Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  The man’s boot came out of nowhere, connecting with Connor’s hand. Pain shot through his fingers as the gun flew from his grip. The man was still rotating, and the foot he’d just kicked Connor with hadn’t even touched the floor before the other came around, aiming high for Connor’s face.

  Connor ducked, and the man’s leg swept through the air where his head has just been. Then Connor threw himself forward, launching the man into the doorframe. Wood cracked, and the man gasped in pain.

  Connor backed away, eyes darting around the room, searching for the gun. He spotted it on the carpet and lunged for it, hoping to get his hands on it before his attacker regained his footing. His fingers wrapped around the handle and he stood, turning to fire.

  But the man was already rushing Connor, his eyes wide with fury and anger, and Connor didn’t have time to raise the weapon and fire. Instead he used all the power of his runner’s legs to propel his shoulder into the charging man’s stomach. He felt several ribs snap as he caught the man in mid-air. The man landed on his back, the back of his skull cracking against the hard carpet.

  “That’s enough,” Connor said, leveling the pistol. “Don’t move, asshole.”

  The man scrambled to his feet, one hand reaching to the small of his back.

  “Don’t!” Connor repeated.

  The man shouted something in Japanese that Connor didn’t catch, and the hand reappeared, a nine-inch blade in its white-knuckled grip.

  Connor squeezed the trigger twice, putting two rounds into the man’s chest. The man cried out, grimacing in pain as he staggered and then fell back to the floor. He dropped the knife and grabbed his chest, bringing away bloody fingers. He tried to talk but only managed to have bloody spittle bubble around his lips.

  Connor took a step forward, keeping the gun trained on his target. “Why?”

  Fury and anger still burned in the man’s eyes. He gritted his teeth against obvious pain, his hand patting the floor next to him, searching for the knife.

  Connor shook his head. “It’s over.”

  The man’s fingers found the handle of the knife and grasped it.

  “Leave it,” Connor warned.

  The man shuddered, and almost certainly not because of the tone of Connor’s voice. He was dying, and it was only now beginning to register with his body. Blood was pouring from his two bullet wounds in rhythmic gushes—a sure sign Connor had hit at least one major blood vessel, if not the heart itself. It was only a matter of time.

  Hoping to gain at least something from the encounter, Connor asked, “Who sent you?”

  The man swung his knife hand up. But his attack had almost no force behind it at all. Connor grabbed the man’s wrist with his free hand, twisted it back, and wrenched the knife away. It fell to the carpet and Connor kicked it away.

  “Who sent you?” he repeated, leaning in close.

  The man spit blood.

  Connor pulled back, narrowly missing the phlegm and blood. He shook his head.

  The man’s eyes started to flutter. His lips opened and closed, but no words came out. After a few seconds of inaudible murmuring, he fell silent, his head rolling to the side, blood streaming from his lips onto the carpet.

  Connor stood for a long moment, considering the dead man. “Son of a bitch. Now what?”

  Chapter Ten

  “What the hell do you think this is, Mission Impossible?” Pennington practically leapt out of his chair as Connor entered his office. “You’re a goddamn analyst, not James-motherfucking-Bond!”

  Connor had the urge to respond with some choice words, but suppressed it. The deputy director’s face was flushed with anger, and a vein pulsed in his neck. Connor had never seen the man this furious before.

  Pennington crossed the office and jabbed a finger at Connor. “You were supposed to be on vacation, Connor! How in the hell did you end up in a Japanese hotel with a gun in your hand, standing over a dead body?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Connor said. “There’s a lot more to it than that.”

  Pennington stood with his nose practically touching Connor’s. Connor could feel the man’s hot breath on his face. “Not that simple? You killed a civilian on foreign soil! ‘A lot more to it’ doesn’t even begin to explain what you did!”

  Having spent ten years in the army, Connor was no stranger to wall-to-wall counseling, and despite what the top brass in the Pentagon liked to suggest, corporal discipline was still very much alive and well, especially in the more exclusive units. While the basic training recruits received “stress cards,” the instructors at the Special Forces Qualification Course still kicked, punched, and strangled. In the teams, he’d seen one or two operators receive beatdowns from their sergeants after failing to comply. Of course, by the time those soldiers reached their elite level, such failures were few and far between.

  Connor took a step back, taking in a long breath through his nose. “Well, sir, if you’d give me a moment to expl—”

  “Explain?” Pennington spun on his heel, returning to his desk to retrieve a file folder. He held it up. “How in the hell are you going to explain this? Double-tap to the chest, that’s what the report says. Dead on the scene.”

  “Did it also mention the five bullet holes in the wall and ceiling, or the damage to the wall that he knocked me into? I didn’t start this fight, sir. I finished it.”

  “You can say that again. My phone has been ringing nonstop since this hit the network this morning. Director James wants your head on a platter, and I’m inclined to give it to him.”

  “That asshole tried to shoot me in the face! I defended myself, end of story.” Connor moved away from the door, a subconscious part of his brain reminding him to not keep his back to the room’s exit. “Which leads to several more questions—the primary one being who the hell wanted me dead and why.”

  “How do you know this was a hit?” Pennington asked. “You’re just making assumptions again. For all you know it could’ve been a simple attempted robbery. The Interpol report I saw this morning said this Yasuki Shimahara was a violent felon and all-around bad guy, on the run for murder out of Tokyo. Chances are he saw you and thought you’d be an easy target.”

  “Not a chance,” Connor said. “He moved like a pro. He didn’t ask me for anything at all. Just put a big-ass gun in my face.”

  “Moved like a pro?” Pennington repeated, dropping his chin. “How the hell would you even know what that means? You’re an analyst—you sit behind a desk all day. You’re not a field agent.”

  Connor almost laughed. Almost. The entire exchange would have been hilarious had it occurred in a movie like Lethal Weapon. Gibson’s character getting ramrodded and demoted to walk the streets with his partner as beat cops.

  He took a deep breath to help prevent the storm brewing just beneath the surface. “Sir, you know exactly why I know that. For the same reason I know that any other desk jockey would probably be dead now. It wasn’t a robbery, it was a hit. There’s absolutely no way you can convince me different.”

  “All right,” Pennington said, dropping into his chair. His tone suggested he didn’t believe Connor in the slightest. “Let’s set aside that I think this is all nonsense, and for the sake of argument, let’s say it was a hit. Why the hell would anyone put out a hit on you? I mean, let’s face it, you’re not a known CIA asset, and nobody would think I’d authorize you to be anywhere on duty.”

  Connor scoffed. “Always good to know you’re appreciated.”

  Pennington put his elbows on his desk. “You’re appreciated when you do your job and don’t overstep your role in this organization!” The director barely managed to hide the disdain. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why would anyone put a hit on someone who isn’t even supposed to be on duty?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve possibly uncovered that an extremist group of Islamic fundamentalists plans to smuggle a nuclear bomb into the country? That seems like a pretty good reason. But that’s just me.”
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  “I read your report.” Pennington tapped the file with a finger. “And I agree with you, it’s possible—but what exactly would you like me to do about it? You have no concrete proof. You have no idea where Hakimi is. You don’t even know where to start looking.”

  “I saw the last three letters on Hakimi’s ship. The ship the nuke was transferred to. IFT,” Connor said. “And if we could get the video records from the salvage company, we could probably get the rest of the name.”

  “You really think the Japanese government is going to work with us after you shot one of their citizens?”

  “You said it yourself—the guy was a violent offender on the run. Hell, I did them a favor.”

  Pennington pointed at Connor, his eyebrows knitting together. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that kind of crap again. I’m serious, Connor. You think you’re in some hot water now…”

  “The guy was a killer—he preyed on the weak and played the system like a fiddle. I don’t have any sympathy at all for people like that. He got what he deserved. What I don’t understand, sir, is why we’re sitting here arguing about the death of one murderer, when the lives of thousands, or maybe millions, are at stake. Let’s surveil people in mosques, look at all of our ports on the West Coast, get the Coast Guard planes in the air… something. We need to be preparing for the worst, not arguing semantics over a dead piece of crap.”

  “We aren’t doing anything,” Pennington said. “You’re on the bench for five days. End of discussion.”

  Connor straightened. “You’re suspending me?”

  “It’s standard policy for any agent-involved shooting. And you’re lucky it’s just that.”

  “You can’t send me home during this!” Connor said, knowing all too well how he sounded, and not caring. “This is happening, sir, and you’re going to need all your people on board if you’re going to stop it.”

  “Oh, and are you the lynchpin holding this all together, Connor? You’re the last line of defense, is that it? There isn’t anyone in the whole damn CIA that can do what you do?” Pennington pointed again. “You’re on the end of a long rope. You’ll take your days off, you’ll consider the implications of your actions, and when you come back, you better have some pretty damn good answers for the review board. Because if you don’t, not working for the agency will be the least of your worries. Do I make myself clear?”

  Connor chewed on his bottom lip as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He wanted to lash out. Blood pounded in his ears and his chest tightened. The urge to punch the smug bastard right in his face was almost overwhelming.

  This is not the time or the place, whispered a small voice in the back of his mind.

  His shoulders slumped and he blew out a long, controlled breath. He clenched his jaw muscles multiple times, taking a second controlled breath, just like his instructors at the Q-Course had taught him.

  “Yes, sir,” he said finally, barely moving his lips. “Perfectly clear.”

  “Good.” Pennington sat back in his chair, obviously relieved the confrontation was over. He rifled through the papers on his desk, found a business card, and held it up. “Now, you’ll be required to talk to an agency psychologist at some point during your downtime. Make the call and set up the appointment as soon as possible. It’ll go much worse for you with the review board if you haven’t done at least that.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. A shrink? What the hell do I need to talk to a shrink for?”

  Pennington waved the card in the air between them. “Agency policy, not my call. And you don’t have a choice. Not if you want to keep your job.”

  Connor snatched the card out of Pennington’s hand and shoved it in his pocket without looking at it. “Fantastic.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Son of a bitch!” Connor slammed his car door shut, then slapped the steering wheel hard with his palm. Pain shot up his arm. He grimaced, shaking out the throbbing in his fingers.

  “Son of a bitch,” he repeated, though with much less vigor. “Stupid bureaucratic bullshit.”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what Pennington was thinking. What any of the higher-ups were thinking, for that matter. How in the hell could anyone in a post-9/11 world simply dismiss the information he’d uncovered? It didn’t make sense at all.

  This was the exact reason he‘d left the military. For the most part, Special Forces Command didn’t have to deal with the strangling red tape of the normal military, but still, he’d seen his fair share of missions shut down because of hurt feelings and salty tears. And more often than not, the prices for those decisions were paid by the men he fought with every day.

  The thought of some political hack sipping wine and eating dinner at some exclusive dinner club while his friends lost their lives because of their bad decisions—or indecision—made his blood boil. And now it was happening all over again.

  He spotted Christina jogging up to the car, and he rolled down the window. She leaned on the window frame with her forearms, talking between breaths.

  “What the hell, Connor? We all just found out. What the hell is Pennington thinking?”

  “Who says he was thinking at all?” Connor said. “He’s never been an operator. He’s just a management lackey, a messenger for the people who really make the decisions. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a total asshole, but I know it’s not all him.”

  “Son of a bitch can’t even stand up for his own people, even though you totally uncovered some serious stuff? That’s nice.”

  Connor shrugged and put both hands on the steering wheel. “It is what it is, and it’s probably only going to get worse. If the media gets ahold of this, there’ll be a shitstorm—and the agency will be at the center of it.”

  “It’s not right,” Christina said. “I backed you up, you know. I heard the whole incident over the phone, and I put it in my report that I heard you give the guy every chance in the world. They should be backing you up, too. It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask the guy to try to kill you.”

  Connor’s eyes widened with surprise at hearing she’d heard the whole thing and filed an affidavit. The anger bubbled up hotter in his stomach. Even with a witness of sorts speaking on his behalf, he was still in jeopardy of losing his job.

  “Right and wrong don’t play into it,” he said. “It’s all politics, plain and simple. Listen, I don’t want you to worry about me. There’s much bigger things at stake here. We need to track down Hakimi. If he really does have that bomb, we need to stop him before he gets in position to use it. Chris, we can’t let him into the country. We can’t.”

  She shook her head, her long blond hair waving. “Pennington’s already reassigned us. Shifted the Hakimi thing to IFA.”

  “He didn’t want the heat, so he dumped it.” Connor grimaced. “What a bastard.”

  Intelligence and Foreign Affairs didn’t have the infrastructure in place to investigate this kind of operation—at least, not with the strength and ferocity that it called for. They needed agents on the ground; they needed to bring in Homeland Security and the bureau, create a task force to find Hakimi and stop him. Instead, by transferring the investigation to IFA, Pennington had effectively killed any chance of a serious investigation.

  “I hear you got some extra vacation days out of the deal.”

  “Yeah.” Connor held up air quotes. “Mandatory decompression time for any agent-involved shooting.”

  “What a crock. He was trying to kill you.”

  “I know it, and you know it. The dead guy knows it.”

  “What a spineless son of a bitch. Someone needs to punch him in the face.”

  “That very thing has crossed my mind.”

  “This is BS. His job is to look after the agents under him, to support them—not throw them under the bus when it becomes politically expedient.”

  “Welcome to the big leagues,” Connor said.

  “It’s still messed up. So, what are you going to do?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know.” It was partially true. “The one lead we have I can’t follow, and now they’ve tied our hands by shipping the whole damn thing out of our area. Damn it!” He slapped the steering wheel again. “What the hell is it about actually acting on good intelligence that shuts people down? I don’t understand it. Everyone wants their stuff wrapped up tight with a nice little bow. Well, it doesn’t happen like that in the real world.”

  Christina shook her head. “Maybe if we track that payment to the salvage company, we might…” She trailed off, as if she’d realized the same thing Connor was thinking.

  “It’ll just lead us to a ghost account,” he said. “A one-time-use numbered account, untraceable. And my guess is, it’s not the only one they used. The main thing here is issuing the warning to the port authorities so they can be extra vigilant. Sitting on our hands and not doing anything because someone might not get promoted or might get a little egg on their face is ridiculous. People seem to forget that in our world we have victories and we have failures, and nine times out of ten, inaction leads to failure.”

  “So what are you going to do, call the port authorities yourself?”

  Connor laughed, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again as an idea hit him. He could basically do just that. His grip tightened on the wheel as he worked it through in his head. He’d been so focused on what Pennington wouldn’t do because of what it might cost him, he hadn’t stopped to think about what he, himself, could do. If this thing was truly as important as Connor knew it was, how could he expect others to risk their careers when he hadn’t even considered ruining his?

  He could call the port authorities right now; he could warn them. He could set things in motion that couldn’t be easily stopped.

  Hell, he could call the papers, too.

  Connor couldn’t suppress the mischievous grin that spread across his face. Calling the press would lock the agency into either action or denial—and if they denied it and the facts of the case were somehow leaked by “unnamed intelligence sources”… there would be a total shitstorm. And regardless of the agency’s response, at least the information would be out there, and people would be on the lookout. Hopefully that could help stop Hakimi’s attack.