by Stephen Frey
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, but no worries. He was a civilian.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Troy really had no idea, but they had to finish this thing off. Rescuing Travers was that important, for one crucial reason that he couldn’t relate to the other agents—because he didn’t know himself. It was that classified. “Just get down here.”
“We’re close.”
Troy suddenly had a very bad feeling. He hated it when that happened, because he was usually right.
He swung around and aimed when he thought he felt a pair of eyes burning into his back—but there was nothing behind him except an empty hallway. He exhaled heavily. “Stay cool,” he muttered, “stay cool.”
Agent Idaho broke back onto the IC. “All right, all right, we’re done. All clear upstairs.”
Troy hustled back to the base of the double staircase outside the dining room as the other two agents hustled down the same side toward him, one after the other.
“They’ve got to be in the basement,” Idaho said, “if they’re here at all.”
“But there’s no exterior exit out of the house from down there. No steps from down there back up to ground level. We confirmed that before we came in. And I can only find one set of stairs to the basement here on the first floor. Any overlap stairs up there?” Troy asked, pointing up with his thumb. “Were there any stairs from levels two or three that skip this floor?”
“No, and we checked everything including closets.”
Troy shook his head. “Why would they trap themselves down there?” This didn’t feel right. Something was wrong.
Wyoming shrugged. “Quid pro quo?”
“Explain that, will you, Caesar?”
“They’re letting us come down. They’re going to negotiate their way out once we’re down there. They’re gonna use Travers as trade bait for freedom. We surprised them, and now they have no choice. He has no choice,” Wyoming added. “He has to negotiate.”
Troy shook his head. That didn’t sound right, either. “We won’t negotiate. He must know that.” Troy gestured ahead. “Come on, let’s do it, but careful as we go. This could be an ambush. Maybe that’s why they’re holing up in the basement.”
The three men hustled down the hall to the basement door and then descended the steps quickly, spreading out as soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs, ready for anything.
MADDUX SPRINTED UP the porch stairs. As he crossed the wide wooden slats, he marveled at how silent he was, even as he moved quickly. If he’d been a heavy man, the boards would be creaking and groaning and they might hear him down in the basement. Yes, it was good to be small.
He knew they were down there because he’d just gotten another text—the last one he would receive, he was sure. By now his partner had almost certainly been captured and they were in the process of freeing Travers. But that was fine.
Maddux chuckled softly as he headed down. They hadn’t planned it this way, but it was working out perfectly. Timing wasn’t everything in life. Training, skill, and smarts were the primary keys to success. But timing was still damn important.
THE ONLY thing Troy and the other two RCS agents encountered at the bottom of the basement stairs was Nathan Kohler. He stood in front of a small but solid-looking prison cell with his arms folded across his chest defiantly—unarmed. Behind Kohler and the narrowly spaced, vertical iron bars was Wilson Travers, who was chained to one wall of the cell by his neck.
Troy recognized Kohler immediately. He was an arrogant prick. Worse, he was a bigot. He didn’t flaunt his racial hatred, but it wasn’t hard to detect if you dug only slightly below the surface. Especially after a few beers, which Troy’d had the unfortunate opportunity to share with Kohler a month after Kohler had joined the Falcons. The only reason Kohler had gotten into RCS, Bill had explained to Troy last night, was because of his father, Douglas Kohler. Until his death a few months ago, Douglas Kohler had been the senior United States senator from North Carolina—and a Red Cell Seven associate.
As in all walks of life and no matter how hard they tried to avoid it, Troy thought regretfully as he stared at the blond young man, a few bad apples managed to make it through into RCS. For the most part it was an amazing crew of good and dedicated people. But over the last six years Troy had met three or four men he could have done without—Nathan Kohler being one of them.
“Open the cell door, Nathan,” Troy ordered. He recognized Travers, too. Travers had indeed been the man Troy had delivered cash and instructions to in Greece. “Let Travers out.”
Troy gestured at the lock on the cell door. “Come on, hurry up.” He wanted to get out fast. They’d leave Kohler locked in the cell and then make an anonymous call when they were far enough away so someone could come and get the kid out. “Now, Nathan.”
Agent Idaho covered Kohler with his MP5 while Agent Wyoming covered the stairs in case anyone tried coming down from the first floor. Neither of them had fired a shot yet, so each man had a full magazine as well as another full clip in the clamp alongside the active one.
“Why’d you do this?” Troy asked. Time was of the essence, but he wanted to know. “Why’d you turn on the cell?”
“Fuck you and your father. The nigger stays where he is.”
Troy shook his head in disbelief. Bill and Douglas Kohler must have been very good friends. “We have full license from COC tonight, Nathan.”
“You mean from your father.”
“Do you understand what that means?”
“It means you can screw me—”
“It means I have the authority to use any and all force necessary to get Major Travers out of here. It means I can kill you if I want to.”
“Yeah, well, fuck yourself. Go ahead and shoot me.”
Troy moved to where Kohler was standing and held his hand out. “Give me the keys. I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m not giving you—”
Troy hammered Kohler’s gut with the butt of his gun and sent the kid groaning and sprawling to the cement floor. Kohler coiled into a fetal position as Troy leaned down, rolled the kid to one side, and grabbed the set of keys beneath him.
As Troy rose back up, he was aware of Agent Idaho falling limply to the floor, followed immediately by Agent Wyoming. They’d both been shot through the head. Blood was already pouring onto the floor from gaping wounds just above their ears. They weren’t even twitching, the shots had been so perfect.
Then there was a blade at Troy’s throat.
“Hello, Mr. Jensen,” came a calm voice from behind him.
Shane Maddux. Troy recognized the voice immediately. The man had been his superior for six years. Now he knew who had turned Nathan Kohler against Red Cell Seven.
“Hello, Shane.”
How did Maddux do it? Travers and Kohler had been the only other people down here—Troy had believed. He and Agent Wyoming had checked the entire basement thoroughly—while Idaho had watched Kohler—and there were no stairs other than the ones the three of them had descended from the first floor. Now Troy understood why Kohler hadn’t resisted or tried to run. Maddux wanted them all down here.
“No formal address?” Maddux asked. “No more Major Maddux?”
“You don’t deserve a formal—”
“Drop the gun, Troy.”
Troy allowed the submachine gun to slip from his right hand where it had been hanging next to his leg. It clattered to the floor.
There was no point resisting. Maddux was far too good a killer. If he sensed the slightest defiance, that blade beneath Troy’s chin would slice his throat, and nothing much else would matter after that.
“Pick up the gun, Nathan,” Maddux ordered sharply. “Get up. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Kohler crawled to where Troy’s MP5 lay, grabbed it, and groaned again as he struggled
to pull himself to his feet.
“Open the cell, Nathan.”
Kohler looked at Maddux like he was crazy. “What?”
“We’re taking Major Travers with us.” Maddux nodded at Travers. “Get him out of there. Make sure he’s still cuffed before you let him out of the ring.”
“Why are we taking him with us?” Kohler demanded as he grabbed the keys back from Troy and slid one of them into the lock.
“Major Travers has something very special I want. We need him to lead us to it.”
Kohler swung the cell door open and moved to where Travers sat on a narrow bench. When he was satisfied the cuffs securing Travers’s hands together behind his back were tight on both wrists, Kohler unlocked the metal collar around Travers’s neck. The chain that connected the collar to the ring anchored into the wall snaked to the floor.
“Toss me that gun,” Maddux ordered as Nathan followed Travers out of the cell.
Kohler bent down and grabbed the gun lying beside Agent Idaho’s body, then lobbed it to Maddux. Maddux released Troy, caught the submachine gun, and quickly slid the knife back into a sheath on his belt.
Maddux motioned toward the cell with the gun. “Get in there, Troy.”
“Not going to kill me?”
“I would,” Maddux answered, “but I don’t want to piss your father off now that he’s calling the shots.”
The explanation sounded hollow. Why would Maddux be worried about that? He’d killed Jack. He must know Bill was already out for revenge. “You killed Jack. You really think you could hurt my father more than you have?” And how would Maddux know that Bill was calling the shots at Red Cell Seven? He might assume, but he shouldn’t know.
Maddux stared at Troy for several seconds like a statue, without breathing. Then he nodded subtly as his eyes narrowed. “So that’s what you think. You think I killed Jack.”
“I know you did, Shane.”
“Of course,” Maddux whispered to himself.
“You killed Lisa Martinez, too, along with my brother’s friend.”
“They saw my face. I had to kill them. It was a matter of national security.”
It was insane, but for a moment Troy actually understood the explanation. For Shane Maddux that would have been a matter of national security because in Maddux’s demented mind he probably considered himself the primary protector of the nation’s security. “But you didn’t kill my son. You didn’t kill Little Jack. I wonder why.”
“You know why.”
Troy swallowed hard as he stared at Maddux.
“You didn’t kill my son because you’re loyal to me, Shane. We’ve been through hell and back together, and that’s why you spared L.J. And that’s why you aren’t going to kill me now.”
A sad grin crept to Maddux’s lips. “I didn’t kill your son because it wasn’t necessary, Troy. How I feel about you had nothing to do with that decision. And it has nothing to do with why I’m letting you live tonight. Letting you live is strategic. I don’t want to piss your father off.” His eyes narrowed. “In fact, Troy, I don’t care at all about you. You are simply an individual who served under my command, and that’s as far as it goes. That’s as far as it’s ever gone. You should understand that. For your own good,” he added somberly.
Troy started to speak, but Kohler slammed the butt of the MP5 he was clutching into Troy’s gut and sent him tumbling to the floor in agony.
Kohler smiled down at Troy smugly. “How’s it feel, you prick?”
Troy grabbed his stomach and tried desperately to breathe. He should have anticipated that one.
As Kohler bent down to drag Troy into the tiny cell, a bullet smashed into his chin, burst through his throat, and blew out the back of his neck.
As Kohler collapsed onto him, Troy saw Maddux pull a small silver ball from his belt and hurl it to the floor. The ball exploded on impact, and the room was instantly clogged with thick, pungent smoke. Troy grabbed the MP5 Kohler had just taken from him, hurled the kid’s body aside, struggled to his feet, somehow found Travers in the haze, and then emptied the second magazine of the MP5 into the basement all around them. His stomach was still killing him, but adrenaline and the will to live overpowered the pain.
“I’m Troy Jensen,” he yelled into Travers’s ear from close range as he reached into his pack, grabbed another double set of magazines, and reloaded. “I was sent by COC to get you out of here.” If he hadn’t been a foot away from Travers when the bomb went off, he wouldn’t have been able to identify him. The smoke had gotten that thick that fast. “We gotta get out of here. Stay close. Don’t lose me.”
AS SOON AS the device Maddux hurled to the floor exploded, Agent Bridger raced back up the steps to the first floor, bolted for the front door, and then sprinted away past the tall maple trees. Bridger didn’t stop running until after recrossing the pasture and making it back into the forest that bordered this side of the farm.
The agent was a former city police officer and knew how to handle a gun, had actually fired in self-defense twice on the streets. But Bridger had never shot anyone, much less taken a life.
Bridger rested against a tree and sucked in air while gazing back through the trees. No one had noticed Bridger sneak down the basement stairs with a pistol leading the way, least of all the poor man who was lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs with blood pouring from a head wound. In the moment there had been no way to know if he was dead, and no way to check.
But the guy Bridger had shot, the blond one who’d hit Troy with the butt of the submachine gun, was definitely dead. Bridger had always pulled excellent marksman grades—and the bullet had nailed that guy who’d belted Troy. Then that little guy had detonated the smoke bomb, and chaos had ensued.
Agent Bridger leaned the MP5 against a tree and holstered the 9mm that had killed the guy in the basement. Bridger had grabbed the submachine gun off the floor before racing up the steps. It had been lying next to the guy with the head wound at the bottom of the stairs.
Bridger knelt down and took a deep breath.
Mentors on the police force had warned that the first kill was always tough to handle. They were right. Taking a human life, no matter who it was, had a powerful impact on anyone with a conscience.
It had been the right thing to do. Killing that guy had saved Troy’s life. But somehow that didn’t make the death any easier to accept.
Karen wiped the tears from her face, picked up the MP5, and kept going through the trees.
“Why did you leave me, Jack?” she whispered as she moved across the dead leaves blanketing the forest floor. “I miss you so damn much.”
CHAPTER 18
JACOB GADANZ swung his five-year-old metallic brown Honda Accord into a narrow, unmarked parking space of the Manassas, Virginia, industrial park. This location was twenty miles from Tysons Corner and thirty-five miles west of the White House.
Gadanz came to a quick stop between a pickup truck and an old white van—vehicles he recognized as owned by two of his delivery drivers. He made a point of knowing his employees well. He wanted them motivated, and he found that taking a sincere interest in them helped that cause. Even more crucial, that interest made them loyal. It made them think they were family, though they weren’t and never could be.
It was seven o’clock in the morning, but Gadanz had already been awake for two hours. And he’d enjoyed every moment of it. He and his common-law wife, Sasha, had two beautiful daughters—Elaina and Sophie—who were his pride and joy. He fixed breakfast for the girls every morning while Sasha slept in until six-thirty. The girls loved his blueberry pancakes most, but fixing anything for them was always the best part of his day. It was his only time to be with them, because from the time he left the house until well after both girls had gone to bed, he was completely committed to work. So much so that he didn’t call them or take their calls unless it was a dire em
ergency. So they didn’t bother anymore. They’d learned.
Sasha took over all parenting duties as soon as Gadanz walked out at six forty-five sharp, and she was in charge of the house until he got home. She did an excellent job, too. He had no complaints. He didn’t ask her how she kept the house and the girls in such good order, and she never asked him how he made the money that enabled her to do that. They respected each other, and they had a system. They’d been together for sixteen years, and the passion was mostly gone. Acknowledged or not, their relationship was more of a business partnership now than anything else. But it worked—for both of them.
Elaina, the older daughter, was halfway through sixth grade, and she’d never earned anything less than an A in any course she’d ever taken. She was a bookworm, and that was perfect. It fit snugly into Gadanz’s long-term plan.
Sophie was nine years old and didn’t care in the least about her grades, which were never very good. But that didn’t matter to her—or Gadanz. It wasn’t that Sophie was slow, either. In fact, she was quite smart. She’d always scored extremely high on standardized tests, and she usually figured out problems before any of her friends, even before her older sister, which irritated Elaina no end and amused Gadanz greatly.
Sophie simply didn’t see the point of spending time memorizing facts and figures. Her natural gift was the ability to influence people, which she seemed to smoothly wield with everyone she came into contact with. Even her teachers admitted that she had an incredible gift for convincing people to do things, the likes of which none of them had ever seen in a girl her age. She seemed able to get anyone to do anything with her charismatic smile and her engaging way. And even at nine years old, she seemed completely aware of how to use her talents to her best advantage and absolutely comfortable doing so.
Ultimately, she would take over the family business, and Elaina would be the chief financial officer. Gadanz already had the line of succession mapped out. The older sister would report to the younger one. If Elaina didn’t like it, well, that would be too bad. She’d have to get over it. He’d never admit this to anyone—even Sasha—and he always made certain to treat Elaina and Sophie exactly the same way and never show either of them any favoritism. But Sophie was the diamond of his eye. She would be the CEO of Gadanz & Company. She would be the next leader of the family.
