Trident's First Gleaming

31

“Just a moment, please,” a CNN reporter said, “we’re cutting away to the president of the United States. He’s about to give a speech.”

“Today is a dark day for America,” the president began. “I was briefed by Homeland Security that an airplane crashed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, and more than five have plummeted at Ronald Reagan Airport, one of them smashing into the terminal, in what seems to be a terrorist attack on the US. Please pray with me for the victims, their families, and America. The federal government will do everything in its power to protect our citizens, help the victims and their families, and hunt down the terrorists responsible. May God bless America.”

Hannah stalked out of the room, her cell in hand, and Chris closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. Little Kale’s lighter seemed bulkier and heavier in his pocket. Then he remembered that it was a SEAL who’d rescued him. Years later, on a sunny day in southern California, a SEAL trident was pinned to Chris’s chest — the gaudiest military insignia in the US Navy: an eagle bowing its head humbly and its talons clasping a trident and cocked flintlock pistol. Other badges in the Navy were silver-colored for enlisted sailors and gold-colored for officers, but the SEAL trident was only one color — gold. The enlisted men and officers suffered together for it in the same training and on the same battlefields. Golden light reflected off the insignia — especially around the three prongs at the tip of the trident. The remembered image of the trident struck him with the same power as the voice that’d spoken to him as a little boy in the bottom of the dried-up well.

For the first time, his roles as a minister and SEAL came together in one body — his body. It hit him with such force that he opened his eyes and sat straight up, filled with new energy.

“I called my boss and gave him a piece of my mind,” Hannah said, returning to the room.

“What’d he have to say about that?” Sonny asked.

“He apologized.”

“Did you accept his apology?” Chris asked.

“I told him where to stick his apology,” she said. “He wants the three of us to stop the attacks and capture or kill Professor Mordet and Little Kale. Agent Garnet is going to help us.”

“Now they want our help?” Sonny said. “If only they would’ve listened sooner—”

“I can’t imagine the CIA just decided this on their own,” Chris interrupted. “The Posse Comitatus Act forbids the CIA and JSOC from operating on US soil without special authorization from the president. Or at least the governor.”

“This came down from the National Security Council,” Hannah said.

“The chair authorized this, too?” Sonny asked.

Hannah nodded. “Including the chair.”

“POTUS,” Chris said. The president of the United States chaired the National Security Council.

“Exactly,” Hannah confirmed.

Young seemed oblivious to them, slaving away at his computer screen. Chris stood and joined him, looking over his shoulder.

“When I studied the digital image of the evil eye,” Young explained, “I found hidden data, but it’s locked by a password, and it’s taking me time to crack it.”

Chris thought about possible passwords. Then it hit him. “Did you try Ha’la?”

Young turned to him. “What’s that?”

“Mordet’s sister’s name.”

“How do you spell it?”

Chris spelled the name.

Young typed it in and tapped enter. A river of data rushed down the screen and filled the monitor.

“That’s it! That’s the password.” Even though he only had one hand, Young typed twice as fast as any normal person. “I’ve accessed Mordet’s network in Maryland, and now I’m running a diagnostic to show his route and measure packet delays so I can trace a more precise location.”

“If you can trace his location, what prevents him from tracing ours?” Chris asked.

“Nothing,” Young answered.

“We’re going to have to move you to another location,” Chris said. “You won’t be safe here.”

Chris, Hannah, and Sonny discussed possible plans for capturing Professor Mordet and Little Kale. Then Young’s phone rang.

“You expecting a phone call?” Hannah asked.

Young stopped typing. “No.”

Hannah stepped toward him. “What’s the caller ID say?”

“Private.”

“Put it on speaker,” Hannah said.

Young did so and then answered the phone.

“Hello,” said the man at the other end. Just his voice alone filled Young’s room with murk. “Chris, is that you?”

All eyes in the room shifted to Chris.

Young held the phone out to Chris, and he took it. “Hello, Professor Mordet.”

“It has been awhile,” Mordet said calmly. “I was hoping to get ahold of you sooner. I missed you. Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” Chris asked.

“Because I am the only person who can understand you, Chris. This world can be a lonely place for us who live in a fourth dimension.”

Chris needed to probe him, to catch him off guard and exploit a weakness. “When I first met you, you told me about the plane crash, and that you had to eat the other passengers to survive.” He paused. “But you didn’t mention anything about eating your sister, Ha’la.”

Mordet’s breath caught audibly. “You spoke to someone from my village?”

“I spoke to someone who knows about you.”

“Was he paid for this information?”

“Yes,” Chris said.

“Did Hannah pay for it?”

The fact that he knew her name surprised Chris, but when he thought about how many assets she’d run in and around Mordet’s village back in the day, it wasn’t so surprising. But it wasn’t important who paid for the information; Mordet was just trying to confirm who was working with Chris. He didn’t respond.

“Hannah should not pay for rumors. She should get her money back.”

“Why would this man lie?” Chris asked.

“Because he is not like you and me. He is not like Ha’la,” Mordet said, raising his voice. “He sells his soul for the things of this world.”

Chris continued probing. “People think you’re crazy.”

“And people never thought you were crazy?” Mordet said calmly. “We see things that other people cannot see, and we learn at an early age not to talk about it. People are crazy, but you and I are the ones who are sane. People feel so self-conscious about it that they try to take us back to the wall and chain us there, so we become as hypnotized by the shadows of social networking and web surfing as they are — hearing only what they want to hear, mesmerized by their own mental masturbation.”

I am nothing like this man, Chris reminded himself. Still, he had to try to make Mordet feel understood. Then maybe he would tell them something they could use to stop him. Chris tried to understand him, in hopes of figuring out a way to stop him. “And that’s why you eat people?” Chris asked casually.

Professor Mordet’s voice dropped to a whisper: “When I was in the twelfth grade, I woke up in the middle of the night to hear a voice: ‘How does flesh grow? Flesh must eat flesh; that’s how flesh grows. How do souls grow? Souls must eat souls; that’s how souls grow. How do you grow? You eat people; that’s how you grow.’ I looked around my room for the source of the voice, but I couldn’t find it. For a moment, I thought I might be losing my sanity. But the voice came again and said the same thing. I felt so … liberated. It was so similar to Plato’s allegory of the cave. Up until then, I had been living my life chained to a cave watching shadows on the wall. The voice freed me. Immediately, I turned around and saw the fire and the reality that was casting shadows on the wall. My life until then had only been two-dimensional.” He paused.

Chris’s skin became cold, but he mentally blocked the cold from entering the core of his body.

“You have a secret, too, Chris. I can sense it. Both of us can see beyond the shadows on the wall.”

Chris lost patience with Mordet’s decapitation of reason. “Souls don’t need to eat souls. You’re smart enough to know that. Souls that destroy souls destroy themselves in the end. It doesn’t matter whether you heard a voice or not; you make your own decisions.”

“I thought I proved my point when I escaped from that prison in Iraq.”

“You proved that your lust for evil is greater than your desire to do good.”

“I am on a mission to transform beyond epic proportions.”

Chris forewent preaching and spoke as a SEAL. “I won’t let you do that — especially not here in my country.”

“I have already grown much since you and I last met,” Mordet said.

Chris clenched his fist, and his vocal cords tightened up. “You ate Ron Hickok.”

Professor Mordet was silent for a moment. “Ah, you must have been one of his students. So you must know something about how much I have learned. And from hearing the softness in the edges of your voice, it seems you have not grown. I am not the same man you once captured in Syria. You will not capture me again.” His voice became so cold that it made Chris shiver. “I believe I will succeed, and my mental strength will make it so.”

“What is your next target?” Chris asked.

“Now you’re disappointing me.”

“You’re estranged from reality.”

“I am estranged from mediocrity,” Professor Mordet said. “You and I are not mediocre. And there is a fine line between what is real and what is not. How can you know the difference unless you walk that line, too? People are going to die, and I cannot let you stand in my way.”

“That mental strength is about to get real expensive,” Chris warned.

“The last time we met, you broke your promise. If I see you again, you are going to honor your word. With interest.”

The phone line went dead.

32

Hannah called Agent Garnet, and in less than half an hour, the doorbell rang. “That should be him,” Hannah said.

Chris wore his carbine on a sling and held it at the ready position. He moved to the side of the doorway, out of the line of fire, leaned over, and looked through the peephole. It was Frank. Chris unlocked the door and let him in.

“The streets are jam-packed, so I had to fly here by helo,” Frank said after greetings and introductions were over with. “Some other law enforcement officers are on their way here to help out.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said.

“Professor Mordet might be activating sleeper cells,” Frank said. He showed pictures of two men in their twenties. “These two are Syrian nationals who have joined forces with Mordet. They’re cousins. Jawwad Nasrallah is older, but he has the baby face. His younger cousin, Lateef, has the steely eyes. Both men experienced extensive fighting in Lebanon and Iraq from the time they were teenagers and are considered extremely deadly with AKs. Their private lives are also volatile. Jawwad beat his wife into paralysis, and Lateef is suspected of punching his pregnant girlfriend to death.”

“Can we keep these photos?” Hannah asked.

Frank handed the pictures to her. “Yes, they’re for you.”

“I found him!” Young shouted. “I found Mordet!”

“Where?” Hannah asked.

Young tapped on his keyboard. “He’s in Silver Spring, Maryland — about twenty-five miles from here.”

“Let’s go stomp this arrogant prick,” Sonny said.

“Is he stationary or mobile?” Chris asked.

“Hard to say,” Young answered.

“Take the helo,” Agent Garnet said. “It’s parked in a nearby football field, and the pilot is standing by if you need it. I’ll stay here with Young while you three go. Like I said, some other law enforcement officers are on their way here to help out.”

Chris took out his GPS and had Frank show him the location of his helo and a contact number for the pilot. Then the trio thanked Frank and said good-bye to him and Young.

“Who has the point?” Chris asked.

“You can,” Sonny said.

Hannah nodded.

Chris burst out the door and hit the ground at a run. As they raced along the sidewalk, he called the pilot. He asked her to fire up her rotors and prepare to fly to Silver Spring. Within minutes, Chris’s team reached the FBI helo.

They aimed their rifles at the ground as they boarded and took their seats, filling the helo. Chris checked with the pilot, speaking louder than the helo noise: “You just dropped off Agent Garnet?”

“Yes, we dropped off Agent Garnet here. You must be Hannah’s crew. I’m Moose.” The pilot held out her hand.

“Chris.” He shook her hand. “We’re good to go.”

“Very well.” Moose pulled back on the collective control stick, and they lifted off the ground.

The helicopter rose above the rooftops of the school and the surrounding neighborhood. When they reached one hundred fifty meters above the earth, the helo pulled forward. Moose spoke on the radio, but Chris couldn’t hear what she said. The helo freely flew northward and passed over vehicles and flashing police lights clogging the streets below.

Hannah’s phone buzzed. She answered it, and when she finished her call, she thanked Young. Then she gave Moose an address: “They’re near Rock Creek Park.”

Within a few minutes, Hannah was on her phone again. “Young says Mordet just moved to Sixteenth Northwest Street and Aspen,” Hannah said. “Young thinks he’s using a van or a truck to carry his equipment.”

Chris checked his GPS then peered outside. He pointed to an open area between a forest on the left and the city on the right. “Moose, can you put us down on that golf course?”

“Sure,” Moose said.

“If you could just stay in the area for about thirty minutes, I’d appreciate it,” Chris said.

“Roger, wilco,” she said.

When the helo skids reached a couple feet above the golf course, Chris, Hannah and Sonny un-assed the helo. Chris led them in a run north across the green, and he didn’t slow until he reached the trees. Once there, he stopped and developed a hasty plan. He pointed to a spot on his GPS. “Sonny, I need you to post inside the tree line just south of the target. If the target starts shooting, stick it to him.”

Sonny gave a thumbs-up. “On it.”

“I’ll approach the vehicle from the side and tell the tangos we’re police,” Chris explained. “Hannah, I need you to stay inside the trees and cover north of the vehicle, so we don’t get a squirter — or worse, so somebody doesn’t pop out of the back and get the jump on me.”

“Got it,” she said.

“Sonny, when you’re in position,” Chris said, “if you could break squelch once, I’ll know you’re ready. Hannah, I’ll be able to see you. Sonny, you’ll have eyes on the target, so you’ll see me move in on them. Questions?”

Hannah and Sonny shook their heads.

Chris’s experience told him they should remain in place for about fifteen minutes, to make sure no one had followed them after their insertion, but they didn’t have the luxury of time. He adjusted the sling of his carbine. “Okay, let’s roll.”

Chris resumed the trek north. The trees, roots, and uneven terrain slowed him down, but the forest concealed his movement from the tangos.

Minutes later, after crossing a trail and small road, Chris arrived near his intended destination. He stalked east until he reached the edge of the park where the trees ended. There were two separate lanes in the street with a patch of grass running down the middle. Near the intersection sat a black van facing south. In the driver’s seat was a man with a square-shaped head and a Frankenstein haircut — instead of scanning the whole area around him, he stared at the road ahead.

Chris started to signal Sonny to move into position, but Sonny knew where to go and was already backtracking south. While Chris waited, he glanced at Hannah. She looked good to go. Sonny keyed his mic once.

Showtime.

Chris aimed his rifle and calmly walked toward the driver. The driver must have noticed Chris in his peripheral vision.

The man turned and faced him.

“Police,” Chris shouted. “Put your hands up where I can see them!”

The driver shouted in Arabic, and others in the back of the van yelled. There didn’t appear to be a weapon, but a shot blew out the driver’s window, and something scraped across Chris’s cheek. “Where’d the shot come from?”

Sonny returned fire, unloading into the front passenger side of the van.

Chris stepped sideways, so he wouldn’t present a stationary target and shouted in Arabic for the driver to put his hands up, but the engine roared, and the van leaped forward.

Sonny fired into the driver. The van veered off the road near Sonny and continued until a tree stopped it. Four men hopped out of the back, one of them shooting in Hannah’s direction. Chris and Hannah popped the shooting tango in the chest and laid him out on the asphalt flat on his face. The Nasrallah cousins and one other tango fled into the woods. Chris, Hannah, and Sonny fired at them and missed.

Sonny assaulted the front of the van, shooting more holes in the driver and passenger. “Front, clear!” he shouted.

As Chris neared the back of the vehicle, he edged around the open back door, weapon at the ready. All the terrorists inside had fled. “Back, clear!” he reported.

Police sirens wailed in the distance.

Chris and Sonny turned and hurriedly entered the woods to the west. Hannah followed close behind. The terrorists crashed through the forest, moving fast. Chris picked up speed, and Hannah and Sonny kept up with him. They crossed a park road then a trail. Chris tried to shoot, but the tangos’ weaving in and out of tree trunks blocked his line of fire. Soon slivers of moonlight stabbed low through the trees — the tangos neared an opening in the forest. The trees gave way to a rock-reinforced bank that dropped one meter into a creek. Jawwad and Lateef crossed the creek and ascended the opposite bank, not looking back as their buddy’s legs bogged down in the water. His upper body moved faster than his legs, and he fell on his stomach. He stood, but before he could regain forward momentum, Chris shot him twice in the back, and his body arched before it came down with a splash. Chris hopped down into the creek to find the tango face down in the water — dead.

He ran out in the open and maneuvered to the other side of the creek. He trusted that Sonny and Hannah were covering him. When he reached the trees, he turned to see Hannah and Sonny still on his six, and he continued the chase west through the woods.

They traversed more trails, a smaller creek, and then even more trails. The tangos crossed Oregon Avenue and passed in front of a parked vehicle. Chris aimed over the vehicle, tracked Jawwad in his sights, and fired, but the man spun around an oak tree, and Chris’s shot sank harmlessly into the wood. He dodged a truck on the road before racing across into the woods on the other side. But by the time he got there, he’d lost sight of the cousins.

Just as Chris stepped out of the trees and onto the north lawn of a private residence, an AK flashed from around the corner of the house. The bullet chipped off a chunk of bark from the tree beside Chris. He dodged the AK’s line of fire and took cover behind a tree. Then he shifted directions and ran around the south side of the house.

He circled around to the west side, but the Nasrallah cousins weren’t in sight. He stopped to listen. Tree branches and leaves snapped and crackled to the north — Lateef and Jawwad were still moving fast.

Chris ran across a concrete driveway and an asphalt street as he followed the noise into another copse of trees. After he and his teammates exited the grove of trees, he spotted the cousins dashing through a neighborhood of houses that stretched to the northeast. Lights came on and curtains parted, and Chris knew the neighbors must be watching.

Chris took aim at Jawwad, but he crossed in front of a house. Chris held off on shooting. He didn’t want to accidentally hit an innocent homeowner. Jawwad turned around to check behind him and ducked behind a large car parked in a driveway. Chris crouched behind a station wagon parked in the street, went prone, and put the side of his head to the pavement. He peeked out from under the car. He could only see one person’s feet below the large sedan. The other brother was probably standing behind a tire. Chris lined up the cousin’s ankle in his sights and squeezed the trigger. He hoped that if his shot hit too low, the bullet would skip off the street and at least hit the tango in the foot. Jawwad yelped. Bingo.

Chris fired at the other ankle, and the man came down on his hands and knees. His knees presented bigger targets than his hands, so Chris homed in on one and squeezed three times. The cousin toppled over and screamed. Chris fired until his magazine went dry, and he became still.

As Chris inserted a fresh thirty-round magazine in his carbine, Hannah and Sonny exchanged fire with the remaining tango. Fully reloaded, Chris popped up to help Sonny and Hannah, but Lateef had already fallen.

Hannah met Chris’s eyes, concern filling her voice as she spoke. “Sonny is wounded.”

Chris hurried over to find Sonny on his back, carbine still in his hands. “Just a scratch.”

“Can you move?” Chris asked.

Sonny moved his arms and grunted. “Just my upper body.”

“Can you move your legs?” Chris asked.

“Nada.”

“Don’t try to move anymore,” Chris said. “Can you feel your legs at all?”

“I got shot in my side, and it must’ve damaged my spine. I can feel the ground against my legs, but I can’t move them.”

“Just stay still,” Chris cautioned him. “Hannah’s going to bandage that leak in your side, and I’m going to take care of the Nasrallah cousins.”

Lateef’s upper body stuck out from behind the front of the large sedan. He appeared immobile, but Chris advanced on him to be sure. Chris felt the pulse in his neck — nothing. Nearby, Jawwad lay in a pool of his own blood. Frothy goo bubbled out of his chest. At least one of the bullets had entered a lung. Jawwad’s eyes were full of life, and his lips moved.

Chris stepped closer and aimed at his head.

“Please,” Jawwad said in English. He held a pistol in his hand.

“Drop it,” Chris said.

Jawwad hesitated.

“I won’t tell you again.”

Jawwad laid the pistol on the ground. His gaze lowered. Chris needed to question him about Mordet’s whereabouts, but Jawwad’s eyes rose again, full of determination. “I can’t surrender.”

Chris had seen that pride in an enemy’s eyes before. “I know.”

Jawwad reached for his gun, but Chris shot him twice in the face. He pulled in a long breath, exhaled and then put his carbine on safe.

He returned to Hannah and Sonny. She’d already patched his wound and was on the phone, calling for an ambulance. “I’m with the FBI, and one of my partners has been shot…”

“How you doing, Sonny?” Chris asked, crouching down.

“What do you mean, ‘how am I doing,’ you moron?” Sonny snapped. “Can’t you see I look like a damned doormat?”

“I see you haven’t lost your sunny disposition.”

“Just leave me here to die in peace.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Chris said.

Sonny’s voice became serious. “I don’t want to leave the Unit. More than anything in this world, I don’t want to leave the Unit.”

Chris understood. Like Sonny, most SEALs weren’t too afraid of losing money, receiving demotions, suffering pain, or even dying, but they were afraid of being ostracized from the fraternity. The job was their lifeblood. “You’re not going to leave the Unit.” He didn’t know if Sonny would be able to recover enough to stay in the Unit or not, but he said what he thought Sonny wanted to hear. Everyone deserves hope, even if his situation is hopeless.

“Ambulance and police are on their way,” Hannah said. “And the police are on their way to secure the tangos’ van.” She gave Sonny a peck on the forehead, and he looked like he might be able to stand up and walk purely from the euphoria.

She laughed. “Stay still until the ambulance arrives, will you?”

Chris leaned over Sonny and puckered up for a kiss.

“Oh, no,” Sonny cried in disgust, “don’t you do that. I can’t use my legs, but I can still shoot you.”

Chris smiled. “I’ll search the tangos for intel. Hannah, can you call Young to see if he has any new intel on Mordet?”

“I’m on it,” she said.

Chris searched Jawwad and Lateef carefully, and when he stepped back to his team, Hannah was off the phone. “Young and Frank aren’t answering their phones,” she said. Her voice shook slightly.

“Don’t wait for me,” Sonny said. “I can still shoot to defend myself if I have to. Young might be in trouble.”

Chris and Hannah nodded.

“Be careful,” Chris said.

“You, too.” Sonny tightened his grip on his weapon and laid his head back.

Chris and Hannah ran into the trees from where they’d come, and as they ran, Chris called the pilot to confirm she was still standing by. They were going to need her help.

33

Chris and Hannah raced back to the park and rendezvoused with their helo, its rotors already spinning. As soon as the pair were inside, Moose lifted the helo off the ground. The last time Chris had found Young, he was in a shit state, almost dead. He called Young — still no answer. Hannah called Frank — nothing. Moose flew them to the school in Annandale and landed.

Chris and Hannah dashed from the helo and off the school grounds. Soon Young’s house came into view: there were two marked police vehicles and what looked like at least two unmarked vehicles parked next to the curb, but there was no uniformed cop out front. As Chris and Hannah cut across Young’s lawn, they slowed to inspect the sidewalk — stains. Blood-stained footprints from three or more men led away from the front door. Chris packed Young’s previous shit state and their friendship and all related emotions into a box and stacked it on top of the stacks of boxes in the dark warehouse in the suburbs of his mind, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins wouldn’t be stowed away so easily.

Hannah stopped and pointed to the space between the bushes and the front door where a uniformed cop lay still.

Chris clicked his rifle’s safety off. Upon inspecting the door-frame, he found two cracks — one near the doorknob where someone had kicked and one close to the lock where the door gave way. Up higher, he spotted a third crack, near the deadbolt. He gave Hannah hand signals that they were about to do a soft clear: no noise.

She nodded and moved in close behind him — she was ready.

Chris gently pushed on the door — it swung open freely. There was no give in the doorknob, and the metal strike plate from the latch assembly lay on the floor.

Chris’s adrenaline continued to surge, but he was in control, scanning for targets. He cleared the doorway and stepped over a body before quickly taking command of the left side of the room all the way back to the corner. He sensed Hannah enter behind him and take the right. The crimson-soaked carpet squished with each step. In his peripheral vision, bloody bodies lay on the floor. He experienced a vague hope that none of them were Young, but he’d seen corpses before, and if he didn’t want to be one of them, he had to stay focused on his responsibility and remain alert for living threats. He moved to the far corner of the room — no bad guys. Then he scanned to the cross-corner; at the same time Hannah would be scanning to her cross-corner and their fields of fire would overlap in the center of the room. The whole process took less than five seconds, but there was also a closet on Chris’s side, so he opened the door and looked inside — no threat. Room clear.

The bodies in the living room area appeared to be five armed Arab males and two plainclothes law enforcement officers. Agent Garnet lay there, too, and Chris frowned. Some of Young’s computer equipment was missing, and so was Young.

They moved toward the kitchen, where blood was splattered across the table, countertop and walls. Another uniformed policeman lie on the floor with eyes open and his pistol still in his hand. The puddle of blood beneath him glistened on the ivory tiles.

Chris and Hannah cleared the other rooms in the house quickly and found traces of blood on the carpet throughout. No Young. Now that they were sure the house was empty, they returned to the living room.

“It looks like the tangos killed the uniformed officer in the front of the house before breaching the door,” Chris said.

“Then Frank and two others opened fire on the tangos, and the tangos returned fire. A uniformed officer came out of the kitchen to help but was gunned down.

“The three surviving tangos searched the house for Young, tracking blood throughout.”

“Do you think they found him?” she asked.

“Unless he got away.”

She touched the side of Frank’s neck, where the artery lay, checking for a pulse. Her voice was filled with melancholy: “Do you ever get used to friends dying?”

Chris thought for a moment. “Yes and no.”

She pulled her hand away and shook her head. “Yes in what way?”

“Yes, I’m used to it sucking every time,” he said.

“What’re you not used to?”

“Never got used to seeing their families and friends suffer.”

She nodded.

Chris helped her examine the other officers to see if anyone had survived, but they were all deceased. Next, they checked the tangos to see if any of them had survived, but they were all dead, too. Chris grabbed a plastic trash bag from the kitchen, and then he and Hannah searched the tangos’ bodies for intelligence — not just their pockets, but every inch of their clothes. The pair dumped wallets and personal belongings into the plastic bag. Chris found an almost imperceptible bulge on one side of a jacket worn by one of the tangos. Inside the coat, a secret pocket had been sewn in.

He pulled out his pocket-knife and carefully snipped the stitches, revealing a small Ziploc bag containing a credit card and a piece of paper with a phone number written on it — a simple escape and evasion kit. “This guy must’ve been some kind of leader,” Chris said. “He’s the only one with an E & E kit.”

Hannah’s attention seemed to be elsewhere. “You know, when we cleared the house, the bookshelf in the master bedroom seemed kind of shallow.” She left the room without another word, and he followed her into the master bedroom.

She pointed to the wall next to it. “You see how thick this wall is — that could be used to add a closet — or something. It’s all dead space. Why would a builder leave all that dead space?”

“The paint on this wall is newer than the rest of the room,” Chris said.

“That, too. And why paint only one wall in the master bedroom? Nobody sees it.” She pushed and pulled on the bookcase, but it didn’t move. “Young, it’s me, Hannah! Can you hear me?”

Chris helped her tug at the bookcase. It moved slightly before stopping, as if it was locked from the inside. “Young, it’s Chris! Your house is secure!”

“Young, are you in there?” Hannah called. “It’s safe to come out.”

A click sounded from behind the bookcase, and then it opened. Young came out from a secret room carrying computer equipment under his arm, and Chris let out a sigh of relief. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, and dark bags sagged below them, his skin was pale and his feet unsteady. But he was alive.

Chris helped him out and set his computer equipment to the side. He was in a hurry to keep Young safe, but he wasn’t in a hurry to show him the carnage in the rest of the house. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed for a bit until we can get some more help?”

Hannah threw off the bed covers, and when Young sat on the edge of the bed, she helped him out of his shoes. Then she touched his cheek. “Your skin feels cool.”

He lay in a fetal position, and she tucked him in. “I wasn’t expecting it,” Young said quietly. “The police officer outside radioed something to Agent Garnet, and he told me to take cover in the master bedroom. Then there were gunshots outside, the door crashed down, and all hell broke loose. There was so much noise that the house vibrated. It was so terrible. I almost pissed myself, but I was too scared to piss. Then I heard voices — Arabic.” His voice started to tremble along with his body. “They were looking for me. I was so scared Professor Mordet would find me; I was so scared. They searched my bedroom for what seemed like forever.”

“You’re okay now,” Hannah said.

“Was Mordet here?” Chris asked.

“I … I don’t know,” Young replied.

“Did you hear anything that might be a clue — anything at all?” Chris asked.

Young looked up at him. “It was all in Arabic.”

Chris nodded.

“I took this off one of the tangos.” Chris handed Young the bag with the credit card and phone number. “After you rest a little, I need an address for this phone number.”

Young exhaled long and slow. “Okay.”

“We’ll be here with you,” Chris promised.

Chris backed off to give Young a rest, and Hannah stroked Young’s hair.

“Did anyone survive?” Young asked.

“Shh,” Hannah said. “Just rest.”

Young leaned forward. “I have to know.”

“They’re all gone,” Chris answered.

“They were under attack, and all I could do was hide,” Young said. “I should’ve done something to help, anything. Instead of just hiding … like a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” Chris snapped. “You helped us when no else would. Your unique computer skills are critical to this mission. We can’t find Mordet and stop him if you’re dead. Agent Garnet’s job was to protect you, and he did. If you tried to do his job and he tried to do your job, you’d both be dead.”

“Maybe,” Young said.

“Just rest,” Hannah said again, soothingly.

Sirens sounded outside, and Young looked to the window. “Police.”

“We’ll take care of the police while you rest,” Chris said. “You’ll need your energy for what’s next.”

“What’s next?” Young asked.

“I don’t know,” Chris answered. The only easy day was yesterday.

Chris and Hannah explained to the police what had happened, and then they explained again when FBI Agent Trinity Hayes arrived. Her chestnut hair touched her shoulders, and she moved confidently and slowly like a snake, referring to the FBI as the Boo, short for the Bureau: “The Boo can never replace a guy like Frank,” she said. “Right now most of our agents are running around chasing false leads on Professor Mordet.”

“Have you been in touch with the computer forensics people about what’s inside the Nasrallah cousins’ van we gave them?” Chris asked.

“It was serving as some kind of repeater for another computer, but we haven’t been able to trace it to the original source,” she said. “Fortunately, the attacks on our airports have stopped.”

“We’ll need a safe house for Young,” Chris said.

“I’ll take care of that,” she said.

Chris liked the conviction in her voice, and he and Hannah both thanked her. Then they went into the master bedroom to check on Young. “How’re you doing?” Chris asked.

Young turned over on his side. “I’d like to go back to work.”

“You need to pack first,” Chris said. “The Bureau is arranging for a safe house. You can’t stay here, even if it weren’t a crime scene.”

Young sat up. “Okay.”

Rather than dwell on the terrors of the past, Chris preferred to dwell on the opportunities of the future. He gave Young a gentle punch in the shoulder. “You’ll be up and running again in no time.”

“I’m backed up on the cloud and with one of my assistants,” Young said, “so as soon as I replace some equipment, I should be back in action.”

“I’ll make sure we get some protection for your assistants, too,” Hannah said.

Chris gave her a small smile. “Good idea.”

Young stood, his jaw dropping for a moment. “I do remember something.”

“What?” Chris asked.

“One of them grunted in a strange way, like a nervous tic or something. And there was a noise, like the sound of a cigarette lighter flicking open and closed.”

Chris knew those sounds. “Little Kale.”

“You think?” Young asked.

“I know.”

Minutes later, Chris and everyone in Young’s house loaded themselves and their gear into a black SUV while Bureau and police escorts stood by.

34

The Bureau agent switched on his headlights, put the SUV into drive, and pulled into the street as Trinity made calls on her cell phone from the passenger seat. While carefully checking his mirrors, the driver cruised around a block in a circle, but no one seemed to be following them. Chris, Hannah, and Young sat in the back.

Fourteen kilometers later, they reached a two-story milky-white southern colonial in an upscale neighborhood. Four columns formed a colonnade in front of the house, the roof sheltering a front patio behind the columns. Black shutters bordered the windows.

“Here we are,” Trinity said. They got out of the SUV and walked across a symmetrical brick walkway that led to the door.

“We seized this property years ago from a guy running a Ponzi scheme,” Trinity said. “Put it up for auction but didn’t get the minimum bid, and the Boo needed a safe house, so we paid the minimum to a fund for the investors who got scammed.”

“Sweet,” Chris said.

Trinity led them inside, under a chandelier, and up a grand staircase, where they set up shop for Young inside the master bedroom on the second floor. Under crown molding, the colonial blue walls contrasted with the regal-red carpet. Luxurious surroundings or not, getting his analysis up and running was priority one.

“Chris, you and Hannah can stay in the Jack-and-Jill bedrooms,” Trinity said. “The agent in the hall will work in shifts, so someone will be up here around the clock. We’ll have a team of agents downstairs. There’s a sophisticated alarm system surrounding the house, and we’re stationing a surveillance team across the street.”

“Thanks,” Chris said.

She nodded and headed downstairs, leaving them to settle in, Chris guessed. And he needed those few minutes alone. Even just washing his face and brushing his teeth made him feel refreshed.

He knocked on the bathroom door leading to Hannah’s room to see if she was okay. She opened the door, looking beautiful with her hair flowing to her shoulders like paint on a Renoir.

Her smile fired up his soul. “Come in,” she said.

Chris forgot his original purpose of checking on her.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

The fullness in her voice made his blood throb stronger and faster, and the fullness in her lips made him want to kiss them. There would be no sin in one kiss….

He closed the gap between them, tilted his head, and softly touched his lips to hers.

“That was a surprise,” she whispered. “This could complicate things.”

He kissed her again.

She laughed, and the sweet sound rang through him. “A reverend and an atheist. Hmm….”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” he said quietly.

She kissed him this time, and blasted through the lock on his warehouse of boxed-up emotions like an armor-piercing bullet. Everything he’d ever felt for her burst into the air.

She opened her lips slightly, allowing his tongue inside. She put her hand on his shoulder, and he caressed the silkiness of her cheek. Passion, fire, joy, tenderness, grief, worry, and a host of other emotions floated in the air, surrounding him.

When he broke the kiss, she took five steps back. He didn’t know if she was playing hard to get or pulling him in, but it didn’t matter. He took five steps into her room. Her bed looked feathery soft, covered by a fluffy comforter.

The feelings covered him, and he didn’t fight it. He put his hands on her hips and watched as she closed her eyes and leaned toward him. This time, when he touched her lips, he savored the taste of her. He closed his eyes and his heart thumped louder. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and his hands eased around to the small of her back. Emotions swirled around them, pulling the oxygen out of the air. Breathe.

Her lips pressed against his harder, and her tongue dove deeper, so he gave it back to her harder and deeper. Hannah’s hands tightened, digging into his flesh. He pulled her in closer as his body pressed forward, and she lost her balance. He opened his eyes as the two of them fell and landed on the bed.

He wanted to explore her body with his hands, but he knew he couldn’t. This is going too far. His mind raced to the Bible for something to save him, anything, and he recalled Potiphar’s wife’s attempt to seduce Joseph, who resolved the problem by running away from her.

Not knowing what else to do, he got out of the bed and stood. “I’ve got to go.”

“Now you’re surprising me again, but I think I liked the first surprise better.”

“I vowed not to have premarital sex. I promised Reverend Luther and God.”

She just listened.

“You said this could complicate things.”

She eased out of the bed and stood in front of him. “Sometimes I like it complicated.”

He stepped back. “I’ll know. And God will know.”

“Is it a sin for you to kiss me?” she asked softly.

“No.”

She took a step forward. “Do you want to kiss me now?”

He nodded. “But I can’t do more than that.”

“I want what you want.” The warm breath of her words caressed his lips.

He leaned forward until their mouths touched, and they communicated without words and without time.

Eventually, the fatigue of the past few days caught up with them, and she pulled away. “Thank you. For putting the world on pause.”

“Thank you.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “We should probably get some rest.”

He smiled before kissing her once more on the lips. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Chris returned to his room, his pulse still racing. He had remained true to his vow of chastity, but the battle wasn’t over. He tried to read his Bible, but he glanced at his door connected to the bathroom leading to her room. All he wanted to do was make passionate love to Hannah until they both passed out. His eyes returned to his Bible, but he couldn’t focus.

I need to sleep.

He tried taking a hot shower then soaking in a hot bath. It relaxed him, but he still wasn’t sleepy. Again, he looked at the door leading to her room. Then he knelt next to his bed and prayed. But when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t help glancing at the door once more.

He didn’t know how he was going to get any rest. Maybe a glass of milk would help. He walked out of his room, and the agent in the hall glanced at him but then looked away. Maybe he heard us kissing in her room. Heat rose to his cheeks as he headed downstairs. But on his way to the kitchen, he noticed a small bar up ahead, by the kitchen entrance. He walked down the hall, more surprised than he should’ve been to see another agent sitting on a stuffed sofa in the living room.

“Is everything okay, sir?” the agent asked politely.

Without thinking, Chris shook his head, but then he changed it to a nod. “Everything is fine,” he fibbed.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he said with all the conviction he could muster.

The agent nodded with a puzzled look on his face.

He opened the cabinet and surveyed the stock. He’d known enough serious drinkers to know that the strongest liquor inside was probably the bottle of Wild Turkey 101. This will definitely help me sleep.

He removed the cap and sniffed. A mixture of caramel, vanilla, and gasoline wafted into his nostrils. Chris felt the weight of the possibility that this drink could be the first step to him becoming an alcoholic like his grandfather. He also felt the weight of his responsibility as an ambassador of the Lord. He’d been so successful as a teetotaler that it seemed a shame to throw it all away in this moment. Even so, a drink of alcohol was forgivable; premarital sex would cost him his ministry.

He selected a squat glass and filled it halfway. His throat burned as he drank the amber liquid, but he didn’t stop downing the alcohol. He wasn’t drinking for pleasure or camaraderie. The burning soon became numbness, and he quickly emptied the glass. Warmth spread from his chest to his belly and throughout his body as he set the glass down and closed the cabinet. On his way back to the stairs, past the living room, the agent wished him a good night.

“Good night,” Chris said, but his vocal cords were unsteady. He turned his head before he had to see the agent’s reaction to his odd behavior.

Back in his room, he lay down in the bed and turned on the TV to a televangelist, but he couldn’t focus on the words. Within fifteen minutes, he was nodding, so he turned off the TV and closed his eyes.

35

Chris woke up hungry for breakfast, despite the nausea he felt when he considered that today Professor Mordet would attack. They still didn’t know where or at what time, but no matter what, he’d need his energy. His movements were sluggish, which he attributed to the Wild Turkey, but he expected to be able to shake it off after eating. He’d just finished dressing when Hannah walked in through the bathroom door without knocking. Her hair was damp, and her skin glowed. She smelled like vanilla and oranges.

“I had the strangest dream last night,” she said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“I dreamed that we kissed.”

Chris smiled. “Is that so strange?”

“Surprising is a better word. A good surprise.”

Chris smiled. “I had the same dream.”

“You hungry?” she asked.

“Like a tiger.”

“Then let’s go, tiger.”

“I have a feeling that today we may not have much more time for eating,” Chris said.

“Me, too.”

They exited his room and checked on Young, but he was already eating and working. Chris and Hannah descended the stairs and made breakfast. The refrigerator and pantry were well stocked, and he made himself salmon with fresh fruit and orange juice.

Hannah only wanted a waffle, topped with fresh fruit and whipped cream.

“Your parents are diplomats, aren’t they?” she asked.

They sat down at the kitchen table and ate. “Service is important to them,” he said. “What about your parents? I don’t know anything about them.”

“My mother’s family was quite well-to-do, but her clan was weak, and the other clans persecuted her family — in the name of Allah. My mother’s family wanted to stay in Iran, but their lives were in danger, so they tried to get out. Only my mother survived. She was rescued by a case officer working for the Agency. His cover was blown, and he left the country with her.” Hannah ate a bite of her waffle.

“He sounds like a special man,” Chris said.

Hannah finished chewing.

“He was my biological father.”

Chris didn’t know what to say, so he waited for her to speak again.

“He died when I was young,” she said, “so I hardly knew him. But I knew I wanted to be like him. My whole life I’ve wanted to be like him.”

“Must’ve been hard.”

She leaned over the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand the half of it.”

“I can only understand what you share with me, Hannah.” Chris said softly. “How did he die?”

“Every time I ask around the Agency about how my father died, I hit a brick wall with the same old you-don’t-have-a-need-to-know BS.”

“It sounds like they want to cover something up,” Chris said.

“More like someone.”

Chris ate another morsel of salmon. The feeling that something bad might happen to her rushed over him.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Your face says something is wrong,” she said.

He focused on finishing his meal, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.

What sounded like a stampede of feet pounded down the stairs then. Startled, Chris, Hannah, and the agents drew their pistols and aimed.

It was only Young, who promptly froze and threw up his hand. “Hey, guys, it’s me.” In his hand was a piece of paper. When they lowered their weapons, he extended the paper to Chris. “This is an address for the phone number you found on the tango in my living room.”

“You want to go hard or soft on this address?” Hannah asked Chris.

“Hard as woodpecker lips,” Chris said.

36

Chris and Hannah left the safe house and drove a rental SUV fifteen minutes to a neighborhood called Seven Corners. Chris turned north off Arlington Boulevard and entered a residential area filled with spacious two-story homes.

“I can see why the tangos chose this location,” Chris said. “So many trees here, and each house sits on a large lot to provide separation. Nobody can see what his neighbor is up to.”

“You just going to do a drive-by first?” Hannah asked.

“Probably. If the situation looks good, we’ll pay this guy a visit.”

Chris drove past the house, and there was only one vehicle in the driveway. “Looks good so far,” Hannah said.

No one seemed to be home at the neighbor’s house, so he pulled into the neighbor’s drive and parked. “We’ll enter the target building through the back, so nobody coming to the front will see evidence of our entry.”

“Roger,” Hannah said.

They wore civilian clothes but carried assault rifles. Leaving the neighbor’s property, they passed through a cluster of white cedar trees and walked around to the side of the target building. They looked inside the windows, but there was no sign of anyone. At the rear of the house, Chris kicked in the back door. Hannah entered first and peeled left. Chris followed her and peeled right. She was moving too fast, putting herself in Chris’s firing lane — if he had to shoot, he might end up shooting her, too. A more experienced operator would be careful not to get too far in front of his mates. Chris could speed up, but he might miss covering his area properly and get them both killed.

When they reached the kitchen, the dishwasher door was open, and there were dishes and eating utensils in the rack. The house appeared lived-in, but no one was on the first floor.

Chris and Hannah met at the stairs. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “When we clear the rooms, be careful not to get too far ahead of me.”

This time, Hannah kept pace with him as they searched bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. The master bedroom contained the usual furniture except for one thing: a coffin-sized wooden box. Combination locks secured it near both ends. The surrounding carpet was wet and smelled like an unflushed toilet.

Chris pulled out his lock picks, and as he worked the lock, something — or someone — stirred. After he picked the other lock, he motioned for Hannah to stand at an angle covering the box without standing in front of it. Chris stood off to the other side. He didn’t want to be in front when something blew up or when Jack-in-the-Box popped out shooting.

He quickly opened the box, and a fist-sized stench of piss and shit punched him in the face, making his eyes water and throat gag. Inside lay an Arab man clothed in a straitjacket and bound with leg irons, lying in his own filth.

“Please, help me,” the man cried in English, squinting his eyes against the light.

But Chris didn’t know if the hostage was friend or foe, and Chris didn’t have time to deal with him, so he left the man where he was and searched for more clues before taking any action.

“Please, get me out of here,” the hostage called out in Arabic this time.

Chris noticed a cell phone on a nightstand and pocketed it.

“He’s coming back any moment,” the hostage said.

“Who’s coming back?” Hannah asked.

“The Grave Man,” the hostage answered.

She looked at Chris, then back at the Arab. “Who is the Grave Man?”

“He works for Kalil.”

Chris’s senses heightened, and he looked out the window. “Do you know exactly when he’s coming back?”

“Soon!” the hostage shouted.

In the corner of the room, there was a computer on a small desk. Jackpot. He’d have to work quickly. He pulled out his burner phone and called Young to tell him about the computer. At Young’s instructions, Chris turned on the computer, opened the web browser, and found one of Young’s web pages. Young gave him an ID and password to log in.

“Now I’m going to access the computer by remote,” Young informed him. The cursor on the screen moved seemingly on its own, windows opening and closing. Young was in.

Chris let the hard drive continue to run while he manually turned off the monitor, so anyone who happened to lay eyes on the computer wouldn’t immediately notice anything unusual.

Chris braved the stench to approach the hostage. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mohammad,” the hostage said.

“That’s original.”

“Really, I’m Mohammad. Mohammad Haq.”

“Who do you work for?” Chris asked.

“Freddie Mac.”

“What do you do at Freddie Mac?”

“I’m a computer programmer,” Mohammad replied.

“How do you know Little Kale and the Grave Man?”

“They invaded my home and took me prisoner,” the man said. “I don’t know anything else about them.”

“So if I call Freddie Mac, they’re going to know who you are, but you’ve gone missing?”

“Yes!” Mohammad said.

“Then you can stay here until Freddie Mac tells me that.” Chris closed the box.

“Please, don’t close the lid,” he begged. “Please.”

Chris looked up Freddie Mac’s phone number on his phone and called. They put him on hold first. Figures. Then when the operator picked up, she transferred him to human resources, who put him on hold again. Finally, a human resources rep answered the phone, but she said she couldn’t give out personal information. Chris discreetly ended the conversation.

He turned to the closed box and said, “I’m having trouble verifying your story. You got any evidence better than your word?”

“I work for Hezbollah!” he shouted. “I keep this safe house for Hezbollah, and Grave Man wanted to use it for him and his men, but when I didn’t cooperate, he put me in this box. Grave Man works for a guy named Kalil, but Kalil has never been here.”

Chris opened the lid. “What about Professor Mordet? Has he been here?”

“I don’t know anything about any Professor Mordet.”

Hannah stood with an eye on the window. “A brown Range Rover just pulled in the driveway.”

“It’s him,” Mohammad exclaimed. “Grave Man!”

Chris hurried to the window. “What does he look like?”

“His hair is grey — beard, hair on his head,” Mohammad said. “Even his skin has a greyish tint.”

“How many men are with him?”

“Two or three.”

Chris whispered in Hannah’s ear. “We’ll stay hidden downstairs until they’re all inside.”

She nodded.

“Maybe we can take Grave Man alive.”

“What about me?” Mohammad asked.

Chris walked over and aimed his rifle at Mohammad. “Shut the hell up.”

Hannah smiled. “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I like it.”

Chris hurried down the stairs, two at a time. At the bottom, he took a position behind a love seat flanking the sofa, and Hannah posted behind the other love seat on the opposite flank of the sofa.

The sound of car doors closing jolted Chris’s heart with a burst of speed, and adrenaline saturated his arteries. Moisture emerged from his palms, and he worried about his rifle slipping in his hands, so he gripped it tighter. His breathing came warmer and faster. He took a deep breath in an attempt to control himself. He visualized popping up from the couch and aiming.

The doorknob rattled. Someone inserted a key and turned it. The door squeaked open. He waited for it to close. But it didn’t.

Do they sense something? They seemed to be waiting. For what? Grave Man and his men were quiet. Something is wrong. Chris popped up from behind the couch.

Grave Man and two beefy guys with pistols, who looked like bodyguards, had entered the house and aimed their pistols at Chris. Another person stood behind Grave Man and hadn’t entered the house yet.

The bodyguards fired first. One of the rounds hit the love seat, and another snapped somewhere above his left ear. All he could do was focus on survival. The noise of the bodyguards’ pistols inside the house was loud, but Chris didn’t have a sound suppressor, and his rifle was louder. He fired as soon as the first bodyguard appeared in his sights. Chris’s shot tore into the pistol side of the bodyguard’s chest, and his pistol dropped to the ground. The second bodyguard squeezed off another round, and Chris felt its heat on his neck. Chris shot him in the middle of his chest, but the second bodyguard hung on to his pistol. But before the second bodyguard could fire again, Chris popped another hole in his chest and fed him a bite of hardwood floor.

The first bodyguard frantically reached for his lost pistol, and Hannah’s rifle blazed, knocking him down.

Grave Man and his third bodyguard did a desperation dance in the doorway: Grave Man tried to exit as Third Bodyguard tried to enter. One of Chris’s rounds struck the doorframe, but the other two hit Third Bodyguard, who remained standing and looked down at the bullet holes in his chest.

Grave Man made a sprint for his Range Rover. “Moving forward!” Chris shouted to Hannah, hoping she heard and wouldn’t shoot him by accident. He trusted that she would make sure the downed bodyguards stayed down. Chris sprang to the door, and his shoulder smashed into Third Bodyguard, knocking his swaying body out of the doorway.

Grave Man was closer to the driver’s side of the Range Rover than Chris, so Chris made up for it with a hail of bullets through the driver’s side of the window. The glass exploded. “Stop!” Chris commanded in Arabic.

Grave Man jumped away from the vehicle. His feet were planted solidly on the ground like a tree trunk, and he held up his arms like branches in a breeze.

With his right hand, Chris continued to aim his weapon at Grave Man while gesturing with his left hand. “Get down! On your stomach! Hands behind your back!”

Grave Man dropped to the ground and did as he was told.

Chris slung his rifle on his back, pulled some zip ties out of his pocket, and secured Grave Man’s hands behind his back. Then he frisked Grave Man from head to feet — and retrieved a cell phone. Chris jerked him to his feet and pushed him toward the house. “Walk!”

Grave Man stumbled at first but then steadied his legs.

Chris escorted him inside, where his three bodyguards had fresh bullet holes in their skulls. Hannah had ensured they wouldn’t cause more trouble. As Chris prodded Grave Man up the stairs, he became reluctant. “What’s wrong,” Chris asked, “you don’t like where we’re going?”

Grave Man didn’t reply.

Chris made him lie down in the stinking master bedroom next to the box and zip-tied his feet. “We’re going to play a game,” Chris said. “It’s called trading places. These are the rules: you tell me where Little Kale and Professor Mordet are, and I don’t put you in the box. If you don’t tell me where they are, you go in the box.”

His arms trembled, but he didn’t speak.

Hannah assisted Chris in helping Mohammad out of the box. His legs wobbled and were too weak to stand. Chris and Hannah steadied him, guided him to the wall, and sat him down.

Mohammad spat at Grave Man and shouted an Arab insult: “My shoes are better than you!”

Chris looked at Grave Man. “Now it’s your turn.”

Grave Man’s trembling intensified. “I don’t know anything about Little Kale or Professor Mordet, I swear!”

Chris motioned for Hannah to grab his head, and Chris reached down for his legs.

Grave Man kicked his bound feet and thrashed his head.

Hannah used her fist as a tenderizer for his face, knocking him out. They picked up his heavy, limp body and dropped him on his back in the box. With his hands zip-tied behind his back, his arms would quickly become uncomfortable. The stench had dissipated somewhat, but it still made Chris gag. He didn’t know how Hannah could stand it without choking.

Within seconds, Grave Man came to. He gagged once. Twice. The third time, he gagged harder, turned his head, and vomited inside the box.

“That really is disgusting,” Chris said.

Grave Man trembled. “I don’t know who Professor Mordet is, and I can’t tell you anything about Little Kale, or he will kill me.”

Mohammad screamed at Grave Man. “I’ll kill you!”

“Right now, Grave Man,” Chris said, “I think Little Kale is the least of your worries.”

“I’ll give you money!” Grave Man shouted. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

Chris chuckled. “Money. You just don’t get it, do you?” He closed the lid and fiddled with the latches to make it sound like he was locking them.

Grave Man’s voice strained more, but the box muffled it, and Chris and Hannah descended the stairs. With both men secured upstairs, Chris called Young. “How’s it going with that computer?” he asked.

“Did a cross-drive analysis, and two words are significantly more frequent than others: Washington and Dallas,” Young answered.

The word Dallas made Chris’s heart sink. Reverend Luther and his congregation could be in danger. “We suspected an attack on Washington, but what do they want with Dallas?”

“Not clear,” Young said. “Maybe they’re going to attack both.”

“We’ve got another cell for you to hack,” Chris said.

“Go.”

Chris used Grave Man’s cell phone to log into Young’s website. Seconds later, Young was hacking the phone. Chris returned it to his pocket, turned to Hannah, and asked, “Any idea what their target is in Dallas?”

Hannah shook her head. “Not a clue.”

“Me, neither.” He took a deep breath. “Ready to blow this joint?” Chris asked.

“Blow as in boom-boom or bye-bye?”

He smiled. “It’s tempting to blow these guys up, but we better leave them for the FBI. We can call Trinity from the car.”

“As you wish,” Hannah said.

37

Hannah sat in the driver’s seat and was starting the ignition when Chris’s cell phone rang.

“It’s me,” Young said.

“What’s up?” Chris asked.

“Little Kale is meeting with members of a terrorist cell at a mall — Tysons One.”

Chris swiveled the phone away from his face. “Hannah, how far away is Tysons One from here?”

Hannah put the vehicle into drive. “About fifteen minutes.”

“What time is Little Kale’s meeting?” Chris asked into the phone.

“I don’t know. We’re still trying to decipher the messages. I’ll call you back.”

Hannah drove onto Arlington Boulevard and headed west before exiting to Virginia State Route 7 and following it to the Tysons Corner Center turnoff. The tangle of roads, cars, and concrete made for an unsightly jungle. Enormous concrete pillars, holding up a metrorail, ran through the middle of it, adding to the ugliness. “Tysons Corner Center is the real name of the mall,” Hannah said. “It was built before the Tysons Galleria across the street, so people call the original Tysons One and the newer Galleria, Tysons Two.” She pulled into the parking lot to her left and parked in the first available spot.

“At least there’s parking,” Chris said.

They scanned the area before placing their rifles in the backseat under a blanket. They wouldn’t be able to walk around incognito carrying them. Chris felt the outline of his pistol on his right hip, hidden under his shirt. He visualized lifting his shirt and grasping the pistol handle. They stepped out of the SUV and entered the mall through Nordstrom.

Hannah led Chris to the northwest corner of the department store and into the main part of the mall. The vanilla-colored tile floors and spacious three stories illuminated by white light and reflections of gold gave the interior a rich appearance. A significant number of women wore hijabs—head scarves. For a moment, the presence of so many Muslims made him nervous, but he realized it was normal for the area. He had no beef with Muslims. Nikkia had been a Muslim, and she’d been a better Christian than him.

“We can blend in with the other customers at the food court and have a decent view of the mall,” she said. “If I were planning a meeting in the mall, I’d have it in the food court.”

Chris nodded in agreement, and he followed her to the food court, where most of the restaurants had only just opened. It was still fairly quiet.

“We better get something to eat,” he said.

“Right now?” she asked.

“I don’t actually want to eat, but it’ll help our cover.”

“Five Guys is pretty popular,” she said with a shrug.

They ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and sodas and then found an open table with a good view. Chris’s phone vibrated as he sat down. “Hello?”

“Me, again,” Young said.

“Yes.”

“The meeting is at the food court.”

His guts dropped inside him, and he glanced around.

“Little Kale’s contact will be wearing a red shirt for identification,” Young added.

“Do you have a time for the meeting?” Chris whispered. “Is this a man or woman? Caucasian or Arab?”

“That’s all I got. I’ll call you if we find out more.” Young hung up.

Chris relayed the information to Hannah quietly, forcing himself to keep a smile on his face so it looked like was just talking with a friend, but she couldn’t hide the look in her eyes. It was exactly how Chris felt.

He scanned the food court for their target. A man with dark skin, a beard, and a red shirt sat alone eating kabobs. “I wish I knew what Little Kale looked like.” Chris said.

“You don’t know what he looks like?”

“He wore a hood when he kidnapped me.”

A large man approached the area near the man in the red shirt. He looked about Little Kale’s size, but he passed Red Shirt’s table without handing off anything or speaking to him. Then the large man left the food court.

He searched the area again. A Caucasian woman in a ruby-red blouse stood alone for a few minutes and looked around as if she were waiting for someone. Then she ordered a soda and sat down. As she sipped on her drink, no one joined her.

Two muscular, tattooed Caucasian men loitered at the edge of the food court but didn’t buy any food. Although they looked like ex-cons, neither of them wore a red shirt, and no one met with them.

Over at the McDonald’s counter, Chris noticed a man wearing a burgundy Washington Redskins jersey placing his order. Is the contact wearing red-red or burgundy-red? The man paid in cash and then stood off to the side and waited for his food. He didn’t seem to be one of their targets, but a professional would be able to blend in easily, too. His Redskins jersey stuck out in Chris’s mind. On the phone, Young had mentioned Washington and Dallas.

Chris used his cell phone to access the NFL website. He clicked on the Washington Redskins and examined their game schedule. He jerked his head up to Hannah’s face. “Today, the Washington Redskins are playing the Dallas Cowboys at 4:25 p.m.”

Her eyes widened, and she stopped sipping from her straw.

“Where’s the Redskins’ stadium?” Chris asked.

“FedExField. In Maryland.”

“How many people does that stadium hold?”

“Eighty-five thousand,” she whispered, her face paling. “But … but how are they going to sneak enough explosives into the stadium?”

“I don’t know. The meeting here probably has something to do with it.” Chris dialed Young and recapped their theory then resumed watching the man in the jersey…

“Could that be Little Kale?” Hannah asked, her voice barely audible. “In front of Macy’s, coming this way.”

A big guy and three goons swaggered through the mall like they owned it. They certainly had the attitude for Little Kale and his ghosts. The eldest ghost touched his side like he wasn’t used to carrying his pistol concealed. Or itching to pull the trigger.

Chris glanced back at Redskins, who had received his meal and was taking it to the opposite end of the dining area. But Little Kale didn’t head in his direction. Instead, one of the two tattooed Caucasians made direct eye contact with the woman in the ruby shirt.

“If we find Little Kale, should we take him down here?” Hannah asked.

“We could. Or we could catch him in the parking lot and roll him up there — limit the collateral damage.”

The big Arab sat with Ruby while his thugs stood ten meters away. Eldest Ghost touched his side again. The Arab grunted between words with the woman. Then he grunted again.

“That grunt,” Chris said. “I’ve met a lot people, but I’ve never heard a grunt like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“It has to be Little Kale.”

A group of customers got up from one of the tables next to Little Kale and Ruby. Little Kale’s thugs noticed and moved in to take the table. On the way, Eldest Ghost bumped into a young Arab woman who wore designer jeans and a fashionable scarf and robe. “That was rude,” she said in Arabic.

Eldest Ghost stopped in his tracks and turned to her. “What?”

“You just bumped into me and didn’t say anything. That’s rude.”

“You should watch where you are walking.”

“You bumped into me,” she said in English.

Some heads turned to watch their argument.

“Look at how you are dressed,” he continued in Arabic. “Your wrists, ankles, and hair are showing, and that fabric is too thin. It shows too much of your body shape. Its style is too Western. That is not hijab!”

His two comrades tried to discourage him from arguing, but they were younger than him, and he wouldn’t listen.

She put her hands on her hips. “I love Allah, and I’ll show it how I please. In the Koran, there’s no dress requirement for full body cover like you say. You should study the Koran, you old fool!”

He cocked his hand back to strike her, but an Arab male in jeans and a tight black T-shirt, stepped in. He pushed Eldest Ghost, knocking him on his ass. “You don’t touch her!” he shouted in English.

A pair of women cheered for the guy in jeans. If they really understood what situation they were in, they’d be heading for the nearest exit. When Eldest Ghost stood and reached down to his hip, Chris only had a split second to react: defend the couple or maintain his cover. Chris drew his pistol, so did Eldest Ghost, and the cheering women screamed.

Chris’s line of fire to him was clear, and the closest bystanders were a couple sitting at a nearby table. Chris crouched and shuffle-stepped to the side to create more separation between his line of fire and the couple at the table behind. Eldest Ghost spotted Chris and shifted his aim from the boyfriend to Chris’s direction, but Chris brought his pistol to bear on Eldest Ghost before he brought his weapon to bear on him. Chris’s trigger finger started to squeeze before the tango appeared in Chris’s sights, and when Eldest Ghost appeared in his sights, he squeezed the rest of the way. Bang! The shot cracked Eldest Ghost’s arm, pieces of bone flying like a frag grenade into his body. Bang! The second 9 mm slug seemed to catch Eldest Ghost directly in the lung. He went down, and he didn’t stand again.

The food court broke into a full-scale panic. People froze, screamed, dove under tables, and ran for exits.

One of Eldest Ghost’s comrades drew his pistol, but before he could aim at Chris, Hannah gunned him down. The remaining tango was a cool customer — he backed away from the table with his hands in the air. Meanwhile, Little Kale and Ruby stood up and walked away. The cool tango gained momentum, trying to catch up with Little Kale. The two tattoos left their position and sped toward Ruby.

Chris and Hannah followed. Little Kale glanced back at them and then picked up speed. Chris and Hannah did, too.

Little Kale must’ve been on to them because he and his entourage busted through the middle of the mall, knocking people out of the way. The tangos reached the opposite end of the mall before ducking out of sight in the Bloomingdale’s department store.

Chris rushed into the department store. Passing a display of overpriced handbags, he continued past racks of fine clothing and ventured deeper into the store, but he saw no sign of the terrorists. Then he spotted Ruby and her two tattooed men nearing the exit. He crouched, using the racks of clothes for concealment, and stalked her. Chris glanced back to check on Hannah, but she wasn’t there.

38

Hannah spotted Little Kale’s upper body near the escalator on the second floor of Bloomingdale’s. Instinctively, she dropped low and stepped onto the escalator. She figured that, at any moment, Chris would turn around and spot her, but he continued farther into the department store, focused on something ahead.

Turn around, damn it. Little Kale is getting away.

She wanted to call to him, but that would alert Little Kale. The escalator maintained its ascent, and Chris maintained his forward course until he was no longer in view.

She stepped off on the second floor, concealed her pistol in her hip holster under her blouse and followed Little Kale through several departments of Bloomingdale’s. Little Kale exited Bloomingdale’s, and she followed him in the direction of Macy’s.

He’s probably going back to his vehicle.

His underling slowly turned around, and Hannah hid in a shop to her left. An eager Verizon salesman greeted her. Although locking herself into a long, expensive contract wasn’t a high priority for her at the moment, speaking to the salesman helped her blend with the other shoppers. He was in his early twenties, and the sparkle in his eye suggested he might be interested in more than phone sales. She smiled at him and popped out of the store as fast as she’d popped in. Staying close to the shops, she rushed toward Little Kale and Underling, closing the gap between them and her.

Underling glanced over his shoulder, catching Hannah between shops. There was no place for her to hide, so she did the next best thing — she went for her pistol. In hand-to-hand combat, she was confident she could give both of them instant colonoscopies, but ten meters away and with pistolas, all she had was optimism. “Police!” she shouted with authority. Rather than move back to the nearest store and use it for cover, she moved forward aggressively, hoping to use the next shop.

Underling grabbed at his hip, but Hannah didn’t wait to see if he was going for a pack of throat lozenges. She jerked the trigger, pulling her pistol down and to the left. Even so, her first shot struck Underling in the gut, wiping the cool look right off his face. Her second round punched him in the chest, and he toppled forward, crashing head-first to the floor.

She looked around for Little Kale, but he’d vanished, probably into one of the stores. In the time it took to draw a sidearm, he reappeared, barrel blazing. The sudden attack from him surprised her, but she side-stepped left and entered a Häagen-Dazs store, escaping his blistering assault. A pool of melted ice cream covered the floor, and people huddled under tables and behind the counter. Another shopper called out in fear. All eyes in the store locked on Hannah and her pistol. “It’s okay. I’m one of the good gals,” she said.

Outside, people scattered in opposite directions; one woman was bleeding. A lull in Little Kale’s barrage gave Hannah a chance to return the love. She went prone and leaned out of the shop, searching for a clean shot. She found it and returned fire, but Little Kale exposed little of his body other than his head and shooting arm. Her first shot grazed his arm, but the other missed.

Little Kale’s muzzle flashed again, and her whole world went black.

39

Ruby’s tattooed duo spotted Chris following them, pulled out their guns, and pointed them sideways at him, gangster style. He already had his pistol out and dropped the first Tattoo. The other continued to fire rapidly, making a lot of noise and hitting nothing but some clothes and a mannequin. Chris laid him out next to his homey.

Ruby ducked out of sight, so Chris had to peek around the corner to see her. She groped on the ground for one of her men’s pistols. “Freeze!” Chris yelled, but it made no difference. Ruby picked up one of the pistols. Chris fired at her but missed and hit the tattooed body lying in front of her. Tattoo cried out in pain. The woman sent her first bullet Chris’s way, and it grazed the side of his head. He tapped one between her eyes before she got off a second shot. All three of them lay motionless.

A pudgy clerk lay on the ground nearby, shaking. She stared at him like he was an alien that had just beamed down from a UFO. The woman gestured, pointing to her ear and then the floor next to Chris. At first, he didn’t understand, but after searching the area where she pointed, he noticed his prosthetic ear on the floor. Ruby’s shot must’ve knocked it off. He picked it up and examined it. Other than a little dirt, it seemed fine. He brushed it off before putting it back on his head. The magnet in his ear affixed firmly to the metal plate in his head. The clerk stared as if he were beaming back up to his UFO.

A commotion above the commotion arose in the mall behind him. He was so absorbed in his own gunfight that he’d totally lost track of everything else.

Hannah.

He rushed out of Bloomingdale’s and into the main area of the mall. He followed the noise, trying to locate the source. It was coming from the second floor rather than the first. Hannah was probably in the thick of it with Little Kale and Cool Tango.

Please be okay.

He could backtrack into Bloomingdale’s and take the escalator up, losing time and distance. Or he could race ahead to Macy’s and block any chance of Little Kale’s escape — catching the terrorist between Hannah’s gun and his.

What goes up must come down.

He tore through the mall. Frightened people crammed into shops, many on their cell phones, giving him a clear path. When he reached the food court, he hung a left and kept running until he got to Macy’s. Frightened shoppers gawked at him. Frantically, he scanned the area for an escalator until he spotted it. He found it, also noting an elevator and three exits to the parking lot.

It was also possible Little Kale wouldn’t exit Macy’s at all. If I were Little Kale, I’d exit one of the other shops in case someone like me was waiting to spring an ambush.

Chris holstered his pistol and exited the mall with a mob of shoppers pushing each other, desperate to get away. Cars almost collided as they hurried out of the parking lot. Though sirens squalled in the distance, the police and other emergency responders hadn’t appeared yet. He ran to the middle of the parking lot, stood behind a parked truck, and turned around to observe the mall exits and his surroundings. No one suspicious left the mall.

But someone approached from the parking lot to the northwest — Little Kale — fifty meters away. Chris kept a low profile, but a shiny black Mercedes pulled out from the parking lot where he stood and rolled in Little Kale’s direction. It may have been a coincidence, but if it wasn’t, he was already too late to catch up. He sprinted through the parking lot to reach Little Kale before he rendezvoused with the vehicle, but Little Kale spotted Chris and walked faster. Then he broke from a hurry into a run.

Chris pumped his thighs harder and harder, sucking in quick shots of oxygen. Someone opened a door in Chris’s path, and he just barely dodged the obstacle. Twenty-five meters away from Chris, Little Kale neared the Mercedes. Chris drew his pistol and fired. A miss. Little Kale jumped in the back-seat of the Mercedes, and it sped away.

Chris couldn’t outrun it, of course, and the situation seemed impossible, but he didn’t lose sight of the mission, pumping his legs madly. When a truck pulled out, the Mercedes bumped into it. Little Kale’s driver tried to push the truck out of the way, but no luck. The driver shifted into reverse, speeding backward in Chris’s direction. Chris planted his feet, aimed through the back at the driver, and squeezed. Once. Twice. As the vehicle passed within a few meters of Chris, he fired one round at the driver through the passenger side, but the vehicle kept going. Tracking, Chris shot repeatedly through the front windshield at the driver, but it still didn’t slow — and it didn’t turn. It kept running in reverse, off the parking lot, across a grassy island and into the crowded intersection of International Drive and Chain Bridge Road. A semi truck hit its brakes with a hydraulic groan and rubber squeal, ramming into the passenger side of the car, knocking it into the opposite lane. A small car swerved to avoid it, but the next car behind clipped the spinning tail, finally bringing Little Kale’s vehicle to a stop.

Chris’s lungs seared as he ran toward the accident. Cars in both lanes of Chain Bridge Road came to a squealing halt as drivers pounded on their horns. When the light on International Drive turned green, the intersection was so jammed up cars couldn’t proceed. Chris ran so hard that he puked. He spit the funk out of his mouth and ran onward until he reached the intersection.

Much of the passenger side of Little Kale’s car was crushed. Chris grabbed the door behind the driver and pulled it, metal screeching, partway open, but it became stuck. He gave it some muscle, and the opening extended farther. The stink of gasoline burned his nostrils, and the floor was wet. The car dashboard and seat sandwiched the driver like a piece of sagging lunchmeat. In the back seat, Little Kale’s arm hung like it was dislocated; his legs were bent at impossible angles, one of them pinned under the seat in front of him. One side of his face was puffy and bloody. His eyes were dazed, and he breathed in shallow, rapid grunts.

Chris ignored the danger and crawled in and sat next to him.

“So,” Little Kale said slowly in Arabic, as if he were fighting off a deep sleep, “you must be … the one.”

Chris spoke in Arabic, too. “The one?”

“The one … I keep hearing about.”

“From who?” Chris asked.

“Are you afraid? Of death?” Little Kale’s voice was strained, as if each word sapped more energy out of him.

“Not too afraid,” Chris said. “Not physical death.”

“What other death is there?”

“You’ve been drinking it your whole adult life, Little Kale.”

“There’s nothing little about me.”

“You used to be big, but now you’re small.”

Little Kale’s face flushed red. “I don’t know who you are. But you’re a dead man.”

Chris reached for Little Kale’s pocket to search it. Little Kale tried to stop him, but Chris took hold of his hand and twisted it around until his wrist snapped with a horrible crack. Little Kale squawked like a wounded bird. Chris pulled a plasticuff from his pocket and secured Little Kale’s broken wrist to the dead driver’s. With another plasticuff, he tied the driver’s opposite hand to the misshapen steering wheel. Then he emptied Little Kale’s pockets: cell phone, wallet, and keys. Little Kale tried to pull his leg out from under the seat in front of him, but it was locked tight and he cried in pain. He attempted to pull his hands loose from Chris’s cuffs, but Chris punched him into submission.

Little Kale regained consciousness. “Who are you?”

“Do you remember Nikkia?” Chris asked. “The elementary school bint you kidnapped and let die? I’m her friend.”

Little Kale cocked his head, puzzled. “Her friend?”

“I want to know where Professor Mordet is,” Chris said.

Little Kale’s lips quivered before he spoke. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Chris leaned in closer. “You’re afraid of him.”

“He says you’re his equal.”

“Then you should be afraid of me,” Chris said.

Little Kale’s lips didn’t stop trembling.

Chris showed him the lighter with his name written on it: Kalil.

Little Kale grunted. “Where’d you get that?”

“I was the American diplomat’s son you kidnapped.”

“I need a doctor,” Little Kale said.

“You need someone to clean up this fuel leak.”

“This is America. I have rights,” Little Kale said, his voice raising in pitch.

Chris held up the lighter. “I carry this as a survival tool. And a reminder.”

“I have rights.”

“You have the right to tell me where Professor Mordet is,” Chris growled. “If you do, I’ll let you live. That’s more rights than you ever gave Nikkia.”

“If I tell you, he’ll eat me alive!”

“Do you want to be burned alive now or eaten alive later?”

Little Kale jerked on his bound hand but couldn’t free himself. “You can’t do this!”

Chris became aware of the heat burning through the windshield. The fumes in the car might combust at any moment, taking both Chris and Little Kale up in smoke. He twirled the lighter in his hand.

“You’re insane!” Little Kale shouted. “Help me! Somebody help me!”

Chris flicked the lighter and the flame rose. “I want to make you suffer for what you did to Nikkia. I detest you. I want to do more than kill you; I want to murder you.” Chris was beside himself, as cruelty, hate and murder coursed through him — the three things Reverend Luther had prayed wouldn’t fill Chris’s heart, even in battle. Chris felt helpless, trapped by his own rage.

“I can’t tell you!” Little Kale shouted.

“Help me to help you! I’m on the edge here! Give me something to work with. Anything!” Chris wanted to step out of the vehicle, toss the lit lighter on the floor, and slam the door.

“I hope Professor Mordet eats you! Slowly!”

Chris looked at Little Kale then at his lighter.

God help me. Please.

He took a deep breath. In a moment of clarity, he took control of his body, closed the lighter lid, and put the lighter in his pocket. Chris was back inside his body, but his senses were overwhelmed, becoming too anesthetized to notice anything around him. He didn’t remember crawling out of the vehicle, but he was suddenly outside of it. He pushed hard on the crumpled door, and metal screeched against metal until it closed. Then he walked away.

“There’s someone inside that car!” a woman wrapped in makeup, jewels, and designer clothes yelled from a small group of onlookers.

“His leg is pinned under the car seat in front of him,” Chris said. “First responders are going to have to cut him out.”

Another lady gawked and pointed in the direction of Little Kale’s car.

Chris stopped and turned around.

The interior of the vehicle was on fire. Little Kale screamed, but his shouts were stifled inside the car. Soon, windows cracked under the intense heat. There was no saving Little Kale now, and Chris was too numb to feel anything except relief that Little Kale’s fate was no longer in his hands. And that Little Kale would never terrorize anyone ever again.

He took out Little Kale’s phone, switched it on, logged on to Young’s website, and the phone took on a life of its own. Young was on it now.

Chris headed back to the mall and sped up to a jog. Then a run. He searched for Hannah on the second floor, but all he found were bloodstains surrounded by police tape and law enforcement officers outside a Häagen-Dazs shop. He posed as Hannah’s brother and asked the police officers what had happened to her. They said one woman was killed and the other had a concussion. Their description of the woman with a concussion seemed to match Hannah. He used his own phone to call Young and asked if he had any information on her whereabouts.

“I don’t know where she is. But from what you’re saying, it sounds like Hannah is the woman with the concussion,” Young said.

Exhausted, Chris sat down on a bench. “If you find out more details, let me know.”

“Will do. You might be interested to know that there’s one anonymous phone number in Little Kale’s directory that he calls often. The number doesn’t appear in the other tangos’ directories.

Chris closed his eyes for a moment. “Mordet.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Do you have a location for him?” Chris asked.

“Too many. Could you use Little Kale’s phone to give him a call? That might help me pinpoint him.”

“Sure.”

Young gave it to him.

“Okay.” Chris ended the call, put his phone away, took out Little Kale’s cell, and called the anonymous number. It rang. And rang.

“What’s wrong?” Mordet answered.

“Little Kale won’t be joining you,” Chris said.

There was a pause. Mordet spoke in a relaxed voice. “Little Kale was an idiot. But I am intelligent enough to make up for his weakness.”

“You’re not going to blow up the Redskins-Cowboys game.”

Professor Mordet was quiet for a moment. “Oh, but I am, I surely am, and herein lies the paradox: I am the Teumessian fox that can never be caught. And you are Laelaps, the dog that catches everything.”

“We may both turn into stone, but you’re not killing those eighty-five thousand people,” Chris said.

“I will. And someone special to you will die, and you and I will shine in the sky for billions of years like Canis Minor and Canis Major.”

“What do you mean someone special?” Chris asked.

“Search your soul, and you will know who.”

“You’re bluffing. You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Now if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have some work to do.”

The line went dead.

“Damn!” Chris shouted.

People nearby turned and looked at him.

His personal phone rang. The caller ID showed Young’s name.

“I still can’t pinpoint him,” Young said with disappointment when Chris picked up.

“How long will it take?”

“I don’t know how many hours.”

“We don’t have many hours,” Chris said.

“I know. I’ll do what I can,” Young said before hanging up.

Chris sat there on the bench, hollowness growing inside him. He looked at his watch. Kickoff was a little over four hours away. The most likely place for Mordet to be was in the vicinity of the Redskins’ stadium, but without any solid leads, he’d be chasing phantoms. And even if he knew where Mordet was, he still didn’t know if Hannah was all right. He squeezed his eyes shut, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill out.

Where are you, God?

Reverend Luther’s voice echoed in his mind. God is always in the same place. We’re the ones who move closer or farther away. Chris wanted to be closer, but the dark cloud of discouragement hovered over him.

Thousands of innocent people will die.

As his sorrow swallowed him deeper and deeper, he felt more and more like the helpless boy at the bottom of the abandoned well. He’d used his belt buckle to scratch off a tally of each day. After three days, he’d still had no food or water, becoming so feeble that he’d known he was near death. He’d prayed to be rescued, but when he’d received no answer, he’d scratched a message on the wall telling his parents that he loved them.

Then he’d heard something that sounded like a voice coming from above. He had looked up. The night sky had seemed lighter, but no one had been there. But he’d heard the voice again. It had been a small, mild voice that shot to his heart like a diamond bullet, making his body tremble. In an instant, he’d known it must’ve been the voice of an angel. Or God. He’d feared that he might melt in the presence of such a holy being or be struck by lightning. And although he’d wanted to crawl under a rock and hide, there had been nowhere to go. The voice had spoken again, and that time Chris had understood: Fear not. On the morrow, when the night cometh, you will be saved. The sky had become darker after that, and the voice hadn’t returned.

During the next day of captivity, Chris had barely had enough energy to think about the voice. Although he’d thought he might’ve been hallucinating, he’d believed his experience had been real. Weakening further, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. In the evening, he’d tried to stay awake, but he’d realized that his salvation might be death. He’d fallen asleep waiting to be saved, only to be awakened by the sound of the air being beaten. For a moment, he’d thought it was angels, but when he’d heard gunshots and machine gun fire, he’d realized it was helicopters. Minutes later, a light had flashed down on him, and a voice had called to him, “Chris Paladin, are you down there?”

He’d tried to cry out and wave, but his voice had come out faint, and he’d barely been able to lift his arms.

“Chris, I’m a Navy SEAL. I’m here to rescue you.” A shadow had descended the well, and when it had touched bottom, the man had strapped Chris into a harness, hooked them together, and then they’d ascended.

Chris sat in the mall trying to make sense of it all. He remembered his sermon before leaving Dallas, how the man who’d wavered between belief and unbelief had finally sided on belief, which resulted in the healing of his son. On the mission to stop Mordet, Chris had wavered, too — struggling to be both a minister and a SEAL. His sermon had been more for himself than it had been for his congregation, he realized now. Since childhood, his personal relationship with God was always his key to overcoming doubt. Once again, it was time for Chris to believe. It was time to save those thousands of people.

His phone rang then, and he glanced at the screen. Young. Chris answered.

“Just did another cross-data check, and one word was significant,” Young said.

“One word?” Chris asked.

“Aegis. In the IT world, the Aegis handles a computer network’s authentication, but I can’t figure out how they’ll use that to blow up the game.”

Chris was quiet for a moment as he thought. In Greek mythology, Zeus and Athena carried a shield called Aegis. But what does that have to do with the stadium?

He thought some more. Then the realization hit him. He swallowed. “Jim Bob said that he believed the Department of Defense weapons systems were vulnerable and that if Mordet obtained the black box on the Switchblade Whisper, he could use the crypto, security, and authentication to hack into the Department of Defense. The Navy developed a missile guidance combat system called Aegis. It’s all computerized.”

“So Mordet needed the Switchblade Whisper in order to hack into Aegis,” Young said. “Wouldn’t he have to pilot the ship within missile range of the Redskins’ stadium?”

Chris stood and hurried to the nearest exit. “Naval Station Norfolk has plenty of ships capable of carrying missiles that can strike the Redskins’ stadium or beyond. I’m on my way there right now. We’ve only got a few hours. Let me know if you get anything new.”

“Will do.”

Chris arrived at the rental car, only to remember that Hannah had the keys.

Damn.

At least he knew how to pick a lock and hotwire a car.

40

Chris sped south on I-95, anxiously checking his side and rearview mirrors, looking for police who might try to pull him over or slow him down. If only they could slow down his thoughts, instead.

Is Hannah okay? Am I going in the right direction? Will I make it in time to stop Mordet? I can’t let those eighty-five thousand people die. I’m losing my mind.

“Shit. Shit-shit. Shit, shit-shit…” He repeated the same words aloud over and over. The repetition gave him a sense of stability and took his mind off losing his sanity.

Chris’s phone rang again, and he answered it.

“Norfolk just experienced a cell phone outage in areas that include the Naval Station,” Young said.

“Shit,” he said again. “If Mordet hits a ship’s quarterdeck, communications and armory all at the same time, no one can call for help, and the security team will have no access to their weapons.”

He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

Three hours and two hundred miles south later, Chris arrived in Norfolk.

Most of the naval station’s security faced inland, and their training centered on planned exercises at scheduled dates and times that seemed more of a dog and pony show than a true test of security. It often left the water unwatched, or at least not watched by careful eyes. Once when he was in the Teams, he’d forgotten his military ID card, and he’d actually swum onto base. He hoped to do the same today at Naval Station Norfolk.

Chris parked his car on the north shore of Willoughby Bay and studied the base across the water. Although it would be a shorter swim to the heliport, that was a restricted area and probably more difficult to infiltrate, so he chose to swim to the Navy’s recreational marina, nearly a kilometer away.

He left his rifle and Little Kale’s things in the vehicle, but he kept his pistol in its concealed holster. Both the pistol and holster could take the water, but his cell phone couldn’t. He pulled out a waterproof bag, and before he sealed his cell phone in it, he checked to see if he had a phone signal. He did. Good. The utilities must’ve already fixed the cell phone outage. He placed the phone in his bag, sealed it, and returned it to the thigh pocket of his cargo pants.

Chris slipped into the water and swam a combat sidestroke, which gave him a low profile without splashes. Nobody on the base seemed to notice him yet, and as he expected, there was no visible security facing the bay. He swam until he reached a mound of rocks that formed a seawall protecting the marina from being eroded by small waves in the harbor. His pace had been fast; it had only taken him eighteen minutes. He wasn’t the same kid who had walked off the street into the Navy, that was for sure. And now the stakes were infinitely higher.

Chris stepped out of the water scanning the area for onlookers. He didn’t see any, so he walked inland across the wall of rocks and stepped onto the base.

Here I am. Now what?

He set the timer on his watch: T-minus sixty minutes until missile launch. He took off his shirt, wrung the water out of it before donning it again, and walked past a family in civilian clothes. They gave him an odd look as if wondering why his clothes were wet. Then a pair of sailors passed, paying him little attention, if any. They either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared. He continued south along the wharf. After passing nearly three kilometers of piers with ships tied to them, he still had three more kilometers of piers to go. Not knowing exactly what he was looking for, he felt lost.

As he proceeded to Pier Nine, a sunless mood came over him. The USS Normandy, a guided missile cruiser, was moored by itself to the north. He passed the pier, and the shadowy feeling brightened. It was as if a giant dark cloud hovered over the Normandy itself.

Mordet. I can feel you.

He returned to Pier Nine. The pier security guard’s gaze narrowed on him as he approached. Chris examined the sailor quickly. The guard’s hair came slightly over his ears. Either he was a sailor pushing regulations or an imposter. Chris suspected the latter. He’s too alert — unlike a sailor who has stood too many watches in home port, and nothing happens. But something is about to happen, and this guy knows it.

“Sir, this pier is temporarily on lockdown for a security drill,” the guard said.

“I’m investigating a terrorist threat in the area,” Chris countered, “and I’d like to know where you went to boot camp?” Every sailor remembers where he went to boot camp, and whoever says it’s classified information is lying.

“Huh?” the guard asked.

“Did you go to boot camp in South Carolina or Texas?”

“Texas.”

Chris took a step toward him. “Wrong answer.”

The guard’s hand inched slowly in the direction of the pistol on his hip. “I’m sorry, I meant South Carolina.”

“Wrong again,” Chris said.

The guard reached for his pistol, which Chris realized had an extended holster, probably for a sound suppressor. There was nothing Navy about the man other than his uniform. Chris stepped forward and struck him with an open-handed chop to the throat, stunning him. Chris grabbed his head and wrenched it around until the guard’s spine snapped, and his body dropped to the ground like a sack of elephant shit.

He proceeded to the 173-foot cruiser. It’s the weekend. Most of the crew will be off the ship. He walked up to the brow, a portable metal plank that connected the ship to shore. Partway across the brow, he stopped and stood at attention facing the US flag aft, then he continued to the end of the brow and stopped at attention facing the older of two sailors on the quarterdeck. “Request permission to come aboard,” Chris said.

Instead of asking for Chris’s ID and granting permission, the older sailor said, “We’re under lockdown right now, and you can’t board the ship.”

Similar to the imposter on the pier, his holster wasn’t regulation.

“Are you the OOD?” Chris asked.

The sailor hesitated. “Yes.”

Chris pointed to the other guy. “Is that your Petty Officer of the Watch?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your Messenger?” Chris asked.

“I told you, we’re under lockdown.”

“Why are both of you armed instead of just one?” Chris asked. “Why sound-suppressed pistols? And what are these stains all over the quarterdeck?”

The fake OOD reached for his gun, but Chris got to his own first and let the air out of the imposter. Meanwhile, the other “sailor” was drawing his sound-suppressed weapon. Chris’s bullets swept him aside.

His pocket vibrated. Damn. If he’d been sneaking up on someone and his cell had gone off, he’d be a dead man. After taking his phone out of his pocket, he noticed the caller ID: Young.

“What?” Chris whispered.

“You were right! Mordet hacked into the USS Normandy’s Aegis combat system, and he’s uploading GPS coordinates and TERCOM leading to two targets.” TERCOM was the Terrain Contour Matching navigation system used for cruise missiles. Each missile would follow the pre-recorded contour maps, use its internal radar to record its current locations, digitally match the uploaded map with its current location, correlate for accurate flight, and adjust for any deviance until it reached its target.

“We know that he’s targeting the Redskins’ stadium. But you just said two targets.”

“Just a sec. He’s going to fire a Block II TLAM A.”

Chris’s heart sank. Each Tomahawk Land Attack Missile could travel distances up to 2500 kilometers at a speed of 890 kilometers per hour. They delivered an air-burst of four hundred fifty kilograms of high explosives, enough to kill all eighty-five thousand people at the Redskins-Cowboys game.

“Where’s the second target?” Chris asked.

“Oh, no.”

“Where?”

“The White House.”

Chris continued to scan the area for immediate threats. “Mordet said he was going to kill someone special. He must’ve meant the president. We’ve got to stop him.”

“When Mordet hacked into the Aegis, he left a back door open. I’m into the C&D, but he’s blocking me from the Weapon Control System. I need access to that in order to terminate the launch.”

“I’m heading to the CIC to shut him down.”

“What’s the CIC?” Young asked.

“Combat Information Center. It’s the tactical center of the ship.”

“I’ll keep trying to shut him down, too,” Young said. “Be careful.”

“Out.” Chris turned off his phone, zipped it in the bag, and put it back into his thigh pocket.

He opened a grey hatch, not knowing what would come next but hoping he’d rise to the occasion. He walked forward, aiming his pistol at each danger area, and as he reached the ladder leading up to the CIC, a beastly thug with a submachine gun came down the ladder. The beast lifted his weapon, but Chris squeezed the trigger of his pistol, giving him open-heart surgery. Someone else’s bullets sprayed down the ladder in his direction, and he jumped back to avoid the projectiles.

“I was expecting you, Chris,” Professor Mordet called from the top of the ladder. “You had me worried for a little while. I thought you might be late for the show, but you are just in time.”

Submachine guns poked down the ladder as if searching for Chris. His heart rate flicked to full auto, and his palms became slick. He squeezed his pistol tighter. When the first tango appeared, Chris fired, but he missed. He fired again, but the tangos’ weapons withdrew. “Glad to know I’m not late,” Chris said.

“You cannot stop the rain from falling,” Mordet said. “You can put up an umbrella to keep yourself dry, but others are going to get wet.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But you cannot help it. I have already taken over the ship’s Weapon Control System and set it on an automatic program timed to launch two Tomahawk missiles at kickoff of the Redskins-Cowboys game. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” There was a cruel happiness in his tone. “Whether the president attends the game or watches from the White House, the outcome will be the same. The Weapon Control System can no longer be manipulated from the CIC. No one can stop the rain now. Not even you.”

Chris maneuvered around to a ladder on the port side, hoping to find another way to the CIC, but three men had already descended the steps and declared open season on him. He hastily shot back at them to slow their advance before he ducked out of their line of fire. He had to get there before Mordet’s men trapped him in the passageway athwart ship. He aimed his weapon chest-high as he turned the corner and ran into a tango. The abrupt encounter startled Chris, and he jerked the trigger, but at point-blank range, he didn’t miss. He continued to pull the trigger rapidly: surprise, speed, and violence of action. Point-blank’s body collapsed on the man behind him, and they both fell to the floor. More shuffling noises came from the top of the ladder.

Meanwhile, the port side gang reached Chris’s passageway and lit up the air around him. He stepped aft, out of their firing lane, but it occurred to him that the portside gang might circle around and trap him, so he went farther aft, returning outside to the quarterdeck, where the OOD and POOW imposters lay dead. Now he had more room to maneuver, but so did the enemy.

Chris opened a starboard hatch facing aft and went through. When he reached the first ladder, he descended two decks. Blood splatter stained the deck, bulkhead, and overhead. As he changed directions and headed to the bow, toward the CIC, a voice shouted behind him in broken English. “Stop! You, stop!”

Chris turned into another passageway athwart ship and ran to the port side, desperately clinging to the increasingly impossible hope of sneaking into the CIC and stopping the missiles. He took a ladder up but only ascended one deck before he heard someone coming down the ladder from above. Chris stepped off — to the approaching sound of more tangos.

41

He glanced at his watch: T-minus twenty minutes. He hurried out of the passageway and into the crew’s berthing. His feet stuck to dried blood that covered the deck. Crimson stained the yellow privacy curtains on racks where napping sailors now slept permanently. He followed the blood smears on the deck that led to the lounge. He opened the door and aimed inside — more blood. Three sailors lay dead on the couch, and others were heaped on the floor like refuse. The TV was still on. Those who didn’t have weekend duty and had families were at home, while those with duty and those with no family were on the ship, dead. Anger burned through Chris’s arteries.

He poked his head out the starboard side of the berthing and looked forward — nothing. Then he checked aft — Professor Mordet’s head was poking out from a passageway, looking the other way. With only a fraction of a second to decide and fury boiling inside, Chris took the shot — and missed.

Mordet pulled back, then his head — and a submachine gun — reappeared low to the ground. He fired.

Chris backed into the sailors’ berthing.

“Ron Hickok taught you Flash-Kill, did he not?” Mordet called.

“He did. But he refused to teach you. That’s why you killed him. You thought if you ate him, you’d learn.”

“Très bien, mon ami.”

“I can’t imagine you killed him in a fair gunfight, and I can’t imagine he’d be taken alive, so how’d he die?”

“Explosives in his pillow with a pressure detonator,” Mordet said. “It did not take a large amount of explosives; even so, his head blew clean off.”

Chris’s gut knotted up. “So tell me, after you ate him, what did you learn?”

“Everything,” Mordet said. “The strength of my belief to launch those missiles is stronger than your strength of belief to stop me.”

“You didn’t learn Flash-Kill,” Chris replied knowingly.

“What did you learn?”

“I learned that people like you are too impressed with their own bullshit.” Chris leaned out of the berthing and fired twice. The first shot caught Mordet in the shoulder, and the second just missed his skull. He made no sound.

Chris’s pistol was empty, so he ejected the empty magazine and smoothly loaded his last. Then he hurried quietly on the balls of his feet through the berthing. He came out on the port side and rushed through the passageway to an intersection where he faced an athwart passageway and hoped to shoot Mordet in the back, but the professor was gone. Chris could follow the blood trail, but that had probably occurred to Mordet, too, and Mordet could be waiting to greet him.

As much as he wanted to kill Professor Mordet, it wasn’t his primary objective; preventing the missile launch was. He checked his watch: T-minus five minutes.

If I can’t reach the CIC to stop the launch, what else can I do?

On the starboard side, three tangos spotted him, and he blasted at them. They returned fire. Chris was quicker, more accurate, and more mobile. Although he won the gunfight, he’d spent valuable ammo doing it and only had half a magazine left.

He crept up a nearby ladder. Before he reached the deck above, Mordet appeared on the deck below and fired a burst up at him, missing. The clanging sound and the sparks from each round hitting metal were terrifying. Breathe.

He pushed onward, clearing the top of the ladder, then turned, aimed below, and squeezed off a two-round burst. In the narrow confines of a passageway armed only with a pistol that was low on ammo, he was trapped. He tried to conserve ammo, but Professor Mordet busted caps at him like the flames of perdition.

Looking for more space to maneuver or some other tactical advantage, he opened a hatch and stepped outside onto the main deck. One of Mordet’s shots struck Chris’s pistol and knocked it out of his hand. As he bent over to pick it up, Mordet burst through the door.

Chris picked up his weapon, but Mordet was already pulling the trigger. Chris’s heart sank.

Click.

Mordet was out of ammo. Chris aimed and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Something was wrong with his pistol. He backed away from Mordet to buy enough time to clear his weapon malfunction.

Professor Mordet seized the moment and charged Chris, who quickly tapped the bottom of the magazine and racked the slide. He reacquired Mordet in his sights and fired. Nothing. Mordet hit Chris like a middle linebacker, and they both landed hard on a cell of the Tomahawk missile’s Vertical Launch System (VLS) imbedded in the deck. The oxygen rushed out of Chris’s lungs.

Mordet pinned Chris under him and spoke in a trancelike euphoria: “Souls must eat souls, that’s how souls grow.” He opened his mouth.

“Eat this.” Chris pistol-slapped Mordet on the side of the head, and then Chris rose to his feet.

Although dazed, Mordet struggled to his feet, too.

Chris holstered his pistol.

“You have become weaker, and I have become stronger,” Mordet said. He punched, but Chris sidestepped, caught his wrist with one hand, and pushed his elbow with the other until Mordet’s bone made a sickening snap. He cried out. Chris stomped at an angle on the outside of Mordet’s knee, and the bone sounded off like a firecracker. Mordet screamed as he sank to the deck. Sobbing, he propped himself up with his good arm as he tried to use his good leg to stand.

Chris side-stomped his standing arm, fracturing it near the elbow and laying him out again. Then Chris picked up Mordet’s good leg and kneeled on the outside of his kneecap until it popped. Mordet shrieked.

Mordet twisted his head around until he could see his opponent. Tears streamed down Mordet’s face, but he forced a smile. “Now you are going to break my neck?”

“Now you’re going to realize where you are.”

Mordet turned his head. He saw he was lying across the ship’s missile launching cells.

“You can call off the launch,” Chris said. “Or you can fry. It’s your choice.”

Mordet chuckled. “Bravo, bravo. You do not disappoint. And I promise not to disappoint you. I will feast on the souls of the dead and rise from the ashes like a phoenix.”

“Before, you said you were the Teumessian fox that can never be caught. Now you say you’re a phoenix about to rise from the ashes. Which are you?”

Mordet seemed puzzled.

“Are you the fox or the bird?” Chris asked.

Mordet stammered, “I–I-I’m…”

“You’re a fool. Soon to be a cremated fool.”

An alarm sounded overhead from a PA system. “What’s that?” Mordet asked.

“The incinerator is about to fire up,” Chris said.

Mordet’s voice became unsteady. “You cannot destroy me!” Mordet’s voice trembled. “I am as physically and mentally strong as you!”

“Your strength is in hell,” Chris said.

A missile hatch opened next to Professor Mordet.

Chris ran to the side of the ship. The air scorched his feet as he jumped over the rail. Professor Mordet squealed like a wild boar being roasted alive. Chris dove into Mother Ocean and swam underwater. The roar of the missile melted Mordet’s squeal.

As Chris swam underwater, Ron Hickok’s words echoed inside his head: Son, Flash-Kill is no technique; it’s a way of life. All your believing can take you far — without believing, you’re finished before you begin — but even mighty beliefs alone can’t take you all the way. The universe has a positive flow to it, and if you go against that flow, it’s a toss-up as to whether you’ll win or lose, but if you find that flow, follow it, and apply your undying belief, you can’t fail.

Chris had found that flow — it’d helped him find Mordet — and he had applied his undying belief to stopping him, but it hadn’t been enough. Many thousands of people were still going to die. Why?

Chris broke the surface and inhaled. Helos swept in, and a SEAL Team fast-roped onto the USS Normandy—surprise, speed, and violence of action. As his brothers assaulted the ship, he swam to shore. Within minutes, he climbed up onto the bank and lay there haggard — physically and mentally spent.

Chris reached into his pocket, retrieved his phone, unzipped it from its waterproof bag, and turned it on. He wanted to call Young, but he didn’t want to hear the bad news: either the president and everyone in the White House had died, or eighty-five thousand people had died. Numb, he watched the ship takedown.

His phone vibrated: Young. Chris just stared at it. It rang twice more before he mustered the courage to answer.

“We did it!” Young exclaimed.

“Did what?” Chris asked.

“Stopped the launch of the first Tomahawk.”

Chris was too stunned by the good news to rejoice. “Really?”

“Yes!”

“But the second one launched,” Chris said.

“Yes, but during the missile’s midcourse phase, I was able to break into the command guidance and give the Tomahawk a new GPS coordinate — far out in the Atlantic Ocean.”

Chris exhaled long and hard, his shoulders unwound, and he looked up at the clouds in the sky. “Thank you.” He closed his eyes. “Mordet is history, and a SEAL Team is securing the ship as we speak.”

“Thank you, too,” Young said.

“Have you heard anything about Hannah?” Chris asked.

“Just a minute.”

As Chris waited, the stiffness in his shoulders returned and spread to his neck.

“She’s okay,” Young said. “Just had a mild concussion and already checked out of the hospital.”

Chris’s neck and shoulders became loose again. As a preacher and an atheist, their relationship didn’t seem to stand a chance beyond being colleagues and friends, and both were too strong-willed to change, but in spite of the odds, part of him hoped that someday, in some way, they could become more.

42

The next day, Chris stepped off a hospital elevator, turned right, and walked down the hall. He opened the second door on the left and entered without knocking.

Inside lay Sonny.

“Wake up, Sunshine,” Chris said.

Sonny slowly opened his eyes. “I must be in Hell already.”

“How’s your spine?”

“The paralysis was temporary. I can walk, and soon I’ll be running again.”

“That’s hallelujah great!”

Sonny smirked. “You know me. That’s how I roll.”

A knock came at the door.

“Who is it?” Chris asked.

“The Swedish massage therapist,” a female voice said with a Swedish accent.

Chris drew his pistol and held it down to his side. He turned to Sonny. “Did you order a Swedish massage?”

“No,” Sonny answered. “But I’ll take one.”

The door opened and Hannah appeared.

Relieved, Chris returned his pistol to its holster and gave her a hug. When he relaxed his embrace, she was still hugging him. Without thinking, he kissed her.

“After I lost you in the mall, what happened?” he asked. “And later, when I saw the police and all the yellow tape and blood stains—”

“You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he said.

She smiled. “One of Little Kale’s shots blew out a piece of wall that hit me in the head and knocked me out.”

“Are you okay?” Chris asked.

“Just a mild concussion. I’m fine now.”

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Young,” she said. “I told him I wanted to surprise you.”

“Hey, what about my massage?” Sonny shouted.

Hannah chuckled. “The massage isn’t for you, silly.”

“Well, okay.” Chris separated from Hannah and gave Sonny’s shoulder a massage.

Sonny grimaced. “Not cool.”

Chris stopped.

Hannah gave Sonny a hug.

He looked like he’d just won the lottery. “We should get together more often. Friends of mine are asking about us. Want a piece of the action. But I told them to suck eggs.”

“There’s certainly more work to be done,” Hannah said. “New terrorists replace the old ones. Al Qaeda is growing again…”

“And?” Chris said.

“And there’s a new storm on the horizon,” she said.

“Is this a new mission for the three of us?” Sonny asked.

“If it isn’t tomorrow, it will be soon,” she said.

Chris thought for a moment. “I have to get back to my congregation.”

“Will you help us again?” Hannah asked.

Chris thought some more. “The duties of a SEAL and a pastor tear at me from opposite directions, but this mission validated both. And I can’t think of two finer warriors I’d rather fight alongside. You just say when.”

She grinned.

Chris smiled. “Sonny, you ready to bust out of this joint and get some real food?”

Sonny stirred in his bed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chris and Hannah walked over to Sonny’s bed to help him out of it, but he refused, batting their hands away. He was slow, and it caused him pain if he moved the wrong way, but he made his way off the bed. Together they walked out of the hospital.