Striker (K19 Security Solutions Book 6)

by Heather Slade

  Pen scrubbed her face with her hand. “You’re right, as much as I don’t want to admit it.”

  Aine looked up at her sister, who was digging in her purse. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

  “I’ll be right back…” her words trailed as she walked out of the room.

  “What was that all about?” asked Pen.

  “No clue. Is it just me, or is there weirdness all around us?”

  “It isn’t you.”

  “I’m giving Tara a ride to the airport,” Quinn told them when she came back in the room with Tara trailing behind her.

  “Bye,” said Tara, waving.

  “Wait,” Pen called out to her as she was walking out the front door. “How about a hug? And what about Aine?”

  Tara walked back over as though what Pen had asked her to do was the worst thing she could imagine. She gave them both perfunctory hugs and walked back toward the door where Quinn waited.

  “What about Ava?” asked Aine.

  “Tell her I said thank you.”

  Without another word, Tara walked out; Quinn shrugged her shoulders and followed.

  Aine closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer, like she did at least once every half hour, that God would keep Griffin and the rest of the K19 team safe, but this time, she included Tara.

  “Where is she?” shouted Ava.

  “Who?” Aine asked, sitting up. She must’ve drifted to sleep. “Where’s Pen?”

  “I don’t care where Pen is. Where’s Tara?”

  “She left with Quinn to go to the airport. What’s wrong?”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Ava! Sit down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  When she came closer, Aine could see that Ava had both her wallet and a small wooden box in her hand.

  “She cleaned me out,” said Ava, pointing to the things she set on the table in front of them.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had three hundred dollars in cash in my wallet. She took that along with my jewelry. What about you? Did she take anything of yours?”

  “I don’t even know where my bag is. Griffin carried it in for me.”

  “I’ll look,” said Ava, standing back up. “Where’s Penelope?”

  “I don’t know that either. I must’ve fallen asleep.”

  Aine watched as Ava looked around the room, then went into the kitchen. She came back out and opened the front hall closet.

  “Here it is,” she said, bringing it over to her.

  Aine opened her purse and pulled out her wallet. Like Ava’s, it was empty.

  “How much cash did you have?” her sister asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe eighty or a hundred dollars.”

  Aine slowly opened the change compartment. She had a habit when she was traveling; she’d put whatever small jewelry she was wearing in that part of her wallet so she wouldn’t accidentally leave it behind after she went to sleep or took a shower. When she saw it was empty, her eyes filled with tears.

  “What else is missing?” asked Ava, sitting down and putting a hand on Aine’s arm.

  “The bracelet Griffin gave me for Christmas. The one that belonged to his aunt.”

  The front door opened, and Pen walked in. “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking into Aine’s tear-filled eyes.

  “We’re missing some things,” Ava said. “How long ago did Tara leave?”

  Pen looked at her phone. “I don’t know, maybe thirty minutes ago.”

  Ava was already making a call. “Quinn, where’s Tara?”

  Aine was sitting close enough that she could hear Quinn tell her sister that their friend was already on the plane, and she was on her way back from the airport.

  “How did she get a flight that fast?” Ava asked after she thanked Quinn and hung up.

  “What did she say?” asked Pen.

  “Tara’s flying to LAX and getting a connecting flight to New York from there. Quinn is on her way back now.”

  “We don’t know it was Tara,” murmured Aine.

  Both Ava and Pen looked at her like she’d grown a third head.

  “Who else would it have been?” asked Ava.

  Aine shook her head. “You’re right.” She looked at Pen. “Tell Ava what we talked about.”

  Pen gave Ava a detailed timeline of how Tara’s behavior had gotten increasingly worse over the course of the last year. A few minutes later, the front door opened and Quinn walked in.

  “What’s happened?” she asked. “Why did you want to know where Tara was?”

  Ava told her about the missing money and jewelry, and Pen gave her the condensed version of what she’d just finished telling them about their friend.

  “It’s been a hard eighteen months,” said Quinn after digesting everything the two had said. “Is she on any medicine for depression or anxiety or anything like that?”

  It was a good question. While Aine hadn’t thought she needed it, the psychiatrist she and Ava both saw after their ordeal with their father had asked her if she wanted a prescription for something to help with anxiety.

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t really explain the extreme mood fluctuations. Unless she isn’t taking them as prescribed,” answered Pen.

  “The worst thing is that she took the bracelet Striker gave Aine for Christmas.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” said Quinn, coming over and putting her arm around Aine’s shoulders.

  She couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. He’d entrusted her with something priceless, and now it was missing. If only she hadn’t taken it off before they took a shower at the inn.

  “We don’t know for certain it was her,” Aine murmured.

  “Again, Aine, who else would it have been?” asked Ava. “We should check with Saylor and Sally, plus Gunner’s and Zary’s mothers.”

  “Where is Zary?” Aine asked.

  “Lia was having a hard time falling asleep. She was rocking her the last time I checked.”

  Quinn stood and walked over to the window. “So, ladies. The question now is, if we believe Tara did take money and whatever else, what are we going to do about it?”

  —:—

  “I want to run something by you,” said Razor once they were on the plane that would take them to Colombia.

  “Shoot,” said Striker.

  “I have an idea what Ghafor is stockpiling weapons for, or who—FARC.”

  Striker nodded. It wasn’t a surprise to hear Razor’s theory, given the tentative peace agreement the Marquez-led Colombian government and the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, aka FARC, came to in 2016 was already falling apart.

  He’d expected it wouldn’t be long before it did after the last Colombian election. The then-president and broker of the peace, Juan Marquez, was defeated by Petro Santos, who had emerged the leader of those opposed to the treaty.

  Striker was on the team that had negotiated the surrender of over eight thousand weapons from a number of FARC combatants reported to be twice that.

  The treaty had been historic in that it had taken fifty years to bring the conflict to an end, but the implementation of the accord was beyond optimistic. The government and FARC weren’t the only two entities vying for power in Colombia—the drug cartels had more power than each of the two on their own, but less if they joined forces.

  No matter who was involved—politicians, insurgents, or drug barons—corruption was rampant. Not to mention the Islamic fundamentalists who had settled in Buenaventura. The entire country was a ticking time bomb.

  “At least we know what we’re dealing with when it comes to FARC, the government, and even the cartels. For me, the big unknown is the Islamics.”

  “What’s your take on Jimenéz?”

  “Don’t trust him,” said Monk.

  Striker raised his head. He hadn’t realized Monk was paying attention, although why wouldn’t he be?

  “Yeah, Monk?” said Razor. “What’s your take?”

  Monk hes
itated long enough that Striker wasn’t sure he was going to respond to Razor’s direct question.

  He watched as the man scrubbed his face with his hand. Monk was a hard man to read, but his combined anger and pain sat too close to the surface for anyone to miss.

  “Think about it,” he spat. “Jimenéz agrees to meet with Striker; Juan Carlos is killed between the time you leave the States and arrive in Colombia; Ghafor moves the arms, and the peace treaty falls apart.”

  “Who do you think is orchestrating this?”

  Striker paid more attention to Monk’s physical responses to Razor’s questions than to his answers.

  “One of the cartels makes the most sense,” Striker said.

  Monk nodded. “Keep going.”

  “Which one has Jimenéz in their pocket?” asked Razor.

  “All of them.”

  Striker agreed.

  “There are no good guys,” murmured Monk, sadness evident in his voice.

  Monk was right. Whatever was happening in Colombia, the US had to go on the assumption that there was no one they could trust, from the president down.

  “We should let ’em annihilate each other.”

  “If only.” Striker scrubbed his face with his hand. “What about the plane? You think this is a coincidence, Monk?”

  “Fuck no. Somebody set us up.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “How’d you find out the plane was in the air?”

  “Jimenéz contacted me.”

  “Exactly. Here’s my question—how the hell did anyone know that I was the handler on the op? Someone like Jimenéz could’ve assumed you were the lead, but why would Onyx pull the trigger on the flight plan without checking in with me first?”

  Striker nodded. “You didn’t hear a word from him?”

  “You don’t think that’s the first place I went? Not a fucking word.”

  “I heard you were on board,” said a man Striker hadn’t seen in years. “How the heck are you, Ellis?”

  The two men shook hands. “Good to see you, Trap. Still with the agency, huh?”

  “Yep, and drivin’ the bus. I’ve got an ex-wife and two daughters that I’ll eventually have to put through college, man.”

  “Ouch,” said Striker, who then pointed to his teammates. “You know Razor Sharp and Monk Perrin. Boys, this is Trap Flannery. We go way back to my first day at the agency.”

  “We haven’t met although I’ve heard of both of you.”

  Monk didn’t appear to have heard a word the man said, however, that was more his MO than all the talking he’d done in the last few minutes.

  “Hey, I heard Butler snagged Fatale,” said Trap.

  Razor shook his head. “Don’t ever let her hear you say something like that.”

  “Who’s flying with you?” asked Razor.

  “Someone you know pretty well.” Trap pointed at the bridge. “Here he is now.”

  “Hello, boys,” said Mantis Gehring as he walked on the plane, followed by someone else they knew pretty well—Dutch Miller.

  “Heard some of ours are MIA,” said Dutch, putting his hand on Striker’s shoulder. “Can’t believe you didn’t call me.”

  “Heard you were retired.”

  Dutch patted his stomach. “Retired? Shit. I’m in the best shape of my life.”

  “Thanks to Malin,” said Mantis, giving Dutch a shove.

  “I’m happy to give my bride all the credit in the world, for pretty much everything.”

  “Good to see you two,” said Striker, shaking both their hands. “Even though the circumstances suck. How’s your wife?” he asked Mantis.

  “Alegria’s doing the full-time-mom thing.”

  “Congratulations on the little tyke,” said Razor.

  “Thanks. He’s a couple of weeks old, and yet he rules our roost. Have you heard Dutch is gonna be a dad too?”

  “Wow. How is Malin?” asked Striker.

  The woman had been the driving force behind the arrest and conviction of several high-ranking CIA agents and governmental officials. They could use someone with her brain on this mission, and he told Dutch so.

  “I don’t know if she’ll ever be ready to return to the workforce, and I support her one hundred percent on that decision. For now, her full-time job is incubation.”

  Razor clapped Dutch on the back. “Congratulations to you too,” he said. “When’s she due?”

  “April of next year.”

  “Happy for you, man,” said Striker, shaking Dutch’s hand.

  “What about you? When are you gonna add to our future workforce?”

  Striker forced a smile; Dutch had no idea how painful that question would be for him to answer.

  26

  The minute the plane landed, Striker’s, Razor’s, and Monk’s phones started blowing up. Striker read the texts first before listening to the messages, but each one was from someone asking him to check in as soon as he landed.

  He tried Doc first, but the call went straight to voicemail, so he called Cope.

  “What’s happening?” Striker asked when Cope answered.

  “Did you listen to your messages?”

  “No.”

  “DEA agents found the plane.”

  “And?” he shouted.

  Razor’s and Monk’s heads shot up; both looked at Striker.

  “I’m waiting for confirmation as to the specifics, but the word I received was there were three critically injured and one fatality,” Cope told him.

  Striker put his head in his hands and turned toward the window. “Goddammit. Where are they?”

  “As you know, the plane was found in Macuira National Park. Because of the situation in Venezuela, the survivors were airlifted to the university hospital in Magdalena. I’ve made arrangements for a private aircraft to take you to Simón Bolívar International Airport where a car will take you directly to the hospital.”

  “Who’s the fatality, Cope?” he asked, making eye contact with Razor and Monk, who both hung their heads.

  “I’m sorry, Striker. I don’t have confirmation on that yet.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Which part?”

  “The next leg of our trip.”

  “Right now, you, me, the owner of the plane, Mantis, and Trap. He’ll make the rest of the arrangements as soon as you’ve deboarded.”

  “Tell me, Cope, do the DEA agents think the crash was accidental?”

  “Not sure yet, but there’s a crew headed to the wreckage to investigate.”

  “Where’s the black box?”

  “With the DEA until the investigators arrive.”

  “How soon until we head out?”

  “Like I said, Trap is making the arrangements.”

  “What about the rest of our team?”

  “Working on transport for Doc, Gunner, and Eighty-eight now.”

  “Ranger and Diesel?”

  “In the air. We’ll make that determination after you arrive at the hospital.”

  “Thanks, Cope. If you hear anything about the condition of our team, contact me immediately.”

  “Roger that, and, Striker, Godspeed.”

  “Hey, wait. Who’s the plane’s owner?”

  Cope hesitated, which sent Striker’s blood pressure up. “I can’t tell you that, but I need you to trust me.”

  If Cope’s boss had said the same thing to him, Striker would’ve had a hard time doing as he asked. He prayed that he was putting his trust into one of the good guys.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, hating that for now, he had to accept not knowing.

  Before they deboarded, Striker briefed Razor and Monk on what he’d learned.

  “He wouldn’t tell you whose plane we’re flying out on?” Razor asked.

  “That’s right.” Striker looked up when Trap came out of the cockpit. Before he realized what was happening, Monk had the man by the neck.

  “Whose plane is it? Tell me right fucking now.”

  Trap’s eyes m
et Striker’s. He nodded.

  “Franz Lehrer’s.”

  Monk released the pilot and shoved him away.

  “We’re taking a fucking Armenian-born drug baron’s plane? In what universe would anyone agree to this?”

  Trap rubbed the back of his neck. “The one where the CIA is working with him to take down the Cali Cartel, FARC, and Petro Santos.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Striker shook his head, taking in the weighted words of what Trap had just told him.

  The theory he and Razor had come up with before the flight, of the treaty between the FARC combatants and the Colombian government falling apart, couldn’t have been more off base.

  Instead, they were working together, along with Mao’s Cali cartel, to ensure an end to Latin America’s oldest and most stable democracy.

  “What about Ghafor and the weapons?”

  “Buenaventura is in Medellín-controlled territory.”

  “Ghafor’s working with the CIA.”

  “You didn’t really think we were that stupid, did you, Striker?”

  “Not all of you.”

  “Don’t underestimate McTiernan,” said Trap. “You didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “Who supplied the weapons?”

  Trap looked at Monk.

  “United fucking Russia,” he answered.

  It all made perfect sense. Striker should’ve known the CIA wouldn’t let someone like Ghafor choose his place of exile. They put him where they wanted him and gave him a very specific mission—to help them get rid of Santos, put Marquez back in power, and save the crumbling democracy before it was too late.

  The money, wherever it really came from, flowed through the Medellín cartel, to the Islamic State, to UR, who then supplied the weapons—believing the endgame was to reinforce Santos’ power.

  Instead, Ghafor made arrangements to have the arms shipped to Colombia in order to fuel the bloodbath Striker had predicted would take place. The one in which Franz’s cartel would reign victorious over Mao’s. More importantly though, Franz and the Islamic State would have the combined ability to take down the Santos administration as well as FARC—all thanks to the United States of America.

  If word of this got out, that the CIA corroborated with one of the largest drug cartels in Colombia, it might bring the agency itself down. The US had recently lost one president due to one of the biggest conspiracies in the nation’s history. The one Striker found himself in the middle of was almost as big.