Jack Mars - Assassin Zero

“Sir,” said the blonde woman beside him. “Deputy Director Maria Johansson, CIA, Special Operations Group.”

Johansson, right. Rutledge suddenly recalled meeting her, as he had thought, the day of his inauguration.

“What Director Shaw is describing,” she continued, “is indicative of an ultrasonic weapon. This sort of concentration on a limited area in such a finite period of time creates parameters narrow enough for us to assume this was a targeted attack.”

That did little to explain anything to Rutledge. “I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling like the dunce of the room. “Did you say ultrasonic weapon?”

Johansson nodded. “Yes, sir. Ultrasonic weapons are typically used as nonlethal deterrents; most of our Navy’s ships are outfitted with them. Cruise ships use them as defense against pirates. But based on what we know happened in Cuba, what we’re seeing is much larger in scale and more potent than what our military employs.”

Tabby cleared her throat. “The police in Havana collected reports from at least three eyewitnesses who claim to have seen a group of masked men loading a ‘strange object’ onto a boat in the aftermath of the attack.”

Rutledge rubbed his temples. An ultrasonic weapon? It sounded like something out of a science fiction movie. It never ceased to amaze and confound him the creative ways humans dreamed up to hurt and kill each other.

“I assume you don’t believe this is an isolated incident,” Rutledge said.

“We would love to assume so, sir,” said Shaw. “But we simply can’t. That weapon and the people behind it are out there somewhere.”

“And the nature of this attack,” Johansson picked up, “appears random. We can’t discern a motive to target Havana or a tourist destination other than ease of access and escape, which in a case like this generally indicates a testing ground.”

“A testing ground,” Rutledge repeated. He had never served in the military, nor had he ever been employed in intelligence or covert operations, but he was fully aware what the deputy director was suggesting: this was the first attack, and there would be others. “And I suppose I should also assume that some of the victims were American.”

Tabby nodded. “That’s correct, sir. Two suffered permanent blindness. And the lone casualty was a young American woman…” She consulted her notes. “Named Megan Taylor. From Massachusetts.”

Rutledge was not prepared to deal with this. It was bad enough that he hadn’t yet nominated his vice president, a decision he had been floundering on because he didn’t trust himself not to resign immediately. It was bad enough that he was under a microscope, from not only the media but practically the entire world, because of the indiscretions of his two predecessors. It was bad enough that China’s new and seemingly irrational leader had sparked a trade war with the US by imposing ever-climbing tariffs on the massive amount of exports manufactured there, which was forecast to cause leaping inflation and, in the long term, potentially destabilize the American economy.

It was bad enough that it was Thanksgiving, for Christ’s sake.

“Sir?” Tabby prodded gently.

Rutledge hadn’t realized he’d been lost in his own head. He snapped out of it and rubbed his eyes. “All right, brass tacks: do we have reason to believe the United States might become a target?”

“Currently,” said Director Shaw, “we should operate under the assumption that the US will be a target. We can’t afford not to.”

“Any intel on who’s behind this?” Rutledge asked.

“Not yet,” Johansson said.

“But this doesn’t quite fit the MO of any of our Middle Eastern friends,” offered General Kressley. “If I was a betting man, I’d put hard cash on the Russians.”

“We can’t make any sort of assumptions,” said Johansson firmly.

“Given our recent history,” Kressley argued, “I’d call it an educated guess.”

“We are an intelligence agency,” Johansson fired back across the table, even wearing a thin smirk as she did. “And as such, we’ll gather intelligence and work on facts. Not guesses. Not assumptions.”

Rutledge found himself very fond of the slight blonde woman who refused to back down from a scowling four-star general. He turned to her and asked, “What do you propose, Johansson?”

“Our top engineer is currently devising a method of tracking this sort of weapon. Based on Havana, I would say the perpetrators are most likely to stay close to the water and target a coastal area. With your approval, sir, I’d like to send a Special Ops team to find them.”

Rutledge nodded slowly—a CIA operation sounded far more preferable than sounding the horn on the potential for an attack. Keep it small, keep it quiet , he thought. Then an idea came, sudden as an actual light bulb coming to life.

“Johansson,” he asked, “one of your agents was the guy that cracked the Kozlovsky affair, yes? He found the interpreter and retrieved the recording?”

Johansson was oddly hesitant, but she nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

“What was his name?”

“That would be… well, his call sign is Zero. Agent Zero, sir.”

“Zero. Right.” Rutledge rubbed his chin. “Him. I want him on this.”

“Um, sir… he’s not quite field-ready at this time. He’s transitioning back to operations work.”

The president didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like an excuse or a euphemism to him. “It’s your job to make him ready, Deputy Director.” There was no swaying him now; Rutledge knew that this was the right call. The agent had singlehandedly rescued former President Pierson from assassination, and uncovered the secret pact between Harris and the Russians. If anyone could find the perpetrators and this ultrasonic whatever-it-was, it was him.

“If I may,” Johansson said, “the CIA has one of the very best trackers in the world at our disposal. A former Ranger, and a highly decorated agent in his own right—”

“Great,” Rutledge interrupted, “send him too. As soon as possible.”

“Yes sir,” Johansson acquiesced quietly, staring down at the tabletop.

“Is there anything else?” he asked. No one spoke, so Rutledge rose from his seat, and the four others in the Situation Room stood as well. “Then keep me updated, and, uh… try to enjoy the holiday, I suppose.” He nodded to them and strode out of the conference room, where the two Secret Service agents instantly fell in step with him.

Always being watched. Never truly alone.

Actually, he realized, he was wrong about that. In the moment it felt quite the opposite—no matter how many people were around him, advising him, protecting him, prodding him in one direction or another, he did feel truly alone.

Zero woke to sunlight filtering through the blinds, warm on his face. He sat up and stretched his arms, feeling well rested. But something wasn’t right; this bedroom was bigger than it should have been, yet familiar. Instead of a single bureau opposite him there were two, one of them shorter and topped with a mirror.

This was not his condo in Bethesda. This was his bedroom from New York— their bedroom, in the house that they shared. Before… before everything.

And when he slowly turned his head he saw, impossibly, that she was there. Lying beside him, the comforter pulled halfway up her torso, sleeping peacefully in a white tank top as she so often did. Her blonde hair was arranged perfectly on the pillow; there was a light smile on her lips. She looked angelic. Carefree. Peaceful.

He smiled and settled back down on the pillow, watching her sleep. Noting the perfect contours of her cheeks, the slight dimple in her chin that Sara had inherited. His wife, the mother of his children, the greatest love of his life.