The Devil You Know

by James P. Sumner

  Could be a lot worse.

  I sit back down and pick up the file. This last guy won’t be easy to recruit.

  I start reading his bio.

  Lieutenant Adam Rayne. Born October 3, 1984, in Portland, Oregon. Joined the U.S. Navy in 2008 and spent five years working toward the rank of Lieutenant. He then applied for the SEALs and spent the next three years training. Passed with relative ease and was assigned to SEAL Team Three in March 2016. Been with them ever since. They operate in the Middle East, and while they’ve been quiet the last eighteen months or so, his team is currently deployed on a covert mission in Karachi. Details are sketchy, even with the level of access the president gave me. Given how badly Pakistan was affected by 4/17, my guess is that some of the old-school terror groups are vying to become lords of the rubble.

  There are some things GlobaTech can’t get involved in, apparently.

  So, I have to infiltrate a SEAL team currently on a mission and steal one of their best guys without anyone knowing.

  Easy.

  Rayne’s record is outstanding. Seventeen confirmed kills, which by military—and legal—standards is good. Over thirty successful campaigns during his tenure with the SEALs. To be consistently that good at this level is impressive. Besides the Rainbow guys and Delta, the SEALs are top of the food chain. Definitely not guys I would choose to fuck with, even on my best day.

  I say, on my way to fuck with them, with my best days waving in the rearview.

  If I can get this guy on board, Blackstar will be a force of nature. Vickers comes from the most elite unit in the Air Force. Ruby’s guy is a recon specialist for the Marines. Rayne is an active SEAL. I’ve been known to have my moments too.

  Schultz will be getting his money’s worth, for sure. Whatever he and Buchanan are worried about, if my team can’t handle it, no one can.

  7

  November 7, 2019 – 23:08 PKT

  Ruby was right. I landed in Karachi about three hours ago. Here, I’m on my own. Even in this delicately civilized new world, the U.S. isn’t keen on sending operatives into countries in this neck of the woods. The Pakistani government knows the SEAL team is here. It doesn’t know I am, and I aim to keep it that way. I might have more stroke than usual right now, but I’m not a diplomat.

  The plane is being refueled and will be ready to go when I am. I have to make this quick. And subtle.

  Ha! Best of luck, sunshine.

  Nice to see my inner Josh is still cheering me on.

  Rayne’s SEAL team is currently holed up in an abandoned farmhouse twelve miles northwest of the city, close to the Hub River. Their mission is to gather evidence on the remains of a terror cell reportedly hiding out in the area. If they make a positive ID of their primary target, they have orders to take him out.

  A battle left behind from a war that’s long gone.

  The political minefield is apparently too sensitive for GlobaTech and their peacekeeping parade. An old-school problem requires an old-school solution.

  I’m parked a half-mile west, on a road that winds around the side of a low mountain range on the banks of the river. An unbarricaded ridge offers an elevated view of the area with little chance of being seen.

  I have a battered and dusty Jeep, graciously loaned to me by the Jinnah International Airport’s long-term parking lot.

  Well… I say loaned. It’s more borrowed.

  Well… I say borrowed. It’s more stolen.

  I stole the Jeep.

  I’ll give it back. I just needed something inconspicuous, which rules out a rental firm at the airport. And I have no contacts here, so no favors to call in.

  It’ll be fine.

  Rayne and his team chose the farmhouse to hunker down in because it has direct line of sight across the river, toward a run-down store just under a mile away. It sits alone on an intersection in the middle of nowhere, on the outskirts of a small town.

  According to the intel I’ve been given, that store’s back room is currently harboring a terrorist.

  My guess: the team are going to sit tight until the early hours—probably three a.m. or thereabouts. Then they’ll make their way toward the store on foot. They’ll scan the area, likely with heat vision technology, confirm the target is on site, then take him out and retreat into the shadows until morning. Then they’re on the first ride out of here.

  It’s a good plan. It makes perfect sense, and I’m sure the team has trained for it exceptionally well.

  I almost feel bad that I’m about to ruin it.

  I pull my coat tighter around me and hunch my shoulders. You think Pakistan, you think the Middle East. You think deserts and mountains. You think uncomfortable warmth. What people don’t tell you is that, in November, it’s just as fucking cold as everywhere else. I’m standing here in the middle of the night, in the mountains, in November. It’s thirty degrees and it sucks.

  My hands tremble against the low temperature as I hold my binoculars up to my eyes, looking at the farmhouse. I’m working on the educated assumption that the SEALs will want to rest before their mission. They will take it in turns to catch a couple of hours, with one or two of them acting as a sentry.

  No sign of movement yet. I just need to be patient. Pick my spot. I’m about eight hundred yards away, so maybe ten minutes on foot at a steady pace. There’s little cover, although I have the mountain path blocking me from line of sight for most of it.

  There are seven members of the SEAL team. I need to incapacitate six of them, so I can talk in peace to the seventh. I’ll need to start with the sentry when he walks the perimeter.

  And there he is.

  A man has appeared in the doorway, which faces south, away from the river and back toward Karachi. He walks away from me, out of sight around the far side of the single-story building. I wait until he reappears, completing his circuit.

  It’s just him. That means six are still inside.

  Time to move.

  I stride back to the Jeep and open the briefcase resting on the passenger seat. It’s big and cumbersome to carry around but worth it. I ignore the sniper rifle and pick up a handgun designed to fire tranquilizer darts. I also pick up a grenade and a black cloth bag.

  I lock the door and set off walking, pinning myself to the inside of the road that leads down the mountain trail and right past the farmhouse. I need to stay out of sight until the last moment. I’m dressed in black, and I’m definitely not expected, so I should be fine.

  I slide the gun into the inside pocket of my overcoat. The grenade goes in my left outside pocket. The bag goes in the right pocket.

  Let’s see how good the current best of the best really is.

  23:31 PKT

  I’m crouching behind a large rock approximately thirty feet from the western wall of the farmhouse. The sentry is maybe ten seconds away from completing his circuit and walking into view.

  I need to be quick. I need to shoot him with the dart and get to him before he drops, so as not to alert anyone inside.

  The tranquilizer contains a cocktail of sodium thiopental and diazepam—anesthetic and sedative. These things are tricky. A regular dose will knock a grown man out cold for about an hour. Too high a dose, he might never wake up again. Combining low doses of multiple liquids results in double the effects with minimal risk. I might need to help the process along a little, but he should be out pretty quick, with no long-term side effects.

  I take the gun out, check the payload, and wait.

  I reckon six seconds until he rounds the corner.

  Five.

  Four.

  Three.

  Two.

  Shit. He’s early.

  I pop up and fire, aiming for the thin strip of flesh visible beneath his gear, at the side of the neck.

  He doesn’t see me before the dart hits him. I’m within arm’s length of him before what’s happening registers on his face. I lunge toward him and clasp a hand over his mouth and nose. I step behind him, wrap my other arm around his neck, and
apply just enough pressure to aid the tranquilizer and knock him out.

  It takes maybe eleven seconds.

  I lower him gently to the ground and check his pulse. He’s breathing, slow and shallow. He’s out and he’ll be fine.

  Step one, done.

  Now for the fun part.

  I lean against the wall and peer around the corner, looking at the sole entrance to the building. The bricks are weathered and crumbling. The mortar has cracked and fallen away in places, and the paint is peeling almost everywhere. It’s a miracle the structure is still standing.

  The door is only a couple of feet away. It’s standing slightly ajar. No indication of movement inside. I reach into my pocket and pull out the grenade. This little trinket is one of the last things GlobaTech designed for the DoD before ending their contract. It’s a combination of a flashbang and a gas grenade. The flash of light is still there to disorient, but instead of a loud bang, the explosion distributes a gas similar to the anesthetic used in dental surgeries. The effects confuse and sedate people caught in the blast, making them easier to overcome. There’s none of the negative side effects of the old bang, which caused permanent hearing damage, and the gas isn’t anywhere near toxic enough to affect long-term health.

  Perfect for evening up the odds when the numbers aren’t in my favor. Like now.

  I pull the pin, keeping the lever depressed. I count to three, then step out. I whistle loudly as I toss the grenade through the open door, then hold it shut. I whistled to make sure everyone had their eyes open. After a momentary pause, the grenade goes off.

  I wait thirty seconds, then slowly open the door and peer inside.

  All six men are stumbling to the floor. Each has one hand clasped over his eyes as the other desperately searches for anything to hold onto. Their movements are already sluggish.

  I step inside as quietly as I can. I might have a serious advantage, but I’m still in a room full of Navy SEALs. I need to play this smart.

  I take a deep breath and quickly move around the room, checking their faces before delivering short, incapacitating blows to each of them. The third guy I come to is Adam Rayne. I hurriedly throw the bag over his head, then drag him along beside me as I clean up the rest of the room.

  With all five men down, I haul Rayne outside. He drops to his knees but doesn’t try to remove the bag. I take a moment to catch my breath. I hear him groaning with confusion beneath the bag.

  “Take some deep breaths, son,” I say. “You’re outside now. You’ll be fine. You’re not in any danger. I’m not your enemy.”

  He coughs and mumbles but says nothing.

  I’m breathing heavily, trying to slow my heart rate. I hoist Rayne to his feet and place a hand on his shoulder, pushing him firmly ahead of me.

  “Come on. We’re going for a stroll.”

  We set off up the hillside, toward my Jeep. It takes a few minutes for him to find his words.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “I’ll answer all your questions in due time, Adam,” I reply. “I need you to listen to what I have to say first, then you can ask me whatever you want.”

  “My… my team. Are they—”

  “They’re fine. Just sleeping. They’ll wake up in a few hours with a hangover from Hell, but they’re otherwise unharmed.”

  “How did you—”

  “All in good time, son. We’re nearly there.”

  Truth is, talking and walking uphill in the cold isn’t helping me get my breath back. I need a couple of minutes.

  23:54 PKT

  Rayne’s leaning against the hood of the Jeep, hands clasped in front of him. I’m standing a few feet away, facing him.

  I asked him nicely not to fight back or try to remove the bag. He’s complied without argument, partly because he’s thinking like a SEAL and playing it smart. Also, enough of the gas affected him that he isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders right now. He doesn’t know who I am or what’s really happened, so starting a fight when he can’t even see would be stupid.

  I step toward him and pull the bag from his head. He recoils, squinting despite the lack of natural light. I watch him struggle to acclimatize. He’s about my height. Similar build. There’s a tattoo of an eagle on the side of his neck. He stares at me, frowning.

  “What do you want?” Rayne asks.

  “Do you know who I am?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Should I?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So, again, what do you want?”

  I casually point a finger at him. “You.”

  “I don’t understand. Where’s my team?”

  I gesture over my shoulder with my thumb. “Asleep in the farmhouse. Like I said, they’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”

  “Do you know what you’ve done? Do you have any idea—”

  “I’ve just single-handedly taken out an entire team of Navy SEALs without breaking a sweat, just to have a civilized conversation with you. Most people would be flattered.”

  His expression softens to one of disbelief. As it does, I notice his eyes change. Even in the faint moonlight, I can see how dark his eyes are. It’s hard to tell where his iris stops and his pupil starts. When he first looked at me, his stare was as hypnotic as it was cold. But now, despite their natural darkness, his eyes seem to light up his face.

  I think it was Shakespeare who said the eyes are the windows to the soul.

  This guy’s soul would be as interesting as mine.

  Rayne sighs. “Seriously, man, who the fuck are you? How did you even know we were here?”

  I pace toward the car and rest beside him on the hood.

  “Honestly, I’ve come to realize that I’m not that great at the covert sales pitch, so I’m just going to level with you. I’ll tell you what I can, but you need to understand that there are some things I can’t tell you right now.”

  “Okay…”

  “I’m with the U.S. government. I guess you could say I’m helping them on a consultancy basis. I’ve been asked to recruit people for an elite team that would answer directly—and only—to the president. I was given a list of ten names from all branches of the military. I had to narrow it down to three, then recruit them.”

  “And you want me?”

  I nod. “You made the cut, yes.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “I’ve seen your record. It’s exemplary. You’re one of the finest men ever to make it to the SEALs. It was a no-brainer.”

  He shrugs. “Thanks, I guess. So, what’s the team for?”

  “That… I can’t tell you. Not until you’ve signed up. Just know that you’ll be on the front lines, doing more good than you’ve ever done before.”

  Rayne falls silent, staring blankly at the dusty road beneath his feet.

  Finally, he says, “That’s not a bad sales pitch.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  “You got many more of these to do?”

  “You’re the last one.”

  “The other two join up?”

  I shrug. “I hope so. I’ll find out in a couple of days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a card, which I hand to him.

  “If you’re in, be at that address, nine a.m. sharp, three days from now.”

  Rayne takes the card, then looks at me. “I can’t just… up and leave. There’s a protocol.”

  I shake my head. “Not for this. Not for me. The people at the top of the food chain who need to know about this already do. If you want in, you’re in. Just pack your bag and hop on a plane. No questions asked.”

  “Ah, I dunno, man. I worked my whole life to become a SEAL. This is all I ever wanted. Plus, you haven’t exactly given me much to go on here. You showed up in the middle of the night, in fucking Pakistan… you took out a squad of SEALs and offered me a job without telling me anything about what it entails. And what? You just expect me to go along with it?”

  “I wouldn’t sa
y I expect you to, but it would make things a lot easier if you did.”

  He pushes himself away from the hood and paces away, idly kicking a couple of stones on the ground. When he turns back to look at me, his eyes have changed again. His expression is firmer.

  “Sorry, whoever you are. That ain’t me. I need to know I’m doing something for the right reasons. I made peace with the fact that I do bad things for a living long ago. But the end always justifies the means. That’s how I sleep at night. How do I know this isn’t some crazy CIA shit with an ulterior motive? Not like that hasn’t happened before.”

  I smile. I like this guy. Kinda reminds me of me, only younger.

  Huh. Maybe I shouldn’t introduce him to Ruby…

  “That’s a valid concern,” I say. “So, I’ll throw you a little caveat. My name’s Adrian Hell. I know a thing or two about underhanded government bullshit, and I’m giving you my word that’s not what this is.”

  Rayne looks at me, eyes narrowed with uncertainty.

  “Adrian Hell? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  I take a deep breath. “You been on social media in the last few weeks?”

  He shrugs. “Not really.”

  “Okay. How about the news a couple of years back, during the short-lived North Korean invasion and—”

  He snaps his fingers and points at me. “No fucking way!”

  I shrug humbly.

  “You killed President Cunningham,” he says.

  “I did. In my defense, the piece of shit deserved it.”

  Rayne shrugs. “No arguments there.”

  I smile again. “So, are you in?”

  “I dunno, man. Can I think about it?”

  “Sure.” I pause. “Well?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Funny.”

  “Thanks. You’ve got three days.” I point to the card in his hand. “If you’re not at that address by then, forget we ever spoke. Forget all this. Word of it gets out, I can promise you we’ll meet one more time, and that meeting will end differently.”