by Paige Tyler
“Set up a perimeter,” he said to Angelo, then turned back to Bennett. “Sir, am I being relieved of command, and if so, why?”
“No, Captain, you’re not. You came down on orders. That’s why you’re being pulled out.”
Orders? He could have handled a kick in the balls easier. “In the middle of a fucking mission? Sir, we’re not due to rotate back for another month.”
“Captain, I can’t explain it and I’m not going to try. Battalion received the word barely three hours ago. The old man personally finalized the transfer orders himself and told me to put you on that bird ASAP.” Bennett’s mouth tightened. “No matter how I have to do it.”
Landon looked around at his team. They’d followed his order to position themselves around the helicopter to provide security in case of an attack, but all of their attention was focused on him. They looked just as bewildered as he was.
He turned back to Bennett. “Sir, be straight with me. Did I screw up somehow?”
Bennett shrugged. “I don’t know. If you did, no one in the battalion knew about it. All I can tell you is that the order to pull you out came from somewhere mighty fucking high. Above SOCOM. There isn’t even a report date on your orders. They just say immediately.”
He must be joking. Special Operations Command, known as SOCOM, owned all the Special Forces troops in the Department of Defense, regardless of service. Who’d be telling them where to send their own troops, especially in the middle of a deployment?
“At least tell me where I’m going,” Landon said.
Bennett hesitated, and Landon thought he saw what looked like sympathy in the man’s eyes. “The MDW.”
The Military District of Washington? No fucking way. He must have heard wrong. He was about to ask Bennett to repeat that, but Angelo abandoned his place on the perimeter and ran up before he could.
“Landon, what the fuck’s going on?”
Angelo was the only troop on his team who got away with calling him by his first name. That was because he and the NCO went way back, to a time before Landon was an officer, a time when just making it to the end of their first enlistment without getting their asses shot off was the only goal they had. Back then, Angelo had earned the right to call him anything he damn well wanted. They weren’t just teammates, or even best friends. They were brothers.
Major Bennett looked like he was about to shit a brick over the delay, but Landon didn’t give a crap.
“I’m getting shipped off to DC,” he told Angelo.
“DC? Shit.” He blew out a breath. “Is this about what happened to LT?”
Landon hoped not. He sure as hell didn’t want to go there again. But some kind of shit had hit the fan somewhere for him to be yanked during a deployment. “I don’t know.”
“Captain,” Bennett insisted.
Landon ignored him. Behind him, the Black Hawk’s rotors echoed off the surrounding mountains, filling the silence. It was dangerous for the chopper to be on the ground this long. The sound of the rotors was going to attract the wrong kind of attention soon enough, and he didn’t want his team here when that happened.
He swallowed hard. He’d been with his guys a long time. It felt as if he was deserting them by leaving. But he couldn’t disobey a direct order.
“Tell the guys to take care of themselves,” he said to Angelo. “You, too.”
Landon didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he turned and climbed into the Black Hawk. Bennett slammed the door, then motioned for the pilot to take off.
As he rode back to base camp, Landon tried to convince himself he’d heard wrong, that Bennett hadn’t said MDW. But Landon knew he’d heard right. He was heading to the Military District of Washington. As in Washington, DC. As in pushing pencils and making coffee for generals who didn’t seem to have any work to do. There were some officers who might consider a transfer to the Pentagon—if that’s where he was going—to be a peach assignment. But for a dirty-boots Special Forces warrior like him, it was the equivalent of a demotion.
What the hell had he done to earn it?
He could only think of one thing, the same thing Angelo had been referring to—the ambush that had happened eight weeks earlier. The one where his assistant commander had gotten injured badly enough for the guy to end up getting his ass shipped back to the States where he wasn’t likely to ever see combat again.
Landon didn’t want to believe he was getting reassigned because of that shitty episode, but it was the only thing that made sense. He snorted. It was almost ironic. He was going to be reassigned to the DC area where he’d get to come face to face with the biggest screwup of his life on a daily basis. Looked like karma was coming back to bite him in the ass.
***
Landon’s duffel bags were packed and waiting for him when he got back to his forward operating base. He’d figured he would at least have time to clean up before he left, but they immediately shuffled him onto another fueled-up Black Hawk and flew him directly to the main airbase in Bagram. Then he’d been the lone passenger on a C-17 cargo plane full of mail and broken equipment bound for Qatar. A Department of Defense–contracted commercial carrier had taken him from there to the Ramstein Air Base in Germany with an immediate transfer to Washington National. In all, he’d been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. Add that to the fact that he and his team had only caught an occasional catnap during the week it had taken to reach Qari’s hideout, and he was flat-out exhausted. He was pretty sure he smelled, too. On top of that, he was pissed off.
He found it difficult to believe he’d been ripped away from his team, pulled out of the warzone, flown nonstop back to the States, and still didn’t have a clue what the hell was going on. He didn’t care what the report date on the orders in his pocket said—what kind of jackass actually wrote immediately on a set of reassignment orders, anyway?—he was going to find a place to stop, take a shower, and get some rest.
Great plan, but there was a man dressed in a dark suit with Captain L. Donovan written out on a piece of cardboard waiting for him the moment he exited the secured part of the airport concourse. He ground his jaw. Since when did the military send someone in civvies to pick up a new arrival at the airport?
Landon hiked his duffel bag higher up on his shoulder and walked over to the man.
“Captain Donovan?” he asked. “I have a car waiting outside. If you’ll follow me?”
Did he have a choice?
The vehicle was a standard four-door sedan with generic-looking plates. No decals, no markings, no nothing. The guy helped Landon toss his bags in the back, then didn’t say another word the entire drive except to answer the question about where they were going with a cryptic, “You’ll be briefed on that soon.”
Figuring he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the man, Landon stared out the window. He’d only been to DC twice to attend conferences, but he didn’t remember going this way to get to the Pentagon. Landon’s brows drew together as the man pulled into a parking garage underneath the offices of the Environmental Protection Agency. What the hell?
“I’m being assigned to the frigging EPA?” Landon asked as he got out of the car and shut the door.
The man gave him a smile. “Not exactly. They’ll brief you on everything inside.”
Yeah, well someone damn well better brief him. And they’d better do it soon.
Landon followed the man through a set of unmarked, glass double doors and into a huge lobby. He hoped there’d be some official looking emblem on the wall to clue him in on what the place was, but no such luck. There wasn’t anything but some framed black-and-white photos of the various monuments in the DC area, and they weren’t very helpful.
The man led him to the U-shaped reception desk. “This is Captain Donovan, Vivian.”
The blonde looked up from her computer to give him a warm smile. “Captain, we’ve been expecting you. Let m
e show you to the conference room.”
Vivian was pretty, with a curvy body that looked damn good in the sleeveless blouse and tight skirt she was wearing. Something he would have appreciated if he wasn’t so irritated.
He did a quick recon of the place as she escorted him to the conference room. The people working there wore nothing that indicated they were in the army, or even with the Department of Defense. There were a few people in black uniforms similar to the Army Combat Uniform he had on, but they didn’t have any rank on them, which meant they probably weren’t military. At least no military he was familiar with.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Vivian asked when they got to the conference room.
He shook his head. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Are you sure?” She smiled. “I make a mean pot.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” She seemed so bummed, he almost changed his mind and said he’d take a cup, but she hurried on. “Well, someone will be with you shortly. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
Landon almost laughed. Make himself comfortable. Right. He scanned the room, once again looking for something that would tell him where he was, but except for the immense television screen at the front of the room, the walls were bare. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting. Special Forces qualified as black ops, sure, but an organization hidden in the garage of the EPA? That was another thing altogether. This had CIA written all over it and that wasn’t going to work for him. He was a warrior, not a spook. And he was going to tell that to whoever was in charge when he or she walked in. Which could be a while, so he might as well try to make himself comfortable while he waited.
Pulling out one of the chairs, he sat down and prepared to settle in, but the door opened as soon as he did. He immediately got up, wanting to be on equal footing with whoever walked in.
Landon did a quick assessment of the man who entered. Average height, salt-and-pepper hair, expensive suit, wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like he should be teaching at an Ivy-League school somewhere.
He held out his hand. “Captain Donovan, I’m John Loughlin. Have a seat.”
Landon did, then immediately went on the attack. “You in charge here?”
If Loughlin was taken aback by the direct approach, he didn’t let it show. “I’m the director, yes.”
Director. Well, that just screamed CIA, didn’t it?
“What the hell is this place?”
Loughlin leaned back in his chair. “First, let me tell what it isn’t. It’s not the army or any other branch of the military. Nor is it the NSA, the FBI, or the CIA Special Activities Division. It’s called the Department of Covert Operations. DCO for short.”
“Never heard of it.”
Landon’s frustration made him speak harsher than he normally would, but he didn’t care. Loughlin didn’t seem to mind.
“Very few people have heard of it, and we like to keep it that way. We were created after 9/11. Technically, we’re a special organization within Homeland Security.”
“That’s great,” Landon said. “But what if I don’t want to work for the DCO?”
The man smiled. “We can discuss that later.”
Which was code for saying it wasn’t the kind of assignment he could turn down. Landon swore silently. This sucked. It was hard enough to get a good-looking evaluation report in the Special Forces since almost everything he did was classified and redacted. He couldn’t imagine what they’d look like now. If he even got an evaluation report. It would be damn hard to get the Army Promotion Board to recognize a performance review when he wasn’t assigned to a branch of the Department of Defense.
When he mentioned it to Loughlin, the man waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. Your records will indicate you’ve been transferred to the Department of Homeland Security. All performance areas on your evaluations will still be redacted, of course, but your service will be properly recognized.”
Yeah, he was screwed big time.
“How long is the assignment?” Landon asked.
“There’s no formal length of duty with the DCO. It really depends on your performance. Let’s just call it indefinite right now.”
Bend over, here it comes again, Landon thought. So much for ever making major. Anybody reviewing his records for promotion would figure he’d screwed up and been transferred into some rear echelon job to keep him out of the field.
“So, how did I get selected for this assignment? If I may ask.” Then, because this guy was his new boss, he added, “Sir.”
“We’re not as formal here as they are in the army, Landon. Call me John. And to answer your question, the DCO keeps an eye out for people with your unique skill set. You were handpicked from a long list of candidates to serve in one of the toughest and most important assignments in the world. The DCO takes only the best and brightest.”
He was really in trouble if the guy had to lay it on that thick.
“Unlike standard agents with the Department of Homeland Security, you’ll have worldwide responsibilities,” John continued. “You’ll be paired with another agent who is just as highly trained as you are, only with a different set of talents.”
Landon frowned. “I’ll be on a two-person team? Doesn’t that drastically limit the types of missions we can perform?”
“Not at all. We’ve learned from experience that a two-person team can perform more efficiently when it comes to the type of work you’ll be doing.”
“Exactly what kind of work is that? You still haven’t said.”
“We’ll get into more detail later,” John said. “But your primary job will be to cover your partner’s back while they apply their special talents.”
That was vague. What kind of special talents did this partner of his have? “That’s it? You yanked me out of a warzone to pull babysitting duty?”
“That’s not all you’ll be doing, no. You’ll be involved in direct action as well, but many times oversight will be a large part of your job, yes.”
Landon sensed a “but” coming.
“However,” John said, right on cue, “you do have one additional task. In fact, it’s one of the most critical functions you can be asked to perform. Consider it the first general order for the DCO. It’s something of a formality, but I have to discuss it with you. In the event your team is compromised and it appears likely your partner is about to be captured, it will be your task to eliminate them.”
What the hell? John did not just say what Landon thought he did. “I think I must have misunderstood. By them, I assume you mean the enemy we’re up against?”
“No, Landon, you didn’t misunderstand me. One of the most valuable services the DCO provides to the leadership of the United States is plausible deniability. Your partner possesses certain attributes that could prove embarrassing for our county if they were exposed. Therefore, it’s critical that your partner never be captured. Part of your selection involved an assessment of your ability to follow out this particular job requirement.”
Landon didn’t think much of any assessment process that could determine he’d be okay with executing his teammate. What the hell had these assholes seen to make them think that? One of the founding principles of the Special Forces—the army in general—was that no one got left behind. There wasn’t an army unit out there that wouldn’t risk every single member in it to go back into enemy territory and rescue one of their people. It was the cog that made everything else work.
The idea that he’d be asked to kill his own partner was beyond distasteful. It was flat-out repugnant. Just what kind of attributes did his partner have that would make this person an embarrassment to the United States anyway?
He didn’t care if he could turn down the assignment or not. Let them court-martial his ass. He was walking out of here right now. Landon started to get
to his feet, but John held up his hand.
“I see this particular issue is difficult for you,” he said. “Let me assure you we don’t take this lightly, Landon. The requirement has been evaluated at the very highest levels of authority, and it’s been determined to be reasonable and required. That said, it isn’t a common occurrence at the DCO. In fact, it’s never happened, and we hope it never does. If it helps, you can look at it another way. It’s your responsibility to make sure your partner is never put into a position where you have to kill them.”
That wasn’t much better, but Landon could live with it, especially since he sure as hell wasn’t going to let any teammate of his get compromised.
“Is my partner aware of this order?” he asked.
John nodded. “Yes. All EVAs are fully aware of this stipulation and have signed the necessary documents to acknowledge and accept the consequence of their capture.”
Landon had no idea what the hell an EVA was, but they must be seriously committed if they could work for an organization that would execute them.
John picked up the phone on the table and pressed one of the buttons. “Olivia, please have Todd and Kendra come in.”
Since there were two of them, neither one was probably his new partner. Another team, maybe? He was about to ask John when the door opened.
The man and woman who walked in weren’t dressed in the black uniforms Landon had seen earlier, so they probably weren’t operatives. The business casual look they were rocking didn’t give much of a hint as to what jobs they did. Neither did the clipboards in their hands.
John stood, so Landon did the same.
“Landon, this is Todd Newman and Kendra Carlsen,” John said. “They’ll be your training officers as well as be your handlers after you and your partner are certified for fieldwork.”
Landon studied the man and woman closer as he shook their hands. Todd looked like he could have played linebacker when he was in college, but he was a little too soft in the middle to be lighting up guys on the field anymore. Kendra was cute, blond hair pulled back in a messy bun, reading glasses perched on her head, a spray of freckles across her cheeks.
