In light of the day’s revelations, something nagged at Logan, which was why he sat alone in the basement with Jonathan, studying the man who’d betrayed his country and Constitution.
“What is it? What’s happened? Something has,” the Harvard-educated traitor said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.” The boyish charm he’d once possessed had eroded away to a beaten state of acceptance.
“Tell me about the Founder,” Logan asked bluntly, and sat back, waiting for a reply.
Oh no. Jonathan’s mind rebelled. He wanted to scream in denial, but instead he focused on his breathing. Inhale . . . exhale . . . inhale . . . exhale. The question means it’s all over. Endgame scenario. No more choices left.
The existence of the Founder was the one piece of information he’d kept to himself, a last-ditch bargaining chip he’d hoped to play at some point. The hope that somehow, in some desperate way, he’d be able to leverage the identity of one of the most powerful persons on the planet for salvation had been what kept him going. He’d known his captors could only keep him for so long in this ad hoc prison. A solution would ultimately have to be found. And that meant more people would learn he was still alive. The more who knew, the greater the likelihood that word of his survival would travel back to the Founder, who did have the strings to pull, no matter what the task force that held him thought.
Jonathan shut his eyes, signaling the end of any future he’d deluded himself into thinking he had. The gig is up, as they say. Can’t hold back anymore, not if he knows.
“How did you find him?” Jonathan asked. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?” Logan asked.
“Because I only met him once, but after that meeting, I knew there was only one thing that he valued on this earth—his secrecy,” Jonathan said. “And if you now know who he is, he has to be dead.”
There was no point in lying. “He was ambushed at his house, while John and I were there this morning. It got a little out of hand, but the good news is that the bad guys are all dead now, too. And I’m willing to bet that the assholes who sent the little army this morning are the same ones who sent your beloved Recruiter to manipulate you into betraying not just the Organization but also your country.”
Jonathan raised his eyebrows but kept quiet.
“Constantine told us about the rebellion he was having. Not exactly something he could go to HR with, from the sound of it,” Logan said. “And that’s what this has all been about—one big power struggle.” He paused. “You realize it’s madness, don’t you? I know you’re used to being the smartest guy in the room, but you do realize for all that’s good in this country, that it’s lunacy?”
“The world is a violent and dangerous place, Logan. It always has been, and it always will be, no matter what we do. It’s the human condition to be biologically predisposed toward conflict. It’s as if our minds are hardwired to rebel against the prospect of peace. Just look at history. Any time of prosperity and peace was usually followed by war and conflict. It’s just a never-ending cycle, an endless merry-go-round of madness that has to be managed. And that’s what the Organization did, as I’m sure the Founder told you. And quite well, I might add.”
“While that all sounds rational, in a disturbed and megalomaniacal way, then riddle me this,” Logan said, and leaned across the table, his intensity on full display. “If you supported the Organization for all those years, what made you suddenly betray it?”
God help whoever gets in the way of this man, Jonathan thought, but answered truthfully. “Because the pendulum had swung the other way, and there’s nothing you or your friends or even the president can do. Chaos is coming, like it or not.”
Logan’s head hurt, and he felt the visceral impulse to make Jonathan Sommers share his pain. But in a twisted kind of way, he understood the pathological reasoning. It reminded him of the conversation he’d had with Cain Frost in the soccer stadium in Haditha. Cain had been a believer, a zealot in the pursuit of revenge for his brother’s torture and murder. Iran had become his target, and there was nothing Logan could say to dissuade him from the evil course of action he’d chosen. It was the same logic with Sommers. He was a believer in his own cause, no matter what the facts indicated.
“You may or may not believe this, but I understand why you believe what you do. It’s hard not to with everything that’s going on in the world. Regardless of what your perceptions of me are, it’s like I told Cain Frost, right before I captured him—I get it. Trust me. I’ve seen way more of the world than I’d wished, and the horrors that come along with it. If you let it, it can literally suck the life out of your soul,” Logan said, an emotional gravitas underpinning each sentence. “But here’s the difference between us, also what I told Cain: it’s not your decision to make, and it never was,” Logan said with such conviction that Jonathan recoiled. “This is a republic, where the real power resides with the people, not just their elected leaders. Your little Star Chamber is over, and I’m going to bring it all down, once and for all.”
Silence engulfed the room, and Jonathan looked at the table, fearful of his captor’s gaze.
Finally he looked up, and Logan was surprised to see him smiling. What does he know that I don’t?
“You see the hypocrisy, don’t you?” Jonathan asked, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. “We’re the same, you and I. I know what I did was legally treason, punishable by death. But the end justified the means, objectively, in lives saved by what we did. I’ll grant you that it’s become rather messy—”
“That’s a fucking understatement, smart guy,” Logan interrupted.
“—but it had to be done. There was no way around it. The Founder wanted to shut the whole thing down. The problem is that the Organization has become a living, breathing entity, with a global network that can’t be shut off. Here’s the true reality, Logan,” Jonathan said, leaning across the table. “We both operate in the shadows, just for different masters. Your actions are just as illegal as ours. The only difference is you have a president who is willing to excuse and pardon them. You wear your hypocrisy like a cape, but you’re not always the good guys. I’ve seen what you do. So don’t lecture me about right and wrong. You’re as much in the gray space as I am. You just refuse to accept it.” He finished and sat back, waiting for a response.
Logan West, a man convinced of his own righteousness, a man who never doubted that he was always on the right side of history, paused. Composed externally, he was a raging storm inside. He felt an irrational urge to grab Jonathan Sommers by the back of the head and smash his face repeatedly into the wooden table, stopping only when his last breath had been expelled from his toxic lungs. But you know there’s truth to what he says. Maybe, but it’s not the whole truth. It’s like everything else, half lies and deceptions. He considered responding, but he realized there was no counterargument, no talking point that would negate the fact that Task Force Ares had jumped into the moral quagmire feet first. The manipulative bastard has a point. But even if he does, you still answer to the president of the United States, and he’s the legal guardian of the Constitution, not this guy.
He suddenly felt tired, and he realized the conversation had reached an impasse. With the grace of a fighter, Logan slid off the chair, exited the cell, and slammed the door behind him, pausing as the electronic keypad engaged.
“The truth stings, doesn’t it?” Jonathan said quietly.
Logan West turned quickly, facing his prisoner. “Careful. You keep talking like that, and I’ll drag you from that gray space into the deep dark, and you won’t come back.”
His point made, he walked up the stairs, wondering how soon he’d hear from Jake. This part is just like the Marine Corps. Waiting. Stand by to stand by.
PART V
FULL CIRCLE
CHAPTER 28
Task Force Ares Headquarters
Thursday, 0730 EST
Logan sat in the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—colloquial
ly referred to as a SCIF—combing through classified FBI reports Jake’s office had forwarded to his SIPRNET account.
The SCIF occupied the main area in the back of the headquarters, through the front entrance and behind a second steel door that had a cipher lock combination on it. It was an enormous space, sixty feet long and thirty feet deep. Several workstations that contained Unclassified, Secret, and Top Secret networks were arranged around the perimeter of the room, screens facing inward. The few windows in the room were barred and had blackout screens drawn down. The back wall contained multiple HD TVs, as well as several Smart Boards connected to the numerous networks.
In the back right corner was another cipher-locked door that emptied out into a hallway next to a stairwell, across which was what the team referred to as the “hurt locker.” It contained an armory, several cages—one for each member of the task force—of various personal gear, and a communications area for the equipment they utilized on operations.
A door in the far left corner of the SCIF led to another hallway, stairwell, the gym, and the combatives room beyond, complete with the latest and best physical fitness equipment black budget government tax dollars could buy.
The second deck of the headquarters was not as deep as the first level. It contained several rooms that had been converted into sleeping quarters for whoever was on Sommers duty, as well as a larger recreation area that led to a second-floor patio on the roof of the rear part of the SCIF. There were also two large head areas that contained multiple showers, benches, and sinks, and Amira had commandeered one all to herself, posting a note to remind others, “Stay out. I have knives.”
The door beeped, and Logan turned around as John Quick walked through the doorway, a propane tank in hand.
“What now? You going into the IED-building business? I figured you’d avoid that line of work, what with all the times you’ve been blown up,” Logan said.
“Cute,” John replied. “No. In fact, I’m trying to class the place up, tough guy. It’s for the grill above your head. Figure with all the time we spend here, we might as well be able to cook out, you know, enjoy the great Quantico outdoors.”
“Sure. Why not see if you can arrange a mixer with a sorority from Georgetown while you’re at it,” Logan suggested drily.
“I’m spoken for, remember? But I’ll pass along the recommendation to Cole. I hear those sorority girls like rugged men with beards.”
John walked toward the back of the room, setting the propane tank near the back workstation, at which Logan sat. “Any news from Jake?”
“Negative,” Logan responded. “Just a bunch of background reports on the Kallas shipping empire. The accountants at the FBI are in the process of getting multiple warrants from DOJ to start going through his US assets. They’re also going to have to loop Treasury in to investigate his foreign holdings.”
“That sounds like fun, if you’re into that sort of thing,” John said.
Logan’s cell phone began to chirp, and he held it up for John to see. “Well, look who it is.”
Even though cell phones were banned in almost every SCIF the US operated in the world due to technical security risks, Task Force Ares was of such a nature that it made no practical sense to abide by that regulation. Instead, their personal cell phones were encrypted and scanned every day at a special terminal when they entered the facility to ensure an adversary had not remotely installed malicious software on their devices.
“Morning, Jake,” Logan said, answering the phone.
“You still haven’t opened the flash drive yet, correct?” Jake said, getting right down to business.
“I’m fine. Thanks. How are you?” Logan replied.
“Sorry, Logan. There’s no time,” Jake said. “In about ten minutes, you’re going to have guests.”
Logan looked at John, and asked, “Who?”
“The president’s Secret Service detail,” Jake replied. “I briefed the president last night, telling him everything we know, including the existence of the flash drive and the contents on it. When I left the White House, he said he needed to think on it, and he’d let me know this morning. I didn’t speak to him, but I just got a phone call from the Secret Service stating that the president dispatched part of his detail to retrieve a critical piece of evidence down in Quantico.”
“Well, it’s his country, but I’m not sure how I feel about giving it to anyone but him,” Logan said, mouthing to John, Where’s the flash drive?
John pointed to the government two-drawer safe next to Logan’s workstation.
“I tried to reach the president, but he’s on Air Force One on the way to Atlantic City to deliver a speech on the economy,” Jake said. “If that’s how he wants to handle this, I’m sure he has his reasons. There’s also no way anyone on his detail would know about the flash drive unless he told them. So I have to assume it’s legitimate.”
Something about the request nagged at Logan, though he couldn’t place his finger on it. “What do you want me to do?”
“Give them what they want, and call me as soon as it’s over,” Jake said.
“Roger. Will do,” Logan replied.
“Logan, there’s one more thing,” Jake said, and his tone sent shivers down Logan’s spine, as if a skeletal ghost were caressing him with a solitary finger of bone. It’s how he sounded right before he told me that Mike was dead.
“What is it?” Logan asked.
“It’s General Longstreet,” Jake replied, and for a moment, Logan was sure the general had died in surgery. Who the hell dies from a gunshot wound to the shoulder?
“He’s gone,” Jake said. “As in he disappeared from the hospital after the two Anne Arundel County police officers assigned to his recovery room were incapacitated.”
“No way,” Logan said.
“Looks like the team of operators he had staged in Annapolis realized what had happened at their employer’s residence. They must have talked to that other operator, Evan, and realized they could do something about it,” Jake said. “No one saw a thing, and the cameras were disabled electronically while whoever was there grabbed him.”
“Those guys are good, which means the general is in the wind. Goddamnit,” Logan said in frustration. They just couldn’t catch and keep a break. The Secret Service on their way here unannounced? General Longstreet missing? This is going south fast.
“I know, but first things first. Give the president’s detail what they want. I’ve been told they’re bringing it back to the White House,” Jake finished. “I’m going to check in with the special agent in charge of the Kallas scene and see if they’ve ID’d any of the bodies from the assault team. Keep you posted.”
“Sounds good, and I’ll text you after they leave,” Logan said.
Another beep at the left door, and Cole and Amira walked in from the hallway, having been in the gym.
On the bank of security monitors that covered every square inch of the perimeter of the building and the grounds of the compound, a black Suburban appeared in the middle screen, stopping at the security gate at the entrance to the facility. Time was up—the president’s detail had arrived.
“What’s going on, boys?” Amira said.
“We have guests,” Logan replied. “Gear up.”
And with that, Logan explained what Jake had told him, as well as what Logan planned to do about it.
CHAPTER 29
The main door to the SCIF beeped, swung inward, and John watched from the main workstation as Logan entered, followed by a presidential detail of four Secret Service agents.
All four men wore dark-gray or black suits, complete with dark ties. Three of the special agents wore Oakley wire sunglasses on their heads, as if blinding sunshine might suddenly illuminate the room. Their suit coats were unbuttoned, and John made a mental note of the FN Five-seveN 5.57x28mm semiautomatic pistols that were holstered at the two o’clock position on their black conceal-carry belts. These guys don’t mess around. Those things are designed to go throu
gh body armor.
Produced as a result of a NATO requirement, the FN Five-seveN fired several types of high-velocity ammunition. Even though the cartridge was longer than a standard 9x19mm round, the projectile itself was smaller, designed for maximum penetration and increased accuracy. Based on the characteristics, it was the handheld version of an assault rifle, specifically, the companion FN P90 personal defense weapon, which John knew the Secret Service used as well. Serious hardware for serious men.
Cole and Amira had assumed positions near the front left corner of the SCIF.
“If it isn’t the Men in Black,” John said, standing up to greet the visitors.
The lead special agent, a midfortyish man with a head of close-cropped gray hair, stepped past Logan and held out his hand. “As if we haven’t heard that before,” he said, gripping John’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Special Agent Ben Harkens. You must be John Quick. The president told us about you. You’re the funny one,” he finished, adding a slight smile.
Or is that a condescending smirk? I can’t tell. One cool customer, John thought.
“And good-looking,” John added.
“Oh, good Lord,” Amira muttered from the corner.
“I don’t want to add to any self-esteem issues you might have, so I’m going to dodge that one and get down to business. I believe you have something for us?” Special Agent Harkens said.
Field of Valor Page 19
