Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  Logan closed his eyes, imagining the confusion and chaos.

  “And because of the solar storm, the helicopter’s radio wasn’t working properly,” Jake continued. “The local police couldn’t get the news bird’s attention, and the copilot actually fired his M4 to get them to comply.”

  “I’ll bet that was one hell of a shock for the news crew,” Logan said, almost feeling sorry for the journalist sky jockeys.

  “It did the trick, but what matters is that by the time both birds landed, the bad guys were long gone, and no one seems to know where,” Jake finished.

  “Sounds like you have your hands full. I’ll keep you posted if anything breaks here. Thanks for the update,” Logan said.

  “I just wanted you to know, in case you hadn’t seen it on the news yet. The day just got busy for both of us. Happy hunting,” Jake said, and then added, “but even though this Recruiter bastard is responsible for Mike’s death, try to take him alive, Logan.”

  “Understood, and I will,” Logan answered.

  But as he hung up the phone and turned to John to tell him about the attack, the ugly iron door in his mind that kept the monster at bay rattled a little louder, as if sensing it was going to get some outside time very soon. At least I hope I will, Logan thought, and mentally kicked the monster into submission. The door quieted for the moment.

  CHAPTER 9

  1330 Local

  By one thirty, Logan knew something was wrong. Between Cole, Amira, the security guards performing “normal” foot patrols, and the cameras, both entrances into the James S. McDonnell Space Hangar were covered by at least two dozen sets of eyes.

  “Maybe the attack on the BW Parkway forced the Recruiter to call it off?” John said in an uncertain tone.

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know,” Logan said. “I feel like we’re missing something. This guy doesn’t go underground for six months, suddenly reappear, and then cancel at the last minute. I don’t buy it. Something else is going on.”

  “Why do you say that?” John asked.

  “Because we still haven’t seen Luis Silva, who the Recruiter is supposed to meet,” Logan answered.

  Logan stared at the screens, as if the answer might magically materialize on one of the closed circuit monitors. I’m tired of sitting around on my ass. Enough.

  “That’s it,” Logan said, and stood up from the chair. “I’m going out there.”

  “Are you kidding me?” John said. “These guys know who you are. Hell, they know who we both are.”

  “I don’t care. Maybe my sudden appearance will spook them. Maybe it will even cause these bastards to make a mistake,” Logan added.

  “And maybe it will get you shot in the head, in which case I’m going to have to explain to your much better half how you got yourself killed because you were bored and stupid.”

  “What’s that mean?” Logan asked.

  “It means I know how you’re feeling. I know you’re still struggling with Mike’s death. I’ve known you a long time, brother; it’s not like we just teamed up yesterday. I’m concerned, and more importantly, I think this is a really bad idea.”

  Logan knew better than to try and deny it. He could no more lie to John than he could to Sarah, not after all they’d been through. Instead, he said, “Noted, but I’m doing it anyhow. Keep me posted on the phones.”

  “If you say so, boss,” John replied sarcastically. “Just remember to duck when the bullets start flying.”

  * * *

  I knew one of them would come out into the open, Lau Han thought as he followed Logan West from the main floor up to the elevated walkway on the south side of the main hangar. Where is he going? No matter—he would make the kill as quietly as possible. He felt the weight of the small SOG Flash II tanto knife still folded in his pocket. He’d picked it up at a Dick’s Sporting Goods in Springfield, VA, buying several other items for a “camping trip” just to provide a basic cover for the knife. He doubted the sixteen-year-old boy who’d sold him the gear would remember a middle-aged Asian man. He’d paid for all of it with cash just to make sure.

  Han had two three-man teams that had been roaming the museum since it had opened, and he was certain that they hadn’t been spotted. They were too skilled at countersurveillance to be detected by museum security guards. Each team had specific, unique instructions, but one order he’d given to both was the same—remain undetected unless they were needed.

  He’d picked teams with two different nationalities—one French, one Spanish. He figured foreigners blended in better at a place like the museum. The teams had flown into the country with one set of passports and would be leaving with another. Benefits of the Organization, Han thought.

  The man responsible for the death of his son reached the elevated walkway that bisected the middle of the museum and started a slow trek across the nearly three-hundred-foot-long overlook. Han counted at least twenty-five other visitors on the walkway. Perfect—more cover.

  Han maintained a casual pace, looking right and left, as if searching for a new exhibit to snap pictures of with the Nikon camera still hanging around his neck. He increased his pace, slowly gaining ground on his target, who suddenly stopped halfway across the walkway.

  Han paused for a fraction of a second . . . and then kept going, knowing better than to hesitate. He slipped his right hand into his pocket and unfolded the blade with a flick of his thumb. He removed his hand to avoid suspicion, letting the blade hang in his pocket. He remained calm, his body relaxed and prepared for the violent action he was about to take, but more importantly, for what it meant—reclamation of my son’s honor.

  Thirty more feet, and it would be over before Logan West knew it had begun.

  Han didn’t know why his enemy had stopped, but he didn’t care. Only one thing mattered—this man’s death.

  Twenty feet . . .

  Han reached back into his pocket and gripped the handle of the blade, preparing to strike. In front of him, Logan West suddenly looked down at his cell phone, his eyes squinting as if confused by something he saw. He pressed a button on the phone in his left hand and looked down at the floor of the museum, as if searching for someone or something.

  Something’s wrong, Han realized, but it was too late. He was committed to his course of action.

  * * *

  Logan stood on the bridge, momentarily studying the most controversial exhibit in the museum—the Enola Gay. He’d overheard one of the docents leading a small group of visitors mention that years back someone had thrown a vial of blood on the plane in protest.

  He wondered what the men who’d piloted the aircraft had thought and felt, knowing that while the intent of their actions was to end the most violent global conflict the world had seen, the lives of tens of thousands of noncombatants—innocents—would be snuffed out in the blink of an eye. It had to have been horrific, the weight of it, Logan thought, himself a man who’d made life-and-death decisions, although not on that scale. And I pray I never have to.

  His eyes scanned past the plane to the space beyond, glancing over the sea of humanity like a predatory bird skimming across the treetops, searching for its next meal.

  Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. The phone in his left hand buzzed, and he saw “Unknown” flash across the high-definition miniature screen. His senses immediately kicked into overdrive at the realization that Task Force Ares’ security had somehow been compromised. No one other than the team members, the president, Jake Benson, and the director of the CIA have this number. God help me. Here we go again with another anonymous phone call, he thought, momentarily flashing back to the phone call that had started the chase for a nuclear weapon two and a half years ago, and pressed the accept button.

  “It’s a trap. You need to abort, and you need to abort right the fuck now, Marine,” said a voice that shook loose cobwebs of memory in Logan’s head.

  “Who is this? More importantly, how the hell did you get this number?” Logan asked urgently.

  “It doesn’t
matter, what does is that you live to fight another day. This is the only warning you’re going to get,” the voice added. “If you don’t get out of there now, you die, plain and simple. Unlike Atlas, you can’t hold up the heavens. Your enemies will rain down hate upon you.”

  Atlas . . . the heavens . . . The gears turned quickly in Logan’s head. He’d heard that specific phrasing before. It was a common misconception that the mythological Titan was holding up the earth, but it was actually the celestial spheres, the cosmos. Even Logan had held that erroneous belief, until he’d been corrected—once. The realization hit him like a proverbial punch to the gut. No. It can’t be.

  He opened his mouth to ask the question that was burning through his psyche, but the encrypted channel started flashing on his phone. Amira.

  Logan knew better than to hesitate. Like the man who had called him, he knew hesitation was how men died. He disconnected the call to hear Amira speaking urgently over the channel as events overlapped and escalated.

  * * *

  Amira was near the staircase of the three-story observation tower at one end of the elevated walkway. The Rolex emblem on top still amused her. Who the hell sponsors a staircase in a museum? Would corporate shamelessness ever cease? Although she had to admit, it was excellent marketing. And they make a damn fine timepiece, even if it is outrageously expensive.

  The tedious nature of her work, especially the art of surveillance, suited her patient disposition. Unlike most others in her profession, she relished the tactical planning that went into each operation. Due to the extremely sensitive nature of her work, she was a firm believer in obtaining every possible advantage over her enemy, whoever and whatever it was. She was as methodical, deliberate, and painstakingly thorough as she was physically fierce and skilled. But in her line of work, she had no choice: it was be better than your opponent or be dead. She preferred the former.

  She smiled inwardly and looked down from the highest point in the middle of the hangar. Knowing herself, she was also amused that she was seriously falling for a man like John Quick—sarcastic, irreverent, self-deprecating, and aggressive to the point of near lunacy. Maybe there really was something to the “Opposites attract” adage.

  Amira hadn’t had a serious relationship in a long time. The last had been in college, before she’d been recruited by the agency directly from the University of Maryland, where her father had managed to finagle in-state tuition, even though they’d lived inside the District of Columbia.

  What was that?

  Logan was halfway across the walkway when he’d stopped in front of the Enola Gay. A tourist—what appeared to be a tourist, she reminded herself, remembering people were often more than what they seemed—had stopped midstride for a fraction of a second. Amira doubted anyone else on the bridge noticed it. Hell, I might not have if I didn’t have this angle.

  She lifted to her eyes a Canon camera with a compact zoom lens she’d zeroed in at the walkway’s distance to provide a full-body close-up when she looked through the viewfinder. What she saw chilled her instantly—a middle-aged Chinese male, dressed like a tourist in white shorts and a tan polo, the outfit complete with a camera dangling around his neck. He looked familiar, even though she was certain she’d never seen this man before.

  What’s he doing with his right hand? Inside his right front pocket, she saw the wrinkle of fabric as if he were manipulating an object. Something’s not right.

  Amira’s senses screamed at her to act, and she hit the “talk” button and spoke quickly into her earbud, “To your right, twenty feet away. Chinese middle-aged male.”

  No answer. What the hell? She scanned the lens to the left and saw Logan speaking, but it wasn’t to her or the team. Had he taken another call from the FBI director?

  She flashed back to the target, the lens focusing on the man’s face, which was now turned toward Logan. Recognition struck her like a bolt of lightning—Lau Gang’s father. His son had the same angular jaw and nose. Oh my God.

  Lau Gang had been the head of the team sent to Sudan to attack a Chinese oil exploration site in order to frame the US. She recognized his father because she’d been the one to kill his son inside a building under construction. She’d been up close and personal with his features as she’d plunged one of her stilettos into the back of his head. But before she’d killed him, he’d made a reference to his father, something about him being less merciful than he was.

  “Logan? Logan? Where the hell are you?”

  A moment of fear gripped her at the recognition, but rather than freeze, her training kicked in, and she drew her SIG SAUER P250 compact 9mm pistol from her inside-the-waistband holster under her top.

  Logan’s voice suddenly filled her ear. “What is it?”

  Amira lined up the sights of the pistol on the approaching man. She didn’t want to take a shot in this environment: there were too many civilians on the walkway and the floor below. Well, this is one way to get the party started.

  She held her finger straight and off the trigger. “Look to your right, now. It’s Lau Gang’s father. Move!”

  * * *

  Lau Han watched Logan West’s mouth move quickly and quietly, as if talking to an invisible friend, and Han realized he had to be speaking into an earpiece with a built-in microphone he couldn’t see.

  It’s finally time, Han thought, and gripped the blade tighter, at which point the object of his rage turned directly to face Lau Han, bright-green eyes blazing with an intensity and a fury Han himself felt.

  The two men glared at each other, the din of the museum falling away outside the intense battlefield cocoon they’d just created.

  No talking, Han thought, and attacked.

  CHAPTER 10

  As Logan stepped backward, the knife flashed forward and up in an arc, streaking by his face, reminding him of how he’d received the scar across his left cheek. He stepped inside the arc and grabbed Lau Han’s right wrist with his left hand, delivering a solid punch with his right to the man’s midsection.

  He was rewarded with a grunt, but Lau held on to the knife and spun to his right toward Logan. The move broke Logan’s grasp on his wrist, and as he completed the turn, he brought the blade down, this time trying to slice diagonally across Logan’s chest. Logan was too fast, and he blocked the attack with his right forearm and punched the right side of Lau’s face at his jawline with two fast blows from his left hand.

  A woman let out a scream somewhere on the bridge, and Logan felt, rather than heard, the pause, the moment before real panic raced through the museum like an invisible tidal wave.

  Lau staggered, and Logan grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands and yanked down hard, slamming the hand with the knife into the glass barrier that prevented visitors from touching the cockpit of the Enola Gay.

  The impact caused the black blade to fall to the walkway, and Logan adjusted the position of his hands, putting Lau in a wristlock and applying leverage. Logan then lashed out with a short front kick that struck the older man in the left knee, knocking him off balance. Logan raised his hands, lifting and pressing harder as Lau dropped to one knee.

  The door in Logan’s mind had swung wide open, and the beast that was his fury had been set free.

  He stared at the trained operative with a predatory intensity. “You thought you could take me with a knife?” Logan growled, his voice low and deliberate.

  Lau Gang’s father wore a mask of defiance, meeting Logan’s gaze, refusing to speak.

  “You know, I didn’t kill your son,” Logan said quietly, even as civilians scattered away from the two combatants on the bridge. He leaned forward within inches of Lau’s face, his grip a vise, and growled, “But I wish I had. You sent a boy to do a man’s work, and that boy died violently.”

  Lau uttered a guttural cry, the words piercing his soul like the stiletto that had killed his son.

  “And the world is a better place for it,” Logan said, the last words uttered almost as a whisper.

  The s
teady background of conversational noise had now been replaced by running footsteps echoing across the multitude of surfaces in the enormous hangar.

  “And now your failure is complete, because I’m taking you, and my government will hopefully throw you in a dark, dark place for the rest of your days. Now get the fuck off the floor . . . unless you want to resist some more?” Logan asked, the question hopeful in its malicious sarcasm.

  “It will never come to pass,” Lau said. “No matter what you think, I’ll never see a trial.”

  Logan twisted his hands quickly, and Lau found himself with his right arm held upward at a forty-five-degree angle in an escort wristlock position. Logan’s left arm looped around Lau’s right, and both hands pressed down on the bent hand. If Lau struggled, Logan could apply pressure to end any resistance.

  “We’ll see about that—”

  The glass barrier exploded at the same time as the first shot reverberated across the cavernous space, and the screaming began in earnest.

  Lau Han seized the moment and twisted his arm free, as if he’d been expecting the opportunity to present itself. Before Logan could react, Lau Han coiled and leapt over the railing, his body soaring toward his objective—the suspended cockpit of the Enola Gay.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, Logan thought as he leapt up to the railing to pursue his prey.

  The Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center that was every boy’s daydream had just become every parent’s worst nightmare.

  * * *

  Who the hell is shooting? Amira thought, and realized the shot had come from her right. She’d held off on pulling the trigger at the last moment once she’d seen Logan disarm Lau, but then the glass had shattered, turning the museum into a shooting gallery.