Day of Reckoning (Shadow Warriors) Read online

  “You think driving right up is a good idea?” Carol asked, looking through the front windshield of the Excursion at the hunting cabin.

  They were the first words she had spoken since the gas station. Harry shook his head. “It’s not, but trying to sneak up on Sammy is a good way to get killed. That’s why I didn’t try to get here last night.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  He sighed. “Yeah. Sammy’s last psych eval before leaving Langley diagnosed him with ‘acute workplace stress’.”

  A mirthless chuckle escaped Harry’s lips. “That’s what PTSD is for a spy…workplace stress. It’s a cute way for the bureaucrats to shrug it off. So let me do the talking, if you will.”

  He paused long enough to see her nod before he shoved open the door of the Excursion and stepped out into fresh-fallen snow.

  The wind was blowing wild and raw through the leafless trees, and Harry reached down to zip up his jacket.

  His fingers froze in place. There, dancing over the fabric of his shirt. The luminescent red dot of a laser.

  Time itself seemed to slow down. The sound of Carol’s door shutting reached his ears, but it seemed distant and faraway. He felt preternaturally aware in this moment, sensing every breath. Every movement. The awareness of death.

  His hand came up, moving slowly, deliberately. “Don’t move,” he ordered, looking back over his shoulder at Carol.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Just stay behind the vehicle and don’t move.” He took a half-step forward, his eyes scanning the ridgeline. Judging from the angle…

  “That you, Sammy?” It sounded lame, but it was as good as anything.

  No response. The laser dot remained focused on his chest, unwavering now.

  With the same methodical motion, Harry pulled his jacket open, shrugging it off his shoulders. He tossed the jacket on the hood of the Excursion before reaching for his holstered Colt with his left hand.

  The gun was of no use to him. Not now. He pulled it out with his fingertips and dropped it in the snow. Backed away.

  A voice rang out over the mountaintop, strangely disembodied but familiar, despite the three years that had passed since the last time he’d heard it.

  “That’s a good start.”

  11:09 A.M. Central Time

  The mosque

  Dearborn, Michigan

  “We need to know what we will be dealing with on the inside,” Tarik announced, spinning the laptop around so that his small audience could see the images onscreen. “Pictures are one thing—but there is so little perspective, so little reality. We need dimensions, a sense of the space. Our timing has to be precise.”

  Jamal al-Khalidi cleared his throat. “It is possible that I could get you the floor plans. I know a couple architectural students at Uof M—they may have access to the blueprints through their program.”

  The shaikh turned that hypnotic gaze in his direction. “This is possible? Without alerting the authorities as to your interest in the building?”

  The college student shrugged, a smile crossing his face. “Hey, this is America, man. Land of the free, home of the brave. And the foolish.”

  Across the table, al-Fileestini’s eyes had never left the laptop. “It is as Jamal says,” he acknowledged, apparently deep in thought as he stroked his graying beard. “Certain freedoms of this apostate land work to our benefit, Insh’allah. However, there may be a shorter way.”

  “And what would that be, father?” Tarik asked, turning toward the imam.

  “As God has willed, one of our number has performed at this very building.” Al-Fileestini raised his hand, beckoning to a man standing by the door. “Call for Omar.”

  Tarik’s eyebrows went up. “The negro?”

  12:11 P.M. Eastern Time

  The CHRYSALIS cabin

  West Virginia

  He’d felt colder winds. It had been colder in the mountains of the Hindu Kush. Intellectually, he knew that.

  Still, he had never run around the Hindu Kush in his boxers. Harry crossed his arms over his bare chest, forcing himself to ignore the cold.

  “Turn all the way around,” the voice ordered from its still-invisible perch somewhere up on the ridge.

  “Satisfied, Sammy?” he asked, performing a less-than-graceful pirouette in the snow. His gaze slid over to where Carol stood a few feet away. Her jacket and the Kahr were laid on the hood of the Excursion, but that was as far as that had gone. So much for equal opportunity…

  A figure materialized from sixty yards up the snowy ridge, the digital camouflage giving him the appearance of the Abominable Snowman as he stalked forward. He didn’t lower the SCAR.

  “Better put your clothes back on, Nichols,” Han admonished, gesturing with the rifle. “Before you catch a cold.”

  Harry held his gaze for a moment longer, staring down his old teammate. Then he reached for his pants.

  “Nichols, you’re gettin’ old. Didn’t used to be that easy to get the drop on you.”

  Harry looked up. “That goes double, Sammy. When did you start trusting women?”

  “Oh, her?” Han asked with a wave of his hand, still keeping his distance. Five yards now. “Carol Chambers has many talents, but she’s not the threat you are.”

  There was something in his voice. Harry shrugged on his shirt over his shoulders, looking from Sammy to Carol and back again. “I’m missing something here. You two have met?”

  Carol started to respond, but Han cut her off. “Not exactly. Chatted a couple times, though. Haven’t we, Legion1337?”

  12:15 P.M.

  A Suburban

  Virginia

  American roads took some getting used to. Along with the fact that the American state police actually needed a reason to stop you.

  Still, Korsakov was glad he wasn’t the one behind the wheel. Yuri, a short, muscular man from Leningrad—St. Petersburg, Korsakov corrected himself subconsciously—was driving.

  “They’ve stopped moving,” Viktor announced from the backseat. “We can reach them in three hours. With good roads.”

  “Assuming they stay there that long,” Korsakov mused. “What type of terrain surrounds them, Viktor?”

  A pause. “I don’t know.” The boy sounded puzzled and Korsakov glanced into the rearview.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Viktor leaned back, running his hand over the stubble of his beard as he glared at the screen of the laptop. “The software is phasing out when I try to pan—no visual on the site. Maybe mountains are doing it. Never seen this before.”

  Korsakov shook his head. Mountains wouldn’t explain the phenomenon. A government installation might…

  12:21 P.M.

  The CHRYSALIS cabin

  West Virginia

  “You did what?” She could feel his gaze on her, cold and accusative.

  “It was a job, Harry,” Carol answered, lifting her face to meet his eyes. “I had sources inside the Pentagon—knew when the files were being moved. It was a simple hack. In and out, all evidence of CHRYSALIS erased.”

  She looked over at Han. In person, the retired SEAL seemed different. Perhaps it was the intervening years—perhaps it was knowing the rest of his story. The big man looked deceptively relaxed as he stood there, the rifle cradled in his hands. “And he paid well.”

  “You know what’s going to happen if they ever figure out who did it?” Harry asked, shaking his head. “You’ll go down—and hard.”

  “Why do you think we implicated Anonymous and WikiLeaks in the attack?”

  She could see Harry’s response forming on his lips, but Han cut them both off. “You know what, the two of you can have this out later. Right now it doesn’t explain what you’re both doing here.”

  Harry looked over at Carol, then back at his old…friend?

  “Mind if we talk this over inside?”

  “I do,” Han replied, steel in his voice. “You’re going to answer my question before we go any fu
rther. What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “David Lay is dead, Sammy. A Russian hit team took him out yesterday morning in Virginia.” Harry saw Carol flinch at the blunt brutality of the statement. Han’s face hadn’t changed.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  Chapter 8

  12:29 P.M.

  The CHRYSALIS cabin

  Most of her time may have been spent with computers, but Carol hadn’t forgotten how to read body language. And Han’s was anything but good.

  They were standing in the kitchen of the hunting cabin, a glass of ice-cold spring water in her hand.

  “What were you thinking, Nichols?” Han asked as Harry finished his story. The SEAL’s face was pale in the light of the fireplace. “You know I’m out.”

  Harry shook his head, determination in his eyes. “Then what are you doing wandering the woods with a battle rifle? Don’t kid yourself, Sammy. No one’s ever out of the game. You’re no diff—”

  “It’s not a game!” Han swore, taking a step forward. His dark eyes blazed fire, barely controlled anger. “Why do you think I moved out to this godforsaken piece of country? I didn’t want to be found.”

  Yeah, he knew that. Had known it from the beginning. But Sammy had changed.

  Harry met the eyes of his friend, his coldness meeting Han’s anger. “You know I wouldn’t have come if there was any other way, Sammy. You have to know that.”

  Han passed a hand over his brow, turning away from Harry to stare into the fireplace. Fire burned away at the wood, sparks disappearing up the chimney. Flickering, devouring tongues of fire. A piece of wood broke in the middle and collapsed against the chimney, the sudden noise startling them.

  “You know, Harry, you haven’t changed a bit,” the former SEAL said finally, his tones bitter. When he looked up, the fire had gone from his eyes, replaced by an ineffable sadness. “It’s all about the mission, isn’t it? Whatever it takes, whoever you have to destroy to get the job done.”

  Harry looked over to where Carol stood, leaning against the wooden island. Emotion warred within him, wanting to deny the accusation, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was the truth. And it didn’t matter.

  “You’ve been there, Sammy,” he replied. “Don’t pretend you don’t know why. You can’t let emotion get in the way of completing the mission. You do, you’re dead. Or have you forgotten?”

  Han sunk back into one of the kitchen chairs. A sigh, and he buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through the stubble of his buzz-cut black hair. “No, I haven’t. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “I’m sure,” Harry replied, watching him closely. The voice had changed, years of past experience coloring the question. And in that moment, he knew that he had won. It was a dirty feeling.

  Han rose to his feet, glancing from Harry to Carol and back again. “You can stay. The hunting cabin has a garage—we can get your vehicle under cover, hopefully before the NRO decides to dedicate satellites to this search. Sorenson still running the show over there?”

  Harry smiled, pushing away the feeling of guilt with an effort. “Yeah, he is, Sammy. I’ll come out and give you a hand.”

  12:07 P.M. Central Time

  The mosque

  Dearborn, Michigan

  “What type of hardware are we talking about?” Omar asked, cradling the laptop in his dark hands as his eyes roved the screen. Yes, this was familiar. Had he closed his eyes, he could have traveled back to that night, the pinnacle of his career. The screams of the crowd—the bestial look in the eyes of the women who had torn at his clothes as he left the building, surrounded by his security.

  Tarik looked momentarily confused. “I do not understand. Hardware?”

  “American slang,” al-Fileestini interjected, his tone apologetic. “He means guns.”

  “Ah!” the Pakistani smiled. “We are prepared—Kalashnikovs for every man of the assault team. It should be enough to overwhelm the security.”

  “You’re talking some serious firepower, brother. Mind if I ask where you think you’re gettin’ them?”

  The hynoptic eyes of the shaikh narrowed in suspicion, but al-Fileestini lifted his hand. “You are in the presence of the ikhwan, Shaikh.” The brothers. “You can speak freely in front of Omar.”

  Tarik nodded at the older man’s reassurance. He took the laptop from Omar’s hands and typed in a command, his slender, almost feminine, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. “We will receive the weapons and conventional explosives from the same man who helped us get into the country. This man.” He moved the screen so that they all could see. “Valentin Stephanovich Andropov. We meet him in five days.”

  1:36 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Bond was not in his blood. Michael Shapiro had known that for years.

  Stress gave him migraines, and he’d had the mother of all headaches ever since the bomb blast that had taken David Lay’s life the day before.

  He popped off the childproof lid of the aspirin bottle in his hand, eyeing the last two pills.

  That was the problem, wasn’t it? He winced as he leaned forward, shaking both pills out into a sweaty palm. He didn’t know that Lay was dead. No one knew.

  Nothing had gone according to plan. Shapiro’s fingers trembled as he reached for the glass of water on his desk. In his mind’s eye, he almost half-expected Lay to come walking through the door.

  It was supposed to have been a clean kill. The thought made him angry now.

  The DD(I) wiped the water away from the edges of his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his cellphone, scrolling down the screen with a thick finger until Kranemeyer’s number came up.

  SEND. Shapiro stared across the office at the wall clock as the phone continued to ring. Over twenty-four hours since Nichols had gone rogue, taking Lay’s daughter with him. That hadn’t gone according to plan either—so far the Bureau was drawing a blank.

  Four rings, and the DCS picked up. “Kranemeyer—go.”

  “Listen, Barney,” Shapiro began, forcing calm into his voice. “I was talking with Director Haskell earlier today and he thought it would be helpful for the Bureau to interview Nichols’ team members. If you’d handle that, I’d appreciate it—just make sure Richards and Parker stop by the Alexandria field office this evening.”

  There was a long pause, so long that for a moment the DD(I) thought they’d been disconnected. Then Kranemeyer replied, “I placed both men on indefinite leave late yesterday, Shapiro. I thought you wanted them out of the loop.”

  “I do—I mean I did—surely you have a way to contact them?”

  “No,” came the flat reply. “It’s deer season—Richards’ spoke of taking a hunting trip. Knowing him, I’m reasonably sure they wouldn’t take their phones.”

  Shapiro stood, walking over to an oaken credenza by the big window. A crystal decanter of brandy glistened in the chill sunlight. Alcohol and pills, the winning combination. He took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Well, do what you can.”

  4:32 P.M. Central Time

  An apartment

  Fargo, North Dakota

  “…the gunman, later identified as John Warnock Hinckley, Jr.” Alicia reached for the remote and hit replay, leaning back against the couch as the footage rolled. The video was raw, grainy, but clear enough. A smiling face, a wave to the crowds. Then gunshots.

  It was probably the tenth time she had watched the video. Enough times to know what wouldn’t work. Enough times to know that she wouldn’t be walking away afterward. And there would be no second chance.

  Footsteps in the hallway outside her apartment door broke her concentration and she glanced at her watch. It was well past time that she should have been grading the math tests that her students had turned in earlier in the day, but she found it difficult to feel motivated. The principal was only going to raise all the failing scores by ten poin
ts. It was part of the legacy of George W. Bush’s No Child Left Behind Act. With school districts frightened of losing what little federal money there was to go around, the solution was simple: everyone cheated.

  She didn’t want to stop and ponder what life lesson that was teaching the kids.

  Alicia’s gaze shifted back to the TV screen and then to the small semiautomatic on the little coffee table. Didn’t really want to think about what lesson they’d learn from her own actions.

  In the end, it didn’t matter. She’d majored in math, but she knew one thing about history: people always learned the wrong lessons from it.

  6:23 P.M. Eastern Time

  The CHRYSALIS bunker

  West Virginia

  Opulence had not been factored into the design plans used by the architects of CHRYSALIS. That much was obvious, even in the flickering, swaying glow of the Coleman lamp in Han’s hand. Harry and Carol followed close behind as he led his way down the steps into the bunker.

  “From the beginning, CHRYSALIS wasn’t designed as a continuity of government installation,” the big man stated, lifting the lantern above his head. Light reflected off the stark concrete walls, casting strange shadows around them. “The whole idea was just to keep the military’s top brass alive long enough to mount a counterattack. You punch me in the chin, I kick you in the groin. That sort of thing—they never planned to shelter more than one hundred and fifty. Greenbrier came later, once the politicians woke up and realized they’d need a place to ride out nuclear winter. Don’t think they ever built bunkers for the civvies. Never have figured out what they thought they’d be governing, what with the rest of the country slagged.”

  Harry snorted. “That’s bureaucrats for you. Cover your own butt institutionalized. Is there any electric down here?”

  A shake of the head. “Disconnected. This whole thing was built to run off a huge diesel generator—I could probably get it up in running in a few hours if I needed to. The cabin’s power is separate from the bunker.”

  “Makes sense,” Harry nodded, moving into the “living room” of the bunker’s upper level. “Do you have a computer?”