Shadow Catcher by James R. Hannibal
“I said stop.” Wulóng pressed the blade harder into Katy’s throat to emphasize his command. A drop of blood formed at the tip and rolled down the blade.
Nick froze. “She has nothing to do with you,” he said. “She doesn’t know who you are or why you are here. Let her go.”
Wulóng grinned, his expression full of malice. “Put down your weapon now, Major Baron.”
Nick hesitated, but Wulóng yanked Katy’s head back by her hair. She let out a terrified yelp. Luke woke up and began to cry. Nick leaned forward and stuck his half of the scissors straight down into the wooden rail of the deck. Then he took a step back and slowly raised his hands. “Let her go. You came to kill me, not them.”
Wulóng smiled. “To borrow a cliché from your American movies, if I had come here to kill you, then you would already be dead. Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head slowly. “You came home a little early this evening. You interrupted my process. Most unfortunate.” He wiped his damaged arm on Katy’s face, smearing his blood across her cheek. Katy recoiled, but he quickly grabbed her hair and jerked her back.
“This is not about killing. It is about control,” continued Wulóng. “I only need one of these in order to maintain that control. The other one will serve as a demonstration of my resolve.” He glanced down at the wailing baby, his expression grim, decisive.
“If you do as you are told,” said the assassin, lowering the blade toward Luke, “perhaps you will both live to have another son.”
The world slowed, as if every movement were made against the heavy resistance of black tar. The killer’s hand seemed to move only a fraction of an inch per second. Nick’s eyes did not leave Katy’s as he lunged forward. Her face contorted in pure maternal rage. She tightened her grip on her screaming child with her right arm. With her left, she pushed Wulóng’s scissors away. At the same time, her left heel came crashing down against his instep. Nick planted his left foot and snatched the scissors blade from the deck rail, slashing upward at the assassin’s neck. Katy screamed as a shower of blood splattered the deck chair behind her.
Wulóng went limp and collapsed. Katy fled to the other side of the deck and crumpled into a ball, sobbing and pressing Luke to her chest.
Nick dropped the bloody scissors to the deck and lifted the assassin by the collar. Blood poured over his hands. “Who sent you?” he demanded.
Wulóng only gurgled in response. Then the life faded from his staring eyes, and his head fell back.
Nick rushed over to Katy. He helped her to her feet and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”
Katy did not answer. She continued to cry, her cheek still pressed against her wailing son. The left side of her face and neck was covered in blood.
Nick led his wife over to a chair and sat her down. “I need to get you some warm washcloths to clean you up,” he said, starting for the door.
Katy grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.
Nick knelt down beside the chair. He kissed her forehead and caressed his son. “I won’t, sweetheart. I won’t.” But the moment the promise left his lips, he knew that he could not keep it.
CHAPTER 33
“You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” asked Katy. She and Nick sat at the dining-room table. She still held Luke in her arms; Nick had not been able to convince her to let him go. At least the baby had fallen asleep again, exhausted from his crying. The assassin’s pistol lay in the middle of the table, a trash bag full of bloody rags on the kitchen floor.
Walker was on his way with a team from Romeo Seven. Nick had only just called him. The phone lines were dead, and he had to peel himself away from Katy’s grasp and treat her wounds before committing to a search for the cell phone jammer. It took him several minutes to find it, a small suitcase tucked into the trees outside. He discovered a skiff as well, but there was nothing inside but a pair of waders.
Their wounds were minor, considering the attack. Nick had already begun to treat Katy when he remembered that he had been shot, but when he lifted his shirt, he only found a blood-caked abrasion. Apparently the bullet had just grazed him. The deep gash in his arm was much more pressing and would probably require stitches. With Katy’s help, he cleaned it thoroughly and then wrapped it with gauze. They also cleaned the puncture wound in her neck. Once they had wiped away all of the blood—both hers and Wulóng’s—they found only a minor cut.
“This isn’t over,” said Nick, diverting his eyes from Katy’s pleading gaze.
“It is for you,” she countered, grabbing his chin and turning his head back until their eyes met again. “You’re just an adviser, right?”
Nick pulled away from her and sighed. Why couldn’t she just be happy to be alive? Why did she have to interrogate him, make him lie to her? “I have to protect you,” he said forcefully. “And to do that, I have to find out what’s going on. You don’t understand.”
Katy looked down at Luke. “You’re right. I don’t.”
Walker arrived with Drake and a small crew to clean up the mess. While Doc Heldner tended to Katy, the colonel pulled Nick into the study. “We’ve already contacted the Chinese Embassy,” he said with his usual scowl. “They claim that they will launch a full investigation, which is dignitary speak for ‘sweep it under the rug.’” His eyes narrowed. “McBride tells me this is your guy from the morgue stakeout. What did I tell you about digging into your leak theory?”
“It paid off, didn’t it?” asked Nick. “How else do you explain his presence in Kuwait ten years ago?”
“The sergeant says this guy gets around,” said the colonel, waving Nick’s argument away. “A lot of foreign intelligence operatives found their way to Kuwait during the first few days of Iraqi Freedom. That place was brimming with the latest American military tech. As for his presence here, I’m thinking this is revenge for taking out his divers.”
Nick shook his head. “No, Wulóng said that he wasn’t here to kill me.”
“He just said that to keep you off balance. Would you expect the truth?”
Despite the colonel’s frustration at being kept in the dark about Wulóng, Nick convinced him to let the rescue attempt continue. But to make it happen, the team would have to stick to the original launch schedule. There would be no extra rest. Nick would have to report back to the base just after one o’clock in the morning, only a few hours away.
When the crew finally left, Nick lay down in his bed next to Katy. The full moon cast its light through their sheer curtains, sending dull white beams across the sheets. He stared at the ceiling, unable to shut down his mind. How did it all connect? What role did Wulóng play in the failure a decade before? How could he possibly be tied to Novak? Nick could not find the answers, nor could he find sleep. Finally, he rose and began to dress. “Are you awake?” he whispered.
Katy just shifted in the bed, rolling over to put her back to him. Nick walked around to her side of the bed. Her eyes were closed, the comforter clutched tightly to her chest. He bent down to kiss her cheek and tasted the wet saltiness of tears. Her eyes opened, moist and glistening in the moonlight.
“I love you,” he said.
She looked away in silence.
PART THREE
SHADOWS
CHAPTER 34
So much had changed in ten years.
Too much.
Sports cars could tell their drivers where to go. Cell phones could do almost anything. Even aircraft had become as smart as their pilots. Technology had killed simplicity.
Ten years ago, Nick would have arrived at a dark hangar with just his flight bag and a thermos full of black coffee. As he sipped the bitter black liquid from a plastic lid, he would get to know his steed, rekindle the fire between them before the dawn patrol. He would inspect the smooth curvature of her lines, the caged fury of her weapons, until he came to understand her, and she him. So the moment he lit the burner
Not anymore.
Sleek painted aluminum and countersunk rivets had been replaced with molded composites and cured putties; pressure gauges and mechanically linked engines replaced with microprocessors and digital throttles. Aircraft had ceased to be the living chargers of twentieth-century knights and had become the cold, networked tool kits of twenty-first-century battle managers—emphasis on managers—and it took a small army to get them into the air.
When Nick arrived, the brightly lit hangar was already buzzing with activity. Scott and his crew fussed over computer carts, linked to the Wraith by bundles of cables. Technicians dutifully laid out an array of high-tech combat equipment on three tables under her wing. Drake, Walker, and Doc Heldner stood beneath the Wraith’s bay, checking out Shadow Catcher and the docking system that held her in place.
Nick took a sip from his thermos lid and pinched his lips at the bitter taste. At least the coffee hadn’t changed.
Without a word to the others, he walked over to the tables and began fitting and checking his gear, starting with an integrated tactical vest and harness.
Quinn appeared from beneath the Wraith and strode up to the table next to him. Nick eyed the pararescueman suspiciously. The kid wore a tactical combat uniform just like Nick’s, Kevlar-impregnated fatigues covered in a seven-color camouflage called MultiCam. But Quinn was supposed to be grounded. “I’m sorry,” said Nick. “Are you under the impression that you’re going somewhere?”
“He is going,” said Walker. Nick looked at the colonel in time to see him cast a concerned glance at Heldner. “After last night’s attack, we’ve made a slight change to the plan. I’ve lifted Quinn’s probation.”
“And when were you going to tell your team lead about it?” asked Nick.
“I’m telling you now,” replied Walker, his tone leaving no more room for argument.
Quinn had kept quiet, busying himself with his tactical harness, but he struggled, unable to adjust the fit.
Nick sighed. He roughly turned the young operative, adjusting the shoulder straps for him. “If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have called your mom to come in and dress you.” When he finished, he turned Quinn back around. “Did you see how I did that, or do I need to do the legs for you too?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it,” replied Quinn, pushing him away.
“Are we interrupting something?” McBride looked concerned as he stepped off the elevator with Amanda. The two of them carried a black reinforced crate the size of a large cooler over to Drake’s table and set it down. “A courier brought this over from the CIA after you all left yesterday afternoon. It’s addressed to Major Merigold.”
Drake tore open a small manila envelope taped to the top of the crate and pulled out the note inside. “Drake,” he read aloud. “Here are some artifacts to help you in your investigation. Let me know if I can do anything else for you, anything at all. Lo—” He suddenly stopped reading. “Ahem. Sincerely, Terri.”
“What does she mean by ‘anything at all’?” asked Amanda.
“These must be Novak’s personal effects,” said Nick. “There could be something useful in here.”
Walker shook his head and motioned for two of the techs to move the box to the back of the hangar. “There’s no time. We already have the information we need. McBride can go through it after you launch.”
Nick watched the techs set the box against the hangar wall and then noticed that Quinn had walked over to Scott, who began to trade the M9 Beretta holster on his harness for a different one. “What is this?” he asked, gesturing at the two of them.
“I’ll be carrying my personal weapon,” said Quinn, “a forty-five-caliber Springfield XDm.” He held up a brawny black pistol with a contoured polymer grip and a laser/infrared spotlight combo fixed to the lower rail. “It requires a custom holster.”
Though Nick had never demanded that a subordinate call him “sir,” somehow it bugged him that the kid didn’t use it now. “We carry M9s as our side arms,” he said in a commanding tone, shoving his own weapon into its holster. “I didn’t approve a change.”
“I did,” interjected Walker. “Quinn is most comfortable with the XDm. If you want him to be quick and accurate, let him use it.”
Nick felt anger boiling up inside again. Walker had usurped his authority over this mission three times in the space of a few short minutes. He fumed as he returned to prepping his harness, hooking a custom knife sheath to each leg strap, each with five small stilettos canted forward at a thirty-degree angle.
“Speaking of nonstandard weapons,” said Quinn, “what do you call those?”
“Contingency options,” replied Nick.
Quinn gave him a smirk. “When I was younger, the slow kid at the end of my block had throwing knives.”
Scott finished fixing Quinn’s holster. He looked from Quinn to Nick and back again. “You should stop talking now,” he whispered, and then quickly backed away.
Quinn continued, undaunted. “He also played with dragon games and throwing stars.”
Nick scowled down at the table. He’d had all that he could take from this insubordinate greenhorn. His left hand flashed out from the knife holster. The stiletto made a soft thock as it stuck deep into Quinn’s vest, buried to the hilt in one of the removable pockets. The camouflage fabric began to darken with moisture.
“Enough! Both of you!” said Walker.
“Honestly, Major Baron,” said Scott, marching over and pulling the knife out of the stunned pararescueman’s vest. He removed the interchangeable pocket and dumped out two punctured water pouches and a perforated bag of ration bars.
“The kid was clearly begging for a demonstration,” said Nick with a wicked smile. He retrieved the knife, wiped it down with a cloth, and resheathed it.
“I think now is as good a time as any, Patricia,” said Walker with a nod to the doctor.
Heldner took Nick’s arm and tried to gently lead him toward an office at the other end of the hangar.
Halfway there, Nick pulled his arm away and checked his watch. “Time is short, Doc. What’s going on?”
The doctor took a short breath and then looked him in the eye. “After the incident with Wulóng, your fitness to lead this mission has been called into question,” she said in a low voice. “Colonel Walker has asked me to make a spot assessment. If I decide that you’re unfit, he’s going to cancel the rescue.”
CHAPTER 35
Nick felt his control slipping away. How could the colonel question his fitness to lead a Triple Seven op? He’d been leading this team for a decade. “What is this all about?” he asked.
Heldner pulled him into the office, closed the door, and motioned for him to sit down on a small couch. Then she turned a rolling chair backward and sat down, straddling the seat. She leaned her forearms on the backrest. “How are you sleeping lately?”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s a simple question,” said Heldner with a shrug. “Both Colonel Walker and Drake have expressed concerns to me that you haven’t slept solidly in weeks.”
“I’m dealing with it.”
“Really?” The doctor raised her eyebrows. “Because it looks to me like you’re coming unhinged. In the last couple of days, you argued publicly with your superior, ran an investigation that countermanded his orders, and just now you threw a knife at the newest member of our team.”
Nick laughed. “That was classic. Did you see Quinn’s face when I . . .” His voice trailed off under Heldner’s crushing glare. She was not amused.
She leaned forward and glowered at him. “Then there are the bruises on your wife’s arm. I noticed them last night. They are too old to have come from Wulóng’s attack.”
Nick’s eyes widened at the accusation. “Whoa, is that what this is about? That happened
Heldner straightened up and put her hands on her knees. “Finally, we get to it. Nightmares, inability to sleep, uncontrolled anger.” She pointed her finger at his chest. “You need to acknowledge that you are suffering from PTSD.”
The doctor’s words made Nick’s blood run cold. He knew the consequences of such a diagnosis. Walker would have to pull him from field operations completely, relegate him to a desk job, bury him in the bowels of the Pentagon.
“I do not have PTSD,” he countered, his tone desperate.
The doctor held out her hands. “Don’t worry, Nick. I’m not planning on making this an official diagnosis.” She lowered her voice. “And I will tell Dick that you’re good to go. I believe in this mission as much as you do. But you need to understand what’s happening to you, so you can turn this thing around.”
Her statement did little to reassure him. “Everybody has nightmares,” he argued.
“Yes, but yours have a consistent cause. Fear. Real fear that occurs during your missions.”
“I don’t experience fear in the field anymore.”
Heldner shook her head. “Not true. You’ve just become so accustomed to it that you hardly notice it. Your fight-or-flight responses have become automatic. You push the fear aside and move on without a conscious thought.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
The doctor put on a pair of spectacles and motioned him to lean forward. “Something has changed,” she said, taking Nick’s chin in her hand. She tilted his head one way and then the other, as if examining a patient with a cold. “Something happened that has heightened your fears.” She emphatically patted his cheek and pushed him back. “And I think you already know what it is.”
Nick let out a long breath. “Danny.”
Heldner nodded.
“So now I’m subconsciously afraid of dying?”
The doctor shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t think that’s quite it. We lost Danny months ago, but you’ve only been showing symptoms for a few weeks. There has to have been a more recent trigger that compounded the trauma, something else that you’re afraid of.” She removed her spectacles and slid them into the pocket of her lab coat. “Whatever the source, the fear is too intense for your subconscious to let it go after your normal process. You’re not truly dealing with it in the moment, leaving it to fester below the surface. That’s what’s causing your nightmares.”