Enemy of Mine

exception of the coke-bottle eyeglasses. The person who was supposed to be at that table was a small, frail man. Instead, the man gutted by my computer bomb was a six-foot-three-inch bruiser. Which left a huge gap in our knowledge of what the hell was going on. McMasters was targeted for assassination, that much I was sure of, but we had no idea by whom. Forget the specific individual, we didn’t even know which ideological group, which was a necessary precursor to stopping the attack.

The first order of business had been to contact the Taskforce and feed them everything we had. Unlike Syria, Lebanon was still a free-for-all of Internet access, so we managed to get our “company” VPN up and running fairly easily, using the Internet from Samir’s house. I made Samir wait in another room and got Kurt on the line. Samir didn’t fight it, knowing full well by now that we did a little bit more than archeological work.

I gave Kurt a very succinct account of what had occurred. I let him know that Jennifer’s call of Prairie Fire was a good one, but downplayed my time in captivity, sticking to the mission. I didn’t mention what had happened to me, or the fear that still lingered, a rotting sore I pretended not to notice.

Jennifer had watched me closely on the ride back and on the VPN. I could feel her eyes on me, sensing my trauma like some rabbit detecting a coming earthquake.

We had never spoken about it, but we had a connection that was a little strange. Some sort of innate bond that defied explanation. From the very first time we had met, I had been able to intuit her pain, plugged into her being in some visceral, subliminal way.

In the past, it had been helpful because it had always been me bringing her through some traumatic event. Serious combat actions she had been exposed to for the first time, death and destruction the average person could only imagine that almost crushed her ability to continue. I had sensed when she was on the edge and had pulled her through every event, then patted myself on the back when it was done. After all, I was the commando.

Now, I was subconsciously hurting. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I was undergoing an unhealthy dose of post-traumatic stress, and she could smell it as well as I could. The connection apparently worked both ways, which did nothing but piss me off. I could handle the issue and didn’t need her starting in on some self-help bullshit.

I’d ignored her stare and gotten Kurt on the line through the VPN. I told him what we had and demanded a team.

He said, “I’ve got one moving now. Well, not a full team, but I can get you Knuckles, Decoy, and a new guy named Brett.”

I was surprised to hear he’d alerted anyone at all, but when I heard it was Knuckles and Decoy, I didn’t give a damn about anything else. Those two were worth an entire Taskforce team as far as I was concerned.

I said, “Perfect. What’s the story on the new guy?”

“Just came over from the Special Activities Division. I’m going to swim them in after launching them from Tunis by rotary wing. He was the only other guy who had subsurface infiltration experience. Don’t worry, he’s solid. He’s a former Force Recon guy.”

“Great. A jarhead. No issues here, as long as he knows who’s in charge. Which is something I need to know as well.”

I was a civilian, and Knuckles was still active duty. Technically, he should be in command, but I was the man on the ground who understood the situation.

Kurt smiled and said, “You’re ground force commander. Like you would have it any other way. I’ll let Knuckles know.”

I knew Knuckles wouldn’t care, but would have to make sure this new guy from SAD-which always had a tendency to push things-understood the chain of command.

Kurt had finished by giving me PM instructions for another meeting with the case officer, telling me to be prepared to pass off link-up instructions with the team.

After feeding the Taskforce everything we could intel-wise, including an image of the hard drive from the laptop, I decided to download and install a free software program called “Prey,” and give the laptop back to Hezbollah. Made to track stolen laptops and cell phones, the program would allow us to track the computer’s location, let us voice-record anybody within range, get screenshots of the websites they were on, and allow us to get a webcam picture of whoever was using it. In short, get us more intel than we had now. Of course, we’d scrubbed the laptop first, deleting anything that could be potentially useful to the terrorists.

The software package wasn’t nearly as good as some of the custom applications the Taskforce could implant, but hey, you worked with what you had. The problem with my grand idea was that in order to initiate any of its features, the computer had to be within range of a WiFi hotspot, and so far we’d been out of luck. We had no idea where the computer had been taken after Samir met his Hezbollah contact and passed it off.

I pinged it again and was surprised to get a response.

“Hey, we’re in business! The computer’s stopped, and it’s sending a signal.”

Jennifer and Samir gathered around me as I initiated the geolocation feature. When a map came up, with an icon representing our computer, Samir said, “That’s the heart of the Dahiyeh. Headquarters for Hezbollah.”

“No surprise there.”

I initiated the webcam, and we got a shaky image of a young Arabic man. The pictures came in once every second, so it was like watching a herky-jerky old-fashioned movie. He was banging away on the keyboard and talking to someone out of range of the camera. Samir said, “That’s my contact.”

I turned on the microphone, getting a tinny response with the voices sounding like they were coming from a tunnel.

“Abu Infidel, I can’t find anything more on this computer. I’m not sure why the Druze gave it to me. It’s like everything but the original programs have been deleted.”

Jennifer became agitated. “He’s speaking English and he said infidel! He called that guy Infidel, just like the case officer said.”

I waved my hands to get her to be quiet so we could hear. I saw a set of arms above the boy’s shoulders, the head still hidden.

“Yeah, I agree. The other computer had all the information I needed anyway. You’ve done fine.”

One snapshot the boy was facing the camera, the next he was turned facing the man. He said, “So, can I go?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

And then, in stilted slow motion, an arm encircled the boy’s neck. He began to thrash in the chair, drool coating his chin, then blood. The individual webcam shots were as repulsive as a pornographic snuff film, and I felt a crippling deja vu. The boy was dying in front of my eyes while I was impotent to do anything. Just like the dream of my family. I tried to turn away, but was riveted at the death. My adrenaline began to race, and I had to physically stop myself from grabbing the monitor and screaming, setting the dream free from the imagined world. The sliver of darkness in me stirred, straining for the face of the killer, as if it would provide the answer to my own demons.

One second we were looking at the eyes of the boy bugging out of his head, his mouth open in a silent scream, then the screenshot simply showed an empty chair.

Nobody said anything. A shadow passed over the screen as the killer sat down, taking the boy’s place.

It took a moment, but I recognized the figure.

“Oh my God,” Jennifer said. “That’s Lucas Kane.”

26

Kurt Hale watched the cloud of cigar smoke drift to the ceiling and was secretly sure President Warren had turned off the smoke detectors. The accumulated haze made it hard to see the ceiling of the Oval Office. The president didn’t seem concerned, puffing away and staring out the window behind his desk.

“So Pike’s okay? Out of enemy hands so to speak?”

Kurt said, “Yes, sir. He got dinged up a little, but he’s safe.”

The president spun his chair around. “Dinged up? That’s what you guys call it? I’d say he was tortured. And