by M. K. Gilroy
Why am I surprised?
He looked over at the kid. What was his first name? Matt? He knew too much and had proven to be unreliable, not just in work but also in attitude.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Doyle said earnestly, doing his best to hide the joy he felt at his employer’s discomposure.
“You did your best Matt,” Grayson said laying a comforting hand on Doyle’s shoulder.
“It’s Mark, sir.”
“So sorry, Mark,” said Colonel Grayson.
In a fast, vicious, practiced twist of his hands, Grayson snapped the man’s neck, severing his spinal column cleanly.
What’s one more mess to clean up in an operation that had been a disaster from the start?
But this was less of a mess than letting the kid live. Who was he kidding? Failure meant a contract on his head. Time to shut this thing down before he found himself standing still while someone put him in their crosshairs. Time to let it go and move on.
Grayson hated to admit what had been on his mind. Maybe there were waters too deep to swim in even for a man of his prodigious skills and accomplishments. Maybe he was being too hard on Burke. When the full contents of Alexander’s journal failed to deliver, it was a sure signal that it was time to exit the stage, something he had been planning anyway. Burke wasn’t the only one who had created a life in the shadows with enough identities, tripwires, protective layers, and cold hard cash to live out retirement in luxurious comfort. Grayson would miss the adrenaline rush of the battlefield, but all good things must come to an end. Maybe he’d get to know his grandkids. But probably not.
He hated to retire on a failed operation. But survival was the ultimate victory.
Doyle’s empty eyes looked up at him.
What’d you say Mark? Speak up! Nothing to say? No sarcasm?
Before he disappeared—his first retirement destination would be Argentina with all those pretty young girls, he thought—he needed to take care of a few loose ends; one in particular. Who was the man that had hired Grayson going to look for when it became obvious he wasn’t going to get what he paid for? Himself of course. Twenty-five million US dollars should get you a lot more than eleven pages of drivel.
I will be the Beast? What are you thinking Alexander? I knew this would be a SNAFU—but this is over the top messed up.
Grayson didn’t want to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, wondering when the man who hired him—or the man he tried to steal from—would finally locate him. He, Grayson, had to die. Correction. He needed to appear to die. And he had to put the man who hired him on the trail of the man who killed him. That would be Burke. But he didn’t want the man to actually find Burke. So Burke had to die in reality, but appear to have survived. Burke had eluded a death Grayson planned for him once before. But this time he wouldn’t be so lucky.
Burke was a shadow in the world of shadows, but hadn’t yet figured out his every move had been monitored the past six months, thought Grayson, a twinkle in his eyes. Burke didn’t know that Grayson knew he had switched hotels in a hurry. He didn’t know that Grayson knew he was in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel pretending to drink a vodka tonic right now.
I’m sorry son. To think, after this was all done I was going to hand you the keys to my business. But failure is not an option. For either of us. Someone’s got to pay. It sure as hell ain’t going to be me.
21
The Mediterranean Sea
DAD ALWAYS WANTED ME TO wear a suit and work in an office, Nicky Alexander pondered. Maybe he was right—or maybe I’m getting older. Or maybe I’ve got someone on my mind … no … don’t go there … better to keep your mind off her. Keep your thoughts on what matters.
After the conclusion of his frontline work in the baking sun of Yemen and Saudi Arabia, he slipped into Sudan on a speedboat across the Red Sea. Not quite as dramatic as Moses, but it felt like salvation after his time with Sheikh Malmak. His earlier meetings there held the same purpose as his time with the old buzzard, but none held the same drama or danger. Still, his uncle was right. He had built a formidable network of stooges who didn’t have a clue why they were being given armaments and vital information about their enemies, but knew exactly what to do with the mother lode of resources. It was time for him to let others do the nasty work.
After taking a jeep across barely passable desert roads, he caught a plane from Khartoum to Cairo under one of his aliases. Rubbing the stubble on his head and catching the reflection of his black beard in a window before boarding, he wasn’t sure his own mother would recognize him, much less the sailors on the merchant marine vessel he was working on out of Port Said to Port Chania on the Island of Crete. He was just another itinerant worker looking to make a few bucks loading and unloading freighters.
From Crete, he would take a commercial ferry filled with budget tourists that made a stop in Patmos, his next stop. From there he would find out how his operations were progressing and get his next assignment from Uncle. Flying under the radar, he felt naked not knowing what was happening in Yemen, the Ukraine, the States, Liberia, Shenzhen, Turin, Paris, Berlin, London, Moscow, and other areas strategically targeted for beta events.
How long will I get to stay in Patmos? Better not to think of that. His uncle would not approve. But thoughts of the remarkable scientist, Claire Stevens, beautiful and fair in contrast to his dark, hard handsomeness—or so he had been told—were impossible to suppress.
He knew the first time he laid eyes on her that he wanted her— and that she wanted him. The chemistry was intense and magical. How many women had he slept with? Too many to count. But nothing compared to unbridled passion of making love to Claire. No, not quite right. Making love with Claire.
Is that a first for me?
He focused on what mattered most. He would make calls on a satellite phone that bounced to various stations in space to catch up on developments. Only then would he allow one of the medical staff to attend to the jagged wound on his forearm. People would whisper that he had to fight his way out of Yemen, but the truth was he was gashed opening crates of Kalashnikovs—a mere scratch in comparison to the American and the Saudi prince’s neck injuries. Then he would take a long hot shower to clean the ubiquitous desert sand that had burrowed itself in every nook and cranny of his body. Next he would visit the Patmos barber—his uncle had brought in the man who had cut his hair as a kid—for a straight edged razor shave. Then he would take the forbidden walk down the hall to Claire’s apartment. They would share a shot of ouzo followed by a simple dinner and bottle of Agiorgitiko wine. Then the evening would begin.
Now is not the time to think of such things.
One thing Uncle had always taught him was business first. Always.
Malmak, if you are only half the man you think you are, you truly are great and mighty. Attack before they arrive at your camp. Bring the dawn of war to the southern reaches of the Saudi Peninsula. Then die. I hope you choke on your qat as the blood drains from your body.
“Hey, we aren’t paying you to look at he sea,” the angry Moroccan shouted at him. “I’m docking your pay.”
He shoved Nicky backward. Nicky nearly bit his tongue, squelching the impulse to strike back. He lowered his eyes and mumbled an apology. He quickly bent to hoist and carry a heavy crate into the ribbed metal container that was being prepared for delivery at Port Chania. The man smacked him in the back of the head.
Nicky took a deep cleansing breath and stifled a smile. In the world he worked in, it was wonderful to be taken lightly. That meant you were invisible—and alive to greet another day.
Suddenly the roar of a sleek black helicopter descended from above. The foreman ordered men to make space for the rotating blades as it pitched and bobbed onto the white painted crosshairs of the helipad.
The captain was now on deck and strode forward to greet the man who quickly exited the craft. Nicky knew him immediately. Frank Wallach was a captain in his uncle’s military division. There could be only one reason f
or his appearance. Nicky stepped forward.
“Get back, scum,” the Moroccan threatened with raise hand.
“Let him through,” the captain snarled, giving the man a boot in the buttocks as he turned to back away.
The supervisor stepped back with bowed head to let Nicky pass.
He and Frank embraced.
“What’s happening? Where are we going?” Nicky asked Wallach as they jumped aboard the helicopter.
“A small setback,” Wallach said, as they lifted off the deck of the freighter. “You’re meeting Mr. Alexander in New York City. Tonight.”
The blues and greens of the Mediterranean were stunning as the freighter became a speck in the undulating, white-crested lines and swirls on the canvas of water.
So much for being invisible, Nicky thought. And so much for seeing Claire. He nearly groaned with yearning.
22
Tikrit, Iraq
June 25, 2003
THE MEN DROPPED ON CABLES from the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter at dusk. The shooting started before they hit the ground.
Even as he dropped and rolled behind a stony outcrop, Burke’s mind whirled. If they knew we were coming, they would have shot down the Black Hawk. That weapon of death was a much bigger prize for Saddam’s resistance forces than the bodies of five Rangers.
Burke poked his head above the rocks to assess how bad the quagmire he had landed in was. The rocks in front of him exploded with gunfire. Bad.
He was twenty years old and certain he was dead. He saw all four of his assault team members dead or dying where they landed. A platoon of fifteen enemy combatants was fanned out in an approach formation, less than a hundred yards from where he was crouched. One football field separated him and death.
Burke thought of his parents and the little church he grew up in. This was the moment you prayed. You asked God to forgive you and make sure you were ready to meet your Maker. Even an atheist covered his bases. But his mind continued to race.
If they knew we were coming, they would have blasted us out of the air with Russian-made SA-21 Growlers. But they knew we were coming—and they didn’t. Something was seriously amiss.
Burke couldn’t say the prayer. If everything he had been taught was correct, he was accepting eternity in hell. But he was already there. He was filled with a raging hatred that wasn’t a good starting point for talking to God.
Burke rolled to his left and fired his M4 at the left flank. Two men dropped, bright red wounds on their chests. He immediately rolled to the right and dropped three men on the left flank. Five men down. Ten to go. Not good odds now that they knew he was alive and returning fire. He wanted another look to see what was happening, but already knew they were moving fast to outflank him.
Their approach had been careless. They weren’t expecting opposition.
He looked behind him at a small drop and made a simple tactical decision. Run into the desert.
But he knew he had to do something first. Ranger honor said you left no man behind. The men who fought together outside the fence knew that was not precisely correct. You didn’t leave a live man behind to be tortured. He knew his mates would do the same kindness for him. He popped his head out and finished off the only teammate who was still moving. He had many regrets in life, but this act of mercy wasn’t one of them.
Then Burke sprinted a zigzagging pattern the first hundred yards from the rock cropping while bullets sprayed behind and beside him. When the sounds of Kalashnikovs died down, he settled into a steady six-minute mile pace.
Why aren’t they chasing you? He knew the answer. They assumed he was good as dead—and that’s what they had been prepped and paid to do. Keep running and live to face another day.
Where would he end up? He had no idea. He knew getting as far away from the platoon HQ and Colonel Grayson was priority number one.
Sometimes you can’t go home.
New York City
The Present
“GET FIVE MEN TO TEETERBORO. If she’s on his plane, we jack the car and pull her out now. If she’s not on the plane, I want to know where the car goes. The operation ends tonight.”
He hung up the second the man grunted confirmation. His next call was to Henri.
“Yes, boss?” the Frenchman answered sleepily.
“Time to move offices, Henri. Keep the line open to Pauline and to me, but clean everything else up and switch locations. Tonight, if possible.”
“What’s happened boss? Is Pauline okay?”
Burke didn’t respond.
“Sorry boss. I know better. No questions. I’ll shut things down in Luxemburg. I’ll head to Brussels and await word.”
“Don’t tell me where you’re going,” Burke responded curtly, disconnecting the call.
Henri looked at the phone dourly. He hated what he was about to do. He liked Burke. They had gotten in and out of some tough jams together. Burke was a good guy. He was loyal in a world of treachery. But someone offered to pay him more to keep him abreast of Burke’s plans and movements. A lot more. Henri hit the preassigned number for a call to Arlington, Virginia.
BURKE WAS ANGRY. WHY was Henri being so sloppy? Burke himself was already breaking every security protocol and didn’t need more breaches in his leaking ship. He could feel the water rising.
Burke looked at himself in the mirror. Jeans. White shirt. Simple black cashmere jacket. There was a Sig Sauer holstered at the small of his back. He wasn’t prepared, but what he had on and what he packed was good enough for where he was heading.
It would have to be or more people close to him were going to die.
23
The Ozark National Forest
THE TEMPERATURE WAS DROPPING. PAULINE’S shoulder alternated between numbness and throbbing agony. She didn’t know how far she had run. Maybe ten miles. She had no clue what direction she was heading or how close to help she was. She had no phone, no identification, no food, no medical supplies, no outer clothing, and no cash. Her running gear was top of the line, but it wasn’t made to keep her warm overnight while exposed to the elements.
If I go to sleep out here, there’s a good chance I won’t wake up. They will have won.
She was walking now. Stumbling was a better description.
What was she going to do? She had no way to contact Burke. She never saw the numbers for him or the bakery she called. It was all programmed in her phone. She had a good memory but there was nothing to remember. A blank screen was all that appeared on her phone when she called. She had no contact information for her handler. Burke said it was safer that way.
I’m sure you are right. But safer for who, Burke?
She knew Jules would be leading a search for her. She still couldn’t believe she had escaped him. The trail was an upward winding climb, surrounded by dense forest. Pauline had never considered herself to be an environmentalist, but maybe she would become one. It was the trees and ground foliage that had saved her life after all.
I escaped certain death but how do I stay alive to celebrate it?
Even if she found an egress from the forest and wandered onto a road at the very moment a police car was driving by, that would still be a death sentence. She didn’t know the details of how they did it, but she knew the big picture of how Alexander and his minions worked. They were connected. They knew things—whatever things they wanted to know. Their ears were to the ground right now. They would know when she surfaced on the grid of civilization.
Why did the universe let me survive only to kill me?
She had to stop. She couldn’t take another step. Her legs were made of rubber. She sank to her knees. She looked up at the stars. They were brilliant in the cold, almost frosty air. Her last picture of the world would be a beautiful one, she thought. Her head lowered and she began to cry though no tears fell. She was so tired. Her head was swimming. Stay upright. Her body ignored the command. She toppled over, on the edge of passing out.
She heard footsteps on the trail behind her. She was
too weary to open her eyes but the footsteps stopped and she knew someone was standing over her. Had Jules finally caught her? Could he make up that much ground?
She curled protectively into the fetal position.
Suddenly there were two hands reaching underneath her. Then she heard a grunt as a large man straightened up with her cradled in his arms.
I wonder what Burke’s first name is, Pauline wondered as she passed out.
24
New York City
PATRICK WHEELER JUMPED THE OILY puddle onto the curb as a cab cut the corner tight, splashing a sheet of filthy water that drenched his pants, socks, and shoes from the knees down.
Jerk!
Wheeler wasn’t sure the driver steering the hurtling missile even saw him.
Wind cut through his lightweight jacket. Snow in October? Not quite. The glistening mist that fell through the city lights of the Meatpacking District was only a couple of degrees warmer than fullblown snowflakes. Close enough. The temperature had to have dropped to the thirties. Where was the global warming that the world had been promised since he was a kid? What was the deal with this polar vortex?
Why didn’t I wear my heavy coat?
He had a four-block east-west walk to his apartment from the subway station on Canal Street. Four long blocks. It could be worse.
And where was the big career he was supposed to have? He was only twenty-seven, but that was still too old to be sharing an undersized apartment in Manhattan with two roommates. Even if the Meatpacking District was the place to live. His ten by eight bedroom with no window was bad enough, but the apartment had only one bathroom. Sharing a bathroom with two other guys was enough to make long hours as a serf in the empire of KPMG seem preferable to being home. The less time in the suffocating little apartment, the better. There was a reason he went out for a couple drinks almost every night.
