Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

there would be a bonus involved. The captain and foreman both stood to make a substantial sum for their time.

Footsteps echoed up the stairwell, and both men turned to see a soaked Tariq, one of Mohammad’s men, appear at the top of the stairs, hand on the rail, breathing heavily. “The Russian confirmed it… The payload, it’s intact.”

A joy Mohammad hadn’t felt in years swelled in his chest. He smiled. “Allahu Akbar.”

Tariq returned Mohammad’s smile. “Allahu Akbar.”

“Is the container prepared?” Mohammad asked, glancing back at the operation below. On the far side of the wrecked fighter, a large red intermodal shipping container had been secured to the deck. The forty-foot container had been specifically designed for Mohammad, with intake valves affixed to either end and two top panels that swung up and out, allowing access to the interior.

Tariq nodded. “Yes. It’s ready.”

The foreman shouted again, pointing as a second smaller crane lowered a harness next to the plane.

“We must make sure the weapon is handled with care, Tariq,” Mohammad said. “Where is the Russian?”

Tariq’s expression shifted from excitement to contempt. “He says he doesn’t like the rain. He went back below deck.”

Ramzi glared and said something to Mohammad, but his words were drowned out by a chest-shaking thunderclap.

“What?” Mohammad asked, canting his head to the side.

“I said, he is a devil,” Ramzi repeated. “We should kill him.”

Mohammad shook his head. “No. We can’t.”

“I don’t understand why you made this deal with these Europeans and Russians,” Ramzi said. “It’s just one more piece that can link back to us after this is complete.”

“After this is complete, and our message has been sent, it won’t matter.”

Ramzi stood silently for a moment, considering Mohammad’s words. Then he nodded, and Mohammad saw the understanding on his friend’s face. “Allahu Akbar,” Ramzi whispered.

Yes, my friend, Mohammad thought, pulling his satellite phone from his pocket. There is only one way this ends.

Chapter Two

Connor Sloane’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, partially drowned out by the sound of the Dan Carlin podcast—currently describing the Maginot Line at the beginning of World War II—coming through his one inserted earbud. At just minutes before six in the morning on a Friday, the halls of the New Headquarters Building of the Central Intelligence Agency were empty—just the way Connor liked it. It was at this time of day that he accomplished the most, before all the station chiefs and division heads interrupted him with all their “top priority” tasks.

Even the cafe, which was normally the center of activity, was empty apart from a few maintenance workers and janitors who sat laughing at a table at one side of the room. The service workers prepping food behind the buffet line ignored Connor as he crossed to the barista counter. The powers that be had finally decided, after years of appeals from employees, that a Starbucks was worth the expense. Probably because the higher-ups themselves had tired of falling victim to the bland government excuse for specialty coffee.

The barista looked up and smiled. “Morning, Mr. Sloane. You want your usual today?”

Connor pulled out his earbud and made an effort not to frown. Whenever someone in their mid-twenties called him “Mister,” it reminded him that despite being only thirty-five, he wasn’t a spring chicken anymore. “How many times have I asked you to call me Connor? And yeah, the usual. Thanks, Ian.”

Out of a habit grown from nearly a decade in the army’s Special Forces, Connor made a point of knowing the people he saw on a daily basis. Ian was a good kid who’d played college basketball at George Washington University—at six foot six, he stood almost half a foot taller than Connor. But then he’d blown out his knee coming down from a dunk, effectively killing his hopes of playing in the NBA. Now he was working his way toward a law degree.

Ian pulled a venti cup off the stack and wrote a number in black Sharpie. This was the only Starbucks that Connor knew of that didn’t write names on the cups. Even though most of the people working here were analysts and not in any way covert operators, the CIA had an ever-present paranoia about using names, even within these walls.

“Hell of a loss last night, eh?” Ian said.

Connor groaned. “Don’t even get me started.”

“I mean, how many times can you legitimately say that an offsides call cost someone the game?” Ian shook his head while pouring steaming coffee into Connor’s cup. “I mean, that was just horrible.”

“You really do like driving the stake in, don’t you?”

The kid was right though. An interception that would’ve sealed the deal for the Redskins had been called back because one of the linebackers had been offsides. Washington never got the ball again and lost 21-14.

“Catching some terrorists today?”

“Oh yeah,” Connor said. “I’m all over it. Going to make a difference in the world. And if I’m lucky, I might even save the princess.”

Ian laughed, added a little cream to the Pike’s Place, then pushed the lid on and handed it over. “On the house today, Mr. Sloane.”

Connor raised an eyebrow as he slid his wallet back into his hip pocket. “Oh?”

“You know, because you’re in mourning and all that.”

Connor chuckled, taking the cup. “The heartache is real.” He lifted the cup in salute and headed out of the cafeteria, inserting one earbud as he went.

Connor never used more than one earbud. Listening to historical podcasts was one of his favorite pastimes, but being aware of his surroundings, even within the depths of the CIA, was another army habit that had never left him.

As he walked down the featureless corridors, he couldn’t help but think of the layouts in Vegas, which were purposefully designed to keep you on the casino floor, spending money. These maze-like hallways, it seemed, were designed to keep you in your office, working. But they were better than the mountains of Afghanistan on the worst day. It was there that a loss of situational awareness could cost you