Honor, page 21
Harrison released the bundle and pushed off the door jamb, charging forward, arms wide. He snagged the other man’s body on his right bicep and drove him hard against the opposite wall. A whoosh of expelled breath blasted past his face. Harrison punched, kicked, scratched, and head-butted. The man was heavier than him and stronger. If the man got off the wall, Harrison was in trouble.
He reached up, grabbed the man’s face, and slammed his head back into the wall. Again and again.
A spray of warm blood laced his cheek. The man’s knees went soft. He slid to the ground, unmoving.
Harrison dropped next to him, fumbling for his mobile phone. He turned on the flashlight function.
The unconscious man in the dusty alley wore the uniform of the Russian Army. Harrison swore to himself.
He searched the man’s pockets and came up with an ID. Evgeny Sergachev, a communications specialist, just like Grigor, but a sergeant.
Harrison put his fingers on the unconscious man’s neck. He was breathing evenly, and he had a strong pulse. This guy might wake up any second now.
Harrison’s mind raced. Grigor had been followed. A nosy comrade or part of a Russian security service?
It didn’t matter. Even if his asset managed to survive the SNA ambush, if this guy got back to base, Grigor was a dead man.
Harrison slid his hand up until he covered the man’s mouth and pinched his nose shut. He straddled the body. The man’s eyes flew open, blazing with panic. He tried to buck the weight off, but Harrison pinned his arms down with his knees. He dropped his phone and clamped both hands over the man’s face.
The muffled screams ceased. The frantic movements faded. The man stopped breathing. In the still of the alley, Harrison heard his own rasping breaths. He rolled off the body and stared straight up. All around him, disturbed dust filled the air, dancing in the light of his discarded mobile phone.
Move, he ordered himself.
In the glare of the light from his phone, Harrison stripped the body and redressed him in the civilian clothes he’d brought for Grigor. He dragged the corpse inside the bombed-out shop and hid it under a pile of debris.
Then he gathered up the Russian soldier’s clothes, his ID, and his knife and returned to his car.
Harrison didn’t get back to the office until well after midnight. To avoid the Syrian National Army attack he knew was coming, his return route took him through the refugee camps to a different checkpoint than the one he normally used.
He hated the camps. To Harrison, they were a grim reminder of the cost of the war—and his part in it.
Are we really helping these people? he wondered. The Russians prop up Assad. We back the forces against Assad, and the civilians are caught in the middle.
He was on the right side, Harrison knew that. He believed in his country and his cause. But when he looked into the eyes of a child who’d been bombed out of her home, he saw no easy answers. Just suffering.
Every time he saw a flash of an explosion in his rear-view mirror, he worried about Grigor. His stomach clenched. A sour taste rose in the back of his throat.
While Ramos was playing fast and loose with the rules, Grigor was putting his life on the line for what he believed in. It was too much for Harrison. He pulled his car to the side of the dark road, opened the door, and threw up in the dust.
The office was empty. He got a cup of stale coffee and swished the acidic brew over his tongue. No matter how many times he rinsed out his mouth, the sour taste remained.
He inserted the micro SD card into a stand-alone computer, ran a virus scan, and opened the file. There was a column of decrypted messages from the Russian command element outside Idlib. Grigor’s job was to process the incoming messages, decrypt them, and load them onto a tablet for his chain of command to review. The young man simply made a copy for himself when he found something interesting.
As with all security systems, the human element was often the weakest link. People not changing passwords or clicking on links in emails--or smuggling in memory chips.
Harrison scanned the first few messages and found little of interest. Grigor had risked an emergency meeting for this?
Then he opened a decrypted email. The header made him sit up in his chair. The email was from Vladimir Damyanenko, head of Wagner operations in northern Syria.
The Wagner Group, a Russian mercenary contingent based in Syria, were often used for special assignments that the Russian army was not willing to take on or wanted plausible deniability for a possible war crime.
Harrison read the message twice, then he picked up his mobile phone and dialed a number from memory.
When a groggy voice answered, Harrison spoke in an urgent tone. “Mike, it’s Harrison. I’m sending you something on Signal.”
The voice on the other end sharpened. “Standing by.”
Harrison copied the message into the encrypted app and hit send.
“Got it,” the man on the other end of the phone said. There was a pause. “Hol-eee shit, Harrison. Where did you get this?”
“Not important. I’m sending it to CENTCOM now, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“I owe you one, man.”
Harrison suddenly choked up. “Not me you have to thank, buddy.”
Harrison’s going-away celebration was held at a restaurant called Payidar, a high-end tourist establishment overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The well-appointed interior struck a perfect blend of modern amenities and traditional Turkish ambience.
The whole office was there, as were assorted significant and less than significant others. Harrison had his eye on a blonde who’d been manning the corner of the bar for the last hour and seemed decidedly unattached. They’d made eye contact a few times already and she seemed receptive to a drive-by.
The festivities had reached the stage of the evening where all the things that needed to be said had already been aired. Most of the people at the table were glad for a night out and happy to drink to Harrison’s good fortune—except Ramos. He spent the evening sipping Irish whiskey neat, one after another, silent and glowering as his colleagues heaped praise on Harrison.
Screw him. Not even Ramos’s sour attitude could pierce the bubble of Harrison’s good mood tonight.
I’m going to The Show! Even now, when he thought about it, he wanted to stand on the chair and shout it out loud.
Moscow Station as Deputy Station Chief. The most coveted posting in the Agency was his—and he would make the most of it. He’d studied the Russian Federation since…well, since it had come into being in 1991. He knew the workings of the Russian mind, had pored over all the intel he could access, and finally his dream was coming true.
Nope, not even Ramos could harsh this mellow.
He drained the dregs of his Carlsberg and made eye contact with the blonde. He got to his feet. Time to extend my streak of good luck.
Harrison strode to the bar, planted an elbow, and casually turned to face the woman.
Except Ramos was in his way. “A word,” he growled.
“Really, John?” Harrison tried to peer around him at the blonde, but the station chief kept blocking his line of sight.
“Outside. Now.” Ramos spun on his heel and stalked toward the rear of the restaurant.
Harrison gave an encouraging smile to the woman that he hoped said I’ll be right back, then followed Ramos.
The rear entrance opened onto the beach. Ramos leaned against a stack of beach chairs, arms crossed. An LED light over the door drenched the entire area in cold white light that washed away all color. Ramos’s jaw was clenched, his cheeks bunched with tension.
“You’re drunk, John,” Harrison said. “And I’m outta here. I’m not your problem anymore. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“I know what you did,” he shot back in a clipped voice. “The Syrian National Army attack failed because of you.”
“The Russian command element movement was cancelled because of a missing man. You know that, John.” Harrison spoke carefully. He’d never put his encounter with the Russian soldier in his after-action report.
“You mean this guy.” Ramos held out a printed photo.
Harrison pretended to study it. It was Sergachev. It was not a face Harrison would forget. Ever.
“Who’s he?” He handed the photo back.
“As if you don’t know,” Ramos sneered. “His body was found dressed in civilian clothes in a meeting place you used. You killed him.”
Harrison went very still.
“You’re drunk, John. Let it go.”
“Yeah, I’m drunk, but I still know when I’m being lied to. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” He laughed, a sharp bark. “You’re not the only one who has connections, Harrison. You embarrassed me. You fucked over the Syrian National Army and my friend. For what? To save your asset, that kid?”
“That kid saved the lives of two hundred special forces operators at Khasam,” Harrison shot back. “He’s a hero.”
Ramos came close enough that Harrison could smell the sweetness of whiskey on his breath.
“And you think that saves your ass, right? You disobey orders, interfere with an ally’s operation, and just because you stumble into some valuable intel, you’re off the hook? Is that how you see it, Harrison?”
“I did the right thing, John. Even you have to see that now.”
“I don’t have to see anything, except what you did to me.” He paused. His lips parted into a wide, mocking smile. “Payback’s a bitch. I hope it was worth it.”
Harrison’s mouth went dry. “What are you going to do, John?”
“It’s already done, Harrison. I wanted to bust your ass right out of the Agency, but that was a heavy lift, even for me. So I settled for the next best thing.”
“What did you do?” Harrison whispered.
Ramos drew in a deep breath of the sea air, savoring it as if he was in the middle of a rose garden in summertime. “I did the right thing, Harrison. Isn’t that what you told yourself when you disobeyed a direct order?”
“John.” Harrison’s mouth went dry. “What did you do?”
In the cold light, Ramos’ face looked like a hideous grinning mask. “There’s a letter of reprimand in your file. It’s not enough to get you fired, but your ass’ll be shining a chair at Langley for the rest of your career, you arrogant sonofabitch.”
Ramos let the door to the restaurant slam behind him, leaving Harrison alone on the beach.
Harrison pulled out his phone and checked his email.
There it was. Top of the queue, marked with a red exclamation point, an email with the subject line:
CHANGE IN ORDERS.
The natural high he’d been riding for the last week evaporated. He stared at the screen without moving long enough for the screen to dim, then go blank. He stowed the phone and drew in a deep breath of the salty air. He blew it out slowly as if he could exhale away the disappointment.
Moscow Station. The pain of losing his dream job would take a long time to fade, maybe a lifetime.
Then he thought of clumsy Grigor stumbling through a doorway. The kid was safe.
It was worth it, he whispered into the night. So worth it.
A Few Days to Kill
Terrence McCauley
About Terrence McCauley
Terrence McCauley is an Amazon bestselling, award-winning writer of Thrillers, Crime Fiction and Westerns. His first two Aaron Mackey westerns were finalists for the Western Writers of America’s Silver Spur Award. Where The Bullets Fly won the Western Fictioneers Award for Best Novel in 2018. He is also the author of the acclaimed Jeremiah Halstead series.
Terrence is also the author of the acclaimed University Series, which includes: The Fairfax Incident, A Conspiracy Of Ravens, A Murder Of Crows and Sympathy For The Devil. He has also written two award-winning crime fiction novels set in 1930 New York City – Prohibition And Slow Burn. His World War I novella, The Devil Dogs Of Belleau Wood, won the Silver Medal for Historical Fiction from the Military Writers Society of America. Proceeds from sales go directly to benefit the Semper Fi Fund.
Terrence is an avid reader, loves classic movies and enjoys traveling. A proud native of The Bronx, NY, he currently lives in Dutchess County, NY where he is writing his next work of fiction. Visit his website at www.terrencemccauley.com.
Why I wrote this story
The goal of “A Few Days to Kill” is to tell a conventional thriller in an unconventional way. University operative Mike Rivas has appeared in a few of my novels and short stories over the years and I’ve grown fond of him. I hadn’t set out to write a character in a wheelchair at first, but it has certainly turned out that way. I’m always looking for new ways to challenge myself as a writer and what better way than to choose a protagonist in a wheelchair? His disability is not just a plot device. It’s part of who and what Mike Rivas is. It forces him to become more than he feels he can be and he has proven to be great fun to write about. I hope you’ll like him to check out his other appearances in my University Series of novels.
A Few Days To Kill
TERRENCE MCCAULEY
Mike Rivas turned his wheelchair to face the South Atlantic Ocean. He hoped the morning sun would warm him against the chill from the visitor currently riding the elevator up to meet him.
The rehabilitation room on the thirtieth floor of the Centro Reabilitação de Neuroçiências in Rio de Janeiro offered sweeping views of the famous white sand beaches below. Today was always more beautiful than yesterday and tomorrow held the promise of being even better. At night, another Rio came alive with sports cars and beautiful people looking for a hint of tropical bliss among a jungle of neon lights and trendy clubs.
It was heaven for hedonists, but hell for a man stuck in a wheelchair.
People always paid a steep price to live in paradise and Mike Rivas had been no different, though he had paid in a currency far more valuable than money. Three years before, a federal cop’s bullet had damaged his spine during an assignment in Guatemala, robbing him of the use of his legs.
After the incident, Rivas had often cursed himself for joining the intelligence organization known as The University. He had been seeking excitement. A sense of purpose. The chance to be part of a mission greater than himself.
But as time passed and his wounds healed—except for his severed spine—Mike decided The University may have cost him everything, but it had also given him much more. The constant danger of his work had made him appreciate the fragility of peace. The consequences of failure had driven him to succeed. The prospect of death had shown him how to truly live.
And as he watched the ocean waves cresting on the beach, Mike Rivas knew his tragedy was nothing more than misfortune. His assignment in Guatemala had been a success. He had almost escaped without a scratch. But ‘almost’ didn’t count in intelligence work. Spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair was proof of that.
Mike did not turn around when he heard the elevator doors open at the far end of the rehabilitation room. Earlier that morning, when the nurse had told him he would be having a visitor, he knew it could only be one of two people. One never made a sound. The other had a distinct gait.
He heard that distinct gait now on the hospital tiles. “Morning, Roger,” Rivas said in English. He did not have many opportunities to use his native language here in Brazil, so he welcomed the chance to do so now. “It’s been a while.”
“How did you know it was me?” Cobb asked as he walked closer. “You didn’t even pay me the courtesy of turning around.”
“I didn’t have to.” He tapped his right ear. “You always drag your left foot a little when you walk on tile.”
Roger laughed at himself. “I never noticed that before, but I suppose you’re right. Bad form to have your back to the door, though. What if I’d come here with dark intentions?”
Mike knew better. “You wouldn’t have come all the way down here just to kill me. You would’ve farmed it out to a consultant.”
Roger joined him at the window as he slipped his hands into his pockets. The beige linen suit, black tee shirt and aviator sunglasses tucked in his collar gave him a casually elegant look of a well-off businessman with a few hours to kill before his flight.
“You always were a top man, Michael. Other than Hicks, you were the best I’d ever worked with.”
“Compliments so soon? This must be important.”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sarcasm.”
Mike had always been amazed how little Roger Cobb had changed since their first meeting in Istanbul all those years ago. His hair was still pale blonde, almost white. He must be pushing fifty by now but a slight build, a good skin care regimen and diet allowed him to pass for a much younger man. He had been born and raised somewhere in flyover country, but affected a detached, vaguely European air.
No one would take him for being one of the most ruthless interrogators in the intelligence community which, Mike knew, was the point.
Roger leaned against the window. “Your doctors say you’re doing surprisingly well. A lesser man would’ve been broken under similar circumstances. He might’ve turned bitter. Resentful, even.”
Mike kept looking out at the ocean. “Guess I’m not doing too bad for a cripple.”
“A man’s only a cripple if he thinks like one. You’re in a wheelchair, true, but there’s a difference.”
“Maybe to you.” The warm sunlight felt good on his face. “Not to me.”
“Come now,” Roger chided him. “Self-pity was never your style. You acquitted yourself quite nicely a few months back in Berlin and Los Angeles. Even Scott had glowing things to say about you and you know how that old Leatherneck is stingy with compliments.”
