“You want me to kill them,” Chapel said.
“It’s the damned sensitivity of the thing,” Hollingshead said.
For once Banks had more to say. “The public can never find out what’s happened. It can’t learn where they came from, and it can’t learn what they’re carrying. We can’t risk any more high-profile incidents. It’s been hard enough covering up what happened to the original teams.” The CIA director swallowed his liquor with a grimace. “It has to be just one man, to keep our involvement quiet. Secrecy is imperative here.”
Jim Chapel was no stranger to the need for secrecy. He’d spent his professional life keeping secrets and not asking questions. He knew how this sort of thing worked, and he knew what Banks wasn’t saying. That the blowback from a leak in this operation would be devastating. Which meant that these detainees weren’t just terrorists, and the human-engineered virus they were carrying wasn’t the product of some black laboratory in a rogue state.
It was something the government had made. The government of the United States. The detainees — the psychopathic, violent, homicidal detainees weren’t just dangerous criminals. They were guinea pigs. Specimens that the CIA or the DoD or maybe both had experimented on. And letting that fact out of this room was unthinkable to Banks.
He noticed one other thing, too, from what Banks had said.
When Banks talked about the public — meaning the American people, the citizens of the United States — he referred to them as an “it.”
He was beginning to see why Hollingshead hated this man.
THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+5:35
“You’ll need to leave immediately,” Banks told him. “You’re going to have to work damned fast if you’re going to catch them. We’ll do everything in our power to help you — everything that doesn’t damage national security.”
“I know we’re asking a very great deal of you, son,” Hollingshead said. “I wish I could give you opportunity to volunteer for this mission. I wish I could let you turn it down. Tell me, Captain, what are your thoughts right now?”
“Permission to speak candidly, sir?”
Hollingshead came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “Permission to swear a blue streak if you like. Permission to call us every foul name you can think of. Just be honest and tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think you called in the wrong man,” Chapel told them.
Banks and Hollingshead both stared at Chapel in shock.
From behind him, he heard Laughing Boy let out a little chuckle, which was cut off quite abruptly as if he were trying to suppress it.
Chapel could hardly believe he’d said it himself. For ten years he’d been slowly dying in a desk job he hated. Doing basic police work when he’d been trained to be out in the field, making a real difference. How many times had he dreamed of a moment like this, of being called back to active duty? Because it would have meant he was whole again. Not just three-quarters of a human being, but a vital man of action.
But part of what made him want that, part of why he could even hope for it, was his desire to do the right thing. The thing that made sense not just for him but for the country he served. And there must have been a serious miscalculation somewhere here.
He shook his head. “This isn’t a matter for Military Intelligence. You have four men out there, loose in America, who sound as much like serial killers as anything else. That’s the jurisdiction of the FBI, the last time I checked. If they were detainees under extraordinary rendition — even then — at most you should be working with the U.S. Marshals Service. They’re the ones who track down escaped fugitives.”
“I don’t have time for this shit,” Banks said.
“Sir, with all due respect — I’m the one running out of time,” Chapel told him. “There’s one other thing I have to say, though. One thing I need to make clear. You have the wrong man because I am not a hit man. I don’t kill people for money.”
“You know how to use a gun, don’t you?” Banks demanded.
“The army taught me that, yes,” Chapel agreed. “But I know you’re a civilian, sir, and you may be operating under a common misconception about soldiers. We aren’t in the business of killing random people. The mission of the armed forces is to extend U.S. policy through force only when necessary, and to use other means whenever it is humanly possible.”
Hollingshead nodded slowly. He was a military man, Chapel was sure of it, so he already knew this.
“So when I find these men, I’m going to do everything in my power to bring them in alive. Or at least capture them in the safest way possible.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Banks told him.
Hollingshead clapped his hands together in obvious excitement. “Then you will do it? You’ll get them back for us?”
“Sir,” Chapel said, standing at attention, “I do not remember being asked for my acceptance of this mission, sir. I remember being asked for my opinion.”
“What the fuck ever,” Banks said, rising from his chair and frowning in anger. “I asked for a killer and you brought me a goddamned Eagle Scout.”
It was, in its way, the nicest thing Banks had said about Chapel yet. He knew he wasn’t going to get anything better.
THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+5:42
“I know it seems like a hard task we’ve given you,” Hollingshead said, shrugging in apology.
“I’m just not sure how I’d even begin,” Chapel admitted.
“There, at least, we can help you.” Hollingshead drew a folded-up sheet of paper from his pocket. As he unfolded it and smoothed it out he said, “Now, you can’t ask us how we came by this, son, or what these people have in common. But we are — let’s say eighty percent — sure that our detainees will attempt to make contact with the people named on this list.”
He handed the paper to Chapel. There were eight names on it, each matched with a last known address. He didn’t bother reading the names yet, instead looking up at the two men facing him. “Permission to guess something, sir?”
Hollingshead chuckled. “That, I think, we can allow.”
“If I were an escapee from a… from a DoD facility, the first thing I’d want to do was to make contact with my family. Friends, professional contacts… anyone I could trust. I’m assuming that’s where these names come from.”
“Look, Banks. Look — he’s already on the case,” Hollingshead said, with a warm and generous smile. “I told you he was our man.”
“He’s already making mistakes is what he’s doing,” Banks countered.
Hollingshead’s smile faded. “I’m afraid that’s true, son.” He looked Chapel straight in the eye. “Those aren’t family members or friends,” he said. “The word for them is — ah, there’s no good word for it, let’s say — let’s call them—”
“Intended victims,” Banks said.
Chapel frowned. He glanced down at the list again.
“It’s a kill list,” Banks went on.
Chapel nearly dropped the piece of paper.
Hollingshead waved his hands in the air as if he wanted to calm everyone down. “That sounds so very dramatic! It’s not wholly inaccurate, though. The one thing we are certain of is that our detainees are going to go after these names and do everything they can to murder them. Keeping these people alive—”
“—is secondary,” Banks butted in. “Taking out the targets is the only thing you need to worry about. But with this list at least you know where they’re headed.”
Chapel scanned the list quickly, not bothering to memorize the names. He was more interested in the addresses for the moment. In his head he put together a map of the locations. New York City, Atlanta, Vancouver in Canada — that was going to be a jurisdictional nightmare — Chicago, Denver, Seattle, Alaska. That was an awful lot of ground to cover. But it was better than just going door-to-door throughout the entire continental United States, asking if anyone had seen a shaggy-haired man with a murderous disposition.