High Treason

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It had been a long time since Griffin Horne had been enough of an insider to warrant a code name, but as soon as Jonathan heard the phrase “Arc Flash,” he knew exactly who it referred to. He also knew the origin of the name, and took no pleasure from the memories. Horne’s corner of the covert world involved the extraction of information from people who were intent on remaining silent. All too often, his tactics involved the application of electricity to the most sensitive parts of his subjects’ bodies.

Jonathan abhorred torture. On the occasions when he’d employed it, he’d had great success inflicting pain just once or twice at the beginning of the session, and then developing the source through the mere threat of additional unpleasantness. Hurting people was never a legitimate goal for a professional, but he’d known far too many operators and spooks who found genuine pleasure in hurting people.

Griffin Horne was one such man, and Jonathan always felt as if he needed a shower after being in a room with the man. That said, there was no denying that Horne’s methods were effective. Jonathan knew of at least two post-9/11 terrorist plots that died in their planning stages thanks to information that was extracted by Arc Flash.

The drive to Horne’s farm took about forty minutes. “I hate this son of a bitch,” Boxers said as they closed in on the place. “Every time I see him, I want to pop his head like a zit.”

Jonathan agreed. “Thing that scares me is, I imagine he has equipment at his fingertips that could do exactly that.”

The call from Paul Boersky — not Irene, yet from Irene’s number — told Jonathan that the Secret Service agents from Becky’s apartment — or whoever they were who pretended to be Secret Service agents — had been prepped for questioning. He didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but he was confident that the next hour or two were going to be unpleasant for everyone.

“Pull to the side,” Jonathan said when they were still half a mile from the farm.

Boxers followed instructions and waited till they were stopped before he asked why.

Jonathan pointed to the barely recognizable silhouette of a dilapidated old house that looked like it hadn’t seen an occupant in decades. “Pull up behind there,” he said. “We’ll walk into Horne’s place.”

As Boxers piloted the Batmobile up the remains of the rutted driveway, Jonathan explained. “What I said back in the Cave about increased security. Given what we know about Horne and his less-than-stable loyalties, I don’t want to provide more of a target that we have to. I want to make a tactical approach.”

Jonathan more sensed than saw the surprised glance from Big Guy. “You’re really spooked by this shit, aren’t you?”

“Damn skippy I’m spooked. The president has a lot of toys at his disposal. We’re good, but our abilities have limits.”

Boxers stared for a long time. After a few seconds of silence, Big Guy smiled and said, “Pussy.” Then he opened his door.

It took them all of five minutes to kit up. When they were done, they each wore a sidearm, a rifle, and a personal defense weapon, plus a ballistic vest whose pockets were stuffed with ten thirty-round magazines—5.56 millimeter for Jonathan’s M27 and 7.62 millimeter for Boxers’ HK417—plus one flashbang grenade and three frags each. Jonathan shifted his Colt to a thigh rig on his right side, and balanced it on the left with a folded MP7 in a holster on his thigh. Other pouches in his vest carried five spare mags for the .45 and three spares for the MP7. All told, including the existing loads in their weapons, each of them carried over four hundred rounds of ammunition. With decent marksmanship — both of them were far better than decent — it was enough armament to sack a well-fortified castle.

“Lids or no lids?” Boxers asked. It was his way of asking if they would be wearing Kevlar helmets.

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “In for a dime, right?”

When they were done, they looked like they were ready for battle. In fact, they were ready for battle.

Jonathan rocked his NVGs — night vision goggles — into place and instantly, the night became day, only tinted green. A glance to his left showed him that Boxers had already put his on. They’d only recently upgraded their night vision to a four-tube array, transforming their view from tunnel vision with the old two-tube models to nearly panoramic.

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “Let’s do this.”

Boxers rumbled out a laugh. “We’re going to scare the shit out of Horne.”

As they approached the farmhouse from the left side — the green side, as Jonathan thought of it — they moved as stealthily as they could. With winter in full swing, the forest floor was covered with dry, noisy leaves. They placed their feet carefully, but noisy was noisy.

“Good lord,” Boxers whispered. “I feel like we might as well be blasting music.”

“We’re still half a click away,” Jonathan said. “They won’t hear a thing.” He tried to sound assuring, but he didn’t think he pulled it off.

Sometimes, this business was easier when you knew for a fact that the guys on the other end of the mission were trying to kill you. In those cases, anybody you saw was a target, and the disposition options were obvious. Here, everything was a variable.

If he saw someone, was he friend or foe? If the person had a weapon, was the weapon for personal protection or for killing approaching good guys?

The only absolute was when the guy with the gun pointed said gun at Jonathan or Boxers. That was a capital offense, and the penalty was bestowed immediately.

That was a lot of thinking to do when the bad guy’s bullet could come at you at two thousand feet per second.

The route to the big barn took them over two fences, one built of stone, thanks, no doubt, to the labor of slaves two hundred years ago, and the other made of chain link and barbed wire. Boxers took out the wire with a pair of cutters.

The approach to the barn on Horne’s property took all of thirty minutes. Jonathan found the absence of threats to be unnerving. He wanted to see sentries and snipers. The fact that he didn’t see them merely made him wonder where the shooters were hiding.

Finally, they arrived at the green side of the barn itself. Solidly constructed of heavy timbers, almost no light escaped the structure.

They approached shoulder to shoulder, each of them cheating out ninety degrees to keep watch for threats that may materialize from any compass point. When they reached the near wall, they both spun to press their backs against the heavy timber.

With their backs against the wall, they sidestepped toward the corner where the green side met the white side, the front. With his M27 pressed to his shoulder, Jonathan led with the muzzle as he peered down the front wall. The image flared as his goggles amplified the light that spilled from under the enormous front doors.

He looked away from the flash of light, and scanned the night beyond the barn and to his left. “I don’t see any threats,” he said.

“I’m clear,” Big Guy agreed.

Still using the wall as cover, they glided through the night to a spot on the near side of the door.

“How do you want to handle it?” Boxers asked.

Jonathan lifted his NVGs out of the way. “Diplomatically,” he whispered. Then he bellowed, “Arc Flash! This is Scorpion. If you are inside the barn, speak up loudly and speak up now!”

“Diplomatic and subtle,” Boxers observed.

Jonathan heard movement beyond the walls, but nothing that he could make out as voices.

“Arc Flash! You do not want to cross me. I have Big Guy with me, and we are both heavily armed, and we are coming in. If you have a weapon, put it down, or I will shoot you when I see you! Acknowledge, please!”

He heard more movement from inside. Nothing sounded panicked, and he didn’t hear any of the characteristic sounds of rifle bolts being cycled. If anything, the noises from inside sounded routine, though even Jonathan couldn’t quite put his finger on what that meant. Sometimes you get a bad feeling about an entry, and sometimes you get a good feeling. This one fell in the middle.

Jonathan checked the latch on the big double doors. The thumb lever moved, and when he pulled the wooden panel, it swung open. He looked to Boxers. “You go high-right.”

“Rog.”

This was the moment that Jonathan simultaneously hated and loved, these few seconds before throwing open a door to the unknown, with heart, mind, and soul fully committed to dealing with whatever lay beyond.

He pulled open the left-hand door panel, weapon at the ready, and used his left heel to push it out of the way. Without a word between them, Jonathan and Boxers squirted inside. The room hadn’t changed much in the eighteen hours since they’d last been here, except there were no people.

Boxers said, “Who was making the noise?”

As if on cue, Jonathan heard it again. Closer this time, it sounded like furniture being moved. “Where is that coming from?” he wondered aloud.

They moved together, deeper into the vastness of the barn. They kept their rifles at their shoulders, scanning the shadows for threats. They scanned left-right, up-down, over and over again, fingers poised just outside their trigger guards.

When they’d made it to the halfway point — about to the spot where they had met with Irene and the White House people — Jonathan dared to let his weapon fall against its sling. He kept his gloved hand on the grip, just in case.

The noise happened again. Definitely the sound of something being dragged across wood.

What the hell?

Then Jonathan noticed something. “Hey, Big Guy. Does this room seem smaller on the inside than it does when you look at it from the outside?

Boxers took a few seconds to look around. “Come to think of it, yes.”

More dragging.

“It’s coming from behind there.” Jonathan pointed to the array of farm implements that hung from mounting brackets on the wall.

“How do you suppose you get in? I didn’t see any doors—”

A workbench moved just five feet to Boxers’ right, causing them both to snatch their rifles back to their shoulders, poised to shoot.

The movement stuttered, and then started again. Only it was more than just the bench. It was the entire section of wall that contained the bench. It was a door, and because it was opening toward them, they wouldn’t be able to see who was behind it until he’d stepped into the clear.

Jonathan tugged on Boxers’ sleeve, then mimed with a patting motion in the air for them drop down to one knee.

The door opened all the way.

And the silhouette of a man emerged into the expanding wedge of light on the floor. The silhouette held a pistol in its hand.

“Is somebody out here?” the shadow called. “Show yourself or get shot.” It was Horne.

Boxers gave Jonathan a curious look. What do you want to do?

“It’s Scorpion,” Jonathan said in a conversational tone. He didn’t want to sound overly threatening.

The silhouette jumped and raised its weapon.

“Arc Flash, if I eyeball you and you still have that pistol in your hand, I’ll kill you.”

“Unless I do it first,” Boxers added.

As often happened, the deep rumble of that second voice sealed the deal. “I’m putting it on the ground,” Horne said. And the shadow did exactly that.

“Is that the only weapon?” Jonathan asked.

“The only one on me,” Horne answered. His voice had always had a tinny, boyish quality to it, but the quaver in it tonight made it sound particularly young.

“Is there anyone else back there with you?”

“Only the ones that were sent to me. For crying out loud, Scorpion, why are we—”

“Because I don’t trust anyone tonight,” Jonathan said. “After what’s been going on, everyone is a threat until they’ve earned otherwise.”

“Even after all these years? I’m hurt.” The silhouette stretched its arms out to the sides and splayed its fingers. “What’s next?”

“Step into the open where I can see you,” Jonathan instructed. “And keep your hands exposed.”

Griffin Horne emerged slowly and tentatively from behind the door. Maybe five-eight and thick through the middle, Horne looked like he’d been born into a long tradition of bureaucrats. The pastiness of his skin told of far more hours indoors than out. If you saw the guy on the street, you might mistake him for a lawyer or an association executive. You’d never in a million lifetimes guess him to possess the special skills for which he was so famous in the covert community.

“Big Guy, check the inside of that room while I check out Arc Flash.”

Boxers made a point of growling as he brushed past Horne and disappeared into the back room.

“I’m getting an ungrateful vibe from you, Jonny,” Horne said as Jonathan patted him down for weapons.

“Code names, Torture Boy.”

“After all the good times you’ve had here at my place, I’d think a little deference would be in order.”

It was cold enough to see your breath in here, yet somehow Horne had managed to work up a sweat. “It’s nothing personal,” Jonathan said. With the thorough frisking completed, he picked up the revolver Horne had dropped, unloaded it by dumping the cartridges on the floor, then slipped it into the patch pocket on his thigh. “You get this back when I leave.”

“May I put my arms down now?”

Jonathan answered with a nod. “So, what’s going on in there?”

Horne gestured to the open door with his palm. “Look for yourself. I’ve been setting up for you.”

“You first,” Jonathan said.

Horne smiled. “You really are spooked, aren’t you?”

“I’m not one to toy with tonight. Read the body language. If not mine, then the Big Guy’s.”

Arc Flash made a point of smiling even more broadly before stepping through the open doorway into a brightly lit room. Five steps in, the temperature had climbed twenty degrees

Boxers turned to meet their approach, his fists planted on his hips. “Wait till you get a load of this,” he said.

The hidden room turned out to be only about twelve by twelve feet — leading Jonathan to conclude that there must be several more such rooms lining the back side of the barn. To the left, on the far end, Vasily and Pyotr sat naked in high, straight-backed chairs, bathed in bright white light that emphasized their facial bruises in a kind of three-dimensional relief. Horne had positioned them so that they were facing each other, and he’d spared no expense in dispensing the duct tape. Loops of the stuff bound every joint to the structural elements of the chairs — forehead, chin, biceps, waist, thighs, knees, and ankles. Every tender part of their bodies was fully exposed, and they would be powerless to protect themselves.

Jonathan found himself recalling his last encounter with Arc Flash in a stinky, steamy basement in Yemen. The prep there had been nearly identical.

“What’s the plan?” Jonathan asked.

“We’re going to learn things that we didn’t know before,” Horne replied. “I’ve been tendering them up with a little electricity, but I thought you’d want to ask the questions.”

It wasn’t until Horne mentioned the electricity that Jonathan noted the cables that disappeared from view into the men’s respective crotches. He knew without looking that the cables led to heavy alligator clips on the prisoners’ genitals. On the other end, the cables led to a hand-cranked generator.

Jonathan looked away. The pain of the clamps alone would be unbearable. The thought of high-voltage electricity turned his stomach.

“Take those off,” Jonathan said.

“But they haven’t told us anything useful.”

“I said take them off.” Jonathan drilled the man with a glare. “My interrogation, my rules.”

Arc Flash glared right back. “Don’t kid yourself, Scorpion. My property, my rules. And you are not my client. I’m letting you ask the questions as a courtesy.”

Jonathan said nothing.

After maybe ten seconds, Horne broke. “Fine,” he said. “If you want to play the good cop, I suppose I can go along. For a while.”

As Horne removed the clamps, Jonathan found what could have been a milking stool and carried it to a spot roughly between the two prisoners.

Boxers stood at the back of the room, blocking access to the closed door. He kept his hand on the grip of his rifle, poised to hurt anyone who posed a threat.

Jonathan shrugged out of his rucksack and laid it on the floor. He worked his shoulders a couple of times to ease away the phantom strap marks and sat on the stool.

“Hello, Vasily,” Jonathan said. Under the bruising, the man had broad Slavic features, complete with the orbital ridge and the pugilist’s nose. Something flashed behind his eyes — it was there and gone in a second, but long enough to show Jonathan that he’d struck the truth.

“You, too, Peter,” he said to the other one. Jonathan wasn’t going to take a shot at the pronunciation of Pyotr. He figured he was close enough. “Welcome to America. I apologize for my friend’s attraction to male genitalia. Are you both reasonably comfortable now?”

Neither prisoner spoke. Instead, they stared at each other.

Jonathan pulled his iPhone out of his trousers pocket, thumbed it to life, and navigated to the dossiers Venice had downloaded to him. He recapped the intel that they’d discussed in the War Room.

“So, let’s get past all the covers and bullshit Secret Service identities,” he concluded. “You know how this works. You answer my questions through a haze of agony, or you answer them because you know it’s the better solution. Which will it be? Peter, I’ll ask you first. Are you going to cooperate, or are we going to hurt you?”

Pyotr started to answer, but Vasily cut him off. “We are here legally,” he said. David had made no mention of so thick a Russian accent. Jonathan figured that under stress, he’d forgotten to fake his words. “I don’t know what you want to know.”

Jonathan laughed. “Really? Is that the best you can come up with? I guess you don’t remember that we’re the ones who kicked your asses when you were trying to kill an innocent couple.”

The prisoners continued to look exclusively at each other.

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “Let’s start with the obvious. Why were you intent on killing David Kirk?”

“Who?” Vasily said.

Jonathan sighed. “Oh, dear. This is going to be such a long night.” He shifted his gaze to the other prisoner. “How about you, Peter? Are you going to be this difficult?”

Pyotr shifted his eyes to the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Very well, then,” Jonathan said. “Let’s come at it this way. Why were you at the Eastern Towers Apartments this afternoon?”

“You don’t have to answer him, Pyotr,” Vasily said.

“He’s not the boss anymore, Peter,” Jonathan said. “Never again will be. You should feel free to answer if you want.”

“Say nothing, Pyotr.”

Jonathan kept his gaze locked on Pyotr. Vasily didn’t matter; that was the context. Just a chat between you and me, Pete.

“Peter, it will be so, so much easier in the long run,” Jonathan said. His tone had never sounded so reasonable. So kind. “I don’t like to see people get hurt. I am not like my little friend. While he may be a monster, I assure you that I am not.”

Pyotr cheated with his eyes, leaving their lock on Vasily’s face and shifting to evaluate Jonathan.

“Pyotr, don’t!”

Jonathan pointed to his own eyes. “Look here, Peter. Not at him. Right here. Right at my eyes. I’m telling you the truth. This doesn’t have to be difficult.”

Pyotr’s eyes shifted back over to Vasily. And they grew huge.

From his black side, Jonathan more sensed than heard Boxers shifting his weight. “Threat left!” he yelled.

Jonathan reacted as reflex, rolling from the stool to the floor. A half-second later, he was back up on his knee, his .45 drawn and gripped in both hands, ready to neutralize the threat he still hadn’t seen. Boxers hadn’t yet fired a shot, and that fact alone kept Jonathan’s finger off the trigger.

If he’d turned a few milliseconds later, Jonathan would not have seen Arc Flash deliver the full overhead swing of a sledgehammer onto Vasily’s left shoulder. The crushing blow landed squarely on the sweet spot where the clavicle, scapula, and the proximal condyle of the humerus met to form the shoulder joint. The bones splintered with a sickening crunch, and Vasily’s entire left side sagged from the impact. Somehow, the sound of shattering bone reverberated more loudly than Vasily’s guttural shriek.

“Aw, fuck!” Boxers yelled.

Jonathan’s stomach nearly emptied itself. “Arc Flash!” he yelled. “Jesus!”

Horne beamed with delight as he spun the sledge in his hand the way a drum major might flourish a baton.

“Like that,” Horne said. The effort left him short of breath. He pointed the sledge at Pyotr, an extension of his arm. “Aren’t a few answers worth not having that happen to you?” He emphasized the point by tapping the white flash of bone that protruded from the ruined shoulder, triggering another scream.

Pyotr vomited into his own lap.

Jonathan hadn’t yet broken his aim. “Put that down, Arc Flash. For Christ’s sake.”

Horne grabbed the back of Vasily’s chair and jostled it. Vasily howled like a wounded animal.

“Stop!” Boxers boomed.

Horne turned to face the Big Guy full on. He stepped out in front of Vasily, his arms held wide, cruciform. In the bright light, blood shimmered on the sledge’s head.

“What are you going to do, Big Guy? Shoot me?” he pivoted a quarter-turn to his left to address Jonathan. “How about you Scorpion? I’m all the way over here and you’re all the way over there. Are you going to separate my soul from my body just because I break a few bones?” He emphasized the last word with a golf swing that brought the face of the sledge through the face of Vasily’s right kneecap. An erection showed through Horne’s trousers.

He turned back to face Boxers. “All right, Mr. Snake Eating Delta Operator. What are you going to do? Decision time. Either shoot that thing or holster it.”

“Big Guy, don’t,” Jonathan said.

Boxers had a long history of treating rhetorical challenges as real. Jonathan didn’t want to deal with the Horne’s corpse. Not tonight. “Disengage,” he commanded.

When he didn’t hear sounds of appropriate movement, he looked back to see Boxers thoroughly committed to a shooter’s stance. Eight feet away, Horne’s entire being screamed, Shoot me.

“Hey, Big Guy,” Jonathan coaxed. “He’s a shit, but he’s on our side.”

Boxers hesitated for maybe a second, and then let go of his 417, letting it fall against its sling. “This isn’t right, Scorpion,” he said. “We don’t do this shit.”

You knew you’d crossed a moment in the space-time continuum when Boxers was the conscience of the group. What was done was done. Arc Flash’s tactics were disgusting, but they were already in play. This wasn’t the time to put righteous indignation in the way of collecting valuable information.

Jonathan slipped his Colt back into its holster and resumed his seat on the stool.

Everything about Pyotr had changed. He was three shades paler, he was drenched in his own nastiness, and though it was physically impossible, he looked ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. By any measure, that meant he was ready to talk.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “So, what’ll it be, Peter? The easy way or the hard way?”