and tapped a key on his keyboard. The photo of a middle-aged man with oddly smooth features appeared on the wall screens.
“Whoa.” Schwarz whistled. “Somebody’s been at the Botox.”
“That guy’s doctor left him with just the one expression, I guess,” Lyons said.
“Harold Rhemsen,” said Price. “He’s forty-five years old. No known political ties. He’s a registered independent. No affiliations to any group more controversial than the local rotary. We’ve been through his business records.”
“I searched pretty thoroughly,” Kurtzman advised. “Obviously we can always go deeper. He could be hiding things using shell corporations we’ve not yet discovered. But so far, no smoking guns. Whatever he’s doing, if he is dirty, is pretty well concealed, and probably goes back a long way.”
“How so?” Brognola asked.
“I can answer that,” Schwarz offered. He was quietly typing with his thumbs on his smartphone again, but he did not even look down as he spoke. “Financial fraud is like trolling the internet. The longer you have to set up your dummy accounts, the older they’ll be when somebody looks at them, and the more legitimate they’ll appear.”
“Spoken like a man who has done his fair share of online trolling,” Kurtzman commented, spearing his colleague with a disapproving eye.
Schwarz flushed slightly. Kurtzman picked up for him. “The point is,” said Kurtzman, “everything about Rhemsen could be made up, but if it was established long enough ago, it’s going to take a while for us to find evidence of that.”
“I still say we just roll in there and arrest him,” Lyons said. “He’s going to lie. And then we’re going to leave. And when we come back he’s going to try to kill us. Let’s just cut to the end.”
“Five bucks says he tries to kill us right way,” Schwarz said.
“You’re on,” said Lyons. He turned away from the electronics expert as the monitors switched from the picture of Rhemsen to the feed from Brognola’s office.
“If I could continue…” Brognola cleared his throat again. “Obviously, I need you to use some discretion. Able Team will be operating under the auspices of Justice on this, since the origin of the US-made weaponry has nothing to do with China itself. But of course the two are connected, if only because the raids are being conducted using these illegally obtained rocket systems.”
“XM-Thorns,” Schwarz declared, apparently scrolling through data that had been uploaded to his phone. “Nasty stuff. Very compact. Very light and very powerful.”
“Yes,” Brognola agreed. “That’s part of what makes this so urgent, separate from the greater political concerns where China is involved. Bear has transmitted complete mission dossiers to all of your secure smartphones, including the specifications for the recovered weaponry, the target lists and real-time updates as our satellite imaging provides new data for Phoenix.” He looked down at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to that meeting.”
“We’re on it,” McCarter stated. “Wheels up in five.”
“Thanks, Hal,” Price said. “Stay safe.”
“This is Wonderland,” Brognola responded. “Nobody’s safe. Good hunting, all of you.”
The screens went blank and then returned to the test pattern. Lyons stood and gestured to his Able Team colleagues.
“Let’s move, ladies,” Lyons grumbled. “I’ll draw an SUV from the motor pool and have Cowboy fill it with things that explode.” He was referring to John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s armorer.
“Catch you later,” Schwarz said to Price and Kurtzman. Blancanales nodded. The two men followed their team leader into the corridor, leaving Price and Kurtzman alone in the briefing room.
Kurtzman pushed his chair away from the table. Just as Price, too, started to rise, the image on the conference room screens once again became that of the purple, spherical monster chasing candy through its puzzle maze. Kurtzman sighed heavily and put his head in his hands.
Price hurried out, hoping she could make the control room before she started to laugh.
CHAPTER TWO
Fayetteville, North Carolina
“Level twenty-one,” Schwarz announced triumphantly. He went through the motions of a little victory dance in the passenger seat of the old Chevrolet Suburban, something he had been developing for the past several levels. Or at least, that was what he had been telling Blancanales and Lyons. From the driver’s seat, Lyons shot him a sidelong glance.
“You can quit that anytime,” he growled.
“No, I really can’t,” Schwarz said. He had his secure satellite smartphone in his hands and was once again playing the candy monster game. He did not look up as he spoke. Blancanales, as he often did, pretended not to hear the exchange, instead watching out the window of the SUV.
The old Suburban was one that had been in the Farm’s motor pool rotation for a while. It had steel running boards, which you hardly ever saw on big SUVs these days. It even had a few patched bullet holes that Blancanales had noticed when Lyons had first brought the vehicle around. He knew that, regardless of its appearance, the old truck would be well maintained by the mechanics at Stony Man Farm. Not for the first time it occurred to him how fortunate they all were to be able to take the maintenance of their vehicles and weapons for granted.
The resources of the Farm were extensive, but they were not limitless. Brognola went through a number of different legal and political gymnastics in Washington to divert the funds from various black bag project budgets to pay for the Farm. It helped that the President of the United States was in on the Sensitive Operations Group’s existence, of course. The Man always saw to it that budget expenditures manipulated by Brognola were signed off as they came up. But it was still an ongoing battle, not just coordinating a venture as elaborate and as dangerous as the Farm’s counterterrorism efforts, but also making sure the budget money flowed where it needed to flow. Blancanales understood very well the politicking and people wrangling that must come with the job. He was glad the tasks did not fall to him.
“Level twenty-two!” Schwarz whooped and moved his arms in a tight circle like a sorority drunk at a nightclub.
“I am going to throw that thing out the window,” Lyons threatened. “You’ve been doing that for the past two hundred miles.”
“I could go back to ‘I spy with my little eye,’” Schwarz said. “I spy—” he began.
“Pol,” Lyons said without turning to look back at Blancanales. “I want you to take out your Beretta, put it to the back of my head and put me out of my misery.”
“You can make it, Ironman,” Blancanales said encouragingly. “Maybe focus on the mission. Count to ten and think of England.”
“One,” Lyons muttered. “Two. Three…”
They were outfitted with their usual complement of personal weapons, as well as some of
