Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) (17 page)

F
ive days after McDermitt was rescued, Director Stockwell’s plan was falling somewhat into place. Everyone who knew Charity Styles assumed she would have stability issues. After what she’d been through, some instability was to be expected. Stockwell didn’t particularly like this part of the plan, but it was necessary.

However, Stockwell knew full well just how stable the woman was. He’d spoken at length with the doctors who had treated her. They’d explained how the woman had compartmentalized her negative feelings toward those who had tortured her. The doctors had told him that compartmentalization was a psychological defense mechanism used to avoid the mental discomfort they called cognitive dissonance, where a person might have conflicting values or emotions within themselves.

Charity Styles was one of the few people who could completely compartmentalize things at will. She could function for months, even years—maybe for the rest of her life—as a perfectly stable person, never opening that part of her subconscious. But, if need be, she could open it and use all the hate and anger stored there. Afterward, the doctors agreed, she could close the compartment to her conscious mind off again and return to having full control of herself.

Stockwell had seen firsthand what happened when she opened up that part of her mind. He’d attended a number of martial arts events she’d competed in, fighting against some of the top hand-to-hand fighters in the world. He’d also spoken at length with McDermitt, regarding the death of Jason Smith. Smith had been the director before Stockwell but had gone rogue after his posting to Djibouti, hiring mercenaries to kill McDermitt and Commander Livingston. They’d also learned that Smith had arranged his own wife’s death years earlier in order to inherit her fortune. If that wasn’t enough, he’d been responsible for the death of a young Marine that Styles had become close to.

McDermitt had located Smith and, though the former CIA man had held a gun on McDermitt, Styles had stepped in and killed him with her bare hands. After it was over, McDermitt said she’d returned to her normally stable attitude. On the return trip to Florida, Styles had opened up twice to McDermitt, sharing things with him that she said she’d never told anyone, except the young Marine who Smith had killed.

Stockwell’s plan was simple. Once the excitement of the rescue mission died down, it would be discovered that, in the heat of the mission, Styles had simply vanished, taking a half-million-dollar aircraft with her.

Stockwell had already set his fake retirement plan into motion and had spoken with the Homeland secretary about appointing McDermitt as the new director. His position would be a figurehead, someone in DC that all the members of the team knew and trusted, particularly Lieutenant Commander Deuce Livingston.

But McDermitt had turned the offer down cold. He had absolutely no interest in politics, city life, or advancement. The man was content to live out his life in seclusion, fishing, diving, and drinking.

McDermitt had even gone so far as to warn Livingston against taking the position as Stockwell’s second choice. Based on ability alone, Livingston was the better decision. But his leadership of the team of operators in Homestead was more vital.

In the end, Livingston had accepted the promotion to commander and the appointment as acting director, and it had been announced that Stockwell was retiring from public life.

Styles had disappeared without a trace. A bogus FBI investigation had been started and quickly filed as a cold case, with no leads and no witnesses. The Coast Guard had been dispatched, searching all of Florida Bay and the Everglades for her downed aircraft. Nothing had been found. It had only taken one day before rumors started that she’d come unhinged during the rescue operation and stolen the aircraft, disappearing with a small fortune, her share of a treasure find orchestrated by McDermitt.

Stockwell had accepted an offer from McDermitt to work part-time on his charter boat, giving him a perfect cover. McDermitt only took one or two charters out a week, at best.

Now, just five days after McDermitt had been reunited with his daughter and friends, nearly everyone believed the ruse, though few spoke openly about it. Livingston and his wife had arrived in DC this morning and begun unpacking at their new home in Quantico.

In just a few minutes, the secretary would meet with both Stockwell and Livingston, transferring the office to the younger man. Before the sun went down, Stockwell would be on a G5, heading for the Florida Keys, appearing to begin a new life as a retired public servant.

The proximity and light duties of his cover job would allow Stockwell to move around the Caribbean Basin during his off days, helping Styles where he could and directing her where he couldn’t.

Her first target had been chosen weeks before. A known terrorist detainee, more of a low-level thug, had been released from Guantanamo just over three years ago. He had been transferred to Uruguayan custody, but eight months later, he’d disappeared.

Hussein Seif al Din Asfour had reappeared on the battlefield in Afghanistan a year later, leading a group of fighters hiding out in the Arma Mountains.

Less than six months ago, a sharp-eyed analyst with the CIA had picked him up on a routine monitoring of worldwide airport security cameras. Unfortunately, the terrorist had disappeared before anyone could move against him.

Chatter among known terrorist groups put al Din Asfour as the leader of a cell located in the jungles of Guatemala. More information, gleaned from many sources, had al Din Asfour moving across the border into Mexico, and the cell disappearing in Guatemala.

It had been decided two weeks ago, by the Homeland secretary, that al Din Asfour had to be removed from the playing field once and for all. He would be Charity Styles’s first test.

At present, Styles was on her way to Mexico, traveling slowly but steadily by sailboat toward the hiding place the terrorist cell had chosen on the peak of a dormant volcano in the Mexican state of Veracruz. Her last communication had her only two days from arriving in Alvarado and perhaps four days from finding and killing the terrorist.

Chatter on various terrorist websites pointed toward a possible attack against a soft target somewhere in South Texas on Armed Forces Day, which was in six days. It was believed that the cell on the San Martin Tuxtla volcano was training for this attack.

Not a lot of wiggle room
, Stockwell thought.

Should Styles fail, the terrorist cell could be apprehended once they crossed the border. But detaining more terrorists in Guantanamo wasn’t sitting well with several liberal presidential candidates, and an election was just a year and a half away. Some were even speaking openly of closing the detention camp there.

No, simply apprehending these terrorists in the United States wasn’t something the secretary, nor the current president, wanted. If all went well, the terrorist leader would die in Mexico. Possibly a few of the other members of the cell as well.

“The secretary will see you now, Director,” the aide said, bringing Stockwell back to the present.

Together, Stockwell and Livingston were shown into Secretary Chertoff’s inner office.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Commander,” the secretary said, rising from his chair and coming around the desk to shake Deuce’s hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please have a seat,” Chertoff said, motioning toward the two heavy leather chairs in front of the desk.

Once his guests were seated, the secretary leaned against his desk. “The president has approved your appointment as the acting Associate Director for Caribbean Counterterrorism, replacing Colonel Stockwell. It will, of course, have to be approved by Congress.”

“I’m honored to even be considered, sir,” Deuce said.

Stockwell turned to Deuce and said, “I asked the secretary to bring you up to speed personally on the situation with Charity Styles, Deuce. I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

Deuce looked from one to the other, obviously confused. He didn’t believe the rumors about Charity stealing the chopper. If anything, he thought the helo must have had some kind of mechanical failure and gone down.

Finally, Secretary Chertoff went behind his desk, unlocked a drawer and withdrew a file with a top-secret cover sheet, marked Operation: Sea Fury. Handing the file to Deuce, the secretary explained to him the full scope of the operation. Stockwell was right—Deuce didn’t like it at all.

“How many know about this, Mister Secretary?” Deuce asked, keeping his obvious agitation in check.

“Outside of this room, only one other person. The president.”

“So, I’m expected to lie?”

“It has to be this way, son,” the secretary replied. “Colonel Stockwell assured me that you’re the kind of man who can put the mission before his own personal honor.”

Deuce thought it over a minute. “Eventually, sir, the word will get out about what really happened. She’ll be spotted in the vicinity of an assassination, or arrested entering a country with a phony passport, and someone will put two and two together.”

“We’ve already taken steps to minimize that, if and when it happens,” Stockwell said. “I agree. It’s likely to happen. Hopefully, the revelation can be contained to only those in the intelligence and spec-ops communities. That’s who will likely be the first to discover it.”

Deuce stood and walked to the window overlooking Washington Navy Yard and the Anacostia River beyond it. He stared out toward the famous buildings and landmarks across the river. In the distance, he could just see the top of the Washington Monument.

Finally, he turned and faced the secretary and soon-to-be-former director. “I’ll do what needs to be done, sir.”

B
y the light of a high waning moon,
Wind Dancer
slowly motored through the inlet and into the Gulf of Mexico. Charity buried the memory of the night before and concentrated on the task at hand.

Clearing the jetty, she held a northern course, until she was a mile offshore. Then, turning west, she toggled all three switches, unfurling the sails. They snapped and filled in the light, but favorable, southerly breeze coming off the coast.

Wind Dancer
heeled to starboard, accelerating, and Charity shut off the little diesel engine. Alvarado lay four hundred and thirty miles to the southwest. With luck, less than two days of sailing, arriving near dusk. But that would mean an average speed of twelve knots.

She knew that she’d lose most of the south wind by the time she made it halfway. The storm in the Gulf had moved inland, way up into the Florida panhandle, and the wind would return to its typical pattern. She would once more have to run before the wind, blowing toward the warmer land mass of mainland Mexico. In this part of the Gulf, the typical winds blew a little more northerly, at least. For the next hundred miles, she’d have to get every knot of speed
Dancer
could muster.

Less than an hour later and fifteen miles out of Progresso, Charity engaged the autopilot. The computer turned the boat toward the southwest, trimming the sails for maximum efficiency. She’d let the computer do most of the sailing from here on, having learned to trust the system more.

The sun was just beginning to tinge the sky behind
Wind Dancer
as Charity went below to get something to eat and check the laptop for messages. She was still wearing the dress from the night before, having been too exhausted to change when she’d returned to
Wind Dancer
. She quickly went forward and changed into proper sailing attire, long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

When she returned to the helm thirty minutes later, the sun was above the horizon behind her. A quick check of the helm told her that
Dancer
was sailing a steady fifteen knots. She ate sliced fruit and thought about the message she’d received.

It’d been five days since she’d veered away from the go-fast boat in Florida Bay. McDermitt and the rest of the team had returned to their lives and duties, nobody hurt. But Jesse had turned down the job offer to be Stockwell’s successor. The director had seemed to think the man would accept it, but Charity had known all along that he wouldn’t. Jesse had served as a Marine for twenty years, costing him two failed marriages. For the last two years, he’d been involved with Homeland Security and lost his wife to domestic terrorists. He’d already given far more than his fair share.