Weston Ochse: SEAL Team 666

Laws grinned. “But those weren’t SEAL missions. Let me ask you again—are you excited for your first mission?”

Walker grinned. “Yeah, a little.” His heart was hammering in his chest.

“Sure beats doing push-ups and flutter kicks back in Coronado, doesn’t it?”

“Four weeks,” Walker said, holding out four fingers. “I only had four weeks left.”

Laws remained silent for a few moments; then Walker asked a question that had been bothering him. “Why is the dog coming with us?”

“She’s part of the team.”

“But it’s a dog.”

Laws grinned as he reached over and scruffed Hoover’s neck. “So what about it?”

“Shouldn’t the dog be lying on some front porch, or maybe smelling pot at some border checkpoint?”

“Not too loud or Hoover will hear you.”

“The team I saw on the USS Ronald Reagan had a Belgian Malinois, too. That dog looked like it could do some serious damage, but it was kept around to sniff out explosives.”

“They can do serious damage. They can smell explosives, drugs. They can smell illegal aliens. Hoover can smell all that plus fear. She can also sometimes smell something unsmellable—the presence of the supernatural.” Laws noticed that Hoover was staring at them, and reached down and petted her again. “Don’t you make no mind of this rube. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.” To Walker, he said, “This Malinois can also smell death before it comes. I won’t try and explain it, but you’ll see for yourself if you stay with the team for any period of time at all.”

Walker digested what he heard. He could almost believe what was being told to him, except for the part about how the dog could smell death and the supernatural. That was a little too much.

“One last question,” he said. “Why Hoover? You named a dog after a vacuum cleaner? There has to be a story behind that.”

Laws laughed. “No story at all. And it’s not the vacuum. It’s the president. This team has been in play since before the formation of our country and with it, in each incarnation, there was a dog, most often a Belgian Malinois, named after a president.”

“What about the first one?”

“What about it?”

“If the team was formed before the country was, then we didn’t have a president.”

“Give the boy points for paying attention. The first dog was named George.”

“As in King George?”

“The boy knows his history.”

“All right, girls,” growled the hulking team leader. “If we’re done with Dogs 101, it’s time to cut the chatter and focus on the mission.”

Everyone except Billings, who’d stayed put on the plane, was shuffled into a waiting cable-repair van when they landed. They were whisked from San Francisco International through rush-hour traffic and finally into Chinatown, where they now sat across the street from the target building.

Through the steel walls of the truck, Walker could hear multiple Asian dialects. A cracked window let in the signature aroma of Asian food. He knew that if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself seven years old again and in the Philippines. His father had been in supply and had made and lost several fortunes selling U.S. government products on the black market. He had taken little Jack and his older brother, Brian, with him wherever he went. Not only had the boys been lookouts, they’d been his father’s alibis.

It struck Jack that it was only a few years after that memory that his life had gone to hell. His father died, his brother left; it wasn’t until his brother had joined the Navy that they got back in touch. By then, it was almost too late. His brother had become a SEAL while Jack had been assigned to the USS Forrest Sherman . He’d received notice while on maneuvers in the Mediterranean that his brother had been killed on mission in Afghanistan. Over the years he’d asked around, but the most he’d ever learned was that it was a death that never should have happened, which begged more questions than it answered.

Fratolilio had earphones attached to a small tablet computer. He’d been pressing haptic buttons as they appeared on the screen since the van stopped, and finally he seemed satisfied.

He glanced at Holmes. “I got a lock into the landlines and used the receivers and transmitters. I’m not getting any conversations or background noise. Either the place is empty, or they’re waiting on us.”

“What else do we know about this building?”

“Other than it was built in 1932 and it’s registered to Yam Phat Distributors, nothing. I accessed the blueprints, even bounced them against the old Ma Bell trunk drawing, but there’s nothing to show that this is any more than what it appears to be.”

“What are you saying?” Holmes asked.

“I think this is a wild-goose chase,” Fratty stated frankly.

Everyone stared at Holmes as if they were waiting for him to call the mission.

“Wouldn’t be the first time the intel we got from AFOSI and DIA turned out to be squirrelly,” Ruiz said.

“We could always lay low for a day or two and let FBI see what they can see. If there’s a reason for us being here, then we’ll be ready,” Laws added.

“What you’re all saying is true and it makes logical sense. This lead came as a result of an interrogation of a Chinese tech smuggler by the Feebs. He could have said anything to save his ass. But…,” Holmes said, letting the word draw out. “I have an itch.”

“Oh hell, boss has an itch.” Fratolilio shoved the tablet into a Kevlar sleeve and stowed his headphones.

Both Laws and Ruiz checked their magazines. Laws carried an MP5 and Ruiz carried a Super 90.

“What’s that mean, he has an itch?” Walker asked.

“Boss has intuition like a fiend sometimes,” Laws said. “He’s from Vegas and there are some casinos he can’t go into. He doesn’t count cards, he doesn’t cheat, he just has itches sometimes. And when he gets them, there’s always a reason.”

“An itch?” Walker asked, trying to make the word make more sense.

“An itch,” Holmes repeated. He flashed Walker a grim smile, then turned to the others. “We leave in thirty seconds. Check the sidewalk for traffic.”

Forty-seven seconds later, they flung open the door and entered the target section of the building through the front door. A narrow set of stairs ran to the second floor.

The stacking order was Holmes and Ruiz, then Laws and Fratolilio, then Walker. Hoover padded beside him. Walker glanced at the dog as it glanced at him. He couldn’t help but smile at the grinning mug. The dog seemed as excited as he was.

Holmes and Ruiz took the stairs and cleared the landing above. The rest followed, checking their sixes as they traversed the stairs.

Once they reached the landing, there wasn’t much choice about which way to go. The hall doglegged right, showing a single door on the wall and a window at the front. Holmes edged forward, careful of booby traps, looking for displaced dust, lines in the floorboards, and tripwire signs, but there was nothing. He made it to the window without harm. He stared at the buildings across the way for a full minute to ensure that he and his men weren’t about to enter a killing hallway. When he was certain that it was safe, he waved the others over.

Ruiz stayed at the head of the stairs to ensure that no one snuck up behind them.

Laws checked the doorjamb and the lock.

Walker moved in a crouch near the window and took up the vigil with the aid of the Stoner’s scope. He fought the exhilaration and concentrated on his assignment.

Fratty pulled out his tablet and showed the others what he expected the room to look like. It was basically a large rectangle. It had another window like the one Walker was staring through, but other than that and the door, there were no avenues of egress.