But at the same time Delroy knew that Terrence’s grave would remain here, and he would suffer from the temptation to come back and try again. If he could just make it back to the Wasp, the temptation would be removed at least for a time.
God, please help me remain strong. Keep my feet on Your chosen path. Continue to show me the way as You have shown me this tonight.
“A rock?” a dry, grating voice mocked from behind Delroy. “You’re going to get superstitious over a rock? You’re a fool, Preacher. Probably the biggest fool I’ve ever seen.”
Recognizing the voice, Delroy whirled around and raised the shovel defensively, holding the handle across his chest so he could use it to block an attack. The thing was here. It had followed him from Washington, D.C.
10
United States 75th Army Rangers Temporary Post
Sanliurfa, Turkey
Local Time 0524 Hours
“My name is Alexander Cody,” the man told Goose as they stood in the hallway outside the hotel security room where Mike Winters was being held under arrest. “I’m with the CIA.”
“You’ve got ID?” Goose asked. He framed the question politely, the way he’d been trained to do, but his curiosity had sparked considerably. He’d never met the CIA section chief who had asked Remington to send a squad to rescue Icarus, but he’d heard about him. Only Remington’s cyber teams and security detail had seen the man.
Moving carefully, evidently aware of the way Goose had positioned himself so that he blocked the view of the three men with him, Cody reached under his jacket and took out a slim Italian leather wallet. He flipped it open and revealed a photo ID that declared he was Alexander M. Cody, a special agent with the Central Intelligence Agency.
Goose sincerely hoped Icarus wasn’t anywhere near the makeshift hospital in the hotel. If the rogue agent got picked up, Goose figured he’d never know what the intrigue was all about. The CIA or Remington would make the man disappear.
“What can I do for you?” Goose asked.
Cody put his wallet away. “You’re holding one of my men.”
“Where?” Goose chose to play the blockheaded military personality, the no-nonsense, no-imagination riff that gave the military a bad name at times. In his occasional experience with government spooks—National Security Agency, Drug Enforcement Agency, as well as the CIA—the agency people acted elitist, presenting themselves as far superior to men in uniform. They liked to cut through rank and file to get special services from men in uniform.
“In there.” Cody pointed to the security office. “That’s my man.”
“Mike Winters is one of your agents?”
“That’s not Mike Winters.”
Goose shrugged. “Then we have a problem, Agent Cody. That man says his name is Mike Winters.”
“Winters is his cover identity.” Cody spoke slower now, as if he guessed the concept was more than Goose was capable of easily handling. “He doesn’t have CIA ID like you do. In fact, he doesn’t have any ID.”
Cody sighed. “Of course he doesn’t have ID that states he’s a CIA agent. You send an agent out in the field with ID where he’s going to run the chance of being apprehended, you might as well put his ID on a toe tag. It’ll save you a step when you have to recover his body from the morgue.”
“I’ll need to see proper ID on him before I cut him loose.”
Cody massaged his head like he was getting a migraine. “Look, Sergeant, I really don’t need this. What I need is my man. And I need him right now.”
“No can do,” Goose replied. “Not until I can positively ID him for my report.”
“What report?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Agent Cody,” Goose stated, “we were attacked tonight. Hostiles battled their way into this city and made straight for our hospital and fuel stores like they had a road map. Someone told the Syrians those locations.”
Cody looked perplexed for a moment; then understanding dawned in his cold gray eyes. “You think my agent had something to do with that?”
“I think the man in that room might have.”
Cody pointed into the room. “That’s my agent, and my agent didn’t have anything to do with leaking strategic information to the Syrian army.”
“I don’t know that. I don’t even know for certain that he is your agent. As a matter of fact, you don’t know that he is either. You haven’t been in to talk to him, and I’m betting he looks different than he did the last time you saw him.”
Angrily, Cody pointed to the man sitting in the chair inside the room. “I’m telling you that is my man.”
“Yes, sir,” Goose replied. “I’m hearing you loud and clear. But maybe you’re not hearing me: I want that man identified before I release him to you or anyone else.”
Another artillery wave blasted through the city, sounding closer than the last. The waves had slowed, but they hadn’t become less deadly.
Cody flinched, drawing back to the safety of a nearby wall.
Goose thought that was interesting. Evidently the man hadn’t often been on the battlefield, yet here he was in the thick of one of the worst Middle East engagements the U.S. had taken part in. Goose also didn’t miss the fact that the three men who accompanied Cody had reached under their jackets out of reflex. They were wired and ready to go.
Cody cursed as he recovered, raking the walls with his gaze as if they might give way at any moment. He returned his attention—and his ire—to Goose.
“I don’t want that agent IDed in your report,” Cody said.
“That’s your prerogative, Agent Cody,” Goose replied. “But if you don’t identify him, he’s staying here till I can prove to my commanding officer that this man had nothing to do with the information the Syrians got tonight.”
“Just
