by Maden, Mike
MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA
The modest two-story ranch was set back three hundred feet off the two-lane asphalt road, surrounded by stands of cypress and pine.
Marin County Sheriff’s Office vehicles stood either in the uncut grass or on the gravel road surrounding the home, including the coroner’s meat wagon. Yellow crime-scene tape marked SHERIFF’S LINE DO NOT CROSS was strung across the broken-down porch, blocking the entrance.
Sergeant Ralph Browning watched the CSI team taking pictures, documenting the crime scene. The nude and desecrated corpses of Chris and Cari Fast were nailed to the wood floor, their outstretched limbs crucified to the pentagrams drawn in their own blood. White blowfly larvae were already hatched and squirming in the soft tissues of their mutilated eyes, open mouths, and abused genitals.
Thirteen black waxen candles had melted in dark pools in the circles around them. Their two small dogs were nail-gunned to the peeling walls and SATAN RULES! was written in blood beneath the furry corpses.
Sergeant Browning stood next to the young deputy who’d been called by a suspicious neighbor. He’d seen a lot in his years on the force, including a couple of head-on collisions. This was the first time he ever felt like throwing up.
“I thought they only did this shit in the movies. You ever seen anything like this before, Sergeant?”
“In twenty-two years on the job, I never seen nothing like it.”
“Makes me think I need to start going to church again.”
“First lesson on the job: People are evil.”
Sergeant Browning checked his watch. The FBI agent should be arriving at any moment. The Feebs had put out a bulletin on the two missing Google scientists after they failed to report to work. Browning was the point man from the investigations division heading up the case. He called it in to the FBI field office in San Francisco after the bodies were identified. Nothing was to be removed from the crime scene until one of their agents arrived. “National security” was the only explanation given or needed.
“One of the techs said that the woman’s Uber app had been hacked. Fake driver, fake car. Is that true?”
“Looks like it.”
“Kinda ironic, isn’t it? A couple of computer geniuses getting hacked?”
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” Browning said, the bile in his throat rising from the stench. He was getting too old for this shit. He already had a hard time sleeping. After today, he might never sleep again.
His ex-wife told him he should’ve retired two years ago. As usual, she was right, he thought as he lit up a Marlboro, trying not to think about the horror inside.
25
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Jack arrived at the consulate ten minutes early for his appointment with Dick Dellinger. He wanted a face-to-face meeting and a phone call wouldn’t cut it. Nothing like being in the room to get a read on somebody. E-mails and texts could be ignored.
Jack needed Dellinger’s attention badly. His back was against the wall. He’d hit a couple of major dead ends, first on this Sammler guy and then on Sorry Man.
At least now he had Dellinger’s attention as he sat across from him, the man’s dark brown eyes locked with his.
“What is it that I can help you with today, Mr. Ryan?”
“Yesterday, you said I should contact you if I needed any assistance.”
“Of course, that’s why I’m here—and why I cleared my schedule so that I could meet with you on short notice.”
“And I really appreciate that. You also said that you take the deaths of Americans very seriously.”
“I do.”
“Then if you don’t mind my asking, what the hell is going on with the Spanish government? Why are they dragging their feet on this investigation?”
“Dragging their feet? It’s only been two days since Ms. Moore was killed, so if you’ll pardon my French, you need to cool your jets, son. Besides, this is Spain. Spaniards only have two gears in the gearbox: slow and siesta. Don’t get me wrong, they do a good job, but they do it on their own damn time.”
“If Renée were your friend, your daughter, your wife—you’d say the same thing?”
Jack wanted to gauge Dellinger’s reaction. Was Renée important to Dellinger? That would confirm he was a CIA operative like her.
Dellinger didn’t miss a beat. He was a slick customer. Too slick. He didn’t take one second to process the question in order to try and imagine Renée as an intimate acquaintance. That meant he was either blowing smoke or he didn’t have to imagine her as important to him because she already was.
“Yes, of course I’d say the same thing.”
“You’re not telling me something.”
Dellinger sighed.
Processing? Jack wondered. Or spinning up his bullshit generator?
“Look, Jack, you’re a smart guy. You know how the world works. You probably have heard about the independence protests going on, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, Spain’s politics are very delicate and raw right now, especially when it comes to the separatism issue. Ms. Moore’s death sits right in the middle of the controversy, so we—the American government—must tread very carefully. Spain is an important member of NATO, and the alliance itself is feeling some tension. So we can’t be seen as pressing too hard, one way or the other. There’s a bigger picture here to consider.”
Dellinger leaned forward on his desk for emphasis. “But trust me, Jack, the Spaniards are working the case. I’m keeping close tabs on things. I have friends in the Spanish government. In fact, I have a contact at the CNI and I was actually planning on putting a call in to him later this afternoon. If I find out anything that I’m allowed to tell you, I’ll give you a call and fill you in. Is that acceptable?”
“Sure. And I appreciate it.”
“Good, Jack.”
Dellinger stood. So did Jack. They shook hands, but Dellinger held his grip with a strong hand. There was just a hint of violence behind the man’s smiling eyes, confirming the idea in Jack’s mind that Dellinger was old-school CIA.
“I want you to know that I’m as committed to finding Ms. Moore’s killers as you are, Jack, and I’m not going to stop until I do. Do you believe me?”
Jack squeezed a little harder, and let the violence in his own soul leach into his gaze.
“I believe you, Dick. And I hope you believe me when I tell you that I’m holding you personally accountable. So for both our sakes, light a fire under somebody’s tail over there, will ya?”
“I’ll do my best, Jack. Trust me on this.”
Jack turned and left the office, heading for the stairs. Something his dad once told him when he was a little boy came to mind.
Never trust the man who tells you to trust him.
26
HOUSTON, TEXAS
The White Mountain Logistics + Security corporate headquarters was located on the twenty-third floor of a downtown high-rise. Buck Logan chose it, in part, for the helipad on the roof. He hated wasting time and there was no bigger time suck on the planet than Houston traffic.
Logan also maintained operational facilities outside of Houston at a compound that included his own private airport, weapons-testing grounds, and even a game preserve. But Logan found over the years it was easier to do business with Houston’s elite in their native habitats inside the concrete bunkers and asphalt jungles of the sweltering Texas metropolis.
Today, Buck sat with his brain trust in his own high-tech version of the White House Situation Room. The conference table was built from the oaken deck planking from the Imperial German Navy battle cruiser SMS Lützow, scuttled at the Battle of Jutland in 1916.
The walls of Buck’s situation room were also adorned with priceless naval artifacts from history, and memorabilia from his midshipman days at the U.S. Naval Academy before his tragic footba
ll accident. His father’s beloved Marine Corps had pride of place on its own separate wall, including one colorized picture of the old man in blood-smeared snow camouflage, a cigar stub clenched in his smiling teeth and his face blackened with a five o’clock shadow. He looked like an actor straight out of central casting for a Hollywood war movie. In fact, he’d just spent three sleepless days and nights in a running gun battle with Chinese “volunteers” at the Chosin Reservoir, leading his men in a desperate action that earned him both the Purple Heart and a Navy Cross.
Buck Logan worshipped his father, his employees knew, and it was no secret that of the many priceless weapons in Buck Logan’s personal arsenal, none was more precious to him than the battered, ivory-handled .45 Colt M1911A1 his father carried on his hip in the war. It was also no secret to those in the room that Buck felt as if he never lived up to the image of his larger-than-life father despite overcoming his enormous physical disability and building out a great, multinational business that was unimaginably larger and more profitable than his father could have ever conceived.
Following the meeting with President Ryan the day before, Buck called an emergency meeting of his own “kitchen cabinet,” the five most trusted people in his organization, each the head of White Mountain’s most important divisions. They sat in low-backed leather chairs around the table, Buck at the head, of course. He was so tall in his torso that a visitor could be forgiven for thinking he’d elevated the floor on his end of the table to make him look taller. Each division head had a tablet in front of them.
“Here we are in the situation room, and we’ve got ourselves one hell of a situation, people,” Buck said. “We ain’t gonna sit on our hands and wait for the other shoe to drop but we sure as hell ain’t gonna step on our dicks, neither—”
He glanced over at Diedre Nunn, the head of his IT division. “Do I need to call HR before or after I issue you a formal apology, Dee?”
The retired Navy commander, who’d spent half her service time in the company of randy men at sea, smiled indulgently. “Not necessary, sir. But I wouldn’t object to a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream on my desk by EOB today.”
Logan grinned. “Done. Hell, I might even join you for a tipple or two.” He turned to the rest of the table.
“You all have been briefed on what’s happened. I also need you to know that I’ve made a promise to the President that we would do what we can to tie a knot in the tail of the sumbitches that have screwed us, and, now pose a threat to our great nation.”
Buck scanned the room. Every head nodded in agreement. These were good people, excellent administrators, and, most important of all, patriots to the core. Each of them had served in military uniform except for Phil Werley, his governmental liaison. But he’d done his turn in government service, first in the CIA and later as one of the deputy directors in the ODNI, reporting directly to Director Foley. Logan personally recruited Werley out from underneath her with a salary offer that nearly popped the man’s eyes out of his head.
Logan continued. “We are not the U.S. government, which means we don’t have their resources, but it also means we don’t wear their handcuffs. We’re gonna push the limits of the law—maybe even wiggle our toes over the line every now and then—and find out who these people are, and take both offensive and defensive measures to protect our property and our people.” He pointed at Werley. “And we’re going to turn over every scrap of information we uncover to Ms. Foley and let her run with it, even if it hurts us. Understood?”
Werley nodded. “I’m sure we can find a way to pass along our intel without compromising our methods or sources. We don’t want to hurt the reputation of the company, especially with her. Seventy-five percent of our revenues are government contracts.”
“I don’t give a shit about contracts. This country faces a threat to our vital national interests on the high seas. What’s good for America is good for us. If we have to take it in the shorts, so be it. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Buck turned to Joe Gannon, a retired rear admiral and former deputy commander of the Military Sealift Command.
“Joe, I want an inventory of every ship we run, and every ship we lease in the future—let’s be damn sure there aren’t just voyage data recorders on board, but I want topside VDRs, you know, the ones mounted on floating buoys? Ship goes down, those things stay on top and belt out a distress signal.”
“We’ll begin the inventory today. I’ll see to it personally.”
“I also want live video on all of my vessels, forward, aft—hell, 360 degrees. Good cameras, too, not the cheap shit. Anybody or anything gets within a thousand yards of our boats, I want a picture. And I want these images displaying here”—Logan pointed up at one of the giant 4k screens—“right up there on the big TV. How many boats do we have now?”
“Thirty-seven that we own and operate. Of those, twenty-two are either in or scheduled to enter the Pacific in the next forty-eight hours. None of those will travel within three hundred nautical miles of the other sinkings.”
Logan turned back to his IT director. “Dee, do we have the means to broadcast images like that globally, twenty-four/seven? Put them up on that screen, that picture-in-picture thing? I’d love to keep an eye on things in real time, if possible.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem. If anything, storage of that amount of data will pose the biggest challenge. But it’s the kind of challenge that enough money can handle.”
Logan shrugged. “Done. We can keep each ship’s data for a week, then dump it. That should be long enough, shouldn’t it? No, scratch that. Make it a month’s worth, just in case. If a boat goes down again, I want that video evidence available to assist in the investigation and capture.”
Nunn typed notes into her tablet. “My team will take point on the technical side and make the necessary purchases.” She turned to Admiral Gannon. “And we’ll coordinate with your people to set up the install schedule and the rest of the details, if that works for you.”
Gannon nodded. “Done.”
Logan frowned. “I don’t want this to take six months or even six weeks. I want it done in the next thirty days, at most. Even sooner, if possible. I don’t care if you gotta fly your tech people out to Timbuktu to get these things put on, I want it done pronto. Am I clear?”
Nunn and Gannon nodded.
Logan turned his withering gaze toward Kyle Reicher, former Army major, 75th Ranger Regiment, and head of his security division.
“Kyle, I want you to start thinking about how we’re going to put at least three of your best people on each of our ships, each team member doing eight-hour shifts. We also need to talk about what security measures you can come up with.” Logan smiled. “And so as not to play footsie with you, I mean kinetic measures: anti-air, anti-sea, anti-pirate, anti-sumbitch. Any goat-humpin’ muttonhead gets over, on, under, or near one of my boats, I want a 5.56 round shot through his damn skull or a Stinger shoved up his exhaust pipe.”
“I have a few ideas, Buck, but we’re a little shorthanded at the moment. Our operations in Africa—”
“To hell with our operations in Africa. Unless doing so puts our guys or any of the people in our care at risk, I want you to strip away everyone and everything that isn’t nailed down over there and get it deployed to where it really matters. Understood?”
“HUA, sir.” Heard, understood, acknowledged.
* * *
—
The emergency meeting went on like that for another hour.
Werley was damned impressed by Logan’s command of the facts, and his determination to get ahead of this thing. Logan was pushing hard. It would be a hell of a test for whoever was out there sinking his ships to stand up to the effort Buck was putting into this. He could imagine Buck as a young tight end at the academy trying to smash his way across the goal line on a fourth and goal play against overwhelming odds.
He�
��d always been impressed with Buck Logan, and that’s why he left government service to join his organization—well, that, and a mid-six-figure salary plus stock options. But today Buck really showed his stuff. Werley thought he would have made a fine admiral or Marine general. He even seemed presidential in this moment of crisis. Who knows? If Buck had gone into military service, it would have been the perfect platform for a presidential bid, much like the twelve previous presidents who achieved general’s rank before reaching the White House. Werley had even heard rumors among the old hands at White Mountain that that was the plan old Scooter had made for his son.
It was a crying shame. Buck Logan might have pulled it off. So much potential cut short, and so early. How does he even live with that? Werley wondered.
No matter. He needed to touch base with his old boss, DNI Foley, and fill her in on today’s events. Buck didn’t need to be informed he’d be making that call but Werley knew the man was smart enough to know it would probably happen. He’d let her know that Buck was doing his part to win this war—or whatever the hell it was.
27
BARCELONA, SPAIN
Getting into Ryan’s apartment cost Bykov a hundred euros, but it was worth it. The Guatemalan maid cleaned several Airbnbs in the Barceloneta neighborhood. He had bribed her before for just fifty, but she got smart and decided he could afford double. She also threw in a quick roll in the sheets of the place she was cleaning when he came to pick up the keys, and that alone was worth the hundred. Besides, it was Guzmán’s money, not his. So really, it was a freebie for him.
Ryan’s apartment building had its own front door lock, and then the third-floor apartment had yet another keyed lock. Bykov could have picked them both but it was daylight and the cops in the city were on edge with the rumor of another mass protest in the afternoon. More than three hundred thousand people were expected to rally at the old post office across from the marina where the big, multimillion-dollar yachts were crowded into their berths.
