“Hey, I got an interesting rumor.”
Jason Cox had been working Washington for ten years and he’d built up a few pretty good contacts. Not like that bastard Woodward, but pretty good. And the latest thing that had been dropped in his ear was a fucking bombshell.
“Go,” his producer said, spinning around in his chair.
“That black ops team that took down the terrorists in the Keys?” he said. “My source said they’re those Mountain Tiger guys from Georgia that had that pitched battle with the Chechens last month.”
“Two months,” the producer said, frowning. “Not Delta or CIA black ops?”
“Nope,” the reporter said, grinning. “They’re called the Kildarra or something. He wasn’t sure on the name. But, get this, their commander is an American.”
“Yeah, that was what AP said from that battle,” the producer replied, thinking. “You get a confirmation?”
“I’m going to work on one,” the reporter said. “I’m meeting a source for lunch. I thought you might shake a few trees, too.”
“I can do that,” the producer admitted. He had his contacts, too. The two might overlap, but not by much. “We need to keep it low, though. If you’re wrong…”
“I’ll find out at lunch.”
“Nice steak,” the congressional staffer said. “Which means you want something.”
The reporter had covered the congressman’s run back when he was just a comer. And he’d cultivated the staffer, each man hoping to end up with the “big boys” but not really believing they’d be doing the Watergate thing over a power lunch. But here they were.
“I heard a credible report on something,” the reporter said, waiting for the guy to take a sip of his Diet Coke. “Just wondering, you know… The Kildarra were the team that took down the VX, right?”
The staffer managed to not blow the Coke across the table. But it took a manly effort to prevent it.
“Who did you hear that from?” he asked sharply, trying to keep his voice down at the same time.
“You know about—”
“Let me explain something,” the staffer said, leaning across the table and looking the reporter in the eye. “I don’t know who you got it from but they must be totally out of the fucking loop. Because if they knew shit they would be telling you what I’m going to tell you. Forget that name. Forget anything you heard. Don’t go playing super sleuth.”
“Or I die?” the reporter said, chuckling. “Yeah. Right.”
“No,” the staffer said. “Your career does. You breathe that word and you have no more sources. Nobody will talk to you. Nobody will touch you with a ten-foot pole. You will be untouchable, unclean. I’m a pretty good source, right? You say the word Keldara on network TV, put them together with that op or any other op, and your career is toast. Trust me on this. You do not want to fuck with that guy.”
“Guy?” the reporter said, pouncing.
“I’m serious, Jason,” the staffer said, standing up and tossing down his napkin. “Do not do this.”
“Well, I had an interesting lunch,” the reporter said, walking in the producer’s office.
“I didn’t have any,” the producer said. “I made one phone call and then got five more, including from the head of the network. I think we can take it that you’re confirmed and it doesn’t matter…”
“Kill the story,” the reporter said, nodding. “I was going to talk to you about that.”
“It is deader than a doornail,” the producer replied. “That what you got?”
“Oh, yeah,” the reporter said, shaking his head. “What happened to journalistic ethics?”
“I think they’re pretty much moot,” the producer admitted. “Especially when the head of the network said that he got calls from two prime ministers explaining how much difficulty the network would find in getting visas to enter countries, or anything else, if we breathed a word about these guys. Oh, and you don’t even want to hear what a certain senator had to say. But I will mention things like FCC license renewal. And then he got nasty.”
“What was the take?” Mike asked.
“There were only twenty-eight containers,” the admiral said with a sigh.
“We’re getting there,” Mike said, cursing under his breath. “Twelve missing. Four we got. Two the Commercial guys found. I don’t suppose anybody went to the pick-up points?”
“No,” the admiral said. “Not so far. FDLE has them under stakeout with blue barrels sitting there. But they’re probably not going to go for it.”
“Probably not,” Mike admitted. “Not after we got blown sky-high. Six barrels in play. They’re inside, too.”
“Agreed,” the admiral said. “The question is… where?”
“Targets,” Mike said. “Lots of possible targets. We’re coming inside.”
“Where?” the admiral said. “When you got dumped on me I was pissed as hell. Now I know what the President meant about your nose. Where are you going?”
“Now that we’ve saved the Bahamas we’re going to Disney World.”
“Hi, my name’s Jack. What’s yours?”
John R. “Jack” Garcia wasn’t sure about the latest up. The guy was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops and cargo shorts that had seen better days. And he was looking at the GT they had on display. But, hell, everybody did. GTs were rare as hell but a customer had traded this one on a stocked-out Expedition when he had a change of life. A change from wife and mistress to ex, new wife and a new baby.
The Ford GT was one of the top performance cars in the world. With a body closely based on a 1960s Ford Can-Am racer, the car still looked futuristic. Low-slung, wide, sleek and powerful, it was a car-lover’s wet dream. Bright red with double racing stripes down the middle, it was also spectacular as hell.
“Mike,” the guy said. “That’s a pretty car.”
“Yes it is,” Jack said. “Hardly used at all. And only three thousand made. Very rare. A real collector’s item.”
“Yeah,” the guy, “Mike,” said. “Hell of a sticker, though.”
“Like I said, rare and very fine machinery,” Jack said, mentally sighing. All the customers looked, none of them ever bought.
“Gimme a discount for a large additional order?”
“How large?” Jack asked. “And I don’t think we can take much off the GT. It’s pretty much at invoice as it is.”
“Can’t move it, huh?” the guy said, taking off his sunglasses and turning. Jack froze at his expression. Then the guy held out an American Titanium card. Technically referred to as a Senior Corporate Agent’s Card, it was called the “Titanium” because whereas a gold card wasn’t made out of gold nor a platinum from platinum, well… The SCC was a thin stamped sheet of black titanium with, literally, no limit. “I need ten Expeditions. Black. And the GT. Make me your best offer.”
“Holy fuck, who’s that, James Bond?”
Lieutenant Bob Dunn, Orange County sheriff’s department, was a twelve-year veteran of the force. He’d spent his time in traffic then SWAT then detective and finally made lieutenant. He knew the capability of his department and the groups surrounding and interacting. But this Miami Vice character… Fuck.
“You might want to keep your voice down,” Captain Spencer Street said. The Florida National Guardsman had had a call from an old friend that told him a group was coming up to work the Orlando area and to not only treat them with kid gloves but with respect. That was all, but the tone was enough. He wasn’t sure who the guy was, but he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the fellow captain, a team leader with 20th Group, had sounded… shaken. Anybody who could shake up Tom was worth listening to.