Chapter 19
“You have to be like wolves: strong alone and in solidarity with the pack.” ~Unknown
Axel
The sun beats down on the sidewalk where I pace in front of the Patten Securities building. I feel bad about leaving Bear behind, but we don’t have time to include him in our plans. Besides, he loves Callie’s kids and will be safer with them.
While I text her feeding instructions, Lucky and Slate stand in the shade behind me, their thumbs busy tapping their phones.
We need to find Gwen before she does something I can’t fix. Where’s our ride? Maybe, my boss got wind of my plans and suspended my team. When our SUV pulls to the curb and squeals to a stop, I grin at Rhonda behind the wheel.
“Hurry up. Get in.” She leans out the driver’s side window and waves.
After we pile into the back seat, Trever, sitting next to the feisty redhead, grips his tablet, and laughs. “Better buckle up. You know what they say about lady drivers.”
“I may let you live to regret that statement.” The competent female agent flips him the bird, turns on the sirens, then stomps on the gas.
Caught off-guard, my two hired guns reach for the grab handles. Gravity pulls me to the right, tires squeal, and as the sea of traffic parts, she winks in the rearview mirror. “ETA to airport, thirty minutes.”
A punch to my right bicep makes me wince and I turn toward a serious-faced Lochlan. “Mate, your wife’s still at her flat, packin’. We have the coordinates Danbury sent her. We’ll arrive at the airport long before she does. She’ll be under surveillance the whole time. We won’t lose her.”
The FBI whizz-kid twists over the cup holder and glances back between the seats. “Gwen forwarded me a link. I’m having one of my friends verify it’s not AI-generated. If this video is real, I’m sure the DA will drop the charges.”
Right now, I don’t give a flying fig about the murder rap. As the minutes drag on in slow motion, my frustration erupts, and I tap Rhonda on the shoulder. “Can’t you go any faster?”
“No, boss. I cannot.” Distracted, my agent almost sideswipes a tractor-trailer.
I get her point and lean back in my seat.
While I pray we arrive in time to save my loyal, yet misguided Guinivere, Trever shows me his tracking screen. “Your wife is in her car and headed for Dulles. Don’t worry, we’ll be in place long before she gets there.”
“Fuck!” Rho slams on the brakes as traffic in front of us stops abruptly.
“Hang on.” Swerving, she bounces over the meridian.
By the time I unclench my teeth and take a deep breath, another car joins us in the ditch.
When it stops, a bearded millennial exits his car, blood running from his nose. “Please help us. My wife is in labor.”
“Ah, hell.”
By the time the ambulances show up, Chester Arthur Dillon has arrived.
Despite the warmth of witnessing a new birth, a cold chill runs down my spine as we reenter our vehicle.
About a mile down the road, Trever bangs his fist on the door. “Dammit. Our men lost sight of Gwen.”
Brain synapses fire and yet they refuse to move his statement into the reality column. “How… Where?”
“Your missus collapsed in front of the airport’s check-in line. Ink and Hunt ran to help, but the TSA detained them. By the time they got free, she was gone.”
My gut churns as I try not to shout. “People don’t just disappear. What about the security cam footage?”
“Some kind of RF glitch. It lasted long enough for them to remove her from the terminal. Hold on… oh fuck.”
Damn the irony. Six months into the future, the government boys would’ve deployed Gwen’s latest technology, preventing this very thing from happening.
Trever shouts out from the front seat. “They think she boarded a private jet linked to Ledbetter.”
“Texting our pilot.” While Slate thumbs his phone, Lucky catches my eye.
“Phase two, mate. She knew this might happen.”
My back molars grind as we pass under the green sign for Dulles Airport. Ten fucking miles. God knows what could be happening to her.
If I had, for one second, thought she would end up in the clutches of one of our country’s most wanted criminals, I would never have agreed to this harebrained scheme. I have no one to blame but myself.
“The tower gave us a priority slot. We can take off the moment we board.” Slate, on my left, studies my face, no doubt wondering if I can keep my emotions in check.
A new thought makes me want to hurl. “I had to surrender my passport to the bail bondsman. The TSA will never let me leave.”
Not missing a beat, the Patten man passes me a new one. “Dr. Wulf already thought of that.”
I don’t inquire where or how he managed to acquire such an excellent fake. That way, if anyone asks, I can claim plausible deniability.
After we pass through security, we race over the tarmac and climb the aircraft steps. Inside, Rhonda, Ink, Trev, and Hunt greet Jack, Suds, Hands, and Wheels.
Trever points out a blip on his phone app’s radar screen as the jet lifts off. “This is Ledbetter’s private Lear. We should assume he has her. According to the flight plan, they’re headed for Belarus. However, we shouldn’t assume he’ll land at a public airport. More than likely, he has a private strip nearby.”
When the fasten your seatbelt sign goes off, I motion everyone to the conference table. “My team, find all new and old fields in the area, including those used in World War II. See if any exist near residences with ties to Ledbetter.”
As my agents scour databases, Slate and his team hand out gear. “We may need to hike ten or more clicks once we touch down.”
While I trust Gwen’s almost supernatural abilities, my stomach hurts from worry. This damn terrorist did not rise to numero uno on the FBI’s list for no reason. He is cutthroat, lethal, and cunning. He’ll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. When I find him, my only choice is to take him out. He will never come after her again.
Slate tilts his head and studies my face. “Wulf? You got your head on straight?”
Picturing a circuit breaker, like the ones they use in old Frankenstein movies, I shut my emotions off. “Affirmative.”
Having passed muster, the taciturn leader turns to Trever. “Report.”
My normally unflappable analyst jumps at the man’s bark and projects his screen onto the wall. “Our satellite lost their jet over the Atlantic. The pilot probably turned off their tracking systems. However, radar will pick them up before they land.”
“Couldn’t they change path midair?” This new intel makes it fucking hard not to lose my shit.
“Good point.” While Slate triangulates with one of his employees in New York City, the rest of us open our backpacks, itemize our supplies, and discuss possible scenarios.
Finally, we narrow Ledbetter’s destination down to three possibilities. While we plan, a disturbing thought crosses my mind. What if Ledbetter’s interest goes further than we surmised? What if he wants her in his bed? Dammit. Is this a risk Guinevere did not foresee? Perhaps she did, but didn’t want me to know.
An hour later, Trever flashes a map of Latvia, Lithuania, and Belarus onto the back wall. He directs our attention by wiggling a red laser dot. “Our target is most likely here, here, or here.”
“Fuck, why can’t we narrow it down to one? Show us the residences.” There must be some way of knowing. Everyone leaves breadcrumbs.
The giant Australian stretches his legs in front of him and frowns. “Well, these two have research labs.”
The images of two unassuming cement block buildings pop up, and I sense Ledbetter wouldn’t take her to either one. They’re not nearly flashy enough.
“What about the third?” While I hold my breath, all eyes lift to a blurry overhead satellite view.
Trever shakes his head. “It’s a private residence near Masty. There doesn’t appear to be a clear shot of it.”
“Try another satellite.” Suds leans in, speaking up for the first time.
While the rest of us watch, my guy types at light speed, then frowns. “It’s more secure than a drug lord’s mistress’ pussy.”
The retort causes Wheels to share a secret look at the other SEALS. If I had to guess, the three are looking forward to this mission.
As the three former frogmen nod, a sense of certainty hits me. “That’s the place. There has to be some historical WWII photographs, and I’m betting this dwelling has a hidden airfield.”
In my mind, I call out to my wife and pray she can hear me. Baby, hang in there. We’re coming.
The landing gear locks, the jet lowers, and my ears pop. On any other occasion, I would consider the lush green forests quaint and picturesque. Six kilometers to the north, skyscrapers and red tile rooftops coexist. The city of Vilnius boasts medieval charm as well as a modern vibe.
We declare ourselves tourists to the customs agents. No one detains us, so I’m guessing someone higher up the chain paved our way.
Outside the town-hall-like terminal building, a jeans-clad, bearded local greets us and leads us to his van. After we all pile into his clown car, Slate talks to our driver in Russian. Mine’s a little rusty, but I get the gist. He says the area we must cross is well-guarded and surrounded by high fences.
My heart sinks. How the fuck are we ever going to free my wife from Belarus?
Before long, we arrive at a medieval inn and meet Dominykas. After Slate vouches for him, he turns to our team. “Has any of you ever heard of the Suwa?ki Gap?”
After we all shake our heads no, the stranger takes up the conversation, albeit in broken English. “Ees sixty-five kilometers. Rail line links Russia to Belarus. Much trouble. Polish-Lithuanian border.”
His chest puffs out, and he beats it with his fist. “Most dangerous underpass on earth, I take you. After, you go. No more me. Understand?”
Nodding, we grab our packs and march out the door in single file. I follow Rhonda, Lucky, Suds, and Wheels. Trever, Hands, Slate, Hunter, and Ink trail behind. When we come to open fields, we run. Mostly, we stay hidden under the lush ceiling created by maple trees.
At one point, I pause for a drink and ask our guide, “Why build a tunnel in one of the most highly guarded areas in the world?”
He laughs and slaps me on the back. “Because, my friend, no one expects it. Rulers cut off the border to spite their nose, da?”
I raise my brows, unsure of what he’s trying to say.
Seeing my confusion, he counts on his fingers. “Eggs, nails, bread, sausage, beer. Everything too expensive. So we barter, we trade. Both sides happy, even soldiers.”
Holy shit. I don’t want to ruin this unique piece of capitalism and swear to do whatever is necessary to keep thissecret hidden.
“Thank you.” My words get stuck in my throat. Without brave men like him, I would be lost.
He shrugs. “Is no big deal.”
As he speaks, a group of Belarusian troopers approaches, and the leader calls out. “Prypynak.”
I have limited knowledge of the language. Nevertheless, they clearly want us to stop. Reaching behind my back, I finger the pistol shoved in my pants’ waistband. We could overtake the small force, but it would blow our groove, and possibly cause us to abort the mission.
“Say nyet . I talk.” Dominykas walks right up to the lead soldier, shakes his hand jovially, and then hands him a stack of bills.