Black Skies (2 page)

“S
o what’s the story on the Raza mission?” asked Morgan, navigating the narrow streets of South Boston in his Ford Shelby GT 500 Mustang. It was evening and the sky was lead-gray with overhanging clouds that on occasion smoldered with lightning. It had snowed lightly earlier, and then it had rained, and every time Morgan edged the car near the curb the right tires were bogged down in thick slush.

“The story is, nobody knows what the hell the story is.” The speaker was Peter Conley, Morgan’s old Black Ops partner, riding shotgun. Conley, thin and tall with a bony face and high forehead, had an almost professorial look. He was careful and deliberate and picked up languages like others pick up bad habits. As a man of action, Morgan would give him grief for his thoughtful approach, but there was no one he’d rather have at his side in the line of fire.

“Come on, you gotta know something,” said Morgan. He knew, of course, everything that had been on the news. The raid on the house in the tribal areas of Pakistan where Haider Raza was supposedly staying. House was rigged with explosives, with a suicide bomber to set it all off. No survivors among the SEAL Team, not even the chopper, which had stalled and crashed after being pummeled with flying debris. But Conley had active assets all over the globe, contacts who kept him up to speed on everything. He was bound to know more than CNN.

“Only the rumor that someone tipped him off,” said Conley. “You could count on your fingers and toes the number of people who knew about the op in the US government. But once they cleared it with the Pakistani leaders . . . Well, we know Raza has friends in high places, and it only takes one.”

“What I’d do if I got my hands on that bastard,” said Morgan, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel.

“You and me both,” said Conley.

“Meanwhile, we’re stuck doing grunt work in Southie,” said Morgan, with an irritated gesture of his hand.

“You know how the game works,” said Conley, running his fingers deftly on the touch-sensitive screen of a tablet computer. “We keep the Zeta sponsors happy with a couple of errands here and there, they keep us financed with a smile, and we keep fighting the good fight.”

“I’m just here because I’d rather do this than have Bloch on my case about it for the next two weeks,” said Morgan. “Plus,” he said, feeling an electric excitement in his muscles, “I could use the exercise.”

“Are you sure you know where you’re going? This thing has GPS, you know.”

Morgan brought the Shelby to a halt at the curb on a street corner. “Yeah, I know where we’re going.” He cut the engine.

“This the place?” Conley asked.

“Over in the corner,” said Morgan, pointing with his hand still on the steering wheel. It was a low brick building, whose white façade was tinged blue by the evening light. It sported a wooden sign in faded green Celtic letters.
MACAULEY’S
.

“Why do these bastards always have to meet in pubs?” asked Conley, retying his bootlaces.

“They’re Irish,” said Morgan. “Where else are they going to meet?”

Conley checked his tablet computer once more.

“Police?” asked Morgan.

“We’re clear,” said Conley, turning off the computer and stowing it in the glove compartment.

“We going in armed or not?”

“I say no,” said Conley. “We go in packing, and they start shooting as soon as they see us.”

“If they start shooting, don’t we want to shoot back?”

“Let’s try to keep this one low profile, shall we?” said Conley.

“All right,” said Morgan as he unstrapped his shoulder holster and laid it on the floor of the car at his feet. “But you let me do the talking, all right?”

Morgan got out of the car and moved with purpose to the door of the bar, sinking his boot into the slush as he crossed the deserted street. The air was chilly, and Morgan had worn only a short-sleeved shirt for mobility. But tension kept him from feeling the cold.

They reached the door of the bar together, and Morgan made eye contact with Conley for half a second. After years of working together, it was all the go-ahead he needed. Morgan pushed open the door and was greeted by the acrid smell of cigarette smoke—the
NO SMOKING
sign next to the door, Morgan noted, was covered in rude sharpie drawings. The main bar room was long and narrow. The bar itself ran three quarters of its length, with bottles of booze lining the wall. The half dozen working class stiffs on faded yellow pleather barstools or small circular tables that lined the wall opposite the bar were illuminated by dim, hanging yellow lights.

Morgan led Conley though the hostile stares of the regulars to a couple of stools at the bar. The waitress, a skinny, aging redhead whose thick skin seemed both figurative and literal, shot them the stink eye. Morgan could practically see what she was thinking plastered on her face.
Plainclothes cops.

She should be so lucky.

“What’ll it be, ladies?” she rasped, wiping the counter in front of them with a rag.

“Grey Goose Rasmopolitan,” said Conley. “With a twist”

The barmaid raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Morgan suppressed a laugh.

“Aperol Spritz? Mai Tai?”

“He’d like a pint,” Morgan cut in before the barmaid lost what little temper she had. “Whatever you have. Water for me, if you’ve got that on tap.”

“Cute,” she said without a smile.

“You got a bathroom in this place?” asked Morgan.

“In the back,” she said, tilting a pint glass against the tap.

“How about an ATM?” asked Conley.

“Next to the bathroom.”

They both stood up and made their way to the back of the bar, feeling the patrons’ eyes burning holes the backs of their heads. A short, dark hallway led to the bathroom in the back, and a grimy old ATM stood there as promised. But they were interested in another door, on their right, an old-fashioned door with a glass window that was obscured by dirty, bent venetian blinds on the other side.

“Let’s try to be subtle about this,” Conley whispered. “I’d rather not fight a bar full of surly drunk Irishmen.”

Morgan tried the door, which was locked. Then he knocked.

“Bathroom’s the otha dooh!” a man’s voice came from inside.

Morgan looked at Conley and shrugged. He took a step back and kicked in the door. A chunk of wood and a spray of splinters flew into the cramped room inside.

Time slowed down as Morgan assessed the situation. Three young men and a blond woman huddled around a small table, two men on his right and other man and the girl to his left. A snub-nosed revolver lay on the table, in front of the man on his immediate right, sharing the surface with bags of crystal meth and stacks of money. The blond hair and fair skin advertised the girl as their target.

The man’s hand went straight for the gun. Morgan grabbed his arm and twisted until he heard a crack, while taking the gun in his left hand. Morgan released the man’s arm and kicked him in the chest with a heavy wet winter boot, tipping his chair so that his head banged against the wall. The man next to him just sat petrified. Morgan heard the thump of the other man hitting the ground.

“Stay,” Morgan ordered the last seated man, pointing the revolver at his chest. “You can keep your junk and your money. We’re here for the girl.”

She was shrieking and cussing, her pretty face contorted and red with rage. “We’re here from your father,” Conley told her. “We’re taking you home.”

“That goddamn Nazi can go to hell!” She landed a right hook on Conley’s cheek, and Morgan winced. That was going to leave a mark. She then picked up a baseball bat and retreated against the wall, brandishing it wildly to keep Conley away.

Morgan could tell Conley was at a loss for how to deal with the girl, and they had seconds before the rest of the bar was drawn to the screaming. He turned his attention to the man Conley had laid out, who was now trying to stand. Morgan pulled him up by his lapel and laid him on the table, money and bags of meth spilling on the floor. He was red-haired with finely freckled skin, and his green eyes were dazed and blinking from Conley’s blow.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Morgan asked the girl, still holding him by the lapel.

Her anger now turned to Morgan. “Don’t you lay a finger on him!”

“Then let’s do this the easy way, all right?” Morgan said. She held up the baseball bat. Morgan took the middle finger of her boyfriend’s left hand and pulled it back with a
crack.
This woke him from his daze and he screamed in pain, writhing on the table and clutching his hand.

“Now be good and come with us,” said Morgan, “and I’ll stop.” He forced the boyfriend’s palm against the table and wrapped his muscular hand against his ring finger. “Your choice.”

She let the bat tumble to the floor and leaned over the redheaded kid. “Baby, are you okay?”

“He’ll live,” said Morgan. “Now come, or he might not.” He looked at the kid, contorting in pain on the table, square in the eyes. “And
you,
” he said. “Come after her and Daddy is going to do a lot worse than a broken finger, you hear?”

“Come on,” Conley said, playing good cop. “We won’t hurt you.”

She let herself be led by Conley. Morgan took the lead out of the back room, the man’s revolver in his right hand. He emerged to a bar where every single patron was frozen still, looking at him. The barmaid, standing behind the bar, had a shotgun with a sawed-off handle pointed at his chest.

“Honey, we’re leaving with the girl,” said Morgan, gun trained on the woman. “We didn’t hurt anyone. Much. And we’re not taking any of the drugs or the money. Let’s not turn this into a bloodbath, all right? Same goes for everyone else in here.”

There was a tense silence as Morgan took his first steps out, slow but showing no sign of hesitation. She kept the shotgun on him, and he kept the revolver on her. The room watched as Morgan traversed its length with Conley and the girl in tow. Morgan was by the door when someone cleared his throat.

“Anyone got something to say?” Morgan demanded, booming voice filling the bar. No one answered.

“Please carry on then,” said Conley, and they walked out the door and into the chilly street. This seemed to wake up the girl, who struggled against Conley until he carried her and put her in the cramped backseat of the Shelby. Morgan tossed the gun into a water drain and got into the driver’s seat. Conley got in the backseat with the girl.

“Get away from me,” she spat.

“Sit tight,” said Conley, and Morgan peeled out. “And buckle up. This guy’s a maniac behind the wheel.”

She struggled, kicking Morgan’s seat back, and then, apparently realizing there was no good exit, Morgan saw through the rearview mirror, she sat back and cast down her eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” Morgan said. She showed no sign of having heard him. “What the hell has gotten into your head to get involved with some lowlife in a two-bit drug running operation?”

“What are you, my dad?” she said, looking out the window.

“No,” said Morgan. “
Your dad
has more money than God.”

“Like I can just get any whenever I want. He controls me like I’m under house arrest.”

“And your way to prove him wrong is to carry meth for a worthless gangster of a brother?”

“Who said anything about proving him wrong?” she said. “I just wanted the money.”

Morgan drove on the rest of the way to their meeting point, the empty parking garage of a certain downtown office building, where her father was waiting for her with a couple of burly bodyguards. Her old man, an industrialist whose name and face were recognizable to anyone who cracked open a
Wall Street Journal
, ordered her into his car. He nodded at Morgan and Conley, and took off without a word.

“You going home?” Morgan asked Conley as they settled back in the car.

“I’m on the clock all weekend,” said Conley. “Just drop me at headquarters.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything new on Raza, won’t you?” Morgan put the car into gear and rode out of the garage.

“Believe it,” said Conley. “Are you working today?”

“Nah, I’ve got a thing I’m doing with the kid,” said Morgan. “I bet you’re glad you never had any, after dealing with this daddy’s little princess, huh?”

“Sure am,” said Conley, but Morgan wasn’t sure he believed it.

“O
ur condolences are, of course, with our American allies,” said Pakistani Foreign Minister Salman Mangi. “The brave men of SEAL Team Six did not deserve such a death.”

US Secretary of State Lee Irwin Wolfe, sitting across from him at a bulky antique hardwood table with thick tapered legs, furrowed his brow in shared concern. From his corner, however, Diplomatic Security Service Agent Philip Lawson thought that he detected the hint of a scowl.

“I thank you for your sincere distress at our loss,” said Wolfe, bowing his head, showing his balding scalp and hiding his boyish face from the view of Lawson, who was standing up, to his right. “We, for our part, regret the civilian casualties that resulted from the suicide bombing that occurred during the operation.” He was going through the motions of the diplomatic gestures, but Lawson knew they were empty in either case. Regrets had been previously expressed, and this meeting was, as they were with Wolfe, about business. Wolfe’s taut lips and his poise, leaning just slightly too far forward, betrayed his impatience. This time, they had skipped the meet and greet in front of the press with the flags and the fancy chairs. It was time for brass tacks.

“This is not good for the relations between our countries,” said Wolfe, leaning forward, arms resting on the table. “In fact, this is very goddamn bad, Salman.”

Lawson surveyed the room one more time. Standing with his back against a wall covered in gold leaf designs and making no sign of understanding any of the words that were spoken—his role was that of a fly on the wall, springing into action only if the Secretary’s life were in danger. He did not expect trouble here, in the heart of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but paranoia was a healthy attribute of a man in his position. Three bodyguards present watched over the Foreign Minister, a heavy man with a trimmed and well-kept beard, temples graying but still sporting a full head of hair. He sat alone on his side of the table, facing Wolfe with round gold-framed spectacles, which he adjusted compulsively. Lawson had two of his guys against the wall behind the Secretary of State, who sat next to his Chief of Staff, Nadine Prince, who was taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

“We gave you permission to run this operation in our territory,” said Mangi, throwing up his hands. “We have been more than friendly to our ally the United States in this matter. Tragedies aside, I do not see why this should negate what was an act of friendship on our side.”

Wolfe’s face contorted into a near scoff, but he seemed to check himself. “This is not the time to count feathers in your cap. Washington is not happy, and you need to think about how to make this right.”

Mangi pressed his lips together in consternation. His tone was more than a little impatient. “We have been forthcoming with any intelligence we might have regarding the unfortunate events of this past week. We have given your people access to the scene.” Exasperation built in his voice. “What more do you expect from us, Mr. Secretary?”

“A lot of people in your government have been less than friendly in talking about our country. Some might even say they’ve been inflaming the people’s anti-Americanism. Do you think that’s a fair assessment?”

“The people are angry, Mr. Secretary. They are angry at your country. That is no news to you or anyone in Washington.”

“Government officials are fanning the flames,” Wolfe pointed out matter-of-factly. Prince, at his side, noted Mangi’s every reaction with sharp darting eyes.

“They are worried for their positions!” Mangi said, wiping the lens of his glasses with his sleeve and putting them on again. “Some for their lives. It does not pay to be pro-American in Pakistan. You were aware of the possibility of this kind of reaction to this mission. Do not tell me you were not. Now, are you really here to discuss public relations?”

Wolfe leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “How do you think Haider Raza knew we were coming?”

Mangi’s eyes widened in surprise for only a split second, but Lawson noticed, and Wolfe would have, too. “Raza is a clever man,” he said. “He has eluded all attempts to capture or kill him, and you know well enough the effort that has gone into that.”

“I do know,” said Wolfe. “The President knows, too. And we know that he has been two steps ahead of us at any given time. So tell me, how exactly has he managed to do that? Does he have supernatural powers?”

“I admit that sometimes it seems so,” said Mangi, confused at the sudden turn in the conversation.

“Or maybe he’s always two steps ahead of us because someone is tipping him off.”

Realization seemed to dawn on Mangi’s face, and then his forehead grew lined with dismay. “So you mean that you suspect one of ours has been passing along information to Raza.”

“Not only me, Salman. The concern is shared among the Joint Chiefs. Your intelligence services have been compromised. Heads are going to have to roll over this.”

“Whose heads?” said Mangi, adjusting his glasses on his face.

“It’s time to draw battle lines inside your government,” he said. “There are people on the side of the terrorists. People who are protecting Raza and enabling the Martyrs Brigade.” Mangi made as if to speak, but Wolfe interrupted them. “Don’t deny it.” He pointed an accusatory finger. “Don’t you dare goddamn deny it. Washington is tired of this, and so am I. We’ve been sinking millions in helping you deal with the Zafar Network and the Taliban, fighting them both in Afghanistan and here in Pakistan. Now, say we pull our resources from the Pakistani side—to respect your sovereignty, of course, and the right of your people not to be meddled with by Americans—and ramp up the pressure on the Afghan side. How many antigovernment terrorists are going to pour over to your side of the border?”

The Pakistani foreign minister drew himself up in alarm. “We have been loyal allies! We will not be threatened this way!”

“Consider this a test of your loyalty. Tell the President and the PM. It’s time to get your ship in order.” He assumed a businesslike, diplomatic manner as if by flipping a switch. “I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time, Minister.” Wolfe stood up and extended his hand.

Mangi shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary. I shall relay your position to others in the government of Pakistan. I feel certain that we can come to some equitable agreement on the issue.”

“I’m sure we will,” said Wolfe.

Nadine Prince shook the Minister’s hand as well, and both turned to go. Lawson walked behind them, forming the rear guard of his security detail. “Dovetail is on the move,” he said into his comm. “Copy,” came the voice of Agent Hemmer. The Secretary leaned to speak to Prince as he walked.

“What’s your take?” he asked.

“Honestly?” said Prince. “Still what I told you before. Mangi’s got no power to do anything about this, and I have serious doubts about the President and the Prime Minister, too. Not unless they get the generals on board. And I mean
all
of them.”

“It’s a start,” he said. “Only an opening salvo. It’ll be a long, drawn-out process. But we’ll get results. Get in touch with the President and give him the thirty-second version.”

Prince made the call as they walked through the low, drab hallway and into the indoor garage, where Hemmer was already waiting at the car, with the three other identical black sedans that made up the Secretary’s convoy. He motioned the Secretary toward his vehicle, and settled into the passenger seat, thanking God for air-conditioning.

“Moving out,” he said into the communicator. “Airport. Marsh, you take the lead.”

As the cars pulled out into the street and the scorching sun, Lawson drew his sunglasses from his breast pocket, feeling the gun holstered under his suit jacket, and rested them on his ears and the bridge of his nose, brushing up against his forehead as he did so and finding it drenched in sweat.

Christ, it was hot.

It was a short drive to the airport, which they took with an escort of Pakistani motorcycle police. Wolfe and Prince conferred in low voices in the back as Lawson communicated constantly with his people in the other cars and at the airport, meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on the streets around them. The procession drew curious looks from people on the street. The grim thought came to Lawson that the curiosity would be replaced by rage if they knew who was in that car.

They pulled into the airport not twenty minutes after setting off. The Secretary’s assistants had taken care of the paperwork so that by the time they arrived at their destination, the convoy was waved through the airport gates, bypassing all usual travel procedures and going straight to the tarmac, toward their plane.

The Secretary of State’s Boeing 757, its US flag proudly displayed on the tail, was waiting there, glinting under the punishing sun.

“Nightingale,” said Lawson into his comm to their people on the airplane, “approaching you now. Report in.”

“We’re ready for you, Oriole.”

“Then let’s get ready to blow this town,” said Lawson. “Over.”

“Amen,” said the secretary from the backseat. Then, to Nadine Prince, “Ready to get out of here?”

The three cars in the motorcade drew to a halt near the airplane. Hemmer and Lawson opened their doors, then the Secretary’s. Lawson heard a familiar whoosh that caught him in the pit of his stomach before his brain could properly process it.

Mayhem came swiftly after. He saw the projectile flying in from their left and broadsiding the car in front of them. The big sedan went up in flames, spewing thick smoke. Hot air hit him in the face. He shut his eyes reflexively, feeling them burn like he’d poured lemon juice on them. There was another explosion, and the vehicle behind them burst into a bloom of orange and black.

Lawson turned back to check on the Secretary when he heard the faint buzz a split second before it hit. He looked up just in time to see Agent Marsh’s head erupt in a pink mist. Before he could react, two more agents were shot and dropped to the ground.

“Secretary, back in the car!

But Hemmer had already ushered him in. Lawson got back in the car and looked at the driver, Welch, who was slumped over the steering wheel. The back of his head was a bloody mess, and blood and brains dripped down the wheel and onto the floor. The word
sniper
had just formed in his head when Hemmer fell against the door, blood smearing and running down the window.

“Secretary, Ms. Prince,
down!
”

Lawson ran around the car, crouching down and moving erratically, hoping to avoid fire. He pulled Welch out of the car through the open door. The driver’s body tumbled out onto the tarmac. Lawson climbed in as a bullet sailed inches from his head, hitting the window on the passenger seat. The window cracked into a spiderweb pattern. Keeping his head low, he pulled the door shut and peeled off, passing through the thick smoke of the wreckage of the car ahead of him.

“Need backup
now!
” he screamed into his comm.

He turned the car around, back toward the airport, and saw the two military Jeeps converging on the door to the building. Men in Pakistani civilian garb stood in their seats, faces covered by handkerchiefs, killing their way onto the tarmac with a barrage of Kalashnikov fire. Lawson made a sharp right.

“Hang in there, Mr. Secretary!”

Turning parallel to the airport building, he saw another two Jeeps ahead of him, approaching fast. He made a 180-degree turn, and the car drew to a halt at the point of convergence of four enemy vehicles. And then he heard the whipping sound of the sniper’s bullet.

He hardly felt the impact on his neck, but blood gushed out almost at once. He put his hand up, trying to stanch it, while reaching for his gun with the other. The blood seeped out around his fingers, a torrent that couldn’t be held back. He tried to talk to the Secretary, tell him to run, but a gurgling came out.

The car shook and Lawson heard the awful sound of warping metal. With all his strength he turned to see two men in face masks reaching inside the car. There were two gun reports, still deafening despite Lawson’s fading senses. Nadine Prince clutched her abdomen as the bullet wounds stained her white blouse crimson.

“Come in, Deadbolt,” said a voice on his comm, sounding so far away. “Report Status. Come in, Deadbolt, I repeat, come in.”

The world darkened around him. The last thing he saw was Secretary Wolfe, hands tied and a burlap sack over his head, being manhandled into an enemy vehicle.