Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(55)

All according to plan.

Even the part where the asset, in dusty Western clothes and a black-on-white keffiyeh, jacked in a fresh mag and sighted his rifle squarely on Chip’s chest. “Drop the gun and open the briefcase.”

? ? ?

CHIP WORE BODY ARMOR and a helmet, but they wouldn’t help him if the man wanted to kill him close up. He’d considered this possibility carefully from the start. The asset’s outwardly ordinary persona concealed a truly extraordinary talent. Chip had seen this from the first time they’d worked together, and had treated the man accordingly, granting him independence and respect.

It was Chip who had given his asset the opportunity to explore his talent and reach his true potential. It was Chip who had paid the man bonuses far above his meager Company paycheck. This had earned him the man’s loyalty, although the asset didn’t seem to function like a normal human being. No evidence of emotion whatsoever. He was more like some kind of advanced killing robot.

“No problem,” said Chip. He laid the M4 in the bloody dust and worked the latches on the briefcase. His source had also provided the combinations to the locks, and the location of the key, on a gold chain around the colonel’s neck.

Inside was a stack of six thick international document mailers.

“Supposed to be Eurobonds,” said Chip. “Do you want me to open one?”

“Yes.” The asset kept the muzzle of his weapon trained on Chip’s chest. This was the moment of truth. Chip set the briefcase on the smoking hood of the Rover, removed the top envelope, and slid out the documents inside. Thick linen paper with ornate printing and a clearly visible watermark.

“Bearer bonds,” said Chip. “Unregistered. Payable to the person physically holding the paper. Ten thousand euros each.” He felt the smile grow on his face with each moment his asset didn’t pull the trigger. He riffled the documents with his thumb. “I’d say about a hundred in this stack, wouldn’t you? That’s a million euros.” He slid the documents back in their envelope, dropped the envelope back in the stainless case, then made a show of counting the envelopes. “Six million euros. About six and a half million U.S. at today’s exchange rate.”

The asset looked at him through those ordinary eyes. He was brown from the sun and the keffiyeh on his head looked completely natural. The rifle barrel didn’t move.

“This was never about the colonel,” said the asset. “This was about you.”

“No,” Chip said, with calm conviction. “This was about you and me. You just didn’t need to know, not until right now. Unless you really want to go back to the chain of command at Langley? Maybe train the next generation at the Farm? That’s sure as hell not what I want to do.”

The asset just raised an eyebrow.

The man was dry, Chip would give him that. In fact, the asset scared the shit out of Chip, but he was committed to his course. The capitalism of war. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“This isn’t enough to retire on,” said Chip. “But it’s enough for seed money. I want you and me to go into business together. With your skills and mine, we’re going to be rich.”

The asset’s expression remained unchanged. Chip kept talking, selling the dream.

“Corporate security. Protecting secrets for some companies, maybe stealing them from others, all at twenty times our current salary. We use this money to set up a nice office, hire a couple of hot secretaries. Sounds good, right?”

“You’re quite a salesman,” said the asset. “You have specifics?”

“Of course I do. I’ve been thinking about this for two years. We set up someplace near a big military base that also has a big hacker talent pool, like Seattle. Lewis-McChord is just south of there, and that’s where we find our field men, ex-military. We launch by infiltrating a major company, then present their board of directors with what we found. They sign a contract to consult on their security, but before long they’re paying us to steal from their competitors.”

The asset took out a disposable flip phone and took a photo of Chip standing beside the briefcase, all without taking his eyes off Chip or his finger from the trigger. The implication was clear. Proof of Chip’s involvement. Then he motioned Chip away with the muzzle of his rifle. “I’ll take half,” he said.

Chip stepped back, but he went all in. “Hell, no,” he said. “Take everything, including that bag of greenbacks. You’re the best one to get it back to the civilized world. I was thinking overland to Turkey, but you’d know better than me. Set up a small business, open some accounts, and start paying yourself with that cash, run that shit through the laundry, baby. I rotate home in twelve weeks. I already have a buyer for the Eurobonds. We are going to make a pile of money and have a blast doing it.”

The asset didn’t say anything.

Chip watched him decide.

But he was confident in how it would play out. He knew the man. He’d given his asset the information he needed to make the right choice. They were a good team before, they’d be a good team again.

The asset, whose name was Shepard, lowered the rifle, shouldered the duffel, picked up the briefcase, and walked off without another word.

A week later, Chip got a nasty shock when the station head called Chip into his office and started asking questions. They’d been tracking the colonel and his escort with a Predator drone, had stumbled onto Chip’s operation, and caught the firefight on video. The Predator had tracked Chip back to his waiting driver/fixer and the FOB. The station head had sent a team to the scene to see who else was involved.