Danger Close

by Allen Manning

  “Look, if you need to sit this one out, no one would blame you,” Travis said. “We’ve got more than enough manpower to bring Damien Blanchard in.”

  John knew that Travis could hear the weariness in his voice. That intense fire in his gut could no longer be the sole driving force to bring an end to The Order. It was the team’s mission now. John sat upright again.

  “No. I see this through to the end. All the way to Flair,” he said, a clinical coldness in his words.

  This was always personal. It was what Blanchard was counting on. There was no way to separate that, but John needed to wall off his own feelings if the Hard Core was going to win the war.

  * * *

  “I’ve got something,” Millie said as Travis and John walked into the briefing room.

  She sat cross-legged on a table with the laptop balanced on her knees. John noticed the workout clothes she wore and the thin sheen of sweat along the back of her neck where her hair had been gathered into a small ponytail. Her work ethic was precisely what the team would need to win this war.

  “What have you got?” Travis said, draping his suit jacket over the back of a chair as he sat.

  “The Alpha assets,” Millie said. “They were spotted at a private airstrip yesterday evening.”

  “How did you find them so fast?” Travis asked, leaning to look at the laptop display.

  She rubbed her hands together and looked up at them with just a hint of a smile. “Parker’s mob recognition program.”

  John felt a twinge of pride and let the smile spread across his face as well. Even after the attack, you’re still helping us out, kid, he thought.

  “You’re able to run it on that little thing?” Travis pointed to the small computer in her lap.

  “No,” she said. “Well, yes, I could if I needed to. It would have just taken longer to get the same results. I got the program from Parker after we took down the CARR Group. A few friends in my network got it up and running after that.”

  Travis rubbed his temples. “Are we going to have to worry about his software falling into the wrong hands now?”

  “Where are they headed?” John asked, ignoring Travis’ concern.

  “South Africa,” Millie said. “Johannesburg to be more precise.”

  “What are they doing there?” Curtis asked, pulling a sweatshirt over his head as he entered. “Is that where we’re headed?”

  “That’s most likely not going to be their final stop,” Travis said. “Our intel says Blanchard operates out of the more remote regions. We just don’t know where yet.”

  “We’re already several steps behind,” John said. “We should head there now and continue the pursuit as more information is available.”

  “John, listen, we should sit tight and connect the dots first,” Travis said. “We can’t fly down there on your gut instinct unless we know Blanchard is there as well.”

  “Well then, book the flights,” Millie said, turning her laptop around.

  The display showed the results of another mob recognition result still feeding data to her computer. The image showed Damien Blanchard standing on the tarmac of an airstrip.

  “Same airport two days ago,” she said. “Same plane, same destination.”

  “Johannesburg,” John said.

  Travis rubbed his earlobe with a sigh. “I’ll go make some calls. Get your gear ready, team.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  South Africa

  Warm winds snapped across the land, sending reddish dirt spiraling around. The jeep skidded to a stop, adding to the cloud. Gabriel stepped out first, his dress shoes crunching in the pebbles. Micah followed, squinting his eyes as he reached into his jacket pocket for a pair of sunglasses. The two Alphas strode toward the group of people awaiting their arrival.

  “Mr. Blanchard,” Gabriel said.

  Micah nodded and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Gentlemen, I trust that the flight was comfortable,” Damien said.

  “Yes, it was,” Gabriel said.

  “The drive here, not so much,” Micah added.

  The fake, accommodating smile never wavered from Damien’s face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s difficult to arrange transportation this far away from the city, but the remote location is necessary for our security.”

  He turned and nodded to the men behind him. “My men will see to your bags. Please, join me so I can show you around.”

  “This is an impressive little piece of land,” Micah said, looking around with an almost sarcastic expression.

  Glossing over the slight, Damien continued. “As you can see, we’ve got plenty of manpower with the firepower to match.”

  The central courtyard stretched out into a clearing where an assortment of wild animals calmly walked around, grazing on the grass. The field ended at a wall of trees, continuing for hundreds of yards to the east. Exotic birds squawked and cawed from their perches inside large, ornate cages closer to the house.

  Gabriel removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as the tour continued. Damien took them to a section of the grounds where several men were function-checking a variety of weapons. The arsenal comprised mostly of older AK-74 rifles and Glock handguns, but there were also a few shotguns and revolvers thrown into the mix.

  At the far end of the armory two men in particular stood out. Zane Bowers, an older man with leathery, tanned skin rubbed a paste over the length of a bullwhip, working it into the crevices with his thumbs. Next to him, equal in height, but far more muscular with much darker skin, Retief Khan leaned in to inspect the connections to the fuel tank of his flamethrower. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips as he wiped grime away from the ends of the lines, screwing them in securely.

  “That tank is empty, I hope,” Gabriel said to the soldier with the flamethrower.

  “Of course not. Just topped it off,” Retief said, his voice a deep baritone. “Always need to be ready.”

  The lit cigarette bounced as he spoke, tossing ash and embers with each syllable before he pinched the filter with his lips and sucked in another deep lungful of smoke. Gabriel and Micah exchanged amused glances and continued following Damien.

  “How many men do you have working for you?” Gabriel asked, pointing a thumb at the mercenaries behind them.

  “On these grounds, a couple dozen, not counting the normal staff to prepare the food and keep the house in order,” Damien said. “All well trained and armed, as you can see. I’ve got more in the neighboring cities and villages as well. With a snap of my fingers, I can have a fighting force of hundreds.” He snapped his fingers for show.

  Gabriel smiled. “Impressive.”

  “That thing looks like a lot of fun,” Micah said, pointing to a pickup truck parked at the end of the walkway.

  “Ah, it certainly is an enjoyable experience,” Damien said.

  The tires came up almost to his shoulders as he stood proudly next to the machine. The suspension raised the vehicle’s body even higher.

  “We’ll have to take a ride and do some hunting.” Damien looked up toward the bed of the truck. “It’s a great vantage point for taking down some big game.”

  “Sounds like a blast,” Micah said, his voice flat.

  “Come, let’s head inside. I’m sure you two are quite famished.”

  * * *

  Florida

  “Bingo,” Travis said, dropping a stack of pages onto the kitchen table in John’s apartment.

  “What’s that?” John asked.

  “Flight manifests, FAA records, the works.”

  “Pulled some more strings, I see.” John grabbed the top sheet, skimming it. “Looks like this confirms Blanchard’s flight to South Africa.”

  “That it does,” Travis said. He rifled through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “And this gives us a little more intel.”

  John set the first page down and grabbed the offered report. He read the first few paragraphs before sitting down.

  �
��Blanchard has a compound there?” he asked.

  “He did when the CIA put these reports together,” Travis said. “I didn’t have the pull to get more recent intel. My guess is that he’s running scared. If that compound wasn’t active before, it’s most likely up and running again.”

  “This is north of Swaziland. Lot’s of game preserves there,” John said.

  “And lots of open wilderness,” Travis added. “In the eighties, our friend was an avid big game hunter. He also ran with a few warlords in the area, terrorizing some of the smaller cities and villages there.”

  “Aren’t warlords further north. In Central Africa?”

  “Money and power,” Travis said. “Blanchard ran his own private army, probably to keep his hunting activities protected.”

  John stood. “This is perfect. We fly there, gear up, and drop right in on top of their heads.”

  “Perfect? You’re talking about parachuting into Damien Blanchard’s compound. That’s borderline insane.”

  “It’s a lot simpler than the plan to take out the CARR Group facility in New Mexico,” John said. “We need to move now before he can gather his strength. If we wait, he could have a couple hundred mercenaries watching over him.”

  “He could have that now,” Travis said. “You seriously want us to execute a military-style raid flying through the airspace of a sovereign nation?”

  “We can’t let that rat dig in now.”

  Travis sat, his body settling heavy with a sigh. He read through some of the other pages in the stack, not looking for anything in particular. “I can, maybe, reach out to some friends in the UN. Damien Blanchard isn’t the most popular guy around over there.”

  He saw the look in John’s eyes harden. “Whoa, I’m not suggesting that they rush the compound.”

  “He’s our target,” John said. “No one else gets hands on him but the Hard Core.”

  “Of course,” Travis said. “I’m only suggesting that we do this through the proper channels. Damien Blanchard has racked up quite a few charges, with maybe a few bordering on war crimes. My friends can hook us up with a small armed force as an escort.”

  “Get us to the compound? That could work,” John said.

  “And if he’s already got a couple hundred rifles working for him, they can even lend a helping hand in the fight,” Travis said.

  “If we leave anything for them,” John said.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Mechanical clunks and whirring from fans and other equipment gave the room a sense of calm. The filtered and processed air was warm, but more comfortable than the stifling humidity outside. John’s thumb pressed the last round into the magazine of his M4. His fingers brushed across the brass before seating the mag into the rifle.

  He worked the charging handle to chamber the first round, adjusted the sling and scratched at the itch along his neck. John let the weapon hang and secured his hearing protection before adjusting his safety glasses.

  The outdoor rifle range would let him stretch the weapon out, shooting at targets up to two hundred and fifty meters away, but he was preparing for an assault in Damien Blanchard’s compound. Most of his opponents would be well inside of that distance.

  Squared up against a series of targets, John let out a slow breath. He opened and closed his fists several times, shaking out the tension. His finger clicked the button on his timer.

  At the beep, his hands snatched the rifle. His thumb settled on the fire selector, snapping it to semi-automatic as the butt mated to his shoulder. John’s eye tracked the red dot in his sight as the muzzle tracked the first target.

  The air shook as his weapon cracked. The reports echoed off the walls with a springy, metallic rattle as he fired at the targets in sequence. When his M4 fell silent, the faint rumble continued for another few seconds, joined by the selector clicking back to safe. John removed his earmuffs and pulled the plugs from his ears.

  “Not bad,” Curtis said, walking into the range behind him with a bag slung over his shoulder.

  John looked down at the timer. “Not good enough.”

  It was a solid performance, and he knew that it would only improve with more repetition. But John knew the time that mattered the most was his first, when he was cold with no practice.

  “Great shot placement, though.”

  John glanced back over his shoulder. “If Blanchard has an army of cardboard A-zone targets, then they won’t stand a chance.”

  Curtis chuckled. He sat on the bench next to his range bag, pulling his gear out. Removing a pair of safety glasses from a soft pouch, he stopped and looked up.

  “John, I know what you want to do,” Curtis said. “Fly in with the cover of night, drop into the compound, and squeeze the life out of Damien with your bare hands. But you know that’s reckless.”

  John smirked and shook his head. “Travis tell you that?”

  “No. I just know you. I know your style.” Curtis blew a speck of dust from the lens of his glasses. “I had to hunt you down, remember?”

  John unslung his carbine and set it down on the table at his lane. “What’s your point, Lieutenant? Are you here to tell me to stand down?”

  “Hell no,” Curtis said. “If you were crazy enough to convince Travis to go with your plan, I would have been dropping in with you. Parker is part of the team. You’re not the only one that wants revenge.”

  “Justice,” John said, looking up at Curtis. “Not revenge.”

  “I’ll settle for revenge. Justice is just the byproduct.” Curtis took the rifle from his bag. “What do you think of the actual plan, though?”

  “It’s credible. Makes sense having a local presence to add some legitimacy to the operation,” John said. “But once the shooting starts, we have to be prepared to do the heavy lifting. We can’t expect them to fight for us.”

  “Agreed. However, I think they have just as much motivation to take Blanchard down too,” Curtis said. “He’s dug in at his military compound, but maybe the friendly forces see us as a way to help them root that tick out for all the wrong he’s done over there.”

  “When did you get so smart?” John asked with a grin. “Did you get hit in the head on your last op?”

  “Seriously, John, The Order is too big for any one man to bring down. They’ve grown powerful by controlling other powerful people. We’re going to need all the help we can get.” Curtis wrapped his earmuffs around his neck. “Come on, let’s get some more rounds in before lunch.”

  * * *

  Miami International Airport

  “How long is the flight again?” Millie asked.

  “About eighteen hours,” Travis said, stowing his carryon in the overhead compartment.

  She looked out the window. “And how far is that? In miles.”

  “Eight thousand, give or take.”

  “Do they have enough fuel to make it that far?” she asked.

  “Are you going to be okay?” John asked, leaning across the aisle to keep his voice low.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Millie said.

  “Haven’t you flown before?” Curtis asked. “Didn’t you guys fly down to New Mexico last year?”

  “Yes, I’ve been in planes before.” She looked out the window, checking the condition of the wing for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Just not over that much water.”

  “Don’t you have some kind of ninja training to keep you calm during the flight?” Curtis asked.

  Millie shot him a glare.

  “Or maybe something you could take to knock you out?” he added.

  “Alright, ease up, Lieutenant,” Travis said.

  “Everything will be okay,” John said. “You won’t even see the water if you’re not looking out the window.”

  “I’ll know it’s there, though,” Millie said. “I just… don't like giving up control.”

  “Maybe Curtis is right,” Travis said. “How about a little vodka before the flight, to take the edge off.”

  “I’m
not old enough to drink,” she said with a half smile.

  “That’s where you draw the line for committing crimes?” Curtis asked, chuckling. “Don’t you have a forged passport?”

  “It’s not forged,” Travis said. “It has been provided by the proper officials. It just doesn’t have all the correct information.”

  “Look, it’s fine, guys. I’ll survive,” Millie said. “I’ll just have to keep my mind on the mission at hand.”

  John gave her a nod and sat back in his seat. He thought about what they would be heading into by flying to Damien Blanchard’s home turf. In his mind John put potential actions together, trying to account for a variety of situations. He could hear the others continuing their conversation as the plane rumbled, rolling toward its designated runway for takeoff.

  Their words joined in the background noise, droning on just at the edge of his awareness. John thought about Parker, still in the hospital. He had never been on a major operation without the computer expert’s guidance since they teamed up to rescue Emily.

  His goddaughter. She was also still very much in danger. John felt a tightness across his chest as the plane sped up. He wouldn’t be nearby to protect them if something were to happen. His heart raced as the Boeing 747 lifted off the runway. John gripped the armrests tighter and squeezed his eyes shut.

  It took several deep breaths to regain his composure, but John knew that he would have to trust Travis’s network to keep everyone safe while they were going to bring down Blanchard. One more pillar to help bring The Order’s entire operation crumbling to the ground.

  His heart leveled off, and his breathing slowed. John felt the cold, mechanical calm drape over his body, pulling the tension from his neck and shoulders. He resigned himself to a sleepless journey, unable to let his thoughts stray from his single-minded purpose.