Lose Your Breath (Detectives Kane and Alton)

“You can go in now, sir.”

Wolfe took a deep breath and walked into the office.

“At ease, Major. Take a seat.” Major General Lukas leaned on his desk.

Wolfe sat down, back straight and eyes front. He had an inkling this wasn’t going to go well.

“I understand the urgency of your request, Major, but we have a problem. Ninety-eight H doesn’t trust anyone but you, and right now he’s in the middle of a mission, which I’m sure you’ll agree is complicated.”

Wolfe narrowed his eyes. Was this a test? Missions were top secret and the life of the operative was at stake. One slip of the tongue and people died. “I have no comment on that

, sir.”

“We thought you might say that and as luck would have it POTUS is visiting Texas and has found a window in his schedule to speak with you.” Lukas pushed to his feet. “Follow me.”

Astonished, Wolfe followed Lukas through the familiar corridors and to a door flanked by two Secret Service agents. He pushed down the overwhelming gut-dropping experience of meeting his commander in chief and General Parkes. Heart pounding, he took the offered seat as Lukas left the room. Who was Ninety-eight H for POTUS to consider him above the other men under his command? Favoritism wasn’t something he’d experienced and it gave him a very bad taste in his mouth.

“At ease, Major Wolfe. We’re just three men chatting together discussing the future. I want to come to a suitable arrangement with you that suits everyone.”

Dang, you can order me to kill the man beside you and I’d do it without hesitation, and you want to come to a suitable arrangement with me? What the hell is going on here? Wolfe swallowed hard and stared at him, stymied. He gave himself a mental shake. “Yes, sir.”

“I know you’re aware the package Ninety-eight H is collecting is Annie Parkes, General Parkes’ only daughter, but you must understand why Ninety-eight H is so important to us.” POTUS gave him a long considering look as if thinking before he spoke again. “I never show favoritism but there is a reason for my decision and this information can never leave this room.” He paused a beat, his eyes fixed on Wolfe’s face.

Why is that angry, robotic man so damn important to you? Wolfe swallowed the question hovering on his lips.

“During his time with us, Ninety-eight H has been involved in a number of highly sensitive missions, at most times initiated alone. He carries classified information that could destabilize the US.” POTUS folded his hands on the desk and sighed. “Although we’re confident, if captured, no amount of torture would make him talk, he also won’t act unless he receives instructions from his handler. You, Major, are our only link to him.”

Wolfe nodded. He knew about the missions but before he could say anything, POTUS held up his hand.

“We’ll bring him home for a time when he completes this mission. As he’s moved around during his career and spent some time in DC’s Special Forces Investigation Command, he’d fit in anywhere and be safe here in the US, but I want him at the White House as part of my personal protection detail, although he’ll be undertaking special assignments as required. It’s not known, as nothing was released to the press, but he took a bullet for me at his father’s funeral. Due to his exceptional vigilance, he noticed a muzzle flare and stepped in front of me without hesitation. I owe him my life and our country owes him a debt of gratitude. Therefore, you will remain as his handler for as long as necessary. I understand your tragic personal problems. My heart goes out to you and your wife but I will give you all the support you need now and going forward. We plan to set up your home as a communications depot to allow you to handle Ninety-eight H exclusively.” He cleared his throat. “It’s come to my attention that you’re planning to continue your studies into forensic science, to become a medical examiner, I believe?”

Dumbfounded, Wolfe nodded. “Yes, sir, it was something I discussed with my wife as a career for when I left the service.”

“Well, we’ll make that a reality.” POTUS opened his hands. “Any assistance you require, we’ll supply for as long as you need. Your wife will receive the best medical care available; your kids will go to college. To everyone concerned, you’ll be retired from active duty but you’ll remain on the government payroll and will continue to receive orders and be in regular communication with my office. Be aware if the need arises, we might ask you to take another agent under your wing.” He looked long and hard at Wolfe. “Questions?”

What could he possibly say? He shook his head. “No, sir.” He cleared his throat. “When will I expect a team to arrive to make changes to my home?”

“I’m sure you’ve already discussed the alterations with your wife?” POTUS smiled at him. “The team will arrive about an hour after you get home.” He stood and offered his hand. “Good luck, Major. Bring our people home. We have friendlies waiting for orders. Call into the command center for instructions. You’ve six hours before the next scheduled contact with Ninety-eight H. It’s imperative you bring Annie home, whatever the cost.”

Mind whirling, Wolfe shook the president’s hand. It was a surreal moment, as if he’d had an unbelievable dream. Realization hit him hard. His operative was more than just special and now he had the job of keeping him safe. Not easy when the man seemed to have nothing to live for but the next mission. He turned on his heel and headed back to his office to pack up his things. His life had suddenly spiraled into a whole new dimension.

Chapter Five

Syria

The temperature had dropped and the streets were emptying as people returned to their homes. Ninety-eight H moved in the shadows, keeping close to the wall. He’d left the Audi in a dark street and hoped it would still be there on his return. He needed supplies and stealing from people who had nothing wasn’t his style, but he had other possibilities in the war-ravaged town. He’d spent his entire adult life observing in one way or another. He understood body language, the movement of people through a town. People who acted suspicious usually had something to hide. He’d noticed money changing hands. Drug trafficking happened on a major scale here and he had no problems stealing from criminals. The heavily armed men moved around in groups, shifting drugs, collecting money, but they all had a hub, a place to store both drugs and money. He just had to locate it without being seen. He hid in empty buildings, moving like a ghost, following, and watching. One mistake and they’d find him, torture him for days and drag him through the streets as a prize before taking his head, but they had no idea who lurked in the shadows. No way he’d ever go down easy, he’d be a nightmare they only saw coming once. The overconfident group he’d observed for the past few hours had led him straight to their lair. They’d arrived, collected bags, dropped off bags, and presumably left a small group of men inside.

Having the ability to move without a sound, was an advantage, killing without a sound another. He’d killed many men, in war and under orders, never in anger or spite. He didn’t enjoy killing. In fact, he regretted taking a life but removing scumbags from existence was part of the job. He understood the difference between a psychopath and someone like him, that undefined person who could kill on command. He did have empathy and each time he took a life it meant something. Edging along the wall, he heard voices come on the cool night breeze, low, whispering, conspiratorial and the sound of a money-counting machine. The whirring noise stopping sporadically and the man giving the count. Being an Army brat had its advantages: He spoke six languages fluently and Arabic was one of them. He listened to the conversation. Only two men remained inside the small house. He slid inside the unlocked door. The hallway smelled of money and spices, as if the men had just eaten. His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten for hours. The sound caught the attention of one of the men, who hushed the other and lifted an automatic rifle and headed straight for him.

Pressing into a doorway covered by a curtain and hidden by shadows, he waited for the man to walk past. He struck like a snake, and before the man had time to take a breath, he covered his mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around his head. Applying one sharp twist, the man slumped against him, his neck broken. Not making a sound, he lifted the man into the room and lowered him into a chair by the fire with his back to the doorway. The other man called out to his friend in Arabic and then came out of the back room, grim-faced and waving his rifle in an arc. Ninety-eight H pressed his back to the wall and waited. His heartbeat dropped and all around him became calm, each movement of the approaching threat stretched out in slow motion. He breathed in and out and relaxed as if he had all the time in the world.

“Karam, what are you doing?” The man pushed back the curtain with his rifle and peered at his friend. “We don’t have time

to warm ourselves by the fire. The count must be done tonight.”

As the man walked into the room, Ninety-eight H lashed out. One hard punch in the temple and he went down without a whimper, dead before he hit the floor. He dragged him into the room and sat him beside Karam and then went back to the doorway and listened, but the only sound was the wind brushing the house. He moved in silence, checking every nook and cranny for any possible hiding places and then slipped down the hallway into the kitchen. He had time. He estimated he had seven minutes before the patrol went past again.

A pot of food simmered on a stove and loaves of fresh bread waited on a bench, ready to be eaten. He grabbed a spoon, lifted the lid, and tasted the food to see if it was cooked. It tasted like chicken and vegetables in a thick sauce. He searched the small room; empty bags lay scattered across the floor. He selected a sturdy burlap shoulder bag with long handles and a zipper. He filled it with plastic bags of bills, neatly counted and wrapped, noting with surprise some of the packets contained US currency as well. He added two kilo bricks of heroin from a pile on a table and then pulled off his backpack. After, adding four loaves of bread and a couple of rounds of goats’ cheese, he shrugged into the backpack and slid the burlap bag over one shoulder. His stomach rumbled as he eyed the hot food. He smiled, pushed a spoon into his pocket, grabbed a rag by the stove, lifted the pot, and hightailed it out the back door. As he pulled the squeaky door closed behind him, a militia truck rumbled past, slowing at the front of the house before continuing around the block.