Extraordinary Retribution

41

A soft breeze danced through the pines in the Catskill Mountains, ruffling the green needles and whispering gently over the bubbling noises of a meandering creek. A small bird hopped across exposed rocks in the stream, its head sharply angling one way and then the next, its feathers beaded with moisture. The sunlight refracted through the drops and scattered as from a jewel. After skipping over several stones, the bird took flight over the moss-covered bank and climbed sharply. Gliding over the pine-tops, it oriented toward an opening in the trees ahead of it, attracted by a plume of black smoke rising from the clearing.

As it neared the hole in the forest, flames could be seen licking upward from an overturned vehicle next to a house. The metal was warped and scattered across a yard, and the house itself appeared damaged. The bird hesitated, then entered a circling pattern over the structure, gazing down for possible sources of food. Above the sounds of the wind, and the crackling of fire and popping of heated metal, another set of sounds jutted into the sky. Screams.

Inside the wrecked home, a naked man was strapped to a chair. His body was bloodied, a deep gash across his upper chest and right shoulder. Soot and dirt coated his skin. Urine and feces coated the seat. The room stank of waste, blood, and charred flesh.

Standing beside him was another man, uninjured, blond and lean, a bamboo branch in his hand. As he paced around the seated figure, he broke splinters from the stick. His gait was irregular, evincing signs of a recent injury barely healed. As he came around to the front of the chair, he glanced down at the immobilized, clamped hands of his prisoner, then jammed a sharp splinter underneath the man’s bloodied fingernails.

The man screamed, then cursed his tormenter.

“Go fuck yourself!” He spit blood and saliva as he slurred his words, his mouth bruised and swollen, showing signs of further brutality. Burn marks were on his face and in one of his eyes. From the burned eye, a constant stream of tears fell. “Go ahead, use all that shit,” he said, gesturing with his head toward a tray filled with knives, electric props, and other implements of pain. “It won’t do any good. You won’t get their location from me.”

“Why are you so loyal?” the blond man asked as he fingered a curved hook. “I don’t want to do this. Torture is why I’m here, why you will die today. I would rather kill you quickly. But I have to finish this. Others must pay the price.” He flipped the hook to the other hand, and the tortured man flinched. “You were the liaison, Miller. You have the records. You know where they are hiding. I’ve searched the known locations. They aren’t there.” He leaned the hook close to the man’s penis, touching its tip. “Where are they hiding, Miller?”

“Fuck you!”

A car could be heard pulling up outside the house. The blond man tossed the hook on the table, removed a gun from his belt, and moved stealthily to investigate. Miller closed his eyes, panting, and then called out madly.

“Help me! I’m back here! He’s killing me!” His cries fell flatly to silence.

A few seconds later, a car trunk slammed shut, and the blond man was back. The sounds of a heavy cart rumbling across the wooden floors of the cabin could be heard. Miller glanced up at his torturer, his eyes having acquired a yellowed hue. The blond man spoke.

“This isn’t working. We’ll have to try something different.”

A thin and sickly man stepped into the room. He pushed a rattling cart piled with multiple objects. Miller’s eyes gravitated to several drills and syringes, and paused over a box that looked like some sort of power supply. The emaciated form pulled a lab coat from a box on the side and slipped into it. He nodded at the blond man, who stepped back and slightly out of Miller’s range of sight.

“I’ll need your services after all,” said the wraith.

“Excellent. It’s good to be paid in full,” said the new arrival. He stepped closer to Miller and bent his head to the prisoner. “Mr. Miller, I believe? I’m Doctor Driesman,” began the thin man.

“Fuck you, too.”

The doctor nodded. “I can see why pain has failed. His defiance is heavily fueled by an innate hostility. Gives him strength.” The doctor grabbed what looked like a helmet from the cart, along with a heavily weighted stand. In a series of quick and sure movements, he affixed the helmet to the stand, wheeled it behind Miller, lowered the metal cap over Miller’s head, and latched the cap securely to his head. Miller sought to avoid the device, but he was restrained too well, and the doctor too practiced in his movements.

“This place is not sterile,” said the doctor absentmindedly. He brought the cart alongside the chair and adjusted a floor lamp to shine on Miller’s head.

“An infection won’t matter,” said the wraith. “He will be dead soon.”

“Yes, I assumed.” He released two plates from the cranial cap, leaving behind straps of metal that encircled Miller’s skull but that exposed large regions of his head. He began to press firmly through the hair to the bone underneath, probing.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” said Miller, trying to shake his body away from the man and his fingers.

The doctor spoke flatly as he examined the skull. “Please stop struggling. The only sensory neurons are in the scalp, not below. The pain will be minimal if you cooperate.”

“What pain?”

“From the holes I’ll drill in your skull.”

Miller began a spasmodic thrashing. Even with his subject so tightly restrained, the doctor had to step slightly to the side to avoid being inadvertently jostled. He pulled out several metallic clamps and affixed them to Miller’s arms, legs, and neck. Once he had tightened the screws on the plates, Miller was completely immobilized.

“There, now you’re in nice and tight.”

“You sick fucks!” Miller spat out.

“Please, I’m a specialist, hired at a premium for extractions.” The doctor began to remove items from the cart: scissors, a razor, a drill.

“Do you think you’ll scare me with this? He’s going to kill me anyway. I can take the pain. I’m not talking, so fuck you.”

“The intention is not to inflict pain, Mr. Miller,” said the doctor, as he began to snip away at the hair poking through the openings in the cap. “My client clearly has examined that route to no avail. But, in the end, you will talk. There is no doubt about that.”

“Like hell I will.”

The doctor sighed as he snipped down close to the skin. “It’s the same every time. Everyone believes that they have free will.” He replaced the scissors on the table and removed a large razor and shaving cream. “The brain is a machine, Mr. Miller. We often have trouble grasping the true significance of this because we arrogantly ascribe cosmic significance to our thoughts, our sense of self.” Applying the cream, he began to shave the skull. “But our thoughts come from cells surrounded by vessels, bathed in nutrients. They are networks of electrochemical signals. They follow the laws of biochemistry and physics. I give you a pharmacological compound — LSD, say — and suddenly your sense of the world and yourself is very, very different. The universe hasn’t changed, only the functioning of the machine called your brain. Like the heart, the stomach, the eye, the liver — an organic machine. It’s all really quite amazing, actually. We know a lot about how these organs work. We have learned a lot about the brain.”

The doctor placed the razor on the cart and picked up a syringe. He began short injections into the exposed scalp. Miller hardly winced.

“Some anesthetic, Mr. Miller, so that you don’t go into shock from the boring. We need you conscious.”

“He’ll be able to answer questions directly?” asked the blond man.

The doctor nodded. “Nothing fancy. Conversational. You ask, and he’ll answer.”

“You’ll get nothing!” screamed Miller.

The doctor smiled. “Given all the personality and perceptual changes from drugs and brain injuries studied in the medical literature, it’s amazing it took as long as it did, but finally, people tried to manipulate the thoughts and feelings of a living mind. Pioneering studies at MIT showed that even weak, externally applied magnetic fields could change the electrochemical signaling in portions of the brain. These foundational studies showed that the application of simple magnets could completely change the moral judgments that people would make about identical situations! Beautiful, amazing work!”

He stared off into the distance, a childlike smile on his face. Shaking his head, he picked up a drill and plugged it in. “Of course, the intelligence community and the military have taken these studies much, much further. Less red tape and advisory committee oversight! Specialists like me are still rare, and still suspect by many in the government. Old fashioned methods, blunt, often ineffective, are still the norm. But times are changing. And with the booming privatization of all things military and intelligence related, well, let’s just say that I believe in the free market. They demand, I supply.”

He began drilling. Miller screamed, terror in his eyes, every muscle in his body tensing. But he could not move. He could only scream helplessly as the bit bored into his bone. The drilling drew a lot of blood, but the doctor was fast to staunch the bleeding and patch off the area. Three times he drilled into three different regions of the front of Miller’s head. At the end, he set the smoking drill on the cart with a clattering sound. He picked up in its place several long, gleaming needles ending in wires that he inserted into his portable power supply.

“There. Through to the soft tissue. We’ll be able to insert these deeply — you’ll feel nothing — and reach the right temporoparietal junction, the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, and the ventromedial prefrontal cortex from each of these holes. When the brain is stimulated directly with electrodes, Mr. Miller, we can do so much more than the MIT scientists did outside the body with magnetic fields. I now have access to several critical areas of your brain that control your sense of conscious will, trust, and threat evaluation. Stimulated properly, as countless animal and secret human studies have shown, it is trivial to remove all resistance to questioning, all the while leaving the rest of your higher-order cortical function intact. Basically, in the next five minutes, my paying customer will be able to ask you anything he wants, and you’ll tell him without reservations.”

“Goddamn you both!”

The doctor smiled. “There is no God, Mr. Miller. Don’t you know that?”

He inserted the needles.

The questioning was finished, and the doctor began to stow his equipment. He spoke as he worked, his attention on the items on the cart, responses from his client emanating from behind him. Miller slumped forward in the chair against the restraints, his eyes open, fixed and staring, mouthing the word “no” over and over as he sat, his body and skull still lashed to steel.

“He told you all he knows,” the doctor spoke.

“It’s not enough!” came the blond man’s voice.

The doctor continued to rack objects on the cart. He shook his head. “He gave you names, addresses. What more?”

“The names I knew. The addresses are home and work addresses. He mentioned a farm house. That is where they are, at that safe house. He gave no address for it!”

“Then he doesn’t know.” The doctor paused, his brow wrinkled. “What is this ‘safe house’?”

There was no response, only the sound of footsteps walking slowly. The doctor stood up and turned around, an anxious look in his eyes. “This term I have only heard— “ He stopped. The barrel of a gun was pointed at his head. “But it is none of my business. I only want there to be payment.”

“What you do disgusts me, Doctor. And there will be payment.”

Before the physician could move or protest, there was a loud explosion, and his body dropped to the floor. The wraith lowered his weapon.

“You are a filthy hypocrite,” came the hoarse voice of CIA agent Miller. His eyes glanced to the side at his tormenter, his expression hateful. The blond man turned slowly to the chair, his expression neutral. “You want justice, but you torture me, rape my mind and body, the same way they did you! Now you kill that Nazi doctor because his methods offend you? You should be on that floor. If there were any justice, I would have that gun, and your time would come!” The grown man wept again, his head limp against the steel cage around his head.

“Of course, I deserve to be there,” said the wraith flatly. “I have no delusions of purity. And I will be there, or somewhere similar, when my mission is complete.”

At the last phrase, Miller looked up quizzically, a dawning understanding on his ravaged face. “You’re not going to stop with the Agency.”

The blond man smiled and raised the weapon. “I want the Grail, Agent Miller. An unholy Grail. And I will have it. Then it will be my time.” He aimed. “But now, it is yours.”

He pulled the trigger.

42

“We can leave the car here, hidden under these trees,” said Houston, parking and undoing her seatbelt.

Lopez rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. He was dirty. He stank. They had traveled another two thousand miles by a frustratingly circuitous path, constantly monitoring the police transmissions, using GPS navigation and traffic updates on their smartphones to find any hints of roadblocks or increased police surveillance, limiting their travel to late hours when law enforcement numbers were lower on the roadways.

It seemed to him that they had left the world he knew before and entered something surreal and dark. Gone was the simple and necessary circadian rhythm of sleeping at night and waking in the daylight. Human interaction had to be shunned. Anxiety was a constant emotion as every turn, every stoplight, every new town became another chance for them to be identified and caught. They maintained their disguises. They used the accounts provided by Fred Simon. They spent only cash. The accounts on their smartphones were aliases. They could confide in no one, not even the friends and family who had rejected them. They were erasing themselves from society. From existence.

“This should be fine,” said Lopez, eyeing the GPS map on his smartphone. “It’s about a mile up the road. If we can come in through the forest, he might not see us.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t count on that. These guys tend to be a paranoid lot. Miller will have cameras, likely motion detectors, too. We’ll look out for them, of course, but we might take fire. I just hope he hasn’t laid a minefield anywhere.” She did not smile.

Those sobering thoughts settled heavily on Lopez. They were going from one danger to the next, each subsequent encounter seemingly worse than the last. Land mines? Motion detectors in the Catskills? Perhaps it was nothing more than par for the course. My new normal.

They left the Tennessee car well hidden, its dark-green paint blending well with the greens and browns of the forest, roughly half of it obscured completely by the broad ditch on the roadside Houston had navigated the vehicle into. They added to the camouflage with broken branches, pine needles, and leaves.

They oriented with the smartphone, then stowed it and jogged across the road and into the forest. Houston led the way, her pace brisk, but her motions cautious. She constantly scanned in front of her, often pausing and holding up a hand to stop Lopez, then waving him forward as she picked up her pace again. Her pattern was not straight, he noticed, but a strange zigzag that was very deliberate.

“Stop!” she hissed curtly, holding up her hand. “Look. There!” At first Lopez saw nothing. He scanned the area in front of her hand but saw only a thick cluster of trees and wild shrubs. “The middle tree. Near the ground.”

He saw it. A manmade object, plastic or metallic, embedded in the tree trunk. Houston sprinted forward, keeping to one side of the tree line, giving the impression that she was sneaking up on the object. Lopez followed anxiously.

As they neared the tree, she knelt down. “Motion detector. It cuts a line across there,” she indicated, waving her arm in an imaginary plane across the forest. She began to examine the object. “The question is how many there are, where they are positioned. This one was easy, but others?”

“Are they all at ground level?”

“Doubtful. Many will be at human height, to avoid animal alerts. Well, he might score a bear or two, but it might be interesting to know when they’re around,” she said in an amused tone.

“Right.”

After a minute, she stood up, her expression perplexed. “Sloppy. This one’s dead. The electronics seem fine. It’s routed to a main power line, buried under the ground. No batteries to replace.”

“So?”

“Just strange. He went through all the trouble to wire this thing up solidly, then let it fall into disrepair? Doesn’t fit.”

“He can’t possibly be on top of all of them. Especially now. He will be holed up, no?”

She nodded. “Maybe. Let’s go, and keep your eyes open for more.”

There were many more. As they picked their way through the woods, they came across one sensor after another. Each time Houston navigated around them, examined them. Each time, the sensor was dead. Soon, they came across cameras, even some trip mines she identified. All were controlled by connections to a central location, wired through lines unseen underground. All were dead. Miller’s high-tech security system was completely inoperative.

Houston rose from her crouch to a standing position, looking ahead, a troubled expression on her face. “Francisco, we better get to that cabin.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think we’re too late.”

Houston sprinted. After the revelation of land mines, the haste was unnerving to Lopez, but he followed. They didn’t have to go very much farther. Soon, he saw why she rushed.

It was like a replay of the nightmare in Gatlinburg. Acrid smoke from an incompletely doused gasoline fire hung like a filmy cloud over the clearing they entered. A pickup truck lay on its side, the vehicle literally blown apart by some force. The cabin itself also smoldered, the fire extinguished, but the charred portions vented a last remnant of combustion into the atmosphere. The door was exploded inward.

Houston had her gun out, and she tossed a second one to Lopez. “I’ve really got to teach you how to shoot one of these. Flick the safety — good. Don’t hesitate, Francisco. I mean it.” She turned to the cabin and walked through the shattered entrance.

Keeping the weapon pointed at the ground, afraid he might accidentally shoot Houston, Lopez followed her into the structure. It was like entering some level of hell in Dante’s Inferno. Carnage, destruction of material objects. The smell of gunpowder and burning plastic. Shells. But the true horror was in the center of the room.

“Mother of God.”

Two corpses were before them. One lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooled around his head. He wore the white coat of a doctor. The second was strapped to a chair. Lopez barely managed to recognize him from photos he had been shown: it was Jason Miller. Houston approach his body slowly.

He was naked and disfigured. Signs of torment visible in his flesh. A gunshot wound opened his face like some macabre medical school display. The blood had hardly clotted.

Houston whispered. “Be careful. This is recent. The killers could still be here.” She circled the body, examining the scene, yet she seemed acutely aware of her surroundings.

Lopez glanced around the cabin but could see no signs of others. His gaze returned compulsively to the horror scene in the center. Houston approached the corpse and began to examine a strange helmet-like steel cap into which the head was locked.

“They drilled into his skull.” Her voice was expressionless.

Lopez was sure he had misheard. He came closer and followed her gesture toward the scalp of the victim. Through openings in the head cap, he saw the shaved scalp and blood. And the holes.

He looked at Houston. “In the name of God, why?”

She shook her head, a sad disgust on her face. “I don’t know, Francisco. I’ve never seen anything like this before. Jesus, look what they did to him.”

Lopez stopped looking. It was too much. Beyond the physical horror, it was the sadistic evil that ate at him the most when he stared at that figure. Houston seemed to feel the same.

“He was the last,” she whispered hoarsely. “The last of the rendition teams. They’re all dead now.” She walked away from the body, having spotted a computer at the side of the room. “Let’s see if we can find anything useful here.”

Lopez accompanied her to a desk. Houston sat down and moved the mouse, activating the screen. “So, it’s over now?” he asked hopefully, against his better judgment.

Houston was silent for a moment, scanning an open file on the screen. “I don’t think so, Francisco,” she said. “I definitely don’t think so. Look at this.”

He pulled up a chair. “What is it?”

“Judging from the numerical key codes, these are CIA records. Looks like from the black-ops teams. The codes match those on the document we stole from the hard drive.”

Lopez looked at the list of names on the monitor. All were men who by now he knew too well. Stone. Miller. Fuller. Conover. The secret rendition teams. CIA agents who had taken suspects illegally, without trial, without due process, and transported them to torture chambers around the world. Where are you on this list, Miguel?

“Miguel’s not here,” said Houston, again seeming to be a half-step ahead of him.

“I don’t see his name, either. Why?”

“I don’t know. But look — this is new. Alongside the agents, another set of names we didn’t see from the CIA records. We didn’t have these files.” They both scanned the document in silence. Houston inhaled sharply and tapped on the screen at one of the lines of data. “The operations dates are much more recent, Francisco. Fred was wrong — they didn’t end the program in 2007.”

“Then why aren’t there records at CIA?”

“Because it’s extra-governmental. It’s outside of CIA, even if it looks like they maintained connections.”

Lopez felt his stomach drop. “This doesn’t sound very good. Why would they pull it out of CIA?” He continued to read through the names. “Wait. Sara — I know some of these names.” He pointed to one of them. “Mitchell Longman, marked April 2010.”

“Who?”

“He was an activist for HRW.”

“That crazy lobbyist for Human Rights Watch? The Sapos guy?”

Lopez nodded. “Yes. I donated to HRW. Have a card.”

“He was a giant pain in the side of the counterterrorist movement.” Houston looked up at him. “So what happened in April 2010?”

“He killed himself. Jumped off his New York City balcony.”

Houston sat upright stiffly, looking between Lopez and the screen. “Holy shit. Francisco, there are a lot well-known names here.”

Lopez looked again, trying to make associations. Several names were meaningless to him. But as he looked over the list, too many were not. Prominent Muslim activists. A CEO. Political lobbyists. A colonel. He felt dizzy.

Houston sounded hyper. “This is Alicia Whitley — the first-term Tea Party candidate from Iowa. You know, the one who went nuts about violations of the Constitution with the 2012 Defense Authorization Act.” Lopez nodded. “She died in a car crash six months after it was passed. And this! Brian Nurse, Colonel Brian Nurse, who testified against indefinite detention and torture in 2009, riling the new Obama administration. Francisco, he had a heart attack a year later.”

Lopez pointed to another name. “Charles Kenneth Thorington Gunter, the Third. Can’t forget a name like that.”

“The CEO of that solar company?”

“Yes! He was a big deal. One of the few American companies that matched Chinese panels in prices. New England blue blood do-gooder — your type.”

“Yeah, he was in the papers a lot. Investigated by Congress and the FBI for fraud. Big brouhaha.”

Lopez nodded. “But only after he started his charity, HabeasNow.”

Houston nodded vigorously. “I remember! HabeasNow — they raised millions for litigation of terrorist suspects held at Guantanamo. They were flooding the courts with writs of habeas corpus. Public enemy number-one in several CIA divisions and the DOJ.”

“He’s dead, too, Sara. His private jet went down six months ago in New Jersey. Look at the date next to his name!”

Houston put her fingers to her forehead, pressing firmly. “I don’t want to look.” She closed her eyes. Her hand over the computer mouse tightened into a fist. “Oh, my God, Francisco. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

Lopez pulled up a chair and sat down. It was too much, the surreal nightmare swirling around him. In front of them was the earth-shaking evidence that these rogue CIA teams had gone far beyond mere efforts to stop terrorism. In front of them was evidence of the murders of political and cultural figures. Assassinations, he forced himself to acknowledge. Assassinations of figures who had exerted influence in attempting to end controversial CIA and military practices like torture and extraordinary rendition. Figures who were silenced, their causes thrown into disarray, their impact erased.

“This finally all comes together,” said Lopez, the satisfaction of the jigsaw fitting together not dispelling the full horror of the image revealed. “They had to bury this, and now, they have to bury us, and anyone who gets too close to the truth. If this gets out, it wouldn’t just lead to a scandal and jail. It could lead to a damn revolt.”

Houston nodded, scrolling through the pages of the document. “The killers wanted us to see this, Francisco. Not us, but whoever discovered this…. scene,” she trailed off, gesturing around her. “Miller wouldn’t have just left this file open.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to close it.”

“Maybe. But it feels like more. Feels like ruination.”

Lopez turned toward Houston and put his hand on her arm. “But at least one name isn’t with the other agents on this list.”

“No,” answered Houston. “Miguel isn’t here.”

“Does that mean he didn’t go along with it? Wasn’t involved?”

Houston shook her head. “I don’t know for sure. How could he not have known? All those years as part of the rendition teams?”

“Assassination teams, you mean.”

“Yes,” she said, swallowing. “It couldn’t have started out that way. I can’t believe that. Miguel wouldn’t have signed on — that much I know about him. He had a different vision of America.”

Lopez sighed. “After 9/11, no one knew what to do. Extraordinary events seemed to require extraordinary actions. That’s what Miguel said in the church that night. He said he only wanted to protect us all. It was the last time I saw him.” Houston leaned her head against his shoulder. Lopez reached his hand up and stroked her head. It seemed like the only sane action in the middle of this madness.

“But not Miguel. He’s not here. Whether or not he knew about the assassinations, we may never know. But he’s not part of the team. Thank God for that.”

“Amen,” said the former priest. He uttered a silent prayer for his brother’s soul. Be at peace, Miguel. We know not what we do.

Houston had straightened up and was scrolling through the document. “Page two,” she said. Lopez read a new set of names, several of them well-known senior officials formerly at the CIA. “Here are the directors, the organizers of this nightmare. Miguel’s killer has served them up on a silver platter.”

“Then we need to pay these men a visit,” said Lopez, his voice strained. He was angry again. “But we can’t go public! They’ve taken away all our options. They’ll just throw us in a cell and lose the key. No one will believe our rantings.”

“Even if they did, I think we’re beyond due process now, Francisco. We’re in a game where people disappear their political opponents and kill them. We’ll be dead.”

Lopez exhaled. “The rules are different.”

Houston raised her gun and stared at it. “There are no rules, and we’re running out of time.” She stood up suddenly, put her weapon away, a fiery look in her eyes. “We have to find these leaders. What we’ve discovered is bigger than the murders of CIA agents. It’s bigger than extraordinary rendition of American citizens. It’s fucking Orwellian. Time to locate the architects of this death squad. These men have to be put away for life; they’re more dangerous than Miguel’s killers. They’re a cancer inside the body of our government.”

“But how do we find them? These are big names,” he said, looking over the document pages again. “Their addresses are here, amazingly enough. But if they’ve been keeping up with current events, I bet they’re in their own private foxholes by now.”

“No doubt. But we have Fred Simon,” she said, removing the smartphone and photographing the screen. She panned through all the data they had discovered on Miller’s computer, uploading the photographs to a secure and anonymous server they used for private storage. “We’ll be asking everything from him, but I know him, Francisco. This will break his heart. Make him sick. And after a few minutes, make him very angry. He’s got contacts, remember? The Watchmen. He’ll do everything he can to dredge this muck up and get it out of the Agency. He’ll find where they’re hiding.”

“OK then, we talk to Simon. And, once—” he stopped, a sound catching his attention.

Sirens.

Both suddenly turned to the door. The pitch-changing calls wailed from a distance, increasing in volume.

The police were approaching.

43

“To the car, Francisco! Through the woods, the way we came!”

They dashed out the door and sprinted across the yard to the trees. Lopez felt like the criminal everyone now believed him to be — in disguise, running from the scene of a horrific murder, the police seconds away. They passed the smoldering wreckage of the truck, and Houston pulled out her gun once again. Will we be killing police officers next? He couldn’t imagine such an action. Who am I now?

As they approached the woods, the sirens increased sharply in intensity, and they heard the sounds of a vehicle braking over a pebbled drive. A car door opened, and Lopez glanced behind him and saw two officers outside their vehicle. One was running into the ruined cabin. A fine surprise he is going to find. The other held a microphone in his hand. A voice called over a loudspeaker.

“This is the Delaware County Police! Stop and return! I said stop and come back to the dwelling! This is the county police! Stop and return immediately!”

They did not stop. Instead they plunged into the trees, Lopez praying to God that Miller’s security system was truly dead. An active mine could end their journey very quickly. A gunshot was fired behind them. Lopez instinctively looked behind but could see no one following them.

“Faster!” yelled Houston.

Lopez ran faster. Branches slapped against his face and nicked his cheeks, and he stumbled several times over exposed roots, but he managed to increase his pace. His breath began to come in ragged gasps, his chest feeling like it was going to explode.

The loudspeaker voice called again but much more faintly. “Return to the property! If you do not, you will be considered hostile and subject to arms fire.”

Houston slowed him for a moment. “They’re not in pursuit, or they wouldn’t have called out.” She paused, her breathing labored. “They must be calling for backup. They’ll find the body soon. It will be a giant manhunt.”

“They don’t know what our car looks like or what we look like.”

“It won’t matter if we don’t get out of the roadblock radius. Let’s go!”

They continued their sprint. Soon they were back to the main road and located their car quickly. They cleared some of the fallen branches and leaves that they had used to conceal it and then rushed into the vehicle, Houston driving again. She gunned the engine, rocketing the car out of the ditch and onto the road. Within seconds, they were out of sight of the cabin and headed south, back to the DC area and the lair of the killers. Headed for the mouth of the dragon. Lopez closed his eyes tightly.

Mother of God!

A blond man lay prone on a hill overlooking the Miller property. Through a targeting scope, he followed the movement of the green sedan as it made its escape. He pivoted the scope toward the cabin he had partially destroyed and saw one of the young officers run out of the structure, waving his arms and screaming at the other, who had gone to the edge of the woods.

He rolled onto his back, the rifle held up and away from his body, and sat up. His scope was attached by a thin wire to a small black box. Pressing a button on the box, a credit-card sized LCD screen lit up, and he shuffled through several photos of the man and woman, selecting the best head shots for identification.

Moving to a crouch, he placed the rifle down into a case and removed a smartphone. A Bluetooth transmitter was hooked around his ear, and he toggled a smartphone app to increase the volume from the recording equipment he had left in the cabin. He picked up the officers’ conversation as they entered the structure. Their loud tones cut through the poor audio quality.

“Jesus, Danny! God, I’m going to be sick!”

The unmistakable sounds of retching could be heard. A second voice spoke.

“You okay? You all right, Joe? Okay. Okay,” came an anxious voice. A deep breath followed. “Okay — we call this in. Don’t touch anything! Damn! We call this in, and we get the right people here for this. We put out an APB, block all the roads out of the area, as soon as they can set it up. I should have shot those bastards!”

He had heard enough. The officers were acting predictably. By tomorrow, the place would become a forensics laboratory, and the chaos would begin soon after. He tapped the screen, and the app displayed a list of recordings and dates. He picked the most recent, and pressed ‘play.’ A woman’s voice could be heard speaking over considerable white noise and static.

“He’s got contacts, remember? The Watchmen. He’ll do everything he can to dredge this muck up and get it out of the Agency. He’ll find where they’re hiding.”

He smiled, closing the app, and opened another on the phone. A map appeared of the area with crisscrossing lines for roads and county demarcations. A blue circle pulsed at his current location. Moving away from the blue circle was a red dot. He tapped it, and a small window opened on the map displaying distance and speed. The transmitter he had placed on their car was functioning optimally.

He disconnected the camera from the scope, stowed it in the case next to the rifle, and closed the case. Rising from his prone position on the incline, he jogged down the road to his truck toting his equipment. Opening the door, he stowed the rifle on the rear window rack and jumped inside, slamming the door. He paused for a moment, then removed a handgun from the glove compartment, placing it next to him in the drink rack. He hoped that the local police would not complicate his mission.

Mounting the phone and its map display on the dashboard, he started the engine, turning onto the road along the direction of the red dot. He accelerated, observing their speed and distance, calculating a matching speed to approach them before any major highway intersections. All he had to do was follow them, track them for however many days it took, concealing himself. Their conversation was clear. They were motivated and skilled, especially the woman.

They would lead him where he needed to go.

44

The police scanners were in chaos. Lopez could not keep track of all the different conversations back and forth, coded terms, and local roadways that erupted in sound from the device. His smartphone told a grim story, as well. One after another, red cones on his traffic app indicated blocked roads. One after another, they switched roads, frantically mapping new ways around the closing net. They were running out of options.

“Oh, shit.” Houston stared ahead.

They were on a two-lane country road, surrounded by forest on each side. Lopez looked ahead and saw something in the road. As they approached, he began to make out police cars lengthwise across the concrete. The lights were flashing on the tops of the cars.

“What do we do? Turn around?” he asked.

“We can’t! This was the last open road, remember? We’ll be cut off for sure if we turn around.” She began to slow the car as they neared. “They just set this up. If we can get past this, the highway is just a few miles ahead. Right? That’s what you said?”

“Yes!” he said, confirming on the map. “But how do we get by?” A growing desperation was seizing him.

“I don’t know. They don’t know us. They might not recognize us. We bluff.” She nodded towards the scanner. “Glove compartment with that!” Lopez hid the device.

She brought the car to a full stop in front of the roadblock. Two trooper cars were pointed at each other in front of them, their bulk filling the length of the road. Lopez imagined there was likely room to make it around the vehicles, alongside the road and practically in the forest. But how they would do that and get past armed police he didn’t know.

Houston rolled down the window and smiled. “Hi, officers! What’s the problem?”

Two troopers approached the vehicle cautiously, as two others stood at attention, eyeing them suspiciously. Their hands were on their holsters.

“License and registration, please.”

Lopez nearly gasped. He hadn’t thought of this obvious problem! He tried to seem calm as he watched Houston pull out a driver’s license and hand it to him. She also reached up and removed a registration card from the sun visor. She smiled as peacefully as a Buddhist monk.

“Names don’t match, Miss…Gorden?” said the officer, eyeing the cards.

“We just bought the car last week. The new registration hasn’t come in.”

He gazed into the car and at Lopez. “Your name, sir?”

Lopez’s mind raced. He used a friend’s name. “Enrique Velazquez.”

“ID please.”

Damn. “I’m sorry, officer, I don’t have it. I wasn’t planning on driving today. My wallet’s at the house.” Lopez felt a knot tightening in his stomach.

“Didn’t plan on any roadblocks up here, either,” said Houston, laughing easily. Lopez was amazed at her performance. “What’s going on?”

The policeman continued to stare at Lopez. “Can’t go into details, ma’am. Please wait in the car while we check out your license.”

The officer walked back to one of the patrol cars and entered, likely interfacing with a computer connected to state and federal databases. Lopez spoke softly as he stared ahead.

“You have a fake ID?”

“Yes! I have enough simulated identification to fill a trunk. But this is crunch time. If the Agency has been thorough, they will have marked the license and all the other IDs I had generated with them.”

“Marked?”

“Yes, likely flagging it badly. The reaction of the police will tell us.”

Lopez felt his adrenaline spike as he saw the trooper inside the car look startled and glance quickly in their direction.

“And if it is flagged?” he asked, his pitch rising.

The officer quickly got out of the car, simultaneously reaching for his belt and calling out to the other troopers.

Houston gunned the accelerator. “We smash through! Head down, Francisco!”

It all happened so quickly, Lopez could barely process it. The car leapt forward, immediately striking the front ends of the two cars parked before them. Houston had built up enough momentum, however, that the two police vehicles were rotated and knocked sideways, and their green sedan crashed through the makeshift blockade and hurtled down the road as she continued accelerating wildly. A scraping sound of metal on pavement indicated that they had smashed their front end badly. Lopez saw sparks flying up by the right-side wheel, and then a blur as a piece of the car broke off and sailed behind them.

He heard gunshots fired behind them, and a second later the back window shattered.

“Hold on!” she shouted.

Suddenly, his stomach lurched, and they were airborne. The car launched over a small but steep hill, catching air, and then landed with a bone-rattling crash back onto the roadway. His head was bounced on the seat. The glass from the broken windshield scattered across the car.

Lopez leaned back up, sure that for the moment they were beyond the range of the officers’ pistols. “What now?”

“I-87!” she said, screaming over the road and air noise. “We can get lost on the interstate, pull off quickly, ditch this car, and steal another one.”

Lord have mercy.

“How far to the turnoff, Francisco?”

Lopez frantically tried to call up the mapping app on his phone. His fingers darted over the touchscreen, the sounds of sirens growing behind them.

“Mile and a half,” he yelled over the roaring of the car’s engines. The speedometer read one hundred and twenty.

Houston glanced in the mirror. “We’ll make it, if there are no more surprises.”

They made it. Flying past cars at outrageous speeds, they caught the turnoff, Houston nearly losing control of the vehicle on the curve, and then plunged headlong into the traffic of the New York State Thruway. She quickly accelerated and began weaving in and out of lanes passing cars.

“We don’t have much time,” she said. “They’ll have all of the New York State police pouring out of their holes in minutes. Everything will be shut down and we’ll be trapped in molasses. Find me an exit!”

Lopez mapped out their current location. “The GPS is lost!”

“Fix it!”

“I’m trying! It’s back. Damn!”

The car swerved back and forth, horns blared, and Lopez began to feel sick. “OK! Ten miles, nearest exit!”

“Ten miles?!”

“Don’t blame me! It’s ten miles!”

Houston thought quickly as she maneuvered. “I can’t do much more than one hundred in this traffic,” she said, narrowly missing the backend of an eighteen-wheeler as she threaded a needle into the left lane. “So, a little more than five minutes. Say a prayer for good traffic, Francisco.”

Lopez felt too stunned to pray. But what else could save them now? He looked out the window, up to the sky, recalling the words of a psalm.

That’s when he saw the helicopter.

“Sara….”

“I know, I know! I hear it!” she said as the beating of the blades became thunderous. “He’s flying really low!”

Outside the window, swooping down to less than thirty feet above the ground, the police helicopter shadowed their movements. For the third time today, they heard the words of law enforcement blasted out of a loudspeaker, this time from the sky.

“Green Camry: slow your speed and pull over to the shoulder! I repeat, pull over to the shoulder or lethal force will be used!”

“Police cars are gaining on us, Sara!”

“I know! I see them!” she yelled, glancing briefly in the rearview mirror. “They’ve got too much horsepower!”

Lopez realized that the road directly in front of them was clearing. It looked like the chase was spooking everyone off to the side in the slow lane. The flashing lights and sirens grew stronger. Patrol cars were nearly tailing them now.

“I don’t know how we’re going to get out of this one, Francisco.”

Suddenly, one of the police vehicles accelerated dramatically, revealing even more power under the hood. It approached alongside Houston on the right, almost carefully.

“Shit!” She gunned the accelerator and swerved to the left.

“Will they shoot?”

“That’s not their plan.”

Now there were two police cars behind them, one on each side. Houston gripped the wheel tightly. “Hang on, Francisco. They’ve boxed us in.”

“The exit is half a mile ahead!”

“We might not make it!”

The car on the left was suddenly alongside them, just as the rightward car dropped back. Houston tried to move into the right lane, but she was too slow. The police vehicle nudged their car near the trunk, the impact not even loud, but the results chaotic. They began to spin. The back end of the car rotated counterclockwise, and the momentum accrued from their speed made it impossible for Houston to stop the motion. Soon they were spinning like a top, and before he could figure out what happened, the car began to roll.

The world inverted and crashed, and he felt himself thrown several directions at once. It ended just as quickly, the car righting itself, airbags deploying, and his face smashing into one. He blacked out.

When he came to, there was the sound of sirens and wind. He opened his eyes, glanced over at Houston, who was awake, her nose bleeding, the airbag smeared red, crimson over her face and white shirt. He checked his face — he was uninjured. Glass from the windows lay like a tossed jigsaw puzzle over them. A loud voice came from his right.

“Sara Houston and Francisco Lopez, you have the right to remain silent!”

His mind blocked out the remainder of the words. Outside his window was a highway patrol officer, aiming a black pump-action shotgun two feet from his face. He stared straight into the barrel.

45

A cell phone rang.

The room was dark, shadowed, lit only by the rows of computer monitors along the walls displaying the security system readouts. A group of older men sat around a table in the middle, matched in number by a group of younger men busy in front of the terminals, monitoring the system. The guards were heavily armed with submachine guns.

A thin man pulled a blinking mobile phone out of his shirt pocket. He spoke.

“Nexus.”

The other men turned and strained to hear a garbled voice spilling out from the speaker.

“That is very good news,” said Nexus, holding up a finger as one of the men at the table motioned to speak. “Yes, of course. We will move quickly. What assets do we have in the area? Only Lars? How far? Good. Then we use what we have. We can’t wait — they could be transferred to a higher-security location. Activate him. Now. Termination with extreme prejudice.” He closed the phone.

Bravo spoke. “State or federal?”

“State,” said Nexus. “Highway patrol, New York. They are in a pen upstate, near the Catskills. We don’t have many resources there, except for the German. But we need to move on this. It won’t be long before they move them somewhere much tighter, complicating our efforts. This is a national hunt, they’re marked as dangerous fugitives. We need to target them now, while the security is poor.”

“Agreed,” said Bravo.

“This is very good news!” said Zulu, nearly shouting. Several heads turned from the monitors at the sound of his voice. “It gives us a breather, some space.”

“Hardly,” growled Bravo. He turned to Nexus. “You have more complete reports on Miller?” asked Bravo.

“Not yet, only what our sources in the state police could transfer to us. But it wasn’t pretty.”

“Even if Miller broke, he didn’t know this location.”

“No,” said Nexus. “But he could have all our names and home addresses, as well as contacts who do know where we are. It might just be a matter of time now.”

Bravo nodded. “Maybe it’s always been. Whatever influence we could have still, Lophius is right: it’s time to shut the program down. Things are out of control.”

“But first we have to put out this fire,” said Nexus. “Then, we don’t just clean house. We burn it to the ground.”

Three hundred miles away, a shadow sat in front of a laptop screen. Several juxtaposed photos appeared and disappeared as keys were struck. The figure sat back and sighed.

The images matched.

They had gone to a lot of effort to change their appearances, that was certain, and the blond man smiled in approval. Of course, all efforts were relative, and theirs paled next to his. With some image enhancement and facial-recognition software, it was only a few minutes to reveal a very high-probability association.

Sara Katherine Houston. 33. Former CIA operative, now a national fugitive, FBI most wanted. Suspicion of treasonous activities. Considered armed and extremely dangerous.

The wraith smiled. The smear job was admirable. The architects were exploiting whatever resources and influence they had left to ensure this cover-up. Perhaps only rivaled with the extreme hatchet job done on the priest.

The Reverend Father Francisco Morales Lopez. 43. M.Div. from St. Vincent de Paul Seminary. Ordained 2002, Diocese of Birmingham, Alabama. Teacher of mathematics, Holy Spirit Regional Catholic School, pastor of the Church of Saint Joseph.

He was also the brother of Miguel Lopez, who now lay under the soil in Madison, Alabama. Lopez — a black-ops agent who had run the mission that sent a young and confused Pakistani-American to a hellhole in Syria, never to see his family again. Never to find himself again.

He had no fight with this brother, the priest, or the CIA woman. She was clean. He had combed the CIA databases again. From what he could tell from the data and from his own recordings, they were actually outraged. That was good. Let them be outraged. He needed them, this agent and priest.

Former priest. The wraith looked over the news reports online. From out of nowhere, horrific accusations of child abuse, church records surfacing over a decade old. A bishop was attacked and wounded, the weapon traced to the registered firearm of Sara Houston, the assault pinned to the woman. The photo on the screen was a splice of the priest in formal wear, serving mass, alongside a bikini shot of the Houston woman, dredged up from unknown sources.

The priest and the whore. The tabloids had enjoyed a lot of traffic with this. They couldn’t resist the usual temptation to sully a woman with sexuality, nor to combine that with the person of a former celibate clergyman. Making them fugitives from the law, a danger to national security — it was big money. And a highly professional character assassination job by ruthless parties, a prelude to the coming physical assassinations no doubt authorized and set in motion.

The wraith parted the blinds of his hotel room window and glanced across the street. The state police station appeared formidable, a recent and imposing construction. But appearances could be deceiving. To his well-trained eye, the security walls were rotten with holes. All the more reason to move soon. Not much happened this far upstate. The architects would not need much — only a moderately well-trained asset. The two fugitives were literally sitting ducks in there. It might even happen tonight. No, he corrected himself, it would happen tonight. This was their chance. They would not hesitate.

He closed the blinds and stood up, walking over to his bed. He opened a large metallic case and removed several weapons and explosives: grenades, bars of Semtex, fuses, and timers. He glanced at his watch — three hours until sunset. He would wait until all solar light had faded, then blow the local transformer, cutting power to the block and the station. No doubt they had an emergency generator, but at the least it would cause havoc and plunge the surrounding area into total darkness. He’d follow the power lines and sounds to the generator and disable it as well.

Removing his phone, he pressed a button, and a number was dialed. A tone sounded, then a sharp click, and a rough voice spoke on the other end.

“You are in position?”

“Yes,” said the wraith. “I will strike tonight.”

“Good. They are your best lead. As we have discussed.” There was static over the speaker or significant background noise. “I am bringing the items. The dealers were what was to be expected, but they were not stupid, and fortunately I had to kill no one. They were happy for the money.”

“How long?”

“A few more days. I will not take interstates. We cannot have any inspections.”

“Contact me if there are any problems, and I will come.”

“Yes. Now, fit this arrow and send it into the heart of your enemies.” The connection closed.

He did not put away the phone, however, and instead opened an audio app, replaying the message recorded in the cabin. Together with the voices, he now had two faces, two identities, to put next to them in his mind. The woman’s voice spilled out over the small speaker.

“We have to find these leaders. What we’ve discovered is bigger than the murders of CIA agents. It’s bigger than extraordinary rendition of American citizens. It’s fucking Orwellian. Time to locate the architects of this death squad. These men have to be put away for life; they’re more dangerous than Miguel’s killers. They’re a cancer inside the body of our government.”

That was it. The old soldier was right. Their anger and passion were critical. Once they were freed tonight, he would enhance and direct that outrage. He would drive them forward to use all their connections and energies. They would uncover the rats hiding underground and pursue them.

And he would be following.

46

Houston sat down next to Lopez in the cell. The motion was awkward, their arms and legs chained. They were isolated from all the other detainees in the small police station, the guards giving them a wide berth. It was like they had the plague or were considered otherwise extremely dangerous. It was almost comical, the reality ruining any jest at the absurdity.

Others arrested in nearby cells stared over at them with a macabre interest. Already they could hear whispers. The most common phrase was the priest and the whore. Tabloid trash. Their new identities. Houston sighed.

“Our one phone call — for nothing. I couldn’t reach him. No answer. I don’t know where he is.”

Fred Simon. Their only hope. “I’m sorry, Sara. We were close.”

“It can’t end like this, Francisco!” Her blue eyes pleaded and then closed tightly. She seemed to instill a forced calm over her emotions. “After what we know, what we’ve seen, the Agency will send someone. They’ll disappear us, render us, to a place that the light of day won’t reach. From what we know now of their program, they could even try to have us killed. The truth will be buried with us. These monsters will get away with it.”

Lopez hung his head. He saw no counterargument. Rationally, there was no way out. No hope. No reasonable way to end this nightmare.

For it is by faith that we walk and not by sight.

He heard the words of St. Paul, as clear as if the apostle had spoken them himself. Or is it just my mind, playing tricks on me? He could give a sermon on faith, but he didn’t seem to live it. He had told Houston that God would not abandon them, right before he was slandered and tossed out by the Church. It might have fit her expectations, but it was a deep challenge to his. Do I trust in God, or not? It wasn’t perhaps what Houston wanted to hear, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“Then I’ll pray, Sara.”

Houston stared at him blankly.

The arresting officers had taken nearly everything when they booked them. The arrowhead pendant was gone. His cross, his rosary, both gone. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t sure he needed the strength of his older brother anymore, and God sure as hell didn’t need a string of beads. We need the beads, the pendants, the talismans.

He struggled off the bench and knelt down on the floor. The other prisoners stopped their chatter for a moment. Heads turned and glanced over in their direction. Some gathered along their bars as he prayed.

Lopez crossed himself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord; Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Maria, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell; the third day He arose again from the dead. He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen.”

There was some laughter in adjoining cells. “Hey, man, it is the fucking Priest!” Another voice called, “You can have the priest! What I want is the whore! Yeah, baby, your turn next!” There were several hisses for quiet and more howls of laughter.

Lopez ignored them. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.”

The lights went off. There was a distant sound of rumbling, almost like thunder, but not as expansive. “Damn!” called one voice in a neighboring cell, and then there was total silence. All the chatter ceased.

He paused a moment but decided to continue anyway. He crossed himself again, the chains rattling in the dark, preventing significant motion in his Sign of the Cross. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

Emergency lights kicked in, bathing the room in a deep red. Lopez heard shouts and then gunfire. The prisoners around them began to panic, talking, then shouting in fear. Loud commands from officers could be heard over the din and on top of it all, more gunfire. Chaos was erupting throughout the station. He felt the building shudder and rock, the movement capped by the thunderous sound of an explosion.

He was about to begin the next prayer, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder, accompanied by the rattling of chains.

“Francisco…” It was Houston.

Lopez opened his eyes, a shape in front of them coming into focus. A man stood outside their cell, silhouetted in the dim red of the emergency lighting. In his right hand was a gun.

Houston crouched next to him and put his hand in hers. “Sounds corny, but I’d rather die next to you, Francisco. Not alone over there.”

He held her hand, touching his forehead to hers. He resumed his prayer. “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.”

The man raised the gun and aimed at them.

“As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.”

A loud gunshot sounded, and Lopez tensed instinctively. The silhouette jerked suddenly, the head to the left, the body then dropping straight to the floor. Another shadow ran in from the right. Lopez could tell immediately that it was not a police uniform, but he could make out little of the shooter’s appearance.

“Francisco Lopez and Sara Houston?” the voice shouted earnestly.

Houston answered first. “Yes!”

“I was sent by Fred Simon! I’m here to get you out of this! We have to hurry — the entire station is under some kind of assault!”

He removed a set of keys and unlocked the cell, rushing beside them. Lopez saw a youngish man, perhaps in his thirties, well-built with short-cropped hair. Within seconds, he had freed them of the chains.

“Quickly, let’s go! I have a vehicle waiting for you outside!”

They didn’t need to be encouraged. Together, the three of them raced out of the detention floor and out a back exit as directed by Simon’s man. As they ran, they caught a glimpse of the carnage at the station. Fires were burning and spreading everywhere. They did not see a single officer standing. All were dead, splayed out at desks, on floors, many riddled with bullets. It was like a war zone.

“Through there!”

They crashed through an emergency exit door and found themselves in a parking lot behind the station. A black SUV was idling in front of the door.

“Take it, get the hell out of here before there is a response. This is the nerve center for law enforcement in the area, so it will be some time before they get more troops. Looks like all electrical and phone lines are out, except for emergency backup.”

A large explosion rocked the area, and a fireball climbed skyward from one end of the station. Even the emergency lights went off.

“Scrap that. Even better for us — they’ve hit the diesel generator. This place is dead. No word in or out. But fire responders will be here soon, and after that, likely the damn National Guard!”

Houston took the keys he held up for them. “Where do we go? What does Fred say?”

The man looked at her intensely. “He knows what happened to Miller. He knows what you found. That’s why I’m here. You have to get back to DC, you have to stop the maniacs before it’s too late! Finish what you started. Go, now!”

He pushed them toward the SUV, and Lopez grabbed Houston’s hand as they sprinted. They leapt into the vehicle and sped off onto the road, leaving the inferno that was the police station behind them.

Standing next to the flames, near the spot where the SUV had been parked, a blond man watched them pull out. It had been close. Too damn close. He was furious at himself for nearly allowing the CIA asset the chance to kill the pair. Had he arrived only seconds later, he would have lost his best lead to the mission architects.

But it worked. He had seen their eyes. He had reached them, pushed the buttons that needed to be pushed. They were on their way. Once again, he checked his phone. The transmitter on the SUV was active, showing their position. He began to sprint to his own vehicle.

It was time to head south.

47

48

Three days!

The one called Zulu pressed his fingertips tightly to his temple. Three days had passed since the pair had escaped the New York State police station, blowing the entire thing up in the process, creating a national sensation unparalleled since Bonnie and Clyde. The ever-rising toll was astonishing. Twenty dead cops, millions in damages, and a nightly news bonanza. Calls for the use of the National Guard. The president on national TV calming the country.

Meanwhile, their asset had never surfaced from the wreckage and was presumed dead. The two had been trapped! And they had let them escape. Houston and Lopez had disappeared, carrying deadly information about them all, doing who knows what with it. By now, anything could have happened.

He had been a fool to let this simmer so long. Now his mistake was courting disaster. He had to act, he had to destroy the files before they were discovered. He did not think to broach the topic with the others. He did not have to guess their reaction. He did not want to face it. He would do this alone.

The one called Zulu walked down to the control room. It was late, and only one man was monitoring the security system. The guard glanced up at him and nodded, and Zulu moved behind him, turning quietly to the unmanned monitor directly across on the opposite side of the room.

“Everything looks clean?” he asked, sitting down in front of the screen, speaking over his shoulder to the other guard. His presence did not arouse any suspicion. On many occasions, each of the occupants had wandered the hallways of the converted country home. Sleep was frequently denied to anxious minds.

“Yeah, quiet as a baby,” came the fatigued words. Zulu softly pressed a series of keys, opening windows to the security system. The monitor in front of him jumped from camera image to camera image. He pressed another key, and the image locked, a camera ceasing its back-and-forth panning. He then opened a control panel window for the motion detectors and quietly entered a series of commands. He cleared the screen of windows. Satisfied, he stood up.

“OK, good. Stay alert. Things could happen when we least expect. Scratch that. They will happen when we least expect.” The guard nodded, straightening in his seat slightly.

Zulu walked to an unused portion of the large farmhouse and approached a door leading to the outside. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed outward, closing his eyes. He waited. There were no alarms. He had done it right.

He walked outside, pulled out a remote control, and deactivated the gate security. He checked the inside of his suit jacket, felt the weight of the weapon, and walked toward the car parked by the road.

It was dangerous. Crazy. But he had to do it, whatever the risk. He’d screwed up, he knew that. A sign that he was getting old, probably, or that things were happening too quickly, too insanely for anyone to do everything right. It would have taken him only five minutes to start the erasure of the hard drive! But he’d been too busy running out of the house.

Cowardice. It wasn’t age. Or carelessness. That was the truth, and he knew it. He had simply been afraid. He’d bolted to the safe house. He’d left the secrets on the drive.

Well, he’d fix that now.

49

It was midnight, and Lopez found himself summoning the stamina to once again plow his energies through another long night of breaking and entering. But compared to the more recent activities he had been involved with, this seemed almost saintly.

They had left the black SUV parked alongside the other large and luxurious vehicles in this upscale neighborhood. Quickly exiting the vehicle, they moved across the back lots, out of the streetlights to approach the target residence of the evening.

This was their last chance. It was the fourth break-in over the three days since their insane escape from the police station in the Catskill Mountains. They had tried to lay as low as possible, and fortunately, the destruction of the police station had prevented the distribution of any photographs of their new appearances. These they maintained, enhanced, even as they were always careful never to stay in one place too long or expose any form of real identification in anything they did.

They still could not reach Fred Simon, but the man he had sent to free them from capture had provided a set of useful items. ATM cards linked to unknown bank accounts. Credit cards with false names that issued no alerts. Firearms and ammunition. It was nearly a fugitive survival kit.

At an out-of-the-way motel in New Jersey the first night after their escape, they had begun a systematic search through the names they found in the documents on Miller’s computer. One after another, they had held stakeouts of the residences. When no one showed, they would break into the houses, canvas every square inch for panic rooms, information, anything they could find.

They consistently found nothing. No one was ever home. No secret rooms concealed frightened men. No information on computers or in filing cabinets. The houses showed all the appearance of being abandoned. Dust collected on the furniture, food rotted in the refrigerators, and mail piled in the boxes. The occupants had fled and were not coming back. Lopez couldn’t blame them. They were being hunted by a fierce creature that showed no mercy.

Houston broke their enforced silence as they approached an iron fence ringing the property they sought. “This is it, Francisco. We’ve done the alphabet. Zulu.”

Lopez found it ridiculous, these spy codes. Once an enemy had obtained the key, it was all for nothing. Miller’s computer had been compromised. Now all the players and their little codes were open to them. Assuming you can find them.

He raised the pistol she had given him from the SUV stash and checked the safety as she had instructed. Houston watched him with disapproval. “You need proper firearms training. One of these nights you’re going to trip and shoot me in the back.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Lopez. “Have you identified the security system yet?” It was their pattern. Houston would spend some time finding and then disabling the home security systems, while Lopez kept watch. And I try not to shoot her in the back.

“No, let’s move along the fence to the front of the house.”

“We’ll be exposed.”

“I know that!” she snapped. “But I’m guessing that the main circuitry runs through the gate up there in this place. I don’t know where else it could be. We’ve nearly been around the entire perimeter.”

Lopez nodded and followed her forward as they crouched low along the six-foot-high fencing. The fatigue and stress were draining their patience. Houston always found some clever way to bypass security systems — he didn’t doubt her tonight. But he remembered the past failures. They would spend hours searching through the home, only to decide half an hour before sunrise that it was for nothing. Then they would steal out, careful not to alert any neighbors, and drive back to whatever motel they were staying at for the day. There they would crash, sleeping off the long hours, to rise the following evening for the next house.

The sudden appearance of a pair of headlights signaled that tonight would be different. A lone car pulled into the cul-de-sac and stopped almost violently in front of the gate. Lopez and Houston instinctively crouched lower, their dark clothing and the black of the metal fencing camouflaging them. A lithe, middle-aged man exited the vehicle, quietly closing the door. He looked around anxiously but did not spot them. Satisfied, he held up a remote control, tapped a code into it, and the gate began to open slowly.

“Jackpot,” whispered Houston, the first smile in days flashing across her face. They watched him enter and then quickly sprinted to the front of the property. Just as they reached the entrance and stepped through the gate, they saw him push open the front door and move quickly inside. The gate had not even completely opened yet.

Near the entrance, Houston located a signal box for the security system inside the fencing. Within seconds, she had the casing off and was inspecting the circuit board with a set of makeshift tools. “Careless,” she said, smiling. “He deactivated it when he entered and hasn’t toggled back. He must be in a hurry.”

“And anxious,” said Lopez. Their eyes locked.

“Zulu,” said Houston, turning her attention back to the box. “It’s a brittle serial architecture. Now that I’m inside, I can kill the entire thing from here.”

“Well, do it! We’re in the stage lights here!” said Lopez, feeling like the eyes of the community were boring down on them.

“It’s done,” she said, her eyes darting toward the house. “Let’s find another way in.”

They raced around house and found a back door. Without the security system to contend with, Houston simply picked the lock, and they were inside in seconds. Drawing her weapon, she moved carefully and quietly through a large kitchen. A bluish light could be seen faintly emanating from a room down a hallway on the right. Frantic sounds of objects moving and a clacking on a computer keyboard broke through the stillness of the home. Houston nodded toward the hall and the door, and Lopez nodded back. They moved slowly toward the sounds, Houston sliding with her back along the wall until she came to a stop beside the door. Lopez copied her movements and followed.

With a sudden spin and jump, Houston was straddling the doorway, her firearm aimed inwardly. There was a scream from inside and the sound of glass shattering. Lopez leapt into the room behind her.

“Don’t move!” she yelled, walking slowly forward.

Lopez saw a frightened-looking man standing awkwardly next to a computer terminal. A gun was on the desktop a few feet from him, and a shattered picture frame lay between his outstretched hand and the weapon. He looked back and forth between the two intruders and gasped.

“You!”

Houston motioned with her weapon for him to step away from the desk. “Who were you expecting?” The man didn’t answer, but he moved as she commanded. “Oh, I know! The killers. The wolves hunting you and your dirty little program down.”

Lopez stared in shock. He knew that man, that face. He had seen it on too many television reports, in too many magazines. Mark Blobel. The director of the CIA Renditions Branch for a number of years. It was surreal that he stood in the same room with this man, even stranger that they were pointing a gun at him.

“You don’t understand!” yelled the former branch director.

“Oh, but we do, Zulu,” she said, smiling at his second gasp.

“How do you know that name?”

“Sit down!” she barked, and Zulu sat on a faded brown couch. His hands twitched as she moved in front of him. “Not to sound too dramatic, Zulu, but you might say we know almost everything.”

“You think you know everything,” he said with a sneer. “But you don’t. Who do you think you are?”

Houston waved Lopez over. “Francisco, see what’s on that monitor. He came back here for something on that machine. I’ll keep my eyes on the little panther here. What were you in your younger days, Zulu? Some sort of martial arts legend, right?”

Zulu seemed to grind his teeth, his entire body tensed, but he said nothing. Lopez wedged the pistol into the space between his belt and pants and walked to the computer. The screen was empty but for standard program icons. As he had learned from Houston, Lopez opened a terminal window and entered system commands displaying recent activity. It was as he feared.

“We’re too late, Sara,” he said resting his knuckles in frustration on the desk. “He’s run a broad system erasure of all documents. It’s an encrypted hard-erase. I don’t think the information’s recoverable.”

Zulu seemed to suppress a smile.

Houston didn’t remove her gaze from the man. “We’ll just have to use what we have, then. We have you, Zulu. And we have a lot on you. We know about the black-ops rendition operations. We know that the agents and leaders of those are being hunted down, killed one after the other. We also know you used these snatch teams on American suspects, right here in this country, Zulu.”

“You’ll never prove it,” he spat bitterly.

“Maybe not. But what else we know will make that irrelevant,” she said, stepping between him and the computer, aiming the weapon at his face.

Lopez stepped out from behind Houston to the other side of the room nearer the door. He wanted to have his eyes on this Zulu. There was something unsettling about the man.

Houston continued. “You turned the special powers you were given right back on your own people. You killed American terrorist suspects with your private little renditions squad.” Zulu stiffened sharply. “You actually began to kill the opponents of your politics, Zulu! You killed Americans who fought the tactics you and other groups at the Agency were employing. You murdered our citizens on our soil!” Zulu’s eyes widened, and his lip began to curl. “We have the names. The mission leaders. Your name linked directly to them. They’re going to burn you all at the stake for this.”

Zulu roared. He leapt forward suddenly, with a frightening and unexpected speed for a man his age, like a wild and cornered beast. Houston fired, the shot blasting his left shoulder, but his momentum carried him through the air. He crashed into her violently. They tumbled onto the desk, the computer monitor smashed against the wall, a loud pop and sparks bursting into the air. Before Lopez could react, they fell hard to the floor. Zulu landed on top of Houston, the impact knocking the wind out of her, her gun rattling across the floor and hitting the wall. Lopez rushed forward.

“Stop! Or she’s dead!” yelled Zulu. A small gun was in his hand, pointed directly at her face, inches from her forehead. Lopez was close, but not close enough. I’m so stupid! Why didn’t I take my gun back out? If he risked an attack, he could probably disarm Zulu, but not before he had killed Houston. He couldn’t think of an option. He froze.

“Move against the wall, priest,” Zulu screamed. Lopez moved, now completely out of striking distance. Blood trickled down Zulu’s left arm and dripped to the floor. “You fools! Do you know what you’ve done? How dare you judge us? How dare you threaten our program? We prevented attacks on the nation! We saved lives! Now you want to shame us for our service and send us to rot the rest of our lives away!”

Houston glared at him and spoke strongly despite the gun to her face. “You didn’t serve your nation, you betrayed it! How is killing people who disagree with you part of our Constitution? Our founding principles?”

“Shut up!” He pressed the barrel forcefully into the skin of her forehead. Lopez took a step forward. “Stop, priest! I mean it. Or she’s dead.” Zulu looked around the room quickly, his breath becoming more and more ragged. He spoke seemingly as much to himself as to them. “Now you’ve complicated things! I had to erase that hard drive, but what to do with you? How to cover this up? How to get out of here fast enough, before the wraith comes?”

The wraith. So that’s what they called them. Him? Was there only one? Lopez’s mind raced. “Why is he hunting you?”

The older man laughed bitterly. “What difference does it make to you? Perhaps you’re afraid he’ll kill you, too.”

Houston looked at him sharply. “No, I don’t think so. It’s because of what you’ve done, isn’t it? He’s seeking justice, just like we are. What did you do to him? Did you kill someone he loved as well?”

Zulu licked his lips, sweat pouring down. Suddenly, with a grunt from the pain of his arm, he pulled backward and distanced himself from the two, keeping his weapon pointed toward them. Lopez saw their odds falling fast. Now he can shoot us both before we can get to him. The look in the man’s eyes seemed to confirm his thoughts.

Houston propped herself up on her elbows. “He won’t stop, will he, this wraith? He won’t stop until you are all dead. Our goal isn’t your deaths, Zulu. We’re not assassins. But we won’t stop until you and the others are brought to justice!”

“There is really only one solution then,” he said, raising the gun and aiming.

Houston rolled rapidly to her right, her reflexes faster than those of the injured Zulu. His shots drilled holes in the wooden floor where she had been an instant before. Splinters and dust blasted upward. She flipped to her feet like a gymnast, and she and Lopez moved rapidly toward the CIA man. But he had too much time. Zulu swung his weapon toward them. Lopez lunged at him. We won’t make it!

The window behind Zulu exploded, and a misted spray of crimson burst from around the man’s head. For a split second, he stood there, his eyes suddenly blank, blood beginning to pour from his nose and mouth. Then he fell heavily to the floor.

Lopez’s momentum carried him past the falling figure, and he ended up sprawled across the floor, the impact jarring. Before he could even collect his thoughts, Houston had crouched down, grabbed her weapon, and started toward the door. “Francisco! The wraith!” She raced out of the room, and Lopez pushed himself up and followed close behind.

As they approached the front door, the sounds of a car starting could be heard. They crashed through the door, Houston springing down the porch steps with her gun raised. Across the street, near their own SUV, a pickup truck accelerated rapidly down the road. They crossed over the lawn, and Houston chased after the vehicle, racing full-speed down the road. Lopez knew it was pointless. The truck was already pulling out of sight.

As quickly as she had begun, suddenly Houston stopped, pausing a moment hunched over to catch her breath. Lopez finally caught up with her.

“Let him go, Sara,” he gasped out. “He’s gone.”

“Wait. Not the wraith.” She waved with her gun to a car ten feet behind them. “Look.”

She recovered slightly and walked over with him to a dark-blue van. The windows were shattered. Two dead men were inside, shot in the head. Lopez stood stunned. The madness never seemed to end.

Houston opened the door, looking through their pockets and the glove compartment. She pulled out a smartphone from one, flipped it open. It had a face-recognition security feature. She held it up to the dead man’s face. The phone opened with a click.

“Damn. The worst.” She held the phone up to Lopez. There were two photos on the small screen: one of him and one of her. “Assassins. More of the same like at the police station. Or like in Alabama.” She shuddered at the memory. “They must have figured we’d stake out the houses. They guessed we knew a lot, or that we had put things together. They were waiting.”

Lopez felt completely helpless. He was losing track of how many times they had narrowly escaped death. “The wraith?”

She nodded. “Good name they gave him. Saved our asses, though. And got the kill on Zulu. He gets my Jason Bourne award nomination.”

Nothing made sense. “Why, Sara? Why is he helping us?”

“I doubt he’s helping us, Francisco. He came here to kill Zulu. For all he knew, these assets were here to protect Blobel. He ID’d them and took them out.”

“But why didn’t he kill us, too?”

Houston paused. “Good question. I don’t know, Francisco. Maybe he’s got his list of targets, and we aren’t on it, for obvious reasons. And I don’t think he’s worried about the cops or anything two people like us could say to them.”

Lopez nodded. House lights were starting to come on. There was too much disturbance in the neighborhood. Perhaps someone had heard something, noticed them running, or seen Zulu’s door open. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be caught by the police again.”

There was a metallic click behind them. “Sara Houston and Francisco Lopez?”

They turned around. Lopez couldn’t believe it, and nearly laughed. Someone else was pointing a gun at them.

50

They sat around the bed in a cheap, nowhere motel off a highway in Virginia. Simon’s man, Jim Fields, had led them here, telling them that he’d explain all he could once they were more hidden. After Lopez and Houston had checked in under false names provided by Simon’s other agent, Fields had gone and bought a bunch of Chinese food, refusing to let them out of the room. He didn’t want any risks that unnecessary exposure might bring.

“Fred has been under siege,” Fields said, looping a mass of noodles into his mouth with chopsticks. He spoke as he chewed. “Whoever ran this operation, they’re still a force, even out of the CIA. They have assets, money, and influence. And there were two attempts on his life. He’s moving place to place constantly. That’s why you couldn’t reach him in the station after you were caught. Hell of an escape, by the way! How on earth did you get out of there?”

Lopez and Houston stared at each other. “Another one of your men came, sent by Fred Simon. He got us out,” said Lopez.

The man looked shocked. “Jesus. Communication has totally broken down. I was completely unaware of this. Where is he now? Why isn’t he with you?”

They looked at each other again, confused. Houston spoke. “I don’t know, Jim. Until you asked, I hadn’t thought about it. God, we had just run out of a shooting gallery. The place blew up, and he pointed us to that SUV out there and screamed for us to go. We didn’t ask any questions. We got our asses out of there.”

Fields nodded but looked troubled. “Still, you could have used some help. I was told to be looking for you, but I had no idea how to find you. I couldn’t reach Fred either, and everyone was cut off.”

Lopez furrowed his brows. “How did you know where to find us?”

Fields laughed. “Luck. Sources with the police radioed that they had discovered some pretty explosive stuff. We debriefed them, got a list of names. Wow — pretty high-level names, too. That shook some people up. Fred was stunned.”

“Francisco and I have been looking over the list of kills we copied from Miller’s computer,” said Houston. “At first, we could only identify those that matched names we could immediately recognize. These were powerful, important players in law, politics, and activism.”

“Yes,” grumbled Francisco, “assassinations that removed all obstacles to the program of black-ops rendition and torture.”

“And the others on the list?” asked Fields.

“It took more work, but we were able to associate the initials with a number of high-profile Arabs in America. Some were almost certainly dirty players in the underground terrorist networks. But others — it isn’t so clear.”

Francisco cut in angrily. “They didn’t care. Circumstantial evidence was all they needed. Close enough for government work. They killed anyone they thought was a threat.”

Fields looked stunned. “How could something like this happen?”

“It’s the logical step, from a certain set of assumptions,” said Francisco. “First, they rendered terrorist suspects without due process. Then, they justified holding them in secret, indefinitely. No rights. What’s next? Well, if they don’t have rights, and you think you can get information from them, why not hurt them until they talk? Well, why limit that to noncitizens? Why limit kills of suspects to foreign lands? If you want to protect America, you have to get them wherever they are, whoever they are. That includes even the deluded do-gooders who are fighting to stop your programs. They began with terrorist suspects and ended up with congressmen; they went from Arabs to WASPs with money. One step after another until you are a secret murder squad without oversight, reporting only to shadows.”

Fields spoke coldly. “It has to be stopped, and Fred will be onboard one hundred percent, I can tell you. The last communication I received from him told me to make sure nothing happened to you two, that this mess had to be cleaned up. From what you’ve told me now, he’ll be even more committed.”

Lopez felt relieved. So the word will get out. Maybe even to the press soon. He was tired of the story being about the two fugitives and their flight. Today’s local paper had dramatic photos of the charred wreckage: “Terrorist fugitives blow up police station.” It was just getting better and better. Or worse and worse.

Houston spoke with a frustrated tone. “But Mark Blobel, Zulu, was the last on the list, Jim. All the others are gone. Hiding out, no doubt. We have nothing to go on now!”

The CIA man smiled. “Well, Fred hasn’t been idle, Sara.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched in several numbers, and showed Lopez and Houston the screen.

“An address?” asked Lopez.

“Yes. A high-security, recently outfitted, militarized farmhouse.”

“How’d he get this information?” asked Houston.

“It wasn’t easy. They have buried so much, killed so many, to hide these missions — and they’ve done a good job covering it up. But it’s hard to hide the money trail. With a good dog — and Fred has some very good hunting dogs — the trail is there to read. In short: the mission leaders are tied to Agency-associated money transfers involving this site. Recent money transfers, all in the last year. Transfers that began shortly after agents started dying.”

“Oh, my God,” said Houston. She hugged Lopez. “Fred’s done it! This has to be where they’re laying low. We’ve got them pinned down!”

“Where is it?” asked Lopez.

“Here are the satellite photos. Rural nowhere in Virginia,” said Fields.

“He’s sure about this?” asked Lopez.

“Absolutely. One hundred percent.” He looked at them solemnly. “Fred knew you’d want to go, and he wants you to go. But it will be dangerous. For obvious reasons, we can’t go to the police. The fireball in upstate New York is just one of several items on the list law enforcement has on you two. So, they’re out. So’s FBI. Or, God forbid, the CIA. No one can help. So he insisted that I come with you.”

Lopez smiled. “No problems from me on that part! I wish we had an army of Fred Simon’s men! Seems like he knows how to pick them.”

Houston nodded. “Of course, as long as you know the dangers too, Jim. These are some really scary folks. Dark side of the force material.”

Fields nodded, holding up his gun. “Yeah, I know. But someone has to stop them, make them face justice. Fred Simon isn’t the only one who has been sickened by what you two have found.”

Lopez felt elated. For the first time in months, they were not alone. Justice was coming to a farmhouse in Virginia.

51

The drive through the rural counties was mostly silent. Conversation was limited to coordinating travel, following maps, and planning an approach that would not reveal their presence. Lopez and Houston drove together in the SUV, and Fields led the way in his black sedan. They had left late in the evening, the calculated travel time about an hour over narrow country roads. They approached the location roughly around midnight.

They found a wide shoulder on the side of the road a mile and a half before the farmhouse, and they left their vehicles there. Unsecured fields surrounded them, and they agreed that it was wiser to approach unseen through the fields and patchy forests between them than to take to the road. With cellular tower signals and modern GPS navigation, the strategy was simple to follow.

The moon was full, directly overhead, casting clear shadows to their night-adjusted eyes as they walked. Conversation continued to be minimal, task oriented, the tension building within all of them. After everything that had happened, Lopez felt a mixture of hope and dread. Ahead of them lay the lair of some of the most ruthless and desperate men he could imagine, men who had killed and destroyed the lives of so many. But they had uncovered the root of this evil program that had led to the death of his brother, the architects of which he and Houston had vowed to bring to justice for their crimes.

Justice? Or vengeance? The priest in him required that he face the need for vengeance buried inside. He knew that it was partially a transferal of blame from the man they called the wraith. These architects had not killed Miguel Lopez. The wraith had. But these men had created, and their crimes had given birth to, the vengeance that now hunted them down. Who was this wraith? What pain drove him to pursue these men to the death? Could it be that as much as he loved his brother, Miguel’s crimes demanded recompense? Perhaps his death had its own justice associated with it.

He would have to leave these conflicting emotions to the psychologists. All he knew was that now his anger, his sense of right and wrong, and his need to act were focused on a group of men that had betrayed so many and so much. Men who had gotten away with clandestine crimes against humanity and could not be let free to continue their twisted pursuit of security. Perhaps a time for the wraith would come. Tonight, it was time for others.

They had entered a narrow strip of forest between two properties, and Fields held up his hand. They consulted the GPS map. From the satellite imagery, it seemed that as soon as they crossed through these trees, they would be on the land of the farmhouse they were seeking.

“Okay, if there’s any security, which I assume there will be, it will start soon.” Fields pointed to the area just in front of them, where the trees ended. A cobblestone wall seemed to run around the perimeter of the property and hardly had the appearance of a high-tech security system. Houston walked forward to the forest’s edge, crouched down, and examined the wall.

“The stone is a facade,” she said almost immediately. “My bet is concrete behind, likely wired. If we try to go over this, they’ll know it.” She pointed to a rod sticking up from the wall 30 feet away. “That’s likely a camera, wide-angle lens. I think we’re hidden by the tree line and the wall, but if we somehow get over the wall and move beyond its edge, we’ll be visible.”

Fields walked up with a small device hooked up to his smartphone. “Swiss Army knife of signal detectors,” he said, smiling. He ran an app on his phone that opened several graphs. He pressed a switch on the device, and the graphs jumped, showing curves like an oscilloscope. “It can sense electromagnetic fields, infrared, heat emission, high-frequency sound, several other things.”

“Nice,” said Houston. “Not standard issue.”

“No,” he said, running the device along the false-stone wall. “Homemade. Friend of mine in R&D put the app together. Convenient as hell.” He backed away from the wall. “OK, this is weird. There are clearly power lines in there. That wall is juiced. Not electrified — the signal’s too low. They’re not looking to fry us. My guess is it’s power for sensors. Very mild heat signal as well.”

Lopez glanced at the graphics display as well, trying to absorb all he could. Houston nodded looking at the readouts. “So, like I said, problem.”

“Except for this,” he noted, pointing to a second page of graphs. All the graphs were flatlined. “Unless they have pressure sensors on the walls, which, hell, maybe they do, they’ll be using a form of motion detection. That means acoustic sensors, optical and infrared sensors, magnetometers, infrared laser radar, ultrasonic sensors, inductive-loop detectors, or vibration detectors.”

“Whew,” said Lopez. “Sounds like an ad for a store closing.”

“The point is that all of these technologies have a fingerprint — acoustic, electromagnetic, and so on. You know the technology, you know the fingerprint, you can design a detector to determine what’s being used.”

“A detector for the detectors,” said Lopez, fascinated with the spy-tech games these people played.

“Exactly,” said Fields. “So, unless they have some new, cutting-edge technology I don’t know about, there’s nothing here. No signals. No fingerprints.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Houston.

“Not much,” said Fields. “But who knows? Maybe a malfunction. Maybe they needed to disable something for a reason. But it’s our lucky night.”

Houston looked skeptical. “Too easy, Jim. Doesn’t feel right.”

He nodded. “That’s why I’ll go first. If there’s something we’re missing, they’ll train the dogs, or bullets, on me. You two scramble away from this site, and you’ll have to find another way in — to rescue me.”

Houston laughed. “Fred knows how to pick the loyal ones, let me tell you. But you forgot the camera. Once you’re over the wall, it will pick you up.”

Fields smiled. “Not if I stick close to the wall. We can slide against it, and then under the camera, and try to find a way to disable it from there.” Houston shook her head in disbelief. Fields stood up and put away his equipment. “OK, then. It’s a plan. You two hang back. I’ll call your cell number when I’m over.”

Lopez was amazed that it actually worked. Fields went over the wall without incident. No alarms, no rushing of guards, no CIA automatic robotic controlled weaponry. Only silence. A vibration on Houston’s cell phone let them know he was safely on the other side. Soon after, they scaled the wall, followed his advice to the camera, and discovered that it, too, was not functioning.

“I’m getting a very bad feeling about this,” said Lopez. “The last time we came across a dead security system, the occupants were not doing so well. Maybe the wraith discovered where they are. Maybe he’s already been here.”

“Doubt it, Francisco,” said Houston. “Miller’s system was completely shut down. The wraith must have hit his command and control center or blown the power. This one’s active; we just seem to have a weak spot here. I wouldn’t count on too many of those.”

They soon found out she was right. As they crossed through a waist-high field of grass, crouched low to the ground, Fields began to detect more signals on his scanner. He motioned again for them to stop.

“Weak, but definitely growing as we move forward. There is a grassy lawn right ahead, let’s slow down and get a sense of things before we cross that.”

It was a prescient decision. As they stopped at the edge of the lawn, examining the signals, it became clear that the signal strength peaked as the device was brought closer to the grass in front of them. When the sensor was raised upward or pulled back into the wilder grassy field, they crouched in, and the signal dropped. It was a small drop, but it was real.

“Pressure sensors,” said Houston.

“Pressure sensors?” Lopez asked.

Fields nodded. “Yes, in the ground. They sense weight, and trigger at a cutoff. Usually, in a place like this, you’ll set it above that of local wild animals so that you don’t get a wolf or possum tripping your system ten times a night. But any weight approaching human averages, and it trips. If we walk across this grass, we’re blown.”

Great, thought Lopez. “Now what? We didn’t bring our balloon on this one.”

“Balloon?” asked Fields.

“Never mind,” said Houston. “Well, what do you do when you can’t walk?”

Fields grinned. “You crawl.”

“Right,” she said. “So, we start out here, on our bellies, and worm our way in.”

The absurdity apparently had no limit. Here they were, breaking into a rural Virginia farmhouse to confront rogue CIA killers, crawling on their stomachs along the way. Not what they prepared us for in seminary.

The pace was slow. Paranoid, they tried not to place too much weight on any one portion of their body — knee, palm, or foot. It made crawling very difficult and exhausting. They nearly had to slither like snakes. After ten minutes, they had crossed most of the distance.

“The signal’s dropped to nothing,” grunted Fields, as they neared the house itself. “I think we’re past the sensors.” Testing his conclusion, he stood up. Nothing happened. Lopez and Houston followed suit, and the three moved quickly alongside the walls of the building.

Fields scanned several windows and doors. All showed signs of multiple security mechanisms in place. Houston suggested that they move on and keep looking in the hope of finding another hole in the system.

They did. A single door near the back of the house was dead to the scanners. The security systems seemed deactivated. Fields smiled.

“Good to have a second set of eyes,” Houston noted, nodding toward his device. “I need to get me one of those.” She removed a pistol and handed it to Lopez. He recognized it as coming from the men he had killed in Alabama. “Taxpayer-funded Glock, safe action. Make sure you have a full grip on the trigger to engage the mechanism,” she said, shaking her head. “Still no chance to teach you anything about firearms.” She raised her Browning and cocked it, glancing at Fields. “This time, I’ll lead.”

She flattened herself against the wall next to the door and placed her hand on the doorknob. Lopez stood in place beside her, adrenaline spiking and sending a rush of energy through his frame. The gun in his hand felt like a living creature, ready to attack. The moment was now.

“Drop your weapons!”

The command came from above. Lopez looked upward quickly, dismayed at what he saw. From several second-floor windows, on their right and left, guns were pointed at them. Suddenly, the door opened, nearly knocking Houston over as the doorknob was yanked from her hand violently. Standing in the doorway was a young man with a shotgun aimed at her.

Houston darted like a cobra to the right, angling her upper torso to the side of the gun. Grabbing the barrel with her left hand, with her right she struck the butt of her gun sideways into the face of the man by the door. The blow smashed him in the right temple, disorienting him, and he unconsciously loosened his grip on the weapon. Houston yanked it out of his arms and slung it to the ground away from the house.

Two more barrels were pointed at her from inside, and to prove a point, a rifle shot blasted a hole in the ground next to her feet. Houston instinctively spun around, seeking another route to escape, and Lopez turned with her. They froze, Lopez unbelieving. Houston sighed and finally dropped her weapon. Jim Fields was aiming his gun at them. They were surrounded.

“I knew something smelled wrong about all this,” she said bitterly. “You bastard, using Fred Simon’s name like this.”

“Hello, Judas,” came a voice rounding the corner of the building. The voice belonged to a tall, thin older man whose gray hair reflected the moonlight brightly as he approached. He tipped his head toward the false Agent Fields. “Judas specialized in double-agent missions. Agency-assessed sociopath by the shrinks. Very convincing actor. And he gets a lot more than thirty pieces of silver.” Judas said nothing but continued to train his weapon on them.

Houston eyed the approaching man coldly. “Well, I’ll be damned. James Farnell, former deputy director of the Counterterrorism Center. From what I’ve read recently, now going by the handle Nexus. Good name. Dramatic. Egomaniacal. I thought you’d joined your pals at Blackwater after the admin change. I guess you had other plans beyond golf with Cofer.”

Nexus eyed her with amusement. “Agent Houston. We’ve been looking for you a long time. Father Lopez, please, put the weapon down.” Lopez hadn’t realized he was still holding the gun, his shock so complete at this betrayal. With a disgusted glance at Judas, he tossed it to the ground. Nexus bent down and picked up the firearm, smiling back at them. He motioned to the door, where several men with automatic weapons flanked the path. “Won’t you come in?”

52

“You both have made our lives very difficult. The consensus is that I should have had you killed at the beginning. A miscalculation on our part.”

Lopez and Houston sat in the center of a living room in the farmhouse. They were separated by a small coffee table, each at opposite ends, several guards pointing automatic weapons at them. On one side, next to a large window, two older men stood. Nexus was one of them, and he led all the discussions. On his right was a man who looked mildly familiar to Lopez, one he assumed was a mid-level CIA manager. He just couldn’t place the face with a name.

“You bastards haven’t exactly made life easy for us,” spat Houston. “Did you know Francisco’s a documented pedophile now? That was a nice touch. I’m a national security threat and known the world over now as the whore of CIA! After all my years serving my country, you bastards have turned it against me!”

“Whether you understand it or not, Houston, you are a threat to the nation,” hissed Nexus, his tone threatening. “In your efforts to assuage your emotional pain from your unrequited love, you are threatening a very important program that has protected the United States for over a decade!”

“How low will you go, Farnell? Do you have wiretaps of our conversations? Is nothing sacred to you people? Privacy? Right to free speech? Right to life?”

“All rights are subject to constraint in times of war! And what people like you don’t understand is that we are at war!” Nexus paced back and forth, gesturing angrily.

Houston didn’t back down. “And a soldier can fight honorably or dishonorably, Farnell! You have betrayed the nation, the principles it was founded on. You have dishonored the flag! You have shamed America. You are the traitor, not me!”

Nexus held a gun out, pointed at Houston. “Let me explain the nature of your situation, former CIA Agent Sara Houston. We have complete power over you and your new consort. By the way, seducing a priest — Eve would have been proud. Maybe you are a whore. We will kill you tonight. We can do so quickly, or we can do so less quickly.” His eyes seemed to burn with a crimson light.

Lopez interrupted. “Then why haven’t you killed us already? Why this whole melodramatic Judas betrayal to get us here? You must want something. So what is it?” Time. I need to find time for us to get out of this!

The larger man beside Nexus laughed. “The priest is shrewd.”

Nexus lowered the gun and regained some of his lost composure. “We have reason to believe that you have encountered someone of interest. Someone we need to identify, locate, and neutralize.”

Lopez laughed. These men were unbelievable! “Oh, you mean the wraith.” The use of the term seemed to jolt their captors. “He’s really got you spooked. So, what is it that you think we can tell you about him?” I’m fencing with these ruthless killers. Lopez’s mind raced, trying to find a way to turn the desperate need of these men into an advantage. Or to buy time for him or Houston to devise some plan of escape.

“Talking with our man, Judas — your Jim Fields — we have learned that you had some help along your destructive journey. In particular, you met someone at that smoldering police station. Judas had your trust, had isolated you. He was to question you first and then terminate you both. But that information led to a change in our plans.”

Judas cut in. “They don’t understand the significance. They thought it was one of Simon’s men, but we know that isn’t the case. Simon’s been too busy running from us to organize anything. It had to be him. The wraith. They saw him. Spoke with him. He got them out of jail.”

Nexus leaned forward. “See, we find this most interesting.”

Lopez cut him off sharply. “Before we tell you anything, I want some questions answered.”

“You are in no position to negotiate, priest,” said Nexus, a sharp edge to his voice.

“This wraith of yours killed my brother, you bastard. That’s why I was dragged into your toxic swamp. That’s why I’m here. I was willing to risk my life to find this killer, and I’m willing to lose it still. Kill me now, and you’ll lose the information we have about him. Answer my questions, and you’ll hear what we know.”

Houston stared at him intensely. Lopez understood her surprise. In this wild world of shadowed struggles, this was the first time he had taken the lead. I have to know, Sara. And we need the time!

Nexus seemed hesitant and looked to Bravo. The stockier man shrugged. “It won’t matter that they know more. They’re dead, anyway.”

“Who is the wraith?” asked Lopez pointedly.

“A mistake,” said Nexus as he turned around to face the window. He sighed. “His name is Javed Ahmad. Born in Pakistan in the mid-nineteen-eighties, his family, his extended family, emigrated to the United States when he was eight years old. By all accounts, he assimilated quickly to the American culture, finding a niche in high school in the counterculture hip-hop world. Fancied himself a rapper.”

Keep talking, Farnell. Lopez looked around the room as Nexus spoke. Two guards stood behind Houston, one beside him. He also knew that Nexus and the one called Bravo were armed, although their weapons were currently out of sight. How to engage them without being immediately shot? Lunge for the leaders?

Nexus continued. “Our mistake occurred because of his uncle, Rehman. Rehman was a significant player in the underground money transfer business from Islamic charities to militant terrorist groups. Enriched himself with a big slice off the top of every transaction, too. We weren’t so much interested in Rehman as we were his contacts, his knowledge of personnel in the terrorist organizations. From all our clandestine investigations and cooperation with the FBI, we knew that many of the Ahmadi family were involved in the business. We had circumstantial evidence that Javed was as well.”

“So, you rendered the poor kid.” It was Houston.

“The entire family,” said Nexus. “It was one of the most extensive and complicated missions we undertook. It required two planes out of North Carolina, numerous agents, including Miguel Lopez. Including all the agents who are now dead. It was one of our biggest operations, pushed strongly from above. And it was spectacularly successful. Rehman sang like a fucking bird when they squeezed him.”

“You sent a teenager into a torture pit. A kid. You guys are something.” Houston looked furious.

“Collateral damage!” shot back Nexus, spinning around to glare at her.

“Yeah, seems like you have caused a lot of that,” she retorted.

Lopez cut back in. “But how do you know the wraith is this kid looking for payback?”

“We didn’t at first. It took time, and a lucky break that your brother injured him.”

Lopez understood. “The hospital in Tennessee.”

Nexus smiled. “Yes. Not only did we get the physician notes that there was likely extensive modification to his appearance — plastic surgery, even skin discoloration — but we were finally able to obtain tissue samples and employ DNA analysis.”

“DNA analysis?” Lopez was amazed.

“It’s not that high-tech anymore,” said Nexus, returning his gaze outside the window. “All our pickups in the rendition missions were sampled, their DNA analyzed and filed. Useful on many occasions, especially if a body had to be identified post-interrogation.”

“Dear God,” whispered Lopez. Nexus ignored him.

“The Knoxville tissue samples matched the database on Javed. When put together with all the other data, it was obvious. A hell of a story, really. He disappeared after he was released. Off the map for ten years.”

“You must feel pretty stupid letting him go,” mocked Houston.

Nexus scowled at her. “This was in the early days, before Masri and Arar caused us so much trouble. Before we shut out the bleeding hearts who interfered with our efforts. But Ahmad turned out to be much more than all the others. Seems he spent a decade preparing just for this slaughter. Some psychologist should get hold of him and make a career! Where and how he trained, received his surgeries, obtained the substantial financial resources needed, we can only guess. Perhaps criminally. Perhaps with the help of organizations hostile to our interests. But however he did it, he became a lethal weapon, as skilled, more skilled, than our top operatives.”

Nexus turned from the window and walked toward the coffee table. Lopez estimated the distance. He’s close. Can I reach him before they shoot me? Sara, will you be ready?

“He’s hunted down every person in the chain of that mission. He began with the Syrian prison — he killed all the staff and blew the damn place up. He killed the pilots who flew the missions, the Boeing reps who managed the airplanes, the staff who manned the hangars. As you know, he’s hunted down and killed all the agents who were involved, including your brother. Now, he’s after us, the organizers, the leaders of this program. You watched Zulu die. The pressure drove another to suicide. Now, Bravo and I are all who remain.”

“He did all this for revenge,” stated Lopez, speaking to himself as much as anyone. It was mind-boggling.

Nexus nodded. “And he’s still out there, priest. Hunting.”

Bravo spoke, turning to the window himself, looking out over the rural fields. “It will end soon. Either we’ll kill this wraith, or he’ll finish his mad quest and bury us.”

A flash of insight struck Lopez, and he shook his head. “No. You’re wrong. It won’t end if he kills you.”

Nexus looked at him dismissively. “Especially if he kills us, you fool! Haven’t you been listening? He’s out to destroy everything at CIA involved in what happened to him. We are the last point. The architects. Once we’re gone, it’s over.”

Lopez shook his head again, more strongly. “But your dark program wasn’t just born inside the CIA, was it, Nexus? You’ve been so worried about your own hides that you haven’t thought through things completely. You aren’t the last point, and that maniac will have figured that out. I’m just an outcast priest, and I have. Your little death squads are the product of a much greater mind.” Bravo turned around, his expression alarmed. “Just look how obsessive this is. How complete in its tortured fury. He wants to cut out this cancer all the way to the root. He wants total vengeance!”

Nexus stood frozen in thought. “Total vengeance?” repeated the leader. His eyes widened. “Oh, my God.”

The lights went off, and the background hum of a generator ceased. The farmhouse was plunged into an eerie silence and shadow. The guards stiffened, their weapons trained off Houston and himself. They turned them to the doors and window. Lopez could feel their panic. The time is now!

Bravo rumbled. “He saved them from the police to use them. You fools, you’ve led him straight to us.”

Lopez lunged at Nexus and saw Houston leap out of her chair. The guards shouted, and the two leaders reached for their weapons.

Simultaneously, the room exploded.

53

There was a bright orange and yellow light, a thunderous sound and wind, and Lopez felt himself thrown against the wooden table and bounced onto the floor. He was vaguely aware of shards of glass and stone hurtling over his head and the screams of people around him. He lay there stunned for a moment, in shock, and he began to choke on the dust and smoke that filled the air. The sounds of automatic gunfire erupted around him.

Opening his eyes, he saw the bright flashes from a weapon. A shape was in the smoke, standing where the door had been, now a giant smoldering hole in the wall. Two bodies fell next to him, one inches from his face. It was the guard who had stood next to Houston. Groaning from a sharp pain in his shoulder, he rolled off his stomach to his side to be presented with a gruesome sight: the man called Bravo was hanging against the empty frame of the shattered window, the rebar from the wall eviscerating him and holding him in the air like a fishhook. Blood was everywhere, and his eyes were blank. He was dead.

A scuffle broke out behind him. Slowly, he raised himself to his knees and turned around. In a series of lightning-fast moves, he saw a shadow disarm one of the guards, strike him with several blows to the face and neck. The assailant then reached to his leg and pulled up a knife. The blade flew along a horizontal plane propelled by the arm and sliced open the guard’s throat. A drowning scream was the last sound the dying man made as he fell to the floor.

Lopez felt dizzy, his head throbbed from the impact he received in the explosion, and the smoke was making it hard to breathe. He tried to rise to his feet, but his knees buckled. He fought to steady himself as he sank back to the floor, catching himself with his hands. Taking several breaths of acrid air, he regained his sense of balance and looked up again.

He saw a shadow bend down across from him. Showing incredible strength, the wraith raised the bloodied form of Nexus from the floor and slammed him against the wall. Lopez could see that the former Counterterrorism Center chief was mortally wounded. His face and chest were embedded with shards of glass. A huge wound was visible along his right side, bleeding profusely. His eyes swam.

“Look at me, Farnell!” The wraith screamed like a banshee, his voice wild and harsh. The eyes of Nexus slowly focused. They morphed from delirium to fear.

“You…”

“Now you will taste justice. With my own hand, I will avenge a young boy that you sent to hell. Now I will send you along with all your djinn to the fire of hell to burn for all eternity.”

Nexus writhed feebly, trying to escape the powerful grasp of his executioner. “No, no…”

“Yes,” spat the wraith, his voice as much of a weapon as anything else. Nexus flinched and moaned, his body too broken to scream. The wraith brought up his knife. “Know pain, and then death!”

Now Nexus did scream. It was blood-curdling. The knife ripped into him, across his stomach, cutting through his abdominal wall. His body spasmed but was held fast to the wall by a powerful left arm. The wraith continued to drive the knife upward, slashing violently through the chest cavity, sawing through the sternum as Nexus’s eyes rolled into his head. His body slid slowly to the floor, and the wraith like a panther leapt on top of it, sawing and sawing toward the heart. Blood spurted everywhere as the wraith drew the knife back and forth maniacally.

Lopez stared transfixed, unable to move, the sheer horror almost beyond the ability of his mind to absorb in his weakened state. Then the body of Nexus shuddered violently and stopped moving. This only seemed to infuriate the wraith, and he violently threw down the knife, the hard bone too great an obstacle for the tool. Finally, he uttered a wild sound that ended in crazed laughter. Standing abruptly, he grabbed the automatic weapon slung across his shoulder, opening fire at the floor. For nearly ten seconds of cacophony, he unloaded a hailstorm of bullets into a dead body.

Lopez stood up, the madness overwhelming. He had to find Houston. He looked over the room and spotted her on the floor. Her eyes were closed, and her shirt was soaked in crimson. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

“Sara!” he shouted and moved toward her.

A blur approached him from the right. Before he could respond, a forearm struck him in the chin, driving him downward onto the coffee table. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of him. He stared up into the eyes of madness. Lopez prepared to die.

“You are the priest.” The eyes were still wild, but the voice was controlled.

“Yes,” came his weak answer, hoarse from the smoke and exhaustion.

“I have no fight with you. Your brother deserved to die. I think you know that,” he said, eyeing Lopez carefully. “If you interfere with what I have to do, I will kill you.” To emphasize his point, he pressed the barrel of the gun to Lopez’s forehead.

The pain was intense. The barrel was still smoking from the flood of shots the wraith had put into the dead body of Nexus. There was a sizzling sound, and Lopez nearly screamed, a half-moan, half-scream still escaping his mouth despite his efforts to control it. He smelled his own burnt flesh.

Lopez hissed through the pain. “If you hurt her, killing me won’t save you. I’ll climb out of the mouth of hell to drag you down.”

“Unnecessary,” said the wraith. He removed the gun, tearing a thin circle of flesh from Lopez’s forehead, the skin stuck to the rim of the barrel. “I know she’s clean. You both are alive only because you are clean.”

Lopez closed his eyes and prayed that this crazed monster meant what he said. There was the sound of someone moving through the room, and then the voice of the wraith came from a distance.

“If you wish her to live, take her to a hospital, soon.”

Lopez tensed and opened his eyes. He looked around the room. The wraith had vanished.

54

Lopez rushed over to Houston. She was still unconscious, but she was breathing. He cradled her head in his arms and tapped her cheeks with his palm, calling her name.

“Sara. Sara! Please, it’s Francisco. Wake up, Sara. Please, wake up.”

She began to breathe faster, and her eyelids fluttered open. Lopez felt tears in his eyes. He kissed her forehead, drops spilling onto her face.

“Francisco,” she said weakly, staring at his face. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

“Shut up,” he said, nearly choking up. “You’re hurt much worse. Don’t move, Okay?”

She didn’t listen. Pushing against him as much as gravity, she raised herself up on her elbows, gasping slightly. She looked down at her stomach. “Roll up my shirt, Francisco. Let’s see how bad the damage is.”

It wasn’t pretty. There were several pieces of metal embedded deeply in her side, like shrapnel from a grenade. The wound was swollen around the metal, the bleeding slowed but not stopped.

“You’ve got to bandage this up. Find some supplies.” She motioned with her head to the room.

“We’ve got to get you to a hospital!”

“There isn’t time, Francisco. I understood. What you said before the explosion. We have to stop him.”

“Like hell,” said Francisco. He didn’t care about anything but her right now.

“Listen to me, Francisco!” Her breaths were raspy as she nearly shouted. “He’s not done, is he? This isn’t it. He’ll take it to the top. He’ll kill the president.”

Lopez shook his head. “No, not the president. Not this one, or even the last, Sara. He has a strange honor code, or we’d be dead. He wants only those who orchestrated the program.”

“The vice president?”

“Yes! He ran the program. It was his idea. Like his CIA death squads. The ex-VP is responsible for it all, and he’s the target. But I don’t care. Let it happen. I’m getting you to a hospital!”

“Francisco, no! We can’t let this madman assassinate the former VP. Maybe justice hasn’t been served, but Francisco, not like this!” She coughed out the last words.

Lopez paused, conflicted. Damn it! She’s right. How could they let something so terrible happen if they could prevent it? And he immediately realized that no one else could intervene. They were cut off from everyone. They could not turn to any law enforcement or governmental agency that would believe them. If someone was to stop this, it had to be them. But she’s dying!

“Francisco, look: it’s not a mortal wound. Not yet, anyway. The danger is blood loss. Bandage this damn thing up, stop the flow of blood. It will buy us some time.”

Lopez nodded, his mind racing. “The VP’s Maryland home is less than an hour from here across the border. Famous place, rumored bunker underneath. The old bastard’s been holed up there because of his heart problems for the last six months. The VP’s the last target. It will happen tonight. The wraith won’t risk us blowing his chance.”

“Please, Francisco. Stop talking and do something!”

Lopez rushed through the farmhouse, looking for medical supplies. They were there in abundance. The dead men sprawled around the living room had planned for the worst and had stocked several closets with medical kits. He returned quickly to Houston’s side and followed her instructions. She knew a lot more about wound management than he did. And she was tough as nails. Several times she asked him to do things that she knew would be painful but necessary, and she gritted her teeth as he followed through.

It was exhausting. He was hurting her, watching her suffer, and the emotional toll was severe. In the end, her entire abdomen was wrapped in gauze and taped. With his help, she was able to stand and walk.

“Now let’s get out of here,” she gasped.

“The car is nearly two miles away! You can’t walk that far.”

“Then find keys on these men. They had cars out front.”

She was right. He searched the men and found one of the guards with car keys. Gingerly, but as quickly as he could, he escorted her across the lawn to the front gate. The wraith had deactivated the security system, and the iron doors were opened. A black town car was parked across the street.

He helped her into the front passenger-side seat. He could see that she was in tremendous pain. Lord God, Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on us. He closed her door and rushed around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and leapt in. The car started with a scream as he overturned the ignition in haste.

“Francisco, you have to be calm. Iced. You need to be mission-oriented, or we won’t make it.” She began to cough, and it was several seconds before she could speak again. “Drive. Drive fast.”

He tried to slow his breathing as he pulled out. He tried to become a machine, to focus on the task that needed to be done. While this woman I love is dying. He reached into his pocket and handed her his cell phone.

“Call Simon again, Sara. If you can’t reach him, send texts, emails, secure, unsecured, to every address and contact we have for him. He won’t make it in time, but he’s the only other resource we have. The only one that can help.”

Houston nodded. “You’re right, Francisco. My God, I didn’t think to try.”

Lopez sped down the bumpy dirt road, every impact on the road jarring them, bringing gasps from Houston. He tried to focus. He tried to control his feelings.

Don’t die on me, Sara. Hold on.

55

The wraith drove with a maniacal purpose through the Virginia back roads.

The last mission would be the most rushed, the least prepared, and the most important. He should have killed the agent and the priest. He knew that. It would ensure that the final stage of his mission could not be discovered and would not be countered. Leaving them alive risked much, even if the dead leaders of the Renditions Branch had made them nearly powerless. Nearly was not the same as completely. Right now, the former vice president was unaware of the threat he faced. If those two got word to the right people, that could change. He should have killed them. That was pragmatic.

But not necessary. It was a calculated risk, and their blood was innocent. Whatever the consequence, he would not have that on his hands. As long as they stay out of my way.

His last target presented unique challenges. The vice president was not officially in hiding, but his public existence was coupled with lifelong Secret Service protection. Beyond that, this vice president was unique in all of history. With suspicions beyond even the legendary paranoia of Nixon, he was a man who saw threats everywhere and considered no response to those threats as too extreme. His attitudes made him a polarizing figure, a lightning rod for liberals and human rights criticisms.

These character traits also evinced themselves in the security he demanded after leaving office. He possessed an unusually extensive Secret Service assignment. He had wiped his place of residence from publicly accessible online mapping software. He had developed home security systems of an unparalleled nature for a residential, nonmilitary site. Those would likely have only been augmented given the events of the last few weeks. And by tomorrow, he would know that his dark forces had been routed. He would completely lock down.

These were obstacles in the path of the wraith’s mission. Locating the residence was the easiest — his hacking skills had already afforded him extensive access to secret CIA databases and computer networks. Early on he had located the home, obtained all the details of its security systems, and the standard force of Secret Service agents onsite.

The plan he had settled on for defeating these personnel and infrastructural barriers was his simplest to date: shock and awe. While stealth mode, followed by overwhelming power, had served best in previous engagements, paradoxically, the wraith had concluded that the most secure location, the most highly protected of all the targets, required the most blunt and brutal assault possible. And he would bring it. A Russian-born Israeli soldier returning from Mexico was his ace in the hole.

He pulled to the side of the road in the middle of nowhere Virginia, the GPS coordinates agreed upon in advance. A large vehicle awaited him, and a shadowed form stood beside it. He shut the truck down and exited, approaching the solid shape rapidly.

“You are rushing this,” said the shadow. “Even with all I bring you, you need more time to prepare such an assault.”

“There is no more time. I have explained it.”

“Yes, in war, there is never enough time.”

He approached the customized military-grade Humvee. The truck was army surplus, retrofitted with inch-thick steel armor plating, including a set of plates across the windshield that practically turned the vehicle into a light tank. The roof opened for engagement with large weaponry, and he came equipped.

The wraith surveyed the bounty before him. “You managed to avoid having it all confiscated.”

The soldier grunted. “On the backroads of this country, there are many who are not suspicious of such things. There is a great fear and discontent in this nation. They build bunkers and hoard ammunition. They came to speak with me, at gas stations and along the road. When they learn I am a Jew, it confirms their prophecies. The Christians: either they put us on a pedestal, or they gas us off them! One fool asked if I believed that the End Times were coming.”

“And what did you say?” asked the wraith, pulling the crates onto the road and opening them with a crowbar.

He waved an arm. “I told him they were already here — for ten thousand years!” He laughed heartily. “Civilization has the memory of a pickled alcoholic. All these wars, these empires: the Chinese, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, British, Americans. Always noise and anger, purpose, mad pursuit. And where are they now? What has become of their greatness? For what purpose?”

He reached down to the dirt road and scraped his thick fingernails into the ground, digging up a handful of rocks and dust. He raised his fist and stuck it in the face of the wraith, his palm squeezing tightly as the grains spilled back to the earth.

“For nothing, Javed. For ruins and dust. Foggy myths erased in time.” The soldier turned sharply and hoisted a squat, cylindrical device from a crate. He presented it to the wraith. “Your contacts are very impressive. A Predator missile launcher. I suppose with enough money the black market dealers in Dubai will oblige nearly anything. And the Sinaloa Cartel has the right tunnels through the borders. How great is this global economy?” He laughed, tossing the weapon to the wraith, who placed it in the Humvee. “They even found some warheads for this old model. There will be fireworks tonight.”

The wraith opened several more crates alongside the truck and removed a large machine gun. “This is the Browning?”

The soldier nodded. “M2. As you specified, it’s to be secured with a weapons platform on the roof. Surrounded by welded plates of one inch thick steel. Ha! I don’t think that even the American Secret Service has the rounds to pierce this.” He whistled. “But what this will throw at them is something very different.”

The wraith nodded, and with considerable effort, he managed to mount it on top of the Humvee. The M2 was steel lethality. Fifty-caliber rounds that could even serve in an antiaircraft capacity. Sustained rate of fire of forty rounds per minute, with a maximal, barrel-melting five hundred rounds per minute if needed. After it was secured, he cleaned out the remainder of the crate contents, his supply list topped off with two grenade launchers, a pump-action shotgun, and several handguns.

Despite everything that had happened, his crazed anger of the last few hours, the wraith smiled. The vice president had always feared assassination and had prepared himself. But the wraith had prepared as well, and he knew that chaos would always defeat attempts to preserve order. Or life. He would bring a war to the Maryland mansion the likes of which had never been imagined. It would be an assault that could not possibly be anticipated or prepared for. It would be overwhelming and absurd. And that was why it would work.

“This is where I leave you.” The old man put a hand on the wraith’s shoulder, and stared down the road. He exhaled sharply and set his jaw. “It is time for a revelation. I have lied to you twice, Javed.” The wraith turned to look at the soldier, but said nothing. “Twice you have asked me why I have helped you. Once, many years ago, I said ‘to make superman.’ This was a lie.”

The soldier stepped away and walked forward alone, staring into the black sky. The night was dark, no stars visible under cloud cover. The moon was hidden.

The wraith spoke. “And the second, Avram?”

“When you asked the same question. Why did I come back? I lied and told you because I am an honorable soldier and would not leave a warrior to die alone in such a hopeless quest!” He laughed strangely, the sound staccato.

“Then,why did you help me? Why are you here?”

“Perhaps you will not understand,” he said, sounding unsure. “Thirty years ago, I saw a film about the Hindu prophet, the Mahatma. Such a fool, but a real man. I will take a fool who is real before a wise man who is only shadows.”

“Yes?”

“I have forgotten much of it. But one scene I always remembered. In this scene, the Hindus and Muslims are slaughtering each other once again, and the fool begins to starve himself. He will die unless the people stop killing each other! And then a Hindu man comes, begging the prophet to eat, throwing bread at him. He cries out: ‘I have killed a young Muslim child, smashed his head into the wall! I will go to hell!’ “

The old soldier laughed again, the sound now high-pitched. The wraith simply stared without understanding.

“So, the prophet tells him he knows how to get out of hell. Prophets know such things, apparently. He tells him to find a young Muslim boy, whose parents have been killed, and to adopt him, raise him as his own, but, of course, raise him as a Muslim.”

Time was racing by. The wraith felt a growing impatience. “And how does this explain why you helped me?”

The old man turned toward the wraith. “Because I am that man, Javed. Maybe thousands others are that man.” Pain was etched in his face. “I had been in Israel less than a year. My brigade leveled a building with Palestinian soldiers. But they had used children as shields to stop our attack. Hundreds from a local school. We did not know, or we weren’t told by our commanders. We only knew the truth when we took the block, and the mangled bodies were strewn across the road. Black dust sticky with the blood of innocents. Small bodies everywhere.”

The wraith understood. “And then I came.”

He nodded. “Yes. There you were, a child victim of the horrors of war. An innocent. I remembered this movie. I remembered this scene. It was like God had brought you to me. And I hoped perhaps there was a way out of hell.” He spoke almost to himself, staring down at his hands. “You see, hell is not a thing that comes when we die. What mankind has failed to understand is that we are always there.”

“And have you been freed?”

The old man walked back to his car. “I have done what I could, but tonight your journey will end.”

The wraith set his jaw. “You fear that I will fail.”

The soldier stared long at the wraith and shook his head. “No, Javed, what I fear for you most is that you will succeed.”

56

Lopez drove as fast as he could through the night. In the beginning, Houston had helped with the directions, finding the fastest routes to the Maryland home of the former vice president. They disregarded the back roads, took to the main arteries, casting aside caution. The wraith had a large head start on them, and there was little chance they could catch him. But they had to try.

“Still no answer?” cried Lopez, speeding down the highway, praying no police were along their path.

“No,” said Houston, her voice barely audible over the sounds of the engine and the roadway speeding underneath.

She was weakening. The blood loss had slowed but had not stopped. She needs a doctor. Every minute that went by was a trial by fire for Lopez, every exit a temptation to turn the car around and head to the nearest emergency room. If it were not for her own powerful will, her absolute desire that they intervene in the coming attempted assassination, Lopez knew that he would have succumbed and let the wraith do whatever he would.

“I tried all the numbers he gave me,” she continued, “even others for his residence, office. Too long on the phone, too many unsecured numbers. The CIA is likely tracking us by now. If the wraith doesn’t get us tonight, they likely will.”

“Messages?”

“You heard the voicemails. Text and emails: left them, too. If he’s out there, if he’s still alive, he’ll get them.”

“If he’s still alive?” Lopez had never considered this possibility.

Houston was seized by another coughing fit. Her entire body heaved, her face turned red. It was terrible to see and hear. The fit drained her significantly, and she rested a full minute before responding. “After seeing Farnell,” she gasped out, her voice rough, “I don’t think anything is too low for those guys. They knew about Fred, that’s how they used this Judas against us. Fitting name.” She sighed. “So, they knew he was helping us. The logical step is to remove that help. I hope he’s okay.”

Lopez felt the weight on them increase. Without Simon, they literally had no one in the world to turn to. He pushed that out of his mind for the time being. Compartmentalize.

“It’s up to us anyway, Sara, whatever happened to Fred. He couldn’t get help to us in time. But that raises the question: what do we do when we get there? If the wraith’s not there yet, how do we convince them to listen to us and not throw us in jail, or worse?”

“I don’t know, Francisco. The one thing we have going for us is that the VP is a paranoid motherfucker. We might be able to spook him enough so that, after they throw us to the wolves, he’ll take precautions.”

“And we’re going to risk our lives, our freedom, for the guy some say masterminded all of this? We’ve got to be the world’s dumbest idealists!”

“Coming from you, Francisco, that’s something,” she said, starting to laugh but falling into another protracted coughing fit. She leaned against the window, pressing her face to the glass. “Cold. That feels wonderful. I’m not sure I’ll even make it as far as all that.”

“Sara, then we turn around and let fate take its course with him!”

“No, Francisco! Whatever he might or might not have done, he has rights, to life, liberty, an all that shit. After all this, I need to know that there is something that separates us from them. Courage of our convictions.” Her breathing was ragged. “That’s why we’re going.”

“Okay, shut up then, before you kill yourself talking. I need you.”

Houston smiled and reached for his hand on the wheel. “To help you with the wraith or more generally?”

“Both, damn it! And you know it. Now shut up.”

Her smiled broadened, and she closed her eyes for a time. The roadway blurred in Lopez’s mind, the speed high and reckless, features along the way lost in the motion. Her words reached deeply inside him.

I do need her. This foul-mouthed, highly skilled, intelligent, resourceful, unbelieving, at times brutal woman had become what no one else had been allowed to be in his life: the object of his love.

I love her. The words in his mind flowed over him with energy and warmth. He had finally let himself admit the truth. He knew it must be the crazed and traumatic experiences they had shared, the near-death escapes, the horrors and salvations. But the reasons didn’t change the reality. That he could explain it away with a Psychology 101 model didn’t undo what had happened. He loved her, and he needed her, and nothing was going to change that.

And I don’t want to go back to what was.

The thought struck him like a blow, and his hands grabbed the steering wheel tightly. He had never once since his ordination considered breaking his vows, leaving the Church, deserting his position. He simply could not have done it. Now, in one moment of clarity, he knew that he could. That he had been stripped of all position, been dishonored unjustly, and been rejected in his greatest moment of need by the Church did not assuage his pain at this truth. God had left Christ alone at the hour of his Passion: Eli Eli lama sabachthani? His current sufferings were nothing in comparison! Where is your faith, Francisco?

But what should be and what was were two different things. As Houston slept and the dark evening flashed by incomprehensibly alongside his racing vehicle, the new world he had entered, been forced into, crystallized before Francisco Lopez. Suddenly, he understood that his former life was over. Born from its ashes a new life would begin in the next few hours — or it would be tragically cut short.

Whichever way, he was Father Lopez no more.

57

The Secret Service guard at the gate struck a match, the flash partly blinding him in the blackness of the night. He brought the flame to a cigarette pinched between his lips and repositioned himself in the chair. Sucking on the filter, he ensured that the tobacco had caught, then shook the match out. He dropped it to the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe. Suppressing a yawn, he rubbed his eyes.

I’m too damn old to be doing this anymore. Images of Baton Rouge came back to him, and his days on the LSU basketball team. College girls. He’d been a star. After school, military service, and too many decades putting his ass on the line for others, it was time to quit.

His six-foot-eight-inch frame hardly fit in the little hut they had built for the gate guards, and his back was stiff from bending. He was tired, and it was another long night at an assignment that seemed too easy to pass up but that had turned out to be a real pain in his ass. First, there was the boredom. Night shift after night shift, in rain, cold, summer heat — for two years he had manned this small gatehouse. He was sick of it and of the growing feeling that he was wasting his life away. Then there was the man he protected. The vice president was insanely demanding, moody, and liable to fire anyone for reasons only his paranoia could justify. He’d seen too many decent agents sent packing, always with the rumors of poor recommendation letters that followed them for years. The guard didn’t want to get fired, but he sure as hell needed to get another assignment.

He took a long drag on the cancer stick, holding the smoke deep in his lungs, and exhaled toward the moonless sky. Even the stars were hidden by a low blanket of clouds. With hardly any streetlights around this isolated property, it was about as dark as ink.

A deep rumbling from an engine focused his attention. Now, that was something new. He turned his gaze up the road, following its path up the small hill that sat in front of the property. Two o’clock in the morning didn’t bring too much traffic around these parts. His eyes squinted slightly — the motor sounded powerful, large, likely diesel. A shadow seemed to congeal at the top of the hill, the broad outlines of what almost appeared to be a military-issue truck just discernible in the darkness. It almost looked like an old Humvee. What the hell?

The agent stood up and walked out of his small enclosure on the right of the thick metal gate. He called out to the symmetrically placed gatehouse on the other side. “Yo! Johnson! Get your ass over here right now!”

There was a crashing sound, and a young man stumbled out of the other gatehouse looking half asleep. “Bridges? What is it? Damn! It’s two in the morning!”

“And that’s our shift, Johnson. Can’t you stay awake just one night?”

The younger man looked up the hill. He’d heard the sounds of the vehicle. “What’s going on?”

The tall black man rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. Truck just pulled up. Just sitting there. I don’t like this. I’m going to call it in, you keep your eyes open and holler if anything happens.”

The older guard walked back to the enclosure. First time I’ve called in anything in two years! He didn’t even remember the number. He flicked on a desk light and scanned the list taped to the side of the wall.

“Bridges?” came the young man’s call from outside. “Hey, somebody’s moving around up there. Looks like he’s on top of the truck.”

Holding the phone in one hand, he glanced up through the window. Sure enough, it looked like someone had climbed onto the roof. He pulled out his binoculars from a drawer and rushed back outside.

“Some drunk kids?” he said, planting his feet near the gate opening.

“Dunno, man. Weird.”

He trained the binoculars on the blurred shaped and focused. It was a man, not standing on top of the truck but inside with half his torso visible above the roof. Like in Desert Storm. He found his mind momentarily frozen, images flooding back and paralyzing his thoughts. The man shouldered something large and tubular. A bright orange light flashed.

“Johnson! Get down! Get—”

From the hilltop, the wraith reloaded the missile launcher. The left-side gatehouse and wall were gone, bright flames licking the remaining structures. A cloud of smoke, backlit from the fire underneath, rose aggressively, blending quickly into the dark sky. He aimed the Predator toward the right side, engaged the targeting electronics, locked onto the structure, and fired.

The result was similarly devastating. The warhead detonated on impact, the explosion thunderous. Stone, glass, and wood from the wall and houses mixed into a short-lived fireball and rained onto the earth beneath. He lifted a high-powered sniper rifle and looked through the scope toward the gate. The gate was gone, the metal warped and broken, the bars torn from the sides of the wall by the explosion. Two burning bodies lay on the ground in front of the gate.

He placed the weapon back inside the vehicle and then dropped into the driver’s seat, shifting forward and barreling down the hill. His frequency scanner buzzed around several common bands, indicating significant activity. Others in the compound or residence were aware that something had happened. Guards would be mobilized. Soon, video transmissions would show the damage, and the vice president would be moved to his underground bunker. That won’t protect you.

The Humvee roared past the burning entrance, crushing underneath it the bodies he had seen from the hill. He did not slow. The house was about one hundred yards from the gate. Already he could see Secret Service agents streaming out of the home and an adjacent guesthouse. At this speed, they would intercept the Humvee in about thirty seconds. But he would not slow down. He would drive straight in front of the building, just feet from the porch and entrance, running down anyone who tried to get in his way. Then he would have to engage them. They likely didn’t have the firepower to pierce the reinforced plating. But individually, they could enter the vehicle and go hand to hand. He couldn’t let them get that close. Their single advantage was in numbers.

Bullets began striking the armor plating from several directions. He could now see about twenty agents converging on him rapidly. It was the perfect lure to the trap.

Just as it seemed that he would crash headfirst into the building, he braked hard and flipped a switch. The front headlights shot their beams outward, but several bright spotlights he had installed around the sides of the vehicle also engaged. Suddenly the men rushing him were blinded, and they were revealed to him in harsh beams. Deer in the headlights.

He leapt through the roof opening and grabbed the M2. It was affixed to a ring mount, allowing him to spin nearly three hundred and sixty degrees, the barrel extending through a slot cut into the thick cylindrical plating that surrounded him. He could fire at will against those outside. They saw only the end of his weapon protruding from the wall of steel. He opened fire.

It was a shooting gallery. The M2 rounds were devastating and were pouring quickly from the machine gun. The agents fired wildly, bullets flying past the truck, some hitting it, one shattering a spotlight, others careening off the protective armor plating surrounding him atop the Humvee. It was bloody carnage below. He slowly rotated the gun, men dropping as if under a weed-whacker, screams and dust and blood overwhelming the senses. The remaining agents began to run, realizing they could not overcome the assault. He showed no mercy and gunned them down from behind. The gunfire stopped. None were left standing.

He reached down and heaved up the missile launcher. He had two more missiles, both blast-fragmentation warheads, and turned toward the house. As if on cue, there was movement at the windows and front door of the residence, and he began to take fire from the few agents remaining — likely the staff assigned to protect the building proper. The last line of defense. Several were stationing themselves near the entrance and surrounding windows, and some on the second floor. Rounds clanked around him, one even striking his chest causing intense pain, but the body armor prevented major damage. The fire was coming from the second floor; that shooter had the best angle on him. He aimed the Predator upward and fired. The missile rushed forward, and an entire side of the house exploded. It was as if a propane tank had blown up inside the home. Wood paneling, drywall, and glass showered downward with smoke and flames. All firing from the house ceased, the agents below likely frozen in shock from what had happened.

Time for the awe. He mounted the last missile, aimed the weapon toward the front door, and launched. The explosion blew the porch apart, white colonial support columns flying outward, the second floor partially collapsing above the entrance. Dust and small debris rained down even as far as his Humvee. There was no further gunfire from within.

He lowered himself into the truck, strapped himself into the seat, and gunned the vehicle forward. It rode up the blasted stairs and porch, where the devastated timbers of the house were no match for the weight and momentum of the truck. Anything in his way shattered and splintered. He crashed through the hole in the house, smashing into the lobby and living room, and brought the vehicle to a stop.

Quickly he exited, grabbing a portable grenade launcher, a shotgun, and a small submachine gun. Into the slots of a back holster he placed the shotgun and grenade launcher. He strapped several bars of Semtex plastic explosive around his waist, along with a timer and fuses. Opening his smartphone, he called up the schematics of the house he had obtained from CIA computers and verified the location of the bunker. It was directly below him, the walls hardened and reinforced with steel and concrete, a circular hub of an enclosed living space with its own power system, battery banks, water wells, air filtration systems, sewage disposal, security system, and medical supplies. An OCD paranoid’s fantasy panic room.

The easiest entry would be above the air ventilation system, the weakest point in the structure. From the walls that remained standing, the wraith measured off several intersecting lines. Wreckage and bodies were strewn across the floor of the entrance and rooms, making his efforts problematic, but he calibrated everything carefully with a phone app that combined GPS location and distance measurements. With chalk, he marked off the locations of the ventilation ducts based on the blueprints he had obtained. He then placed several small explosive charges around these points, attached fuses and timers, and removed himself to the other side of the Humvee for shielding. Using a remote control, he detonated the charges.

The explosions were loud but minimal. He returned to the area, saw that the charges had opened gaping holes in the concrete of the bunker below but had not come close to penetrating it. He then placed several large blocks of Semtex into the holes and repeated the procedure, this time driving the Humvee out of the house and back onto the driveway. Crouching on the side of the vehicle away from the house, he activated the explosives.

These explosions were enormous, and for a moment, he feared he had miscalculated the safe distance and might be injured by the blast. Large chunks of the house fell around him, but he remained unscathed. He leapt up and ran into the decimated living space, the center without roof or walls, having become an open observatory of the blank heavens. The smoke and dust were thick, but he saw what he needed to see: light radiating upward from the enormous hole in the middle of the floor. He had blasted through. Shouts sounded from below.

He ran back out and drove the Humvee up close to the hole and set the brake. Tying a rope around the grilling in the front of the car, he then approached the edge of the hole cautiously. He reached over his shoulder, unslung the grenade launcher, and pumped five into the bunker below. He stepped backward out of the possible blast radius and waited. Seconds later the explosions erupted, along with the sounds of shattering glass and other materials below. The alarmed shouts from before turned to screams.

He grabbed the submachine gun in one hand, the rope in the other, and pushed off from the edge of the blast hole, rapidly rappelling downward.

58

“Fred? Jesus Christ, we thought you were dead!” said Houston, relief evident in her wearied tone. Lopez motioned for her to plug the phone into the stolen car’s sophisticated dashboard system. She did so, the sounds from Simon’s end coming over an impressive speaker system, a microphone attached to each visor filtering background noise and conveying their words.

Simon spoke. “It’s been a hell of a time, Sara. There’s a lot to tell you.”

“Fred? This is Francisco Lopez. Please listen a moment — we don’t have much time. This is a matter of life and death for a prominent national figure.” They were near their turnoff, soon to be on the residential roads in a Maryland suburb. Luck had ridden with them. No construction detours, no police. He estimated ten minutes until they arrived at the home of the former vice president. “We’re in Maryland, chasing the wraith.”

“Wraith?” interrupted Simon.

“The killer of my brother and the other CIA agents. We’re coming from a farmhouse in Virginia where he killed several former high-ranking members of the CIA Renditions Branch, including James Farnell.”

“Farnell? Dead? What are you talking about? He’s the one who’s been trying to kill me! That’s why I couldn’t reach you. I’ve been on the run!”

Lopez looked over at Houston. “We didn’t know, Fred, but it makes sense. Listen to me, please! Farnell and his group are not the last target. The wraith is a former rendered suspect, a kid dragged into a net along with some dirty family members. He was tortured in Syria, had some kind of mental breakdown, and has plotted a vengeance like you’ve never seen before. We were also at the home of Agent Miller, who was tortured and killed. We found out there from his records that Farnell was using the Renditions Branch to do much more than illegally render Americans overseas. He was using it as his own assassination squad to silence anyone who threatened his program! Politicians, rights activists. There is a list of targets. You won’t believe it.”

“Dear God! No wonder this has become so insane. That’s why he wanted all of us dead. That crazy fuck!”

“Yes! We went to confront him, but the wraith arrived and slaughtered them all, leaving us alive.”

“Alive? Why?”

“I don’t know! But listen! His last target, we’ve sent the address to your email and as a text message. You need to get whatever assets you can there. Call the police, FBI. The damn National Guard!”

There was a silence on the other end. “Checking. Lopez, are you sure about this? The vice president? Sara, is this right?”

Houston had drifted off. “Fred, she’s wounded, hurt badly, lost a lot of blood. She insisted we go straight to stop this maniac, but she’s in trouble! Send medical help there, too! An ambulance. Please!”

Houston came back to consciousness and spoke weakly. “I’m still here, Fred. Just fading. Fading slowly.” She sounded drunk.

Lopez saw the turnoff ahead and slammed the brakes, squealing over to the right lane. The car scrapped cacophonously against the left railing, and he swerved to gain control, sparks flying outside his window. He barely negotiated the ramp and centered the vehicle again. They were off the highway.

“Come again, Fred? I didn’t catch that. I’m playing Road Warrior out here right now!”

“I said, I’ll have everything out there that I can. I’ll mobilize every last damn favor in my account! But Sara’s right, Francisco. We can’t let anything happen to the vice president. All of this, it’s a mess that stinks to high heaven, but the only thing worse will be if this becomes a national and international incident. We’ve got to stop this attack! I’m closing. Get your ass over there, and I pray you can take over for Sara and play a trained operative. Good luck!”

The connection was broken.

Houston smiled and looked up at Lopez. “You’ll do fine. You kicked the shit out of that bastard in Alabama.” Her eyelids drooped. “Just never got you firearms training. Never enough time.”

“It’s OK, Sara. We will.”

“Promise?” she asked dreamily.

She’s dying. Her one wish? That I’ll shoot guns with her! “Yes, Sara, I promise.”

Her breathing was soft. She did not respond.

59

He landed roughly in the bunker. Ruined remains of the ceiling and walls were scattered around his feet, mixed in with the blood and tattered flesh of four or five Secret Service agents who paid for their service to America with their lives. The former vice president was not among the bodies.

In addition to the plastic explosives, the barrage of grenades had wreaked havoc, killing men and blasting walls and furniture. A thick dust hung in the air, and small fires burned sporadically throughout the underground structure. Gripping his machine gun tightly, he released the rope and scanned the area. He did not have an exact count, but there were likely a few agents still alive. But no more than a few. They were undoubtedly extremely cautious now, having barely escaped the carnage, desperate to come out of this invasion alive. They would be primed to kill him if he gave them the chance. He wouldn’t.

The bunker was a circular design, rooms like pie wedges, separated by thin interior walls and connected near the center by doors placed around a smaller, concentric circle. He stood in the center of the bunker, the walls and doorways partially to completely destroyed. Rubble was piled in haphazard ways, the dusty fog irritating his lungs. Even among the disorder, it was clear that the surroundings were designed with high-quality materials, the space and decor intended as a pleasing accommodation and not simply as a survival location. The vice president hunkered down in style.

He scanned in a circular motion. At the twelve o’clock position, spanning an angle from eleven o’clock to one o’clock, was a doorless opening toward stairs and a room to the left housing storage lockers. The stairs were the accessibility point for the bunker — unless one used the method of blowing a hole through the ceiling and rappelling down. The area seemed empty.

Leading with his gun in a crouched position, he turned to a closed door at the two o’clock position. Continuing his spin, next was an empty corridor, dim and backlit by reddish emergency lighting, extending for perhaps thirty feet. At five o’clock and seven o’clock positions in the circular wall, there were doors, both closed. Finally, at nine o’clock, a corridor parallel with the other, running radially outward. It, too, was empty.

Inside one of these three rooms. He moved toward the closed door at five o’clock. Crouching low and along the wall, he tested the door handle. It was unlocked, and he turned the handle enough to disengage the mechanism, pushing the door very slightly open. Nothing happened. With a blinding spin, he rotated to face the door, maintaining a crouch on one foot and bringing his right leg like a battering ram against the wood and kicking the door open. His weapon was trained on the interior.

The room was empty of personnel. To his right and left, furniture: couches, chairs, and a table. Along the circumference of the wall radially out from him, a series of four doors, all open and revealing very small bedrooms, like one might expect on a submarine. Crew’s quarters. The VP wasn’t here.

He turned next to the closed door at the two o’clock position. He again made the same approach and tried the handle. This time it was locked, and he thought he picked up faint noises of motion within the room. He place the machine gun on the floor and unslung his shotgun. He loaded a special breaching round into the chamber, then stood far enough back to minimize pellet ricochet. He aimed at the top hinge, turned his face away from the door, and pulled the trigger.

The blast opened a large hole in the door, obliterating the hinge. He received several pellet fragments across his Kevlar armor, and a few nicked his neck. He felt blood trickle and the acidic pain from the wound, but he knew it was minor. Without pausing, he kicked the lower hinge of the door forcefully. It was enough. The door crashed inward from the damaged side.

Immediately he spun to the side, out of the way of the entrance, just as someone within the room repeatedly discharged a firearm. He removed a fragmentation grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and reached around the doorframe. He flung the grenade into the room inches above the floor, like a stone over a pond. The grenade skipped several times, struck the far wall, and exploded. There was a cry from inside, and the wraith spun into the doorway with his shotgun.

He saw a man stumbling toward the center of the room, shrapnel embedded in his face and arms, his clothes already a bloody mess. Still the agent tried to raise his weapon, tried to see through the blood pouring over his eyes from his head wound. The wraith unloaded two rounds from his shotgun into the chest and face of the man, blowing him to pieces.

He quickly scanned the room. Its purpose was mechanical: air filtration, water heaters, and banks of batteries. It was the heart and lungs of the underground bunker, impressive in its design and robustness. No one else was there. The vice president was behind the last door.

He walked up to the twitching body in front of him and searched it. From the man’s pocket, he removed an earpiece and transmitter. Fitting them on, he activated the device and pressed the button to call out. Several seconds later, a voice came through.

“Tony? Jesus, Tony what the hell is happening? Is anybody left? It’s just me here, and the two in the back room. They’re hysterical! Tony?”

The wraith threw the device to the floor and walked out of the room.

60

The black town car pulled up to the top of the hill. Immediately, Lopez knew that something terrible had happened. Even from this distance, even in the pale predawn light, the destruction was clear. Fires burned near the gate to the mansion, wreckage strewn about. He thought he could discern the shape of bodies in the middle of the roadway.

Even more ominous, the house itself was burning. Black smoke billowed into the sky. He rubbed his fatigued eyes — it almost looked like there was a giant hole in the front of the house.

He shifted gears and drove down the hill. Awkwardly, he tried to avoid the dead forms directly behind the gate, and continued this obstacle course all the way to the house itself. Bodies littered the driveway, the lawn, and were hanging out of destroyed portions of the blasted structure. Some had been shot. Some were burned beyond recognition. Armageddon had come to the quiet back-ways of Maryland.

He pulled to a stop near the entrance to the house, or at least what he assumed was the entrance. It was like looking into the gutted remains of some Roman amphitheater, most of the walls gone, the view to the sky utterly unobstructed. To cement the surreal nature of the scene, a large military truck was parked inside the house. From what he could see, it looked like there was a giant pit in front of it. The mouth of hell.

He stopped the engine. Houston was sleeping again. He put his hand close to her mouth and felt her soft breathing. He brushed some of her short, dyed-black hair away from her face. He preferred the river of gold before they had disguised themselves, but she was still beautiful. Her white skin especially contrasted with the dark hair she had adopted. At his touch, she opened her eyes. Two bright-blue sapphires shown out at him.

“Francisco,” she said, her voice sounding dry. “Check the bandages. They feel really wet.”

He got out of the car and moved quickly to her side. Opening the door, he carefully removed her seat belt and unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her side. The bandages were stained pink. It wasn’t a tremendous loss of blood, but it was not minor. We’re running out of time.

“Take this.” She held up her father’s pistol. The weight quickly became too much for her, and her hand began to drop to her lap. He caught it in his left and took the firearm with his right. She looked weakly at him. “It’s single action. Cock it once, and then you can empty the clip. Thumb safety. Activates only after you cock it.” She paused to catch her breath, exhausted. “This is your show. It won’t be hunting squirrels in Alabama, Francisco. You might not come back.” She closed her eyes for a moment and then resumed. “If you don’t come back, then I’ll die here. That’s fine with me. I feel so tired. I don’t want anyone else coming for me but you. Okay, Francisco?”

He had tears in his eyes. He didn’t know what to say. Her words should have sounded like nonsense, and yet in some primitive way, they were beautiful to him. “God willing, Sara, we’ll stop him, and we’ll get out of this. Here, let me lay this back for you.”

Lopez worked the controls on the car seat, and slowly her chair reclined almost to a horizontal position. He reached in and stroked her hair. “That better?”

She nodded. “Cold. Thirsty.”

You idiot! Of course she was! But they had nothing to drink with them. “Wait here, Sara.”

He ran to the house, leaping over the shattered stairway and into the ruined building. There was an acrid taste to the air and the heavy scent of diesel from the truck, all of it mixed in with the common chemical smells of a recently cleaned home. Running around the perimeter of the enormous hole blasted into the floor, he found a kitchen on the other side. Within seconds, he had filled a tall glass with water. He ripped a thick curtain from a window and draped it over his shoulder. As he exited the kitchen, he heard an explosion, the sound clearly coming from the large breach in the floor. He looked down into it as he passed. There was a fog of smoke, but he thought he could make out a floor plan below. Doors. The VP’s fortified shelter? Was it actually real?

He returned to the car. Houston seemed eager to drink, but after a few swallows was too tired to continue. He placed the glass in the cup holder and covered her with the curtain. She reached up and grabbed his hand.

“Almost out of gas, Francisco. Hurry up.”

He kissed her softly on the lips. They felt terribly dry. “I love you, Sara.”

She closed her eyes, a half smile on her face. “Ditto.”

Leaving the window open, he closed the door and sprinted into the house. There was a rope tied to the large truck, and it was dangling deep into the hole. He wedged the Browning between his pants and belt. Unsatisfied, he unclasped the belt and tightened it a notch, strapping the weapon closely to him. He tried to remember another age, when as a young teen he had rappelled off a cliff face at camp. All I need now is to break my neck getting down there.

Approaching the edge, he stood over the rope, his back toward the smoking pit, his face staring into the angry grille of the vehicle. He grabbed the thick mass of fibers, draping it across his back, over his right shoulder, then bringing it down diagonally across his chest. Like this, I think. With his right hand, he led the rope between his legs, and leaned backward into it, turning his shoulder slightly to keep it taut.

“Here we go,” he said out loud to no one. Feeding the rope from his trailing hand, he stepped over the edge.

God save us.

61

The wraith walked slowly toward the last door. As he approached, gunfire erupted from the other side, the wood splintering and several bullets penetrating through and barely missing him. Interesting stratagem. Whoever was inside wasn’t going to wait helplessly to be attacked.

Standing to the side of the door, he raised his pump-action shotgun. With such a trigger-friendly opponent on the other side, he would not have the time to carefully unhinge the door. Instead, he began blasting it in the center. Shot after shot, pumping the empty shell out and mechanically loading the next, he opened up a gaping wound in the door the size of a beach ball. Whoever was on the other side would be ducking for cover, not firing back. Without taking a breath, he dropped the gun, removed a grenade, armed it, and threw it hard into the room. In these small spaces, there would be no escape for those inside.

There was a loud blast as some shrapnel flew out through the hole in the door. The wraith then threw his body weight into the barrier, the ruined wood giving way instantly. He crashed through, his momentum carrying him recklessly into the room. He careered toward the floor, turned the motion into a roll, and landed on his shoulder, springing up almost instantly, the machine gun in his hands.

He scanned the room. It seemed empty aside from a few comfortable leather chairs, a sofa, and the dead body of a Secret Service agent killed by the fragmentation grenade. Two doors were closed on the wall to the left of the door. He remained utterly still and quiet, listening.

Muffled sobs could be heard coming from the nearest door, and a harsh “Shut up!” from inside. The wraith stood up, walked over to the door, and tried the handle from the side. It was unlocked. His prey had forgotten in his panic even that modicum of security. Bracing himself, he drew his leg back like a coiled spring and kicked the door open.

The door swung wildly on its hinges, revealing a medium-sized yet luxurious bedroom. Two figures were kneeling next to the bed. One was an older woman in a nightgown, bent over as if in prayer. Next to her was her husband, the former vice president of the United States. He was dressed in silk pajamas, and in his right hand he held a gun. The weapon shook as he tried to aim it toward the door.

The wraith moved like a striking snake. He dove into the room as a wild shot exploded over his head and hit the wall. He rolled into a crouch and flung his shotgun at the head of the vice president, who was caught midway as he stood up and tried to aim the gun again. The move surprised the old man, and he flung his arms up to shield himself from the impact. In that time, the wraith sprung like a panther, and before the older man could regain his focus, his arm was grasped by a powerful hand, his wrist twisted painfully. With a scream, he dropped the gun to the floor, where it was kicked to the side by the wraith. The vice president, once perhaps the most powerful man on the planet, sat down helplessly on his bed. His wife continued to pray.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

The wraith ignored her and backed up several steps, drawing a large knife. The vice president’s eyes widened and then formed angry slits. He stood up and pointed his finger at his executioner.

“How dare you?” he yelled. His face flushed from anger. “Who do you think you are, you son of a bitch?”

Faster than the old man could react, the wraith flashed forward and slapped the man across the face with the back of his hand. The vice president nearly fell over, caught himself on the bedstead, and put his hand to his mouth. When he drew it away, it was covered in blood.

“I am the angel of death who has come to claim his own. I am Lucifer, once a bright light, then fallen into the pit of hell and remade. I am here for your soul.”

The praying woman shrieked, then continued the words, nearly screaming them to the heavens.

“Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us!”

The vice president snarled through a nearly purple face, the blood in his mouth not concealing the white of his gnashing teeth. He took several steps toward the wraith.

“You come into my home, kill my men, frighten my wife and threaten me!” His rage was nearly complete, his breathing ragged, the words choking in his mouth. “Kill me then, you bastard! Drive the knife! I’m not afraid of you! I’ve killed more of you than you ever will of decent people!”

The older man choked and grabbed at his throat. “You… You will…” Unable to get the words out, he doubled over, clawing maniacally at his chest. His color was a hideous purple, and he emitted a horrific gurgling sound as he fell to the floor. His face was constricted in a mask of pain, his eyes wild, his breathing erratic and forced. Suddenly, the breathing stopped, and he stared blankly toward the ceiling. He did not move again.

There was an anguished cry from the woman, who stared over at the nightmarish sight of her dying husband. She rushed over. “No! No, God, no!” She grasped at his shirt, slapped his face, and when he did not respond, raised her hands to the sky in frantic prayer.

The wraith watched the scene as one stricken. Dumbfounded, he straightened from his tense fighting stance, the knife still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it. All possible usefulness had drained from the object. He let it drop to the ground.

“You’ve killed him!” the woman moaned. “You’ve killed my husband!” She screamed it out and sobbed at the same time, glaring at the wraith like a woman possessed and then collapsed onto the chest of her husband.

The wraith spoke flatly. “He killed me. And then he denied me the chance to repay him. So be it. It is finished.”

The woman continued to weep loudly. The wraith moved away from her, turned his back on the couple, the knife, and the gun. Slowly, as one sleepwalking, he walked out of the bedroom. He moved deliberately through the debris in the interior room, stepping over the form of the dead agent. He walked through the blasted door and into the center ring.

A man stood there next to the rope, holding a gun to his face.

“Don’t move,” said the man. “Or I’ll shoot you.”

62

Lopez tried to hold the gun steady. He was pointing it at a madman, a self-trained assassin highly skilled in all the arts of combat and war. The assassin seemed to be unarmed, was not yet within striking distance, and appeared by his movements to be injured or drugged. Lopez knew all this gave him certain advantages, but with such a devastating killer, he did not want to be too confident. He tried to keep his focus.

“Where is the vice president?” he asked in the most demanding tone he could muster.

“Dead,” said the wraith.

Lopez felt crushed. I’ve failed, Sara. “So, you killed him, finally.”

The man sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. Lopez assumed it was some sort of trick. He stepped slightly to the side to make sure he kept the man at an angle, off balance, making a sudden attack harder to pull off.

“Not as I would have wished,” said the assassin. “I brought a knife. I planned to plunge it into the weak heart of that monster and twist it. To look him in the eyes when I sent him on the long road to hell.” Lopez stared at him, the bloodlust of his words contrasting with their tone. The wraith smiled bitterly. “But his heart was even weaker than I had expected. Too much stress for the evening, I suppose. He died before I could touch him. Acute myocardial infarction.”

“Where is he?” said Lopez, struggling over whether to believe the killer or not.

“In that room, through the side door,” said the wraith, motioning listlessly with his hand. “The wife is alive.”

Lopez left the wraith. It was crazy. The killer would be gone when he returned or would come from behind him to strike. But he had to determine what had happened to the vice president. He ran through the destroyed portal, danced around the body of a slain agent, and entered the bedroom. He saw a woman on the floor, weeping over the body of her husband. It was a pathetic sight.

She looked up at him. “Too late. You’re all too late. Now he’s dead. Just go. Leave me.” Lopez stood rooted to the spot, her pain and suffering tearing at his sense of empathy. She screamed at him. “I said go! What good are you now? Get out of here!”

The anguish in her eyes was too much for Lopez, his own sense of failure a weight around his neck. He left the room not knowing what would happen next. But the insanity was over. Whatever good or evil he had or had not done, the mad quest for vengeance had been completed. All that was left was the aftermath. Jail. Separation from Houston. Possible execution. All actions had their opposite reactions. I’m coming back now, Sara. For as long as they let me stay with you.

Returning quickly into the center of the bunker structure, he was stunned to find that the wraith was still there: unmoved, sitting cross-legged amid the rubble that he had created. Lopez had not even raised the gun or taken any precautions walking back, so certain had he been that the assassin would have fled. Instead, he sat in the same place, in the same position, a statue drained of life. All energy seemed to have been taken from his form.

Lopez walked around to face him, his sense of danger lessened. Above, from the blasted hole, he thought he could hear sirens. Whether they were police or firefighters, it didn’t matter. Soon, every law enforcement and emergency response division at the local and federal level would converge on this location. With Houston incapacitated, there was no escaping them. It was better that they came, so that she could be seen to, taken to a hospital.

“Don’t let them take me.” The wraith’s words broke his concentration.

“What?” Lopez’s thoughts had consumed him, and he did not understand.

“Your gun. Use it on me now. Have your justice.”

Lopez stared at the shape in front of him. What are you? A tortured child. A lunatic. A fire that had purged the CIA. A killer.

Images from the Tennessee cabin hit him like a blow. You killed my brother. He raised the gun and cocked it. “Yes, I should kill you now, you bastard. Before they arrive and arrest all of us and take that opportunity away from me forever. You are a murderer. You took my only brother away from me. You should die for it.”

Francisco Lopez aimed the weapon, a terrible anger flowing through him, welling up like an explosion. He pulled the trigger.

A hole was blown into the wall beside the wraith, dust and paint flakes raining across the floor. The killer was unharmed. “But I can’t kill you. Not anymore.”

The man looked up from the floor, confusion on his face. “Why can’t you kill me?” He seemed almost desperate.

Lopez sat down as well, the sirens much louder and the sound of men’s shouts ringing out above them. He pulled his knees up into his chest, fingering the weapon.

“I believed I would be a holy man by becoming a priest,” said Lopez, a sad smile on his face. “I thought that the sacrament of ordination would fill me with the Holy Spirit, and I would then overcome myself and march toward righteousness.” He laughed, pointing the barrel of the gun at his chest. “I always feared what was inside. Terrible things. Violence. Murder. Things to be suppressed. Confessed. I ran from it all, praying that God would cure me. But God has not.”

Lopez flipped the gun into the air and caught it. He repeated the process over and over as he spoke. “When I walked into that cabin in Gatlinburg and saw what you had done to my brother — things changed. I have chased you now for months. Not for justice. Justice is impartial. It is procedural. It is careful. I wanted none of those things. I wanted you dead. I wouldn’t let myself see it, but I wanted to kill you. I chased after you for vengeance.”

“So do it!” demanded the wraith. “Now you can! Take your vengeance!”

“Now I see you, see what others have done to you. Good intentions pave the way to hell. I see you are not a man. Not anymore. You are a warped and broken soul. You have already been to hell, and now you return carrying hell with you. Who am I to judge you after that?”

The wraith stood up, the sounds of men around the opening above them clear. Lopez glanced upward, as well. It was only a matter of minutes.

Suddenly the wraith pounced toward him, grasping him by the collar, shaking him violently. “If you know this,” said the wraith, a wild light in his eyes, “if you have the eyes to see the truth, then you must kill me!”

Lopez struggled to free himself from the tight grip of the killer, but the man held on maniacally, his eyes wide. The wraith screamed at him. “You are right! Every waking moment is pain! Every conscious minute brings memories. Terrible memories. Only the hunt of my enemies gave me any relief, any distraction from the darkness that surrounds me, suffocates me, imprisons me! I killed my tormentors, but it’s not over! They will always torment me. Always break my fingers, violate me, burn me, drown me in water and in fear!”

Lopez leaned back stunned, the anguish and madness in the words nearly overwhelming. The veins stood out on the forehead of the crazed man. His teeth were bared like an animal’s. “Please! They will take me, they will lock me away for years! Years! Years and months and weeks and minutes of never-ending pain!”

The killer grabbed the priest’s hand and placed the barrel of the gun to his temple. “End it! I deserve death for the death I have brought, for the suffering of others, for the weeping of widows and children, for the torture of Miller. If you have risen above your hatred, kill me both for justice and for mercy’s sake!” The wraith fell on his knees, his face pleading.

Lopez jumped backward, barely tearing loose, staring at the man’s wild and haunted eyes. He looked down at him in horror, the full malignancy of the man’s soul visible like a vision. As in confession, the guilt and pain of another washed over him, and he felt the poison of the man’s sins. It was nearly incapacitating.

Like confession. Lopez closed his eyes, remembering his brother’s last words to him in the confessional. Words spoken in anguish before he had bolted from the church. Lopez had never given him absolution.

The shouts above commingled with the sounds of feet rushing down the stairway across from them. Men were entering the bunker.

Lopez stood up, dust and bits of rubble sliding off his clothes. He made the Sign of the Cross over the crumpled figure beneath him. He no longer had the authority to forgive sins; a corrupt bishop in Alabama had taken that from him. He was no longer a priest, and for all he knew, no longer even in Communion with the Church.

He didn’t give a damn.

He placed his hand on the head of the wraith. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” He stepped backward and raised the gun. “Amen.” He aimed the weapon at the killer’s head.

The wraith stared at him and then closed his eyes. He spoke his last words. “Thank you.”

“You there!” came a shout from across the room. “Drop the weapon and place your hands above your head!”

Lopez pulled the trigger. The shot blasted open the face of the man, and the body rolled heavily over on its side. It spasmed for several seconds, and then remained still.

“Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine,” he said, lowering the weapon to his side. “Et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen.”

He felt a jarring impact from behind and was thrown to the floor. His hands were jerked behind his back, and he felt cuffs slapped onto them tightly.

“You have the right to remain silent,” said a panting voice, “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Lopez did not resist. Events had reached their ending point. The CIA agents were gone, their leaders slaughtered. The vice president was silenced. The wraith himself was dead at Lopez’s own hand. He and Houston were caught.

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy upon us sinners.

63

“She’s hurt, damn it! Be careful with her!” Lopez yelled.

The world seemed in chaos. The dim morning was lit up like a carnival with six or seven police cars flashing their lights like strobes. The cackling of radio transmissions came from multiple directions, and spotlights were trained on him and the men escorting Houston out of the town car. The wailing call of fire trucks approaching brought an additional cacophony, and those firefighters who had already arrived were rushing around trying to quench the burning home. Behind him, the sounds of the popping wood and falling timbers blended into the ocean of noise.

The police officers shoved him forward, the movements wrenching his shoulders, his cuffed hands locked tightly behind him. They were treating Houston similarly, and she was barely staying on her feet. The sight of her abused this way drove him mad.

Exerting a wild force, Lopez yanked himself backward momentarily out of their grasp. The two officers holding him were thrown sideways, one stumbling to the ground. They scrambled to grab him and regain control, and he shouted at them as they approached.

“She’s wounded!” He lowered his shoulder and blocked one officer to the side. “If you don’t stop manhandling her, I’m going to resist arrest all the way to doomsday, and I’ll bloody the hell out of anyone who tries to get near!” For emphasis, he kicked at the men approaching him. One raised a Taser.

“Don’t make me use this on you!” came the frightened youthful voice from the uniformed man.

“Do it! And when I’m done pissing my pants, I’ll kick you even harder!”

The young officer looked over to his superiors with a concerned expression. An older policeman marched over and shoved the younger man aside.

“Listen to me, priest, we know who you two are. We’ve had the Feds on the line directing us here. We know what you and that woman can do, what you have done! And there is no way in hell we’re going to let you do here what you did up in New York. I suggest you cooperate, and then we’ll have the murderess seen to by someone all the faster. There she can spend some of the good and honest taxpayers’ money to treat her injuries.”

The officer’s face was hard like stone, and Lopez knew the man meant it. These troops were actually afraid to be around Houston and himself. It was stunning. In the process of trying to destroy them, the CIA monsters had managed to create two legends. Infamous legends. False legends. But were any legends ever true? He lowered his head and let the officers secure him once more.

“Better,” said the older officer. “Don’t do anything else stupid.”

They pushed them across the driveway, past their stolen town car, and toward the sea of police vehicles and arriving fire trucks. It was a scene out of a disaster film. Already numerous bodies on the ground had been covered with blankets, and yellow police tape was being pulled across nearly every available space. Heads turned with angry glares in their direction from officers and firemen alike. He and Houston were despised monsters.

Suddenly, there was a growing sound of engines approaching from the gate. Lopez looked out across the property and noticed four dark sedans with internal flashing sirens rushing up the driveway. Following closely behind was a black truck with white “FBI” lettering across its side. It looked like a special forces vehicle or one for prisoner transport.

Some policemen stopped the lead car midway, conversed with the driver briefly as Lopez was dragged forward, and then waved it on. It raced toward them, pulling to a stop right in front of Lopez and the men leading him. The truck pulled up seconds later behind the other cars. It looked like someone important had arrived.

A man and a woman leapt out of the lead vehicle and approached quickly. The male looked to be in his mid-forties, broad of build, with salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin. He was dressed in a dark suit. The woman was dressed formally as well, a black pantsuit and a white shirt that set off her long chestnut hair. A large badge hung from around her neck. Five uniformed agents in SWAT gear carrying shotguns and submachine guns leapt out of the van and converged behind the suits. Their weapons were held at the ready, and their eyes focused intently on Lopez and Houston.

“FBI Agent John Savas,” called the man, flashing a badge to the officers. “Who’s in command here?”

The older officer stepped forward. “That’s me. Captain Dan Siggia of the Maryland State Police.” He looked at their badges and the imposing mass of the Special Weapons and Tactics Team behind them. “You’re Feds?”

“I’m Special Agent-in-Charge of the Intel 1 Division at CTD. This is Agent Rebecca Cohen, also of Intel 1.” He nodded toward the woman.

“Counterterrorism? What brings you here? These terrorists now?”

“Unclear,” said Savas. “But I was in DC and was called urgently to this address on actionable intelligence — the threat to the life of the former VPOTUS.” He glanced up at the ruin around him. “It seems that call was accurate.”

“He’s dead,” said the officer, his expression a scowl. “Murdered along with an army of Secret Service agents by these killers.”

Lopez couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s a lie! We came here to save the vice president! It was the wraith! A killer, a victim of the CIA renditions program! You have to call— “

Savas backhanded Lopez across the face. “You will keep your mouth shut, you vermin! We’ve got a pretty little limo waiting for you two, and we’re going to put you in it and drive you to a place you don’t want to go.” The agent’s eyes were furious.

The state policemen looked over shocked, and with some awe and admiration. Savas motioned to the armored SWAT team, and they approached, pointing weapons at Lopez and Houston.

Lopez just stared at the FBI man. It was insane. After everything, after all the lies and deaths, all their efforts to find the truth, that they would also be tarnished with this last murder! The demonization of their persons was complete. He wanted to scream. He wanted to curse at God for the injustice of it all. The words from the Book of Job came unbidden to his mind, even as he tried to push them away: “Make me know my transgression and my sin. Why dost thou hide thy face, and count me as thy enemy?”

“We have orders from on high, gentlemen,” said Agent Savas loudly. “By federal authority these fugitives are to be placed into our custody, under our jurisdiction. We have intelligence that they are not working alone, and there may be efforts to actualize their escape as early as tonight. We need to move them immediately to the most secure federal lockdown we can find.”

Several officers around them murmured. Savas dismissed them with a wave.

“This is a federal matter, involving the assassination of a former vice president of the United States. Maybe you don’t realize who you are dealing with! We don’t want a repeat of New York, where these two and accomplices blew up the entire local police station in their escape.”

Officer Siggia nodded, his face relieved. “That’s for damn sure, and I’ll be sleeping easier knowing these two aren’t in my locker. They’re yours, agents. Get them the hell out of my sight. You men,” he said, rounding up his troops and turning his back on the agents, “Let’s get this cordoned off. More of these G-men and God knows who else are going to descend on us. Let’s have it ready.”

Savas motioned and the SWAT team rushed forward. Lopez felt himself grabbed tightly, additional constraints placed on his arms and set around his legs. He was glad to see that they did not do so with Houston but instead placed her on a stretcher carried by two agents. At least these FBI agents had some brains. It was obvious to anyone that she wasn’t escaping anywhere.

He was pushed forward and into the back of the truck, and then strapped into a harness that prevented any movement. To his amazement, there was an emergency response medic with a small station set up in the back. They quickly moved Houston to a gurney locked down to the van floor, and the medic began examining her. Before he could say anything, two large SWAT officers sat across from him, their faces concealed behind black masks and helmets. Their weapons were pointed casually toward him.

The front door opened, and Agent Savas stepped in himself. Lopez assumed the woman was outside with the state police. He watched Savas start the engine, back the van up carefully, and then accelerate down the driveway and onto the road.

Lopez didn’t know where they were headed. He assumed the worst. Maybe they would be rendered somewhere, tortured. Perhaps simply locked away without trial or chance of trial, labeled “enemy combatants” and disappeared to Guantanamo or some similar location. America was changing. Rights were being taken away. They could simply disappear some, without justification, in secret, for as long as they wanted.

And there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

64

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” said the medic, who hooked up a bag for transfusion. The truck bounced roughly along the road; Lopez marveled that the medic could do his job. “It’s good we were warned. I have her type and allergies. We got her just in time.”

Warned? Who could have told them that she was injured?

“Father Lopez,” said Savas from the front. “In a minute, I will instruct my men to release your constraints. I don’t want you doing anything stupid. At the least, think about Agent Houston and her need for assistance. It might also help to hear that we were sent by Fred Simon of the CIA. We know the story, the real story. We’re here to help.”

Lopez felt dizzy. From Simon? FBI agents? What the hell was going on?

“Fred’s a colleague of mine at Langley,” Savas continued, guessing Lopez’s thoughts. “We’ve worked together for years, and I know him personally. He’s a good man. A trusted friend. Only because of that did I believe him.”

“Then you can clear us?” asked Lopez, his hope desperate.

“Little hope of that, Father.”

“It’s not Father anymore, Agent Savas.”

Savas sighed. “I’m here with the unapproved authorization of Agent Simon. When this van is found destroyed, and I am unconscious, and these agents missing, he will take the heat for your escape, operating outside of protocol.”

Lopez was stunned. “Our escape?” He glanced outside the window. They were in the middle of nowhere, fields rushing past in the golden light of sunrise. Where will we escape to?

“We are doing this because the forces that set this nightmare in motion knew their business, Father.”

“Please,” interrupted Lopez, the title distracting him. “Not anymore. Not Father. I am defrocked. Excommunicated.”

Savas was silent a moment. “I am sorry for that. I really am. Your lives will never be the same after what they have done. Now, as I understand it, the leaders are all dead, murdered by this Pakistani-American nutcase. This wraith.”

“We saw three of them die. We also saw the bodies of several agents, including my brother.”

“But there are far too many still active at the CIA who will not allow the truth to come out. Jobs would be lost, programs endangered, the careers of the powerful jeopardized. The frame job on you two, completed tonight, would take a national investigation to uncover and undo. They won’t allow it. Congress won’t allow it. The Executive Branch won’t allow it. Too much dirt on too many people. This will be buried, and you buried with it. You will be the sacrifice.”

“Because of the crimes of a few that they don’t want known.”

“Yes. You are tarnished everywhere, from the Catholic Church to the murders of thirty to forty agents and police officers. You are now the assassins who murdered the former vice president. If you want to fight this, you have that option, but you will lose. And lose badly.”

“What other option is there?” asked Lopez, completely demoralized.

“Disappear,” said Savas.

“Disappear? How? Where?”

“Simon is arranging it. He’s preparing a back door for you. We will fake your escape tonight. The troops here are close associates and loyal to me — we’ve been through a lot together. They will keep this in confidence. Simon has set aside the CIA equivalent of a witness protection program for you. Only he will know, no one else at the CIA or FBI. You will be given new identities, a bank account that will let you retire for the rest of your lives, and a secret location. Not your old lives. You’ll never get those back. But you’ll get a chance to start new lives. A blank canvas.”

“Hiding our past. Pretending to be people we aren’t. Letting this injustice go unpunished.”

“I would not say it went unpunished,” said Savas grimly. “And I can tell you that many of us in the CIA and the FBI will do what we can to clean out the festering remainder of what this wraith nearly sterilized. Simon is a good man. He’ll work within the system, and he’s vowed to me that he’ll see to it that there won’t be a next time, not while he’s on watch.”

“I wish I had his confidence,” said Lopez, wearily.

“I know,” replied Savas. “So do I.”

Houston stirred and called out. “Francisco? Are you there? Where are we?”

“Please, let me out of these!” he said, futilely gesturing with his shoulders. “I’m trusting you. I’m not going to do anything. I just want to be with her.”

The men in the back looked toward Savas, who simply nodded. They released the restraints and freed Lopez from the wrist and ankle cuffs. He stood up, wobbling from the stiffness in his legs and torso, and knelt down next to Houston. Her eyes were closed.

“Sara, it’s me, Francisco. Can you hear me?”

Her color was already better. He had considered her skin very pale, but the last few hours had terrified him, as he had watched her fade to a vampiric white marble, the blue of her veins startling, her skin seemingly transparent. Now she looked almost normal. Maybe it was the warm morning light that spilled in from the front window. Or perhaps it was the fresh blood supply.

“Sara?” he repeated.

“Mmmmm,” she hummed and opened her eyes. “I think I must be dreaming. I thought I heard some FBI agent babbling on about us living in the backwoods or something.” She smiled. “Sounded nice.”

Lopez grinned back, his vision blurred from tears. “Yeah, Sara, it sounds very nice.” He placed his head next to hers and held her hand.

She whispered softly. “We’ll get a log cabin, in the mountains. A fireplace. I want some rose creepers on the door. We can hunt. I’ll take you outback, finally teach you how to shoot a damn gun.”

65