A second later the rogue blew past and Troy fell for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally crashed onto a trap, he opened his eyes, gasped several times, and took a quick inventory of his body. It didn’t feel like anything was broken, but he was shivering so hard maybe he couldn’t tell.
Then there was a throbbing in his left temple, and he pressed his hand to the spot. Blood covered his fingers when he checked them, but he was relieved by the sight of it because now he could feel the pain in his forehead—but no pain anywhere else. Given the awesome power of what had just slammed the ship, the wound was minor.
Maybe Red Fox One was right, Troy realized as he stared at the blood. Maybe he was untouchable. Maybe there was something otherworldly about it, as crazy as it sounded. He’d never believed in any of that, but what other explanation could there be? He always survived these life-or-death situations.
Troy glanced up from his fingers. The foredeck was a disaster area. More than half the ship’s traps had been hurled overboard in the chaos. And many of those that remained aboard were now nothing but useless hunks of twisted steel.
As Troy staggered to his feet, a flash of adrenaline surged through his body and he caught his breath when the awful realization hit him. Speed Trap was gone.
“Where the hell is he, Troy?” Captain Sage bellowed through the speakers. “Did he go over?”
“Find my boy!” Duke cried, grabbing the microphone. “Please, Troy, find him.”
Troy had already torn his harness off and was sprinting through the destruction. The ship was still pitching in the storm, but eerily, the waves had calmed and the winds had quieted now that the rogue was gone.
Then he spotted the tiniest tinge of yellow on the port side of the bow and raced for it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
As he reached the edge of the deck, Troy dropped to his knees atop a trap that was still in good shape. He peered over the side, and staring back up at him was the terror-stricken but very much alive face of the first mate’s younger son.
Speed Trap was hanging from the ship literally by a thread, by what little remained of the shredded yellow tether that had connected the harness to the mast. At any moment it could break away from the trap it had somehow snagged onto and the kid would go plunging into the waves. Then the Bering Sea would finish the job and claim another victim.
Troy reached down, grabbed the harness with both hands, and carefully began pulling Speed Trap back aboard. He held his breath, afraid that the ragged strap would snap at any second.
But it didn’t.
As soon as Speed Trap was back on deck, he jumped to his feet and hugged Troy tightly. “Thanks,” he sobbed as tears of relief and joy streamed down his face. “You saved my life, for Christ’s sake, you saved my damn life! I’ll never be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, pal,” Troy muttered as Duke’s sobs of relief blared through the speakers. “You’re welcome.”
Jack leaned against the Mercedes waiting for Bill to appear at the front door of the jump school. It was chilly out and the wind was blowing hard, much harder than it had been when they’d arrived a few hours ago.
He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. This wasn’t going to be a pleasant ride back to the mansion. They’d actually had an OK conversation on the way over here—which was unusual because they didn’t have many conversations to begin with and the ones they had were usually brief and unfriendly. But they weren’t going to say anything to each other on the way home. He knew that.
Jack glanced up at the stars hanging in the cloudless night sky. He and Bill had been at it for so long maybe they just didn’t know another way anymore. Maybe it had nothing to do with the fact that they weren’t really related, that they were adoptive father and son. Maybe they wouldn’t have liked each other even if they had been blood.
“Bullshit.” Jack kicked a pebble across the nearly empty parking lot and then looked up. “Bill loves Troy.” The only other vehicle in the lot was the owner’s Explorer. “And it’s all because Troy’s his real son.”
Jack pushed off the Mercedes when Bill came through the door. He could hear gravel crunching beneath the old man’s boots as he walked across the lot. “Bill, I don’t know what—”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Bill snapped, aiming his key at the car. The lights flashed as the lock on the driver’s side clicked open. “In fact, I don’t ever want to talk about it.”
Jack reached for the passenger door. “It’s just that—”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Bill demanded.
“What do you mean?” Jack lifted the handle, but the door didn’t open. “I’m getting in.”
“Not after that performance. Not after you embarrassed me up there on the plane like that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get another ride,” Bill called gruffly as he climbed in and turned the car on. “Or walk.”
Jack’s mouth fell open as Bill slammed the car into gear and sped off, sending a hail of gravel flying across the parking lot behind him.
“What a prick,” he muttered as he pulled his jacket around himself tightly and started to walk. “What a goddamned prick.”
CHAPTER 5
SHANE MADDUX had been living in the darkest shadows of the global intelligence world for so long he’d almost forgotten how lonely and terrifying most people would find his existence. How it would probably send most nine-to-fivers head-on into a brick wall of hysteria to have to worry about assassins lurking around every corner and behind every door.
But he’d gotten over the mortal fears of the masses long ago because his love of country superseded his concern for self. Not many individuals could say that and honestly mean it, and he was quietly but intensely proud of how unselfishly dedicated he was to protecting the United States of America.
At any cost and any sacrifice.
That was his personal mantra, and he lived it every day.
Maddux glanced up in his naturally guarded way as Roger Carlson limped into the small, plainly decorated living room and eased onto the sofa on the other side of the dusty coffee table. It was the first time Maddux had ever felt uncomfortable about one of these meetings, and they’d been meeting like this for two decades. For twenty years Shane Maddux had run the Falcon division of Red Cell Seven for Roger Carlson.
“Hello, Shane.” Carlson spoke up first as he usually did.
“Hello, Roger. It’s good to see you.”
Carlson was the only person in the world Maddux ever met with regularly, but that was fine. In fact, it was perfect. The deal he and Carlson had forged over the past two decades enabled Maddux to take what he wanted from the world with no strings attached and little risk of reprisal. It made him the ferocious apex predator he’d always dreamed of being as a kid when the bullies had kicked his ass around the playground like a soccer ball—and laughed at him while they were doing it. The apex predator he’d always dreamed of being as the priest had forced him into that dark, tiny closet and attacked him after he was too scared and paralyzed from his claustrophobia to even scream.
“It’s good to see you too, Shane,” Carlson said in his gravelly Georgia drawl. “Congratulations on nailing that situation headed for Boston Harbor. The Olympian is now in the capable hands of our Navy SEALs. Your Falcons came through again.” Carlson’s eyes lit up. “They’re amazing.”
“They are good,” Maddux agreed, careful to show no emotion. Sometimes his Falcons were too good. Sometimes they needed to better understand the rules and their orders—one of them in particular. But he was taking care of that. “When did it happen?”
“Thirty minutes ago.”
“Did we get the plane too?”
Carlson nodded. “It was a civilian G5. The guy ran for Europe, but one of our aviators from the Reagan intercepted him and shot him down in the North Atlantic. Played a little cat-and-mouse with him for practice and then took him out,” Carlson explained. “Th
ere’s a recon team heading for the crash site now. Our pilot used a new laser technology to shoot the G5 down so there was no fireball. If there were helpful documents on that plane, the recon guys will find them.”
“Good,” Maddux said quietly. Once again he was careful to show no emotion. There might have been documents aboard the G5 that could pose a problem for him.
“It is good,” Carlson agreed. “It’s damn good, and President Dorn sends along his heartfelt congratulations. He’s more impressed every day with how valuable you and your Falcons are. He’s amazed at how you can find a needle in a haystack in the middle of a field at night when no one else can find the haystack. When some of our people can’t even find the damn field, for Christ’s sake.” Carlson shook his head. “My God,” he said quietly, “can you imagine if your guys hadn’t gotten you the word on that ship? It would have been a nightmare for the president to handle an attack of that magnitude in his first year of office.”
“It would have been hell for him,” Maddux said fiercely, as Carlson rested his cane on the sofa.
There was no way to know for certain if the president had really sent along his heartfelt congratulations, if indeed the president was even aware of what could have happened in Boston Harbor. He’d never met any of the presidents. That was Carlson’s area.
But that was all right. Maddux didn’t care about accolades, and he didn’t need much money—just enough to survive.
All he really needed was loyalty, because without loyalty the psychological infrastructure of trust disintegrated. When trust disintegrated, conditions turned to chaos and an every-man-for-himself situation developed—which never turned out well for anyone, including the country. And in Maddux’s mind the country was as much of a living, breathing entity as any human being living within its borders.
That was why he’d taken the ultimate step against two of his Falcons. There simply had to be trust, there simply had to be loyalty, even if the orders coming from above seemed at odds with the best interests of the country. Even if those orders seemed insane.
Maddux’s eyes narrowed. There had been a loyalty issue with two of his subordinates, and he had recently learned there was a loyalty issue with the president of the United States. And that was a problem for Red Cell Seven, a massive problem. A subordinate disobeying an order was one thing, but the president of the United States being disloyal was so much another. Maddux had felt comfortable addressing the first issue without seeking Carlson’s approval. But he wasn’t nearly as comfortable going after this second issue that way.
He would if he had to, though. He was committed to the path he’d already started down in the event Carlson didn’t get on board quickly—as incredible as that was.
“It would have been more than hell for him,” Maddux added. “It could have destroyed him. Then you both would have been sorry.”
“I don’t work at the pleasure of the president,” Carlson responded evenly as his expression turned to stone. “I don’t care who the president is. I’m indifferent about the man and his politics. You know that, Shane, and I don’t appreciate the insinuation.”
“Did you look into that situation we discussed the last time we met?” Maddux asked, boldly ignoring Carlson’s rebuke.
“Of course I did.”
“I can find out if you didn’t.”
Once in a while Maddux reminded Carlson that, despite the extreme secrecy involved, there were opportunities for checks and balances. And that he could take advantage of them if he chose to. He and Carlson trusted each other as much as two people in this situation could. But the remote possibility of distrust had to exist too.
It was an odd but essential paradox to their relationship. It was like God needing the devil for His warnings of fire and brimstone to be their most convincing. The possibility for personal disaster had to exist in any relationship for everyone involved to truly stay in line. Nothing in this life was pure, and anyone who believed in that fairy tale was stupid or naïve.
“I know you can, but that’s not why I did,” Carlson answered. “I looked into it because you asked me to and for that reason alone.”
Maddux gazed at Carlson. The old man had formed Red Cell Seven forty years ago and run it ever since. He knew as much about what was happening in the world on a minute-by-minute basis as any person on the planet. He dealt constantly with every intel agency the United States operated, and his name was spoken with reverence at the Pentagon and the CIA. The few times it was actually spoken. Only a handful of senior officials knew who Carlson really was, and even fewer were aware of the immense power he wielded.
Carlson seemed like a calm, unassuming man who could blend into any background. But that was his cover and far from reality, Maddux knew. Despite his advancing age, Carlson could still act like a lion in its prime. He could still make a Brooklyn Mafia boss look like a petty thief and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs look like a private first class. And that was why Maddux was so worried about this meeting.
Maddux had gone outside the chain of command only a few times in his twenty-year career as the leader of the Falcon division, and he’d gotten away with it each time. But this target was different, very different. If Carlson ever found out about this work-around, there’d be hell to pay, and Maddux would probably pay that debt to the devil with his life. So he was praying to God everything was going off without a hitch—even though he wasn’t at all religious.
“Which Falcon actually broke the Boston situation for us?” Carlson asked. “Was it Troy Jensen?”
“Yes,” Maddux answered, making certain his eyes remained glued to Carlson’s.
“He’s been one of your top people for several years.”
“He has,” Maddux agreed brusquely. He wanted to get back to the other thing. “Roger, we need to talk.”
Carlson’s expression turned serious. “What is it, son?”
Maddux loved that over the last two decades Carlson had become his surrogate father. He’d hated his own father for a host of brutal reasons—almost as much as he hated that priest—and he hadn’t shed a tear when the man had died of lung cancer a decade ago. He couldn’t have gone to the funeral even if he’d wanted to because it would have been a perfect opportunity for his enemies to identify him. But his relationship with Carlson had allowed him to easily disengage from his father’s painful struggle, and feel no guilt at all for doing so. He and Carlson had their moments, but he loved the old man.
Which made all of this so much harder.
“Everything all right?”
Maddux appreciated how Carlson had recognized instantly that the subject change involved something crucial. “Is President Dorn really on our side? Can we really trust him?”
Carlson eased back onto the couch and groaned. “This again, Shane? I told you, I looked into the situation. This is turning into an exhausting topic.”
“Sorry, Roger, but I’m getting a lot of intel indicating that President Dorn believes Red Cell Seven is more of a liability to him and his administration than an asset. There’s even some evidence that he wants to shut us down. And that’s coming from several sources.” Exhausting was one of those code words Carlson used when he felt disrespected. And disrespecting Roger Carlson was very risky. “Including my Falcons,” Maddux added. He hadn’t communicated that eye-opener to Carlson yet, and he knew it would have a dramatic impact.
“That’s ridiculous,” Carlson snapped. “I can’t believe you’d say that. I can’t believe you’d use your Falcons to manipulate me.”
“What? Are you questioning my team’s credibility? Are you questioning mine?”
“Sorry,” Carlson said quickly, grimacing apologetically. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Incredible, Maddux thought. He’d never seen the old man back off anything so quickly. There had to be at least a kernel of doubt in Carlson’s mind too.
“Look, Shane, we’ve been over this several times. President Dorn’s only been on the job for nine months. The Oval Office stil
l has that new car smell for him. Wait until the one-year anniversary. Everything will be fine by then. I promise.”
“But if the president’s so damn appreciative of us figuring out what was heading for Boston, how could he have any doubts about how valuable we are to him and the country? I wouldn’t be picking up any of these rumors.”
“Have patience, son,” Carlson advised paternally. “Give Dorn a little more time. He’s young and, unfortunately for everyone, very inexperienced. He’s new to how things work in Washington. He wasn’t a senator or a congressman before he was elected commander in chief. He was a damn civil rights lawyer. He’ll come around.” Carlson chuckled softly. “You’re putting too much faith in those guys of yours, Shane. Your Falcons aren’t always right.” His laugh grew louder. “There was that one time fourteen years ago when one of them was wrong.”
In the twenty years they’d known each other, Carlson had rarely used humor to deflect anything. That wasn’t his style. “Did you really tell the president what could have happened in Boston?” Maddux asked.
“Of course.”
Maddux still had his doubts, but he knew he wouldn’t get anything more out of Carlson. Despite how close they were, their relationship had its limits. It had to. “I hope so.”
Carlson held up a hand. “I have something that’ll take your mind off what you’re hearing.” The older man reached into his suit pocket and pulled out an envelope, then tossed it onto the coffee table in front of Maddux.
Maddux grabbed the envelope and tore into it like a wolf tearing into a fresh kill. When he’d finished reading what was typed on the single sheet of paper inside, he looked up gratefully. “Thank you.”
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