Warning Order (21 page)

“What the fuck is this shit?” Sergeant Major Jason Mitchell roared, pushing one of the operators out of his way and barging into the room.

His massive bulk filled the door frame, and his face was a dark shade of scarlet. He grabbed Warchild by the shirt and snatched him off his feet. “You stay the fuck out of her room,” he yelled before tossing Warchild out into the hall.

Next he grabbed Parker by his arm, yanked him to his feet, and twisted his arm behind his back. “Get out of my sight before I break your neck,” he muttered, shoving him toward the door. He then turned on the spectators: “The rest of you fucking gossips need to do something with your time—before I find you something to do.”

The room cleared out in record time, and the sergeant major slammed the door so hard that the walls shook.

“Lock it up,” he ordered, and Renee snapped to parade rest.

She could see the fire in his eyes and knew without a doubt that she was fucked.

“What is this bullshit?”

“Bad day, Sergeant Major,” she stammered, trying to catch her breath.

“I could give a fuck. What is your malfunction?” he yelled, stepping into her face.

Despite all the firefights and near misses she'd had, there was nothing as terrifying as the righteous anger on display in the tiny room. Renee felt her heart skip a beat as Mitchell's rage washed over her like a tidal wave, his massive fists trembling at his sides.

“You're pissed off because you got your ass in a sling, is that it? You think busting Warchild in the face is going to make it better?”

“Negative, Sergeant Major,” she replied.

“I've watched you piss on this command since you got here. Do you think you're special? You think the rules don't apply to you?”

“Negative,” Renee replied, the adrenaline draining from her body, leaving her feeling weak and exposed. She remembered that she'd just been fired.

“You think that bitch-ass CIA fuck is going to save you? You better answer me right now, or so help me, I will put you in a fucking box.”

“Sergeant Major, I have no excuse,” she said quietly. “Let me get my shit, and I'll be out of your hair.”

Renee watched Mitchell take a step back as he tried to calm himself, but his blood was up, and he was still looking for a fight. His hands opened and closed rapidly. For some reason only he knew, that made his rage disappear.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked finally, his voice even.

“I lost my shit,” she said honestly.

“Jesus, Renee, I've been going head-to-head with the old man, trying to keep you on the task force, and you play right into his hands. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Guess not.”

“You ready to quit?”

“What else am I going to do,” she demanded.

“Stand at ease,” he said, running his hand over his face.

Renee relaxed, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself.

“How fucked up are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't give me that. I know what happened to you in Pakistan.”

“That has nothing to do with this,” she said defensively.

“You've seen a lot of shit in a short time. I get it, but if you can't get a grip, I can't use you.”

It seemed like he was offering her a way out, although she didn't see how. “It doesn't matter. The colonel said I'm done.”

“Fuck him, he won't be running shit pretty soon—not after that fucked-up mission he had us launch. Look, there is a war coming, and it's coming fast. You know what happened in the Gulf. You think the president's going to let that pass?”

“Looks like I'll be sitting that one out,” she said glumly.

“You are so hardheaded,” he said, exasperated. “You know, I've got a daughter like you: thinks she knows everything, but she doesn't have the sense to get out of her own way.”

“I apologize, Sergeant Major,” she replied formally.

“Cut that shit out. Look, we need people like you, but if you can't get your head right, I can't use you.” He lowered his voice, making her aware that others might be listening in. “Tell me what the hell is going on, tell me what you know, and I will do everything in my power to keep you on the team.”

Renee could see that Mitchell really cared, and as she sat down on the bed, she made the decision to trust him. In a voice just above a whisper she told him, “Mason said a guy named al Qatar is behind all of this.”

“Who the fuck is al Qatar?”

“I don't know, but David does.”

“I am so tired of the CIA and their bullshit,” Mitchell said wearily, taking a can of dip from his pocket and cracking his finger across the lid. “If he knows, then where the fuck is he? Why doesn't he give us something?”

“I don't know.”

“I swear to God, between him and Mason Kane, it's a wonder I have any hair left. You know, I was with ol' Mason in Iraq.”

“I've heard you talk about that,” she said, watching him shove a massive pinch of dip into his mouth before closing the lid.

“He's the real deal, maybe one of the best operators I've ever seen. Well, maybe besides Boland.”

“I knew they were tight.”

“Thick as fucking thieves. You know, Mason is a lot like you: kept to himself most of the time, but when he was on an op, he was one deadly motherfucker. Maybe he told you, but he had to raise himself when his dad split and his mom became a fucking drunk. Brought himself out of the fucking gutter.” Suddenly the sergeant major turned and whipped open the door. No one was lingering outside. He closed it again and went on in a more normal tone of voice. “In any case, a lot of guys believe that bullshit they said about him, but it wasn't true. No way the guy I knew would kill a bunch of kids.”

Renee simply nodded, glad that Mitchell's assessment matched her own.

“Where is he? I know that you know what he's doing.”

“He's going after al Qatar.”

“Figured as much. David really knew what he was doing when he latched onto our boy. It was a smart play getting him to go after Barnes. What he doesn't realize, though, is that he can't protect Mason. He's got a lot of enemies, especially the colonel.”

“Why?”

“Because Anderson will do anything to win, and if that means leaving some of our guys flapping, then I can promise you he won't miss a wink of sleep. Do you understand what I'm telling you?”

“Not really,” she said.

“The only way you can help Mason is by getting back in the game. If you really care about him, then you have to stick around to watch his back. Because I can promise you that there are people waiting for him to slip up so they can drop the hammer on him. Barnes had a lot of powerful friends.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I'm going to go talk to the boss, see if I can get this shit sorted out. I'm not making any promises, but I'm going to do my best,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Sergeant Major,” she said from the edge of the bed.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. I owe you one.”

“Don't get all excited yet. Wait and see what I can do.”

M
r. David had been expecting something big, but never in his wildest imagination had he considered that General Vann would allow al Qatar to blow up an aircraft carrier. The horror of what he'd seen on the TV monitors at Kennedy Airport had shocked him to his core, and even now, as he drove south toward Virginia, he couldn't believe it.

The usually implacable spy felt righteous anger overcoming the immense sadness as he listened to talk radio. The host was interviewing a retired general, and, as usual, their theories couldn't have been further from the truth.

“This attack has all the hallmarks of al Qaeda, there is no doubt in my mind,” the host was saying.

David was tempted to pick up the prepaid cell phone he had bought in New York and call in to the radio station. But he knew that no one would ever believe that this attack originated in the nation's capital.

He checked the map spread out on the passenger seat and merged to the left to get off the expressway. It was raining, and the lights from the other vehicles made it hard to see as he slowed at the end of the ramp and turned onto the surface street.

After another twenty minutes, he pulled into a suburban neighborhood and parked the rental car four houses down from his objective. He opened the glove box and slipped the fake passport out of his back pocket and tossed it inside. After folding up the map carefully, he placed it on top of the passport and shut the glove box with a snap.

He reached into the backseat, grabbed the backpack, and opened the door, stepping out into a light rain. He'd already disengaged the dome light, so there was no chance of him being backlit as he closed the door, heading for a two-story brownstone.

At the back door of the house, he paused to don a pair of latex gloves. Then he slipped a headlamp over his forehead and activated the tiny blue light. Taking a lock pick set out of the bag, he inserted it into the door. He sensed his way until he felt the tumblers click into place.

The spy turned the knob slowly, listening for the squeak of the hinges, and stepped inside. He went straight to an alarm panel that chirped in the darkness. After typing the code into the panel, the beeping stopped, but before he closed the access lid, he hit the rearm button.

David wiped his feet on the rug before heading upstairs to the bedroom.

A stack of plates were piled in the sink, and a few cans of beer were nestled in the recycling bin, but other than that, the house was tidy. He knew that the owner planned on cleaning before his wife got home, but David was going to make sure he didn't have that chance.

Climbing the stairs to the bedroom, his shoes sank in the plush carpet lining the staircase. The steps creaked. Blue moonlight cast a soft glow over the walls. He entered the master bedroom and approached a neatly made bed flanked by two high end tables.

David placed the backpack on the floor next to a chair with a towel draped over the back. He took the towel, folded it in half, and placed it on the edge of the bed. Before taking a seat, he turned off the headlamp, stowed it back in the bag, and then lifted out a Beretta 92F.

He'd never liked the gun, and thought it was a bad idea when the military chose it as its service pistol, but as David screwed the suppressor into the barrel, he knew it would do the job. Once the suppressor was secure, he placed the pistol on the side table, checked his watch, and got comfortable.

  •  •  •  

Thirty minutes later, David felt the vibrations of the garage door opening through the floor.

The spy was sure that recent events would have kept his target at the office until much later, but there was something to be said about small mercies. He heard the door slam, and the alarm beep as the man typed in his code.

Five minutes later, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. David grabbed the pistol off the table and closed his eyes so the lights wouldn't blind him.

The overhead light came on with a flash, and the spy opened his eyes, the pistol pointed at the man who jerked to a halt as he was about to throw his jacket on the bed.

“Hello, Patrick,” he said.

“What the fuck?” General Vann exclaimed.

“Have a seat.”

“David, why the hell are you in my house?”

“I think you know. Now have a seat before I put a bullet through your kneecap.”

“Look, don't do anything—”

The pistol spat in his hands, and the bullet struck the general in the side of the knee, knocking him to the ground. David was up in a flash, his left hand sweeping the towel off the bed and forcing it over Vann's mouth.

“Don't scream. It's beneath you.”

He might as well have saved his breath, because the general immediately began to yell beneath the towel. David hit him expertly in the back of the neck with the pistol, and the muffled screams immediately stopped as Vann fell unconscious.

M
ason didn't know what to expect as he approached the woman flanked by his two fresh kills, but he was still surprised to find no fear in her eyes. She stared up at him defiantly as he slung his rifle over his shoulder.

“I am not going to hurt you,” he said in Arabic.

“I need a new shirt,” she replied, wiping the blood off her face with the torn edge of her ripped blouse. “Do you have one?”

Mason slipped the assault pack off his back and squatted painfully to the ground. After digging around in the pack, he found a faded brown T-shirt and tossed it to her.

He couldn't help but notice that she was very pretty but also very young. Mason guessed that she was maybe eighteen, maybe younger or older. It was hard to tell out here. Her eyes, though, held an ageless quality that he'd seen far too frequently. It spoke of a loss of innocence and a familiarity with death that most people could never fathom.

Mason knew that while soldiers were forced to witness untold horrors, the civilians caught in the middle suffered the most.

She pulled the ruined blouse over her head, making no attempt to cover her firm breasts. Anger blazed on her face as she got to her feet and spat on the two dead men lying before her.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Mason, and I'm an American.”

“Why are you here?”

“I—” He stopped in midsentence, not really sure how to answer her.

She probably understood the desire for revenge all too well, but for some reason, he was ashamed to tell her that he was engaged in a mission of death. The young woman was still a child, and she didn't have to know about the horrible aspects of war that were so common to his life.

“I am looking for someone,” he said finally.

“Hey, Mason!” Zeus called. “We need to leave before more of them come.”