Collateral (Tier One #6)

Ember Van

Westbound on Königin-Luise-Straße

Berlin, Germany

1850 Local Time

No matter how many layers of filthy clothing he removed, Dempsey still smelled like shit. Not the manly stench of protracted combat—sweat, dirt, and testosterone. No, he was an homage to excrement—urine, vomit, and shit. He’d made sure all the orifices were represented, electing to piss and puke himself in the field to complete the look of a homeless drunk.

And it had worked.

When it came to role-playing, authenticity was key.

“Coming up on the embassy in just a moment,” Buz said from the driver’s seat.

Beside him, as he stripped naked, Grimes stared absently out the window at the passing grey buildings.

He held his breath as he pulled the final layer of stench-laden clothes off his body, shoved them into a garbage bag, and sealed it. The smell in the truck improved immediately, but it would probably take antiseptic soap and a fire hose shower to make him palatable. Grimes bent over the backpack at her feet, retrieved a sweat suit top and bottoms, and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry about the smell.”

“No problem,” was all she said as she looked back out the window.

See, this is why I need Munn, he thought as he pulled on the sweatpants. I’m sitting here buck naked and filthy, and she doesn’t even take the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to bust my balls and get back at me for earlier today.

Munn was an operator, a former SEAL like Dempsey, and as a SEAL, Munn knew how to be a proper wingman. Dempsey didn’t want a “no problem” from Grimes. He needed someone to give him shit about the smell. He needed someone to comment on his appearance and call him a fucking stinky hobo when he was decked out like a stinky hobo, then compliment him for “smelling better than usual” after an op. But Grimes was locked up soooo tight. The only actual banter they’d shared for months was this morning when he’d caught her naked . . . and he certainly couldn’t rely on that to happen every time he wanted to talk smack with her.

“You okay?” he asked, looking at her.

She shrugged, but then seemed to think better of it and turned on him. “Do you have to say that every time?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“What?” he asked, feeling heat in his face. “I’m not allowed to ask if you’re okay, now?”

“No, not that, John,” she said with exasperation. “I mean, dear God, do you have to call out de oppresso liber every time you kill one of them? Why not just wear a T-shirt with an American flag and sing the national anthem while you pull the trigger?”

“It’s for Shane,” he said softly, barely biting back anger that didn’t really make any sense. “Shane was a Green Beret, damn it. And in the moment before I end each and every one of those Russian bastards, I want them to understand. I want them to understand who is killing them and why. And so to answer your question, yes, I’m going to call out de oppresso liber every time. Because I want it to be the last fucking thing every Zeta hears before they die.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a gut punch for me every time you do it. And second, it compromises the mission. Who knows who might be listening? Wang’s not perfect.”

“Yes, I am,” Wang said on the still-active comms channel. But instead of his usual swagger, his voice was flat and monotone.

“No, you’re not,” she said, “which means every time JD satisfies his neurotic compulsion, he risks blowing our NOCs. What do you think our allies will do when they all start comparing notes and figure out there’s an American assassin on a killing spree across Europe who recites the US Army Special Forces motto before he murders his victims?”

Dempsey shrugged but said nothing. She was right, of course, but he simply couldn’t make himself care.

“I hold you a half block from the Clayallee gate,” Wang said, also choosing not to continue the debate.

Since the attack just months ago on Ember’s TOC, and the deaths of Smith, Adamo, and Latif—not to mention the crippling spine injury to Chris Noble, aka Dale—Wang had been morose and depressed. No jokes, no bravado, none of the tech genius pointing out how flawless his ISR—intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance—was on a daily basis. Dempsey was worried about Wang. Maybe the most of anyone on the team. Even Ember’s relocation to Tampa, a town with plenty of attractive girls and a hopping nightlife, had done little to buoy Wang’s spirits. On the flipside, the kid’s operational performance had gone to the next level. He was faster and more precise, and without all the self-aggrandizing commentary, he’d begun to make tactical observations and strategic contributions during ops. Yet despite all that, Dempsey missed the kid’s irritating babble.

Just like he missed having Munn as his smack-talking wingman.

And I miss Smith playing mother hen, and Latif picking on Martin, and Adamo talking about “cold facts”—whatever the hell those are—while incessantly pushing his stupid glasses up on his nose. When Zeta hit us at home, we lost more than just a building and our brothers—we lost our soul.

Dempsey shook off thoughts of lost souls. He was an operator, a weapon, an instrument of policy. At the moment, that policy was to exact retribution on Spetsgruppa Zeta and every one of its operators they could find. And when that was done, they would find and eliminate Russia’s legendary spymaster, Arkady Zhukov, too.

Buz braked.

“Why are we stopping?” Dempsey asked, looking up.

“So the Marines can open the gate,” Buz said.

“Why are the gates closed?’ Grimes asked.

“They close them whenever there’s an op underway in the city,” Buzz said, and quickly held up a hand before Grimes could speak. “And yes, I am aware that they might as well run a flag up the embassy flagpole saying American covert operation in progress, but we’re guests here. I assure you, CIA has bitched about it for years. Marine Corps security dictates policy for the embassy, and ‘gates closed during operations in Berlin’ is that policy.”

“Someone should tell them keeping operations covert is way better security than an eight-foot-high iron gate,” Grimes mumbled.

Buz looked like he might say something but simply nodded instead.

With a wave from the Marine guard, the former CIA man and Russian operations expert piloted them through the gate and across the wide courtyard nestled behind the main building. The square stone building they headed to was officially the United States Trade and Investment Bureau Mission, but anyone who knew anything about the history of Berlin knew this was the nerve center for CIA operations in the city—a city once surrounded by a stone wall and ground zero for covert operations during the Cold War. Buz had been here then, Dempsey knew, and he watched the spook purse his lips under his Magnum P.I. mustache as he parked tight to the building and shut off the engine.

Something was clearly eating at Buz, but the old-timer always kept his thoughts to himself.

Dempsey climbed out of the vehicle, tossed the trash bag full of soiled clothes into a dumpster beside the access ramp at the back of the building, and fell in behind Grimes. Buz pressed the door buzzer, waved his hand in front of the camera, and a second later the door clicked open. The trio walked to a borrowed conference room they were using for an ops center, and Dempsey collapsed into a leather task chair. Grimes selected a chair across the table from him—the smell, he assumed—and Buz took a seat at the head where a closed laptop waited. He opened the screen, logged in, and brought up a video feed on the wall-mounted monitor. Baldwin’s face filled the screen just as Wang walked in. The cyber whiz gave a somber nod to Dempsey, who returned a thumbs-up.

“Everyone all right?” Baldwin asked. Dempsey sensed his concern was genuine, but his demeanor lacked the academic enthusiasm that had always been his hallmark. The Zeta attack on Ember had affected Baldwin, too. Dale, now a paraplegic, had been one of his protégés. Baldwin had hardened in the aftermath.

Maybe embittered was a better word, Dempsey thought, staring at the screen.

“Jesus, JD, you look like shit,” Munn’s familiar voice said as the doc entered the frame. “Or I should say, you look like you smell like shit. Is it even worse than in Thailand that one time?”

Dempsey smiled and felt himself relax. Thank God for Munn.

“Not quite that bad, bro,” he chuckled, trying to capture the camaraderie from a memory that felt like a lifetime ago.

“What’s this make?” Munn said. “Three in a row you managed to complete without me? I guess miracles do happen.”

Grimes crossed her arms against her chest. “Getting back to business, we’re all fine and the operational objective was achieved. No reaction from local law enforcement and we believe our NOCs are intact,” she said while giving Dempsey the stink eye.

That’s okay, sis. You’re allowed.

“Any collateral, problems, things you would have done differently?” Munn asked.

“No sheep were harmed on this op,” Dempsey said, suppressing a grin. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“Yes, good, as you know, livestock welfare is always my primary concern,” Munn said.

“The park was mostly empty. Wang disabled area security cameras, but in any case, we could not ID any surveillance in the vicinity of the hit—something I suspect Habicht knew. He lured me there, just like we predicted,” Grimes said.

“Yes, which is why we should always take advantage of ISR conducted by a target in advance,” Baldwin said. “We must strive to work smarter, not harder.”

“Right,” Dempsey grumbled, and then, looking at Baldwin in his suit coat and tie, wondered why the hell Jarvis had put a man who, despite his brilliance, had no special operations experience or qualifications in charge of Task Force Ember. But then again, if not Baldwin, who? Baldwin had been with Jarvis and Smith from the beginning, and other than Dempsey, nobody else had the clearance and organizational experience to assume the role on short notice.

“Okay, well if there’s no additional constructive input,” Baldwin said, “let’s move on to preparations for the next mission.”

“Hold on,” Dempsey said, raising a hand. “As much as it gives me great pleasure to end these fuckers, I’d like to open the door to revisiting the operational strategy. We’ve now capped a half-dozen Zetas and we’re still no closer to cutting the head off the snake than when we started. I appreciate the work that Allen is doing harvesting names from Bessonov, and every Zeta we take out weakens the organization—but when are we going to start focusing on Zhukov? Kill Arkady Zhukov and all these other assholes wither on the vine.”

“We tried that with the first target, remember?” Grimes said before Baldwin or Munn could respond. She was looking across the table at him. “And it was a colossal waste of time. The Zeta field operators are completely compartmentalized. They’re read into their NOCs and the details of their specific operations. We could interrogate them for months or years and never harvest any actionable intelligence beyond the training pipeline in Vyborg, and that’s provided we could break them at all. Bessonov is different. She was support. She ran C4 and accumulated personnel and operational knowledge during her tenure. If you want Zhukov, then she’s key. Break her, and you find him.”

“Allen is convinced Bessonov is already broken,” Baldwin said.

“Okay.” Grimes shrugged. “I’m not, but you’ve made your position crystal clear on enhanced interrogation, Ian, so here we are.”

Dempsey felt a surge of anger, but he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t even sure he disagreed with her. Maybe it was a programmed reaction because Grimes was behaving like the know-it-all firebrand she’d been during the early days when they both joined Ember. He pushed back from the table, got up from his chair, and began to pace. “Look, I guess the point I’m making is that I’m sick of playing whack-a-mole. I want to find Arkady Zhukov and I want this to be over.”

“As do we all, John,” Baldwin said, in a tone Dempsey usually found so patronizing that it chapped his ass. For some reason today, however, he found it strangely endearing. “But the hope has always been that if we hit enough Zeta assets, then Zhukov will be forced to adjust his strategy. How many losses can he tolerate without action? How many assets must he lose before he changes tack, breaks protocol, or calls them in from the cold? Rest assured, with each prosecution, we’re collecting signals intelligence. We are aggregating, analyzing, and trying to correlate thousands of data points about his network of operatives. At some point, we will have a breakthrough—intel that leads us to him or predicts his next move. Eventually, Zhukov will make a mistake, and then we will get him.”

“And until that happens, the world is a better place without each and every one of these assholes we eliminate,” Munn added. “We don’t know what Petrov and Zhukov are going to cook up as their next big false flag operation. What is the next ship they plan to sink and call it an industrial accident? What is the next strategic facility they plan to attack and call it terrorism? Every Zeta we kill is like taking out a midlevel officer in charge of a squadron of assets. I don’t know what the dude you just whacked in the park was planning, but I do know that eliminating him made Berlin a safer place. The same is true for London, Helsinki, Bangkok, and Bucharest. God only knows what Russian operations we thwarted in those cities.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dempsey said. He stopped pacing and leaned against the high-back leather chair he’d been sitting in. “I thoroughly enjoy ending these bastards. More than you know, maybe. And you’re right, every field operative we take out is sand in the gears for Zhukov’s mayhem machine. But once they’re gone, I’m worried that the trail will go cold. The thought of Zhukov disappearing into the night . . .” He sighed.

“I get it, JD,” Munn said, “but I think we all need to trust the process.”

Look at you, playing peacemaker, Dempsey thought. I gotta get you back in the field with me before it’s too late.

“Do we have the next target?” Grimes said, in her let’s get on with it voice.

Baldwin and Munn nodded in unison and disappeared from the screen. In their place, a headshot appeared of a woman who looked thirty-five, but Dempsey decided could be older depending on her level of fitness. She was smiling in the photo—a genuine and happy smile, the smile of someone living their best life. She looked like a business executive, or perhaps an attorney, but certainly not a killer.

And therein lay the con . . . because that was exactly what she was.

“This is Selina Pichler,” Baldwin began. “According to her CV, she’s a thirty-five-year-old French pharmaceutical executive . . . and she is our next Zeta target.”