Page 10 of Surge

Zim sat next to the spook. “Brass told us to give it up, but Caldwell and I kept digging. There was residue on that device?—”

“We tied it to another incident,” Caldwell inserted quietly. “The Agency recovered a similar device in the Pakistani presidential building when the secretary of state was visiting last month. It had the same manmade lipids as the device from Djibouti. Those lipids?” He seemed way too giddy about this. “Only one terror cell uses them when they process their chemicals for transport.”

“Sachaai is done,” Garrett bit out, ready to walk. “Fahmi Ansari died setting off the toxic gas in Djibouti. Killed Reicher too. And Tsunami.” He glowered. “Remember?”

“His son took over the cell,” Zim said.

“Hakim Ansari?” Garrett’s gut tightened.

Zim nodded. “Hakim’s dad hated their ‘westernized’ Pakistani president and America. Hakim triply so, he’s so galvanized. HUMINT shows they still have a stash of chemicals that indicate the unique lipid.”

“In Singapore, where Hakim relocated the cell.” Caldwell’s smug arrogance was resurfacing.

“What’re are they doing in Singapore?”

“He likes the cell’s ability to blend into the culture there.”

“And Singapore is a leading hub for the chemical industry,” Zim added.

“Jurong Island. Easy access,” Caldwell said. “COMINT suggests they’re planning to infect a food supply to bring into the US.”

Okay, they had his attention now. Garrett pushed aside his food and drink. Wished he could do the same to these two thugs. He’d walked in here for barbecue, not mission talk.

“I’ve got COMINT on this, and they ferreted out info that Sachaai plans to hit America. Big plans,” Caldwell continued. “They have an entire load of sulfamic acid and potassium cyanide—enough to wipe out half the population of the US.”

“Which they use to make hydrogen cyanide,” Zim reminded him.

And that’s what’d happened in Djibouti. How Sam had died.

“But they’re planning poison, not hydrogen cyanide gas now. We’ve learned their chemist is Tariq Sayyim.” Zim clenched and unclenched his fists. “I’d like to get my hands on him. Besides the lipid, he has invented an oil spray that will prevent hydrogen cyanide from dissipating. So it’s a liquid that will infect whatever food they put it on to send around the US. It’ll kill hundreds of thousands of Americans, if not more.”

Garrett wanted to be in Singapore now. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was no longer a SEAL. “This is the government’s problem. Not mine. Task Alpha or Bravo to take care of it.”

Shifting in his seat, Zim took a deep breath. “DOD shut Caldwell down, even with the intel. No mission will be sanctioned.”

“Why?”

“‘False chatter’ is the official answer,” Caldwell said, his expression tight for the first time. “But I’m certain about my intel?—this source has never been wrong. I’ve confirmed it. The intel is inarguable.”

Nope. Gaze locked with Caldwell’s, Garrett shook his head. “But maybe not complete. Even good sources can withhold necessary info. Like when you didn’t tell us the chemicals were weaponized in Djibouti? The intelyouwithheld that got Reicher and Tsunami killed?” He clenched his fist under the table. Better leave or he’d light into that man. Yet . . . the spook’s unwavering intensity kept him seated.

Letting the new intel soak into his brain, Garrett reached for the Sriracha Smoke Sauce, slathered it on his food, then returned it to the metal rack on the table. “This intel of yours isn’t actionable. Get more and the DOD will give in.”

Caldwell dropped his head to his chest. Then he popped it up and leaned forward, looking into Garrett’s eyes.

As if Garrett had missed something. Couldn’t the guy just tell them, stop holding everything so close to the vest? “What? What’s going on here? Do I need to shake the info out of you?”

Caldwell sighed, roughed a hand over his jaw. “What we haveisactionable. But the one who shut us down at the DOD is compromised.”

“You know this has to be addressed, Boss,” Zim broke in quietly. “We’ve talked with Damocles?—”

“Chapel’s team?” Garrett couldn’t help but be impressed. Tyson Chapel was no cheap meat, and his team—Damocles—was revered across the industry. “What’d he say?” He nearly cursed himself, because now he was listening with more than half an ear.

Caldwell smirked. Knew he had him. “He wants it addressed, but they’re tied up with a couple of other ops. When I asked for recs, he suggested you.” He cocked his head. “When I said I’d already been considering you, he said to get it done, that we have their backing and funding.”

Tyson Chapel recommended me?Garrett choked a little that the legend not only knew who he was but had an awareness of his skill level . . . Wait. This . . . this didn’t make sense. He reached for his Dr. Pepper and took a swig, then thudded it back on the table. “Why? Tell me why me? After all this time?”

“Like I said, we need you.”

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