Page 22 of Red Line

There was at leastsomeinformation that the Pentagon verified.

Of course, that could be staged. Someone could have snagged Poole and been holding him somewhere, an innocent man.

Black just didn’t know. And wouldn’t know.

Yeah, the regime in power or any of those elbowing and jostling to gather regional supremacy might have set this up.

What if Color Code sent a team of Delta Force operators to a GPS coordinate in the middle of nowhere, told them to go naked with a lost hikers’ tale, and someone threw a net over them?

They’d grab up six elite warriors and a highly trained combat K9.

Four. Two of them would be on a raft off the coast.

Four would still make horrific snuff films. Would be incredibly powerful terrorist recruiting tools. And what those men would suffer … Black’s lips pulled into a deep frown.

The intelligence game was not for those with a weak stomach.

And on this one? Yeah, Black could feel his coffee churning around, giving him heartburn.

He pulled into a parking place designated for guests, turned off his engine, and flipped his phone over to see if, somehow, he’d missed a call.

Popping his door open, Black reminded himself he wasn’t steering this ship. It wasn’t his choice what happened next. All the information had been handed over, and people with higher ranks than his were debating what should happen next.

Echo would be sitting on a tarmac in Türkiye, waiting for the sun to set. They were seven hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time.

Black got out without bothering to lock his door. Iniquus was one of the most secure locations in the world. Black planned to tap all his contacts here at Iniquus to let him in the gate if it looked like a nuclear war was starting. He was sure they had the best fallout plan around. Maybe second to POTUS, but Black wouldn’t be on that survival list.

Tucking his phone into his pocket, Black straightened his tie, using his side window as a mirror, then started for the atrium door.

If this went down, Red would have to stay in close touch with her asset to make sure that there wasn’t any blowback on the guy, Black thought. Though, if this went downperfectly, it should look like Poole disappeared into the night. No one would think that there was a mole telling tales from the office where the asset had listened in.

Never assume. Not everything goes into a report.

As soon as he knew anything, Black would apprise Red. He made the mental note as he walked through the soupy morning air.

Red had sounded like shit when they were on the phone. He and Grey had been on video feed; she had been a black square. Her phone, when she wasn’t speaking, had been switched to mute, and her voice was weak and raspy with the hitch-breath delivery of someone who was bracing against pain.

It was the personality of a field officer to bite down on the bullet and get the job done.

That was probably what was happening. Black trusted she could handle whatever was going on.

Red, like all field officers, carried all the standard pharmaceuticals and knew how to treat herself to keep her name, face, and—most importantly—DNA samples away from anything that had governmental control or connection.

Red was definitely on his mind. Not only her health and the Poole situation but also, while Black had no idea why he was here at Iniquus, he did know it was Red-related.

Could it be something to do with her illness?

Since the Iniquus call came in about an hour after Black got off the phone with her, and since Red didn’t respond when he reached out, Black would admit that the heat and pressure behind his sternum had become painful.

He reached into his pocket and took out his roll of antacids. He popped one in his mouth, pocketed the roll, then yanked open the atrium door, moving from the ninety-five percent humidity into the crisp air conditioning that made his sweat evaporate and chilled his system.

The waiting escort gave Black a slight bow. Visitors weren’t free to move around the building on their own. The CIA had tested some of their best officers, asking them to breach Iniquus and take a picture in the executive suite to prove they had gotten in. No one had been successful. This organization ran with the fine-tuned precision of a hand-crafted watch.

“Sir, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you up.” No introduction. No further chit-chat, just a crisp turn, and his guide took him to the elevator, up to the corridor that held the Iniquus forces’ office spaces, down the hall that Black had traversed many times before, stopping with a quick rap on the door that read “Panther Force War Room.”

Panther Force’s tactical operations coordinator, Nutsbe, opened the door. The guide gave a slight bow and disappeared toward the elevators. Nutsbe held out his hand for a shake.

When Nutsbe had called this morning, referencing Red with a “this seems time-sensitive” dangle, Black headed straight over.

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