Free Guardian by Erik Williams Page A

Secret level stuff, on Mr. Caldwell and his recent activities in Iraq and the Indian Ocean. Everything Mayyat needed, with the exception of a last known local address or residence. It appeared that all information on Michael Caldwell prior to the events in Iraq had been erased from history. Curious. If he were to guess, he would say Caldwell was not just a special operator but also a “dead” one. So, he would have to start with the information from Iraq and what occurred on the navy ship and put it to use as best he could. Maybe then he could flush Caldwell out of whatever hole he was probably hiding in.
    Capture Caldwell and you get to return home, he told himself But you have to find him first. And the first phase of locating him was about to commence. If his target ever showed up.
    In the mirror, Mayyat saw his target and exhaled in relief. Red hair, cut short. Athletic slouching toward medium build. Walking with a short gait. The woman man turned and ascended the stairs to the town house.
    Once the woman was in the residence, Mayyat turned the engine off, opened the door and stepped out into the stifling August night. He walked across the street, hands in his pockets, head down. When he reached the stairs to the town house, he paused and looked around. No one else nearby was paying attention. He surveyed windows. No one looking out.
    Mayyat walked up the stairs and stood in front of the door. He removed a silenced Glock semiautomatic pistol from a shoulder holster and held it at his side. Kharija had ensured that the weapon was waiting for him upon arrival. Mayyat did not know who it came from nor did he care. It had been in a locker at a train station as Kharija said it would be. That was enough for him.
    He rang the doorbell.
    Several moments passed before he heard footfalls on the other side of the door. He stood with his left side facing the peephole, head turned away. The knob twisted and the door cracked enough for the target to peek out.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œCommander Sandra Temms?”
    â€œWho’s asking?”
    Mayyat turned toward the door and jammed the Glock through the crack at Temms’s eye. “I must insist on being invited into your lovely home.”
    Temms slammed the door on the gun. Her feet pounded away on the other side. Mayyat kicked the door in, snapping the security chain, stepped in and leveled the Glock on Temms at the other end of the long hallway.
    Phut .
    The round hit the back of Temms’s left leg. She screamed and crumpled to the hardwood floor, clenching her thigh. Blood oozed around her palms.
    Mayyat lowered the Glock to his side and approached Temms. Now the real work began.
    M ike showered after a five mile run on the treadmill. Well, run was exaggerating. Slow jog and brisk walk was more like it. And not the easiest thing to do in a sling, but worth the struggle. Feeling better, he passed the kitchen without wasting a glance at the cabinets, stripped off his clothes and collapsed on the bed.
    â€œYou should really cover yourself.”
    He rocked upright and pulled a sheet over his legs at the speed of light. His right hand reached for the nightstand drawer and the Beretta.
    â€œEasy, Mike.”
    Greg? He flicked on the lamp. Greg McDaniel sat on the edge of the bed, wearing a khaki windbreaker and navy blue slacks. His fingers interlocked and his forearms on his thighs.
    â€œI guess I’m dreaming,” Mike said, sitting up and easing his back against the headboard.
    Before his encounter with Semyaza, he’d seen Greg—­his long-­dead former mentor—­several times in dreams. In all of them, Greg had provided the same warning about the fallen angel: it couldn’t be killed. And he’d been right. Semyaza had chosen to give up his body-­leaping because Mike had been willing to sacrifice his life to save the crew of the USS Rushmore . The demon had realized that Mike was the end of the line and there would be no more