Three others also reported that they had eyes on.
Hannagan moved to his left to get a better view, and as he did so, he saw one of the targets raise a rifle. Now that he had a better view, judging by the figures’ build and dress, they seemed to be ordinary poachers using the cover of night to take illegal game.
Before he could alert the team to his discovery, a single shot rang out as one of the hunters got a deer in his sights.
The response from Hannagan’s men was ferocious.
Hannagan saw the first poacher’s body shudder as bullets pummeled it, the thwack-thwack-thwack of their silenced rifles sounding like twigs breaking underfoot.
“Cease fire!”
In the time it took for Hannagan to rein his men in, at least forty rounds had been loosed. He jogged to the fallen pair, one of the bodies still twitching as it tried in vain to endure more than a dozen puncture wounds.
“Great!” Hannagan said, kicking the base of a nearby tree. Not only had he lost Colback and Driscoll, but he now had two innocents to dispose of. Any hopes he had of rejoining the mission once he’d dealt with the blue dye were well and truly over.
“Eckman,” he said into his throat mic. “Bury these two and make sure the men account for every shell casing. I’m calling it in.”
Hannagan stalked away, as if putting distance between himself and this debacle would soften the blow he was about to receive.
CHAPTER 11
Anton West resisted the urge to throw his coffee cup at the nearest screen. Instead, he slammed it down on the desk, splashing the cold liquid over his wrist. He shook the drops away and wiped his hand on his pants, loosing yet another curse.
Hannagan had screwed up big time. What should have been a simple task had seen his hit teams’ capabilities reduced by a third. The three men Rees Colback had taken down in New York wouldn’t be available for days, and now Hannagan and one of his men had fallen prey to a simple trick that meant he wouldn’t be able to show his face for weeks. That left West with only ten men. Given that Colback and Driscoll’s whereabouts remained unknown, the teams were going to be spread pretty thin.
“Bring up Eva Driscoll’s known associates and pinpoint their addresses on the map.”
Her involvement complicated matters. Although he didn’t know the big picture and how the three kills he’d orchestrated fit together, West surmised that Driscoll had seen a connection between her brother’s death and Rees Colback. She’d clearly seen through the staged murder of Jeff Driscoll, but he could only guess her intentions. Was she simply hoping to protect Colback, or did she have something more proactive in mind?
An analyst worked furiously to transpose the data onto the main screen, and West digested the result. Many of the flags were concentrated in and around Washington, D.C., which was what he’d expected, but West thought it unlikely she’d show her face there. No, she’d head off-grid to regroup and plan some kind of counterattack. That’s what he would do.
He looked further afield and chose the nearest four locations to the safe house, then returned Hannagan’s phone call. “Put Eckman on.”
“Eckman here.”
“Divide the remaining men into four teams of two. You’ll be checking out some of the target’s contacts. I’ll send you the names and addresses in the next minute.”
“Yes, sir. And . . . what about Hannagan?”
“He can make his own way home. You worry about finishing this mission.”
West ended the call, then told an analyst which details to send to Eckman’s phone. He then dialed the number for Saul Bennett, one of the two remaining operatives from the New York mess. “I want you in Knoxville, Tennessee. Immediately. I’ve got four teams watching the woman’s nearest contacts outside D.C., and they’re all in the general area. From Knoxville you provide assistance once she turns up.”
“You don’t want us to pay Colback’s sister a visit?” Bennett asked.
“Not yet. There’s no point holding her as leverage unless Colback knows about it, and we can’t exactly pick up the phone and call him.”
“We could plant something and have her arrested,” Bennett said. “Plaster her face all over the media . . . that might draw him out. We could name Colback as an accomplice and offer a reward. We’d have 300 million people looking for him. He couldn’t hide long.”
“The media works both ways,” West said. “If we make Colback public enemy number one, what’s to stop him giving his side of the story? Worse is Driscoll. She knows where lots of bodies are buried. If she starts talking, heads will roll. No, we do this quietly. Get to Knoxville and await further instructions.”
West looked up at the screen once more. Apart from the four addresses dotted around Knoxville, there were three others, all much farther west. One was in New Mexico and the other two were in California.
He thought about what he’d do if he were in Driscoll’s shoes. He’d want answers, and fast. Air travel was out of the question, so she’d have to drive. That meant her contacts in San Diego and Fresno could be scrubbed, because she wouldn’t waste days on the road when she had closer options. He discarded Albuquerque for the same reason.
“I want you to start logging all voice and data in and out of those addresses immediately,” he ordered. “Also, tell her contacts that she’s a wanted felon. Anyone found helping her will spend the rest of their lives behind bars, but there’s a huge reward for information leading to her capture.”
“I’m on it,” Pearson said, his fingers a blur, his bespectacled eyes never leaving the screen in front of him.
Now that he was confident of her next move, West wondered if he had enough men in place to deal with her. He’d dipped back into her file earlier, and it was clear that she warranted some respect. When she turned up at one of these places, he would only have two people on site, with Bennett at least an hour away. It wouldn’t be enough.
Reluctantly, he dialed the number for his superior.
CHAPTER 12
“That didn’t sound good,” Simon “Sonny” Baines said as Len Smart put the phone down.
“How very perceptive,” Smart deadpanned. “Naylor Resources is pulling the plug.”
“Don’t tell me, they’re going with Stormont . . .”
“Who else?”
It had been the same story over the last few months. For ten years, Minotaur Logistics had provided security personnel to corporations and governments throughout the world, but as contracts came up for renewal, Stormont International was jumping in and undercutting them.
Minotaur, the brainchild of former SAS sergeant Tom Gray, had once been the go-to security firm, with an unparalleled reputation. That was until Gray flipped, following the deaths of his wife and son. He’d sold the business—which had been called Viking Security Services at the time—to fund his campaign to highlight what he perceived to be inadequacies in the British justice system.
It hadn’t ended well.
Gravely injured, Gray had spent a year recuperating in the Philippines under an assumed identity before the British government reneged on a deal and tried to silence him once and for all. Len and Sonny had gone to his rescue, and after a long, hard fight they’d finally made it home and exposed the rogue wet-ops department.
Following that episode, Minotaur Logistics had risen from the ashes. All had gone well until a nosy reporter revealed Gray’s role with the company. Up to that point, he’d had someone else do the face-to-face meetings, and the major shareholder was listed as a shell company out of the Cayman Islands. Clients had begun leaving Minotaur until Gray chose to step aside, leaving Len Smart to run the business. That move had stemmed the flow, leaving Stormont—not Gray’s reputation—the latest threat to the company.
“I’ll let you break the news to Tom,” Sonny said.
Although no longer officially connected to Minotaur Logistics, Gray still drew a monthly salary through a different Caribbean shell company and had a say in the day-to-day running of the business.
&n
bsp; “Nice try,” Smart replied, “but I’ll wait until we go see him tomorrow. That’ll give me time to work on some financial projections. I’ll tell you now, it won’t be good. Naylor Resources was just about keeping us afloat.”
“Leave it for now,” Sonny suggested. “It’s lunchtime. Let’s grab a sandwich.”
“I’m going to need something a little stronger. Let’s eat at the Pig and Whistle.”
When Len stood, the contrast between them became immediately apparent. Blond-haired Sonny, who stood a foot shorter than Smart, had earned his nickname during the SAS selection process. He’d been a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old but had looked no older than fifteen. Even now, eighteen years later, he could easily pass for thirty.
Smart, also ex-22 regiment, looked as if he belonged in the boardroom, not behind a rifle. His hair had begun receding a few years earlier and his bushy black mustache and spreading waistline meant few people would have guessed his former profession.
As they walked to the pub, Smart was his usual quiet self, but Sonny couldn’t contain his concern about the company’s future. “Do you think we’ll fold?” he asked.
“That’s up to Tom. The contract with Naylor’s mining division in Afghanistan was covering the cost of the office, staff, and the training facility. With them gone, we’re running on fumes. Unless we land a similar contract, I reckon we’ve got enough in the bank to survive another six months. Tom might want to sell up while he can, or just wind the business down. Either way, it’s time to update your résumé.”
“Really? Six months?”
“If we’re lucky.”
When they reached the pub in London’s East End, they ordered a pint of bitter for Smart and lager for Sonny. Both opted for the steak pie.
“What are the chances of us landing another Naylor?” asked Sonny.
“Slim to none. Stormont’s business model seems to be built on the idea of cheaper contracts, and lots of them. Even blue-chip companies need to tighten their belts these days. We simply can’t compete with them, no matter how good our setup or personnel.”
“Well, at least we’ve got a few months to prepare for the worst. I’ve got a little put away and I could always find a contract with someone else.”
“The way things are going, the only one left in a couple of years will be Stormont,” Smart said. “I’ve made inquiries and the pay isn’t that great. Expect a forty percent pay cut at the very least.”
Sonny drained half of his drink and licked his lips. “Sobering thought. What about you? Started making plans?”
“I might get out of the game altogether,” Smart told him. “I always wanted to run my own business and I’ve got enough money put aside to do it. I might even take a year off to write a novel.”
“Seriously?”
“Why not? It worked for others. I could base it loosely around my own exploits. It’s not as if I’m short of material.”
“Material is one thing. Talent’s another. If you do go through with it though and base a character around me, don’t forget to mention that I’m six foot three and built like a Viking god.”
“It’ll be an action thriller, not fantasy.”
Their meals arrived, and they dived in.
“My concern is Tom,” Smart said. “If he can’t offload the business, he’ll have to find work. It’s not cheap raising a child, and he doesn’t take much of a salary as it is.”
“This couldn’t have come at a worse time,” Sonny agreed. “Hopefully he’s managed to put some money aside. I guess we’ll know more when we tell him about Naylor jumping ship.”
They finished their meal in silence, both aware that a memorable chapter in their lives was about to draw to a close.
CHAPTER 13
Bill Sanders passed through security with barely a nod to the guards, then took the stairs to his office on the second floor. At this early hour, the usually bustling building felt eerily quiet.
Sanders normally arrived shortly after eight each morning, but his sleep the night before had been fitful at best. At three in the morning he’d given up hope of any shuteye and had taken a shower before dressing for work. He’d spent the next hour flicking through the latest report while consuming a morning’s worth of coffee.
The journey in had taken only forty minutes—half the time of his normal commute—and he’d spent every moment thinking about one thing. It was the same thing that had kept him up most of the night.
Eva Driscoll.
When she’d first joined the CIA a decade earlier, Sanders had been the director of clandestine services, and like almost every other male—and a couple of females in the department—he’d been captivated by her. At the time, Sanders had been married for fifteen years, and his hair had been nowhere near as gray as it was now. He’d been forty-three years old, in excellent shape and with movie star looks. It was clear from their first meeting that the physical attraction was mutual.
Over the next few months, Sanders had made as many excuses as possible to visit the training facility, all in the hope of catching a glimpse of Driscoll. Her reports had been outstanding, her scores off the charts, and he’d found himself thinking about her every day. Eventually, he found the opportunity to get her alone, and her eyes had danced at his suggestion that she join him at his lake cabin. What followed had been two glorious days and nights in her arms.
Days later, she’d dropped the bombshell.
Using the CIA’s own equipment, Driscoll had recorded their lovemaking. A disk of the footage had been couriered to his office, along with a note, the contents of which remained burned into his memory.
I know how things work. Sometimes assets become expendable, but this one plans on living a long life. Within three months of my death, copies will be sent not only to the mainstream media, but also to several antigovernment bloggers. I only have to fail to check in once each quarter and your hairy ass will be all over the internet. It is in your best interests to keep me alive.
Love,
Eva
Downright fury had eventually been replaced by a grudging respect. Driscoll was sharper than even he’d realized, but her private insurance policy made doing his job almost impossible. When the time had come for Driscoll to cut her teeth, Sanders had made sure she was assigned an easy kill; but as the years wore on, the assignments came with an increasing level of danger. She was soon their number-one resource, their first choice for the riskiest missions. Finding excuses not to send her into the field became progressively more difficult. Every time she left on a new mission, Sanders became a bag of nerves. It was only when she reported in with kill confirmations that he could relax . . .
Until the next termination order hit his desk.
Sanders walked into his office, the lettering on the door advising the unfamiliar that it belonged to the director of the CIA. He powered up his PC and, once through the security protocols, opened her file. At the bottom were the four words he’d been instructed to add the night before, and they affected him as much as Driscoll. Once the sex video hit the Internet, his marriage and career would be over.
A phone chimed and vibrated inside his jacket pocket, and Sanders fished it out and stabbed the connect button. No need to check caller ID; only one person knew the number. “Sanders.”
“We need some of your assets to help in finding Driscoll.”
The words were like a punch in the gut. To compound his misery, he was now being asked—no, ordered—to help facilitate his own downfall.
“I’m not sure we have anyone available,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll look into it and get back.”
“Make it quick. If you must, postpone other assignments. She’s our number-one priority, so I want your best people on this.”
“I’ll need everything you have on her latest movements,” Sanders said.
“They’ll be with you in the next few minutes.”
The phone went dead in his hand. Sanders slowly replaced it in his pocket, then used a handkerc
hief to wipe a layer of sweat from his brow. After taking a moment to compose himself, he closed Driscoll’s file and opened a list of the assets in his charge. Two agents were waiting their next assignment.
Sanders opened the file on the first, a man who went by the name of Dennis Hacker. Not his real name, but one he used to blend in with the rest of society. His cover was that of freelance writer, which enabled him to work from home, a three-story brownstone in Manhattan.
Sanders had never met him, having moved on from his role in clandestine services before Hacker joined the CIA. Because of this, he ruled him out.
The other name was more familiar. Carl Huff had gone through basic training shortly after Eva Driscoll. His evaluation scores were good—almost as good as Driscoll’s. That wasn’t surprising, as they’d spent a lot of time in each other’s company—so much so that rumors had begun to surface that they were more than just classmates. Thankfully, the gossip was never substantiated, because relationships between assets were strictly forbidden. Any breach would result in immediate expulsion from the program, and it would have been a huge waste to lose two outstanding candidates over a simple case of lust.
The irony of his own actions wasn’t lost on Sanders as he tapped his pen on the walnut desk and considered Carl Huff. Given the man’s affinity with Driscoll, could he carry out the orders that Sanders would issue? The clock had already started ticking. The ESO would want a response in minutes rather than hours. Given the lack of other options, Sanders looked up Huff’s number and dialed.
“Westguard Consultants,” the voice said. “Ned Evans speaking.”
“Hi, I’m looking for advice regarding pensions for my asset management company.”
There was a brief pause as the man digested the coded phrase and fashioned a suitable response. “I’m sorry, that’s not something we deal with. I can give you the name of two other companies that might be able to help.”
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you for your time.”
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