All Necessary Force (20 page)

She closed her eyes and said, “Why don’t you forget about saving for furniture? We could get a place together. With our combined income, we could afford it.”

She thought she’d missed his answer over the sound of the jets. She opened her eyes and turned around to face him. She saw tears falling down his cheeks.

“Keshawn? What’s wrong?”

He said nothing. He simply raised his hands to the top of her head and pushed her under the water.

34

J

ennifer sat alone on the bed in her hotel room, not wanting to join the team next door. She had the shades drawn and the lights out, with the only illumination coming from a crack in the bathroom door. She could hear the men through the connecting door, laughing and joking.

“I thought we were breaking contact when I saw you running away from the fight like a spotted ape.”

“I wasn’t running, jackass. I was doing my duty. Protecting civilian lives.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“The kid was in front of you, and I’ve seen you shoot. I figured he was in danger….”

She tuned them out, remembering the child.
I should have done something. I was closer.

Upon their return to the hotel, the first thing the team had done was a hot wash, examining all aspects of the gunfight to see what they could have done differently or better.

It had been brutally critical, with Pike bearing the brunt. The team had hammered him for saving the child, saying he had put them all at risk by forcing them to assault with one less man.

The conversation had shamed Jennifer, making her wonder if anyone had seen her paralysis of fear. The memory alone caused her to tremble.
Why didn’t I go?

She heard the door open and saw Pike in the feeble light.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Adrenaline will do that. How’s your arm?”

She flexed her hand, saying, “Good. Buckshot did a great job. The stitches itch, but that’s about it.”

“Well, he’s had enough practice. He used to be an eighteen Delta in fifth group.” Remembering she had no military experience, he added, “A medic. A Special Forces medic.”

She nodded and said nothing. Pike came inside and closed the door.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” She waited a beat, then said, “Why did you save that child?”

He leaned against the door, looking confused. “Uhh… I don’t know. It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

Right thing to do.

“But there was no way you should have lived. You had to have known that. Why?”

He became embarrassed at the attention. “Look, I was too stupid to realize that. Trust me, I wouldn’t do it again.”

She stood up, searching his face for deception. “Really? You wouldn’t?”

Pike glanced away for a moment, the returned her gaze. “No. Not really. I’d do it again. That kid was going to die because someone was trying to kill me. I was the cause. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But the team…”

“Yeah, well, they have a point, but it’s the score that counts. They did fine without me, like I knew they would.”

She looked down at the floor. “I should have run to him. I was closer. I could have protected him and you could have gone with the team. But I was afraid.”

“Cut that shit out. You can’t second-guess what you did. You had just finished a fight for your life.”

The destroyed visage of the Chinese sprang into her mind, the split skull, the flying bone and brain matter as she struck him again and again. She felt a wave of nausea and sat down again, putting her head into her hands. Pike sat down next to her and rubbed her back, talking softly to her.

She lifted her head and said, “I feel dirty. Like I’ve crossed a line and I can never go back.”

He spoke gently. “I know. It’s not easy. Especially with what you were forced to do. You’ll have dreams. Bad ones.”

His words brought a measure of calm to her, his empathy soothing in the darkness. She reached out and squeezed his hand, wondering if she would ever figure him out.

This was the Pike she was drawn to, a man who risked certain death for an unknown child, but somewhere inside him was the monster from the warehouse. The Pike she didn’t know. She flashed again to the body in the souvenir shop.
What about the Jennifer you don’t know?

“Do you get dreams? I mean, still?”

“Yeah. I do. I think it’s the body’s way of dealing with the stress. Eventually they’ll go away and get replaced by good dreams. It just takes time. I used to get them pretty bad right after an action, but within about three to six months, they’d be replaced by dreams of my family. I guarantee I’ll dream about that kid and—”

He caught himself and said nothing for a moment, then finished his thought. “And that guy in the warehouse.”

She was surprised by the admission, thinking he was different. Stronger or harder. A machine. She changed the subject to get away from the talk of death. “Do you still dream about your family?”

“I used to every night. Like clockwork. Not so much anymore, since Guatemala and Bosnia. Since I ran into you, really.”

She was surprised again, and showed it on her face. She knew how deeply the loss of his family had affected him, and couldn’t believe that their adventures last year had altered that. “You don’t dream about your family anymore? What do you dream about instead?”

He blushed, and looked away. “Nothing really. I just don’t dream about them as much anymore.”

The truth sank in with a small measure of flattery and a large amount of confusion.
He dreams about me.

She considered forcing him to say it, just to embarrass him, because she knew he’d do the same to her. The idea caused her to smile as she realized she was thinking of him like she had before the warehouse killing.
And that he’d managed to take her mind off the market and her actions there. She squeezed his hand again.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For being yourself, I guess.”

He stood up with a little evil grin. “Well, as long as I’m being myself, I have to say I told you so.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“When push came to shove, you didn’t go out on your knees, begging for your life. You may not like it, but you’re a meat eater.”

She sat for a minute with her mouth open, not believing he’d actually said what he had after she’d opened up about how the death had affected her.

“Jesus, Pike, it’s not something to brag about. It’s not something I’m proud of. I don’t want—”

“Wanting’s got nothing to do with it. Some people have it, and some don’t. No different from a higher IQ or the ability to run fast. It’s a talent, nothing more.” He pointed to the next room. “And they don’t brag about that shit either, but they do respect it. Which might end up saving their lives someday because they won’t be guessing on how you’ll react.”

It clicked that he was talking as if she was going to stay with them, as if the killing she’d committed had changed her mind to continue. That wasn’t going to happen.

“Pike, I… I think I’m going to—”

She was cut off by a shout from the other room. “Pike, you’d better get in here. Kurt’s sent a message, and it’s about as fucked up as a football bat.”

Pike held up a finger to her and said, “Hold that thought. Looks like we get more fun.”

She watched him leave the room, the conflicting emotions bouncing through her.

35

T

he customs agent didn’t appear to be particularly vigilant, but looks could be deceiving. Standing behind a party of four from the United States, Rafik felt sweat drip down his side. He silently cursed, knowing no matter how well he pretended to be calm, his body could still give him away. He studied the agent to see how closely the man scrutinized the passports.

Rafik knew his was perfect. A copy that couldn’t be discerned from an official Algerian one. It was the Czech Republic tourist visa that concerned him. He had no idea what a real visa looked like and had nothing to compare his against. He’d looked at the loadmaster’s passport, but the man had a work visa for his job with Noordin’s travel agency. It was similar, but different enough to be of little use. With dark humor, he supposed this was a good test. The same people who were providing him with explosives that could slip through customs had made the visa.
If this fails here, then the explosives will fail to get through customs as well. Might as well find out early
.

Before he knew it, he was being called forward. The agent smiled perfunctorily and said, “What brings you to the Czech Republic?”

Rafik beamed and said, “A visit. My first visit to Europe.”

The man took his passport, Rafik waiting on the inevitable barrage of questions, but none came. Before he knew it, he was through and headed to the baggage claim, the stamping and swiping happening so quickly he didn’t have time to realize he was holding his breath. He stopped on the far side to watch the loadmaster.

Because four Arabs with tourist visas and one Indonesian with a
work visa traveling together would cause questions, they had placed the loadmaster in between them. He was the next in line, and if he was going to sound an alarm, it would be to the customs official.

Rafik watched him lean into the window, apparently talking. Rafik gauged the distance to the baggage claim door, calculating his chances of getting out. When he turned around, he saw the loadmaster walking stiffly toward him. He kept the relief from showing on his face, but the incident drove home how much this operation depended on luck, how many single points of failure littered his operational plan.
All it will take is one link to fail. And I have so many more links to build.

He knew it was a single link—a courier—that had killed Osama bin Laden. A single thread that had unraveled, leaving the sheik to face the barrels of the Great Satan’s commandos. He buried the doubts, saying, “Good, you get to live another day.”

The loadmaster said nothing, simply stopping and staring at the other passengers.

“Go get your bags. Call the pilot and tell him to meet us at the plane. Wait for us outside.”

Before he could leave, Rafik touched his arm.

“Please don’t cause unnecessary bloodshed. Wait for us.”

The loadmaster jerked his arm away as if he’d brushed a stove, then walked through the baggage claim door.

By the time Rafik and the others had collected their bags and processed through customs, the loadmaster had made contact.

“He’ll meet us at the plane in fifteen minutes. It’ll take that long to get there.”

“Where is it? At another airport?”

“No, it’s technically at this airport, but all private and general aviation aircraft go to terminal three, which is separated from the main airport by the tarmac itself. It’s about a mile away, but we’ll have to drive out of the airport and down the highway to get there.”

Rafik hailed a cab, having a little trouble explaining to the driver that they wanted to go from terminal two to terminal three. Finally convincing the man that he wasn’t misunderstanding Rafik’s English, they pulled out of the airport.

Reaching the exit for Prague, the driver made one last attempt to ensure he wasn’t making a mistake, pointing at the sign showing the city to the left. Rafik pointed to the exit on the right, reading
TERMINAL THREE
.

The driver shrugged, and followed directions. Winding down a graffiti-painted four-lane road, terminal three came into view. Consisting of several three-story buildings, some modern, others resembling relics from the Cold War, it appeared more like an office park than an airport. As they hit a roundabout, Rafik saw the pilot waiting on the sidewalk and pointed him out to the driver.

The pilot smiled nervously as they approached. When he saw his partner, his face lit up with real joy. He helped them with their bags, saying, “The plane’s here. No trouble. We had no trouble.”

Rafik said, “Where is it?”

The pilot led them into the building, winding down hallways until they could see the tarmac on the other side through the windows. He showed his badge to a man at a desk and exited the building again, turning left toward the general aviation section. Rafik saw the stolen DHC-6 Twin Otter on a pad next to another cargo plane, a Casa 212. Both with the same tail numbers.

“You didn’t repaint the tail?” Rafik said. “Idiot. What if someone sees the two numbers?”

The pilot looked like he had sucked a pickled egg. “Wait. I can’t paint the thing right here. That would only highlight the number. It needs to be brought into scheduled maintenance, inside a hangar.”

He paused, waiting to see what Rafik would do. When no violence or threats erupted, he continued, “I’ll do it this week. I have it scheduled.”

“That may be a problem.”

“Why?”

Rafik glanced at Kamil and said, “You’re going to Montreal, Canada. With some cargo I need.”

The pilot paled. “I can’t do that. I… I—”

Rafik faced him and bared his teeth. “Shut up. You
will
do it. File the flight plan.”

The pilot stuttered, his mouth working but no words coming out. Eventually, he said, “When?”

Rafik looked at Kamil. “It depends. We have a call to make. Show me the cargo.”

Walking up the staircase of the Twin Otter, the pilot popped the clasps on two pelican cases, both four feet by four feet. Rafik opened the lid of the first one. Inside, seated into foam receptacles, were what appeared to be simple metal disks. He pulled one out. Eight inches in diameter, it was slightly curved and would have looked exactly like a lid off of a soup pot except it was much thicker.

Opening the other pelican case, he pulled out a plastic container. This too was eight inches in diameter and about eight inches deep, looking like a soup pot made for the lid he held in his other hand. He lined up the holes on the outside of the lid with the holes on the edge of the pot, the curved side down. The match was perfect, as he knew it would be.