James P. Sumner
D.E.A.D. Till I Die
GRENADA, NICARAGUA
April 10th, 2017
On a military base that didn’t exist, in a part of the world typically overlooked, four people sat in a conference room around a large table. They had tablets in front of them, propped up on stands formed by folding the protective cover into a small triangle. Two were sitting side by side at one end of the table, with one to the left of them, and one to the right.
A fifth person stood at the opposite end of the table, facing the room. He was a very tall man, a shade over six-five. He had a thick, muscular frame, toned from years of military service. He was a powerful individual, genetically very strong, but had never spent a minute of his life in a gym. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt, stretched tight over his torso.
Jericho Stone stood confidently in front of the group he’d commanded for the last seven years. Behind him was a digital wallboard, which was wirelessly synched to the tablet he was holding in his left hand. It displayed to the room what he was looking at on his own screen. He tapped the device, bringing up a satellite image of an apartment building in the Upper West Side district of Manhattan. When he spoke, his voice was deep and authoritative.
“A little over two hours ago,” he began, “a meeting between the director of the CIA and a high-value asset was interrupted by a man recently added to the Terrorist Watch List. There was an exchange of gunfire, and the assailant escaped with a laptop he stole from the asset.”
“Do we know who this guy is?” asked Damian Baker, sitting at the far end of the table. He was six feet tall, or six-three if you included the bright red Mohawk running along the center of his otherwise shaven head. He had a long, thick beard that flowed down to his chest, and tattoos running up the sides of his neck and down over his shoulders and pectorals.
Jericho shook his head. “Not exactly… Intel is sketchy at the moment, but we believe he’s a contract killer, known to the world’s criminal fraternity as Adrian Hell. He’s suspected of being involved with an organization we believe may be planning an attack on the United States. I’ve sent a profile to each of your tablets. Study it closely. This guy has a reputation as being a highly-coveted professional hitman — extremely lethal, and exceptionally capable.”
“What’s so special about the laptop?” he asked.
“It contains classified information that would be deadly in the wrong hands. It’s imperative we retrieve it at all costs.”
“What do we know about this organization?” asked Charlotte LaSharde, who was sitting on Baker’s left. She was only five-seven, with a slim build, but she was incredibly toned and physically strong. Her dark skin glowed under any light and, in another life, she wouldn’t have looked out of place on a catwalk. But behind her dark eyes lay the heart and soul of a fierce warrior, deadly and intelligent.
“Not much,” replied Jericho. “It’s a terror cell that’s been actively recruiting for the last twelve months. We don’t know who’s running it, or what they’re planning, but we do know they’ve approached our target in the last couple of days.”
“So how do we know they’re planning to attack us?” she asked.
“Our analysts have seen an increase in chatter over the last few weeks. The same keywords are repeatedly being flagged, and, right now, that’s the educated guess by the people who sign our paychecks.”
He looked around the room, inviting any further questions, but none were forthcoming. He continued with his briefing.
“I wouldn’t normally accept a mission with so little to go on, so believe me when I say, I share your concerns. But the urgency with which this operation has been put together speaks volumes. Time is a factor here, people. We’re to intercept this man and retrieve the laptop he stole.”
The man sitting to Baker’s right, on the side of the table, raised his hand slightly. Rick Santiago was the computer and explosives specialist of the unit.
Jericho gestured to him. “Rick?”
“What do we do with him once we get the laptop back?” he asked.
Jericho stared blankly for a moment as he considered the question, clenching his jaw muscles as he chose his response carefully.
“The mission parameters state the retrieval of the laptop is top priority. Bringing the target in for questioning isn’t.”
Santiago nodded, reading between the lines. Across from him, sitting on Jericho’s right, was the remaining member of the unit, Chris Black. He was a tall man, a little over six-two, and a career soldier. He was Jericho’s second-in-command. He had dark stubble on his chiseled face, and brown eyes that always saw more than he acknowledged. He was another smart, capable individual, and was recommended by Jericho himself to be recruited to the unit.
“So, how do we get him?” he asked.
Jericho tapped the screen on his tablet, updating the board behind him for the room to see. He stepped to one side and gestured to the display.
“We have intel that puts our target on a private plane by the end of the day. We need to move fast with this.” He looked over at Santiago. “Rick, I need you to find out the flight details — exactly when and where that plane is due to take off, and who’s expecting it when it lands. Once we know that,” he turned to Black, “you’re going to get on board and hide out in the cockpit. Once in mid-air, you’re to re-direct the flight… here.” He tapped the screen of his tablet again, displaying a satellite image of an abandoned airstrip. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
“What if the pilot resists?” asked Black.
“The pilot and co-pilot are expendable. We’re to leave no evidence we were ever involved here.”
The group nodded and murmured their understanding.
“We need to be ready to roll in thirty minutes,” said Jericho as he eyed each member of unit individually. “Suit up.”
The unit’s base of operations was disguised as an abandoned compound on the outskirts of Grenada, a city on the coast of Lake Nicaragua. The base was once used, primarily, to accommodate U.S. soldiers during the sixties and seventies, but hadn’t seen action since then. A barrier blocked the entrance, which was operated remotely from inside.
Many of the buildings inside the compound were ruins — old, crumbling brick held together by the stubbornness of time. Toward the back, however, three buildings had been subtly renovated to strengthen the exterior, while keeping the appearance of a dilapidated structure.
The two-story building to the left was where the team stayed when active. Missions were few and far between in recent months, but in the days building up to an operation, the team moved in and worked out of the base, before returning to the cover story that was their everyday lives.
The building in the middle was the armory. Converted into a garage, it housed the team’s Humvee and two Jeeps, as well as an array of advanced technology and weaponry. Behind it, hidden from view by the building, and concealed on all other sides by forestry, was a helipad.
The building on the right was their command center, which was a large, low building that occupied most of the right hand side of the compound. Despite its outward appearance, inside was a state-of-the-art facility. The central console room was on the left as you entered, and had a large screen that ran the full width of the main wall, and was primarily used for surveillance and communication. Santiago spent most of his time in there when he was on base, coordinating their missions and gathering intel.
Farther down the corridor, on the opposite side, was the meeting room where the members of the D.E.A.D. unit were now walking out of. Baker and Black came out first, side by side, with Santiago following and LaSharde behind him. They had their orders, and knew what they needed to do.