Dominican Replublic
Sam Axe got out of the cab and almost stepped on a rooster that waddled away angrily after pecking him in the shin. The driver got out to bang on the trunk, which opened reluctantly at the vigorous pounding to release Sam's carry-on from its hold.
The car rumbled away, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and twenty dollars poorer, a fare akin to a highway robbery as far as Sam was concerned. Even though the address Michael texted him was only about fifteen miles away from the Las Americas International Airport, the afternoon traffic and the general poor conditions of the roads had made the journey stretch for an arduous hour and a half.
After making sure he was out of range of more poultry with attitude issues, Sam gave his abused back a good stretch. His spine and neck realigned with a series of cracks and pops that left him groaning in relief.
The place he was supposed to meet Michael was located in an L-shaped, three-story apartment building. The small fruit stand, the bunch of playing kids, the lines of drying clothing and the few locals aimlessly milling about all pointed to the fact that most of the building was already occupied.
"Anybody home?" He knocked on the door of 311, gasping like a dying man after climbing three flights of stairs in the ninety-degree heat. He was not a stranger to tropical weather, or humidity, but it seemed that he had gotten used to a lot of the creature comforts being a billionaire's special friend had provided.
"Hey, Sam," Michael opened the door to let him in. Sam felt Michael's gaze giving him a careful once-over as he made it to the nearest chair to collapse. Michael went over to his fridge to fetch him a beer. "Here."
"Thanks," Sam said, and finished half of the cold brew in one long gulp. It was nowhere near his usual preferences, but it still felt heavenly going down his parched throat.
"Alright?"
"Yeah, I'll live," Sam said, and glanced around.
It was a small studio-like apartment. To his left, there was a kitchen, and a closed door, which he guessed was the bedroom. In front of him was a dining table with three chairs. Apart from the sofa he was sprawled on and the single couch Michael was sitting on, there was no other furniture. A small door to his right was half open, giving him a glimpse of the tiny bathroom.
His raised eyebrow was met with a small nod from his friend. That told Sam that they needed to be careful about what they said and did in this place. They were being watched.
"You know," Sam said casually, slowing down to sip the rest of his beer, "This act your new boss is pulling – grabbing you outta streets in broad daylight and dropping you in shitholes in nowhere – It's starting to wear on our nerves, buddy."
"I know," Michael said, smiling faintly, "I'm still the new guy. James needs to know if he can trust me first."
Sam looked around, hoping they were watching, and listening, so that they could see exactly how serious he was, "As long as he remembers that trust is a two-way street."
"I'm sure it'll all work out fine, Sam."
"So, you sent a summons, and here I am," he said, and set the empty beer bottle aside, "Do I get to learn why I'm here?"
"We have a job," said Michael, and handed him a thick binder, "A snatch and grab."
Sam took his time going over the file, while Michael stayed silent, giving him time to learn and absorb what exactly they were there to do.
"I'm not sure if I want in on this op, Mike," Sam said after a long moment, playing the part of a reluctant, unconvinced friend, "We are talking about screwing up an extradition deal run by MI6 here, as in the security service of our closest ally."
"They're giving a drug smuggler a comfortable retirement," Michael replied with just the right amount of zeal for a burned-spy-on-the-way-to-turn-traitor. "You read the file, Sam. Cabral has killed entire families. They may be our ally, but they are making a deal with a monster just so they can get their hands on his network. I'm not gonna lose sleep over this."
"Well, when you put it like that…" Sam shrugged, figuring it was going to have to be Pearce's problem to deal with the aftermath. "So what's the plan?"
"Cabral is supposed to have his final sit-down with MI6 at a restaurant in his hotel," Michael said, showing him a catalogue of a luxury resort. During the three days he had been missing, it seemed that Michael had been laying the groundwork for the operation.
'Well, can we take him there?"
"That's the idea, Sam," Michael said, and then hesitated, "The challenge is that James wants this done quietly and we won't have a team."
"So a direct grab is out, then."
"Our best bet is to beat MI6 to the punch and offer Cabral a better deal."
"Are you sure that's gonna fly?" He asked, unconvinced about the approach Michael was proposing, "Because, according to the file, he's been talking to our friends across the ditch for a year. Why would he jump ship now?"
Michael walked over to the kitchen area to retrieve a silver briefcase from one of the cupboards. Then he brought it over and opened it on the table, giving Sam a good look at the contents inside.
"Well," Sam muttered, staring at the neat bundles of hundred-dollar bills, "That's a start."
"We'll delay the British team with a fake bomb threat at the embassy," Michael said, closing the case, "You'll go in, make the offer, and I'll cover you from the street."
"Okay," said Sam, wondering what else James had provided in the way of resources, "And you'll cover me with…"
Michael walked over to the closed door he had guessed was the bedroom when he let his voice trail off.
"Anything you want," Michael said and opened the door to reveal a bed that had been turned into a temporary armoury.
"That's a lot of guns, Mikey," Sam let out a whistle. The assortment of sniper rifles, machine guns, pistols and ammunition for all of them was a truly impressive sight.
"Should make our lives a bit easier."
Sam turned his gaze away from the weapons and back to his friend, grinning, "You know, Fi's going to be upset that you didn't ask her over to play with these new and shiny toys."
It was quite entertaining to watch how the colour drained a little from his friend's face as he realised the implication of the possible oversight he may have committed. Fiona tended to take it very personally when she was excluded from anything that involved explosives, or guns with over a thousand five hundred yard ranges.
"Sam," Michael said, pinning him with a pleading look, "You're my best friend–"
"Of course," Sam said, grinning wider.
"Let's not maybe tell her about this part."
Sam chuckled, and patted his best friend on the shoulder reassuringly, "Anything for you, Mike."
Spring Hill Psychiatry Hospital
Biloxi
Mississippi
The Next Day
"Welcome to Biloxi," said Pearce. She was waiting for them at the entrance of the Institute. "Hope you enjoyed the flight."
"Yeah, not so much," Jesse launched into the same harangue Fiona had been forced to endure the entire two hours of flight. "All your secret budgets, you can't spring for a bigger plane? I've been in bumper cars with more legroom than that thing."
"I'll bring it up with Congress," Pearce said seriously before handing them both two files. "Here's the situation. Officially, our person of interest was transferred here for an outpatient procedure. We'll do the interrogation in one of the surgery rooms and ship him back."
Fiona opened the file and took a look. The subject was a dark-haired man in his late forties, about six feet in height and two hundred pounds in weight.
"Don't we have a name?" She frowned when she couldn't find one.
"We have about fifty," Pearce said as she led them towards the reception. "Every time he got moved to another institution for the criminally insane, he got a new file and a new I.D. For now, he's John Doe."
"I'm not liking the 'criminally insane' thing," Fiona said, making a face at the file, "Is he dangerous?"
"We have to assume he is," Pearce replied, "He's been in isolation on a double dose of Haldol since as far back as the records go. We've been taking him down off the drug since this morning."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Jesse frowned, "This guy's got a special forces tattoo. I prefer my trained killers on the sleepy side."
"I agree," said Pearce, "But, we can't have him zoned out and drooling when he needs to answer our questions. I'll lead the interrogation, but I want you two backing me up. Filling in any blanks with what you know about James."
The moment they entered the reception area, however, things took a turn for the worse, starting with a sudden alarm that blared into life, followed by frantic calls on the public address system for support.
"Code grey, code grey. Security to the west wing nurse's station. Code grey."
"West wing," Jesse said, and had to jump out of the way to let a running security guard pass them, "Why do I have a feeling that's where they're keeping our man?"
Pearce cursed and took off after the guards, urging both Fiona and Jesse to follow her at her heels. When they got to the nurse's station, they were greeted by a male nurse on the floor with a bleeding head wound, a doctor kneeling next to him, and an abandoned gurney, ominously devoid of an occupant.
"What happened?" Pearce asked the doctor as the hospital security started to surround them, "Where's John Doe?"
"We were escorting him to the holding room, and somehow he got out of his restraints." the doctor snapped hurriedly before turning to bark at the nearest nurse. "We need to take him to a CAT scan right away…"
Pearce stepped away to let them take care of the injured nurse. "We have to find him now," she said, "If he gets out of this hospital–"
"You need to lock this place down," Jesse said.
"The CIA is not officially here. If I order a lockdown, and the word gets out, we could expose the entire operation."
Fiona knew she had a point. They could get both Michael and Sam killed if James found out that the CIA was sniffing around one of his men.
"We're not gonna catch a Special Forces operative with hospital security," Jesse added, glancing around in frustration.
"How about a quarantine alert?" Fiona asked, "You could contact the CDC, tell them there's an Anthrax outbreak or something, can't you? That's the only way to lock this place down."
Pearce stared at her for a moment, visibly weighing options before nodding once sharply. "All right, I'll make the call."
The Dominican Republic
When operating in third-world countries, a dollar was usually a lot more useful than a bullet. In a place where the government operated on bribes and connections, a lot got done with a nice suit and a bag of cash.
"Okay, Mike, I'm in place."
Sam's voice was clear through the earpiece. Through the crosshairs of the SVD Dragunov, Michael could see Sam sitting by one of the outside tables, dressed in an expensive, tailored suit. The briefcase full of cash rested on top of the table, next to a large bottle of champagne nestled inside a bucket full of ice.
"Any sign of Her Majesty's secret service?"
"No." said Michael, "MI6 has not approached the hotel. The lockdown at the British embassy is working."
"Good, it sounds like our suspicious package did its trick." Sam snorted, "And just so you know, I'm letting your spy friends buy me the good champagne. You know, just to help sell the cover I.D."
"Knock yourself out, Sam," Michael said, and watched as his friend proceeded to fill his second glass as he waited for their target to show up.
"Looks like we're good to go. Cabral is right on time," Sam said the same moment Michael saw the Humvee pulling up to the entrance. "You got me covered?"
"Yeah, Sam. I got a view of the entire courtyard."
The driver stayed inside while four well-armed guards jumped out to scatter around the Humvee, creating a safety perimeter. Cabral only got out when one of his men signalled the all-clear. It was obvious to Michael that Cabral was taking all the precautions of a man who knew he was marked for death.
Their target walked over to where Sam was waiting, his security detail flanking his every step in a neat circle.
"Senor Cabral. Welcome," Michael saw Sam getting up and extending a hand in welcome. "Encantado de conocerte, as I believe your countrymen say."
Cabral frowned, and looked around without making a move to shake Sam's hand. His four men closed ranks around him instantly, their guns pointing upwards in Sam's direction, almost instinctively responding to their primary's suspicion.
"What's going on?" Cabral's polished, British accent flowed over the comms. "Where are the British–"
"Oh, your British friends," Sam waved a hand, and went back to casually sprawling on his seat again, "Well, they've been, um, delayed. I was hoping we'd have a little chat before they got here."
"Who are you? And how do you know about–"
"About your arrangement with MI6? Well, let's just say I make it my business to know such things," Sam chuckled, and leaned back to gulp down more champagne before focusing his attention on Cabral with a serious expression. "I'll get right to the point. My name is Charles Finley and I represent a major conglomerate with interest in the Caribbean. We were told that you're looking for a fresh start. So we'd like to make an offer."
"An offer, you say," Cabral said softly. Michael could see he was intrigued, but the caution still remained.
"Yes, a very generous offer. Stock options, company housing, a seven-figure retainer per year, and that's just to start–
"Interesting," Cabral nodded and smiled. "Tell me something, Mr. Finley. What does a consortium like yours want with a man like me?"
"Well, we're moving into this region and we need someone with influence, connections…" Sam said easily, "Someone who isn't afraid to, as they say, get their hands a little bloody."
"I've found that blood always washes right off." Cabral's shark-like grin widened.
"See?" Sam matched Cabral's grin with a bright, cheerful one of his own, "Now, that's the positive attitude we're looking for."
"You make big promises, Mr. Finley. Tell me why I should believe a word you say."
Sam opened the briefcase with a dramatic flair and pointed at the bundles of cash sitting inside. "How about a million reasons? And that's just the signing bonus. That's yours right now if you go with us instead of MI6."
"That is very tempting," Cabral remarked, and Michael watched his gaze rake over the dollar bills before reluctantly going back to focus on Sam again. "But you know what's more tempting? I take your money… and I go with MI6."
Two of his guards stepped forward and aimed their rifles at Sam's head while the other two flanked him on the sides.
"Remember, Mr. Finley," Cabral smiled, as if to say 'checkmate', "I'm not afraid to get my hands bloody."
Sam kept his own gaze on Cabral, not in the least fazed by the gun barrels pointing down at him. "Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you, Senor Cabral."
That was his cue. Michael took a deep breath and focused. The wind hadn't changed, but his target had. He made minor corrections to his aim and waited.
"Oh, no?" Cabral said mockingly, convinced that he was about to make easy money, "And why not?"
Michael figured it was his turn to answer the drug dealer. He applied very light pressure on the hair-trigger of his sniper rifle. The neck of the champagne bottle that was slightly peeking out of the bucket exploded. Since he had taken the shot from the same direction Sam was sitting, but from above him, the shattered glass rained on Cabral and his men, leaving his friend unharmed.
Cabral's men reacted fast, and moved in closer to shield him with their own bodies. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get a clean line of sight of Michael, who was perched behind the wall of the balcony above them.
"You see, you could kill me, but then my sniper would have to kill you," Sam said calmly, drawing Cabral's attention back to him. "And that sounds like a bad start to a great business relationship." He then placed his empty glass on the table and grabbed the briefcase before standing up, signalling the end of the meeting. "Well, you've got my number. When you change your mind, you give me a call."
Spring Hill Psychiatry Hospital
"Bought us one more hour of our quarantine," Pearce said as she peered over Jesse's shoulder to check the surveillance feeds. All three of them were at the security station of the Spring Hill Psychiatry Hospital, trying to figure out where their target had gone. "But we gotta wrap this up fast. What do we have?
"Well, the good news is he hasn't left the building," Jesse reported, "We have cameras at every exit, and nothing's come in or out since the lockdown."
"Have we swept all the floors yet?"
"Well, that's the bad news. Security's combed every inch, and there's no sign of him."
"What, he just disappeared?" Pearce frowned. "I mean, where did he go?"
"That's what we were trying to find out," Jesse said, and turned to the man seated to his right, manipulating the feeds. "Run it."
The tech did as he was asked, and started playing back the feeds from the last hour in a faster loop while the three of them watched.
"Stop it there," Jesse said suddenly, and the tech paused the feed. "Check that out. Run it at normal speed."
"Third-floor security corridor camera picks him up going all the way down the hall," Fiona said as she saw what had caught Jesse's attention. "And then poof. Kills the feed."
"The only place he could've gone from there is the roof." The tech added helpfully.
"But, if this guy's hiding on the roof, why would he wait until he got all the way to the access door to kill the camera?" Pearce muttered, rubbing her forehead.
"He's been sedated. Maybe he's not thinking straight?" Jesse guessed.
"Or he wants us to think he's up there," Fiona said, staring at the frozen frame of the John Doe running towards the stairs leading up to the roof. "This guy was with Special Forces, he knows how many people we've got. He probably wants us to start pulling people off the exits to go check on the roof, so he can make his move."
"But you know, last time I checked, even Deltas can't turn invisible," Jesse murmured, unconvinced.
"Then where the hell did he go?" Pearce muttered.
Fiona took a moment to think. There was a map of the building on the wall to their left. She got up from her seat and walked over to take a closer look. According to the map, the only place their target could have possibly gone from there was the roof…or the elevators.
"What about the elevator shaft?" She asked suddenly. They knew he wasn't inside the elevator, since he hadn't been picked up in those feeds. And the rooftop was where he wanted them to think he was heading. That only left one possible option for the man to hide, and bide his time. "It's right where the camera went down."
She saw the realisation dawn on the faces of both Pearce and Jesse at the same time.
"Son of a bitch."
The Dominican Republic
"Mike, I don't know how many times I gotta say this, but this mission is a bust," Sam grumbled in exasperation, not caring about who was listening. "I mean, I don't know if you were paying attention, but I was down there with a bunch of guns in my face and Cabral was very clear. He's sticking with MI6."
Michael opened the fridge and grabbed two bottles. One was water and one was beer. Sam snatched the beer out of his hand and went to collapse on the sofa.
"We can't just give up, Sam."
"This isn't about giving up, brother, this is about facing reality," Sam lowered his voice in response to his friend's quiet tone. "This guy's mind is made up. He's gonna be on a boat back to jolly old England in, what, eight hours?
"Which means we have eight hours to change his mind." Michael, the stubborn asshole, refused to acknowledge the reality.
"How do you propose to do that, then?" Sam asked, deciding to humour him, and opened his bottle to take a sip.
"There's a reason why he took this deal," Michael said, thinking out loud. Sam noticed that his eyes had acquired the familiar thousand-yard stare when was seeing an angle the others usually didn't. "Cabral has enemies. He's already survived two assassination attempts. We can use that."
Sam let out a sigh and accepted that they weren't done with the op yet. "What are you thinking?"
"Well, we know the marina where he's meeting with MI6," Michael said and focused on Sam with a gleam in his eyes that was just this side of manic. "If we can convince him the British can't protect him, and our plan will be his only option…"
Sam had a feeling where the insane man's plan was going, and he was definitely not a fan. "Mike, I don't care how much cool crap those guys got you, we are not attacking two fully-equipped teams!"
"Not attack. Sabotage." Michael grinned, "We sabotage the British boat, and make it look like his political enemies did it."
Sam held his gaze for a few seconds and took that time to reflect that Michael, in fact, did have a point.
"I got a word for that," he said glumly, figuring that he had no need to hide exactly how he felt about the plan, "Nightmare."
"It's either that or failure," Michael said, very matter-of-factly, "And you know as well as I do, failure is never an option."
Spring Hill Psychiatry Hospital
The elevator that led to the basement also led to the morgue, because the basement was where all the dead bodies were stored. Jesse knew his instinctive dislike towards the damned places was justified when he woke up sitting on the floor with a raging headache that told him his skull was cracked open and bleeding. It didn't take long for him to notice that his hands were tied securely to a bolted gurney behind his back.
Inhaling deeply was a big mistake, which he realised the moment he did it. No amount of antiseptics in the air was enough to mask the smell of rotting flesh, now heightened with the sharp coppery scent of his own blood. The nasty mix was more than enough to stir up his nausea and make bile rise in his throat.
He had never even heard the John Doe rising from one of the gurneys like the dead rising back to life, and had never even felt his presence until he had gotten cold-cocked from behind.
The good news was, they now knew where their John Doe was.
He was right there, standing behind the empty gurney he had previously occupied, glaring down at Jesse as if he was the reason for all of his problems.
"Hey man," Jesse said lightly, falling back on the training.
Since escape didn't seem possible with the way he was restrained, the next best option was to try his hand at making a connection with his captor, find out what the man wanted, and do his best to talk his way out of the situation without any more bloodshed.
"My friends are outside," he continued, nodding at the closed, reinforced door to their left. "They're gonna be coming in here any minute."
John Doe grunted and went back to doing whatever he was doing with his hands hidden behind the thin sheets of the bed. After a moment, he walked around it to get closer to where Jesse was sitting.
"I'd be still if I were you." the man warned before carefully placing the transparent sealed bag filled with an equally transparent liquid on top of Jesse's chest.
"What's that?" Jesse asked nervously. It felt cold, or maybe it was the temperature of the morgue, he wasn't quite sure.
John Doe produced a detonator from his back pocket and pressed a button. The bag sitting on Jesse's chest beeped.
"This is ethylene oxide and perchloric acid." The man said conversationally before walking away to stand behind the gurney again. Those words were more than enough to send cold chills down Jesse's spine.
"It's highly explosive," the man continued, as if he hadn't rigged a highly volatile, and equally unstable IED on top of Jesse. "And that's gonna buy us some privacy."
Jesse frantically tried to think of a way to reason with the man. That was the issue with the hostage negotiation rule book. It was generally written under the assumption that your hostage-taker would have most of his mental faculties, and not be criminally insane.
"Listen to me," Jesse implored, doing his best to sit as still as possible while pleading with a madman, "You don't have to do this."
"I'm afraid I do," the man laughed, and waved the detonator in the air, "Now I'm gonna ask you some questions, and if I don't like your answers or if I think that you're lying, I am going to take us to hell together."
A knock sounded on the door then, followed by Pearce's voice, "Can you hear me? We want to negotiate."
"Just back off or I will kill him!" John Doe shouted back before turning towards Jesse again.
It was bad. Jesse knew the group outside was going to breach. And when that happened, he had to make sure that John Doe wouldn't press the button in reflex and take them all out in a blazing explosion.
"Is he here?" Doe grunted and started to pace around the gurney mumbling under his breath like the mental patient he was.
"Is who here?" Jesse asked confusedly. That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because in the next moment, he was in Jesse's face.
"I know who sent you!"
Jesse had to flinch back and turn his face to avoid the spittal flying out of his mouth.
"So what I want to know is…Is. He. Here?"
"Look, man, I would love to answer you," Jesse said earnestly, willing the man to see reason, "But, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"James!" John Doe roared, "Where is James Kendrick?"
"James Kendrick?" Jesse blinked and tried to put it together. "That's his last name? Kendrick?" He went on while the madman continued to glare down at him like he was stupid. "Well, you just told me more about that guy than we've been able to find out for a couple of months."
It was John Doe's turn to frown. "What?"
"I'm working with the CIA," Jesse said quickly, sensing his opening, "We're after the head of a terrorist network. Up until about ten seconds ago we only knew him as James."
The madman shook his head and resumed his agitated pacing. "No, you're lying."
"I'm not lying, man–"
"You're lying!" He cut Jesse off with a yell before he could go on, "This is another one of his tricks. See, he sent you to get rid of me, and now that I've turned the tables, you're pretending that you don't know him."
"Buddy, you got a bomb around my neck. I'm not trying to trick you," Jesse said desperately, "I don't work for James Kendrick. I'm here to help you."
The man stopped moving and stared at Jesse for what felt like a full minute before bursting out laughing, confusing Jesse even more.
"Er…you wanna let me in on the joke?"
The man continued to laugh and pounded on the gurney as he did, entertained beyond reason.
"Do you want to know why I've been rotting in a mental institution for the past ten years?" he panted in between laughs, struggling to get the words out, "Because that bastard put me there."
"Wait!" Jesse yelled, alarmed, "What?"
"When he finds out that you–"
That was as far as John Doe could get before the door exploded inwards with a loud reverberating bang.
The Dominican Republic
The sabotage play worked but with a minor hiccup.
They hadn't counted on Cabral to show up at the marina ten minutes earlier, or that he would insist on having his own men check the boat that was supposed to take him out of the country. Michael had a small window between the time the MI6 agents finished their inspection and Cabral's arrival to set the charges, which closed the moment the man decided to show up early.
That unexpected change of schedule had required Michael to make a call in the field. So, he had ignored Sam's frantic yelling in his ear to abort and decided to plough right ahead with the plan.
He had taken a major risk, but it had been worth it, and he was fairly confident that it would pay off sooner rather than later.
The hiccup was the fact that he was now sprawled on the sofa Sam had previously occupied, with his entire body hurting so badly like he had just been caught in a – well… an underwater explosion.
It really wasn't something you wanted to experience at close range, especially because water didn't compress under pressure. A shockwave underwater could carry a long distance without losing kinetic energy. And if you were unfortunate enough to be floating within the blast radius when a bomb went off, there was a great chance the kinetic energy would shatter every bone in your body.
"You're lucky that's the worst of it," Sam complained even as he tied off the final suture and cut off the thread with a clipper. "I still think we should check you out for a concussion too."
Sam did have a point, Michael had to admit. But, as luck would have it, he had gotten off with only a few minor injuries. The largest open wound he had was on his right shin, a gash that required five stitches, which Sam took care of with a well-stocked first aid kit and his deft touch. Apart from his entire back being covered with rapidly darkening bruising, and the assortment of smaller, almost negligible cuts and scrapes spread liberally across the rest of his body, Michael was otherwise perfectly fine.
"The blast pushed me into some rocks, Sam," he said placatingly, for what felt like the hundredth time. Sam hadn't shut up about it the entire drive back to their safe house. "I told you, I'm fine."
"Barely." Sam sniped, and covered the sewed shut cut with a fresh bandage.
"Got the job done." Michael pointed out.
"Maybe," said Sam, still unwilling to let up, "There's still no guarantee that Cabral is gonna call. Meanwhile, you're out there risking your life, and for what?"
Michael understood Sam's concern. He could see in his pinched, worried expression the need to talk about it. Michael wanted to reassure his friend that he wasn't taking unnecessary risks because he was in a bad place mentally, or that he was losing his touch. It was actually the exact opposite. Michael hadn't taken the risk out of recklessness, or to appease a hidden death wish. He had done it because he knew that they weren't going to get another chance at taking Cabral down if he had backed off.
What he really wanted was to prove himself to James, worm his way into his inner circle and bring the bastard down with his entire network to the ground. What he didn't want was to waste years of his life inching his way in and gaining the trust of the man. He wanted to get it done as soon as possible and move on with the life of freedom that awaited him once it was all over.
"You know what it's for." Was all he said in a quiet voice, raising an eyebrow to remind Sam that they weren't necessarily free to talk the way they wanted.
"I don't know Michael," Sam went on, nodding once to say that he remembered, and yet, wanting to get his point across one way or another. "Are these people worth the risk you're hellbent on taking? You came this close to ending up face-down in the middle of some God-forsaken marina on some cockamamie mission for a guy who hasn't even had the decency to give you his goddamn surname–"
"I'm still here, Sam," Michael reminded him softly.
"I can see that, and that's great," Sam said, and got out of his couch to pace around the small living room. "I know you miss your old job and all the rush and fun that came with it. But this… this is nuts. It's still not too late for plan A–"
Michael cocked his head to the side, amused and intrigued by the creative way Sam was wording his scolding. "What plan A?"
Before Sam could reply however, his phone chose to ring with the number he had given to Cabral earlier.
"Oh, don't get smug." Sam made a face at him before pressing the call button. Michael schooled his features back to a bland mask and listened in.
"Finley here," Sam said in greeting and put the call on speaker.
"Senor Finley, this is Marco Cabral."
Sam glared at Michael and then glared at the phone before speaking again. "How nice to hear from you, Mr. Cabral. How are you this lovely afternoon?"
"Circumstances have changed." Cabral said, still a little shaken if the way his cultured voice wavered was any indication, "Your offer– is it still on the table?"
Michael couldn't really hold his smirk back then and felt it widen when Sam broke out into a grin as well, "Why, yes it is, indeed. Just tell me where you'd like to meet.
SpringHill Psychiatry Hospital
"Wait, wait, wait," Jesse closed his eyes and screamed. "Don't move!"
"Get back from him." He heard Pearce's yell a moment before Fiona's voice joined in.
"Pearce, his chest."
Since the madman held himself back from blowing them all sky-high, Jesse decided it was safe to open his eyes again. There were four of them altogether, Pearce, Fiona and two security guards, all pointing their guns at John Doe.
"No, everybody, wait! Wait!" he yelled again, drawing everyone's attention towards himself, "We're all on the same team here."
"Back off," John Doe piped up then, and held the detonator up in the air like a trophy, "Or everybody dies!"
"Jesse, you have an improvised explosive on your chest and he has the trigger. How are you on the same team?" Pearce demanded.
"Listen to me. He's the victim here–"
"I don't think she believes you–" Doe butted in again.
"Oh, she does because she trusts me," Jesse said, keeping his gaze pinned on Pearce, and nodding slowly at her to follow his lead. "And she's my friend. They both are. They are going to put the guns down right now."
"Jesse–"
"Dani, Fiona, Please. It's okay. Put the guns down. He's not what we thought he was. He wants to see James taken down as much as we do, probably more."
"Fine, guns going down," Pearce said, and pointed her gun to the ground. Fiona and the two guards followed her lead.
"Man, you can put the detonator down now too," Jesse said, and to his surprise, John Doe nodded, and placed the detonator on the gurney before taking a couple of steps back from it, making it clear that he was not a threat anymore.
"What did he do to you?" Pearce asked, collecting the detonator while Fiona sat next to Jesse to carefully remove the bag full of lethal explosives.
"He took my life away." John Doe spat through clenched teeth.
"Well, help us with what you know," Pearce said, "And I'll do everything I can to give it back to you. I promise."
The Dominican Republic
"How's Cabral doing back there?" Michael asked as he drove the armoured limousine through the woods.
Cabral had smelled a rat at Sam's insistence on getting him in their ride, and had almost caused an incident where Sam could have ended with a few extra bleeding holes on his torso. Michael had reacted before Cabral's men could, and used the car to take down two of his men while Sam had managed to inject the man with the animal tranquilliser they had brought just for that purpose. He had then hauled Cabral into the back of their car while Cabral's men were still recovering from being run over by a two-ton armoured vehicle. Then they had taken off through a rain of bullets, and had been driving as fast as they could ever since.
"Ah, he's sleeping like a heavily sedated evil baby. How much further to the rendezvous?" Sam asked.
"A few miles. James is meeting us at a commercial marina outside Santo Domingo."
Extracting a high-value target from a foreign country was a challenge even under ideal conditions. If the capture of the target left witnesses and raised alarms, it got even harder. The problem was that high-value targets tended to have a lot of friends and allies who could alert local authorities, and set up search parties. If you were really unlucky, they showed up on those search parties and roadblocks with some big guns of their own.
Which was the dire reality they faced just as Michael took a turn and saw the jeep and the truck that was blocking their way a few miles up the road.
"What the hell's going on up there?" Sam yelled when he hit the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt.
"Crapshoot," Michael said, "Looks like Cabral's DCA guys."
A man got out of the jeep. Michael saw that he had a rifle hanging on his shoulder. He called out loudly in Spanish to let them know that they knew Cabral was in the car, and they wanted him to be released immediately.
"Look, can we just hightail it outta here?" Sam asked, and Michael watched him in his rearview mirror as he twisted in his seat to check the road behind them, which was empty for the moment.
"No," he said, and he had considered the option. "That .50 Cal mounted on that truck would shred us before we even turned around."
More Spanish yelling reached them, this time threatening with violence unless they complied with their demands.
"Well, it was fun while it lasted," Sam said sourly, glaring at their sleeping target.
"Don't give up just yet, Sam," Michael murmured, smiling, as a glimmer of a plan took shape in his mind.
"Why? You got a plan?"
"They're too far away to see into the car," he said, scanning the unconscious form of Cabral sprawled on the seat next to Sam. "There might be a way out. What size shirt do you think he wears?"
More heavily armed soldiers piled out of the jeep as they got impatient. More angry Spanish phrases flew at them, letting them know that they had begun a countdown, and would open fire in case they failed to comply and produce Cabral before they reached zero.
"Okay, Mike," Michael heard Sam's voice over the thin material of his head cover. "You got fifty feet to cover. Your hands are tied, and you're wearing a head bag. You feeling lucky?"
Michael nodded and started walking confidently in the direction Sam pointed him. Since his head was covered, and his hands were at his back, the long-sleeved shirt of Cabral covered all of his skin, making it impossible for the soldiers to tell him from Cabral.
What he was attempting, was one of the oldest tricks in espionage, which was called the 'false surrender of a prisoner.' It was a desperate move used only when you were completely outmanned and outgunned. It meant approaching your enemy alone and unarmed. It wasn't the ideal play one had in his playbook, but it did get you close enough to launch into a surprise attack.
Which was exactly what Michael did the moment he felt a hand grip his forearm. He exploded into action and punched the soldier who tried to hold him in the throat with force not quite enough to kill, but more than enough to drop him where he stood. Then he took advantage of the way the soldier manning the Browning froze in shock, and slithered up the back of the truck before the man could think to defend himself. A quick combination of punches to his gut and side of the head put him out of the fight in seconds as well. There were two more soldiers on the ground, who were by then bringing up their rifles to shoot him at almost point-blank range. One went down with a hole in his shoulder, thanks to Sam's shooting from behind the car. Michael took care of the other one with a liberal spray of .50 cal bullets from the big gun he now controlled.
"Gotta say, Mike.' Sam grunted as he dragged the unmoving form of the drug dealer towards their new ride, the truck, "Don't always enjoy these little tropical vacations, but they're never dull."
The rest of the journey continued in relative peace, and they did not meet any more surprises along the way. James waited at the location he said he would, and greeted them both with a cheerful smile when Michael brought the truck to a stop.
"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Axe." He said, extending a hand to Sam who took it with a less-than-pleased expression he didn't bother to hide. "I've heard good things."
"Yeah. Right back at you." Sam lied with a false grin.
"It was good work today," James said, turning back to Michael. "The DR loses a murderer. And we gain access to the largest private intelligence network in the Caribbean."
Michael watched two of his men carry Cabral into the boat that was waiting. There was a cage-like contraption rigged in the middle of it to transport the prisoner. He thought that at least two of the dark-skinned men who were already on the boat looked familiar. A glance at Sam told him that his friend had noticed the same thing. It seemed that James had his own men in Cabral's security detail already, and they would have been able to deliver him even without Michael and Sam's intervention.
Another damned test, Michael cursed mentally before turning to James with a sideways grin. "Nice boat, James," he said, without letting it be obvious that he had noticed James' men, "A little small to fit all of us and the box."
"Yes. Yes, it is," James said with a chuckle. "You two won't be coming with us. Here are your passports, and tickets under these names. Safe travels, both of you."
Michael looked down at the travel documents he held out, making no move to accept them. "James, I know Cabral's file backwards and forwards. Whatever you have planned for him, I can help." He said instead, pushing a boundary to see how far he could take it. "Take us with you."
"I admire your enthusiasm, Michael," James said, and patted him on the shoulder. "Your part in this is over. Now you've proven yourself to be everything I could've hoped for and more. Go home. Get some rest. You earned it."
With that, the man turned on his heels and went towards the boat that was waiting. Both Sam and Michael watched silent as the boat sped away, leaving a trail of dirty, white foam at its wake.
"Well," Sam said, letting out a long, tired sigh. "You heard the man. Let's go home."
CIA Field Office
The FAA Centre
Miami-Dade County
Later that evening.
Michael got into the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor before leaning against the cold, steel wall tiredly. A coded message from Fiona asked him to arrive at the CIA field office right away. While Sam had gone home to his girlfriend, Michael had to endure another hour-long cab ride to get to the FAA office in Miami-Dade County where Pearce had business that apparently couldn't wait.
"Hey, look who's home."
Fiona's bright, cheerfully smiling face was the first to greet him when the door dinged open, and he broke out into a grin when her arms wrapped around him in a warm, welcoming embrace. He held onto her for a long moment before releasing her, and raised an eyebrow when she wrinkled her nose.
"You stink, Michael."
"Yeah," Michael chuckled wearily. He still ached everywhere, was exhausted and had layers of grime and sweat worth two days clinging to him along with his dirty clothes. Fiona was absolutely right. "I just got back from an awful vacation and haven't had the chance to shower yet."
"Ah well," He heard Jesse's voice before the man suddenly appeared seemingly out of nowhere with two styrofoam cups of coffee. "We've been busy here too. Never let it be said we left all the work to you."
Michael took the offered beverage with a grateful nod. It wasn't by any means a great cup of coffee, but it was warm, and had caffeine in it, which provided him with the jolt he needed to keep his eyes open for a little while longer.
He only noticed the fresh bandage on the back of Jesse's head after the first couple of sips. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Met a friend of James," Jesse shrugged, "He's clinically insane, hence the crack on my skull."
They found Pearce at her workstation, and she handed him a folder with a grin when she saw him. "Here's our target's new file," she said while Michael opened up James' file. A quick visual scan of his bio page revealed that they now had a surname and a brief history of the previously mysterious man.
"We have all the details of his service record and everything," she continued as Michael kept reading, "I'm sure you'll find it a very impressive read."
"Delta Force no less. It's always nice having our elite military training turned against us, isn't it?" Jesse added sarcastically.
"You didn't call me straight here out of the airport to give me more homework, Pearce, did you?" Michael asked, frowning.
"Of course not, you're here to find out why he went off the rails."
"Am I?"
"This new asset is a former Delta too," Pearce said as she led him towards another closed door while Fiona and Jesse stayed behind. "Peter Millard. Same unit, and disappeared at the same time James did. Millard refuses to tell us any more. Says he wants to talk to the guy that was undercover with Kendrick."
"Why?"
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
She opened the door and closed it behind him after he stepped inside. There was a table and two chairs inside the makeshift interrogation room, and nothing much else in the way of furniture. Michael took the empty chair and took a moment to study the bearded man who glared back at him with a pair of intense blue eyes.
"So, you the guy who's working with James?" He asked without a preamble.
"No," said Michael, correcting him, "I'm the guy working to stop him."
Millard tilted his head to the side, and smirked. "Who brought you in? Let me guess. Leslie…Wait. Or was it Burke?"
"Guess you haven't heard," Michael said, his voice low. "Burke is dead. It was Sonya."
Millard let out a soft whistle, and stared at Michael with renewed curiosity. "Must have been in a state when she found you then," he remarked casually, his eyes glinting as if he was enjoying a private joke, "Lucky you. James has a soft spot for the rare strays she brings in."
"Good to know," Michael replied in the same casual tone, refusing to rise to the bait.
"The guy who's working to stop him," Millard hummed after a while, repeating Michael's earlier words, "What makes you think you can do that?"
"Because I'm willing to do whatever it takes," Michael said simply, truthfully, "To go as far as I have to go."
"As far as you have to go?" Millard scoffed, "Tell me, do you know how far James is willing to go?"
"I'm starting to."
"I doubt it." the man shook his head, "What do you know about Mogadishu?"
"I know you and James served together there," Michael replied, recalling what he had just learned by skimming over the file, "According to the report, your unit was wiped out protecting a village. He was presumed KIA, and so were you."
"Is that what the report says?" Millard sneered, and the disdainful look was back on his face.
"Why don't you tell me what really happened, then?" Michael challenged.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Just as Michael was starting to feel like he was wasting his time, Millard suddenly started to speak.
"My unit was sent to take out a warlord outside Mogadishu," he said, staring at a spot on the wall to his left, "Turned out the intelligence was bad. The warlord was a kid wannabe with a few rifles and some punk friends. The camp was a village full of women and children…"
"What happened?" Michael prodded softly when he trailed off.
"We radioed in," Millard shrugged, his voice almost mechanical, lost in the memory. "Guess some suit up the line didn't want a blotch on his record. Orders came down. 'Wipe 'em out anyway.' A lot of guys didn't like it, but orders were orders."
"Did you proceed?"
"I couldn't do it," Millard admitted quietly, "James was my best friend in the unit. I asked him to talk them out of it, and he said he'd try."
"But it didn't work?"
"No. They wouldn't disobey a direct order. I told him we had to do something, he said he'd handle it, and I thought… God, I don't know what I thought."
"What did he do, Peter?" Michael had to cajole the man back to the present when he zoned out again. "If we're going to help you, I need to know what I'm facing. What did he do?"
"He killed them all," Millard whispered. "The whole unit. Slit their throats while they were sleeping."
Michael felt a chill run down his spine at the soft admission. He knew James was capable of very dangerous things, yet it still shook him to the core to realise that he had been able to betray his own men in such a cold-blooded manner, all because of an order he disagreed with.
"You think you can stop him?" Millard continued, unaware of the effect his words had on Michael. "No one can stop him. I tried. He put me away. Buried. Eight years. I loved that man. Would've followed him anywhere. And he led me straight to hell."
