Guardian (6 page)

Mike felt sick to his stomach. “I'm starting to feel like I snuffed a lot of ­people before they got that chance to correct course.”

“Doubtful. You took out a lot of very bad ­people. Maybe they had a chance at redemption but they also made the call to live the life they lead. Like I said, no one knows when their time is coming. Yeah, you were their end, but it's not like they couldn't have changed course before you came a-­calling.”

Mike snorted. “Funny, that doesn't make me feel any better.”

“Think of it this way: their life was precious but they didn't treat it as such. They chose to damage their souls. Maybe even murder the light in their souls. But how many lives did you save as a result of your action? Sometimes ­people have to be killed. Not for selfish reasons. Not out of vengeance or anger or jealousy. But out of a need to defend other human life.”

Mike rubbed his temples. “I'm so fucking confused.”

“Have you heard of the Just War Theory?”

Mike's eye narrowed. “No. That's something the Agency came up with.”

“More like Cicero and Augustine of Hippo.”

“Are they supposed to mean something to me? Some ancient dead guys said it's okay to fight a war and that makes it okay to kill ­people on orders.”

Greg leaned toward him, fixing him with the intense stare of the all-­knowing mentor he used to be. “Shut up and listen, Mike. Can you do that for a minute or two without uttering any smart-­ass remarks?”

Mike bit the inside of his cheek. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” Greg returned to his normal sitting position. “The theory makes it clear that war can be just and moral if certain conditions are met. One, damage by the aggressor must be lasting, grave, and certain. Second, all other attempts to stop said aggressor must have failed. Third, there must be a reasonable chance of winning. And finally, the use of deadly force must not create evils worse than the evil to be stopped.”

Well, we can justify about anything, can't we?
Mike thought. “So you're telling me the person or ­people I may need to kill check all those boxes?”

Greg nodded. “Unfortunately.”

Mike tipped his head back, exhaled and focused on the ceiling fan. “Why are you doing this to me, Greg?”

“Like before, I'm not making you do anything. I'm just delivering information.”

“And who's feeding this info to you?”

Greg shook his head. “That's not important.”

“I sure as hell think it is.”

“Focus, Mike. I just told you four conditions for which you will be justified to kill.”

“You told me four conditions for which I can justify fighting a war.”

“One and the same.”

“I'll be fighting a war?”

“On an individual level, yes.”

“So I can kill the wolves to protect the flock, huh?”

“Yes, Mike, you can. And you must, if it comes down to it.”

Mike rubbed his forehead. “I don't want to kill anymore, Greg.”

“I know.” Greg looked away. “But there are things going on, things that can't be explained with throwaway lines. I don't understand them any more than you. But I do know there are things in the shadows, things that are not human. These things, however, use humans for their own gain. Corrupt them. Turn them to the outer darkness. Convince them killing thousands of civilians in creative ways is justified. Evil, Mike. And those things and the ­people they twist and mangle to their cause must be stopped.”

“Semyaza didn't use ­people. He possessed them. And I couldn't kill him, remember.”

“Damn it, Mike, I'm not talking about Semyaza. He was an incorporeal entity. His true prison wasn't flesh. It was the earth. Like some of his brethren. But there are others out there where flesh is a prison.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Are you saying there are other things out there imprisoned in human bodies?”

Greg pointed his finger at Mike and flexed his thumb like he shot a gun. “Bingo.”

“Can I kill them?”

“Not with a gun. And before you ask, I don't know the correct way.”

“Well, fuck me. What the hell am I supposed to do then?”

“Find and stop the normal ­people working for them.”

“And stopping may mean killing.”

“Now you get it.”

Mike shook his head. “Swell.”

“I'm sorry.”

“And this falls in line with the Just War Theory?”

“Think about it. The damage by this aggressor will be lasting, grave, and certain. All other attempts to stop these guys will probably fail because they will not stop until they are dead. And the use of deadly force will not create anything more evil than the things manipulating these ­people. So you have to accept the fact you may be required to terminate with extreme prejudice.”

“You didn't mention anything about the reasonable chance of winning.”

Greg shrugged and remained silent.

Great,
Mike thought. “I wouldn't be stopping the real evil, just the puppets.”

“Just the puppets. But if you can undermine their masters' plans, you can keep them from succeeding. That's a small victory, isn't it?”

“I guess I'm at the point where I'll take what I can get.”

“Evil never truly stops, Mike. It just gets new puppets. It adapts. So shall we.”

“So I'm a puppet for good.”

“Don't be a smart-­ass.”

“I don't like it, Greg.”

“You don't have to like it. But it is what it is. Kharija is after you.”

“He's human, right?”

“Yes. Who he works for though . . .”

“Who does he work for?”

“I don't know.”

“But you know whoever it is, it isn't human. Imprisoned in flesh.”

“Yes.”

“So I can kill Kharija and undermine his boss's plans but I can't kill his boss. Not with a gun, at least.”

“Yes.”

“And it doesn't want to find the prisons to guard them, does it? It wants to open them.”

“Yes.”

“But won't it keep coming after me? Just send someone else? If its ultimate goal is to open the prisons and basically unleash hell on earth, I'll always be wanted.”

“Probably.”

“Shit.” Mike shook his head. “I'd be better off killing myself.”

“No, you wouldn't. You've got a part to play, Mike. You're still a good guy.”

“A good guy who's been marked. So I'm also a weapon for the bad guys. And I saw what happens when one of those fallen angels escapes. If it happens again, the blood would be on my hands. How can I live knowing I could cause that?”

Greg didn't offer a response for a few moments. “I don't know how it all works, Mike. But I know that mark you now bear is not a curse. Semyaza imparted something upon you. You received it to bring about a greater good, even if you don't know how yet. The purpose of the mark will come to light in time. Remember, anything can be used for good or ill. It doesn't mean we surrender and give up.”

“No, we fight.”

“It's the eternal battle, Mike. Light versus darkness. Good versus evil.”

“And I'm stuck right in the middle of it.”

“That's right. You don't get to run and hide and you don't get to take your own life.”

“I'm the big winner.”

“Like I said, I'm sorry.” Greg rubbed his hands together. “And I'm sorry I won't be able to see you again.”

Mike lifted his head. “You're ditching me?”

“Things are happening, Mike. I don't know or understand a lot of it. And that's why I won't be coming anymore. Someone else will. Someone better equipped to give you the guidance you need.”

“I won't see you again?”

Greg smirked. “Hey, I've been dead a long time. You should be used to me being gone.”

“I was and then you came back.”

“Don't get all gay on me, Mike.”

“In your dreams.”

“Not anymore.” Greg lifted his hand and waved. “ 'Bye, Mike.”

M
ike woke up. The ceiling fan rotated above. He lifted his head. Where Greg had sat in the dream was bare with the exception of a rumpled part of the comforter.

He dropped his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “ 'Bye, Greg.”

Kharija bin Al-­Aswad. Did the guy really want to open the prisons instead of guard them? Did he really take orders from a supernatural entity imprisoned in a human body? Or, Mike wondered, was his own mind having fun with him?

He owed Kharija an ass-­beating at the very least, but hadn't thought about killing him. And he hadn't expected that finding Kharija would become the number one item on his agenda from the spiritual beyond. Selling Glenn on it being a priority would be a whole different matter.

Hey, Glenn. Nice to see you again. By the way, besides encountering a fallen angel and a secret society of crazy tattooed Arabs, I'm also receiving messages from my dead mentor in my dreams. You remember Greg McDaniel, right? Well, he wants me to find this guy Kharija. You know, the one who planned to cut off my legs? Well, Greg wants me to roll him up right away and punch his ticket since he's taking orders from a demon or something trapped in a human body. Crazy, huh?

Shit. The biggest bullshit debrief he had ever imagined, even if it was all true. Classic.

Mike's thoughts turned to darker truths. He thought about being used to open a prison. He imagined the aftermath. ­People going crazy and killing each other in the most brutal and primal ways. All because a fallen angel had found freedom. Because he had led the bad guys to the prison and was powerless to stop them from freeing it. Because he was some kind of supernatural metal detector now.

“Great.”

He glanced at the Beretta on the nightstand. Maybe it would be better to eat a bullet. Save a lot of ­people from horrible deaths with a quick shot.

The mark is not a curse, he thought.
It'll bring about a greater good.

Right.

Mike turned away from the gun, for now, and prayed Greg knew what the hell he was talking about.

M
ayyat checked the time. Just after midnight. Not too late. The plan was still on track.

He climbed into the car and drove away from Temms's town house toward Georgetown. He had followed the second target earlier thinking it would be the initial engagement. She had proved unattainable at that point, though, because she'd driven to a nightclub in DC and met up with three other female companions. A task like his required a private residence, and her visiting such a public place, and no doubt the hours she would spend there as well as other clubs and bars, had dropped her to second on the list of objectives for the evening.

Now, though, he hoped he might catch her returning or already home. As he did outside of Temms's, he found a spot across from her abode and waited, watching for a light to come on inside or her to walk up. He doubted he would have to wait very long.

His cell phone rang. Mayyat checked the number. Kharija. “Greetings.”

“What is the status?”

“One complete. Awaiting the second one now.”

“Good. Call me when the second is complete. I am in Haifa, ready to commence my end if you fail.”

“Haifa? Interesting choice.”

“I need to maximize attention if it becomes necessary.”

“Very well. I will call you when it is done.”

Kharija hung up. Mayyat set the phone down on the passenger seat and checked the rearview mirror. No sign of her inside or outside yet. He did not want to risk knocking on the front door and have her ending up being dropped off by a taxi at the same time. But if she was already here and did not turn a light on . . .

He checked his watch. One in the morning. He'd give her another half hour before he'd take the chance on the knock.

At twenty after one she arrived, a taxi dropping her off. Mayyat watched her stumble up the gray stone steps of her town house and fumble with the keys before finally gaining entry. Hopefully, she would not pass out before he rang. He wanted to avoid breaking in.

After he counted to ten, he opened the car door and made his way toward her home. Slow and casual and silent. The Glock held at his side, he pushed the doorbell and waited, head turned away from the peephole.

“Who is it?” she said from the other side of the door.

Mayyat remained silent, looking away, making sure no one watched.

“Is that you, Kip?” The dead bolt slid free. “I told you to come over in an hour. I wanted to clean up.”

The door opened a ­couple of inches. A security chain, like Temms's, just above eye level and stretched taut.

“Hey, you're not Kip,” she said, words slurred. “Who are you?”

Mayyat smelled wine on her breath. “Miss Katherine Ellis?”

“Yes. Who the fuck are you? Don't you know how late it is?”

“Yes, I do.”

He raised the Glock and leveled it at the little bit of forehead exposed in the gap between the door and the frame. Her eye grew from sleepy to alert in a microsecond. Her wine breath froze in her throat.

Mayyat slid his foot in the gap to keep her from slamming the door as Temms had. “Do not scream.”

“Wh-­Wh-­What do you want?”

“To be invited in, of course.”

 

Chapter Ten

M
ike sipped coffee and polished off the last of the granola bars while watching the morning news. None of it good. Political corruption, teachers sleeping with their students, asshole celebrities leaking homemade sex tapes. And let's not forget the serial killer loose in the Pacific Northwest or the hundreds of missing kids along the Mexican border. This is what he killed for? To protect pieces of shit like this?

No, he thought, to protect their freedom to be pieces of shit.

His thoughts started to turn to the Johnnie Walker when his cell phone rang. He checked the time before answering. Six sharp. Only one person would call him this early. Hell, only one person would call him.

“Hey, Glenn.”

“Are you caught up on sleep?”

Not really. “Yeah. I'm heading over in an hour.”

“Don't.”

Mike set his cup down on the coffee table. “What?”

“Remember, you don't
work
here anymore.”

Right. How could he forget? “Where do you want to meet, then?”

“Navy Memorial. Two hours.”

Glenn hung up. Mike set the phone down and resumed drinking his coffee. On the news, some ditzy blonde flapping head talked about the murder of a woman in Georgetown. He didn't pay much attention to it until they showed a picture of the victim, then he almost spit his coffee out.

Katherine.

The woman he'd met in Djibouti right before he'd flown out to the
Rushmore
. Katherine, the lawyer for some defense company. Mike couldn't remember which one. He'd been pretty damn hammered that night. More hammered than his norm. But he hadn't forgotten her. Waking up next to her, wishing he could stay with her, wishing he never had to leave their room.

Christ.
The anchorwoman commented on the fact police hadn't released any details in regards to the murder, other than the victim's identity and that she'd been killed in her Georgetown home. It was considered a homicide and the investigation was proceeding.

Mike leaned back on the sofa and rubbed his mouth. A small amount of regret blossomed in his heart as he recalled the night he'd spent with Katherine. He'd thrown her phone number away as soon as he left her, not wanting any attachments in his life, worried that just knowing him might endanger her. It had been his code since Greg's murder. His fear. The reason his daughter lived, for him, in a crayon-­colored heart hidden away in a secret stash. And yet Katherine had ended up a murder victim without any further involvement with him.

She'd still be dead,
he thought.
You just got home. You can't protect someone you're not around.
Even if he'd called her last night, he wouldn't have been able to stop whatever happened. It had nothing to do with him or knowing him.

Maybe. Or maybe she would've wanted to get together last night. Then he could have protected her.
If I kept her number and called her when I got back—­

Stop it.

Mike stood, walked into the kitchen and refilled his coffee. Katherine was dead. Nothing could change that now. Just another tragic end for someone in his life.

His eyes passed over the cabinet with the Johnnie Walker.

Eat a bullet or drink yourself silly?
Either might be better than leaving the apartment and getting more ­people killed.

No, no, no,
he thought and walked back to the sofa and sat down.
You're stronger than this. Finish your coffee and go meet Glenn.

“H
ow's the shoulder?”

Mike shrugged reflexively and then winced.

“That good, huh?”

Mike sat next to Glenn on one of the benches circling the United States Navy Memorial. The breeze moving across nearby fountains kept the area cool even though the humidity was starting to rise. Above, a cloudless sky shimmered with morning light.

“Not bad, I guess,” Mike said. “Hurts when I do stupid shit like move it, but not unbearable.”

Glenn nodded, eyes locked on the statue of the Lone Sailor. “Not sure if you've heard what happened last night here in DC. I know you have your connections, so I figured you might have.”

“You talking about the murder?”

“Yeah. Got the word this morning after I called you. Figured it could wait until we met, if you didn't find out before you got here.”

Mike's eyes narrowed. Glenn didn't know about his relationship with Katherine. At least, he didn't think he knew. Maybe the bastard had found out somehow. “Yeah, pretty sad.”

“From what I hear, she was one of the good ones. Had a promising career ahead of her. Maybe even a star or two.”

Mike leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Glenn, what the hell are you talking about?”

Glenn shifted his eyes from the statue to him. “What do you mean what am I talking about? You just said it was sad.”

“I thought you were talking about something involving a woman.”

“I am talking about a woman.”

“Yeah, but . . . never mind. Who was killed?”

Glenn took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Commander Sandra Temms.”

Now Mike shifted his gaze to the statue. The commanding officer of the
Rushmore
. Dead. Two ­people he recently had some form of dealings with killed the same night? Not good. Not good.
At. All
.

­People are dying just for knowing me. Eat the bullet.

He shook his head.

The mark is not a curse. A greater good, whatever it may be. Remember that. Try to keep believing that.

“She was murdered at her house in Alexandria.”

“Alexandria? She wasn't skipper of the
Rushmore
anymore?”

“No. Got transferred to the Pentagon after it got back from that shitfest you participated in. Not punitive or anything. More like a recover, reflect, and complete-­easy-­tasks-­until-­you're-­ready-­for-­command-­again type thing.”

Mike rubbed his mouth.

“Poor woman was butchered,” Glenn said. “Somebody gagged her and cut her legs off. Let her bleed to death.”

The world seemed to spin around him. Mike's hand moved to his forehead and his eyes closed.

Christ. The legs.

“They think a serial killer's behind it.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two women in the same night. Same M.O. FBI's already taking the lead in the investigation.”

Mike sat back and rubbed his face with both hands. “Two?”

“The other woman was killed over in Georgetown. They haven't released the details officially but a buddy of mine at DC Metro—­”

“She had her legs amputated, too?”

“Yep.”

“Katherine Ellis?”

Glenn nodded. “She's the only one they're reporting on the news right now.”

“Glenn, that's the woman I thought you were talking about.”

“Huh?”

“The woman. When you said you were sorry about the murder, that's the woman I thought you were talking about.”

“You knew her?”

“I spent the night with her in Djibouti before I flew out to
Rushmore
.” Mike couldn't believe the connections now that he said it out loud. “She was a lawyer for some defense company. She was over there reviewing contracts or something.”

“So you're linked to both.” Glenn tapped his knuckles on the bench. “And those fuckheads who kidnapped you were going to amputate your legs.”

“Yep.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Why, though? Why go after these two? It's more than a message.”

Mike licked his lips. “To get to me.”

“They want you that bad even after losing you? What makes you special? And don't tell me it's because you killed some of their ­people.”

You don't know the half of it.
“It all goes back to what was found at site R91.”

“And what was that, Mike? No more bullshit or ducking or vague answers. Time to come clean now that this shit has followed you home.”

Mike hesitated a moment. Then he took a deep breath and told Glenn everything, the story bursting from him like water through a failing dam. The more he spoke, the easier it came, like a confession. It felt purifying.

Glenn listened without interrupting, his eyes locked on the Lone Sailor. When Mike finished, his boss remained silent. Not moving except to blink.

After a minute or two, Glenn finally said, “That is the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard.”

Mike couldn't help but smirk. “Yeah, I'm still having trouble believing it.”

“You expect me to swallow any of that?” Glenn shook his head. “The worst part isn't even the fallen angel and the secret society of mad Arabs guarding a hole in the ground. It's the idea that you, Mr. I-­Hate-­Myself Alcoholic Killer, all of a sudden transformed into a selfless lamb and taming the heart of the wicked monster. Come on, Mike. A kid couldn't imagine something that fucking dumb.”

“I know, but it's true.” And I haven't even told you the part about Greg coming to visit me in my dreams and catechizing me on the difference between just and unjust murder.”

“I should have you committed.”

“Remember what happened in Basra?”

“Yes, I do. But still—­”

“And don't forget the crew of the
al-­Phirosh
. Scuttled their ship hoping to sink Semyaza to the bottom of the ocean. Then they committed suicide when they found out they failed and Semyaza had made it onboard the
Rushmore
with them.”

Glenn held up a hand. “Stop. You're not going to say anything to convince me. Crazy shit happened that can't be readily explained. That's all I'm swallowing. I'd rather have no answers than your answers. And I recommend you forget this stupid shit about Kharija serving some creature trapped in a human body. Christ, Mike. What happened to your brains?”

Mike ignored the jab. “What do you propose?”

“I propose you lay low. Under the earth low. Dig a tunnel or something. Until the FBI runs to ground our mysterious leg severer I don't want your head above the surface.”

“Fuck that, Glenn. They're after me, I need to—­”

“Don't for one moment think I'm going to let you try and find this asshole. No way. This guy Kharija has a major league hard-­on for you, and he's proven he has the means to capture you. Did some digging on this guy, by the way. Know what he was besides a member of a secret society? A top-­tier intel officer in the Mukhabarat under Hussein. Trained by the KGB in the eighties. This is a classic beat-­the-­bush op. They're trying to flush you out, make you expose yourself. That's what they want.”

“So let's give it to them. Kharija needs to go down before any more ­people die.”

I am the good shepherd,
Mike thought.
And I need to kill this wolf.

“I risked a lot saving you once,” Glenn said. “I won't take that risk twice. I can't have you exposed any further, Mr. Rogue Agent. Besides, if you believe what you just told me and they want you so they can find another prison and open it, then you're fucking high to think I'm letting you anywhere in the daylight. Hell, I should bury you in a bunker somewhere.”

Mike rocked back and grunted. “I can't just sit on my ass and let ­people I know get killed.”

“Who else?”

“What?”

“Who else might be in danger? I can feed the names to the FBI and have protection put in place for them.”

“Other than the surviving crew of the
Rushmore
?” Mike thought about it a moment. Other than bartenders, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd met the last few weeks who was still alive that he'd had any emotional tie to. Except . . .

“Shit,” he said.

“What?”

“Greengrass. The Marine major injured in the attack in Iraq.”

“First name?”

“Francis.”

Glenn nodded. “I'll send it over to the Bureau. Assume you've been burned. Grab a spot at a hotel somewhere. Stay inside.”

“Come on, Glenn.”

“I'm serious, Mike. I've heard your story and I've assessed the facts as I know them. Kharija wants you badly enough to have American citizens killed on our soil. And guess what? He's going to keep killing ­people until you're dumb enough to show yourself to him. But know this: none of those ­people are as important as you. So stay low and out of sight. Got it?”

“Why am I so important if you don't believe my story? Is it because I'm your secret killer? Well, I'm not doing any more unsanctioned killings. I'm done with that. You want another rogue cleaner, find a new guy.”

“Whether you're done or not doesn't matter right now. Believe it or not, Mike, my ass is on the line. You end up dead at the hands of some Arab group on US soil, ­people are going to ask a lot of questions. They'll assume an ex-­CIA agent was killed by a terrorist cell. Then they'll dig for more info on you, and I can't afford them digging.”

“All to cover your ass. That's what this is about.”

“And yours, Cochise. Because if this gets exposed and you don't end up dead, you win a front row seat up in before Congress with me and we both serve prison time together. Until we get this situation under control, we need to be smart. Which means you stay hidden. Get the picture now?”

“Yeah, sure.” Until I figure a way to kill this guy without your watchful eyes on me.

“Good. Now get gone. I'll call the FBI and give them Greengrass's info.”