Overwatch: A Thriller

by Matthew Betley

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  This novel is dedicated to all Marines and members of the Armed Forces who served in Iraq, who sacrificed for us and often paid the highest price of all in the service of our country. No matter how the landscape changes, your service will not be forgotten. Semper Fi.

  o·ver·watch 1. The process of watching from a high position another group of soldiers who are involved in a military activity and giving them support if necessary.

  —Macmillan Dictionary

  PART I

  FIRST CONTACT

  CHAPTER 1

  ANNAPOLIS, MD

  29 OCTOBER 2008

  Logan West opened his bloodshot green eyes as he emerged from unconsciousness. Light pierced his vision, and pain lanced through his head like a sharp knife. His forehead throbbed relentlessly as the brightness slowly dimmed.

  He was facedown on the carpeted floor of his basement, his left arm stretched out above his head. He turned his wrist to look at his watch. It was almost one thirty in the afternoon.

  I remember the first whiskey sometime around six o’clock, but there’s no way this is from only last night. Oh God . . .

  With a dawning sense of horror, he realized he’d lost at least forty hours. A whole day? I’ve never blacked out that long before. It’s getting worse.

  He struggled to his knees, his right arm fully extended, bracing himself for a fall that didn’t come. A wave of nausea washed over him. This is going to be a bad one, he thought. He felt the acrid bile rising in his throat when he heard a disembodied voice from across the room. “I was wondering when you were going to wake up. I’ve been waiting all night.”

  The voice had the effect of ice-cold water thrown in Logan’s face, instantly suppressing the nausea and clearing his cloudy mind. He turned his head to look at the intruder, his mind feverishly working to regain its bearings.

  The man was smiling as he leaned against the long marble-top bar fifteen feet from Logan. He appeared to be Hispanic, in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was black and cropped closely, almost in a military manner but without the sides shaved to the skin. He wore a white long-sleeved thermal tee shirt under a black polo, as if trying to hide his muscular frame. His dark-brown eyes curiously assessed Logan, and although the man appeared relaxed, his overall demeanor presented a different picture. A neon sign flashed in the darkened street of Logan’s mind. This man’s a professional. And then . . . More importantly, he’s a threat.

  A multitude of questions ricocheted in Logan’s head. None of them mattered. Logan knew the intruder wasn’t here to nurse him back to health. “Who the hell are you?” He wobbled on his hands and knees.

  “That’s not important,” the man responded. The smile faded to reveal the hard interior beneath the cool facade. “But what is important—extremely important—is that you have something we want. Let me rephrase: need.” Logan’s unease grew at the man’s tone. “And as soon as you get your sorry ass off that floor, you’re going to tell me where it is.” The certainty in the man’s voice triggered the final alarms in Logan’s head.

  Logan West, relapsing alcoholic, was still a man who, once committed to anything—a plan, a promise, an ideal—was relentless in its pursuit. He evaluated a situation so rapidly that his former platoon sergeant had repeatedly accused him of acting recklessly; however, in each of those former situations, Logan’s judgment had always proven correct and above reproach. He just understood and saw things before others did.

  Unfortunately, that was before alcohol had forced its insidious way into every aspect of his life, including his decision-making abilities. Had he been completely sober, the rational part of his mind might have stopped him, but Logan West hadn’t been himself for months, and this afternoon was no different. This time, his platoon sergeant would’ve been correct. He acted before thinking.

  He launched himself across the basement floor like a sprinter out of the starting block. His speed caught the intruder off guard—but only slightly. As Logan covered the distance in four long strides, a long blade appeared in the man’s right hand.

  Logan was almost upon the man, his left shoulder raised and his right arm at his waist, both hands in fists. As he gained momentum, he moved his head to the left in a quick feint, hoping the man would draw back and provide an opening Logan could exploit. Otherwise, plan B was to plow into the man as hard and fast as he could.

  Instead, the man violently flicked his right arm upward in an arcing uppercut motion. Logan, surprised by his miscalculation—not the first one of the day—saw the blade rush past his face. Even as he moved his head away, he felt a searing pain race across his left cheek. His mind registered the soft pat . . . pat . . . pat . . . of blood droplets cascading to the carpeted floor.

  Then the sound was gone as his 210-pound frame crashed squarely into the assailant’s chest and forcefully slammed his back against the marble countertop. Logan heard the man grunt, his breath expelled in a sudden gasp, and Logan seized the momentary opening.

  He delivered a vicious short punch to the inside of the man’s right wrist, causing his hand to open reflexively. The knife fell to the carpet and softly bounced away, landing near the bench press machine of Logan’s multistation gym.

  Now disarmed, the man lowered his arms to protect himself as Logan assaulted his ribs with a furious onslaught of violent punches.

  Logan sensed the tide of battle distinctly turn in his favor. He reached upward and grabbed the back of the man’s head, intent on delivering a knee to the man’s face to swiftly end the confrontation.

  The attacker sensed his intent and countered. Rather than try to ply Logan’s arms from his head, he quickly snaked his right arm over Logan’s left arm and under the right one. The man’s left palm struck his own right hand with an upward blow with enough force to break Logan’s grip, flinging Logan’s arms up and away from him. The smart, defensive move of a trained professional, Logan thought.

  The wounded intruder stepped forward and quickly delivered a side kick that squarely connected with Logan’s stomach. Logan stumbled backward, and his legs struck the seat of the pull-down station of the gym. He felt himself falling, and he grabbed the pull-down bar still attached to the pulley’s cable suspended over his head. His fall abruptly stopped, and Logan teetered precariously, twisting in the air from side to side.

  Logan glanced at his enemy—how he now thought of the intruder—as he dangled from the pull-down bar. He recognized the change in his thinking, but he didn’t have time to contemplate the psychological implications of it. To his dismay, his enemy had moved closer to the dropped knife as Logan had fallen backward. In another moment, he’d have it—as well as the tactical advantage.

  Logan did the only thing he could. As the man dove for the knife, Logan regained his balance, reached up, and unhooked the carabiner that secured the pull-down bar to the cable. He grabbed the bar with both hands and wielded it above his head like an awkwardly shaped sword, a heavy weapon forged from the top of a wide parallelogram. He stepped forward and swung the bar downward with all his might.

  The attacker was prone on his stomach, crawling toward the knife with his hand outstretched, when one end of the metal bar violently collided with the back of his neck. He didn’t have time to register the fact that the end of his life had arrived.

  Logan heard a sickening crunch! like popcorn being stepped on with a hard-s
oled shoe, and then the intruder sprawled forward, his spine severed. Logan watched as the man’s legs kicked spasmodically, his lungs shut down, and he began to suffocate.

  Logan stared impassively at the dying man. You brought this on yourself. After a brief period, the man’s body stopped moving. Silence engulfed the basement in the aftermath of the battle.

  The adrenaline rush that had swept away his hangover suddenly subsided, and Logan felt the all-too-familiar effects of his self-destructive behavior return. He realized he was breathing hard, and he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He was still thinking only one step at a time. Now that the fight was over, he needed to clear his head and figure out who the dead man was.

  He bent over slowly to prevent the accompanying dizziness he often felt after a hard night’s drinking. He grabbed the man’s left arm and rolled him over onto his back. The dead man’s eyes looked at him accusingly. Logan didn’t care. Something else had grabbed his attention.

  The left sleeve of the thermal tee had been pushed up his forearm during the fight, revealing a tattoo of a pair of .50-caliber bullets crossed in front of a skull. You’ve got to be kidding me. Who the hell was this guy?

  He’d seen a tattoo like this on one of his Marines in Fallujah. The young sniper’s favorite weapon had been his Barrett .50-caliber sniper rifle, and the sergeant had been eager to broadcast it to the rest of his team.

  They’d initially ribbed him with copious sarcasm when he’d received the tattoo. Fortunately for all of them, the sergeant had proved to be a deadly, accurate shot. After three days of heavy fighting in Fallujah, he’d earned the right to wear the ink proudly. No one said a word about it afterward.

  Logan turned his thoughts to the present. The dead man lying in his basement wore tactical boots, had possessed a military demeanor, and was illustrated with a killer’s tattoo. It was the knife near the dead man’s hand that told Logan that his attacker was a skilled professional. Of the pay-for-hire kind, he thought. It was matte black with a ribbed handle for an improved grip during hand-to-hand combat.

  His world tottered again. Logan felt another wave of nausea overtake him. He sat down on the basement floor as the withdrawal symptoms set in, and he knew they weren’t going to go away this time. He needed a drink to alleviate their severity. But first, there was one thing even more important.

  I have to call Mike.

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, DC

  At six foot two inches and close to 220 pounds, Special Agent Mike Benson hunched over his desk. He scrolled through the latest National Counterterrorism Center intelligence report on a laptop that felt tiny in his massive hands. His phone suddenly rang, the only noise in his private office.

  The ringing was a welcome relief. He could only process so many threats to his country at one time. Most of them were the result of erroneous or faulty intelligence, thankfully. Unfortunately, it seemed like every extremist group associated with Al Qaeda was in the planning stages of a major operation against either the US homeland, US embassies worldwide, or US allies. It wasn’t a good time to be a Westerner overseas.

  He removed his hand from the mouse and picked up the phone. “FBI, Washington, DC, Field Office, Special Agent Benson.”

  “Mike, it’s Logan. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I need your help, and I need it now.”

  At the word now and the tone with which Logan used it, alarm bells sounded in Mike’s head. He immediately knew it was serious. So much for the NCTC.

  It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that Mike owed Logan his life from their time in Iraq before the surge. “Just reading some bullshit report. Where are you?”

  “At home . . . the Annapolis one. How soon can you get here?” The urgency in his voice heightened Mike’s level of tension.

  Mike looked at the time on his computer. It was 1:35 p.m. Traffic out of DC wouldn’t be too bad, especially moving outbound toward the capital city on the west side of the Chesapeake Bay.

  “Give me forty-five minutes or so. Anything I need to know beforehand?”

  “Yeah. Come alone and don’t tell anyone . . . at least not yet.” Logan paused. “It seems I’m in a bit of a bind, but at least I’m better off than the dead guy in my basement.” He said it as matter-of-factly as if he were reciting a dinner menu.

  Logan didn’t give Mike a chance to respond. “See you soon,” he said and hung up.

  Mike stared at the receiver in his right hand, thankful Logan had abruptly ended the conversation. He hadn’t had time to formulate a response—let alone a thought—before the phone went silent.

  He’d once vowed to Logan that no matter what the cost, he’d be there for him. As he looked at the phone, he realized he was about to test that commitment. Dismissing from his mind the number of laws he was likely about to break, he got up from his desk and moved toward the door.

  What the hell now, Logan? I thought we left all the dead guys in the desert.

  CHAPTER 2

  Logan hung up his cell and put it away. Just then, another phone began to ring. It was coming from the dead man. Other than rolling the man over, he hadn’t disturbed the body. He knew better.

  He’d decided to wait until Mike arrived to search the man for two reasons. First, he wanted a witness before he moved anything in his basement, which was now a crime scene. Second—and more importantly—Mike would likely see a piece of evidence Logan’s untrained eye would overlook. And right now, Logan, you need all the help you can get.

  Just as quickly, another inner voice questioned his resolution. How much harm can you do? You already killed him. Maybe you can find out why if you answer it.

  He really didn’t want to touch the phone, but he only had a few seconds to make a decision. Answer the phone and see who it was, or ignore it and pray the FBI’s forensic team could exploit it for evidence?

  How much worse can it get? He wasn’t a sit-on-the-sidelines kind of man. He bent down, reached under the body, and pulled the phone from his back left pocket. Mike was going to be even more pissed than he probably already was.

  “Hola,” he said in a muffled voice, hoping the dead man spoke Spanish. He was somewhat surprised when a male voice with a Hispanic accent asked, “Roberto, do you have him?”

  That answered one question. Whoever this was, he wanted me alive. But why? The dead man—formerly known as Roberto—had been dispatched to kidnap him. He must’ve assumed Logan would be easy prey, especially if he’d been conducting surveillance on him and had seen him in a drunken stupor.

  Logan smiled malevolently. Even though he knew he was in a serious situation and likely facing hard questioning from local law enforcement, he was still somewhat pleased with himself. Someone sent this asshole to get me, and even after emerging from a blackout, I took him out first. Not bad for a relapsing alcoholic.

  Logan knew the man on the phone wasn’t going to be easily fooled for long. He took the direct course of action—the path he worshipped, often to his own detriment.

  “Sorry, this isn’t Roberto. I’m not sure where he is right now—spiritually speaking, I mean—but I know he won’t be taking any more calls.” He waited for the response.

  The man paused before he spoke, but when he did, he was eerily calm. “Mr. West, I assume it’s you. Roberto would never have given his cell phone to anyone, which means I can also assume that Roberto is no longer among the living. That’s quite a shame since Roberto was one of my better men. Not the best, mind you, but good enough.”

  “Well, apparently he wasn’t that good, asshole.” He wanted to provoke a response, but the man wasn’t taking the bait. The man continued in the same calm voice, as if they were having a friendly discussion like two old buddies.

  “Too true, Mr. West. Too true. You know, I warned him not to underestimate you. Unfortunately for him, he did. I think he thought that since he was former Special Forces, he could handle you. I guess pride really does come before a fall.”

  This guy wasn’t easily provoked. Okay,
so I can’t ruffle his feathers. Logan let out a slow breath. “So let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What do you want from me? Obviously, it’s something you thought I wouldn’t give you, or you wouldn’t have sent your former employee here. So what is it?”

  The other man started to speak, but Logan cut him off, “Sorry. One more thing before you tell me your sob story, asshole: Can I have something else to call you? My wife tells me I swear too much, that it’s become worse in the last few years. So if you don’t give me something else, I’m just going to continue with my own pet names for you—such as ‘fuckhead’ or something cuter—against my wife’s wishes.”

  The other man laughed softly. “Very colorful, Mr. West. I wouldn’t want you to betray your wife’s wishes now. So please, call me Juan.”

  “Fine, Juan. What do you want?”

  There was a pause. Logan didn’t break the silence. He waited. “I want an artifact that your team acquired during your tour in Fallujah. It’s a flag, to be precise. One of Saddam Hussein’s flags of Iraq that you or a member of your team now possesses. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  Logan didn’t have it but he knew who did, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let this man know it, at least not without trying to glean some information from him first. He had to be smart or Juan would easily see through his ploy. He looked at his watch. I’ve got plenty of time before Mike gets here.

  “What’s so important about a flag? You know you can order one online? Seems it would be a lot cheaper and easier than coming after me for it. My prices are rather steep, as Roberto here can attest.” Logan waited for a response. He sensed Juan growing agitated. He was right.

  “Enough jokes and small talk, Mr. West. Do you have the flag or not? If not, don’t waste my time . . . or your wife’s for that matter.” A chill ran up Logan’s spine.