Fallen Angel (28 page)

"Understood, Boss. We take out the survivors."

"Negative, Shaq. We do nothing."

"What about the satellite, Boss?" That was Pete.

"I want the Russians to have it."

"Excuse me, Boss."

"You heard me, Shaq. We do nothing. We let the Russians take the Angel."

There was a long pause, then Rich said, "Boss, a word."

"You know where I am."

CHAPTER 32

J. J. FOLLOWED ORDERS.
He always followed orders, including those he didn't understand. He was told to site down on a particular Chinese Spec Ops member but to hold fire. Fine with him. But he was uncertain what to do with the idea of watching a Russian military splinter group sneak up on a Chinese covert unit. In one sense, they had done the same thing. Okay, fine. But release the satellite to the Russians without squeezing off so much as a shot just seemed wrong on a dozen points. Hadn't they been tasked with retrieving the radioactive fuel, then blowing the thing up?

He tried to ignore it, but the thought crawled around in his brain. Had Boss lost it? The stress of his daughter's abduction may have unhinged him. Had J. J. received word while on mission that someone harmed Tess, he had no idea how he would respond. He was pretty sure he'd lose his mind.

The missions he conducted under Moyer's leadership were rough, painful, and deadly, but no fault could ever be laid on the leadership.

J. J. prayed for his team leader.

TESS PRAYED FOR J. J.

She had just spent fifteen minutes with Colonel Mac in the Concrete Palace conference room. At first, she was admitted into the Special Operations Command Center situation room, where Mac sat with Sergeant Alan Kinkaid. Mac greeted her, but Tess barely heard it. On a large, wall-mounted monitor was an overhead view of men in a field. She counted five, one short of J. J.'s team.

As if a mind reader, Mac looked at her then at the monitor. "That's not them. The team is fine."

"Who is that?"

"Chinese Spec Ops. They got to the satellite before we did."

"Oh no. Where is . . . ?"

"I tell you what, Tess, let's step into the conference room for a few minutes. This won't be long and you'll have fewer distractions."

"Yeah. That's probably wise."

Mac opened the door for her and as she crossed the threshold she heard Mac say, "Sergeant, I want to know if the situation changes."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

Mac led Tess into the conference room where they sat at the far end of the long table. The Concrete Palace had many rooms, but she had only seen the briefing room and Colonel Mac's office. J. J. told her there was a basement where they kept equipment. She didn't ask what he meant by "equipment" and he didn't volunteer an explanation.

"No time for pleasantries, Tess. Jerry Zinsser was here. He's investigating Gina Moyer's abduction."

"How's that progressing?"

"Slow. They're doing everything they can. CID and the FBI are covering the case as well as the local cops. They believe they're dealing with professionals and that's the problem. The abductors know at least something about the team's mission and about Eric Moyer. The question is, how? Zinsser thinks we have a mole. How do we find them?"

"Why ask me, Colonel? CID has trained investigators for these things."

"Yes, they do and they're on the case, but I need someone who thinks outside the box. Besides, it may not be an Army problem. It could be someone on the civilian side, someone in one of the intel groups, a politician in the know. I'm a soldier, Tess, not an investigator. You and Zinsser are mavericks in your thinking."

"Still, Mac, I'm not an investigator."

"Sure you are. You're a scholarly investigator. I don't need you to lift fingerprints. I need you to answer one question: Who benefits if we bring the team back? The Chinese? The Russians? The splinter group? A politician? I'm open for ideas. That's what I want: ideas."

"Where do I get information?"

"I'll brief you with what I know. After that, Zinsser will be your contact, but the way he's working, you'll have trouble catching up to him." Mac stood. Tess followed his example. "If anyone gives you grief, let me know. The president has our backs. Not many people give him grief."

"No, sir, I guess not." She debated whether to say the next sentence that came to her mind. "There's a price, sir."

"Oh, brother. There's always a price."

"How's the team doing?"

Mac clenched his fists and placed them knuckles down on the table. "Okay, come on." Mac marched from the conference room and into the situation room. Tess had to walk briskly just to keep up. He stopped at the door and passed his smartcard badge over the security lock situated near the right jamb. Tess heard a click as the automatic lock surrendered its position and Mac walked in, holding the door for Tess.

"Any change, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir. Just a moment ago Junior just sent a flash message that the Russian splinter group is approaching. We've located their vehicles a short distance away. Best guess is the Russians will engage the Chinese once they reach the open area. They have the advantage of surprise and better cover. Chinese don't have a chance."

Mac shook his head. "I can't figure out why the team didn't take out the Chinese, grab the fuel, and blow the thing to kingdom come. They had enough time. They could have done the deed and been back in the cover and headed to their vehicle, but Moyer hesitated."

"Why did he hesitate?" Tess marveled at the image. She was seeing live action on the ground in eastern Russia. She glanced at her watch. It was early evening now. That meant midmorning tomorrow there.

"That's my point. I don't know. That's the first part of their mission. Now they have to engage the Russians which number . . ." He looked to Kinkaid.

"Junior's message said eight men armed with automatic weapons."

Kinkaid spoke as if discussing an ongoing baseball game. His words turned her stomach. Then an idea hit her. "What's the second part of the mission?"

"You already know that, Tess."

"I do know that, but I'll bet you a pizza that's your answer."

"I don't follow."

"It's simple, Mac. Their mission is to destroy the satellite and do what?"

"Rescue whatever Air Force Spec Ops men remain alive."

"Where are those captives?"

"We don't know exactly."

Tess studied the image on the screen. She couldn't see the team and assumed they were undercover nearby. "How then can the team rescue the men—?"

"Sons a—"

"Watch it. There's a lady present. Me."

Mac looked at her. "See, I told you you think outside the box." He rubbed his chin. "Sergeant, let's get POTUS on the line."

AMBASSADOR HUI XU POURED
another glass of warmed
shaojiu
. His third and he had yet to have dinner. Normally a wine man, he took to distilled spirits when anxious and he was anxious. Earlier, the self-righteous president of the United States insulted him repeatedly, then made demands; demands he didn't intend to honor.

He had called his government, not because Huffington told him to, but because any meeting with a head of state had to be reported. He did his duty and reported the conversation and threat. His superior listened patiently, then hung up without a word. Hui knocked back the drink.

Had his career, maybe even his life, just ended?

JERRY ZINSSER'S MIND RACED
despite his weariness. During Ranger training he learned to get by on little to no sleep. In some ways, he felt sharper; in others he felt dull and insipid.

He and Brianne were doing their part in tracking down home-improvement stores. The hidden digital manufacturing watermark on the video enabled them—rather, enabled the FBI video gurus—to track the maker and the model. Brianne had her team make calls, so they had a list of stores that carried that brand of security camera. The problem was, they had no idea how far the abductors took Gina. Were they even in the same state? The FBI and the far-more-limited CID offices in three states were doing the same thing as he and Brianne: going from store to store, rousting whatever manager was there, and asking questions about purchases.

This was the fifth Home Warehouse they visited. They were in a community forty miles north of Columbia. Zinsser found a parking spot near the front door.

"Lucky driver," Brianne said. "If I were driving, we wouldn't find a spot within two blocks. I'm unlucky that way."

"If that's the only bad luck you have, then you may be the luckiest person on the planet."

"I have a confession to make."

"Let me guess. You're a Russian spy."

"Nah, couldn't master the language. No, my confession is this: While I was gone, I did a little research on you."

"Uh-oh. Do I owe back taxes or something?"

She studied him for a minute. "Are you always this glib?"

"Yep. It's a coping mechanism."

"I learned you're a hero. Won an award."

"I don't talk about it." He opened the car door.

"Seems you should be proud of it."

"Seems that way, but most people I know who carry medals are proud of their service but prefer to forget what they had to do to earn it. It may not be true for everyone but it's true for me."

"Message received." Brianne opened her door and exited.

Home Warehouse was a Home Depot–Lowe's style home-improvement store, a do-it-yourself supermarket with tall metal shelves and workers in yellow work aprons. Zinsser walked to the help desk. A large, sweaty man in a T-shirt and dirty jeans was chewing out some college-aged employee. She looked on the verge of tears.

Zinsser stepped close to the man and looked at the lone employee. "Excuse me. I'm sorry to interrupt—"

"Beat it." The man stunk of beer and cigarettes.

Zinsser moved an inch closer. "This is official business."

"Do I look like I care? I was here first and I'm not done straightening this girl out. So you and your chickie can just wait your turn."

Zinsser removed his badge and ID holder and opened it, pushing it close to the man's face. "Sir, I'm with CID—"

"What's that? Some kinda rent-a-cop thing? I'm not impressed."

Brianne elbowed between the two and flashed her badge. "Maybe you'll like these letters better."

"FBI. You? I don't believe it." A lecherous grin spread across his face. "Of course, if you wanna come over to my place you can try and convince me." He set a beefy hand on her shoulder. "I like to play cops and robbers." He winked.

The man outweighed Brianne by 150 pounds and looked to have some muscle hiding beneath the fat. Zinsser leaned an inch forward, ready to school the man in the proper way to treat a lady, when Brianne became a blur. Zinsser had time to blink once before he realized the man was on the floor, his offending arm twisted behind his back at an angle that made Zinsser's shoulder hurt in sympathy. Even more painful was the knee Brianne had pressed into the man's neck, pinning his head to the tile floor. Zinsser couldn't help smiling.