Mercury Rising, page 2
“I’m sorry, sir,” the captain said. “We won’t be charging you for those items, of course.”
“Of course,” Becker repeated, his tone sharp.
This time, Barrett didn’t even give Becker a chance to deny entry. With one long stride, Barrett placed his right foot onto the yacht, briefly straddling the two vessels before coming down on Becker’s side.
“Where do you want this one?” Barrett asked as he spun in all directions searching for open space nearby.
Becker did the same thing. And the second he turned his back, Barrett lunged for the weapon and snagged the handle, pulling it free from the back of Becker’s waistband.
Becker spun around, his hands frantically scrambling for his piece. But by the time he turned back to look at Barrett, he was staring at both a clumsy delivery guy and the barrel of his own Glock 19.
“Thanks, captain,” Barrett said. “I think you can take it from here without me—in fact, I’m sure you’d prefer it that way.”
The captain glared at Barrett, who shooed him away with the barrel of the Glock. Hesitantly, the captain removed the bumpers and pushed away from Becker’s yacht. After one final glance, he powered on his engines and motored away.
Barrett turned his attention to Becker. “Rear Admiral James Becker.”
“Who are you?” Becker snarled. “And what is the meaning of this?”
“My name isn’t important, and I don’t intend you any harm. However, I was hoping you might be able to shed a little light on something for me.”
“I’d feel much more comfortable if we went inside,” Becker said.
“No funny business,” Barrett said, glowering at the admiral.
Barrett followed the admiral down a set of steps and into the cabin below deck. They walked into a small living space.
“Please, have a seat,” Becker said.
Barrett shook his head. “I’d rather not.”
The admiral sighed. “What is it that you want to know?”
“I want to know about this,” Barrett said as he reached into his pocket and produced the picture he’d retrieved from the secret locker of Tim Gaines, the soldier who’d supposedly committed suicide—a cause of death Barrett had come to doubt. The image depicted Becker directing several men while they loaded contraband into a U.S. military cargo plane.
Becker glanced at the image and then quickly diverted his eyes and shook his head.
“What is it?” Barrett asked. “Too many painful memories?”
Becker’s face tightened as he looked down at his feet.
“Come on, Admiral. I didn’t come all this way to watch you turn into a mute.”
Becker pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. He drew in a long breath and exhaled slowly before opening his eyes again and looking at Barrett.
“I know you can’t outrun your past, but I’ve damn sure tried,” Becker finally said.
Barrett waited a beat as the admiral tried to maintain his composure. “Could you please explain what’s happening in this photo?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Maybe. But I have a feeling there’s something more going on. And seeing that you’re the last person remaining alive in this photo and you’ve all but disappeared after your early retirement, I can’t help but think there’s more to it.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me,” Barrett said.
“Then why are you here?”
“Someone tried to murder me—and I think it has something to do with what I did on one of my missions in Afghanistan.”
“And what did you do?”
Barrett shrugged. “Military stuff. Nothing important as far as I could tell. I was working with Air Force reconnaissance and on a mission in the small village of Marghah. The next thing I know, my name is on a list with everyone who was on that mission—and they’re all dead but me.”
“The Marghah Six?” the admiral asked.
“You’ve heard about it?”
Becker nodded. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingertips as if he was trying to massage away a migraine.
“You know something about this, don’t you, Admiral?”
Becker sighed and looked calmly at Barrett, eyes wide and pained. “I don’t know all the details, but I know exactly how you feel.”
He walked across the room toward a small bookshelf and reached for a framed photo. Then he handed it to Barrett.
“There are only two people remaining alive in that photo,” Becker said. “Me and the guy to my right, Nick Lynch.”
Barrett studied the image, a photo of eight military guys, arms around each other, staring menacingly at the camera as they stood in front of some plain cinder block building. They were all either shirtless or wearing tank tops and appeared to be from different military branches based on their bottom fatigues.
“How come only two of you are still alive?” Barrett said as he handed the photo back to Becker.
“Because we were the only two with enough sense to disappear when the shit hit the fan,” Becker said glancing at the photo in his hand.
“What kind of shit?”
Becker’s lips tightened as he stared past Barrett for a moment as if pondering whether to say anything else.
“We were involved in a smuggling ring,” Becker finally said.
“That much is obvious.”
Becker nodded as he glanced back at the image. “You were right. There was more to it than you can see in your photo. Weapons, drugs, the usual fare—but that wasn’t what made me want to be a ghost.”
“Then what was it?” Barrett asked.
“Guilt.”
“Guilt over what?”
“There’s something I need to show you. It’s in my room.” Becker handed the framed photo back to Barrett. “Hold onto this for me, will you?”
Barrett cocked his head to one side and gave the admiral a wary look. “You’re not going anywhere, Admiral. You can just tell me.”
“You have to trust me,” the admiral said. “We’re in the same boat, both literally and physically. But this isn’t something I can just tell you about.”
Barrett hesitated and was about to answer when Watts’ voice squawked over the coms.
“You need to get out of there right now,” she said, her tone firm.
“What is it?” Barrett said, holding up a finger to Becker.
“I just detected a drone in the area,” she said. “And it just launched a missile. You’ve got about thirty seconds before impact.”
Barrett cursed and then looked at Becker. “We need to go right now.”
“Go where?”
“A drone just launched a missile at your boat. Now come on.”
Barrett headed up the stairs and then stopped when he realized Becker wasn’t behind him.
“Come on now,” Barrett shouted.
“I’m not leaving without this,” Becker shouted. “It’s the key to all of this. It might help you figure out who the Safety is.”
“The Safety?”
Damn fool.
“Forget about it. You’ve gotta get off this boat,” Barrett shouted.
He heard the sound of the missile rocketing toward them from above. He flung the frame into the water and sprinted, diving into the water before swimming furiously. His arms strained to reach out and then pull the water past him in strong strokes while his feet churned hard. He had swum twenty meters before the missile struck, splintering the yacht and turning it into a fireball. The concussive blow and resulting wave shoved Barrett farther away from the epicenter of the blast.
With ringing in his ears, he treaded water, spinning around to look at the aftermath. Flaming debris floated on the water. Black smoke wafted skyward as fire lapped at what remained of the admiral’s yacht.
“Barrett, are you okay?” crackled Watts’ voice over the coms.
“I’m still alive,” he said.
“And the admiral?”
Barrett looked left and right for any hint of the man, but he saw nothing.
What was so damn important to Becker that it cost him his life?
Barrett wasn’t sure he’d ever know now, that mystery incinerated with Becker soon to be at the bottom of the sea.
Moments later, Watts arrived. She idled the motor on her boat and reached out a hand to Barrett, who took it and climbed aboard.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Barrett asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see it on my computer until it was almost too late.”
“Thank God you saw it when you did.”
“What about Becker?” she asked, wheeling the boat around and easing onto the throttle.
“I didn’t see him, but we need to check. He might still be alive out here.”
Watts circled the blast several times while other curious boaters neared the remnants of the yacht adrift on the water.
“I don’t see anyone,” she said.
“Me either,” Barrett said. “He’s gone.”
Barrett looked down at the water and saw the framed wooden photo drifting aimlessly. He bent over and scooped it up, studying the image of the men for a few seconds. There was a marking on the wall in the corner, one that was eerily familiar. One he should’ve noticed before now. Then he studied the faces of the men once more.
Only one left alive now.
And Barrett had a feeling that wouldn’t last long.
CHAPTER 2
WASHINGTON, D.C. | ONE MONTH LATER
Barrett tugged a baseball cap low across his brow as he descended into the bowels of the Library of Congress with Watts and Stone at his side. The trio strolled casually along, engaging in meaningless small talk to deflect any potential curiosity. Just three co-workers around an imaginary water cooler.
As they reached the basement level, Barrett led the team down a long corridor. A dingy tile floor and off-white walls provided a lifeless backdrop, a picture apropos of the federal workers whose souls had been stolen by the monotony of bureaucracy. But Barrett felt the gravitas that accompanied his work. Chasing shadows in the dark sometimes felt monotonous, but it was forever meaningful.
Despite the rousing discussion over the latest blockbuster film and the way the critics shooed it away as serious filmmaking with the flick of a hand, Barrett was lost in his thoughts. He looked forward to their impending discussion. It helped assuage his angst over the fact that Col. Sanders—whoever the hell he was—still remained a free man. Barrett refused to sound the alarm like a hyperbolic politician claiming the opposing party would bring about “the end of democracy” if anything to avoid assigning his work a greater sense of self-importance than it really was. But even so, the words of Edmund Burke echoed in Barrett’s mind: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
Barrett considered himself a good man—and he desperately wanted to do something.
Especially about Col. Sanders.
As they ambled down a hallway, Stone told a joke, which Barrett actually heard. He laughed and, without thinking, slapped Stone on the back. He winced as he shrank back from Barrett. Although Stone had recovered fully from his injuries, he wasn’t ready or even prepared for good-natured backslapping.
Barrett withdrew and placed his hands in the air, apologizing repeatedly.
“It’s all right,” Stone said. “At some point, I need to quit being such a baby about everything.”
“Did you think this was a new development with your latest injury?” Watts snarked.
Stone squinted and growled in a mocking way, holding his feigned anger for a beat before relaxing into a grin.
“How much longer, Bear?” Stone asked. “Are you sure Simpson isn’t playing some kind of trick on you?”
Barrett chinned down the hallway. “It’s right up there. Just keep walking.”
After another fifty meters down the hallway, Barrett indicated an unmarked door on the right side of the corridor. He swiped a keycard in front of the discreet black panel just to the left of the doorknob, turning the red light to green. The door emitted a click, and Barrett turned the handle. He ushered Watts and Stone into a dimly lit room where Simpson sat in the far corner in a chair, his hands gripping the arms as if preparing for takeoff.
“Are you all right?” Barrett asked as he secured the door behind him and found a seat across from Simpson.
Watts and Stone settled into their seats as they awaited an answer from their handler.
“There’s never a sufficient answer to that question,” Simpson said. “As always, I’m a mix of fine and frazzled, fretting and fantastic.”
“So,” Barrett said, drawing out the word, “not good?”
“How about another trite response—I’ve been better.”
Barrett grunted. “So, not good. Got it.”
Simpson shifted in his chair before pushing himself upright and jamming his hands into his pockets. He paced the floor, contemplating his response.
“The truth is I called you here today to discuss how we’re going to move forward with Mercury and with the Echo Syndicate,” he finally said.
“Being double agents is complicated,” Barrett said.
Simpson nodded. “And you, Agent Barrett—or, should I say, Kelvin King—will have to figure out how to navigate those waters if we’re to be successful on this next mission.”
“Do we have a new mission?” Stone asked. “I’m tired as hell of this recovery assignment.”
“That’s good to hear because you’re going to need to be at a hundred percent if you intend to be successful on the mission assignments before you today.”
Lines appeared on Watts’ brow as she squinted. “Assignments with an ‘s’?”
“Only in a manner of speaking,” Simpson said. “I don’t think it’s anything you wouldn’t have done before. The only difference is that now you’re getting asked to provide this information to me. You’ll all get a slight bump in pay as a result, but I must warn you that it is risky.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Barrett asked. “The last I recall, we still don’t know if Col. Sanders was trying to take out me or Admiral Becker.”
“Or perhaps—efficient man that he is—he was just trying to kill two threats with one drone.”
“Who’s to say he hasn’t been waiting for the right moment to take me out?”
“That was over a month ago. I think it’s safe to assume that if you had been the primary target, Echo would’ve made another run at you by now,” Simpson said. “So, for now, let’s operate as if they were targeting Becker and the Colonel still believes you to be Kelvin King, a valuable asset to the syndicate.”
“I’m not sure how much better I should feel knowing that,” Barrett said.
“It shouldn’t change anything,” Simpson said. “The reality is someone will likely either tell him the truth before long or he’ll figure it out. Either way, it’s going to put you in the Colonel’s crosshairs soon enough—and you need to be ready for whatever he slings your way. Until then, he’s slung an interesting assignment to you that involves a federal judge.”
“I’m not killing a judge,” Barrett said emphatically.
“Nor would I be asking you to,” Simpson said. “According to the Colonel, he had another Echo agent from Seattle named Wyatt Del Rio lined up to handle this mission but pivoted when he fell ill with Thallium poisoning. I don’t know how long Del Rio has been in the hospital, but it must be serious from what I understand, because he is one of Echo’s top agents.”
“So, what are you asking me to do?” Barrett asked.
“Just the mission objectives forwarded to me by the Colonel, which doesn’t involve any killing,” Simpson said. “Only protecting.”
“Protecting a federal judge?” Watts asked, her face spun up like it had been twisted with a corkscrew.
“Since when did the Echo Syndicate get into the business of protecting federal judges?” Stone asked. “Isn’t that the job of the U.S. Marshals?”
“It is,” Simpson said. “But it’s hard to say what the end game is at this point. Two federal judges have been killed in the last two weeks in what can only be described as suspicious circumstances. One looked like a random mugging, while the other involved an accident that resulted in a judge’s car plummeting over the side of a guard rail and two hundred feet into a canyon.”
“Devoid of any investigation, that sure seems targeted to me,” Barrett said.
“Agreed,” Simpson said. “But for all we know, there might be a string of judges connected to the Echo Syndicate and someone else is trying to knock them off for some reason.”
Watts stood and walked behind her chair, placing her hands on the back of it and leaning forward. “And investigators haven’t been able to establish a link?”
“Not publicly,” Simpson said. “But I have a friend at the bureau who tells me that the special agent on the case has found something of a link between two cases involving imports at U.S. ports. And the judge you’ve been assigned to protect—Judge Katherine Morrison—also has a similar pending case on her docket. Could be a coincidence, but—”
“There are no coincidences in this business,” Barrett said, cutting off Simpson, “at least not coincidences that strong.”
“Well, that case is still weeks away, but the Colonel has asked for Kelvin King and his team to create a threat assessment for Judge Morrison and write up a list of recommendations on how to develop a more secure workplace for her and others at the district court office building in Chicago. Once you give that to me, I’ll submit it to the Colonel and go from there.”
“That seems rather benign,” Watts said.
“And beneath our skill set,” Stone sneered. “This is an elite team. We don’t do threat assessments.”
“I agree,” Barrett said. “This smells like a setup.”
“If you were making contact with Judge Morrison, I might agree with you,” Simpson said. “But this sounds like genuine interest in protecting the judge, though I think it’s unusual too, to say the least. Just be extra aware when you get there. President Clark believes your position within the syndicate gives us the best chance at exposing it and bringing it down.”
