The lasers winked off. Henry stood, holding his breath.
“About time,” Simmons said. “Welcome home. I was told to expect you last night.”
“Great,” Carlos muttered.
“Why the sarcasm? Welcome home, Wolves.”
“Now what?”
“Debrief. You two could use a shower. I could smell you before I could see you.”
“I’m a bit confused,” Henry said, standing.
“War’s over, brother,” Simmons replied. “And you’ve got some friends in high places.”
Corporal Simmons and the other soldier, whom Henry had never seen before, walked with him and Carlos to the fenced outbuilding Henry had been to hundreds of times, the nondescript concrete shack with a neatly stenciled sign over the front door which read simply “Maintenance.”
They walked past rows of lawnmowers, shelves of tools, the smell of pesticide and rotting grass and mildew heavy in the air.
Henry waited while Simmons pressed a nail in what looked like a bare wall. The touch screen beneath it lit up.
“Wilkins, Henry. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.”
Carlos chuckled over Henry’s shoulder.
“Confirmed,” said a female voice through a tiny hidden speaker. He’d done this many times, but never at zero-dark-thirty, and never fearing for his life.
He watched while the panel on the floor slid back, revealing a steep metal staircase illuminated by harsh naked light bulbs.
Their footsteps clanged and echoed in the tight space, the concrete walls amplifying each step, and the air was close and smelled like another day of training ahead.
Simmons had his weapon slung over his shoulder. He appeared relaxed, grinning and joking over his shoulder.
“Damn war’s over,” he said. “Finally. That libtard of a commander in chief resigned. The VP was killed when the war started. So the Speaker of the House is our new president. They’re reconvening Congress in Boston, if you can believe it. Symbolic, I guess.”
They went down several stories and walked through another metal door, into the Wolf Den.
The underground facility was a Cold War relic, designed originally to house regional VIPs in the event of a nuclear war with the Soviets. It had been abandoned for decades, until the Wolf Pack was formed, and then money and technology flowed back into the sprawling underground labyrinth.
A gymnasium-sized room served as a live-fire exercise area. The Wolves rehearsed breaching and clearing rooms, using portable panels which they could easily configure to mimic the layout of a building or series of rooms. Sandbags formed a ring around the area. They called it the Rat Maze.
“Who’s your friend,” Carlos asked as they turned a corner, heading apparently for one of several briefing rooms.
“Oh, that’s Wallace,” Simmons said.
From the nonchalant tone Carlos used, Henry guessed he had noticed the same things about Wallace, who walked behind them.
“He doesn’t say much,” Simmons added.
At the first landing on the way down, Henry had made a point of getting a better look at Wallace. He was a large man, over six feet tall and at least 250 pounds, icy blue eyes and a rusty two-week beard, and a way of diminishing himself that set off alarm bells in Henry’s head. There was a killer stalking Henry’s six. Carlos knew it. And Wallace probably knew that they knew.
“Say hello,” Simmons said.
“How ya doin’?” Wallace said from behind.
“He’s another New York mick,” Simmons said. “Don’t say much, but he’ll drink you under the table. Ain’t that right, Wallace?”
“Damn straight. You still owe me a hundred bucks from the other night.”
The bullet had not yet found his brain, but Henry was fairly certain where it would come from when the time came.
Simmons, leading the way still, opened the door to the briefing room.
Henry walked through and froze.
Profound relief swept over Henry’s soul.
Two men rose to their feet at the head of the wooden table, and Henry grinned.
It had been more than a year since he’d seen his father-in-law, and at the moment there were few people in the world he would rather have encountered. Admiral Bates, dignified as ever even in standard fatigues bereft the rows of ribbons which normally adorned his uniform, smiled back at Henry.
“Thank God, son.”
“Sir!” Henry said.
“Shit,” Carlos said.
“Have a seat,” the unremarkable man standing beside the admiral said.
Henry was looking at his father-in-law, a man he trusted, watched football games with, carved Thanksgiving turkeys for, and Henry had never once seen the man defer to anyone.
“Iceman,” Carlos whispered. “Jack fucking Stryker.”
“I’m sorry, son,” Admiral Bates said, his usual baritone grating with defeat, his face tight. “I had no choice.”
Henry did not sit. He stared at the admiral in disbelief. It was worse than being sucker punched, worse than a cheap shot to the balls. He’d been stabbed in the soul.
“Please sit down,” the admiral said.
Henry sat, feeling wooden, aware of the two armed men behind him.
He did not understand.
“Weapons on the table,” Stryker said. He wore black fatigues and a thin smile. He was an average-looking man, short dark hair and a lean build.
Henry prepared to attack, visualizing possible outcomes and responses, trying to come up with a plan of action that did not end in his own death. He came up empty.
Stryker tapped a screen built into the surface of the desk, and two monitors over his shoulder came alive. Each displayed a three-dimensional view of Henry’s home in Key West. There was Suzanne, picking oranges and looking tanned and beautiful. On the other screen, Taylor played beside a pool choked with algae.
Henry tasted bile as he placed his sidearm on the table. The light inside him, the hope and joy and purpose, was gone, snuffed out in a moment.
“I’m so sorry,” the admiral said.
Henry placed his palms on the table.
“Good dogs,” Stryker said. “So, you have something I need. Something the Directors require. You will not live to see another day, but I can promise you that your family will not be harmed. You’ll be buried in Arlington, full honors, and be remembered as heroes.”
“Give him the drive, son,” Admiral Bates said. He met Henry’s gaze and fl looked back down at the table.
Stryker chuckled, and his lips curled into a humorless smile.
“They don’t have it,” Stryker said. He arched his eyebrows. “Martinez does. And he’s where? Think hard.”
“Fuck you,” Carlos growled.
“On overwatch, perhaps?” Stryker went on, as though Carlos had not spoken. “Waiting. Maybe headed for the airport to try to hack the system? No, I don’t think so. He’s here.”
Henry fixed his eyes on his family. A thousand miles away, but here in living color so real he could almost touch them.
Stryker pointed with his thumb at the screens. “When Martinez gets to the op center, he will be detained. If he does not willingly give us the drive, you’re going to convince him it’s the right thing to do.”
“So,” Stryker said, grinning again, making Henry think of a barracuda. The man was implacable, predatory, and possessed of an innate stillness, a cold and calculated conservation of movement, and the soulless eyes of a fish. “Confine them separately. We won’t have to wait long.”
“Hands on top of your head,” Simmons said. “I’m sorry about this. Orders.”
With his hands zip-tied behind his back, Henry walked into a chain-link cell, a temporary holding area he’d placed terrorists in. A concrete floor, nothing to sit on, four feet by four feet, a place targets would wait until men in suits from agencies with three letters would whisk them away to God knew where for enhanced interrogation. Henry never dreamed he would end up in one of these sad prisons.