Apocalypse Burning (14 page)

Of course, the upside of that was that Remington would never have to worry that Goose or those men would start up an illegal enterprise that might come up and bite their captain on his nether regions. Unlike Hardin.

Remington buttoned the flap over his pistol holster as he turned the corner in front of the burned-out shell that had once housed the restaurant. He pushed all thought of Abu and the man’s execution from his mind. Maybe in the quiet of night that memory would return, but he knew why things had to happen the way they did. He’d stepped over the line, but he could live with it because it was for a good reason.

The RSOV’s driver stood at the front of the vehicle smoking a cigarette and holding his assault rifle in one hand. His attention was focused on a midnight-blue Mercedes sports coupe idling in the street beside the Ranger vehicle.

Remington’s adrenaline spiked as his gaze swept the luxury car. No one was supposed to be here. Certainly not some media geek with a camera. He scanned the nearby rooftops, wondering if Hardin or his team had somehow tipped off one of the broadcast groups. With the dead man in the cellar, the Ranger captain knew his career might end in the next few seconds.

Taking a deep breath, Remington pushed the throbbing fear from his mind. He was in control. No matter what, he was going to stay in control. He continued forward.

4

United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0628 Hours

Black-tinted windows masked from Remington’s view whoever sat inside the blue Mercedes. The German engine ran so quietly it couldn’t be heard over the distant noises of the city, the vehicular traffic as well as the earthmovers. A helicopter buzzed overhead, but the pilot gave no indication of interest in the Mercedes.

A chill ghosted through Remington as he surveyed the vehicle and looked for clues about its origin. The vehicle gave the air of being an alien creature plopped down in the middle of the city’s ruins. It looked too complete and too powerful to be touched by the vagaries of the war that had left Sanliurfa broken and shattered. The vanity plate on its front bumper read DEALZ.

“Captain Remington.” The RSOV driver caught sight of Remington and wheeled around. He flicked the cigarette from his fingertips, crushed it underfoot, and stood immediately at attention. He snapped off a quick salute.

Remington returned the salute. “At ease, Private.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have company,” Remington observed.

“Yes, sir. A man to see you, sir.”

“What man?” Remington never broke stride, but his hand drifted down to the holstered M9. No one had known in advance that he was going to be at the restaurant other than Hardin’s handpicked crew. The driver hadn’t known before Remington had given him instructions. Until Hardin and his team got rid of Abu’s body, Remington couldn’t afford to be tied to this site.

“The man didn’t give his name, sir,” the private answered.

“You didn’t ask, Private?”

The private hesitated as if confused. “I confronted him, sir. I asked his name. That’s SOP. He told me he didn’t have to give me his name. He said that you would understand.”

The statement made no sense to Remington. Getting names of people in a secure area was one of the first things a soldier working a post did—standard operating procedure.

“What does he want?” Remington asked.

“To speak with you, sir.”

“Why?”

The private shook his head and looked lost. “I don’t know, sir.” His brow wrinkled in frustration. “I know I should have asked. I was going to ask. But he told me everything was going to be all right.” A perplexed look twisted his features. “I guess—I guess that I believed him, sir.”

Closer to the Mercedes now, Remington peered at the black glass and wondered who would be stupid enough to drive a Mercedes sports coupe into a war zone. He wondered even more how the car had stayed in showroom condition. Dust hadn’t even settled on the midnight blue exterior. The finish gleamed like fresh-poured metal. Only Remington’s reflection showed in the black-tinted window that was as shiny and nonreflective as oil pumped from a deep well.

Then the passenger window rolled down, sliding easily in its grooved channel, like the smoothly articulated movement of a trained athlete. Remington’s reflection melted away and revealed the man sitting behind the steering wheel.

“Captain Remington,” the man called out in a thick accent. The man had a shaved head and a rounded goatee of rich copper hair. His complexion was pale, as blemish-free as young, clean bone. Wraparound sunglasses hid the man’s eyes. He wore a charcoal, pin-striped suit that fitted him as if it was tailor-made. In fact, Remington was pretty sure it had been.

“Do I know you?” Remington asked.

The man grinned, splitting the goatee and creating dimples in both cheeks. He didn’t look older than twentysomething.

“No. You don’t know me yet, Captain Remington,” the man said. “But you’ll be glad you met me.”

Remembering the vanity plate on the front of the car, Remington said, “If this is a sales pitch, I’m not interested.” He walked behind the RSOV and up to the passenger seat, standing between the Ranger vehicle and the Mercedes.

“Not a sales pitch,” the man promised. “A deal.”

“I’m not interested in any deals either.”

The man leaned across the seat toward the open window. “I think you’ll be interested in this one, Captain.” He paused. “I guarantee you that it will be much better than the deal you gave Abu Alam just now.”

Anxiety ripped through Remington like a Bouncing Betty land mine. The initial surprise leaped up at him just as the deadly booby trap was designed to do, then shattered into a thousand screaming pieces that ran throughout his mind.

Dropping his hand to his hip, Remington drew the M9 pistol, thumbed off the safety, and pointed the weapon at the driver of the Mercedes.

Still grinning, showing no fear at all, the man lifted his hands before him in surrender. Black driving gloves encased his hands.

“I assure you, Captain, you have no need for weapons. Or for violence of any kind.”

Wary, knowing he was somehow trapped, that Hardin hadn’t been as circumspect in his delivery of Abu Alam as he’d thought, Remington held the pistol in a Weaver stance, left hand cupped under the right. He rolled the hammer back with his thumb. The menacing click of the action was louder than the Mercedes’ engine.

“I’m a friend, Captain,” the man said.

“I know all my friends’ names,” Remington said. “It’s a short list.” He glanced around at the building rooftops, thinking that maybe the guy wasn’t a media person after all and that the Mercedes was a decoy to catch him off guard.

“There’s no one else here, Captain,” the man said. “Just us. I give you my word on that.”

“Private,” Remington said to his driver.

“Sir.”

“Secure this vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.” The private moved forward with his M-4A1 at the ready.

“I want the driver out, facedown on the ground.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he resists, shoot him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Annoyance colored the Mercedes driver’s face. “Really, Captain, this isn’t at all necessary.”

“Who sent you here?” Remington demanded.

“A friend.” The man shrugged slightly. “I was a bit hasty in calling myself a friend of yours. I see that now. You’re obviously a very careful man. But after we get to know each other, I know that we will be friends.”

“Are you with the media?” Remington asked.

“No. But I do have a rather unique relationship with the media. I have … talents that they find useful, and that I find helpful in strategizing my other labors.”

The private set up on the driver’s side door. He reached for the latch but the door wouldn’t open. Instead, seemingly of its own volition, the driver’s window slid down.

“Private Horgan,” the driver said in a calm voice.

“Yes, sir,” Horgan responded. The private halted, frozen in his tracks.

“Your presence here won’t be necessary. Return to your vehicle and await the captain there.”

The private stood for a moment longer, then shook his head. Without a word, he lowered his weapon, turned, and walked back toward the RSOV.

“Private,” Remington called. “
Private
. Follow the orders I gave you.”

Horgan kept walking.

“Private, I gave you a command.” Incredulous, Remington watched the private return to the RSOV and take his seat behind the wheel. Horgan sat still and silent and peered straight ahead as if oblivious to everything going on around him.

“Captain.”

Turning to face the man in the Mercedes, Remington asked, “What did you do to him?”

“Merely convinced him that I’m not a threat to him. Or to you. I was able to do that because I am not a threat to you or to him. He knows the truth. I only wish I could convince you as easily.” The man opened his hands and smiled again. “Please, Captain, time presses all of us. I’ve got a number of things to accomplish today.”

Remington wanted to do nothing more than squeeze the M9’s trigger and put a bullet through the man’s smiling face. But he couldn’t. As yet, the man had only shown some kind of hypnotic effect over Private Horgan. Probably the man had already given the private a hypnotic suggestion before Remington had ever returned to the RSOV. Maybe he’d even received a mind-control drug through brief physical contact. The man driving the Mercedes wore gloves, and Remington knew that the CIA and DARPA had experimented with all kinds of mind-control weapons over the years.

If Hardin were here, Remington would have ordered the corporal to shoot the man and be done with it. But he wasn’t the corporal, and he had yet to kill a man in cold blood.

At least you haven’t killed one with your own hands,
a voice whispered inside his head.

Remington felt guilty. He slipped his finger from the M9’s trigger. “I’m going to walk away. I suggest you put that vehicle in drive and go.”

“I can’t, Captain Remington. I’ve been assigned to help you.”

“Who are you?”

“Felix,” the man said. “You can call me Felix. It’s a name that will serve as well as any other, and I’ve gone by that name before.”

“All right, Felix, I want you to go away now.” Remington kept the pistol pointed.

Shaking his head regretfully, Felix said, “I don’t know what I’m going to have to do to convince you that I’ve been sent here to help you, Captain. We’re on the same side.”

“What side would that be?” Remington couldn’t help thinking that the mind-control Private Horgan was evidently under was something CIA Section Chief Alexander Cody would have access to. Was Felix one of Cody’s agents who hadn’t been seen before?

“Ah,” Felix said, nodding in understanding. “Paranoia. Do you know what causes paranoia, Captain?”

“I know what the business end of this 9mm pistol causes,” Remington responded. “You’re about to get that experience firsthand. I wouldn’t bet on living through it.”

“Paranoia,” Felix went on, obviously not feeling threatened at all, “is simply a discomfort that comes about when you don’t think you have control of a situation.” He waved at the war zone around them. “You’re standing in the greatest moment of paranoia in your life.”

Even Remington couldn’t argue that point.

“I’m here to help you,” Felix said smoothly. “A good friend of yours asked me to come to you.”

“Who?”

“Nicolae Carpathia.” Felix grinned.

“Carpathia?” Remington was confused. “I barely met the man over a couple videoconferences.”

“Nicolae has taken a special interest in you. He knows the kind of man you are, and the kind of man you are capable of becoming. Abu Alam’s fate is proof of that.” Felix paused, giving the Ranger captain a measuring glance. “I have to admit, when he first told me of you, I wasn’t too impressed. However, he insisted you could be of use.”

“Nobody,” Remington said, “uses me.”

“Pardon me, Captain. That isn’t at all what I intended to say. What I meant to say was that dear Nicolae insisted you were an asset worth developing. A relationship worth pursuing. You are a man who can … become so much if you’re only given the chance to follow your true nature.”

Remington was certain he didn’t like that any better. But he was stuck and didn’t know what to do. Felix had implied that he knew what had happened to Abu Alam in the basement. Even if he didn’t know the real truth, Felix could at least tie Abu Alam to Remington if anyone came looking. The media people had traded with the Arabs as well as with the Syrians.

One thing the newspeople would descend on like ravenous vultures was any story concerning improper actions of an American officer on foreign soil. Remington’s coldblooded murder of a civilian would seize newspaper headlines and television and radio sound bites. Even though Hardin had pulled the trigger, it was Remington’s game, and he knew it. By the time the case came before the military courts and into the public eye, everyone would have forgotten that Abu Alam had to die to save the lives of the military personnel caught in Sanliurfa between a rock and a hard place.