Inside the darkened facility, Jake Harrison looked up from his computer display, taking a break to examine the large flat-panel displays lining the front wall. Inside the crowded space, several rows of analysts reviewed data on their monitors, the glow from their displays playing off their faces and faintly illuminating Styrofoam cups of cold coffee. They spoke quietly among themselves, occasionally looking up from their computers to examine the large screens.
He’d been at it since yesterday, reviewing Lonnie Mixell’s file and the details of his assassination of the United Nations ambassador. After Harrison was issued weapons and a locker to store them, Pat Kendall had parked Harrison at a workstation in the analysis center. More specifically, Harrison was inside a transnational cell—the Office of Terrorism Analysis—which supported the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia.
The CIA’s file on Mixell was extensive and, Harrison had to admit, quite thorough. It was obvious that the CIA had access to Mixell’s military record, along with his security clearance investigations and findings. Nothing out of the ordinary had been noted until Mixell, while still a Navy SEAL, had been accused of killing an unarmed prisoner in Afghanistan. The details were concise and accurate; Harrison had witnessed it firsthand, and after much deliberation, had reported the incident to their commanding officer.
Two items were missing from Mixell’s record: one significant and one minor. The significant item was that the prisoner Mixell killed in Afghanistan hadn’t been the first. It was the third that Harrison was aware of. The first time, Harrison had pulled his friend aside, asking him what the hell he’d been thinking. Mixell explained he’d been caught up in the heat of the moment—another SEAL had been killed in the engagement. What had been missing from the conversation, Harrison realized later, was that Mixell neither admitted that what he’d done was wrong nor pledged it would never happen again.
Three weeks later, Mixell killed a second prisoner. The man had seen it coming; Mixell reaching for his pistol as he approached, his eyes boring into him. The prisoner placed his hands in front of his face as if they could somehow ward off the impending bullet. Mixell shot through the man’s palm, putting a bullet in his head. Afterward, Harrison pulled his best friend into an adjacent room and slammed him against the wall, hoping to knock some sense into him.
Harrison had been prepared for a fight—Mixell was the same size and just as strong, and had a reputation for being a hothead. But as Harrison pressed his friend’s back against the wall, Mixell offered no resistance. During the one-way conversation, Mixell displayed no emotion; neither anger nor remorse. His eyes seemed vacant as he listened to Harrison’s heated words.
After Harrison explained he would have no choice but to report future incidents, Mixell’s response had been short.
I got it, buddy.
Looking back on the exchange, it was clear that Mixell believed no one would turn him in. SEALs were a tight-knit fraternity, men who had each other’s back. While that was true, what was also clear to Harrison after the third time was that these weren’t unfortunate incidents occurring in the heat of the moment—events Mixell would learn from and avoid in the future. It was a pattern, and he wasn’t going to stop. It had been a difficult and agonizing decision, but after talking things over with the other SEALs in their unit, Harrison had turned Mixell in.
A burst of background noise in the analysis facility caught Harrison’s attention. He looked up from his computer again. Analysts and supervisors were studying one of the displays; a grainy image of men and women exiting what looked like an airport gate. One man, taller than the rest and Caucasian, stood out from the mostly Middle Eastern passengers. The video froze on a frame with the man in the center. It was Mixell.
Kendall arrived a few minutes later, stopping by Harrison’s workstation. “We got a hit,” she said. “Mixell’s been spotted in Damascus. Even better, the lead is only a day old. If Mixell’s doing business in the city, he’s likely still there. It looks like you’re heading to Syria; Khalila is on her way here.”
While they waited, Harrison’s thoughts turned to the second item missing from Mixell’s file. Before he’d been turned in, Mixell was supposedly engaged to a stripper—his soul mate, he called her, but he’d otherwise been close-lipped about the relationship. Harrison figured that if they could track down Mixell’s former fiancée, perhaps she could shed light on his plans, or even where they could find him if he returned to the United States. He passed the information to Kendall as Khalila entered the facility and stopped beside them.
“Engaged to a stripper?” Kendall asked. “Anything else, as in useful? Like her name, what club she worked at, or even what city?”
Harrison shook his head. “That’s all I got.”
Kendall added a note to her smartphone. “I’ll have someone connect with Mixell’s prison cell mates. He spent eight years behind bars with nothing better to do than pine after his soul mate,” she said sarcastically. “I’ll bet he poured his heart out to someone.”
Khalila folded her arms across her chest and gave Kendall an expectant look. “Are you done with him?”
“He’s all yours.”
Khalila turned to Harrison. “Get your gear. We’re leaving for Damascus.”