Chapter 28

Duka

Danny’s first priority was the Osprey. The aircraft could take off with one engine, the pilots assured him, but it would be slow and its lifting ability would be limited; better to wait while they assessed the damage to the propeller and the engine, which they believed might be easily repaired. Though dubious, Danny agreed. He assigned Hera and two troopers to help and maintain a perimeter.

The next problem was to retrieve the UAV Sugar had found in the building. The aircraft was light, but Danny didn’t want to waste time or manpower carrying it to the Osprey. Instead, he told Sugar and two other troopers to leave it in the basement with charges in case it had to be destroyed; in the meantime they would guard the house.

That left two problems: Li Han and the Russian.

According to MY-PID and Danny’s own review of the surveillance footage from their UAVs, the Russian had run off without taking anything. He was armed with only a handgun. They had a good view of where the Russian was, about a mile and half to the east. He was on foot, with no one nearby; Danny decided they could leave him for now and concentrate on Li Han.

Which meant getting across town. That was more a problem of distance than resistance: the fight had devolved into a raucous pillaging of the Meurtre Musique area, with about a dozen Sudan First members setting random fires and massacring any civilians who hadn’t fled into the fields and jungle to the west.

Danny mapped a path to Li Han’s hideout that would skirt the troubled area. It was about three miles by foot.

“Anybody with a gun gets in our way, take them down,” he told his small group as they set out.

“I’d like to just shoot them all,” said Melissa.

“Yeah, me too,” he muttered, then he added more loudly, “Let’s stay focused.”

They’d gone about a half mile when MY-PID reported a pair of pickups heading in their direction.

“Here come our taxis,” said Danny. He divided the group, splitting them along the road.

“Flash, you have the second truck; I have the first,” he said. “Shorty, if we don’t get the drivers, the trucks stop no matter what.”

“Gotcha.”

“Who you going with?” Danny asked Melissa.

She hesitated, then ran after Flash.

By now her body had been bruised and strained to a point beyond exhaustion. Her mind seemed to have sunk into a place below her head somewhere, as if her body were a tower where it could roam freely. The gunshots, the explosions, the Osprey rotors—all of the miscellaneous loud noises had hardened her eardrums and encased her head in a shell.

Melissa copied the team as they took positions, sliding down on one knee like the others. At the last moment her trail foot snagged and she tumbled sideways, rolling awkwardly. She stayed down for a moment, dizzy and embarrassed. Finally, she tucked her elbow against the ground and levered up just in time to hear a gun burst nearby. There was another pop, then silence.

Unsure what was going on, Melissa craned her neck and saw that everyone was moving. She pushed to her knees, then hopped up and ran with the rest.

Danny took a position a short distance from the road, visor up, sighting through his scope as the two trucks barreled toward them. The drivers appeared to be either drunk or having some sort of contest; they veered back and forth, the one in the front not letting the other pass. He zeroed in on the driver, pacing his weave.

“Mine,” he said, and fired. The bullet slammed into the driver’s forehead, killing him instantly. The pickup veered to the right; the vehicle behind it rammed into the rear, twisting and then stopping itself, the driver shot through the temple by Flash.

The rest of the team opened fire then, downing the five men packed into the rear of the trucks. The gunfight was over before any of the tangos had a chance to pick up their weapons.

“Let’s get the vehicles,” said Danny, starting to run.

Chapter 29

Ronald Reagan Airport

Washington, D.C.

Zen rolled his wheelchair forward as soon as he saw Breanna walking toward the baggage area. It felt good to see her—all these years, and there was still a twinge of excitement after a long separation.

“Hey, if it isn’t the lonesome traveler,” he said loudly, getting her attention despite the crowd.

“Zen—what are you doing here?”

“I was looking for somebody to have a scandalous affair with.”

“Tired of being a senator?” She leaned down and kissed him.

“Actually, I think it would help my career.”

“Teri?” she said, asking about their daughter.

“I sold her to the nuns.”

“Stop,” she said, swatting at him playfully.

“Misses her mother terribly. I guess my cooking just isn’t good enough for her.”

“I’ll bet. And how are you?”

“Trying to duck the latest tempest in a teapot—there’s your bag.”

Breanna grabbed it off the carousel, and with a well-practiced flick of her wrist, extended the handle.

“Jay’s in a no-parking zone out front,” said Zen, spinning around to lead the way.

“Just because you have government plates doesn’t mean you can park where you like,” scolded Breanna playfully.

“Sure it does.”

She laughed. “So what controversy are you ducking?”

“Some big blowup about a CIA program. Something called Raven. Ernst has a bug up his ass about it.”

Breanna was silent. Zen glanced up at her. Her face had suddenly gone white.

“Bree?”

“Where did you park?”

“Is there something I should know about?” said Zen. “Do you have something to do with Raven?”

“Why?”

Crap, he thought. Breanna had to be the worst liar in the world.

“Bree—”

“Maybe I’ll grab a cab and head straight for the office,” said his wife.

“Whoa, hold on.” He grabbed the bag handle—it was the only thing he could reach as she started to pull away. “Truce, OK? No work discussion. None.”

“I have to get to the office.”

“We’ll drop you off.”

“That might not look right.”

“Breanna, what’s going on?”

They were stopped right in front of the doors. People swerved around them, a little more indulgent than they might have been as one of the obstacles was in a wheelchair.

“Jeff, I can’t discuss it. You know.”

“Come here,” he told her, motioning with his head to the side. “Come on.”

She went over, clearly reluctant.

“Listen,” he started, “just to fill you in—Ernst has heard all sorts of rumors about this CIA program. Supposedly it’s some sort of unauthorized assassination deal. You know Ernst, you give him a whiff of something to bash Ol’ Battle-axe with and he’s off to the races.”

Ol’ Battle-axe was one of Zen’s nicknames for the President. It was considerably more benign than many of his others.

“If you’re involved in this,” he added, “you really oughta tell me.”

“Raven is not an Office of Special Technology project.”

“You’re lawyering up.”

“Jeff—don’t push me.”

Zen put his elbow on the chair rail and leaned his forehead down. When he had urged her to take her job—and he had urged her—he promised they would keep their private lives separate.

It was the sort of promise that always came back to kick him in the butt, time after time.

“I’m not going to push you,” he said. “Let’s grab something to eat. Just you and me.”