Four months ago, Khalila had put a bullet into the previous DDO’s head, acting as judge, jury, and executioner in response to his treason. But instead of tension between the new DDO and Khalila, McKinnon exuded a calm confidence in the presence of the woman who had slain his predecessor. The DDO apparently didn’t know Khalila as well as he did. Harrison was convinced that Khalila was a sociopath who had killed several previous partners — ones who had learned too much about her true identity.
When the conversation resumed, the deputy directors expressed their condolences for Angie’s death. Harrison nodded his appreciation and silence in the conference room followed, eventually broken by Christine.
“Your primary goal is to locate Mixell. He assassinated the secretary of defense, and we’re also concerned about what else he’s up to. You two are being teamed up again due to your previous experience tracking Mixell down. Here’s a summary of what we’ve got regarding the SecDef’s assassination.”
Christine turned to McFarland, who handed Harrison and Khalila the folders she had brought to the meeting. The folders held identical contents, and Tracey walked Harrison and Khalila through the material.
“But first,” Christine said after McFarland finished, “we have a higher priority mission for you. Iran has just received a shipment of one thousand advanced gas centrifuges from Russia.” Christine went on to explain how Iran would now be able to produce enough weapon-grade uranium for a nuclear bomb every two weeks instead of every twelve months.
When she finished, Harrison said, “I understand the problem, but not where Khalila and I come in.”
Christine answered, “The president wants to avoid a direct military attack on Iranian facilities. We’d prefer something stealthy, such as the Stuxnet virus that was discreetly injected into the computer software controlling Iran’s previous centrifuges. Unfortunately, the Iranians have significantly improved their defenses against cyber strikes, so a more direct approach is required.”
McKinnon took over from Christine. “You’ll team up with several other agency members. Mission details will be provided upon your arrival in the Middle East. Your qualifications are obvious, Jake; you’ll be joining several former U.S. special operations force personnel. Khalila will accompany the team due to her linguistic skills, as she is fluent in Farsi and the other prevalent languages in the region.”
“When do we leave?” Harrison asked.
“This afternoon. Your travel arrangements to the Middle East have already been made. The details are on the last sheet in your folders.”
After a momentary lull, the DDO added, “You know the drill, Jake. You’re being assigned to the special operations group within the special activities center. Pick up your ID and check out a weapon and any other gear you need. Any other questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Well, then,” McKinnon said, “we’ll let you and Khalila get started.”
After wishing them good luck, Christine and her deputy directors left the conference room, leaving Harrison and Khalila behind.
Harrison turned to his former — and present — partner, but she spoke first, keeping their conversation perfunctory as usual.
“Get your gear and I’ll pick you up at the entrance.”
29
WOODMORE, MARYLAND
Far from bustling Washington, D.C., and its nearby suburbs, beyond the traffic jams on the Capital Beltway and its arteries, lies Maryland’s true nature — winding country roads offering scenic views of farms and heavily forested land that remains largely unaffected by the blight of humanity. In a rented green Jeep Grand Cherokee, Lonnie Mixell turned onto a narrow gravel driveway that snaked through the trees, ending beside a small single-story home. According to the rent-by-owner ad, it was a twelve-hundred-square-foot house available on a month-to-month basis for a reasonable price.
After turning off the engine, Mixell checked his watch. He was ten minutes early. While he waited, he lowered the driver’s side window and closed his eyes, listening to the birds, crickets, and the brisk wind blowing through the foliage. But his thoughts soon turned to the task for which Brenda Verbeck had paid an initial ten million dollars.
To that end, a white Ford F-150 appeared in the rearview mirror, grinding to a halt on the gravel road behind him. From the truck stepped a woman in her fifties who approached Mixell’s car. Stepping from the sedan, Mixell extended his hand to the owner of the nearby residence.
“George Banks, I assume?” she asked as they shook hands. “I’m Cheryl Payne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
After quickly sizing up the six-foot-tall man who had expressed interest in renting her vacant property, her eyes went to the house.
“I think you’ll find this to be exactly what you’re looking for,” she said as she led Mixell toward the front door.
Mixell had already decided that the property would suit his needs. It was a small farm situated on several acres that Cheryl had inherited when her father had recently passed away. Located in a semi-rural area, the closest house was a half-mile away, but it was also less than ten minutes from Route 50 and the Capital Beltway.
“As you can see,” Cheryl said after she unlocked the door and they stepped inside the fully furnished home, “the house and furniture are a bit worn, but together create a homey ambiance. The main level isn’t very big,” she said as they moved through the house, “but the basement is large and fully finished. Every room has hardwood floors, plus there’s a fireplace in the living room for the cold winter nights. Perhaps the best part of the property is the privacy. Perfect for you and… is there a Mrs. Banks?”
Mixell held up his left hand, which lacked a wedding ring.
Cheryl nodded. “This place holds a lot of memories,” she said. “Not just for me, but for my children and grandkids as well.”
After the quick tour of the house, Mixell had already formed an opinion. What a shithole. He wouldn’t be caught dead living in a place like this, but for a few weeks, he could suffer. Besides, he was interested in the property primarily for its privacy, plus another reason.
“Can I take a look at the barn?”
Not far behind the house, Cheryl unlocked and pushed aside a large sliding door and they entered the barn. Although the structure was in comparable condition to the house, Mixell was pleased with what he saw. The barn was hidden from the road and the roof seemed intact — there were no indications of leaks from the recent rainy weather. More important, the entrance was wide enough to accommodate a large commercial van.
“How soon can I move in?”
“Any time you’d like.”
Three hours later, as the sun slipped toward the horizon, Mixell’s car stopped beside a dilapidated warehouse on the bank of the Potomac River. Bordered on one side by Oronoco Bay and the other by Founders Park, the warehouse was in a fairly secluded location considering it was in the heart of Alexandria, Virginia. As he sat in the car and stared at the warehouse, his thoughts drifted into the past to the night Jake Harrison had killed his soulmate.
He recalled the event vividly, both in his waking moments and nightmares. Jake hiding behind Trish, one arm wrapped around her body and a pistol against her head. Both men had been wounded moments earlier, with Mixell taking one bullet and Harrison two, leaving Jake in far worse shape. Mixell recalled the desperation in Jake’s eyes as he hid behind Trish, searching for a way out. But there was no way he was letting Jake leave the warehouse alive.
As Jake gradually made his way toward the exit, doing his best to keep Trish between them, he eventually exposed enough of himself for a viable shot. Mixell adjusted his aim and exhaled slowly, then squeezed the trigger.