Ghost Agent Read online

  GHOST AGENT

  A MATTHEW RIKER NOVEL

  J.T. BAIER

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  PROLOGUE

  MATTHEW RIKER HAD TO DIE. The five men around the table were in consensus.

  The officers of QS-4 were overly cautious by nature, and strict protocol was followed throughout the facility. But here, in the inner sanctum where the senior most members of QS-4’s field operations team gathered, even more stringent measures were taken to ensure privacy. No electronic devices were allowed in the room. The walls were thick, and the only entrance was protected by a retina scanner, a keypad with a passcode, and a former US Marine Corps boxing champion. The room was swept nightly for listening devices. It was as secure as any room in the Pentagon.

  Still, Edgar Morrison didn’t feel at ease. The topic of their conversation for the past four hours had him out of sorts. He’d recruited Riker to come work for QS-4. He’d also negotiated the terms of Riker’s retirement, terms Riker had blatantly broken in New York City when he’d taken down the entire Weaver organization and a handful of Chinese nationals, all to save some politician’s daughter.

  The price of breaking those terms was clear—Riker had to die. Killing him wouldn’t be easy, and they’d spent most of the day formulating their strategy, a brute force attack that would overwhelm him in his own home. There were only a few more details to hammer out. Then they’d sign the order and put a team in the field. Riker would be dead by morning.

  Morrison leaned forward and sighed, going over the handwritten notes on the legal pad in front of him. This on top of everything else that was going on in QS-4 at the moment. He was having a hell of a week, and it showed no signs of improving.

  Stone, Morrison’s operational second-in-command, watched him with a wary eye. “Having second thoughts?”

  “No. Just trying to see the plan from every angle possible. Riker will make us pay for any mistake, so we have to execute perfectly.”

  “We will. I’m confident we have a solid approach. Riker’s smart, but he’s rusty. Six years off the job, it’s impossible not to lose your edge.”

  Morrison let out a humorless laugh. “Tell that to the men in the airfield outside New York City. Better yet, tell it to their widows.”

  He took one last look at his notes. Stone was right. This was a solid plan. Riker was good—he might even take out one or two of their guys—but this attack would be the end of Matthew Riker.

  It was time to stop planning and start doing.

  Just as Morrison opened his mouth to give the order, a red light above the door came on. The men around the table exchanged surprised glances. Though the light had been there for years, it was rarely used.

  Stone got to his feet and opened the door. A tall blond man with a crew cut stood on the other side.

  “What is it?” Stone asked.

  “There’s a phone call for Captain Morrison.”

  Morrison raised an eyebrow. “A phone call from whom?”

  The man looked past Stone, meeting Morrison’s gaze. “Matthew Riker.”

  1

  RIKER WATCHED through his front window as the Toyota Camry pulled into his driveway. Of course it would be a Camry, the most anonymous car in America, and in silver, the most common color. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out of the vehicle.

  Morrison had more gray in his hair than he had six years ago, but little else about the man had changed. He was still broad and solid, built like a linebacker, and he walked with the same easy, confident stride as he had the day Riker met him. Riker watched until he disappeared from view when he stepped up to the stoop by the front door.

  The older man didn’t bother knocking, and Riker wasn’t surprised. Morrison would undoubtedly know Riker was watching.

  Riker opened the door and greeted his old mentor with a nod. The two men regarded each other warily, each subconsciously planning for battle, subtly positioning their bodies for optimum strategic advantage. Morrison wore his sidearm at his hip. That didn’t surprise Riker. He would have been more worried if the old man hadn’t been wearing his signature piece.

  After a moment, Riker held out his hand. Morrison shook it. Then Riker nodded toward the kitchen, and Morrison stepped inside.

  “Nice place,” Morrison said.

  “Thanks.”

  Riker led him to the kitchen. The table was set for two, with glasses of lemonade, a stack of freshly toasted bread, and a jar of honey. It wasn’t often that Riker had company, and he’d never hosted a meeting quite as important as this one. His life depended on the outcome of this conversation. Riker took a seat at the head of the table.

  Morrison walked to the fridge and paused, looking at the crayon drawing that hung there. He stared at it for a long while, tilting his head this way and that as if trying to understand what the drawing depicted. Riker gave him no explanation. There were plenty of things he was willing to share with his old mentor, but this wasn’t one of them.

  Finally, Morrison walked to the table and sat across from Riker. He gestured toward the jar of honey. “Yours?”

  Riker nodded.

  Morrison put a piece of toast on the empty plate in front of him and opened the honey jar. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to honey.”

  Riker remembered. It was Morrison who’d first introduced him to the strange and wonderful world of fine honey.

  “I’ve eaten Manuka honey in New Zealand. Leatherwood honey in Tasmania, Elvish honey in Turkey, and Sourwood honey right here in Appalachia.” He slathered a thick layer of honey onto his bread while he spoke. “All that to say, my standards are high. Don’t be offended if yours doesn’t stack up to those world-class nectars.”

  He took a bite of the toast, his face unreadable. Then he took a swig of lemonade.

  “Does it stack up?” Riker asked.

  A slight smile played on Morrison’s lips. “It very much does.”

  He took another bite, chewing slowly, clearly savoring it, but his eyes never left Riker. After he’d swallowed, he set the toast on the plate.

  “You broke the terms.”

  “Yeah,” Riker said.

  “And then you called, which is in and of itself another violation.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you brought me down here, halfway across the country. I assume you have a suggestion of how we resolve the situation.”

  Riker paused, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t.”

  Morrison leaned back in his seat. “Not a great start, Matthew.”
br />   “But an honest one. Truth is, I don’t need to come up with a resolution. Because you already have one in mind.”

  “Is that so?” Morrison picked up the toast and took another bite.

  “Captain, you trained me to always look at the situation from my opponent’s perspective, so that’s what I’ve been doing these past few days. I’ve been trying to figure out how you see this ending.”

  “Yeah? And what did you come up with?”

  Riker took a deep breath. His life depended on what he said next. If he was wrong in his assumptions or if Morrison thought he sounded insincere in his convictions, he was a dead man. “You put yourself on the line for me once. They let me retire. That never happens. Putting a guy like me who knows the things I know out onto the street had to make a lot of people nervous. You would have had to make a lot of promises. Given a lot of guarantees. The most important of which would have been that you wouldn’t hesitate to end my life if I broke the retirement terms.”

  Morrison’s eyes were hard and cold as he stared back at Riker. “Keep going.”

  Riker knew that it would be a waste of time to recount the events that had surrounded his time in New York City. He’d done what he’d done to help a child. That would be meaningless to QS-4. He might as well have performed a terrorist attack for all they cared. He’d broken the terms. It didn’t matter why. So he moved on to the aftermath.

  “I knew I only had two options in this situation. I could gear up for a fight I had no hope of winning. Or I could reach out.” Riker leaned forward. “You can’t let what I did slide. If you looked the other way, we’d both be dead men. But you came when I called. That leads me to believe there’s another way out of this.”

  “You sure about that?” Morrison asked, his voice a low growl. “Maybe I just wanted to do the deed myself.”

  “Neither of us wants to find out what would happen if you tried.”

  Morrison stared at him a long moment before speaking again. “You’re right about there being two options, but I don’t think you’ll like either of them.”

  “Try me.”

  “One of them is you die. The other is we nullify the deal. It’ll be like the agreement never existed. Hence, you never broke it.”

  Riker struggled to keep any emotion off his face. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you never retired. Meaning QS-4 owns your ass just as thoroughly as they did six years ago.”

  Riker raised an eyebrow. “Does QS-4 really trust me enough to put me back on a team?”

  “Not a team. You’d be Lone Wolf status. A ghost agent.”

  Riker swallowed hard. Lone Wolf status meant he’d not only operate alone, but he’d have limited support from the company, and none of the usual legal protections they offered their employees if things with law enforcement went sideways.

  “I suggest you don’t argue. It’s the best deal you’re going to get. Come back to work, Matthew.”

  Riker thought a moment before answering. “You must have quite the situation on your hands if the senior leadership team agreed to this.”

  “You’re not wrong.” Morrison reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key. He set it on the table and slid it across to Riker. “Leviathan Protocol.”

  Riker stared at the key, his jaw set. The mere thought of touching that key made his stomach turn. It would mean he was back under QS-4’s thumb. It would mean the last six years had been for nothing. His freedom would evaporate as quickly as a drop of water on a hot pan.

  Morrison pushed back his chair and stood up. “I should go. Thanks for the honey.”

  Riker opened a cabinet and took out another jar, this one unopened, and handed it to Morrison. “For the road.”

  Morrison chuckled. “I’ll save it for the apocalypse. This stuff never goes bad, right?”

  “This is unfiltered. It has impurities. It will go bad eventually.”

  Morrison nodded and headed for the door. He paused when he reached it, his hand on the knob. “If you’re not on a plane out of Charlotte tonight, I’ll have my answer, and we’ll do this the other way.”

  He walked out without saying goodbye.

  Riker watched him through the window, waiting until the silver Camry disappeared into the distance. Then he went back to the kitchen, sat down, and stared at the key Morrison had left on the table.

  2

  EVER SINCE HIS days in the military, Riker had possessed the ability to quickly and deeply fall asleep on planes. He spent the journey from Charlotte to Los Angeles dead to the world, his body responding to the travel with an almost greedy desire for slumber, as if it knew it would need as much energy as possible in the days to come. The jolt of the landing gear touching the runway woke him, bringing him back to the grim reality that he was about to undertake his first mission for QS-4 in six years. When the seatbelt light turned off, he grabbed his small backpack and touched the front pocket of his jeans. The small key was still safely in place.

  Riker made his way to a nearby offsite locker facility and found the locker that matched the number on his key. Inside, he found a cell phone and an envelope containing a California driver’s license with Riker’s photo and the name Jacob Smith. The ID looked so authentic that Riker wondered if it had been printed by the California DMV. The envelope also contained one thousand dollars in crisp new one hundred dollar bills.

  He changed out his ID with the fake and put the money in his wallet. He left his driver's license in the locker and put the key back in his pocket. Trying the phone, Riker wasn’t surprised to find that his fingerprint unlocked the device. QS-4 always liked to show off. There were no phone numbers programmed into the Contacts, but there was a ten-digit code in the Notes app.

  On his way out the door, he had to sidestep, narrowly avoiding a woman on her way into the facility. She gave him a dirty look that he unsuccessfully tried to defuse with a smile. He hadn’t meant to plow through the door, but he felt anger building up inside him. The cloak-and-dagger routine made his current situation feel more real. He had spent the last six years living a normal life. He didn’t need to check for a tail anytime he wanted to go to the store. There was no elaborate web of lies needed when he bought groceries or tended to his hives. Now that was all gone.

  The logical part of his brain had known that would be the case when he decided to call Morrison, but the rest of him was just making the connection. He wanted to call Morrison and scream into the phone, telling him to just give him a gun and let him know who to kill. No bullshit, no sneaking around. He wanted to punch someone. He also knew none of those were options. He was back in the game and needed to follow the rules.

  As he stepped into the cool night air of Los Angeles, he pulled the fake driver’s license out of his wallet and typed Jacob Smith’s address into his phone's navigation. The Maps app gave him a route to the location five miles away. He considered getting a cab, but he realized that with traffic, he could get there just as quickly on his own two feet. He knew that he may draw some attention running along the shoulder of the road at night, but he wanted to clear his head.

  The smog in the air reminded him of his recent trip to New York. Both cities were a harsh contrast to the crisp air he was used to in North Carolina. The pavement dashed by quickly as he jogged down the road, but he didn’t push himself hard. He fell into a natural pace and the motion of his body allowed his mind to relax.

  When he arrived at the address listed on the ID, he found a keypad on the door. He entered the code from the Notes app on the phone, and the electric bolt hummed as it disengaged. Riker stood to the side of the door and slowly pushed it open.

  A voice called out from inside of the house. “Ah, there you are. Please, do come in.”

  Riker stepped inside and took a look at the man who had spoken to him. The guy was in his late twenties, maybe six foot one, with a slim, athletic build. He was dressed in slacks and a pressed dress shirt. His shoes shined like polished brass. His hair was cropped tight on the sides and back and
carefully styled, and he stood a little too straight, as if he was slightly nervous.

  “You’re the handler, then?” Riker said.

  The man stuck out his hand, and the two men shook. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Scarecrow. You can call me Franklin.”

  Riker pushed down the tinge of annoyance that rose up at the man’s use of his old codename. “It’s just Riker now.”

  Franklin stepped past Riker and looked outside, glancing left and then right, as if checking to see if he’d been followed. Then he pulled the door shut and turned the deadbolt. “Yes, well, you’re working for QS-4 again. There are certain protocols that prohibit the use of--”

  “It’s Riker.” His tone was a little more insistent this time.

  Franklin opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but he shut it a moment later.

  Riker stepped through the entryway and into the kitchen. He set his backpack on the counter and looked around. “How about you? Handlers don’t have assigned codenames. You can call yourself anything you want as long as it’s not your real name, right?”

  “Yes,” Franklin allowed.

  “And you went with Franklin?”

  Franklin followed Riker into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Research has shown that even when you think you’re selecting a fake name at random, you are not. Cultural biases, the region where you grew up, and even favorite movies can subconsciously influence the decision. Enemies can use that information to find out valuable intelligence about your background. I wasn’t willing to risk that outcome.”

  “You used a random name generator, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” A slight flush rose on Franklin’s cheeks.

  Riker shook his head. He’s seen plenty of guys like Franklin in his time with QS-4. The company recruited from only the best schools, which meant Franklin probably had an Ivy League education. They also required military service, a nice little show of patriotism for the board members, so Franklin had served, but one look in his eyes told Riker the man hadn’t seen serious combat. If all went well, Franklin would probably move up to a leadership position in QS-4 in a few years. A decade from now, he’d be giving the orders that sent real warriors into battle. He’d send men and women to their deaths with a stroke of his pen. This would be the closest he’d ever come to true fieldwork. Riker had always made it his business to fuck with guys like Franklin as much as humanly possible.