Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller Page 3

  Russian.

  When you spend as much time in special operations groups like I have, you inevitably pick up some foreign language skills—enough to get you in trouble. And my toolbox, in addition to English and Spanish, includes bastardized Pashto, Arabic, and a little Russian from a still-classified op in the Ukraine a few years ago.

  So, SAP or no SAP, the Russian presence pushes me over the line in the sand I know I shouldn’t cross with these guys.

  “What the hell are those Russians doing here?” I ask while pointing straight at Casper, the not-so-friendly ghost, and his accompanying trio.

  Jones drops his eyebrows in an I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look.

  “Last time I checked, those bastards left in ‘89,” I add.

  The man just stares me with a blank-eyed expression.

  I can do deadpan better than most, but my attention is diverted to seven men all gunned up in tac gear storming out of the second Chinook behind the spooks and the suspected Russians.

  They’re classic Agency contractors—usually former SEALs or Special Forces. But I don’t recognize any of them. Four are armed with Heckler and Koch MP7s, the unsuppressed version of our MP7SDs, and they take up defensive positions around the compound. One has a TAC-338 sniper rifle, the smaller sibling of Cope’s TAC-50, and scrambles up the hill for overwatch. The last two remain a few feet behind Jones, also armed with MP7s. One is built like a linebacker, though not as tall as Dix and completely bald with a thick mustache. He reminds me of Jessie Ventura back in his prime. The other is thinner but muscular, and has a prominent scar running down the side of his left cheek. Both look about my age, mid-thirties, and regard me with indifference as they stand behind their boss.

  Jones points at them and adds, “We’ve got this, Commander. But thanks for… what happened over there?” He points his chin at the dead Talis we piled up on the side of the perimeter wall. “Your orders were to keep them alive.”

  “Yeah, well, they didn’t give us a much of a choice,” I tell him. “Never seen people move that fast before, ever. As if there were on serious drugs, like PCP, or something equivalent. Bastards jumped over that exterior wall like if it wasn’t there. Totally bat-shit crazy. And there are two more like that inside. One dead, the other wounded. But the rest are non-combatants and there’s even two kids in the back.”

  “Fuck me,” Linebacker tries to whisper to himself while staring at the carnage, but we all hear him. The big man suddenly looks scared. “The shit really works, man,” he continues. “We’re running out of time to prevent—”

  “Zip it, Dumbass,” Scarface snaps at him before looking in my direction and then back at him. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

  Jones briefly rolls his eyes and shakes his head like a father does in the presence of a misbehaving child.

  Yeah. This is really screwed up. My SEAL warning bell is blaring that the darkest of SAPs is happening here, and now it seems there’s a ticking clock component to it. What exactly is working? What exactly is it they’re running out of time to prevent and—

  “Again, Commander. Appreciate the help. But we’ve got it from here.”

  I regard Scarface and Linebacker, before staring Jones in the eye while trying very hard to muster professional control. “Look, I’m all for holding the T-men’s feet to the fire, but I’m not sure what you’re going to accomplish in there. I get it you have an SAP to execute, and after what your big guy just said, I’m not really sure I want to know what it is that really works and what it is you’re trying to prevent. But what I do know is that this is no IED shop and those survivors are not enemy combatants. Plus, there are two minors in the back, probably eleven or twelve years old and—”

  “One more time, Commander,” he interrupts, all emotion suddenly draining from his face. “We’ve got this.” Then he points at the Chinooks. “Take the helo on the right. Be gone in five.”

  My sixth sense continues its earsplitting racket. Something’s way off with this picture, and as I’m considering my response, I spot biohazard labels on a couple of the crates his people are hauling toward the compound.

  Biohazard?

  What the—

  “Now, Commander. Please.”

  “Did you hear what I just said? There are kids there, man. What the hell are your intentions? On top of Russians in your team, you’re also dealing with biohazard materials? Is that what the big guy meant when he said that this shit really works? Are we dealing with bioweapons?”

  Placing his hands on his waist and taking a deep breath, Jones adds in an almost fatherly voice, “Look, Commander, why don’t we just let soldiers do what soldiers do, and spies do what spies do? And trust me, soldier, you don’t want to have any part of what’s going to go down in there. Besides, it’s all far above your paygrade and clearance.”

  “Fine, but the kids come with me.” Then I speak into my throat mike, “Get the two cooks out here. They’re coming with us.”

  “Copy that, Boss,” Dix replies over the squadron frequency. “Heading out now.”

  Jones shakes his head. “Commander, I’m not sure how to say this any clearer. No one is leaving here except for you and your men. It’s non-negotiable. And you’re way out of line.”

  As I’m about to retort, Jones looks over at the two contractors from his tac team guarding his back, and they immediately step closer to him, though they’re smart enough to keep their muzzles pointed at the ground. Scarface, the smaller of the two, takes a position right next to Jones, his eyes on me. They’re dark grey and almost lifeless, like those of a shark. Linebacker stands behind them, looking at me over their heads.

  At the same time, Dix and Murph emerge from the compound. Each is carrying a crying kid over his shoulder and walks up behind me along with Chappy, who’s seen enough to know that something is going down. Dix and Murph walk right past the Russian foursome, and for a moment I think I see Dix nodding at Casper, who looks like he returns the nod before continuing into the compound.

  What the hell was that?

  But before I can say anything, Jones says, “Dix?”

  The large SEAL stops and stares at the OGA man for a moment, before saying, “Long time, sir.”

  “Is this your idea of taking a break, Buddy?” Jones asks.

  Dix just shrugs. “Thought about doing something easier for a change.”

  I narrow my eyes at the comment. Nothing about being a combat swimmer is easy. In fact, it’s in our damn motto: the only easy day was yesterday.

  “Hey, Dix,” Scarface says. “Long time, Brother.”

  “Hey, M.K.,” Dix replies just as Linebacker behind them raises his square chin and cracks a half smile at the New Jersey native, revealing a space between his two front teeth.

  “Hey, man,” Dix says. “Still at it with that crew, huh?”

  “Gotta pay the bills, Brother,” Linebacker replies in a booming voice.

  “Dix?” I finally ask. “You know these guys?”

  Still shouldering the flex-cuffed kid, the SEAL gives me a nod, then says, “Prior life.”

  “Who the hell are they?”

  Dix shakes his head. “Can’t say, Boss.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought you knew—”

  “That’s right, Commander,” Ponytail Jones interjects. “He talks, and he’s on the next plane to Leaven-fucking-worth.”

  “And into a hole so deep there’s no echo,” adds Scarface.

  “Come again?” I ask, now thoroughly confused.

  “Agency rules, Boss,” Dix says.

  “Glad you remember,” Jones says, before focusing his blue lasers on me and adding, “Like I said, Commander. No one leaves except for you and your men.”

  Almost on cue, Dix sets the kid on the ground and motions Murph to do the same.

  What the hell?

  �
�Tick tock, Commander,” says Jones.

  I look back at Jones. “Wait—what the—we’re taking those kids with—”

  “We’re leaving, Boss. Like now,” Dix says. “You don’t want any part of what’s going to go down in there. Trust me.”

  I blink at that. It’s almost verbatim to what—

  “Listen to your man, Commander,” Jones says.

  “Yeah, Commander,” adds Scarface next to him. “Pretty please.”

  “With sugar on top,” adds Linebacker.

  “Fly the fuck out,” finishes Scarface.

  I’m shifting my gaze between these characters and Dix, the biggest and meanest operator in all of the teams, whom I’ve never seen yield to anyone.

  “Seriously, Dix?”

  “Never been more serious in my life, Boss. Time to roll.”

  “For the last time, Commander,” Jones insists. “Please, listen to him. This is so far above your paygrade you’ll need oxygen.”

  At my continued hesitance, Jones gives me that creepy leer again while holding up five fingers. “Mike Oscar, Commander, in five mikes. Be gone. Tick… tick… tick.”

  He then pats Dix on the back, says, “Glad you’re doing well, Brother,” and walks off to join the entourage of OGA personnel, the Russian foursome, and all the damn gear streaming past the gate.

  Dix, who seems to have assumed temporary command, tells Cope to get his ass down here. Then without looking at me, the large SEAL starts heading for one of the Chinooks.

  Murph looks at me, then Chappy, shrugs, and follows the Jersey giant.

  “Well, I reckon we’re getting the heck out of Dodge,” Chappy then says with his Texas drawl, also scrambling after them, leaving me standing there wondering what the hell just happened.

  And just as I think things can’t get any weirder, I spot Cope strolling down the hill with his fifty-caliber beast slung behind his left shoulder. The barrel looks like a damn antenna. I guess snipers must all think alike, because he crosses paths with Jones’ sniper heading up the same hill, probably going for the same vantage point. The two pause for a moment, exchange a few words, pat each other on the shoulder, and continue on their respective merry ways.

  Seriously?

  Cope reaches the helo before I do, and he takes his seat next to Dix. Murph is further up the spacious cabin curled up across two seats and probably already sleeping. Ditto for Chappy.

  As I make my way up the ramp, I catch Dix and Cope whispering to each other, but they quickly stop the chatter when I join them.

  “So, you know those spooks, too?” I ask Cope point blank.

  “Who?” he asks, staring at me with his bearded poker face and setting the TAC-50 between his legs as I hear the twin turbine spooling up while the rear ramp lifts.

  “Really, Cope? The sniper you just spoke to? Who is he?”

  He shrugs. “Just another fellow shooter, Law. We were comparing TACs. Told him mine was bigger than his.”

  Dix grins, but Cope just keeps staring at me with his Delta sniper face. His eyes are as dark as his hair.

  “Yeah,” I say. “And I have asshole written all over my forehead.”

  Chapter 3

  Four hours later we’re having chow at NIAGARA, the name of Dining Facility #1, or DFAC #1 at Kandahar Airfield.

  “Who cares what the truth is, Law,” offers Murph while chewing on a strip of bacon across from me. “I read somewhere that it doesn’t always set you free. Just the opposite, it has a way of biting you in the ass.”

  My second-in-command, team medic, and now apparently part-time philosopher, looks pint size next to Dix’s bulk, and so does his food tray housing just a couple of fried eggs and bacon.

  I stare at the Jersey native, who actually knows the name of those OGA assholes and at least one of those Russians, and who could most certainly shed some light on this.

  But apparently, he’s sworn to secrecy.

  The man is choosing to focus his energy on finishing the first of two omelets, a generous serving of breakfast potatoes, a stack of pancakes doused in maple syrup, and three chocolate milks—not to mention the Afghan meal he consumed in Compound 35.

  But it doesn’t matter how much I stare at him. It’s become evident he’s going to ignore my conversation while eating like the Army grunt he is, with his massive left arm planted around his chow, like a shield.

  “Didn’t know you could read, Murph,” said Chappy, who sits to my right while working his way through a couple of Belgian waffles, which the El Paso native chews with his mouth open while winking at Murph. “Much less comprehend.”

  Murph regards my demolition man before smiling without humor, takes another bite of his bacon, and turns back to me. “Seriously, Law. I wouldn’t pursue it any more. You told the colonel what you saw, and you should leave it at that. Let those spooks be.”

  “Wise words, Lawson,” says USMC Colonel Jim “Pit Bull” Granite, occupying the head of the table to my immediate left. He’s an old-school officer from Marine Corps Base Quantico, where the corps keeps most of its training schools, including the officer candidate school, basic, and the USMC University. Quantico also houses the FBI Academy as well as the DEA and NCIS Training Academies.

  Back in 2003, I served under Granite, then a captain, in Iraq during my first two years as a jarhead in Operation Iraqi Freedom. I was a baby back then, barely nineteen, and I grew to respect him as an officer who cared more for his troops than his career.

  During my second month clearing neighborhoods in Baghdad, our patrol was ambushed, resulting in my first fiery exchange with insurgents. It was a very up-close and personal battle, culminating for me in hand-to-hand combat when the largest haji I’ve ever seen pulled me through an open window and tried to stab me in the face with one of those curved Persian knives, a janbiya. I mean, this bastard was big and strong with a big-ass knife. But I was still able to overpower him, pinning the brute against the floor and squeezing his throat until the life oozed from his dark eyes.

  I realized at that moment that there were two casualties in that room. The dead insurgent, and the kid I was before becoming a killer.

  And as I stood there in the shock that followed taking a life for the first time, especially one so in-your-face, two more insurgents stormed the room. But neither got anywhere close to me. Granite shot them dead through the same window I got pulled through a minute before, and then he screamed at me to “get the fuck over it and rejoin the fight outside.”

  But in addition to saving my bacon that day, Granite also served in the same unit as Uncle D. years before, in a couple of the initial Afghan campaigns following the attacks on September 11, 2001.

  Granite got his nickname from a pronounced jawline that makes his face appear bottom-heavy, wider than his small ears. Completely bald and attached to a bull neck and a stocky frame, only adds to the fighting dog look. The man truly looks like he could eat granite in his breakfast cereal with those damn jaws.

  But this morning the colonel is only drinking black coffee from an extra-large mug, which he carries around KAF almost as a prop. It has the image of a gray pit bull wearing a spiked collar and smoking a cigar.

  “I second that,” Cope decides to chime in from the opposite head of the table. The former Delta sniper is sticking to black coffee this morning—and also to his story about those spooks. He regards me with a move-the-fuck-on glare on his bearded face.

  I consider challenging Cope to fess up on what he knows, but instead I just stare at my own cup of coffee while considering their unified advice. Dix is cutting into his pancakes and shoveling them in his mouth, chewing while closing his eyes, apparently savoring the sugar bullet. A trickle of maple syrup drips from the corner of his mouth, which he wipes with the sleeve of his camo shirt. I’m also this close from dragging the Jersey boy into the conversation but decide against it. I have to respect the fact
that he, and apparently also Cope, took an oath to protect everything they saw during their respective stints in the SAP world.

  “Colonel,” I say instead. “It took every ounce of energy not to grab that cocky OGA asshole by his greasy ponytail and shove his face into the ground. Aside from those two crazy hajis inside and their amigos outside, who had to be sky high on dope based on the way they attacked us, the rest were non-combatants, sir. There were even two minors, for crying out loud. God only knows what he’s doing with them up in that compound. Plus, they had crates with biohazard labels, and I’ve never—ever—seen anything related to biohazard in the field. Not even in Iraq, where we combed that goddamned country searching for those nonexistent weapons of mass destruction. Remember?”

  Granite inhales deeply and frowns while nodding.

  “And there’s also those Russians,” I add. “Since when is the OGA working with them? And in this country of all places? Then you have the weird comment one of the OGA contractors made about something actually working when he saw the dead hajis outside. What, exactly, actually worked that caused those bastards to move like damned monkeys on steroids? And what is it that they’re running out of time to prevent? Are there more of those crazy hajis out there? Is that what the bald-headed guy meant? I’m telling you, sir, it was disturbing, and you know I’ve seen some bad shit in my years killing Talis. These bastards were like in a movie on fast-forward. Almost overran us. And when you add biohazard into the equation… Jesus, sir. I don’t like the direction my mind is going here. It ain’t good… at all. And I get it that they’re on an SAP that’s well above my paygrade. But still. There were kids there, sir. Kids.”

  “Look, Lawson,” Granite finally says, placing a hand on my shoulder and regarding me with his beady eyes under thick brows, the only hair on his shaved head. I tense a bit as he leans closer, fearing he’s going to bite my head off with that massive mouth of his. “I know you earned the trident, but once a jarhead always a jarhead, right?”