Mark Greaney - Full Force and Effect

—

John Clark slammed on the Durango’s brakes right at the front door to the mansion, and he rolled out onto the gravel drive as his vehicle started taking fire.

It had been his job to drive the getaway vehicle, but when Chavez started the gunfight early he knew the plan had not survived first contact with the enemy, so he decided to interject himself into the direct-action portion of the operation.

He rose up from behind the hood of the big SUV, and fired left-handed at a man on the balcony, striking him in the forehead and sending him tumbling over the railing and crashing on the roof of the Durango.

Clark then ran for the front door, and while doing so he called his position to his team so they didn’t shoot him upon entry.

—

Riley and the North Korean RGB officer had ducked into the first room next to the landing. Riley then prized open a window, but the North Korean wanted a weapon in case they met resistance outside. He ran back to the landing and saw both Cubans dead, lying still on their backs. They had been shot from the living room below. He grabbed one of the men’s pistols and headed for the upstairs hallway. He was looking for a window he could use to escape or, at the very least, a room where he could barricade himself to fight back the American agents.

He entered the hallway and saw movement ahead. He raised his gun to fire, and as he did so he saw a bearded American roll off a dead Cuban agent while scooping a gun up from the floor of the hallway. The man lifted it, turned toward the North Korean’s direction, and raised the pistol in a blur.

The North Korean fired. Instantly he felt the impact as a round slammed him in the chest, knocking him flat onto his back. He tried to breathe in but nothing happened. He felt his mouth fill with blood and his eyes began to feel impossibly heavy. Just before they closed he forced himself to lift his head, to look past his feet down the hall, and doing so gave him some peace, because the bearded American was down on his back as well, his own chest covered in blood.

—

Sam is down! Sam is down!” Ryan shouted into his earpiece as he leapt over the dead North Korean, stumbled over the dead Cuban with the knife in his chest, and then dropped to his knees next to Sam Driscoll. Sam’s eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. There was no movement at all on his face or in his body.

“Sam!”

Ryan put pressure on the gunshot wound. It was right over the heart, and his training and his common sense told him it was unsurvivable, but he kept pressing down, called into his earpiece for some help.

The gunfire downstairs lasted another minute. When it ended, Caruso was the first man to Ryan, then Clark and finally Chavez, who had Zarif standing now and in tow, with the pillowcase back over his head.

Sam Driscoll was dead. John Clark made the determination, though it was obvious to all. Caruso and Ryan carried the body downstairs and loaded it into the Durango without a word, while Chavez hog-tied the Iranian and put him in the back.

They drove off, remaining silent for the first few minutes, till Caruso broke the stillness to call Adara Sherman to let her know he needed the jet ready to go in thirty minutes.

The emotions ran the gamut from sadness to fury to the jacked-up remnants of adrenaline that always coursed through the men post-op, only to be replaced by utter exhaustion soon after.

When a member of the team finally did speak, it was Ryan. He made no mention of what had just occurred, he only asked the question that no one had the answer to, and everyone wanted to know.

“What the fuck happened to Riley?”

—

Edward Riley ran down the darkened hillside, fell, climbed to his feet, and stumbled again. His forehead was bleeding, his clothing was shredded, his arms and legs were bloody and battered from the brush that he tore through and the fence he climbed over and fell from.

He figured he’d gone a mile or more already, although in truth it was much, much less. He had a phone somewhere on his person, and he’d use it, but now he was still in self-preservation mode, that base and primal desire for survival, nothing more.

He’d almost been killed, he’d most definitely been compromised to the extent he could never return home to the U.S., and he had nothing to show for his mission, because his mission had failed.

He ran on, down the hill, only because he could think of no other course of action to take.

69

Ri Tae-jin did not yell or scream or threaten. Instead, he made no reply at all. He simply hung up the telephone and blinked once, his hangdog eyes giving away no expression. He was alone in his office, for now anyway, so he could have said or done anything he wanted, but his only desire at present was for a moment of quiet.

The assassin was in the wind. Probably in the hands of the Americans.

He had failed. The President was alive, and North Korea’s involvement would soon become obvious.

Fire Axe had turned into a disaster.

He blinked again, and his eyes shined a little with new resolve. He picked the phone back off the cradle and waited for his secretary to answer.

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“I need to talk with someone in Technology.”

“I will get Director Pak. One moment—”

“No. I want someone in Technology Outfitting. Special Projects. Not a director. Just someone with access to material. It is only a small technical question I have about a piece of equipment.”

“Yes, sir. Comrade Li serves as Assistant of Provisions and Supplies.”

“Li will be fine, then.”

While he waited for the connection to be made, he looked down at the medals on his chest. Sometimes he straightened them as an affectation, but they were perfect now. All lined up in columns and rows.

“Comrade General? Comrade Li Hyon-chol here. How may I serve you?”

—

General Ri arrived home in his armored car a little later than usual, but his wife made no mention of it. She already had dinner on the table and the two children were washed and in their chairs. Ri paused in the driveway to give a wave to his driver, and his wife thought this was odd, but she made no mention of this, either.

He entered the house and she reached to help him take off his tunic, but he said he had been feeling cold this afternoon and would keep it on. When she tried to take his briefcase he said he had some papers in it he would need to look at during dinner.

She smiled and bowed, and then the two of them came to the dinner table.

He placed the briefcase below the table and he kissed his boy and he kissed his girl, and he listened to them both tell him about their day at school. They had gone to see a new painting of the Dae Wonsu at the national art museum, and it was even more magnificent than their teacher had promised.

Ri smiled and nodded, and then he sat down, glancing at his watch as he did so.

Every night before dinner they did what virtually every family did, they sang a song to their Dear Leader. Normally his wife chose the song, and she assumed, even though Tae-jin was acting strangely, tonight would be no different. “Dinner is getting cold, so how about a short song?” Smiling at the kids, she said, “I know you remember ‘Don’t Walk on the Cold Snow, Dear Leader.’ Don’t you?”

The children smiled and clapped. It was a favorite of theirs.

But Ri shook his head. “Not tonight. Tonight let us hold hands, and sit together, and think of our family. Of ourselves. Not the Dae Wonsu. Not tonight.”

The children cocked their heads, and his wife looked at him with confusion.

A knock came at the front door. Ri’s wife stood to answer it, but he told her to sit back down.