Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (8 page)

5:30 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Jackson stood up, his pulse quickening as he paced through
his shabby motel
room,
white Vicodin pills crunching
beneath his heavy footsteps. He searched his mind for what he knew of the
Carmike Special Security Group.

Everyone in the special operations community was familiar
with Carmike Industries' Special Security Group, or SSG. Jackson himself had
interacted with the teams of contract security professionals in combat theatres
worldwide.

Towards the end of Jackson's tenure in SEAL Team Six, also
known as the Special Warfare Development Group, they had even actively tried to
recruit the highly trained SEAL.

At the time, it had been no surprise. SSG was well known for
aggressively courting former special operators like Jackson, and he had once
been one of the best.

As he paced around his hotel room, he wondered whether he
would be working for SSG today if it hadn't been for the epic failure of his
final mission.

Maybe, Jackson couldn't be sure.

He remembered the slick recruiter all too well.

He'd been dressed in a tailor made suit. He'd treated
Jackson to meals at the finest restaurants in the area. The offer of employment
had been lucrative. Several times his active duty pay to "babysit
contractors", a job which would have given Jackson much more time to spend
with his family.

The thought of his family stirred in Jackson a myriad of
conflicting emotions, and his breath caught in his throat. But he suppressed
his grief, confusion and rage. More than anything, he wanted to find the men
responsible for his family's murder. He had to focus on the mission.

In his mind, Jackson began to create a plan. He thought back
to what he knew of SSG.

Jackson could remember some important pieces of information.
Possibly the most critical was the location of the non-descript office building
where he had interviewed for a position with the firm.

It was in an office park on the outskirts of Norfolk. There
were no distinguishing characteristics, no overt security measures revealing
the nature of the facility. Its main security feature was its anonymity. The
facility could have been the headquarters for one of the hundreds of government
contractors in the area. And from the outside, it was.

But Jackson recalled the covert security measures at the
facility being top notch. He had been impressed by the multi layered security
systems and the highly trained personnel that protected the facility during his
visit.

Not only was the facility protected by high tech electronic
surveillance, but security at the building was staffed almost exclusively with
combat hardened former special operators.

Despite the difficulty he was sure to encounter, Jackson knew
that he needed to get into that facility. He felt certain that if he could
access the heavily fortified building he would find information on Mohammed
Fatal and his associates.

His footsteps fell on the shag carpeting of the motel floor
as Jackson paced from the bathroom to the door, silently counting his steps as
he ran his fingers through his unkempt auburn mane of hair.

Jackson was a wanted man.

It was only a matter of time before the young hotel clerk
realized that the man that he had checked in under a false name was wanted for
brutally murdering his ex-wife and daughter in an apartment complex less than a
mile away.

Jackson was running out of options. But he knew he needed to
get out of the hotel.

As he stepped from the room and into the fading sunlight of
the late Virginia afternoon, he could think of only one place where he could go
for help in a time like this.

He shook his head. This was going to be interesting.

He walked to the parking lot and the former Eagle Scout and
Navy SEAL suppressed his moral qualms as he searched the crowded lot for a car
he could borrow.

He was already wanted for murder. An additional charge of
grand theft auto probably wouldn't much worsen his rap sheet, thought Jackson
as he stepped down the exterior stairwell to the cracked asphalt of the parking
lot below.

Jackson knew better than to steal one of the newer vehicles.
Their GPS and anti-theft technology was a surefire way to get caught.

A smile graced Jackson's face for the first time in two days
as he looked around the parking lot. He'd always wanted to drive a Cadillac.

A 1980's model Cadillac Fleetwood sat parked crookedly in
one of the many spots, its fading black paint job speckled with spots of rust.
The vehicle may not have been in the best condition, but it would serve
Jackson's purpose this evening.

Luckily, the door to the car was open and Jackson tore into
the dash of the vehicle with the Ka-Bar knife he's taken off of the dead
Mohammed Fatal. He twisted the vehicle's ignition leads together and the heavy
Fleetwood turned over.

Jackson sat hastily in the seat and seconds later, he and
his newly acquired vehicle peeled out of motel's parking lot.

Jackson hadn't seen Chief Petty Officer Jones since they had
both left the Navy in disgrace.

He hoped that the retired Chief still lived in the same
place. He turned the Cadillac onto the interstate, the large engine
accelerating the vehicle onto the interstate and towards the city of Norfolk,
VA.

It was around a fifteen minute drive to the Chief's house,
and although Jackson prided himself in shaving time off of any commute, as he
drove through the late afternoon air Jackson stuck to the speed limit.

He was all too aware of the fact he was a wanted murderer
driving a stolen car. He didn't need to draw any additional attention to
himself.

It was a nerve wracking drive. Jackson could have sworn
there was a police car around every corner. But his stress level decreased
considerably when he pulled the rusty Cadillac off of the major interstate and
turned onto the rural access road that led to the home of retired SEAL Chief
Jones.

Chief Jones had always liked living in this rural area on
the outskirts of town. It seemed to suit the reclusive man.

Jackson proceeded down the dirt road in the stolen car,
smiling to himself as he passed the numerous signs that lined the privately
owned road. The signs were hand painted in an unforgiving red hue and read:
Do not enter
, and
Trespassers will be shot
.

The Chief liked his privacy. And after the shame and
embarrassment of his forced early retirement from the SEALs, Jackson couldn't
blame him.

The dirt road narrowed and Jackson navigated the Cadillac
through the trees that led to the small house that Chief Jones had lived in for
years. Jackson took note. The house was still standing, but was definitely a
little worse for the wear. He put the vehicle in park and stepped from the
rusting black Cadillac.

The once pristinely white washed siding of the home was
cracked now, and fading. The tin roof was beginning to rust.

But Jackson wasn't fooled. The solar panels which provided
power to the home were in top shape. The back-up generator housing fifty meters
from the main residence was newly painted. And the well pump was running
noisily in its shed. The Chief definitely still lived here.

"Guess you can't read."

The voice came from behind Jackson and was accompanied by a
distinct metallic click. "You would think I have enough signs up to warn
your type from coming on to my property." Jackson knew that voice.

"Chief," said Jackson as he turned around, very
aware that a weapon was undoubtedly pointed at his head; "it's me. Jackson
Pike. We were in the teams together."

Jackson was now facing the Chief, and the AK-47 machine gun
that the Chief held in his large calloused hands was pointed at Jackson's face.
A wave of recognition soon swept across the tall, black man's face.

"I know who you are. Get off of my property;"
replied the Chief.

He was an imposing man. His eyes remained hard set as the
6'4" bodybuilder kept the rifle trained between Jackson's eyes. The
muscles in Mike Jones' forearms bulged from his simple green t-shirt as he held
the weapon in his highly capable hands.

Jackson breathed in deeply. "I've got nowhere else to
go, Mike." He said, tears blurring his sad hazel eyes.

The muzzle of the Chief's rifle remained trained on Jackson,
but dropped a few inches. A curious and sad look passed across his face.

Jackson continued, beginning to weep in earnest. "They
killed my family, Mike. Leigh and Clementine are both dead. They killed
them."

The Chief's hard eyes softened. He slung the weapon over his
shoulder.

"Come in." He said simply, turning his back on the
weeping Jackson and walking towards the dilapidated looking building that he
called home.

5:35 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Washington, D.C.

The young assassin withdrew his hand from the carotid artery
of the former CFO of Carmike Industries and took several steps back from the
chubby corpse. A small grin touched his face as he tucked his right hand back into
a snug leather glove.

There was no point in taking chances that his prints would
be discovered, he thought to himself as he withdrew a cell phone from the
pocket of his blue jeans.

The boss would be pleased.

The assassin's self satisfied smirk continued as he flipped
open the encrypted cellular device and dialed one of only two numbers
preprogrammed in its memory. The first number, he knew all too well. It was
programmed into every operative's cell phone for emergencies. The second number
was not labeled. It was the number he had been directed to call upon completion
of this evening's mission.

He took a deep breath, pressing the line select key next to
the unlabeled number stored in the small black Motorola's memory. He put his
ear to the receiver and waited. After only two rings, he heard a voice on the
other end of the line.

"Is it done?" The deep voice asked simply,
emotionless.

"The plan is complete as briefed," responded the
young black man as he surveyed the plush Georgetown townhouse.

The voice on the other end did not respond. The operative's
simple statement had told the man two important pieces of information. The
first, that Steve Yaeger was dead. The
second, that
all evidence would point to a suicide as the cause of death.

The phone clicked off in the operative's hand. Clearly the
boss had heard all that he needed to regarding the disposition of Mr. Yaeger.

Intense brown eyes swept the silent townhome once more as
the man who had come to kill Steve Yaeger stepped back from the Italian leather
sofa a few more paces. He finally turned, stalking once more through the still
of the luxurious residence, making a final sweep for anything that would reveal
his presence to investigators.

It only took a moment. His sweep of the premises complete,
he stepped through the back door of the townhouse, careful to turn the lock
behind him.

In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the murderer strode
contentedly down the red cobblestone trail through the backyard which led to
the tall swinging gate of the back fence. The gate was the only break in the
eight-foot wooden privacy fence which surrounded the small back yard.

The broad shouldered young assassin opened the gate and
stepped into the narrow, ivy shrouded alley, the rubber of his work boots
touching the broken asphalt for the first time since he had entered the
residence several hours ago.

He smiled as he stepped to the non-descript white utility
van that waited in the alley.

It would appear he had made another clean getaway.

6:05 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Outside of Norfolk,
VA

Jackson wiped the tears from his face as he fell into step
behind his former friend and coworker.

The hulking figure before him walked purposefully forward
with an athletic bounce as the men stepped to the front door of Mike Jones'
home. As Jackson expected, the thick metal door to the residence was securely
locked.

Mike placed his thumb on a small scanner to the right side
of the door frame and several metallic clicks ensued. Jackson whistled as the
thick metal door unlocked. The former Chief pushed open the two inch thick
steel security door and placed a broad and calloused hand on Jackson's shoulder
as he guided the much shorter man into his home.

Jackson stepped into the residence a few paces before
stopping as Mike turned and typed a key code into a computer screen on the
inside of the door frame. He swung the door shut and Jackson heard three
distinct metallic clicks before the retired SEAL Chief turned back to face
Jackson.

Jackson was impressed but not surprised by the security of
the Chief's home. He had always been careful and highly suspicious of others.

Although the home looked like a simple and dilapidated
double wide from the exterior, the door was solid steel was equipped with
multiple magnetic door locks which could only be opened via fingerprint scanner
or a security code.

The walls of the home were solid concrete.

Jackson looked up and noted that the ceiling was reinforced
with steel girders. Only the external layer of the ceiling was tin, and beneath
the rusting tin of the outside lay thick plates of sheet metal.

Jackson turned towards the windows, which allowed the fading
light of the setting sun to cascade off of the hand build furniture within the
residence. The thick plated glass appeared to be bulletproof.

Jackson smiled, remembering the solar panels that lined the
roof, and the newly painted generator shed outside. He could be sure that the
home was powered exclusively by solar electricity, a backup generator, and
battery power.

He had no doubt that a well provided the drinking water.

The home of former Chief Petty Officer Mike Jones was indeed
a fortress, thought Jackson. It was also about as off the grid as possible in
the modern United States. It was just the way Mike Jones liked it.

Mike pointed Jackson towards the kitchen table. Unlike
Jackson's home, the interior of this residence was meticulously clean and
orderly, with the distinctive feel of a remote hunting cabin.

Subdued lighting shone through the bulletproof windows of
the front room and past the plaid curtains. The refracted light illuminated the
simple leather couch and chair that sat facing one another in the center of the
room.

A television was nowhere in sight. Chief had always been
more of the intellectual type.

Jackson continued to look around for a while before taking
his assigned seat at the kitchen table. He could hear Mike in the other room
unloading and securing his weapon.

Jackson peered around the room, taking note of the hand
built wooden furniture in the home.

Probably most impressive were the book cases that lined the
walls of the home. The hand built shelves were packed with books of all kinds.
Fiction, non-fiction, textbooks, and even religious texts lined the Chief's
walls.

Jackson suspected that the only pieces of furniture that the
Chief had bought were the couch and chair that sat in the living room. Mike had
always been good with his hands, thought Jackson as he stared at the hand built
oak table where he sat.

"I'm so sorry about your family, LT;" said Mike as
he walked from the hallway and sat down at the kitchen table. He slid an open
Budweiser across the table to Jackson and opened one for himself. He took a
long draught.

"Thank you, Mike." Jackson took a sip of his beer
and continued. "I had nowhere else to go."

Words spilled out of Jackson quickly now, as he recounted
his tale of the past several days. He told Mike everything. About how he had
been fired, the tale of the murder of Susan Winters and the man in his home.

Finally, he described the murder of his family. Jackson
pieced the story together carefully, including as much detail as he could. As
he spoke, the former Chief remained silent.

Jackson wrapped up his tale saying, "and so I ended up
here."

He paused. "Mike, I have to find the men who did this,
and I am going to need some help."

"Let me get this straight," replied Mike.
"Roger your story. I believe every word. But you are a wanted
murderer."

Jackson nodded as Mike continued.

"You brought a stolen car to my house."

Jackson nodded again.

"Well LT, a smart man would call the cops and be done
with this situation."

He let the heaviness of his words linger in the air before
smiling.

"But I'm just not that bright, and I hate cops."

"Thanks Chief," replied Jackson, relieved. He took
a sip of his beer. "Can you help me?"

"I think I can help you, LT." Mike replied,
"But first I want to show you something."

Mike stood up and walked to the nearby bookshelf, removing a
small film canister from the shelf. He dumped the contents on the handmade
kitchen table. It was a mangled bullet.

"You remember our final mission together?" The
Chief asked, while Jackson nodded. He dreamed about the mission nightly.

"This is the bullet that they pulled from my leg after
that mission," continued the former Chief, sliding the bullet down the
table towards Jackson.

"I had it analyzed. It’s a Carmike bullet, Jackson. It
is
an
52 grain, M995 Armor Piercing 45mm NATO round.
That's the only type of ammo that the security contractors who work for Carmike
use. The Afghanis don't use that shit." He looked across the table.

"You mean to tell me that Carmike security contractors
were firing on us in that Afghan compound?" Jackson asked the Chief.

"So it would seem, LT;" said Mike, as he scooped
up the bullet and placed it back in the film dispenser.

"I don't know what all of this means either, but
between the bullet they pulled out of me, and the murders of Leigh and
Clementine, I'm damn sure up for breaking in to the bastards' headquarters to
find out."

Jackson smiled, looking into Mike's eyes as he spoke.

"Thank you."

He turned away, taking another sip of his beer as relief
washed over him. As a SEAL, Jackson was glad to not be working alone. And Mike
Jones had been one of the best operators Jackson had ever had the privilege of
serving with.

"So what's the plan, LT?" asked the former Chief
Petty Officer, his eyes taking on a hard set as they began to focus on the
mission.

"Well Mike," said Jackson, "I know the
location of the building and have a decent idea of the general layout and
security protocols. I'm thinking that I'll go in solo, with you acting as my
spotter from the outside. I'll plan on seeing if I can find any personnel files
with known associates or team members of Mohammed Fatal. If there's time I'll
also try and make it in to Susan Winter's office and collect some
intelligence."

"I always did like working with you, LT;" said
Mike Jones, "I like how you keep it simple. But first things first, you
are going to need a shower. I have peroxide in the bathroom, along with scissors
and a razor. A shave and a haircut will do wonders for keeping you incognito on
the road. I'll get you some clothes."

Jackson walked to the bathroom. After a shower, a
rudimentary lightening of his hair, and a shave, he almost didn't recognize
himself.

And Mike was as good as his word.

"Here are some clothes for you" he said, handing
Jackson a pair of black pants and a long sleeved black shirt.

Jackson got dressed and looked in the mirror. He was blacked
out from head to toe. The clothes that Mike had loaned him fit Jackson well,
despite the pants being a little long.

"You look like a new man, Jackson," said Mike
Jones. He was blacked out in similar attire.

"You know, Mike." Replied Jackson, "That's
the first time you have ever called me by my first name."

Mike laughed. "Well hell, sir. If we are going into the
vigilante justice business, I see no need to stand on formality."