Black Flagged Apex

Chapter 41

Special Agent Dana O'Reilly disconnected the phone call and removed her headset.

"Well, fuck you too, Deputy Dawg," she mumbled.

"What was that?" Hesterman said from his new napping position at their workstation.

"Nothing. Just some uncooperative dickhead."

She had placed a call to Laurel, Maryland's chief of police, following up on a hunch. Something about the shootout in the forest didn't make sense to her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but it triggered her need to apply "Occam's Razor" to the situation in an attempt to try and make sense of her inexplicable discomfort with Sergeant Bryan Osborne's report.

"Occam's Razor" was a principle designed to urge one to select the hypothesis or theory that made the fewest assumptions. Though on the surface it favored parsimony and economy, the principle didn't assert that the simplest available theory should be applied. The "razor" wasn't an arbiter between theories. In scientific circles it served as a guide. For O'Reilly, it was an interesting way to approach competing theories, especially at 8:15 in the morning, when the stimulant effect of coffee had ceased to have any impact.

Maybe it wasn't something specific in Osborne's preliminary report that triggered her hunch. Perhaps it was the entire situation that didn't appear to make sense to her. Occam's Razor in reverse. Sergeant Osborne had chosen today of all days to ride with one of his newest police officers. Officer Donahue had taken him on a ride through the winding, gravel roads of a large park east of urban Laurel, which happened to be part of the officer's patrol. Osborne spotted a vehicle parked deep in the woods from an intersection nearly one hundred feet from the dirt turnoff. Officers responding to their call for backup saw Donahue's SUV parked on Combat Road, but had trouble finding the right path at first. Somehow, Osborne had spotted the vehicle from the intersection. Finally, Osborne called in backup, but decided to investigate with a rookie.

He said they stumbled into the group, and the men reached for their rifles, but one of the men had been shot in the back. Backup officers said the generator was running when they arrived, which made it difficult to believe that the two officers had simply stumbled into the group and got the drop on them. There were too many coincidences and discrepancies to take Osborne's report as gospel, which left her wondering. What had really happened out in the North Tract?

She believed that Osborne had heard the drilling equipment, possibly spied the three men, and decided to play Rambo with his partner. Osborne would have realized this error in judgment as soon as his partner fell to the ground sans intact skull. The discrepancies in the forest could be explained by Osborne's need to present a slightly different version of events, one in which he didn't get his partner killed with backup officers a few minutes out. But this still left O'Reilly pondering the rest of the coincidences leading them deep into the forest.

She was working too hard to explain Osborne's actions, which led her back to Occam's Razor. Was there a theory that cleared most of these assumptions and put Osborne in the forest with his partner, on the path to a deadly engagement with domestic terrorists? There was only one. Sergeant Osborne had known they would be there. Just the thought sent a chill down her spine. If true, this theory had far-reaching implications that could undermine their current investigative efforts.

The questions spun around her head like a vortex and called into question everything they had uncovered. What else had been staged for them and why? This epiphany had led her to place a call to Laurel's chief of police moments ago, kindly requesting Sergeant Osborne's vacation schedule for the past two years.

The conversation had started kindly enough, but quickly tanked when she disclosed the request. The chief didn't give her an earful as she expected, but very firmly expressed his distaste. She sat there and listened to his speech about loyalty, their code of honor and the difficulty of making daily life and death decisions under pressure. She didn't bother to remind him that she was a sworn law enforcement officer, just like him, and had been shot through the forearm by a .223-caliber bullet making one of these pressured decisions. She was a woman, calling from a desk, muddying the waters. No point in pressing the issue.

She'd bring it up with Sharpe a little later and see if he could apply a little downward pressure on the Laurel Police Department. It was worth checking. Until she eliminated this theory, Occam's Razor would never be satisfied. Osborne's forest shootout wasn't the only thing bothering her.

"Eric?"

"Yes," Hesterman said, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Anything new on the guys in the compound?"

"Two more died at Scranton Regional, leaving eighteen. Of those eighteen, only six are conscious. Other than that, there's not much to report. Only one of the regulars appears to have survived the assault. Jake Skelly. He's the guy they grabbed in the communications room. He hasn't said a word to Carlisle or anyone."

"He checks out clean, right?'

"Yep. Just like the operatives in Brooklyn. Clean record. Current driver's license from Missouri. Nothing in the system. We'll know more about him in a few hours."

"And the rest?"

"This is the interesting part. We've identified sixty-three of the remaining suspects from personal identification located on the bodies or in the barracks buildings. It looks like True America was in the midst of a recruitment drive. I found eleven of them on our own list of 'persons of interest to the government.' A few others have overt ties to extremist websites and blogs, posting regularly. I imagine we'll find more links once we start issuing warrants and start digging."

This was one of the other big issues bothering her. None of the True America operatives identified by Task Force Scorpion had any recent connections to anti-government websites.

"This group's profile doesn't match up with the operatives killed or captured so far. Something's off here."

"Maybe not. If you took a trip back in time two or three years, this is exactly the kind of group you might find hanging around the compound. If we hadn't hit the compound when we did, this group would have been instructed to cut all extremist ties and devote all of their upcoming vacation time to training sessions in Hacker Valley."

"I don't know. Why would they start training a new cadre of operatives in the middle of a major operation?"

Hesterman finally opened his eyes and rubbed them with the back of his hands. "What are you thinking?" he said, inching his chair over to O'Reilly's.

"I can't put my finger on it, but I'm starting to see too many inconsistencies and one too many lapses in our investigation."

"Here?" he said, staring around the watch floor.

"Even here. The Imam's snatched right out from under us, never to be seen again. True America operatives carried away into the night less than a block from a major FBI crime scene. Anonymous phone calls leading us right to the Al Qaeda cells. I'm getting the impression that Sharpe's holding something back. I have no idea what it might be, but I'm willing to bet it has something to do with Stewart. She seems awfully content watching over us from her perch. Don't look up at her."

Hesterman stopped his head from turning all the way.

"She just stands up there, doing nothing."

"That's exactly what Sharpe wants her to do around here. Nothing."

"I wonder, though…"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hesterman asked.

"I don't know. I'm going to talk to Sharpe about my call to the Laurel police chief. I just asked the chief to provide me with Sergeant Osborne's vacation record for the past two years, and he flatly denied the reque—"

"You did what?" Hesterman said incredulously.

"Yeah. Nothing about Osborne's statement makes much sense to me. Maybe I'm losing it. Either way, if Sharpe ignores this, it's time to start watching over your back."

"Do you need backup in there?"

"Nope. I'll be fine." She watched Special Agent Mendoza approach Sharpe's door with two cups of coffee. Perfect. She could play them off each other.

O'Reilly stood up from her computer station and prepared what she would say.

Sharpe had taken his second sip of coffee when O'Reilly appeared in his doorway and knocked on the frame, announcing her obvious presence.

"Come on in, Dana. You want to grab a coffee first?"

"No, thanks. The coffee doesn't seem to have any effect on me anymore, beyond sending me to the bathroom every thirty minutes," she said.

"Then grab a seat. Your visit is perfect timing, since Frank was about to fill me in on the recent developments from Hacker Valley."

Frank Mendoza slouched in one of the faux leather chairs under a standing lamp, holding his coffee in two hands in what looked like an effort to keep it warm. The coffee cups stocked in the break room weren't insulated and didn't include tops. All of the equipment installed in the Operations Center was state of the art, with the exception of the coffee machine. Even the complimentary juice machine had a touch screen, allowing the selection of several dozen beverages, including carbonated choices. The coffee maker was a stainless steel, two-pot Bunn classic, taking up twice the amount of space necessary and brewing up the same coffee served to government employees for the past four decades. Amazingly enough, the machine looked new.

"I wish there was more to report, but Dana's team will start making calls to businesses and households shortly. We'll send teams out for interviews. How many were identified? Sixty-three? It's a lot of legwork. Nobody likes to talk over the phone to a faceless FBI agent. This takes the highest priority, and we'll have help from other agencies, so we're expecting to start collecting detailed information by noon. More pieces to fit into the puzzle. I'm hoping we'll start seeing a useful pattern here shortly. We have a lot of information," Mendoza said.

"I agree, though I'm a little disturbed by the pattern developing at the compound. That, coupled with something else," she said nervously.

"What is it?" Sharpe said.

"It doesn't fit, does it?" Mendoza said.

O'Reilly looked at him, surprised. "No, none of it does."

"What are the two of you talking about?" Sharpe said.

"We've identified sixty-three of the suspects at the compound. Too many of them have overt ties to extremist groups. Eleven of them showed up on the lists you ordered us to start compiling over a year ago. None of the operatives that we've captured recently held recent ties to any domestic extremist groups. They'd all gone quiet on that front three to four years ago."

"A new batch of trainees?"

"On the eve of their magnum opus?" she retorted.

"It struck me as odd, too. I was waiting to hear more about their backgrounds," Mendoza said.

"What are you suggesting?" Sharpe asked.

"I'm not sure, but I've also found some inconsistencies with Sergeant Osborne's report. I called the Laurel police chief to ask about Osborne's vacation schedule for the past two years, but he—"

"Dana, would you close the door, please?"

O'Reilly looked annoyed by his request and sudden interruption. "Of course," she said, pulling the door free of its magnetic hold.

"You called the Laurel police chief, implying that Osborne might be involved in today's incident?" Sharpe asked, before she could continue.

"Yes. I didn't think it would be a big deal. Of course, he wouldn't share the information. Maybe it wasn't the best decision on my part."

"I trust your judgment, Dana. I could have told you there was no way he would release the information, especially without a warrant."

Sharpe knew there was no way he could keep them in the dark any longer. He detected a confrontational edge to O'Reilly's mannerisms, which was out of character for her. Something was bothering her, and his guess was that she had finally started to put all of the pieces together. There were too many unexplained coincidences and logical leaps to go unnoticed by either of them for long. He regretted not bringing them into the fold earlier. No matter what he told them now, they'd feel betrayed, possibly not trusted. If he didn't do it now, it would only be worse when they came to the inevitable conclusion on their own.

"Hold up for a minute. We need to bring someone else in on this conversation," he said.

O'Reilly took the remaining empty leather chair and raised her eyebrows at Mendoza. He merely lifted his shoulders from his relaxed position in the other chair. Sharpe sent a text message and waited for the knock at his door.

"Dana, Frank, I need you to know that this has nothing to do with the utmost level of trust and confidence that I have in both of you. I was simply trying to mitigate the potential damage to your careers."

He paused, avoiding their eyes for a moment, until someone knocked on the door and entered without waiting for Sharpe's permission to enter. Callie Stewart closed the door behind her and turned to Mendoza and O'Reilly. She looked as confused as his agents.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" O'Reilly said.

Sharpe watched the look of bewilderment harden into a look of betrayal. He had no idea how he was going to proceed, so he jumped right in.

"I've been cooperating with Sanderson's people without your knowledge since the morning of the 26^th. Sanderson's operatives have been critical to moving our investigation along, in ways that we could never implement without their help."

"Jesus Christ," Mendoza uttered.

"I thought I could insulate the two of you, but I was just deluding myself. There are some developments that support your theory, Dana, and require the highest levels of secrecy within the task force. I trust the two of you implicitly."

"It doesn't feel like it," O'Reilly said.

Stewart started to talk, but Sharpe cut her off with a severe look and an outstretched hand sporting his index finger.

"I understand that, and I'm sorry beyond words for keeping you in the dark. I really thought I would be doing you a favor. I made this decision to protect you. The backlash for working with Sanderson outside of the agreed-upon parameters would be devastating. You know how the director feels about them," he said.

"Like I do?" O'Reilly said, glaring at Stewart.

"We've worked together for over four years, Dana. I should have known better."

"That's the first thing you've said so far that makes sense," O'Reilly said.

"Frank, you're being awfully quiet. I'm really sorry," Sharpe said.

"For what? Trying to protect us? I can't hold that against you. I just wish you had brought me onboard earlier. What about you, O'Reilly?"

"I don't trust Sanderson, or his people, so it probably wouldn't hurt to have a few people looking over your shoulder, making sure you're not being manipulated. Other than that, just some hurt feelings, but I'll get over it…as long as I'm not required to be nice to Ms. Stewart."

"I don't expect anyone to be nice to Ms. Stewart. As a matter of fact, I expect you to continue hating her. Just keep in mind that I see us on the same team. I'd like to spend some time catching you up on a few things," Sharpe said.

"May I say something?" Stewart asked.

"No. Unless you have something to pass on to me that's new," Sharpe said.

"It can wait."

"Thank you, guys. Seriously, I can't express my relief. I'll make this up to you later. I promise."

"You owe us big time. So, why did you have me close the door when I mentioned my call to the police chief?"

"Long story made short — the missing driver of the SUV in Brooklyn ended up in Sanderson's custody. His name is Miguel Estrada, and he led a sizeable contingent of True America tactical operatives. Most of them were killed in the Brooklyn raid. He was also present at Mount Arlington to confirm that Al Qaeda hit the target and call it in to the police."

"The phone they found in the SUV was Estrada's," O'Reilly said.

"Exactly. Estrada screwed up with that phone. It gave us the compound and his link to Mount Arlington. Apparently, Estrada was a key field commander, but not part of the inner circle. He received instructions, with little explanation. He'd helped arrange the Al Qaeda takedown with a man named Brown and a woman that he couldn't identify. Brown might be an alias, since I couldn't match a Brown with the description he gave us. Jamaican-born U.S. citizen with Army Special Forces experience."

"What happened to Estrada?" Mendoza asked.

"I don't know, and I don't want to know. All I care about is receiving accurate information from Sanderson's conduits. I think we can all agree that the stakes are too high to dismiss the help he can provide outside of our rather restricted channels."

"I wouldn't be standing here if I didn't agree," Mendoza said.

"Same here," O'Reilly added.

"Estrada's next mission was to take a team down to Atlanta and dispose of a man named Benjamin Young. Sanderson's team intercepted the assassination team and took Mr. Young into protective custody."

"I knew there was a connection," O'Reilly said.

"A big connection. Young did the majority of True America's lobbying throughout corporate America and the elite political circuit. He raised millions of dollars for their political action group, scraping off a sizable portion for himself and Jackson Greely's militant cronies. He wasn't pleased with their ultimate reward for his lucrative services. He gave them everything in exchange for a secure place to hide his family until Greely is stopped. He's soon to join Sanderson in Argentina."

"That's about as secure as it gets," Mendoza said.

"And the sergeant in Maryland?" O'Reilly asked.

"We don't have detailed information about the sergeant, but Young relayed a comment made by Greely. Young was concerned about FBI surveillance at one point, but was told specifically that he had nothing to worry about. When Young pushed the issue, Greely said they had people in the right places."

"He could have been bullshitting Young. Trying to keep him calm. Playing him until the last possible moment," Mendoza said.

"I doubt it. Given Greely's paranoia, I think he would have severed ties with Young, or killed him sooner, if he had any doubts about the FBI," Sharpe said.

"Do you have any reason to suspect that the task force is compromised?" O'Reilly asked.

"I have no reason to assume it isn't, which is why none of this information extends beyond the four of us. From this point forward, Ms. Stewart will not be seen talking in private to any of us. If someone is watching, this meeting will look suspicious enough. Continued meetings will raise an alarm. Stewart can relay the information to me, and I'll meet with the two of you. We obviously can't make any major course corrections to our investigation, but we've been creative with planting clues here and there," Sharpe said.

"Where do we go from here?" O'Reilly asked.

"We keep piecing together the puzzle with all of the evidence we have. We've gained solid ground here, and I have no intention of kneecapping the task force. With the information we've collected and the personnel captured, I fully expect the task force to produce results that Sanderson's people can't replicate in the field. Putting the two sources together will give us the best chance of shutting down this conspiracy before it's too late."

"What if it's already too late?" Mendoza asked.

"It's a possibility, but if O'Reilly's hunches hold merit, then the attack on Fort Meade was a feint, and the compound loaded with armed rednecks was staged. I hope you're right, Dana. The thought of the forty-nine remaining canisters of this virus being dumped into various municipal water supplies is devastating. But if they're not using the virus to poison the water, what on earth are they planning? Something worse. At least your theory buys us more time. Let's hope you're right."

"Sorry, Ms. Stewart. You had something to say earlier?" Sharpe said.

"Save the 'we're all in this together' speech for the rookies," O'Reilly said.

"That wasn't my plan. I just received some interesting information that has a direct bearing on the case. Our people just cracked Young's proprietary database wide open. We have access to detailed information about his clients."

"I thought he was cooperating?" O'Reilly said, her anger and outburst forgotten.

"He is, but Young couldn't remotely access deeper tier information. You have to be inside the building at a terminal to do this. We have some cyber-security specialists that were able to hijack the system using his outer layer access. We can now see who has received all of the money Young has funneled to Greely. One of the names raises a disturbing possibility. Combined with O'Reilly's suspicions, I'd say it was extremely disturbing. Are any of you familiar with the name Owen Mills?"

Sharpe had never heard the name, and given the non-reaction from his colleagues, neither had they.

"Doesn't surprise me. I'd never heard the name before either. Mills is the CEO of Crystal Source water, based out of Honesdale, Pennsylvania. They draw their water from the Poconos. Crystal Source is one of the biggest bottled water distributors in Pennsylvania, northern New Jersey and mid-state New York, servicing businesses, homes and, of course, selling their bottles of water nationwide. Anyway, accounts owned by or associated with Mills have received nearly thirteen million dollars over the past three years. A Honesdale-based construction company was the recipient of a one-time payment of nearly five million dollars. Young said he diverted this money from contributions earmarked for True America's political action group."

"How much money is going to this political action group?" Sharpe said.

"From private donors? It's almost impossible to say. At least it was impossible until about an hour ago. Based on the amount he was sifting, I'd say True America pulls in a ton of money," Stewart said.

Sharpe gave this new information a quick turn through his hazy, sleep-deprived brain and formed a possible conclusion. He wanted to hear what everyone else thought about this revelation. Clearly, Stewart had a specific reason for bringing up Mills. Other accounts related to Jackson Greely or Lee Harding had to be involved.

"I'd like to hear everyone's thoughts," Sharpe said.

"Is it fair to assume that other payments went to Greely or Harding?"

"Yes, but not in the thirteen-million-dollar ballpark. I think it's fair to assume that Mills is a major player in True America's militant arm. Why would they send him so much money?" Stewart said.

"Maybe he's providing them with a safe haven somewhere in the Poconos. The compound in Hacker Valley smells fishy to me," O'Reilly said.

"That's a possibility. Mills owns an incredible amount of property in the Poconos," Stewart said.

"Could this be a massive stunt to drive up the price of bottled water? Is that an insane theory?" Mendoza said.

Sharpe leaned back in his seat and took in the silence that Mendoza's questions had created. Jesus. Could this whole thing be about money? It suddenly made sense to him. True America used Al Qaeda to get their hands on the Zulu virus. They'd probably funded the entire operation from start to finish, including the use of Reznikov to create the virus. Estrada watched Al Qaeda approach the Mount Arlington pump station and placed calls to the police and local media. He ensured that the attack couldn't escape widespread attention. True America had taken extreme measures to erase any ties to Al Qaeda or illicit funding. They sent a team to attack Fort Meade, which was conveniently thwarted in a tragic shootout that was no doubt reported to the media the second it happened. Finally, the compound was filled with high-profile anti-government radicals and staged to give the impression that twenty-five additional drill teams were on the loose. All of this was designed to force the government into taking drastic steps to secure the nation's municipal water supply. Steps that would skyrocket the demand for bottled water. Was it really that simple?

"It's not insane, if you think in terms of the conspiracy O'Reilly suggested," Sharpe said.

Stewart shook her head. "I still think they're going to use the virus somehow."

"I'd like to pursue every possibility, but I barely have enough people on the task force to process the leads and evidence produced by the compound. I doubt Director Shelby would be willing to drastically expand my resources based on a string of evidence illegally obtained by a tier of operatives kept secret from him," Sharpe said.

"Sanderson would like to send the Atlanta team north to the Honesdale area. While they're traveling, our cyber people could do some digging into the Scranton-based construction company. Ground assets can take the investigation to the next level upon arrival," Stewart said.

"What exactly does that mean?" O'Reilly asked.

Stewart looked to Sharpe for guidance.

"Exactly what it sounds like. The gloves are off. I'm giving both of you one last chance to back out of this," Sharpe replied.

"I'm in," Mendoza said without hesitation.

"I'm good," O'Reilly stated.

"All right. Let's send Sanderson's team up to Pennsylvania. How big of a team are we dealing with, Callie?"

"Four, plus a mobile electronic support team. I can have that electronic support team in place within a few hours. We're probably looking at getting the core team in place within six to eight," Stewart replied.

"Let's do it. Business as usual here, unless the team in Pennsylvania uncovers something that changes the game. If that happens, I'll figure out a way to shift assets in that direction. Until then, we process what we have. Good?"

Everyone nodded, and Stewart started for the door. Mendoza and O'Reilly moved sluggishly, leaving him with the impression that they wanted to talk in private without including Stewart.

"Ms. Stewart, keep me apprised. I'll be out on the floor in a few minutes."

She took the hint and swiftly departed, closing the door.

"Are you sure you can trust her?" O'Reilly asked.

"No. But Sanderson hasn't given me any reason to doubt his intentions. Have you seen the preliminary law enforcement bulletin regarding the Ritz Carlton attack? I suspected a connection there too. Six gunmen dead, two of them killed execution style in a suite on the top floor. The hallway outside of the suite looks like a war zone. Sanderson's people took one hell of a risk extracting Young from that hotel."

"I don't trust them," O'Reilly said, "and it's not because I'm still pissed about not being able to fully extend the middle finger on my right hand."

Sharpe was fully aware of the damage caused by the .223 bullet that shattered O'Reilly's forearm and tore sinew and ligament on its strange path up her arm toward her hand. She hadn't let it go, nor should she. Even Mendoza didn't dare make light of the fact that he missed seeing that middle finger colorfully deployed on a daily basis.

"Sanderson's plot two years ago was diabolical in every way," she said. "Meticulously planned and brutal. I don't know how he suddenly turned into a semi-legitimate arm of the U.S. government. I have the feeling that it was his plan all along. A manipulation of the highest order."

"You'd be correct in that assumption," Sharpe said, not intending to give further details about the failed attack on his compound in Argentina.

"All I'm saying is to be careful."

"Thank you, Dana. I'm doing what I can. I need you guys to keep an eye on the situation. If you see something spiraling out of control, or you suspect that we're being played, I need to know ASAP. And don't send me anything over the network. Do it in person," Sharpe said.

"Do you think Sanderson has hacked the system? I've checked for signs, but if their people are as good as it sounds, only a system reboot will kick them out."

"No need for that…yet. Plus, this would be a bad time to shut down the system. Just assume that anything you put into the system or say over the phone can be overheard."

"What about our cell phones? Computer microphones? All of that could be used to eavesdrop," Mendoza reminded them.

"We'll get creative if that becomes necessary. Time to break up this little mutiny. We might have other eyes watching us," Sharpe said.

"Fuck. This is ridiculous. We're not even secure at NCTC?" Mendoza griped.

Sharpe shrugged his shoulders. "Business as usual, people. Business as usual. Any last requests before we break this up?"

"Can you call Laurel's police chief and get Osborne's vacation records?" O'Reilly said.

"Maybe we should take a less conspicuous approach. I'll see if Stewart's techies can dig that up through their network. No point in drawing more attention," Sharpe said.

"Business as usual, my ass. Watch your back, sir," O'Reilly said.

"I'm trusting the two of you to take care of that."

Chapter 42

Sergeant Bryan Osborne sat in his Honda Accord and stared out at a row of white police cruisers. He still hadn't recovered from the adrenaline high that nearly caused him to break out into a full sweat in front of his chief. Chief Wilson caught him minutes before he planned to step into the parking lot and pulled Osborne into his office. He'd finally been cleared to take paid administrative leave, pending a review of the circumstances surrounding the shooting in the North Tract, and had been making the rounds through the station. He thought Wilson had a few more words of wisdom and encouragement. The ensuing conversation had caused his vision to shrink momentarily.

Chief Wilson told him about an FBI inquiry into his vacation schedule. The agent, a snippy female from somewhere in D.C., didn't explain her reasons for the request. Wilson figured that the FBI didn't appreciate the fact that basic police fieldwork had managed to upstage them, and they were looking for any reason to knock the department down a few notches. He had no idea how Osborne's vacation schedule played into their little game, and he had no intention of providing the FBI with any information about his police officers. They didn't deserve this kind of political maneuvering less than one day after an officer had been killed in the line of duty three feet away from Osborne. He said he might consider filing a complaint with the FBI if the agent called again.

He then proceeded to tell Osborne to keep his nose clean while on administrative leave. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? He didn't really care. He was glad to get out of the station without vomiting. How the hell did the FBI sniff out his trail so quickly? Maybe it was nothing. Standard procedure in a federal case? He didn't like it either way. He'd spent three out of his last five vacation periods at the compound in West Virginia. There was no way they could know that, but it still unnerved him. It was too much of a coincidence. He'd have to buy one of those prepaid phones and report this to Brown. He started his car and drove slowly out of the parking lot onto 5^th Street, heading southeast to the Best Buy on Baltimore Avenue.

Chapter 43

A single loon cut through the glassy water just off the small dock extending from the property's rocky shoreline. Lee Harding sat at the end of the floating dock in an Adirondack chair, holding one of the sporting rods they had found in the immense post and beam rental house. Jackson Greely followed the gravel path to a point where a small wooden ramp met the rocks. When he stepped on the dock, the loon suddenly took off, skipping along the water until it had gained enough speed to achieve flight. Harding turned his head and nodded a greeting.

Jackson took the empty chair and set his coffee down on the chair's wide arm.

"I just heard from Brown. Sergeant Osborne's chief took a call from an FBI agent asking questions about his vacation schedule. Apparently the chief told them to piss off," Jackson said.

Lee muttered an obscenity and met Jackson's stare. "That was fast. I assume you accelerated the timeline of our insurance policy?"

"We cash in on the premium tonight. That should buy us more than enough time to get the convoys on the road. Once the convoys depart, they can connect all of the dots and it won't matter," Jackson said.

"Tell Brown to get rid of Osborne. The FBI isn't likely to accept the chief's response. They'll obtain the records. It's fair to assume that the feds have connected the operatives captured or killed by their employer's vacation schedules. I wonder what else they're working on?" Harding said.

"It won't matter after tonight. They'll be in the middle of redeploying the entire task force based on what they found at the compound, when all hell breaks loose. Confusion will reign supreme for days."

Lee nodded in approval. "And the lab?"

Jackson was starting to get a little annoyed by Harding's barrage of questions. He didn't even have his cell phone handy…which wasn't a shocker given that he only fielded calls from Jackson. King Harding sat on his throne and accepted reports from his subordinates. He shouldn't think like this. The two of them had been friends for a long time, and Harding's aloofness wasn't a new development. He'd always been a "hands off" leader. Jackson was the direct opposite, with a leadership style that bordered on micromanagement. He'd long ago learned to identify competent and trustworthy people to help him compensate for this intensive, "hands on" approach. Brown was one of those people. Anne Renee was another. Maybe Lee's easy affect was due to the fact that Jackson took care of everything. He'd never been forced to adapt his style.

"Carnes is bitching up a storm, but he's pretty sure we can get the bottling wrapped up tomorrow morning if they work through the night. Shipments will leave late tomorrow afternoon if all goes well," he said.

"I can't believe we're this close. One week from now, things will start to change. The stage will be set for the New Recovery," Lee said.

"We still have a long way to go, and most of it will be out of our direct control," Jackson corrected.

"True, but the time has never been riper. The mortgage crisis is in full swing. Mortgage-backed securities. Credit default swaps. Collateralized debt obligations. The big banking collapse is flying just below everyone's radar. The nation needs new leadership to weather this manmade crisis. True America will step in to fill the void."

"We just need to get the convoys on the road," Jackson said.

They both stared out at the tranquil lake, still unspoiled by summer boaters.

"Has Young resurfaced?" Lee asked.

"No. I don't expect he will."

"Let's hope the FBI doesn't have him. He's enough of a weasel to roll on us."

"I'd be relieved if the FBI had him," Jackson said, causing Lee's head to snap up.

"What do you mean?"

"The team that aided his escape in Atlanta was outsourced. Highly skilled and untraceable. I'm hoping Mr. Young hired them. If not, we could have a big problem," Jackson said.

Chapter 44

"No way, and that's final," Darryl Jackson said.

He started pacing back and forth in front of the two double beds in his hotel room. There was no way he would drive back down to Fredericksburg and do what Berg had asked. The streets were jammed with cars, all with the same goal in mind — to find bottled water. Traffic along the Beltway alone would add two to three hours to his trip.

"Are you telling me that the CIA doesn't have access to a stockpile of weapons at The Farm? That's a two-hour drive for you."

"Not with this traffic, and I can't raid whatever armory you believe exists over there," Berg said.

"But it's all right for me to drive six hours or more through traffic to grab shit out of the Brown River armory? Not to mention the fact that Cheryl will divorce me if I abandon Liz," Jackson said.

"Liz will be fine. We're starting to think that the Fort Meade attack might have been a complicated ruse," Berg said.

"For what? A bigger attack? It doesn't sound like you know much of anything at this point."

"All I know is that we're sending outside assets up to Pennsylvania, well outside of any legal boundaries. If these suspicions are correct, this team will need specialized weapons and equipment. I'm cutting them forged FBI badges as we speak. Don't worry, if the shit hits the fan, I have your back," Berg said.

"Pennsylvania doesn't have any waiting period for rifle purchases. You can pick up some sweet equipment on the spot."

"Oh. I wasn't aware that you could buy suppressed weapons over the counter in Pennsylvania now, or fourth-generation night-vision rifle scopes. They overlook federal licensing for automatic weapons too?"

"This isn't fair, Karl. I can't leave Liz unattended. Cheryl will never forgive me if something happens," Jackson said.

"Princeton is a safe town. Well insulated. You'll be back in Princeton by tonight," Berg said.

"I'll be lucky to reach Fredericksburg by six this evening, and it will probably take me a few more hours to pull off the gun heist and—"

"Nobody's stealing. You're authorized to draw weapons from that armory," Berg interrupted.

"I'll be sure to tell that to the board of directors, after your people throw them into a river to cover their tracks."

"The team didn't have a choice in Kazakhstan. You know that," Berg said.

"Uh huh. So, I steal roughly thirty thousand dollars' worth of gear and get back in my truck for the seven-hour drive to Scranton. Thirteen hours in a car, transporting stolen assault weapons across at least three state lines. By myself."

"We're sending a jet to meet you in Fredericksburg. It's a company jet," Berg said.

"You can swing a Lear jet at the last second, but a few assault rifles are beyond your reach?" Jackson said.

"We don't keep that kind of firepower stateside. Seriously."

"How the fuck am I going to check out a dozen weapons?" he snapped, suddenly raising his voice. "I'm still getting bent over my desk for the Kazakhstan mess. You know what? I'm going to change your name on my phone. Every time you call me, the screen will read 'BOHICA.'"

There was silence until Berg spoke. "BOHICA? Enlighten me."

"Bend Over Here It Comes Again," Jackson said.

"Very funny. So you'll do it?"

"Yes. I'll do it. But there better be drink service on that airplane."

"I'll make sure they have something you'll like. And a nice bottle for Cheryl," Berg said.

"Don't even go there. If she finds out about this, we're both screwed."

Chapter 45

Daniel followed the signs for Hertz and turned the minivan into the designated parking lot across from the terminal. He found a parking space marked for Hertz returns and stepped out of the vehicle. They had no bags at this point. Everything had been stashed in a dumpster outside of the Ramada in Lexington immediately prior to their departure for the airport, including Benjamin Young's computers and disassembled phone. Sanderson's cyber techs had taken everything they needed from his equipment.

Young had been surprisingly cooperative throughout the evening, due to a combination of outrage and fear; he was both indignant over True America's betrayal and intimidated by Jessica's presence. He eagerly rolled over on his former clients and provided a wealth of information and connections. Young's "soft" interrogation lasted until three in the morning, when Daniel finally zip tied Young to the bed and turned him over to Munoz and Melendez. Jessica and Daniel retired to a separate, adjoining room and collapsed. The two of them had spent the morning at the Columbia Center Mall, buying casual clothes for everyone, while Munoz made everyone's travel arrangements.

Young was headed to Dallas to meet his family and fly to Buenos Aires. He'd spend an indefinite amount of time at Sanderson's training compound, safe from True America's reaches and immediately available for questions. His family had left their house in Buckhead before police arrived and travelled to the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, where they boarded a late night flight to Tampa, Florida. The flight continued to Dallas at 6:25 in the morning. They would be waiting in the airport when he arrived.

The rest of them would catch the 2:25 PM flight to the Wilkes Barre/Scranton Airport in Pennsylvania. Both Daniel and Jessica had been too tired to argue with Sanderson when he called to present his case for their continued participation in the mission. On a deeper level, neither of them wanted to argue. They had already accepted the fact that Sanderson was still their most loyal and potent ally. They would see this mission through to the end and leave him on good terms. Solid terms. When Daniel spoke into the phone, repeating Sanderson's request, Jessica simply nodded her approval.

He opened the door and helped Young out of the van. Daniel had spent a few thousand dollars at Banana Republic to outfit everyone, including Jessica, in some variation of khaki slacks with an untucked shirt. This suited Young just fine, though he complained about wearing the same shoes from the previous night. Only Jessica received new shoes, since she was still barefoot from last night. Her feet had taken a beating on the streets of Atlanta.

"This is where we say goodbye. I'm sure you'll miss us," Daniel said.

"That's an understatement," Young said.

"Make sure to follow directions precisely in Buenos Aires. All right? They'll make sure nobody followed you off the plane and remove any irregular local law enforcement attention. Follow the script, and they'll reach out to you when the time is right. Do everything they say. You will not be allowed to see the final route to the compound, so be prepared to have a bag placed over your head, or something to that effect. Kids too."

"Jesus. Come on. This sounds crazy," Young said.

"You want to head back to Atlanta?" Jessica said.

Young shook his head.

"Follow the script. You'll like it out there. Plenty of hiking, fishing, clean air. Lots of family time," Daniel said.

"No cocaine, though," Jessica added.

Young looked at Daniel. "She's a real treat."

"You'll be staying in our place, which will afford you some luxury out there."

"The two of you are married? I knew it. I feel sorry for you, man. Holy shit."

Daniel cocked his head slightly, which changed Young's expression instantly. He went from cocky to scared shitless in the blink of an eye.

"She's pretty nice to be around, unless you're an arrogant cokehead that spends more time with hookers than your own wife and kids. Be careful what you say in Argentina. My wife is a legend around that compound."

Young stared at him for a second and quickly averted his eyes like a submissive dog.

"Take out as much cash as possible in Dallas, and use the cash to purchase as many prepaid credit cards as possible. Keep a few hundred on you for transportation. Do this right before your flight. Use these cards once you arrive in Buenos Aires. You won't need money at the compound. Now get out of here. Your flight leaves in forty-five minutes. I don't want to see you again."

Stumbling with haste, Young nearly fell over, barely regaining his balance in time to turn and walk briskly toward the walkway leading into the terminal.

"You're welcome, fuckhead!" Daniel said.

Young turned nervously and started to open his mouth, but thought better of it. He scurried across the parking lot. Once he disappeared into the terminal, Daniel turned to the rest of his crew. They were still reclined in their seats, trying to gain any rest possible before the flight.

"Now what?" Melendez asked.

"We eat something and try to catch some sleep in the terminal. Sounds like we have another long night ahead of us."

"Like last night?" Jessica said.

"We don't know yet. Fayed should know more when we arrive."

Tariq Paracha and Aleem Fayed had already left for Pennsylvania with one of Sanderson's "electronic warfare teams." The general loved to pick dramatic-sounding names. He supposed it was better than "cyber geeks." Fayed and Paracha would pick them up in Scranton and take them to Honesdale, where Sanderson had arranged a secluded rental on a nearby pond. They had a shipment of equipment arriving at the airport later in the evening, which would require their attention, along with some late-night planning based on Sanderson's intelligence. For all Daniel knew, they might go right into action against True America tonight.

"Let's give Young a few minutes to get through check-in. I can't stand to look at him. Thanks for the compliment. I didn't know I was held in such high regard," Jessica said.

"I would have punched him in the nose again, but that would have been counterproductive. He'll be lucky if it doesn't start bleeding again on its own during the flight," Daniel said.

"I would have loved to see that punk take another smack," Melendez said.

"We all would. Do you think he'll make it?" Munoz said.

"I don't know. He seemed genuinely worried about his family, so I give him good odds. This could be a cathartic experience for Mr. Young," Daniel said.

"But instead of Dr. Phil, he gets to experience Dr. Sanderson," Jessica said.

"Sounds like a reality TV show in the making," Melendez said.

Chapter 46

Reggie Taylor struggled violently for a few seconds and settled. There was little use. Any time he tried to stand, at least two pairs of hands held him down and another punched him in the stomach. They'd barely said a word to him since throwing a bag over his head and pulling him into the van. It happened so fast, he barely resisted at first.

He'd been walking down Loring Drive, trying to convince the Popcorn Shrimp Combo from Long John Silver's to stay down. He'd overdone lunch again, which hadn't come as a surprise. His new work schedule at the National Counterterrorism Center had wreaked havoc on his sleep and corresponding appetite. He normally worked the 4:00 PM to midnight shift, which was bad enough, but recent events had increased staffing requirements, splitting the security section into two twelve-hour shifts. He'd spent the past three days working 8:00 PM to 8:00 AM, which had been miserable. He'd take the bus home, eat some cereal and pass out, only to wake up starving a few hours later. It was hard to break those natural biorhythms.

He never heard the van pull up. Traffic was common on this street, and the school buses were due to arrive at the Loring Terrace complex soon. Hundreds of kids would be dropped off at various points around the vast network of three-story buildings, transforming the well-manicured area into a busy neighborhood. District Heights didn't have the best reputation as a D.C. area neighborhood, but he had never felt threatened walking around during the day. Some of the areas were fairly sketchy at night, but the Metro bus dropped him off at the entrance to his apartment complex. Loring Terrace was peaceful and quiet after midnight.

Getting jacked in broad daylight had never crossed his mind, which was why he didn't offer much resistance until his face had been pressed into the metal floor of the van. Suddenly realizing that this was far more serious than a mugging, he went haywire for a few seconds, which earned him a brief but severe beating. He'd calmed down long enough for them to tie his hands and duct tape his mouth, before rampaging to little avail. He struggled again, until one of his captors slipped a garrote around his neck and pulled tight for a few seconds. He got the message.

They drove for a few minutes and stopped the van, pulling him onto the pavement somewhere nearby. With the garrote around his throat, they quickly guided him through a door and up a set of stairs. He recognized the smell through the thick bag over his head. Musty wood paneling. His suspicions were confirmed when they walked him down a hallway and pushed him through another doorway. The faint scent of his wife's perfume penetrated the bag, followed by all of the familiar smells of his home. That's when he lost it. They had brought him back to his apartment, less than twenty minutes before his kids were due to arrive. He had to get out of here to warn them. He had to do something. He tried, but it had been useless. Even with the garrote removed, he couldn't build up any momentum to stand. Instead, he wobbled on both knees in the middle of his living room, thinking of a different strategy. Someone yanked the hood from his head, and he stared in disbelief. He had been jacked by two white guys, a Mexican woman and a Jamaican. What the fuck?

"Mr. Taylor, this brings me no pleasure, but I need to show you something," the Jamaican said.

He pointed at an open laptop computer on the coffee table and nodded at the woman. Fuck, they weren't wearing masks. They planned to kill him. The Hispanic woman pressed a few buttons, and a digital feed started playing. His heart sank. They had his wife and two children. How was that even possible? He watched and listened in horror as someone placed a mean-looking, stainless steel knife against each of their throats as they whimpered. Rage welled up within him momentarily, replaced quickly by a sense of hopelessness. Who were these people? He mumbled, "What do you want?" through the duct tape. The Jamaican said, "Enough," and the woman stopped the recording.

"Your family is fine at the moment. We contacted the kids' schools and your wife at work about two hours ago. You'd been hit by a car, and they needed to come immediately. We even sent an unmarked police car to round them up. Sometimes I shudder to think how easy it is to take an entire family off the streets without raising an eyebrow. We need you to do something for us. It's a very simple task. We'll release your family upon completion of the task. I promise you that. If you refuse…we'll tell you where to find their remains. You'll probably be late for your next shift. Can I trust you not to scream if I remove the duct tape?"

He nodded. Screaming hadn't crossed his mind. He'd follow their rules and pray to God that they were telling the truth about not hurting his babies. He couldn't imagine what it must be like for his wife, Danni. She was in the same room with the kids. For Reggie, it was real enough seeing the digital file, but she could probably feel their breath in the dark, scared out of her mind that these might be her last moments with them. One of the white dudes ripped the duct tape from his mouth, searing his lips.

"What do I have to do?" he uttered breathlessly.

"Look the other way for three seconds," the Jamaican said.

"At the center?"

"Yes. You look the other way, and I release your family. It's as simple as that."

"You want me to let someone into the Operations Center? What are they going to do?"

"You don't need to worry about that. All you need to do is focus on your family. I promise you they will be fine if you follow our instructions. Three seconds of inattention, and you don't say a word to anyone. That's it."

Taylor thought about the consequences for a few seconds. He didn't like the idea of letting someone off the street into the operations center, but what choice did he have?

"The place is locked down tight. I can try to slip someone through my checkpoint, but there's a good chance they'll be stopped inside the center. Another guard might stop them right there if they don't have a badge. My checkpoint is for internal NCTC traffic only, people already cleared to be in the building. You can't bring someone in from the outside and hope to get them through my station without attracting attention."

"We're not using someone off the street. You'll recognize the person, and so will the rest of your crew. He's a regular around there, but he doesn't have access to the operations floor for the current operation, so we need your help. Just three seconds of your time. If you do as we ask, your family will be released, regardless of the outcome. Can you do this for us?"

"What will happen to me afterward?"

"I can't say. They may never figure it out, and if they do…you didn't really have a choice, did you?"

He shook his head. It didn't sound so bad, whatever they had planned. A little corporate espionage? It didn't matter.

"As a matter of fact, you can go to the authorities as soon as your family is released and tell them everything. You might lose your job, but nobody will blame you for looking the other way. Nobody with a family, that is. Frankly, I don't see them figuring it out…it's highly possible that your name will never come up."

Taylor felt less conflicted. How bad could it be if they thought that his moment of "inattention" might go unnoticed?

"I'll do this, but I can't control the situation beyond my station. If your man gets through my checkpoint, you have to honor your word," Taylor said.

"Don't worry. He'll get through fine, as long as you don't get cold feet or decide to do something rash at the last second. Don't think you can fuck us over on this. The stakes are too high for you. Understood?"

"Yes," Taylor said, nodding emphatically.

He hoped their man sailed through without drawing any attention. There was no way this group could figure out if he raised the alarm upon arrival and arranged a sting operation inside the operations center. They were blind once their man entered the building and even blinder when he walked through Taylor's checkpoint into the Operations Center. If the man didn't succeed, he'd never see his family again.

"Tell me what to do."

Chapter 47

Traffic in and out of the Operations Center was nonexistent at this point. The administrative section of the building had cleared out by six-o'clock, leaving either NCTC personnel assigned to support the ongoing task force or authorized task force members. The Operations Center kept a three-section, eight-hour rotation, fully staffed twenty-four hours a day to support Task Force Scorpion. He wasn't supposed to know the name of the task force, but everybody working security knew more than they should about what was happening in "Ops."

Reggie Taylor glanced around at his colleagues. A total of nine security officers had been assigned to the Operations Center entrance. Two for each of the three checkpoints, and one search team comprised of two officers. The supervisor sat in a glass-encased office directly behind Taylor, but he knew from experience that the supervisor's desk didn't provide the proper angle to see his screen from a seated position. Standing up was a different story. He'd told the Jamaican that their inside man needed to back off if anyone was standing in the supervisor's office. Taylor's screen would clearly indicate that James Fitch was not authorized to access the Operations Center.

He'd been slightly relieved to learn that Fitch was their man. Fitch had worked at the Liberty Crossing building since its inception as the Terrorist Threat Integration Center in 2003, along with Taylor. They had both been present for its renaming as the National Counterterrorism Center one year later in 2004. Fitch had accessed "Ops" to do network repairs or related IT work several dozen times during Taylor's daytime shifts, so his presence wasn't unusual. At 8:00 PM on a Saturday night, though, he wasn't sure. Still, it was better than dressing someone up in a colonel's uniform and trying to squeeze them through the Operations Center's dedicated personnel entrance.

The dedicated personnel entry gave permanent Ops analysts, technicians and managers quick access from the parking lot. This group comprised the majority of traffic handled by these checkpoints, usually around shift changes. Anyone using that entrance would raise an immediate alarm trying to use his checkpoint. They had chosen wisely with Fitch. Better yet, Fitch had chosen wisely. There was little doubt in Taylor's mind that this son-of-a-bitch IT fucker had specifically targeted him because of his young children. He had to remind himself to push these thoughts aside. They would serve him no purpose tonight. He couldn't afford to screw this up. All he had to do was let Fitch pass.

He'd be fine. Fitch would very likely attract no attention at all. When Ops needed server-related support, the Operation Center's deputy supervisor authorized access through the system, without notifying security. The whole process was transparent to the guards. When Fitch or any of the NCTC personnel swiped their card, it would either permit or deny access. The security officers simply enforced the system's output, which completely eliminated the human factor at the gate. Guards couldn't be sweet-talked, rushed or intimidated into letting someone through, regardless of their rank or importance…unless someone was holding a knife to your child's throat.

He glanced down the hallway leading into the general administrative building, trying not to look anxious. The Jamaican told him to expect Fitch around 8:15 PM. He was thankful for that. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. Taylor glanced calmly at his watch.

"Long way to go, Reggie," said one of the guards seated across from him at another checkpoint.

"I know. These longer shifts are killing me. I get antsy as soon as I put the uniform on," he replied, not knowing if what he just said made any sense.

He was scared out of his mind. Movement in his peripheral vision brought his attention back to the hallway. A figure moved through the automatic doors, walking briskly toward the security station. He recognized Fitch immediately. Short brown hair, glasses, khaki pants, white button-down shirt covered by an NCTC windbreaker. He thought the jacket was an odd choice for someone trying to avoid attention, but this small observation was drowned out by his relief that the guy wasn't carrying a briefcase or anything that would guarantee that he would be stopped. He should sail right through, if he wasn't carrying anything that triggered the metal detector. Something as stupid as a cell phone or a screwdriver would set the damn thing off, and he didn't control the metal detector.

Fitch approached Taylor's checkpoint and sailed through the metal detector without an issue. Almost there. Come on, baby. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder. He was told that Fitch would abandon the run if Taylor's supervisor stood in a position to see the security monitor. Fitch's eyes furtively shifted in the direction of the supervisor's office behind Taylor. He kept walking. The two men never made eye contact, but Taylor could tell that Fitch was under considerable strain from the one brief glance he stole. Taylor wondered what the Jamaican might be holding over Fitch's head. He didn't know a single fact about the IT guy's personal life.

Fitch swiped his card and waited. Taylor pretended that he didn't see the "access denied" box appear next to Fitch's picture and data profile. He nodded and pressed the green button mounted at his station, which opened the small gate and admitted Fitch, exposing the single greatest flaw in the Operations Center security system. Instead of linking the gate directly to the system, designers had opted to keep the gate operation in human hands. They had their reasons. If the automatic security system interface crashed at the wrong time, Ops personnel could be denied entry during a critical operation. They thought of several additional scenarios to justify the decision, all of which made sense.

Fitch nodded at one of the guards who had taken an interest in his arrival. Taylor held his breath in terror, depriving his limbs and brain of the oxygen-rich blood it desperately needed to support his sympathetic nervous system's activation. He started to experience tunnel vision, which triggered panic. Doubt filled his mind, causing his index finger to stray toward the red alarm button. There was no way they would let his family go. What was he thinking! He had no idea what they had convinced Fitch to do in there. He had to stop this. His family was already dead. He knew it.

"Taylor. You all right?" someone said.

He turned his head toward the voice, and his vision expanded. He was breathing again.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he responded.

"You look like shit, brother. Eating at Long John Silver's again? That place will turn your stomach upside down," his friend at the next checkpoint said.

"I can't resist the popcorn shrimp. Melt in your mouth goodness," he mumbled blankly.

"Yeah, until it comes out the other end a few seconds later." The security officer laughed.

Taylor couldn't have recited his friend's name if his life depended on it, because it didn't. Everything depended on Fitch getting inside Ops. He smiled and faked a short laugh, glancing in Fitch's direction. Taylor watched the technician open the door leading into the Operations Center's blackout vestibule, disappearing inside. He'd done it. He just hoped that Fitch would go about his nefarious business quickly. The Jamaican said that his family would be back in their apartment by 9:00 PM if Fitch gained access to the Operations Center. His watch read 8:16 PM. He settled in for the longest forty-four minutes of his life.

Callie Stewart had grown tired of observing the watch floor from her usual perch on the catwalk, so she had taken to mingling with the military liaisons on the left side of the watch floor. Admiral DeSantos had introduced her to Colonel Hanson, SOCOM's liaison, who accepted her based on the SEAL's word. She had been able to spread her influence to a few of the technicians, even managing to cozy up to NCTC's assistant director, Karen Wilhelm. She had little ulterior motive beyond making her time in the Operations Center a little more tolerable. Of course, her eyes and ears were always open for new intelligence. Old habits were hard to break.

Over the past three days, she had mapped out the relationships between everyone on the floor, paying close attention to mannerism, posture, glances…all of the subtle, below-the-surface connections that defined the true essence of the microcosm surrounding her. She was less interested in the overt drama, since most of it was window dressing. Once she had mapped out this web of connections, she could anticipate and predict their behavior based on something as innocuous as a pair of folded arms or a stolen glance. Right now, Karen Wilhelm was annoyed. She had just placed her hands on her hips, which was one of her many "tells."

Stewart followed her glare and settled on a man she had never seen before in the Operations Center. He wore a loose blue windbreaker with some kind of yellow logo on the front. She could only read "N" from her angle, but she assumed it read NCTC. He glanced around stiffly as he tentatively approached the other side of the watch floor and started to navigate the cluster of workstations that housed most of the FBI's task force. Karen Wilhelm started walking in his direction from her desk on Stewart's side of the center. When Stewart turned her head to examine the object of Wilhelm's curiosity, she noticed that his left hand was inserted into the left bottom pocket of the windbreaker. Purely out of instinct, she started to walk briskly toward the man. Something was off.

Special Agent Mendoza prepared another cup of burnt coffee and diluted it with three Coffee-mate creamers. He figured this cup would probably give him heart palpitations, but at least that would keep him awake. The day had dragged on forever after Sharpe's revelation about cooperating with Sanderson. Knowing that they were possibly pursuing false leads, while Sanderson's people assembled in Pennsylvania, had made the exhausting process nearly unbearable. It reached a boiling point when Sharpe finally confirmed that Sergeant Osborne's past few vacation periods matched up with vacations taken by operatives killed or captured in Brooklyn. Julius Grimes, the operative caught on camera near one of the Al Qaeda safe houses, fit the same pattern. Sharpe twisted some arms behind the scenes to get Laurel's chief of police to cooperate, without drawing attention within the task force. They still wanted to keep this a secret while Sanderson's crew pursued the next lead.

He walked out of the small break room, intending to step into Sharpe's office for a few minutes, when he noticed a man wearing an NCTC windbreaker walking toward O'Reilly and Hesterman's workstation. The guy looked lost, edging his way forward. When the man reached into his left pocket, Mendoza placed his coffee on the edge of the nearest workstation desk.

What he saw next left him with little time to make an impossible decision. When the dark-haired man removed his hand from the pocket, he clutched a small, highlighter-sized object in his fist. A thin black wire extended from the bottom of the black device back into his pocket. There was little doubt in Mendoza's mind about what was hidden under the man's windbreaker. He didn't hesitate. Mendoza's Glock 23 flashed out of its holster and centered on the man's head. He heard a female voice scream "no" and something about a "dead man" right before he fired. The .40-caliber bullet struck the man at the very top of his spine, exiting through his right eye socket and turning him off like a light switch. Callie Stewart flew into view, screaming, "Don't shoot!" as the man's body crumpled to the floor. She wrapped both of her hands tightly around the limp hand holding the detonator, pulling it inward to her chest and dropping to the floor next to him. Instinctively, Mendoza aligned the Glock's sights on Stewart's head. She had her hands on the detonator.

"Drop the detonator!" he screamed.

If she didn't separate her hands immediately, he'd kill her. He only hesitated for this long because Sharpe trusted her.

"It's a dead-man switch. Don't shoot!" she screamed.

He processed her statement, wasting precious milliseconds evaluating the variables. If she was telling the truth, Callie Stewart had just saved the Operations Center from a suicide bombing. If she was lying, she had just bought herself enough time to finish the job. He had hesitated long enough for her to set off the explosives, but she didn't move. She'd been telling the truth. He started to lower his pistol. Three rapid gunshots erupted at point-blank range from the workstation next to her. The bullets struck her in the upper back and neck, spraying blood onto the dead man at her knees. He lurched forward in horror as her body wavered and fell. He never saw her hands come apart.

Special Agent O'Reilly had figuratively hit a wall with her research into the backgrounds of the eighty-five men and women they had identified from the compound raid. She didn't see any point in continuing to try to find a pattern that might help forward the investigation. Most of them had recently participated in some kind of anti-government survivalist activity, running the spectrum from bravado forum posts on anti-government-slanted websites to misdemeanor criminal harassment charges for threatening elected officials.

She didn't believe that True America would round up over a hundred of these nut jobs for a weekend recruitment drive in the middle of one of the deadliest domestic terrorist plots in U.S. history. Sergeant Osborne's vacation schedule sealed it for her. She was going through the motions until Sanderson's people gave them something substantive to investigate. All indicators pointed to Pennsylvania as their best hope of stopping True America, or at least moving the investigation closer. Unfortunately, there was little to do on their end, especially given the methods and personnel used to obtain the information. Not to mention the possibility of a True America sympathizer within the task force or NCTC. For the first time in years, she was truly frustrated by their inability to take action. She started to type a message to Sharpe on her computer, but stopped. She'd brainstormed every possible way around this and ended up empty handed. It was time to give it a rest.

She noticed Karen Wilhelm walking in her direction at an unusually fast pace. Her peripheral vision detected another rapidly moving object, which turned out to be Callie Stewart in full sprint. O'Reilly twisted her head and torso far enough around to see one of the IT guys standing less than ten feet behind her, wearing an NCTC windbreaker. She recognized the guy. Fitch. Stewart screamed, still barreling through the workstations, when Fitch's head suddenly exploded. Her face was hit by warm splatter, causing her to close her eyes and raise her hands. She heard Mendoza's voice over the deafening echo of a single gunshot, followed immediately by Stewart's frantic voice, screaming something about a dead-man switch. Three rapid gunshots drowned out Stewart's desperate plea, causing O'Reilly to reach for her own weapon. She swiveled her chair and opened her eyes. All she saw was Hesterman's massive form bent over her.

Special Agent Sharpe finished reading the last few lines of O'Reilly's initial report regarding the suspects found at the Hacker Valley compound. He completely agreed with her assessment that something didn't add up. A figure loomed in his doorway for a moment, causing him to look up from the computer screen. He saw Mendoza hover near his door with a cup of coffee and walk away. He needed to talk to Mendoza about finding a way to slip a portion of Benjamin Young's information into their investigation. He'd asked O'Reilly to come up with a few ideas, but even the craftiest agent in the building couldn't conceive of a way to do it covertly. Mendoza was his last hope.

A single gunshot shattered his train of thought, and he leapt up from his chair, drew his service weapon, and rushed to the door. He had a clear line of sight to Mendoza and observed him locked into a firing stance with both hands on his gun. Stewart was on her knees past Mendoza, with her hands clasped tightly around something he couldn't quite see. As he neared the door, he saw an arm extended downward from her grip. Mendoza and Stewart yelled at each other, and he immediately understood what had happened.

His moment of clarity was interrupted by three rapid gunshots that hit Stewart. He reached the doorway, only to be blown back into his office by an incredible force that shattered the entire office. If he had been sitting at his desk, he would have been shredded by the floor-to-ceiling glass that was blown inward by the initial shockwave. Instead, he was thrown onto his back, next to his desk, hit by four ceramic ball bearings; none of which severed an artery or punctured a critical organ. Mendoza had been standing directly between Sharpe and the suicide vest, absorbing most of the fragments headed in his direction. He stared upward at the ceiling, unable to hear a sound or utter a word. A few seconds passed before he tried to raise himself onto one elbow. The pain in his shoulder was unbearable, and he collapsed back to the glass-covered floor. He felt the entire office shake beneath him and wondered if the building was about to collapse.

Major Hillary Carson witnessed the bizarre events unfold on the Operation Center's watch floor before she was tossed like a rag doll into the concrete wall behind her. She had just stepped onto the raised catwalk from the spiral staircase embedded within the wall and leaned over the railing to look down at her workstation. She worked with the deputy assistant secretary of defense's liaison group, spending most of her time on the floor, wishing they had something valuable to contribute to the investigation. She quickly realized why the deputy assistant secretary of defense for Homeland Defense and America's Security Affairs was never present in the Operations Center. Their group served no functional role on the task force, other than to allow someone somewhere to check off the box requiring her office to be included in any task force investigating an active threat to homeland security.

She had been headed to their small office on the second level with the intention of lying down on the couch for a few hours. She'd send whomever she found in the office to the watch floor. She was the senior-ranking member of their contingency when the deputy assistant secretary's own assistant wasn't present. He'd left around 7:00 PM, presumably to have dinner, and she didn't expect to see him for a few hours.

When she leaned against the railing and surveyed the watch floor, she immediately noticed the creepy-looking guy in the NCTC windbreaker. She'd been assigned to NCTC for nine months and had never seen one of these jackets, not that it was truly unusual or out of place. Every agency in D.C. seemed to have an exclusive line of dark blue, yellow-stenciled outerwear. From her bird's-eye view, she could see that three people had taken an active interest in the same guy. Karen Wilhelm and Special Agent Mendoza started to converge on his location, along with Callie Stewart, the sharply dressed woman that everyone seemed to despise.

Stewart's arrival at the Operations Center had sparked a flurry of whispers and controversy among the FBI agents. She quickly came to understand why they were so uncomfortable with her presence. Stewart worked for the formerly disgraced General Terrence Sanderson, and everyone in D.C. knew that story. Stewart's presence was an enigma to everyone but Special Agents Sharpe and Mendoza, who looked like they had been forced to swallow some bitter medicine when she arrived. As soon as Carson learned of Stewart's affiliation with Sanderson, she checked the FBI's wanted lists. Sanderson had disappeared from both the Top Ten and Most Wanted Terrorists lists, along with his associates, Daniel Petrovich and Jeffrey Munoz. Formerly disgraced was the operative term.

Callie Stewart broke into a sprint when Agent Mendoza drew his pistol and fired. The man in the windbreaker dropped to the deck just as Stewart dove at him. She grabbed the man's hand, and a quick argument ensued with Mendoza. She couldn't hear what they were yelling, but Mendoza turned the gun on Stewart. Before he could fire his weapon, one of the agents seated at a workstation directly behind her fired three quick shots that killed her instantly. Carson heard one of the bullets strike the glass to her left, distracting her for a moment. She never saw the explosion that destroyed the Operations Center and slammed her against the wall next to the stairwell opening. If the blast had flung her two feet to the left, she might have been tossed down the metal staircase.

Dazed by the blast, she crawled over to the edge of the catwalk, unable to stand, and stared at the destruction. A few of the hanging pendant lights still functioned, swaying back and forth and competing with the inadequate emergency lighting to create dancing shadows among the smoldering wreckage. The FBI's side of the watch floor had been leveled, leaving toppled desks and a tangle of chairs. She couldn't make out too many details through the smoke and paper debris raining down, but she could see that the blast had cleared everything within a twenty-foot radius of the suicide vest and ignited small fires nearby.

She saw bodies slumped over desks in contorted positions or lying twisted on the floor. A few of them still moved. Sparks showered down onto the carnage from the damaged video displays lining the floor, mounted to the bottom of the catwalk. A lone workstation caught her eye on the other side of the Operations Center, where the damage had not been as severe. A man appeared to remain upright in his chair, as if nothing had happened. There was no way for Carson to know that the NCTC analyst had been instantly killed by a ball bearing that had punctured his skull.

Security personnel started to pour into the center a few seconds later. She could see that they were paralyzed by the utter devastation that lay before them. They paused upon entry, clearly debating where to start. One of the men motioned the sign of the cross and dropped to one knee. Just as his knee touched the floor, the Operations Center rumbled, and the catwalk lurched two feet downward. Carson clung to the railing until it stabilized, quickly deciding that she had to get out of here.

She crawled into the stairwell just as the catwalk dropped a few more feet and broke free from the bolts that kept it fastened to the wall. The metal supports directly underneath that section of the catwalk had been critically weakened by the blast, putting incredible downward strain on the bolts. When one bolt failed, the rest followed, snapping that corner of the catwalk free from the wall. Instead of dropping directly onto the floor below, it careened outward into the middle of the Operations Center, tearing one section after the other free from the wall, as it swung toward the security guards and finally slammed into the office next to the security doors.

The stairwell felt stable for now, so she decided to stay in place and wait for emergency responders. She remained conscious the entire time, listening to the groans and wails of survivors. In her mind, she kept replaying what she had seen before the explosion. Mendoza had almost stopped Stewart from detonating the bomb.

Reggie Taylor nearly released his bladder when the frosted glass doors leading into the Operations Center vestibule exploded, showering the security checkpoint with glass fragments. The inner vestibule door had resisted the initial blast of the shockwave, absorbing a significant portion of its energy, which saved their lives. The glass left most of them with multiple lacerations, but lacked the speed necessary to deeply penetrate their bodies. He froze at his station, unwilling to process what had just happened. As most of his colleagues raced toward the source of the explosion, Taylor couldn't move.

He couldn't believe this was happening to him. He had unwittingly allowed a suicide bomber into the Operations Center. Fitch's windbreaker made sense now, along with the Jamaican's assurances that they would know if Fitch got into Ops unhindered. He no longer had any doubt that they planned to release his family. Their operation within NCTC wasn't a covert data theft or file corruption that needed to remain a secret. There was no reason to hold them any longer. He briefly considered fleeing the building, but couldn't bring himself to turn his back on the wounded survivors he had just helped to maim.

He stood up from his seat and checked on one of the guards, who had propped himself against the opposite wall. His leg looked badly shredded, bleeding profusely onto the floor.

"Go help the others. I'll be fine," the man said.

Taylor looked down the hallway toward the administrative building and saw the automatic doors open. Security personnel poured through the doorway, sprinting in his direction.

"All right. Make sure one of them gets you out of here. You're losing a lot of blood," Taylor said, before proceeding to the shattered vestibule.

He stepped through the newly created openings and stopped with the rest of the security team just inside the vast space. What he saw caused him to drop to one knee and cross himself.

"Father, Son and the Holy Spirit," he muttered in disbelief.

A muffled explosion shook the room, bringing him to his feet just as a section of the catwalk disengaged from the wall near the far right stairwell. The metal creaked and screamed for a few seconds, before the entire catwalk structure on the right side of the Operations Center swung across the room, gaining momentum as more sections separated. The guards scurried back toward the security checkpoint, clearing the vestibule as a massive collision rattled the floor. Once the catwalk settled, they hesitantly walked back into the apocalyptic nightmare that had just minutes ago been the world's most technologically advanced counterterrorism center.

As the desperate cries for help and deep moaning finally reached Taylor's ears, he wished he had been crushed by the twisted metal catwalk.

Chapter 48

"Director Shelby, please report to the watch floor supervisor."

He stood up from his newly appointed, temporary office just outside of the main conference room and straightened out his jacket. After the president's little talk with him this morning, Jacob Remy had slithered over to sweeten the pot even further by assigning him one of the small conference rooms to use as a temporary FBI office. They really wanted him to play ball. He had been tempted to point out the fact that this office should have been offered to him four days ago, when Task Force Scorpion had been commissioned by Shelby to resolve this emergent terrorist threat.

When he opened his office door, two Secret Service agents took control of him, steering him toward the main conference room. Their guns were drawn and pointed toward the ceiling. His first thought was that he had been placed under arrest.

"This way, sir. The watch floor supervisor needs to speak to you immediately."

No further explanation was given. He could see at least three heavily armed Secret Service agents blocking the entrance to their destination. Their bullpup configured FN P90 submachine guns were held parallel to the floor, sweeping in every direction. He wasn't being arrested. Something had happened. Something big.

"What's going on?" he asked the agent behind him.

"We're in lockdown. NCTC was hit by a suicide bomber. Possible inside job. We're securing all high-value targets within the situation room."

"Where's the president?"

"You'll be briefed once inside. Please keep moving, sir," the agent replied.

When they arrived at the door, one of the agents entered a code into the keypad on the wall behind him. His escorts pushed him past the three agents, wedging him against the door, which opened less than a second later. A Secret Service agent inside grabbed him by the shoulder and guided him inside, shutting the door behind them. A tall, blond-haired man dressed in a dark brown suit approached him immediately.

"Director Shelby, George Hafferty, watch floor supervisor. The Operations Center at NCTC has been hit by an apparent suicide bomber. I know you have—"

"How big of a bomb? I need to talk to someone over there right now."

"Absolutely, sir. We're still trying to sort out the reports. From what we can tell, the bomb was hidden under a jacket. Maybe a suicide vest. I don't know how to say this, but the bomb apparently detonated in the middle of the FBI workstations. We don't have any real numbers, but first responders told us to expect massive casualties. I'm really sorry."

Frederick Shelby had visited Task Force Scorpion earlier in the day and could picture each agent seated at his or her assigned workstation. He knew every face assigned to the task force and had taken the trouble to learn something about each one of them prior to his visit. If the bomb had been as powerful as Mr. Hafferty suggested, most of them had probably been killed. Hesterman, O'Reilly, Mendoza, maybe even Sharpe. He felt a bitter anger rise up his throat, threatening to choke off his breathing. He was seething.

"My agent-in-charge? Ryan Sharpe. Did he survive?"

"I don't know yet. We've just started collecting information. I have a direct line to NCTC Director Joel Garrity. I spoke with him moments ago. He'll be your best conduit for information, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Hafferty. Get him on the line, please," Shelby said.

The door he just entered opened again and deposited the secretary of Homeland Security, Marianne Templeton, into the room. He nodded at her before following Hafferty. On his way to the mobile watch floor hub assembled in the far corner of the room, he took note of the people in the room. He counted four Secret Service agents, two guarding each door, along with at least six personnel hovering around the four workstations comprising the mobile hub. Beyond him, Ms. Templeton appeared to be the only person worth protecting within the situation room.

"Get Joel Garrity at NCTC on a secure line for the director," Hafferty said.

Less than five seconds later, one of the analysts stood up from his chair and backed away, holding a telephone handset out to Shelby. Shelby took the phone and remained standing, stretching the cord. His first priority was to establish continuity of operations. As cold as this would sound to Garrity, the immediate survival of the investigation took priority over the casualties.

"The line is secure, sir," the analyst said.

"Joel, what happened?"

"We're still trying to piece it together, sir. I have some digital feedback showing a man in an NCTC windbreaker involved in some kind of controversy on the watch floor. Agent Mendoza shoots him in the middle of the FBI workstations, and that's where it gets confusing. A woman charges onto the scene at about the same time, dropping herself onto the bomber. An agent seated nearby shoots her in the back, and the bomb goes off immediately after that. I don't think anyone on the floor survived."

He would ask more about the woman in a moment.

"Joel, this may sound heartless considering what happened, but—"

"Continuity of operations," Garrity interrupted.

"Yes. I need you to transfer everything on your servers to FBI headquarters. I'll have one of our techs contact you immediately to—"

"They didn't tell you everything? The primary server and its backup were hit by a secondary explosion linked to the first. The investigation from this end has been wiped clean. Someone really wanted to put Task Force Scorpion out of business," Garrity said.

"What? The servers were hit too?" Shelby said, glancing up at Hafferty, who shrugged his shoulders.

"What about Ryan Sharpe? Was he on the floor?"

"No. He was found unconscious in his office. He's been evacuated from the facility," Garrity said, amidst yelling in the background on his end of the phone.

Garrity interrupted the call to yell something back. When he resumed the call, he sounded defeated.

"The entire catwalk just collapsed on some of my people. Look, I'll get back to you right away with more information. We're trying to salvage something from the server rooms, but it doesn't look promising."

"One more thing! The woman that was shot. Who was it?"

"I think it was Callie Stewart. One of the DIA's liaisons," he replied.

"Listen carefully, Joel. I need you to interview anyone that is still conscious there. I need to know what happened on the watch floor right before the bomb detonated. This is critical. I'm sorry to push this on you given the circumstances. We've both lost a lot of good people tonight," Shelby said.

"A lot of good people. I'll be in touch shortly."

Shelby handed the phone back to the analyst and took the nearest seat at the conference table, pondering what Garrity had said about the digital camera feed. Mendoza had presumably shot the bomber before he could detonate the bomb. Callie Stewart happened to be close enough to drop down onto the bomber and was subsequently shot by another agent. Why, at that very moment, had she been close enough to intervene? Sharpe had told him this morning that she steered clear of the watch floor, rarely descending the stairs unless summoned. Shelby didn't believe in coincidences. Her convenient appearance could only mean one thing.

Marianne Templeton approached him from the opposite side of the table.

"What happened, Frederick?" she said.

"We've been played."

Chapter 49

Ashraf Haddad sat in one of the institutionally painful chairs placed against the wall of the hospital's intensive care unit waiting room. He'd spent the past two days living in this room, punctuated by visits to the cafeteria and the occasional walk around the common areas of the hospital to keep from going crazy. General Sanderson had asked him to keep an eye on Castillo and Sayar, to make sure their best interests were represented and that they were afforded the best possible care available for their recoveries. Castillo's situation had been touch and go for thirty-six hours, but as of this morning, ICU doctors had upgraded her condition from critical to serious. Sayar remained in serious but stable condition and was expected to make a full recovery. The hospital staff seemed reluctant to give a long-term prognosis for Castillo, who had suffered multiple gunshot wounds. The hesitance tempered Haddad's optimism about her status upgrade.

He glanced at his watch. One hour remained until he would check on them again and close up shop at the hospital. He had a queen-sized bed at the nearby Sheraton hotel calling his name. After spending the past three years in training with Sanderson's Middle East group, he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to spend some quality time with one of the Sheraton's Sweet Sleeper beds. Now that both of his friends were out of immediate danger, Sanderson had suggested that he get some rest. He wasn't about to argue with the general's assessment.

Haddad noticed a group of three men wearing suits approach from the west corridor, walking purposefully toward the waiting room lobby. Their presence immediately raised his internal alarm. A more hurried group of men emptied into the northern hallway, just beyond a set of double doors, and turned in his direction. He recognized two of the men walking briskly toward him from the west wing as FBI special agents that had previously visited the hospital. He started to weigh his options carefully, not that he had many. When the first agent pushed through the swinging double doors holding an MP-5 submachine gun, he decided against anything drastic. He reached onto the small table to the right of his chair and pushed his Starbucks coffee out of the way to retrieve his Blackberry phone. He thumbed several buttons and replaced the phone, picking up his coffee.

He took a long drink of his thick, extra-shot cappuccino. He had a feeling he wouldn't be drinking good coffee again for a while. He placed the cup on the table and read the return text message before all hell broke loose.

"Rcvd."

Chapter 50

Daniel Petrovich had just turned their Jeep Grand Cherokee onto Terminal Road from Interstate 81 when his phone illuminated the minivan's center console.

"Can you see who that is?" he asked Munoz.

Munoz grabbed the phone and examined the screen. "Sanderson," he said and answered the call.

Daniel listened to the terse exchange.

"Understood. We'll be standing by," Munoz said, ending the call. "Get us back on the highway. We might be compromised."

Daniel scanned the upcoming street signs and saw that they would have the opportunity to turn off Terminal Road directly onto a northbound ramp.

"Compromised by whom?"

"The feds. Sanderson doesn't have all of the details yet, but the rules have changed in a big way. Something happened."

Daniel turned the SUV onto the northbound ramp and accelerated to match the sparse interstate traffic.

"Is this related to Atlanta?" Daniel asked.

"He's not sure. All he knows is that one of our operatives at the Brooklyn Center Hospital transmitted the federal arrest code, and he can't get through to his liaison at the National Counterterrorism Center. The cyber team tapped into NCTC called him at 8:17 to report that they had been dropped from the system. He's trying to reach some of his other contacts within D.C. Nobody's picking up."

"This isn't good. What's our exposure here?" Daniel said.

"Minimal. Fayed and Paracha are ghosts. Everything they arranged is sanitized. This car. The house. The FBI can trace us to this airport, but no further than that."

"I thought Sanderson and this guy Sharpe had agreed on this under the table?" Daniel said.

"They did. Maybe the director discovered the collaboration and pulled the plug on Sharpe. Any of a dozen things could have gone wrong, leaving us exposed."

"We have to assume the FBI knows that we're headed to Honesdale. Sharpe has no reason to keep that a secret if he's been relieved or incarcerated. For all we know, Sharpe fucked us over and the president is planning a full-scale invasion of the city. All I know is that we're not going anywhere near that airport, and we're sure as shit not setting foot in Honesdale until this is resolved."

"I'm not going to argue with that logic. There's a Walmart right outside of Scranton that should be open twenty-four hours. We can pick up new phones there," Munoz said.

"God bless Walmart."

Daniel's phone illuminated a few minutes into their drive north. He snatched it from Munoz.

"What the fuck went wrong?"

"One of these True America lunatics somehow gained access to the NCTC Operations Center and detonated a suicide vest," Sanderson said. "Pretty much wiped out the entire task force. A secondary bomb destroyed the servers. The FBI thinks Callie Stewart helped the bomber."

"Who the fuck is Callie Stewart?"

"She was my liaison to Sharpe's task force. They somehow have it in their heads that she was involved. The director of the FBI is on a rampage. He ordered the arrest of our operatives at the hospital. The very men and women that risked their lives for the task force. We need to be careful. Warrants have been issued for all of us, and we're back on the terrorist watch lists."

"Jesus. How many were killed in the blast?"

"At least twenty, with up to fifty additional casualties," Sanderson said.

"How do you want us to proceed? I don't mean to sound grim, but if the task force is history, then nobody knows we're here. We should be clear to make a move against Mills."

"You never disappoint me, Daniel. Practical to a fault. I concur with your assessment. Take whatever measures are necessary to stop True America. I'll arrange to have your weapons and equipment delivered to a location of your choosing. I'm serious about this, Daniel. Do whatever it takes to drag these psychotic traitors down. No rules of engagement on this one," Sanderson said.

"I've never had much use for rules," Daniel replied.

"That's why I recruited you. Let me know when you've selected a location for the transfer. And get new phones. There's a twenty-four-hour Walmart in Scranton."

"Am I the only asshole that doesn't know about this Walmart?" Daniel said, throwing the phone in Munoz's lap.

"So, we're still a go?" Munoz asked.

"Yep. We just need to find a secure place to receive the gear."

"Walmart parking lot?"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Daniel said.

Chapter 51

"This isn't funny, Karl."

Darryl Jackson gripped the handle next to the Lear jet's exit hatch and stared out at the line of unlit private hangars less than fifty yards away. The tarmac was dark, and their aircraft had sat conspicuously in the middle of it for the last thirty minutes.

"I understand your frustration, but there's been a development."

"There's always a development when you're involved. What kind of fucking development are we talking about here? They were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago!"

"Darryl, they can't risk coming to the airport. I can't get into it right—"

"And I won't get off this muthafuckin' airplane, carrying my guns, until your ass starts explaining some shit!" Darryl Jackson said, sounding more and more like Samuel Jackson by the second.

"NCTC was hit by a suicide bomb," Karl said.

"What are you talking about? How does this keep these assholes from coming to the airport?"

"The FBI thinks Sanderson's people were involved."

"I'm out of here. No fucking way I'm turning over this gear to a bunch of fugitives."

"Darryl, please listen to me. The task force was wiped out by the blast. They lost everything and pretty much everyone. The backup servers were hit by a secondary explosion. True America crippled their efforts with this attack. The timing can't be a coincidence. True America shut them down like this for a reason."

"Then why doesn't the FBI take care of this?"

"Only a small group of agents within the task force knew about this covert operation. It's strictly off the books. Nobody else knows that Sanderson's people are in Pennsylvania. There's little chance that the FBI is watching the airport, but this mission is too important to take that risk. At least three of the operatives assigned to the mission traveled under their real identities."

"Are you fucking kidding me? The FBI could be all over this airport. How long could it take for them to track them here?"

"Sanderson's people were arrested in Brooklyn at 8:47. The nearest field office is Philadelphia. All they have in Scranton is a resident agency stuffed into the post office building. It'll take them a little while to move the necessary pieces from Philly to Scranton. I can have you back in the air within thirty minutes if you'd quit arguing with me."

"If I'm arrested, Cheryl will hunt your ass down. No place on earth will be safe for you."

"If you're arrested, I'll gladly present myself to her for mercy," Berg said.

"You're better off running because there will be no mercy. You'd better hope this works out. She just agreed to have you over for dinner," Jackson said.

"Then you better be careful out there. There's more at stake here than I imagined. Is everything ready to roll on your end?"

"Yes. Three large duffel bags filled with goodies waiting to be transferred."

"Perfect. I've arranged for a car service to pick you up on Hangar Road, right behind the hangars. I'm looking at the airport on Google Maps. The first hangar in the long row is a white structure. There's a parking lot between that hangar and the next. The car will meet you on the road at the end of that parking lot."

"You're going to make me carry this shit?"

"Are you ever going to stop complaining?"

"Just make sure the plane is here when I return. This thing better be taking me right to Princeton," Jackson said.

"What about your car back in Fredericksburg?"

"Princeton. I expect a car to be waiting for me."

"Anything for you. Thanks, Darryl. Seriously."

"No problem. Just do what you can to keep me out of jail," Jackson said.

"I'll do my best. You're a little too soft for hard time."

Darryl leaned out of the hatch and surveyed the hangars, looking for the parking lot Berg had referenced. He could barely identify it in the darkness that swallowed the private section of the airport. The absence of lighting might work in his favor, especially since the airport's tower was visible from the hatch. The fewer witnesses to this transfer, the better.

Chapter 52

The president leaned across his desk and nearly screamed at Frederick Shelby.

"You exceeded your authority, and you know it!"

"Mr. President, Sanderson's liaison to the task force helped the suicide bomber. This has been confirmed by the video feed and the testimony of an air force major. Special Agent Frank Mendoza stopped the attack, and Callie Stewart stepped in to make sure the bomb detonated. I was opposed to bringing Sanderson's people into this on any level. The details of his involvement in Europe and Russia are sketchy at best and unverified. I suspect that he's been playing us all along."

"I don't care if the video shows Sanderson himself lighting the damn fuse. You were well aware of the special circumstances surrounding our relationship with Sanderson. We still have a Black Hawk helicopter sitting in front of his goddamn compound! You don't go around me on things like that!"

Frederick Shelby considered the president's words and the tone in which they were delivered. He was clearly more concerned about the possibility of a scandal than the lives of the agents and counterterrorism professionals lost in the terrorist bombing. He knew that the president wasn't a callous, unfeeling man. He'd seen evidence to the contrary on numerous occasions. Still, Shelby had to remind himself that the president was a politician, and politics relied on reputation and image more than actually doing the right thing, or anything, for that matter.

The director didn't have that option. He had to produce quantifiable results in a timely manner or find another job. He looked up at the president and chose his words carefully. The president was more than just a simple politician. He had beat out every other politician for the grand prize. Shelby had to be cautious here. He was talking to a first-term president, who faced an uphill battle for reelection. A little contrition would go a long way right now.

"I have to apologize, Mr. President. The heinous act clouded my judgment. I lost thirteen agents in that blast, and there's a good chance that a few more might not survive the night. The investigation has been torpedoed, and I want to kill the son-of-a-bitch responsible. I didn't intend to put you in an untenable situation."

"I'm sorry to hear about your agents. I know you assigned the most talented agents to that task force. The results achieved so far reflect this. This is a heinous act, Frederick, and I've assured General Sanderson that if I find him to be responsible, we will sever all ties with him."

"You've spoken with him?"

"He contacted my chief of staff within an hour of the bombing, demanding to know why his agents had been arrested in Brooklyn. We didn't have an answer for him. When we finally figured out what you had done, I called him personally. I didn't apologize or make excuses. I told him we had reason to believe one of his people was involved and that his unconditional pardon didn't cover him beyond the day of the failed helicopter raid. Surprisingly, he agreed and said that he understood our actions. He disavowed any involvement with True America," the president said.

"Of course he did."

"He never made a threat or suggest that he would renege on our deal. I didn't get the impression that he was lying."

"He's a slippery character, Mr. President. I wouldn't trust anything he says. I have video evidence and a witness from the blast site that put Callie Stewart's hands on the detonator. This is a difficult fact to ignore."

"I don't intend to ignore it, but for now we need to move the investigation forward. We can build a stronger case against Sanderson along the way. Where do we stand?"

"In a pile of rubble, mostly. Our headquarters' technical division is collecting data from the mobile computers and the Newark field office. The NCTC team processed and analyzed field data collected. This information was stored in the NCTC servers. They formed conclusions and shaped the investigation with this data and parsed it back out to the mobile teams as requested. Unfortunately, it was a fairly compartmentalized operation. Most of the data was lost in the blast, along with the agents who could explain any new leads or theories in development."

"Nobody survived?" The president shook his head with a look of sorrow.

"Ryan Sharpe, the task force leader survived, but he's severely injured and remains unconscious. He was partly inside his office when the bomb detonated and got lucky. Only one of the other agents survived, but she's in worse shape than Sharpe. Video shows Special Agent Eric Hesterman purposely shielding Special Agent Dana O'Reilly from the blast. She was spared any lethal fragmentation, but suffered from massive internal injuries due to the pressure effects of the bomb. Hesterman was nearly vaporized."

The president swallowed hard and exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry…I can see why you put the hammer down on Sanderson. Can any of the surviving NCTC analysts help?"

"Special Agent Kathryn Moriarty is on her way back to D.C. with a dozen agents. She'll direct all efforts to rebuild the task force from the ground up. That will be one of her first priorities. Most of the analytical work was done by the FBI, but there was considerable collaboration with permanent NCTC personnel. We can piece the investigation back together, but it will take time," Shelby said.

"Time is running out. Do we have any more active field operations planned?"

"No. We're still collecting evidence from Hacker Valley and the Fort Meade site. I do have something to suggest, but it falls under the Sanderson category," Shelby said.

"As long as it doesn't involve another raid in Argentina, I'm open to suggestions."

Shelby wasn't sure if that was meant as a zinger or it was just the president's way of saying that Sanderson himself was off limits. Either way, he didn't appreciate the comment.

"At least three, but possibly four of Sanderson's operatives landed at the Wilkes Barre/Scranton International Airport early this evening. Both of the Petroviches and Jeffrey Munoz are confirmed to have arrived, along with an unidentified Hispanic man," Shelby said.

Jacob Remy interjected for the first time during the meeting. "They were directly involved in Sanderson's 2005 fiasco regarding the Black Flag program files."

"I remember the names now. That seems like an odd place for Sanderson's inner core to surface," the president said.

"I agree, which is why I'd like to deploy a significantly large investigative team to figure out why they chose Pennsylvania for their corporate getaway."

"How significant?" Remy asked.

"I'd deploy every agent on the east coast if I could, but given the circumstances, I'll settle for Task Force Scorpion's mobile team. Forty agents. Tactical and investigative. I'd be happy to take whatever assets the Philadelphia field office could spare," Shelby said.

"You mean they're not already en route?" the president said.

"The task force or agents from Philadelphia?" Shelby asked.

"I figured as much. Get whatever you need up to Scranton. I want to know what they are doing up there. I don't want things to get messy with Sanderson, but if he's responsible for the bombing or in any way connected to True America's plot…he's a dead man."

Chapter 53

Daniel Petrovich sat in the front passenger seat of the Jeep Grand Cherokee, tensing for the next pothole in the road. Munoz seemed unable to avoid them. They had driven along these roads for the past forty minutes, each turn depositing them onto a smaller, less comfortable stretch of isolated, tree-covered dirt road. Fortunately, they were moving along slowly to accommodate the Ford Transit van following them.

The windowless white van carried the electronic warfare team, which had already proven themselves to be invaluable. Graves and Gupta, two wisecracking cyber geniuses, had swept through Honesdale Construction's unsophisticated computer network and found payments linked to the five million dollars Benjamin Young had shifted to the company's account. The company had multiple projects, both small and large, ongoing and scheduled around the time of the deposit, so they went to work digging. Most of the projects appeared to be legitimate and included several town-awarded contracts along with a dozen or more commercial business expansions.

One project drew their attention, simply because it lacked a physical location. The other projects listed either an address or town grid lot number, but this one lacked any geographic reference. A little more electronic snooping uncovered a list of drivers used for the project, which is how Harry Welsh ended up sitting crammed between Jessica and Melendez in the back seat. Welsh, age thirty-two, had worked as a heavy vehicle driver at Honesdale Construction for nearly six years. He'd listed his mother as next of kin on the company's record sheet, and his recorded address in Pittston put him nearly eighty miles from his mother's address in Middletown, New York. They assumed he was unmarried, which suited their purposes. The last thing they needed when they knocked on his door at 6:00 AM, posing as FBI agents, was a headstrong wife demanding to verify their identities with children crying in the background.

Karl Berg had provided them with six sets of forged credentials matched to Sanderson's operatives, complete with badges and picture identification. Daniel had never really seen an FBI identification case up close, but these looked real and felt authentic. If anyone had questions, they would be happy to pass along accompanying business cards with the Philadelphia field office number, which would be answered by someone in the inconspicuous white van that followed them from a distance.

Harry Welsh had answered the door red eyed and disheveled, clearly woken out of a severe Sunday morning hangover. He barely examined their credentials and didn't seem fazed by their outfits. Daniel and Munoz had purchased several black nylon jackets at Walmart to lend some uniform credibility to their group appearance and to conceal their pistols. It worked with Welsh, though Daniel was convinced that the man was seeing double. As he swayed in the doorway, they thought about leaving him alone and moving on to the next driver, but Welsh insisted he could get them to the site, and Daniel didn't feel like wasting any more time.

According to Welsh, he'd made over a hundred trips out there, sometimes at night, and could drive it blindfolded. Several wrong turns later, Daniel was about to dump him on the side of the road when he finally spotted the dirt road off Route 590. Based on the numerous, recent tire tracks on the seemingly obscure, unmarked road, Daniel decided to give him a little more time. When he started calling out turns well in advance, they felt more confident that the man had found his way.

"How much further?" Munoz said.

"About another quarter mile. It's a pretty big place, you know," Welsh said, followed by a deep, guttural burp. "Sorry about that. The road is fucking with my stomach."

Daniel turned his head and met Jessica's glare. She didn't look happy to be seated next to Homer Simpson. Welsh's gaseous discharge refreshed the stale beer smell that had persisted in the SUV since he was stuffed into the back seat. Their short trip on the interstate had provided them with enough air turbulence to clear the stench, but they had no such luxury moving along at ten miles per hour on these roads. Daniel's handheld radio crackled and Graves' voice filled the van.

"We're picking up some faint wireless signals to the north. We should proceed on foot from here," he said, and Daniel acknowledged.

Munoz slowed the van in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in both directions. The Ford Transit stopped twenty feet behind them, depositing Fayed and Paracha.

"What kind of fence can we expect?" Daniel asked Welsh.

"I just hauled construction material up here. They didn't have a fence at that point."

"You think it's a quarter mile? Does this road run straight north?"

"Straight as an arrow," Welsh said.

"All right. Let's gear up," he said, and they all stepped into the damp Poconos air.

The operatives met between the two vans.

"Do the two of you mind keeping an eye on Mr. Welsh? We'll head about fifty meters into the forest and turn north toward the site," he said to Fayed and Paracha.

"No problem. We'll make sure nobody gets in or out. Our guys in the van are trying to access the security system. They're pretty sure we're dealing with cameras. High bandwidth wireless output," Fayed said.

"No motion detectors?" Munoz said.

"Not as far as our guys could tell. There might be a hardwired system close to the structure, but these are the only signals so far. I think we should move up another two hundred meters to be sure."

"We'll unload here and set out, while you reposition," Daniel said.

Munoz tossed the vehicle keys to Paracha, who snatched them out of the air.

"Mr. Welsh, Agents Paracha and Fayed will keep you company until we return. We should have you home in an hour or so. This is probably just a wild goose chase, but you never know. You'll be safe here," Daniel said.

He turned and walked to the Cherokee's rear lift gate, raising it to expose two black nylon duffel bags. He pulled out dark green load-bearing vests (LBV) for the four operatives that would approach the compound. The vests had been loaded with thirty-round magazines for the Mark 18 Mod 0 rifles each of them would carry. The Mark 18 was a modified M-4 carbine, fitted with a more compact 10.3-inch barrel, which was better suited for close quarters battle. These preselected versions had been equipped with EOTech holographic sights. Welsh nearly stumbled off the road when Daniel started to distribute the rifles.

"Fuckin' A, man. What are you expecting in there? Osama Bin Laden?" he said, clearly amused with his own comment.

Worse, Daniel thought. Aloud, he said, "Never hurts to be prepared."

Melendez reached into the same duffel bag and removed a thick suppressor, attaching it to the barrel of his rifle. He had already removed the EOTech sight, preferring to trust the iron sights for any long-range shots that might need to be taken. He would be their designated sharpshooter during the compound breach. All of them removed their black jackets and donned hunter camouflage-patterned hoodies and ball caps, also compliments of Walmart. Once they had tightened the LBVs over the camouflage hoodies, they all adjusted their earpieces and conducted a communications check. Everyone would be on the same channel for the raid, including the electronics team. Satisfied that they were ready, Daniel assembled them on the side of the road.

"Melendez, I want you on point. Pick a spot roughly fifty meters out and head due north. The rest of us will follow twenty meters back. Line abreast formation. Jess on the right, Munoz on the left. I got the middle. When we reach the fence, if there is one, we'll breach together. Sound good?"

Everyone nodded, and Melendez removed a small handheld GPS unit, which he quickly configured as a compass. Moments later, their scout disappeared into the thick forest.

"We look like hillbillies. I can't believe our friend hasn't figured it out yet," Jessica whispered.

"He's still about seven Pabst Blue Ribbons away from sober. We could have shown up in clown suits. We're just lucky he found this place," Daniel said.

"You get to ride with him on the way back."

"Thanks," he said.

They pushed their way through the persistent ground cover to catch up with Melendez.

The approach to the compound proved difficult. Stubborn, newly grown underbrush obscured their vision, nearly eliminating any clear line of sight beyond twenty or thirty feet. Upon repositioning the vehicles, Graves was able to fix the locations of four wireless signals, none of which were located in the team's path. Graves felt confident that the signals belonged to four wireless cameras located along the road. He still couldn't discount the possibility of a fence-linked motion detection system. At this point, security for the compound appeared to consist of four separate wireless feeds, which weren't tied to a central system. There was little Graves could do to help them without a computer network to manipulate. If the fence was hardwired into a standalone security alarm, they could expect immediate resistance.

Forty minutes into their patrol, Melendez reached a point where he could observe the fence. They all moved into a tight formation around Melendez and surveyed what they could see of the grounds. Daniel could see a tall chain-link fence topped with a single coil of concertina wire. It was difficult to tell from his angle, but it looked like the fence backed right up against the forest. Large branches appeared to rest on the concertina wire in a few places, flattening the coils. This basic observation convinced him that the fence was neither electrified, nor rigged with motion detection equipment. The constantly moving branches would have shorted the fence and driven security personnel insane with false alarms.

"Looks like about fifty meters of open ground," he said.

"Maybe a little less. I don't see any cameras mounted to the building, but I'd need to get closer to verify. Too many blind spots from here," Melendez said.

"All right. Let's move up to the fence and observe for a few minutes. Keep low."

The small group slithered through the brush on the forest floor to a point along the fence. Now Daniel could see everything. Devoid of windows, the building's frontage spanned over one hundred feet. Two black Suburbans, parked side by side, faced a closed loading bay at the far eastern end of the building. Daniel couldn't see a gate from his angle, but he could discern a well-worn driveway leading away from the loading bay. A single, closed metal door was located to the right of the loading bay, made accessible by a short concrete slab stairway. The building's walls were constructed of featureless, gray cinderblocks, holding up what appeared to be a flat, metal roof. He could discern no pitch whatsoever to the roof, which struck him as unusual given the vast size of the one-story building. If the interior craftsmanship resembled anything close to the lackluster exterior appearance, Honesdale Construction owed Mr. Mills about four million dollars.

"I don't see any cameras," Munoz said.

"Neither do I," Jessica said.

"I think we should move down the fence until we can see the western side of the building. If it's clear, Melendez will provide cover while we move to the corner. Melendez follows when we reach the building. We'll then move along the exterior to the back," Daniel said.

He passed the plan over his radio to Fayed, while Melendez and Jessica cut the fence with powerful, short-handled tin snips. Once the fence was opened, Daniel slipped through and sprinted for the corner of the building, followed closely by Jessica and Munoz. Daniel moved a few feet down the western side of the building, keeping his rifle's red holographic sight trained along the structure. He heard Jessica and Munoz pile into position behind him, followed by Munoz's voice in his earpiece. Melendez joined them a few seconds later and moved swiftly in front of Daniel, continuing his job as the team's point man.

Melendez extended his arm and held an open palm to Daniel as they approached the northeast corner of the building. At the sight of Melendez's hand, the rest of them stopped and crouched. He watched the young sniper approach the corner carefully, removing his camouflage baseball cap before taking a quick look along the northern wall. By Daniel's rough estimation, the side they had just traversed matched the front of the building in terms of length. The only difference between the two sides had been the complete absence of any openings on the eastern facade. They had just slid silently along a blank cinder-block slate.

Daniel removed his own cap and tossed it to the ground, waiting for Melendez's assessment. Their point man backed up against the wall and crouched. He pointed to his own eyes with his index and middle fingers ("I see"), then held his hand up showing three fingers, keeping his ring finger down along with his thumb ("seven"). The next hand signal indicated they were "enemy," accomplished by a simple thumbs-down. Finally, he stretched his arm upward and formed a pistol shape with his index finger and thumb, representing "rifles." Seven men armed with rifles. Not something you'd expect to find in the middle of the Poconos on a Sunday afternoon. He recalled Melendez.

"What are they doing?" he whispered.

"Digging. I see several bodies nearby. All of the weapons were slung around their backs. I did see a few with just pistols. No body armor. Everyone's dressed casually."

Jessica leaned in to hear what they were saying, while Munoz kept his rifle pointed at the front corner.

"Who were they burying?" Jessica asked.

"I saw a few lab coats stained bright red. The others looked like the gunmen. Looks like a cleanup job," Melendez said.

"Yeah. Tying up more loose ends. I need to get a look at the situation," Daniel said.

Daniel switched places with Melendez and crawled to the corner, easing his head toward the edge. As his view expanded, the stretch of ground between the northern fence line and the rear of the building took on a disturbing familiarity to another time and place. A different life. Men smoking cigarettes, their instruments of murder tossed casually over their shoulders. Nervous laughter. Nobody quite sure who might end up in the ground. In that other time and place, men like these rarely did the digging. That was reserved for the desperate victims that had somehow convinced themselves they were digging a hole for someone else. He watched the men in front of him carefully.

Only five of the men sank shovels into the soft ground near the fence. The other two stood behind them, conversing and laughing. He counted five AR-15-type rifles equipped with optics slung over the diggers' backs. The two "supervisors" carried pistols in tactical thigh rigs. Melendez had missed the fact that one of them carried an MP9 submachine gun on his left side. Admittedly, it was hidden from view. Daniel burned the image in his mind and returned to their tight group pressed against the cinderblock.

"Burial party. The five men armed with rifles are occupied with digging. Unfortunately, they're more or less facing this direction. The other two have their backs turned. One with a pistol. The other with a pistol…and an MP9. You're slipping, Rico," he said, patting Melendez on the back.

"The usual plan?" Munoz whispered, never looking away from the far corner.

"In this case, I don't think we can afford to improvise," Daniel said.

"Do you mind sharing with the rest of us?" Jessica said.

"I forgot that you ditched most of these classes. We bag two of them. Highest ranking and lowest ranking. The rest are targeted for rapid termination. The leader knows the most, but is willing to say the least. The follower knows the least, but is willing to say the most. The two usually hate each other. We play them off each other," Daniel said.

"What if they all go for their guns?" Melendez said.

"Then we have ourselves a good old-fashioned shootout. Gunfight at the OK Corral," Daniel said.

"I'm your huckleberry," Munoz said.

"See? He does have a sense of humor, Rico," Jessica said.

"I never said you didn't have a sense of humor," Melendez insisted.

Munoz turned and grinned. "Let's just get this over with."

"Rico and Jessica shoot from the corner. You and I will sprint along the back wall, focused on the two men with pistols. We'll hit the guy with the MP9 and try to force the other guy to surrender. The two of you will tear into the digging crew. We'll be yelling for them to drop their weapons as we move. If you see hands raised skyward, keep them covered until we swing into place behind the group. Less than seventy-five feet to targets. Good to go?" Daniel said.

"Sounds easy enough. We'll pop two of them and see what happens," Melendez said, nodding at Jessica.

Daniel and Munoz stacked up on the corner. As soon as they disappeared, Jessica and Melendez would take their place and start to engage targets. He edged up to the corner and took a quick peek, exposing less than an inch of his head to allow his right eye to verify that the scene looked the same. Nothing had changed, so he nodded. Less than a second later, he felt a solid squeeze on his right shoulder, indicating that the team was ready. He checked the M4's safety one more time out of habit and spun around the corner, sprinting along the wall. He wanted to get as far as possible before anyone noticed.

Michael Brooks stood facing his security crew as they slid their shovels into the ground. He hadn't decided if they would be buried in the same holes. It really all depended on how much space remained in each hole when they finished piling the bodies into the ground. Brooks really didn't feel like digging. He had a busy day scheduled and didn't need the delay. Plus, they might come in handy at the distribution center. Anne Renee said they could use some more help, especially given the compressed timeline. He swatted at a fly that buzzed by his head. He really hoped this group would finish their work within the next few minutes. The flies were already swarming around the pile of bodies littering the ground behind his men. He hated flies.

Jason Carnes, whose corpse formed part of the tangle, had never seen it coming. Even when Brooks' men corralled the laboratory group out of the back door for "instructions," he had ignored the dubious looks from his own people and even went so far as to make excuses for the few lab technicians that had already vanished. Two of the techs had tried to escape in one of the delivery trucks early this morning. Their absence was discovered a few minutes before one of the early morning convoys departed for the distribution center, and the trucks were searched. They were found jammed between crates, cowering in fear. They had every reason to be afraid. Their bodies were hidden outside of the gate, until it was time to "sanitize" the facility.

The last convoy of delivery trucks carrying crates of freshly packaged bottled water to the distribution center had left the compound around 8:00 AM. Carnes' lab crew spent the next hour shutting down the packaging equipment and sterilizing laboratory equipment. Brooks started to sense that the techs were stalling, hoping that the security detail would leave. He decided to expedite his last remaining task at the facility by directing everyone outside to receive instructions for their follow-up assignment to the distribution facility.

Twenty-three men and women filed out of the door and milled around, waiting for him to speak. His assistant, Jason Ryband, stood next to him and started to shoot into the group without warning, catching Brooks by surprise. Brooks had been waiting for his security detail to walk out of the back door and form a hasty line abreast. Instead, Brooks drew his own pistol in a desperate measure to keep Carnes' people from reaching him. His security team heard the shooting and ran through the door, firing at the runners or anyone not huddled into a group that served no purpose other than to absorb bullets. It lasted less than twenty seconds. The digging followed, after a few distrustful glances from the security team. Brooks watched the shovels carefully, noticing that the men were not straining to move the dirt. Frankly, he was surprised they agreed to dig at all. He started to open his mouth to address this discrepancy, when one of them suddenly grabbed his rifle and tried to swing it around.

The movement startled Brooks, causing him to scramble for the pistol in his thigh holster. A fucking mutiny was underway. Before he could get his hand on the pistol, the security guard's head snapped back. The hiss and snap of passing bullets filled his ears, followed by thunderous explosions that drowned out every sound around him. He removed his hand from the pistol and glanced over his shoulder. His assistant lay face up on the ground, wheezing and rasping through a hole torn in his throat. When he turned back around, only one of his men remained standing. The others twitched or lay motionless on the grass. He didn't dare look for the source of the gunfire. Instead, he raised his hands slowly above his head, nodding at his last guard to do the same.

Daniel jogged over to the presumed leader of the group, keeping his rifle trained at the man's head. Through his peripheral vision, he could see the rest of his team moving toward the second surviving guard. They had a leader and a follower. Not bad for three seconds of work. Munoz announced that he would clear the doorway and make sure they didn't have any surprise visitors from inside the building.

"Clear and restrain," Daniel said.

Jessica sprinted over and yanked the leader's pistol from his thigh holster and tossed it into one of the shallow graves. She patted him down for any other weapons, removing a small folding knife from his back pocket. She stepped over to the second gunman and cut his rifle sling with the knife, letting his rifle fall to the ground. Aside from the K-Bar knife attached to his belt, she didn't find anything concealed. She tossed the knife to the ground and proceeded to zip tie their hands behind their backs.

"Over here." Daniel motioned to the two prisoners.

The two men hadn't said a word since the ambush, which surprised Daniel. These two might be harder to crack than he expected. Normally, someone was demanding answers or exhibiting some kind of useless bravado. These two were either scared out of their minds, or they were cool customers. He'd soon find out. The two begrudgingly moved to where he had pointed his rifle, roughly ten feet behind where Daniel currently stood. He wanted them to have a nice view of the festivities.

"Pay close attention," Daniel growled, as they walked past him.

Daniel walked up to the man who had been armed with the MP-9 submachine gun. A wet rasping sound passed through the hole in his throat, which bubbled and overflowed with blood. His eyes looked ghastly, even to Daniel. He held his M4 CQB rifle in one hand and placed the barrel in the man's mouth.

"Can you tell me what's going on around here? What's the purpose of this facility? Were the virus canisters stored here? I'm sorry, I can't hear what you're saying," Daniel said, addressing the mortally wounded man sprawled out on the ground.

"Who's he talking to?" the leader said, finally breaking their code of silence.

Daniel pulled the trigger, firing a single 5.56mm M885 projectile through the back of the man's skull into the ground.

"What the fuck! Oh, Jesus Christ!" the follower yelled.

Daniel turned to the two of them. "I have absolutely no use for anyone that can't…or won't answer my questions."

He walked over to the last remaining guard who appeared alive. He kicked the man in the side of his ribcage, where he had suffered from a messy exit wound. The 5.56mm projectile had a nasty habit of tumbling around inside the human body, bouncing off bone and finding its own unique pathway out. He could see three entry wounds in the center of the man's chest, which put this particular exit nearly ninety degrees off the original trajectory. The man emitted a guttural, animal-sounding moan in response to the kick.

"I can't imagine this guy answering any questions." Daniel kneeled down and picked up the discarded K-Bar knife, raising it high before slamming it through the man's neck.

"Fuck this!" the follower screamed, struggling to break free of Jessica's hold on his collar.

"This is psychotic. Who the fuck are you?" the leader said.

Daniel rushed up and placed the sticky blade under his chin. "But executing twenty people and rolling them into a shallow grave is perfectly normal? You've been hitting the Greely-Harding Kool-Aid a little heavy," he said and shifted over to the follower, grabbing him by his hair.

"Do you really think this fucker was going to let you leave this place alive? I've seen people dig their own graves before. Once they figure it out, they start to shovel half loads in an attempt to put off the inevitable. I've been watching you dig for a while now. How long does it take to dig a fucking hole?"

"He's full of shit, Douglass. Nobody was planning to shoot you," the leader said.

Daniel released his hair. "I wonder what he told them," Daniel said, pointing to the fly-encrusted pile of bodies with his bloody K-Bar knife. "So, here's the deal. I'm going to take a little tour of your facility. When I'm done, I'll be back with lots of questions. You don't want to be the first person to stop answering my questions."

General Terrence Sanderson answered his phone immediately.

"Daniel, I presume everything is moving along smoothly up there?"

"Not by any measure. I think you need to call the president and have them converge on the distribution hubs. From what I can tell, they're bottling up the virus and transporting it nationwide. We caught the last of the security crew here tying up loose ends, Milosevic style."

"Have they confirmed this? What are the targets?"

"We've been working over the two that we captured. They confirmed that thousands of bottles were transported from this site to one of the distribution hubs over the course of the last twelve hours. They both claim to have no knowledge of what went on inside the industrial-grade laboratory we found in this place. This site resembles a miniaturized, standalone version of a bottled water plant. They have at least three thousand square feet dedicated to assembly and packaging. Now I know where most of Benjamin Young's money was spent," Daniel said.

"The bottles were poisoned? I didn't think this was possible. The virus wouldn't survive suspended in the water for very long. Are you sure this was their plan?" Sanderson questioned.

"I'm not seeing any other conclusion to be drawn. We found the original virus canisters shipped from Europe. They sure as hell did something to the bottles that left this facility. Whatever they're planning for those bottles, I guarantee it won't be random. They've carefully crafted the events leading up to this sudden demand for bottled water. You need to convince the president to shut this whole fucking town down," Daniel said.

"That won't work. First of all, I'm back on the shit list. They won't believe a word I say, especially with Director Shelby whispering in their ears. Secondly, the bottles might already be on the way to their intended targets. Unless someone confesses on-site, the FBI has no way to force this information out of them. This water will disappear into the population as soon as it hits the shelves. Give me specific targets, and I'll try to call the president."

"The president could go on national television and tell the American people not to drink Crystal Source water! How hard can this be?"

"He'll only do that if he believes me. You know how this works. If I call him up right now, rambling about poisoned bottled water linked to a bottled water company, I'm going to have a problem with credibility. Especially when I try to explain how we obtained the information. Anyone that could prove we were working in good faith on behalf of the FBI task force is either dead or unconscious. Right now, we are once again enemies of the state. Get over to the distribution hub and unfuck this situation. Please."

The line went silent for a few moments.

"All right. We'll close up shop around here and try to figure out which hub they're using. Things sound a little tense down there, General," Petrovich said.

"We're leaving the compound. Headed to more populated areas east of here. I'm not taking any chances."

"It wasn't a bad run while it lasted," Daniel said.

"A minor setback. I'm nowhere close to finished," Sanderson said.

"There's no place for someone like you or me in the system they've created. They'll congratulate you with one hand and put a gun to your head with the other."

"Don't lose the faith, Daniel. We're their last line of defense. It's worth the trouble. Can I count on you to see this through to the end?"

"Have I ever disappointed you, General?"

"Just once I wish you'd quit answering my questions with another question. Is that too much to ask?" Sanderson said.

"Yes."

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Not really."

"Get me some targeted information, and I'll make the call."

"We're on it," Daniel said.

Sanderson disconnected the call and walked up a short path to meet with his operations officer. Standing on the covered porch of the headquarters lodge, Parker looked disturbed.

"What's wrong?" Sanderson asked.

"I just lost all satellite connectivity. They're shutting us down," Parker said.

"Can they do that without Argentine cooperation?"

Parker shook his head.

"Shit. What's the impact to our organization?"

"We're temporarily cut off from our EW teams in the States. We'll probably lose our sat-phones next. We need to get out of here immediately and reestablish our entire communications network. We've been transmitting from a fixed position known to the U.S. government for at least a week, which has given them plenty of time to sniff around our system. I've been careful with our data management. All of our U.S. feeds were one way, which is impossible for them to intercept. I scrubbed the return data in case they had somehow managed to piggyback the satellite we were using. Our network hacks are still intact. The team in McLean has full access to FBI headquarters."

"Issue backup SATCOM to each vehicle and clear out. I'll meet up with you in Neuquén," Sanderson said.

"We'll be ready to roll in fifteen minutes. I guess we should be thankful for the cloud cover," Parker said.

"Let's hope it's cloudy all the way to Neuquén. Start working on a plan to take us to the coast. Neuquén's bound to shrink really fast if the Argentine government gets involved. Senior Galenden told me he had to back off this for a while. We're more or less on our own."

"We'll be fine. We have the best team possible on the job up north," Parker assured him.

Sanderson pondered the ex-SEAL's statement. Daniel's sense of duty was confused. He had long ago ceased buying U.S. patriotism wholesale. His dedication to Jessica overshadowed all of his motivations, which was why Sanderson always framed their conversations around what was best for their future together. It wasn't a disingenuous tactic. Daniel could smell his bullshit for miles, so there was no point in trying to psychologically sway him. Framing it for their benefit allowed him to continue conversations that Daniel would normally dismiss.

He thought about Daniel's tone near the end of their most recent phone conversation. Petrovich resorted to humor when he was undecided. He also tended to quickly agree with Sanderson when he had no intention of following instructions. Daniel remained an enigma to this very day, which gave Sanderson no comfort. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to control the situation. If Daniel walked off the mission with Jessica, he still had four extremely capable operatives to continue the mission. He didn't want to think about it. He had enough to worry about on his end.

Daniel walked over to the two men sitting side by side on the laboratory floor. They were both tightly cuffed to a large, stainless steel workstation, using two pairs of metal handcuffs found in Brooks' desk.

"Good news. You're free to go," he said.

Douglass Kemp expressed a look of relief, which was not shared by Michael Brooks, head of security.

"Not really," Daniel added, instantly deflating the man.

Douglass had been quick to identify Brooks' position after a few minutes of impromptu waterboarding on one of the lab tables. He'd been unable to identify the destination of the convoys leaving this site, but he'd professed that the delivery trucks were filled with crates of water processed in the assembly line next door. He'd also confirmed that the trucks were unmarked and had run nonstop since three or four in the afternoon yesterday. They had pressed him about potential targets, but it was evident that he knew little beyond what he had seen firsthand at the site or had learned from his equally uninformed fellow security guards. He had no solid concept of True America's greater plot for the next few weeks, only that he'd go down in the history books as part of the New Recovery.

Daniel told him that he might make medical history. This comment managed to raise Brooks' eyebrows, which gave Daniel some hope that he might not have to resort to cutting them open. Brooks had shown considerable resilience against waterboarding, leaving them with little choice. They didn't have all day to identify and exploit his psychological weaknesses, though Daniel had an idea. If it didn't work, he'd turn this over to Aleem Fayed and Tariq Paracha. Sanderson had assured Daniel that the two of them would produce results.

"Here's where we stand. Douglass has nothing more to tell, and Michael plans to hold out as long as he can. Michael knows he'll eventually tell us everything, but he's clinging to the notion of loyalty and honor. I can appreciate that, but I assure you that these notions will be crushed just as quickly as your testicles. Just one of a hundred painful, non-lethal examples of the misery you'll endure for your masters. The end result is always the same," he said, walking over to Fayed and Paracha.

"I'll turn you over to my friends here, and your screams will fill this building for hours, eventually replaced with the begging and the sobbing. But here's the twist — they're going to be really careful this time. I want you to survive, Michael. I want you to sit here on this floor for the next week or two with your new best friend. Thirsty, Douglass?"

Daniel took a bottle of Crystal Source water sitting on the table above them and stepped back, slowly twisting open the cap in front of them. He brought the bottle to the trembling man's lips and paused when Michael Brooks yelled, "Don't drink that, Doug! Who knows what they did to it?"

"That's true, Doug. Maybe we should take one out of a fresh crate. Fresh water please!" Daniel said.

Melendez stepped into the room carrying the shrink-wrapped case and slammed it down in front of the two men. Daniel ripped open the plastic on one of the sides and started digging through to one of the bottles in the middle. He pulled one out and opened it, holding it out toward Douglass.

"Now here's a fresh one. Found the crate sitting inside the loading bay. Probably left behind for the security guys. Nothing like a clean bottle of Crystal Source after a long day of digging graves. Right, Michael?"

"Don't do it, Doug. They could have poisoned all of the bottles," Brooks said.

"You think we poisoned all of the bottles and then somehow packaged them up to look like they came from the Crystal Source bottling factory? That sounds like an insane conspiracy, Michael. Right? You better get used to this stuff. It's all we're leaving behind for you. Go ahead, Douglass."

He held it closer to the man's lips.

"Douglass, listen to me. They're fucking crazy. We're dead no matter what."

Daniel removed the bottle of water and poured it over Michael's head. He watched the man blow out of his nose and press his eyes and mouth shut until the water ran its course.

"Wow. Did you see that, Doug? He almost had a panic attack."

Daniel dried his head with a towel handed to him by Paracha. He waited until Brooks opened his eyes again, then opened another bottle and put it up to Kemp's lips. The man closed his eyes and mouth, twisting his body and turning his head away from the bottle.

"Damn. Now Doug doesn't want the water. Too bad he already drank a ton of it."

Melendez reentered the room, carrying a transparent plastic bag filled with at least ten empty bottles. He kicked the half-empty case of water along the floor through the doorway.

"We used these bottles to waterboard Mr. Kemp. Don't worry, Mikey. We used the tap water on you."

Kemp looked despondent and utterly confused. Brooks looked horrified.

"Do you want to tell him what's going to happen, or should I? This may come as a complete shock to you, Mikey, but I led a CIA-sanctioned special operations team into Russia a few weeks ago. I saw what happens firsthand in Monchegorsk. You have no concept of what your organization just unleashed on this country…but you'll get to experience it firsthand, chained to this table. It's going to be a long week for you, Michael. Watching Doug and waiting."

"What is he talking about, Mr. Brooks?"

Michael Brooks stayed silent.

"Mr. Brooks?"

Brooks stared off into space. A quick slap from Daniel brought him back into the conversation.

"Doug, the water you swallowed and took into your lungs was infected with a weaponized form of viral encephalitis. A demented scientist from Russia's premier virology lab designed this particular strain to maximize the amount of damage inflicted on the brain's temporal lobe. At first, you'll start to experience typical flu-like symptoms. Weakness, chills, cough, congestion…the usual stuff. A few days later…"

Daniel shook his head slowly back and forth.

"What?" Kemp said.

"The hallmark symptoms of this virus are rage, aggression, violence, murderous impulses. At least that's what I saw in most of the infected population. The destruction of the temporal lobe results in irreversible brain damage and permanent regression to these savage instincts. Mr. Brooks had every reason to keep you from drinking that water. You're chained to the table next to him. He doesn't want to wake up in a few days to find you gnawing on his head."

Douglass Kemp tried to distance himself from Brooks, but Daniel had attached their handcuffs to the table less than a foot apart. No matter how hard the two of them tried, they would always be within biting distance.

"History in the making, Doug! You'll be the first to experience the start of True America's New Recovery plan. Turning American citizens into rabid zombies."

"They sent this into the population?" Kemp yelled at Brooks.

Brooks glared at Daniel, shaking his head.

"Thousands of bottles are headed to one of the distribution plants. I need to know which one. Right now, my plan is to free one of Doug's hands, leave the two of you several jugs of tap water, and never return. What are your thoughts about that course of action, Michael? Do you think Doug will put the jug to your lips and let you drink? Or will he bash your skull against the table out of principle? Maybe he won't be able to kill you in cold blood. He'll help you drink, still hopeful that someone might be coming, which they won't be. Then, one day within the next week or so, he'll bite your face off and spit it out in your lap."

"You'll let us go if I tell you?" Brooks said.

"No. I'll drop Mr. Kemp off in town, where he'll seek medical treatment. High-dose, intravenous acyclovir should kill the virus. We'll let him know when he can come back out here to get you or send someone else. Mr. Kemp's choice. If he attempts to warn anyone before that, we'll bring his three children here to the laboratory and cuff them to this little stretch of table with Daddy and Uncle Mike. Thanks to your excellent record-keeping, we know where his ex-wife lives. You won't fuck with us, will you, Mr. Kemp?"

"No, sir. I won't say a word. I'll go about my business like this never happened. Why would you have my ex-wife's address in a file?"

"Leverage, Doug. That's what security people do. They collect information to use against you," Daniel said.

Brooks shook his head and said, "Don't listen to him, Doug. He's clearly insane. How long will I have to wait?"

Daniel looked at his watch. "If you stop wasting my time, I'll be done within a few hours. The rest will be up to Doug. He doesn't look happy."

Brooks looked around at everyone. Doug refused to meet his eyes. He stared at Daniel for several seconds and glanced away before he started talking.

Chapter 54

Frederick Shelby knocked on the hospital room door and entered. Special Agent Ryan Sharpe sat upright in a sturdy hospital bed, staring out the window. His right cheek was bandaged with a thick gauze pad stretched in several directions by surgical tape. A similar bandage covered his forehead. Beyond that, Shelby could see that his left arm was in a thick cast, supported by a stainless-steel bracket mounted to the top of his bed frame. His leg lay in an unsupported cast above the blankets at the foot of the bed. He turned his head and forced a thin smile at the sight of the director.

"You're looking a little better than last night. Still look like crap, but at least you're awake," Shelby said, taking a seat under the raised television. "I'm really sorry to hear about Frank. He was one of our best agents. I struggled to decide who should run that task force."

Sharpe smiled a little more, which was a good sign. Sharpe had contacted him as soon as he regained consciousness this morning. Shelby didn't want to descend upon him like a vulture, but they were having an impossible time trying to piece the investigation back together without the help of key task force personnel. O'Reilly was still unconscious, having been shielded by Hesterman, who was killed instantly. Digital playback clearly showed the two hundred and twenty-five pound ex-linebacker from Michigan intentionally hovering over O'Reilly less than a second before the bomb detonated. Mendoza was gone, along with most of the FBI agents sitting near O'Reilly. From what Sharpe had told him a few days ago, O'Reilly had arranged the workstations so that the more important agents sat close by. Nobody within twenty feet of her survived.

"You probably made the wrong choice. He pretty much ran it anyway. I need to talk to you about something," Sharpe said.

"Don't go and try to blame this on yourself in any way. This was a coordinated attack by True America, with a little help from General Sanderson. There was nothing you could do to stop it."

"Sanderson had nothing to do with the attack. I can assure you of that."

"I watched that Stewart traitor rush over and finish the job. Mendoza had stopped the attack. She set off the bomb. One of the survivors confirmed this," Shelby said.

"That's not what happened. I clearly remember Stewart yelling something about a dead man's switch. She held onto that detonator for a few seconds, while Mendoza lowered his gun—"

"She was just buying time. I saw the tape. She yelled something at him, which made him lower his gun. Probably threatened to blow the place up. As soon as he lowered the pistol, she blew the place sky high."

"No. Another agent shot her. She lost control of the detonator," Sharpe said.

"She set it off, Ryan. Sanderson's people got to one of the security guards earlier in the day. He let the bomber through the checkpoint. He described how a highly professional and brutal group snatched him off the street and kidnapped his family. They threatened to kill his wife and children. Sound familiar? This has Sanderson written all over it. I've already arrested his people in Brooklyn. We're looking for the rest."

"There is absolutely no way that Stewart or Sanderson had anything to do with that bomb. I've been working behind the scenes with them for two days, trying to catch up with True America. Nearly all of the information we've obtained has been hand delivered to us by his operatives."

Shelby thought Sharpe's sentence hadn't made a lot of sense. It had sounded like he just claimed to be working with Sanderson. "I'm sorry. I didn't fully understand what you just said."

Sharpe spent the next ten minutes explaining everything that had happened since the Brooklyn raid, up through the successful rescue of Benjamin Young. Shelby stood up and paced the room for a few minutes, while neither of them spoke a word. He couldn't believe what he had just heard, but oddly enough, it all made sense. If any other agent had told him that story, he would have arrested them on the spot, but Sharpe was different. He had spent the last two years searching for Sanderson and had every reason to distrust him. He couldn't dismiss Sharpe's assessment.

"Where did you leave things with Sanderson?"

"He'd sent one of his teams north to investigate a possible lead," Sharpe said.

"He didn't happen to send them to Scranton, did he?"

"How did you know that?"

"Because Jessica and Daniel Petrovich boarded a plane to Wilkes Barre/Scranton International Airport yesterday afternoon. I've already redeployed the mobile task force to Scranton. Guess who was on that same flight?"

Sharpe shook his head.

"Jeffrey Munoz. If Sanderson sent these three to Scranton, we're talking about more than just a reconnaissance mission," Shelby said.

"What are you going to do?"

"About what?"

"About Scranton."

"Wait and see. It sounds like this might be under control," Shelby said.

"And me?"

"There's an upcoming retirement at the executive level in the National Security Branch. Associate executive assistant director. If things don't completely go to shit in the next few days, I'd like to offer you that position."

Sharpe squinted and lightly shook his head.

"I have a reputation for doing things by the book, Ryan, but if you closely examine my career, you'll see a subtle pattern emerge. My greatest successes have always been surrounded by unproven accusations of irregular procedure. Sometimes you have to bend the rules to get things done around here. I keep an eye out for agents that have the salt to walk that line. Let's hope Sanderson comes through for you. If this blows up in my face, I can't bring you along for that ride."

"I understand. Thank you for the kind words regarding Frank."

Shelby nodded and took in a deep breath. "Have you heard from Sanderson since last night?"

"No. I tried the number he provided, but it didn't go through," Sharpe said.

"Let me know if you hear from him. I don't want the task force to interfere with his efforts," Shelby said.

"I'll let you know if I get through."

Shelby turned and walked out of the room. He was infuriated with Sharpe, but had long ago learned to channel his anger in a constructive direction. Offering him a promotion seemed like the only logical decision. The nation's security depended on his ability to find and promote agents like this Sharpe. Most agents were afraid of their own shadows and spent more time analyzing the political ramifications of their decisions than actually making them. He hated being kept in the dark, but couldn't blame Sharpe for withholding this secret. He had every reason to believe Shelby would relieve him on the spot and have him arrested for treason.

Instead of heading home for a few hours, he decided to head back to the situation room. He needed to be in place when Sanderson's people started putting their skills to work in Pennsylvania. He also couldn't wait to break the bad news to the president. From what Sharpe and his team had determined, the terrorist plot had been sponsored and planned by a splinter cell within True America, without any connection to the mainstream political action group. He wouldn't play any part in the president's plan to dismantle True America, unless they could establish an evidence-based connection. From what he could tell, a connection didn't exist. He loved stirring up controversy.

Chapter 55

Daniel Petrovich leaned across the Jeep Grand Cherokee's center console and presented his FBI credentials to the gray-haired, uniformed guard at the passenger vehicle gate. The weathered man's light blue eyes widened at the sight of his badge. He leaned closer to the driver's window and peered into the back seat. Melendez and Jessica held up their own credentials, which seemed to satisfy the guard. Daniel smiled from the front passenger seat. Before either of them could speak, five massive Crystal Source semi-trailers trucks passed through the commercial gate on the other side of the glass-enclosed guardhouse, headed for Route Six. He wondered if the trucks carried any of the virus-laced water. He waited for the last truck to pass before speaking.

"I'm Special Agent Harris with the Philadelphia field office. I need to speak with the distribution center manager, Bob Wilkins, immediately. Al Qaeda extremists have made a specific threat against this facility. Is his office nearby?"

"Holy cow! He's right in that building there. See that door on the far left? His secretary sits in there. She's not in today, but pretty much everyone else is. Do I need to close the gate once you're through?"

"No. You're fine for now. We have agents watching the roads, but I really need to talk to Mr. Wilkins about specific personnel employed at the facility. Keep this to yourself for now. Mr. Wilkins will notify the security manager about the new procedures to be implemented. Personally, I'd like to see a few more guards at this gate."

"I've been saying that for years! Jesus. This is some scary shit. We have several Arab guys working here!"

"Damn right it's scary. Our mission is to make sure that important sites like this remain in operation. Keep up the good work. We'll get you those reinforcements," Daniel said.

"Let me get the gate! Park anywhere in that lot," he said and pointed at a building across the road, surrounded by a full parking lot. The guard ducked back into the security shack and activated the gate. Munoz started to drive the Cherokee away.

"One of them works in the same building!" the guard yelled.

"One of who?" Daniel said.

"One of those Arabs!"

Daniel gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the passenger window, visible over the top of the SUV. Munoz guided them into the parking lot, looking for an empty space. The security guard wasn't kidding about everyone being in today, which didn't surprise him. This might be the busiest day in Crystal Source's history. Daniel and the rest of the team hadn't seen a bottle of water in stock since they arrived in Scranton. As reported by news agencies, the price of most brands had nearly doubled in the past day, leading to accusations of price gouging. Daniel wondered what the American public would think about the fact that the owner of a major regional bottled water company had a direct hand in creating this frenzy.

"Good thing we left our two resident Al Qaeda lookalikes in the van," Daniel said.

The van was parked a few hundred meters down the road, tucked behind a shuttered business. Graves and Gupta would monitor local and state police channels, having already decrypted all of the P25 digital radio protocols in use within the greater Honesdale area. Disturbingly, they had picked up radio traffic indicating a significant FBI presence in Scranton. Daniel had considered sending the van west to collect data directly from the FBI, but they all agreed that the van would serve them better in a direct support role. If the situation inside the distribution center deteriorated, Fayed and Paracha might have to take control of the gate while Graves and Gupta tried to confuse responding police units.

Daniel glanced beyond the parking lot at the massive industrial buildings lining the street. The amount of activity inside the sprawling complex on a Sunday didn't surprise him given the national panic for bottled water. He had to give True America some credit for this insidiously clever plan. They had managed to prevent millions of Americans from drinking publicly sourced water and drive them right into their open arms. Another convoy of trucks passed the parking lot, headed for the open road. Two convoys in less than three minutes. Crystal Source had three distribution centers located within Honesdale city limits. The sheer volume of bottled water heading out into the population was impressive. He was willing to bet that Owen Mills had been well prepared to take advantage of this sudden windfall. Why not make a little money before you jumpstart the New Recovery?

They had considered the option of tracking down Mills first. He lived in a sprawling lakeside estate south of Honesdale. It was a tempting diversion that they couldn't afford. They had wasted enough time with Michael Brooks at the laboratory. He admitted that True America had manipulated events to drive up bottled water sales, but claimed to know nothing beyond that. It didn't matter as long as he provided them with the right distribution center. He had been willing to spend some time with Brooks to acquire this information.

Their fake FBI agent trick was unlikely to work on more than one site. If their first choice had been the wrong one, it would have taken them forever to figure it out. By then, the word would have spread to the other facilities, turning the next visit into a risky venture on several levels. Even worse, a simple phone call to the Philadelphia field office could unravel their deception with devastating results. From what Graves and Gupta gathered over state police frequencies, over fifty FBI agents had taken up residence in Scranton, including a large tactical team contingency. Brooks' information would prove to be invaluable, if the man hadn't lied. They'd soon find out.

"Jessica and I will deal with Bob Wilkins. If I get the sense that he's involved in the plot, I'm dragging him out of the office. Be ready to secure him in the back seat. I don't have a plan for this one. From what Brooks and Kemp told us, unmarked delivery vehicles have been moving in and out of this facility all night. If Wilkins isn't in on this, I can't imagine this hasn't raised some serious eyebrows in his office. He'll be able to lead us straight to the source. Keep an eye out for any interested parties. If True America is running their endgame out of this facility, they'll have eyes everywhere."

Melendez reached over the back of his seat into the rear cargo compartment and pulled out a compact polymer-constructed P90 submachine gun and handed it forward to Munoz. Designed by Fabrique Nationale, the P90 represented a revolutionary shift in the design of compact, powerful assault weapons. Weighing less than seven pounds fully loaded, the weapon's length measured just less than twenty inches. Modular in design, utilizing a unique, proprietary top-mounted magazine feed system, the P90 could be handled unhindered in the tight confines of a vehicle or building. An integrated Ring Sight system provided quick acquisition, day or night, for Fabrique National's high-velocity, armor-piercing 5.7X28mm ammunition. Melendez pulled three more P90s from the rear, along with a smaller nylon bag containing two dozen 50-round magazines for the submachine guns and suppressors.

Jessica and Daniel exited the vehicle and stood on the driver side for a minute.

"You know what to look for. If he tries to sound any kind of alarm, I need you to put that knife into action. Scare some sense into him, but keep him alive," Daniel said.

"What's your plan?" Jessica asked.

"I'm going to lay it all on him. We'll know by his reaction."

"I'll be ready."

He stared at her, taking his mind out of its mission-focused, system-processing mode for a second. He had no idea what they would face inside Bob Wilkins' office and beyond, but he could guarantee that the closer they came to the source, the more dangerous this would become. He didn't want her here. Bullets didn't show favoritism. They flew fast and straight until they hit something. Even the most unskilled, panicky shooter got lucky on occasion. Combat was all about the odds to Daniel. If you showed up, there was always a chance it could be your last appearance. There were always precautions you could take to improve your chances, but you could never fully eliminate the odds against you. The only guaranteed way to beat the odds was to avoid showing up altogether. They didn't have that option.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Jessica said, smiling.

"Be careful in there," he replied.

She flashed the black Tungsten carbide-coated blade hidden along her left wrist and raised an eyebrow. He nodded at his colleagues in the SUV and walked toward the building, glancing around casually. He didn't see anything obviously out of place, but then again, he didn't expect to see someone leaning against the side of the building smoking cigarettes and pretending to read a newspaper.

They stepped inside the building and saw the empty desk that presumably belonged to the absent receptionist. Jessica minimized the amount of noise the door made by easing it closed. The greeting room contained a green vinyl couch centered on a low coffee table, which was flanked by two similarly appointed chairs. A few particleboard bookcases lined the walls, filled with technical manuals and a few random paperback books and topped with haphazardly spaced, framed award certificates. Beyond the receptionist's simple faux mahogany desk, he could see two low, cream-colored file cabinets. A thick CRT monitor sat on the corner of the desk, next to a stainless-steel swing-arm desk lamp. Altogether, it looked like the lamp and computer monitor had been the only additions made to the reception area within the last two decades.

They waited a few seconds to see if anyone would respond before walking toward the open doorway leading deeper into the building. He could hear voices from the hallway and telephones ringing. As they approached the door, a thin, balding man with wisps of white hair clinging stubbornly to the sides of his mottled skin appeared in the opening. He wore a pressed pair of basic khaki pants and a white, short-sleeved button-down shirt with a light blue tie. A faded brown stain stood out prominently on the left breast pocket of his shirt.

"Thanks for coming by, but all sales appointments are going through corporate headquarters over at the Park Street facility. I can give you the number, but I don't know if you'll have much luck with a walk-in order today. I'm pretty sure they're all booked up, as you can imagine. You drive up from Philly?" the man said.

"We have an appointment with Bob Wilkins," Daniel said.

The man's friendly demeanor faded as he folded his arms. "I'm Bob Wilkins, and I don't appreciate sales reps who try to play games. Who are you two with?" he said, raising his eyebrows and crinkling his expansive forehead.

"Bob, can we talk privately?" Daniel asked.

Daniel held out his FBI credentials, while Jessica put herself in a position to reach through the door and grab him if necessary. Wilkins noticed her quick repositioning, his attention now torn between Jessica's close proximity and the badge.

"It has to do with the unusual vehicle traffic here at the White Mills facility, which started last night around five and has run pretty much nonstop since then," Daniel explained.

Bob Wilkins moved further into the room and closed the door behind him. "It's better if we have a seat and pretend you're from the Villanova University concessions. I'm not sure what's going on around here right now."

They all took seats around the coffee table.

"Is this serious?" Wilkins asked.

"Extremely. What have you noticed beyond the vehicle traffic?" Daniel said.

"Look, I've been a loyal employee here for thirty-three years. Maybe I should talk with a lawyer first, or at least have one present."

"Why? Are you directly involved in something that might require legal representation?" Jessica asked.

"No, not at all. But I run this facility, and I'm responsible for everything that goes on here," Wilkins protested.

"You're not under investigation, Mr. Wilkins, and we don't have time for lawyers. I have a tactical team waiting outside, ready to move within minutes," Daniel said.

"What? What are you talking about?" he said, trying to look past Jessica through the front door.

"We know for a fact that a terrorist cell is operating somewhere in your distribution center. All I need you to do is show us where."

"I don't know anything about a terrorist cell. How would I know where they are located?"

"They're using your facility and your vehicles to mass distribute biological weapons. I think you have a pretty good idea where we might find them," Daniel said.

"D-5. Son-of-a-bitch," Wilkins whispered.

"What does that mean? D-5?" Jessica asked.

"D-5 is one of the most isolated loading bay complexes. Mr. Mills shut this one down after the demand for water skyrocketed. Said he would be using it for special customer deliveries."

"Did he give any specific information about the deliveries?" Jessica said.

"Nothing, and I didn't ask questions. I'm too close to retirement to rock the boat. I figured he was sending shipments to preferred customers or private ones. It's his company. He can do whatever he wants. I just didn't appreciate the impact it had on my operations. He's taken over twenty of my drivers out of the rotation, plus several trucks…not to mention an entire bay complex. Then he cuts me completely out of it and puts some woman I've never heard of in charge out there. Anne Renee or something like that. I told him I'd be happy to run the show, but he didn't want to hear it."

"The woman isn't someone from Crystal Source?"

"I have no idea. Never seen her before at any of the management meetings or retreats. Every time I go over there to talk to her about coordinating gate traffic, I'm told she's busy."

"Have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary?"

"Yeah. None of the trucks are from Crystal Source. I saw a few Dasani rigs. You can't miss those. Arrowhead and Aquafina rigs too. I have no idea why these trucks would be at our facility."

Daniel looked at Jessica and shook his head. "So much for narrowing this down," he said ruefully. He turned back to Wilkins. "Mr. Wilkins, I need you to take us to D-5."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. They have a lookout or something posted outside. It's a long way from D-4 to D-5. Nothing in between. I never get past the guy outside."

"We'll take care of that. Do you have any idea how many people they have inside?" Jessica asked.

"I've never been inside, but they'd need at least a dozen to keep up the pace of trucks leaving the complex. Forklift operators and drivers to deliver the pallets of water. Aside from some of the drivers, the rest of the personnel were supplied by Anne Renee or Mills himself," Wilkins said.

Daniel thought about something he had said earlier. "Are the Crystal Source trucks equipped with GPS? Can you track them?"

"Absolutely. We track the entire fleet from one of the rooms down the hallway. All of the routes are preplanned. If a driver has to vary due to road closures or an accident, they call it in and we reprogram their route. It's pretty high tech. I have a bunch of smart people running that. Each distribution center tracks its own shipments," Wilkins said.

"I'm willing to bet they've been disabled, but it's worth a shot," Daniel said.

"You want to try and locate those trucks? I know which ones they are," Wilkins said.

"Not yet. Let's take a look at D-5 first."

Five minutes later, Wilkins, Jessica and Daniel drove off in Wilkins' Ford Taurus sedan, with the Jeep Grand Cherokee trailing a short distance back. Daniel crouched low behind the back of the front passenger seat, cradling a suppressed P90. The plan was simple. Jessica would accompany Wilkins into the building, with the hope of identifying Anne Renee. Jessica would grab the woman, and Daniel would take down the lookout. Melendez and Munoz would then drive to the back of the loading bay to prepare for a two-pronged assault. Every attempt to take prisoners would be made where practical. They needed information regarding any of the trucks that had left the loading bay since yesterday evening.

Anne Renee Paulson's radio chirped.

"Now what?" she said in front of the two security guards stationed just inside the first bay.

The guy outside was starting to drive her crazy, and she was one false report away from replacing him with one of the less jumpy men watching the bays. The operation had gone off without a hitch. The unusual arrangement had drawn some attention and protest from the facility manager, but Owen Mills had squashed that pretty quickly. Aside from a few impotent visits by that aging idiot Wilkins, nobody had bothered them. She had one more convoy to deploy, and then they would close up shop and disappear. Unlike the laboratory, there would be no need for a "clean up." She was the only person in the warehouse that had any true concept of what they were loading onto the convoys, and even she had no idea where they were headed.

Mills had given her six locked metal containers, numbered one through six. She had been instructed to hand the appropriately labeled box to the lead driver right before departure. The driver would open the box, in front of Anne Renee, with a key personally provided by Owen Mills at some point yesterday. Mills had handpicked the lead driver for each convoy over a year ago and sent them through extensive training courses at the Hacker Valley compound. They were experienced semi-truck drivers, holding current operating licenses for the rigs they would drive, and they understood the importance of ensuring the delivery of their precious cargo. The rest of the drivers came from Crystal Source and had no idea what they were transporting.

Anne Renee discovered that each box contained a handheld GPS receiver, which she presumed to be preprogrammed, an Iridium satellite phone with charger, and a sealed folder. Each driver activated the equipment and verified that it functioned correctly. She assumed that they would call a phone number for further details regarding their delivery. She had no idea what the folder might contain. Possibly the paperwork for the final transfer of the bottled water? Contracts and delivery agreements? She didn't care. Her job was to get all six convoys on the road without incident. Her radio echoed the voice of Sean Thompson.

"Ms. Paulson, Wilkins is here again, and he brought some woman with him. Says it's really important that he speaks with you."

"I don't have time to talk with Mr. Wilkins. I'll stop by his office when we are finished with Mr. Mills' business. Let him know that," she said.

"All right."

There was an awkward, silent pause, as she shook her head and waited to hear that Wilkins and his guest were leaving. She stood with her back to the door leading into the front office guarded by Thompson, staring at the bustling facility. Two forklifts moved back and forth from the furthest bay, transporting crates to the bays accommodating the back of each trailer. They had almost loaded most of the final convoy — four semi-trailers filled with crates of Crystal Source water. Another hour of work and they would all drive out of the White Mills distribution center and go their separate ways. Anne Renee was supposed to meet Brown later to receive instructions for the next phase of the New Recovery plan. According to Lee Harding and Jackson Greely, she would play an important role. She had no idea if she would see any of these people again or what the next phase entailed.

"Ma'am," came the guard's voice again, "Wilkins says the woman is the Distribution Center's Operations Manager. There's something wrong with one of the trucks we dispatched earlier. He's pretty pissed off."

She shook her head and cursed before transmitting. "All right. Let them into the office. I'll meet them inside," she said and pocketed the radio. She looked at both of the security guards. "There's too much at stake here to take any risks. If they won't leave immediately, be ready to kill them where they stand. No mercy. Keep your pistols concealed for now."

Anne Renee opened the door just as Bob Wilkins and a strikingly attractive, well-poised woman walked through the entrance. The woman had an exotic quality, accentuated by her short brown hair and well-tanned skin. Like herself, this woman looked out of place in Honesdale, Pennsylvania, especially at an industrial site. Despite the fact that she had only stepped into the building once and had never met anyone beyond Wilkins, Anne Renee highly doubted that Bob's mystery guest worked in that shit hole of a building he called home. Her presence was a disturbing development, but one Anne Renee could rectify quickly. One hour. All she had to do was keep this place together for one more hour, regardless of how many bodies piled up in the front office.

Jessica couldn't hear what the guard was being told. His handheld radio was equipped with an earpiece. The guard didn't carry himself like any of the operatives they'd encountered in Atlanta and even looked slightly less competent than the security personnel at the laboratory. She started to wonder if Brooklyn and Atlanta had made a serious dent in True America’s supply of seasoned operatives. Then again, this guy was just a lookout. The real threats would be contained inside the building.

The bulky guard nodded his head a few times and responded to the voice in his earpiece.

"Go ahead. Ms. Paulson will meet you just inside," he informed them.

They walked up the gray wooden stairs onto a raised platform just outside of the entrance. The guard watched them carefully. When they reached the door, Jessica let Wilkins lead the way. He knew the building, and Ms. Paulson would be expecting to see him first. She didn't expect handshakes to be exchanged, so she shifted her knife from the left to right hand. She could fight with the knife in either hand, but heavily favored her right hand for throwing. She didn't expect Paulson to be alone.

As Wilkins stepped through the threshold of the door, Jessica heard a thump from her immediate left. She turned her head casually, hoping not to attract attention from anyone inside. The guard collapsed against the cinderblock wall and slid to the raised concrete platform, trailing a crimson streak. She caught movement out of her peripheral vision and knew that Daniel had opened the rear passenger car door. Wilkins had advised them to park to the left of the door, since it would be out of sight from inside the office. Everything was moving quickly. She turned forward and stepped into the dank office. She could tell by the musty smell that the office hadn't been used in years.

Just as she walked through the entry, a door in the left rear corner of the office opened, revealing a woman with blond hair worn in a modern-looking bob. She wore a gray fleece jacket over a white collared blouse, along with wheat brown slacks. She was immediately followed by two serious-looking gentlemen dressed in casual business attire and wearing unzipped, hip-level jackets.

She didn't like the odds. Daniel had her back, but a lot could go wrong in a few seconds. Hopefully, Bob Wilkins wouldn't panic and freeze. They had instructed him to drop to the floor if anyone flashed a gun. Wilkins didn't like the sound of this. He reiterated his earlier observation that he had expected to see more agents and continued to protest on the ride over. He was sharp enough to realize that they were going up against heavy odds.

"Who are you?" Paulson said, directing her glare at Jessica.

"Jessica Petrovich. Thank you for seeing us," she said, extending her left hand and willing her to take it.

Paulson regarded her for a moment and nodded to the two men on her left. "Do it."

Jessica didn't waste a fraction of a second trying to interpret her remark. She'd been prepared for the likelihood of a summary execution attempt and had already rehearsed her options. However, she hadn't anticipated the speed with which Paulson could draw her weapon. In the brief moment she had to initiate her plan, Jessica realized that the small space between them would get messy.

She reached behind her back as far as possible and snapped it forward, releasing the blade as she lurched for Paulson's hand. An overhand throw would have generated more momentum, but she didn't have time to raise her hand. As the knife penetrated the closest guard's throat, just above the Adam's apple, she swept Paulson's black semiautomatic pistol to the left and pivoted, grabbing the top of her shooting wrist with her right hand as it continued across from the knife throw. This briefly put her in a vulnerable position, with her back against Paulson.

Instead of fighting Jessica's grip, the woman kneed Jessica in the lower left back. The intensely sharp pain caused by the blow to her kidney forced Jessica to release her grip on Paulson's wrist. Desperate, Jessica launched herself backward into the woman, slamming her into the bookshelf along the wall. Jessica jabbed her elbow back sharply, catching Paulson in the throat and causing her to drop the pistol. Another elbow shot separated them, allowing Jessica to spin and face her. Expecting to defend another round of attacks, she squared her feet and raised her arms as her body turned; however, Paulson had decided to retreat. The woman threw herself backward, catapulting through the doorway leading into the loading bays, and screamed for help.

Daniel knew she would make her move quickly, so he hustled out of the car as soon as Melendez dropped the guard standing next to the door on the platform. He had timed the shot perfectly with Wilkins' entrance. The old man had been out of sight when the contents of the guard's head painted the wall. Wilkins was already nervous enough, and his actions could affect the outcome in that room. Daniel sprinted up the stairs and listened to the voice-activated feed sent from a microphone hidden inside Jessica's jacket collar to their earpieces. Once he heard Jessica's greeting, he mentally counted to two and opened the door. Jessica planned to grab Anne Renee if she took the handshake or pounce on her within a few seconds if she refused. Either way, his mission was the same: fire controlled bursts from the P90 into anyone except for Jessica or Anne Renee.

Tucked into the P90, he immediately assessed the situation and chose his targets. The closest guard had drawn his pistol, but was pretty far from pointing it in a useful direction. Primary threat. The second guard had raised both hands to his neck in response to Jessica's knife. Secondary threat. He didn't see any firearms involved in the melee between Jessica and Anne Renee. Under control. He placed the closest guard's head in the center of the P90's integrated Ring Sight and pulled the trigger back for a controlled burst. The P90's unusually high rate of fire sent six 5.7X28mm SS190 full metal-jacketed rounds into the man's head, which was overkill for this armor-piercing caliber. He shifted the sight to the other man and applied less pressure to the trigger, firing one round, which had the same effect. The P90 had a double trigger action, instead of a selector switch. Pulling the trigger back past a certain point activated its fully automatic action. By the time he had finished clearing the room, Jessica had disappeared through the open doorway leading deeper into the facility, chasing after their high-value target.

"Jessica's in pursuit. Move around the back," he said out loud, hoping that Munoz was already driving the Cherokee toward the loading bay side of the building.

Daniel didn't wait. He rushed through the room, pushing aside Bob Wilkins and leaping over the guard with the blade embedded in his neck. When he reached the doorway, he didn't burst through like his wife. He leaned inside, aiming the P90, and formed an image. The loading bay connected to the office contained several pallets of Crystal Source water bottles piled along the wall closest to the opening. A forklift driver, oblivious to the drama behind him, backed his yellow machine from the rear of the semi-trailer. He could see the far end of the loading bay complex through large openings at the back of each bay, designed to allow the forklifts to move from bay to bay with ease. Jessica was in the middle of the second bay, sprinting toward the next opening, ignoring everything but Anne Renee Paulson, who was wrestling an M4 rifle from one of her guards.

One of the men Jessica had passed on her way to the second bay drew a pistol and started to run in her direction. Daniel placed the man's upper torso at the top of the T-shaped reticle and pulled the trigger, firing a burst. He immediately switched to Anne Renee, who had grabbed the M4 and had swung its barrel in Jessica's direction. He didn't weigh his options with Jessica at risk. Jessica was in the open, with little hope of getting behind cover in time. He depressed the trigger, firing a short burst that mostly hit Anne Renee in the upper chest and neck. His next burst struck the guard next to her, who had barely recognized the threat to their facility before several armor-piercing bullets punctured his face and eliminated any future possibility of forming thoughts. The guard's body collapsed to the concrete floor next to Anne Renee, who had fallen to her knees with a confused look on her face. She wasn't dead, but it was clear that her body wasn't sending commands to her limbs. She had already released the rifle's pistol grip, dropping the M4 to the dull concrete.

Jessica reached the wall separating bays one and two, kneeling behind it. She glanced up at him and cursed. They had lost their high-value target, which could be a problem. The sound of yelling started to increase from the bays further down the long access corridor in front of Daniel. All along the back of the complex, members of True America started to realize that something was wrong. A woman peeked around the same corner hiding Jessica and fired some kind of submachine gun on full automatic at his position in the doorway. The bullets slammed into the doorframe and flew through the opening, puncturing the opposite wall and shredding an empty bookcase.

Daniel leaned in with the P90, just in time to see the woman's head disappear behind the wall. He signaled for Jessica to lie flat. Once she cleared the spot where he had calculated the shooter to be located, he depressed the trigger and held it back, perforating the wall above Jessica with the magazine's remaining rounds. At a rate of 900 rounds per minute, the fifty-round magazine could be expended within three seconds, with little loss of control. His weapon fired for roughly two seconds, each armor-piercing round passing easily through the cinderblock and showering Jessica with chunks of the powder-covered debris.

Through the soccer-ball-sized hole blown through the cinderblock, he saw a body lurch forward. A bloodied hand flopped into view past the corner. Before reloading, he drew his USP Compact and slid it to Jessica. He noticed that she didn't attempt to stand up. After what he had just done to the woman behind the wall, he didn't blame her. If the woman past Jessica had been using similar ammunition, Daniel would be lying on the floor bleeding from multiple holes. Her 9mm rounds severely damaged the cinderblock barrier in front of Daniel, but failed to penetrate with the needed velocity to do more than spray cinderblock pieces into his face. He suspected that the True America operatives were using hollow-point ammunition, which would mushroom upon impact and impart their energy over a wider area, further reducing their penetration power. Still, there were no guarantees in the world of projectile ballistics. He'd seen and caused his share of anomalies.

He replaced the P90's fifty-round magazine and sprinted across the bay to Jessica. Gunfire erupted when he left the doorway, but most of the fire was directed at his previous position. He heard the snap and hiss of several near misses, as less experienced shooters poured rounds behind him. By the time they decided to adjust their fire, he had already cleared the open area between bays. When he reached Jessica, she was lying prone, covering the three men who stood with their hands in the air near the forklift. A massive gunfight erupted deeper within the loading complex.

Melendez climbed back into the passenger seat of the Cherokee and slammed the door shut. He had just pulled off a headshot with a single, suppressed 5.7X28mm round, at a range of 42 meters using the P90's unmagnified Ring Sight. Given the fact that he had limited experience with the weapon, he was rightfully proud of the accomplishment. They had parked the SUV just out of sight around the next loading bay complex, in a position that allowed Melendez to open the door and brace the P90 against its outer edge. Munoz had parked the vehicle perfectly. The P90's reticle barely cleared the corner of the building, but gave him an unobstructed line of fire to the guard. Munoz had stood behind him to make the determination regarding Wilkins' position. A light tap on the shoulder indicated that Wilkins had entered the building and would not see the man's head splatter the wall. The 5.7 round performed as advertised.

The SUV lurched forward before the door closed, slamming Melendez against the headrest. Munoz drove across the wide expanse of crumbling asphalt that separated the two loading complexes. The large space between buildings was designed to accommodate the semi-trailers that would be navigated into position along the multiple loading bays behind the building. He drove diagonally across the asphalt, ignoring the faint markings indicating a proposed traffic flow. They needed to be in position at the corner of the building within seconds in order to effectively support Jessica and Daniel. Melendez could see the cab of the first semi-rig beyond the corner and hoped that the driver was inside the building. They had no idea how far the conspiracy penetrated, but they assumed the drivers would be heavily armed.

The car reached the corner, and Melendez piled out, following Munoz into position at the corner. They both heard Daniel give the order to move, followed seconds later by the thunder of automatic gunfire. They turned the corner and stared at the first trailer. He could see the next trailer through the space underneath. Their quickest route to the last bay would be underneath the trailers. The gunfire intensified inside the first bay as they approached the trailer. Melendez caught some movement in his left peripheral vision and shifted the P90 to meet the threat. A man jumped down from the driver's door with an MP-5K in his right hand, but collapsed to the asphalt in a heap. Melendez had fired an extended burst from the P90 at his center mass before sliding under the trailer behind Munoz.

Glancing up at the bays as they moved through the fleet of trailers, they could tell that it would be a tight fit squeezing through the openings between the trailer sides and loading dock. They ducked under the second to last trailer, coming up on the last bay. A quick movement to their left brought both P90s up to their shoulders. Neither of them fired at the bearded, pot-bellied Grizzly Adams lookalike standing with his hands in the air.

"Federal agents. How long have you been with True America?" Munoz said, flashing his badge.

"What? I've lived in America all my life. Look. I'm getting paid double for this haul. I don't ask questions, as long as they're just loading water in my rig. If Mr. Mills has paranoid friends that want to guard their water shipment, that ain't none of my business," the man said.

The sound of automatic gunfire and individual pistol shots rang out, slightly muffled by the thick rubber seal linking the back of the trailer to the bay.

"Could you move your rig up a few feet so we can get into the bay? We'll make sure our people know whose side you're on. Stay in your cab until we come back for you," Munoz requested.

"No problem. I got nothing to do with this shit." Grizzly Adams ran back to his cab faster than either of them thought possible.

The diesel rumbled to life and lurched forward a few feet. Munoz and Melendez climbed into the bay undetected and started to clear the complex.

Jessica couldn't believe how badly she had fucked up their one chance at grabbing Anne Renee Paulson. She had underestimated the woman on every level. The knee shot to her kidney had come a fraction of a second before she could throw her elbow, stunning her long enough to lose physical contact. Then she had recklessly chosen to pursue her through the doorway into the open bay area. She'd left Daniel with no choice but to kill her. She really hoped her decision didn't jeopardize their ability to track the shipments.

An incredible overpressure filled her ears, followed by repeated blasts, which caused her to press both of her palms against the sides of her head. Muzzle flashes extended beyond the wall in front of her, heating her face. Someone had just emptied an entire magazine on full automatic less than a foot from her face. The ringing in her ears continued when the gun fell silent. Daniel signaled for her to go prone, which she immediately acknowledged by diving to the cold concrete floor, facing away from the corner. She never heard the fusillade of bullets puncturing the wall where she once knelt, but she felt the jagged pieces of cinderblock pepper her back and strike her head.

A black semiautomatic pistol slid in front of her, which she grabbed without wasting the time to acknowledge her generous benefactor. She rose to one knee and aimed at the men near the back of the open trailer in bay one. None of them appeared to be armed. From the looks on their faces, they didn't appear to have any interest in weapons. Their hands flew skyward. A few seconds later, she saw Daniel burst through the doorway, headed in her direction. He reached her unscathed, despite the maelstrom of bullets that struck the bay wall behind him. She felt his comforting hand on her shoulder and could tell he was trying to tell her something.

She looked at him and shook her head. "I can't hear anything," she said, which came out at full volume.

Daniel nodded his head and pointed at the three men. She understood.

Daniel grimaced when Jessica yelled at him. The machine-gun blasts had induced a temporary hearing loss that could last most of the day, producing a ringing or buzzing sound that would gradually diminish. This could become a considerable liability for their team if they decided to raid Mills' lakeside mansion. Satisfied that Jessica had this group under control, he spun around and faced the corner, determined to draw this battle to a quick end.

He raised the suppressed P90 and peeked around the corner, drawing fire from a guard hidden behind a forklift parked two bays down. The small-caliber rounds struck the wall in front of Daniel, spraying his face with sharp fragments and causing him to flinch. The gunfire was relatively accurate for fully automatic bursts, but not accurate enough to suppress Daniel. He placed the shooter's head at the top of the Ring Sight's T-shaped reticle and pulled the trigger back far enough to fire a short burst of three rounds. The result was immediate, knocking the shooter back through the red cloud that had exploded from his head. He was starting to get the hang of this exotic weapon.

He detected movement to the left and aimed at a point two feet in, along the inner wall separating bays two and three. He'd seen something low profile peek around the corner. A quick peek from someone being cautious. He depressed the trigger again, holding it down for a second, sending roughly a dozen rounds through the cinderblock wall. A figure stumbled into the open past the corner, holding a standard Heckler and Koch MP-5 in one hand. Daniel couldn't see the entry wounds, but knew the man was finished. He let the man crumble to the concrete without taking further action to hasten his fall.

"Bay six clear. M and M clearing bay five," he heard in his earpiece.

From the far reaches of the loading complex, he saw two men take position along the furthest opening. They started cycling their weapons immediately through targets located in the furthest bays. Daniel couldn't hear their weapons from this distance, but he could tell they were actively clearing the bay. Specifically designed for the P90, the attached Gemtech suppressors reduced the sound produced by the weapon to the gun's own internal mechanism. Standing several feet away, it would sound like someone rapidly pulling the charging handle. At fifty feet, it would draw little attention from someone not attuned to the sound of suppressed firearms.

Determining that the opening directly in front of him was clear, he extended his torso around the corner, peering into the bay. Aside from several dozen pallets of bottled water set against the wall, the bay looked clear. He saw some movement deep inside the semi-trailer, behind a stack of secured pallets, but nobody fired at him from that direction. He motioned for them to come out of the trailer and waited.

"Bay five clear," he heard in his earpiece.

"Bay one clear. Clearing bay two. Watch inside the trailers. I found a few hiding," Daniel replied.

He saw M and M move cautiously through bay five. When they reached the opening to bay four, automatic gunfire thundered throughout the complex. The long bursts of fire concentrated on the corners hiding the two operatives. Dozens of projectiles tore the cinderblock barrier apart, cracking it in several places and exploding jagged pieces across the concrete floor. He was really glad they were using standard ammunition. The industrial-grade walls separating the bays continued to prove effective cover against 9mm projectiles.

The men in the trailer walked out with their hands on their heads. Daniel sprinted around the corner and approached them, keeping an eye on bay three. He didn't see anyone in the brief second he was exposed.

"Face against the wall, on your knees. Fingers interlaced."

He circled behind the men as they quickly moved against the wall. Once they were flush against the wall, he frisked them for weapons, finding a 9mm Beretta pistol on the first man. He tucked this into his belt and completed the search of the other two, yielding nothing but a stainless-steel multi-tool.

"True America?" Daniel said, slapping the first man's head.

The light-haired man nodded, and Daniel went to work with the oversized zip ties stuffed into his front jacket pockets. He secured the man's wrists and ankles, connecting the two zip ties together with a third, effectively hog-tying the man. He pulled the scruffy-looking guy to the concrete.

"What about the rest of you?" he hissed.

"I was offered overtime. Been working since last night. Same with Benny," he said, nodding at the other guy.

"Don't move from this spot or I'll kill you. Understood?"

The two men nodded.

"Bay four clear."

One more bay to go. Daniel arrived at the corner in time to see two men take up position behind a stack of empty pallets to fire on Munoz and Melendez. He fired extended bursts at both men, instantly dropping them to the ground behind the blood-sprayed wood. Each of the terrorists' upper torsos had absorbed roughly half of the P90's remaining twenty-eight rounds, which tumbled upon entry, fragmenting bone and jellifying their chest cavities. They were dead before their bodies started to fall.

Daniel detected movement to his left. Something moving fast. His world exploded a millisecond later.

Melendez hit the corner hard and dropped to a prone position. He didn't want a repeat of what happened in the last bay. He had been hammered by the repeated impact of cinderblock chunks, as the bullets pulverized the reinforced wall in front of him. The combination of stinging fragments and the prolonged sound of automatic gunfire caused him to instinctually crouch, knowing on some level that the wall wouldn't resist the 9mm onslaught much longer. He wasn't sure how many of the bullets had made it through, but a sizable hole remained when the guns fell silent. Large enough for him to use as a firing port to clear his side of the room.

He heard the mechanical sound of a suppressed P90. Two long bursts. He slid into a firing position at the corner of the wall and leaned his weapon in to take a quick look. Two men immediately filled his view, both carrying drum-fed shotguns. Melendez fired a quick center of mass burst at the man aiming the shotgun in his direction and retracted his head. The first shotgun blast disintegrated a 2x2-foot section three feet above his head. The rest of the 12-gauge 00 buckshot went high as the mortally wounded shooter lost the ability to control the shotgun. Still, he managed to fire the entire thirty-round drum, even as he fell backward. His efforts brought down half of the cinderblock onto Melendez and punched several dozen holes through the roof. Because of the devastating shotgun blasts and hailstorm of concrete, he assumed that both shooters had unloaded on his wall.

Jessica felt the vibrations and miniature shockwaves produced by the automatic fire deeper inside the loading complex. She could also hear a low thumping sound over the persistent buzzing and ringing. Her sudden deafness left her feeling exposed. She constantly looked around, painfully aware of the fact that she couldn't hear someone walk up to her. She glanced back and forth between the blasted cinderblock corner and the three men. They looked terrified of the gunfire.

"Stay right here," she said, knowing that she had probably yelled this at them.

Against her better judgment and training, she left the men alone and scrambled for the opening. She reached the corner in time to see the wall next to Daniel explode, knocking him backward. The explosions continued, vaporizing sections of the wall, but sparing Daniel any further concussive damage. He scurried backward along the floor, losing his grip on the P90, as a figure shouldering a Saiga shotgun attempted to round the corner. The man repeatedly discharged the shortened semiautomatic shotgun as he walked, emboldened by the sheer firepower at his disposal. He appeared oblivious to Jessica's sudden presence.

She lined up the HK USP Compact's three-dot sight on the man's head and fired a single shot that stopped the firing. The man stumbled forward, discharging the weapon into the concrete one last time, before falling onto the clumsy shotgun. Daniel lay on his back, fumbling with an unfamiliar Beretta, which he finally extended toward the fallen shooter. He stared at her in disbelief and winked, which was the extent of the acknowledgement she required for saving his ass. She smirked, shaking her head, and turned to deal with the men she had left unattended. Thankfully, they hadn't moved a centimeter.

Daniel's ears rang, but he had no problem hearing Munoz.

"All clear in bay three. You okay in there?" Munoz yelled through the opening.

"I think so. How the fuck did you miss the guy with the Saiga?" Daniel yelled, making no effort to stand up.

"Two guys with Saigas. The other one fucked up Melendez. They came out of nowhere," Munoz said, showing his face through one of the holes in the wall.

Daniel sprang to his feet and retrieved the P90. "Jessica's deaf. Help her out with the prisoners and get Wilkins back in here. We may need him," he said, pointing at Anne Renee's contorted body.

"Shit. I'm on it," Munoz said and ran toward bay one. Daniel reloaded while walking toward Melendez. A gray, cement-powder-encrusted form lay still among the rubble.

"I'm fine," Melendez said, lifting his head from the pile.

He spit a few marble-sized chunks from his mouth and shook the debris from his head. Daniel offered him a hand and examined the bay. Four men dead and two huddled inside the back of the semi-trailer with their hands on their heads.

"Any live ones in bays five and six?"

"Negative. We cleared anything that moved," Melendez said.

"How did you get in?" Daniel said, glancing at the tightly sealed docking connection around the open trailer.

"The driver pulled forward a few feet to let us in. He must have been one of Wilkins' regular drivers. The driver of the first truck was definitely True America. He jumped down from his cab with an MP-5K."

"Go back out and get him. We need to talk to a driver," Daniel said.

"Got it."

Melendez rushed through the bays, trailing concrete dust. Daniel ran to the back of the trailer truck and ordered the two men forward. He hustled them at gunpoint toward bay two after a quick search. When he arrived in bay two, he found all three of the men pressed firmly against the wall. He was slightly surprised to see that the two unsecured men hadn't fled during the shotgun attack. He pointed at the hog-tied terrorist.

"Drag him by his legs into the first bay," he ordered, then turned toward the room and yelled, "I want all of the prisoners assembled against the wall in bay one."

Daniel planned to spend one minute determining who would leave with them. He couldn't imagine they would be able to stay here for much longer. The gun battle inside the warehouse was sure to have attracted attention. He expected to hear from Graves shortly. When he reached bay one, he directed the seven men to stand with their backs to the wall. The True America prisoner was thrown against the cinderblocks by the warehouse loaders, one of whom kicked him in the stomach. He'd start this without Melendez and the driver. They really needed to get out of here.

"Everyone look up at me. I don't work for the FBI or any federal agency. I have no rules or restrictions holding me back, so don't fuck with me. True America is finished. Jackson Greely, Lee Harding and Owen Mills will be dead before the sun goes down. No mercy will be shown. This is how my organization works. The bottled water loaded onto these trucks carries the same weaponized encephalitis that destroyed a city in Russia and led to the president's national address yesterday morning."

All of them mumbled and protested.

The man restrained on the floor spoke up. "I didn't know the water was poisoned. I was dragged up here to help."

"With a Beretta pistol?" Daniel said.

"That's my own pistol. I'm a local volunteer for True America. I was asked to show up at the loading bay, so I tucked the pistol into my belt when I left last night. It was a little weird getting a call to come here after dark on a Saturday night."

"I know this guy. He's not a troublemaker," vouched one of the men in the line.

"I'm really not interested in a list of civic achievements. I need to know everything this group can tell me about the convoys that left here," Daniel said.

The man on the ground spoke up again. "You need to check the locked box back there on that folding table. Ms. Paulson took one of those outside right before each convoy left. She came back empty handed."

Munoz stumbled back into the warehouse through the office door. "Wilkins split. We need to get out of here immediately."

"Melendez. What's your status?" Daniel said into the comm.

"Got the driver. Checking the other cabs. Looks like the rest of them took off," Melendez replied over the comms channel.

"Understood. Get him into the Cherokee. Search the driver with the MP-5K and take everything. Munoz, search Paulson's body for anything. We move in thirty seconds."

Daniel stepped over to the True America operative on the ground and pulled a small knife. He cut the zip ties restraining the man's legs and pulled him to his feet. He pointed to Jessica and signaled that he wanted her to take custody of the prisoner.

"Fuck with me one bit, and I'll cut your throat," he said, pushing him toward Jessica. "Melendez, bring the car around."

"Give me a minute to search this body," Melendez replied.

"You have about twenty seconds," Petrovich said.

A new voice cut into his earpiece. "I'd recommend driving through the gate within the next sixty seconds. Honesdale dispatch just sent three cars to investigate reports of shots fired at the facility. I'll try to divert them, but this is bound to attract state troopers, which will inevitably drag the FBI into the picture," Graves said.

"Roger. Police en route. Fayed, I need you to intercept a gray Ford Taurus. Should be passing your position shortly. You're looking for a thin, gray-haired gentleman named Bob Wilkins. We need him to identify the drivers assigned to the convoys and help us access company records. Take him to the house."

"I see the Taurus. What the fuck happened in there? He's driving that thing like a bat out of hell," Fayed said.

"Make sure you grab him. He's our best shot at locating the convoys," Daniel said.

"Copy. Out."

Munoz finished searching Paulson's body, retrieving a cell phone, car keys and a few spare magazines for a pistol.

"Toss me the car keys," Daniel said.

Forty-five seconds later, they were split up between the Cherokee and Paulson's Mercedes SUV, travelling toward the gate. Munoz and Melendez had the True America operative in the Cherokee with the lockbox, while the Petroviches ferried Grizzly Adams. They sailed through the commercial gate unopposed, driving within the speed limit as they navigated toward Route Six. They passed several Honesdale police cars headed to the White Mills Distribution Center, followed closely by Pennsylvania state troopers. He hoped the contents of the box would shed some light on what Jackson Greely and the rest of his True America lunatics had planned for this supposed New Recovery.

Chapter 56

The president stared at the phone for a second and glanced at Jacob Remy, who shrugged. The situation room's senior watch officer had requested the president's presence in the main conference room. Normally, this request would be passed through his national security advisor, or someone a little higher up in the chain-of-command.

"Patch the watch officer through," he said out loud.

"Mr. Lee, you're connected to the president," his secretary said.

"Mr. President, I apologize for this unorthodox request, but we've had a major development. Major General Bob Kearney needs to speak with you. They've figured out what happened to the remaining canisters, but it's complicated, sir. He's standing by."

"Tell General Kearney that I'm on my—"

"Pardon the interruption, Mr. President, but he said that you'd want to talk to him before entering the situation room. General Sanderson was involved."

Jacob Remy stood up from his comfortable chair and gave the president a concerned look. He nodded a second later. The president had no idea where this would go, but he was fairly certain it would be painful. Kearney had vouched for Sanderson's NCTC liaison, who appeared to have been a True America undercover operative. His Washington, D.C., career would hit a wall if the evidence officially supported Shelby's theory that Sanderson had planted a traitor on the task force.

"All right. Put Major General Kearney on," the president said.

"Mr. President, General Kearney. Sorry for the subterfuge, but I have a situation that requires special handling."

"What do you mean by that? Sanderson's situation is already complicated enough."

"Are we on speakerphone, Mr. President?"

"Yes. I'm with my advisor, Jacob Remy. The room is clear."

"We've discovered six convoys suspected of carrying bottled water contaminated with the Zulu virus."

"Convoys? Bottled water?" he said, glancing at the pitcher of water on the silver tray at the edge of his desk.

"It appears that True America never intended to poison municipal water supplies. Sanderson's team tracked the canisters to a hidden facility in Pennsylvania, where they were used to lace bottles with the virus. Thousands of bottles headed to different targets. They managed to stop one of the convoys at its point of origin in Honesdale, Pennsylvania, at one of the Crystal Source spring water distribution plants."

"Have they figured out the convoy's target?"

"Yes, sir. The shipment was manifested and scheduled for delivery to the United Nations Headquarters in New York City. The delivery paperwork looks authentic."

"Good God. The General Assembly is scheduled to start a two-week session tomorrow. Do we know any of the other targets?"

"Negative, sir. The lead drivers of each convoy were given sealed boxes with preprogrammed GPS units, a satellite phone and delivery paperwork. Only the driver knows the target."

"Where is Honesdale?"

"Near Scranton, sir."

"Have you notified Director Shelby? They have an entire task force in Scranton."

"I've been debating that," Kearney said.

"What? I'm not sure I'm hearing you correctly, General. What exactly is there to debate?"

"This is why I wanted to talk with you offline. Sanderson's team has unfinished business. The FBI task force could interfere," Kearney said.

"Go ahead."

Jacob Remy was shaking his head slowly, expressing the same sentiment that the president was feeling. It had been a big mistake to let Sanderson work his way into the task force.

"One of the convoys is untraceable. It left Honesdale this morning around nine—"

"How is this one untraceable?"

"Sanderson provided the NSA with a list of cell phone numbers for the drivers that were provided by Crystal Source's operations manager. Only the lead driver for each convoy is with True America. The rest are employees diverted from the company's normal distribution schedule. We know that six convoys left the facility. NSA has been able to locate phones in five of the convoys, including the one sitting in Honesdale. The missing convoy was smaller than the rest, consisting of three trucks. NSA is getting no hits from the convoy. Bad luck, really."

"Or they're all equipped with sat-phones. They might all be involved with True America," the president said.

"That's a distinct possibility, sir. This might be their most important convoy. The others consisted of six vehicles each. Either way, tracking that convoy may no longer be important. The convoy left at nine. If its target was located in either Washington, D.C., or New York City, it may have already delivered the water. Sanderson's team has volunteered to take the necessary steps to identify the convoy's destination. If the FBI descends on the bottled water facility too quickly, they'll render the Sanderson option unviable."

"The fact that you're speaking vaguely gives me the impression that I don't want to know the details of Sanderson's operation."

"That's correct, sir. All we're asking for is a few hours."

"We? Are you working for Sanderson now?"

"Terrence has been a close friend of mine since West Point. I trust him without question or hesitation. His methods are unconventional, and he's not afraid to twist arms."

"He twisted mine pretty hard. I didn't appreciate that," the president said.

"The bruises and twists are a small price to pay for the results he consistently delivers. I trust him, Mr. President."

"I can't exactly order Shelby to stand down to give Sanderson's team some time to work their magic. How do you propose I handle this in the situation room meeting?"

"May I suggest a much smaller meeting for now? We can deal with the convoys still on the road using SOCOM assets. Local law enforcement can be called in separately to handle any situations precluding military intervention. We can get a jumpstart on the convoys while we wait for Sanderson to provide the missing convoy's destination."

"Who is tracking the convoy right now?"

"The National Security Agency. They're tracking the convoys live using cell phone GPS locator data and satellite imagery."

"Shelby will go haywire when he finds out this was done behind his back," the president said.

"If Sanderson's team works fast, we might be able to sneak this past him," Kearney said.

"Little has gone smoothly over the past week…and nothing gets by Shelby. This is guaranteed to get ugly," he said and paused.

He didn't look at Remy. This was his decision to make.

"Tell Sanderson that I'll hold off notifying the FBI, but I won't order Shelby to cease and desist if he catches wind of this. General, will you do me a favor and discreetly bring General Gordon to the Oval Office? Notify your source at the NSA. I want them video conferenced into the meeting. Coordinate with Mr. Lee in the watch center to transfer the NSA's feeds to the screens in my study. Be up here in five minutes," the president said, disconnecting the call.

"This is like dealing with the devil," he sighed.

"Preventing a biological attack on the United Nations General Assembly is worth shaking hands with Satan himself," Remy said.

"This is clearly a politically motivated attack on world stability. Right in line with some of True America's hardcore rhetoric and their mainstream talking points."

I think we go after them immediately. Shut the entire organization down," Remy suggested.

"Greely and his band of nutcases just made that a little easier for us, didn't they?"

"I have a feeling that the rest of the targets will seal that deal. We'll have to move fast to take advantage of the public outrage and prevent their political action group from generating any significant momentum. I'm seeing another primetime television address," Remy said.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We still have five convoys to stop," the president said.

"I'll bring Beck up to speed and have him prepare a comprehensive strategy that we can implement as soon as we've safeguarded the American people," Remy said, referring to the president's chief political advisor.

"Sounds good. Let's get the study reconfigured to handle this. I want this sealed off from the rest of the staff. Just you, me and the two generals. We'll bring in others as we need them. I have a plan that might help us deal with Shelby, in the short run and the long run," the president said.

"Good. I was beginning to worry about him," Remy said.

"I've always worried about him."

Chapter 57

Daniel stared out of the window at the lake. He would have preferred a nighttime attack on Owen Mills' lakeside compound, but the clock had started ticking when Anne Renee Paulson's body hit the warehouse floor. Her cell phone indicated that she had called a local number hourly since yesterday afternoon. Her last call had been placed at 1:15, roughly twenty-five minutes before the attack. He expected an inbound call to her phone any minute.

Fayed had suggested leaving the phone for Jessica to answer. Graves and Gupta had a headset microphone that could imitate hundreds of situations and modify her voice. They could mimic severe interference, which might have been enough to keep her contact from becoming overly suspicious. Daniel decided against this option, mainly because Jessica hadn't recovered a fraction of her hearing. Plus, Paulson and her contact might use a code word to start their conversations. He didn't want to tip their hand, especially since they would arrive at Mills' gates in less than two minutes.

Instead of regrouping at their rental house on Cadjaw Pond, they drove the three vehicles south on Route 6 for a few minutes before turning off on an unmarked dirt road. From there, they split into two teams and abandoned the Jeep Grand Cherokee.

Jessica joined Graves and Gupta in the van, along with Wilkins and the two men from the warehouse. With her hearing compromised, she didn't protest the decision. Her team would return to Cadjaw Pond and start to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. The two electronic warfare specialists had everything figured out by the time they arrived at the house fifteen minutes later. Wilkins helped them access Crystal Source's server network to acquire a list of known cell phone numbers for the convoy drivers identified. They also checked the Crystal Source trucks for active GPS signals. As suspected, the built-in GPS trackers had been disabled.

Once this information was passed on to Sanderson, they abandoned the safe house near Honesdale, leaving the men restrained in separate rooms.

Daniel and the rest of the team transferred their equipment to Paulson's Mercedes-Benz GL Class SUV and spent the next ten minutes gearing up for the inevitable assault on Mills' lakeside mansion. Mills was the key to unraveling the entire conspiracy. He had hand delivered the metal boxes containing the target information to Paulson, and at some point, he had given each driver a key to open the box. They had found the key to open the last box on the driver that Melendez had shot. All of this had been carefully planned to keep the target information compartmentalized. Even Paulson may have been kept in the dark regarding the final target selection.

If anyone knew where the convoys were headed, it had to be Mills. Only Mills could have arranged the deliveries, which he would have kept quiet. Mills clearly had some hefty political connections somewhere. Securing a one-time contract to deliver water to the United Nation's Headquarters building couldn't have been easy. Then again, when bottled water was currently the only safe and trusted drinking option on the table in the United States, it may have been a slam-dunk for Mills. It wouldn't surprise Daniel in the least to learn that Mills had been in active negotiations to deliver water to the U.N., when the crisis "conveniently" erupted.

Five more convoys were likely headed to similar, but unknown targets. The NSA was tracking four of them. Their mission was simple: acquire the missing convoy's final destination as quickly as possible. Based on the information available, the convoy in question had left the warehouse around nine in the morning and could have already delivered its cargo to a target as far away as Washington, D.C. This possibility precluded the best assault options, like a water approach at dusk, or a multiple-point perimeter breach. They had barely carved out enough time to survey the compound.

Located at the tip of Boulder Point on the western bank of northern Lake Wallenpaupack, Owen Mills' estate occupied a vast stretch of the most desirable real estate on the lake. With sweeping views of the water spanning east to west, his lone mansion commanded most of the point. A single looping road swung down from Lake Shore Drive, closely following the shoreline and passing several luxury homes on its journey to the front gate of the estate. The road turned inland at that point and crossed the small peninsula, depositing cars back onto Lake Shore Drive. A formidably tall, yet elegant black wrought-iron fence spanned the peninsula, actively discouraging tourists from taking a closer look at the massive house in the distance.

From Ledge Point, a smaller peninsula to the east, they had spent close to fifteen minutes observing Boulder Point, counting guards and looking for patterns. Their first obstacle would be the gatehouse. Manned by two armed guards and located one hundred feet from the eastern shoreline, the stone shack guarded the only road leading to the mansion at the southernmost tip of the small peninsula. The property itself was relatively featureless, with the exception of several thick pockets of towering pine trees. One of the pine tree clusters stood between the gatehouse and the main structure, hopefully obscuring the view between the two structures. They planned on using Paulson's car to approach the gate without raising any alarms. Once the guards were neutralized, they would ditch the car and approach on foot. Taking the car any further would attract too much attention.

Beyond the gatehouse, several lone guards armed with assault rifles patrolled the property. Unfortunately, their observation detected no discernible patrol pattern. None of them came any closer than three hundred feet to the wrought-iron fence, giving Daniel the impression that Mills didn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. Even the guards at the gate kept their weapons concealed inside the shack, though Daniel could see the barrel of an AR-15 through one of the windows. Clearing the patrols wouldn't be a problem. He was more concerned about what waited for them inside the house.

The guards patrolling the estate looked better trained than what they had encountered in the warehouse. They were heavily armed with optics-enhanced assault rifles, outfitted with body armor and apparently taking their jobs seriously. They constantly communicated using hand signals or talking into their shoulder-mounted microphones. It appeared that Mills had reserved the best operatives for his personal security detail. On the eve of True America's greatest moment, he supposed this was appropriate. Or maybe Mills had VIP guests, which raised a completely different realm of possibilities. The men on patrol didn't look like Secret Service agents, but they could easily pass for civilian contractors assigned to a VIP-protection detail.

"There's the turnoff for Boulder Point Road. We're about a minute from the gate," he said, applying the turn signal and easing the car over the dashed yellow line.

Despite the fact that they were about to jump headfirst into a battle against a numerically superior force, he started wheezing in laughter. He couldn't help it. With one of Jessica's blond wigs jammed over his head, Munoz looked like a transvestite prostitute that had long ago given up trying to maintain the pretense of being a woman. Before leaving with Graves and Gupta, she had tossed it into the back of the Mercedes, thinking it might come in handy approaching the gate. Anne Renee Paulson had blond hair. Laughter erupted from the van, causing Munoz to slam on the brakes and spill everyone forward.

"How about a little fucking professionalism?" he hissed, slamming them all back into their seats by rapidly accelerating.

"Just be glad we're not taking pictures. You look beautiful, by the way," Daniel said, igniting another round of snickering.

"Fuck you, Petrovich."

Munoz continued along Boulder Point Road until the gatehouse appeared over a slight rise in the road. Melendez lowered the rear passenger side window. If the guards reacted before they reached the gate, Melendez would raise himself out of the window and fire his suppressed P90 over the top of the SUV. He was their long-distance insurance policy.

"Here's where we find out if that wig was worth it," Daniel said.

Munoz just nodded, having already settled into his meditation. Daniel would hold the wheel while Munoz lowered the window and held a suppressed pistol in the other, timing the approach so that he could fire point blank into the furthest guard's head upon pulling parallel to the shack. Fayed would shoot the other guard from the rear driver side. Daniel watched one of the guards nonchalantly grab his shoulder handset and presumably relay information regarding Anne Renee's arrival. He didn't detect any signs of panic or alarm among them. A quick scan of the estate in front of them confirmed that none of the patrols were in sight and that the guard shack was partially obscured by the cluster of pines he had spotted earlier. Their approach had been perfectly timed by Munoz.

Daniel held his own suppressed pistol between the front passenger seat and the door, just in case. The decoratively spiked front gate started to swing inward as the Mercedes pulled up to the two guards. Even as both of the driver side windows descended, neither of them looked interested in the vehicle. Daniel gripped the wheel just before Munoz raised the pistol and fired a single .40-caliber bullet through the guard's forehead. The two shell casings hit the front windshield and deflected onto the dashboard.

Munoz threw the blond wig in Daniel's lap and accelerated through the gate, barely missing the slow-moving barrier. He heard a whirlwind of activity from the rear seating area, as Fayed, Paracha and Melendez traded out their compact P90s for more suitable long-range weapons provided by Karl Berg's contact. They would close the main house on foot, possibly traversing up to 800 feet depending on how far they could drive the SUV. The P90's effective range remained well inside of 200 yards, which could put them at a significant disadvantage if they needed to engage targets at the house. The vehicle slowed, and Munoz eased it off the blacktop next to an untamed row of yellow forsythia bushes.

"That's as far as we can go without breaking into sight."

Everyone dismounted at once, and more rifles were exchanged with Paracha, who handed them out from the depths of the SUV's third row of seats. Melendez held out a suppressed M1A SOCOM 7.62mm rifle and a combat load-bearing vest for Daniel. He took the vest, sliding it on before grabbing the rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. He snapped the olive drab vest shut, checking it for loose pouches or anything that could snag on the bushes. They had pre- rigged all their gear on the dirt road off Route 6, swapping 7.62mm and 5.56mm magazines between vests, based on weapons assignment.

Daniel and Melendez had chosen the longer-range M1A, a close relative of the venerable 7.62mm M-14 rifle, which saw extensive action in Korea and Vietnam and continued to serve as a battlefield sniper weapon. The SOCOM was designed using lighter materials and featured a shorter barrel, which increased the operator's maneuverability in close quarters battle, but reduced the effective sniping range of the rifle. Still, a skilled shooter could easily hit targets at 400 yards with the steel sights, reaching out even further with magnified optics. He didn't foresee any problems with the delivery of highly accurate fire to cover the assault team's approach.

All of their weapons were fitted with suppressors. Fayed, Paracha and Munoz carried the Mk 18 Mod 0 rifles used earlier in the day at the laboratory. Equipped with unmagnified EOTech sights, they would be more reliable inside the house or on the immediate grounds. Their directive was to advance quickly under direct cover fire from Daniel and Melendez.

Once Daniel snapped his vest together and fitted his headset, he started jogging toward the trees directly ahead of them. He wanted to be in position when the three men crossed the open area. He loaded his rifle on the move. Melendez sprinted west, looking for a position located roughly one hundred yards across the point, where he could scan for targets on the far side of the house. Spread apart among the trees, the two of them could effectively clear the entire approach to the house and eliminate patrols. He reached the pines and raised his rifle, scanning for targets among the thick tree trunks. He easily trampled the thin layer of newly formed spring brush, reaching the edge of the tree line and staring out at the expanse of ground leading to the house.

He counted two patrols in plain sight and located another possible sentry at the edge of a cluster of smaller trees near the house. The house itself was massive, measuring at least one hundred and fifty feet across. He stared at the stone-laden, modern post-and-beam structure, which featured five chimneys protruding from the green metallic roof. He was truly impressed with the sheer size and quality of design. Apparently, bottling the earth's water and selling it was a lucrative business.

The western end of the two-story vaulted-roof house angled north, featuring a four-bay garage. Several SUVs and trucks crowded the driveway in front of the garage, possibly belonging to security personnel or guests. He didn't see any obvious luxury vehicles among them, or the telltale black Suburbans used by most government agencies. This might purely be a True America gathering, which suited him best. There would be no survivors.

He stared through the rifle's ACOG scope at the windows along the front of the house. Not surprisingly, the front of the house contained few windows. Like most lake homes, windows were an afterthought on the landward side, deferring to vast ceiling-to-floor glass facing the water. Beyond the three patrols in front of him, he spotted one additional guard standing under the home's covered porch entrance. He highly doubted anyone was stationed in one of the small windows. This might be easier than he had originally predicted. He crawled forward a few more feet to clear brush and extended the rifle's bipod, resting it on the soft ground. He now had a perfect one hundred and eighty degree view of his killing field.

"Overwatch One is set. Confirm four targets in front of the house, including the front porch," he said.

"Overwatch Two is set. Three targets in range on western side. I'll take the front porch."

Daniel didn't protest. Melendez was an excellent shot. Several seconds passed before he heard Melendez again.

Melendez sighted in on the sentry standing on the front porch and eased his breath. Firing a single 7.62mm bullet accurately through a sixteen-inch barrel at a target more than 700 feet away wouldn't be easy. At this range, the M1A's standard twenty-two-inch barrel would be more appropriate, but their mystery benefactor had opted for a conservative mix of multipurpose weapons. A wise decision given the uncertainties that existed yesterday. He couldn't complain, though he'd much prefer to take down the closer patrols, then move a few hundred feet closer to compensate for the short barrel. Unfortunately, the guard standing at the top of the steps was in the ideal surveillance position, representing the greatest threat to their element of surprise. He'd have to go first.

Melendez aimed at the stationary guard's nose and raised the rifle's barrel less than a millimeter to compensate for the distance. He'd be happy to land the shot anywhere between the man's throat and forehead. Any lower and the bullet could strike the man's ballistic vest. Any higher and it could deflect off his skull. Either of those scenarios would drop him temporarily, but could give him a chance to raise the alarm. Melendez needed a clean shot that would either instantly kill or paralyze the target. He nudged the ACOG's vertical crosshair directly in the center of guard's head and added another ounce of pressure to the trigger. The rifle bucked into his shoulder, sending the round downrange.

Melendez brought the ACOG's sight picture back to the door, centered roughly on the space previously occupied by the guard. Before firing, he had taken a mental picture of the background, lining up fixed objects with the hash marks just beyond the target. He could see a significant scarlet mess on the wooden door twenty feet back from the front of the porch. A mess like that could only mean one thing. He confirmed the fatal headshot and passed the report.

"Front door target is down," crackled his earpiece.

Aleem Fayed started running toward the house. He was looking at traversing about three football fields at a full run, loaded down with gear. As one of the Middle East operatives, his training focus had been field craft and close-in engagements. As he hit the fifty-yard point, he was glad that Sanderson had pushed their physical training so hard. Fayed had never ceased to bitch up a storm on one of their ten-mile conditioning runs or during the course of an unannounced hike in the woods. Sanderson and Fayed clearly had a different concept of the word "hike." Realizing that he still had a full minute of running in his immediate future, Fayed promised himself never to complain again.

He could feel the burn in his legs from the sprint, but his lungs still felt strong thanks to Sanderson's routine. He'd need that lung capacity when he reached the house. Daniel's plan didn't include a short break to regain their breath. They would go to work on the house immediately, assuming they reached the house intact. The two guards in the distance were still standing as he closed the distance, forcing him to wonder why Daniel hadn't started firing. If he approached any closer, one of them was bound to hear him and turn around, which could eliminate the element of surprise.

The guard closest to their small group was located fifty yards away, slightly offset from their path. He was faced away from them, walking toward the house, but that could change at any moment. He heard Daniel's rifle cough, sending a bullet somewhere downrange, but the sentry in front of him didn't fall. A guard Fayed hadn't spotted dropped to the ground at the edge of the tree cluster near the house. Now he was screwed. He raised his rifle and stopped, sighting in on the guard along their path. There was no way he hadn't seen the other guard's head explode. A snap passed Fayed's head, and the heavily equipped sentry in Fayed's sights dropped his rifle, reaching up for his neck with both hands. The guard sank to his knees as another bullet sailed overhead, eventually striking the furthest lookout in the forehead, just above the binoculars he had raised to his face. Daniel's voice came through his earpiece.

"Assault, the path is clear. Advise if you see more targets."

Fayed leapt forward, quickly acknowledging the fact that Daniel had perfectly coordinated his shooting, prioritizing the targets according to threat level against the assault team. He felt a little better running blindly across Daniel's killing field. He just hoped that True America didn't have someone with similar skills.

Jackson Greely took a sip of the amber liquid from the heavy crystal tumbler and savored it in his mouth for a brief moment before swallowing. The warmth spread immediately, from his stomach to his head. This was some of the best scotch he had tasted in a long time. He stared at the exquisite crystal decanter sitting on the silver tray. His gaze shifted to the sparkling lake beyond the infinity pool next to their table. They sat in all weather, European country-style chairs arranged around a low teak surfaced table. Greely wasn't accustomed to this kind of luxury, but he could certainly get used to it. Lee Harding looked equally at ease in these surroundings. Brown had looked unsettled all afternoon, which prevented Greely from fully relaxing.

"This is superior scotch, Owen. Very nice," he said.

"A family favorite. Glengoyne Seventeen Year. Simply one of the finest scotches in production. Of course, I'm a bit partial to the distillery."

"I thought your family was Irish?" Harding said.

"We are, but my great-grandfather traveled to Glasgow several times a year on business and discovered their distillery just north of the city. He fell in love with their scotch and struck up a deal with the Lang Brothers to import it into Ireland, but this eventually ran afoul thanks to rising troubles in Northern Ireland, though he did make a tidy sum of money in those few years and maintained a good relationship with the Langs. When he brought our family over to America, he settled in the Syracuse area. He spent most of his fortune struggling to establish an import business for his beloved Scottish whiskey, a business better suited for the east coast. He'd made some small investments in Canada, which paid off big time when prohibition hit. The whiskey market in Canada soared overnight, as you can imagine. Crystal Source water sprang to life a few years later, no pun intended."

"That's an incredible American success story," Greely said.

No wonder the family was wealthy. Like the Kennedys' vast empire, the Mills dynasty had its roots in bootlegging. Greely's great-grandfather had worked in the Ohio mills, earning an honest living while trying to keep his family alive. There was a stark contrast between Mills' version of the American dream and Greely's.

"Indeed it is. But it pales in comparison to the legacy we will leave the American people. Gentlemen, by my watch, the last shipment has departed. Here's to America's New Recovery," Mills said, raising his glass.

They all toasted to the New Recovery and downed the remainder of their drinks. Jackson turned to Mills.

"Still haven't heard from Anne Renee?"

"Not yet. She should be on her way. We get shitty reception all along the lake," Mills said.

"Have you tried to call her?"

"She usually checks in once an hour, or whenever a shipment leaves. The last shipment left at 1:20. She called a few minutes before that. We're fine," he said.

Greely gave Harding a skeptical glance, before turning to Brown, who hadn't said a word.

"You look nervous," Greely said.

Brown put his glass down on the table. "Anne Renee is sharp. If Brooks mentions anything about executing Carnes and the rest of the lab people, she'll make a run for it. It was a bad idea to mix those two together at this point."

"Brooks won't say a word. He's been on the inside from the beginning. Part of the club," Mills said.

"You could say the same thing about Carnes," Brown said wryly.

The black handheld radio sitting in front of Mills chirped, followed by a transmission. "Mr. Mills, this is the front gate. Ms. Paulson has arrived with Mr. Brooks."

Mills grabbed the radio. "Excellent. Let her through. Make sure they are shown to the pool terrace."

"Understood," the guard responded.

"See? Nothing to worry about. How about another round of drinks? I'm bringing out the cheap stuff after this." Mills chuckled.

"I'll make sure Anne Renee and Michael find their way down to the pool," Brown said.

This statement struck Greely as odd. For some reason, he didn't like the idea of Brown alone with Paulson and Brooks. Something about Brown definitely fueled his paranoia.

"Security can take care of that," Mills said, pouring generous amounts of scotch into each glass.

"I want to get a read on these two before we invite them to share drinks. I'd rather not get shot in the face," Brown said.

"If you're so worried, just take care of them now," Mills said.

"In front of the other operatives? That's a guaranteed death sentence. We stick to the plan, unless I sense a real problem. Don't worry. Brooks has a shitty poker face. If they're planning something, I'll know it right away," Brown said.

"Fuck. Now you have me paranoid," Mills said.

"We have plenty of security around here. We're safe," Greely said.

He gestured to the three casually dressed guards standing between the pool and the beach less than a hundred feet away. Unlike the patrols, these sentries were dressed in casual business attire and didn't wear body armor. Short-barreled AR-15 rifles were slung around their backs as they surveyed the lake.

"I'm still checking them out," Brown said.

"Suit yourself," Mills added.

Brown stood up and walked up the stairs to the deck, navigating his way to the screen doors beneath a massive two-story wall of wide glass windows framed by stone.

"I wish your wife didn't have a problem with firearms," Greely said. "I feel a little exposed sitting here unarmed."

"Are you worried about Brown? His loyalty to the cause is second to none. Trust me on that. He's just being cautious. Nothing wrong with that," Harding said.

"I suppose not, which is why I'd feel better with my Colt," Greely said.

"Sue Ellen will not allow them in the house, which is why I own several houses," Mills said, laughing at his own joke.

"I can't imagine she feels too comfortable about all of this firepower on the estate," Harding said.

"I convinced her that kidnapping threats have been made against the family because of the water crisis. She loves those kids more than life itself. As long as the weapons stay outside of the main house, I could land a battalion of marines on that beach."

Brown strode across the slate floor of the Vista Room and headed right for the Grand Entry. All of the rooms in this house had a fucking name, and he'd already forgotten most of them. Mills had subjected them to a tour of the estate, once they had all arrived earlier today. Prior to this morning, none of them had been invited to Mills' exclusive Lake Wallenpaupack estate. They'd always met in his "lesser" homes or at retreat locations throughout the region.

Wallenpaupack. Brown promised himself that if he ever had enough money to buy a lake house, it wouldn't be on a lake with such a stupid name. He felt like a douchebag even hearing someone else say it.

He hoped to hell that he didn't run into Mills' trophy bride. More like old trophy, though you couldn't tell by the amount of work she'd had done on her face, which is why he hoped to avoid her. She was teetering on the edge of looking like one of those cartoonish Hollywood freaks that got a little bit carried away with collagen injections and skin tightening. She wasn't there yet, but give her a couple more years and she'd be forced to take drastic action to continue looking thirty years old. According to Mills, the two of them had been high school sweethearts. Mills had recently celebrated his fiftieth birthday, which put Sue Ellen in her late forties. Once she hit fifty, the gains achieved through simple plastic surgery and Botox would start to diminish, forcing her to either accept the aging process or continue the madness and risk looking like Donatella Versace.

Brown stopped at the far end of the Vista Room, at the custom-crafted, arched doorway leading deeper into the house, and wondered if he should have taken the smaller opening on the other side of the fireplace. The house had so many rooms and hallways that he imagined unattended guests could disappear, only to be found hours later. It was truly an outrageous spectacle and, frankly, didn't square well with the workingman focus of True America's manifesto, though he was quite sure that Owen Mills wouldn't hesitate to waste an hour of anyone's time explaining how his success embodied the true potential of America's resurgence to greatness. Somehow, inheriting a multimillion dollar company from your parents was considered an American success story in his world.

Before stepping out of the room in search of the Grand Entry, he couldn't resist looking back at the sweeping panoramic view of the lake through the virtual wall of windows behind him. He estimated the view to span one hundred and twenty degrees from the two-story fieldstone fireplace at the back of the room. He shook his head at the king's view of Lake Wallenpaupack before continuing.

He had chosen hallways wisely, seeing the front door in the distance. He hoped Anne Renee hadn't figured out her fate. She'd be hard to track down if she vanished. The arrival of Paulson and Brooks closed the loop on their involvement with Al Qaeda. The guards brought to the Mills' estate for the "exclusive" VIP-protection detail were all that remained of the teams assigned to steal the virus canisters from Al Qaeda cells in the New York Tri-State area. They couldn't completely erase True America's links to Al Qaeda, but they could take steps to prevent detailed testimony regarding the unsavory relationship.

Paulson had been intimately involved with the plan to fund Al Qaeda's overseas efforts to acquire the virus, which was enough to put her in the ground. Her direct coordination of their plan to steal the canisters from Al Qaeda and "redistribute" the virus ensured her execution. Greely had recruited her through a military contact, but he had never grown fond of her. Brown had detected from the beginning that Greely was simply using her intelligence background to fill a temporary role within the organization.

Mrs. Mills would leave with the kids for their house in St. Kitts early tomorrow. After they departed, Greely, Harding and Brown would host a celebratory picnic on the estate for True America's most loyal and valuable members, none of which would leave the property alive. He didn't look forward to loading over twenty bodies onto a truck.

Brown approached the door and noticed something he hadn't seen before. A hand-sized red splotch adorned the center windowpane on the left side of the double pine door and daylight shined through two small holes in the door. It didn't register with Brown until he drew closer and saw that one of the holes was splintered. He immediately grabbed his radio and sprinted to the wall next to the bloodied window.

He was fucking right about those two, but he didn't think they'd have the nerve to take on his entire security detail. He wondered if they had managed to turn any of the estate's security detail. The New Recovery could end right here at the estate if Paulson managed to recruit any of the guards. He needed to get his hands on a weapon. That stupid Mills bitch had put a moratorium on firearms in the house, and her equally fucking stupid husband had agreed.

"All patrols, this is Brown. Shoot Paulson and Brooks on sight. They've gone rogue. Secure the VIPs in the guest house."

His radio wasn't squawking as many replies as he had expected. Either most of the security team were already dead, or they had turned and were converging on the pool. He thought about warning the men near the beach. They would rush to protect the men sipping scotch by the pool, but would never expect the other guards to fire on them. This whole situation was about to explode, which made him think briefly about his other option. Get the fuck out of here. He thought about it for a second, but decided to do some reconnaissance first. If Paulson and Brooks were acting alone, he would be running away for no reason.

Brown opened the heavy front door and crawled through the opening, scrambling to the crumpled guard located at the foot of the covered porch. The guard lay face down in a contorted position, with his head hung over the top step. He saw no blood on the porch. The guard's AR-15 was nowhere in sight, which really worried him. He stayed low, continuing to the top of the stairs, hoping to find a pistol in the man's thigh holster. He reached the man and started to turn him on his side. What he saw on the stairs stopped him cold.

The granite stairs leading to the driveway were soaked bright red, in a fan-shaped pattern starting where the man's head touched the top stair. The back of the man's head was completely missing, which struck him as odd. He glanced behind him at the door and saw the remnants of the sentry's brains and skull fragments on the door. The splintered hole he saw on the inside of the door represented a bullet that had passed through the guard's head with enough energy to penetrate two inches of thick wood. He hadn't been shot in the head with a pistol. This was the work of a high-powered rifle. Shit. He started to dig for the guard's pistol, but spotted the barrel of a rifle protruding from the evergreen bushes a few feet away. He ripped open a few of the pouches on the dead sentry's vest and looted two spare rifle magazines before he lurched forward and grabbed the rifle. Dashing back inside the house, he didn't stop until he reached the perceived safety of the room next to the two-story entry hall.

He sat back against the wall and tried to process the scene. Nobody had taken the rifle. If Paulson or Brooks had taken down the guard, they would have grabbed the rifle. The guard had either been shot at close range with an assault rifle or hit from a distance with a sniper weapon. Based on the exit wound characteristics, he was leaning toward the high-powered sniper theory, which led him to the worst possible conclusion. They had professional company on the estate. His range of options had just shrunk considerably.

"All units report," he said and waited a moment, but received no response.

He swallowed hard and stood up, planning to work his way back to the Vista Room. Escape was no longer an option…and neither was capture.

Melendez fired two rapid shots at a muscular black man that had come barreling around the southwest corner of the house in a full sprint. The 7.62mm rounds caught him by surprise, striking him center mass, but failing to penetrate the hardened ceramic trauma plates inserted into his vest. The kinetic energy of the rounds spread throughout the plates and stopped him cold and knocked him off balance. He stumbled backward, taking his hands off the only thing that could have saved him at this point. Before he could regain his footing or grab the rifle hanging from his three-point sling, Melendez dropped to one knee and fired a single round between his eyes. The massive guard grunted once and landed on his back, his arms and legs no longer receiving any coordinated or recognizable directions from his frontal lobe or cerebellum.

He took a deep breath and ran for the corner of the house, glad the guard hadn't seen him first. He'd have to take the backyard approach a little slower, spending more time searching for concealed targets. Someone had obviously sounded the alarm, and not every guard would run helter-skelter into the open. He reached the corner and surveyed the backyard. Past the tennis courts, he saw the edge of an infinity pool, which was partially obscured by a metal rack filled with several kayaks. Three guards wearing polo shirts and khaki pants sprinted from the wide beach toward the pool. Melendez raised the M1A SOCOM and fired at the lead runner, tumbling him onto the well-manicured grass. Shifting his aim, he watched the other two guards careen forward, losing control and crashing to the ground in lifeless heaps. He hadn't fired those rounds.

"Back patio is clear. High-value targets secure," Fayed said over the radio.

Melendez scanned the area between the house and the waterline, searching for a concealed shooter. It looked clear.

"West side clear. Approaching the pool from the west," he said, making sure Munoz and his crew didn't accidentally fire on him.

"Assault team securing targets. Approach clear."

Melendez took off running.

Daniel passed a short hedgerow on the eastern side of the house and searched for the single guard watching the southeastern shoreline. Unlike the sentries stationed between the house and road, this one hadn't moved more than ten feet while they watched from Ledge Point. He located the heavily armed sentry exactly where he expected. The man raised his hand to block the sun as he scanned the lake. Daniel edged forward a little further, completely exposed. He kept an eye on the guard as he approached the corner of the house. He wanted to make sure the sentry's sudden collapse wouldn't attract attention. Their position on Ledge Point didn't provide them with much information regarding the disposition of True America's guard deployment behind the house.

He reached the corner and crouched, taking a careful look beyond. He saw a large deck with stairs leading down to a patio. Three men sat comfortably around a low table, drinking from tumblers. He recognized them immediately from their online research. Mills, Greely and Harding. Beyond a blue slate infinity pool, he counted three additional guards near the foot of the dock on the beach. This might require some timing.

The guard to Daniel's left suddenly turned and started running for the house. They locked eyes, but Daniel had years of experience on the man, which translated into quickness and zero hesitation. A lethal combination on the battlefield. He fired two shots before the man could process the fact that Daniel wasn't part of their guard detail. Both projectiles hit him in the face.

Realizing that someone had sounded the alarm, Daniel leaned around the corner and aimed for the guards past the pool. He saw them drop from sight, leaving thin vapors of red mist above their vanishing heads. He aimed up at the deck, finding it clear of threats. Munoz and his team emerged from one of the sliding doors below the deck on the ground level, aiming at the three high-value targets still holding their drinks, relatively oblivious to what had just transpired. Jackson Greely placed his glass on the table and stood up, searching for the guards near the beach. He stumbled backward, spilling Lee Harding's glass out of his hand and nearly landing in his lap. Mills ran for the house with the drink in his hand, knocking one of the chairs out of the way. He was intercepted by Paracha, who butt-stroked him in the face with his carbine, knocking the CEO of Crystal Source to his knees and breaking his nose. He grabbed the overweight man by the collar of his tailored shirt and yanked him to his feet, pushing him back toward the pool.

Daniel jogged forward to join them, anxious to get this over with. With any luck, he could be headed south with Jessica by nightfall. He heard Melendez report his approach from the west and glanced up at the deck to make sure they hadn't missed anyone. Satisfied for the moment, he turned all of his attention to the three psychopaths being searched by the assault team. He missed the Jamaican's appearance on the deck by less than a second.

Brown eased through the Vista Room in a low, tactical stance, scanning with the barrel of his AR-15. So far, he had detected no movement in the house, which led him to believe that the teams had flanked the mansion and converged on his coconspirators. He heard a scuffle outside, followed by the sound of patio furniture screeching against stone. A few harsh voices joined the activity, followed by the sound of Mills crying out in agony. He wondered why agents hadn't flooded the house. Why didn't he hear the sound of helicopters or support vehicles?

The backyard was quiet beyond guttural voices and the occasional protest from Mills or Harding. All of these thoughts and observations floated through his head as he stepped quietly toward the open door. Through the massive wall of picture windows facing the lake, his view of the rippling, dark blue water transitioned into sandy beach and rocks, exposing the three guards sprawled in the grass. Everything had been so quiet. He was impressed. A sudden realization washed over him. This could be the same crew that had abducted Miguel Estrada and stopped the assassination team assigned to kill Benjamin Young in Atlanta. A glimmer of hope flashed in his mind. He might be facing a small team.

He flipped the G33STS Magnifier down, exposing the EOTech sight. He anticipated engaging targets at close range in the backyard and would have no use for the 3X optic attachment. The edge of the infinity pool appeared over the deck, followed by Mills and Harding. A dark-haired, dark-skinned man stood next to Mills. A little further and the whole scene would come into focus. Four men armed with rifles stood around the three founders of True America. Brown thumbed the rifle's selector switch to "auto" and aimed at two of the operatives standing in tandem. Lee Harding's torso was clearly visible behind them, which didn't make an impression on Brown one way or the other.

He depressed the trigger for a sustained burst, shifting the EOTech's red holographic sight image to the next target. A 7.62mm bullet penetrated his right eye and exited his skull before he could aim the next burst. Brown could still see out of his other eye and was vaguely aware that his body had ceased to function. He never felt the fusillade of bullets fired from the pool patio.

The smell of scotch floated in the air between the confused men. Daniel leaned over the table to pour the three terrorists another round of drinks. They would need a little something to numb them for what he had planned. The crystal decanter exploded in Daniel's hand, followed by the thunderous explosions, as 5.56mm bullets ripped through the air, shattering everything in their path. He felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder and realized he had been spun ninety degrees to face Munoz and Fayed, who pointed their smoking rifles upward at the deck. Daniel saw a dark figure drop out of sight below the railing, followed by a cascade of glass from one of the immense picture windows high above him. The glass fragments tumbled over the side of the deck, bringing him back to his senses.

He turned back to their three prisoners. Lee Harding's head lolled to the left, his arms and legs lightly twitching. His glassy eyes stared lifelessly forward, drawing Daniel's attention away from the small red hole visible above his right eyebrow. Jackson Greely looked unharmed, staring blankly at Harding's grotesque post mortem display. Mills started to stand, but was pushed back into his chair by Fayed, who stared past Daniel with a look of dismay. As Daniel's hearing recovered and the initial shock of being shot faded, he heard the desperate rasping sounds of the man who had been standing right behind him when the automatic fire started. He didn't need to turn around to know that Tariq Paracha had absorbed most of the steel fired from the deck.

Fayed shoved the table aside as Daniel wheeled around to see Paracha on his back, clawing at his blood-soaked neck. He could see two other entry wounds, one in his upper chest and another high on the front of his left thigh. The vast amount of blood pooling on the stone under his hips signaled to Daniel that the bullet passing through his thigh had likely severed or nicked his femoral artery. Combined with a neck shot, there would be little they could do for Tariq. They hadn't been equipped with a first aid kit, let alone a trauma kit.

"Watch them and keep an eye on the house. We can't afford any more surprises," Daniel said.

Melendez, who had just arrived, joined his counterpart Munoz and aimed toward the house, searching for movement. Daniel placed his rifle next to Paracha and put his hands under the dying man's back, kneeling behind his head. He lifted Paracha's upper torso onto his knees to elevate his chest and head. When he removed his arms from under Paracha, they were slick with dark, red blood. He held them up for a few seconds, before wiping them on the side of his khaki pants. All they could do at this point was make him feel a little more comfortable. He'd be unconscious in less than a minute. Fayed crouched next to Paracha and spoke.

"We'll make sure this was worth it," Fayed said, squeezing Tariq's shoulder.

"Fucking right we will," Daniel added.

Paracha tried to talk, but they heard nothing more than an incoherent rasp.

"Take it easy, buddy. Take it easy," he said soothingly.

The operative's hands started to ease away from his neck, and Daniel felt his body relax. When his arms fell to the stone, Fayed closed his eyes and glared at Mills and Jackson. Daniel tracked his murderous stare, while he eased Paracha's body to the stone and retrieved his rifle.

"Fayed, take Melendez and clear the house. Bring me Mills' family," he said and leaned in to whisper in his ear. "They'll pay for this. Don't worry."

Fayed nodded with a hard look on his face and climbed the deck with Melendez, disappearing into the house.

"You're hit pretty bad," Munoz said.

"I hadn't noticed," Daniel said, walking up to Harding's corpse.

He took hold of Harding's shirt with both hands and lifted him out of the chair, swinging him over the splintered teak table and splashing Jackson Greely with bloody brain matter. The table collapsed under the weight, spilling Harding onto the patio in front of an empty chair. Daniel stepped over Harding and took a seat, resting his feet on the dead man's chest. He stared at the two men, noting that each of them shook slightly. Greely's face had been decorated with clumps of deep scarlet matter, and Mills' nose still streamed blood. Despite the shock of having their world collapse around them, they looked surprisingly composed. He'd quickly change that.

"Gentlemen, I've been at this for nearly forty-eight hours. I'm tired, and I've just been informed that I'm bleeding, so let me save you the bullshit. We don't work for the FBI, CIA or Department of Defense. We work for an independent organization that has no rules or boundaries. This is a point you need to understand before I ask the million-dollar question because there won't be a referee to step in and save you," Daniel said, shifting his rifle from Greely to Mills.

"And there's really no point in trying to resist. True America is finished. We found the facility used to contaminate the bottled water, and we stopped the last convoy at the distribution center. We're tracking four additional convoys, which will be intercepted within the hour."

Greely stole a glance at Mills, who tried to pretend he didn't see it.

"Don't get excited. We know there's one more convoy. We just don't know how to find it. That's the million-dollar question we've been sent to ask, before the federal task force sitting in Scranton descends on Honesdale. By my watch, we have at least another ninety minutes. The president gave us ample time to obtain this information. Even if we have to do this the hard way, I can't imagine needing more than ten. Your friend here makes a nice leg rest," Petrovich said, shifting his feet.

Screaming erupted from the house, causing Mills to stand. Munoz barked at him to sit back down, raising the rifle over his head to ensure his compliance. Daniel turned to see Fayed shove an attractive blond woman and two middle-school-aged girls toward the stairway leading down to the patio. Mills' wife was dressed in black designer jeans and a tight pink blouse. Her daughters were dressed more conservatively in jeans and brightly colored sweaters. Fayed yelled at them as they protested.

"Line them up on the edge of the pool!" Daniel yelled.

"You need to leave them out of this! You son of a bitch!"

Mills tried to launch out of his chair, but Munoz had anticipated his outburst and smashed the butt of his rifle down on his left shoulder, cracking his collarbone. The sound of the bone snapping could be heard over the metallic crash of the rifle. Mills' wife grabbed both of her daughters' hands and tried to run over to her husband, but Fayed snatched the dark-haired daughter out of her grip, stopping Sue Ellen Mills in her tracks. Melendez grabbed the woman by the neck and strong-armed her over to the pool, followed by Fayed with both of the terrified girls.

"How do you want them?" Fayed yelled.

"Line them up side by side, like a firing squad."

Daniel lifted himself up from the chair, careful not to put any pressure on his left arm. He winced and exhaled, despite his efforts to ignore the pain. Munoz came up next to him.

"You all right?" he whispered. "You're losing blood."

"I'm good for now. Small entry and exit wound. Passed right through."

He knew that Munoz was right. Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the light brown chair cushion, he was about ten minutes away from fading into unconsciousness. He felt all right at the moment, a little dizzy from the initial blood loss, but most of his attention was still focused on the pain. The sharp, searing sensation had been joined by a dull, agonizing ache that had spread through his arm and into his chest. The bullet had missed the coracoid process of his scapula, a small hook-like bone connected to the clavicle, likely passing through the ligament connecting the two and causing a cascade of muscle tightening and ligament inflammation throughout his body. Once on his feet, he could barely raise his left arm, but retained the function of his elbow and forearm. His fingers felt tingly, but he could still tightly grip the M1A's hand guard.

"This whole thing is bigger than all of us. You're patriots. I can tell you've served the nation honorably, but your country has lost its way. We're going to change all of that and put America back on its feet. Back on the track to a New Recovery," Jackson Greely said, gesturing grandly to the sky.

"By poisoning the U.N. and detonating a suicide bomb at the National Counterterrorism Center?"

"This is a historical day for our citizens. Deep down inside, I know you agree," he added.

"Have you lost your fucking mind? True America is gone. Can't you see that? Not only your little nightmare group, but the whole movement. There's no way the mainstreamers will survive the bad press associated with your plot. The Republicans and Democrats will make sure of that. This might be the first time in years that they actually agree on something. It's a real shame, actually. True America was on the path to providing an alternative to the two-party system. I heard they might have fielded a viable presidential candidate next year."

Jackson Greely didn't respond. Daniel looked at Mills, who looked deflated and scared.

"Things were cooking along nicely until you put this plan into action. Something to think about while you're rotting in prison," Daniel said.

"It would have taken forever," Greely stated.

"And you might have missed out on the chance to sit at the big table. Where is the last convoy headed, Jackson? The least you can do is salvage a speck of dignity from this mess you've created."

"You can kiss my—"

A single gunshot erupted from Daniel's rifle, catching Greely under the nose and blasting the back of his head into the bushes behind him. He remained upright in the chair for a moment before toppling sideways. Mills' wife and two daughters screamed uncontrollably as Owen Mills tried to launch himself at Daniel.

"Time to rearrange the furniture. I want him turned to face the ladies," he said.

Daniel slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked behind Mills, grabbing him around the neck with his forearm.

"Swing the chair around," he told Munoz.

Once Mills faced the pool, Daniel released his forearm and leaned close to Mills' right ear.

"I can't kill you because you appear to be the only one left that can identify the convoy. Tell me where it's headed, and my team will leave your family unharmed."

"I can't dishonor the people who sacrificed for our cause. I won't."

"That's a lofty thing to hear from someone living in a 15,000-square-foot lakeside mansion. I think you're full of shit, so I'm going to help you understand the true meaning of the word sacrifice. You get to pick which one of these courageous ladies pays the ultimate price for the cause you're defending."

"You fucking psychopath! My family has nothing to do with this!"

Daniel slapped him and screamed back. "They have everything to do with this! Your suicide bomb shattered dozens of families!"

"What is he talking about, Owen?" Sue Ellen yelled hysterically.

"They had to be sacrificed for America," Mills said.

"You're pretty big on sacrificing the people dedicated to your cause. Hacker Valley, the laboratory staff, Benjamin Young. Am I missing anyone?"

Daniel turned to the family standing beside the pool. "Stand them up straight!"

"Daniel, maybe we should just focus on Mills," Fayed said quietly.

"I'm done with fuckers like this. Sitting back sipping scotch while his expendables make history. I need to make sure none of his DNA leaves the estate," Daniel said, pointing his rifle at the two daughters.

The girls screamed, and Sue Ellen Mills nearly fell into the pool trying to escape Munoz's grasp to get between Daniel's rifle and her children. He was starting to feel really lightheaded and could barely raise the rifle with his left arm.

"We need to get you some medical attention," Fayed whispered. "You’re starting to worry me."

Daniel cleared the haziness. He was going to finish this right here, right now. He wasn't sure why this was taking him so long.

"I'm fine. Mills, by the count of three, or I get to choose," he said.

"I can't do that," Mills screeched.

"Do what? Pick which one we shoot, or tell me where the convoy is headed?"

"I can't do either," he sobbed.

"Honey, just tell them what they want to know. Please!" his wife pleaded.

Daniel engaged the safety on his rifle and threw it to the stone patio behind him. He removed his pistol from a concealed belt holster and aimed it to the left of Sue Ellen's head. He had no intention of shooting her, but he was losing control of the situation. He was also starting to feel short of breath, which he knew was a symptom of progressive blood loss. He wouldn't be able to stand for very long. Maybe he wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain to make these decisions. He didn't know. All he cared about was extracting the information and getting back to his life with Jessica.

For a brief moment, he lined the pistol's sights up on Sue Ellen's face. Maybe shooting her in the face would get Mills to reveal the convoy's destination. He didn't want to do that, but his finger added pressure to the trigger. He became tunnel focused on her and no longer heard the kids screaming and crying. Mills' pleading faded as he moved the trigger closer to its eight-pound pressure release. He could no longer guarantee that he wouldn't shoot her. Munoz's face appeared in the pistol's sight picture.

"Danny, you don't have to do this. Fayed can handle it," Munoz said.

Jeffrey Munoz had placed himself between Mills' wife and the barrel of the gun. Daniel squinted and realized that he needed to let this go. Munoz had stood in formation next to Daniel on their first day at Sanderson's experimental training camp in Colorado. He was one of the few surviving members of the original Black Flag program, and one of the few people that truly understood how Daniel's mind worked. Now he owed Munoz another favor. He lowered the pistol and turned to Fayed.

"He's all yours. Melendez, secure the family comfortably in the house."

"Thank you. Thank you," Mills muttered.

Fayed patted Daniel on the shoulder and approached Mills. Daniel stared out at the lake, shaking from the realization that he had been pulled back from the edge of the darkest hole he had ever seen. If Munoz hadn't intervened, he would have worked his way down the line until Mills started talking. He might not have stopped at that point. Jessica would have never forgiven him for executing children. He wished he could blame what almost happened on the blood loss, but he knew better.

Sanderson had awoken a menacing darkness deep inside of him. He'd drawn on its energy to survive his undercover assignment in Serbia, but it came with a price. It would never go dormant again, and it was always there, faintly whispering to him. Today it had risen up and screamed at him. Fayed stood behind Mills and placed his hands on the man's shoulders, pressing downward. He leaned down and spoke loudly enough to jar Daniel back into the moment.

"Don't thank him yet. Here's how it works. If you don't tell me the convoy's destination right now, I'm going to march you naked into the kitchen and sit you down on the front burner of that beautiful, stainless-steel Viking stove. Then, I'll turn the oven to broil and stuff your legs inside, jamming them in place with the door. We'll spend the next ten minutes testing the front burner settings, while broiling the flesh off your feet. I'm not kidding about this."

Mills looked horrified and gasped for breath.

"What is the convoy's final target?" Daniel said.

Deflated and scared, he blubbered, "The Capitol Building. I…uh…donated several million dollars to the right campaigns and called in the favor. Three semi-trucks with Arrowhead Water logos delivered the bottles fifty minutes ago. Restaurant Associates accepted the shipment. They handle the Capitol Building's dining and concessions. Can I see my family now?"

Daniel nodded to Fayed, who removed his hands from Mills' shoulders. Owen Mills stood on shaky legs, taking a few steps forward. He avoided eye contact, taking a path around Daniel that brought him close to the pool's edge. Daniel raised his pistol and fired two bullets into the CEO of Crystal Source, knocking him into the pool. He landed on his back, with his arms extended sideways. A crimson geyser exploded upward from the pool as his body disappeared underneath the dark water. He didn't wait to see if the body resurfaced. The dark whispering went silent for now.

"He deserved a lot worse," Fayed said.

"I agree, but we don't have the time. The feds will show up at any second, and I had no intention of losing any of these guys to an army of lawyers. Grab Tariq's gear. Berg's guy took a serious risk getting this gear to us. We roll in thirty seconds," Daniel said.

"I'll meet the team out front," he said and started removing Tariq's vest.

"Should we bring him along? I hate to leave him here, scattered among these criminals," Daniel said.

"Tariq's corpse is the last thing we need to be hauling around in a car. Sanderson can straighten this out with the FBI," Fayed said.

"Speak of the devil," Daniel said.

He removed a satellite phone from one of the magazine pouches and answered the call.

"Good timing. We just finished cocktails."

"Don't fuck with me right now. I can never tell if you're fucking with me. Did you get the information?"

"Still on the run?"

"Daniel, I need to make a few very important phone calls. Important to you and important to me. Cut the shit for once," Sanderson said.

Daniel could tell from the sound quality that he was on the road. For some reason, the image of Sanderson fleeing in a gypsy caravan made him happy.

"The Capitol Building. Delivered fifty minutes ago by three semi-trailers with Arrowhead logos. Tariq is dead."

"Jesus. I'm really sorry to hear that. Fayed's Middle East group took a beating. All right. You need to stay off the grid until further notice. Escape and evade. We're still on the FBI's shit list," Sanderson said.

"I assume you can fix that?"

"I'm working on a plan."

"You need to work fast because I'm going to require hospitalization within the next fifteen minutes. I've lost too much blood to ride it out."

"Get yourself to an ER. I'll have this squared away soon enough."

"That would sound more encouraging to me if I didn't suspect you were driving at breakneck speed toward some dingy hideout in Neuquén right now."

"Have a little faith. When have I ever let you down?"

Daniel didn't say a word. He waited for Sanderson to speak.

"All right. Don't answer that question. You'll be back in South Carolina with Jessica by…tomorrow," Sanderson said.

"I've heard that before."

Chapter 58

Frederick Shelby walked with two Secret Service agents through the walkway connected to the Oval Office by a hidden door located at the eleven o'clock position facing directly north of the president's office. The other hidden door led to his secretary's office. Shelby was surprised when the agents continued past the door and took him toward the hallway leading deeper into the West Wing. He passed two officers from the Secret Service's Uniformed Division manning a security checkpoint at the entrance to the hallway. With a simple nod, the agents passed through the checkpoint, along with Shelby.

The agents opened the first door on the left, which led into the president's study. Shelby nodded at the agents and entered, surprised to see Major General Bob Kearney and Lieutenant General Frank Gordon, both wearing headsets, seated in front of two flat-screen monitors and a small array of computer equipment. The president sat at his desk, facing the screens, with Jacob Remy watching over the generals' shoulders. The door closed behind him.

"Director Shelby, please take a seat. There's been an interesting development. General Sanderson has been running a ghost operation that tracked the virus canisters to a laboratory in Pennsylvania, just outside of Scranton. It appears that your instincts were right. Here's what we know: Owen Mills, the CEO of Crystal Source water and a major donor to True America, partnered with Jackson Greely and Lee Harding to destabilize our government."

Frederick Shelby took the seat offered to him. The president had skipped to the part he didn't know and suspected that Sharpe had withheld during their hospital chat. Sharpe still didn't trust Shelby, which was perfectly fine with the director. A little distrust increased your longevity on the Hill. He was mostly interested in how Sanderson had managed to earn the president's trust again so quickly. More importantly, Shelby wanted to know who Sanderson had used to neatly wrap this present and hand it to the president. Of the five people sitting in the president's study, only one stood out as odd. General Kearney. He nodded with interest and let the president continue.

"They feigned an attack against the public water supply, which drove bottled water demand through the roof and tanked the public's confidence in our ability to defend against domestic terrorist attacks. Apparently, they used most of the virus to contaminate thousands of bottled water containers, shipping them to various targets along the east coast. One of the targets was the United Nations General Assembly. Sanderson's people stopped that convoy. Another convoy delivered several thousand bottles of contaminated water to the U.S. Capitol Building roughly one hour ago."

"On a Sunday? Directly to the Capitol Building? Mills must have some serious connections," Shelby said, shaking his head.

"Apparently so. Deliveries are normally cleared by the Capitol Police at an offsite delivery center, during the week. I'm sure Mills took advantage of the bottled water shortage to arrange the delivery. With the House and Senate in session, this had the potential to destabilize the legislative branch and trigger a coup. Picture every Congressman and Senator sipping from one of True America's poisoned bottles. Can you imagine the worldwide impact if these attacks had been successful? This could have shattered the world order."

Shelby bit his tongue. The plan itself was diabolical, but he could see where the president was going with this. Destabilizing the government. Coup d'état. World order. All big words he would use on camera to make True America sound like the greatest threat to humanity since the Nazis. More like the greatest threat to the monopoly his political party now enjoyed in D.C.

"We're tracking four additional convoys right now. One of them is headed up Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. The NSA is tracking this live. NYPD is already following the trucks in unmarked cars. We'd like to determine the convoy's ultimate destination before Emergency Services takes them down. We have another convoy passing through Parsippany, headed east along Interstate Eighty. Probably headed to New York City. The two remaining convoys are further out, headed south along Interstate 476. One just outside of Philadelphia and the other approaching Allentown. We think these are headed toward the D.C. area. General Gordon has a helicopter strike force headed for the northernmost convoy. Philadelphia police will stop the other before it enters the city."

Since his agency's law enforcement services clearly weren't needed at the moment, Shelby didn't pay much attention to what the president said. His mind scrambled to process the bigger picture. Shelby did his best not to grin, as the sheer audacity of Greely's plan unfolded in his mind. He couldn't think of two groups reviled by more Americans right now than the United States Congress and the United Nations.

Unleashing the Zulu virus on them was a horrifying and repugnant act of terrorism, but on some deep level, Shelby was willing to bet that the attacks would have resonated with many Americans. According to polls, the number of Americans who closely identified with True America's core message grew larger every day. A major part of their message centered on the sad state of politics in D.C. and the need to enforce a more isolationist foreign affairs policy. This was a desperate gamble by Greely and Harding. Despite most Americans' daily grumblings about politicians, the horrific reality of their act would have driven True America's support base into the ground. The success of Greely's plan to send America a wakeup call would have destroyed the mainstream movement.

"Director Shelby?"

"Sorry, Mr. President. I'm just trying to absorb the scale and complexity of their plot. This is unbelievable."

"It's hard to comprehend. By now, you're probably wondering why I've called you in here. Today's events will require special handling by someone I can trust. Sanderson has given us the location of the laboratory used to contaminate the bottles. It's about an hour out of Scranton. I want your people to get there first. You can coordinate with the Pennsylvania Department of Health to get a HAZMAT team to assist your people on-site. I also want the FBI to take charge at the White Mills distribution plant in Honesdale. Sanderson's people stopped the final convoy at one of the warehouses and left quite a mess. State and local police have already responded to the scene, but I don't trust them with the evidence. This is too important."

"I'll send teams to each location immediately, Mr. President. What about Mills or Greely?"

The president looked at Jacob Remy for guidance and also locked eyes with General Kearney.

"Owen Mills, Jackson Greely and Lee Harding are dead. Owen Mills owns a massive estate on Lake Wallenpaupack, right outside of Honesdale. Their bodies can be found near the pool toward the back of the estate. No local police response has been detected in that area, so it appears that Sanderson's attack on the estate went unnoticed. I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible for now."

"How many bodies are we talking about? I can't imagine they were hanging out alone," Shelby said.

"About twenty. One of them belongs to Sanderson's team."

"Twenty bodies? Exactly what are my people expected to do at the estate?"

"Keep local law enforcement away until we can get a Special Operations strike force up there. Send a small group," the president said.

Shelby understood immediately. Later today, General Gordon would land several helicopters at the estate, creating enough mayhem to explain the sudden appearance of twenty bodies. He'd play along with that, in the interest of national security.

"That sounds easy enough."

"There's one more thing. I need you to remove any and all pressure on Sanderson's people."

"Already done, Mr. President. I revoked the warrants and released the agents being held in Brooklyn. I've also removed them from the wanted lists. After examining the evidence gathered by Task Force Scorpion and speaking with Special Agent Sharpe, I've concluded that Sanderson had been working in good faith, on the nation's behalf, despite his methods. The digital recordings of the NCTC watch floor confirm that Callie Stewart indeed sacrificed herself, along with others, while trying to stop the suicide bombing," Sanderson said.

"Frankly, I'm relieved to hear that this is your independent conclusion. We've invested an inordinate amount of trust in Sanderson's word."

"Don't get me wrong, Mr. President. Sanderson is a dangerous character. I don't fully trust him, but based on the evidence, his organization's assistance was instrumental to stopping the final stage of Greely's plan. My task force was on the verge of a breakthrough, which is why NCTC was targeted. They had unofficially concluded that the Fort Meade attack had been orchestrated to fail and that the Hacker Valley compound had been filled with weekend warriors having little to do with True America. Sanderson's information serves to reinforce the task force's belief that Greely's splinter group was behind everything. Mills, the bottled water connection…it all makes sense. I imagine the remaining four targets will directly support Greely's extreme version of the True America manifesto."

"In my opinion, the True America manifesto is a clear and present danger to the stability of the United States," Jacob Remy offered.

Here we go, Shelby thought. The idea of a splinter cell didn't sit well with the president's chief of staff.

"I agree. Which is why I think we got lucky in Pennsylvania. The last thing this country needed was a public trial of Greely, Harding and this Mills character. They would have become martyrs for the True America political movement. Sanderson did us a huge favor. I just hope he left us enough evidence to track down the rest of Greely's people. I'd like a solid link back to the NCTC bombing. The families of the victims deserve the closure."

Jacob Remy looked like he was about to make a point, when General Kearney turned around and made an announcement.

"Mr. President, NYPD just stopped the Manhattan convoy at the GE Building loading docks. The driver was killed in a brief firefight."

"Thank you, General."

Frederick Shelby added this target to his mental calculation. Was NBC the target? NBC owned more than half of the seventy-story building, housing most of its corporate offices and studios there. Greely despised the media, on both sides of the political spectrum. Shelby wouldn't be the least bit surprised if the next convoy stopped at the News Corporation Building to deliver some contaminated water to Rupert Murdoch's empire. Knowing three out of the six locations, he could probably guess where the rest of the convoys were headed. He'd be willing to bet his job on the likelihood that one of the convoys was headed to lower Manhattan. Greely and Harding had clamored for the public overthrow of Wall Street well before it was cool to hate Wall Street executives. The convoy headed to Allentown would probably turn east on Interstate 78, unless General Gordon's commandos reached it first.

"General Gordon, how long until your air units intercept the northernmost convoy?" the president asked.

"Just inside of twenty minutes. We're trying to coordinate this for an open stretch of road with limited traffic. It might happen after Allentown."

"Thank you, General. Jacob, Frederick, will you follow me into the Oval Office for a moment?"

Shelby followed Remy into the Oval Office, past a seasoned regular Secret Service agent. When the door shut behind him, the president turned and leaned his back against the front of his desk. There was no invitation to sit.

"What exactly did your task force uncover regarding Hacker Valley? I was told by General Gordon that the compound was filled with heavily armed domestic terror cells. This is important. I'm about to level some heavy accusations against True America, and I need us to be on the same page. What leads you to suspect that Hacker Valley was some sort of diversion?"

"Very few of the militants—"

"Terrorists," the president corrected.

"Very few of the terrorists captured or killed fit the profile of an active True America operative. This could have been a recruiting drive for True America, but I feel pretty confident in my assessment that the compound had been stuffed with anti-government weekend warriors in order to send us in the wrong direction. I also have strong reason to believe that the attack on Fort Meade was orchestrated to make it look like our public water supply was in jeopardy. The sergeant involved in the shooting has disappeared, and his vacation schedule fits the profile of every True America operative we've recovered. And I don't think it's a coincidence that NCTC was hit soon after Special Agent O'Reilly placed a call to Laurel's chief of police to check the specifics of his vacation."

"This is all very compelling, Director, and I'm sure you'll get this all sorted out later, but right now you're missing the bigger picture."

"I don't understand, Mr. President," Shelby said, fully understanding exactly what was headed his way.

"I'm not convinced this is the end of True America's plot against the government, and I have no intention of waiting around for round two. Starting tomorrow, we will systematically dismantle True America."

"I'm not sure there's anything left to dismantle. Their training compound has been destroyed. Their plan has been stopped cold; most of the experienced personnel have been killed or captured and the three ringleaders are dead. Do we have new information from Sanderson or the CIA?"

"Don't play word games with me, Director. I expect your agency to assist the Department of Justice in the execution of warrants against all of True America. I've authorized the attorney general to start the process. We'll begin right here in D.C. while the embers are still hot."

"I don't appreciate your analogy, Mr. President, and I think you're jumping the gun on this. There's not enough evidence to sustain your course of action in the long run. At least at this point. I can assure you that my agency will conduct an extremely thorough investiga—"

"I'm not waiting around for six months while you assemble data and question thousands of witnesses. We need to strike this organization down now."

"While the public is still outraged and confused? I'll restructure Task Force Scorpion to address these investigative needs, and put them to work immediately. We'll figure out exactly what happened, starting with Al Qaeda in Europe."

"I don't feel like I'm making myself clear…"

"Mr. President, you have made yourself abundantly clear. I have just been trying to tactfully steer you away from a disastrous course of action. You cannot take advantage of the situation to flush True America down the toilet. This is a political attack and little more."

"The movement's founding fathers tried to poison thousands of Americans in an unholy alliance with Al Qaeda!" the president shouted.

"And these founding fathers have been pariahs within the mainstream True America movement for years. They've been an embarrassment…relegated to speaking to libertarian gatherings at the Howard Johnson's or ranting about government intervention at county fairs. They're irrelevant within the movement. This whole nightmare was dreamed up by two dried-up, desperate hacks unable to come to terms with the fact that the movement they started thirty years ago has been succeeding without their help for the past decade. Take a look at the targets. The United Nations. Congress. NBC. This is nothing more than two highly persuasive lunatics taking one last swing at a revolutionary wet dream they had in the seventies."

"It's still their movement, and I have no intention of waiting around for the rest of Greely's snakes to bite," the president barked.

"Don't expect my agents to participate in a political coup."

"If I can't count on you to rally FBI support, I'll find someone who can."

"Good luck, Mr. President. Oh, if I remember correctly, we still have a Black Hawk helicopter sitting on the ground inside Argentina, among other things," Shelby reminded him.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all, Mr. President. I'm just reminding you of the multitude of domestic and international laws you've violated over the past few weeks, directly or indirectly. If that's it for now, I'd like to contact my task force in Pennsylvania. We wouldn't want any local cops arriving at Mills' estate before the Special Operations road show arrives. I'll show myself out," he said and turned for the hidden door leading to the hallway.

Chapter 59

Staff Sergeant William Gaskey revved the GAU-2/A 7.62mm Minigun, spinning its six barrels at nearly ten revolutions per second. His spade grips had been rigged with a sealed thumb switch, which powered the gun drive motor without engaging the feeder system or ammunition booster motor. With the barrels rotating, he could depress either of the two triggers attached to the grips and instantly deliver a virtual wall of steel. The electrically driven, air-cooled machine gun could fire up to fifty 7.62mm rounds per second at a sustained rate, utterly devastating anything in its sights.

Two days ago, he had put the gun to work against a terrorist compound in West Virginia. Today he would use the gun to stop a semi-trailer on the highway. A convoy of trucks had just run a hastily assembled local police roadblock near Allentown, headed full speed through civilian traffic. The past week had been the strangest of his career. He much preferred Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) missions or Special Operations pickups in Iraq or Afghanistan. Something didn't sit right with him about using these helicopters on U.S. soil.

"Starboard gun. On my command. Two-second burst into the lead truck. Direct your fire at the cabin," echoed his headset.

"This is Sierra Gun. Two-second burst. On your command," he replied.

He felt the twenty-ton MH-53M Pavelow bank to the right and drop at the same time, commencing its gun run. His stomach tightened in response to the sudden downward pitch, and he tightened his grip on the gun handle, ready to disable the tractor-trailer. The interstate suddenly appeared in his view, along with two dark green semi-trailers, spaced evenly along the road. Three of the five trucks in the original convoy had stopped after the lead truck crashed and rammed through two Allentown cruisers at the first roadblock. According to the latest intelligence, only the lead driver was affiliated with the terrorists, so they would limit the engagement to the first truck.

The interstate behind the trucks was clear of civilian traffic. Several police vehicles trailed the convoy at a safe distance. He assumed the pilots had confirmed that the interstate was clear of oncoming traffic. The helicopter dropped nearly even with the road and sped ahead of the first truck, veering left for a few seconds, before turning hard right on what appeared to be a collision course with the lead vehicle in the convoy. He placed the driver's side door in the center of his gun's iron reticle.

"Starboard gun. Two-second burst. Fire."

Brandon Osborne put his book down and closed his eyes. He'd been in the car for over an hour and was already bored out his mind. They were headed to see his grandparents in Phillipsburg, which wasn't too much further down the interstate. They normally visited for a mid-afternoon lunch, but his grandparents had a church function lasting until two, so they had decided on dinner. Their late start meant that Brandon wouldn't get back to Scranton until nine. He'd miss half of his Sunday night Call of Duty Three game. Every Sunday night, starting at eight, at least a dozen of his school friends played Call of Duty Three in multiplayer mode through Xbox Live. They usually played until ten, but sometimes continued beyond that. Brandon could think of no better way to start his school week.

He knew this drive well, since they made the trip at least twice a month. He really enjoyed these trips, especially when his grandfather hit the Pabst Blue Ribbon a little harder than usual. The World War II stories started to surface, and they increased in detail and color in proportion to the empty cans sitting on the kitchen counter. He had fought on Guadalcanal and several Pacific beaches with the 1st Marine Division, somehow miraculously avoiding tropical diseases and Japanese bullets until Peleliu.

His luck had run out on the approach to the beach. He was hit in the shoulder by a Japanese shell fragment while manning the amphibious assault vehicle's .30-caliber machine gun, and never made it to the beach with his platoon. He called it bad luck, but Grandma always reminded him that he might not be here today if he had made it to the beach. Over half of his platoon was killed in the fighting on Peleliu, which lasted over a month. He always wondered what his grandpa would think of the Call of Duty games. He'd probably think they were nonsense.

Brandon felt the minivan start its turn on the side of an elevated hill that overlooked Central Valley and a bright red farmhouse. A deep rumbling, followed by a muted buzz-saw sound filled his ears, causing him to look out of the back window of their minivan. He saw the front of a green-colored truck disintegrate into a storm of sparks, glass fragments and twisted metal. A massive helicopter crossed in front of the truck, obscuring his view of the carnage for a second. Just as the helicopter cleared the truck, his view was cut off by the hill on the inside of the turn.

"Holy fucking shit! Did you see that?" he yelled.

"Brandon! Watch your mouth! What the hell is wrong with you?" his mother yelled from the front seat.

"Did you see that?"

"See what?" his father demanded, glaring at him through the rearview mirror.

"A helicopter just crossed the road at ground level. It shot a semi-truck to pieces! You have to go back!"

"I've had enough of those video games. All they do is talk about helicopters and shooting. I don't know what has gotten into you, but you can forget about that stupid video game tonight!" his mother said.

"I'm not making this up," he said, scanning the skies out of the minivan's windows.

"I don't want to hear another word from you until we reach your grandparents' house," his father said.

A few minutes later, they approached a roadblock that spanned both sides of the interstate and consisted of at least twenty police cars. Heavily armed police officers clad in camouflage and body armor removed three layers of spike strips set on the road at least fifty yards in front of the roadblock. They signaled for the minivan to proceed, and as they approached the cars, one of them moved back to let them through. His father lowered his window.

"What's going on, Officer?" he said to a trooper wearing the traditional gray Mounties hat who approached the car.

"We have a high-speed chase out of Harrisburg just past Allentown. Couple of crazies robbed a convenience store. We're expecting them soon, so I need you to move out of the area. You're clear to proceed, sir."

"Were they using helicopters to track the car?"

"What makes you say that?" the trooper asked.

"Nothing. My son thought he spotted one. Good luck, Officer."

The state trooper nodded, and the minivan eased forward.

"What kind of a helicopter did you think you saw?" his dad said.

"A massive gray helicopter with fuel pods and a nose refueling probe. Dad, I'm not kidding about this. It tore the cab to pieces," Brandon stated emphatically.

"You don't seriously believe this, do you?" his wife countered.

"I don't know," his father said. "Something's going on back there. Take a look in the distance."

Brandon turned his head again and saw a thick black column of smoke rising above the hills they had just driven through.

Chapter 60

Jessica sat up in the vinyl chair placed in Daniel's sparse hospital room. Daniel had been transferred from the emergency ward less than an hour ago, after they were reasonably sure that his condition had been stabilized. The bullet had passed through his shoulder unhindered, tearing through a few ligaments, but causing no foreseeable long-term damage. The real problem stemmed from his blood loss, which had been categorized as a Class III hemorrhage, requiring aggressive fluid resuscitation and blood transfusions immediately upon arrival. By the time she'd reached the ER, Daniel was still deep in shock and nearly incoherent. The ER doctor estimated that he had lost more than thirty percent of his blood in the "shooting accident."

She heard footsteps approaching the room and tensed slightly. Jessica's hearing had slowly improved over the past several hours, and the ringing had almost subsided, but her ears were still a long way from a full recovery. She was slightly tense, since the ER staff said that Daniel would have to provide a statement to the police. This was standard procedure for any injury involving a firearm. Fortunately, the local police were thoroughly occupied with some kind of major incident at a local business and couldn't take the statement until tomorrow. She had a plan to get him out of here before the police arrived.

Sanderson had assured them that everything had been squared away with the FBI, but they were leery of local police involvement. Neither of them was one hundred percent sure what a background check might reveal about Daniel's involvement in the regrettable incident in Silver Spring, Maryland, two years ago. Their presidential immunity agreement didn't extend to local and state government, though they had been reasonably assured that most jurisdictions would comply. Still, she'd prefer not to test those waters while Daniel was relatively immobile. A short blond nurse entered the room, holding her hand out to stop whoever had followed her.

"Hold on, gentlemen. Mrs. Petrovich? I have two FBI agents who would like to speak with you and your husband. I can request that they return tomorrow morning if you want," she said.

"My husband has had a long day. He needs to rest. I'd prefer if they came back tomorrow," she said, worried that something else had changed in D.C.

"We were sent by Deputy Director Sanderson," someone interrupted from the hallway.

She recognized Melendez's voice.

"All right. You can let them in," Jessica said.

"Are you sure?" the nurse responded.

"Very sure. Thank you for running interference," Jessica said.

"My pleasure. Go ahead, gentlemen, but if you get out of line, I'll have you removed," the nurse said, winking at Jessica.

Melendez and Munoz stepped inside the room and walked past the empty bed closest to the door. They were dressed in the same clothes they had been wearing that morning.

"You guys are getting a little brazen with the FBI badges," she said.

"We're thinking about joining the FBI. Sanderson should be able to hook that up from what I understand."

"I'm sure they'd be really happy to have you after the stunt you pulled in Stamford. Plus, the badge thing would get old really quick," Jessica said.

"Sanderson and Director Shelby apparently have an understanding," Munoz said.

"I'll believe that when I see the two of them shaking hands," Jessica said.

"How's he doing?" Melendez asked.

"Much better. He'll need some surgery to repair the ligaments damaged by the bullet, but beyond that, he should be back on his feet by tomorrow."

"Good deal. We were worried," Munoz said.

"Thank you for bringing him to the ER instead of the house. Another fifteen minutes driving around could have killed him. He'd lost too much blood at that point. The two of you are making a career out of saving our asses," she said.

"It never seems to end," Munoz said.

"You just make sure those kids of yours hear the stories about Uncle Jeff and Uncle Rico," Melendez said.

Munoz looked at him like he was crazy.

"What the fuck kind of a comment was that?" Munoz muttered.

"Do you know something I don't know?" Jessica said.

"No. I was just saying, that if they ever have kids, they should…I was just making a joke. Fuck."

"Uncle Rico and Uncle Jeff? Did we miss the wedding?" Daniel said, without opening his eyes.

"Well, there he is. Back from the dead when there's a joke to be made," Melendez said.

"Please excuse my partner…my colleague. Damn it, Melendez!" Munoz said.

"The two of you do make a nice couple," Jessica said.

Munoz shook his head. "I'm going to miss having the two of you around, despite the incessantly inappropriate humor."

"Who says we're going anywhere?" Jessica said.

"Sanderson doesn't expect you to return to Argentina," Munoz replied.

"Sanderson's right about that. I have no intention of living the rest of my life on Gilligan's Island, but I never said we were finished."

"What about kids and living a peaceful life in a nice family community? Didn't I hear you talk about that before?" Melendez said.

"In due time, Rico. We still have a few loose ends to tie up," Daniel said.

"Srecko?" Munoz said.

"Among others. Until then, nobody is allowed into our residence. We'll be back sooner than you think," Daniel said.

"Sounds good. We're going to hit the road. We have a two-hour drive to Harrisburg in a stolen Suburban packed with automatic weapons and an Osama Bin Laden look-alike. Did I mention the truck was driven by Mexicans? I'm not optimistic about our chances," Munoz said.

"I'm glad I was shot. Make sure to say thank you to Berg's guy," Daniel smirked.

"This is like the start of a bad joke. Two Hispanics, a black and an Arab meet up to trade machine guns in a Walmart parking lot," Jessica said.

They all laughed for a few moments.

"We'll see you in a little while," Jessica said.

Once they were alone, Daniel turned his head slightly and stared at Jessica.

"I need at least a solid month of vacation before heading back down to Argentina," he said.

"A month? I was thinking more like six months."

"Six months sounds nice. I assume we won't be here in the morning?"

"They're headed right back here after they deliver the weapons. The FBI will need to remove you for national security reasons. I doubt the night shift will ask any questions."

"Back to South Carolina?" he asked.

"That could work. I'm sure they have adequate medical facilities in Charleston."

She walked over and kissed his lips, staying there for a few moments before leaning back. He exhaled and closed his eyes.

"I love you."

"I love you more. Rest up. The Mexican connection will be back around one in the morning," she said.

"Two Latinos and Osama Bin Laden traveling through Pennsylvania with the nation on red alert? I hope you have a backup plan."

"I still have my badge and a few wigs in the Cherokee. You'd be surprised how persuasive I can be."

"I'm pretty sure Nurse Ratched has you pegged."

"I checked. Her shift ends at midnight."

Chapter 61

Frederick Shelby sipped his straight black coffee and leaned back in the plush black leather executive chair behind his desk. He raised the volume until the CNN commentator's voice could be easily heard from his desk. The moment of truth was seconds away. He'd either continue his day as FBI director or be summarily dismissed by the White House. He'd already spoken with his lawyer, a good friend and senior partner at an established Washington, D.C., law firm that boasted one of the most successful and robust Public Policy and Law divisions in the country. If summoned, his lawyer would accompany him on the trip. He was apparently no stranger to the inner sanctums of the hill.

"My fellow Americans, I am pleased to inform you that the terrorist threat against our nation's public water supply has been eliminated by federal law enforcement agencies, working in close conjunction with key military units. I understand that the past week has been filled with uncertainty. This attack threatened all of us in a place we consider the safest — our very own homes. Thanks to the tireless effort and courageous sacrifice of our nation's heroes, I can assure you that your town's public water supply is safe. My administration agrees with the Department of Homeland Security's assessment that the threat has been neutralized, in all of its forms, and that your local municipality can commence regular water service effective immediately.

"I know you have many questions, and they will be answered in as much detail as possible during the upcoming weeks. Here's what I can say right now: A rogue, domestic terrorist group acquired the deadly virus from Al Qaeda operatives in the United States. Both the domestic terrorist group and the Al Qaeda cells involved have been neutralized. This represents a major law enforcement victory, in that Al Qaeda's operations in the United States have been destroyed. We'll release more information about the domestic terrorist group in the weeks ahead, though it appears that most of the group was killed or captured during counterterrorism operations yesterday. On a somber note, I can confirm that this group successfully detonated a suicide bomb at the National Counterterrorism Center on the evening of the 28^th, killing 26 people and injuring 62 more. This attack was directed against the task force actively engaged in hunting them down.

"The FBI, supported by the White House and the Department of Justice, will conduct a thorough investigation of the events leading up to the attack, and the declassified results will be released to the public when they have been assembled. I'd ask that you join me in a moment of reflection for the men and women who gave up their lives safeguarding ours."

The president bowed his head, and Shelby followed suit.

"God bless you, and may God bless the United States of America," the president said.

He turned off the flat-screen monitor mounted on the wall in front of his desk and folded his hands. He was impressed with the president. No direct mention of the bottled water conspiracy or the final targets. Police officers successfully stopped the convoy approaching Philadelphia, without killing the driver, who identified the Chinese embassy as the target of the southernmost convoy. Delivery paperwork and a preprogrammed GPS confirmed the driver's statement. New York City Emergency Services officers stopped the second Manhattan convoy at the News Corporation Building, just as Shelby had predicted.

The last convoy's destination remained unknown, since the lead truck was destroyed after a Special Operations helicopter fired over one hundred rounds of 7.62mm ammunition into the cab, causing the rig to swerve off the road and explode. He still wasn't sure exactly why the president had authorized General Gordon to obliterate the truck and destroy critical evidence, but figured it had something to do with his dramatic departure from the Oval Office. Both the president and Jacob Remy looked panicked by his final outburst. The destruction of the truck represented one less piece of evidence connecting the plot to Greely's splinter group, which didn't support the White House's spin against True America. It didn't really matter. The FBI would go to excruciating lengths to investigate the events and provide a concise, detailed account of how Greely's cabal had acquired biological weapons from Al Qaeda and come so close to successfully executing their wild plan.

The president could do whatever he wanted with the results of the investigation, if he was still the president when the final report was issued. Detailed investigations took a long time. Long enough for the American public to forget. Within three months, the outrage would have faded, and the events of the past few days would no longer hold the political capital required to launch an attack on the mainstream True America movement.

His direct line rang, and he examined the caller ID. He smiled and picked up the phone. He didn't bother to identify himself.

"Frankly, I expected a little more fight from the president," Director Shelby said.

"Then I guess you made a lasting impression yesterday," a deep male voice said.

"They'll recover sooner than you might expect. Give them a few days to reorganize…or a few hours," Shelby said.

"I have no doubt they'll be back at our throats shortly, but this gives us more time than we had originally anticipated. I assume the investigation will be a lengthy process?"

"It took the 9/11 Commission nearly nineteen months to release their report. I don't anticipate taking that long, but we can't afford to rush this kind of an investigation. From what I can tell, Greely's plot had roots extending all the way back to Al Qaeda cells in Europe. As you might imagine, I would demand nothing short of the most exhaustive and detailed investigation into a terror attack of this magnitude," Shelby replied.

"And we would expect nothing less from our nation's top law enforcement agent. I foresee an incredible future for your agency, Director. Especially if we continue to build our momentum leading into the 2008 election. With our focus on reshaping the domestic landscape, we see an expanded role for the FBI…especially in the wake of repeated attacks against our nation's great people."

"With more resources and less legal red tape, we could have stopped this conspiracy in its infancy," Shelby said.

"I couldn't agree more. Stopping this heinous attack despite the obstacles placed in your way is a tribute to your leadership. Leadership this nation can't afford to lose."

"I appreciate hearing that and look forward to the days ahead."

"As do we. Thank you for your continued, dedicated service, Director," the voice said, emphasizing the word continued.

"My pleasure. I'll keep you posted."

After disconnecting the call, Shelby leaned back in his chair and stifled a laugh. The politics disgusted him, but he was willing to ride this train a little longer. He had played a long shot, but if True America's candidate won the 2008 election, he'd be in a position to make history for the FBI and the United States. The payoff on this bet was too tempting to ignore, even in the twilight of his career. For the first time in years, he felt there was hope for this nation. He picked up the phone and summoned his secretary. He had a vacancy to fill within the FBI. Associate Executive Assistant Director Ryan Sharpe would lead the National Security Branch's investigation into the events leading to the recent attack against the United States.

Chapter 62

Karl Berg walked into his office and picked up the phone on his desk. He dialed the secretary assigned to him and informed her that he had just arrived. He took a moment to look around his office. Thanks to the events of the past month, he still hadn't found time to unpack even one of the boxes he had dragged here upon his promotion to the National Clandestine Service's (NCS) liaison to the Intelligence Directorate's Weapons, Intelligence, Non-Proliferation and Arms Control Center in late March. He'd spent less than a month in that position before Thomas Manning summarily promoted him to a position that hadn't previously existed within NCS, working as Audra Bauer's deputy assistant. He would retain his duties as the Intelligence Directorate liaison, which appeared to be the only official tasking that came with the promotion at this moment.

This would give him time to put up some shelving and start unearthing his treasures. With the Zulu virus threat finally under wraps, he could start unpacking his boxes. Apparently, he wouldn't have to move again. His promotion didn't come with a new office in the "executive" zone, which suited him fine, though he had been pleasantly surprised with Thomas Manning and their director. He had expected handcuffs instead of a promotion.

He got up and started to survey the stacks of boxes covering his vinyl couch and black lacquer coffee table. The line from his secretary buzzed, and he answered it.

"Good morning, Mr. Berg. I have Darryl Jackson on the line?"

"Thank you. Put him through."

The line beeped.

"Darryl. How's my favorite go-to guy?"

"If you know someone else with access to weapons, please feel free to start using him. I'm fucking exhausted from cleaning weapons all night."

"They had a rough time up there," Berg said.

"I could tell. One of the rifles was covered in blood. How bad was it?"

"One KIA. I can't thank you enough for the help. You're one of the unsung heroes in this drama."

"That seems to be the story of my life. Hey, are you going to answer my wife's email or what? She still hasn't figured out that I've been flying all over the country delivering illegal arms shipments. Her invitation could be revoked at any moment," Jackson said.

"I'm kind of hurt that she didn't call. An email invitation to dinner seems impersonal," he joked.

"A phone call? I don't think she planned to talk to you at dinner! I just assumed she'd seat you on the deck. Baby steps, my friend. She doesn't forgive easily."

"As long as she's serving me the same food you're eating, I'll eat in the garage. I'll send her my acceptance as soon as we get off the phone and pick out a rare Bordeaux."

"Cheryl collects vintage Bordeaux."

"I guarantee she won't have this bottle. It was never for sale," Berg said.

"Sounds like you're good at taking baby steps. I have to go. I'm still dealing with the fallout from the Kazakhstan fiasco, which could be smoothed over if the CIA ponied up the money to replace the weapons that were lost…in the direct interest of national security?"

"I'm sure something could be arranged," Berg said.

"Then let's arrange it. I have two daughters in college and can't afford to buy Brown River several new rifles."

"A shipment of rifles shouldn't be difficult."

"Maybe I should take cash. I don't need one of your buried Cold War stashes."

"That hurt my feelings, Darryl."

"I'll fax you the bill. Catch you later, Karl."

Karl Berg hung up the phone and sat on the edge of his desk, staring at the boxes again. His office could always wait.