Rogue Faction Part 1

by Xander Weaver

  Boone moved in on the aircraft, advancing down the center of the structure. At the same time, he sensed Ryan somewhere to his right, moving in lockstep with him. As the Airbus came fully into view for the first time, Boone was puzzled by what he saw. A mobile staircase was positioned against the main fuselage door just behind the cockpit, and the doorway appeared to be peppered with bullet holes. All of the passenger window shades were open, and the front windows were empty. The back two thirds of the windows appeared to be blocked with cargo.

  Parked near the base of the staircase was a black Cadillac Escalade. Its four windows were down and the rear hatch was open. The music Boone heard was coming from the Escalade’s sound system; now that he was close, he could hear it clearly. It wasn’t loud, but it was easy to make out from within fifty or so feet of the vehicle. He couldn’t recall the album, but it was one of Social Distortion’s newer albums. Boone was well acquainted with the band because Cyrus had played their albums to death during sparring sessions.

  However, none of this was the strangest of what there was to see. Spread out across the floor in front of the Escalade were at least a dozen automatic rifles and nearly two dozen handguns of varying makes and calibers. They were neatly arranged on the ground, as if someone was taking inventory of some eclectic collection. Scattered among the mix of armaments was an assortment of hunting and combat knives, a few tactical vests, and even a half dozen smoke and fragmentation grenades.

  What the hell is going on?

  Cyrus’s most recent report had explained that Sutter had acquired an Airbus and that he would be using it to leave the country with his latest shipment of hardware. But if the jet was still on the ground, where in the hell was Sutter?

  Boone observed the strange circumstances as all of these questions filtered through his mind. He caught sight of Ryan surreptitiously moving toward him from his right. And based on the look crossing his face, he was asking himself the same questions.

  ————

  Stoffer Airfield

  12:06 am

  A wide smile crossed Cyrus’s face as he stepped from the doorway of the Airbus A319. He stood at the top of the staircase and looked down at his friend and mentor as the man examined the strange display spread across the hangar floor. After disarming the mercenary clan, Cyrus was at a loss to amuse himself, so he’d set about taking inventory of the confiscated weapons. He didn’t say a word as he watched Boone examine the scene; nor did he react when he saw Ryan moving in from the periphery. Both men seemed equally confused by what they were seeing.

  A moment later, when Boone’s attention shifted, his eyes caught sight of Cyrus at the top of the staircase. Boone’s gun instantly rose and acquired him as a target. Cyrus slowly raised his hands in a defensive gesture; a mischievous grin already slapped on his face. “It would be a shame to shoot me now,” Cyrus admonished. “I’ve worked hard to stay alive this long.”

  Boone’s mouth fell open. He started to speak, only to stop himself before finding the words. Almost an afterthought, he seemed to realize that he was still pointing his weapon. Lowering it, Boone offered a shocked, if reluctant, grin.

  “How’re you doing, kid?” Boone finally managed to ask.

  The question brought a laugh from Cyrus. “All good here, boss! Oh, we’re clear, by the way. You can call the rest of the team in, if you like.”

  Shaking his head, Boone tapped his earpiece. “I’ve got eyes on Cyrus. The sonofabitch is alive and well. Establish a perimeter. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us.”

  With a nod, Ryan took his cue. He headed back toward the entrance to join the rest of the team and set up a perimeter.

  Cyrus watched Ryan leave and considered Boone’s orders. “Are you expecting trouble?”

  Exhaling a long breath, Boone made eye contact. “It’s been a really long day. We’re weak on the perimeter. I lost half my team in Kingston. I don’t want to be caught with my pants down if Sutter shows up.”

  Cyrus quickly descended the staircase and approached Boone. “I was afraid things went south when you didn’t show on time. That’s not like you. How bad was it?”

  “Fleming didn’t make it.”

  Cyrus could see the pain in his friend’s eyes. He hadn’t been in the game all that long, comparatively speaking, but he’d been on operations that lost people. It wasn’t easy. Doubly so for the man in charge.

  “Two more are badly injured and on their way back to the States right now,” Boone concluded.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Cyrus said quietly. He knew Boone took these things to heart. It was part of what made him a good man and a great commanding officer.

  “But you don’t have to worry about Sutter,” Cyrus continued. “I’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The remark caused Boone’s brow to furrow.

  “It’s true,” Cyrus confirmed. Boone’s visible skepticism made him want to laugh, but it wasn’t the time. “When you were running late I had to improvise. I took Sutter prisoner, then leveraged him against the rest of his men.”

  Boone didn’t look convinced.

  Shaking his head, Cyrus couldn’t understand the man’s doubt. “See for yourself,” he urged. “I put everyone on ice!”

  Cyrus was already leading Boone across the hangar to the wide stainless steel door on the long, box-like structure running along the back wall. On the way, they passed the still smoldering remains of one of the exterior service doors. There was a wide breach in the wall through which the night sky was plainly visible.

  Boone stopped short, looking at a charred white shoe off to the side.

  “Oh,” Cyrus said with a somewhat sheepish grin. “I forgot to mention that. Eartzie didn’t make it.”

  Without elaboration, Cyrus kept walking.

  When they reached the heavily insulated freezer door, both men stopped. “Ten men, plus four dead, and Aubin Sutter. Sutter didn’t go quietly so he’s going to need medical attention,” Cyrus reported in a tone that was all business.

  Thinking about that for a moment, Cyrus decided to revise his statement. “Scratch that. Better have a medic standing by. Sutter went down hard. You should have someone here when you pull him out of the freezer if you want to keep him viable.”

  Boone just stared at him as if he were speaking another language. Cyrus banged his fist on the freezer door. “How’re we doing in there?” He yelled.

  This brought a rousing chorus of profanity from inside the freezer. It was accompanied with the clamor of fists and feet smashing against both the door and the sides of the thick freezer walls.

  It made Cyrus laugh. He couldn’t understand the kicking and pounding. It was incredibly unlikely that the door would give under the weak onslaught. Sutter’s crew wasn’t the sharpest bunch, and Cyrus found them amusing. What possible good could all of the fuss do?

  He supposed that the career path “mercenary” didn’t require a very high score on a high school aptitude test. Then again, he’d spent six months undercover with most of those clowns. It was actually a wonder that some of them knew which end of a gun to stand behind when pulling the trigger.

  When Cyrus pulled back from his personal revelry, he realized Boone was staring at him.

  “What the hell?” Cyrus finally demanded. “Just say what’s on your mind so we can get the hell out of here. What did I do wrong?”

  Boone burst out laughing. “Wrong? From where I’m standing you didn’t do a damn thing wrong!”

  Boone turned and walked away, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. He left Cyrus there wondering what the laughter was all about.

  Cyrus jogged to catch up.

  “I gotta be honest, kid,” Boone explained. “My mission was a goddamn disaster. I had three men down. Then we got here an hour behind schedule, I was sure I was coming to collect your corpse!”

  Cyrus walked beside him. He still didn’t see what Boone was so worked up over.

  “You’re going to make me spell it out?” Boone dema
nded. “You’re a dick, you know that?” He was grinning.

  “Fine!” Boone continued. “I send you undercover with a world class arms dealer. The guy is a Grade-A asshole. Every agency knows it. I figured there was no way you’d get inside his group in the first place. But you had to prove me wrong. Not only did you get inside, but you brokered one hell of a deal! You got Sutter to pull you in on the biggest operation he’s touched in five years. He called you in on an op he was working with Eartzie, of all people! That SOB’s on the wanted list of every agency on the planet—and you talked your way onto that crew?

  “All fine and good. But you did it by telling Sutter that you could deliver a new prototype explosive? I knew we were asking for trouble when Monica insisted on a pair of back-to-back ops, but you said you were game. The entire point was to use the meeting to get a tactical team within reach of Sutter. But when I drop the ball and miss the meet, you just scoop them all up on your own?”

  Boone stopped walking and put his hand on Cyrus’s chest, stopping him as well. “Cut the bullshit kid—how’d you do it? How’d you roll up Sutter, Eartzie, and all the king’s men by yourself?”

  Cyrus shrugged. “I rigged one of Eartzie’s perimeter bombs. When he tried to activate the perimeter, one of them failed to arm. That kind of thing looks really bad for a pro like Eartzie. He might be crazy, but he’s still a professional. He still takes—err, took, pride in his work. So when he went to check on the device, he found a simple oversight and fixed it quickly. He didn’t look close enough to see that I’d spliced the wires and added a 9-volt battery to one of the leads. As soon as he plunged the detonator pin into the plastique, the thing vaporized him. I just played on his professionalism and vanity.”

  “What about Sutter’s men? There must’ve been a dozen or more.”

  Cyrus smiled. “That was easier. I shot Sutter in the leg and foot, then trapped his men on the plane.”

  Cyrus liked to keep things simple. Boone didn’t go for it.

  “Quit screwing around. How’d you trap them on the plane?”

  “Fine,” Cyrus sighed. “Sutter was going to kill me when you didn’t show. I think he waited until everyone was on board so he wouldn’t draw attention to the way he’d been stood up. I killed the two men guarding me, then put two rounds in Sutter. I told the guys on board the plane that I had it rigged. If they didn’t surrender, no one would be able to ID their bodies. I gave them some time to think about it.”

  “How’d you manage to rig the plane ahead of time?”

  The question brought a sheepish grin from Cyrus. “I didn’t do anything to the plane—they just didn’t know that. While I was letting them think it over, I moved the staircase away from the plane and pulled the explosives from a few of the places where Eartzie rigged the hangar. By the time the guys onboard made up their mind, I had the fuselage rigged for real—just in case they called my bluff.

  “The next thing you know, I had everyone disarmed, in the freezer, and locked up nice and tight.”

  “And you put them in the freezer because…”

  Cyrus took a deep breath. He was hoping to avoid saying the words. “I thought I might have to go looking for you. You’re never late. Something had obviously gone wrong.”

  Boone took a long look at Cyrus. Then he looked back at the massive white aircraft. He seemed to be taking his time and contemplating the extent of Cyrus’s extended plan.

  “All that on a bluff? And all of it improvised when I didn’t show up on time?”

  “It wasn’t all a bluff,” Cyrus offered. “I eventually made good on my promise about having the plane rigged to blow.”

  Boone laughed.

  After a few moments of silence, Boone finally tapped his earpiece. “Murphy, I need you inside to arrange transport for a dozen prisoners, plus medevac and security for a high value detainee.”

  He looked back at Cyrus, offering a pale grin. “You’re something else, kid!”

  Chapter 8

  Somewhere over the Atlantic

  5:20 am

  Cyrus had watched Boone for the better part of an hour. Only minutes after the Coalition’s Gulfstream G650 lifted off for home, Boone placed a call using a handset that was hardwired into the onboard communication system. Whatever was being discussed, Boone was doing a lot of the talking. And while the plush accommodations of the Gulfstream did a remarkable job of reducing engine noise, the constant muted rumble of the jet turbines and whistle of the air across the fuselage were just enough to keep Boone’s words from Cyrus’s ears. Whatever was being said, Boone looked as tired as Cyrus had ever seen him. The call only seemed to be wearing him down further.

  Looking to the rear of the cabin, Cyrus examined the scene for perhaps the fifth time. He still found the view every bit as satisfying. The lavish leather seats at the rear of the Gulfstream had been removed, allowing for prisoner transport accommodations. In this case, it was a pair of unpleasant looking steel framed chairs that were bolted to both the deck plating and the rear bulkhead of the cabin. The seats were reclined at approximately a thirty-degree angle and offered no padding whatsoever.

  A prisoner was secured to each of the primitive looking chairs; both men shackled hand and foot and bound to the arms and legs of the seat with heavy leather straps. A hood had been pulled over the head of each man, but telling them apart was a simple matter. Sutter, on the right, had at least fifty pounds on Kang and was nearly a foot taller. Sutter also had broad shoulders and thick arms. Seeing Kang beside him—especially with both of their faces obscured—made Kang look like a child sitting beside a grown man.

  Cyrus found the comparison amusing and wondered if it had anything to do with the frustration Boone had over capturing Kang. All he knew for sure was that Boone’s operation hadn’t gone according to plan, and that his commanding officer was chafing over whatever had happened. They had ex-filtrated so quickly that Cyrus hadn’t heard the details of Boone’s operation. He now felt anxious for his friend to get off the phone so he could bring him up to speed. It wasn’t like Boone to let an op go sideways on him.

  Still examining Sutter and Kang at the far end of the cabin, Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to the thick bandages around Sutter’s leg and foot. Though he’d inflicted the wounds as a means to an end, he now had to admit—at least to himself—that they’d also served a secondary purpose. Even at the time he’d considered the idea to have long term tactical value—though he wasn’t sure those higher up the food chain would ever agree.

  The gunshot to the leg and foot had put Sutter out of the game and placed Cyrus in control of the aircraft hangar. The pair of injuries left Sutter too busy maintaining his tourniquets to be much of a problem. But since day one of the six-month undercover operation with Sutter’s band of merry men, something had bothered Cyrus. His mission was to infiltrate the operation and gain Sutter’s trust. The Coalition wanted to learn everything they could about his business and his clients. The more information Cyrus could gather, the more leverage they would have once Sutter was in custody. The goal, he’d been told, was to roll up Sutter and his crew, eliminating the entire operation in a clean sweep. They would take down Sutter’s entire client list in the process. Unfortunately, it was that final objective that had always bothered Cyrus.

  Taking down Sutter was easy enough. With Cyrus on the inside, the Coalition could grab him at any time. But if the Coalition was after Sutter’s clients, it meant they were after terrorist organizations and warlords—Sutter even supplied arms to small nations. There were small time thugs on the client list, but most of the groups Sutter brokered for were heavy hitting outfits. Moves against the organizations on Sutter’s ledger would constitute a massive undertaking. The way Cyrus saw it, there was only one way they could bag any of Sutter’s clients, let alone do any real damage to the bulk of his client list. Sooner or later, the Coalition brass would consider Sutter for catch and release. They were looking to turn him—to use him as a double agent.

  After six months undercover
with Sutter, Cyrus knew better. If the Coalition offered Sutter a deal, he would take it and find a way to leverage the situation to his own advantage. Cyrus knew he would never talk the Red Queen out of making such a deal; she’d lied to him about his mission objective, likely because she foresaw his objections. The gunshot wound to Sutter’s leg, and more specifically his foot, had been Cyrus’s attempt to work around the problems associated with any kind of catch and release arrangement.

  Sutter had always prided himself on the .45 caliber Colt 1911 he carried. Much like the story of how Sutter had lost his eye, the provenance of the weapon changed depending on who he was trying to impress at any given moment. Nonetheless, it was the caliber of the sidearm that had come back to haunt him, and not the story of its acquisition. The large caliber round had done a fair amount of tissue damage to his thigh—the wound had bled heavily and required considerable attention. But it was the shot to the foot that had ensured Sutter would never again walk without a limp. The heavy round had shattered several of the delicate bones in his foot. If he was turned and released back into the world as a double agent for the Coalition, Sutter would have a constant reminder of his situation and another war wound to explain to his clientele.

  Cyrus knew it wasn’t a brilliant plan, but he knew Sutter. The arms dealer wore his eye patch like a badge of honor, proudly telling fabricated stories of his loss to anyone who would listen. Cyrus had come to recognize each variation of the story for what it was—a tale of how Sutter wished he’d suffered the disfiguring injury. It meant he was always at odds with not only the disfigurement, but also how he’d received it. Cyrus had simply given the man something more to think about. It wasn’t just a new lie to tell, it was an ever present reminder of his place on the food chain.