Sabotage: Beginnings (16 page)

T
he Black Hawk’s
powerful rotor wash blasted the vacant tarmac then gently came to rest on its landing skids. Justice scanned the area as headlights quickly approached. It looked nothing like Shamsi Airfield. It actually looked nothing like an airfield except for the sparse blinking airfield markers.

Oh shit, where have they taken us?

He tapped the shoulder of the field nurse who’d been tending to Batya in flight. She shrugged him off. The other med tech also ignored him. The matrix of monitors and IVs looked like chaos, but Justice knew they were the best trauma treaters in the business. He tapped again.

“Sir, we’re busy.”

“I see that, but where are we?” Justice asked.

“Ask the pilot,” the other tech said.

The whirl of the bird was still too loud to speak above, so he mashed the headset, “Captain, where are we?”

“I’ll have to let base commander brief you, sir.” The youngish sounding voice replied.

Justice’s fingers crawled around his torso until he felt the familiar sub machine gun stashed behind his back. He wouldn’t allow them to fall victim again. His legs creaked back to life as he began to roll out of the cargo area. Fury grabbed his arm as Jeeps screeched to a halt outside.

“Hold on, Bro,” Fury said.

“Hold on my ass. Why is where we are such a fucking secret?”

Justice dipped his shoulder between Batya and the ambulance attendants. Fury tugged on him, but Justice had had enough of trusting people—even his own.

“Where are we?” he demanded.

“Sir, she needs triage stat,” said the med tech.

He swooped his rifle around to the front of his chest and gripped it with both hands. It remained pointed toward the tarmac, but the intent was made.

“Sir, she needs to come with us, or she’ll die,” the girl yelled without fear of the weapon, or Justice.

“Honey, you have no idea what we’ve been through because we needed to come with someone. Now somebody better tell me where we are, or no one leaves this LZ.”

The pilot’s voice cracked the radio channel, “Sir, last warning. You will be briefed in due time. This is not the time nor the personnel to answer your questions, sir.”

Justice stepped away from the helicopter’s cargo hold and began to circle away from the others. “I want answers.”

“She’ll die,” Fury pleaded.

“They’ll die. I want answers.”

The sharp stab of a needlepoint was the last thing he remembered.

Blurred, Justice’s vision
was slow to come around, but he sensed he was in an office. Not an interrogation room, but a nice setting. His chair was padded leather but he could barely made out the certificates and plaques that lined the walls. It smelled clean here—like Pine-Sol. He would continue to feign being unconscious until he’d figured out what the hell was going on. He heard voices, so he kept his eyes closed while he strained to make out their mumbled words.

“Do you know him?” an unknown voice asked.

“Fury said he’s his blood brother, Justice Boudreaux,” said another.

What the fuck? My own brother ratted me out.

“Is he military?”

“Fury wouldn’t say.”

“Think he’s lying?”

“No, I think it is his brother. Look at that beast—they look identical. I just think he’s in a position where he’s not allowed to tell.” Said the older, more hoarse-sounding man.

“He’ll be up soon. We’re too close for sabotage. I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“We don’t need to fuck with this, let’s just get rid of him.”

Justice’s muscles seized at that statement. It was now or never if he could save himself and Batya. His eyes rocked open, looked left—nothing. He scanned right. There were the two figures talking. He rocked back then lunged forward toward the two.

“Let me go,” Justice howled. His hands were chained to either side of his chair. He was trapped.

“Settle down, just settle down, son,” ordered an older man.

“Settle down? You fucking drug me and handcuff me to your chair. Let me go.” Justice’s arms swelled with blood and effort as the metal bit into his wrists. He bucked like a wild bull against his restraints.

“I got him,” yelled the younger man as he held up a hypodermic needle.

Justice saw a wild-eyed look of fear and aggression in the man’s face. His military uniform had identification patches attached, but motion made them impossible to read. The man moved one step too close. Justice launched his size fifteen combat boot from beneath the chair and planted it square in the middle of the attacker’s chest.

“Stop this!” screamed the older man as the younger one flew over the large mahogany desktop.

“Let me go!” Justice yelled wildly as he pulled like Sampson against his chains. There’d be hell to pay. Where was Batya?

Sweat poured from his head, his torso was soaked in it. Adrenaline had flipped his switch. There’d be no turning it off until he’d killed these two cowards. They planned to get rid of him—he’d heard it himself. His eyes exploded wide open as the younger man climbed up from behind the desk. Justice became frantic. And then he stopped.

“Focus,” he said below his breath.

He grunted and strained until every vein in both arms had swollen like water pipes beneath his skin. His muscles quaked but he wouldn’t relent. Even the two strangers were frozen in shock—their eyes fixed on the exhibit of sheer wrath and will. Suddenly, the thick executive office chair exploded beneath Justice. Shards of wood, leather and tacks flung from the portions still tethered to each wrist.

Justice swiveled to confront his captors. “Now, I want answers.”

The older man back peddled with both hands in surrender. “You’ll get them, just relax and listen to me.”

“No more relaxing. I’ve been through a fucking hell storm because I relaxed to listen.” Justice cracked the remaining materials from his chains until only the handcuffs remained embedded in his flesh. “Where is my partner?”

“Justice.”

It was Fury’s voice. He spun—confused.

“Please, listen. It’s okay,” Fury pleaded from the doorway.

Justice cast a dispassionate eye upon his brother. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, or if Fury had sold him out to save his own ass.

“Then be quick about it,” Justice snapped. “I want to see Batya.”

“I’m Commander Ross of the Joint Special Operations Task Force.” The older man motioned for Fury to leave. “Before I can go any further, Navy Corpsman Boudreaux will have to exit. He’s not classified to hear this information.”

“She’s okay, Justice,” Fury assured as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Red-faced, through labored breaths Justice asked, “How do you know I have clearance?”

“One of my men, JW Colt, recognized you. He vouched and said you were former Delta.” Ross spoke quick and clear. He pulled a handcuff key from his jacket pocket. “Former usually mean current CIA.” He unhinged the cuffs around Justice’s wrists.

“Can’t say I know him.”

Ross stepped back. “He’s a SEAL Team 6’er.”

Justice rubbed each wrist. “Where are we?” His eyes roamed the room until they spotted an open window.

“Northeastern Afghanistan.”

“More specific.”

“Bagram Airfield.”

“What happened to Shamsi?” Justice worked his wrists as purple set in around them.

Ross circled the large desk. Justice turned to sit, but the younger officer had dumped his arrogant frame in the only available chair. Ross reached beneath his desk to toggle a large screen that lumbered down to cover the western wall.

Images from the tiny projector caused Justice to squint. It was a map and a complex with slick arrows pointing from one direction to others. He stepped closer to the screen. It came into focus. It was an assault plan.

“The Goat?” Justice asked without breaking his gaze.

“Yes, The Goat.”

“Level of certainty?” Justice peered at the image of Osama bin Laden.

Ross stood and joined Justice at the screen. “About 95 percent.”

Justice wrestled with a smile that fought to expose his joy. Instead, he steadied his expression. Justice had been committed to serving his country, and after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, his focus zeroed to personally killing bin Laden. While it seemed naïve back then—and many others had made the same vow—it had now become reality thanks to hunting Ben.

Ahh, fuck, Ben Ford is on target to do this himself.

“Something wrong, Agent?” Ross placed a palm on Justice’s shoulder.

Justice bit his lip. He understood Ross had a mission to accomplish, but that didn’t include telling him about his.

“No, Commander. I just can’t believe we’re about to end this. Good work, sir.”

The younger officer sprung from his chair, “To be sure, Agent,
we
are not going to end this. You have nothing to do with ending this.” A squared chin juddered up as his flat, dog face waited to bark more obvious shit against Justice’s optimism.

“Lieutenant, I’d disagree,” Justice growled. “This is America’s fight—and to be crystal clear, we are all involved.”

A flush seeped from beneath the lieutenant’s collar like a high-temperature thermometer reading. He mashed a finger against the controls to kill the projector’s feed then stormed back toward the wall and jerked on the bottom of the screen to raise it.

Ross snapped his fingers twice. The sound was sharp and distinctive. Justice’s shoulders arched back at attention, and he looked around embarrassed. He saw Ross jawing in the lieutenant’s ear. The younger man’s eyes were narrowed and full of ferocity. Whatever it was that Ross filled the lieutenant’s head with must’ve not been what the officer wanted to hear.

Ross walked casually back across the executive office as the lieutenant scissored across the space and pulled the door closed—but not before he shot Justice a fuck-you glare.

“I apologize for this entire scenario, Agent.” Ross signaled for Justice to sit. “The lieutenant is overworked and under experienced. He’s a good warrior but needs the seasoning. Probably end up my boss one day.” An old grin was etched deep around his eyes and mouth. His low-cut flat top slipped back and forth across his scalp as his sunbaked forehead crinkled and stretched over his tanned skull.

“My concern is less about the lieutenant and only about my partner. I’d like to see her, sir.” Justice’s tone held urgency—his concern for Batya was unmistakable.

Ross grunted as he edged his aged frame beneath the desk. He planted a bottle of whiskey and two short rocks glass tumblers on the desk. Justice uncrossed and then re-crossed his massive thighs. Uncomfortable, he pushed himself back in his seat and waved fingers beneath his throat.

“No thanks, Commander.”

“Sorry, Agent. I’ll wait,” Ross conceded.

“No problem, sir. Not on my account.”

Ross set the bottle back in his desk drawer. “Still battling the bottle?”

“No, an asshole drunk for a father,” Justice said. His dark eyes drifted. “I’ve learned to avoid the mistakes he made.”

“Mistakes?” Ross’ eyebrows arched.

“True. There are no mistakes. He purposefully intended to hurt us.”

“Son, I can see that in your eyes.” The commander leaned across his desk and slammed a palm against the clear glass that covered the surface. “Take it from an orphan—let that shit go.”

“No disrespect, commander, but how did this turn into a family counseling session?”

“That young prick lieutenant is a blue blood without a clue of how fucked up this world really is. I thought you could relate.” Ross stood again. He glared through an open window and seemed to inhale the buzz that covered his airbase.

“Commander, thank you.” Justice joined him at the window. The smell of jet fuel and diesel wafted through the open window. “Think we can see my partner now?”

“Yes, I’ll have you escorted to the infirmary.”

Justice shook Ross’ hand before he strode toward the door. Familiar with military bases, Justice sensed a bigger mission—one he wasn’t privy to. He understood it, but wasn’t comfortable with it.

“Commander, I appreciate you getting us out of that situation. It was just a matter of time before those mercenaries would’ve overrun our position.”

Ross locked his glare out the window. “I have no doubt you three would’ve wiped out those CIA hired guns.”

“So you know?”

“Can’t hold this position without proper intelligence. I know you spooks are making a play for The Goat. I thought it was only the Pakistani government that we couldn’t trust. The CIA is worse—much worse.” Ross turned. “No offense meant.”

“None taken.”

“We’ll be moving out soon. Just don’t get in the way. You know how those SEAL Team 6 studs operate—no interference goes unchallenged.” Ross said.

“I’ll watch my step.”

Justice debated whether he should trust Ross with information about Ben Ford. He decided to hold his tongue—the military had enough to consider without worrying if he’d be at bin Laden’s compound. Ross had been square with him to this point, but he’d learned not to unnecessarily confide in others—it placed an unfair burden upon both.

“Enter,” Ross barked at the rap on his door.

“The female is in stable condition and asking for her partner, though she refuses to identify him by name,” the staff sergeant offered.

“Then she’s well trained,” Ross said.

“Commander, thanks again.” Justice hesitated before he followed the staff sergeant who waited to escort him to Batya. “Sir, don’t worry about us, we won’t be inside.”

“Understood,” Ross said.

“Sir, you also have a secure transmission from Langley,” said the young staff sergeant. “You may accept it in our hardened room just down the hall.” Justice checked for his satellite phone, but it had been removed while he was unconscious. His brow furrowed. “Sure, thank you sergeant.” Justice saluted then followed the staff sergeant out of Ross’ office.

The staff sergeant closed and locked the soundproof room down the hall from Commander Ross’s plush office space. The hardened room wasn’t so plush. It was meant for only the most sensitive communications and fax information. He pulled up an unpadded wooden chair and straddled it. His elbows balanced on the tabletop and he sighed as his thick finger mashed his access code.