The Darwin Protocol: A Thriller (The Last Peak Book 1) Page 8

  “Sorry, Tyrone, the air is full of ash.” He spat again. “Los Angeles is fortunate the prevailing winds are blowing north right now. Otherwise, the city would be covered in smoke and soot.”

  “Thanks for keeping us informed, Tom. Stay safe out there. Next we turn to—“

  Mason’s phone buzzed and skittered across the kitchen counter. He muted the TV and grabbed it.

  Miro. Casimiro Pike.

  He swiped to answer. “Miro.”

  “Sarge! Long time no bullshit, sir.”

  “I’m not a sergeant anymore. You know that.”

  “You’ll always be a sergeant to me, sir.”

  Mason sighed. Miro was always like this. Mason let it slide. He had to. He owed Miro. He owed Miro his life. That wasn’t a debt that could ever be repaid. Overlooking references to a history he’d rather leave buried was the least he could endure.

  “What can I do for you, Corporal Pike?”

  “Hey now! That’s the Sarge I know and love.”

  “Cut the Bravo Sierra. What’s going on?”

  “Got a big ask for you, sir.”

  The picture on the TV caught Mason’s attention.

  “Hang on a sec, Miro.”

  He dropped the phone from his ear and turned the TV louder. Another scene of devastation played out. A different reporter stood pointing to an accident in the distance.

  Four semi-trailers and their cabs laid out on the highway in a twisted heap. It looked like an IED tore through them. Their mangled remains extended through four lanes of a large highway. A scrolling banner along the bottom of the screen read “I-10 closed at San Bernardino with no indication when it will be re-opened.”

  Emergency workers in yellow hazmat suits blasted white goo onto the fires licking through the torn trailers. The backs of the yellow suits had big, white block letters.

  FEMA.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Did the end of the world arrive and we were all too busy staring into phone screens to notice?

  Every worker wore a black gas mask with round, yellow filters protruding. Thick boots scurried over glistening pavement. Here, too, all of the vehicles surrounding the accident were of federal origin. Similar to the scene playing out north of the city, workers lowered Jersey barriers across the lanes.

  FEMA’s involvement in a chemical spill made more sense, depending on what got out.

  The reporter nodded toward the scene behind her. “FEMA officials won’t say what chemical is involved or whether or not they believe any has escaped. All we know is that both westbound and eastbound lanes are being shut down. Don’t expect to leave the Los Angeles metropolitan area by way of the ten freeway.”

  The anchor’s voice cut in, “Has FEMA said when they expect the road to clear?”

  The woman on the screen shook her head. “Not yet. Thus far, we’ve been given very little information.”

  Mason heard a shout echo from the tiny speaker in his phone. He brought the phone to his ear and winced.

  “MASON! HELLO!”

  “I’m back. Sorry. Have you seen what’s going on around LA today?”

  “Nope, too busy with a client, which is why I’m calling.”

  “Oh yeah, a favor. What can I do for you, Corporal Pike?”

  “Sarge, it’s like this. I’m too popular.”

  “You always were.”

  “See, Sarge, I got a job for you. I know that goes against the usual chain of command.”

  “We’re not soldiers anymore.”

  “Ain’t we though?”

  “Close protection is about saving lives, not ending them.”

  “That’s all semantics, Sarge. Mercs maybe is closer then. In any case, I need your help.”

  Mason didn’t hesitate.

  “You have it. What do you need?”

  “You ain’t gonna like it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  That didn’t sound good. The fact that Miro felt obliged to mention it up front raised big red flags. Miro was an ace on the trigger. A fearless bull on the battlefield. But he wasn’t known for being particularly thoughtful in civilian life. The fact that whatever his request was made him think enough to consider Mason’s perspective meant something truly terrible was about to land in his lap.

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying you ain’t gonna be happy.”

  “Stop trying to unfuck the situation, Corporal Pike. What?”

  “I need you to cover a client for me.”

  “A close protection client?”

  Casimiro was also in close protection. He’d helped Mason get started in the industry. Landed him a few cherry jobs that broke the small, specialized community wide open. Mason knew he couldn’t say no. But he didn’t see a reason why he’d want to in the first place.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, what’s the catch?”

  “Two.”

  “Two what?”

  “There are two catches.”

  “Continue.”

  “Well, sir. The first is that the job is today.”

  “Today? As in now?”

  You never ran an op with no planning. Intelligence was everything. It was sheer folly to walk into a situation knowing nothing. It was the hours worked in advance that kept a job from going sideways. That minimized that risk at least.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry. I’m in DC now with a client. A bigwig scientist. The world’s leading virologist, or so he keeps telling me every time I don’t ask. Anyway, he dropped this steaming pile on my boot a few minutes ago. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”

  What did a scientist in the nation’s capital have to do with him, out on the West Coast?

  “Fine. I’ve got you covered, bro.”

  It wasn’t fine. It was bad news, but what could he do? He’d have to cancel the weekend at Tito and Mamaw’s. From the looks of the news reports, it didn’t sound like they could escape LA tonight anyway.

  “You haven’t heard the second catch.”

  “Hit me.”

  “This scientist has a daughter. She’s the assignment.”

  Mason had worked with children before. They were no problem. Fun even. They always expected him to bust out kung-fu James Bond moves and start capping everyone in sight. The reality was a big disappointment.

  “No problem. She in school somewhere?”

  “Nope. Out of school. Twenty-five years old.”

  A young woman then. He generally preferred working with women. They didn’t come glazed with testosterone and bravado. Egos so big you could hardly get in the same air space. Those sorts of attitudes made protection ten times harder.

  “Still no problem.”

  “There’s more.”

  Of course there was more.

  “She’s not your average twenty-five-year-old.”

  Wait for it.

  “She’s a supermodel with an eye for acting.”

  The shit sandwich had landed.

  Mason tried to muffle the groan rumbling in his throat.

  Models? Actors? Famous people made protection a hundred times harder.

  Mason had several assignments that went sideways because the celebrity clients were imbeciles. In short order, Mason determined that the cash wasn’t worth the crap. No amount of money was worth the risk. It was like they thrived on making your job harder.

  Never again. He’d sworn off the whole industry after the last job went south. It was a famous actor. Mid-twenties. Impeccably quaffed hair. Teeth spotlight white and cheekbones that looked down on Olympus. The guy was fueled by coke. And not the kind you got from a vending machine. His preferred flavor was the kind you got from Columbia.

  Every sensible precaution Mason suggested was stepped on and cast aside. The operation ended with them both surrounded by a crazed mob, eager to tear away some bit of enduring fame. It was only Mason’s aggressive and overwhelming action that got them out with all their limbs attached.

  The mindless moron ended up in the hos
pital for a few days. His attorney threatened to sue the agency Mason worked for at the time.

  Never again. He swore it, and he’d lived by it until this moment.

  Mason let out a slow exhale, doing his best not to sound upset. Favors paid grudgingly were favors half-paid.

  “Okay. What’s the op?”

  “Retrieve her and drop her at Santa Monica airport for a chartered flight.”

  That didn’t sound too bad. Limited duration. Explicit objective. Maybe it would turn out okay.

  “Fine.”

  “Thank you, Sarge! My client’s been flipping out all day. I don’t think he knew she was in LA.”

  “Where is she?”

  “We’re working on that. Let you know as soon as we find out.”

  Great.

  “Know anything about her?”

  Maybe some soft intel could clue him in on how to approach her. Who knew? Maybe he’d get lucky and she’d turn out to be a sane human being.

  “You’re not going to believe it. Name’s Iridia.”

  The name clicked somewhere in the back of Mason’s brain. Where had he heard it? Victoria’s Secret model maybe. The fact that he even had a vague inkling meant she was big time.

  The knowledge didn’t lend confidence to his assessment of the operation.

  “Should I know that name?”

  “She’s a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue girl, bro!”

  “Lucky me.”

  “You SOB. What I wouldn’t give to get up close and personal with that bit of luscious lady candy.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to let you.”

  “Sarge, she’s smokin’ hot.”

  “I’m married, Corporal.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just saying, man. Damn, this op is wasted on you.”

  That was exactly the problem. Usually, these kinds of clients were totally wasted on you. As in drugged up. Drunk as a skunk. Their every whim an instant command to whoever happened to hear it. Their willful ignorance—no, enthusiastic stupidity—made even the simple jobs hard.

  Made even the safe jobs dangerous.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  November 2004

  Fallujah, Iraq

  Mason stuffed a giant pinch of Copenhagen in his lower lip. Dark granules of tobacco spilled out onto his vest. Sitting so long had his left leg pincushion numb. The bare metal seat bit into his ass like a bed of nails. What he wouldn’t give to get out and stretch his legs. To take a breath of passably fresh air. The air inside the cramped Amphibious Assault Vehicle stank of body odor, farts, and cigarette smoke.

  A fleeting gust of thick diesel fumes stung his eyes, but at least it masked the human stench.

  He shifted on the hard bench seat, trying to work some relief into his cramped hamstrings and glutes. There wasn’t much room to maneuver. Every square inch inside the amtrack was stuffed full with extra ammo, cases of MREs, bottled water, and all the gear deemed necessary for an operation expected to last a couple of days.

  All that ammo.

  It was hard not to imagine what a rocket propelled grenade piercing the interior would do. While the aluminum walls protected them from small arms fire, a rocket propelled grenade stood a better than average chance of doing serious damage.

  Thinking about it didn’t help.

  This was the mission. An unspoken aspect of the job was that the Marine Corps was expected to do more with less. It was a source of pride for the upper brass. A source of endless frustration for the average trigger puller. There was pride too, but all the rhetoric boiled down to bullshit for the soldiers on the ground.

  Mason looked around the cramped interior. The red cabin light cast a sullen pall over the men of third squad. He doubted it was just a lighting effect. Spending hours inside a crowded track would be enough to piss off Jesus himself.

  He studied their faces. The men were tense, but ready. A dozen young men from wildly differing worlds came together to do the job America had given them. Mason had worked hard to bring his men closer over the preceding months. They were brothers now, no matter their ethnic or geographic origins.

  He looked to each in turn, remembering the shared stories of their lives. Their most embarrassing moments. Their dreams for life back home.

  Private Benjamin Hicks. How he ended up in a high school cafeteria with his pants around his ankles. And astonishingly, how that incident ended up with him on a date with the hottest cheerleader in school. The kid had more luck than a leprechaun. It was no surprise everyone called him Lucky.

  Corporal Casimiro Pike. The six and a half foot tall Texan would be an annoying caricature of the Lone Star state if he weren’t so damn funny. And good looking. He swore his record was sleeping with five different girls in one day. And that two of them were sisters. At once. Nobody doubted the claim because they’d all seen how ladies swooned over him. Miro was shooting to break that record on his first day back stateside.

  There were so many crazy stories between them. So much history.

  Mason exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. They wouldn’t all make it back. Mason knew it in his gut, but he’d do everything possible to get them all home.

  Third Battalion, First Marines had arguably the toughest job in the assault on Fallujah. To clear their sector of the city by going house to house, door to door, capturing or killing every insurgent in their path. Their area of operations included the Jolan district, widely thought to be the center of terrorist activity.

  MOUT, or Military Operation on Urban Terrain, was the dirtiest, in-your-face type of warfare there was. They would be taking down the enemy from point blank range. There would be no distance to numb the experience.

  The amtrack lurched forward and Mason smacked his Kevlar helmet on a shovel strapped to the wall. He winced as his ear smashed into the inside of the helmet. The sixty-thousand-pound machine didn’t do subtle.

  Lance Corporal David Lopez sat on the bench opposite him. Everyone called him Lopes because he ran faster than an antelope. He blew the doors off every other man in the platoon, made fast look slow. All gristle and grit, Mason had taken a shine to him on their very first night together in the Marine Corps. The night they both put their own feet on the yellow footsteps at Parris Island Recruit Depot.

  Lopes poked his tongue into his lower lip and motioned to pass over the dip. He yelled something to emphasize the request, but Mason couldn’t hear a word. The growling five hundred horsepower diesel engine made conversation impossible.

  Mason tossed the can over. Lopes snatched it out of the air with the easy grace of the naturally coordinated. He grinned and looked around the cabin to see if anyone else witnessed his prowess. Miro sat to Lopes’ left. While Lopes waited for applause that wasn’t forthcoming, Miro reached over and grabbed at the can.

  The whole squad watched as the two scrambled for it. Most laughed and a few shook their heads. Miro and Lopes were a source of daily entertainment. Their Bravo Sierra was an appreciated outlet for the squad. A soldier’s life was typified by long stretches of boredom interspersed with brief periods of maximum intensity. Soldiers dealt with it in different ways, but pissing each other off was a favorite.

  And Miro and Lopes had it down to a science.

  The small, round can popped out of their scuffle and rolled along the metal floor. The track hit something and the whole cabin jumped. Mason pushed off the ceiling to avoid ramming his head down through his spine. The can of Copenhagen bounced up and landed in Lucky’s lap.

  He grinned and nodded thanks to Miro and Lopes as the rest of the squad laughed their asses off. He dug out the remaining dip and tucked it into his lip. After settling it in tight, he tossed the empty can back. It bounced off Miro’s desert digital cammies and rolled under the seat.

  Miro drew a single finger across his throat.

  Mason pulled out another can and passed it over. He had a few more stashed away. Nicotine was the life blood of a grunt. Whether the delivery medium was dip, chew, or ci
garettes, it was the nicotine that counted.

  Not that he needed it just then.

  Not that any of them did.

  They simmered on a low boil. Sick of waiting. Ready for the ramp to drop. Ready to get to work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Yet here they were, stuck in the amtrack while it started and stopped over and over, incrementally bringing them fifty feet closer at a time. Mason ground his teeth and spat a dark glob of juice on the floor. His gums tingled, the promise of an incoming nicotine payload.

  At least they were clear of the breach site. That had been a total clusterfuck.

  Engineers had blown two lanes through the railroad tracks that ran east-west along the north side of the city. As soon as the lanes opened, hundreds of vehicles attempted to funnel through. In no time, a traffic jam of epic proportions developed. It had taken hours to get through that mess.

  Their amtrack charged forward, taking them to the first block of neighborhoods at the northern edge of the city. Somewhere ahead, explosions tore through the predawn air.

  That would be the Army’s Task Force 2-7 Cavalry beating the path into Fallujah. Their job was to punch a hole in the enemy’s defenses, drive deep into the interior, and absorb punishment along the way.

  Their Abrams M1A1 tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles were capable of delivering massive amounts of direct fire and also absorbing damage that would destroy the Marines’ lighter AAV-7 amtracks. Inside either of the tougher vehicles, the Joes didn’t have to worry about small arms fire, RPGs, or even mortar rounds. Most importantly, both were resistant to improvised explosive devices.

  IEDs lined every street throughout the city. The mujahideen had transformed the City of Mosques into a death trap. And they’d had a lot of time to get it just right.

  As powerful an option as the Army’s mechanized armor was, boots with rifles were still required for the dangerous task of rooting out the resistance. One house at a time.

  The amtrack’s engine spun down as it slowed.

  “Prepare to dismount,” a crewman’s voice said over the intercom.