Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  “The multibillion-dollar global shipping empire?” Logan asked.

  “Yup,” Cole said. “That’s the one.”

  “Isn’t the owner some Holocaust survivor? I remember reading something about him in Forbes,” Amira said.

  “Constantine Krawcyk-Kallas, although he just goes by Kallas,” Cole said. “He took the original owner’s name but kept his Polish one; thus, the two last names. But wait—there’s more,” Cole added, sounding like a Sham-Wow salesman.

  “Just tell me before I lose my patience,” Logan said.

  “Chill out. It’s all good,” Cole said, and smiled. “It turns out Mr. Kallas has a home on the western shore of the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Logan said.

  “Not one bit,” Cole said. “I’m willing to bet our general is in the area and might be there.”

  “I’m willing to do you one better,” Amira said, processing the information. “I’ll bet all the players are in the area.”

  “I bet you’re both right,” Logan said. “Okay. Who’s ready to do some research? John, can you grab Lieutenant Christenson? We need to log in to a few of these computers.”

  “Why?” John asked.

  “So we can get as much information from the Internet as possible on Jack Longstreet and his current employment with Kallas Shipping before we talk to Jake. It’s like you said.” Logan paused, smiling. “Fucking Google.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Shady Nook, Maryland

  Thirty Miles South of Annapolis on the Western Shore of the Chesapeake Bay

  Wednesday, 0830 EST

  Concealed behind a brick wall and a row of thirty-foot-tall Leyland cypress trees, the waterfront home of Constantine Kallas was invisible from the street. The five-acre property was shaped like an oval at the end of small peninsula, and the brick-tree barrier ran from one end of the property to the other, touching the Chesapeake Bay at both ends to create an impenetrable wall. The only entrance was a solid metal security gate, at which a mounted intercom on a post was cemented into the side of the beginning of the driveway.

  Rain beat down on the windshield of the black Ford Explorer as Logan pushed the white circular button on the intercom. The oppressive heat from the previous day had been blown apart by a cold front that had swept in from the west, barreling across the mid-Atlantic and bringing pouring rain and wind, expected to last into the evening. Maryland weather was notoriously inconsistent, and it wouldn’t have surprised Logan if it snowed by the end of the day.

  “I still don’t think he was out of town,” John said.

  “Neither do I, but his office in DC said he was, and we have no probable cause. Remember, we actually are law enforcement officers sworn in as FBI agents . . . technically,” Logan said.

  “If you say so,” John muttered. “But I would’ve loved to have been here yesterday. My gut tells me this Kallas guy is our man, but I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

  After the realization that the retired general was now in the employment of Constantine Kallas, the team had spent an hour on the museum’s computers, researching whatever they could find, which was shockingly limited for a multibillion-dollar shipping empire. Other than a number of flattering articles about the profitability of Kallas Shipping, nothing remotely hinted at even the slightest link to a global clandestine organization of intelligence and operations.

  It was why when they’d informed Jake Benson of what they’d uncovered, he’d had no choice but to have the FBI contact Kallas’ DC headquarters, only to be told that Mr. Kallas was out of the area but would be available to meet Wednesday morning at his Chesapeake Bay home.

  Logan had made the decision then for the team to get some rest, since there was nothing they could do. The surviving attacker had been transferred to the Fairfax County Adult Detention Center, and Amira and Cole planned to question Jonathan Sommers at Ares headquarters the next morning regarding retired General Longstreet’s role in the global conspiracy. Logan and John would take the meeting with Constantine Kallas.

  “May I help you, sir?” a polite and mechanical voice said from the intercom.

  “Special Agents West and Quick here to see Mr. Kallas. He’s expecting us,” Logan said.

  “Indeed he is,” the voice replied, and within seconds, the large metal door vertically split in two, and the two halves retracted behind the brick wall on each side of the driveway, revealing a guardhouse just inside to the left of the entrance. More startling, though, was the secluded compound that Kallas had built overlooking the rough waters of the Chesapeake Bay.

  “Wow,” John said. “We’re definitely in the wrong line of business, even with an unlimited black budget.”

  “No kidding,” Logan said, and studied the layout in front of them as he pressed the accelerator, inching the Explorer slowly forward.

  The driveway was composed of cobblestone—likely imported, Logan thought—whose stones fit so snugly the vehicle barely registered the terrain. On both sides, the drive was lined with cherry blossoms that had bloomed and still had petals on their branches. The trees danced in the gusting winds of the summer storm. I’ll bet it’s breathtaking when it’s not raining, like something out of Home and Garden, Logan thought. The large driveway ran straight through the front half of the property, parting the sea of grass and ending in a giant oval that could accommodate several vehicles, including the four parked black Range Rovers. Why do these guys always have black SUVs? So do you, jackass. Off to the right, two four-car garages were set back from the main house.

  “You see what I see?” John asked. “Christ, if this guy is involved in the hit on the NSA director, we’re slightly outgunned for this confrontation.”

  Logan didn’t respond but only looked to the left of the driveway in the back corner of the property where an unoccupied octagonal helipad had been constructed. “Too bad there’s nothing on it, though,” Logan said, nodding in its direction.

  “You mean like a fake news chopper with a shot-out windshield and sign that says, ‘Bad guy getaway vehicle. Fly the friendly skies’?” John retorted.

  “There’s no way they would’ve come back here. They’re not that stupid. Not even close.”

  “Yeah. We never get the dumb ones, only the fucking megalomaniac masterminds hell-bent on global destruction. Our luck sucks,” John finished.

  “Let’s see what happens when we get to the house,” Logan said.

  As scenic as the property and driveway were, it was the home that truly captured their attention. While neither one was well versed in modern architecture, they could both appreciate the ingenuity and modern marvel before them.

  The home was constructed of stark white stone that glistened in the rain, reflecting light off all five sections, which formed a subtle U shape. The center of the mansion in front of which they’d parked was three stories tall, with the top section built almost as a watchtower, with wall-to-wall windows through which both could see the sky over the bay behind the property. I’ll bet that’s some kind of master suite, Logan thought. On each side of the home was another two-story section, and on each end, a single-story completed the descending profile. The rooflines were narrow and sleek, with only a slight peak in the middle of the center. The shorter sections’ roofs had the same pitch as the ones above it, creating a perfectly symmetrical modern masterpiece.

  “It’s gorgeous,” John said. “It makes my A-frame back in Montana seem like a shack, even with the enormous picture window. This has to be at least fifteen thousand square feet.”

  “It’s something, for sure,” Logan said, wondering how many millions the shipping tycoon’s compound had cost to build.

  Logan pulled the Explorer around the oval and stopped in front of the enormous black doors set in stark contrast to the white stone. Two security gates were propped open, one on each side against the walls.

  As he placed the SUV in park, he looked up to the entrance just in time to see the left panel of the doors swing inward and the imposing
figure of Retired Marine Corps Commandant General Jack Longstreet step outside into the rain, strong arms on display and crossed in front of him.

  “Well,” John said, “I guess that mystery’s solved. He still looks like a brazen badass, even at his age.”

  “Yes. He does,” Logan said, studying the figure of his former mentor. “You have your nineteen-eleven loaded, right?”

  “Always,” John said. “Otherwise, what’s the point of carrying a gun?”

  “Good. Don’t hesitate to use it if this goes south. Now let’s go reacquaint ourselves with one of the Marine Corps’ beloved commandants.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Logan and John stepped out of the vehicle and into the rain, walking cautiously up the multitiered stone staircase until they stopped one step below the man they’d fought alongside in Ramadi.

  “Sir, I’d say it’s good to see you, but I’m not sure it is,” Logan started. “I guess I should thank you for the phone call yesterday, as it saved my life.”

  Jack Longstreet nodded and looked beyond the parked Explorer toward the entrance, as if expecting additional company. Then he looked Logan directly in the eyes, stuck out his hand, which Logan shook, and said, “It’s the least I could do. I still owe you for Iraq. Now let’s get out of this mess. We all spent enough time in the rain in the Marine Corps. No need to do it now.”

  The three men hurried through the open door, which Jack closed with a loud clang, shutting out the sounds of the raging weather.

  Two men in black polos and dark-gray trousers stood off to the right inside an office that was obviously the home’s security command center. They were both in their midthirties, clean-shaven, with short, neat haircuts, muscular physiques, and intelligent eyes. Both men wore CZ 75 SP-01 Tactical 9mm pistols in leather holsters on their right hips. The men nodded at the newcomers, not in a hostile, challenging way, but rather, assessing us. These guys are pros, and I’ll bet there are more of them around, Logan thought. Both Logan and John caught a glimpse of stacks of monitors four levels high.

  The inside of the home was even more impressive than the exterior, offering several multistory views of the Chesapeake Bay. While the front of the home was mostly solid white stone, the back was almost all glass, partitioned by steel girders that intersected at various V angles for stability. There was even a steel-and-glass suspended walkway halfway up the back of the room, which ran the full length of the center section of the home. Logan realized the ceiling of the main space was actually the floor of the third level. I’ll bet the view is even better from up there. Every aspect of the design was intended to maximize the sweeping seascape of the bay, which was the essence of the home.

  Through the panorama of glass and steel, Logan saw a patio, pool, and a multitiered deck that wound its way to the property’s drop-off at the water. Below the drop-off, an enormous super-yacht was berthed along a long wooden pier. The ship’s upper levels jutted into the sky above the elevation of the property. She’s got to be at least thirty to forty feet tall, Logan thought.

  “This way,” Jack said, and walked through the viewing area, across the hardwood floor, to an oversized, arched entrance set in the left wall. As Logan stepped under the arch, he realized he’d been ushered into the office of Constantine Kallas, one of the richest—and apparently most powerful—men in the world.

  Jack, Logan, and John stopped just inside the entrance, and two sets of glass doors slid closed automatically behind them, sealing them inside the spacious and luxurious office with a sound that reminded Logan of the vacuum tubes still used by banks. Two guards posted themselves outside the office, one on each side.

  An enormous dark wooden desk sat at one side of the office, whose exterior wall was built of several panes of connected glass that stretched from the hardwood floor to the ceiling. The rain lashed against the windows in bursts, increasing and decreasing in intensity with a rhythm only Mother Nature understood.

  The billionaire stared into the rain, as if searching for something only he could see. Finally, the tall, thin, elderly man with a slight, tired slump to his shoulders turned around to greet them, and Logan realized how deceiving appearances really were.

  “Mr. West, Mr. Quick, I am truly thankful you could make it here today. We have a lot to discuss,” Constantine Kallas said. While his physical form hinted at defeat, his brown eyes burned with life, forcefully meeting Logan’s gaze and assessing him with a disquieting shrewdness and intelligence.

  This must be how I make people feel, Logan thought, recalling the number of times both Sarah and John had told him how truly fierce and intimidating he could look with his green eyes and scar down the left side of his face.

  “You sound like you knew we were coming,” John said. “But that’s only because the general here called Logan to warn him of the ambush yesterday, saying something that gave him away. Otherwise, we’d have no clue who you were.”

  Constantine smiled. “Do you really think Jack would be that careless? Of course he did—because I asked him to.”

  The wheels turned in Logan’s mind, and he realized instantly that this was the true puppet master, a modern Machiavelli who had been orchestrating events to serve his end. And somehow, Logan and John had just become pawns on the global chessboard.

  Logan’s hand slid to his right hip, where his Kimber was holstered in an outside-the-waistband Mitch Rosen leather holster that he wore when on official business.

  John sensed the movement and began to react as well.

  “Logan,” Jack said calmly but in a commanding voice that Logan knew well and responded to, “it’s not like that. In fact, it’s not like that at all.”

  Logan looked at Jack, a hardness in his eyes fueled by the rising tide of anger he felt at being manipulated. “Then what’s it like? What exactly is this?”

  “This,” Constantine said matter-of-factly, “is an invitation.”

  “For what? To join your yachting club?” John asked sarcastically.

  “No, Mr. Quick. To help put a stop to the mess that I started decades ago and can no longer control,” Constantine said.

  John shook his head in frustration. “Wait a second. You want us to help you? Let me guess. You played Pandora and let the monsters out of the box, and now they’re running wild. It’s always the same with you guys. You’re all a bunch of fucking megalomaniacs.” His voice grew louder by the moment. “Personally, you can go fuck yourself. In fact, I think I’d love nothing more than to see you go out on that nice little rowboat out back and send yourself to the bottom of the bay.”

  Constantine Kallas stared impassively at John, but rather than defend himself against the verbal onslaught, he said, “Point taken, Mr. Quick. You’re right on all fronts. I also appreciate the reference to Greek mythology, given my background.”

  “It was intentional. Why do you think I said it, jackass?” John replied sharply.

  Logan had listened as John verbally lashed Constantine. Finally, he said, “John, I have a feeling we need to hear what this man has to say.” He paused, allowing the beast within to run free, a brief respite from the pen inside Logan’s psyche, its intensity dominating and without equal. “But I tell you this, Mr. Kallas—and this goes for you as well, Jack, history or not—if for one second I sense a betrayal of any kind, I will shoot you both in the face without remorse and without hesitation.”

  A silence followed his threat, which all in the room knew was not hollow.

  “I’d expect nothing less from you, Logan,” Jack replied quietly. “Now let’s get started. We have a lot to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 23

  By the time both Constantine Kallas and Jack Longstreet had finished describing the origin, accomplishments, and scope of the Organization, both Logan and John were numb from both the gravity of the situation and the significance of the past few years’ events. The fact that it was all interconnected was the hardest part for Logan to process.

  Without the Organization, Cain Frost may never have had the res
ources to build his army of private contractors, sucking Logan and John back into the thick of the global morass. What was worse was the possibility that had Constantine dealt with the problem quickly, the Council might not have turned on him, initiating the events in Sudan and Las Vegas that had ultimately led to Mike Benson’s death.

  He’s gone now, and there’s nothing you can do about it, Logan thought. He shut his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, trying to keep the anger at bay. The other part of the whole mess that pained him was the fact that he understood why Constantine had created his network. He was a practical man, and the Organization had achieved significant success, even if the world was unaware of it.

  “I get it,” Logan finally said. The conversation with Cain Frost after he’d run him literally into the dirt two and a half years earlier was still fresh in his mind. “Cain said something similar. He was driven by revenge for the death of his brother, and had he struck that blow in Tehran, there are a lot of Iraqi war veterans who would’ve cheered him on for it, knowing what Iran did to American men and women with their endless supply of IEDs to the insurgency. And that’s not to mention what they’re doing in Afghanistan. But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told him: it was never your call to make, no matter how you justify it. This is a republic, not a shadow dictatorship. You are not the president,” Logan said forcefully.

  “No kidding,” John said. “We know because we actually work for him, and I’m pretty sure you weren’t on the personnel roster.”

  Constantine considered this for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “That may be true, but each administration has been aware of our existence, in one form or another, and we’ve never been at cross-purposes with the US government . . . at least until now.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” John asked sharply.

  “It means that there are some very high-ranking members of the US government on the Council who are involved in this rebellion against this man here and the Organization, and we’re trying to stop it before it becomes either a national or a global calamity,” Jack said.