Betrayal (3 page)

To his credit, Mason stood his ground, unfazed by the disturbing visual and aural stimulus. He’d experienced this stuff for real plenty of times and certainly wasn’t going to panic at a simulation. Anyway, he knew what he was looking for.

And a few moments later, it came.

The cardboard representation of a gun-toting militant sprang up from behind a wall, accompanied by another burst of simulated gunfire.

Mason reacted immediately. Swinging the barrel of his assault rifle left, he paused a heartbeat to take aim, leaned into it and fired a burst. His shots impacted a couple of inches off-centre, but still within the kill zone. The target toppled backwards, effectively ‘dead’.

‘Come on, Cole,’ Drake whispered, willing the man to succeed.

His next grouping was better, landing more or less dead centre in a target that popped up just 10 yards away. Maybe he’d been wrong, Drake thought. Maybe Mason’s years of experience and training would overcome his physical limitations.

His hopes were soon dashed when the next target popped up in the window of a building at the far end of the range, meant to represent a sniper taking potshots at them. Mason’s first burst missed entirely, and though his second found its mark, the rounds were scattered all across the cardboard figure. Drake saw Mason flinch at the weapon’s recoil, rolling his shoulder as if to loosen it up. Already the air reeked of burned cordite.

Hastily ejecting the spent magazine, he reached for a new one on the table in front of him and slapped it into place just as three more figures popped up. Two of them were innocent civilians, meant to represent hostages, while the third was their captor.

Knowing he had only moments to react, Mason brought his rifle to bear and, driven by the pressure of the moment, opened fire.

His hastily aimed burst slammed into the cardboard hostage next to his intended target, undoubtedly dealing a fatal injury had it been a real person.

Drake looked down, unwilling to watch as the exercise continued. Already he knew the result, but delivering it was one task that the machines here couldn’t help him with.

That unpleasant duty fell to him alone.

It was a cold, damp Friday evening in the capital, with icy flurries of sleet carried on the fitful breeze as commuters fought their way through rush-hour traffic. This close to Christmas, many were heading home via the nearest shopping mall, hoping to grab a few last-minute bargains before the weekend.

A woman paused at a busy intersection, waiting for a gap in the traffic so she could cross. She was dressed in a heavy winter overcoat, the collar drawn up to offer some protection from the chill wind. Her short blonde hair was hidden beneath a black stocking cap.

A leather gym bag was slung across one shoulder. Just another DC office worker squeezing in a workout before the excesses of the festive season. An older woman, plump and tired, offered her a sympathetic smile as she passed by. She didn’t acknowledge it.

Spotting a let-up in the traffic, she moved with fast, measured steps across the road, heading down a quieter residential street towards an apartment building overlooking the nearby freeway. The rumble of traffic and the occasional blast of car horns filtered through the air towards her as she turned left and strode towards the main entrance, unlocking the security door.

The public stairwell beyond was clean and well maintained, just as it had been the last time she came here two days ago. There had been a bike chained to the stair banister then, but it was gone now. The place wasn’t heated, but warmth from the various apartments had bled out into it, raising the temperature a few degrees higher than outside.

Wasting no time, she made for the stairs and started up them. The contents of the sports bag were both heavy and bulky, and by the time she’d reached the third floor she could feel beads of sweat on her forehead. The stocking cap clung uncomfortably to her head, but she ignored it.

‘Hey, you okay?’ a male voice asked from the third-floor landing. ‘Need a hand?’

She looked over at the tall, slightly overweight man with glasses and a goatee, who had just emerged from his apartment. He was dressed for the winter weather and had likely been on his way out when he’d spotted her.

‘Nah. I’m good, thanks,’ she replied, flashing a grateful smile. ‘It’s a better workout than I get in the damn gym.’

He smiled in response, warming to her immediately. ‘I hear ya. Should do a little more myself,’ he added. She noticed he had drawn his stomach in, as men often did when talking to women about exercise.

Turning away, she resumed her difficult climb to the top floor. She was grateful when she heard his footsteps receding below, followed by a heavy clang as the front door opened and shut. He might remember her later, but it wouldn’t matter. She’d be gone by then.

The building’s roof was accessed via a short flight of steps, with a fire door at the top which, naturally, was alarmed. She had already disabled it during her visit two days before, bypassing the door sensor to fool the system into thinking it was locked.

Glancing back down the steps for a moment to check she wasn’t being watched, she pushed firmly down on the bar to open the door and stepped out. Straight away she was greeted by a gust of cold wind that tugged at her coat and made her eyes water. After the relative warmth of the stairwell, the sudden change in temperature was almost a shock to the system.

Still, it provided a welcome moment of refreshment. Her body was by now well adapted to cold climates, and compared to some of the places she had visited, winter in DC was of little concern.

Letting out a breath that steamed in the chill air, she surveyed the area that would act as her vantage point. It was perfect for her needs. Like most buildings in America, the roof was crowded with heating vents, satellite dishes and air-conditioning outlets. The general clutter would provide excellent cover as she went about her work.

Stretching out before her like a river of concrete was the 395 freeway, clogged with slow-moving evening traffic. That was good. The slower her targets were moving, the easier her job would be.

Seated in his small, cramped and cluttered office on the second floor of Langley’s Old Headquarters Building, Drake looked up from his computer at the knock on the door. He had a fair idea who was there.

‘Come in,’ he called.

Sure enough, the door opened to reveal Cole Mason. A tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, Mason possessed the dark eyes, olive skin and jet-black hair characteristic of his Italian ancestry. Only his name seemed to let him down on that front – the result of his grandmother moving to America to escape Mussolini’s Italy in the 1930s. Smart move on her part.

He had showered and changed out of the T-shirt and combat trousers he’d worn during the live-fire exercise, donning a grey business suit that did little to hide his broad-shouldered and muscular physique. He had been hitting the gym hard over the past few months, determined to regain his former strength and fitness.

But despite this outward display of robust physical health, the look in his eyes betrayed his lack of confidence as he stepped over the threshold. Nonetheless, he managed a wry smile as he glanced around Drake’s disorganised work space.

‘Some things never change, I see.’

Drake avoided his gaze. Some things unfortunately did change.

Mason wasn’t some eager young recruit fresh off the Agency’s basic training programme, but a seasoned veteran who had served alongside Drake on a dozen occasions in the small but elite group known as the Shepherd teams. Their job was to travel to some of the most hostile and dangerous places on earth and recover lost, missing, captured or, in rare cases, rogue Agency operatives. As such, only the best of the best made the cut.

Experienced, quick-thinking and cool under pressure, Mason had been a natural choice as second in command during their ill-fated mission into Russia the previous year. Drake had been handed the daunting task of breaking into a Siberian prison and rescuing an operative known only by her code name, Maras. Against the odds they had achieved their objective, but a stray round had shattered Mason’s shoulder during their escape, putting him out of action and very nearly ending his life.

It was a shitty thing to happen to a good man, and more than once Drake had agonised over his responsibility for it. Now, after eighteen months, several surgeries and a gruelling period of rehabilitation, Mason had applied to rejoin the Shepherd teams as an active field agent. Whether or not he was capable of fulfilling this role had been left to Drake to decide. Talk about a poisoned chalice.

‘Have a seat, mate,’ Drake said, gesturing to the chair opposite.

Mason eased himself down and crossed his legs, fidgeting uncomfortably in the awkward silence that followed. Drake hated this shit, hated having to give bad news to good people, hated deciding men’s futures from behind a desk. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t who he was.

Still, he was here, and he had a job to do.

‘First of all, I want you to know that you’ve done an incredible job to get back here,’ he began. ‘The work you’ve put in over the past year—’

‘Ryan, we’ve known each other a long time,’ Mason interrupted. ‘You don’t need to bullshit me. Let’s just get down to it, okay?’

He was smiling as if this was just good-natured banter between friends, perhaps hoping to ease the tension, but Drake could sense the nervous anticipation beneath that disarming smile. He supposed he would have felt the same way in Mason’s shoes.

If Mason wanted the truth, Drake would give it to him.

‘All right, here’s the deal.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk as he eyed his friend. ‘There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’ll just say it. I’m afraid you haven’t made the grade. I’m sorry, mate, but I can’t certify you fit to return to duty.’

For a long moment, Mason said nothing. He didn’t react at all. He just looked at Drake across the desk, as if waiting for him to say something more, to add in something that would turn it all around.

It didn’t happen. Drake had nothing to give him.

The Shepherd teams had no time for guys who made the cut on their third attempt, when they knew what to expect and how to deal with it. Just as there were no second chances out in the field, so it was with training and selection. They were ruthless because they had to be.

‘You know the standards they set for Shepherd operatives,’ Drake went on, more to fill the silence than because he thought his words would offer much comfort. ‘The bar is pretty fucking high, and I can’t lower it for anyone, no matter how much I might want to.’

‘So that’s it, huh?’ Mason finally said, an undertone of bitterness and simmering frustration creeping into his voice. ‘I’m done. You pack me off and send me home?’

‘Of course not. There are other jobs in the Agency—’

‘Doing what? Flipping burgers in the fucking canteen?’ Mason snapped, rising to his feet as his temper got the better of him. ‘That what you think I’m fit for now?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Drake said, knowing he had to handle this delicately. ‘You’ve got years of experience in the field. You could get into training, mission planning … whatever you wanted. There are plenty of opportunities—’

‘No, Ryan,’ the older man said, shaking his head vehemently. ‘I’m no more cut out for that shit than you are. We’re both field ops – always have been, always will be.’

Except one of us doesn’t have the tools for the job any more, Drake couldn’t help thinking. It was a harsh thought to entertain about a man he considered a friend, but theirs was a harsh profession that didn’t make allowances for weakness or injury.

Calming himself a little, Mason continued. ‘Look, we worked together for years, right? You know me, you know what I can do. So I didn’t ace every test they threw at me today – so what? I can still do my job
out there
, where it matters.’ He paused a moment, as if sensing the line he was about to cross, then went for it anyway. ‘It … wouldn’t be hard to change my scores a little. We both know it’s been done before, so why not now? You know I’d have your back if the situation was reversed.’

This was a very different man from the one he’d parted company with after the prison raid, Drake realised now. The Cole Mason he’d known then never would have contemplated what he’d just suggested. Then again, that had been before the painful surgeries, the punishing months of rehab, the financial trouble that came with existing on half pay while his future hung in the balance.

Drake understood why he was doing this, why he felt the need to regain everything he’d lost, to prove to himself that he wasn’t a useless cripple who couldn’t even fire a gun properly. He might well have felt the same way in that position, but this was one line of thought that needed to be stopped right now.

‘Cole, listen to me,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear, but for both our sakes you need to hear it. I know you’d never let me down if you could help it. You were one of the best operatives I ever worked with, but the fact is you’re a liability now. That’s a shitty deal, but it’s the truth. If I clear you for field ops, I’d be risking the lives of any team you ever served with. You saw what happened on the rifle range earlier. That could have been me, or Keira, or some innocent civilian caught in the crossfire. You want to live with that for the rest of your life?’ He sighed and looked down at his desk for a moment. ‘You said you’d have my back if the situation was reversed. Well, if it was, I’d expect you to give me the same lecture I just gave you. I’d be pissed off with you, and I’d probably resent you for a long time, but eventually I’d realise you were right. I’m asking you to let this one go, mate. Don’t make it any worse for yourself.’

That was enough to blunt the edge of Mason’s anger. Drake saw him hesitate, realising that his shortcomings today weren’t just bad luck or pedantic adherence to some arbitrary standards, but a simple and unavoidable fact. Despite all the operations and the rehab and the training, he simply wasn’t the man he’d once been.