Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

The three agents stood behind him quietly, approximately five feet of spacing between each of them.

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” Logan said, and held out his hand, which contained the black thumb drive John had obtained at Constantine Kallas’ mansion. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” Harkens said. “I’ll pass it along directly to the president once he returns. It will be at the White House until then. Unless there’s something else, we’ll leave you to whatever it is you do here, not that it’s any of my business.”

  He turned around and nodded at the three agents lining the middle of the room. They turned and began to move in unison toward the main door to the SCIF, a synchronized line of black and white.

  It’s the fucking march of the penguins, John thought.

  “Do you know what’s on that thumb drive?” Logan asked quietly.

  Special Agent Harkens stopped midstride but didn’t turn around. “I do not. I was only asked to retrieve it. That’s above my pay grade.”

  “It’s an interesting who’s who of sorts. A list, actually, as well as the intimate details of a global network of very bad actors,” Logan said.

  Harkens turned back to face Logan, who now stood in the back, legs naturally in a shooter’s stance. “So you saw what’s on it?”

  Logan ignored the question, staring at the Secret Service agent. “Something about this whole visit seemed off to me, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. But John here can tell you that when I start to fixate on something, I can’t let it go. Isn’t that right?” Logan said, staring at Harkens as he spoke to John several feet away.

  “He’s not lying, Harkens,” John replied matter-of-factly. “He gets all Tonya Harding on it, minus the clubbing, of course. It’s kind of scary.”

  The mood in the room had undergone a massive shift, as if a tension dial had been cranked from zero to insanity in the blink of an eye. The three Secret Service agents who had almost reached the front of the room were now facing inward, hands at their waists.

  John, Cole, and Amira instinctively reacted, repositioning themselves to face the visitors.

  “I can’t help you with your feelings. All I know is that the president asked me to obtain a thumb drive, and since he is the president, I usually follow orders,” Special Agent Harkens asked, a hard flatness now in his eyes.

  “That may be true, but here’s the thing—I’ve never seen or heard your name before. After you pulled up to our little clubhouse and introduced yourself over the speaker, I thought I’d phone a friend and ask about you,” Logan said. His voice had taken on an aggressive quality his friends knew well. “Would you like to know what he said, secret agent man?” he asked with blatant derision in his voice.

  There was no response from Harkens. The visit from the Secret Service had abruptly turned into a confrontation, a modern-day Mexican standoff.

  “You know, you don’t have to do this. In fact, I’d advise you to not say another word,” Special Agent Harkens said warningly. “All we have to do is walk out that door, and poof, we’re gone,” he said, suddenly bringing his hands in front of him like a magician.

  Damn. He’s fast. Worse, I’ll bet they’re all fast. The Secret Service trains some of the best shooters in the world, not just in accuracy but in speed. Be careful, Logan thought. He pressed on, holding up his cell phone, a text message on the screen. “My friend’s response was quick. It said, ‘Head of the vice president’s detail,’ which I found curious, even when that friend has some serious street cred as the director of the FBI.”

  “Do you have any idea how good my guys are, Mr. West?” Harkens asked, changing topics, a coldness in his voice. “I have some of the best gunmen in the service. It’s unreal. Trust me. You can’t win this.”

  “Do you know why the identity of your real boss matters at this very moment?” Logan finally asked, speaking past Special Agent Harkens’ overt threat.

  “This is the last time I’ll say this: you can still walk away,” Special Agent Harkens said.

  “Because his name is on the list,” Logan said in a low voice thick with fury.

  Harkens sighed. “I really thought you might just keep your mouth shut and let us leave. Just remember one thing—you brought this on yourself. I just don’t understand why. Do you always make things this difficult, especially when they don’t have to be? Confrontation isn’t the only way to get things done,” he said, the veiled threat hanging in the air.

  “Not always, but I’m making an exception in your case, you arrogant prick,” Logan said.

  He had realized moments earlier that as good as they were, Special Agent Harkens was right—they’d never win a straight-up gunfight with elite Secret Service shooters. As a result, Logan did the only thing he could. He rapidly drew his Kimber Tactical II and fired into the propane tank John had placed on the floor, turning the operational center of Task Force Ares into the most classified kill box at Marine Corps Base Quantico.

  CHAPTER 30

  Unlike in the movies or on television, propane tanks don’t fracture into a thousand pieces of flying shrapnel. In reality, the aftermath lasts much longer than an explosion. The immediate BOOM was followed by a violent swishing sound as the propane tank spun crazily in the middle of the SCIF, flames shooting out several feet in all directions, setting chairs, tables, and even the tiled ceiling aflame. Smoke immediately billowed across the room and began to obscure visibility. The intense heat triggered the government-installed halon suppression system, adding an additional layer of noise to the cacophony.

  The heat from the miniature fire tornado washed over Logan as he lunged to the left, away from the scorching conflagration. As he dove to the floor, he opened fire toward the last position he’d seen Harkens.

  He heard additional gunfire from multiple sources, realizing the SCIF had turned into a full-on shooting gallery. Eight guns and plenty of bullets—no way we get out of this unscathed.

  Smoke filled his lungs, and he involuntarily coughed. This is a death trap, he thought, as two of the mounted HD screens in the back of the SCIF exploded in a shower of sparks.

  He glanced past the swirling flames and saw Cole and Amira, weapons aimed at the intruders, unleashing a dual volley of bullets. Amira glanced over, and Logan pointed to the door near them. The message was clear: Get the hell out of here. Then Logan nodded, turned on his heels, and moved toward the right rear entrance.

  As Logan reached John, who’d been standing between him and the door, he said, “Let’s move!”

  Logan reached the door first and pushed down on the metal handle, which disengaged the external cipher lock, and shoved the door open. Smoke billowed out through the opening into the passageway, creating a dark tunnel.

  John stepped out into breathable air a moment later and slammed the door shut behind him. “What now?”

  The two warriors stood at the end of the right passageway, near the stairwell. “Three choices,” Logan said, aiming his weapon down the hall toward the front of the building where it intersected with the main hallway. He’d already calculated the odds, and he didn’t like any of them, especially since his team had been split up. As good as Logan and John were, two against a foursome of world-class marksmen trained by the best shooting instructors in the United States was not a winning proposition. “One—stand and fight. Not a good choice. These guys are pros, as you know. Two—head upstairs and try to work our way across the building to link up with Amira and Cole, but we have no idea where they are. For now, they’re on their own. And three—get to the armory, gear up, and go to war with these fuckers. We need to get to the basement too. We can’t leave Sommers down there, no matter what he’s done.”

  “I’m all for war,” John said, but before he could finish, a Secret Service agent appeared at the end of the hallway and opened fire. The bullets ricocheted off the wall and struck the stairwell behind them.

  “New plan—downstairs. Now!” Logan shouted, and returned fire as the Secret Service agent ducked back down the main hallwa
y fifty feet away.

  John hit the stairs two at a time as Logan emptied the first magazine down the passageway, buying enough time to cover their movement. He reloaded as he followed John into the basement, wondering how the hell they were going to get Sommers and come back up past their waiting executioners. Stupid government building. Should’ve had an emergency exit in the basement. Noted for the next headquarters we build, if we make it out of this one.

  * * *

  Cole Matthews couldn’t believe that four Secret Service agents, including the best the protective agency had to offer, had gone off the reservation and were trying to kill them.

  Logan had suspected something was amiss, and he’d confirmed it by skimming the list before heading outside to greet the Secret Service detail. He’d only had two to three minutes, but it had been enough. They’d all glimpsed the list and had obtained a sense of the breadth of the network the Founder had built through decades of clandestine operations and organizations. It was staggering.

  As for the former head of the CIA’s Special Operations Group—which had been reorganized into and renamed the Special Activities Division; SAD? Really? Some dumbass bureaucrats just don’t think things through, especially at the senior executive level. Watch out! Here come those SAD guys—Cole had seen everything every agency had to offer. The reality was that the Secret Service was one of the most straitlaced agencies in the federal government, comprising men and women who took their oath to protect the president with deadly gravitas. But then it had hit him, right before events had exploded, literally. These guys were following orders, which meant Logan’s hunch had been right. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your perspective—Jake Benson had confirmed it, at the last possible moment, Cole thought as he looked at Amira, who’d been trapped on this side of the flames with him.

  The noise and confusion were a physical element that threatened to suffocate them like the smoke. He’d seen it before. The fog of war. Too bad Von Clausewitz isn’t here to see this shit.

  “We’ll try to link up with them on the other side. We can use the exit in the gym,” Cole said.

  Amira answered by firing her SIG SAUER P250 into the back of the room. She turned, looked at Cole, and said, “Let’s go. They’re going to pay.”

  “No doubt about that,” Cole said, and pushed the handle down. The two newest Ares operators fled the room, crossed the passageway, and entered the gym and combatives area.

  Cole started to work his way in a beeline to the emergency exit in the far corner of the room, but Amira grabbed his left arm forcefully from behind. “Wait. I have a better idea.”

  Cole stopped and looked at her, his weapon instinctively rising to the door of the room in case they were interrupted by one of the attackers. “The last time you had a good idea, I watched you drop two stories on the outside of a building.”

  “I’m touched you remember,” Amira said. “But if I’m right, we might get to even the odds a little.”

  * * *

  Special Agent Harkens had a decision to make—escape from the compound while they could, or stay and finish the gunfight. As the head of Vice President Baker’s detail, his decisions were usually more reactive than proactive, especially during the actual conduct of a presidential or vice presidential event. An identifiable threat usually meant only one thing—get the vice president to safety at all costs. Everything else was secondary. But this situation was different and escalating by the minute. More importantly, the vice president’s instructions had been clear: “Whatever you do, get the flash drive and make sure that no one saw what’s on it, no matter what. If they did, terminate them with extreme prejudice. It’s that important.”

  He thought the fake call placed by one of his agents—not the president’s—to the FBI director would buy them time; he’d been wrong.

  Special Agent Harkens had been with the vice president for eight years, since Baker had been a Democratic senator for the great state of Virginia. While it wasn’t normal for the Secret Service to protect senators, Senator Baker had received so many death threats that the president had issued a special executive order providing 24/7 protection. The fact that Senator Baker was the ranking Democrat on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence had helped his cause.

  The man had wielded power with the tactical prowess of Erwin Rommel. Special Agent Harkens had seen the vice president escape more political pitfalls in eight years than would be normal in ten political lifetimes. Like a suicidal cat repeating the same jump time and time again, he always landed on his feet.

  Late in the senator’s last term, Special Agent Harkens, a brilliantly perceptive man, had begun to suspect the senator was part of something bigger than just the Senate, bigger, in fact, than even the US government. It was after Baker had taken him to meet with a shipping tycoon named Constantine Kallas—by himself, at night, on a slow Tuesday—at the man’s estate in Maryland that Harkens had confronted him, professionally and with respect.

  The senator had been quiet for more than a minute, and Special Agent Harkens had grown concerned that he’d offended the man he was charged with protecting, wondering if he’d overstepped his boundaries. But then the senator had asked him a question, a question that had changed the course of his life and his core beliefs about the existing global power structure.

  “Your brother was a DEA agent who died in a Colombian raid against the Cali cartel after Pablo Escobar was killed, correct?” then Senator Baker had asked.

  “Yes, sir. He was,” Special Agent Harkens had responded.

  “What if I told you that there was an unofficial organization that existed to help manage the chaos in countries like Colombia, Mexico, and Iraq? An organization with unlimited resources, international backing from dozens of countries, and designed for one purpose and one purpose only—to bring stability and order to the chaos. What would you say to that?” Senator Baker had asked.

  Special Agent Harkens had thought carefully, considering his response. He’d often wondered why the US didn’t aggressively pursue its enemies, often abandoning its allies or leaving even its own military vulnerable for political reasons. It was infuriating, especially after what had happened to his brother, but it also wasn’t his job to question those appointed over him. It was only his job to protect them.

  “I’d say that sounds like a very good thing, if it were actually practical to do,” Special Agent Harkens had finally responded.

  “But what if some of its activities were in violation of the particular set of laws of one of the countries? What then?” the senator had pressed.

  “Well, if dozens of countries with different interests could come together on one agreed-upon objective, I’d say that the collective good outweighs the interests and laws of any single nation.”

  Special Agent Harkens remembered watching the senator stare out the window as they drove through suburban Maryland back to northern Virginia. Finally, he’d said, “When we get back, let’s talk in my office.”

  Since that night, Special Agent Harkens’ eyes had been opened to an underbelly of the republic, a place where real decisions were made, even if the world didn’t know it existed. There were enough conspiracy theories, from 9/11 Truthers to sightings of aliens in Nevada, to keep the real secrets hidden. He’d made a choice that night, and he’d voluntarily accepted the consequences.

  And now here he was, forced to do something he didn’t want to do but knew was necessary. Vice President Baker’s words echoed in his head: “It’s always bigger than any one of us, even me.”

  The four Secret Service agents gathered outside the main entrance to the SCIF. Miraculously, no one had been hit by ricocheting rounds or flaming debris. “Olson, you and I are going right. Jenkins, Lotz, you take the other two. We have the flash drive they gave us, but we need to know it’s the only one, and they need to be put down. We have to contain this. Understand?”

  Subtle nods acknowledged his order in silence.

  All three had been personally vetted by S
pecial Agent Harkens and indoctrinated into the shadow world of the Organization. Like him, they were believers in the cause.

  “Then let’s do this and be quick about it.”

  * * *

  “What the hell is going on up there?” Jonathan Sommers asked, borderline panic in his voice.

  “Just a little party with our friends in the Secret Service. You know how wild those guys can be. Don’t you watch the news?” John replied sarcastically.

  “Logan, what is your sidekick talking about?” Jonathan said.

  “Stand back and shut the fuck up, or I’m going to let my sidekick kick your ass, understand?” Logan snapped.

  As if recognizing the seriousness of the situation, especially at the smell of smoke as it wafted down the stairwell, Jonathan shut his mouth and stepped back and away from the barred door.

  Logan punched in the code, and the door sprung outward, swinging on its hinges. “Let’s go.”

  Sommers had stepped toward the doorway when he looked up and saw a black-suited arm with a pistol held in front of it come around the bend in the stairwell.

  “Gun!” he screamed, and tried to point, as three things happened simultaneously. The Secret Service agent appeared at the top of the landing, exposing only the right side of his body. John shoved Logan forward and spun on his heels, the M1911 tracking the new target only thirty feet away. And both men opened fire.

  Crack-blam! The two shots blended into a singular sharp and deep report, with similar results.

  John’s bullet struck the Secret Service agent’s extended arm, tearing a furrow across the bottom of his forearm. The bullet dug deeper until it shattered against the pointed end of the man’s ulna, forcing a tremendous roar of pain from the wounded shooter. The FN Five-seveN dropped to the stairs and tumbled end over end into the basement. The Secret Service agent disappeared back upstairs.

  The bullet that had struck John in the lower left center of his chest was much smaller than the .45-caliber slug he’d fired at his attacker. He didn’t feel the initial impact and only realized he’d been shot when he turned back to Logan, at which point an explosion of pain hit him on the front left side of his torso. He wobbled and gritted his teeth as he felt the blood begin to slowly leak through his shirt from below his rib cage.