Page 4 of Into the Gray Zone (Pike Logan #19)

It didn’t take us long to get to DC, mainly because we had our own jet to fly us there. Wolffe had sent down what I called

the Rock Star bird. A Gulfstream 650 that was just like the one rock stars used to fly around, only this bird was a little

different.

It was leased to my company through a myriad of commercial cutouts and was really nothing more than a high-speed infiltration

platform. Instead of a king-sized bed with rubber sheets, it held all manner of weapons and surveillance gear within its walls,

with the compartments hidden from a casual look-through by nosy customs officials. In this case, though, it was just a ride

to Washington.

We taxied to the private FBO area at Reagan National and were met by Bartholomew Creedwater, our resident computer network

engineer—which is a polite way of saying he was a hacker.

We bundled into an SUV, and I said, “You’re turning into the Taskforce Uber driver.”

The last time my team was unceremoniously called to DC we’d been picked up by Creed. Hopefully this trip wouldn’t be as big

a mess as that one.

He laughed and said, “It is getting to be a habit. Wolffe didn’t want to wait for you to get an Uber. Apparently, this is pretty time sensitive.”

“What’s this all about? Give me some skinny before I walk into the lion’s den.”

Creed glanced at me in the passenger seat and said, “I don’t know. I was pulling an all-night shift and got tasked to pick

you up. I’m out of here and going to bed. All I know is it has something to do with India.”

India? That was the last thing I expected. I said, “So why couldn’t we do this over a VPN? Why did we have to fly up here?”

“Pike, I honestly don’t know. I’m just the taxi driver.”

I went silent, thinking about the implications. We drove down the George Washington Parkway to Clarendon, passing Arlington

Cemetery along the way. Jennifer saw me looking at the gravestones and clasped my hand, giving it a squeeze. I knew more people

underneath that ground than anyone had a right to, but no words were necessary. I squeezed back.

We left the GW and wound around the Iwo Jima memorial, eventually pulling into a parking garage for a building owned by Blaisdell

Consulting. It was four stories tall and looked like every other lobbyist building in DC, but this was the headquarters for

the Taskforce. Like Grolier Recovery Services, Blaisdell Consulting was a cover.

Creed pulled up to the entrance door inside the garage and said, “Here you go. Wolffe’s inside the conference room waiting

on you.”

I sighed and said, “What about the team? Knuckles, Brett, and Veep? Are they called in as well?”

My “employees” at GRS lived all over the United States, but I wasn’t going to do anything without them. Creed said, “Yeah,

Knuckles and Brett are here. Veep is still on the way.”

Which made some sense, because Knuckles and Brett lived in DC. Veep was a vagabond who couldn’t decide where he wanted to

end up. He used to live in Charleston, like me, but then moved to Montana for some reason.

I muttered under my breath, then said to Creed, “Well, get us in, then.”

Technically, GRS had nothing to do with Blaisdell Consulting, so we didn’t have the proper credentials to walk right in. With

its DC connections, the last thing we needed was something like an overzealous congressman or journalist digging into who

was allowed access and why, as the Taskforce itself was most definitely operating outside the bounds of the U.S. Constitution.

Creed, on the other hand, was a card-carrying employee of Blaisdell and reported here daily, so he had the badge and RFID

pass to get us through the security protocols.

Creed said, “I told you: I’m headed home. Wolffe is waiting for you in the SCIF, and you know the non-badge procedures.”

Jennifer and I exited the vehicle and watched it drive away. I said, “This is a lot of work that could have been done over

an encrypted Zoom call.”

She said, “Yeah, makes you wonder why they told us to pack for four days.”

I said, “At least it has nothing to do with Russia. You know this month’s code, right?”

We had a method to protect both the cover of Blaisdell Consulting as well as the members inside. Each month two different

phrases were promulgated to all the various cover organizations, which was your bona fides to get through the door. One phrase

just proved that you belonged, were fine, and needed to come in. The other phrase would relay that you were under duress and

trying to enter against your will.

Jennifer said, “Uhhh... no, I don’t.”

As Creed’s vehicle exited into the sunlight I snapped back to her and said, “You don’t know the code? You always know the code.”

As for me, I thought the whole thing was a little overboard and never paid attention to the pass phrases. The camera would show us both standing alone, and we were a known quantity. I mean, if I really wanted to enter, I’d kidnap Creed and force him to use his physical badge. That would negate the whole stupid dance, but

nobody listened to me.

Jennifer said, “Don’t blame this on me. You don’t know it either.”

Which was true. I said, “Marge will never open the inner door without it.”

While the outside of the door to the building looked like any other, in fact, it was a trap to keep any nefarious actors from

conducting a strike. Comprised of bulletproof glass, it had two doors—an outer one where you’d talk into a camera, and an

inner one, which let you into the building proper. Once inside, you were trapped if you couldn’t prove why you were there,

the outer one locking you into a glass cage.

Jennifer said, “Call Wolffe or Knuckles. Tell them to come down.”

“Creed said he was in the SCIF, and if he is, he won’t have his phone on him. Neither will Knuckles.”

SCIF stood for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility and was basically a room designed to prevent any eavesdropping

from malicious actors. As such, nobody using it was allowed to bring in a cell phone.

Jennifer said, “Use the old code. Marge will open it when she sees me behind you.”

Marge was Blaisdell Consulting’s office receptionist, and she took her job seriously. She’d worked here since the Taskforce

had been created, and I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t developed dementia. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether she was crazy

or just cranky.

I said, “If we don’t know the code, she might believe we’re here under duress and lock us in.”

“The old one and the camera should work. I mailed her cookies last Christmas. She’ll let us in.”

I shook my head, opened the door, and said, “So the magic entrance to this top-secret clandestine counterterrorism force is a bunch of chocolate crinkles?”

She entered behind me and said, “If it works, it works.”

She let the door close. I heard it click and turned to the camera, saying, “If not, this is going to be embarrassing.”

I pressed the button and stared into the camera. I heard, “Yes? May I help you?”

I said, “Hey, Marge, It’s Pike Logan, here to see George Wolffe.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nobody here by that name. I’m going to unlock the outer door. Please be on your way.”

Just great. I threw out the only phrase I still remembered, from months ago, “Hey, we’re here about your team-building services. We were

told about it from Xavier Barclay.”

We heard nothing for a moment, Marge’s cranky brain knowing the old phrase meant we knew something, but it wasn’t the correct

something. Finally, she said, “Xavier no longer works here. Do you have another name?”

Exasperated, I said, “Marge, Wolffe called us up here. Come on. Just call him on the phone.”

“Sir, there is nobody here by that name. If you wish, I’ll call security and have you escorted out.”

Jennifer bumped me out of the way, leaned into the camera, and said, “Marge, it’s Jennifer here. Sorry our data is old. Before

we go, did you get my cookies?”

There was silence for a moment, then, “Why yes, I did. They were delicious.” Another pause, then, “Okay, I really shouldn’t

be doing this, but hang on. I’ll see if I can get George on the line.”

I muttered under my breath, “So the security protocols can be breached by Christmas cookies? I’ll let ISIS know.”

Jennifer elbowed me and said, “Thanks, Marge.”

I heard the inner door click open and snatched it before Marge could change her mind. She said, “Third-floor conference room.

He’s expecting you.”

We went to the elevator and exited on the third floor, walking down to the conference room—the SCIF—and entered without preamble,

seeing the Taskforce version of the White House Situation Room.

The space was dominated by a long wooden table, the grain polished to a luster, plugs and ports in front of each seat. The

walls were adorned with various trophies from different operations—flags, weapons, and the like—with the far wall holding

nothing but a giant flat-screen monitor.

Two high-backed leather chairs swung around at our entrance and I saw a tall Caucasian guy, hippy looking with shaggy black

hair, and a black man built like a fireplug, short and nothing but muscle. Knuckles and Brett, both grinning at me.

Brett said, “So you had some issues getting past Marge?”

Damn tattletale. I fist bumped both of them and said, “Not really. I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve penetrated security tougher than Marge before.”

They stood for a hug from Jennifer, who said, “My cookies got us in.”

Damn tattletale . I changed the subject, saying, “Where’s Veep?”

Knuckles said, “Still on the way. We’ll get this briefing without him.”

I’d rather have everyone here for the brief, as everyone on my team was an Operator and they knew to ask any questions I would

miss. With this call-up, I figured George Wolffe would have waited for the whole package.

My team was a little eclectic—as the makeup could attest—and the longest-serving commercial cover organization within the Taskforce. Most of the Operators in the Taskforce fell into a cover for an operation but didn’t really live it. They just used it for that specific mission, then fell into another one for the next mission, usually burning the first to the ground. The covers were all plug-and-play, run by bureaucrats and bean counters with just enough of a veneer of respectability to allow the Operators to penetrate a hostile area.

GRS was different in that we lived it daily. It was a legitimate company, with legitimate business contracts. As such, we

were the only cover organization that was run by Operators, and my team makeup showed it.

Knuckles was a Navy SEAL, and my second-in-command. Brett was a former Force Recon Marine who now worked within the paramilitary

branch of the CIA. Veep—aka Nicholas Seacrest—was an Air Force combat controller, who also happened to be the son of the current

president of the United States. I’d given him the callsign when his father was still the vice president.

I said, “So what’s the rush? What’s this all about? Where’s Wolffe?”

The door to the SCIF opened, and Wolffe said, “I’m right here, and sorry for pulling you up to DC, but you need to get on

the road.”

“Where?”

“Goa, India.”