Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8), стр. 15
It was maddening, and the only thing I could think to do was to go back to the base and play hardball with the general. If he thought he could keep holding back information relevant to the case, he had another thing coming. I had Jonathan Watts’s personal cell number. One brief conversation with him and he would be on the phone with our ambassador, informing him that we didn’t trust Diakos and would be making other arrangements to coordinate the flow of information.
I was working through my options, assessing my next move, when a man stopped on the sidewalk not two feet from me. He wore black jeans and a leather bomber jacket that was a little overkill given the warm climate. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, and his face was covered in dark stubble. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. The breeze blew it back into my face, and I nearly choked. I started down the street when the man spoke in a thick Southern drawl: Georgia or Alabama, if I had to guess.
“Agent Savage? How goes it?”
I stopped and turned around. He blew out another cloud of smoke, and I held my breath as it passed over me. I assessed him afresh. Instead of a tourist in need of fashion advice, I now saw a capable individual suffering from too much machismo. That only fit a couple profiles. “You from Langley?” I asked.
He chuckled. “They wish.”
I sized him up again. Bravado streamed off him like radiation emanating from a broken reactor. “The Unit then.”
“Bingo, brotha.”
The Unit was the most recent moniker given to the Army’s 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. The public knew it best as Delta Force, but the organization's formal name was a revolving door. Internally, it was known as the Combat Applications Group (CAG), "The Unit," or within JSOC, as Task Force Green. The group’s name seemed to change as often as the flavor of the month.
The operator flicked a piece of ash off the end of his cigarette. “As I understand it, your boss’s boss called my boss and asked me to loop you in on our efforts to find your boss.” He stuck the cigarette between his lips and extended his hand. “Boomer Jackson. They call me Boomer.”
We shook. I decided to throw him a curveball. “Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but I was just going back to the base to meet with General Diakos. He’s got a good handle on everything so far. I’ll let you know if we need your help.”
He raised his chin and eyed me. “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s a joke.”
“Okay... ‘cause that Diakos, he’s a bag plug of tobacco. Worked with his team on an op last year in Macedonia. He’s got to be the one to run the show. I don’t take too well to guys like that.”
“Where’s your team?” I asked.
“About six klicks behind you. You want to get out of here?”
“My car is in the parking garage. But if I had to guess, I’d say your ride is probably a lot cooler than mine.”
He gave me a toothy smile. “It is.”
Chapter Four
Boomer Jackson drove like he smoked, obnoxious and without concern for anyone around him. He weaved in and out of traffic, the bright green Hummer cutting around slow-moving vehicles and punching forward across every available stretch of open pavement. It didn’t bother me. What might seem reckless driving to some was just a healthy way of blowing off steam. As part of a Tier 1 Special Mission Unit, Delta operators were tasked with missions in some of the hardest places on the planet. They came face to face with evil regularly, dealing with horrors that most of the world never had to think about. The military would have secured such a flashy, obnoxious vehicle to help their operators decompress.
“How long has your team been in country?” I asked.
Boomer floored the gas, and the Hummer lurched around a flatbed truck loaded with live chickens. “Three hours. We were heading for home after coming off an op in Syria, and they diverted us here. Guess my wife’s gonna have to wait for some lovin’ until we find your boss.”
“Syria? You didn’t happen to feed Assad any sniper rounds for breakfast, did you?”
“Don’t I wish. Nope, that little bastard is still alive and kickin’. They had us running a misinformation campaign against a Russian support group embedded in one of the major cities.”
More than any other special forces group, Delta operators functioned the most closely to spies. Integrating tactical spying, direct action and hostage rescue operations, and special reconnaissance, they often generated their own human intelligence, analyzed it, and then acted on it, all in one package. They remained one of the premier, and most secretive, door-kicking units in the world.
“Your accent,” I said. “Alabama?”
He huffed. “No, sir.”
“Georgia?”
“Macon born and raised. Played tight end for the Bulldogs in college and felt right at home when I joined the Army and went through basic at Benning.”
“How long have you been with the Unit?”
“Spent three years with the Rangers before moving in with Delta five years ago. It’s been Christmas every day since.” Boomer cut around a limo cruising at the posted speed limit. He sighed. “Listen, I’ll shoot you straight, Savage. I usually get my panties in a wad when the head shed tells us to accommodate someone from another team or another agency. But then I took a glance at your file. Looks like you did a few tours of the sandbox yourself. And some of the work you’ve done with Homeland is top notch. So here’s the deal. I can imagine that this one’s highly personal for you. And that means it’s personal for us. For this one, you’re part of the team. I want you to know that.”
“I appreciate