The man motioned at one of the jumpsuits and the next thing Jason knew his handler had a gun pointed at Jason’s head.
“You will tell me the truth!”
“I did,” cried Jason, his eyes never leaving his son who still lay on the ground, his tiny frame unmoving. “I called my mother with a satellite phone that was in the office.”
The handler pushed the barrel of the machine gun harder against Jason’s head.
“You lie because you want to die!” Suddenly the barrel was removed, and to Jason’s horror, pointed at Darius. “I wonder if you are so willing to sacrifice your son!”
“No! Please, God, no! I’m telling you the truth. I bought the phone before our fishing trip but forgot it in the lab. How else would I get it? Who here would give me a satellite phone?”
Another man burst into the kitchen and handed a piece of paper to the handler, who quickly read it, then lowered the gun. Slightly.
“Why did you call your mother?” The voice was slightly softer, but the man was still irate.
“I missed her, and I didn’t want her to worry about us. You said you weren’t going to hurt us if we cooperated, and we’re cooperating. I just wanted her to know we were okay, and to not try and find us.”
“Why? Why did you say this last line?”
“I figured if they thought we didn’t want to be found, then they’d think we went voluntarily so they wouldn’t look for us.”
The man lowered the gun, then tossed it to one of the jumpsuits.
“You may take the rest of the week off to recover, then I expect you back at work on Monday.” His handler leaned forward, jabbing his finger into Jason’s chest. “And if you try anything like this again, I will kill your son.”
And with that they were gone, leaving Jason sobbing in relief, still bound in the kitchen chair, and his family swarming across the floor, a revived Darius included, and in seconds, he found himself covered by the ones he loved more than anything in the world, and the ones he knew would die before he did, as he refused to do the work that could lead to the deaths of millions, if not billions.
South East Gate, CIA Headquarters, Langley Virginia
Today, Six Days after the Kidnappings
Chris Leroux sat on the bumper of their SUV, its body shredded by dozens of bullet holes. Sherrie stood a few feet away, scanning their surroundings, her expert eye looking for any additional threats. The area swarmed with security personnel still intent on securing the area. It was mayhem, but organized, the suspect vehicle being almost immediately surrounded, their own as well, but not before Kane had effected his escape.
Thank God for Kane!
Chris wondered why his friend hadn’t left for North Korea immediately, and had instead remained to watch over him. They were friends, but not what he would call good friends. Then again, Chris had so few friends, Kane probably was one of his best friends, despite almost never seeing him. And perhaps, with Kane’s lifestyle, he had few friends too. He knew he could trust Kane, and he hoped Kane felt the same way about him.
Which might be all that was needed.
Trust.
It didn’t matter how frequent or strong the friendship, all that mattered was whether or not you trusted this person, and in the spy game, that was probably something Kane grappled with every day. And when a friend he trusted might be in danger, he stuck around to protect them.
He looked over at his other protector, her eyes never stopping their examination of their surroundings. He wondered what she was looking for, and snipers popped into his mind.
He crouched a little lower.
If there was a sniper out there, waiting for a clear shot of him, he wasn’t sure how he’d escape them. His shoulders slumped. He was exhausted. The adrenaline rush he’d been running on the past twenty minutes, and much of the day in reality, was wearing off, and his body was beginning to shutdown, demanding the sleep it knew he needed.
Just a little while longer.
But where would he sleep? He knew there was no going back to the apartment, not until this was over. And when would that be? If the Secretary of Defense was involved, if eight men in two different vehicles, along with men in a helicopter, just broke pretty much every law on the books to try and kill him, would it ever end?
“Get ready.”
Chris looked up at the sound of Sherrie’s voice as a row of black vehicles raced toward them from the Langley compound. A line of custom Dodge Sprint Cargo Vans looped around their SUV blocking any off-compound line of sight that wasn’t elevated, and teams of heavily armed security jumped out, swarming the area. Sherrie grabbed him by the arm as another van pulled up beside them and the rear doors swung open.
“Get in!” yelled the Director, the last man Chris had expected to actually see on site. Sherrie pulled Chris to his feet and pushed him toward the back of the van, where hands pulled him inside. Moments later the doors were shut and the van was underway, Chris assumed deeper into the compound, and safety.
“Status report.”
Thankfully Sherrie delivered it.
“We arrived at Mr. Leroux’s apartment”—Chris’ heart stung a little at her referring to him by his last name—“and I did a standard sweep. I found a bug newly planted, so I knew we had been compromised. I checked the windows, saw two SUVs in the parking lot with a group of four men entering the building, the other SUV idling.
“I told Chris—I mean Mr. Leroux”—She does like me!—“that I was going to take a shower, set up my decoy but I was too late. Apparently the other team had already entered and stormed the apartment before I could warn Mr. Leroux and cover the front door. Fortunately for us, Kane arrived, taking out two of the hostiles in the living area, while I eliminated the two in the bedroom.”
The rest of the report was as he remembered, but he was shocked that she had known they were going to be attacked. And why did she take her clothes off? Then he remembered. Infrared. They could have been monitored from the outside, so she had to put on the show of getting ready for the shower. Fortunately for them, it appeared they weren’t under infrared surveillance and their would-be assassins fell for the shower trick.
His stomach churned at the memory of thinking she had been killed, and remembered how at that moment, he didn’t care if he lived or not.
Is that love?
He shook his head, realizing how ridiculous that was. Yes, he was infatuated with this woman who had worked beside him, forever unattainable, for so long, that turned out to be a full-fledged agent. As he thought about it, it did explain her many absences, and her bouncing around to various cubicles over her time there. She must have been there to watch various suspect analysts, and also sent on various domestic missions or training. And he was her latest assignment.
I wonder if she got friendly with others at the office.
The thought made him burn with jealousy, and he was quickly determined to ask her, to demand the truth from her.
“Are you okay?”
Chris didn’t notice that the Director was talking to him at first, and it wasn’t until Sherrie gently tapped his knee that he looked up from the jealous funk he had slipped into.
“Huh?”
She motioned toward Director Morrison.
Chris looked, and could tell that Morrison was waiting for a response to a question.
“Sorry, sir, I was kind of out of it there.”
“No problem. I asked if you were okay?”
Chris nodded. “None the worse for wear, I guess. I just need a shower, change of clothes, and a good sleep. Where I’m going to get any of that now, I don’t know.”
His stomach rumbled.
“Oh, and some dinner.”
The van came to a halt and the rear doors opened.
They all climbed out and Morrison pointed to a heavily armed guard. “Take them to quarters. I’ll be there after I interrogate the prisoners.”
“Prisoners?” asked Chris.
“Yes. Two of your pursuers are alive, and I
intend to find out what the hell is going on, even if I have to fly them down to Guantanamo myself.”
It hit Chris like a wave. I work for the CIA! Until that moment it was just something cool to say to himself. After all, he was just an analyst. But today, he was in the thick of things, working with agents, running from bad guys, dealing with the Director at his house, working with Kane.
And about to take up temporary residence at the massive compound, while men who had just tried to assassinate him were interrogated by means he probably didn’t want to know about.
He felt his chest tighten, and his heart pound as he bent over and grabbed his knees. It was overwhelming. The realization of the danger they all faced just by stumbling upon the wrong piece of information, and the evil that existed within his own country.
He felt a hand on his back, gently squeezing, and he knew immediately it was Sherrie. He sucked in a deep breath and stood up, giving her a weak smile.
“Are you okay, son?”
Chris looked at his boss and nodded.
“Yeah, it just suddenly hit me how real all this is.”
Morrison nodded, his lips pursed. “You’ve handled it extremely well. I’m proud of you. Proud of you both.” He put a hand on Chris’ shoulder. “Now, get inside, take care of yourselves, and I’ll be in to see you soon.”
Chris nodded and the Director jumped back in the van, it pulling away seconds later, returning, Chris assumed, to the south-east gate.
Sherrie put her arm around him and leaned her head on his chest as she gently urged him forward. Chris’ legs began to move, reluctantly at first, toward the complex.
What happens next?
Interview Room 4, CIA Headquarters, Langley Virginia
It was an “Interview” room, not an “Interrogation” room. It was semantics, but it made people feel like they had a choice, even if they didn’t. Within the confines of the US borders, most people entering the room were indeed only being interviewed. Occasionally, however, they did “interview” people against their will. And tonight, with the local authorities swarming outside, Morrison knew he wouldn’t have long with the two prisoners. In fact, if the medics didn’t hurry up, he might have no time.
Morrison heard someone running up from behind, and turned. Tyson Hammond, a trusted senior agent, held out a file as he came to a halt. Morrison took the file, but didn’t open it.
“Spill.”
“Vehicle is privately registered to Chester Donald, same name as on the license of one of our guests. Record is clean, too clean, as in bullshit. I ran their prints and they come up both as ex-Army Rangers, both dishonorably discharged for an incident in Iraq involving the killing of several civilians. We couldn’t get prints off the helicopter occupants; they were extra crispy. We’re going with DNA but that’s going to take some time.”
“And the helicopter.”
Hammond grinned.
“Oh, that’s the goose that laid the golden egg. The tail number was BS, registered to a local company. I had someone call them and they confirmed the chopper was sitting on the tarmac, right in front of them. I’ve dispatched people to confirm that, however I assumed it was true so had the serial number run on some of the parts, and that”—he pointed at the file—“just came in.”
“Tell me.”
“Purchased three years ago by BlackTide.”
Morrison closed his eyes, his jaw clamping shut as he shook his head. BlackTide again! There was no doubt they were at the center of this, and it also looked like whatever their game was, they felt the rewards were greater than the risks.
They were wrong.
Morrison pointed through the glass at the two prisoners.
“See what you can get out of them, we’ve only got minutes before the FBI requests they be handed over. Delay their request if you’re getting anything useful, but I doubt these guys know anything. They were probably just sent to kill Leroux, and were too stupid to back off.” Morrison began to walk away before he stopped and turned. “Did you send a cleanup crew to Leroux’s apartment?”
“Yeah, got there just before the locals; some of his neighbors had called it in.”
Morrison frowned. “Okay, see if you can get some IDs on those guys. I want a mountain of evidence before we proceed.”
Hammond nodded then stepped inside the Interview room.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” was all Morrison heard before the door closed. Morrison headed toward the guest rooms to check on Leroux and White. He felt bad for his underling. This wasn’t his area, his job. He wasn’t supposed to be under fire, targeted for assassination. That was for Special Operators, like Kane. They were the ones who stuck their neck out every day for their country, knowing full well that if they were caught, they would almost certainly be tortured, and most likely killed, and the very country they defended, would deny their existence.
There was no honor in the spy game anymore.
In the good old days with the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact, there was a code. Yes, torture and murder did happen. On both sides. But quite often, very often, once the torture was finished, the operative was held and word was quietly put out that an exchange would be entertained. And on a cold, foggy night, two souls would pass each other at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, and the game would continue.
It still did happen with the more ‘civilized’ countries, but nowadays, so much of what they did was done in Islamist countries that they simply assumed now that if an agent went dark, he was dead. Horribly. And China? They were another ball of wax. A code was still being developed with them, and in time, he was pretty certain it would be similar to what it was with the Soviets. Mutual respect. When possible.
But North Korea?
Kane was heading into a whole lot of trouble, but the beautiful thing about the North Koreans was that if they were able to catch Kane alive, and prove who he was, they were more likely to parade him in front of the cameras to try and embarrass the United States. Kane might just survive a capture, but his career would be over. Which might be worse than death for a kid like that.
Morrison knocked gently on the room assigned to Leroux, but there was no answer. He turned the knob and looked inside, then smiled. Leroux was passed out on the bed, face down, sporting CIA issue boxers and a t-shirt. White had one hand on his back, her head on the bed beside him, and the rest of her body curled up on the floor.
Sound asleep.
Morrison closed the door and left the two alone. He knew they wouldn’t have any more useful information, and they’d be more use to him well-rested. He would need Chris to keep digging tomorrow for more evidence. Clearly they had a mole somewhere, and once the word got out that Leroux was not only alive, but digging deeper, they’d be even more desperate to eliminate him.
Because tomorrow Morrison intended to take down BlackTide.
Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Kane emptied his pockets, dropping the contents into the dull grey plastic container, then pushing it toward the conveyer belt. He stepped through the metal detector and was waved forward, the green signal freeing him from a good wanding. Crossing the border into Canada had been easy. He knew trying to board a plane domestically would be too risky. He had modified his face so that the biometric scanners wouldn’t recognize him. A set of specially designed glasses that caused the eyes to look slightly narrower, the frames slightly narrower than the face would suggest they should be, a wig that covered his ears, but not too long to look ridiculous, and some makeup, sparingly applied, that made his cheekbones look like they were a few tenths of an inch from where they actually were.
And a big, excited smile.
Nothing threw facial recognition off like a good smile, since it altered so much of the face. It, along with his modifications, would fool the computers in the off chance they were looking for him in Canada, and his excitement would set the security staff at ease, especially when he explained his ticket only being hours old because his ex-girlfriend had call
ed him last night, asking him to join her in China to see if they could rekindle their relationship.
That, and a suitcase with a generous supply of condoms—since his cover wasn’t sure if they were available over there—should get him through the ridiculously inconvenient security measures still in place since 9/11. What people didn’t seem to realize was that 9/11 could never happen again. Every single airliner now had reinforced cockpit doors, and as soon as the plane began to taxi, that door was locked. Hijackers could never gain access to the cockpit again unless they were the official pilots for the flight, which meant no amount of security at the airport would matter, since security had failed long before that point.
And passengers since had proven time and again they wouldn’t tolerate any nonsense. From passengers and crew leaping over seats and attacking would-be terrorists, to rushing forward with fire extinguishers and holding them down until they could be bound, passengers the world over had proven they weren’t going to sit idly by while planes were hijacked and flown into buildings.
United 93 had been the only plane to truly realize what was happening that day, and they heroically stood up and fought back, forcing the plane into the ground, sacrificing themselves rather than let more innocent Americans die while they sat cowering in their seats.
They were the first in this conflict to die fighting back, and when they rolled, it signaled a permanent shift that changed hijacking forever.
Passengers now knew they were going to die anyway, so they were willing to fight back.
What had Air Marshals, at a tremendous expense, actually accomplished over the years since 9/11? They had arrested drunks, uncooperative passengers, terrorists that had already been or would have been subdued by the passengers, and ass-grabbing louts.
And how many planes had been commandeered?
Zero.
Yet we still have to take off our shoes, can’t bring a bottle of water on a plane, and for a while, had to be leered at by underpaid workers in a booth with access to naked photos of us.
Thankfully in Canada he didn’t need to take his shoes off unless travelling back to the US, but the freedom once enjoyed by both sides of what was once the longest undefended border in the world, had been curtailed dramatically. Now it took a passport to cross the border, even on foot, whereas before it was as simple as flashing your drivers license and a smile.
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 19
