Falcon: The Quiet Professionals Book 3 (44 page)

Riordan frowned. “I’m sorry, but don’t they already have that? I mean—that’s why the brass pulled in our operators and teams. Right?”

“The breach of data was much more extensive than that,” one of the Asian men said, his words thickened by his accent and his eyes narrowed slits beneath his buzz cut. “It is one thing to ping a network and glean information, but with the implicit trust placed in Evangelion, the American government has, unwittingly, provided Meng-Li with that access. Troop movement, ships, contacts, covert operatives.”

Ah now it made sense. Sal gave a soft snort. “You have compromised Chinese assets. If he can get into that information, your double agents and your spies are exposed as well.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, his intention was one thing—to get the American government to shift security programs. In doing so, he exposed the covert operators of many countries,” the other said. “Mr. Guo and I are here, however, for one asset.”

“I’m sorry.” Dean stepped forward. “Who are you?”

“Yeah,” Riordan said. “And why do we care about your assets when we’re trying to save our own?”

“I am Mr. Song. We are with 61398.”

“Yeah?” Schmidt sniggered. “I’m with 90210.”

More snickers skated through the room.

“It’s the Chinese organization renowned as hackers. There’s no one in the world better.” Cassie angled her head to the side. Wet her lips before asking a question she probably knew the answer to already. “The operative you’re looking to protect? Is it Kiew Tang?”

Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1815 Hours

As the elevator climbed to the penthouse, Eamon adjusted the tie on the tux in the mirrored walls. There were benefits to being rich and powerful, or at least having a father with those “qualities.” He couldn’t help but wish Brie were here to guide him and talk him through the thoughts crowding his mind.

But she hadn’t been with him and Raptor when they’d been “rescued” by Takkar, so she was tucked away safely back at Kandahar Airfield. For that, he could be thankful. The vibes about tonight’s fund-raiser for the Aga Khan Foundation hung thick and rancid in the air.

Or maybe it was just his nerves.

Nerves about the fund-raiser.

Nerves about the cryptic message from his father to meet with him and Takkar. Would they try to sway his loyalties from Raptor the way Takkar had done with Candyman?

With a quiet tone signaling his arrival at the penthouse, the elevator settled. The doors glided back and Eamon entered a grand foyer with marble floors, gilded stands supporting vases and busts that looked as ancient and expensive as the ones lining his father’s mansion. The chilled air and austere-yet-museum-feel to the penthouse were cold and forbidding.

“Ah, Mr. Straider.” Dressed in a silk suit, Waris Singh approached him and inclined his turbaned head. “Welcome.”

Eamon nodded. “Thank you.”

“Your father—”

“Eamon, my boy!”

Boy. As if he didn’t dwarf his father by at least a head. As if he hadn’t even graduated uni yet. But Eamon kept it civil, as was expected and as he’d always done. “Dad.”

After passing through a tall doorway, Eamon stepped into a slightly sunken living area. The arrangement of the living space gave him a perfect line of sight on the seating area, the dining area, and even the bar.

“I was surprised you asked me to meet you here,” Eamon said softly as they moved to the bar where his father lifted a half-f snifter of bourbon.

“Indeed, I was surprised to find you not at the Kandahar Airfield but living in a condo with a woman.” Thick, disapproving eyebrows lifted. “Thought you knew better than—”

“You would assume the worst.”

Anger flashed through his father’s blue eyes. “I assumed you were actually doing your job to your country and being an honorable representative of the cross you bear so proudly on that big chest of yours.”

“I was and have.” Eamon would not be goaded, not this time. “Just because you fly in on your jet and find out I’m not where you think I should be doesn’t mean I’m doing something wrong. Special operations are clandestine—”

“I don’t need a lecture from you. In my position—”

“Yeah, it always is about your position, your reputation, isn’t it?” Eamon growled, his voice low. Hating himself for letting the words come out. Lowering himself.

Approaching steps silenced the verbal war.

Eamon turned and found Takkar and Candyman coming down a hall toward them. At one time he respected both men. Now he wasn’t sure about either one. Without a word to Takkar or Candyman, Eamon faced his father. “What did you want to talk with me about?”

“Actually, I asked your father to invite you,” Takkar said, head high, as he joined them.

“Why?”

“Because once Lance died, the list of people on that base whom I could trust all but disintegrated.”

“You know about Ramsey.”

“I know about Ramsey,” Takkar confirmed.

“I’m sorry. I’m still trying to ascertain the point of this meeting.” Eamon pulled his attention back to his father and Takkar. Strange bedmates, those. One ruled a country as political leader. The other seemed to rule the world as a
deus ex machina
.

“General Ramsey will be in attendance tonight.”

“That’s why you wanted Raptor here,” Eamon voiced his thoughts.

“Among other reasons,” Takkar said. “I wanted the team here because… First—will you tell me the real reason you were assigned to Raptor team, Mr. Straider?”

Eamon betrayed nothing. He knew he hadn’t. If Sajjan asked the question, then he probably had the answer.

Takkar slid a hand in his pocket and moved to the bar, where he lifted a decanter of gold liquid and a snifter. Candyman remained positioned between them. “Let me settle a debate going on in your mind right now. You wonder if it is a betrayal, what you have done. The men you’ve worked with for the past nine months count you as a brother. It would bother you if they viewed you as a traitor.” Ice tinked in the glass before Takkar poured the liquor. “Let me dispel those fears. Once they know why you’ve done this—they are warriors. They’ve done their own deceptive trade practice.” He sipped the drink. “Is that not right, Mr. VanAllen?”

Candyman’s green gaze had locked on to Eamon. “It is.”

“So, are you willing to divulge your true purpose?”

Eamon didn’t speak. Knew he couldn’t.

“Or have you been so long in the skin of that Special Forces team that you forgot what you were doing?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” Eamon remained calm.

“Then let me spell it out for you—tell me if I’m right.”

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not without—

“You’re probably clinging to some misguided notion that speaking now would violate your own allegiance to the SAS. But I will reassure you—what is said here stays here.” Takkar smiled as he lowered his crystal glass. “You are in fact reconnoitering for your government. They believed there was a Chinese asset so deeply implanted in the American military hierarchy that they tapped one of their finest operators.”

There was only one place that information could’ve come from. The records had been sealed, the operation blacked out. Eamon slid a glowering look to his father.

“Well, since we are all out in the open with secrets,” Takkar said, then took a gulp of his drink. “Let me come clean with one of my own.” He motioned for Eamon to follow him.

Sajjan strode toward the rear of the penthouse and accessed a panel in the wall. A door receded from the wall and slid back, revealing a private room. He glanced back at him. “Please.”

Eamon checked his flanks and found his father and Candyman. A beeping noise pulsed out of the room followed by a hissing noise. With no little amount of hesitation, he stepped inside. A wall of white cabinets consumed his view. To the left a blue curtain shifted. Medical?

He frowned at Takkar who crossed the room and thrust back the thin divider.

Eamon pulled straight at a man seated in a tall, straight-backed chair. A wheelchair. The gray pallor wasn’t normal. But the features were easily recognizable. “Sir!”

CHAPTER 39

Kabul, Afghanistan
10 April—1830 Hours

Never before had so many die been cast or knocked around on such a vast game board. But with good men, honorable men, Sajjan remained convinced they could tear down this tower of evil power that had been erected on the bodies of innocents and patriots.

He folded his arms as Eamon Straider took a knee beside a worn, weathered general. A man he’d long counted among his closest friends. A hero to thousands.

“I think Sajjan just gets a kick out of parading me around in a hospital gown.”

“Lance, you’re wearing a two-hundred-dollar robe,” Sajjan said with a smile.

“I—I don’t understand,” Eamon said, then rose and pivoted to Tony. “This is why you—”

“This is why,” Tony said, vindication emanating from him. “I’ve been an intermediary since Sajjan brought him here.”

Eamon’s gaze roamed the general’s body. “But how—are you—?”

“Yes. Paralyzed from the neck down. When they tried to kill me, they hit the right vertebrae. I sit in this chair for a while then lay in the bed until my body recovers from the strain. One heckuva life, eh?”

“But you are alive.”

“Yeah, that’s about the only thing VanAllen keeps saying.”

“It’ll matter to your wife.”

“Oh shut up,” Lance groused. “Go on. Get on with it. Tell him what he needs to know so he’ll stop looking at me with that pathetic look.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s just a relief to see you’re not six feet under. I know Raptor will be very happy to see you.”

“Then they’ll kill him,” Tony said.

“Who needs your mouth, VanAllen?” Lance’s gaze had always been as fierce as his gravelly voice. “I can bust you down a rank.”

“Sorry, sir.” Tony crossed his arms over his thick chest and grinned. “No longer under your command. Private contract.”

“Well,” Lance groused, “I can make your life miserable.”

“Have for the last two weeks, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance said, but a smile tugged at the drawn lines on his face. “Man, it’s good to be alive to make someone else miserable.”

Eamon pivoted. “My father—”

“Your father is a great friend and asset. His role is complicated, even beyond yours.” Sajjan held his shoulder. “I’m afraid I have more news that you must quickly accept and adapt to for this night to succeed.”

The man was a veritable fortress of strength. Legends were written about men like Eamon Straider. “You’ve withheld more information from us? That’s not a smart tactical decision.”

“Perhaps not tactically, but it was imperative that this information be kept close to the heart until the very last minute.”

“Fact was,” Lance said, his speech slowing.

Sajjan motioned to the nurse, who moved toward the bed and raised the safety bar.

“No, give me a minute.”

“You must rest,” Sajjan said.

“After this is done.” Lance shifted his gaze to Eamon, who took the meaning that Lance wanted to talk to him and drew closer. “Ramsey will be here tonight.”

“Yes, sir. We’re making arrangements with the FBI to take him into custody.”

“Good.” Lance’s eyes drooped. “But…” Breathing seemed a chore. “There’s more…”

“Why tell me, sir? Tell Dean or Falcon. They’re team leaders.”

But Lance had fallen asleep. Sajjan had the nurse adjust the bed to a prone position.

“Raptor team needs to be told about General Burnett,” Eamon said.

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Sir!” Waris rushed into the room.

Sajjan held a hand up to his associate. “As I said, this secret must be kept close. Too many people know, and… tonight could be for naught. And I must ask that you not speak of this to anyone. Not to a single person.” He speared him with a look until he was sure Eamon’s mind landed squarely on Brie Hastings. “No one.”

“Sir, sorry—the Aga Khan’s car is arriving now.”