| |
"I still can't believe you took that fucking shot," Hudson said, shaking his head.
"What choice did I have?" Strickland asked. "He was getting ready to blow that thing."
"Blow what? The empty crate?"
Now it was William Strickland's turn to shake his head as he tipped the slender glass to his lips and drank a long swallow of beer. Hey, Hudson was right. The guy was full of shit. They'd removed the nasty gas from the bio-hazard crate and stashed it away in a locked freezer, leaving the crate sitting on the shelf, empty. Apparently when the commotion occurred outside, they grabbed some random crap and made it look like they had fashioned it into a bomb.
Who is a bigger amateur, the guy who tries to trick highly trained military operatives, or the military operative who falls for it?
"Did you talk to Brackovik?" Krieger asked, setting down her own empty glass.
Strickland nodded. "Clean up crew is en route. He was very appreciative."
"Central Intelligence again?" she asked.
"Dunno. Don't care," Strickland replied, smirking and flashing her a look. "Money's good no matter which department sends us on these things."
"Well, yeah, but when the fucking NSA does it, it takes the God damned checks a month to clear."
Laughs rang around the rim of the table. The bar was small and close to empty, like the ones they normally gravitated towards after a particularly stressful operation. Strickland sat in a rickety wooden chair with a black tank top pulled tight over his broad shoulders. Krieger had decided to look a little less conspicuous and had actually put on blue jeans with her blue t-shirt, an occasion that had elicited some snide comments from her male teammates.
Hudson and Cruz went the simple route of t-shirts and black cargo pants, while Lundquist wore one of his trendy button-down plaid shirts over khakis. They were just a group of friends out after a hard day's work.
"So you trying to tell us you weren't scared at all?" Lundquist asked, glancing over his beer glass at Hudson.
"Nah, man. Seen shit like that a thousand times."
"Only shit you've seen is the stuff you're full of," Cruz barked back. "If that dude had gotten a chance to punch that trigger, you'd have been wishing you wore your brown pants, motherfucker."
More laughs in the small, dark room. There were scattered tables around, but they were all empty except for the one where the team sat. A few hunched figures perched on bar stools, but the place was the definition of a 'dive'. Turns out, even here in the Ukraine, you went into those places, especially here at the feet of the Carpathian Mountains. It was not exactly a tourist trap.
"Too bad Bucky wasn't here," Mora said, then chased her words with a swift slug of liquid.
"Yeah, he's still not moving real well," Strickland replied. Earle Park had been a mainstay on the team ever since Strickland formed it a few years past. On one of their most recent operations, he'd caught some buckshot in a sensitive area. That had earned him some jokes, and the nickname Bucky, but the truth was, he'd come pretty close to punching his ticket, and Strickland was in no rush to get him back on active duty.
The table was quiet for a moment, then Hudson held up his glass, half empty. "To Park," he said, nodding.
"Park," they all repeated, clinking their glasses together. All at once, they tipped them back and drained them, setting the empties down in one loud choreographed bang of glass on wood.
"You don't talk about that operation much," Cruz commented, looking at Strickland. "It was just the two of you on that one, right?"
Strick nodded.
"What was that about?"
How was he supposed to explain it? What words existed to describe what that mission had been like? A rescue mission for a Romanian scientist... A bizarre underground laboratory... Abandoned animal specimens... And that thing....
That God forsaken thing had almost killed them and gotten Bucky an ass full of buckshot. Sometimes he remembered that thing, late at night when he couldn't sleep. His back pressed to his sheets, a thin coat of sweat covered his skin, and his heart thrashed. As a Special Forces operator for over a decade, there wasn't much that set Strickland's nerves on edge, but that... that thing outside the Romanian lab, that was fucking horror movie material there.
But who would he even talk about it to? Part of his hefty pay out was signing a very specific non-disclosure agreement, and you didn't get as far as Strickland got in the world of independent contracting by breaking NDAs and revealing classified intel. He took those words as gospel.
"Just one of those things," he replied. "You think it's a normal op, but things go sideways."
"It was near here, too, wasn't it?" Lundquist asked. He raised his hand to grab the waitress' attention, who nodded and wandered over, certainly in no rush to assist.
Strickland's brow furrowed. "Now that you mention it," he said, his voice trailing off. How had that not occurred to him until now? It was a different country and a different part of this mountain range, but considering all the different places on the planet Strickland had traveled to, it was a remarkably small world.
A low buzz interrupted his train of thought as a vibration on the top of his wrist thrummed the skin there. He glanced at his watch and noted an incoming call, an incoming call from an area code he recognized.
"I gotta take this," he replied, pushing away from the table and slipping his secure phone from the pocket of his dark cargo pants.
"This is Strickland," he whispered, weaving through scattered empty tables and making his way towards the exit door. As he pushed through it, the cold air bit at his bare flesh which was more exposed than usual underneath the tank top clinging to his muscular frame.
"This line secure?"
"This is the agency-supplied phone, yeah."
A low hum of static broken up by a series of muffled clicks signaled an encryption system locking onto the call and beginning scrambling protocols.
"William Strickland, this is Agent Davies."
National Security Agency, then. Just fucking wonderful.
"Hey, Davies," Strickland replied. "Can I help you?"
"We understand that you've recently completed an operation for the CIA," he said.
"I'm not at liberty to discuss the status of any operations for any divisions of the United States government, Agent Davies."
"Of course you're not," Tristan Davies replied. "Regardless, we have a somewhat urgent matter we are requesting your attention on.
"Urgent matter?"
"Extremely urgent."
Strickland lowered his head and closed his eyes. In four hours he would be on a plane, heading back to Vermont to see his family for the first time in a month. He had promised Jenn and the kids that he'd be taking some time off. The last three back-to-back operations had left them a nice little nest egg to allow that to happen.
"I'm supposed to be home in twenty-four hours," he replied. "I've got commitments, Agent Davies."
"This could be very lucrative for you and your team ," Davies replied. "You may want to at least run it past them."
No, he didn't need to run it past them. Out of all of them, he was the only one with family at home, and the only one in a rush to get back stateside. If he dangled this carrot in front of them, there was no doubt he would be the lone detractor who wasn't interested.
"How lucrative are we talking about? And what's the timeline?"
"A hundred," Davies replied. "Split five ways, that's twenty apiece."
Jesus. Twenty K? For one op?
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"What's always the catch?" Davies replied. "It's dangerous. Our client is quite insistent that you be involved. Mentioned you by name."
"I wasn't aware that that NSA took on 'clients'," Strickland replied. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Let's just say we and our client have mutual interests," Davies said. "And there is an issue at a facility in your neck of the woods."
"What kind of facility?"
"Agree to the op, then we can go into details."
"Jesus Christ, Davies."
"You should know how this works by now, Strickland."
Yeah, how this works is that even when you're out, the government still has you by the short hairs, especially when they dangle twenty thousand dollars in front of your eyes.
"I'll need to talk to my team," Strickland said. "They need some details, Davies. I can't ask them to agree based on my word."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, followed by a sigh. "Fair enough," Davies replied. "This is another GenTech operation, a research and development station in the Carpathian Mountains, this one in Slovokia."
"Fuck me," Strickland replied. "What is it about GenTech and the fucking Carpathians?"
"There are certain natural resources unique to the area," Davies replied.
In the back of his head, a vision snapped to reveal the strange, hideous creature that he and Earle Park had confronted not so long ago. A shiver ran up his arms.
"Okay, so what's up with this R & D facility?"
"It's testing some revolutionary genetic treatments ... or at least it was. Up until two hours ago."
"What happened two hours ago?" Strickland asked.
"That's what we need you and your team to find out."
"What do you mean?"
"As of two hours ago, the facility went dark. Completely off the grid. No communications, no power, no distress calls, nothing. It's just gone."
"What's the working theory?"
"We're afraid that a local terror cell might have discovered what sort of work is going on there. They might think what GenTech is doing can be weaponized."
Strickland once again thought back to that night on the ridge of the mountains, in that flat valley next to a small town. God damned right that shit could be weaponized.
"The facility is in Slovokia, about a two hour trip by helicopter. We've got your cover stories and your clearance already set in motion. You'll be home in thirty-six hours."
Strickland stood alone in the dirt covered parking lot, the cool breeze snapping at his bare arms. Goose flesh still prickled there, but it had nothing to do with the cold. Ever since that operation, the one that got Park his ass full of buckshot, the one that had him wandering through abandoned animal pens, he'd had an uneasy feeling about GenTech. The global conglomerate promised a genetic answer to all of life's problems. Something wasn't sitting right with him when it came to GenTech, and to be honest, that last thing he wanted was to involve himself with them again.
"You said they asked for me personally?" he said, remembering that statement.
"Indeed. They were rather impressed with the way you handled your previous operation."
"The previous operation was a fucking shit show."
Davies chuckled. "That may be, but apparently, they didn't think it was your fault."
Strickland closed his eyes again, his fingers tightening on the phone. Somehow he knew he was going to regret this.
"All right," he replied. "We're in. Let me go run it by the team and make sure they're on board, but you can pencil this in. But after this one, I need some fucking time off."
"And you'll get it," Davies replied. "You've earned it."
Strickland didn't even answer. He thumbed off his phone and stood there in the cold, glaring at its pale screen. He knew what he had to do next and regretted every minute of it.
Before he had second thoughts, his fingers danced over the touchscreen buttons, punching in the familiar number.
A few moments later, her voice answered.
"Bill? Everything okay?"
"Morning, sweetheart," he replied. "Everything's fine."
Well, not quite fine. But it would be. In thirty-six hours he'd be home, a twelve hour delay, but twenty thousand dollars more in the bank, and maybe even another few months of vacation.
But deep in his gut, where he tried to hide those things that kept him awake at night, he knew this was not going to go according to plan. When GenTech was involved, things rarely went according to plan. He suspected this one would be no different.
#
There had to be some kind of symbolism there, Strickland thought as he narrowed his eyes at the plump round belly of the full moon floating starkly against the pitch background of the starless night sky.
Down below them the Carpathian Mountains drifted past as the MH-6 Little Bird skimmed the surface of the peaks, meandering northeast, moving in near silence.
"Black helicopters sent by the NSA... where are those conspiracy theorists when you want 'em?" Hudson asked, raising his voice over the rapid thumping of the helicopter blades just above his head. Strickland craned his neck back, bracing against the whipping wind.
"So what are you going to do with your cut, Hud?" he screamed back at his squad mate. They perched on an exterior bench on the left side of the Little Bird with the wind beating at them as they cruised in the cool air towards Slovakia.
"Fuck, man," Hudson barked. "I'm saving for college, right?"
Strickland laughed out loud, shaking his head.
"Noise discipline," came the low voice in his headset. Mora Krieger called back from the co-pilot's chair, her voice cracking in among the static. "Coming up on approach. Going to be going in fast, low and preferably quiet, all right, motormouths?"
"Yes'm," Hudson replied, snapping off a crisp salute that Krieger couldn't see.
"Asshole."
"Cruz, Lundquist, you hear that? Shut your yaps, shit's about to get real!" Hudson yelled.
The other two operatives were on a bench on the opposite side of the small, round aircraft, holding tight, weapons strapped around their bodies. Built for quick and quiet infiltration, the Little Bird was what they required, but as contractors, they were a bit more accustomed to larger transports.
"When the fuck did we end up back in the fucking Army?" Lundquist called over the speakers.
"Marines, you motherfucker," Hudson replied.
"Yeah, yeah, Semper Fi, shit head."
"Okay, really. Not joking," Krieger interrupted. "Altitude is 2K and we're going in hard."
"You heard the lady," Strickland said, his voice harder and more serious. "Weapons check, get ready to disembark!"
It had taken them only an hour to load back up after deciding to move forward with the op, a speed which even impressed Strickland. Black battle togs, cargo pants, tactical vests and full weapons kits for their 416's were all ready and waiting when they arrived back at the hotel. Even Hudon's LaRue OCR Battle Rifle had the suppressor, scope, and magazines laid out as he liked to use the freaky shit.
Strickland glared out through the holes in the balaclava, pulled tight over his face and pinned to his head by his round, layered helmet with integrated comm system. Each member of the team sitting on the benches of the round Little Bird wore the same gear.
The Little Bird angled left and dipped towards the ground at an uncomfortably steep pitch. On the ground ahead, Strickland made out the outline of a large, single-story building cloaked in darkness. The series of dim shapes against a less dim backdrop of mountain rock and dirt was dark in more ways than one.
GenTech's home base hadn't been able to reach the research station in over four hours now, and all power had been cut off to the facility. It had totally fallen off the radar and as the Little Bird drew in close, the nugget of unease that had dug its way deep into Strickland's guts grew barbs and twisted itself a little deeper.
William Strickland had remarkable confidence in this small team of operatives that he had curated throughout his years in special forces. He was comfortable with them and trusted each of them implicitly with his life. No matter how much shit he and Hudson tossed at each other, he knew the man had his back and he was one of the most well-trained soldiers he had ever served alongside. All of them were. They'd handle almost anything.
But something about this wasn't right, or didn't smell right. Strickland had learned to trust his gut over his decade of field experience, and his gut was telling him this was not the place they should be right now. So why were they here? Why had they all agreed?
Was it just the money? Twenty thousand was nothing to sneeze at.
No, it wasn't just the money. Strickland knew that. At their core, his entire team, every single man and woman, were thrill seekers. They wouldn't be in this job if they weren't to some degree, and even though their guts were telling them that this was a bum deal, and he had no doubt most of them had similar feelings, they were determined to prove their guts wrong.
Why? Because they could. And they would have another great story they could never tell anyone about.
"Sixty seconds," Krieger reported. "We ready?"
"Lundquist ready."
"Cruz is locked and rocked."
"Hudson good to go."
"Strickland is green."
The Little Bird tipped its nose forward, the rotors whumping and roaring, as the ground came up to join them.
"Let's do this."
All in one motion the operatives swept their hands over the belts strapping them to the benches, released clasps, and threw the straps aside to leap from the benches. Combat boots smacked the hard packed dirt with one sound and moved in concert, pounding along. Krieger leaped from the co-pilot seat, landing in a low crouch with the wind slamming around her from the rotor above her head. She slapped her leather-gloved hand against the canopy three swift times, nodding to the pilot who returned the nod.
Without even touching down, the skids began to rise amid whirling tornadoes of tossed up dirt and sand. The nose tipped up as the helicopter rose, banked right into the night sky, and disappeared from view as the noise of the blades faded.
Strickland waved his hand in a tight circle in the air, pointing to himself. The other four took note and charged in towards him, gathering to him as he crouched low behind an outcropping of rocks about twenty yards from the front door.
"We take this slow and easy," he said as the others approached. "No heroics, no bullshit. We have no idea what's going on in there so we take our time, clear each room, move on to the next."
Krieger took over. "We all reviewed the blueprints. We know what to expect, right? Fresh batteries in the NVG's, fresh ammo in the mags, we are good to go."
There were nods around the group.
"Cruz, you're on breach as normal. Krieger will use the cam, see what we can see, then we move in smart and careful. We're supposed to be on our way home right now."
"Fuck, I'll take the twenty k, boss," Hudson whispered. Cruz laughed and reached over, fist bumping.
"Eyes on the prize, you two," Strickland replied. "Mission now, twenty thousand bucks later. We need to be breathing to enjoy it."
Strickland turned away from the group, looking over towards the flat, wide collection of concrete slabs that formed some rudimentary building shaped structure. It stood cold and dark with flat gray walls and darkened windows. An all-encompassing, almost terrorizing, silence blanketed the valley.
Strickland didn't like this, but they'd do it. And like always, they'd live to fight another day. Only part of him wondered if any of them truly would.