The Ties That Bind

“You’re a cold-hearted man, Denny.”

“No, Kate,” he said, “I’m a realist. I can’t afford to be anything else. If I start thinking like an optimist, a lot of people are going to die. Our agents need to be human, too. So do we for that matter.”

“There’s a difference between being a hopeless optimist and having hope,” Kate said, her voice soft. “I’d like to believe that a big part of what Room 59 does is finding that difference.”

“Maybe it is,” Denny said. “But in the meantime we have a job to do, and sometimes that means that we have to use people in some not-so-nice ways, even our own agents. Especially when it means they’re better agents for it in the long run.”

“We all get used,” Kate said. “That comes with the territory. But that doesn’t mean we always have to do the same to our own people.”

“Kate,” Denny said, “unless I miss my guess, by the time he lands in Anchorage, Jason will have already figured out that he may have to die in order to achieve some level of success on this mission.”

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Garrett Dylan for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PROLOGUE

Most days, Denny Talbot, the head of Room 59 for the United States, enjoyed his job.

Throughout his careers in naval intelligence and the SEALs, the corporate world, politics and espionage, he’d learned the skills necessary to manipulate events and people with a calm precision that many others found disconcerting. And he’d learned to enjoy the games required by his position in an international espionage organization: the push and pull of compromise that got things done, the cloak-and-dagger efforts required to kill those who needed killing or remove a threat to the world. In this job, Denny knew he made a difference, helped make the world a better place. Each mission was both professional and personal, because it often meant the difference between a safe world and a world gone mad. And so most days, he enjoyed it.

Today, however, was not one of those days.

Part of his frustration was that he was supposed to be taking a few days off—and instead of being outside, riding his Tennessee walkers and enjoying the fresh air, he was inside. Working. And the work was on the far, distant side of the universe from enjoyable or fun.

An amplified scream of pain brought Denny’s thoughts back to what had interrupted his time off. Most of the time, he lived and worked in New York, but he liked to escape to his small ranch outside of Nashville for his downtime. Most of his life had been filled with the noises of cities or combat or meetings in small offices filled with intense people. His ranch was quiet, secluded and—barring an emergency situation—private. But when you worked for Room 59, downtime didn’t always equate to time off. The organization was too large and too involved in the shadowy underside of the world for any of its leaders to truly take time off. What they did was too important to ever let the events shaping the post-9/11 world stray too far from their minds.

Created after the horrific events of that fateful day, Room 59 represented an effort by most of the major countries of the world to stop threats before they happened, and to do so in a way that couldn’t be traced back to any one specific nation. The countries involved poured millions into the project through shadow corporations that no longer existed, and the organization itself reported to the independent International Intelligence Agency. Yet, as large a joint venture as Room 59 was, its members were invisible to the outside world. Very few people in even the highest levels of government knew who they were. Everything they did—from daily operations to assassination missions to intelligence gathering—was done behind walls of encryption and secrecy. Meetings were held in virtual-reality conference rooms, where people were represented by electronic avatars that might, or might not, represent their true appearance.

Room 59 had important work to do, and discovery by the media or an opposing interest might mean the end of the organization itself.

Denny was seated in a secure office, hidden inside his ranch house. His eyes were covered with a pair of highly advanced glasses that connected to his computer and launched his avatar into the virtual world of Room 59. In that world, his avatar was seated at his desk, too. He tried to make his virtual office very similar to the one he used in the real world. It was comforting to him and seemed to put visitors at ease, as well. People who were comfortable, Denny knew, were more likely to let their guard down.

Floating directly in front of him was a video recording. In the virtual world, no monitor was needed—images, videos, recordings and other data could simply be pulled from icon files and launched into view. The video was poor quality, but clear enough to be seen. The audio track was a little too good for Denny’s taste.

The man’s screams, the slap of a heavy fist against flesh, the slow pit-pat of blood hitting the concrete floor…these were sounds that Denny knew all too well. He knew torture was a necessary part of espionage, but that didn’t make it pleasant. If a man came to enjoy it, he needed to find a new line of work.

In the video, a Russian man was manacled to a chair. His brown hair was wet with sweat and blood, and his deep-set eyes seethed with pain and rage. His lips were swollen, his nose was crooked and thin rivulets of blood ran from both nostrils. Naked from the waist up—his captors obviously hadn’t gotten to the more drastic forms of information extraction yet—his chest was crisscrossed with the marks of his interrogation. From the look, Denny guessed they’d been using some kind of heated metal to sear the man’s skin.

Denny suspected that the people who were questioning him were CIA, probably black ops, but they weren’t on camera and even their voices had been changed on the audio track. With time, they could probably be found, but the interrogators didn’t really matter. What mattered was what the Russian was telling them.

Between sobbing breaths, he hissed, “You…fucking barbarians. I’ve told you. That’s all I know.”

“Yeah, right,” an off-camera voice said. “But here’s the problem, Yusiv. I think you’re lying. We think you’re lying. We think your story is bullshit. Mother Russia hasn’t had the money or the technology to develop anything like that.”

“I do not lie!” the Russian screamed, then his body sagged in exhaustion. The scream had taken the last of his strength. “They have it and they will use it,” he whispered.

“When?” the other voice snapped. “Where?”

The Russian shook his head. “I have told you all I know. They are testing it in the Bering Sea. I don’t know how it will be used, but you can be sure that they will. There are powers in Russia who are not happy with the changes in our country. They want to go back to the old ways.”

“The old ways?”

“They want to be a world power again,” the beaten man said. “Bring back the arms race, the Cold War, all of it. Then, we were feared. Now, we are a joke to the rest of the world.”

The interrogators laughed. “That’s true,” one of them finally said. “So, your story is that someone over there has developed an Oscar-class nuclear submarine capable of supercavitation…and they’re testing it in the Bering Sea.”

“It is not a story,” the Russian said, his eyes blazing once again. “You make it sound like a children’s fable.”

“We think it is,” one of the men said. “We think you didn’t like serving in the Russian navy and now you want to defect. Isn’t that closer to the truth, Yusiv?”

The Russian spit blood on the floor and shook his head. “I have nothing else to say.”

The video cut out at that point, and Denny saw that the communication icon was flashing. He tapped it with an outstretched virtual hand and a small window opened in front of him, revealing the face of Kate Cochran—his boss and the woman who ran Room 59.

Despite her platinum-blond hair and her ability to be lighthearted from time to time, when it came to work, she was all business. “What do you think?” she asked. In Denny’s experience, Kate tended to be direct, to the point and have high expectations. When she wanted answers, she wanted them immediately.

Denny leaned back in his chair. He assumed she knew more than she was saying and was looking to him for additional input before reaching any conclusions. “What do you think?” he countered. She was used to his asking questions in response to hers. It was how they worked.

“You know those new biometrics tools our research folks put together?” she asked, then continued without waiting for his reply. “I had the video and audio tracks scanned using those. They’re more reliable than any polygraph machine. At the very least, the Russian believes he’s telling the truth.”

“Then,” Denny replied, “we’ve got a serious problem. A nuclear sub capable of supercavitation is no joke.”

Kate sighed heavily. “When don’t we?” she quipped. “So, you’re the ex-navy man. What does that mean in layman’s terms?”

“This is an oversimplification in a lot of ways, but put simply, imagine a nuclear-armed submarine that can travel at twice the speed of anything we’ve got in the water right now. That means twice the distance. It also means that we’d have virtually no warning at all if they decided to park one off the West Coast and launch. They could be there, launch and be on their way home before we’d have a chance to do anything about it except tell the president to get in his bunker and push the button.”

Kate was silent for a moment, then said, “Shit.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Denny said. “We need an operative up there and fast. If it’s true, it means that the U.S. is going to have to move back toward Cold War footing. Everything changes if the Russians are rebuilding their arsenals.”

“They’ve started doing long-range patrol flights again,” Kate said. “Where the hell are they getting the money for all this?”

Denny shook his head. “I don’t know. A lot of money has been pouring into Russia since the collapse of the Soviet Union. It’s hard to trace it all. Right now, all we really need to know is if they’ve actually got a sub with this kind of capability. And if they do, we need to have it, too.”

The very idea of resuming the arms race made him grit his teeth. There was no win for anyone in that scenario. “Or we need to make sure that it’s destroyed,” he added.

“I agree,” Kate said. “I’ll take it before the IIA representatives today, and they’ll green-light the mission, even if I have to break arms to get the votes.”

“Understood,” he said. “Do you want to assign the agent or do you want me to do it?”

“Do you have someone specific in mind?” she asked.

Denny tapped a glowing icon in front of him and a folder appeared. He tapped it again and it opened. “One of our newest recruits,” he said. “Jason Siku.”

Kate scanned the folder’s contents. “Why him?” she asked. “This would be his first official op. Pretty intense work for a newbie.”

“Normally, I’d agree with you,” he said. “But this guy isn’t our usual recruit. He’s had a ton of espionage experience, speaks fluent Russian, and with his ancestry, he’ll be able to fit right in up there. This isn’t a kill assignment—though his final training mission was. This is recon only. If we need to step up to a search-and-destroy, we can reassess the situation then.”

Kate nodded. “Do you expect any other complications? We can’t afford any mistakes here.”

“None,” Denny said. “Siku is a straight arrow. He worked for the CIA before he came to us. He has no family and no real ties to anyone. His mission success rate with the Feds was perfect, and he doesn’t wander off track. He’ll get the job done.”

Denny paused, thinking for a moment. “Besides that, we’ve got an off-radar employee already in the field up there,” he said.

“Who’s that?” Kate asked.

“A local who translates intercepted Russian communications, that sort of thing. There’s some minor weapons smuggling going on up there, and the agent keeps us apprised of that situation, too. It’s not a full-on field agent, but we’ll know the score and be able to keep an eye on Siku.”

“All right,” Kate said. “I’ll get the ball rolling and get back to you later today. You can expect a mission assignment within four hours.”

“I’ll be standing by,” Denny said.

Kate laughed quietly. “No, you won’t. You’ll be back out riding your horses and playing cowboy. I’ll call you direct and give you the thumbs-up. Go back to your rest and relaxation. Though what you call relaxing, I call being bounced around and risking a broken neck.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling. “You just haven’t ridden the right kind of horse.”

“And I’ll be keeping it that way, thank you very much,” Kate said. “Gotta go.”

She signed off and Denny studied the video again. He didn’t need to see the biometrics results. The Russian was telling the truth, but the submarine was only part of what made the story disturbing. The very idea of the Cold War starting up again—a war that he’d already survived once—chilled him to his core.

The first Cold War had been a quiet one of buildup, cat-and-mouse games and political posturing. The players in the game now would be far different than those faced before. Sooner or later, the players would include extremists who wouldn’t hesitate to use any of the weapons in their arsenals to start a truly global conflict.

And in that kind of war, Denny knew, there were no winners at all.

There was only a world filled with death and ash.

1

Jason Siku slipped the modified shooting glasses over his eyes. From his perspective, the yellow-tinted lenses were more than just a coloration that brought out contrasts in the landscape. The lenses used a tiny microprocessor built into the frames to work in tandem with the high-tech rounds he was testing tonight.

The indoor firing range was almost empty, and Jason was enjoying the relative peace of practicing without the interruption of other people talking and shooting at the same time that he practiced. He dropped an empty clip from his porcelain-framed Glock 17 and slid in a new one. Setting the weapon down, he attached a new human-shaped target sheet to the clips, then moved it out to a distance of fifteen feet. Picking up the gun once more, he set his feet and turned on the laser sight with a tap of his thumb.

A red dot appeared on the target’s chest region. He took one steadying breath, then began shooting. A few seconds later, the last round was fired and the slide sprang open. During these sessions, Jason didn’t think or reminisce, and he rarely spoke to anyone when he was here. An excellent shooter, he knew, thought of nothing during the moments of pulling the trigger but his weapon and the target. Everything else was a distraction that could prove deadly or cause a miss.

He removed the empty clip and was reaching for the next one when a hand on his shoulder startled him enough to almost cause him to jump. He felt his muscles tense momentarily, then he relaxed them. He turned to see the owner of the range, Jim Miller, staring at the target. Jason pulled off his ear protection and offered a slight smile. “Hi, Jim,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Miller continued to gaze at the target. “Fine,” he said, then shook his head. “That’s…that’s some good shooting. Even taking the short range into account, I don’t know too many people who can shoot like that.”

Jason nodded. “Thanks. I practice at ten, fifteen and twenty feet,” he said. “Every once in a while, I’ll go out farther, twenty-two or twenty-five feet, but it’s really kind of pointless beyond those ranges.”

“How’s that?” Miller asked.

“Most shootings with a handgun occur inside twenty feet,” Jason said. “Being a crack shot at fifty won’t help you much if the other guy is ten feet away and shooting back.”

“I suppose not,” Miller admitted. “Those are some nice patterns, too. Two to the chest, one to the head. You didn’t miss once. We’ve got a couple of shooting-club champions that come here that don’t get groupings like that.”

Jason smiled. “I practice a lot.”

“I’ve noticed,” Miller said. “You’ve been in here often.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just wanted to let you know that we’re closing in about fifteen minutes.”

Jason glanced at his watch. “Thanks for the reminder. I was kind of in a zone.”

Miller grinned. “I noticed that, too.” He headed back down the firing lane and said, “Have a good night.”

“Thanks,” Jason said. “You, too.”

He considered running a few more rounds through the weapon—it was also new—but he’d already done over five hundred this week. The gun felt comfortable in his hands and his accuracy with it was solid. The fact that the rounds he was using were specially made for Room 59 agents wasn’t something anyone needed to know.

Working with information processed by the shooting glasses, the modified rounds were autocorrecting. A tiny microchip tracked the previous round and the shooter’s visual response and made adjustments on the fly. If you were off by a half inch with the first shot, the second shot would be dead-on. It was a marvelous modification, but Jason didn’t like to count on it, so he’d practiced with the weapon until he felt that he wouldn’t need the rounds to adjust for him more than a quarter inch at twenty feet or less.

He reloaded and placed the weapon in the ballistic holster under his left arm, then pulled on his jacket. He took his extra clip and slid it into the spare magazine slot on the holster, reeled in his target and policed his area clean. He knew no one would bother to look at the casings too closely. There were thousands of them in the area, and it would take more than a cursory examination to notice anything different about them anyway.

Jason crumpled up the target and tossed it into the trash can, then started walking toward the front of the building, where Miller sold guns and other sporting goods. Just as he reached the door leading into the shopping area, he brought himself up short. Even through the heavy sheet metal, he could hear the sound of raised voices.

Cautiously, he eased open the door wide enough to slip through. The voices were clearer now.

“Just give us the money, man, and we’re outta here. No muss, no fuss.” It was a young man’s voice.

“Do it now!” another voice yelled. “Stop fucking around, old man!”

“I’m doing it,” Jason heard Miller say. “I have to turn on the computer first. I already shut it down for the night. The cash drawer won’t open unless the computer is on.”

“Oh, freakin’ bullshit, man,” the first voice said.

Jason eased his way up one aisle, cut sideways, then began working his way forward. What kind of idiot would choose to rob a gun shop? he wondered. Miller had to be armed or have a weapon behind the counter. Why wasn’t he fighting back?

“Look, you owe us, man, and now you’re gonna pay up. Stop with the excuses.”

Jason was finally close enough to peer over a large stack of shotgun shells that were on display. The two men talking to Miller both looked to be in their twenties. The one with the calmer voice held a revolver in his hands, while the screamer was carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Both of them wore gang colors, which meant that they were at least used to the idea of violence, if not used to doing it themselves. Both of them had various tattoos and piercings—anonymity was not a part of their world.

It didn’t matter to Jason what Miller supposedly owed them; what they were doing was robbery.

He decided to play it straight and see what happened. Room 59 agents weren’t supposed to get involved in this kind of thing—they were supposed to be invisible—but he wouldn’t let a good man die or be robbed for no reason. Stepping out from behind the display, he pulled out his wallet and kept his head down. “Hey, Jim,” he called. “What do I owe you for tonight?”

“What the fuck is this?” the screamer said. “Don’t move a freakin’ muscle!”

Jason stopped in his tracks. “Whoa,” he said. “Easy, kid. I don’t…hey, I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late for that, man,” the first guy said. “It found you.”

Jason risked a glance at Jim, saw his hand easing toward the underside of the counter and gave a slight shake of his head. “It usually does,” he said, putting his wallet back into his jeans. “Are you boys giving my friend Jim here a hard time?”

“Ain’t none of your damn business. Don’t move, don’t get hurt. We’ll finish up what we gotta do and be on our merry,” the calm one said.

Jason went still. He turned his gaze on the calm one first, then the screamer. “In exactly thirty seconds,” he said, his voice low and deadly, “I’m going to kill both of you. And not in a nice way, but in a slow, painful way.” He kept his hands out, palms open and visible. “Or you can leave and never come back. It’s up to you.”

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?” the screamer said. “I’ll shoot you down, man, and sleep like a baby.”

“Twenty seconds,” Jason said.

“Man’s crazy,” the first guy said. “Got a death wish or something.”

“Fifteen seconds,” he said. “Your time is running out, boys.”

“Just give us the damn money, Miller!” the second guy yelled. “Your boy done took out a loan to pay for his habit, and since he’s not around no more, you get to pay up.”

Miller’s eyes met with Jason’s. “Fuck you,” the shop owner said. “My boy died because you got him hooked. If anyone owes, it’s you.”

“Guess they both want to die,” the calmer man said.

“Wrong again,” Jason whispered. In the blink of an eye, he had the Glock free from the holster and he fired a single round into the forehead of the kid carrying the revolver.

He fell over dead, the back of his head a gaping, gory hole.

“Grinch!” the screamer said, then turned his rage toward Jason. “You fuckin’ said thirty seconds!”

Jason shrugged. “I lied,” he said, bringing the Glock around. “Drop the gun, kid, or you’ll be just as dead as your buddy Grinch.”

Jason watched as the boy considered his options, saw him make his sad decision and begin to raise his shotgun. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the Glock spoke twice more, and the boy dropped the gun and began to scream in earnest. His knees were gone and he writhed on the floor, crying and bleeding.

“Jesus,” Miller said.

“He doesn’t have much to do with this kind of thing,” Jason replied. “Lend me your belt.”

“What?”

“Your belt,” he snapped. “Unless you want that boy to bleed to death.”

Miller whipped his belt off and handed it over.

Jason kicked the shotgun away and knelt down by the wounded boy, using Miller’s belt and his own to make tourniquets on each leg. “Shut up,” he snapped as the boy continued to scream and moan. “You could be dead.”