16
Charlie stood behind a cluster of palms that encircled the beachfront park’s showers and restrooms. He held to the stillness that came naturally after years of training, melding with shadows to where the eyes of any watchers would slip over and continue searching. Or so he hoped.
Truth be told, he felt giddy. The past two days had held enough surprises to push him miles beyond any realm that had a nodding acquaintance with such mundane things as normality. Or logic. There was no logical way that a woman he did not know could beckon and Charlie Hazard would come running. Not to mention how two acquaintances would sign up for the madness as well, without even knowing why.
He was so involved in his internal musings he almost missed the grizzled head that poked from the window of an ancient van and spoke to a passerby.
Charlie sprinted across the lot and wrenched open the passenger door. He heard Donovan say, “That’s all right, ma’am. I’ve got what I need now.” The van pulled away before Charlie had his door shut. Donovan said, “Good to see you, son. You doing okay?”
“Curious.”
“Long as you’re not bleeding, we’re ahead of the game.” Donovan pulled up to the stoplight. “Where to?”
“I need to stop by my house.”
“Risky.”
“It’s got to be done. Take a right.” When the van was heading north, Charlie asked, “Where’s your dog?”
“With a pal. You ever heard the name Vic Reames?”
“Should I?”
“He’s an Army major approaching retirement and desperate for a fat payoff from our corporate suppliers. The word is, Vic has become part of what is as close to a cabal as we’ve ever had in the military–industrial complex.”
“Does the cabal have a name?”
“The Combine. Does that ring a bell?”
“Sorry, no.”
“No reason it should. The Combine may be just a myth, but I don’t think so. Too many rumors from too many different sources. We’ve been trying to get a handle on them for years.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
Donovan shot him a look. “There’s a good reason we don’t share overall strategy with our frontline warriors, son.”
“I read you.”
“About ten years ago we started hearing tales about a group of major companies that had joined together. Most are American, but not all. They share two things in common. First, they are global entities. Second, they are utterly without scruples. Their motto, if they had one, would be ‘Whatever it takes.’ ”
The van they were in was at least twenty years old. The carpet at Charlie’s feet was worn down to the metal floorboard, and the interior smelled of hot oil. Charlie opened his window and let the salt breeze wash over him. “Is Harbor Petroleum part of this group?”
“No idea. But given what you told me and what’s happened since, I’d say they are fronting for the Combine.”
“What about Strang?”
“So far as I know, Curtis Strang operated below the Combine’s radar until they hit on you yesterday. All I know for certain is, an hour and a half after you left, Vic Reames popped up in my doorway. He was oozing charm, all concerned about me and my retirement and my dog.”
“And me.”
“Vic Reames panted like the Combine’s trained pup, and he asked about you. I played the lonely old codger, which bought me enough time to sneak away. But he’s on to me and they’re on to you. Sure you have to go to your house?”
Charlie glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a few minutes left.”
“Says who?”
“A friend. Get in the left lane and turn at the next light.”
“That woman you told me about, the one who can foretell the future?”
“Her name is Gabriella. As for reading the future, it’s the only thing that makes any sense.” Charlie described his recent conversation with Brett, then offered Donovan the third ticket voucher.
Donovan was shaking his head long before Charlie was finished. “I’m not going anywhere, son. I’m too old and I’m not well and I’ve got a dog that won’t eat unless I hold the food to his mouth.”
“What’s the matter with your health, Colonel?”
“That’s not the issue at hand. You need to focus if you want to stay alive. This Gabriella lady said you could go by your house?”
“I’ve got another nine minutes. I need to get a look at whoever’s painted a target on my back. Turn right and pull up.”
Charlie dropped from the van while it was still rolling. He loped across a yard, leapt over a humming air conditioner, skirted behind a doghouse, and was over the rear fence just as a dog’s chain clinked. He froze, waiting for the dog to settle once more. Another house, another fence, and he walked through the cane growth surrounding his backyard. He passed his fighting pole, a polished tree trunk sprouting two-foot branches at various angles. His feet crunched across the sand of the exercise pit. He fished his keys from his pocket and let himself in.
“Trace, where are you?”
“A1A, just passing the Ramada.”
“Hazard has just entered his house.”
“I thought you said he was at some café.”
“That was then. Speed up.” Reese shook her head. The security chief had her talking like Patel. “How long?”
Over the loudspeaker came the sound of squealing tires. “Ninety seconds.”
The sound of six men breathing hard filled the Vault. The entire crew gawked at the front screens, which showed the view of cameras fitted to the helmets of Trace and his number two. Reese resisted the urge to snap at her crew, tell them to get back to work. The scene was too powerful. She found herself breathing in time to the men.
Someone to her left muttered, “Is this amazing or what.”
The vehicles carrying Trace and his team screeched to a halt. Trace asked, “Target is still contained?”
Patel said, “The cameras on the front and back of his house are quiet.”
But Trace could not hear Patel or anyone else. Any time they sent in a team, they worked according to standard combat rules. In-house chatter could distract, and any distraction could be deadly. Contact between intel and ops was held to one person on each end. If the security chief went down, Reese would switch to Trace’s number two. Otherwise, this was as intimate as Reese ever cared to be with the man.
Reese said, “I confirm, Hazard is still inside the house.”
Trace said, “Team Two, deploy.”
The two cameras split and flew.
“Patel, widen our view.”
The techie erased the streaming data from all the front screens and blew up the view so that each camera filled half the floor-to-ceiling array. The house appeared to the left and the right. The cameras jounced as the men flew across the lawn. On the back of each midnight uniform were the letters FBI. It was a useful cover for moving in daylight. Hopefully a nosy neighbor would think twice before calling the cops.
The views crouched lower to the ground. Four sets of black boots thundered past each team leader.
“Team Two in position.”
Trace said, “On my mark. Ready, go.”
The crew watched as the home was assaulted from both sides. Reese felt as much as saw a figure drop into the chair next to hers. She glanced over. Weldon was as fascinated by the action as she was. She turned her attention back to the screen. Not long now.
“Come in, Center.”
“Go.”
“Uh, the house is empty.”
Patel said, “That is impossible.”
Reese lifted the mike. “You’re sure?”
“Roger that.”
Patel’s voice rose to full whine. “I am constantly monitoring our views of the exterior! The man has not left.”
Trace obviously heard him over Reese’s mike, because the loudspeakers to either side of the array huffed, “And I’m telling you, squirt, the dude is gone.”
Weldon jammed his chair against the desk behind him and rose to his feet. “Just gets worse and worse.”
Trace said, “We have neighbors watching.”
The right-hand screens drifted through an empty living room. A hand moved forward and swept back the drapes. Through a sun-splashed window they saw a pair of old people standing on the front porch directly across the street. The man held a phone to his ear.
Reese said, “Stand down, withdraw, await orders.”
“Roger that. Team leader out.”
Weldon called to her from the stairwell, “Damage control. My office. Fifteen minutes.”