Section 8 Read Online Free PDF Page B

for the team and tendered his resignation, claiming the authorization for Delta Force to be on the raid had come from his office and he had overstepped the limits of his power. Vaughn doubted that the raid had originated anywhere but at the highest levels. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone who was truly in charge stand up and take responsibility for something they had ordered.

"It's bullshit."

He didn't realize that someone had come into the briefing room, where the imagery, maps, and overlays for the mission were still tacked to walls. He'd been sitting there alone, not wanting to be with the others in the small recreation room watching CNN scroll by, showing practically the same story every half hour, the graphic images of the raid video playing again and again. Whoever had been manning the camera caught the RPG hitting Jenkins's helicopter, and Vaughn could not help but dwell on his brother-in-law's last moments of life whenever he saw it.

The man who stood in the doorway wore civilian clothes: black trousers, black T-shirt, and white sport coat. A bit much for the climate, Vaughn thought, then spotted the bulk of a gun in a shoulder holster and knew that was the reason for the coat.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the man. "This is a secure area."

"It's a secure area because I secured it," the man replied.

"CIA." Vaughn said it with a tinge of contempt. "Clowns in Action," as they were well known in the Special Operations community. Stemming from when the CIA and Special Forces were both spawned out of the OSS—Office of Strategic Services—after World War II, there had been no love lost between the two organizations. The war on terror had not brought the two organizations any closer, as the CIA had tried to expand its paramilitary forces under the guise of fighting terrorism—an area that military Special Operations felt was their purview.

"No. I'm not CIA," the man said, surprising Vaughn.

"DIA?" His tone had shifted from fact to question.

"No."

"Are we going to play alphabet soup?" Vaughn asked, tired of the game. He figured this guy was here to deliver the bad news, whatever it might be.

The man shrugged. "Let's say NSA just so you feel better."

"Why would that make me feel better?"

"It seems important to you to know who I work for."

"I want to know who I'm talking to."

"My name is Royce."

Vaughn stared at him. He was older, in his later forties, maybe early fifties. The way he carried himself indicated he'd been in the military at one time, probably long ago, before disappearing into the covert world and landing wherever he had—NSA, or elsewhere. Royce's face was tanned from the sun and had plenty of stress lines etched into it, typical for his line of work. He was tall and thin with somewhat long dark hair with a liberal amount of gray in it. His face was clean-shaven and there was the slightest trace of a scar across his forehead, disappearing underneath the hair on the right temple. Vaughn recognized a kindred spirit in the shadow world, but that didn't make him feel any better, since it was a world where secrets were kept and motives were often questionable.

"What do you want, Royce?"

Royce indicated a chair. "Mind if I sit?"

"Yes."

Royce sat anyway. He regarded Vaughn with mild interest, as if he were an exhibit in a zoo. Vaughn disliked the way this was going. "You always ask questions you've already determined the answer to?" he demanded.

"I know my answer," Royce replied. "I just wanted to know yours."

Vaughn sighed. He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. "I don't want to play games."

"I'm not here for games," Royce said. He nodded his head toward the door that led to the rec room. "How come you're not watching the news?"

"I know what happened."

"But not what's going to happen," Royce pointed out.

"Neither does CNN," Vaughn said.

Royce leaned back in his chair, turning it sideways. He stretched out his long legs and put his heels on another chair as he