“If you want to impress him, send him a Long Island iced tea,” Hawk said. “It’s his favorite.”
The woman smiled and walked over to the bar to order. A couple of minutes later, the Reaper sat up, curious about why a poolside server was giving him a drink. With his face visible, Hawk’s glasses confirmed the Reaper’s identity.
“It’s a match,” Hawk said. “That’s him.”
“Good,” Mia said. “Hawk, fall back so we can prepare for the next phase of the operation.”
“Roger that,” Hawk said before returning to his hotel room.
DOUG MITCHELL CLOSED his eyes, soaking in the warm sunshine. Visiting North Korea and Russia in the winter chilled him to the bone, and he needed to thaw out. He drained the last bit of his Long Island iced tea, resisting his curiosity to find out who sent him the drink. As a mercenary, he didn’t have time for distractions like relationships. From the moment he joined the Navy SEALs, he decided that his lifestyle wouldn’t be conducive to any long-term relationship, especially since it wouldn’t be fair to whoever he was involved with.
He ran his fingers across the tattoo spanning the width of his collarbones. “Freedom cannot be bestowed—it must be achieved” read the tattooed message overlaid on a colorful American eagle. He was drunk and considered himself naive when he entered the tattoo parlor at age 18 to get the artwork inscribed. It served as a reminder to him of his past. Years of battle had jaded him. He no longer believed the words on his chest, nor did he care much for the idea of patriotism. The only person he was loyal to was himself.
Glancing at his forearm, he smiled as he saw the tattoo of the Grim Reaper. He once completed seven successful assassination missions in a three-month span, hitting one target right between the eyes from more than a thousand meters away on a blustery day. In a matter of days, Mitchell’s exploits became legendary within the SEALs, which was almost unprecedented. As elite soldiers, rarely were they impressed with anything anyone else did. But Mitchell achieved god-like status, which also earned him the Reaper nickname.
He visited the Zoetry Agua so often that he could get a room whenever he wanted, even if the resort was listed as full. Whenever he completed his latest assignment, he’d retreat to the Caribbean. He felt safe there. And despite his nomadic existence, it felt like home, too.
Mitchell felt free, though he knew that wasn’t entirely the case. If he turned down an assignment, there would be questions. And questions were never a good thing, especially from the people he was working for.
His phone buzzed with a text message, alerting him to the arrival of an urgent email.
He recognized the number and navigated on his cell phone to his email.
“On your last mission, you were exposed to a new strand of the Kabalo virus. Please call back for instructions on how to proceed.”
Mitchell cursed under his breath as he got up. He’d rather suffer a bullet wound than get the Kabalo virus, though he wasn’t fond of needles either. He ordered another drink on his way back to his room, draining it before reached the door. After he collapsed into the chair in the corner, he dialed the number.
IN THE WEEK following Hawk’s encounter with Reaper in Sonbong, Mia had hacked into his cell phone and combed through voice messages. She worked with Dr. Z to tweak a voice simulator for Reaper’s contact. And she also placed malware on his phone that, when activated, would direct outgoing calls to the number of her choosing.
When Mia’s phone rang, she took a deep breath and then initiated the voice simulator.
“This is control,” she said after answering. “Please identify yourself.”
Reaper recited a string of numbers.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, what can I help you with today?”
“I received an email to contact you about what to do next following my exposure to the Kabalo virus.”
“Of course. Thank you for responding so quickly. Based on the length of your exposure, you need to receive treatment immediately.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You could suffer a severe illness or even death.”
“It’d be one helluva way for me to go,” Reaper said with a chuckle. “I get pinned down in tight spots all over the world facing enormous amounts of fire power, battling some of the most well-trained soldiers in various militaries, and it’s a stupid little bug I can’t see that gets me.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. We very much value you in our organization, so we’ve deployed a medical team to your location to administer your treatment. Do you have a pen handy?”
“Give me a second,” Reaper said, the line going silent for a brief moment. “All right lay it on me.”
Mia read off the address for the clinic before continuing. “Report to that location in one hour to receive your treatment. Use the passcode ‘freedom isn’t free’ to gain entry. Any other questions?”
Reaper sighed. “No, I think that’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“Excellent,” Mia said. “Good luck.”
She ended the call and then exhaled.
“Great work,” Alex said. “Now we just need to do one final check on our clinic, and we’ll be ready to go.”
HAWK MAINTAINED A safe distance as he followed Reaper. While everything seemed to be running smoothly, Hawk didn’t want to take any chances. They were on the cusp of apprehending Reaper and getting some much needed answers to burning questions.
Reaper hailed a cab and then climbed into the backseat.
Hawk followed suit, waiting a minute to avoid having his cover blown. With the directions mapped out on his phone, Hawk used the GPA navigational app on his phone to see what route the driver of Reaper’s cab was likely to take. If the car disappeared too quickly from view, Hawk would know something had gone awry.
The drive would take seventeen minutes, according to the app, most of it occurring on one road leading back to the heart of the city. The first ten minutes were uneventful, but when they reached the city, Reaper’s cab driver turned down a different street leading away from the clinic’s address.
Hawk covered his mouth with his hand to keep the driver from hearing anything he said.
“Alex, Mia,” he said over his coms, “we have a problem.”
CHAPTER 38
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT NORRIS INVITED Robert Besserman into his office before offering him a drink. Besserman glanced at his watch and then declined. Norris poured himself a healthy portion before taking a seat behind his desk.
“Everything all right?” Besserman asked, nodding at Norris’s glass.
Norris shook his head. “You tell me. You’re the one hunting down the traitors. My answer to your question will depend on what you’re about to tell me.”
“In that case, you have a reason to smile.”
Norris drew in a deep breath and exhaled. “Who was it? Someone on my cabinet?”
“We traced the order back to Admiral Brent Gaston,” Besserman said. “Apparently, his unilateral decision to increase our presence off the shores of North Korea only ratcheted up tensions. I suggest you demand his resignation immediately or inform him that he will be subject to a court martial.”
“Why not do both?” Norris asked. “I can send a message that if anyone attempts to usurp my authority as commander in chief, they will be dealt with swiftly and harshly.”
Besserman shrugged. “That’s totally up to you, but I feel like this might be a scandal you’d rather avoid. If we can usher Admiral Gaston out the backdoor without causing a big stir in the media, everyone wins.”
“Justice doesn’t win,” Norris said. “He’d be getting away with just a slap on the wrist.”