Shadow zero, p.5
SHADOW ZERO, page 5
Run-of-the-mill scavengers who still got the drop on two of the CIA’s best agents, incapacitated one, and sent the other running.
Her face flamed. Some agent she was. Her most important op to date, and she’d lost her partner fifteen minutes after leaving the damned airplane.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Trusting her instincts, she threw herself to the ground, narrowly avoiding a burst of fire from behind her. She rolled over and fired at a fuzzy shadow hiding behind another fuzzy shadow.
She cursed and changed her glasses to infrared mode. The forest instantly lit up with numerous heat signatures, all moving to her location.
God damn it.
She pulled a smoke grenade from her pocket, pulled the pin, and tossed it a few yards ahead of her. The smoke barely registered on infrared, but the confusion it caused her enemy was immediate and profound. The terrorists—or scavengers or militia or whatever they were—cried out and fired their weapons in random directions.
Maya stayed low and fired at the infrared signatures. Two of them dropped, and a third cried out and dropped his rifle.
“Wajinga nyie! Lenga miale ya muzzle!”
Once more, Maya couldn’t understand the Kiswahili words, but the English word at the end made the leader’s instructions clear. He wanted his men to aim at her muzzle flashes.
She rolled over several times, got to her feet, and moved toward the crater. Rifle fire dug grooves in the ground where she lay a few seconds ago, but the smoke gave her enough cover to reach the lip of the crater without being seen.
She saw Trent near the bottom. He lay on his back, unmoving.
Oh God, please be alive.
She looked back. Her enemies were cautiously moving through the smoke. They couldn’t see her yet.
She considered her move. If she entered the crater, she would be seen easily. On the other hand, if she left Trent, the enemy could kill him if they hadn’t already.
Leave him. Focus on the mission. You're outnumbered, and you've already burned through two of your rifle magazines. Get somewhere safe, then call Todd for backup. You can't help Trent now.
She knew that she was giving herself good advice. She also knew there wasn’t a chance in hell she was going to take it.
So, she went to plan B. She pulled one of the sonic grenades from a pouch clipped to her belt. The device—about the size of a silver dollar—would emit an ultrasonic frequency that would disorient and incapacitate anyone within about a twenty-yard radius. Maya gambled that the crater would protect her from the full brunt of its effects.
She twisted the two halves of the device in opposite directions, took a deep breath, and hurled the device toward the approaching enemy. Without waiting, she fell backward into the crater, covering her ears and squeezing her eyes shut.
She felt an odd pressure when the grenade went off. It seemed to come from inside her rather than outside. Her bones vibrated, her intestines rippled, and her muscles slackened. She fought grimly to keep control as she tumbled down the ash-covered bowl of the crater.
By the time she came to a stop, the worst of it had passed. She was right. Being below ground level had provided her some protection from the sonic grenade, enough that aside from a moment of dizziness, she was fine.
Meanwhile, the groans and retching of the enemy told her that the weapon had worked exactly as she needed it to. She got to her knees beside Trent and switched her glasses to optical enhancement. This would essentially make the glasses see-through and offer a touch of night vision without necessitating a green-light filter.
It allowed her to see that Trent was bleeding from the back of his head. She felt a chill and prayed silently as she pressed two fingers to his throat. When she felt a strong pulse, she released the breath she’d been holding.
“Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God.”
She took a deep breath and checked his injury. He had a bad knot at the back of his crown, but his skull didn’t seem fractured. He’d probably have a concussion when he woke up, but he would live.
She quickly looked through the wreckage of the satellite. What she could see was burned black and twisted from the impact and the heat. What she couldn't see was any sign of a data core or anything electrical at all. Either it had been destroyed in the crash, or the terrorists had already stolen it. She needed to find out which it was.
But before she did that, she needed to figure out a way to get them out of this mess. She didn't know exactly how many enemies she faced, but she didn't want to bet on being able to kill all of them before she ran out of ammunition. Carrying Trent out of the crater was going to be a bitch and a half. He was half again her body weight, and while she could drag him out given enough time, she couldn't do it and fight off dozens of men armed with rifles.
She would have to lead them away somehow and come back for Trent later. She had no idea how to keep the enemy away once she led them from the crater, but she’d have to figure it out as she went.
She hooked her arms under Trent’s armpits and pulled him behind a piece of wreckage to hide him from view. Trent groaned and mumbled something, and her heart leaped. If he woke up, then things would become much easier.
“Talon? Are you with me?”
Trent mumbled something else. Then his head lolled over his chest, and he fell silent.
She sighed and lowered him to the ground. “Hang in there. I’ll get us out of here.”
She started up the crater, pulling another sonic grenade from her pocket. She tossed it over the lip when she was close enough and threw herself against the side, once more covering her ears.
Once again, she felt that odd vibration inside of her. Her body went limp, and her senses muddied. She was closer this time, and the effect was stronger.
She fought for consciousness as the grenade released its payload. She needed to stay alert. If she could get to her feet and get past her enemy before they came to, she could fire from behind them and lead them away from the crater and from Trent.
She got to her feet and staggered toward the lip. When she crested it, she saw a dozen soldiers unconscious and several more staggering listlessly, bending over to vomit as their bodies tried to resort themselves after the sonic barrage.
She thought about shooting all of them while they were incapacitated but didn’t. She didn’t have much ammo left, and she didn’t want to be caught dry if a reserve force of attackers arrived and found dozens of their companions dead.
I should have taken Trent’s ammo, she thought. Damn it, Maya.
She moved into the forest. She made it about ten yards before she heard a shout behind her. Once more, instinct saved her life. She dropped to the ground just ahead of a volley of rifle fire that would have saved her from further embarrassment over her lapse in judgment regarding the ammo.
She rolled over, tapping her glasses until infrared returned.
What she saw took the wind out of her sails.
There were more of them now. At first, she had seen about a dozen of the enemy. As the fight continued, she counted perhaps twice that many.
There were well over fifty of them now, and more coming every second. Most of them had arrived too late to be affected by the sound grenades. They were fresh reinforcements, and there were more of them than Maya had bullets.
Crazy thoughts rushed through her mind. She could focus on her aim. She could keep moving. One bullet per enemy, and maybe a dozen or two left to dispatch with her knife. She could take one of their weapons and use it. She could keep taking weapons until she outfought them and slaughtered them all. She could do something, anything that didn’t end with her failing and leaving Trent to die.
Then she heard a booming basso voice shout, “Usipige risasi! Namtaka akiwa hai!”
She turned around. There were more terrorists behind her. Fourteen of them were within ten feet of her, and they all held rifles. One of them was far taller than the rest. In infrared, it was hard to tell how tall, but he was among the largest men Maya had ever seen.
Maya had no choice. If she fought back now, she would surely die and with her any chance they had at finding that data core or saving Trent. The best thing she could do now was surrender and let them take her away so they wouldn’t discover Trent unconscious and vulnerable. She grabbed her necklace and pressed the emergency beacon, then tore it off and flung it into the trees.
Then she dropped her rifle and raised her hands. I’m sorry, Trent.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Heading home, boss?” George asked.
Mitch shrugged at his lead mechanic and thrust his chin toward the truck. “How are we looking?”
George scoffed. “Like shit. The tranny’s junk, the engine’s junk, the motor mounts are made of rust at this point, and the crossmember exists only in the truck’s memory.” He shook his head. “I know some of these Action Line trucks can see a million-plus and keep on truckin’, pardon the pun, but this one’s seen too many Virginia winters. It’s done for.”
Mitch nodded. “How’d Frank take it?”
George laughed. “You swear I’d be the one to tell Frank we can’t fix his baby.” He clapped Mitch on the shoulder. “That’s all you, boss.”
He moved off to check on the boys replacing the Jeep’s axles, leaving Mitch to sigh and hang his head. “Yeah, I figured.”
There were three vehicles in the shop at the moment: a five-year-old Jeep Gladiator moving to Dana 60 axles, a 2006 Toyota Sienna that needed a new radiator, and Frank’s beloved truck, an old Chevrolet K10 whose small-block V8 had finally shit the bed after nine hundred thousand miles. Removing the engine had revealed significantly rusted motor mounts and a front crossmember that was living on a prayer. Mitch would have to try to convince the old man who owned the truck to let it die and get himself a newer model. He wasn’t relishing that conversation.
He removed his cap and scratched his scalp. Still thinning. Not bald yet, but closer to that than not.
He headed back to the office. He might as well make the phone call and get it out of the way.
Frank, as expected, was unhappy.
“What the hell are you talking about? It just needs new valves.”
“It needs a lot more than new valves, Frank. The head’s cracked, three of your sleeves are cracking, two of your piston rings are a jolt away from snapping, the rod bearing’s useless… Honestly, at this point, a new block would be cheaper than fixing the old one.”
“So get a new block. A carbureted one. None of those bullshit fuel injected models.”
Mitch sighed. “The frame’s junk, Frank. I’m sorry. It’s rusted through.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. “Shit. You can’t fix it?”
“No, Frank.”
“Well, don’t do shit to it, then. I’ll come pick it up and take it to someone who knows what they’re doing.”
No one knows what they’re doing enough to make rust magically go away, Mitch thought. He kept that to himself, though. “Sounds good Frank. Make sure you bring something to tow it with. I can’t let you drive it out of here.”
“Well, no shit. I can’t drive it with a shot motor, can I?”
“No, sir.”
Frank hung up without saying anything else. Mitch sighed again. At least that’s out of the way.
He reached into his office refrigerator and pulled out the sandwich he’d saved for lunch. It was a little early, but he might as well eat it now. Conversations with stubborn old men always made him hungry.
He bit deeply into the sandwich and sighed with pleasure as the bratwurst’s juices ran down his chin into his beard. There was a time when the slovenliness of the act would have grossed him out or at least embarrassed him, but it fit well with his new persona, and anyway, he was going to shower as soon as he got home.
He took another bite of the bratwurst—sandwiched into a submarine roll with hot peppers, grilled onions, and a generous serving of stone ground mustard—and grinned as the zesty flavors combined pleasingly in his mouth. This sandwich was known as Mitch’s Miracle, and was on the secret menu of Bernie’s Deli in Lovettsville, Virginia—the town nearest his small cabin in the woods and where he worked five days a week at Miracle Mitch’s Auto Repair.
Mitch did very little auto repair himself. He had a staff of nine—eight mechanics and a receptionist—to handle most of the actual work. He spent most of his time maintaining contacts gained during his other life, the one he had never fully left behind.
In that life, he was known as Alan Reidigger, and along with his friends Kent Steele and Todd Strickland, he was a member of the CIA’s elite Executive Operations Team. Going further back, he and Kent had worked with the Special Activities Division, partnered with other elite agents to ensure that America maintained its hegemony over world affairs. He wasn’t quite as much of a badass as Kent Steele, nor was he as handsome as the debonair Strickland, but he could hold his own in the badass category, and he had one skill that neither agent possessed in nearly equal measure.
Alan Reidigger was amazing at finding friends. Good friends. Friends who knew things. Friends who had things. Friends who could find things. Friends who could make sure other people didn’t know or find things. Friends who, if needed, could show up almost anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice and help Alan with any number of problems.
This skill had come in handy on more than one occasion when Alan was an active CIA agent and even more often during those times—all too frequent near the end—when he was rogue or officially disavowed. Alan’s connections had helped the EOT and later Zero and a few others save the world more than once.
Alan Reidigger was retired. In fact, officially, Alan Reidigger was dead. He was Mitch Thurman, and it was a delicious irony that Mitch Thurman was actually his birth name, Reidigger being an alias the CIA created, just as Kent Steele was an alias created for Reid Lawson.
And yet you think of yourself as Alan and Mitch as the alias, he thought to himself. That’s the real irony.
These days, he didn’t do much of the badass stuff anymore. He consulted for the CIA every now and then, but mostly, he just ran his shop and kept an eye on Reid’s kids.
That part—keeping an eye on the kids—hadn't turned out to be difficult at all, no surprises there. The Lawson kids had been thrust into the most challenging situations into which young women could be thrust, and they had risen beautifully to each occasion. Maya Lawson was now a badass EOT agent, just like her dad. Sara was living a relatively normal life at the moment, but she could be just as deadly as her older sister when the situation called for it. And Mischa…
Well, Mischa was an entirely different kind of badass. When Mitch was Alan Reidigger full-time, he used to look at Zero with a mixture of awe and envy. In his mind, there was no way a human being could possibly be more dangerous than Kent Steele.
Mischa challenged that belief. Alan had seen her effortlessly dismantle entire teams of fully grown, well-trained men in everything from a firefight to hand-to-hand. As a twelve-year-old girl, she was capable of fighting her way through over a dozen terrorists singlehandedly while throwing a temper tantrum because Zero hadn’t waited for her before he started the op.
She was fifteen now, and while she was honoring Zero’s dying request that she stay away from the CIA at least until adulthood, she was engaging in some extracurricular activities that might give Alan’s old friend pause.
Mischa didn’t know that Mitch was aware of her campaign against human traffickers. Mitch had wrestled many times with the idea of confronting Mischa and warning her to stop or calling Maya and spilling the beans. If it were any other fifteen-year-old, there would be no question, but this kid was dangerous. Frankly, Mitch was pretty sure he would be in more danger than she was if he tried to do the same thing she was doing.
So he only watched her and made sure she didn’t get herself too far in over her head. A couple of times, she’d gotten a couple of Eastern European mafias a little too interested, but a few phone calls to Alan’s friends had made sure their attention was pulled elsewhere. She was doing better now, staying small and acting conservatively. At the moment, she was on the trail of a trafficking ring operating out of a couple of abandoned buildings in Arlington. These guys were chumps, so he was letting her do her thing and just watching over her in case things went sideways.
He had no idea how Zero would feel if he knew that Mitch was letting her get away with this. Actually, he knew exactly how Zero would feel. But hey, ridding the world of a few modern-day slavers wasn’t a bad thing, and besides, he didn’t think he could stop her if he tried.
He finished the last of his bratwurst and lifted himself out of his office chair with a groan that he only mostly didn’t feel. Alan had never been the most svelte of field agents, and Mitch hadn’t exactly slimmed down in the two years since he ditched active duty for good and dedicated himself to the maintenance of his network and the protection of Zero’s kids.
He started toward the service garage. Frank would be here soon, and it would be better if he was outside to talk to him instead of throwing George and the others under the bus.
He made it three steps when his phone buzzed. His other phone.
If it had been up to Mitch, he would have stood stock still and stared open-mouthed into space for a few seconds before reacting, but this was Alan’s phone. Alan’s training kicked in, and he finished the journey to his office without showing any sign of the fear he felt. When he entered, he locked the door and closed the shades before pulling the phone from his pocket and checking the alert.
He assumed it was Mischa. He figured she had stepped into it again, and he needed to pull a couple of shenanigans to bail her out.
It wasn’t Mischa. When Alan saw the alert, his jaw went slack, and a sharp chill lanced down his spine.
Maya had activated her emergency beacon.
Alan had given each of them a necklace with an emergency beacon. He’d told all of them to press it if they were ever in a life-or-death situation that they couldn’t escape and needed immediate help from him. It was one of the ways he kept his promise to Zero to keep Zero’s children safe.
