Collateral (Tier One #6)

Dempsey felt his tension begin to melt away as they sped past the city ferry pier and he spotted their exfil SUVs parked along the river. But years of operating as a Tier One SEAL had taught him to never, ever fully relax until he was back home in CONUS drinking a beer and turning steaks on the grill. Hell, based on those criteria, since he’d joined Ember that opportunity had come along . . . well, never.

“Pierside in twenty seconds,” he called to his three teammates, who’d all moved below for a quick change out of their tactical gear and into civilian clothes. After the proof-of-concept testing he’d done with the new gel-pack body armor in Mudchute Park, they were all wearing the high-tech vests pretty much twenty-four seven.

Dempsey checked the Sig P320 in his small-of-the-back holster and tucked his MCX Rattler under his long brown coat. He rolled up onto the balls of his feet against the slowing of the boat in the midnight water and did a quick scan up- and downriver. Satisfied, he pulled a ball cap onto his head as the boat driver parked the Whaler expertly just inches beside the floating dock.

Dempsey jumped over the gunwale and onto the dock and watched as Munn and Martin dragged the prisoner out of the cuddy cabin, hands under his armpits, then hoisted him up onto the dock. Dempsey led them at a double-time pace up the aluminum walkway from the dock to the cement pier, while Grimes took up the rear.

“Home Plate, Wagon Train—we have Astros,” came a new voice in his ear as the two SUVs roared to life.

Dempsey heard the Boston Whaler pulling away behind him as he hopped into the rear of the first SUV, sliding all the way across to make room for Grimes. He turned and looked over his shoulder in time to see Munn shove Skorapporsky roughly into the rear of the second SUV as Martin got in the other side. Three seconds later, their caravan of two was on the move.

“Well done, guys. Thanks for the lift,” Dempsey said to the driver.

The man behind the wheel, a neatly bearded twenty-something—dressed in a flannel shirt that to Dempsey screamed former operator rather than organic CIA—grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “Pleasure, bro. Looks like a successful hunting trip. You bag what you were looking for?”

“We’ll see,” Dempsey said, unable to contain his own smile.

The truth was, this was the first operation in months that might yield intelligence about Zeta operatives not provided by Bessonov. Hopefully, Skorapporsky was worth it.

He glanced over at Grimes, who pulled off her cap and shook out her auburn locks, still damp and wavy from their swim. She smiled back at him.

“Feel it?” he asked.

“Feel what?” she said.

His smile broadened. “The momentum.”

She chuckled but nodded. “Yeah. So long as our crow”—she glanced at the two CIA men in the front seat, not wanting to breach security—“really was working with you-know-who.”

“I know it was him,” Dempsey said with conviction. “This attack had his fingerprints all over it.”

The driver made eye contact in the rearview but was too seasoned to ask the obvious question. The “attack” could only mean one thing less than a week after the assassination of the Vice President of the United States. Dempsey gave a slight nod to his fellow operator, then turned back to Grimes.

“If we can get this guy to talk, we’re one step closer to our real objective.”

“Hope so,” she said. “But either way, that asshole in the truck behind us and his dead friends pulled the trigger, so the way I see it, the mission is a success.”

“Truth,” he said, but did he really feel that way?

As a SEAL, he could have convinced himself that the mastermind behind the Independence Square assassination wasn’t his concern. Ember was the President’s direct-action weapon of choice. They were America’s lethal protector. Ultra was a clear and present danger that needed to be dealt with, so the President had sent them. Yet . . .

Even without proof, I know the Russians were behind this.

Which meant as far as Dempsey was concerned, the priorities needed to shift and shift immediately. Even if it meant traveling undercover into the heart of Moscow to do it, Arkady Zhukov needed to die. And while he was there, he’d take out President Petrov, too.

A little American quid pro quo . . .

But as he tried to puzzle out what the pieces of that operation would look like, Dempsey felt himself slip a few more feet down the blood-slicked slope he was forever trying to climb up—falling away from gleaming patriotic warrior toward the kind of black ops killer that slunk and paced in the shadows at the bottom. For two decades he had maintained a professional code of conduct as a Tier One SEAL—to fight his nation’s enemies with extreme prejudice but without personal malice. That was the difference between a soldier and a killer. He’d always understood that, but then he’d felt the world tilt when terrorists ambushed and murdered his Tier One unit in Yemen. He’d taken his first short slide down the slope when he joined Ember for the sole purpose of exacting vengeance. And he’d done it; he’d killed them all . . . and afterward, he’d clawed his way back up the mountain. He’d embraced a new family and a new charter at Ember, and in doing so had regained his sense of purpose as a warrior. But then Arkady’s Zetas had attacked Ember’s headquarters and murdered half of his new family . . . and suddenly he found himself slipping again.

He grabbed the armrest to steady himself.

Feeling eyes on him, he looked over at Grimes.

Like they so often did, her baby blues bore into him—piercing his armor and reading his thoughts. But that was okay because she understood. Her SEAL brother had died in Yemen with the rest of Dempsey’s team. And Smith, Adamo, and Latif had been her replacement family as well.

Are you sliding too? he asked her with his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her expression so hard and beautiful. “We’ll get him, John . . . and we’ll make him pay.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but bouncing lights in his peripheral vision drew his attention out the windshield. Two black SUVs jumping the raised median between the north and southbound lanes on an intercept course.

“Oh, shit,” the driver said and cut the wheel to the left. Their SUV swerved hard and momentarily tipped up on two wheels before the driver expertly corrected and dropped the vehicle back on the pavement. “Brace for impact!”

A heartbeat later, one of the converging SUVs slammed into their rear quarter panel and sent them spinning in a clockwise rotation. The impact slammed Dempsey into the passenger door and his head bounced off the bulletproof side window. His vision filled with stars, but he shook them clear and reached for his MCX assault rifle. He quickly unsnapped it from the sling and pulled it free of his coat.

Two trucks jumping the median? This is no traffic accident, it’s an assault.

The universe nodded its agreement when a hail of gunfire from the two attacking Cadillac Escalades lit a shower of sparks across the hood and raised dozens of stars in the ballistic glass windshield. Thank God the doors were also up-armored, capable of keeping Dempsey and the others safe from up to fifty-caliber rounds. The same could not be said for the engine block and tires, however, and the barrage of fire they were taking could easily render them immobile.

And if those assholes have something more powerful, like RPGs, then we’re really screwed.

“Out your side,” Dempsey hollered at Grimes, but she had already lowered a shoulder and slammed it into the door on her side.

“Mother, Home Plate—Astros is in enemy contact. We need that QRF!” Dempsey heard Wang say over the comms channel.

“Roger that,” Baldwin replied. “I’ve already made the call.”

That’s nice and all, but this thing’s gonna be over long before those bros show up, Dempsey thought as he crabbed in a tactical crouch over the pavement and toward the rear of the SUV. While he set up at the rear bumper, Grimes joined the driver in cover behind the open driver’s side door. Dempsey sighted around the rear of their smashed-up SUV and found a target—a knee sticking out past the front bumper of the stalled Cadillac that had just hit them. He aimed and fired, turning the enemy shooter’s knee into pulp. The gunman screamed and fell to the ground, dropping his weapon and clutching his ruined leg. Dempsey put a second bullet in the shooter’s head, silencing him permanently.

“Two, One—you good?” Dempsey said, talking to Munn on a hot mike.

“Setting up,” Munn grunted.

Dempsey couldn’t see Munn or Martin because their vehicle had spun out into the median and Dempsey’s line of sight was blocked by his own SUV. When he heard the sound of 5.56 bursts from that direction, however, he knew Munn and Martin were in the fight.

He glanced over his shoulder at Grimes and saw her calmly setting up the MK12 SPR she had somehow already managed to pull from her duffle. She and their driver had moved forward, and while he provided covering fire over the hood, she snapped out her tripod. Meanwhile, the CIA shooter who’d been riding in the front passenger position had climbed across the seats and was in the fight, too. Standing on the driver’s side doorsill to give him height to fire over the roof, the operator let out two bursts from his short Sig MPX submachine gun, while releasing an expletive-laden barrage to match.

Dempsey was just about to call for air, when Baldwin’s voice crackled in his ear. “Astro One, Home Plate—I am linking the drone pilot into comms. You have JTAC control of the asset, in orbit overhead now.”

A big grin spread over Dempsey’s face as he dropped another heavily tattooed shooter.

“Predator, this is Astro One—be advised, we are all driving lookalike black SUVs. Astros are the two vehicles on the north side of the firefight, including the one in the median. Shitheads are to the south. I repeat, shitheads are to the south.”

“Astro One, Predator—copy all. I have a good visual,” the drone pilot said with a hint of bemusement.

“RPG!” Munn yelled in his earbud.

Dempsey glanced around the bumper and saw the unmistakable cylindrical RPG launcher propped up on an enemy combatant’s shoulder. The shooter was sighting over the hood of the second Escalade. A split second before he pulled the trigger, his head exploded from one of Grimes’s precision sniper rounds, causing him to pull upward as he fired. The rocket-propelled grenade screamed over Munn’s SUV and out over the river, where it detonated on the opposite bank.

“Predator, One—let’s drop some ordnance on these assholes.”

“Astro, be advised you are—”

“Yes, yes we know. Danger close,” Dempsey said, cutting him off. “You’re cleared hot. Shoot now!”

“Moving . . . need covering fire . . .”

Martin’s call brought all of them up and together they poured fire onto the two vehicles, but Dempsey had no clear targets.

“Missile away, Astros,” came the calm and very young-sounding voice in his ear. “Get small, you guys.”

“Take cover,” Dempsey hollered and dropped to the ground just as he saw an orange streak of light coming from the heavens above.

The missile impacted the closer of the two enemy SUVs and the vehicle disappeared in a ball of fire. A wave of intense heat washed over him, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck curling from the heat as he covered his head with his arms. A split second later, he heard chunks of debris raining down—peppering the pavement and the roof of their Suburban.

“Astros, Predator—I hold two vehicles inbound from the north closing on your position at high speed. I can’t take that shot, so don’t ask ’cause I don’t know who they are. But be advised they will be on you in less than a minute.”

“Copy,” Dempsey said. “Put a Hellfire in the other SUV. We’ll reposition; you’re cleared hot.”

“Roger—cleared hot,” the drone pilot said. “I’m coming about.”

“Our vehicle is fucked,” Munn said, sounding more annoyed than stressed. “One, what’s your status?”

Dempsey looked at the driver, who glanced under the chassis to make sure the opposite side tires were intact, then gave him a hesitant thumbs-up.

“Two, bring the crow to us after the next hit and we’ll load up and get the hell out of here. Come from the south side—it sounds like we have more guests on their way to the party.”

A bullet tore a chunk of pavement away beside his knee—one of the remaining enemy shooters apparently firing from under their own remaining vehicle.

“Oh, you asshole,” Dempsey said, and popped up and repositioned to peer around the corner just as a second orange streak ripped through the night sky. He pulled back and made himself small behind the rear wheel as the missile obliterated the enemy Caddy.

Oh shit, that kid is good, wherever the hell he is.

Another wave of heat poured over him, but he kept his eyes open, searching for the inbound threat on Naberezhne Road. He saw the lights of two vehicles screaming toward them. He assumed this was an enemy QRF, but he couldn’t light them up without first confirming hostile intent. Could be police, could be civilians.

“So much for our zero-footprint operation, bro,” Munn growled in his ear, echoing Dempsey’s thoughts.

“Move now, Two,” he called. “South side of the vehicle. We may have incoming.”

Dempsey repositioned, clearing for Munn and Martin any potential tangoes who might have survived the Hellfire strikes. As expected, he saw nothing but bodies—and body parts—strewn around the burning hulks of the two Cadillac Escalades.

“That’s it for my load, Astros,” the drone pilot said. “Loitering for ISR, but I’m unarmed now.”

Damn, Dempsey thought, wishing they’d had a tricked-out Reaper instead of the Predator with its load-limited two Hellfire missiles.

He stood at the rear of the SUV, sighting north at the approaching headlights, as the CIA driver slid into the driver seat. Grimes took up a position on the south side of the hood, again setting up her sniper rifle and pressing her cheek into the stock as she took aim.

“Coming to you,” Munn said, starting their sprint toward Dempsey’s SUV.

Dempsey watched north, and as he did the rear vehicle turned and stopped in the middle of the southbound lanes, about a hundred and fifty yards away. He could see it was a long black sedan now that its headlights weren’t in his eyes.

Definitely not police.

A moment later he saw a subtle suppressed muzzle flash from the sedan at the same time as Grimes shouted, “Sniper!”

“Fuck. Need covering fire now!” Munn yelled. He and Martin were crossing no-man’s-land between the two Suburbans, dragging the still-hooded Skorapporsky with them.

Dempsey fired a series of three-round bursts at the distant sedan, while ordering Grimes to stop the incoming SUV, which was still rapidly closing range.

A half second later, he heard two burps from her rifle. The inbound vehicle jerked hard left, jumped the median, and crashed into the seawall on the other side of the road.

Long-Gun Lizzie is on tonight, he thought as he saw another muzzle flash from the sedan.

An inbound enemy sniper round slammed into the Suburban’s front passenger-side window at head level, leaving a starburst pattern but failing to punch through.

“Damn, he’s good,” their driver said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Munn and Martin arrived in lockstep, dragging Skorapporsky into cover behind the Suburban. The man’s arms were still cuffed behind his back, but his legs were jelly and his hooded head bounced lifelessly against his chest.

Martin yanked the hood off. Skorapporsky was missing half his head.

“Damn,” Dempsey said. “Leave him.”

Munn dropped the corpse onto the pavement, and everyone piled into the vehicle and slammed the doors shut.

“Where to?” the driver asked, looking over his shoulder at Dempsey.

Dempsey looked out the window and saw the target sedan was already bugging out—a pair of red taillights pulling away. “Think you can catch those motherfuckers?” he asked.

“I can try,” the driver said with a grin and put the transmission into gear.

“Negative, Astros,” came Baldwin’s voice on the line, shutting that idea down. “You have law enforcement inbound. Mission terminated, return to Home Plate immediately.”

“Copy,” Dempsey acknowledged through gritted teeth, then said, “Predator, Astros One—please tell me you have eyes on our runaway tangoes.”

“Affirmative, Astros, tracking now. But be advised your tangoes appear to be heading toward city center.”

Dempsey looked at Munn, the question plain on his face: Should we do it anyway?

Munn gave a heavy exhale, then shook his head. “It ain’t worth it, dude. We can’t afford to sit in jail, even if it’s only overnight. Remember what happened in Riga? And we didn’t kill anybody on that op.”

Dempsey responded with a grudging nod, then said, “Airport.”

“Roger that,” the driver said, and punched the accelerator.

“I might have something for you, Astro One,” Wang said in his ear.

“Yeah, what’s that, Home Plate?” A sliver of hope crept into Dempsey’s voice.

“Image capture from the Predator video feed—I’ve got a pretty clear image of the passenger in that sedan. I’m going to run it through facial rec . . . Boo-yah,” Wang said, using one of his signature lines for the first time in months. “Oh, and for what it’s worth: the dude looks Russian.”

“Send it to me,” Dempsey said, pulling his small, waterproof tablet computer from his cargo pants pocket.

“Already done,” Wang replied.

Dempsey opened the file and stared at the image of a clean-shaven Caucasian male in the passenger seat—looking through the windshield, hands expertly clutching what looked to Dempsey like a Fort assault rifle. The man in the image looked unperturbed, his face a mask of concentration and confidence. But the eyes—the eyes burned with the fire of a killer.

Dempsey stared at the image, searing it into memory.

He knew the look well.

This man was a Zeta.

And he’d bet his left thumb that the driver who’d been sniping them was a Zeta, too. All the other shitheads they’d killed had just been cannon fodder—hired collateral to slow them down until the pros arrived.

Damn, he thought with a sigh. We were so close . . . so fucking close.