55. Sua Sponte
sua sponte
Mirren
The worst part of living and dying by my gut instincts is that I trust them. And I know when something’s off.
And something’s off.
Bad.
This is the part where if I had control of the op I would slow things down or call things off.
Everything is… wrong.
The location has no strategic value. Hitting this substation doesn’t impact the grid. Score one for Texans, but at the expense of the whole plan means this feels more like a suicide mission or like we’re making a point.
I don’t want to make a point.
Sally’s been raring to go. It’s like she’s itching for a fight. And for someone with no background, someone I can’t get a bead on, that adds to the unknown. Unknown is never good, but going in blind, with wildcards, with an excited and excitable unknown.
I should bail on this whole thing.
But it’s Fighter who worries me. Even not being the leader, he is in a lot of respects.
And the leader, Ricky? He was on the first leg of that flight that exploded. His ticket was for Minneapolis to Phoenix, but he apparently got off in Austin. The airline would ban him for skiplagging for sure.
But my gut says an FAA ban isn’t the issue. Blowing up the plane by leaving his bag on board while bailing out for this feels like a calling card and a sign he plans to go out in a blaze of glory.
So here I sit, in Young’s blacked out SUV pretending it’s an Uber with the light and everything, scanning through everything I know.
Mom arrived at the scene two hours ago and is laying low. If she doesn’t want to be seen, she won’t be. I don’t know whether I love that she has my back or if I regret pulling her into this trap. Because this looks and feels like a snare in every way.
My gut says this will fall to shit in an explosive manner. I’m only hoping that that doesn’t include the substation.
Or me.
Ants march up and down my nerves. I want to escape, scrape my skin off, and scream all at the same time.
“Settle.” Young’s one-word command does little good.
“It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. It’s a powder keg, and we’re carrying torches.”
“Except Fitzgibbons.”
Um, what? “Because?”
“That dude is carrying a flamethrower.”
Fuck my life. “Why do you say that?”
“Germaine is no leader. He’s the mouthpiece. He’s the spark that lights the flame. Fitzgibbons is the coordinator. He let Germaine assume that role to lay low. He’s been plotting big things. I dug more last night. Didn’t you see my text?”
I shake my head. No, I did not. Grabbing my phone, I see his text went to the group chat with Mom. Well, at least she’s clued in.
My eyes scan the message as Young keeps talking, filling me in on what I missed.
“Aaron Fitzgibbons—Fighter—works for an electrical contractor in Illinois. The place has been under investigation by joint task forces for NSA and the FBI for conspiracy to down the national grid. You should know all this, Jones. It’s your fiancé they were investigating. Congrats by the way.”
I shake my head, my mouth popping open and closed with no words forming.
“You didn’t know?”
“About the investigation, yes. About him being here?” I’ve run out of oxygen, and my words are barely above a choked whisper. “No. I had no clue.”
And that’s not good. What else don’t I know?
“Yeah, well, regardless of what Germaine thinks, Fitzgibbons is in charge.”
I throw my head back on the seat and thump it twice, then a third time for good measure.
“This is a trap, wrapped up in a web. Powder keg is right. Flamethrower is right. And walking in blind? It’s a suicide mission.”
“Fuck that,” Young barks. “Remember who you are, Ranger. You know the objective. Complete the mission.” He’s quoting the Ranger Creed.
“That ends with though I be the lone survivor.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “It ends with Rangers lead the way.”
Under my breath, I answer. “Sua Sponte.”
“Jones, hear me.”
I look up to find his steely gaze.
“Germaine thinks he’s leading this. Fitzgibbons thinks he’s in charge. There’s only one person here who truly leads any mission. On that field”—he points out the windshield—“you are the only one qualified. You lead this. Find. A. Way.”
I take a huge inhale and sigh it out with a nod.
“Rangers lead the way,” I say to the glass.
“All the way.” His reply cements what I already know. I’ve got this.
I step out of the SUV and put on my transponder glasses. The moment I do, I know that everything I see is transmitted to headquarters. Brody will be notified that I’ve been activated… or activated myself.
The clock starts now.
Fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession. My mind begins what I recited daily for more than a year as I step toward what might be the end of my career… or my life.
I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor. A pistol rests at my back under my oversized hoodie. One I know and trained with. One on loan from Young.
And high esprit de corps of the Rangers. I walk up to a man I’ve never seen before.
“You Fighter?”
He shakes his head and stares down at me like he can see my organs working under my muscles. “No. I’m Sally.”