From Russia Without Love (2 page)

After thinking on it, Chris realized that fear was a double-edged sword. One side of the sword was debilitative fear, causing the wielder to flee when he should stay, freeze when he should act, or panic when he should be keeping his head. The other side of the sword was facilitative fear, steadying his nerves, empowering his body and mind, and tightening his focus to a ruthless efficiency. While the debilitative side of the sword wounded the wielder, the facilitative side wounded the enemy. The key was to employ the sword of fear against the enemy rather than oneself. From that first day of Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, Chris had learned how to wield fear to parry, cut, and thrust, facilitating his enemy’s slaughter. In his combat experience, when men became complacent and put the weapon of fear away, they risked certain death.

The possibility of letting Hannah and Sonny down, of a mistake on his part resulting in great harm to them, caused Chris the most fear. He pressed his arm against the hard metal of his rifle under his jacket to reassure himself. Then he touched the chest of his suit jacket until he felt the hardness of the ammo magazines attached to his vest. As a SEAL veteran, he understood the value of training, experience, preparation, equipment, and skill. But as a pastor, he knew these could only take a person so far. He said a quick, silent prayer to God asking Him if He might watch over them all—Hannah, Sonny, the civilians in the financial district, and Chris himself. Prayer gave him no crystal ball as to what the outcome would be, but it was an opportunity to align himself with a greater good. After he said
Amen
, an inner peace swept over him. Whatever was about to happen was going to happen.

“Business Tourist is moving your direction,” Hannah said in Chris’s earpiece.

Trying not to make any sudden movements that would alert someone, he scanned the area first moving only his eyes, and when he needed to see farther to the side, he slowly turned his head until Business Tourist appeared in his peripheral vision. Business Tourist crossed the road to the park side of the street, coming closer to Chris. It seemed he might be moving into some kind of support position.

Chris spoke quietly, like a ventriloquist, barely moving his lips. “I see him.” He continued to watch, trying not to think about him, trying not to alert any sixth sense the man might have.

“Three-van motorcade just turned down Duke of York Street,” Hannah said. “Vans are dark colored.”

A sudden dump of adrenaline tweaked Chris’s senses, causing the volume of his hearing to amplify and fade.

“Sunshine, they’re right behind a sedan,” Hannah said. “As soon as the sedan pulls out, block the road. The vans are right behind.”

“Roger.”

A white sedan pulled out of Duke of York Street and turned onto St. James Square. Sonny was so close behind that it looked like he was about to scratch the sedan’s rear bumper. Sonny came to an abrupt stop, blocking Duke of York Street and the lead van. The van didn’t honk as the Range Rover had. Was the driver showing the discipline of a courteous citizen or the discipline of an experienced terrorist?

Sonny stepped out, appearing frustrated at his vehicle, and began his act. Then he approached the driver’s side of the first van.

Chris quickly scanned the civilians nearby. He didn’t recognize any of them, which was a good thing. He didn’t want anyone hanging around who’d seen Sonny’s act with the Range Rovers to become suspicious and call the cops.

“Business Tourist is moving toward Sonny’s position,” Hannah said.

Chris’s gaze shot back to the man, who carried something down by his side. Chris couldn’t see it clearly, but in his bones he felt it was a handgun or other such weapon. Sonny’s attention was on the vans, so it was Chris’s responsibility to protect his teammate’s flank.

“Business Tourist has something in his hand,” Hannah said, her voice slightly shaky. “Could be a gun.”

“Possible gun, aye,” Chris said.

Sonny’s verbal exchange with the driver seemed to go on for a long time. Getting no help from the first driver to push Sonny’s vehicle, Sonny proceeded to the second van. Stepping to the side for a better view of the second driver, Chris maintained an eye on Business Tourist, who was still moving in Sonny’s direction.

Chris still had no foolproof confirmation that a gunfight was about to take place, but he knew action was faster than reaction. He planted his feet like a boxer about to deliver a knockout punch, dropped his newspaper, and swung one side of his jacket out of the way, freeing his M4, which he brought up and aimed at Business Tourist. At about the same time, Sonny jumped away from the driver’s side of the second van. He must’ve seen something from up close that Chris couldn’t.

Then he saw it. The driver pointed a pistol at where Sonny had been standing.
Pop!
The driver’s side window blew out, and a pedestrian screamed.

In one fluid motion, Chris shifted his red dot to the driver who’d taken the shot. He held his breath so his lungs wouldn’t sway his body and squeezed the trigger once. Twice. Two puffs of air sounded, and the mixture of gas from the muzzle and the burning of oil in his weapon mixed into a sweet smell. The windshield imploded on the driver, causing his body to jerk. Two direct hits. Where the window broke, there was a white splash surrounded by spiderweb-like rings and lines, making it difficult to see if the driver was moving.

“Business Tourist definitely has a gun,” Hannah finally said.

He swiftly transitioned his red dot back to Business Tourist, who was now raising what was clearly a pistol, bringing it to aim at Sonny, who now had his M4 out, too.

Chris popped Business Tourist once in the middle of his back. And then a second time. Business Tourist fell, biting the asphalt. Another civilian cried out, followed by more. Nearby people ducked and scattered.

“Sunshine! Third van, Sunshine,” Hannah said. “Passenger in the third van aiming for you.”

Chris moved to the side so he could see more of the rear van. Sonny had already opened fire on the passenger there, so Chris would immobilize the vehicle by taking out the driver. Two puffs and the body drooped like a glove without a hand, head resting on the steering wheel.

The lead van sped forward and hit Sonny’s “stalled” vehicle with a smack and pushed it out of the way before turning onto St. James Square and proceeding towards UKP. The van behind it, riddled with bullets from Chris and Sonny, rolled forward into the intersection but didn’t make the turn. A black taxi sped around the square and plowed into the van with a horrific metal
crack
, smashing the front of the taxi and knocking the van over on its side. The taxi driver appeared pinned between the steering wheel and his seat. He wasn’t moving.

Behind the first two vans, the third van didn’t go anywhere, but Lullaby and nine of his men—armed with AK-47 assault rifles—poured out of the tail of the vehicle. Chris tried to take a shot, but Lullaby ducked back behind the van before he could squeeze the trigger.

Sonny was vulnerable standing in the open without any cover or concealment, and he must’ve seen how outnumbered he was because he sprinted toward Chris, who covered him by laying suppressive fire into Lullaby’s group.

“This is gonna get uglier before it gets prettier,” Sonny said, huffing and puffing as he sprinted.

The first van had stopped in front of UKP. Its back doors flew open, and a tall blond man jumped to the pavement—Lullaby’s protégé. He was a handsome man who could do ugly things. Then an armed gang of close to a dozen appeared.

Hannah reported the appearance of Lullaby’s protégé and his men.

If we weren’t outnumbered before, we’re clearly outnumbered now.

She must’ve continued to report, but Chris’s visual senses overrode his hearing. Lullaby and his men faced Chris and fired at him from near the third van. Sonny jumped over a fence surrounding the park area, and just after he weaved into the trees, an explosion lifted the tipped-over van completely off the street. The earth quaked, and Sonny stumbled.

The van must have been packed with explosives intended for UKP. The bomb was probably shaped, so if the van had been positioned on the street next to the curb, most of the damaging force would have been directed at the UKP building. But with the van on its side like it was, most of that blast went into the ground, causing the van to lift into the air. Its flight was short-lived, though, as it fell like a discarded toy next to the gaping hole in the earth it had created. A geyser sprouted up out of the ground like Old Faithful, spewing chunks of asphalt with it.

“What the hell?” Sonny shouted.

“Must’ve ruptured a water main instead of the intended target,” Chris guessed.

“You see Lullaby?”

“He’s behind the third van, but I can hardly see the van or the enemy through Old Faithful.”

Hannah didn’t chime in so she must not have been able to see him, either.

The number of civilian screams increased, and the volume of the steady noise became louder. They were in panic mode. The blare of nearing police sirens added to the racket. Droplets big as tadpoles streamed down Chris’s face. At first he thought it was from the broken water main, but it was raining again.

“Chris!” a voice screamed from the chaos.
Lullaby.
“I know you are here. I will find you, and I will kill you!”

_______

A week earlier…

C
hris wore his clerical collar and minister suit, standing with a young couple at the wedding altar, trying to calm his anxious nerves. There were times he’d been shot at and was calmer than he was now. But there were different kinds of being shot at, ranging from direct hits to blind misses, and this was still closer to the blind-misses end of the spectrum. For Bobby and JoAnne this was the most important moment of their life together, and Chris didn’t want to disappoint them.

Bobby tugged nervously at the cuff of his black jacket, and the lower half of JoAnne’s white wedding dress trembled. Seeing that they were more nervous than he was calmed Chris’s nerves. He tried to help them relax by allowing his inward calm to rise to the surface, forming a smile. The groom smiled back, and he stopped tugging on his sleeve, but the bride’s dress continued to quiver. During the previous night’s rehearsal, Chris had advised the bride and groom not to lock their knees, but he wondered if now in all the jitteriness, the bride had forgotten.

“Are you bending a little at the knees?” Chris whispered to her.

The whole congregation seemed anxious for him to begin the wedding vows, but Chris’s mind blocked them out—just as he’d blocked out distractions while focusing on his rifle scope. There could be no ceremony without the bride and groom. He met her eyes.

“I am now,” she said.

The groom reached out and held her hand, and she stopped shaking.

“Ready?” Chris asked them.

They both smiled and nodded.

Chris had read the wedding vows over and over again, even late last night when he was unable to sleep. But even so, this was his first wedding ceremony.
What if I mess up?
He swallowed, pushing down the anxiety, and banished the thought.

“Dearly beloved…”

Chris made it smoothly through the ceremony, and he let out a sigh of relief as Bobby and Joanne faced each other, ringed fingers intertwined. “By the authority vested in me by the state of Texas,” he said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

They kissed, sealing their vow, and Chris couldn’t help but smile. They stepped down from the altar and strolled out of the chapel to loud applause. The bridal party, family, and guests followed, Chris waiting until everyone was gone to go join in the outdoor reception himself.

Pastor Luther, whom Chris worked for, reached out to shake his hand when he entered the reception area. “I would’ve never guessed this was your first wedding,” he said. “You handled it like a pro. And more importantly, you put Bobby and Joanne at ease.”

Chris smiled. “Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Pastor Luther stepped away to mingle with the others, and a line of guests formed at a nearby table for hors d’oeuvres. Chris grabbed a bottle of water from a large bowl of ice and quenched his dry throat.

“Hey, stranger,” a sultry voice said from behind.

Chris turned around to see who it was, and his breath caught.
Hannah…

The sight of her lit him up like a white phosphorous bullet, but he tried not to let it show. She was a chameleon who could look like a geek one moment or the girl next door, but when she turned it on, like she did now, heads turned. Roses blossomed and faded, but Hannah’s beauty was amaranthine.

He wanted to kiss her but remembered he was still wearing his clerical suit and was within sight of his congregation. He hugged her tightly.

“I thought we’d agreed to just be friends,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

He was unable to control his smile. “And that was a friendly hug.”

Then she kissed him on the lips, searing into him like a habanero. Her skin smelled of vanilla and oranges, and he breathed her in.

“I thought we’d agreed to just be friends,” he said playfully.

“That was a friendly kiss,” she said.

He chuckled. Though he hoped no one in his congregation had noticed, he couldn’t fathom regretting a kiss from her. “Very.”

But no such luck. Bobby and Joanne were supposed to be the center of attention, yet all eyes had shifted to Chris and Hannah.

“You sure do know how to crash a party,” he said to her.

She flashed him a sly grin. “You speak with the voice of experience.”

Although she lived in Virginia and he in Texas, they had dated when they could over the past year. He wished she could be the marrying kind, and she wished they could live together, but both were too stubborn to change. That left them here.

“You know, this setting suits you,” he said.

“Not really,” she said. “Not at all, actually. Isn’t that part of the reason we decided to just be friends?”

“Well, I think it suits you.”

“Because you believe in fairy tales.”

“I believe in believing,” he clarified. He offered her a drink of his water.

She held up her hand. “No, thanks.”

He took a sip before going on. “I’m hoping you’re here because you have some time off, but my instincts tell me you’re here for business.”

“You’ve got better instincts than any shooter I know.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere.”

“Flattery hasn’t brought me all the way out to Dallas to see you,” she said, keeping the playful tone in her voice.

“I’m happy to help you any way I can,” he said.

“I left a message on your answering service and texted you.”

“I was so busy with the wedding and all. I’m sorry I missed your messages.”

Her tone became businesslike. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll get to it. The White House Chief of Staff’s son-in-law was kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” His mind switched into SEAL mode, and he forgot about his current job as pastor.

“A jet loaded with our gear is standing by at Addison Airport to fly us out.”

Chris nodded, then remembered he was still in his clerical garb. “Do I have time to go home and change?”

“Everything you need is on the plane.”

“Okay, give me a minute.” He walked over to Pastor Luther and quietly pulled him aside. “Do you remember last fall, after I returned from my most recent assignment, I mentioned that sometime in the near future I might be needed again?”

Pastor Luther glanced at Hannah, then back at Chris as if he already understood.

“Thank you. I’m sorry this is such short notice.”

Pastor Luther hugged him. “I’ll cover for you, son.”

The man was like a second father to Chris, and he couldn’t be more grateful. “Please tell Bobby and Joanne I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

Pastor Luther nodded. “I will.”

Chris rejoined Hannah amid numerous stares, and she led him to the parking lot where, instead of her yellow Mustang, she walked up to another vehicle, probably a rental. They hopped inside, and she fired up the engine and pulled out onto the street.

She had brought Chris back into the terrorist-hunting business less than a year ago, when they’d been racing down this same road. Back then, he had struggled with keeping the light of a preacher while immersing himself in the darkness of black ops, but he’d somehow found validation in both, saving souls and lives. Now, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d struggle again.

Pushing his concern aside, he focused on the mission. “Where was the Chief of Staff’s son-in-law last seen?”

“At a US embassy party in Athens, Greece,” she replied.

“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

She turned the steering wheel and accelerated around a corner. “A Greek terror organization calling itself 21D.”

He didn’t recognize the name. “21D?”

“They’re a pro-Marxist group with a history of attacks in Greece, opposing Greek ties with NATO and the EU.”

“Any demands?” he asked.

“21D wants Greece to reject plans to create the Trans-Adriatic Pipeline.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why?”

“European plans are for TAP to carry natural gas from Turkey to Greece and then to Albania, ending in southern Italy,” she explained. “21D denounces TAP as another capitalist invasion into Greece.”

“So why’d 21D choose the White House Chief of Staff’s son-in-law? What does he have to do with the pipeline?”

She reached between her seat and the center console, pulling out a file and handing it to Chris. “His name is Michael Winthrop. He’s an onshore civil engineer working for United Kingdom Petroleum. UKP is the central player in creating the pipeline, but it’s not clear whether the terrorists know he’s related to the White House Chief of Staff. It would’ve been easier for the terrorists to capture him at his home, so we think taking him near the embassy was an attempt to grab more headlines.”

“Well, they certainly grabbed our attention. What’s our mission?”

“Find Michael Winthrop and report his location so the US can launch a rescue,” she said.

“Before 21D kills him,” he added.

“Exactly.”

Chris and Hannah boarded a nondescript Gulfstream jet at a private airport near Dallas. In the aft section of the plane, there were three sets of gear, marked for Chris, Hannah, and Sonny, but Sonny was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Mr. Sunshine?” Chris asked.

“Going to pick him up at Pope Air Force Base. We can make sure our weapons are zeroed when we get there, too,” she replied.

The Agency already had Chris’s measurements, photos for ID, weapons, and other equipment, so the plane was stocked as Hannah had promised. He located his garment bag hanging in a closet. After unzipping it, he found a fine dark gray wool suit he’d never seen before. The wool would breathe well in the heat and insulate against the cold—highly durable. When he changed out of his clerical clothes and put on the suit, it fit perfectly.

“You really wear that suit,” Hannah said.

He smiled. “Not nearly as well as you wear that dress.”

He smoothed his hands along his jacket, feeling something stiff inside the left breast pocket. He checked and found a US diplomatic passport. He opened it to find his alias printed inside. They’d kept his preferred real first name—it was easiest to remember, especially under stress—but the last name,
Johnson
, was an alias. The agency had even signed the document in Chris’s handwriting. “I guess this means we’re diplomats?”

“Legal attachés investigating the kidnapping of Michael Winthrop. The US embassy in Athens has agreed to cooperate, but they don’t know we’re really working for the Agency. Our code name for the embassy is
Olympus
.”

Being the son of diplomats, Chris was accustomed to life in and around embassies, which would come in handy. “Will we be the only search team from the US?”

“I asked but didn’t get a straight answer,” Hannah said, “so my guess is there will be at least one more team working the kidnapping.”

Chris checked his bags for the small container that held his spare prosthetics. In 2009, during a covert mission to capture a Syrian terrorist, the bastard had bitten off a large chunk of Chris’s ear, and he’d ended up losing the whole thing. He wore a prosthetic, and the Agency kept a regular spare and a camouflage spare to pack with his mission gear whenever they called him to action.

He located his Glock 19 Gen 4 pistol, magazines filled with ammo, and his Raven concealed holster. Checking over the weapon, he was relieved to see that the Agency had customized it to his specifications, replacing the plastic sights with metal, plugging the gap in the magazine well, and swapping out the factory barrel with a KKM match grade barrel. He wore it on his hip, and his mind shifted from his weapon to finding Michael. He might be using his Glock sooner rather than later.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes,” Hannah said.

“What look is that?”

“That bleeding-edge stare. Like you’re about to kill someone.”

“I’m just thinking,” he said.

“About what?”

“I hope we find him while he’s still alive.”