He wasn’t a man who aimed to injure; killing was a lot safer and more certain.
But there was something about the girl, and he couldn’t have brought himself to kill her. Not without knowing more.
He stood above her, watching the blood dripping from her shoulder, eyes pale and cloudy; they tried to focus on him but didn’t seem able to do so.
The hatred Cole had seen in them was gone now, replaced by… what?
It was something that Cole couldn’t place, and as he heard the sound of approaching sirens, he knew he had only moments left to get the answers he needed.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, careful to keep his gun levelled at her.
She coughed and spluttered, and Cole saw flecks of blood at her lips. ‘You bastard,’ she spat, eyes rolling in pain. ‘You shot me.’ She coughed again, then laughed, the pain causing her to cough once more. ‘I can’t believe it… You shot me.’ She laughed again, her eyes clearing as they bored into Cole’s. ‘You shot your own daughter.’
‘My —!’
Cole choked on his own words, confusion and disbelief swimming through his head, threatening to overwhelm him.
‘My daughter?’ Cole finally managed, going to one knee, hand to her face. ‘But how —?’
But it was too late; the girl had slipped into unconsciousness and the sound of sirens roared louder, followed by doors slamming, guns cocking.
Cole looked up to face the Tucson police department, dropped his weapon and raised his hands in surrender, mouth still open in wonder and bewilderment.
As the cops raced forward to arrest him, Cole knew only one thing; answers were going to have to wait.
4
Mark Cole waited patiently for his turn to pass through the metal detector in the White House foyer, comfortable in his tailored suit despite his recent injuries. He’d already placed his keys and his cell phone in the tray, and then he was walking through the magnetic archway, pulled to one side by a security guard for a quick once over with the portable wand.
He was clean, as he always was when he entered the White House. There was no threat here, and no need to carry weapons. Besides which, if he wanted to kill anyone, he was more than capable of doing so with his bare hands, a fact exercised many times by some of the very people that worked here.
His mind was still reeling from what he had learned back at the ranch. Could the girl have been his daughter?
The thought of a daughter — any daughter — dredged up painful, horrifying memories for him. It was still only a little more than two years ago that his entire family — his wife, son and daughter — had been slaughtered in front of him. He was starting to adjust to the loss now, but it was a long process and he was not yet fully healed — indeed, might never be, he realized.
He had only had two children — Ben and Amy, killed at the tender ages of just six and four. The girl in Tucson must have been at least sixteen, perhaps as old as twenty, though certainly no more.
So who was she?
Was she telling the truth? Was it even possible?
Cole had to admit that such a thing was always possible; during his time in the SEALs, he’d been involved with women all over the world.
The girl was of oriental appearance — perhaps Japanese, Cole thought — which should narrow it down somewhat; and somewhere in the back of Cole’s mind, if did just that, although he did his best to ignore what his subconscious was trying to tell him.
Cole had never even had time to confirm the girl’s name — after being hauled off to the Tucson jail cells, he’d been identified as the escaped convict Samuel Keatson. This identification — his cover story when infiltrating San Quentin — had set off alarm bells back at the Force One headquarters in DC, and a presidential order for his release was issued immediately, with no questions allowed.
An FBI vehicle — driven by men who had no idea who he was, and why they were driving him — turned up outside the police station as Cole descended the steps, to take him immediately to the airport where a private jet was being fuelled and readied to fly him to Washington.
Normally Cole just made his own way back — all the better to avoid suspicion — and Cole had known this meant that something heavy was going on.
He had still been trying to remember where he’d been sixteen to twenty years ago, what he’d been doing, when he’d seen the newspapers in the private lounge of the airport, the news on the television. He’d been out circulation for so long that he’d not even heard about what had been going on in China, and he instantly knew why Abrams had summoned him so urgently.
Reluctantly, he had driven the thoughts of the Japanese girl — his daughter? — that had helped him, then tried to kill him, and then been shot by him — out of his mind completely, his professional instincts taking over as he gathered up all the newspapers and magazines he could, taking them on board the private jet so that he could devour every article he could read about the Chinese situation.
The thoughts of the girl still nagged at him, pulling at his attention as his leather soled shoes click-clacked over the White House marble, but he was able to compartmentalize — she would just have to wait. She was in hospital anyway, under police guard, and wouldn’t be going anywhere for now.
As Cole passed through the corridors towards the West Wing, he noticed that the staff was even more thorough than normal; indeed, there was an air of unease in the place that only normally occurred at times of extreme threat to the United States. But Cole could understand that — a military coup in China was enough to worry even the most laidback observer.
An aide greeted him with a well-practiced smile. ‘Doctor Sandbourne,’ he said congenially, ‘how lovely to see you again. President Abrams is ready for you now, please follow me.’ Cole returned the smile and did as he was asked, following the aide towards the first floor Oval Office.
Cole had been here several times now as ‘Doctor Sandbourne’, an expert in international affairs working for the Paradigm Group, a new and influential Washington think tank. It was a role that explained his regular visits to the White House without raising too many eyebrows.
The real reason for his meeting with Abrams was, of course, to receive his orders as the commander of Force One, America’s most secretive covert ops unit
His office actually was in the headquarters of the Paradigm Group, which — although purchased the year before merely as a front for Force One — was a genuine think-tank, staffed by many of the most capable minds in the business, none of whom had any idea what really went on there.
Cole remembered his first time at the White House; he’d crash-landed a hijacked C-130 military transport airplane on Constitution Avenue and had been dragged inside by the Secret Service’s Emergency Response Team. And within the next hour, he had saved the president from being assassinated by her own bodyguard.
With a wry smile, he realized that things never changed; people back then had had no idea who he really was, and they still didn’t.
To cover his shaven head — too many questions would be asked if he turned up to a meeting without hair — Cole was wearing a professional hair-piece, one that was itching constantly. Cole ignored the desire to scratch it, not wanting to bring undue attention on himself. He had had to use make-up to cover the bruises on his face, and hoped that it wasn’t too noticeable.
Force One itself was still something of an experiment, despite several months of successful operations. Previous covert ops units had been too well publicized — books had been written about the supposedly secret Intelligence Support Activity, for example, and Cole knew that it wouldn’t be long before his old unit, the Systems Research Group, received the same treatment.