Free RW11 - Violence of Action by Richard Marcinko

and neatly folded the SUV back into downtown traffic.
    There was no need to knock on the door or look for a doorbell. An invisible surveillance system had detected our presence on the stoop and the white-painted front door opened for us with a gentle buzzing sound. We entered an oval-shaped, marble-floored entrance hall dominated by a curving staircase which appeared to ascend to the second floor. In reality, I knew the graceful staircase was a beautiful fake, leading to a door that opened onto a bricked-up wall. To our left was an elevator whose oak doors perfectly matched the hall’s antique paneling. Again, there was no button to push—the doors simply slid open as we approached them. The interior of the elevator was out of another world, a more familiar one—the world of government security and no-frills functionality. I had no doubt the elevator cabin also served as a metal detector and x-ray machine. Every crevice of our bodies was probably being scrutinized during the swift ride upstairs. Hope they were enjoying the view.
    The bright ding of the elevator’s bell announced our arrival on the fourth floor. The doors hissed open and we found ourselves in front of a ferret-faced little woman in a lumpy tweed suit. The gray-haired harpy nodded curtly and motioned we were to follow her. As we made our way toward a suite of offices I observed a battery of surveillance cameras aimed in our direction. More hot shit security monkeys with guns were monitoring us. I flipped a big Rogue bird at one of the cameras and smiled. Hi. Dick Marcinko has come back for a visit. How do you like me so far, asshole?
    Our escort pointed a bony finger toward the end of the hall. Apparently I was expected in the far conference room. Without ever saying a word, she turned and slithered back to her office and shut the door behind her. Where Karen hired her day help was beyond me. Did Transylvania export office workers?
    “Take Blondie up to the top floor,” I told Paul and Trace. “I’ll talk with the boss and link back up with you.”
    “I got fucking rights, ya know! I wanna call my fucking lawyer!”
    It was Blondie. I stepped in close and looked down on the little bastard. My nuts still hurt from the beating they’d taken. The Good Humor Man I was not. “Your name Miranda? No? Then you got no fucking rights, asshole. Look around. This look like a fucking police station to you?” I jerked my thumb upwards and spun on my heel. I’d be seeing Blondie again in a short-short. When I did, it would be under the worst of circumstances for him. We needed information and we needed it fast. If I heard anything like what I was expecting in the next few minutes, Blondie’s ass was toast.
    I headed into the conference room and found Karen Fairfield already there waiting for me.
    “Hello, Captain. Nice to see you again,” she said, standing up as I entered. We shook hands politely. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, a fact that always half-surprised me, given the position of genuine power she held in the administration. My own prejudice no doubt, but part of me still expected a woman of Karen’s stature to look like the old crone who’d met us at the elevator.
    “You too, Ms. Fairfield,” I replied. “Always a pleasure to serve you. In any way I can.” I tried not to lick my lips as I said that last part. When she didn’t reply, I decided to jump back to safe ground. “That coffee sure smells good.”
    “Let me get you a cup. Black, yes?”
    “Good memory.” I studied Karen as she slipped past me. She was wearing a well-cut black suit that hinted at an athletic but still full figure. I put her at 5’8” and 130 pounds. Chinese-American, her coal black hair was as long as mine. She wore it loose, like my morals. Her skin was a smooth, pale bronze. She moved with the deliberate ease and balance of a classically trained dancer. She was the product of Bryn Mawr College, Harvard’s School of International Relations, and a