All Necessary Force (48 page)

I was certain she was upset at my call to shoot Americans first and ask questions later. Certain she couldn’t see the necessity of the action and was holding it against me, regardless of what she’d told me in the car prior to the killings. I had tried to defend my decisions.

“Jennifer, we didn’t do anything wrong. Everyone we killed deserved it. I don’t want you thinking that you did something immoral. Those men dug their own graves by their actions. There’s no such thing as reading a terrorist his rights when he’s in the middle of an attack, even if it’s inside the United States.”

Jennifer had stopped packing and sat down on the bed, searching my face for something. “What would make you think I was upset about that? I was upset about the damn blood and the fact that Retro was dying, but not what we did. Sorry. I guess I’m not a hardened commando yet.”

I plowed ahead, not even listening to what she had said. “It wasn’t murder. Even if it was in the United States. People don’t follow the rules just because they’re here, and sometimes you have to play on the field that they built. Had we waited, it would have been a larger attack than 9/11. We did the right thing.”

Her eyes flashed anger, and I’d realized I’d overstepped. Misjudged her again.

“I
know
,” she said. “Jesus, is that what you think of me?”

She saw my embarrassment and said, “That
is
it, isn’t it? Because I got upset with what you did in Cairo, you think I’m some kind of peace freak, don’t you? That’s why you kept questioning me. Asking if I had it in me to get the job done.”

She stopped, wringing a shirt in her hand as if she were trying to
squeeze out poison. “You, of all people, know better than that. I may not like running around shooting everything that moves like you guys, but I understand it’s sometimes necessary. I’ve learned a little bit about real-world justice. I mean, really, I killed a man with a rope.”

She threw the shirt into the suitcase. “I also understand that just because it’s done under the umbrella of the United States, it’s not necessarily right. I can see the difference between right and wrong. I’m not so sure about you.”

The comment hit me like a slap. “Jennifer, we talked about Cairo….”

Her expression told me she’d regretted what had just slipped out of her mouth. “I know, I know. I’m not saying you don’t consciously wish you could take that back, but you’ve got some sort of prehistoric subconscious thing going on that doesn’t care about the distinction between right and wrong. It’s like…”

I waited on her to finish, but she said, “Never mind.”

I said, “‘Never mind’? You can’t leave that out there hanging. What were you going to say?”

She cocked her head, searching my face again.

“You know, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure you out, and I have a theory.”

Oh boy. Psychobabble time.

“Everyone operates on some scale of morality. Most people live on the positive side of things. Some operate way, way above, and can do heroic acts as normal events that others would not attempt. Some people, like Hitler or serial killers, operate way, way down on the scale, probably never reaching the positive side at all. Whatever it is, your range on the scale is pretty much firm. A serial killer will never do anything heroic, and a truly heroic person has some built-in stopgap that keeps him from doing vile things.”

She paused. I saw where this was going.
She thinks I’m evil because of Cairo—and it’s permanent
. I suddenly felt nauseous. She was going to leave the company.
Leave me
.

“You, however, are an anomaly. You can, and often do, act very heroically. You have a capacity that very few people on earth possess, but it works both ways on the scale. I think the death of your family destroyed
whatever stopgap you had, and now you have just as large a capacity for evil as you do for good.”

She touched my face. “And you need to find that stopgap again.”

Her words sank in, and I felt an enormous sense of relief. I sat on the bed next to her. “So, if I contain myself, we’re good? If I don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve it, if I prove I’m really on the positive side of the scale, you’ll stay?”

She smiled and patted my hand. “We’ll talk about that later. It’ll take more than just you saying it. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, and like I said at the Taskforce, it may be moot anyway. Although I do sort of like this hero stuff.”

That had been four days ago, and now that I wasn’t worried about going to jail, I was surprised at the level of anxiety I felt flying home to Charleston. To the answer.

I saw my name scroll on the screen. I had made the flight. I went down the gangway, feeling as nervous as a kid on his first date.

Jennifer went through the office with a dust mop one more time. Pike would be home any minute, and she wanted the place to look perfect. He had called earlier in the morning, from inside the airplane of his connecting flight in Atlanta, letting her know he’d managed to snag a standby seat. She’d felt a little thrill just hearing his voice, and it had sunk in for the first time that the feeling was genuine. His absence the last four days had solidified something; it wasn’t about anything he had done for her in the past. The thrill wasn’t misplaced gratitude to him for saving her life. It was what it was: an attraction to the man himself.

She still hadn’t made a decision on what she was going to do about the company. She’d thought of little else since her last conversation with Pike, and had realized that it was really up to him. She knew in her heart she couldn’t stay if he didn’t find a way to control the blackness he held. She’d end up hating him, and she would leave first to prevent that.

She went into their office bathroom, checking one more time to see
if something nasty had magically appeared in the toilet in the last ten minutes. She heard the front door open and someone shout, “Hello?”

Her face split into a smile, and she ran out, shouting, “Pike!”

Standing in the doorway was her ex-husband, Chase. All six feet four inches, oozing false charm.

“Hello, baby. How’s it going? I told you I’d be coming by.”

She felt the terror seize her, and circled the desk, putting it between them. She sat down so he wouldn’t notice her trembling.

“What do you want? I told you not to come here.”

“I just want a little help. Is that too much to ask?”

He clapped his hands, causing her to jump. He smiled at her reaction, making her feel weak and cowardly.
You’re not the same girl. You are
not
the same girl
.

He kept his hands clasped, pretending to survey the office.

“You’re doing pretty well for yourself, I see.”

The door opened behind him and Pike entered the office, awkwardly walking on a cane. Jennifer saw his smile melt into confusion.
Oh no. This just got bad
.

“And you must be the partner,” Chase said. “Really good to meet you.”

Pike shook his hand, saying, “And you are?”

Jennifer said, “Pike, this is Chase, my ex-husband.”

She saw Pike’s face harden, and knew that Chase was now in serious danger. Jennifer had told Pike everything her ex-husband had done, a sort of therapy to excise the fear she still held because of the beatings she had taken at his hand. It had been a mistake. Pike had become enraged, wanting to fly to Texas and confront her ex. She had stopped him, but she feared what he would do now.
He might kill Chase. Literally.

Pike said, “Why don’t you just get the fuck out of here, while you can still walk.”

Jennifer shouted, “Pike! This isn’t your business. Go. Please.”

Chase said, “Yeah, you ought to listen to her. I don’t really give a shit about your injuries. I’m just here for what’s rightfully mine. You say anything else to me, and you’ll have both arms in a sling.”

Like a child poking an alligator lying in the sun, Chase had no idea of the danger he was in. Jennifer knew Pike could kill him easily, even with only one good arm.

She saw Pike begin to close the distance and shouted again, “Pike! Stop! Now!”

He did, although she could tell it was taking all of his self-control.

“Please leave,” she said. “I can handle this.”

Pike’s glare remained fixed on Chase. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

With what looked like superhuman effort, he slowly turned toward the door. She could sense the pain he felt at the act.
But he’s doing it
. She felt a sliver of relief, then realized what had just happened. He was leaving because she’d asked. No other reason. He wanted to beat Chase within an inch of his life, probably wanted to punish him more than anything else on earth, and he was leaving.

I’m his stopgap.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, the fear left her.

He had his hand on the knob, when Chase said, “That’s a smart decision. This isn’t your business anyway.”

Jennifer said, “Pike?”

“Yes?”

She tried to remain serious but couldn’t prevent a smile from leaking out. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I could use a little help here. To keep the fight fair.”

The pain on Pike’s face drained away, replaced by a smile that matched her own. Instead of turning the knob, he locked it.

“As you wish.”

The prologue of this book is fiction, but there is a ring of truth. The one-one of the team was named for my cousin, SGT Dickie Thomas. He was killed running recon for CCS in Cambodia on January 9, 1970, on a mission not unlike the fictional one I portrayed. He was twenty-two years old.

He and men like him in MACV-SOG were and are some of the bravest soldiers this country has ever had, and their story is largely untold. Conducting missions that were damn near suicidal, they went across the fence into denied countries time and time again, developing tactics, techniques, and procedures that are still used by Special Operations Forces to this day. Chris Hale’s actions in the book sound like fiction because it’s hard to believe that such selfless courage exists, but the story is true. SPC5 John J. Kedenburg, a one-zero for a CCN recon team, received a posthumous Medal of Honor for the actions I attributed to Chris Hale, sacrificing himself to save the life of his team member—a Vietnamese.

Before I get a bunch of e-mails about how I’ve put American lives in jeopardy by blue-printing how a terrorist could attack our power grid, the Fort A.P. Hill Ammunition Supply Point, and/or the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant, rest assured I didn’t. Explosively Formed Penetrators are real, of course. We are, in fact, conducting research into nanotechnology to make them more effective. I have no idea, however, how effective, because all that stuff’s top-secret, and I’m not privy to it anymore. It’s fiction in this book. Fort A.P. Hill is also real, as is the ASP. About 90 percent of what I wrote is accurate, but there are a few red herrings in there that are not. Try attacking the place like I described,
and you’ll fail. For instance, the first thing you see when you go in the police station is not a desk in the open; it’s a man behind a layer of bulletproof glass. I won’t tell you the other red herrings, but people who work there will know. Finally, the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Plant is also real, as is the state park. The difference is that the park doesn’t butt up to the plant. There’s about a mile of civilization between them. It would be impossible to attack the place like Rafik does.

Writing of any sort is a collaborative effort, and anyone who says otherwise is either a genius or a liar. Since I’m neither, I owe a debt of gratitude to a plethora of people who helped me with this story. In no particular order, here you go: Bruce, for the information on oil refineries. A chemical engineer for an oil company, and the husband of my wife’s friend, he saved me about ninety hours on the Internet for no other reason than I asked. Lunchbox, for screening my first draft of the Tandem HALO jump. He’s a Tandem jumpmaster who knows more about military free-fall operations than anyone else in the Department of Defense, and he fixed all of my little mistakes. I did, however, change some back for literary reasons. The mistakes are mine, not his. Poacher, for coming up with some cool call signs. I was on a contract with him and complaining about how hard it was to invent call signs that weren’t already used when he started spitting some out. I told him to hold on and grabbed a pen. Finally, a huge thank-you to Tami, a close friend who really took a liking to critiquing Jennifer. Her guidance swung between “Jennifer wouldn’t do that, she’s not a man,” to “Jennifer’s a crybaby. Give her a spine.” It caused me to pull my hair out, but at least Jennifer’s someone Tami would hang out with now.

To my agent, John Talbot, and the entire Dutton team for the phenomenal effort you all put forth on my behalf. I’ve told most of you in person, but one can never say it enough. Ava, my publicist, who is relentless at getting my books and me exposure. Your work ethic is remarkable and very much appreciated. The entire sales force for amazing me with your ability to penetrate just about every single market. And last, but certainly not least, my editor, Ben Sevier, for the guidance and friendship in not only crafting the manuscript, but in helping me navigate this new world. Your instincts are always correct, even if I initially fight them.

Finally, a huge thank-you to my family for putting up with me writing at all hours. My kids have become experts at making me feel guilty (“But, Daddy, I thought you left the Army. Can’t we go play?”) while also letting me work. And to my wife for going through this manuscript almost as much as I did as a first-line reader of some really rough drafts. She would roll her eyes after she corrected a grammatical mistake, and I would claim (incorrectly) that she was wrong. If you find a mistake in here, rest assured she found it before you, but I was too stubborn to change it. As an example, when she was editing these acknowledgments, she added this last sentence:
She’s my rock, and I love her.
I don’t have the courage to change that…

Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.),
is a twenty-one-year veteran of the U.S. Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta, popularly known as Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at The Citadel. His first Pike Logan thriller,
One Rough Man
, was a national bestseller. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.