June 14, 1997
11:45 PM
Mr. Graham's Office
It had been an hour since Landen's last update. 'Location secured, brother.' was his status report.
Since then, nothing.
Graham took a sip of his freshly brewed coffee before trying the radio again.
"Landen. This is Graham at Langely. Please respond, over."
Static.
Graham stood up, walked to the window and viewed the Virginia skyline.
Letting off steam.
He walked back to the desk and tried the radio once more.
"Landen. Come in. Over."
More static.
He pulled out the encrypted folder under his desk drawer containing a unit. He switched frequencies and spoke into the radio again.
This time with more aggression.
"This is the advisor. I need eyes on the Black Site. Anyone on this frequency, over."
To Graham's relief, the radio chimed.
"Corporal Pollock reporting in from the staging post - We lost contact with the element inside the Black Site half an hour ago."
Graham shut his eyes and his lips quivered.
He didn't respond.
"There was significant gunfire but it just stopped. Suddenly. I think it's gone, over."
Graham disconnected from the radio.
He angrily set the folder down on the desk.
Harder than he hoped, making the ashtray bounce and a cigeratte fall onto the floor.
He didn't bother to pick it up.
He picked up the radio again.
"Landen. Come in. Over."
He set it down.
Picked it up again.
"Landen."
Static.
He knew he couldn't contact anyone about this.
The thing about these operations is that he couldn't tell Department of Defense. No AFRICOM. Because on a basis of technicality this was an operation that did not officially exist in any database.
Landen was the only CIA rep in the mission.
The only thing that could realistically keep the machine moving.
And the machine had stopped.
"Landen. Come in."
Static. He gently put the radio on the desk.
Paused for a moment.
Then aggressively slid the keyboard off the desk, resulting in it smashing onto the ground catastrophically.
Keys went everywhere.
It practically yanked the monitor half off the desk.
Graham caught the monitor with both hands to prevent a larger disaster.
He lit another cigeratte while another burned in the ashtray.
He grabbed the authorization paper that only he and Landen saw for this operation, and held the corner of it to his lit cigeratte, watching it catch and burn slowly.
He dropped the burnt paper into the ashtray and let it finish, before sitting down once more.
Not worrying about the broken keyboard.
He grabbed a fresh paper and began to write.
CIA Headquarters - Langley
0730 Hours (8 hours after Black Site)
The agent sat in his quiet office.
He was on his third cup of coffee, reading through the Beirut Report.
That's when his phone rang.
He picked it up without second thought.
"Kessler."
The voice on the other end replied, "You have a minute?"
He recognized it.
Graham.
Very casual tone for 7:30 AM.
That meant that the situation wasn't casual at all. Kessler responded, "I got several. What's up?"
"My office. Now...if you don't mind."
Kessler minded slightly. But he took his coffee up anyway.
---
When Agent Nick Kessler arrived, he took note of the interior.
New keyboard.
It wasn't a detail that mattered. But Nick had a habit of picking up on things that the regular person wouldn't notice.
It was his speciality.
Graham was at the window.
Without looking, he spoke.
"Sit down, Agent."
He stood behind the desk and Nick took note of this.
Men sat when they were comfortable.
But they stood when they needed proper authority.
Graham folded his arms and spoke confidently.
"Director Scott Whitfield. He's gonna call you this morning."
Nick shrugged.
"About what?"
Graham pumped his fists.
"Zaire!", He sing-songed as he picked up a pen and twirled it in his fingers.
He then set the pen down and spoke seriously now.
"We had some of our own...operating in the region. Supporting that JSOC Task Force. There was...an incident at a location in the southwest province. We lost contact with our element about...8 hours ago."
He checked his watch to be sure.
Nick's expression softened
"...How many people?"
Graham frowned, "Thirteen people. Including our lead."
Nick was quiet for a moment.
"Who?"
Graham paused briefly before continuing, "Landen."
Nick Kessler absorbed this.
His expression didn't change but something behind it recalibrated. He set his coffee down on the edge of the desk.
"Dominic Owen..."
Graham nodded, "Yup."
"The hell was he doing in Zaire?"
Graham spoke steadily:
"...Supporting the task force. Locating assets. Recovery."
A true answer, yes, but carefully reduced.
Both men in the room understood this.
But only one of the men in here actually understood the gratifications.
Agent Nick Kessler picked his coffee back up. "What kind of incident?"
Graham relaxed against the wall.
"We don't have full information yet. A staging post corporal filed a lost contact report last night. That's how Whitfield found out. That's why he's calling you this morning rather than coming to me."
Nick shook his head and put his coffee cup back down, "Should've told him, sir."
Graham got up off the wall.
"Listen, the operation was runnin' lean and fast. I had to make a judgement call about the reporting timeline. That'll be a conversation I have with the director seperately. What I need right now from you is for our best agent to go into Zaire and find out what happened to thirteen Americans before this becomes a widespread investigation."
Kessler paused for a moment.
He chuckled and looked at him for a long moment.
He's worked with Graham for 11 years.
Close proximity.
Graham was never really lying. There was enough truth to make incomplete information almost invisible.
"Okay...so when Whitfield calls me, what will he tell me about the mission?"
Graham shrugged casually at Nick's question.
"Determine what happened to the men. Recover remains. Analyze operational exposure...standard procedure."
Nick grinned.
"And...what will you tell me?"
Graham finally sat down.
"Same thing."
Nick rubbed his forehead and changed the topic.
He laughed as he remembered.
"Owen came to my office once. About...eight months ago. Wanted me to come to one of his.... 'sessions'."
He paused to reflect.
"That meditation group he ran. Every tuesday. I...I told him, 'Yknow, I don't have time...'. He told me, that someone like me..."
He paused.
"...I need it most. So I went. Went twice. He made everyone REALLY get into it. Take their shoes off and everything. He was good at it. That...stillness. It surprised even me...", He chuckled. "He said it kept him sober. Or whatever."
He went to the door. But stopped before he left.
"And Graham...when I find out what happened out there, I'm gonna need the full picture. Not the lean fast version."
He left without waiting for a reply.
---
June 15, 1997
12:10 AM
Citadel Black Site
Creed heard it all.
The gunfire on the roof, the begging, the brief fight, and the death.
Everything.
He thought about what had conspired today.
The Warlord's office.
Siba.
Kael.
He thought about Landen's "Things just got a little out of hand" drifting down through the ceiling in fragments minutes ago.
That...specific cadence of a man performing until the last possible moment.
Still working...trying to find the angle, right up until he couldn't anymore.
Creed turned down the hall, bit not before turning to Dmitry and Dmitry's men and addresing Dmitry specifically, "You know the way back...? To the FOB. From here."
"They could be waiting for us back home… we shouldn't go back to base until its all clear." Dmitry was still dragging out the bodies of Siba and Kael, who were unfortunately killed, either by the agent rotting above them, or by his own hand, in his arms.
He spoke blankly, so much so that it sounded as though he hadn't a care in the world.
He didn't even stop for Creed, instead marching his men away like his life depended on it.
Although he did offer some more conversation than just that.
"We got transport outside… should get us at least halfway there."
Sergeant Petrov spoke up.
"There could be more of them out there..."
As they made their way out of the smoking black site, it receeded into the darkness behind them.
No one was left.
The celestial night sky of Zaire was interrupted by gunfire and flares in the distance.
A wonderful reminder of what kind of country they're in.
Creed turned to Petrov.
"We do whatever it takes to get back..." Creed made it to a vehicle just outside the black site gates.
One of the vehicles that Landen and the group took here.
"Marcus, you know it isn't safe."
Dmitry was protesting, but he still aided his men toward the vehicle, even the corpses, as he loaded it up, a tear falling down his eye, into his mask, not that either of the men would even know. Every seat besides the passenger and drivers were filled now. "…who's driving?"
In the vehicle, it was pure silence, but Creed took the wheel.
The engine turned into a low idle.
The black site was just a smear of smoke along the tree line now.
The road back to the FOB was unlit.
Uneven.
Sometimes, the headlights would catch red dirt and distant ordinance painting the sky, but other than that?
Nothing.
After silence between all in the vehicle, Creed turned to Dmitry.
"Y'know what the worst part is...? Back home. there's people who'll never know any of this happened. Won't know about Landen, won't know about Siba...won't know about any of it."
He paused for a moment.
"And the ones who do know...they're the ones who ordered it."
"Why should they? We're fighting to make sure they don't." Dmitry sat in silence, he was the passenger in front. He sat forward, hands clasped together, fingers interlocked, head staring at the floor the entire time.
"Even if we wanted them to know, the ones who ordered it would have us silenced before we reach our shores."
Dmitry sat back up, slowly, rising back to his seat, his eyes fixed on the window on his side, never looking back to Creed even once.
Creed didn't bother keeping his eyes anywhere but the road.
His knuckles were white around the wheel.
"Maybe...but that's what gets me, old man. About a dozen American contractors in there, a CIA agent, all working for the same government that's gonna write a report on what happened. And...and something tells me that it won't be entirely accurate. They will say ZLF did this."
His voice was completely flat.
"Maybe they'll even believe it themselves by the time they're done writing it." Creed exhaled slowly through his nose, thinking of what he's gonna have to tell Major Merrick.
"We have only what we saw in there."
---
June 16, 1997
Officially a week after Fremont's kidnapping.
Three black SUVs stopped outside the gates of the Citadel Black Site.
No markings to give anything away.
Graham was the first out.
He straightened his jacket and analyzed the building.
In the early morning light, it was just concrete.
Smoke damage.
Bullet scarring.
It was uglier than what the man had imagined.
Agent Kessler followed behind.
Of the three SUVs, twelve more personnel cameout and began swarming the perimeter carefully.
Kessler already had his notebook in his jacket pocket.
The group of CIA spread around the perimeter without being told, covering angles and checking corners.
Inside the initial halls, the lighting was dim red and blinking.
One agent spoke up, "Thought the power was out."
Kessler answered, "Emergency lights."
Power had been out for atleast a day now. Morning light came in through windows and other holes that were opened by debris.
Twelve feet inside of the black site, lay Hemlock.
Nick instantly crouched down nearby as multiple agents began photographing and taking in the surroundings.
Hemlock's body was almost...unfinished.
His face was down, and the skull wound was dried black.
The gutting that had been done was neat and methodical.
Nick analyzed it.
"Not a firearm. Someone knew what they were doing. This was pure...knife work."
Graham shrugged in response.
"ZLF?"
Nick hesitated.
"Maybe, but whoever it was didn't see it coming. These aren't defensive wounds."
Some contractors stayed back to investigate.
Kessler, Graham and multiple others pressed forward.
But the center stairwell made everyone stop in their tracks.
The body pile was horrific.
Nineteen bodies.
All ZLF. Each ZLF had impact trauma consistent with a 3-4 storey fall.
Some of these cases had gunshot wounds that complicated it slightly, however it was clear to everyone what this was.
A mass execution of hostages.
"Jesus..." Agent Nick Kessler crouched at the edge of the pile.
Some of the bodies were squished against eachother. Everything was clustered into this relatively small space.
Pure brutality.
"Yeah...this wasn't one event. It was clear one at a time... over the course of 10-20 minutes.
Whatever the executioner was looking for, he didn't find it. But he kept going anyway. Didn't stop til they were all dead."
Graham barely had an answer.
"Let's get to the roof."
Nick nodded and turned to the rest of the contractors nearby, "Roger. Everyone get photographs and mark this off."
One agent nodded, "Copy, sir."
---
They came up through the maintenance hatch. Same one that Landen went through.
The main stairwell to the roof was blocked by three contractor bodies at the top, one still holding a radio with the channel open and static coming through at low volume.
The rest of the dead contractors on the roof were positioned in a way that looked like a deadly ambush.
Trafford was nearest the hatch, face up.
Shot in the back.
Utterly oblivious.
The Desert Eagle was positioned near the hatch, and a CIA agent hurried over to bag it up.
Nick went over to the edge.
He froze when he saw it.
Landen's dead body at the bottom.
Sprawled out. His brains everywhere and multiple impaled spots. His face was up towards the sky, and his limbs were contorted and broken.
Graham had to look away for a second, almost laughing in shock, but kept the gaze at the corpse.
"There he is..." He muttered quietly.
"His brains were taken apart and then he went over the edge. He'd already given up the weapon." Nick looked at the stairs. "Whatever came through there onto this roof wasn't hunting your contractors. They were hunting him specifically."
He paused to think.
"This wasn't the same party that moved through the lower floors. This was angrier. A path of vendetta."
---
Downstairs, Nick looked at Landen's body closer as contractors set up a "crime scene".
Blood pooled over half his face, and his brains were disjointed. Metal pieces were lodged inside. Nick was able to make out some of it, but couldn't tell if it was a satalite phone or a military-grade radio.
Nick nodded to Graham who walked over.
"Walk me through what happened here, Kessler."
Nick cleared his throat and showcased the floorpan he'd been scribbling in.
"Primary element came in through the main gate. Your uh... contracted element and your asset leading." He marked the entry. "They cleared the ground floor. Went up. Lost people floor by floor to a large caliber weapon moving through the building independently. Consistent and patient, floor by floor. Not a regular insurgent. A grunt doesn't shoot like this."
He moved the pen.
"Your asset takes his remaining contractors to the roof through the maintenance hatch. Second incursion hits from outside. up the exterior, through the hatch. Faster. Angrier. Personal. Four contractors dead in under a minute. Your asset was disarmed, impaled with a deadly weapon, and put over the edge. Some sort of device shattered on his skull when he was already on the floor down here. But we cant make it out properly in this kind of environment."
"Huh...And we didn't find the body of Berkhoff or Creed."
Graham nodded slowly.
"So they walked out. Both of them. With some of Berkhoff's people."
He looked at the floor plan again.
"Through a building that killed twelve trained contractors and a CIA Assassin."
He looked up at Kessler.
"And neither of them has a scratch from what we can tell!" He said it pleasantly.
Like he was talking about the weather.
"See, I'm not the type to accuse people, but Berkhoff was Russian special forces. Hound Wolf are off books. We don't actually know what those men were trained to do or what they're capable of. So I think it's time we head to the Africom Base and have a detailed conversation with Berkhoff and Creed about the mission over some coffee. Don't you?"
Graham began making his way back to the vehicles.
Nick nodded, and let the words sit in his brain.
'Hound Wolf'.
"Copy sir. We're just wrappin' up here."
---
"See, I'm not the type to accuse people, but Berkhoff was Russian special forces. Hound Wolf are off books. We don't actually know what those men were trained to do or what they're capable of. So I think it's time we head to the Africom Base and have a detailed conversation with Berkhoff and Creed about the mission over some coffee. Don't you?"
Graham began making his way back to the vehicles.
Nick nodded, and took the words into his brain. 'Hound Wolf'.
"Copy sir. We're just wrappin' up here."
---
Citadel Base
Punishment flew through the winds of Zaire's barren landscape, akin to that of fire spreading through dry grasslands.
Except the winds didn't die down, neither did the fire ridden with consequences, prices to pay, murders to cover up, on top of the storm that fell upon Zaire.
A storm of misdeeds, that of hidden agendas, specifically one mans.
Damian Webb's.
A mercenary born into a millionaires body.
He sat at the helm of the Citadel Security Agency, overseeing all action - legal or not.
This time, a mess befitting of an entire cleanup crew fell into his lap.
The cause right before him, sitting across from him. Anslo Garrick, and his rapid chase for power, and his failure to protect his black sites.
Which angered Damian the most, yet his composure kept, instead presenting him as a calm dictator as opposed to a tyrant.
"Like a moth to a flame, eh Anslo? Couldn't keep your head out, even when you knew it was dangerous. What were you thinking?"
His feet lifted him up to a standing position, his voice rising with him, anger seeping through his otherwise calm words.
Anslo let Damien finish standing, before looking up at the man. He wasn't going to try and challenge his authority.
But he knew he could hold his own.
He unfolded his hands and put them flat on the table, "The site is compromised, boss. That's on me. I own it. But what I can tell you...is that nearly every American who came in didn't come out. The ZLF Warlord, Judge, saw to that personally. "
Anslo's fingers twitched. He fumbled for a cigeratte in his pocket as he relaxed in his chair.
"Dead Americans. On an off-books operation in Zaire. Their government will want answers. But where will they get them?"
He laughed.
"You gave me purpose when the chain of command had already written us off. I built this organization from that. From nothing. From men who had nothing left but each other and God...In all these years, I've never lost a site without taking something much greater in return."
"It should not have to come to you two. This violence was unnecessary, a blemish on the already beaten, battered and bruised Zaire. And for your information, a vehicle escaped the premises, I did not know who took it - I' hope it was your men, but it is gone. That risk is too great to take - we need to find the American's base and eliminate them as quickly as possible!"
Damien's forehead veins were rupturing.
"Their presence in Zaire is a threat enough to OUR rule. Every time you- Judge - Spec… any of them attack them, or provoke them, that's adding more sticks to a campfire we soon won't be able to contain!"
But then Damien drifted toward the window. Like a sleeping beauty trapped in a pearly castle, bound by gilded bars. He did not look Anslos way, but instead toward the out of control fire left at their black site to the southwest.
He then swiftly returned to his seat, assuming a standing position, an aura of authority following him, his eyes meeting Anslos for the first time in the meeting, as he sat back down, signifying they were on the same level for one moment.
He gestured with an open palm, to his alcohol - a second prized possession to the CSA.
"You made the situation less of a problem than Spectre or Judge would've. Please - Help yourself."
Anslo looked at the glass for a moment. Then at his boss.
He then began pouring himself a fair share.
He had already begun solving the loose ends, "That vehicle leaving the site...Sam Fisher and Elias Maddox are already on it with a recon team. We'll find out where it's going."
He sighed as he took a leisurely swig of the drink.
"You're right about the campfire. But understand this, the more dead Americans on our soil, means another incident that the West must respond to. You know what, they'll send more bodies to try and clean up the mess. And those bodies will head to the capital. Look for their missing commissioner, and more of them will fall."
He kept his voice calm. Respectful.
Certainly measured.
"That is what we want. A controlled burn. God willing, we'll finish it there. On our terms."