Joe Ledger: Code Zero Part 12

On the mats, Mr. Church was addressing the line of men.

"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "congratulations for making it through the testing process. Welcome to the Department of Military Sciences."

The men said nothing, though one or two of them nodded. It occurred to Bliss that they might not all be military. Some had more of that bearing while others had the more streetwise demeanor of cops.

"You've been briefed on the kinds of threats that the DMS was formed to confront," continued Church. "There is no other domestic agency empowered or equipped to deal with that level of technological danger. You will be the front line in a new phase of the war on terror, and make no mistake-we are very much in the business of stopping terror. The fall of the Towers initiated a new era in Special Operations. Much will be expected of you. Everything, in fact, except the possibility of failure. And before you think that my last comment is glib, it isn't. The DMS is both a first-response and last-defense organization. We will accomplish both. Failure to stop the kinds of threats we know are coming will likely result in catastrophic loss of life and incalculable damage to America and its people."

All eyes were on Church. Bliss knew that each of these men could tell-as she could tell when she first met Church-that he was not given to exaggeration or swagger. He was not that kind of person, and that made his words far more chilling.

Church gestured to the woman who stood behind him. She was medium height, fit, with short dark hair and brown eyes. No rings, no jewelry. "This is Major Grace Courtland, late of Barrier and the SAS. Some of you will have heard of her record in the SAS."

Bliss watched the men appraising her. Most of the men's faces were wooden; one or two showed an unintentional sneer of contempt.

"Major Courtland has been seconded to the DMS and I have appointed her as the senior field agent. Henceforth you will answer to her without question. She will train you and together you will form the first DMS field unit, designated Alpha Team. Are there any questions?"

There were none but Church and Courtland watched their eyes. Bliss could see when Courtland spotted one of the sneers, even though the man in question-a bruiser with a row of fifty-caliber rounds tattooed around his ma.s.sive biceps-tried to clear his face of all emotion. Courtland pointed to him.

"What's your name, soldier?" she asked in a clipped London accent.

"Staff Sergeant Ronald McIlveen, ma'am."

"Step forward."

His face was like granite as he took a single step toward her. He was well over six feet in height and loomed above the Brit.

"You don't want to take orders from a woman, do you?"

"Ma'am?" he asked, clearly trying to sidestep the question.

"I said, if I gave you a b.l.o.o.d.y order, would you take it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Any order?"

There was only a moment's hesitation. "Yes, ma'am."

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't believe you," said Courtland. "In fact, I think you're a s.e.xist p.r.i.c.k who thinks women are for s.h.a.gging and not fit to stand in the line of battle."

The man stood absolutely rigid, eyes locked on the middle distance.

"Well, answer me."

"I will follow orders, ma'am," he said, though it sounded false even to Bliss, who had never been part of the military.

"Will you indeed?" Courtland stepped close. The overhead lights threw his shadow across her, and she looked tiny and frail. "What if I ordered you to hit me?"

The soldier blinked. "Ma'am?"

"I didn't stutter, Staff Sergeant. I asked if you would follow my order to hit me."

"I cannot strike a superior officer, ma'am."

"So, then you're refusing a direct order."

"No ... I mean..."

"Hit me, staff sergeant."

"I ... ..." began the sergeant, then he shut his mouth and froze into a statue. The other men in the line looked variously angry and amused.

Major Courtland snapped her fingers. "Sergeant Dietrich."

Church's bodyguard instantly stepped forward. "Major," he said crisply.

"Draw your sidearm."

He did it without question or hesitation.

"Did you hear my order for Staff Sergeant McIlveen to strike me?"

"Yes, Major."

"I will repeat that order, Sergeant. If he does not strike me, or if you believe his strike is either deliberately weak or deliberately misaimed, you are to kneecap the effing c.u.n.t. Is that clear?"

"As gla.s.s, Major." Dietrich raised his Glock and pointed it at McIlveen's left knee. Dietrich's hand was as steady as a statue.

"Ma'am," protested McIlveen.

Courtland looked up at him. "Prove to me you'll follow a woman's orders. I want you to punch me in the face. I want you to knock my effing teeth out. I want you to break my effing neck, you effing overgrown c.o.c.k. Do it right now."

Bliss's breath caught in her chest. She grabbed Hu's hand and squeezed it.

The big sergeant had no choice, so in the absence of retreat he attacked and swung a punch that was powered by his entire body. All his ma.s.s and muscle, all his confusion and anger, all his training and skill. He threw it fast and he threw it well, right at Grace Courtland's jaw.

And then he was falling.

Bliss couldn't understand what had happened.

There was a confusion of movement and Major Courtland's left hand seemed to blur. The meaty after-echo of impact bounced across the floor a split second before the big man dropped heavily to his knees, his hands clamped around his throat, his face turning a dreadful red. Courtland stepped sideways and hit him again, the side of her balled fist crunching into McIlveen's skull just behind his ear. His eyes rolled up and he flopped face-forward onto the floor and lay as if dead.

Mr. Church sighed and brushed lint from his sleeve.

Gus Dietrich holstered his pistol, his eyes roving over the faces of the line of startled men.

Between them, Major Courtland straightened. She snapped her fingers again and a pair of EMTs came running from behind where Bliss and Hu stood. They crouched over the fallen soldier, who was now making hoa.r.s.e croaking sounds.

Courtland walked over to a second man. "What is your name?"

The man stiffened. "Master Sergeant Mark Allenson, Marine Force Recon."

"Do you have any issues about taking orders from a woman," asked Courtland, "or about obeying those orders without question?"

"I do not, ma'am."

"Hit me."

Allenson moved like lightning, hooking a vicious short right into her ribs.

Courtland blocked it with a chopping downward elbow block. Allenson hissed in pain and stepped back, clutching his hand to his chest.

The major smiled at him. "Allenson, henceforth you are my second in command. The rest of you, fall out and hit the showers."

The men stared at her, their eyes darting from her to Allenson to McIlveen and back again. Then they began moving off, at first with slow and uncertain steps, and then nearly running to the exit that led to the shower rooms. As they pa.s.sed, Mr. Church quietly said, "Welcome to the DMS, gentlemen."

Bliss was riveted, transfixed, her body flushed with an almost erotic electricity. The way those men-those huge, terrifying, powerful men-now stared at Major Courtland was so delicious.

There was so much power in the room, and so much of it belonged to that woman.

To a woman.

Artemisia Bliss studied Courtland and she wished she could stab her hands into the woman's chest and tear out that powerful heart.

And eat it.

Consume it.

Be it.

Her entire body trembled.

Chapter Eighteen.

Starbucks 140 East Forty-second Street New York City Sunday, August 31, 7:19 a.m.

I made two stops on the way to work.

The first was the Starbucks on East Forty-second, where I double-parked in a tow-away zone. Coffee is more important than parking regulations. Ask any of my fellow caffeine addicts.

The barista flashed me a big smile as I came in and was already pouring my venti bold by the time I got to the counter. This was the Starbucks I frequented every time I was in New York. I was a confirmed regular, on a first-name basis with the staff and a nodding acquaintance to a bunch of frequent-flyer customers.

The barista set my cup down.

"Hey, Emily," I said as I stepped to the counter, "any chance you could put that in an IV drip?"

"Sorry, Joe ... they still won't let us go intravenous."

"Barbarians."

"No argument," she said. "Is Rudy coming in today?"

"Heading over to pick him up now."

"Does he want ... the drink?"

"Sadly, yes."

Emily half turned to another barista and rattled off the name of the unholy alchemical abomination Rudy Sanchez insists is the perfect morning cup of wonderful. "Iced half-caf ristretto quad grande two-pump raspberry two percent no whip light ice with caramel drizzle three-and-a-half-pump white mocha."

No one with t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es should be allowed to drink that.

No, check that, it's not a gender thing. No one with any self-respect should want to drink it.

"On it," said Jared, the boy who shared the morning shift with Emily. I could see him square his shoulders like a rat catcher about to leap into a nest of vermin.

I ordered egg sandwiches for us-not forgetting the fur monster in the car-and a paid with a scan of my smartphone.

Emily gave me a tentative smile. "How is Rudy? How's he doing?"

I knew that her question wasn't an idle one. Like everyone else who ever met Rudy, Emily was concerned about how his recovery was coming along. People cared about him. He was that kind of guy. I could have an I-beam through my chest and maybe I'd get a nod. Rudy gets a hangnail and everyone wants to mother him.

To be fair, Rudy was worthy of the concern, and he had been pretty badly mauled when the Warehouse was destroyed last year. He and Church were lifting off from the helipad on the roof when the bombs went off. The blast threw the chopper into the bay. Rudy now wears an eye patch and walks with a limp.

"He's auditioning for the role of Captain Jack Sparrow for the Broadway version of Pirates of the Caribbean," I told her.

She laughed. It took her a moment, though, because jokes like that can come off as insensitive. G.o.d knows I would never be insensitive. Ahem.

"Tell him I said hi," said Emily dubiously.

While I waited in line for Rudy's drink, I felt my phone vibrate, indicating an incoming text. A grin began creeping onto my face because I knew it had to be from Junie. Rudy is a borderline Luddite who has no idea how to text; Top and Bunny would call; and, let's face it, Church isn't the kind to text his BFF about last night's rerun of How I Met Your Mother. I'd only ever gotten texts from Junie and they tended to be pretty saucy. She loved doing that when she thought I was in some high-level meeting.

Oh, Junie, you vixen.

So I wore a wolf's smile when I unlocked the screen and read the message.

YOU COULD BE A WINNER!.

OR A LOSER.