Suicide Mission (16 page)

“You mean like witness protection.”

“Witsec is different. What we'll be offering goes beyond that. The new identities we give them will be as impenetrable as we can possibly make them, and we won't have to keep them around to testify or anything like that, either. The federal government will be through with them. They can go off and live their lives however they please.”

The woman's lips pursed in disapproval. She said, “In other words, you'll be turning a pair of monsters loose on society.”

“Oh, there'll be some safeguards in place,” Clark assured her. “Madigan and Watson won't know it, but we'll be keeping an eye on them. If they try to go back to their old lives, we'll deal with the problem then.”

The general said, “If they try to kill each other, how can you expect them to function on the same team?”

“By dangling that carrot,” Clark said.

Bill added, “You might not think it to look at them, but Madigan and Watson aren't stupid. They wouldn't have lived this long if they were. They'll cooperate as long as it's in their own best interest.”

“If they get a chance, they'll double-cross you,” the general warned.

“More than likely,” Bill agreed. “I don't intend to give 'em that chance.”

“All right, let's say we agree to those two,” the woman said. “Is that all?”

“Couple more.” Bill changed the image to that of a man in his thirties with big, scared eyes. “This is Jackie Thornton. Small-time criminal from South Dakota who wound up on death row because he murdered his ex-wife's new husband and tried to kill her. He's about as much of an all-around loser as you could find.”

“Then why in the world do you want him? At least those other two are big and tough.”

“Jackie's got something they don't.” Bill tapped a key on the computer, and the screen went dark. “What's he look like?”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked.

“Describe Jackie Thornton to me.”

The four of them glanced at each other. Clark said, “His hair . . .” and then stopped.

The general said, “He's got . . .”

A frown creased his forehead as he tried to think of what to say next. The woman and the man from the White House didn't even attempt it.

“That's right,” Bill said. “You all looked at him, but you can't describe him. You probably couldn't even pick him out of a lineup. Jackie Thornton's just about the most forgettable son of a gun you'd ever want to meet.”

“That's not fair,” the woman protested. “His picture was up there less than a minute.”

“But if I'd shown you the pictures of Madigan and Watson for the same amount of time, you'd remember what
they
looked like, I'll bet.”

“Well, probably. But they're so big and . . . and brutal-looking. That other man . . . why, he looked more like a scared rabbit.”

“Exactly. So if I need to send a man into a situation where nobody's gonna pay any attention to him, Thornton's the man for the job.”

“You said he killed a man. He's a vicious criminal, too.”

“He's a sad sack who worked himself up into a killin' state,” Bill said. “I talked to the chief of police in the little town where Thornton's from. He told me that Thornton never hurt anybody until his wife left him and that pushed him over the edge. Even that took a couple of years to fester before it came out. Thornton held up a grocery store at gunpoint one time, but it came out later that the gun he used was unloaded. He said he just intended to scare people with it and wanted to make sure he didn't hurt anybody by accident. He's not really dangerous.”

“So despite being a murderer, he's not much of a badass,” Clark said.

“That's right. But with Madigan, Watson, Bailey, and Stillman, we got plenty of badasses. We got a demolitions man in Cole, we got an intelligence team in Sinclair and Thornton, and we got a transportation guy in Hatcher.”

“What else do you need?” the woman asked.

“A shooter,” Bill said. “And that one's non-negotiable. I have this man on my team, or I don't go.”

“Well, show us his picture,” the man from the White House said with a tone of impatience creeping into his voice.

“I'll do better than that,” Bill said. “I'll introduce him to you.”

As Bill got up and went over to a door at the side of the room, Clark said with a worried frown, “Bill, you really shouldn't have brought anybody here—”

“It's all right,” Bill told him. “This fella's been here before.”

He opened the door. A middle-aged black man with close-cropped hair walked slowly into the room. He gave Clark a faint smile and nodded, then said, “Good to see you again, Clark.”

“Henry,” Clark said. “I thought you were retired.”

“And I thought
I
was retired,” Bill said, “but here I am, puttin' a team together again.”

Clark glanced down at the legs of Henry Dixon's slacks and said, “But I thought . . .”

His voice trailed off as if he didn't know what else to say.

“You thought right,” Dixon told him. “They're prosthetics, both of them. I spent more than a year in a wheelchair after that mess you pulled me out of in Africa, but then I decided I'd had enough of it. I asked Bill for help, and he convinced his boss to pay for it.”

Clark looked at Bill and said, “I thought I was your boss, but I never heard anything about this.”

“You're my associate,” Bill drawled. “As far as the government's concerned I'm a freelancer, remember? The boss Henry's talkin' about is Hiram Stackhouse.”

The man from the White House made a face at the mention of Stackhouse's name.

“That man's a damn menace. Always questioning the administration—”

“And we all know how questionin' the administration these days gets you on a list of suspected terrorists and traitors,” Bill said. “This country used to elect a president, not a damn king.” He snorted. “But that was before the news media became just another arm of the government.”

“You're distorting everything—”

“Gentlemen,” Dixon broke in, and his deep, powerful voice made everyone else in the room look at him. “If our enemies succeed, we won't have to worry about elections anymore. And they already have a strong foothold for their goals in Mexico. We can't allow any more plots like the New Sun to come out of there.”

Clark shook his head and said to Bill, “Boy, you just told him everything, didn't you?”

“What can I say? I trust the man. He's saved my life a few times in the past. Yours, too, as I recall.”

Clark shrugged and said, “Yeah, well . . .”

“Let me understand this,” the woman said. “This man has no legs.”

Dixon smiled faintly again as he told her, “I have artificial legs, ma'am. State of the art. I can't get around as fast as the Six Million Dollar Man, but I do all right.”

“And once he's where he needs to be, there's not a better long-range shot in the world,” Bill said. “Anybody who's about to waltz into hell needs an angel lookin' over his shoulder.” He nodded toward Dixon. “Henry's my angel.”

“A tarnished angel, to be sure,” Dixon said with a chuckle.

“Good enough for me.”

Clark looked like he was counting in his head. He confirmed that by saying, “You're going to take on a whole training camp full of Mexican drug smugglers and Arab terrorists with eight men and one woman? Those are pretty stiff odds, Bill.”

“You're forgettin' that I'm goin' along. There'll be ten of us.”

“Oh, well, that makes all the difference in the world,” Clark said. “Ten against three or four hundred is much better than nine against three or four hundred.”

“You said you didn't want an international incident—”

“Absolutely not,” the man from the White House interrupted. “We can't have that. It would make us look bad in the eyes of the rest of the world.”

“And every day that givin' a rat's ass what the rest of the world thinks of us takes precedence is a day that a little more of what this country used to be just ups and dies,” Bill said.

The man from the White House sneered and said, “This isn't the twentieth century anymore. It's all about globalism now.”

“I'm an American, by God. Globalism can pucker up and kiss my—”

Dixon put a hand on Bill's shoulder and said, “An argument for another day, perhaps.”

“You're right, Henry.” Bill looked at the others in the room. “Right now, we've got to decide whether we're doin' this or not.”

The general cleared his throat.

“I say it's a go, and I'm willing to go along with your choices for your team, Mr. Elliott. I think some of them are pretty risky, but no war was ever won without running some risks.”

The woman sighed and said, “I'm willing to sign off on it, too, although not without some serious reservations that I want noted.”

“That's going to be hard to do,” Clark told her, “since this meeting never took place and none of us are even here right now.”

“Well, the five of you heard what I said,” the woman snapped. “Just remember it, that's all.”

“Then consider it duly noted, ma'am,” Bill said. He looked at the man from the White House. “How about you?”

“I can't speak for the president—”

“Sure you can. Good Lord, we all know the man's an empty suit and he's takin' his marchin' orders from somebody else.”

The man ignored that and said, “I have some definite concerns, but . . . I suppose this threat is too big to be ignored. I'll advise the president that we should turn a blind eye to your activities.”

That sort of tacit, cover-our-own-asses response was the best they could hope for from this administration, Bill knew, so he nodded.

“I guess it's settled, then. We go in and knock out the camp at Barranca de la Serpiente, whatever it takes.”

“And no one outside of this room, other than the members of your team, ever know about it, is that understood, Mr. Elliott?” the woman cautioned.

“Yes, ma'am,” Bill said.

He could have told her that she didn't need to worry about the team ever revealing anything. The odds of any of them coming back were almost too small to be reckoned. Two words described this job better than any others.

 

The staging area was part of what had once been an Air Force base until it was closed down years earlier when a previous administration had decided that it couldn't afford to both defend the country
and
buy reelection votes by giving away millions of free cell phones like prizes in cereal boxes.

After that the neighboring city had bought part of the property and tried to turn it into an industrial park, only to have that effort fail. Since then the old base had sat moldering in the elements, used only for occasional training by reserve units in the area.

As far as all but a few people knew, that was what was going on now. Just some routine training. That accounted for the occasional truck going out to the old base, or helicopters landing and taking off every now and then.

Bill Elliott met the first of those helicopters. He was standing on the tarmac as the bird touched down. A couple of armed guards climbed out first, followed by a tall, heavily muscled man with a rugged face and hair clipped close to his head. His hands were cuffed in front of him, but his legs were free so he could walk unhindered. Two more guards disembarked from the chopper behind him, and the whole group walked toward Bill.

After nodding to the guards, Bill addressed the prisoner, saying, “Hello, Specialist Bailey. It's been a while.”

John Bailey frowned at Bill and asked, “Do I know you, sir?”

“Think back,” Bill told him. “About a dozen years ago, in a place where it was hot and sandy.”

“Good Lord,” Bailey breathed. “You're that spook.”

“Private contractor,” Bill corrected with a smile.

“I never did know what it was you were up to.”

“You weren't supposed to. You got me where I was goin', and that was your only job, Bailey.”

“No offense, sir, but in your line of work I'd have thought you'd be dead a long time ago.”

“I'm stubborn about stayin' alive. The same seems to hold true for you. You've survived some bad times.”

An unreadable hardness settled over Bailey's blunt face as he said, “My problems are my own fault, sir.”

“Most of 'em, more than likely. But we're gonna talk about it.” Bill turned and motioned for the guards to follow him. “Bring the prisoner.”

A few minutes later, the two of them were seated across from each other at a table in one of the buildings. Bill said to the guards, “You can leave us alone.”

“Our orders are to remain with the prisoner, sir,” one of the men said.

“Well, I'm countermandin' those orders, son. I'm going to talk to Specialist Bailey in private.”

Bailey said, “You shouldn't use my rank. I've been a civilian for a long time.”

“Man goes through what you went through over there, he's never completely a civilian again,” Bill said.

Bailey's massive shoulders rose and fell in acknowledgment of that point.

The guard who had objected said, “You don't want to be left alone with this animal, sir.”

“The prisoner has no reason to harm me,” Bill snapped, “and I still want to speak with him in private.”

The guards looked at each other, and finally the spokesman shrugged.

“We'll be right outside if you need us.”

“I won't,” Bill said flatly.

With obvious reluctance, the guards filed out. When they were gone, Bailey asked, “What's this about?”

“I had you brought here so I could offer you a job, son,” Bill said.

Bailey frowned.

“I'm serving a life sentence in prison,” he pointed out. “I'm not exactly in the market for a job.”

“Maybe the job's in the market for a man like you. And as far as prison goes . . . maybe we can do something about that.”

Bailey's eyes narrowed. He asked, “Are you promising what I think you're promising?”

“I'm not promisin' anything except the chance to risk your life for the good of your country, and a chance to do yourself some good at the same time.”

“Or at least a chance to get myself killed, eh?”

Bill chuckled and said, “You were always pretty smart, Bailey.”

“I don't know about that.” Bailey leaned back in his chair. “The smartest thing to do might be to tell you to go to hell and let them take me back to prison.”

“But you're not gonna do that, are you?”

For the first time since his arrival, John Bailey smiled faintly.

“No, sir, I'm not. Why don't you go ahead and tell me more about this job you've got for me?”

 

 

Wade Stillman came in the next day. The security around him wasn't as heavy. He hadn't killed anyone, after all . . . at least not as a civilian. Bill and Bailey met the helicopter together and escorted Wade into the same room where they'd had their discussion the day before.

Wade was as suspicious as Bailey had been, although he tried to cover it with a cocky attitude. Bill began by saying, “I understand you used to work in a MegaMart.”

“Doesn't everybody?”

“I've done some work for Hiram Stackhouse myself.”

“Stackhouse,” Wade repeated. “You mean the guy who owns the whole shootin' match?”

“That's the one.”

Wade's eyes narrowed as he said, “Something tells me you didn't wear a vest when you were workin' for him.”

“No, I didn't,” Bill admitted. “And if you agree to work for me, you won't be wearin' a vest, either . . . unless it's made out of Kevlar.”

From the corner of his eye Bill saw that John Bailey was struggling not to smile at that one. Bailey succeeded in keeping his rugged face expressionless.

“There's something mighty fishy about this whole business,” Wade said. “All the secrecy . . . Is this some sort of spy deal?”

“Not really. But we have to keep the details under wraps until you agree to work with us.”

“You can't even tell me what the job is?”

“No, just that it's dangerous. It's strictly volunteer, too. If you're not interested, you can leave and go back where you came from.”

“Prison,” Wade said heavily.

“But if you agree, there's one thing I can promise you . . . you won't be goin' back to prison.”

“Because I might be dead?”

Bill inclined his head slightly and said, “Or you might not be.”

Wade thought it over, but not for long. He nodded and said, “I don't care what it is, you've got a deal, mister. Just tell me who I've got to kill . . . or who's gonna kill me.”

 

 

“Do I know you, sir?” Megan Sinclair asked as she looked across the table. Bill was seated on the other side, with Bailey and Wade behind him in white T-shirts, camo trousers, and boots, flanking him, both standing stiff and straight and not betraying any emotion.

“We've never met,” Bill said, “but I know your father.”

Megan grimaced.

“I haven't had any contact with the colonel for a good number of years. I believe he's of the opinion that he no longer has a daughter.”

“You might be surprised about that,” Bill told her. “Could be he still loves you so much it hurts him to know . . .”

“To know that his little girl has become a deserter and a criminal?” Megan shrugged. “You might be right about that. I don't know and I don't care.”

Bill could tell she was lying about part of that statement. She cared, all right. She just wasn't about to let herself show it. She might not even allow herself to acknowledge it, even deep in her heart. But she still cared.

Megan wore a white prison jumpsuit, and even though it was far from flattering, she was still attractive. Bill had seen both Bailey and Wade checking her out, although they tried to be unobtrusive about it. It was easy to understand how she'd been able to get close to unwary male victims all over Europe and help herself to diamonds, art treasures, bank accounts, and assorted other loot.

“You've gotten yourself into a heap of trouble,” Bill told her, “but we'd like to help you out.”

“As a favor to my father?” Megan sounded like she couldn't believe that.

“No, because your country needs you.”

She laughed softly and shook her head.

“I fell for that line once,” she said. “Not again.”

“It's more true now than it ever was. There are threats—major threats—that most folks never know about. We need somebody to stop one of those threats, and most people will never know about that, either.”

“If you really know my father, you probably know I was in Special Forces,” Megan said. “I know all about the sort of threats that are out there. Somebody else can deal with them. I did my part.”

“I'm not disputin' that. But we still need you.”

“Black ops? Counterintelligence?”

“Some of that, but more like kickin' butt and takin' names,” Bill said. “The sort of thing you never really got to do that much of when you were in the service.”

“That's because they had me stuck in front of a computer in some command center all the time,” Megan snapped.

“I'll be honest with you, we need your computer skills, too. But you won't be stuck in a room somewhere. There'll be plenty of excitement, if that's what you're lookin' for.” Bill paused, then added, “Considerin' how you've made your livin' the past few years, I'd say excitement's pretty important to you.”

She glared at him and said, “You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?”

“No, ma'am. But I'd like to try.”

“Save it. You're old enough to be my dad. Maybe my granddad.”

“Didn't mean it like that,” Bill said.

She considered for a moment, then waved a hand at Bailey and Wade and asked, “Are these two part of the deal?”

“They're on the team,” Bill admitted.

“Well, that
might
make it interesting enough to take a chance.” She clasped her hands together on the table. “Why don't you tell me more about it?”

“Can't do that until you give me your word that you're in. If you're not willing to do that, you'll have to go back where you came from.”

“You'd take my word for something that important?” Megan asked, sounding surprised.

“Like I told you, I know how you were raised.”

Another moment of silence went by while she looked like she was pondering the offer, then she said, “All right, I'm in. But it had better be as exciting as you promised it would be.”

“That,” Bill said, “is one thing I don't think you have to worry about.”