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He stepped back, letting me exit the tent, then said, “I don’t know, but it’s Taskforce. They called while we were asleep.”

Chapter4

I stumbled out of the tent saying, “Why would the Taskforce call us here? They know we’re doing cover development.”

Knuckles said, “I have no idea, but we don’t get voice mails on that system, and all I saw was the number. It’s George Wolffe. Something’s gone bad.”

I nodded, saying, “What, though? We’re in Tajikistan. What could have gone so wrong that we need to be pulled in?”

He just shook his head.

We worked for a government organization called Project Prometheus, which was the classified code name for our unit. Since we couldn’t say the name out loud, we’d just taken to calling ourselves the Taskforce. Simple. A name that meant nothing. But really meant everything—especially if I was getting a call in Tajikistan on a cover development trip.

I picked up the sat phone, saw the last called number, and looked at Knuckles. He nodded, saying, “I think we’re going to get some high adventure here.”

I shook my head, not wanting to dial, but did so. The phone rang out to a voice mail for a cover organization called Blaisdell Consulting. Which was the headquarters for the Taskforce.

I left a message and hung up. “This had better not be some bullshit that the CIA or SOCOM couldn’t handle.”

Project Prometheus—the Taskforce—was a unique unit designed to solve unique problems. Issues that the traditional intelligence or military architecture couldn’t solve. We were only pulled into play when all other options were exhausted, and that was for a reason—namely, that we operated outside the bounds of the U.S. Constitution. We had free rein to stop a threat, but in so doing, we also had free rein to ignore any rights ensconced in the very thing we were protecting. It was something I took very, very seriously, as did the man I’d just called.

When the unit had been formed after 9/11, we’d all cheered about how we were going to take it to the enemy, but some had realized that what we’d created had the potential to go bad. I say “some,” but it was really my mentor, the first commander of the Taskforce, Colonel Kurt Hale. He’d been killed by a car bomb in my front yard and I’d proven the risks of the organization when I’d gone off the reservation to avenge him, slaughtering anyone who’d had anything to do with his death. That had caused some consternation within the chain of command, to say the least, but in my heart, I held his views.

Most of the time.

We weren’t hired guns. We were problem solvers who could shoot. Give me a problem you couldn’t solve, and I would do it. If I had to shoot to get it done, I would, but it had to be for the right reasons.

I saw Knuckles’ tent open and my third team member appear, Brett Thorpe. A short fireplug of muscle, he was out of place as an African American here in Tajikistan—but then again, so were we, I suppose. Didn’t really matter, because like everyone else, he was ostensibly an employee of GRS. It wasn’t like we were trying to pretend we were Tajiks. He was also a prior Force Recon Marine and currently a paramilitary officer with the Special ActivitiesCenter of the CIA, with a little bit of a wicked sense of humor. Which is to say, I wouldn’t do a mission without him.

He approached, looked at Knuckles, then at me, saying, “So what’s up?”

I said, “Left a message. No idea.”

Knuckles said, “What do you think this is about? We’re here in the middle of nowhere.”

I took a breath and said, “I don’t know, but it’s not going to be good. Wolffe would never interrupt this trip for something mundane.”

He chuckled and said, “Well, if it’s something bad here in the barren wildlands, all I’ve got is my ZEV Tech Glock. I only brought two magazines for someone trying to harm us here. I didn’t think about getting into a gunfight. You got more?”

I said, “Not here. I have the same. Two mags. Thank God I demanded the Rock Star bird come with a package.”

Surprised, Knuckles said, “You got permission for a loadout in the Rock Star bird for a signature reduction trip? How did you manage that?”

I smiled. “I’m very persuasive when I want to be.” I shook my head, stared at the phone, and said, “What the hell is going on?”

This was supposed to be a simple cover development mission, and I was now glad my insistence on the package for the Rock Star bird had been approved.

Then the phone rang.

I answered, saying, “This is Pike.”

I heard, “Stand by for Wolffe. We’ve been trying to get you for hours.”

Knuckles gave me a look and I said, “On hold. Wolffe is coming on the line.”

I waited, then heard, “Is this Pike?”

I said, “Yes, sir, this is Pike. What’s up?”