Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  That makes me wonder if my obsession for learning the truth has something to do with Zilopronol-B screwing with my mind. And as far as suicide goes, I’ve thought about it plenty.

  Granite is now looking at me strangely. I guess my facial expression is once again betraying me.

  “But you had John Rourke steal them back while also assassinating Dawson,” I say.

  “Nope. Dawson left us no choice. He would not let us take him in, even stabbed Rourke repeatedly.”

  “Stabbed him?”

  “Yes. Rourke had to put him down. Unfortunately, Rourke didn’t make it either. Bled out on the way here. Died behind the wheel.”

  I tell him about the video Rossi showed us.

  Granite stops, crosses his arms, and looks down at the concrete floor. “Goddammit.”

  “You didn’t know this Yuri guy probably finished him off and stole the files?”

  He shakes his big head while those jaws start to pulsate. “No, I did not, but I’m also not too surprised. His name’s Yuri Tupolev, former star with the GRU. Used to be part of our joint team before he went rogue and—”

  “Joint team?”

  He shrugs. “The Russians have the same problem we do, Law. A large population of PTSD veterans from many wars, including ten years in Afghanistan. They’ve been consuming Zilopronol for decades, so the Russian government worked on its own research and arrived at the same conclusions that we did. The Russian president then reached out to ours to find a way to collaborate and also to contain it. Tupolev was their liaison here working with Jonesy and team.”

  “Why did he go rogue?”

  “Sold out to the head of the Russian Mafia, a man named Mikhail Sokolov, one of the most profitable arms dealers in the world.”

  “What are they after… you know, besides trying to kill me and all my friends.”

  He frowns, then says, “Sokolov has found a way to weaponize it.”

  “Weaponize it? How?”

  “I don’t understand it all,” he says, “but it has to do with exponentially accelerating the effects of Zilopronol in the right amygdala. Sokolov has already performed early field tests in southern Afghanistan that have proven quite effective—and quite scary. He’s basically created a biological weapon in gas form, but one that you can’t smell, see, hear, or even feel. It’s completely, one hundred percent transparent to the victim. But a month after you inhale it, you basically turn into what you saw on Compound 35 and at that village the following day. The bastard has found a way to replicate the likes of Corporal Franklin… and in only thirty days. And Tupolev, whom we suspect was already on Sokolov’s payroll, vanished the moment he got visual confirmation that the weapon worked.”

  I consider the implications of that.

  “We have reason to believe he had enough chemicals and a facility to manufacture six of these weapons before a joint team of Spetznas and SEALs shut him down two months ago. He’s been on the run since, looking for a buyer and also someone who could provide him with a safe place to resume manufacturing. He used two of the weapons in Afghanistan as a test and is now trying to sell the other four. And guess who the two clients at the top of his list are?”

  I just stand there not really wishing to know the answer.

  “Al-Qaeda and the Mexican Cartel.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Imagine such a weapon in the hands of either of those organizations. It would be chaos on a grand scale. One of them would use it to get the upper hand in the War on Terror. The other would likely use it in a way that would augment their business here, probably by disabling border patrol and other law-enforcement organizations engaged in the War on Drugs. Either way we’re screwed. And this is what Danny is working on, along with dozens of other agents from multiple intelligence and law-enforcement agencies: we’re trying to cut off the head of the snake before he can sell them to the enemies of America and also resume production.”

  “Why did Sokolov test the weapon in Afghanistan? Why not just cut it loose in a place like Times Square?”

  Granite shrugs. “He could have tested it anywhere, but our best guess is that Sokolov wanted to do so in a remote area to make sure the population remained relatively close together for the month it took for the weapon to take effect. And let’s face it, those Afghan villagers don’t get out much. That gave him two very controlled experiments to prove to himself—and to his buyers—that it works. Plus, nobody would care about what happened in some remote mountain location in country, especially our media, who barely covers the fact that we’re still at war over there. But I also think he chose that place to screw with us in Afghanistan just as we screwed with them when they were the invaders during the Eighties. Remember, America armed the Mujahedeen to combat the Soviet invasion, so we believe they were doing the same thing right back at us by contaminating non-combatants, mutating them to become a threat to our troops. But that was just the warm-up phase. They’re about to go live on prime time.”

  I stand there trying to absorb it all.

  “A lot to take in,” Granite adds. “This is why the President created Directive Eighty-Three three years ago.”

  “Operation Highest Law,” I mumble, which actually seems appropriately named since Granite and his gang certainly seem to be the highest law of the land.

  The colonel nods. “If this program, which I inherited last December—thanks to you—had not gone into effect when it did, we would have had thousands of mass shootings on our hands by now.”

  “Hold on, sir. Why did you say that you’re in this because of me?”

  “Lawson, you’re the one who brought this up to my attention at KAF and also during that Skype call, remember? I was handling a damned war. But you got me making the wrong inquiries in the wrong places. Well, guess what? Just like I got the KAF assignment for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, I got this one next for asking the wrong questions to the wrong people. So, thanks. Really.” He stretches his arms toward the cells surrounding us. “For royally fucking up my life.”

  I’m stunned. And all this time I thought that Granite was playing me. “Sir, I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? For never meaning for any of this to happen? Really, Marine?”

  “Sir, look, I just—”

  “Commander, you’ve had a hard-on to get to the bottom of this since you first saw Jonesy and his team on that mountain.”

  I can’t contest that.

  “And trust me, I wanted to pull you into this for a while now but was holding back at Danny’s request.”

  “Uncle D.?”

  “Yeah. He felt you’ve already been through enough and wanted to give you a chance at building a normal life. That’s why he went to Landstuhl and got you the gig at NCIS. But you obviously couldn’t let it go. You let your desire for revenge, combined with your damned curiosity, get the better of you and managed to screw it all up and even put your new team in the hospital. And if you really want to go on a guilt trip, you should ask yourself if Dix would still be alive had you not stuck your nose where it didn’t belong.”

  I’m once again at a loss for words as a dozen thoughts flood my mind.

  “Alright,” Granite says. “Seen enough?”

  I manage a slight nod.

  “Good. Then let’s go upstairs. Clock’s ticking.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Danny’s been tailing Tupolev and his team and has gathered enough intel to suggest that Sokolov is very close to making a deal with the Mexican Cartel for the remaining four prototypes. We think he might even gift them to the Cartel as some sort of down payment in exchange for safe haven to resume production. Now, let’s go. Time to introduce you to your new team.”

  “My new team?”

  Granite stops and stares me in the eye. “Lawson, you wanted in? Well, you’ve got it, Marine. You’re all the way in, like your
pals Cope and Danny.”

  “What—wait a moment! I’m NCIS now and—”

  “And what? You’re going to spend the rest of your career teaching special agents how to clear rooms and handle the likes of Franklin?”

  “Well, yes, that’s—”

  “A waste of your talent—pocket change compared to preventing any of those prototypes from being released in this country. It’s difficult enough to contain the historical damage this drug has caused. It would be impossible to handle what you saw in that village, times a thousand, if it’s deployed in a heavily-populated area. For all practical purposes, the bastards could unleash them on obvious places like Times Square, but they could also hit Capitol Hill and the White House. Imagine what would happen if the nation’s leadership suddenly went bat-shit crazy. Or, they could release on a military base, or even in a nuclear submarine. It all depends on how creative you want to get, and believe me, we’ve gone through hundreds of such scenarios. One of our guys even dreamed up a setting where the gas is released at the next Air Traffic Controllers annual convention. Imagine that one for a moment. A month later ATC across the country goes nuts, and airliners go crashing all over the place. Or how about cutting a bomb loose at the next Navy Tailhook gathering and contaminating our active Navy pilots? Al-Qaeda would just love that. The possibilities with this type of delayed-action bioweapon are as endless as they are terrifying. And on top of that, we have reason to believe that Sokolov has also created some sort of milder version that can be used to enhance the capabilities of a soldier.”

  “Like what I saw in that village?”

  “Something like that, though those villages were doomed. This bio-enhancer is different. The users still have their minds. They’re just nimbler. But our scientists believe that sooner or later they all will pay the price and end up like these poor souls.”

  “About that, sir,” I say, deciding to come clean with the man since he seems to be operating in good faith with me now. “You need to know that I’ve been taking Zilopronol-B for—”

  “Six months. Yes, we know. And your point is?”

  “That I may be a risk to—”

  “Not according to your last blood work.”

  “You’ve been monitoring my—”

  “Have you not heard a word I’ve said? We’re monitoring everybody who’s at risk, and that means pretty much everyone who served overseas. And no, you’re not at risk at the moment.”

  “What about my father? Did he take it? Am I a second-generation user?”

  Granite makes a face. “So, you have been listening. And the answer is yes, son. Your dad took it for about two years… before you were born.”

  While I’m trying to process that, his phone dings twice. Granite frees it from a holder clipped to the belt of his uniform, looks at it, frowns, and says, “We have a lead on Tupolev, but we need to jump on it ASAP before he vanishes again. So, unless you happen to be in possession of a Presidential Directive exempting you from Highest Law, your ass now belongs to me.”

  Chapter 29

  In the Marines and the teams, I was trained to deal with the unexpected, to adapt and improvise so I could then overcome and win.

  In any type of scenario.

  Under the sea, in the air, or on land.

  But under every scenario, I was always operating with comrades-in-arms, warriors who I knew had my back and vice versa. People I trusted with my life.

  None of my instructors, however, prepared me for the reality of having to do it with characters like Jones and Kessler, plus now Cope

  So, here I am, at almost four in the morning, driving not far from the place where my NCIS team was ambushed to hit a location where the elusive Yuri Tupolev—our link to Sokolov and his bioweapons—might be holed up. At least according to the Russian that I wounded at the marina.

  Yeah, as it turned out, the MA’s that were escorting him from the OR to the recovery room were on Granite’s payroll—just as the people who snatched Hostetter’s body on the way to the morgue. Apparently, this highly-covert organization, of which I’m now a part of, has eyes everywhere and also a very long reach.

  They smuggled the Russian out of the hospital and straight into the arms of Jonesy and crew, who were able to extract what they needed after just five minutes.

  I asked Granite how they did it, and he told me that it wasn’t relevant. But what was relevant was the intel extracted, which we needed to act on immediately, before Tupolev moved again. The man looks like a ghost and vanishes like one, like he did outside Kerns’ house. And since Jonesy was a man down after losing Hostetter at the Calypso bar, I’ll be filling the big man’s shoes.

  But we need to approach this place carefully. Our orders are to secure Tupolev, not kill him. And if grabbing a former Spetznas operative alive isn’t enough of a challenge, we also need to do it without attracting attention since Granite’s team isn’t supposed to exist.

  “Try to keep up with that tin leg, Commander,” Jonesy says from the front of the black Chevy Tahoe while Kessler drives. They’re all gunned up with MP7SDs since silence is paramount for this op. And I am too, occupying the back seat along with my old sniper compadre.

  We’re all fitted with GPNVG-18 helmet-mounted night vision devices, which we currently keep up, out of the way until we need them. And each of us has an MBITR secured to the utility vests we wear over our body armor and connected to an earpiece and a throat mike.

  “Yeah,” M.K. says. “And watch that muzzle. Don’t feel like catching one in the ass today.”

  “Well, guys, in my humble opinion, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for me to sit behind your ass while holding a loaded weapon.”

  Cope does a double take on me.

  “Not funny, Commander,” Kessler says.

  “Neither is you torturing a war hero.”

  “We had to be sure he wasn’t gaming us, Commander,” Jonesy says. “The madness you saw in that basement must be kept from the public. Plus, you were interfering with our plans to catch Tupolev.”

  Kessler turns around and adds, “Look at it from our perspective. You and Agent Johnson were pretty deep in our business. How were we supposed to know that Dix wasn’t feeding you intel?”

  I sit back there quietly considering that. Then, “Is that what you were doing at Landstuhl last Christmas eve? Making sure he didn’t talk?”

  “Yeah,” Jonesy replies. “And again, yesterday at his house, as you saw. But as far as Dix buying the farm,” he adds, “we had nothing to do with it. Yuri’s gone rogue on us, though I believe he did the man a huge favor. Had that been me on that damned bed all crippled up, pissing and shitting on myself, I would have wanted someone to have had the balls to put me out of my misery.”

  “Damn right,” Kessler says. “That was no way for a brother to live. Someone should have done it sooner.”

  I want to reply, but I can’t. Conflicting thoughts from Landstuhl ensnare my mind, choking the words in my throat. Dix never wanted to go home like that. He told me so in no uncertain terms. But at the end of the day, we not only failed to kill him as he had requested, but we then failed to protect him from a monster like Tupolev.

  I decide to ignore those two clowns and turn to Cope, who’s been sitting quietly, just like in the old days, with his monster rifle in between his legs. He’s staring out the window at the dark streets rushing past.

  “How did you survive?”

  Cope remains looking out. Inhaling deeply, he then says, “I was perched behind a clump of boulders, laying down and reporting on that shit show… except I didn’t know that my damn left boot was sticking out. When the blast swept over my position, it took it right off. The rocks protected me from the shrapnel, but not from the ensuing shockwave that gave me the mother of all concussions. When I came around, I was in the company of my old crew aboard an Agency emergency medical jet bound for Bagram, with Dix.�
��

  “What?”

  “See, Commander,” Kessler decides to inject into our conversation while turning around. “We may come across as assholes to you, but we do take care of our own.”

  “So, you were with Dix in Bagram?” I ask Cope.

  He nods. “But there wasn’t much anyone could do for him, so we shipped him off Landstuhl, and I signed up with Highest Law again since I wasn’t going to be much use in the teams anymore.”

  “Plus,” Kessler adds, “Cope already knew the drill, so it made the process easy. It’s very difficult to find the right people for this job. Not for everyone.”

  “What happened to those non-combatants in Compound 35?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer. But I guess I still need to hear it to achieve some strange form of closure.

  Kessler looks at Jonesy who shrugs and says, “Tell him. He’s cleared.”

  Kessler looks me in the eye and says, “We had no choice. They were all contaminated, even the kids. It was just a matter of time before they all turned EAS Stage Three, like the ones that you had to put down. Sorry, Commander. That’s the nature of the beast we’re fighting. And now the damned Russian Mafia has turned it into a bioweapon.”

  I just shake my head at the multiple dimensions of this problem, before looking away, trying to process everything that I’ve heard so—

  “Commander,” Kessler adds, probably after reading the expression on my face. “The best way to deal with this is by focusing on one mission at a time. If you let your mind get carried away contemplating the whole problem, it will overwhelm you.”

  I sit there contemplating him and his unsolicited advice.