Black Flagged Apex

Chapter 18

Darryl Jackson took a bite out of his meticulously prepared English muffin and savored the melted butter that oozed from the perfectly crisped top. Sweet juices from a thin slice of warmed tomato competed with the butter and perfectly contrasted the sharp taste of sprinkled asiago cheese. Cheryl had created another masterpiece. Damn, he loved that woman.

"Liz will be finished with her finals on May 10^th. It'll be nice to have her around here for the summer. Sounds like most of her friends are coming home too," Cheryl said.

His wife was dressed in dark gray slacks and a light pink blouse. Her matching gray jacket hung neatly over the back of a low-backed chair pushed up against their kitchen island. This would be her second year as deputy superintendent of Fredericksburg's Public Schools. He always marveled at her energy level. She had effortlessly balanced the demands of parenthood and an ambitious career within the Fredericksburg school district. She had started off teaching high school English, while simultaneously pursuing a master's degree in school administration. Five years later, she had secured a position as principal of Walker-Grant Middle School, beating out candidates from all over the region.

Nobody had been surprised that she would seek the big position, and serving as deputy superintendent was the only way to eventually secure the superintendent position without an education doctorate. She faced long odds without the coveted doctorate, which was considered a resume requirement for most superintendent positions nationwide, but she felt confident that her work on the ground as a teacher, principal and deputy would overshadow the proliferation of education doctorates acquired by out-of-work teachers.

"The sooner the better. I wish we could convince Emily to postpone her trip to France," he said, watching the television mounted under a row of kitchen cabinets visible from the table in their breakfast nook.

"It was either one month in the French countryside during the summer, or an entire semester right outside of Paris. I think we dodged a bullet with the summer program," she said.

He looked at her and smiled. "I know you're right, but things seem unsettled out there…do you mind if I turn this up?"

The television in their kitchen was small and mainly viewed from the kitchen island, but Darryl had incredibly acute vision at longer distances, a genetic gift that had fortunately saved his life more than once in the field. They normally kept the volume down for breakfast, relying on his hawk eyes to spot anything important to them. What he saw on the screen made him lunge for the remote and raise the volume. As the newscast unfolded, they both listened intently…

"…area around the Mount Arlington station is sealed off for nearly a mile, and authorities are keeping a tight lid on any information flowing to the media. Local hospital officials also declined to comment on the nature of the emergency. Witnesses standing outside of a nearby restaurant said they heard distant gunfire at around 8:30 last night, but dismissed the sound as fireworks. A large police response, consisting of SWAT units, descended on the access road to the pump station at 9 PM.

"Local and federal law enforcement officials would not comment on the nature of the police action in Mount Arlington, but affiliate news correspondents have confirmed that a widespread government effort to stop citizens from drinking public water began at 10:15 PM last evening and continues at this very moment. The efforts appear concentrated on Morris County Municipal Utilities customers, who are served by a series of pumps and wells located in northern New Jersey. Townships served by water pumped by the Morris County Municipal Utilities Authority include Denville, Jefferson, Mine Hill, Mount Arlington, Parsippany-Troy Hills, Randolph, Roxbury, Wharton Borough and Southeast Morris County. Citizens in these affected areas have been warned not to drink water from any public source until further notice. Anyone that drank public water after 9 PM is encouraged to immediately call 911 or report to the nearest hospital."

Darryl lowered the English muffin to his plate and stood up from the table. Liz lived in a dormitory at Princeton University, located less than fifty miles from Parsippany. He didn't need NBC to connect the dots for him. This sounded like a terrorist attack on the water supply, and he wasn't naïve enough to hope that it was an isolated attack. He grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen island and had dialed his daughter before his wife reached his side. While the phone rang, he listened to the rest of Matt Lauer's report and heard him speculate about a link between recent police raids throughout Europe. He also raised the specter of a possible connection to the mysterious tragedy in Monchegorsk. Mention of the Russian city grabbed Darryl's attention, and he listened intently while he waited for Liz to answer her phone.

"…and international news agencies have made little progress in the Kola Peninsula. Restricted to St. Petersburg, foreign correspondents and diplomats have been unable to gain even the foggiest picture of what has unfolded in the northern city. Russian internal security forces have reportedly used heavy-handed tactics to keep foreigners from seeking information beyond the city. Located 750 miles north of St. Petersburg along a single highway, the Russian government has effectively sealed off all access to Monchegorsk. Only military vehicles have been seen heading north into the Kola Peninsula, casting serious questions about the Russian government's assertion that the situation in Monchegorsk is under control."

His daughter wasn't answering her phone. He speed dialed the number for the resident assistant on her floor. She was going to flip out when she discovered that he had acquired this number on a visit to her dorm, but he had a bad feeling about the news coming out of Mount Arlington.

"…the release of shocking video footage acquired by the Reuters news agency from a source deep within the city, Russian officials acknowledged the deployment of armored military units to wrest control of the city from an insurgent group. Officials declined to give any details regarding the insurgency, only sharing the fact that insurgents had caused significant damage to the city's critical industrial infrastructure. Norval Nickel, the world's leading producer of nickel and palladium, maintains an immense mining and smelting operation in Monchegorsk.

"Russian area experts have cast serious doubts on the likelihood that an insurgency could develop so suddenly without warning signs. Aspects of the Reuters video suggest a massive medical crisis, resulting in a widespread pattern of bizarre behavior in the city. Watch groups here at home have demanded immediate transparency in the handling of the Mount Arlington situation, suggesting the possibility of a biological attack on our nation's water supply that may be linked to Monchegorsk."

Darryl struggled to keep calm. He knew this had to be related to Berg's recent request for weapons in Kazakhstan. He disconnected the call to Liz's resident assistant.

"Nobody's answering," he said.

"She'll be fine, honey. The area affected is limited to upper Morris County. Princeton's water supply can't be connected in any way. We'll get a hold of her and make sure she buys enough bottled water to get her through the next two weeks."

"If she's not out buying water right now, there's not much of a chance she'll get her hands on any," Darryl said.

"Then I'll buy it down here and drive it up to her. Easy fix," Cheryl said.

"I'll head out right now to buy the water."

"It sounds like some kind of terrorist attack to me. I think the whole Monchegorsk angle is fear mongering, though," Cheryl said, turning off the television.

"I don't know. It may not be that farfetched. I might know someone with inside information," Darryl said, wishing he hadn't made the statement.

"You're not calling him."

"If anyone knows, it'll be him. If they expect more attacks, we need to know."

His wife stared at him for five long seconds with an impassive face. Darryl didn't like seeing this face and could imagine the effect it would have on her staff or co-workers. She finally spoke to him.

"No requests or favors. Berg has two strikes against him at this point. One more and you're out."

"You mean he's out."

"I didn't misspeak. One more strike and you're out. Make sure to get a hold of Emily. She's on the other side of the country, but now you have me nervous," Cheryl said.

"I'll call her before I call Berg."

"Just hearing that name makes me cringe. I need to get moving here. I have a feeling we'll have more to discuss today than next year's curriculum and staffing levels. Keep me in the loop," Cheryl said and leaned over to kiss him goodbye.

"I will. Have a great day, my love," he said, returning the kiss.

His wife could be a real hard-ass at times, which was why he loved her even more. She'd set him straight a number of times, saving his ass from bad career moves and bad associations. The one bad habit she had never been able to break was his friendship with Karl Berg. They had a bond that could never be broken. Darryl walked through the kitchen into the den and opened one of his desk drawers, removing a "throwaway" cell phone. He dialed Berg's cell phone and waited. His friend answered on the third ring. Ten minutes later, Darryl Jackson called his wife and told her that he would take the day off and drive up to New Jersey to deliver their daughter as much bottled water as he could fit in their Suburban. He confirmed that Mount Arlington had experienced a terrorist attack on its water supply, but decided to omit the part about how the FBI and CIA couldn't account for fifty canisters of the same virus used to poison the city of Monchegorsk and turn it into a scene that would make George Romero jealous.

Chapter 19

Sharpe sat next to Mendoza at the head of a large conference table in the largest interior room attached to the NCTC's watch floor. The camera imbedded into the table transmitted a digital video feed of the two agents to the White House situation room, where their bright, smiling faces would be plastered on the largest flat-screen monitor available within sight of the president and most of his senior staff. To Sharpe's left, just out of camera view, sat O'Reilly, who would simultaneously transmit support media to another screen within the situation room. Ideally, she would display maps or diagrams that would provide a visual reinforcement of his talking points. They had discussed the synchronization of a few slides with his highlights immediately prior to the videoconference, but he wanted her to use her own judgment, which he trusted implicitly.

Then again, she hadn't been happy to hear about their illicit affair with General Sanderson's gang. He wouldn't be surprised to see his senior year high school portrait appear during the presentation, or much worse. O'Reilly's talent for data analysis was matched only by her proficiency with digital imaging software. He tried not to think of what might appear on the White House situation room screen if she was still as pissed off as she had been when Mendoza nearly had to drag her back into Sharpe's office. He'd hit the button to fog the windows like a panicky bank teller during a robbery, hoping that the windows were somewhat soundproof in addition to shatter resistant. He was pretty sure she would test all of those performance parameters after being pulled by her arm back in by Mendoza.

They all waited nervously, trying not to fidget or touch their faces. The director of FEMA, along with the Secretary of Homeland Security, provided an update regarding efforts to contain the poisoning of a portion of Morris County Municipal Utilities Authority's water supply system through the Mount Arlington pump station. Confirming what he already knew, FEMA's director explained how a critical error in Al Qaeda's target selection had likely spared them a major disaster. The Morris County Municipal Utilities Authority served as an indirect supplier of water to local water companies. None of the water that passed through their pump stations went directly to consumers. It was all stored in tanks owned by the townships or water companies, and subsequently piped to residents, creating a significant delay. CDC personnel, supported by state health officials, had been testing community water throughout the night and hadn't detected signs that the Zulu virus had been distributed. This had been a lucky break for Morris County residents. Their counterpart utilities provider in southern Morris County piped water directly to consumers. If the terrorists had chosen a pump station connected to the southern Morris County loop, they would be facing a catastrophe.

The president finally asked Director Shelby for an update regarding the Task Force's investigation. Joel Garrity, NCTC director, looked up from his terminal at the other end of the table. The technician next to him nodded, which prompted Garrity to give Sharpe a thumbs-up. They were live.

"Mr. President, Deputy Assistant Director Ryan Sharpe will brief us on Task Force Scorpion's progress. Agent Sharpe, you have the floor."

"You can skip all of the formalities, Agent Sharpe. This is a brass tacks meeting," the president said. "Where do we stand?"

"Yes, sir. Shortly after midnight, Hamid Muhammad, the Imam with known ties to at least three of the terrorist cells assassinated yesterday, escaped from a site under active and direct FBI surveillance. He may have been abducted. The disappearance was timed with a sophisticated cyber attack on FBI computer equipment at the stakeout site."

"He's gone? How could he have escaped?" demanded Jacob Remy, White House chief of staff.

"I'll get to that very shortly, sir. The good news is that we received an anonymous tip a few hours later that led to the apprehension of the last terrorist cell. They were hiding out in an apartment on the edge of a well-established Muslim community in Bayonne, New Jersey. We recovered four virus canisters from this site. This still leaves fifty canisters unaccounted for, but given the intelligence provided to us by the CIA, these were the last canisters in Al Qaeda's possession. We can now focus our investigation on the domestic terror network, True America. As you know, we've identified one of the previous evening's murderers as Julius Grimes, a known True America militant."

"You still haven't answered my question, Agent Sharpe," Remy insisted.

"I apologize, sir. One of the cell phones recovered in Bayonne showed calls to a landline inside an Arab market in Brooklyn. The market is located on Coney Island Avenue, Kensington. This is one of the biggest Muslim communities in the tri-state area. We're putting this site under surveillance as we speak. The calls were placed yesterday, prior to noon prayer. We think someone at the market coordinated the pedestrian delivery of a message to the Imam, who was hiding in the mosque at the time."

"The Imam was hiding in his own mosque, and you lost him? I think it's time for a sweeping look at FBI surveillance procedures. I can't believe this!" Remy fumed.

"If this is the first you've heard of Hamid Muhammad hiding in his own mosque, then I suggest the problem might lie at your own feet, Jacob. We've been working every angle possible for the past two days trying to get agents into that mosque! So far, Justice is dragging their feet, and my requests through your office appear to have vaporized into thin air! No offense, Joe. I know this is above your pay grade back in those hallowed halls," Shelby said.

Joseph Morales, the Department of Justice's assistant attorney general for National Security raised both of his hands in a mock defeated gesture. "None taken, of course."

"Gentlemen! We can work this out later. Agent Sharpe, do you think the Imam is hiding at the location you described?"

"It's possible, sir. We'll have the market under surveillance within the hour."

"I don't want to wait. Send in the troops. I'm comfortable hiding behind the Patriot Act on this one and the next one. No more waiting around for warrants to track down these psychopaths," the president said.

"But, Mr. President—"

"No buts, Mr. Morales. We have fifty canisters of an apocalyptic-level virus out there somewhere. If I had known we were waiting around for a warrant to enter that mosque, I would have grabbed some of the generals and admirals sitting at this table and driven down there myself to kick the door down."

"The market is one thing. The mosque is an entirely different story," the president's chief of staff interjected.

"Not anymore. We have several million taxpaying citizens in New Jersey staring at their water faucets in disbelief. The news agencies are all over this. Can anyone guess the lead segment on every radio and television news broadcast this morning? Worse yet, they're starting to crack the code linking Monchegorsk to last night's attack.

"It's a little hard to conceal the fact that I've ordered the National Guard and local law enforcement agencies to secure the water supply system. Convoys of heavily armed Humvee's tend to draw attention from a public unaccustomed to seeing .50 caliber machine guns on Main Street. We can all guess where this will go very shortly, ladies and gentlemen. The Russian crackdown, despite the human rights horror involved, has bought us some valuable time. Time that's running out. We need to reassure the American people that the situation is under control. Agent Sharpe, how long until we can have a tactical unit inside that market?"

"Not long, sir. Ten minutes. May I make a proposal, Mr. President? One that will better serve the investigation."

"If you're worried about the legal ramifications, I can promise you it will not be an issue for you or anyone on your task force," the president assured him.

"I'm not worried about that, sir. Here's the problem. I'm fairly confident that Al Qaeda's role is finished. What we desperately need are some True America leads. According to the intelligence shared with my task force, the Imam collaborated with True America to gain funding for the development of the virus, in exchange for a portion of the final product. It appears True America never had any intention of honoring the deal, which makes sense. The last thing True America needs is to be connected in any way with the most reviled terrorist network in history. The Imam is the last remaining link between True America and Al Qaeda. If I were sitting on the throne at True America, I'd want him dead. They can't afford to have this nexus confirmed and made public. The Imam' network has been sloppy, as evidenced by the fact that eight out of ten cells were taken out. It's only a matter of time before True America finds him, and when they do, we'll be there. I plan to put the market under full tactical surveillance with snipers and an army of SWAT agents ready to storm the building."

Jacob Remy started to open his mouth to make what Sharpe could only assume was a crack about the task force's recent surveillance record, but the president intervened.

"Shelby, make this happen. I like the way this agent thinks. Good luck, Agent Sharpe."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

"Agent Sharpe, I'll be in touch shortly to discuss the assets involved," Director Shelby added.

The NCTC technician gave a hand signal indicating that the videoconference was finished.

"That's it. Let me know if you need anything else. I'll have the screens configured for side-by-side video streams within the hour. My techs just need the feed protocols from the field tactical teams to make it happen," said Joel, the watch floor director.

"Thanks, Joel. When the teams are set, I'll make sure they get the right protocols," O'Reilly said.

"Good luck today. Should be interesting," he said.

"Let's hope so," Sharpe added.

When Garrity and his technician closed the door, Mendoza made the first comment. "I can't wait for Shelby's call. Assets involved? I can't believe they're going to keep this a secret. Do you think Jacob Remy knows we're using Black Flag assets?"

"Be careful with those words," Sharpe warned.

"The use of Sanderson's people has been sanctioned by the president. No limitations. I can't imagine Remy was left out of that decision."

"One thing is clear. We better not fuck up the market operation," O'Reilly said.

"I still think we need the Imam at the market," Mendoza said.

"You want to put that request through Ms. Stewart? Maybe they can drug him unconscious and sit him at a stool inside the market. Carry him around like Weekend at Bernie's," Sharpe said.

"Except he wouldn't be dead. Might work," O'Reilly added.

They all laughed briefly, then Sharpe got serious.

"At least we assume he isn't dead. Director Shelby never gave me the full details behind Sanderson's sudden return to the government's good graces, but it apparently involved a level of deception and manipulation similar to the stunt he pulled two years ago. He did tell me not to get comfortable with Sanderson's people," Sharpe said.

"He doesn't need to tell us that. The good general flushed nearly three years' worth of work down the toilet. Not to mention the fact that I almost lost my arm," O'Reilly said.

"He wasn't suggesting that we cozy up to the man. I think he suspects that Sanderson might somehow be involved in the virus threat. He didn't come out and say that, but I could read it from him. We need to be extremely cautious with Sanderson's people and make no assumptions," Sharpe said.

"I'll second that," Mendoza said.

"All right. I'll be in my office waiting for Shelby to call. Frank, would you walk up and notify Ms. Stewart? I'll contact Kathryn Moriarty and start the ball rolling in Newark. Dana, I want to be fully linked into the mobile task force on this one. Anything they can see, I want to see. I'll let Moriarty and her supervisory special agents call the shots, but I want the ability to command by negation in real time. I'll explain this to Moriarty."

The two agents nodded and wished him good luck talking to the director. He felt extremely fortunate to have them both on the task force. The three of them had a history together going back nearly five years, since the beginning of Task Force Hydra. They had started to go their separate ways after Hydra was unceremoniously destroyed by Sanderson's successful ploy to bury the rest of the Black Flag files. The setback had been costly to the American people. Sharpe didn't have time to pore over the connections, but he wondered if Sanderson's actions had enabled the very crisis they were facing.

His task force had mapped Al Qaeda's financial network in the U.S. and had already initiated the surveillance of several suspected terrorist cells connected with the network. All of that disappeared within the span of twelve hours on May 26, 2005, compliments of General Terrence Sanderson. Now the same man was helping them stop a terrorist plot that may never have developed without his interference. Sharpe hoped the irony of the situation wasn't lost on anyone that had sanctioned the use of Sanderson's assets.

It certainly hadn't been lost on Director Shelby. Sharpe had withheld Shelby's more caustic comments from Mendoza and O'Reilly on purpose. The director questioned Sanderson's involvement to the very core of this entire crisis. Shelby had no doubt lost much of his ability to judge the situation objectively, but even a hardened investigator like Sharpe couldn't quite shake the feeling that the director's theory held some merit. Shelby never laid it all out in front of Sharpe, but he asked some highly disturbing questions:

Don't you find it odd that all of our key intelligence came from Sanderson's people? The list of Al Qaeda addresses. Reznikov's details. Intelligence from the Kurchatov lab. Details from Monchegorsk. The Imam's sudden cooperation. Where is this Reznikov? Is the Imam really alive? Have we sent our own people to Kurchatov? How hard could it be to get our own live intel on Monchegorsk?

The more Sharpe listened, the more he started to question General Sanderson's involvement. He needed to strike a balance between pursuing the leads that made sense and protecting his own people. He couldn't expose Mendoza or O'Reilly to the director's core suspicions without risking a complete breakdown within the task force. With fifty canisters of Reznikov's designer encephalitis virus in enemy hands, he couldn't afford the slightest glitch in his team. It would remain his burden alone to harbor Shelby's suspicions.

Chapter 20

Jackson Greely hopped down from his black 1993 Chevy Suburban 2500 and slammed the door shut. He stood nearly six feet tall on a muscular frame that would normally spill out of any oversized SUV…but not this monster. The drop from the running boards had been increased by an additional eighteen inches due to a custom-drilled six-inch lift kit, bearing Goodyear R18 Kevlar tires. When it came to his transportation, Greely didn't mess around, and he'd just as soon put his concealed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger than purchase one of those Nissan or Toyota knockoff versions like the Titan or Tundra. Sure, they were built in America, but the profits flowed right out of the door to Japan. Soon enough, all of that would change.

He walked toward the open door to the right of the closed loading bay doors, noting several cars parked on the grass. As the de facto leader of True America, they had left an open path along the gravel driveway for his SUV, parking the rest of the vehicles on the far side of the driveway or in the field. Only his good friend Lee Harding dared park in front of him, and he hadn't arrived. Harding was about five minutes out, having travelled all night from their training compound. He wanted to oversee the final stage of the compound's enhanced security preparations and ensure that Tyrell Bishop handled the next phase of their operation flawlessly.

He was greeted by Michael Brooks as he approached the door. Greely had requested a quick word with Brooks before the meeting began. Both men walked several feet away from the opening.

"Did you take care of the problem?" Greely asked.

"Last night. He almost got away on us. Bolted toward that tree line when he saw his team leader."

"Why didn't you kill him as soon as he stepped out of the van?"

"Carnes can use the help around here. The lab complex is a little short-handed, given the circumstances. The place is secure. They weren't going anywhere."

"Were there witnesses?"

"Just the security manager and his team. Everyone else was busy in the lab, which is on the far side of the complex. A five hundred pound bomb could hit your truck and nobody inside the lab would hear it," Brooks said. "Sorry. That was probably a bad choice for an example," he added.

"You're fucking right it was. If I didn't count you in my close circle of friends, I'd consider that a veiled threat."

"Sorry," Brooks repeated.

"Next time I tell you to do something, don't get creative. They should have been executed upon arrival or somewhere else. We can't afford to have rumors floating around here, not when sacrifices like these are only the beginning. We still have a long road ahead of us," Greely said, staring at the cars parked where the team was executed. "Looks like everyone except Lee is present."

"Everyone arrived within the last hour or so. Lee will be here in a few minutes," Brooks said.

Greely abruptly started to walk back toward the door.

"Jackson, before we head in…" Brooks said carefully, "what are your thoughts about Benjamin Young?"

"He still puts a lot of corporate money into our coffers. Is he showing signs of strain?" Greely asked.

"His lifestyle puts him at risk. Makes him vulnerable. He cheats on his wife daily, drinks heavily, and has started to increase his cocaine habit. I'm not seeing a pretty end here."

"Send him another message. He's too damn good at wrangling money out of the Beltway and Wall Street," Greely said.

"We've already sent him two. Now there's the prostitution thing. He's flying them to his apartments in Manhattan, Atlanta and D.C. The only place he's not seen with them is during the few hours a week he spends with his wife and kids," Brooks said.

"Keep a close eye on him for now. I'll work on finding a replacement, which won't be easy. Ben is a fucking genius when it comes to schmoozing money out of people. If you detect an immediate problem, terminate his association with True America," Greely said.

"Understood."

Just as they started to walk back, a mud-encrusted, hard-top Jeep Wrangler skidded to a halt less than three feet from Greely's SUV, sending a cloud of gravel dust over the shiny black behemoth. Lee Harding emerged from the cloud and bounded over to greet them. In stark contrast to Jackson Greely's tall, muscular frame, Harding resembled a wiry, compact runner. He wore a loose-fitting gray polo-style shirt tucked into naturally faded jeans. A thick brown belt, adorned with a sizable bronze buckle plate kept the jeans affixed to his lean frame. A few steps away from Greely and Brooks, he turned around to view his handiwork.

"Sorry to get your baby a little dusty. How many times a week do you take that through the car wash?" he said, grinning.

"Only when your momma's too busy with her other chores," Greely said.

The two men shook hands and exchanged firm, yet brief man hugs. Brooks accepted a strong handshake as Greely brought him up to speed on the previous night's debacle.

"Done deal, then, Michael. Keep your eyes and ears on the key players. We're in a critical, yet vulnerable phase right now. Anyone showing signs of wear and tear needs to disappear."

"Everyone's holding up so far. No indications of a problem, aside from Mr. Young. He'll be spending the next week in Atlanta near his family, so maybe things will cool down with him. Either way, we'll be watching," Brooks said.

"Shall we?" Greely said, waving his hand toward the door.

They entered the sparse complex and navigated through two empty rooms to a hallway that led deeper into the structure. The building's air temperature felt cool, with no detectable humidity, which matched the sterile appearance of the building's interior. The building still smelled like recent construction to Greely. He vividly remembered standing on the wild parcel of land currently occupied by the building, surveying the area. Just fourteen months ago, this place was a blueprint. He could barely believe that their vision for America stood a solid chance of becoming a reality. Years of rhetoric assembled in a single bold plan to propel True America into the spotlight as the nation's only hope of redemption. He marveled at the simplicity of the building. Good old-fashioned building materials made right here in America. Steel imported all the way from a Wheeling-Pittsburg plant in eastern Ohio. Soon enough, the steel belt would be revived. America would be revived. Pulled right out of its grave.

He felt electrified walking through the door to the conference room. Greely remained standing as the other members of True America's secret leadership cabal settled into their chairs. He scanned their faces, looking for hints of nervousness, and found none. The group exuded confidence and purpose. Perfect for those charged with reshaping America's destiny.

"You all know I'm not big on speeches…anymore," he said, incurring a few chuckles.

He turned to face one of the team members. Tommy Brown ran the tactical side of True America's militant arm. A former Green Beret, he had retired from military service after spending most of his twenty-year career bouncing back and forth between Africa and Central America as a military advisor. Lee Harding had recruited him nearly a decade earlier, after a heated discussion about the Iran-Contra debacle.

Brown had approached him immediately after one of his rousing speeches at the Crossroads of the West Gun Show. They talked for nearly two hours about the decline of America, which Brown claimed to have seen firsthand on active duty. He wouldn't divulge the details of his involvement in Nicaragua, but the intense Jamaican-born American made it clear to Harding that he was disgusted by the government's role in the fiasco. He cited Iran-Contra as the first in a series of government-sponsored disasters that had tarnished America's image abroad and weakened the nation's leverage. Harding liked what he heard and offered him a job in his fledgling political movement. Brown had proven to be one of their most loyal plank owners.

"Tommy, this is your first trip to the lab, right?"

"Yes, sir. Been a little busy at the compound," Brown said in his usual gruff voice.

"Welcome to ground zero," Greely said, shifting his gaze to a blond woman dressed in a casual gray suit.

"Anne Renee, always a pleasure. From this point forward, you'll be dividing your time between Mr. Mill's distribution center and the lab. I can't stress how important your job will be."

"I'm honored to be given this responsibility."

"You've earned it. I'll probably never understand the intricacies that went into unraveling the Al Qaeda network, but your group performed a miracle."

"Thank you, sir. I can assure you that the distribution operation will be given the same careful planning and security."

Anne Renee Paulson had been another gift from the heavens. A former army master sergeant, Paulson had served as an intelligence specialist, finishing her career at Forward Operating Base Falcon just outside of Baghdad, where she put her intelligence training to work scouring the new base for security threats. Greely nodded at her before continuing.

"The final shipments arrived last night. I've asked Jason Carnes to give you all a quick rundown of our projected timeline. Jason?"

A lanky, brown-haired man wearing a white lab coat over jeans and a brown shirt stood up to address the group. Carnes was their lead scientist, charged with the responsibility of overseeing production of the final product.

"The contents of all fifty canisters have been separated from their gel coatings. We are ready to mix the virus concentrate with avian blood, to promote the growth of more virus. We've tested this procedure with excellent results. Within two days, we will have enough biologically infected material to proceed with the bottling phase, though I will need at least the same amount of time to prepare the material and bottle it."

"Jason, will you explain how this works again? Why don't we just put it right into the water? I don't like the idea of preparing the material. You're planning to render it partially inert, right?"

"Correct. The biggest challenge we face is the amount of time the bottles may sit at an uncontrolled temperature. Until the moment the crates roll off our trucks, they will be kept at an optimal temperature that will ensure the virus's survival. Beyond that, we can't make any assumptions. The mixture I plan to put into the caps will contain live virus and partially inert virus. The partially inert portion will be enveloped in dried animal feces. Virology research has proven that humans have been infected with forms of equine encephalitis through breathing in the dust from dried feces. I've tested our combined delivery method extensively over the past month, and it never fails to ensure the delivery of a contaminant-level exposure. Once the bottle cap is twisted, the protective seal is breached. When the target takes a sip and replaces the cap, the virus will be mixed into the water. Trust me, Lee. This will work flawlessly."

"Unless they drink the whole bottle without replacing the cap," Greely said.

"Yes. If they don't replace the cap, then the virus won't mix," Carnes said.

"Or if they place the bottle down carefully. Doesn't water have to splash on the inside of the cap?" asked Owen Mills, owner of Crystal Source.

Mills had come up with the bottled water idea in the first place, funding a majority of the current plot from the vast fortune he made as the owner of northeastern Pennsylvania's most successful bottled water company. Crystal Source had been in his family for several decades and dominated the market in the Poconos region. Mills had secretly joined forces with Greely and Harding in the early 1990s, lured in by the promise of a seat at the big table when True America rose from the ashes.

"We've been through this already, gentlemen. Most consumers of bottled water replace the cap and toss the bottle in a backpack or car seat. I suppose if you planned to hand these out at the end of a 10K road race, you might want to reconsider the plan. I get the feeling that's not the case," Carnes said.

"We were just trying to shake the tree a little, Jason. I had to be sure of your confidence level in this design," Harding said.

"It's an effective design. Mr. Mills can attest to that," Carnes said.

"Jason worked with some of our engineers to create the cap, under the guise of research into a flavored water delivered by the same method. The only drawback I can see is the need for the water to hit the cap. He's right about the research. I funded it," Owen Mills said.

"All right. Sorry for the theatrics, Jason. I'm hearing four days until the bottles are ready to roll?" Greely said.

"Four days minimum on this end. The bottling assembly line is a miniaturized version of what they use at any of the big plants. We have one line dedicated to removing the caps from the bottles we've stockpiled and another to replace the caps with our own. We have the machinery to label and wrap the bottles in new pallets right here. I'm including this process in the eight-day estimate."

"We've been diverting pallets of water for over two months. Nothing that would raise eyebrows in accounting," Mills stated.

"Then we have to transport it by smaller trucks and vans to the distribution hub in Honesdale, to be loaded onto larger, refrigerated trucks. One day total to move the product. Once it leaves here, it's out of my hands," Carnes said.

"Everything is set at the distribution center. I've arranged for two private docking bays, not that anything would appear unusual. I'll talk with the site supervisor to make sure nobody gets in the way. Once the pallets are delivered and staged according to their final destination, we'll bring in the trucks. I figure it'll take them the better part of a work day to get the trucks loaded and on the streets," Mills said.

"I wish we could load it here. Too much back and forth bullshit," Greely griped.

"We're looking at massive, one-time deliveries requiring the use of refrigerated semi-trailers. We could never get anything that big in here."

"I know. It worries me. Tommy, we'll be leaning heavily on your friend here. Tactical and operational security will be critical at that site and everywhere in between. I can't stress the importance of your job, Renee. Once the product starts to leave this lab, we enter the final, tactical phase of the operation."

"I understand, sir. Mr. Brown and I have selected the best operatives for the job. The loading bays are isolated and secure. All of the paperwork is in order. Everyone has been briefed and rebriefed. We're ready to execute the mission," Paulson said.

"Excellent. I'm not detecting any impediments to our progress at this point; however, since we're here, I'd like to discuss an opportunity to completely close the link between True America and Hamid Muhammad. Tommy, how confident are you that our friend escaped FBI surveillance?"

"Extremely," Brown answered. "FBI agents turned the mosque inside out last night, around midnight. One of the undercover SWAT units took off like a bat out of hell in pursuit of something just before the raid. A white van sped off from the scene just before SWAT responded. Regular police radio traffic indicated a massive response in support of federal agents. He's still out there."

"Which concerns me," Greely said.

"We should have killed him earlier," Mills chimed in.

"We needed him to go to ground and activate the remaining cell," Harding said.

"Cells," Brown corrected.

Anne Renee Paulson shot him a confused look, followed by the rest of the group. He tapped his iPhone screen.

"Breaking news," he read. "FBI officials just announced that they have captured the last remaining cell in the terrorist network responsible for the water supply attack at Mount Arlington pump station. Based on foreign and domestic intelligence sources, they are confident that the captured cell represents the last of the Al Qaeda network involved in a recently uncovered plot to poison multiple water sources. Hamid Muhammad, 'the radical Imam,' is wanted in a possible connection to the plot. His whereabouts are currently unknown."

"He's a slippery son-of-a-bitch. We need to find him before the FBI does," Harding said.

"Renee, I'm going to keep Mr. Estrada's team in place within the tri-state area. Killing Hamid Muhammad takes priority. The Imam will turn up shortly, and we'll be there to remove him from the equation. Tommy, make sure Estrada's group is ready to roll at a moment's notice, no subtlety necessary. The media will attribute his execution to a radical anti-Muslim group. Just find him and kill him," Greely said.

"We'll start actively turning over his known hideouts," Brown said.

"Just make sure not to attract any FBI attention," Greely ordered.

"Understood. We'll be using the best technology money can buy to track the FBI."

"The best that I can buy," Mills said, and they all laughed.

"All right. This will probably be our last face-to-face meeting for quite a while. We all go our separate ways and communicate by secure satellite phone only. If the FBI is looking in our direction, they're not going to find anything. Let's not give them something to work with. That's it, everyone. A new dawn awaits us in about three weeks."

"To a new America," Mills boasted.

"To the True America," everyone responded.

"Michael, can you stick around for a second?" Greely said, nodding to Harding.

"Sure."

Greely and Harding made their way around the room, shaking hands and patting backs before closing the door and returning to Brooks.

"How are things going with our special surveillance project?" Greely asked.

"Making progress. I've narrowed the selection down to three possible candidates. I can't rush this one. Once the offer is made, the candidate either accepts or has to disappear. Just one disappearance could jeopardize the project. I need to choose the candidate carefully," Brooks said.

"Take your time, but don't take forever. We need better FBI intelligence. We'll proceed with the next phase in three days. I need your special project operational by that time. Things will move fast after the next attack."

"I can do it in three days."

"I wasn't giving you the option to take longer," Greely said. "We've waited long enough to see this day."

"We'll approach the candidate within two days. This is going to be an amazing few weeks," Brooks said.

"Scary as all hell," Harding said, "but worth every bit of sacrifice."

Greely couldn't have agreed more. He was ready to sacrifice his own life if necessary to bring the United States of America back to its former glory. The next three weeks would prove pivotal to their efforts to bring about The New Recovery, True America's primary goal for the American people.

Dissatisfied with the costs associated with America's present role as the world's police force and frustrated by politicians that continued to turn a blind eye to the economic warfare being waged against the U.S. through uneven trade relationships; more and more Americans were looking for an alternative. The New Recovery would usher in a new era of strength, prosperity and independence for the American people. Two decades of "deterrent isolationism" to rebuild America's infrastructure, reinvest in U.S. industry and restructure foreign policy. The United States would emerge from The New Recovery as an ultra-super power, with few of the ties currently hindering its prosperity and security.

He swelled with pride at the thought of playing a role in the nation's transformation. While their extreme plan would be disavowed by the mainstream True America political movement, the aftershock would enable True America political leaders to topple the two-party system and offer a new option for True Americans. At first he'd be declared an outlaw, but as America transformed, the history books would change to reflect their greatness…and how True America's founders, like Romulus and Remus, had changed the course of human history.

Chapter 21

Arranging to meet Jessica in the private lounge had turned out to be one of his better ideas. If she had been given the opportunity to blend into a larger group in the "arrivals" area, he may not have recognized her. She wore a stylish, colorful sleeveless turtleneck top with designer jeans and black narrow strap sandals. As always, she looked stunning, but he wasn't sure if he cared for her short hair.

"Like my new hairstyle?" she asked, immediately testing him.

"It looks incredible. I never pictured you with short hair, but it really works," Daniel said, dropping his carry-on bag.

"Bullshit."

He embraced her, mindful of her injuries, and kissed her passionately. He wished that they could fully test the privacy of this lounge. He'd been gone for seven days, but it felt like a lifetime. He couldn't imagine how Jessica felt. Despite her advertised self-reliance and confidence, he knew that she depended on him emotionally. Sanderson had been wise to keep the details of her attack a secret until the Stockholm operation had run its course. He would have left the operation to Farrington and jumped on the next plane to Buenos Aires, which could have led to disastrous results across the board. The mission might have failed, and he would more than likely have been picked up at the Buenos Aires airport.

By the time Sanderson had shared the details of Jessica's harrowing experience, she had recovered enough to convince him that he could shepherd the last stage of the mission in Germany. He felt guilty delaying his return, but she sounded stable, and he trusted Munoz and Melendez implicitly to guard her. He eased his embrace, but she showed no sign of releasing him.

"You're back," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm back."

She let go and backed up a few steps to look him over. "Not a scratch? Amazing."

"A few scratches and bruises, but nothing more than that."

He didn't dare go any further. He'd been chased down by Mi-28 Havoc helicopters, ambushed by a regional Spetznaz platoon, fired upon at point-blank range by armored vehicles, swarmed by virus-crazed "zombies," and caught in a crossfire by Zaslon operatives. All of this, however, paled in comparison to Jessica's ordeal. She had narrowly escaped a fate worse than death — being gang-raped for hours by the most detestable, heartless group of men to ever walk the planet. He would never leave her side again, except for one final mission to kill Srecko Hadzic. He'd make that one exception.

"I'm so glad you're back. We can't be apart again. Ever. It's not good for me," she said.

He could see her eyes watering and felt his own start to moisten. "Never again. We're a team," he said and kissed her lips.

"I'm really digging the new look. Seriously. Sexy and smart," he said.

"Unlike before?"

"I think I'll shut up for now. How's your hand?" He took her left hand gently in his own and examined the tight bandage.

"Not so bad. It's healing pretty quickly. I can bend the fingers without too much pain. Looks like hell underneath the bandages."

"And your neck?" he said, gently caressing the soft skin just under her right cheek.

"Turtlenecks are my new fashion. I even found a bathing suit. Looks a little retro, but it works."

"Let's get out of here. I rented a Jeep for us," he said and paused to hold her again. "I missed you so much. I love you more than you could possibly know."

"I love you even more," she said.

They held each other for another minute, before slowly letting go.

"A jeep? I was thinking more like a convertible BMW. Less jostling around."

"Whatever you desire, my beloved princess."

"Right now I want to get us checked into our villa. I have a few desires that can't be fulfilled in this lobby," she said.

"Maybe we should rent a van," he suggested.

"I figured you'd be sick of vans at this point," she said.

"Good point. We can wait."

Several hours later, Jessica and Daniel lay next to each other, listening to the surf crash onto the beach in front of their villa. Naked in a tangle of sheets, their breathing slowly returned to normal after another intense session exploring each other's bodies. He didn't want her to feel rushed and would have been fine waiting as long as she needed, but she didn't hesitate. They had picked up Thai takeout and a few bottles of white wine on the way back in their BMW 3 Series convertible, enjoying a private dinner on the small wooden deck overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Warm sea breezes washed over them, fueling their desires as the wine magnified the experience. Halfway through dinner, Jessica had grabbed his hand and pulled him through the sliding door to the bedroom. They had started off tentatively, as he had expected, but this uncertainty dissolved quickly as passion and arousal smothered them unchecked. Neither of them seemed to notice that night had descended, and they still hadn't cleaned up dinner when the moon finally made an appearance over the eastern horizon, casting a pale blue light onto their bed. He rolled over and held her tightly. She sighed and didn't say a word.

Daniel woke up as the first tendrils of sunlight reached the wicker headboard of their cottage bed. He was lying next to Jessica, both of them buried under the sheets and blankets that had been tossed from the bed at some point the night before. The temperature had dipped significantly after midnight, changing the breezes that flowed freely off the ocean into their cottage. He vaguely remembered picking up the bed linens and haphazardly tucking them back into the bed before closing the patio slider.

Jessica lay asleep on her side, facing his side of the bed. Her makeup had faded during the night, and he could see the black eye that dominated the right side of her face. She had removed her contacts at some point in the evening, which exposed the broken blood vessels surrounding her naturally brown iris. He felt anger and guilt rising within him, which was never a good combination for Daniel. Her neck was the worst part. Several horizontal scabs marked the ordeal that had nearly killed her. They must have restrained her by the neck with piano wire or some kind of game fish line. Still rubbed raw, a band of red puffy skin and dark scabs circled her entire neck. Srecko would suffer a painful death for putting her through this. Anger and guilt. Bad for Daniel, but even worse for Srecko.

He reached out and caressed her left cheek. She settled into a smile, keeping her eyes closed.

"How does Frankenbride look without her disguise?"

"Positively beautiful, as always," he said, without hesitation.

"Uh-huh. What time is it?" she muttered, finally opening her eyes.

"Ten after seven. The sun just peeked over the water. I'll make us some coffee if you're getting up."

"That sounds nice. I'll get dressed and meet you out on the patio," she said.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Daniel said, kissing her inviting lips.

"Yes. You may not have a problem with the way I look, but I do. Quick change and makeup job. I promise."

"I meant what I said. You look beautiful."

Jessica sat up in the bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin. "I know you did. I just don't feel right displaying my injuries to the public."

"Who cares?"

"I do. I don't play the role of victim very well. It's hard not to feel like a full-time victim bearing these scars. Plus, everyone will think you're a wife beater."

He stared at her for a moment, neither pitying her nor trying to process her logic. He just wanted to gaze at the woman he loved and would sacrifice anything to protect. His love for her had no boundaries and no other loyalties. He knew this would be tested again, but from this point forward, they would remain together. He had long ago committed to spending the rest of his life with her, no matter what the circumstances. Long before either of them had been swallowed up by devils disguised as government agents and military heroes.

He'd started carrying a small diamond ring around with him during the spring of their final semester of college. He kept waiting for the right moment to spring the question, thinking he had all the time in the world. When she said goodbye and suddenly disappeared from his life a few days after graduation, he'd been devastated. He regretted waiting more than anything in his life. The ring could have changed everything and put them on a path that didn't consume them from the inside, corrupting their morality and burying the deepest scars in their subconscious. All of this was his fault for waiting to make a decision that he knew was inevitable.

"You there, Danny?" she said, waving a hand in front of him.

He nodded and shook his head at the same time. "Yep. Sort of. Sorry. I was just thinking out everything at one time. Not a good idea for this tiny brain," he said and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

"We'll have plenty of time to think through all of this. Just you and me," she said.

"I like the sound of that. See you on the patio."

Chapter 22

Abraham Sayar sat quietly at a round marble-topped table near the expansive front window of the El Halal Middle Eastern Market. The window covered most of the store's frontage, extending from the leftmost side of the market to the glass and metal door packed against the right side wall. Bathed in bright fluorescent lighting, with his back against a poster-covered wall, he concentrated on his tea and tried not to think about how exposed he felt in front of the window. He was the market's lone table customer, drawing an occasional stare from the sparse foot traffic on Coney Island Avenue.

Typically, all of the tables would be crowded with loud groups sipping tea like Sayar, serving as a spirited backdrop for the numerous patrons who stopped by to grab freshly prepared Middle Eastern dishes and imported sundries. Word had leaked over the course of the day that something big was happening at El Halal, and it was best to avoid the place for now. All of this had been engineered by Sayar and his team, through the Imam.

They wanted to avoid civilian casualties at all costs and avoid complications, but most importantly, they wanted to give the market a strong aura to observers on the street. Anyone asked would recommend steering clear of El Halal tonight, which was exactly the kind of publicity Sayar wanted to convey to any True America reconnaissance teams. He was trying to give True America the strong impression that El Halal had a secret. They had no idea if the terror group could track the Imam's calls, but if they arrived anywhere in Kensington, all signs would lead to their trap.

Sayar hadn't moved from his table for most of the day, marking him as part of the Imam's personal security detail. He wore western-style street clothes, which made him even more conspicuous. He had traded the traditional loose-fitting clothing for dark khaki pants, a white button-down oxford and an outdated Members Only-style, waist-level jacket, which he hadn't removed since he arrived. His muscular frame added to the menace he exuded with his tense body posture and permanently affixed scowl.

The rest of his team was scattered throughout the store. Diyah Castillo sat behind the cash register, looking bored and pretending to text friends on her cell phone. She was dressed more traditionally, better reflecting the Muslim values of the community, without going overboard. Her head was loosely wrapped in a light blue hijab, exposing only her face. The rest of her outfit consisted of dark blue jeans and a light brown, patterned blouse. It was a stylish representation of the women's Muslim dress code that had become more common with the Muslim youth in America.

The last visible member of the team wandered through the store, lingering in different sections to handle the merchandise for a few minutes before moving on. He took a few breaks from this routine throughout the day, to join Sayar for tea and food. This marked him as part of the security team, if there had been any doubt before, which was all part of the desired effect.

Abdul Waseer remained upstairs, monitoring the surveillance feeds from a camera hidden in the alley and another attached to a light post in front of the market. Thanks to the electronic warfare team sitting in a van nearby, he could also listen to FBI radio traffic. His primary job was to give the team downstairs an advanced warning of an attack. This task would be critical to their survival. Once detected, he would descend the stairs and reinforce efforts to repel the assault. His arrival would be a welcome sight to the three vulnerable operatives sitting exposed in the market. Their defensive situation hadn't materialized like Sayar had hoped.

They wore level-two body armor under their clothing, which would protect them from most submachine gun and sidearm rounds, but they had been under-equipped for the mission with FBI-issued Glock 23 pistols. Sayar had lobbied for more firepower, but his request had been met with considerable resistance by the mobile task force commander, Special Agent-in-Charge Kathryn Moriarty. Special Agent Damon Katsoulis had started to protest, but Moriarty had shut him down quickly. Apparently, the "powers-that-be" in the FBI still didn't fully trust Sanderson's people. He shared a few knowing looks with Katsoulis, as Moriarty lectured Sayar and his team of operatives. At least he had one possible ally in the FBI. Since Katsoulis's snipers and assault teams covered the market, this made him breathe a little easier through Moriarty's condescending diatribe.

At length, she "reminded" him that their sole purpose was to lure True America into the open. At least she acknowledged the reality of their precarious situation in the store, though she grossly overestimated her own units' response time. They all agreed that the attack would come fast and furious, but Moriarty insisted that they would only need enough firepower to slow the initial attack. FBI snipers and tactical units would "go to work" on hostile forces as soon as they were detected. Sayar saw the logic of this approach, but still requested two semiautomatic shotguns — one to cover each entrance to the market. FBI intelligence indicated that True America had access to some serious weaponry and body armor, representing a combination that would be hard to stop with pistols. His request was immediately denied. Even Katsoulis nearly shook his head in front of his boss.

He still had some hope that a direct attack on the market might never materialize. Sanderson's electronic warfare team had a solid chance to detect and identify the assault units on the street, giving the FBI and Sayar's team fair warning about their approach. Of course, the existence of Sanderson's electronics-laden mini-van remained a secret from the FBI, so they would have to be extremely creative with how they alerted the FBI. He had been assured by his counterpart, Aleem Fayed, that the techs had a solid plan. He just hoped that the plan would give the FBI enough time to make a difference in the fight.

Timothy Graves caught himself holding his breath again. In extremely tense situations, he had a bad habit of not breathing.

Anish Gupta interrupted his concentration. "You're holding your breath again."

"No shit. It helps me think," Graves said, shifting uncomfortably in his folding chair.

"Actually, you're depriving your brain of oxygen, which accomplishes the opposite," Gupta said.

"No. Depriving my body of oxygen vasodilates the blood vessels, allowing a better perfusion of oxygen when I breathe again. It gives me a heightened state of awareness," Graves said, not sure if his nonsense would pass muster with Gupta.

"The blood vessels in the lungs vasoconstrict during hypoxia, which renders your proposed theory ineffective," Gupta countered.

"Do you know everything?"

"Pretty much," Gupta replied.

They both stared at the various screens, searching for anything that might indicate an imminent attack on the El Halal market. So far, the only encrypted radio traffic near the target area belonged to the FBI. One of their computer screens tracked and sorted the data transmitted by the FBI's P25-equipped radios. This data included locations. Graves had installed two battery-powered "pinging" relays on nearby rooftops prior to the FBI's mid-morning arrival. Once the FBI's operating frequencies had been established, they had actively "pinged" the data layer and catalogued the automated responses. The radio users didn't have to transmit a radio message to appear on their "radar." Even non-transmitting radios would respond to their undetectable "pings."

Within seconds of the FBI's arrival on and around Coney Island Avenue, Gupta had mapped the entire task force. Once all of the FBI units had settled into their positions, he activated the two remote relays and tasked the system to simultaneously "ping" the entire task force twice every second. The silent responses allowed them to triangulate the position of each FBI radio, and more importantly, each agent. The computer screen displayed a map of the streets surrounding El Halal Market, marking their locations.

The FBI occupied the only vacant apartment on the street within view of El Halal Market. With a diagonal view, the apartment served as the FBI's sniper nest and headquarters. They counted ten radios in the building, four of which they had identified as either a sniper or spotter. The remaining six radios were by far the most active of the task force. Overall, the FBI had lucked out with their temporary lodging.

Situated on the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Foster Avenue, less than one hundred meters from the market, the third-floor corner unit commanded an expansive southbound view of Coney Island Avenue. The view stretched nearly an entire city block, giving the sharpshooters perfect firing trajectories at potential threats nearly one hundred meters from the market, in any direction on the street. If confirmed threats approached from the south, snipers could engage at further distances.

The FBI's view of the northern approach was limited by the shallow angle of the street-facing windows along Coney Island Avenue. FBI observers could not effectively see beyond the intersection of Foster and Coney Island. Fortunately, their position north of the market gave them ample time to respond to any threats coming in from the north.

The only other road emptying into this crowded stretch of Coney Island Avenue was Glenwood Road, which passed just under the FBI apartment and was under direct surveillance by a large contingent of FBI SWAT vehicles hidden at the edge of a church parking lot fifty meters back from Coney Island Avenue. They counted fourteen radios at that location. Radio traffic indicated that this would be the primary response team. Three additional teams sat hidden in similar locations off Coney Island Avenue, each consisting of eight SWAT agents in two vehicles. One would seal Foster Avenue to the north, and another would block the south, emerging from a hidden location in a funeral home on H Avenue.

The third team had the most difficult job. Eight agents had to cover the claustrophobic alleyway approach that had multiple points of access leading into the darkened, trash-strewn space from the driveways and homes on the residential street behind the market. They could only rely on these agents to provide an early warning. There were too many points of entry and positions of cover in the alley to effectively engage a trained terrorist group without the assurance of friendly casualties or the deployment of thirty additional agents. The FBI's tactical team leader had been uncomfortable spreading his agents so thin along the rear approach, especially since they would not be "geared up" like the rest of his agents. They would be in street clothes, equipped with compact submachine guns and concealable body armor. He needed them to somewhat blend into the neighborhood, even if they were just sitting in cars or hanging back in the shadows. The agents watching the alley would rally together and respond on foot once the entire threat picture developed.

From Graves' point of view, the FBI's deployment looked solid. This assessment had been slightly reassuring to Sayar, who might have to rely upon the FBI's response to stay alive. Sayar would need to keep True America's assault team at bay for at least thirty seconds, until the FBI arrived. As always, this assumed that the FBI assault teams hadn't been detected. If True America ran interference against the responding agents, Sayar and his team could find themselves in an even more desperate situation. He hoped they could give the FBI advanced warning. It could mean the difference between life and death for Sayar's crew. Early detection hinged on the same method used to identify and map the FBI's deployment.

Graves watched Gupta's eyes shift between the two screens in front of him. Aside from his fingers tapping at a thin silver wireless keyboard, nothing else moved. He sat locked into the chair, intensely focused on their mission, taking only a fraction of a second away from the task to deliver the occasional, well-deserved sarcastic comment. Normally, these comments would flow freely, but under pressure, Gupta became tolerable inside the cramped utility van. Blessed silence let Graves know that Gupta was ultra-focused.

Graves noticed a change on one of the screens. Gupta's fingers started typing before he could form the thought to speak.

"What's that?"

"Working on it. We might have an encrypted transmission," Gupta said.

Their system continuously scoured the airwaves for encrypted and "in the clear" radio signals, processing each transmission's electronic characteristics through protocols designed to detect an inbound covert operation. The system was intimately familiar with all of the "background" noise within a three-block radius of El Halal Market. Wireless routers, personal handheld radios, local police channels, cordless telephones, cell phone towers…all of it categorized by the antenna Grave's had installed on the roof of the apartment building currently used by the FBI on Coney Island Avenue. The sensitive, multi-spectrum receiver had "listened" to the neighborhood for nearly twelve hours, passing information to the van. The data processed and catalogued by their software provided an intimate look at the area's electronic signature. After twelve hours, any new transmissions stood out like a sore thumb. A previously undetected P25 encryption protocol suddenly appeared on his screen.

"Market, this is Over Watch. Possible assault inbound. We are in the process of confirming," Graves said.

He received acknowledgements from the team in the market and Sayar. Fayed sat with Tariq Paracha in a stolen Honda Accord three blocks away from the market, waiting to play their role.

Gupta furiously typed commands, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the incoming data analysis. He didn't bother telling the computer to break the encryption code. The coroner would be zipping up body bags by the time their proprietary blunt-force crypto-hack program provided the intruder system's encryption protocols. All he really needed was to determine locations, which would be simple. The system isolated the data layer used by the encrypted signal, and Gupta ordered the remote relays to repeatedly "ping" all users within that layer. As the new radios silently responded to his "ping" request, the digital street map of the neighborhood changed, and Graves stopped breathing. They would have seconds instead of minutes to make a difference.

Special Agent Shawn Barber stared out of the third-story bedroom window at the El Halal Market storefront. From his position in one of the apartment's south-facing windows, he could see the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Several sodium vapor street lamps cast ample light onto the busy street, eliminating his need for the tripod-mounted night vision scope pushed into the corner next to him.

His eyes flickered to the left, catching the faint outline of Special Agent Stephan Woods on the other side of the darkened room. The young agent sat forward in a folding chair, staring through the enormous night vision scope attached to his bolt-action Remington M40A1 .308 sniper rifle. The rifle, with its bipod extended, rested on a small table pushed against the wall under the other south-facing window.

Barber's weapon hung by a combat sling designed to keep the weapon diagonal across the front of his chest. His right hand rested on the rifle's pistol grip, ready to release the safety and put the weapon into action in a moment's notice. He heard talking from one of the rooms adjacent to the bedroom, but didn't turn to look. The task force's leadership team had occupied the rest of the apartment, setting up a disorganized gaggle of folding tables and chairs to hold up the computers that they seemed dependent upon to breathe. He had been with the FBI long enough to know a time when everything didn't depend on internet protocols and email. A time when the job didn't require four technicians to support every agent in the field.

He had joined the bureau after returning from the first Gulf War. His Boston-based Marine Corps reserve unit had been activated in the fall of 1990, just a few months after he completed his bachelor's degree at Stonehill College. As the platoon's only "officially" trained sniper, Staff Sergeant Barber spent most of Operation Desert Storm attached to his battalion's reconnaissance element, riding in an open HUMVEE well forward of the front lines. Upon returning to the States in April 1991, he applied for a job with the FBI, hitting the post-Vietnam federal retirement wave perfectly. He found himself back in Quantico, Virginia, just in time for an unmistakably miserable mid-Atlantic summer.

Barber took in the entire scene on Coney Island Avenue. Every minute, no fewer than a dozen cars passed the market, coming from either direction. The stoplight at the intersection of Foster and Coney Island didn't seem to have the slightest impact on the traffic. Pedestrian traffic in the immediate vicinity had lightened significantly from rush hour. The bus stop directly across from the apartment had stopped disgorging riders, which eased the flow of pedestrians wandering the streets. Occasionally, one or two passengers would loiter at the stop and board an outbound bus. Still, he counted eight civilians within the designated engagement zone.

He stifled a yawn, turning it into an arm stretch. Just as his arms extended outward, his radio crackled and came to life.

"Two cars approaching. Weapons visible. Right in front of the market!"

The transmission was followed by Supervisory Special Agent Katsoulis's voice and the sound of panicked footsteps rushing into the bedroom.

"Unit transmitting. Identify yourself."

Barber didn't have time to fully process Katsoulis's request. By the time he had shouldered his weapon and kneeled, bracing the rifle's vertical grip against the windowsill, it didn't matter who had given the warning. He watched the street over the scope, not wanting to limit his situational awareness, and saw the attack unfold. The maneuver was brilliant.

A northbound SUV veered left, crossing the median and jumping the curb in front of the El Halal Market. The massive vehicle struck a fire hydrant and smashed into the far right corner of the market, sending a thick column of water skyward. The sharp, staccato crackling of automatic weapons fire immediately filled the street. As the market's front window collapsed and cascaded onto the sidewalk, a white delivery van screeched to a halt in the southbound lane, directly in front of the door to the market. Several figures burst from the van, rushing through the parked cars and cascading water toward the market's front entrance.

Barber needed to make it difficult for anyone to enter the store, so he decided against taking any individually aimed shots. He placed the 4X ACOG scope's illuminated green arrow just forward of the doorway and started firing methodically. He never heard the single boom from Wood's .308 rifle, which took down the first man in line to enter the market. The rest of True America's assault team passed through his scope's field of vision, braving the rapid, semiautomatic fire from his MK14 Enhanced Battle Rifle.

By the time the remaining men disappeared into the El Halal Market, two more attackers had been stopped, their bodies crumpled in the doorway. He had no idea how many had made it inside and didn't have time to think about it. Glass rained down upon his head, trickling through his open collar, which meant that the men in the SUV had turned their attention to their sniper nest. There was nothing he could do for the operatives in the market, so he quickly inserted a new twenty-round magazine into his rifle and went to work on the attackers using the SUV as cover.

He heard the supersonic crack of Wood's .308 high-grain boat-tail hollow-point (BTHP) round and saw one of the shooters snap backward, tumbling uncontrollably onto the pavement. Through the thick downpour of water, Barber sighted in on a man near the back of the SUV and depressed the trigger twice. The black-clad, masked commando spun in place, flinging his compact rifle out of Barber's view before dropping to one knee. A third 7.62mm round from the EBR passed through the man's head and shattered the rear compartment window. Another boom from Wood's rifle echoed through the room, but Barber never saw the result. He scanned the front of the SUV, which was barely visible through the mist created by the geyser of water shooting two stories high. The wind brought most of the water down on the roof of the building.

A head appeared over the hood of the SUV, followed by a blazing assault rifle. Several rounds from the rifle struck the apartment wall, passing through. Screams erupted from behind him, never breaking his concentration. He steadied the green reticle arrow on the head, conscious of the fact that the man's rifle continued to pour rounds into his position. He applied even pressure to the trigger and was rewarded by the rifle's kick. The head and rifle quickly disappeared.

"That's a kill!" Woods yelled.

In the seconds that followed, a vicious firefight erupted in the darkened market below them, drowned out by the ringing in Barber's ears. Repeated muzzle flashes punctuated the gray fountain of water pouring down onto the sidewalk, competing with the red and blue strobe lights from the FBI SWAT team screeching into position on the street directly in front of the market.

The market went dark, and Abraham Sayar dove to the floor with his teacup still clenched in his left hand. His right hand already held his pistol. Naturally right handed, he relegated the busy work to his less coordinated hand while "on the job," keeping his dominant hand free to react. This simple, disciplined act would save his team from a quick demise. Dozens of bullets slapped into the posters behind his seat before he hit the ground, showered in shards of glass from the market's front window. Automatic gunfire shattered the market, filling the aisles with a volume of incoming rounds that Sayar had never experienced before. Concentrated, extended bursts snapped overhead and tore through foreign-labeled packaging, exploding the dried contents. He heard a muffled scream from the back of the market, which sounded like Diyah Castillo. The screech of tires took him out of reaction mode and put him on the offensive. They were up against two vehicles on Coney Island Avenue. The first vehicle had been True America's "shock and awe" attempt. The second would contain the breach team.

He unconsciously released the teacup and gripped the pistol with two hands, quickly rolling through the freshly broken glass to a position directly in front of the market's entrance. A cold mist from the fire hydrant's spray hit his face, as blurred figures appeared on the sidewalk. He aimed at the first figure's head and started to pull the trigger, but the man dropped to the ground. The next darkened mass spun in the doorway, punctured by bullets from an unseen shooter. A man in street clothes wearing body armor and a ski mask burst through the door, shoulder firing a drum-fed Saiga shotgun into the market. Lying well below the Saiga's twelve-gauge shot pattern, Sayar fired a single .40 caliber round from his Glock through the intruder's forehead and searched for another target past the descending body. The lifeless body slumped to the left, pinning the door against the wall.

He watched another body awkwardly fall into the threshold, the victim of FBI sharpshooters. Before he could mentally celebrate, another heavily armed commando jumped through the doorway, dropping to the floor a few feet in front of Sayar. From a prone position, he fired an extended burst from his G36C assault rifle at the area around Sayar's table. The man realized his mistake halfway through the burst and swung the rifle in Sayar's direction. The Israeli-born operative stopped the rifle with his left hand and placed the Glock against the side of the man's head, blasting his brains onto the wall next to the door.

An explosion from the rear of the market told him that their ordeal was far from finished. Another team had been detected in one of the homes across the alleyway. He reached forward to grab the semiautomatic shotgun that had fallen against the blood-splattered door, still hearing gunfire on Coney Island Avenue. He'd have to rely on the FBI to finish the job out there.

He holstered the pistol and shouldered the massive shotgun before moving deeper into the market. In a low crouch, he made it a third of the way through the maze of merchandise before the shooting started. Unable to positively identify anyone through the smoke caused by the blast, he held his fire for a few seconds…until automatic weapons fire and shotgun blasts dominated the store. He couldn't imagine that any of his team had survived. The door leading upstairs was open, which meant that Abdul had joined the fight. Two gaping holes and several smaller splinter marks in the door gave Sayar the impression that he hadn't lasted very long.

He lined up the nearest shadow detectable through the smoke and put the shotgun into action, pulling the trigger repeatedly as he moved swiftly toward the back of the market. He expended the fifteen remaining twelve-gauge shells within a few seconds, abruptly stopping the assault team's momentum into the market. Grunts and screams erupted during his sudden charge, as a wall of double ought buckshot blanketed the narrow confines of the storage area, ripping through half of the True America commandos. Return fire followed immediately, barely giving Sayar enough time to reach the cashier counter. He saw a dark red, football-sized smear on a calendar tacked to the wall behind Diyah's stool. The operative was nowhere in sight.

He caught movement in his peripheral vision and hurled himself over the counter. Before he could clear the white Formica barrier, an automatic weapon sent several bullets in his direction. The counter disintegrated around him, and he felt his left knee explode, followed by a similar pain in his right ankle. He crashed into a stack of VHS tapes and toppled a recycling bin as his momentum slammed him down to the littered floor.

He heard repeated pistol shots and looked up to see Diyah Castillo sitting low against the wall a few feet away, firing her pistol through the opening in the counter. Her face looked ashen. She stared blankly down the sight of the Glock, firing slow, methodical shots. The drywall around her exploded, as True America's commandos started to take better-aimed shots from the storeroom. She didn't flinch as the rounds hit the wall next to her head.

He reached out and grabbed her bloodied left arm, yanking her toward him as several bullets struck the space she had just previously occupied. Her right arm remained extended, and she continued to fire. A ski mask and assault rifle appeared above the counter, the barrel pointed right at his head. Before the muzzle could flash, ending Sayar's life, Diyah's pistol roared, sending a .40 caliber hollow-point round through the rifle's EOTech sight. A massive dark splash hit the wall behind the commando's head.

He had managed to bring his own weapon up over Diyah's left shoulder when he saw more movement over the counter. Too many of them, he thought, as the slide on Diyah's Glock locked back. Her pistol was empty, and there was no way she would be able to reload it. Her left arm had been destroyed. He raised his own pistol, thinking that this was the end. He hoped their sacrifice would give Sanderson what he needed to stop True America. Before he could pull the trigger, bursts of rifle fire erupted from the front of the market. He was faintly aware of the blue and red light dancing on the market's surfaces and the sound of yelling. The words "clear" and "FBI" rang in his ears.

Aleem Fayed sprinted down the poorly lit, uneven sidewalk, keeping his suppressed MP-9 submachine gun as low as possible. Tariq followed a few steps behind. He couldn't believe their luck, given the fact that the True America operatives had nearly achieved a complete surprise attack. Their radio discipline had kept the impending assault from detection until the very last moment, when the final order had been given from the vehicle they were rapidly approaching. One brief radio transmission had given their electronic warfare team everything they needed.

Tariq and Aleem had been parked just around the block when the attack order had been transmitted. The close proximity of True America's command vehicle put them within striking distance. When the location of the transmitted order popped up on their mobile tablet, they hadn't wasted a second talking about options. They bolted out of their car, leaving the keys in the ignition.

The occupants of this vehicle had been the true purpose of the entire operation. The FBI might capture some of the True America shooters alive in the market, but Sanderson was more interested in getting his hands on someone higher up in the leadership structure. Given the training level of the True America operatives, Sanderson highly suspected the existence of a substantial training compound. If they could discover the location of True America's militant training center, the FBI should be able to rapidly unravel True America's plot. Aleem intended to be the one to deliver this information to the FBI.

The two operatives slowed to a quick walk, raising their weapons to a ready position. Tariq's MP-9 had been fitted with an underslung Taser, which would be critical to taking one of the men alive. It would be Aleem's job to identify the leader and kill the rest. They had exhaustingly practiced this abduction technique at the Argentina compound, to the point where they could take down a four-man security team, removing the high-value target within seconds. As they weaved through the thick tree trunks between the parked cars and sidewalk, he could see that they were dealing with two men in an Explorer parked three cars down. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed off the brownstone houses, hitting his ears from every direction.

The driver raised a handheld radio to his ear for a few seconds, before lowering it and shaking his head quickly. The Explorer's brake lights illuminated, followed by the sound of the vehicle's ignition turning over.

"Driver is our target," Aleem said.

Tariq sprinted forward, clearing the trees, while Aleem slipped between two parked cars and approached from the street. As he passed the rear of the Explorer, he barely caught the white reverse light in his peripheral vision. If the car was in gear, this could get complicated when Tariq's Taser pushed 50,000 volts of electricity through the driver's body. If his foot was on the accelerator, they'd have a major problem. It was too late to stop Tariq. He just hoped his partner detected the white reverse lights. Based on Tariq's wide angle of approach, he wasn't hopeful.

As soon as the front passenger's head came into view through the rear passenger window, Aleem fired a short burst, immediately seeing the bloody result on the front windshield. He aimed through the shattered window into the back seat, confirming that it was empty. He continued forward, but was unable to get to the front passenger window. It took him a brief moment to realize that the car was moving forward. He fired a round through the passenger window and tried to aim at the driver's leg, but the car accelerated rapidly, headed straight for a white pickup truck parked several spaces down. He sprinted behind the vehicle with Tariq, who no longer held his submachine gun.

"I tossed it in the fucking car to keep the wires intact," he hissed, anticipating Aleem's question.

The Explorer slammed into the rear of the pickup truck, causing a deafening crunch. The SUV's engine continued to scream, pushing the vehicle against the pickup truck and edging both vehicles forward. The engine's whine drowned out the sounds of gunfire, bringing the neighborhood to life. Porch lights snapped on up and down Westminster Street. They needed to get out of here immediately.

Tariq reached the Explorer first and yanked the driver's door open for Aleem, who grabbed the driver by the left arm and pulled him free of the vehicle, silencing the hideously loud engine. He dragged the convulsing man several feet onto the sidewalk, while Tariq retrieved the MP9 in the dead passenger's lap and disabled the Taser. In the few seconds it took for Tariq to do his job, Aleem searched the man for weapons, finding only a wallet in his rear pants pocket.

"Grab the radio and find his phone," he said.

Five seconds after the Explorer had crashed into the pickup truck, he jogged down the sidewalk with their target in a fireman's carry, while Tariq covered their one-block retreat to their vehicle on Argyle Road. Through his own labored breathing, Aleem noticed that the distant shooting had stopped. He hoped Sayar and his team had survived, but given the amount of gunfire they had heard approaching the Explorer, he wasn't very optimistic. Sanderson had been right about the Imam. Killing him had been extremely important to True America's leadership. Important enough to send more than a dozen highly trained commandos to conduct a brazen hit-and-run attack. His deadline for extracting information from the man slung over his back would be accelerated. There would be no way to keep the FBI's direct involvement a secret, which meant that True America might hasten their timeline upon learning that some of their operatives had been captured alive.

Chapter 23

Ryan Sharpe removed his headset and stared at the main screen. The market operation had been a success, yielding three live suspects for background searches and interrogation. They also had thirteen dead True America militants, which they could identify and research. For an investigation that had essentially stalled earlier in the day, this would breathe new life into the search for the remaining virus canisters. He glanced up at Callie Stewart, who had chosen to watch the operation from the balcony above. She met his glance and nodded before walking into her office, presumably to report to her master.

Her team — Sanderson's team — had lost two of their undercover operatives in the attack. The two survivors had been rushed to the Brooklyn Hospital Center's Level II trauma center with multiple gunshot wounds. According to Damon Katsoulis, the mobile task force's tactical commander, Diyah Castillo had been listed in critical condition by EMTs. She had departed on the first ambulance to leave the scene, immediately followed by her team leader, Abraham Sayar, who was listed in serious condition. Two FBI agents had been wounded in the fierce gun battle, both of them hit by armor-piercing rounds fired at the snipers in the apartment. The bullets passed through the building's brick façade, striking a pair of headquarters agents as they entered the sniper's nest to provide additional firepower. Fortunately, the armor-piercing rounds had lost much of their velocity punching through centuries-old bricks and didn't penetrate the ceramic plate inserted in the lead agent's tactical vest. The round that struck the non-hardened ballistic material covering his right shoulder was another story. The "through and through" projectile lost some more velocity tearing through muscle and bone, but continued down the hallway undeterred, glancing off the second agent's head before finally lodging in a doorframe on the other side of the apartment. A few more millimeters to the right, and the bullet would have punctured her skull.

Katsoulis had arrived in one of the first vehicles to reach the market, but by the time they rushed through the front entrance, most of the battle was finished. After a brief exchange of gunfire that killed one of the suspects, the last standing True America commando surrendered. They found two more alive in the storeroom, bleeding through multiple wounds. Katsoulis said the inside of the market looked like a slaughterhouse. He had no idea how their undercover operatives had managed to survive a simultaneous, two-sided attack.

According to agents covering the back alley, at least seven heavily armed attackers emerged suddenly from one of the houses behind the market to breach the rear entrance. By the time the agents had assembled to respond as a group, the firefight inside the market had ended. The entire event had lasted roughly forty-five seconds and yielded a fresh start to their investigation.

He still didn't trust Sanderson any further than he could throw Hesterman's massive linebacker body, but he felt a debt of gratitude. Without Sanderson's involvement, they would still be scratching their heads, waiting for a warrant to enter the Imam's mosque. This thought made him wonder about the Imam's fate. Just as he felt his moral center start to wander, he remembered the dark side of Sanderson's involvement. Operating outside of the law always came with a hefty price tag. Sharpe knew this better than anyone.

He had distinctly crossed that line two years earlier, pitting Agent Edwards against Jessica Petrovich. Only a hefty dosage of sedatives and alcohol, presumably provided by Jessica against Edward's will, had saved Sharpe from answering some serious questions about his investigative methods. Luck had intervened, along with something else. Every record of the emails he had sent to Agent Edwards had disappeared. Agent O'Reilly had checked, knowing that the trail would lead back to both of them. She couldn't find a single trace of the emails anywhere.

There was only one possible explanation. The system had been hacked through Edward's computer. For obvious reasons, he couldn't push the issue, although a thorough risk assessment had been conducted on Edward's laptop. Standard procedure for a laptop that had been left "unattended" in the presence of a criminal suspect. The assessment hadn't uncovered a security breach, which further unnerved Sharpe. Why would Sanderson go out of his way to help him like that? Blackmail further down the line, or a sense of duty to protect the good guys? He couldn't begin to guess, let alone spend time worrying about it. Still, the seed had been planted, and every once in a while, it dominated his thoughts. Right now, he couldn't shake the feeling that Sanderson was pulling all the strings.

He patted O'Reilly on the shoulder and walked toward his office. All of their marching orders had been issued. They would start searching for commonalities between all sixteen True America operatives. Travel patterns, purchase history, friends, email, phone records…everything. Interrogation of the survivors would begin immediately. Agent Carlisle eagerly awaited their arrival at the Newark field office, though he would only have one customer tonight. The other two would need medical treatment and rest before they could be questioned.

He hoped they could turn up the heat on the prisoner at the field office. Collating and analyzing data for trends could take too long. He had no doubt it would yield valuable results, but he needed something now. Carlisle's interrogation tonight would be their best hope for moving things along quickly. Part of him wished they could divert the van carrying the prisoner to Sanderson's people. An even darker part of him hoped that this plan was already in the works. He knew Sanderson's people were capable of taking down a prisoner transport van without causing friendly casualties. They had done it before. He erased the thought as quickly as he had formed it, angry that he had even let it slip through his moral safeguards.

Chapter 24

Jackson Greely had penned a few changes to the speech he'd given to the University of Pennsylvania Libertarian Association earlier that evening in Philadelphia. The event had been well attended by university alumni, students and members of the greater Pennsylvania Libertarian Party. He also recognized a few familiar faces from his own organization at the dinner. Typical of his university appearances, campus political organizers had protested his talk, citing many of his "old" talking points as reasons to ban him from the institution. Of course, he steered clear of these topics, playing to the crowd of libertarians who shared many of True America's core beliefs, but shied away from True America's concept of isolationism.

Greely didn't like using the libertarian favorite foreign policy word: non-intervention. Non-intervention was part of True America's philosophy, but Greely and others felt that the concept was misleading. The U.S. would be forced to intervene in order to enforce the isolation necessary for the New Recovery. The international community had become reliant upon U.S. involvement, without realizing the scope of their dependence. Lost behind a tide of resentment, foreign politicians rallied against U.S. foreign policy without giving much thought to the consequences of its absence. When the Aegis shield held over them by the U.S. was suddenly lowered, chaos would ensue, requiring intervention to keep the backlash from reaching North American shores.

Even U.S. sworn enemies in the Muslim world would panic. Without their convenient "bogeyman" to blame for the Middle East's current state of decay, the Imams would be forced to come up with new material to inflame the expanding mass of Muslim youth. They'd still blame everything on Israel, but without U.S. support, even Israel's "defiant" existence in the Holy Land would fade from relevance to many followers. Greely predicted a massive wave of violence from Muslim extremists, as they came to terms with the fact that they would soon lose their only connection to Muslims worldwide. Stand-off intervention might be required for decades to keep this threat at bay, but he downplayed those aspects of True America's core beliefs when speaking to libertarians. Their support would be crucial in the upcoming days and essential to 2008 election efforts to put the first president outside of the entrenched two-party system in the White House since Millard Fillmore was elected from the Whig Party in 1850.

Jackson wished he could have spent more time in Philadelphia. The city radiated a palpable current of political vitality that never failed to energize him. The founding fathers had spent months creating the documents that had shaped this great nation, debating and deliberating with great care. Current politicians barely bothered to read the bills they signed or voted into law. Senators and congressmen utilized entourages of poorly paid staffers or volunteers to sift through the nonsense that none of them seemed qualified to examine on their own. All of this would change. The next few weeks would catalyze the American people and give them the courage to demand a new course of action for the nation.

His cell phone rang, and he snapped it off the desk before it could ring a second time. He had expected to hear from Brown earlier. The operation in Brooklyn was of paramount importance to their organization. True America's militant arm could not be connected to the events leading to the inevitable coup. Distanced from the rational, public face of the True America movement, the political leadership would rise to lead the nation into the New Recovery. But the rise would be tenuous, and any ties to Al Qaeda, regardless of the necessity, could foment opposition to the movement at a vulnerable stage. Brown's orders had been explicit. Eradicate the last remaining link between the two organizations.

"Give me some good news, Tommy," he said.

"We have a major problem. Possibly several," Brown said.

In the decade that Greely had known Brown, he had neither seen nor heard even a trace of panic or exasperation from the man. Brown kept his emotions in check, betraying nothing, even to his closest friends. Greely detected a shift in his tone, a combination of fear and dread that immediately set off every one of Greely's internal alarms. He considered disconnecting the call until he could verify that Brown wasn't speaking to him under duress.

"What the fuck happened? This was an easy mop-up job."

"Not so easy when…one, you're expected by the FBI, and two, the entire area is covered by SWAT. The teams got inside, but the feds had people in the market as well. Two of our operatives were captured. The rest were killed in the assault."

"This is a fucking disaster!" Greely roared. "Tommy, did they at least kill the Imam?"

"Not that I can tell. My sources can't confirm this one way or the other. I rather doubt the Imam was anywhere near the market."

"What does Estrada have to say about this clusterfuck? What does he know?"

"That's the worst part. Estrada is missing…and I don't think he was taken by the FBI. His truck was found a few blocks away, crashed into a parked car. Davis was still buckled into the passenger sea—"

"They caught Davis too?" Greely interrupted.

"No. Davis was still strapped into the seat, shot through the head. Executed. Someone ambushed the car. My local PD contact said that two Arab-looking men helped the driver of the crashed SUV out of the truck and carried him down the block running. Do you think it was Al Qaeda?"

"I doubt it. Al Qaeda is out of business from what we can tell. We know they grabbed the last cell in Bayonne this morning. I don't know what to make of it."

"Maybe a cell operating outside of the Imam's network? A cell activated to shadow the operation?" Brown suggested.

"Maybe. Either way, we need to significantly accelerate our plans. If we fell victim to an FBI sting operation, then they have the Imam and he's talking. Where are you right now?"

"I'm on Interstate 79 outside of Morgantown, heading to Hacker Valley. I should arrive at the compound within the next two hours."

"Good. I need three things from you in the next twelve hours. First and foremost, get the compound ready to repel an immediate attack. You know what to do. Second, activate our insurance policy in D.C. I know it's a rush job, but the feds are putting the pieces together quicker than we had anticipated. I want him ready by tomorrow evening. Lastly, send another team to deal with Young. Terminate with extreme prejudice, and tell them to be extremely cautious. They might have competition."

"Understood. I'll start making some calls right now. How long do you think we have at the compound?"

"At least twenty-four hours, probably more like thirty-six. Is everything set for tomorrow morning?"

"Yes. They'll start digging at noon," Brown replied.

"Perfect. I'll let you go, Tommy. I need to clear out of here, just in case the FBI decides to suspend the Constitution and grab me out of my hotel room. I'll be in touch shortly. Don't hesitate to call if you run into a snag. We're almost there. Just another week or so, and the country will have a fighting chance to realize a new era of American exceptionalism."

"Well worth the sacrifices, Jackson. I'll see you up north in a few days."

"Sounds like a plan, Tommy. Make sure to get the hell clear of the compound as soon as possible. You don't want to get caught up in that mess.

"I'll be out of there by mid-morning at the latest."

"Good luck, and take a deep breath when you get off this call. I don't need you driving your car into a ditch," Greely said.

He heard Brown laugh, which was a good sign.

"I hear you. Long, deep breaths. Talk to you soon."

Greely started to collect his items and pack his bags for an immediate departure. He'd steer clear of any known associates or regular stops from this point forward. Once he got on the road, he'd call Lee Harding and give him an update. Harding would have to go into hiding with him. Owen Mills had anonymously rented a comfortable house on Lake Wallenpaupack for their absence. From the house, they were perfectly situated for quick trips to the laboratory facility and the distribution hub in Honesdale, each less than twenty miles away.

A perfect hideaway for the two of them until it was safe to emerge and make a statement in support of the New Recovery. Mills owned a significant lakeside estate a few miles south along the waterfront. Lake Wallenpaupack had turned into the epicenter of True America's secret leadership cabal. Decades from now, people might travel from all corners of the country to catch a glimpse of the house used by New Recovery founders Jackson Greely and Lee Harding. Maybe it would become a national landmark.

His most important call would be to Jason Carnes at the laboratory. Carnes had insisted that his people needed a minimum of eight days to get the bottles out of the lab. He needed them to cut that timeline in half. He needed those trucks rolling out of Honesdale as soon as possible. Everything hinged on the trucks delivering their cargo. Once delivered, it was in God's hands.

Chapter 25

Aleem Fayed opened the basement door and stepped into the kitchen, closing it softly behind him. He tossed a small digital dictation machine on the kitchen counter and started to wash his blood-soaked hands in the sink.

"It's all there," he said, without looking up from his hands.

Once the red tendrils of blood had stopped flowing across the white ceramic basin, he switched the water to cold and took a handful to splash his face. He rubbed his eyes with watery hands, before placing them on the edges of the counter to brace himself for a few seconds of rest. He stared at the soap dispenser behind the sink, just to the left of the tap. He needed more than a few seconds of repose, but his day was far from finished. He turned his head toward the dining room and saw that everyone was staring at him.

"Did you find anything on his phone?" he asked the others, breaking the silence.

He knew why they were staring at him. Screams and crying from the basement had lasted for nearly an hour, as Aleem perpetrated his finest masterpiece of physical and psychological torture. By the time Estrada had finally expired, the True America militant had been so utterly confused and physically strained that he had rambled completely unrelated pieces of information in the hopes of unlocking the key to his survival. Even Aleem felt slightly sorry for the wrecked human being fastened to the metal basement support beam. The man had endured the most twisted hour of his life, dying unceremoniously in an anonymous basement on the outskirts of a New Jersey suburb. Breaking Miguel Estrada had required little physical torture, beyond a few well-placed kicks and punches. Most of the session had been a mental seesaw attack, designed to rip the psychological rug out from under Estrada, over and over again.

It started when he was shoved into the dimly lit unfinished basement and tied to the thick metal column several feet in front of the Imam. Aleem kept him faced away from Hamid Muhammad, until the Imam's muffled screams could no longer be ignored. Estrada was free to rotate around the column, restrained by handcuffs and a long U-shaped Kryptonite bicycle lock. When he finally shifted to face the muffled screams, Aleem ripped the duct tape off the Imam's face and watched as Estrada's face registered recognition and confusion. At this point, Aleem announced that Estrada's abduction had been part of an induction ceremony to bring him into the next level of True America's inner circle and that the raid on the market had been staged as his final test of loyalty and competence.

As the Imam screamed, Estrada was told that he would be given the honor of killing the Imam with his bare hands, but he would not be released until the Al Qaeda terrorist was dead. Aleem released Estrada from the handcuffs and pushed Hamid Muhammad's chair within striking distance of the militant. It took him nearly ten minutes to pummel the life out of the Imam. Aleem had pulled the chair back several times to keep Estrada from strangling him. He wanted Estrada physically exhausted and emotionally charged for the next turn of events.

When the Imam's pulse faded to nothing, Aleem unleashed a vicious attack on Estrada, dropping him to the floor. He recuffed his hands and thanked him for doing the Prophet's work. Sending the traitorous Imam straight to hell on behalf of Al Qaeda would ensure a quick, painless death, he had assured Estrada. He explained how the Imam had double-crossed everyone. He had stolen money from True America, while at the same time giving up the location of the hidden Al Qaeda cells. Estrada knew that part of this was untrue, but any effort to explain how they had tracked the Al Qaeda cells was met with Aleem's fists. He demanded to know where they had taken the stolen virus canisters, but Estrada held out, even after one of his fingers was bent backward to the point of breaking. At this point, tears started rolling down Estrada's cheeks, which told him it was time to change back to the first story.

Aleem completely freed Estrada and tossed a water bottle down for him to drink, congratulating him on passing the final test of loyalty. He would now be taken to meet Lee Harding and Jackson Greely for the final ceremony. Estrada grabbed the water bottle and accepted Aleem's hand, rising back to his feet. He could tell that Estrada wanted desperately to believe that he had passed some bizarre hazing ritual. This was when he slipped up for the first time. He asked if they still needed him for the job in Atlanta. Benjamin Young. Aleem immediately kicked him in the groin and pulled him by his hair back to the basement support column, reattaching the U-shaped lock.

He had almost passed the test, Aleem stated. He'd given up mission details under uncertain circumstances, possibly jeopardizing True America's inner core. Estrada apologized profusely and took a drink of water, squeezing the rest of the water over his head. The results of the habanero-infused water were immediate. Estrada's sweat pores and eyes absorbed the habanero oil, causing his face to feel like it had caught fire. The pain in his mouth had probably been beyond comprehension for several minutes. Aleem waited for the screaming to die down before informing him that Jackson Greely had once told him something at the training compound that could save his life. Something important that only Estrada could know.

Aleem spent the next twenty minutes using a flaming aerosol can to keep Estrada talking. He gave up everything in hopes of hitting the one thing that might save his life. He had crossed the line of rational thought, which would have never allowed him to disclose some of the intimate details of his association with True America. He'd confirmed several things they had suspected, but never provided details about the bigger plot. Tommy Brown and he had masterminded the simultaneous hit against Al Qaeda, having tracked and observed the cells for over a year. Brown was the tactical arm of the True America militants.

Beyond shepherding one of the cells to the Mount Arlington pump station, Estrada didn't have any further details. His next mission after killing the Imam involved killing a man named Benjamin Young in Atlanta. He didn't have many details about the man. He'd planned to take two other operatives down to Atlanta. He apologized profusely for not knowing more, but assured Aleem that Brown usually gave him future tasking upon completion of each mission. Based on the sheer terror in Estrada's eyes, he had little reason to doubt the man's sincerity.

When he informed Estrada that he worked for an "off the books" government agency tasked to stop True America's plot, the man alternated between rage and self-pity, screaming one moment and suddenly crying the next. Aleem ended his misery with a front kick to the man's neck, crushing his neck against the metal pole.

"Hello? Earth to fucking techno-geeks. Did you pull anything off the phone?"

His comment jarred them out of their trance, prompting Graves to respond.

"He had several text messages containing addresses in Atlanta. Listed separately as 'family home, apartment, escort apartment, escort bar, and hotel gym.'"

"Makes sense. His next mission was a hit in Atlanta. A man named Benjamin Young. Start working up a profile on this guy and download the information on this recorder. Is there anything on the phone related to Hacker Valley, West Virginia?"

"Hacker?" Anish Gupta said.

"Coincidence. Hacker Valley is the location of their training compound. You'll find detailed directions on the digital recording," Aleem said.

"I'll start cleaning things up downstairs," Tariq said.

Graves and Gupta watched Tariq get up from the dining room table and walk into the living room.

"Are they dead?" Gupta asked.

"No. I'm planning on taking them to get a Big Mac and fries after they clean up," Aleem replied sarcastically.

"Fuck, man. This is getting out of control," Gupta said.

"What the fuck are you complaining about? Nobody's asking you to clean up the mess. You think I enjoy this shit? Trust me, I don't. You do your job, and I'll do mine. That's how it works, unless you want out. I'll make the call to Sanderson myself. If you can't do your jobs, I need to find a crew that can. Do you want me to make the call?" Aleem asked.

"I'd rather not be taken by one of you to get a Happy Meal at McDonald’s, so I'll stick around," Graves said.

"I don't even like McDonald’s," Gupta said.

"The comedy duo of Gupta and Graves." Aleem laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Let's get a data package put together for General Sanderson. We'll clean up the mess and sanitize the house. I'd like to be out of here in less than two hours."

"Sounds good to me," Graves said, standing up to grab the digital recorder from the kitchen counter.

Aleem returned to the sink and ran the water across the entire surface of the basin, washing any trace of red down the drain. He'd use Comet later to remove any remaining traces of biological evidence. Before that, they would remove the bodies, placing them in the trunk of the stolen Honda Accord that sat parked in the garage. Tariq appeared in the dining room doorway and held up two black plastic body bags.

"Ready when you are," he said, grimacing.

"Let's get this over with. I'll grab the cleaning supplies," Aleem replied, turning off the faucet.

Graves and Gupta focused on their computer screens, avoiding eye contact.

Chapter 26

Special Agent Sharpe stood next to Dana O'Reilly and let her explain her team's findings.

"The mobile investigative team found five vehicles involved in the attack: four located within the immediate vicinity and one found a few blocks away," she said, looking up at Sharpe.

"We'll talk about the missing driver in a minute," Sharpe said.

He probably shared the same concerns about the driver as Dana. It seemed unlikely that additional Al Qaeda elements were involved, which left them with one scenario: Sanderson's people.

"The assault group had been sanitized of any identifying paperwork. Nothing was stashed in the van besides prepaid fuel cards, Visa gift cards and a small amount of cash. The vehicle registrations belong to a corporate entity that specializes in discreet vehicle leases. We'll request the appropriate warrants, but you can guess where that will lead."

"Nowhere, eventually," Sharpe said.

"Exactly," O'Reilly replied.

"We've identified six of the dead men scouring state and federal databases with our facial recognition software. Nothing unusual about any of them. Two military veterans, a paramedic, a truck driver, restaurant manager…average people on the surface."

"Clearly not. What about the suspects in custody?"

"The two in the hospital won't be ready for any kind of meaningful interrogation for at least two, maybe three days. Carlisle has assigned one of his interrogators to each of them, just in case they feel like talking. No IDs on either of them, yet. Carlisle is leaning on the suspect that surrendered in the market. We've identified him as John Galick. Married with three children, ages three, six and ten. Lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, less than ten miles from his alma mater, Duke University. Information technology consultant. No military experience. The only red flag I can find are numerous political posts on MySpace and Facebook. The posts smack of True America rhetoric, but they stop cold in 2005."

"Probably when he was recruited," Hesterman said, leaning back as far as his chair permitted.

"You comfortable, Eric?" Sharpe said.

"Not really, but Dana won't give me permission to put my feet up on the desk," Hesterman said.

"The last thing I need is a pair of size fifteen shoes in my way," O'Reilly said.

"I can rest them over here," he said, nodding at the corner.

She just shook her head and continued the briefing. "So far, he hasn't said a word, but Carlisle is pretty sure he'll have him talking by morning."

"Don't count on it. This group reminds me of another group that gave us a shit ton of trouble and continues to pull the wool over our eyes. I'll call Carlisle myself and make sure they proceed very cautiously with Mr. Galick. So, why did you really call me down here?"

"Am I that transparent?" O'Reilly asked.

"Considering the fact that you forwarded me this information nearly forty minutes ago, I'd say your deception skills are lacking."

Hesterman let out a muffled laugh from his resting position.

"We…" she said, hitting Hesterman in the shoulder, "think we've uncovered the location of True America's compound."

Hesterman sat upright in his chair, quickly adjusting the seat back to accommodate the undesired change in his posture.

"Demir's agents found a total of six cell phones, five prepaids. One for each vehic—"

"GPS enabled?" Sharpe interrupted.

"No," Hesterman said. "And they were probably purchased nearby. But cell phone number six isn't a prepaid. They found it in a backpack that was stuffed in the rear cargo compartment. We have in our possession a Blackberry owned by Miguel Estrada. Resident of Everett, Washington. Served on active duty in the army from 1989 to 2000. Most of his time was spent with the Second Ranger Battalion. Honorably discharged as a captain. Stayed in the active reserves until 2005, when he formally resigned his commission."

"Looks like True America's commando training kicked into full gear around 2005," Sharpe remarked.

"Yeah. It's starting to look like this has been in the works for some time," O'Reilly said.

"So, the Blackberry was dead and had to be rebooted, which is why it took us so long to figure this out, but it appears that Estrada was a little sloppy with his OPSEC. With the help of our NSA liaison, we were able to trace his Blackberry's travels over the past month, right until it ran out of juice yesterday morning," Hesterman continued.

"Do I even want to know how the NSA could retroactively track a GPS-enabled phone?"

"No, and apparently it wouldn't matter if you did want to know. Nobody is offering an explanation. I brought the matter to the NCTC watch supervisor, who gave me a number at Fort Meade. All they asked for was the Blackberry's phone number. Forty minutes later, I received a list of GPS coordinates. Obviously these coordinates are classified," O'Reilly said.

"Obviously. Thanks for keeping me in the loop."

"You were napping at your desk, and Mendoza told us not to disturb you," O'Reilly said.

"I most certainly was not sleeping," Sharpe said.

"I'm just kidding," Dana said. "We all wanted to surprise you with a little good news. Go ahead, Eric."

Hesterman clicked the mouse, and their 27-inch flat-screen monitor showed a map of the northeast corner of the U.S., spanning from Connecticut to Ohio. Hesterman started the show by zooming in on New Jersey.

"Are you kidding me? He was less than a half mile from the Mount Arlington pump station. How does that make sense?" Sharpe said.

"It doesn't, unless True America was somehow supporting Al Qaeda, or following them. The coordinates are provided in one-hour increments, and we have two hits at this location along Old Drakesville Road. Estrada sat here for more than an hour, which doesn't sound like he was following them."

"We can worry about that later. Where's the compound?"

"Two weeks ago, his Blackberry traveled to an obscure location in West Virginia, northwest of Hacker Valley. Google maps showed a large, natural clearing at the coordinates. The area is heavily forested, and I don't see a road leading to the clearing," Hesterman said.

"Did you request recent NRO satellite imagery?"

"I just finished sending the request when you woke up from your nap," O'Reilly said.

"I wasn't napping."

"I'm sure you weren't. I think the next step is to request live satellite surveillance," she said.

"Agreed. Send me the coordinates, and I'll get the ball rolling with Director Shelby. He'll need to brief the White House," Sharpe said.

"Do you think they'll roll in with military?" O'Reilly said.

"It depends on what they find in West Virginia, but I wouldn't be surprised if they use the military regardless. Our special operations liaison said that SOCOM has assembled one of the biggest Tier One packages he's ever seen at Dover Air Force Base."

"Do you want to talk about the missing driver now?" O'Reilly said.

"Yeah, about that missing driver…two 'Arab-looking' men dragged him to safety according to witnesses," Sharpe said.

"Nobody found it odd that they carried him from the scene?" Hesterman asked.

"Apparently not," O'Reilly said.

"I think this was the work of our favorite general, which leads me to wonder about their intentions," Sharpe said.

O'Reilly leaned closer to Sharpe and spoke in a whisper. "I still don't trust Sanderson's crew, but we've definitely benefited from their participation. Maybe it's not a bad thing if they have Estrada."

"That's the last time I want to hear either of you talking like that. We can't play by their rules, and we certainly can't condone what they're doing, no matter how much we benefit. When the internal investigators descend upon our databanks to audit the inner workings of this task force, we'll all have to stand on the red carpet and explain why we turned a blind eye to murder, torture, kidnapping…all of it. We're walking a very fine line as it is. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Hesterman and O'Reilly responded in unison.

"Good. I'll handle Ms. Stewart and Sanderson. This bullshit ends tonight. E-mail me those coordinates."

"They're already waiting for you at your computer," O'Reilly said.

"Thank you. And by the way, excellent work. Sorry to run, but I need to square away our situation with Sanderson," he said and turned toward the staircase leading to the second level.

He hoped that his ass-chewing would steer O'Reilly and Hesterman away from the inner workings cast by Sanderson's spell. He didn't dare admit to them that he shared the same hope that Estrada was strapped to a chair in some dank basement, awaiting the next round of unthinkable pain and agony. He'd long ago seen the value of Sanderson's tactics, but he couldn't come to terms with it. He'd spent most of his adult life following regulations and strictly observing the rules laid out for him by the FBI. He'd strayed from this straight and narrow path two years ago, in his pursuit of Daniel Petrovich, and it now felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He wasn't on his way to Stewart's office to put an end to Sanderson's interference. His plan was to harness the power that Sanderson wielded to prevent the death of countless thousands. He'd tasted Sanderson's world and wanted more. He had fought against these urges, knowing that they had no legitimate place in his law enforcement world, but the consequences of failure were too devastating. If stopping True America's plot meant wrecking his own career, he would gladly make that sacrifice. He couldn't make that decision for O'Reilly or Hesterman, so they would be excluded from the covert side of Task Force Scorpion, and he'd have to keep Mendoza in the dark as well. In the unlikely event that the Sanderson association blew up in his face, they would be protected from prosecution.

He ascended the stairs and approached Callie Stewart's assigned office. Before he reached the door, she stepped out onto the catwalk.

"Is DeSantos in there?" he asked.

"No. He's been gone for several hours. Can I help you with something?"

"Let's step into your office. Close the door behind you, please," he said.

Once the door was shut, he sat in one of the faux brown leather chairs near the window. Stewart lowered herself into the adjoining chair.

"From this point forward, we're going to cut the bullshit. I know you have Estrada. Do you have the compound location?"

"I just received the information," she said, clasping her hands.

"Were you planning to share this information with me?"

"Well…it's a little more complicated than that for us."

"Because you don't want to tip Sanderson's hand? That's no longer a concern between us. I'm just going to assume that Sanderson holds a royal flush at all times. I'd like to speak with him for a moment, if you wouldn't mind calling him for me," he said.

"It would be my pleasure," Stewart said, standing up to walk over to the desk.

"I'd like this to be a private call. Let's use your cell phone," Sharpe said.

Stewart slowly dropped back into the leather chair, her facial expression showing no surprise at the request.

"All communications leaving here are monitored by—"

"Not buying it, Ms. Stewart. You're good, but I've worked in counterintelligence for twenty years. I haven't walked up those stairs once since you arrived, and the first time I decide to pay you a visit, at 1:30 in the morning, I'm intercepted at the door?"

She dialed the number and waited a few seconds for Sanderson to answer.

"Everything is fine, General. Special Agent Sharpe would like to speak with you."

She passed the phone to Sharpe.

"Good morning, General. I was just talking to Ms. Stewart about how I'd like to proceed from this point forward. No more secrets. I need to know exactly what you know, as soon as you know it. I need to know what your operatives are doing before they do it. The flow of information at this point is a congested, one-way street."

"One-way street? You haven't exactly rolled out the red carpet for Ms. Stewart. Information is flowing like mud from your end," Sanderson countered.

"Really? Maybe this would be a good time to reboot and debug the NCTC computer system. They'll probably follow suit at the Newark field office. How would you feel about the information flow then? The cyber techs didn't find any security breaches at the Newark field office, but I'm sure your people covered their tracks pretty well. Money buys the best talent, and from what I can tell, you have a lot of money at your disposal."

"I'm not sure sharing information would be in your best interest, as a government employee," Sanderson replied.

"Let me worry about that," Sharpe said.

"Once you stepped into this arrangement, you can't just step out. We're partners."

"I wouldn't go that far. What kind of information did you manage to get from Estrada?" Sharpe asked.

"Details about the compound. From what I can see, your people have the correct location. I assume that General Gordon's Joint Special Operations Command will be given the task to take down the compound. Based on what Estrada disclosed, the FBI would be seriously outmatched and outgunned. Unfortunately for us, planning and intelligence gathering efforts for the operation will remain in-house with SOCOM. Aside from timeline and general information, we'll be spectators. This is where your background will be critical to their success. We need to ensure that they either find — or are prepared to deal with — .50 caliber heavy machine guns. Estrada said they had three at their disposal, with armor-piercing ammunition. They also have some kind of armored vehicle, with a mounted MG42. It's more of a body-shop project, but not something our Special Operations forces want to stumble upon. They also have a 60mm mortar with high-explosive ammunition. Have you ever come across evidence or rumors that True America was acquiring this stuff? We have to warn them somehow, and I'd rather do it in a way that doesn't tip our hand."

"Your hand," Sharpe corrected.

"Our hand. This is our hand now. No going back at this point. Can you connect True America with heavy weapons purchases?"

"I can connect them to a deceased arms dealer who specialized in hard to find, highly illegal weapons. He provided your organization with .50 caliber sniper rifles and a whole host of new weapons."

"Navarre. Perfect. He offered my operatives a whole host of crazy, very dangerous shit. Soviet bloc shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. I think you need to insist that your voice is heard. Once a decision is made to raid the compound, schedule a sit-down with your SOCOM liaison, Colonel Jeffrey Hanson. He's a good soldier and will listen to what you have to say."

"What if they go completely behind our backs, or just announce the raid an hour or two in advance?" Sharpe asked.

"We need to make sure that doesn't happen. I have people on the inside that can warn us, and I'd recommend that you cozy up to Director Shelby. He was instrumental in planning the raid that landed over a hundred special operators at my camp in Argentina. Just be careful. He didn't have much of a choice about my unit's participation in Task Force Scorpion, and I suspect he'll turn on me at the first opportunity and you too if he catches wind of this."

"My agents will need to be on-scene immediately to start processing evidence. As soon as the compound is declared clear, it's back in my hands. I'll make sure they don't cut me out of the loop," Sharpe said.

"Sounds like a solid plan. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm working on something else that might interest you. Nothing actionable yet, but highly intriguing. After killing the Imam, Estrada's next mission was to travel to Atlanta and assassinate a prominent D.C. lobbyist named Benjamin Young. Mr. Young's wife and children live in Atlanta. He also maintains apartments in D.C. and Manhattan. Apparently, he's not the most faithful husband, and he's developed quite a drug habit. True America leadership wants him out of the picture, so he must be a critical liability. I'd like to know why. I'll have people in Atlanta by mid-morning to start surveillance. I'm hoping to take him off the streets before True America sends another team after him."

"I'll steer clear of that one for now," Sharpe said.

"Good call. I'll keep you apprised of any developments in Atlanta."

"All right and, General?"

"Yes?"

"You're not going to screw me on this, right?"

"Ryan, I give you my word that the only agenda item on my blackboard is to put an end to this terrorist plot. My operatives are loyal and share that single goal. You saw proof of that earlier this evening. The operatives assigned to the El Halal mission understood their odds. More importantly, they understood the importance of their mission to our country. Hundreds of thousands of American lives will be lost if we don't stop True America. I debriefed Petrovich and Farrington after they returned from Monchegorsk. The video evidence and accounts of horror publicized by Reuters do little justice to the tragedy that unfolded in that doomed city. Just one of those canisters could turn one of our cities inside out."

"You had people on the inside? In Monchegorsk?"

"I had a small team penetrate the city on behalf of the CIA. The Russians are lying through their teeth about Monchegorsk, and they're leveling the city to eradicate the population. You've seen the projected symptoms of the weaponized virus we're facing. Temporal lobe damage to almost everyone infected. Symptom severity varying from fever with disorientation all the way to an uncontrollable murderous frenzy. My team said the streets were overrun with aggressive, zombie-like citizens. That's why they are calling this the Zulu virus. If this virus is unleashed in a high-density population area here in the U.S., our own government's options for dealing with the crisis would shrink rapidly. How do you effectively deal with a thirty to forty thousand person rampage in the suburbs?"

"I guess you go Russian on them," Sharpe said.

"Exactly. My organization is willing to go as far as necessary to stop that from happening in the U.S."

"I wish we could do more, but my hands are tied here," Sharpe said.

"Your task force is doing exactly what it was designed to do and doing it exceptionally well. You just need the occasional boost from my group to fine-tune your efforts. Working together gives us the best chance to stop this threat."

"I'm not going to lie to you, General. Working with your group makes me nervous," Sharpe admitted.

He had to make sure this was clear to Sanderson. He wasn't sure why, but he needed the general to acknowledge his concerns.

"I won't leave you hanging out to dry, Special Agent Sharpe. I consider you one of my own now," Sanderson said.

"All right. We're unlikely partners in this mess. Speaking of which, I need to get back to the watch floor. I'm going to hand you off to Ms. Stewart."

"Good luck today, and welcome to the team."

Sharpe didn't like the sound of Sanderson's last comment. He handed the phone back to Stewart.

"This doesn't mean you get to hang out in my office and drink coffee," he said to Stewart before departing. "We keep up the appearance that I can't stand your presence here."

"Got it," she said, taking the phone.

"And have your people actively track O'Reilly's computer activity. I can't be the only one around here to suspect that our system has been hacked. She's smarter than both of us combined and way craftier," Sharpe said.

"Is there any way to bring her on board?" Stewart said.

"Absolutely not. The rest of my people are off limits. That's non-negotiable. If this dangerous liaison detonates, I don't want them exposed. This includes Mendoza."

Sharpe left her office and stepped onto the catwalk, glancing down at the watch floor. The activity level had diminished throughout the center, which was more a reflection of the late hour and the fact that they had been running nonstop for the last forty-eight hours. Most of the agency liaisons were holed up in their offices sleeping, leaving skeleton crews on the floor to monitor progress. His own crew had thinned tonight at O'Reilly's request. She kept enough agents and analysts on the floor to process evidence and information gathered by the mobile investigative team in Brooklyn. She had sent at least half of them away to get rest once they had put the computers to work trying to identify the men and women captured or killed in the market raid.

They had the location of True America's militant training camp, which would effectively propel the investigation forward. He'd pass this information on to the White House situation room as soon as he stepped into his office and then place a call to Director Shelby. Actually, he'd reverse that order, he decided. Shelby would probably savor the chance to deliver this information. He'd at least give Shelby the option. Career management 101. It sounded petty and ridiculous, but little things like that mattered to the director.

He imagined that this new information would trigger a string of early wake-up calls throughout D.C. He'd be lucky to grab an hour or two before the watch floor was back in full swing. Before all of that, he'd need to convince O'Reilly that he'd laid down the law with Stewart. O'Reilly hated Sanderson's crew and represented the single greatest threat to unhitching Sanderson from the task force. He'd lie about Estrada, telling her that Stewart denied involvement. O'Reilly wouldn't believe Stewart's claim, but in the long run, it was a safer move for all of them.

He'd have to maintain the same lie with Mendoza, which might be too big of a stretch. Mendoza had been present during Stewart's confession that Sanderson's people had abducted and absconded with the Imam right under the FBI's watchful eyes. He knew that the El Halal Market operation and the early morning Bayonne raid had all fallen into their laps, compliments of General Sanderson. He'd have to gauge Mendoza's reaction. If his friend pushed back too much, he might have to relent. He didn't like running a web of conspiracy and lies within his own task force, but the stakes were too high to lose Sanderson's support. He turned toward the staircase, ready to start spinning his own web upon reaching the watch floor.

Chapter 27

Chief Petty Officer Steve Carroll checked the straps of his oxygen mask and adjusted his wide-lensed goggles one more time. He twisted around in the awkward parachute rig and scanned his team. Barely visible in the darkened cargo hold, he verified that all seven members of his reconnaissance team were up and checking each other's gear. He abruptly spun his head around to face the impenetrable darkness beyond the open loading ramp. Barely discernible through the darkness was roughly two minutes of free fall. Invisible hands tugged on his gear, providing him with a final assurance that nothing would come loose during his descent. They were loaded down with an atypical assortment of weapons and sensors, all of which were needed to safely reach the ground.

The jumpmaster located to his left wore an oxygen mask and an oversized headset. Like the rest of the Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) commandos in the oversized cargo bay, he had been breathing compressed oxygen since the flight departed Dover Air Force Base less than an hour earlier. Having just arrived at 20,000 feet, they were in no immediate danger of hypoxia, but mission planners had made it clear to the flight crew and DEVGRU personnel that no unnecessary risks would be taken en route to the objective. Even the ramp had been lowered immediately after take-off, to ensure that a midflight malfunction could not keep his team from jumping.

Carroll felt two solid slaps on his right shoulder, signifying that the final equipment check for his team was finished. He extended his right hand and gave the jumpmaster the thumbs-up sign. The Air Force technical sergeant had given them their one-minute warning less than thirty seconds earlier. The red indicator lights on each side of the ramp flashed twice, prompting the jumpmaster to yell, "Thirty seconds!"

Time seemed to stand still. He was glad time wasn't measured standing at the edge of these ramps. After what seemed to be an eternity, the indicator lights turned green, and his team stepped forward in unison. He walked off the edge of the ramp and hit the turbulence caused by the C17's four Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines. The turbulence was expected and short lived as he quickly fell away from the aircraft. The air tore at his suit and equipment as his body approached terminal velocity, fighting to destabilize his "spread stable position." Several seconds later, his body position stabilized, and he knew he had achieved his terminal velocity.

He was now in complete control of his free fall. Without changing the position of his upper arm, he hinged his left elbow and examined the illuminated navigation board attached to his left forearm. He would use the information provided by the GPS receiver to guide his team to a position over their drop zone. Examining the rudimentary display, he decided to guide them north. By altering their body positions, they could affect a small degree of lateral movement, which was usually enough to compensate for any distance error caused by the jump.

He pointed his head north and locked his arms alongside his body, while simultaneously bringing his legs closer together. The new body position had an immediate effect, and he rocketed downward. Though nearly imperceptible to Carroll, his body made lateral gains north as most of his momentum carried him vertically down. He held the position for ten seconds and went back into "spread stable" to check the effect of his maneuver. He was relieved to see that they were in a much better position to hit the drop zone when they deployed their parachutes at 2,000 feet. He might even consider a lower deployment altitude given their current position relative to the wide clearing they had chosen. 1,500 feet would give them ninety seconds of glide time to make any final adjustments. His altimeter had been set to warn him at both altitudes.

He altered the position of his arms and deflected enough air to spin his body one hundred and eighty degrees. He now faced his team's formation. He counted seven dark gray shapes packed tightly together in front of him, bobbing and shifting as each commando continuously made small adjustments to stay within arm's reach of each other. He considered one more northerly adjustment, but decided against it. He had traded fall time for accuracy by shaping his body like a bullet in a "tracking" position for ten seconds. By decreasing his stability and eliminating a significant portion of the drag on his body, he nearly doubled the speed of their descent. They were rapidly approaching 5,000 feet and needed to prepare for parachute deployment.

He gave the hand signal to open their formation and watched as the team started to separate. Less than twenty seconds until they reached 1,500 feet. He stared below and saw a few distant lights to the south. The area that contained their drop zone and surveillance target gave him nothing. Black emptiness stared back at him. He watched his altimeter and took one more look at their formation. Plenty of distance between jumpers. He saw each of the three muted flashes provided by his altimeter and knew they had reached 2,000 feet. He quickly confirmed the altitude and watched the digital readout pass 1,600 feet. He reached down with his right hand and pulled his ripcord right before the altimeter flashed again. He knew that the entire team would follow his lead and deploy their parachutes less than a second later.

The parachute harness yanked high against his inner thighs as the experimental MC-6 parachute arrested his descent from 176 feet per second to 16 feet per second. Within seconds he started steering the parachute with the toggles attached to the canopy lines, searching for the drop zone located beneath them. At a thousand feet, he started to see the differences in terrain. A quick glance at his navigation board confirmed that the lighter patch of gray just below them was the designated drop zone.

The clearing was less than fifty meters long and thirty meters wide, which was why they had chosen the experimental MC-6. The round parachute gave them an advantage over the square-shaped MC-5 canopy in more confined spaces, giving them the option of a steep descent. Though each member of his team could easily land an MC-5 in the drop zone below, mission planners took into account the possibility that they might be forced to land somewhere else. No chances were being taken with this operation, and he fully understood their mentality.

As he rapidly approached the ground, he slowed his descent and manipulated the toggles to gain more forward momentum. Despite being a round canopy, the MC-6 was highly maneuverable, and he fully intended to land gently on his feet…deep within Hacker Valley.

Chapter 28

The president of the United States rubbed his face with his hands and leaned back in the deep golden couch, waiting for his first cup of coffee to arrive. He warily eyed the two men seated on the matching couch opposite him. The concealed door leading to the West Wing opened, and a Secret Service agent entered, quickly stepping aside to permit the entry of the president's coffee service. A middle-aged man with thin brown hair dressed in a sharply tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie pushed a silver cart into the room. He efficiently placed the polished silver tray containing three matching silver cups and a large silver coffee pot on the low table between the couches. A few seconds later, an assortment of cream, sugar and other sweeteners appeared on the table. The man started to prepare the president's coffee.

"Thank you, Robert. That won't be necessary this morning," the president said.

"Very well, Mr. President. Will you be taking breakfast in the residence this morning, sir?"

"Yes. I'll eat with my family in about thirty minutes, Robert."

"I'll notify the kitchen, Mr. President. Gentlemen. Please excuse me." He nodded and pushed the beverage cart back through the same door through which he'd entered.

Jacob Remy, the president's chief of staff, leaned forward with Harrison Beck, the president's chief political advisor.

"So it's confirmed?" the president asked, helping himself to the coffee service.

"Unfortunately. Our hopes for a convenient bogeyman evaporated last night. The FBI conducted a major sting operation that killed or captured seventeen militants, none of them Al Qaeda. They've identified a possible terrorist training camp in West Virginia, which is under surveillance as we speak. SOCOM is putting together a package to take down the camp if ordered," Remy said.

"It looks like three militants were captured?" the president asked.

"That's right. One surrendered to the FBI. The others were severely wounded by undercover agents inside the market," Remy replied.

"And the special assets used for the operation?"

All three of the men knew what he meant by "special assets." Even within the confines of the Oval Office, none of them would speak directly about Sanderson's involvement.

"Two killed, as you know. The two wounded are in stable condition."

"Harrison, what's your take on the situation?"

"This is a tough one," Beck replied. "We haven't confirmed that this is the work of True America militants, but I can't imagine the FBI is too far away from drawing that conclusion. I think we're dealing with a splinter group, likely under the leadership of Jackson Greely or Lee Harding, but we don't have enough information to make the connection."

"I'm not sure we want to," Remy said.

The president nodded in agreement, and Beck continued.

"The True America political movement is sweeping the nation and grows larger every day. We all suspect that they'll make an independent bid for the White House next year, and they'll most certainly do some damage to the House and Senate. Projections show them taking at least twenty percent of the House, though these projections are early. Neither party has started to throw any serious money at advertising at this point. I see those poll numbers dropping drastically when the real money hits the streets. Still, their grassroots political campaign has been extremely effective and can't be discounted. Any connection to domestic terrorists will kill the movement. I can't see any scenario in which the True America political arm would condone this militant action. The True America folks on the Hill have very clearly denounced the previous militant rhetoric spouted by Greely and Harding. The two of them barely make a living giving speeches to NRA dinners and Libertarian rallies."

"Either way, we have to be careful with this, Mr. President. Our best-case scenario is that we stop this plot and never really connect this group to True America," Remy said.

Beck chuckled at his comment. "I don't think we're going to benefit from that kind of a convenient luxury. This reeks of True America, and if it links back to Greely or Jackson, no amount of distance will keep the political movement alive. The FBI has traced one of last night's captured cell phones to the Mount Arlington pump station, connecting them with the Al Qaeda plot to poison the water supply of 35,000 citizens. Then we have the picture of the guy taken at the Al Qaeda safe house — Julius Grimes. He's even been photographed in public with True America. Politically, the biggest challenge we face is not appearing overly eager to connect this to True America and torpedo the movement. We're dealing with a major political phenomena predicted to upset the two-party system in 2008, or at least shake up the status quo. We need to be one hundred and ten percent certain that True America is behind this plot before anybody mentions a possible connection between the two. The last thing we can afford in the early election cycle is the accusation that we're trying to pin this attack on True America."

"Our first priority is stopping any further attacks. I want a link to SOCOM's planning efforts and a continuous executive summary of the surveillance. I'll address General Gordon in the situation room later this morning. In the meantime, I'll talk to Director Shelby and make sure he understands the importance of keeping the True America link quiet for now," the president said.

"What do you think about approaching True America's leadership with these developments? Shake the trees a little. If the political arm is in any way connected, they might put pressure on the militant group. If they're not connected, they would likely start their own investigation. This could be a coup in the making within True America," Remy said.

"All speculation at this point. This might be a group completely unconnected to True America. Until we possess more information, we can't approach them like this. They'd ask for proof, and we'd be hard pressed to give them more than a picture of a guy that used to hang out at Greely's old True America rallies. They'd cry foul," Beck said.

"No sense in trying to predict their reaction to hypothetical situations at this point. We'll keep an eye on the political ramifications, but let me be clear about one thing. If True America is involved, I have no problem exposing them," the president said.

"At the right time," Remy added.

"Exactly. I'd love nothing more than to torpedo their movement."

Chapter 29

"Mugs" started moving forward slowly, and Chief Petty Officer Steve Carroll settled in for a long morning. After an uneventful landing three miles north of the target compound, they hid their gear and split into four teams of two, each assigned a different cardinal approach to the compound. Their mission was simple, observe and report, but above all, remain undetected. Remaining undetected was the trick. They had moved at a normal pace under the cover of darkness, which allowed his team to cover most of the terrain in two hours, stopping at a point he had previously designated on his map to deploy Mugs.

A few minutes before arriving at the point, he'd started to pick up faint wireless signals on his wrist-mounted battle feed, which had been detected by one of the squat antennas protruding from the communications rig in his backpack. This particular antenna was a "receive only" array, processing signal strength, data emission and direction. Based on the information transmitted to his battle feed, several devices were emitting wireless signals in front of them. They hadn't moved close enough to the signals to process a fix, and he had no intention of moving any further. He had no idea how far the opposing sensors could reach.

Mugs would cover the remaining 1,000 meters at a turtle's pace. One fifth of a mile per hour, or roughly 5.3 meters per minute, which was a pace scientifically proven to defeat all known, commercial and industrial grade remote infrared sensors. Mugs would end its journey twenty-five meters back from the point where the forest stopped and the clearing that surrounded the compound began. The drawback was obvious. Carroll and his teammate, Petty Officer First Class Jeff Stanhope, would have to wait more than three hours for the electronic assistance to reach its destination, possibly longer if the robotic device encountered obstacles.

The Micro Unmanned Ground Vehicle (MUG/V), affectionately known as "Mugs" to the SEALs, resembled a remote control tank, with no turret. Roughly the size of a typical 1/8scale remote control vehicle, the MUG/V contained an internal surveillance package that included four night vision capable cameras supported by infrared illuminators. This provided a three hundred and sixty degree omnidirectional view for the operator. Additional sensors on each side allowed MUG/V to navigate around obstacles when it was programmed for an automated journey like the one that had just commenced. This particular model contained sensors that could detect wireless signals and transmit the data back to Carroll's communications rig, along with the camera feed.

Carroll had his reservations about using Mugs in the rough forest terrain, but he didn't have much choice. The robot could right itself if tipped and was capable of climbing over medium-sized fallen trees, but he was concerned that it might get caught up in thick branches. Mugs had a bad habit of trying to push through thick brush. The density of bushes didn't register as an obstacle that needed to be avoided.

The two SEAL DEVGRU operators disappeared into the surroundings and began the long waiting game that would consume most of their morning. If all went well, they would be able to cautiously advance with Mugs once the motion detectors were disabled. Their robot couldn't jam or disrupt the signals, but the data sent back to his communications rig would be transmitted to a nearby E-8C JSTARS aircraft. NSA techs onboard the command and control aircraft would figure out a way to penetrate the compound's computer network and disable the sensors. If the techs worked fast, they might not have to wait for Mugs to finish the entire journey. Until then, there was nothing to do but remain hidden and try to keep Mugs from getting stuck.

Chapter 30

Jessica stared at the young woman like she was holding a wet brown paper bag filled with dog feces over her lunch. The waitress looked to Daniel for support, still holding the phone out for someone to grab. Jessica didn't need to ask to figure out who was on the line. Few people knew they were here, and only one of them would have the nerve to call them. Given the fact that he had tracked them down at lunch on the first day they were together, Jessica was pretty sure this wasn't a social call. She could barely bring herself to look at Daniel, who should have snapped up the phone immediately. She was starting to wonder if this was her husband's intention all along, to let her make the decision. Well fuck both of them.

"I'm not talking to him," she said to Daniel, then turned to face the ponytailed, twenty-something waitress. "And if you continue to hold that phone in my face, I'll throw it over the railing into the water."

The woman retracted her hand and bit down on the top of her lip, unsure how to proceed.

"I realize this isn't your fault. I apologize for snapping at you," Jessica said, staring at Daniel. "I'm talking to her, not you. Go ahead and hang up on the gentleman, miss. I'll add a twenty to your tip if you do it within the next three seconds. Three, two…"

The waitress smiled and pressed the disconnect button. Before Jessica could dig the money out of her handbag, the phone rang again.

"I'll make that $500 if you throw it into the water."

"Don't throw the phone over. She doesn't mean that," Daniel said to the waitress. He turned to Jessica. "You want me to take this?"

"Not really, but I have a feeling it's inevitable. I don't want to talk to him. He's not going to get my approval to drag you off on another crazy adventure."

Daniel took the phone from the waitress and thanked her. Before she scurried off, Jessica gave her two twenty-dollar bills and apologized for putting her in the middle of their dispute. She watched the waitress walk quickly away from the table and thought about the difference between the two of them. At her age, Jessica had been learning spy craft at Camp Peary, Virginia, also known as "The Farm." A world apart. One woman ready to cry after being placed in an uncomfortable position while waiting tables, the other training for the rigors of an undercover position in war-torn Yugoslavia. She envied the waitress and wished her a simple life that she herself had had.

She caught snippets of the conversation, choosing to focus on finishing her grilled calamari salad. It was a little heavy on the southern spices, but otherwise cooked to perfection. She drank most of her Bloody Mary, staring out at the marina, watching the masts bob up and down, back and forth. She heard enough of the conversation to be satisfied with Daniel's performance. Her suspicions had been wrong.

"He won't be bothering us anymore," Daniel said, placing the phone on the table.

"What did he want?"

"Do you really want to know?"

Jessica considered his question with her own internal query. Were they really done with the Black Flag program? Could they afford to cut ties with the program? That seemed to be the real question they needed to answer. Neither of them could predict how long their current immunity deal would last under a new administration. They were one year away from an election year and a possible reshuffle of the White House. They had planned to disappear as Jessica and Daniel Petrovich and reemerge as a "regular" couple somewhere within the United States. Living in another country remained an option, but their options would be limited, unless they were willing to spend a considerable sum of money. Money like that always attracted the wrong kind of attention.

"Where does he want to send you now? Back to Europe?"

"Atlanta, and he doesn't need me. He wanted to speak with you for a reason."

"He found a job for me? He is still aware that I was recently beaten to within an inch of my life and shot in the hand, right?"

"All of that supposedly makes you the best candidate. If not you, he'll have to hire from outside the group."

"A woman with a claw hand, strangled neck and black eye is the best candidate for the job? Why can't he send Diyah Castillo instead? I'd be happy to punch her in the face a few times."

"Diyah's in critical condition, along with Sayar Abraham. The rest of Sayar's team is dead. They were part of an FBI undercover operation in New Jersey. Sanderson's already sent Munoz and Melendez to Atlanta to start surveillance. The target is a highly successful quasi-lobbyist and fundraiser named Benjamin Young. Apparently, he has a weakness for beautiful women."

"Don't they all?"

"He has a specific weakness for the professional ladies," Daniel said.

"Sanderson needs someone to play the role of a prostitute? Wonderful."

She started to get up, but thought about what little she had heard of the conversation. Daniel had flat out refused whatever Sanderson had suggested, quickly ending the call. She had to remember that none of this was his fault. She lowered herself back onto the plastic patio chair and finished the Bloody Mary in one long gulp.

"You know how I feel about work like that," she said.

"The suggestion didn't sit well with me either," Daniel said.

On paper, two years of intense training with the CIA had prepared her to operate undercover in Belgrade. In reality, nothing could have prepared her for the ordeal she had been selected to endure. She had been too naïve and enthusiastic in Virginia to put the pieces together. Too caught up in her success within the agency to see it coming. From top to bottom, men dominated the Serbian government and paramilitary structures. Women played no role in these corrupt and brutal organizations. This fundamental characteristic of Serbia was so overwhelmingly obvious that it remained invisible to her. The training continued, and she remained blind to the jaws waiting to chew her up and spit her out when she arrived in Serbia. Her handlers only made matters worse for her in the long run.

Beyond the best clandestine training available worldwide, she was spoiled by the CIA. Indulged in expensive clothing, etiquette lessons, and exposure to the finest food and wine money could buy. She emerged from the CIA's clandestine operations training program feeling unstoppable. Highly trained, confident and sophisticated, she could breeze through the casinos of Monte Carlo like James Bond or scale the walls of the Kremlin after sipping a martini with a Russian double-agent. The possibilities were endless for the newly minted agent. Even her undercover name sounded like something out of a Frederick Forsyth novel: Zorana Zekulic.

Her first assignment was to develop Serbian contacts in Paris. Members of Milosevic's paramilitary organizations made a killing in the black market, selling everything from stolen cigarettes to knock-off Polo shirts. The more cosmopolitan criminals traveled throughout Europe, spending time in cities like Paris and Amsterdam, where they could party like rock stars and try to expand Serbia's black market reach. These were typically highborn Serbs, who had vacationed with their families outside of the Balkans and were accustomed to more than Belgrade had to offer.

Family business connections had put them in a position to participate in the paramilitary Ponzi scheme at a high level, but they didn't mix well with the rough crowd that dominated the ranks of most paramilitary groups. Extended stays in the fashionable European cities served many purposes. Survival sat at the top of the list. The more time they spent outside Serbia, the less opportunity their paramilitary brethren would have to cut their throats open in a dark Belgrade alley.

For eight months, "Zorana" had lived the life of a runway model, partying with the "long distance" criminal element of Milosevic's paramilitary regime. Her time in Paris was extremely productive, exceeding CIA expectations. She fine-tuned her newly acquired tastes and broke into nearly every important social circle within the city. As a result of her "hard work," she developed well-placed contacts from three of the major paramilitary groups competing for Milosevic's attention in Belgrade. She repeatedly turned down offers to return with them to Serbia. The CIA wanted her to arrive in Belgrade on her own, not beholden to any particular group. Her handlers would direct these efforts once word of her arrival had spread throughout Belgrade. It would also give the CIA time to assess the success of her cover story, as the name started to filter back to Serbia from Paris.

So far, her "legend" had raised no eyebrows among Serbian expats in Paris, but Belgrade would be a different story. Serbians were suspicious by nature, especially in their own backyard. Her "legend" had been crafted carefully, extensively weaved into her training at the one year mark, where she would start to learn region specific skills that would transform her into Zorana Zekulic.

Zorana had left her parents when she was seventeen to live in Novi Sad with another girl from her small southern village. For two years, she waited tables at night and cleaned houses during the day, saving enough money to travel to Amsterdam. Two months after arriving in the Netherlands, she learned that her parents had been killed by Bosnian guerillas in a rare reprisal attack against civilians in southwestern Serbia.

Zorana Zekulic was found dead a few months later, floating in an obscure canal west of the city, the apparent victim of a heroin overdose and possible strangling. CIA analysts given the task to find a new "legend" had struck gold making these connections. Zorana's death went unnoticed in Amsterdam, since she had never broken into any significant social scene. CIA agents struggled to find anyone that remembered her beyond a hazy "oh yeah, I remember her…she used to hang out at the, uh…one of the cafés in De Wallen…I'm trying to think of the name…give me a second" comment. Agents in Amsterdam calculated that any memory of Zorana Zekulic would fade within three months, long before her replacement arrived in Paris.

Paris had been like a dream for Jessica, now living as Zorana Zekulic. Three inches taller, and she could have easily broken into the runway model business. She had already turned down several photo-ops for women's fashion magazines at the request of her CIA handlers. They wanted her to attract attention, but not worldwide attention. Several months later, she was given the "green light" to leave Paris.

Immediately upon arrival, she noticed that the scene was starkly different in Belgrade. Her "friends" had kept their distance in Paris, despite their wealth and overconfidence. In Paris, she held the upper hand. She learned very quickly where she stood among these "friends" in Belgrade — a few notches up from prostitute. The rest of the men didn't differentiate. She spent most of her first month crying in her apartment. She was trapped in the most demeaning role imaginable, with no way out. She had been recruited by the CIA because she was "the very best of the best" and accelerated through the most selective training program in the world. All of that had landed her on the streets, fending off the most vile savages on earth. Looking back, she couldn't believe she hadn't seen this coming. She came from nothing. Why would she have expected anything different?

She looked back at Daniel. He had rescued her from the depths of hell after she had turned her back on him and disappeared in Chicago. He never asked any questions about why she had abandoned him. That was the thing with Daniel; he never judged, and he never hesitated to take her back. He understood her on a core level, which both frightened and comforted her. No matter what she did, he'd always be there for her. She couldn't ask for anything else. She loved him fiercely and wanted to do what was right for both of them, even if it meant small sacrifices.

"What's the risk level?" she asked.

"Low. Young travels between D.C., Manhattan, and his home in Atlanta. True America wants him dead. Apparently, he knows too much about their organization at this point for them to overlook his addiction to escorts and drugs. Sanderson sent your two friends to keep an eye on him. He wants us to talk to Young before they kill him. This involves you luring him from a hotel lobby bar to a hotel room, under our watchful eyes. We'll take care of the rest."

"You'll be there?"

"The entire time," he assured her.

"This may sound crazy, but I don't think we should sever ties to Sanderson yet. He may be the only person that can save us if the immunity deal falls apart. Despite his cold, calculating personality, I sense a loyalty to you that can never be broken. As long as we can work together, I'm in."

"Nothing crazy about sticking together. Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"I'm sure. What's the timeline?" she said.

"Young is scheduled to be in town for two more nights. Sanderson doesn't know very much about his Atlanta routine, but the guy's taken a room at the Ritz Carlton in Buckhead, presumably for extramarital entertainment. The dynamic duo has secured the room across the hall from him. Sanderson wants us to give this a try tonight. He stressed the importance of grabbing him during his normal routine at the hotel. Munoz hasn't detected any third-party surveillance, but it's only a matter of time before True America gets some eyes on Young…or stuffs a gun down his throat. They have already issued Young's death warrant, so Sanderson thinks tonight might be our only chance to do this without drawing attention."

"Buckhead is a four- to five-hour drive from here, and I need to do some shopping. Preferably in a few of the boutique shops on Peachtree Road. We need to get moving."

"We can finish lunch. Sanderson reserved two seats for us on the 2:15 out of Savannah. Puts us in Atlanta by 3:30."

"In that case, I think I'll order the buttermilk fried flounder and another drink while you give Sanderson the good news."

"Sounds like a plan," Daniel said, staring off at the ocean past her.

She could tell something bothered him about the seemingly simple mission. Something he had chosen not to disclose.

Chapter 31

Officer Warren Donahue turned the Laurel Police Department's Ford Explorer onto Hill Road and cruised at a comfortable speed down the dusty service road. Thick foliage from the trees crowded the dirt lane, creating a shaded tunnel around his vehicle. Newly grown weeds lapped at the sides of the SUV. In a few more weeks, some of the sturdier species of brush would scrape the paint if they didn't get a crew out here to cut everything back. He checked his watch and thought about the end of his shift. Two hours and counting.

Today's shift had started normally enough, despite the increased manning requirements dictated by the most recent Homeland Security threat assessment. Two hours into his eight-hour shift, Donahue had been recalled to base to pick up a passenger. Sergeant Bryan Osborne had decided that today would be the perfect day to get out on patrol with one of the rookies. Donahue really couldn't complain, Sergeant Osborne had even paid for lunch at Pi's deli.

He spotted the turn for Combat Road and debated whether to take his sergeant further into the vast tract of forest or turn west toward downtown Laurel. He drove this stretch at least once during every shift, mostly checking for abandoned cars. His route varied, sometimes taking him to the western edge along the Wildlife Loop. He thought it was a waste of time, but the entire loop only took one of their patrol cars out of town for thirty minutes, so his patrol sergeant insisted that at least one of the officers make the trip. As the shift's rookie, the errand typically fell in his lap.

He decided to head back to Laurel and started to guide the SUV left at the worn patch of grass and dirt serving as the intersection.

"Hold on, Warren. Back up and take a right. I thought I saw something down Combat Road," the sergeant said.

"Roger that, sir."

A few moments later, the SUV headed east toward the outer loop road.

"Right there. Looks like a pickup truck nestled in the woods," Sergeant Osborne said as they approached a small turnoff to their left.

Donahue stopped the SUV and stared down the tight path, which was overgrown with thicket and looked barely navigable by vehicle. From this spot on Combat Road, he could see the back of a red pickup truck, which had been fitted with a commercial cap and roof rack. He wasn't sure how the sergeant had managed to spot the vehicle from the intersection. He probably had caught a glimpse of the red paint through the forest, which was another argument for assigning two officers to each patrol vehicle. He wondered how many details like this he missed on a daily basis, being more focused on safely navigating his vehicle. Then again, Sergeant Osborne had been doing this for nearly fifteen years and had developed instincts and skills that Donahue could only dream of at this point.

"Nice catch, Sergeant. Do you want me to squeeze her down the road to take a closer look?" Donahue asked.

"No. Why don't you park, and we'll take a look on foot."

With the SUV parked several yards back from the path, the two officers walked down the rough vehicle path until they approached the back of the pickup. A cursory examination revealed that the vehicle was a late model F-150, kept in excellent condition.

"Kind of seems out of place here, doesn't it?" Osborne said.

"I was thinking the same thing, sir. The exterior is pristine, aside from the mud kicked up from this little spot," Donahue replied.

The pickup had been forced to traverse thick mud to arrive in a dry patch on the edge of the small clearing. Donahue measured the area and determined that the pickup would barely have enough room to turn around.

"I don't know how they plan to get out of here," he said.

The sergeant just shook his head and stepped around to the driver's door to take a look.

"Door's locked. Hood's cool. Just rained this morning, so they couldn't have arrived last night," Osborne said, pointing at the tracks in the mud.

"Should we call this in and have another unit join us for a look?" Donahue asked.

"Nah. We'll head out a hundred yards or so and see if we can pick up a trail. If not, we'll make sure the next shift swings by to check it out before dusk. Probably some yahoo out hunting."

"I don't know, Sergeant. Check out those patterns in the mud over there," Donahue said, pointing toward the far end of the small clearing. "Looks like they carried something here and put it down. Wheel tracks lead off onto some kind of path."

Osborne joined him at the edge of the clearing and looked back and forth between the pickup truck and the new set of tracks. "Looks like something heavy. See how it sank into the mud?"

"Maybe we should call this in?" Donahue asked again.

"All right. Call it in to dispatch, and have them send a unit to assist. Tell them to wait at the Explorer until we get back. We'll poke around the woods for a few minutes and head back to meet them."

While Donahue called it in using his shoulder-mounted microphone, Osborne followed the wheel tracks deeper into the forest. Initially, they had to push through light bushes, which showed damage from whatever had preceded them, but within twenty feet, they broke out onto a worn path. The tracks became less apparent on the dry, packed ground, but freshly broken branches on both sides of the trail assured them that the wheeled contraption had been moved forward.

"What do you think we're dealing with here? Meth lab?" Donahue asked.

"Fuck if I know. Whatever it is, I guarantee they're up to no good."

With Sergeant Osborne in the lead, they casually walked about one hundred feet until the sound of machinery caused them both to freeze in their tracks. Osborne cocked his head as if trying to determine the direction of the noise. At the same time, he released the strap on his holster and drew his semiautomatic service pistol. Donahue did the same, pointing the Glock 22 downward at a forty-five degree angle.

"What do you hear?" he asked, moving closer to the sergeant.

"I don't know, but I don't like it. Sounds like some kind of serious work going on out there. Turn your radio down. We're going to split up and figure this out. Let's stay within sight of each other. Are you familiar with basic hand signals? Eyes on, stop, move out, down, retreat?" he said, mimicking each signal to emphasize his point.

"Yeah, I got those, Sarge. We use the same signals hunting," Donahue said.

"Good. Move slowly and quietly. If you step on a branch, get down. We'll see how they react. If we're quiet, I think we'll be able to walk right up on them."

"Maybe we should wait for backup," Donahue suggested.

"Let's see what we're dealing with first. You head out maybe 50 feet on the left side of the path, I'll take the right side, and we'll move forward until we make visual contact. Keep your finger off the trigger. You don't want to trip and fire off a round."

"Yes, sir," Donahue said, taking his finger out of the trigger well.

The two officers split up, fighting through the brush before stopping to establish visual contact with each other. Donahue saw his sergeant wave his free hand forward and start walking north along the direction of the trail. He stepped through the brush, trying not to break any branches or step on anything that looked like it would snap. It turned out to be a nearly impossible task.

Fortunately, the machine working in the distance would likely drown out any noise created as they pushed through the forest. He felt certain of this, since he couldn't hear the sergeant's equally noisy efforts across the one-hundred-foot divide.

He alternated between watching his footfalls, scanning ahead for the trespassers, and keeping an eye out for the sergeant. As they drew closer to the noise, Donahue recognized the sound of a small generator between the more pronounced mechanical bursts of sound that had originally attracted their attention. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed that Osborne had stopped moving forward. He turned his head toward the sergeant and saw him lower to one knee. Donahue immediately mimicked the sergeant's action. The sergeant turned and signaled him by pointing two fingers at his eyes, followed by a single finger pointed north. He had spotted someone ahead of them. Three fingers held upward indicated three people. Shit. Three was enough to wait for backup. He anticipated the next signal to be a wave in the opposite direction, but Sergeant Osborne had other ideas.

Osborne raised himself up and pointed his pistol, signaling that they should move forward. Donahue's heart started racing as he watched the sergeant move forward and realized he had no choice but to follow. Every step filled him with dread. The possibility of taking on three suspects in the middle of nowhere was a bad idea, even with backup inbound. They were already too far into the forest to immediately benefit from assistance. He couldn't imagine what these people were doing out here with heavy machinery.

With every step, he prayed that Sergeant Osborne would change his mind. They could even crouch down right here and direct the backup units toward them. Sergeant Osborne stopped again and lowered himself. His signals indicated that the group of men was directly ahead of him. Donahue squinted, trying to pierce the thick leaves and ground brush with his eyes, but was still unable to spot anyone. The next hand signal scared the hell out of him. Osborne wanted Donahue to join him. He didn't relish the thought of crossing the path this close to the suspects, but he liked the idea of safety in numbers. He felt extremely exposed by himself in these unfamiliar woods.

With the racket of machinery covering his own noise, he approached the path as quickly as possible, keeping his eyes focused north. When he peeked around the last tree trunk before the path, he caught a glimpse of movement less than fifty feet ahead of him. They were way closer than he had suspected. The figure stayed within view for several seconds before disappearing behind an impenetrable layer of brush and crowded trees. Overhanging branches dipped low on the path, keeping him from seeing a face, but he could tell the man was Caucasian by his hands. After he was certain that the man had completely vanished, Donahue crossed the path, staying low until he reached Osborne.

"Fifty feet ahead, behind all of the shit up there. I saw one of them," Donahue whispered.

"I saw three guys through a break in the trees just for a second. They're working some kind of portable digger," Osborne said.

"Hey…maybe they just bought the property and are digging a well?" Donahue said, still trying to catch his breath.

"Nobody digs a well carrying an AR-15," Osborne said.

"AR-15s? We have to back off and call in SWAT. They might have more people patrolling the forest," Donahue said.

His heart thumped faster, and he knew that he was coming close to having a panic attack. This was too much for two municipal police officers to handle. Three men armed with AR-15s. This could be anything, from some wacko militia group to drug dealers. They were less than three miles from Fort Meade, so maybe this was some kind of terrorist attack. They could be burying a mortar in the ground to fire on the National Security Agency. The possibilities were endless.

"We can take this crew down quickly. You saw one of them down the path. That'll make everything easy. Quick approach. They'll never hear us coming. We'll achieve complete surprise. Trust me. Nobody will move when we pop up out of nowhere with drawn weapons"

"I'm not trained for this kind of tactical situation," Donahue said nervously.

"Look, Warren," Osborne said, making direct eye contact, "I used to head one of our tactical teams. This will be over in less than five seconds. You have to trust me on this."

Donahue nodded and tried to shake the doubts that weighed heavily on him.

"I'll take the lead. We'll rush up the path and spread out once everyone comes into view. You aim at the guy farthest to the right and alternate with the next one to his left. I'll take the furthest left and alternate with the middle guy. That way they see that we have them all covered. Follow my instructions once they raise their hands and we have them under voice control. You good to go?"

"Yeah. I'm good. Let's do this," Donahue said, trying his best not to sound doubtful.

Osborne patted him on the shoulder. "Good man. How far out is our backup?"

"Hold on," he said and put a call through to dispatch. After receiving a response, he said, "They just turned onto Columbus Road."

"Perfect. They're less than three minutes from our truck. We'll have this wrapped up before they step out of their vehicles. Stay close, and stay low."

Sergeant Osborne walked briskly toward the path, pointing his weapon at the opening in the brush less than thirty feet ahead. Donahue followed in his footsteps, careful not to point his weapon at Osborne. His finger kept returning to the trigger, and he had to make a conscious effort to listen to Osborne's previous advice. An accidental discharge right now could possibly kill both of them. His sergeant reached the edge of the thicket and went down on one knee, waiting for Donahue.

"Here we go. On three. One. Two…Go!" he hissed, and the two officers sprinted down the path.

Sergeant Osborne cleared the brush and aimed at the first target that materialized, which turned out to be a dark-haired man wearing a long-sleeve khaki shirt and blue jeans. He was facing away from the sergeant and cradling an AR-15. Osborne didn't hesitate. The first rounds to leave his service pistol struck the man high in the back before Donahue stumbled through the opening. He shifted his aim to the man operating a portable digging machine and fired three rounds in rapid succession. One of the rounds skipped off the contraption's raised auger bit, saving the operator from a clear shot to the forehead. The remaining two rounds burrowed through the thick muscle of the man's right shoulder and collarbone, barely moving him.

Still in the game, Osborne thought, as he sighted past the auger and focused on another headshot.

Before he could pull the trigger, Donahue's pistol roared to life, spraying bullets into the two standing men. Osborne had counted on this type of reaction from the rookie. He figured that once the shooting started, Donahue would unload his pistol. He could see the panic in the young officer's eyes a few moments earlier. He knew there would be no trigger discipline, just a maelstrom of steel erupting from his officer's gun. Osborne pulled the trigger of his own weapon, hitting the machine operator between the eyes as three bullets from Donahue's pistol stitched across the man's chest. A quick glance at the third suspect confirmed that he was out of the fight, with two holes in the center of his gray polo shirt.

The third man dropped to his knees and toppled to the right, trying to jam the stock of his rifle into the soft forest floor, in a desperate attempt to arrest his fall. When the shooting started, Osborne realized too late that he had underestimated the reaction speed of their suspects. The third man had almost managed to bring his AR-15 to bear on them. Fortunately, Donahue had turned out to be a better shot under pressure than he had expected.

Osborne rushed to the fallen suspect and snatched the assault rifle from his grip, kneeling down to examine the man's wounds. Donahue lowered his pistol and muttered "what the fuck" several times before addressing Osborne.

"What the fuck was that all about? You started shooting without any kind of warning," he said, surveying the scene. "You hit that one in the back, Sarge? Shit. We're fucked!"

From his lowered position next to the dying suspect, Osborne holstered his weapon.

"Calm down. There are three guys with assault rifles. One of them almost put this into action against us. We didn't have a choice," he growled, aiming the rifle at Donahue.

"This is absolutely fucked," Donahue stated, oblivious of the barrel pointed at his head.

"Sorry about this," Osborne said.

"Sorry doesn't undo the fact—"

The sentence was interrupted by a short burst of automatic fire from the rifle pointed at his head. Officer Donahue never changed expressions as his body went slack and hit the ground with a muted thump. Sergeant Osborne jammed the rifle back into the wounded man's arms and drew his handgun, firing three rapid shots into the suspect's head. He stood up and glanced at the scene. A bright red, portable digging machine vibrated on oversized inflatable tires, drumming out the echoes of gunfire. Everyone was dead from what he could tell.

He looked back at Officer Donahue's crumpled body and cursed himself. They had insisted that he would need another officer on the scene to avoid any suspicion, but he had been wary about this idea from the start. He knew it would have to be the rookie. The more seasoned members of the force would have refused to proceed into the forest without backup. They would have certainly never agreed to charge an armed group in the middle of the forest. He needed someone he could pressure into following him. He just wished the young officer had reacted differently, so he could have kept the kid alive.

He'd argued this point extensively with Brown. He saw very little upside to having another officer on the scene, especially an idealistic rookie. He had to make sure every one of the suspects were killed in the gun battle, which meant he had to go in with guns blazing. There was no other way. They couldn't take the chance that one of them might actually surrender. Brown had made this point crystal clear and saddled the sergeant with a severe handicap. They obviously wanted it this way. He had to admit, the scene was compelling. Two local police officers unwittingly stumble onto the scene of a planned terrorist attack, taking out the terror cell, but not before one of the heroic officers is killed in a fierce exchange of gunfire. It made one hell of a story.

He checked his watch. With any luck, their backup had just arrived. He rushed over to Officer Donahue's body and heaved the dead weight into a fireman's carry. He struggled through the forest, screaming for help while trying to ignore the blood and brain matter that gushed down the left side of his uniform. He had to make this look good for the officers that came upon him. Donahue's sacrifice would catalyze the nation into action. Both of their actions would be recorded in True America's secret operational files, to be unceremoniously, yet handsomely rewarded at the appropriate time. The New Recovery would usher in a new era of prosperity, never forgetting the risks taken and sacrifices made by a handful of dedicated patriots.

He stumbled forward a few more steps before spotting a familiar navy blue uniform shirt racing through the trees. As the voices approached, he found himself able to conjure up tears. The final act of his performance approached, and he wanted to win an Emmy for True America.

Chapter 32

Sharpe had just sat down in his office when his mobile phone rang. He had been looking forward to possibly closing his eyes for a few minutes. The call originated from the daytime NCTC watch floor supervisor, Jason Volk.

"Mr. Volk. How can I help you?" he answered.

"My analysts just picked up some police traffic that might be related. You should take a look at this. I can send it to your computer."

"No. I'll be right out."

He headed out of his office and turned left, making his way to the front of the watch floor. The immense projection screen dominating the front of the room showed a detailed satellite map of the northeast United States. A red marker blinked near Baltimore, Maryland. As he approached Jason Volk at one of the forward-most workstations, the map zoomed in on the mark, centering on a location between Laurel, Maryland and Fort Meade.

"That's only a few miles from the National Security Agency," Sharpe said.

"Exactly. Our filters picked up an emergency police bulletin requesting HAZMAT and EMT support at this location, in addition to Anne Arundel County SWAT assets. Not in that order. There is an officer down, along with multiple suspects. Laurel Police Department dispatch initiated the request. Everyone is responding."

"Get me a line to the Laurel chief of police or whoever is in charge over there. Good work on this," Sharpe said.

"Right away. I'll patch it through to your mobile phone," Volk said.

Sharpe nodded, already on his way to O'Reilly's station. Before he could say a word, she turned to face him.

"I'm notifying the Baltimore field office," she said. "They can coordinate a response with the D.C. field office if they need additional resources. HAZMAT and SWAT?"

"Don't get too excited. The entire nation is on edge right now. This could be anything," Sharpe cautioned her.

"That's what I thought, but the nearest pump station is four miles away."

"I'm beginning to wonder if my presence is necessary any longer," Sharpe said.

"We've been wondering that for the last year," O'Reilly replied.

"He does have a connection to the director. That helps," Hesterman said.

"Does it?" she said.

"Is this what the two of you do all day?" Sharpe asked.

"Pretty much. Along with connecting all of the dots for you. Take a quick look at this," O'Reilly said.

She enlarged one of the windows on her flat-screen monitor, which showed a complicated chart. He could see that the x-axis represented calendar weeks for the past three years. The y-axis contained names. He recognized several of them. Miguel Estrada, Julius Grimes and John Galick were the most prominent. The others had been added over the course of the day as his team had identified them.

"We've identified eleven of the seventeen terrorists involved in the market attack. Seven have former military experience. All except Galick were dishonorably discharged from the service. I found evidence of anti-government cyber space rants from nine of the eleven, but nothing within the last year. We managed to develop a background for nine of them, including recent employer data. Some of the employers were kind enough to provide schedule information. Six out of the eleven."

"Looks like this crew vacations together," Sharpe said.

"Either that, or it's one hell of a coincidence going back two years. Six different vacation periods align, but here's the scary part: they're all scheduled for two solid weeks of vacation starting next week, in addition to the days they've taken this week. Estrada quit his job in Seattle a month ago," O'Reilly said.

"Jesus. This is not a good sign. I have a feeling they aren't headed to the Caribbean," Sharpe said.

"Historically, two weeks is the longest period of time that has coincided. Given everything else we've seen this week, I'd say they have something big planned," O'Reilly said.

"How long ago did they submit their vacation schedules?"

"Three of the employers confirmed that the vacations went on the books months ago," Hesterman said.

"It sounds like this was True America's plan all along," Sharpe said.

"I thought we weren't allowed to say this is the work of True America," O'Reilly said.

"My apologies. Politics trumps common sense. What I was trying to say, is that this timeline calls into question the assumption that Al Qaeda's shipments were a last minute reaction to Anatoly Reznikov's poisoning of Monchegorsk. If these vacations were planned months ago, then Tru — the domestic terror network in question knew ahead of time that the canisters would be shipped earlier this week. I don't think Al Qaeda ever intended to target cities in Europe. I think the U.S. had always been their primary target, and True America knew it."

"You did it again," O'Reilly said.

"Did what?"

"Said True America," Hesterman added.

"Sorry. Let's just pretend I never said that."

Sharpe's mobile phone rang, causing his hand to shoot down to his belt. He looked up and saw Jason Volk give him a thumbs-up. He pressed a button on the phone's screen and was connected with Laurel's chief of police. Less than a minute later, he disconnected the call.

"They found digging equipment in a forest area a few miles south of Fort Meade. City engineers confirmed that one of the water supply mains from the Laurel pump station heads through that area and connects with a pump station in Fort Meade. Three men armed with automatic rifles were killed by police officers at the dig site. One of the police officers was killed in the shootout. They called HAZMAT because of a canister they found on the scene," he told them.

"Canister?" O'Reilly said.

"The description matches canisters recovered from the Mount Arlington pump station. We have an even bigger problem on our hands," Sharpe said.

"There's no way we can protect thousands of miles of water supply pipes," Hesterman said.

"Hundreds of thousands, Agent Hesterman. There could be over 5,000 miles of water main located in Anne Arundel County alone. There's absolutely no way to protect it all. The only option is to stop drinking water from public supplies," Sharpe said.

"Or we put an end to the domestic terrorist network in question," O'Reilly said.

"I need to speak with the director. They need to take down that compound in West Virginia immediately. Start running profiles on the three men killed at the site and prioritize testing of the canister's contents. Push everything to the White House situation room, including your assessment of the link between suspects killed or captured in the market raid. I'll be back to brief the entire floor in five minutes," Sharpe said.

He walked back to his office, locking eyes with Callie Stewart, who was standing next to Admiral DeSantos on the catwalk with her arms folded on the railing. Things were definitely about to heat up around here.

Chapter 33

The president slammed his fists down on the conference room table in a rare expression of anger. This was a good sign as far as Frederick Shelby was concerned. The administration might finally take the gloves off and kick some True America ass. Domestic terror network he had to remind himself. Whatever. As soon as the connection was solidified, he planned to issue arrest warrants for every single member of True America he could identify.

He just needed to keep his enthusiasm in check during this meeting. He couldn't read the president on this one. He knew that politics dominated his decision to deemphasize the connection to True America, but he wasn't sure if this was just a temporary political move while the "fires were hot." He didn't dare ask the president or any of his closest allies. If they caught wind of what he planned, they might shut him down before he could start rounding up this band of traitors. Shelby was no stranger to the political arena, but he wasn't about to let politics endanger America. Too much of that had taken place during his tenure as FBI director.

"I want this compound taken down immediately. General Gordon, how soon can your forces hit them?" the president asked.

"Maybe we should slow down and wait for Justice to—" started Kathleen Walker, his senior legal counsel, but the president interrupted.

"No. No more waiting around for the next attack. I'm done reacting here. We take the offensive and shut this group down permanently. I don't need a warrant to attack enemies of the United States. General?"

"Mr. President, surveillance teams have been in position around the compound since midmorning, and all of the compound's remote security sensors have been disabled. We've made a few last minute adjustments to the plan based on their intelligence, but I feel comfortable launching a raid tonight. I still need to infiltrate two Delta troops. I can drop them at 9:30 PM, when it is sufficiently dark enough to cover their descent. They'd be in position within a few hours. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, I can support a midnight time-on-target. All other assets are on immediate standby."

"Can we go without the Delta troops?"

"Negative, Mr. President. Surveillance puts enemy compound strength at over one hundred personnel and—"

"Good God. That's a huge number, General," the president interrupted.

"And to make matters worse, Director Shelby has informed me that True America is known to possess heavy-caliber machine guns and possibly a functional 60mm mortar. We can't discount the possibility of Soviet-era surface-to-air missile capability either. Delta operators will set up light machine gun positions on all sides of the compound to suppress any of these weapons. They will also provide direct action teams that will be the first to breach the wire and provide direct fire against the barracks buildings. SEALs arriving by helicopter for the main takedown won't have an easy time, but at least they won't come under direct fire from .50-caliber machine guns. We have a few other surprises planned for the compound."

Shelby found it curious that nobody stepped in to correct General Gordon's use of the term "True America."

"Can we use armed drones during the attack?" asked Robert Copley, CIA director.

"We had a discussion about this earlier, Robert, and decided against deploying the drones in U.S. airspace. Even for surveillance. We feel that this is a slippery slope," the national security advisor answered.

Copley did his best to conceal a look that expressed Shelby's first thought. They had no problem using Tier One Special Forces operators on U.S. soil, but a Predator armed drone was somehow out of the question. Politics.

"I want to minimize collateral damage to the compound infrastructure. We need to preserve as much evidence as possible for the FBI. How close can we bring the FBI mobile task force to the compound before the raid? I want them on-scene immediately. The attempt at Fort Meade couldn't be an isolated event."

"Undercover Delta operators infiltrated the surrounding towns and suspect an active network of informants. I don't recommend any ground vehicle activity in the area prior to the attack. I'd keep them on Interstate 79 and time their arrival at the Route 15 exit for midnight. A convoy of government vehicles traveling through some of the towns along Route 15 might raise the alarm. It'll take them about an hour, maybe less, to arrive at the compound from that location. I have a two-vehicle Delta team that can escort them. They might need the help, since the road from Route 15 to the compound looks dicey," General Gordon said.

"Can we put them in support helicopters and land them directly at the compound?" Shelby asked.

"Sure, if you can get them over to Dover Air Force Base by 2200 hours," the general replied.

"I can have them at Dover by 1900," Shelby said.

"Then I can arrange to have them dropped at the site once my people have declared it clear of hazards."

"Excellent. I'll be in my office down here for a few hours. Frederick, will you join me?" the president asked.

Shit. Maybe he had looked too eager when the president slammed his fists onto the table. Shelby really hoped he wasn't that easy to read. He followed the president and Jacob Remy into the president's private office. Once seated, the office windows obscured at the press of a button. He was finally on the inside after all of his years of service. He just hoped he hadn't been brought in here for an ass chewing. The president didn't waste any time getting down to business.

"How far along has Sharpe come to connecting the attacks to True America?"

Shelby started to think carefully about his choice of words, but decided to trust his gut instinct and forget politics.

"We know this is True America, but to be completely honest, we don't have a solid case yet. I was hoping that one of the men killed near Fort Meade would be wearing a True America T-shirt, but no such luck. They've covered their tracks pretty well up to this point. I'm hoping that the compound raid will break this wide open."

"What if it doesn't?" Jacob Remy asked.

"What do you mean?"

"What if we go in there, and at the end of the day, we don't gather any more evidence connecting this to True America?"

"We'll make the connection," Shelby said. "Their plot is too complicated to cover up completely. We have our best interrogators working on the three terrorists captured in Brooklyn. The compound raid will break the back of their organization. We'll roll up the entire group with the evidence uncovered in this raid. You heard the general's surveillance report: over a hundred terrorists on-site. We're going to catch them right in the middle of planning their next phase of attacks. The timing couldn't be better."

"I share your optimism, Frederick. Unfortunately, Jacob is skeptical. He thinks this is a conspiracy involving all True America leadership, and they've planned this for years to coincide with the upcoming election."

"I'd be lying if I told you the thought hadn't crossed my mind."

"Make sure Sharpe's task force gets everything it needs to make this connection, and stand by to dismantle True America when the connection is made. We may have to wait until the timing is right, but we'll take them down. As far as I'm concerned, True America is the most dangerous terrorist organization that has ever walked on U.S. soil, and I intend to remove that threat."

"I'll make sure Sharpe has every resource at his disposal, and I'll make sure to consult with you about the possibility of a wider response to the evidence uncovered at the compound."

Message received.

"Perfect. Until then, I want Sharpe to focus all of his efforts on safeguarding America."

"Understood, Mr. President."

"Thank you, Frederick. I'll see you later tonight."

With those words, Frederick Shelby was dismissed after a not-so-subtle warning to suppress any connections his task force made between the current terrorist plot and True America. He left the office with a glimmer of hope. Despite the warning, he sensed that the two men wanted nothing more than to crush True America. They just wanted to control the timing for political reasons. Shelby could live with that, as long as it didn't interfere with Sharpe's investigation. He was far from being a political pawn, but he'd learned long ago that positions of great power in Washington, D.C., always required you to sell a small portion of your soul to stay in the game. Powerbrokers ran afoul when they sold too much of their soul to the wrong person, ending up beholden to the Beltway devils. Forced to leverage the rest of their soul in a desperate, yet futile bid to keep a seat at one of the big tables. Shelby planned to be at the table until the day he died, with his soul mostly intact.

Chapter 34

Darryl Jackson sat in sluggish traffic that would only get worse as he approached the entrance to the D.C. Beltway. Once on the beltway, he could get out of his car and have a picnic on the roof of his Suburban at this time of the evening. He'd left his house yesterday, immediately after hearing the news of the Mount Arlington attack, and filled his SUV with bottled water and microwaveable meals purchased from the Wegmans Supermarket. He arrived in Princeton for a late lunch with Liz, after which he helped to move the water and supplies into her dorm room.

Sensing her nervousness about the Mount Arlington attack, or possibly the fact that he had shown up unannounced with enough food and water to last her a month, he decided to stay in a nearby hotel for the night. She begrudgingly ate pizza with him in the hotel lobby, before finally convincing him that she was fine. Finding himself unconvinced the next morning, he managed to linger around long enough to feed her lunch before departing too late to dodge D.C. traffic. By the time he said goodbye, he finally realized that he was much more nervous about Liz's situation than Liz herself.

The traffic crawled to a stop, and he grimaced. He'd be lucky to get home by nine o'clock. His cell phone rang, and he snatched it off the passenger seat. Cheryl. She was the other half of the nervous party.

"Hi, honey."

"Where are you? I thought you'd be here by now," she said.

He detected a thin layer of panic in her voice, which was unusual for his wife. "I'm stuck in traffic north of D.C. Just south of Laurel. I had lunch with Liz."

"Laurel? Jesus. Did you hear what happened? It happened right in Laurel!"

"What's going on, hon? What happened in Laurel?"

"They tried to attack a water pipeline in Laurel. Local police shot and killed the suspects. A police officer was killed. It was pure random luck that they even found these guys," Cheryl said.

"Honey, slow down. Who did this? What happened exactly?"

"Terrorists tried to drill into one of the water mains leading to Fort Meade. They were in the middle of a forest south of the town. The police stopped the attack, but now they're saying there's absolutely no way to safeguard the public water system. They can't guard hundreds of thousands of miles of water main pipe. Some towns are talking about shutting down the water supplies," Cheryl said.

"Who are they? You can boil the water. This is crazy. When did the attack take place?"

"Some time in the middle of the afternoon. The White House has made a statement, but they didn't give any useful details. They can attack us anywhere, Darryl. Are you sure Liz will be all right?"

"She's doing way better than we are. I'll give her a quick call to update her on the situation and make sure she understands what to do. Karl assured me that the virus would be killed by the boiling process. Can you head to Wegmans and try to stock up on bottled water? Just to make our lives easier, until they can start testing the water."

"They can't test the water if the terrorists are picking random locations along the pipeline. They could tap into a water main running through the woods behind our house, poison the entire subdivision. They'd have to test the water at every tap, continuously throughout the day. That's what they just said."

"Who are they? Who is saying this?"

"I'm hearing it on Fox, CNN. It doesn't matter, they're all saying the same thing — drink bottled water," she said.

"Then you better get over and buy some, even if you have to wait in line until I get back. Head over to Costco instead. They have a full warehouse-sized aisle devoted to bottled water. Bring your phone. I should be home by nine. We'll be fine, honey. I'll call the kids. I love you."

"I love you too. All right, I'm heading back out. Tell Liz and Emily that I'll talk to them later tonight. And tell them to be careful. No showers, no cafeteria drinks, nothing," Cheryl said.

"I'm on it. Give me a call from Costco with a situation report," he said, realizing he had just slipped into operational mode.

"Yes, sir. Call you soon," she responded, playing right along.

He hung up and stared to his left, across the jammed highway. A few miles east of here, those bastards had tried to poison the National Security Agency, along with thousands of nearby citizens. The location of the attack couldn't be a coincidence. He wondered what their bigger game would be. Taking out the NSA, or at least disrupting it had to play into their complicated plot. Berg had been light on the conspiracy details, but had told him enough to know that there was a major terrorist operation in the works. Maybe the government had the situation under control. How else could they have stopped this attack? Maybe they were in the process of similar raids across the country. After calling his children, he'd give Berg another call. He had to know what they were up against.

He turned his attention back to the creeping traffic and tuned the radio to an AM news station to get some background information before starting his calls. Unfortunately, most of the chatter relayed useless theories and guesswork designed to panic the population. He quickly gained the sense that details were scarce and the government wanted to keep it that way.

Chapter 35

Daniel stood to greet his guest. He wished their first meeting could be under different circumstances, given the debt he owed the young man. He took Enrique Melendez's hand and pulled him in for a man hug and a pat on the back, which was a stretch for Daniel. He'd never been an expressive kind of guy. He glanced briefly at Jessica over Melendez's shoulder, noting that she remained focused on the Cosmopolitan in her hand, still paying little attention to the man sitting next to her at the bar.

Jessica had kept the seat available for Benjamin Young's arrival, which had been no easy feat on a Friday night in Buckhead. The swank Lobby Bar at the Ritz Carlton proved to be a popular destination for the affluent, after work crowd, which hung around sipping cocktails well past the dinner hour. Gradually, the expensive suits and slacks surrendered to country club chic, replete with muted pastel blazers, tailored dress shirts, tight cocktail dresses, and more wheat-toned gabardine than he'd ever seen in one place.

Young arrived at 7:45, and Jessica lifted her Chanel 2.55 black lambskin bag from the seat as he approached the bar. He took the bait and ordered a scotch served neat, cordially confirming with her that the seat was still available. Daniel had noticed that Young's eyes had followed the handbag. He was impeccably dressed in an expensively cut navy blue suit, with white dress shirt and gray tie. It was easy to tell that he appreciated fine goods and the people that chose them. A faded pink pocket square peeked out of his jacket's left breast pocket at the requisite half-inch height. Thick brown hair, tan skin, chiseled features, blue eyes — he looked like a Brooks Brothers model.

He took notice of Jessica immediately, but didn't initiate any contact. Likewise, Jessica didn't invite any additional attention at first, wanting to let his situation simmer for a little longer. As the eight o'clock hour passed, and Young started to fidget, she began to exchange glances with him. His "date" hadn't arrived, which heightened his anxiety. He touched his nose several times, indicating his need for a little nose candy booster.

Daniel was amazed to see how quickly Benjamin Young unraveled, as the prospect of being stood up by a prostitute became more likely.

"Good to see you again, my friend," he said, releasing Melendez and putting a hand on the chair meant for him.

He had selected a table at the back of the lobby, giving away two of the four chairs to an ever-expanding group of well-groomed men at the table next to them. The remaining chairs were arranged behind the table to give them both a full view of the Lobby Bar, which would be a necessity given the number of people pouring into the tight room. By 7:55, it had become standing room only, and he couldn't keep an eye on Jessica without moving his head in an obvious manner. Given the recent arrival of two men, who had taken an obvious interest in Benjamin Young, he couldn't afford to tip his hand here in the bar.

"Likewise. Young's eight o'clock appointment is taking a nap in the parking garage. We're clear for at least three hours. Here's her phone," Melendez said.

The stocky Latino took his seat and casually scanned the room, signaling for the cocktail waitress two tables away. Daniel's anxiety level dropped a few notches with Melendez at the table. He'd been nervous using Jessica like this. True America wanted Benjamin Young off the street sooner than later, a fact reinforced by the quick replacement of the original assassination team. The two men standing at the end of the wide, mahogany bar gave away their intentions as soon as they arrived. Sipping club sodas, the two had spent the last twenty-five minutes stealing impatient glances at Young.

Their tradecraft skills were nonexistent, which signified that they were either operating well out of their comfort zone or that they had never been trained for the more subtle aspects of their work. Either scenario worried Daniel. A combination of the two terrified him. There was little doubt that "Ben and Jerry" had been given orders to kill the man sitting less than six inches from Jessica. The hazard lay in their interpretation of the orders and their professionalism. Had they read the situation correctly and realized that he'd be headed up to his room shortly? Would they panic when his escort failed to show and try to kill him in the bar? Daniel wished Jessica would double her efforts. Based on the increasing severity of their facial expressions, he calculated that Ben and Jerry would make a bad decision within the next ten minutes, maybe sooner.

He saw Jessica lean over and say something to Young. Finally. She could read the situation better than any of them. If he knew Jessica, they'd be out of there shortly. Daniel smiled and faked a quiet laugh, turning to Melendez.

"Time to send Young a text from Natasha's phone. Type this…ready?"

Melendez pulled the phone out of his blazer and held it under the table. "Shoot."

"Something came up. Sorry. Will call later," Daniel dictated.

"That's it?"

"That's it. The message should frustrate him enough to turn all of his attention to Jess."

"Sending," Melendez said.

Daniel watched Young shake his head upon reading the message. Jessica immediately leaned in and said something, which caused Young to put the phone down on the bar and engage her in conversation. It looked like their mark had conveniently forgotten all about Natasha. Jessica could have that effect on men. He noticed that she had started to touch the bottom of her nose like Young. She was definitely expediting the process. Daniel took a sip of his vodka martini and shifted his gaze to Ben and Jerry, who looked even edgier than before. The mystery text had probably shaved three minutes off their bad decision timeline.

"She'd better hurry this up," Petrovich said.

"You got that right. Those two look ready to start shooting," Melendez said.

"If this gets out of hand, grab Young and get him out of the hotel," Daniel said.

"What about you?"

"I have Jessica."

"Got it," Melendez said.

"We'll get a real drink when this is over. I owe you my firstborn. I'll never forget what the two of you did for her," Daniel said.

"As long as the kid comes with a return option. Fucking scary concept, the two of you having kids," Melendez said, and they both laughed for real, though it was short lived.

Jessica moved her purse, and Benjamin Young put his cell phone away. A few seconds later, Jessica swirled her index finger around the rim of her half-finished cosmopolitan and removed the maraschino cherry inside. She slipped the cherry in her mouth, sensuously pulling the stainless steel pick clear of her lips.

"Time to move," Daniel said and placed a pair of twenty-dollar bills on the table.

The cherry trick was their prearranged sign that departure was imminent.

"Are you sure you want to work it this way?" Melendez asked.

"Yeah. I'll babysit them on the way up. Get going," Daniel said.

"All right. See you upstairs," Melendez said and walked through the bar to the lobby.

The plan was simple, but required careful timing. Melendez would leave the bar a minute before Jessica and their mark, taking the elevator directly to the eighteenth floor. He'd join Munoz in the room across from Benjamin Young's suite and wait. Munoz had been watching the suite most of the afternoon, making sure that Young didn't have any uninvited guests. He'd sent Daniel a text message indicating that nobody had approached the suite after he left tonight, leaving him relatively confident that the two men standing at the bar comprised the entire team sent to eliminate Young.

Jessica stood first, clutching her purse and making brief eye contact with Daniel. He quickly shifted his eyes to Ben and Jerry, both of whom had placed their drinks on the bar. Jessica walked past Young before he could stand up. She placed herself close to the bar and pulled him to her left side, ensuring that her new friend would walk out of the bar with a human shield as they passed the two men on their right. It would probably be enough to discourage the two men from taking a hasty shot in the bar, but it involved unnecessary risk.

Jessica clung onto Benjamin Young's arm, and they started walking together toward the spacious lobby opening. Daniel watched Ben and Jerry closely, knowing that the two men would be too focused on Young to notice. He rose from the table as the new couple passed the two operatives. Jessica said something to Young as they passed in front of them. Whatever she said seemed to put their countdown on hold. He saw one them place a hand against the other, in a subtle restraining motion. He'd be willing to bet that Jessica made it clear they were headed to Young's room and said it loud enough for the assassins to hear. Still, he wasn't going to rely upon this assessment. They could follow him to the elevator and shoot him as the doors started to close, or take the elevator up with him. He could think of a dozen scenarios, all of which put Jessica right in the line of fire.

One of the men checked his watch and spoke to the other. Daniel couldn't believe it. They were actually timing how long they would wait. At least they had enough sense to avoid a bloodbath in the lobby. He left the bar, trailing his wife at a respectable distance. He decided to ride the elevator up with Ben and Jerry, so he diverted toward the concierge for a few moments. From there, he could watch Jessica and Benjamin Young and make sure the two idiots in the bar didn't change their minds about a public murder. The two men emerged from the bar just as his wife stepped on the elevator ahead of Young. For a brief second, a shiver of panic ran down Daniel's spine.

The two men looked like they might go for Jessica's elevator. Daniel tensed, ready to sprint across the lobby to intercept the men. Ben and Jerry exchanged words and started to walk rapidly toward the elevator bank. Daniel's right hand drifted along his beltline, pushing the bottom of his suit jacket back. He tried to keep the motion subtle, but they weren't making it easy for him. They walked directly at the open door, closing the distance to thirty feet. The door started to move at twenty feet, which still didn't relieve him. One of them could press the "up" button, while the other blasted away into the carriage.

He firmly grasped the polymer grip of his HK USP Compact pistol and loosened it in the concealed holster. He started to edge toward the elevator bank, hoping to close the distance for a more accurate shot. If either of the men glanced in his direction, there would be little doubt about his intentions. The lead operative reached the elevator buttons a few seconds after the door closed. The illuminated numbers above the elevator door had not started moving, and he looked back at his partner, who shook his head. Daniel eased the gun back into the holster and approached the elevators, pulling out his cell phone.

Once the illuminated numbers above Jessica's elevator started moving, the man pressed the elevator button. The closest elevator was on floor three, which should give Jessica enough time to make sure they were in the room before Ben and Jerry appeared on the eighteenth floor. He had no doubt they wouldn't waste any time eliminating Young and any witnesses that could identify them.

He dialed Munoz and waited for the elevator.

"Hey, Jeff. Are the ladies ready for dinner?" Daniel said.

"Yep. We're all set here. Are you on your way up?" Munoz replied.

"I just left the bar. I'll run by the room and grab Jess. See you in a few."

Daniel put the phone in his jacket and nodded cordially at the man who had just stepped away from the glowing elevator button. Instead of returning the nod, the light-haired operative started conversing quietly with the wiry dark-haired man to his left. He watched them while they argued in harsh whispers for several seconds. The dark-haired operative, possibly the leader, ended the argument by telling the blond not to worry. He examined them a moment longer and started to wonder if they had any experience whatsoever with this kind of an operation. The only thing the two of them had going for them as covert operatives was the fact that they were both utterly unremarkable in every way.

It didn't really matter. He could in no way afford to underestimate them, no matter how inept they appeared. He was about to spend nearly a full minute alone with them, packed tightly into an enclosed space. If they were craftier than they appeared, Ben and Jerry might try to kill him in the elevator. Daniel wanted to avoid this at all costs. Skill levels didn't mean much in an elevator.

He followed them into the elevator, moving to the left corner. He pressed the button for the seventeenth floor.

"Which floor?" Daniel asked before the man could press the buttons on the other side of the open door.

"Eighteenth, please," the man with the thick eyebrows said.

Daniel pressed the button and settled in for the ride, avoiding eye contact in accordance with the universal code of elevator conduct. His peripheral vision served as his only early warning system in this enclosed space. Any quick movements from either Ben or Jerry would be met with extreme violence. Both of them stared at the numbers above the elevator console. Within several seconds, the elevator started to slow, arriving at the seventeenth floor. Daniel nodded at them and walked briskly to the right, toward the stairs. When he heard the doors close, he broke into a full sprint for the exit sign thirty feet away down the hallway.

Jessica hung on Young's arm as they walked down the hallway to his suite. She couldn't wait to end this deception. Benjamin Young was an arrogant creep. Once in the elevator, he'd cast off any subtlety and began to inquire about her menu of activities. She'd almost broken out of role in the elevator and put a knife to his throat. She was slightly surprised by his quick change of demeanor. Charming and suggestive in the bar, he'd shown the kind of confidence expected from a man receiving flirtatious advances from a beautiful woman. She could have easily lured him upstairs without the overt hints that she was "on the clock," but they didn't have that kind of time.

The two men at the end of the bar smacked of intense desperation and took few measures to conceal their interest in Young. Daniel had locked eyes on them, confirming her suspicion and advancing the timeline. She needed to get Young out of there within the next few minutes. It didn't require a great deal of effort on her part. Young asked her what she was doing in Atlanta, and she told him that she had recently moved down from Raleigh to find new clients. The follow-up question about her clients led to the immediate departure for his suite on the eighteenth floor.

The elevator transformed him into a sex fiend. He put his hands on her thigh, sliding them deep into private territory on both sides of her body. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, as he licked the small of her neck and whispered something about putting his cock somewhere she'd considered permanently off limits. She fought every instinct in her body to keep from tensing, responding with a subtle, sensuous exhale, but nothing more than that. She didn't want to encourage him to the point where he might try to stop the elevator. His hand slid deeper along her inner thigh, and all she could think about was the serrated blade in her purse. Mercifully, the elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor, putting his disgusting behavior on hold. She couldn't imagine how bad it would get when he closed the door to Suite 1812.

Benjamin Young sported all of the prerequisites that would identify him as a wealthy, well-heeled gentleman: Armani suit with pocket square, $350 haircut, custom leather shoes, Clive Christian cologne, Rolex, diamond cuff links. But beyond this ungodly expensive, thin veneer, he was no different than the body-odor-soaked, soulless murderers and rapists she'd lived among in Belgrade. He might smell better, but ultimately, he behaved like the rest of them. Countless women and children suffered because of men like Benjamin Young. She hated his type and looked forward to getting him behind closed doors. His reign of terror permanently ended tonight.

They arrived at his door, and she stole a glance at the peephole on the door directly across from the suite. Munoz and Melendez were waiting patiently for Young's admirers, which should give her some time alone with Young. He slid the key card in the door and opened it, inviting her in.

As she entered, he spoke quietly but urgently. "I couldn't tell from our elevator conversation whether you were into anal play or not. Money isn't a problem, in case that's your hang up."

She almost started laughing at the absolute desperation of his comment. This appeared to be all he was worried about. His previous "date" had apparently cleared him for rear entry, and this was his sole point of focus. She couldn't wait to disappoint him. Instead of answering his question, she walked deeper into the suite, placing her handbag on a marble-topped counter. He closed the door and rushed to catch up with her. She felt his hand grip her upper left arm tightly and try to pull her back to face him. He was really concerned about his menu options tonight. She shirked his hand and turned to face him, keeping the matte black, serrated blade concealed along the side of her right wrist.

"I'm not paying you to ignore me," he said.

She just stared at him with a smile, until he stepped forward and reached out to grab her wrist, committing a rookie mistake. She lifted her wrist slightly, just far enough to make it easier for him. Once his hand tightened around her wrist, missing the concealed knife blade by less than a centimeter, she flexed her hand upward and broke his grip. Before he could react, she stepped forward and rapidly slid her hand over his extended arm toward his throat. As he tried to wrap his arm around her, she pivoted on her right foot, which brought her body flush against Young's back. Her left forearm braced his chin backward as she eased the tip of the five-inch blade against his throat.

"This ass isn't for sale," she hissed in his ear.

"Everything is for sale. Whatever your game is, I'm into it…but without the knife at my throat. This is definitely something new, but it makes me a little nervous."

"Move into the bedroom. Now!" she said, manhandling him toward the bedroom door.

"Look. This is a little rougher than I expected. Maybe I should pay you for your time and we'll call it good. Sorry about the misunderstanding," he said. Jessica could detect fear in his voice.

"There hasn't been a misunderstanding, Mr. Young, and no amount of money is going to buy your way out of this one," she stated, moving him through the door into the bedroom.

"I never told you my last name. Who are you?"

"Time to shut the fuck up. If you say another word without my permission, I'll take a big slice out of that pretty face."

"What is going—"

His comment was interrupted by her left forearm, which exerted incredible pressure on his larynx and prevented him from either speaking or breathing. She shifted the knife and gently placed it near the outside corner of his right eye socket.

"I'll give you one more chance. If you say another word, I'll start cutting. Do you understand me? Nod if you understand me," she said, and he nodded quickly.

The quick movement of his head caused the knife to penetrate the skin on his forehead, a consequence that Jessica had foreseen. Young winced, but held steady, not making a single noise when she released the grip on his neck.

"You need to think carefully about everything you do. Every thought. Every movement. From this point forward, every action has a consequence. Take a seat on the edge of the bed, and don't fall off. This knife stays right here until my friends arrive."

She felt his jaw start to move, as he fought the urge to ask about her friends.

"Very good. A quick learner. You just might survive the night, Ben. Personally, I hope you don't, but if you keep following directions, I think you'll see your family again."

Benjamin Young didn't move a millimeter in response to her comment, which made Jessica smile. Fully compliant in less than a minute. Maybe Sanderson wasn't full of shit for once. They might even be able to fly back to the coast tonight if Young behaved. If not, they could still enjoy a late dinner and some nightlife in Buckhead. She could think of worse places to be trapped on a Friday night.

Enrique Melendez sat forward in his chair and watched Jessica Petrovich and Benjamin Young approach the door to Suite 1812 on his monitor. The small, flat-screen monitor was mounted to the edge of the desk in the living area of their two-room suite. Jeffrey Munoz stood next to the door, holding the second monitor, ready to intervene in the hallway if the situation deteriorated. Melendez seriously doubted that Jessica would require their assistance with Young. He'd seen her in action at the high-rise apartment in Buenos Aires and taken part in her knife training drills. Even with an injured hand, Young would be absolutely no match for her skills. Their job was to take care of the two True America operatives, who were most likely a minute or two away from breaking into Suite 1812.

They had drilled through the glass peephole and replaced the lens with a fiber optic camera capable of providing a high resolution, wide-angle view of the hallway, vastly improving upon the image afforded by the peephole. The fiber optic cable fed into a small digital recorder on the desk, which split the signal to the two monitors and allowed them to rewind and review the feed.

Just as importantly, it permitted them to closely monitor traffic in the hallway, without standing with their heads pressed to the door for hours on end. Each monitor was attached to fifty feet of video cable, giving them full range of the suite. This had come in handy for Munoz, who had been trapped in Suite 1811 most of the day, making certain that nobody besides Benjamin Young entered Suite 1812. He'd alternated that duty with babysitting the original occupants of Suite 1811, who lay unconscious on the floor of the bedroom, zip-tied and neatly arranged next to each other with pillows under their heads.

Mr. and Mrs. Hines, a young black couple from Birmingham, Alabama, had checked into the hotel around 4 PM, with 8 PM dinner reservations at Restaurant Eugene. Unfortunately, the exclusive Friday night reservation at this chic gastro destination had already expired, and the rest of their weekend getaway would be ruined by a lingering headache, coupled with a hotel-wide police investigation. Mr. and Mrs. Hines had been hit with a powerful, yet relatively harmless neurotoxin, which would leave them disabled for a few hours. A smaller dose of the neurotoxin would be administered every few hours until the mission was completed.

Working together earlier in the afternoon, Munoz and Melendez borrowed the housekeeping master key from one of the carts left unattended in the hallway and made a copy with a handheld scanner. Within thirty seconds, they had swiped the master key, storing the key card's electronic signature in their scanner, and created four copies with blank key cards. The Hines' were in the middle of unpacking, when two well-dressed Latino gentlemen suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway holding small metallic tubes. They wouldn't remember anything beyond that.

"How was Daniel taking her little show?" Munoz asked.

"He appeared to be one hundred and ten percent operational," Melendez answered.

"We'll see. I feel bad for the guy."

"Why's that?"

"He's up against the two of them," Munoz stated.

"Yeah. Tough break for the guy. All right, they're in the room. Man, I wish I could see through that door," Melendez said.

"You and me, both. She's probably bitten off one of his ears by now."

Munoz's phone vibrated, and he took the call.

"Got it. We'll take them down when they reach the door," he said into the phone, then cut the call. "Petrovich just hit the stairs. He'll back us up in the hallway."

Several seconds passed before Melendez saw the elevator doors open. Two men walked out, stopping to check the elevator vestibule before proceeding briskly down the hallway toward Suite 1812.

"They're moving fast," Munoz noted.

Melendez stood up and moved over to the door, grabbing his HK USP Compact from the foot of the bed. The pistol was fitted with a suppressor that appeared longer than the pistol itself. Munoz sat his monitor against the wall, on the small table to the right of the door, and gripped the suppressed Steyr TMP submachine gun attached to the sling over his shoulder. Melendez grabbed the doorknob and watched the two men fill the monitor's screen. The dark-haired man standing to the left held a pistol in his right hand and a key card in his left. Melendez nodded quickly and quietly pulled the door open.

Munoz slipped through and stepped to the right, aiming at the light-haired man. Melendez moved straight forward, centering his pistol on the top of the dark-haired man's back. The dark-haired operative managed to turn his head over his shoulder before Munoz hissed a warning.

"Do not fucking move. You each have a weapon pointed at your back. Nod if you understand," he said, and both of them nodded quickly.

Daniel Petrovich appeared in the hallway, near the elevator vestibule. The light-haired man turned his head an inch, and Melendez could tell that the dark-haired operative had seen him. His pistol hand tensed. He probably recognized Daniel from the bar. This had the potential to go south really fast if Munoz didn't take control of the situation.

"That man is one of ours. You've been under surveillance all afternoon. Listen to me very closely. You will drop your weapons to the floor. Simply release them from your grip. On three. You will not get a second chance to do this. One. Two. Three."

One of the guns clattered to the carpeted floor. The other remained in the dark-haired man's grip. Melendez shifted his aim and fired a bullet through the man's right elbow. The bullet passed through his arm and lodged in the door, spraying the soft, salmon-colored paint with bright red arterial spray from his brachial artery. The suppressed gunshot had the desired effects, dropping the second gun to the carpet and stopping a more lethal chain of events.

Melendez kicked the man against the door, further stunning him, and yanked him back. He locked his arm around the man's neck and placed the end of the suppressor behind his ear.

"The next one goes through your skull," he whispered.

Munoz pulled the light-haired operative to the side and pushed him into the wall, giving Daniel room to pass. He turned to room 1812, withdrew another key card from his pocket, and approached the blood-splattered door, glancing down at the pool of blood at his feet.

"Nice mess. A little trigger happy tonight?" Daniel said, inserting the card while furtively glancing in both directions down the hallway.

"He was a fraction of a second from making it a whole lot worse," Melendez replied.

Inserting the key card, Daniel opened the door and stepped inside the vestibule, ready to draw his pistol.

"Is Mr. Young still breathing?" Daniel asked.

"He's fine, but you need to take him off my hands before I start cutting," Jessica replied from another room.

Upon hearing Jessica's comment, Melendez glanced at Munoz and smiled, but his partner didn't look happy. Glancing at the mess on the door and the blood still pumping onto the carpet, he wasn't surprised. There was no way they could wipe this clean enough to avoid unwanted attention. The hallway carpet contained deep red patterns, which helped; however, the carpet pattern was symmetrical and the bloodstains were irregularly spaced. Only the most intoxicated or oblivious hotel guest would walk by without wondering whether Hannibal Lecter was waiting behind the door for them.

Melendez followed Daniel into the room, forcibly shoving the gunman against the wall next to the bathroom doorway, searching him for a second weapon. Munoz followed at a safe distance behind with the second man. Melendez found a small knife strapped to his ankle, along with a wallet, car keys and a cell phone in his trouser pockets. His jacket held two additional magazines for one of the semiautomatic pistols that Munoz had kicked inside of the room when Daniel opened the door. Melendez threw all of these items onto the nearby table while Munoz kicked the door shut with the heel of his shoe.

"Give me a hand here. I need to tie off this arm, or we'll lose him. The bullet hit an artery."

Daniel emerged from the bedroom doorway to help.

"Keep him covered," Munoz said, handing the pistol to Daniel.

Melendez reached into his right pocket and fished out a black plastic zip tie restraint. He placed the zip tie around the wounded man's lower bicep area and connected the plastic coupling. He pulled the tie as tightly as possible, causing the man to scream in agony. The steady stream of blood had slowed, but still poured onto the floor. He braced the man's arm against the wall and yanked on the end of the zip tie again, putting all of his strength into pulling the thick plastic band tighter. The man reached around with his free hand, but Daniel was there to grab it and jam his pistol into the back of his neck. Melendez backed up and examined the blood trickling down the man's hand. The flow had stopped, which would give them some time to extract information, or do whatever Daniel had planned for him.

Daniel grabbed the man's jacket collar and pulled him into the sitting area, throwing him down onto one of the tan couches. He handed Melendez the pistol and pulled his own out of the concealed holster along his waist. Munoz covered the two men while Daniel took a few seconds to screw a short suppressor onto the threaded barrel.

"I hope you brought some cleaning supplies," Daniel said, nodding toward the door.

Munoz tossed the second man onto the same couch and replied, "We have a kit in the other room. We'll do what we can with the mess, and I'll stay in the other suite to keep an eye on the hallway. We have enough neurotoxin to knock out the entire floor if necessary. Shouldn't be an issue."

"Perfect. We'll get things started in here," Daniel said.

Melendez appreciated his partner's calm attitude about the situation. Neither of them said a word as they exited the room, careful not to step in the massive dark red stain in front of Suite 1812. Munoz immediately opened the door to Suite 1811 and disappeared, leaving Melendez to close the door to 1812. When he turned to face the door, he grimaced. What a fucking mess.

"Grab the big towels from the bathroom," he said.

Daniel stepped over to the sitting area and pulled one of the plush taupe wing chairs away from the large coffee table in front of the couch, dragging it against the wall behind him. He pushed the other chair to the side and kicked the small round end table out of the way, knocking it against a smaller chair near the conference table. The Buckhead Suite offered three distinctly separate living areas for the discerning business guest: a spacious bedroom with a glass enclosed, marble shower; a sitting area occupied by two terrorists, one of whom was grievously wounded and ruining the furniture; and a conference area, featuring a mahogany table with seating for six. Mr. Young certainly spared no expense while he was in town.

"Bring out tonight's guest of honor," Daniel said.

Jessica wrenched a ruffled, despondent-looking Benjamin Young through the bedroom door and jammed him into the wing chair against the wall. Daniel backed up a few steps toward the conference table and pointed the pistol at Young.

"If you try to get out of that seat, the young lady here will stab you through your armpit all the way to your heart. The blade's long enough, right?" he said.

Young looked torn, like he wasn't sure if he had permission to respond.

"It might be an inch short. You can talk now. I give you permission," Jessica said, standing next to him.

Daniel winked at her, when he thought Young was distracted.

"I saw that. All right, all right. Enough already. You guys got me good. Seriously. I'm fucking freaked out of my mind right now. Whoever put you up to this earned their fucking money tonight. This is by far the best joke ever. Really. Can you tell I'm freaked out? No need to continue. I'll pay you double to call it quits," Young said, starting to get up from the chair.

Jessica turned the knife in her hand and brought the end of the handle down on his face, shattering the cartilage in his nose and splitting his top lip. Young shrieked and dropped back into the chair.

"My fucking face! What the fuck is going on here? Who the fuck are you people? I told you this was over!" he screamed.

"Lower your voice," Daniel said.

He nodded at Jessica, who immediately raised the knife in front of Young, causing him to cower in the chair, flailing his hands above him in a sad, useless display.

When he spoke again, he whispered. "Look, whatever is happening here…it doesn't have to happen. I have a lot of money, and I can access even more if necessary. I guarantee I can double or triple what you're being paid now."

"I'm not being paid anything," Daniel said. He turned to Ben and Jerry. "Are either of you being paid?"

Neither of the men answered, prompting Daniel to aim at the dark-haired man's head.

"Are either of you receiving a fat paycheck to be here tonight?" Daniel asked.

"Fuck you. I'm not saying a word," Dark Hair replied.

Daniel fired a single Hydra-Shok hollow-point round through the man's head, snapping it back against the top of the couch. A dark red stain splashed the tan curtain panel behind him, rustling the thick material. The light-haired man scooted away from his now deceased friend, struggling to move with his hands tied behind his back.

"Oh fuck," Young whimpered. "He did not just kill that guy. This is a joke, right? He did not—"

Daniel turned his head and arm at the same time, firing a bullet into the wall less than six inches from Young's head. The suppressor reduced the gunshot to a subsonic crack. Jessica gasped. Young's face went blank as he examined the damaged drywall near his head.

"Holy shit," he whispered and closed his eyes.

"Did I shatter the window?" Daniel asked, turning back to the couch.

Daniel hadn't heard the glass shatter, but he couldn't be sure. The decision to kill Dark Hair had been a last-second decision. He could tell by the man's defiant expression that he'd be nothing but trouble during the interrogation. His light-haired accomplice looked a little softer. The man stared at him quizzically.

"You don't like to talk either?" Daniel asked, raising the pistol again.

"No. No. I'll talk. You asked about the window. I didn't hear it shatter. I didn't hear anything like that," Light Hair pleaded.

"I hope not. If the police arrive before I'm finished, they'll need at least two SERVPRO teams in here to scrape you off the walls."

"It didn't shatter. I think I would have heard that happen. Yes. I know I would have heard that happen."

"You're sure? Sure enough to bet your life on it?"

"Yes. No. We're good," he said.

"I hope so. Next question. How many more can we expect?" Daniel asked.

"What?"

"You're either purposely ignoring me, or you're scared out of your mind. Either way, it's starting to piss me off," Daniel said, closing the distance to the couch while pointing the pistol at the man's head.

"I can't concentrate with a gun to my head."

"Really? You came here to put a gun to Mr. Young's head, but this bothers you? I'm done repeating questions. Are you and your dead partner working alone, or can I expect amateur hour to continue?"

"We're working alone. We weren't expecting any obstacles," the man replied.

Daniel walked over to the conference table and removed both of the wallets. He glanced at the driver's licenses. Both of the men carried South Carolina licenses. Theodore Kindler sat before him on the couch, still breathing for now.

"Ted? Theo? I like Theo. Let's get the introductions out of the way. Benjamin Young, meet Theodore Kindler. He was sent here to put a bullet through your head."

"Come on, guys. This is crazy. Did my wife hire these guys?" Young said.

"She should have," Jessica snapped.

"I couldn't agree more, but this goes way deeper than your extracurricular activities. Would you care to explain this to him, Theo? Tell him why you're here to kill him?"

Theodore Kindler opened his mouth, but the words faltered. He wore a painful look, torn between preventing his own death and maintaining loyalty.

"Don't know where to start? I'd be happy if you simply identified your organization. That'll be enough to keep your brains off the curtains," Daniel said.

"I really can't—"

"Yes, you can. I already know the answer. I just want him to hear it from you. Three. Two. One…"

"True America," he grunted, looking disgusted and frightened.

"True America? Why would they want me dead? I'm about to close a deal worth a healthy sum of money for their organization," Young said perplexedly.

"Oh, you haven't heard?" Daniel said snidely. "True America is up to something big. Much bigger than a campaign announcement or a string of expensive primetime television ads. Big enough to start tying up loose ends. By our estimation, you're one of the biggest. We took down the first assassination team in New York. You're looking at the substitutes."

"Jesus Christ. What about my family? Who's watching them right now?" Young asked.

He tried to stand up again, but didn't get more than three inches off the chair before Jessica's knife appeared at his throat. He sat back down, and Jessica eased the knife away.

"What about my family?" he hissed at Kindler.

"Answer the man," Daniel ordered.

"Our mission didn't involve your family," Kindler said.

Young didn't look convinced. His face showed an unsure anger that Daniel knew had already turned Young against True America.

"If these are the bad guys, why am I being forced to sit in this chair with a knife to my throat?" Young asked.

"Because I haven't decided which side you're on. True America wants you dead. We need to figure out exactly why this is the case. Until then, your brains are just as likely to hit the wall as Theo's," Daniel said.

"This is un-fucking-real. After all I've done for Greely and the rest of those rednecks, they turn around and stab me in the back like this. Fuck them! I'll tell you everything I know. I have records, all kinds of shit. I'm good at covering my ass. We're talking detailed records. I've been diverting large amounts of money earmarked for True America's D.C. office to Greely and Harding. The fuck if I know what they're doing with it."

"Apparently, they used some of it to hire contract killers," Daniel said.

Kindler lurched forward on the couch in a useless gesture of anger, bringing the full attention of Daniel's pistol to his face. Daniel simply shook his head, and Kindler settled back into the blood-soaked couch.

"None of you get it," Kindler said. "We're not being paid. We're part of the revolution to put America back on the right path. There are hundreds of us. Soon to be thousands…"

One of the cell phones on the conference table vibrated, shaking the car keys. Daniel stared at Kindler and examined his response. He wasn't pleased with what he could read on the man's face. Kindler managed to keep his eyes off the table, but the strain was evident.

"Expecting a call?" Daniel asked.

"It's probably just a standard check-in."

"With whom?" Daniel replied.

"I really can't say," Kindler said, avoiding eye contact.

Daniel shot Jessica a glance, which she returned without changing her expression. They were prepared to evacuate the room at a moment's notice.

"Mr. Young, do you have remote access to these records?"

"Most of them. We'd have to visit my office in D.C. to access some of the deeper account specifics. We don't have remote access for regulatory reasons. What are you looking for?"

"Anything related to True America, directly or indirectly."

"And you'll let me go if I give you everything?"

"I won't kill you, if that's what you're asking," Daniel said.

"Can you protect my family? Is there a witness protection program or something?"

"We'll cross that bridge when you provide us with the information," Daniel said.

"How do I know you won't just kill me?"

"This may sound kind of cliché, but you don't."

"That's reassuring," Young said.

The cell phone stopped buzzing, which caused Daniel to glance in the direction of the small pile of wallets, pistol magazines, cell phones and keys in the middle of the table Less than a second later, the second phone started to vibrate, which didn't surprise him in the least. He didn't need to look at Kindler's panicked face to figure out what would happen next. Theodore Kindler launched forward, successfully propelling himself off the couch and onto the coffee table, careening desperately toward Daniel with his hands behind his back.

Daniel extended his hand and fired a single round through his face, stepping aside as momentum and gravity carried the corpse into Benjamin Young. The dead weight slammed into Young, momentarily pinning him to the wing-back chair before sliding to the floor. Kindler left a considerable portion of his head in Young's lap, causing him to instantly vomit a brownish-yellow stream onto the lifeless human pile at his feet. He turned his head to the side of the chair opposite of Jessica and vomited again.

"We need to move. Prep Mr. Young for immediate departure. Make sure we have all of his electronics," he said and sprinted for the door.

Munoz nearly stumbled into the room when Daniel yanked the door open. He held a bloody towel in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. The air reeked of bleach solution. Melendez was on his hands and knees scrubbing a soapy liquid into the carpet.

"We've got company. Unknown disposition. We need to move Young to a more secure location. Do you need anything from your room?"

"Just our backpacks. Spare magazines, money, ID. The essentials," Munoz replied.

"Grab the packs, and cover the hallway. Both directions. We'll be ready to move in fifteen seconds," Daniel said.

He grabbed one of the killer's discarded pistols from the tile floor bathroom and took two magazines from the conference table. He considered grabbing their cell phones and wallets, but decided against it. Their mission was to secure Benjamin Young, or more importantly, any useful information he could provide. He returned to the sitting area to find Young on his feet, vigorously wiping his face with a wet towel. Jessica snatched the towel out of his hand.

"You look beautiful again," she said and pushed him toward the door.

"Fuck. Will you take it easy?" Young complained.

"You got everything?" he said, reaching out to grab Young by the shirt collar.

"Two laptops, Blackberry, some kind of crypto-key fob, wallet, cash…Mr. Young is ready to roll," Jessica replied.

While she hiked a dark brown leather satchel over her left shoulder and made a last second adjustment to the straps, he pulled Young in close.

"Listen to this woman, and don't think for one second that you can escape us. Is that clear?" he said, shaking Young's collar. "Things will get hectic on the way out of this hotel. If you try to run, you're a dead man."

He winked at Jessica behind Young's back. "Keep him low and behind cover. How's your hand?" he whispered in her ear, kissing the nape of her neck.

"It's fine. Do I really have to babysit him?"

"I agree. I'd feel more comfortable with someone else," Young interrupted, without turning around.

"Shut the fuck up," Daniel said.

Turning toward Jessica, he said, "You're not exactly dressed for a running gunfight. Sorry."

She kicked her high heels onto the floor. "Next time I'll wear a track suit."

Jessica was dressed in a sleeveless black turtleneck dress, cut at mid-thigh. Not exactly the best outfit for urban escape and evasion, unless you planned to take refuge in a chic nightclub. He wished they had brought a more practical pair of shoes for her. Running barefoot through the streets of Buckhead on a Friday night wouldn't be a pleasant experience. He smiled at her.

"Ready?"

"After you," she replied.

Daniel moved Young out of the way and paused at the door. He replaced the magazine in his pistol with a fresh magazine from one of his inside jacket pockets, giving him thirteen rounds. Glancing through the doorway, he saw Munoz and Melendez crouched behind the corners of the recessed hallway vestibule outside of Suite 1811. Munoz covered the elevator with his suppressed TMP submachine gun, and Melendez watched the long hallway leading to a set of stairs toward the far end of the hotel. Daniel decided against taking the furthest set of stairs. The elevator vestibule was closer, giving them access to a stairwell that led right into the lobby and a quick exit onto the street.

"Stairs by the elevator. Munoz first, then me. Package in the middle. Melendez covers the rear. Move out," he said and stepped into the hallway.

Munoz burst into the hallway with his weapon trained in the direction of the elevators, followed closely by Daniel. They hadn't taken five steps before the elevator bell rang.

"Cover," Daniel said, bumping into Jessica and Young as he stepped back into the vestibule.

The elevator doors opened, and the carriage appeared empty for a moment. A head poked out from the right side, quickly followed by an unsuppressed automatic weapon. Daniel didn't linger long enough to determine what the figure had fired at them. The rounds tore into the drywall and wooden framing around the vestibule, showering the floor and Daniel with fragments. Bullets snapped by as the staccato hammering of the gunfire pounded his ears. Munoz and Petrovich dropped to the ground, simultaneously leaning out to fire their weapons. Their bullets caught the shooter in an attempt to sprint clear of the elevator, throwing him back into the carriage amidst a cascade of mirrored glass shards. Daniel noticed a steady bright red spray pulsing into the air above the body.

A second shooter sprayed bullets down the hallway from a position outside of the elevator, shattering light fixtures and damaging more drywall. Daniel wasn't sure if this shooter had exited the elevator or joined the fight from the stairs. Munoz caught the shooter's head with a short burst of fire from his TMP, dropping the figure to the ground along the left corner of the hallway.

"She's down. Head shot," Munoz said.

The words caused him to glance back at Jessica in a moment of panic.

"Jess is fine. Shooter was female," Munoz said.

"Targets from the rear," Melendez said, immediately firing three rounds down the long hallway.

Daniel jumped to his feet and pressed his body against the wall, moving to the opposite side of the vestibule to reduce his exposure to fire from the other direction. He kept his aim centered on the elevator hallway. Munoz shifted positions across the hallway, barely avoiding a fusillade of bullets. He reloaded the TMP as Daniel watched several bullets puncture the drywall and splinter the painted wood immediately behind both of them. Nothing moved in Daniel's sector near the elevator. Munoz's TMP cracked to life, spitting several tightly controlled bursts at their new assailants. Munoz expended thirty rounds in less than five seconds and pulled another thirty-round magazine from the top of his backpack.

"I hit one of them. We need to make a move, man," he said.

"Flashbangs. Both directions. We make a run for the elevator," Daniel said.

Another torrent of bullets pounded their position, missing them by inches and causing them both to hug the wall. Melendez responded with his pistol, but the suppressed snaps of his well-aimed shots sounded pathetic compared to the explosions blasting at them from the end of the hallway. Munoz opened his backpack and removed two black cylindrical objects. He tossed one of them to Daniel, amidst another burst of gunfire. One of the bullets grazed the top of his hand during the throw.

"Motherfucker," Munoz said, grimacing.

"You all right?" Daniel yelled.

"I'm fine. Let's get this over with. Pull!" he said.

They yanked the safety pins out of their flashbang grenades at the same time and threw them in opposite directions. Daniel's landed in the middle of the elevator vestibule, and Munoz's landed somewhere near the closest shooter down the long hallway. The M84 stun grenades had a time delay fuse of 1 to 2 seconds. By the time the grenades had landed and stopped rolling, they were milliseconds away from exploding. Daniel didn't wait. He reached inside Suite 1812 and pulled Young into the vestibule. Young fought him, trying to hold onto the doorframe, but Jessica hit his hand with one of the pistols she had grabbed from the bathroom floor. Young let go, and they nearly tumbled into the hallway as the flashbangs detonated. Everyone sprinted toward the elevator as Munoz unleashed a long burst from his TMP into the cloud of smoke billowing from the far end of the eighteenth-floor hallway.

Daniel reached the elevator vestibule first, sweeping from left to right with his pistol. Through the thin haze produced by the flashbang's magnesium/ammonia nitrate pyrotechnic mix, he saw nothing beyond the corpse at his feet and a bloody lump inside the elevator. The reflective polished copper elevator doors repeatedly opened and closed when they encountered the pair of lifeless legs protruding out into the hallway.

"Clear!" he said.

He walked swiftly toward the illuminated exit sign, turning his head once to confirm that Young and Jessica were following him closely. Munoz and Melendez ducked into the elevator lobby, taking cover behind the corner, while firing controlled bursts down the hallway. Their disciplined gunfire was immediately returned by a wild, three second hammering from one of the opposing submachine guns. Both of the operatives moved back from the corner as 9mm rounds slammed into the elevator doors and skipped off the walls. Munoz signaled with his hand for Daniel to proceed into the stairwell.

Daniel dropped the magazine from his suppressed pistol and replaced it, staring at the door leading into the stairwell. Anything could be waiting for them on the other side. Fuck it. They needed to keep moving. Police would hit the lobby within minutes, if they weren't already on-scene. They needed to be down these stairs and merging with evacuating guests immediately.

"Move to the side," he said, directing Jessica and Young to the wall next to the door.

Once they were clear of the opening, he pulled the door open, pointing his weapon forward. He instantly saw two men turn the corner at the bottom of the stairwell leading up to the door. They were armed with pistols and moving too quickly for him to apply any rules of engagement. His left hand flashed to meet his HK USP, and the gun kicked repeatedly as he rushed forward through his own shell casings.

His first rounds hit the first man center of mass, knocking him back into the second man. He heard one of their guns discharge in the tight stairwell, as he adjusted his aim while still firing. The remaining rounds from his pistol connected with the second shooter, splashing the painted concrete wall behind the man with a disturbing scarlet pattern. When the slide on Daniel's pistol locked back, indicating that he had expended the magazine, he realized that the first shooter was still alive and well. The man had been spun around by Daniel's bullets and dropped to one knee, but he hadn't collapsed.

His mind flashed with options, none of them good. He could stand his ground, reload and fire; try to close the remaining distance down the staircase and physically disarm the man; or retreat and hope that the man is too stunned to hit a moving target. Already halfway down the stairs, with his momentum moving toward the shooter, retreat was no longer a viable option. Stopping to reload didn't seem realistic either. The shooter's pistol hand was free from the limbs and body of his partner, already extending toward him up the stairwell. The grimace of pain and determination on the man's face sealed Daniel's decision. He charged down the stairs, trying to stay outside of the shooter's pistol arc.

A deafening boom pounded his ears as he collided with the man, viciously hammering the shooter's head into the concrete wall with his left hand, while pinning the pistol against the wall with the other. He felt the man's pistol tumble along his arm and hit his leg on the way to the carpeted floor. The shooter suddenly lurched upward and kicked out at Daniel, in a last, desperate attempt to survive. The kick caught Daniel off guard, striking his left hip and knocking him clear. The two men scrambled for the closest pistol, which teetered on the edge of the stairs.

Before either of them could reach it, the shooter's head snapped backward and hit the bloodstained concrete with a sick thud that could be felt over the ear-splitting echo of the gunshot. He glanced up and saw Jessica aiming down the stairs. A shell casing tumbled down one of the carpeted stairs in front of her and stopped. He really hoped these weren't cops. Jessica didn't deserve to have blood like that on her hands. The burden of unintentionally killing an off-duty police officer two years ago in Silver Spring, Maryland, still haunted him.

This type of mental reflection didn't fit the psychological profile identified by days of testing and interviews. The stone-cold, pathologically practical covert operative thought about the consequences of pulling that trigger nearly every day. Officer Samantha Rockwell had been executing her duties as a sworn law enforcement officer when her path crossed Daniel's. She'd caught him by surprise at the worst time possible and had been unceremoniously killed in a grocery store parking lot. It was unintentional…collateral damage. Not that it mattered to her husband and three children. Maybe the government psychologists had been full of shit from the very beginning, or maybe an "extremely functional sociopath" can have an emotional breakdown from time to time. Whatever the cause, he needed to convince himself that he hadn't killed another law enforcement agent.

Once again, there had been no time to assess the situation. He'd applied basic rules and assumptions before entering the stairwell. He didn't think the police could have reacted this quickly. If anything, a pair of uniformed officers would reach the scene first, and they would be unlikely to head toward the sound of automatic gunfire. If they'd run into these two on a lower level, most of his assumptions would have been different, along with his reaction. He quickly searched their torsos for badges or identification, finding nothing along their belts or attached to their shirts. He turned one of the bodies on its side and retrieved a wallet, flipping it open. Nothing. If these were cops, they weren't carrying identification.

"Keep moving!" Jessica yelled at him.

He looked up and watched her reach through the doorway to pull Benjamin Young into the stairwell. She didn't seem to have any reservations or concerns about killing these men. He needed to snap out of this funk immediately. He couldn't afford to get tangled in his guilt again tonight. Getting through the lobby might get messy.

Daniel retrieved his HK USP Compact from the snarl of legs and arms slumped against the wall and reloaded his magazine before proceeding to clear the next level. He moved quickly but cautiously down the stairs, paying close attention to corners and doors. Jessica dragged Young down each staircase as he cleared them. On the fourth floor, Melendez rushed past Jessica and caught up with him.

"We took down the last shooter on the eighteenth. Munoz has our back. He told me to give you this. Said we might need it soon."

Daniel took his eyes off the next landing long enough to see what Melendez had pushed against his left shoulder. An olive drab cylindrical object with "M18" etched in white on the side. Munoz certainly didn't disappoint. A smoke grenade was exactly what he needed to ensure the success of their escape plan.

"Keep that close by. We will need it soon," he said, continuing downward.

"What's your plan for the lobby?" Melendez asked.

"Something that will hopefully preclude us from shooting our way out."

"I can't wait."

Officer Paul Anthony tried to calm the guest services manager and the two front desk agents that had been called to an impromptu meeting in the far recesses of the lobby, away from the growing mob of new check-ins. One of the front desk agents had remained behind the lobby counter, politely telling the guests that the computer system had experienced a glitch. This had been his idea and the only thing that appeared to stop the flow of check-ins without creating a general panic. Judging by the size of the line and the desperate looks flashed at them by the young black woman behind the marble counter, the computer glitch story had a two-minute lifespan. They needed to think of something quick. There was no way they could let anyone head up onto any of the floors.

Dispatch had received a single phone call from a frantic woman on the eighteenth floor, claiming that a gang war had broken out in the hallway. The dispatcher confirmed an incredible amount of background noise coming from her phone, though the woman's screaming made it nearly impossible to determine what she was hearing. Anthony and his partner, Officer Sandra Kingston, had been located less than a minute away, having just turned north onto Lenox Road from Wright Avenue. By the time they arrived at the hotel, two additional calls had hit northern zone dispatch, confirming automatic gunfire on the eighteenth floor. SWAT was ordered to mobilize a response.

One of the calls had been placed by the guest services manager and was still in progress when they walked through the revolving lobby door. The dark-haired woman handed the phone to one of the agents and scurried to meet the officers. She explained that calls had started to flood the front desk and she didn't know how to proceed. He gave her the computer glitch idea and asked her to bring two of the agents to this quiet corner where he could work out a plan that would keep guests safe until SWAT could take control of the scene. A second pair of police officers pushed through the leftmost set of mahogany-encased, glass swing doors and entered the lobby. He waved them over.

"More officers are on the way. The two of you need to instruct guests to stay in their rooms and lock the doors. Both locks. For their own safety, they need to remain behind locked doors until further notice. Don't give them any details. Let them know the police are taking control of the situation and move on to the next caller. Get another agent to help you with this. Do you have an automated system that can leave hotel-wide messages?"

"Yes. We use it for emergencies. I can access it from the security office," the manager said, looking dazed.

"I think this qualifies as an emergency. I need you to record a message informing guests to stay in their rooms until further notice. Start sending the calls immediately. We'll handle the check-ins. Where are your security people?" Anthony asked.

"They just started up the rear stairwell before you arrived."

"Recall them to the lobby immediately. Are they armed?"

"One of them. Maybe. I think he took something from his locker," she said furtively.

"Get them back here now. They'll get themselves and other hotel guests killed if they try anything crazy. Tell them this is a police order, and if they argue with you, come get me. All right, let's get this place locked down for SWAT."

Officer Anthony examined the luxuriously appointed lobby and made a quick assessment of the situation while the hotel staff swarmed the front desk. He counted three elevators in the elevator lobby adjacent to the front desk. To the left of the entrance to the elevator lobby, an unmarked mahogany door stood next to a fire alarm, resembling the most likely stairway exit. Discreetly placed illuminated exit signs situated deeper in the lobby indicated a second exit accessible from the lobby level.

"Hey! Do the elevators reach the parking garage?" he yelled.

"The one on the right, but guests can't take it directly to the garage. They have to use the other two to arrive in the lobby, then change elevators," the manager replied.

"Is that the front stairwell door?" he asked, pointing to the inconspicuous wood-paneled door.

"Yes. The other stairwell is beyond the shops and past the side entrance."

He nodded and greeted the two arriving officers. "Here's the deal; we have multiple reports of automatic gunfire on the—"

His sentence was interrupted by a double klaxon sound that echoed through the lobby and was followed by a soothing, recorded female voice. Harsh white strobe lights competed with the soft glow of the lobby's ceiling tray lighting.

"May I have your attention, please? May I have your attention, please? There has been a fire reported in the building. Please exit the hotel using the nearest exit stairwell. Do not use the elevators."

"Shit," he muttered, just as the high-decibel double klaxon penetrated his ears again.

"Get everyone out of the lobby and grab the other responding officers to help. Kingston and I will cover the lobby exits," he said, slapping one of the officers on the back.

"Who the fuck hit that alarm!" he screeched at the front desk clerk.

"I'm trying to figure that out!" she yelled back at him, clearly becoming unglued.

"This is about to become a fucking nightmare for us," he said to Kingston.

"Shit. I think our best position will be to the right of the front desk. We'll have good cover and an angle on the elevator lobby. The stairwell door is right in front of us," Officer Kingston said.

"That's about all we can do. We'll put more officers on the service elevator and rear stairs as they arrive. Let's go."

They jogged over to the front desk as the crowd of new check-ins started to pull their luggage toward the double lobby doors.

"Leave your luggage!" he yelled at them.

His order emboldened the other officers, who actively corralled and hustled them to the door, enforcing Anthony's impromptu "no luggage" rule. Of course, he'd be relieved of this temporary command as soon as their shift's senior patrol officer or one of the sergeants arrived, which should be any minute now. The sooner the better. The prospect of facing automatic weapons with his Smith and Wesson .40 S&W semiautomatic pistol didn't appeal to him. Anthony and his partner would be hopelessly outgunned, and their bulletproof vests would offer little resistance to the new breed of high-velocity calibers they were seeing on the streets.

As the first responding officer, he felt compelled to remain in the lobby and offer what little firepower he had available to protect hotel guests. It wasn't the best idea, but there was little doubt that it was the right one. If his sergeant wanted to pull everyone out and wait for SWAT, that was his call. Until then, they'd try to cover four approaches with two guns. He turned to the terrified front desk staff.

"Get out of here with the rest of them. Where's your manager's office?"

One of the women pointed behind the desk to the right at an open doorway before scrambling around the side of the counter and running for the exit. The guest services manager reappeared in the doorway.

"The alarm was set off on the ninth floor," she said, eyeing her staff as they disappeared with the crowd into the front parking lot.

"Did you send the message to all of the rooms?" he said, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and the four possible approaches to their position.

"No. I can't do that with a fire alarm. Someone reported an explosion up there. The entire hotel might be on fire."

"Fuck," he hissed.

She was right. If the gun battle on the eighteenth had started a fire, the message might confuse guests and keep them in their rooms. Then again, a general exodus down the stairwells could lead to a massacre or a hostage situation. He had run out of good options for handling the hotel's guests, so he sent the guest manager on her way to the exit. He would hold this position with Kingston until they were given different orders. All he could do was continue to move guests out of the hotel. He'd already started that. When the first wave of evacuees arrived, he'd help them onto the street, keeping a close eye out for the shooters.

He grabbed his handheld shoulder-mounted microphone to pass this plan onto the other officers, but something hit the stairwell door hard and caused him to stop. He heard some yelling on the other side, then pounding. Was it locked? He looked at Kingston, who raised her shoulders. The yelling intensified, along with the pounding. The guests pouring out of the Lobby Bar started to push and shove to get through to the hotel's front entrance. Several turned for the hallway containing the shops and an escape through the side entrance onto Peachtree Road.

The lobby would be clear in a few moments, giving him the opportunity to open the door without exposing guests to automatic gunfire. He had no idea who was knocking on that door, and he didn't want to unleash a bigger problem. The pounding beckoned him as the last of the guests cleared the front lobby door. Two police officers from his precinct pushed through the doors with their service pistols drawn, focused on the stairwell door. They took cover behind the sturdier pieces of lobby furniture as the pounding continued.

Officer Anthony slid past the corner of the front desk, pointing his pistol in the direction of the service elevator to the left. He approached the stairwell door cautiously, expecting it to burst open at any moment. Based on the location of the door handle, he could tell that the door would hinge open in his direction, providing him momentary concealment from any shooters that might emerge. He'd have time to duck into the elevator lobby and return fire. Unfortunately, the elevator lobby was a dead end if they pursued him, though he might be able to use one of the elevators for further cover.

He wouldn't be able to escape without a fire service key. He knew from experience that a hotel fire alarm would automatically engage the elevator system's fire service mode and send all of the elevators to the Fire Recall Floor, where they would remain until the alarms were reset or bypassed by a fire service key. He might not be able to use the elevators to escape, but at least he could rule out the possibility of surprises from the elevator lobby.

He spun into the rectangular-shaped area, leading with his pistol. He quickly confirmed that one of the guest elevators was open and empty. The second elevator's doors remained closed, and he had no way to tell where the elevator car might be. God forbid the Ritz Carlton disturb the precious, polished mahogany wood interior to install a floor indicator. He could barely find the buttons that activated the elevators. Maybe you had to be rich to see them. He edged forward, aiming at the open door across from the guest elevators. He "sliced the pie," moving slowly to his right, gradually exposing more of the parking garage elevator car to the sight picture over the barrel of his pistol. Empty.

He rushed back to the elevator lobby opening and nodded to his partner, who concentrated her pistol on the stairwell door. He heard frantic screaming from behind the door and decided that he had no choice but to open the door.

"Hold your fire. No shooting!" he yelled.

The three officers in the lobby nodded, though he didn't get the sense that the order registered. He edged up to the door and reached across the mahogany panel to grip the thick metal handle. The door swung open easily, which almost surprised him more than the thick volume of smoke that immediately billowed from the open doorway and swirled toward the front lobby exits. At least a dozen people initially poured out into the lobby, pushing each other out of the way, coughing and hacking. This group was followed by another surge of guests, assisting each other and yelling. Anthony didn't see any weapons evident, though he admittedly couldn't see very effectively through the thick acrid smoke. He holstered his weapon and rushed in to stabilize an elderly woman, who looked confused.

"Where was the fire?" he asked.

She looked up at him, coughing and squinting. "I don't know. Where's my husband?"

"We'll find him, ma'am," he replied. "Head out the door to get some fresh air."

He singled out a young couple that appeared to be under control. They were headed toward the far right exit, helping another man with a smashed nose. Needing some basic information about the situation, he approached them. As their features became clearer through the smoky haze, he noticed the woman had short brown hair and deep blue eyes, resembling a movie star that he thought he recognized. She was dressed in a black turtleneck dress. Her shoes were missing, but she had probably ditched them in the stairwell. He imagined she'd worn high heels with this outfit. She grasped hands with a serious-looking, well-heeled gentleman with jet-black hair, who supported a slightly taller, equally well-dressed injured man.

The taller man had brown hair and leaned heavily on the other man, unable to put weight on his left leg. His nose was clearly broken, with the bright crimson evidence still pouring down his face and chin onto his crisp white shirt. They were all coughing as they trudged toward the exit. He stepped in front of the group. Nothing about this group set off any internal alarms for Anthony.

"What happened to him?" he said.

They stopped, and the black-haired man leaned his friend against the wall.

"He fell on the stairs and hit his face. We couldn't see a fucking thing in there, Officer. We were waiting for the elevator on five when the fire alarm went off. We hit the stairs, but they were already filled with smoke," he said, coughing into his elbow.

When the man raised his right arm to cough, his suit coat opened, briefly exposing a gun tucked into his right waistline. Officer Paul Anthony instantly felt sick as an incredible surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins. He fought against every panicky instinct telling him to pull his weapon. The man's steely gaze told him that he'd probably never clear the pistol from his holster. He wasn't some brash mafia hit man or wild-eyed gang-banger. Anthony was staring at the real deal. Something he had never seen before. He didn't know how he knew this, but the sudden realization saved his life.

"Officer Anthony?" the woman said, no longer holding the man's hand.

He barely nodded and muttered, "Yes?"

"We're going to walk past you now to seek medical attention. That's really all you should remember about us. Does that sound like a fair assessment of the situation?" she said, smiling.

"What happened up there?" he automatically replied, now scared that he might have signed his own death warrant.

"Nothing worth the life of a police officer. You should help some of the guests now."

He glanced at the mayhem through the thinning smoke and saw several people lying on the tan marble floor, coughing and wheezing.

"I suppose you're right," he said, betraying a hint of regret in his decision.

He heard his sergeant's voice and watched the uniformed police officer push his way through the leftmost lobby entrance, along with two plain-clothed officers, both armed with short-barreled M-4 Carbines. The sergeant spotted Anthony immediately and started walking over. He now had three police officers focused on his gathering. He detected a shift in intensity from the couple standing in front of him. The man previously leaning against the wall now stood on both feet, his leg wound suddenly healed. Anthony made a decision that he'd professionally regret, but personally cherish. He extended his right hand and placed it on the woman's shoulder, raising his voice over the din of confusion that seemed to envelop the whole lobby.

"Head out into the parking lot and check in with a paramedic," he said, patting her on the back to move them along and through the doors.

He never looked back at them.

"What are you doing?" the sergeant asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm screening the guests. We have no information about the shooters. They could be up on any of the floors or trying to sneak out in the stampede!" he yelled over the noise.

"Nice job, Paul. I need you to head outside and organize the rest of the officers as they arrive. I want teams of three or four on each exit screening guests. I'll get you some tactical support assets to beef up your presence." The sergeant turned to the first response tactical officers, not waiting for Anthony's acknowledgement.

He issued orders to the two tactical officers and jogged into the smoky chaos to try to gain control of the situation. Anthony turned to the door, surprised to see that his mystery guests were no longer in sight and had been replaced by several other desperate hotel guests. He made his way through the people, careful not to jostle anyone, and emerged under the roof of the guest drop-off area. He glanced around, relieved to discover that they had already disappeared. Unless the hotel crashed down on all of them, he'd make it home in time for the morning ritual. He'd kiss his wife goodbye before work and walk his two boys to the bus stop for school. Priceless moments like those left him with no regrets about letting those three vanish.

They fast walked toward Peachtree Road, hoping to catch a taxi within the next minute, before the Atlanta Police Department threw the full weight of their resources into the containment effort at the Ritz Carlton. Daniel could hear multiple sirens in the distance as they approached the crowded six-lane city street. They needed to get as far away from Atlanta as possible. Normally, he fled toward crowds, but tonight was different and their evening was far from over. It would take them a while to find a secondary location safe enough from the public eye to sit down and have an earnest chat with Mr. Young. He sensed that Young would give them everything, but they had to be sure he didn't play them. Sometimes that could get messy, or at least a little loud. Either way, he didn't expect to be on a plane headed back to the South Carolina coast tonight.

"That was beautiful! Who the fuck are you people? You just stared down a police officer. I've never seen anything like that. He saw your gun. You know that, right?" Benjamin Young said.

Daniel flipped his right hand back and slapped Young directly in the face, connecting with his broken nose. The man howled and cursed, stopping in his tracks before Jessica moved slightly behind him to provide a razor-sharp reason to keep moving.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Young mumbled.

"To remind you that we're not friends," Daniel said.

"Now shut the fuck up and keep walking. I don't want to hear another word out of you unless I ask a question. Got it?"

"Yes or no works for us," Jessica said.

Young simply nodded, clearly struggling to walk after his focused strike. Daniel saw several taxis pass in the minute it took them to arrive at Lenox. His cell phone vibrated, and he hoped it was good news from Munoz and Melendez. They had poured out of the smoke-filled stairwell a few people back from Daniel's group, prepared to run interference if the police had already locked down the lobby. He'd watched them slither past the sergeant and his two heavily armed police escorts, just as Officer Anthony made a decision in everyone's best interest. One wrong move by Anthony might have led to a bloodbath that no presidential amnesty could forgive and an even bigger rip in his soul that could never be mended.

"Where are you guys?" he said in greeting.

"Headed northeast on Lenox. Looking to pick up a cab. What's the rendezvous point?" Munoz said.

"I think we should circle the city on the two-eighty-five and meet up at Hartsfield-Jackson. We can grab a rental at the terminal and head east into South Carolina. Find somewhere outside of Columbia to stop and have a chat with our friend here."

"All right. I'll call Sanderson with an update. I don't know what Jessica said to that cop, but it avoided a messy situation."

"Tell me about it. I'll pass that on to her. We'll meet you at the baggage claim inside the north terminal," Daniel said.

"See you there," Munoz replied, ending the call.

Daniel held out his hand to hail a cab, hoping the growing number of blue police lights wouldn't scare off their easiest and most secure form of transportation to the airport. They could always walk down Peachtree Road for about ten minutes to Buckhead Station and take the MARTA to the airport, but one glance at Young's bloodied face and scarlet-stained collar shelved that idea. They would need to clean him up before arriving at the airport. Their best course of action might be to head into the side entrance of another hotel along Peachtree Road and take him to a bathroom.

"Let's take a walk," he said, staring down the street at an illuminated "Westin" marquee sign.

Several police cars converged on the intersection of Peachtree and Lenox, screeching around the corner toward the main drive-up entrance to the Ritz Carlton. Two of the cars remained in the intersection, blocking traffic from reaching the main entrance to the hotel. It wouldn't be long before they started expanding their cordon. He turned southeast on Peachtree Road and started walking.

Chapter 36

Jackson Greely's Chevy Suburban hummed past the faint glow of Hazelton. The Chevy's cruise control was set at 70 MPH, which experience had taught him was a safe speed to avoid unwanted attention from the Pennsylvania State Police. Anything over 70 MPH was a complete crapshoot, especially on a Friday night. He hit the deceleration switch once and tucked the speed just under 70. He couldn't afford to have his whereabouts recorded in state police databanks. He'd left Harrisburg after a quiet dinner engagement with local political supporters and headed north for Lake Wallenpaupack. It was time for Greely and Harding to disappear, while events transpired that would change the course of American history.

He and Harding would be arriving at the lake house ahead of schedule, thanks to an unknown entity. Greely agreed with the rest of the council — the FBI hadn't taken custody of Miguel Estrada. They had enough contacts at the bureau and local law enforcement offices to know that Estrada hadn't surfaced in any of the New York City precincts, hospitals or federal offices. He'd simply vanished into thin air, carried away by two Arab-looking thieves in the night. None of it made any sense, but his coconspirators agreed that they needed to bump up the timeline.

Jason Carnes, head of laboratory operations at their secret facility, had protested, but reluctantly admitted that they could speed up the cultivation process. They would start injecting the virus into the bottle caps late tomorrow, with the intention of transporting the first crates of infected bottled water to the distribution hub the day after that. From there, the convoys would be loaded, assigned drivers, and sent to their destinations. Once the convoys hit the roads, the entire organization would go to ground and wait, leaving nothing for the feds to investigate.

His cell phone illuminated and started to buzz. He pressed a button on the steering wheel, which activated the Bluetooth system. "How are we doing?"

"Not good," Brown replied.

"Now what?"

"The team in Atlanta failed," Brown said.

Greely could sense the apprehension in his voice. "What do you mean they failed? What the fuck is wrong with our people? I'm starting to wonder if you've been jerking me off with your reports of how well trained we are."

"Our people are extremely well trained, and I don't appreciate the implication."

"Then how did Young manage to slip away from…how many of your people?"

"Six. He had help. Skilled help. Two of my men were executed in Young's hotel suite. The others were gunned down in the hallway and stairwell."

"Let me guess. More Arabs?"

"No. A hotel security camera showed a man and a woman escorting Young through the lobby. The image is obscured by smoke, which wasn't caused by a fire. Police found a spent smoke grenade in the stairwell. Flashbangs were used on the eighteenth floor. The crew that extracted Young was well equipped, well informed and highly skilled. I'm worried that we've attracted the wrong kind of attention from someone unexpected."

"Fuck!" Greely yelled, pounding the steering wheel. "We need to figure this out immediately. Benjamin Young can connect some dots that we can't afford to have connected right now…or ever. We should have killed him weeks ago. Damn it! Fucking Mills didn't want to cut off a big funding deal Young was working on. The son of a bitch has more money than Bill Gates, and now we're looking at a serious security breach."

"I know. I have my eyes and ears on the ground in Atlanta. If he surfaces, I'll put a bounty on his head," Brown said.

"He won't surface. He's a ghost now, just like Estrada. How is our insurance policy shaping up?"

"We have two suitable options. The package will be in place within thirty-six hours."

"Make sure nothing goes wrong with this. If the government is somehow involved in Young's disappearance, the success of our plan will depend upon it," Greely said.

"Understood. I'll personally oversee the operation."

"Very well. Any word from the compound?"

"Nothing yet. I just got off the phone with Bishop."

"All right. Keep me posted. I'm headed north for my forced vacation," Greely said.

"Don't hurt yourself up there. I'll be in touch with any developments."

Greely hit the steering wheel again. He considered calling Jason Carnes and pressing the case for further expediting laboratory operations, but he knew that the laboratory staff had their back up against the wall on this one. Carnes had made it perfectly clear that current timeline cutbacks might ultimately impact the virus's efficacy. He needed to be patient and trust in Brown's tactics. The compound, the attack earlier today and their insurance policy would combine to create a perfect storm in their favor. Even if Young spilled everything to his government captors, there would be no way they could recover quickly enough to stop their plot. He had to focus on the big picture. At this point, small setbacks were like roadkill on the highway — squishy little bumps that had no chance of slowing down his Chevy.

Chapter 37

Tyrell Bishop stood a few steps outside of the headquarters building and surveyed the compound. The full moon directly overhead cast a grayish-blue light on the silent facility, creating a monochromatic collage of shadows among the structures. He took in the crisp night air with a deep breath. Like always, the valley air was pristine, which added to the bittersweet taste in his mouth. He didn't relish leaving the compound. The place had been his permanent home for the past two years, filling him with nothing but cherished memories. He looked up into the hills and pondered the impending attack, which Brown had assured him would come within the next forty-eight hours. A grin spread across his face. Bishop had no idea what they were up against, but Brown felt confident that they could repel any attack thrown at them by the FBI. The amount of firepower at his disposal could hold off a concentrated Taliban attack.

He had removed their four M2 heavy-barrel .50-caliber machine guns from the armory and pre-positioned them in buildings near the fence line. Within minutes, he could put them into action against enemies coming from any direction. Brown had told him to expect a coordinated vehicle and helicopter assault, which was a favorite tactic of the feds. Idiots. By the time the vehicles traversed the road leading to the compound, True America would be ready for a fight. He was willing to bet that the FBI helicopter pilots had never come under heavy machine gun fire on a raid before. He couldn't wait to see them turn tail and fly away when .50-caliber tracer rounds reached out to touch them. Without air support, he wondered if the ground forces would press the attack. He hoped so, since the compound held a few more surprises for them.

His favorite was their armored vehicle. Last year, several mechanics and body shop guys went to work on a Ford Bronco, turning it into a light armored vehicle. Fitted with steel plates on all sides and airless Michelin Tweel tires, the "Road Warrior" was impervious to small-arms fire. The Bronco's rear compartment roof had been removed to provide a gunner's stand for the fully restored German MG42 belt-fed machine gun attached to a swivel mount welded to the truck. Twin protective plates would give the gun operator added protection while mowing down feds with the same gun that had defended the beaches of Normandy. Road Warrior would emerge through the front gate to meet any vehicles that tried to deliver federal storm troopers to his doorstep.

Even a long-distance standoff wasn't a feasible option for Uncle Sam. Bishop's arsenal consisted of nearly a dozen .50-caliber sniper rifles that could reach out and touch anyone hunkered down along the tree line. The furthest point from the fence was roughly 350 yards, easy pickings for one of his sharpshooters, not to mention the heavy machine guns. If the feds showed some tenacity and decided to stick around, he could always dust them off with "thumper." Even the most highly disciplined storm troopers would scurry when he started to walk 60mm high-explosive rounds onto their position. The baseplate and tube could be set up in less than a minute, providing him with unmatched firepower. The mortar crew's training consisted mostly of "dry fire" drills since ammunition was severely limited, but he felt confident that they could rain hell down on their enemies.

If they failed to stop the feds, Brown had ordered him to retreat through the back fence using one of the compound's ATVs. Brown made it clear that Bishop was too valuable to be captured and that he was needed to play a critical role in upcoming events. He could take the surviving camp regulars with him. They had enough four wheelers for about a dozen of them to escape if they doubled up.

The new recruits would have to stay and fight it out, no matter what happened. He hoped it didn't come to that, but Brown had made the options clear. If the feds turned the tide too quickly, Hacker Valley would vanish into obscurity, and there would be no point for him to remain behind. If they could repel the attack and force the government to come back with a bigger force, True America could turn this into another Waco, Texas. Greely's spin-doctors in the media would make this a symbol of government oppression. Brown and the higher-ups had something massive planned for the upcoming days. Ongoing media coverage of the Hacker Valley siege would play right into that plan, so he was told. The key to that plan was holding the fort.

Through the fence line, he could see that a faint mist had started to penetrate the valley, lightly touching the ground in a few patches to the south. He raised his night vision scope and scanned beyond the fence. The light cast by the moon turned the landscape into day, providing a crisp image across the clearing in every direction. They had some night vision equipped rifles, which would come in handy if the attack took place at night. He highly doubted they would attack under a full moon, on a clear night. Then again, he wasn't facing military tacticians. Lawyers and accountants filled the ranks at the FBI. If he were in charge of the federal attack, he would hit the compound an hour before full sunrise. The mist often transitioned into fog by then, stringing thick ribbons of smoky white clouds across the valley. Perfect cover to approach undetected.

He was about to step down from the doorway and take a walk around the compound when an excited voice nearly scared him out of his clothes.

"They're coming! Ty! They're coming."

He ran into the building and took the first door on his left, entering the control room. The small space housed a table with three monitors and a variety of communications equipment. Two of the monitors showed feeds from various cameras located throughout the compound and along the approach road. The third monitor displayed a virtual security window that relayed information from several dozen sensors placed in the forest surrounding the compound. Immediately upon entering, he could see that motion sensors along the approach road had been tripped.

"Rewind the camera feed," he ordered.

The black-haired, bearded man seated at the table clicked the mouse a few times, and the digital feed sped back in time twenty seconds. As the image flashed on the screen, Bishop saw a massive convoy of vehicles enter the screen, headed backward toward Route 15.

"Stop it there. Play it forward."

Bishop counted the vehicles as they slowly passed the night vision equipped security camera. Eight vehicles inbound, carrying maybe fifty agents. The lead vehicle had been a stripped-down Humvee, probably from a West Virginia National Guard unit. This made sense since none of the vehicles displayed headlights. The Guard drivers could navigate the road with night vision and lead the feds along safely to their target. The convoy was more than twenty minutes out, giving him more than enough time to deploy the compound's defenses. He wondered if they had him under some kind of long-range surveillance. He'd considered the possibility, but his array of motion sensors told him a different story. He'd overseen the placement of this array and had tested it from every direction. If working properly, nothing could get close enough to watch the compound without alerting him.

Still, he didn't want to completely spoil the surprise. He notified each of the barracks buildings with his radio and set them in motion. Within minutes, he'd have two heavy machine guns covering the approach road from the ground and the other two mounted in fixed rooftop positions. Located on opposite sides of the parade field, the rooftop guns could fire in any direction around the compound and would be their first line of defense against helicopters. Sniper positions on the rooftops and along the raised earthen barriers inside the fence could similarly fire in any direction, though he would concentrate their placement in the direction of the approach road.

The recruits would man the entire fence line armed with a variety of automatic rifles, equipped with state-of-the-art optics. Once the heavy machine-gunners made contact, he'd deploy the Road Warrior if they pressed the attack forward. He really hoped they were stupid and stubborn enough to try to breach the fence line. He'd love nothing more than to see the entire group of FBI agents slaughtered as they crossed 350 yards of open field.

He opened a tall metal cabinet pressed against the wall and grabbed his battle gear, which consisted of an AR-15 with 4X ACOG scope and a full tactical vest loaded down with spare magazines. He already wore his pistol in a drop-down tactical leg holster, along with a hand microphone-equipped command radio.

"Stay on the command channel. If you see any movement on the forest sensors, aside from the approach road, you notify me immediately. Understood?"

"I got your back, Ty. I wish I could be out there with you guys."

"You'll get your turn, don't worry. If we have a turkey shoot out there, I'll send someone back so you can empty a few mags."

"Fuck yeah! Save some of those dirt bag pieces of shit for me," he said, as Bishop disappeared.

"All teams report when in position. I want everyone ready in three minutes," he said into the hand mic.

He had a dozen snipers, four heavy gun team leaders, Road Warrior and the mortar team on the command net. Things would get busy very quickly. The recruits would be led by his regulars, separated into groups of ten. If he needed to contact them, or vice versa, the request would be relayed through a different channel that was monitored by his second-in-command, who was sprinting down the hall toward him.

Paul Thomas had been a competent soldier to have at his side for the past year. Wearing a Marine Corps-style "high and tight" haircut that matched his persona, the former Marine staff sergeant got things done around here. He considered Thomas to be an essential camp asset, which was more than he could say about many of the regulars that rotated through the compound.

"Wake your ass up, marine. We have a whole invasion force coming down that road. Make sure the recruits get into position, and don't leave my side. We may need to shift guys around pretty quickly."

"Roger that," Thomas said.

"I want to get down by the front gate to assess the situation firsthand," Bishop said and started running south, in the direction of the front gate.

On his way across the parade field, he saw activity on the rooftops designated to hold two of the heavy machine guns. These boys worked fast. Dark figures dashed in every direction, following orders barked by men and women who had been trained to lead freedom fighters into battle. The sound of equipment rattling sent a chill down his spine. He had never served in the military, but he imagined that this was exactly how it must have felt to be stationed in the Korengal Valley, at one of those hilltop firebases when the Taliban launched a surprise attack. The feeling nearly overwhelmed him as he reached one of the machine-gun positions established beside the gate. He had to stop and catch his breath, woozy from the excitement and adrenaline.

The machine gun was almost fully assembled on its tripod, which had been jammed against the two-foot-high berm. When in position, the barrel would clear the top of the raised earth by a few inches, giving the gunners cover from return fire. He doubted there would be any accurate return fire. With two or three .50 cals pouring hot steel into their vehicles, options would be limited for the agents that managed to crawl out of the wreckage. They could either hug the ground or kiss their asses goodbye.

Chief Petty Officer Carroll stared through the lens of his AN/PED-1 Lightweight Laser Designator/Rangefinder (LLDR) and depressed the trigger, firing an invisible, pulsed laser beam at the side of an ammunition can that had been placed next to a sandbag emplacement on the roof of one of the buildings. Within milliseconds, the Joint Fire Support Console connected to the LLDR had calculated the range and elevation to the ammunition can, comparing the data to the GPS signal provided by the chief's sophisticated communications rig. By the time he had released the trigger, the compact JFSC screen presented him with a muted orange, digital readout of the ammunition can's coordinates, which he quickly highlighted and transmitted, along with a brief target description, to the E-8C JSTARS aircraft circling far overhead. A similar process was conducted by DEVGRU teams in three other locations around the compound, aided by laser pointers from at least a dozen weapons aimed into the compound.

Within seconds, precise coordinates for all of the compound's heavy weapons and the single armored vehicle had been relayed by the SEALS to the JSTARS aircraft, where computers eliminated duplicate coordinates and packaged the data for transmission to Gunslinger Three One, a three-gun firing section provided by Fox Battery, 2^nd Battalion, 10^th Marine Artillery Regiment. The section had been delivered by three Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters, under the cover of darkness, to a remote forest clearing located eighteen miles north of the compound. Their M777A2 Howitzers would fire six M982 155mm high-explosive Excalibur rounds in support of the mission. The Excalibur round was an extended-range GPS-guided munition, with a circle error probable (CEP) of less than five meters, allowing for near pinpoint battlefield accuracy. He had to give the Joint Special Operations Command planners some credit for creativity. The use of battlefield artillery against terrorist forces on U.S. soil had never crossed his mind. Then again, he had never foreseen the authorization to use Tier One Special Operations assets either.

He waited for the final list of targets to arrive, which appeared on his console a few seconds later. The list looked good. Four gun emplacements and one armored vehicle. He typed additional instructions for their "fire mission" on the small keyboard attached to the JFSC and transmitted the data.

He diverted his attention from the screen and glanced through the lens at the bright green image centered on one of the rooftops. One of the men picked up the ammunition can and placed it inside of the sandbag emplacement. The three-man crew had attached the heavy machine gun to a fixed mounting bracket and was in the process of loading the weapon. Panning out, Carroll took in a wider view of the compound. Personnel scrambled in every direction, with the majority of the terrorists manning positions toward the front gate. Suspected sharpshooters armed with optics-equipped .50-caliber sniper rifles started to take positions on several of the rooftops. Lasers calibrated to a frequency only visible to friendly night vision equipment reached out from the tree line and marked the shooters, guiding sniper teams from 1^st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta and the Naval Special Warfare Development Group to their highest priority targets.

The plan remained intact, as far as Chief Carroll could tell. The fake video transmitted from the JSTARS aircraft to the compound's security feed had catapulted the sleepy camp into action. Unknown to camp personnel, JSTARS technicians had completely hijacked the compound's security systems, disabling the motion sensors and using the camp's own cameras for close-up surveillance. The compound's commander had reacted in accordance with the battlefield intelligence presented by his hijacked sensors and deployed a majority of the camp's defenders to repel nonexistent vehicles approaching from the southern access road. Carroll's surveillance of the compound was interrupted by a low volume tone in his right earpiece, indicating that JSTARS had sent him an update. His JFSC console relayed fire mission data from the artillery battery.

"FM12-001. Two salvos-3 rds. 1^st salvo, 2 bldg gun empls-1 rd, vehicle-1 rd. 2^nd Salvo, 2 grnd gun empls-1 rd, vehicle-1 rd. TOF 141s. Ready."

He reviewed the fire mission and highlighted "FM12-001" to bring up options on the screen. Without hesitation he selected "Fire." Thirteen seconds later, his screen provided an update for the fire mission. "Rounds complete." The console kept track of the timing and provided him with a countdown to the estimated Time on Target (TOT). He didn't need the computer to keep track of the artillery rounds. The math was simple: Time of Flight (TOF) for the rounds was 141 seconds, and it took the artillery battery twelve seconds to fire a second salvo. Within 156 seconds, all mission-critical impediments would cease to exist.

There was no need to transmit voice data to any of the teams on the ground. All team leaders were equipped with a wrist-mounted Battle Feed console that relayed the same information. Carroll glanced at his teammate, Petty Officer Stanhope, who was focused on the scope attached to his suppressed Mk11 Mod 0 semi-automatic sniper rifle. Stanhope's rifle utilized a uniquely effective sighting combination, attaching the AN/PVS-27 Magnum Universal Night Sight (MUNS) in front of a Leupold Mark 4 scope.

"One-four-one seconds to impact," he whispered.

"Got it," Stanhope muttered, remaining perfectly still behind the scope.

Several feet away, one of the Delta support teams lay motionless, preparing to eliminate any high-threat targets and provide suppressive fire for the assault groups. Each support team consisted of four Delta operators, broken into a machine-gun section and a sniper section. The two-man machine-gun section operated a night vision equipped M240B belt-fed machine gun, capable of accurately firing 950 rounds per minute at targets up to 800 meters away. The sniper/spotter duo fielded the M107A2 Barrett sniper rifle, which accurately fired the unstoppable .50-caliber 661-grain BMG round to ranges of 1,800 meters.

Five additional Delta support teams ringed the compound, each similarly equipped, bringing the total number of support weapons aimed into the compound to sixteen. In a pinch, Chief Carroll and the other SEAL spotters could pick up their rifles and join the fight, adding four additional guns to the mix. He very much doubted they would be needed. His role was to observe the entire compound and adjust ground-fire support to maximize the neutralization of targets. His weapon would be the AN/PED-1 LLDR, unless a real problem developed. Given the number of weapons concentrated on the terrorist force, and the six inbound 155mm artillery shells, he didn't think the assault teams would encounter any resistance. There might not be anyone left alive in the compound. He glanced down at the JFSC console. One hundred and ten seconds until impact.

Master Sergeant Ethan McDonald pressed himself against the concrete foundation of the building and checked his Battle Feed wrist monitor. One minute and twenty-two seconds until impact, which he figured would be about one minute too long at this rate. The compound's militia had reacted faster than any of them had expected, and started to arrive at positions along the rear fence line ahead of schedule.

Twenty minutes ago, his assault troop had breached the fence at the northwest corner and spread out among the five northernmost buildings along the fence line, lying flat and melting into the shadows. The troop consisted of eighteen Delta operators, split into three teams of six. Armed primarily with suppressed, night vision-equipped HK416 assault rifles, breaching shotguns and grenades, his troop's mission was to clear the buildings of hostile personnel, starting from the rear of the compound and moving forward.

Mission planners had originally suggested two teams of six operators, figuring that the smaller group would have a better chance at remaining undetected. He agreed with that assessment, until he learned that they would be required to accept surrenders when practical. Taking prisoners would eat up his operators quickly, so he had opted for one more team than mission planners had suggested.

As the first wave of defenders trickled through the buildings to take up positions at the fence, he didn't think they would remain hidden for long. Fortunately, most of them had braced their rifles against the raised berm and scanned the darkness beyond the fence. If one of them glanced back at the unusual dark clumps along the bottom of each building, they would have a problem. With over a minute left until TOT, he couldn't risk detection and the possible discharge of an unsuppressed firearm. They would have to start neutralizing the defenders very shortly. He just wanted to wait until most of them had arrived.

Another terrorist jogged into the open and tossed a smoldering cigarette less than a foot away from McDonald's right elbow. The man kept moving toward the fence without looking back at the orange glow that McDonald had crushed with his fist. They now had eight targets in the open, and he didn't think there was any way their luck could persist.

"Take down in three, two, one…mark."

McDonald raised himself to one knee and quickly leaned his rifle around the corner of the building, searching for any stragglers. He heard the suppressed snapping of his troop's HK416 rifles as he sighted in on a pair of men less than fifteen feet away. One of the men spoke into a handheld radio as he walked, oblivious to the fact that his entire squad had just been neutralized. McDonald placed the EOTech holographic reticle in the middle of his face and waited for him to lower the radio. Less than a second later, he fired a single round through the squad leader's nose, rapidly shifting his rifle to acquire the second man's head.

Through the AN/PVS-14 night vision scope mounted in tandem with the EOTech sight, he registered a look of surprise before puncturing another skull with a single .223-caliber bullet. Both men instantly dropped to the ground, noisily spilling their rifles and communications gear. McDonald waited for three seconds before running forward and dragging one of the bodies behind the building. Without speaking a word, another Delta operator took care of the second body and the dropped equipment, handing the radio to McDonald when he rounded the corner. Other operators surged toward the fence, examining the individual heaps for signs of life. They still had over a minute left on the clock, and they didn't need any surprises. He saw one of his men jam a hand against a terrorist's mouth and stab him in the neck with a concealed blade. No surprises.

He issued hand signals changing their posture from defensive to offensive and watched as the troop formed up on the buildings, ready to move deeper into the compound. Right now, they were spread thinly among five structures, covering every approach to their area between the buildings and the rear fence. A few seconds before the artillery rounds hit, they would consolidate into three teams and move forward. Before advancing through the compound, each operator would activate a Pegasus infrared signaling beacon attached to their ballistic helmets. The infrared beacons had been preset to a specific sequenced flash pattern and synchronized to facilitate rapid identification by support gunners in the surrounding hills and inbound helicopter personnel. Machine-gunners would start with targets closest to his men and work their way forward, allowing Delta assault teams to move forward rapidly without fear of absorbing friendly fire.

He heard two snaps from a position near the northwest corner building. Before he could activate his radio, his earpiece came to life.

"Single tango. Male. Started wandering along the fence toward the northwest corner. We snatched his body without anyone noticing. He carried a radio. Possible leadership."

"Copy. TOT in forty-two seconds."

The presence of a radio on the man was bad news. They had neutralized two possible leadership positions assigned to the compound's perimeter defense, which would certainly draw unwanted attention. Forty-two seconds until impact. A lot could go wrong in forty-two seconds.

Tyrell Bishop patted the woman gripping the M2 Browning .50-caliber machine gun's trigger handle on the shoulder. She was sitting down with her legs extended forward, braced against the machine gun's heavy-duty tripod. She looked oddly relaxed in this position, but Bishop could tell by the tension in her shoulder muscles that she was anything but calm.

The two machine gun positions had been placed several yards along the fence, on each side of the main gate, giving the gunners a clear field of fire that extended the entire length of the access road. The .50-caliber bullets, guided by intermittent tracer rounds, would start hitting the federal convoy as soon as it emerged from the forest. He couldn't imagine the vehicles making it halfway to the compound. He considered holding fire until they had closed the distance, ensuring that there would be no way for the agents to withstand the withering heavy machine gun and rifle fire. He glanced at his watch and briefly chuckled. They had another seventeen minutes to get their shit together before the vehicles arrived. He had to hand it to himself. The compound reacted quickly and professionally under his leadership.

He'd received reports from all but one of his regulars. Good ole Buddy Tyler hadn't passed on a readiness report from the rear fence. There was no real rush, since they had fifteen minutes to spare, but it still annoyed him that Tyler couldn't muster a total of ten men, including himself, and move them one hundred yards from the barracks to the rear fence. There was a reason Tyler had been assigned to guard the opposite end of the compound. Despite his loyalty and enthusiasm, the man lacked a sense of urgency. He really shouldn't have been surprised that Buddy would be the last to report, but he had just talked to him less than a minute ago, which made the situation even more unbearable. The guy had been "five seconds" out from the fence. How long could it take to count nine people and report back? He'd sent John Thibodeau from the western perimeter to check on his progress, but now he couldn't raise Thibodeau. He knew what was happening. Buddy and John were arguing, while he sat on his thumb waiting for one of them to send a fucking report. He turned to Paul Thomas, who was squaring away the other machine gun position.

"Paul!" he yelled. "Can you run back and inform Mr. Tyler that I would like to receive a readiness report before the sun comes up!"

"I'm on it," Thomas replied and took off running north through the compound.

Bishop felt bad sending Thomas on a 400-meter round trip just to deliver a message, but it appeared to be the only way to get anyone to report from the back fence. He'd be back in time for the main show. Thomas was a physical machine, who led daily calisthenics and physical conditioning at the compound. From what Bishop could tell, the man never slowed down. He watched the former recon marine run parallel with the western barracks along the edge of the parade field.

A massive explosion rocked the compound, obliterating the southern side of the barracks building. The point detonation of 23.8 pounds of TNT encased in high-fragmentation steel sent debris flying in every direction, along with a shockwave that lifted the loose soil from the ground nearby, instantly obscuring Bishop's view of the barracks and Thomas. The .50-caliber machine gun behind him roared to life, but his gaze was still transfixed on the explosion. The smoke and dust thrown up by the explosion obscured the fact that a total of three Excalibur rounds had simultaneously hit the compound, neutralizing the two rooftop gun positions and the Road Warrior.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and turned him around to face the machine-gun position next to the gate. He could barely hear what the frenzied man was yelling at him over the ear-shattering sound of the heavy-caliber machine gun's continuous blasts. Why the fuck was she firing? Tracers showered the distance, skipping skyward when they struck the ground. Still in shock, he stared at the light show for a brief second, before he regained enough sense to assess the situation. The woman he had just patted on the shoulder was missing the top of her head.

"Jesus. Get her off the gun!"

Nobody moved toward her, so he lurched forward and yanked the woman off the gun, splattering his face with blood and sticky matter when the rest of her head snapped backward. The gun fell silent, but he still heard machine-gun fire. The other rooftop gun must have engaged targets that he couldn't see. Had the sensors missed an earlier convoy? Maybe the one he saw on camera was a backup team. Bishop had no idea what was happening. He remained upright as the rest of the recruits instinctively lowered their bodies in response to the gunfire. He saw a few of them stagger backward and fall to the ground, but couldn't tell what had happened to them. The moonlight permitted him to see detailed shapes, but the rest of the picture remained washed out by the darkness. None of this made much sense to him.

Finally, the familiar snap and hiss of incoming small-arms fire reached his ears, propelling him back into his role as camp commander. He saw their situation with full clarity, as machine-gun fire raked the defenders stationed along the front fence. Controlled, staccato bursts of gunfire echoed across the small valley, making it perfectly clear to Bishop that they weren't under attack by the FBI. This was something bigger. He could see flashes in the forested hillside. They were barely visible due to flash suppressors, but he could see them. He'd teach these federal sons-of-bitches a hard lesson about combat firepower.

Bishop tossed his rifle to the ground and swung the barrel of the emplaced heavy machine gun toward the forest. He perched his thumbs over the trigger and waited for another flash to appear. His wait was interrupted by the simultaneous arrival of three M982 Excalibur artillery rounds, one of which landed six feet away from his position.

Master Sergeant Ethan McDonald heard the second series of explosions and waited a few seconds for any shrapnel to pass. The Excalibur rounds had landed nearly 200 meters away, which was well outside of the typical 155mm high-explosive shell's casualty radius, but he'd seen too many anomalies in his twenty-two-year career to discount the possibility of taking a wild fragment from any artillery strike. While waiting, he received a quick radio transmission confirming that all targets had been destroyed.

He passed a hand signal back to his team, transmitting the order to advance to the other team leaders through his helmet microphone. From this point forward, each team would work independently to clear structures and provide their own security. If they encountered any unusual resistance, he would consolidate teams into a larger group to handle the threat. Given the distinctive echo of .50-caliber sniper rifle fire, combined with uninterrupted bursts of machine-gun fire from their Delta brethren in the forest, he doubted very much that their work would be interrupted. He tapped the operator in front of him on the shoulder, and the entire team moved in unison through the gap between the buildings, shifting their weapons to cover every conceivable angle that posed a threat to them.

The troops' plan had been hastily rehearsed at Dover Air Force base, on a cluster of buildings sharing a similarity with the compound layout. Hundreds of airmen had been evacuated from an isolated grouping of two-story barracks buildings, while McDonald's team practiced the mechanics of the operation they would now execute. Based on details provided by DEVGRU surveillance teams, the five buildings situated along the rear fence should be empty of compound personnel. The center-most building, which McDonald brushed against rushing forward, had been identified as the armory. If the door was locked and couldn't be breached by shotgun blasts, they would rig a claymore mine to detonate if the door was opened from the inside. A similar procedure would be followed by the teams flanking McDonald's. Each of those teams was responsible for either clearing or booby-trapping the rest of the structures.

McDonald's team would move to the next row of buildings as soon as the armory was neutralized. The headquarters building lay just ahead of the armory, and the SEALS hadn't detected any side or rear doors. His team would have to go in through the front door, exposing themselves to the vast parade field. They would be exposed to fire from a 180-degree arc while crossing the front of the building to reach the entrance. He heard the deep thumping of rotor blades in the distance, which signified the arrival of two MH-53J Pave Low III helicopters, carrying twenty-four DEVGRU operators. The helicopters should be overhead in a matter of seconds and would present a serious problem for anyone trying to fire on his Delta troop.

He flipped down the AN/PVS-14 night vision scope mounted behind his EOTech holographic sight and stacked up with three members of his team on the armory door. Another operator rushed forward and fired three Hatton breaching rounds from a short-barrel, pistol-grip shotgun into the door handle. The soldier in front of McDonald kicked the door with the bottom of his boot, smashing the door inward on its hinges before rushing inside.

McDonald entered behind him and peeled off to the right, immediately clearing the "fatal funnel" created by the doorway. In room-clearing situations, most bullets funneled into the breach as defenders instinctively tried to plug the gap. Normally, they used a diversionary device to briefly incapacitate defenders and allow the team to clear the "fatal funnel" unhampered. They had decided against the use of flashbangs in the armory for one primary reason: mission intelligence suggested the presence of recreational muzzle-loading rifles and cartridge reloading equipment in the armory. Gunpowder and the magnesium-based pyrotechnic substance used by the M84 stun grenade didn't play well together, especially within confined spaces. He had been nervous enough about the limited amount of kinetic sparking created by the Hatton rounds upon hitting metal.

They activated powerful rifle-mounted flashlights upon entry and scanned the armory. Most of the racks stood empty. He quickly spotted several flintlock rifles and a variety of bolt-action World War II-era rifles. A shorter rack held at least twenty submachine guns, mostly Uzi's and MP-5 variants. Upon initial visual inspection, he didn't see any conceivable hiding place for an adult. The racks sat flush against the wall, and the oversized wooden workbenches stood tall enough to easily scan underneath. He swept the darkened room one more time with his flashlight.

"Form up," he said to the team, taking a moment to pass on a situation report through his headset.

"Armory secure. No sign of 60 mike-mike."

"This is Overlord. 60 mike-mike neutralized by Overwatch."

"Understood. Proceeding to Hotel-Quebec," McDonald said.

"Front door is open. No movement detected inside. All rooftop threats neutralized," replied Overlord, one of the SEAL surveillance teams in the forest.

"Three-one controls access to armory," another voice reported over the digitally encrypted radio feed.

Three-one was one of the Delta sniper teams located to the west of the compound. The first number determined the team designation and location. "Three" represented one of two teams firing laterally across the compound. The second number indicated the type of support. "One" signified that they were snipers. If any non-friendlies approached the armory, they would be taken down by .50-caliber sniper fire. Apparently, the snipers had run out of high-value targets. He wasn't sure if this was a good or bad sign.

The team formed up again without prompting, and they moved down the western face of the headquarters building, rapidly approaching the front corner. The point man paused briefly at the edge of the building, scanning the area for movement. The dirt and debris cloud caused by the Excalibur rounds hung in the air, obscuring their view across the parade field. Nobody on the team carried any thermal imaging equipment that could see through the haze and night vision would be utterly useless in this situation. He decided that speed would be their best ally here.

"Bobby, you got anything?" he whispered.

"Negative. But I can't see shit," his point man replied.

He held up a closed fist long enough for the team to see. The fist changed to a flat hand, which he moved rapidly back and forth.

"Go. Fast," he said and slapped the point man on the shoulder.

The point man took off, and the team dashed toward the small concrete stoop in front of the entrance door, which stood less than twenty feet away. They left one operator at the corner to cover the approach to the front door. He had closed three-quarters of the short distance to the door when Staff Sergeant Robert Chamberlain appeared to stumble. The sound of a suppressed weapon from his rear and a double tap gunshot from the parade field immediately followed. Chamberlain collapsed and tumbled forward under his own momentum, colliding clumsily with the side of the building. McDonald could see a dark stain on the wall where he had hit.

"Man down," he hissed into his headset.

It didn't take Paul Thomas long to figure out that they were seriously fucked. An incredible explosion had rocked the top of the barracks building, showering the parade field with debris. A large, twisted chunk of smoldering timber had fallen several feet in front of him, stopping his sprint toward the rear fence. Engulfed in dirt and smoke, it took him a few seconds to realize that the machine-gun position located on top of the building across the parade field had been simultaneously hit by a separate explosion.

The Road Warrior had been disabled by a third explosion that landed less than fifty meters away, in the southeast corner of the parade field, but the impact had been close enough to the other that it never registered to him as a separate hit. Thomas had defied the statistics of battlefield artillery. Located just outside of the fifty-meter kill radius, he had been saved by the fact that the Excalibur round had landed on the opposite side of the Road Warrior, which had absorbed most of the shrapnel sent in his direction. It didn't register with Thomas that he had been spared by the very vehicle he had secretly deemed as one of Bishop's more asinine ideas.

Thomas dove to the ground behind the smoldering timber and assessed the situation. He could hear short bursts of machine-gun fire from every direction, competing with the sound of one of their .50 cals at the front gate. The heavy-caliber gun continued to pound away at something. So much for short, controlled bursts of fire. He knew it was a stupid idea to put that crazy bitch on the gun, but Bishop had insisted. Equal opportunity or something like that. None of that mattered now. They were in a fight for their lives.

The sound of small-arms fire intensified from every direction, and he could tell that the compound was putting up a spirited defense. The .50-caliber machine gun stopped firing, which unmasked something he hadn't been able to hear. Repeated, single booms echoing throughout the compound. He knew that sound very well from Iraq. He lifted his head above the thick piece of blackened wood and watched a body sail horizontally into the parade field from the top of the armory, still spinning as it struck the ground. One of their snipers had been hit by a .50-caliber sniper bullet, which had imparted enough kinetic energy to toss his body off the roof like a rag doll. Thomas stayed low, not wanting to tempt the snipers firing with impunity from hidden positions in the valley.

The second salvo of Excalibur shells landed just as he pressed his body flat against the ground. Thomas once again defied the odds, avoiding the shower of steel fragments released from the artillery round landing near the Road Warrior. He remained in a prone position, scrambling to process his options. He considered running into one of the buildings, but figured that the doors were under observation. They'd send a Hellfire missile right through one of the windows, instantly vaporizing him. This could be the only explanation for the accuracy of the strikes he had witnessed. Drones overhead.

This thought spurred a separate line of thinking. Predator drones were equipped with thermal imaging equipment for nighttime strikes. Sitting here would have the same result. He might have a better chance in one of the structures. If he could get inside the command building, he could send a warning to Brown before they overran the camp. He had to act fast. The cloud of debris would clear up soon, making him an easy target for snipers. He raised his head slowly, along with his AR-15 rifle, scanning for threats near the command building. He started to rise up on one knee, when he detected movement down the side of the command structure.

A small team of soldiers moved briskly along the wall, approaching the front corner. He recognized their fluid tactical movements immediately. Special Forces. There was no way he was going to make it into that building. He lowered his head and glanced behind him, in the direction of the front gate. He could see that the forward machine-gun positions had suffered the same devastating fate as the rooftop emplacements. Fuck. He wasn't going to make it through this one. His luck had finally run out. He closed his eyes for a second and paused before peeking at the soldiers. They had already started to move toward the front door. Without thinking, he quickly raised his head and sighted in on the lead soldier. He placed the illuminated green crosshairs of the C79A2 3.4X combat optic at center mass and fired two rounds, shifting the sight picture to the next soldier in the line.

Sergeant Gabriel Castillo searched for movement. He stared past the parade field at different points in the distance, never fully focusing. He allowed his mid-peripheral vision to do most of the work, knowing that the light-sensitive rod cells responsible for peripheral vision could detect motion better than the cone cells that dominated center vision. Several dark clumps of oddly shaped wreckage littered the field, presenting a considerable challenge for one man.

Something moved in the pile of glowing rubble on the far left side of the field. He sighted in on top of the debris heap through his night-vision scope and fired a round instinctively. As the rifle recoiled into his shoulder, he still hadn't formed a detailed picture of the target. All he knew was that the round shape he had identified didn't belong to the debris.

His night vision flared bright green, which meant that the target had probably fired a round at the same time. He didn't have much time to process any of this before hearing the words "man down" in his headset. He flipped the night-vision scope down and fired three rounds at the hazy silhouette of a human head still poking above the top of the pile. Overkill, but he had to be sure. The target had been quick enough to acquire and hit one of his teammates before he could react…and there had been no problem with Castillo's reaction time. He wondered if there were more like this one in the compound.

"Stinger lead, this is Overlord. We have a man down near the LZ. Recommend Stinger two-one deploy medical team with the assault group. Prepare for immediate cas-evac, over," Carroll said.

He watched the first of two MH-53J Pave Low helicopters cruise at rooftop height over the headquarters building. He hated to break the pilot's concentration on approach to a hot LZ, but the Delta operator might require immediate evacuation to save his life. The casualty report had been passed seconds ago, with no clarifying information. The helicopters could deploy the SEALS as planned, leaving the second Pave Low on the ground for a few moments to deal with the casualty.

"Copy. Stinger two-one will remain in LZ for evac."

Done deal.

"Delta One. Overlord. Pass casualty to Stinger two-one medical team for immediate evac."

He didn't expect a response. Delta One had just stormed the headquarters building.

McDonald hovered over Staff Sergeant Chamberlain, searching his unresponsive body for the wound. As the third operator in line stopped to help, he grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him toward the door.

"Stack up," he said and called Castillo over from the corner.

"You did the best any of us could do. Stay with him and cover us," he said and continued the quick search.

He started with the head and quickly determined that Chamberlain had not suffered from a headshot. Neck was fine. Upper chest…not sure. No way McDonald could tell in the dark. He listened to the broadcast from Overlord to the approaching helicopters. They'd take care of Bobby.

"Make sure the second helicopter takes him out of here," he said and stacked up behind the last man crouched outside of the door.

The lead Delta operator didn't wait for orders or hand signals. As soon as McDonald reached the stack, he tossed a flashbang inside the door. The seven-million-Candela flash illuminated the field in front of the building, followed by a thunderous 180-decibel explosive sound. Anyone standing inside the doorway would be incapacitated long enough for his operators to engage safely. With their rifle-mounted flashlights illuminated, they disappeared through the opening and assessed the structure. A long hallway ran from front to back, with two doors on each side. Not a word was spoken as they lined up on the first door to the right. The position of several antennas over the front right corner of the building suggested that this might be their communications room, making it their highest priority.

A flashbang detonated in the room, prompting the Delta operators to enter. As the last man in the stack, McDonald immediately pivoted upon entering the room and covered the doorway across the hall. He had seen enough upon entry to know that he would not be needed. A bearded man in a camouflage-patterned jump suit yelled for mercy, with his hands over his head. Within seconds, McDonald's team had slammed him to the ground, secured his hands with plastic zip ties and placed dark green duct tape over his mouth. The man tried to yell through his taped mouth and nose, making loud grunting noises, prompting one of his men to lean down and threaten to cut his throat if he didn't shut up.

The man quieted down, and McDonald heard his men ask a series of yes or no questions to determine if any other personnel had remained in the compound. The man wasn't one hundred percent sure that the building was clear, but he was the only one assigned to the communications center. The sounds of the interrogation were suddenly drowned out by the overpowering chop of the Pave Low helicopter's rotor blades and the intermittent buzz-saw bursts of its 7.62mm miniguns. Dirt and loose debris from the open field flew through the front door, filling the hallway and swirling darkness. DEVGRU had arrived.

"Pack him up. We need to clear these rooms!" he yelled.

Less than ninety seconds later, McDonald's team emerged from the front entrance. The first helicopter had already departed, firing long bursts from both of its side-mounted miniguns at the remaining terrorists along the front fence line. Stinger two-one sat in the middle of the field with its rear ramp down. SEALs hustled down the ramp and formed up near the buildings flanking the field. The first contingent of SEALs had already disappeared into the compound, presumably headed toward the front fence. Based on the volume of fire directed by the helicopters toward the south, he assumed that most of the remaining enemy personnel were clustered along that fence line. A sudden increase in small-arms fire to the south confirmed his suspicion. The SEALs had already reached the front fence line.

Two Air Force Pararescue operators lifted a medical litter holding Chamberlain's inert form and started through the pelting dirt storm kicked up by the Pave Low's rotor wash. McDonald sprinted over to them.

"What's his status?"

The Pararescue in front turned to him and shook his head. "He's dead. Rounds punched right through his side plates and out the other side. AP rounds. Sorry."

McDonald nodded as they carried his good friend away. Fuck.

"Overlord, this is Delta One. Man down classified as KIA," he reported.

"Understood. Delta Two and Three have finished clearing structures on your immediate flanks," Overlord responded.

"Roger. Delta units will secure the northern half of the compound and continue clearing," McDonald said.

"Copy. Six-two will assist."

The second wave of DEVGRU SEALs, known more affectionately to the public as "SEAL Team Six," would join his men and secure the compound behind the first wave of SEALs. He couldn't imagine the fight lasting much longer. The compound militia had their back up against a fence, and nowhere to run if they could find a way over it.

He jogged back to his team and broke the bad news. Nobody said a word. They simply nodded and formed up to continue their mission. He'd assign Delta Two to guard the prisoner and any others they collected. He didn't think it would be a good idea to leave his own team in charge of this scumbag's safety. They showed little reaction to Bobby's death, but he knew what they were thinking; the same thing he was thinking. His team would be much better off clearing structures.

Less than seven minutes later, they had cleared all of the structures not taken down by DEVGRU during their assault on the front part of the compound. Beyond the heavy drone of helicopter rotors in the distance, the valley had fallen silent again, punctuated by the occasional cry for help from the fence line. He hoped the men and women watching this in D.C. didn't ask him to turn around and help the traitorous fucks they just massacred. He wasn't feeling very charitable toward them right now.

Chapter 38

Frederick Shelby spoke into his headset and turned to the president a few seats away.

"Mr. President, I just finished speaking with Kathryn Moriarty, my lead agent at the scene. She arrived by vehicle convoy and has been briefed by the advance party. Their initial assessment is not encouraging, sir. One of the buildings cleared by 1^st Special Operations Forces Detachment appears to have been dedicated to training groups to conduct pipeline attacks. The floor in the northeast corner of the room has been removed to expose bare dirt, and there is evidence that the ground has been disturbed. They found generic pipeline schematics that could be used for training and one set of equipment similar to what we found at the Fort Meade site. The building has its own ramp and loading bay, giving my team the impression that it had been used to store more equipm—"

"How much equipment?" the president interrupted.

"The back room where they found the spare set was large enough to comfortably fit at least twenty-five of these drills. Lockers along the wall hold shovels, a variety of smaller drills and picks, in addition to components to create two additional virus-injection devices."

The president looked at his chief of staff, Jacob Remy, and then back at the table.

"General Gordon, Commanders, I can't thank you enough for what your people have done tonight. This has been an unprecedented evening. Unfortunately, I need them back at Dover Air Force Base, ready to roll out at a moment's notice. Based on this initial assessment, we might very well need them again."

"Thank you, Mr. President. We'll have our people in the air, en route to Dover within the hour," General Gordon replied, turning to the U.S. Air Force general behind him to ensure the orders were clear.

"General Gordon, I'd like to reach out to the family of the Delta soldier lost tonight. Due to the sensitive nature of this operation, I'm afraid the circumstances of his death will probably never receive the type of public recognition and respect he deserves. Let Jacob know when it is appropriate to arrange a private phone call or meeting with the family."

"Thank you, Mr. President. That will mean a lot to the family," General Gordon said.

"It's the very least I can do for operators like Staff Sergeant Chamberlain. I know that most of their operations and missions never see the light of day. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to coordinate a public response in light of these developments. We'll adjourn to the main conference room."

He stood up and turned to the lead Secret Service agent. "Agent Souza, will you inform the watch supervisor that I'd like to convene in five minutes?"

"Right away, Mr. President." The agent spoke into the microphone hidden in the left sleeve of his suit coat jacket.

"General Gordon," the president said, "when you're finished here, please join us."

"Yes, sir."

Director Shelby followed the president's entourage out of the small conference room, navigating the surprisingly packed halls past the watch floor to the main conference room. As the group approached the busy room, the president stopped and said something to a member of his security detail, then followed the agent to a door several feet down the hallway. As Shelby tried to walk into the conference room, a different agent addressed him.

"The president would like to speak with you. First door on the right," he said cordially, betraying no emotion.

"Thank you," Shelby said.

Shelby braced himself for the proverbial kick in the balls. He wasn't sure why, but he couldn't imagine that a sudden, private audience with the president of the United States on the eve of a national disaster would be a career-enhancing moment. He walked toward the door and was met by the Secret Service agent, who invited him into the tiny room and stepped outside once he entered. The door closed behind him.

"Sorry to ambush you like this, Frederick. I wanted to personally thank you for getting us this far. Task Force Scorpion has exceeded all expectations. I would have congratulated you along with General Gordon, but I didn't want him to feel like I was tacking on my condolences to a list of congratulations."

"I appreciate hearing that, Mr. President. I will immediately pass your compliment on to Agent Sharpe."

"If possible, I'd like to address the task force by video conference tomorrow morning. Just a few minutes. I don't want to disrupt their momentum."

"I think we can arrange that. Let me know when you would like to address the troops. Most of them have been working nonstop for seventy-two hours. This will invigorate them. Thank you, sir."

"They're standing at the vanguard. The least I can do is provide a little pep talk and thank them for what they've done so far. Have your agents started to interrogate any of the captured personnel?"

He wondered where this would lead. For a moment, he had actually believed that this meeting was a genuine gesture of appreciation from the president.

"Not to sound grim, but my agents are working with Special Forces personnel to triage and stabilize the survivors. They had a few surrenders, but most of the compound's defenders went down fighting. Tier One operators have an uncanny tendency to hit their targets. The airspace is still under military control, so the situation is a bit of a mess. I promise you that this is one of their highest priorities."

"Make it the top priority. I want to know how closely linked this compound is to True America. As for the survivors, I'll make sure General Gordon understands the importance of facilitating the immediate treatment and safe evacuation of the suspects," the president said.

"I understand, sir. I'll call Moriarty and have her interrogation team go to work on anyone capable of speaking. Our best interrogators arrived with her convoy," Shelby said.

"Perfect. From this point forward, report any and all links to True America directly to myself or Jacob Remy. The political ramifications of True America's involvement require special handling. Any premature accusations or links could be interpreted as a political attack. We need to be one hundred and ten percent sure about any links drawn between the ongoing terrorist plot and True America. I want you to compartmentalize the interrogation findings to Moriarty and Sharpe. Sharpe can use the results to shape his investigation, but I want to minimize the number of people with access to the source information. Our case against True America needs to be airtight. If not, True America's pundits will ignite a powder keg of backlash against the administration right before an important election year."

"I'll make sure that safeguards are implemented to compartmentalize this information," he said.

"Thank you, Frederick. This whole situation is a nightmare, with the potential to blow up on more than one front. I'm not looking forward to our next meeting. I've made a decision that will go down in the history books and make me the least popular person in the United States."

"Mr. President, some of the best decisions turn out to be the most unpopular. You have my support."

"I appreciate that, Frederick, and will not forget it. Unfortunately, the American people have a tendency to focus on the shitty ones. And this is going to go down in the record books. If you would take your seat, I'll be with everyone in a few minutes, after I take an Alka-Seltzer."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Chapter 39

Jackson Greely sat on the spacious deck overlooking the lake and stared at the full moon's reflection on the rippled water. A light breeze rustled the dark shapes of several massive pine trees flanking the property and swept across the elevated wood structure. He zipped his jacket all the way to the top, closing the flannel-lined collar and preventing the chilly wind from stealing a little more of his core body temperature. Temperatures in the Poconos still dipped well into the lower forties in early May. He couldn't sleep thinking about Benjamin Young's abduction. Or was it a rescue? Six more of their operatives were killed, bringing their total losses to just over twenty in less than twenty-four hours, not including the three men sacrificed outside of Fort Meade. Heavy, unanticipated losses, but nowhere close to a showstopper.

He glanced back at the tall bank of windows facing the lake, resentful that Lee could sleep peacefully at such a critical juncture in True America's revolution. Then again, Jackson had done most of the heavy lifting since they started to put the pieces together. Not all of the lifting, but certainly the lion's share. Lee enjoyed the publicity and rarely shied away from the camera or an audience, but he wasn't comfortable making hardcore decisions on his own, or even suggesting them. That was Jackson's role. Lee's role was to support Jackson and keep the rest of their executive group in line. This was in no way an easy task, but it allowed Lee to sleep on the eve of True America's rising.

Greely's cell phone illuminated the table next to him. A phone call at two in the morning could only mean one thing: Trouble. He recognized one of Brown's numbers and answered it immediately.

"Good news, I hope," he said.

"That was fast. Trouble sleeping?" Brown said.

"What do you think?"

"I think you'll be pleased to know that the compound has been hit. Comms are down, and some of our local contacts have reported helicopters in the general area," Brown replied.

"Good. Let's just hope that Bishop and his second-in-command were killed."

"It doesn't matter either way," Brown suggested.

"You're probably right, but I'm starting to get an uneasy feeling. I'd feel much better knowing that our insurance policy was ready to roll."

"It'll be ready. Perfectly timed in my opinion," Brown said.

"I hope so. I'll sleep better knowing that we've removed the last obstacle."

The call ended, and he leaned back into the Adirondack chair. Who was he kidding? Once the bottles were delivered, he'd be glued to the television twenty-four hours a day, waiting for the results. He'd be glad to lose the sleep.

Chapter 40

Darryl Jackson leaned his hands against the brown granite kitchen island and stared at the television for a moment before turning to his wife.

"Guess where you're headed today?" she said.

"Princeton."

There was no other choice. He'd let his daughter Liz, convince him that she'd be fine with the water and food he'd brought on his trip. She'd listened to his exhaustive list of do's and don'ts, taking copious notes. Even Karl Berg had slightly eased his fears, stating that Princeton was an unlikely target based on the information he possessed. Darryl had countered with the fact that Mount Arlington hadn't exactly been a high-value target, but Al Qaeda had targeted it nonetheless. Berg told him that Al Qaeda was out of the picture and that the new threat matrix had shifted radically. Strategic targets like Fort Meade were the new focus. When he asked Berg if he would be drinking water from his tap at home tonight, the CIA agent had paused and said, "Nobody should be drinking water from their tap, in my opinion, but as long as she follows the rules, she's not in danger." He reminded Karl that everyone drank water down in Virginia too.

The president's address changed everything. Now, Darryl was less worried about the water and infinitely more concerned about a sudden breakdown of order across the country. Princeton was relatively isolated in the grand scheme of things, but it was damn near impossible to travel there without crossing through some of the most heavily urbanized areas of the country. If her school cancelled finals, he might not be able to reach her if the situation deteriorated. Based on what the president just told the entire nation, he expected it to deteriorate.

"…attack against Fort Meade, home of our National Security Agency, had been conducted by a domestic terrorist group with the capacity to strike again in multiple locations. Given the nation's expansive water distribution network, consisting of nearly 880,000 miles of piping, it would be impractical, if not impossible to secure the system against immediate attacks. Effective immediately, I am asking the American people to bear with their local and regional governments until reasonable safeguards are established to ensure that your drinking water is safe.

"Many towns and counties may elect to stop the delivery of water, and we are encouraging them to do so. FEMA and Homeland Security experts have assured us that this is the most effective way to prevent intentional contamination of your water. If you must consume water from a tap, it is imperative that you take precautions to sterilize the water. Simple sterilization procedures will kill the virus. Immediately following my broadcast, the Department of Health and Human Services will outline these procedures and other steps you can take to prevent infection in the unlikely event that your water is contaminated.

"Rest assured that we have committed the full weight of our federal law enforcement agencies to bringing these heinous terrorists to justice and preventing further attacks. The insidious attack at Fort Meade was perpetrated by a sadistic, fringe group, far separated from the free and democratic society that we enjoy as Americans…and they will be stopped. The next few days may be filled with doubt, but I trust that we will all conduct ourselves as heroes and citizens in the face of this crisis…"

Sure. Everyone would behave charitably and walk calmly down the streets…once they had secured water for themselves and their families. If he couldn't "persuade" his daughter to return home immediately, he would camp out in Princeton and cover her back.

"I'll load up the truck and get moving. Will you be okay here if I need to stay there until she finishes finals?"

"I'll be fine. I bought enough water yesterday to last a month. What should we do about Emily?"

His older daughter was in her third year at U.C. Berkeley and would not finish her final exams until May 15^th, nearly two weeks away.

"Karl said that the threat appeared to be isolated to the East Coast."

"Did he give any more specifics?" Cheryl asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No. But he said they had no indications that the threat would spread west," he said, aware of the fact that Berg hadn't exactly given him an airtight case to present to Cheryl.

"That's not what I gathered from the president's address."

"The president can't make sweeping promises in the face of a biological weapons attack and run the risk of being wrong."

"Neither can we. I get the feeling they have no idea what they're up against."

Cheryl had her hands on her hips and that look on her face that would send most men scrambling for cover.

"I'll call in a few favors out west. If I can't get Emily home, I'll fly out myself."

"Thank you, honey. I'm going to load up my Land Rover on the way to work," she said.

"Bring a sheet to cover it up. I have a feeling that bottled water is about to become a valuable commodity."

"All right. I'm out of here," she said, stepping over to kiss him.

He could hear her phone buzzing in her purse. She had a long day ahead of her as deputy superintendent. They'd probably cancel school until Homeland Security could convince them that the water was safe.

"Be careful out there."

"Me? You're the one that can't stay out of trouble. You and Karl Berg."

"He really misses your home cooking," Darryl said.

She looked at him with soft, patient eyes. "You really miss him. Don't you?"

"He's a good friend."

"Well, if he can promise to keep you out of jail, I might be persuaded to extend a dinner invitation. Don't get excited. He'll have to eat the first meal out on the deck."

"I love you. Karl Berg or no Karl Berg," he said, embracing her.

"Good. Because if I so much as sense that he's asked you for another favor, the offer will be rescinded and never reissued." Cheryl broke their contact and backed up a few feet.

"You'll make a great superintendent one of these days. Tough as nails."

Once his wife left, Darryl descended into the basement to pick out a few items for his trip north. The kind of items that would be illegal to transport through the D.C. metropolitan area without one of the specialized permits he carried. Twenty minutes later, he emerged with a dark blue nylon gym bag filled with his personal insurance policy should law and order cease to exist.

The home phone rang, and he searched for one of their cordless handsets. After several rings, he finally found one of them buried in the couch. He thought the hidden phone phenomena would end when his daughters left for college, but Cheryl had apparently taught them everything they knew about misplacing remote controls and phones. If anything, the problem intensified when they left. He saw from the caller ID that it was the guilty party herself.

"What took you so long? You had me worried for a minute."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I had a little trouble finding the phone you had buried between the cushions. What's up?"

"Don't bother stopping for water. The stores are mobbed. I couldn't even get close to Wegmans. I can't imagine Giant will be any better," she said.

"Give it a try. I don't want to take any from the house if you can't find more," he said.

"You'll need it if you're staying in a hotel. Take what you need. I can boil water from the creek if I have to."

"All right. Let me get moving here. I'm anticipating a mess trying to get through D.C."

"Business as usual. Drive safe. I love you," she said.

"I love you too. I'll give you a call from the road."