Clear by Fire (11 page)

Shit, move.

Renee had learned the basics of CQB at Bragg, but it wasn’t until she was sent to the Direct Action Resource Center, or DARC, in Little Rock, Arkansas, that she mastered the lethal art. Under the tutelage of Rich Mason and his Special Operations cadre, the wheat was separated from the chaff.

As heavy metal blasted from speakers attached to the catwalk, they would don their gas masks before entering the blacked-out kill house. Inside, role players armed with Simunitions waited in the shadows to teach them the difference between life and death. Knowing she’d had the best training in the world, she pushed forward.

She was well past the point of no return when she heard a scuffing sound to her right. She crowded the left wall and switched to combat clearing, a technique designed to maximize speed while giving the operator the best chance at survival.

The known threat in the room dictated that she clear that room first, and she dutifully turned her back to an open door. She was playing a numbers game now, weighing risk versus reward. She saw a foot in the corner of the room and was getting ready to take a shot when something slapped her hard in the back. The impact sent her reeling headfirst into the room.

Fighting to keep her rifle up, Renee heard another round zip past her head as she pulled the slack out of the trigger. Knowing she was in a bad spot, she tried to move out of the line of fire without getting hit again.

Fuck!

Renee was a split second away from shooting Dr. Keating in the head, but upon identifying her target, she released the pressure on the trigger.

She felt someone moving into the room behind her, and she turned her head in time to see an AK-47 pointing at her head before three shots punched through the man’s chest.

Her unlikely savior appeared in the doorway, his gas mask still covering his face. The man she’d left outside had come in after her, and not a moment too soon.

The fire was raging upstairs and they could hear wood splintering as it was consumed by the blaze. Any second now, the roof would collapse and they’d all be trapped. Renee grabbed hold of the doctor’s shirt and dragged him out of the room. Pushing him headfirst through the twisted door frame, she paused to check the pulse of the two mangled agents lying in the entryway hall. They were both dead and from the looks on their faces hadn’t felt it.

Outside, the local police had made the scene and secured a wide perimeter as the upper floor of the house caved in. The smoke was dense around the front of the house and Renee pushed the doctor toward the van so they could get some fresh air.

Assistant Agent in Charge Jim Green looked totally defeated as he briefed police commanders and the federal agents who would be handling the investigation from now on. Ambulances carted the wounded off to the hospital as Renee pushed the doctor into the back of the van and slammed the door behind them.

She was sweaty, bleeding, and totally pissed off when she fit a pair of flex cuffs over the doctor’s wrists, pulling them tight. Renee knew that it wouldn’t be long before the Feds took control of their
prisoner; there was no way she was going to retain custody of him after what just happened.

“Listen up, doc, because I’m only going to ask this once. If you lie to me I’m going to shoot you.” She slipped the SIG from her chest holster and pointed it between his legs to make sure he got the point. “I want to know everything you have on whatever you sold Decklin two nights ago. You have less than a minute.”

Dr. Keating looked over at Steve, expecting him to do something. When it was obvious the agent wasn’t going to step in, he tried stalling. Renee’s patience was already thin and she didn’t have time for his games. She slammed the barrel across the side of his face before hitting him in the throat with the web of her left hand. Using the momentum of the throat strike, she slammed his head hard against the metal interior and squeezed.

“You’re going to kill him,” Steve said calmly as the doctor’s face turned red. Renee knew what she was doing, and after a few seconds she released the hold on his throat. Keating gasped for air and tried coughing his Adam’s apple out of the back of his throat.

Holding up his zip-tied hands in submission, the doctor managed to say, “Stop. I’ll tell you what I know.” Renee slipped the pistol back into its holster and glanced out the front windshield to see if anyone was coming. The scene outside was chaotic and no one was paying them any attention—
yet
.

“I was approached by an intermediary from the CIA about my research involving biologics. I was working on a new delivery system that would transport cellular data to the frontal lobe of the brain—”

“Frontal lobe of the brain? What the fuck are you talking about? The CIA doesn’t give a shit about frontal lobes.”

“I swear to you that I thought I was working for the government. You have to believe me. The whole situation was very straightforward until it was time to deliver. I was contacted and given instructions to bring the bio agent to the parking garage. That man yesterday gave me the second half of the money and then there was a lot of
shooting. I had no idea it was going to be like that. I went home and there were four men waiting for me.”

“Who was expecting delivery of the package? Where was it going?”

“I don’t know. I swear it.”

“You better tell me something if you want to leave here in one piece.”

“Please, you have to understand, I thought it was legit. I’m not a bad guy—”

“Doc, save it.”

“I heard someone mention a place called Kamdesh. That’s all I know.”

Renee didn’t know if he was lying or not, and there wasn’t time to find out, because the door of the van slid open. Jim Green stood there glowering, flanked by three men with “FBI” written across their blue windbreakers.

“Dr. Keating, don’t say another word. You are now in the custody of the FBI,” one of the agents said.

“Jesus, Renee, do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?” Jim Green exploded as the FBI agent stepped into the van to grab the doctor.

“My job.”

“What happened to his face?” one of the special agents asked.

“He fell.”

“Cut the shit, Renee. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I promise you that when the chief hears about this, you can kiss your career good-bye.”

“When the chief hears about what?” a man’s voice asked as Renee was stepping out of the van.

Everyone turned to see Chris Thompson, the deputy director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, appear with his aide.

“Sir, this woman is—” Jim Green began.

Chris held up his finger, stopping his subordinate in midsentence. “Gentlemen, I appreciate all of your help, but as you can see
we have a great deal of work to do.” He offered his hand to the FBI agent and, after a firm handshake, motioned for Renee and Jim to follow him.

“Sir, someone in our office will be in contact with you soon,” the FBI agent said.

“Tell your boss that I’m still planning on coming over for dinner tonight, and thank you once again for your help.” He continued walking over to a black Tahoe that was parked out of the way of all the commotion. His aide unlocked the truck and went around to the driver’s side.

“Sir, I would like to brief you on—”

“Jim, save your breath. I think you’ve done enough today. It seems to me that you have a situation you need to handle until your replacement relieves you.”

“But, sir—”

“Agent Green, shut the fuck up and get out of my face.” He watched the crestfallen man walk away before turning to Renee. “I understand you saved a lot of lives today.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” she said honestly. The adrenaline rush was fading fast and the last two days caught up with her in a second. She was exhausted. There had been too much death and some of it was her fault.

“Maybe.”

Chris opened the door of the Tahoe and motioned for Renee to get in.

The deputy director took a seat next to her and told his aide to drive.

“This fuckup is going to start a huge shit storm, and people are going to want some answers,” the deputy director began. “Right now our lawyers are shitting bricks trying to figure out if this little operation was even legal, but that’s not what I’m worried about.” He paused as the driver navigated his way through the mass of cars parked along the road.

As they got closer to the outer perimeter, Renee could see news
vans parked on the perfectly manicured grass of the upscale neighborhood. Their satellite masts were extended, and cameras and reporters were busy trying to beat each other to the scoop as trophy wives and homeowners gossiped and tried to get on TV.

It was a madhouse.

“I want you to know that Joseph was a personal friend of mine. Not many people know that we were partners when he first got the job. I say all of this so you will understand that what happened to him is a very personal matter. That being said, I’ve been contacted by General Swift, who wants you on a plane as soon as possible.”

“Sir, I understand General Swift wants me out of here, but I—” Renee stopped talking as the man next to her raised his hand.

“This isn’t negotiable, I’m afraid.”

“I understand.” She didn’t, but it appeared the conversation was over.

The deputy director tossed a manila folder onto her lap and began speaking as she opened the cover.

“Renee, inside that folder is your standard nondisclosure agreement. If you sign it, you get bumped up to the boys’ club; if not, then nothing changes. You go back to Afghanistan and get back to work.”

Renee scanned the first paragraph before turning to the last page and scrawling her name across the signature line. There was no reason to read the whole thing; she knew what it said, and more importantly what it meant.

Thompson took the folder and stuffed it into his briefcase.

“You ever heard of the Anvil Program?” he asked.

“Rumors mostly,” she began, “some black ops unit that Decklin was attached to.”

“The Anvil Program is something we inherited from the Bush era, but unlike your run-of-the-mill Special Ops unit, this one was off the books. I’m talking next-level classified.”

“So what does this have to do with Decklin and me? I mean, why are you telling me all of this?”

“Two hours after Decklin kills one of my agents, Colonel Barnes, and all his people, walk off the reservation; an hour later every hard drive with any information on the Anvil Program gets wiped out. We have no idea how it happened; all my guys can tell me is that it was an inside job.”

“Okay . . . ,” Renee said, waiting for the punch line.

“All we have left is this,” he said, holding up a thumb drive. Deputy Director Thompson squinted his eyes and looked into the distance. “A man like Barnes doesn’t just give up his career unless he’s got big plans of his own.”

T
he pilot of the Mi-17 kept the helicopter in the fading sun for as long as possible before gaining altitude to clear one of the higher peaks. The Russian helicopter was a relic of the Soviet invasion and until recently had been used to ferry supplies from Kandahar to coalition outposts. A cracked manifold had sent it to the scrap yard, but after a new coat of paint and fresh Afghan army markings, the old warhorse was once again carrying troops into battle.

While the Serbian pilot focused on keeping the ancient helicopter in the air, his copilot kept an eye on the oil gauge. The instrument panel was faded from constant exposure to the Afghan sun, and the glass over the dials was covered with a thick film that partially obscured the white needle inside.

The crew chief’s sweaty coveralls smelled of stale vodka as he squeezed past the soldiers lining the thin skin of the helicopter and made his way to the surprisingly neat row of oil cans bungee-corded below the gearbox. A metal can opener hung from a length of grime-coated rope, where it swung gently in front of Colonel Barnes’s head. The man grabbed the silver tool in an oil-soaked fist and held it tight against the lid of one of the cans. He applied enough pressure to pop two quick holes in the lid before pouring the contents into the gearbox.

Colonel Barnes closed his faded copy of Marcus Aurelius to avoid
the sporadic drops of oil coming from the lines that split off from the gearbox and watched the man toss the can out of the open observation window. He’d paid the crew well to transport his team to the target but would be greatly relieved when they were finally on the ground.

“Colonel, we’re five minutes out,” the pilot said over the radio in his heavily accented English.

Barnes’s rusty Russian was better than the pilot’s terrible English, so he had told the man to stick to his native tongue, but the pilot had refused with his trademark toothless smile. The colonel stowed the book in his cargo pocket and leaned forward to get a brief glimpse out of the cockpit.

His team was conducting their final gear checks as they neared the objective, and to his right Harden leaned forward and spat tobacco on the floor of the helicopter. Barnes tapped him on the shoulder and held up five extended fingers. Harden nodded and wiped the dip spit off his lower lip before passing the sign to the rest of the team.

The smell of jet fuel and burned oil filled the stifling confines of the cargo compartment, and as the pilot lowered the ramp, a welcoming flood of fresh air blew over the waiting soldiers. The colonel unplugged his headset from the helicopter’s communication jack, switched to the team’s internal channel, and checked the black Pelican case that sat on the floor between his legs.

He’d been skeptical that Decklin could deliver the weapon he’d asked for, but the man had proved more resourceful than he’d imagined. The vials of the untraceable nerve agent had arrived a day before they were expected, which gave Barnes the ability to push up his timeline.

It was supposed to be some potent stuff, but Barnes had never been the type to take someone else’s word. He needed to see for himself, and that was exactly what he planned to do.