Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  “We do,” the man said. “But it’s not like the movies. We’re not going to whisk you away on some secret plane in the middle of nowhere. You can’t get away with that these days. Too many State Department and Customs regulations for registering all flights out of the country. No. We’re doing this the old-fashioned, easy way.”

  “What’s that?” Josh asked, deeply interested as to how his personal safety was being handled.

  “Several vehicle changes, several stops at places where we have all control and access, and then a diplomatic vehicle into Mexico that Customs won’t be able to search. It may take a week to ten days, but by then, your entire government will assume you’re out west or dead,” the man said. “We’ll be heading toward the Blue Ridge Mountains and working our way south from there. In case something happens, we have multiple alternate vehicles ahead and behind us we can switch to. We’re covered, no matter what. For now, just sit back and enjoy the scenery.”

  “I think I will. It’s been a hard day,” Josh said, easing back into the seat. He watched the traffic pass by, knowing it would be the last time. He closed his eyes, hoping to lose some of the tremendous tension he felt from the day’s events. Instead, visions of his son’s face invaded his peace, and he fought back a sorrow he knew would haunt him for a lifetime to come.

  CHAPTER 46

  “From the look on your face, I believe you mistook me for someone else,” the man dressed and disguised to look like Vice President Joshua Baker said. Up close, there was no resemblance whatsoever. The man was in his midthirties with a dark complexion of Hispanic or Spanish origin. Unlike the vice president, he was physically fit and lean, which explained why he’d been able to cover so much ground from the crash so quickly. But from a distance and in the heat of battle? No way to know he wasn’t the real McCoy. It was brilliant, Logan thought, his sense of triumph replaced with disgust that they’d been duped so flawlessly.

  “Where is he?” Logan asked.

  “That’s the best part—I have no idea,” the man said with pure pleasure and contempt. “None of us know. You could capture all of us, but you won’t get a goddamn thing.”

  The furious buzzing in Logan’s head went quiet. A cold, merciless silence replaced it. The man before him represented everything that had gone wrong in the past three days. While the puppet master himself may have escaped, the false flag Baker had not. And he’s about to pay the price for his failure. Should’ve run harder, tough guy.

  “Get up,” Logan said quietly.

  The man sensed something disconcerting about the way the words had been uttered. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?” He stood, brushing off his black suit trousers absentmindedly.

  “No. You don’t deserve to go to jail,” Logan replied. “Pull whatever blade you have on you: you guys always carry one. I’m only going to give you to the count of three, and then I’m going to shoot you in the face.”

  “No need to get huffy and puffy,” the man said, reaching under the suit coat. His smile had been replaced by a look of fierce determination. He understood the stakes: this was a fight to the death. He withdrew from a sheath on his belt a black Zero Tolerance blade that looked as sleek and lethal as it was beautiful. He held it in his right hand, the slim blade pointed upward at an angle. He pulled his right foot back slightly into a fighting stance.

  “That’s a nice knife,” Logan said. “I’ll add it to my collection when this is over.”

  “If you say so,” the man said. “I’d add something like ‘over my dead body,’ but there’s no point.”

  “Exactly,” Logan replied. “And that’s the plan, anyways.” In one fluid motion, he holstered the Kimber in the thigh rig and pulled his Force Recon Mark II fighting knife from its sheath on the front of his Kevlar vest. A moment later, he unslung his M4, yanked the Velcro straps apart on the bulletproof vest, and slid out of the protective shell.

  “You do know there’s no such thing as fighting fair, right?” the man asked.

  “You have no idea, asshole,” Logan said. He placed his index finger on the spine of the blade.

  Before the fake vice president could respond, Logan cocked his arm backward, registering with amusement the sudden look of concern on his target’s face. He stepped forward as if throwing a baseball and brought his arm down toward the fake Baker, who had finally started to react, albeit too late. The knife began to slide out of his hand and gain momentum, his wrist slightly whipping forward to control the blade. He completed the throw, his finger pointed straight at his target, as the knife hurtled through the air and buried itself with a sickening thwack in the man’s upper right chest.

  Pain exploded across the man’s chest, and he let out a grunt of agony. He looked down as blood spread across his white designer dress shirt. He pawed at the blade with his left hand like a wounded animal desperately trying to free itself from a trap.

  “Huh,” Logan said nonchalantly. “I wasn’t sure if that was going to work.” He stepped forward toward the mortally wounded man. “It’s not as easy as it looks. Lots of practice, getting the blade to fall into the target,” Logan said pitilessly. “In this case, that’s you.”

  The blood had covered most of the shirt, but the man still stood, as if in denial of his fading existence.

  Logan stepped within reach of him, and said, “I’ll take that, now, like I said I would.” The calmness in his voice contradicted the rage he still felt. He grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled up his arm, and pried the Zero Tolerance knife out of his hand.

  Logan stared into the face of his victim, oblivious to the pain etched across his face.

  The man smiled at him, coughing a rivulet of blood from his mouth. The sound was tinny and hollow. Not long now, Logan thought.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the man gasped. “You still lose.” His breath caught, but he added, “And you know it.”

  Which is the worst part, Logan thought. He’s right. But he doesn’t have to get the satisfaction of being right.

  Without uttering a word, Logan yanked the Force Recon blade from the man’s chest as he simultaneously slid the Zero Tolerance blade under his rib cage, piercing his heart.

  The impostor let out a short shriek, as blood poured from both wounds.

  Logan pulled out the Zero Tolerance blade, and the impostor collapsed to his knees, his eyes rolled up, and he fell sideways onto the grassy slope.

  “No more vice presidential impersonations for you,” Logan said, not realizing he’d spoken the words aloud, his body trembling from the effects of the adrenaline and rage.

  He turned and looked around as he emerged from his battle haze, his ears registering once again the sounds of the Black Hawk helicopter. He’d left the underside of the Duke Ellington Memorial Bridge littered with bodies. It’s my goddamned MO, he thought. The curse of Logan West.

  But then a second voice interjected. Only if you let it be, brother, Mike Benson whispered from beyond the grave.

  Thanks, brother. I’m trying, Logan thought. But I’m not done yet.

  I know, but remember what I said: Don’t lose who you are. You’re going to be a father.

  The reminder brought him back to reality. He sheathed his newly acquired Zero Tolerance blade and his Force Recon Mark II and hurried up the slope to rejoin his team.

  PART VIII

  AFTERMATH

  CHAPTER 47

  Inova Fairfax Hospital

  Eleventh Floor

  Three Days Later

  Logan looked out the pristine corner room of the South Patient Tower, a recent addition to the sprawling Inova Fairfax Hospital Medical Campus. At the top of the tower, the large picture windows provided a panoramic view to the south and west. The hills and woods of northern Virginia rolled away endlessly in both directions, camouflaging the mass of humanity concealed within.

  His gaze trailed south with the knowledge that the Marine Corps Museum, a modern creation of glass and steel that rose several hundred feet into the air, its shape recalling the
iconic photograph of raising the flag on Iwo Jima, lay over the horizon. You never really get out, no matter what, he thought, knowing it was both a blessing and a curse. He also acknowledged that the former definitely outweighed the latter, regardless of the cost.

  The scenic view of tranquility contradicted the chaos that had fallen across the country like a thick invisible blanket of fear. The truth that he knew and what the public had been told overlapped in spots and diverged in others, shifting as needed in pursuit of one undeniable fact—the vice president had vanished from the face of the earth.

  And there wasn’t a goddamned thing any of us could do about it, Logan thought. The outcome had been predetermined, even before he and his friends had jumped into the fray.

  The entire federal government, including all law enforcement and Intelligence Community agencies, was focused on the theory that the Montana Freedom Movement had somehow orchestrated the kidnapping of the second most powerful man—at least on the organizational charts of DC—in America.

  A single cell phone record from one of the dead former Spanish Special Forces mercenaries had rocketed the investigation into overdrive. A call to Montana had been placed the day before the vice president’s escape. Once the federal government obtained warrants for the number the mercenary had dialed, cell phone records, bank transfers, emails, and grainy photographs had linked the leader of the movement, Jared Evans, to a known mercenary-military contractor organization operating in Europe on the black market. Evans’ servers and computers were encrypted just enough to delay the FBI and NSA from obtaining actionable intelligence for forty-eight hours, but the hunt across North America was now into its third day.

  Logan suspected it was all a smokescreen. The Montana Freedom Movement had to be a diversion intended to cover the Organization’s tracks. He’d conveyed his concerns to the president, Jake, and CIA Director Tooney, who all agreed, but they still had to pursue the militia angle to its dead end. But in addition, the CIA director had activated its most sensitive network of operatives—a special access program called LEGION—to clandestinely pursue the location of the vice president. If he left the country, they hoped to reacquire his scent once he landed on foreign soil.

  But as far as the public, the media, and the cable news networks relishing every moment of the hunt, the nexus was still Montana. The thought of blaming a right-wing militia for one of the worst crimes in recent history had sent the media into a frenzy. At least until someone has some common sense to ask why an ultraconservative, nationalistic movement would contract with foreign nationals, whom it fundamentally opposed on principle, Logan thought. Then again, the media wasn’t always concerned with the facts, only with the narrative that served its own political agenda. Common sense and journalistic integrity had left the building with Elvis years ago. What a fucking fiasco.

  “You daydreaming again, brother?” John said from his hospital bed behind Logan.

  “Not exactly,” Logan replied, and turned, looking at the only other person in the room. Amira had finally left John’s side after the doctors had determined that there was no infection from the bullet wound. “More lamenting the fact that the sonofabitch is out there somewhere, breathing free air.”

  “Fuck him,” John said. “He didn’t win. If anything, we won this round. Don’t you see that?”

  Logan stared at John before responding. “You got shot. You could’ve—hell, probably should’ve—died.”

  The bullet had penetrated John’s peritoneal cavity, lodging itself in the fluid-filled area between his internal organs and the abdominal wall. The only damage had been to the parietal peritoneum, which lined the inside of the abdominal wall.

  Once the trauma surgeons had identified the extent of his wound, they’d decided to remove the bullet laparoscopically rather than cutting him open, minimizing the chance for infection and leaving a scar only where the bullet had entered. Out of an abundance of caution, the doctors had prescribed antibiotics and had transferred him to the patient tower to recover for one week and to ensure the antibiotics worked.

  “Thanks for the moral support. Your bedside manner sucks,” John added.

  “You know what I mean,” Logan said, still serious. “You’re lucky, and you know it. It actually reminds me of something that happened at the Infantry Officer Course years ago,” Logan added, referring to the legendary and challenging Marine Corps infantry training, which had continued to evolve based on lessons learned in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  “What’s that?” John asked. “Did you manage to destroy everything at that place too?”

  “Ha,” Logan replied. “Not quite. As part of our education, since we were learning the business of tactics, weapons, and war, we also had to learn about the types of horrific injuries sustained in combat. As a result, each of us spent one night in a local emergency room or trauma center, observing the doctors and nurses treat the wounded. About halfway through a surprisingly slow Saturday night, a thirty-year-old male was brought in, with twelve—and I mean no kidding, twelve; I counted—gunshot wounds to his chest. He was part of some southeast DC crew, got ambushed, and the guy who shot him stood over him and fired a burst from a Tec-9 submachine gun point-blank into him.”

  “Jesus,” John replied.

  “No kidding. The guy should have died. Hell, the entire staff expected him to, but once they got him up to the OR and opened him up, they discovered every single bullet had missed a vital organ. I think the only thing this guy lost was his spleen,” Logan said. “It was a miracle.”

  “Who really needs a spleen, anyhow?” John quipped.

  “Exactly. It was a small price to pay for something that changed his life. I heard months later that he’d been born again after his near-death experience, managed to escape his gang without too much more damage, and became a pastor, starting a church in southeast DC.”

  “That’s actually an inspirational story, man,” John said. “But no matter what, I assure you, I’m not becoming a preacher.”

  Logan laughed. “That’s not the point. The point is that he got lucky, and like we’ve learned over the last few years, having luck is often better than being good.” His tone changed, deepening. “But at some point, brother, luck runs out.”

  John knew Logan spoke the truth, and he contemplated his response for a moment. “You’re right, but you know what? And I mean this—fuck luck. We’ll play this out until we can’t play it anymore.” His voice grew stronger. “Should I have died? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t. But here’s what I do know, and this is what really matters: the Organization is in shambles, its founder is dead, we’ve uncovered another traitor at the highest level of the United States government, and here’s the best part—wait for it—we’re all still alive. In my book, brother, that’s a win. Hell, that’s a huge win, and you need to realize it.”

  Logan sighed, and a grin broke out on his face. “Since when did you become such a ray of sunshine and silver linings?”

  “Must be Amira’s influence,” John guessed.

  “I’d bet on that,” Logan responded. “You’re not smart enough to have these thoughts on your own.”

  “That’s right. You were the officer, after all. I was just a working man, doing what I was told.”

  “Brother, I don’t think you ever just did what you were told,” Logan said, his tone softening. “But that’s what made you one of the best men I’ve ever had the honor of serving with.”

  “Thanks, man. You’re not too bad, yourself,” John responded in kind. “What’s next? Are you going to go see him?”

  Logan hesitated before answering. He knew he had no choice, but he wasn’t looking forward to the confrontation that was inevitable. “I am. I have to. You know that.”

  “I do, but I also know that with him, I guarantee there’s an explanation. Give him, of all people, the benefit of the doubt,” John said. “Besides, you can always kill him later, if you’re so inclined, since you do have a penchant for sending men to meet their mak
er. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see what they have on this new cable system. The picture on this HD TV is awesome. The nurse told me they even have pay-per-view, and since this is on Uncle Sam’s dime, why not?”

  “Wonderful,” Logan said. “Try not to watch too much porn. That might look awkward on a government credit card. And I’m fairly certain Amira would kill you, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop that woman.”

  “You and me both,” John said.

  Logan walked over to the side of his friend’s bed. He reached out and put his hand on John’s shoulder, bypassing the formality of a handshake. “Get some rest. I’ll let you know how it goes.” He squeezed gently and took a step to the door.

  “Roger that. Now that’s an order I can follow,” John said, and turned on the TV.

  CHAPTER 48

  The only good thing about driving into Washington DC was that it was a Sunday, and Logan knew the traffic would be nonexistent compared to the bedlam of a weekday. After leaving John, he’d called Jake to confirm his appointment at the White House. What he was about to do was necessary, no matter what the personal risk to him.

  He grabbed his cell phone and hit the line for Sarah. The Fox News commentator’s voice discussing the latest reported Vice President Baker sighting disappeared, replaced by a ringing.

  His wife picked up immediately. “Hey, hon, where are you? Did you already leave the hospital?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice.

  After the initial phone call before the final battle at the compound and momentarily facing the possibility that her husband might not survive long enough to be the father to their firstborn child, Sarah had been understandably protective, as well as righteously angered.

  Logan had called her to let her know he was alive the moment he’d hung up with Lance Foster after requesting HRT support and a medevac for John. That brief period between the time she’d told him to fight hard to the time he’d called her back to say he’d survived but that John had been shot was only a few minutes. But in those minutes, she’d envisioned a life without Logan, a baby without a father, and a lonely, tortuous existence without the man she loved. It was agonizing, and it had shaken her temporarily to her core. She knew she could do it—would do it—but Sarah West believed with all her heart that she was meant to do it with Logan, not as a single mother.