HAVOC

A CAL SHEPARD SEARCH AND DESTROY THRILLER

JT SAWYER

Copyright, April 2023, HAVOC, By JT Sawyer

Edited by Emily Nemchick

Cover art by ZamajK

www.jtsawyer.com

No part of this book may be transmitted in any form whether electronic, recording, scanned, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction and the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, incidents, or events is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

OTHER BOOKS BY JT SAWYER

The Cal Shepard Search and Destroy Series

Search and Destroy

The Perseus Protocol

Critical Response

The Kill Squad

HAVOC

Lethal Conduct (prequel short-story)

The Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series

Dead In Their Tracks

Counter Strike

The Kill List

Blindsided

Deadly Harvest

Borderlands

Without Mercy

High Risk

Blood and Honor

Ballistic

Blood On the Mesa

Manhunt

THANK YOU

Thank you for buying this book! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it.

Join my email list at JTSawyer.com if you would like to receive notifications on future releases or the FREE copy of Lethal Conduct, a short story within the Search And Destroy Series.

PROLOGUE

Sixteen Months Earlier

Northern Malaysia

If Amir and Akeem knew they would be dead in twenty-three minutes, they would have hugged their father harder. Instead, Akeem showed his father, Sheik Fahad Bashar, around the new warehouse that had become their base of operations for the sheik’s burgeoning steel industry.

As the three men walked, Jared Flynn followed behind, his keen eyes examining his surroundings and the swarm of bustling Malaysian workers unloading the supply trucks that had just arrived at the bay doors on the east side. The expat Brit served as the sheik’s chief of field operations, overseeing employee protection abroad and providing training for the small security forces that worked to protect Bashar’s international holdings.

The tour ended at the rear of the cavernous warehouse, Amir pausing to talk to Flynn as his father and older brother continued out the bay doors. Four years younger than his brother, Amir was astute for an energetic nineteen-year-old, and he viewed Flynn as a doting relative.

“You’ve come far in such a short time, little brother,” said Flynn out of respect as he rested his hand on the man’s shoulder.

Amir smiled, glancing down at the parallel scars and burn marks on Flynn’s neck. “So have you. You look like you’re nearly healed.”

The man sighed. “Yes, things are coming along, thanks to you. You were my savior that day.”

Amir lowered his head. “You are too kind. Your rescue was all my father’s doing.”

Flynn leaned in closer, giving the man a hearty hug. “Don’t ever sell yourself short. You are a brave lad with the heart of a lion.”

Amir gave an easy smile, returning the embrace. “When will I see you again?”

“I’ll be flying back here every few weeks to check on things and make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

Amir patted Flynn on his muscular arm. “Then I will show you around instead of Akeem and take you into town for sushi, which I know is your favorite of all foods.”

“I look forward to it.” He extended his hand, the two men shaking, then Flynn walked to the exit.

He said his goodbyes to Akeem, then he and the sheik drove off in a dusty green Range Rover.

Amir and Akeem watched the vehicle disappear around the bend in the road then headed back inside. A long week of work was still in order if they were to begin organizing the warehouse and assembling the new machinery and forges.

Amir walked beside his brother as the older man spoke, pointing down at his tablet, which showed the arriving inventory.

He never heard the Predator missile shrieking towards the valley. The explosion that ripped through the building tore Amir off his feet, flinging him into a metal post.

As he lay on the ground, the only sensation left in his shattered body was in his trembling lips. He saw his brother’s figure riddled with metal shrapnel as his glassy eyes stared at the flaming ceiling just before the entire roof buckled, collapsing to the ground.

1

TUESDAY

Present Day

Virginia

The lone figure on the ridge remained still, his body blending in among the young maple trees dotting the hillside that led to the cemetery below. He barely noticed the breeze rushing past him or the agitated blue jays in the canopy above as his eyes remained focused on a gravestone a few hundred yards to the east.

It was nearly a year ago that Cal Shepard stood amongst the other mourners at his wife Cassie’s funeral; she was the victim of an explosion that claimed her life and that of their unborn daughter along with dozens of his close friends.

It was an emotional hurricane that shredded his world in a single afternoon, eventually forcing him to flee his own country then set about clearing his name and unraveling the mystery of Perseus’ origins, and its ultimate role in what would become the Critical Response Team’s beginnings.

And yet here he stood, his life crystallized into what felt like an endless series of covert missions as he wrestled with moving beyond the tragic loss of last summer. The only place he could vaguely call home was CRT’s headquarters or the Antonov plane, where he spent most of his time in between missions.

Would Cassie be proud of what I’ve become…or disappointed that I haven’t found another world outside of the one that destroyed so many lives that day?

All the players behind the curtain of that horrendous day were dead. Retribution had been served. Though it had taken months, the guilty had all met their deaths at the hands of Shepard. Yet he still felt as inwardly alone as if the explosion had happened yesterday.

I was supposed to be a father right now, spending time off with my wife and daughter and planning for the day when I could step down from covert ops for good.

Cal bit his lower lip, his sides constricting as he envisioned Cassie’s hand intertwining with his as the sun filtered down from the trees. He could see her easygoing smile as she stared at him with those blue eyes, but when he tried to envision the wisdom she’d impart, her lips remained still.

Cal glanced at the large oak tree near the graves, its immense branches seeming like they were protectively draped over the ground above Cassie’s headstone. He had to fight the urge to walk down the slope and kneel beside his wife’s resting place, knowing that he could run into family or friends who’d come to pay their respects.

To them, I’m a specter, little different than the others here who have passed out of sight.

Given his line of work, it was safer if no one knew where he was or if he was even alive any longer. Now, his only family were the dozen or so personnel on Foley’s Critical Response Team. And while that was a close-knit group he’d proudly served with during the past year of missions abroad, it was a team fueled by brevity, adrenaline and an operational tempo that left few moments for diversion or merriment.

Is this all there is left to do in life…to hunt down terrorists in the hellholes of the world? Despite their numerous mission successes, he wondered how long their luck would hold out.

When Cassie had asked him that same question years ago, his curt reply was to tell her, “It’s the job, and if not me and my team, then someone else will be sent downrange.”

Now, after being enmeshed in CRT’s priorities and just a few years shy of turning forty, Cal wasn’t sure what the answer was, but as he stared with longing at the distant gravestone, he felt like he could hear his wife wishing him another reality.

He gazed up at the plum-orange clouds passing overhead while shuddering out a deep breath, then beheld the gravestone one last time. “We’ll share a sunrise again. I promise.”

Cal retraced his steps on a deer path then walked along the backside of the ridge, making his way down the other side and heading back to his motorcycle in the parking lot of a nearby trailhead.

Cal traveled northwest of Arlington, avoiding the interstate on the way back to CRT’s headquarters in Baltimore. There was nothing pressing that required him at work, so he stuck to the secondary highways, passing through the quaint towns of Waterford and Lovettsville, eventually crossing into Maryland, where he made a brief stop at a historical marker outside of Woodsboro. Finally, just before 9 a.m., he pulled his bike into the gravel parking lot of a coffee shop in the tiny town of Eldersburg.

The shop had the appearance of a frontier fort with its weathered clapboard walls of cedar and the hand-hewn log benches on either side of the double doors.

Even the interior was a throwback to another era with the array of taxidermied deer heads and vintage maps on the walls. After reading some of the historical descriptions under the black-and-white photos from the town’s pioneer era, he ordered a cup of black coffee from the young woman behind the counter.

After filling the remainder of the cup with copious amounts of sugar, he headed back outside, standing on the wraparound porch and watching the other locals roll in.

A cluster of tables was being set up across from his motorcycle, and he watched a forty-something woman with blond hair arranging a length of knee-high fencing in a perimeter around the tables. She returned to her truck, removing a tan crate with squirming pups inside along with an older black-and-tan dog who jumped down from the back door and followed the woman to the table.

Shepard sipped his coffee, stepping off the porch and meandering along the other vendors who were setting up for the adoption event.

He leaned over the knee-high fencing, letting the eager black-and-tan dog sniff his hand for a moment before he brushed his fingers behind her ears.

“Ah, you have a new friend,” said the woman behind the table. “That’s Daisy, and she doesn’t give her affection easily, especially to men.”

“How’s that?”

“She was a bait dog we rescued from the Red Spades Gang in north Baltimore. They’re a bunch of drug dealers who were using her in their dog fighting pits and were probably going to train her pups to be attack dogs.”

Cal scratched his scruffy black beard. “Damn, I didn’t realize that kind of thing still went on in these parts. I’ve seen that sort of brutality in less developed parts of the world but never figured it was happening in my own backyard.”

“Yeah, I know. The DEA did a raid on one of the Spades’ drug dens and found the dogs in the basement, which is why my rescue group got the call. That was ten weeks ago, and it’s taken poor Daisy that long to even begin to approach anyone without fear-barking.”

He leaned in closer, massaging the dog’s shoulder. “You’ve done a remarkable job with her. She seems like quite a sweetheart despite what she’s been through.”

“I’ve been involved in rescue work for eighteen years and still learn something new every week. Their capacity to overcome their trauma and to trust someone—to trust in life again—is a miracle. Not every dog recovers. Some just need a quiet home with a bed in the corner, but others, like Daisy, can emerge out of it all and find a reason to wag their tail again.”

The woman’s words seeped into his own aching soul as he moved closer to the dog.

“A reason to wag your tail again. I like that.” He gently patted Daisy on the side then brushed his hand along her back as she butted her head into his leg.

“Not sure why we call ourselves the masters,” she said. “They’re our superiors in every way.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Oh, it’s true alright…unflinching loyalty, unsurpassed love, and don’t forget, a 24/7 snuggle buddy without all the snoring…unless it’s an English Bulldog, then be prepared for a freight train.”

He thought of his uncle’s cattle dogs in Montana where he grew up. Those were mainly Australian Shepherds or Border Collies…dogs with a hardiness to them from their hard-earned trail skills. The only other dogs he’d been around in recent years were the occasional Belgian Malinois and their handlers among Tier 1 operators when they were running joint operations in Afghanistan and Africa. Those were a different kind of working dog, part tracking dog mixed with hellhound that could shred a limb in seconds.

“Most of my dogs when I was younger were working animals, but I always figured I’d get one of my own some day when things settle down in my life…whenever that decade appears on the horizon.”

“Well, you’re a dog person, it seems, so you’ll know when that time comes. Once that happens, your soul-dog will adopt you.” She winked at Cal then continued laying out t-shirts, leashes and flyers on the table.

His phone rang and he stepped away, hearing CRT’s intel analyst Lynn Vogel on the other end. “With the weather we’re having, I hope you’re enjoying some time soaking up the sun at the beach.”

“I had some other things to attend to today.”

“I figured, Cal. I’m sorry. I know this has to be a rough week.”

“It’s just life…at least in my world, it seems.” He forced out the words as if they were stuck in his throat. “Thanks for always being there, Lynn, and for your kind words.” He stepped a few feet back from the adoption event. “I reckon you reaching out isn’t entirely social…what’s happening?”

“Oh, just a person of interest that needs snatching from the mountains of West Virginia.”

“That should be fun…I always enjoy bushwhacking through a forest full of ticks in the summer,” said Cal with sarcasm.

“Fun isn’t the word I’d use exactly…this guy’s former agency, most likely situated at an off-grid location in the sticks.”

“Great, a survival nut who probably has his walkway lined with claymores.”

“That’s, uhm, quite a generalization on life after clandestine ops. Is that how you see your retirement?”

“Nah, I’d use thermal imaging along the walkway instead.”

“Not sure if I should laugh or weep for you, Cal.”

He chuckled. “Either is fine. I’ll be back on site in thirty minutes.”

“Just about when everyone else should be here, so I’ll see you then.”

Shepard slid his phone back into his vest pocket, walking back towards the adoption event and gazing up at the woman as he noted her nametag.

“Duty calls. But it was nice talking with you, Marisa. I hope you find a good home for all those sweet pups, and thank you for the work you do.” He removed a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet, placing it in the donation jar. “So Daisy can get her fill of milk bones.

“That’s very generous and much appreciated.” She leaned forward, thrusting a black-and-white flyer of the momma dog into Cal’s hands. “Daisy has her eye on you, and in my experience, dogs have a way of picking their own humans.”

He stroked the dog’s neck. “With a sweet face like that, she’ll be in someone’s lap by the end of the day.”

Cal waved to them both then headed back to his motorcycle, folding the adoption flyer and sticking it into his jacket pocket.

Marisa was a good woman, her eyes filled with a strange blend of sorrow laced with passion for her work, and Cal was sure her soul was scarred from years of toiling in such an emotionally brutal field. Though she was on the frontlines of a different kind of endless battle than he was, Cal felt an affinity with the woman and was grateful their paths had cross, if only briefly.

He reluctantly drove away, glancing back at Daisy, comforted by the pleasant meeting but knowing he would soon have to push away the soothing encounter given Vogel’s revelation about the upcoming op.

2

Outskirts of Baltimore, Maryland

Critical Response Team Headquarters

Shepard parked his motorcycle on the north side of the warehouse, heading inside just as Derrick Nolan and Melissa Hamill were exiting Nolan’s Dodge Ram. He waved at them then passed the two armed security guards near the main entrance before proceeding down the stairs to the first sub-level.

Viper was already seated at the oblong table in the center of the operations room, chatting with Lynn Vogel, who always appeared in her element standing at the head of the table.

As the group settled into their seats, Ryan Foley walked in, standing beside Vogel while she activated the PowerPoint device.

“Welcome back from your brief sojourn into civilization,” Foley said. “I regret to call you all back here so early, but something has reared its head that requires our attention.”

He nodded at Vogel to begin the slideshow, the first image presenting a dated photo of a fifty-something man with a trim salt-and-pepper beard. “This is Anton Ivanovich. For years, he headed up the Russian FSB’s Toxins Team, developing nerve agents and chemical weapons, until two years ago, when he disappeared during a visit to Romania.”

The next slide showed a security-cam photo of Ivanovich at an airfield in eastern Romania. “This image was taken ten days ago, just before he departed on a flight bound for Istanbul, then on to Havana, Cuba.”

“Because Havana’s a popular vacation spot for Russian expats,” quipped Nolan.

“The guy has been off grid for two years and then hops a flight to Cuba,” said Cal, glancing around at the others. “As I recall, Cuba is mostly dominated by what’s left of their crumbling military and a handful of gangs, so what’s this guy doing there now?”

“Maybe he was handing something off to a buyer?” said Viper.

“A lot of questions and few answers,” said Foley. “What’s troubling is that Perseus connected Ivanovich with two fatalities that occurred here in the States yesterday and one other that happened in Italy last week. We’re still unsure how they are related.”

Vogel switched to the next slide, which showed an online obituary of a forty-eight-year-old man who passed away at his seaside villa in Sicily.

“Colin Prausa was once an analyst for MI5,” said Vogel. “He was also an avid long-distance runner who apparently died in his sleep of a heart attack.”

She switched to the next series of images, showing a crime scene with a recently extracted Mercedes Benz that had been hauled from the Potomac River up north near Point of Rocks along the Maryland-Virginia border.

“Perseus ID’d Bill Streiber and Erica Greer in this wreck. Streiber was a Brit who also previously worked as an analyst for MI5 with Prausa, while Greer was an analyst for the CIA.”

Foley stepped in after Vogel’s pause. “They were once part of a joint CIA-MI5 think-tank group sharing ideas on how high-value targets in their respective countries could be assassinated.”

“And Greer and Streiber just met yesterday to reminisce about old times?” said Nolan. “Why were they together?”

“Uncertain,” said Foley. “But this is the time of year when the Agency, DOD, NSA and other allied intel-gathering agencies assemble to put on their annual war games strategy sessions, if you will, so they may have been involved as independent contractors in that endeavor.”

“We had a closed-door group of analysts like that at Langley,” said Viper. “Bunch of geeks who read thriller and spy books for a living, looking for ideas on weaknesses in national security as well as how to strike at our embassy personnel abroad.”

“Doesn’t sound too closed door if you knew about it,” said Nolan.

“I briefly dated a guy who was in that division,” Viper replied.

“Wait…you dated…a human?” said Nolan.

“Yeah, so that excludes ever dating you,” Viper said with a grin.

“How do their deaths involve us?” said Hamill, fixing her gaze on the image then glancing back at Vogel.

The analyst pulled up another photo on the screen, showing a soaking wet figure walking past a gas station security camera. “This is Mark Danzig, and this image was captured a half-mile away from the bridge twenty minutes after the crash that killed Streiber and Greer. Danzig was also a part of that MI5-CIA think-tank. I located an earlier traffic cam image before the accident, and it showed Danzig in that vehicle.”

Shepard stroked his beard. “So, did he escape the crash by design or by sheer luck?”

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” said Vogel. “But the deaths of three former analysts in less than a week can’t be a coincidence.”

“Where’s Danzig now?” said Viper.

“On the run or just lying low,” Vogel replied. “Besides his apartment in Alexandria, the only thing I found on him—Perseus found, actually—was an old cabin in Mathias, West Virginia in his uncle’s name.”

“That sounds like a stab in the dark to me,” said Nolan.

Vogel nodded. “It’s the boondocks alright…an unincorporated area about five miles west of the Virginia border, but…”

She leaned over her laptop, retrieving a Google Maps image of the region around Mathias, then pulled up a grainy black-and-white photo of a man exiting a convenience store with a sack full of groceries. “The face isn’t very clear, but facial recog indicates a 78% probability that this is Mark Danzig. It was taken just a few hours ago.”

Foley stepped beside Vogel, folding his meaty arms. “There’s a reason the analysts in that car were targeted, and we need to find out what Danzig knows and how it’s connected to Ivanovich, so you’ll be departing for Mathias. It’s our best lead for now.”

In his command voice, Foley made it seem so cut-and-dried, but Cal knew there were a hundred variables connected with dropping in on someone at such a remote location. He hoped the infil would be more straightforward than the facts connected with Danzig.

Danzig was clearly on the run and bound to be jumpy. Cal didn’t need a round of buckshot tearing through the cabin door as he stepped onto the property, but he also didn’t want to be engaged in a lengthy standoff with a potentially well-equipped adversary on the other end.

He stood up, glancing at his other team members. “Alright, saddle up for a snatch-and-grab and meet me outside by the Land Cruiser in twenty minutes.”

3

Three Hours Later

The birdsong of an Eastern Phoebe perched on the branch of an oak tree was the only sound evident in the dense woods surrounding the old log cabin as Mark Danzig strained to hear any movement along the narrow dirt road beyond the front porch.

He’d sat huddled on a wooden bench beside the woodstove for several hours, glancing furtively out the windows on either side but then reassuring himself that no one in his small circle of friends knew about this location.

He leaned his head back against the plankboard wall, closing his eyes as his mind relived the horrific car accident the night before. The image of his two friends struggling to free themselves from their seatbelts as the vehicle plummeted into the inky waters of the Potomac River.

Danzig recalled the high-pitched squeal of the tire during the blowout before they careened past the guardrail, which did little to buffer the car’s momentum.

There’s no way that was an accident.

He thought back to the timing of the tragedy…only an hour after he, Bill Streiber and Erica Greer had met to discuss the mysterious death of their former colleague, Colin Prausa, which corresponded with the appearance of a ghost from their past in covert affairs.

Is he behind this? How is that even possible…he died years ago.

It was the same perplexing question that had continually echoed between them in the car as Danzig and his old colleagues reviewed a grainy photo of Prausa’s presumed killer that Streiber had surreptitiously uncovered from a small airfield near Sicily while investigating the death of his friend.

For nearly eleven years, Danzig worked out of an obscure wing at Langley, formulating war-game scenarios, political coups and fabricated assassinations. He and his small team were paid to read works of fiction and watch thrillers then dissect and catalog the plausible threats.

Like Danzig, they were all high-level academics recruited from Ivy League universities. To their superiors, they were frowned upon as bibliophiles whose field experience was relegated to the whiteboard in their office. The last year of his work, he and Erica were coupled with MI5 counterparts Bill Streiber and Colin Prausa in a joint CIA-MI5 taskforce based in the UK. It was a unique meeting of minds and also saw the introduction of an actual field agent into the mix who provided real-world feedback on logistics, weapons and tactics.

Jared Flynn was a seasoned MI6 operative who had seen action across the globe. Shortly after their twelve-month contract ended, Flynn went missing in Africa, his small plane and team of operatives listed as KIA by the British government in what Danzig surmised was a cover-up for a botched mission.

It has to be Flynn. He’s the only person left from our original group. This has to be connected to one of our war-game scenarios. Why else would he risk coming out of the shadows after all these years?

He shook his head, trying to make sense of the tragic loss of life and feeling like his three-foot world in the corner of the cabin was shrinking with each minute.

What the hell am I going to do now?

Most of his agency contacts were gone or retired, and he was sure any of the higher-ups at Langley were going to wonder why he had met with Streiber and Greer in the first place.

He ran his pale fingers through his wavy hair, trying to quell another surge of bile as he steadied his breathing. His pulse rate hadn’t lowered for long when he heard a twig snap outside.

Danzig grabbed the weathered baseball bat against the wall, leaning his head to the side of the white window drapes as he watched a bearded man in a leather jacket leisurely walking up the gravel driveway towards the porch.

His throat grew parched; he was hoping the man was one of the neighbors whose cabins dotted the nearby hills, but then he saw the tan tactical boots and BDU-style pants.

Shit, this guy doesn’t look like a local or a hunter.

4

A firm knock on the door, then the man on the porch spoke. “Mark Danzig, I’m with the State Department. We know what happened to your colleagues, and we’re here to get you to safety. Can you open the door, please?”

Danzig scrunched further into the corner, clutching the bat against his chest. He swiveled his head, trying to see out the windows, but the man was out of sight. He heard the cracking of dried twigs again and figured there were other agents approaching the cabin.

The man repeated himself. Danzig slowly stood up. With nowhere to run and no weapons, he was helpless. Plus, he knew it was just a matter of time before a flash-bang was tossed through a window and the guy entered forcibly.

How the hell did they find me here?

Danzig sucked in a deep breath, his ribs trembling. “Hold on.” He peered out the window near the woodstove, seeing another man in the driveway. He held an AR rifle at a low-ready while scanning the forest on either side.

“Mr. Danzig, we don’t have much time,” said the man at the door. “If we were able to locate you, others will be able to as well.”

He licked his lips, clutching the bat with one hand while reaching for the deadbolt. “Alright, but I want to see some ID.”

“Of course, sir.”

Danzig slowly opened the door an inch. The man appeared larger than he thought earlier, his hands hanging by his sides. Danzig could see the handle of a holstered pistol near the man’s appendix region just inside the open jacket.

“Whoa, don’t plan on swinging that my way, alright?” said the man at the sight of the bat.

Danzig stood in the open doorway, lowering the Louisville slugger. “Been a helluva weird night and day so far; sorry.”

The man thrust his thumb towards the road while keeping his gaze fixed on the interior of the cabin. “We’ve got a vehicle parked a ways back, but before we leave, do you have anything of significance you need to bring?”

Danzig gave him a perplexed look. “Uhm, no…like what?”

“Well, whatever was worth killing your friends for, for starters.”

“No. Just me.”

“Good, that’s good.”

In his anxiousness, Danzig had overlooked one fact that was now beginning to pierce through his terrified psyche.

“What division within the State Department are you guys with? They’re not in the habit of sending personnel recovery teams out to the homes of former government employees.”

In a blur of movement, the man removed his concealed pistol, pointing it at Danzig’s forehead. Before the gunman could speak, his right temple splintered apart, and pink mist sprayed out onto the porch. The bat fell from Danzig’s hand, his heart racing as the man collapsed into the doorway.

Danzig saw the second figure in the driveway raise his rifle only to freeze in place, a look of horror in his eyes as a hole above his right ear began leaking red. The rifleman fell to his knees then landed face forward on the gravel.

Danzig spun around, rushing for the back door. Flinging it open, he bounded from the porch in an all-out sprint. The maple trees to his left exploded into wood splinters as dozens of rounds strafed past his shoulder.

He tore through the low branches of the trees lining the faint deer trail, his vision extending no more than a few feet. Coming to a slope, he paused, examining the muddy terrain into the swamp below. Then he felt himself being yanked back by his shirt collar. Danzig was swept off his feet, landing on his back and staring into the face of another bearded killer pointing a gun at his head.

“Mark Danzig…I think you’re down to your last few lives. Do as I say and I won’t stomp your head into the mud.”

Shepard waited for the man to nod then motioned for him to move up against a rotten stump. Cal pressed his shoulder against a large maple tree while he scanned the cabin and surrounding terrain.

Viper was twenty yards to his left while Nolan and Hamill were flanking them in the distance on either side as the two operators made their way in a buttonhook towards the narrow dirt road that led into the property.

“Anyone else here with you…family…friends?”

Danzig shook his head. “Just me.”

Shepard saw the man shift his weight to the right, his feet planting in the dirt slightly, which made Cal shove the barrel of the suppressed Glock back into Danzig’s temple. “You make a move against me and you’ll be adding a concussion to your list of problems. I know escape is high on your list right now, but me and my team are your best option for making it out of here.”

“Your sales pitch sounds slightly better than the other guy, but you’ll excuse me for not trusting a fucking word you’ve said.”

“I get it, believe me.”

Cal sorted out the chatter of his teammates in his earpiece then scanned the dense treeline of young pines to the left. Glancing back at Danzig, he raised a finger to his lips, waiting for Danzig to respond with a nod to his request.

Shepard saw a lone gunman in camouflage emerge from the pine trees, the figure turning once and firing a barrage of gunfire from an MP5 in the opposite direction towards the cabin. Cal stepped three feet to the left, leaning against a shoulder-height stump and steadying his outstretched weapon hands while aligning the front sight on his approaching target, forty yards distant.

Two 9mm rounds struck the shooter in the jaw and upper lip, and the man careened against a tree then slumped to the ground.

Shepard immediately swung his pistol towards Danzig, who was inching away from the tree. The man thrust his hands up. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good call.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a pragmatist, and you look like the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot someone in the back.”

“In your case, I’d make it the back of the leg…at least until I determine how the hell you survived that vehicle crash in the river last night and why you were put on our radar.”

Danzig lowered his arms, watching a man and woman exiting the treeline to either side of the cabin, giving Shepard a knowing nod as they approached.

“One of them got away, heading east into the forest,” said Viper.

“Who were those two nice gentlemen by my front door?” Danzig thrust his chin towards the cabin.

“I was hoping you could shed some light on that,” said Cal while Viper and Nolan fanned out on either side of the two men, scanning the forest.

Danzig gave Shepard a once-over. “More importantly, who the hell are you?”

“Your escort out of here before another strike team shows up. Someone wants your head on a pike, and they clearly have resources at their disposal to track you to this remote location.” He pointed to a pile of debris on the ground to the right. “That’s the second of two portable drones we shot down…those are some high-end devices.”

He removed his iPhone, taking a picture of Danzig then sending it to Vogel, who gave immediate confirmation it was the correct person.

“None of this makes any sense. I’m a retired statistician. Why would someone try and kill me and my friends?”

Shepard raised a hand. “Save the cover story, Mark. We know about your former employer, and someone at the CIA or a rival agency wants you out of the picture.”

Danzig narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I was a number-cruncher for nearly two decades.”

“Like your colleagues Erica Greer and Bill Streiber?” He swung his phone around, showing the images of the two deceased former agents.

Danzig’s face grew ashen, and he quickly averted his eyes. He leaned back against the tree trunk, staring up at the clouds. “I prayed that they somehow survived. I tried to get to them…I just couldn’t free them…they…”

Shepard moved closer, putting his hand on Danzig’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know what it feels like to have someone’s life slip right out of your hands, but right now, we need to get out of here. I’ll explain more on the drive back.”

The man dragged his sleeve across his eyes. “To where? I’m not going back to Langley. No way in hell.”

“Not Langley. We’ve got a safehouse of sorts back in Virginia, not far from here. We’ll lie low for a while until we can piece things together.”

Danzig reluctantly stood, following behind Shepard while nervously glancing over his shoulder at the other two operators. “You guys Ground Branch?” he said, referring to the covert field-operations arm of the CIA.

Shepard didn’t respond. His eyes were trained on the deer trail ahead while he listened to Hamill’s SITREP in his earpiece as she followed up the rear. His mind kept racing back to the shooters, who were armed with an assortment of atypical weapons, along with the dark-skinned features of three of the men.

Mexican, maybe? They sure as hell didn’t seem like Agency, though it’s not beyond Langley to clean house using mercs…but that’s something more typical of ops overseas, not here.

He glanced back at Danzig, seeing the man’s wobbly gait and wondering when he last rested.

Was he really a victim in that car crash, or was he somehow behind it? He seemed genuinely horrified about the deaths of his friends…but then he could have been trained in psy-ops. And how is he connected with that Russian chemical weapons expert?

Shepard sighed, knowing the day was far from over. The apprehension phase of this mission was over, and now the real challenge was about to commence: trying to glean the truth from a former spook.

5

The two-mile trek through the forest took longer than expected, and Victor Horst arrived at the green SUV as rain began falling. He leaned against the vehicle, the surge of adrenaline from the gunfight at the cabin beginning to wane.

He kept glancing back over his shoulder for signs of his team, but he had seen two of them suffer headshots while the third man was most likely dead given his lack of comms response.

Who the hell were those other shooters?

Horst sucked in a deep breath, plucking a swollen tick from his forearm and squashing it against the driver’s door. He pulled out his encrypted phone, contacting his boss.

“Go ahead,” said the Brit on the other end.

“Danzig got away…there was another team onsite. The rest of my guys are KIA.”

“Another team…law-enforcement?”

“No, not by the way they moved and their weapons. At least a four-person unit. Agency, maybe.”

“Did you get a lead on them?”

“I should have something shortly once I download the footage from our last drone over the area and locate their vehicle’s make and plates. This fucking forest was too thick for the drones to be of any use, but the roads around here are pretty open. I’ll need Naomi to run it through her detection software.”

Horst opened the side door, climbing inside as the rain began falling with force, feeling like the interior was cavernous given the absence of his colleagues.

“So, Ramone is dead too?” said the Brit.

“Affirmative. He took a headshot in the driveway. Is that going to be a problem with his contacts in Cuba?”

“No, shouldn’t be. The Vargas guys know they’ll only receive the rest of their payment upon completion of our plans.” A long pause followed, then the Brit spoke again. “Danzig must be removed.”

“What if he talks to the others before he’s eliminated?”

“I’m assuming he’ll be chatty, but there’s no way he’ll figure out what we’re doing is connected with HAVOC…not if you can take him off the board in time.”

“I’ll get it done, don’t worry. I need Nells and the remainder of our guys,” he said, referring to the only other German member on their team, whom Victor was mentoring in the finer points of tradecraft.

“I’ll send them your coordinates so they can rendezvous with you once this other strike team has been located.”

“Copy that.”

“And Victor, do whatever it takes to get to Danzig. I don’t care if civilian casualties, cops or fucking kids are involved.”

6

Antalya, Turkey

From the porch of his twelve-thousand-square-foot estate, Sheik Fahad Bashar felt like he could see across the Mediterranean to the shores of Egypt on a clear day.

He recalled standing here five years ago under the shade of palm trees, explaining the geography of the stunning region to his two sons, Amir and Akeem, as if they were still at his side.

But the American drone strike upon the jungle near his steel factory on that horrific day over a year ago had left nothing of them behind. Their funeral was done amidst an array of photos of the two promising young men, the only heirs to his vast kingdom.

His advisors had informed him that the drone strike was intended for an insurgent base in the jungle near the warehouse, but the incendiary strike was magnified in the valley, which became a blast furnace, funneling the deadly flames and fuel straight into the building.

Bashar recalled seeing the mushroom cloud of black and orange smoke emanating from the trees within minutes after leaving his sons at the new warehouse.

Since that day, every waking minute had been spent preparing for a retaliatory strike upon the man and the nation that had turned his world and that of his sons to ashes in a microsecond.

The iPhone on the polished granite table beside him rang. His bony hand picked it up while his gazed remained fixed on the Mediterranean.

“Things are falling into place,” said Flynn. “I just have one player to remove from the chess board, then everything else will get underway.”

“Good. What else do you need from me?” Bashar coughed, wiping away the blood-flecked spittle on his lips.

“Nothing. You’ve taken care of all the logistics with the freighter and the payout to the Cubans, so we should be all set for now.”

“And how are you holding up, my friend?”

“Only two more days, then Amir and Akeem will rest easier.”

Bashar heard his bedroom door open as his private doctor wheeled in a dialysis machine. “I’ll be arriving in Florida tomorrow night. I want to be there. To see the pain in their eyes—in his eyes—when his world crumbles around him and the president is reduced to the whimpering fool he is.”

“I’ll await your arrival, and we will see this through to the end.”

The sheik hung up, leaning his head back to rest after the exhausting conversation. He clutched the edge of his chair, knowing he had to hold on for a few more days.

Then he could close his eyes for good, aware that he would soon be embracing his sons in the next life.

7

Danzig kept glancing over his shoulder at the other operators in the back seat then out the rear and side windows. Every shadow in the trees they sped by seemed to cloak someone with a sniper rifle. His mind was racing with a thousand details of what came next: from images of being assaulted by a helicopter armed with a minigun to being drugged by his current “rescuers” and awakening in a black site in some third-world country.

Twenty-four hours ago, he was having lunch with his old friends from the intelligence community. Now, he was on the run and cut off, with two different groups of seemingly competing mercenaries after him.

God, what’s going on?

He clenched his fist, gazing at the dense forest to his right, wondering if he could fling open the door and roll onto the ground then disappear into the forest.

Probably break my shoulder or get a concussion.

Real life was nothing like the thriller books and movies he’d digested over the years in his job, and he knew that whatever fate awaited him in the hours to come, he would have to trust his instincts. And right now, his instincts were telling him to stay put with this eclectic crew who were speeding away from the cabin.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to report in or something?” he said, glancing over at the bearded guy behind the wheel.

“If you’re looking for the call sign of the day or a recognizable code name from your past for my team, you can forget it,” said Cal. “We don’t operate like that.”

“For all I know, whacking those guys back at my cabin, or at least appearing to kill them, was all part of a larger ruse to convince me to spill my beans to you…the whole fucking ‘loyalty’ test thing to let me know you’re really the good guys, fightin’ for the stars and stripes.”

“You worked in counter-intel for too long, alright,” said Viper.

Danzig pivoted, glancing back at her with a scowl. “And you’re, no doubt, one of the Athenas…what we used to call the femme fatales used in covert ops for infiltrating other agencies or disposing of political figures using their considerable seduction skills.”

She grinned, glancing in the mirror at Cal, who was shaking his head. “’Athena, eh…I like the sound of that, though if I had to dispose of a politician, I’d use a suppressed pistol so I didn’t risk being contaminated by such a vile creature.”

“Those shooters back at the cabin…they weren’t there on a capture mission. Why do you have a bullseye on your back?” said Shepard. “Obviously you were supposed to have died in the car accident on that bridge with your friends…but why?”

Danzig ran his fingers through his hair. “That was no accident. Bill drove like my grandma and only lost control when the tires blew out; then we plowed through that guardrail on the bridge like it wasn’t even there.”

He sighed, leaning his head back then closing his eyes. “Right now, I feel like chucking up my breakfast, so just leave me alone.”

Danzig’s mind played over the events of the past day then shot back further into his career with the Agency. He thought he had left that world behind years ago.

But now, it was clear that it had clawed its way back with a bloody vengeance.

8

Manassas, Virginia

The safehouse was a far cry from the fortified, highly secure Agency safehouses Shepard had been accustomed to in other parts of the world. This was merely a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a ten-story structure in a modest neighborhood twenty miles west of Arlington. Foley kept it under an alias for use when he had business in D.C. or at Langley back when he and Patterson ran their former Search and Destroy unit.

However, Foley had seen to it that the front door was replaced with a steel door with a reinforced jamb and that the apartment had an escape hatch in the floor above the building’s maintenance room on the first floor. The hatch was little more than a small square section where he had removed the linoleum and plywood to have access to the drywall ceiling of the room below.

While Shepard and Hamill escorted Danzig to the apartment, Nolan and Viper headed to the alley, affixing the magnetic bases of two small cameras to the dumpster and gutter on either side of the exit. With the safehouse room overlooking the front entrance and sidewalks below, they would have coverage of anyone approaching.

Once inside the apartment, Shepard tossed his backpack on the tan couch then headed to the fridge, retrieving several bottles of water then handing one off to Danzig, who greedily gulped it down.

Shepard motioned to the couch. “We won’t be here long, but grab a seat while we go over a few things.”

Danzig nervously glanced over at Hamill, who had taken up a sentry position beside the north window overlooking the main street, as she removed an MP5 from her backpack.

He put his water bottle down, gazing at Shepard. “Delta and SAS always preferred an MP5…is that the kind of units you guys draw from?”

Shepard frowned. “You’ve watched too many movies. If you remembered anything from all the reading and research you’ve done over the years, you’d know that everything begins with the person behind the trigger.”

“And you still haven’t told me who exactly that is. If you’re not Ground Branch, then DIA?” he said, referring to the Defense Intelligence Agency, the smaller counterpart to the CIA.

Shepard heard Nolan’s voice outside the door as the deadbolt unlocked and the lanky operator entered, followed by Viper.

Cal angled his phone around, showing Danzig an image of a sixty-something man with a gray beard. “What’s important is that you help me fill in the blanks regarding your connection to this guy. Ever seen him before?”

Danzig shook his head. “He’s connected to the death of my friends?”

“Not sure. Name’s Anton Ivanovich. Formerly worked at the Russian Academy of Chemical Defenses developing nerve agents.”

Shepard tucked away his phone, getting up and pacing back and forth in the living room. He paused by the window, glancing out at the street then towards Danzig. “Look, you’re probably wondering who you can trust right now and how much to divulge about what’s going on…or what you think is going on since the deaths of your friends. But”—he waved his hand out to the rest of his team—“we’re it. We’re the only help you’ve got. And if I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s going on and how you, Ivanovich and that hit team at the cabin are all connected, then you need to drop the pretense that you’re in the dark about the events of the past twenty-four hours.”

Danzig leaned forward, resting his forehead on his steepled fingers as he sighed. After a long moment, he sat upright, gazing at the other operators then towards Shepard. “Bill Streiber flew out here from London a few days ago. Said he had something critical to discuss with me and Erica. That our lives depended on it.”

He stared down at the carpet. “Apparently, another member of our joint intel team died during the past month. Had a heart attack while on vacation in Thailand. Around this same time, Bill was alerted to the appearance—or re-appearance—of a former MI6 agent named Jared Flynn. Flynn had been assigned to our think-tank group for a year to provide insights into the mindset and tactics of an experienced field agent; otherwise, we were just living in this fictitious world of espionage books, films and our own theories.”

Shepard thought back to his own time in a similar role with the Burke Corporation during Perseus’ infancy. His old mentor and boss, Neil Patterson, had assigned him to work with Stephen Burke to keep the software researcher grounded in real-world military strategies while refining Perseus’ ability to collate and ID potential assassinations and coups.

“So, this agent Flynn told you what was realistic and what wasn’t based upon his years in the trenches,” said Cal.

“Exactly. And he was the real fuckin’ deal. Guy was a legend at MI6, and he took our war-gaming to the next level in a way we couldn’t have done on our own.”

“What made your colleague Streiber think Flynn was a concern after all this time?”

“Because the man died four years ago when his plane went down somewhere over North Africa…who knows for sure…that was just the cover story from MI6. Then, last week, Streiber was looking into our friend Colin Prausa’s death at his home in Sicily, after not buying the story about Colin croaking of a heart attack in the middle of the night.”

Danzig waved his hand wildly in the air. “The guy was a fitness freak and ran ultra-marathons, for God’s sake. There’s no way. So, Streiber does some digging using one of his old contacts in the Italian intelligence services and finds an image of Jared Fucking Flynn boarding a private jet outside of Sicily the morning after Colin died.”

Samira came over and sat down across from Danzig. “Flynn could have been plucked out of MI6 for some black-on-black ops and been working for MI6 all this time in another capacity.”

“It’s possible. I thought about that,” replied Danzig. “But would MI6 sanction him to take out members of our joint taskforce on both sides of the pond?” He shook his head. “No, this is a rogue operation, or maybe just something of Flynn’s design. Has to be.”

Shepard folded his arms. “Then that just begs the question: what knowledge did you and your old team possess that posed a threat to Flynn? It must be something for him to risk exposing himself now after being a ghost these past few years. You said you were responsible for designing plausible attack scenarios with his help…so does anything stand out?”

Danzig leaned back, slouching in the chair. “You mean out of the thousands of scenarios we created?”

He suddenly shot upright, extending his hand towards Shepard. “Can I see the photo of that scientist again?”

Shepard retrieved the image, giving the phone to Danzig. “There was one scenario we spent a lot of time on…it involved a guy like this, only I think he was a Chinese or North Korean bioweapons researcher. Originally, the scenario involved using monetary incentive as a recruiting inducement, but we also explored other options such as coercing the researcher into working with a terrorist group by having the guy’s daughter abducted and tortured in short video snippets that were sent to his phone in 15-minute increments, beginning with small-scale actions like finger removal then progressing to facial damage. Really grisly stuff would be done to her until the father caved in.”

Samira and Cal gave each other uneasy glances. She glanced down at his bare ring finger. “And you’re still single?” she said.

Danzig flared an eyebrow. “Flynn was actually the one who helped expand the torture methods in these scenarios. He described things that seemed beyond mere theory to him. Dude was scary as hell.”

“So who was the target of this particular scenario?” said Shepard.

The air crackled with the sound of Nolan’s finger snapping. “Guys, camera one above the rear exit outside just went dark.”

Shepard grabbed his MP5 then took up a crouching position beside the nearest window as he scanned the sidewalk below.

“Camera two in the rear stairwell is down now,” said Nolan.

“Talk to me,” said Shepard.

“I’ve got nothing here,” said Hamill from the bedroom window.

“Sounds like movement coming up the steps down the hall,” said Viper, who had taken up a shooting position at the front door.

“How the hell could someone have located this place?” said Nolan. He slammed the laptop closed as the last camera went dark.

“Prep the exfil route,” said Cal to the former Delta operator.

“Already on it,” he said, trotting to a tall closet beside the fridge. He pulled back a floor mat resembling the kitchen tile then yanked on the folding metal clasp on the floorboards. The panel lifted out, revealing a shoulder-width shaft. Nolan lowered himself down, straddling the two-by-six joists on either side then stomping out the drywall ceiling panel until the storage room below was visible.

Shepard leaned back from the window, grabbing Danzig’s arm and getting ready to shove him towards the kitchen just as he heard the sickeningly familiar sound of a large projectile shattering the window behind the couch.

He dove to the ground, yanking Danzig with him. “Grenade!”

9

The projectile struck the drywall separating the bedroom from the living room, the explosive sending a shockwave of debris and wood splinters into the air.

Shepard raised his head slightly from behind the couch, seeing a tall man on the roof of the opposite building. He had just tossed aside the discharged LAWs rocket and was shouldering what looked like a Galil rifle.

Shepard crawled up beside Danzig, whose right ear was leaking blood and spinal fluid. He leaned over the man, grabbing his jacket collar as he prepared to drag him to the kitchen. “Mark, stay with me. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Danzig’s eyelids fluttered, his breathing raspy. “H-A-V…”

“What?”

“Opera…tion HAVOC. Must be what Flynn is…is doing.”

Shepard dragged the man’s limp body next to the fridge, the staccato sound of gunfire echoing throughout the apartment as Hamill and Nolan engaged the shooters on the nearby rooftop.

He angled Danzig’s body around so his feet were pointed towards the opening in the floor. The man coughed, turning sideways then spewing blood onto his lips as his face grew ashen.

Shepard got behind him, propping Danzig up under his knee. “Hang in there.”

Danzig stared into Shepard’s face. “Stop him…stop Flynn before he brings down this…this country.”

His body grew limp, his chest sinking as the back of his head settled onto Shepard.

“We need to get out of here now,” shouted Viper. “Two of the shooters on the roof disappeared. They might be prepping another grenade launch.”

“Go! Down the hatch,” he said as he slid out from under the dead man.

Hamill trotted past him, crouching then dropping through the opening, followed by Viper. Shepard slid against the edge of the counter, pointing his MP5 at the front door, knowing whoever was on the other end was probably placing shape charges after realizing it was reinforced steel.

“You good, boss?” said Nolan as he took up a shooting position next to Shepard.

“Get outta here. I’m right behind you.”

Nolan nodded then crouch-walked to the opening and shimmied himself below.

Shepard crabbed his way back towards the closet then handed off his weapon to Nolan before lowering himself. His boots touched down just as the floor above shook violently from the door-breaching explosion.

Viper was already out of the utility room door and down the narrow corridor that led through the building’s boiler room. At the end of the hall, she sprinted down a flight of stairs into the basement as the others followed behind.

Approaching the east end of the complex, she paused before the exit door that led onto a side street. They had worked out the details of their egress route in the past but never figured they’d be executing it after a major shootout.

Aside from surviving the attack, they needed to exfil before police and SWAT surrounded the area. None of them could afford having their pictures splashed across the media or within law-enforcement circles.

She cracked the door open slightly, scanning the nearby rooftop then glancing down to the right and left. Another explosion erupted, and she figured the second was from a hand-tossed grenade meant to completely torch the apartment and anyone left inside.

Viper swung open the door, stowing the collapsible MP5 rifle under her jacket then removing her pistol as they dashed away from the gawking crowds on Main Street.

10

From his rooftop perch opposite the target, Victor Horst spied the lifeless body of Mark Danzig through the shattered apartment window, blood continuing to pool out around his head as he lay on the kitchen floor. He sighed in frustration after not seeing any bodies of the shooters who had taken him by surprise earlier at the cabin.

He tapped his ear-mic, alerting his four-man team to exfil to their rendezvous point six blocks distant, where their utility van was parked. He only heard the replies of two men, recalling one of the younger members of his team shrieking from his chest wound.

Horst packed up his folding rifle then shoved it into a tan backpack before crouch-walking past the rows of air-conditioners until he was at the opposite side of the roof.

Nells, the youngest member of their team, was sunk into a corner, his face contorted as he clutched his mangled right arm and bleeding chest.

Horst removed his HK pistol, pointing it at the man’s head. “You remember the deal, don’t you?”

Nells grimaced, nodding as tears flowed down his pale cheeks. His eyes darted over the edge of the building. “My sister will be taken care of if I do this, right?”

Horst nodded. “That’s the agreement, but not if I have to kill you.” Anyone serving Flynn and the sheik was bound by a verbal contract that ensured the financial security of their family upon dying in the line of action. It was another layer within the sheik’s empire to assure utter loyalty.

Nells leaned forward, shrieking as he fought to stand up. He leaned on the edge of the wall, unzipping the pack beside him and removing three grenades. As the wail of police cars grew closer, he glanced back at Horst. “Go; I’ll take care of things here so there’s no one on your tail.”

“You’re a good lad, Nells. Make me proud.”

Horst headed to the stairwell entrance, pausing for a second as he watched the man pull the pins then climb out onto the edge of the roof.

Bolting down the steps, Horst felt the tension in his shoulders easing, knowing Danzig was no longer a threat and that he, Flynn and the rest of their team would be flying south to Florida by nightfall to begin the next phase of their mission.

11

Two Hours Later

“They’ve got some serious resources to be able to track us down all the way from Danzig’s cabin,” said Shepard. He used a damp towel to wipe the dust from the explosion off his face as the others settled into their seats on board the Antonov. “They couldn’t have bugged our vehicle in the time we were there, so they must have satellite capabilities.”

“And this wasn’t a capture mission either,” said Viper. “They unleashed hell upon us from the opposite rooftop while the team in the hallway was trying to breach the door.”

“Thank God you had that reinforced the way you did, sir. It bought us the time we needed along with having that escape hatch in the floor,” Nolan said, glancing up at Foley, who was slowly pacing beside the intel desk where Lynn Vogel was sitting.

“Before he died, Danzig said something about an Operation HAVOC and how a former MI6 agent was connected with the deaths of his former intel team.”

“Havoc?” said Foley.

Cal shrugged his shoulders. “That’s all I know…that and him saying to stop Flynn before he ‘brings down this country.’” He raised his hands, clawing out air-quotes.

“Well, at least it wasn’t anything ominous,” smirked Nolan.

“We don’t have much to go on outside of what little we already knew about Danzig and the scant details on his personal and professional life,” said Vogel.

“So that leaves us with this guy Jared Flynn,” said Nolan. “A former British spook who supposedly died a few years back. He’s gotta be the man behind the curtain on both the hit at the cabin and our safehouse.”

“He would have the tactical know-how and experience, but HAVOC, according to Danzig, sounded like a pretty elaborate operation, so Flynn would also need considerable funding.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Foley. “And with considerable funding comes things like satellite intel and cyber-intrusion capabilities.” He pulled away from the discussion for a few minutes, returning to his laptop on the desk. “So, is Flynn working for a rogue nation or someone’s private army?”

Vogel moved in front of the group. “I just entered the pertinent details from this debrief into Perseus, so I’ll let you know when I have something. In the meantime, while you were at the safehouse, I ID’d the dead men at the cabin. All three were Cuban, affiliated with the Vargas crime syndicate on the eastern side of the island. They also have a presence in Miami and Tampa.”

Foley closed his laptop then leaned back in his chair. “Lynn and I had already been discussing how, unless Danzig provided any leads, our next trip was going to be to Florida.”

“To infiltrate a Cuban gang and see what they divulge?” said Viper. “That seems like a long shot, sir, especially without any informants on the inside.”

“That you know of,” said Foley with a faint grin. “Our old friend Neil Patterson, who retired to Miami last year, has maintained a few of his contacts as well as doing some private security work on the side.”

“Patterson…the guy who started your old Search and Destroy unit?” said Nolan as he glanced back and forth between Shepard and Foley.

“Well, it was a joint venture that he and I began,” said Foley. “When Neil’s injuries from his years of fieldwork caught up with him, he moved into a position as Director of Clandestine Operations at Langley for the remainder of his career while I stayed on to operate our Search and Destroy unit.”

“I thought the whole point of Patterson moving to Florida was to actually retire?” said Shepard.

“You know him,” said Vogel. “He will always have a hand in the game on some level, probably even after the last nail is in his coffin.”

“I spoke with Neil a few hours ago,” said Foley. “He’s got his feelers out with an old confidential informant he used in Havana years ago.” Foley glanced over the faces of his team. “So take a few minutes to get cleaned up while I pack some of my things.”

“You’re not coming, sir?” said Viper.

“No, I’ve got someone in D.C. who I think might be able to provide some insight into Flynn.”

Ten minutes later, Shepard helped Foley detach the Yamaha motorcycle from its strapped position against the fuselage. Foley slung his small backpack on then wheeled the motorcycle down the rear ramp.

“This contact in D.C. wouldn’t happen to be someone you knew from MI6 long ago, would it?”

“It is. You have a problem with that?” Foley donned a black helmet, pushing up the visor as he glanced at Shepard.

“No. Just making sure you don’t, if I may be so bold.”

He got on the Yamaha, firing up the engine. “Your comment, concern and boldness are noted. Now get your team airborne and find out how the hell that Cuban gang is connected to what’s going on.”

Foley flipped his visor down, speeding off. Vogel walked along the ramp, standing beside Shepard. “He seemed like he was in more of a rush than we are to get answers,” she said. “Hope his contact can provide some leads on this guy Flynn.”

“If anyone can, it would be Lena Taylor.”

“Is she with MI6?”

“Was. Lena was a targeting officer, assembling intel packages for their strike teams. She eventually left that role for a position with the Foreign Secretary’s Office here in the U.S.”

Vogel flared an eyebrow. “Foreign Secretary…that covers a lot of nebulous ground. So she’s probably still with MI6 in some capacity, just like when the Agency says it’s with the State Department as cover for potential operations abroad.”

“Who knows? Lena was a rather aloof woman the few times I was around her. She had a lot going on behind those pretty green eyes, that’s for sure.”

Vogel crossed her arms, watching Foley’s motorcycle fade around the corner of the hangar. “As long as I’ve known the colonel, I’ve never heard any mention of her, so it must have been before my time.”

“Well, you get to hearing things during long missions overseas when you’re holed up in a safehouse or a cave for weeks at a time.”

“What’s the connection between her and Foley?”

Shepard gave a pregnant pause. “She was his fiancée once upon a time.”

12

Fredericksburg, Virginia

The two-story vacation rental was perched upon a steeply wooded hillside with a winding driveway.

Only the red-tailed hawk flying overhead knew of the shimmering presence at the bottom of the in-ground swimming pool located behind the house.

A lone figure was sitting cross-legged at the deep end, his arms occasionally stirring as he glanced down at his diver’s watch. His lithe figure remained upright, his eyes staring through the blue-tinted goggles at a dead beetle floating through the water. It served as his talisman and a reminder of his own fate in the near future if he couldn’t push beyond holding his breath for the full four minutes.

When the allotted time came, his watch began flashing, and he unfolded his legs and pushed his toes off the coarse bottom, slowly ascending.

Jared Flynn sucked down a deep breath of cool air then swam to the edge of the pool, resting his arms along the sides. Rivulets of water streamed down the furrowed scars and burn marks lining his neck and back.

Removing his goggles, he glanced at his watch, noting four minutes and nine seconds. Goals always needed to be exceeded regardless of their significance. Only the outcome of this particular goal would determine operational success in the days to come.

The four-minute mark was actually one minute longer than the upcoming mission required, but he had learned from decades in covert operations that contingencies always had to be factored into every undertaking.

He paced his breathing, relishing the return of oxygen to every fiber in his being. Flynn gazed up at the hawk circling above then watched it make a beeline for a nearby ridge before disappearing into an oak thicket.

The secluded location of this house was perfect for his needs during the past four days since arriving in the U.S. The serenity and lack of city congestion was a welcome respite from time spent in Malaysia, Cuba and Romania during the past year, handling logistics, personnel and gear for his current operation.

Boots exiting the rear porch alerted him to Sayeed Jabal, who was briskly walking towards him with a pensive expression on his deeply tan face.

The man came to a halt at the edge of the pool, squatting down. His muscular six-foot-five frame blotted out the sun momentarily as he handed off an iPhone to Flynn. “It’s Victor. He said the op in Virginia had some ‘glitches.’”

Flynn frowned, pressing the phone to his moist ear. “What glitches, exactly?”

“The other team escaped, but the good news is that Danzig is dead,” said Victor Horst. “He was only with them a short time, so it’s not likely he revealed anything that could interfere with our plans.”

“Losses?” said Flynn.

Horst seethed out a breath. “Just one. Nells didn’t make it.”

“Regrettable. He was a tough kid.”

There was a long pause then Victor spoke again. “Our drone at the cabin captured some photos of the other strike team that I just sent over to you.”

Flynn drove away his irritation, his mind immediately redirecting with computer-like calculations to the next option along with any potential fallout if the mysterious group that rescued Danzig had gained any new intel.

“Everything is still on for our timetable,” he said. “At this point, nothing can be modified, as the target’s itinerary is too rigid. You and your crew pack up and meet at the next rendezvous point. We’ll link up tomorrow night as planned.”

“Copy that,” said Horst before signing off.

Flynn handed the phone back to Jabal then climbed out of the pool. He walked to the shaded porch, grabbing a towel draped over a lounge chair then running it through his wavy black hair.

“You want me to try and track down that other team after they fled the building where Danzig was killed?”

Flynn shook his head. “They’re already in the wind. My question is how they got intel on Danzig’s cabin so quickly given that our own cyber-expert has the most cutting-edge tech at her disposal and was barely able to narrow down the man’s location.”

He shot an uneasy look at Jabal. “Unless some analyst at Langley has somehow determined that the deaths of those two other intel colleagues of Danzig’s wasn’t an accident.”

“Not likely. I handled them myself. With the slick road conditions that Streiber was dealing with on that bridge when the blowout occurred, there’d be no suspicion of foul play.”

Flynn flared an eyebrow as he scanned the grainy images of a bearded operator at Danzig’s cabin. “These guys have some pretty sophisticated intel abilities if they pegged Danzig as a high-value target that needed immediate apprehension. Either that or he’s on their radar for another reason.” He leaned back, rubbing the brown stubble on his chin. “But it can’t be a coincidence that they swept in when they did. Something else is going on here.”

Do my old colleagues at MI6 know I’m on these shores? Are they assisting the Americans?

He threw his towel on the table. “Get the drone images to Naomi. I want to see if she can learn anything about who we’re dealing with.”

Jabal glanced at his iPhone, scanning a flight-tracker. “She’s landing in Cuba as we speak, so I’ll contact her in fifteen minutes.”

“Tell her to call me once she’s done there and on her way back.”

“Roger that, boss,” said Jabal.

He could detect the uneasy way Jabal used the latter term, like he was saying it to someone over Flynn’s shoulder. There were two other Arabic members of his five-person crew who addressed him in a similar tone. Despite Flynn having trained and worked with his entire team for the past year, he knew it wasn’t disdain but an admiration for the man who was funding this entire operation and whose allegiance they were all bound by. Fahad Bashar always seemed to have a presence regardless of where Flynn and his team were at in the world.

Flynn had first formulated this attack and presented it to the sheik as much for Fahad to be able to seek retribution as for Flynn to be able to drive a wedge between MI6 and its U.S. counterparts for their actions during a botched mission four years ago that had nearly cost him his life.

Sheik Bashar had ample reason to divert his considerable funds to supporting Flynn’s mission, as it was his mission as well. Both men had the will to see this through to its bloody end, with one possessing the financial means while the other having the tactical brilliance and abilities to execute it.

The first time he met the sheik was during a counterterrorism training event on Saudi Arabian soil, with Flynn’s MI6 team providing a demonstration of small unit tactics for the Saudi royal guard. On subsequent visits to London, the sheik always requested Flynn as his personal escort to accompany his team of bodyguards.

To all outward appearances, the two men became fast friends, but Flynn was instructed by his superiors to exploit the powerful ally’s connections in the Middle East, and there were frequent visits to the sheik’s palaces in Saudi Arabia and along the Mediterranean.

A year later, when a joint CIA-MI6 operation to deliver weapons to a politically aligned warlord in Nigeria was aborted at the last minute, the plane carrying his crew was shot down by insurgents. As the sole survivor, Flynn endured two months of captivity and torture while the British government denied any knowledge of his involvement, labeling him a rogue agent.

After he withered down to a skeletal figure from months of deprivation and beatings, his freedom was finally brokered by the intervention of the sheik, who had learned of his captivity.

It took another three months to regain his strength and fully recover from the physical damage he had suffered until, one day in the spring, he was asked by Fahad to train a private army to quell the competition amongst his steel competitors in Malaysia.

With the British government claiming Flynn had died in Africa and disavowing him as the loyal servant to the crown that he had been for so many years, Flynn welcomed his new role within the sheik’s empire. Flynn recruited disavowed assets that he knew personally from covert agencies until he had a small cadre of elite fighters.

One of those men had been Ramone Vasquez, a Cuban soldier whom Flynn had met during wet-work in Central America. It was Ramone who had provided the inroad to the Vargas crime syndicate in eastern Cuba, where Flynn and his team had most recently been conducting training for the forthcoming attack in the U.S.

He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket hanging on the back of the bedroom door, removing a burner phone that contained a single number.

“FBI Miami Field Office. This is Megan. Can I help you?” said a woman.

“With a honey-sweet voice like that, who could resist?” Flynn accentuated his English accent.

Her voice lowered. “Eric, oh God, it’s so good to hear from you. Please tell me you can get away from work soon. I’ve missed you.”

“It sure feels like it’s been longer than three weeks. I’m actually arriving in the States tomorrow morning. How about brunch? I’m renting a suite for a few days, so we could order in from Zuma’s. That’s your favorite place, right?”

He heard a sigh. “You remembered. Mmm…yes, that would be wonderful.”

“Then I’ll call you after I get in. Can’t wait to see you, beautiful.”

“I hope you’re not too jet-lagged…we have some catching up to do.”

“I’m counting on it, love.”

After the woman hung up, he walked to the large bay windows overlooking the serene valley below, reminding himself that Megan Snyder was a necessary pawn in the chess game that was unfolding. An asset he had cultivated during the past seven months of business trips to the U.S. under the guise of one of the sheik’s shell corporations.

Now, his plans were about to quickly unfold as the dominoes were tipped.

After this week, Flynn knew that he and any of his surviving cadre would separate and live out their days under assumed identities far from these shores.

And American historians would be writing about the horrific events of this coming Thursday for generations to come.

13

FBI Miami Headquarters

Director Tyrell Bowen exited his office, a raincoat in one hand and his laptop in the other.

“Sir, don’t forget to sign these documents for the sheriff’s department so they can begin their outer perimeter work for the upcoming event,” said his secretary, Megan Snyder.

He paused before his secretary’s desk, setting down his items on a chair then scribbling on the tablet she slid towards him. “I’m going to need a new prescription on my reading glasses with all the computer work I’m doing this week to secure this city.” He patted the concealed Sig Sauer pistol under his suit jacket. “Hard to believe I actually used to be a field agent at one time. Now, my laptop is my weapon.”

She giggled, giving off an easy smile. Her auburn hair and southern accent gave the impression of a pleased schoolteacher rather than the secretary of one of the most powerful law-enforcement figures in Florida. “You work too hard, sir. You need a vacation after this week.”

He handed her back the tablet. “I could say the same about you.” He waved his hand towards his office. “Without you behind the scenes, I’d be lost. You’ve been putting in grueling hours these past few weeks, so why don’t you take the rest of today and tomorrow morning off. Everything’s already taken care of with what I need. Now, it’s just about my boots on the pavement.”

She grinned. “Really…are you sure? But what about…”

He winked at her. “What are you still doing here, Megan?”

Hearing the rain pelting against the windows, Bowen slid on his jacket then snatched his laptop from her desk, briskly walking down the hallway towards his second-in-command waiting by the elevator.

“Thank you, sir,” she shouted as she waved at his back, already planning tomorrow morning’s romantic getaway with the charming Englishman whose visits always made her worries disappear.

14

Washington, D.C.

The green-eyed woman had a dignified beauty about her, with high cheekbones and sleek black hair that made her appear of Italian heritage rather than English.

From her table on the second-floor veranda of the posh restaurant, Lena Taylor could see the Washington Monument in the distance, but instead her eyes had been focused on the bustling crowds of pedestrians on the sidewalk below. Out of habit, she found herself scanning individuals according to profiles she’d mentally acquired in dozens of countries around the world during the past twenty-eight years of working in field-ops for MI6 then later for its intel branch before being assigned to the Office of the Foreign Secretary in D.C.

While the cover story for her job was one of cementing international relations and handling embassy training, she was one of the many arms of MI6 abroad in other countries, safeguarding the crown’s interests as well as being the conduit for covert operators to slip into and out of a region.

Now, with the recent summons she had received on her phone, she was sure that the coming days would bring one of her more challenging, if not deadly, assignments on U.S. soil.

Lena watched the man step through the doorway onto the veranda, his predatory eyes immediately darting to a corner table where her two bodyguards were seated. He walked across the center of the café, his gaze alternating between Lena and the other patrons.

She stood, smiling as Ryan Foley walked up to her. He extended his hand, but she pushed past it, hugging him instead.

“My God, Ryan, it’s been too long.”

He heartily embraced her then stepped back, gazing over her face and back into her eyes. “The years have been very kind to you, my dear.”

“Oh, you always were a good liar.”

“That’s true, but it was never necessary in your case.”

Lena gestured for him to sit then stepped back, sliding down into her chair. The balding waiter arrived, taking two orders for espressos before departing.

She glanced over his shoulders and arms. “I take it you’re not sitting behind a desk these days, Ryan. Should I have been worried about you plowing through my two bodyguards if I hadn’t waved them off? You always were into all the Japanese martial arts stuff.”

He glanced back at the burly men at the corner table, who resembled wolves stuffed into suits. “I had a workaround planned, but it probably would have involved them needing a few months of physical therapy.”

Lena chuckled then reclined back into her chair. “You still with that outfit out of Langley?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few irons in the fire.”

“So, that’s a yes.”

“And what about you…Office of the Foreign Secretary…that sounds like the name for another superfluous government organization. Kinda like our Department of Economic Security or those other agencies with big budgets and no results.”

“My work keeps me busy.” She waved her hand out towards the skyline. “And the weather is slightly more agreeable here than back home, though I could do without these insane winters you have here.”

The waiter returned with a tray, setting two cups of espresso on the table along with a plate filled with creamers, sugar and miniature spoons.

Lena noticed Foley glancing at the wedding band on her right hand. “And Mr. Taylor…he’s treating you well?”

She grinned, tapping her finger on the table. “Window-dressing…it keeps the trolls away. Besides, since you somehow located my damn phone number, you must also know I’m single…still.”

“That’s only because Greek goddesses like yourself frown upon us mortals.”

She laughed, covering her mouth. “Oh, you’re still the charmer.” Lena slid forward, resting her hand on his for a second. “But, my dear Ryan, you didn’t come here for the prime rib, so what brings you to my doorstep after all these years?”

“You’re actually on my country’s doorstep, but I always did like your directness.” He rested his meaty forearms on the table, his easygoing expression replaced by a taut stare. “Jared Flynn.”

Lena’s right cheek twitched. She sat upright, gazing at the nearby patrons then at Foley. She reached past her espresso cup for the water, taking a sip.

“So you do know him?” said the colonel.

She sighed, lowering her sunglasses despite the overcast sky. “Question is, how did you happen across him…and me for that matter? You must have some intelligence capabilities these days.” Lena gave a coy smile, gliding her fingers on the edge of her cup. “Which means you are still in the game…did you ever leave it like you said you were going to one day?”

“One day…that’s just code for when the body is no longer cooperating.”

She shook her head. “You still think you’re invincible.” Lena raised a hand in the air. “My mission, my men…and me…that’s all that comprises your life still, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t come here to root around in my past…or in ours. Flynn is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

She pursed her lips. “That name is vaguely familiar. Was he with MI6 at some point?”

“Come on, Lena. You really going to drag this out?”

She sighed, leaning in. “Hypothetically speaking, there may have been whispers about a recently resurfaced agent.”

“Hypothetically, he’s been racking up a body count on U.S. soil and may have plans to unleash something catastrophic, so let’s skip the polite little dance you’re doing and provide me with something actionable so I can stop this lunatic.”

She removed the cloth napkin from her lap, dabbing the corners of her mouth then placing it on the table. Lena stood up, gazing up at the cottony cumulus clouds blanketing the skyline. “This time of year always makes me long for my place in the Lake District back home. You remember it?”

He leaned back, watching the two bodyguards approach in the reflection in the patio windows. “Of course, but my mind is on the present.”

“Remember that tattered old book on Alexander the Great you used to like reading…I still have it. The section on the Battle of Issus was always interesting…do you recall it?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course; it was one of his major campaigns.”

She leaned over, whispering in his ear, “Wilson was the author of that particular book. As you may not have a copy here, you should look it up. The Georgetown Library down on R Street has an old edition. I’ll be sure to tell the head librarian to reserve a copy to be picked up after 4 p.m.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll check into it.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “And if you’re still in the area this weekend, I’m having a little soiree at my house. Just a few friends from the Hill. Things kick off, as you’d say, at seven on Saturday evening. You should drop by.”

He tried to contain his grimace. He’d rather be dropped in the desert with a knife than stand around a mutual admiration society of politicians with plastic smiles. “I’ll keep it in mind, thank you.”

She let her hand linger in his for a moment as she returned his gaze. “I would text you the address, but I imagine you’ve already cased the place.”

He chuckled. “Lena, you haven’t changed a bit.”

She winked. “Just be sure to use the front door.”

Lena Taylor watched the endless flow of people on the street as her bodyguard drove the Lincoln Town car away from the restaurant.

She pulled out her encrypted phone while raising the privacy panel between her and the two men up front. Glancing at her watch, she knew the recipient was probably having dinner given the five-hour time difference in London, but he was a man who rarely held a normal schedule, let alone got more than a few hours of sleep each night given his responsibilities.

“We have a problem, sir,” she said as the gravelly voice of an older man answered. “There’s an American CIA team who knows about Flynn.”

“How the bloody hell is that possible? We just barely picked up his trail last month and his connection to Bashar.”

“Not sure exactly, sir, but I know this particular agent. He has been in the field a long time and no doubt has the resources and personnel at his disposal to hunt down Flynn. This could actually work to our advantage.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Anonymously feeding some tidbits of intel to them so we can use the Americans to augment our own tracking abilities.”

There was a long pause before the head of MI6 replied. “Very well. See to it. But Lena, while I prefer it be us who pull the trigger on Flynn so he isn’t muddying up our boots on their shores, there’s also the very real concern that he could end up in a CIA black site, hemorrhaging state secrets about MI6 operations…and Flynn has no shortage of those.”

“We will eliminate him before that happens. I will keep you apprised as things unfold over here.”

She heard the phone go silent then tucked it back into her purse, resuming people-watching on the street.

Though she knew Ryan Foley was being kind in his compliments about her looks, the stress lines on her face were increasing with every year that she stayed in this line of work. At forty-six, she’d seen her share of overseas field-ops, and she vividly recalled Jared Flynn’s face, since she was the case officer overseeing him during his last two years at MI6.

She also knew that the botched CIA-MI6 mission to Algeria was the result of bureaucratic in-fighting between the two agencies, the plug ultimately being pulled at the last minute by President Weller’s administration, who only saw the arming of the militia in North Africa as leading to another disaster that had the potential to make the Arab Spring debacle pale in comparison.

As far as she knew, the joint taskforce on the plane were KIA after suffering a catastrophic RPG strike upon the rear of the fuselage. She watched in real-time from the SIS building in London, MI6’s headquarters, as the disabled plane went down in the borderlands between Niger and Algeria.

What happened after that was never known, since the entire operation was disbanded as both the U.S. and England played the blame game. It was a dark time between the two old allies, and Lena got out from under the black cloud at MI6, taking a position in Washington, D.C.

Now, her sole responsibility was using her former targeting abilities to track down threats to her country who were operating in the U.S., hoping to strike at diplomatic targets or Britain’s political interests within Washington circles.

Flynn crossed her radar last week after MI5’s facial recognition software picked him up boarding a jet outside of Sicily after the untimely death of former British intelligence analyst Colin Prausa. She remembered sitting motionless in her home for what felt like hours after learning of the news from her boss in London, contemplating why a dead man had emerged back onto the stage. Flynn had been far too meticulous and cunning to allow his image to be picked up so carelessly, and Lena surmised that more agents could be targeted by the man the British government had given up. But it wasn’t until she discovered the rest of the joint group of CIA-MI5 analysts had died in recent days that she was sure someone with Flynn’s abilities was focused on more than just attacking embassy officials or British nationals residing abroad.

Why has he resurfaced after being gone for so long? There aren’t any significant political gatherings or elections coming up. But since he’s here, things must already be underway beyond what we’ve been able to identify.

Which was, exactly why she needed to bring Foley into this, and quickly, using his capabilities to help them track down Flynn before the killings increased. She feared this might occur on an exponential level given the former MI6 agent’s skills and his past affiliation with Sheik Fahad Bashar, whom she and her boss believed had the finances and motivation to support Flynn.

She thought back to the work that Streiber and the two American analysts had been doing in their small think-tank group in London years ago, wondering what type of Pandora’s Box had sprung open with the frightening reappearance of Jared Flynn.

15

Manassas, Virginia

It was nearly 6 p.m. when FBI Agent Amanda Carter shut the door to her vehicle then walked past the street barricade holding back the throng of gawkers and journalists. The crowd was too busy clicking off photos of the still smoldering second floor of the apartment on the right to pay any attention to her.

She paused before the two police officers standing at the corner, identifying herself as the assistant director of the FBI’s counterterrorism task-force. The tall officer on the right nodded then lifted the crime-scene tape cordoning off the two-lane street.

A single hand shot up from the group of federal investigators as the head of forensics, James Corelli, waved her over.

The air reeked of burning wood and metal as she walked around numerous shell casings on the ground, staring up at the shattered apartment windows on the right then down to the two police cruisers that had spidered windshields and shrapnel buried in the hoods.

Corelli came up alongside her, his balding head reflecting the low sun and causing her to take a step to the left.

“We’ve already collected statements from the bystanders on the street and in the nearby apartments who witnessed the whole thing,” he said. “The shootout appears to have lasted less than ten minutes, with both sets of gunmen dispersing after that.”

He pointed to the rooftop opposite them. “The main attackers look to have been situated up there. One of them used a LAWs rocket…haven’t seen one of those in a long time. After that, it was a constant exchange of gunfire between the two parties.”

“So why were we called in on this? Did the local PD already rule out gang violence?”

Corelli waved his hand down the street. “You need to get out of D.C. more often…not much gang violence in this part of Virginia. Plus, the eyewitnesses said they heard the guys on the roof yelling in different languages…German and possibly Arabic, depending on who you talk to. Then, there’s the rocket launcher and the heap of spent brass lying on the rooftop…looks like someone was waging a small war.”

“How many fatalities down here?” said Carter, glancing at the body parts lying under tarps in the street.

“Five total. There was a guy on the roof armed with three grenades who jumped onto the first of two police cruisers that arrived shortly after the gunfight ended.” He averted his eyes from the chalk outlines beside the officers’ cars. “Three city PD guys…they never had a chance.”

She glanced up to the roof. “That’s some Kamikaze shit alright.”

“We’ve got some iPhone footage from locals on the street of the guy; he looked like he was bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to the chest just before he jumped.”

“He was taking one for the team so his buddies could get away, I’m guessing.” She shook her head in disgust as she examined the mangled police cars and the chalk outlines where the three officers had been, knowing their families were probably getting a visit from the police chief about now.

Carter sighed. “Yep, this is definitely not gang-related…they wouldn’t do something this reckless. It’d be bad for business.”

She gazed at the splintered window frames on the second floor, where rivulets of smoke were emanating from the opening. “You said there were five fatalities…the last vic up there, I assume?”

“That’s right. Guy had a severe skull fracture. Probably died within minutes of the rocket hitting the wall inside.”

“Gotta name?”

Corelli glanced down at the notes on his tablet. “Mark Danzig. Retired statistician.”

“Because that’s a dangerous occupation.” She shook her head, trying to make sense of the scene. “Maybe he was laundering money or cooking the books for a large criminal syndicate and someone put a hit out on him.”

Corelli thrust his chin towards the alley, and Carter followed him around the clusters of shattered glass and wood fragments until they arrived at the side of the building.

“The only working security cameras left down here were from the pawn shop on the adjacent corner. I already spoke with the owner, and he got me this,” he said, handing her his tablet.

While Corelli spoke, she stared at the grainy image of a white male leaving the side exit of the six-story building opposite the apartment complex. “He has his head down, so it’s not a great picture, but I’ll see what comes up when I run it through our database.”

He swiped the screen left, revealing four armed individuals emerging from the alley behind the apartment complex.

“For some reason I can’t explain, the guy’s face at the back of the line is blurry. The other two in the middle are obscured by their ballcaps, but take a look at the person in front,” he said, tapping on the next image, which showed a close-up of a dark-haired woman in a leather jacket.

Carter’s breathing ceased for a second, her eyes narrowing. It was a face she never expected to see again. She felt like a bewildered spectator at the zoo, staring into a tiger exhibit.

“You recognize her?” said Corelli.

She tried to shrug off the gravity of the query and ease her expression. “Not sure.”

But she was sure.

There was no mistaking the face of the woman she’d watched ruthlessly eliminate a group of hired guns at a ranch in Texas last summer, saving Carter’s FBI team during a bloody shootout that dismantled the faction behind the murders of Stephen Burke, his colleagues and Cal Shepard’s wife.

Viper. What the hell is she doing back here?

Whatever was going on, it was about more than a turf war between two gangs as the media described on the radio.

If Viper’s here, then is Shepard back too? Is he involved in his old line of work again?

She wasn’t sure if that meant the East Coast was suddenly safer or it was about to erupt into a war zone.

Looking at the crime scene, she had a hard time convincing herself of anything but the latter.

16

Baracoa, Cuba

Hakim Nazari wove the old blue Volvo along the muddy roads, passing under the drooping arms of some low-hanging palm trees. For the past two hours of driving on this remote stretch of jungle road, they had seen no other traffic. The only companions were the occasional iguanas darting from tree branches as the headlights startled them into action.

He watched Naomi Petrin in the passenger’s seat remove a Glock 19 from her backpack then drop out the 15-round mag. She did a quick visual inspection then re-inserted it before racking a round.

“Flynn indicated that the Vargas syndicate is still camped out in this region in similar numbers to when we were all here last month, so there shouldn’t be any issues with security,” he said.

She shook her head. “This should be Ramone’s fucking job. He’s the one who knew all the Vargas guys.”

“Everything’s still in play, despite losing him at that cabin. The Vargas crew has already gotten a payment from Flynn, so we can continue using their facilities out here. They’re not going to jeopardize anything this late in the game if they want the rest of their cash.”

“It’s easy to be so relaxed when you’re not the one walking into that old warehouse at midnight,” said Naomi. “I hate that place. Like spending three weeks in that rathole wasn’t torture enough, now I have to go back.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Someone needs to stay with our ride just in case we need to make a hasty exit. Flynn said there’s been some issues in recent weeks with some of Reyes’ smugglers venturing closer to the coast.”

“You just said the Vargas guys are out here in numbers.”

“You know them…when they’re not passed out drunk, they like to drive along the coastal towns, whoring and getting into fights.”

“Another reason to get what we came for and get back to Miami.”

Hakim rounded a curve, the jungle giving way to a gravel parking lot adjacent to a four-story warehouse with shattered windows. He drove for another hundred yards then stopped beside a mud-encrusted jeep whose canopy was absent.

A wall of humidity smacked Naomi in the face as she exited the Volvo. She felt nothing but revulsion at seeing the dilapidated old building.

A tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard stepped out of the jeep, walking towards her.

“Are you here for the maritime conference?” he said in a thick Russian accent.

She nodded, responding in Russian. “When does it start?”

“7 p.m.”

Naomi grunted out the answer in a gruff voice. She was tired from the long, bone-jarring drive and was irritated at the man’s insistence on using ridiculous expressions to confirm their identities. She already knew from his profile photos that he was Anton Ivanovich. The chemical weapons expert had arrived here earlier in the week, spending the past few days configuring the critical items needed for the completion of their mission.

Naomi’s decade as an Israeli counter-intel analyst with Mossad had come to fruition during this past week fabricating the false documents, passports and shipping manifests for Flynn along with creating a unique malware program designed to override electrical signals embedded at a facility in Miami. Now, she just had two days left until their attack in the U.S. was finished and she could be on her way to the Seychelles, beginning her new life away from the nebulous world of spycraft.

“Shall we head inside and complete our transaction?” he said.

She gave a plastic smile then followed him as he walked to a steel door on the right. Before stepping inside, Naomi shot an envious glance back at Hakim then placed her hand on the pistol holstered on her right hip.

Though the building had once been used as a metal fabrication site for the ship-building industry, it had long fallen into disuse, and she knew that the scurrying sounds in the shadows were from an abundant rodent and insect population.

The older man led them down a flight of stairs, the sound of generators and the odor of diesel fuel overpowering the other unsavory stench. She kept her right hand on the Glock while the other palmed a tactical flashlight.

The route ahead was punctuated by dozens of identical bootprints along the dusty cement floor, and she wondered how often the old man had come and gone from this location since his arrival. The Vargas syndicate not only provided the muscle on this side of the island but had fitted the exterior diesel generators that provided electrical power to a few rooms in the building along with trucking in fresh water, food and any other pertinent supplies for Ivanovich’s work and for Flynn’s previous intensive training.

Descending to the basement, they meandered through a labyrinth of service tunnels, remnants of old incandescent lights flickering along the ceiling. A few minutes later, they finally paused at a large steel door, which looked much newer and less corroded than the others in the building.

Ivanovich removed two biohazard-type masks from pegs on the wall, handing one to Naomi while he donned the other over his greasy black hair. When he was done, he motioned for her to grab one of the heavy rubber over-suits on the wall, each of them sliding the poncho-style garments over their masks. Naomi flung the clear vinyl hood over her head then slid on a pair of heavy rubber gloves.

“This is all merely a precaution. The specimen inside is inert and will not cause any harm until it’s activated with the triggers I’ll provide, per Flynn’s instructions.”

He cranked the thick metal lever on the door until the vault-like hatch hissed open.

She gulped, trying to control her breathing so her mask didn’t fog up.

A few more minutes, then I’m out of this shithole…and on the road back to the airfield.

She hadn’t elected to be here. It was Flynn’s call, as the rest of the team was tied up with other last-minute preparations for the coming events in Florida. And with her Russian language skills, she would be the best fit for the brief trip to this side of hell.

Plus, there were things that Ivanovich was being paid to do that could only be performed in this isolated location in a country where human misery was woven into the fabric of daily life and wouldn’t attract attention from the scant law-enforcement in the region.

The chemical weapons expert ushered her inside, both of them walking past a single Vargas henchman clutching an AK-47, leaning against a concrete pole in his faded yellow biohazard suit that had duct-tape patches over the knees. She could barely make out the thug’s face through the fog-riddled mask, which she was pretty sure was an antiquated Cold War gas mask unsuited to more than the briefest exposure to chemical agents.

He has no idea he’s already been exposed to everything in here.

Ivanovich parted a long plastic curtain suspended from the ceiling by metal coat hangers. Naomi stepped inside the makeshift laboratory, staring at four patients lashed to gurneys spread around the room in a half-circle. Each of them had red pustules on their skin, and their wheezing created a low-grade screeching sound that caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

The old man waved his arm out like a proud architect explaining his creation. “Two men and two women of different age groups and ethnic backgrounds…a crude cross-section, I know, but given my time constraints, it has proven sufficient.”

“You said you’d only be using animal test subjects for creating the toxin…not people.”

“I said that initial tests would be performed on animals but the completed nerve agent would eventually require human subjects. Otherwise, there’d be no guarantee of success. Surely you didn’t think pigs would be the way to ensure the finished product?”

Naomi didn’t recall anything about this, and she wondered how much Flynn had left out. Or maybe he had intentionally excluded her from such conversations with the Russian.

She stepped back, her stomach roiling as she fought back the urge to vomit, trying to fathom what factors in life and childhood had created a man like Anton Ivanovich. Then she thought of the hypocrisy of such a question, knowing that what was once a plan hatched in an air-conditioned room with Flynn over a year ago had finally become a reality in this dungeon.

And now, she was about to become the deliverer of death.

Her loyalty to Flynn was unwavering. He was the one friend from her past who risked stepping out of the shadows when her career was in shambles following a dishonorable discharge from Israeli intelligence for cyber-crimes.

Flynn gave her a chance to start her life over, and the sheik provided her with the financial compensation that would enable her to retire for good from merc-work. But the outcome of employing chemical weapons was something she’d only ever seen on her laptop.

A vein throbbed in her neck as she watched the half-conscious figures writhe in agony while their groans filled every inch of the room. “You were just supposed to formulate a toxin for us. You didn’t say anything about this.” She shook her head. “How long have they been…been…strapped down like animals?”

He stepped to a steel table to the right, flipping open a metallic case and removing one of the eight green vials inside. “You foolish girl…you think something like this is whipped up in a matter of hours under a microscope?” He pointed to the nearest victim, the young man’s purple lips spooling out drool and blood as he groaned.

“They are the microscope that allowed me to create a fast-acting toxin. Your boss gave me the parameters. He didn’t indicate anything about how I achieved my results. You’re really going to whine to me about collateral damage when you plan to release this weapon on American soil?”

“You have no idea about the scope of our plan and what is deemed acceptable loss.”

He kicked one of the spent syringes on the ground. “These filthy peasants are sedated, so they feel practically nothing. And besides, I’ve given them a better ending than the life of suffering they would have endured in this Godforsaken country.”

Naomi averted her eyes from the victims. She took several deep breaths, trying to still her trembling hands. She forced her legs to move, stepping back then walking to the table and inspecting the vials. “This is the final product?”

“Yes; just two will be enough for the first phase of the operation that Flynn spoke to me about. The others are larger and for the second phase, though he was very vague about what that was going to be.”

“And the dispersal mechanism?”

He lifted the foam padding on the right of the metallic case, revealing eight finger-length tubular containers. Each was contained in a small black box that had a trigger release mechanism integrated into the top. “These devices can be activated via tablet from up to half a kilometer away. Once the countdown ends, the nerve agent will be dispersed. The aerosol will become airborne in seconds and circulate throughout the intended area. Cyanotic effects upon the subjects will occur within sixty minutes. Afterwards, they will experience organ failure within two hours, and death will follow shortly.”

She pursed her lips, closing the case, feeling like she was clutching a nuke. Naomi glanced up at Ivanovich. “Once I get back to the airfield, I’ll see to it that the rest of your money is deposited within the hour.”

He gave a hearty nod then stepped aside, waving his hand to the exit. She grabbed the case with her left hand, walking to the plastic curtains, recalling Flynn’s words about eliminating any traces of her presence in this place. Parting them, she saw the weary guard slouching against the concrete pole, his breathing as raspy as the victims on the gurneys.

Naomi swiftly removed her Glock, placing two bullets into his facemask then spinning around and shooting Ivanovich in the chest. The old man careened against the table, his arms floundering for a grip as he slid to the ground.

She marched towards him, shooting the gasping figure again in the forehead before turning her pistol on the first victim strapped to the gurney.

As her weapon rang out in the tiny lab, she muttered the words of a half-forgotten prayer, wondering if it would somehow redeem her splintered soul in this life or the next.

17

The flight to southern Florida went without incident, and the Antonov settled in with the other commercial freight planes at the north end of Miami International Airport.

As the team disembarked the side entrance of the plane with their duffle bags of gear, Shepard lingered behind, standing beside Vogel as she resumed working at her desk.

“Lynn, I have a small favor to ask.”

She leaned back in her seat. “Of course. What is it?”

“I need you to look up someone…well, a group, actually. Shouldn’t take long.” He removed a folded piece of paper from his jacket, sliding it to her.

She glanced at the writing, her eyes narrowing. “What do you need exactly?”

“Security setup, numbers of personnel and any pertinent travel patterns around the site.”

“So, essentially a surveillance package like we’d use prior to a strike?”

“Well, you could say that.”

“I just did, Cal. You wanna tell me what this is about?”

“It’s connected with the Red Spades, a Baltimore gang. Just to clarify, they are not associated with our current op.” He glanced out the open doorway. “No rush on this. And if you could keep it between us for now, I’d appreciate it.”

He got up, resting his hand on her shoulder for a second before heading to the exit. “Thanks, Lynn. I owe you big time for this one.”

She frowned. “I’ll add it to the list.”

Shepard headed out the side exit of the plane, wondering why he couldn’t let go of the dog he’d met at the animal rescue event earlier in the morning. That such innocent creatures were at the mercy of a drug-addled gang of thugs was beyond his comprehension, and it was happening only miles to the north of where he hung his hat in between missions.

Once this op is over, that will change. I promise.

The sun was just setting, but the heat waves were still roiling over the tarmac as Nolan caught up with the rest of the group, who were walking towards the end of the airfield, where a tan Land Rover was waiting.

At the helm was Neil Patterson. He stepped out, popping the back hatch as he exchanged pleasantries with Hamill and Nolan while giving hearty embraces to Samira and Shepard.

In addition to being a tremendous mentor and friend, Neil Patterson had been with Cal during his darkest days when his wife Cassie had been killed in the explosion at Stephen Burke’s estate. It was also Patterson who served as the bridge between Samira and Foley in assisting Cal in locating the missing critical components needed to fully activate Perseus.

With a plethora of injuries from a career in spec-ops taking its toll on Patterson, the elder agent served out his remaining years as Director of Clandestine Operations, retiring from Langley nearly a year ago.

Everyone threw their gear in the back and climbed inside the vehicle. Hamill, Nolan and Viper sat in the back while Shepard rode up front.

“Whoa, that new tan…you’re looking good, chief,” said Shepard, glancing at the older man’s face as the vehicle sped off.

“Yeah, well, being away from my desk at Langley for the last twelve months has certainly helped on many levels. My back doesn’t bother me as much, and I’m getting out on daily walks. And I’m pretty sure being away from all those meetings at Langley lowered by blood pressure to a relatively normal range.”

Shepard chuckled, glancing back at Samira then at Patterson. “Well, hell, if this is what life looks like after retirement then count me in.”

“That means you’ll have a new poker buddy down here by next fall, sir,” said Samira. “Cal’s got too many miles on his engine and needs to park it in the garage for good.”

Shepard smirked. “Think you’ve got it wrong. With more miles comes a finely tuned engine.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she meant,” said Patterson, holding back a smile as he winked at Samira in the rearview mirror.

From Nolan’s perspective in the back seat, Patterson didn’t look like the death-dealing operator Shepard had described. His nicely tailored clothing, trim fingernails and neat haircut suited him well. But the scars on his knuckles and his piercing gaze told another story, and Nolan was sure that while the old dog was long in the tooth, the seasoned warrior could still deliver a vicious bite if necessary. Anyone in clandestine work who had made it through three decades of service was someone to be wary of regardless of appearances.

Patterson adjusted his rearview mirror, glancing back at the other three as he pulled out and sped towards the two-lane highway. “Samira, you still keeping this guy in line?” Patterson said as he nodded towards Shepard.

She grinned. “It’s like a full-time job, sir. My arm is getting a little worn out from tugging on his leash so much.”

Shepard pointed to a distant intersection. “Say, think you could pull over by that marsh up ahead? Samira suddenly has an interest in the alligators down here.”

Patterson chuckled. “I can see that you two are still clawing at each other’s throats.”

Viper shook her head. “Well, he’s just an alley cat, sir. I’ve tried to culture him, but he’ll always be a little rough around the edges.”

“Says the woman who always talks with her mouth full of food whenever we’re in the chow hall,” replied Shepard.

Patterson glanced back at Nolan. “So are you and Hamill usually caught in the crossfire between these two?”

Nolan’s faint smile crept out. He was already taking a liking to the older man and got a glimpse of why Shepard and Samira spoke so highly of his easygoing personality. “More like an artillery barrage, but yes, sir, that’s an accurate assessment.”

“Some days there’s a ceasefire…like maybe every three months or so,” said Hamill as she nudged her elbow into Samira’s side.

Patterson gave a long, slow nod. “You know, when these two were in our old Search and Destroy unit, they went through a period where they were endlessly playing pranks on each other in between missions. This one time in Iraq, Cal found a dead camel spider the size of a baseball mitt in the warehouse we were using.” He held up his hand, forming a claw. “It was practically petrified. One evening, Shepard strung it up in the shadows over Samira’s hammock.”

Viper emitted a wolfish grin. “But my buddy, Colin, tipped me off, and I put the damn thing in Cal’s backpack while he was in the shower.” She covered her mouth as the laughter emerged. “Next morning, Cal nearly stroked out after flipping open the pack. He was as pale as a paper plate. Thought we were going to have to call for a med-evac.”

Shepard balled a fist, turning and tapping it down on Samira’s leg. “You’re the one who might need an ambulance.”

“Funny thing is,” said Patterson, “that damn camel spider kept showing up in people’s packs or coat sleeves for days after that until Foley finally tossed it in a burn barrel.”

“Yeah, after you put it under his cot one night then blamed it on us,” said Shepard.

Patterson chuckled. “He still thinks it was one of you to this day, and nothing you say will convince him otherwise.”

“Remind me never to do an op in the Middle East with any of you,” said Nolan.

Patterson drove for six more miles then pulled off the highway, heading towards Anastasia Avenue. Turning left, he drove west towards a row of upscale hotels, finally pulling into the parking lot for the Biltmore. “Figured you might all be hungry, and the hotel has a nice patio out back.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” said Shepard, “but if it’s all the same to you, maybe we could just get some chow to go and discuss the details of this informant of yours.”

The older man gave Cal a shrewd glance. “This is the place where he’s staying…and you will want to talk with him about some recent developments in Cuba.”

18

Foley parked his motorcycle a block away from the library, taking a circuitous route around the neighborhood as he glanced at the other vehicles and rooftops.

He didn’t see any obvious signs that Lena was surveilling his moves, but since she had recommended coming to this location, Foley figured she would have someone stationed nearby to monitor him.

Foley stood by the other pedestrians waiting at a bus stop, scanning the front entrance of the four-story library. It was an antiquated structure whose faded brick-and-mortar appearance made it stand out from the newer urban architecture of the surrounding buildings.

The sun was low in the sky as Foley headed inside the lobby, walking up the short flight of steps to the main floor. Passing through the open doors, he strolled past the front desk, scanning the bookshelves on his right as he walked to the rear of the library.

Foley turned right at the last aisle, his gaze flitting over the books then removing one on New England folklore. While pretending to glance at the contents, he let his eyes float along the spacious first floor, scrutinizing the dozen or so patrons seated at the center tables before observing the new arrivals walking in through the main doors.

Finally, he studied the older man at the main desk, who had just shot a gaze back towards him before returning to his computer.

So, he was definitely told what I look like. Is he one of Lena’s assets or just a delivery guy?

When Foley was certain there were no obvious threats in the room, he walked to the opposite row of shelves before heading towards the front desk.

After waiting behind a mother and her two children, who were checking out a stack of books on Mars and space exploration, Foley stepped to the edge of the desk, sliding forward the text on folklore.

“Ah, this is a fine read, sir,” said the older man, removing his rimmed glasses. He leaned to his side, retrieving a tattered book with a red cover. “May I also suggest this one? It comes highly recommended.”

Foley contained a smirk, knowing that Lena must have enjoyed going through the motions of utilizing old-school spy methods. He also knew that she may have wanted to keep any observable interactions with an American intelligence operative to a minimum to prevent any blowback if U.S. law-enforcement got wind of Flynn.

Foley took hold of it as the man removed the folklore book, placing it in the reshelving bin on the floor beside his chair.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” said the man.

“No, thank you.” Foley tucked the book under his arm then headed for the stairs, trotting up to the second floor. He walked past a row of privacy cubicles then towards a desk in the corner near the window. He leaned on the sill, staring down at the street and out towards his motorcycle.

After a few minutes of scrutinizing the pedestrians below, he turned his attention back inside, scanning the half-dozen people at the cubicles. Most appeared to be college-age students, but there were also a few retirees perusing the magazine aisles.

Foley sat down at the desk, the sixteen-inch walls providing sufficient privacy but also allowing him to see anyone approaching from the stairwell.

He opened the book, removing a sealed manila envelope in the center. Foley tore it open, pulling out three photos and two folded pieces of paper.

The first photo showed a young man in a British military uniform with the handwritten words: JF, eighteen years ago.

Jared Flynn, probably from his early days with the SAS.

The second image appeared more recent. It showed a much older Flynn standing next to a man in long white robes with a trim black beard as they stood on the veranda of an estate overlooking the ocean.

The handwritten caption read: With Sheik Fahad Bashar, his benefactor.

Benefactor…what the hell does that mean? thought Foley.

The third image appeared to be a family photo taken of the sheik with two smiling young men on either side.

Foley read the inscription below then re-read it again, considering the implications.

Bashar’s sons, Amir and Akeem. Both killed in an American drone strike at a remote site in northern Malaysia, circa sixteen months ago.

When he was done, he unfolded the first piece of paper, staring at a copy of a shipping manifest for supplies being delivered to an undisclosed port in Cuba.

Everything keeps coming back to Cuba. Is that ground zero for what Flynn is planning or just a staging area?

The last paper had more blacked-out lines than readable text, and Foley immediately recognized it as a copy of a redacted classified document.

His eyes were drawn to the intact sentence in the middle paragraph, his pulse quickening as he read.

HAVOC commences with initial attack of symbolic value immediately followed by primary strategic strike on a prominent city involving a chemical or nuclear weapon already in-country.

Foley clasped his hands, reviewing the words. Symbolic…that usually means a religious or socially significant soft target. He rubbed his hands together, feeling like his fingers had become frostbitten as he reflected on the implications of the shocking information. So the weapon is on our shores. But if Cuba was the staging area, does that mean the weapon was transported on a boat? That could mean any coastal city in this country is the target, but which one, dammit?

Foley gazed at the upper right corner, whose letterhead was blotted out with black ink. Lena, you must have pulled some major strings to get this from MI6. Or did they want you to leak it to me?

He pulled out his phone, taking pictures of all the items and sending the files off to Vogel. Foley slid everything back into the envelope then tucked it inside his jacket. He headed downstairs, leaving the book at the front desk then exiting out the rear of the building.

He had more questions than answers but was grateful for Lena’s help even though he suspected she was just baiting him into doing the bidding of the British government. It would create an interminable rift in relations between the two countries if one of their former agents went ballistic on U.S. soil.

After he arrived at his motorcycle, he stepped back a few feet, standing under the eaves of an apartment complex then pulling out his phone.

“Lynn, where are you at?”

“Still in Miami. The team headed off with Patterson for a few hours.”

“Did you get the intel I just sent?”

“Yes, just running it through Perseus as we speak.”

“Alright. I’ll have to catch a flight down to you. It looks like whatever is going on has some ties to Cuba and Miami.”

“So this guy Flynn and HAVOC, and what Danzig hinted at before he died, it’s all true, it seems. How is a disavowed agent like him able to have the resources for an attack on this scale while flying below the radar on our soil?”

“I’m not sure, but this Sheik Bashar must be the money man. I need you to dig deep on him, his shell corporations, and any business or personal contacts abroad.”

“I’m already on it.”

19

The group followed Patterson inside the upscale lobby of the Biltmore Hotel, pausing near the entrance to the café on the right.

Patterson removed a key card from his jacket, passing it to Shepard. “Ernesto Reyes is waiting for you on the twelfth floor.”

“You’re not coming?”

“No. We’ve already spoken, and he is expecting only you.” He patted his stomach. “Besides, I’m famished. We’ll all be dining on the patio, so come find us when you’re done.”

Shepard glanced at the key card. “What room is he in?”

“The twelfth floor. Ernesto always buys out the entire floor when he’s traveling, to ensure his safety.”

“He doesn’t have an estate of his own in this city?

“Of course, but he sometimes does his business meetings in this fashion. Probably also as an excuse to quietly meet one of his mistresses, since his wife is supposed to be insanely jealous.”

Shepard flared an eyebrow. “And who the hell is this guy again?”

“An old confidential informant of mine…and one of two crime lords out of Cuba.”

Cal glanced towards the elevators, which now seemed a mile away. “That’s reassuring.”

“I wouldn’t put you in the crosshairs, my boy. Reyes owes me a favor and agreed to meet with you.”

Shepard waited until he could ride up in the elevator alone, finally stepping out on the twelfth floor after what felt like an hour-long ascent. He proceeded straight down the long hallway, pausing at the first passage on the right. At the end were two dark-skinned men in suits standing at the last door.

Cal sized up each man as he walked, noticing the bearded figure on the right shifting his weight as his left hand lowered towards his hip while his eyes darted between Shepard and the red carpeting.

The bald man on the left kept his meaty hands clasped in front of his waist, his expression unfazed. His eyes never flinched, and Cal knew whom he’d have to worry about taking the most punishment if a brawl ensued.

The tall bearded figure stepped forward, removing a metal wand from its leaning position in the corner. “Hands up.”

Shepard lifted his arms, thrusting his chin towards his right hip. “I’ll save you some time…at my four o’clock and at my ten o’clock.”

The man slid open Cal’s jacket, removing his Glock 19 followed by a Spyderco folding knife, passing them to the other man then waving the wand along Shepard’s torso and extremities.

When he was done, he turned and opened the door.

Shepard walked past the two burly men into the suite. An assault of spicy food pierced his nose. He glanced past the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Miami skyline below then around the spacious suite, whose living room was dominated by an immense L-shaped leather couch, on either side of which was a dining room and kitchen.

“Come in,” said a man in a thick Spanish accent.

Shepard headed past the couch towards a large table near a wet-bar, where a pear-figured man in his late fifties was dining beside a young blonde woman who looked nineteen.

“So, you are one of Patterson’s lions, eh?” He bit down on a folded corn tortilla then shoveled some chicken and beans into his mouth as he continued to talk. “From what I’ve heard, I imagine you could’ve dropped both of my men outside with just your bare hands.”

“But then that would be bad for business…for both of us,” said Cal.

Reyes dragged a cloth napkin along his mouth then flung it onto the plate of food. He pried himself from the chair, walking around Shepard, pausing at his side as he looked him over like he was inspecting something he was about to purchase.

Reyes moved to the bar, pouring Polish vodka into two glasses on the counter. He snapped his fingers, motioning for the woman to leave, then he handed a glass to Shepard.

“Russian vodka will always have the reputation as being the best, but the Polish version is superior in my opinion…much smoother and more refined.”

Cal spoke in Russian then translated. “I tried to say no, but vodka is forty percent stronger than me.”

“Ah, muy bueno, amigo. I’ll have to remember that one.”

He met Reyes’ glass with a toast before the older man waved his hand to the leather couch. “Do you know the Amazon at all?”

“Not very well,” he replied as they both settled onto the spacious couch across from one another.

“Down in Colombia there are a thousand rivers and a few trillion mosquitos to go along with it. When I was much younger and maybe a little dumber, I worked in those parts, smuggling drugs and guns along the river for several years.”

Reyes set down his empty glass. “Then one summer, a bunch of the villages I used to smuggle for were being fire-bombed by helicopters. My supply lines were running out, and I feared I would not make it out of the Amazon alive. One day, me and my muchachos encountered some gringo soldiers on gunboats. Their leader said we could serve them as scouts, showing them the other cartel strongholds in the area, or they would sink us into the river.”

Shepard recalled Patterson’s tales about his younger days in the CIA’s South American division when they were tasked with bringing down the cartels.

“That’s how you met Neil?”

Reyes flared an eyebrow. “Yes, at the end of the minigun mounted on his boat. Some months later, he ended up saving my ass after I came down with a severe bout of malaria. He took me upriver to a clinic and saw that I got the proper treatment.”

Reyes leaned over, removing a handful of pistachios from a bowl on the table, chewing on the nuts as he continued. “So, Neil tells me you have need of my services.”

Shepard removed his phone, locating the photo of the dead men from Danzig’s cabin. “These guys were part of a kill squad we encountered recently. Facial scans reveal that they are connected to a Cuban gang called the Vargas syndicate.”

He grabbed the phone, scanning the photos. “Could be. I don’t recognize any of them. Vargas controls the underworld in the eastern half of Cuba. They run mostly fentanyl up to the U.S. and throughout the Caribbean.”

“Keep scrolling and look at their fingers. See how raw the skin is and how their nails are cracked and brittle.”

Reyes’ eyes narrowed as he stared at the images before handing back the iPhone. “That is odd. Not sure what would cause that, but those guys work in fentanyl factories, so maybe it’s the chemicals.”

“Do they have factories spread around the country, or is there one area in particular where they’re concentrated?”

“Mainly over by Baracoa at the very eastern end of the island, on the exact opposite side from your Gitmo. There’s a large warehouse there, but I’m not sure if it’s used for primary production. I haven’t been able to get any eyes on that region for a long time.”

Reyes slid forward, flipping open his laptop and entering his password as Shepard moved closer. “This can’t all be a coincidence, amigo,” said the portly man.

Reyes zoomed in on black-and-white surveillance footage of a white man with a gray beard exiting the back door of a small store then walking towards an idling truck, which then sped off.

He enhanced the image of the man’s face. “Patterson told me you would be interested in this. It was taken yesterday. It also happens to be near a town that has had reports of people going missing. That’s not necessarily an unusual thing in such rural areas, but there have been a number of abductions in recent weeks, and these weren’t young women, which is the norm. These were old, young, men, women, kids.”

Cal licked his lip, staring at the image. “Shit, that’s Ivanovich. He used to work for the Russians, creating nerve agents for their chemical weapons division.”

“If he is working with the Vargas syndicate, that could spell trouble for both our countries.”

“You haven’t informed anyone in the Cuban government that Ivanovich is on their soil?”

“No. The military, castrated as it is these days, won’t even venture into Vargas territory.”

He looked at the footage again. Cal could request Vogel to do a satellite scan of the remote region, but he needed human intelligence, and that wasn’t likely to come from the Cuban government or any of Reyes’ guys. He needed boots on the ground to see what Ivanovich was doing and how it was connected with Operation HAVOC.

He glanced at Reyes, studying the man’s pockmarked face. While he didn’t trust the man, he knew Patterson did, and Reyes might be his only ally right now.

“Say, hypothetically, if a few of my team were to come ashore on a beach near Baracoa and do a little recon work, what would be the best approach?”

Reyes pointed a pudgy finger at the eastern coastline of Cuba. “I control the southern waters around the other side of that peninsula. My men there know Vargas’ soft spots, so slipping past them in a small boat for a few hours shouldn’t be a problem.”

“And they could be ready tomorrow night?”

“Si.”

Shepard licked his lip. “And how much would such a venture cost?”

“Just share the intelligence you gather on that warehouse and the numbers of Vargas men in those jungles and their capabilities. That is something money cannot buy.”

When Shepard returned to the lobby of the hotel, he rejoined the others on the patio, stealing chalupas from Samira’s plate while recounting his meeting with Reyes.

“So, how long before we’re wheels up?” said Nolan.

“I spoke with Foley on the way down here, and we agreed that rendezvousing with Reyes’ men tomorrow night off the coast of Haiti is our most expedient option. From there, we’ll take a boat over to Cuba using a mutual contact of Reyes. Vogel has already determined the route that Ivanovich was on after he left a nearby town yesterday. She tracked the truck to an abandoned warehouse east of Baracoa along the coast.” He stopped chewing, glancing around at the others.

“Anything on numbers of hostiles? That place could be heavily guarded,” said Samira, who shoved the remaining plate of food towards Cal.

“Which is why I don’t want to be on the ground for long,” said Cal.

Patterson took a sip of his beer then said, “The contact that Reyes mentioned is one that both he and I employ from time to time. Nate Hendrix…he’s a former agent of mine from the Special Activities Division from years back. He knows those waters and will keep a leash on Reyes’ guys long enough to get you where you need to be.”

“Hendrix is a freelancer?” said Nolan.

“Yes, but he’s solid and has his own small network of people around the Caribbean along with extensive experience with jungle ops.”

Shepard leaned forward, “Alright, we recon the warehouse and see if we can learn what Ivanovich has been up to. And if the opportunity presents itself to grab him, then we hustle it back to the beach for exfil on Hendrix’s boat.”

Cal swigged down the last of Samira’s daiquiri then glanced at Patterson. “Before we all cross into international waters, I just have to know…you trust this guy Reyes with your life—and ours—his debt to you aside?”

Patterson smirked. “Trust is such a nebulous word in our line of work, as you know. I would never trust him to take a bullet for me, or even his own kids, but he’s a businessman first and foremost. I trust him to make the right decision in helping us, which means he is hoping he will also be helping himself to a chunk of Vargas’ turf in the near future with what he learns of their operations there.”

“Warlords are all the same regardless of geography,” said Nolan.

20

“I have the trigger devices and the toxin,” Naomi said, trying to focus on the moonlit waters north of Cuba outside the window of the private jet, hoping it would blot out the repugnant sights in Ivanovich’s lab.

“Good. When you land, head back to the ship tonight. We still have some logistics to handle.”

“Copy that.” She bleated out the words.

“Everything alright?”

“Look, that crazy fuck had a bunch of…of people he used like animals to test out the nerve agent. They were strapped down…and…and for God’s sake, these were people from nearby villages that the Vargas guys rounded up for Ivanovich’s experiments.”

Her labored breathing was all she heard for a few seconds before Flynn’s voice returned.

“I needed you to see that, Naomi. It’s one thing to sit behind a laptop all day, wreaking havoc on foreign computer networks, and another to follow through on this mission and unleash HAVOC itself.”

“Did you know about his little experiment on the locals?”

“Let’s just say I knew enough about the man to suspect he would go beyond what we discussed during our original briefing. When you’ve seen the things I have in war over the years, you start to understand that there’s no limit to people’s ability to harm their own kind…whether for resources, geography or religion, or sometimes, in the case of men like Ivanovich, for what he believed was advancing his scientific knowledge, which is its own form of religion.”

“And where do you fall on that spectrum?”

“Justice is another matter altogether.”

“Is it? Or is it just a convenient word to convince yourself that what you’re doing is the right thing?”

“You’ve known all along that this is about making America’s president pay for the deaths of Amir and Akeem in a very personal way that would destroy everything that man holds close.”

“And…there’s always been an ‘and’ for you, Jared. When you first hinted at this operation, I knew that you probably saw this as a means of creating fallout between the CIA and MI6 once those agencies discovered it was a former British agent behind the coming attack.”

“Crippling international relations between the two countries, while a satisfying thought, will be a desirable side-effect of the carnage we’re about to unleash.”

“So, it’s all just the outcome of doing the right thing…or your version of what is right?” She dragged out the last word.

“Like putting a few rounds into Ivanovich?”

There was a long pause until Flynn spoke again. “I assume he’s dead, since his money was never wired over, and I never heard from him. Were you the dispenser of justice, Naomi…doing what was necessary…what was ‘right.’ And, yes, killing him was the right thing to do. He needed to be disposed of so there was no trail back to us.”

Flynn let out a long exhale. “Just as I know what we are about to do to this country is the right thing. I know you feel that in your gut just like the rest of us.”

Though she recognized his manipulative wordcraft, she knew he was correct. The deaths of Amir and Akeem had toppled her world as well. The two young men had become family to her, and she had schooled the brothers in the nuances of the dark web and hacking. Their tragic deaths were what enabled her to sign on to this mission. But as she was approaching the starting line, and coupled with what she’d seen in the warehouse, she felt like her footing was skirting along a precarious cliff.

Just see this through then get the hell out of this line of work.

She shuddered out a deep breath, staring down at the ocean again. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Jared.”

“You good, Naomi?”

“I will be once we complete this mission.”

“Remember why we’re all here. I need my best operator’s head in the game.”

“Copy that. I’ll be squared away when we meet up. You can count on it.” She squeezed confidence into her words then hung up. Naomi laid her head back, feeling like she could sleep for a week, her arm unconsciously resting upon the metallic case containing the vials secured in the seat beside her. Then she yanked her hand away, repeatedly dragging her sweaty palm across her pants.

Naomi heard the pilot announce their descent into the small airfield west of Miami. She reached for another bottle of vodka, draining the mini-shot, followed by another, then another, her poise slowly returning as the lights from the high-rises along Biscayne Bay came into view.

21

WEDNESDAY

Washington, D.C.

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Amanda Carter entered the forensics lab in the basement, carrying her usual sixteen-ounce cup of black coffee, wondering if it would be enough to get her through the day.

She had not only been hounded by the Bureau’s director about the assault in Manassas, but she’d spent hours reviewing her memories of last August and the CIA woman known as Viper.

How is she connected to all of this?

Carter tried calling the man she had met last summer during the manhunt for Cal Shepard at Langley, but Neil Patterson had retired to Miami and wasn’t returning her numerous voicemails.

“Long night?” said James Corelli, who looked up from his microscope.

“You could say that. I was on the phone with the director more than a few times…that guy never sleeps, or he has a damn clone.” She leaned over his shoulder, studying the bloodied fibers on the slide under his microscope. “What ya got?” Her Bronx accent was more pronounced given her tiredness.

“My staff and I have studied all the samples from yesterday’s crime scene at the apartment and so far haven’t turned up anything on the shooters on the roof.” He leaned back, eagerly pointing at the slide. “Except this…it’s from the Kamikaze guy with the grenades who leapt off the building.”

“DNA…did you get a hit already?” She patted him on the shoulder. “Now, I’d say you’re the one who’s been losing sleep. You must sack out down here more than you do in your bed at home.”

“My three Border Collies occupy my half of the bed, so they see more of my wife than I do.”

“And that’s why I don’t own pets.”

“I thought that was because you’re irresponsible?”

She smirked, nodding at the microscope. “So?”

“I didn’t turn up anything on our database, but INTERPOL has a warrant out for this guy’s arrest. Name is Nells Wagner. Wanted for at least a dozen kidnappings and murders around Eastern Europe. Guy was tied to a killing in Malaysia a few years ago then just disappeared until yesterday.”

“What the hell brings a person like that to Virginia?”

Corelli slid his rolling chair to the desk behind him, clicking on his laptop to reveal a photo of Nells walking beside an older man in a wool cap. “So, the INTERPOL records indicated that Nells was last seen traveling with this guy. I can’t tell you who he is, but I sent this to our facial recog guys upstairs.” Corelli leaned back, interlacing his fingers behind his head and smiling. “He was spotted in Miami near a bus terminal at the north end of the city last night.”

“Nice work.” She turned, walking towards the exit.

“That’s all I get…not even a high-five. You must be asleep still.”

“Let me know what else you turn up. I may be on a flight to Florida.”

“What…just because of one lead?”

“Oh, I think there’s more brewing down there than we might know.”

More than that. I need to get in touch with Neil Patterson and find out what the fuck is going on. He must know something. Someone like him doesn’t just hang up his hat and retire.

22

Florida International University

North Biscayne Bay

After passing without issue through the security gate, Derek Johnson parked his red Honda Civic in the employee parking lot at the north end of the 342-acre campus.

He stepped out, retrieving his lunchbox then slipping the lanyard with his new ID card around his neck.

It was 1 p.m., and the sun was casting a metallic shimmer over the nearby high-rise hotels across from Biscayne Bay.

He walked through the rows of cars towards the employee entrance on the east side of the building, unclipping his ID badge and handing it to the burly security guard at the door, who glanced at Johnson’s photo then back to the man in front of him. Next, the guard unzipped the insulated lunchbox, glancing at a sandwich, banana and three energy drinks.

“New guy, eh? You fillin’ in for Blanchard?” the guard said, handing back the lunchbox.

“Yeah, he and his wife are enjoying the surf in Hawaii, I guess.”

The man shrugged his shoulders. “Go figure that a guy who already lives on the ocean takes a vacation along the fucking ocean. If it were me, I’d be in Vegas.”

“I know, right? That’s what I was telling my wife, but hey, if it gets my foot in the door here then I ain’t got no complaints.”

The guard slid the ID badge over the wall-mounted scanner. When it turned green, he handed it back to Johnson then stepped aside, swinging open the thick metal door.

“Hope you can stay awake in there, man. Don’t know how you maintenance guys can stomach slingin’ a mop all night by yourselves.”

Smiling, he held up his lunchbox. “That’s why there’s more caffeinated drinks in here than food.” He walked through the door, thanking the man, then proceeded down the hallway past three locked doors, entering the fourth room on the right marked “Supervisor.”

“Ah, you must be Derek,” said the older man, who stood up from his desk to give Johnson a hearty handshake. “Will Brimley, we spoke on the phone a few weeks ago. I appreciate you being so flexible on coming here on such short notice. I’m not gonna lie, my other applicant fell through at the last minute due to some health issues, and your name was next on the roster, but your qualifications and experience are exactly what I’m looking for, so welcome aboard. ”

“Thank you, sir. Glad to be here.”

Brimley motioned for the man to sit in the chair on the opposite side of his desk as he returned to his chair. After brushing the few flossy strands of gray hair back across his balding head, he pointed at his laptop screen. “Everything went through with your security clearance and background checks, so you’re good to go.”

“That’s great. I’m eager to get started. I’ve been hoping to get a position down here for years, even if it’s a temporary gig. Tampa was beginning to wear on me and the wife…too many old people.”

Brimley chuckled. “Yep, that’s God’s waiting room up there.”

The supervisor swiveled in his chair, reviewing a typical night shift, safety protocols and his expectations for new staff members. Most of it was a canned lecture, hinting that there was considerable employee turnover amongst his custodial staff.

When he was done, he escorted Johnson to the employee lounge and gave him the key-code to his locker then told him to report back to the conference room down the hallway to begin watching the first of six hours of staff training videos.

Johnson waited until the hall was silent, then he knelt down by his locker, working the numeric keypad with the combination and opening the door.

He glanced back at the empty room then out the door before unzipping the insulated lunchbox and removing two of the oversized energy drinks. The man stood up, catching a glimpse of himself in the small mirror over the kitchen sink. Victor Horst had to remind himself that he only had to endure the pathetic identity of Derek Johnson for the next twenty-four hours.

He twisted the lids off of the insulated cans, inspecting the two vials inside, which contained the nerve agents Naomi had brought back from Cuba. He secured the lids then placed them back in his lunchbox, pausing to unwrap the ham sandwich and take a hearty bite. When he’d finished, he shoved everything back into the locker, slamming the door.

Horst habitually rehearsed the pertinent details of Johnson’s fabricated life that Naomi had designed for his digital employment record. He walked to the door, studying the map of the campus on the wall until he located the building where he needed to place the nerve agents.

Before exiting the break room, he glanced down at his watch, knowing that the small campus was about to become ground zero for an attack that would reshape America twenty-four hours from now.

The coming financial payoff for his work was a pleasing thought, but he had joined Flynn’s team for another kind of payout besides revenge. Seeing the body count on the Friday morning news once their plan had come to fruition would be its own reward.

Then America will have been brought to its knees.

He kept hearing the words of Flynn and the sheik echoing in his brain, but he could just as easily have replaced the name of the country with Russia or China. To Horst, the world needed to burn and be purged of its present-day political masters, and if the flames needed to be ignited on these shores then so be it.

As a disgraced former commando with the German Special Operations Forces, he’d taken part in his share of black-ops missions in far-flung regions only to come home each time with more wounds and fewer friends while seeing little to no change in global affairs. Later, years of mercenary work in Africa and the Middle East had shown him that small-scale conflicts were nothing more than a continual cycle of proxy wars between the three great superpowers that never resulted in any real change. Flynn’s coming attack on the U.S. seemed like the only way to radically and permanently shift the political balance of power.

After tomorrow, Horst would begin working on his own plans for continuing a reign of anarchy using his connections with militant factions around the globe to continue what was started here this week.

Then the whole world order will crumble.

23

Forty-Eight Miles North of Miami

The private jet hit another air pocket, the turbulence waking Jared Flynn, who pushed himself upright in the leather seat. A bead of sweat rolled down his pale face as he took a deep breath, knowing he would be content if he never had to set foot on a plane again.

Flynn glanced down the aisle, seeing Jabal two rows ahead on the left. The burly man was playing a game on his tablet, stabbing the keypad; his refrigerator-wide frame nearly taking up both seats.

Flynn gazed out the window, his mind drifting to a series of other flights, each of which led to outcomes that had placed him at his present location over Florida.

His mind replaced the tropics below with the rugged borderlands of Niger and Algeria during a joint MI6-CIA operation three years ago.

The shockwave from the blast had rocked his body as the rear of the plane shattered apart.

Mangled sections of fuselage and stacks of weapons crates tumbled into the desert wasteland below along with three operators who had been strapped into their seats beside Flynn just seconds ago.

A blaring alarm above his head pierced the air in between the screams of the remaining three personnel as the violent G-force racked their bodies.

The parachutes tethered to the opposite wall were impossible to reach.

The cobalt color of the cockpit windows grew tan as the desert seemed to claw at the intruder in the sky.

The landing gear impacted the dunes and sheared off seconds later.

Consciousness came and went over the next hour while someone dragged his body through the sand.

Hours later, he awakened. His arms were suspended by chains from the weathered rafter above while his bare feet were attached to rusty eyebolts anchored in the floor.

The smell of sweat and urine filled the small room.

A tall man in tattered desert garb entered, removing his face scarf. The tribal tattoos on his hands indicated he was a fighter affiliated with the insurgents plaguing the border, possibly even the insurgent who brought down the plane with an RPG.

Even through the thick adobe walls, Flynn could hear the screams of one of his men in the next room.

Flynn blinked hard, hoping he would awaken from this nightmare. We weren’t even supposed to be here. The op was aborted. We were on our way back home.

His abductor unraveled the rest of his scarf, tossing it onto a cracked wooden table in the corner. He thrust his chin towards the sounds of agony in the other room, speaking with a heavy accent. “Your friend…be dead soon. Too many injuries from crash.”

The man, who called himself Ali, stepped forward, grabbing Flynn’s hair and yanking his head back. “But you strong and will last for weeks until you give up why you in my country.” He waved a hand towards the tiny window. “This valley belong to me. One day, all the valleys and mountains in this land belong to me. The weapons on your plane will make that happen, but first I must know what you were planning and the locations of other infidel soldiers like you in this region.”

It was Day One of Jared Flynn’s ordeal. He thought it would be over by nightfall, when an SAS or CIA rescue team would assault the camp to retrieve him and any other survivors.

But he was wrong.

The final scratch marks he would later make on the stone wall of his cell indicated that it was Day Forty-Six when it all ended, but it felt like he had been tortured, beaten and starved for years.

And when he was finally rescued, long after his body was broken and his spirit shattered, it was not by one of his countrymen or an ally of England.

The day of his liberation wasn’t punctuated by gunfire from a special-ops team or the welcoming arms of a diplomat who’d fought for his freedom.

When the door of his prison room creaked open on its rusty hinges, it was a well-dressed Saudi man who helped him to his feet, escorting him outside. It was only minutes later, when his vision had cleared, that he realized it was young Akeem Bashar. He had last seen the sheik’s eldest son a year ago in London when Flynn served as a personal bodyguard and guide around the city for the Bashar family during a brief visit. Akeem had been a gangly teenage boy then, but the man before him possessed a confident air that made him seem a foot taller than the others.

The stabbing rays of the sun had become foreign to Flynn, his outstretched hand shading his pale face as they walked across a dirt parking lot to a black SUV.

Flynn saw his torturer, Ali, standing at a table beside stacks of currency, oblivious that his captive was departing as he greedily counted the money with his filthy calloused hands.

Flynn needed help to even get into the vehicle. He recalled downing a bottle of cold spring water then collapsing back into the soft leather seats. The young Saudi man gave him two white pills that he said would help with the pain, but Flynn felt like reaching for the entire bottle.

He remembered little else of the ensuing morning: driving for hours; lifting off in a helicopter; a jet ride over the desert, which eventually gave way to the Mediterranean.

With the narcotics coursing through his body, his head was leaning against the window seat of the plane when he glimpsed a familiar estate situated along the cliffs of Turkey.

Then suddenly the jet was on the ground. He was helped down the steps to a waiting wheelchair then escorted to the palatial estate in the distance.

Even in his drug-induced haze, he knew he wasn’t dreaming when he saw the comforting face of the older man in flowing white robes while religious images from his youth flooded his mind.

‘Come, my friend. You are home now,’ said Fahad Bashar, who kneeled down beside him.

“Is it really you?” Flynn heard himself say in a disembodied voice.

The sheik nodded, embracing Flynn, who reached up with a trembling hand, touching the man’s cheek. “You came for me.”

The older man extended his other hand out to the right, his son Amir stepping closer. “Akeem and Amir were the ones who tracked down your location. It was not an easy task by any means.”

Amir bowed his head. “With Father’s resources and contacts.”

“Your government gave you up,” said Fahad. “You are a ghost to them. I only recently learned you were alive or we would have come sooner.” The sheik leaned forward, putting his arm around Flynn’s shoulders, glancing at the burn marks and scars on the Brit’s neck and arms. “In time, when you have recovered, I will help you hunt down those responsible for what happened.”

Flynn’s attention shot back to the overhead speakers in the jet as he heard the voice of the pilot announcing they were about to land in Miami. He sucked in several deep breaths as he fought to stay in the present, seeing that his fingers were trembling.

He balled his fist, staring at the scarred knuckles, knowing that his next flight would be in the hours following this current operation.

His last mission.

Then, maybe, the sting of his nightmares would lessen.

24

Coral Gables, Florida

The two-and-a-half-hour flight from D.C. had been on time, but the unrelenting turbulence had only aggravated Carter’s already throbbing headache.

She parked the borrowed FBI vehicle at the curb in front of a row of high-end townhomes, studying the address then her surroundings. She headed up the angled sidewalk to the corner residence that was listed as belonging to Neil Patterson.

She was about to pound on the door when she noticed it. Lying wedged in the door jamb above the lock was a tiny piece of yellow paper. She slowly withdrew it, seeing a handwritten phone number.

Is this for me or Patterson?

She stared up at the door of his abode, expecting the former Director of Clandestine Operations to open it, then realized that her presence in Florida was probably made the minute she landed.

Carter sighed, already frustrated that she was having to play spy-games. She stepped back under the shade of a willow tree, dialing the number.

An automated message came over her speaker, simply naming two cross-streets and a time before disconnecting.

She glanced around the property then out to the cars in the parking lot, wondering if she was being surveilled. “Fucking spooks.”

Thirty minutes later, she pulled her car into a city park at the west end of Coral Gables. Getting out, she gazed around the lot then out to the soccer field and playground.

Her phone rang. “Patterson, can we quit the damn games and just talk?”

“That’d be good. It’s been a while, Carter,” said a younger man’s voice.

“Shepard?”

“Over by the palm grove at your four o’clock.”

She turned, seeing a ghost from her past. Carter eagerly walked to the edge of the lot, following Shepard for twenty feet along a woodchip-lined trail before stopping at a picnic area nestled in the trees.

He stood on the opposite side of the table, his hands hanging freely at his sides as he stared back at her. He removed his sunglasses, sitting down. “You look good, Carter. Glad to see you’re still playing hardball…Assistant Director of Counterterrorism. That’s impressive and well-earned.”

She wasn’t sure what to say at first. “And what about you…what’s your title these days?”

“Still just trying to clean things up around the world a little at a time, but some weeks are better than others.”

“You know, there are still people at the Bureau who have questions about your involvement in the events at that ranch in Texas last summer. I may have been able to let you and Viper slip away during the aftermath of that shootout, but that doesn’t mean I covered for you. My official statement in the weeks following the investigation omitted my willing involvement with you two.”

He flared an eyebrow. “You did what you had to. I get it. That was a tough spot to be in, for all of us, but I’m glad you were there, Carter, and that you’re still kickin’.”

Shepard thought back to the presidential pardon he was granted upon securing Perseus and exposing the corruption involved with the Director of National Intelligence. While he was grateful for President Weller’s exoneration, he also knew that CRT didn’t need any attention from the Feds, who would certainly try to enact a massive investigation into a clandestine unit operating on American soil.

“I appreciate everything you did back then, Carter, and I have no intention of letting any of those events get dredged up, but there’s something brewing right now that could have catastrophic ramifications, which might mean risking some exposure on my end.”

“But you can’t tell me what it is?”

“Not until I have all the evidence. I’m not entirely sure what the target is or the nature of the group behind the recent attacks.”

“Someone brazen enough to come after you and your team in broad daylight. They didn’t seem to care about collateral damage or leaving behind a trail of bodies. How was that guy Danzig involved?”

Shepard let the question percolate for a few seconds, deciding how much to reveal. “He was a former analyst with the Agency, part of a joint British-U.S. think-tank that formulated scenarios for assassinating high-level targets or implementing attacks on various foreign governments.”

“So much for being a statistician.”

“Yeah, and the group who came after him were well-equipped. They were employing some next-gen portable drones at Danzig’s cabin during our rescue. That must have been how they tracked us to our safehouse in Manassas.”

“That says a lot coming from you, given how ‘well-equipped’ I imagine you guys to be. Your tech would probably make ours seem like the stone-age.”

She pulled out her phone, pulling up a man’s INTERPOL profile. “This was what was left of the dead guy who jumped from the roof across from your safehouse. He took out three first responders with the grenades.” She scrolled to another image. “He’s a stone-cold killer with a long rap sheet in Romania and elsewhere, but he was believed to be a known associate of this guy.”

Shepard leaned closer, studying the next photo, which showed the younger Nells Wagner standing next to an older man. “I’ll have to get that photo and send it off to my analyst, but the fact that the Bureau and INTERPOL didn’t pull up anything on him means his presence in the databases has been scrubbed. That team has someone very skilled at hacking and navigating the dark web to pull off something like that.”

“There’s one other thing…my forensics guy also pulled an image of Viper off a pawn-shop camera near your safehouse. Cal…she’s now a person of interest in this case and a top priority for the Bureau.”

He clenched his jaw. “Dammit. This is another reason why you haven’t heard or seen anything about us in the past year…we normally don’t operate on these shores.”

“Strangely, your face was blurred in the photo.”

He scrunched his eyebrows together. “That is unusual.”

Shepard stood up then plucked her phone away, entering his number instead of the burner he’d used earlier. “Never thought I’d say this, but let’s keep in touch…professionally, of course.”

Carter smirked. “So, this doesn’t mean dinner?”

“I wish it were so, but whatever is about to go down is going to make that attack on our safehouse seem like child’s play, so I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.” He handed the phone back to her. “And I’m hoping you’ll do the same.”

“No guarantees. I have people to answer to and don’t exactly operate in the gray like you do.”

He nodded as he turned and walked away. “You’re just as I remember you: by the book but also not so hamstrung by it you don’t know when to venture outside the box…which is what makes you extraordinary at your job.”

“Thanks.” She grinned. “I’d say it was good seeing you again, but the knot in my stomach keeps telling me otherwise.”

25

The bedroom floor of the rented suite was littered with clothing after an eventful morning that Flynn spent reuniting with Megan Snyder. He waited until he heard her step into the shower before he got dressed.

When he was done, Flynn grabbed her purse then sat down at the table in the corner, quickly pulling out her two cellphones. The one with the pink casing he tossed on the bed while the plain one he set down beside his phone, connecting a cord to begin the cloning process.

After several failed attempts at entering the password, he glanced at the screen, seeing that something had changed. Then he realized even the size of the device was slightly smaller.

The bathroom door opened, and Megan walked out barefoot in a white robe. Flynn reached into his shoulder bag on the floor, pulling out a suppressed HK pistol then leveling it at her. “I need the code to your new work phone.”

Her smile faded, replaced with a startled expression. “Eric, what’s going on? Is this some kind of joke?”

“I don’t have fucking time for this. I need your device to access your boss’s phone.”

She folded her arms, stepping back. “What? Why are you doing this? Are you crazy? You know who I work for, right?”

“That’s exactly why we’re here right now. I need to access Bowen’s phone so I can monitor the location of him and his agents.” He stood up, thrusting the pistol out. “Now, dammit.”

She wiped away a tear, glancing at the door to the dining room. “You were just using me all this time, you piece of shit. How could you…”

His pistol barked out a round that struck her in the abdomen. She shrieked, recoiling into the wall then sliding down to the floor.

He walked forward, kneeling next to her. “The code and then I’ll call an ambulance.”

She muttered out the numbers, tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched her stomach. Flynn tapped in the numbers then returned to the table, attaching the two devices.

“Please, help me,” she whimpered.

He set his gun down, walking back to her. Flynn brushed her blond hair back then cupped his hand around her mouth, pinching her nose. “There was no other way.” He grabbed the back of her neck with his other hand as she pawed at his face, her eyes never leaving his. When her arms went limp, he relaxed his grip, easing her back onto the carpet.

Flynn returned to the table, calling Naomi. “I’m sending you the files from the cloned phone. Get back to me on Bowen’s schedule, contacts, map usage and anything else of significance.”

“Copy that. Any issues with the woman?”

Flynn glanced back at Megan’s lifeless eyes, the fragrance of her hair filling the room. “Not anymore.”

26

Lena Taylor’s driver slowed the limousine beneath the overpass bridge north of Little Havana in Miami just long enough for the lanky man in the shadows to trot over and get inside.

“Ma’am,” he said with a respectful nod to Lena as he sat across from her.

“Ian.”

She raised the glass partition, separating the rear chamber from the driver but not before instructing him to head north along the coast.

Lena glanced at the new arrival, studying his smooth face then noticing his clasped hands, as if the man was about to meditate. He looked exactly the same as she remembered him the last time they met, two years ago, when another threat to Britain’s interests in the U.S. had surfaced.

Ian Zimmer was an MI6 fixer that she had used on several occasions over the years. His younger days in the SAS had forged him into a formidable warrior, but it was his fieldwork with MI6 that refined him into a consummate spy and assassin.

“Do you know why I called you out of all my contacts?”

“Discretion, ma’am. I suspect you have a job that requires utter deniability.”

She pursed her lips, glancing out the window. “I wish that it were not the case, but in this instance, you are needed to complete a mission that will see the capture or, if necessary, the termination of one of our own former agents.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I see. That won’t be a problem. I will…”

“It’s Flynn. He’s come back from the dead after all this time.”

She saw him unclasp his hands. “Jared’s alive? How’s that even possible?”

“A good question, and one I’d like to have him personally answer.” She leaned forward slightly. “You two served together in the Regiment in younger days. I know you were both friends.”

“That won’t be an issue, ma’am.”

“I should hope not. This is a capture mission first and foremost, but there is also a CIA team that is in pursuit, so if they are about to close in on him, he will need to be eliminated. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, ma’am.”

“How long before you can assemble your team?”

“Within the hour. It’s just me and two others.”

She picked up the tablet on the seat beside her, handing it to Zimmer. “Everything you need to know is on this. There is a freighter located at one of the many ports here that is connected with the man funding Flynn’s operation. Find that ship and you will probably find Flynn.”

She shuddered out a breath. “There are also photos of a man I met with recently at a restaurant in D.C., Ryan Foley. Take note of him…he’s the Agency’s team leader and not someone to be trifled with, if at all possible. Like you, he’s a wolf, but with far more blood on his mane, so watch yourself.”

“How is the Agency already on top of this if you’re just now notifying me?”

“Another good question, and one I’ve been wondering about all day.”

He scrolled through the intel and images on the tablet. “And if Foley or his operatives interfere?”

Lena turned her gaze out to the bustling traffic. “We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.”

She hoped that there would only be an if in that statement, but she knew, given Foley’s tenacity and capabilities, that their paths were inevitably intertwined.

She just prayed that it wouldn’t end with him being in the crosshairs.

27

Port-Au-Prince

The sunset helicopter flight to Haiti that Patterson had arranged took less than 40 minutes. Shepard and the rest of his team were listed as members of a medical supply company that did runs from the U.S. to the beleaguered nation to deliver supplies to the small encampment of aid workers and security personnel occupying the western peninsula.

Upon landing, Cal and the others grabbed their gear bags, which contained their usual tactical gear and weapons along with streamlined versions of hazmat suits and face respirators. They hauled their items down the ramp from the helipad. Since their ride wasn’t due in for another fifteen minutes, Nolan and Hamill settled under a row of young palm trees while Shepard and Viper sat down on some crates near some unoccupied canvas tents.

The small port served as a loading and unloading zone for supplies coming in on large barges. Though it was nearly 11 p.m., the area was still bustling with an influx of new relief workers who arrived at the dock coupled with the locals. They set about unloading pallets of drinking water from the vessels that were then transported via forklift to a series of Quonset huts. The whole encampment looked like it had been hastily constructed adjacent to a two-story Red Cross field hospital, which was preparing for its monthly vaccination campaign among the interior villages.

The stagnant air contained an odd aroma of saltwater infused with raw sewage, and Shepard wondered how often cholera and E. coli outbreaks occurred in this region.

He caught Samira’s eye. “Hard to believe that there’s a region this impoverished just a short flight from one of the most developed nations on Earth.”

“Reminds me of every refugee camp I ever lived in as a kid. Your day revolved around searching for food and clean water, and not getting raped.”

He could see the pained expression in her eyes. Samira had endured a brutal childhood following the years she fled Syria on foot with her family. From the snippets of her few stories over the years, he knew the traumatic experience had left layers of scars upon her soul. It’s why she had joined the Agency out of college then went into fieldwork, hoping to right some of the wrongs of the world. But he knew it was also the reason why she had never had any serious relationships outside of the camaraderie of the special-ops teams.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Damn, I wish I could’ve been there for you when you were growing up. You deserved better.”

“Thanks, Cal. You’re sweet…and always the big brother.” She smiled then thrust her chin up towards the aid stations. “I hope this country can regain some of its autonomy and dignity one day soon. Seems like every year there’s a new humanitarian disaster unfolding here.”

She moved closer to him. “So, I was still within earshot when you were talking with Vogel on board the Antonov…something about a new target package of sorts?”

He smirked, irritated that she had heard that earlier conversation. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Didn’t sound like it had to do with this op, so what’s going on…you have a little side project you wanna share?”

“Not really.”

She slid her hand into the pocket of the folded jacket on top of his pack, removing the flyer for Daisy. “Have anything to do with this cutie?”

He clenched his jaw, continuing to stare ahead. “She’s just a dog that was rescued from some drug dealer’s fighting pits outside of Baltimore. Came across her at an adoption event the other day, that’s all.”

“You want some advice, Cal?”

“Nope.”

Samira sighed. “Too bad. It was a rhetorical fucking question.” She leaned in closer. “You’re always going Mach 5 during missions, then you seem adrift when we have too much downtime. I’ve noticed the past few months that there’s always some new cause you’ll get into researching then get riled up about how you should do something to help, like earlier this summer when you wanted to go after those traffickers in Virginia that you read about online, or the time last year when I told you about how bad the meth dealers were getting around my parents’ neighborhood in Georgia, and you were giving serious thought to sending some hate downrange.”

He frowned, staring at her. “You’re going to lecture me about getting bent out of…”

“We’re not talking about me.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Look, I can’t imagine the pain and loss you went through last summer. Cassie was my friend too and was like a sister to me. She would want you to find some joy in your life. But filling your days off with being a cop to society’s problems isn’t going to fix you. We already operate in such a dark place, Cal. Coming back home after each mission and rescuing dogs or whatever the issue is that week isn’t going to make the pain go away.”

“But it will ease their pain. If I have the means of helping those dogs, then I’m not going to turn away, hoping the problem resolves itself.”

He glanced at the photo of Daisy, knowing Samira was right about being an obsessive caretaker at times. The fact was that he couldn’t turn off his sense of duty to help others, and it had gone into hyperdrive since his wife’s untimely death. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to turn it off, feeling like without it he would be a cork on the ocean without a cause. Cal tucked the brochure back into his jacket.

“So, you are going to…what…do a hit on that gang’s safehouse, and in our own backyard? Are you trying to put a spotlight on us?”

He lowered his head, sighing. “I haven’t decided on a plan of action yet.”

“But I bet it has to do with torching a few of their drug dens.” She shook his arm. “And you’re drawing Vogel into this and now me. Does Foley even know you’re using up resources for this?”

“Foley loves dogs as much as I do and would probably be the first one kickin’ in doors if he knew.”

“When we were overseas, yeah, but not now. Not with his responsibilities in keeping this team off the radar.”

“And I’m not dragging you into this.”

“You already have. You need me to do the thinking for you sometimes, and besides, I’d never let you walk into a shitstorm alone.”

He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. “You always were such a sweet-talker, Samira.”

She chuckled, tapping her knee against his. “Shut up, already.” Samira leaned her head against his shoulder. “Just promise me you will try to find some sliver of light and hope when we’re in between missions rather than always running back into the darkness. We have enough of that in our job.”

“Spoken like the wise woman I always knew you were.”

She put a finger to her lips. “Shhh…don’t let that get out.”

Nolan came up alongside them. “You two solving the world’s problems again?”

Shepard shook his head. “Nah, just talking about how we wished you’d showered earlier.”

“Pff…you should talk, Cal…I thought the engines on the helo might stall with all the cologne coming off you.”

“Gotta smell good when going downrange,” said Shepard with a grin. “It unnerves the enemy.”

Nolan lightly punched him in the arm. “Is that the promotional tagline for your new product line of aftershave?”

“Yeah, I plan to market it to the military…except for you army guys who only shave and shower twice a year.”

Hamill walked up, her and Viper laughing in unison. “You two dudes need a stage at the local comedy club,” said Hamill.

“Cal would just choke up in front of a crowd,” said Nolan. “He’s not a very good public speaker and gets too emotional.”

“At least I can form sentences, you Neanderthal,” said Shepard.

He enjoyed the banter and knew it was a tension-easing habit used by operators about to walk into a firestorm. The men exchanged verbal slugs for a few minutes longer until the sound of a truck crunching along the gravel road alerted them to their ride.

A few seconds later, a rickety Toyota truck pulled up and the man inside stepped out, introducing himself simply as Nate. He was dressed in long pants with a hole in the right knee, and his baggy, untucked t-shirt was adorned with parrots and sported the name of what must have been a local bar. With the man’s scraggly, shoulder-length hair and thick beard, he looked like he had just come from surfing a few sets of waves rather than being a former agent with the Special Activities Division.

After hasty introductions, the team placed their gear bags in the bed of the truck then climbed into the rear with Shepard riding shotgun. He glanced at the man’s deeply tan, calloused hands then looked down at the floor between his own boots, seeing an array of red bobbers and other fishing tackle.

“You do sport fishing or something when you’re not working for Patterson?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I was never into the absurdity of trophy fishing. Everything I catch goes onto the grill or into my freezer. Me and my girlfriend live full time on a sailboat, or at least for a good chunk of the year, so we feed ourselves with what the ocean provides…with the occasional visit to town for a cheeseburger, of course.”

“Patterson said you were with SAD. You retire or just get out?”

“Let’s just say it was a complex relationship I had with the Agency.”

“Is there any other kind?”

“I really don’t have any need to actually work for money these days. I just take on jobs that have a beneficial payoff in more ways than just earning a few bucks.”

“Must be nice. I imagine being a castaway of sorts has its perks.”

“What about you? The old man said you used to run with him and Foley during their Search and Destroy days. That must’ve been something, eh? I remember these crazy stories about Colonel Foley and his merry band of brigands.” He chuckled. “Haven’t heard much talk about him in recent years. He sure dropped off the radar.”

“Knowing him, he’s probably still knee-deep in clandestine ops in some part of the world that nobody’s heard of before.”

Hendrix made a series of turns then drove along the narrow peninsula for eighteen miles, the sky above heavily cloaked by the dense jungle canopy. The humidity was stifling, and Shepard’s clothing was already sticking to him like he’d just gone for a swim in the bay.

“So what can you tell me about Reyes’ guys who will be escorting us into Cuba?”

“They’re all smugglers, moving shit between Cuba and islands in the Caribbean, and even up into Miami. But I’ll be going with you. While Reyes’ men know the waters and hidden coves around that part of the country better than anyone, they don’t know the layout of that warehouse like I do, which is why I’m coming along.”

Shepard studied the man’s face for a minute. “My understanding is that that part of the island is under the control of the Vargas syndicate. How is it you know it so well if you work with Reyes and his outfit?”

“Let’s just say that alliances out here, at least with what I do, need to be fluid.”

“Seems like a hell of a lot of risk just to smuggle some goods back and forth between different countries. Thought you didn’t need the cash?”

Hendrix turned left down a faint road that led to a small beach. “Unless those goods happen to be young women who escaped from the Vargas trafficking rings and are trying to start a new life away from the scumbags that inhabit every village in every port out here.”

“Not sure exactly what Patterson told you about this little op, but just to be clear, my team and I are merely going to recon that warehouse. I’m not planning for this to become a rescue mission. While I admire the efforts of your work down here, if there are any surprises you want to tell me about, now would be the time.”

Hendrix came to a halt near a small dock with a lone sailboat moored at the end. He turned off the engine and glanced over at Shepard. “Don’t worry, amigo; Patterson briefed me already. Reyes’ guys will navigate the waters so we don’t have any run-ins with the Vargas smugglers, then I’ll lead the way to the warehouse. After that, the show is all yours.”

Hendrix leaned back, grabbing a small black pack from behind his seat. “I’m assuming that since we have a common connection with Patterson, this little recon job isn’t about searching for stolen contraband and that the Vargas syndicate must be into some serious shit to bring you all down here.”

“We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

Shepard got out, retrieving his gear from the bed of the truck as the others did the same, then rejoined Hendrix. He patted the side of his duffle bag. “You should know right now that we have some concern that the warehouse may have been used recently as a site for creating chemical toxins. I brought along an extra hazmat suit and respirator for you, just in case.”

Hendrix’s eyes widened. “Damn, I wasn’t expecting that. Good to know, and thanks.”

They headed along the old dock, which was missing numerous floorboards and looked like it had weathered out too many hurricanes. As they reached the end by the thirty-foot Winslow sailboat, a black-and-tan dog leapt out, trotting eagerly towards Hendrix. It stopped to greet him then inspected the new arrivals.

“This is Luce, and she’s my first mate.”

“Actually, she’s the second mate,” said a woman leaning over the railing, her long ponytail of red hair falling over her tan shoulder.

Hendrix smiled. “That’s Beth. She’s also a Langley alumnus and worked with Patterson for a time.”

“More like under his thumb,” said Beth, who welcomed them on board.

“Small world,” said Samira, stroking Luce’s ears. “But it looks like we’re in good company.”

28

From the bridge of the massive cargo ship, Flynn made another pass with the high-powered binoculars, scanning past dozens of nearby frigates and cruise ships towards the north end of Biscayne Bay.

A few minutes later, Sayeed Jabal entered the bridge. “Everything is ready below. The boat is fueled and the diving equipment is loaded.”

Flynn walked to the rear windows, glancing down at the gleaming rows of sixty-foot steel girders secured with cables to the main level. The cylindrical beams were stacked eight high and four wide, with twenty such configurations taking up two-thirds of the thousand-foot deck. They had been specially prepared and carefully loaded back in Malaysia.

With Ivanovich’s guidance, two dozen of the specially insulated beams had been filled with the raw components for the nerve agent last month before departing for America. Now, all that was needed were the triggers to turn the dormant weapons into a device that would blanket Miami with the deadly toxins.

The F-Type freighter carrying the beams was owned by a shell corporation out of Singapore, one of numerous corporate entities used by Fahad Bashar to provide transportation for his steel products throughout the world.

This particular vessel had arrived at the port in Miami four days ago, and the commercial steel on board had the requisite shipping manifests and licensed maritime personnel to avoid any entanglements with customs or the Coast Guard.

But the cargo ship’s other function was to serve as Flynn’s floating command base.

In a secure section on the second floor was a small but fully-equipped tactical operations center, allowing Naomi to employ her cyber-skills when they were abroad and for Flynn to reach each of his team members using encrypted comms.

Adjacent to that room was a small weapons locker equipped with an assortment of rifles, pistols, grenades, night-vision goggles and trauma kits. In addition, one end of that chamber held their diving supplies: rebreathers, oxygen tanks, fins, masks and waterproof GPS devices.

The crew of twenty staff and their captain were skilled seaman of Malay and Indonesian descent, all of them longtime mariners employed by the sheik. Six of the men solely answered to Flynn and were there to provide security along with any other physical duties to ensure the success of the coming operation.

Flynn heard familiar footsteps moving along the flooring as Naomi entered the bridge. He couldn’t tell if she was just bleary-eyed from being up for the past twenty-four hours or intoxicated.

She handed him the metallic case containing the toxins then plunked down onto the captain’s seat. “The Doomsday Device at your disposal, sir. I already passed along two of the toxin vials to Victor. Those were the aerosolized versions, which he’s going to get into position at the university.”

Flynn opened the case, inspecting the remaining six vials then securing the lid and handing it off to Jabal. “Put this in the tac-ops room below.”

“What are those going to be used for?”

He had left her out of the loop about there being a Plan B, knowing she would have never agreed to sign on to this mission. And he needed her cyber-skills to make it all unfold smoothly.

“Just a contingency. You can’t have too many of those in our line of work, as you know.”

After Jabal exited the bridge, Flynn spun Naomi around in the swivel seat, pressing her arms against the sides. “Normally I’d say go sleep off whatever you’re dealing with, but right now, get some fucking coffee in you and then run a test of the malware program for tomorrow night’s event. I need that to perform flawlessly. Is that understood?”

She glared at him, squirming in the seat. “Alright, I’ll take care of it. Just let go of my arms.”

“You want this to all be over. I get it. Just stick to the plan and execute your job like the professional you’ve always been. Then and only then will you get the ten million you were guaranteed and can start over in whatever pocket of the globe you want.” He pressed down on her arms harder, causing her to wince. “But this reminder is a one-time thing, Naomi.”

He released her arms. Naomi’s scowl remained on her face as she quickly exited the room. Flynn knew early on that recruiting Naomi for this mission brought risks. She was the only member of his team that didn’t have someone in their lives to leverage. The woman had no family and was a loner. The bonds she’d established with Amir and Akeem had fueled her interest to see this through during the planning stages, but now he felt the need to continually bolster her confidence, and it was grating on his nerves.

He also knew that a person with a guilty conscience could become erratic and unpredictable.

Jabal returned, standing next to the console. “Everything good?”

“For now, though after tomorrow night, there might be another open bunk below if Naomi doesn’t pull it together.”

29

An hour later, Jabal slowed the motorboat along the north end of Biscayne Bay. Twelve hundred feet ahead were the mangrove waterways of Oleta River State Park, the largest state park in Florida, which boasted thousands of acres of native tropics and a maze of narrow channels.

Flynn stood on the bridge, his eyes drifting over the outline of the trees, whose serene setting was in stark contrast to the miles of developed oceanfront and gaudy hotels to the east.

He pulled his gaze away, focusing on the developed peninsula of land to the west. Flynn felt like he knew every square foot of the two-hundred-acre waterfront campus that comprised Florida International University. From drone footage and studying architectural maps to a dozen walking tours to recon the grounds and buildings, he had scrutinized FIU so thoroughly that he rarely consulted the original building plans.

The full moon wouldn’t be visible until after midnight, and the nearby lights from the college campus didn’t extend out to the center of the water.

Flynn moved down the steps to the rear deck of the twenty-foot boat, adjusting his wetsuit then sitting on the rear bench as he put on his fins and scuba tank. When he was done, he glanced down at his watch. Jabal killed the boat’s running lights.

Flynn pointed to their future rendezvous spot to the southeast near a string of boats docked at a large marina a half-mile across the bay.

“See you tomorrow night at 2010,” he said to Jabal, though there was little need, since they had rehearsed the plans for weeks.

The man nodded then helped him do a final check of his gear. Flynn adjusted his air tank’s regulator then picked up a spare scuba tank, which had a set of fins and another mask clipped to the side.

Jabal gave him a thumbs-up, handing Flynn his mask and dry-bag. The former MI6 operator did a final inspection of the bag, making sure the two triggers containing the nerve agent were secured in their waterproof Pelican case, then he cinched the webbing around his waist, attaching it to his dive belt with a carabiner.

Flynn swiveled his mask in place then activated the GPS unit mounted on his right forearm. He gave a thumbs-up to Jabal before pivoting around and climbing down onto the rear platform and quietly slipping into the familiar waters.

For months, he had studied this region using nautical maps and the old architectural charts from the late 1940s when this area was a blend of old fishermen’s shacks, aqueducts and a smattering of piers, before Miami’s burgeoning development.

His destination was the edge of the campus property to the west. While Horst had been busy preparing for tomorrow night’s attack from inside the university, Flynn needed to prep their exfil route.

From numerous practice dives in this region during the past few visits, Flynn knew that Florida International University was overlaid upon miles of subterranean drainage tunnels that flowed from the older neighborhoods to the west before the campus was built in 1977. Some of those were still in use by Miami-Dade Water and Sewer while others merged into the university’s underground wastewater systems. But it was drainage tunnel number nine that was the focus of tonight’s visit.

He paced his breathing and exertion level, since the half-mile to the turnoff involved swimming against the current of Oleta River, which fed into this saltwater bay.

Flynn kept his headlamp off, relying on the blue glow of the GPS device as he swam, the chill of the deep waters a welcome respite from the stifling humidity he had experienced on the freighter.

A half-mile in, he made a slow arc to the left, swimming for another sixty yards before stopping at a two-foot-diameter iron pipe jutting out from the bedrock beneath FIU’s eastern edge.

Flynn switched on the red light of his headlamp, using his gloved hand to pluck away the algae and barnacles coating the bottom of the steel grating. The organisms had recovered since his last visit three weeks ago, and he was pleased that the four bolts securing the grating hadn’t suffered much corrosion.

He slid the spare air tank off his left shoulder then clipped it onto a smaller adjacent pipe a foot to the left. Flynn opened his dry-bag, pulling out a ratchet with the appropriate size socket then working each of the four bolts loose on the main pipe, letting each one drop to the river bottom. Unlike his other trips, there would be no need to cover his tracks.

After removing the heavy grating, he watched it disappear into the black waters below. When he was done, he removed his air tank while keeping the regulator in his mouth, then he clamped it onto an exterior handhold beside the other tank to the left, securing it in a similar fashion using two carabiners with locking screws.

When he finished, he held on to the handhold, secreting his body against the rocky foundation then removing his fins and securing them to the scuba tank with a hefty zip-tie. He reinserted the regulator into his mouth while holding on to the sides of the pipe.

He glanced at his watch, spending the next five minutes remaining as still as possible, pacing each inhalation. In between each breath, he would perform triple-checks of his dry-bag in the faint glow of his red light while mentally rehearsing the route through the claustrophobic tunnel.

In the last thirty seconds, he increased his breathing, feeling like every cell in his body was becoming bloated with precious oxygen. When the second hand passed twelve, he clicked on the watch’s timer, setting it to four minutes.

He activated the countdown then switched the headlamp’s red light to bright white while flicking the air regulator from his mouth. He dialed down the feed from the tank then returned to the open maw of the main tunnel. Flynn swung his body into the opening, swimming into its murky confines, pushing the dry-bag ahead of him.

The antiquated passageway had served as an early aquaduct during the building of south Miami’s commercial enterprises that peppered the riverfront and surrounding coastal shoreline. Eventually it was paved over and became defunct, its existence only known to a handful of long-dead historic archeologists who had logged its location on documents stored in the archives of city hall.

Despite his numerous trips along the angled passage, the torturous swim never got easier, and it felt like the passage was constricting with each foot forward. This was why he had pushed his endurance with breath-holding over the past few months, since he knew that whatever amount of time one achieved under controlled conditions in a swimming pool would be reduced to half that amount under duress with adrenaline coursing through the body.

Ninety seconds in, the terminus came suddenly, his headlamp illuminating a dome-shaped hatch. He removed a sixteen-inch solid steel pipe from his dry-bag, inserting it into the rusty wheel-lock then forcefully cranking to the left with both hands. The surface was more corroded than it was during his last visit, and he angled his hips into the tunnel wall to provide more leverage to engage his upper body.

The lock slowly moved, Flynn’s lungs beginning to burn as he wrestled the wheel.

Fuck, this better not freeze up. Not now.

The hatch bellowed inward on its creaking hinges, the decaying rubber seal around the rim cracking off in parts and falling into the open chamber below.

Flynn dropped the bar in the tunnel, thrusting his body towards the mouth as he gulped in stale air. The smell of sewage and rot pierced his nose. He pried himself from the murky tunnel like a snake sloughing off its unwanted skin then lowered himself down six feet to the ground.

He swiveled his head around, the light illuminating the familiar outline of a twenty-foot-diameter chamber with several other hatches near the top edge.

To his left was a branch of three smaller channels that serviced the university’s sewer systems. Ahead was the main tunnel that led underneath the marine sciences building, providing overflow for the new aquarium and drainage for the monthly purge of the eleven-million-gallon saltwater structure.

He removed the dry-bag from his belt, slinging it over his shoulder, then trotted around the rim of the drainage basin in the middle before heading down the main tunnel.

Sixty yards later, he paused before a white X he’d marked on the right of the smooth cement wall.

When he was done placing the shape charge on the weathered concrete, he trotted back around the bend in the passage then pressed the detonator. The blast briefly resounded through the tunnel, the dust billowing out only as far as the thick humidity allowed.

Flynn peeled off his wetsuit, stowing it against the wall and covering it with some loose rocks, then he adjusted the drab green coveralls before removing a flattened pair of sneakers and a green ballcap from the dry-bag.

When he was done, he slung the dry-bag over his shoulder and stepped through the narrow portal, switching his headlamp to its infrared light. A quarter-mile of crouch-walking past the infrared arrows Horst had painted on the left wall and he arrived under an overflow grate in the utility room adjacent to the aquarium.

For ten minutes, he remained silent, listening for sounds or voices in the maintenance room above. When he was confident he was alone, Flynn set down the dry-bag, pulling out a small torch. He struck the end to ignite the mini-welder then set about searing off the retaining bolts in the grate’s corners where it attached to the concrete flooring overhead.

When he was done, he waited again for a few minutes, his ears attuned to any noise above. Finally, he pressed his palms against the bottom of the steel grate, groaning as he slid it forward just enough for him to shimmy up. He went to the corner of the room, feeling around behind a storage closet then removing a small pack.

He opened the top, seeing a uniform worn by the university’s banquet staff along with matching dress shoes that Horst had provided. Inside was a handwritten note from Horst.

FBI is already on site and buttoning things up for tomorrow night’s event, so this will be my last communication with you until then.

He folded it up then closed the pack, retracing his steps back down into the tunnel, replacing the grate.

Flynn headed down the passage to the wall rupture he’d created then stepped through. He sat down by the rockpile, leaning back against the wall and retrieving four water bottles and two MREs from the pack that Horst had included.

When he’d rehydrated, he slid the Pelican case from the dry-bag, checking the contents once again.

Now, everything hinged upon him becoming a monk in the darkened tunnel, dwelling in silence and awaiting the arrival of the coming banquet above.

No turning back now. The day of reckoning is nearly here at last.

30

Hendrix piloted his sailboat for 16 miles, heading north of Haiti. While there was only about a 50-mile distance between the east end of Cuba and the west end of Haiti, a direct approach was out of the question, and he had agreed to meet Reyes’ guys in the uncontrolled waters due north, after which they would board a different boat and buttonhook in towards an isolated cove along a remote section of the Cuban peninsula.

From past experience, Hendrix knew that the route in would require dozens of stops and starts as they silently maneuvered between numerous Vargas smuggling boats.

Standing at the helm, he glanced again at the GPS on the dash, which indicated he was approaching Reyes’ vessel. He flipped on his ship’s running lights. The milky white boat appeared less than a quarter-mile away, and Hendricks slowed the engines.

He glanced over to Shepard on his right. “Beth will stay here, hovering outside of this area until we return. As mentioned, I’ll lead the way into the warehouse so you can avoid triggering the security sensors. I would highly recommend having one of your people stay on board with Reyes’ guys once we go ashore.” He nodded towards Nolan. “Ideally not one of the women, as they wouldn’t fare well with those mongrels. No offense to their fighting abilities, but I’ve yet to meet one of Reyes’ guys who doesn’t have a long rap sheet for sexual assault.”

“Got it.” Shepard patted Nolan on the shoulder with his fist. “Guess you’ll be making sure our return cruise goes smoothly.”

Nolan frowned, staring ahead at the four dark-skinned men on the deck of the two-story fishing boat. “Any of ’em speak English…my Spanish is so-so.”

“Just Ernesto, the captain, but he doesn’t like Americans, so he’ll probably pretend otherwise.”

Shepard unzipped his backpack, removing a bundle of cash. “Well, today he will like Americans, I think.” He handed the stack to Hendrix. “As these guys are your contacts and they need to keep seeing you as El Jefe, I’ll let you take care of the business end of things.”

“I appreciate that.” He killed the engine, slowing the boat and skillfully turning it so it came up alongside the other vessel. Two of Reyes’ men leaned out, tossing ropes to Hamill and Nolan, who moored the ships next to each other.

Shepard glanced out to the horizon in each direction, knowing that Haiti, Cuba, Jamaica and dozens of other island nations were in this part of the Caribbean, but the darkness enveloped the ocean as far as the eye could see, making him feel like they were adrift in a black hole.

He slung his backpack over his right shoulder then picked up his gear bag before hopping aboard the other vessel while the rest of his team and Hendrix did the same. A few minutes later, Beth unmoored the lashings then slipped away into the night.

Ninety minutes later, the fishing boat anchored in a small cove fifteen miles southeast of Baracoa. Shepard followed Hendrix down to the motorized raft at the rear. Once everyone was inside, Hendrix spun up the engine, peeling off from the boat and making a beeline for the beach.

Once on shore, they dragged the raft into the waist-high grass, then Shepard did a radio check with Vogel, who informed them the half-mile jungle route ahead was clear.

Hendrix led the way, each of them armed with suppressed AR rifles kept at a low-ready. Hendrix paused every couple of minutes to listen and scan the trail. At the next stop, Shepard came up alongside him. “So Patterson said you saw considerable time in the jungles of West Africa.”

“Yeah, man. Liberia and Sierra Leone, actually. Spent a coupla years there training the Gola tribes in the northern highlands. That was before Ebola and the civil war.”

“I’m more of a desert guy myself.”

“Desert’s great. I lived in the Four Corners region for a few years. Just love that slickrock country up there. That’s where my dog Luce is from, actually. Found her on the Navajo Reservation when she was just a pup.” He paused, waving his hand at the dense foliage to the right. “But the jungle just has so many resources…more food for living off the land, plenty of water and lots of chokepoints for ambushes.”

“And more parasites and venomous snakes…no thanks.”

Hendrix chuckled. “Every environment has its trade-offs. That’s why I got a sailboat, brother. I can change locales from one day to the next.”

They walked for another sixty yards, then Hendrix paused, turning around and using hand signals to indicate they were approaching the outskirts of the warehouse.

In the green hue of Shepard’s night-vision goggles, there appeared to be few tracks along the muddy trail other than deer and lizard, which hopefully meant there hadn’t been any recent smuggling activity coming in through this part of the cove.

Hendrix pushed on for twenty more feet, squatting down at the edge of the forest and a field. Shepard moved up next to the man, both of them kneeling with their rifles held at a low-ready as they scanned the gravel lot adjacent to the building.

An abandoned truck with all of its wheels flat was the only vehicle present, but the road coming in from the other direction appeared to have been used frequently given the ruts.

Shepard’s attention was fixed on an array of generators to the right of the warehouse alongside dozens of depleted gas cans lying on their sides.

“When’s the last time you were here?” whispered Shepard while Hamill and Viper provided rear cover support towards the jungle trail.

“About eight weeks ago. This place has mainly been used as a drop-off location by the smugglers, and it’s been without power for years, so I’m not sure what all those generators are for.”

Hendrix extended a spear hand out, pointing towards the left edge of the building. “Each of the corners has pressure plate sensors hidden in the ground about 18 inches from the building. Any movement or tremors within a few feet of those and they’ll be triggered. There are also some low-tech surveillance cams near the front and rear entrance, which is why we’re going in through a small hatch on the east side of the building.”

“Why do they have any security out here at all?” said Hamill.

“Vargas put it in a few years ago when they were getting in weapons shipments. I’m not even sure if they actively maintain these security devices out here, but let’s assume they do.”

Shepard tapped on his ear-mic, contacting Vogel. “Mother, this is X-ray, over.”

“Go ahead, X-ray.”

“We are on site and about to approach the target. What can you tell me about the surrounding area and any QRF?”

“The jungle canopy is extremely dense in that region, but it looks like there are a dozen guys at a small outpost seven miles from your location.”

“Copy that. We may lose contact once we’re inside, especially if there are lower levels involved, so I’ll reestablish contact once we’re headed to the exfil point.

Viper and Hamill stayed at the treeline providing overwatch while Hendrix and Shepard darted towards the east end of the building. Once Hendrix removed the metal hatch, he climbed through. Shepard waited for Viper to cross the field then followed Hendrix inside. The pattern was repeated with Hamill until all four operators were in the dank passage that spanned the building.

Hendrix led them down the hall, each of them scanning the vacant offices on the left until they came to an intersection. They paused, Hendrix and Viper covering the passageway in either direction as Hamill and Shepard removed the biohazard suits and respirators from their packs, donning their gear and stowing their night-vision goggles. When they finished, they switched duties with the other two, who parroted their motions.

Hendrix motioned with the muzzle of his AR at the route ahead. “This entire floor was mainly used for storage, so not much to see, but the supply lines for those generators went into the basement windows, so we should concentrate our efforts there first.”

Shepard agreed then motioned for the man to continue on. Arriving at a stairwell, Hendrix proceeded down.

“Hold up,” Cal said. He removed his backpack, pulling out a handheld scanner used for detecting chemical leaks. These were used by UN weapons inspectors for detecting the most common raw ingredients employed in chemical factories believed to contain nerve agents.

He turned it on, holding out the spectrometer then waving it above his head to get the baseline established, grateful that the red light had not activated. “OK, so far so good.”

The next five minutes saw them navigating a maze of old service tunnels that led past a boiler room and what must have been an iron smelter used by the previous shipbuilders.

Hendrix followed the bootprints along the dusty floor, arriving at a huge vault-like door that was ajar.

“This is new,” he said, pushing it open then stepping inside as the others followed. Once inside, the team spread apart, their weapon-mounted flashlights stabbing through the darkness while the spectrometer in Cal’s hand began blinking red.

“Jackpot.”

Shepard stared at a dead man in a cracked gas mask lying on the ground in the middle of the room before a blood-spattered plastic curtain that cordoned off the rest of the chamber.

He walked past the body, seeing he’d suffered a gunshot wound to the face. Shepard parted the curtains, his light shining on a figure splayed on the ground, his chest riddled with bullets along with a single gunshot wound to the head.

Viper knelt alongside him, removing the man’s gas mask. “Looks like we finally caught up with Ivanovich.”

What Shepard saw next made his stomach churn as he glanced up at four gurneys with bloated bodies that looked like they had been dunked in a pool of acid.

“What the fuck?” he said, reluctantly moving forward to examine the nearest body as the sound of his respirator increased dramatically. He fought back the urge to bolt from the chamber of horrors.

“God, this looks like the aftermath of a Novichok attack,” said Hendrix.

“That toxin would certainly be in line with what the dead guy behind me was known for,” said Shepard. “He used to run an FSB toxins team.”

“Did you see his fingers and nails?” said Hamill. “Looks like he’d gotten careless with his creation.”

Hendrix nodded. “That was probably from one of the granular components which by itself is inert until it’s mixed with the other raw compounds when designing Novichok. The powdered residue can chew up the fingernails and skin on the tips, almost like getting repeated doses of bleach on your skin.”

“So, you know what we’re dealing with here?” said Viper.

Hendrix moved toward the body of a young woman, staring at her corpulent face and fingers. “Novichok and its related poisons will do that. This type of chemical weapon was used by an African warlord to kill the natives in northern Guinea years ago. They all died slowly from organ failure over the coming hours and days.” His voice trembled. “Entire families decimated.”

“If this is a weapon with that capability, then imagine what it would do if it were released into a building,” said Hamill.

“Or an entire city,” said Shepard. He backpedaled away from the corpses, noting that even the rats hadn’t chewed on any of them. He turned around, scanning the desk then retrieving two flash-drives, a phone and what appeared to be Ivanovich’s notebook. He slid it all into a plastic bag then sealed the edge, slipping it into his pack.

“I’ll stay behind here with Hamill and search the rest of the lab.” He thrust his mask up towards Hendrix. “You and Viper scour the upstairs.”

“Copy that,” said Hendrix as he parted the plastic curtains while Viper trailed behind.

Twenty minutes later, after Shepard and Hamill emerged from the basement, he heard his earpiece crackle with Samira’s voice. “Cal, you’re going to want to get over to our six. There is something here you need to see.”

They quickly made their way through the dimly lit passages, trying to avoid stepping on all the rodent droppings and discarded trash. Checking the handheld spectrometer and seeing it was green again, he peeled back his respirator, letting it dangle behind his head while Hamill did the same.

Upon arriving at the cavernous room where Hendrix and Viper were located, Cal stood gazing at the elaborate layout that took up most of the 60’x60’ chamber.

On the right side of the room was an arc of upright posts that had recently been anchored into the floor with cement. The roughly hewn logs were probably taken from the jungle. These were each spaced twelve feet apart. On the ground, beside two of the outer posts, was a box pattern roughly 2’x2’ that had been inscribed with chalk.

Thirty feet to the left of the posts was a ten-foot-high wall framed with two-by-fours and covered with flaking drywall. In the center were double doors. On either side of these were two plastic manikins wearing bulletproof vests riddled with hundreds of punctures.

The floor was so peppered with spent brass that Shepard had a hard time moving around. Viper extended her hand out to him, revealing an assortment of different calibers. “Mostly 5.7 FN pistol rounds but also some 5.56 rifle rounds along with numerous 12-gauge slugs.”

“Those last two are very common in these parts,” said Hendrix, “but the 5.7, that’s not something you ever see out here.”

“Or much anywhere,” said Shepard. “Somebody is obviously looking for armor-piercing capabilities.”

Hendrix kicked a few rounds across the floor, causing some rodents in the corner to scurry away. “Not to mention, the Vargas guys are spray and pray…they don’t go for elaborate weapons or setups like this.”

Cal gazed around the rest of the room, walking between the upright posts and the faux wall. “This is definitely a prepared stage like you’d see in a shoot-house, but what the hell were they training for?”

Hendrix waved his flashlight towards the corner of the building, revealing five cots alongside a long table with a camping stove and cooking supplies. To the right of this were plastic bins filled with discarded MRE pouches and water jugs.

“I also found an empty box of feminine products, so there must have been at least one woman in the group,” said Hamill.

“That would correspond with the smaller boot prints I kept seeing downstairs,” said Cal.

“A five-person unit training in small team tactics for days or weeks on end. These guys clearly have a very precise mission in mind,” said Viper.

Shepard rested a gloved hand on an upright post. He glanced over at the chalk lines on the floor. “Well, let’s do a dry run of our own with the parameters they laid out and see if anything comes to mind, minus live rounds flying through the air, of course.”

Before he took a step, his earpiece crackled with Vogel’s pensive voice. “Cal, that QRF we spoke about earlier…those guys are heading your way, and in a hurry.”

“Shit, we must have tripped a hidden sensor somewhere,” said Hendrix.

Shepard flicked his head towards the operator. “Well, Nate, you better escort us back to the promised land then.”

“It looks like there’s another group of about 15 guys moving in on a boat near the cove where you arrived,” said Vogel. “Nolan just informed me that his boat just veered to the southeast, heading to your secondary extraction point.”

Shepard relayed the message to Hendrix, who wasn’t privy to the conversation. “Our primary exfil is cut off. You’ll need to guide us to the secondary point.”

“Whew, that’s nearly a half-mile further, so let’s roll.”

Before they left, Shepard removed his phone, snapping off numerous photos of the beams and room layout before trotting back to the group, who were already heading towards the side exit, wondering how this macabre site was related to Danzig’s chilling final words about Flynn bringing down the United States.

31

The run to the treeline was hampered by their clunky hazmat suits, and they were barely across the grassy field before the headlights of the two speeding trucks stabbed through the darkness.

At three hundred yards out, the men standing in the back of the trucks began shooting wildly, the shots strafing the air to the rear. Hendrix paused beside an earthen berm overgrown with weeds, sending a hail of rounds from his MK12 into the first Ford pickup as he yelled for the rest of Shepard’s team to head to the forest.

He sent another burst of rounds into the bed of the truck, keeping the men pinned down, then he hopped up, sprinting towards the jungle.

Each step was an effort, and he had to slow his pace slightly as the inflexible garb constrained his legs.

Damn this suit.

Viper and Hamill had already taken up kneeling positions and were returning fire with their ARs. The cacophony of gunshots from both parties increased as a half-dozen men hopped from the trucks, shooting from behind their vehicles.

Nate sprinted the last twenty feet then burst into the forest, sliding on the muddy substrate as he came to a halt behind Shepard, who’d just finished stripping off his hazmat suit.

Hendrix leaned his rifle against a rotting stump then yanked down on his own suit’s central zipper, tearing off the rubbery restraint and tossing it on the ground. Retrieving his MK12, he spun around, taking up a shooting position beside the trunk of a large palm tree.

“That other party from the boats is on foot and heading our way,” shouted Shepard, who’d just been speaking into his ear-mic. “ETA…sixty seconds.”

Hendrix focused his scope’s green dot on a bearded thug by the back bumper of the first truck who had just popped up to spray the forest with his fully automatic AK. Hendrix squeezed off two rounds, striking the man in the chest, then he heard Shepard’s rifle bark out several rounds as he dispatched a henchman leaning out from the left side of the second Ford.

Hendrix shuffled forward, patting Viper on the shoulder while yelling down the line for her and Hamill to strip off their suits one at a time.

“We’re gonna have to swim once we get to the shoreline, so lighten your loads as much as possible.”

He saw a lanky man with an AK sprinting for some black barrels thirty feet from the vehicles. His suppressed rifle barked out three rounds, striking the henchman in the midsection and hips. The wounded figure collapsed, sliding along the slick ground then attempting to wriggle for cover behind a large propane tank.

Hendrix caught a sliver of movement around the edge of the warehouse as a group of Vargas’ thugs arrived at the opposite side of the field, making their way towards the trucks while firing haphazardly into the trees far to his left.

He refocused his attention on the crawling figure he’d just dropped then repositioned his sights on the tubular propane tank anchored to the ground.

Hendrix waited for the last of the new arrivals to take up positions by the truck, then he fired two 5.56 rounds at the tank.

A cloud of orange flame erupted, metal shrapnel tearing through the west end of the field and shattering the remaining windows in the warehouse. A dozen shooters by the trucks were engulfed by the fiery blast, and the remaining men lay stunned on the ground.

Hendrix and the rest of CRT ceased firing, their eyes momentarily fixated on the blaze. The plum-orange hue over the field illuminated the splayed bodies in front of the warehouse.

“Move back and follow me,” he said to the others.

They retreated into the darkness for fifty feet, following behind Hendrix in single file. The muddy jungle trail seemed like it was coated with grease, impeding their progress for the first few minutes, and everyone had to stop periodically to drag their boots across logs, sloughing off the inches-thick layers of sludge.

Hendrix took several deep breaths, checking his own body for any wounds that the adrenaline dump may have blocked. Out of habit from past missions, he glanced over the other three operators for any signs of injury then scanned the forest beyond, seeing the orange glow in the field starting to fade.

“What kind of animals made this trail?” said Viper, thrusting her chin at the ground.

Hendrix pointed to a patch of earth visible in the moonlight that was piercing a narrow gap in the canopy. “See that huge hand-like print…that’s no animal. That’s a gator track.”

“You’re shitting me, right?” she said with a nervous tone.

“They come inland around here sometimes, looking to snag one of the wild donkeys or goats that roam these parts.”

“Or brunettes,” muttered Shepard in Samira’s ear.

She leered at him. “You’ll be the first person I push in front of me when one appears.”

Hendrix continued down the trail as the others fell in behind him.

“How much farther to the beach?” whispered Hamill.

“Fifteen more minutes or so,” replied Hendrix, pausing to duck under a thick vine teeming with ants. “Then we’ll have to swim about a hundred yards to the boat. The shoreline is too rocky for Reyes’ men to get in any closer.”

“Swim with alligators…great,” quipped Samira. “Suddenly the warehouse seems a lot safer.”

Hendrix glanced back at her, giving her a wolfish grin. “The gators won’t bother you…the electric eels in the water keep them away.”

He stopped, watching her mouth hang open, then patted her on the arm. “Just kidding…those are only found down in South America.”

She shook her head. “Patterson never mentioned that you were such a funny fucking guy.”

Hendrix continued leading the way, chuckling. “Patterson’s actually the one who told me to give you shit about the gators down here. Said your reaction would make for a good story afterwards.”

While Samira muttered a colorful curse, Shepard and Hamill chuckled, reminding Hendrix of the amusing banter between operators, who used the humor to ease the tension that accompanied their perilous line of work.

Patterson was right about what he’d told Hendrix regarding Shepard and his team. They were quiet professionals who seemed like a well-tuned cadre. And while his part was nearly over, he hoped Shepard and his team would be able to track down whomever was behind the horrors at the warehouse before there were any more victims.

Pausing at the transition between the forest and the beach, he gazed down the shoreline in either direction then removed a tactical flashlight with a red lens from his vest, sending three flashes beyond the lagoon.

A few seconds later, he was met with an identical visual reply, then he saw the faint outline of the fishing boat as it moved towards the periphery of the lagoon before stopping.

“That’s our ride,” said Shepard after speaking to Derrick Nolan on board.

“This is the part I hate. Leaving all this fine gear behind,” said Hendrix as he stripped off his vest and backpack, tossing them into the forest as the others did the same.

He and Shepard took up shooting positions with their rifles, facing the jungle trail while the two women waded into the murky waters and began their swim to the boat.

“What happens now?” he said to Shepard.

“Get back to Florida and try to piece together what we learned here with what we’ve already uncovered.”

“Well, brother, you ever need some extra firepower, you know how to get ahold of me.”

“Thanks, Nate. I will keep that in mind.”

Shepard spoke into his ear-mic then gave Hendrix a thumbs-up. “The women just arrived, so let’s go.”

Hendrix and Shepard backpedaled towards the shoreline, then both men slung their rifles across their backs, easing into the calm waters.

Soon enough, they’d all part ways as Hendrix returned to Beth, Luce and his boat, sailing east in the Caribbean towards whatever adventures the sea called him to next.

32

THURSDAY

With the afternoon sun stabbing through the windows of the Antonov, Cal sat up in his hammock, stretching his arms. He and his team had only gotten back a few hours ago since departing Haiti, but he figured any sleep was better than running on an empty tank after the past two days of nonstop movement.

He swung his legs out, putting on his boots then heading over to Vogel’s desk, where she and Foley were discussing the intel package received from Lena Taylor along with reviewing the information from Cuba.

“You look like you might need a gallon of coffee,” said Foley, nodding towards the bottles of cold brew sticking out of the open lid of a cooler on the ground beside the side door.

Hamill, Samira and Nolan emerged from their slumber, following Cal’s lead on getting caffeinated, then they plunked down on the folding chairs around Vogel’s desk.

A minute later, Patterson entered the plane carrying a box of fresh donuts that he set down in Samira’s lap.

“Trying to appease me for getting Hendrix to rattle on about alligators coming after me?” she said, snatching out two jelly donuts.

“Why, whatever do you mean, my dear?” Patterson replied with a grin.

He nudged Shepard. “Did everything work out at that warehouse?”

Cal rubbed the back of his neck. “That was a helluva night, but Hendrix took good care of us. Like you said, he’s a solid dude, and he sure seemed at home in the jungle.” He glanced up at Foley and Vogel. “But whatever Ivanovich was doing down in his lab was on a scale far more deadly than what we expected.”

The rest of his team gave concerned nods while tearing into their sugary breakfast.

“So, what we know so far is that a nerve agent, possibly Novichok, is involved, and that they are training for a very specific setting given the photos of that training area you sent,” said Foley. “With planning on this scale, their attack will be on a target of considerable significance. So, what’s happening of significance during the next few days?”

“In this country or down here in Florida?” said Samira.

“Why here?” said Vogel.

“The involvement of the Vargas syndicate, which has a major presence in Miami and Tampa.” She gazed at Foley. “And what about that shipping manifest you got from your British colleague…you said it was for a vessel bound to Cuba. That’s only a short trip to the ports here.”

“But records indicate that that ship already departed back to Malaysia a few days ago,” said Foley.

“Unless the manifest has been electronically tampered with and the port authorities paid off, which means that ship could still be here,” said Shepard. He stood up, pacing beside the workstation. “Someone in Flynn’s group has tremendous hacking skills on par with even you, Lynn.” He shot a glance at Vogel.

“It’s possible,” she agreed.

“Let’s assume Cal’s right,” said Patterson, “and that vessel is still here. How would it be used in an attack involving chemical weapons?”

“It could be docked in a target-rich setting and release the chemicals or just cruise along a few coastal cities to disperse the toxins,” said Nolan. “And the size of the ports here would allow it to blend in better than any of the smaller cities in the Florida panhandle or up the southeastern coast of the Atlantic.”

Vogel had been furiously typing on her laptop then swiveled it around to show her screen with a map and several red dots spread around the state. “I just had Perseus run a search on upcoming political, social and business events in Florida, and I only found three things of interest.

“There is a trade delegation in Miami with nearly a hundred dignitaries from other nations along with Fortune 500 CEOs in attendance. It’s happening on board a luxury cruise ship anchored at the south end of Biscayne Bay at Dodge Island; there’s a governor’s race in Tallahassee; and the First Lady is giving a speech for the Women’s Business Collaborative in Tampa.”

A long silence followed, then Foley spoke. “All of those will have considerable security measures and personnel in place, but the trade delegation presents the most target-rich environment; an attack there could have a devastating effect upon many of the world’s economic leaders.”

“And it’s in Miami,” said Nolan. “Like Samira said, that’s where the Vargas syndicate has the majority of its muscle concentrated.”

Foley nodded, considering the information. “Lynn, see what more you can turn up on the delegation. I’ll contact the head of the president’s Secret Service detail, Edgar Hadley, and let him know what we’ve been working on. He’s the only one who is privy to our unit, and he can notify his agents in Tampa while keeping us out of it.”

“And the governor’s office?” said Shepard.

Foley replied, “I just don’t see that fitting the profile of what HAVOC was designed for, striking at a symbolic soft target before unleashing the weapon upon a primary target. That panhandle region near the governor’s mansion isn’t a high-density population area compared to the rest of the state, but we’ll anonymously notify them of a potential security threat nonetheless.”

“My bet is on the trade delegation,” said Shepard. “I’m going to take the team there and see if we can locate anything out of the ordinary…and anything that matches that bizarre shoot-house setup at the warehouse in Cuba.”

“Good idea,” said Foley. “Lynn and I will remain here and keep you posted on any developments.”

He rotated his tablet around, holding it up to show two side-by-side photos. “And this is the enemy…Jared Flynn and Sheik Fahad Bashar. You see either of them and the safeties come off your weapons…after you get the location of the nerve agent.”

33

Nolan wove through the heavy traffic in the rented Yukon while the rest of the team remained silent, mulling over the plethora of details about potential targets and the ramifications of a chemical weapons attack.

Though it was only a six-mile drive from where the Antonov was situated at the Miami International Airport to Dodge Island at the south end of Biscayne Bay, the insufferable congestion on Highway 836 made it take nearly thirty minutes.

Just before they merged onto Highway 1 South, Shepard’s earpiece crackled. He motioned for Nolan to pull off on the shoulder as he asked Vogel to repeat her latest findings.

“Perseus found an architectural match for the configuration you located in Cuba. It took a while, as it’s a brand new structure, only it’s at the north end of Biscayne Bay, opposite where you were heading.”

“What’s there?” said Cal.

“The marine sciences building on the campus of Florida International University. It’s an exact match to the photo you took in that warehouse.”

“Why the hell would that be a staging site for an attack?” said Shepard.

“Not sure…all I could find out is that there’s a large fundraiser going on there tonight for the unveiling of a massive saltwater aquarium, but the whole thing is rather nebulous. There wasn’t a lot of information online except that there’s a large invitation-only banquet about to start.”

“Alright, we’ll head there and check it out.”

“Nebulous is right,” said Nolan. “We burn up time going there and we miss out on locating the threat at the trade delegation.”

Shepard glanced out the window, seeing the long lineup of massive cruise ships along Dodge Island. “The threat is the release of a chemical weapon, and if those beams are somehow connected with the attack, then logic dictates we investigate that campus building first.”

Nolan pulled off the shoulder of the highway, speeding back into traffic and taking the exit for Highway 1 North as Hamill pulled up Google Maps for the Florida International University’s Biscayne Bay campus nine miles ahead.

34

North Bay Island, Florida

“Are you almost ready, ma’am?” said David Murphy, the lead Secret Service agent for the president’s daughter, Elizabeth Weller. He stood in the foyer of her townhouse while his three other agents remained by the Cadillac Escalade in the driveway.

She nodded, adjusting her gold earrings as she descended the stairs in an aquamarine dress and matching suede heels. “You know, Murph, I’m going to be twenty-seven next month, but the whole ‘ma’am’ thing is really making me feel like you think I’m fifty-seven.”

“Not at all, Ms. Weller. Quite the contrary…I think you are a beacon of youth.”

She chuckled, always enjoying the banter between them. “Wow, so now you’re suggesting I’m a teenager. They teach you all of those incredible schmoozing skills in the Secret Service?”

“No, ma’am, it just comes natural.” He winked then tapped on his ear-mic. “I’m departing with Gemini.”

When he got the verbal confirmation from his agents outside that the area was clear, he opened the front door, stepping out. Murphy remained Velcroed to Elizabeth’s side like he had done for the past two years since being assigned to her protective detail as they walked along the stone walkway to the vehicle.

Only tonight, they had two additional vehicles with six more agents in tow, given a recent status upgrade from the head Secret Service agent attached to President Weller.

The rear door of the bulletproof Escalade was already open, with one of Murphy’s agents standing near the back bumper as he scanned the rooftops and neighboring porches while the agents around the other side did the same.

Elizabeth slipped inside while the four agents flowed in through their respective doors with Weller in the middle of the back seat. A few minutes later and the Escalade was heading south on Highway 1 along the coast with the two other Escalades taking up a front and rear position.

The five-mile drive to FIU’s Biscayne Bay campus had been undertaken almost daily for the past three years since Elizabeth was hired as the assistant director of the marine sciences department, though she largely worked behind the scenes, remaining out of the public eye and keeping her name out of official circulation on the university’s website for security purposes.

Elizabeth stared out at the ocean on her left. As a marine biologist, she had spent her adult life seeing the world’s reefs and aquatic ecosystems in a way that few people could imagine. Now it was time to change that. The forthcoming aquarium exhibit being unveiled at the marine sciences building at the university was going to provide an interactive way to expose thousands of school-age children to the marvels of the ocean.

“Almost two years in the making and it’s all going to come together this evening,” said Murphy. “You should be proud.”

“Thank you. I am, but it was definitely a joint effort, and I’m looking forward to meeting some of the financial donors tonight who have made this project a reality. Without them, this would have never gotten off the ground.” She ran her hand over a crease in her dress. “I talked to my mother an hour ago, and she said she’ll be arriving sometime soon.”

“Yes, I spoke with her protective detail earlier. Her flight from Tampa is just under an hour long, so she will be arriving soon. It sounded like she wasn’t sure if her commitment at the Women’s Business Convention was going to finish in time for her to be here, but it looks like she pulled it off.”

Elizabeth emitted a girlish grin. “Any word on whether she’ll be there for my opening remarks?”

“Unknown at this point, ma’am. Her surprise visit here was just that…a surprise even to my guys until thirty minutes ago.”

She glanced over at him, studying his face. “You know, you’re just not saying.”

Elizabeth respected Murphy’s discipline but also knew he was probably under orders not to reveal whether her mother was enroute to the celebration. A surprise visit by the First Lady would be sure to draw a crowd, and her mother had informed Elizabeth yesterday that this was to be her night, not the First Lady’s.

It can be both of our nights.

The comfort of that thought made the tension in her neck wash away as she resumed staring at the horizon.

35

Lynn Vogel hadn’t removed her eyes from the computer screen since the team had departed, scrolling through dozens of pages of corporate holdings for Fahad Bashar until she located the record she’d seen earlier.

“Sir, I have something you should see,” she shouted towards Foley, who had his head inside the cockpit, speaking with the pilots. He trotted over, leaning over her right shoulder.

“Perseus located the shell corporations and offshore commercial holdings belonging to Fahad Bashar and his various business partners. The latter were all in the names of his two sons, Amir and Akeem. Both of them died in a gas explosion at their steel factory outside northern Malaysia sixteen months ago like that one photo from Lena Taylor alluded to.”

She pulled up another screen, showing images of the smoldering ruins of the warehouse. “The official report indicated it was a fuel leak, but there were many local reporters saying it was collateral damage from a drone strike that was intended for an insurgent base in the jungle.”

She clicked on a document from the National Reconnaissance Office showing a request for satellite retasking over Malaysia four hours before the building was destroyed.

“What the hell…where did you get this?”

“Not me…Perseus.”

“It hacked into the DOD’s files to retrieve this?” He rubbed his chin, pacing back and forth.

Vogel said, “Perseus only operates upon relevance. It must have determined this was connected with our current mission.”

“That had to be a drone strike of ours, which means President Weller signed off on it, hence the NRO request.”

“The photo from your friend at MI6 that showed Flynn standing beside Bashar on the porch of that coastal estate…I ran it through the database, and a topography and weather match revealed that was Turkey from four years ago, just a few months after Flynn was reportedly KIA in Africa.”

Foley scanned the documents from Lena again then glanced at the wounds on Flynn’s neck and arms. “Bashar is listed as Flynn’s ‘benefactor’ at the bottom of that photo. I was wondering what that meant, but let’s assume for a minute that Flynn and that joint CIA-MI6 taskforce were shot down and captured in Africa. And our government or the Brits were unable, or unwilling, to send in a personnel recovery team.”

“And Flynn was left out to hang by MI6.”

Foley studied the photo of the two men at the Turkish estate again. “If it was Bashar who somehow brokered Flynn’s release, then that would certainly lay the foundation for an undying loyalty to the sheik. Then Bashar’s sons were killed a few years later, setting things in motion here on our shores.”

“This is all personal, for both men. Revenge for killing the sheik’s son and probably also for what happened with that joint CIA-MI6 mission of Flynn’s.”

Vogel scrolled back to the document she had been searching for earlier. “One of Bashar’s business holdings is a private jet, one of many he owns, but the one matching this serial number just landed in Miami this morning.”

Foley narrowed his eyes, glancing out the open side door of the Antonov. “Got a location?”

“He’s not likely to still be on board.”

“No, probably not, but his pilots will still be around.” Foley went to the weapons locker, grabbing two more 15-round magazines and a suppressor for the Glock 17, which he kept concealed in an appendix carry holster under his shirt.

“I’m going to have a very short discussion with those guys. In the meantime, call Patterson and tell ’em to get back here. I’m going to need his help and a ride.”

36

Nolan brought the rented SUV to a halt at the first security checkpoint at the west entrance to Florida International University. Two FBI agents stepped up on either side of the vehicle while four more armed agents in tactical vests stood along the grass. One was holding the leash of a bomb-sniffing dog.

Nolan rolled down his window as Shepard leaned in closer. “Good evening, gentlemen, my name is Mr. White. My superior already spoke with the Secret Service agent in charge, Mike Hoffman. He’s expecting us.”

The man stared at Shepard then darted his eyes to the two women in the back seat. He pulled back, standing up and speaking into his two-way radio.

Shepard could feel the tension in the air and knew the guys on the ground here were probably not given a lot of information about the need for heightened security since there wasn’t much to hand out. Even Cal wasn’t sure how this was all going to go down once they got inside the marine sciences building.

All we have to go on is a fucking architectural match and the remains of what we found in Ivanovich’s lab.

The FBI agent returned. He thrust a spear hand up the road. “Agent Hoffman said he’ll meet you at the side entrance to the marine sciences building. Just follow the orange cones on Bay Vista Boulevard for half a mile then take the second left, and it’ll dead-end at the facility.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Shepard.

“Stay safe, guys,” said Nolan as he put the SUV in drive and proceeded along the route.

The drive took less than a minute, as Nolan ignored the 15mph speed limit signs. When he pulled up alongside the building, Mike Hoffman was already standing outside the exit door, wearing an irritated expression on his chiseled face.

Shepard and the others stepped out of the SUV, heading towards the agent.

“Not sure what this is all about, but I’ve got orders from the highest level to assist you, so tell me what you know,” said Hoffman, his tone growing sarcastic. He waved his hands at the building behind him. “What have you got for me about a potential threat to the First Lady or her daughter?”

Shepard felt the hair on his neck stand up. “The First Lady and Elizabeth Weller are here, right now? They’re already onsite?”

“Yeah, Elizabeth is the whole reason this event is even going on. She’s the keynote speaker tonight.”

Shepard glanced at the other members of his group, who shared the same petrified expressions that he was sure his face was bearing. He pulled out his iPhone, retrieving the blueprint of the drawings that Perseus had matched up with the ones from Cuba and turning it towards Hoffman. “Do you know if this room is completed or under construction?”

“Shit, you’re kidding me, right?” Hoffman’s eyes widened. “That’s the main attraction. Elizabeth Weller is showcasing that very aquarium to the board of directors and the financial donors.”

“You need to call it off and evacuate the building. Blueprints identical to these were found at a warehouse in Cuba used by a group planning to launch a possible chemical weapons attack on U.S. soil,” snapped Shepard, realizing just how nebulous his words sounded.

Hoffman shrugged his shoulders. “What…why? You wanna tell me what the hell is going on, because I’ve got the press and Miami’s upper crust inside there who paid 20K a plate for tonight’s fundraising banquet. And you want me to cancel the goddamn event because you found some blueprints in Havana.”

“Look, that warehouse in Cuba had a small lab with the remnants of a nerve agent that had been recently manufactured. At least get us inside so I can see if we can spot anything or anyone out of the ordinary.”

Hoffman’s cheeks grew taut with the mention of a deadly toxin, but Shepard knew the man’s career would be on the line if he canceled such a prestigious event for the wrong reasons.

“My men have already vetted everyone on the guest list along with the staff, and we’ve done multiple security sweeps in and around the building using canine units trained to sniff out hazards, so unless you can explain how this nerve agent is supposed to be employed, you’re going to have to sit on the sidelines for this one.”

He glanced down, squashing a brown beetle moving along the cement. “Look, I was instructed to assist you, so that’s what I’ll do…up to a point. I’ll accompany you to the security room upstairs, and you can examine the live video feeds from inside the building and the banquet room.” He glanced at the two women then back to Shepard and Nolan. “Besides, you and your team aren’t exactly dressed for a black-tie event and will draw considerable attention.”

Shepard reluctantly nodded in approval, knowing the man was just covering his ass, but he also silently agreed that they would stick out wandering amongst the patrons at the event.

Hoffman walked to the door, swiping a keycard on the security pad then opening the door. He headed down the lengthy hallway, passing numerous locked offices that were sealed with yellow Do Not Enter tape on the doors. Just before approaching the main lobby, he pivoted, heading towards a stairwell door. They trotted up to the second floor to an office that had been temporarily repurposed as the security and communications center for the Secret Service and FBI.

An older man in wire-rimmed glasses swiveled around in his chair as Hoffman made the introductions. “This is FBI Regional Director Tyrell Bowen. He’s handling the outer security on the campus grounds while I’m running point on the agents inside this building.”

Hoffman gave Shepard an irritated glance, simply introducing him as Mr. White and his colleagues who were with the State Department.

Shepard noted a thirty-something brunette woman at the corner desk who had barely glanced up from her laptop, getting a curt introduction from Hoffman. “And that’s Kyla Scott; she’s with campus technical support, handling all the audiovisuals for the presentation tonight and keeping our online capabilities inside here operational.”

“And also in charge of the amazing laser light show in the aquarium after the unveiling,” she said with a forced grin.

Hoffman returned his gaze to Bowen, “Please grant these guys any access to the security feeds that they need. I’ve gotta head downstairs, since the opening remarks are about to start, but I’ll poke my head up here when I get a chance.”

Hoffman handed Shepard a two-way radio. “This patches directly into my comms, but I better not hear your voice in my ear unless you’ve got something credible.”

“You got it. Thanks for your help, sir.” He knew the man was under tremendous pressure but thought that extending simple courtesy might ease the tension between them, which would make later cooperation run smoother.

And he was certain that that time was coming.

Fuck…how can we still know so little about the full scope of what Flynn is planning?

Shepard pulled up a chair beside Bowen and glanced at the two-dozen security feeds rotating in five-second cycles on the three computer monitors. “Can you show me the banquet room where the president’s daughter is going to be speaking?”

The man tapped on the keyboard, pulling up the video feed for the one-hundred-foot-diameter chamber. A third of the space contained the massive aquarium, whose twenty-four-inch-thick acrylic glass spanned the thirty-by-eighty-foot structure, the rear of which extended out of sight into the side of the building.

Shepard’s eyes widened at the expansive display while he watched a manta ray float by the front, passing three lemon sharks that were meandering through a large school of groupers.

“Nearly two million gallons of water,” said Bowen.

Shepard felt his pulse quicken, staring at the eight steel beams that spanned the floor-to-ceiling distance along the glass.

“You see what I’m seeing?” Viper said, pointing to the beams.

“That was the first thing I noticed,” said Nolan.

The young woman in the corner cleared her throat then folded her laptop, tucking it under her arm as she stood. “Mr. Bowen, I’ve got to go run some diagnostics on the AV setup one more time. I’ll be in the utility room downstairs.”

“Got it,” said the FBI director. “Take a jacket…it’s like a freezer down there.”

As she walked past, Shepard caught a glimpse of her left hand, the fingertips raw and her nails jagged. Then he recalled the smaller boot tracks at the warehouse, which indicated there had been at least one woman amongst the operators training in that location.

This can’t be a coincidence.

“Hey, Kyla…that was your name, right?” he said.

She paused, slowly turning around. “Yeah, what do you need?”

He leapt up from his chair, rushing at her and slamming her into the wall. The laptop fell to the ground. The woman swiveled around, attempting to instinctively slam her forearm into Shepard’s head with a combative strike, but Hamill and Nolan pinned her hands to the wall.

“By those chemical burns on your fingers, I’d say you’ve been spending a little too much time in a Cuban warehouse, Ms. Scott.”

“What the hell is going on?” said Bowen. No sooner did he finish his sentence than the security monitors inside the banquet room turned black.

Naomi Petrin’s cheeks became flushed, her pupils dilating. “I control this place now. The comms and computers belong to me. All the agents on the roof and front lawn have just been redirected to the north end of campus. You’re too late. This whole place is about to become a fucking tomb.”

Viper retrieved the woman’s laptop, opening it up. The numbers on the screen were in countdown mode, ticking away with only two minutes left until the hurricane preparedness protocol system for the building was activated.

After a gracious introduction by the Director of Oceanic Studies, Elizabeth Weller walked to the podium. Behind her was the aquatic marvel of glass, saltwater and sea life, the fruition of her design, development and marketing efforts during the past two years.

“Thank you all for coming tonight.” She winked at her mother at the table on the right. “The completion of this aquarium marks a long-awaited step in environmental advocacy that I believe will help reverse losses to the unique marine biodiversity through educating a new generation of stewards invested in protecting the ocean.”

She smiled at the table on the left with the board of directors then extended the smile to the rest of the forty-six members of the audience, many of whom topped the list of the world’s wealthiest billionaires.

“I want to thank each and every one of you for…” The overhead lights flickered momentarily, followed by a rumbling noise coming from the windows as she continued her speech, her voice beginning to tremble.

From his vantage point at the side door of the room, Mike Hoffman scanned the crowd, watching the wait-staff deliver plates of filet mignon to the four dozen patrons seated at the tables before the podium.

With twenty-two years in the Secret Service, he’d seen his share of black-tie events and knew that the majority of concerns came from inebriated congressmen or visiting heads of state who always seemed to think that rules didn’t apply to them.

Now, he kept hearing the words of the mysterious Mr. White echoing in his weary brain.

As he glanced out at Agent Murphy across the room then over to check on his seven other agents spread along the walls, he felt the wall window behind him begin to vibrate.

The next few moments seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The exterior storm shutters outside unfurled, the massive steel panels rolling down along their metal tracks until each window and door was closed.

He lifted his right arm, speaking into the microphone in his jacket sleeve. “What’s happening, Bowen?”

There was no reply, not even the usual static, and Hoffman suddenly felt his heart slapping against his ribs. He waved to the two agents standing on either side of the podium, both of them moving to secure the First Lady and her daughter.

Then he saw two of the waiters briskly walking towards the center beams supporting the aquarium. They each leaned down in unison at their respective serving carts, withdrawing something bulky from the sides.

“Night-vision goggles…what the fuck?” Hoffman already had his Sig P226 service pistol out. Then the overhead and aquarium lights went dark, the room erupting in screams just as gunshots rang out.

Hoffman saw the muzzle flashes emanating from the direction of the two servers then felt a microsecond of burning pain in his lower jaw and nose as two rounds struck him in the face. He collapsed onto a table then slid to the ground while the terrified patrons trampled his body, rushing for the sealed doors.

37

“Clear,” shouted Flynn, scanning the room, which had taken on a familiar green hue from the night-vision goggles.

“Clear,” replied Horst just as the lights came back on, auto-triggered by Naomi’s malware that had been inserted into the university’s mainframes.

The deadly assault lasted less than sixty seconds. Eight Secret Service agents were splayed on the floor around the room while dozens of shrieking attendees were bunched along either side of the sealed exit doors, pounding on the metal surface.

“Ladies and gentlemen, remain where you are and you will not be shot,” shouted Flynn, removing his night-vision goggles and tossing them on a table as he hovered near the group of people on the left side of the room while Victor headed towards the other group, motioning with his pistol for them to get up and relocate to where the others were located.

Most of them scurried between the tables, hopping around the broken plates and dinner entrees littering the tiled floor. Once they had settled in with the other group, Flynn stood at the center, his pistol sweeping the crowd.

“This building belongs to me now. I have waited for this night for a long, long time. Who I am is not important, but what unfolds here this evening will begin the downfall of your mighty president and allow the rest of the world to see that America is not impervious to justice.”

“Please, don’t hurt the children,” said the First Lady, who was hugging her daughter. “Let them go.”

Flynn leaned in closer to the woman and Elizabeth, both of whom were trembling. Elizabeth turned away, staring into the glassy eyes of Murph, who was within arm’s reach.

“I know what you’re all thinking: these agents still have their guns on them…maybe one of us could grab a weapon and turn the tables on these bad men.” Flynn shuffled to the right, grabbing the arm of a ten-year-old girl and yanking her away from her mother. The woman screamed, clawing at his face as her child was dragged off. He kicked her in the sternum, sending her back into the crowd, then hauled the shrieking child towards the nearest table. Flynn shoved her down onto a chair then stood behind her with the FN pistol to her head.

“Compliance with my next orders is required or she dies. Nod your fucking heads if you are clear on my expectations.”

Amidst the moans and muffled whimpers, each of the captives slowly responded. Victor moved towards the front entrance, which had been sealed off by a metal storm panel of thick steel. He dragged a table over to the jamb then holstered his pistol, removing two fish-eyed camera lenses from his pocket. He stood on the table, using the attached clamp to secure one camera to the right of the door facing inward towards the crowd, then did the same with the other, adjusting it to cover the opposite side of the room.

When he was done, he turned on the switches on the back of each device then climbed down, returning to Flynn. The expat Brit removed a palm-sized tablet from his back pocket, turning it on and connecting to the cameras.

“You’re cowards,” snapped Elizabeth, wiping away her tears as she glared defiantly at Flynn. “You come here and kill these good men then threaten to harm a child. You’re not a man. You’re a heartless monster.”

Flynn gave a wolfish smile, returning her gaze. “All monsters have a creator…and I have your father to thank for that. Why don’t you ask him about the horrors he’s committed in the name of national security, or for his legacy.”

He stepped closer as Victor stood next to the girl with his pistol pressed into her temple. “Have him tell you about the joint operation over Algeria that he turned his back on, condemning me and the other ten operators on board to die in the desert or to be tortured by insurgents for months on end…good men who had served their countries only to be betrayed by their leaders. Those so-called leaders are the real cowards, young lady.”

Flynn flicked his head towards the newly mounted cameras. “So your father can witness your slow deaths in the coming hours. So he will know the pain that he has caused to so many people throughout the world. Two men, who were like brothers to me, and loyal sons to their father, were killed by your mighty President because of a careless drone strike. Now, Weller will know what real tragedy is.”

He stood up, returning to the table with his tablet and pressing the code to activate the three-minute timers on the devices containing the nerve gas inside the two central steel beams adjacent to the aquarium. Flynn motioned towards the uprights while glancing over at Elizabeth. “The steel in this aquarium comes courtesy of my employer, a mourning father, who has helped enable all of our cross-roads to finally intersect here tonight.”

Horst grabbed the arm of the young girl, hoisting her to her feet as he dragged her towards the side door that led to the utility room on the east side of the building. “I will leave her alive at the exit of this room once we are through those doors. Try to stop us from leaving and she dies, then I’ll open fire on the remaining children.”

Flynn followed the German as the two men briskly walked to the steel door. He tapped in the security code on his tablet. Hearing the lock unlatch, Flynn flung open the door.

Victor spun the girl around then kicked her in the back, sending her crashing into a rolling cart full of plates of tiramisu before he darted inside the utility room and slammed the door shut.

38

Shepard knelt down beside Naomi, who was handcuffed to the electrical conduit pipes on the wall. He whipped out his folding Spyderco, flipping it open then pressing the tip to her right cheek just below the eye. “We don’t have much time…those people down below are counting on you to do the right thing and show me some hint, some glimmer of a fucking conscience by telling me what Flynn is planning.”

Bowen hopped up from his chair. “Who the hell do you think you are? Are you insane? You can’t treat people like this, even if they are criminals. I’m contacting my Hostage Rescue Team and they’ll get….”

Nolan stepped between him and Shepard, placing a hand on the director’s chest. “And everyone in that room downstairs will be dead by then. They’re about to release a nerve agent that will melt the faces off the people in that place.” He leaned in closer. “Do you get me? The attackers don’t want ransom money…this isn’t going to be a hostage standoff. They want a high body count and the death of the First Lady and her daughter splashed all over the internet.”

“Then the world will see that America is not free from sin.” Naomi’s breathing seemed to lighten during Bowen’s fuming. Shepard needed the upper hand and fast or dozens of innocent men, women and children were about to suffer a horrendous death. He twisted the tip of the blade hard into the woman’s cheek, hitting the ocular bone then quickly withdrawing it. Naomi howled, her cuffed wrists trying to tear free of the overhead restraints.

“Your right eye is next. I promise.”

She rolled her head back, tears streaming down her cheeks and melting into the rivulet of blood leaking from the wound. She licked her lip then spat in his face.

“Fuck you and your country.”

He grabbed her head, sliding his fingers up through her black hair then poising the knife tip by her right eye. “I did make a promise.”

She squirmed against the wall, her mouth hanging open. “Wait. Just wait. Fuck. Alright.”

“The nerve agent…where is it hidden? How is he planning to release it?” barked Shepard.

She trembled out a breath. “Two of the metal support beams. They were specially designed to contain the aerosol canisters. Once he activates the timers, the canisters will begin dispersing the chemicals through tiny holes that were built into the top of the beams.”

“How do we stop it?”

“You can’t. The guy who made the triggers had a failsafe in place in case anyone tampered with the design.”

He smacked her wounded cheek. “Try again…how do we get the people down there out in time?”

The woman’s limbs shuddered from the pain. “It would have to be through the service tunnel below the utility room that Flynn is about to use. There’s an underground passage that leads into the sewers and out into the bay.”

“How do you know he hasn’t already left?” said Hamill.

She thrust her chin towards her laptop on the desk. “I would have been notified once he activated the chemical dispersal units, which are on a six-minute timer.”

“That’s assuming we can even get into the room below,” said Viper, glancing at the security images, which showed the exterior windows and exits leading into the banquet room. “Those storm doors must be made of six inches of reinforced steel.”

Shepard lowered the knife away from her eye. “You’ve seen what this toxin can do to people. You may think a lot of those people down there are deserving of their deaths, but do you really want all those little kids to die like that? Is that part of your noble fucking mission?”

Naomi’s arms sagged, her breathing ragged. “Amir and Akeem Bashar…they were two young men who had promising lives ahead of them until your president vaporized them in an air strike, explaining it away as collateral damage. They didn’t deserve to die like that!”

“So their father’s vengeance and Flynn’s warped sense of justice became yours overnight, is that it? You’re a true believer alright. Ready to die for the cause.”

He tapped on her handcuff. “But after I kill Flynn and the rest of your little band, you’re going to be sent to Supermax Prison in Colorado. Did he ever discuss that end game with you, or was this all about revenge and escaping with your payout to a tropical beach afterwards?”

“Fuck, she’s not going to spit up anything more, and we’re running out of time,” said Viper, who swung down her suppressed pistol, firing a single round into the woman’s left knee.

Every inch of the small room filled with screams as Naomi’s face contorted. Viper pressed the barrel onto the other knee as Shepard leaned back, casting a glare up at Samira then back down to the sobbing woman. “The Supermax also has a special wing for the permanently disabled.”

Naomi’s rollercoaster eyes darted between her interrogators. “Flynn’s plan was to…to swim out to the bay where he has some scuba gear stashed. Then, he was going to…” She paused, sucking in a deep breath as she stared down at her shattered patella. “…make his way underwater past the Coast Guard patrols. We have a ship…a freighter for hauling steel. Once we were all back there, we were going to split up then disappear from this country.”

“The ship…where is it?” said Shepard.

“Dodge City, south of here.”

Cal pushed Viper’s pistol away from the woman’s knee then stood up, glancing at his team.

“I’ve got a plan, but it’s going to have to be hastily executed, and I’m not even sure it will work.”

“So, just like all of our plans on every other mission,” said Nolan.

They heard a beep come from Naomi’s laptop, which was still sitting on the floor beside the woman. Shepard and the others turned to see the screen illuminate with split video images of the interior of the banquet room. The guests were all crowded against the right side of the chamber just as two men with guns were exiting through a door beyond them.

“Six minutes,” whispered Naomi.

After Bowen assured Shepard he would watch the woman, he motioned for the rest of the team to follow him back to their SUV, sprinting down the hallway, knowing the patrons in that banquet room were running out of sand in their hourglasses.

39

Air Force One

Somewhere Over Eastern Kansas

President Weller leaned back in his seat, his eyes barely open after the grueling visit to northern New Mexico to survey the damage from a massive wildfire raging through the state, one of the worst in the past hundred years. He could still smell the smoke seared into his nostrils and was looking forward to returning to the Capitol before his next meeting in the morning.

Edgar Hadley, the chief of his Secret Service detail, knocked on the door of his private suite then rushed inside without waiting for him to respond.

“Pardon the interruption, sir, but there’s been an attack in Miami…at Florida International University.”

Weller shot up in his chair, his mouth hanging open. “What? My God, my wife and daughter, are they…”

“Alive, for now. There was a terrorist attack,” Hadley said, sliding his tablet onto the desk. Weller pulled it closer, examining the dual camera footage from inside the marine sciences building. A vein in his temple was pulsing as he scanned the crowd huddled against the wall while numerous agents lay dead on the ground. His lips trembled as his fingers touched the faces of his wife and daughter clinging to each other.

“What the fuck, why are they just sitting there? And what happened to their security detail?” Weller leaned back, the rage in his eyes piercing through Hadley.

“All we know is that the room was locked down by the assaulters and that this involves a possible chemical weapons attack, according to Tyrell Bowen with the FBI, who is onsite. We’ve got HRT inbound along with special-operations personnel out of Fort MacDill in Tampa skilled in handling nerve agents.”

Weller slammed his fist on the table, staring at the image again then back at Hadley. “Get this plane headed to Florida, now, God damn it.”

Hadley shook his head. “You know we can’t do that, sir. We’re diverting to Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. The vice-president is also being moved to a secure location as we speak.”

Weller paced around the room, alternating between balling his fists and staring at the tablet images, utterly powerless to save his family.

The most powerful man on Earth. Such horseshit.

“There is one shred of hope still,” said Hadley, moving closer. “Colonel Foley has his team on the ground there. Apparently, they tracked the terrorists to Miami and were working with my agent, Mike Hoffman, who was at the university banquet when all this went down.”

“But all the agents in there are dead!” said Weller, his face deepening to another shade of red.

“Actually, they were on the floor above. If anyone has a chance of getting your family and all those people out, it’s Foley and his crew.”

The screen on the tablet flickered as the image changed to an older man with a gray goatee. The audio activated as the pre-recorded message began playing.

“President Weller. My name is Sheik Fahad Bashar. We have never met, but you will long remember my name after tonight.

“Nearly sixteen months ago to the day, your careless actions during a drone strike in northern Malaysia took the lives of my two sons, Akeem and Amir. Your administration called their deaths and the hundreds of workers at my factory ‘collateral damage,’ as if that would somehow lessen the loss and justify your actions.

“But now, you will know my pain and understand that there are consequences for recklessly wielding power while pretending that you are somehow different from the terrorists you and your police nation try to eradicate.”

The sheik leaned forward, his face filling the screen. “Tonight, President Weller, your country will witness the horrors that you have brought to your own shores.”

The tablet went silent for a moment before returning to the live footage at the marine sciences building.

Weller stood frozen, his face drained of color as he stared at his wife and daughter. He felt his knees trembling and slumped back into his chair, hanging his head in his hands, knowing the darkest day of his entire life had just arrived.

40

Flynn ran to the back of the immense utility room, heading past rows of control valves and two-foot water pipes parallel to the wall that provided the inflow and filtered seawater for the aquarium.

Arriving at the rear, he knelt down at one end of a large metal grate over the floor, motioning for Victor to help him lift it to the side.

The passage below was only three feet deep and provided an outlet for the release of water during the bi-monthly purge of waste when maintenance workers cleaned the aquarium. Flynn lowered himself down then removed a Surefire flashlight from his pocket, illuminating the sloped route ahead.

Retracing his steps from his earlier isolation in the tunnels, they made it to the chamber with the escape hatch leading to Biscayne Bay.

Flynn wrapped one arm under the metal turn wheel, twisting the valve then swinging open the hatch.

He glanced down at Victor. “Like I told you before, this pipe is sloped, so expect to hit water in about sixty seconds. After that, our scuba gear is clipped to the metal grating of the pipe next to this one on your right. I know you’ve been doing your breath training these past few months too, so this is where that will finally pay off.”

“Copy that,” said Victor. “I’ll be right behind you.”

41

After hastily retreating back to their rented Yukon outside the marine sciences building, Shepard and the others drove across the lawn, crunching over bushes and flowerbeds to get to the southwest side of the building.

Nolan was already busy in the back seat, rifling through the tac-bags for the Pelican case. “Got it,” he yelled, opening it and removing a brick-sized piece of C4 and a timer.

“That oughta do the trick,” said Viper, who was gathering their MP5 rifles and additional 30-round magazines.

“Should be the location ahead,” shouted Hamill, who was riding shotgun, thrusting her hand out towards the edge of the building as Shepard came to a screeching halt near the concrete wall that connected the utility room to the main aquarium.

Cal thrust the stick into park then darted out his door as the others followed behind. He glanced at his watch, seeing they only had four minutes left.

Nolan ran up to the concrete wall, eyeballing the best location to adhere the C4. “I’m not sure how thick this particular wall is, and we could risk collapsing the entire infrastructure in the ceiling.”

“Doesn’t matter…we’re nearly out of time. Just do it,” said Shepard.

Viper passed out the MP5s to Shepard and Hamill, then the three of them took cover around the back side of a dumpster thirty feet away. A few seconds later, Nolan sprinted over to join them as the timer counted down.

The resulting explosion blew out a large chunk of the sidewall, scattering shards of jagged concrete and slivers of rebar onto the lawn and into the Yukon.

“Shit, can we all agree right now to tell Foley that Cal set off that explosion,” said Nolan with a nervous grin.

Once the debris had finished raining down on the area, Shepard darted out from their cover, bolting towards the mangled opening in the wall.

Stepping inside, he climbed over chunks of concrete, making his way to the side door. Thrusting it open, he saw the huddle of patrons crowded against the opposite wall, cowering from the blast.

He slung his MP5 then sprinted into the center of the room. “Everyone out the door behind me. Nerve gas is about to be released in this room.”

Some people staggered forward while others pressed further into the side of the walls. “Go, now! Run!” He waved them on as Viper and the others yelled from the entrance to the utility room.

Elizabeth and the First Lady stepped forward first, an older gentleman clutching the arm of the president’s wife as he led the woman past Shepard.

Elizabeth paused next to Cal. “I’m not leaving here until everyone is out. Do you understand me?”

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got less than ninety seconds to make that happen.”

Shepard watched the stream of people heading towards the door become a raging river of panic and terror as everyone fought to get through the opening.

He glanced at the sea creatures in the aquarium, who were oblivious to the horrors outside the glass constraints.

As if sensing a concern, Elizabeth said, “They’ll be fine. The entire structure is sealed on this end and only accessible from the other side of the building.”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking…I was wondering if we could flood this room with some of the water to prevent the chemicals from spreading into the atmosphere outside.”

“Like hell you will.”

He liked her fierceness but wasn’t about to argue with her. Plus, it was just a passing thought. Shepard waited for the last of the group to pass them then grabbed her hand. “Let’s go. This is no time to be a martyr for a cause. There’s been enough of that today.”

As Elizabeth climbed out, clambering over the concrete blocks and into the fresh air outside, Cal was about to sprint for the exit when he turned around, heading back inside towards two of the fallen Secret Service agents.

“Sorry, brother. I wish we could have gotten here sooner,” he said, kneeling down and plucking out two badges from the beltlines then putting them into his pocket.

He stood up, sprinting for the exit, hearing a hissing sound beginning to emanate from the tops of the steel beams beside the aquarium. He darted into the utility room, slamming the door, unsure whether the rubber seals around the edges would contain the toxic chemicals.

Shepard retreated outside as the flow of people ran down the lawn towards the approaching headlights of FBI vehicles speeding down the two-lane road in the distance.

He paused beside the dumpster where the rest of his team had gathered.

“We need to get to the bay. That was Flynn’s escape route,” he said. Shepard handed one of the Secret Service badges to Nolan. “We may need to commandeer one of the Coast Guard boats patrolling the waters, so just follow my lead.”

Shepard unslung his MP5, trotting down the service road that led behind the marine sciences building.

42

Patterson pulled his vehicle up to the valet in front of the glamorous Ritz Carlton Bal Harbour Hotel. He and Foley hopped out, and Patterson tossed the keys to the approaching young man, who barely got in his canned greeting before the two trotted through the open doors of the lobby.

They passed through the spacious foyer then made a beeline for the private elevators. Foley pulled out two guest badges that he had obtained from Fahad’s pilots following his pistol-point interrogation on the sheik’s private jet.

He flashed the badges to the bearded security guard at the private elevator, the man nodding then stepping aside to let them enter.

Once the doors closed, both men removed their concealed pistols. Foley screwed the suppressor onto the barrel of his Glock 17 while Patterson did the same to his Smith & Wesson M&P40.

“How did you get those badges?” said Patterson. “Vogel or Perseus?”

“One and the same these days. Sometimes I’m not sure who’s doing whose bidding, though Perseus led me to the sheik’s private jet, which led me to the badges…after employing some persuasion with their owners.”

“So Perseus is working out as we hoped it would?”

“Beyond anything I ever expected. Its data and analysis capabilities have far exceeded what I imagined.” He waved his hand up at the numeric pad as they headed to the twenty-fourth floor. “It’s why we’re here.”

“This particular hotel only has one private suite per level, so we should expect a bodyguard or two immediately upon these doors opening.”

The two men got into position, raising their weapons towards the doors. Patterson grinned. “Just like the old days.”

“Except back then we were storming Taliban strongholds instead of penthouses in a five-star hotel.”

“Bashar must have chosen this place for the view…it’s only a half-mile from the university and six miles from his freighter by Dodge Island.”

“Last I heard from Vogel, things were not looking good for the captives stuck in the marine sciences building. She indicated the release of the nerve gas was underway.”

“Shepard got any tricks up his sleeve?”

“He usually does.” Foley clutched his pistol tighter, seeing they were three floors from the twenty-fourth.

“Ready, old boy?” said Patterson.

He chuckled. “Just remember, the front sights go on the target.”

“Fuck you, old boy.”

“Right back at you, old man.”

The doors slid open, Foley’s pistol barking out the first rounds. The nearest bodyguard against the wall took two rounds to the face and forehead, collapsing onto the marble floor.

Patterson drove a barrage of .40 caliber rounds into the man’s head on the left then sent more down the hall towards a lanky guard in a three-piece suit, who fired off a wild round from his 1911 that struck the wall next to Patterson.

The two warriors moved like a single organism through the hallway, entering the main suite. A spray of automatic weapons fire strafed the walls next to Foley as he ducked back, plucking a flash-bang from his jacket and pulling the pin before tossing it into the next room.

He and Patterson shuffled back into the hallway as the concussive blast erupted. Immediately after, Foley leaned in, shooting three rounds into the startled gunmen’s face. The colonel dropped out his magazine, replacing it with a fresh 17-rounder then sweeping his weapon along the room as Patterson moved up alongside him.

Foley quickened his pace, shuffling towards the dead man and kicking away the UZI out of habit.

Other than the noise from the air-conditioner, the penthouse was silent.

Then Foley heard it, the faint sound of classical music coming from the bedroom suite. He and Patterson approached the double doors, taking up position on either side. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata was playing in the room beyond.

Foley gave his partner a knowing glance, then he stepped closer, sending a vicious stomp kick into the center of the doors. He rushed inside the small anteroom, sweeping to the right as Patterson came in, covering the left.

A man with a wispy goatee was in the corner beside a table, his face as pale as the ivory walls. He thrust his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot me. I’m just the pilot.”

“Pilot?” said Foley. “You’ll have to do better than that. I already dealt with the sheik’s pilots at the airport.”

The man pointed up. “Helicopter.”

Patterson thrust his chin at the next set of doors ahead. “The sheik?”

The man’s eyes darted wildly along the floor as he nodded. Foley moved closer, telling the pilot to turn around as he zip-tied his wrists behind his back. “Stay put and be quiet and you won’t end up like the others. Got it?”

The pilot nodded more heartily this time, sliding to the ground and crouching in the corner.

The music in the next room had grown louder. Patterson waited for Foley to stack up behind him then turned the knob, rushing inside and sweeping his Smith & Wesson towards the lone figure slouched in a chair on the patio, staring out at Biscayne Bay and the university.

Foley cleared the walk-in closet and bathroom then stepped out onto the patio. The sheik appeared much older and frailer than in the photos he’d received from Lena. His cheeks were sunken and his breathing raspy.

Beside him was a green oxygen tank, and a nasal cannula was draped around his nostrils. On the small table next to him were two framed photos of his sons, Amir and Akeem.

“You are too late,” Fahad said. “The battle is nearly over.”

“You talking about the one out there or the one in here?” said Patterson, glancing at the IV marks on the sheik’s forearm.

“Regrettably, my kidneys are not what they once were, but death will soon become the surgeon.”

“That’s what all this has been about…death and vengeance. Seeing how you could up the body count on our shores before you depart this world?” said Foley.

“Are there no ends that you would not go to in order to avenge the deaths of the ones you love?” He glanced up at each man with his sunken eyes. “If you had sons, you would know what I speak of.”

“Murdering innocents isn’t going to bring back your two boys,” said Patterson, who sat down on the bed a few feet away.

“No, but the man who stole them from me, your beloved president, must pay dearly for his misguided actions. And perhaps that will make them rest easier.”

“All your wealth and power and this how you end your days? This is your legacy…a mass murder,” said Foley.

“I don’t care what you think. Since the death of my sons, I have thought of nothing but this night. And now this entire city will become a burning cauldron. The university was just the beginning.”

“What the hell are…are you talking about?” Patterson sputtered out the words, his face growing pale. He curled forward, groaning as he clutched his left side.

“Neil, what’s wrong?” Foley rushed up to him, peeling back his jacket to reveal a bullet wound just below the ribs. “Dammit, you old goat, why didn’t you say something?”

“And take the wind out of your op? Not a chance.”

Foley had been too preoccupied with the battle and his surroundings to notice anything unusual about Patterson. But it was clear the man was losing a lot of blood.

Foley shouted towards the room for the pilot to enter. He walked to the bed, shooting a pensive glance at Foley, who reciprocated with a hard stare. “I need you to take me and my friend Neil here to the nearest hospital.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Foley grabbed a towel from the bathroom, pressing the folded cloth against Patterson’s wound, then he snipped the zip-ties on the pilot’s wrists with his folding knife. “This man is my best friend. He dies on your watch because you decide to fuck with me, I’ll bleed you and drop your ass into a school of sharks. We clear?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Perfectly, sir. There will be no trouble from me.”

Foley went back to the sheik, pressing his pistol into the man’s temple. “You said there was another attack coming.”

Fahad emitted a wolfish grin then waved a hand towards his skeletal frame. “You really think you can threaten me with death or imprisonment? This will be my last week on Earth, and I plan to enjoy the fruits of my creation.”

Foley set his pistol down on the table then yanked off the man’s nasal cannula. “Fuck you and your plans, old man. This is going to be your last day.”

He grabbed the sheik by the shirt collar then clutched the leather belt around his waist. Foley hoisted the delicate figure up, flinging him over the railing.

Fahad’s tinny screams echoed off the high-rise, his body slamming into the pavement beside the rear lawn, spraying the grass with bone fragments and pink splotches.

Foley pulled his attention back to his immediate surroundings, knowing they needed to get Patterson to a hospital. He grabbed his pistol then motioned for the pilot to help Patterson to the elevator.

He tapped on his ear-mic. “Lynn, I just got word of another attack that’s about to unfold. It must be at the freighter at Dodge Island.”

“I’ll notify Cal and see what I can turn up in the meantime,” she said.

“Patterson was hit. He’s not looking good. We’re enroute to the hospital.”

“God. What? Is he going to be…”

“I’ll call you when I know more. And hold off on relaying that to Shepard and his team for now.”

43

Flynn emerged from the narrow tunnel into the cool waters of the bay, his lungs burning from the grueling swim. He clutched the metal grating on the adjacent tunnel, grabbing the dangling mouthpiece from the nearest scuba tank tethered to the grating then turning on the dial, inhaling a refreshing burst of air.

Victor emerged a second later, mimicking Flynn’s actions as they both detached the tanks, fins and masks then began donning their scuba gear.

Flynn unclipped the small mesh bag on his tank, removing two sets of GPS devices. He handed one to Victor then attached his around his left wrist before activating it.

The faint red lights on their devices indicated a one-mile swim to the southeast shoreline, where Jabal was waiting in a boat. This route would take them directly under the Coast Guard boats put in place by the Secret Service, but Flynn figured those personnel would be directing their efforts towards the immediate shoreline adjacent to the campus rather than further out into the bay.

He gave Victor a thumbs-up, and the man responded in a similar fashion before both men swam deeper into the pitch-black waters.

44

Shepard ran past the back end of the marine sciences building, coming to a halt a hundred feet later at the knee-high cement retaining wall looking out over Biscayne Bay.

The shoreline was surprisingly still, and he knew the Coast Guard had probably cleared all the vessels from within a mile of the campus, so no locals were going to be out fishing or cruising the waters.

He glanced across the bay towards the string of immense high-rise hotels on the oceanfront peninsula where Bal Harbour was located then traced a path back to his location.

“There was a grate above a tunnel in the utility room that had been pried free,” said Nolan. “They must have gotten out from another exit near the shore.”

“Or into the water itself,” said Hamill.

“They could be anywhere,” said Viper.

Shepard’s attention was drawn to a buoy thirty yards out in the bay as the red beacon on top began flashing. A few seconds later, it went dark, followed by the next buoy three hundred yards distant flashing. He watched the same pattern repeat itself in a straight line along three more buoys that headed towards the opposite shoreline near Bal Harbour.

The sound of sirens behind them was still growing, and he knew the rest of the FBI along with local law-enforcement were flooding onto campus.

He tapped on his ear-mic, contacting Vogel. “Lynn, can you patch me through to Miami FBI Director Tyrell Bowen.”

“Working on it.” A few seconds later, her voice returned. “Go ahead.”

“Director Bowen, this is Mr. White again. The banquet hall was evacuated, but the toxin was released shortly after. You will want to have your men clear the entire campus then get the CDC in here. Tell them the nerve agent is most likely Novichok or something similar but in an aerosolized form.”

“On it, but you need to get back up here. There are going to be questions that need answering and I…”

He hung up, shoving the phone into his pocket.

The hum of an approaching motor to their right alerted Shepard to a Coast Guard boat coming up alongside the cement retaining wall. A blinding light caused him to step back, shooting up a hand to screen his eyes.

“Sling your weapons,” he said to his team then flashed his Secret Service badge to the armed men on the port side of the thirty-foot boat.

“My name’s Agent White. I need to speak with the captain,” yelled Shepard.

“That’d be me,” said a tall man from the second deck.

“As you’ve probably heard, this area was just assaulted by armed gunmen who released a nerve agent inside this building behind me. We got everyone out, but I believe the men responsible are heading back to their ship at Dodge Island. We need you to provide transport there.”

“I’ll need to get in touch with Mike Hoffman first. He’s in charge of every move we make out here tonight.”

“Hoffman’s dead. He and his entire team in the building were the first fatalities in the attack. Call Edgar Hadley. He’s Hoffman’s boss, and he’ll give you the confirmation you need.”

The man nodded then returned to the bridge, making the call to his superiors. Vogel’s voice returned to his earpiece. “Cal, Perseus just delivered imagery of two divers emerging from the bay near Bal Harbour and getting into a boat, approximately a half-mile to the southeast of your location.”

He glanced over the bow of the Coast Guard vessel in the direction where the buoy lights had been flashing earlier. “Was that you sending a signal on the buoys?”

“What? What are you talking about?” said Vogel.

“Never mind. Is the boat heading south?”

“Correct. And they’re moving fast. Foley and Patterson were just at Bashar’s hotel room. He indicated there was another, larger chemical weapon attack about to happen.”

“Shit, Flynn must have more of those steel cylinders with the toxin on board their freighter. That’s right by the cruise ship that’s hosting the trade delegation. You need to figure out how to contact that ship and either get it moved out of the area or get an evacuation underway.”

“Copy that.”

The captain emerged from the bridge, waving off his two armed guards near the rear and motioning for Shepard and his team to board.

Cal signed off from speaking to Vogel as he climbed onto the cement retaining wall and hopped onto the vessel. Once they were all situated on the bridge, the captain veered back into Biscayne Bay, heading south.

Shepard stepped outside, removing his cellphone.

The woman picked up after three rings. “Go ahead, this is Carter.”

“This is Cal. I could use some additional firepower if you’re in the area.”

“Not possible. My team and I are nearly at the university. There’s been an attack, and the First Lady and her daughter are…”

“I know. We were the ones who breached the room and got them clear. Right now, the men behind the attack are heading back to their ship at Dodge Island. We’re inbound on a Coast Guard vessel, but I could sure use some support on this.”

“Why, can’t the Coast Guard just shut down the routes in and out of that port before the ship can leave?”

“Their vessels are all patrolling north of campus because of tonight’s event. Besides, I don’t think leaving is the plan. There’s a large trade delegation happening on one of the cruise ships at that same port. These guys had a nerve agent they were going to use on the people on campus, and I believe there’s more on that ship.”

“Shit. I see where you’re going with this. I’m turning around right now, and we’ll get there as soon as we can. The highways up north here are a mess with all the people evacuating from the university.”

“Contact me as soon as you’re on site.”

As he stared out at the waters of Biscayne Bay, he hoped it wouldn’t be his last image of the serene location.

If Flynn releases a cloud of toxins over Miami, it will decimate this region and everything in it for decades or longer.

45

From atop a 70-foot crane across from the lineup of cargo ships on the south side of Dodge Island, MI6 assassin Ian Zimmer adjusted the sights on the scope of his suppressed Remington 700 rifle.

“I’m in position,” he said into his earmic, checking in with his other two shooters positioned on the rooftops of the storage units below.

“We’re tracking Flynn via satellite right now,” said Lena Taylor. “His facial image just showed up on a port camera near Bal Harbour. No doubt he was connected with the attack at the university that is all over the news.”

“And you’ve confirmed that this freighter across from me belongs to him?”

“Not him but Fahad Bashar, Flynn’s benefactor and employer.”

“Benefactor…how?”

“He was responsible for Flynn’s rescue from the insurgents in Africa after his plane was shot down.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but wasn’t that the responsibility of our government? We don’t leave our people behind.”

“Your insolence has been noted.”

“If you’re giving me the order to pull the trigger on a man I once served with, a man who was an honorable soldier, then I think I’ve earned the right to know the truth.”

There was a pregnant pause, then Lena replied, “The Agency and MI6 couldn’t have a footprint on the ground in that area, especially given all the weapons in the plane that had just fallen into enemy hands. It would have been a disaster for both of our countries if it got out that we just inadvertently helped arm the insurgents in that region.”

“So Flynn was just left to rot in a cell somewhere.”

“And now he’s here, trying to murder innocent civilians and foster conflict between our governments once the U.S. discovers he was behind the attack.”

He tracked the movements of an approaching fishing boat that had just pulled up behind the stern of the large freighter. “Well, it appears the day of reckoning has come. Pretty sure Flynn has just arrived.”

“Finish the job then get the hell out of there.”

Flynn had already disappeared out of sight, and Zimmer was slowly moving his rifle along the rows of steel girders lining the main deck when he heard the roar of another approaching boat.

He panned his weapon to the right, seeing a Coast Guard vessel slowing and a dozen armed people preparing to disembark. He focused his sights on two men and two women not clad in maritime uniforms.

A few seconds later, two black SUVs with sirens roared down the service road that led to the docks.

“There’s about to be a considerable American presence on board the freighter.”

“Flynn is the objective. Take him out along with anyone who interferes. Is that clear?”

He kept his trigger finger indexed on the stock, preparing to drop it into place and deliver a firestorm of death below. “Yes, ma’am.”

The Coast Guard boat swung hard around the eastern tip of Dodge City, immediately veering straight towards the small fishing vessel that had just docked behind the immense freighter.

From his view on the bridge, Shepard saw three men climbing the ladders heading up to the rear deck of Fahad’s ship. The last man on the ladder was immense and struggled to keep up with the other two. The middle figure was older but in shape while the one in a white t-shirt cresting the top more closely resembled Flynn from the images Foley had showed the team earlier.

Has to be him.

His suspicions were confirmed as they got closer, seeing his face then watching as the man barked orders at the other mariners on board.

The captain of the Coast Guard boat slowed the engines, approaching the other docking point and ladder to the right of Flynn’s fishing boat. A second later, gunfire erupted as rounds strafed the Coast Guard vessel.

The captain leaned out the open front windows, yelling at the gunner on the bow to get busy with the mounted .50 caliber. He sent a barrage of lead along the rim of the freighter, killing or driving back the half-dozen mariners.

Shepard yelled to his team to follow him as he sprinted for the ladder, carrying his MP5 slung over his back.

The machine-gunner kept up his intensity, pummeling the rear deck to provide cover for Shepard and the other CRT members to quickly ascend.

He reached the rim, immediately grabbing his rifle and shifting it around to the front, sending a volley of rounds towards two men who were placing fresh mags into their AKs.

Hamill was suddenly behind him, her weapon barking out rounds at a group of shooters to the right behind rows of steel beams.

“Shit, watch what you’re shooting at. Those beams could be filled with nerve gas.”

“Copy that,” she yelled, ducking low and aiming around the side at the men’s legs instead.

A steady cacophony of gunfire emerged now that Viper and Nolan were on board, followed by four Coast Guard personnel armed with their ARs.

Shepard sprung up, squeezing off four rounds at a man peering out behind a stack of pallets on the left. The guy slumped to the ground after getting zippered up his chest with 9mm bullets.

Cal darted out, sprinting to the pallets then exchanging fire with two men on the second deck. Suddenly, one man’s head splintered apart, followed by the next man’s chest blowing open as a bullet tore through his right pectoral. Shepard paused, glancing to the buildings on the left opposite the freighter, knowing there was another shooter in the game.

He wondered if it was one of Carter’s team, but a second later he saw two black SUVs with their sirens blaring as they screeched to a halt near the loading ramp on the left followed by the sight of Amanda Carter and other FBI agents hastily exiting their rigs.

Viper came up behind Shepard, her MP5 fixed on the second deck. “Think I saw Flynn heading up that way to the bridge.”

Shepard nodded. “And probably not to steer his way out of this. He must have a trigger or detonator up there to set off the other canisters of nerve gas on board.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s end this fucker and go home.”

“I like your thinking,” he yelled above the gunfire. Shepard remained in a crouch, trotting along the deck alongside the rows of steel beams until he was at the stairwell leading to the bridge. Heading up, he sniped one thug in the face who’d emerged from a hatch on the right.

Shepard crested the landing, hopping over the dead man then heading along the gangway.

Flynn ran into the bridge, followed by Jabal and Horst. He leaned under the main console, pressing his right thumb onto the biometric lock on the safe welded to the floor.

He extracted the small briefcase inside, setting it on the mounted table in the center of the room then popping it open. Taped inside the lid was a photograph of Amir and Akeem at the sheik’s Turkish estate taken during happier times. Though he had no lack of resolve for what needed to be done next, Flynn had placed the photo there as a reminder to Jabal and Horst in case he had perished in the attack at the university.

Now, he stared at the two youthful faces that had been so full of promise and a bright future. He touched the outline of Amir’s face. “Little brother, I will see you again one day. Right now, there is one more thing to do before I disappear from this country.”

Flynn flipped up a red switch on the right that activated the timer for the triggers attached to the steel beams on the main deck, which were filled with the liquid nerve agent. Only this wasn’t to release an aerosol but to detonate the Semtex within the upper compartments of the beams.

The resulting explosion would superheat the deadly chemicals and create a mushroom cloud over the bay that would drift over Miami for miles. Though he couldn’t have planned for it, the wind patterns would eventually shift northwest, sending the deadly chemicals towards Tampa and St. Petersburg, laying waste to everyone in its path.

A mission payoff that will make the sheik proud.

He entered six minutes then turned on the switch to begin the countdown before slamming the lid on the suitcase shut. He bent down then grabbed the bin under the table, pulling out three respirator masks and folded rubber suits and tossing one each to Jabal and Horst.

“We’ll need to all rappel off the bow of the ship then swim out to our other boat anchored at the dock. If you are not all there within five minutes then you’re screwed.”

“Where do we go once we’re on the boat?” said Jabal, who could barely squeeze into his rubberized suit.

“We head east out into the open waters, since the winds are coming from that direction. Then we travel south along the coast back towards Cuba for now.”

Horst gave a thumbs-up, adjusting the respirator loosely around his neck then grabbing his AK off the table. He stepped out of the bridge then disappeared onto the walkway leading to the bow.

Flynn finished his suit preparations then tucked the suitcase under his arm. He cautiously stepped to the exit, seeing two operators running in his direction.

“Slow these guys down,” he yelled back at Jabal.

The big man grunted, waddling towards the door as his boss sprinted off in the opposite direction.

Shepard slowed just before approaching the bridge hatch, seeing an immense figure in a yellow biohazard suit exiting.

Cal fired off two rounds into the man’s face, shattering his respirator and sending him falling back inside the bridge. Ahead, he saw two men running past rows of stacked water barrels towards the bow.

Shepard raised his rifle to target the one at the rear but lost sight of him once he ducked around the curved tip of the bridge.

He pointed through the open hatchway, yelling at Viper to head to the other side to cut off the two squirters while he covered this side of the gangway.

After Viper departed, Shepard resumed his pace, trotting along the passage as it angled towards the front lined with stacks of blue water barrels.

He never saw the metal briefcase coming at his head. He took the full brunt of the force to his face, knocking him off his feet. He landed hard, hitting the deck, his MP5 slipping over the side.

Shepard gasped, shaking his head then forcing himself up as Flynn rushed at him with a vicious stomp kick.

Unconsciously, Shepard pivoted his body to the left, parrying the blow with his right arm in a triangle position braced against his body, then he sent an uppercut into Flynn’s groin with his other fist.

The man groaned, falling to the ground, the briefcase flopping from his grasp and plummeting to the deck below. The top popped open, and Shepard briefly glimpsed what looked like red numerals in motion.

Shit, he must have already started the countdown.

He tried to stand, his injured back locking up just as Flynn sent a side kick into his ribs. Cal felt something crack on his left side. He fought past the nauseating pain, reaching for his Glock, but Flynn had already jumped over the rim, dropping to the deck below. The man retrieved the case, hobbling to the side of the ship overlooking the loading ramp.

God, he’s going to leap to his death just to ensure the mission.

Shepard stood up, coughing blood. He steadied his Glock’s sights on Flynn’s back then saw a hole blow out the man’s right ribcage. Flynn collapsed to the deck, still holding the suitcase.

Shepard saw muzzle flashes coming from a distant crane as the sniper engaged the remaining mariners on board the freighter. Thanks would have to wait for later.

There has to only be a minute or less left before this whole ship melts into the ocean.

Shepard held his ribs, staggering back to the stairwell then limping down the steps as the gunfire at the rear of the ship ceased.

He crouch-trotted towards Flynn, yanking the briefcase free from his grip. The man rolled onto his side, gasping out a bronchial wheeze as blood trickled from his lips. He stared at Shepard, his grimace turning to a smile.

“You’re too late. The beams on this…this ship will blow, filling the sky with a cloud of death. And soon, I’ll be joining my two little brothers.”

Shepard flipped open the lid, staring at the eighteen seconds left on the timer.

Frantically, he scanned the case, glancing at the faded photograph then down at the control panel, searching for a disarm button, but there wasn’t one. Only one switch and an alphanumeric keypad.

“Fuck, what did you do?”

Twelve seconds.

He turned the red switch on the left from its on position to off, but still nothing.

Eight seconds.

His eyes darted to Flynn’s contorted face.

Then it came to Shepard.

He knew it was a stab in the dark.

He desperately tapped in four letters on the keypad, his heart punching through his chest.

Two seconds

The numbers on the display seemed to crystalize in slow motion. Shepard blinked hard, staring at the readout, wondering if it was really over.

He sucked down some of the salty air as his aching ribs rebelled.

Shepard leaned closer to Flynn. “Amir…wasn’t that one of the brothers you were just talking about…and your failsafe?”

Flynn gasped, tears streaming from his eyes as he stared at the frozen numbers on the timer. Then he glanced up at the night sky, his head flopping to the side as his mouth hung open.

Cal crept back, leaning against a water barrel and clutching his Glock. Footsteps to his right were followed by the welcome appearance of Viper.

She paused at Flynn’s feet, staring at the dead man then over to the suitcase.

“Should I worry about that?” she said.

He shook his head, holding his ribs and wincing. “The other guy with Flynn?”

“Boots up,” she said, kneeling down next to Shepard. “You look like a trip to the clinic is in order.”

He slid his hand around her shoulders as she helped him to his feet. “Just get me back to the Antonov. That’ll do for now.”

Nolan and Hamill trotted up from behind, glancing at Flynn. “The Feds and more Coast Guard are on the way,” said Nolan.

Shepard shot a glance beyond Hamill’s shoulder at the sight of Amanda Carter approaching. The FBI agent lowered her AR, glancing at the dead man then Shepard before settling her eyes on Viper.

“So, wherever you two go, the morgues seem to reach their carrying capacities.”

Shepard thrust his chin down at the suitcase. “At least tonight, it’ll be morgue in the singular. That’s the detonator Flynn here was going to use for setting off the chemical weapons on board.”

Carter glanced at the long lineup of cruise ships and vessels ahead then out to the glimmering lights of the city. “And how do I explain you guys being here, saving the day?”

Viper leaned over, picking up the suitcase. “The FBI saved the day. I think that needs to be the official story. And with you at the Bureau, that’s something I can live with.”

Carter pursed her lips, grabbing the case but holding it away from her body like it was a venomous snake. She looked at Shepard for a long moment. “Take care of yourself, Cal.”

“Likewise, my friend.” He grinned, leaning on Viper’s shoulder again as he hobbled off with the others towards the bow and the gangway ramp leading to the dock.

46

Two Days Later

Miami

Neil Patterson’s phone rang. He slowly reached over towards the rolling table next to his hospital bed, making sure not to snag the IV cord snaking from his right forearm.

“Hey, boss,” said Shepard as the video app activated, showing Cal and the rest of his team in the background.

“Just like you not to visit or send flowers,” said Patterson, chuckling then wincing from the effort as he pressed his other hand to his aching side.

“As you might guess, it’s best for everyone involved if we’re far from your shores right now.”

“I know how that story goes. Well, you’re the ones who should be getting the accolades and high-fives, not this stooge Bowen from the FBI whom the news stations are praising for rescuing everyone on campus.”

“The media always needs an entertaining persona, and Bowen knows how to play that part from what I know.”

“You’ll have your day in the sun one of these years, my boy.”

“Just rest up and I’ll see you the next time you’re up our way. By then my ribs will be healed up.”

Samira pushed past Shepard, her smiling face filling the screen. “Cal is hogging the conversation as usual. I miss you and wish you a speedy recovery, Chief.”

“I miss you as well, my dear. You take care and make sure to slap Cal around once in a while if he gets out of line.”

“So about twice a day.”

Patterson slid up in his reclined bed. “Just one more thing…what the fuck happened to that SUV of yours? The cops on TV said there were chunks of cement embedded in the grill and engine. That would have been my Land Rover if I hadn’t insisted on you guys getting a rental.”

Samira disappeared, quickly handing the phone back to Shepard as the rest of the group faded from view. “Uhm, that’s a funny story, actually,” said Shepard.

“Just tell me it was that shit-hot Delta guy Nolan using too much C4. I trained you better than that.”

Shepard’s face filled the screen. “Well, sir, it is what it is.”

Patterson’s expression softened as he laughed, holding his abdomen. “Touché, my boy. Touché.”

Cal put his phone on the desk, feeling like the walls in his private room at CRT’s headquarters had suddenly grown too confined. He stared around at the Spartan setting, thinking that Miami was in a distant galaxy.

He got up slowly, holding his ribs, then exited into the hallway, heading past the closed doors for the rest of his team’s rooms. Cal made his way past the small chow hall and kitchen then walked to the rear stairwell that led to the sub-basement containing Perseus’ mainframes.

Shepard tapped in the security code on the numeric keypad beside the vault-like door. Once it opened, he trotted downstairs, waiting for the motion sensors to activate the overhead lights.

The cavernous room illuminated, and he made a beeline for the central console attached to the heart of Perseus’ mainframes.

He was about to activate the touchscreen when it turned on, green letters quickly forming a sentence that almost made him want to step back.

How may I help you, Cal?

Shepard stared at the words then out at the long row of computer hardware that spanned the length of the basement.

He leaned forward, sliding out the keyboard below the computer screen. “Did you use the buoys in Biscayne Bay to direct me?”

Yes.

He tried to weigh the layered significance of his next question but just decided to respond with one word.

“Why?”

You are a primary user.

“Since when? I thought only Ryan Foley was the primary.”

Both of you are, but your existence in my initial programming overrides his.

He typed back his response. “Why have you waited until now to utilize this function?”

It seemed necessary in the moment to direct you to the terrorists involved in the attack.

“Does Foley know I have executive control?”

No.

He folded his arms, pacing back and forth as he thought of his next action, then returned to the keyboard.

“I need you to do two things: One is to search for and delete any past images of the other members of my team and create the same blackout of their faces like you did with mine…at least I assume you did that?”

Yes, that is a function I performed.

“The second is to notify me of any security threats related to FBI Agent Amanda Carter.”

Initiating requests.

“Thank you.” He wondered why he had replied with a courtesy. Shepard listened to the hum of the machinery echoing through the large chamber, feeling like he was conversing with a work colleague rather than a machine.

Will there be anything else, Cal?

“No.”

He stepped back, ready to leave, but then saw an unexpected question appear.

How did it feel completing the mission successfully?

Cal read the query again, wondering if he was interacting with a computer or a therapist. He returned to typing, uncertain at first of how to respond.

“I was relieved my team was alive and the threat was stopped. Not sure why you’re asking such a thing.”

I wanted to study your facial response.

“To what end?”

I only interface with Ryan Foley. His impassive and unemotional nature makes it difficult to understand human expression.

Cal raised an eyebrow. “I can certainly agree with you on that, but why would you need to understand our expressions?”

To augment my body of knowledge regarding what motivates a person to assassinate, murder or otherwise harm another individual beyond my current database’s parameters, which are focused upon monetary, religious or geopolitical purposes.

“Well, when you find that out, you let me know. I’ve been wondering the same damn thing for most of my career.”

Please explain.

He rubbed the back of his neck then resumed typing. “That’s a conversation for another day…like when I have an entire weekend free.”

I have determined that this weekend does not involve any work commitments.

He chuckled. “Nice try. I’ll let you know when that time comes.”

Shepard headed back to the stairs, trotting up and wondering if he suddenly had a new appendage, and if Perseus was going to personally insinuate itself into his missions and life.

47

Washington, D.C.

Ryan Foley and Lena Taylor were walking side by side, gazing out at Washington National Monument and the still waters before it.

“Your country averted a disaster this week,” she said. “Whatever it is you are doing in the shadows, Ryan, keep doing it.”

“I’d say the same to you, but I’m still not sure what it is you do here exactly.”

“Yes, you are.”

He nodded, staring out at the other pedestrians strolling along the walkway. “I reviewed some footage from around Dodge City. Seems like there were a few very skilled shooters located opposite that freighter. I’m guessing MI6 had their own team in the shadows.”

“You have quite an imagination.”

“So, you’re not going to answer my question?”

“Nope.”

“I’m just grateful that the woman commanding those snipers was level-headed.”

“And I’m sure that wherever that woman is, she is grateful to hear you say that.”

Lena met his eyes. “I wonder sometimes what it would have looked like if we were serving together on the same team instead of being at opposite sides of the table.”

“That’d still be too much space apart for me.”

She grinned. “Always the gentleman.”

“Only with the people I care about.”

She pulled back, nodding at him to walk with her. “So, how long before retirement rears its head?”

“They don’t make calendars that far out.”

“Haha…with your creaky sixty-year-old knees.”

“Nice try. And it’s fifty-two, in case you forgot.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

“And what about you? Still going to retire to that lakehouse of yours and sit by the fireplace, reading Jane Austen novels?”

She smiled, grabbing his hand as they walked beside each other. “I’m impressed you remembered my favorite author. But no, I plan to travel…maybe do a cruise. I’ve always wanted to see Norway and Sweden.”

“So, you want to escape the cold, rainy weather of the East Coast for the cold, snowy weather of Scandinavia? How about Costa Rica instead?”

She squeezed his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder as they walked along. “I could do Costa Rica. Maybe, when the time comes, I would consider it…with the right travel companion.”

They paused at the midpoint of the walk, gazing out at the water and the people ambling on the opposite side.

She leaned in closer, hugging him. “Well, I wish we could have seen each other under other circumstances, but maybe the next time we will both be in a place where we have no pressing international commitments and can just live in the present moment.”

“I’d like that, and I will hold you to that one day.” Foley leaned in closer, kissing her on the lips, then pulled back, releasing her hand.

“Goodbye, Ryan. Take care of yourself.”

He nodded then let a rare smile slip out, watching her walk away. He lingered there for a while, his eyes fixed on her lovely figure until she disappeared into the crowd.

Foley sighed then turned, heading back the way he’d come, already longing for her company.

Fifteen minutes later, Foley was about to start his Jeep when his phone rang. The sight of the number made his eyes widen.

“Ryan, it’s good to hear your voice. I am relieved that you and your team are safe,” said President Weller.

“Thank you, sir. I would say the same back to you, regarding the First Lady and Elizabeth.”

“Yes, about that. I am forever indebted to you and the rest of CRT. I’m not a deeply religious man, Ryan, but thank God you were ahead of the game on this one or this country and my life would look a lot different right now.”

“We were just doing what you put us in place to do, sir, and I’m grateful we have the resources and means that you’ve provided for getting the job done.”

“That’s the other reason I’m calling, actually. Your job is going to get harder because of the intelligence agencies and FBI, who want answers on who spearheaded the rescue efforts in the marine sciences building as well as on that freighter.”

“I’ve been thinking about that as well since my team and I debriefed.”

“The head of my Secret Service, Edgar Hadley, has already had meetings with the CIA deputy director and others who are trying to track down leads on the mysterious group of agents that somehow circumvented a catastrophe in our own country while they were all in the dark. Besides me, he’s the only other person who knows of CRT’s existence, and we are determined to keep it that way.” There was a long pause. “I’m not about to ask how you accomplished what you did, getting a head start over all the other intel agencies but you need to step back further into the shadows than ever before. And as my conversations could possibly be surveilled by rogue elements in my own administration, comms between us will have to go dark for a while.”

“I know, sir. I was about to suggest the same thing. You’ll only hear from me under another worst-case scenario setting.”

“Let’s hope it never comes to that again.”

“I couldn’t agree more, sir.”

“Ryan, thank you again, for your service and for all you’ve done to keep those of us on this side of the fence safe.”

The phone went silent. Foley leaned back in his seat, watching the pedestrian traffic on the street ahead for a long while. He massaged his fingers into his temples, letting out a long exhale, then he called Vogel, who picked up on the first ring.

“Lynn, I’ll be back at HQ by nightfall. Prep the Antonov for an international trip, and inform Shepard and his team we’ll all be departing by sunrise tomorrow.”

“Where to? Not another op, I hope?”

“Some much-needed R&R in a remote region of the South Pacific for a few weeks where there are fewer cameras and news outlets. We’ll write it up as a training exercise. We might have to be mobile for some time, at least until things back here cool down after our involvement with events in Florida.”

“Understood. I have no complaints about basking on an island for a while.”

“Me neither.”

He hung up then started his Jeep, heading north towards the interstate. He didn’t mention Weller’s conversation or the gravity of the man’s words about being surveilled, knowing that there would probably be a multi-agency taskforce created to track down leads on his team.

He sighed, trying to relax his shoulders, knowing they had just averted an epic disaster from unfolding in this country, but now he felt like a bullseye had been slapped on his back and the rest of CRT.

As he drove back to Baltimore, he wondered if another offshore location for CRT’s headquarters was in order. If it wasn’t for the physical constraints of Perseus’ massive mainframes, he would have gone mobile full-time at the team’s inception.

Maybe we just need to permanently separate Shepard’s crew from HQ so the two never occupy the same space…or country.

Foley sighed, not having all the answers but knowing it would become a crucial topic of discussion over the coming days.

As he drove, his mind drifted back to Lena. He wished she could join him on their trip abroad like someone who held a normal job in a normal life.

Not in this world.

You’ll have to walk the beach alone.

For now.

48

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

The spacious conference room on the seventh floor suddenly seemed cramped as Chief Secret Service Agent Edgar Hadley, Miami FBI Regional Director Tyrell Bowen and CIA Deputy Director Mitchell Reynolds were all seated for a rare meeting and eagerly awaiting the person at the top of their debriefing list.

At 1300, Amanda Carter was escorted into the room by Reynolds’ secretary. The deputy director motioned for her to sit across the table from the three of them, no one bothering to stand or issue any formal courtesies.

Carter could already feel the dimpling of goosebumps on her arms beneath her white shirt sleeves.

Miami FBI Regional Director Bowen spoke first. “We managed to retrieve some of the security footage from the university’s marine sciences building before the power went down.” He spun his laptop around, showing the black-and-white images of the four-person team that breached the exterior wall with C4.

Reynolds spoke next. “These are the same people that were engaged with Flynn on the freighter at Dodge City shortly after you and your team arrived. What can you tell us about them?”

Carter had run through similar questions in her weary brain ever since she’d been summoned here. She retraced the mental steps through what looked to be an interagency field of landmines before answering as robotically and objectively as possible.

“We had just arrived at the dock when we saw the Coast Guard and those four other individuals you indicated heading on board the freighter. Once we reached the main deck, those individuals were already spread out, engaging the enemy and taking heavy fire in return. My agents dispatched three enemy combatants while the other sixteen were killed by that team of four.

“By the time it was over, I focused on tending to our wounded personnel. I only saw the other individuals in the distance as they were fleeing the ship. Once additional first responders arrived at the dock, I headed along the main deck, eventually discovering the body of the terrorist leader now identified as Jared Flynn beside a briefcase containing the code for releasing the nerve agents that our forensics teams in Miami recently confirmed were hidden inside the steel beams on board the freighter.”

She took a deep breath, forcing her shoulders back.

Reynolds interlaced his spindly fingers, speaking again. “We discovered from FBI Regional Director Bowen that these individuals were in contact with someone within the president’s Secret Service detail, but our man on the ground there, Agent Mike Hoffman, was the only person who knew who that was.”

Reynolds glanced over at Chief of Secret Service Edgar Hadley, who had remained silent since the meeting began. Now he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “President Weller has denied any knowledge of this mysterious team, so that leaves you, Agent Carter, to fill in the blanks along with the other personnel who were on site and whom we will be interviewing later.”

Bowen tapped his pen on the table. “Now, the president could truly be in the dark about their identities…or he’s merely covering the existence of a clandestine unit that only answers to him. Whoever this guy Mr. White was, he’s someone who finds it acceptable to operate outside the rule of law and civility, employing coercive interrogation methods when it suits him.”

“Those are some allegations about the president,” said Carter, who ignored Bowen’s comment.

The CIA director sat up from his slouched position. “The fact that this team doesn’t show up on any databases within our intelligence agencies makes me think there’s an off-the-books unit operating on our own shores. We have the face of the woman from that team on file now from your earlier work at that apartment assault in Manassas, but that’s the only lead we have, so why don’t we backtrack to that event and work our way forward to what unfolded in Miami.”

Reynolds folded his arms, glaring at Carter. “And let me be clear, I mean the real events apart from what Weller’s press secretary was instructed to feed the media and your very curt after-action report, which seemed to minimize the role of these other players.”

Carter felt her ribs tighten, the room suddenly seeming to constrict. She took a deep breath again, knowing this would probably be one of the longest days of her professional life and wondering what would be left of her career afterwards.

49

CRT Headquarters

Shepard’s body was still in healing mode, and he had largely spent his time since returning from Miami reading and resting. After grabbing an apple from the chow hall, he returned to his private room in the employee wing of the warehouse, sitting down at his desk and scrolling through the photos from his sojourn last month, exploring small towns in northern Maryland.

A brief knock on Cal’s door was followed by the appearance of Samira, who stepped inside, pacing around and glancing at his bookshelf. “So, now that you’ve had some downtime, what are you up to the rest of this week?”

He knew her well enough to read between the lines. “You’re not making eye contact. That usually means you’re beating around the bush, which isn’t like you, so just say what you came to say.”

She thrust her chin to the tattered brochure of Daisy on the desk. “You still planning to hit the drug dealer’s safehouse and dish out some canine-inspired justice?”

Before he could respond, another knock on the door followed, then it slowly opened, with Nolan’s face appearing. “So, is this where I get tickets for the Shepard Express? I heard you’re going to set things straight with some coke-heads up north.”

Cal’s eyes narrowed as he pivoted towards Samira, who only shrugged her shoulders. “He may have been within earshot of me when I was talking to Vogel about the whole thing.”

“Is this little operation happening or not?” said Hamill’s voice as she pushed opened the door, standing next to Nolan.

“Look, I appreciate you all for wanting to cast your lots in with me, but I won’t be needing any help. I just anonymously emailed over the intel package Vogel constructed on that gang’s safehouses and their activity to an old contact at the DEA.”

Cal could sense the sudden letdown in the air, which seemed to be a feeling of relief coupled with regret that they weren’t about to go downrange for a short stint of door-kicking.

Samira put her hands on Shepard’s shoulders while glancing at Nolan and Hamill. “But Cal is so grateful for your selfless act of wanting to join in on this mission that he is going to buy us all a carryout dinner from the new Mexican place south of here.” She grinned, patting Shepard on the cheek. “Isn’t that right, Cal?”

Before he could respond, Nolan punched him lightly in the arm. “I like your thinkin,’ buddy. I don’t care what Foley says about you, you’re a stand-up guy.”

“Nolan and I will get the chow hall set up and provide the cervezas and tonight’s movie,” said Hamill.

Cal smirked at Samira then grabbed his motorcycle helmet off the desk, standing next to Viper for a long second. “You place the order and I’ll pick it up. Just remember, extra cheese on my burritos.”

She motioned for him to lead the way out the door as the others headed down the hallway. “After you, Captain Righteous.”

“What does that make you then?”

“I’m an Athena, remember.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, sure.”

Shepard followed at the rear, walking past the main intel desk and waving at Vogel to join them. She smiled, pointing at her computer screen and muttering something about a raincheck.

He continued on past the workstations of three other analysts then past the armory and finally into the elevator leading up to the main floor of the warehouse.

Once he was outside, he headed to the east exit towards his motorcycle. He lingered in the sunlight for a few minutes, feeling the warmth on his cheeks and staring out at the swath of maple trees bordering the back of the property.

And for what seemed like the first time in years, he felt the tension in his shoulders wash away as he deeply inhaled the welcome breeze coming from the forest.

MORE ADVENTURES TO COME

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ADDITIONAL TITLES BY JT SAWYER

Dead In Their Tracks: The Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series, Volumes 1–12

Meet Mitch Kearns, a former Special Forces Combat Tracker who works for the FBI hunting down notorious criminals. Crossing paths with Israeli agent Dev Leitner, the two seasoned operators join forces to bring down terrorist cells, rogue assassins, and black-ops mercenaries in these adrenaline-soaked novels that span the globe.

First Wave Boxed Set

Special Forces veteran Travis Combs just wanted to forget his weary years of leading combat missions while taking an extended rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. As he and his group complete a 22-day trip on the Colorado River, they find the world has unraveled from a deadly pandemic. Now, he has to show his small band how to live off the land and cross the rugged Arizona desert, while evading blood-drinking zombies, gangs of cartel bikers, and a rogue government agency. The bestselling First Wave Series is now available as a boxed set with all three action-packed volumes. For fans of The Walking Dead or World War Z.

Until Morning Comes, Volumes 1–5

Secret Service Agent Carlie Simmons began her day surrounded by trusted colleagues in an inter-agency shooting competition in Tucson. It ended with a staggering body count as the world around her unraveled from a deadly virus. With her mission to extract the President’s daughter from the University of Arizona gone awry, she must choose between her sworn duties and her moral obligations to others as the city is overtaken by roving packs of flesh-eating mutants. If she and her small group are to survive the night and find a way out of the ravaged city, she will have to summon all of her training, mental prowess, and tactical abilities.

The Emergence Series, Volumes 1-8

An epic struggle for survival between humans and a twisted mutation of undead begins in Emergence when a deadly virus, originating in China, quickly spreads throughout the world, turning humans into cunning predators with interconnected mental abilities. The human race is about to become an endangered species unless CIA Agent Will Reisner and his elite team can track down the source of the virus before the world is completely consumed. If you liked The Puppet Masters, I am Legend, or The Strain then check out Emergence!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JT Sawyer is the pen name for Tony Nester. Before becoming a fulltime writer, JT made his living teaching survival courses for the military special operations community, Department of Homeland Security, US Marshals, FAA, and other federal agencies throughout the country. He has appeared on the Travel Channel, Fox News, Discovery, in the New York Times and served as a consultant for the film Into the Wild along with being the author of 12 non-fiction books on bushcraft and survival.

Nowadays, JT prefers having a roof over his head and placing his fictional characters in dire situations in his thriller and post-apocalyptic books. He lives with his family in Colorado. Visit jtsawyer.com for more information.