Extraordinary Retribution (30 page)

“Move against the wall,
priest
,” Zulu screamed. Lopez moved, now completely out of striking distance. Blood trickled down Zulu’s left arm and dripped to the floor. “You
fools!
Do you know what you’ve done? How
dare
you judge us? How dare you threaten our program? We prevented attacks on the nation! We saved
lives!
Now you want to shame us for our service and send us to rot the rest of our lives away!”

Houston glared at him and spoke strongly despite the gun to her face. “You didn’t serve your nation, you betrayed it! How is killing people who disagree with you part of our Constitution? Our founding principles?”

“Shut up!” He pressed the barrel forcefully into the skin of her forehead. Lopez took a step forward. “Stop, priest! I mean it. Or she’s dead.” Zulu looked around the room quickly, his breath becoming more and more ragged. He spoke seemingly as much to himself as to them. “Now you’ve complicated things! I had to erase that hard drive, but what to do with you? How to cover this up? How to get out of here fast enough, before the wraith comes?”

The wraith.
So that’s what they called them.
Him?
Was there only one? Lopez’s mind raced. “Why is he hunting you?”

The older man laughed bitterly. “What difference does it make to you? Perhaps you’re afraid he’ll kill you, too.”

Houston looked at him sharply. “No, I don’t think so. It’s because of what you’ve done, isn’t it? He’s seeking justice, just like we are. What did you do to him? Did you kill someone he loved as well?”

Zulu licked his lips, sweat pouring down. Suddenly, with a grunt from the pain of his arm, he pulled backward and distanced himself from the two, keeping his weapon pointed toward them. Lopez saw their odds falling fast.
Now he can shoot us both before we can get to him.
The look in the man’s eyes seemed to confirm his thoughts.

Houston propped herself up on her elbows. “He won’t stop, will he, this
wraith
? He won’t stop until you are all dead. Our goal isn’t your deaths, Zulu. We’re not assassins. But we won’t stop until you and the others are brought to justice!”

“There is really only one solution then,” he said, raising the gun and aiming.

Houston rolled rapidly to her right, her reflexes faster than those of the injured Zulu. His shots drilled holes in the wooden floor where she had been an instant before. Splinters and dust blasted upward. She flipped to her feet like a gymnast, and she and Lopez moved rapidly toward the CIA man. But he had too much time. Zulu swung his weapon toward them. Lopez lunged at him.
We won’t make it!

The window behind Zulu exploded, and a misted spray of crimson burst from around the man’s head. For a split second, he stood there, his eyes suddenly blank, blood beginning to pour from his nose and mouth. Then he fell heavily to the floor.

Lopez’s momentum carried him past the falling figure, and he ended up sprawled across the floor, the impact jarring. Before he could even collect his thoughts, Houston had crouched down, grabbed her weapon, and started toward the door. “Francisco!
The wraith
!” She raced out of the room, and Lopez pushed himself up and followed close behind.

As they approached the front door, the sounds of a car starting could be heard. They crashed through the door, Houston springing down the porch steps with her gun raised. Across the street, near their own SUV, a pickup truck accelerated rapidly down the road. They crossed over the lawn, and Houston chased after the vehicle, racing full-speed down the road. Lopez knew it was pointless. The truck was already pulling out of sight.

As quickly as she had begun, suddenly Houston stopped, pausing a moment hunched over to catch her breath. Lopez finally caught up with her.

“Let him go, Sara,” he gasped out. “He’s gone.”

“Wait. Not the wraith.” She waved with her gun to a car ten feet behind them. “Look.”

She recovered slightly and walked over with him to a dark-blue van. The windows were shattered. Two dead men were inside, shot in the head. Lopez stood stunned. The madness never seemed to end.

Houston opened the door, looking through their pockets and the glove compartment. She pulled out a smartphone from one, flipped it open. It had a face-recognition security feature. She held it up to the dead man’s face. The phone opened with a click.

“Damn. The worst.” She held the phone up to Lopez. There were two photos on the small screen: one of him and one of her. “Assassins. More of the same like at the police station. Or like in Alabama.” She shuddered at the memory. “They must have figured we’d stake out the houses. They guessed we knew a lot, or that we had put things together. They were waiting.”

Lopez felt completely helpless. He was losing track of how many times they had narrowly escaped death. “The wraith?”

She nodded. “Good name they gave him. Saved our asses, though. And got the kill on Zulu. He gets my Jason Bourne award nomination.”

Nothing made sense. “Why, Sara? Why is he helping us?”

“I doubt he’s helping us, Francisco. He came here to kill Zulu. For all he knew, these assets were here to protect Blobel. He ID’d them and took them out.”

“But why didn’t he kill us, too?”

Houston paused. “Good question. I don’t know, Francisco. Maybe he’s got his list of targets, and we aren’t on it, for obvious reasons. And I don’t think he’s worried about the cops or anything two people like us could say to them.”

Lopez nodded. House lights were starting to come on. There was too much disturbance in the neighborhood. Perhaps someone had heard something, noticed them running, or seen Zulu’s door open. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be caught by the police again.”

There was a metallic click behind them. “Sara Houston and Francisco Lopez?”

They turned around. Lopez couldn’t believe it, and nearly laughed. Someone else was pointing a gun at them.

50

T
hey sat around the bed in a cheap, nowhere motel off a highway in Virginia. Simon’s man, Jim Fields, had led them here, telling them that he’d explain all he could once they were more hidden. After Lopez and Houston had checked in under false names provided by Simon’s other agent, Fields had gone and bought a bunch of Chinese food, refusing to let them out of the room. He didn’t want any risks that unnecessary exposure might bring.

“Fred has been under siege,” Fields said, looping a mass of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. He spoke as he chewed. “Whoever ran this operation, they’re still a force, even out of the CIA. They have assets, money, and influence. And there were two attempts on his life. He’s moving place to place constantly. That’s why you couldn’t reach him in the station after you were caught. Hell of an escape, by the way! How on earth did you get out of there?”

Lopez and Houston stared at each other. “Another one of your men came, sent by Fred Simon. He got us out,” said Lopez.

The man looked shocked. “
Jesus
. Communication has totally broken down. I was completely unaware of this. Where is he now? Why isn’t he with you?”

They looked at each other again, confused. Houston spoke. “I don’t know, Jim. Until you asked, I hadn’t thought about it. God, we had just run out of a shooting gallery. The place blew up, and he pointed us to that SUV out there and screamed for us to go. We didn’t ask any questions. We got our asses out of there.”

Fields nodded but looked troubled. “Still, you could have used some help. I was told to be looking for you, but I had no idea how to find you. I couldn’t reach Fred either, and everyone was cut off.”

Lopez furrowed his brows. “How
did
you know where to find us?”

Fields laughed. “Luck. Sources with the police radioed that they had discovered some pretty explosive stuff. We debriefed them, got a list of names. Wow—pretty high-level names, too. That shook some people up. Fred was stunned.”

“Francisco and I have been looking over the list of kills we copied from Miller’s computer,” said Houston. “At first, we could only identify those that matched names we could immediately recognize. These were powerful, important players in law, politics, and activism.”

“Yes,” grumbled Francisco, “assassinations that removed all obstacles to the program of black-ops rendition and torture.”

“And the others on the list?” asked Fields.

“It took more work, but we were able to associate the initials with a number of high-profile Arabs in America. Some were almost certainly dirty players in the underground terrorist networks. But others—it isn’t so clear.”

Francisco cut in angrily. “They didn’t care. Circumstantial evidence was all they needed. Close enough for government work. They killed anyone they thought was a threat.”

Fields looked stunned. “How could something like this happen?”

“It’s the logical step, from a certain set of assumptions,” said Francisco. “First, they rendered terrorist suspects without due process. Then, they justified holding them in secret, indefinitely. No rights. What’s next? Well, if they don’t have rights, and you think you can get information from them, why not hurt them until they talk? Well, why limit that to noncitizens? Why limit kills of suspects to foreign lands? If you want to protect America, you have to get them wherever they are, whoever they are. That includes even the deluded do-gooders who are fighting to stop your programs. They began with terrorist suspects and ended up with congressmen; they went from Arabs to WASPs with money. One step after another until you are a secret murder squad without oversight, reporting only to shadows.”

Fields spoke coldly. “It has to be stopped, and Fred will be onboard one hundred percent, I can tell you. The last communication I received from him told me to make sure nothing happened to you two, that this mess had to be cleaned up. From what you’ve told me now, he’ll be even more committed.”

Lopez felt relieved.
So the word will get out. Maybe even to the press soon.
He was tired of the story being about the two fugitives and their flight. Today’s local paper had dramatic photos of the charred wreckage: “Terrorist fugitives blow up police station.” It was just getting better and better.
Or worse and worse.

Houston spoke with a frustrated tone. “But Mark Blobel,
Zulu
, was the last on the list, Jim. All the others are gone. Hiding out, no doubt. We have nothing to go on now!”

The CIA man smiled. “Well, Fred hasn’t been idle, Sara.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched in several numbers, and showed Lopez and Houston the screen.

“An address?” asked Lopez.

“Yes. A high-security, recently outfitted, militarized farmhouse.”

“How’d he get this information?” asked Houston.

“It wasn’t easy. They have buried so much, killed so many, to hide these missions—and they’ve done a good job covering it up. But it’s hard to hide the money trail. With a good dog—and Fred has some very good hunting dogs—the trail is there to read. In short: the mission leaders are tied to Agency-associated money transfers involving this site.
Recent
money transfers, all in the last year. Transfers that began shortly after agents started dying.”

“Oh, my God,” said Houston. She hugged Lopez. “Fred’s done it! This
has
to be where they’re laying low. We’ve got them pinned down!”

“Where is it?” asked Lopez.

“Here are the satellite photos. Rural nowhere in Virginia,” said Fields.

“He’s sure about this?” asked Lopez.

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.” He looked at them solemnly. “Fred knew you’d want to go, and he
wants
you to go. But it will be dangerous. For obvious reasons, we can’t go to the police. The fireball in upstate New York is just one of several items on the list law enforcement has on you two. So, they’re out. So’s FBI. Or, God forbid, the CIA. No one can help. So he insisted that I come with you.”

Lopez smiled. “No problems from me on that part! I wish we had an army of Fred Simon’s men! Seems like he knows how to pick them.”

Houston nodded. “Of course, as long as you know the dangers too, Jim. These are some really scary folks. Dark side of the force material.”

Fields nodded, holding up his gun. “Yeah, I know. But someone has to stop them, make them face justice. Fred Simon isn’t the only one who has been sickened by what you two have found.”

Lopez felt elated. For the first time in months, they were not alone. Justice was coming to a farmhouse in Virginia.

51

T
he drive through the rural counties was mostly silent. Conversation was limited to coordinating travel, following maps, and planning an approach that would not reveal their presence. Lopez and Houston drove together in the SUV, and Fields led the way in his black sedan. They had left late in the evening, the calculated travel time about an hour over narrow country roads. They approached the location roughly around midnight.

They found a wide shoulder on the side of the road a mile and a half before the farmhouse, and they left their vehicles there. Unsecured fields surrounded them, and they agreed that it was wiser to approach unseen through the fields and patchy forests between them than to take to the road. With cellular tower signals and modern GPS navigation, the strategy was simple to follow.

The moon was full, directly overhead, casting clear shadows to their night-adjusted eyes as they walked. Conversation continued to be minimal, task oriented, the tension building within all of them. After everything that had happened, Lopez felt a mixture of hope and dread. Ahead of them lay the lair of some of the most ruthless and desperate men he could imagine, men who had killed and destroyed the lives of so many. But they had uncovered the root of this evil program that had led to the death of his brother, the architects of which he and Houston had vowed to bring to justice for their crimes.

Justice? Or vengeance?
The priest in him required that he face the need for vengeance buried inside. He knew that it was partially a transferal of blame from the man they called
the wraith
. These architects had not killed Miguel Lopez. The wraith had. But these men had created, and their crimes had given birth to, the vengeance that now hunted them down. Who was this wraith? What pain drove him to pursue these men to the death? Could it be that as much as he loved his brother, Miguel’s crimes demanded recompense? Perhaps his death had its own justice associated with it.