by Jack Mars
“On whose authority?!” Rigby bellowed.
“The United States Constitution,” the lieutenant told him, and this time he was not referring to the ship. “Combined Task Force 152 is heading back to Bahrain, sir. The rest of the Fifth Fleet will be behind us. We have already communicated with the IRGC and made them aware that we are standing down.”
“You will be charged for treason!” Rigby spat.
“Actually, sir, I think we might find that it will be the other way around.” Cohen set the red phone down upon the cradle, feeling extremely satisfied.
*
“Hello? Hello?!” Rigby slammed down the receiver furiously.
It was gone. Everything they had worked for was gone. How? How in the hell did they get to the Fifth Fleet?
His cell phone rang again with Peter Holmes’s name displayed. He snatched it up quickly. “What?” he nearly shouted.
“Get out, Quentin.” Holmes’s voice was hushed and panicked. “They’re coming. Get out now…” There was a clamor in the background, and suddenly a dozen voices shouting all at once. “What are you doing? Get your hands off of me!” Holmes shouted through the phone. “On what charges? I demand to speak to the pres—”
The call ended. Rigby dropped the phone and rubbed his temples.
Outside his office, he heard the foreshadowing sound of a dozen pairs of boots marching closer.
“So this is it,” he murmured to himself. He had only ever wanted what he thought was best for this country and its people. To not have to rely on unstable foreign powers. To flourish and thrive. But it had all gotten so, so far out of hand, and now he had no time to reflect on where things had gone wrong.
A fist pounded heavily on his office door. “General Rigby? US Marshals Service. Open the door, sir.”
Rigby rounded his desk and pulled open the top drawer. He took out the .38 revolver there and checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, even though he knew it was.
The fist pounded again. “Open the door, sir, or we’ll break it down.”
“One moment,” Rigby called back flatly. He cocked the hammer. “God forgive me,” he murmured, as he stuck the barrel under his chin.
CHAPTER FORTY
Ashleigh Riker pulled the old car into the parking lot of a gas station just off of I-70. She put it in park and briefly consulted the map on the passenger seat. She was about thirty miles outside of Columbus, Ohio, and headed west.
She checked her look in the rearview mirror. The hasty black dye job she’d done looked atrocious, a boxed drug-store color she’d done in the bathroom of a truck-stop diner. But she had a yellow scarf tied over her head, knotted under her chin, and large dark sunglasses on her face. She barely recognized herself.
For a moment she sat there in the car, adjacent to a gas pump, and just stared at the cracked vinyl of the steering wheel. It had all gone downhill so quickly.
Riker hadn’t assumed this would happen, but she was smart enough to plan for the contingency. Her bug-out bag had been prepped for three weeks, bearing her photo on identification for a Charlotte Gardner of Virginia. She had a few thousand in cash, and the keys to an old sedan that she had bought at a police auction for next to nothing, the title and VIN both registered under Ms. Gardner’s name.
She had also taken the precaution of tapping both Rigby’s and Holmes’s phones, so she knew they would be coming for her. Director Mullen was undoubtedly in custody. Cole, Poe, Cleary, Kemmerer… the dominoes had fallen. The higher-ups would attempt to take deals by narcing on those below them, their moles in the NSA and CIA and FBI, all of those they had so carefully brought into the fold over the course of the last two years.
It was all undone now. It was finished, but she wasn’t. As soon as she received the alert that Holmes had been arrested, she calmly strode straight to her car and drove home. She heard the sirens wailing as she was pulling out of the parking deck, but no one had noticed her. Riker had gone to her apartment only long enough to grab her bug-out bag and open a can of food for her cat. She couldn’t bring him; the cat was microchipped.
Then she was gone.
She’d headed west so far, and would continue to do so until Minnesota. Then she would cross the border into Canada at Manitoba, using Charlotte Gardner’s fake passport. Riker had an aunt just outside of Winnipeg who would harbor her for a short while until she could secure passage to a non-extradition country, perhaps the UAE or Brunei.
This isn’t how you go down, she kept telling herself. Despite having no field experience, she was surprised at how remarkably calm she was during the ordeal. She now understood the appeal of being an agent, like those she’d formerly supervised; it was almost thrilling, being on the lam, being incognito.
As long as she didn’t remind herself that she’d just lost everything.
At length she finally got out of the car and headed into the service station, pushing twenty-five dollars in cash across the counter and muttering, “Pump three. Thanks.”
Then she headed back out across the small lot. Her scalp itched terribly; the cheap dye was drying out her roots. She could use a shower, but a hotel room was out of the question. She needed to be conservative with the meager cash she had. She desperately wished she had made off with some intel; the names and identities of undercover field agents, perhaps, or some other national secrets that she could have sold to a foreign power for a tidy sum…
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the woman until she was nearly back to the gas pump. Riker stopped dead in her tracks, rooted to the spot, the sunglasses falling slightly down the bridge of her nose.
The blonde woman leaning against the old car had her hair pulled up in a bun, as if intentionally displaying the long purple bruise down one side of her face.
“Ms. Riker.” She nodded, her arms folded over her chest.
Riker’s shoulders drooped as she deflated with a heavy sigh. “How did you find me?”
Maria Johansson picked casually at a fingernail. “Some friends of mine were keeping an eye on you. Funny thing, I was going to break ties with them. Even tried to a couple of times. But I’m glad I didn’t. They turned out to be very helpful. See, they knew about this car.” Johansson leaned deeply and stuck one hand under the passenger-side wheel well. She tugged something loose and showed it to Riker. It was a small magnetic cube.
A tracking device, Riker realized. “And it took you this long to get to me?”
Maria shrugged. “There were a lot of you to get to. I volunteered for this personally.”
Riker’s gaze darted left and right behind her sunglasses. It looked as if Johansson had come alone. There was a Beretta in her bag, but that was tucked behind the driver’s seat. She would never get to it in time. And she knew she couldn’t outrun Johansson.
“Don’t try,” Maria said, as if reading her mind. “Just accept it.”
But Riker couldn’t do that. She had come too far to simply relent. She sidestepped slowly around the gas pump, closer to the car, nodding as if she agreed with Johansson. The Beretta was her only choice. If she could get around the car and grab it, maybe she could get out—
Johansson moved suddenly, much faster than Riker thought she could. In two quick strides she was in the former deputy director’s face, and then a fist flew at the bridge of her nose.
Riker’s head snapped back. She saw stars and felt sharp, instant pain as her nose flattened under Johansson’s blow. She fell on her rear in the parking lot, her broken sunglasses falling from her face as tears welled in her eyes.
One hand flew over her nose to stanch the blood running liberally down her face as she moaned in pain. “You… you broke my nose!”
Johansson knelt beside her. “That was for Cartwright. I would just as soon put a bullet in your head, but I’d prefer that you get to see where you’ll be staying from now on.”
“No.” Riker scooted backward, pushing against gravel with her feet. “No, you can’t send me there. You can’t!” She kne
w exactly what Johansson was talking about: the Moroccan black site, Hell Six.
She spun suddenly at the screech of tires as three police cruisers tore into the parking lot, followed immediately by two unmarked black cars. A coterie of armed men leapt out, guns pointed, cars surrounding her and filling the small lot.
Maria Johansson grabbed Riker by the elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Ashleigh Riker,” she declared, “it is my genuine pleasure to tell you that you are under arrest.”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
Zero stood under the shade of a thin tree with his hands clasped in front of him. It was a pleasant day; warm, only a few wispy feathers of cirrus clouds hanging in the spring sky. He wore a simple black shirt and black trousers, appropriate cemetery attire, with his head bowed slightly and his gaze directed at a grave marker about twenty-five yards away.
Shawn Cartwright’s funeral had been hours ago, earlier that morning, but he hadn’t attended. None of them had; they weren’t supposed to have any public affiliation with him. So they held a small ceremony of their own, him and Strickland and Maria and Bixby. Emilia Sanders was there too, but only because Todd was taking her to the airport directly afterward.
“He was a good man,” Bixby murmured solemnly.
Maria scoffed lightly. “Like hell.”
“Jesus, Maria, have some respect,” Strickland scolded.
She shook her head. “If he was here with us right now, he would have laughed at us for even suggesting that. Cartwright wasn’t a good man, and he knew it. He was responsible for some truly shady shit over the years. He did as he was told, and most often didn’t question it. He rose up through the ranks just like everyone else did, by stepping on the backs of others.” She fell silent for a moment before adding, “But he tried to do the right thing in the end, and it cost him his life. More than that, he was a friend.”
Zero bit his tongue. Cartwright’s death was indirectly his fault. He might have even been able to prevent it. But Cartwright had known all along that Watson had murdered his wife, and had said nothing. Cartwright had called the hit on him two years ago and sent two of Zero’s friends to do it. Cartwright had suspected for some time that something was amiss between the likes of Riker and Mullen and Carver, and he had done little to intervene.
Maria was right. He wasn’t a good man. But it didn’t mean he deserved to be gunned down in a basement.
“So,” said Strickland after a long moment of silence. “Where do we go from here?”
It was a valid question, though none of them had an answer.
*
The three days since the attempt on President Pierson’s life had been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, of conflict and arrests and media.
After Roosevelt Island, Pierson and Zero had been rushed to the hospital, where doctors confirmed that the president had suffered a concussion, multiple contusions, and a shocking amount of liquid in his lungs. Despite all of that, Pierson demanded two things. The first was that he was going to continue to lead the country out of this mess, even if it was from a hospital bed.
The second was that he refused to let Agent Zero leave his side. As far as Pierson was concerned, Zero was the only man he could trust. And that suited Zero just fine.
For three days he sat by the president’s side and bore witness to the myriad concerns that required addressing. The first thing that Pierson did was order the arrests of the highest levels of his administration. He needed people he could trust, so he called in state troopers and US marshals to bring the perpetrators into custody.
Quentin Rigby took the coward’s way out and shot himself in his office with marshals outside his door. Ashleigh Riker had attempted to flee, but was picked up seven hours later by Johansson. The others—Peter Holmes, Christine Cleary, Roland Kemmerer, John Hillis, James Mullen, Christopher Poe, and even Vice President Cole—were detained without incident. They begged and they pleaded, and they gave excuses, but ultimately it was names they gave up.
Zero’s documents were rediscovered in Riker’s office, and the USB stick with the audio files was found in a footlocker in Agent Raulsen’s home. The evidence that Zero had gathered was enough to try the conspirators in court even if they denied knowledge of the plot.
He lost count of how many arrests were made over those three days, but it numbered in the forties.
Pierson’s second act was to have the long overdue conversation with President Sarif of Iran. Zero was present for that as well; it took place via video conference in the president’s hospital room. Pierson was transparent and honest. He told Sarif that his administration had been corrupted and that the attacks on the IRGC ships were orchestrated in order to spark a war. He promised court-martial and imprisonment for those involved, and offered the olive branch to Iran.
Sarif accepted, though hesitantly. Iran/US relations were still quite tense, and it seemed to Zero that it would take some time and effort to properly avoid further conflict. But Iran reopened the Strait of Hormuz to American vessels, and in return Pierson ensured that the entire Fifth Fleet returned to Bahrain. The president lauded the actions of Combined Task Force 152 and the USS Constitution for defying Admiral Buchanan and Captain Warren, and extended an invitation to the White House for the lieutenants who had first discovered the corruption in rank.
Zero stayed quiet on the part he had played in that. Those men and women deserved their honor, and he had no intention of detracting from it.
Talia Mendel and Vicente Baraf had done their part as well, bringing Russia’s operations into the UN’s spotlight. The president further assisted by publicly condemning those actions and promising swift and immediate military assistance to Ukraine should Russia make a single threatening move.
And finally, in a move that surprised even Zero, President Pierson made a public address. He had cameras brought right into the hospital room and he spoke to the nation. Just like with the Iranian president, Pierson was candid about what had transpired. The media went absolutely mad with the story of corruption at every level of government. Some called for Pierson’s resignation. Others labeled him a liar, or accused him of complacency. But most, it seemed, appreciated his honesty and were glad to avoid war.
Though it seemed like the actions taken in the wake of the assassination attempt were beneficial, Zero knew the truth. The administration was in absolute shambles. The hierarchy was disrupted. Every single person, from National Security Council down to White House cleaning staff, needed to be vetted all over again.
The United States was weakened. But Pierson had shown his strength, and it gave Zero a glimmer of hope that things would once again be right.
Eventually.
*
“Where do we go from here?” Strickland asked.
“Vacation would be nice,” Maria mused. “But I don’t see that happening anytime soon.”
“Back to the lab for me, I suppose,” said Bixby with a shrug.
Zero said nothing. He knew that Maria’s father, David Barren, was being appointed as the interim Director of National Intelligence, and was likely the best man for the permanent job. But a new CIA director had not yet been established.
He did not tell his friends that Pierson had offered him the position of deputy director over Special Activities Division—Shawn Cartwright’s former duty. He neglected to mention it because, much like the NSC position before it, Zero had turned it down.
He had seen, firsthand and far too often, what the illusion of power did to people.
“I’m going to get my girls,” Zero said in response to Strickland’s question. “I’ll see all of you around.” And then he headed to his car. His daughters were coming home today, and he couldn’t wait to see them. It had been a rough three days for them as well.
“Hey.” He paused as Maria caught up to him. “That’s it? Just ‘see you around’?”
“I’m tired,” he admitted. “My body aches from head to toe. And I have no idea what comes next.” He hardly had any desire to face the challenges t
hat returning to his life would bring; it felt as if his existence was a sheet of paper that had been shredded and then taped back together. It seemed intact, but it would never be the same again. “What about you?”
Maria smirked lightly. “Well, my dad is going to be the new DNI, at least for a little while, so it looks like I’ll be working for him.”
“How is he? After learning about all this?”
“Oh, he’s channeling it into a warpath for the people involved. He’s making it a mission to take down the oil execs who first put the plan in motion. And we’re supposed to have dinner tonight. So all in all, I think we’re okay.”
Zero couldn’t help but chuckle a little too. What strange lives we lead.
“You should come by sometime,” he told her. “In the next couple of days. I’m sure the girls would like that.”
She nodded. “Yeah. I think I will. But don’t let me hold you up. Go get them. I’m sure they’re dying to see you.” Maria leaned in and kissed him briefly. “See you around, Kent.” She started away, back toward the tree and Strickland and the others. “Oh, wait,” she called over her shoulder. “Have you heard from Watson at all? Seems he’s gone dark. None of us can raise him.”
Zero shook his head. “Nope. Haven’t heard from him in three days.”
And hopefully I never will.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Despite the protesting aches in his body, Zero ran to his daughters as they disembarked from a plane and came up the gate at Dulles International Airport. He caught them in each arm and hugged them both tightly, as if they had been apart for months and not only four and a half days.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he told them.
“You too, Dad,” Sara said. She looked up at him somberly. “Are you okay?”
