OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Read online

  “You awake?” she whispered.

  “Yep,” he said immediately, keeping his eyes closed.

  “Sorry. I should have shut the slider.”

  He met her glance with weary, half-open eyes and a warm smile. “I could have shut it before I lay down.”

  She playfully raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I love you,” he replied, broadening his smile. “And I’m not afraid of the boogeyman.”

  Jessica kissed his lips and pressed her forehead against his. “It’s not about being afraid. It’s about being smart about our security.”

  “I know how much you enjoy the fresh air.”

  “And I love you even more for that,” she said. “But it’s not like I can enjoy it after I fall asleep.”

  “You were up at least three times last night, breathing in the ocean air,” he said, kissing her.

  “It is kind of nice,” she admitted.

  “By this point, I should be able to leave a door open and not worry about someone sneaking in and slitting my throat,” said Daniel.

  Jessica wasn’t sure how to respond. The fact that he’d so bluntly brought it up was a significant step down a path she wanted him to follow. On the surface, Daniel always looked unaffected, rock solid to a fault, but nothing could be further from the truth. He had an exceptionally difficult time letting go of old habits. He was just far better at concealing and suppressing his emotions; a talent she’d never really mastered.

  Unfortunately, Daniel’s façade took a severe toll on both of them, hindering the kind of joint emotional progress needed to put enough distance between the past and present to escape or, at the very least, keep them from regressing.

  They’d been close to escaping before, living a slightly forced version of the American dream in Maine, until General Sanderson crashed the party. Within the short span of twenty-four hours, the general had erased every gain they’d made after disappearing from Belgrade. Five years of healing, rebuilding, reprograming, forgetting, all flushed down the Black Flag toilet. They needed to make a clean break from the past this time, or they’d never break free. For the first time in a long while, she sensed that Daniel wanted it just as badly. The sooner they made their move, the better.

  “I’m running the George Hill loop, then a quick swim in the bay,” she said. “You up for the swim?”

  “I might join you for the swim,” he said. “Wake me up when you get back from the run.”

  All of that meant no, and it had nothing to do with getting a bad night of sleep. Daniel had stopped exercising regularly a few months ago, a really bad development. He needed rigorous physical exercise and constant distraction to keep his mind focused on the present. Without it, his mind turned inward. To dark places she had never managed to access. Places she had no interest in visiting.

  Daniel had stood at the edge of the abyss at some point in Yugoslavia, staring into a vast darkness meant to swallow him. He’d made that much clear, without going into specifics. Bumping into her outside of a Belgrade nightclub had saved him from jumping into the blackness that had already consumed most of the Black Flag operatives assigned to the Balkans. She’d seen him like this a few times before, but never for this long. It was time to revisit an idea they had batted around a few months ago.

  “Maybe you should get some more rest. I’ll make us a nice breakfast when I’m done,” she said, kissing his forehead.

  She’d broach the topic over gourmet coffee and omelets.

  “That sounds good,” he said, burrowing his head into the pillow.

  Jessica walked to the balcony and shut the slider, locking the door. A faint beep sounded from a compact digital tablet on Daniel’s nightstand. The home’s security system had registered the change in door status. A few minutes later, dressed in black triathlon shorts and a pink tri-top, she descended a wide, open-riser metal staircase to the gray marble foyer.

  In the kitchen, she flipped the switch on the stainless steel espresso maker and downed a tall glass of cold water poured from a bottle-fed water dispenser. A double shot of espresso and a few glasses of spring water would fuel her five-mile run. She refilled the glass and left the kitchen, headed for the two-story bank of windows covering the eastern side of the villa’s great room.

  Bright orange rays of light reflected off the far wall, illuminating a collage of colorful Caribbean-inspired artwork. A deep blue Dubai leather sectional faced the window, flanked by two polished chrome arc lamps, encompassing the entirety of the great room’s furniture. She walked deeper into the room, pausing to shield her eyes from the blazing horizon with her unoccupied hand. A few seconds later, the room dimmed as the bottom of the sun disappeared behind one of the low-lying cloud masses.

  Jessica walked to the window and scanned Lockrum Bay. The tall bobbing mast of a blue-hulled sloop immediately caught her eye. A Hinckley Sou’wester 52 sat at a storm-reinforced mooring a few hundred yards offshore. Just the sight of it gave her hope. She’d come up with the idea a year ago, soon after insisting that they take sailing lessons and follow up with a two-week bareboat charter out of the British Virgin Islands. Daniel took to sailing like a natural, embracing its dynamic nature and the constant need for vigilance.

  The two-week taste of sailboat life far exceeded Jessica’s expectations. Not only did she feel far more relaxed and liberated than she could ever remember, but Daniel had caught the sailing fever. It had started with mojito-fueled conversations about what it would be like to freely sail around the Caribbean for a few months a year, and ended with the purchase of a rarely used sailboat built by one of the most reputable names in the business.

  They’d cruised the islands for three months after the purchase, pausing to conduct some business for Sanderson in South America. Ugly business that nearly got all of them killed. Daniel hadn’t been the same since. Something had shifted in the dark recesses of his mind, brought too close to the surface for his comfort. She needed to get him back on that boat—permanently.

  Jessica took a sip of cold water and grinned. La Ombra, Italian for ghost or shadow, swayed gently in the bay. Ghost. Exactly what they would become once they sailed for the horizon and never looked back.

  Chapter 6

  Lockrum Bay, Anguilla

  Daniel contemplated the warm remains of his espresso before downing it moments later. When his glance returned to the water’s edge, Jessica had disappeared below the jagged rocks bordering the narrow strip of beach. She’d reemerge shortly, swimming through the light morning chop toward the sailboat moored in the cove. He couldn’t wait to spring his surprise on Jessica.

  From the moment she suggested sailing lessons out of Saint Martin, Daniel understood what she was after. Disappearing, or at least making it as difficult as possible for anyone, friend or foe, to find them. Relocating to another anonymous fortresslike house halfway around the world only solved part of their problem. They needed a new lifestyle. One that kept them challenged, with infinite possibilities, none of which required their current skillsets. Cruising the world fit that bill perfectly.

  Never in the same place for longer than the weather dictated. Full freedom to choose the next destination. Rigorous at times. Inherently unavoidable but manageable elements of danger, both predictable and capricious. He had read hundreds of firsthand accounts about couples and families sailing the world, all reinforcing the unspoken decision Jessica and Daniel had reached by passionately embracing a series of extensive sailing lessons.

  The next step had been obvious. They needed a boat capable of comfortable transoceanic passage, and if they were really going to do this, they would do it right. Extensive research pointed to several well-established boat builders, one that caught his eye immediately: a Maine-based boatyard renowned for building top-of-the-line, luxurious sailboats coveted around the world. While he was likely initially drawn to the Hinckley line of yachts by the link to Maine, where he and Jessica had first tried to build a normal life, the matter was settled by the disc
overy of a gently used Hinckley Sou’wester 52 for sale in the British Virgin Islands.

  As a newly minted sailing couple, they were in well over their heads with the fifty-two-foot vessel. They’d fared better than either of them had expected during their three-month shakedown cruise, but island hopping across the Caribbean was hardly the final test for what they had in mind.

  Daniel chuckled at the thought. Just a few months ago, he’d spent the better part of two days tied to a chair in a Montevideo slum, praying that Jessica was still alive after their mission tanked. Now he was worried about sailing a luxury yacht to points unknown. He’d gladly trade the former burden for the latter. If reefing the sails in the face of stormy weather or navigating a treacherous pass was life’s new stress, he could live with that. He was pretty sure Jessica wouldn’t have a problem making that transition either. It had been her idea, after all. She just didn’t know how quickly he intended to make it a reality.

  Their days on Anguilla were numbered, quite possibly in the single digits if she literally and figuratively was on board with his plan to sweep her away from a life that had grown comfortably toxic to their relationship, and their survival.

  Jessica reappeared in the water, her arms cutting through the surf toward La Ombra. Her recently acquired habit of swimming to the boat every morning after a long run had forced him to modify the original plan. He’d quit running with her in the morning to see if he could break the new routine, but he only seemed to reinforce it. She’d swim out every day, sometimes twice, trying to lure him out of his “funk,” as she described it. He couldn’t possibly load the boat with the supplies without her knowing, and he wanted everything to be a complete surprise. Not an easy feat when you were married to a covert operative easily your better.

  For all he knew, Jessica had already unraveled his plot, though he sincerely doubted it. From what he could tell, she was completely unaware of his scheme, more focused on his “deteriorating state of mind.” He’d led her down that rabbit hole after the disastrous Montevideo operation, hoping the intense ordeal would be a believable trigger point for him to start seriously weighing the risks of their line of work against the rewards.

  They’d talked about this at length in the past, but the life was hardwired into them. It was not as easy to leave behind as they had originally thought, especially when they were rarely more than a phone call away from the next job. Even more so when the man sending you the work was a relentless, undeniably talented spin doctor. All the more reason to dump every means of communication and put a few thousand miles of blue water behind them. Sanderson’s reach was extensive, but it didn’t include an anchorage in French Polynesia or Fiji. He hoped. The sooner they left, the better.

  Watching Jessica swim effortlessly toward the yacht bobbing in the cove, he decided to make the call that would activate his plan. They’d enjoy a sunset dinner at their favorite seaside restaurant, and Daniel would propose all over again. Instead of a ring, he’d present her with a fully provisioned boat, ready to sweep them away from the life and usher in a new era.

  Chapter 7

  CIA Headquarters

  McLean, Virginia

  Karl Berg leaned back in his seat and checked his watch, once again finding himself unable to answer the same question that had troubled him for the vast majority of the year. Why the hell was he still here? He’d routinely worked excessively long office hours during his two-decade stretch at headquarters, never complaining. The work had always absorbed him, and in his own way he’d thrived on it, turning even the most mundane assignments into gold.

  He’d pieced together the significance of Reznikov’s sudden reappearance on the world scene while holding down a chair in what most of his colleagues considered to be an end-of-the-line lateral transfer out of the National Clandestine Service (NCS). A few months later, after the controversial but successful clandestine raid against Vektor Institute, he was back in the game, promoted to deputy director of the Special Operations Group (SOG) within the Special Activities Division (SAD).

  The dirty word retirement faded into the distance during the incredible year and a half that followed. As promised by Thomas Manning, then director of NCS, Berg was promoted at the start of 2008 to director of the Special Operations Group, taking over for Jeffrey McConnell, who took over the entire Special Activities Division. There was serious talk about Manning taking over as associate deputy director of the CIA, and of Audra Bauer, Berg’s longtime friend and guardian angel, sliding into Manning’s position as director of NCS.

  Life was good until late 2008, when Alan Crane became the first third-party candidate in history to win a U.S. presidential election. True America had pulled off an epic, seemingly impossible win, and nobody saw it coming, because the most critical pieces of the plan to achieve victory had taken place deep inside the beltway’s Stygian nether-regions. Without a shadow of a doubt, deals had been struck between the most corruptible and sycophantic power brokers, a secret cabal that simultaneously orchestrated the implosion of a major political party and the swift ascendancy of a grassroots movement that few of the political elite took seriously.

  Speculation and conspiracy theory ruled the day when the incumbent president, who was favored to comfortably win the election, was toppled nearly overnight by coordinated revelations that his administration had delayed warning the public about the true extent of the Zulu virus threat against the United States in the spring of 2007.

  Several citizens of Morris County, New Jersey, died from drinking virus-infected water. Other leaks followed, clearly designed to question the administration’s knowledge and handling of the events leading to the entire situation surrounding the Zulu virus’s arrival on U.S. soil. Immigration policies were attacked, foreign policy decisions questioned. Hints were dropped suggesting U.S. involvement in an incident outside of Novosibirsk, Russia. The timing couldn’t have been worse for an administration that had grown complacent with a comfortable double-digit lead in the polls entering October. A dangerous complacency unquestionably fostered by key White House advisors and D.C. insiders complicit in the conspiracy.

  The conspirators were relatively easy to identify in most cases. Anyone that landed in a key role within the administration that hadn’t previously been part of the True America entourage was immediately a suspect in Berg’s mind. This particularly applied to anyone that had served in the previous administration. Similarly, any of the presidentially appointed cabinet members deserved a close examination. Most of them did not pass the initial sniff test.

  Jacob Remy’s nomination as secretary of Homeland Security was the most notoriously questionable appointment in Berg’s opinion, and the public’s. Having served under the previous president as chief of staff, logic dictated he had been made privy to the disgraced administration’s most closely held secrets. Apparently the deal he made with Crane’s White House outweighed reason or any sense of justice. James Quinn remained in the position of National Security advisor, requiring no political maneuvering, a quiet but telling gesture by Crane’s True America administration. The list grew daily as new announcements made the headlines.

  Some of the conspirators managed to remain in the shadows, but Berg had spent a career connecting hard-to-see dots. He’d predicted the uncharacteristically ruthless, career-breaking shake-up at the CIA long before anyone else. It started with an appointment that didn’t raise any eyebrows at first. As customary between outgoing and incoming administrations, the CIA remained untouched for a few months after Crane took office, keeping the U.S. intelligence-gathering apparatus working full steam during a period of significant change. In fact, consensus among top CIA officials suggested a longer delay for replacement appointments, because the upset election had left the United States, the House, and Senate locked in a power struggle. True America candidates had taken enough seats to make things difficult for the two parties that had dominated politics for two centuries.

  With those battle lines still being drawn, the administration pushed t
hrough the less controversial nominations first. One attracted Berg’s attention immediately. Frederick Shelby, director of the FBI, was nominated and unanimously appointed to the position of principal deputy director of National Intelligence. This move signaled the beginning of the end for the CIA’s current leadership. The True America fix was in, and it went far deeper than Berg ever imagined.

  The final investigative report detailing the events surrounding the June 2007 coordinated bioterrorism plot against the United States had meticulously and conclusively separated the link between the rogue True America spin-off group, led by disgruntled founders Jackson Greely and Lee Harding, and the mainstream True America movement sweeping its way to the White House. Once Shelby was nominated for the post at DNI, Berg held little doubt that the director of the FBI had purposely steered the investigation clear of any potentially messy connection in exchange for an even bigger seat at the table. If Shelby could be co-opted by True America, there was little hope that the rest of the intelligence community’s senior leadership positions hadn’t been predetermined by backroom deals and dirty handshakes.

  As the Senate and House finally settled into a functionally cooperative state by late spring of 2009, the intelligence community’s leadership was gutted, replaced by the men and women who had sold their souls at some point over the past few years to True America. Within days of Richard Sanford’s appointment as director of the CIA, anyone with past connections to Zulu virus operations or General Sanderson’s Black Flag team was demoted. Realigned was the corporate euphemism used to describe the changes.