eyes drifted across the room to rest on him. “Have you, my brother?”

  “No.”

  A smile of amusement crossed the face of Tarik Abdul Muhammad. “Now this will never suit our purposes. How many of you have fired a weapon before—any weapon?”

  Omar inclined his head. “A few pistols back in my days on the street, nothing more. Guns were for intimidation, for show.”

  “I was a young man during the First Intifada,” al-Fileestini said at last, clearing his throat. “I did what I could, but it has been many years.”

  The shaikh paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “Your prowess does not concern me, father. Allah has not ordained that you accompany us on this holy mission. As for the others—they will need to become accustomed to the feel of the weapon in their hands. You have ammunition?”

  “Indeed.” Al-Fileestini spoke briefly to Omar, and the negro disappeared into a back room. “But any shots here in the city…the Dearborn police are corrupt and inadequate, but not so much so as to ignore automatic weapons fire.”

  “Allah will provide,” Tarik replied with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Did you not say that we have a brother several hours north along the peninsula? You spoke of a …cabin, I believe. Secluded?”

  The imam nodded, reaching into the pocket of his trousers. “I will make a few calls.”

  10:17 A.M. Eastern Time

  The apartments

  Clarksville, MD

  As crime scenes went, this one was messy. Or so he’d been told. Bullets and brass everywhere. He watched a crime scene investigator emerge from behind the apartment building, a small plastic evidence bag in his hand. They’d been digging spent rounds out of the building behind the apartments. Apparently, one didn’t mess with a .338 Lapua Magnum. Haskel took another step away from his agents, listening carefully to the voice on the other end of the phone.

  “You’re certain she was here last night? You’re sure?”

  “Of course I am,” the voice replied, no longer calm. That in itself was disturbing.

  They’d met back during Haskel’s days as an attorney with the Holder DOJ, exchanging their dreams over lunch on K Street. The world needed a leader, a man of unimaginable vision and tenacity. The abili
ty to remake the world and the ruthless determination to see it through.

  Over the years he had never known the man to lose his cool. Until now. With the stakes higher than ever.

  “I didn’t want her killed,” the FBI director hissed, taking another look around him. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

  “Wrapping up loose ends, Eric. They were close. Very close. The threat we buried with David Lay…we can’t risk its reemergence.”

  “How much does she know?” Haskel asked, passing a hand over his forehead. He didn’t really want to know. He’d never dreamed that it would come to this, but one thing led to another.

  He listened for another few minutes, then nodded. “Don’t do anything else unless you talk to me first. I can sideline her easily enough—have her working something else. As for the CIA angle…that’s covered.”

  10:42 A.M.

  A CIA safehouse

  Georgetown, Maryland

  The safehouse was nothing special, just your standard split-level. Nondescript was the order of the day. Reinforced locks, bulletproof windows, and a sophisticated security system were the only real additions. And the alarm alerted Langley, not the local PD.

  Kranemeyer pulled back the drapes of the top-floor window, taking a look down the quiet street. The FBI wasn’t happy with security arrangements, which suited him just fine. They’d nearly parked a pair of black Suburbans with government tags out front, announcing their presence to the world.

  Subtlety wasn’t Haskel’s strong suit. Never had been, but the Bureau chief wasn’t himself. Could be the recent wave of terrorist attacks. Could be something more.

  Kranemeyer dropped his jacket on the back of the chair and pulled it away from the folding table. The Heckler & Koch USP .45 rode prominently on his hip, a reminder that the Delta Force operator was never far from the surface. “Shall we begin with what this Victor Caruso was doing at your apartment. What did he want?”

  Silence. The DCS traded glances with the pair of FBI agents assigned to provide ‘oversight’.

  “Give me something I can work with, Ron. I’ve gone through your file—you had no prior contact with Agent Caruso. Your only connection to him was during the aftermath of TALON in September. And the two of you never met. What’s with the late-night social call?”

  Carter squirmed uncomfortably, eyeing Haskel’s men. He wasn’t trained for field work, and it was showing. His eyes revealed too much. “Can we go for a walk—alone?”

  7:05 A.M. Pacific Time

  Beverly Hills, California

  It was obvious why Americans loved California, even to a foreigner like Korsakov. Loved it in spite of themselves. A monument to hedonism, to the excesses of their beloved capitalism.

  The Mercedes M Class slowed as it turned onto the access road. Two hours of surveillance detection runs had finally convinced Andropov’s driver that they were safe.

  The driver reached into the center console, pulling out a small remote and entering his access code. He aimed it at the sculptured iron gates, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face as they swung open.

  Opening outward. Another security measure, Korsakov noted. It would make them less vulnerable to a ramming attack. He glanced at the cameras evenly spaced along the perimeter wall as the SUV rolled into the compound. Paranoia? Not really—after all, Andropov had made his millions selling Kalashnikovs, not toothpaste. His rise from Spetsnaz colonel to mafiya arms dealer had been a bloody one.

  Even the paranoid have enemies.

  Korsakov slid his satphone surreptitiously from his jacket, consulting the screen. Nothing. He should have received confirmation from Yuri or Kalnins, something by now. Unless something had gone wrong.

  As if on cue, the phone began to pulse. With a look toward the driver and the sleeping Viktor, Korsakov raised it to his ear. “Da?”

  “Thirty-three percent,” came the announcement. Yuri, strain showing in his voice.

  Korsakov swore softly. Thirty-three percent. One out of three targets taken out. A failure, by his standards. More importantly, by Andropov’s. “Where are you now?”

  “Baltimore.”

  “Kalnins?”

  “With me, injured. A concussion, I would say.”

  The assassin swore beneath his breath. “We need to regroup—ditch your equipment and get on a plane.”

  “The contract is unfinished.” The hostility was still there in Yuri’s voice, ever simmering just beneath the surface.

  Korsakov glanced out the tinted windows of the Mercedes, toward the portico of the mansion, palm trees shading the sidewalk. “To the devil with the contract.”

  11:24 A.M. Eastern Time

  Georgetown, MD

  The Bureau had thrown the expected hissy fit at the very thought of Carter’s proposed walk. Even now, they weren’t truly alone—not if you counted the pair of Bureau sniper teams that were supposed to be providing overwatch.

  As alone as they were going to be. Kranemeyer paused with one foot on the embankment, looking out across the murky waters of the Sassafras River. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

  Carter took a final glance toward their minders, then turned his face away. He might lack field training, but he wasn’t dumb. The Bureau was known to employ lip-readers.

  “The fiasco in West Virginia didn’t just happen,” he said finally, letting out the breath he had been holding, steam expelled into the chill morning air. “And it had nothing to do with Nichols.”

  Kranemeyer glanced over at his analyst. “You’ve been on my payroll for, what, three years—give or take?”

  A nod. “Moved over permanently from the Intelligence Directorate the year following NIGHTSHADE.”

  “Then you know you have my confidence, Ron. But believe me when I say that this had better not be one of your hunches.”

  “It’s not.” Carter took another look around him. Georgetown was a sleepy river town, particularly in the off-season. Almost no one on the nearby streets.

  Just the FBI’s watchers.

  “Someone inside the government is working with the terrorists, and they’re trying to make it look like Nichols is behind it. They had real-time intel in West Virginia.”

  “What type of intel?”

  “They were controlling the NRO satellite tasked to the Bureau’s mission. They were in command of the feed.”

  “How is that even possible?” Kranemeyer almost turned to face Carter, then thought better of it. Watchers.

  “It was a legit user account, set up a few days before the bombings in Virginia. Sundancer1350. No idea who is behind it, but they didn’t hack their way in. They were given access.”

  “By who?”

  A long pause, the silence falling heavy between the two men. “I don’t know…but they had the run of the place.”

  The DCS swore. “You do know what you’re saying, Ron?”

  “That’s what Marika asked,” Carter replied, a thin, humorless smile turning up his lips. He felt Kranemeyer’s hand descend on his arm and the color drained from his face.

  “Would you mind telling me who that is?”

  The analyst closed his eyes, cursing himself for the admission. Such a Freudian slip.

  Kranemeyer’s hand fell away and Carter looked up to see the DCS fishing in the pocket of his jacket for his phone. “Yes?”

  As hard as he might try, it was impossible to hear the other side of the conversation. The DCS said little, his face gradually distorting with anger as he listened.

  At length, “Thanks, Danny.”

  Kranemeyer thrust the phone back in his pocket and took Carter by the shoulder, propelling him back toward the road.

  “What’s going on?”

  The look on Kranemeyer’s face was frightening, dark coals of fire flashing in his eyes. The face of death incarnate. “Nichols was only the beginning—they’re taking the Service apart, Ron. One by one. My people…”

  11:57 A.M.

  Norfolk, Virginia

  Finding a pe
rson who was supposed to be dead was about as hard as one might expect. Them having relatives helped. Being on a close timetable didn’t.

  “How long will we have?” Thomas asked, glancing at his watch.

  Tex shrugged. “I can give you five minutes to clone the SIM. In and out.”

  Thomas looked out the tinted windows of the Malibu, across the street to the windowed storefront of the beauty salon. The proprietor was Rhoda Stevens’ sister, and he could make out the form of their target within the interior. “Her assistant goes on lunch break in fifteen. I can do this.”

  “You sober?” The words contained no inflection, no accusation. Just a question, and yet he felt a flash of anger.

  “Stone cold.”

  The Texan nodded, but there was a reluctance there, a skepticism.

  Didn’t anyone trust him anymore? Thomas’s phone rang suddenly, before he could utter the angry words rising to his lips. He palmed it off the dashboard, scanning the screen. Kranemeyer.

  “Hello,” he answered, putting the phone on speaker.

  “The two of you need to go to ground,” the DCS announced, his words clipped, tension filling his voice. “And stay there.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see it on the news soon enough.” Explanations weren’t Kranemeyer’s specialty. “Someone’s turning us inside out—an FBI agent was murdered last night and the murder weapon was…an Agency Barrett.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Like usual, the truth doesn’t really matter. I struck a deal with Haskel to throttle things back—keep your faces off the television for the moment…but the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division has expressed an interest in your whereabouts all the same. They’ll be looking for you within the hour, rattling the bushes to see what flies out. Go to ground, get out of sight.”

  And then he was gone, breaking contact without so much as a farewell. The two men exchanged glances, absorbing the news.

  After a long moment, Thomas inclined his head toward the salon. “We’re already here. Shall we?”