by Jack Mars
“Hi,” Maya said into the phone.
“Hey,” he said back. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Reid asked, “Are you still mad at me?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It varies from moment to moment, based on my raging teenage hormones.”
“How about we don’t discuss hormones until you’re about twenty, okay?” Reid chuckled lightly. “I, uh, heard you two ran into some trouble.”
“It wasn’t as much trouble as you might think,” Maya said casually. “We handled it.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, when I get back, I want the full story of how you ‘handled’ an armed, trained mercenary.”
“Maybe,” Maya suggested, “you need to trust that we’re not as helpless as you think.”
Maria’s words from their time in Zurich ran through his head. They’re hardly kids; they’re teenagers. They want to be treated like young women, not children. It was still difficult for him to think of his daughters like that, but their experience in Switzerland—no, all of their experiences lately forced him to consider that he might need to loosen his hovering, protective ways.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Maybe you’re right. Anyway, I’ll be seeing you soon. I’m coming to pick you up.”
“See you then. Bye, Dad.” Maya ended the call.
Reid couldn’t help but smile as he lowered the phone from his ear.
“The girls are okay?” Strickland asked, seated across the aisle from him.
“Yeah. They’re fine. How about you?” Reid asked.
The young agent waved a hand. “I’m great. Just look at me—young, strong, and virile.”
Maria, seated across from them, wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Jeez, Strickland, did you just say ‘virile’?”
He laughed. “I’m fine, really. You know, for Ranger training they had us swim in subfreezing waters.”
“I did not know that,” Reid admitted. After the helicopter was shot by the RPG and Strickland plunged into the water, he dove after the sinking chopper and managed to pull the unconscious pilot from the wreckage. Somehow, the young agent got both of them up onto the speedboat before it pulled away, and he still had the stamina to assist Maria in clearing the boat.
To be twenty-six again, Reid mused.
Together they discovered two members of the Brotherhood aboard, along with two armed bodyguards and the Libyan arms dealer. The former four were killed in a firefight, but the Libyan was taken alive—and currently on his way to H-6 in Morocco.
“So that was the new something that Hamas didn’t have,” Maria thought out loud. “A submersible drone.”
“With enough of a payload to take out a destroyer,” Strickland added. “I can’t help but wonder where that came from.”
“We’ll know soon enough.” Reid was confident that the Libyan would give them everything, once coerced to talk at Hell Six. “As they say, all’s well that ends well.”
“Except you’re frowning,” Maria noted.
Reid forced a smile. “Am I?” He had to admit that something didn’t sit well with him. Maria raised both eyebrows questioningly and he leaned forward in his seat. “Alright, fine. We didn’t find the third Israeli journalist, Mizrahi.”
“IDF is on it,” Maria countered.
“Okay, but that Iraqi at H-6, Tarek, he said that a dozen men left the compound,” Reid pressed. “Yet between both ships we found only seven. That means there are still at least five of them out there somewhere.”
“True,” Maria agreed. “But we got bin Saddam, and Abdallah bin Mohammed’s assets are frozen. They have no leader and no money.”
“I’ve seen this kind of thing before,” Strickland chimed in. “They’ll flee, go underground. Maybe they’ll join another faction, but more likely they’ll keep to themselves out of fear. Besides, Mossad is on the hunt. If anyone can flush out the rest of the Brotherhood, it’s them.”
“I know,” Reid said. “Still, it feels strange to close the book on an op when there are still members at large.”
“It happened with Amun,” Maria noted. “And with Imam Khalil’s people, too. The primary threat has been dealt with, and the CIA isn’t going to waste resources on five men with no means.” She smiled. “I know you have something of a misguided sense of responsibility, but maybe we can just chalk this one up to a win?”
He smiled too. “Yeah. Of course.”
Maria settled comfortably into her seat. Reid closed his eyes, intent to get a few hours of sleep before they landed at Dulles.
But Strickland leaned forward and cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “Are we going to address the elephant on the plane?”
Reid had hoped they could avoid the topic, but he wasn’t kidding himself that no one would bring it up. “Nothing’s changed,” he said simply. “Our plan stays the same—”
“Kent, the Division tried to kill you,” Strickland said incredulously.
“They threatened me,” he countered. “If they truly wanted me dead, they had the drop.”
“Or maybe Fitzpatrick is too conceited to miss the opportunity to add insult before injury,” Maria said dourly. “I got to say, I’m with Strickland here. We knew we’d have to watch our backs, but they upped the ante—”
“Not ‘we,’” Reid interjected. “Me. I have to watch my back. As far as anyone else is concerned, you two know nothing, and it’s imperative that we keep it that way. Look, we can assume that Riker put the Division onto this, but we can’t do anything about it without more intel, and we sure as hell can’t confront her with it or we risk showing our hand. We need more to go on here, and when we have it we need to take it to the very top, to someone who can actually do something about it.”
“And how are we supposed to get more intel if it’s all locked away in your head?” Strickland asked.
“I’ll do the digging,” Reid assured them. “Don’t worry about that. The less involved you two are, the better.” He glanced over at Maria and noticed that she was staring pensively at the floor of the plane. “What is it?”
She looked up and faked a smile. “Nothing. Just… thinking. You’re right. Let’s just enjoy our victory here. I don’t think Riker will make a move again so soon.” Maria looked around quizzically. “You think they have champagne on this plane? I bet they do.”
Reid chuckled appreciably, but it still wasn’t quite sitting right with him that members of the Brotherhood were still on the lam. Just as bothersome was that they hadn’t discovered the whereabouts of the third journalist, Idan Mizrahi. Reid didn’t like to consider it, but chances were good he was dead, having fulfilled his purpose of getting the Brotherhood into Israel.
He settled back once again and closed his eyes as Maria rummaged in the plane’s tiny galley.
“Hey,” said Strickland, seemingly discontent to let Reid nap. “Don’t think I didn’t see that, either.”
Reid opened one eye. “See what?”
“On the ride back to the port at Haifa,” the young agent grinned. “I saw that little exchange between you and Agent Mendel. She gave you her number.”
“Excuse me?” Maria said curtly, both eyebrows arched steeply.
Reid bit his lip to keep from grinning. It was true; Talia had given him a card with her personal cell number on it and suggested that he give her a call if he found himself in Israel again anytime soon. The exchange had been somewhat awkward—Reid was desperately out of practice when it came to anything resembling flirting—but he didn’t admit that. Instead he shrugged and said, “Can you blame her? How many men can lead a raid on a terrorist compound, stop them from destroying a US ship, and give a detailed synopsis of the Yom Kippur War?”
“Uh-huh,” Maria said snidely. “You nailed it. That’s what women want.”
“I thought I led the raid,” Strickland muttered.
“So?” One of Maria’s hands rested on her cocked hip. “You going to call her?”
Reid shook his head quickly. “No, ma’am.”
“Good.” She spun on
a heel and returned to her rummaging.
He grinned and closed his eyes for the third time. Like Maria had said, they should take the time to enjoy the victory. The plot was thwarted; the leader was dead. The money was frozen. The rest of the Brotherhood could hide out in cave for the rest of their miserable lives for all he cared, so long as they never caused trouble again. The op was over.
Then why does it feel like it’s not?
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Fitzpatrick gripped the steering wheel tightly in his gloved hands, watching the storefront from across the street in downtown Arlington, Virginia. The black SUV was parked at a meter, and though the windows were tinted too dark for anyone to see inside he had still taken the precaution of disguising his appearance. He wore large-framed sunglasses, a brimmed cap, and temporary red dye in his beard.
After a few minutes Agent Zero emerged, carrying two small bouquets. Fitzpatrick seethed at the very sight of him. How sweet, the mercenary thought bitterly. He got flowers for his little girls.
The CIA safe house was four and a half blocks away, disguised as a brownstone in an upscale residential neighborhood. There were biometric locks on the doors, bullet-resistant glass in the windows, and a careful agent watching over Zero’s girls. There was no getting to them in there.
The Division had underestimated them in Switzerland. Kerrigan was supposed to obtain the two teenagers under the guise of CIA Agent Nolan, but he had failed, thoroughly evident by him having been found disarmed and bound to a chair with a broken nose and orbital bone. He claimed that the CIA agent called Watson had detained him, though he was fairly tight-lipped with the details.
As incensed as Fitzpatrick was with Kerrigan’s failure in Engelberg, he was even more so with his own at the compound in Iraq. He had Zero in his sights and had hesitated. Worse, that blonde-haired bitch had video of him stupidly spilling the truth. Fitzpatrick had been watching the media closely for any mention of the Division, but there hadn’t been any. If “Agent Marigold” hadn’t been bluffing, then she was keeping it to herself, perhaps saving it for a rainy day.
His organization had had their fair share of negative press; most recently, just over a year earlier, there had been allegations that the Division had assisted in gunning down an entire Sudanese village to dissuade a rebellion. Of course, they had participated, but the evidence was thin and the case was dropped. Still, they didn’t need more bad publicity—and they very much needed contracts with the US government.
Fitzpatrick watched Agent Zero as he strode down the block to the corner, and then waited at the crosswalk with his two bouquets of flowers. The traffic light turned red and Fitzpatrick eased the SUV out of the parking spot and rolled to a stop behind a line of cars, keeping a keen eye on the agent.
He pressed a button on his phone. The line rang twice before she answered, though she said nothing.
“I’ve got visual on Zero,” he said gruffly. “Just say the word and I’ll splatter him and his khakis all over the—”
“Stand down,” she ordered curtly.
The mercenary scoffed in disbelief. “What’s that now?”
“Stand down, Fitzpatrick,” she said again, more forcefully.
He gritted his teeth angrily. “Why?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” she replied simply.
“Actually, you do. ‘Cause you see, Ms. Riker, I’m about, oh, fifty-odd feet from making Agent Zero little more than a stain and a memory.”
“This isn’t coming from me,” she said by way of explanation. “It’s coming from above. Pierson wants a meeting with him.”
“Pierson?” Fitzpatrick shook his head in disgust. Here he was, accepting meager hit-and-run contracts while Zero was busy scheduling meetings with the President of the United States.
“He believes there can be a more… diplomatic solution,” Riker said cryptically.
“Diplomatic,” he spat. If you’re not a soldier, then you’re a politician. “Why the sudden change of heart? You want this guy dead, then you don’t—”
“Agent Zero just brought down the Brotherhood and prevented the bombing of a US destroyer class battleship. No one is going to believe he was struck down in a crosswalk. We’d not only risk potential exposure but also having more people than just him looking closer. The president is seeking an alternative. So stand down.”
Fitzpatrick’s lip curled instinctively into a snarl. Zero had made a fool of him, sent him and his men running with their tails between their legs. Of course, he hadn’t admitted that to Riker; as far as she knew, Zero got angry with them for gunning down terrorists and his bosom buddy Strickland dismissed them from the op before they had the chance to take him out.
Should have just taken all three of them out.
“And what if I don’t, huh?” he said into the phone. “I was sent here to do a job. I’m here. He’s here. What if poor Agent Zero has an accident and never makes it to his little girls?”
“Then I will remind you,” Riker said evenly, “that such accidents could happen to anyone.”
The mercenary’s face flushed with blood. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was some pompous control freak trying to intimidate him from up on their high horse. “You threatening me, Riker?”
“No, Shannon. I’m telling you that if you harm Agent Zero without my consent, I will have you killed.”
Fitzpatrick winced—not at the warning, but at the use of his legal first name. “Fine,” he grunted. “But when the time comes, I want to be the one that does it.”
“We’ll see.”
“And I’m still getting paid,” he declared.
“Of course. Now come on back,” Riker told him. “I’ve got something else for you—something much more interesting, and far more lucrative.”
Fitzpatrick grinned. Riker might have been cold, calculating, and completely out for herself, but she knew just what to say when it needed saying.
The light turned green and traffic began moving again as he ended the call, but he kept his foot on the brake. He scanned left and right; Agent Zero had vanished from sight. He had been there a moment ago, waiting patiently at the crosswalk for the light to change. Now he was simply gone.
The car behind him honked to goad him into moving. Fitzpatrick grunted in frustration and pulled off to the curb. He reached for the door handle to get a clearer visual when there was a tapping against the passenger-side window.
Fitzpatrick looked up sharply to see Agent Zero, looking none too happy, tapping on the glass with the barrel of a Ruger LC9.
“Son of a bitch,” Fitzpatrick hissed under his breath. Even with his attempts at concealing his identity, Zero had seemingly sniffed him out like a bloodhound and now stood there patiently, one eyebrow arched, peering in at him.
With little other recourse, Fitzpatrick pressed the button and rolled the automatic window down about six inches. He tugged off his sunglasses and forced a broad grin as he said, “Agent Zero. Fancy seein’ you here.”
“Yeah. Imagine that. Especially after you told me I wouldn’t see you coming.” Zero’s gaze bore into his. “Yet you’ve been trailing me for six blocks.”
Fitzpatrick’s grin calcified into a frown. He gestured with his chin towards the small LC9 that was mostly concealed from passers-by in Zero’s palm. “You gonna use that?”
“Not here. Not now. But I’m going to hold onto it until I see your taillights disappear.” Zero leaned closer to the narrow opening of the window. “So why don’t you run back to whoever sent you and tell them something for me. I’ll always see you coming, Fitzpatrick.” He straightened, holding the two bouquets of flowers in such a way that obscured the LC9 but still had the stubby barrel aimed at the window.
Fitzpatrick clenched his jaw. He wanted to say something in return; actually, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to pull the Sig Sauer he had stowed in the glove box and fire into Agent Zero until the clip ran empty.
But he did neither. He realized t
hat the future of the Division depended on him exercising restraint, so he rolled up the window, pulled back out onto the street and eased around the next corner. He wouldn’t be delivering any messages on Zero’s behalf. Instead, he’d make damn sure that the next time they met it would be he, and not the agent, that had the gun pointed.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
“So,” Reid said as he entered the kitchen. He held his arms out at his sides and asked, “How do I look? Like I’m ready to meet a president?”
Maya looked him up and down, her arms folded. Reid wore his black suit—the same suit he had worn to visit Thompson’s grave—with a crisp white shirt and a dark blue silk tie. “It’s good,” she said pointedly, “but isn’t President Pierson a Republican?”
Reid frowned. “You think I should go with a red tie?”
His daughter grinned. “I’m kidding, Dad. You look great.”
“Thanks.” He looked around the kitchen and into the adjacent living room of their home in Alexandria. “Where’s Sara?”
“She’s upstairs,” Maya noted. “Getting ready for school.”
“Really,” Reid said blankly. It was only the second morning after he had returned from Israel, but still he was astonished by how much the atmosphere of their home had changed. The Switzerland trip had indeed done them all some good in getting past the events of the month before—maybe not in the precise way he had hoped, but it had worked out all the same.
“I wish she would have told me,” he murmured, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to go, and I really don’t want her riding the bus alone.” He knew that his warning to Fitzpatrick was probably not enough to deter whoever had put the Division on his tail from staying away from his daughters.
“She’s not riding the bus alone.” Maya poured herself some orange juice and added, “Agent Watson is taking her.”
“Watson is taking her to school?”
“And picking her up,” Maya confirmed. “She called him.”
Reid snorted lightly. “So, you two and Watson are best friends now?”
