No Fortunate Son

by Brad Taylor

  “Where else? We’re going to need answers immediately. Also, you can now call Alexander Palmer. Tell them I need an emergency meeting of the Oversight Council in . . . say . . . two hours. Tell them to make sure the president’s there.”

  “Why? What are you going to ask for?”

  “Blanket Omega. This pans out, and we’re about to execute multiple hits.”

  “They aren’t going to let you do that, Kurt. You’ve tried before to get Omega for a single follow-on hit, and they’ve always said no. Always directed you to come back again for approval.”

  “Don’t tell him that’s what I’m asking for.”

  George said, “Knuckles, could you give us a moment?”

  He left, and George said, “Is this about Kylie? Or the VP’s son?”

  “It’s the same damn thing.”

  George said, “I’ll follow you. You know that. Just don’t let emotion get in the way here. This whole reporter thing would never have happened if it were just the VP’s son. We’re leaning way, way over the edge. Is she worth the Taskforce?”

  Kurt nodded and said, “Yes. She’s coming home. I would have no leverage at all if it weren’t for Nick Seacrest, but I do, and I’m using it. She will not end up on a tape.”

  George remained quiet. Kurt said, “Butter Palmer up with the recovery of Travis. Let him know we’re working other leads and it’s moving fast.”

  He caught Kurt’s eye, hesitated, then said, “Okay. I will.”

  Kurt said, “George, I understand your concerns. I’ll protect you. It’s my call.”

  George scoffed and said, “Screw that. I told you I’m with you. One hundred percent. But you know they’re going to tell you to pound sand.”

  “They can’t. I’ve already gotten permission from the president.”

  “The president? When did he say we had blanket Omega authority?”

  “When he told me to burn these fucks to the ground.”

  73

  Inside his car, the engine off, the heat dissipated and the bone-chilling Washington winter began to seep inside the frame, even inside the garage. Kurt keyed his radio, thankful that he wasn’t outside.

  “Anything?”

  Knuckles came back with “Nothing from here. Everyone’s off the street because of the cold. He comes by me, he’ll be easy to spot.”

  The transcript had specific instructions, telling Kincaid to park in a numbered spot that had been blocked off with orange cones. Actually, two spots were blocked off—the one he was told to use, and the one adjacent. The cones had been stolen, no doubt, but nobody questioned such things. The spots would remain clear.

  Directly to the rear of the parking space was a stairwell leading to the street. The instructions had said that Kincaid was to park and wait. The contact would find his car, on foot.

  Kurt had placed Knuckles at the top of the stairwell, on a park bench, ironically just down the street from a historical marker discussing the Watergate/Deep Throat lineage of the place. Kurt had taken a car inside and parked within view of the meeting location, but offset to the left. He’d brought a Taskforce Stiletto, an experimental electromagnetic pulse gun that would destroy electrical components at close range.

  They knew the contact was approaching on foot, and, wanting to control all variables, they’d decided to disable Kincaid’s car as soon as it arrived. With all the computers in modern-day vehicles, a brief punch from the Stiletto would render it useless, and they could then assault at their leisure, preventing the target from using Kincaid’s car to escape.

  The plan was simple: Knuckles would discreetly follow the target down the stairwell, locking down the back door, and Kurt would observe from the front. When he made contact, entering the vehicle, they would assault, slamming the target with overwhelming force.

  The one thing they wanted to avoid was the target killing Kincaid. If the Irishman was who they thought he was, that was the only reason for the meeting. The terrorists were now taking out anyone who was tangentially associated with breaking the story. Locking down the ability for them to negotiate money from the administration.

  Neither Knuckles nor Kurt thought it would happen quickly, feeling the man would want to interrogate Kincaid to learn who else should be on the target list, but also knew that the plan the terrorists had envisioned was falling apart.

  The Clute twins had been rescued, followed by the recovery of Travis. They had to be getting desperate, and Kurt didn’t put it beyond the target to simply enter the car and start shooting. Something he wanted to prevent. Well, that was a little soft. It was something he absolutely needed to prevent.

  A car entered the garage, lights on, and Kurt ducked down, getting below the windshield. Sitting in the backseat, he peeked around the headrest and saw Kincaid exit the driver’s door and begin pulling aside the cones. Kurt waited until he was back behind the wheel, then slid out and threaded his way through the vehicles, getting close enough to work the Stiletto. He waited until Kincaid moved forward, then pulled the trigger, seeing the headlights flicker and fade, the engine coughing and spitting, sounding like a knocking from a ’70s gas guzzler. In the front seat, Kincaid manipulated the controls, then slammed the steering wheel in frustration.

  Kurt returned to his vehicle, calling Knuckles. “Car disabled. We’re two minutes out.”

  “Nothing on top. I say again, nothing on top.”

  Kurt surveyed the garage, running through his head where he could be wrong. Chasing down what could cause failure. Can I close on the vehicle quickly enough if Knuckles is held up? Can I prevent a shot? Can I prevent escape? What if he has help? Can I execute on my own against two men? If that happens, should I just kill?

  They needed the target alive. Killing him got them nowhere, other than saving Kincaid’s life. Sitting in the parking garage, Kurt realized how many variables he’d left exposed. Realized he’d put enormous faith in the single phone call and had placed Kincaid’s life in serious jeopardy, all for his quest for Kylie.

  Headlights flashed, and he sank down, letting the vehicle travel beyond them, waiting on the glow to leave. It did not. He slid upward enough to get a corner of vision through the windshield and saw a late-model BMW back up rapidly, flattening the cones blocking the adjacent parking spot. And knew the target had lied.

  “Knuckles, Knuckles, he’s arrived. He’s in a vehicle. Get down the stairs. It’s going to happen quicker than we can control.”

  He rolled out of the vehicle, hearing, “Roger that. On the way.”

  He snaked his way forward, staying below the cars, and said, “No killing. No killing. Take him alive.”

  “Shit, sir, that’ll depend on him. I’m coming.”

  Damn it. This was stupid.

  Kurt broke out of the row of vehicles and saw the target jamming a pistol in the face of Kincaid, the reporter screaming, his hands in the air. The pistol came down hard, the barrel hammering Kincaid in the temple, and he sagged.

  It’s not a killing. It’s a kidnapping.

  Kurt ran in a crouch, trying to get a shot that was debilitating but not lethal. Which was seriously stupid, and he knew it. Any shot would potentially be a killing one, both to the target and to Kincaid. Shooting into a thigh was Hollywood crap.

  He saw Kincaid dragged into the other car and abandoned the plan, running back to his vehicle.

  He reached it and dove into the backseat. He saw the white lights of the target car flare and rolled out into the access lane, raising the Stiletto. The car screamed forward, sliding parallel to him, and he hit the trigger.

  The engine coughed, then bucked in a halting, jerky manner. He squeezed again, and it went dead. The man behind the wheel turned the key, pumping the gas, then saw Kurt. The terrorist exited, pistol held high, and started shooting, using the door for protection. Kurt dove behind his own car, the rounds puncturing the steel. He slid
low, calling Knuckles.

  “He’s out. I’m compromised. Damn it, where are you?”

  Through a wince, he heard, “Hell, sir, I told you I couldn’t run. I’m coming.”

  Kurt slid out behind the front tire, almost prone, and fired two rounds into the windshield, over the unconscious reporter and past the shooter’s body, causing him to duck.

  The target huddled behind the door, identified where the firing was coming from, and drew a bead, popping rounds Kurt’s way, the noise from his unsuppressed pistol banging harshly between the garage walls.

  Kurt rolled backward, one round so close the chipped concrete cut his face. He crawled to the rear of his vehicle and saw a flash of light from the stairwell door opening. Kurt stood, putting himself in the man’s crosshairs to get him to focus, then dove to the ground. He heard two rounds snap past his head, then a rattled scream, like someone was being flayed alive.

  He stood, seeing Knuckles standing above the target, juicing a Taser with a grin on his face.

  Kurt walked over to him, watching the twitching of the body, knowing his mental faculties were fine. He leaned down.

  “Hey, I’ve got a few questions for you. And you’re going to answer them.”

  74

  George Wolffe stood at the head of the table, fending off any questions that came his way, stating that Kurt would provide a complete briefing as soon as he arrived. Which he prayed would be pretty damn soon.

  The Oversight Council had agreed to his demand of an emergency meeting, and since he’d specifically asked for the president, they all had come. Every one. Some of the most powerful people in the world, they didn’t have a lot of patience, but luckily, the president hadn’t arrived, so Wolffe had some breathing room.

  Although not much.

  Kerry Bostwick, the head of the CIA, said, “I’ve got work to do. I can’t sit here all night—and I don’t want to direct my assets looking for people that have been recovered. Did you or did you not get Travis Deleon?”

  Alexander Palmer spoke up, raising his hand. “Okay, people, not to steal Kurt’s thunder, but we have recovered Deleon. And Kurt’s apparently on another thread. Calm down, damn it. Let him get here.”

  Bostwick leaned back, saying, “I could have used that information about two hours ago. I’ve got guys running amok on different threads to him. Putting themselves in danger.”

  Wolffe, a CIA man himself, said, “Sir, sorry about that, but this is fast-breaking, and very close-hold. We couldn’t put out a press release. The recovery is intimately tied into the further hunt. You know how that works.”

  Bostwick glared but said nothing, turning to the man to his left. For the first time, Wolffe recognized Easton Beau Clute, the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Now apparently read onto Taskforce activities from the recovery of his twins. The first man from the legislative branch of government to do so. Wolffe was unsure if that was good or bad.

  The light above the door flashed, and the president of the United States entered, leaving his Secret Service detail outside. Wolffe inwardly groaned. Time’s up.

  President Warren took his seat at the head of the table and said, “Okay, so what’s going on? You got Deleon but not Seacrest?”

  “Sir, yes, that’s correct. We now have three of the four hostages, and a good lead on the fourth. Nick Seacrest.”

  “So what’s the story? You called this rodeo, start the briefing.”

  Wolffe said, “Sir, I think we should wait for Kurt Hale. He has the latest.”

  “Latest? From the SITREPs I read, it happened over four hours ago.”

  Wolffe started to respond when the light above the door went red. Meaning someone wanted in.

  Palmer keyed the access panel, and Kurt Hale entered. Wolffe sagged in relief.

  Kurt walked straight to the front of the conference table, ignoring the computer and everyone in the room but the president. He nodded at Wolffe, letting him escape to the back of the room.

  He turned to the president and said, “I have the ability to recover Nicholas Seacrest. Right now. But I need to get let off the chain. No more reporting to the Oversight Council until it’s done. I need blanket Omega authority to conduct operations.”

  There was quiet for a brief moment, then shouted questions. Kurt let them fly about the room like a presidential press conference, saying nothing, eyes on President Warren.

  The room stilled, realizing he wasn’t playing their game. Warren, holding Kurt’s eyes, said, “Why don’t you include us in your recent endeavors. Give us a little perspective.”

  Kurt smiled and said, “Here’s where we stand . . .”

  He gave them everything he knew about the operation in Ireland, and the subsequent extrapolation of data, which was a dead end. He then told them about a new lead, a Croatian arms dealer in Dubrovnik, and the fact that Kurt had already redirected a team to his location. He asked again for blanket authority.

  “I’m going to hit that guy in Dubrovnik, and then I’m going to turn that hit into another one in England or Ireland. I can’t come back here and sit, waiting on an answer. We need to be quicker than them. Quicker than their ability to react.”

  Jonathan Billings said, “Where is this new information coming from? The thing about this guy you call ‘the Frog’?”

  “Where is irrelevant at this point. I’m not going to spend the next hour talking about it. Trust me, it’s true. And every minute we sit here is another minute we lose the ability to succeed. I’ll give you a complete briefing afterward if you’d like, but right now, I need Omega to hit this guy. And Omega to hit everything associated with him. I can’t keep asking for permission. We’re too damn slow doing that.”

  Billings said, “No way. You want too much. You want us to let you off the chain because you’ve never liked the oversight. I get the risk, but this is just you trying to get around us.”

  Kurt caught the president’s eye and waited.

  Warren nodded and spoke. “Jonathan, you came here after the Oversight Council was created. Do you know who did that?”

  Billings, looking confused at the change of direction, glanced left and right, then shook his head no.

  “I gave authority for the building of the Taskforce, and one man said it was a risk. Said that fighting our terrorist threat was good, but not at the expense of creating something that could get out of control. He demanded the creation of the Oversight Council. Demanded accountability. That man is now briefing you, so I’d hold my tongue before impugning his motives.”

  Billings said nothing, staring at his hands. Then Alexander Palmer said, “There’s a reason for no blanket authority, and that’s because we need to evaluate each operation. Determine the pros and cons. We can’t do that here.”

  Kurt said, “That’s based on disparate hits against different targets. I’m asking for the authority for a single target set: our hostages. I’m not asking to go hit a bunch of terrorists just because I can.”

  Bostwick spoke up. “Wait a minute. Part of that is because you don’t have the ability to leverage the entire intelligence community. You don’t see what we do. You can’t conduct global operations because you don’t have global reach with your intel. You need to come back to us to see what else we’ve got. That’s the very reason we exist.”

  Kurt said, “Ordinarily, I’d say you’re right, but not in this case. Your entire global architecture has gleaned absolutely nothing. I have the key, and I want to leverage it. I’m not coming back to you for shit, because that’s exactly what you have. I’ll do this myself. Without any help. And I promise you I can.”

  “How are you going to conduct operations on separate continents, then tie them together?”

  “It’s no different from what I did in Iraq, before the creation of the Taskforce. Get the intel, create a target package, hit the target knowing what we’re l
ooking for, then turn to another target. I’ve done this before. Speed is the essence. Work faster than they can react.”

  Bostwick said, “This isn’t Iraq. We don’t own the battle space. How can you coordinate that quickly over continents?”

  “Seriously? It’s a damn radio call. Do you think I was more effective because I was in the same country? I was still talking on a radio. I have the best men in the world. They’ll do it.” He turned to President Warren. “Sir, you said it yourself when you ordered me on the mission—I can operate more efficiently across boundaries. Across our artificial stovepipes. It’s the reason you set me in motion.”

  Billings said, “Before, when I asked you about this, you said you didn’t have the capability because of the cover concerns and how long it took to rectify them. What are you saying now? You can do this clean? Without the preparation?”

  Kurt drew back, knowing this was the cut line. “No. I’m not. I’m saying I can recover the vice president of the United States’ son. The fallout is something else.”

  Billings said, “Turn in your intelligence to others. We’ll get the HRT to execute the targets. Get the host nation to intervene. I see no reason to let you do this unilaterally.”

  “We do that, we’ll fail. I’ve already seen what happens when we try to coordinate across agencies and other governments. You get dead men and missed opportunities. The reason we were successful in Iraq was that we owned the entire cycle, from capture to exploitation to follow-on target. No blinks. We held it all, and we crushed them. Because we didn’t need to turn to someone else for help.”

  Billings said, “Yeah, Iraq is working out perfectly.”

  Surprised at the statement, Kurt said, “That’s coming from the State Department? We were ordered out, and when we left, there was a smoking hole instead of a terrorist network.” He looked to President Warren and said, “I’m asking for permission to do the same here. You want them back, I’ll get them. But it won’t be without cost. Secretary Billings is correct. We’ll be exposed, but we’ll have them home. It’s your call, but you already made it with your order earlier.”