The SF team leader pulled out his targeting binder from a hip pocket. He flipped through the photocopies of some girlish handwriting and found the dossier on their next target. Even in the dark, it was easy to read with all the flames from the compound.
“Okay. Let’s hand off this crap to the MI folks and get moving.” He skimmed the wealth of information for each name, ignoring address, insurgent hierarchy position, identifying features and a hundred other biographical tidbits. He focused on the key detaiclass="underline" daily routine.
“So, this next bigwig will likely be at his mistress’s house this late. Any questions about the target? Mount up.”
He still had 10 terrorists on his to-do list, and that was just for his unit. Forty other snatch and grab teams, operating throughout the tri-state area, each had a different chapter of this Top Secret diary to keep them busy.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 7
“Are you sure this is the same person you told me about?” The CEO of JP Stanley cursed under her breath. “This is such a waste of time. She’s in a wheelchair, for God sakes!”
Supreme Group Leader Dietrich, head of all Freedom Brigade operations nationwide, stiffened. He had never met any of his mysterious paymasters in person. They would send money, loads of it, and the occasional vague directive, but largely left his paramilitary organization free to do as they saw fit. His “sponsors” never even called directly. His rare orders always arrived via a complicated chain of intermediaries. For one of them to show up at his headquarters, out of the blue, wasn’t just a surprise… it was terrifying.
“Well, you requested thirty of my most experienced and loyal fighters. Sophie Kampbell tops the list. There are tougher shooters, smarter tacticians and abler leaders, but they all sacrifice one skillset to enhance the other. She’s solid in every field. No one can match her across-the-board competence, even if she is a little banged up at the moment. She’s just the gal to lead your special project.”
The banker was suspicious about this high praise from a mercenary. Still, her cabal had paid for the best. This supreme general whatever had been the disgraced, ex-commander of the US Army’s Delta Force before her organization poached him. She’d have to trust his character judgment.
“Don’t worry, ma’am; most of the injuries are cosmetic. Sophie was technically dead for almost a minute, before the medics revived her. She’s fully recovered now and can walk just fine. The hospital only likes to play it safe. This woman has already laid down her life once for the cause. I can’t offer you anyone more hardcore than that.”
“Fair enough. Let’s go chat then. Oh, one more thing: it’s crucial that she believes the chemical strike on Baton Rouge was launched by the URA command and not her own unit.”
Dietrich almost shook the cocky, skinny woman. Instead, he slammed the half-opened door shut. “No offense, but how do you know that? Do we have a leak somewhere?”
None of the Freedom fighters involved in the Baton Rouge fiasco survived. Dietrich had made personally sure the few militiamen that made it out of the battle never returned home.
The banker leaned in close and winked. “Who do you think arranged delivery of those Russian Sarin gas shells in the first place? I even picked the target.”
He took a moment to ponder his options. “I see.”
The civilian’s eyes drilled into his soul. “Of course, there are ten degrees of separation between me and the deal. I hope there aren’t any radio transcripts of you giving the fire command floating around. Would be a shame to lose your leadership. I don’t think you’d be safe from Washington’s revenge anywhere. Even in that private villa you bought under a fake name in Costa Rica.”
Dietrich’s eyes flicked up and down the hall. “No need for threats. You know I’m in your pocket. What do you want?”
The banker tried not to coo as the raw power crinkled her nipples. She traced a finger over that silly, impotent gun in his shoulder holster. “I am your only sponsor now. Consider whatever side deals you had with my deceased colleagues or their subsidiaries cancelled. Stick with me, and you’ll be Secretary of Defense for the new, reunified United States. Cross me, and you’ll be hunted to the ends of the earth by both sides. Are we clear?”
Dietrich didn’t hesitate. He bowed to the first rule of the mercenary code: stay alive long enough to collect your paycheck.
“Crystal clear, ma’am.”
“Well, let’s go meet our pretty little patsy then.”
The banker sat on the girl’s bed, ready to provide a shoulder to cry on. Not exactly thrilled, but she forced down her disgust for the simple-minded killer in front of her. To the banker’s relief, she didn’t cry when Dietrich finished the briefing.
Sophie leaned forward, scratching at the stitches along her belly. She skimmed the gruesome photos covering her hospital bed.
“Jesus. This is what happens when the rhetoric gets out of hand. I can’t believe Salazar really went so far. She seemed so reasonable. Are you 100 % positive, sir? This couldn’t have been a rogue URA unit or maybe even a splinter force from our own group?”
The banker raised an eyebrow at the group leader. She was fishing a little too close to shore. Dietrich reluctantly peeled his eyes from Sophie’s thighs, barely covered by the hiked up hospital gown, and took her hand.
“Assault Leader, make no mistake about it, President Salazar personally ordered this strike. Over 10,000 dead, most of them civilians. We’re being led by a psychopath. When I got wind of her involvement, she turned on us. She’s been feeding the US military the location of all Freedom Brigade units. She knows we’re the only people that can stop her from doing this again.”
Sophie ignored the photos of rows of bodies, and picked up an old picture of her father. “He called it. Dad said we were getting in over our heads. He only got caught up in this because I refused to leave. Because I refused to believe him.”
Her eyes welled up, but she choked down the pain. The banker tried hard not to smile at the white-hot rage washing away her grief.
“How can I help stop that crazy bitch?”
“Mr. President, this is immoral, illegal and un-American. I won’t…” The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff reigned in his indignation. His two predecessors had been kicked out, one even arrested, for standing on their principles. Every day his president came closer to living up to the URA’s dictatorial rhetoric.
“I mean, I can’t in good faith recommend this action, sir. Targeting civilians undermines everything we’ve achieved so far. There’s no honor in this.”
The president propped his feet up on the Situation Room’s smooth desk. He hadn’t used the Oval Office for anything other than ceremonial functions in over a year. No renovations could wash away the memory of that missile smashing through the window and melting Congressman Pierce, right before his eyes.
“You know, I’m sick and tired of this bullshit. We won’t kill them. It’s the reminder that we could that’s important.”
“Again sir, that’s not the point. All these targeted assassinations are one thing, but even this threat crosses a line.”