York City
Sentinels Headquarters
Dressed in suit and tie, Garrett Wheeler arrived in the middle of the night at Sentinels headquarters, not an unusual occurrence in his line of work. He was determined to assess the Haiti situation as soon as possible. Committing resources to an urgent rescue mission of this magnitude would be within his authority to sanction. Yet the political ramifications of deploying a covert team from the United States to handle a hostage rescue in Haiti would require that he keep Sentinels’ group leaders apprised.
His analysts monitored events over the globe twenty-four/seven. And that meant as operational head, he was on call. The influential and wealthy men behind the covert organization owned his ass, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. His involvement had given his life a purpose he never would have imagined. He carried out the Sentinels’ objectives and had become the organization’s only public face so they could operate inanonymity. And he liked to think he had done his share of shaping the group after he emerged from its ranks to take a leadership role.
Only time and his unflinching diligence would determine his contribution in the long run.
After the ocular-and facial-recognition program scanned a blue light across his face, the private elevator opened its doors and took him to his office on a subterranean level located in an unmarked building on the streets of New York City.
A voice greeted him in the elevator on his way down.
“Good morning, Garrett. I’ve sent the files you requested. They’re on your desk.” The Southern drawl of analyst Tanya Spencer came over a speaker, along with her smiling dark-skinned face on a small screen. “And we’ve been monitoring the situation in Haiti. Satellite images for the region are being sent to you now. Anything else, sir?”
“Thanks, Tanya. I’ll let you know.”
When the elevator doors opened again, the lights to his office suite illuminated a large room with minimal furnishings of glass, black leather, and sterling-silver fixtures. A bank of monitors gave him a glimpse of news, weather, and other hot-spot situations across the globe. And teleconferencing equipment allowed him to make secured contact with members of the Sentinels. At the touch of a screen on his desktop, he could bring up any view he wanted.
Before he got to his usual morning briefing rituals, he smelled fresh-brewed coffee. A service had been set up on a console table on the far wall. He poured a cupand replayed in his mind the earlier phone conversation he’d had with Joe LaClaire as he settled behind his desk. The call had been recorded, analyzed, and dispatched to him via a Sentinels’ security screening process that wouldn’t allow anyone else to trace it to his location.
Garrett had met Joe LaClaire on more than one occasion through mutual associates. Yet it wasn’t until he discovered LaClaire was a trusted ally of Jackson Kinkaid that he gave him any serious consideration as a player in international circles. LaClaire was discreet and had a reputation for getting the job done in a low-key way, an attribute Kinkaid would have admired.
Their association made sense. Yet the urgent distress call still surprised him. Why would anyone close to Kinkaid contact him? The situation had to be damned hopeless. And other thoughts occurred to him, driven by his suspicious nature. After all these years, why now? Why would Kinkaid contact him out of the blue? The answer could be as simple as the man didn’t know LaClaire had made the call, but what if Kinkaid couldn’t leave the past alone?
What if he had an appetite for payback?
Something else bothered him, too. He hadn’t been able to uncover any real details about how Kinkaid made a living these days although he hadn’t given up trying to find answers. And for a number of years, the reclusive man had dropped off the grid. Gaps of time in his records had gone unexplained. With an operative, this wasn’t
Sentinels Headquarters
Dressed in suit and tie, Garrett Wheeler arrived in the middle of the night at Sentinels headquarters, not an unusual occurrence in his line of work. He was determined to assess the Haiti situation as soon as possible. Committing resources to an urgent rescue mission of this magnitude would be within his authority to sanction. Yet the political ramifications of deploying a covert team from the United States to handle a hostage rescue in Haiti would require that he keep Sentinels’ group leaders apprised.
His analysts monitored events over the globe twenty-four/seven. And that meant as operational head, he was on call. The influential and wealthy men behind the covert organization owned his ass, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. His involvement had given his life a purpose he never would have imagined. He carried out the Sentinels’ objectives and had become the organization’s only public face so they could operate inanonymity. And he liked to think he had done his share of shaping the group after he emerged from its ranks to take a leadership role.
Only time and his unflinching diligence would determine his contribution in the long run.
After the ocular-and facial-recognition program scanned a blue light across his face, the private elevator opened its doors and took him to his office on a subterranean level located in an unmarked building on the streets of New York City.
A voice greeted him in the elevator on his way down.
“Good morning, Garrett. I’ve sent the files you requested. They’re on your desk.” The Southern drawl of analyst Tanya Spencer came over a speaker, along with her smiling dark-skinned face on a small screen. “And we’ve been monitoring the situation in Haiti. Satellite images for the region are being sent to you now. Anything else, sir?”
“Thanks, Tanya. I’ll let you know.”
When the elevator doors opened again, the lights to his office suite illuminated a large room with minimal furnishings of glass, black leather, and sterling-silver fixtures. A bank of monitors gave him a glimpse of news, weather, and other hot-spot situations across the globe. And teleconferencing equipment allowed him to make secured contact with members of the Sentinels. At the touch of a screen on his desktop, he could bring up any view he wanted.
Before he got to his usual morning briefing rituals, he smelled fresh-brewed coffee. A service had been set up on a console table on the far wall. He poured a cupand replayed in his mind the earlier phone conversation he’d had with Joe LaClaire as he settled behind his desk. The call had been recorded, analyzed, and dispatched to him via a Sentinels’ security screening process that wouldn’t allow anyone else to trace it to his location.
Garrett had met Joe LaClaire on more than one occasion through mutual associates. Yet it wasn’t until he discovered LaClaire was a trusted ally of Jackson Kinkaid that he gave him any serious consideration as a player in international circles. LaClaire was discreet and had a reputation for getting the job done in a low-key way, an attribute Kinkaid would have admired.
Their association made sense. Yet the urgent distress call still surprised him. Why would anyone close to Kinkaid contact him? The situation had to be damned hopeless. And other thoughts occurred to him, driven by his suspicious nature. After all these years, why now? Why would Kinkaid contact him out of the blue? The answer could be as simple as the man didn’t know LaClaire had made the call, but what if Kinkaid couldn’t leave the past alone?
What if he had an appetite for payback?
Something else bothered him, too. He hadn’t been able to uncover any real details about how Kinkaid made a living these days although he hadn’t given up trying to find answers. And for a number of years, the reclusive man had dropped off the grid. Gaps of time in his records had gone unexplained. With an operative, this wasn’t
Similar Books
