The peculiar nature of his mission still nagged, though. The very capable folks at Ellsworth would’ve been happy to retrieve the UAV. They could’ve, and they should’ve. The request for a HALO was one hundred percent unnecessary, but the CIA said, ‘Hell, no,’ to the Air Force offer to assist. Hands off. Like the control freaks they were, the spooks demanded a non-defense-related contractor perform the retrieval.
Enter the man responsible for developing the prototype, Mr. Paul Reagan, inventor and billionaire CEO of the prestigious Reagan Industries out of northern Virginia. He’d made the CIA’s paranoia look tame when he’d circumvented them and went straight to Alex Stewart, the owner of the covert surveillance company, The TEAM. Before the Air Force or CIA could shoot off their well-prepared rebuttal, the deal between Reagan and Alex was struck.
One agent and one only would handle retrieval. Given his aptitude for HALO drops, it was a no-brainer from the get go. Adam Torrey, ex-Navy SEAL was the best flying squirrel on The TEAM and in transit before his boss’s signature had dried on the dotted line.
But why one agent only? Why a HALO? Why not Ellsworth’s assist? Very odd indeed.
Checking altimeter and GPS coordinates again, Adam allowed a small smile of success. No meteorological events interfered with his flight tonight. Smooth descent. Right on target.
Earth approached fast.
Fifteen thousand.
His favorite country western song popped into his head, its heavy bass a heartbeat that matched his philosophy. What was life for if you didn’t live it? And man, this was living at its most extreme.
Eight thousand.
His GPS flashed once. Then twice. His target might as well be already acquired and the mission over. Smoothest drop ever.
Six thousand.
Thicker atmosphere at the earth’s surface brought warmer temperatures. Almost time. He stalled the inevitable, wishing he didn’t have to land.
Four thousand.
Two.
Begrudgingly, Adam jerked the ripcord. Whoosh. The flat-black nylon, eight-celled, ram-air canopy released, stopping death in its tracks, and offering a few breathless seconds to view the LZ before his boots hit the dirt. Drifting toward touchdown, the sight below was all he expected. Prairie. Flat. Damned dark.
He activated another specialized tracking device set to pick up the HH locator signal only. Just in time. South Dakota rushed up to meet him. To be safe, he removed the night-vision goggles from the zippered pouch on his belt and strapped them around his neck. It never hurt to be prepared. Freedom lived in the heavens. Not on the earth.
He braced for impact, his knees bent and his senses sharp, primed for any and all possibilities.
Oomph. Touchdown.
Adam rolled as he landed, expelling nothing more than a soft grunt that none heard, unless the few curious prairie dogs scampering out of his path mattered. Gathering big handfuls of the black nylon, he stuffed it into the empty nylon bag he’d brought with him, using those same few minutes to survey the wide-open space around him. The pure sounds of the dark Dakota night met his ears...
Smoothest landing ever.
Once he’d stowed his gear, he let the rucksack drop from his back. It carried what-if supplies like water, MREs, medical supplies, and his all-important EPIRB, his emergency position-indicating radio beacon.
The feeling that this was some bizarre game persisted, mostly because a HALO drop into harmless South Dakota made no sense in the wary world of a black operator. HALOs were last-option only, the safest way into deadly terrain. Not prairie. Why, oh why old man Reagan, the billionaire eccentric behind this op, had demanded such a high-security measure in the middle of grassland seemed irrational and foolish.
But there was a job to be done, and until an adversary presented himself, Adam had no reason for alarm. The soft green glow from the screen displayed a map of his immediate area, a red dot pinging a heartbeat less than three clicks to the northeast and the exact position of the missing drone. Good enough.
Setting a steady pace, he jogged toward it, watching where he stepped. Landing in a prairie dog hole could snap a man’s leg. He had no intention of being airlifted for such a stupid mistake, not after the exhilaration of this perfect drop.
The sweet Dakota air smelled good at 0245 hours. Cool. Pleasant. And a good run relaxed a man. It allowed the adrenaline overload from the falling out of the sky to burn away. He checked the tracker again. Less than a thousand meters straight ahead. Instantly, his very analytical brain provided mathematical equivalents. Three thousand, two hundred, and eighty-one feet. One thousand, ninety-four yards.
Man, I love my job.
A prairie dog barked off to his left. Then another. Adam grinned at the exhilaration of a night so rare. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat. What’s more, this very expensive, very top-secret UAV would be home in its cradle before the world knew it had gone missing.
The tracking device that indicated he was nearly on target sounded steady beeps. Slowing his gait, Adam glanced to his right and then left. Only grass and more grass. All good. How hard could it be to find a two-foot long baby bird, attach it to a miniature aerostat, punch the can of helium to inflate the balloon, and let it fly away home? Not hard at all. Once the prototype was airborne, a larger UAV would snag the line between baby bird and the aerostat with a specially designed pincer attached to its nose. By the time Adam’s boss inhaled his first cup of coffee in far off Virginia, the baby bird would be back in its hanger at Reagan Research, and all would be well.
As big a fiasco as this loss might have been, the mechanics of baby bird’s rescue would once again prove the undeniable need for drones in defense and industrial missions. A drone rescuing another drone. Technology upon technology. The world was an amazing place, and Adam reveled in it. It helped him fly.
Brushing his palms over the knee-high grass, Adam let it tickle his splayed fingers. Everything about the prairie was just plain magic. Buffalo used to roam here. The Lakota and Sioux Indian tribes, too.
The GPS pinged louder, leading him straight to his prize. A dark shadow carved into the tall grass revealed the landing skid, and ultimately, the smooth body of the tiny predator. He knelt one knee to the ground in awe, pulling the little guy gently out of the shallow depression of its crash-landing. The weight of the tiny drone surprised him. He’d expected more, but it felt less than twenty pounds. Coated in flat-black, radar-absorbent material, the overall smooth design contributed to its invisibility. It was the perfect predator. Small. Invisible. Deadly.
He cradled it tenderly, proud of his skill and his aptitude. Best day ever.
“Come on, little guy,” he said fondly. “Let’s get you home.”
He pushed to his feet with a sigh of relief. In the moonlight, the drone didn’t appear damaged, other than a few scrapes along one side of its sleek metallic skin—nothing a good buffing wouldn’t solve. He committed the serial number from the metal plate at the edge of its polycarbonate nose to memory: UVZ172661. And hot damn. Operation baby bird was nearly over. Way to go, Torrey!
A soft whirring overhead, the telltale ruffling of silky nylon ballooned tight with air, interrupted his self-congratulations. Adam jerked his gaze heavenward. It couldn’t be. Another jumper? Here?
Nothing revealed itself, but his ears hadn’t lied. He crouched to one knee and hunkered low in the tall grass. With the infant UAV tucked tightly to his chest, he let nature provided the camouflage while he went into full alert.
Sliding his night vision goggles up over his face, the world turned lime green. His sixth sense screamed, “You’re not alone,” but no other sound rent the silence. No boots on the ground. No motorized engine. No un-oiled squeak of a control lever to bring a parachute or a one-man glider to pinpoint landing. Nothing.
He held his breath, trusting his gut more than his ears or sight. But who was out there and why? Better question—how could anyone have known he was there? Or was he just that paranoid?
A rippling breeze p
arted the tall grass ahead of him for mere seconds. He’d switched to NV too late. From up high, somebody dropkicked the side of his head, hard, but not hard enough to make him release the baby in his arms.
Adam crouched to adjust his goggles, searching after his assailant. And there the bastard was. A lime-green tinted man sat beneath a triangular-shaped paraglide floating overhead, as silent as the night itself. An engine noise would’ve confirmed the visual, but there was none. Whoever this guy was, he’d banked and was coming around again, no doubt thinking he’d rendered his target unconscious.
Guess again. Adam growled low in his throat. The predator in him sprang to life. Two could play that game.
Rolling to his back with the baby still in his arms, he waited until his assailant was nearly on top of him again. But this time, automatic rounds strafed the ground alongside Adam. Enough was enough! He flipped to his stomach, set the drone down, and charged the would-be assassin.
Surprised, the guy banked sharply. Too sharp. With a running leap, Adam grabbed his ankle and jerked. Either the idiot hadn’t buckled up or the harness broke. Umph. Down he came, hitting the dirt hard. Adam followed through with a kick to the guy’s midsection. His boot connected with body armor. The guy had anticipated trouble.
Good to know. Me too.
Reaching to his ankle holster, Adam pulled his knife up, and—
“Got it!” a woman shrieked behind him. He whirled as another black silhouette materialized against the midnight sky. Whoever she was, she now had the HH.
He cocked his arm back and hurtled his knife at the thief. Bull’s-eye! She grunted, sagged, and collapsed limp in her harness. The paraglide continued into the night with the tiny drone tucked into the silvery netting beneath the woman’s seat.
No way! Adam ran with long-legged strides, his lungs bursting and every muscle on fire to get that damned HH. The nearly silent engine offered the barest hum as he closed the distance, his heart pounding with adrenaline and rage. No one—and I mean no one—messed with Adam Torrey.
Six more yards. Maybe less. Almost there. Almost got it. He forced his last reserve of strength into a final lunge, stretching with all he had to secure that baby bird again when—
BLAM! A wicked blast of fire and pain caught his shoulder. It spun him around and turned him into a ragdoll, tumbling end over end through the grass. Forward momentum finally ceased when he came to a breathless stop, face up, blood streaming out of the hole in his chest. A universe of stars swirled overhead. He had no way to reach his gear bag. Thunder rumbled too close. Not thunder. Maybe boots on the ground. Running fast. Coming straight toward him.
A black shadow descended, cruel and cold.
The butt of a rifle.
The last thing he saw.
Chapter Two
“I’m questioning him?” Shannon asked in wide-eyed amazement. “Why me?”
“You’re capable aren’t you?” Paul Reagan looked up from his cluttered desk, snarky as always. “You’re smart. You’ve got a degree.”
She hated the mincing tone he’d used. Since her divorce, he’d gotten increasingly short-tempered with her. Yes, she had a degree, but it was in Fine Arts, not Chemical Engineering or Mechanical Engineering like his.
Point well made. You’re smarter than me. Like you would ever let me forget.
“For one thing, I know nothing about this prototype of yours,” she rebutted. “It’s technical and the drone sounds dangerous. I’ve never done—”
“Nonsense.” He waved his hand, dismissing her arguments as he usually did. “Find out if Stewart’s interested in a second chance at fulfilling his end of the contract. That’s all. He had better if he knows what’s good for him. If not, we’ll pursue further legal remedy.”
She sighed quietly, not sure why she bothered to argue with her father. An alpha male with out-of-control ego issues and deteriorating health, he’d already stopped listening. She was going, no ifs, ands, or buts. Might as well make the best of it. “I’ll need the back-up documentation for the missing drone then.”
“Of course you will.” There was that condescension again. He really knew how to target her insecurities. His desk phone rang. “Myrtle will get it for you. See her on your way out.”
And that was that. Discussion closed. Go. Do as you’re told, and be done with it.
Shannon rose from the chair across from her father and turned to leave. Surrounded by glass and a twenty-one-story view of the common people below him in Rosslyn, Virginia, he was engrossed in another technical debate before she hit the door. She’d already lost his attention—if she’d ever had it.
Her father’s health failed more each day, yet like everything else in his life, she had no idea what was wrong with him or why. He kept his personal life and problems private, even from her. It never ceased to amaze her how distant a father/daughter relationship could be.
Myrtle Brant, his secretary, was also on her phone. At least she smiled, her hand extended with an unclassified version of the drone’s schematics. She’d obviously anticipated the outcome of Shannon’s conversation with her father.
Shannon pasted a smile on her face, offered her usual stiff upper lip, and accepted the folder. “Excuse me, but when is the meeting?”
Myrtle covered her receiver with her fingers, her brows furrowed at the interruption. “Two p.m. sharp, Miss Reagan.”
“Today?” Shannon’s stomach clenched, spewing acid nearly up her throat.
Ms. Brant nodded and resumed her telephone conversation.
An hour! Oh, my gosh! Shannon shot a baleful glance over her shoulder at her father’s closed door. “Shit.” The improper word slipped from her lips while her heart rate kicked into supersonic anxiety. Including travel time, that gave her less than an hour. How could he expect her to absorb enough technical information on the drive from Rosslyn to Alexandria and effectively confront the man responsible for the prototype’s disappearance in South Dakota, and do it with class and dignity? That was what? Eight, maybe ten miles that on a bad traffic day might take a half-hour to get there?
She cringed, the reality of being her father’s only heir a harder burden to bear than most days. There was no way she could be a proper ambassador of Reagan Industries at this rate. It seemed he’d sabotaged her yet again, his customary agenda. Still, she skimmed the first few pages of the unclassified document on the elevator ride to the first floor, then a few more once she was in the backseat of the limousine chauffeured by her friend and oftentimes only confidant, Raul Ortega.
A middle-aged Hispanic with short thinning hair, he might as well have been her girlfriend. He’d certainly heard it all. “You’re late for this appointment?” His dark eyes worried for her in the rearview mirror.
Shannon dropping the technical schematics onto her lap, her palms sweaty. The more she read, the less she understood. Panic for what could very well be another epically disappointing failure didn’t help. Once again, she’d look like a fool in front of her father’s business associates. Did he do this on purpose?
“Not so much late as very unprepared,” she admitted, meeting Raul’s sympathetic gaze. Traffic on the GW flew by. With Arlington National Cemetery on her right and the Potomac River at her left, apprehension grew. She was meeting with the man, as in THE man who’d lost her father’s Hummingbird Hawk on what was supposed to have been a simple recovery. According to her father, this Agent Adam Torrey guy had bungled the entire operation. He’d been lazy, ill-prepared, and inexperienced. An oaf.
“He’s done it to you again, hasn’t he?”
She nodded. Raul knew what she was going through. She saw it on his face. Her personal driver for the past four years, he’d accompanied her on more of these ill-fated meetings than she could count. She’d become her father’s blood sacrifice to another bunch of angry gods.
“I would like to be there the day your father hears you say the word no,” Raul muttered quietly, his eyes on the traffic.
Ha! Me too. All hell would break loose
when or if that ever happened. She worried her bottom lip, biting it at the faith Raul had in her that her father didn’t. Her problems with Paul Reagan stemmed from her lack of self-confidence as much as her chosen profession. He hated that she toiled over novels and best sellers. He had no use for the creative world or romance and fiction.
She’d long ago recognized the disparity between him and her; she just didn’t know what to do about it. She’d never been able to stand up to him. That required personality traits she didn’t come by naturally. He was the dynamo in the family, the lead, follow-or-get-out-of-my-way guy, the hard driver with over-the-top alpha traits that served him well. They just hadn’t passed from father to daughter.
Shannon tried to understand, she really did. He yearned to pass his company on to his only living child. What man didn’t? It made sense on the surface, but Shannon wasn’t an engineer. Her field was writing, the recording of people’s lives and feelings, their testament to the world. Her heroes were Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, and Henry Thoreau, not robber barons the likes of Dale Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, or Donald Trump. The writings of authors as old as Shakespeare made more sense to her in this modern-day than the technical weapon systems her father had invented, created, then mass-produced for the federal government. He was the weapons dealer in the family. She the dreamer.
Self-assured and over-confident, he’d pushed her into the limelight with his unexpected press release the day he’d proclaimed she’d soon take over the reins of Reagan Industries. It would’ve been nice if he’d told her before he told the press and the world, though. Yes, he’d given her a corner office, but not once had he asked if she was interested in the prestigious title, much less the pressure.
She hadn’t even worked for him until that dreadful day. But move out of her comfortable publishing office and into his lavish industrial complex she did. That’s when her life fell apart. Literally. The unexpected announcement and the following unwelcome hurrah from the press and media confounded her husband, Brit. His first nasty affair followed shortly after. And then another...
Adam Page 2
