“We started yesterday,” Constantine said calmly.
A flash of anger raced across his face, and Logan said quietly, “That was you on the parkway.” He looked at Jack. “You pulled the trigger on General Taylor, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Jack said slowly. “He left us no choice. He was one of the members that turned. More importantly, he was starting to use his position as director of the NSA and the chief of Cyber Command against the national security interests of the United States.”
It was the directness with which he spoke that unsettled Logan the most. There was no remorse, no hesitation. He spoke like a man of conviction, which hammered home one hard truth: Whatever war we’re now in the middle of is for keeps.
“Does the fact that he was a Marine, a fellow combat veteran—like yourself—even bother you a little bit?” John asked accusatorily.
“Absolutely,” Jack replied instantly, “but if we hadn’t removed him from the board, the amount of damage he was prepared to do would’ve been catastrophic. If there had been any other way—any way at all—we would have taken it. But he was a believer and convinced that what he was doing was right. There was no talking him out of it.”
“And what exactly was he doing?” Logan asked pointedly.
“Creating global instability, abroad and at home, all with one singular goal,” Constantine said.
“What’s that?” John asked.
“High treason,” Constantine said. “He and the other Council members that have turned want to create enough global chaos to cause a constitutional crisis and ultimately lead to the resignation or impeachment of the president.”
“That’s impossible,” Logan said. “The people won’t stand for it.”
“And who do you think is going to propel the president out of office? If you create enough chaos and sow enough fear, the people will do it for them.”
“But how?” John asked. “You’re talking about manipulating global events on such a massive scale that it could literally topple the most powerful government on the planet. That would take almost limitless resources.”
“What do you think has been happening over the past few years, especially since you two have been right in the middle of it, aware or not?” Jack said.
“While I wouldn’t describe it as limitless, what I’ve built is vast and powerful. It’s also highly compartmented, meaning some elements of the Organization are not fully aware of the others’ existence,” Constantine said.
The genius of it struck Logan. “You’ve basically created the world’s most powerful terrorist network, with one cell compartmented from another to avoid discovery. Jesus . . .”
“While I wouldn’t characterize it that way, I understand the analogy,” Jack said.
“But you still haven’t answered the question. If the network is compartmented and secure, why kill General Taylor? There’s something else, isn’t there?” Logan asked.
“There is—a list,” Constantine said. “General Taylor used resources at NSA to hack our servers, discover the full scope of the network, and create a list of all divisions and members of the Organization. With it and the appropriate authority, the kind that some of the Council members have, he and the other traitors could’ve activated it and used it to further their agenda.”
The implications were staggering. It truly was Pandora’s box. In the wrong hands, it would wreak havoc, Logan thought. His strategic mind took it one step further: it will never end. There is always going to be another Cain Frost, another Organization, another Constantine. For as long as humanity exists, the struggles of power among those who have it would endure. It was almost too much to bear.
Logan closed his eyes, resting his head against the headrest of the high-back leather chair. What do you do now, Logan? There are no good choices.
No one spoke. The rain sprayed across the window, soothing the voice that screamed for blood, the one that demanded that these two men—one of whom he had fought alongside—pay for their sins. But it was the logical part of his brain that gave him pause, that showed him the reality of the situation and the choice he had to make.
“So what exactly do you propose?” Logan asked.
“You’re not seriously going to consider this?” John said.
“There is no better option,” Logan said, trying to assuage his friend’s outrage at the thought of working with them.
“But it still fucking sucks, brother,” John said. “There has to be another way.”
“John—” Jack began, but was cut off.
“Don’t,” John spat out viciously. He faced Jack and said, “Don’t say a fucking thing. If it weren’t for Logan, I’d be tempted to put you down myself . . . both of you, for that matter. You’ve created a maelstrom of madness, and now we’re all going to pay for it, you sonofabitch.” He looked back at Logan. After all they’d been through together, he trusted his friend’s judgment. “But it’s your call, and I’ll execute whatever play you set.”
A sudden commotion erupted outside the glass doors, and one of the guards spoke into a small handheld radio in his left hand. His CZ 75 SP-01 was out of its holster in his right hand, and he tapped the glass with the butt of the weapon. The second guard started sprinting across the floor back toward the main entrance to the mansion, his weapon drawn.
“Well, in my experience, that’s not a good thing,” John said, watching the running guard. “But I should’ve expected nothing less from a fucking James Bond–villain wannabe. I guess this is where the crying and dying starts.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t jinx us like that,” Logan said, rising from the leather chair.
The glass doors slid open, and the guard with the radio said, “Gentlemen, we have a problem. We need to get back to the vault.”
“It’s what they call the security operations center you saw off to the right when you walked in. Let’s go,” Jack said.
Twenty seconds later, all six men were staring at the bank of monitors.
“Goddamnit. I told you not to open your mouth. You just had to go and spoil the party, didn’t you?” Logan said.
“I think those guys are going to do it for me,” John said, looking at the monitor on the bottom right. The camera providing the live feed was mounted on the roofline of one of the garages they’d passed on their way up the driveway. It had a panoramic view of the front of the home and the yard, including the eight armed men in tactical gear, assault rifles, and backpacks stalking their way across the open ground through the pouring rain. Black barrels were up and ready, piercing the sheets of rain as they closed in on the front of the home.
You’re almost out of time, Logan. You have to act.
CHAPTER 24
“Any idea who they are?” Logan asked.
“Honestly, it could be anyone, even a legitimate military or law enforcement unit that’s operating unofficially and outside the law. Right there,” Longstreet said, pointing at the screen, “that’s the kind of power and resources members on the Council have.”
“Wonderful,” Logan replied, leery of a gunfight with forces that might be legitimate friendlies. This just gets worse by the second.
“Please tell me your little private army here has an arsenal,” John said bluntly.
“Get the QRF gear. Commandos and vests for everyone,” Longstreet said to one of the guards, who was already at the back of the security room, entering a combination into an electronic keypad installed on the handle of a very heavy-looking steel door.
The door beeped, and the guard turned the handle and pulled, providing a glimpse into a much larger space lined with weapons, tactical black backpacks, and ammunition. Logan thought he even spied an automatic grenade launcher in the back next to two open bags of cash.
It reminded him of a story he’d once heard from another Force Recon platoon commander, one whose platoon was the first US unit in Afghanistan after 9/11. The platoon had linked up with a SEAL team at some airfield the CIA had taken control of with the Northern Allian
ce. Logan’s friend, Todd Wexler, said, “We walked into the control tower, and there was this CIA guy handing out guns, cash—they had at least twenty million in black leather bags, swear to God—and ammo. He told us to take what we wanted and not sign for any of it. We were like kids in a candy store.”
“Glad to see you haven’t let your guard down,” Logan said, as the guard started handing out guns and Kevlar vests like birthday party favors.
“Not now, not ever,” Jack said. “By the way, my two boys here are former JSOC by way of the Unit,” he said, using the name Delta Force operators preferred. “Delta Force” was for Chuck Norris and the movies. “Stan and Evan were with Squadron B. They’re good to go.”
“Good to know,” Logan said, donning the Kevlar vest, which had four extra magazine pouches on the front and a medical kit on the back. He grabbed an M4 Commando, looped the three-point tactical sling around and under his left arm, pulled the charging handle back, and chambered the first round, ensuring the safety was still flipped on. No need to shoot anyone yet. That will come soon enough.
“Stan, get Boone and Hamilton on the radio. See if they can flank these guys. Let ’em know they’re on their own, but we’ll try to link up once the fighting starts,” Jack ordered.
“Roger, sir,” Stan said, then spoke quickly into his radio and gave Jack a thumbs-up, indicating he’d reached the other two men providing security on the compound.
“Is this all you have? Four men for this entire place?” John asked.
“You forgot me,” Jack said, smirking.
“My bad,” John replied. “You make five. May the odds be ever in your favor.”
“Cute. I’d forgotten what a sarcastic bastard you are,” Jack said. “We actually have an entire team, but they’re up the road in Annapolis.”
“After what you pulled yesterday, you didn’t think that someone might come looking to end this little turf war before it really got started?” Logan asked.
“Actually, we considered it, which is why we were planning on leaving this afternoon,” Constantine interjected. “I didn’t think it’d be this soon.”
“Unless this was part of the whole plan from the get-go,” Logan said. “Doesn’t matter. We’re all in it now.”
“Any thoughts, Logan? You always had a mind for this,” Jack said.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said the former Force Reconnaissance commanding officer, front and center. “I don’t like it, but it maximizes the chances of the most important thing right now.”
“Which is?” John asked.
“Keeping this sonofabitch alive for as long as possible,” Logan said, looking directly at the concerned face of Constantine Kallas.
* * *
Anne Arundel County Aviation Unit
Tipton Airport
Corporal Corey Taggert hung up the phone and screamed, “Wheels up in two minutes! We need to go right now!”
At least I don’t have to finish the stupid inspection, he thought, grateful for any reason to ignore the tedious CALEA—Commission on Accreditation for Law Enforcement Agencies—safety certification he was engaged in at the moment. The safety checklist was necessary but an administrative burden.
The Anne Arundel County police helicopter pilot shouted across the hangar as he approached the dark- and light-blue police Bell 407 helicopter. “You better be moving, Williams!”
He heard sharp footsteps coming across the concrete floor of the hangar. “What’s going on?” Private First Class Jeff Williams said as he zipped up his flight suit, his aviator’s helmet with its built-in HUD display in his right hand. “What’s the hurry?” he asked.
“FBI agents on the Chesapeake Bay in need of immediate air support. Sounds like it’s about to be a gunfight. Go get the M4s and vests while I pull her out onto the tarmac.”
PFC Williams didn’t need to be told twice. A former enlisted Marine aviation crewmember on a CH-46 with two tours in Iraq, he understood the true meaning of urgency. He sprinted back to the office to get the weapons. I guess today might not be a boring day after all.
* * *
Front Yard of the Kallas Compound
The fact that there was no reaction to their presence was disconcerting to Terry Deavers, a tall, forty-two-year-old muscular man with a short haircut but full black, tailored beard. It told the former Hard Resolutions Incorporated mercenary and once-upon-a-time-in-a-different-life Special Forces Army Green Beret that the men inside—including the target—were either preparing defenses or had no clue their world was about to be blown upside down. It didn’t matter which to him.
After Cain Frost had been killed and his private contractor empire had been liquidated—not in the literal sense—Terry Deavers had looked elsewhere for a new source of income. Never burdened by the moral compass most military men possessed, he’d been recruited by a Virginia drug cartel to help establish a base of heroin distribution in the rural spot conveniently named Spotsylvania. While the money had been excellent, the quality of his coworkers was lacking, their common backgrounds ranging from random street thuggery to armed robbery to murder. Any fool with a gun can kill, but not everyone can be an operator.
His delusional sense of self-worth had him believing he was a warrior, and warriors needed a mission. Otherwise, what’s the point? That question had been answered when he’d been recruited once again by a former associate of Cain Frost. The man, who asked Terry to actually call him the Recruiter, had shown up at his Bethesda, Maryland, town home, with an offer of work—the kind he’d done at HRI—and a stack of former military résumés from which to screen prospective team members. Over the past year and a half, he’d done exactly that—built an efficient, proficient team of mercenaries and men looking for a purpose. They’d all been handsomely compensated, and their focus had been on one thing—train for the day when the Recruiter would call with an actual mission.
Fortunately, that call had come last night, and the mission was finally upon them. Only one way to go, and that’s hard and fast, Terry thought, and smiled, thinking of a former team member who had had that motto on a bumper sticker on his pickup truck.
“Spartan Two,” Terry said into a microphone attached to a loop on the shoulder of his Kevlar vest, “I don’t like this quiet, even in the rain. Something’s up. Call in the boats.”
Now there’s nowhere to go, boys. We’ve got you surrounded. The mission was simple—infiltrate and kill everyone inside. Period. For Terry Deavers, a man with no conscience but a lot of motivation, it was an easy assignment with no guilt or strings attached. It was the best kind of first date, just the way he liked it.
CHAPTER 25
BOOM!
The SIMON M100 Grenade Rifle Entry Munition fired by Terry Deavers blew both front doors inward and off the hinges, creating a gaping hole in the mansion.
Inside, Logan West waited patiently in the far-left corner of the enormous living room, the six minutes-of-angle red dot of the Vortex Razor Red reflex sight lined up on the front door. He’d chosen a position behind an enormous, thick dining room table that would at least provide a semblance of cover once the assaulting force breached the doorway. The Colt Commando rested on top of the table, and he had a full view of the entire living room, kitchen, front hallway, and front door. He knew with all of the furniture between the entrance and himself, it would take any attacker at least a second or two to acquire his location. And that’s all I need.
Jack Longstreet was positioned in the far-right corner, behind a bookcase he’d moved away from the wall. The former Delta operator named Stanley had assumed the best and most dangerous vantage point—prone on the elevated walkway that ran parallel with the panoramic view. Due to his exposure, he’d donned a Kevlar helmet, although he knew if he took a round in the face, it likely wouldn’t matter.
The entrance was covered by triangulated fire. Good luck, guys. No matter what, whoever came through the door first would die. Welcome to the slaughter, Logan thought. The FBI agent facade was gone, replaced
by the predatory Marine and warrior.
A black canister sailed through the doorway, and with a soft pop, a cloud of thick white smoke enveloped the entire foyer.
Additional gunfire erupted from the front of the mansion. The other two members of the security detail must have engaged. Hope they take a few down and even the playing field just a little, Logan thought.
The sound of boots echoed through the smoke from the front steps. Here they come. Time to work, Logan thought, and pulled the trigger, unleashing a controlled burst of 5.56mm fire at the same time that Jack and Stanley opened fire.
An incessant tink-tink-tink-tink-tink sounded through the smoke as they fired into it.
What the hell? Logan thought, a moment later realizing what the sound was, turning his blood cold. Oh no.
The swirls of smoke suddenly dissipated, disintegrated by two assaulters entering the foyer in a crouch, carrying ballistic shields held closely together to ensure protection from the withering fire. The shields had enlarged triangular ballistic viewports, and Logan saw the two operators scanning the room, heads covered by black ballistic helmets rotating from left to right. It’s like a goddamned SWAT team.
Logan shifted the sights to the floor, hoping to take their feet or legs out. His efforts were in vain, and the rounds harmlessly pinged off the shields, shattering a glass cabinet and punching holes in the walls.
“Shooter, twelve o’clock, on the catwalk!” Logan heard one of the attackers scream.
A moment later, a barrage of gunfire from several operators in the back of the assault formation struck the elevated catwalk, and just as Stan had foreseen, the Kevlar helmet did nothing to protect him. Logan saw Stan reach behind him, straining for something Logan couldn’t see. Unfortunately, several well-placed rounds caught him in the face and throat, ending the shortest gunfight in which he’d participated during his life.
Field of Valor Page 15
