Betrayal Read online

  Turning to the doomed man and his girlfriend, she said she would be right back. She was missing cleaner for the toilet, she explained. Sara headed out the door whistling the tune to a popular pop song on the radio. She checked her watch as she walked, picking up the pace. She needed to be on the other side of the front gate when this thing went up. They would lock the place down quickly, and she would prefer to not be here when that happened.

  Sara Anderson dropped her hands into her pockets and strode towards freedom. She couldn’t wait to be out front when things went boom. As John Argo’s room was facing the front lawn, she would get a great view of the explosion through the fence. She should have brought popcorn. Yep, do what you love and it ain't work.

  __________

  Bettie Walden, aka Coonie, sat chattering away in her chair wishing she had more control over her mouth. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. When she was on a mission, it was different. Put a gun in her hand and she was focused, poised, and silent. Any other time, she flapped her gums like she might die if she didn’t get the next word out. She was sure it had to do with her having low self-esteem. She ran her mouth to stay relevant, desperately searching for something witty or pithy to say so others might see her as the life of the party, or smarter than her red-neck, mud-hole-stomping, crawfish-boiling self appeared to be. She knew she could be funny, even it was only a blanket to cover her insecurities. She knew she was smart, even if she only went to college for about five minutes. But she was convinced everyone else saw her as toothless trailer trash. Even if she did grow up living in a trailer that had a hole in the living room floor. Sometimes the cat used it to come and go. It was sad.

  She had eagerly volunteered to stay with Argo while DJ and Cash had gone to see Brett. Their fearless leader had been shot through the heart and had been on the table for nearly six hours while the surgical team at a hospital in West Virginia worked to fix the damage. He had made it, of course, Brett Foster was too stubborn to die, and since DJ and Cash were so close to him, and they knew Argo was going to make it, they had gone to be there when their friend when finally opened his eyes from his medically induced coma.

  Abbi and Carbon had gone back to the farm to see if they could track down Seymour and Sam. The place was well secure now that Agent Ali was back involved. The angry Agent had turned their headquarters into a Fort Knox. He had even put a detail on the hospital where Brett was recovering. None was needed here. The place was secure as it was. After all, the President of the United States even had his own building here.

  She heard herself go on and on about the various ways you could tweak gumbo to make yours unique and all your own. She explained how there was an imaginary dividing line through the middle of Louisiana right around Lafayette where the food changed. Everything east had a more commercialized/gourmet flare to Cajun cuisine. Everything west was more homestyle and comfort oriented. The whole time she talked, she could see the look in Argo’s eyes. He was wishing she would shut her cakehole, or just go away altogether. Even though she could see it as plain as the wart on her big toe, she couldn’t stop herself.

  You might think that when the janitor showed up to do some cleaning and take out the trash, this would become a distraction for her. Not even a little bit. Coonie just yammered on without pause. She was even convinced the only reason the poor girl left for toilet bowl cleaner was to avoid hearing the finer points of Cajun cooking. It was obvious. Coonie could see a bottle of the stuff on the bottom shelf of the cart. It was possible the girl missed it. Nah, the janitor left to avoid hearing a nonsensical monologue. Had to be it. Maybe doing some cleaning herself might make Coonie shut her yap.

  She stood and walked to the cart, promising Argo she would cook them all a gumbo that would make them weep with joy once this was all over. She was a great cook, didn’t he know? As she talked, she surveyed the cart to see what she had to work with. She was sure the janitor would be pleased the job had been done when she returned.

  It was taking the girl longer than Coonie had expected. She had spotted the janitor's closet just down the hallway. Paying attention to details was what she was trained to do. The conclusion was easy. Bettie Walden, aka Coonie, was annoying. It was just that no one had the heart to tell her.

  It was only when she removed the towel from a gallon jug sitting on top that her intelligence was proven. She guessed most people would have looked at the strobing light inside the bottle as only a curiosity, but Coonie connected a lot of dots in a short amount of time. Someone tried to kill them all. That someone failed. DJ had a nasty reputation for not letting something go. With one of his team members dead and two more gravely injured, it was logical to believe DJ would hunt Sam and Seymour down no matter how long it took. It would be job one. The janitor had not returned even though the errand should have only taken two minutes for a round trip. This was some sort of bomb she was looking at. A weird one, for sure, but a bomb, nonetheless.

  She lifted the jug and turned to Argo. “I’ve got a bomb.”

  He seemed to shake himself out of whatever thought he was having; she was sure it had nothing to do with gumbo. “I’m sorry, what?”

  She held the jug up. “That chick left a bomb in here!”

  Argo tried to shift himself out of the bed. “We got to get out of here.”

  She shook her head, looking around. “We don’t know how much time is left before this thing goes. Won’t be enough time to clear the building. I got to get it out of here.” Coonie began doing math in her head, trying to deduce how long the janitor had been gone. The girl would need enough time to not only get out of the building but outside the gate. Coonie turned her head and looked through the window. There were a fence and gate right there. It would only take maybe five minutes or so if the bomber took the stairs. Coonie was running out of time.

  She set the jug down, picked up the plastic chair she had been sitting in, and used it like a baseball bat to shatter the window.

  Argo recoiled in the bed. He looked at her, worry covering his whole body. “You think you can throw that far enough? We don’t know how big of an explosion that’s going to make.”

  She used the chair to knock off the remaining shards of glass, then dropped the chair and snatched the jug from the floor. “Don’t plan on throwing it,” she said. It took Argo a second to figure out her plan, but before he could begin to argue, Coonie stepped up on the windowsill and dropped down. It was only the second floor, but it was still high up. She made sure to hit the ground at an angle and roll to keep from injuring herself.

  To one side of the lawn in front of the hospital was a small pond. If she could manage to get the bomb into the water, a lot of the explosion could be contained. She took off at a sprint, pumping her short legs as fast as she could. To her left, two armed guards stationed at the front entrance started running in her direction, drawing their sidearms as they did. Crap, she thought to herself. They had seen her jump from the window and could only assume the worst.

  Coonie put her head down and focused on her goal. She had a good lead on the guards, but they had an intercepting route, running diagonally to her. They were closing the gap. She heard them shouting at her to stop. She refused, stretching out her stubby legs as best she could. Why had God built her so close to the ground?

  Gunfire came next and Coonie began cussing as she ran, almost laughing at what DJ’s face would look like if he could hear her. The first few rounds missed, flying past her towards the street that ran in front of the place. That’s not very good weapon discipline, she thought to herself. Finally, she took one in the thigh and Coonie went flat, sliding across the grass like a soccer player who just scored the winning goal.

  She clambered to her feet as fast as she could, holding the jug in front of her as she did, ignoring the pain in her leg. “Stop!” she screamed. “I’ve got a bo-.” She never completed the sentence. Not that it mattered. The guards got the message soon enough when the explosion tore her to pieces, leaving a small crater in the grass and s
ending the guards flying from the blast. She would have thought it all hilarious if she were still alive to have witnessed it. But she wasn’t. Bettie Walden, aka Coonie, was nothing more than tiny pieces scattered in a giant circle. The forensics team would be gathering remnants of her over the next two days.

  __________

  Sara Anderson stood outside the fence of Walter Reed Memorial Hospital and watched in open mouth amusement as the squatty girlfriend of John Argo raced across the front lawn. She couldn’t believe what she was watching. The poor thing didn’t have a prayer of escaping. According to Sara’s watch, there were only seconds remaining on the timer. She began to giggle when the guards gave chase. She was openly laughing when they started shooting. She was laughing so hard; Sara nearly didn’t make it around the brick column in the fence before the bomb went off. The concussion nearly caught as she stepped behind for protection.

  She staggered away from the scene wiping tears from her face. At a distance, she was sure others would have thought her distraught. She should have been. Sara should have been upset that John Argo was still alive, but she couldn’t help herself. It had all been too funny. She doubted Agent Seymour was going to be as amused as she, but that was too bad. Things happen. It was why she got paid upfront.

  Even when things don’t go according to plan, if you love what you do, it ain’t work.

  Chapter 11: Tiger, Tiger

  The CIA was comprised of multiple divisions. The one where DJ and his team got their contracts was called the National Clandestine Service, or NCS. The person who ran this division was Deputy Director Sharlette Hartley. She was a career veteran of the CIA, serving for over thirty years. DJ had never met the woman but had heard stories. Supposedly, being a woman, a black woman, a gay, black woman who had fought stereotypes and misogyny by her peers for nearly three decades, yet still managing to acquire such a high-ranking level despite those adversities, had conditioned the woman to be a real punch in the gut to work for. But as he stood next to the still unconscious form of Brett Foster lying in a hospital room, talking to her on the phone, DJ found her to be quite charming. Since she worked for an entity whose entire existence focused on keeping secrets, stealing secrets, and killing people because of those secrets, DJ was certain it was all an act. She was very good at it.

  Her apology at what had happened to his team sounded sincere and heartfelt. She assured DJ that anything required to get Brett and Argo back on their feet would be done. She promised a burial at Arlington with full military honors for Latricia. She even pointed out that new treatment and techniques for Brett’s back injury had been developed. As soon as the man was better, and as soon as he felt up to it, she would arrange for Brett to be placed on the list. With a little bit of luck and a lot of physical therapy, he might regain the full use of his legs.

  DJ thanked her, telling her that he did not blame her or her department for what had happened. He knew that Agent Seymour going rogue had come as a complete surprise to everyone. DJ did, however, expect full cooperation from her when it came to sharing any intelligence she discovered on Seymour and Sam Kenny’s whereabouts. He all but demanded it. DJ had a score to settle. He would appreciate it if they just passed any information along and then stepped out of his way. He would clean up their little mess, free of charge.

  There was a moment of silence after his request, as she seemed to be struggling for the right words to say. Then, “Mr. Slaughter, you and your team have been very effective at what you do for us, so don’t misread me here, but this is an internal matter that we need to rectify.”

  DJ wasn’t backing down. “I have a member of my team dead and others with injuries. Two of them very nearly didn’t make it. One was shot through the heart at point-blank range. Again, I expect full cooperation.”

  She sighed before replying. “I could make this an order.”

  DJ’s voice took a harder edge. “I don’t work for the CIA.”

  Her own voice was instantly sharper in tone. “Don’t call it an order. Consider it a threat against future employment. Get in our way and you’ll never get another contract from us.”

  DJ chuckled. “Get in my way and your people might just suffer collateral damage.”

  Her voice was incredulous. “Did you just threaten me?”

  DJ rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes as he did. He hated politics. He hated politicians. He hated bureaucracy. He had tried to muddle his way through this conversation diplomatically but had failed. He just wasn’t cut out for it. “No ma’am, it was not a threat. Let me try this again. I will put former CIA Agent Seymour in the ground and any with him when I do. It’s going to happen. No law is going to stop it from happening. No polite request is going to stop it from happening. Your failure to cooperate with me isn’t going to change that reality. He’s a traitor to this country and he killed a member of my team. There is no intel you can extract from him that will matter. He’s nothing more than a low-life bank robber and murderer, and he will die for making that life choice. It’s as simple as that. I would appreciate your help in this matter, but it won’t change a thing if I don’t get it, future contracts or not.”

  Deputy Director Hartley was silent again. Finally, she sighed, her voice becoming more conciliatory. “I suppose I could send in a team to apprehend you, but that would just get good people hurt, wouldn’t it?”

  Though she couldn’t see it, DJ nodded. “You’re probably right.”

  She continued. “Fine, Mr. Slaughter, we’ll do this your way. You go ahead and do what you do. I’ll have my guys sit on the sidelines and run support. You need something, let Ali know and he’ll make it happen.”

  DJ was surprised at the sudden reversal and it showed in his voice. “I… Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.”

  Her voice returned to being hard. “Oh, don’t think I’m doing you any favors. When two dogs are going for each other’s throat, you don’t step in and try to break it up. You wait until they tire out or kill each other first. Oh, and one other thing, Mr. Slaughter. Any of your team gets any ideas about keeping that drive for yourselves, I’ll bring the full weight of this agency down on your heads. Make sure you let Carbon know. I know how his little weasel-like mind works.”

  DJ didn’t get the chance to respond. Deputy Director of NCS, Sharlette Hartley, hung up on him.

  DJ didn’t have long to ponder the exchange. His phone rang again. The display said it was Sheriff. DJ answered, thankful to hear from the man. What his friend told him had DJ slumping into the floor with his head buried in his hands. DJ had lost yet another team member. His anger and grief were overwhelming.

  __________

  Sam Kenny crossed the Mexican border into Texas with no issues. He did it under the cover of night, trailing a group of illegals on their way to try and make a better life for themselves. He figured they might either have inside information or were following a coyote: a Mexican cartel member who charged to smuggle people over the border. On the outskirts of El Indio, he stole a car and swapped the plates out with a similar model in a grocery store parking lot. From there, he made his way north to Dallas. In Dallas, he did two things.

  First, he bought a ticket to a major water park. Inside, he made his way to the building where patrons changed out of street clothes and into a bathing suit. Underneath a large canopy were several rows of rentable lockers. They were meant for patrons to lock up their clothes and small valuables. He dropped four quarters into an available locker, allowing him to take the key. He removed the data drive from the boobytrapped storage box and placed it inside the locker, pocketing the key and closing the metal door. There was no marking on the key other than a number. Without knowing where the locker was, nobody would be able to find the drive.

  He elected to keep the storage box. The inside was lined with plastic explosives. It could come in handy. He didn’t have the detonator, but he could rig something up in a pinch. One never knew when a pound of C4 might come in handy.

  Next, he used a fake ID and cred
it card to rent an airplane from a smaller public airfield. No one knew of the ID, so he was sure it would be safe. He could have used it to cross the border at a checkpoint, but he knew Carbon was probably screening every available feed with facial recognition. So he went old school, staying off the grid as much as possible. He made an exception for the twin-engine Cessna. It would make getting across the country far easier. The credit card was fake and tied to accounts covert agents used when abroad. Those accounts were never audited. They were just paid.

  He had no real plan other than getting close to Slaughter and the remaining members of his team. He would figure out what to do after he got a lay of the land.

  When he told Seymour of his plan to go after Slaughter, Sam was instructed to proceed with his original orders and deliver the drive. Sam politely refused, told Seymour to relax, and promised he would never consider double-crossing a man with so many resources. Sam said he would see Seymour soon, and turned off his satellite phone. He wouldn’t use it again until the job was done.

  But it would get done. DJ Slaughter needed to die. There was no other choice.

  __________

  Cash watched DJ pace around the upper floor of the barn. He knew the man well enough to know the pacing was akin to a tiger in a zoo. He just wanted out so he could do what tigers do. Still, DJ hid it as best he could, his baby girl bouncing on his hip, telling Cassie he had her nose. DJ did his best to always compartmentalize the hurt from his past and shove it into a shadowy corner in his mind. This was a dangerous practice, Cash knew. If left undealt with for too long, those feelings could manifest themselves into vicious creatures to torment you. Cash had seen that happen to the man before, suffering from a severe case of PTSD. Since then, DJ had learned to talk about issues with a pastor from town. Still, it was concerning. DJ Slaughter had a lot of bad memories to deal with. These new events were just more logs to add to that fire. One day, the man would either snap or have a heart attack.