Mueller hesitated a moment and then said, “I did hear a rumor about a covert military base being hit and a whole team of spec ops soldiers being wiped out, but I figured it was just a ghost story.”
Knight shook his head and cursed General Keasling for dragging him into this mess without even supplying him with the basic details of the mission. He had been wreck diving off the coast of Thailand for the week, and had been enjoying good food and beautiful company, when he had received the message. Deep Blue, a.k.a. Tom Duncan, the former president of the United States, and the brains behind Chess Team, informed him that Keasling had requested the team’s brand of assistance on a very sensitive black op into China. Keasling had provided a time and location for pickup and little else. Knight had been instructed to rendezvous with a team from Delta already onsite where he would receive a full briefing and equipment. He shook his head in disgust; there was nothing like jumping blind into a hot zone. It was never supposed to play out that way in the age of information, but Keasling always did play his cards close to the chest.
Movement within one of the nearby windows drew his attention, and he instantly sighted the M4 in on the spot. Scanning for further signs of life, he scooped up Mueller and moved him to a more protected location within a nearby alley. He expected the narrow alleyway to be dotted by overflowing garbage cans, dumpsters and stray cats, but it was completely empty from end to end.
He pulled out one of the Berettas he had retrieved from the Osprey’s wreckage, chambered a round and handed it to Mueller. “Sit tight and watch your back. I’m going to find out who knocked us out of the sky.”
Moving silently, Knight moved inside the building, M4 raised, finger on the trigger. He used the pressure switch beneath his thumb to activate the flashlight on the end of the M4. The narrow beam of illumination paused on a sign that read Department of Urban Development and Control. He guessed that this was some type of government building. The reception desk was bare and covered by a thin layer of dust.
Backtracking the movement he had seen, he moved down a large windowless hallway with doors on both sides. Most of the doors stood open to vacant offices, but the final door on the right led into a room filled with a few modest cubicles. Only a few of the desks sported office supplies and family portraits, but it was still somewhat comforting to find even the smallest sign of life.
He moved toward a bank of windows on the far wall and peered out. He could see the spot on the street where he had been standing just moments before. This was the right window, but where was the watcher?
4.
Mueller examined a wound on his shoulder and adjusted the tourniquet that Knight had applied to his leg. He winced as tendrils of pain lanced through the limb. He pressed his head against the concrete wall at his back and tried to rise above the pain. The lesion on his leg went down to the bone and he knew that if he didn’t receive true medical attention soon, he would die from infection and blood loss.
His thoughts turned to his family back home. His younger brother had been the varsity quarterback that year, and he’d never even seen him play. His little sister was a freshman in college, and he had missed her high school graduation. He thought of his mother’s special white chicken chili, which only served to remind him of the last time he had visited and the argument with his father. Now, bleeding to death thousands of miles from home, he wished that he would have lived his life differently. He didn’t regret his service or being away. But he did regret the choices he had made when he was home and the unimportant things that had taken priority over his family.
A rustling down the street drew him back to the moment, and he raised his pistol in that direction. He considered calling out Knight’s name, but he resisted the urge. If it was Knight, he would know soon enough. He could tell the well-dressed man was some kind of specials ops operator. The way he carried himself—the confidence—meant the man had seen some crazy action and come out with his good looks intact. Believing Knight, whose real name was a mystery, was the cream of the U.S. crop gave him hope. Then again, it might not be Knight making noise. In fact, it seemed unlikely. The man moved like a ghost. And if it wasn’t Knight…
He felt a throbbing in his wounds as his heart pumped hard and surged extra blood through his veins. He had seldom been in combat outside of the cockpit, but he had been in this situation enough to recognize the distinct feeling of being watched by enemy eyes.
Dust rained down onto his head and shoulders, and he heard a scratching sound coming from above him.
The breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself into action. His muscles tensed, and he whipped the pistol up, expecting to see an enemy descending upon him.
But there was nothing there.
He pointed the gun back down the street, the sensation of being watched still a thorn in his mind.
5.