Act of Revenge

by Dale Brown

  “Three guys at the end of the hallway,” said Johnny.

  “Which one’s Jackpot?” asked Rosen.

  “Can’t tell.”

  “Taser them all. Can’t risk killing Jackpot.”

  “They all have guns,” said Johnny. “Something’s not right here.”

  “Taser them all.”

  Johnny reached to his back and undid the Velcro straps holding the Taser shotgun to his tac vest. Looking something like a Remington 870 with a drum magazine and a 1950s Buck Rogers Day-Glo yellow back end, the Taser fired a small web of electric charges. Get hit anywhere on your body and the charge put you down within microseconds. It could work through clothes as well, though not as dependably.

  Which was why he aimed for the face.

  Johnny got off a shot before he was hit. He fired twice more, then rolled back, dazed—a round had hit his vest near his shoulder. Though the ceramic plate stopped the bullet and absorbed a good deal of the impact, the blow nonetheless sent a shock through his body. It was as if someone had flipped an on-off switch, temporarily paralyzing his systems. He gasped for air as if he’d lost his breath.

  The other members of the team scrambled past him. The three men at the end of the hallway were all down, disabled by the Taser rounds Johnny and the leader had fired.

  “Get the hypos in them, cuff ’em,” shouted the leader. “Let’s go! Let’s go.”

  By the time Johnny got to his feet, the men were trussed and being dragged into one of the rooms. Johnny got up and tapped the man who was guarding the stairs.

  “I got this,” Johnny said, releasing him to help the others in the room.

  Gunfire stoked up outside.

  “We need that resistance cleared so the chopper can come in!” said someone over the team radio.

  Chelsea swept her hand over the screen, commanding a refresh. For some reason the infrared camera on the Nightbird UAV had stopped working.

  “Chopper is inbound!” boomed the voice of the team leader over the radio. “We need that resistance suppressed!”

  That was her job—command Destiny to bomb the positions. But without the help of the other UAV, she had to manually calculate the targets: Destiny was a dumb bird, incapable of selecting targets on its own.

  She couldn’t see the enemy, but she knew the gunfire was coming from positions some five hundred yards away, behind trees and possibly a stone wall. So what she had to do was time two attacks—one as the helicopter came in, then a second as it took off.

  She looked at the grid on the screen and mentally calculated their position against the enemy’s.

  We have to move back. We’re supposed to be farther away.

  What’s the backup position? Delta or Beta?

  Shit!

  She keyed her mike. “Team, move to pickup point, pickup point . . .”

  Why was her brain freezing on this, of all things?

  “Move to Delta,” said Rosen over the radio. “Prepare for evac.”

  Chelsea tapped the right side of the screen, opening the window that showed the pickup helicopter’s com section. A double tap sent an audible message over the encrypted line directing it to Delta.

  The helicopter’s pilot acknowledged. He was two minutes away.

  Chelsea went back to the grid and designated the target area for Destiny, directing a line barrage of attacks with half its remaining missiles.

  “Launch attack in thirty,” she told it. “Attack in thirty seconds.”

  She turned toward where the gunfire was coming from and waited.

  Red flared in plumes of black against the gray distance. The air popped.

  Got him!

  Chelsea felt herself being pulled to her feet.

  “Hey!” yelled one of her teammates. “You gotta get to the exfil! Here’s the chopper!”

  Though he was the last one out of the house, Johnny had to pace himself as he ran, consciously holding himself back so he wouldn’t pass the others. His legs were just that—his legs, completely part of him, exactly as his “real” ones had been before the accident. The only difference was, these were about ten times stronger, considerably faster, and not prone to cramping, tiring, or even getting a mosquito bite.

  Not that they were better. They were just . . . his.

  The helicopter appeared in a whirl of dust and dirt. Johnny turned quickly, making sure they weren’t followed.

  Something moved in the shadows to his right. He stopped. The night glasses were powerful enough to illuminate even a mouse at a hundred yards, but they couldn’t see through solid objects, and his vision was blocked by a wall. He waited a few seconds, unsure if he’d actually seen anything or if it had all been a figment of his imagination.

  “Chopper! Chopper!” yelled the team leader. “Count off!”

  The others were getting aboard, calling out a number as they got inside.

  Johnny waited, covering the others, scanning the shadows. It was his turn to go, past his turn.

  Nothing was there.

  Go!

  He leveled his gun and fired in the direction of the house. He kept firing, emptying the magazine as he walked backward to the chopper. Someone grabbed him, pulling.

  “In!”

  Johnny turned and threw himself across the deck of the helicopter as it swept sideways and swung into the sky. Chelsea was next to him.

  “Hey!” he yelled to her. “Thanks.”

  In the next moment there was a flash, then a rumble.

  They’d been hit by a surface-to-air missile.

  33

  Undisclosed location—moments later

  Johansen shook his head.

  “All right,” he shouted, tapping his clipboard against his leg as he walked around the “crash” site. “Exercise over. Everybody up.”

  One by one, the “dead” rose.

  “I think I would have survived the crash,” quipped Charles “Manson” Burgoyne.

  “Recovery vehicles are that way,” said Johansen. “Breakfast and debrief in twenty.”

  “I want some serious coffee,” said Johnny.

  “I’d rather a beer,” said Burgoyne.

  Johnny didn’t realize how hungry he was until he went back for thirds, chowing down on the excellent prime rib. He hadn’t eaten like this since coming to Arizona to train.

  Actually, he hadn’t eaten like this in years. The CIA knew how to put out a spread.

  He stayed away from the beer, refilling his coffee cup. Walking back from the buffet table, he noticed Chelsea sitting by herself. She’d changed and showered, and was huddled over a cup of coffee.

  “Hey,” he told her, walking over. “This place taken?”

  She looked up glumly, then shrugged.

  “What’s up?” he asked, putting down his plate.

  “I fucked up.”

  “How?”

  “I couldn’t figure out where to aim the suppressing fire.”

  “You took out the first wave,” Johnny told her. “That missile that got us came from the hill, outside of the landing zone.”

  “I didn’t see them.”

  “They made it so we couldn’t succeed,” said Johnny. “We had shit like this at the Bureau. You see the team getting cocky, so you put them in their place. Relax. We kicked ass.”

  Johnny reached over gingerly and patted her on the back. Chelsea bristled, and he pulled his hand away.

  She’d been very standoffish the entire time they’d been training, avoiding him even.

  He told himself it was a male-female thing—she had to appear tough and went out of her way to do it. There was only one other woman on the team, Krista Weather, a former Air Force pararescuer or PJ, and even he realized the atmosphere was pretty macho.

  Or maybe this was too much for her. The training sessions were pretty damn extreme, beyond even those he’d been through in the Army or the FBI.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” said Chelsea, rising with her coffee cup. “Just need a refill
.”

  Johnny noted silently that it was more than half-full.

  All her life, Chelsea had been among the best, if not the best, at everything she did. Even field hockey, at least on her high school team.

  But now, here, she felt like a failure. She’d screwed up and gotten them all killed.

  She’d directed the second attack back at the wall, rather than looking for a wide scan from the backup bird, a surveillance drone supplied by the Air Force. She could have—should have—done that. She knew the procedure. She’d practiced.

  In a few minutes, once they did the debrief, everyone was going to know.

  Was that what bothered her the most—her ego? Everyone knowing she was capable of screwing up?

  No, it was the hesitation itself, the way her brain hadn’t worked properly. Her brain hadn’t worked properly the entire time they’d been training.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have volunteered in the first place. This was a hell of a lot harder than she’d expected.

  Give up?

  Weak. Weakling.

  I’m not weak. I’m small, tiny compared to most of these guys. But I’m not weak.

  Chelsea topped off her coffee cup and glanced over at Johnny. She was embarrassed to go back over.

  Why?

  Because he knew how vulnerable she really was. He knew she was mostly bluster and bullshit. He’d seen her vulnerable. And that wasn’t who she wanted to be.

  “All right,” said Johansen, walking to the front. “Everyone full? Ready for a nap?”

  One or two of the team members laughed. Everyone else had had their sense of humor pounded out of them on the range.

  “This was designed as an impossible exercise,” said Johansen. “We kept throwing problems at you, left and right, trying to screw you up. And you held up well. So, good. But there’s always room for improvement.”

  Johansen took a step forward as a screen lowered at the front of the room. He began talking about contingencies and communications, “the two C’s.”

  He was big on axioms.

  Why the hell did I volunteer for this? Chelsea asked herself for the millionth time. Who the hell do I think I am?

  34

  Over Arizona—two hours later

  Massina checked his watch. They were roughly five minutes from landing. Time for one more call, maybe two.

  He had at least ten important ones to make.

  He decided to go with the first one on the list. It was Jimmy Gorman.

  Probably not all that important, he thought, punching the number to redial. But it was too late to hang up.

  “Louis, is this you?” boomed Gorman’s voice.

  “It’s me, Jimmy. What’s up?”

  “The governor is hoping to have dinner with you.”

  “Are you his social secretary now?”

  “I should be so lucky. All that free food? No, he asked me to set it up. He loved your speech. Loves it. Raving about it. Wants to get you to run for office.”

  “That is never going to happen,” said Massina.

  “Gotta keep him happy. He’ll take away the tax credits on your building if you don’t keep him happy.”

  “I received no tax credits for that building.” It was a point of honor for him, and even the hint touched a nerve. “We get no special treatment from the government and we want none.”

  “Joking, joking. Relax. Check your schedule and get back to me. I guarantee he’ll be there.”

  Massina hung up before Gorman could continue.

  The screen in front of him showed the next call he should make, with a note from his assistant: Charlie Rose re. show. Loved what you said at event. Wants to talk personally.

  That would be a long call, no? He looked at the next name on the list—a business associate from Colorado interested in a joint venture.

  That would be an even longer call.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the steward. “We’re about to land. We lose the satellite on approach.”

  “Thank you.” Massina flipped over to his message board, running through it quickly. His assistant had just sent a laundry list of things that he needed to do:

  Good Morning America needs an answer.

  GM contract ready.

  Falco needs—

  The screen blinked, and an icon appeared, indicating their communications link had just been jammed.

  “Off the grid,” he said to himself, turning off the laptop. “Thank God.”

  Massina was at the door before Telakus and Chevy Mangro stirred from their seats; they’d slept nearly the entire flight—a small down payment on nearly a month’s work of sleep deprivation.

  A pair of Jeep Wrangler Unlimiteds drove up to the Gulfstream’s ladder. Johansen hopped out of the first one, moving with a spry energy that he’d never demonstrated in Boston or D.C. Shaded by a baseball cap, his tanned face looked twenty years younger. It was only when you stared that you saw the lines around his eyes.

  “Welcome to Never-Never Land,” Johansen said. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine.”

  “Not as luxurious as you’re used to, I guess,” said Johansen.

  “I fly commercial.”

  “Is that wise from a security point of view?”

  Massina shrugged. In truth it probably wasn’t, at least according to Bozzone, but he reasoned that there were security risks no matter what.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for your cell phones and any other electronic devices,” said Johansen.

  “I left them in the plane,” said Massina. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Telakus and Chevy had complied. They nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get to it.”

  Johansen got back behind the wheel; Massina sat next to him, and they drove alone to the “Bunkhouse”—a low-slung building nearly ten miles away that functioned as the facility’s nerve center. Dirt furled up behind them as they drove, Johansen managing a good clip on the hardscrabble trail. An occasional building intruded on the view, which otherwise ran for miles to a row of white-capped mountains that looked to be holding up the sky. Neither man spoke until Massina asked Johansen how Johnny and Chelsea were.

  “Very well,” said Johansen. “She’s tough. Stoic. I like that.”

  “Chelsea,” said Massina.

  “Yup. She’s a hell of a girl.”

  “I wouldn’t call her a girl,” said Massina.

  “They’re all girls and boys to me,” confessed Johansen.

  “Johnny?” asked Massina.

  “He’s a natural. But I expected that with his résumé. This was all about team building,” added Johansen. “I wanted them involved because I want them to work with the others smoothly. She won’t be in danger,” he added. “Chelsea will be behind the lines. We won’t take chances.”

  “Of course not,” said Massina, though they both knew that was a lie.

  35

  Syria—around the same time

  The knife was crusted with dirt, its edge dull. Even so, Ghadab immediately realized its worth.

  He picked up the one next to it on the table.

  “How much?” he asked the man.

  “Two hundred Syrian pounds.”

  “You use the infidels’ money?”

  “The government has decreed it lawful,” said the merchant quickly. “If you have our holy currency, of course I would prefer that.”

  “And if I have euros?” asked Ghadab.

  “I’m sorry, brother,” said the man, looking him over quickly. “I will not be able to help you.”

  “Are there places where they can be exchanged?”

  “I would not want to deal with anyone who is a barbarian,” said the man. “I’m sure it’s not your intention to sin, and I mean no insult, but the law must be followed.”

  So perfect an answer he had surely rehearsed it, thought Ghadab. He picked up the knife he really wanted. “How much for this one?”

  “A hundred thousand pounds.”

  A hundred
thousand pounds would be roughly a hundred euros. Given the quality and age of the blade, it was a bargain, but Ghadab sensed he could get it for far less.

  “It’s very old and has to be sharpened,” he told the man.

  “Let me tell you about this knife, brother,” said the merchant. “It is a khanjar. It is very special. Used for ceremonies. Oh, an ancient blade—imagine the great men who held this in their hand. Their honor flows to you. Should you buy it, of course.”

  “Really? This knife?”

  “Do you not know the style? It is distinctive.” The merchant continued, giving him some basic information about how the curved blade would cut, then embellishing this particular one with a story of how it was passed down from a former Iraqi prince.

  “How did it make it across the border?” asked Ghadab. He suspected the story had been fabricated, but it was a good tale.

  “Ah, how does anything cross a border?” said the man. “I’m told it came across with a tribesman in the last war with the infidels, sold for the price of three meals.”

  “I’ll give you three meals for it, then,” said Ghadab.

  “I am not as desperate as the tribesman.”

  A bit more haggling, and they reached a good price—fifty thousand Syrian pounds. Ghadab took it across the bazaar and found a man to clean and sharpen it while he watched. Two small jewels were missing just above the hilt, and the gold at the top of the dog-bone-shaped handle was worn off, but the curved blade was pristine, strong, well-tempered, and now razor sharp. The weapon was weighted perfectly; it felt like a claw in his hand, one he’d been born with.

  He carried it back to his temporary home above the restaurant. Shadaa was waiting for him when he arrived, standing near the door exactly as he had left her that morning, wearing an abaya and hijab, the black robe too long so that it folded on the ground, and her head fully covered, even though they were inside.