Page 12 of The Fourth Option
Walker removed an aluminum rod from under the table that allowed him to fold it out of the way, then he pushed himself off the bench seatthat separated the cabin from the rear cargo area where a SCUBA tank was strapped against a thin vertical closet. Fins, mask, snorkel, weight belt, and wet suit were in a nylon duffel under a deflated free-diving buoy and a Riffe Marauder speargun with a breakaway system and Kinetic Grip he had customized with his friend Brendan O’Malley for a trip down to Mexico was strapped to the ceiling. He flipped the thin backrest into the cargo space and pulled the rectangular seating cushion off the bench seat to reveal a storage compartment with a push-button cipher lock. Walker had constructed it himself. He punched in a four-digit code and swung open the hatch.
A traditional Osage orangewood bow, backed with western diamondback skins, he had crafted by hand with his SEAL teammate Trevor Thompson was seated in a cutout section of foam, along with arrows made from dogwood fletched with wild turkey feathers and wrapped in elk sinew, their points chipped from Texas chert and Oregon obsidian. Stacks of cash separated by denomination sat in their own rectangular silos. He lifted the foam insert out and set it in the rear cargo area.
The second layer held a 12-gauge Winchester Model 1897 trench gun with bayonet, a pre-64 Winchester Model 94 .30-30, a Colt Single Action Army “Peacemaker” in .45 Colt, and an empty right-angle cutout for the 1911 that had been pressed to his head twenty minutes earlier.
Walker picked up the pistol he had almost used to end his life, felt its weight in his hand.
He heard Paladin growl behind him.
“Not today,” he whispered as he pressed it into the foam. He let his fingers linger on its cold steel a moment. The final layer was one he had not visited since he had hidden the items there years earlier when he returned home after he had lost John Staub. He hesitated. He had used the bow and the .30-30 many times over the years, hunting as he explored the country. The 1911 had been his carry pistol, yet he had never gone into the last layer of his vault. Much like what was hidden in his soul, he knew what was there, but he dared not expose it. The tools of his previous life opened the door to darkness.
Then why had he kept them?
Maybe because it was fate that he would need them again?
He took a breath and pulled the heavier second layer out, sliding iton top of the first one in the rear cargo area. Then he looked down at the final tier.
Embedded in the foam were the weapons of his former trade.
He set his hand on the Bravo Company Recce-16 rifle in .300 Blackout with Huxwrx suppressor topped with a Vortex Razor 1-6x24 scope and throw lever. Affixed to the top rail was an L3Harris ATPIAL infrared aiming device, and on the left side was a SureFire Mini Scout light. A Viking Tactics sling was attached. Just below and to the left of the rifle was his Ops-Core ballistic helmet with PVS-14 monocular night optical device, a NOD. He found himself wishing he had snagged a PVS-15 or 31 or, even better, a GPNVG18 panoramic four-tuber before he left the Agency, but someone may have missed that one. He had sometimes used the monocular as a staff officer at GB because as the ground force commander he found it easier to manipulate the radios in the vehicles to communicate with the Agency’s experimental manned and unmanned aircraft when on target. No helping that now. Next to the helmet and NOD was a Glock 19 with Trijicon HD Night Sights and an Al Salvitti–designed Regiment Blade with wood grips in a low rider sheath. He removed the pistol and knife and set them to the side.
Then, with the bench seat lifted, Walker grabbed the envelopes from the galley cabinets, the envelopes that contained his death letters, and raised the last layer of foam, stuffing them underneath.
“For another day.”
CHAPTER THREE
Kabul, Afghanistan
2019
THE TRUCK RATTLEDover the corrugated dirt roads between Bagram and the market bazaar district. After parking among other dusty vehicles, the three CIA men exited.
This area was technically inside the perimeter of a zone where Americans and other coalition security personnel were supposed to be safe. As proof of the increased security, a hulking Army MRAP—Mine Resistant Ambush Protected—moved through traffic with a sergeant in the turret.
Afghan men inpayraanovershirts withkullacaps and women inparahaandresses shuffled to the walls lining the alley, avoiding the steel monster. Americans in Kevlar body armor, helmets, ballistic sunglasses, and black weapons stood out as foreign invaders and always reminded Walker ofStar Warsstormtroopers manning checkpoints on Tatooine, which was why he, Staub, and Fisk were dressed in earth-tone civilian clothes.
They shouldered between vendors on the market street, with Staub at the six position, checking security, stopping at irregular intervals to mingle with the vendors, to better fit in with the flow of the pedestrians going about their days. They also used the stops as opportunities to observe.
It was mid-September, and the sun was still bright, but the signs of winter were emerging as occasional winds swept over the glacier peaks into mile-high Kabul. The shadows cast by the mud structures stretched longer than they had at this same time just a month prior.
“Posting up here,” Staub said at a crossroads, dropping back. “Comms check.”
“Lima Charlie,” Walker responded into the mic hidden in his collar. Lima Charlie meant loud and clear in milspeak.
“Good copy,” Staub replied. “I’ll check in with ISR.”
Walker fought off the urge to look skyward. ISR was intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance, an Agency drone somewhere high overhead. An operator in Nevada was behind the controls, but it was monitored back at Kabul Station. It was Staub’s job to keep an eye on any emerging threats and extract them from the meet if things went south.
“That’s it, there,” Walker said after twenty additional paces. He head-gestured toward a sign that readPan Arabian Fine Rugs, a shop twenty yards ahead on the left. The sign was coated in dust, but the pride taken in the careful lettering shined through. “Let’s give John a minute to take a spin around the block.”
Walker and Fisk looked over a vendor’s cart stuffed with cheap wallets—counterfeits labeled Gucci, Chanel, and Coach with misspelled brand names—as Staub worked his way through the crowds looking for anything out of place.
“Stay put for a second,” Staub announced into Walker’s earpiece. “I got some burkas coming down the street with a mullah leaning on a doorjamb. One of the burkas is a big ol’ gal.”
“Roger.”
“And, CW, if you see a Gucci lady’s wallet that looks somewhat real, pick it up for me. Leigh Ann loves that shit.”
