Day of Reckoning (15 page)

“Two of us survived the forty-eight hours—saw the mission through. Turned out Kranemeyer had placed a thousand-dollar wager with the head of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division. He collected.”

“So you made it through—who was the other lucky guy?”

His eyes darkened at the memory, the gray steel of gunmetal mixing with the blue.

“Sammy Han.”

9:38 A.M.

The Allegheny Mountains, near Bickle Knob

West Virginia

The forest was deathly silent, the heavy snow of the early morning covering everything like a shroud.

Snow crunched beneath snowshoes as a large man glided from between the trees, moving with practiced ease over the surface of the snow.
His pants and parka were winter digital camouflage, US Army issue of a few years before. From a few yards out he effectively disappeared into the background.

He stood there for a moment, surveying the scene before him. Movement from down the mountainside caught his attention and he removed his Raybans, revealing a narrow face, sharply-chiseled Asian features. He couldn’t have been much more than forty-one, forty-three at most, but his face—his
eyes
were older. The eyes of a man who’d seen too much of life. Too much of death.

The .308 FNH SCAR battle rifle in his hands came up, aiming down the vale toward the movement. There—the head of a deer came into focus through the SCAR’s scope and a shudder rippled through Samuel Han’s body.

He lowered the rifle and wiped his forehead with a gloved hand. Fifteen degrees Fahrenheit—five below with the wind chill—and he’d been sweating.

It was time to head back, he realized. A person could only take so much. Couldn’t let himself go where he’d gone last time. Too many memories.

Han put the SCAR’s safety back on and turned west. Toward home. A compass rested in the breast pocket of his parka, but he didn’t bother consulting it. Two and a half years patrolling these woods—he knew them almost as well as he’d once known the desert.

So many memories…

9:41 A.M.

West Virginia

“What happened?”

Harry took a look into his rearview. There was a car back there now—last few minutes. Four-door Nissan. Something to keep an eye on. “Happened to whom?”

“Han. With his marriage.” There was an odd tone to her voice, curious but hesitant.

“By the time Sammy got back from Yemen, his kid had spent two weeks in ICU. Life support,” Harry replied, taking a deep breath. “He did eventually pull through—you know what they say about little kids—you keep all the pieces in the same room and they’ll recover, but it was six months before he came home. He never walked again. Sammy took it hard, started spending more time at Langley.”

Behind them, the Nissan turned off onto a side road. False alarm. “It was like it hurt him to be around his family—so he threw himself into his work. The cure was worse than the disease. I stopped by the house one day, had a long talk with Sherri. She wanted to keep things together, but the strain of being a mother, nurse, and wife to an absent husband was grinding her down. Talking with Sammy was like talkin’ to a wall and neither her nor I could get through.”

“And she left?” Carol asked quietly. He nodded. A low, mirthless chuckle escaped her lips.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” she replied, looking back at him. “You’re just the first man I’ve ever heard that didn’t try to blame a divorce on the woman.”

He shrugged, focusing his attention back on the road. Black ice had formed underneath the shadow of an evergreen and he guided the SUV around it. The armored Excursion didn’t handle like your average vehicle. “When a relationship goes to hell, there’s generally enough blame to go all the way around. In the end, it didn’t matter. After the divorce went through Sammy petitioned Kranemeyer to get back out in the field. It took us a couple weeks to decide, but we finally approved his request.”

“And?”

“And the next mission was Azerbaijan,” Harry responded. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her wince. It had taken place before she joined the Agency, but the Azeri mission was legendary at Langley. For all the wrong reasons.

Ten men parachuted into the Azeri winter. Two full strike teams—Alpha and Charlie. Their target: a Russian convoy believed to be transporting nuclear weapons to Iran.

With forty-eight hours to wheels-up, the Charlie team leader had come down with pneumonia. And Sammy volunteered to take his place.

At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Despite his subordinate position in Alpha Team, the Asian had leadership experience from his years in the SEALs.

Harry cleared his throat. “Yeah. Azerbaijan. Ten men in—only five men came back out. Two men got caught up in the mountain cross-winds and never even survived the landing. Sammy was the only survivor of Charlie—it was the final straw.”

“What does he have to do with us being in West Virginia?”

“Everything,” Harry replied. “Two days after returning from the Azeri mission, he handed in his resignation. Sold his apartment and most of what he owned and moved off-grid, to these mountains. It’s a secluded spot, cut off from most of the surrounding world. Just the way Sammy wanted it.”

“And he’s going to be happy to see you?”

It was a long time before Harry answered, debating what he should say—how much honesty was appropriate at this time. But none of that really made a difference, she’d know soon enough.

“No,” he replied finally. “No, he’s not going to be happy at all.”

10:07 A.M.

The warehouse

Manassas, Virginia

One minute. Fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Viktor’s eyes never left the Toshiba’s screen, his breathing shallow as the counter ticked down. It was cold in the warehouse, but the boy rubbed sweaty palms against his ski pants. It was this adrenaline rush that had sustained him through those dark nights in the brothel. The thrill of what he could do, despite his physical limitations.
Power.

“Do we have their location yet?” It was Korsakov, coming back into the warehouse alone. Everyone else was already loaded up in the three Suburbans.

Viktor held up one finger, watching as the locator icon came flashing on-screen. “
Da
,
da
, we do.” His fingers danced over the keyboard, bringing up a Google Maps overlay. “They’re in the state of West Virginia, right
here
. Moving west, maybe fifty-five, sixty kilometers an hour.”

Korsakov slapped him on the shoulder. “
Spasiba
, Viktor, excellent! Take the laptop with you and load up.”

The ex-
Spetsnaz
assassin took a long look around the now-empty warehouse. Everything was clean.

Turning to leave, Korsakov zipped up his heavy winter jacket, covering the Type III ballistic vest he wore beneath. It was time to strike.

10:41 A.M.

Crooked Run RD

Virginia

The snow was turning to slush as the sun rose higher in the sky, beating down on the backs of the two men.

“If you were Harry, what would be your next move?”

Tex lowered the high-powered binoculars and handed them over. “Hard to say.”

Thomas clicked a button on the side of the binoculars to turn on thermal imaging and aimed them through the trees down the hill toward the section of road cordoned off by crime scene tape.

“Are we certain Harry was even involved in this incident?”

“His fingerprints are all over it,” Tex replied, raising himself up on his elbows. “Certain? No.”

“Not having proper intel is a pain in the butt,” Thomas observed. There were still three FBI agents down there, having fun with their forensics equipment. Playing in the snow. That was the Bureau for you.

A nod this time. “Welcome to life in the cold.”

Cold. Yeah, that was true. Thomas grimaced as he rose to a crouch. Water from the melting slush had seeped through the outer layer of his parka.

“Where do we go from here?”

“Harry’s always been partial to mountains,” came Tex’s laconic observation as he gazed westward, into West Virginia.

Their eyes met and something clicked inside Thomas. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably. Do we have a location?”

“Negative. But I know how we can get one…”

11:13 A.M.

The Alleghenies

West Virginia

Having one’s face plastered across every TV in three hundred miles made even getting gas awkward. Fortunately, the mountain wind was cold enough to make the black and red checkered scarf wrapped around the lower half of Harry’s face seem perfectly natural.

“Armoring up an SUV is a tree-hugger’s nightmare,” he said, glancing at the fuel gauge as he climbed back in the Excursion. “Sends your fuel economy plunging right through the floor. My estimate is we’ll reach our destination in another thirty, forty minutes.”

“And then what?”

Harry looked over at her as he put the Excursion in drive. “What do you mean, then what?”

“I want to find them, Harry.”

“Yeah. Well, right now the important thing is that they don’t find you first. Sammy’s cabin is the safest place for you right now. Those were my orders.”

“I don’t think you heard me,” she retorted, a brittle calm in her voice. “I’m going to find the men who murdered my father. And I’m going to see them die.”

“Hand me the maps,” Harry instructed quietly. It took him a moment to locate the road he was looking for. His estimate was pretty close. He looked both ways and pulled out onto the road. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

He could see the bitterness written across her face, the angry retort forming on her lips. He held up a hand.

“Taking a human life…you cross a bridge in your soul. There’s no going back, no matter how much you may want to—and trust me,
you will
.”

He paused before going on, his voice trembling with emotion.
“I was twenty-three when I first killed a man. It’s been fifteen years and I can still see his face, the look in his eyes as he died. God knows how I’ve tried to forget.”

She remained silent and Harry glanced over at her. “He may have been the first, but he was far from the last. All of them the same. I’m never alone, Carol. The ghost of every man I’ve ever killed walks beside me.”

11:47 A.M.

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“I don’t see how I can help you.” Ron Carter’s windbreaker was zipped tight to his neck, against the cold wind blowing across the CIA campus. He glanced around, toward the nearest security guard fifty yards away across the parking lot, then tucked his legs closer together underneath the bench.

“You do realize this call is being monitored, don’t you?” Carter asked in exasperation, turning his attention from his cellphone to the lit cigarette in his left hand. He was supposed to be on his smoke break.

As he watched, the wind extinguished the burning ember. He swore.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said finally. “Give me five minutes to access my workstation. I’ll get back to you from a clean line.”

Abnormal and often-missed meal times were about the only reason for his still-trim waistline, Carter thought. At any normal workplace, the office would have been shut down for lunch.

Not the op-center. Still, a few had cleared out—enough to give him some privacy. He accessed his workstation before opening his desk and reached for what he had styled his “emergency” phone. It was a prepaid cell, technically untraceable. That wasn’t the same as saying Fort Meade couldn’t listen in.

“Listen,” he said when Thomas’s voice answered the other end of the line. “When Samuel Han left Langley, he became a caretaker of government property.”

“A caretaker?”

“Yeah. A decommissioned bunker on a mountaintop in West Virginia, codename CHRYSALIS. Back in the early ‘50s, it was intended as a shelter for top Pentagon brass. A place from which the lucky chosen could ride out the apocalypse. Helicopters were still in their infancy, but some progressive thinking architect put in a helipad so that they could reach the shelter in a hurry.”

“So—what happened?”

Carter let out a sharp laugh. “The H-bomb happened. The bunker had only been designed for bombs the size of the Fat Man, so it was finally decommissioned as an emergency shelter in 1957. Government efficiency being what it is, taxpayers kept footing the bill until 2012.”

“And Han is there now—can you get me an address?”

“Just give me a moment,” the analyst replied. “That type of stuff will be on the DoD servers.”

A few keystrokes and a password request came flashing on-screen. Carter entered his CIA log-in and the database opened.

“Doing a search now,” he announced, providing a running commentary as his fingers worked their magic on the keyboard. What on earth? No freakin’ way…

“Thomas, we’ve got a problem.”

“I’m listening.”

“It looks like the CHRYSALIS file was one of the ones pillaged in the Anonymous attack on the Pentagon. It’s gone.”

“Don’t you guys keep back-ups? Redundancies for just such an emergency?”

“Listen,” Carter retorted, an offended look crossing his face. “I am
not
a DoD track toad, so don’t give me that ‘you guys’ crap. If I recall correctly, the dweebs over at the Puzzle Palace moved a bunch of obsolete files to a vulnerable server just a month before a hacker styling himself Legion1337 launched his attack. Anonymous took responsibility, but Legion1337 was never located or identified and with only old Cold War files out in the open, the DoD decided to cut its losses. If there’s a back-up for the CHRYSALIS file, I can’t find it.”

“Then we’re back to square one.”

“Looks like it…wait a minute.” Carter minimized the DoD database and brought up a background window, his eyes running down the screen. “There’s something odd going on here. The Pentagon files were published through Wikileaks—all except one. The file on the CHRYSALIS bunker. And that’s not all. The cyber attack took place within five weeks of Han’s departure from the CIA…”

Thomas let out a low whistle. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“It’s what they teach you at the Farm, isn’t it?” Carter asked, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Cover your tracks?”

12:03 P.M.

The Alleghenies

West Virginia

Han was out for nearly five hours every morning—a routine he varied just enough to keep it from being predictable.

It was probably senseless, but the morning patrol of his property was near the only thing keeping him sane.

He shook his head as he made his way up the low rise toward the ridge that overlooked the cabin. Then again, what sane man spends five hours of every day wandering through the woods with a loaded battle rifle?

Han reached the top of the ridge and looked west, his eyes opening wide in surprise.

It was a moment of pure, blinding instinct. He threw himself prone, his hands unslinging the SCAR and bringing it to bear.

There was an SUV sitting in his driveway, a blacked-out Ford Excursion. Low to the ground, probably armored.

The type of vehicle executive protection companies used. The type the
government
used.

He took a deep breath and steadied the gun, glassing the vehicle through the SCAR’s scope. Sixty yards. It was an easy shot.

“You think driving right up is a good idea?” Carol asked, looking through the front windshield of the Excursion at the hunting cabin.

They were the first words she had spoken since the gas station. Harry shook his head. “It’s not, but trying to sneak up on Sammy is a good way to get killed. That’s why I didn’t try to get here last night.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Sammy’s last psych eval before leaving Langley diagnosed him with ‘acute workplace stress’.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped Harry’s lips. “That’s what PTSD is for a spy…workplace stress. It’s a cute way for the bureaucrats to shrug it off. So let me do the talking, if you will.”

He paused long enough to see her nod before he shoved open the door of the Excursion and stepped out into fresh-fallen snow.

The wind was blowing wild and raw through the leafless trees, and Harry reached down to zip up his jacket.

His fingers froze in place. There, dancing over the fabric of his shirt. The luminescent red dot of a laser.

Time itself seemed to slow down. The sound of Carol’s door shutting reached his ears, but it seemed distant and faraway. He felt preternaturally aware in this moment, sensing every breath. Every movement. The awareness of death.

His hand came up, moving slowly, deliberately. “Don’t move,” he ordered, looking back over his shoulder at Carol.

“What’s going on?”

“Just stay behind the vehicle and don’t move.” He took a half-step forward, his eyes scanning the ridgeline. Judging from the angle…

“That you, Sammy?” It sounded lame, but it was as good as anything.

No response. The laser dot remained focused on his chest, unwavering now.

With the same methodical motion, Harry pulled his jacket open, shrugging it off his shoulders. He tossed the jacket on the hood of the Excursion before reaching for his holstered Colt with his left hand.

The gun was of no use to him. Not now. He pulled it out with his fingertips and dropped it in the snow. Backed away.

A voice rang out over the mountaintop, strangely disembodied but familiar, despite the three years that had passed since the last time he’d heard it.

“That’s a good start.”

11:09 A.M. Central Time

The mosque

Dearborn, Michigan

“We need to know what we will be dealing with on the inside,” Tarik announced, spinning the laptop around so that his small audience could see the images on-screen. “Pictures are one thing—but there is so little perspective, so little reality. We need dimensions, a sense of the space. Our timing has to be precise.”