The Ragnarök Conspiracy

50

That night Savas lay next to Cohen, unable to sleep. He glanced over at the clock — it was three in the morning. His mind was obsessively examining the scant data and unproven hypotheses that characterized the investigation. There had to be a pattern to the attacks, something that would help them understand their structure and purpose, and from that, to know where Mjolnir would strike again. Did any of this have to do with Gunn's departure for Mexico? Why would he leave in such a clandestine fashion? How would they unearth the evidence required to link him to these crimes?

He rolled over on his side. If he stayed like that too long, his back, battered during his days on the force, would cramp, but he needed to look at her. She slept peacefully, her lips slightly parted, a slow and soft rhythm to her breath hardly disturbing the quiet of the night.

A sudden sound broke the peace. His head darted toward the bedroom door. The sound was muffled, shielded from the bedroom by a hallway and several thin walls, but it was unmistakable. Several sudden and harsh spits, an intake of breath, and the soft thud of a body falling against the wall. Outside. He pulled off the blanket, jumped out of bed, and ran to the chest of drawers. He pulled out his handgun, checked the clip, and popped the safety. The moonlight shone through the windows, bathing his naked form in a silvery sheen. Every muscle was tensed, and he listened a moment without moving. Click. The bolt lock. Every nightmare he had had in the last month was coming alive before him.

He jumped back to the bed and shook Cohen. She stirred, opened her eyes, and was about to speak when he placed his hand over her mouth, holding his gun hand to his own with an outstretched finger over his lips. She snapped to an alert state, her eyes large, instinctively pulling the sheet closer. He shook his head, motioning to her not to speak and indicating that she should get down behind the bed. Cohen was an amazing FBI agent, but she was an analyst, not made for violence. Savas had seen plenty on the streets, especially during his early years at NYPD. But these were the trained assassins of Mjolnir, not common criminals. I cannot lose her.

The door crashed open with a thunderous noise, the drag chain snapping and flying across the living room. Savas dove through the bedroom door landing on his shoulder and side on the floor of the hallway. Absorbing the impact, he steadied his firearm and aimed in front of him.

He saw two dim shapes entering the apartment, weapons in their hands. Two. But he had the advantage of surprise.

He opened fire from his prone position at the closer of the two shapes; the other was still coming through the doorway. Three rapid shots from his pistol. The figure crumbled, let out a hoarse shout, and dropped to the ground firing wildly and shattering a mirror on the wall over the couch. Instinctively, Savas rolled right and into the bathroom, and a second later the wooden tile of the hallway exploded as several shots tore through the floor. He pulled his feet inside, stood up to steady himself, and prepared to dart out and fire on the second assailant.

It was unnecessary. His assailant found him.

Suddenly a dark shape appeared in the doorway. Savas swung his arm to divert the man's weapon hand, and several shots exploded against the tile of the bathtub. He brought his own gun forward, but the assailant was both fast and strong. Savas's wrist was pinned by the gunman's left hand and twisted backward so hard he cried out in pain and dropped his gun. The man brought his gun across his body as a bludgeoning weapon and struck Savas in the jaw, crashing his head into the wall. Partially stunned, yet running on the adrenaline of survival, Savas was able to bring his left arm down like a hammer, smashing the weapon out of the man's hand. The gun clanked heavily as it hit the floor tiles.

Cohen screamed his name. No! Hide, hide, hide… Savas felt the impact and deep swelling pain as the man crashed his knee into his testicles, and a flurry of fists impacted his abdomen and face, sending him crashing backward through the shower curtain and into the bathtub. His back was nicked by several broken shards of tile lying in the bottom, and he crumbled into the fetal position, wracked with pain. He watched helplessly as the man reached down, picked up his weapon, and aimed it at him. Rebecca, run…please, run. His vision blurred as he bordered on the edge of consciousness.

Two loud explosions shook him to alertness, and he felt a spray of blood as the chest of his assailant burst open, two bullets passing through his body and embedding themselves into the tile above the bathtub. The assassin fell to his knees with a heavy thud, then slowly pitched forward onto his face. The killer's body began to spasm. Savas gazed forward and saw another shape in the frame of the doorway, a man, arms outstretched and ending in a pistol.

“Agent Savas, sir?” came a young voice. “Are you OK?”

An hour later, Savas put down the phone and placed the ice pack back on his jaw. Ice packs all over me, he thought ruefully. Cohen sat across from him, her eyes bloodshot with dark circles under them. Her expression was pained. He could guess what it was like to look at him right now. At least the presence of all the FBI agents in the house should help calm her.

“It's OK. It's just not going to be pretty for a while.”

“What did Larry say?” Her voice was nearly devoid of emotion. Shock.

Savas motioned to the door. “Well, the agents outside — it's the worst. Shot dead right next to the door. We were saved because Larry had another team downstairs. I didn't even know. They were monitoring everything. Apparently they had installed microphones around the place, as well as the communications equipment the two out in front were plugged into. They knew the second the hit took place and got their second team up here as fast as possible. I'm going to tell Larry that the basement is too damn far away for an effective response.”

“Who were they?”

“You can guess,” said Savas. “Prints are in the Armed Forces' database. Professionals. Who else could it be?”

Cohen nodded and pulled her robe around her. She looked cold, he thought. He just felt too awful to get up and move over to her. Give me a minute, Rebecca.

“Larry says we'll move to a safe house soon. You'll need to pack up. Maybe we should have done this earlier. After the cyber attack, they knew everything about us, including where we lived. Protecting the apartment was fine, but it wasn't enough. We need to hide out for a while, baby. These guys want us dead for real.”

“John, if that man hadn't come in when he did…”

Savas finally did stand up. He drew a sharp breath. There are just places a man ought not to be hit. He took two steps and pivoted onto the couch next to Cohen. Glass shards from the mirror had been roughly cleared off, scattered across the Persian carpet she had bought only a month ago. He put his arm around her as her shoulders shook.

“It's OK, baby. We talked about this, remember? Don't think about what might have happened. I'm here. Hurting, but here.” She looked over and smiled at him, and he brushed a tear from her eye. “But I think I'm going to have to remain celibate for at least a week.”

She laughed softly at this. Savas kept up his charade of nonchalance and smiled back. He forced himself to remain motionless when he needed to shake. He kept his own tears to himself — as well as his thoughts. Inside, he shook with fear, fear that mere seconds had separated Cohen from death. He shook with the shame of the truth that he had failed to protect her. Only her presence next to him gave him any calm. At least she is safe and will be safer soon.

William Gunn walked outside a small airfield in Mexico. The runways were barely within the specifications he required, although they would not likely meet FAA approval for the laden cargo planes that were the predominant traffic. But safety was not his primary concern. The looser regulations and minimal scrutiny from any regulatory bodies made this the perfect location from which to work. The overgrown grass and its mesmerizing patterns blowing in the wind also gave it some modicum of charm as well. He spoke to the large man walking beside him.

“My main concern is the trail we are leaving. We were exposed with Operon, and we must be sure to end our reliance on former elements of Gunn International.”

Patrick Rout nodded. “I understand, sir. It was extremely convenient in the beginning, but its exposure required the hard-to-anticipate breach of the arms network itself, which is something we will continue to have to rely on.”

“I understand the rationale, but the CIA's efforts have shown us the flaw in that reliance, and we must make sure we are completely detached from any such elements in the future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The use of the modified cargo plane?”

“We have recruited well. The engineers did a remarkable job in bringing significant stealth technology to the aircraft. I have seen it tested — in flight — and it works beautifully. It's too bulky to be invisible on radar, but the signal will be low. If they don't know precisely where to look, they won't see us.”

Gunn paused and gazed out over the field of grass. They were so close, and everything had gone according to plan. The nations had reacted with even more panic and fervor than he had anticipated, practically ensuring complete chaos and war after this mission. The final phase of their grand plan was in motion. Soon the Western armies would once again flow into the Middle East, and the Hammer would strike the Arab nations soundly at their most sensitive point. A new era would begin. William Gunn needed to make sure nothing got in the way.

“Perhaps it is time to take a new tack in New York.”

“Sir?”

“Our efforts have been unsuccessful.”

Rout stiffened. “We are nearly ready to strike hard, Mr. Gunn, as planned. Changing the operation now, I believe, is a mistake.”

Gunn shook his head. “I don't mean overall. I refer to Savas. He has proven very elusive. Perhaps a more indirect course is required.”

“Indirect, sir?”

“We are fairly sure now that there is a relationship between him and the Cohen woman. Our recon supports this conclusion strongly.”

“Yes, sir. She will be targeted for elimination.”

“I believe this to be a mistake. With her death, we risk granting him tremendous motivating force. However, were we to take her alive, she would become a powerful deterrent to his continual involvement in their investigation.”

“Perhaps.”

Gunn remembered painfully the last time he had seen his wife. “I know something about the man. He will not wish to lose someone else in his life that he cares for. Bring her here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Precautions, no more. They are not close to us in any significant fashion. But they are the closest anyone has gotten. Very soon it will not matter what they or anyone else does. The world will be far busier trying to contain the spreading fire.”

51

Dr. Anthony Russell entered his office at 8:30 a.m., precisely. If asked, he would have said that he was a classic obsessive-compulsive personality, kept in check by therapy and occasional medication, and that such business was his own, thanks very much. Not a single item in the room could have been described as dusty, out of place, or in need of repair. The blinds had been cleaned for the third time that month only yesterday. The air filter systems were regularly replaced. The carpet needed looking at — he would see to that later today.

Whatever his idiosyncrasies, Dr. Russell was a highly respected figure in psychiatry at Fort Marshall, and, in fact, among all of Army medicine. His attention to detail was exactly what was required in observing patients, as well as in prescribing medications and monitoring their effects. But what made Dr. Russell truly stand out was that he just plain cared about US soldiers more than anyone else did.

In the early 1990s, he had begun several unique studies to examine the psychological trauma and syndromes afflicting veterans of the first Persian Gulf War. What he had learned there had been invaluable, if insufficient, for treatment of the far more terrible trauma soldiers faced after the Iraq War. A combination of multiple tours of duty, guerrilla warfare with terrorist tactics, and shoddy commitment to veteran care post-duty had left one of the most damaged generations of US military personnel since — well, since as long as he could remember, and that included Vietnam.

These things made Anthony Russell angry, but he was far too composed — some might say uptight — a person to ever voice such anger in a conventional manner. As the third generation of men in the Russell family to serve proudly, his loyalty to the military was absolute. That which he could not speak up about he sought to address through his work. This partially explained the mountain of effort, the numerous programs and studies for veterans that came from his initiative. He hoped in the end, he might make a difference.

He placed his briefcase in its precise location on the desk, wiped the computer screen with a dust cloth, and switched it on. First task in the morning was e-mail, and there was usually lots of it. He scrolled through the lists — so many invitations for speaking engagements, pharmaceutical company offers that he knew amounted to little more than bribes for their products, and the occasional penis enlargement advertisement that slipped through spam filters. How creative they could be with spelling, he thought.

Near the end of the list, an e-mail caught his eye. It took him several seconds to place the name and account — Michael Inherp. He had not heard from the boy since he had left therapy several years ago, simply disappearing, never giving explanation or motive or plans for his future. This had disturbed Dr. Russell. It was certainly a rash thing to do. Inherp had served two tours in Iraq, during which he had seen an IED turn his best friend inside out, stood by as a group of crazed soldiers sodomized a young Iraqi teen, and hidden his sexuality from the men around him who constituted his closest family during those traumatic periods. He was not accepted at home — gay men were still beaten in some parts of the country. All these things were very hard on a man who loved his country, who signed up to fight for it after 9/11. Where was the boy now?

He opened the e-mail and scanned the contents. As he read, his face constricted, his eyes squinting even behind his glasses, as if he wondered whether he was reading the text correctly. Finally, he took his glasses off and rested them precisely on his desk, rubbing his eyes. He stared out into the space of his office for several silent moments, recalling the text of the e-mail.

The photographs showed what indeed looked like a missile inside a large crate, followed by several close-ups of the serial number. A nuclear weapon? Is he delusional? His mind raced. Certainly a lost nuclear weapon would have been front-page news. It was impossible. The military had exacting standards, and the press would eat this up as the country and world went into a panic. Maybe that's what they had intended to stop? Could the US government hide something like this? It was beyond credibility.

It could be a delusional episode, he told himself, perhaps born from his deep conflict in loving and hating the military. That could have generated a fantasy that he was correcting the mistakes of the military, his need to join the terrorists to “complete” his mission, and his human side taking over in warning him. Could he have faked the images? Of course he could. It was easy in this day and age of image-editing software. But not the serial numbers. There was a way to address the veracity of his story. Russell shook his head. Dare he bring this up in a serious fashion to the army? Some dent it would make in his reputation if this turned out to be the hoax of a disturbed soldier.

“Michael, what in God's name has happened to you?”

52

Anthony Russell fingered the handle of his briefcase nervously. The secretary had told him the general had been on a very important conference call. Russell had no doubt of it, but the waiting was agonizing. He had known Lieutenant General Fred Marshall for twenty years. The general had become nearly a father figure to him, part of the community that had watched his career develop from a committed therapist to a full-blown researcher and advocate for combat veterans. Marshall was also instrumental in the progression of Russell's career, using his influence at various stages to secure funding and promotion through the ranks. He had on more than one occasion referred patients to him who had failed all other treatments. He had even gone so far as to solicit Russell's opinions and reviews of many of the army's pre-combat training procedures for soldiers, as well as for post-combat care. Russell drew a deep breath. The general had championed his causes, leading to many important changes in how the army handled the trauma of combat. There had been no way to repay him.

Today he felt at a loss for how to prepare for the scheduled meeting. In a few minutes, he would walk into the office next to him and try to make a case for a stray nuclear weapon, the existence of which had been provided by an admittedly mentally unsound former patient. Russell knew the general would hear him out, but he also knew that the general could only believe this was a hoax. The US military lose a nuclear weapon? It was unthinkable. And if the unthinkable had happened, it would not be a secret. They would have mounted the largest search imaginable. Russell could not defeat the logic either. All he had was his professional intuition developed over a span of several decades.

The door swung open, and the general ushered in the psychiatrist. Russell tried to put his emotions aside and focus on the issue at hand.

“General Marshall,” Russell began formally.

“Anthony, it's good to see you again!” The general gave him a strong handshake and motioned him to sit.

Russell managed a smile. “I would agree, General. But, under the circumstances, I find myself mostly in an agitated state.”

Marshall nodded and took a seat behind his desk. “I understand. Then let's get straight to business. Tell me what's going on again. To be honest, your phone call was a bit unsettling.”

“I anticipated as much. But all I ask is that you hear me out. Not only for the potential seriousness of what I have told you, but for my years of service to the armed forces. I dared not take this to anyone else at this juncture. I needed someone I could trust.”

Marshall nodded again while Russell continued. “I have told you about the e-mail I received and its contents. I have brought them here on a CD-ROM rather than e-mail them to you.” Russell handed over a jewel case to the general. “I would rather not spread it beyond my own e-mail account for obvious reasons — that is both for patient confidentiality as well as the sensitivity of the contents. I have removed from the material contained on the CD any clear reference to the individual.”

General Marshall stuck the disk into the tray of his computer. “I understand. So tell me, Anthony, you see this kid as sound enough mentally to trust these amazing statements?”

“Honestly, General, no. I do worry about his mental state. However, I must be clear. He had never evinced any sign of delusional psychosis. Moderate depression, anxiety, but nothing beyond that. I can't speak to what has happened over the last year, however. I have felt in a bind on this. My decision to come to you was based on our long relationship, so if this is a product of a troubled mind, no damage is done. However, if there is some truth to his incredible story, it would be too important not to try to look into it in some fashion.”

“Yes, of course” the general mumbled, somewhat distracted as he examined the images on the disk. “Well, if it's a hoax, Anthony, the missile looks very convincing. Air Force cruise missile, aircraft mounted.” He squinted at the screen. “Oh, now that is interesting. Like you said, we can read the serial numbers. Not too bright if he's making this up, I must say. Easy to verify, although.…That is very interesting,” he trailed off, staring at the screen. After a moment he glanced toward Russell. “Anthony, please remind me where he served.”

“Iraq. Infantry.”

“He's never worked with weapons systems, missiles, conventional or nuclear?”

Russell shook his head. “No, not that I know of. He wasn't qualified. Why?”

The general looked back toward the screen and spoke. “This is very interesting. For a man who wasn't trained with such weapons, he seems to know a lot about serial number format. As someone who has, and whose memory is quite good, it appears to me that he has nailed the digit structure almost perfectly in this image.”

Russell felt his stomach tighten. As much as he would hate to ruin his reputation, the alternative — that he was right — was even more frightening.

“He claims he is a member of this terrorist group, Mjolnir.”

“Yes, so you mentioned.” The general glanced once more at the computer screen, took off his glasses, and placed them on his desk. He turned again to Russell, his expression serious. “I think I need to make some phone calls.”

Russell replied stiffly, a chill running through his body. “Yes, sir.”

53

Blake Morrison walked out to the mailbox and opened it. The usual, he thought: several bills, a pile of catalogs seeking to burst the box, and an assortment of random junk mail. The sun arced over the surrounding hills on its way downward, half-concealed in clouds and throwing off bright beams of light alternating with shade to create a complicated woven pattern in the dimming sky. Sunshine. Something he might be able to enjoy if he weren't working so damn hard writing code all day long.

A gray VW Jetta pulled up the street and came to a stop in the driveway across from his house. The Agent. Everyone on the block knew The Agent, he thought with some annoyance. How anyone came to know he worked for the FBI had been forgotten, but everyone knew. The man didn't deny it if asked, but he didn't offer much either. Keeps to himself, would be the nicer way to put things. Morrison preferred arrogant and aloof. The man never participated in block or neighborhood activities, rarely spoke with his neighbors. Always seemed to have important things to do, more important than the ordinary Joes he lived around. Morrison had spent a lot of time speculating on just what his neighbor did for a living. He had spent even more time speculating on what he did in his home. He never once had seen a woman go in or come out of that house. He had on occasion seen men. For Blake Morrison, that was enough. Damn pervert's a homosexual, he told himself for the fiftieth time as he closed the mailbox. He watched The Agent step out of the Jetta, grab his briefcase, close the door, and try to avoid eye contact with him. What do you have to hide, Agent Man?

Morrison shook his head and turned back around. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was those homosexuals. Invading all decent neighborhoods, television, schools, forcing their morals on the rest of America. He walked slowly back toward his house, looking over the Victoria's Secret catalog addressed to his wife.

His next sensation was of flying and darkness. When he regained consciousness, it was with the taste of hard concrete in his mouth. He opened his eyes and saw that he was facedown on his sidewalk, perhaps ten feet from his porch. A strange crackling sound seemed to fill the air behind him, and the ringing of numerous car alarms invaded his consciousness. Or were those screams?

He stumbled to his feet, blood covering his face, the left side of his head numb and feeling swollen. His left arm hurt. Yes, those were definitely screams. He turned around slowly and had trouble interpreting what he saw. Across the street, where a small ranch-style home had once stood, there was a raging fire. Smoke billowed into the air, and debris littered the weed-covered lawn, apparently raining down as far as his own manicured front yard. The VW Jetta was a shell, as if it, too, had been blown apart by some incredible force. People were pouring out of their homes, some screaming, some speaking on cell phones, many looking bewildered and shocked. He suddenly realized that he must have been one of them.

“Blake, what the hell is going on?”

He turned around and saw his wife standing in the doorway, her initial expression of confusion replaced by one of shock. He simply stared at her.

“Blake? What happened to you? My God, is that Mr. Kanter's house?”

Morrison said nothing, turning around slowly to look at the burning remains. The Agent. Fire. There was no way anyone was coming out of that alive.

Mira Vujanac got off the bus and walked briskly up the street toward a small brownstone. The light had dimmed fast in the city once the sun had gotten behind the buildings, and Vujanac hated to be outside at night. Twenty years ago, when the city was much less safe, she had been mugged and raped at knifepoint near the park. Despite years of therapy and more money than it cost to send her children to college, she had never been freed of the fear of walking the streets after dark. She clutched her bag as every stranger passed by, focused almost maniacally on the small black gate that protected the tiny space in front of her door. Still plenty of light, she reminded herself and yet accelerated her pace.

Suddenly, a dark shape appeared from one of the stairways on her right. Mira reacted instinctively, her past attack having given her a heightened sense of threat, so that she identified the hostile intent in the movements before she was even conscious of it. She reached into her bag and pulled out her mace spray, turned and aimed as she had been taught in her self-defense classes, and sprayed.

The man was too fast. He had anticipated her movement and, with his left arm, swatted away her right, knocking the can of mace from her hand. With his right, he brought up a dark object, a gun with a long and large barrel. Oh, God, not again.

Angel Lightfoote walked along the bridge in Central Park, looking down and watching the slow passing of autumn leaves floating on the murky waters of the pond. She passed the couples strolling by holding hands, wrapped in fall jackets, and shielding their faces from the strong wind. Many stopped to stare at her: a waterfall of orange hair, long white dress down to her bare feet, and no jacket. She didn't mind, even if she did notice. There were more important things.

Lightfoote sighed, staring at the trees of the park, leaves turning, soon to become silent skeletons. Winter was a dark time for her, and she dreaded the sleeping of the plants and the sense that life was frozen, stilled, and hidden from view. In that winter bleakness, the concrete of the city no longer seemed so sterile. In fact, she might even prefer it to living things that had been silenced by the cold.

She turned to leave, to return home before the night fell. She began to walk but stopped suddenly. She cocked her head to one side and stared, as if listening intently. The animals are quiet, she thought. Lightfoote had always been able to hear things, see things, sense things that seemed unavailable to everyone else around her. She had struggled as a child, not realizing that those things she knew effortlessly were invisible to others, and that she had to be careful to pretend not to notice them or risk alienating other people with her strangeness. Joining the FBI, she had found for the first time a usefulness for her strange sensitivity. She didn't fool herself — everyone still thought of her as different and kept a certain cautious distance. But for them, she was at least useful on many occasions, when she was able to intuit or connect facts to answers that others could not.

Something is wrong. She felt it in the air flowing over her, in the strange silence from the living heartbeats she sensed around her. They are afraid. Lightfoote realized that she, too, was afraid, and that she was beginning to feel the source of the others' fear. Something close, something hostile, something murderous approached. With growing panic, Lightfoote finally began to realize that it was seeking her.

She spun in several directions, trying to see what this thing was and from where it approached. But the bridge and surrounding region were empty, save the scattering leaves and the sound of wind.

Run, Angel. Run.

A voice spoke intently in her mind. All her body felt the urge to flee, and in a single instant, she gave way and raced down the bridge toward the park exit. At that moment, wood splintered from behind her and the voice called out harshly. You cannot run away.

Angel ran faster. Her white dress flowed out from her body as she raced, pieces of wood exploding inches behind her. She leapt onto the broad handrailing of the bridge and dove through the air. She felt weightless as she drifted down like a white leaf on the wind and plunged into the green mass of water below.

The phone calls kept rolling in. John Savas sat in his office, shocked and disbelieving. Across from him, Cohen sat in a chair weeping, nearly hysterical and overcome with grief. As he put down the receiver, he brought his hand to his forehead and squeezed, a headache pounding, crushing him like a vice. Unbidden, his mind scrolled through the names: Larry, Mira, Matt…Manuel. All confirmed killed, murdered, one call after another bringing in horrific news, inducing nauseous baths of emotion and shock. The FBI was scrambling to locate the remaining agents of Kanter's division and the parallel division chiefs. It was a nightmare of proportions he had never imagined.

“That was Morgan from Johnson's division. Manuel was found burned alive inside his car on I-80.”

“Oh, God!” Cohen burst out sobbing, anger and despair haunting her face. “Please, John, it has to stop. Please.”

Savas didn't care anymore who saw them together. He walked over and reached around the chair back to hold her. Everything they knew was collapsing around them.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, burying her head in his shoulder.

“I don't know, Rebecca. I don't know. These guys are real monsters. They're ripping open our bellies today.”

The door pushed open slowly, and they stared in shock at the stained and soaked white dress that draped the body of Angel Lightfoote. She smelled of a swamp, and greens and browns polluted the once bright colors of her dress. Her long hair was matted and snarled, hanging in tangled clumps from her head. Her hands were bloodied and bruised, as if they had suffered some blunt-force trauma. But she was alive.

Cohen leapt up, nearly knocking Savas over as she ran to embrace Lightfoote. “Angel, Angel, Angel!” she cried holding the battered woman in her arms. She pulled back and stared into her face, tears on her cheeks.

Lightfoote smiled faintly. “Hi, Rebecca.”

Savas stood and walked over to the two women. “Angel — my God, what happened?”

Lightfoote cocked her head to one side and seemed to look out into the distance. “Evil,” she said simply. “Something evil wanted to kill me. It shot at me. I dove into the water and banged on a rock. I didn't get up until I had swum far enough away.”

Cohen stared mournfully at Lightfoote. “Angel, it's been horrible, everyone…”

“Is dead,” finished Lightfoote. Her expression didn't change.

“We don't know that!” Savas interrupted. “We have numerous…confirmed deaths, Angel. The entire department is being decimated. Larry's dead — killed by a bomb at his house. Several heads of other divisions that have been involved in the case. For us, Matt and Manuel. There are reports that both my apartment and Rebecca's were broken into. Frank managed to overcome his assailant, who fled. J. P. is only alive because some drunk teen plowed into his car in the early morning, setting off the bomb underneath. We don't have any word about other targets.”

“Two, at least, in CIA,” rolled the booming voice of Husaam Jordan as he entered the room. He had a bruised face and an ice pack on his right eye. A fire burned in his left.

Cohen put her arm on his shoulder. “Husaam — my God. You're hurt.”

“You should have seen the other guy,” he said grimly. “Actually, I would not recommend that. They're fishing him out of the East River as we speak.”

Savas stepped toward the CIA agent. “They have targeted CIA? How?”

“There must have been enough unsecured information in the bowels of FBI computing connecting our groups. Many at the CIA felt it was a mistake to enter into these collaborations. I don't think even the worst critics could have anticipated how deadly a mistake it would be.”

He stared intently at Savas. “John, the time has come to move, and move quickly against Gunn. I don't care how we try to sell it, but this should give us the ammunition we need.”

Savas shook his head. “Husaam, I'm sure we can make a strong enough case that Mjolnir is behind all this to convince anyone. But we have nothing, nothing at all directly linking Gunn. Now he's out of the country. We have no reliable information where he is!”

“A warrant to search his office, his house, anything.”

“That takes time.”

Jordan scowled. “As you see, time is running out.”

“Yes, sir. That's affirmative, sir.” Air Force colonel Jim Cranston nodded vigorously, staring at his computer screen. “Only those two — General Marshall and an army doctor named Russell. We've punted this up to State, and they are moving now to bring those two in for control of this situation. It is understood that all information flow outside of approved channels must be stemmed.”

A voice on the other end of the line spoke rapidly, high tension in the voice. Cranston responded. “I can't answer that one, sir. I know the general consensus is that we need to open this up to other agencies, and now with the possibility that it's in the hands of a terrorist organization—this terrorist organization, in particular — I think that voice will become nearly unanimous.”

The colonel listened intently and nodded. “I believe that is true. But it will be beyond our influence at that point. I think they will judge the possibility of leaks a necessary risk. You know my long-standing position on this. I think it's been a grave mistake from the beginning to keep this buried.”

The voice on the other end spoke again, and Cranston shook his head. “No, sir. It's a perfect match. There are no doubts. Serial numbers, make, appearance. ‘Dial-a-yield,’ five to one hundred and fifty kilotons. A blast up to ten Hiroshimas. It's our broken arrow, sir. In the hands of the devil's minions.”

He spoke for several more minutes and hung up the phone, running his hand across his nearly bald head. He stared in front of him. His computer screen displayed the washed-out image taken from the cell phone of Michael Inherp, the long metallic tube of the missile dominating the screen, the numbers printed on its surface: small yet clear. The colonel stood up and walked to his window, staring into the night.

God help us.

54

Three dark shapes rested against the glass like spiders on a wall. Gunn Tower rose mercilessly into the Manhattan sky, the spider shapes dwarfed and vulnerable beside its might.

Jordan released his grip on a suction cup and removed a small disklike object about the size of a Frisbee from his belt. The suction cup remained firmly fastened to the glass, and he placed the device against the building to the right of him. A bright light shone as sparks flew, and within seconds, an ellipse could be seen in the once perfect glass surface. He leaned over, breathing heavily from the exertion, and pounded on the circle. After two strikes, the glass broke inward, leaving a hole in the building. This action was repeated several times as his men repositioned themselves around the growing hole in the glass surface. Finally, Jordan scaled with the suction cups to the metal above the hole and attached a much larger cup into which a secured rope had been fitted. The rope dangled down beside the hole. He grasped it tightly and swung himself inside.

He landed inside a dark office, followed quickly by the rest of his team. He spoke in hushed tones to the others. “We are on the fourth floor, east side of the building. A stairway is around the corner outside this room. It will take us to the floor we are looking for.”

He walked to the door. Although it was locked from the outside, it was simple to open from within. Around the corner they found the stairwell and began a long assent, punctuated by intervals of deactivating security cams. Their labored breathing echoed as they passed more than forty floors. Jordan's legs burned from the lactic acid buildup, and he limped slightly as they progressed, the wounds from Sharjah not completely erased. After forty floors, they felt as if their hearts would explode in their chests. Finally, he halted at the fiftieth floor. For a moment they each caught their breath, their legs shaking, sweat pouring down their faces behind the ski masks.

“We'll pause a minute,” said Jordan. “I'm sorry we couldn't take the elevators. They require keycard access and have video monitors. The office is down the hall.”

They walked stiffly but silently through the floor, stopping at an elaborate wooden door. It, too, was locked, and the men spent several minutes closely examining the door and its frame.

“Look carefully,” said Jordan. “We don't want to trigger any alarms.”

Finally, one of the men motioned the other two toward the bottom of the door. Using tools from his belt, he dug around the frame and into the drywall, eventually freeing several wires.

“Good work. Let's deactivate this.”

Jordan examined the wires and cut one of them. Satisfied, he nodded to the others who picked the lock on the door. Inside was an enormous office, and at the far end, along a wall of glass, an oversized desk with a large flat-screen computer monitor on its center. Jordan approached the monitor and knelt down, removing a computer tower from underneath the desk.

He unplugged the computer from the power supply and quickly removed the screws in the case, lifting it and placing it to the side. The motherboard and graphics card glinted in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He motioned to the other two.

“Search the room, photograph anything you can't take, search the files. We need to be out of here in an hour.”

The other two responded quickly and circulated throughout the room, examining desk drawers, closets, filing cabinets, and looking behind and under every object. Jordan meanwhile bent over the computer and got to work.

He grounded himself with a wrist strap to the chassis and reached around to disconnect the computer data ribbon from the hard drive. With a screwdriver, he removed it from the metal rails and set it on the desk. He reached into his backpack and removed a device that had its own data ribbon connected to what looked like another hard drive. He connected the hard drive to the device, and the device to AC power. Immediately, a red light went on, and the sounds of drive access could be heard. He then joined the other two men in sweeping the room.

Fifty minutes later, the device on the desk went from red to green, and he walked over and disconnected it. Reversing the previous procedure, he reinstalled the hard drive and closed up the computer, replacing it under the desk. He stuffed the items back inside the pack and shouldered it, stepping from behind the desk and toward the door. He motioned for the other two to follow him.

One of the men gestured to the door. “They'll know we were here.”

Jordan smiled. “After the window damage we did, there is no avoiding that. But we got what we came for. Let's hope it leads us somewhere.”

“We were never with you on this one, Husaam.”

“I'm a lone wolf. Besides, who would be foolish enough to come?”

55

Cohen stared blankly at the rush hour traffic. The black limo carrying her home was just one more of thousands of cars trapped in a giant parking lot called midtown Manhattan. The driver had discussed with her bodyguard whether to put on the flashing lights, but they had both laughed, realizing that in the current gridlock, they weren't going anywhere no matter what they did. She glanced over at the man assigned to guard her life. Who was he? Did he take seriously the task and risk placed in front of him? Could he really understand the ruthlessness of the organization that sought her life?

The guard traded macho banter with the driver, also an armed bodyguard. Cohen did not really feel safe with these two men, so confident in their prowess, so unappreciative of the true risk she felt every moment. It had only been a week since the horror had descended on her life. Mjolnir had sent its assassins into their lives and had brutally taken people she had known and worked with, had come to care for and support, for so many years. She fought back the tears as she thought of each one, murdered so cruelly and coldly, only because they dared to try to investigate these killers.

Larry Kanter had died in his home. Matt King died quickly, a bullet to the head. Mira was never to share another crazy story from her days as a child in a Serbian village. Or Manuel. Sweet, clumsy Manuel. If he had been securing all the FBI's computers, they would never have found his name, his place of residence, or known where to place the bomb that incinerated him inside his car.

Kanter's superiors had insisted on round-the-clock security now, and no one in the division could travel together in order to prevent multiple fatalities from a single attack. The coldness of the logic was unsettling. She hated being separated from John in this way. More than anything, she needed to be with him everywhere now. FBI agents in the movies were like police officers — always ready to tumble with the bad guys. The truth was, many were just like her — analysts, smart, bookworms, and not expected to encounter violence, despite the general training they received at the academy. The last week had stunned her, shaken her life apart. Even the power of the FBI could not shield her from those who hunted them.

Suddenly, the driver's side window exploded. Blood and glass shards sprayed across the front seat as the driver's head ruptured, snapping to one side, then crashing on the steering wheel and causing the horn to blare continuously. The car lurched forward and crashed softly into the cab in front of them, eliciting a set of expletives audible within the limo.

Cohen screamed. The agent next to her drew his gun and opened the door in a quick motion, stepping outside and raising the weapon. Cohen watched in horror as his gun arm was pinned against the roof while a foot kicked him across the face. Several shots were fired into his frame, his body convulsing and dropping to the ground.

She pulled back against the door next to her, as far away from the driver's side and open door as possible. Suddenly, her door opened from behind her, and she fell out onto the road. Around her, people were screaming and running from the scene. She felt the barrel of a gun against her temple as a firm hand held her by the hair. She closed her eyes and prepared to die.

“If you wish to live, say nothing, do nothing but what we tell you. Do you understand?” an emotionless male voice spoke into her ear.

Cohen opened her eyes and nodded. It didn't make sense, but he had not pulled the trigger. She was still alive. She planned to do whatever she had to in order to stay that way.

“Then get up and move with me to that alley. Quickly!” Cohen saw the gun gesture toward a dim alleyway on the left side of the street. She got to her feet and walked quickly with the man at her side. She dared not look at him nor at the other men busy around the car. The man walking with her kept his gun in his hand but lowered it, keeping it as hidden from view as possible.

As she stepped on the pavement, a muscular man blocked their way and shoved the man walking beside her to a stop. He had come out of a shop, a bag in one hand, not yet understanding what was transpiring around them. He had noticed Cohen and the forceful treatment she was receiving. A knight in shining armor.

“Hey, buddy, what the hell's going on here? You giving this lady trouble?” Cohen closed her eyes. Several shots rang out, and she felt a push. She opened her eyes to keep from falling over the prone figure that had just dropped to the sidewalk. More screams erupted from the street behind her. Please, God, help me.

As they entered the alley, the man pressed her hard until she was practically running to the other side. They passed by trash bins and refuse, discarded machinery, and many things she had no chance to process. Within a minute, they exited into the sunlight again, and the man waved her over to a beat-up white van. The back doors swung open as two men jumped out, dressed in utility workers' uniforms. They led her quickly into the van as the man who had dragged her this far spoke into a mouthpiece and surveyed the area. Suddenly a loud explosion from down the alley rocked the block, and pedestrians turned toward the sound in shock. Many raced over to the alley or down parallel streets to find out what had happened. As the doors closed and Cohen was left imprisoned within the walls of the van, she understood. There would be no one to see her pushed into the van, no one to follow them from the events a few moments ago. The men she had seen around the car had rigged it to blow, and the explosion, death, and chaos would make it simple for her abductors to make a clean escape.

The doors opened again, and the man entered. She saw him clearly now, a young man with a military haircut, blond, dressed in nondescript clothing. He carried with him rope and duct tape. The sounds of sirens and screams filled the air outside the van.

“Don't make a sound and you'll live,” he said as he bound her hands behind her and tied her feet together. Tears trailed down her cheeks as he affixed the tape over her mouth and pushed her onto her back on the padded floor. The van lurched forward into the streets of New York.

John, please, help me…

56

Jordan was bleary-eyed from hunting through thousands of files — text files, e-mails, log files — trying to glean some hint of Gunn's whereabouts from the rip of his hard drive. He had probably ended his career last night by breaking into Gunn's office, but the time for niceties had passed.

He had wondered whether the man was so secretive that he left nothing behind, no trace, even on a computer that he must have assumed was utterly safe from prying eyes. On more than one occasion, he wished he had Manuel Hernandez from the Savas group with him now — that man knew a thing or two about computers. But William Gunn had seen to it that Hernandez and many others would never be walking the earth again.

In the end, the sleepless night had been worth it. Gunn had not been careful enough to delete from the disk all records of his activities. Jordan gazed at the failing afternoon light with a mixed feeling of dizziness from lack of sleep and elation. Now he knew where that bastard was. What he was doing in Mexico was still a mystery, but the secrecy of his trip and the ruthlessness with which he had sought to crush the investigation told Jordan that this was not an idle excursion. It had purpose written all over it. Where Mjolnir had a strong purpose, there was death waiting.

He swirled the coffee around in his cup but decided he'd had enough caffeine and cold bitterness for one night. He glanced over toward the bedroom door. Vonessa was asleep, exhausted from several days of caring for two sick boys. His grip tightened over the mug. Some would say he was a negligent father for taking the risks he did. Part of him agreed with them. But another part could not back down from what he felt was his responsibility to the world, to all families, to himself. There were times that demanded risk and sacrifice for the greater good. This was one of those times. He knew what he had to do.

There was little point in going through the motions. After what had happened, the conservatives in the organizations would descend, locking up any fruitful or bold action, giving Gunn too much time. No doubt this was part of the CEO's plans. Well, my friend, you have a surprise coming. Jordan was tired of reacting. Time to bring the fight to Gunn.

He opened his laptop and entered the password. He called up a website and entered in the information. Soon he had purchased a round-trip ticket to Mexico. He had some packing to do and arrangements to make once he was south of the border. Most of those plans involved acquiring weapons. He looked back toward the door. He'd call Vonessa's mother to come over. He'd apologize. He'd make it up to them when he got back.

57

Savas looked across the faces sitting around the table. In part, it was a painful exercise. So many faces he was used to seeing at such meetings were not there. Everyone else had been assigned separately to safe houses under FBI protection under orders from Andrew Bryant, the acting head of Kanter's division, until further notice. Things had become confusing — superiors from both the FBI and the CIA were present. Organization, especially at the FBI, had been disrupted, and the hierarchy was clearly in flux, all parties uncomfortable and unsure how to proceed. But most significantly, the presence of high-ranking officers from the air force gave a certain gravity and sense of expectation to the meeting. Something was happening, beyond the mess of the last few weeks. Savas waited and observed.

“We want to thank our colleagues from the CIA and the air force for being here today,” began Bryant. “As you will soon find out, they have some pretty serious things to tell us about.”

Bryant cleared his throat and gazed around the room. He hardly knew these people. He knew he was not ready to deliver this news. “I won't try to sugarcoat anything for you. We've been through fire since this entire investigation began. We've watched some damn good agents die, and we've worked our asses off to get to the core of this case that is part of something so big it's shaking up the world. What I'm here to tell you now, what these representatives from the air force are here to tell you now, is that it's all about to get a good bit worse.” He gestured toward the military men. “Gentlemen?”

The two officers sat together at one end of the table. They were in full uniform, dress uniform, Savas noted. They had a set of folders in front of them but spoke without consulting the papers within them. One of the men began to speak, and what he said chilled Savas to the bone.

“Thank you, Agent Bryant. We haven't had time to get to know all your staff, but what we have to say must be said quickly, and we are needed back at our headquarters to continue our end of the investigation. We will be available to any of you at any time to work together on this.” The man looked over his audience and continued. “In August of last year, a highly irregular event took place at an air force base in North Dakota. Several cruise missiles were loaded on a plane scheduled to fly to Louisiana. That is a common event, transferring weapons between air force bases. On this day, however, several critical protocols were not followed, and airmen unintentionally loaded cruise missiles with nuclear payload.”

Several murmurs broke out around the table as FBI and CIA agents glanced at each other and back toward the officers. “Please,” interjected the air force man, “let me continue. I will answer questions afterward.” He exhaled slowly. “For a period of thirty-six hours, these missiles were not reported as missing and were not secured, as is customary for nuclear weapons. Some of you may remember a press conference last year about the incident.”

“Sure,” said Savas. “Fumbling with nukes makes me pay attention. But they said that the weapons had been accounted for, never left the hands of US airmen.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. The soldier continued tensely. “That statement was not factual.”

Frank Miller sat forward suddenly. He had made a significant recovery since the shooting, but the damage to his shoulder had left him with a reduced range of motion, as well as a residual pain that was constantly with him. Miller in a gruff mood was not a pleasant thing. “Not factual? You mean a lie? Don't tell me that these missiles took a walk.”

The air force man looked Miller directly in the eye. “That's exactly what I'm here to tell you.”

Miller exhaled. “Jesus.”

“A decision was made to keep this information top secret, and, until recently, even our team investigating the incident was kept ignorant of this fact.” The soldier glared around the room, revealing a poorly concealed anger concerning the events described. “The operative term is missile, in point of fact. Singular. One cruise missile was unaccounted for.”

Savas felt nauseous. “And let me guess, or you wouldn't be here: those devils at Mjolnir have it?”

The military man glanced uncomfortably around the table. “Yes, it appears that is indeed the case. Major Rivers, would you like to take it from here?”

Miller practically exploded. “Hold on a minute! Let me get this straight. Whoever was ghosting this scandal, it never occurred to them over the last six months since Mjolnir began blowing things up that, just maybe, last year's fuck-up was their snatch?”

Major Rivers pursed his lips. “There were months of chaos and confusion over those bombings. The organization did not reveal itself until very recently, perhaps for this purpose, to prevent such speculation.”

Miller continued. “Don't make excuses for them! Come on — even if these guys are not the sharpest tools in the shed, somebody must have thought about the unthinkable.”

“I don't know,” said Rivers. “Honestly. I simply don't know what was going on above.”

Bryant waved his hands and spoke over a growing din. “Look, let's stay focused. We need this information, people. Major Rivers, please, the connection to Mjolnir?”

Rivers nodded. “Recently, we received a tip from a former US Army soldier. He contacted an army psychiatrist claiming to have photographs of the missile. He forwarded these images to him.”

Savas couldn't help himself. “How in the hell did he get those?”

Major Rivers continued. “This soldier had joined Mjolnir and recently has had second thoughts.”

“An attack of conscience?” said Miller sarcastically.

“Apparently so,” said Rivers. “The serial numbers were verified with the air force, and we know that it's our weapon. That is where we stand right now.”

Miller leaned forward. “Surely you have tracked this man, know where the weapon is?”

The major shook his head. “There has been no further contact with the source. We have sent e-mail messages, but he has not replied.”

“E-mail?” asked Rideout incredulously.

“OK, let's back off, folks,” offered Bryant. “They are here to work with us on this.”

Rideout ignored him. “We have a loose nuke in the hands of the most vicious terrorist group in history, and these chumps are trying to find it by e-mailing someone? In case these fine gentlemen from the air force haven't been briefed, Mjolnir has killed half of our division here at the FBI! Do you realize that for these guys to have taken a nuke, we will have an event like we've never seen in world terrorist activity? In the midst of the chaos spreading already? E-mail?”

Major Rivers shot back. “That is all the information we have! We have top men working on this problem as we speak. We will find this man, and he will lead us to Mjolnir and the bomb. We hope that you can aid in this search. We are turning to your agency to help find him. His name is Inherp. Michael R. Inherp. In these folders, we have his bio and contact information.” He looked over at Rideout, who just shook his head. “These are serious times. We all need to work together.”

Top men? Savas hung his head. He had been ready for something bad, but this was worse than his worst nightmare. The horror of the possibilities shook him. He missed Cohen more than ever at that moment. He cursed the new security protocols that the FBI had forced on them. Randomized schedules for arrivals and departures. Restrictions on traveling together. To prevent multiple hits. If the worst happened, he'd rather be with her and share her fate. Savas blocked such thoughts from his mind. He couldn't wait to see her again.

58

Savas returned to the Operations Room and sat alone in front of a computer screen. He wasn't sure where to go now with this investigation, one that had grown so large, so deadly, so insane that he wondered how it could ever move forward now. At least the air force had provided them with fairly complete information. Or so it seemed. Savas had to check himself and remember that this was the group that had kept a missing nuke a secret from the entire country. He stared at the e-mail from Michael Inherp, looked over the images again and again. What am I missing?

Nothing in the photo seemed to give any indication where the missile might be located. No hint in the e-mail. Why would this kid send this information and not explain how to get there and stop these madmen? Was he taking them on a false lead? The serial numbers checked out. The missile was real. He wouldn't have revealed that unless he was serious. Perhaps he can't send any more messages because he's been caught. That last thought worried Savas the most. If Inherp were discovered, he would be dead, and so would be their only link to Mjolnir.

Savas rubbed his eyes and stretched. A sound from behind him made him turn around, just in time to see the approaching form of Frank Miller. The former marine looked unusually haggard.

“Hell of a day, Frank,” he said, smiling. His smile faded as he read the expression on Miller's face.

“John, Rebecca never showed at the safe house. Her car was found on Madison and Sixty-Eighth.” Savas felt a numbing cold creeping over his body as his stomach tightened. “A bomb. The blast was enormous, killing over forty people in the immediate vicinity. We don't believe that there could be any survivors in the car.”

It was as if a blade sliced mercilessly from his neck to his belly, and he felt his intestines spill out over the ground in front of him. He couldn't breathe. His vision began to cloud.

“John!” Miller caught him as he sank to his knees. “John, God, I'm sorry. I understand. We all knew, John. About Rebecca. We all were happy for you two. God, John, I'm so sorry.”

The large marine held him in a bear hug, then sat him on the desk. Savas began to feel himself dissociate from his body. This is not real. Nothing is real. At that moment, he knew only that he wished to be no more.

The phone on the desk rang. Frank Miller looked from the phone to Savas, unsure what to do. Deciding that he didn't know what to do with Savas anyway, he reached over and picked up the phone. “FBI. Miller speaking.”

Miller's face turned white. “John, it's for you. They say they have Rebecca.”

Savas felt like a sailor tossed about on a ship in a storm. His stomach was sick as his emotions spun another one hundred and eighty degrees. A surge of adrenaline rushed through him, and he grabbed the phone from Miller.

“John Savas,” he spoke hoarsely into the line.

“Agent Savas, Rebecca Cohen's life rests in our hands. You will not trace this call. You will stop pursuing your investigation of Mjolnir. If you wish to spare her a most horrible and degrading death, you will walk out of your office tonight and not return. Do these things, Agent Savas, and you will see her intact once again. She will be under the eye of one who is bringing a new order to the world, and you have his promise. We are watching.”

The phone line went dead.

“You bastards!” he cried out and threw the phone and receiver across the room. First they let him think he had lost all that was left in life of love and companionship. Now they were forcing him to choose between his heart's commitment to his son, to every life stolen by terrorism, and the life of the woman he had surrendered his heart to. Choose his commitment to justice or the woman he loved. He felt torn into two pieces, each horn of the dilemma impaling him in agony.

A phone rang on a nearby desk. Miller stared at it and at Savas, who leapt forward and grabbed the receiver off the handset. “Don't you hurt her! Or I swear I'll spend the rest of my life hunting you down until I drive you into the flames of hell!”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, a deep voice spoke.

“John? This is Husaam. Please, you must listen to me.”

59

Savas's mind morphed from crazed anger to confusion. Slowly he sat down and stared forward blankly. “Husaam?”

Miller raced over to another desk and picked up the phone. “Agent Jordan? This is Frank Miller with the FBI. John Savas is also on the line.”

“Is John OK?”

“We've had a shock. Rebecca Cohen has been kidnapped, her car found incinerated by a bomb. There has been no contact with her or her bodyguards.”

Savas interrupted, his mind raw but focusing. Hearing the Muslim's voice had brought him back. “Husaam, Mjolnir contacted us by phone — they say they have Rebecca. I haven't spoken to her to…confirm, but I believe them. They have her, and they want to shut me and my investigation down. If I don't, they will kill her.”

Jordan rumbled on the other end. “You can't do that.”

“I'm in a pretty tough place right now, Husaam. I can't let them kill her.”

“John, I have to tell you something,” Jordan began.

“Wait,” interrupted Savas. “It can wait. You need to hear this. Things are far worse than we ever feared.” He sat up straight in the chair. There was no way to explain the insanity. He would just say it. “Tonight we learned from the air force representatives that Mjolnir has acquired a nuclear weapon.”

The silence lasted nearly ten seconds. “Husaam?”

“How did they get this? How does the air force know?”

Savas nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. “It's one of ours. One of our own damned weapons. Somehow the air force screwed up and didn't secure some cruise missiles.”

“Cruise missiles?”

“Yes, only one was lost in the end but with a payload of ten times the bomb that hit Hiroshima. I suppose that's enough,” Savas continued. “They've buried this from everyone, if you can believe it.”

Jordan practically growled. “I can. How did they find it?”

“They didn't. Some kid, a former US Army soldier, sent in photos with the serial number. He joined Mjolnir several years ago, but I guess this caper was more than he could stomach. But he hasn't returned any attempts at contact. We know the missile is out there, that it's ours, that it's real. We know Mjolnir has it. But we have no idea where or what they are planning and when.”

Jordan grunted. “Well, I can't answer the last two, but I know where they are, John. That's why I'm calling. Check your e-mail. You'll find the location. Bit south of the border.”

Savas checked e-mail on his cell. “Tampico, Mexico? What the hell is there?”

“Humid summers, petroleum, and General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport, or, more relevantly, some of the subsidiary airfields for cargo planes. Most importantly, that is where William Gunn is right now.”

Savas looked over at Frank Miller and shook his head, perplexed. “Husaam, how do you know this?”

The Muslim laughed deeply. “Broke into his office, John. Copied his hard drive. Gunn left that security hole, although I can't blame him for missing it.” His voice turned serious. “From what you've told me, something terrible is being planned there. We have to act, and act soon.”

“I can sound the alarm and bring in the Feds. Now we know where they are. They wouldn't act on Gunn before, but with the lost nuke, you can be sure as hell they will now.”

“Not fast enough. If I had waited for the bureaucracy to function, I wouldn't have the information I have now. And I'm not waiting anymore. I board a flight to Tampico tonight. I'm heading to that airfield.”

Miller cut in. “Husaam, if you are right and Mjolnir is there, that is suicide. And you're likely to be thrown in jail for this if you survive it.”

“Too much is riding on this, my friends. I can't stay put, waiting until the signal is given. Besides, as you tell me, the call you got said Rebecca is on her way to Gunn.”

“That's what I understood,” said Savas, the pain returning in full force.

“What do you think will be done once the location of the nuke is made known to the military?”

Savas was silent a moment. “What do you mean?”

Jordan sighed. “Once they finally get the machine moving, it's a potent one. They won't risk that bird getting loose. They're going to rain fire down on the whole area. Massively, even before they send in troops to make sure they recover the missile. No one will survive that assault, John. No one.”

60

The private plane taxied from the runway. Cohen sat in the back, her hands no longer tied, her face and lips still raw from the removal of the duct tape. Two men had been assigned to her, meeting her captors at the airport in New York, loading her onto the private plane, and flying with her over the last five hours. They said nothing to her, and she kept to herself. Only her thoughts spoke, constantly, oscillating between panic and complete depression. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She had determined over the last few hours that she was being used against John and the FBI, that her life was in exchange for his stepping back in some way from the investigation. It was the only possible explanation for the fact that she was still alive. Her lease on life was good for as long as she was useful in this way.

She had to smile in spite of her circumstances. We've rattled them. She took some comfort in the thought that they had succeeded — to drive them to this. Of course, it had also driven them to murder — horrible murders of people she cared deeply for. That was something that destroyed any satisfaction, and an anger and hatred for these killers, like she had never known, began to boil within her. She had been horrified by the deaths around the world perpetrated by Mjolnir, but it had been far away, images on television, abstract in a way Matt, Larry, Manuel, and Mira were not. They were forces of personality, links in the web of her life. Now they were gone, the men responsible now holding her life in their hands.

The plane taxied to a stop, and the two men onboard stood, bending sharply from the low ceiling. They nodded to her. She understood and got up from her seat and walked to the front of the plane just as the doors opened. She stepped down several short steps onto the tarmac. A moist and slightly cool breeze blew across her, and she squinted in the bright sunlight. The air smelled like a disorienting mixture of kerosene and jungle, and she wondered where on earth they had taken her. Somewhere south, warmer, and wet. As if reading her thoughts, a voice proclaimed the answer.

“Welcome to Mexico, Agent Cohen.”

She turned to her right, shielding her eyes from the sun. But she didn't need to see the well-dressed, lithe, and gray-topped form of the panther. She would never forget his voice, a voice full of intelligence, nuance, and ice.

William Gunn walked forward and motioned her toward a set of black town cars parked beside the airplane. He wore expensively crafted aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses, the cold gray eyes hidden behind them. He acted friendly, almost charming. Like a snake before the strike.

“Please, won't you step into the vehicle? We have only a short journey yet to go, but you must be tired from your trip.” The two men stood on either side of them. Of course the invitation was a farce. She knew she had no choice in the matter. She wondered why he even maintained this pretense.

A man she presumed to be the chauffeur held a car door open for her. She stepped forward and ducked into the backseat, sliding to the far end against the door. The interior was cream leather, detailed wood paneling trimming the sides. To her dismay, Gunn entered as well and sat beside her. The door was shut from the outside, and the driver got in and started the engine.

“We have prepared a place for you,” Gunn said over the sound of the car as it pulled away from the plane. “It is comfortable, unusually so, for this area.”

His words were like poison to her. She couldn't hold her tongue any longer, whatever the risk to herself. “Are you also in the business of interior decoration for prison cells? Seems a bit off your normal enterprise.”

Gunn sighed and took off his glasses, folding them into a leather case that he dropped into the inner pocket of his suit. He stared forward, his tone one of resigned sadness.

“Agent Cohen, there are always unpleasant situations in life. This is one of those. We have to do what we must because we believe in our cause. It is your misfortune that we needed this means to end the investigation of your department at the FBI, and to do that, we have had to neutralize several of its members. Your relationship with John Savas makes you a valuable asset to us in this regard.”

“You didn't neutralize anyone. You murdered good men and women who committed their lives to serve their nation and its people. You sit so self-righteously on your throne of power, but you are just another despot enforcing his will.”

Gunn turned slowly toward her, the gray eyes sharp as knives and digging into her soul. He smiled. “Your emotion does not disturb me, Agent Cohen. I don't expect you or anyone at the FBI to understand, or rather, to accept the logic and necessity of what we are trying to accomplish. I will not debate it with you. I have seen to your needs and will make your stay here as decent as I am able.” He looked forward again as the car was jostled by several bumps on the road. “I do not seek harm for harm's sake. I do not enjoy the deaths I have caused, Ms. Cohen. But I understand something you cannot. I understand that we are fighting for our very survival as a culture, as a people, as a history. Lives must be lost in this fight. As in any war.”

The car stopped, and the doors on both sides opened. More armed men waited outside. Gunn stepped out of the car, pressed his suit flat again, and leaned back in to speak.

“We will be calling Agent Savas soon to convince him that you are still alive. Please don't do anything stupid that will prevent us from proving that to him.”

With that, he turned and walked off. Cohen looked over to the men who stood outside the car waiting for her. She closed her eyes, trying to keep herself together. After a few seconds, she opened them and gripped the door handle to steady herself as she stood. The men stood in front of a small aluminum shack. Around her were several warehouses and storage yards for equipment and parts, all associated with the airport. The sound of planes lifting off and landing could be heard from behind her. Several men were carting crates from place to place. She stared at them. In another context, they could be young soldiers on a tour of duty. One stared across at her, and she looked into his eyes. They almost seemed decent; one would never suspect that he was a man working to murder the innocent.

Cohen looked away and scanned the remainder of the area around her quickly. Barbed-wire fences encircled them. Between the razor blades and the weapons at the sides of the men around her, she knew that there would be no escape. With that thought, she walked forward to the shack that would be her own personal jailhouse.

For as long as I remain useful.

61

The Van Wyck Expressway was surprisingly empty at this time of night. Savas had made the journey more times than he could remember to John F. Kennedy Airport, but it had always been in daylight, when the Van Wyck was packed and slow. At one-thirty in the morning, it looked like some scene from an apocalyptic film, orange streetlights casting a ghastly hue over the road, the occasional red taillights of another vehicle staring back like demonic eyes waiting for them ahead. They veered right onto the roadway circling through the airport, heading quickly to the far right side to hit the exit they needed. Miller took the ramp, and the dark van pulled up to the JFK Cargo Facilities. The white “FBI” lettering was painted boldly on the blue of the vehicle and shone brightly in the security lights at the entrance gate. Miller drove with Savas riding shotgun, and in the back were Lightfoote and Rideout. A crazy day, becoming a crazier night, would soon get crazier still.

Savas had called in what was left of his team and brought them up to speed on the situation. They had devised a plan as insane as the world seemed to be at the moment. Lightfoote had found that the fastest way to get to Tampico was to hop aboard a cargo flight leaving at three in the morning. The next best path was taking a passenger plane in the morning to the Mexico City airport, then to the General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport near Tampico, or to throw in a third stop in Texas. None of these paths would get them to Rebecca before the evening of the next day. Besides, there would have to be a lot of explaining for all these agents and their firearms to make that journey openly. Calls were likely to be made to FBI headquarters. It could end before it began.

It was Miller who cut through to the simplest, if illegal, solution — stow away on the cargo flight. It was direct, from JFK to Tampico, leaving at 3 a.m. and arriving a little after eight in the morning. Jordan had left already and would likely be at the Tampico airfield around that time. They had agreed to meet up and figure out what to do when they got there. Simple plan.

First, they had to get on the plane. Lightfoote and Rideout would lead an “inspection” of the cargo flight. Miller and Savas would stow away during this examination, and Lightfoote and Rideout would somehow convince the crew and guards that the other two FBI agents had already finished and returned to the van. The two would stay hidden in the cargo section for the duration of the flight, jump out secretly after landing, figure out where Rebecca was being held, rescue her, and stop Gunn and his plan. A perfectly simple plan.

Lightfoote and Rideout would return to their office and sound the alarms. Around that time, the guards assigned to them might be waking up from their drug-induced sleep. Savas had hated slipping them loaded drinks, but except for one hell of a headache, and the wrath of their superiors, they would be fine. At that point, Lightfoote would “discover” an e-mail from Savas that let his FBI coworkers know what he was up to. He said nothing about Jordan. He figured it wasn't his place to nanny him for the CIA. By the time the FBI and the CIA had notified the military, and the president and his advisers had confirmed a course of action, they would have had their chance to end it themselves and rescue Rebecca. He just hoped to God they could pull it off. You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Johnny-boy, the voice in his head chided him. Whatever it is, Rebecca's in it already, he answered back. The voice shut up.

The van stopped at the gate, and a tired-looking guard walked up to them. He held a clipboard in his hand and sluggishly scanned the side of the van as he approached, then looked through sheets of paper on his clipboard.

“You figure he's looking under ‘F’ for ‘FBI’?” quipped Rideout as Miller cast him a sharp look. Indeed, it did seem to them that this was exactly what he was doing. Finally, a look of dawning understanding crept over his features, and he glanced up with a furrowed brow at Miller in the driver's seat.

“FBI?” the young man said, with no attempt to hide his confusion.

“That's right,” said the former marine in a tone Savas was sure would command even the most reluctant of soldiers. “These are Agents Savas, Rideout, and Lightfoote with me,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the back. He flipped open his badge case and continued speaking as the bewildered gate guard stared at the ID. “Son, we have some inside information that some of the terrorists who hit the city last month are transporting munitions using cargo carriers. We've traced them to the JFK terminals. We need to get inside and see your superiors immediately. We've got to stop these guys while we still can.”

The guard stood there thunderstruck. “Terrorists?”

“Clearly this is not something you're used to dealing with, son, but we need your most efficient cooperation on this. Please, take my badge back to your station and phone this in. Wake them up if they fell asleep. We need to get in and inspect these planes an hour ago!”

The man stepped back at Miller's tone but looked subdued. “Ah, OK, let me call this in. Hell, I'm not even sure who's on call right now.” He stumbled over to the small station. Within ten minutes, the van was rolling into the main section of the JFK cargo terminal.

Savas was amazed at what he saw. He knew JFK was big, but he had never seen a cargo-dedicated area of an airport before. Enormous warehouses extended one after the other, lit dimly by streetlights in the evening darkness. Aircraft after aircraft, narrow and wide-body, upper-deck and belly. Inspection sites and rows of eighteen-wheelers from long-haul trucking companies lined up to unload. In several places, as they sped by, were the refrigeration units for enormous climate-controlled and chilled facilities for shipping perishables. There was even a fairly good-sized animal shelter, clearly designed for animals far beyond house pets, facilities that could easily handle many large zoo animals.

At one of the main office complexes, a man was standing outside waving them over. Miller pulled up the van. “OK, everyone, let's look professional. File out with me. There's strength in numbers. At least intimidation. Give him your most dour looks.”

Miller exited and strode confidently up to the man, and the rest followed. Savas and Rideout stood beside Miller, serious and silent. They tried to ignore Lightfoote, who glanced around the terminal in her space-cadet fashion. We should have left her in the van, he thought.

The man introduced himself. “Hey — I'm Robert Coon, night manager for the facility. Gerry called in. What the hell — you're FBI? This for real?”

Miller paused a moment, staring at the man, then looked back to the van and its bright-white ‘FBI’ letters that stood out quite visibly in the light.

“Yes, sir, this is absolutely for real. I don't know what your guard at the gate told you, but we are on a high-priority mission. We have received information that the same terrorist group that has bombed this city twice and hit places all around the world is using your cargo terminal to ship its explosives across the country and to Mexico, planning new attacks in several major cities.”

“Holy shit!” gasped Coon.

“There's nothing holy about it,” said Miller. “We have word that one of these planes bound for Mexico tonight is loaded with such cargo. We need to get into that plane and search the cargo.”

The manager pulled out his clipboard and searched through it. Do they all carry clipboards here? thought Savas with impatience. The manager flipped through several pages and stopped. “Yeah, there's the flight to Tampico, Mexico, hangar 12A. Is that the one you're looking for?”

“The very one,” said Miller. “I can't impress upon you how important this is, Mr. Coon. We need immediate access to that plane. And we need your complete silence about the matter.”

The manager looked worried. “Sir, I don't know. You need to have a warrant or something, don't you?”

Savas looked impatiently at the man, like he was a poorly educated schoolchild. “Son, you've heard of the Patriot Act, haven't you?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Do you know what it says?”

The man looked caught off guard. “I dunno — something about tapping phones to find terrorists and the like?”

“The Patriot Act is what gives law enforcement new powers to stop terrorists from attacking this country. Phone tapping is just one part of it. Section 3.4 of the act specifically states that federal agents can, upon immediate threat to the nation, perform search and seizure without warrant.”

“It says that?” the man asked.

“Yes, son, it does. It also states that interference with antiterrorist activities can be prosecuted as criminal aiding and abetting. I know that's nothing you would have to worry about, Mr. Coon, but it's important that no wrong impressions are given.”

The young manager looked positively terrified. He licked his lips and nodded. “No, sir, there's no reason to worry. I'll take you over to the plane myself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coon. Your aid in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

The manager walked briskly ahead of them, and the FBI agents followed. Miller leaned forward and spoke in a whisper to Savas. “Section 3.4 of the Patriot Act, John?” Savas looked fleetingly over toward Miller. “Effective section, isn't it?”

They approached a wide-body aircraft. It had an image of an American and Mexican flag, crossed, with the words “TransMexico” emblazoned in fiery red underneath. Robert Coon stopped in front of the plane.

“This is it,” said the manager. “It was loaded half an hour ago, or should have been, anyway. It's scheduled to depart in an hour. If you look, the bay is open, and even the lift is still there. You just need to get up in there and you'll see all the cargo.”

Savas nodded. “We'll get right to it. We'll be done in half an hour or less, I'm sure. If it's clean, we won't hold things up, I promise.” He turned to the others. “All right, let's move in.”

One by one, they ascended the lift into the belly of the cargo plane. Inside were rows of stacked crates with hardly the width for a person to walk through. All were labeled in English and in Spanish, housing items from foods to equipment.

“He's not checking up on us,” said Miller, glancing back down.

“All right,” said Savas. “Let's find us a place to hide out. Once we're in place, the rest of you hang out a few more minutes, then head back down and try to convince the man that we've already left the aircraft.”

Rideout looked over at Savas. “And if he isn't buying it?”

“Well, we'll just have to play it on the fly.”

Twenty minutes later, Robert Coon walked back out toward the plane. He was uneasy about this whole thing. Patriot Act or not, he wasn't in the habit of letting people wander onto the planes at night, FBI, CIA, or NYPD. He had gone back into this office to look through the manuals, but he couldn't find anything to help him figure out what to do in this situation. However, he wasn't about to wake up Sammy for this. He'd tell him in the morning. I'd better not get into any trouble.

As he approached the plane, he saw two of the agents, the girl and the thin one, walking back from the aircraft. The man waved him down.

“Mr. Coon,” said Rideout, “we've finished our search, and I'm happy to report that there are no items out of the ordinary that we can identify. It looks like our lead was wrong. I want to thank you for your help in this investigation. It's a dangerous world now, and we've all got to work together to protect our nation.” He extended his hand toward the man.

The manager nodded, shaking hands with the FBI man. “OK, no problem. I do what I can. So, where are the other agents?”

Rideout gestured toward the van. “They already headed back. Now, Mr. Coon, I just need a little information from you before we leave, for our investigation. Agent Lightfoote, would you join the others in the van and wait for me?”

Lightfoote smiled and nodded, and practically skipped back to the van. Rideout wanted to scream but turned the attention of the manager quickly away from Lightfoote.

“Mr. Coon?” he began, removing a notepad. “Let's start with your full name, OK?” The two walked toward the office door. Rideout glanced briefly back toward the plane.

Fifteen minutes later, Rideout opened the door to the van. Lightfoote was in the front passenger side. He closed the door and exhaled.

“I don't know how, but we did it. Hopefully, John and Frank will go undiscovered until they land in Mexico. Meanwhile, you and I need to head straight back and sound the alarms. If you think this was a hard act, convincing the FBI and the CIA and who knows who else that we weren't involved with this is going to be a wake-up call.”

Lightfoote smiled and reached over and squeezed his arm. “Oh, I don't worry, J. P. This was easy.”

“Easy?” he said, staring at her incredulously. Sure, he thought. Skipping easy.

At 3:15 a.m., a wide-bodied cargo airliner, owned by TransMexico, lifted off the runway at JFK Airport. Inside, it carried an assortment of perishables, canned goods, liquor, farm equipment, and two stowaway FBI agents headed to confront the terrorist organization Mjolnir.

Several thousand miles away, three hours after the cargo plane had departed Kennedy Airport, a black SUV sped down a highway in eastern Mexico. The driver didn't seem to notice the reading of the speedometer, now pushing past one hundred miles an hour. The large vehicle trembled at that velocity, and the heavy metallic objects on the passenger seat bounced continuously. Jordan glanced over and pushed the weapons toward the seat back, then refocused on the road. The paling sky began to turn a purple-red and then, slowly, a brighter and brighter orange. Finally, a great flaming orb erupted in front of him on the horizon, and he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. His vehicle aimed straight for the orb, and he followed its mark, like some demonic inversion of the shepherds being led to the Christ Child. Only he was not a shepherd, and he carried not gifts but automatic weapons, and what waited under the point of the star was not a Holy Mother and Child but the minions of the damned who sought to bathe the world in fire.

62

Cohen stared out the window. The rising sun turned from a deep red to a yellow-orange as it climbed over the horizon. A strange-looking black aircraft was being fueled under the morning rays. She was no aviation expert, but it was clear the plane was an altered version of a standard design, with several modifications built into the underside of the aircraft. A long tubular extension ran nearly the length of the body underneath, with a set of thin payload doors that seemed ready to open in flight and release their cargo to the world below. The exterior seemed coated in an unusual material, and even the sun was absorbed, its light unable to reflect from the surface. A portal into the night seemed to have opened where the aircraft stood.

A morning mist from the humid lands rose off the vegetation in the distance, and dew covered the surfaces of the aircraft and runway. She observed a platoon of men guiding a long crate up a loading ramp and into the belly of the plane. They walked solemnly, as if marching in a long funeral procession for a beloved statesman. Beside the ramp stood three men at attention. Two were stout and of military bearing, dressed in fatigues, one older than the other. Between them in an expensive suit, with reflective aviation sunglasses strapped to his grayed and angular head, was CEO William Gunn. He watched impassively, and yet every muscle in his body seemed taut with a hidden energy. The three watched the crate being loaded onto the plane and remained unmoving as the soldiers finished, then walked back down the ramp and lined up in formation behind the fuselage.

She pulled herself away from the window. What was that all about? The entire scene felt ominous to her, and she wondered what was held inside the cargo they loaded on the plane.

Cohen sat down, exhausted, legs crossed and eyes bloodshot, staring at the door and window of her prison. She had slept fitfully in the makeshift bed they had rigged for her — not a cot exactly, but not a bed. Even if she possessed a king-sized mattress and springs it would have meant nothing last night. She had tried all the possible escape routes — the windows on either side, the door — but each had been effectively barred and locked. After an hour of blistering her hands, she had given up. A refrigerator held cheap foods and drinks inside. She had not touched it. She had simply grown more subdued, waiting until her captors would call on her again.

The door burst open. Cohen jumped up and pressed her back against the wall. A young man she had never seen entered, and he closed the door quickly. He turned around, and instantly she changed her mind — she had seen him recently. He was the man who had stared so intently at her the other day after she landed.

“Ms. Cohen?” he asked.

“Yes. Who are you?”

He took off his hat. “My name's Michael Inherp, ma'am. I'm sorry for all this, but it's Mr. Gunn's doing, his plan to keep you here and stop the FBI and others from trying to stop the mission.”

Cohen was stunned. Who was this kid, and how did he know so much? What was he doing here?

“You know a lot about this, Mr. Inherp.”

He looked around the room quickly, then back at Cohen. “There's not time to explain it all. I'm the one who wrote to the army to tell them about the missile.”

“What missile?” The cargo?

“You don't know?” He looked bewildered. “There's no time. Please, you need to come with me now. FBI and CIA agents are almost here now, and there is no telling what they are going to do. They could get you killed. Not too much longer from now, the air force is going to be bombing this place. We've got to get you out.”

Cohen felt the nauseating vertigo that combined a lack of understanding with a threat to one's life. “Please!” she said. “What are you talking about!”

The soldier sighed. “Ms. Cohen, this is Mjolnir. They have a nuclear missile they just loaded on a plane. They're going to use that missile. I notified the military just before sunrise. They told me FBI and CIA agents were already on their way, and that I had to warn you and them that the air force is going to bomb this airport to all hell as soon as they can get here. The rest of the airport is evacuating, and it's a miracle they haven't noticed yet. Please, we've got to go, now!”

He reached over, grasped her hand, and began pulling her toward the door. Just at that moment, the door opened again, and the form of another soldier entered, holding a plate of food and staring downward as he balanced the tray, still unaware of Inherp's presence in the room.

“Breakfast, Ms. Cohen,” he began, glancing up and momentarily looking confused at the sight of another soldier in the room.

Inherp kicked the other soldier between the legs. The man hunched over, and inhaled in pain, and Inherp removed his sidearm and brought it down sharply on the man's skull. He crashed to the ground, orange juice and toast spilling over the floor.

Inherp turned and grabbed Cohen's hand again. “Now!” he cried.

Terrified, Cohen exited the building with him. They sprinted down the side of the fence away from the loaded plane. She had no idea where they were going or how this soldier planned to get them out of there without Gunn or his troops stopping them. And FBI coming here? Who? Why would they come if the military was going to strike? My God, can he be right? A nuclear weapon?

As they ran, the earth shook suddenly. Cohen stumbled from the tremor. She looked behind her. A large fireball erupted from a hundred yards on the other side of the plane. A plume of fire and black smoke rose into the air. They both stopped and stared back at the sight.

“Well,” said Inherp, the wind blowing the smoke across the airfield, the place beginning to look like a war zone. “I guess your friends are here.”

63

Jordan stood by the storage building, shielding his eyes from the flames. What was left of the fuel truck lay scattered across the tarmac, tendrils of fire reaching outward in several directions, threatening buildings, other vehicles, and the airplane. Close, but not close enough. It had been a wild idea. He had coordinated with Savas and Miller once they arrived, communicating over cell phones. They knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered, but their main goal had been to disable as many troops as possible, create a distraction, and damage the plane. Well, at least I got the first two done. Indeed, troops were running around in total confusion, and many had been killed instantly by the explosion as Jordan had announced his presence and drawn nearly a dozen in pursuit of him past the fuel truck. But the plane was the most important target, and it was out of the blast radius, still guarded by at least ten well-armed soldiers who were now on high alert.

When they had arrived, New York had reached them on their phones. Wonderful invention, the modern cell phone, he thought. A brave new world that rendered half the old tactics in action and espionage obsolete. They had learned that Inherp had contacted the army about the missile, the location, and the plans to load it on a plane and use it very soon. Perhaps the FBI and the CIA were angry about their going AWOL and trying to run the thing solo, but right now they were the only assets the government had in the area. They were scrambling fighters from nearby bases, but by the time they got airborne and made it to the site, the plane could be gone. Jordan had seen enough of it to know that it would be lost soon if not followed by eye. The plane had been converted into a stealth craft. How Gunn had recruited the expertise, found the materials, and pulled it off, he had no idea. But the man was resourceful, with deep pockets, and obsessed, and it looked like he had forged his own private invisible bomber. This thing would fly low and be invisible to radar. It would not exist in the air. They couldn't let it get off the ground.

He reloaded his weapon and opened his cell phone. He had to get Savas and Frank Miller on the line. Time was running out.

“What the hell is going on?” William Gunn stepped out of the hangar as his lieutenant raced over. Fire rose into the sky from the explosion, and the noise of automatic weapons could be heard echoing across the airfield. His second-in-command bolted up beside him carrying a machine gun.

“Mr. Gunn, the worst we could have expected. We are under attack, and the plane narrowly missed being destroyed by the explosion. It looks like it was a fuel truck. There are attacks on soldiers, but haphazard, so I conclude it is a very small force, but they are determined to blow up the plane. They know, William.”

“How can they know? This is crazy!”

“The main airport has evacuated. The pilots have been denied permission to fly. That can only mean one thing — a strategic strike is coming, airborne, no doubt. Somehow the mission has been compromised, sir. We may have only minutes.”

Gunn thought quickly. He had to salvage their most important strike.

“Then we get the plane in the air now! Fuck air traffic control. If they've shut the airport down, the skies will be empty. They can't track the plane once it's in the air. Tell them to go, now!”

“Yes, sir! But we have to get you out of here. I've already called the helicopter. It's en route. I'll give the pilots the go, tell them to forget pre-check, and get the hell out of here. Then we run to the chopper landing pad.”

“Tell the pilots to go, but I also want you to get over to the plane and make sure that no one in that firefight is able to damage it. Work with the soldiers, pin down whoever the hell is doing this!”

“Yes, sir, but you will not be protected!”

“I'll take the car the long way around to the helipad. I'll be fine. That missile is what matters now. We can't jeopardize this mission! Go! You'll meet me at the chopper as soon as the plane is in the air!”

“On my way!” The soldier sprinted toward the billowing smoke and the sound of gunfire. Gunn turned and walked quickly toward a row of cars near the building, his jaw clenched.

They were too close to fail now!

Savas placed the cell phone in his pocket. He felt like he was going mad in the middle of this chaos, coordinating multiple phone calls with the FBI and this Mjolnir soldier turned ally. The fire was spreading and igniting flammables in the hangar near the fuel truck. This could get completely out of control. The heat was searing, and his eyes were watering from the smoke. He leaned against the metal siding of one of the storage buildings near the fence and yelled over to Miller.

“This Inherp — he has Rebecca, Frank. As far as I can tell, we're on the wrong side of this inferno, and he's two buildings down waiting for us. We just need to get across and past the soldiers guarding the aircraft before they fill us with bullets.”

Miller nodded. “The good news is that we have a lot of smoke for cover. Have you reached Husaam?”

“No!” shouted Savas. “He's not picking up. I don't know if he can't hear in this chaos or if he is engaged. He said he would bring that plane down. It looks like the explosion failed. Once we find her, we need to regroup and form a plan to stop them from getting that missile in the air. Let's move and try again when we find Rebecca.”

Miller stood up, then crouched and kept his body low. “Through the worst of the smoke, John. We're probably going to asphyxiate, but it will be nearly impossible to see us in all this.”

They both sprinted forward into the smoke and fire, weapons raised and at the ready. Plunging into the black cloud, Savas held his breath as long as he could. Soon he had to inhale, and he nearly choked, his eyes watering, the fumes burning his lungs. I'm coming, Rebecca! If he could only make it that far.

64

The engines on the aircraft changed pitch and throttled up significantly. Jordan looked over toward the machine, watching men scramble on and off and around the thing, confused, uncertain what to do. No. They're going to get it out while they can! No! He couldn't allow it to leave, but he saw no way to stop it. In an instant he made a decision and sprinted with his automatic toward the aircraft.

Two men were removing the wheel-stops from underneath the plane. Most of the soldiers were heading away from the aircraft. He was fortunate. They had assumed that they would leave their vulnerable position as the plane left and engage in the firefight erupting around them. John and Frank. Jordan knew they would need help, but he also knew that far more people might depend on him not helping them at this moment, and getting to that plane. Two of the soldiers slowed, noticing his sprint to the aircraft, which had slowly begun its taxi. The loading ramp had not even been drawn up, although it had started to rise. He was perhaps twenty yards from the plane now. He could reach it before takeoff.

The soldiers turned slowly, at first stunned to see this man shoot like an arrow toward the craft they had just abandoned. Jordan lowered his automatic and sprayed a line of fire across them as he ran past. The two men had begun to aim their weapons but were caught in the spray, each hit by multiple rounds. They pivoted following the impact, then fell toward the ground, one rolling in agony, the other still and unmoving. Jordan turned his attention to the ramp, even as he heard the screams of men now alerted to his presence. Ten yards, five…the plane made a slow pivot toward the main runway, and he closed the remaining distance and leapt onto the ramp. There was hardly room for him, and he quickly rolled into the body of the plane as the ramp slammed shut and locked.

Jordan raised himself on his stomach and aimed his weapon. There was no one there. He paused for a moment and caught his breath. His leg was throbbing. He must have smashed it in the leap onto the ramp. He rolled over as quietly as possible and looked down. Blood stained his thigh next to a large rip in his robes. Red spread slowly across the white of the clothes. He raised his leg to his chest and gasped in pain, but he saw that the laceration was not too deep. He would be able to function for some time, but the leg had just recovered from previous injuries.

He got to his feet slowly, gingerly, keeping low. The aircraft had picked up speed and was taxiing toward the beginning of the runway. Takeoff would occur very soon; Jordan was sure of that. He needed to find a more secure place to position himself until they reached a more stable altitude. The last thing he needed was to be incapacitated at this juncture. He crept into the main cargo chamber as silently as possible. There was an interesting division built into the plane. Instead of a single cargo chamber, there was a split into two sections, divided by a sealed wall with a door. Is this for when the missile is lowered into the under section? he wondered. Right now, it didn't matter. He saw the large crate in the center of the hold. To the side was netting of some kind attached to the walls of the plane. He limped over to it and painfully inserted himself into the netting, using the ropes as a set of straps to stabilize him during flight. Just in time — he felt the plane turn ninety degrees as the engines throttled up. The pilots had reached the runway.

Several dead soldiers lay between the two metal storage buildings behind the hangar. Miller and Savas raced across the area as gunfire erupted around them, the ground exploding as countless bullets rained down. A crossfire raged from the point they sought, as Inherp sprayed bullets toward the source of the gunfire. The shooting slowed considerably but continued. As they reached the back side of the building where Inherp hid behind a corner for shelter, Miller cried out in pain and stumbled forward, crashing hard but rolling behind the shed. Savas was right behind him, slamming into the wall beside Cohen and Inherp. She grabbed him and held him tightly, but both then turned toward Miller, who had crawled up beside them.

“Frank!” she cried out. “Are you OK?”

Miller swore like a sailor. “Tell this shithead of yours that I'm done saving his ass! Fuck! John, you're a gift of holes for me.” He pulled out a large ka-bar knife from his belt and ripped open his pant legs. An ugly rip ran along his calf, and blood poured out of it profusely. Miller grimaced.

“Well, at least this time they won't be digging any damn metal out of me. It's just a graze. A deep fucking graze, but a graze. Now we need…” His voice trailed off, and he stared into the sky.

“Frank, what's wrong? Wha—” began Savas.

“Quiet! Listen!”

Savas closed his eyes and focused on the noise around him. Two distinct sounds became clear. The first was the roar of an airplane reaching speeds for takeoff. The other was the unmistakable sound of helicopter blades approaching.

“The missile!” Savas yelled in frustration.

“It's gone, John. Look!” Miller gestured toward the sky behind them, and Savas saw a black shadow climb into the air and begin a slow roll to the left. “There's nothing we can do now. We'll just have to wait and hope the air force intercepts.” Miller stood up against the metal wall, gasped in pain, and spoke through gritted teeth. “But we can try to take care of something just as important.”

Savas looked confusedly toward Miller. “What?”

“Gunn. The helicopter has got to be coming for him. They got that plane off the ground quickly, and not just for our attack, I don't think. They know they've been compromised, and they're trying to get their chieftain out of harm's way.”

Inherp turned toward them. “He's right! There is a helipad at the far end of the cargo section — that way!” he gestured. “Maybe three minutes. If he gets away, the missile is just the beginning! Please, I know this man. Stop him! Before it's too late.”

Savas looked down at Miller's leg. “Frank, can you make it?”

Miller tried taking several steps, but he crouched down, almost falling, and cried out in pain. “Damn bullet's cut through the muscle, John. I won't make it in time. You and Inherp go. I'll stay with Rebecca.”

“No,” said Savas. “I'll go alone. You'll need him to hold them off, Frank.” He turned and kissed Cohen, then looked up to Inherp. “You've kept her safe today. I'm asking you to do it again.”

“Of course,” replied the young man.

Frank pushed Savas forward. “John, shut up and get over there! The damn bird's almost here!”

Savas could hear the approaching craft much more clearly now. He gave one more look to Cohen and sprinted off toward the landing pad.

Miller's cell phone rang. “Yes?!” he called loudly into the microphone. As he listened, his eyes grew large. “What? Yes, I can, but, wait!” He looked increasingly shocked, and he called out, “Wait! Husaam? Are you there?”

Cohen and Inherp looked toward him. He stared at them with a stunned expression. “Well, I'll be damned. Husaam — he's on the plane.”

“How did he get on the plane?” Cohen asked.

“No damn clue,” answered Miller. “But he says we need to get the air force to call him immediately. He says he needs to know how to deactivate a nuclear warhead.”

65

The takeoff was a rocky one, and the netting that was secured to the wall did not promise the smoothest ride. The plane had begun to level off as he ended the call with Miller. Until they got the required expertise on the phone to him, he had a lot to do. First, he had to get to the missile. The crate was large and the wood thick. He would need tools. He shook his head. He would really need tools once he got it open.

He stood up and disentangled himself from the netting. Scanning the cargo hold, he knew the necessary tools would have to be onboard. There was no way they would take this thing up for its mission and not be ready to keep it absolutely serviced, or to change its settings, if the need arose. Aside from the crate, the cargo hold was mostly empty. This plane had little purpose in its preparation outside of this arrow of death. He wondered how long he had until the soldiers of Mjolnir came back to check on their cargo.

There. In the corner, near the dividing wall in the cargo hold, was a metallic box on four wheels. A tool case. He limped up to the case and confirmed his suspicion — an elaborate tool set, with equipment he knew and much he had never seen and could not guess its use. As a gift, lying on top of the box, were several sets of large iron crowbars. He supposed all those able-bodied soldiers worked together to open the crate. He grabbed one and struggled over to the missile.

Despite the pain in his leg and the fatigue he was beginning to feel from the loss of blood, within a little over five minutes he had the top and side panel off the crate — enough to access the missile to open it up and reveal the warhead inside. With the right tools. Holding the crowbar in one hand, he limped back toward the metallic box and was about to open some of its top drawers when the door to the chamber opened up. Jordan and a Mjolnir soldier stood face to face, not more than five feet apart. Both were surprised for an instant, but Jordan reacted faster and swung the crowbar up, striking the man underneath his chin. His head snapped backward, and he fell to the ground unconscious. Jordan himself almost fell over; the stress the movement put on his wounded leg was nearly too much. He righted himself, then walked over to the door and closed it. There was no lock. However, there was no doorknob either, just a rectangular handle jutting toward him; the door itself opened outward. He grabbed several crowbars and wedged them inside the metal handle and across the divider beside the door. It worked like a barricade in an old castle — as the door was pushed forward (or pulled from the outside), the bars caught on the metal handle and the wall, preventing further movement. It would not hold long. But perhaps long enough.

He wheeled the tool cart over to the missile and parked it next to the warhead. Now, how on earth did one open this thing?

Andrew Bryant paced in the Operations Room at FBI headquarters. Angel Lightfoote and J. P. Rideout were there with him, as were several other members from Larry Kanter's former division, as well as representatives from the CIA and the US Air Force. Everything had happened so quickly, too quickly, but he knew that was the nature of every crisis. For better or worse, it was now centered at the FBI — Savas and Miller, and Mjolnir kidnapping Cohen, had seen to that. This made Kanter's Operations Room as good a congregation point as any. Live feeds to similar crises management teams at the CIA, the air force, and the Pentagon had been established.

Two monitors showed live satellite feeds from the airport. What had been much easier to see a little while before was now mostly obscured by smoke pouring from a large fuel fire. The dark plane identified by Inherp was nowhere to be seen.

The phone rang. Bryant pivoted quickly and watched as Rideout ID'd the call. “It's Inherp,” he said flatly.

“Pick it up, then!” snapped Bryant.

Rideout did so. The call went live to speakers in the room. A computer broke down the speech in real time and flashed it on one of the monitors in front of them.

“This is Michael Inherp.” The sounds of automatic weapons could be heard over the sound system. “We are under heavy fire from Mjolnir troops. I am with Rebecca Cohen and Frank Miller. Miller is wounded in the leg, and John Savas has left us to intercept a helicopter coming in to land. We presume it is here to evacuate William Gunn.”

An air force major looked at Bryant. “Fifteen minutes until the fighters can engage.”

Bryant nodded and spoke into a microphone around his neck. “Inherp, this is Andrew Bryant, FBI. I need to know—”

“Wait!” interrupted Inherp. “The plane has taken off. I repeat, the plane has taken off. It is loaded with the missile. Husaam Jordan is on the plane.”

Heads turned and voices mumbled beneath the background sounds over the speakers. The air force major spoke. “Inherp — are you sure? The missile is onboard?”

“Yes, sir. I saw it loaded myself.”

“Do you know where they are headed? What is their target?”

“No, sir. Only something important. Something game-changing, sir. Mr. Gunn believes it will cause a world war with the Muslim nations.”

“Damn it, Inherp!” yelled Bryant, “we need to know where this plane is headed.”

“Please, listen to me! Agent Jordan is on the plane. He just called Agent Miller. He must be with the missile. He needs experts to tell him how to disarm it! If we can't shoot the plane down, we can deactivate the missile!”

Voices spoke rapidly over each other in the room, over the phone links with CIA and the Pentagon. Faintly someone could be heard over the speakers asking for a phone.

“Everyone, listen to me!” came the strained voice of Frank Miller. The room became quiet. “We need someone from the air force to find an engineer, right now and conference call him in to Jordan. We're under heavy fire, and we need to move out! He's the one you need to speak with. Get a man on the phone to him!”

The line went dead. A rough voice came over the speakers. “This is General Jim Richards. I am instructing all air force personnel hearing this near me and elsewhere, down to the janitors, get me a weapons engineer with the expertise for this warhead, yesterday!”

The air force officers got on their phones and exited the room to make their calls. Bryant placed his fingers to his temple. This was all getting out of his control. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the large monitors flash. He looked up. The satellite feeds were gone, replaced with a flat map of the world. Red dots were appearing in several places across the globe.

“Hey, where is the satellite feed?” called one of the CIA agents. Bryant looked around with irritation. What the hell?

Rideout glanced over toward Lightfoote, who was furiously working her keyboard. “Angel, is this you?” She continued work but nodded slowly up and down, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Angel, we need to focus on Mexico. Can you switch it back over?”

An air force officer back in the room shouted over him. “Tell her to get that satellite feed back up! What the hell is she doing?” Red dots were popping up in several places, and red lines were being drawn between them. Lightfoote appeared oblivious to the rancor around her. Rideout looked at the screen and understood.

“She's marking out the locations of all the attacks,” he said.

Bryant shouted, “How is that relevant now? Damn it, Rideout, I've had just about enough of that little freak! Override her! Get the satellite feed back up this instant!”

Rideout spoke in a measured tone. “Andrew, I've learned to trust Angel's strange but often very important contributions. That's why Larry brought her in.” He turned to his new boss. “I'm going to give this a few minutes. The satellite feed isn't going anywhere.” Bryant glared at Rideout, who stared right back.

Across the world map, red marks appeared. New York, Caracas, London, Sudan, over the South Atlantic — digital thumbtacks at each of the sites of Mjolnir bombings. Red lines were now connecting nearly all of them, creating a shape with some clear sort of structure, but one that was not identifiable to anyone in the room.

Bryant shook his head. “I don't see anything of worth here, Rideout. This meaningless cartoon drawing is wasting our time. If you don't cut this back to the feed, I will have someone remove her.”

“Wait!” Lightfoote shouted, holding up one hand while continuing to type or use the mouse with the other.

Bryant was about to walk over and remove her himself when a digital image appeared on the screen, superimposed over the world map and the web of lines linking the attacks. The image was by now familiar to all in the room — an anchor shaped emblem, but flat at one end and curved to a point, a long shaft sticking out from that end. It was clearly a relic, old metal carved and weathered, the end of the shaft broadening out like the hilt of a sword, the face of a bird carved into the end. It was Thor's hammer.

Lightfoote manipulated the image, first turning it partially transparent to reveal the map underneath it. She then rotated it ninety degrees counterclockwise, resized it, and distorted it in each dimension slightly until the handle of the hammer rested on North and South America, the shaft extending across the Atlantic Ocean into Africa, and the head of the hammer landing on the Arabian Peninsula, with the sharp tip like a pointer centered on Saudi Arabia.

“What the hell?” said Bryant.

“It's pointing where, Angel, Mecca?” said Rideout.

Lightfoote rotated around, the large monitors behind her glowing with the image of a god's hammer laid across the earth. Her eyes were large and bright.

“Not pointing, J. P.” She looked across all the faces. “Smashing. The hammer is smashing.”

The air force major was back in the room. “You mean they mapped out the shape of that thing in their attacks? Pointing to Saudi Arabia? Why on earth?”

Lightfoote shook her head again. “Not pointing. Smashing.” She looked over at Rideout for help.

“Oh, my God,” he said. He turned to Bryant. “Get me Husaam on the line. Now!”

Bryant looked stunned. “What is this about?”

Rideout looked at Lightfoote, and she nodded with her eyes large, her expression serious. He spoke flatly. “I know what this attack is all about, Andrew.”

66

Jordan shook his head. He was glad he had learned firsthand from his former gang how to take apart cars — a skill used more than a few times for stealing them. To his astonishment, he had, within the span of less than twenty minutes, managed to open up the missile housing and expose the warhead. The missile was long and sleek, aerodynamic like an arrow. The warhead was fat and dull, like a huge bullet the size of a laundry basket, housing the radioactive materials in a manner that would lead to the optimal explosion. The “physics package” was connected to the rest of the missile by numerous wires and circuits, and now Jordan knew he was completely out of his element. He was also nearly out of time.

“Where the hell is the engineer?” the gravelly voice of their mission leader called out near the cockpit, his eyes darting around in annoyance. He prided himself on an optimum of organization: each piece in its place at the right time for every mission. The engineer had gone back to make sure all systems were nominal on the missile. A nontrivial issue with what they had onboard.

They had all sat through the long briefings prior to the mission. Mjolnir engineers had employed a number of work-arounds to defeat the multilayered safety systems on the missile and warhead. The military had become very good at making nuclear weapons impossible to detonate accidentally. Safety systems prevented fire, external explosion, or impact from triggering detonation. Safety codes and environmental detection systems ensured no warhead would go off unless it had been properly programmed with secret codes and had been delivered in the way intended — in this case, fired from a cruise missile. Unless the proper acceleration, altitude, and pressure readings were in place, the bomb would not detonate.

Of course, they planned to use the cruise missile as the delivery system — it was perfect, and engineers had easily programmed it for the desired coordinates. Defeating the arming safety measures had proven far more difficult, however. Stealing the missile was one thing, nearly impossible. But stealing the codes was impossible. The “permissive action link,” or PAL lock, was a real bastard: multiple-code, six-digit switch, limited-try followed by lockout. Their cryptologists didn't have the luxury to get it wrong. But Gunn had recruited some extremely talented people. The engineers had rigged something that had bypassed the PAL lock. He didn't care to understand how. They said it worked; the missile was armed, although now in a fairly unprotected state, he had been told. Many of the key safety systems were no longer operational. Best not to drop the thing, he thought with a smile.

The engineer was to keep babysitting it. So where the hell was he?

“I'll go have a look, sir,” said a soldier next to him.

“He should have reported by now.” The leader released his belts and headed off down the plane to the dividing door.

Rideout yelled over to Bryant. “We've got him conferenced in from Minot. The line's not secure.”

Bryant waved his hand dismissively. “That's been cleared already. Put him on.”

Rideout nodded toward them. “Captain Edwards, can you hear me?”

A voice spoke with a moderate static component. “Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”

“This is Andrew Bryant with the FBI. We have senior officers at the Pentagon, the CIA, and the air force listening in from several locations. You have been briefed?”

“Uh, yes, sir. I'm to talk a man through the disarming of a W80 warhead mounted on a cruise missile.”

“That's it.”

“Sir, is this a drill?”

Bryant looked over toward the air force men. They exchanged looks but remained silent. A familiar voice was heard over the line.

“Captain Edwards. This is General Richards, Pentagon. Listen to me well, son — this is not a drill. We have an AWOL nuke in the hands of some very bad men, and we have a few minutes to walk a CIA agent through disarming it. We don't have time for more background. I need your very best, young man.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “Understood, sir. You've got it.”

Bryant continued. “We're connecting with the agent now. Everyone, hold on.”

Jordan heard the noises of the door being pulled and the voice outside the door. How long do I have? He figured five minutes at best before they forced the door open. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket. Thank goodness for satellite phones!

“Husaam Jordan, this is Andrew Bryant with the FBI—”

“Just tell me — do you have someone to walk me through this?”

“Yes, Agent Jordan. You need to know something first. We have determined the target for the missile. It is the Saudi Arabian city of Mecca.”

Jordan was stunned. Mecca? The holiest site in all of Islam. His stomach turned as a realization dawned on him. “The Hajj,” he whispered. There could be more than two million visiting Muslims in Mecca performing the pilgrimage at this moment, plus another two million from the city itself. A massacre in fire of four million souls, a destruction of the center of Islam. A horror without precedent that would spawn horrors of retaliation across the world. “Tell me how to disarm this thing, then. Now!” he shouted.

Bryant continued. “Air Force Engineer Al Edwards on the line. Go, Edwards.”

“Agent Jordan?”

“Listen, I don't have time to tell you everything. I've taken several photos with my cell and sent them to Rideout at the FBI. Have him put them up and you can see what I've done.”

Rideout cut in on the line. “Husaam — that's not going to work. He's in Minot, North Dakota. He can't see the monitors. Edwards, you by a computer?”

“Yes!”

“Your e-mail, I need it now!” shouted Rideout. The captain told him. “Log onto your account, I'm forwarding the images.”

Jordan spoke through the pain in his leg. “I don't have a lot of time.”

“Got them, sir. Let me have a look.”

Jordan was startled by a loud crashing sound. He turned to the door. Someone on the other side was repeatedly yanking on the handle, and the crowbars were being smashed into the door and the wall. Already one seemed about to fall loose from the handle. He knew it was only a matter of time before the vibrations knocked them all out.

“Edwards — I'm here with the missile near a bunch of hostiles, and in about two minutes they are going to be through the door and on me.”

“Yes, sir. You opened it up well. Wow. They've run around or rewired nearly all the PAL circuitry, but the way they've done it, all the strong and weak safety systems around the exclusion zone have been bypassed, too. What a mess!”

“Speak English!” shouted Jordan. One of the crowbars made a clanking noise as it fell to the floor. He could hear shouts on the other side.

“Sir, it means that the warhead is sensitive now to detonation by impact or even electrical surge. That's one unstable nuke you have there.”

“Just tell me how to disarm the thing!”

“It's not going to be easy with what they've rigged, and you need to ground yourself. Even a static charge and that thing will blow. OK, first, you need—”

Suddenly there was a loud noise on the speakers — first a crashing sound with metallic elements, then several staccato bursts.

“That's gunfire,” whispered Rideout.

The air force major stood up from his chair. “Oh, God.”

Jordan fell backward, his shoulder and chest covered in blood, his hand barely holding him upright next to the missile. Not enough time. The pain was nearly overwhelming. The door had been yanked open finally, and two men had jumped into the chamber. Jordan had the advantage, however. They had to negotiate through the door, climb over the body of the soldier he had downed earlier, and take the time to scan the area for him. He shot down both but not before taking fire from a third soldier on the other side who had ducked back. Jordan thought he had hit him, but how seriously, he didn't know.

“Husaam!” shouted Rideout. “Are you there?”

Jordan righted himself and grabbed the tool cart with both hands. The front of his white robes was soaked red, and he felt dizzy from the loss of blood. He leaned on his elbows, aimed his weapon at the door, and spoke into the phone.

“Not much time now. I'm shot, badly. More coming. There isn't time.”

“Agent Jordan!” shouted Bryant. “You must disarm that weapon!”

Jordan's voice was barely a whisper. “No time. The Hajj…the Fifth Pillar…I wished to go…God be merciful for my failure…tell Vonessa, good-bye.”

“He's not going to make it,” whispered Rideout.

On the plane, Jordan reached into the tool crate drawers and pulled out a voltmeter. He ripped the wires out of the device and stumbled to the missile, crashing against the side of the crate, his blood smearing the porous wood.

Suddenly a new round of gunfire broke out. The Mjolnir mission leader had leapt through the door and over the bodies of the other soldiers. His left arm was bloodied, as was his stomach, but he willed himself back into combat. He took aim and fired a burst into the Muslim's back. Jordan arched in pain and cried out. Miraculously, he held himself upright for another moment and inserted the wiring onto the circuit board as the soldier labored over to stop him.

“Get off the weapon!” he roared.

“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah,” Jordan whispered to the circuitry, his legs buckling, sweat pouring over his face, “and Mohammed…is his Prophet.”

He then connected two regions of the circuit board with the leads. There was a small spark, then a terrible light.

“We've lost the signal,” said Rideout.

“Damn it, get him back on the phone!” shouted Bryant.

Lightfoote was crying, staring up at the ceiling. Rideout walked over and held her. People were speaking over each other, and Bryant simply roared again.

“Get him on the phone!” shouted Bryant. Lightfoote looked at him and shook her head. Bryant was about to shout again when he was interrupted by a voice over the speakers.

“This is General Richards. US military satellites report the detection of a nuclear detonation signal in the air above the Gulf of Mexico. I am told that the location is within the cone of probability for the aircraft that took off from Tampico airport. The explosion is almost certainly the stolen weapon. We will end this crisis call now and work within our individual organizations. The president has been informed at every stage of this and is now aware of its resolution. We have a brave man to thank for saving millions of lives.”

The line went dead. Lightfoote wept uncontrollably in Rideout's arms. Everyone in the room sat in stunned silence. Finally, recovering his composure, Bryant tried to mobilize his team.

“OK, people, it's over now. Let's get back to work.”

Rideout stared at the screen in front of him, the image of Tampico airport back online from the satellite feed.

“No, it's not over yet.”

67

Savas stepped out from behind the stacks of boxes. His face was begrimed with the smoke and sweat of the chaos of the last hour. He was panting, nearly out of breath, having sprinted from his position beside Cohen and Miller. The acrid smell of petroleum and fire left his throat raw, but every muscle was primed and alert for what lay before him. He drew his weapon as he approached.

Gunn was walking confidently toward the helicopter, which had landed not more than one hundred yards in front of them both. A distance of fifty feet separated the two men. Savas aimed his firearm and shouted out over the whirring sound of the blades.

“Stop right there, Gunn!” The CEO paused and turned around to face Savas. “Don't get any closer to the helicopter. I'll kill you if you do.”

Gunn hardly even blinked. “I highly doubt that, Agent Savas.”

Savas laughed and held the gun steady. “And why is that?”

“Because you are an honorable man, and here I am, unarmed, soon to turn my back on you. Will you discharge your weapon into my back?”

Savas stared into the cold, expressionless eyes before him and took several steps forward. “You have millions of lives in front of your own weapon. You aren't unarmed, and I promise you, I'll shoot you in the back, in the front, or in the ass, if I have to.”

“Effective and crude point, Agent Savas. But you really should put the gun down. Your son, Thanos, would want you to.”

Savas felt his stomach tighten. “You leave him out of this conversation, Gunn, or I'll kill you for sport.”

William Gunn did not flinch. “But that is the truth, isn't it? Your son's death drove you to fight the madmen and their beliefs. My wife died that day, Agent Savas. She died someplace near your son, having fallen one hundred floors, doubtless in terror, pain, and panic, to be smashed and crushed, her body so broken that only fragments remained to be identified by DNA analysis. I, too, resolved to fight the monsters that caused this, and fight them we both have.”

“You murder the innocent, you bastard! You are no better than they are.”

Gunn displayed the first mild hint of anger. His nostrils flared, and his jaw set tightly. “In war, we do not blame the defenders for killing the aggressors, Agent Savas. In war, it becomes necessary to take innocent lives at times to protect many more lives. Do you recall the bombs that leveled Germany and brought down a madman? Yet our actions were too late for six million Jews. Would not it have been better to take one hundred thousand more lives of German innocents to have prevented that? The madmen of 9/11 and their organization are not rightly our focus. They are only a single branch of a tree with deep and strong roots. Those roots and the trunk are the barbaric religion of Islam, a religion that marched by the sword across the deserts of Arabia and the sands of Africa, to the very doorstep of Europe.”

Gunn shouted over the helicopter, his words growing in volume as he spoke. “Now this beast reawakens after centuries of sleep and threatens to devour the world. Europe and America will wait until thousands, millions, entire civilizations fall as once before to Mohammed's armies. I will not. I will strike back — not at a leaf, or a branch, but at the heart of this vile plant and wound it to its core. I owe her that. As you owe it to your son.”

Savas listened uneasily. He felt dizzy, standing on the precipice of his own thoughts and soul, looking down into the abyss that called and tempted him even now.

“That is why I am here, and that is why you could be here with me, instead of holding a gun to my face. You have tortured yourself with delusions that protecting Muslims from me is the same as protecting us from them. That cannot be more wrong. We are the defenders, John Savas. We wage a war of survival against a many-headed beast. But we do not chase the heads stupidly. We bring fire to purge the creature from the world.”

Savas shook his head, keeping his gun raised and aimed. “You cannot set fire to the world to rid it of weeds.”

Gunn took another step toward Savas, his eyes earnest, his tone nearly pleading. “Join us in this fight! There will not be any real change in your design, only in your means. A change in means is required for any hope to exist that order can finally defeat chaos.”

“This isn't a Norse myth, Gunn! This is real! With real nations, real people, real chaos, and death you are bringing. If you do this thing, it will burn out of control.”

Gunn stepped forward. “This thing we do is but the first step, Agent Savas. Do you think we have built this organization only to blow up a few mosques and deliver one bomb, however potent? Our attacks, together with the world war to come, will ensure the total destruction of the Islamic threat.”

Savas could hardly believe what he was hearing. “You are a madman.”

Gunn clenched his jaw. “Perhaps. I cannot waste more time with you. I know still that you will not stop me here. What I plan is too important, too close to your own desires. If you kill me, and you take from the world the hope for the deliverance that I will bring, you will betray your nation, yourself, and everyone who died at the hands of these murderers. I know you cannot do that. Put the gun down, Agent Savas. You will not shoot me.” William Gunn turned around and walked briskly toward the helicopter.

Savas shouted. “Don't make me do this!”

Gunn did not pause or turn around. Savas struggled to pull the trigger. He saw himself in the shape that walked away from him, understood the man's pain, the knife's edge that separated them and their choices. Few could understand that pain, and the anger born of helplessness, the mad desire to strike back in fury. All of that burned like acid within the soul.

But he had already found himself in that darkness. He would not return. Savas aimed the weapon carefully.

Suddenly, a vehicle came speeding onto the tarmac, and a black town car flew recklessly across his field of vision, coming to a screeching halt between him and Gunn. A blond man leaped out, and Savas reacted instinctively to what he saw by diving toward the ground. The older soldier landed sure-footed on the asphalt with a machine gun in his right hand.

Gunfire erupted around Savas as he rolled desperately to escape it. To his amazement, gunshots also arose from behind him. The bullets suddenly ceased exploding around him. The assailant had fallen against the hood of the car, clutching his chest. He lay back, sliding slowly down the curve of the hood, and dropped to the concrete surface with a slap.

At that moment, Frank Miller came limping slowly onto the scene, his leg bloodied, his face black and covered in soot, an automatic weapon in his hand. He was followed by Cohen and Michael Inherp. They stood, discombobulated, staring back and forth between Savas and the retreating figure of Gunn, not understanding the dynamic. Then, the three watched John Savas stand up, aim his weapon, and pull the trigger.

The single gunshot was nearly swallowed in the noise of the helicopter. William Gunn arched his back, paused a split second, then crumpled to his knees on the tarmac, rolling slowly to his side. The helicopter pilot panicked, and throttled up and away from the site, leaving a blast of air and the strange and heavy silence that follows exposure to loud noises. From the distance, they watched Savas walk forward toward Gunn and kneel beside him.

Blood pooled underneath the CEO. The bullet had been well aimed, entering near the heart. Gunn gazed upward at Savas, his eyes partially glazed over in pain, life draining quickly from his body. His mouth moved slowly, his voice soft on the air.

“Why?” he gasped.

Savas stared sadly at the dying man. “I will fight the monsters, Mr. Gunn. I will not become one. You became the worst of them all, and I had to stop you.”

William Gunn slowly released a final breath, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he spoke no more. Savas looked up to see the others approach. He stood and embraced Cohen tightly.

“Oh, God, John.” She looked down at the body. “He's dead?”

Savas nodded, pulling her away from the lifeless form, and turning her to face the sea. “But he died a long time ago.”

They held each other, gazing up into the blue as the sun reached higher into the sky and morning moved toward afternoon. Suddenly, there was a strange sight. Another light grew in intensity in the blue, until it became a bright star vainly trying to rival the sun. The four stood there in the blowing wind, the sounds of flames and sirens ringing, smoke pouring across the airfield, watching the display of two stars seeming to rise in the eastern sky.

“Well, looks like something went wrong with their plan,” said Savas. “Detonated a little too soon.” He smiled at the others. His grin faded at their somber faces.

Miller spoke first. “Husaam was on the plane, John. He jumped on as it left for takeoff.”

At that moment, several fighter planes blasted low over the airfield, shaking the ground with their sonic vibrations. They flew from the west heading out over the sea, pulling up into the sky between the two suns, as the smaller star quickly dimmed and surrendered its pretenses to the brighter light.

Savas closed his eyes. So many deaths. Yet, so many deaths prevented. He looked down at the body of William Gunn — mastermind, wounded titan, madman. He thought of Husaam Jordan — Muslim, once an object of his hatred, who sacrificed his life for so many. He glanced over toward the car where another deluded soul, misled by William Gunn, like so many others, had just lost his life.

The ground was empty. Savas turned around and drew his weapon, while Miller and Inherp looked over cautiously. But there was nothing to be seen. The body of Patrick Rout was not there.

68

The cold December wind whipped through the coats and scarves of the onlookers gathered outside the mosque in Queens. The fading light of the day cast a grayish pall over the group as the sun plunged behind the cityscape. Several hundred people stood before a symbolic kafan, the ritual cloth folded neatly, the body of the deceased never to be recovered, vaporized by an atomic blast. An imam led the prayers, with the deceased's family, his wife and two sons, brothers and sisters and parents behind him, and friends and other relations behind them.

Savas stood close to Cohen in the sharp wind. For them, the service was also a remembrance of all those friends and coworkers who had died at the end of the last year. Near them were Rideout, Lightfoote, and Miller, along with several others from the FBI and the CIA who had known Jordan and had come to pay their respects.

They were not so far from Father Timothy's church in Astoria. Savas thought about the people around him — Muslim, Christian, Jew, black, and white — and he closed his eyes and said a prayer that this society might be given a chance to continue its mad experiment in tolerance. He opened them and listened to the words of the imam.

“It is said in the Koran: Every man shall taste death. Only on the day of resurrection shall he be paid his wages in full. No one knows what it is that he will earn tomorrow: Nor does anyone know in what land he is to die. Only God has full knowledge and is acquainted with all things. When the angels take the lives of the righteous, they say to them: ‘Salaamun Alikum, Enter Paradise! because of the good deeds that you have done.’ Today we pray for a man who has done great deeds and who offered his life for the lives of many — our brother, Husaam Jordan.”

There were muffled sobs and tears all around. Savas looked over and saw the two young boys, perhaps three and five. The older of the two was weeping; the younger appeared dazed and confused, afraid in this mass of strangers — his father nowhere to be found. Sons taken from fathers, and fathers taken from sons. He whispered something to Cohen; she nodded, and he quietly stepped away from the ceremony. He had yet to make his peace with God.

After the crowds had dispersed, Savas stood alone beside a rocky drop-off looking over the East River. Not really a river, he thought, but the sea. He had always been drawn to the sea. The Greek blood. His eyes squinted against the sun and the gusts of salty breeze, as he gazed over the snow-crested waves and the white flashes of boats in the distance. The imam stepped to his side.

Savas looked him over. A tall and thin black man in his late sixties, trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, proud of bearing yet bookish, rectangular eyeglasses on his face. Like Jordan, he wore the flowing white robes and the African kufi on his head. This was the man who had found Jordan in prison, then a violent gang member lost in a world of crime and death. He had shown him the light of Islam and had changed a young man's life forever. The imam had sponsored Jordan's education in prison and his college tuition when he was released. He was more a father to Jordan than the man who abandoned him when he was a child.

“Husaam told me that you are Greek, yes? Christian?” he asked. He still spoke with the accent of his native Nigeria.

Savas laughed. “Well, holding on by my fingernails. Father Timothy might be the only reason I still go to church.”

The imam nodded. “Yes, Husaam also told me this. Go to your priest, Agent Savas. Go to your Book. At such times, we must seek the will of God.”

“I'm not so sure I like God's will. Whatever it might be.”

The imam bowed his head. “You lost your son. There can be no greater loss for a father. Madmen of Islam took him from you.” Savas tightened his jaw yet said nothing. “But now these Western madmen have taken a son of Islam, a son to me as much as my own son, one I pulled from the fire of his lost youth. A son for a son. Some would say a debt has been paid.”

“They would,” Savas echoed, gazing out over the water, his eyes fixed far to the horizon, as if seeing into a great distance. He spoke quietly but firmly. “But I can't look at it that way. Not anymore. Not after all this. That's the sort of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place. Husaam and my son, they were good men. Good men taken by men who didn't deserve to breathe the same air they did. Anyone who would take them steals something from the world. Two sons were taken.”

He looked over to Jordan's widow, Vonessa, and the two boys standing in the grass, then turned back to the imam. “But I see those two boys in the grass. Two sons were given. I don't know what kind of fair that is, and it's not one that satisfies me very much, but right now, it's all I have.” John Savas turned from the edge and walked back across the field toward his car, and to the silhouetted form of Rebecca Cohen in the failing light.