OMEGA

Chapter 50

The C-17 Globemaster’s wheels bit into the runway and rumbled for a few seconds, before the massive aircraft rapidly and unnaturally slowed from the reverse thrust of its four over-powered turbofan engines. The sudden deceleration pushed Farrington into Dihya Castillo to his right. Jared Hoffman knocked into him from the left; a victim of the same, seemingly impossible physics prank played by the aircraft’s engines.

The behemoth taxied smoothly for a few minutes before coming to a stop. Farrington looked forward to getting off this thing for however long it took to refuel. Despite its impressive size, the two-story, windowless cargo bay felt like a flying tomb. He might reconsider the flight crew’s offer to sit on the flight-deck level, where he’d have a chance to see the sky. They had a long flight ahead of them to Africa, their destination still up in the air. Literally.

The Gabonese government had apparently been less than receptive to the idea of allowing a U.S. military transport to land at their air base in Libreville to “refuel.” The current plan was to covertly parachute a small group into the farmlands southeast of the city along the aircraft’s approved route to the United Nations Base at Entebbe International Airport. The group would link up with CIA-friendly assets and make arrangements to receive the rest of the team when they filtered into the area on private flights. The plan was far from ideal, but it got some of them on the ground in the target area as quickly as possible to start the search for Reznikov.

After the aircraft remained stationary for several seconds, the C-17’s loadmaster, seated in a sturdy flight chair next to the flight deck stairwell, released his harness and gave them all a thumbs-up. Farrington unbuckled the far less serious-looking strap holding him into the jump seat. The loadmaster opened the crew door on the forward-most, port side of the cargo bay, close to his station.

The team milled about the section of the hold they had claimed, groggy from the eight-hour leg of the flight. Farrington could sense they were ready to press their feet on terra firma and breathe some fresh air before they were sealed up again. The DEVGRU operators stuck together toward the rear of the hold, like they had for most of the flight. The SEALs had neither been openly disdainful, nor subtly disrespectful toward Farrington’s team, they merely stuck to themselves. He hadn’t expected an ice cream social. They had been assigned to babysit Farrington’s team, and it clearly wasn’t a choice assignment.

“If your team wants to breathe some crisp middle-of-fucking-nowhere Atlantic air tinged with aviation fuel, they can stretch their legs on the runway!” the loadmaster yelled. “Just keep them near the stairs and out of the refueling crew’s way so we can get out of here.”

“Which side do they use to refuel?” asked Farrington.

“That side,” said the loadmaster, pointing toward the starboard side of the cargo bay.

Farrington nodded at the U.S. Air Force technical sergeant, turning to face the bulk of his team nearby. “Stick close by. There’s nothing to see out there anyway. This place is literally in the middle of nowhere.”

The group mumbled and nodded, at least half of them immediately moving toward the hatch leading out of the aircraft. He stopped Aleem Fayed on the way by. “Make sure they don’t wander.”

“Got it,” said Fayed. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“They topped off in Buenos Aires, so I’m thinking twenty to thirty minutes. I’ll meet you out there in a few. I need to update Sanderson.”

“What’s there to update?”

“That they didn’t fly us to Guantanamo Bay.”

The seasoned operative shook his head and laughed, heading over to organize the pack gathering at the door. Fayed led the Middle East Group, which comprised at least a third of the task force put together by Sanderson for this operation. Given the final destination, any skin tone naturally darker than Farrington’s tan bought you a ticket on this flight. The entire South-Central America group, minus Munoz and Melendez, had also been sent.

Not that operatives from either group would blend right into the Libreville population. Far from it, in fact. The quick-fused mission exposed a significant weakness in the Black Flag structure. They had only two operatives who could walk through the main Libreville market without drawing immediate attention. Andre Luison, a French-Creole descended operative attached to the European Group, and Jon Holloman, a former Special Forces soldier with two years of intense German language training from the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey, California. Needless to say, they’d both parachute into Gabon tonight.

Castillo remained in her seat, rubbing her temples, an empty airsickness bag between her knees. Farrington patted her on the shoulder, nudging her forward.

“Get some air,” he said.

“I don’t feel like moving,” Castillo groaned.

“You need to walk those rubbery legs. You’re hitting the ground later tonight.”

“Pain in the ass,” she muttered, pushing off the seat.

Farrington grabbed her arm before she plopped right back down. She didn’t look well, a slight film of perspiration visible on her face. He might have to reconsider sending her with the advanced party if she didn’t come around.

“Sure you didn’t eat something sketchy earlier?”

“I didn’t eat for more than six hours before our scheduled departure. I get airsick. Every time. I’ll be fine.”

“I need you steady when you hit the ground,” he said.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, shaking his hand off her arm.

Castillo headed for the door with most of the team, leaving him with Jared Hoffman, who would most definitely not be part of the parachute team. He was somehow whiter than Farrington. Hoffman, aka Gosha, was the Russian Group’s sniper, and one of Farrington’s most reliable operatives.

“She looks like shit,” Gosha quietly commented.

“I don’t have another sniper that doesn’t glow like a fluorescent light.”

Gosha smirked. “Funny. Never thought I’d be discriminated against for being too white.”

“You can file a complaint with HR when we get back,” said Farrington. “She says she’ll be fine.”

“Shaky hands make a useless sniper.”

“There won’t be any sniping when they land. Not right away. I need to make a call.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Not going outside?”

“What for?”

“Good point.”

Farrington walked toward the door, taking the satellite phone out of a cargo pocket. The loadmaster flipped switches at his station, looking up from his work and glancing past Farrington. A loud mechanical whine cut through the deep hum of the engines, drawing Farrington’s attention toward the back of the cargo bay. He caught some movement behind the vertical ramp, which was immediately noticed by the SEALs.

“Any reason you need the ramp open!” one of them yelled over the noise.

The loadmaster either ignored the question or didn’t hear it. The SEAL walked closer as the ramp started to descend.

“Hey! What’s up with the ramp?”

“Fresh air! I get to sit here and balance fuel while everyone else takes a break,” replied the loadmaster.

The SEAL shook his head. “At least dim the fucking lights! I don’t need my picture on the cover of Newsweek magazine.”

“Whatever,” mumbled the sergeant. “It’s not like anyone’s watching.”

The lighting scheme shifted to red, the best choice under the circumstances. Red light released less energy and was harder to detect from a distance.

“How long do we have until we take off?” asked Farrington.

“The pilot wants us rolling within thirty minutes,” the loadmaster replied. “I’ll give you a heads-up when it’s time to gather the flock.”

Farrington nodded and joined the last of his operatives waiting to get out, checking the satellite phone. No signal. Castillo stepped through the hatch, her deep red form bathed in silver moonlight. His phone buzzed twice, indicating he had a voice message. It buzzed again, once. A text. He read Sanderson’s words twice, fighting the urge to immediately scan his surroundings. Fuck. Maybe they had landed in Guantanamo. How the hell would he know the difference?

Farrington poked his head through the hatch, scanning the moonlit tarmac and the buildings beyond. It didn’t look like Guantanamo, even in the darkness. He saw nothing in the distance beyond the base. Facing the hangars in Guantanamo at night, you could see lights from the towns outside the base perimeter. He suspected nothing but Atlantic beyond these buildings. Headlights appeared in the fuel farm on the edge of the tarmac, followed by a long truck.

“Fuel’s inbound. No smoking, obviously,” said the loadmaster.

Something’s inbound, he thought.

His paranoid mind was taking over after reading Sanderson’s message. He glanced toward the SEALs, who now sat on top of the pallets of double-stacked Pelican cases, which contained the taskforce’s primary weapons and gear. They talked and laughed quietly, appearing to have no interest in leaving the aircraft. Nothing felt off to him. The SEALs didn’t have the numbers or weapons to take down his team. Everyone carried a pistol, a condition Sanderson had insisted on. Primary weapons would be removed from the cases and issued to the team infiltrating by parachute later in the flight.

The SEALs all carried rucksacks, which could contain a few surprises, but Farrington’s team had a few spoilers hidden in their personal gear just in case. Satisfied that nothing was immediately amiss inside or outside the aircraft, he backed up and approached Gosha, who looked surprised to see him.

“Back so soon?”

Farrington lowered his voice. “Sanderson wants us alert during the refueling. Didn’t say why. Any chance they hid another team on this thing?”

“We checked before takeoff in Buenos Aires. Lower deck and lavatory were empty. Flight deck had two pilots in the cockpit. The rest empty. If we have a problem, it’s going to come from the outside.”

“That’s what I was thinking. What about our friends over there?” he asked, without glancing up at the SEALs.

“DEVGRU is good, but not that good. If something went down, my guess is they’ll disappear right before it happens,” said Gosha, cocking his ear. “Fuel truck?”

“I hope so.”

“Maybe one of us should keep an eye on it,” Gosha suggested.

“That doesn’t sound like you’re volunteering.”

“Wouldn’t it look suspicious if I suddenly developed an interest in leaving the aircraft?” said Gosha, smirking.

“Put your earpiece in. Primary tactical channel.”

Before heading back, Farrington pulled a wired earpiece free from a Velcro hook hidden in his collar and pushed it into his left ear. On his way out the door, he heard Gosha joking about kosher MREs, the team’s previously agreed upon code to watch their hosts very closely. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he tapped a reply to Sanderson’s message.

LANDED IN RIGHT PLACE. ALL KOSHER HERE.

The reply came instantly: MSG FROM FLT DECK WHEN UR BACK IN AIR.

He pressed K, followed by SEND.

“Aleem, Gosha said he’s going to fight you over the kosher MREs,” said Farrington.

“He’s about as kosher as my Saudi grandmother,” replied Fayed, pausing a few moments before walking a little further out onto the tarmac.

Nobody immediately reacted to Farrington’s use of the code word, but over the next several seconds, the operatives casually spread out from the hatch.

Chapter 51

Jared Hoffman dug through his pack, removing what was indeed a kosher MRE from the depths. His hand brushed the pistol grip of his MP9 on the way out. He placed the tan plastic pouch on the seat next him and pretended to rearrange the contents of his pack, instead maneuvering the compact submachine gun into a readily accessible position. The weapon was loaded with a twenty-round magazine to keep it concealable. An additional thirty-round magazine lay flat along the left side of the weapon, kept in place by a magnetic strip attachment. A few more magazines had been hidden in various external pouches on the pack. It was one of their insurance policies. He had others.

The fuel truck arrived, its squeaky brakes audible through the aircraft hull behind him. The loadmaster slid out of his seat and peered through the window in the emergency exit hatch next to his station.

“Fuel’s here!” he announced.

Hoffman nodded politely, and the loadmaster went to work on the switches.

“Gosha,” said Ashraf Haddad, grabbing his attention.

Two of the SEALs headed in their direction, one of them stretching his arms and yawning while walking, the other yapping about a new rifle he’d fired. He resisted the urge to put his hand inside his pack, secure in the knowledge that all seven Black Flag operatives were thinking the same thing and were ready to respond in the blink of an eye. The de facto leader of the SEALs spoke to them for the first time since Sanderson’s team boarded the aircraft.

“Headed up to the flight deck, gentlemen,” said the leader. “Take a look at this dump from the cockpit so I can tell my kids I saw it. You’re welcome to join us.”

Hoffman held up the tan pouch. “I have a date with a kosher MRE. Maybe later.”

“Not much to see up there anyway,” said the commando.

They passed through the small knot of Sanderson’s operatives and climbed the stairwell without saying a word to the loadmaster. Hoffman casually glanced at the red, monochromatic forms of the two remaining SEALs, not detecting any change to their behavior or posture. He relaxed a little, giving the MRE some thought. Chicken and black beans didn’t sound so bad right now.

Hoffman reached for the MRE, and the cargo bay went dark. Before he got the MP9 out of his pack, suppressed gunfire rattled from the top of the stairwell, striking one of his teammates with a wet thud.

Hoffman launched backward, gripping the submachine gun and his pack, the next tightly spaced pattern of bullets zipping through the space he’d moments ago occupied. He hit the metal deck hard and rolled onto his left side to face the source of gunfire, his MP9 firing at the top of the stairwell a fraction of a moment later. A weapon clattered down the stairs, indicating his burst had been accurate, but it was immediately replaced by more gunfire from the same location.

A warm splash hit the back of his neck, followed by suppressed and unsuppressed gunfire from the rear of the aircraft. A body dropped behind him, momentarily shielding his back from the new threat. Deafening gunfire from the team’s nearby pistols echoed off the cargo bay walls, the muzzle flashes lashing out toward the front and rear of the aircraft. Bullets struck the body behind him again. Someone was desperate to put his MP9 out of action. They couldn’t win this fight. Not caught in a crossfire with nowhere to maneuver.

He reloaded the MP9 with the attached magazine and dug through his pack again, retrieving a flashlight. While the sharp reports of his team’s pistols slackened, he unscrewed the top and shook a flash-bang grenade onto the deck, tossing the flashlight shell aside. The grenade’s safety lever released automatically, the device’s pin pulled before it was squeezed into the flashlight.

“Grenade out!” he yelled, tossing it toward the rear of the aircraft.

Chapter 52

Farrington dropped to the hard tarmac the moment the red light disappeared from the crew door next to him. His quick instinct was rewarded by the hollow metallic thunk of a bullet above him. Aleem Fayed spun and fired two quick shots toward the nose of the aircraft.

“Two targets! Front landing gear,” said Fayed before his body crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

Flashes erupted behind Farrington from the rear wheel housing, bullets cutting through the team from a third direction. This would be over in a few seconds if they remained exposed like this. There was only one place to go, and he had no idea if the situation would be better or worse when they got there. Holloman’s head snapped back, a dark splotch appearing against the side of the gray aircraft. It couldn’t be any worse than this.

“Go under! Get to the other side!” he yelled, rolling underneath the aircraft.

Bullets chased him across the concrete for half of the trip, the initial gunmen quickly losing their firing angles from positions best suited for catching them in an ambush along the port side of the aircraft. When he emerged on the opposite side of the C-17’s belly, he caught two men in full tactical gear crouched in the open next to the refueling truck.

They either didn’t see him or didn’t expect him. It didn’t matter. Farrington lined their dark forms up with his tritium sights and fired center mass. One of the men dropped into a seated position on the ground. The other spun against the truck’s front wheel well and went to his knees. Knowing they weren’t out of the fight, he closed the short distance, alternating bullets between them until he was close enough to shoot them in the face. He drilled the seated man in the nose; then the pistol’s slide locked back.

“Shit,” he muttered, ejecting the magazine while his free hand retrieved another.

He’d practiced swapping pistol magazines more than a thousand times, under every possible condition, but when the second commando unexpectedly twisted on his knees to face him, Farrington knew it wasn’t going to happen. A thousand times? Two thousand times? When your time was up — your time was up.

He slammed the new magazine home anyway, staring down the barrel of a compact rifle. The man’s head jerked backward against the tire well, the rest of his body going slack. Farrington crouched between the two dead men and searched for his savior. Dihya Castillo lay flat on the tarmac directly underneath the aircraft, her pistol extended in both hands. She was the only other member of the team that had made it under the C-17.

“Keep going!” he yelled.

She started to crawl, but fell flat on her stomach with an agonized groan. Farrington started forward, then froze. Castillo held her left hand out, telling him to stop, while the other rapidly fired her pistol at a dark form barely visible to him on the other side of the aircraft. The shadowy figure slumped to its hands and knees, head down. Farrington picked up the suppressed M4 carbine and fired twice. The shooter’s body flattened. He started toward Castillo again.

“No! There’s a sniper out there!” she yelled. “I’m done anyway.”

“Fuck that,” he muttered, determined to grab her.

Her body shuddered from a high-velocity impact, the supersonic crack startling him. Gunfire continued to rage inside the aircraft, but he could tell that battle was dying down. Farrington resolved to make this as painful as possible for whoever was behind this. He’d use the fuel truck to blow the whole fucking plane up before he was finished. He snatched three thirty-round magazines for the M4 from one of the vests and took off behind the fuel truck, stuffing the magazines in his pocket as he ran.

A shooter hidden behind the bulging wheel well fired at him when he poked his head around, striking the edge of the fuel tank. Scratch the fuel truck idea. He’d find another way. Farrington peeked again, drawing fire, one of the bullets creasing his hair. He dropped into a prone position behind the back wheels of the truck and leaned quickly into the open, finding his target in the rifle’s holographic sight. A single trigger press sent a bullet straight into the shooter’s chest before he could readjust his aim. The man staggered sideways, trying to recover from the hit to his body armor. Farrington followed up with three shots to the upper chest and neck area, putting him down.

He searched the shadowy area around the massive landing gear, coming up empty, which didn’t mean he was in the clear. His view was limited, and he knew it. The pistol fire inside the C-17 had nearly stopped, the sound of Hoffman’s submachine gun conspicuously missing. Even the suppressed fire from the hostile rifles had slowed, replaced by more methodical bursts. They were mopping up the last survivors. He had to act.

Farrington burst into the open, sprinting for the rear cargo bay ramp. He’d almost reached the ramp when he heard a familiar voice.

“Grenade out!”

They were still in this.

Chapter 53

Hoffman’s intentional use of the word grenade had the desired effect. Unable to see what he’d thrown into the rear of the cargo bay, the gunmen scrambled out of the aircraft, shouting panicked orders. Fragmentation grenades and fuel-laden aircraft didn’t mix. The moment they scattered for the ramp, he rolled to the left, drawing fire from the top of the stairs.

A pistol low to the deck and across from him unleashed several shots at the elevated gunman before Hoffman pressed the MP9’s trigger, adding to the sparks flying off the top of the metal staircase. A tightly spaced series of earsplitting explosions crunched his eardrums and lit the cargo bay, spurring him into action.

“Clear the front! Clear the front!” he screamed, barely able to hear his own words.

Hoffman leapt forward onto his feet and rapidly moved to the front of the cargo bay, firing short bursts up the stairwell and scanning for the loadmaster. Ashraf Haddad sprinted past him on the right, checking the loadmaster station before pressing himself against the side of the aircraft and aiming his pistol at the open crew door.

The loadmaster had disappeared, either out the door to help ambush the team outside or down the short passageway next to the stairwell to hide behind the stairs. Both scenarios presented a problem he needed to solve in the next few seconds before the confusion sowed by the flash-bang grenade dissipated.

With Haddad covering the door, he chose to clear the area behind the stairs. Another flash-bang would do nicely right about now, but he didn’t have the time to dig through one of the packs behind him to retrieve one. Hoffman improvised, firing the rest of his MP9’s magazine into the dark red space, igniting it with sparks before yelling, “Grenade out!” He tossed the spent submachine gun into the loadmaster’s possible hiding space and dropped to the ground with his pistol drawn.

Much to his surprise, the ruse worked. A dark figure lurched into the dark red passageway and charged forward, firing a compact weapon on full automatic. The bullets zipped harmlessly over the Black Flag operative’s head, the fusillade answered by several swiftly fired bullets from Haddad’s and Hoffman’s pistols. The loadmaster twitched from the repeated hits, careening into the stairway’s handrail and sliding to the deck.

Hoffman picked up the rifle dropped earlier by one of the shooters at the top of the stairwell and signaled for Haddad to follow. They had to get off the cargo level. The sound of suppressed gunfire raged behind them. Without a moment to spare, he rushed up the stairs, sweeping the open space above and to the left with the compact rifle. The business end of a suppressor poked over the top of the stairs, a dark stain sprayed against the bullet-riddled wall beyond it. As he continued to climb, a facedown head appeared. Another body lay close by.

He quickly stepped over the body at the top of the stairs and triggered the rifle’s flashlight, illuminating the entire space. Two rows of commercial-airline-style seats faced forward, taking up most of the room. A quick check confirmed they were alone. Haddad stopped at the top of the stairs and detangled the dead man’s rifle, lowering himself into position to cover the inevitable counterattack. Hoffman would deal with the pilots if they were still alive. Judging by the number of holes in the wall behind Haddad, it was anyone’s guess.

“What do you see?” he whispered to Haddad.

“Nothing,” replied the operative with a surprised tone. “It’s completely quiet.”

“How far can you see?”

“About three-quarters of the way, with a blind spot on the left, all the way back.”

“Something’s wrong,” said Hoffman, the rifle aimed at the cockpit door.

A suppressed crack echoed from below, but the bullet wasn’t aimed at the stairwell.

“Are they shooting our wounded?” said Hoffman.

“I don’t think so,” Haddad answered. “I can see all of our people.”

Another crack rang out, followed by a familiar voice. “Cargo bay is clear! Status update on the flight deck?”

“It’s Farrington. Get down there,” whispered Hoffman. “Tell him I’ll have the cockpit clear in a second.”

While Haddad descended, Hoffman repositioned himself, lying flat on the deck with his feet facing the cockpit door. He had no idea if the door on one of these had a lock like commercial airliners and had zero desire to test the handle. It was an easy way to get shot through the door. He nestled the rifle into his shoulder, the rifle pointing up at the space between the handle and the door frame. Hoffman gave his plan a second thought. This bird was likely their only way out of here. Shooting through the door should be his last resort. Instead of bullets, he hit the door twice with the bottom of his boot.

“Open the door!” he said.

He kicked again. “Open the fucking door, or I’ll shoot it open!”

“Don’t do that! You do any more damage to the cockpit controls, and I can’t fly this thing,” replied the voice.

“You’re going to fly us out of here?” said Hoffman.

“If you promise not to kill me.”

“What about the copilot?”

“Dead. The first bullets that passed through the bulkhead killed him,” said the pilot. “We don’t have a lot of time here. The base is on full alert. They have a small garrison.”

“He’s right about running out of time,” said Farrington, appearing above the top of the stairwell. “I’d rather not get stuck here answering questions about this. He’s willing to fly us?”

“That’s what he claims,” said Hoffman. “Good to see you, by the way. Who else made it?”

“We’re it,” said Farrington, climbing the rest of the stairs.

“Careful,” said Hoffman, pointing at the bullet holes.

Farrington didn’t seem to care. “Is the door unlocked?”

“Unlock the door and take a few steps back. Lace your fingers and place them in front of your face, covering your eyes,” said Farrington. “If you shoot me, my colleague will shoot you. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Do it!”

A sturdy-sounding mechanism clunked.

“It’s unlocked. I’m standing as you—”

Farrington opened the door and leaned inside, pulling the pilot by his flight vest through the opening and slamming him against the bullet-riddled bulkhead. Hoffman didn’t need to be told what to do next. He slid into the surprisingly spacious cockpit and cleared it, finding the copilot exactly how the pilot described, slumped in his seat, half of his head splattered on the front and side windows.

“Clear! Were either of you armed?” said Hoffman as Farrington wrangled him back into the cockpit.

“They don’t typically arm the pilots.”

“Nothing typical about this flight,” said Farrington, pushing him back into the pilot’s seat. “Get us moving.”

“I need confirmation that fuel truck didn’t connect,” said the pilot.

Farrington pushed the rifle barrel against the back of his head. “Don’t fuck with me. This wasn’t a refueling stop.”

The pilot suddenly got defiant. “They might have hooked it up to keep you from getting suspicious. This flight will not get far connected to a tanker truck!”

“They didn’t bother,” said Farrington. “Saw it with my own eyes. Get us moving!”

“Someone needs to close the ramp. We can’t take off with it open.”

“Can you taxi with it open?” said Farrington.

“It’s not ideal.”

“If this aircraft isn’t moving within the next few seconds, I’m going to kill you. I know the APU is running, and these engines don’t need long to warm up.”

“It will still take at least a minute for the APU to bring the engines back to idle. Maybe quicker,” said the pilot, flipping a series of switches that created a mechanical humming.

Farrington pulled the copilot’s body out of the adjacent seat and swung into the seat behind him. He sat down and pulled out his satellite phone. “I assume you’re not U.S. Air Force?”

“I used to fly these in the Air Force,” said the pilot.

“Who hired you to fly a U.S. Air Force C-17?” asked Farrington, keeping the rifle trained on the pilot.

“CIA. We work on a contract-to-contract basis.”

“What about the SEALs?”

“We picked up four SOCOM operators and their gear at MacDill. Shortly after taking off, they rerouted us to the air base at Guantanamo. The teams swapped out during a brief stop there.”

“Without SOCOM’s knowledge, no doubt,” muttered Farrington.

“Look, we just fly. They told us to lock the door; then the shooting started. We had no idea.”

“Your loadmaster seemed to know what he was doing,” said Hoffman.

“Not all of our contracts are the same.”

The pilot flipped a few more switches, grasping the four-engine throttle on the center console and the control stick in front of him.

“We’re ready,” said the pilot, increasing the throttle.

The aircraft started to move forward. A loud pop filled the cockpit, blood splattering the window in front of the pilot. Farrington grabbed the man’s collar to pull him out of the seat, but a second bullet snapped through the side of the aircraft and hit the pilot before he could yank him down. The pilot arched his back and slumped in the seat — dead. A third bullet hit the cockpit, puncturing the hull behind the pilot’s seat and ricocheting off Hoffman’s rifle. He dropped to the deck, in the row between the back seats, and inspected the weapon, finding a cracked handguard. The rifle was still functional.

Farrington slipped out of the copilot’s seat and crouched behind the pilot, reaching over a long console of switches and electronics to pull the throttle back to idle. The aircraft lumbered to a stop. Another bullet passing through the cockpit’s thin aluminum skin struck the copilot’s headrest.

“Now what?” said Hoffman. “Fly it out ourselves?”

“How hard could it be to take off? There’s a throttle and a joystick,” said Farrington.

“Taking off sounds easy enough, but what about the rest?”

“We can worry about that later,” said Farrington. “But we’re not going anywhere with that sniper.”

“How bad could it be if we surrendered to the base garrison? The sniper has to vanish once they arrive. Right?” said Hoffman. “Just saying.”

“Sure. They’ll put us on the next C-17 flight back to the States,” said Farrington, smirking. “Everything will be fine.”

Farrington was right. They had to take out the sniper. More accurately — Hoffman had to take out the sniper.

“I have an idea,” said Hoffman.

Chapter 54

Dihya Castillo lay on the tarmac in a wide pool of her own blood, still alive. The second bullet fired by the sniper had struck the concealed ballistic plate she’d chosen to wear under her clothes, and ricocheted into the night. Castillo had played dead to keep Farrington from attempting a pointless rescue. She was as good as dead. No reason to get them both killed.

The first bullet had torn through her right thigh and exited her left pelvis, no doubt making a mess of everything in between. The pain had been excruciating at first, but started to fade quickly. She’d be gone in a few minutes, satisfied that she’d played a small part in turning the fight around. Castillo had no idea what went down behind the aircraft, her view of the ramp area blocked by the C-17’s massive wheel wells, but she’d watched Farrington methodically fire one burst after another while moving toward the ramp until everything went quiet.

The engines whined louder. A few seconds later, the aircraft above her started to edge forward. She raised her head a few inches to calculate the path of the C-17’s rear wheels. Even mortally wounded, the thought of getting crushed under those tires breathed a little life into her. Fuck. It didn’t look good. She hadn’t crawled far enough under the aircraft before she took the first bullet.

The supersonic crack of a bullet drew her attention away from the slowly approaching tires. If she had her rifle, she’d put an end to that fucker. She’d located the sniper’s nest a few shots after the one that hit her body armor. The sniper wasn’t in the air ops tower, the most obvious location to a non-sniper. He or she had set up on the roof of a two-story hangar building.

She watched the structure, catching a flash. A moment later, the crack echoed across the concrete. Another flash-crack immediately followed, and the engine whine lowered, returning to idle. The pilot was dead. She found herself with mixed emotions when the wheels ground to a halt several feet from her. She was glad not to be crushed to a pulp but bummed that Farrington and the survivors wouldn’t escape. A few more gunshots echoed across the tarmac; then a long silence ensued.

She closed her eyes, thinking she’d let go and slip away when a hollow, metallic sound brought her back. Another clunk, and she opened her eyes. Two dark objects skittered to a stop about thirty feet away from the C-17’s fuselage, exploding in a billow of thick smoke.

Interesting.

The chemical cloud expanded and drifted straight for the aircraft, following the gentle Atlantic breeze she’d first felt when she stepped onto the tarmac.

When it had thickened enough to obscure her view of the sniper’s building, a figure descended the crew door stairs, carrying a scoped rifle. She recognized him through the haze.

“Jared,” she said, barely able to raise her voice over the engines. “Hoffman!”

He crouched, scanning in her direction. She raised her right hand a few inches, catching his attention. Hoffman got to her quickly, kneeling down to grab her.

“No. No. I’m gone, Jared,” she protested.

“I need to get you away from these wheels,” said Hoffman. “Farrington is leaving. Somebody has to survive this mess.”

He pulled her well past the stairwell, laying her on her back behind Andre Luison’s bloodied body.

“You can keep me company,” he said, lying down next to her with his rifle.

The aircraft rumbled to life behind them, once again moving.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Taking care of the sniper,” said Hoffman. “They’ll be too busy trying to put that beast out of business to notice me.”

The smoke grenades had already started to dissipate. They’d be exposed to the sniper again in a moment.

“How do you get out of here?” she asked, a bullet cracking overhead.

“I don’t. I take my chances with the RAF,” he said, opening his rifle’s scope covers.

She knew what that meant. He’d be shipped back to the U.S. on another fake flight, his body dumped over the Atlantic.

“I know where the sniper is. I can take the shot,” said Castillo. “Set me up behind your rifle and get out of here.”

Hoffman stared at her through the thinning smoke, a thin smile barely visible. “I don’t know. That’s at least a thousand feet. Tough shot.”

“I know it’s an intimidating range for you,” she said. “But I can handle it.”

He laughed for a moment. “Hard to argue with you on this one.”

“Then get moving,” said Castillo. “Farrington doesn’t look like he’s waiting around.”

Hoffman turned her on her stomach and set her up behind the rifle, which lay across Luison’s back. He slid an extra ten-round 7.62mm magazine next to her left arm.

“I won’t need that,” she said.

“Of course you won’t,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.

“What was that for?” she said.

“Always wanted to do that,” he said. “Thank you for this.”

She turned her head to say something, but he was gone, his form scarcely visible running through the last of the smoke screen.

She refocused on her task.

The smoke had cleared enough for her to see the outline of the left corner of the two-story building. The sniper fired every several seconds, trying to put the C-17 out of commission. The muzzle flashes were drawing her right to the shooter. By the time the smoke thinned a little more, she had a good sight picture. Castillo centered the crosshairs on what little she could see of the well-concealed target, noticing a spotter to the right. Her second target.

She made a few quick calculations. The wind was coming directly at her, so she made no initial adjustments. She took Hoffman’s word for the distance. He wouldn’t have come out here without a reasonable idea. Castillo would use the scope’s tick marks to compensate for the range.

With the crosshairs fixed on the sniper, she made an infinitesimally small adjustment to the rifle’s position and started to take the slack out of the two-stage trigger. When the rifle bucked into her shoulder, she knew it was a hit without even seeing it.

She quickly reacquired the corner, the spotter fumbling to replace the sniper. When the spotter’s dark figure stopped moving, she pressed the trigger again. The scope’s field of vision wavered from the shot, but settled just in time to see the target jerk back out of sight.

Her focus came back to the tarmac and the screaming engines. She never looked back to see if Jared had made it. Instead, she expended every last bit of her energy to flip onto her back. Dihya Castillo stared skyward, seeing more stars in the last minute she remained alive than she’d seen in her entire life. Nearly two thousand miles from the nearest continent, Ascension Island was the ultimate “dark sky” location. Millions of stars appeared to her, then faded away.

Chapter 55

Farrington rose a little higher next to the pilot’s seat, peering through the blood-smeared front window to guide the monstrous aircraft with the control stick. The sniper fire had completely ceased, which meant Hoffman had killed the sniper, or they were locked in a duel. Either way, it was too late for Hoffman to escape with them. The C-17 had reached the edge of the tarmac, headed for the runway. Once he made the right turn and pointed this thing down the runway, he’d increase the throttle and hope for the best. The aircraft would either reach for the sky or catapult into the Atlantic.

A hand rested squarely on his shoulder.

“You’re clear for takeoff,” said Hoffman. “The sniper’s down.”

Farrington looked over his shoulder. “How the fuck?”

“Castillo was still alive. She took the shot for me,” said Hoffman.

“Alive?” He’d seen her take a second bullet. “Where is she?”

“She was on her way out. Bad hit,” said Hoffman. “She did good.”

Farrington shook his head. “She sure as hell did.”

“Haddad’s closing up below. What’s the plan?” asked Hoffman.

Farrington climbed into the pilot’s seat and wiped the bloody window with his sleeve, barely improving the situation.

“We take off and fly due west. When we reach Brazil, we fly for a while and point it back at the ocean, bailing out near the coast.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. We have about five hours to figure out something as long as we get off the ground. You ever fly a plane?”

Hoffman shook his head. “Nope.”

“Me neither. But I’ve been steering with this joystick thing, and my guess is it’s like a video game. Get to the right speed and pull back gently.”

“What’s the right speed?”

“I’ve heard like two hundred miles per hour for commercial aircraft,” said Farrington.

“I’d go with, like, two-fifty, maybe. Just a hunch,” said Hoffman.

The aircraft turned onto the long runway, which stood out from its moonlit surroundings as a dark line extending beyond Farrington’s view. All he had to do was keep this thing in the middle of the unfolding black strip. Easier said than done. Just getting it to the runway had been difficult enough.

“You ready?” Farrington asked.

“What if I say no?”

Farrington laughed and pushed the throttle forward, the C-17 responding immediately. The aircraft accelerated down the runway faster than he’d anticipated.

“Take over the throttle and watch the airspeed. This stick thing is shaking,” said Farrington.

“Where’s the airspeed?”

Farrington pointed toward a bank of green glowing screens. “Somewhere there. Look for the one that’s changing a lot.”

“Jesus,” said Hoffman, climbing into the copilot seat.

Hoffman took the throttle with his left hand, nudging it forward. The aircraft surged forward, racing past one hundred miles per hour.

“A little more,” said Farrington.

Hoffman eased the throttle forward until it was a few inches forward of the straight-up position. The C-17 raced down the dark runway.

“Speed?”

“Passing one seventy. Rapidly increasing,” said Hoffman.

“Tell me when it reaches two-twenty-five.”

“Got it,” said Hoffman.

A few seconds later, Hoffman announced the number. Farrington eased the stick back, feeling the aircraft leave the runway.

“No shit,” said Farrington. “Is the altitude rising?”

“We’re rising,” said Hoffman. “I can tell you that much.”

“Just find the altimeter. It’ll be the one with the numbers going up. Hopefully.”

By the time Hoffman found the digital altimeter display, they were five hundred feet and climbing over the Atlantic, headed almost due east. Now he had to figure out how to turn the craft around and head west. Given their miraculous escape, he was in no hurry to try.

Chapter 56

Karl Berg took Sanderson’s call with trepidation. Deep down, he knew it was bad news. The timing was too close. The flight carrying his team had been an hour from landing at RAF Ascension, one of the most isolated islands on the planet. The perfect place to sweep your dirt under a deep blue rug. He and Bauer shared a concerned look as he put the phone to his ear.

“Terrence?” said Berg.

“You were right.”

Sanderson sounded deflated.

“Can I put you on speakerphone?” Berg requested. “Audra Bauer is with me. The rest of the team is working on putting this place back together. Rustic was a bit of an oversell.”

“Sure,” said Sanderson.

Berg set the phone on the table next to them.

“General, what happened?” asked Bauer.

“It’s not the Russians,” Sanderson stated. “Not in a big-picture way. The team was ambushed at the RAF airfield. Farrington, Hoffman, and Haddad are the only survivors.”

“Shit,” muttered Berg, too stunned to conjure anything else.

Despite hinting to Sanderson that Ascension Island would be the perfect place for an ambush, he truly didn’t think anything could happen there. It was a Royal Air Force base! An isolated one for sure, but still an official military installation. Berg had been far more concerned about what might happen when they reached Africa after splitting up on the ground into small groups.

“How many did you lose, General?” Bauer asked.

“That’s what I like about you, Bauer. None of that phony ‘sorry for your loss’ crap. Straight shooter to the end,” said Sanderson. “Seventeen. And you can call me Terrence.”

“Well, I am sorry for the loss of your people, Terrence, and angered by their deaths,” said Bauer. “I assume the survivors are hiding out on the island? Not in RAF custody, I hope.”

“You may not believe this, but they’re flying west toward Brazil,” said Sanderson. “In the same aircraft.”

“Who’s flying?” asked Berg. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad they got out of there.”

“It does kind of matter. Farrington is at the controls.”

“Jesus,” said Berg. “He knows how to fly a C-17 Globemaster?”

“He got it into the air and managed to turn it one hundred and eighty degrees. He’s not really keen on trying anything else. They plan on bailing out over Brazil after pointing the aircraft back out to sea.”

“What happened to the pilots?” asked Bauer. “And I’m not implying anything with that question.”

“The copilot was killed by a stray bullet. The pilot was killed by a CIA sniper.”

“CIA?” said Bauer, giving Berg an unconvinced look.

“I can’t confirm that the sniper, the fake SEALs, or the phony refueling crew were CIA, but the pilot told me he was contracted by the CIA to fly the mission. The flight was diverted to Guantanamo Bay after leaving MacDill Air Force Base. The four DEVGRU SEALs confirmed by General Gordon from SOCOM were replaced by an assassination team that turned on my people. Does the National Clandestine Service hire pilots to do this?” Sanderson asked.

“We have a roster of pilots and crew for every type of aircraft,” Bauer replied.

“And the Department of Defense just loans out aircraft when you ask?”

“No, we receive official DOD aircraft when the president and his national security advisors decide that the mission transport phase requires an extra degree of perceived legitimacy. A U.S. Air Force C-17 stopping in Argentina or Ascension Island to refuel doesn’t draw attention. Neither does that same C-17 headed to the United Nations Base in Uganda. We don’t do it often.”

“How does this stay a secret?” asked Sanderson. “I assume a squadron somewhere is missing an unmistakably large aircraft?”

“A limited number of squadrons are on the short list to supply aircraft for these missions. It’s very hush-hush. They provide a fully flight-checked aircraft, our contractors walk on board and fly them away, returning them later. Nothing is recorded.”

“Fucking spooks,” said Sanderson. “So now what?”

“We obviously can’t trust the CIA,” said Bauer. “They set up the flight.”

“With the help of the White House,” Sanderson chimed in.

“Maybe, maybe not. Someone high in the Department of Defense is definitely in on this, though,” said Bauer.

“Let’s cross the DOD, White House, and the National Security Council off the Christmas card list for now,” said Sanderson. “Except for Bob Kearney.”

“I don’t know,” said Berg. “He’s pretty close to the president.”

“Bob has been my man on the inside for a while now,” said Sanderson. “He warned me about the raid against my compound back in 2007. This information obviously stays between the three of us.”

“I always wondered,” said Berg.

“I trust Bob with no reservations, but I don’t trust that his office, house, car… all of it, is clear of bugs. He’ll get in touch with me discreetly when he hears what happened.”

“If he ever hears about it,” said Bauer. “Ascension Island is in the middle of nowhere.”

“We’ll figure out a way that doesn’t involve Farrington setting the autopilot for Cuban airspace before they bail out. They have three hours to figure it out.”

“Don’t cross the option off the list,” said Berg.

“Wouldn’t that be a fucking sight to see?” said Sanderson.

“We’re better off if everyone involved in this conspiracy thinks they ran out of fuel and crashed at sea. When they get to Brazilian airspace, they should declare a fuel emergency and claim their navigational equipment malfunctioned. Point north before they bail out over land. That will send the aircraft into the middle of the North Atlantic. It’ll run out of fuel at some point and crash. End of story.”

“I’ll pass that plan along,” said Sanderson. “What else?”

“The Petroviches split,” Berg informed him. “Snuck off without saying goodbye.”

“That’s disappointing, but it doesn’t surprise me. They were on the brink of vanishing from my radar when you passed the news about her mother.”

“I guess we were lucky to have them while we did,” said Bauer.

“You mentioned still having a Russian problem?” Berg prompted.

“The Russians were behind Galenden’s murder. There’s no doubt about that. They just showed up in town,” said Sanderson. “With a small army.”

“Then get the hell out of there,” said Berg.

“No, I need to put an end to this,” said Sanderson. “Solve my Russian problem.”

“That’s not the kind of problem that goes away permanently,” said Berg.

“Not usually, but I have something different in mind.”

“Keep us posted,” said Berg.

“If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know it didn’t work.”

“In that case, while I still have you on the line, what about Munoz and Melendez?”

“Send them south to pick up Reznikov’s trail.”

“Could be bullshit, just like Africa,” said Berg.

“We can’t ignore the possibility that it’s real. If Reznikov is in the United States, he’s here by invitation, and we need to find out who invited him.”

“I already know the answer. And so do you.”

“I sincerely hope we’re both wrong,” said Sanderson.

Chapter 57

Mihail Osin got into the beat-up rental sedan and glanced into the backseat at the two Spetsgruppa Omega snipers chosen for the reconnaissance mission. Their orders were simple: determine if Sanderson was at the location provided by Galenden and indicated by his records. Thermal satellite imagery confirmed the presence of a group at the site, consistent with the suspected size of his remaining force, but the thick tree cover prevented satellites from taking high-resolution daytime photos to prove Sanderson was among the group.

Sanderson was the primary target, and if the sniper team located him at the site and the shooting conditions were entirely favorable, they would be cleared to take him out. Ardankin much preferred the quiet use of two men to accomplish the mission rather than a direct assault by thirty. Colonel Levkin would set up an ambush on the isolated road leading out of the site, just in case the sniper team failed. A squad of Omega commandos hidden along that road, backed by anti-vehicle mines, would be more than adequate, according to Levkin. Satellite imagery showed no more than a dozen of Sanderson’s people at the site.

He looked back at the darkened Quonset-hut-style warehouse serving as their base of operations. The rusty, neglected building cost them a small fortune to rent, most of the outrageous fee designed to buy them privacy and discretion.

“Let’s go,” said Osin. “Stay around the speed limit.”

“Nobody drives the speed limit around here,” said Vadim Dragunov, the only Zaslon operative assigned to the task force.

“Then drive like everyone else. Just don’t get us pulled over,” said Osin, a little bit annoyed.

Dragunov tore out of the dirt parking lot. He had soured after the Galenden mess. They were supposed to have time to devise a discreet plan to grab the Argentine businessman. Follow him for a few days, determine his routine, map his routes, and analyze the man’s security detail. They always found a weakness, but it took time. Time they didn’t know would be snatched away at the last minute, forcing a different, unavoidably messy approach that burned their careers as covert operatives.

Once they walked through the front doors of Galenden International’s glass and steel high-rise and announced themselves as Galenden’s four-thirty appointment, they’d banished themselves to a career at headquarters. Osin wasn’t happy about it either, but they still had a job to do.

They quickly connected with a smooth four-lane highway that circumvented the city to the west. In about twenty minutes, they’d be on Route 9, heading north out of the city toward the drop-off point roughly eight point nine miles away. Barring a flat tire or some other kind of unforeseen holdup, Osin and Dragunov should be headed back toward Salta in less than a half hour.

For all practical purposes, their mission ended after this drop-off. They would remain at the warehouse to coordinate the timely and rapid departure of Levkin’s Spetsgruppa and possibly dispose of a body or two if Levkin’s commandos ran into any overzealous or incorruptible police officers along their travel route to and from the target. Beyond that, they would be in sit-and-wait mode for however long it took to eliminate Sanderson. He really hoped the sniper team ended this quickly.

The mostly deserted highway wound north, turning abruptly east to connect with Route 9 in the northern part of the city. They drove along the quiet, sporadically lit outskirts of town until they broke out into the countryside north of Salta, where the highway became a winding, two-lane rural road.

Route 9 snaked through the hillside, the streetlamps becoming less and less frequent the further they drove from the city. The less light the better. Far too many houses dotted these hills. The last thing they needed was a nosy night owl observing the drop-off. Osin checked his handheld GPS unit. One point two miles to go. A minute and a half at most.

“About a minute,” he said.

Levkin had picked the drop-off point, which gave his sniper team the shortest point of approach to the target area. Short being a relative term. They had a ten-mile hike through thick forest ahead of them. He didn’t expect to hear from them until late tomorrow afternoon.

They passed a streetlight, which momentarily cast an orange glow through the sedan, followed by nothing but darkness for the next minute. Point two miles to the drop-off and not a hint of light ahead. Perfect.

“Point two miles. Slow down a little,” he said.

The car decelerated in a controlled manner for a few seconds; then he was thrown against his seatbelt.

“Dammit, Dragunov!” he snapped when the car rumbled to a stop.

Dragunov was out the door before Osin could process what was happening. Masked figures rushed the car from both sides of the street. Dragunov raised his suppressed pistol, instantly dropping to the road in a crumpled heap as the darkly dressed figures moved past him without slowing down. They instantly enveloped the sedan, their weapons pointed at the vehicle’s occupants.

Osin expected one of Levkin’s commandos to panic, but a few seconds passed without gunfire, convincing him they grasped the situation. A light metallic rap sounded against his window. He turned his head and saw someone signaling for him to roll down the window. A quick nod and he moved his hand to the button. He was surprised to hear perfect street Russian.

“Hands on the dashboard. The two guys in the back put their hands on the headrests. You get out first, then the guy behind you, then the remaining passenger. We have no intention of killing you. Understood.”

“Yes.”

“Do it,” said the Russian speaker.

They were herded out of sight of the road and lined up on their knees, hands above their heads. A quick pat down relieved Osin of a knife. The two Spetsgruppa commandos gave up nothing, their kits sitting useless in the trunk. One of their captors stepped forward and crouched in front of him, offering a hand.

“General Terrence Sanderson, retired, pleased to meet you.”

Osin hesitated, not sure if this was a trick.

“Take the hand,” said Sanderson. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

Osin shook the general’s hand, placing his own back on his head. “How did you know?” he asked.

“This is my backyard, and news travels fast. Galenden, Russians at the airfield… it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”

He remained silent, thinking he should have gone out like Dragunov. Now he was a bargaining chip, along with the two Omega Spetsgruppa commandos.

“I don’t expect you to say anything. In fact, I’d respect you far more if you didn’t. And I’m not going to torture you to death like you did with Galenden,” said Sanderson.

Osin swallowed hard.

“That’s right. I saw a video of you and your friend visiting Galenden International the same day he was found mutilated and dead.”

He wanted to say something. Even started to move his mouth.

“Don’t,” said Sanderson. “I don’t hold that against you.”

“What do you want, then?” asked Osin, genuinely unsure where this exchange was headed.

“I need to talk to the director of your Foreign Intelligence Service.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Osin, expecting a rifle butt to the head.

“I’ll settle for Dmitry Ardankin for now, who I assume is your boss. Directorate S?”

Mention of Ardankin’s name was unsettling, but hearing the words Directorate S bordered on disturbing. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the Americans didn’t know their structure, but it felt entirely different to actually hear it spoken by his enemy.

“That’s not going to happen either,” said Osin.

“Is that because you won’t make the call, or because they won’t take it?”

“Both, but mostly the latter,” said Osin.

“I strongly suggest you try to get Ardankin on the line,” said Sanderson. “The lives of about thirty of your comrades depend on it. Security is sloppy over at the warehouse. No sentries. Pretty much an open invitation to drive a truck bomb right into the place. Or place a ring of claymore mines aiming inward and starting a gunfight.”

Osin kept a neutral face, or so he hoped. Sanderson’s information about the warehouse was dead-on. They had decided against sentries to avoid drawing attention.

“Even better, I could wake up the police commander for the Salta Province and inform him that an army of Russian mercenaries are sitting in a warehouse close to the airport. Wouldn’t take much convincing to shut down the airport. I’m sure the commander of the National Gendarmerie unit based in San Miguel de Tucuman would be interested in this information as well. Thanks to my late friend Ernesto Galenden, I have a direct line to both of them.”

He quickly weighed his options, coming to the same conclusion Sanderson had obviously reached. Colonel Levkin’s Spetsgruppa represented a devastating liability to Russia. Any course of action that pointed in the direction of their unhampered departure for Moscow was worth pursuing.

“I’ll make the call.”

Chapter 58

For the first time in his career as director of operations of Directorate S, Dmitry Ardankin sailed through the outer chambers of Director Pushnoy’s office without the slightest pause. Doors opened as he entered, secretaries motioned for him to continue, security stepped swiftly aside. It was a horrible feeling. Even the smallest diversion would be welcome on the express train to Hell’s gates. When he reached the inner sanctum, even the secretary he’d come to despise over the years had a look of pity on her face.

“The director will see you now,” she announced as he continued forward without breaking stride.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling small for judging her.

She sat at that desk, day in, day out, guarding a powerful man’s time, completely oblivious to the dark secrets and life-altering decisions made beyond those thick mahogany doors. It had to gnaw at her. Returning home every day, with the full understanding that her job was so close to the epicenter of everything, yet utterly disconnected from any meaning. He returned her look, a moment of understanding passing between them before he stepped into Pushnoy’s den of iniquity. The door closed quickly behind him.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Pushnoy, pointing to the chair he would occupy.

He didn’t bother with apologies or any obsequious flattery. He moved immediately to the chair next to Pushnoy’s desk and sat down. The director’s light blue eyes burned a hole through him, but he maintained his quiet composure.

“The silent treatment, huh?” said Pushnoy. “Incompetent, maybe. Stupid? Definitely not.”

The director pressed a button on his desk phone and placed both elbows on the desk, resting his chin on his hands.

“General Sanderson, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, Director Pushnoy. I appreciate you taking my call.”

“Yes, about that,” said Pushnoy. “What do you propose?”

“Not much, in the grand scheme of things,” said Sanderson. “I want a truce. Your word that I’m off whatever hit list you keep over there.”

“And you’re going to hang up your jacket and never interfere with Russian Federation affairs again?”

“It’s hang up your hat, Director,” said Sanderson. “And yes, I agree to that term, with a few conditions.”

“And what might those be?”

“I need your help with something,” said Sanderson. “Something that concerns us both.”

“I can’t wait to hear what this might be.”

“It involves Reznikov,” said Sanderson.

“How so?”

“First I need you to answer a question.”

“That depends on the question.”

“How did you find me?” asked Sanderson.

“You really want to know?” said Pushnoy. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”

“I just lost most of my organization on a remote island in the middle of the Atlantic. People I’ve known for years. People I’ve trained personally. I can handle the truth.”

Pushnoy briefly explained how they had acquired the information regarding Sanderson’s presence in Argentina, and that it had been his idea to lure Sanderson’s people away to Africa.

“You expect me to believe that you didn’t know who you were talking to on the other side?” said Sanderson. “Just an anonymous email exchange?”

“What did it matter?” said Pushnoy. “We vetted the information provided to our satisfaction. They upheld their end of the bargain. Speaking of bargains. Reznikov?”

“Well, that’s where this gets really interesting. I have reason to believe he’s in the United States — by invitation.”

“From whom?”

“From the same group that used the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service to cripple the only force capable and willing to rescind that invitation. A group with quite a stranglehold on things in my country right now.”

A pause so long ensued Ardankin nearly broke the interminable silence himself.

“I’m listening,” said Pushnoy.

Sanderson explained his theory and the early stages of a plan to track down the scientist. Pushnoy listened, his face never changing. When he finished, Pushnoy agreed to Sanderson’s truce and gave him contact instructions to use if the American unearthed evidence to support his theory. The director replaced the handset and rubbed his chin while Ardankin waited patiently for instructions.

“Still silent?” said Pushnoy. “There’s hope for you yet. Get Osin and Colonel Levkin’s Spetsgruppa out of Argentina immediately.”

“Yes, Director,” said Ardankin, starting to get up.

“Did I say I was finished?”

“No, Director.”

“Send part of Levkin’s team to Ciudad Juarez. I don’t care how you do it. I want them standing by to assist General Sanderson with the elimination of Anatoly Reznikov.”

“You trust this Sanderson?”

“I trust he wants to find and kill Reznikov. That’s all that matters to me.”

Chapter 59

Ryan Sharpe pressed the microchipped ID attached to the lanyard around his neck against the card reader and waited for the adjacent fingerprint scanner to activate. A few seconds later the biometric security device confirmed his identity, permitting him to open the windowless metal door to the National Security Branch section of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

He navigated the expansive maze of fluorescent-lit cubicles and dark conference rooms, glad to find it still empty. He had about a half hour before it started to fill, the sound of ringing phones, clacking keyboards, and voices rising to a crescendo shortly after that. Then Assistant Director Fred Carroll would arrive, and Sharpe wouldn’t get a minute to himself until he left twelve hours later. He needed this hour to clear out any unfinished business from yesterday and make some progress on longer-term tasks that would undoubtedly get pushed further behind once the section rolled in.

When Sharpe rounded the corner that led directly into the cluster of cubicles and windowed offices that defined the National Security Branch’s “executive suite,” he was surprised to find Dana O’Reilly’s office door open and brightly lit. Maybe she forgot to turn off her light last night. She had planned on staying another hour to tie up the quick investigation into Berg’s mystery group. He hadn’t wanted her putting any more time into it.

She’d quickly verified what Berg had passed along. While intriguing, it didn’t warrant continued FBI attention. Brown River definitely had personnel and accounting problems, something that Treasury would find interesting given the billion-dollar scope of the issue. Then again, Sharpe wasn’t sure how he could pass the information along to Treasury given that the files were obtained illegally. He could give them a nudge through one of his contacts and let them sort it out.

And what about Berg’s phantom army? Ajax Global solely existed as a paper corporation based in Delaware, which wasn’t uncommon. Delaware and Nevada had some of the most flexible business laws, plus no state corporate income tax. A publically available record search yielded a short list of corporate officers, all fictitious names from what O’Reilly could determine. Once again, not exactly a surprise, but more importantly, none of their business.

Berg had no doubt stumbled onto something strange. Sharpe just didn’t see how or where the National Security Branch, or the FBI in general, could get involved. The two kidnapping attempts referenced were FBI business, but the FBI field office determined by regional jurisdiction would handle that. Sharpe could call over to check on the progress and stress the importance of the investigation to NSB, but that was pretty much the extent of his influence in that matter.

“That you, boss?” O’Reilly called out well before he reached her door.

“Yes. The evil boss,” he said, poking his head inside. “Please tell me you didn’t come in early to work on that project.”

She had that look he had come to recognize over the years. Sharpe knew her next words before she spoke.

“I found something,” she said. “Been here all night, actually. Take a look at this.”

“All night?”

“I left to grab dinner and slept for a few hours on the couch in the break room.”

He took off his jacket and threw it on a low filing cabinet next to the door. “What the hell did you find, O’Reilly? Things tend to get crazy when you find things.”

Sharpe stood behind her desk and leaned against the windowsill, glancing at a digital map on a flat-screen monitor. The second screen immediately to the right displayed a detailed list, resembling the payroll file sent by Berg.

“Taking a few last glances at the payroll file, I noticed a pattern that Berg’s people might have missed or perhaps they purposefully withheld. I almost missed it myself,” said O’Reilly.

“Why would they withhold anything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they wanted us to find this on our own. Generate an aha moment. Or like I said, they just missed it, like I almost did.”

“They’ve been poring over this for longer than you have,” said Sharpe.

“Either way, it’s interesting, if not disturbing. The addresses highlighted by Berg are all P.O. boxes, which we already knew, and that’s not exactly unusual for people in the Brown River line of work. I do find it a bit odd that all of the employees suspected of being part of Berg’s phantom army use P.O. boxes. I found that roughly seventy percent of Brown River’s non-phantom army employees have personal addresses listed. Odd, but nothing earth-shattering.”

“Let’s move on to the earth-shattering part,” said Sharpe.

“I started to see some repeat P.O. box locations, so I mapped a sample of two hundred mystery employees, finding this,” she said, clicking her mouse button.

Tight clusters of icons appeared across the United States, centered on a few dozen major cities.

“People come from all around,” said Sharpe, not fully vested in his counterargument.

“Then I mapped a thousand more. This takes time, by the way. We need a software upgrade,” said O’Reilly.

“I’ll get right on that,” said Sharpe. “Well?”

She clicked the mouse, and the identical pattern remained, with another dozen clusters appearing in some less populated cities. If Sharpe had to roughly guess, the clusters appeared in forty to fifty cities. He could immediately see a direct relationship between the number of icons appearing in a city and its population, with a few notable exceptions like Fredericksburg, Virginia, which had a disproportionately high number compared to New York City or Los Angeles. The picture represented a purposeful distribution.

“What about now?” she said.

“I’ll admit, that’s pretty unusual.”

“They don’t all use the same postal building for their P.O. boxes, especially in the larger metro areas, but they’re still tightly clustered,” said O’Reilly.

“Could they be spreading this out for tax reasons or something corporate related?”

“Based on Brown River’s latest quarterly statement, they shouldn’t have a billion or so dollars to fund an expansion. They’ve barely kept the doors open as it is,” said O’Reilly.

“Strange,” said Sharpe.

“You want to see something even stranger?”

“Probably not.”

She clicked the mouse again, the pattern remaining the same, but more concentrated. “This is all three thousand six hundred and forty-two phantom employees.”

“Same exact pattern,” muttered Sharpe.

“You haven’t seen the strange part yet,” she said. “I broke all of this down in a spreadsheet by city and metro area, salary, military or police specialty, years in service prior to joining this payroll, and a few other factors. I created a graphic with bar graphs, pie charts, and all kinds of bells and whistles.”

“That’s a lot of work,” said Sharpe.

“I think you’ll agree it was worth the time. There’s nothing random about the distribution of this group. In fact, it’s organized down to a level that suggests something more nefarious than corporate tax evasion. I identified forty-six geographical clusters, each with the same proportion of employees, based on salary. Six at the seventy-five-thousand-dollar level per one at the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand level. Sounds like a team of grunts with a team leader. For every ten at the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand level, you have one at the four-hundred-and fifty-thousand level. Like an area coordinator. The grunt to team leader ratio never varies. The area coordinator to team leader number stays consistent until you start dissecting either the highest population metro areas or low population clusters. Makes sense. One area coordinator runs a few states out in the Great Plains, while the New York tri-state area requires a more intensive management approach.”

“This holds up in every cluster?”

“Yes. It’s structured like—”

“A sales organization,” interrupted Sharpe.

“Or a paramilitary organization,” O’Reilly countered. “I found something else, which doesn’t exactly shed any light on the purpose of this structure, but I found it interesting. Ajax wasn’t the only company recruiting military contractors. I ran a few search strings through the social-media tracking database—”

“Which doesn’t officially exist anywhere at the FBI,” said Sharpe.

“Yes. I used a system that doesn’t yet exist to link names on the payroll list to Ares Global and Mars Global. Two more Delaware companies with bogus corporate officers. The matches I made corresponded geographically. Ajax is East Coast to the Ohio River, roughly. Ares is everything west of the Rocky Mountains. Mars is everything in the middle. Not sure what that means, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some folks high up on the Brown River payroll had responsibility for these larger areas.”

“It looks like a deliberate arrangement,” said Sharpe. “Each a mythological name associated with warfare.”

“Berg claims they’re directly involved in two kidnapping attempts,” said O’Reilly. “Should we take this to Carroll? I’ll take the heat for it, say I was contacted by an anonymous source and stole some time away to investigate.”

“First, you’re not taking the heat for my problems, though I appreciate the offer,” said Sharpe. “Second, Berg warned me to be discreet with this. He sounded a little paranoid.”

“He’s a career CIA officer,” said O’Reilly.

“Right. Which also begs the question, why does he need to bring me into the fold? The CIA has resources,” said Sharpe, standing up. “I need to hear the rest of this story he alluded to. We’ll make a decision at that point.”

“One more thing, since you’ll have Berg on the line,” said O’Reilly. “Maybe I should have started our conversation with this. Sanderson and his known associates are back on the FBI’s most wanted list. Interpol. Europol. Everywhere.”

“Jesus. That does shade your findings a different color.”

“Or it’s just an incredible coincidence.”

Sharpe rubbed his face. “I know I’m going to seriously regret this call.”

He walked to his adjacent office and closed the door, dropping into the guest chair facing his desk, staring at the deep red patches of horizon peeking between the buildings of the East End. Sharpe did the same thing every morning, taking a few minutes to stare out his office window at the waking city. He really had a bad feeling about this.

Mumbling a few obscenities, he turned the desk phone in his direction and dialed the number scribbled on a Post-it note stuck to the secure phone. As he expected, the CIA officer answered immediately.

“Good morning, Ryan,” said Berg.

“That depends on one’s perspective, I guess,” said Sharpe. “Six men, one team leader, an area coordinator for every ten teams.”

“Each coordinator has one team comprised solely of former Special Operations types. Los Angeles, Chicago, New York and Fredericksburg each have a team of former tier one special operators,” said Berg. “This is an army on U.S. soil.”

“Tell me more about these attempted kidnappings.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who was kidnapped, and how do you know it was this group?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” said Berg.

“Cut the theatrics, Karl. If this group is behind domestic kidnappings, what else are they into? I need to know what to do with this.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance to sit this one out,” said Berg.

“You reeled me in good,” said Sharpe.

“Technically, only one of the kidnappings was attempted,” Berg began. “I’ll keep this short.”

When he finished, Sharpe stared out at the buildings. He wasn’t sure what to do with the information Berg just shared. All he could summon was a simple question.

“Who can I trust?”

“Inside the Beltway? I don’t know yet,” said Berg. “We’re meeting to discuss this shortly.”

“Be careful who you discuss this with. Sanderson and his crew just went back on every law enforcement watch list in existence.”

“Son of a bitch. They had an immunity deal. Wide scope,” said Berg. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I haven’t read the corresponding write-up for the watch list. Could be something completely different.”

“What are you doing this weekend?” Berg asked.

“This weekend? Why?”

“I’d like you to meet the people I know for a fact that we can trust.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I can’t see you walking away from this, Ryan,” said Berg. “You’re going to need a tight circle of trust. One you can call on at any time for help and that can rely on you for the same. If my suspicions prove anywhere even remotely correct, we won’t get much help outside of that circle.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Sharpe.

“Call me when you’ve decided,” Berg said, and hung up.

Sharpe closed his eyes for several moments, wishing this nightmare away. When he opened them, the sun’s deep orange rays skimmed the tops of a few buildings in the distance. He buzzed O’Reilly, who appeared almost instantly, shutting the door behind her.

“What did he say?”

“What are you doing this weekend?” said Sharpe.

“Are you and Mrs. Sharpe on the outs?”

“Funny,” said Sharpe. “I think we need to meet with Berg’s circle of trust. If we decide to pursue this, we’re going to need a few friends to back us up. Friends that don’t fuck around.”

“As long as your wife doesn’t have a problem with it,” she said.

“Trust me. If this is what Berg thinks it is, I’m putting her on the first flight to New Zealand.”

“Why don’t you put me on the New Zealand flight, business class, and take your wife this weekend.”

“Even funnier,” said Sharpe. “Keep digging through the data. His people seem to be ahead of you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Just saying,” said Sharpe. “And Dana?”

“Yes.”

“This has the potential to go sideways really fast, so—”

“I’d feel really insulted if you gave me an out or a pass on this one,” she said.

He grinned. “Just letting you know it could get ugly.”

Really fucking ugly.

Chapter 60

Alexei Kaparov held onto the metal horizontal rail next to the subway car’s door, occasionally glaring at the youngster hooligans slouched in the plastic seats across from him. He was the oldest passenger on the train by twenty years, and these punks just sat there, earbuds inserted and stupid hats pulled over their unkempt hair. If they knew he was an FSB deputy director, it probably wouldn’t make one bit of difference. Today’s youth didn’t care or scare easily. He could turn a bit more and show them his service pistol, and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing was going to dislodge them from their seats. Especially not the sight of an older man hanging on for his life as the subway shook and rattled.

His phone buzzed in his suit coat pocket, barely audible over the Metro car racket. Now he got to pull out his flip phone and add to the agony. The kids were busy swiping screens larger than his first apartment’s bathroom mirror. He flipped open his antique device and checked the caller ID. This couldn’t be good. Karl Berg had been brief during their last call. Curt was a better word. Something had been wrong, but it wasn’t information his friend intended to part with too easily.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” asked Kaparov.

“Sorry about cutting you off the other day. I needed to pass on the information immediately,” said Berg. “It made a difference. Thank you.”

“How are things? You sounded surprised by the information.”

“Things are not good over here. At all,” said Berg. “Which is why I’m calling.”

“I’ve never heard you like this.”

“It’s that bad, and I can’t go into details on the phone. I know what my side can do to track phrases and words. Understand?”

“Yes. These capabilities are ripening here,” said Kaparov.

“I need you to carefully cover your tracks regarding our most recent conversation. I’m not sure how much longer the name in question will remain off the radar,” said Berg. “The next time we are in touch, it will be in person, over drinks and dinner — on me of course.”

“That bad, huh?”

Berg laughed. “I’m not betting against that dinner, but there are factors working very strongly against it.”

“Understood. Stay safe, my friend. Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone. All that crap.”

“Sage advice,” said Berg. “If we don’t speak again, thank you for everything. It’s been an honor and a pleasure knowing you.”

“I’d toast to that if I hadn’t left my damn flask in the office,” said Kaparov.

“Toast to it when you get back to your apartment. I’m sure there’s no shortage of vodka there.”

“You know me too well.”

“Take care, old friend.”

“You take better care. I look forward to our reunion,” said Kaparov.

He closed his phone, fairly sure that he would never hear from Karl Berg again. The CIA officer hadn’t sounded like himself. The confidence and energy was gone, replaced by uncertainty — and a stern warning about Sokolov.

Prerovsky had identified Sokolov through what could only be interpreted as a routine and logical follow-up into Zuyev’s death. The “known-associates” list had contained hundreds of names. Their story started to fray when Prerovsky added a few dozen of the names to the FSB Intelligence Network watch list, conveniently including Sokolov.

Prerovsky had been clever enough with the watch-list stunt, openly suggesting it to his fellow directors. Since the Organized Crime division hadn’t been given the details regarding Zuyev’s death, he easily sold it as a background intelligence-gathering effort. Innocent enough from an FSB standpoint, but unlikely to withstand the paranoid scrutiny of a Foreign Intelligence Service inquiry.

He considered his options while the subway car continued its stop-and-go journey. A few stops later, he decided that the best course of action had to be an active one. He’d never reported his analysis of the raid directly to Greshnev, as the chief Counterterrorism director had asked. Tomorrow morning he would schedule an appointment to suggest the theory that Kaparov had been taken by an insider — the fourth man in the boat. He’d then offer to liaison with Organized Crime, where an incredible coincidence would materialize.

Until then, he’d drink several toasts to his American friend tonight, until the memory of the conversation faded from his thoughts, along with his consciousness. Like so many others, the day had suddenly turned into one he wanted to forget.

Chapter 61

Matvey Penkin stole an impatient glance at his Patek Phillipe Nautilus before taking a sip of his cognac. 1:35 AM. He despised being out this late, especially in a strobe-light-filled, hip-hop-gyrating nightclub, but this was one of the prices he paid for keeping a girlfriend half his age. Alina loved to party, one of the few “skills” she excelled at beyond snorting cocaine, looking good and spending his money. Penkin really hoped she wasn’t powdering her nose again. They’d be there for another hour, surrounded by her insufferable fan club.

At least once a week, she insisted they “be seen” together — usually at one of the most exclusive clubs in Moscow. Of course, in order to “be seen,” her friends needed to be on the VIP list, which Penkin arranged. On top of that, he paid their exorbitant bar tab, which tended to skyrocket after he left. The only downside to leaving before the place shut down for the night. Alina was no doubt using him on every level, and he really didn’t care. She was easy-to-maintain eye candy, which was all he really wanted in a relationship at this point.

Alina strutted through the crowd at the edge of the pulsating dance floor, two of his security staff clearing her way like Moses parting the Red Sea. She moved swiftly, Penkin sensing that the night had finally come to an end. Alina had a sensitive stomach, and the spicy tuna tartare she’d eaten a short while ago might have saved him from another two hours of headache-inducing sound and light. He stood up to offer her his arm when she reached the heavily guarded table.

“You should have your men talk with the chef,” said Alina. “His tuna got me sick again. Let’s go.”

More like thank the chef. He’d have to remember this for next time and suggest ordering food as soon as they arrived. Anything spicy.

“I’ll make sure they get the message,” said Penkin. “Do you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

“No. I need to get back to my apartment,” said Alina.

“Very well,” said Penkin, holding her arm. “I’m sorry the night had to end like this for you.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, pulling him away from the table. “And I’m not walking out the back door like a criminal.”

He nodded at his security chief. “That’s fine.”

Sometimes he wondered if she was too stupid or oblivious to understand whom she was mixed up with right now. Maybe all of the oligarch types she’d snagged over the past several years had looked and felt the same to her, and Penkin was just another billionaire meal ticket. Except he wasn’t a billionaire. Not even close.

He lived like an oligarch, but that lifestyle owed its existence to his position within the Bratva. Penkin could demand certain things from the private sector by creating uncomfortable leverage. He was obviously doing something right. Professional gold diggers like Alina didn’t stick around too long when they smelled the low tide of bad fortune.

They left the main nightclub area, his security detail clearing a wide path on the way out. The lavish, dimly lit reception lounge had been emptied by the club’s security ahead of their arrival.

“Ten seconds out,” his security chief said before signaling a group of four men clustered in the entrance foyer.

The small team deployed through the double doors, securing the sidewalk immediately in front of the club. Penkin nodded his approval to Gennady Kuznetsov, who lingered discreetly in the alcove leading to the coatroom. The sharply dressed former Moscow police detective turned top nightclub manager returned the gesture, pausing at the end of the nod to emphasize his respect and loyalty. The man had been very accommodating and protective over the years, which Penkin had always rewarded generously. It paid to have reliable friends in this city, a cost of business one could ill afford to ignore.

“Ready, Mr. Penkin,” said his chief, gesturing to the door.

They hit the wide sidewalk at a quick pace, sliding into the black Range Rover moments later. No sense in making it easy for rival gangs to take a quick shot at him or detonate a suicide vest while he was in the open. They’d been at the club long enough for word to spread around. Another reason he disliked these nights out.

The door next to Penkin slammed securely shut, the lock mechanisms immediately engaging with a solid thunk. Movement behind the second row of seats reminded him that a third security officer always rode concealed in the cargo compartment, ready to jump into action. He had the shittiest of all the jobs, often remaining in place for long periods of time when the SUV was parked in plain sight.

His security chief moved quickly along the curb to the front passenger seat, hopping inside and shutting the door. They were impervious to anything less potent than an antitank missile at this point, which unfortunately wasn’t off the table in Moscow.

“Let’s move,” said his chief, and the three-vehicle convoy departed.

The ride to Alina’s apartment proceeded smoothly despite the high volume of street traffic on the main roads. The convoy turned right onto Burdenko Street, moving out of the steady stream of cars on the Smolenskiy stretch of Moscow’s “B-Ring.” Alina’s building was a few blocks away.

“We’re almost there,” he said, softly stroking her hand.

“Are you coming up?” she said.

“Not tonight. I need to get an early start tomorrow,” he lied.

The prospect of hanging around her apartment while she complained about stomach pains, and eventually made good on their promise, held little appeal.

“Brunch tomorrow?” she said.

“If you’re feeling better,” said Penkin, feigning a concerned smile.

The SUV lurched to a stop, slamming him against the seatbelt. Alina let out a feeble yelp. Penkin didn’t waste any time yelling at the driver or interrogating his security chief. He’d been around long enough to understand that they had come to an abrupt halt for a life-threatening reason. His driver would run over a dog or small child to keep them moving on an open road.

“Back up,” said his security chief, turning in the front seat to look through the rear cargo window.

“No good,” said the guard behind them. “We’re boxed in.”

The sound of rifles charging filled the cabin as the two non-driving security guys readied short-barreled AK-74s. Ahead of Penkin’s lead Range Rover, three black luxury SUVs and a silver Tigr-2, the civilian version of the GAZ Tigr armored infantry vehicle, had boxed them into the center of the intersection. Shit. You didn’t see many Tigr-2s around Moscow. This wasn’t an attack.

“Stand down, Yury,” he said, patting his security chief on the shoulder. “They’re Maksimov’s people.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Penkin?” said Yury.

When Sergei Mirzoyev hopped down from the massive Tigr-2, there was no doubt in Penkin’s mind. Mirzoyev was Dima Maksimov’s right-hand man. One of “Two Spies” charged with maintaining order and loyalty within the organization. He ran an extensive intelligence network inside and outside of the brotherhood, paying off the right people to keep things running smoothly. Penkin had been ducking Mirzoyev for several days while trying to salvage something from the setback they’d experienced in India. It was time to face the music.

“I’m sure,” said Penkin, opening his door. “Keep everyone inside their vehicles.”

“Understood, Mr. Penkin,” said Yury, repeating the order over the communications network.

“What are you doing?” said Alina, terrified. “Where are you going?”

She looked far more worried than he would have thought. Maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she acted.

“I need to have a little talk with a business associate,” said Penkin. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“I just live a block away,” she said, pulling on her locked door handle. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t let her out under any circumstances,” said Penkin, shutting the door on her screams.

He walked past the lead Range Rover and met Mirzoyev alongside the imposing Tigr-2 SUV.

“No need to be so dramatic, Sergei,” said Penkin, offering his hand.

The squat, crew-cut Russian contemplated Penkin’s hand before shaking it. “Mr. Maksimov is not amused.”

“I understand,” said Penkin. “I really thought I’d have some good news to offer him by now.”

“The two of you can discuss this in private,” said Mirzoyev. “Somewhere else. He’s waiting.”

“Now?” said Penkin, looking at his watch. “I don’t want to inconvenience him.”

“He would have appreciated that courtesy earlier in the week,” said Mirzoyev, gesturing for him to get in the Tigr-2.

Penkin didn’t have a choice in the matter. If he didn’t comply, they’d either grab him forcefully or shoot him dead on the street. Given the bad news he would deliver to Maksimov, he wondered if a quick death on the street might be the better option.

“I’ve always wanted to take a ride in one of these,” said Penkin.

“Very good,” said Mirzoyev. “Call Yury and tell him to dispose of the girl.”

“What? Why?” said Penkin.

“Do I need to ask again?”

“No,” said Penkin, shaking his head. “Message received.”

And just like that, Alina Dudnik’s life came to an abrupt end. Actually, it had been running on fumes since he’d decided to conceal the full scope of the India debacle from his Pakhan. He pressed send on his phone and gave the order, wondering what he could possibly say to Maksimov tonight to avoid the same fate.

Chapter 62

Karl Berg sat partially upright in the same patio lounge chair they had taken from the Virginia safe house. It was the best he could do under the circumstances and would have to suffice for this critical meeting. He no longer felt like his skin would come apart at the seams when he wasn’t lying flat on his back, but he didn’t want to push his luck.

The doctor had been crystal clear about the complicated nature of healing seventy-six separate and varying wounds. His body’s repair system would be overtaxed for weeks, requiring constant care and significant rest. With limited medical support on-site, a runaway systemic infection would require hospitalization, where Berg’s wounds would undoubtedly draw the wrong kind of attention, putting his life at risk in more than one way.

Playing the good patient once again made him feel ridiculous as the weekend’s guests filtered into the modern, remarkably well-equipped conference room. Remarkable because the entire property had looked condemned when they arrived, which turned out to be a carefully maintained façade.

The oversized barn adjacent to the farmhouse looked ready to collapse. Faded red paint, splintered wood sides, and a buckled roof combined to portray decades of neglect. Inside the securely locked barn doors, a cage of steel beams and thick wooden planks enclosed the main floor, protecting the generous space from imminent collapse. Several four-wheel ATVs and three mint-condition SUVs sat under blue tarps on the immaculate concrete floor. The house hadn’t looked promising either. Chipped white paint, missing porch spindles, and broken window lattices matched the exterior conditions of the barn.

Even the massively long, one-story cow shed behind the main house had looked sketchy, though it was clearly a more recent addition to the farm. Connected to the house by a breezeway, the worn sides and roof of the fully enclosed shed served as a shell to conceal the recently constructed barracks, armory, and briefing room, where they now gathered.

Berg eyed the odd collection seated in front of him, or in the case of Special Agents Ryan Sharpe and Dana O’Reilly, standing cautiously next to the exit. He didn’t blame them. There was nothing normal about this meeting, particularly its attendees. In fact, he was surprised Sharpe had even agreed to attend, given the circumstances.

Graves caught his attention and nodded, indicating that Sanderson had joined via teleconference. Since everyone in the room had been introduced, he started the meeting.

“Looks like we have everyone,” said Berg. “General Sanderson?”

“Still here, despite everyone’s best efforts,” said the general.

“You’ll be pleased to know that the guests we discussed earlier have joined us,” said Berg. “Though they don’t look like they’ll be straying too far from the exit anytime soon.”

“I would be highly suspicious of them if they did,” said Sanderson. “Welcome, and thank you for hearing us out. If you still think we’re nuts by the end of this meeting, all I ask is that you give us a heads-up before revealing this location.”

“Your secret is safe as long as you deal straight on this,” said Sharpe. “The moment you stray from that path, I will shut you down.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” said Sanderson. “I have the highest respect for you and your colleague.”

O’Reilly’s face tightened, her mouth opening to respond, but Sharpe stopped her with a quick whisper. She glanced at Abraham Sayar, her angry look easing slightly. Sayar had played a key role on Sharpe’s task force in 2007, nearly giving his life to stop the bioweapons plot against the United States.

“Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way,” said Sharpe. “Every known or suspected member of your current or previous organization is once again wanted for terrorism against the United States. What are we looking at here?”

“We’re looking at a coordinated effort to destroy my organization and anyone currently looking into the whereabouts of Anatoly Reznikov,” said Sanderson. “I lost seventeen operatives in a double-cross ambush on Ascension Island. They were on their way to Gabon to pick up the scientist’s trail, accompanied by a team of SEALs. Everything about this mission turned out to be fake, right down to the SEALs and U.S. Air Force flight crew. The entire operation was sanctioned by the National Security Council and confirmed by independent sources high up in the Department of Defense and White House chain of command.”

“I assume you’ve contacted your sources since the ambush?” said Sharpe.

Sanderson shook his head. “General Frank Gordon at SOCOM won’t take my call.”

“That’s not a good sign.” Sharpe frowned.

“No, it’s not. My other source, who will remain unnamed for now, shed some light on why Gordon wouldn’t take my call.”

“Let me guess,” said Sharpe. “The official government story differs significantly.”

“A one-hundred-and-eighty-degree flip. In their version, my team murdered the SEALs and aircrew during the refueling stop, stealing the aircraft. A C-17 Globemaster.”

“Where are your survivors now?”

“They parachuted into eastern Brazil after starting the C-17 on a slow descent and pointing it toward the Atlantic,” Sanderson explained.

“I’m sorry for the loss, General,” said Sharpe. “This Reznikov business has killed a lot of good people. I had no idea the Sokolov intelligence was connected to any of this.”

“That’s what’s so interesting about all of this,” said Berg. “Grigor Sokolov wasn’t on the CIA’s radar.”

“I ran his name through all of our databases before issuing a watch-list addendum with his information,” Audra Bauer interjected. “He wasn’t cited in any ongoing or previous intelligence-gathering effort. We had a short file, which had likely been compiled from Interpol data.”

“The request from DNI mimicked yours,” said Sharpe. “I got their call the morning you called.”

“They called?” Bauer asked. “That’s a little unusual.”

“Not if you’re working off the books,” said Berg. “Like I was.”

“Requests like this are usually electronically submitted, but the call came from my old boss. I didn’t think anything of it. He checks in on me now and then.”

“Frederick Shelby?” said Berg. “That’s pretty high up the food chain for something like this, regardless of your relationship.”

“Given the ultimate reason for the request, maybe it’s not that unusual,” said Sharpe. “Calling me directly was a not so subtle way of making sure it got prioritized.”

“The timing is suspect,” said Berg. “I talk to Audra, Audra submits the watch list addendum for Sokolov, and suddenly the deputy director of National Intelligence calls you, requesting an international law enforcement bulletin for Sokolov. Shelby was one of the most obvious beneficiaries of True America’s sudden rise to power.”

“You’re sure Sokolov wasn’t on the CIA’s radar?” said Sharpe. “It seems to me that you guys do a pretty good job of keeping secrets from each other over there.”

“It’s remotely possible,” said Bauer.

“I don’t think so,” said Berg. “The Sokolov connection originated from a unique source, based on information unlikely to be available to the CIA.”

Sharpe shrugged. “We can theorize all day. The bottom line is that Sanderson’s people were attacked on the way to Africa to investigate intelligence requested by and passed to DNI. Berg and Bauer were attacked after Bauer drew attention to Sokolov. The crew sent after Berg and Bauer is connected to Brown River, presumably paid through Brown River. And they appear to be part of a geographically distributed, structured organization, based on what my colleague determined and you already knew. Where do we go from here?”

“We were hoping you could help us with that,” said Sanderson.

“We’re two agents swimming against an incredibly strong tide,” Sharpe replied.

Berg nodded ruefully. “More like a tidal wave.”

“I appreciate your candor,” said Sharpe. “What do you suggest?”

“Nearly a billion dollars is passing right through Brown River. Determining the source of that money would be a good start,” said Bauer.

“I’m going to need my boss’s approval to start opening some of those doors,” Sharpe said.

Graves held up a USB thumb drive. “We can open those doors without his approval if you take this back to your office and plug it into your computer.”

“Funny. Why don’t you just upload the virus to one of our phones and have us carry it in?” asked Sharpe. “Like you did at the National Counterterrorism Center.”

“I suspect you left your phones behind,” said Graves. “You guys discovered that?”

“You know we left our phones behind, and yes, we did,” said Sharpe, directing his attention back to Bauer. “We’re talking about more than just digging through financial records, in the long run.”

“Probably much sooner than later,” said Berg.

“This is going to take a concentrated effort, requiring a task force of sorts, likely pulling agents from different branches. I’ll need Fred Carroll’s tacit approval to pull that off, which means Carroll will need to know the purpose of the task force, and I can’t bullshit him. He can smell it coming through the door.”

A short silence ensued, broken by Sanderson.

“Ryan, the men and women in your presence represent nearly all of the people left in the United States that I know I can trust. We’re looking at a massive conspiracy. One in which Audra Bauer’s office is bugged. One that can conjure an authentic-looking Department of Defense Special Operations mission on short notice. One that feels comfortable snatching senior CIA officers off public streets. One that commands an army four thousand strong.”

“I get it,” said Sharpe. “We need to thoroughly vet Carroll.”

“That’s the easy part,” said Berg. “Then we need to convince him that a clear and present danger to the entire fabric of our nation’s security exists, and convince him to take action.”

“Sounds like an easy sell for someone like you, Karl,” said Sanderson, getting a few laughs.

“Here’s the thing,” said Sharpe. “We’re going to need more evidence than some cooked books and a paper mercenary army. The former is a Treasury issue. The latter is padded-cell territory.”

“A lot more than that has transpired over the past several days,” Berg said. “I’m living proof of that.”

“Take a few steps back and look at this objectively,” Sharpe suggested. “The kidnapping and torture of Karl Berg never happened.”

Berg frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Where’s the crime scene? Perpetrators? Probably cleaned up by now. The word of a disgruntled CIA officer, on the eve of retirement, might not go as far as you think. Have any big gambling debts? Strange financial activity?”

“No,” Berg said defensively.

“Think again. If this conspiracy is as big as you think, you’re either the proud owner of a shady offshore bank account or the subject of a lien against your home filed by an online casino. People who play with large sums of shady money tend to get hurt.”

“That’s crazy,” said Berg.

“Not as crazy as the running gun battle in Falls Church a few nights ago. Gunmen snatched a woman matching Audra Bauer’s description from her car, brazenly murdering her undercover protective detail in the process. A massive FBI and local police manhunt is underway as we speak,” said Sharpe, feigning a concerned look. “I can’t imagine anyone will rest until she is found and taken to a CIA safe house for her own protection.”

“Shit,” said Bauer.

“And we all know what General Terrence Sanderson did. Betrayed his country for the price of a C-17 Globemaster. Shameful. Did I miss anyone?”

“You made your point,” said Bauer. “We need irrefutable evidence of a conspiracy.”

“We have a long list of names,” said Berg. “Broken down by pay grade and location.”

“Wellins didn’t tell us anything useful about the people pulling his strings, and he was in the top tier,” Sayar added.

“Wellins?” said Sharpe, looking around the room.

Nobody seemed eager to offer an explanation, especially Berg. He could hear Sharpe’s caustically objective version of the abduction and torture of a member of Bauer’s “protective detail.”

Sharpe grimaced. “That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say he turned out to be a dead end,” said Berg.

“Wonderful. High tier? As in area coordinator?”

“Yes.”

“Then we need to identify a conspirator outside of this phantom army structure,” Sharpe concluded. “They’re probably using cutouts for any interaction requiring face time, and one-way or dead-end electronic communications.”

“Several numbers on his call list were dead-ended. Same with the other phones collected,” Graves told him. “We scoured the data and found nothing.”

“I bet any possible connection to his crew has been zapped. Same with the crew that took Berg,” said Sharpe.

“So how the hell do we do this?” Berg asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” said Sharpe.

“I have an idea,” Sanderson answered. “There’s no diplomatic way to say this, but we could dangle some cheese in front of a mousetrap.”

Audra Bauer’s husband, David, launched up from his seat. “The general can shove that idea where the sun doesn’t shine. That’s up your ass, in case you’re confused.”

“I’m not, and for the record, I wasn’t suggesting Audra,” said Sanderson. “I’ll be making my way north shortly. I’m sure I’d make an irresistible piece of cheese.”

“How long?” asked Sharpe.

“A few weeks. Now that I’m back on the most wanted list, it won’t be an easy trip.”

“This will go cold by then,” said Sharpe. “Completely evaporated.”

“Then dangle me,” Berg offered.

Bauer threw up her hands. “We’re not dangling anyone as bait.”

“Then this is over,” said Sharpe. “Unless someone can cough up someone inside the core conspiracy.”

The room went quiet, shoulders shrugging and heads mostly shaking. Berg noticed Timothy Graves and Anish Gupta whispering furiously back and forth in an apparent argument. Graves muttered an obscenity before standing up.

“There might be a development on that front,” said Graves.

“What kind of development?” said Sharpe.

Graves hesitated.

“Tell them,” said Gupta, nudging Graves.

“Tell us what?” said Berg.

“Dammit. I really wasn’t supposed to say anything. It’s not one hundred percent,” said Graves.

“Spill it, Graves!” said Sanderson.

“Wellins might have mentioned a name at the end of his — ordeal,” said Graves.

“And nobody thought to mention this?” said Berg.

“I didn’t find out until several hours ago,” said Graves. “We put together an intelligence package.”

“Then let’s get this ball rolling!” said Sanderson.

“It’s already rolling,” said Graves. “The Petroviches wanted to deliver a farewell gift.”

“What kind of gift?” said Berg.

“The kind that dresses in an expensive suit and works at the White House.”

Karl Berg felt a glimmer of hope.

Chapter 63

Daniel surveyed the crowded hotel bar from their cozy table in the corner. Happy hour had kicked into full swing about an hour ago, the room packed so tightly that their target drifted in and out of sight in the throng of well-dressed D.C. professionals. The man Wellins had traded for the guaranteed safety of his own family had entered the basement lounge twenty minutes ago, quietly occupying a saved seat at the bar. He’d shared words with several people since he arrived, but nobody had stopped for a long conversation.

“His second martini just arrived,” said Jessica. “Time for work.”

“You sure we want to go down this path?”

“We can’t keep running. Not from this,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Our work isn’t done. That’s been made painfully clear over the past few days.”

Daniel took a small sip of the rye whiskey Manhattan he’d nursed to the bottom of his tumbler for the past hour. “I don’t see how Berg and Sanderson can take this on.”

“Somebody has to try,” said Jessica.

He cracked a subdued smile. Jessica had changed since Chicago — for the better. He’d prepared for the worst after that traumatic experience, but she’d somehow emerged on the other side.

“What?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re right, and I love you more than you know,” he said before squeezing her hand. “You better get going.”

Jessica got up from the table and stood next to him. She looked stunning in the low-cut black cocktail dress and matching high heels they’d purchased at an outlet mall in Leesburg, Virginia. He hadn’t seen her dressed “to kill” like this in over a year. Sandals, sundresses and shorts had been her outfit du jour since they moved to Anguilla.

“Quit staring,” she said.

“Kind of hard not to,” said Daniel.

“That’s the point,” she said. “You better get out of here.”

“Meet you on the corner of K Street and Sixteenth,” he said.

“If he makes it that far.”

Daniel swirled the remains of his drink and tossed it back before sliding through a polished-looking group of beltway acolytes to make his way out of the bar. A few steps up the wood-panel-finished stairway, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of Jessica from his elevated vantage point. She’d managed to wedge her way between their target, a brown-haired man with wire-rim glasses, and the woman next to him. The man slid his untouched martini in front of her and raised a finger to get the bartender’s attention. Jessica touched his arm, leaning in to him to whisper. The guy cocked his head and turned in the chair toward her, a hungry look on his face. It was almost too easy for her.

Chapter 64

Frederick Shelby’s office phone buzzed, drawing his focus away from the computer screen and the endless stream of intelligence updates and analyst summaries that vied for his attention on the National Intelligence Fusion Network. He glanced at his office phone, an intra-office call from his secretary vying for his attention. It was a little early for the day’s usual assortment of bureaucratic check-ins. Shelby lifted the handset and pressed the illuminated button connecting him to his secretary.

“Michael, can you hold any calls until after the eight-thirty morning briefing?” he asked.

“This isn’t a call, sir,” said the secretary. “You have a visitor. A rather important one. Raymond Burke.”

Senior counselor to President Crane? At seven thirty in the morning? This couldn’t be good.

“By all means, show him in.”

Shelby stood up and moved around his desk, rapidly recounting the events of the past several days for any possible missteps that could lead back to him. Nothing came to mind. Shelby had just finished straightening his suit coat when the door opened. Raymond Burke, an average man in every aspect of his appearance, walked into his office and politely thanked his secretary, shutting the door.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” said Shelby, offering his hand.

Burke shook his hand with a mostly official smile. “In my experience, and I assume yours as well, the words ‘pleasant’ and ‘surprise’ rarely yield anything positive.”

“I usually reserve judgment,” said Shelby. “But in this case, I felt comfortable going out on a limb.”

Burke laughed, his smile coming closer to passing as genuine.

“Please. Have a seat. May I offer you some coffee?” asked Shelby, motioning toward a mahogany table used for private meetings.

“I can’t stay long,” said Burke, remaining solidly in place near the door. “I have good news and bad news.”

Shelby’s stomach tightened, waiting for Burke to continue.

“The bad news is that Gary Vincent died in his sleep last night. Suspected heart attack. News of his death has not been reported publicly,” said Burke. “I presume you can guess the good news.”

Shelby stood before him as the acting director of National Intelligence. Astonishing. “I wouldn’t exactly call it good news under the circumstances,” he said, forcing a solemn tone.

Burke eyed him cynically. “No need to pretend with me. You were promised the position. Now it’s yours.”

Shelby’s vision narrowed for a brief moment, the full scope of the words sinking in. Burke was part of it. Quite possibly in charge of it.

“Frederick,” said Burke, putting a hand on Shelby’s shoulder, “you’ve served True America well over the past few years, but it’s time to take this service and loyalty to the next level. We’re going to rebuild this nation from the ground up, and we need your help.”

All Shelby could manage was a nod.

“President Crane will immediately nominate you for the position of director, and the Senate will confirm the nomination after a brief hearing.”

“You can count on my support,” Shelby said. “I won’t let our country down.”

Burke’s face deadpanned. “Changing our nation’s current downward trajectory will be difficult. It’ll require sacrifice.”

“I’m willing to make any sacrifice to bring about the needed change.”

“We’re not talking about your sacrifice. Sometimes you have to burn down the forest to regrow it,” said Burke. “This will not be an easy task or a job for the fainthearted, like Gary Vincent.”

Did Burke just threaten him? It didn’t matter. Shelby had sold his soul to True America when he held up the investigation into the attempted bioweapons attack and minimized the link between the fanatics responsible for the attack and the mainstream True America political party. The ink had long ago dried on that contract, and there was no going back.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said.

“I wasn’t worried. I just needed to reemphasize the unwavering commitment required to be a part of the inner echelon.”

“I’m fully committed,” said Shelby, both thrilled and alarmed by Burke’s statement.

“We’ll make all of the necessary arrangements for your confirmation and call on you shortly,” said Burke. “Until then, we need your help with something.”

“Anything.”

“A member of the outer echelon has gone missing. We’d like to find him immediately.”

“Who?”

“Gerald Simmons. White House Counterterrorism director,” said Burke.

Simmons? In the outer echelon? He didn’t even know there were echelons. That explained how the weasel had landed a coveted position at the White House. Shelby hadn’t thought the guy was worth a squirt of piss when he’d first met him.

“Do you suspect foul play?”

“I always suspect foul play,” said Burke. “But in this case, I believe he was abducted. Gerry isn’t the most stalwart guy, but he’s fiercely loyal.”

“When you say immediately, how immediately do you mean?”

“I didn’t realize there were different shades of interpretation.”

“Not interpretation, implementation,” said Shelby. “How critical is Simmons?”

“He represents a dangerous nexus to the entire cause.”

“I’ll do everything in my power to find him,” said Shelby.

“I appreciate the fact that you don’t confuse authority with power,” said Burke.

“I prefer not to limit myself.”