The Cyclops Revenge Read online

  “And satellites?”

  “Allan, would you care to chime in?” Brad Lane addressed one of the men who had yet to speak, Allan Cummings of the National Reconnaissance Office.

  “Yes, we have re-tasked all available intelligence satellites to surveil the area. We have seen nothing conspicuous of yet. We have analysts reviewing digital images round-the-clock. You have to remember, we just learned two weeks ago that Delilah Hussein might still be alive. It will take time. It took ten years to find bin Laden. There are hundreds of islands in the Caribbean.”

  “How do you know this person The Watcher is communicating with is Hussein or anyone associated with her?” Rankin demanded.

  CIA DO John Beck sucked in a deep breath and offered his opinion. “We have an asset in Syria. Damascus, to be exact, who has been in contact with another asset we have turned. The asset has ties to ISIS and a faction that has been communicating with someone in the Caribbean. They have mentioned The Watcher and Hussein’s name together. We believe the person communicating with The Watcher is with Hussein, or works for her, wherever she is. We believe it may be her manservant, Oliver.”

  “How certain are you of this information?” Rankin persisted.

  “More certain than not.”

  “That’s not very encouraging.”

  The DO fired a salvo at the NSC director. “Would you prefer we ignore it?”

  Vince Gagliano drummed his fingers on the table in front of him. “What is it, Vince?” Lane demanded.

  “We are missing an important issue. The communications to and from The Watcher mention Jason Rodgers. It’s obvious that Rodgers is being watched and followed for some reason. Remember, Rodgers saved the lives of the president and his father. She may be plotting revenge or have a plan to kill him. Rodgers’s life is in danger. We should alert him. He might be able to shed some light on Hussein and what is going on.”

  “Are you crazy?” Rankin shot back.

  “Not the last time I checked. But my wife has a different opinion. She says these Italian genes don’t work in my favor. She calls me a crazy guinea.”

  This brought smiles to the faces of everyone except Rankin.

  “Vince,” Brad Lane added, “Rodgers could lead us to Hussein. If she is reaching out to him for any reason and we alert him, it could spook her and ruin everything.”

  “We owe that man a lot. He saved a lot of lives, including two commanders-in-chief. A lot of people died that day. Good agents. He also saved the life of Clay Broadhurst, one of our own. Broadhurst has worked tirelessly in the last two years, despite his illness, to figure out what went wrong and how we can prevent it. We have revamped a lot of our procedures because of Clay’s efforts. If Broadhurst were not around, a lot of that insight might never have materialized. Rodgers deserves to know he’s in danger.”

  “Vince,” NSC Director Rankin replied, “I will not make that recommendation to the president. We don’t know what Rodgers will do. There’s too much at stake.”

  CIA Deputy Director Senski offered one last piece of information.

  “We’re wasting time. We know Hussein is alive. But we have bigger fish to fry, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “What’s that?” Brad Lane demanded.

  “Not only is Hussein alive, but the CIA has just learned that she is planning an attack inside the United States. And it is imminent. I suggest we get to work on finding out what it is and how to stop it. Let me show you what we know.”

  Chapter 3

  Chrissie’s eyes widened at the sight of the small velvet box sitting on the plate between them. Its presence sent a barrage of mixed feelings coursing through her. The box represented the culmination of two years of excitement and anticipation which, in the last few months, had melted into an array of ominous despair and regret. Despite the torrent of conflicts assaulting her, Chrissie attempted to keep her face a mask hiding her true feelings.

  Jason smiled. His grin relented, as determination seemed to fill his features.

  The waitress stood over her two customers, transfixed with anticipation. She stepped back, the smile on her face widening. Jason slipped out of the booth. Two other waitresses stopped serving their tables and watched, along with everyone else in the small balcony dining room, their faces replete with expectation.

  He dropped to a knee beside the table. Chrissie glanced around. She felt her face fill with color.

  “Jason, what are you doing?”

  He picked up the box. It squeaked open. He gazed down upon its contents. The glint from the jewel inside was briefly captured in his deep blue eyes.

  He turned it toward her. She saw a massive, round-cut diamond solitaire, glittering in the soft candlelight.

  Her countenance brightened. Her eyes sparkled.

  “Oh my!”

  Jason placed the box on the table and took her hand.

  “Will you marry me?”

  A rainbow of emotions danced over her delicate features. She felt them ebbing and flowing like surf pounding over the sand before a nor’easter. The other diners all gawked. Jason waited for Chrissie’s response.

  Tears flowed down her cheeks. Chrissie wiped away a tear as she lowered her eyes. She took Jason’s hand in both of hers, blinking away more droplets as they overflowed and streamed down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Jason,” she whispered.

  “Is that a yes?”

  Jason eyes never left hers. She stroked the top of his hand with her fingers in rapid, nervous twitches. She felt her brow furrow. A melancholy curtain of dread seeped in. Chrissie’s lower lip fell then began to quiver.

  Since they’d nearly been killed two years ago, it had taken forever to reach this point in their lives. At this moment, time slowed, agonizingly so, like frozen syrup.

  Jason glanced about, forcing a smile.

  “Did she say yes?” one diner whispered.

  “Yeah, what did she say?” another chimed.

  Jason turned back to Chrissie. His eyebrows lifted, imploring her for an answer.

  “Chrissie,” he begged, “everyone’s looking at us. They’re waiting for an answer. I’m waiting for an answer!”

  Her head remained motionless. Then as if set in heavy, wet concrete, she began to move it. She saw Jason’s eyes following the tip of her nose. The tip of her perfect, sexy nose shifted a fraction from side to side. Back and forth, it gained momentum, swinging in larger, torturous arcs. Tears streamed along the margins of her delicate nose, dripping unabashed over her lips. She tasted their saltiness. Nevertheless, her mouth and tongue, barren and parched, found great difficulty in forming words. To utter each syllable was a Herculean task. In a choked whisper, Chrissie said, “No … no … no. I can’t!”

  Chrissie tried to slide from the booth. Jason did not move, blocking her way.

  “Jason, move … please!”

  He gazed into her watery, red, swollen eyes. The look of amazement and shock on his face cut her. She had just wounded him more deeply than if she had tried to cut out his heart. His gaze seesawed back and forth between her eyes. He said, “Chrissie … I don’t understand…”

  Chrissie reached out and pushed him back, shoving away his hands. She grabbed a cloth napkin, and rattling a cup and saucer, shouldered her way into the aisle and ran.

  Jason lowered his head. He remained crouched by the table as Chrissie, descending the stairs, dropped out of sight. He lifted his eyes and glanced around the room.

  Faces now registered the embarrassment rippling through him. They looked away, returning to their meals, their heads rigid and bowed, as if restrained by an invisible force field from glancing his way. The waitresses vanished like wisps of fog. A tightening spasm of anxiety clutched his gut.

  “Well, don’t just sit there,” someone whispered. “Go after her!”

  Jason whipped his head in the direction of the words, trying to absorb them. Seconds evaporated as his mind clutched. Then he stood up, grabbed the ring, and ran.

  The Watcher moved his eyes t
o peer through the darkened cab of his black Cadillac CTS-V into the rearview mirror. The familiar blue van was still there, sitting three hundred yards back on a cross street, masquerading as a plumber’s truck. The three small but noticeable antennae mounted on the roof did not escape his trained eye. He had been aware of their presence for the past several days. It was the Americans monitoring his whereabouts using his cell phone signal. They had been following him, monitoring his actions and communications, for at least the last week and a half.

  The covert agent lurched upright from his slumped position behind the wheel of the Caddy. A loud crash from across Boush Street startled him to alertness. That alertness turned to alarm when he saw the Pettigrew woman emerge from the old church-turned-restaurant. The alarm melted into a knowing realization, as a curt smile creased his lips.

  She darted down Freemason Street like she was running away from … something or someone. His eyes followed her until she disappeared from sight past a building.

  Everything was happening as predicted!

  Operation Hygeia was underway. There was no stopping it now. The Watcher was a part of it. And so was Jason Rodgers. The Watcher didn’t have all the details about Rodgers’ unwitting involvement in Hussein’s plan. But he hoped to learn everything very soon.

  Rodgers would rendezvous with two men in the next twenty-four hours. The Watcher had called both of them in the last hour to warn them and give them last-minute instruction. These men had been a part, albeit it a miniscule one, of the assassination attempts two years ago. Though neither liked the idea, they would face the pharmacist again very soon. Both men had no choice.

  The Watcher killed the engine and exited the Caddy. Stepping off the curb and circling the creaking engine compartment, he was halfway across the street when the door of the restaurant burst open a second time.

  It was the pharmacist.

  The Watcher pretended to check his watch, an IDF Krav Maga, as Jason Rodgers whipped his head in all directions, searching for the woman. Trying to avoid being spotted, The Watcher turned right, away from the restaurant and Rodgers, toward the Southern Bank and Trust and West Brambleton.

  He glanced back over his shoulder and glimpsed Rodgers darting down Freemason after the Pettigrew woman. The Watcher doubled back to the corner and poked his head around the corner of the building. He watched Rodgers march into the restaurant parking lot out of view. A crooked grin slanted up The Watcher’s face as he stepped carefully down Freemason Street.

  The Watcher had been following Rodgers, examining and reporting every aspect of the druggist’s life for the last year. His email, phone calls, texts, and Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram activity—all were being monitored by his associates, as were those of his girlfriend, Christine Pettigrew, and his son, Michael. The Watcher’s job was to keep eyes on Rodgers. Though he knew what was happening, he could not resist witnessing the carnage. Like watching a car wreck in slow motion.

  For Rodgers, however, tonight would feel like a Swedish massage compared with what was to take place in the days to come. The Watcher was a cog in a very delicate machine. A machine manipulating governments, people, and events in the hopes of the right outcome. This covert machine was more delicate than a house of cards, ready to implode if the wind blew in the wrong direction.

  For the past twelve months, The Watcher had communicated with his handler through electronic means, updating and apprising weekly. To ensure secrecy, the communications always used coded words and phrases.

  At first, his orders had been clear. Monitor and advise. Report movements. Now, his role changed. He was ordered to place items for Rodgers to find. Those items were in the trunk of his Cadillac. They would direct the pharmacist, if all went well, along a predetermined route on a collision course, The Watcher guessed, with Delilah Hussein.

  Two weeks ago, The Watcher sent a text in which he purposely used Rodgers and his handler’s real name, Delilah Hussein, rather than their code names. It was a calculated gamble. It was the first and only time The Watcher had breached protocol. But it had been a necessary move.

  The misstep would be chastised as a careless mistake. His handler had replied to his text with a stern warning not to repeat the error. A second would result in the end of his participation in Operation Hygeia.

  The implications were clear. His life would end violently. But it was part of his job to take such risks. He’d realized it when he signed up.

  His gambit had worked. The fact that the plumber’s van was sitting a few hundred yards back and had been following him was evidence that his ployed had worked. He had alerted the Americans. Only time would tell if his risky move would payoff. If it did, he might just be able to save the lives of Christine Pettigrew and Michael Rodgers. And he would prevent Jason Rodgers’s life from being totally ruined. More importantly, The Watcher might be able to prevent something much worse.

  The pharmacist was involuntarily involved in a plot against his own country. If The Watcher was a piece in this chess match, it was as a medially-powered one, perhaps a bishop or a knight. Jason Rodgers’s role was that of the lowly pawn. As in many chess matches, the role of the weakest piece could be the most vital. Once most of the pieces were removed from the board, it was how a player manipulated one or two pawns that determined success or failure.

  The target of Operation Hygeia was still a mystery, as were the how and when. The Watcher only knew that it existed and was underway. As he gazed at Jason Rodgers’s back striding toward the ashen-faced Christine Pettigrew, he pushed his fedora tighter onto his head, hoping this pawn could lead him to answers.

  Jason caught up with Chrissie as she reached his Mustang.

  “Chrissie, what the hell is going on?”

  “I can’t marry you!”

  “What! Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all along? Isn’t it what we’ve talked about for two years?”

  Her face, covered with angled streaks of mascara and tears smeared by swipes with her hand, seemed to have shrunk. The cheeks were hollow. Her skin was drained of color. Her autumn locks fell on either side of her narrow face like steel curtains. She studied the pavement, refusing to look up.

  She shook her head again, with greater emphasis than in the restaurant. “I can’t marry you right now, Jason.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re not the same man I knew. You’re hiding something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Chrissie lifted her eyes, meeting his.

  “Take me home,” she whispered.

  “Tell me what’s going on first.”

  “No. I don’t want to do this here.”

  The finality in her voice caused a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. He sucked in a long breath and forced it out as he looked to the murky sky above.

  “You don’t want to do what here?”

  “You didn’t pay for dinner, Jason.”

  Jason scoffed. “That’s my Chrissie. Always taking care of business … and avoiding the topic at hand.”

  Jason called the restaurant and asked for the waitress who had served them. He explained that he would not be returning. She took a credit card number and he included a sizable tip.

  “I hope everything works out,” the waitress said, her voice professional but concerned.

  He ended the call and directed his next statement at Chrissie. “Now tell me why you can’t marry me.”

  “Take me home!”

  Chapter 4

  “I can’t be with a man who has secrets,” Chrissie whispered later in the living room of her house in the Deep Creek section of Newport News, the house she now shared with Jason.

  It was the home in which they had shared a bed and their lives for the last thirteen months. Jason still owned his home in Running Man up in York County. Though it was filled with horrific memories of Chrissie being attacked by the killers, he did not want to put it up for sale until they were engaged. At the moment, though, it looked like the place would stay off the market for the
foreseeable future.

  The knife of truth pierced him again. The pain he’d endured in the parking lot in Norfolk was the first blow. Jason realized now what was causing the trauma. It was more than her refusal to accept his proposal. It was a long, cold blade cutting him to his core. With each word Chrissie spoke, the knife seemed to twist in his chest.

  Does she know the truth?

  “I don’t have secrets,” he lied.

  Chrissie sat on the edge of the sofa with her head cradled in her palms. She stared at the carpet. Jason paced. The lamp on the end table provided the only light in the entire house, a beacon illuminating his sins.

  Even before her words confirmed it, Chrissie cocked her head and lifted her eyebrows in a way that told Jason she was not buying it. “Bullshit!” she whispered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he persisted.

  How much does she know?

  “You’re keeping things from me. We can’t start off our marriage with secrets.”

  Jason shook his head, willing himself to convince her. He held her defiant gaze with all the reserves of strength he could summon. It was better that she didn’t know everything. Jason felt the earth beneath his feet beginning to shift and crumble.

  He had been keeping secrets from her. Now, his job was to limit the damage.

  “You remember after all that crap that happened at the shipyard, how we were working through our injuries and our fears. Then it seemed like we had turned a corner. Do you remember?”

  Jason nodded, admitting she was correct. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Things got better. We had a great ten months. Then things changed … again. You became sullen and withdrawn once more. You wouldn’t talk to me. You were keeping things from me. I was supportive. I told you I wanted to get married, to have children. But you didn’t hear me. Do you remember that huge fight we had right before Christmas last year?”

  Jason bobbed his head once.

  “Do you remember what I said?”