Black Flagged (The Black Flagged Technothriller Series) (39 page)

Chapter Fifty

2:15 p.m.

Allegheny Mountains, West Virginia

Daniel rested on a rocking chair and stared out at a vast sea of spruces and firs, which was occasionally interrupted by a cluster of red maples and beech. An unimproved dirt road exited the thick forest and ended in a large field next to an old, gray two-story barn. The field held a dozen cars, with license plates from several different states. He had only seen one car arrive since he had parked himself on the covered porch of the main house, a restored farmhouse. The man who got out of the car looked Hispanic, and Daniel figured he was a former operative assigned to Central or South America. The man had walked behind the main house to a new structure connected by a breezeway.

Daniel had been treated for his injuries by a doctor in the new building and had been fed a hot meal. He still felt dizzy from whatever neurotoxin Farrington had used to disable him. Sanderson had been smart to keep them separated while at this compound. He had seen neither Parker nor Farrington since he had arrived. He had awoken in a stolen car halfway to West Virginia and rode in dead silence with the two of them for the remainder of the trip. Only Parker broke the silence during the initial few minutes. He informed Daniel that Jessica was safely on her way to the compound.

Petrovich wondered how long this place had been in operation. From what he could tell, it hadn't served as a farm in at least two decades. The barn showed signs of permanent neglect, and the majority of the house's restoration efforts had been focused on the inside. Driving up the dirt road, his first impression was that Sanderson had somehow mismanaged Srecko Hadzic's involuntary donation of nearly one hundred million dollars. But upon further inspection, he could tell that the shabby initial appearance was intentional. Subtle camouflage for anyone that wandered down the wrong road and then somehow managed to turn down three more unmarked roads to stumble upon the farm. The compound was secluded, and at the moment, well guarded by patrols and a hidden security checkpoint along the dirt road, far from the house.

He heard the screen door open and glanced lazily in the direction of the front door. General Sanderson pushed the squeaky door further out and stepped down onto the wide planked porch. Out of instinct, Daniel tensed in preparation to stand respectfully for his commanding officer, but that was as far as it went. Still, it shot a blinding pain through his ribcage. His knee throbbed sympathetically as the muscles in his leg also tightened. He might reconsider the offer of pain medications once Jessica arrived, but until then, he wasn't about to dull his senses any further.

The general was dressed in old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, tucked in of course, his tan work boots planted firmly on the deck. He stared off at the dirt road, waiting for his flock to arrive. Without looking at Daniel, he began to talk.

"Feeling better?"

"About what?"

"Moping around doesn't suit you, Daniel. I've built you up as a legend around here, so I suggest you ditch the 'poor me' act and start showing your true colors," he said, burning a serious look into him.

"You're really a piece of work," Daniel said, shaking his head.

"Do you know the first trait I look for in my operatives?" Sanderson asked, leaning up against the weathered porch railing with both hands.

Daniel remained silent.

"Unhampered pragmatism. The test you took while rotting away on that tin can in the navy? It was designed by a team of psychologists to gauge this trait. On paper at least. When I saw your results, I thought there had been a mistake. Your score was off the charts, and I was skeptical. I thought you would turn out to be some disgruntled, sarcastic junior officer messing with the test…but you lived up to the results in person. Exceeded them, even. Others might call you a sociopath, however, I like the term unhampered pragmatist."

"Maybe you should patent it," Daniel said.

"Not a bad idea. I know you're pathologically practical, and you've already moved on. This is how your brain works. Now it's just a matter of figuring out exactly how we can work together moving forward. I need instructors, and you need a safe place to stay off the radar for a while. I have a nice warm weather location in mind, a new training site already built. You and Jessica can start a new life in a familiar setting. Not that phony suburban existence the two of you have suffered through for the past five years."

"Our so-called existence worked pretty well."

"Barely. I know all about your trips into the woods of Maine, with a trunk full of rifles, ammunition and survival gear. Vast tracts of land purchased in the middle of nowhere, so you could return to your natural state for a few weeks at a time and keep from killing everyone in your cubicle block. You kept your skills intact, which is not the behavior of someone who has abandoned their past. You still embrace the true nature we unlocked. I sense the same with Jessica."

"Who are you, Darth Vader?"

General Sanderson laughed. "Give my proposal some serious thought. Did you know that your graduating batch was the most successful in the program's history? One hundred percent survival rate, and they all volunteered to come back. I don't need staff psychologists to tell me that the success stemmed from your influence during training. I need this in the new program."

"I think your concept of the word 'volunteer' is different than mine."

"I know you don't want to believe it, but everyone else did volunteer to join the new program when asked."

"Except for the guy in New Hampshire. How many other nervous breakdowns do you have on your hands?"

"One exception to the rule. An outlier. We need you back, Daniel. I'm asking you to volunteer."

"We'll ask Jessica. If she shows," Daniel said.

"She's less than two hours away."

"Is she?" Daniel asked, and Sanderson shot him a strange look. "I am, after all, the most practical person you've ever met."

For the first time ever, Daniel sensed a momentary lapse of confidence in General Sanderson's face as he processed Daniel's last comment. He saw the general's eyes involuntarily dart to several locations along the tree line.

"In order to truly walk away from all of this," Daniel continued, "I would have to offer up a pretty big fish. A fish big enough to buy me the biggest immunity deal in history."

"You might be pathologically practical, but you're also one of the most loyal soldiers I have ever worked with," Sanderson said.

"You don't sound so confident," Daniel said, leaning back in his rocker.

General Sanderson glared at him for a few seconds and broke into another laugh.

"You're fucking relentless, Petrovich. I look forward to meeting Jessica in person. We have women in the program now, and I lack an experienced edged weapons instructor. Someone with recent real world experience," Sanderson said.

Petrovich stifled a laugh. "Was it that obvious?"

"To me it was. I only had one knife guy assigned to a target. You are not a knife guy, my friend. Far from it. I knew the two of you were onboard as soon as I saw the details in the news," Sanderson said.

"She was onboard. I tried to convince her that your mission had absolutely nothing to do with crippling Al Qaeda operations in the U.S., but she still believes what they sold her in Langley, even after the hell they put her through. I told her I had no intention of carrying out your plan, but she insisted that it needed to be done. That was my mistake…telling her about Parker's visit. I should have skipped town with her that afternoon. Sadly, she's desperately seeking some kind of redemption, and she still buys all of this nationalistic, Uncle Sam shit. A dangerous combination."

"We're all believers here, Daniel. We did the government a favor yesterday. The HYDRA investigation had been ongoing for nearly three years, and they had barely cracked the nut on Al Qaeda. This would have dragged on for another year or two, until it was too late, or somebody tipped off the terrorists. It was a sideshow, but a worthwhile production. I had to remove that file from government custody. We're rebuilding, and the file contained information that could immediately undermine the process. We're going to take the fight to the enemy in ways our government can't."

"And get rich in the process," Daniel replied.

"I never heard you complain about your 'finder's fee,' or whatever you called it to make yourself feel better. I didn't take a cut and walk away like you did. I reinvested every dime of that money into the program and kept it going for an entire year after government funding vanished. Anyway, we won't need to skim off the top anymore. We have the guaranteed backing of some very powerful and wealthy individuals."

"What do you get when you combine my unhampered pragmatism with your undying patriotism?" Petrovich asked.

"A damn effective team," Sanderson said.

"I was thinking more along the lines of body bags and unnecessary funerals. Some innocent people fell yesterday," Daniel said.

"I regret putting you through that. We had some unexpected surprises that led to some unfortunate casualties."

"Unfortunate casualties? You've been pulling strings for too long."

"I feel terrible about the police officer. Not much you could have done about that."

"Really? I appreciate your supposed concern, but you're not the one who saw her shield fall to the pavement along with most of her guts. I don't blame myself at all. I blame you and whoever was pulling the assassination team's strings."

"I've been in your shoes, Daniel. I don't need a lecture," Sanderson said.

Daniel shook his head and stared out into the forest. There was no use arguing with Sanderson. He was a user and a fanatic, who had grown way too accustomed to calling the shots from a distance. Part of him wished Jessica had gone to the feds and cut a deal.

"Is that a helicopter I hear?" Daniel said, cupping his hand to one of his ears.

"Very funny. I'll be inside, working on our exfiltration from the States."

Daniel smiled, and General Sanderson opened the screen door, shaking his head.

Out of nowhere, Petrovich fired a question into the air. "What kind of deal did you make with the CIA?"

"The kind that will keep them off our backs and give us an early warning system. Maybe some new recruits."

"What are you giving them in return?" Petrovich said.

"Capabilities. Resources. All untraceable back to them."

"I'd love to know how you pulled that off in less than thirty seconds."

"Remember when I said there was no such thing as a coincidence?"

Daniel shrugged his shoulders to indicate he really didn't care what Sanderson planned to say next.

"Every once in a great while…I'm proven wrong."

"Any chance of drink service for the legendary Daniel Petrovich? Maybe one of the newbies?"

"I'll have Colonel Farrington get right on it. Welcome back, Daniel."

"Apparently, I never left," Daniel muttered as the screen door slammed shut.

EPILOGUE

One Month Later

7:55 p.m.

Havana, Cuba

Dario and Natalia Russo relaxed in comfortable chairs on the rooftop bar of the Santa Isabel Hotel in Old Havana, which overlooked the tree-lined Plaza de Armas. A small marble-topped wrought iron table sat between them, holding two recently emptied martini glasses. The napkins placed under each sweating glass were soaked to the table with condensation. A warm sea breeze passed lazily through the uncovered bar, compliments of the nearby Gulf of Mexico, providing a small respite from the heat and oppressive humidity. Still not accustomed to the warmer climate, Dario glistened from persistent beads of sweat. Natalia looked unaffected by the heat, but welcomed the breeze.

The couple had arrived at the hotel thirty minutes earlier, drawing envious stares all the way to the small table at the balcony's edge. They were the kind of couple that you would expect to find adorning the sun deck of a private luxury yacht docked in Cannes, France. Dario's tanned skin contrasted against a crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt tucked loosely into dark tailored pants. On his left wrist, an expensive watch shined in the fading sun when he ran his hand through his jet-black hair. Natalia sparkled from two silver cuff bracelets and a thick silver jeweled aquamarine necklace. The straps of her black dress hung loosely over the exotic dark skin of her well-toned shoulders. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, accentuating her strong, angular face, and her eyes were dark brown to match her Argentinian passport.

The Russos were native Argentinians, descended from Italian and Irish immigrants, which on the surface didn't attract any attention. Nearly seventy percent of Argentina's population shared some degree of European descent, mostly Italian. The fact that neither of them spoke fluent Spanish or Italian was something they needed to correct, and they'd have plenty of time to work with Sanderson's linguistic experts once they were in place at the new training compound.

Dario, or Daniel, squinted as the sun slipped below the top of the two-story stone walls of the Palacio de los Capitanes Generales on the far side of the Plaza, casting a shadow across the rooftop terrace. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and a golden amber light poured through the Plaza over the mix of vendors and tourists straddling the sides of the cobblestone streets.

A waiter dressed in an impeccable white suit placed a single martini with two olives on the table between the two of them, removing the empty glasses. Daniel detected a hint of olive juice shaken into the clear, chilled vodka, by the slightly darkened blur swirling through the drink. He glanced up at their waiter, expecting to see another dirty vodka martini descend from his tray.