Striker (K19 Security Solutions Book 6)

by Heather Slade

  “No idea.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” Mercer asked.

  As tense as Striker felt, Razor had to be feeling it too, considering the other three original K19 senior partners were grilling him.

  “As Striker said, we met here yesterday afternoon. We talked about the fact that Ghafor was in Colombia, as well as the sudden movement of the weaponry. Also as Striker said, he was specific about not sending the team into Colombia.”

  “I talked to you too,” said Doc, looking at Striker. “You were clear on standing down.”

  “We talked right after that,” Striker said to Razor. “You asked whether we should stop the arms’ shipments, and I said not to. I asked you to tell Monk to keep his eyes on the shipments and on Ghafor. You told me then that you would when you saw him.”

  “That’s right,” said Razor.

  “Where were you then?” asked Gunner.

  “Right here in this fucking office,” Razor growled back at him.

  Doc held up his hand. “I don’t think any one of us is questioning either Razor’s or Striker’s handling of this mission. I’d like us to be clear on that. What all of us are trying to get to the bottom of, is why Monk authorized a mission after Striker put the brakes on it.”

  “We’re all making the assumption that he did,” said Striker.

  “You’re right that we’re making an assumption. However, it’s based on the fact that he was assigned to be Tackle and Halo’s handler, combined with the other fact that no one has seen him since yesterday,” said Razor.

  “What about your sister?” Striker asked him.

  “I can check with her.”

  Striker nodded and so did Doc.

  “Where are Tackle and Halo now?” asked Gunner.

  “Razor said, according to the flight plan, they left out of Miami two hours ago.” Mercer was pulling something up on one of the monitors. “That would put them somewhere between Jamaica and Barranquilla.”

  Striker turned toward the door when he heard someone coming downstairs. He expected it to be Razor with an update on Monk from his sister. Instead, it was the man himself.

  “Where in the hell have you been?” seethed Striker. He was about to tear into him some more, when he felt Doc’s hand on his arm.

  Monk looked at each of the men in the room, pushed past them, and sat in the chair next to Mercer.

  “What’s this,” he asked.

  “Monk,” said Striker. “I asked you a question. Where have you been?”

  “Sleeping,” he answered, without turning around.

  “Rhys.”

  Monk spun around and looked at Doc.

  “Yáñez filed a flight plan earlier today,” he said. “We aren’t certain of the details, but it appears that he, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo are on their way to Colombia.”

  Monk glared at Striker. “I thought I was the handler on this.”

  “There he is,” said Razor, coming back into the room, breathless.

  “Anybody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Monk asked.

  Mercer stood, and Striker sat down in his place.

  “Did you authorize their deployment?”

  “Whose?”

  “Jesus Christ, Monk! Tackle and Halo!” Striker was ready to pull his hair out.

  “You said to put them on standby, and that’s what I did.”

  Striker rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

  “Has anybody made contact with Yáñez?” Monk asked.

  “Negative,” Mercer answered.

  “How’d you find out about the flight plan in the first place?” asked Gunner.

  All eyes turned to Razor.

  “I got a call from Jimenéz, asking if Striker was on his way. I asked what he was talking about, and he responded that there was a K19 plane in the air.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Doc.

  “That his intel was bad.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “There was no K19 plane I knew of on its way to Colombia.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me it was my intel that was bad.”

  “Has anyone actually confirmed the plane is even in the air?” asked Gunner.

  Monk looked around the room, but everyone was looking at him. “I hadn’t slept in forty-eight fucking hours,” he muttered.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?” Razor asked.

  “Seriously?”

  Razor stared him down.

  “The last I checked, I was a partner in this fucking firm, and I don’t ask permission.” Monk stood to leave, but Doc put his hand on his arm.

  “Monk, you’re right. What we need to figure out now is whether there is a plane en route to Colombia. Once we’ve confirmed there is, we need to figure out who authorized its departure.”

  “I’ll ask again, has anyone made contact with Yáñez?”

  “Negative,” answered Razor like Mercer had in his absence. “I’ve attempted contact with all four we believe are on board—Onyx, Corazón, Tackle, and Halo. No response.”

  “You believe to be on board? Have you seen the flight plan? What about the manifest?”

  “Negative. There hasn’t been time,” Razor answered.

  “How long since you spoke to Jimenéz?” Striker asked Razor, who checked his phone.

  “Thirteen ten,” he answered.

  “It’s thirteen-thirty-five now,” said Striker. “My answer, Monk, is we’ve been trying to figure this out in real time. We need your help.”

  Monk nodded, picking up his phone.

  “Gentlemen,” said Razor, motioning for everyone to leave the room. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we have several women upstairs who have been cooking for the last few days in order to serve a large group of people Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “Understood. We’ll eat in shifts,” answered Doc.

  “That’ll work,” said Razor. “I’ll let them know.”

  Doc turned to Striker. “How is Aine?”

  “Stable. I doubt anyone is letting her lift a finger.”

  “I’ll head up and speak with Merrigan. Striker, who do you want to stay down here with you and Monk?”

  “I’ll stay.” Mercer volunteered before Striker could answer. It would’ve been whom he would’ve asked for anyway.

  “Gunner, let’s go.”

  Before he followed Doc, he turned around and got closer to Striker. “You find out anything, you need anything, you say so immediately.”

  Striker nodded. “Roger that, and thank you.”

  Gunner grunted something Striker didn’t hear.

  “Fuck,” he heard Monk say beneath his breath.

  “What?” he asked, taking a seat next to him.

  “It’s all here. Flight plan, manifest, departure log.”

  “Out of Miami?”

  “Atlanta.”

  Striker was about to ask why, but did it matter? The four had been on the East Coast, and on standby. They’d never asked for anyone’s twenty. Everyone assumed that Monk would orchestrate this part of the mission when and if he was given the go-ahead.

  “Where are they now?”

  “That’s the thing,” he murmured, shaking his head. “They’re nowhere.”

  “Come again,” he said, trying to maintain the same level of calm the others were.

  Monk pointed first to one monitor and then the other. “That’s the last flight segment before they went silent. This is a hundred-mile radius.” He motioned with his head to the other two monitors. “These are five hundred and one thousand miles.”

  Striker could see the flight path clearly, but shortly after thirteen hundred hours, the plane, which had just crossed into Venezuela near Punta Fijo, seemed to vanish into thin air. He knew the aircraft well, along with the technology onboard—Air Force One had a better chance of disappearing than it had.

  “Have you made contact with Venezuelan air traffic?” Striker asked.

&
nbsp; “I’m doing that now,” Mercer answered.

  Striker pinged Razor with an SOS. Seconds later he was coming back downstairs.

  “Get everyone back down here.”

  “Roger that,” he said, turning around.

  By the time Mercer hung up, all eyes were on him. “The power grid is completely shut down.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Gunner.

  “The entire country is dark.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Monk was listening to something through the headset. “It’s not. President Maduro just announced a state of emergency. Get the feed,” he said to Striker.

  “Here it is,” he said, turning the monitor’s volume up. “Emergency radio,” he explained when nothing appeared on the screen.

  They listened as the country’s current president accused Juan Guaidós, the US-backed incoming leader of Venezuela, of sabotaging the power grid.

  “They have one fucking grid,” muttered Gunner, shaking his head.

  Striker listened to the rest of the broadcast, jotting down key phrases. Everyone in the room spoke Spanish, among other languages, but Striker understood what Maduro was saying between the lines better than the others did. If there were a part of the world more fucked up than the Middle East right now, Venezuela would be at the top of the list.

  Razor rubbed the back of his neck. “It doesn’t explain why we lost contact, or why the plane isn’t showing up on the radar. Neither would be affected by one country’s grid.”

  “It would if they were diverting and/or blocking signals,” Monk responded.

  “What about Jimenéz?” Doc asked Striker.

  “My gut is telling me to leave him out of this.”

  Doc nodded.

  “Anything?” he asked Monk, who shook his head. Striker studied the same monitors the other man was, hoping the plane would miraculously reappear.

  Five minutes later, Razor’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “Is anyone thinking the same thing I am?”

  Doc rubbed the back of his neck with his hand like Razor had. “Four of our teammates are on a plane that was last seen in Venezuelan airspace. We know their government isn’t going to do a damn thing to help us find it. We can’t do this alone. We need to contact the agency.”

  “I’m not on the best of terms with McTiernan over the Ghafor clusterfuck,” said Striker.

  “I’ll engage Cope instead,” said Doc.

  While Sumner Copeland worked for the man Striker was at odds with, the fact that K19 had expressed an interest in extending him an offer of employment made him a logical go-between.

  Striker looked at Razor, who nodded.

  “If we think this plane is down, I’m going in,” said Striker.

  “I am too,” said Razor. “Who’s with us?”

  Every hand went up.

  “Happy fucking Thanksgiving,” grumbled Gunner.

  “You’re not—”

  When Gunner shot Striker a look, he shut up.

  “You don’t know anything if you think I’d sit here on my ass.” He walked out of the room, shaking his head. “Who put him in charge?” they heard him mutter.

  “I did,” both Doc and Razor answered when Gunner pushed past them.

  Striker sat down next to Monk. “You tell me. What should we do?”

  “Best if we split into teams. One to Bogotá and one closer to where the plane lost contact,” he answered.

  “Flying into Maracaibo would make the most sense, but would it even be possible with Venezuela’s power grid down?” Striker asked.

  Monk shook his head. “The closest we can get is Aruba.”

  “Cope can arrange for aircraft and pilots,” Doc told them after ending his call.

  “No one is going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest,” said Monk, pointing to a different radar report on the monitor.

  While it was late in the season and both Aruba and Colombia were below the hurricane belt, in order to get to either, they’d have to fly directly through the eye of an impending storm.

  Not only would it ground them, it would make any search for the aircraft and its occupants exponentially more difficult.

  “It’s Cope again,” said Doc, looking at his phone. He walked into the hallway to take the call.

  “Where’s the fucking plane?” muttered Striker.

  “Tabon?” he heard Ava call out from the stairwell.

  “Monk, is there anything else we can do right now?”

  He shook his head.

  “Go eat, then.”

  Monk didn’t acknowledge that Razor had said anything to him.

  “He means you,” said Striker.

  Monk turned and looked into Striker’s eyes. “I need quiet to do this.”

  Striker nodded and motioned for everyone to head out.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to Monk.

  “I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  “Not a word about this,” Doc unnecessarily warned everyone in the room.

  Striker heard murmurs of agreement anyway as he followed the group upstairs.

  When he reached the top, he saw Aine seated on the sofa. Her back was to him, yet he could still feel the anxiety emanating from her. He understood and agreed with Doc’s mandate not to discuss the missing plane; however, he had to tell her something or she’d be eaten up with worry. His guess was Ava, Quinn, and Zary would feel the same way. Merrigan had likely already been read in.

  Striker came around to where Aine sat and held his hand out to her. “I hear it’s time to eat.”

  Her eyes met his. “Something is going on that you can’t tell me about.”

  Aine didn’t phrase it as a question, but Striker sat down and answered her anyway. “That’s right.”

  They’d talked about it more than once, earlier this year, when they were still together. She’d had enough experience to know his limits without him being specific. She could read him, though, like she had now, and always let him off the hook before he’d had to say anything at all.

  “Do you have to leave?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But soon?”

  He nodded and pulled her close to him. He’d already told her he might have to return to Colombia, although now the reason was entirely different.

  “I wish we’d stayed at the inn,” she murmured.

  “We can go back now if you’d like.”

  Aine shook her head. “After dinner.”

  “Does anyone know where Tara is?” Pen asked, coming in from next door.

  “She walked out right after you did,” Ava told her.

  “Wait a minute.” Pen walked into the kitchen. “I can’t believe it,” she said, coming back out with her hands on her hips.

  “What happened?” Aine asked.

  “She took the car.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon. She knows what time we’re having dinner,” said Quinn.

  “Which is now,” added Ava when Razor shouted that he was finished carving the turkey. “It isn’t as though we’re all sitting down at one big table. She can eat when she gets back.”

  Striker watched the exchange, remembering Razor’s words of caution at the hospital. He’d told him at the time that he was overreacting, but disappearing without telling anyone she was leaving, especially today, was odd.

  He walked over to Penelope, who looked more distressed than the rest of them. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “She took the car.”

  “I heard.”

  “The rental agreement is in my name.”

  “This is probably a stupid question, but have you called her?”

  Pen nodded a second time. “She didn’t answer.”

  “Try the rental company.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of them track the cars. I can do it for you if you’d like?”

  Pen looked across the room to where Aine was seated on the sofa. “I can do it, but thank you.”

  “Let
me know what you find out.”

  Striker stayed by Aine’s side, insisting that he make her a plate from the Thanksgiving buffet her sister had commandeered, and then return it to the kitchen when she finished eating.

  There were conversations all around them from the crowd of people gathered for the holiday meal. He and Aine managed to stay on the perimeter of the chaos, not talking, but not needing to, as though their bodies and minds were so in tune that they communicated silently.

  Once they finished their pie, Aine asked if they could leave.

  “I need to talk to Doc and Razor…”

  Aine nodded. “I’ll track down Ava.”

  “I’ll find her and send her to you.”

  “I can walk, Griffin.”

  He knelt down and kissed her. “You are dead-on-your-tush tired, sweetheart. Let your sister come to you.”

  “Okay,” she murmured, as though even speaking the word took energy she didn’t have.

  Before he went in search of Razor and Ava, he found Penelope out on the deck.

  “Any luck?”

  “No. That agency doesn’t have GPS on their cars.”

  Striker didn’t tell her this, but given the ordeal that the four women had gone through over a year ago, it was likely K19 still had tracking installed on Tara’s phone.

  “Aine wants to go back to the inn, but let Razor know if you need him to jump in on this.”

  “Like Ava said earlier, she’ll be back when she’s back.”

  Striker went inside and found Razor in the kitchen with his wife and son. “Aine’s ready to go.”

  Razor nodded, handing Sam to his wife.

  “Why don’t you just stay here?” Ava suggested. “It’ll be more comfortable for her.”

  Striker looked at his teammate. It would solve his current dilemma of not wanting to leave Aine alone, but also needing to be here.

  “We’ll go to the inn instead,” said Zary, looking at Gunner.

  “Hold off anyone going anywhere,” said Razor. “We can figure this out.”

  “What about Butler Ranch?” Quinn said to Doc, who had walked in with Merrigan.

  “I’m headed there now,” Merrigan responded.

  “I’m sure they have plenty of room since only one of my brothers still lives there,” said Doc.

  “You aren’t going with Merrigan?” asked Quinn.

  Mercer leaned forward and whispered something in her ear that Striker couldn’t hear. Quinn nodded.