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The Story

When the stakes are democracy itself…

US defense contractors and weapons dealers are trying to trick the US president into a full-scale war in Yemen. But the president isn’t taking the bait. To make it happen, they pay off key agency members and enlist Yemeni sleeper terrorists in Canada to kidnap the president during his upcoming visit.

CIS extractor Jack Storm is assigned the special task of the president’s safe return to the US.

But things take a drastic turn…

Without knowing whom to trust, Jack must protect the president and expose the traitors who will stop at nothing. Can one man bring down these dark forces and save democracy?

Find out what lengths Jack will go to in his incredible next mission: Presidential Extraction.

PRESIDENTIAL

EXTRACTION

JACK STORM SPY THRILLER SERIES

BOOK EIGHT

ETHAN JONES

To my wife for her wonderful encouragement,

my readers for their fantastic support,

and to the awesome God

who makes all things possible.

Psalm 46:1: God is our refuge and strength, a well proved help in trouble.

Chapter One

Influence Bar, Strada Paris

Dorobanți, Bucharest, Romania

Pandora Keller shook her head as she received the bad news. She tapped her phone’s screen to expand the text message, but there was no more information. Her associate was effective, but tight-lipped, even over secure lines.

She studied the short message: Op no go. Keller’s lips pressed tight into a grimace, then she let out a heavy sigh. Op no go, she thought. Keller had suspected that might be the end result, but she still had hoped they’d be more convincing. We did everything right, but he still doesn’t want to accept the new reality.

Keller cursed out loud. She couldn’t care less about the other patrons in the posh restaurant. The four patrons sitting around the next table about six feet away from her turned their heads. They gave her curious and disgusted looks, but Keller ignored them.

One of the waiters approached her table, but Keller dismissed him with a frown and a hand gesture. A member of her security detail, a six-foot-three muscular man, who was standing a few feet behind her, took a few steps forward and leaned over Keller. “Do you need anything, ma’am?” he asked in a firm, yet deferential voice.

“No, thanks.”

The guard retreated to his position, while Keller glanced at the phone. It was almost ten in the evening. Her associate should be coming to the restaurant directly after the meeting. The US Embassy was about a ten-minute drive. Twenty, with traffic, she guessed as the frown stretched across her forehead. I will have all my answers in twenty minutes.

Keller reached for her whiskey, but it tasted sour. She thought about ordering another drink, perhaps wine, but she doubted the taste would improve. There was nothing wrong with the single malt or the French wines she loved. Her attitude had gone south after receiving the bad news.

How can we get him to agree? she wondered. We’ve tried everything but the nuclear option. She bit her lip and briefly covered her face with her bony hands. But if we go that route, there’s no turning back.

She drew in a deep breath and flicked her curly black hair out of her face. I need to get a new haircut, she thought. Something more professional and high class than the last time. And definitely a new dye job.

Keller pulled out her mirror and checked her face. She squinted at the large black bags under her eyes. Crow’s feet showed at the corners of her small blue eyes and around her mouth. All this stress is aging me by decades.

She was in her late fifties, but looked as if she had just turned forty. Keller had had some work done, of course, but she also kept herself healthy and fit by sticking mostly to eating non-starchy vegetables and fruits and very little meat.

She wiped the left corner of her lips with the black napkin, then her thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Keller was the powerful CEO of Advance Defense Systems. ADS was the third largest defense contractor in the United States, providing logistical services, technical support, and training courses to the US military and government, as well as militaries and governments of over fifteen Western countries. ADS was also one of the top ten largest manufacturers of vehicles, weapons, and electronic systems in the world. Even so, Keller’s clout was limited. There were forces at play that were more powerful than she was. She recognized that, but it didn’t curb her ambition or desire to manipulate and control the situation.

Keller nodded to herself. That’s what I’m going to do this time as well. He’ll realize the error of his ways, but, by then, it will be too late.

Her lips curled up into a smirk as she continued to plot her next steps. She was so immersed in her scheming that she didn’t realize her associate, Zane Beckett, had entered the restaurant and was heading toward her. Only when he towered over her table did Keller look up, to be met by his worried eyes.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Beckett said and began to remove his black felt coat and black-and-white scarf. He handed the items to Keller’s bodyguard with a grateful head nod before he sat across the table from her. “What is that?” He pointed at her half-full glass.

“Viking Pride, but you wouldn’t like it.”

“I always enjoy Highland Park whiskeys…”

“Not when we have this mess on our hands.” She looked to her left and waved off the waiter who had started to approach them. “Now, tell me what happened…”

The corners of Beckett’s eyes crinkled, and his broad forehead furrowed. He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair, which was more salt than pepper, and swallowed hard. He gave Keller a bitter smile, followed by a shrug. “What can I say?” He spread his hands palms up over the table. “He’s stubborn and stupid, ignoring the situation on the ground. He still believes the US should respond through diplomatic means: negotiations.”

Keller grinned. “And air attacks?”

“Yes. The White House’s position is that the president isn’t looking to go to war with Iran.”

Keller nodded. She had heard this line of reasoning for the last two weeks. “Does he not realize that Iran is actually at war with us? And that the air strikes aren’t going to prevent the conflict? Instead, they’re going to give the enemy an excuse to retaliate against our troops across the Middle East.”

Beckett nodded slowly. He rubbed his chin and studied Keller’s frowning face. His big brown eyes sparked with frustration. “I explained those same exact points to the president’s DA. He has less sense than a donkey. He just doesn’t want to get it.” Beckett shook his head as he referred to the Deputy of National Security Affairs. “He vehemently dismissed any possibility of the president putting boots on the ground in Yemen; not the US military or US defense contractors.”

Keller let out a deep sigh. She and her close associates at the ADS had tried to convince the US president to authorize a ground operation in Yemen. They had spent the last three months in meetings with various top-level officials, including the vice president and the president. Everyone had been reluctant to advocate for a wide-scale intervention that would put an end to the Houthis, the Iran-backed terrorist group in Yemen. Everyone believed that the problem could be contained and handled from a distance, through targeted bombing. The message to Keller and her team had been clear and consistent: War will not be declared, and no troops will be deployed on the ground.

However, Keller wasn’t willing to back down. Not when the Houthis’ attacks against US troops stationed in Iraq, Syria, and Jordan had increased. The terrorist group had claimed responsibility for over thirty attacks during the last two months alone. The attacks had killed seven US servicemen and wounded fifty-three.

“I’m thinking we have no choice but to activate Option B,” she said in a low voice just above a whisper.

Beckett gave her a dazed look. He jerked his head back as his mouth fell open. “The nuclear option?” he said in a voice full of disbelief. “You are aware of the consequences of that action… of treason?”

Keller nodded slowly. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin up in a sharp gesture of defiance. Her gaze was challenging, and there was a visible tightness in her jaw and neck. “There’s a very thin line between a traitor and a patriot. The closer you look, the blurrier the line gets.”

“The results will make the difference.” Keller returned the nod.

“And we can control that.”

“Mostly.”

“Sufficiently.” Keller leaned forward and planted both her elbows on the table. “Look, Beckett, everyone agrees the Houthis are a real threat and must be stopped. At any cost.”

Emboldened by the weak, almost nonexistent US response, the Houthis had increased their attacks against US and European ships in the Red Sea. The Houthis were well-equipped and well-trained. They had used Iranian-designed one-way attack unmanned aerial vehicles, anti-ship cruise missiles, and anti-ship ballistic missiles, all supplied by Iran. Merchant ships were regularly seized, attacked, or otherwise harassed while navigating along the southern Red Sea to such an extent that many international shipping companies were all together avoiding using that maritime route. In turn, that had pushed up prices for many goods and commodities.

Beckett bit his lip and wrinkled his brow. Before he could reply, Keller continued, “We’re not going to allow our country, the United States of America, the only superpower in the world, to become a laughing stock. The official US response has been weak, half-hearted, and ineffective. What we need is a strong response.”

Her company, ADS, was ready to deploy 5,000 troops, well-armed and fully trained, capable of neutralizing the Houthis’ threat once and for all. “In a matter of months, half a year at the most, the entire country of Yemen would be Houthi-free; you have my word and my guarantee on that matter,” Keller had boldly told the US president and his national security advisor. She was informed a response would be forthcoming, but it was delayed. When she finally received it, it was negative.

“I understand that, and I fully agree,” Beckett said in a low, worried tone. “However, we need to think this through. We need to make absolutely sure that the plan will work. If it fails, we also need to be one hundred percent sure that nothing can connect us to this matter.”

“Of course. We have the resources in place for that. We have the people and the expertise. We’ll be fine,” Keller said in a confident tone.

Beckett studied her face. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, coming from a small sconce fastened to the red brick wall, he could see a muscle clenched along her jawline. Keller had an alert gaze and was making strong eye contact. Her hands were balled into tight fists.

She’s determined to make this happen, he thought. With or without me. It would be a mistake for me to go against my boss. And it will also be a mistake to go along with her and to my doom. He flinched and coughed to clear his throat. Of course, he couldn’t outright tell Keller what she was proposing could cause them to spend the rest of their lives behind bars. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded at Keller. I will go along with her plan, but I need to have an exit strategy, in case I need to jump ship before it starts to sink.

Beckett said, “Okay. We’ll go ahead with Option B, but before you authorize it, I want to tell you about something else I learned.”

Keller gave him a curt nod. “In the NSA meeting?”

“No. The intel comes from one of my assets in the CIS.”

“The Canadian Intelligence Agency?”

“Yes. Somehow, they’ve become aware of a threat against the life of the US president.”

Keller’s mouth went slack. Her eyes widened, and she rubbed an eyebrow. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words, then she said, “How? How did that happen?”

“I’m not sure, but I suspect it was someone either in the Secret Service or in the CIA. My asset in the CIS didn’t know, but I’ve asked him to find out.”

Keller’s face had lost all her color. She seemed to struggle for words, but then she nodded slowly and tried to steady her shaky hands. When she felt she had regained her composure, Keller said, “It doesn’t matter who the source of the leak was. There is always a threat against the president’s life.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“This is more specific. The CIS, as well as the Secret Service and/or the CIA believe that something is going to happen to the US president while he’s visiting Canada.”

Keller snorted. She glanced right and left, but none of the patrons at the nearby tables were paying any attention to their muted conversation. “Canada is the perfect place for our plan.”

“They’ll be on high alert,” Beckett said, trying to dissuade Keller or at least make her rethink her plan. “They’ll be expecting our move.”

She simply shook her head. “They’re always expecting something to happen. But don’t worry, Beckett. We have a plan, and it will work like magic. And no one and nothing will connect us to this plan. However, we’ll be the first ones to benefit with the lion’s share of the contracts once it is announced that we’re going to war with the Houthis, and we’re invading Yemen.”

Beckett nodded slowly, but the frown and the uncertain look remained on his forehead. He knew that once Keller had made a decision, there was nothing he could say or do to make her change her mind. She had decided she wasn’t going to sit on her hands while the lives of US servicemen were in danger. She didn’t do that during her two tours of duty in Iraq, where she served with the Weapons Intelligence Team, 203rd Military Intelligence Battalion. She wasn’t going to start now.

“Okay,” Beckett said in a strong voice. “Let’s make this happen. I’ll activate both teams, the one in Yemen and the one in Ottawa.”

Keller’s thin lips formed a restrained smile. “Very good, Beckett. And whatever this little CIS… inconvenience… is… we’ll deal with it, if and when we have to…”

Beckett nodded. He didn’t like Keller’s dismissive tone and her underestimation of the opponent. He had a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a premonition that something was going to go seriously wrong. I won’t be able to do anything to stop Keller or the plan she’s setting in motion. If anything, I can do something to save my own skin… if it comes to that. I’ll need to keep an eye open for the nearest exit when… when everything goes sideways.

Chapter Two

Five Days Later

US Embassy, Ottawa

Jack Storm let out a sigh of disappointment. The Secret Service director was glaring at Jack from across the dark mahogany table with arms folded across his barrel chest. He rolled back in his swivel chair and shook his head. “Mr. Storm, we have shared sufficient intelligence to ensure your full cooperation, as well as that of the CSIS and the Mounties.” He moved his hand to Jack’s right, gesturing at the representatives of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Jack leaned forward and gave the director a curious glance. “No one has ever said ‘That op failed because we shared a lot of intel.’ Unless you’re worried the intel will be leaked…”

The director’s face drew back, and his nostrils flared. He shrugged and pursed his lips. “There’s always the possibility someone may say or be forced to say something they’re not supposed to. So we need to keep a tight lid on all intel.”

“That wouldn’t be necessary here, not when it comes to Canadian agencies.” Jack shook his head. “If you’re having problems trusting your own people—CIA, FBI, or someone else,” Jack tipped his head toward the two men sitting to the director’s left and right, “that’s not a reason for—”

“What my counterpart is trying to say is that what you have shared is enough and appreciated.” CSIS Director Eugene Lambert jumped in. He frowned at Jack and waved a dismissive hand in his direction, trying to defuse the tension in the room. “We fully understand your concerns.”

Jack frowned at Lambert and began to shake his head. He didn’t care much for Lambert. He was too clean, too polished, too careful with his words. Jack preferred people with rough edges—people who wore their emotions like a badge of honor.

Jack opened his mouth to voice his objection, but his associate Riley Booker kicked him underneath the table. When Jack looked at Riley, Riley bit his lip and closed his eyes.

Jack drew in a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He drummed his fingers at the edge of the desk, then reached for the blue coffee cup with the logo of the embassy stamped on the side. He took a sip from his coffee, which had gone cold.

“Okay, good, then, let’s move on to our next item on the agenda,” Lambert said in a hurried tone, eagerly wanting to move on from that sticking point. “Director, walk us through the planned motorcade route.” He nodded at the director of the Secret Service advance team, then motioned with his hand toward the large television screen mounted on the conference room wall.

The director ran his hand through his white thinning hair and reached for the laser pointer. He aimed it at the screen, which showed a large map of the area surrounding the Ottawa airport. “Starting point,” he said in a firm tone. “The airport. After the welcoming ceremony, we get him in ‘The Beast.’ Then, we’ll exit here and then…”

Jack tuned him out. He had reviewed the entire file covering the proposed route for the visit of the US president to Ottawa in two days’ time. He didn’t need a recap, and he thought no one in the room needed to waste time on what they could read or had read on their own. He had expected this meeting to focus on the more pressing matter of the clear threat against the president’s life, of which the CIA had received unconfirmed reports. Uncertain of whom they could trust—since apparently there was a traitor either inside the Secret Service or the FBI—the CIA had reached out to the CIS. The president was visiting Canada in less than forty-eight hours, but still there had been no concrete, actionable intelligence about the threat.

Jack glanced at Riley, who was feigning interest in the director’s presentation and was scribbling in his small notebook. Jack looked at his phone, tempted to check his email and text messages. However, when he looked around the room, his gaze met that of the assistant to the Secret Service director, sitting right behind him along the conference room wall. The woman was in her early thirties, with short blonde hair, cut in a stylish, layered bob. Her face was both striking and composed, and she seemed to be focusing on Jack. She was dressed in a navy-blue suit and a white blouse. Jack nodded slowly at her, and the woman gave him a small, restrained smile.

Jack shifted in his chair and looked at the screen, then at the director. He was still droning on about the site surveys and reconnaissance of the meeting sites, identifying potential threats, and positioning of security personnel. Jack’s mind wandered again to the traitor embedded within one of the US agencies. Which one, and why? Who would benefit the most from the president’s assassination? He shook his head. There are so many enemies, domestic and foreign, so many interests at play. And if the Secret Service isn’t willing to give us everything they know, how can we really protect the protectee?

He sighed, planted both elbows on the table, and formed a steeple with his hands. He tapped his index fingers together and thought about the sparse intelligence they had received so far. Jack and Riley had been assigned this case at the request of the CIS Director-General. “You’re one of our best active operatives, perhaps even the very best,” Jack’s top boss had said when handing over the assignment. “If there is someone who can make sure their president isn’t assassinated on Canadian soil, that’s you. But if something happens to him, that would be an embarrassment for our country, and, needless to say, it will mean the end of your career.”

Jack had nodded. Yes, needless, so why are you saying it? He was more than convinced the real reason was because of what Jack and Riley had done in Türkiye, Kazakhstan, and Azerbaijan, among other places. They could never go back to those countries, not openly and definitely not officially. “This operation is our punishment, Riley,” Jack had told him. “It’s the price for us to be accepted back in the agency. If we discover the conspiracy and stop the assassination, then the bosses will get the glory. If we don’t, well, we’re doomed once and for all.”

Jack was deep in thought when Riley elbowed him to get his attention. When Jack looked at Riley, he tipped his head toward the notepad. Jack peered at the words Riley had circled near the bottom of the page. Secret Service blonde, followed by a question mark. Jack shrugged at Riley and glanced at Lambert, who had turned his head to Jack and said, “Storm, do you have a question or something to add?”

“No, sir. Everything is clear.”

“Good.” Lambert gestured to the Secret Service director. “Let’s continue then with the risk assessment report.”

Jack decided to pay attention to this part of the presentation, although he had reviewed the slides and the notes twice earlier that morning. The director focused on identifying several high-risk areas in Ottawa, around the president’s meeting places, like open spaces, and chokepoints during the travel to those sites. There was nothing new or of value in the discussions, but Jack looked like he was all ears for the rest of the presentation.

Near the end of the meeting, the Secret Service director and Lambert discussed the coordination with local law enforcement. As Jack had anticipated, he and Riley were assigned positions near Parliament Hill, home of Canada’s federal government. Jack had requested a greater involvement, but his request had been denied. “We have this under control, Storm,” Lambert had said in a cocky tone. “Under complete control.”

Once the tasks of coordinating traffic control, road closures, and crowd management were discussed, the meeting ended. Jack and Riley began to file out of the room as quickly as possible, as Jack wanted to avoid getting a scolding from Lambert. Thankfully, Lambert was shaking hands with the Secret Service director, so they paid no attention to Jack and Riley.

Out in the hall, Jack loosened the knot of his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his gray shirt, and drew in an easier breath. The air was cooler, but there seemed to be a light chemical smell. Jack sighed in frustration. “What a colossal waste of time,” he said in barely a whisper.

Riley shrugged. “Needed to be done.”

“Yes, but do we have to be here? I thought there’s a threat against the president’s life. Shouldn’t we be talking about that? Even better, be out there looking to neutralize that threat.” He pointed with his hand toward the window to his right.

As he turned around slightly, he noticed the Secret Service assistant standing outside the conference room. She looked at Jack and hurried toward them. Her footsteps echoed faintly against the polished marble floor. When she was a couple of steps away, she said, “My name is Morgan Knox. I’m one of the assistants for Director—”

“I know who you are,” Jack said and looked at her outstretched hand before he shook it. “I’m Jack Storm, and this is my colleague, Riley Booker. We’re with CIS.”

Morgan’s handshake was stronger than he had anticipated. Her eyes were a piercing gray-blue, sharp and observant, the kind that seemed to take in every detail.

“What can we do for you, Ms. Knox?” Jack said in a rushed voice. He wanted to get out of the building before Lambert or the Secret Service director wanted to have a word with him. It might already be too late for that.

“Please call me Morgan.” She gave Jack a small smile. “Now, I need five minutes of your time, Mr. Storm,” Morgan said in a pleading voice. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Jack gave her a sideways glance. “Your director back there didn’t seem too keen on cooperation.” He motioned with his hand toward the conference room.

Morgan stepped closer to Jack as a faint line appeared between her brows. “That’s why I’m here instead of him,” she said in a low whisper. “Five minutes can make the difference between my president living or being killed.”

Jack peered deeply into her eyes. Morgan gave him a no-nonsense look with pursed lips. A subtle flush formed on her cheeks. So Jack nodded slowly and cocked his head toward the L-shaped staircase. “Five minutes. And be completely upfront with us.”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I want my president to be safe.” She stared at Jack with widened eyes.

Jack nodded. “Okay, tell us what’s going on? What is it that the director doesn’t want us to know?”

Chapter Three

US Embassy, Ottawa

“That’s not exactly true,” Morgan whispered as they descended the marble stairs. “It’s not that the director doesn’t want you to know it; it’s because he doesn’t believe the threat is credible."

“Explain that to us,” Jack said as he walked next to her.

“Our agency receives dozens of threats every day. So we’ve got to be shrewd with our time and resources. Especially when it comes to the president traveling abroad.” She waved her hands as she spoke in a calm, yet clipped tone. “Plus, Canada is a friendly nation. There shouldn’t be threats of this kind, of this proportion.”

“But the look on your face tells me there are.”

Morgan’s eyes turned into small slits. “I’m not sure, but it’s better to worry about it now than regret it later...” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to be gathering her thoughts. She walked through the landing, then stopped and turned to face Jack. “It’s a terrorist threat.”

Jack’s eyebrow arched. “What group?”

“An emerging Yemeni group with loose ties to the Houthis, the major rebel group in Yemen backed by Iranians. This new group is known as the Liberation Front. They’re fighting the government, but they also seem to have clashes with the Houthis as well. They’re made up of mostly foreign fighters coming from Arab and Asian countries.”

Jack nodded. “Okay. So what is the threat?”

“A CIA asset heard some chatter about the Front plotting something big. The intel came about a week ago. Details were sparse, but this ‘big’ thing was supposed to take place in Canada. No intel on the timing or the target.”

“Is the Front active in Canada?” Riley asked.

Morgan turned to Riley, who was standing to her left. “No, not as far as we can tell. The CIA ran their own investigation and found nothing. There are, of course, thousands of Yemenis living in Ottawa, Toronto, and elsewhere in the country. But where do we start?”

“What did the CSIS say?” Riley asked. “And the RCMP?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think the director has shared that intel with them.”

Jack’s jaw went slack. “What? Why?”

“He told me he doesn’t want us to lose focus and go on a wild goose chase. He doesn’t believe the Front will do anything. He believes these are just empty threats. I talked to him about it, but he shut me down.” Her voice rose up with frustration.

“And what do you think?”

Morgan gave Jack an intense look. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if I thought there was no merit to this threat. But I don’t have the resources you do—”

“You’re overestimating my abilities, Morgan—”

“Maybe, Jack—can I call you Jack?”

“Certainly.”

“So, Jack, maybe I am, but in the meeting, you weren’t convinced the director shared everything he knew about the situation. Here I am, giving you the piece of the puzzle that was missing. Now, what are you going to do with it?”

Before Jack could reply, a man appeared at the top of the staircase. He glanced down at the group and seemed to be measuring them up, especially Morgan. Then he waved at Jack. “Mr. Storm. We’d like to have a short conversation before you leave,” the man said in a firm voice that sounded almost like an order.

Jack nodded at the man and gestured with his hand that he needed a minute.

“Of course, take your time. Then come up. I’ll be waiting,” the man said and stepped back into the hall.

“That’s Axel Bishop,” Morgan said in a wary tone. “He’s a CIA agent. His team worked on the investigation of the Front.”

Jack lowered his eyebrows slightly, drawing them together just enough to create a small crease between them. “Why do I have a feeling I already know what he’s going to tell me?”

Morgan’s eyes softened, losing their spark, as if she was looking inward. “He will tell you what my director told me: Don’t worry about it. This is all for nothing. But is it?”

“Only one way to find out. Anything else before I meet our CIA friend?”

Morgan shook her head. She relaxed her lips in a slight downward curve, barely showing a frown. “He’s not my friend. And yes, we’re not done here. I have a couple of names, Yemenis with potential connections to the Front. The CIA either didn’t follow up on them, or it did and found nothing. Worth a second look, if we’re doing this.”

“What is ‘this’ that we’re doing?”

Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Saving the president’s life, Jack. That’s what we all want, right?” She glanced at Riley, who nodded hurriedly.

“Of course,” Jack replied in a low voice. “But we need to make sure your agency, or the CIA, doesn’t shut us down before we have even started.”

“Absolutely.” Morgan smiled and stepped to the side.

Riley climbed a couple of stairs, but Jack shook his head. “Sorry, buddy. Bishop asked just for me.”

Riley’s eyelids dropped as he gave Jack a resigned look. “But we’re a team, the two of us.”

“The three of us,” Morgan corrected him in a playful tone.

Jack shrugged. “We’ll catch up outside. The three of us.” He motioned with his hand and smiled at Morgan.

He climbed the stairs, feeling a bit uneasy about Bishop’s demand. Jack had already decided he and Riley would look into the intel that Morgan was going to provide them. He still wanted to hear Bishop’s version of the facts. One of the spycraft rules: Gather as much intel as you can, but watch out for a setup. Morgan could also be someone looking to set us up. Jack nodded to himself. Stay vigilant. Keep your eyes always open.

Upstairs in the hall, he fixed the collar of his brown leather jacket and approached Bishop. The man was in his forties, dressed in a black suit and light blue shirt but no tie. His grayish hair was close-cropped, and he had sharp facial features, with a strong jawline that was accentuated by a faint shadow of stubble. There were subtle lines around his big brown eyes and mouth—the kind formed by years of narrowed gazes and cautious smiles.

Bishop somehow felt Jack’s presence and spun on his heels. He put away his phone, then offered Jack his hand. “Name’s Axel Bishop. I’m with the CIA.”

Jack shook Bishop’s hand. “We’ve already met.” He tipped his head toward the conference room.

“Right, well, I’m not going to waste your time, like they did.” He looked to the conference room to their right. A couple of FBI agents were talking to their RCMP counterparts. “But I wanted to answer your concerns about not sharing sufficient information.” Bishop reached inside his jacket for his phone. “Three names for you to check since you believe you need to do your own due diligence on this matter.” He showed the phone to Jack.

“Oh, and what makes you think that?”

“It’s obvious from your reaction during the meeting. And it’s true the director isn’t sharing all the intel we have. I don’t blame you for wanting to know.”

Jack nodded and waved his hand. “So these names…”

“Canadian citizens suspected of terrorist ties to a small outfit in the backlands of Yemen. We checked them thoroughly and so did CSIS. Your run-of-the-mill social posts about death to America, causing small waves among the local community, but nothing worth a second look. They present no real threat to our country or our president.”

Jack thought about Bishop’s gesture. It coincided almost perfectly with Morgan’s offer of two names of Yemenis with possible connections to the Liberation Front. I bet two of those names are the same. But why now? What does he want?

“And what do you want in return?” Jack asked with a hint of displeasure.

“Oh, nothing. I want nothing.” Bishop held up a hand. “This isn’t a quid-pro-quo, Storm. We’re all working together here; we all want the same thing.”

“I see. It would have been good if this came through official channels.”

Bishop stepped closer to Jack. “It did, just not to you. But as a fellow agent, I want you to have this intel. I want you and your agency fully on board with this op, our joint op.” He spoke in a firm tone that sounded genuine.

Jack nodded again. Bishop was saying all the right things, but Jack had a feeling that he was being played. Is it Morgan or Bishop? Do they want me to be fully convinced there is no real threat, or is this just a distraction? He tried to read Bishop’s face, but there was nothing there except a look of determination and expectation.

“Okay, Bishop. You have my contact info. Send me the names, and I’ll check them out.”

“Very well, Storm. Sending them right away.”

“See you around.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Jack ran down the stairs before Lambert or anyone else approached him. When he met Riley and Morgan on the ground floor, he told them what Bishop had said. Morgan listened carefully, then slightly flared her nostrils. “He’s trying to convince you this is a waste of time. But it isn’t.”

“I bet you those are the same names,” Riley said.

Morgan nodded. “Yes, Bishop only came forward when he saw I’d talked to you. It’s easy to conclude we weren’t talking about the weather or Canadian cuisine.”

Riley shook his head. “No such thing as Canadian cuisine.”

“Yes, it’s a strange coincidence. But he’s giving us three names. Even if two of them are the same as the names you have, we have a starting point.”

Morgan opened her mouth, but just then her phone rang. Her forehead creased at the tone. “That’s my director, probably wondering where I am and what I’m doing. Maybe Bishop has ratted me out.” She sighed. “I’ve got to take this, but I emailed you those names already. Call me about our next steps.”

“Will do.”

“See you, Jack. Riley.”

Riley nodded at her, and Morgan dashed up the stairs as she answered her phone.

Jack removed the lanyard with the visitor badge and looked at Riley. “Let’s get out of here and try to figure out what’s going on…”

Chapter Four

Two Blocks East of the US Embassy

York Street, Ottawa

Jack got into his gray Nissan Armada SUV and started it as soon as Riley buckled his seatbelt. They drove for three or four blocks before Riley’s phone rang. He glanced at it and tightened his jaw but didn’t answer it.

The phone rang one more time. Riley reached for it and declined the call.

“Girlfriend trouble?” Jack asked without looking at Riley.

“You recognized the ring too?”

Jack shrugged. “What’s going on, man?”

“She’s worried about me… well, us. After… what happened to me, she isn’t sure about the future.”

“What does that mean? She’s breaking up with you?” Jack tilted his head just a bit and creased his forehead.

“I’m as confused as you are. She’s saying we should take things slow for a while… give ourselves some space… whatever that means.”

“And did she explain that?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“Why not?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t want to lose her. We’re good together, Jack.”

Jack nodded. Riley had always had trouble in romantic relationships. In their line of work, especially, it was extremely difficult to have long-lasting, meaningful connections. He had told Jack a couple of times that his girlfriend might be the one to settle down with and start a family. Yeah, if she dumps him, that will be devastating.

“But if she’s calling doesn’t that mean she wants to talk to you?”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure what she’s going to tell me. We had a fight last night… The last thing I want is another fight.”

Riley shrugged and shifted in his seat. He tried to hide his sadness, but his eyes were unfocused, as if processing his painful reality. His mouth was closed, and his eyelids were pressed tightly together as if he was trying hard to put a lid on his emotions.

“It will be okay, Riley,” Jack said in a warm tone and tapped him on the shoulder. “She’ll come around. You’re a real catch. She won’t let you go.” He smiled, trying to lighten up the mood.

“How do you and Agnes make it work?” Riley asked. “You’re in the same situation.”

Jack shrugged. “Sticking together through thick and thin, I guess. I know that’s not very helpful, but I’m not good at giving advice. All I can say is that when you find something good in your life—like a good woman—never let her go.”

Riley nodded. “I don’t want to, but… it might happen.”

“And that will be okay, if it happens. But until then, it’s not all lost. Give her the space she needs, and avoid fighting, if you can help it. If she’s worried about you, that means she cares. And if she isn’t sure about the future, that means the future with you. Otherwise, she would have moved on.”

Riley blinked back his surprise. “So, what you’re saying is that she would have ditched me if that’s what she was going to do?”

“I guess.” Jack shook his head. “As I said, I’m not good at this. But take her call the next time. Or call her back.”

“What if it’s to say ‘it’s over’?”

“Then you’d know. But I don’t think it’s over, buddy.”

Riley sighed and said nothing for a brief moment.

Jack turned the corner as they drove along Sussex Drive, one of the main arteries going through downtown Ottawa. Jack glanced at Riley, who exhaled deeply and was slowly shaking his head. “It’s not all a bed of roses for me either, Riley,” Jack said slowly. “We too are going through a rough patch, but for different reasons.”

Riley jerked his head toward Jack. “What’s going on?”

“Agnes doesn’t want me running field ops anymore. After what happened to her… and what can happen to me every day, she’s worried, seriously worried about us. She doesn’t want our daughter to grow up without a father.”

“But being in the field is who you are.” Riley’s voice rose up with surprise. “What are you going to do? Be stuck in an office and assess reports?”

“I haven’t thought that far.” Jack shrugged.

“But it’s something you’re thinking about, right? Leaving CIS?”

“I said ‘no,’” Jack replied in a gruff tone and realized immediately that wasn’t necessary. He drew in a calming breath and said, “I don’t know, Riley. But Agnes is right: I don’t want Victoria to grow up fatherless, and my wife to be a widow.” He shook his head, and his facial features sharpened and became tense. He rubbed his chin, as he stared through the windshield with narrowed, unblinking eyes.

“How is she doing? Victoria, I mean.”

“Still struggling with nightmares. Difficulties with her friends. Moody at times, acting out. Her therapist says it’s because of fear that Agnes will leave again, this time never to come back. We keep reassuring her that’s not going to happen, but our words carry only so much weight.” Jack sighed.

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s why I can’t leave Vicky now… I just can’t. If something happened to me, I don’t think she’ll ever be the same again.”

Riley gave Jack a steady look of reassurance. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, my friend. Everything will be fine.”

His voice was less firm and confident than what Jack had wanted, but he appreciated his partner’s effort.

“You’ll figure it out,” Riley said with a slight chin lift. “I know you will.”

“Yeah, I hope so.” The muscles along Jack’s jawline stood out as he clenched his teeth. “I’ve got to do something about it. But not now. We’ve got to check out these names first.” He tipped his head toward his phone. “We’ve got three names. The CIA and CSIS have thoroughly investigated them.”

“Or so they say,” Riley quipped.

“They wouldn’t be lying.” Jack shook his head. “Morgan confirmed it for the CIA. And all it takes to check is a phone call to our counterparts in CSIS.”

“What I meant is that they say they investigated them thoroughly. How well did they do that?”

“Obviously, not to Morgan’s liking.”

“What do you think about her? And Bishop?”

“I haven’t given them much thought. But someone isn’t telling us the truth, the whole truth. These names are either important, or they aren’t.”

“Where do we start?”

“We’ll get the CSIS files on them and see what they say. What did they miss? Did they talk to everyone who could provide intel? And I already asked Bishop to get me the CIA files.”

Riley nodded. “Morgan should give us hers as well.”

“Yes. Get in touch with her and remind her. We’ll pore over all that. I’m also going to contact Cliff Vance. He’s with the Gulf Section. I’ll ask him what he knows about Yemeni threats. We’ll shake some trees; see what falls out.”

“Good plan,” Riley said. “Where are we going now?”

“To meet Vance. He likes a free lunch as much as anyone else. But for the favor he’s doing us, he deserves much more.”

“Will he help us?”

“I’m sure he will. I’ve gone to bat for him many times. This isn’t anything that can’t be done or hasn’t been done in the past.”

“Okay. I’ll call Morgan now.”

“And maybe give your girlfriend a call, or at least text her.”

“Yes, Dad,” Riley said, dragging his words and rolling his eyes at Jack.

“Hey, you asked for my advice, right?”

“I’m calling Morgan now,” Riley said hurriedly, eager to end the uneasy conversation. “I need to focus.”

Jack smirked. “By all means. Then, I’ll get you to check with Vance, make sure we’re good. Clock’s ticking, and we need to find out who’s putting the US president in their crosshairs.”

Chapter Five

Executive Hotel

Luanda, Angola

Beckett glanced at the light blue waters of the infinity pool stretching in front of him with a look of regret. He was the only one out this early in the morning, before the sun had even come up. He had thought of enjoying the quietness, the cool, fresh air, a relaxing swim, followed by a run along the beach, just a two-minute walk down the cliffs.

However, his phone was ringing with a call from his boss, Pandora Keller. It’s never good news when she calls before the day has even started. That will completely derail my plans. He bit his lip, then cursed under his breath.

The phone rang again. Beckett didn’t want to pick up but also couldn’t simply ignore his boss forever. She’ll call again, or send one of her cronies to check on me. He shook his head and turned away from the swimming pool. He let out a sigh of disappointment, then answered his phone before it rang again. “Hello, Keller, how are things going?”

“Not good, Beckett, not good at all. I heard the CIS is running a new, parallel investigation on the Yemeni angle.”

“What?” His eyes grew wide, and his thick eyebrows lifted high. “My asset assured me the CIS wasn’t going to do that since the CSIS was already involved. And they found nothing suspicious.”

“Well, your asset is wrong. There’s a new player in the field. Two, actually. Jack Storm and Riley Booker. Has your asset ever mentioned them?”

Beckett racked his brain but didn’t remember anything. “No, but I will ask, right away. I’ll find out who these jokers are. Do we know if their op is official?”

Keller groaned. “That’s why I’m paying you, Beckett, so you can find us intel, not the other way around.”

Beckett ground his teeth. He wanted to remind his boss that he was paid by the company. She was only one of the shareholders, the major shareholder for sure, but she didn’t have the power to make all decisions. “I will do so. Now, how did you find out about this?”

“A source who reported to one of our operatives. The two CIS agents were seen talking to members of the US team at the embassy. The source suspects the agents received some information about the impending threat to the president.”

Beckett pursed his lips. That wasn’t much to go on. The two men could have been simply making small talk or inquiring about the US security measures related to the president’s visit. He wanted to press Keller for details, but he feared another scolding. If she had any details, I’m sure she would tell me, now or in a report.

Before he could say anything, Keller continued, "This is your new assignment: Find out if their op is official, what they know, and what they’re doing. Then, if it’s something that threatens our mission, shut it down before it gets started.”

Beckett nodded slowly. “I will handle it discreetly. If Storm and Booker present an obstacle to us achieving our goal, they will be removed. Safely and securely.” His voice carried no emotion as if he was simply talking about taking out the trash.

“Also, make sure we know who they talked to among the US team. What did they talk about? We need their version of the story, so we have all the facts.”

“Understood,” he replied in a firm voice.

“Lastly, I want you on location. Fly to Canada ASAP.”

Beckett’s breathing turned noisy, and he felt moist on his forehead. He didn’t want to leave Luanda. He had just arrived the previous afternoon and was looking forward to being with his Angolan girlfriend. He waved a dismissive hand and glared at the phone. He flexed his arm, tightening the grip around the phone. He couldn’t refuse Keller’s order, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “Is that necessary?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. “We have people in position, and my task here—”

“Your task can be easily accomplished by a monkey,” Keller cut him off. “A monkey who can eat and drink, sign some papers, and smile for pictures. And if we had people in position, we wouldn’t be in this situation. We have two CIS agents running amok, threatening our careers and lives. Your little girlfriend can wait, Beckett. I need you in Ottawa, now!”

“What?” His mouth fell open. Beckett jerked his head back and stared incredulously at his phone. “What girlfriend?”

“C’mon, Beckett. I’m not stupid. Do you want me to send you pictures of you and your long-haired beauty investment banker?”

Beckett flinched as if Keller’s words had slapped him across his face. He was momentarily speechless, and his overall expression was frozen, almost as if capturing a split-second of shock.

“Why would someone volunteer to fly to Angola almost every month?” Keller asked. “If there was no personal involvement?”

Beckett shook his head and sighed. He should have known that Keller would be spying on him, although he hadn’t expected it. They had been working together for over a decade, and he thought they had built a relationship based on mutual trust.

“My personal life is none of your business—”

“Wrong, Beckett. It’s totally my business when your decisions affect my company’s business and its bottom line. But you can keep your girlfriends in Angola, France, Italy, wherever you have them as long as you get your work done. So get on the first plane to Canada, pronto!”

He realized there was no point in arguing with his boss. Keller had crossed a line that wasn’t to be crossed. Beckett took a couple of steps back and cracked his neck from left to right. I will do as she asks, but Keller is in for a big surprise. He had some major reservations about her plan and had expressed his doubts to her. But Keller had overruled him. “You just worry too much,” she had told him more than once. “This plan is foolproof. Whatever happens is a win-win for us.”

But with the recent complications, his doubts had started to grow. I need to distance myself from Keller and her crazy strategy. This thing is going to blow up in our faces. He nodded to himself. Yes, I’ve got to think of my own survival. Unless we can easily eliminate Storm and Riley and whoever else is helping them, it’s time for me to think of my own exit strategy out of this potential mess.

“As soon as we’re off the phone, I’m booking my flight,” Beckett said in a resigned tone. “And I’m calling my CIS asset to find out about Storm and Booker. Plus, I’m activating the local RAT,” he added, referring to the Rapid Action Team, a group of ADS elite operatives stationed in Ottawa specifically for such situations, when their intervention became necessary.

“Isn’t it too early to activate them?” Keller asked. “First, we need to find out what they know and who is working with them before we bring in the hammer.”

“The RAT can begin surveillance and intel gathering. Then, at the right time, they can intercept the CIS agents and handle them appropriately.”

Keller didn’t reply right away. When she came back on the line, she said, “Alright, Beckett. Just make sure they don’t react—or worse, overreact. We need to take measured steps here, but, more importantly, at the right time.”

“I know, I know,” Beckett said in an irritated voice. Keller was treating him like an amateur. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his gaze shifted restlessly around the empty pool deck. “I told you: I will handle it properly.”

“Fantastic. Call me as soon as you learn something worth my time.”

“Of course.”

Beckett ended the call by tapping hard on the screen. He cursed his boss, this time out loud. Then, he scrolled through the contacts log and found the number he was looking for. Beckett smiled to himself and called his asset in the CIS.

Chapter Six

Steakhouse Place

Gloucester Street

Ottawa, Canada

Vance wiped his thick lips with the black napkin, then shook his head at Jack. “It’s not that easy, pal. This has gotten a lot of attention, from all angles.”

Jack stopped cutting into his porterhouse steak and gave Vance a sideways glance. “Are you telling me it’s impossible?”

Vance’s eyebrows waggled. “I didn’t use that word. I said we all need to be extremely careful. The president’s life is at stake. So many agencies are involved. Plus, you’re telling me they suspect a mole.”

“We’re always careful,” Riley said.

Vance gave him a quick flick of his wrist. “Sure, but this isn’t your average op. The Americans shoot first, ask questions later. The terrorists… they just shoot.”

Jack put down his knife and fork. “Tell me about the three names I gave you.”

“I glanced briefly at their files. The CIA examined them thoroughly. The CSIS worked with the CIA on the ground. They ran surveillance and background checks. Talked to friends, relatives, and potential witnesses. Nothing out of the ordinary. Strong feelings about American injustices and mild support for Islamic causes, but that’s common among people from that part of the world.”

“Did CIS run its own investigation?”

Vance gave Jack an uncertain look and shook his large bald head. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he rubbed his grayish beard, which looked white against his black skin. “I ain’t calling it ‘investigation,’” he said, making air quotes as his Jamaican accent became more pronounced. “We took a cursory look at the evidence. Considering the involvement of other agencies, further efforts on our part were determined to be unnecessary.”

“Who made that determination?” Jack asked. He took a small bite of the steak and chewed it slowly.

Vance seemed to be taken aback by the simple question. He squinted slightly at Jack, then his eyes darted back and forth as if he was searching for clarity. “My boss decided it, of course. You work for the CIS, Jack. You know how the process works.” Vance’s voice had a cold tone to it.

Jack nodded. “Still, we’d like to see all the files you have—”

“All?” Vance cut him off. “Why? I already combed through them, and so did a couple in my team. You got time to waste?”

“No, but we might see something you didn’t.”

“I seriously doubt it, Jack. But be my guest. I’m warning you though: There are a lot of files. Audio. Video.” Vance shrugged and cut into his steak.

“We’ll make time.” Jack looked at Riley. “We’ll work around the clock. Once you’ve sent us those files, I want you to do me another favor.”

A line appeared between Vance’s brows. His nose wrinkled, and he gave Jack a lopsided grin. “Isn’t this enough, pal?”

Jack shrugged. “The two are tied together. We need to know who else has ties to the Yemeni front. Someone CIA and CSIS doesn’t know about.”

“Everyone went over this with a fine-toothed comb. I shared all intel, all names, places, phone numbers, contacts with them. Do you really think they’re dumb? Or do you think you’re smarter than us all?” Vance leaned back and pointed an index finger at Jack. His eyes narrowed, and the left corner of his mouth twitched upward in a small sneer.

Jack shook his head. “It’s nothing like that, Vance.” You know better, he wanted to add, but he still needed Vance to help him. “Another set of eyes, or two,” he waved at Riley, “can’t hurt. Considering the stakes and that it costs you nothing—”

“No, Jack, it costs me something,” Vance cut him off in an angry voice. “This could cost me my career. We may be working for the same agency, but this intel is on a need-to-know basis.”

“Fine, but keep your voice down,” Jack whispered and looked around him. Their table was near the end of the hall, close to a fire exit. The nearest patrons—a couple in their early sixties—were at a table about six feet away. The woman glanced for a moment in Jack’s direction, and he gave her a small nod. The woman smiled at him, and Jack smiled back.

“That’s why it’s a favor,” Riley said in a dry voice.

“I would have not come to you if I didn’t think it was necessary, Vance.” Jack spoke in a warm, calm tone. He didn’t want to say what he was about to say, but he felt Vance needed to hear it. “I’ve helped you in the past, putting my neck on the line. You owe me this.” His voice rang out firmer than Jack had intended, but he didn’t mind it. As long as Vance does it, that’s all that matters.

Vance locked eyes with Jack in an unblinking stare. The stalemate was only for a few tense seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then Vance’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his eyebrows drew together in a hard line, creating a deep, V-shaped crease in the middle of his forehead. He tapped the screen, then quickly typed a response to whatever message he had received. Then he placed the phone face down back on the blue-clothed table.

Vance looked back at Jack, sighed, and raised up both hands in a gesture of resignation. “Fine, Jack, be that way. But after this, we’re even, square. I don’t owe you anything.”

Jack bit his lip. He hadn’t expected this favor to be this difficult or Vance to behave so defensively. What’s going on here? Is he having trouble with his boss? Or are all these agencies breathing down his neck stressing him out? Jack shrugged and nodded at Vance. “By all means, my friend. Once we have all that intel, we’re done.”

“Good. I’ll send you everything I have as soon as I get back to the office. Which is right now.” He pushed back his chair.

“What? You have to go?” Jack cocked his head toward the table. “You’re not even halfway through your steak!”

Vance stood up and waved his phone at Jack. “Another crisis brewing. Thanks for lunch.”

Jack and Riley stood up, and they all shook hands. Jack looked at Vance walking through the dining hall and out the restaurant before sitting down.

“Well, that was awkward,” Riley said as he began to finish up his roast beef. “If I didn’t know Vance was a close friend of yours, I’d say he’s hiding something.”

Jack shook his head. “You don’t know Vance. He’s usually not like this. Too much pressure, I assume. He can’t afford to lose his job, or get demoted. Vance has a sick child who needs heart surgery they can’t afford.”

“I… I didn’t know about that.”

“Yeah. I didn’t bring it up as it’s too painful. But I know the kid isn’t doing well.”

Riley shook his head. “And who knows what that crisis might be…”

“I hope it isn’t anything related to our op. Still, Vance agreed to help us. We’ll get on it as soon as we receive the files.” He cut another piece from his steak, which had grown cold. He chewed it slowly, then added, “If they missed something, we’ll find it, and then find out who exactly wants the president dead.”

Chapter Seven

Outside Steakhouse Place

Gloucester Street

Ottawa, Canada

Jack paid for their lunch, and they left the restaurant. He had parked at the curb, so within a few seconds they were driving down Gloucester heading west. Jack wanted to go to their offices and start working on the files, but Vance still hadn’t sent them.

“Did he change his mind?” Riley asked.

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied. “When he says he’s gonna do something, he does it.”

Jack glanced in his sideview mirror. A black box-shaped Mercedes-Benz SUV appeared. Jack was doing the speed limit, while the SUV was gaining on them, going at almost double the speed. There was nothing suspicious about the vehicle, but he had a feeling of premonition. “Hold on to something,” he told Riley.

Riley looked over his shoulder. “What’s wrong? The Merc?”

Jack stepped on the gas pedal, and the Nissan shot through the intersection. He honked to get the attention of a white van attempting to switch lanes. The van driver stayed in his lane while Jack barely squeezed through, having to drive onto the sidewalk.

He turned his head to see the SUV rocket through the intersection. The van moved into the other lane and just then the SUV’s fender clipped it on the side. The powerful impact spun the van around as it shot metal fragments in all directions. The heavy SUV kept going as if nothing had happened.

Jack nodded to himself and pulled out his Sig Sauer P229 9mm pistol.

Riley was already holding his own Sig close to his face. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I didn’t. Intuition. Nothing good comes from speeders.”

“Do we wait?”

Jack frowned. “For what? So they can fire first?”

Before Riley could reply, a man wearing a black balaclava had slid his body halfway through the front passenger window. He was aiming a rifle at the Nissan.

Riley pointed his pistol and fired at the man through the back windshield. His bullets shattered the glass but missed the gunman.

He squeezed automatic fire from his rifle. Bullets pounded the back of the Nissan. A couple bounced around the cabin, missing Jack and Riley by mere inches. Jack jerked the steering wheel, moving into the lane on his right. He was able to put a vehicle—a silver Toyota sedan—between them and the SUV. Then, he yanked at the steering wheel to make the tight turn.

The SUV crashed into the side of the Toyota sedan. The collision sent the car first onto the sidewalk, then through the front glass of a bakery. The SUV’s driver lost control for a moment, but he was able to turn the steering wheel and follow after the Nissan.

“There’s a second one,” Riley said, pointing at another Mercedes-Benz SUV identical to the first one following about a dozen yards behind.

“Who are these people?” Jack asked.

“People who want us dead.”

“Not if we kill them first.”

Riley fired a quick burst. His bullets struck the driver’s side of the windshield, but the glass didn’t break. Instead, a spiderweb crack stretched across the windshield. “Bulletproof,” he shouted and cursed out loud.

Jack glanced at the sideview mirror. A second shooter appeared in the rear window behind the driver. He hadn’t pointed his rifle yet, and Jack wasn’t about to let him. “Grab the wheel,” he told Riley.

Riley held the wheel while Jack rolled down his window. He aimed and fired a couple of rounds. He missed, but his gunfire was enough to force the armed man back inside the SUV.

Jack swung back into his seat and grabbed the steering wheel. He looked through the windshield at the intersection coming up ahead. Two vehicles were slowing down as the traffic light was turning red. I don’t want them to pin us down.

He turned the wheel to the left and stepped on the gas. The Nissan climbed the sidewalk and shot over the lawns in front of an apartment building. He avoided a metal bench and a couple of trees, then swung the steering wheel as he got onto the sidewalk. He avoided crashing into an electric box, then drove between the traffic light and a light post and dropped onto the next street.

Gunfire from the SUV hammered the side and the back of the Nissan. One of the rounds shattered the rear window behind Jack.

Riley had anticipated that and was ready. He squeezed off a three-round burst. One of his bullets hit the arm of the gunman hanging out of the front window. He dropped his rifle and retreated inside the SUV.

The other gunman replaced him and fired a quick volley. His rounds shattered whatever pieces were left of the back windshield. Others struck the back of the Nissan.

Jack swerved to make them a harder target but also to avoid crashing into a taxi coming from the opposite direction. He glanced to his left, then his right, planning his next move. They were coming to a community garden with raised boxes. It would be impossible to drive safely through there. High-rise apartment complexes towered on the other side.

He slammed the gas pedal and glanced in the sideview mirror. The SUV driver took the same shortcut as Jack and was now on the street, about fifty yards behind them.

“We’ve got to do something,” Riley said.

Jack looked at his Sig. He had another magazine in his shoulder holster, and so did Riley. They had fired maybe half of their fifteen-round magazines. He shook his head. Not enough to stop them.

He neared another intersection and noticed a police sedan parked to the left side. “There’s help,” he told Riley and tapped the brakes.

Jack spun the wheel, barely making the turn. The Nissan fishtailed as it shot through the intersection and climbed over the sidewalk. He was able to straighten the wheel and get onto the four-lane street.

He slammed his fist on the horn in case the officers hadn’t seen his crazy maneuver. He couldn’t tell if the police were inside their sedan or out in the area, patrolling or responding to a call, but he wanted to get their attention. In case the guys in the SUV play it nice and don’t fire at us.

Wishful thinking.

The volley resumed. Bullets stitched the side and the back of the Nissan. Jack ducked but couldn’t do much more. He kept his foot on the gas and came close to a truck. He attempted to pass it, but a sedan zoomed from the opposite direction.

He glanced at the police sedan as they sped past it. No one was in the vehicle. Jack bit his lip and shook his head at Riley.

“No cops,” Riley said in a disappointed voice.

“We’ll handle this ourselves.”

“How? The Merc’s bulletproof!”

“You’ll see.”

Jack overtook the truck and swung in front of it. The truck driver honked his horn, but Jack ignored him. The SUV followed suit and shortly was right behind the Nissan.

“Keep them occupied for a moment,” Jack said.

Riley nodded and aimed his pistol. He fired a few times, aiming his firepower at the driver. His rounds slammed against the windshield, creating more spiderweb cracks and blinding the driver for a couple of seconds.

It was sufficient for Jack’s maneuver.

He had gotten too close to a couple of pylons cordoning off a section of the road. He swung the steering wheel to the left, avoiding them at the last moment. He hoped the driver wouldn’t see the pylons, piles of gravel, concrete chunks, and other construction material blocking that lane.

He didn’t.

The SUV plowed through the first pylons, which flew over the windshield. The driver tried to turn the wheel, but it was too late. The right tire drove through the gravel pile, then hit the concrete chunks. The Mercedes-Benz SUV, with its iconic boxy frame, tipped to the right, then flipped over.

It slid over the street with a fierce, grinding force. The weight of the vehicle pressed against the driver’s door, causing the metal to scrape harshly on the asphalt. A trail of bright orange and yellow sparks flew in every direction. The windshield burst open, while the bodies of two gunmen fell out of the vehicle. Shards of glass and chunks of metal shrapnel scattered from the vehicle’s windows and frames.

The SUV rolled one more time, before landing on its roof.

Jack looked over his shoulder. The SUV’s tires, now facing skyward, were spinning erratically. One of them was partially detached. A man was trying to crawl from one of the vehicle’s back doors. Fuel was pooling around the SUV, while sparks shot from the engine.

“We should go back,” Riley said.

The second SUV drove around the first one but didn’t stop. Its driver raced through the next intersection, giving chase to the Nissan.

Before Jack could say or do anything, a blinding flash erupted from the wreckage. The SUV exploded in a furious blaze, sending a column of flames and thick black smoke skyward. The entire vehicle was engulfed, fire bursting from the shattered windows and blown-out doors, its metal frame glowing with searing heat.

“Let’s deal with the second team,” Jack said to Riley.

“Don’t think that trick will work again.”

“New trick then.”

He stepped on the gas and passed a slow-moving van. Then he slid in front of a white-and-red bus. He thought of cutting a sharp right turn at the nearing intersection, but that was a one-way street. Too risky.

Jack stayed in his lane and glanced in the rearview mirror. The SUV appeared about thirty yards behind them. A gunman in the front passenger seat aimed a rifle at the Nissan.

Jack yanked at the wheel and switched lanes. He drove in front of a truck, but that didn’t provide much cover. The gunman opened up with a long volley.

The truck driver lost control of his vehicle. It careened to the right and hit the side of a blue-brick house. A couple of the rounds hit the back of the Nissan.

Jack stepped on the gas and took the right turn in front of a large red-brick house. The volley continued. A few bullets stripped the bark off a large maple tree in front of the house, while others hit a van parked a little farther away. Jack glanced over his shoulder, while Riley aimed his pistol at the SUV. He fired a quick burst, hitting the windshield. Like the other SUV, this Mercedes-Benz was armored. Riley’s rounds caused spiderweb cracks across the windshield. Both Jack and Riley knew the gunman was going to pop out again as the SUV was right behind them.

“Now what?” Riley asked in a worried tone.

Before Jack could reply, a police siren cut through the air. He glanced left and right but couldn’t see any police. “We’ve got help,” he said in a hopeful tone.

“Maybe. Don’t see them,” Riley replied.

Jack tightened his grip around the steering wheel. His hands were getting sweaty, so he wiped them quickly one after the other on his pants. Then he looked over his shoulder. The gunman was returning to his firing position.

Riley was in position as well.

Jack straightened the wheel and tapped on the brakes to give Riley a bit of an advantage. He opened fire just as the gunman pulled out his rifle. At least one of Riley’s bullets struck the man’s arm. He dropped his rifle and disappeared inside the cabin.

Jack had no illusions the gunman was out of the fight. There could be others in the backseats. Or the driver might open fire. He glanced at Riley, who said, “I’m out. Last mag.”

“I’ve got an extra.”

“Where are the cops?”

The SUV picked up speed. It was now less than ten yards away from the Nissan. Jack tried to tap the gas, but a man walking a dog stepped down from the sidewalk. A young girl no older than six or seven ran into the street.

Jack slammed on the brakes, which screeched with a bone-chilling shriek.

The man shouted at the girl. She turned her head to the man, then cocked her head toward the Nissan barreling toward her. The young girl froze mid-step. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. She seemed to be screaming, then she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with her small hands.

Jack measured the distance between them and the girl. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d be able to stop in time. He pressed firmly and evenly on the brakes. Once the tires were close to skidding, he began to swerve.

At that exact moment, the SUV crashed into the back of the Nissan. The thunderous impact lifted both vehicles off the ground. The Nissan jerked forward violently, the hood dipping. Jack was thrown against the steering wheel, which turned to the left.

Then both SUVs rolled over.

Metal twisted and buckled with a deafening roar, and glass shattered into a thousand deadly fragments, spraying from all sides like confetti. Jack and Riley’s world turned upside down, as the Nissan flipped again. It rolled one more time, landing on the passenger’s side.

The seatbelts kept Jack and Riley in their seats, but they were still flung around the cabin. Jack hit his head against the steering wheel, then his head jerked back. Riley had it worse, as his head and shoulder hit the asphalt while the vehicle’s body scraped the street.

Jack glanced at Riley, who was still holding his pistol. Blood was trickling from a cut to the right side of his face and his upper lip. “You okay?” Jack asked.

Riley nodded. “Let’s get them.”

Jack looked around for the little girl, but she was gone along with the man and his dog. Then he turned his attention to the Mercedes-Benz. It had ended up on the sidewalk, rolled onto the driver’s side. The windshield had burst out. The driver wasn’t moving, and considering the way his neck was twisted, it was obvious he was dead. The gunman in the front passenger seat had vanished.

Where did he go? Jack thought.

He pulled out his pistol and tried to open the door, but it was jammed. He crawled through the window gap, trying to avoid cutting himself on the jagged metal edges. Sharp pain seared through his shoulder, back, and left knee. He winced in pain and studied the wreck. The gunman was nowhere to be found.

“Cover me,” he said to Riley.

“Got it.” Riley aimed his pistol at the SUV.

Jack stepped cautiously toward the Mercedes-Benz. The police sirens rang closer, followed by squealing tires. I have thirty seconds, maybe less.

He reached the SUV and searched it quickly. There was no one else inside or around the vehicle, except the driver. Where did the gunman go? Jack glanced at a blue BMW sedan parked in the driveway of the nearest house, only about ten yards away. Is he behind it? Or did he go around the house?

He looked at Riley and gestured at the BMW.

Riley, who was kneeling next to the Nissan, nodded and aimed his pistol at the blue BMW.

Jack too aimed his pistol at the BMW as he approached it quickly.

No one was hiding behind it.

Jack glanced at the house as the shrill wail of the police sirens filled his ears. He looked to his left as the first RCMP sedan headed toward him. He frowned and shook his head. He dashed toward the corner of the house in a last-ditch attempt to find the runaway gunman.

The back alley was empty. A couple of blue recycle bins were about fifteen steps away. Jack doubted the gunman would be hiding behind them. The back alley went around the house. I can’t let him disappear.

Jack had taken two steps in the back alley, when a loud voice shouted from the RCMP’s public address system, “Stop! Stop right there! And drop your gun! Drop your gun! Now!”

Jack shook his head. He knew better than to mess with RCMP officers. Not when he was holding a gun, and they were, in all likelihood, pointing their pistols at him. He frowned and shrugged. He dropped the pistol in a grassy patch by the brick wall of the house and slowly raised up his hands.

“Fine, fine. There, it’s done.” He turned around slowly.

Two RCMP officers were kneeling next to the sedan’s open doors with their pistols aimed at his head. “Get down! Down on your knees! Down!” one of them shouted.

A second sedan had just screeched to a halt a short distance away from the first one. Two officers stepped out and aimed their pistols at Jack.

They haven’t seen Riley yet, he thought as he dropped slowly to his knees without a word. It doesn’t matter. The gunman is gone. The cops aren’t going after him. What’s worse, Gilson will be furious our op went sideways.

Chapter Eight

The Confederation Boardroom

Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters

Ottawa, Canada

“No, Storm, an apology isn’t going to cut it.” Steven Gilson tossed his round, gold-rimmed glasses on the large oval table. “I had an earful from the RCMP and our Director-General. They both want your head, Storm. What happened today in downtown Ottawa is simply unacceptable.”

Jack shrugged and ran his hand through his close-cropped hair, then scratched the upper left side of his forehead. A butterfly stitch was placed there and another near the top of his right cheek, about an inch away from his eye. He had already explained to his boss, the Director of Middle Eastern Clandestine Operations, the course of the events. Jack thought about not saying anything at all, but then shook his head and said, “It was… unavoidable, boss. I understand the consequences, but if we hadn’t taken any actions, we’d be back in body bags.”

Gilson sighed and spread his arms on the table. “I don’t think you understand. Neither of you.” He pointed with his index finger first at Jack and then at Riley, whose face, too, was banged up and dotted with three butterfly stitches. “Your antics cannot be justified. Not in this situation, with the US president’s visit in less than forty-eight hours.” He gave them a stern headshake as his face drew back in a serious look. “Plus, with your career on the line, I thought you would have handled this op… how to say this so that you can understand it… well, properly. But you blew up half of Ottawa, killing five people.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his straight back leather chair. “Yes, about those people… Ruthless killers. They were professionals, Gilson. We’re looking for Yemeni terrorists plotting to attack the US president. Why, then, are elite operatives coming after us?” He tapped his chest and then pointed at Riley.

“You tell me.” Gilson leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve made enemies all over the world. Could this be related to whatever you have done, or haven’t done, while you went rogue?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. The timing is too perfect. Just as we’ve started to investigate and gotten the intel from Morgan, I mean Ms. Knox, they try to kill us. We all know this can’t be a coincidence.”

Gilson shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, Storm.” He pulled at the knot of his white tie, which, along with his black suit and black shirt, was his trademark office attire. Gilson was in his early sixties, with a bald, bullet-shaped head, but with very few wrinkles on his broad forehead. Unless he was frowning at someone, as he was doing right now at Jack. “But since you mentioned it, the intel from the Secret Service agency is old news. The CIA investigated those potential threats, and so did the FBI. Our counterparts in the CSIS did the same. Even our Gulf Section looked at them. So, what did you expect to find?”

“Whatever was missed—”

“If something was missed. I was going to allow that course of action, but after what happened...” He shook his head and pressed his lips together. “My hands are tied. You’re relieved from all duties related to this assignment.”

“But, sir—”

“There’s no ‘but,’ Storm. Hand over whatever intel you’ve received from Ms. Knox and others related to this file and go home. Take a few days to clear your mind. Come back to talk to Internal Affairs, but your future with the agency is bleak.”

“Really?” Jack cast a sideways glance at Gilson. “Because we returned fire and defended ourselves?”

“You still don’t get it, Storm. It’s because you cause trouble wherever you go. Whatever you touch turns into a nightmare, for all around you. You’re a loose cannon; always have been; always will be. But not on my watch.” He cocked his head toward the door. “We’re done here. Leave everything with my assistant, and have a nice day.”

Jack bit his tongue and suppressed all the nasty thoughts served up by his bitter mind. He had expected Gilson to punish him at the first misstep, and that’s why he had been extra careful in everything he had done. Gilson was just looking for an excuse to cut me loose. But I won’t let that happen. He can’t get rid of me that easily. My career will not end because of his whim.

“What about him?” He motioned toward Riley.

“You have enough to worry about.” Gilson waved a dismissive hand.

“Riley was just following my orders. Don’t punish him for what I—”

“You have the gall to tell me how to do my job now?” Gilson’s eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. The rest of his face tightened in subtle bitterness. “We’re done here, Storm. Finished. Please leave the room. Now!” His hand shot up, aimed at the door.

“Of course, sir. Have a nice day.”

“I will.”

“Riley, I’ll see you outside.”

“Sure thing.”

Jack stood up and tapped Riley reassuringly on the shoulder. Then he walked out of the conference room. Gilson’s dismissal had increased his resolve to get to the bottom of this matter. This isn’t just about saving the president; it’s about saving my future. Even if I’m kicked out of the CIS, it won’t be because of this. He shook his head. No, I’m going to find out who’s writing fate with an invisible hand…

Chapter Nine

Quatro de Fevereiro Luanda International Airport

Luanda, Angola

“This is how you handled this?” Keller shouted on her phone. “Beckett, tell me you’re not out of your freaking mind…”

Beckett moved the phone away from his ear. He looked through the window of the airport terminal at one of the planes that had just taken off. His plane wasn’t leaving Luanda for another hour or so, if there were no delays. He let out a deep sigh and said, “I have to admit things got out of hand—”

“Got out of hand is a euphemism. This is a mess. Instead of putting an end to the new CIS investigation, this put us right at the center of attention… their attention and that of other agencies.”

“That may be the case, but there’s nothing tying us to the RAT members killed in the firefight. We run everything through intermediaries. This isn’t coming back to us.”

“You say that, but who knows what the Canadians might find out? And I warned you against involving RAT this early in the game. Did they run surveillance, gather intel? Or did they just trample everything? And you said you were going to handle it properly. Properly. Remember that?”

Beckett’s eyes narrowed slightly, giving him an impatient look. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Sometimes, she’s worse than a child. His jaw clenched but only for a moment because Keller was expecting his answer. “Mistakes were made, Keller,” he said in a frustrated and disappointed tone. “But the situation is not all lost. One RAT team intercepted the CIS agents. Yes, that was a mistake, but it happened.” He sighed. “What’s done can’t be undone.”

“My point is it shouldn’t have happened, Beckett. And even after RAT’s so called ‘interception,’ the problem is still there. Both CIS operatives are alive and active.”

“Yes, but their investigation is going nowhere—”

“How can you be so certain?”

“The RAT members did gather intel before some of them intervened, hoping they could put an end to Storm and Booker. Now we know who their source is on the US team. And I will handle that—”

Keller groaned. “No, don’t handle anything. You’ve handled enough. Just get me the intel, and I’ll assign someone to take care of it.”

“As you wish. But my asset in the CIS reassured me that Storm and Booker aren’t going to find anything. He’s making sure they’re being derailed as we speak. He’s giving them false intel.”

“If that’s true, that’s some good news, Beckett. I need that.”

“It is true, Keller. And trust me on this: We’re going to stop them.”

“People say ‘trust me’ when they don’t have any evidence to base their claims on. Send me all the evidence you have, and I’ll prepare our response.”

Beckett shrugged. He knew the RAT team had messed up. He couldn’t fix that. And Keller had good reason to be livid. He couldn’t change her mind. Leave the past in the past, and let’s do better from now on, he encouraged himself. He nodded. “Okay. Now, I’ve got some good news about the Yemeni team. They’re all in position, waiting orders,” he said eagerly, hoping to change the conversation and improve Keller’s mood.

“In Ottawa?”

“Yes, suburbs. They have the weapons, the transportation, the plan. The only thing missing is the president’s finalized route.”

“We should have that very soon. Our asset will provide it as soon as it’s approved. Should be in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent. At least that part of the op is going well. However, once you’re in Ottawa, I want you and me to oversee everything ourselves. We don’t trust the RAT; we don’t trust the Yemenis. We need to get this right. We can’t afford another disaster like today.”

“By all means. I should be there shortly, and I’ll hit the ground running.”

“Let’s chat as soon as you land. I’ll brief you on all new developments.”

“And I’ll do the same.”

“Have a safe flight, Beckett,” Keller said in a neutral tone.

“See you in Ottawa.”

He tapped the end button on his phone and heaved a deep sigh. Well, she went from fuming mad to neutral. Now, I can’t make another mistake. That will be my end… Unless I have found another exit option. Something I still need to work on. The corner of his mouth quirked up as he nodded to himself. An idea had sparked in his mind. Yes, I have nine hours to explore that option. I should be able to make it work.

Chapter Ten

Sheraton Ottawa Hotel

Ottawa, Canada

“This is like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack.” Jack shook his head and gestured at the laptop set on the coffee table. He had just finished reviewing one of the video files Vance had shared with them. Surveillance of the suspected Yemenis with ties to the terrorist group allegedly plotting something big in Canada.

Morgan removed her black-framed glasses and looked up from her laptop. She was sitting at the small round table by the window. Her room was just a step up from your standard hotel accommodation, but it provided them a safe place to plan their next steps. “Only that the haystacks are endless.”

“And we have no idea what ‘the needle’ looks like,” chimed in Riley, who had set up his station at the small desk across from the even smaller kitchen station with a tiny fridge and just enough counter space for a coffeemaker and a kettle.

“I’ll make more coffee,” Jack said and stood up. “If we’re going to pull an all-nighter, we need some fuel. Morgan?”

“Yes, I’ll take a cup.”

“Riley?” Jack asked as he headed to the kitchen corner.

“I’m good for now.”

Morgan shifted her weight in the leather chair, reaching an arm up and over, pulling her head to one side and letting her eyes close momentarily as her muscles released. She stood up and cracked her neck, first left and then right. She rolled her shoulders back, but they still felt tense from hours of scanning through the files. “We’ve been at this for hours and have nothing to show for it,” she said in a voice full of frustration. “Do we know we can trust this guy, Vance?”

“Vance is a good man,” Jack replied as he pushed a pod into the coffee machine and tapped the start button. “We have history together. I trust him with my own life.”

Morgan gave Jack an uncertain look and nodded slowly at him. “Okay, so how come we can’t find anything here…”

Riley shrugged. He closed one of the files he had been poring over for the last forty-five minutes and looked at Morgan. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe there’s nothing to find.”

Morgan shook her head. She pointed a finger at him. “We’re not doing this again, Riley. If you don’t trust me, you don’t have to be here.”

“Woah, woah, wait a moment, now.” Riley shook his head and jumped to his feet. He gave Morgan a piercing look as they stood about six feet away from each other. “This isn’t about trust; it’s about the best use of our resources. The more time we’re wasting here, the less time we have to find and stop their plot.”

Jack turned to face both of them. “This isn’t time wasted,” he said in a calm voice as he cocked his head to Riley. “And we are all here because we want to be here.” He looked at Morgan. “This isn’t easy, but we won’t get it done by snapping at each other. We all want the same thing, right?” His gaze searched Morgan’s face for an answer.

She hesitated for a moment, then let out a deep sigh and nodded. “Of course, Jack. But you have something very valuable on the line here: your career. You’re suspended. Riley, on the other hand, he’s still with the agency. He has everything to lose, and—”

“No.” Riley cut her off with a hand gesture. “I’m one step away from being fired. If Gilson finds out I’m here, helping you and Jack, I would certainly lose my job. Gilson warned me in no uncertain terms: If I help you, I’m out.”

Morgan gave Jack a dazed look. She let out a small gasp, and her body suddenly went stiff. “I… I had no idea.”

Riley shrugged. “It’s okay. We’re good. But know that I’m fully involved and invested in getting to the bottom of this.”

“Plus, there’s the little matter of the operatives trying to kill us,” Jack said and returned to the coffeemaker.

“About those operatives, where are we?” She glanced at Riley.

He shrugged and cocked his head toward the reports spread out on his desk. “The RCMP are investigating, but there are no concrete leads. I’ve talked to a couple of contacts. They suspect the shooters were mercenaries, but it’s unclear whom they were working for.”

Jack said, “Considering the armored Mercedes SUVs and how they handled themselves, they were definitely pros. Now, how can a cash-strapped terrorist group afford and organize such an assault in the heart of Ottawa? It’s mind-boggling.”

“Unless the two events aren’t connected,” Morgan said.

Jack shook his head. “That’s very unlikely. The timing is too precise. We just left our meeting with a friend of mine in the CIS. If these were old enemies, the coincidence is too good to be true.”

Morgan nodded. “Okay, so the attack was to stop you and Riley from discovering who wants to assassinate the president. Who would that be? Who would be willing to help the terrorists achieve their mission?”

“Someone who hates the US,” Riley said.

Morgan grinned. “Where do we start?” she said in a bitter voice.

Jack said, “Well, let’s think about who would benefit the most and who is the most likely to have ties to the terrorists. A couple of rogue states come to mind. Iran has the capacity to hire mercenaries. Plus, the Front is Shia Muslims, as is most of Iran.”

“Syria could be behind this as well. They don’t lack the money or the desire to throw the US into chaos,” Riley said.

Morgan nodded. “Right, but would they have the right connections to hire a military group to could launch such a strike inside Canada?”

“It’s possible,” Jack said. “Money can buy pretty much everything nowadays. So we need to check all security contractors operating in Canada.”

“Do you think they’d be so bold as to do this above board?” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it most likely they hired a team from the underground world?”

“That may be true, but we can’t dismiss the possibility offhand,” Jack replied. “If these were Iranians or Syrians, they could have used their diplomats’ security detail. Let’s start there, with the most obvious, and see what we can find.”

Riley pursed his lips. “That will eat up a lot of our time, but it needs to be done.”

“We can’t forget the Russians,” Morgan pointed out. “They have plenty of people and aren’t worried about using them.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, we need to check that angle as well. I’ll get in touch with my sources and check about the Iranians, Syrians, and Russians. Now, let’s get back to work. It’s going to be a long night.”

They returned to their stations and plugged away. Minutes turned into hours, and soon, it was past midnight. Jack glanced at the clock on his laptop when Morgan’s phone rang. Her eyes sparked with curiosity as she picked up the phone. “It’s Bishop,” she said in a wary tone. “Why is he calling me at this ungodly hour of the night?”

Jack looked at her as Morgan answered her phone, “Yes, Bishop. What’s going on?”

“Knox, you awake?” Bishop said in a hurried tone without a hint of an apology in his voice.

“I am now. What’s so urgent?”

“I need to see you ASAP. Something crucial has come up.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone—”

“It’s a secure line, Bishop.” Morgan shook her head and shrugged at Jack and Riley, who were staring at her.

“Still, this requires absolute secrecy. You can imagine what it’s all about. How soon can you meet?”

“Oh, we can meet in… what, thirty minutes?” She gave Jack a questioning look.

Jack nodded. “Even sooner,” he whispered.

“How about twenty?” Bishop asked in a firm voice that came across as an order.

“Sure. Twenty minutes. Where?”

“I’ll text you the exact location.”

“Okay.”

“See you there.” Bishop ended the call.

Morgan looked at Jack. “Well, that’s strange. Why is he contacting me directly and not going to my director?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Jack’s brow arched slightly. “Have you had direct contact with him?”

“No, I only met Bishop a week ago, while we were prepping for the president’s visit. He’s always been distant, formal.”

“Unusual behavior is always a red flag,” Riley said warily.

“Unless he can’t get a hold of my director,” Morgan said.

Jack nodded. “Yes. If he turned off his phone or can’t hear it.” He stood up. “Let’s get ready.”

“You’re coming too?” Morgan tilted her head.

“Of course. Did he ask you to come alone?”

“No, but I don’t think Bishop knows who I’m with or what we’re doing.”

“Still, it’s better if we all go. If this is related to the president—as he seemingly hinted—then we need to know. And if we’re doing something about it, again, we should all be working together.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “Bishop may not see it that way. He would have contacted you directly if he thought you needed to be involved.”

“True, but of course he has to talk to the Secret Service first. But he reached out and gave me those names. He did it to get rid of me, in a way, but he didn’t have to. It appears he wants us to work together.”

Morgan’s phone pinged with a sharp beep. She glanced at the screen. “Bishop sent me the address.” She tapped the screen and put it on an internet search engine. “It’s across the river. A park by… Laurier Street.” She peered at the map.

Jack nodded. “That’s Jacques-Cartier Park. It’s a big place. Did he give you the exact coordinates?”

“No, but I’m sure we can find him.”

“It’s a five-minute cab ride,” Jack said as he picked up his Sig and checked it. “Especially at this time.”

“We’ll run surveillance, make sure everything’s good,” Riley said.

Morgan gave them a look of disbelief. “Bishop’s CIA. You guys are being slightly paranoid.”

“Considering what just happened to us, it’s the right thing to do,” Riley replied.

“Plus, there’s a mole in one of the US agencies.” Jack put his pistol in his waistband holster, then reached for his gray windbreaker hanging behind the door of the room.

Morgan shook her head and put on her shoulder holster. “I don’t think it’s Bishop.”

“I don’t think it’s him either.” Jack stepped closer to her. “But if someone attempts something against him or us, we’ll be ready.”

Morgan nodded. She took her light blue jacket from the back of her chair. “Okay, let’s find out what Bishop wants.”

Chapter Eleven

Ten Minutes Later

Jacques-Cartier Park

Gatineau, Quebec, Canada

Jack, Riley, and Morgan were dropped off just as they crossed the Alexandra Bridge connecting the cities of Ottawa and Gatineau, and, at the same time, the provinces of Ottawa and French-speaking Quebec. Jack didn’t want the attention the large yellow cab would bring to them if it drove through the park. So they decided to walk the rest of the way.

They split up to cover more ground. They had about ten minutes, provided that Bishop and whoever else was with him hadn’t arrived at the park already. The night’s air was cool and fresh. Most of the asphalt pathways were faintly lit by low lamp posts. Jack saw no movements in the grassy areas or among the shrubs and trees. Rustling came from a tree branch, but it wasn’t something to cause worry. No footsteps or anyone on a bicycle. He wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour of the night. He shrugged. It’s probably a bird or small animal.

City noises came from his left. He glanced in that direction and saw a couple of cars speeding along Laurier Street. Bishop wasn’t in any of them. They were going in the wrong direction. While they were in the taxi, Bishop had sent Morgan the exact location of their rendezvous. It was the small parking lot north of Maison Charron-Wright, an eighteenth-century stone house with a high gabled roof that was one of the park’s heritage landmarks.

Jack stopped when he was about fifty yards away from the house. He stepped away from the trail and walked around the house. He slowed down when he came to one of the thick trees and stood there for a few seconds. If someone was observing him from inside the house or one of the boats moored at the pier, about a hundred yards away down at the river, they’d think he had to relieve himself.

Instead, Jack pulled out his pistol. He held it close to his thigh and felt the adrenaline rushing through his body. His heart was pumping faster, and he could hear it drumming in his chest.

He swept the area around the house and found no one. As he came to the corner of the house, he sat low and observed the parking lot. There was only one vehicle there, a black Jeep. Someone was sitting in the driver’s seat, but Jack couldn’t tell if that was Bishop.

Jack scanned the wider area, especially a couple of treed areas to the right and left of the parking lot. No one seemed to be hiding there, but he couldn’t be certain. Morgan was to his right, about fifty yards up ahead and on the other side, walking along the pathway. As soon as she came to the edge of the parking lot, the Jeep’s front door opened with a creaking noise.

Bishop stepped out. He was dressed in a black jacket and pants. He waved at Morgan, who was walking slowly across the dimly lit parking lot. “Ms. Knox, please get in the Jeep.”

Morgan shook her head but kept getting closer to Bishop. “What is it?” she asked as she spread out her arms. “Tell me.”

“It’s better if I show you.” He cocked his head toward the Jeep. “It’s not far from here.”

Morgan stopped when she was a few feet away from Bishop. “You called me, saying you have intel. You dragged me out in the middle of the night. We’re here now, in a safe place. Tell me what’s going on, or I’m walking away.”

Bishop shook his head. He looked down for a brief moment, then with a quick, trained gesture pulled out his pistol from his shoulder holster. Before Morgan could say or do anything, he pointed the gun at her face. “You should have gotten in the Jeep,” he said in a bitter voice. “Why doesn’t anyone listen anymore…”

Morgan’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open. Her brows shot up, and she took a step back. She felt her throat parched but was still able to say, “What? You’re going to shoot me?”

The driver’s door and one of the rear doors opened at the same time. Two large men dressed in dark jackets and dark pants stepped outside. They had close-cropped hair and both carried pistols they aimed at Morgan.

Her breath caught, shallow and rapid. Morgan’s body stiffened. She didn’t know what to think or do. What’s going on here? Who is Bishop working for?

Bishop waved his gun at her. “Get in the Jeep. Now!”

Jack, where are you? What are you waiting for? Morgan looked to her right, toward the house.

It was the wrong move.

One of the gunmen looked in that direction. He peered and noticed Jack kneeling next to a bench, partially hidden behind the memorial stone in front of the house. He aimed his pistol at Jack.

Before he could tap the trigger, Jack fired a single round. It missed the gunman, but it thumped against the Jeep’s windshield. The gunman and his partner, who also had noticed Jack, both opened up with a quick volley.

Bullets pounded the other side of the stone. Slivers flew around Jack, but he was safe. For now.

A couple of gunshots came from his left. That must be Riley, Jack thought. Perfect timing.

He crawled a couple of feet to the right and glanced around the stone. One of the gunmen was aiming his gun to the left, toward a couple of trees about fifty yards away. Apparently, that’s where the gunfire came from.

The other gunman had kept his pistol trained at the stone. He fired a couple of rounds. They struck the stone a few inches away from Jack’s face. He returned fire and planted a couple of rounds into the gunman’s chest. He collapsed against the Jeep, then fell onto the ground.

Bishop turned his pistol at Jack. Just as he tried to fire it, Morgan struck him in the side of his head. Her blow caused him to lose his balance for a moment, but he didn’t fall, and he turned to Morgan.

Jack thought about opening up again, but he worried one of his errant rounds might hit Morgan. He aimed his Sig at the other gunman, but he stepped behind the Jeep.

Muzzle flashes came from Riley’s position. His rounds struck the back of the Jeep and shattered one of the windows.

Bishop struck Morgan across her face with his left hand. She kicked him in the side, then grabbed his wrist, trying to pry the pistol out of his right hand. Bishop pushed her against the Jeep, then turned his gun at her.

Jack didn’t have a clear shot.

Riley fired from the other side. His bullets clanged against the Jeep, forcing Bishop to pay attention to him. He turned his pistol at Riley and attempted to open fire, but Morgan kicked the pistol out of his hand.

The gunman fired at Jack. The bullets ricocheted off the stone. One of them grazed Jack’s arm close to his wrist, causing him to drop the Sig. He tried to retrieve it, but the gunman continued his volley.

Jack dropped behind the stone, wondering about his next steps. The pistol had fallen in the grass on the other side, about two feet away from him.

Bishop spun around and elbowed Morgan in the chest. She groaned in pain and staggered on her feet. When he tried to punch her, she was able to dodge his blow by stepping back. She regained her balance and responded with a swift kick to Bishop’s crotch. He screamed and folded over. Morgan kicked him again, and he dropped onto the ground.

Behind the memorial stone, Jack pulled out a small mirror from one of his jacket pockets. He used it to safely survey the area. No sign of the gunman. Morgan and Bishop also were out of sight. Jack reached for his tactical knife from his ankle sheath. He wouldn’t be caught by surprise if the gunman came looking for him.

Jack turned to the other side to use the mirror to cover that angle. As he began to do so, the gunman came into view. He was standing about four feet away from Jack, just beyond his reach. The gunman’s pistol was pointed at Jack’s head.

“It’s over, Storm,” the gunman said. “And no one can stop what has already started.”

“And what is that?”

The gunman snickered. “You’ll never know. Goodbye now.”

Jack peered at the gunman as a gunshot rang out.

Chapter Twelve

Jacques-Cartier Park

Gatineau, Quebec, Canada

The back of the gunman’s head exploded in a mist of pink, and he fell to the ground.

Jack looked at Morgan holding a pistol in her hand. She had fired the fatal shot.

Morgan gave Jack a slight nod, then turned her attention to Bishop, who was lying face-first on the ground a couple of feet away from the Jeep. She pressed the pistol against his head as she leaned over him. “Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll blow your head off.”

Bishop returned a bitter laugh. “You’re going to kill me… a fellow agent. No, you won’t.”

“I don’t care that you work for the CIA. You just tried to kill me. What’s happening? Answer me!”

Bishop shook his head and looked at Morgan. Blood was trickling out of the left corner of his mouth. “You’ll find out… soon enough.”

“Tell me.” She shoved her pistol harder against his neck. “I swear I’ll kill you.”

“No.” Jack stood next to Morgan. “Don’t kill him. We’ll make him talk. He will tell us what has started.”

Morgan gave Jack a curious glance. “What?”

“The gunman… Before you shot him, he told me something had started. What is that, Bishop? The president’s assassination?”

Bishop gave Jack a dirty look. “Even if I told you, there’s no way… no way you’re stopping it. This is bigger than you and me put together,” he said in an almost solemn tone.

“If you tell us, we’ll spare your life,” Jack said, crouching next to Bishop. “You don’t have to die for these people, terrorists or whoever hired those mercenaries.”

Bishop flinched at Jack’s last word but recovered quickly. He shook his head again. “It’s useless, Storm. The ones pulling the strings, they’re too powerful.”

Jack had noticed Bishop’s slight eye twitch and look of recognition. “You will tell us everything, the easy way or the hard way. What will it be?”

Bishop snarled at Jack. “You’re stupidly stubborn.”

Jack nodded. “Stubborn, yes. We all are.” He cocked his head to Morgan. “But you will give us the intel. Let’s pull him up,” he told Morgan.

Footsteps came from behind them. “It’s me,” Riley said. “Everyone’s okay?”

“Yes,” Morgan said.

“We’re good.” Jack nodded and glanced at the bullet wound on his forearm. Blood was still dripping from it.

“You’re wounded,” Morgan said as she took notice.

Jack shrugged. “A scratch. Give me a hand here.”

Jack and Riley lifted Bishop to his feet and leaned him against the Jeep. He smirked at them, drew himself up to full height and jutted out his chest. “You’ve got me, but you’ll never get them. They’ll—”

A bullet cut off his words.

The round pierced through the Jeep’s windows and slammed into the back of Bishop’s head.

Jack, Riley, and Morgan dropped down behind the Jeep as Bishop’s lifeless body collapsed next to them.

“Where’s the shooter?” Riley asked.

Another round shattered a window, shooting fragments over their heads.

Jack cocked his head toward the river. “Down there, at the pier probably.”

Riley cursed out loud. “We didn’t cover that.”

“I checked and saw no one. But there were three boats there.”

“Yes, and there’s a sniper in one of them,” Morgan said.

A third round knocked against the side of the vehicle.

Jack took a quick peek around the back of the Jeep. No shooter, but one of the boats began to speed away. “It seems they’re running away.”

“We can’t let them,” Morgan said. “With Bishop dead, we’ve got nothing.”

Jack stood up carefully and aimed his pistol at the boat. It was already beyond his gun’s maximum effective range. Plus, he couldn’t see the shooter. Could he be in one of the other boats? Or alongside the river?

He shook his head at Riley and Morgan. “I don’t see them.”

“What do we do now?” Morgan said. “We’re back to square one.”

Jack shook his head. He kept scanning the edge of the riverbanks and the shrubs alongside. He doubted the shooter would be still there, but it was always good to be extra careful. “We’re a step closer to finding the truth. Both the gunman you shot and Bishop told us something big is happening. Powerful players are involved.”

“We knew that already.”

“We suspected it, but now it’s confirmed.” He turned around and looked at Morgan. “By the way, thanks for saving my life there.” He tipped his head toward the memorial stone.

Morgan shrugged. “You’d have done the same. Do we go back to the Sheraton?”

“Yes, but let’s be careful about it. Whoever Bishop worked with or for might know of the hotel. We need to find another safehouse,” Jack replied.

Riley looked around. “The police will be here soon. Let’s check the dead gunmen, and see if we can find anything useful.”

“I’ll take him.” Jack gestured toward the gunman stretched by the memorial stone. “You handle Bishop and the Jeep,” he told Morgan and Riley. “Then, we’ll leave.”

He had just knelt next to the gunman when Jack’s phone rang. He frowned, as he didn’t recognize the caller’s ID. The screen simply said UNKNOWN CALLER. “Yes, who is this?” Jack asked in a wary tone.

“Mr. Storm, you’re interfering with something that doesn’t involve you,” a woman said in a chilling tone.

Jack’s brow furrowed, sinking into a sharp frown. He swung his head around and took a few steps toward the riverbank. Where is she? Was she on the boat? He turned around and glanced at the edge of the road about eighty yards away. A series of high-rise apartment buildings overlooked the park. Is she somewhere up there? Obviously, she knows what just happened. The timing can’t be a coincidence.

“I know it’s an attempt to kill the US president. But why? Who are you? And what’s the endgame?”

“It’s none of your business, Storm. But I’m kind enough to offer you a way out.” The woman’s voice turned calmer, but her tone remained the same.

“And what might that be?” Jack asked dubiously.

“Forget about what happened tonight and yesterday. Step away from it all, and never look back. This has nothing to do with you. Why make this your own problem?”

Jack shook his head. “This is already my problem. One of your men almost killed me, just moments ago.”

“Yes, I am aware of that. A series of unfortunate events, I have to admit.” The woman’s voice was carefree, as if she was talking about typing the wrong number on the phone. “But you are doing quite well. And so are your associates, Booker and Knox. For now.”

“That sounds like a threat to me,” Jack said, then his lips pressed into a hard line. He spun around, looking for the caller, doubting she was anywhere he could see her.

“I’m not in the business of making threats, Storm. I’m in the business of making deals. I’m offering you a very generous deal. Do nothing, and you will live. Your associates as well. Stick your nose into my business, and…” She paused for a brief moment as if for dramatic effect to let her words sink in. “Well, let’s say a lot of people are going to get hurt, Storm. People close to you, people you care about. Agnes. Vic—”

“Don’t you even dare say their names,” Jack cut her off in a shout. A vein began to throb visibly in his forehead. His eyes grew wide, showing the whites. His lips curled back in a furious sneer. “Nobody threatens my family, and—”

“This isn’t a—”

“I’m not done. You know what happened to the last person who threatened my family? And the one before that? And so on, if you follow my drift?”

The woman let out a high-pitched laugh. “Storm, you’re cracking me up. You have no idea who you’re up against, but you still have the guts to challenge me.”

“Challenge you? What do you think this is, a duel?” Jack shouted and looked at Riley and Morgan, who were giving him curious glances. “You want a deal? Well, here’s your deal: Stop whatever you think you’re doing and crawl back into whatever hole you came from—”

“Now, listen up, you little—”

“I’m not—”

“I’ve had enough with your bravado. As they told me, you’re stupidly stubborn. But we’re wasting time here. Storm, if I were you, I’d give my loved ones a hug. One last hug…”

“And if I were you, I’d watch my back. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I’ll find you, and—”

The woman hung up.

Jack’s jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles pulsed beneath his skin. His eyes narrowed into fierce slits, blazing with a barely contained fury, while his nostrils flared with each heated breath.

He released the tight grip around his phone, noticing his knuckles had turned white. “I will kill you,” he said in a low voice, then marched toward Riley and Morgan.

“Who was that?” Riley asked.

“The one orchestrating all this.” Jack waved his hand around. “She threatened my family. Agnes. Victoria. I’ve got to call them, make sure they’re okay.”

Riley nodded at Jack. “We’ll tidy this up. Do whatever you need to do.”

Morgan gave him a reassuring smile. “It will be okay, Jack.”

He nodded at her and took a few steps away from the Jeep. He dialed his wife’s cellphone number. As soon as she answered after the second ring, Jack said hastily, “Code red, Agnes.”

“When?” Agnes asked without missing a beat.

They had had many conversations when they had gone over such a scenario. They had a plan that was set in motion by that single phrase.

“A few seconds ago, but it could have started minutes earlier.”

“Where?” Her voice grew distant as she put Jack on speakerphone.

He imagined her walking through their house to wake up Victoria. “Mexico, for starters. Then make your way to South America.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Not your fault. Anything else I need to know?”

“The house may be under surveillance. Or your car may have a tracker. Watch out for vehicles following you. Call me once you’ve gone through security at the airport.”

“Will do. Now, I’m getting Vicky ready. Will call you soon.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

He ended the call and drew in a series of shallow breaths. His family was doing well, but for how long? The woman, whoever she is, didn’t expect things to go sideways here. Otherwise, she would have gone for my family before making her threats. That’s what I would have done, if I were in her situation.

He sighed. If everything went well, on the way to the airport, Agnes would book the first available flight from Toronto to Mexico. Once there, she’d contact an old asset of Jack’s, who would provide her with a wad of cash and a car she’d drive to the border with Guatemala. Then, she’d move across Central and South America, changing locations every twenty-four to forty-eight hours, unless Jack called with other instructions.

When Jack turned around, Riley and Morgan were leaning over the gunman by the memorial stone. Let’s see what we can find about who’s behind all this, and how we can bring them down once and for all…

Chapter Thirteen

The Next Morning

Hyatt Place Ottawa - West

Ottawa, Canada

“No, Jack, I’ve told you. This isn’t the work of the Quds Force. I have it from reliable sources,” the asset said over the phone in a tired voice.

“Are you sure?” Jack insisted. “The Iranians have often threatened the president. They even had a team in the US allegedly preparing a revenge assassination.”

Jack was referring to a US Department of Justice report about an agent of Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, or IRGC, who was plotting the assassination. Citing FBI sources, the report noted the plot was in revenge for the killing of General Qassem Soleimani, chief of the Quds Force, which was IRGC’s elite branch responsible primarily for Iran’s foreign operations.

“Yeah, allegedly being the key word there.” The asset sighed. “Look, Jack, we both know the facts. The Iranians simply don’t have the capacity to plan or execute such an elaborate operation. Even if they could, they understand it would be absolutely stupid on their part. Whether the team succeeded in its operation or not, such an attempt on the part of Iran would certainly spark World War III. Iran doesn’t want that. They’re not prepared.”

“Okay, so it’s not the Iranians, how about the Syrians?”

“Absolutely not,” the asset said in a firm voice. “I asked around. My contacts all denied the Syrians would even dream such a thing. Especially now in the turmoil after the fall of Assad. Rest assured, my friend, Syrians have nothing to do with what happened in Ottawa.”

Jack nodded slowly. He glanced around the small room, then stretched his neck as he tried to get more comfortable on the L-shaped beige couch. Before he could say anything, the asset said, “If you want to find who’s behind the attack, I suggest you look at another enemy of the US: the Russians.”

Jack had thought about it, but he wasn’t convinced it was the work of the Russians. That wasn’t their style. Moreover, recently the relationship between the US and Russia had improved. Visits of high-level officials had taken place during the last few months. Others were planned for the future.

He stood up and walked to the window. The first sunrays were struggling to come up from behind the thick curtain of clouds stretching across the skies. People had already started to walk down the street five floors below, along with a dozen or so vehicles.

“Thanks for your suggestion,” Jack said noncommittally to his asset. “If you hear anything, the slightest chatter, I want to know about it.”

“That will cost you, my friend.”

“Money isn’t an issue if the intel is good.”

“Have I ever given you bad intel?” the asset asked in an almost insulted voice.

“No.” But there’s always a first time, Jack thought but kept it to himself. “We’ll talk again.”

“Yes, yes, we will.”

Jack hung up and let out a deep sigh. He didn’t have a trusted asset who might provide him actionable intel about the Russians. And Jack didn’t think it would be of much use to talk to the Russians directly. If they’re behind this, there’s no way they’re going to admit it. But he also couldn’t avoid them. Not if I want to find out what’s going on and avoid another attempt on my life and that of Riley and Morgan, and, of course, the president.

He thought about the president’s visit the next day. They had a little over twenty-four hours now. We’ve got to hurry. I’ve got to cover the Russian angle whether I want to or not.

He paced the room for a few more seconds, then nodded to himself. “It needs to be done,” he whispered to himself. He found a number on his phone log and dialed it. He tapped his foot nervously until the woman at the other end of the line said in a playful voice, “Jack Storm, I was actually thinking about you…”

“Good things, I hope,” he replied in the same tone.

“Of course, what else could it be?” said Bronia.

Her real name was Bronislava Pavlinka Antonova, and she was one of the best field operatives working for the fearsome Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, or the SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Jack’s relationship with her fell somewhere between love and hate. They had worked together on a number of operations and against each other in some as well.

Jack smiled. “I’m calling you because I need something.”

“Don’t we all need something in our lives, Jack?”

“I’m serious, Bronia.”

“So am I, Jack. What is it?”

“I need some intel, but…” He hesitated, unsure about how to word his request so that he didn’t insult her or express his doubts that she’d be telling him the truth. “But I don’t know if you can get it…”

“If you called me, you’re confident I can do it, right?”

“Well, it’s not that simple.”

“Explain that to me, Jack.” Bronia’s voice turned cold.

“Have you heard about what happened yesterday in Ottawa?”

“Whatever was on the news. Some kind of shooting. Why?”

“Someone tried to kill me and Riley.”

“Oh, no! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. Then, there was another attack, earlier this morning, well, my time. Where are you, by the way?”

“Not too far. But what’s going on, Jack?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I suspect this has something to do with the US president’s visit to Ottawa, which is happening tomorrow.”

Bronia hesitated for a long moment.

Jack could hear her mental gears spinning.

When she came back on the line, she said, “I see. You and Riley are working to stop any potential attack, assassination attempt, on the American president. Whoever is making that attempt wants to eliminate you. But I don’t see why you called me for intel…” She sounded more than surprised. There was a hint of irritation in her voice.

“The team who executed the attack yesterday were pros. I suspect mercenaries, well-trained and financed. Then the team this morning included a CIA agent.”

“What? Well, there’s your answer, Jack. Ask the CIA.”

“The agent had gone rogue, Bronia. The CIA suspects he’s working with one of America’s worst and strongest enemies.”

“Oh, so that’s why you called me? You suspect it’s Russia,” Bronia said in a bitter tone. She snorted. “It’s always Russia.”

“I’m covering all bases.”

“Nothing to cover here. You know my answer: We have nothing to do with it.”

“As far as you know.”

“Obviously. But think about it: What would we gain by killing the American president? Things are going well between our two countries, better than they’ve been for a very long time.”

“Someone who’s unhappy about that, who thrives on conflict, in having Russia and America always being enemies. Or someone who’s gone rogue.”

Bronia didn’t reply right away. “Well, maybe you’re getting somewhere with that line of thinking. But it’s shortsighted to think that could be only Russia. America has made a lot of enemies, foreign and domestic. So think about it and consider all potential players: Who would benefit the most by creating chaos in America? What would America do to the country that killed their president?”

“Bomb them back to the Stone Age,” Jack offered.

“Yes. Russia isn’t interested in a wide conflict with America, and neither is America. So, you’ve got to look elsewhere, Jack.”

Jack frowned and bit his lip. His eyes lost their hopeful spark and dropped slightly as if weighed down. He shook his head in frustration and said, “For old times’ sake. I need you to help me find who these people are. I know they’re powerful, resourceful, fearless. If they’re not stopped, they’ll kill the president.”

“I get that, Jack. But how is that my problem?”

“It’s not right now, but it could become a serious problem for you and Russia. If somehow Russia is implicated or even seems to be behind the assassination—or even the attempt—the backlash would be devastating.”

Bronia snorted. “Don’t you think you may be blowing this out of proportion?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack replied calmly. “We never know how some elements in the US government may react, or overreact. I don’t need to remind you that not everyone in American politics likes the improvement of the relationship between the world’s superpowers. Some people will be quick to assign blame to Russia, even if your country had nothing to do with it.”

A tense silence reigned for a few long seconds.

Jack heard what sounded like shuffling of papers followed by what appeared to be muted conversations. Is she talking to someone, or to herself? He shook his head and thought about saying something, but decided to give Bronia all the space she needed to make a decision.

When she came back on the line about ten seconds later, she said, “Okay, Jack. I’ll have to discuss this with my chief and decide the level of our involvement. But I will ask around and see what I can find.”

“Thanks, Bronia. Do you know when?”

“No, and the answer may be ‘no.’ So don’t count on me, on us, for a solution.”

“All right. But we don’t have much time—”

“Some things can’t be rushed, Jack.”

He sighed, but he felt he had pressed her enough. “Call me when you know.”

“Will do. Bye now, and… stay safe.”

“That’s the plan.”

He ended the call and turned around to see Riley standing at the door of the bedroom. He stifled a yawn and stretched his arms and neck. “Who was that?” he asked.

“Why are you up? You barely had three hours of sleep.”

“How many did you have?”

Jack shrugged. He had dozed on and off for maybe an hour. “Enough. I’ll sleep when this is over. And that was Bronia.”

Riley’s eyes widened and sparkled with astonishment. Then his eyebrows shot up, creating smooth arches on his forehead. “You called her? You really think she’ll tell you if the Russians have something to do with this?”

“No, but I told her if something happens to the US president, the Russians will be blamed for it. Whether they were involved or not, that will be lost in the chaos.”

“And what did she say?”

“I think they’ll help. If they really aren’t behind this—and I don’t think they are—they have the incentive to bring to light whoever is doing this.”

“That would be a real help. Now, what else is new?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve made coffee. After you went to bed, I spent another hour re-examining those videos Vance gave us. I think I’ve found something, but I’m not sure if it is what I think it is.”

“Okay. We’ll check it together. Now, I’ve got to use the john.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, we’ll take a look at the video, then show it to Morgan. Maybe she can help us identify the man who I think might be a key to finding out who’s behind the assassination plot.”

Chapter Fourteen

Hyatt Place Ottawa - West

Ottawa, Canada

“So, what do you think?” Jack asked Riley as the video finished replaying.

“The cab driver is a different man than the one in the first video. Yes, he looks like the first guy. Same shirt and similar beard, but it’s a different guy. I don’t know how anyone didn’t see this before,” Riley replied in an incredulous voice.

He gestured at the laptop screen. Jack had run the two videos through an artificial intelligence video enhancing software. He had adjusted the sharpness and the brightness of the scene and had zoomed in five times. The scene had taken place outside a bar on York Street, just a few blocks away from the US embassy in Ottawa. The video timestamps showed they were taken about thirty minutes between each other, about a week ago.

“I’m not sure.” Jack shrugged and spread out his hands. “Maybe they weren’t careful or weren’t expecting a different guy to pop out. Vance said the CIS spent very little time on these files because the CIA and FBI had apparently covered all angles.”

“Right, right.” Riley shuffled through piles of printouts spread across the coffee table. “But this guy—let’s call him New Guy—is nowhere in the files. Who is he? He has to be important since he drives away in the suspect’s taxi.”

“New Guy is a ghost. No record of him. I checked everything Vance gave us, and he said that’s everything.”

Riley frowned. “Well, he is something, and we need to find out who he is. I’m sure this isn’t just a coincidence. We don’t have much to start with, since his face is somewhat blurry, but maybe the office can enhance his image and run a search.”

“Is that something you can handle?”

“Of course. Do you even have to ask?”

“Well, with what Gilson is doing, I want to make sure that—”

“I want to do this, Jack. Not just for you, but for me as well. Whoever is trying to kill the president has put us in their sights as well. If we don’t do anything, we’ll all end up dead.”

“Okay. I’m going to call Morgan now.”

Fifteen minutes later, Morgan was sitting across the coffee table. “This is a breakthrough, Jack,” she said in a cheerful tone. “Whoever this guy is, he has to be someone important. They trusted him to drive away in the car belonging to a terrorist supporter. I don’t think they’d do that with just anyone.”

“We still need to ID him,” Jack said.

“I’ll talk to the CIA, FBI, and, of course, my agency. If there’s a file on him, we’ll find out who he is.”

“And we’ll do the same with CIS, CSIS, and the RCMP, for starters,” Riley said.

Jack took a sip of coffee, then cocked his head to Morgan. “About the CIA, there’s still the matter of Agent Bishop.”

“I haven’t heard anything from my director or anyone else,” Morgan said with a headshake. “Nothing on the news either.”

“I checked with a source in the RCMP,” Jack said. “Just an hour ago or so. The police haven’t identified the two gunmen yet. They don’t seem to be in any system. However, they’ve IDed Bishop and have already notified the CIA.”

Morgan flinched at Jack’s last word. “So, I’ll hear about it soon…” she said in a worried tone.

“You may or may not. It depends on who else in the CIA is involved. Or the agency may decide to keep this under wraps. No need to create more panic.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ve got to tell my director about Bishop, though, and what happened,” she spoke in a low, uncertain voice as if she was asking for advice rather than making a statement.

Jack offered a small headshake. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you—”

“Once he finds out, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get fired.” Her brow creased, creating deep lines across her forehead. She looked down at her hands for a brief moment, then her eyes darted back and forth between Jack and Riley. “He’ll accuse me of tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice.” Her shoulders slumped just a little, weighed down by the burden of her words and thoughts.

“You were trying to figure out what was going on, who else was involved, and how to best protect the president’s life. Or you can throw me under the bus and say that we forced you to say nothing.” Jack spoke in a warm tone.

Morgan gave him a bitter smile. “You’re already under the bus, Jack. And if I mention you, I’ll be in even bigger trouble since I’m working with you, a rogue agent.”

Jack grinned. “That’s what they’re calling me now?”

“They’re calling you a lot of other things I’d rather not say,” Morgan replied with a smirk.

Riley gestured with his hand toward Morgan. “If you tell the director what happened, he may decide to send you back to D.C. or otherwise sideline you from this operation.”

Jack nodded. “They’ll start an investigation into your involvement.”

Morgan ran her hands through her hair and shook her head. “I can’t let him kick me out now. If something happens to my president… I won’t be able to forgive myself.”

“Well, then, there you have it,” Riley said.

“The police have no leads, no witnesses, no trace of your, our involvement. Once the president’s visit is over, you can come clean with the director.”

“Yes, then, whatever happens, happens. At least, I’ll be here if something is to happen.”

Jack cocked his head toward his laptop. “Well, if we can find out who this guy is, we may be able to put an end to this, whatever it is that’s being planned, before it even starts. Then, nothing will happen.”

“Good. You start talking to your colleagues and assets. I’ll get back to the reports Vance gave me. There’s something that has been bugging me for a while, but I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Morgan nodded. “Right away.”

She pulled out her phone, while Jack returned to his work station, the small desk in the corner next to the window. He returned to the documents Vance had given him and began to compare them with what Riley had been able to secure from a couple of his CIS colleagues.

Jack spent about thirty minutes rereading, reviewing, and rethinking about everything with the CIS investigation.

And then he saw it.

He couldn’t believe his eyes and felt like a fool for not seeing it sooner. It was right there in front of my eyes this whole time… I guess I was focused on finding out about the terrorists rather than looking for something else. And it’s much harder to realize what’s missing. But this… this is a game-changer.

He read the two documents once again, switching from one to the other. Then he highlighted the two paragraphs as a bittersweet smile stretched across his face. “I can’t believe this,” he said as he picked up the document and showed it to Riley. “Vance… he lied to us.”

“What?” Riley looked at Jack. “How?”

“What did he do?” Morgan put her phone down.

Jack said, “Remember he told us the CIS examined the evidence, but only superficially?”

Riley nodded. “Yes, he said a thorough investigation was unnecessary because of all the other agencies that were involved.”

“Right, but I asked him who made that decision. And remember his answer?”

“Vance said it was his boss. He had determined not to move forward with an investigation.”

“Correct. But the problem is, I can’t find that document. Nothing on the files, which supposedly are complete. However, there’s a memo from Vance where he states no future action is necessary.”

Morgan gave Jack a puzzling look. “So you’re saying that Vance decided to stop the CIS from looking into the Yemeni terrorist cell?”

“It appears that way. Here’s his letter.” Jack held up the document. “And here’s an earlier request from his boss about a progress report. Vance wrote the memo—this memo—and that put an end to it.”

Morgan shrugged. “Could it be that the boss’s letter is missing? Or perhaps Vance took his boss’s silence as implicit approval?”

Riley shook his head. “That’s not what Vance told us. He was clear that his boss decided on this matter.”

Jack nodded. “Yes. If nothing else, Vance misled us to believe his boss stopped the investigation, when, in fact, it was Vance who came to that conclusion.”

“So what does this mean for us now?” Morgan asked.

“To give Vance the benefit of the doubt, I’m going to have a chat with him. I’ll tell him about what I found and ask for an explanation.”

“I’m going with you,” Riley said.

Jack shook his head. “No need. Your time is better used here, trying to find the man in the video and anything else we may have missed.”

Riley’s brow knit together in a soft furrow, and he let out a subtle sigh. “Okay, Jack. I hope the chat goes well.”

“Yeah, so do I.” He got up and headed toward the door.

Chapter Fifteen

One Hour Later

Ramsayville, Ottawa

Jack was about ten minutes away from the meeting location with Vance. He was taking his truck to be fixed at a repair shop and had agreed to meet Jack at Best Auto Mechanic.

“What’s this all about?” Vance had asked.

“I need to confirm a couple of things from the files you gave us,” Jack had said, giving him a vague reply. He didn’t want Vance to come up with a rehearsed explanation. “Nothing major.” Well, depending on Vance’s answer, it could become major. Vance had obviously lied to Jack about the investigation. Jack wanted to know why, and who had influenced Vance to make that decision.

On the way to the meeting, Jack had called Agnes. She and Victoria had made it safely to Mexico City and had connected with Jack’s asset. Agnes was now on her way to Guatemala, driving an old but reliable Honda SUV.

Jack drew an easier breath. His family was safe, at least for the moment. I will keep them safe, no matter what it takes.

He took a couple of turns and drove on Walkley Road, heading east toward the industrial park. He was now less than two miles away from Best Auto Mechanic, when his phone rang. Jack glanced at the screen. UNKNOWN CALLER. His face twisted into a deep frown. Is it that evil woman again? “Yes, who is this?” he asked in a dry voice.

“Jack, it’s me, Bronia,” she said in a hurried tone.

“Bronia, your name didn’t show up on my phone…”

“Yes, well, I’m using another phone. Must be your lucky day today, Jack,” she said without any excitement in her voice.

“You don’t say.”

“I don’t think it’s a wise idea, but my boss thinks otherwise. He wants us to get involved.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes, for you.”

“What does that involvement mean?”

“It means we’ll see what we can find about who may be targeting the American president.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The SVR, of course, and our partner agencies in Russia and elsewhere. If there’s intel out there, we’ll find it.”

Jack nodded and slowed down as he came to an intersection. He stopped at the Stop sign then continued. “Good,” he said and switched the phone to his left hand. “I have a couple of files to get you started.”

“Okay.”

“Now, why isn’t this a wise idea?”

Bronia didn’t answer right away. “My boss thinks we should do more than just provide you intel. He wants people on the ground giving direct help.”

Jack grinned. “And that means you?”

“Unfortunately. I thought I’d enjoy my Mexican Riviera vacation, but it’s not meant to be.”

“When are you arriving?”

“As soon as I can. A few hours.”

Jack nodded. “It’s like the good old times.”

“The old times were never good, Jack.”

“Oh, I remember them differently—”

“You don’t have a good memory,” she cut him off abruptly. “Now, I’ve got to catch my flight. Send me over whatever you need me to see right away, and I’ll review it on the plane.”

“Consider it done. And Bronia, it will be good working together again.”

“Don’t mention it, Jack.” She hung up without another word.

Jack shrugged and put away his phone. He didn’t mind Bronia’s grouchy mood and thought about the reason. The last time they had met had been at the Zvartnots International Airport in Yerevan, Armenia. It was after their fateful operation in Iran. They had left as friends, at least that’s what Jack thought, considering they had exchanged an embrace. But Bronia told me we have some unfinished business. She had never clarified what that was. It can’t be anything good.

He shrugged again, realizing he had slowed down. He turned on the signal light and stopped on the side of the road. He emailed Bronia a couple of files with his notes about the operation along with the enhanced picture of the unidentified man in the video. Jack added the suspected Yemeni connection and welcomed Bronia to the operation.

Five minutes later, he turned right onto Russell Road, then made another right turn as he came to the industrial park. A number of warehouses stretched around him. He found Vance’s black Ford F-150 truck parked along the side of a flooring store. He was in the driver’s seat and waved at Jack as he turned into the parking stall next to him.

Why isn’t he at the car mechanic shop? Jack wondered. Best Auto Mechanic was about two hundred yards away and around the corner. He got out of the car and walked toward Vance, who remained inside the truck.

When Jack was a couple of feet away, Vance rolled down the front passenger’s window. “How are you, Jack?” he said in a warm tone.

“Very good. You?”

“Uh, I’ve been better.”

“What’s going on?” Jack asked as he stood next to the truck. “I thought you were going to the repair shop?”

“Yeah, well, they’re very busy. They can’t work on my truck until next week.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Jack glanced at the truck’s hood.

“Something with the engine. A loud rattling noise once in a while.” Vance opened his door and stepped outside. He was dressed in a brown leather sports coat, which was half zipped, and brown pants. “Now, what was it that you wanted to talk about?”

Jack looked around. The parking lot was empty, and there was no one in the area as far as he could see. Still he didn’t want to have the sensitive conversation out in the open. Someone could come around the corner at any time.

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” He cocked his head toward his car.

“Sure.” Vance nodded.

Jack turned around. He had barely taken three steps, when he felt something hard pressed against his back. “Don’t move, Jack,” he heard Vance’s threatening voice.

Jack froze and wrinkled his brow. Then he flinched and made an odd noise in his throat, which felt parched. “Vance, why?” he asked in a tone of disbelief.

“Because you couldn’t let go. Now, take out your pistol and drop it on the ground.”

“Vance, let’s talk about—”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Jack. Just do it! Come on!” He rammed the pistol harder into Jack’s back.

Jack thought about his options. He could try to wrestle the pistol out of Vance’s hand, but that would be a hard gamble. The man had betrayed Jack, and he had no doubt that Vance would shoot him to defend himself. But once Jack was disarmed, he would be at Vance’s mercy. A tough place to be.

“Jack, I will shoot you if I have to…”

“Fine, fine.” Jack reached slowly for his Sig pistol and tossed it onto a grassy patch to his left.

“Ankle gun?”

“No.”

Vance gave Jack a quick but thorough pat-down, then pushed him toward the wall of the warehouse. “Get inside.” He gestured toward the small entrance door. “It’s open.”

Jack shook his head and clenched his teeth. His shoulders tensed, and his head tilted back slightly. “You planned all this,” he said in a bitter voice. “Who do you work for?”

“Move it! Get inside.” Vance waved his pistol at Jack.

Jack shuffled toward the door as slow as he could. His mind was on overdrive, working on a number of escape scenarios. What’s inside? How will I get out? Will Vance kill me?

He opened the door and peered into the darkness. He saw nothing at first, but gradually his eyes began to make out the contours of the warehouse. High shelves ran the length of the space, stacked with pallets of tiles in various sizes, shapes, and colors. They were all wrapped in plastic for protection.

A yellow forklift was to the left, next to an area seemingly designated for tile cutting with large tables set into an L-shape. Sample tiles were mounted on panels, next to more shelves filled with boxes and bags of what seemed like all kinds of grout, adhesive, and sealants.

“Now what?” Jack said as he turned around.

“Now we wait,” Vance said in an irritable tone.

“Wait for what?”

“For your end, Jack. Why couldn’t you just let go as you were asked?” He shook his head in disappointment.

“And let an innocent man be killed by terrorists? In our own home? Come on, Vance, how can you let such a thing happen?”

Vance kept shaking his head. “You know what the problem is, Jack?”

“That you’re a traitor?”

Vance grinned. “Good one, but no. The problem is you think you need to fix everything, be the solution, the savior. When will you learn that you can’t save everyone?”

Jack nodded. “You’re right: I can’t save everyone. But I won’t stop trying to save whoever I can.”

“Well, you had a good run, Jack. But like every good run, they come to an end at some point. And your end is here.”

Jack peered at Vance, whose pistol was aimed at Jack’s face. “What? You will shoot me now?”

“No, I said you’ll have to wait. But I’m done listening to your whining.” He stepped to Jack’s left side, then struck him with the pistol’s butt at the back of Jack’s head.

The last thing Jack saw was the scuffed gray concrete floor of the warehouse before his entire world sank into complete darkness.

Chapter Sixteen

Ottawa International Airport

Ottawa

Beckett’s phone rang with the arrival of a call. He had just gotten into the backseat of a gray Lexus SUV and was driving out of the airport. The driver and the man sitting in the front seat were both ADS contractors, handpicked by Keller to assist Beckett in his operation.

Beckett tapped the phone, brought it to his ear, and said, “Yes, Keller. How are things going?”

“There has been a major complication, Beckett,” she said hastily and in a worried tone.

“I had a great flight; thanks for asking.”

“This isn’t the time for sarcasm.” Her voice had turned ice cold.

“What happened?”

“A disaster happened. I sent a team to handle Morgan Knox, the canary that was telling everything to Storm and Booker. But they couldn’t finish their job even when handed to them on a silver platter.” She cursed out loud.

Beckett smirked. A part of him was pleased at Keller’s failure. She said she was going to take care of it. Well, is this how you take care of problems? he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. It would be disrespectful and insulting, especially in front of the other team members. Plus, it wouldn’t help the situation at hand. “How bad is it?” he asked with regret in his voice.

“Two local assets are dead, and so is Bishop.”

Beckett rubbed an eyebrow and shook his head. He ran a jerky hand through his hair, but before he could ask anything, Keller continued, “Bishop was wounded. Worried he’d give up information, the back-up team eliminated him.”

“What do the police have?”

“They’ve identified Bishop, of course, and have contacted the CIA. The agency is scrambling for damage control. Everyone on the US team is on high alert.”

Of course they are. That’s why this was such a stupid move. Beckett shook his head. He couldn’t say that to his boss, even if he had a one-on-one, private conversation with her. But she had to get rid of Knox and the Canadians before they became an even bigger headache. “What about the local assets? Can the police connect them to us?” he asked as he fidgeted with his jacket’s zipper.

“I doubt that, but we can’t ignore it as a possibility. We’re erasing every trace of them or Bishop ever communicating with us.”

“Good. Now, what’s our next step in light of this situation?”

“As I said, this is a major complication. However, we’re going through with our plan. We’re not going to let this hiccup stop us.”

Beckett’s frown grew deeper. “Hiccup? You just called it a major complication. Shouldn’t we reconsider and—”

“No, we can’t abort the operation now. All pieces are being moved into position. We just need to make sure we’ve gotten rid of the three troublemakers.”

“Yes, well, they’ve proved to be harder to kill than we expected.”

“Harder, but not impossible. I’ve given this serious thought. We’ve tried to use brute force, and that has backfired. We need to try something different: deception.”

Beckett’s eyes shone with anticipation. “I’m listening,” he said in an excited tone.

“We need to lure them in with some intel. Let’s use your asset in the CIS, Vance.”

Beckett nodded. “Yes, I need to contact him, and set up a trap.”

Just that second, his phone beeped with the arrival of another call. VANCE appeared on the screen. Wouldn’t you know it, he thought as a smile danced across his face. “Keller, Vance is calling me. Do you mind—”

“By all means. Talk to him, and make it happen. We need to stop Storm and his crew, now!”

“Talk to you soon, Keller.”

He ended the call and tapped the button to accept Vance’s call. “Yes, what is it?”

“I’ve got Storm all tied up. What should I do with him?”

“What? How… how did you manage that?” he asked incredulously.

“Storm called me earlier, asking to meet. He tipped his hand by making a rookie mistake. He wanted to check some of the intel I gave him. I knew he’d have found what I wanted to keep hidden.”

“What happened next?”

“I arranged to meet him, but on my own terms. I tricked him, and he fell for it,” Vance’s voice took on a boasting tone. “Once he got here, I disarmed him. It was easy.”

Beckett nodded. When betrayed, even the best of us have no chance. “Where is he now?”

“We’re at a warehouse in Ramsayville, west Ottawa.”

“Are you with him?”

“Yes. I’m not stupid to let him out of my sight.”

“Good. I’ll be there shortly.” He glanced at his wristwatch and made some quick calculations. “Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes tops.”

“What are we going to do with him?”

“We need intel, what exactly they know—”

“I told you: They’ve discovered it was me who put a stop to the investigation on the Yemeni cell.”

“You may be right, but I want to hear it from Storm.”

“I am right,” Vance said in an irritated tone.

Beckett waved his hand and ignored the asset’s comment. “We also need to lure in Storm’s associates and nab the other two working with him.”

“We can use his phone or make him call them. I’m sure I can force him to do so.” Vance’s voice took on a cocky tone.

“Yes, but don’t do anything until I get there,” Beckett said quickly. Then, he realized he had killed Vance’s enthusiasm, so he added, “You’ve done a great job so far. Taking Storm out was a terrific move.”

“Neutralizing the others won’t be difficult either. I could have taken care of this yesterday at the restaurant, when I was having lunch with Storm and Booker. But you called me with other instructions, and I had to leave midway.”

Beckett nodded. “Yes, we wanted to distract him and send him on a hopeless quest. But Storm surprised us both.”

“Still, I’ve got him. And now we’re closer to getting the others. Then, my job is done.”

Beckett shook his head. Your job is done when I say it is done, he wanted to say, but it wasn’t necessary. Not now, anyway. As long as his child needs that expensive heart surgery, he’ll do what I tell him to do. “We’ll talk when I get there.”

“Okay.” Vance ended the call.

Beckett smiled. I’ve got some news to give to Keller. With a bit of convincing, Storm will give us what we need. Otherwise, we’ll pry it out of him.

Chapter Seventeen

Absolute Flooring Supplies

Ramsayville, Ottawa

Beckett checked his Beretta 92X RDO Compact pistol before he stepped out of the SUV. The two gunmen pulled out their TP9 9mm submachine guns without too much caution since the parking lot was empty. Beckett thought about scolding them but then shook his head. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.

He pushed open the beige metal door, then squinted as he looked through the faintly lit warehouse. Vance was standing to one side, near a working area with two large wooden tables. A couple of feet away, Jack was sitting on a metal chair with his hands tied behind him. He was bleeding from a gash along the right side of his jaw. Broken tile pieces were scattered around the chair.

Vance glanced at Beckett and his two associates, then stepped toward them. “Beckett, you made it finally. There he is.” He pointed at Jack.

“What happened here?” Beckett gestured to the floor.

“We had a disagreement. Storm has decided to be pig-headed, but it’s not going to last long.”

Beckett glanced at Jack, who gave him a sharp chin thrust, followed by a challenging gaze. “Who are you?” Jack demanded in a firm tone.

“I’m the man in charge, the one who tells you what to do.”

Jack nodded. “The man full of himself…”

One of the gunmen aimed his gun at Jack, but Beckett shook his head at him.

Jack gave the gunman a sideways glance. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

Beckett studied Jack’s face. “You should be. We can do this the easy way or the hard way—”

“The easy way: You’ll tell me who is trying to kill the president—”

Beckett cut him off with a high-pitched laugh. “Shut up,” he shouted and glanced at Vance. “You’re right: He’s pig-headed, but it’s not going to work.” He turned to Jack and crouched so they were looking eye to eye. “You will make a call now, telling Booker and Knox to come and meet you here. If you don’t, you’ll experience such unimaginable pain...”

Jack said nothing. He pushed back his shoulders, and his chest jutted out as he gave Beckett an intense stare.

“Where’s his phone?” Beckett asked Vance.

He handed it to Beckett, who showed it to Jack. “What’s the password?”

Jack smirked. “Get lost. Capital G.”

Beckett’s face crumpled into a deep frown. “That’s how it’s going to be, then? The hard way?”

Jack shook his head. “I gave you the easy way, but you’re not taking it.”

“We’re wasting time here, sir,” said the driver, who was standing right behind Beckett.

“He’s right.” Vance stepped forward. “We need to beat the answers out of him.”

Jack gave Vance a pained look. “I thought you were my friend, Vance. But you’re nothing but a traitor—”

Vance slapped Jack across the face. “Shut up! Speak only if you’re telling us what we want to hear.”

Jack spat out blood. “I’ll never tell you anything. Never!”

“We’ll see about that,” Beckett said.

He removed his jacket, folded it, then put it on a somewhat clean corner of one of the tables. He glanced at a collection of tools scattered around: tile cutters, notched blades, square-notch steel trowels, rubber mallets, and tile pliers. He picked up a pair of tile pliers with yellow plastic handles and showed it to Jack. “What do you think, Storm?”

Jack tried to keep his poker face but wasn’t fully able to do so. He flinched, just a twitch of his left eye, but Beckett saw it and decided to capitalize on it. “You blinked, Storm. You’re afraid. As you should be.” He tapped the pliers against his hand. “This is good quality. And with sharp edges.” He ran his fingers along the tool’s jaws. “Do you think it will do the job?”

Jack shook his head. “Not going to work.”

Beckett waved the tool in front of Jack’s face. “You think you’re tough, Jack Storm. Well, you’re not. You will break, like all people, and you will do what I want you to do. All of it!”

He lifted Jack’s chin with the pliers and gave him an evil look. “What do you think? Ready to sing like a canary?”

Jack moved his head away from the pliers. His forehead muscles contracted, forming furrows. His eyes widened as he clenched his jaw. He tightened his body, seemingly expecting the soon-to-come blow.

Instead, Beckett’s phone rang.

He looked over his shoulder at his jacket. He recognized the tone he had assigned to Keller. What does she want now? I hope it’s not more bad news. He thought about ignoring her, but Keller was persistent, like cancer. I’ll see what she wants, then I’ll deal with Storm.

“Well, what do you know?” he said in a tone of disappointment and cocked his head toward the phone. “I’ve got to take that, Storm. But don’t go anywhere, okay?” He tapped Jack lightly on the head with the pliers, then tossed them to one of the gunmen, who caught them.

Beckett walked to his jacket, took out his phone, and cocked his head to Vance. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Vance replied. “He’s not going anywhere.”

***

Jack drew in an easier breath as Beckett turned around and walked out of the warehouse. As much as Jack wanted to appear tough, he knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand torture. No one could. Of course, he could make up a false story and gain himself time, but for what? His goal was to save the president, and he couldn’t waste a single second. He shook his head. No, my only way out of this situation is to escape. And I’ve got to do it now that Beckett is gone. Better chances with fewer people.

He began to look around for anything he could use to facilitate his escape. First, he needed to free his hands. But how am I going to do that? He began to analyze every detail as his gaze dropped to the floor. Yes, that will work. Jack almost smiled as his attentive eyes noticed a jagged shard of tile a couple of feet away from the chair. He nodded to himself as a plan began to crystallize in his mind. Yes, Vance will fall for it. And that will be my moment.

Jack turned his head to Vance, who was standing a few steps away with his back to the tables. He was typing on his phone and was paying no attention to Jack. However, the two guards had their submachine guns drawn. One of them was keeping his trained on Jack’s head. The other guard’s gun was aimed in Jack’s general direction.

“Hey, Vance,” Jack shouted. “How much do they pay you?”

“Huh, what?” Vance looked at Jack.

“How much do they pay you to betray your country and your friends?”

“Shut up!” Vance shifted his eyes back to his phone.

“No, tell me: What is the price of your betrayal?”

The gunman standing closer to Jack pointed his gun at Jack’s face. “What did he tell you?” He gave Jack a look of menace.

Jack shook his head. “Vance, you dirty traitor.” He spat out his words.

Vance put his phone down. “I told you to shut up. Now, I’m going to make you shut up.”

He marched toward Jack and punched him hard in the face. The heavy blow threw Jack onto the floor, while the chair tipped over. He hit the concrete floor with a loud thud. He groaned as sharp tile fragments stabbed his back, then crawled onto his side, moving into action.

“That’s what you deserve, eating dust like a worm,” Vance taunted Jack.

The two gunmen snickered in high-pitched, hyena-like tones. One of them spat in the direction of Jack and lowered his weapon. The other fist-bumped Vance as both of them turned around and walked toward the table.

Jack lay on his back and writhed seemingly in pain with his eyes closed as he drew in shallow, painful breaths. In fact, he wiggled his wrists, angling the zip ties against a small sharp tile piece tucked near his fingers. He sawed at the tie’s plastic edge for a few seconds. His wrists and arms screamed in pain from the awkward angle. Sweat dripped down his temple as he tried to slow down his quickening breath. Come on, Jack. You can do this. Before they notice what’s going on.

Finally—snap! The ties gave way.

Jack glanced at the closest gunman, who was still oblivious to what was going on. Then Jack looked at Vance, who was standing by the tables, and said, “Vance, you hit like a little girl…”

Vance sneered at Jack. “Let me give you some more, then…”

He got ready to kick Jack in the ribs, but Jack was expecting that. As Vance’s foot came toward him, in a swift move, Jack grabbed it. He twisted the foot, and Vance went down in a heap, lying next to Jack.

One of the gunmen aimed his gun at Jack, but he was prepared. He took hold of Vance, pulling him across his body, using him as a human shield. At the same time, Jack snatched Vance’s Sig pistol from his shoulder holster.

The gunman hesitated for a moment, worried that if he opened fire, he might hit Vance.

Jack had no such concerns. He aimed his pistol at the gunman and fired twice. Both bullets struck the gunman in the chest. Blood spurted out as he toppled onto the floor.

The other gunman had turned his gun at Jack. Before Jack could fire his Sig, the gunman opened up with a quick volley. Two bullets struck Vance in the lower part of his chest, missing Jack’s body by a couple of inches.

Jack pulled the trigger, double-tapping the gunman in the head. He collapsed against the tables, then dropped down.

Jack glanced at Vance. He was still alive, but barely. Blood was oozing from two large wounds. “You’ll be okay,” Jack said in a warm voice. “I’ll get you to a doctor.”

The warehouse side door opened with a loud bang.

Jack turned his pistol in that direction but was a second too late. Beckett opened up with a long volley. His bullets struck all around Jack and Vance, but missed them both. Jack fired a couple of times, aiming at Beckett’s silhouette, but missed.

“Storm, this isn’t over,” Beckett shouted.

“Of course, it isn’t,” Jack shouted back. “Come and finish it.”

A tense silence reigned for a few moments, then rushed footsteps came from the distance. The side door opened and closed.

Jack wasn’t sure if Beckett had left since the door was partly concealed by a couple of large shelves full of boxes of tiles and bags of grout. He kept his pistol aimed in the direction where he had last seen Beckett for a few more seconds.

The smell of burnt powder and death filled the stuffy air of the warehouse, mixing with the faint scent of dust and concrete. Jack’s palms had turned sweaty, but he kept his fingers wrapped around the Sig pistol.

A loud engine rumble came from outside, followed by tires screeching. It appeared someone was leaving in a great hurry.

Jack lowered his pistol and glanced at Vance. He was leaning to one side, and his face had turned pale. He had lost a ton of blood, and his breathing had slowed down and become barely noticeable.

He’s not going to make it, Jack thought. He wasn’t sure if Vance had been struck by another bullet from Beckett’s volley or if his wounds were deeper than what Jack had thought. But he can still tell me what’s going on here.

Jack laid Vance carefully on his back and leaned over him. “Tell me: Who is Beckett? Why do they want to kill the president?”

Vance spat out blood and gave Jack a slight headshake. “I… I don’t know… uh…”

“Tell me, Vance. You’re helping these people. You know what they’re doing. Who do they work for?”

“Uh… some… some security corporation, but…” He closed his eyes, and his voice trailed off.

Jack placed his finger on Vance’s carotid artery. His pulse was irregular and very weak. “What’s the name? Give me the name, and I’ll get you to a doctor.”

Vance smirked. “I’m dying, Jack. Please… please tell my son, I… I love him. I… I did this… all… all this for him.”

“What’s the name? The name!”

Vance looked at Jack with lifeless eyes as his head fell to the side.

“No, no, no, come on!” Jack shouted and grabbed Vance by the collar of his jacket. “Don’t die. You can’t die on me!”

But Vance was gone.

Chapter Eighteen

Absolute Flooring Supplies

Ramsayville, Ottawa

Jack hurried to clean the blood from his face and body. Then he collected the phones of Vance and the two dead men. He tried to access their phones by using their faces, but facial recognition didn’t work. He shrugged and took pictures of their faces. Perhaps we can still ID them.

He took his phone and noticed it had been almost six hours since he had arrived at the warehouse. I’ve wasted so much time, and I’m nowhere closer to finding the truth. I have their pictures and Beckett’s name… But that’s not a lot.

He collected all the weapons as he cast a sweeping gaze at the warehouse. His fingerprints were all over the place. The police will surely find out I was here. Then my boss will hear about it. Jack shook his head. That’s the least of my worries. I’ve got to stop the president’s assassination.

Jack wasn’t absolutely sure that Beckett had left or if someone else had arrived and was lying in wait for him. So he opened the door slowly and carefully and studied the parking lot. Vance’s truck and Jack’s car were there, but no one else.

He climbed into the white Dodge he had borrowed from a friend and sped out of the industrial park. Once he was on Hawthorne Road, he dialed Riley’s number.

Riley replied almost instantaneously. “Jack, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. A couple of bruises had formed on both sides of his face.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“Vance happened. He’s… was a traitor.”

“What?”

Jack gave Riley the gist of what had taken place at the warehouse. Riley said, “I can’t believe he was such a devious schemer…”

“Yeah, me neither.” Jack’s voice took on a deep tone of regret. “I trusted him. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, that’s not the answer. He was a friend, Jack, someone you’ve risked your neck for. Friends don’t stab friends in the back.”

Jack nodded. “He told me he did this for his son. Beckett and whoever is behind him must have been paying for Vance’s son’s medical care.”

“Still not a reason to betray your country and your friend.”

“True, just helps me understand the situation. Now, I’ll send you Beckett’s description and the gunmen’s pictures. Run them through the databases. Maybe we’ll get a hit. And I’ve got their phones. They’re locked, so I’m not sure if we can get in.”

“Okay, we’ll do that. How long before you’re back?”

“Twenty minutes or so, depending on traffic. Do you have any good news?” he asked in a hopeful tone.

“I do actually. Bronia—who’s already here, by the way—was able to identify the terrorist in the video.”

“Wow, that was fast.”

“Well, not really. You’ve been gone for half the day, almost. And when the Russians want something, they have a clever way of cutting through all the bureaucratic crap.”

“So, who is he?”

“As we suspected, he’s a major player in the Liberation Front. According to SVR’s intel, he was at a Shia training camp in Iraq. Then, he fought against government forces in Yemen before he disappeared about six months ago. Reportedly, he was killed, but amidst the Saudi bombing in the remote northern part of Yemen, his body was never found.”

Jack frowned. “How did he sneak into Canada?”

“Not sure. The SVR lost track of him when he disappeared. Morgan still hasn’t heard anything from the CIA, so we have no idea how he got in.”

“Probably slipped in claiming he was a Syrian refugee,” Jack said in a bitter voice. “That’s how most terrorists get in.”

“True. Until our politicians grow a backbone and tighten the asylum rules, it will continue to happen.”

“Where is this guy now?”

“We’re not sure, but we have a few leads. We know that Yusuf Zaidi—that’s the guy’s name—has strong ties to other Yemenis in the video. The CIS has already identified and followed up with a few of them.”

“We’ll pay them our own visit,” Jack said in a strong tone.

“And we’ll be persuasive.”

“Of course. Let me know if you find anything else before I get there.”

“See you soon.”

Jack hung up and sighed. His mind went back to Vance and his betrayal. How could I have stopped that? He had thought about it hard and long while restrained at the warehouse. I can’t just not trust anyone ever. That’s an insane way to live. And this wasn’t my fault. Being stabbed in the back can happen to anyone.

He nodded and stepped on the gas. Once we find Zaidi, we’ll hopefully get some answers. And when we’ve identified Beckett, things will surely fall into place.

Two hours later

Findlay Creek, Ottawa

The terrorists’ safehouse was a two-story house with gray-brick and yellow siding, similar to the other cookie-cutter houses in the neighborhood. The SVR had tracked down Zaidi’s cellphone number, placing him in the house at this location. Riley and Morgan had been able to use their contacts in the CIS and the CIA to identify the other potential members of the Yemeni terrorist cell. In all, there were six of them, all gathered at the house.

“Of course, there could be more,” Jack had said as they prepared their plan of attack. “No idea of the number, but let’s prepare for at least a dozen or more.”

Bronia had nodded. “It’s just the six of us, Jack.” She had brought with her two SVR members. They worked for the Embassy of the Russian Federation in Canada as cultural attachés. In reality, they were combat-hardened operatives stationed in Ottawa specifically for these kinds of missions.

The objective of their mission was simple: Detain Zaidi or one of the other cell members and interrogate them about their involvement in a potential assassination attempt. Simple, but not easy. According to the intelligence gathered, there were women and children living in the safehouse. Their number was not clear, either, but even the death of one innocent was one too many for Jack.

Bronia didn’t share the same sentiment. “Jack, if they decide to put their own women and children in harm’s way, they’ve made their choice.”

Jack knew it was useless to argue with her. He couldn’t execute this operation without her support. “Fine,” he had said with a lot of reluctance. “But let’s do our best to avoid civilians.”

“If we can,” Bronia had replied, wanting to have the last word on the matter.

They had divided their tasks and had gone through the operation one more time. Bronia and Chernov were going to attack the safehouse from the front, aiming to push the targets toward the back of the house. Seemingly, that would be the safest way out. Jack and Riley would be waiting there for Zaidi and anyone else attempting an escape. Rybakov would be positioned to the left, covering that side, while Morgan would be stationed to the right.

Each team member was armed with FN P90 submachine guns fitted with 50-cartridge magazines in 5.7x28mm caliber, courtesy of Bronia. The weapons had integrated optical sights, infrared lasers, and, of course, sound suppressors. Jack and Riley had also brought their own Sig Sauer pistols. The team drove to the safehouse in three different vehicles, for greater concealment and mobility.

When they were about five minutes away, they split up. Anyone guarding the safehouse would be more suspicious of a three-vehicle convoy.

Jack and Riley drove up the narrow back alley. Garbage containers were set along the wooden fences, while some of the houses had large mature trees and tall hedges. Jack parked close to a house whose owner had turned his backyard into a driveway. It was about forty yards away from the safehouse, but it offered a clear view of the safehouse’s wooden back gate.

Riley called Bronia. “We’re in position,” he said after tapping the speakerphone button.

“We’re just coming up to the street,” Bronia replied. “Thirty seconds.”

Jack glanced at Riley and checked his submachine gun. “We’re ready,” he said.

“Good luck, Jack.” Bronia ended the call.

He nodded. Yeah, we’ll need it.

He hoped Bronia would be careful and minimize any collateral damage. Google Maps showed the house had a basketball hoop in the front. If there were kids playing there or around the house, that would make things difficult.

Riley rolled down the window, and they watched in the direction of the house, listening carefully. A crow was cawing in the distance, then came a couple of dog barks, followed by a truck rumble.

Jack glanced at his wristwatch. It had been almost a minute and a half. She’s waiting for the right moment, he thought. That’s good.

Then, they heard a couple of gunshots, followed by a quick burst.

“It’s on,” Riley said.

“Let’s see who comes out first.” He held the submachine gun close to his face.

Chapter Nineteen

Findlay Creek, Ottawa

More gunfire erupted from the front of the house. Then an explosion came, which sounded as if it were inside the house.

Riley frowned. “Doesn’t sound good.”

Jack shrugged and bit his lip. “Can’t do much about it.”

He looked through the windshield. “Come on. Get out of there…”

“Any moment now,” Riley said.

Another gun volley, followed by loud shouts in a language Jack couldn’t understand. He aimed his pistol out of the window at the safehouse’s gate and waited for the right moment.

Riley opened his door and knelt next to it. The car was positioned in such a way that anyone coming out of the safehouse wouldn’t be able to see the car’s door was open.

About ten seconds later, a man stepped out through the gate. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater and was holding a pistol.

Jack held his fire even though he had put the gunman in his crosshairs. He was waiting for Zaidi.

The gunman looked up and down the alley. He peered at the Dodge and studied it for a long moment. Then he shook his head and waved at someone inside the house’s yard.

Two other gunmen bolted out as gunfire came from the backyard. They were dressed in blue jeans and blue and brown jackets and were carrying pistols.

Jack couldn’t be sure if Bronia and Chernov had entered the house or if the gunmen were just laying down a curtain of suppressive fire. He still didn’t want to tap the trigger until he saw Zaidi.

The first gunmen ran toward them, while the other two dashed in the other direction.

“Jack,” Riley said. “What are we waiting for?”

Before Jack could reply, Zaidi appeared at the gate. He was holding a rifle ready for action.

“Him,” Jack said and opened fire.

He aimed low, intending to wound Zaidi, but missed. A couple of his rounds struck the fence and the gate. The gunman running toward the Dodge slowed down and raised his pistol.

Riley double-tapped the man in the chest, center mass. He dropped dead to the ground.

Zaidi was able to fire his rifle. Bullets from his long volley pierced the Dodge’s windshield.

Jack had lowered his head, so he wasn’t hit. However, the bullets zipped very close to his head and almost singed his hair.

Riley returned fire, but his rounds were off the mark.

One of the other two gunmen had stopped and was firing his pistol. He was too far away and was a bad shot. His rounds struck the car’s grille.

Jack looked through the windshield at Zaidi sprinting away from them. He was using the gunman’s volley as cover.

Jack aimed his submachine gun and closed his left eye. He aligned the weapon’s sights with Zaidi’s back. When the laser dot fell on the target, Jack lowered his gun just a hair and tapped the trigger.

The bullet struck Zaidi right above the knee pit. He spun around and fell onto the ground.

The gunman who was just a few feet away from Zaidi hurried toward him. Before Zaidi could receive any help, Jack fired again. His three-round burst cut across the gunman’s chest. He dropped to his knees and aimed his pistol at Jack, who fired again. His two bullets struck the man in the head, ending his life.

Zaidi had retrieved his rifle but made no attempt to fire at the Dodge. Instead, he turned his head toward the other gunman and shouted at him.

A silver SUV appeared at the mouth of the back alley. The gunman who had been running in that direction aimed his pistol at the SUV.

Jack frowned. Can’t let them take it.

He stepped out of the car and aimed his gun at the gunman. But before Jack could fire, a gunman stepped through the gate. He dragged a young girl, no older than eight or nine years old, and held her in front of him as a human shield. His pistol was placed against her head.

Jack cursed out loud. He thought about tapping the trigger and sending a single round right into the gunman’s forehead. But what if I miss? He glanced at the terrified eyes of the young girl and saw the face of his daughter. He shook his head slowly. I can’t afford to make a mistake.

He took a few steps toward the gunman, who was shuffling backward as fast as he could. “Riley, cover me,” Jack shouted.

“Got you.” Riley stood up straight.

The girl tried to wiggle out of the man’s grip, but he held her tight against him. He kept ducking and moving left and right, to make himself a harder target.

Jack kept an eye at the gate, expecting other gunmen to come out. It didn’t happen, so he motioned toward it and shouted at Riley. “Cover the gate.”

“Roger that,” Riley replied.

Jack realigned his pistol with the gunman standing by the SUV. Its driver—a young woman dressed in a red shirt and matching pants—had just gotten out of the vehicle. She was shaking in panic as she backed away from the SUV, then raced away. Jack got ready to tap the trigger, but just then the gunman who was using the girl as a human shield obstructed Jack’s sight.

The gunman kept dragging the girl backward. He was now just a few steps away from Zaidi, who had climbed to his one good knee. He looked at the rifle, then shook his head. He struggled to get up, then slid behind the gunman as they began to retreat toward the SUV.

A concrete streetlight pole was about ten yards away. Jack rushed toward it but before he had reached it, Zaidi produced a pistol and fired a volley at Jack. Bullets whizzed around him but missed. He dropped next to the pole as a couple of rounds struck the other side. Slivers flew around him.

Riley returned fire as Jack glanced at the SUV. Zaidi had just climbed into the front seat. The gunman dragging the little girl was a few steps away from the SUV. The other gunman had turned his pistol at Riley and opened fire.

Jack fired a couple of rounds. His bullets struck the driver’s door, which was left open, but missed the gunman. He dropped down behind the door.

The gunman dragging the little girl was now two steps away from the SUV. Jack bit his lip. If they take her, it would be difficult to chase them. But this can’t be the end.

Gunfire echoed from the safehouse’s backyard, then Bronia stepped through. She swung her FN P90 submachine gun to her right and glanced at Jack, then at Riley. She gave them a slight nod, then she turned her attention to the SUV. She aimed her gun at the gunman still dragging the little girl. His back was against the door now, and he’d get inside the SUV in the next three seconds.

If Bronia let him.

She shook her head and aligned her submachine gun with the gunman’s forehead. As soon as a bright red dot, the weapon’s laser indicator, appeared, Bronia tapped the trigger. The bullet struck the gunman right between his eyes. His head jerked back, and he dropped down dead.

The little girl screamed at the top of her lungs. Then she wiped her face with her hands. The gunman’s blood had splattered her. She looked at her blood-stained hands, screamed again, then ran away from the SUV.

The other gunman had already gotten into the driver seat.

Zaidi had rolled down his window and fired at Bronia. She stepped back into the courtyard as his bullets bored through the wooden gate.

Jack aimed his gun at the SUV and opened up with a long volley. A few of his bullets pierced the windshield. Others pounded the door. However, the driver was able to turn the SUV around. He completed the turn and sped out of the crescent.

“Let’s go,” Bronia said as she hurried through the gate. “We’ll take the Jeep.” She cocked her head toward the front of the house.

Riley ran toward them, but Bronia shook her head at him. “Stay here and clear the house along with Chernov.”

Riley frowned, but Jack nodded at him. “And gather any intel before the cops arrive.”

“Where’s Morgan?” Riley said. “She can do that.”

Jack looked around. “I don’t know, but find her.”

“Rybakov should be in position,” Bronia said and began to jog up the back alley. “Mop up the place, regroup, then call us.”

Jack dashed behind her. “There’s only one way out of the neighborhood.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. There’s a shortcut.” She gestured with her hand, pointing at a spot between two houses to their far right. “I noticed it on the map and when we came in. A pathway connects to the school park.”

“Sure.” Jack nodded.

Bronia climbed into the Jeep’s driver seat. She started the car and hit the gas before Jack had even fastened his seatbelt. The engine rumbled as the Jeep shot through the crescent.

Jack looked around. A few people were observing the area from behind their windows. He sighed and shrugged. Things can’t get any worse now, can they?

As they came to the shortcut, they noticed a couple of men struggling with a tipped-over wheelbarrow. The dirt had been scattered across the pathway, and a couple of trees were crumpled to the sides. A plume of dust was still lingering in the air.

“There,” Bronia said. “They just plowed through there.”

She honked the horn as she sped toward the two men. One of them raised his shovel and made a threatening gesture at Bronia. She didn’t stop. Instead, she picked up speed and kept slamming the horn.

“Watch it, watch it,” Jack said.

“They’ll move out of the way.” Bronia shrugged.

The two men jumped out of the way at the last possible moment. They both shouted at them something inaudible as the Jeep sped next to them. When they came to the other side, the SUV appeared cutting through the school’s grass lawns.

“There they are,” Jack said.

Bronia gave him a knowing look. “Get ready.” She tipped her head toward his submachine gun. “We’re stopping them this time.”

Chapter Twenty

Findlay Creek, Ottawa

The SUV had an advantage of about a hundred yards, but Bronia kept her foot on the gas. The Jeep bounced over the uneven terrain as she swerved to remain on a somewhat straight path.

Zaidi appeared out of the front passenger window. He aimed a pistol at the Jeep and fired a quick burst. The bullets mostly missed, but a couple thumped against the grille. Another one or two skimmed the hood.

Jack aimed his weapon but didn’t open fire. Bronia swerved around a bench, then jerked the steering wheel to avoid slamming into a couple of trees. Jack was thrown against the door, and the gun bounced wildly in his hands.

The SUV climbed over a hill near the edge of the field, then became airborne for a couple of seconds. It dropped onto the other side, then the driver jerked the wheel, and the SUV zipped through the school’s parking lot.

The Jeep flew through the air as well. When it landed, Bronia followed the SUV but tried to determine where the driver would come out of the parking lot. The Jeep climbed onto the sidewalk, then down onto the two-lane street.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Jack shouted as she turned the wheel.

“Yeah, but we need to stop them.”

She honked and swerved as vehicles began to come at them. Most drivers were able to stop, slow down, or drive to the side, creating sufficient space for the Jeep to squeeze through. However, one of the taxi drivers wasn’t able to swerve in time. Bronia jerked the wheel, but the front of the Jeep still clipped the taxi’s fender. The taxi came to an abrupt stop, and the van behind it plowed into the taxi’s back.

Bronia swerved again, climbing onto the sidewalk on the other side to avoid a head-on collision with a truck, whose driver didn’t even slow down.

“You had your fun yet?” Jack said.

“Not yet,” Bronia replied.

She gestured toward the window. The SUV was up ahead, nearing a three-way intersection, maybe fifty yards away. “We got them now.”

She dropped onto the street once again and slammed her fist on the horn. She changed lanes, barely missed crashing into a truck. The Jeep brushed against a sedan that couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. The side mirrors of both vehicles shattered.

Zaidi noticed the approaching Jeep when it was about ten yards away. He turned his gun at Bronia, but she turned the steering wheel. The Jeep fell behind a truck, which was just coming to a slow stop.

Zaidi’s bullets struck the back of the truck, shattering the cab’s back window. The driver dropped down, then drove to the side of the road and onto the sidewalk.

Jack aimed his gun at Zaidi, but the SUV’s driver had already zipped through the intersection. “Go, go, go,” Jack shouted at Bronia.

She yanked at the wheel and drove through the tight space between a couple of slow-moving sedans. Then she honked her horn again and shot through the intersection. Now, they were driving in the right direction and were maybe fifteen yards behind the SUV.

Zaidi was determined to stop them. He slid his body halfway through the front passenger window and fired his pistol.

Bronia swerved but not fast enough. A couple of bullets struck the Jeep’s windshield, piercing holes close to her face. “That was close,” Bronia said in a slightly surprised voice. “Can you do something about that?”

“We need him alive.”

“You need me alive too.”

Jack had already reloaded his submachine gun with another fifty-round magazine. He aimed the gun and fired a long barrage. His rounds clobbered the back of the SUV. A couple shattered the back windshield.

“The tires. Aim at the tires!” Bronia shouted.

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Do it better.”

Jack sighed. He realigned his weapon with the SUV’s tires, but before he could open fire, Zaidi re-appeared at the window. He fired a quick burst, and bullets struck Jack’s side of the windshield. One of them pierced the glass a couple of inches away from his head. If he hadn’t leaned closer to his window, he would have been killed or gravely wounded.

He shook his head. One of these times, my luck will run out. Not today, though. Not now.

He fired at Zaidi, but he’d already slid inside the SUV. Jack aimed again at the tires, but the SUV’s driver changed lanes, passing a couple of slow-moving vehicles. The Jeep stayed locked on the SUV’s tail. Jack kept his gun aimed, waiting for the right moment.

Bronia swerved, then glanced at the GPS device fastened onto the dashboard. “We’re coming up on Albion Road. Two lanes.”

The SUV’s driver didn’t want to wait at the intersection since two vehicles were already there. So he jerked the steering wheel and cut through the grassy median. He brushed against one of the aspens planted on the median, then drove past the Findlay Creek Village concrete sign. Next, he jumped the curb and drove over the sidewalk. He almost hit a truck coming from the other side, but missed it and switched lanes.

Bronia followed suit. Her driving was more gracious and balanced. She was able to gain a couple of yards and fell right behind the SUV as they sped up the road.

“Get closer, closer,” Jack shouted.

“Shoot at them,” Bronia said.

Jack aimed at the tires and opened up with a long volley. At least one of his rounds must have hit the right-side back tire because the SUV sank on that side. It started to careen to the right, before the driver was able to regain control and straighten the wheel. However, sparks began to fly from the wheel scraping the asphalt. The SUV began to slow down.

The Jeep picked up speed, then Bronia switched lanes. “Hang on to something,” she shouted at Jack and jerked the steering wheel as she stepped on the gas.

The Jeep’s hood struck the SUV’s back. It pushed the SUV to the edge of the road, but it kept driving. Zaidi moved to the backseat and aimed his gun at Jack.

Jack was waiting for him. He opened fire, but both the Jeep and the SUV swerved at the same exact moment. Jack missed, and so did Zaidi.

The SUV’s driver yanked at the wheel, and the SUV came at the Jeep. Both vehicles crashed into each other a couple of times.

A U-Haul truck honked its loud horn as it barreled down the opposite lane. Bronia hit the brakes, then fell behind the SUV, just as the truck screamed past them.

Zaidi took this moment to open fire. His bullets struck the front of the Jeep and shattered the windshield. Both Bronia and Jack had lowered their heads. Rounds whizzed past their heads without hitting them.

As soon as the volley stopped, Jack fired blindly. Then he took a quick peek. The SUV was slowing down. Zaidi was near the back windshield. It seemed he was reloading his pistol. Or maybe the gun was jammed.

That mattered little to Jack. He aimed his gun, but at that same time, Bronia jerked the steering wheel. She stepped on the gas, and the Jeep roared into the other lane. She drove to the right for a few feet, then yanked the wheel to the side, sending the Jeep slamming into the SUV’s rear quarter panel.

This time, the violent collision was deafening, metal crunching against metal. The SUV fishtailed wildly, its tires shrieking in protest as it skidded sideways.

“Hit it again!” Jack shouted, bracing for impact.

Bronia didn’t hesitate. She gritted her teeth and wrestled the wheel back. A split second later, just as Zaidi raised his pistol, Bronia rammed the SUV’s side with brutal force. The SUV’s left-side wheels lifted off the ground. For a heartbeat, it seemed to hang in the air, defying gravity.

Zaidi was thrown to the side. His head hit the glass, and he dropped his pistol.

The Jeep kept pushing the SUV as it toppled and slammed onto its side with a bone-jarring crash. Sparks flew as it skidded along the asphalt, a trail of shattered glass and twisted metal marking its path.

Bronia slowed down and switched lanes as a couple of trucks came rushing from the opposite direction. One of them passed the wreckage, while the other began to slow down, along with two more vehicles behind it.

The overturned SUV came to a grinding halt in the middle of the lane. Steam hissed from its crumpled hood, and the faint glow of fire flickered from its exposed undercarriage.

Bronia brought the Jeep to a screeching stop a few feet away from the SUV. “They’re still alive,” she said to Jack in a warning tone. “That crash wouldn’t have killed them.”

Jack wasn’t so sure, but did not want to argue with Bronia. He had seen Zaidi tossed like a rag doll. I hope he’s not dead, or we won’t have anything. “Be careful,” he said to Bronia.

He stepped out of the Jeep holding his submachine gun muzzle down next to his thigh. If it became necessary, he’d be ready in a split second.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of burnt rubber and gasoline. Jack moved carefully toward the SUV. He glanced for a moment at the truck and the two sedans stopped in the other lane. A couple of the drivers had stepped out of the vehicles and were observing the scene.

Gray smoke billowed out of the flipped SUV. As Jack drew nearer, he saw Zaidi crumpled in the front seat. Blood was trickling out of his mouth and a wound on his forehead, and he wasn’t moving.

The driver’s neck was turned at an unnatural angle, confirming Jack’s suspicions that the driver was dead. Is Zaidi alive?

“Stay back, back!” Bronia shouted at a big burly man with a long beard who was marching toward the wreckage.

“Who are you? You don’t look like cops…” the man shot back in his thick voice.

“We’re undercover. Move back. Back off. This is a crime scene.”

The man cocked his head at her and gave her a sideways glance but stopped about ten feet away from the front of the SUV.

Jack knelt down next to Zaidi. The man’s eyes were closed, but it seemed he was still breathing. Jack reached with his hand and touched Zaidi’s carotid artery. He found a weak, almost undetectable pulse. Yes, you’re still with us. You can’t die now. Not yet.

Jack glanced at Bronia. “He’s still alive, but barely.”

“We’ll have to move him. And quickly.”

Jack shook his head. “We’ll end up killing him.”

Bronia leaned closer to him. “Cops and medics will be here soon. Can’t let them have Zaidi. We almost died to get him alive.”

“Right, but his life is hanging by a thread.”

Bronia gave him a confused look as it took her a moment to make out the meaning of his expression. “Yes, but if he ends up in a hospital, he’s as good as dead to us.”

Jack gave her a curious glance. “No hospital? He’ll die if he doesn’t get proper medical—”

“I didn’t say that,” Bronia said in a harsh whisper. “I said we can’t take him to a hospital where cops have access. He needs to tell us what’s going on with the president’s assassination.”

“And you have a safe place for him?”

“Of course, we do. It will be arranged,” she said in a strong, firm voice.

Jack drew his lips tight. He didn’t like it, but Bronia was right. If Zaidi was taken to a regular hospital, the police would be involved. They would undoubtedly contact the CIS. Jack shook his head. We can’t have that.

He glanced at Zaidi, then at Bronia, and nodded. “Okay, give me a hand here. But be very careful.”

“Of course.”

They cleared all the debris from around Zaidi and began to pull him out very carefully. However, his left leg seemed to be stuck underneath the seat, which was twisted and tangled. Jack tried to lift up the seat, but he couldn’t. “It’s jammed,” he said in frustration.

“Let’s see if that guy can help.” Bronia stood up and turned to the burly man. “Hey, you… Yes, you. Come here.”

“Why? I didn’t do nuttin’…” The man didn’t move an inch.

“Come give us a hand. We need to save his life. Hurry.”

“Oh, yes, okay, okay.”

The man ran to the SUV, and Bronia showed him how the seat had pinned down Zaidi’s leg. “Lift that up, so we can drag him out,” she said.

The man picked up the seat with his bear-sized hands and pulled it toward him. It created a large enough gap for Jack to remove Zaidi’s left leg and extract him out of the vehicle. When they laid him on the asphalt next to the SUV, the burly man said, “Should we not wait for the ambulance?”

Jack shook his head. “He may die from blood loss.”

Bronia cocked her head toward the Jeep. “I’ll bring it closer so we can load him in.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll clean up the place.”

The burly man gave Jack a curious look. “Clean?”

Jack ignored the man’s question. He checked the area around the driver, then his body and retrieved the man’s phone and his wallet from a jacket pocket. Hopefully, there will be something useful here. He tried to use the man’s face to unlock his phone, but it didn’t work. Jack returned to Zaidi. His phone was in his front pants pocket.

“Is that how cops work nowadays?” The burly man scratched his bald head. “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”

“You watch too much TV.” Jack shrugged him away.

Bronia stopped the Jeep a couple of feet away from Zaidi.

“Help us put him in the backseat,” Jack ordered the man.

Within a few seconds, they placed Zaidi inside the Jeep. Then Bronia hopped into the driver’s seat, while Jack walked around the Jeep and opened the front passenger’s door.

“What? You’re leaving?” The burly man shouted in disbelief. “Isn’t this a crime scene?”

“We’re undercover, remember?” Jack smiled at the man. “The cops have been called. They’ll be here in no time. But, since you’re worried, feel free to take over. Don’t let anyone touch anything. You know the drill.”

The man shook his large head. “I don’t think you guys are real cops. You look more like thugs.”

Jack waved at the man and closed the door. He glanced at Bronia, who gave him a knowing look. “He’s going to tell the police everything he saw here, about you and me.”

Jack nodded and drew his brows together. “I’m afraid so. But it’s not going to matter. As long as Zaidi tells us what’s going on with the plot against the president, our little indiscretion here will not matter much.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Twenty Minutes Later

Old Ottawa East

Ottawa, Canada

The Russian safehouse was a red-brick bungalow on Glenview Avenue. A white van was parked on the driveway. Bronia drove their new vehicle, Morgan’s Ford SUV rental, along the side of the house and inside the small garage at the back. “We’ve got a nosy neighbor,” she said. “Let’s make sure the old lady doesn’t see what we’re doing.”

They took great attention in carrying Zaidi to the house through the back gate. His face had turned ashen because of the blood loss. He had a couple of wounds in the back and his left side, as a result of blunt force trauma during the accident. Jack and Bronia suspected internal bleeding and didn’t hold out much hope for him.

They laid Zaidi out on the operating table in one of the rooms that had been converted into a surgical theater. Machines and equipment lined the walls, and a surgeon and a nurse were already on stand-by. They began to work on Zaidi, while Jack and Bronia and the rest of their team moved to the living room.

It was spartanly furnished with just the bare necessities for someone hiding from the authorities for a few hours or days. No large television screen mounted on the wall. No family photos or landscape prints anywhere. However, there were two shelves with books, which seemed to be mostly non-fiction. Something for the spies to kill time, Jack thought.

He sat in one of the threadbare beige couches across from the large bay window and glanced at Morgan, who was standing in the hallway that connected the living room to the kitchen. “Anything new about Beckett?”

Morgan shook her head. Her gaze dropped to the reddish-brown laminated floor, and her lips curved downward into a faint frown. “Nothing. Maybe that’s a nickname. It’s like he’s a ghost.”

“Bronia?” Jack turned to her.

The Russian was making coffee in the small kitchen with white cupboards and gray Formica countertops. She looked at Jack, and her eyebrows pulled together. She folded her arms across her chest. “Not yet. However, someone seemed to have recognized his face. Like Morgan said, Beckett isn’t his real name. Or my asset didn’t know him by that name.”

“Where is Beckett or whoever he is?” Jack asked impatiently.

“My asset is working on that. Apparently, Beckett works—or worked—for a private military group. That’s how he was introduced to my guy in Syria about six months ago. So now we’re comparing notes. My guy is making a few calls, trying to piece together Beckett’s identity. We should have something soon.”

“Very soon, I hope.”

Bronia shrugged. “These things can’t be rushed. We’re doing our best.”

Jack cocked his head to the left, toward the door leading to the operating room. “If Zaidi dies or isn’t able or willing to talk, then we’ve got nothing.”

Bronia waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, he’ll talk. We’ll make sure he’ll talk. The question is when.”

“Yes.” Jack’s forehead crumpled into a deep frown. “We don’t have much time. And we’re nowhere closer to stopping the assassination attempt than when we started.”

“We know more now than before,” Morgan said. “But I agree: We’re nowhere close to finding out exactly who’s pulling the strings.” She let out a heavy sigh.

Jack looked at Riley. “Any luck from our CIS friends?”

Riley shook his head. “They haven’t IDed the dead guys. No breakthrough in accessing the phones either. Considering I’m limited in who I can ask to do this off the books, this will take a while. And Gilson is breathing down my neck. He suspects you’re involved in both shootings: at the warehouse and also in Findlay Creek.”

Jack’s frown grew deeper. “I know. My phone has been ringing constantly. I’m sure he’ll have a couple of witnesses who can place me at the scene.”

Bronia gave him a headshake. “Your future with CIS doesn’t look bright.” She turned to the machine, whose gurgling had changed, indicating coffee was ready.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jack quipped back.

Bronia shrugged at him and gave him a thoughtful look. “I can tell you how many spies we have in Canada, but then I’ll have to… you know…” She made a hand gesture as if she was firing a pistol at Jack.

He groaned. “Oh, that is so bad, Bronia.”

“I thought it was pretty good; you’re just a tough crowd.”

Jack gave her a bittersweet smile.

Morgan gave Jack a serious look and said, “What are we going to do now?”

Jack sighed. “We’ve warned everyone, and, as far as we know, everyone is on high alert. After what happened at their safehouse and with Zaidi, I’m not sure the terrorists will give up whatever they’re planning. But they may rethink it. We’ve given them a pretty strong blow.”

“Not strong enough,” Bronia said as she came into the living room holding a couple of mugs. She handed one to Jack, then cocked her head toward Morgan. “Yours and Riley’s are on the counter, by the machine.” She gestured at Riley.

“I’ll get them.” Riley stood up.

“Thanks,” Morgan said.

Bronia sat on the other couch across from Jack. “I don’t think the Yemenis are going to give up on their attempt. This conspiracy runs deep. We have these security contractors and this woman running the show. This isn’t just a group of desert rats or rogue operatives. This is a well-organized attempt.”

“Which is likely to succeed if we don’t stop them,” Morgan said in a worried tone.

“We’re doing all we can do.” Bronia put her mug down on the glass-topped coffee table between the couches and spread her hands. “But you can suggest the Secret Service advise your president to cancel his visit.”

Morgan drew her lips into a thin line. “He’ll never go for it. He’s built a reputation for never giving in. Plus, would your president refuse to visit a country because of a threat?”

Bronia shook her head. “Of course not. But we wouldn’t let things get to that point.”

“No? And what would you do?”

“We’d preemptively attack the Front from all sides. Hit them where it hurts. Ensure they’ll stop whatever they’re doing.”

“And if that didn’t work?”

Bronia gave Morgan a conspiratorial smile. “We’ve done that in the past. It works.”

Riley handed Morgan a coffee mug. She held it with both hands and opened her mouth to reply to Bronia, but just then, Riley’s phone rang. He frowned as soon as he heard the ring. “That’s my boss… well, our boss.” He gestured at Jack. “I need to talk to him. I’ll be outside.”

“Send him my best wishes,” Jack said.

“I doubt he wants to hear from you,” Riley said and hurried his steps as the phone rang again.

Bronia looked at Riley, then gave Jack a thoughtful look. “Maybe it’s time you and I have our long overdue conversation about our unfinished business.”

Jack tightened his lips and wrinkled his forehead. He squinted slightly at Bronia, and his head tilted slightly downward. He had feared this moment would come, but now that it was here, he just wanted to get it over and done with. “Okay,” he said dryly.

Bronia cocked her head toward Morgan. “Can you give us some space?” Her cold voice sounded more like an order than a simple request.

“Uh… I guess.” Morgan took a quick sip of her coffee, then stood up. “I’ll be outside, away from Riley, since he’s having a private conversation too.” Her voice rang with a hint of displeasure.

Bronia shifted her body to face Jack. She waited until Morgan closed the door behind her, then she said, “So, let’s finish the conversation we started back in Armenia.”

Her voice was warm, but Jack knew better than to let his guard down. “Sure, let’s do it. It’s been hanging over my head ever since. What is it that you want?” His voice came across a bit gruffer than he had intended, but he didn’t mind it too much.

“I want the math to make sense, Jack.”

“What math?” He blinked and cocked his head to the left.

“The math of favors. They don’t add up.”

“This is about Iran, isn’t it? I thought we had handled that. I saved your life, our team members’ lives, and got us out of there. So we’re even.”

“Not so fast.” Bronia raised a hand. “You dragged us into your crazy operation—”

“You chose to work with me—”

“No, Jack. I had no choice in the matter.”

“You could have said ‘no.’”

Bronia shook her head. “It’s not that easy, Jack. But what happened, happened. Now, my boss and the SVR think you still owe us a favor.”

“And what do you think?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. I first want to talk to you about what really happened off the coast of Saint Barts.”

Jack peered deep into her eyes. “You have a way of digging into the past…”

“Because it’s important for me to know, Jack. To know with absolute certainty whether you tried to kill me or not.” Her voice turned razor-sharp.

Jack’s gaze never left Bronia’s face. She was giving him an intense look. He drew in a heavy breath, and his hands clenched into fists. He tilted his head to the right and looked into the hall. He couldn’t see Chernov or Rybakov, but he was certain they were still in the house. Did they hear what Bronia said about me killing her?

He gave Bronia an uneasy shrug and said, “You were there, Bronia. What do you think happened?”

“You shot me twice in the chest, Jack. I fell over the side of the yacht. Almost 15 meters drop. You left me out there to drown…”

Jack shook his head. “That’s not exactly what happened. Yes, I shot you, but it was…” He hesitated for a moment before saying, “It was a mistake.”

“Convenient,” Bronia said.

“Perhaps, but it’s the truth. I had just crash-landed the helicopter aboard the yacht. I was dazed and wounded. There was a fierce gun battle going on around me.”

“I know; I was there.”

“Then you know I looked for you.”

“So you could finish me off, right?”

“No, so I could save you. Look, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done so. I would have remained there until you came up for air. I shot you in the chest, and I saw you were wearing a bulletproof vest. I knew the pain would be excruciating—”

“You have no idea. Two broken ribs. A dislocated shoulder. A bruised lung. And a nasty scar.” She touched the right side of her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said in a genuine voice. “I really am. But I knew you were alive when you fell into the water. And I knew you’d survive the fall. So I could have looked for you to finish you off. But I didn’t. I… I let you escape, Bronia.”

“Oh, so now I need to thank you?”

Jack shook his head. “Of course not. I’m just explaining what happened, from my viewpoint. My intention was not to go after you. What happened, happened.”

“You could have tried to help me.”

“Yes, but would you have trusted me? After shooting you?” Jack shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Bronia held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded at him. Her face was still tight, but she was breathing with ease. “Okay, Jack. I think you’re telling me the truth. Still, the SVR believes otherwise, that you wanted to kill me.”

“The same SVR that think I owe them a favor?” Jack gave her a bittersweet smile. “They need to make up their mind.”

“I can probably convince them that you shooting me was a mistake. And if it were up to me, I’d say the scales are balanced, and you owe us no favor. But convincing the SVR to give that up, that might be an almost impossible task.” She sighed deeply.

“Almost… So possible then?” Jack smiled.

“Don’t push your luck, Jack. Now, one more thing before we get back to our current operation. You may remember the ghost team that landed at Shikh Beach in Azerbaijan…”

Jack nodded. “How can I forget them? You’re going to tell me you’ve found their identity?” he asked in a hopeful tone.

“Yes. They were a rogue Mossad unit. There was a power struggle inside the Israeli agency, and this team thought they could change things. Well, they didn’t.”

“What happened to them?”

Bronia grinned. “Nothing good. But as far as you and I are concerned, we don’t have to worry about that. However, this matter at hand, this is something we need to deal with.”

“We’re doing all we can.” Jack shrugged.

“Well, maybe not enough. Now, I’m going to check with the surgeon, see how things are going with our Yemeni friend. Let’s hope Zaidi comes back to life.” She sipped her coffee and stood up.

“Yeah. I need to check with Riley too.” Jack reached for his mug. The coffee was still hot.

“Good. Let’s chat in a few minutes then and decide what’s next. Zaidi will have to tell us what he knows, one way or another. We’ll make him do it.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Advance Defense Systems Local Branch

Downtown Toronto

Canada

“After what happened in Ottawa, we must pull the plug.” Beckett leaned forward in his seat and planted his elbows firmly on Keller’s office table.

“Absolutely not. This is not a time for panic; this is a time for resolute action,” Keller replied and gestured at him with her right hand. “What happened in Ottawa—what you allowed to happen there—is a mess. But it’s not enough to derail our plans.”

“Derail? Our plans are doomed to fail. Vance is dead, or worse: He’s ratting us, me, out to Jack and his team. Zaidi has disappeared, most likely in the hands of Jack. If Zaidi isn’t dead—and if he were dead, Jack would have no need of him—it’s only a matter of time before he breaks and gives up everything.”

Keller waved a dismissive hand. She reached for a glass of water to her left, next to her laptop and a stack of files, and drank a quick sip. “We can still contain this, Beckett.”

“I think it’s too late for that. I’ve learned the Russians are helping Jack. The Russian SVR, Keller. They’re ruthless. They have an infinite arsenal at their disposal.”

“Not in Canada. Plus, we’re always one step ahead of them. Look where we are: A little over twelve hours before the president lands in Ottawa, Jack and his crew have nothing. Nothing. And we don’t need Zaidi to carry out our plan. He only knew a part of the plan because we had planned for this eventuality, in case he was captured or killed.”

Beckett nodded, then let out a deep sigh. “Right, but he knows enough to throw us behind bars for the rest of our lives, Keller. And that’s the best-case scenario. The worst case? The death penalty. Is that what you want? I don’t.” He pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet.

Keller shrugged and shook her head. “You’re letting this get to you—”

“What’s not to get? This is our future, Keller. We’re gambling it all on a losing hand.” Beckett paced the room, waving his arms around, drawing in rapid, shallow breaths.

“Stop it, Beckett. Stop with this despair and hopelessness. We’ve faced some obstacles and encountered setbacks. Did you think it was going to be easy to go after the president of the United States of America?” She pointed an index finger at him.

Beckett shook his head.

“So pick yourself up, and be a man. The rest of the Yemeni team is in position. We’ll double-check and make sure they can go on with their task. And our own men are ready as well. Unless Jack and his Russian comrades pull a Hail Mary, there’s no way they’ll stop us. Even if they have all the pieces of the puzzle, by the time they put them all together, it will be too late.”

Beckett paced to the window of Keller’s office and looked at the city lights. Vehicles streamed on the faintly lit streets of the metropolis that never slept. Their headlights cut streaks of light through the darkness. Skyscrapers were glowing bright with illuminated windows and neon signs. The entire atmosphere of vivid hues of blue, crimson, and gold colors began to make Beckett dizzy. He closed his eyes, shook his head again, and thought of what he could say to make Keller change her mind. Nothing, he concluded.

He felt overwhelmed and trapped by the hopelessness of the situation. He let out a deep sigh, then opened his eyes and nodded to himself. Keller is digging her own grave. But I’m not going down with this ship.

He turned to face Keller and gave her a small smile, followed by a determined nod. “You’re right, Keller,” he said in a firm voice. “Let’s go ahead with the plan. We can still do this, and do it well.”

Keller nodded slowly at Beckett. Her eyes softened, but her steady gaze remained on him. She lifted an eyebrow, just slightly, as if she was questioning his sudden change, then her lips curved upward. “Good. I’m glad you’re back. Now, let’s check with both teams and confirm everything is going as planned. And let’s leave this little glitch in the past.”

“Certainly,” said Beckett, relieved that Keller wasn’t questioning his change of heart. “I’ll handle the Yemenis.”

“Perfect. Let’s meet in an hour and compare notes.”

Beckett gave her a thumbs-up gesture and cocked his head toward the door. “I’ll be in my office after I grab a coffee from downstairs. Do you want anything?”

Keller shook her head. “No, I’m good.” She glanced at her laptop and moved her chair closer to her desk. “I need to go over a few details of a report that’s due right away.”

“Okay. Talk to you soon.”

Beckett hurried his steps along the hall and down the three flights of stairs. He headed toward the Starbucks just around the corner. He opened the glass door and the delicious aroma of freshly-brewed coffee hit him. He looked around and found a relatively quiet corner, as it seemed to be a slow night. The nearest patron—a man in his early twenties wearing a denim jacket—was two tables away, working on his laptop, and wearing a large black pair of wraparound headphones. Faint murmurs came from four women sitting at the next table, right behind the young man.

Beckett sat on a brown leather couch, then pulled out his phone. He thought for a moment about what he was about to do. Once I pull the plug, there’s no going back. I’ll have to play it cool so that Keller doesn’t suspect anything. She believes I’m all in with the plan. I can’t blow this now.

The phone grew heavier as Beckett contemplated his next step. He didn’t like what he was about to do, but he had to. It’s my only way out. She’s too stubborn to admit it, but Keller’s house of cards is collapsing, and I don’t want to be buried in the rubble. He shrugged, sighed, and made the call.

His contact in the CIA answered right away. “Beckett, how are you?”

“Tired. It’s been a long day, and it’s going to get longer. You?”

“Eh, can’t complain. What can I do for you, my friend?”

“Well, you can sit down for a moment, then rush to talk to your boss.”

“Why?” the man said in a surprised tone. “What’s going on?”

“You know the US president is visiting Ottawa tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about it in the news.”

Beckett glanced around, then whispered in his phone, “Well, I have concrete intel on a plot against him.”

“What?” the man shouted. “How? Who?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Yes, yes, but tell me…”

Beckett kept his voice low and told his contact in broad strokes about Keller’s plan. He didn’t mention her by name, but gave his contact enough detail for the CIA to stop the plot. Beckett revealed the Yemeni terrorists’ names and locations, where and how they were preparing to execute their attack on the president, and the identities of the ADS elite team also involved in the plot. The contact expressed shock repeatedly and asked clarifying questions. Eventually, he seemed convinced about Becket’s revelation and agreed to take the matter promptly to his boss. “I’ve got this now, Beckett. Don’t worry about anything.”

Beckett nodded and sighed. My worries have just begun, he thought. If Keller learns about this, I’m a dead man. He shook his head. She won’t know how it happened. She’ll think Jack and the Russians somehow found the Yemenis. She won’t suspect it was me.

He ended the call and drew in a series of deep breaths. He tried to calm down, but he found it difficult. Beckett was a combat-hardened man, but he had never crossed swords with his boss. He knew she was heartless and brutal. He had seen her in action. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone—not even to himself, for that matter—but Beckett was afraid of Keller.

He tried to steady his shaky hands. It’s okay, Beckett. You’ll be fine. Get your coffee and go back to the office. Everything is fine. Make those calls and report to Keller. And keep it together.

Beckett sat for another long minute, then felt he had completely regained his composure. He stood up straight and walked to the counter. He waited patiently in line for a few seconds, then ordered his drink and stood to the side as the barista prepared it. Beckett picked it up and returned to the office.

He called Bashir Al-Khamri, the leader of the Yemeni sleeper cell, and spoke to him for a few minutes. Beckett had talked to him a few times, and they had met a handful of times in person in Mexico and the United States, before he was smuggled into Canada. Al-Khamri was a tough, fearless man. He had been captured in Iraq by a team of Delta Force operatives and had spent five years rotting in a dungeon in eastern Syria. When a militia group affiliated with al-Qaeda had stormed the prison and liberated all prisoners, Al-Khamri had returned to Yemen. The prison years had taught him how to survive, and he had become even more cruel. When he was offered the opportunity to avenge himself and his country against the world’s superpower, Al-Khamri had jumped in without hesitation. He had activated an entire sleeper cell of twelve operatives and had gathered another ten or so supporters.

Al-Khamri sounded slightly worried about the attack on the safehouse in Ottawa and the consequences on their planned assassination attempt. Beckett tried to calm him, offering reassurance that everything was still in order. “Just follow the plan to the letter. Follow the president’s convoy and cause the explosion. But do not cause any harm to him under any circumstance. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I understand. It is clear, very clear,” Al-Khamri said in a tone of annoyance. “We have an agreement. And we need the recording first, so that we can show to the world who we are and what we fight for.”

“Good, very good.”

That was a part of Keller’s diabolical plan. Soon after the president was kidnapped, the ADS elite team would spring into action. They’d intercept the president and secure his release by eliminating all the terrorists. The ADS would receive all the glory and honor, and of course, the contract to start a war in Yemen and eradicate these bloodthirsty terrorists and their supporters once and for all.

“We lost six brave men, great fighters.” Al-Khamri complained. “But we have gained ten more. Relatives of the dead, friends, sympathizers of our cause. They are not as good as the ones who have become martyrs, but they have the willingness to give their lives for their country.”

Beckett nodded. That’s all that was necessary for one to become a terrorist. Use violence as the only way of seemingly resolving your problems, conveniently blaming another country for every evil thing that has ever happened to you.

Al-Khamri then complained about a recent US attack on Yemen. Beckett had read a report about it while flying to Canada. An airstrike had destroyed a command center operated by Houthi forces in the al-Ardi complex in the Yemeni capital Sanaa. A dozen or so people had been wounded or killed in the attack, which seemed to be in retaliation for a hypersonic ballistic missile attack by Houthis against Tel Aviv. That attack was thwarted by the Israeli defense system and hadn’t caused any casualties.

“One more reason to be determined to give them a deadly blow.” Beckett told Al-Khamri. “They don’t care about civilians or innocents who are killed daily during these strikes, which, as you know, are authorized by the US president.”

“The devil,” Al-Khamri said with disgust.

Beckett ended the call offering a few more words of support and encouragement. “Our team is close by and will assist in the operation. There is no reason to be worried. Everything will go according to plan.”

It didn’t really matter anymore. In a matter of hours, the Yemeni sleeper cell and everyone involved in this plot would be detained or killed, depending on how much they desired to live or die. The ADS elite team would be connected to Keller, since they operated solely under her direct command. Beckett would avoid any major backlash, especially since he was the one who had warned the authorities. He had given the CIA concrete and actionable intelligence; he had saved the life of the president.

As those thoughts crossed his mind, Beckett began to feel pretty good about himself. With a bit of luck, I may walk away without a scratch. And I can reinvent myself away from Keller’s shadow. Maybe even start my own company; be my own boss.

He enjoyed the rest of his coffee and daydreamed in his office for a few minutes, before his phone rang. It was Keller. “We have a problem,” she said curtly. “Come to my office right away.”

What now? Beckett thought as a frown creased his forehead. What else can go wrong? “Be there in a sec.”

He finished the last of his coffee and marched toward Keller’s office.

Chapter Twenty-three

Advance Defense Systems Local Branch

Downtown Toronto

Canada

Beckett knocked on Keller’s office door and opened it. To his surprise, two members of her personal security detail were standing to the right and the left of her desk. They were dressed in their trademark black suits, which were unbuttoned. Their pistols in shoulder holsters were clearly visible. What’s going on? he thought. Why are they here?

Keller was sitting behind her desk and was giving him a sharp, intense gaze. Her eyes had turned narrow, and her jaw was clenched tightly. Her hands were resting tensely on her desk, and she was drumming her right-hand fingers, almost scratching the surface with her long fingernails.

Beckett tried to stifle the first thought of doom that popped into his mind. No, there’s no way that Keller knows about what I’ve done. My contact will never betray me. Or… or would he?

“What’s the problem?” he asked as he peered at his boss.

“Take a seat,” Keller ordered him and gestured toward the seat across her desk.

“What’s wrong?” he asked and looked at the two bodyguards.

One of them kept his poker face while the other smirked at Beckett.

“We have a problem, Beckett,” Keller said in a cold voice and put her hands together. Then she waved a hand at him and added, “We have a mole in our midst.”

Beckett almost flinched, but he knew better than to let his face betray him. Still he needed to show surprise at the news. So he gave Keller a startled and alert look, with eyes wide open. His mouth went slack, and his forehead stretched because of his raised eyebrows. “What?” he asked, feigning ignorance and giving his voice as credible of a tone as possible. “A mole? Who?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.” Her voice turned terse, and her eyes almost bored holes through him.

“Me?” Beckett said as innocently as he could. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and became very self-conscious of his HK45 tactical pistol in his waistband holster. He would need at least a couple of seconds to pull the gun, cock it, and fire at the two guards and Keller. But can I do it before one or both of them open fire and kill me? He shook his head. I don’t want to find out. “Why would I know anything about a mole? Are you asking if I suspect any of my assets would betray us?”

Keller kept studying him with her piercing look. “I’m asking if you, Beckett, have anything to do with someone betraying me.” She pointed at him with her index finger, then turned her hand to her chest.

He didn’t like her tone or the veiled accusation. He felt the adrenaline rushing through his body, and his senses became heightened. One of the guards tapped his foot. The other guard rolled his shoulders, then fixed his jacket sleeve. Beckett thought again about pulling his gun and firing at the guards, but he doubted it was a good idea. No, I’ll talk myself out of this situation. Keller is most likely bluffing. And I won’t admit to anything without any evidence. But even if this is about my CIA contact, I’m sure I can convince her it isn’t what she thinks it is. “Keller, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a calm voice, followed by a headshake. He spread out his hands and gave her a look of confusion.

“Fine, Beckett. I gave you a chance to come clean, but you refused it.”

One of the guards brought his hands in front of him.

The other one kept his hands to the side and rolled back his shoulders, as if he was going to charge at Beckett at any moment.

Keller reached for a remote controller on her desk and turned on the TV screen mounted on the wall to her right. She waited for a few tense seconds while the screen lit up, then clicked a button connecting the TV to her phone wirelessly. Then, she tapped a couple of buttons on her phone and dialed a number.

The dial tone echoed from the TV’s speakers just as her phone’s interface appeared on the screen. Beckett almost froze as he saw the number she was dialing. It was his CIA contact, Martin Harlow. I’m done for, Beckett thought.

His eyes flitted between the guards’ faces. They were on high alert, holding their hands closer to their weapons. Beckett drew in an uneasy breath and glanced at the screen, avoiding Keller’s questioning look.

At about the same time, Harlow’s face filled the screen. He blinked in surprise, then moved closer to the camera on his phone. His large nose and eyes became even larger. It seemed he was trying to determine who else was in the room with Keller.

Harlow was in his early forties, with a receding hairline that reached almost to the top of his head. He was dressed in a dark blue shirt and seemed to be in what looked like an office, considering the shelves of books behind him.

“Harlow, how are you?”

“Uh, okay. What’s going on?” he asked in an uncertain tone, and his face reflected his confusion as he cocked his head to the left and scratched his head. “I thought we were going to have a private call, but I see—”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Beckett graces us with his presence. Now, can you tell me exactly what he told you just a few minutes ago?”

“Now, wait a second.” Beckett cut in in a loud voice. “What’s the meaning of this?”

One of the guards took a step forward, closer to him, but Keller waved a dismissive hand. She swiveled in her chair and turned toward Beckett. “This is your betrayal, Beckett. I can’t believe you stabbed me in the back.”

The guard who had stepped forward reached for his pistol and aimed it at Beckett. The other guard did the same.

“I did no such thing,” Beckett said in a firm voice, ignoring the guns. “I did talk to Harlow, yes. But there was a reason for that.”

“Yes, the reason was to give me intelligence about the plot against the president,” Harlow said. “I have the recording. I’ve sent it to you, Keller, but let me play it now so that he can’t deny it.”

Beckett bit his lips. He recorded my call. The dirtbag. Still, I can spin this around. “Look, I said what I said in that call. I don’t deny it. But I had a very good reason.”

“Oh, really,” Keller said in a tone full of suspicion. “And what might be that reason?”

“Eh… it’s… can we turn this off so that I can explain to you what I was doing?” Beckett gestured with his hands as he motioned toward the TV screen and then to her.

“You think you can explain ‘betrayal’?” Keller cocked her head at Beckett. “Okay, go ahead. Let me hear it.”

“The TV first, so that—”

“No, the TV stays on so that Harlow can hear your explanation. What is it?”

Beckett sighed. “I… eh. I suspected Harlow was a mole—”

“What?” Harlow cut him off. “How dare you, you son of a—”

Keller tapped her phone’s screen and muted Harlow. The man was still yelling and gesturing with his raised fists.

“You were saying…” She motioned with her hands toward Beckett.

“I suspected he was divulging information to Morgan or Jack or someone on their team. So I decided—”

Keller raised a hand and stopped him. “You decided to give Harlow specific and accurate intel so you could smoke him out? How stupid are you, Beckett? And how stupid do you think I am?”

Beckett shook his head. “You’re not stupid, Keller. As soon as Harlow made a move, I would know it was him. I was going to talk to you about what I told him.”

“When?”

“Soon. Once I had more—”

“No, Beckett. You were never going to tell me. You had no idea Harlow worked for me.”

She glanced at the screen, where a grinning Harlow nodded and gave Beckett an evil look.

Keller continued, “So, now you’re scrambling for an answer, trying to make up some lame excuse about how this was your great plan to find out the traitor. The truth, Beckett, is that you are the traitor.”

Beckett shook his head again, more forcefully this time. “You’re wrong. I’d never betray you.”

Keller returned the headshake. “You’re lying to me. I have no use for liars or traitors.” She reached for one of the table drawers to her right and pulled out a pistol equipped with a sound suppressor. “And you know what fate awaits traitors.”

“No, please, don’t. No!” Beckett raised his hands.

Keller fired once. Her bullet struck Beckett in the face. He toppled over the chair, dead before he even hit the marble floor.

On the TV screen, Harlow’s mouth fell open in disbelief, then he covered his mouth with his hands. His body jerked backward as he recoiled from the scene. He blinked in disbelief, then his face froze in shock. He began to speak rapidly, but no sound came since Keller still had him muted.

She placed her pistol on the table, then looked at the guard to her right. “Get him out of my sight, and make sure his body is never found.”

The guard nodded. “Of course, ma’am.” He gestured at his partner, and they stepped closer to the body.

“No, not right now. Step outside as I need to talk to Harlow.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The guard nodded at her again and walked out the door, followed by his partner.

When he had closed her office door, Keller unmuted Harlow. As soon as she did so, he bellowed at her. “You killed him. Keller, you… you killed him in cold blood.”

Keller shook her head. “No, Harlow. His treason killed him. He was aware of the consequences. But Beckett is old news now.” Her wrist snapped in a quick, deliberate flick. “He was such a fool.” She gave Beckett’s body a last look. “Still, with or without him, we’re going forward. There’s no one stopping us. Not Beckett, Storm, or their Russian friends.”

Harlow gave her an uncertain look and offered a reluctant nod.

“Don’t look at me like that, Harlow. We are going to do this. Let’s make sure that Beckett hasn’t blabbed to anyone else.”

“And how are we going to do that? He’s dead now, remember? You killed him. Maybe we should have interrogated him.”

Keller groaned and rolled her eyes. “Thanks for reminding me. No time to waste. Beckett knew a lot of our plan’s details. Let’s change a few things around, where the people are right now and where the hit’s going to take place tomorrow morning. We’ll switch to Plan B, as we had worked out, exactly for such a scenario of someone’s betrayal. So inform the Yemenis that their locations are compromised. They need to move out of there ASAP. I’ll work with our elite team and find them a new safehouse. Call me when it’s done.”

“Right away, boss,” Harlow said in a voice that didn’t come across as very confident. He coughed to clear his throat and added, “I’ll get this done right away. Like you said, no one will be stopping us.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Four Hours Later

Old Ottawa East

Ottawa, Canada

“I don’t care if he lives or dies.” Bronia’s voice rose up in anger as she talked to the surgeon in the living room. “Just make sure he’s awake long enough to answer my questions.”

The surgeon shook his small head and lifted his glasses up his long, narrow nose. “What you’re suggesting most likely will kill him. Then he won’t be of any use.”

Bronia shook her head and looked at Jack, who was standing near the window. She was having this conversation with the surgeon in English for Jack’s sake. When he offered a head nod, she stepped closer to the surgeon. “Just get it done, okay?”

“But it will—”

Bronia placed a hand on the surgeon’s chest, stopping him. “I heard you, and I’m okay with that.” She gestured to Jack, but her eyes never left the surgeon’s face. “We’re okay with that. If he dies, so be it.”

The surgeon shook his head and opened his mouth, but Bronia placed a finger over her lips. “Not another word. We have no time to lose. Get it done. Wake him up, and call me when he’s ready to talk.”

“If he can actually talk. He’s on the verge of falling into a coma.”

“Then hurry up and make sure that doesn’t happen.” Bronia gestured toward the door leading to the operating room. Then, she almost pushed the surgeon in that direction. “Come get me as soon as he is able to answer questions.”

The surgeon gave her a blank look, then shrugged and turned around. He shuffled toward the operating room, while Bronia sighed and glanced at Jack, who asked, “Do you think it will work?”

“Of course. The question is if Zaidi can form words.”

Riley stood up from the couch. “If he can’t, then we’ve got nothing. I haven’t been able to find anything on Beckett. Nada. Zilch.”

“Yes, and my asset still doesn’t have a name for our mysterious Mr. Beckett. He keeps saying ‘soon, soon,’ but I think soon may not come soon enough.”

“We’re running out of time,” Jack said and glanced at his phone. “We have, what… less than eight hours now to find and stop the plot.”

Morgan, who was standing with her back against the kitchen counter, nodded. “Yes, Zaidi is, unfortunately, our only hope. But, how are you going to convince him to tell us the truth? If he can barely speak, torture will certainly kill him…”

Bronia smirked. “Who said anything about torture? My friendly chat with Zaidi will be about the unintended effects of his actions.”

Jack gave her a curious look with raised eyebrows. “Care to explain that?”

“I’d rather show than tell. It’s more powerful, more effective that way.”

Morgan shook her head. “The suspense is killing me,” she said slowly in a clearly unamused tone.

“That may be the case, but the surprise I have for Zaidi might actually end up killing him. Hopefully, though, after he has told us what we need to know. Now, since we’re working through the night, I’m going to make another pot of coffee.”

“Jack, can I talk to you for a sec?” Riley said.

“Sure, let’s step outside.”

“Do you boys want some coffee?” Bronia asked them.

“Sure, we’ll have some,” Jack replied for both of them.

“And don’t go too far. Zaidi may be ready for our chat at any time.”

“We’ll be just outside, getting some fresh air,” Jack said.

“Call us when it’s time,” Riley said and followed Jack through the hall.

Outside, the night was cool and quiet. The street was dimly lit by a streetlight. The houses on the street were all dark, with no lights on. Jack walked until they came to the end of the property, then he crossed the street and stood underneath a large maple tree that almost completely shaded them from anyone observing them from the safehouse. “What is it, Riley?”

“A couple of things. I… I wanted to talk to you about this sooner, but I wasn’t sure when it was the right time. I still don’t know.” He offered a small shrug.

Jack waved his hands. “Just tell me. What’s on your mind?”

“It’s about when we were at the terrorists’ safehouse. When one of them came out with the little girl. You could have gotten him. He was so close, and you had a clear shot. But… but you seemed to freeze.”

Jack frowned. “I didn’t freeze, Riley. And it’s not that simple. I didn’t have a clear shot because he was moving at all times. And there was a gun aimed at her head. Plus…” He sighed and his voice trailed off.

“What is it?”

“Don’t misunderstand this but… when I looked at her face, I saw… I saw Vicky,” Jack spoke in a low voice and looked away from Riley’s curious face.

“Is that why you hesitated to pull the trigger?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I thought what I’d do if someone did that to my little girl. If someone kidnapped Vicky to get to me. I mean, they did it once. What’s stopping evil people from doing it again?”

“We are the ones stopping them, Jack. We, people like you and me.” Riley pointed at Jack, then tapped his chest.

“Yes, but what about when we’re not there? Like now. We’re here, and my wife and daughter are running for their lives, halfway across Mexico. I should be there with them, protecting them, being a father, a husband. Not here, chasing ghosts and risking my life for someone who’s not even Canadian.”

Riley nodded slowly and rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I understand, buddy. This… this isn’t easy. But we’ve got to finish this. Then, then you can get back to your family. Take some time off, do whatever you need to do.”

Jack nodded. “Good idea. They need me, and I need to be there with them.”

“Absolutely. When did you last talk to them?”

“A couple of hours ago. They’re fine, but it’s not enough for me to hear that.”

“Agreed. So that cleared that up. Now, the second thing is bad news from our boss.”

Jack’s frown deepened. He sighed. “What is it?”

“He wants to know your whereabouts. The police have connected you to the shooting at the warehouse. Your fingerprints were all over the place. So now he’s pressuring me to give you up.”

Jack shook his head and pursed his lips. “He can act like a complete moron sometimes.”

“He’s just covering his butt.”

“You’re not defending him now, are you?”

“No, of course not, Jack. But I understand his view. This situation is putting a lot of stress on him.”

“On him? What about us?”

“On all of us. Look, I’m just telling you what I’ve learned from Gilson. He’s looking for you and so are the police.”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll have to be extra careful then. I have no intention of lying low. We don’t have much time to save the president’s life. And if we do that, it will be my ticket back to Gilson’s good graces. The Internal Affairs can’t touch me, us, if the American president is still alive because of us.” His voice rose up in a confident tone.

“If we can do that.”

“Well, Bronia is hopeful. She has an ace up her sleeve. Not sure what it is, but I really hope it works.”

“We’ll see soon.”

Jack looked up and down the street. A car engine gunned in the distance, followed by a sharp horn. Closer, a dog barked in response. He gazed at Riley and asked, “Have you talked to your girlfriend?”

“No, not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“The right time.”

“The right time is now.”

Riley shook his head. “We have other things to do. Plus, it’s late. Almost three a.m.”

Jack gave him a sideways gaze. “I don’t mean now as in right now. But give her a call in the morning. She’s a good thing in your life, Riley. You shouldn’t lose her.”

Riley let out a loud groan. “Uh, thanks, Dr. Phil, for your advice.”

“No, I’m serious. You said so yourself, that you’re good together.”

Riley gave Jack a thoughtful look. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he said in a low, weak voice. “I’m just… too many things happening right now. No time for her…”

“Well, when you think it’s the right time, it might be too late. Just saying.”

“Thanks for saying it,” Riley responded half-sarcastically.

Jack opened his mouth, but at the exact moment his phone beeped. It was a text message from Bronia: Our friend’s awake: Party time.

“We need to go back. Zaidi’s up.”

“Can he talk?”

“Apparently.” He showed him Bronia’s message.

“I think he’s not going to like this party,” Riley said and tried to keep up with Jack.

They met Bronia in the operating room. She was standing to the right side of Zaidi’s bed, while Morgan was on the left. The terrorist’s hair was disheveled, his face was pale, and his eyes were closed. He looked so frail, as one would expect from someone who had one foot in the grave. “Can he hear us?” Jack said.

Bronia nodded. “The doctor checked. And he can speak some English.”

“Okay. So let’s talk to him.”

Bronia leaned closer to Zaidi and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t respond or open his eyes. “Zaidi, I’ve got to show you something.” She waved her phone in front of his face. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a weak, almost inaudible groan, but made no effort to open his eyes or make another move.

“Are you sure he can hear us?” Riley asked.

“Of course he can. Hey, Zaidi, listen up.” She snapped her fingers near his ears. “I want you to see this. It’s someone you care about.”

There was an almost imperceptible twitch in the terrorist’s eyes, but he still kept them shut.

Jack glanced at Bronia. Who is she talking about?

“Okay, Zaidi, you’re pretending you can’t hear us, but I’m sure you’d want to hear this.” She tapped the phone and dialed a number. When a man answered almost instantly, Bronia spoke to him briefly in Russian, before switching to English. “Turn on the camera, and put his family on.”

Jack gave Bronia a look of surprise. “How? When?”

Bronia shrugged. “As soon as we IDed him,” she whispered to him.

A brief moment of tense pause, then shouting and cries came from her phone. A few seconds later, a woman dressed in a black abaya—a loose, body-covering robe—and a niqab—a full-face veil that only leaves the eyes visible—appeared on the screen. She shook and shrieked something in Arabic or in a language Jack didn’t understand.

But Zaidi understood it.

He let out a faint groan, followed by a weak cough. His eyelids fluttered weakly, but he didn’t open them yet. It seemed he was struggling with that effort. Zaidi’s forehead glistened with a sheen of sweat.

He tried again to open his eyes, and, this time, he managed to part them just slightly. His eyes were glassy, with unfocused pupils. They darted aimlessly, as he tried to make sense of the surroundings and the source of her voice.

Bronia held her phone closer to Zaidi’s face. “That’s your wife. She’s trying to tell you how much trouble you’ve put her in.”

Another faint groan escaped Zaidi’s lips. It was barely audible over his wife’s screams and rapid-fire bellowing. She was waving her arms frantically, pointing at the screen, then at someone off screen to her left.

Bronia spoke in Russian into the phone and two gunmen in camouflage took Zaidi’s wife away. Her screaming continued for a few more seconds, then Bronia spoke again on the phone. Someone on the other side muted the call.

She looked at Zaidi as a tense silence fell in the room. Only the hum of the machines to which he was hooked was audible. “So, what will it be?” she asked him in a sharp tone. “Will you tell us about the plan to assassinate the president?”

Zaidi moved his head to look at her and winced. The move must have caused him a great deal of pain. His dry, cracked lips moved, but no coherent words came at first—just a rasp, as if his throat were coated in sand. The terrorist seemed to summon every ounce of strength and tried again. His chest heaved with the effort. “Wh… why… my family… they—”

“Because that’s the only language you understand. Pain, tears, and blood. Your wife will suffer unimaginable pain because of you. And that’s not all. If you don’t tell us, your two little girls, Aisha and Layla, will both die extremely painful deaths.”

Zaidi closed his eyes and began to shake his head. “No… No,” he croaked, his voice thin and broken. Each word must have been an uphill battle against the physical pain and mental anguish that must have gripped his body.

“You can avoid all this, everything,” Bronia whispered at him. “Just tell us your plan. We know you’re going after the American president. We need to know who is involved, how is it going to happen, and where. Give us all the details, and your family will live. Lie to us, and consider them slaughtered by your own hand.”

Morgan winced at Bronia. She glanced at Morgan and gave her a curious glance. “This is how it’s done so we can get results,” she said matter-of-factly to Morgan, then turned her attention to Zaidi. “So?”

His fingers twitched against the blue sheets. His body began to tremble as he strained to lift his head just an inch before it fell back onto the pillow. The muscles in his jaw clenched.

Jack could see the frustration, the hopelessness, and the exhaustion etched into Zaidi’s face. He closed his eyes and drew in a series of shallow breaths.

Bronia said, “You don’t seem to be convinced. Well, let me give you a preview of what’s about to happen.”

She spoke into the phone in Russian, and they all waited for a few seconds loaded with palpable tension. Then, the sad and innocent face of a young girl no older than six or seven filled the screen. She was wearing a blue hijab, the headdress, which seemed to be too big for her and was slightly untangled. Her tiny cheeks were streaked with silvery trails of dried tears. Her skin seemed blotchy and flushed, probably from prolonged crying.

“Zaidi, there’s someone here who wants to say ‘Hi.’ Aisha, say ‘Hi’ to your daddy,” Bronia’s voice turned warm as she talked to the little girl.

Aisha’s fearful eyes glistened under the dim light. Jack had determined she was in a cinderblock warehouse of sorts, considering the rough walls and cement floor. She glanced at the screen, silent for a moment, then began to speak in a low, shy voice in Arabic.

Zaidi’s half-lidded eyes widened slightly at the sound of her voice. He struggled to form words, but then strung them together. Bronia allowed their conversation to go for a few precious seconds as father and daughter had their moment. Aisha sniffled softly and nodded at whatever Zaidi was telling her. Her chin trembled with suppressed sobs and kept giving her father desperate, pleading looks.

At some point, Bronia said, “Okay, that’s enough. Now say ‘Goodbye’ to your daddy. If he’s good, you’ll get to see him soon. Otherwise, well, this might be the last time you see him.”

Someone must have interpreted the words for Aisha because she waved at Zaidi. Her eyes welled up, and her eyelids drooped. She pressed her lips together in a flat line, then was led away by one of the gunmen in camouflage fatigues.

Bronia said something to the gunman, who muted his line. She waved the phone at Zaidi and said, “Ready to talk?”

If looks could kill, Bronia would be dead. Zaidi’s eyes had turned into small slits. His lips parted as he didn’t seem to find the right words to say. He began to shake his head, but then stopped and let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

“Is he… is he dead?” Morgan asked in a worried tone.

“I don’t think so,” Bronia said but still reached for Zaidi’s neck. She found his pulse, faint and barely noticeable. “Yes, he’s still alive. Unlike his wife and daughters, who will be killed in a matter of seconds if he—”

Zaidi’s eyes flipped open. He turned his head slowly to Bronia and gave her an almost unnoticeable nod. “I will… I will tell you… everything… everything. But my family… let them go first,” he pleaded in a weak voice.

His right hand, weak and trembling, lifted from the bed as if to reach out toward Bronia, but it fell limply back onto the sheets.

“You’re in no position to dictate terms,” Bronia replied in a harsh tone. “But you can still save their lives.”

Zaidi closed his eyes and nodded again. His chest heaved, his breathing uneven and labored.

He turned his head slightly, and a faint moan of despair escaped him. Zaidi’s voice cracked as he said, “Okay, fine, fine… I will… tell you all I know—”

“Good. Start with the names of whoever is involved. The Yemenis first, then everyone else, Canadian, American, all of them. Don’t hide anything; don’t leave anything out, or your family will suffer.”

Zaidi’s body seemed to shudder, but he tried to steady himself. He gave Jack a look of surrender, then sighed. “Okay, these are the people… involved.”

He began to give them the names, and Jack began to type them into his phone. He didn’t like Bronia’s approach, but he couldn’t argue with the results. Yes, she might be ruthless, but she’s effective. Once we have the location where we can find these people, and we know how the president will be targeted, we’ll definitely be able to stop the attempt.

Chapter Twenty-five

Old Ottawa East

Ottawa, Canada

Once Zaidi’s interrogation had been completed, Jack felt they were only one step away from thwarting the assassination plot. Morgan and Riley called their bosses to report the two safehouses of the Yemeni terrorists. One was just outside Ottawa, and the other was in Kingston.

Gilson and Strickland, Morgan’s Secret Service director, reluctantly agreed to dispatch a couple of joint teams to those locations. “Let’s just hope we find something and this isn’t a wild goose chase,” Strickland told Morgan.

Gilson shared a similar sentiment with Riley. “I hope this isn’t Jack’s half-baked idea, and he isn’t steering this ship.” Riley had truthfully confirmed that the information had nothing to do with Jack.

Jack had insisted that they should check each of the safehouses themselves. However, Bronia had sharply rejected that idea. “We don’t have enough men. Plus, we’ve been greatly exposed already. You’re still CIS, Jack, maybe not for long, but for now. But we’re SVR. We can still work from the shadows, but the CIS and the Secret Service should be able to take it from here. And you’re welcome.”

Zaidi didn’t know a lot about the location where the assassination attempt was supposed to take place. Bronia had pressed him and threatened his family again, but Zaidi had sworn on his mother’s grave. “I’m telling you all I know, every little thing.” He had cried bitter tears. “Please don’t hurt my family.”

All he knew was that the president’s convoy was going to be attacked when it was close to Parliament Hill, where the president was expected to meet with Canadian government officials and other politicians. However, Zaidi was in the dark about the exact location. “We were never told,” he claimed repeatedly. “The Americans were supposed to give us that.”

“More Americans?” Bronia had shouted in surprise. “How many Americans are involved in an assassination attempt against their own president?” She gave Jack a look beyond disbelief with eyes wide open and a dropped jaw. “What kind of conspiracy is this?” Bronia’s eye flitted to Morgan, who just offered a shrug and a blank face.

“Bishop, the CIA agent; a military outfit; and the woman on the phone,” Jack said. “She had an American accent, most likely New England.”

Jack had explained the conspiracy to Bronia but had given her only what she needed to know. Obviously, it was time to fill in some of the gaps.

“And what did the CIA do after you told them about Bishop?”

Morgan coughed to clear her throat and said, “The prelim investigation concluded Bishop was working alone.”

Bronia shook her head. “That’s stupid. Of course, he wasn’t working alone.”

“Yes, but who is this military company?” Riley asked.

“We still need to find them and stop them,” Morgan said in a determined voice.

Bronia nodded. “I’ve talked with my asset again. Nothing on that Beckett character. Hopefully, soon, and yes, before any of you says it, I know we’re running out of time,” she said in an exasperated tone as her eyes moved from Jack’s face to Riley and then to Morgan.

Jack returned the nod. “If Zaidi told us the truth, and we can destroy the Yemeni terrorist cell, then the attempt is half-thwarted.”

Morgan jumped in. “Half isn’t good enough.”

“Right, but that might be enough to give this military outfit a pause. If they don’t have support from the Yemenis, they may be reluctant to come out in the spotlight. We don’t know all the details but it’s clear the Yemenis are, to a certain extent, the scapegoats.”

“How so?” Bronia asked.

“I’m not sure exactly what the plot is and how it works, but this is a strange alliance: Yemeni terrorists and a military security company. Americans using Yemenis to plot an assassination against their president? Am I the only one that thinks the Yemenis are made to be the fall guy?”

Bronia gave him a puzzled look with raised eyebrows. She nodded slowly as a look of realization sparked in her eyes. “This will certainly cause a war, with the United States definitely invading the country. The US is already bombing Yemen on a daily basis. Obviously, it’s not enough if they are so brazen as to assassinate—or attempt to assassinate—the president. The military outfit would be one of the beneficiaries in such a scenario, flooding the country with logistic support and manpower.”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Jack said.

Bronia spun on her heels and glanced at Morgan. “So that’s a starting point. Who are the top US military contractors? The ones with the closest ties to the government, the ones who’ll be receiving the security contracts from a future war…”

Morgan nodded, but the look of disbelief mixed with disappointment remained on her face. Her eyebrows rose, arching sharply at the center of her forehead. She glanced away for a moment, her mouth tightening into a thin line. Then she looked at Bronia and said, “I’ll talk to Strickland and bring it to his attention. But I’ll start looking into it as well. I have a few contacts.”

“Good. And I’ll call my asset. Maybe this new intel will help him remember Beckett, or whatever his name is.”

Jack nodded. “I hate to admit this, but until we hear from Gilson or Strickland, you,” he cocked his head to Morgan, “or your asset,” he turned to Bronia, “there’s not much else we can do.” He stifled a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand.

“When was the last time you slept?” Bronia asked him with a smirk.

“Can’t remember.”

“Go get some shuteye. We’ll keep things under control and wake you up if something happens.”

“When something happens,” Jack said in a hopeful voice. “We have maybe six, seven hours now to stop this plot.”

Bronia nodded. “We should hear soon, and we’ll wake you up, if there’s something worthy of your attention.”

“Wake me up regardless.”

“Will do.” Bronia cocked her head toward the right. “There’s a couple of guest rooms upstairs.” She turned to Riley and Morgan. “One of you can take a break as well.”

Riley shook his head.

“I’m fine,” Morgan replied. “For now.”

“Oh, so I’m the only sleepy one around here?” Jack said half-sarcastically.

“Don’t worry about it.” Riley smiled at Jack. “You need your beauty sleep.”

Jack groaned and began to climb up the stairs.

* * *

Jack’s sleep was broken and full of blood-curdling nightmares. He bolted upright in his bed in a sea of sweat. His chest was heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, and his heart was pounding hard. He mopped the sweat on his forehead, then his wide eyes darted frantically around the room. Everything looked strange, although he knew he was in one of the guest rooms. He shook his head. Can’t let those horrible things happen to Agnes and Vicky. I won’t.

A faint light filtered through the room’s dark curtains. Jack reached for his phone and checked the time. It was almost five in the morning. He had slept—if he could call that sleep—for a little over an hour. He made some quick mental calculations. The teams should have raided the terrorists’ safehouses by now. Why didn’t Bronia wake me up?

He frowned and brushed back some of his hair sticking to his temples. He jumped out of bed and used the washroom. He washed his face and glanced at his weary face in the mirror. Dark, puffy circles had formed under his bloodshot eyes. The bruises and wounds didn’t seem to have healed at all. Jack ran his fingers through his hair, then nodded to himself. We need to put an end to this. Today!

He climbed down the creaking stairs and saw Bronia sitting in one of the couches. Riley was standing in the hall connected to the kitchen and stepped closer to Jack. “What’s going on?” he asked Riley, then glanced at Bronia. “How did the raids go?”

Bronia shook her head. “There was no one there.”

“What? How?”

“They must have moved once they realized we had nabbed Zaidi.”

“Or he lied to us.”

Bronia shook her head. “He didn’t lie to us. Not after I threatened to kill his family.”

“Let’s ask him again, maybe this time—”

“We can’t.” Bronia cut him off.

“Why not?”

“He’s dead.”

“He died?”

Bronia nodded. “The surgeon warned us.” She shrugged. “But we got all we could from him.”

“You don’t think he gave us the wrong places on purpose?”

“No, Jack.” Riley jumped in. “I read the CIS report. The two locations had been recently cleared out. The teams found evidence of the terrorists staying there. But they’re all gone, vanished.”

“So we got nothing?” Jack dropped heavily into the couch across from Bronia.

“So far. Morgan is sleeping, but she made some calls to her contacts about the military contractor company.”

“And what does the Secret Service and the CIA think?”

Riley pursed his lips. “Gilson is furious. He suspects you set them up.”

“That’s crazy. Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a ‘loose cannon.’ His exact words. You’re reckless and reacted to this situation without thinking it through.”

Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe this.”

“And he wants your head. Now!” Riley continued. “He wants you off the streets. You’re distracting the ‘real agents’ from doing their job.” Riley put air quotes around the words “real agents,” then added, “Gilson told me to call him as soon as I hear from you or I see you.” He grinned.

“That means you should do that right now,” Jack said.

“Uh, you wish. We’re in this together until the very end. But now that there’s a warrant for your arrest, we’ve got to be even more careful.”

Bronia gave Riley a sideways glance. “Be careful about what exactly? Without any other good intel, this is over. We’re done.” She made a double-handed cut gesture, and her face formed a stern expression with tight lips and furrowed brows.

Jack shook his head. “No, we’re not. We’re not going to just sit here and do nothing while someone’s trying to kill the president.”

“And what are we going to do?”

“Stop them!”

“Who? Where? How? We have no answers to those questions. You’re a wanted man, Jack. We’re Russians, operating in a hostile country without authorization. If we’re seen anywhere close to the president’s convoy, they’ll think we’re there to kill him.” She looked at Jack. “And you are one step closer to being thrown out of your agency.” She sighed.

“You’re forgetting me,” Morgan said halfway down the hardwood staircase.

Bronia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Morgan whose director called the raid on the safehouses a ‘colossal waste of time.’” She shook her head. “As much as I want to help you with this, we have to admit this is the end of the road. The president is on his own.”

Morgan stood straight almost in the middle of the living room. “Not under my watch! I took an oath to protect the office of my president, and I will do that to the very end,” she said in an almost solemn tone.

Bronia waved her hand. “Be my guest. All of you.” She pointed at Jack, then at Riley. “I’m not going to stop you, but I’m also not joining you. So it’s the three of you against whoever wants the president dead, Yemenis and Americans, all of them.”

Jack shook his head and gave her a look of disappointment. “What happened, Bronia? A short while ago you were willing to risk your life to help us…”

“Reality happened, Jack. I realized how futile this fight is. We have nothing to go on here. Nothing specific, that is. And what I said is true: The president has an army protecting him. You’re not needed. You’ll just get in the way.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this.”

“Well, I’ve never liked to be the bearer of bad news, but for all intents and purposes, this is over.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Kent Street

Ottawa, Canada

It was a huge gamble, but Jack hoped it would pay off. They had no idea where the terrorists—and potentially the private military security company—would attack the president or how they were going to execute the attack. However, they tried to put themselves in the shoes of the assassins.

They would most likely target him on route to Parliament Hill, which was his known destination. They’d use powerful explosive charges to make sure they caused significant damage to Cadillac One, or The Beast, as the president’s vehicle was also known. Considering the deep roots and the extent of the conspiracy, Jack had no doubt the assassins would know exactly the president’s location in the convoy. Although there would be at least two identical Beasts, all it took was one person to note the one the president climbed in. “I don’t think Bishop was working alone,” Jack had said. “So, if there’s another person in the Secret Service or among the other security staff surrounding the president, the terrorists would know where the president is at all times.”

The explosion would need to be powerful enough to disable The Beast in order to force the president’s extraction. Considering the size of the blast necessary to disable The Beast and the other vehicles in the procession, and the location where the attack was to take place, the bodyguards would either move the president to another vehicle or try to get him to a safe location. This is where things got vague, as there was no way Jack and his team could safely predict the assassins’ or the bodyguards’ next steps.

“So, they’d pick a location that wouldn’t be too open but also not too closed in. That would allow their teams to coordinate the attack,” Jack had noted. “Somewhere where the road—or street—wouldn’t have a lot of space and where there’d be sufficient large buildings for a second or third team to lie in wait.”

“You’re right,” Morgan had said. “That’s the scenario we mostly expect, because it’s the one we’ve mostly seen to actually take place. Experience also shows that the closer to the destination, the more relaxed agents become. It’s like in their minds the job is almost done, so they can breathe a little easier. That’s when this hit might go down.”

Jack and Riley had agreed. So here they were, a block away from Bank Street, one of the main arteries of Ottawa that stretched north-south for about a mile. It was broad enough to allow for the sixty-plus-vehicle motorcade, and it was on the scheduled route, which was blocked off to all other traffic. There were a number of large buildings along the way and, of course, all of them had been searched and cleared by the Secret Service advance teams, as well as local law enforcement. Bystanders weren’t expected to fill the sidewalks, however, because the president’s visit had been well-announced and television stations were going to broadcast it live; still, some foot traffic was to be expected.

Jack and Riley had stationed themselves across from one another, covering both sides of Bank Street. Jack was sitting at a table on a sidewalk café, about fifty yards away from the nearest intersection. Red-and-white road barriers were set up and two police SUVs had blocked both sides of the intersection. Four police officers in blue uniforms and yellow jackets were standing guard, watching everything and everyone around them.

Riley was standing at a bus stop and seemingly reading on his phone. Morgan was positioned a block away to the north, closer to Parliament Hill. She was sitting on a bench outside a pizzeria, enjoying the warm sunrays. A pizza box with two slices was resting next to her on the bench. They all had a cover story if questioned by a police officer or someone else from the president’s security staff patrolling the streets.

Jack had seen Air Force One land at the Ottawa International Airport on a CBC news live broadcast. The president and his wife had been welcomed by Canada’s governor-general, deputy-prime minister, and foreign minister, among others. After attending a small reception at the airport, the president and the First Lady had climbed aboard The Beast. As expected, there was a heavy security presence around them, mostly tall muscular men dressed in black suits, black felt coats, or dark sport jackets. They closed the vehicle’s doors and stood guard as the motorcade slowly began to make its way toward the city.

Jack knew it would take about twenty minutes for the motorcade to reach Parliament Hill. The “Route Car” would be the first vehicle, which was usually a black or white armored SUV. Its role was to check the route and provide real-time intel to the rest of the vehicles. The “Pilot Car” was next, duplicating the role of the first car, to ensure nothing had changed during those few seconds.

Then came “Sweepers,” which were normally police motorcycles and patrol cars “sweeping” or clearing the way for the rest of the motorcade, which started with the “Lead Car.” According to the briefings Jack, Riley, and Morgan had attended, this was going to be a Secret Service Suburban, followed by a van, and three more SUVs. One of them was the “jammer vehicle” equipped with antennas. Filled with sophisticated electronic jamming equipment, its purpose was to block electronic signals in its vicinity. If the assassins tried to detonate a bomb or explosive device remotely, the jammer vehicle would be able to interrupt, or “jam” the signal and prevent the detonation.

Then, there would be the two Beasts. As shown in the CBC news telecast, the US president had climbed into the second vehicle. Jack doubted he’d stop along the way and switch vehicles. The conspirators would have definitely thought of that scenario. Their mole within the Secret Service or the other security personnel—if there was such a mole—would inform the assassins of that. In the absence of such an informant, Jack thought the problem would be resolved by a large enough explosion to disable both Beasts.

Besides security vehicles ready to fend off any attack, the rest of the motorcade included a mobile communication center, two ambulances, and even a Hazardous Materials Mitigation Unit, which was ready to respond to potential chemical, biological, or nuclear attacks. An overwatch helicopter flew at a low distance above the motorcade, providing real-time aerial views and feeding accurate intelligence to the vehicles on the ground.

Jack nursed his coffee and looked at his phone. The broadcast had stopped transmitting live images since the motorcade had left the airport. He knew that it appeared the president’s motorcade was an unassailable movable fortress. But he also knew that appearances could be, and often were, deceiving. The truth was that the motorcade and the president were extremely vulnerable. If suicide bombers had vowed to assassinate the president, and they were being supported by elite mercenaries working for a top-tier American security company, there was very little that could stand in the way of the assassins reaching their goal.

Jack grinned. We are standing in their way. And we will stop them.

He took another sip from his coffee, then looked at the police officers. They were getting more alert with every passing second. Jack knew it was time for him to make himself scarce. Time for our last recon. They had walked up Bank Street about an hour earlier, but had noticed nothing suspicious. Maybe the assassins will make a mistake. That’s all we need. One stupid little mistake.

He finished the last of his cup and walked toward Bank Street. He nodded at the officers, who studied his face but didn’t nod back. Then he slowed his steps as he came to the corner of Bank Street and Cooper Street. A nine-story gray-brick building rose up. There were at least eighty windows a sniper could use to set up a nest. Or position rocket-propelled grenade launchers. Jack shook his head. How can we be absolutely sure the building is clear and safe?

He glanced in the other direction. “For Lease” signs covered the windows of the ground floor. One section of the second floor seemed to be under construction. Someone could be hiding there right now, posing as a worker. He frowned. Or these metal garbage cans or postal boxes. How do we know someone hasn’t filled them with explosives?

Jack walked by the garbage can and tossed a crumpled Kleenex from one of his jacket pockets. He took a quick look inside the metal container. Nothing but garbage there.

He looked around as if determining which way to go and saw Riley following about twenty yards behind on the opposite sidewalk. Jack pulled out his phone and sent Riley a quick text message: All good. Nothing suspicious. You?

Nothing, Riley wrote back.

He turned right on Lisgar Street and headed back, while Riley turned left on the same street. Jack checked the news and the time on his phone. A few more minutes and things should heat up.

He made another right turn two blocks away on Metcalfe Street, heading south. He stayed away from the intersections and tried not to make too much eye contact with police officers barricading the streets. He didn’t really know how he was going to help, or if he was even going to help. But he was certain he wanted to be there when things went sideways.

And they surely would.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Kent Street

Ottawa, Canada

Jack was meandering along Kent Street, trying to be as discreet as possible. No police officer had stopped him to ask questions, but a few had given him curious looks. They expected the occasional Beast-spotters—people waiting for hours to catch a glimpse of the presidential motorcade—to appear here and there.

He checked his phone. The convoy should be here at any second. I should get back to Bank Street before I miss it.

Jack typed a quick message to Riley, who was walking along McLeod Street. It’s almost time. Let’s return to our positions.

Roger that, came the almost instantaneous reply.

He then texted Morgan. Let’s take our places.

Got it, she replied.

Jack popped up on Bank Street near the place where it intersected with Gladstone Avenue. About a dozen or so people were lined up across from a couple of police sedans and a handful of wooden barriers blocking the intersection. He looked across the street and saw Riley standing by the other intersection on McLeod Street. Farther down and to the south, Morgan appeared by Flora Street.

Jack glanced around, scanning the windows of the nine-story glass-façade building across from him. A couple of uniformed police officers were standing at the rooftop. One of them was scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars.

Another tense minute or so stretched his patience as Jack paced on the sidewalk. He smiled at a few of the passersby, who were getting their cameras and cellphones ready to record and take pictures of the motorcade passing by.

And then they heard the loud sirens and the commotion coming from the south, down Bank Street. The police officers guarding the intersection jumped into action. They began to call and gesture to the people to stay back, then the officers glanced all around, covering all angles.

Jack stood up straighter and did the same, focusing on the two- and three-story buildings around him.

The white SUV “Route Car” appeared down Bank Street speeding toward Jack and the rest of the spectators. Some of them cheered and shouted, a couple applauded, while others worked their cameras and phones as the “Pilot Car,” a black SUV, followed about fifty yards behind the first vehicle in the convoy. Three white-and-blue police motorcycles came right behind it.

They had just passed the location where Jack was standing, when an explosion came from the south. His head swung in that direction, along with almost everyone in the crowd. The blast was small, and Jack knew it wasn’t enough to cause significant damage to The Beast. The Cadillac One’s frame was made of eight-inch armored plating. The windows were five-inch thick. It would take much more than that blast to disable The Beast.

However, the explosion was sufficient to topple a power pole, blocking the entire four-lane street and sending sparks into the air. The live wires hung in front of the two Beasts, arcing violently across the street and crackling like small lightning bolts.

One of the wires twirled and snapped, dropping onto a police SUV parked a few feet away. Jack couldn’t hear it, but a sharp, metallic hiss erupted as the powerful current surged into the vehicle. A flash of blue light blinded Jack for a split second. The SUV’s sleek body lit up brightly, before flames shot up from under the hood.

Jack and a dozen or so officers dashed toward the scene of the explosion. He stayed on the sidewalk and away from the officers, making no eye contact with them and trying not to draw their attention. They were preoccupied with the explosion and how to respond to it rather than take note of Jack.

He called Riley, who was up ahead and also rushing toward the blast site. “Be careful. This is just the beginning. They’ll do something else, more po—”

His words were cut off by a gigantic explosion with a bright orange flash that ripped through the area. Jack couldn’t be certain—because he was still about fifty yards away from The Beasts—but it appeared the blast came from one of the manholes in the street. The blast lifted one of the Cadillac Ones a couple of feet off the ground. One of the vehicle’s wheels fell off, as smoke and dust began to cover the area.

The ferocity of the explosion shook the earth beneath Jack’s feet. A jagged shockwave spread through the street, shattering the windows of most of the stores.

Jack dropped to the ground as sharp glass fragments and metal pieces shot all around him. One of them sliced through the neck of a police officer who fell onto the street a few feet away from Jack.

He glanced at the officer, who wasn’t moving. His rifle, a Colt C8 carbine, had dropped next to him. Jack hurried to the officer, but he was gone. As Jack picked up the rifle, another officer stopped next to Jack. “I’m CIS, Canadian Intelligence Service.” Jack showed the officer the ID hanging on a lanyard around his neck. “He’s dead,” he said in a saddened voice as he gestured at the fallen officer.

The officer checked Jack’s ID, then nodded at him. “Let’s go.”

Jack nodded back. He took the rifle’s extra magazines from the officer’s chest rig. The site of the explosion was covered by a thick curtain of smoke. Jack doubted the explosion had caused it. Most likely someone had thrown tear gas or another chemical agent. But who? From where?

A number of bodyguards and uniformed officers had spread out around The Beasts. Jack didn’t see the president, who was most likely still inside Cadillac One. What are they going to do?

Now that they were about thirty yards away, Jack noticed the chemical smell filling the air. He glanced at one of the two-story buildings to the right as three gunmen popped up. One of them opened up with a long volley at the bodyguards around the president’s vehicle.

The bodyguards and other officers returned fire. Their bullets mowed down all three attackers, but not before one of them let out another volley. His rounds thumped against one of The Beasts and ricocheted off the asphalt.

Jack began to have trouble breathing. He wondered how the bodyguards were able to withstand the chemical cloud, then noticed a few of them had put on gas masks. The motorcade security staff was prepared for such an eventuality.

A couple of small explosions came from around The Beasts. Grenades, Jack thought. They would barely cause a scratch to the vehicles, but they’d wound or kill the security guards out in the open.

Jack and the police officer knelt next to a metal garbage container. Two almost simultaneous volleys erupted from two different directions. Jack couldn’t see the attackers, as the curtain of smoke had covered almost the entire area.

However, there were a couple of pockets where the smoke had begun to dissipate. A few of the bodyguards were returning fire. Then two of them collapsed on the ground, one after the other, seemingly shot from the back.

Jack glanced in that direction, but he couldn’t see the attackers. As the curtain of smoke began to clear up, he saw six bodyguards surrounding the president. They were covering him with their bodies and ushering him in the same direction, running toward Argyle Road.

Jack frowned. Didn’t they see what happened? “They’re heading into an ambush,” Jack shouted at the officer. “Let’s go, warn them.”

“What?”

“Follow me.”

“Wait. I’ll go first. Or they’ll think you’re one of the gunmen.”

Jack tapped the officer on the shoulder. “Good plan.”

He got up and ran toward the group, which was being followed by a few more bodyguards. They aimed their rifles at the officer and Jack who shouted, “Friendlies. Friendlies.”

The bodyguards kept their rifles and pistols up but didn’t fire. One of them checked the officer’s badge and Jack’s ID, then nodded at them. “They’re good,” he said to his teammates, right before a bullet struck him in the head.

Jack dropped to one knee and turned his rifle at the attackers. Three men in dark clothes had popped up at the corner of a building. One of them fired at the group protecting the president. Two of the bodyguards dropped down, while the others turned their weapons at the assailants.

Jack fired a quick burst. His bullets struck one of the assailants in the face.

One of the president’s bodyguards hit the second assailant, whose head turned into a mist of pink.

Jack aligned his rifle with the head of the third assailant and planted a couple of rounds in his forehead.

The bodyguards moved the president further down Argyle Road. Where are they going? Jack wondered. One of the motorcade’s SUVs turned onto that road as well, right before it was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade from the side. Jack didn’t hear the sudden whoosh cutting through the air because of all the commotion around him. But he saw the side panel crumpling like paper as the warhead pierced through it. Then, flames began to consume the vehicle.

The president and his protective unit had moved another ten yards. They seemed to be confused as to which was the safest direction. Jack too had no idea where they were going. Away from the deadly zone, of course. But these attackers seem to be everywhere.

Another SUV tried to enter the road, but the burning vehicle had blocked most of it. The rest of the road was barricaded by a police SUV and metal barriers. The driver of the second SUV rammed the front of the burning vehicle, attempting to push it to the side. The heavy vehicle didn’t budge.

The driver and the front passenger stepped out to remove the barriers. However, a gunman appeared at the window of a four-story apartment complex. He fired his rifle at the guards, and his rounds hit the driver in the back.

The front passenger turned his pistol at the gunman and fired a few rounds. One of them punched the gunman in the chest. He toppled over the windowsill and fell down head first.

A second gunman materialized in the next window. He aimed a rocket-propelled grenade launcher at the SUV. Before the front passenger or any other bodyguard could fire at him, he tapped the weapon’s trigger. The warhead screamed through the air and slammed into the hood of the second SUV. A flash of orange and yellow, and the explosion shattered the SUV’s windshield. The hood was blown apart, and flames began chewing at the vehicle.

Two of the bodyguards covering the president with their bodies opened fire at the second gunman. At least one of them planted a couple of bullets into his head, sending him backwards into the room.

Jack glanced at the officer kneeling next to him and tapped his shoulder, but then Jack’s phone rang. He thought it was Riley or Morgan, so he answered it before checking the screen. “Yes…”

“Jack, it’s ADS,” Bronia said in a hurried voice.

“Not a good time, Bronia. The president is under attack.” He looked at the officer, who gestured for them to move toward the president.

“I know, Jack. I’m close by. But it’s ADS, the military company is ADS.”

“What?”

“Yes. ADS stands for Advance Defense Systems. Beckett used to work for them.”

Jack nodded. “So they’re involved in the attack?”

“Yes. They’re working with the Yemenis.”

“How many?”

“Not sure, but estimates put the number of ADS contractors in Ottawa at about two dozen.”

Jack cursed out loud as the police officer grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to go,” he told Jack.

“Where are you?” he asked Bronia and gestured to the officer to give him one more minute.

“Two minutes away from the explosion site. We’re in a blue BMW.”

“Okay. We’re pinned down at the corner of Bank and Argyle. The bodyguards are moving the president east, toward O’Connor.”

“Why?”

“Safe location. Have to go now.”

“See you soon.”

The officer gestured at the president’s bodyguards rushing about thirty yards ahead of them. One of the four bodyguards was dragging his left leg behind him. Another one had been wounded; his left arm was hanging uselessly against his body.

More gunfire erupted from Bank Street, behind Jack and the officer, followed by a series of small-scale explosions. A new cloud of thick, white smoke began to fill the area, concealing Bank Street. Whoever was fighting with the bodyguards wanted to make sure they wouldn’t be able to protect the president.

Then, we will do it, Jack thought. “Let’s go,” he told the officer and cocked his head toward the burning SUV.

They ran in that direction, shouting, “Friendlies, friendlies,” and waving as they passed by the bodyguards. A couple of them were stretched on the ground, wounded. One was trying to attend to one of his comrades, who was bleeding profusely from a chest wound.

Jack shook his head as a volley came from his left. A couple of gunmen in light blue suits were firing at him, the police officers, and three other bodyguards running toward the president. Jack turned his rifle at the pair and fired a quick burst. He missed, but one of the bodyguards, who had been firing as well, struck one of the gunmen in the chest. The other gunman disappeared behind the corner of a brick house.

Jack and the officer covered all angles as they advanced toward the president. Only three bodyguards were shielding him now with their bodies and were ushering him as fast as possible away from the danger zone.

Jack caught a glimpse of the president’s face. He looked calm, unmoved by the raging chaos all around him. The president appeared annoyed by rather than afraid of the entire ordeal, unfazed regardless of his being at the very center of this maelstrom.

One of the bodyguards turned his submachine gun at the officer and Jack, but realized they presented no danger, so he lowered his weapon. Jack noticed three men appearing from behind one of the houses to the left. They were dressed in black pants and black jackets and were brandishing assault rifles, which they held muzzles down.

“Nine o’clock,” Jack said to the bodyguards and aimed his rifle at the three men. “Are they friendlies?”

One of the bodyguards—a blond-haired man wearing a felt coat—glanced at them. He studied their faces for a long moment, then nodded at Jack. “Yeah, man, they’re good guys.”

“Part of the security detail?”

“Sure thing.”

The other bodyguard looked at the gunmen, who were now about ten yards away. “They’re with us?” he asked doubtfully. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“Neither have I,” said the bodyguard with the wounded arm.

“They’re here to help; that’s all that matters,” the blond bodyguard shouted over the sound of bullets echoing all around them.

The second bodyguard shook his head. “I don’t think they—”

His words were cut off by a gunfire burst. One of the black-clad gunmen had aimed his rifle at the bodyguard and had tapped the trigger. The bullets thumped against the bodyguard’s chest and neck, causing him to drop down dead.

Jack too fired his rifle. A couple of his rounds pierced through the gunman’s body; the one who had killed the bodyguard. However, one of the other gunmen returned fire before Jack could turn his rifle at them.

Three rounds struck the lower and middle part of his chest, throwing him to the ground. He felt the copper taste of blood at the back of his throat as sharp pain shot through his back. The police officer too was caught in the burst of bullets, dropping next to Jack.

The blond bodyguard had already turned his submachine gun to his wounded partner. Before he could say or do anything, the blond fired a single round to the man’s temple. He folded next to the other dead bodyguard.

The blond bodyguard dragged the startled president away, further down Argyle Road. The two gunmen hurried to come to his assistance. As they turned their backs to Jack, he noticed the large, white letters stamped on their jackets. They formed a single word: ADS.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Argyle Street

Ottawa, Canada

“Jack, Jack, Jack!” Riley shouted.

Jack spat out blood and looked to his left. Riley was positioned behind a metal electrical box set next to a wooden pole. His rifle was aimed at the two ADS military contractors and the bodyguard hauling away the president. They were now about fifty yards away and jogging as fast as they could.

“I’m okay; I’m fine,” Jack shouted. His bulletproof vest had stopped the rounds, but stabbing pains shot across his chest. He gasped, the air rushing out of his lungs in a sharp wheeze. His lungs burned, and he wondered about internal bleeding. He spat out blood again and touched his chest, feeling the torn fabric of his jacket and vest. No blood, but the realization was cold comfort. His chest felt like it was on fire. How many ribs are cracked or broken? And where is the president?

He turned his head and saw the four men growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Jack reached for his rifle, which had fallen by his feet, and lifted himself up to his elbows. That move sent a ripple of pain through his body.

He winced and gritted his teeth. “Riley, come here. We need to save him!”

Riley dashed toward Jack, followed by a couple of bodyguards and two uniformed police officers. When Riley leaned over Jack, he said, “It’s ADS. The military company, it’s ADS. Two of them got to the president. There have to be others around for sure.”

The bodyguards gave Jack and Riley strange looks. “Who’s ADS?” one of them asked, a man in his forties with a grayish full beard.

“Military mercs. The worst kind,” Jack replied between shallow, painful gulps of breath. He leaned on Riley and climbed back to his feet. “Let’s extract the president before it’s too late.” He gestured with his hand toward the group, which was now about a hundred yards away, well down the street.

“Where are they taking him?” asked one of the uniformed officers, a short stocky man.

“Doesn’t matter.” Jack shook his head. “Let’s go.”

“Not without us,” a strong female voice came from the right.

Bronia, followed by Chernov and Rybakov, jogged from between two brick houses to their right. They were all dressed in dark pants and jackets.

“Who are you?” asked the bearded bodyguard and raised his rifle a couple of inches.

“We’re CIA.” Bronia waved an ID card she pulled out of her jacket pocket. “All of us. Now, let’s save our president, shall we?” She cocked her head at Jack and winked at him.

“Yes, let’s do this.” Jack gestured with his hand. “Consider all of them enemies. The bodyguard and the ADS goons. They killed two of the other bodyguards and the cop.” He cocked his head toward the man lying on the ground.

The bearded bodyguard nodded. “We saw them. We tried to open fire, but we were afraid we’d hit the president.”

“Yes, that’s still a problem,” said the other bodyguard, a man in his fifties with a bald, bullet-shaped head.

“We’re wasting time,” Jack said. “Shoot only if you have a clear shot.”

They spread out and began to run as fast as they could after the ADS gunmen and the bodyguard who had taken the president. They were now almost at the next intersection. Jack hoped there was no vehicle waiting for them on O’Connor Street. “Open fire, open fire,” he shouted at his team. “We can’t let them escape.”

Riley stopped and aimed his rifle. He fired a couple of rounds, off the mark, because he feared he might hit the president.

Bronia and the Russians also stopped and opened fire. Obviously, they were less concerned with the safety of the president. One or more of their rounds struck one of the ADS operatives, who was bringing up the rear. The other ADS gunman spun around and returned fire but missed.

Bronia and Chernov opened up again with quick bursts. They missed, perhaps on purpose, since the ADS mercenary was standing right in front of the president. Still, their volley slowed down the traitors.

Jack had moved to the edge of the sidewalk, advancing rapidly alongside the houses, using whatever the terrain offered for cover and concealment. The ADS operative fired a couple of rounds at Jack, but they struck the other side of a thick maple tree trunk that Jack was hiding behind. As four more bodyguards appeared on the road behind Jack, the ADS operative and the bodyguard standing next to the president turned their attention to them. This allowed Jack to move forward a few more yards and secure another position behind a yellow sedan parked on the side of the road.

Someone opened up from his right side. Bullets missed, but they hammered the side of the car, piercing holes inches away from him. Fragments of shattered glass fell over his head and neck.

One of the police officers across the street turned his rifle and fired at the shooter’s position. Another group of bodyguards and uniformed officers ran through the street behind Jack. He glanced over his shoulder just as a couple of explosions tore through the street. He couldn’t tell if they were explosive charges set in advance or if the attackers had thrown or fired grenades. Regardless, shrapnel shot through the street, cutting down the bodyguards and officers. A plume of dust and smoke began to veil the street.

Jack cursed out loud. These guys are unrelenting. How many more are there? He looked up ahead as the ADS operative and the last bodyguard shoved the president through the intersection and toward Jack’s left. He looked behind him and found Riley kneeling next to a wooden fence and street light on the other side of the street. “Riley, cover me.”

“Got it,” Riley replied.

He stepped out in the open and aimed his rifle at the last position where they had seen the president and the two kidnappers. Jack climbed to his feet, glanced to his left, and, when he was convinced that it was clear, raced toward the intersection. He kept his rifle ready to fire.

No one took shots at him, so he dropped next to another large gray electrical box when he came to the intersection. The ADS operative and the bodyguard had been joined by three other gunmen. They had surrounded the president and were half-dragging, half-pushing him through a park across O’Connor. Good. They’re not putting him into a car yet. We still have a chance of getting him.

He stood up just as bullets pounded the other side of the box. A shooter was lying next to a thick tree and was firing at Jack. He fell behind the box once again, making himself smaller and keeping his arms close to his body.

Riley ran alongside the house next to Jack’s left side and opened fire.

Jack also popped up and let out a long volley. His rounds stripped bark off the tree. At least one of the bullets struck the shooter, and the gunfire ceased.

At about the same time, two gunmen opened fire from Jack’s right side. They had just stepped out of a black SUV. ADS was stamped in large, white letters on the side and back.

Their bullets ripped into the electrical box, shredding metal and the wires inside. Sparks erupted, flying on all sides, like fireworks thrown recklessly. A violent surge of blue-white electricity arced outward, licking dangerously close to Jack’s arm.

He slid away as far as he could while still using as cover whatever was left from the tattered box. The sharp, acrid smell of burning insulation filled the air, stinging his nostrils.

Jack flinched as another bullet struck the box, sending a fresh torrent of sparks showering down like a hellish rainstorm.

He lay flat on his stomach on the narrow patch of grass by the box and crawled to the left. He aimed his rifle at one of the gunmen and fired a quick burst. At least one of his rounds struck the goon squarely in the chest. He crumpled against the SUV, then hit the pavement.

The second gunman hid behind the back of the SUV.

Jack kept his rifle aimed at the SUV.

The gunman didn’t appear for a few tense seconds.

Jack had closed his left eye and was looking through the carbine’s sights. He moved the rifle just a hair, aligning his sights with the front of the SUV.

When the gunman materialized by the SUV’s hood, Jack was ready. He squeezed the trigger, and the bullet found its mark, the head of the gunman. He spun violently and collapsed backward.

Jack waited for another long moment, then, when no other shots came from the SUV, he cocked his head at Riley. “Let’s advance, but be careful. There could be others lying in wait.”

“Where’s the president?”

“They’re moving him through the park.”

“Where to?”

“Not sure. Perhaps the museum.”

The Canadian Museum of Nature was right in the middle of the park. A huge banner advertised the Planet Ice exhibition, showing a sabretooth tiger facing off with a woolly mammoth.

“Obviously they’re not planning to kill him,” Riley said.

“Not right away. Maybe they want to force him to make a statement or record his killing.”

Riley frowned. “Yes, that would be humiliating to the US.”

“We can’t let that happen.”

He looked over his shoulder at Bronia and the two Russians advancing along the houses on the other side. He gestured for them to follow as Jack and Riley rushed across the street.

They entered the park without exchanging further gunfire. As they sped past the gunman lying next to the thick tree, Jack glanced at him. He looked Yemeni, but Jack couldn’t be certain. How many of these guys are terrorists? How many ADS? And how many more are out there?

The small group moving the president was now at the edge of the parking lot just outside the museum. Two gunmen spread out and secured positions behind a single red SUV parked there. The rest of the group—four or maybe five besides the president—advanced toward the museum’s steps leading to a side entrance.

Jack nodded to himself. It’s good the museum is closed. Otherwise, we’d have the extra complication of families with children and other visitors. He gestured at Riley, pointing out the gunmen, then cocked his head at Bronia and her team. They were running through the park, about twenty yards or so behind Jack and Riley, who were cutting through the grass lawns.

Jack was running close to an area landscaped with mulch and logs. As one of the shooters opened fire, Jack dove behind the nearest log. Riley did the same, stretching a few yards behind Jack.

Bronia and the Russians returned fire. The bullets hammered the side of the SUV. She planted a couple of rounds into one of the shooters.

Jack had aimed his rifle at the other side of the red SUV. He waited until the other shooter appeared, then sent a round right into the shooter’s head. “Parking lot’s clear,” he shouted, loud enough for Bronia and her team to hear him.

“Go, go, go.” Bronia waved her hand at Jack.

He looked at her, then caught a glimpse of someone running behind them. It was Morgan, dressed in a light blue jacket. Jack smiled. He was glad to see Morgan was doing well.

He got up and glanced at the museum’s entrance. The five-story stone building looked more like a castle. The beige-colored doors were thrown open. The president and the kidnappers had disappeared inside.

He gestured to Riley to advance along with him, then Jack bolted through the parking lot. He reached the entrance and took a cautious look inside. The hall was dimly lit, but empty, at least as far as he could see. He listened for a moment. Muffled sounds and rushed footsteps came from the distance.

Jack dashed inside as bullets zipped around him. He climbed a set of stairs then rolled onto the laminated floor as more bullets bore holes in the wall behind him. He slid next to a showcase displaying taxidermized mountain goats. A bullet snapped one of the nearest goat’s horns.

He returned fire, aiming at where he saw the muzzle flashes and the silhouettes of two men. One of them collapsed to one side; the other kept firing. Jack crawled a few feet to his right, hiding behind another stand.

A torrent of bullets shattered the glass stand. Parts of stuffed animals fell around him. Other bullets ricocheted off the floor. Jack turned his rifle at the shooter and fired a quick burst. The shooter dropped against the door, leaving it ajar.

Jack listened for a moment. Gunfire came from at least two different positions right outside the museum. Riley or Bronia were engaging whoever was attacking them.

Jack was hoping Riley would follow him inside the museum to cover his back and also double their impact. He shrugged, climbed to his feet, and charged through the hall. He rounded the corner, walked for a few steps, then went through another door and reached a wider, open hall. Glass exhibition stands were filled with all kinds of stuffed birds. Television screens and colorful information displays were placed around the stands.

About half-way through the hall, he saw the US president standing right in the middle and facing Jack. A middle-aged brunette woman stood right behind the president. The woman had a shoulder-length bob haircut and was dressed in a dark gray jacket, black sweater, and matching pants. She had pressed a pistol against the president’s temple.

The woman shook her head at Jack. “You’re persistent like cancer,” she shouted at Jack and frowned at him.

Jack recognized her voice. He glanced around, waiting for a gunman to either open fire or rush at him from the sides. It didn’t happen, but he couldn’t be certain someone was not hiding among the displays. He tried to calculate how many people had come inside the museum with the president. Are all of them dead? Others could have come here before. Like this woman. I didn’t see her coming. Who else is here? Where are they hiding?

“What did I tell you, Storm? The last time we chatted, what did I say? I said to stop interfering in something that is none of your business.”

Jack took a few steps toward her. He kept his rifle trained at her head. The woman was shifting her body weight from one leg to the other. Only about a quarter of her face was visible to Jack.

The president’s face had turned as pale as the winter moon. He was frozen with terror, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he had realized the end was near. The president gave Jack a glassy stare of raw, unfiltered fear.

“And do you remember what I told you that time?” Jack shouted back. “I said that I’d find you. And here we are. This is over.”

“Is it though?” The woman cocked her head at Jack.

“Yes. I know everything about what you’re doing. You’re with ADS, one of the top bosses.”

The woman let out a high-pitched forced laugh. “Try again, Storm. How about the only boss. Pandora Keller.” Her voice turned firm when she said her name.

“Okay, Keller. Why did you kidnap the president?” He took a couple of steps toward them.

“Stop, stop right there.” Keller held the president tighter to her and wrapped her left arm around his neck. Her right hand kept her pistol pressed to the president’s temple. She dragged him a few steps away from Jack. “Or I’ll kill him.”

“And then I’ll kill you,” Jack replied. “That’s not what you want.”

“That’s not what you want either. You want the president alive, right?”

“And I also want the truth. Why did you try to kill him, then kidnap him and bring him here? What’s your goal?”

Before Keller could reply, gunfire erupted from behind Jack. The gunshots were nearby. It sounded as if they came from the other hall from where Jack had entered the museum. One or more of Keller’s accomplices are firing at Riley or Bronia, stopping them from entering the museum. I need to be careful the gunmen don’t rush in here.

He stepped slightly to the side with his back against one of the glass stands, so that he could cover both sides of the hall. “Tell me,” he barked at Keller. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on, Storm. Our country, the great United States, is humiliated every day by scrappy, backwater, wannabe extremists. We are the world’s only superpower—the one who used to make even the Soviet Union shake in their boots—and now we’re weak and pathetic, because we have weak and pathetic politicians, like this useless bag of bones.” She tightened her grip around the president’s throat.

His eyes bulged, and his lips parted slightly. His whole body trembled, and Jack thought he’d scream, but it seemed the president couldn’t find the breath.

“This so-called ‘president’ and his cronies think the solution is to drop bombs on selective targets. Did anyone ever win a war without boots on the ground? But you are too cowardly to engage in a real war, aren’t you?” She grabbed him by the throat again and shook him.

Jack thought about firing a single round right into Keller’s face. But the risk of his failing to hit the target was too great. If he miscalculated by even a split second or missed by an inch, the president would be dead.

The president said nothing. He gulped for breath, shook his head, and gave Jack a pleading look.

“So you decided to do something, then?” Jack said. “Trick the Yemenis into attacking the president. If they failed, well, mission accomplished. That would clearly show the president the terrorists need to be destroyed. And if by some stroke of luck their mission succeeded, and they were able to kidnap the president, then the ADS would swoop in and save the day. That would definitely convince the president to declare a war…”

Keller smirked. “Something like that. But stubborn people like Knox, you, and your partner just couldn’t walk away. You had to stick your nose into my business. And for what? You really thought you could save the president?” A fake smile stretched her lips. “Well, here you are, Storm. End of the line. All your work for nothing. You’ll see with your own eyes as I blow his head off.”

“That’s not going to happen, Keller. Put that pistol down, and you will live.”

“Can’t do that, Storm. What will I get? Life in prison? Execution?” She shook her head. “So here you have three seconds to drop that rifle. One!”

Jack thought about his options. He couldn’t open fire; the chances of hitting the president were greater than hitting Keller. But he also couldn’t put down his weapon. Keller wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Jack and the president as well. It was clear that she wouldn’t allow him to live, not after witnessing his kidnapping and her confession.

“Two!”

Jack sighed. He listened for a moment as more gunshots rang from behind him. How can I turn this situation around? What can I do?

“Three! Time’s up, Storm. What will it be?”

Jack glanced at the president. His eyes were unfocused, giving Jack a blank stare. The president’s mouth hung slightly opened, the corners turned downward in a resigning frown. His head had dropped low, and his shoulders had slumped forward. His hands rested limply at his sides.

“Storm!” Keller yelled at the top of her lungs. “Last chance!”

“Fine, fine, okay, okay.” Jack began to lower his rifle. “I’m putting it down. Just don’t kill him. Don’t.”

“Do it. Now! Quickly.”

Jack put the rifle on the floor a couple of feet away from him.

“Kick it away. That way.” She cocked her head to the left.

Jack did as told.

“And your pistol.” Keller said, tipping her head toward Jack’s pistol in his waistband holster. “Toss it.”

Jack bent over slowly and slid his gun toward the rifle. As he did so, he thought he saw someone’s reflection on one of the glass stands. Jack flinched as his heart beat faster. Who’s that? An ADS operative? Or one of us?

As he stood up, Keller smirked at him. “There it is, Storm. The end. ‘E’ for effort, but not good enough.”

She aimed her pistol at Jack, who stood tall. His jaw was clenched, but there was a flicker of tension in his eyes. Keller could end his life with a single tap of her trigger. A bead of sweat traced its way down Jack’s forehead. Is this the end? Will I ever see Agnes, Vicky, again?

“Is life flashing in front of your eyes, Storm?” Keller asked in a mocking tone. “That’s what they say happens when someone’s about to die…”

Jack’s breathing was shallow. He thought about what he could do. Dive toward the guns, hoping she’ll miss? At that close distance, unless Keller was a horrible shot, she wouldn’t miss.

Keller’s pistol remained aimed at his head. “Goodbye, Storm!” she said and squeezed the trigger.

Jack jumped to the side as bullets struck him across the chest. He felt like he was hit with a sledgehammer. The second bullet stung the most, piercing the bulletproof vest with a sickening thud. His eyes widened in shock as he gasped for breath while searing pain surged through his chest. The tip of the bullet ripped into his chest muscles.

He clutched at his chest feeling the warm blood on his fingertips and gritted his teeth. Jack had no time to process fully what was going on. A third bullet cut into his left thigh.

Jack collapsed onto the museum’s floor as blood streamed down his chest and leg. He stifled a cry that escaped his lips and glanced at Keller, resigned to the fact she was about to deliver her fatal shot.

Keller, however, had turned her pistol to his left.

Someone fired from that direction. The bullet missed Keller, hitting one of the stands behind her and breaking its glass.

Keller squeezed off a quick burst. Her bullets shattered a large glass case filled with birds. At least two of the bullets struck Morgan in her right arm and chest. She dropped onto the floor among the glass pieces and feathers flying off the stuffed birds.

Keller turned her pistol at Jack, but he had already grabbed his. He double-tapped her in the chest. The bullets’ impact pushed her back, but Keller still tried to aim her pistol at Jack. He fired once again, planting a bullet right in the middle of her forehead.

Keller slumped backward, crumpling to the floor, lifeless.

Jack sighed as he glanced at the president. He was crouched low to one side, his body pressed against the floor. He was breathing heavily, while his wide, terrified eyes darted around.

“It’s okay, Mr. President,” Jack said in a warm, quiet voice. “It’s over now. She’s dead.”

The president turned his head and looked at Keller. Then his eyes shifted to Morgan, who was slumped against the broken stand. She was trying to get up to her feet, but the effort was proving to be too much for her.

“Morgan, you okay?” Jack called at her.

“I’m fine, Jack. You?”

He touched his chest and felt the sticky wetness of the blood staining his vest. “Eh, I should be okay.” He looked at his thigh. Blood was still oozing from the wound, and the stabbing, throbbing pain shot through his leg. “A couple of scratches.”

“You’re bleeding,” the president said in his booming voice. “You need help.”

Jack smiled at him. “How are you doing, sir?”

Before the president could reply, a couple of bodyguards rushed through the other side of the hall. “Drop the gun. And hands up. Both of you,” they shouted as they pointed their submachine guns at Jack and Morgan.

Jack placed his pistol on the floor. He wondered if these bodyguards were loyal to the president or working for ADS. They look legit, he thought, so he slid the pistol a couple of feet away.

“I’m okay; I’m fine,” the president told the bodyguards as they tried to lift him to his feet. “They’re wounded.” He gestured at Jack and Morgan. “They saved my life.”

The bodyguards gave the president and each other a look of confusion. “Sir?” said one of them. “They weren’t trying to kidnap you?”

“Or kill you?” asked the other.

“Of course not,” the president replied with a huff. “If it weren’t for them, I… I’d be dead now.”

Heavy footsteps came from behind Jack. The bodyguards turned their submachine guns in that direction, but Riley shouted, “Friendlies, friendlies. CIS and RCMP.”

He appeared in the hallway, followed by a couple of uniformed police officers.

The bodyguards lowered their weapons and remained huddled around the president.

Jack smiled when he saw Riley, who dashed at him. “Jack, you’re wounded. Let’s get you to a medic.”

Jack shrugged. “Just a scratch. The vest gave in as the bullet hit close to another round. But Keller,” he gestured toward the woman stretched on the floor, “the ADS boss, is dead. And the president is safe.”

Riley looked at the president, then his gaze went to Morgan. One of the bodyguards had just finished helping her up. Morgan thanked him, then made her way to Jack and Riley.

“How are you?” Riley asked. “Your arm…”

Morgan shrugged. “Flesh wound. Jack, on the other hand, got the worst of it.”

Jack tried to smile, but his face twisted in an expression of pain. His chest heaved, and he struggled to draw in a small breath. “I’m… uh, I’ll be okay.”

“Yes, let’s get both of you to a doctor.” Riley smiled at Morgan and nodded at Jack. “Our job here is done. It was a tough op, but ended up being a successful presidential extraction.”

Epilogue

Six Days Later

Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters

Ottawa, Canada

Jack winced as he looked at his metal crutches and his left leg. The bullet had missed his femur, but had caused considerable damage to his blood vessels. A surgeon had removed the bullet, and now Jack was looking at weeks of physical therapy to restore the leg’s mobility and function.

He drew in a series of shallow breaths, trying to calm down. His chest still burned. The bullet that had pierced his vest had entered the upper right side of his chest. It had torn through his skin and muscle tissue, but had stopped short of his lungs and heart. “Three more millimeters, and we’d have another conversation,” the surgeon had said. “Someone up there is clearly watching out over you.” Jack was stitched up, administered antibiotics, and had his chest wrapped up in tight bandages to minimize movement and aid healing.

The ache in his chest was a constant reminder of how close he’d come to death. There had been no signs of infection, and the sutures were holding well. Despite the healing progress, his strength hadn’t fully returned.

Jack was now sitting in the foyer outside the office of Mark Ward, Director-General of the Canadian Intelligence Service, along with Riley. They were supposed to meet with their boss Gilson and Ward for a debrief following the events related to the assassination attempt on the US president.

Riley noticed Jack’s facial expression, so he said, “Everything okay?”

Jack reached in his pocket for a bottle of Vicodin. “Yeah, just some pain.” He popped a couple of pills. “Not as painful as how this meeting could go…”

Riley shrugged. “Oh, this should be okay. After what happened with the president, Gilson and Ward aren’t going to make life difficult for us. They’d want to wrap this up and move on to something else. Considering this happened in Canada, under our watch, that should be another reason to want to…”

His voice trailed as their boss appeared at the end of the long hall. He was dressed in a brown felt coat and dark blue suit, with a white shirt and white-and-blue striped tie. A sleek black leather bag dangled casually from his hand as he strode forward with purpose.

When he was a few feet away, Gilson nodded at them. His face remained locked in a look of frustration. His forehead was creased, and his lips were pressed into a tight, thin line. His gaze held a distant, heavy quality, as though weighed down by unmet expectations.

“Good morning, boss,” Riley said in a cheerful tone.

“Morning,” Gilson replied in a hoarse tone.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” Jack said in a respectful tone.

Gilson flicked a sidelong gaze his way. “Storm,” was all he said in a dry voice.

Before anyone else could say anything, Ward’s door swung open. He stepped through it and looked at Gilson, before his eyes went to Jack and Riley. He nodded at them and said, “Good. Everyone’s here. Come in, come in.” He waved at them.

“Good morning, sir,” Gilson said in a pleasant tone. “How are you today?”

“If there are no other crises, today may turn out to be a good day,” he replied in a wary tone and stepped inside his office.

Jack struggled with his crutches, then walked in front of Riley.

“Why don’t you sit there?” Ward pointed at the rectangular walnut table close to the corner of his office as he spoke to Jack and Riley.

Jack nodded. He hobbled toward the nearest chair and looked around Ward’s office. His glass desk was across from the table and four floor-to-ceiling windows with splendid views of Ottawa’s skyline.

Riley sat to Jack’s right, while Gilson took a seat across from them.

Ward picked up a couple of manila folders and his tablet from his desk and walked to the table. He was in his early sixties with a confident look always stamped on his square, clean-shaven face. He had deep-set eyes, sharp and perceptive. Crow’s feet etched the corners of his brown eyes. Lines of wrinkles were carved on his forehead, which looked even broader because of his receding hairline.

“Okay, gentlemen, let’s get on with this,” Ward said in a slightly frustrated tone as he sat at the table and opened the top folder. “The assassination attempt. The Secret Service, the CIA, our agency and everyone else involved has completed their preliminary investigation. They’ve identified a series of failures, which were both foreseeable and preventable. Most of them don’t involve us, so we’re not going to deal with them.” He flipped a couple of pages. “As expected, there will be a detailed investigation by the United States Senate Committee on Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. A lot of blame will be placed on us, particularly, you,” he cocked his head toward Jack and Riley, “since you were on the scene. Unauthorized to be there.”

Gilson coughed. “In clear violation of a direct order,” he said in a gruff voice.

Jack nodded. “You’re right, sir. Both of you. However, if we hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have this problem of us, well, me disobeying orders. You’d have to deal with the problem of a president dead, no, assassinated under your watch.” He tried to keep his voice as calm as possible.

“Regardless of the result, Storm, that doesn’t remove your responsibility to obey orders, rules, and regulations we have in place.” Ward raised his right hand with the index finger pointed at Jack. “You were off this case, and you should have stayed away from it. However, you actively investigated, causing a lot of problems. And because the final result happened to be positive, that didn’t happen all because of you. A lot of people, brave people, fought and died to save the president’s life.”

Jack opened his mouth to respond, but Ward stopped him by wagging a finger. “All intelligence about the attackers, Yemeni terrorists or ADS contractors, should have been channeled properly through Gilson, through the agency. But, in clear violation of direct orders, you decided to run your own private war.” Ward shook his head. “We can’t have that in our agency.” His voice took on a somber tone.

Jack frowned. He realized what was happening. Ward and Gilson were throwing him under the bus, blaming him for the agency’s failures to carry out a proper investigation. “I think you’re conveniently forgetting about Vance, and how he withheld intelligence and undermined the investigation. He betrayed our agency, working along with Beckett. And you’re overlooking the fact that this was a deep-seated, multilayered conspiracy—”

Ward waved a dismissive hand. “We’ll review everything in great detail, Storm, so that we can clearly determine the role you played. But for now, we’re focusing on what we already know and has been confirmed. Like your involvement with the SVR, the Russian foreign intelligence service.” Ward’s eyebrows shot up, and he heaved a big, audible, dramatic sigh. “The Russians, Storm. Our sworn enemies. You invite them on a joint operation, and they’re firing weapons and killing—or risking the killing of—civilians in our streets. What were you thinking, Storm?”

Jack shrugged. “I was thinking about saving the president’s life rather than optics. Since I had been kicked out of my own agency, Bronia—I mean Agent Antonova—was the best of the available options. I heard that the president is considering her for a medal, considering it was the SVR that discovered the role of the ADS in the assassination conspiracy. And the Russian operatives fought tooth and nail until the very end.”

Ward rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan. “The Yankees can give her whatever they want. They’re still Russians, enemies, who can’t be trusted. The SVR’s involvement should have been discussed—or at least Gilson should have been informed about that possibility. Instead, you fed your boss lies, or, at the very least, half-truths.” Ward cocked his head toward Gilson.

Gilson narrowed his eyes at Jack and gave him a cold gaze. A smirk stretched the boss’s frowning face as he leaned forward. It looked like he was about to pounce on Jack at any moment.

Jack shrugged. “All I can say is that if it were not for me, Riley, and Morgan—I mean Secret Service Agent Knox—as well as Agent Antonova and her team, the president would be dead. Whether I disobeyed some orders or broke some rules in the process, that’s another matter—”

“Yeah, we heard you the first time,” Ward interjected in a loud, angry voice. “But in this meeting, we’re focusing solely on yours and Booker’s responsibility in this fiasco. What happened at the end, the results that could be attributed to luck or to other circumstances beyond yours, or anyone’s, control, do not change the hard, cold facts of your blatant and reckless disobedience, Storm.”

He pounded the second folder with a clenched fist. “All your violations are listed here, grave violations and misconduct. Internal Affairs will do their job, a thorough job investigating your role in this mess. But, as you can see, the results aren’t going to be good, favorable to your career in the service.” He spoke slowly, stressing the words “favorable” and “career” more than necessary.

Jack shrugged. He had anticipated that course of action and was prepared for it. He opened a folder he was holding in his hand and pulled out a white, standard-size envelope. “My request for an extended leave without pay. Article 25 of the collective agreement. Care and nurturing of pre-school age children. Starting immediately.” He slid it toward Ward.

The Director-General blinked back his surprise and looked at Gilson, who returned a shrug and a headshake. Ward coughed and drew in a deep breath as he seemed to be at loss for words. He took another moment to think of his reply and said, “That doesn’t release you from your responsibility, Storm. And you’ll have to be available for all IA questioning and inquiries.”

Jack nodded. His lips stretched to form a polite smile. “Of course, sir. I’m not leaving the agency, not of my own will. I’m just taking some time off to be with my family, my daughter. I need to care for them.”

Ward returned the nod, but the glare remained on his face. “By all means. We’ll respect all contractual obligations, and you’ll sort this out with HR.” He put the envelope to one side. “But this matter isn’t over. In fact, it has just started.”

“Yes, we’ll see how the IA investigation goes,” Jack said, but his voice didn’t have a lot of confidence. More often than not, Internal Affairs sided with the big bosses. Unless there was a special set of circumstances, which Jack hoped was the case here.

“Okay, well, then we’ve handled your involvement here, Storm. Booker, you had your own assessment with Gilson.” Ward shifted in his chair to face Riley. “Your situation, albeit similar to Storm’s to a certain degree, was determined to be less outrageous. You’ll still be working with the agency, but under tight supervision. Any insubordinate behavior will be immediately and thoroughly investigated and punished. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Very clear, sir,” Riley said in a warm voice, eager to end this conversation before it had even started.

“Good. We have at least one operative who listens to their bosses.” He looked at Jack.

Jack ignored the jab and didn’t take the bait. He kept his poker face on, then glanced down at his folder as if there was something more important there than Ward’s grinning mug.

“Now, a couple more things about the president’s assassination attempt.” Ward pointed at one of the pages in his report. “The explosion that disabled the president’s limo was military grade C-4. Not sure about the amount, but a few pounds. It was placed right under a manhole in the street.”

Jack nodded. He had guessed it right.

Ward continued as he glanced at the report, “The explosive charges were fitted with ball bearings for added lethality. The detonation was triggered by a wired blasting cap, which ensured precise timing and control. A terrorist’s body was found inside the shaft leading to the manhole. Apparently, it was a suicide bomber.”

Riley shook his head. “You can have the most sophisticated million-dollar jamming devices and trucks, and it all fails when faced with the sheer stubbornness of human beings.”

“Nothing can guarantee full protection,” Gilson said in a worried tone. “A handful of determined jihadists, who disregard their own lives, can threaten even the most powerful figure in the world.”

Jack nodded again. “Yes, but these terrorists had help from ADS. They secured them the C-4, I’m sure, besides logistics, as well as weapons and other ground support. If the Yemenis were operating on their own, without traitors embedded inside agencies designed to protect the president, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“True,” Ward said. “That’s why domestic terrorists are worse than foreign ones. And we need to remember that about our own country.” He flipped through another page of the report. “A total of fifteen terrorists were killed, while three are gravely wounded. Hopefully, we’ll get some information from the wounded, provided they heal.”

“What about ADS operatives?” Riley asked.

“At least a dozen. Of course, the company is on fierce damage control, claiming the CEO, Keller, had gone rogue, along with Beckett and a number of contractors. Their actions by no means reflect the company’s position and policy. But, of course, the ADS is doomed.”

Jack shook his head. “They’ll restructure under a different name, or split up into a number of companies. As long as the world needs them, mercenaries will never die.”

Ward tilted his head to the left and closed the folder. “That doesn’t involve us, so I’m not worried about it. As far as the CIS is concerned, that part of this whole mess is over. We’ll have to deal with our own, partial responsibility. The role Vance played, his negligence, and so on. But not right now, not here.”

Gilson gave Ward a strong nod.

Jack felt that Ward and Gilson were planning to place most, if not all, blame on Vance. I’ll be next, most likely. But it doesn’t matter what they say. The president is safe. That’s all that matters.

Ward leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s about all, Storm. Anything you want to say about anything?”

Jack thought about it for a brief second. He had a lot of questions and wanted to give Ward and Gilson a few parting thoughts but decided it was a waste of his breath. His words would fall on deaf ears. So he shrugged, shook his head, and said, “No. It’s all clear what’s going on,” but his voice was still loaded with tension.

“Fine, good,” Ward replied in the same tone. “Enjoy your break, but remain available for the IA team.”

“By all means.”

Ward pushed back his chair and stood up. “That’s it, Storm. Good luck with… uh, your family and whatever else you’ll be doing…” He didn’t offer to shake Jack’s hand, and there was not an ounce of warmth or sincerity in his voice.

“Ward. Gilson,” Jack said in a cold voice and headed toward the door with Riley in tow, their departing footsteps and Jack’s crutches echoing against the marble floor.

Halfway down the hall, Riley turned to Jack. “I’m sorry about how that went. What they’re doing to you, it’s not right.”

“It’s okay,” Jack said, but his voice indicated it wasn’t okay. “I knew it was coming. They’re right, to some degree. I could have… should have handled this differently, better… maybe. But it’s done now. No sense crying over spilled milk.” He glanced at his phone. “I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Where are you meeting Agnes and Victoria?”

“Belize City. Then, we’re going to Ambergris Caye for a few days.”

“Wow, it’s a lovely place. They’ll enjoy snorkeling with the rays and the sharks.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “I hope so. I need to be with them, be the husband and the father they deserve. I’ve neglected my responsibilities for too long.” His voice had turned quiet and low.

“But now you’re going to fix it all.” Riley gave Jack a reassuring tap on the arm. “You’ll be there to give them everything they need.”

Jack nodded.

Riley’s phone buzzed with the arrival of a text message. He smiled as he glanced at the screen.

“Your girlfriend?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. Let me type her a quick reply to tell her the meeting went well.”

His fingers danced on the small keyboard. Riley and his girlfriend had worked out their differences and had decided to give their relationship another chance.

A few seconds later, Riley stepped closer to Jack. “Now, one last thing before I let you go: Bronia.”

A slight frown began to crease Jack’s face. “What about Bronia?”

“How did you leave things with her?” he whispered.

Jack looked around. The hall was empty, but a couple of security cameras were mounted near the ceiling covering both sides of the hall. He wasn’t sure if someone could use that footage to read his lips or hear whatever he was saying, even if he was whispering it, but he wanted to take no chances. “Not here.” He shook his head at Riley. “Let’s step outside.”

“Okay.”

They took the elevator down the four flights of stairs without exchanging another word and left the agency’s headquarters through a side door. When they were at a distance of about thirty yards or so from the nearest camera fastened to the outside wall of the glass-and-steel building, they stopped and turned to face each other.

Jack said, “Bronia called me this morning. She pled my case with her SVR superiors in Moscow. Good news: They seemed to have agreed that I’m free and clear and don’t owe the SVR anything.”

Riley peered at Jack. “Seemed being the operative word…”

Jack nodded. “I asked her about that. She said there’s a slight chance the big boss in the Kremlin will not accept that, but, for now, it’s good news.”

Riley nodded slowly. “And what will you do if she calls with bad news?”

Jack drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m not thinking about that right now, Riley. I’ll worry about it if it happens.” He almost said “when,” instead of “if.” He really hoped that was the end of it, and that the SVR wouldn’t come back asking for one more favor.

“I hope it doesn’t, my friend.” Riley smiled at Jack. “Now, come here.” He pulled Jack closer for a tight embrace.

When Jack broke it, Riley looked at Jack and said, “Now, go, so you don’t miss that flight. Say ‘Hi’ to Agnes and Victoria from me and have a fantastic time with them.”

“Thanks, buddy. I will.”

“And if you need anything, whatever it is, just call me.”

“I will do that, for sure.”

“And I hope to see you soon.”

Jack nodded and smiled. “It would be great to be back.”

THE END

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Chapter One

Outside the Excelsior Hotel

Toronto, Canada

Xavier Saint pivoted left and right as he carefully observed every face in the crowd. About fifty people had gathered in front of the Excelsior Hotel downtown Toronto to catch a glimpse of Saint’s protectee. The crowd was screaming and shouting, pushing and swaying. A handful of hotel security employees were trying to keep them at bay, beyond the barriers along the red carpet leading up the stairs.

Saint looked at the armored black Land Rover behind him. Tiffany Glock, a B-list rapper, celebrity, and influencer, was ready to step out of the SUV. As soon as she got out, the attention of the whole crowd would focus on her.

Glock loved attention. She’d approach the people, wave at them, sign autographs, take selfies. Nothing wrong with being adored and loved by fans. However, when Glock was surrounded by the crowd, it became so much more difficult for Saint to protect her.

This was his second day on the job, and he didn’t want to mess it up. The pay wasn’t great, but it beat working as a mall cop or a security guard. Saint had gone through seven such jobs in as many weeks and had dreaded every second. He felt he was wasting his skills and abilities. But he wasn’t ready to return to the field. Not yet. Not after what had happened during his last tour of duty in Afghanistan.

He scanned the ever-changing crowd for another brief moment, then looked at the driver. He gave him an impatient shrug and jerked his head toward the back. Before Saint could get closer to the rear door, Glock pushed it open.

The crowd roared with excitement. Flashes from phones and cameras blinded Saint. Hands reached forward, trying to touch Glock. People cheered and hollered from all sides, calling her name.

Glock stopped and waved at the crowd. She posed for pictures, flicking her long, bottle-blonde hair over her shoulder. She looked gorgeous in her red V-neck maxi dress with a thigh-high slit. She smiled and blew kisses to the crowd.

Saint’s attention was focused on the crowd. So many people, so many hands. If one of them produced a knife or a pistol, he would have only a split second to stop the attack. If he saw it in time, and if he was lucky.

The second bodyguard was standing on the other side of Glock. He stepped closer to her and whispered something in her ear. Saint couldn’t hear anything because of the crowd’s noise, but Glock shook her head. She turned around and walked closer to the crowd.

Saint pursed his lips and took a couple of steps forward. He was now standing within arm’s reach of the crowd. His eyes searched the faces and the hands of the nearest people. Just phones and a couple of cameras. But even those could be used as weapons. If someone threw a phone at Glock and struck her in the face, she could be seriously injured. And Saint would lose his job.

Glock was now very close to the crowd.

Dangerously close.

A couple of fans stretched their necks, trying to take a selfie with Glock. She obliged and got into the frame. One of the fans wrapped her arm around Glock’s back.

Saint didn’t like it, but he had been trained not to intervene. “That’s acceptable,” Glock’s agent had told Saint. “She loves the attention from her fans.”

Saint bit his lip. She’s getting too close.

And then it happened.

A bearded man in his thirties moved from behind the two adoring fans. He had something in his clenched fist, something white.

Saint stepped closer, but he was too far away to stop it.

The fan reached with his hand and smashed the egg onto Glock’s head. She screamed in terror as the yolk and egg white seeped down her hair. The fan stepped back, but before he could disappear into the crowd, Saint grabbed a hold of him. Saint also pulled out his Sig pistol and held it low.

The man tried to push Saint away, but Saint’s grip held tight.

A few of the fans noticed the gun and stepped back, shrieking in fear.

Glock had stopped screaming. The driver had stepped out of the vehicle and helped her climb back inside the SUV. One of the hotel security guards and the second bodyguard dashed toward Saint. Before he could say anything, the second bodyguard, who was also Saint’s best friend, ordered, “Let him go. And put that gun away. There’s no danger here.”

“What?” Saint gave the bodyguard a startled look. “He assaulted her.”

“Just let him go. I’ll explain later.”

“He may be working with someone else. We should hand him to the police and look for an accomplice.”

The man’s face turned ashen. His lip and chin began to tremble. He writhed and turned, striving to free himself, but it didn’t work.

“Just let him go. Now!” the bodyguard shouted. “Got it?”

“No, I don’t get it.”

A second security guard had also approached the scene. Both guards were ready to climb over the barricade and drag the man into custody.

The bodyguard sighed. He leaned closer to Saint and said in his ear, “This is all a set-up.”

“What?” Saint asked in disbelief. “This is all planned?”

“Yes, for media attention. He didn’t hurt Glock. She’ll go up to her hotel room and change her hair extensions. She’ll be fine.”

Saint blinked in surprise and looked at the bodyguard. “Why?”

“Publicity. Glock is launching a new hair product line. What better way to promote it?”

Saint shook his head. He didn’t like being left in the dark. “It would have been nice to know about this stunt,” he said through his teeth and let go of the bearded man.

“Put the gun away before you scare them all off,” the bodyguard continued. “And about telling you, that’s not my decision. That’s Glock’s.”

Saint nodded. “Yes, we’ll have a chat about that. She’ll have to tell me what’s going on if I’m to protect her.”

Chapter Two

Penthouse Suite

Excelsior Hotel

Toronto, Canada

“No, Saint, I don’t have to tell you nothing, diddly jack squat, nada, zilch, capiche?” Glock blurted out and snapped her fingers at Saint.

Saint shrugged. He didn’t want to correct her. He didn’t like being yelled at, especially when he was doing his job. But Glock was his boss. She could have a shallow personality and maybe even be dumb, but she was still worth north of five million dollars. Saint didn’t have five million dollars. He might never see five million dollars even if he worked as a bodyguard until he turned a hundred, if the good Lord blessed him with such a long life.

“I tell you what you need to do, and you just do it,” Glock continued, wagging a finger in Saint’s face. “Do you understand me, mister?”

Saint shrugged again. He gave Glock an intense look. “I was just trying to protect you—”

“Protect me from my fans? Huh? Really? They love me. They want me. They adore me. I don’t need protection from them. I need protection from weirdos who want to hurt me,” she said in a high-pitched tone that made her sound like a Valley girl.

“Who could also be your fans,” Saint offered, then realized it wasn’t necessary.

Glock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be smart with me, Saint, or I’ll fire you.”

Please do, he was tempted to say but then remembered the heap of unpaid bills and the dozens of text messages and calls from debt collectors. He was a few days away from eviction. He couldn’t afford to lose this job.

“So what was that scene with your gun, threatening one of my fans?”

“The man assaulted you, Ms. Glock,” Saint said respectfully. “I was just trying to—”

She cut him off with a dismissive handwave. “Yes, protect me. You told me that, and I told you that I don’t need protection from my fans. Is that clear now?”

Saint nodded. “It’s very clear.”

“Very well, then. You can go now.” She waved her hand again. “I’ll be inside the hotel now, so I don’t need you anymore.” She turned around and dropped her dress slightly in such a way as to reveal one of her bare shoulders. “Unless you want to hang around and spread some lotion on my back,” she added in a playful tone.

“Uh… I… I don’t think that’s part of my job description,” Saint replied in a firm tone.

Glock turned around and batted her eyes at him. She licked her lips and gave him a pouty smile. “Part of your job description is to do whatever I ask you to do. After all, you’re my Saint,” she spoke in a flirtatious voice.

Saint looked away and said nothing.

“Oh, you look so cute when you blush,” Glock said and turned around again. “Have a good evening now, Saint. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

Saint sighed while Glock walked into the next room.

He shrugged and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window offering a fantastic view of Toronto’s cityscape. Skyscrapers were all lit up. Saint thought about his meager apartment on the other side of town. It’s going to take me an hour to get there, if there’s not much traffic. But I’m glad to be out of here. She can deal with her mess on her own.

When he stepped into the hall, he ran into the other bodyguard. He gave Saint a concerned look and asked in a worried tone, “How did it go?”

“It went.”

“Do you still have your job?”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“Oh, don’t say that, bro. It’s a good job. You just need to chillax.”

“Chillax when our protectee is under attack?”

“An egg as part of a publicity stunt. Nothing to worry about.”

Saint stepped very close to the bodyguard, who was a couple of inches taller than Saint, who stood at five-foot-ten. Saint’s blond hair came down to the nape of his neck. He usually had a full beard, unless he grew tired of it and shaved it off or cut it down to stubble. He had a muscular body because of his long hours spent at the gym. He ran seven miles each day, and never missed a day, unless he was sick. “Well, next time could be pepper spray or a knife. How would I know it’s not a stunt until they cut her pretty face?”

“She’ll tell us.”

“No, she’ll tell you.”

The bodyguard shrugged but said nothing.

Saint said, “She gave me the night off. She’ll be at the hotel, so she doesn’t need me. You, I guess, you’re stuck with her.”

The bodyguard frowned. “I’m not stuck. I love what I’m doing.”

“Good for you.” Saint walked away.

He took the stairs down the four floors, then left through one of the side doors. His Mazda sedan was parked about ten blocks south at one of the cheap parking lots he could afford. His friend was supposed to drive him there at the end of their shift, which usually ended when Glock told them her partying was over.

He thought about taking the bus, but then decided against it. He’d walk to save a couple of dollars, get some fresh air, and clear his mind. The night was cool, and the air was crisp and fresh. Saint zipped his gray windbreaker and pulled up its collar. He stuffed his hands into the jacket’s pockets and began to walk at a fast pace.

His mind went back to the events earlier that evening. He had overreacted by pulling his gun, but in his line of work a second’s delay meant the difference between success and failure, between life and death. I just… I don’t think I can do this anymore.

He had grown tired of dealing with celebrities and socialites that contributed nothing beneficial to society and treated him like he was an inconvenience. But Saint wasn’t the office type to sit behind a desk and stare at a computer for eight hours. His talents and skills were of a different kind.

He had been trained to kill.

First, Saint had graduated from the Canadian Forces School of Military Intelligence at the top of his class. He had received advanced training in weapons handling, field craft, and insertion and exfiltration tactics and strategies. Then, he spent four years serving as an intelligence operator with the Canadian Army Intelligence Regiment. His job consisted of assignments to some of the most volatile corners of the globe. Saint was often dispatched to develop and handle sources, secure sensitive intelligence, and assess and neutralize threats to his country. In short, Saint was a spy with a license to kill.

Then came Afghanistan and his fall from grace. He had left the army with an honorable discharge, but his bosses had made it clear that his days in the service were over. No one liked a “rogue operative,” as they had nicknamed him. It was one of the mildest terms they had used. His file included several warnings, where Saint had been called “rebellious; having continuous problems with authority and trouble in following clear and direct orders.” I’m not following orders that violate my conscience or simple human decency. We’re not in this country to become butchers; otherwise, we’re no better than our enemy. His bosses had thought otherwise and had shown him the door.

Saint sighed as he thought of his future. He had toyed with the idea of becoming a private military contractor. The pay was good, and the risk level was acceptable. However, Saint had grown disillusioned with large corporations and organizations. He didn’t want to be tied down to an agency or even a boss. If there was a way that I could work for myself. Accept only those assignments I want, the ones I care about. Like a private detective, something like that, but different.

He came to an intersection with sparse traffic. He didn’t wait for the light to turn green but sped across the street. He had come to what some considered a bad part of the city, but Saint didn’t worry a bit. The Sig pistol was inside his shoulder holster. Plus, even the roughest parts of Toronto didn’t compare to the shantytowns of Cambodia or the outskirts of Damascus.

Saint had just entered a dark, narrow street behind a three-story apartment building when he heard a female voice. The woman was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Chapter Three

Downtown Toronto

Canada

Instinctively, Saint pulled out his pistol. It was already loaded and cocked, so he aimed it to the right, in the direction of the sound. He hastened his pace.

Another scream, followed by the rough voices of two men.

Saint entered the narrow alley. About twenty steps away, near a faint streetlight, three young men had surrounded a young woman. She was standing near a white sedan and was swinging her purse, trying to fend them off.

Saint thought about just shooting them, but he didn’t want the headache of dealing with the police. This was softhearted, liberal Canada, where criminals had more rights than victims. He’d be arrested and charged with homicide regardless of the fact that he was trying to protect a woman from being assaulted.

So he stepped closer to the light and pointed his pistol at them. “Let her go,” he said in a firm, confident voice.

Two of the young men turned their heads at Saint. They were in their early twenties, clean-shaven, and dressed in jeans and t-shirts. Young thugs looking for an easy score.

One of the thugs gave Saint a sideways glance. “Or what? You’ll shoot us?”

“If I have to,” Saint replied and closed the distance between them. He was now about ten feet away from them.

The third man, who hadn’t been paying any attention to Saint, grabbed the woman’s purse. She didn’t let go, so he pulled it and the woman along with it. He stepped behind her and wrapped his hand around her throat. Then he looked at Saint and shouted, “Throw that gun away, or I’ll snap her neck.”

Saint studied the man’s eyes. Rage and desperation were visible in them. He couldn’t afford to let the man hurt the innocent woman. Against his better judgment, he lowered the pistol and decocked it. “Fine, fine. Now let her go.”

“Throw it away,” one of the other men yelled at Saint.

He put his pistol down on the asphalt, then stood up.

“Not so tough now, without your gun,” said the man who hadn’t spoken so far.

“Let. Her. Go,” Saint ordered, getting close to the end of his patience.

“Don’t think so. And you can’t do nothing about that.” The man brought the woman closer to him.

Saint shook his head. Stupid punks.

He raised his arms in the standard boxing position and advanced toward them.

One of the men pulled out a knife from the small of his back. The sharp blade glistened in the streetlight. “I’m gonna cut you real good.”

He rushed toward Saint and attacked with a swift, straight stab. Saint stepped to the side and grabbed the man’s wrist. He twisted it hard, and the man screamed in pain. The knife dropped to the ground.

Saint punched the man in the throat. He folded over as Saint finished him with a knee to the stomach. The man was out of the fight, at least for a while.

His partner drew out a knife as well, but he was less eager to attack. He tossed the knife from his left hand to his right, then waved it in front of Saint’s face.

“Come on, juggler,” Saint said. “Do your thing…”

The man stepped forward, attacking with a circular swing. Saint stepped back, beyond the reach of the knife. Its serrated blade cut through the air a couple of inches away from his nose. As the attacker tried to bring his hand back, Saint blocked him with his left forearm. He used his right fist to punch the man in the nose. The crunching of bones, the gushing blood, and the man’s squealing in pain told Saint the man’s nose was broken.

Saint punched the man in the stomach a couple of times, then kicked hard at his left knee. The man’s legs wobbled, and he collapsed to the side.

“Your turn.” Saint invited the third man with a come-on gesture. “Come to the party.” He marched toward the man standing next to the sedan.

The man cowered behind the woman. “Stay back, back, or I’ll kill her.”

Saint locked eyes with the woman. He nodded at her slowly. The woman returned an almost imperceptible nod. Then, Saint cocked his head to the left and brought it down. “Now!” he shouted.

The woman tried to untangle from the man’s grip. She was unsuccessful, but her maneuver was enough to split his attention. Saint crossed the four-foot distance and punched the man in the left eye. He screamed in agony and let go of the woman.

Saint kicked him hard in the side, then threw a left hook that caught the man under his jaw. His head snapped backward and to the side, and he leaned against the sedan for balance. Saint grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, twisted him around, and threw him against the car. His head smashed through the rear door window, shattering it.

He turned toward the woman, who had collected her purse and was running away. “You’re… you’re welcome,” he said in a low voice.

He sighed and looked around. It’s Saturday evening. He snorted. Let’s get home before they’re back to their senses and want a second serving of butt-whipping…

Chapter Four

Downtown Toronto

Canada

About an hour later, Saint parked on the street outside the entrance to his apartment building. He stepped out of the car and looked around. A black Ford SUV was parked across the entrance. The SUV’s headlights were on, and they flickered twice. The driver was sending a signal to someone.

But to whom?

Saint cast a sweeping gaze but didn’t see anyone on the street or the park to the side. He looked at the windows of the other apartment building. A few lights were still on, but he noticed no silhouettes. Unless someone is looking from a dark window. Or is he signaling at me?

The last thought gave him pause. His hand hovered over the pistol in his shoulder holster. He thought about the three thugs he had given a good beating. He shook his head. They didn’t follow me. They wouldn’t know where I live. So who is this guy?

He didn’t have to wonder much longer because the driver’s window rolled down. A man stuck his head out and called, “Mr. Saint. Can you come here for a moment?”

The man’s strong voice had a tinge of arrogance that Saint didn’t appreciate. Still, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the man knew his name. Saint kept his hand inside his jacket, right over his pistol, as he moved toward the SUV. When he was about ten feet away, he asked, “Who are you?”

The driver didn’t reply.

The window behind him slid quietly down, and a man’s hand shot out. He was wearing a black suit and a white shirt. The hand made a come-here sign.

Saint stopped. “Who are you?” he asked again, in a louder, firmer tone.

“I have a business proposal for you,” the man spoke slowly and clearly. “Give me five minutes of your time,” he added in a tone that left no room for objections.

“Are you cops?” Saint asked.

“No. Not law enforcement of any kind.”

“Intelligence agencies? CSIS?” Saint said, referring to the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, which was Canada’s main intelligence agency.

“No. I told you: We don’t work for the government. We’re private contractors.”

Saint shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”

A white envelope appeared at the window. “Five hundred dollars, Saint, for five minutes of your time.”

Saint snorted. “A very important proposal.”

“Life-changing. Come here.” The man again invited Saint with a hand gesture.

Saint pondered his options. He didn’t like the setup, especially after the altercation with the thugs earlier that night. He didn’t know these people and had no idea who or what was waiting for him inside the SUV. He was curious about the proposal, and he definitely needed the five hundred dollars, if truly there was money inside the envelope. That would be the easiest money I’ve ever made. Or this could be an ambush, and I could be dead in an instant.

He shook his head. “How about we take a walk?”

The man didn’t reply right away.

Saint wondered if they’d drive away, but just then, the back door opened. The man stepped out. He was in his fifties, with a head full of close-cropped white hair. The man had a salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee. He was well-built but perhaps about twenty pounds overweight. He buttoned his jacket, then walked toward Saint. “Since you insist,” he said in an unhappy voice.

The white envelope was sticking out of one of his jacket’s pockets. He gave it to Saint, then offered his hand. “The name’s Will Norris. You can call me Mr. Norris, and I’ll call you Mr. Saint.”

Saint took the envelope but didn’t look inside. His eyes never left Norris’s face. The man’s small gray eyes made Saint feel tense and uneasy. He shook Norris’s hand, then folded the envelope and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Not counting it?” Norris asked.

“I trust you.”

“That easily?”

“You wouldn’t offer me Monopoly money now, would you?”

“Touché. Which way do you want to walk?”

“To the park.” Saint gestured with his right hand. “Your five minutes have started.”

Norris grinned. “Mr. Saint, never a man to waste time on chit-chat. I’ll get right on to the point then. I work for a company that is better left unnamed—”

“Why?” Saint cut him off.

Norris stopped. “You’ll understand if you don’t interrupt me,” he said in a gruff tone before he resumed walking. “We’re in the business of making this world a better place. Our approach is simple: We eliminate bad people.”

It was Saint’s turn to stop. “You kill people? Assassinate them?”

Norris nodded. “Yes. But only people who deserve it. People who have escaped justice for all sorts of reasons. Police errors. Court mistakes. Governments looking the other way. Corruption. Blackmail.”

“Who decides who deserves to die?”

“You do.”

Saint gave Norris a puzzled look. “Explain that.”

“We give you the name and the evidence. The person whose number has come up. You review the file and decide if you want to do the job.”

“And if I say no?”

“You don’t get paid.”

“What happens to that person?”

“None of your concern. You go your merry way and wait for the next number. It’s like a taxi service: If you like the customer, you pick him up. If you don’t, you drive away.”

Saint stepped up as they reached the sidewalk. “Where do you operate?”

“Wherever there’s a need.”

“In this country?”

“And outside. There’s a lot of money in this business, Mr. Saint, and you’ll be a great asset to our company.”

Saint held Norris’s eyes, which flashed with admiration. Before Saint could say anything, Norris added, “We know all about you and your stellar record, both here at home and abroad. And we’ve been following your career, well, if we can call what you do now a career, no offense…” He waved his hand toward Saint.

Saint shrugged. “None taken.”

“After you left the army, everything went downhill. Afghanistan was such a shame.”

A line appeared between Saint’s brows. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Neither do I. Only brought it up to highlight your wasted talent. You’re made to do something different, better, for yourself and for this world.”

“I do honest work, which pays the bills.”

“No doubt about it.” Norris nodded. “But you can do so much more. You have the skills, but that’s not all. Skills can be taught. You have the heart, my friend.” Norris stopped and placed his hand on his chest. He turned toward Saint so they could face each other. “You have the heart.”

“The heart?” Saint raised an eyebrow. “How do you know that?”

“What happened tonight. The damsel in distress and the three wolves.”

Saint’s facial muscles tensed. He peered deep into Norris’s eyes. “That was… you were behind that?”

“A test, as much for you as for us. A test of your resolve and of your heart. You do want to live in a better place, Mr. Saint, right? You do want to make this world a little better, safer. Am I right?”

“But at what cost?”

“The bad people have it coming. They’ve committed atrocities, killed innocents, and neglected the poor and the powerless. No one will be sorry when they leave this world; instead, people will cheer and applaud, if they knew.” Norris lowered his voice. “In case it wasn’t clear, discretion is of utmost importance in our business.”

Saint nodded. “It goes without saying.”

He looked over his shoulder and noticed the Ford SUV was across the street, slowly following them.

“Right, but let’s say it, so we agree on it. Now, let me show you something.” Norris reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He entered a passcode, then tapped the screen a few times. He swiped left and right and showed the phone to Saint. “This is your new assignment, if you decide to accept it.”

Saint looked at a photo of a man maybe in his late fifties or early sixties. He had a tanned face and was wearing thin, square-shaped metal-framed glasses that made his small brown eyes look larger than normal. His receding and thin hair was combed over in a very obvious way. The man was smiling, but there was something diabolical about his small smile. He was dressed in a gray jacket, gray-and-white tie, and a white shirt. He seemed to be at some gala or other special celebration because other men in suits and women in formal dresses were visible in the background. “At whom am I looking?”

“Zaid Khalil Al-Hafez. Deputy-chief of Syria’s chemical weapons development program. One of the people responsible for the sarin gas attack in Ghouta, Damascus, and other places in Syria. A war criminal,” Norris spat out the words as if they dirtied his mouth. “Hundreds of innocent people, including dozens of children, died because of him.”

“Syria?” Saint shook his head. “Haven’t been to Damascus in two years. It’s not a place I want to go back to. Tough to get in, even harder to get out, alive.”

“You don’t have to. Our Syrian friend lives in Canada.”

“Where in Canada?”

“Vancouver.”

“Really? How did he get in?”

“Good question. Ask immigration.”

“They don’t know their head from a hole in the ground.”

“Well, Al-Hafez’s number has come up.”

“Someone wants him dead?”

“A lot of people want this butcher dead. But one in particular is offering a hundred grand for his liquidation.”

Saint let out a sharp whistle. “A hundred thousand dollars?”

Norris nodded. “Yes. You can say ‘goodbye’ to all your money troubles.”

“And Al-Hafez deserves to die?”

“That’s up to you to decide. We have declassified CSIS documents, CIA reports, immigration documents, and Syrian government records. I’ll give you the files, and you can decide if you want this assignment.”

Saint nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ve got to think about it.”

“You’ve got twenty-four hours. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re not interested. But I really hope you are.”

“We’ll see,” Saint said noncommittally.

“It’s a good job, and you know it, Mr. Saint.”

“Thank you, Mr. Norris.”

Norris glanced at his wristwatch. “We still have another minute or so. Let’s go back, and my driver will get you the files. Then, you can make up your mind if you want to liquidate our Syrian friend.”

Chapter Five

Downtown Toronto

Canada

Saint was exhausted, but his curiosity won out over his need to sleep. He retrieved his laptop and sat at his small kitchen table. He inserted the thumb drive he had received from Norris’s driver into his laptop and began to study the files.

About half an hour later, Saint was convinced that Norris had told him the truth. Al-Hafez was a very bad man. Not only was he the mastermind behind the most prolific chemical weapons development program in Syria, but he had worked closely with military generals on how to enhance the weaponization of the nerve agent sarin upon deployment. Some of the pictures accompanying the files made Saint’s stomach twist. Children as young as two frothing at their mouths, suffocating, and convulsing as blood oozed out of their eyes and noses. Reportedly, the Ghouta gas attack alone killed around 1,400 people.

Al-Hafez had lied in his immigration application to Canada, downplaying his role. He had claimed he was a low-ranking engineer working in the civilian sector. The truth, however, was that his role in the chemical weapons program was, as the documents called it, “indispensable.”

Having no doubt about Al-Hafez’s guilt, Saint began to think about his decision. Do I accept this job? A hundred thousand dollars would allow him to not worry about anything for a year, more if he was careful with the money. He had no doubt Norris would pay him in full. The envelope he had received during the first meeting with Norris contained six hundred dollars and a hand-scribbled note that said, I think I took more than five minutes. Norris’s cellphone number was written on the back.

Saint got up from the table and paced around the small living room. Do I kill Al-Hafez? He’s obviously a war criminal, involved in so many deaths. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what the weapons would be used for, but he should have known. He didn’t work making candies. The weapons he helped design and deploy were used against Syrians who opposed the government, not foreign enemies. Al-Hafez should have done something about it. He did nothing. Instead, he escaped and lied to get into Canada.

His address in Vancouver was in the files, along with his place of work. He was the manager of a Middle Eastern restaurant on the city’s outskirts. The client’s only requirement for the job was that the assassination had to be public. Others would learn that no matter where they hid or for how long, one day, they’d all pay for their crimes. Justice might be delayed, but one day, it would catch up to them.

Saint pulled out a sheet of paper from the printer. He took a pen and divided the paper into two columns. He began to list the pros and the cons of accepting the job or refusing the job. He began with the obvious cons: He could be killed or wounded. He could be arrested and spend years in jail. The likelihood was small but still worthy of consideration. He’d have to scrounge for money, live from paycheck to paycheck, and deal with Glock’s snobbish presence on a daily basis. Al-Hafez would evade justice and what he deserved until someone else took the job. The government had clearly indicated it had no intention of pursuing any legal action. According to some of the documents, they didn’t even have Al-Hafez’s last known address.

The pros side was longer. The money would give him the much-needed security and freedom. He’d be returning to the field, doing something he loved. He missed the adrenaline rush of covert operations, the feeling of being alive that came from knowing every second could be your last. I was very good at it. I still am. I’ve done this before. And I’ll do it again. I stopped three thugs tonight from hurting an innocent woman. Yes, they were amateurs, and Norris had staged the whole thing, but still, it was real. Why shouldn’t I stop a man who has hurt thousands of innocent people? And his program will continue to do so for many, many years…

He returned to pacing the living room and the kitchen. He glanced at the sheet of paper and returned to the table. He added the word “deportation” to the pros column. Saint knew the Canadian government would have trouble deporting Al-Hafez back to Syria. The legal proceedings would take months, if not years. Even if they were successful, Al-Hafez could return to his old job, helping the Syrian Army and causing the deaths of even more innocents.

Saint shook his head. He couldn’t let that happen. He hadn’t made a decision yet, but he was very close to one. He glanced at his phone. It was well past midnight. I should go to bed. When I wake up, I’ll look at this again, with a fresh mind. Then, I’ll decide.

* * *

Saint had a broken, troubled sleep filled with nightmares. Syrian children were drowning in pools of blood and tears. Their small hands reached out to him. He tried to grab them and pull them out, but they were always just beyond his grasp.

When he woke up in a sea of sweat, Saint knew his decision. He called Norris and asked to meet with him. They met an hour later at a park a few blocks away. Saint checked on a few details with Norris, mostly about worst-case scenarios and payment. As expected, Norris told Saint that if something happened to him, Saint was on his own. His conversation with Norris had never happened.

The payment would be processed as soon as the target was confirmed as eliminated. Saint could opt for an encrypted bank transfer to an offshore account, or he could receive payment in cash. Since bank transactions, no matter how secure, always left a paper trail, he chose to receive the money in cold, hard cash.

Next, he called in sick and booked the first available flight to Vancouver. He had a plan, and it was time he put it into motion. The sooner he could dispatch Al-Hafez, the sooner he’d get his hands on the money and end his problems. Plus, justice would be served.

You’ve had this coming for a long time, Saint thought. It’s time you pay for what you’ve done.

Chapter Six

Three Days Later

Outskirts of Vancouver

Canada

Saint had spent most of the last two days running reconnaissance around Al-Hafez’s house and workplace and gathering intelligence on his movements and those of his family and co-workers. The house, of course, offered the best option for the target’s elimination. It was in a keyhole crescent that had a back alley. Saint could easily get access to the house through the back door or a window and kill the target in the dark of the night.

However, the plan had the small complication that Al-Hafez lived in the same house with his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law and two granddaughters. Too many witnesses or collateral damage. Saint wasn’t going to take that unnecessary risk. He had done so in Afghanistan and wasn’t proud of it. He had learned his lesson and wasn’t going to do it again.

Plus, the client—whoever he was, since Norris had categorically refused to divulge his name, insisting that was the company’s protocol—wanted the assassination to be public. When Saint accepted the contract, he also accepted all terms. He wants it public; I will make it public.

The next obvious option was Al-Hafez’s workplace, the Shiraz restaurant. According to his last two days’ routine, Al-Hafez arrived at the restaurant—where he worked as a manager—around ten thirty in the morning. The restaurant opened for business at 11:00. The clientele, from what Saint could tell from his limited surveillance, was mostly families with young children and predominantly Middle Eastern.

He had decided to hit Al-Hafez during his commute to the restaurant. There were a couple of stretches of the road that would serve his purpose well. Warehouses along an industrial park meant few, if any, witnesses, plus Saint would be masked and use a stolen car, which he’d burn to a crisp as soon as he no longer had any use for it. He had done similar jobs in the past, all successful. There could be a hiccup here and there, but he was prepared for them.

Or at least so he thought.

So here he was, sitting in his unassuming white Honda Civic three blocks away from Al-Hafez’s two-story red-brick house. Saint sipped his cup of coffee and glanced at his phone. It was five minutes to ten, and he had been waiting for over thirty minutes. He had jogged around the neighborhood and had caught a glimpse of Al-Hafez in his kitchen. Saint had to make sure the target was still inside the house.

At exactly ten o’clock, the white garage door rolled up. A black BMW came out, with Al-Hafez behind the wheel. However, as the BMW drove by Saint, he realized a complication to his plan. One of Al-Hafez’s granddaughters was buckled in the front seat.

Saint’s nose crinkled. He slapped the steering wheel in frustration as his eyebrows snapped together. Maybe he’s dropping her off at the kindergarten or school. Yes, maybe that’s it.

If he were still with the army, Saint would have been working with at least a three-man team. There would be a second watcher, who would also double as a surveillant, following the target in another vehicle, in case Saint was made. There would be a partner in the vehicle with Saint, especially when he’d go in for the kill, to provide cover.

And they would have had more time to come up with the elimination plan. A plan that involved obtaining video or audio access to Al-Hafez’s residence, workplace, and cellphone communications. However, the client had insisted the job needed to be a rush. So in this assignment, Saint was all alone. He’d have to rely on just his own skills. I guess I’ll have to get used to it, especially if I’m going to do this again.

Saint had already fastened a matchbox-sized, GPS-enabled tracking device underneath the BMW’s rear bumper. A magnet kept the device securely attached to the metal frame. Saint knew exactly the location of Al-Hafez’s vehicle at all times.

Since Saint didn’t have to keep visual with the BMW, he drove at leisure. He stayed at least ten vehicles behind Al-Hafez, checking for his position on a tracking application map on his phone every thirty seconds or so. A red dot with the initial A indicated Al-Hafez’s car.

The target drove along his regular route. Obviously, the Syrian didn’t suspect anyone was following him. Many years had passed since the Damascus atrocities. He lived in another country, civilized, safe. He felt untouchable.

Soon, he’ll find he was gravely mistaken.

Al-Hafez didn’t stop anywhere, even though he passed by a number of kindergartens and elementary schools. Saint’s frown grew deeper. Is this take your granddaughter to work day?

The child’s presence added a new layer of complication to his hit. But Saint was used to complications, obstacles, and setbacks. I’ll work around it.

When Al-Hafez was about five blocks away from Shiraz, Saint closed the distance. He wanted to see what would happen with the granddaughter. If she went inside the restaurant, he’d have to readjust his entire plan.

Thankfully, she didn’t.

The five- or six-year-old girl sat at one of the tables on the restaurant patio. She pulled out a phone from her small backpack and began to type. Her grandfather tousled her long, black hair, then gave her a kiss on her forehead. He whispered something in her ear, and the girl nodded obediently. Next, the Syrian entered the restaurant, while the girl put on a set of headphones.

Saint parked across the street. He stepped out of the car and unzipped his brown leather jacket halfway. His Sig pistol was in his shoulder holster, loaded and cocked. He’d retrieve the gun right before he entered the restaurant.

Saint had been inside the restaurant for lunch the previous day, so that he could become familiar with the layout and the personnel. There were two waiters, young males, but scrawny, who didn’t look like fighter types. The cook was a short, stocky woman in her fifties. She’d present a threat if armed with a set of knives, and if she surprised him from behind.

Still, Saint couldn’t be sure who or what might be waiting for him inside. It wasn’t the best of plans, but he had to improvise. He ran his hand over his chest, touching his gray button-down shirt and the bulletproof vest he had worn underneath. This had better work. He nodded to himself as he climbed up the sidewalk.

The girl gave Saint a curious glance. He smiled at her. She smiled back and returned to her phone.

Saint turned his body to the side, so the girl wouldn’t see his gestures. The restaurant had no cameras; Saint had double-checked. So he pulled out his Sig and kept it close to his chest. He pushed open the door, then stepped inside the restaurant. Al-Hafez, your time’s up.

Chapter Seven

Shiraz Restaurant

Outskirts of Vancouver

Canada

“We’re not open; not open,” one of the waiters said to Saint before he had even fully opened the door. “Come back in thirty minutes.”

The waiter was carrying a stack of plates from the kitchen and was putting them onto one of the tables. He turned his back to Saint, who ignored him and closed the door. Saint locked it by turning the key that was still in the lock. Then he looked around the dimly lit hall for Al-Hafez.

He was nowhere to be found. The other waiter was setting up one of the tables on the right side. Two bearded men, who looked Middle Eastern, wearing dark suits, were sitting to the left, sipping coffee from small cups. They gave Saint stern glances, but obviously hadn’t seen the pistol he was holding low next to his thigh.

That’s another complication, Saint thought. But I still have the advantage of surprise. “Where’s the manager? Al-Hafez?” he asked the waiter but looked at the two men, whose eyes never left his face.

The mention of the Syrian’s name stirred them up. One of them jumped to his feet. He balled up his hands into tight fists and kept them to his sides. The man was heavier built and larger than Saint, but he didn’t worry. This would never come to a fistfight. Even if it did, he was confident he could take the man down.

The other man turned slightly toward Saint. “Who are you? What do you want with Al-Hafez?” he demanded in a gruff tone in heavily-accented English that had the unmistakable hint of a threat.

“Unfinished business. None of your concern.”

“Anything related to my friend is my business.” The man waved his hand. “What is it?”

Before Saint could reply, a door connecting the hall to the kitchen swung open. Al-Hafez stepped through, oblivious to what was going on. He was typing on his phone, then he stopped when he saw Saint standing by the door. Al-Hafez froze as he noticed the pistol in Saint’s hand.

“Gun, gun. He has a gun!” Al-Hafez shouted.

The man who had been sitting sprang to his feet.

Saint aimed his Sig at the man. “Don’t move!”

Too late.

The other man who was standing went for a pistol in his waistband. Saint moved his Sig about an inch and double-tapped the man in the chest.

The man hadn’t even fallen to the carpeted floor when a couple of rounds struck Saint. They thumped against his chest. The bulletproof vest took the brunt of the impact. Still, Saint felt as if someone had punched the air out of his lungs. He tried to lean against the nearest table, but that didn’t support his weight. He collapsed to his side.

The fall actually saved his life.

Both Al-Hafez and the man opened up with quick bursts. Bullets shredded the table, which had concealed Saint from them. Fragments flew everywhere as Saint sought cover.

He took in shallow breaths, which still burned his lungs as he slithered backward behind a couple of chairs. Bullets pinged against their metal legs, ricocheting around him. Saint fired twice at the man and missed. The man dropped behind one of the booths farther back and stopped firing.

Saint turned his pistol to Al-Hafez. The man was still firing, but his rounds were off the mark. Saint aimed at Al-Hafez’s chest, but the man dove to one side. The bullet struck Al-Hafez in the thigh. The pistol dropped out of his hand. Saint fired again, but Al-Hafez was able to crawl back into the kitchen, leaving the pistol behind.

The other shooter popped his head from around the booth and aimed his pistol at Saint, but Saint had expected that move. He squeezed off a couple of rounds that struck the man in the face. He tumbled heavily to the floor, very much dead.

Saint looked around for the waiters, but they had disappeared. He stood up and listened carefully. Scraping noises and painful grunts came from the kitchen.

Saint checked his pistol. He had lost track of how many rounds he had fired, but he knew there had to be at least one or two bullets in the magazine. That should be enough. He had another magazine in the holster’s pouch.

He took quick but cautious steps toward the two men. He double-checked to make sure they were truly dead, then he moved toward the kitchen. His chest was searing with pain, but he ignored it.

He picked up Al-Hafez’s pistol, a Beretta PX4 Storm, and tucked it in his waistband. Then he pushed open the door and entered the spacious, industrial-sized kitchen. He followed the trail of blood, which led him around the stoves’ cooking island.

Al-Hafez was trying to crawl away. He was halfway through the kitchen and was almost at the other door leading toward a narrow hall. Saint aimed his pistol at the Syrian and shouted, “Stop! And turn around.”

Al-Hafez didn’t stop and didn’t turn around.

Saint took a couple of steps and stood over Al-Hafez. “I told you to—”

The Syrian swung around. A long, sharp knife missed Saint’s calf by mere inches. He stepped back, then kicked Al-Hafez’s arm. The knife fell out of his hand, and Saint pushed it away.

Al-Hafez had rolled onto his back. He thrust his chin up, then gave Saint a challenging stare full of judgment. “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m justice coming for you,” Saint replied calmly.

“Justice?” Al-Hafez groaned and rolled his eyes. “You look like the executioner.” He pointed at Saint’s Sig.

“It takes one to know one. You had no problem executing thousands of innocent people, women, and children.”

“So that’s what this is all about? Those rebels who threatened my life, my family, my country?”

“None of those children threatened anyone. And I told you, this is about justice.”

Al-Hafez cocked his head. “And you are going to kill an unarmed man, whose guilt hasn’t been proven?”

Saint’s eyes turned into small slits. He aimed his pistol at the Syrian’s face. “You’re unarmed only because I disarmed you. You and your friend got me twice in the chest.” He showed Al-Hafez the marks where the rounds had chewed the bulletproof vest. “You’d have killed me. And then you tried again with the knife.” He gestured at the weapon tossed away to the side.

Al-Hafez smirked. “I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

Saint ignored the Syrian’s remark. “And in terms of guilt, I’ve seen the evidence. You’re guilty as sin.”

“Evidence? What evidence?”

“The truth. From all sides.”

“All sides? I haven’t given you my side of the story! What kind of justice is that?”

“It’s the justice you deserve.” Saint brought the pistol closer to Al-Hafez’s chest. “Now, if you believe in God, pray to him for forgiveness…”

“No, wait, wait, wai—”

Saint pulled the trigger.

Epilogue

The Next Day

Toronto, Canada

Saint had considered taking at least a few days off to unwind after the Vancouver job. But he had promised his partner that he’d return for Glock’s next tour. She was going on the road for the next three days, playing at two different venues in Ottawa. Saint would have a conversation with his partner and give him a plausible reason why he would need to take a period of extended holidays.

He had felt a pang of guilt after he had dispatched Al-Hafez. Saint had no doubt the man deserved to die. But did it have to be by my hand? Al-Hafez had been partially right when he had claimed he hadn’t been heard and that he was being executed. That’s what he did to his victims, Saint had justified himself and his actions. But how does that make me better than the Syrian government killing its own people? The end justifies the means, Saint kept telling himself, but the explanation rang hollow.

Before leaving the restaurant, he had found the two waiters cowering in the staff’s bathroom. Saint had made them swear that they hadn’t seen anything. “If you tell anyone, I will come back for you and your families,” he had threatened them. “When the police ask, you’ll say that you didn’t see anything. You didn’t hear anything. You were outside in the back, taking out the trash and cleaning the staff parking lot. When you came inside, you saw the mess. You freaked out and hid. Then, you called the police.”

The terrified waiters would agree to anything to save their lives. They nodded and pleaded with Saint. “We saw nothing; we heard nothing; we saw nothing; we heard nothing,” they kept saying, closing their ears and their eyes with their shaky hands.

Saint wasn’t sure it was the right decision to let them live, but he also couldn’t bear the guilt of taking their lives. They presented no threat to him. And by what he could see—and what he had seen in the past when other people had been in the same situation—the waiters would take their secrets to their graves.

He left the restaurant through the back door, then made his way to the Honda Civic. Al-Hafez’s granddaughter was still on the patio, typing on her phone and listening to whatever was coming through her earphones. Saint was glad she didn’t get to witness anything. He had instructed the waiters to keep her away from the restaurant.

He disassembled both pistols, then tossed the parts in Vancouver Harbour as he drove over the Lions Gate Bridge. Then he made his way to the airport and took a flight back to Toronto.

The next morning, Saint met with Norris at Harbour Square Park to collect the cash. Norris was in a bad mood when he arrived almost thirty-five minutes late. He offered no apology but blamed a stupid crisis somewhere in Europe. He shook hands with Saint, then they both sat on a wooden bench on the boardwalk. Norris congratulated Saint on a job well done. “It wasn’t exactly public,” he then remarked with some regret in his voice.

“Shiraz restaurant is a public place,” Saint replied. “What would you have liked, a street killing?”

Norris nodded. “That was the client’s preference.”

“Well, the client got what the client got.” Saint shrugged and looked away at a couple of ferries and water taxis in the harbor. The CN Tower pierced the sky in the distance.

“I’m not going to make a big fuss about it since this is your first job,” Norris consented and handed Saint a thick manila envelope. “But in the future, you’re to stick to the job requirements.”

Saint opened the envelope for just a second and took a quick peek. Satisfied that all the cash was there, he slid it next to him on the bench, between him and Norris. Then he said, “Future?”

Norris gave Saint a surprised look. “Yes, your next job. Why, did you think this was a one-off deal?”

Saint nodded. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought. You wanted the Syrian, I delivered and got paid.” He tapped the envelope. “The deal is done.”

Norris returned the nod, and his thin lips formed a small smile. “You’re right but in case you decide to accept the next job—”

“I’m not. I’m going on vacation.”

“You can mix business and pleasure.”

“I’d rather not. But I appreciate the offer. Now, if there’s nothing else…” Saint gave Norris a questioning look.

Norris shrugged. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head. “There’s nothing else, Mr. Saint. You have my number should you decide to reconsider.”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to take some time off. Have a good day, Mr. Norris.”

“You too.”

Saint took his envelope and walked briskly to his car. He looked at his phone. It was almost ten. I’ll be late, unless traffic is good. He doubted it, so he called ahead to inform his partner.

When he arrived at the Royal Castle Hotel, his partner met him in the lobby. He looked visibly distraught as he jumped to his feet. He wrinkled his brow and bit his lip.

“What’s wrong?” Saint asked.

“Glock’s throwing a tantrum.”

“Why?”

“Some music deal got canceled. Now, she’s blaming everyone but herself. I’d do everything she asks at this point.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah, whatever stupid things she asks. I’m taking her clothes to the dry cleaner.” The bodyguard pointed at a large plastic bag on the floor.

“What?” Saint’s eyes widened. “That’s what her personal assistant does.”

“Well, she’s taking Glock’s dog to the vet. So, it’s my job now. Good luck.”

Saint sighed as he took the elevator to the seventh floor. He marched toward Glock’s suite and braced himself for her unreasonable orders of the day. He knocked and waited for almost thirty seconds before someone opened the door.

Glock, who was wrapped in a long blue towel, gave him a scolding gaze. “Don’t you have a card or something to open the door yourself? I’ve got to get ready before we go to my hairdresser.”

Saint let himself in and closed the door. “Hairdresser? Isn’t your assistant—”

Glock walked toward her bedroom. “She’s busy. And we’re running out of time. I’ve got to get dressed, but I’ve got nothing to wear.”

Saint followed her but stayed outside the bedroom. Still, he could see a mountain of clothes spread out over the bed and the couch. About six or seven sets of clothes were hanging in the large closet to one side. “But you have so many dresses! Why don’t you just pick one of those?”

Glock spun on her heel and gave Saint a look of surprise. Her mouth fell open, and she touched her parted lips with her left-hand fingers. Then, she gave Saint an incredulous stare. “What? Pick one of those? Just pick one?” She jerked her head back and let out a gasp. “Who do you think I am? Some trashy girl that has no taste? I have a personality; I have an image to maintain. I have class.”

Saint bit his lip so he wouldn’t say what was on his mind. He shrugged and looked away.

Glock wasn’t done with him. She stepped into the hall and got into Saint’s face. “If it’s so easy, then why don’t you do it for me? Here, take this.” She dug into her purse hanging at the back of a chair and pulled out a credit card. She flicked the card at Saint, which bounced on his chest. “Pick that up, go out there, and get me a dress.” Glock pointed at the door, then gestured at her body. “You know my measurements; you’ve been around me long enough. Go do it,” she ordered him in a gruff tone as her vocal pitch rose.

Saint glanced down at the card. I don’t get paid enough for this… “Uh… I’m not sure that’s the best use of my time—”

“Your time? Your time?” Glock rolled her eyes and gave Saint a dramatic look with eyebrows raised and bulging eyes. “Your time is what I want it to be. If I want you to go and buy me a dress, bra, or panties, you go and do it and say ‘thank you.’ If you want this job, you better learn it and fast. Otherwise, I’ll fire you.”

Saint shook his head. He’d had enough of Glock’s craziness. He raised both his hands, and made an I-am-out-of-here gesture. “Don’t bother firing me,” he said in a stern but calm tone. “I quit.”

He turned around and headed toward the door.

“Hey, no, wait, what?” Glock shouted and shuffled behind him. “You can’t be serious.”

“Have a good day, Glock,” Saint said and grabbed the handle to open the door.

“Fine. Beat it, you loser,” Glock yelled after him. “And don’t come crawling back here to get your job back. You won’t. You loser.”

Saint closed the door gently and quietly, even though he wanted to slam it so hard it would fall off the hinges. He drew in a deep breath and felt a sense of relief and relaxation go through his body. Yeah, I didn’t need any of that. And now I can go on my vacation.

He took the stairs and thought about where he’d go. I’ve never been to Belize, but I’ve heard great things. Maybe I can go diving. Always wanted to do it but never got the chance. Never too old for new experiences.

When he got into his car, his mind went to his partner. I’ve got to tell him. He’ll be disappointed, since he put in a good word so that I could get this job. Saint sighed. And what am I going to do next, after I’m done vacationing? More vacationing, was the next thought that popped into his mind. But I know I’m going to get bored at some point. I need to have a purpose, to do something worthwhile and fulfilling.

He thought about Norris and his offer. I should give him a call and discuss the details. I can always pick up a job here and there, especially if I like it, and I can sure use the money. Saint didn’t like the act of killing someone, but he liked the result. He liked knowing the man he had dispatched would do no evil to anyone anymore. And that was worth taking the risk.

Saint nodded to himself. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. Disappear for a month or two in the deep waters of Belize, then come back refreshed. And see what Norris has for me. I have the training; I have the skills. I may be a bit rusty, but with some practice, I can do it. I will become… Saint, the assassin.

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Assassin’s Call

From the Saint Assassin Series

Book 1

The Story

He’s no Saint...

Assassin Xavier Saint has only one rule: kill no innocents. But on a supposed clean hit, he discovers his target has two kids and a woman with him. Why didn’t his client tell Saint? What’s worse, the woman is Saint’s former girlfriend…

While Saint processes this strange turn of events shots are fired. He watches the target and his ex fall. Rushing in to assess the damage, Saint’s ex reveals he’s a father. Not only that, he discovers he’s been set up.

In a race across Europe, Saint can barely stay a step ahead of those hunting him. He has uncovered a network of assassins eliminating innocents for profit, and he is being framed as the fall guy. With more to lose than just his life, Saint must bring down the entire network. But how?

He never claimed to be a saint, but he's no demon either. In a world full of sworn enemies, how will Saint strike back, destroy the network, and be able to see the daughter he never knew he had?

Meet Saint.

Chapter One

Old Town Beach

Budva, Montenegro

Assassin Xavier Saint studied the suntanned, wrinkled face of his target. He was sitting on a comfortable black-and-white lounge chair at the Avala Beach Bar, sipping an espresso and talking on his phone. The target was dressed in a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of cream-colored pants. He was wearing square-framed sunglasses and a blue baseball cap, but Saint recognized him from an unmistakable purple scar on the left side of his face.

Three months ago, a car-bomb explosion had left its permanent mark right next to the corner of his lips. However, the target had survived that assassination attempt. And the one before that. The people involved in those attacks had been amateurs and locals. That’s why Saint had been sent: to make sure this time the target was liquidated and the assassin would escape. He was a professional and a foreigner.

Saint zoomed away from the target and turned his camera to the Citadel on his right. From the end of the pier, he had fantastic views of the Medieval Fortress of Saint Mary, as it was also known. Earlier that day, he had taken a short tour of the city’s best known landmarks. Saint cared about the culture and history of the places where his jobs took him. Even better, on the slim chance of his being caught, having photos of his tourist escapades would serve as evidence he came to the country for its scenery and for no nefarious purposes.

If the contract had required to be fulfilled in public, Saint would have opted for a long-range sniper kill. He would have taken position somewhere along the Citadel walls, which offered great vantage points of the Old Town Beach. The Citadel also offered a number of exit points for a swift escape.

However, the client who had hired Saint had opted for a discreet kill. He was to track down the target and eliminate him at close range. The elimination would have to look like an accident: Someone else was supposed to die, and the target was simply collateral damage. This kind of assassination was harder than a simple, straight-up kill. Saint had done such hits in the past, and he’d do them again, as long as he got paid.

And the payment was very generous, but not enough to ensure his retirement from his profession. Over the last year, he had been desperately seeking the final job and a clean exit. One big score so that he could successfully turn his back to this kind of life, if he could call it life. But that job was always elusive; always one contract away. His dream for a cabin by the lake would have to wait, along with his plans for hiking and boating. It wasn’t going to happen now, but Saint hoped it would be soon, very soon.

He returned his viewfinder to the target. The man was still on his phone. His name was Milorad Zec, a Serbian politician, a member of parliament, and a candidate in the next month’s presidential elections. Zec had strong support within his party, the pro-Serb Democratic Front, which demanded greater power for Serbians in Montenegro. They constituted about thirty percent of the small country that had a little over six hundred thousand people. According to the intelligence Saint had received, the leader had been fanning the flames of separatism and ethnic pride behind closed doors. It was widely rumored that if the Democratic Front came to power, the country and the entire Balkans would erupt like a powder keg.

It was Saint’s job to see that didn’t happen. He suspected the client had political and business interests, an explosive mixture in the region. Billions of dollars in profits from all kinds of illegal trade were laundered and invested in seaside resorts. It was in his client’s best interest to maintain peace and prosperity in the country, at least on the surface.

Saint put his camera in his brown rucksack and hoisted it over his shoulders. He walked slowly along the pier. When he came to the white-pebble-and-yellow-sand beach, he stopped and looked around. His eyes moved slowly from left to right. There were a couple of large resorts and a small square. The Old Town walls and buildings spanned the right side. Thirty or so people were sitting in the cafés or meandering the beach along the calm, warm waters of the Adriatic Sea.

When Saint turned his head to Zec, he was talking to one of his two bodyguards. After the last assassination attempt, the politician never went anywhere alone. He always traveled in an armored black Range Rover. His two guards were tall and muscular, as you’d expect from personal security detail. They were dressed in black suits, which they kept unbuttoned. Their shoulder holsters were visible, along with their pistols.

Saint wondered what they were saying, then he pulled out his cellphone. He tapped the screen to wake up the phone, then entered his passcode. He tapped a tracking application, and the map of the area filled the screen. A red dot with the initial Z indicated the location of Zec’s phone. Saint was about thirty yards away from his prey.

Saint had paid a Russian hacker handsomely to access the phones of the Serbian politician and three of his business associates. The dark web abounded with hacking services, and some of them were very discreet and quite professional. Saint had used this woman in the past, and she had always given him great results. He was being paid a high five figures for the assignment. Saint considered the hacker’s steep price as part of the cost of doing business.

Zec looked bored as he finished the conversation with his bodyguard and shrugged. The politician finished his coffee with a small, quick sip and stood up. Saint turned around and looked toward the sea. No reason to make eye contact with Zec or his bodyguards. As long as he kept his phone on him, Saint would know the target’s location at all times.

A cool breeze came from the sea and toyed with Saint’s blond hair, which came down to the nape of his neck. He usually sported a full beard, like today, unless he needed to adopt a different look for one of his assignments. Saint wore a pair of aviator sunglasses with progressive lenses. The abnormal curvature of his cornea from a slight astigmatism affected his vision at any distance. If he had any other job, he’d manage okay, even without glasses. But he needed to focus and couldn’t afford eye strain and blurry objects when a precise shot made all the difference between success and failure; between life and death.

He glanced over his shoulder and turned around just as a beep came from his phone. Saint looked at the screen. A second red dot appeared on the map. This one had the initial B, which stood for Alen Budimir. He was a powerful Montenegrin businessman of Serbian origin and a strong supporter of Zec and the Democratic Front.

Like many businessmen and politicians in this part of the Balkans, Budimir allegedly had ties to the local Mafia and was implicated in a host of illegal activities. Budimir owned a number of hotels and restaurants along Montenegro’s magnificent coastline. Purportedly, he had built them by laundering drug money. Recently, even the mayor of Budva had been arrested on suspicion of drug trafficking and running a criminal organization. The European police agency, Europol, had been instrumental in the mayor’s arrest.

Saint’s plan was simple in theory: He’d wait until Zec met with the businessman and then eliminate them both. Headshots, as per his usual modus operandi. Simple plan, but not easy.

The businessman came with his own escort: two bodyguards. Saint would have to deal with at least four guards before he even got to his target. He wasn’t that concerned. He had faced worse odds.

His plan relied on the element of surprise, skill, and split, the three “S”s of every successful hit. They were installed in Saint’s mind and behavior since his training days at the Canadian Forces School of Military Intelligence in Kingston, Ontario. One of the exercises they practiced often was to gain access to any kind of building, especially those with a tight security perimeter, and leave the premises without being caught. One of the trainers always said the assassination is only half the job—the easy part. The hardest part is getting out alive.

Saint was counting on that and had a plan.

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and especially Tim Birmingham.

PRESIDENTIAL EXTRACTION. Copyright © 2025 by Ethan Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Kim Killion

First edition: February 2025