"I realize we must take this threat seriously, Kent. Believe me, I have no intention of letting Nikolai Zhirkov think he can make idle threats without me noticing. Don't worry. I'll handle it, just like I've handled every other threat in the past."
Foster appeared to accept the answer, so the president continued. "What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Well," Foster said with an uneasy voice, "it's about Axis, sir."
"Axis?" Dawkins sat up a little straighter. Only he and a few other select people knew anything about the elite secret agency. They operated quietly, sticking to the shadows most of the time. Their missions were the ones no one else could handle, or they simply didn't want to. It was much like MI6 in the UK, only smaller.
"Yes, sir. I don't know how to say this. I know that you are personal friends with Director Starks as well as Sean Wyatt."
"Wyatt? He's no longer with Axis, Kent. You should do your homework."
Foster nodded. "I'm aware that former agent Sean Wyatt is no longer working for Axis, sir. However, this does involve him."
"Wyatt? How so?"
"Sir, I don't know how to tell you this, but we think that Sean Wyatt might be working with the Russians."
It was all Dawkins could do to keep from bursting with laughter. After a minute, the laughter died as he realized Foster was serious.
"You're kidding, right?" Dawkins asked, his face turning grave.
Foster folded his hands in his lap atop a file he'd been holding. "Unfortunately, sir, I'm not. I just received word from the CIA that he's gone rogue. He took out three operatives. Another is recovering from a blow to the head."
"Three operatives? Why on Earth would you send CIA assets after Sean Wyatt in the first place? You do realize he's like a badger. Corner him, and he is more dangerous than pretty much anyone you know."
"We are aware of his skill set, sir."
"You are aware?" the president said in a mocking tone. "Obviously, you didn't think before you put people in play with him. And that brings me back to the first question. Why were you sending men after him?"
Foster took the file from his lap and laid it on the desk. He pushed it closer to the president with one finger.
Dawkins read the cover. It was like a million other files he'd seen come across his desk in the years he'd been president.
Classified.
He opened it and noted the pictures of Sean taken by — most likely — a CIA surveillance operative.
"Those images were taken a few days ago by one of our assets. You can see there, Agent Wyatt is on the premises of the William Seward estate."
"So? I told you before, he's been working on a special assignment from me. And he's doing it as a favor."
"That may be, Mr. President, but take a look at the next image."
Dawkins glared at Foster under his eyebrows before returning his gaze to the pictures in the folder. The next one showed Sean sitting at a cafe table on a street. There was a cup of coffee in front of him.
"Okay, what am I looking at now? A picture of Sean drinking a cup of coffee? Looks like he's texting someone."
"You would be correct in that assessment, sir. He is texting someone. The NSA intercepted the text message and forwarded that to our team. The number he was sending that message to is based in Moscow."
The president's face remained stoic, but inside he was fighting off a stern frown.
"You'll find the messages and the number behind those images, sir."
Dawkins scratched the side of his head and moved the picture. He looked over the numbers on the list and then noted the messages.
There was reference to Alaska, Denali, and a device, though the verbiage was vague.
"You do realize Sean has contacts all over the world. And while we should probably be wary of whatever the Russians are doing right now, I'd hardly say these texts are reason to go after one of my trusted friends."
"We agree, Mr. President. The CIA team simply wanted to ask Sean some questions. He got hostile and killed three Americans. That is something we cannot ignore, sir."
Dawkins knew the secretary was right. He couldn't ignore it. Something wasn't right, though. He couldn't put his finger on it, but John Dawkins was no fool. If Sean Wyatt killed members of the CIA, he wouldn't have done it without good reason. He decided to keep that thought to himself for the moment.
"What do you propose we do, Kent? Bring him in?"
"That is what the CIA team was attempting to do. They merely wanted to ask him some questions."
"You mean interrogate him."
"Call it what you will, sir. Wyatt is a threat. And if you look at the next page, you'll see what I'm talking about."
Dawkins scanned the next piece of paper until he came across a line that struck him as odd. I will personally make sure Big D is down.
He shook his head. "Big D? What does that mean? You trying to tell me Wyatt is going to attack Dallas?"
Secretary Foster shook his head. "No, sir. YOU are big D."
Dawkins swallowed hard at the implication. Sean had been a friend for several years. It was unfathomable to think he'd be involved with a plot to kill him. Based on the intel in front of him, it seemed that was exactly what was going on. He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled slowly before speaking again.
"What do you suggest we do, Kent?"
"I've already taken the necessary measures. Wyatt will resurface sooner or later. And when he does, we'll be ready."
Chapter 4
Sean sat up on the couch and looked at the Band-Aid on his wrist. Jack had taken the IV out a few days before, and ever since Sean had been drinking fluids normally and switched to pills for the pain in his chest.
He'd recovered faster than expected and was even getting up to move around a bit. There wasn't much to do in the cabin except for reading old books Jack kept on a shelf near the fireplace. Sean thumbed through a few of the pages once, but the story didn't hold his attention.
On the third day after Sean had awoken in the cabin, Jack went into town to get some supplies his unexpected guest requested. The host had planned on doing it the previous day, but blustery conditions brought in another round of snow that kept the old doctor at home for another day.
When the weather subsided, he ventured out in his old truck and disappeared down the trail.
Sean watched until the tail lights disappeared before he got to work testing out his muscle strength. He knew Jack wouldn't approve and would likely tell him to take it easy for the next few weeks, but Sean didn't have that kind of time. Someone had tried to kill him, which meant he was onto something. What it was, he didn't know for sure, but he intended to find out.
He eased himself down to the floor and propped his weight up on his hands and knees. He tried to lower his chest to do a push-up, but the pain on the right side of his chest was too much, and he crumpled to the wooden floorboards in a heap.
His lungs rose and fell as he gasped for air. He'd only been in the cabin for four or five days — according to Jack — but he'd weakened significantly.
"Maybe I'll start with the legs and work up to the arms and chest," he said to himself.
He pushed his weight off the floor and stood next to the smoldering fireplace. He put his arms out in front of him and bent his knees until they were hovering over the tops of his feet. Then he stood up, completing one squat rep. He let out a sigh and repeated the process until he'd done ten reps.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his head. The cabin was surprisingly warm seeing that the world outside was covered in snow and ice.